About a hundred years ago when I was in the fifth grade, I had to do this project that drove me absolutely mad. I was assigned a historical figure and had to present an “autobiographical” oral report. Now that I’m grown I recognize how cool the project was, and the impact it has had on my life, but at the time I was bitter. Super bitter. My classmates had some really cool people, and I was assigned this old lady:
The problem was that I would have to dress up like her and give an account of my life and there was nothing sexy or exciting about dressing up like Aunt Bea, you know? My friends who had Susan B. Anthony or Pocahontas got to wear costumes; I got to dress up like my grandmother.
Now as an adult, I recognize that Eleanor Roosevelt’s politics don’t line up with mine, and that her personal life was a bit scandalous depending on what you read and who wrote it. Still, she did some amazing things that I admire. I find a kindred spirit in her work for human dignity through civil rights activism and her work with the poor. Her writing, too, inspires, if not always because of the content, certainly in the scope.
In the end, though, what I appreciate about good ole Eleanor is the inspiration I find in the multitude of quotations that pop up on the internet. Nothing says posterity like Bartlett’s Quotes on-line, whether or not context matters. Context or not, she says some good stuff.
As I face some new challenges, both professionally and personally, I find myself inspired by this interesting woman.
You must do the things you think you cannot do.
~Eleanor Roosevelt
I thought I’d share some stuff I like because I’m in a moody mood and I figured it’d be a good reminder for me to, you know, think about some things I like.
I like the feel of an oscillating fan on a really hot day. It reminds me of my childhood in my grandparents’ house. If it’s hot, and night time, and a fan is on, I will fall asleep in a drunken stupor from the drone of the motor and the soothing pass of the not-quite-cool air.
It’s spring here and that means I’m having a time with the allergies. It’s not a good time. Still, the amazing scent of flowers everywhere is so sweet and delicious. We’re going to wipe out some out of control shrubbery soon, and I hate to say it, but I’m going to be a little sorry to see it go — there’s a bunch of honeysuckle tangled in that mess and it smells heavenly.
I’m not too grown up to take a nap in the middle of the day. If there’s milk and cookies after, it’s even better. Especially if they are chocolate chip cookies.
Bubble baths are an under-appreciated commodity. I will indulge myself very soon.
I like good books, good wines, good friends, and good conversation. If I could have a good wine with a good friend while conversing about a good book I’d be set.
I like hugs.
I like sunsets. I like sunrises more.
I like to hear the crash of waves on the shore when it’s dark and you can’t really see the water. It never quite sounds the same — and yet it does.
And I like the aroma of freshly-brewed coffee. D’oh.
I live surrounded by scraps of paper. I’m sure it has something to do with embracing the whole absent-minded professor trope. It makes for a messy desk — and sometimes a messy mind. I long ago gave up trying to remember things and started jotting stuff down on the backs of envelopes, napkins — the sticky side of sticky notes. Yeah, that last one a little sad. But there it is.
Today, finding myself with little to do, I cleaned up my workspace and made a pile of all the scraps. It was quite an assortment of quotations, song titles, short stories, poems, and inexplicably, software. I’m not quite sure why I wrote that down because it doesn’t seem useful and has a rather dull sounding name, so…I pitched it.
But then I found this piece of brilliance. And by brilliance, I mean … great brightness; luster; splendor; elegance.
Today is always the right time to search for beauty in a broken world.
Boy do I live in a broken world. If you know me personally, you may know of some of that brokenness, but I live in a nice little state of grace, yes I do, that protects me from it, or at least keeps me from dwelling on it and suffering overly much.
I’m talking about the broken world I see when I go into work. The folks I’ve worked with in the community. The guy at the light who insists on streaking and smudging my windshield with a dirty rag in the hopes that I’ll tip him a dollar for grinding the dirt further into my new car.
I’d rather not look them in the eye and have to acknowledge their humanity. It’s too hard. But then I think of Mother Theresa who said, “If we can’t love the person, whom we see… How can we love God whom we can’t see.” If nothing else, the good sisters at my elementary school did a good number on me with Catholic guilt.
I can’t not look them in the eye. And I can’t not love them. Sometimes I lose because of it — it’s a risk that people can take advantage of me or have a hidden agenda, but it’s worth it. You see, it’s easy to see the beauty in a sunny day. Flowers always bring me joy. Good music moves me in profound ways. My husband’s embrace, my children’s smiles — these things are beautiful to me and easy to love.
But sometimes I see the beauty in the broken, and it’s just as breath-taking. For all the anger I face daily, I sometimes catch a glimpse of love, and it’s beautiful. I see grown men whose hands are rough from manual labor, men who are used to giving orders, humble themselves and ask for help because they want to improve their opportunities to make life better for their families. I see women who are terrified to return to school after being away for decades rediscover their passion for learning. I see immigrants who can barely communicate in English express their joy at understanding a difficult reading passage.
I am surrounded by beauty in this broken world because I am surrounded by people. We are all broken in some way, and yet, we are all so beautiful, I think, because we love.
So Sean McGaughey and then Pat Gohn tagged me in this Lenten meme, so here I go, being a good sport and jumping in with my contribution. Oh, and watch out, cuz I’m gonna have to tag a few more people!
The rules: Those tagged will share 5 things they “love” about Jesus/ Or why they love Jesus. Those tagged will tag 5 other bloggers. Those tagged will provide a link in the comments section here with their name so that others can read them.
1. Jesus knows me better than I know myself.
2. Jesus loves me, this I know…(especially on days that end in Y)
3. Jesus forgives me.
4. Jesus died for me that I might be saved.
5. Jesus is my friend.
I’m that person that blinds you with the high beams on a country road. Yeah. I’m sorry about that. Really, I am. I’ve just hit one too many deer in the past years and hate driving down the winding road after dark where the county doesn’t bother to put up street lights. A friend of mine suggested that I paint a tally on the side of my car – what a joker. He gave me The Deerslayer for Christmas and was quite pleased with himself. Smartass.
I’m not trying to be obnoxious; I just like to see where I’m going. The headlights illuminate the road and a little bit of the surrounding area, but then, the light just…ends. Everything beyond that clearly demarcated line remains pitch dark. In spite of my own misgivings, though, I make it home safe. I trust that the headlights illuminate enough of the road for me to drive safely, and frankly, I get the light that I need.
It’s not unlike my experience with a hesitant faith that sometimes shines like a brilliantly lit candle, and other times flickers, pathetically clinging to a wasting wick almost drowned by the wax.
That happens because I forget the source of the Light.
I can’t make the light or flip a switch and turn on the high beams no matter how much I’d like to see further down the road. But just because I can’t see it doesn’t mean the road isn’t there, and as I keep traveling along that road I get enough light to keep moving.
My faith has often been like that, and I have mistakenly claimed to have been in the dark because I was focusing on the space in the road that was out of reach. The light was always there, illuminating my path, but I wanted more. More control. More knowledge. More … more.
What I needed was more trust.
And maybe a swift kick in the backside to see the light and quit moaning about the darkness outside.
I needed to trust more. The issue of trust, of course, is a difficult one, especially for me. As a student of literature I could expound on the juxtaposition of light and darkness as powerful universal symbols. I could build upon the metaphor. I could quote scripture, and literature, and The Rolling Stones.
They would be empty words because the surrender is missing.
In order to trust more I would have to surrender my control, and that, ladies and gentlemen, runs counter to every fiber of my being. I’ve always been in control, always been in command. Always expected, even demanded, that my charges trust me to do what was best for all of us.
Oh. Well. Isn’t that a little eye-opener for me.
When I found myself consumed with the idea that I was all alone in the dark because the naked bulb hanging over my head was casting, not a safety net (though it was) but a circle beyond which lay the darkness, I focused on the unknown outside my lit perimeter.
I won’t beat myself upside the head over it, just observe that even in my darkest hour there was light and there’s something terribly, frighteningly, awe-inspiringly comforting about that.
We’re deeply into the season of Lent. For me, it is like a drive down that scary country road. The journey requires that my senses be alert – focused on what is revealed to me one piece at a time. As I cover more ground, the light shines on the pavement, illuminating the way.
I struggle to keep up with the promises I made, but God, merciful and loving, knows what I need. After my most recent confession, I received something that I jokingly call a parting gift from the kindly priest. He reached into a book – maybe a Bible or prayer book – and shared the following poem with me:
The Pillar of the Cloud
LEAD, Kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom
Lead Thou me on!
The night is dark, and I am far from home—
Lead Thou me on!
Keep Thou my feet; I do not ask to see
The distant scene—one step enough for me.
I was not ever thus, nor pray’d that Thou
Shouldst lead me on.
I loved to choose and see my path, but now
Lead Thou me on!
I loved the garish day, and, spite of fears,
Pride ruled my will: remember not past years.
So long Thy power hath blest me, sure it still
Will lead me on,
O’er moor and fen, o’er crag and torrent, till
The night is gone;
And with the morn those angel faces smile
Which I have loved long since, and lost awhile.
~Blessed John Henry Newman
I first read that poem decades ago when I was too young in the journey to ever think about the ups and downs of life. Could that priest have known me so well in 15 minutes to have pulled out this particular poem? Surely not. It is the One who knows me so well.
I see in this poem the hope and surrender essential for growing in my faith. I see that I receive what I need, not in one fell swoop but in the increments that I can handle.
One could say I see the Light.
—————–
Totally worth bringing this video out of the combox. Thanks to Laura from The Bronzed Shoe Archives for the link
The beautiful part about not bringing work home and having gotten that insanity under control is being able to enjoy the weekends the way they are meant to be enjoyed. In no particular order, I bring to you the highlights of my weekend:
another cup of coffee 
