Monthly Archives: September 2011

There’s never a moment that’s just a moment.

Posted on
7

2:25pm on a Monday

It’s raining right now. The kind of hard rain that splatters all over the leaves and branches in our back “forest” and splashes a hazy gray fog over everything as it falls. I can hear it running in a steady pour off our back roof. And I can hear it pinging and pinging and pinging the metal that covers our fireplace.

And this moment is just magical. And as soon as I picked up my eyes from my computer screen I realized just how much magic was happening outside. And I inhaled it.

And, no sooner than realizing the moment, I had this instinct to grab my iPhone and check the weather radar to see how much orange and red remained over our area before the red would pass and the digital weather-radar “sky” would be clear again, revealing roads and neighborhood once covered by red red rain.

But, no. I didn’t grab my phone. I sat here.

Still sitting here. Still letting my senses soak up this moment as the earth soaks up this much needed rain. Letting it fall over me and let myself capture it in these words on this digital page, fingers spilling and splashing over keys. Rain spilling and splashing all around me.

Funny how laptop keys sound a bit like the drops upon drops upon drops. Pinging and pinging and pinging.

Funny how the foggy misty splashing rain is still graying over our back yard. And I can’t see through to the neighbor’s roof.

Funny how this moment is becoming more and more of an unending moment as I observe and listen and record. And I don’t anticipate the end. In fact, I resist the end by allowing my senses slow my own pace and my attention slow time itself, until the thunder is long and the rain is steady. Awareness. Awareness is our only weapon against the insignificant and unnoticed passing of time.

Awareness.

This is a moment. I’m in it. But oh the effort to remain here.

It takes such deliberate action to slow our consciences to the point of this awareness. Even when something fantastic happens around us, we want to know what’s next, when it will end, where we’re going, what’s going to happen. We have more questions than the moment has answers. And if we’d just stop asking, and let the moment tell us what it came to say, we might have less questions.

And we might have more moments.

My fast and furious five fall facts.

Posted on
24

1) The rain and the pumpkins and the cooler air make me–fine, I’ll admit it–miss New England. The colours are going to pop in about three more weeks, you know.

2) I have this strange urge to add the British “u” in words. Like: “I love fall colours.” Also, the “u” can be utilized in honour and flavour and neighbour. But I prefer its charming use in colour. Why?

3) The new Facebook is coming this week. Are you ready?

4) Instagram makes me see square frames around stuff. All the time. Speaking of frames, Pam said you can always unframe it. The Office is back.

5) Mmm… Fall means favorite shows: The Office. House. (And fine I’ll be patient about 30 Rock. sheesh.) Fall also means one more home evaluation meeting before we hopefully are approved as adoptive parents. But that doesn’t mean we’ll become parents soon. Word on the street is that this is a longer process than anticipated. yep………

6) Speaking of watching way too much TV: what show are you most excited about this Fall?

What if there were no numbers?

Posted on
8

I just had a long convo with a friend about social media and its positive and negative consequences.

And she had lots of questions about the relational and social and developmental ramifications of this mode of hyper-controlled semi-anonymous interaction. And the differences between virtual and real relationships. And how to navigate those waters. And I didn’t have all the answers.

And, yes I told her about Gitz’ life and legacy, and the countless people that I’ve virtual-met and real-life-met because of this medium. But, can I be honest? I also used phrases like “not real” and “point systems” and “game” and “winning.”

And I felt like I betrayed all of you in saying those things. Because you are real people and you’re more than a number on my stats page and comment link and twitter profile and facebook page and…….

I think the numbers can ruin it for us. They are there, in all social mediums, and they are impossible to ignore. They are enticing when they climb, and they are disheartening when they drop. And they make us focus on them instead of on the actually people who are on the other side of the screen. They betray us. The numbers simultaneously suck us into a point-system and dehumanize the experience. Everything that can be quantified will be quantified: likes, RTs, comments, clicks, mentions, etc.

But, you know, I couldn’t help but wonder what would happen if there were no numbers? Seriously. Think about it. What would happen to Blogging and Facebook and Twitter and Instagram and LinkedIn and Youtube and…….?

Would as many people be involved? Would they “play” the social media game? Would I? Would you?

My brain hurts.

It also likes the idea of no numbers.

Starting with Invisible

Posted on
16

About a year ago my therapist told me to start over.

So I am. I’m taking stock of what I’ve been told. And of what I think I know and think I don’t know. And of what I can stomach.

And I’m starting with “Invisible.”

It’s the only word I’m comfortable with right now. It’s the only word that peaceably integrates my faith and my reality, my outsides and my insides. They can all come and sit at the same love feast of Invisible. And they can get along.

I’m so thankful that Walter Chalmers Smith was brave and honest and poetic in his use of Invisible. He carefully put into our mouths significant words that now roll off faithful tongues without a thought. Oh but we would do well to pause and feel their weight and ask their questions.

We would do well to let Invisible be what It is. Without explanation or footnote or disclaimer.

And we would do well to hold off the buts of “you can’t see the wind, but you can see it’s effects” or the quick go-to of “faith is … being certain of what we do not see.”

I don’t want rationalizations.

I want admittance.

I want to find a brave gray-haired robe-wearing faith-filled Billy-Graham lookalike who will stand here with me in the stillness and quiet and surrender the same confession: “Yeah… I can’t see Him either.“