Y'all gotta check this funky jam out. Not something I made, but something I love:
http://www.youtube.com/user/randomcarbon#p/a/u/1/PUICTiCNweA
Friday, January 14, 2011
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
It is solved by walking
Around the block from my apartment there is a labyrinth, built from lines of grey stones that are now mostly covered over with grass. A labyrinth is a physical tool for spiritual meditation. Found on the floors of cathedrals or backyards of small parish churches, it is a circular maze in which there is just one way in and out. Taking a roundabout path, back and forth along the edges of the circle and gradually weaving towards the center, the labyrinth-walker eventually finds herself in a small, circular space, from which she then eventually returns through the maze to where she started.
The labyrinth is a simple design. There are usually no walls; one could step easily across the path and into the center in a second. None that I’ve seen have been particularly large. At the one in my neighborhood, it takes five minutes to walk to the center at an easy pace. There is no locked gate, no voice guiding the practice, no instruction. Although it is sometimes walked in groups, at its core it is an individual practice. You can go as fast or as slow as you like, and stay in the center as long as you like. It is nothing more than a suggested route, twisted back and forth on itself in a small space; and what one does in the labyrinth is nothing more than walking. When I walk it alone, there is no one there to enforce what limited rules there are.
There is, however, a box full of pamphlets, which are sometimes partially soaked with rain that has dripped through the lid. On the cover of the pamphlet there is a quote in Latin: Solvitur ambulato (“It is solved by walking”). Inside, the pamphlet states that the labyrinth has been a Christian tool of meditation for many years. It also says that the first labyrinth long pre-dates Christianity, and that the Kabbala of Jewish mysticism, the Hopi medicine wheel, Tibetan sand paintings, and Hindu mandalas are all variations on this form.
I am new to this neighborhood, and when I moved in I was licking the wounds of a living situation gone painfully awry. I was both desperate and terrified to live alone; and once I moved in, it seemed that the solitude was always more intense than the gentle, indulgent privacy I had been hoping for. I spent many evenings pacing the middle-class neighborhood in failing light, wistfully watching fathers tossing a ball with their daughters, idly picking up brochures on houses for sale with re-fabricated interiors. One evening, I found the labyrinth, in the yard of the First Cumberland Presbyterian Church. It was so simple, so straightforward a ritual, that initially it seemed aimless. To walk nowhere, in a circle, and then back again the same way I came.
When I entered, though, my feet slowed. I stayed within the lines, finishing the path, and some surprising sense of the sacred kept me from crossing or moving through it too quickly. The feeling of reverence formed walls as real as stone or wood to guide me to the center and back again. In the center, I sat on a gray marble bench. I was in the same small yard that I had been in before, and yet I was also in a new space. I looked around me and something was different. I got up and moved back through and out the single doorway, feeling as if I had been somewhere. I was not being guided, taught, instructed, or regulated. I was completely alone. But still I followed carefully the lines of stone partly hidden in grass.
Perhaps the most frightening part of solitude for me is that there is no one to please but myself. I cannot bandage anyone else’s wounds, make anyone else laugh, or get instant gratification for acting the way someone else expects me too. I think the same goes for the labyrinth. It seems aimless at first because there is no right way to move through it, just like there is no right way to take a walk. There is no one to please or to follow but myself. The experience is open—open in length, open to the air, open for utilization by multiple religious traditions. It is an unsettling freedom; with only myself to follow, will I be strong enough to lead? What, in the end, will drive me if not the carrots or the sticks of other human beings?
--with appreciation to Christy Brasleton, Joe Gordon Gill, and Dave Harmon
The labyrinth is a simple design. There are usually no walls; one could step easily across the path and into the center in a second. None that I’ve seen have been particularly large. At the one in my neighborhood, it takes five minutes to walk to the center at an easy pace. There is no locked gate, no voice guiding the practice, no instruction. Although it is sometimes walked in groups, at its core it is an individual practice. You can go as fast or as slow as you like, and stay in the center as long as you like. It is nothing more than a suggested route, twisted back and forth on itself in a small space; and what one does in the labyrinth is nothing more than walking. When I walk it alone, there is no one there to enforce what limited rules there are.
There is, however, a box full of pamphlets, which are sometimes partially soaked with rain that has dripped through the lid. On the cover of the pamphlet there is a quote in Latin: Solvitur ambulato (“It is solved by walking”). Inside, the pamphlet states that the labyrinth has been a Christian tool of meditation for many years. It also says that the first labyrinth long pre-dates Christianity, and that the Kabbala of Jewish mysticism, the Hopi medicine wheel, Tibetan sand paintings, and Hindu mandalas are all variations on this form.
I am new to this neighborhood, and when I moved in I was licking the wounds of a living situation gone painfully awry. I was both desperate and terrified to live alone; and once I moved in, it seemed that the solitude was always more intense than the gentle, indulgent privacy I had been hoping for. I spent many evenings pacing the middle-class neighborhood in failing light, wistfully watching fathers tossing a ball with their daughters, idly picking up brochures on houses for sale with re-fabricated interiors. One evening, I found the labyrinth, in the yard of the First Cumberland Presbyterian Church. It was so simple, so straightforward a ritual, that initially it seemed aimless. To walk nowhere, in a circle, and then back again the same way I came.
When I entered, though, my feet slowed. I stayed within the lines, finishing the path, and some surprising sense of the sacred kept me from crossing or moving through it too quickly. The feeling of reverence formed walls as real as stone or wood to guide me to the center and back again. In the center, I sat on a gray marble bench. I was in the same small yard that I had been in before, and yet I was also in a new space. I looked around me and something was different. I got up and moved back through and out the single doorway, feeling as if I had been somewhere. I was not being guided, taught, instructed, or regulated. I was completely alone. But still I followed carefully the lines of stone partly hidden in grass.
Perhaps the most frightening part of solitude for me is that there is no one to please but myself. I cannot bandage anyone else’s wounds, make anyone else laugh, or get instant gratification for acting the way someone else expects me too. I think the same goes for the labyrinth. It seems aimless at first because there is no right way to move through it, just like there is no right way to take a walk. There is no one to please or to follow but myself. The experience is open—open in length, open to the air, open for utilization by multiple religious traditions. It is an unsettling freedom; with only myself to follow, will I be strong enough to lead? What, in the end, will drive me if not the carrots or the sticks of other human beings?
--with appreciation to Christy Brasleton, Joe Gordon Gill, and Dave Harmon
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
One Handful.
A word for today from the Teacher:
"Better to have one handful with quietness
Than two handfuls with hard work and chasing the wind."
"Better to have one handful with quietness
Than two handfuls with hard work and chasing the wind."
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Awed
From Christianity Today, analysis following the release (!) of Philip Rizk yesterday evening:
"It has all the appearance, one Western diplomat said, that Egyptian authorities have totally miscalculated the effects of arresting a young man campaigning for humanitarian support to Gaza."
"Philip organized his march with a group of only 14 young people. His arrest has garnered attention for his march that he would never have achieved if he had not been arrested. His arrest has also resulted in discussions about humanitarian aid to Gaza and human rights in Egypt that would not have happened without his arrest. Egyptian security authorities have thus done his case a great favor that in all likelihood was completely unintended."
Wow. I LOVE these people all over the world--I am privileged to be part of them.
(and thanks, dear Emily J-A, for the above photo! They were beautiful!)
Sunday, February 8, 2009
Closer to home (but still too far away)
If you've seen my facebook profile then you know about my dear friend, Philip Rizk, an activist-journalist-student in Cairo who was arrested for undeclared charges by the Egyptian government a couple days ago. This is, needless to say, a disturbing and convicting incident for all of us who know and love Phil: both those who've known him personally and those who have come to know him through his work. You can read more about it here: tabulagaza.blogspot.com. What you'll notice about Phil is his eloquence, his compassion, his willingness to look injustice in the face and even more so his willingness to do something about it. Unfortunately, it isn't rare for such a rare individual to run afoul with governments, agenda-setters, stereotypes, and the status quo. Yet it also isn't unusual for such individuals to powerfully impact the world, despite this resistance. I beleive Phil is such a person, and I'm proud to know him. Though years, miles, and the challenges of our respective works have made it difficult to keep in touch, I remember (and I read it again today) the last personal email I recieved from Phil. It was about a year and a half ago, just before he started his master's program at the University of Cairo and as he was finishing the editing on his film (again, if you want to know more, visit the blog!). He was discouraged, I think--understandably so. Again, rare and dedicated individuals often face discouragement. What impacted me most, however, as I was reading our past correspondence, was a sentence that I wrote to encourage him, not realizing the depth of the words or their future implications. I wrote, "I still believe that God can be found in the dark places." Although I feel frustration, worry, and pain--we still don't know if Phil is ok or what he's had to go through--I'm choosing to still beleive this, and that God has a purpose for what has happened. It sounds trite. REALLY trite. But I can't find any better way to say it.
One thing this event has done is bring the experiences of hundreds of thousands of Palestinians in Gaza much, much closer to home for a worldwide community who are now worried and missing Phil. These abductions, mysterious disappearances, and even murders are a regular occurence and a regular risk for so many people in Gaza and in the Middle East. Whatever we decide the best strategy is to get there, we should never stop doing what we can to seek, build, cultivate, speak out, and fight for peace. Those who have recieved emails and updates from Phil will know that's how he often signs them: salam. Peace.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Charlotte, contented
Picture: starbucks, airport. Not one of those 30-year-old, low-ceiling airports with winding, sprawling concourses like you find in the northeast. No, Charlotte airport is a shiny, streamlined, enticing playground where every type of food and drink is at your fingertips and the wireless internet is free. I should know: I've spent a total of 12 hours here in the past two weeks and have roughly 3 more to go. Despite the many enticements, however, I'm in a baaad mood. Flying is awful, these days. Refreshments aren't even free (did you know that??? they charge 2 dollars for a coke), nor are checked bags. So, either you fork out the cost of a plan ticket all over again or you're carting the largest carry-on you're allowed, a water bottle, a meal, a coat, and a briefcase across miles and miles of shiny floors. I, of course, chose the latter. I guess somehow I've become fudamentally opposed to spending money on unnecessary convenience, and I CERTAINLY don't respond well when I feel like I'm being 'tricked' into paying for things I shouldn't even need. Anyone? With me?
You may feel you've been misled by the subject line. Hmm, you're thinking, that paragraph doesn't sound contented, it sounds more like an angry, disgruntled rant. You might even be thinking, what's your problem? You're 25, well-traveled, and in good shape! Quit your whining... is that what you're thinking??;)
Well, you're right. So right. And about 20 minutes ago it occurred to me that I've been irritable and cranky all day, holding back rude thoughts towards the pushy woman next to me or the man behind me who talks to loud. I've felt justified in my irritation: PAYING for drinks? being CRAMMED into small spaces? What an injustice!
But thank the mercy of God, I'm not staying in that moody headspace. Generosity yearns to be set free in our souls. Wisdom cries in the street. Love is desperate to be free from the restrictions of fear and self-centeredness. Though it is said so often, it is rarely acknowledged in my life, so I'll say it again and again:
We have been given so much. We have been given soooo much. So what will we make of it?
You may feel you've been misled by the subject line. Hmm, you're thinking, that paragraph doesn't sound contented, it sounds more like an angry, disgruntled rant. You might even be thinking, what's your problem? You're 25, well-traveled, and in good shape! Quit your whining... is that what you're thinking??;)
Well, you're right. So right. And about 20 minutes ago it occurred to me that I've been irritable and cranky all day, holding back rude thoughts towards the pushy woman next to me or the man behind me who talks to loud. I've felt justified in my irritation: PAYING for drinks? being CRAMMED into small spaces? What an injustice!
But thank the mercy of God, I'm not staying in that moody headspace. Generosity yearns to be set free in our souls. Wisdom cries in the street. Love is desperate to be free from the restrictions of fear and self-centeredness. Though it is said so often, it is rarely acknowledged in my life, so I'll say it again and again:
We have been given so much. We have been given soooo much. So what will we make of it?
Friday, September 26, 2008
PACES
Humans move
At fascinating paces
Some scurry, some fly
Some lope, some saunter
Some with their minds two days in the future
Some with their gaze on the gravel
Beside
They take sand and water
They break their backs
To channel the movement of future moments
To make paths
That tell the planet, "This is where we walk.
This is our land.
These are our thoughts."
At fascinating paces
Some scurry, some fly
Some lope, some saunter
Some with their minds two days in the future
Some with their gaze on the gravel
Beside
They take sand and water
They break their backs
To channel the movement of future moments
To make paths
That tell the planet, "This is where we walk.
This is our land.
These are our thoughts."
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
Home
Just putting things in place
That there are small, well-used things
That there are places
Where they tuck in
And belong;
That I can take
wear
say
sing
as much as I want
and no more:
That there are small, well-used things
That there are places
Where they tuck in
And belong;
That I can take
wear
say
sing
as much as I want
and no more:
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Hippo View Lodge and Restaurant again...
...although the only hippo I can see right now is made of painted stone, has his mouth wide open, and is to be perfectly honest much gaudier and less impressive than real hippos.
In the past week, I have spent a lot of time and met a lot of people in the small town of Balaka, about a thirty minute drive from where we're staying. Hopping on the minibus (public transport) and heading to Balaka each morning has become the closest thing to a work routine I've had since I got here. For the most part, I am seeking out religious leaders in the area and asking questions about their programs, their congregations, their messages, and their views on the life problems and concerns of young people in Balaka (which here pretty much means anyone between the ages of 15 and 25). My shpiel is that I am preparing for a project that will start next year (which is def. true of the larger project I'm employed by right now) and that I will be back next year to conduct the project with a questionnaire for the youth in the churches (which is true pending financial support and funding). People like to hear that I'll be back, they like that sense of continuity and they often ask me for how long I'll be here next year. I want to say 4, 5, even 6 months--ideally for the research, I would come back for at least that long. Yet there's a hitch. I love being here on one level, and can't wait to come back, and yet along with that emotion coexists so much homesickness. At the same time as I'm promising a lengthy return visit, I'm counting the days before I get back to the comfort, love, friendship, and support I have at home; and this has only been a five-week visit, and I've only been here for three of those weeks. I wonder in my heart if I really have it in me to stay for longer, to really live here and and to even more deeply enter into the experience of life here. I want it and I don't. I think it would be different after some time passed, as I would hope that real, supportive friendships would emerge in this place eventually, yet I still can't help feeling like I'm too tied to home to do what my adventurous side is working towards.
This is something that certainly can't be resolved in the short term. I can't know what it would be like to live here until I do, for something longer than a few weeks. But I do wonder, for example, how those peace corps workers and the like do it--do I simply not have the personality for it?
Hmmm.... maybe the hippo knows.
In the past week, I have spent a lot of time and met a lot of people in the small town of Balaka, about a thirty minute drive from where we're staying. Hopping on the minibus (public transport) and heading to Balaka each morning has become the closest thing to a work routine I've had since I got here. For the most part, I am seeking out religious leaders in the area and asking questions about their programs, their congregations, their messages, and their views on the life problems and concerns of young people in Balaka (which here pretty much means anyone between the ages of 15 and 25). My shpiel is that I am preparing for a project that will start next year (which is def. true of the larger project I'm employed by right now) and that I will be back next year to conduct the project with a questionnaire for the youth in the churches (which is true pending financial support and funding). People like to hear that I'll be back, they like that sense of continuity and they often ask me for how long I'll be here next year. I want to say 4, 5, even 6 months--ideally for the research, I would come back for at least that long. Yet there's a hitch. I love being here on one level, and can't wait to come back, and yet along with that emotion coexists so much homesickness. At the same time as I'm promising a lengthy return visit, I'm counting the days before I get back to the comfort, love, friendship, and support I have at home; and this has only been a five-week visit, and I've only been here for three of those weeks. I wonder in my heart if I really have it in me to stay for longer, to really live here and and to even more deeply enter into the experience of life here. I want it and I don't. I think it would be different after some time passed, as I would hope that real, supportive friendships would emerge in this place eventually, yet I still can't help feeling like I'm too tied to home to do what my adventurous side is working towards.
This is something that certainly can't be resolved in the short term. I can't know what it would be like to live here until I do, for something longer than a few weeks. But I do wonder, for example, how those peace corps workers and the like do it--do I simply not have the personality for it?
Hmmm.... maybe the hippo knows.
Thursday, July 10, 2008
Solitary Solidarity
I’ve spent the last few days alone in Lilongwe, running errands in the morning at government offices and the print shop and trying, in general, to get our research project approved by government higher ups. There are a lot of issues involved, most of which I won’t go into, but basically our research involves HIV testing and collecting a lot of very personal, very private information from a lot of rural Malawian young women. And although the bureaucratic red tape is certainly a hassle to deal with, and has given me some stressful mornings the last few days, I completely agree with the importance of Malawi protecting their citizens in this way by making sure that foreign researchers who come in to do studies like this are abiding by a certain ethical code. The interesting thing is, all of these studies have to pass ethics committee review back in the States; but in the States, generally the ethical question is one of, “How will this study avoid doing any harm to participants?” whereas in Malawi, they are asking, “What good will this study contribute to our country and to the lives of participants?” Interesting dilemma for researchers, no?
In any case, mission is now accomplished as far as paperwork is concerned, and now we are just waiting to hear back. I am heading back to familiar human company this afternoon. But after these days of solitude, I am awaking with a few thoughts….
First of all, there is nothing more solitary than being alone surrounded by people. Truthfully, I am always (or almost always) in the company of people here, on the street, in the market, at the lodge. Yet the distance between me and these people is large, and I’m often tired from work, and it’s a lot of work for minimal gain to always be open, friendly, and outgoing. I have a few friendships here with Malawians, for which I am grateful, but they aren’t easy to navigate or maintain. And if, as I believe, the ultimate goal of all of this is relationship and relationality, how do I contribute to this when I sit alone at breakfast, lunch, and dinner and walk alone to the market and back and navigate public busses alone etc. etc. And when, during these times, what I mostly feel is the presence of my solitude, how does that in any way help me to express solidarity or relationality to the people around me?
The mind, in truth, gets weird after long periods of solitude (and I wouldn’t consider four days “long”, really, but I think this statement is still true). It gets a little paranoid. Oddly, it seems to pull away from people at a certain point, and get rusty at engaging in effective human interactions. It’s our own worst enemy at these moments—longing for connection and yet pulling away from it. I look around me on the busses, in the markets, and on the street and somehow I’m thinking: “I want to love the people around me, I just don’t think I can actually talk to them.” We are odd creatures. Thankfully, all of this is not up to us.
Because there is a third option: communion. I can be alone, and doing everything I can to distract myself from that reality (whether it’s burying my face in a book or making a lot of new friends); or I can enter the solitude, and find that actually, when I’m alone, the path to communion with the Spirit of God (which is present in everything around me) is clearer. I can sit alone on the patio at the lodge missing home, or I can sit alone at the lodge and look up at the stars, and listen to the sounds around me, and open myself up to the here and the now. It’s a subtle change, but it means everything.
From this communion, true solidarity (that isn’t just an avoidance of solitude) flows. That has happened before, even on this very trip to Malawi, and so I am assured it will happen again. And THAT sort of solidarity, relationality, and connection, that has no demands on the other to “solve” our own problem of solitude, is the refuge of true agape love for others and the world around us.
In any case, mission is now accomplished as far as paperwork is concerned, and now we are just waiting to hear back. I am heading back to familiar human company this afternoon. But after these days of solitude, I am awaking with a few thoughts….
First of all, there is nothing more solitary than being alone surrounded by people. Truthfully, I am always (or almost always) in the company of people here, on the street, in the market, at the lodge. Yet the distance between me and these people is large, and I’m often tired from work, and it’s a lot of work for minimal gain to always be open, friendly, and outgoing. I have a few friendships here with Malawians, for which I am grateful, but they aren’t easy to navigate or maintain. And if, as I believe, the ultimate goal of all of this is relationship and relationality, how do I contribute to this when I sit alone at breakfast, lunch, and dinner and walk alone to the market and back and navigate public busses alone etc. etc. And when, during these times, what I mostly feel is the presence of my solitude, how does that in any way help me to express solidarity or relationality to the people around me?
The mind, in truth, gets weird after long periods of solitude (and I wouldn’t consider four days “long”, really, but I think this statement is still true). It gets a little paranoid. Oddly, it seems to pull away from people at a certain point, and get rusty at engaging in effective human interactions. It’s our own worst enemy at these moments—longing for connection and yet pulling away from it. I look around me on the busses, in the markets, and on the street and somehow I’m thinking: “I want to love the people around me, I just don’t think I can actually talk to them.” We are odd creatures. Thankfully, all of this is not up to us.
Because there is a third option: communion. I can be alone, and doing everything I can to distract myself from that reality (whether it’s burying my face in a book or making a lot of new friends); or I can enter the solitude, and find that actually, when I’m alone, the path to communion with the Spirit of God (which is present in everything around me) is clearer. I can sit alone on the patio at the lodge missing home, or I can sit alone at the lodge and look up at the stars, and listen to the sounds around me, and open myself up to the here and the now. It’s a subtle change, but it means everything.
From this communion, true solidarity (that isn’t just an avoidance of solitude) flows. That has happened before, even on this very trip to Malawi, and so I am assured it will happen again. And THAT sort of solidarity, relationality, and connection, that has no demands on the other to “solve” our own problem of solitude, is the refuge of true agape love for others and the world around us.
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