Strength and Beauty

Heading west is a very different sensation than heading east. I live in Waukegan, Illinois and to get to Iowa one must travel through some of the worst traffic on the earth. It takes almost the same amount of time to get from my home to the Western Suburbs of Chicago as it does to traverse the width of the state of Illinois. And it doesn’t matter what time of day it is, how bad the traffic is, what ridiculous road construction project they are currently working on, I always have the same sensation. Remember that scene in the Matrix where Neo is one of many cocoons and is being birthed into the real world. He comes up slowly, dazed out of the slippery, tenacious goo that has been incubating him and looks around. And then he becomes unplugged and all the mechanical gadgets hooked into his back come out one after the next, and he is free. That is how I feel a good amount of time when leaving the Chicagoland area. And by the time I get to mile marker 112 on Interstate 88, I can feel myself gliding and picking up speed. Not necessarily speed in the car, but a different kind of movement. The sky opens up wider, I can feel my head lifting to the sky and my eyes alight on the clouds and I breathe my first big breath, a belly breath. I can often imagine myself (and this might sound strange to some) as a larger spiritual being that is so tall that my arms extend for a mile on each side of me. I can feel my breastbone being pulled to heaven and my head tilts back facing the sun. My arms stretch out to the north and the south, brushing across the fields of golden corn. My eyes catch every hue and distinction of color found in the earth, the trees, the streams, the harvest and even the great Mississippi. I feel free.

And when I finally cross that bridge and see the sign that welcomes me home, “The people of Iowa welcome you,” I smile and feel thankful for this place.

As the old state slogan used to say: Iowa you make me smile. It’s true.

I have been putting to good use my favorite (and in my opinion, the BEST cookbook–ongoing debate between Ivan and me) cookbook, The Joy of Cooking. I somehow opened it to the dedication page and read this:

“…to receive the full value of joy you must have someone to share it with.”
– Mark Twain

I have often wondered about this very same thing. I never was able to put it into such eloquence, but there it is, what I have felt all along. I always thought it was because I was extroverted and needed desperately to talk about it, process it, tell someone about what I was seeing, experiencing, feeling, noticing. But I think he’s right; I needed to share it with someone else to make it complete and experience the fullness of whatever delight I was taking in.

Maybe that’s why I blog. Maybe that’s why I like cooking and throwing huge parties to celebrate people. Maybe that’s why I feel propelled to take photos (even with a cheap-ass camera). And maybe that’s why I like using words, sometimes too many words, to express myself. There are limits though to using these mediums that can’t even come close to having someone near your side, taking in the same sunset or singing with full gusto amidst 19,000 students at an Urbana convention. Or having someone near your side when you birth your first child. Oh, to stand with another when the first leaves change color and you look up into the most glorious orange you have ever seen. And to share a warm cup of tea in front of the fire with the light catching the warm red hues of the wood and the coziness settling into your bones, together. Oh, how I wished I had someone to share my first thoughts and emotions as the plane set down in Nairobi, Kenya. How my little heart had longed to go to Africa since I was a wee little girl and then the dream was fulfilled.

There are so many spaces and times in our lives where to simply share the moment with another completes our joy.

I think this will be some of the amazing part of heaven. Where we look into each others eyes and with twinkles of happy tears say, “We are home!” And joy will ooze and flood and nothing and no one can ever take that from us ever again. Oh what a happy day that will be!

I’m not sure.
I have lost all creative writing energy.

I used to write letters (the snail mail type) to my friends of old. Hilary and I invested in lovely stationary, special pens, ribbons to bind the thick stack of papers, pressed flowers. I used to keep a live letter of sorts between Ali and I that went back and forth in a little journal. We started it before we both were even dating our husbands. It is still floating between us, somewhere.

It could be that it is just summer time. Kind of like knitting, it lays dormant in a basket at the side of your chair. You look at it from time to time, think about how it might be nice to pick it up, but you choose to do something else.

It could be that I am all out of creative energy. I do feel like I am in a time of transition of sorts. I have finally made a clean break from my Evanston family and am starting new friendships up north. Looking for connection, a place to call a church home, a community to send roots down with. This takes creative energy the way a woman in her first trimester is all sucked up dry of physical energy as her inner womb does phenomenal and mysterious things creating a very small human being.

It could be that I am feeling protective of my inner world. There is much rumbling within and I have many thoughts and reflections. I feel unsure where to process some of it though. And the blog might not always be the most appropriate and, most of all, safe place, if you know what I mean.

I’ve also begun to experience this powerful phenomenon since quitting my job at the Kellogg Center. All the projects and large to-do items I have put off and stuffed in the attic of my mind this past year (or even the last few years) have come falling down from the little trap door. I find myself wanting to accomplish, check things off lists, be productive, move forward. I guess this is a good sign in some ways. I have energy, space, time and creative power to do many of them. It’s stuff like organizing my pantry, transplanting flowers and perennials that are just in the wrong place, painting/decorating Audrey’s room, dusting the blades on the ceiling fans, going through the girls clothes and organizing them according to size, sorting the filing cabinets that are stuffed to the gills and getting rid of all those old IV staff meeting notes and such, washing windows that have never been washed in the course of our history (and probably the previous owners history) of living in this house, sew this adorable dress pattern I have, create a meditation room and the list just goes on and on and on until I am swirling in it and just plain overwhelmed.

I am hoping autumn brings on some creative writing juices. I need to make time for it and schedule it like its a play date with a good friend. Instead it’s a writing date at the local St. Arbucks with an old laptop.