Must be something about Tuesdays

Yesterday was not a good day. I swear someone was hiding and laughing at all the little misfortunes that added up to a no-good-very-bad-horrible day. Such a Monday!

So this morning, as I dragged by tired body out of my warm bed (thinking how can it only be Tuesday???), I hoped and prayed and wished that it would be a good day. I would enjoy my coffee eat my yummy granola and settle in at work (after a very cold but SUNNY morning commute).

Ahh the sun. If it weren't for the sun, I'm not sure what I'd do (I guess this rules out London and Seattle as places to live). Even in February with windchills below zero and over two feet of snow on the ground, the sun brightens my day.

And then, behold an email. An email on a Tuesday. On a Tuesday that marks the release Over The Rhine's newest album. An email from Linford (who I'd consider the better half of OtR) who also looks on the bright side, who writes a beautiful message about the ice on their Ohio farm, the birds, the glinting sun, the "deafening and fabulous" and the beautiful and dangerous...

I highly recommend checking out their newest album "The Long Surrender" it is streaming on their website for free { overtherhine.com }. It's beautiful. I love the last track and wish it was longer. Of course I do, because I'm always tempted to hold on to things even after they're gone...

On another note. I'm also very excited that our newest book club book arrived in the mail today Essays of E.B. White.

And tomorrow is Wednesday and I'm beginning to think it may not be so hard to make it over the hump.

An email on a Tuesday

I don't know if any words can express how much I love the store anthropologie. It's probably a good thing that there isn't one in my nieghborhood or I would spend way too much money.

Last week on the way to an appointment downtown, I was walking by their new location on Chicago Ave and like a small child I found myself peering through the window at their big sale table in the front of the store. I walked by slowly convincing myself that I didn't have time to go in, but then quickly turned around because I had at least five minutes to spare. So I turned around and walked through their enormously large wooden front doors. It's heavenly. My senses are always awakened when I walk in. The capri blue candles that are lit all over the store tickle my nose. The fun ruffles, corduroys, wools all of them whispering for me to come touch them and feel how soft they are. Oh the sounds, the sounds of One Fine Frenzy, Ingrid Michaelson, or Martin Sexton playing overhead -- always deightful. And the sights, my goodness, I've never been somewhere so visually pleasing.

It's magical, really. Maybe even miraculous.

So when I got my weekly email from Anthropologie today with the subject line of {{{ outfits more than the sum of their parts }}} I smiled. I smiled because that is the exact way Frederick Buechner describes a miracle in The Alphabet of Grace. I recently finished reading this book (that was originally a lecture series he gave at Harvard years and years ago). One of the greatest things, I thought, was the way Buechner speaks of miracles -- because how can one begin to define them? And this is one of the lines I jotted down as I was reading: [a miracle] is when the whole is greater than the sum of its parts....when one plus one equals one thousand.

Wanna know something else that's a miracle?

This little guy.

We welcomed Chandler Edward to the world last week and I was so privileged to witness it and capture it in a way that will help his mom and dad (and everyone else) to remember how special that day was.

It's also a miracle that there's yet another little one growing inside my oldest sister and we so look forward to welcoming him/her into the world in June.

Expectations

Monday night I spent a bit of time in the kitchen. I received a new cookbook for Christmas and seeing that all of my leftovers from the holidays have dwindled, it was finally time to put it to good use. I looked silly, I had my running shoes on with leggings a tshirt and a brown polka dotted apron folded over and tied around my waist. It was Monday, the holidays were over, I had all night and nothing on the schedule....ahhhhh.

The lima beans soaked all Sunday night and it looked as if I may be eating this dish all week…I really hope I like lima beans… This American Life played on my ipod while I chopped the celery, onion, parsley, garlic and tomatoes that would eventually be added to the beans and placed in the oven. With my ear buds in, it sounded like I was in a kitchen with 12 foot ceilings. Isn’t it strange that when you put something ears the sounds just get larger? The knife hitting the cutting board, the celery crisply cut. You wouldn’t expect it.

I was peeling the tomatoes and was prepared to laugh as the previous segment of Ira Glass’s public radio show had me laughing out loud in the car all by myself as I drove over the Skyway to I 90 up 196 to Michigan. I was expecting to be entertained, to learn a piece of unnecessary but interesting information. I was waiting and anticipating and wanting to laugh.

Instead, I nearly cried.

Act II of this weeks show was a recording, an interview between two friends. One friend who had recently attempted suicide and the other who was hoping that by listening to his own words would change his mind, realize what he was saying, and somehow from that would regain the will to live. His plan didn’t work, and in fact, some time after the recording was made, the friend again attempted suicide, this time succeeding.

Not what I was expecting.

It's interesting to think about expectations and where they come from. I mean, how do these ideas even come about?

When you follow a recipe chopping things up and sticking them together and baking them, you expect it to have a tasty end product, when you invest time in someone you to expect to have a relationship grow, when you go through rounds of chemo, you expect the cancer to be gone.

What if we were rid of expectations. What if we learned to let them go?

Last week I visited a candle lit yoga class where the first position was sitting on your knees with your feet under you and toes tucked -- for four minutes. This may sound like a fairly simple task, but trust me, four minutes is a long time. The instructor made an analogy early on about expectation. Simple expectations. Expectations that you have for yourself, your body for others....and letting go of them.

In that situation it worked, it created a peace within the body to let go of disappointed by it's inability to be in a certain position or holding a certain pose.

Dissappointment, is that what failed expectations bring? Sometimes...

But what if we didn't have any expectations? What if I had no idea if I soaked dry beans and stuck them together with tomatoes and garlic and onion it would be edible.

If I didn't think my body was capable, would I even make it to yoga class at all?

If you didn't think a procedure would work, would you just not try at all?

I guess the question I'm getting at is is the process in itself worth it even if the outcome is less or different or not at all what we expected?

Cultural Heritage II was one of my favorite courses I was required to take as I attended a liberal arts college. I took a section that was a combination of literature, philosophy and religion. This was really the first time I studied philosophy and I only remember little snippets of what we studied. One concept I held onto and stored in the back of my mind -- Kants moral philosophy of people, places, things being a means to an end verses an end in itself.

Is the process an end in itself or is it simply a stepping stone to our expected end?

I'd like to think that everything has a purpose, should be appreciated for what it is, can stand alone. But I think in reality, most of the time without an expected end there would be no motivation to experience any of processes, people, meals, conversations that we find along the way.

This is a very lengthy post and am very surprised if anyone is stiiiiilll reading my ramblings, but these are just the thoughts buzzing through my head. Even in my writing, I'm not usually satisfied by the end product, but gosh, all the epiphanies and realizations and discoveries I make along the way -- the twists and turns they end up being more than what gets put onto paper.

So, until next time...

The first, last & inbetween

I feel at peace with 2011. I have no harbored fear, angst, anxiety....I welcome what is to come with open arms and usher 2010 out with equal contentment.

Within the hour I've rung in the new year, made my way to the home where I grew up, fulfilled the munchies and have snuggled into a big bed in my parent's guest room.

It is within this beautiful hour where strangers meet, friends toast & lovers kiss.

An hour, a day, a year. I've been reading Buechner who says [Today] is the first day because it has never been before and the last day because it will never be again. Be alive if you can all through this day today of your life. (from the Alphabet of Grace)

This is one of the many ideas that led me to choose my word for 2011 : {{{mindful}}}

Mindful -- present, connected, attentive. This is something I so admire in others. Being mindful of self. Being mindful of others, the world. Mindful in the here and now.

I welcomed 2010 in a similar way. Ready to reclaim, explore and cleave to a deep rooted joy. I was ready to let go of 2009, a year that held a lot of stress, loneliness and anxiety. And 2010 was indeed filled with joy, but also uncertainty and change. It was incredibly scary and refreshing. With joy I re-established my ability to respond positively to unfavorable circumstance. A year later, I feel as if I'm in a whole other world -- a completely transformed mindset.

Oh to be mindful of what brings us from one day to the next, from the first to the last. Mindful of the falling snow, toasting bread, and ideas lurking overhead, mindful of habits, passing time, and laughter, and mindful of expectations, conversation, and perception.

What's your word, resolution, theme? What's it's worth?

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I'd like to say I was in bed right now wearing a turtleneck, leggings and my smart wool socks.

I wish I could see the fallen snow from the window in my bedroom where it is 72 degrees. I wish You've Got Mail was playing in the background (maybe the part where the Joni Mitchell song is playing) and I'd be reading my newest old book checked out from the library. I wish the smell of coffee was still lingering from my morning cup and my insides still warm.

Maybe later, if I had the energy, I would get up and do a little sewing. Warm up a little bit of the ham & lentil soup that simmered on the stove last night.

I'd like to say that in a few hours when it really is time for me to go home that I won't have to venture out in the snow, I won't have to pick up my clothes that are scattered all over my bedroom, and that the garbage was already taken out. Yes, I'd like to say.

Oh I wish I had a river so long...

Comfort, Comfort Now My People

The rain turned to ice last night and this morning we woke up to snow. And wind. Brrr.
I warmed up at yoga this afternoon with Lauren. As we lay in savasana, we were instructed to let all the static fall by the way side. To be fully present, mindful of our breathing, but to not let all the background noise distract us.


Friday night, I stood in a hot dog shop next to Pippin's. While the guys got my order ready for two Chicago dogs and two dogs just ketchup, I had a moment. A moment where Vince Gauraldi filled my ears, where I watched couples and friends walking about down the city streets with christmas lights lit all over. A moment where I felt like I was in a holiday movie where the cameras were panning out and there I was standing alone.
But I wasn't alone. In fact I was in very good company. The Koster's were in town. And we were enjoying a beer at a hole-in-the-wall bar downtown that was playing Christmas tunes and decked out with boughs of holly. Since I had never tried a Chicago hot dog and we were all getting the munchies, it seemed appropriate to run next door for some grub. I found out I hate Chicago hot dogs. But now I can say I've tried them. Check. And I had a moment with Vince Gauraldi and the city lights.


Tonight, at the end of a fun filled wintery weekend, Elisabeth & I ran, literally, to Missio Dei at St. Paul's. We followed the advent liturgy and heard the words of Isaiah 40. We were reminded again to let all distractions and busyness fall by the wayside and to simply rest in the knowledge that we are loved. Again, reminded to be fully present and aware of why we are here and to whom we belong.

Reminders. Hmmm sometimes they can be so redundant, unwanted. Like when you're in high school and every time you leave the house your parents tell you to be good. (Or when you're 25 and your parents still tell you to be good :) ...) I hesitate to say, however, that reminders are unneccessary, because I often think they are just what we need. Reminders that we're not alone, in fact we are in good, comforting, loving, faithful company.

Bring me a white horse for Christmas

I've begun writing several posts that are now sitting in my saved drafts. There are so many ideas running around in my head. Bits about life at the hospital. About lunch breaks spent down in the Wood Chapel. Lunch breaks where I spend my time reflecting on advent themes, where I can't put down my used copy of Franny & Zooey, where the same man comes in everyday to pray in a certain direction.

Posts about scurrying home from the Wicker Park early morning service to start decorating the house for Christmas. Even though Missio Dei doesn't light advent candles, I can still visualize how quickly Christmas is coming. Back at Bethel there would be two pink candles lit on the wreath with the big white Christ candle in the middle...

I've started writing about music and how much it plays a part in my life. About incredible experiences at the Congress Theater seeing Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeroes as well as Grace Potter banging her long blonde hair all over the stage and then in a different realm the incredibly still and haunting voice of the petite brunette who helped lead corporate worship last night.

I wanted to share a conversation I had with a near stranger who if nothing else introduced to me a simple way of describing a complexity. That is for those things that don't fit in a box or under one label. Those people or ideas that you can't quite grasp....because they are not an 'either or', they are 'both and'. Because, for example, there are those people who are both calm and intense -- and it's not necessarily contradictory, moreso, I'd say it's a fusion of two things.

And all of these things stem from this inexplicable amount of contentment and joy that have decided to dwell in and around me this season. And for this, I am incredibly grateful.