Wednesday, April 25, 2012
Sunday, April 22, 2012
Wednesday, April 18, 2012
Wednesday, April 11, 2012
"I’d rather live on the side of a mountain
Than wander through canyons of concrete and steel."
John Denver, "I'd Rather Be a Cowboy"
I've always been as enamored of the cityscape's starlight as the emerald greens of the hiking trail. I'm sure I pressed my nose into the bus's windowglass in excitement, fascination, and immediate love when my sixth grade class took our first trip to Broadway and the natural history museum. I felt as home in the city, right away, as I felt on horseback or salt marsh trails or the canopied, slick with mud, cicada-buzzing cross country course through the woods. I've never felt the need to choose, at peace with being neither a "city person" nor a "country person." This week my enthusiasm has been equal for the opalescent green beetle sunning itself on packed gravel of the creekside path, and for the skyline lights shimmering across the Steely Grey River. I'm glad I don't want to choose. I will revel in the side of the mountain and the canyons of concrete and steel - I am so grateful and so blessed by glimmering beauty of both.
Sunday, April 8, 2012
I got up first on Easter morning. It's not often that happens, but my parents were tired after the Easter vigil last night. (I guess I'm more accustomed to staying up past midnight than they are.) When I woke up, I remembered that Easter morning is a bit anti-climactic as a grown-up. My mom asked me to set out the jelly beans and peanut butter eggs in the living room when I finished dusting and decorating, so there would be no hunting for undiscovered, unknown treats. In the early, still morning, I went hunting for photographic jelly beans - bright lights, sweet scents, sweet sounds.
Sunday, April 1, 2012
Last Sunday I visited a friend's church, where we joined a Bible study conversation about women, poverty, and development. After the Bible study I went out the front entrance of the church (we'd come in the back) and was awed by the massive doors, the saints and angels in stone reaching to the sky. They were not unkind, but they pointed and hunched, reminding me of my mortality, my to-dust-I-shall-return.
Yesterday I represented my organization at a community resource festival, held at a church in my neighborhood. I've walked past it many times but not gone in until this weekend. It had a generous entryway and an imposing, rich staircase, and balconies overlooked the first floor. There were inspirational banners ringing the entryway: "It's nice to be important, but it's more important to be nice," and "Life takes from the taker and gives to the giver," which matched the marquee outside: "Come on in or smile as you pass."
I couldn't stop looking at it, the curlicues, the golden lotus blossoms, the mandala ceilings. "It's an old thee-ate-er," one of the women parishioners told me when she saw me with my mouth agape. "We had it refurbished. Our services are at three on Sundays. You'd always be welcome to come."