Tag Archives: Writing

Great Expectations

21 Tuesday Apr 2009

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I sit at my ‘new’ mustard colored writing desk with grateful heart but no great expectations.

 

I prefer to hold no expectations as I write.  Whatever comes of my writing practice is fine by me.  For too long, I have suffered from having hopes and dreams that too often proved false.  I no longer wish to carry the burden and pressure of great expectations only to suffer their disappointment when they remain unmet. Where I sit, great expectations grate.

 

Taking the opposite tack, Darla Langhorne of Langhorne Antiques — the lovely proprietor of my favorite little vintage store in all of OKC–wished great expectations on all my writings from this little desk.  I felt blessed by her sentiments and her support of dreams I no longer wish to dream.  But I’m left with the thought, is it better to hold or to not hold great expectations from that which fills your heart with joy? 

 

The Spiritual Exercises of Ignatius have instilled in me this attitude of holding ‘lightly’ the things of this world.  Dreams are born and dreams die.  People are born and people die.  Puppies are born and puppies are given away to new owners, much to my father’s disappointment.  It’s easier on the heart to not get too attached.  Maybe Dad would agree, as he nurses a broken heart from a home grown too quiet without sound of puppy piddles and paddles. 

 

My son Bryan kept secret our dining destination for this month’s moveable feast.  He wished us to harbor no false expectations that might keep us from attending.  But even so, two family members backed out upon arrival, as their expectations of the restaurant’s ethnic food held them back from the experience.  Those who stayed may never go back, but the novelty of eating our first Ethiopian food together made for an unforgettable evening.  We laughed and anticipated what certain dishes might taste like, which a few of us ordered with some trepidation.  But as food arrived, I was pleasantly surprised.  I ate all these wonderful vegetables and meats with cool spongy bread rather than with fork and knife.  And while I enjoyed the food and family gathering, what I most appreciated was that, in spite of busy work and school schedule, Bryan had taken the time to prepare a place for us, taking on the hard work of pulling us together and making the reservations. All that was required of us was to show up and remain open – and hold back expectations that would hem us in.

 

Being open to a sense of adventure whose destiny is unknown until the ending is written seems the better choice, rather than to limit and define our journey by holding a map of false expectations.  Because truth is discovered only as we live out our stories in the land of everyday life rather than in our wild imaginings and expectations, whether they be great or grate.

Knocking On Truth

16 Thursday Apr 2009

Posted by in Life at Home, Soul Care

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“… truth outlives pain, as the soul does life.”
                       — Elizabeth Barrett Browning

 

As a young mother, I often listened to stories of injustice told by my children, knowing I was hearing some version of the truth.  Once they were done spilling their guts, I asked about the other side of the story, the one the other mother would hear.  “The truth lies somewhere in the middle,” I’d say, knowing my point was falling on deaf ears.    

 

Speaking truth is important to me.  But at best, I am clumsy in speaking it.  I get tongue-tied.  And while much better at writing than speaking truth, even here, what I birth into the world is maimed rather than whole.  I am at cross purposes right now with a beloved child—I tried to express truth that I could not–and between the speaking and the listening, we could not grasp the truth waiting to be claimed in the middle.  My child gave up in frustration, and for now, the door is closed.  I must take time before knocking again.  And meanwhile, become like a Jehovah’s Witness on the doorstep, as I patiently wait for the door to crack open.       

 

In still thinking about last week’s retreat, I realize Jesus understood better than I this matter of closed doors and the failure to convey difficult-to-grasp truths.  Jesus was always in the uncomfortable middle–as truth always is–while the parties on either side of Jesus changed with the situation.  Sometimes it was his disciples against the needy.  Sometimes it was the Pharisees against the needy.  And on the night of his arrest, Jesus found himself in the middle between the Jewish and Roman authorities and neither seemed as interested in truth as in preserving their way of life.   

 

Jesus went against the grain when he was arrested, by not inviting his disciples to follow him.  Not even the three who had witnessed his transfiguration high and Gethsemane low were invited, though two followed anyway.  Jesus surrendered, asking the soldiers to let his disciples go free.  Keeping the disciples away from the fray would not only protect them but would protect the way of truth that defined Jesus’ life.   And Jesus knew just how hard speaking truth would be as lives hung in jeopardy, as Peter discovered firsthand, when he lied three times about knowing Jesus. 

 

Jesus made it easy for his executioners.   Speaking a few words of truth, he gave the Jewish authorities exactly what they needed to press charges against him.  And when it came to cross-examination by the Roman governor Pilate, Jesus offered little in the way of self-defense.  At least, no truth Pilate could grasp.   

 

“What is truth?” Pilate asked Jesus.  Much to the Jews revulsion, Pilate ends up writing the answer to his question on a wooden sign in three languages–“Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews”–which was hung high on the cross above a crucified Jesus.  “What I have written, I have written,”, Pilate says in dismissal as he slams the door on ‘the Jews’ complaints.  Perhaps Pilate found truth a little easier to communicate in writing as well. 

 

Jesus died on the cross in the middle, spilling his blood in the gospel truth.  And three days later, the resurrected Jesus began his wait as the middle person of the Trinity.  Forever at cross purposes, Jesus stands on the doorstep.  He knocks.  He waits.  And if the door opens, truth waits to be seen, to come out of the middle, to be embraced and claimed for all time.  

 

And why not?  There’s no need to knock on wood if you can knock on truth.

In Name Only

12 Sunday Apr 2009

Posted by in Far Away Places, Life at Home

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It was good to get away from everyday cares, if only for a little while.  My husband is going to Beijing for five weeks, and while I do my best not to think of it, I know the day of departure is looming.    

 

So I was glad for the time together in Eureka Springs, where so many before us have come to tap into the area’s healing powers.  We had no agendas, no list of ‘must dos’, taking each day and meal and experience as it came.  We visited a few of the area’s natural wonders, including some of its natural springs that once were the source of Ozarka bottled water, before the company moved its operations to Texas.  We took in a few of the shops, antique stores as well as ‘vintage’ stores; the latter we found were ‘vintage’ in name only as none carried vintage wares.   

 

Here in Eureka, it’s the antique stores who offer vintage goods.  I could have had a vintage Barbie case for a mere $45 and I saw sheets of vintage photos for ninety percent less.  It made me sad to think that no family member had wanted to keep these old Victorian portraits and photos for their own sakes.  Perhaps the person who left behind the photos for the pearly gates left behind no remaining family.  Either way, it’s a sad thought. 

 

Darting in and out of quaint little Victorian shops to keep out of the rain, my husband’s eye fell on an interesting book title.  “How to Profit from the Coming Rapture: Getting Ahead When You’re Left Behind”.  I believe it may offer tongue in cheek advice to help readers laugh at those worries in life that never transpire but make us anxious all the same.  Maybe somewhere in those pages, it teaches the importance of telling the truth, like when to call yourself ‘vintage’ and when it’s time to stop calling yourself Ozarka.  

 

We were fortunate to stay at a place that was true to the words written about it.  And, because it was grounded in truth, it became more than claimed to be.  Mt. Victoria Inn was simply the best part of my Eureka Springs visit.  Each day I came to borrowed ‘home’ after a day of exploring to immerse myself in simple pleasures, while soaking up the ambiance of comfortable elegance around me.  

 

On the outside veranda, I let the breeze caress my face and carry away my worries; I allowed myself to get lost in a good book or watching a good movie while curled snug in my borrowed bed; and I enjoyed life and wrote about it while others prepared my meals.  And food always tastes better when prepared by another’s capable and gifted hands. 

 

Without dipping even my smallest toe in the famed local waters, I found relief from my worries.  Somehow, like that Texas company who left behind everything but the name, I need to carry something of this healing place with me.  But I want substance over form; something that is not in name only.