Born in the 60's

 I turn 50 this year.  Lot's of things were born in 1969.  Sesame Street, Woodstock, the Stonewall Riots, men walking on the moon, Belikan Beer (Hey Belize!  I see your Go Slow selves out there!).  So many things turn 50 this year.  Including me.   Any time there is a season of momentous change and innovation, inevitably, the times preceding it are rife with unrest and disequilibrium.  I give you, 1968.

My friend Jennifer is a super-smart writer and she contributed to my current read: 1968: Today's Authors Explore a Year of Rebellion, Revolution, and Change. 

It is an anthology of non-fiction stories revolving around the climate of rebellion and unrest and revolution and, ultimately, change that made up 1968.  I'm eager to read her work.  I'm eager to read all the work.  Am I eager to turn 50?  Well, I suppose that is yet to be seen.  I might be up for some rebellion, some revolution, and certainly some change.

Nothing New Under the Sun

I've just finished Daddy-Long Legs by Jean Webster, who, interestingly enough was the Great Niece of Mark Twain.  I guess it has always paid to know the right people in the world of publishing.  In any case, when I started reading this book, I was taken with how sweet and innocent it was.  The adorable story told in a series of letters, of a young orphaned girl sent to college by an anonymous benefactor.  Now that I'm done, honestly, I'm a little creeped out.  No spoilers here, but reading this through a modern lens gave me pause and reminded me how entrenched we are in predatory behavior masquerading as saviourism, especially on the part of wealthy, white men.  We've been conditioned to see it as romance, especially through this whole schoolgirl romance genre so popular in pre-WWI America, continuing well into the present day.  Pretty Woman anyone?  Hello, creepy predator played by Richard Gere. All we have to do is read the headline news see that not a whole lot has changed. 

I've made this deal with myself that for the rest of the year, the bulk of my books would come from the discard box at the used bookstore where I spend one day a week.   This may or may not be a decision that I am thrilled with but it will be an interesting experiment nonetheless.  Needless to say, I'm reading absolutely nothing that any of my people are reading or even have read in the past decade or so.  This month alone I've read: Nature Girl by Carl Hiaasen, a mystery/suspense novel set in the Florida Everglades,  Joy in the Morning by Betty Smith, the story of a young couple's first year of marriage, taking place in a 1920's Midwestern college town, and I am now knee-deep in Jean Webster's classic Daddy-Long Legs written in 1912 about a young, orphaned girl who is sent to college at the behest of an anonymous benefactor.  I'm pretty sure I haven't read this last book since I was in junior high.   I'm also relatively confident that no one in my world is reading it, although, it's pretty darn sweet and I wish I could think of someone else who would want to read it too. 

The thing is, I have such a deep sadness to see good books ignored and forgotten.  I'm like the lady with 15 cats.  I want to rescue them all.

Bipolar kayak ecotours, Seminole identity raising, telemarketers, private investigators and assault by crabs.  This book has it all. 

I'm only part way through this book.  I have nothing to say as of yet, except, it is so darn sweet and exactly what I wanted to read when I was in 4th and 5th grade.  The only difference now is that I'm almost 50.  I still want to read the same sorts of things, well-written books.

Loosely based on the author's own first year of marriage, this book is full of Americana that we so frequently and conveniently forget.  Also, Betty Smith wrote one of my all-time favorite novels, A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. So there's that.

Used Bookstores

I'm volunteering in a used bookstore once a week.  It's a small place with lots of stacks of unshelved books and my big ol' behind knocked over one of those stacks a while back while shopping.  Feeling horrible about adding to the mess, I felt like an appropriate penance was to come in once a week, unpaid, to shelve and organize books.  What I didn't know was that I would LOVE THIS SO MUCH!  Seriously, this might be the only job-type thing I have ever done that I have felt so good at.  Usually, when I have a job, I feel like a complete and utter loser.  I'm not very good at anything compensable, and, thus, felt like I was under the executioner's blade most every time I walked through the office door, no matter what office I was in.  

In the Bookery, however, all of those feelings have gone away.  It's the most confident I have ever felt in a work environment, even though it's not really my job and I am not getting paid and I really cannot get fired as I was never hired in the first place.  Nevertheless, it's awesome and I am extraordinarily happy to go every week.

As it is a small shop and people are Marie Kondo-ing the shit out of their bookshelves right now, we have more books than we have space.  Because of that, I am culling out books that are not being sought out by, well, anyone.  I take boxes of those books to a local community library to seed their collection and for their book sale.  They can get away with selling books for a quarter.  

As I was unloading a box one week, I decided that I was going to read some of those "unloved" books, hoping to find a hidden gem.  Kinds of Love by May Sarton is not that gem.  I am having such a very, very, VERY hard time getting into it and if you've read several posts back, giving up is not an option.  Sigh.  

I Like Big Books and I Cannot Lie

I'm heading out on vacation with my family at the end of this week.  Several legs of plane travel, lots of sitting in beach chair time, not a whole lot of suitcase room.  Here is my dilemma: do I, at the risk of shoulder injury, pack one really big book in my carry on or, sacrifice suitcase space and have several books at the ready?  Kindle isn't an option because I don't want to read books on a screen.  I've tried it and I don't like it.  I don't like how I physically feel slightly dizzy when I use an e-reader.  The tactile experience of rubbing the corner of a page before I turn it is comforting.  A nice thought, but not for me at this point in my life.

I'm leaning toward the former.  I came home from the Bookery with a copy of Doris Kearns Goodwin's book Team of Rivals: The Political Genius of Abraham Lincoln.  It's a huge book with SO MANY PAGES.  That sounds like a lovely beach read, don't you think?  I'll keep you posted.

One Way to Solve an Odd Little Problem

I have an unusual problem.  Once I start to read a book I feel compelled to finish it, no matter how dreadful or dull it might be.  I can count on one hand (plus maybe an extra finger or two) the number of books that I have abandoned.  It just doesn't happen.

Having that odd little problem means that I have had to develop several coping mechanisms in order to not get forever stuck in that one book that is JUST SO BORING or so poorly written (I'm looking at you Christian Romance novels.  Blunt, unblinking stare right at you).  My go-to solution is to pick up another book to get the juices flowing again, to distract me from how much the former book was killing my love of reading.

I have found myself in that very situation this week.  The book I am reading is not keeping my interest in the slightest, although I have hope it will pick up soon.  In the meantime, I have started Life After Life by Kate Atkinson.  A friend of mine handed this to me during trivia night at our local brewery and promised me that I would love it.  She's not wrong.

High Heels and Big Words

People are not, for example, terribly anxious to be equal but they love the idea of being superior.

                                                                 James Baldwin
                                                                "Letter from a Region of My Mind" 

There was a person in my life who I had very hard feelings about.  Being around this person shot my anxiety through the top of my head and made me feel as though my heart and lungs were going to explode.  I felt nauseated at the mere thought of being around them and every minute I was, all I could think about was getting away.  Sadly, there was no way around seeing this person and trying to explain my feelings to anyone just felt, and sounded like, whiny complaining.  I was trapped and could not shake the physical reactions I was having every time I had to be in the same place as this person.  I was also deep in the throes of depression and grief and was years away from finding a therapist who would help me.  So I did what came naturally to someone like me.  I was petty.  Petty like a middle school girl, petty.  Find the weakest spot and dig right in there, petty.  Not kind, not attractive, not recommended behavior in the least.

This person was very short.  I am tall.  Every time I had the opportunity, I wore the highest heels that I possibly could and stood tall with my shoulders back and my head held high.  A demented power pose of sorts.   It did nothing and I am sure no one knew what I was doing, but in a sick way, it did make me feel superior and powerful and that I wasn't going to let them win.

An odd quirk of mine is that I have a larger vocabulary than most of the folks in my circles, with a few notable exceptions.  Even so, I tend to keep my daily usage relatively common.  Being teased for my big words for most of my life by people just as petty as I was certainly made an impression.  Also, my mouth moves a whole lot faster than my brain does, and more often than not, the words I know do not seem to make it all the way out.  Aging is a bitch.  All that aside, this person, while educated, spoke at the level of a high school student on social media.  Petty me, using the only weapons I could get ahold of at the time, used the biggest words I could get away with in conversations that this person was either a part of or even adjacent to.  I was so arrogant in my words.  When I was growing up my mother always said that my tongue was my sharpest sword.  She had no idea.  Again, I'm sure that no one knew what I was doing, but it was the only armor I had at the time to deflect the imaginary daggers I was sure this person was shooting at me.

I didn't want to be equal to this person.  I didn't want to make things right or build a relationship.  I was hurt and sad and in my own trifling mind, I only wanted to be superior.  Being equal would require humility and compromise on my part.  Being equal would ask me to give up some things that I held pretty closely for the sake of a relationship.  Being equal felt like too much work and that I would be getting the short end of the stick if I entered into the process.  So I went with superior. Superior meant keeping them small and reminding them, continually, of their smallness.

It made me feel better momentarily, but it didn't work.  I did not win.  No one even knew I was fighting the battle.  I only appeared as I was acting, petty and immature.

I still wear high heels and use big words, but not for the same reasons as before.  No longer superior, just fabulous.

 If you want to read the book 

Ponds, Rowboats and Staying Out of the Tule

"It was as if she righted herself continually against some current that never ceased to pull" -- Housekeeping by Marilynne Robinson

My uncle and aunt have a lovely, minuscule pond in front of their home.  It just enough for a rowboat and that rowboat can make it across the entire pond in one or two really good pulls.  It is a quiet pond with a giant fish named Submarine Bob and a few ducks.  I remember sneaking away to the pond during a family event (I don't really do people all that well) with a book. Not only are books my favorite entertainment and hobby, but also, they are my connection to staying sane and my hiding place in times of anxiety.   I can say, both literally and figuratively, books have saved my life.  That said, it was in one of those times that I grabbed any book I could get my hands on, carefully lowered myself into the boat, and pushed myself out into the middle of the pond.

My plan was to get to the middle of the pond where I could pretend that I didn't hear anyone and get fully engrossed in reading and actively avoiding humans.  It's a still pond, it was a still day, I thought my plan was golden.  I rowed my one good row and got to the center of the pond.  I opened the book to page one and started reading.  By the end of page one, the tule reeds that line the shore were tickling my nose.  The boat had drifted to the edge of the pond in the time it took me to read one page and I am a fast reader.  I picked up the oars again, got myself back into position and started page two.  Tule reed.  Row. Read. Tule reed in my face.  Row, Read.  Tule reed in my nose.  I couldn't relax long enough to read more than one page at a time before having to stop, pick up the oars, and get back into the place I wanted to be.

Story of my life.  I want to be centered, in the middle of the pond, doing what I love and feeling safe. As soon as I get there, I get pulled to the edges, get stuck in the tall grasses and have to put down whatever I am doing in order to get back out to the center again.  Not only is it an imposition, but it takes so much damn effort.  The pushing, the rowing, the picking up and setting down of the oars, the steadying of the boat in the water.  Staying centered requires work.  Endless amounts of work.

Frozen

I'm still working my way through The Left Hand of Darkness.   Set in a frigid climate, the plot is moving as slowly as the main character's journey across the frozen terrain.  Seems appropriate that another big snowstorm is headed my way this weekend.

I've never lived in a place where it snows before.  Not going to lie, I'm slightly enchanted when I look out of my kitchen window and see the white, unmarked carpet of snow covering our property.  The frosty branches of the cedar trees outside of my bedroom window are damn magical.  I am fully aware that I am in the honeymoon phase of my winter domesticity, no denying that.  I haven't yet been snowed in.  I haven't had to shovel out my car in order to go grocery shopping.  I haven't slid off an icy road.  So far its been all freaking Elsa/Anna and I'm all in.

My first steps into the world of science fiction, however, are purely Han Solo frozen in Carbonite.  Slow moving.

Sci-Fi?

I’ve committed to expanding my genre horizons this year and I’m starting with some Science Fiction. The Left Hand of Darkness by Ursula K. Le Guin, specifically.  It’s not starting off well.  I’ll keep you posted.  I might need a glossary and more whiskey.

I've Always Wanted to Work in a Bookstore. And Live in the Appalachians. And Be a Quaker.

The Little Bookstore of Big Stone Gap: A Memoir of Friendship, Community and the Uncommon Pleasure of a Good Book. This book, by Ethnographer and Used Bookstore Owner, Wendy Welch, is the book I wish I could have written. It is a love song to books, bookstores, and reading and makes me dream of, perhaps, becoming a Quaker and moving to The Appalachians. I loved every part of this book, from the epigraphs to the acknowledgements. Every single page. Every single word. What Wendy Welch writes of is the stuff of my dreams.

Vacation and Murder

I have this crazy little dream to visit all of the state capitol buildings in the United States. I have a few under my belt.

California's is my favorite thus far, simply because I am SO IN LOVE with my home state.

New York was definitely the most sculptural. If you are ever in Albany and have have the chance to go inside, the hundreds of delicately hand carved faced in the sandstone walls are stunning. A little creepy, but in a super cool way.

Connecticut holds a special place in my heart because my eldest son and I were able to get access to the staircase that takes you to the top of the dome and the walkway ON THE OUTSIDE! We were on the outside of the very top of the building, people! Outside! My spidey skills were itching to be used. With great power comes great responsibility, you know, so I held it together and just took a few photos.

Wyoming's building in Cheyenne is the only capitol building to have a statue of a woman in front. Go Wyoming!

North Dakota? Seriously? You could do so much better than a 70's era office building that has a sign that says North Dakota State Capitol. I expected so much more from the noble Dakotans.

Every building I visit has it's own fabulous feature: statues, tributes, mile high markers (how could I ever forget you, Colorado?). With each visit I learn more about our country and the uniqueness of each state. With each visit, I feel more a part of America. I feel connected.

Sarah Vowell's hilarious and historical book "The Assassination Vacation" is like a visit to a state capitol for me, if wandering around the outside of capitol buildings checking for unlocked doors was the same thing as visiting sites related to presidential assassinations. Reading it gave me a sense of connection to historical events that have shaped the country I live in today. It helped me feel connected. It helps me to remember, as much as the situationally racist orange guy likes to shout it, America isn't worse off today than it was when President Lincoln skulked about, being all emancipatory and stuff.

Here's the deal, studying history, especially history delivered in a relevant and engaging way, helps us to see that there is truly nothing new under the sun. Even if it does feel like we are all going to hell in a handbasket that we bought at Wal-Martville made by child laborers, it's all going to be o.k. When I read of the shitshow that was the Republican nominating convention of 1880, where James Garfield was nominated to be the presidential candidate in the 36th round of voting, my heart stops palpitating for a moment at the thought of the current pile of ridiculousness that we are calling politics. It's all going to be o.k. When we take the time to examine what has happened in the past and how we, both individually and as a collective people, have managed to make it through relatively unscathed (well, except for Lincoln, Garfield and McKinley, in this case), it can provide the perspective that the tiny little moment of time we are experiencing right at this very moment isn't all there is. In the grand scheme of things, it's just that: a tiny, little moment. It only seems all-encompassing to us because that is all we are able to see.

State capitol buildings, presidential assassination sites, plaques on large rocks in Upstate New York, whatever it takes to move someone to study the history of their place, whatever it takes to help people to calm the heck down and realize that it's all going to be o.k. We've gone through muck and mire before, we've been afraid of change before, we've watched our leaders be total buttheads and make butthead-ish decisions before, and still, we have survived. In fact, some might think we've become a better place because of it. All I know is I love capitol buildings and have about 40 to go. Watch out South Dakota, unlock those doors and polish up the dome, because I am coming for you!

Broads with whom I would drink gin.

I think Kristin Chenoweth and I should be BFF's.

In fact, if I could have a cocktail party with some famous women, she would top the list.

She and Bette Midler.

And Dolly Parton. Shoot, Olympia Dukakis could come too, if she wasn't busy.

For that matter, most anyone in the cast of "Steel Magnolias" would be welcome. Daryl Hannah might have to bring some gin. I always seem to run out.

And as long as we are completely ignoring all sense of reality, I would love for Eleanor Roosevelt to stop by. She'd be a hoot. We'd definitely need more gin. Bring two bottles, Daryl.

While we're at it, let's just send an invite to Rita Moreno, Julia Child and Jenny Lawson, too. If you haven't read Jenny's blog, The Bloggess, you need to. I really mean it. I hope she wears her wolf suit to the party. That would rock like a hurricane.

Added to the list, just recently, is Ree Drummond. She is more widely known at the Pioneer Woman and her blog often leaves me with tears running down my cheeks from laughing and drool dribbling off of my chin from her delicious recipes. I read her adorable memior, "Black Heels and Tractor Wheels", on my 20th anniversary weekend with my fabulous husband. He doesn't like to talk while he drives. I get more than a little antsy if there is more than 5 minutes of unoccupied silence. I have to read in order to stay married and not dropped on the side of the road somewhere. It's for my own good.

"Black Heels and Tractor Wheels" is a sweet, sweet story of how she and her husband met, fell in love and married. Sweet, sweet, sweet. My poor husband had to listen to me oohing and ahhing the entire drive. Poor guy.

Relationship Advice from Winston Churchill

It's been a long while since I've visited WUIDK (Dude, I think I just created a catchphrase! Nevermind. Scratch that. There's no such thing as a "dk" dipthong.) Awesome catchphrases aside, just because I haven't been posting, does not mean that I haven't been reading. The "Owen" project is going slowly but steadily. Right now I am SLOGGING through a book written in 1899 by Winston Churchill (but not THAT Winston Churchill) about pre-Revolutionary War America. It's fiction. Richard Carvel is the title. Apparently, this Winston Churchill attended the Naval Academy, worked for Cosmopolitan Magazine (yes, THAT Cosmopolitan Magazine) and wrote historical fiction.

Wouldn't it be awesome, though, if the non-historical fiction writing Winston Churchill worked for Cosmo? Couldn't you just SEE the teasers? "Never, never, never give up . . . pleasing your man!" Or "Attitude is a little thing that makes a big difference . . . in bed!" Or what about "Continuous effort - not strength or intelligence - is the key to unlocking our potential. Your man will thank us for this!".

My mind reels.

In any case, I've got a couple of books on my nightstand right now. I'll try to post when I can.

Note: I have been reading a great many blogs these days (Damn you, Pinterest!) and I feel I must apologize that I do not have any of those fancy picture making skills that so many of my favorite bloggers have. I just have words. Maybe if you pulled out a box of crayons every time you read my tiny offerings, that would suffice? Let me know how that works out.

During World War II, the British Fourteenth Army and the 1st Air Commando Group of the United States Air Force joined to fight the Japanese Army in what was called the Burma Campaign. This unit was established in response to President Franklin D. Roosevelt's 1943 introduction to Brigadier Orde Wingate's vision of what could be done in Burma with proper air support. The U.S. Air Force created the 5318th Air Unit and in March 1944, they were designated the 1st Air Commando Group. Colonels John Alison and Philip Cochran were chosen as co-commanders of the unit. This unit was only in existence for one year as it was disbanded in 1945.  The book, Road To Mandalay by Lowell Thomas is the story of that British and American collaboration. Reading this book felt like it took longer than the entire campaign.  It would be an excellent read for military history buffs and fans of the gameRisk.

I am grateful that I read this as the whole point of the "Owen Reading Project" is to get to know my grandfather better through the books he had on his shelves.  Really, though, when I saw the title, I was hoping for more of story like the old Bob Hope/Bing Crosby "On the Road" movies.  Now those were fun.

Next on the nightstand: Image of Josephine by Booth Tarkington. I'm excited simply because the author's name is Booth Tarkington. How could you go wrong with a name like that?

You Suck: A Love Story by Christopher Moore 
It didn't. Strange. Funny. Vampire-y. Christopher Moore is an acquired taste, however. Kind of like vegemite. Or gin.

Here's what the author has to say about the current vampire trend. I like his style. There will be more from him later. Not necessarily about vampires though, just random awesomeness.

"Stephenie Meyer: Her vampires are sparkly, which I think we can all agree is wrong."
— Christopher Moore

I'll own it.

I was way obnoxious at Costco yesterday.

Here's what happened:

It started out as an innocent shopping trip with my friend Karen.  We were being efficient shoppers, staying to our lists and zipping down those aisles as fast as the extraordinarily heavy carts would let us.  Seriously, those carts are HEAVY! They're heavy even before you put anything in them.   Add 144 jars of peanut butter and a case of water and, shoot, you've got one heck of a job as pusher.  Olympic bobsled teams should train at Costco.

Then we got to the book aisle.

It's like the La Brea Tar Pits and just like a mastadon bogged down in the tar, I get stuck in the pit of inexpensive and Oprah recommended books.  I can't just walk on by.  Oh no, I have to stop and be more than a little obnoxious.  Hard to believe, I know, because normally I'm the picture of gentility and grace.

You might want to clean the vomit off the floor before you leave the room.  Someone might slip and fall.  I don't want to be held accountable for any injury.

Meanwhile, back at Costco, I start playing the"Read That, Didn't Read That, Won't Read That, You Should Really Read That" game.  I also like to play that game at BevMo, but substituting the word "Drink" for "Read".  It's charming.

Apparently I have a voice that carries because after one round of the game, I accrue an audience.  No, really, several people come over to our side of the gigantic table and watch which books I point too.  Then they ask my opinion.

Silly people.  They have no idea the Pandora's Box they have just opened.  The only difference are my Furies are either hard bound or paperback.  That and they don't destroy things unless you throw them but that is an entirely different post for much later.

I gladly hold court on the aisle of cheap paperbacks for a few moments while my wonderful, long suffering friend waits patiently with our basket of bread, bagels and economy sized cereal boxes.  I don't know why she puts up with me.

Clearly I need to find place to work my book suggesting magic.  Anyone want to pay me?  I'll work for cheap.  I do love those Costco hot dogs.  They're cheap.

3 Things I Realized When I Finished Reading Outliers: The Story of Success by Malcolm Gladwell

1.  It's a very good thing that I did not major in business or any other business type concentration.  Or law.  Or medicine.  Or computer science.

2.  When it comes to success, some people are just luckier than others.  The rest of us get to buy books about the lucky ones.  Lucky us.

3.  I might feel really horrible about how unlucky I am if I had the same definition of success as the author of this book.  Good thing I don't.

I sometimes think that God might be a librarian.

For some time now I've been thinking a lot about heaven; what happens after our bodies are done working.  If heaven exists, what is it like?  Is it the "pearly gates, streets of gold" thing that I was taught about in Sunday School?  Is it a specific place?  Will I get bored?  How long is eternity anyway?  Will Ben & Jerry's be served?  I hope so, I love that Cherry Garcia.  There is a new flavor called Maple Blondie that is pretty darn awesome too.  That would be so cool to eat Maple Blondie ice cream in heaven.  I wonder if Jesus will want a bowl?  He might have to get his own pint.  I don't know if I'll want to share, even in my heavenly state of wonderfulness.  Ice cream is a pretty personal thing.

Wait, where was I?  Heaven and librarians.   In any case, I've been thinking about heaven for a while now. I have spoken at a women's retreat about longing for heaven.  I find myself wishing and wondering about the whole thing more often than I think might be normal.  Given my recent streams of thought, I thought it interesting when I opened my most recent read, Cutting for Stone (Vintage) and the epigraph (A poem that the author chooses to use to lead the reader into his book.  Thanks Lita, you are a wonder woman of all things literary! What color shall I make your cape or would you prefer a tiara?) is a wonderful poem by Rabindranath Tagore that reads:

And because I love this life

I know I shall love death as well.

The child cries out when

From the right breast the mother

Takes it away, in the very next moment

To find in the left one

Its consolation.

Funny that I should be thinking about life after death and the very first thing I read in a randomly chosen novel is this poem.

The other book I picked up that very same trip, just because I love the author, not because I was looking for books on the subject:  Surprised by Hope: Rethinking Heaven, the Resurrection, and the Mission of the Church by N.T. Wright.  Is is way too geeky to have a favorite theologian?

God is many, many things.  Creator, protector, redeemer . . . librarian.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Last night I attended a Taize service at a local church.  We entered the church, which was completely dark, lit only by candles at the front and the back of the sanctuary.  We were given an order of worship, copies of the songs to be sung and a tiny flashlight so we could read both.  I love flashlights.  It was all I could do to keep myself from switching it on and off the entire service.  I exercised incredible self-control.  Praise God for small miracles.

The service was beautiful.  There were large periods of silence interspersed with short chants led by a woman with a clear and beautiful voice.  There were times to pray silently, to pray aloud and to light candles as an expression of worship.  As my singing voice is sketchy at best and Latin isn't a language I jump easily into, I spent most of the time in silent contemplation.  I found myself praying that God would remove all the worry and burden and sadness that seems to be holding me back from being the woman I know deep in my heart that I am supposed to be.  There's a whole lot of all that stuff.  God might need a forklift to haul it all away.  It will probably take several trips.  Lots of worry.  Lots of sadness.  Heavy burdens.

As much as I would like to say that there was some supernatural lifting of my spirit and I left empowered and changed, I left pretty much the same girl as I was when I walked in.  I wasn't disappointed.  I just wasn't transformed in a dramatic way.  No big deal.

I woke up today, went for a run, stopped off at the market, baked a cake and then sat down for lunch.  Tuna salad.  Yum.  I do like to read while I eat if I'm home alone and today was a day to start a new book.  Cutting for Stone (Vintage) by Abraham Verghese is my latest read.  I'm on page 13.  It's amazing.  I'm sure there will be many entries about this book.  I more than kind of think I was supposed to start this book today, especially after my Taize experience last night.  Here's why.

Marion is an orphaned boy in Addis Ababa, Ethiopa.  He goes to Matron, "Missing Hospital's wise and sensible leader" (Verghese, 3) for guidance.  She advises him to do the hardest thing he could possibly do as his life's work.  When he questions her advice she tells him, and this is the part that stopped my tuna salad laden fork in awe of timing and providence, "Because, Marion, you are an instrument of God.  Don't leave the instrument sitting in its case, my son. Play!  Leave no part of your instrument unexplored.  Why settle for 'Three Blind Mice' when you can play the 'Gloria'?"  (page 6)

Marion takes her literally, protesting that he can't play any musical instrument, so how could he possibly play Bach's beautiful "Gloria".

Hold on.

Here comes the part I love.

The Matron tells him "'No Marion,' she said, her gaze soft, reaching for me, her gnarled hands rough on my cheeks. 'No, not Bach's Gloria. Yours!  Your Gloria lives within you.  The greatest sin is not finding it, ignoring what God made possible in you.'" (page 6)

Not Bach's "Gloria" but mine.

I have to think about this more.

I think I use too many words to be a blogger.