Gratitude...

"Gratitude unlocks the fullness of life. It turns what we have into enough, and more. It turns denial into acceptance, chaos into order, confusion into clarity.... It turns problems into gifts, failures into success, the unexpected into perfect timing, and mistakes into important events. Gratitude makes sense of our past, brings peace for today and creates a vision for tomorrow."

*Melodie Beattie

Summertime...and the livin' is easy

My friend Erin Morgan is a gifted singer, and when I say gifted I mean the "blow your socks off, and make you weep uncontrollably" kind .

She and I just took a weekend holiday together in the Okanagan. We rode bikes through orchards, swam in a beautiful lake, listened to a mid-summer thunderstorm on my dad's front porch while he played guitar...and we recorded some music.

I asked Erin to sing and record George Gershwin's song "Summertime" -- thought it was fitting. Have a listen to her vocal interpretation we recorded this weekend, it's quite amazing.

Thanks, dad, for being a great techie and producer!

"Be a lamp, or a lifeboat, or a ladder. Help someone’s soul heal. Walk out of your house like a shepherd."

Rumi

miscellaneous bits of kitchen debris

Today I remember my childhood kitchen. Probably a Saturday, mid morning in Lynn Valley on a rainy day. There was a large picture window behind the dining room table that mom would always open, inviting the perfume of the West Coast rainforest inside, its deep green and melancholy serving as the backdrop for the potentially monotonous and thankless tasks of the day. A little bit of beauty for ashes. These were days of hard work for my mom, days when even her elbows would inevitably run out of grease. We were too young then to identify the look of sheer exhaustion on the face of our over-worked mother. Of course, now I wish I could go back in time to alleviate it somehow, maybe just give her a hug, tell her she is enough as a mother, as a woman...then clean the oven for her.

I remember getting kitchen gravel stuck to the bottom of my cold little feet, after which mom would promptly sweep the floor. There was the unforgetable scent of a mishmash of spices hanging in the air around the pantry. To this day I revel in spices, and when I smell curry or cinnamon, onion salt or bay leaves, I am standing once again, three feet tall in front of a large wood-panelled pantry door with its intriguing smells inviting me inside to investigate.

I remember my mom often had wrinkled and soft hands from washing too many piles of dishes. She and my dad fed a lot of mouths other than their children's - hungry mouths, neglected mouths, the mouths of strangers that needed to be welcomed into a family. We always had guests at our table, young and old. I consider the hospitality of my parents a rich inheritance.

I remember mom's distinctive washing style, the blue terry cloth dunked in soapy water, water that was always far too hot for my little girl hands. That toleration for hot water was a divinely imparted talent in my mind, a necessary one that God developed especially for moms. One cannot clean properly without hot water after all. I figured someday this talent would be bestowed on me as well, and it became a milestone to look forward to, not unlike enjoying the taste of wine or drinking black coffee with breakfast. I still can't handle hot water to this day, but wine and black coffee on the other hand have become more than tolerable, even enjoyable.

After mom did the dishes it was onto the counters. She moved gracefully and fastidiously along, once in a while being interrupted by my sister and I bickering and needing her to put on her town sheriff hat or my youngest sister moving in for a snuggle and asking for a snack. The best snack was a peeled and cut up apple. Mom would take a paring knife and move the apple round and round, the peel falling onto the cutting board, a spiralling work of art. She always took time to peel them for us. Always. There's something so incredibly loving about that.

I learned to clean from my mother. I watched her carefully, closely, something we often do without realizing when we are children - something children often do without us realizing when we are adults. For instance, there were the globs of dried up raspberry jam on the counter, and the miscellaneous bits of kitchen debris trapped in the crevasses of the scarred wooden cutting board. She would always pay careful attention to these, getting every last crumb, seed, flake, and offending morsel, rinsing them all down the sink or into a pot of soapy water.

Counters are a kind of unofficial record keeping device, a possibly embarrassing indicator of when you last cleaned your kitchen. For instance, today when I was cleaning mine there were little flecks of parsley stuck on the cloth, and that would take me back to last Saturday evening when I made a beautiful Tuscan pasta with a parsley garnish. Right, four days ago. Phewf! That's not so bad. I wonder how far our counters took mom back? Well, I hope she took it in stride.

I remember mom's music playing, Joni Mitchell I think, singing out her poetry about painted ponies and cloud illusions, or Chelsea mornings when "the sun poured in like butterscotch and stuck to all my senses". Mom would often put on one of many many 90's praise and worship tapes - you know the ones where all of the singers ound a bit too "victorious" for their own good? There was beauty in them, though, despite my current distaste for the cheeseball music style. They were songs for Jesus, songs about God's love and goodness, His forgiveness and friendship, the truth floating through the room and wrapping around us like royal purple silk. I remember her singing along, and that sometimes she would get tears in her eyes, brace herself on a counter or lean against the wall, and be still...but just for a moment.

I don't think she cried or stilled herself often enough. Sometimes I'm not sure I do either, although mom oftentimes reminds me that I should, knowing what happens to a woman when she continually neglects her heart...even just to get the cleaning done.

I am cleaning my own kitchen today, a simple act which has ushered me into this delicate and nostalgic moment, this memory of my kitchen origins. It's mysterious and beautiful when we become enfolded by memories such as these, as if God is saying "Look, listen, remember, and be grateful". I am so grateful for my mom, for her tireless acts of service toward her family. For teaching me how to thoroughly clean a kitchen...

Spray with a good cleanser, dunk cloth in hot soapy water, make sure you get into the corners, wash down the cupboards, spot clean the coffee splashes on the coffee maker, the sticky collection on the toaster buttons, the streaking of dried liquid on the glass of the oven, and don't forget about the miscellaneous bits of kitchen debris trapped in the crevasses of your scarred wooden cutting board.

Right, away they go down the sink.

Amber

P.s. - I'm listening to Chelsea Morning as we speak...

Bus En Route Entertainment - The Narcoleptic Plumber

I was on the 250 Horseshoe Bay today, which takes about an hour from Downtown Vancouver to final destination. It's a long ride, a lot of starts and stops, but good for clearing the head. On this particular trip, however, having absentmindedly left my iPod at home as well as the book I'm reading right now (I Love the Word Impossible by Anne Kiemel), I had little to entertain myself with, save a pen with no lid and the back of a receipt on which to write - so classy.

I was in a conundrum, yes, but decided to do some people watching to pass the time, avoiding direct eye contact, of course.

For a few minutes, sightings of interest were scarce, so I just allowed myself to eavesdrop on the musings of retirees in wigs and stockings on their daily shopping adventures. But then I saw him -- the narcoleptic plumber.

He was sitting up, tool belt safely secured to waist, long pipe in hand (about a meter from the ground up - not sure why he brought this on the bus), with his head slumped forward, mouth wide open, faaast asleep. I was first curious about the mouth drooping open, wondering if he was going to drool and if I should prepare myself to be grossed out. I decided to put that one on the backburner. I did, however, notice he was ever so slowly stooping further and further forward in slumber towards the pipe he was holding on to and that, come one more bump in the road or fast start, he was going to hit it bang on, and hard.

I then began to question if this situation was one which required some intervention, some level of social benevolence. I chuckled at the thoroughness of my conscience, and after considering all of my options, I concluded there was no comfortable or pithy way of communicating a message to the effect of, "WAKE UP Mr. Wrench, you're going to hit your head on your pipe".

Yeah, that's what I was thinking.

So, I decided to make the most of the situation by granting myself the permission (guilt free) to be entertained by the plumber's plight. (Wow, who knew alliteration would make it into this post?!)

I watched for five minutes, enthralled in a slightly puckish manner, as he inched closer and closer toward the pipe. Then finally, after a red light on 13th Street...

BANG!

Mr. Wrench woke up.

He was jolted out of slumber, confused at what had just transpired, horrified at the little dabble of drool at the side of his mouth, and in pain after hitting his head on an unidentified hard object - the one he happened to be holding on to. It took him a couple of moments to orient himself and put two and two together; I found the whole scenario altogether amusing.

It was over almost before it began, and worth ever second.

This is why I love public transit - it is the stuff of blogs.

Demetri Martin Visual Jokes

One of my absolute favorite comedians. He's just plain dry and bizarre.
"With grapes, you always get another chance..." - love it!

:)

Be kind to this stranger.

I have a friend that I love very much. I was praying for her and some words started spilling out onto a page in my journal that felt very healing, not just for her, but for me. It's funny how God works like that - we are constantly reflecting truth onto each other and back to ourselves.

The words that came were these:

"...Sometimes giving yourself permission to accept NOT knowing who you are enables you to see clearly, with new eyes, to learn about yourself, find out what is really inside you. A season of befriending yourself, leaving the judgement, the criticism
aside, leaving room for a new voice, still and small to be heard. It's a loss
of control and security that eventually leads to a richness of self discovery
and new kinds of joy. Joy you need. Self you need. Be kind to this stranger,
and she will begins to unfold her secrets..."

There is something very powerful about those words. They hit me in that place way, way at down at the bottom of my well.

Permission to accept that you don't know yourself entirely, a sobering sense of having only seen the tip of the iceberg, not allowing that to be a fearful or unsettling realization.

Leaving the judgment and the criticism aside so you can start to receive truth.

Listening to what God is whispering in your ear; being led down new and exhilarating corridors of yourself, seeing doors to rooms you never knew existed, rooms you now have the opportunity to enter.

Creating space for joy and excitement to exist inside you once again.

Being kind to this stranger, even tender, until she feels safe enough to reveal her secrets, to show you more than just your 'potential' and what you will be, but perhaps what you have been all along.

Coming to understand that you were formed, specifically, on purpose - we cannot build, we can only build upon.

Take a deep breath in, fill my lungs, and breathe out.

It feels so much better seeing through this lens.



Amber.

Like Totally Whatever - You Know? by Taylor Mali

The preamble:
My friend, Alec, who is the intern pastor at my church, read this poem on Sunday to coincide with what he was teaching.

I think it's probably one of the most poignant poems I've ever heard in that it articulates with both playfulness and solemnity a very serious problem in our culture - the inability to speak with conviction, to stand behind your own thoughts and ideas, to be A TRUE individual.

Give this a read - it's quite powerful.

Kudos to Taylor Mali for writing it and to Alec for sharing it with all of us.



Totally Like Whatever, You Know?
By Taylor Mali
www.taylormali.com

In case you hadn't noticed,
it has somehow become uncool
to sound like you know what you're talking about?
Or believe strongly in what you're saying?
Invisible question marks and parenthetical (you know?)'s
have been attaching themselves to the ends of our sentences?
Even when those sentences aren't, like, questions? You know?

Declarative sentences - so-called
because they used to, like, DECLARE things to be true
as opposed to other things which were, like, not -
have been infected by a totally hip
and tragically cool interrogative tone? You know?
Like, don't think I'm uncool just because I've noticed this;
this is just like the word on the street, you know?
It's like what I've heard?
I have nothing personally invested in my own opinions, okay?
I'm just inviting you to join me in my uncertainty?

What has happened to our conviction?
Where are the limbs out on which we once walked?
Have they been, like, chopped down
with the rest of the rain forest?
Or do we have, like, nothing to say?
Has society become so, like, totally . . .
I mean absolutely . . . You know?
That we've just gotten to the point where it's just, like . . .
whatever!

And so actually our disarticulation . . . ness
is just a clever sort of . . . thing
to disguise the fact that we've become
the most aggressively inarticulate generation
to come along since . . .
you know, a long, long time ago!

I entreat you, I implore you, I exhort you,
I challenge you: To speak with conviction.
To say what you believe in a manner that bespeaks
the determination with which you believe it.
Because contrary to the wisdom of the bumper sticker,
it is not enough these days to simply QUESTION AUTHORITY.
You have to speak with it, too.

I am listening now - a poem

This poem is a retrospective poem, I wrote it a couple of months ago reflective of this past year.

There is so much worth in slowing down, even breaking down, in order to hear God.

Here is the poem:



LISTENING NOW

My world is loud, so loud, in fact, I cannot hear my heart.
So many knots in my stomach, I want to unravel them.
All the callings, yearnings, questions from a place deep, a place hidden -
a place that got lost.
There must be bones buried there, bones of a creature I used to be,
a creature I'm meant to be.
I want to go through, walk in and sort it all out,
but I get to the door of trying and it’s just too hard.
I've posted a note to myself, it's so convincing, "ACCESS DENIED!".

Denied, my true longings, my true self, and in its place are so many tasks,
standards, to do's, to don'ts. Work, phone, e-mail and ipod, and I’m bowing every day to the clock.
A mechanical device, a merciless taskmaster, making sure I get on to the next thing, and the next, and the next after that. Striving to not fail, not let anyone down.
I am time impoverished.

Impoverished, I can't think, I can't rest, I can't even hear.
The still voice, the small voice, the one that knocks and waits for me to
answer. Always ready when I am. He navigates me through the storm toward Himself - the centre, the calm, a place He knows I will be able to hear Him, see Him. It's Eye contact.
Standing on top of a fearful ocean, calling me to step out and join him,
and I want to respond to this invitation.

This invitation, to stop, to Sabbath, to do as He does, receiveing His deep
covenant with me. He wants me to rest and be like a child,
to know, like Hagar alone by that spring in the desert,
"the God who sees me!". Building His Kingdom in my heart.
Feeling His kindness thick in the air even as He exposes me,
takes away my hiding places.
"Don't be afraid". I swallow these words like cold glacier water deep into my body, and I allow myself to be ushered into His courts.

His courts, this holy place, I cross the threshold, and I am altered.
Lucid, aware now that there is a profound freedom awaiting me,
a weightlessness that I thought belonged only to the angels, the clean ones. My heart begins again to feel that overflow, worship has returned.
“You are good! You are good! You are good! You are good!”.
I can smell his comforting scent all around me,
and I am reintroduced to joy as I slide down majestic hallways in my socks, landing in a pile of holy pillows.

Pillows, on which I rest all of my heaviness. Abiding. Full weight, body limp, eyes shut. I breathe, respirations in and out, a tide in my body.
I am quiet. "Like a weaned child is my soul within me".
The words echo in my heart, for I like King David have been fighting, seeking justification, offering excuses; now understanding that resistance is futile in light of the desperation in my heart, "I am that man!". I am that woman. Closer and closer, He is moving, and as the silence deepens, I can finally say in earnest, "I am listening now".


Listening, as He speaks so gently, His voice reaching the farthest horizon of all that I am. Slowly He begins to access that which I have denied.
Stinging tears on red cheeks, the shock and horror as I see the parts of
my conscious the hot iron has threatened to sear shut!
All of my secrets brought to light - grief, forgotten callings, unspoken prayers, shame, sin, and so many lies. Bars of iron, each one of these, built up all around me, and I didn't hear the clanking, the metal on metal,
because my world has been so loud.

And then with a weak voice I cry...

"YAWEH!"

Silence.

"YAWEH!"

Healing.

"YAWEH!"

Restoring.

YAWEH.

So loud, the cry of my heart for silence. So still and small, the voice that I need to hear. So free, the moment He speaks and I listen…

I am listening now.

Tibet Haiku

I ache for Tibet

Spiritual nomads live free

Why would you cage them?

War Dance a video Story of Truimph of Acholi Children

Saw this documentary on Sunday at Langara College.

It amazes me that children who have suffered so much can sing and dance and open their arms to joy. Just a testament of God, of the human spirit of survival.

These children are the most beautiful creations.

A