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I’m Late, I’m Late…. A Catch-Up Post

Do you ever have days where you've been working steadily all day and yet, when the day is done, you still can't tell that you've accomplished anything? Yesterday was one of those days. Although I know that I did accomplish things, and take time out for a couple of walks and to see the eclipse, I still feel like I was treading water. Oh well, sometimes we struggle just to stay in place and other times we soar…..

Or perhaps I am just feeling that I am not living up to my intentions, not that I am a person who has ever had reasonable expectations for herself. I've been home a week now, and today is the first day that I feel that I am completely back to normal, whatever normal is. It is the first day I awoke at my normal time without an alarm, the first morning I focused easily rather than muddling about befogged.

Anyway, I missed Saturday's post, because I was up late Friday, into Saturday morning really, starting to unpack the sewing room and move some heavy furniture around so that a friend could come over and the loom could finally be assembled. I had thought that I would be more organized than I was, that I would have transition time, but that didn't really happen until Friday. It was late by the time that I realized that Saturday was the very next day. It appears I can no longer keep up the pace of my youth, or perhaps it is simply that I no longer care to do so.

The photo is taken from the doorway into the room. The heavy cabinets that form a work/cutting table were in the corner where the loom is now, but this arrangement works better. In fact, this is almost how I originally had it drawn out on paper, at least in terms of the cutting table, but on moving day it somehow turned out differently. I thought I could make it work, but I couldn't. And there I was, instead of being reasonable and planning in advance, moving furniture around at 1 in the morning. Obviously I still have to finish unpacking but now that the big weight, literal and figurative as well, has been taken care of, it all seems possible once again.

After the loom was assembled I realized I still had time to make it to the Market Square Farmer's Market. I had missed the previous three weeks due to travel plans and I really needed to go. I figured the vendors would be packing up, and they were, but there were still options. When George and I went to the Rhinebeck market every week, we would walk around, I would think about what I might cook, then we would take a second trip around buying what we wanted. I would go home, plan a list, and we would hit the grocery store for any ancillary supplies. It doesn't work out quite that way in my life now, for a plethora of reasons. A big one is that I am cooking for one most of the time, although I am looking forward to entertaining more.

Instead I tend to go to the market with a sort of matrix written out on paper. It includes things I have and need or want to use, current ideas that are floating around in my head, and so forth, but none of it is really prescribed. Once I get to the market things may change radically, or not at all, depending on what I see and what inspires me. This particular trip my choices were a refinement of the rough plan on paper. I don't actually know why the matrix above was so pork-centric, except perhaps I was hoping to stop at JEM farm, which has good pork, and probably also because last week's meals seemed to revolve around beef and chicken. I'm better at balance in the grand scheme than in a narrow frame of reference.

Going in with a plan works because I am less likely to get carried away by wanting to make everything I see, and then being overwhelmed after I get home and the week becomes busy. I can plan to cook, but I can also intentionally leave gaps for those days or times when I just want something simple, nourishing, and relatively effortless. I eat better, and am happier, when I cook, but cooking is much more fun when I am cooking for someone. I'm still working on balance.

I did not try to take a picture of the eclipse. I just sat out and enjoyed it. I didn't travel either, but that was mostly because I needed to stay home for a delivery. It was still wonderful. And I am fortunate because I remember the 1979 eclipse. This time I think I was more attuned to the minute changes in the fauna as we proceeded through the stages of the eclipse than I was at the tender age of 20, but that is probably because I simply am increasingly more attuned to those small details. I listened to the birds and the insects and watched a pair of bobwhites come out from hiding on the edge of the lawn. I love watching the birds in my new neighborhood, but Monday morning had been the first time I had see bobwhites. Just seeing them somehow makes me think of fall.

I didn't see the bobwhites this morning on our walk. But the sunrise was beautiful. Tikka and I were out early and got to watch it from its first early glimmers. Have a lovely day.

August 22, 2017
On The San Antonio River Walk

I thought I'd share a few pictures from the San Antonio Riverwalk.

We arrived later than I had hoped on Friday, and Tikka and I were both ready to get out of the car and stretch our legs. Dallas had been cooler than usual for early August, and the temperature when we hit San Antonio was a bit of a shock to our systems — 99° at 7PM. I remember Texas heat from my childhood, but I am no longer used to it.

It didn't seem intolerable on the river walk, probably because we were out of the direct sun. Tikka was eager for a walk and we went two miles. I was surprised because she had not been eager to walk once the heat and humidity hit Knoxville, but maybe it was the humidity more than the heat.

After our walk, I took Tikka back to the hotel and went back out to dinner. We were staying on the river walk, a little over half a mile from the busiest part of the Riverwalk, where the majority of the restaurants and hotels were located, but I didn't walk quite that far back, dining at somewhat trendy, modern Mexican place, Acenar, where I enjoyed some lovely duck tacos and a perfectly balanced jalapeno cucumber margarita.

The next morning was cooler, and quite humid, and our walk was shorter. I don't know if Tikka was tired from the previous evenings walk in the heat, or if it is actually the humidity that she dislikes, more than the heat.

We walked the opposite direction in the morning, toward the Pearl District, and although we did not walk quite that far, or as far as the previous evening, we still managed a mile and a half or so. There were more social opportunities for Tikka in the morning as there were quite a few people walking their dogs, and I was happy with the location of our hotel, closer to residential areas, where there was a steady stream of walkers and runners.

We did not feel either crowded, or isolated, on our walks and we were in a good place. The last time I had stayed on the River in San Antonio, a couple of years earlier with my mom, we were in the heart of the shopping and restaurant district, where it was both crowded in the evening, but empty-feeling and almost abandoned in the early morning. This felt like a much more balanced place; whereas the streets above still seemed almost empty, there was a nice mix of old and young, runners and walkers, residents and visitors.

August 17, 2017
Seeking the Quiet Space

On a quiet block, in the quiet Montrose neighborhood of Houston, there sits a rather severe looking building shaped much like a Greek Cross, or is it an octagon superimposed on a Greek cross? It could be easily missed, and yet it is a space I treasure, a space of profound holiness.

This is the Rothko Chapel. Commissioned by Dominique deMenil and completed in the early 70s as a non-denominational chapel, open every day, open to all, it has become a center for interfaith dialogue. The interior consists of a quiet, some would say somber, modified octagon containing 14 paintings by Mark Rothko, paintings that are mostly black, or almost black, a blackness that I see as rich with depth and color and texture, rich with meaning.

I get that many people do not appreciate this place, and yet many do. The world is big enough for many understandings of what is holy. As I grow older I increasingly understand that every moment, every place and object holds its own share of that holiness, but we all too often are too preoccupied to see. And yet, for each of us there are places or spaces that are totems of holiness, places to which we yearn to return. For me, the Rothko Chapel is one such place. There are many who find peace in the reflecting pool, the Barnet Newman sculpture and the stand of bamboo, and there are those, like me, who find peace in the meditative silence and darkness of the chapel itself.

I discovered the Rothko Chapel the summer I turned twenty. At the time I had never experienced anything quite like it, and I was the only person, other than the docent, present in the space. I didn't know much about Mark Rothko then, but the paintings seemed to embody blackness, not as a slick of color on a canvas, but as an act of absorption, an act of containing all of experience and holding it in a holy reverence. I felt a profound sense of peace, a profound sense of contact not only with the divine, but with humanity, a link through all people and places and things through some divine thread.

When I was twenty, that sense of peace was something new and powerful for me and it was something I yearned for but which always seemed out of reach. The only way I knew to find it was to return to that one place. And I did return several times that summer, several times each summer I worked in Houston, each time I returned to Houston. I took George to the Rothko chapel before were married and we shared our experiences of profoundly layered depth and peace.

Although it had been many years since I had spent any time in Houston, I had not forgotten. When I planned my loop trip, beginning with Chihuly in Arkansas, I realized I could easily loop through Houston and end with Rothko. It had been an emotionally overwrought summer and I felt deeply in need of a quiet meditative space. I planned an afternoon, and I stopped in. The space was as meditative as I remembered, the paintings as rich with meaning. As I sat quietly, contemplating not so much the space, but the act of art, contemplating the colors of blackness, of darkened shades of color, I felt this attempt to reach out and into all that was and is and will be, all of human history and potential.

I also realized that I no longer need to seek out holy spaces to find that inner peace. It lives in me and with me and it always has, although I have not always been receptive to its presence. Even now I am not always receptive, and it was true that I had needed to distance myself from my daily routines in order to distance myself from my own emotional turmoil. But I had reconnected with that peace long before I arrived in Houston, and I will continue to carry it with me. Sitting in contemplation I recognized that I tend not to give myself enough space for gathering in and reflecting back. I tend to think of that time to fill personal needs as wasted time, but it is in fact not wasted, as it is that time that fuels all the rest, that times that keeps it all from spinning out of control.

I did not really sit at the reflecting pool on this visit, but I have. It was raining lightly. Perhaps I was feeling petulant at the wetness, although I do not melt. I watched a small child splashing a toy in the water, in the shadow of the obelisk, and I contemplated space and the way we interact with space, both the spaces we intentionally create, and the way our presence has shaped and formed even those places we label as "wild" or "natural". Our every thought, our every action simultaneously shapes and is shaped by the world. How then do we decide what is holy or sacred and what is not? How can we?

Photo of the Rothko Chapel from Wikipedia, here.

Photo of Dale Chihuly's Niijima Floats, from the Facebook page of Crystal Bridges Museum of American Art, here.

August 15, 2017
Vacation Reading

I suppose the tenor of vacation reading is influenced by the tenor of the vacation. At my mom's I tend to read mysteries or romances; partially because she often has a few lying around. This time it was because they were what happened to be on my kindle.

(Ruth Asawa at Crystal Bridges)

I'd never read any of Gunnar Staalesen's Varg Veum series, and I'm not quite certain what prompted me to read Where Roses Never Die, but I'll admit I enjoyed it immensely. Staalesen caught my attention with the opening sentence:

There are days in your life when you are barely present, and today was one of those."

Initially Veum seemed a bit of a cliché, the hard-boiled PI, lost in too much booze, but the character was well developed, thoughtful and engaging in his own gruff way. I love the way the plot circled back on itself like an ever-expanding web, tying seemingly disconnected and coincidental incidents into an oddly coherent plot, much the same way lies and secrets fold in on themselves and build tangled webs. The book proved to be more thoughtful, and thought provoking, than I anticipated, with a steady folding and unfolding of motivations, reactions and understandings, mostly on the part of our detective, but also on some of the other characters in the story and I will probably look up other books in the series. It is also an exploration of the way people can wrap themselves up in guilt, or grief or despair, isolating themselves from the world, but also from an understanding of the consequences of their own actions, that isolating effect being a prison of their own making, that both tortures and protects. Veum is an interesting narrator and detective in that he does not always successfully compartmentalize his investigation from his life and the unfolding web of his investigation slowly influences his own understanding of his own life and motivations. I like the way the ending reflected back on the beginning, bookending the tale, a tale that seems to begin in dissolution and ends with a promise of hope.

The choice was mine. The rest of my life was mine. All I had to do was choose."

Mom with her furry grandchildren: Tikka and Holly

Although I also had another, longer novel in progress, I was more inclined to dive into another short novel that made few demands. I was at my mom's and didn't really want to be drawn into a story from which I would resent extricating myself, so I started The Red Car by Marcy Dermansky, a book that had been on my kindle for a long time. It was a slow go at first, and I wondered what had attracted me to the novel in the first place. The prose is short and choppy, and often fairly flat of affect, but, as I was drawn more deeply into the story, I realized that the narrator is flat of affect, that she plays a passive role in her own life, letting life happen to her, not necessarily actively engaged in the act of living. She is hiding from the world, and to a great extent from herself. Through a series of circumstances, circumstances portrayed with a bit of magical realism, she begins to find herself, but only slowly. The novel definitely flirts with what is real and what is in the narrator's head, sometimes confusing the two, and often neither possibility is all that engaging. When the novel ends she is on the cusp of discovery, but has not yet walked through the door. There are moments when the language almost flirts with becoming more, but it hasn't yet transcended that choppiness. I think this is intentional on the part of the author, but I am not sure of her reasoning, am not sure if it serves a greater purpose, a comment not just on the flatness of Leah, our narrator, but of this entire world in which Leah lives. But then again, perhaps that transition out of short declarative, almost timeless and emotionless sentences is more indicative of my own yearnings than anything related to this story. I must admit that it is the language itself that has left me unsettled, more than the story, or are they intrinsically intertwined?

Chihuly in the forest

About this time I got a notice from the Knox County library that my number had come up on the waiting list for a currently popular crime novel, and so I downloaded it. That is one of the wonderful features of modern life, being able to carry a stack of books in a small device, being able to borrow a library book from one's local library anywhere in the world.

This was another book written in short, declarative sentences, but here the language made sense. The book was Michael Connelly's new novel, The Late Show and the matter-of fact, procedural language, fit the procedural nature of the story. This is a new series by Connelly, with a new police officer, Renee Ballard, who seems to me like an attempt to create a younger, female version of Harry Bosch. It was a decent procedural, and I was engaged enough in the story, but i have doubts as to whether Ballard will equal Bosch in maintaining my interest. But the book served its purpose, and as a mindless vacation read when I needed an escape from family, or as respite after a long day of driving through pouring rain, it was completely satisfying.

The big book that saw me through most of my trip was the second volume in George RR Martin's Song of Ice and Fire series, A Clash of Kings. I don't particularly have any problems with the genre, but I'm not sure that I ever would have read this if it weren't for the Game of Thrones series on TV. I've not watched Game of Thrones, not beyond an episode, but I am enjoying the book. The characters are complex and well drawn for the most part, there are some moments where I felt a few got short shrift in this second volume, and the plot is very politically sophisticated and astute. I probably like the slower pace of the books more than I would like the series, and I enjoy the ability to delve deeper into the thoughts and motivations of the characters that is offered through the pace of the book. The violence doesn't really bother me, at least not reading about it, although I do occasionally have to put the book aside, for various reasons. I'd be incredibly naïve to claim that there is anything in here that humans haven't done to each other in our not particularly pretty past (and probably not our present or future either), but I can't watch it on TV. I can read about unpleasant things, but I can't watch movies where people physically harm other people anymore. I'll probably continue reading the novels, but not quickly. The story is a part of our cultural lexicon, whether one likes it or not, the characters are strong and interesting, and Martin is a fairly astute observer of human behaviors and motivations. Although it is not of the caliber of lets say, Tolkein, and I've found no redeeming or uplifting messages or metaphors here, it is proving to be both an entertaining and often thought-provoking read.

And now comes the question of What Next? I'm currently reading a few non-fiction books, but am itching for another novel, perhaps one with a little more weight, something that will perhaps stretch me as a reader a little further. It has been years since I've tackled a Man Booker longlist, and I've already lost a month, so I doubt I will get them all read before the prize is announced, much less the shortlist, but the list seems like a good place to start.

What about you? Do you read novels? Have you tackled the longlist? Or do you prefer something that offers more of an easy escape? Do Tell.

August 12, 2017
Crystal Bridges

Not many words today. Rather, I thought I'd share some photos from the Crystal Bridges Museum in Bentonville Arkansas. Designed by Moshe Safdie, I found it interesting in its own right.

This was not my first trip to Bentonville, and yet I had come to a place in some ways completely different from the place I had seen before. That first Bentonville was a very small town, a town of less than 6,000, smaller even than my own hometown. There was no Crystal Bridges Museum, no Walmart, although there was Walton's 5 and 10, now the Walmart Visitor's Center. The town itself is worth exploring, with a lovely historic district, reminiscent of other old southern towns, but I don't remember it specifically and I did not take the time to explore. This may be my loss.

Ahh, things have changed, as they do.

I like the way the museum echoes the colors of the place. In some ways it is jarring and modern and opposed to my childhood memories. In others it is revealing of its environment, celebratory even.

The way it works with the landscape.

Notice how the screening both hides, but also reveals a subtle shading, a building of color upon color and a sense of place.

I didn't spend much time in the permanent collections. I could go back although I dont know if I ever will. As I mentioned previously, I reach my saturation point early with art, and need to step back. Even in a small museum, it can take me days to see and absorb. Notice the Chihuly chandeliers above. And the Sol LeWitt below.

The LeWitt faces the water, faces the view seen in the second photo above.

This last photo is looking out over the museum from the grounds, just before second part of the Chihuly exhibit, "in the Forest". I don't think the outside exhibit was my favorite, but perhaps I was already reaching my saturation point, perhaps I was too easily distracted by the museum itself. It was all certainly worth the detour.

August 10, 2017
June Books and the Pleasures of Reading

I've been thinking about the pleasures of reading. In part this is simply because I have occasionally found myself curled up with a good book, the world receding from active thought. I don't have a boat or a pond or a lazy glade in which to read, but this painting by sergeant perfectly captures the mental escape provided by a good book. (photo taken at Crystal Bridges Museum of Art)

Which reminds me that I have been remiss in maintaining book lists, partly because keeping the list is not as fun as time spent reading, but also because I still struggle with the idea of even keeping a list, even though there is some aspect of my nature that can't relax into the next novel until I've caught up with my accounting. The fact is that keeping a list has proven useful, serving to remind me of when I read a book, perhaps even that I have read a book, at least before I get through it a second time wondering why it seems so familiar (see Rules of Civility).

Of course there are good reasons not to keep a list as well, especially when one does so in order to claim bragging rights. The point is never about what you've read, except inasmuch as what you have read, if you have read it well, becomes a part of who you are. I see already that the above statement is misleading as I've just said that what you read doesn't matter and in the same sentence stated that you become what you read. That may give me pause. There are many things I've read which I sincerely hope do not define me. Lucky this is not the case with the books I read in June.

Perhaps there is a purpose in writing a book post as well in that it forces me to think about the books I've read after the fact, when they are no longer forefront in my memory and my emotions are apt to be swayed.  It also allows me to make a pretty collage. Well, at least the previous months' reading materials yielded pretty collages; June's collage is mostly brown. Did the colors of the book covers affect my thoughts on the reading? No, but it is interesting that my favorite book, Lincoln in the Bardo is blue.

Both of the two theology texts are required reading for EFM year 4. Since I will be taking EFM mentor training, and these book are on the schedule for the next cycle, I shall keep them. Of the two, Timothy Sedgewick's The Christian Moral Life is my favorite as it made me question my beliefs and think about the way I live my life in retrospect to the principles I profess to believe.   My Neighbor's Faith is fairly light reading, and I did not find it either deeply theological or thought provoking, consisting as it did of brief personal stories. However, since one of the themes of year four, besides theology, is about deepening one's faith through interfaith dialogue, the book can be enlightening and perhaps even upsetting for those who do not have friends of different faiths or have not been inclined to engage others on matters of belief. Unfortunately I will have to buy a new copy of My Neighbor's Faith as Moisés peed on it as a very pointed protest at having been forced to move, and rather than dry it out and live with the urine-scented pages, I discarded the book. I know at least one person who does not believe that there is any valid reason for interfaith dialogue and who would applaud Moisés's actions. I however disagree.

As I look at this collage, it strikes me that three of the books, Lincoln in the Bardo, Mr. and Mrs. Doctor, and Unbroken, all deal, at least in part, with how people come to terms with change and stress and trauma in their lives, with grief and strength and fortitude, with creativity and passivity and their benefits and consequences. To some extent my reading of each was informed and influenced by my readings of the others.   But only Lincoln in the Bardo remains on the list of books I will read again.

And David Foster Wallace? I'm glad I read the book; the essays were brilliant riffs, often entertaining, often far too personal, making them at times uncomfortable to read. It is not my favorite volume of his essays, yet my perspective on the author will never be the same.

August 8, 2017
More Chihuly

We went to Arkansas to look at Art.

It proved to be a worthwhile detour, making the drive not just an obligatory drive, but an opportunity for exploration. And the exhibit proved to be worthwhile as well, including the familiar, and the unfamiliar.

There were, of course, expected shapes and forms, still ethereally beautiful.

But there were also unanticipated delights. The beauty of simple shapes, columns of glass, patterns inspired by weaving, by baskets and native American blankets. Chihuly is a collector and a creator. This is not surprising. I don't know an artist or even a designer who is not also a collector or gatherer of things.

You can see how the blankets have influenced the designs. But that is only a hint of the way that the things we see and love are transformed into something completely different, in a different medium, but equally beautiful and equally useful.

This. This transformation of idea into object, this cross-pollination of influences. This is what is fascinating; this is why it was worth driving to Bentonville.

I hadn't realized that Chihuly had started with weaving. Even then he incorporated glass into his works, but he hadn't yet discovered the magic of molten glass. "One night a few years later, I melted some glass in a little oven and blew a bubble….As soon as I blew that bubble I decided I wanted to be a glassblower."

It seems no surprise then that he is also fascinated by baskets, by the way old baskets collapse and reform over time.

But I had never made the connection, one that seems so obvious now.

Even the colors and textures are transformed through glass.

Chihuly's drawings were mounted throughout the exhibit. In and of themselves they are beautiful. You see the inspirations. You see the idea on paper. And then you can go directly and see the result. It remains mind-bending. A. B. C. I can see the progression, and yet I understand nothing. It is like holding a soap bubble in my hand. I think I have it, but the moment it touches the skin it bursts.

August 5, 2017
A Detour

Am I growing more fearful and cautious with age? Admittedly I paused and had second thoughts. Tikka and I were out for a walk and at the beginning of the trail a sign had been added to the one listing the rules of the trail — "Warning, Alligators on Trail". I looked at Tikka, tail wagging happily, wondering if she would make a tasty morsel. I am not comfortable with the idea of meeting an alligator, despite the fact that we did summer in southern Louisiana as a child, despite acknowledging that knowledge of the presence and habits of alligators, rattlesnakes, copperheads and water mocassins were part of my youthful lexicon.

No, Tikka and I were not out for a hike around Knoxville. If there are alligators on the trails in the Smoky Mountains I truly do not want to know. We were in Arkansas, at Lake Dardanelle, near Russellville, in the area between the Ozark National Forest and the Oachita National Forest. We were really just passing through; having pulled off the highway on a whim, we discovered Bona Dea Trails and Sanctuary. It was a nice place for a mid-day walk after a couple of hours on the road. We took the three mile loop trail, through sometimes dense wooded wetlands, lazy streams, the sounds of insects, frogs and birds. It was green and humid and beautiful. It was completely unfamiliar; not like New York woodlands or wetlands, not like Amazonian wetlands either. It was simply itself, contained and quiet. Tikka with her harness and six-foot leash (maximum by regulation) met toddlers in their harnesses and six foot leashes, a happy party for the small folk. We saw no alligators on the trail, although there were some in the water.

But we really weren't in Arkansas to spend time exploring the national forests, although that could be a vacation well spent. We were on our way to Bentonville for art, to see a Dale Chihuly exhibit, a slightly roundabout route to Texas. And the exhibit was fabulous, filled with things expected and unexpected, with new insights. I was struck by the way some of the familiar forms, the nested vessels above, reminded me of a hollow tree we had seen at Bona Dea, how the familiar can be re-envisioned and become new.

Not everything was beautiful, but everything was fascinating. Perhaps it was the memory of that mid-day walk, but the piece above reminded me of the colors of water and trees, of swampy greens and mosses, of sunlight glistening on wet stones and scales,

Perhaps I am getting better at semi-solo travel, or travel with dog. We have a good routine. We rise early, Tikka eats while I have my coffee and read or write. We take a walk. She loves to ride in the car and her presence reminds me to look for interesting places to stop and stretch our legs. This is a vacation rhythm that suits me well: read, a nice long hike or walk, a mid day or early afternoon siesta, venturing out again, perhaps some time looking at art, or drinking coffee in a café watching the passers-by, another walk. I'm not sure I want to hike all day, or if I do I need a day or rest afterwards. I can't spend a day in a museum or a craft fair either. I grow too easily overwhelmed. I need time to process. But just wandering and sitting, seeing a place, talking to people; this too is just as important as the hike, the art. There is no rush through life. At the moment I can simply relax.

August 3, 2017
A New Bishop

We elected a Bishop in East Tennessee on Friday. I say we not only because I am part of the diocese of East Tennessee, and I deeply believe that any church is in reality its people, not its structure. The structure, including Bishops, priests, deacons, elders or whatever else they may be called, are there to facilitate and support the growth of the body as a whole — ie. the body of people. But I also say we because I was a delegate to the electing convention, and I was thrilled and honored to be there. Being a part of that process was a privilege. You can see me in the video below in the second row on the left.

I found the process fascinating, at least the part I was involved in, which is in a way the smallest part. Truthfully, I wanted to be a part of the Bishop-electing convention simply because I believe so deeply in the idea of laity. I also entered this process without a real understanding of what a bishop does. Research was needed, and I took that task to heart, reading rules and regulations and bylaws, thinking about organizational principles and trying to balance all of this with faith and people, and the deep uncertainty of a changing world. But all of my research and thought and good intentions would have been useless without the hard work of the people who ran the bishop search, who did the work to present the electing convention with a wonderful slate of candidates for bishop.

I read the information provided by and about the final candidates. I attended the walkabouts, where each candidate spoke to a small group of people and answered questions. I listened to my fellow parishioners, thought about their opinions and weighed my responses and thoughts. I honestly can't say it was a clear path. My choices on paper were not the same as my choices after actually listening to the candidates, were not entirely the same after listening to other opinions, but there were consistent themes. I have friends who are happy with the final choice, and I have friends who are deeply disappointed. Nonetheless I am happy with the results of this election, am honored to be part of the process of calling Brian Cole to be the new Bishop of the Episcopal Church in East Tennessee.

Part of a process like this involves weighing options, of trying to find the best choice among many. In the end my vote was my choice, and I had to vote my conscience. That is the thing about an electing convention, about any human convention actually, is that it depends on the delegates and their consciences. How well the convention works depends on what the delegates believe, or don't believe, and even, although this is hopefully not the case in a faith-based community, whether they follow their conscience at all, or some political or emotional agenda. But the choice is about more than what I believe, what each delegate believes, it is about more than what our faith (and I am using faith loosely here — humans appear to be the only animals who organize their lives around some faith that arises completely out of their imagining, beyond the basic needs of food, shelter, procreation) tells us the world should be. Electing a bishop is about who we want to be, it is about what we believe we want, as well as about what we actually want, about the way our history and circumstances and expectations shape us. It is about the ability to compromise and weigh choices for the greater good. It is also about our history, what has come before, where we are now, how we perceive the world to be and what we think it might be. Electing a Bishop is about whether our dreams of who we want to be are in touch with who we actually are right now. A faith-based electing convention is about faith, faith tempered by reason, faith tempered by wisdom, faith tempered by experience and compromise.

Although I have no intention of putting a sour note on this, I am reminded, much as I believe the best possible decision was made, much as I am in fact happy with our choice, that we humans rarely actually know what we really want. We interpret the world based on our own predilections, our own beliefs, or own natures. This is true across humanity. Even in churches more dogmatic than the Episcopal Church, even among those who proclaim not to believe in any god or religion, there remains a wide gap between what people actually believe and what they profess to believe.

I am reading A Clash of Kings, the second volume of George RR Martin's series A Song of Ice and Fire. Martin is a far better writer than I had expected, and excellent with complex multi-faceted characters and complex plots as well, but what I love the most is the way he crafts sentences that take my breath away. Not always mind you, but enough, enough to make the book worth savoring. Anyway, in the second volume there is a red comet in the sky. It is recognized as a comet by the scientific sorts, by most of the educated in fact, but also it is interpreted by each to suit his own needs, his own beliefs, his (or her) own temperament. There is nothing new in this insight, and yet we need reminding. We all interpret and evaluate and hope that we are making the best decisions. But to some extent we are always blind, never knowing from whence the wind will blow.

August 1, 2017
Not so random thoughts on a Saturday morning

I had a great time in Asheville. I do think it was the best vacation I have taken in a long time, and I was very relaxed. In fact, it probably would have served me well to stay a few days longer, and that is a big change. Just last year I was struggling with staying away more than 2 to 3 days; feeling antsy and like I needed to get home, and then not quite feeling settled when I was at home.

Perhaps that is the key, feeling settled. I feel settled and happy. Perhaps it is easier to go away because I am more settled when I come home. Perhaps being settled isn't as much about a place as it is a state of mind, of learning to accept that sometimes the world goes as we wish and sometime it doesn't, of learning to acknowledge our feelings and respect them, but then to let them go and not let them drag us into depression or anger in some situations, or into frustration or endless yearning for more or better. We never regain what we fear we lost and striving for more doesn't make us happier; often all we accomplish is creating more pain, pain in others we love. We all experience sadness, fear, anger, but how we deal with them is our own choice. Perhaps happiness is just that, acceptance. Happiness comes in embracing joy, acknowledging sadness, and living with the sure knowledge that both will come again.

Perhaps there is more to it than that. At any rate, in my brief time away I've accepted some new insights into the ways I do and do not always handle stress well. I will leave it mostly at that, simply stating that there are still things I internalize too much.

But then, I've also come to think that contradiction and struggle between striving and accepting is part of what it means to be human in much the same way we struggle between wanting to be independent and yet needing others, between creativity and safety. At time life seems to be a long lesson in finding ways to accept and let go. Sometimes we need to step aside, get away and clear our heads.

So I am happy and settled in my new house. But it really isn't about the house, although the house is not irrelevant. Part of my time in Asheville was spent at a craft fair and in galleries. The craft fair was all about things, and I suppose so is a gallery, but they can also be about seeing things differently. I was torn between not needing or wanting more things, and yet at the same time, sometimes wanting. More struggle. I am not about to disparage things in general, things can be fun, they just aren't the be all and end all.    In some ways going to craft fairs and galleries reminded me not to buy, and perhaps that inclination is worth a post of its own. But I did buy a couple of small things, one of which is pictured above. It is a necklace made of automotive springs, part of a line of jewelry made by an artist in Germany. The necklace is light, and springy, and I think it is really cool.

I bought the necklace because I simply think it is neat and interesting and pretty. But I wonder if wearing a necklace made of springs can remind me to spring back and let go.   I wonder if buying a necklace when I am thinking about being tightly wound, a necklace made of springs, can act as a talisman of sorts. I am probably just attaching too much meaning to the thing, but I suspect that even a thing can be a gateway. If, when I wear a sweater I knit I am always reminded of where I was when I was knitting, why can't something I purchased take on equal significance? The danger comes when the things become more important than the memories or ideas they represent, when the gateway becomes more important than the destination, when our talismans become more important than our connections and communities, when our small safe room becomes more important than the village that supports and nurtures us, the village that allowed us to create that room in the first place.

July 29, 2017