My Teacher Carried a Shotgun

My teacher for grades one through eight brought a “shotgun” to school every day.  It contained a mysterious white powder and rested on her big, wooden desk at the ready.  She appeared as a terrifying specter in my young life:  demanding, critical, and sometimes physically abusive.  In that one-room schoolhouse in the idyllic Canadian countryside, she towered.  She was tough and unquestionably in control.

Whether it was sweeping the hardwood floors, printing, coloring in the lines, cleaning the fish tank, singing in the choir, nothing was ever good enough.  She required perfection.  I was not, however, a perfectionist and so I lived in terror of her criticism.  I was one to find art in the process more than the outcome, and so my insecurities under her tutelage grew.  I always felt inferior.

My supportive parents did much to soften the psychological blows on my sensitive nature, but one day some of that insecurity melted at school when Mrs. _______ announced to the whole class that I had written a wonderful spring poem.  She had contacted the newspaper, and they were going to publish it; which in fact, they did.  I can’t say all was completely rosy after that, but I realized that my gift with words was valuable, something worthy of even the tyrant’s praise.  It was a turning point in my young life. 

There were other defining moments.  When I got to high school, I was intimidated by the much larger school.  Walking the lunchtime gauntlet, being sized up by peers, was terrifying.  My old insecurities and natural shyness kept me from really stepping out much and expressing myself creatively.  I had a small group I was comfortable with, but taking risks was scary business.  Then, I learned to play guitar.  Suddenly, my songwriting was off and running, and you can sound really good with only a few chords.  Best of all, I had something to do with my hands, and I had this big chunk of wood sitting on my lap to hide behind.  And piano, even bigger!  I re-created myself in the image of Lilly the Folksinger / Rock ‘n Roller.  I was able to express myself, my fears, my faith, my humor, in ways that I was too inhibited to do before.  The more praise I received, the more my confidence grew.  The more my confidence grew, the more opportunities opened up for me.  Being able to share what I had written, that part of my vulnerable self, gave me a sense of power, a sense of significance.  And when others were moved, encouraged, or just simply grooved to my tunes, my old fears of inadequacy and inferiority started taking a back seat. 

It makes me realize how important affirmation is.  It’s easy to be critical, and I have to watch that in myself because I have a tendency to see flaws first.  I look for things to fix.  But my desire to “help” must be tempered with the awareness that, just like me, a fragile self is only waiting for the right encouragement to blossom.   

By the way, Mrs. _______ really did love me and only wanted what was best for me as her student.  I saw that later . . . much later!   She had some pretty weird ways of showing it, but she was proud of me and was spurring me on to do well.  And the shotgun?  I realize now that what she called her “shotgun” was really an inhaler.  She was asthmatic.  So the big, bad tyrant had weaknesses after all. 

Just thinking: Eve's Apple

Some say that the forbidden fruit in the garden was not an apple, but rather a pomegranate.  I'm thinking not!

I just bought 20 pounds of blemished ones from my organic farmer to juice.  They are very nutritious.  Problem:  They are very messy!  And a ton of work.

The white part inside is bitter, so the juice covered seeds need to be pulled away in order to feed them through the juicer and get the rich juice off the not-so delectable seed.  In this process, I stain my fingers, I splatter my counter, and I deck even my walls with flecks of red!  At least I'm wearing an apron now, but I probably could benefit from a Hazmat suit!

So the thought occurred to me:  There is no way if Eve was considering defying God's mandate would she take the time to get the "goodness" out of a lowly pomegranate.  Not unless pre-fall ones came with a tap! 

Apples:  They are right there ready for the munching.  Promegranates:  Not so much.

When I sin, it is typically a spontaneous, not carefully considered response to desire.  At this stage in my life journey, wisdom more often prevails if I give myself time to think and pray and register that niggling feeling deep in my conscience.  Obedience is still required, but I think if I had as long to chew on the decision as the time it takes to disassemble a pomegranate, I would be a much holier person!

The WEAK in Review

I am trying to keep up with my daily posts, so I think this will be a regular entry--the foibles of me!

My husband and I head up a Christian home education program, and we have a group of dedicated leaders that provide support meetings for our folks.  Every year as a end-of-year gift, I bake them all loaves of my organic whole wheat bread, AND since everybody has way too much junk, I stopped givng candles and trinkets in lieu of books.  Because you can never have enough of those!

This past June, I found a bunch of cool home remedy and survival type books that any sensible person might need in case of an earthquake, a Wal-mart closing, or a hostile takeover.  I just found out that one of the leader's innocents was thumbing through the book and noticed a couple of things that caused him to question his dad's and mom's salvation.  One was an explicit drawing how-to of breast feeding.  The son was sure dad was not supposed to see that!  The other was directions on how to roll a joint! 

Okay, I'm pretty sure that puts me on some homeschool administrator black list, and it also means I will be checking every page of next year's books!

It's a Neighborly Day in This Beauty Wood . . .

Okay, you know you're getting more mature when you go for a Sunday drive, and it's the most fun you've had all week.  :-)

We drove up to a lake in the mountains near us.  It hasn't been cold enough to have a lot of leaf color, but it was a beautiful day with lots of beauty to take in.

It's fun to have little kids in the foreground of nature shots, but you need to be careful you don't look like a white-haired grandma-type predator as you are grabbing your shots!

On our way back down the mountain, we stopped by St. Andrew's Abbey to take some shots at the reflecting pond there.  It has changed a lot since the last time I stopped by.  They have added a fountain, some walkways, and stonework.

On the way home, I had Kel stop by the powerlines on the back road.  There are myriad metal high power towers and lines, but this string of wooden ones stood out to me in that congregation of electric sentinels.  What was weird, though, was the very loud humming.  When you drive by, it is not noticeable, but stopping, getting out, and defying rattlers, to get a picture, the hum is overpowering.  It was rather spooky, and I certainly would not want to build my house anywhere nearby with that kind of juice filling the airways.

But all in all, a very pleasant day in the "neighborhood," and taking pictures makes me happy! :-)

When It's All About Me

I don’t think I have a split personality; but if I did, would I know it?  Maybe it’s just the neighbor’s marijuana wafting in through the swamp cooler on a hot day, or maybe I really am two people living in one body.

There is the confident me and the fragile me, the gregarious me and the shy me, the funny me and the me that wants to curl up in a ball because of the pain.  There is the performer me and the wallflower me, the erudite me and the stupid me, the me I see and the me everyone else sees.

Some people think they know me.  I can carry on a conversation and appear knowledgeable on many subjects.  They see me as a good listener . . . well, except when I just “need” to interject. I make eye contact.  I am sympathetic and chagrined at the appropriate times.  They think I am confident, capable, and sure because I hold myself erect and use my hands expressively like an Italian.  Since I have a degree of authority in some of their lives, they feel I am someone to please and seem relieved when I don’t blame them for their lack of organization or tardiness.   They laugh with me and know that when I cross my arms over my chest, it’s not because I am mean or defiant, but that I am holding my middle-aged stomach in.  They know that . . .  because I told them.  So they think I am transparent.  I look like I know what I’m doing as I sit behind my desk or stand at the front of a classroom, and they think I surely deserve the pay check I get at the end of the month.  

Other people think they know me because I share my innermost feelings in my songs and monologues.  I sing with passion and tap my feet in rhythm (well, almost).  They see me sit casually in a coffee house with my guitar or in an ornate concert hall on the bench in front of an enormous grand piano that reminds me of a black stretch limo; and they think they should give me a tape of the songs they wrote while singing in the shower because they think I could help them become famous.  They see my album covers and my press releases and wonder how it must feel to have followed my dreams and succeeded.   

Other people see the me that has gone through tragedy, that has lost her first baby girl; that has watched the broken body of her beautiful youngest son being cut out of his car with the jaws of life and medi-vaced away; that has sat alternately singing and crying at the bedside of her sweet daddy as for days and days he withered away, denied food and drink because it would supposedly only cause more pain.  People see the me that lost her singing voice, her career, and her identity in one fell swoop.  They think I am strong, resilient, full of faith, and able to scale tall buildings at a single bound.  They think trouble has made me stronger and that I know all these things are “working together for good.”

But there is another me that I see:  There is a shy me that enters a room and skirts the edges uncomfortably till she finds someone she knows.  There is the me that thinks the qualification police are just around every corner ready to strip me of my “credentials” and expose my lack of ability and worthiness to an unsuspecting public.  There is the me that panics when a person I’m supposed to know enters my office, and I can’t remember her name or the details of his circumstance.  There is the me that screams inside when she is in a place she “belongs” and yet feels so incredibly useless and out of place.  The faithless me rises uncontrolled at times, shaming me for using God-words when I am doubting that He is good and thinking with so many planets to manage and prayers to hear He has lost my address.  A me I recognize wakes with memories of betrayal and rejection while surrounded by love and acceptance.  There is the me that is pseudo-happy with so many blessings, and who yet bleeds discontent.

I see both sides of me and wonder which one is real.  But it really is a both / and kind of existence, regardless of how I am perceived.  I am good and I am bad.  I am weak and I am strong.  I am happy and I am sad.  I am kind and I am mean.  But apparently “God writes straight lines with crooked pens” (Ignatius), and there is comfort in that.

Pressing on,

The Two of Us

On this slip of land,
This crest of water--so shifting, so weaving,
beneath these vapor wings and silken threads,
that shadow over, obstructing forever views,
You break through.

To Capture the Magic

Whether it was the memory of mama’s ivory baby-bottom loaves lining the countertop, filling the air with yeasty aroma, or just some primal urge to fabricate something from scratch, over and over again I felt drawn to the kitchen to bake bread.  My collected recipes made lofty promises of whole grain health—melt-in-your-mouth carbohydrate confection wrapped in golden buttery crusts.

One of my books had a recipe next to a homey picture of a white-haired elderly couple, smiling proudly over an enormous bounty of perfect little sesame-topped loaves.  Another hippie-type baker in leggings and a gauzy blouse and skirt presented her rustic round loaves fresh from an outdoor adobe oven some place in the wilds of Montana.  The bounty on my table felt and looked like rocks.

Where was the magic? 

Mix, stir, thump.  Turn, thump, turn, and thump again.  Catharsis.  Thump, thump. Where was the magic that could transform my little blobs of organic grain into the mouth-watering delicacies that graced the pages of my batter-splattered recipe books?  It most often eluded me.

Some days, my labors seemed heaven-kissed, and I presented delectable golden brown loaves to my admiring husband. Pass the butter and strawberry jam, please.

 Some days, I set fire to my kitchen. Really.

I read bread.  I researched bread.  I examined methods and means.  I mixed and kneaded, prodded, and peeked at sleeping forms nestled warmly beneath tea towels.

When my pregnant tummy extended further than my arms could comfortably reach, I talked my husband into kneading.  The promise of enlarged biceps was his temptation.  I baked on.

Some days, I made croutons with dry impostors.  Some days, the breads would rise quickly having a will of their own till exhausted they would sink with a gasp that made my kitchen smell like a brewery. Too often, I angrily tossed compacted parcels of honey and wheat into the trash can—an unceremonious burial.  But I baked on.

I baked on because of that periodic glorious batch that teased me with promise.  I persevered because of the heady aroma that filled every nook and cranny of the house and sneaked out windows to breathe the secret to the neighbors:  A baker lives here who’s discovered the magic. 

Now many years since my first tentative foray into the world of homemade bread, I have mastered the art.  Well, almost.  I have captured the magic that consistently allows me to grace my table with hearty steaming loaves.  I’ve learned the “feel” of the dough.  I can make the subtle adaptations to humidity and temperature that insure success.  I carefully monitor the rising and resting with knowing eyes. But that’s not really the magic. 

 The magic is in the not giving up.  It’s in trying again and again because of the possibilities.  It’s in learning from failure the surer incremental path to success. 

The magic in baking bread, as in all of life, is in not quitting.  And so, I bake on.