heard around our home

"Sometimes I feel like I conduct self-therapy by mentally imagining myself having an interview with Terry Gross."  -Ellie

"What about Tarzan?  That movie really featured Phil Collins. Or just -- what about Phil Collins?" - Charlie

And then some new music permeated our upstairs walls, thanks to the good taste of friends...

quinque

This week has been a rarity in that Charlie and I had the house all to ourselves, and so I built up in my mind all this pressure to make each evening the perfect time to be together. I'd envisioned jaunting around the town (??) or going on long, sunset-laden walks that were full of deeply meaningful conversation.

And instead we settled into a week comprised mostly of quiet evenings.  Simple dinners, watching a few short clips on the internet, reading for an hour or so, and then a brief conversation as we drifted off to sleep at night.

The week took me by surprise -- had we forgotten how to just be us?  Why wasn't this week living up to my expectations as one of the last chances we would have just 'Charlie and Ellie' time?

However, tonight as we celebrated our five year anniversary with brinner and a movie, I can't help but collect and treasure all the memories of the past years, and bask in the joy and quiet peace we've found - the refinement we've experienced together and the abounding love that we've cultivated, which allows even the simplest of moments and weeks together to be the most delightful.

The secret of a good old age is simply an honorable pact with solitude. -Gabriel García Márquez (in 100 Years)

nobody asked...

I just saw this post on NPR, which drew me back to the readings and discussion of Le-Chambon-Sur-Lignon during my course on the Holocaust in college.  Reading about this village, about what compelled individuals to make sure a high sacrifice during tumultuous times, was lasting. It was so infused with meaning that I can replay portions of the conversations in my head, reconstruct the make-up of the class, and feel the cloud of quiet contemplation that pervaded the standard academic drone of the room.

Our class (as it goes with any class that covers the Holocaust) was not focused on stories like Le-Chambon, in part because of the general lack of stories like Le-Chambon. There were so few who stood up when the stakes were high, and many who did likely never had an impetus to seek attention or share their story afterward.

But, reading about the interviews and stories of these individuals, and people like Olive, plants deeper questions in all of us.  What is it that leads some to make such simple yet bold choices in the face of grave danger?

I remember, of the people in Le-Chambon, that what was remarkable was that they didn't really see not caring for their Jewish neighbors as an option. The decision was so clear it was made for them.  This seems like a common narrative, reminds me of the tone and perspective of Olive in Rwanda.  It makes me think about how our daily, small choices to structure how we perceive the world can become a framework for the bigger questions, the ones that bind together our existence.

Song of my Spring

I've been playing 'Iscariot' on loop over the past few months.  Tonight, I was struck by how much the song fit with the prolonged winter (and waiting) for Spring, as well as those first few days -- when the cold air is still sharp, but not biting, and you realize the restorative days of Spring are within reach.

This song is my February, March and early April.  It's a reminder of pain, loss, and misperception. But it's also a song of a reckoning that leads to renewal.

threads: vulnerability and gratitude

** I wrote this post on Christmas day 2013, then pulled it off because it was SO MANY feelings. But, in my desire to recommit to writing from time to time, I thought this would be a good place to start.

Christmas always seeps into Thanksgiving -- the tinsel, lights, commercials, and music slowly transudes store aisles and TV aireways long before we're ready.  While I love all-things Christmas, I am one of the many who constantly bemoan how Thanksgiving is slighted, even though it happens every year.

However, I've had a lot of unstructured time over the past few weeks -- giving me tons of time to reflect.  While most "reflection" feels contrived and maudlin, the open space/natural way my mind has wandered to has led me to invert the holidays - to allow Thanksgiving to blend into Christmas. This year, in the open and wandering spaces of my mind, I can't stop quietly giving thanks.

I just listed to a fantastic NPR podcast from the "On Being" series a few months ago.  What I love most about Jean Vanier's words is that he speaks on the vulnerability of God.  Growing up in an evangelical megachurch, when taught the traits and characteristics of God, the concept of His vulnerability was never emphasized.  The omnipotence and omniscience of God felt packaged by the church in such a way that I never lent myself to imagine God as vulnerable.  As a result, I think over the past years I've been blind to the sight of Christ in mine and others experiences of vulnerability.

The past year has been all about vulnerability.  My unending exposure to the loss of memory has allowed me to see the preciousness and fragility in the process of our daily construction of meaning and living out our existence.  And I've realized -- in the moments where I've felt emotionally battered but have had to press on, get up, continue to strike the balance of caring for others and maintaining self -- that all that I am is vulnerable.  I'm also continuing to be reminded that our vulnerability positions me in a real and constant need of the presence of the "brotherhood and sisterhood" of saints.

...
Which loops me back to gratitude.  Gratitude and vulnerability have been the bounds of a very difficult year. And so I am constantly, quietly, writing a living ode of gratitude. To friends like Luke and Katie, Kevin and Seren, Nate and Rachel, Tina and Dave who housed me (this past fall) and Charlie (last fall) for a period that long exceeded the "three-day/still smells okay" period that typical friends can bear. They provided me not only somewhere to lay my head, but also a home - and a space to speak openly, find respite, and take shelter as I pursued my career when it seemed completely implausible, and when unexpected hardship continued to ebb in and out of mine and Charlie' lives.

I want to lift words of praise to my mother's friends - who cooked meals, found volunteer opportunities for her, emailed, called, and cared.  I want to shout loud and whisper softly of those who donated and drove to support me and a friend, and my mom, when we ran and walked to raise funds for Alzheimer's.  And I am constantly, constantly, gathering together words that have been shared, letters sent, emails and conversations of encouragement - from mentors in Memphis, a faraway friend, family in Europe, kind strangers on the metro.

My favorite books from this past year was undoubtedly We Learn Nothing (a whole song of praise can be drafted uniquely for the best friend who just, out of the blue, mails you a book that connects so deeply that you ruminate and work through the words all year). Charlie and I were just re-reading Kreider on a holiday drive when I came across these words (Kreider, speaking about a friend): He loved that we knew him. This is one reason people need to believe in God -- because we want someone to know us, truly, all the way through, even the worst of us.

Vulnerability and hard things have made me get to know myself better in 2013, and have forced me to pry open my life in certain ways -- to depend on, and resultantly, be know by others in a way I would have never foreseen or asked of my community otherwise. And gratitude has followed.