I joined Twitter today, I did it solely based on the fact that Kurt joined and sent me an e-mail inviting me to do the same. And, I guess what I mean by that is before he could probably start...tweeting...he had to check off a bunch of names on the list of his contacts it somehow got into in order to well...proliferate the tweeting, shall we say?
Anyways, I joined because he has signed up for both gchat and skype for me, so I figured this was the least I could do.
Umm.
I might also like to see precisely how many forms of communication he and I can cover. When my phone bill took a turn for the worst, by utilizing his iPhone we were still able to Skype, e-mail, Facebook, and G-chat. I on my laptop, he on his phone. You know...the phone he can use to make phone calls...or avoid doing so by utilizing the the half dozen other ways it's capable of communicating.
heh.
So.
I can text, e-mail, message, tweet, IM, post...I'm forgetting others, I'm sure.
We have so many options to tell people what we're doing and how we're doing...I'm not even sure most of us really live THAT interesting of a life??
But, texting especially.
We all prefer it.
It's less vulnerable, it's direct, and it lets you be a little more open then you'd probably be in conversation.
So.
I thought about this communication business and then began to wonder this...
What if we could text God?
Seriously.
Think about it.
Face it, we all struggle with prayer. I don't need to tell you why, we all know why, so instead just think about it...
What if we could just text God?
A one liner to say hi, a prayer request, a question, a general update on life and what I saw just now as I got on the subway. "Hey just thinking of you, love you" "are you free tonight?" "I feel so lonely" "I'm scared, will you pray with me when you have a minute?" "Do you think I should take the job?"
Tell you what, if we could text God...He'd text back.
He'd say "I was just thinking of you too!" "I've definitely got time for you tonight!" "if you were alone, you couldn't have text messaged me! I'm not far from where you are, I'll come meet you and let's catch up" "sure, I'll call you and we can pray" "let's talk about that job, I've got an idea"
And so on.
And so forth.
I think that in a world that would rather text than call, it's no surprise that prayer is daunting. Maybe we're just a little out of practice. But (and maybe this is a little theologically risky...but maybe it's also a little culutrally relevant) I think we should try not to always treat prayer like a conversation, at least not all of it. (I mean, we have to talk to our friends SOMEtimes)...but in the meantime, we keep in touch with the little things, because we want them to know, because we know they care.
Well why should that be any different with God? A lot of the times when I think of something to tell someone, I'll do just that. I'll pull out my phone and send them a message.
My phone shoots it into space to land in someone else's inbox.
But what if I shot a little higher? What if I just directed the thought towards God instead? Not sitting down to pray, not closing my eyes, or taking the hand of the person next to me (quite frankly I use far too much public transportation for that to work out well).
Just...tell (text?) Him.
Suddently, prayer is less overwhelming. Suddenly He seems much more accessible, doesn't He? It hit me when I thought about actually texting God...but the fact is, He IS that accessible.
He is that close and He cares more than the people we love the most.
I recently had to switch my text message plan to "unlimited"...I guess you could say it's my "pray without ceasing" plan. :)
But seriously...what if we could text God?
Monday, June 1, 2009
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Change means changing.
The irony of commitment is that it’s deeply liberating — in work, in play, in love. The act frees you from the tyranny of your internal critic, from the fear that likes to dress itself up and parade around as rational hesitation. To commit is to remove your head as the barrier to your life.
– Anne Morriss
Apparently Vail, CO is home to the more quotable of the Starbucks cups. Not that I'm proud of it, but I have taken in my fair share of soy cappucinos from this siren branded franchise and more often than not I'm not impressed. I should have known this one would be different though...any Bux in which the customers are wearing ski boots and there are more snowboards than baby carriages leaning in the corner has to have a little redemptive life to it somehow.
Regardless, Miss Morriss was my convicting quote of the week. It's true...whether or not you want to call it commitment, the simple act of making a decision puts and end to the game of possibility. It turns "what if?" into "what now?" and all of the sudden instead of thought, there is action. Something I think our culture doesn't know how not to take to extremes...that is, we're either not doing anything - or we're burning out.
I'm digressing.
Commitment.
If someone asked you what you're commited to, what would you say? Who would you name? Or would you?
What is the biggest commitment move you made? How did you make it? Why? And how did it get you where you are now?
What made you do it?
Because really, regardless of who, what, when, where, or why.
Life is gonna be what you make of it.
You'll get out what you put in.
You'll see the results of what you do, not what you want to do.
You'll know the people you talk to.
You'll arrive where you aim to go.
You'll be, who you currently are...just give it time.
And then, lets say you want to commit to something, but shy away from it.
We all do.
All.
I think it's fear of failure that keeps us from trying.
I think it's the comfort of knowing what is and the apprehension of deviation.
The thought that change...might mean changing.
And then I think this....that's so lame.
We're so lame.
We're so selfish.
So....boring.
Homework:
Who do you want to be?
In order to do so, what do you have to do?
Are you doing it?
Why?
Why not?
If there is no truly legitmate reason from stopping you...the reality is...you're the only one stopping yourself.
Stop it.
Get over yourself.
Do it.
Limitations are over rated; self inflicted ones are just weak.
But.
Commitment is liberating...
I like it.
Cheers Miss Morris, my soy chai served a purpose beyond it's intetion...and if it can do that, so can I.
Monday, March 31, 2008
a mile and half, with a cotton hoe.
It's when people have stopped calling you out on what they know you can do better, it's when they have stopped challenging you, they have ceased to push you...it is then that you're in a bad place. It means that where they once believed you could rise to the occasion, they no longer have hope. It is then that you're in a bad place.
I thought a lot about that on the walk back home. A mile and half or so of thinking -who in my life rebuttals me? Who listens and says - actually...no? Who pulls me aside and whispers - really?
Moreso, it was also a mile and a half of - so when am I that person? When is right to say something, and when is it best to wait? There's scripture about this too...specks and planks and what not. I'm not sure I'd like to mess with that.
Well...I would. But, how?
What gives me the right to say - you could do better, when... am I?
Maybe this catch 22 is healthy all around if it makes me look myself in the mirror more often before calling court. Opening my eyes wider and leaning in to find things like planks obstructing my view.
And it also says things like - do unto others as you'd have them do to you. So, back at square one? I'm not convinced.
He talked about friends and roommates; he said it again- you're in a bad place when they give up calling you out.
I think I mostly thought about that.
Have others ever given up on me?
Have I ever given up on others?
Have I thought - I did the best I could?
Because,
then he pulled it in and said: He never gives up hope for us.
Never.
It was humbling.
Not to mention the overwhelming notion of grace that inevitably followed.
Next to my bed is a gold framed piece of paper that says: pray without ceasing.
And I think that's what it must come down to.
That just maybe prayer can be conviction. That conviction is refining and in that refining process, perhaps inspiring?
So. We pray. And in that prayer comes a renewed sense of self, and perhaps a renewed sense of love-for others. The right kind of love.
I love you and therefore I push you. Raise the bar. Raise an eyebrow.
But, what's the goal of it all?
To say that we did our best? To boost our pride?
Perhaps, to serve.
To constantly serve.
To both pray and to serve, without ceasing.
I think that's in there somewhere too.
I thought a lot about that on the walk back home. A mile and half or so of thinking -who in my life rebuttals me? Who listens and says - actually...no? Who pulls me aside and whispers - really?
Moreso, it was also a mile and a half of - so when am I that person? When is right to say something, and when is it best to wait? There's scripture about this too...specks and planks and what not. I'm not sure I'd like to mess with that.
Well...I would. But, how?
What gives me the right to say - you could do better, when... am I?
Maybe this catch 22 is healthy all around if it makes me look myself in the mirror more often before calling court. Opening my eyes wider and leaning in to find things like planks obstructing my view.
And it also says things like - do unto others as you'd have them do to you. So, back at square one? I'm not convinced.
He talked about friends and roommates; he said it again- you're in a bad place when they give up calling you out.
I think I mostly thought about that.
Have others ever given up on me?
Have I ever given up on others?
Have I thought - I did the best I could?
Because,
then he pulled it in and said: He never gives up hope for us.
Never.
It was humbling.
Not to mention the overwhelming notion of grace that inevitably followed.
Next to my bed is a gold framed piece of paper that says: pray without ceasing.
And I think that's what it must come down to.
That just maybe prayer can be conviction. That conviction is refining and in that refining process, perhaps inspiring?
So. We pray. And in that prayer comes a renewed sense of self, and perhaps a renewed sense of love-for others. The right kind of love.
I love you and therefore I push you. Raise the bar. Raise an eyebrow.
But, what's the goal of it all?
To say that we did our best? To boost our pride?
Perhaps, to serve.
To constantly serve.
To both pray and to serve, without ceasing.
I think that's in there somewhere too.
Thursday, January 17, 2008
it just had to be said (written).
I think the lure of writing, is that you get to say things without actually saying them. Not great things, not Jane Austen or Herman Melville or Dostoevsky type things; because, no one does call me Ishmael, and while I do agree that men can not compare to rocks and mountains, I also am guilty of thinking that men ARE at times- rocks and mountains.
Writing lets us say the things we may make a mess of if we were to attempt to vocalize them. We don’t have to hear ourselves say it, and frankly our words can be directed at someone without them standing, or sitting, across from us. And so we live in a world of words that seem to have lost their intrinsic value, much of the time- without us noticing.
Originally, words were only spoken. What was worth remembering wasn’t written down, it was passed down. And with that I can’t help but be intrigued to stop and note the swing of our communicative style… somewhere along the lines it was decided that all of these valuable words needed to be written down, and so we did- and I think that was a good thing. I suppose that the more time passes, the more there is to tell- eventually something had to give. But I wonder if it gave just a bit too much. The recording of things turned into the communication of things. And then somehow in our modern culture, the value of feasible, verbal communication was lost. And that swing found itself in the 180 of text messages and email.
It’s not that this is so bad, but I do think the reality is this-when you write, you risk the reader not knowing the intonation of your voice, the facial expressions that add emphasis, or the emotion that adds depth. We know it’s a risk, but we take it anyways. And then when we’re misunderstood- we blame the means of communication that we used, not ourselves for using it. Which, I can’t help but think is why we’re willing to take the risk in the first place- they won’t be able to read into what I’m saying. I won’t have to risk them hearing the tone in my voice.
I also think it allows us to put things off. We can wait to make a decision, hold off until we have an answer, ignore it until we’re good and ready. I was on the phone with someone once, making plans to meet for dinner. As she left she said, ok well I’ll text you later about when and where and I thought “why? We’re here now”.
As little vulnerability as possible – and so the text message.
Or worse, the wall post.
(I could go all symbolic for a second and point out that there IS no wall, and that it is in fact constructed BY these written words…but that emotional symbolism makes me throw up a little in my mouth, and who wants that?)
It’s about as sick as getting asked out via facebook message. To be a little relevant for a moment. This happened to a friend of mine recently and I just thought….”really? She doesn’t merit more effort than that? That was the best you could do?” I just can’t help but beg to differ.
I saw a good looking guy at Starbucks yesterday. When I walked in, we made eye contact and seconds later I noticed he had discreetly taken off his headphones when we stood near his table while waiting in line. After ordering my coffee and talking to a friend that I had spotted, I left- all the while exchanging glances that in my mind were captioned “…really?!”. Or, more appropriately :why you should never leave the house without makeup on.
But I said (wrote) that to say (write) this: When we left, my friend turned to me and said, “maybe he’ll go up to your friend and ask about you”. I’m not proud to say that the thought seemed so unlikely I laughed…a lot.
I live in a world where people who KNOW you ask you out via facebook. I hate that.
And I thought, “Do secure people like that exist?”
Or, again more appropriately, “I’m not that cute to incur such boldness, I’m just not that cute.” (We all think it, don’t lie. We do. We’re just too sheepish to be vulnerable.)
And you know why? I just can’t help but think that somewhere along the line self esteem, insecurity, and vulnerability got in the way of being real – with each other, but really- with ourselves.
Somehow we have ourselves convinced that it’s less vulnerable to write it out and hit send. We give outs, for them and for us. (Them is not guys. Them is just….THEM.) We provide back doors, it’ll be easier to recover from rejection if we built the backdoor anyways- prove to ourselves we weren’t caught off guard. And so there’s the ways we don’t have to say it, ways we can write it and let it sit in their court (also known… as an Inbox). Then we can think up a response to the next move, a well articulated, editable reply.
You can’t edit conversations.
But, here’s a thought- it’s not less vulnerable.
It’s less real.
And the less substantial something is, the easier it is to recover from.
Face it, it’s a whole heck of a lot easier to erase a text message or an e-mail then to forget a conversation. Conversations come with images and sound. The stuff you wish you could forget.
(And just to muddy the playing field, we made texts come with these things too by the way.)
Fact of the matter is- you can take that 1 megapixel picture until you look hot..
Face to face- that’s just too close for comfort; they might see what you look like on a different angle, on all angles.
They might form an opinion that you can’t mold and then give them.
They might ask a question you’re not prepared to answer. There’s no profile on yourself that you can edit according to who you think might be reading. Let’s be honest…it happens.
And those pictures? Face it, anyone can seem good looking or photogenic with the convenience of an “untag” button.
I’m not being cynical, I’m just connecting dots.
I mean,
Astronomers do it too, except they take a couple of stars and call it a dog or a Greek god. I think somehow we’re doing the opposite.
I don’t think it’s our fault, not completely. But the fact of the matter is, if that guy in Starbucks would have struck up a conversation, I think that the confidence it would have effaced in and of itself would be pretty freaking attractive. Confidence is attractive, humble confidence is downright lethal. The good lethal. And the reason for that- is that it’s rare.
And that’s a shame.
The truth is, I think we live in a culture that is truly starving for conversation. Real conversation. Dialogue that doesn’t have to have a cup of coffee sitting, literally, in the middle of it. Genuine that doesn’t mean I prayed about it, genuine that means- this is how it is right now .It’s not perfect, but it’s real and I’m ok with you seeing it.
Because…what that says…is that I’m ok with who I am. I know it’s not perfect, but I’m secure enough to stare that reality in the face.
I’m not saying (writing) that this state of existence is easy, but I am saying (writing) that it is to be sought after.
I think we don’t give ourselves or each another enough credit. We’re so busy trying to paint the picture of what we would like to be seen as, we somehow lose who we are. And it’s hard to be confident in an illusion, it just is.
Think of how different it would be if we didn’t text message, facebook post, or e-mail. What if we just used e-mail for the business things and for the rest of it- the communication part, we picked up the phone and called. We got up and walker over to talk. Odds are, it would get easier after a while- as the vulnerability issue subsided and you got used to the sound of your own voice saying (not writing) what you mean to say (not write.)
I think we’d ask more questions. We’d care more because we could see their faces and hear their voices. We would care more about them and spend less time with our own menial thoughts.We would get to know them, and they would get to know us. Because eventually it would be too hard to hide the reality. And in others getting to know you- you inevitably begin to know yourself a bit more.
Scary sure, but worth it. Life’s too short to care about untagging pictures…it’s just too big and too short.
And I think we have to say things by actually saying them.
Writing lets us say the things we may make a mess of if we were to attempt to vocalize them. We don’t have to hear ourselves say it, and frankly our words can be directed at someone without them standing, or sitting, across from us. And so we live in a world of words that seem to have lost their intrinsic value, much of the time- without us noticing.
Originally, words were only spoken. What was worth remembering wasn’t written down, it was passed down. And with that I can’t help but be intrigued to stop and note the swing of our communicative style… somewhere along the lines it was decided that all of these valuable words needed to be written down, and so we did- and I think that was a good thing. I suppose that the more time passes, the more there is to tell- eventually something had to give. But I wonder if it gave just a bit too much. The recording of things turned into the communication of things. And then somehow in our modern culture, the value of feasible, verbal communication was lost. And that swing found itself in the 180 of text messages and email.
It’s not that this is so bad, but I do think the reality is this-when you write, you risk the reader not knowing the intonation of your voice, the facial expressions that add emphasis, or the emotion that adds depth. We know it’s a risk, but we take it anyways. And then when we’re misunderstood- we blame the means of communication that we used, not ourselves for using it. Which, I can’t help but think is why we’re willing to take the risk in the first place- they won’t be able to read into what I’m saying. I won’t have to risk them hearing the tone in my voice.
I also think it allows us to put things off. We can wait to make a decision, hold off until we have an answer, ignore it until we’re good and ready. I was on the phone with someone once, making plans to meet for dinner. As she left she said, ok well I’ll text you later about when and where and I thought “why? We’re here now”.
As little vulnerability as possible – and so the text message.
Or worse, the wall post.
(I could go all symbolic for a second and point out that there IS no wall, and that it is in fact constructed BY these written words…but that emotional symbolism makes me throw up a little in my mouth, and who wants that?)
It’s about as sick as getting asked out via facebook message. To be a little relevant for a moment. This happened to a friend of mine recently and I just thought….”really? She doesn’t merit more effort than that? That was the best you could do?” I just can’t help but beg to differ.
I saw a good looking guy at Starbucks yesterday. When I walked in, we made eye contact and seconds later I noticed he had discreetly taken off his headphones when we stood near his table while waiting in line. After ordering my coffee and talking to a friend that I had spotted, I left- all the while exchanging glances that in my mind were captioned “…really?!”. Or, more appropriately :why you should never leave the house without makeup on.
But I said (wrote) that to say (write) this: When we left, my friend turned to me and said, “maybe he’ll go up to your friend and ask about you”. I’m not proud to say that the thought seemed so unlikely I laughed…a lot.
I live in a world where people who KNOW you ask you out via facebook. I hate that.
And I thought, “Do secure people like that exist?”
Or, again more appropriately, “I’m not that cute to incur such boldness, I’m just not that cute.” (We all think it, don’t lie. We do. We’re just too sheepish to be vulnerable.)
And you know why? I just can’t help but think that somewhere along the line self esteem, insecurity, and vulnerability got in the way of being real – with each other, but really- with ourselves.
Somehow we have ourselves convinced that it’s less vulnerable to write it out and hit send. We give outs, for them and for us. (Them is not guys. Them is just….THEM.) We provide back doors, it’ll be easier to recover from rejection if we built the backdoor anyways- prove to ourselves we weren’t caught off guard. And so there’s the ways we don’t have to say it, ways we can write it and let it sit in their court (also known… as an Inbox). Then we can think up a response to the next move, a well articulated, editable reply.
You can’t edit conversations.
But, here’s a thought- it’s not less vulnerable.
It’s less real.
And the less substantial something is, the easier it is to recover from.
Face it, it’s a whole heck of a lot easier to erase a text message or an e-mail then to forget a conversation. Conversations come with images and sound. The stuff you wish you could forget.
(And just to muddy the playing field, we made texts come with these things too by the way.)
Fact of the matter is- you can take that 1 megapixel picture until you look hot..
Face to face- that’s just too close for comfort; they might see what you look like on a different angle, on all angles.
They might form an opinion that you can’t mold and then give them.
They might ask a question you’re not prepared to answer. There’s no profile on yourself that you can edit according to who you think might be reading. Let’s be honest…it happens.
And those pictures? Face it, anyone can seem good looking or photogenic with the convenience of an “untag” button.
I’m not being cynical, I’m just connecting dots.
I mean,
Astronomers do it too, except they take a couple of stars and call it a dog or a Greek god. I think somehow we’re doing the opposite.
I don’t think it’s our fault, not completely. But the fact of the matter is, if that guy in Starbucks would have struck up a conversation, I think that the confidence it would have effaced in and of itself would be pretty freaking attractive. Confidence is attractive, humble confidence is downright lethal. The good lethal. And the reason for that- is that it’s rare.
And that’s a shame.
The truth is, I think we live in a culture that is truly starving for conversation. Real conversation. Dialogue that doesn’t have to have a cup of coffee sitting, literally, in the middle of it. Genuine that doesn’t mean I prayed about it, genuine that means- this is how it is right now .It’s not perfect, but it’s real and I’m ok with you seeing it.
Because…what that says…is that I’m ok with who I am. I know it’s not perfect, but I’m secure enough to stare that reality in the face.
I’m not saying (writing) that this state of existence is easy, but I am saying (writing) that it is to be sought after.
I think we don’t give ourselves or each another enough credit. We’re so busy trying to paint the picture of what we would like to be seen as, we somehow lose who we are. And it’s hard to be confident in an illusion, it just is.
Think of how different it would be if we didn’t text message, facebook post, or e-mail. What if we just used e-mail for the business things and for the rest of it- the communication part, we picked up the phone and called. We got up and walker over to talk. Odds are, it would get easier after a while- as the vulnerability issue subsided and you got used to the sound of your own voice saying (not writing) what you mean to say (not write.)
I think we’d ask more questions. We’d care more because we could see their faces and hear their voices. We would care more about them and spend less time with our own menial thoughts.We would get to know them, and they would get to know us. Because eventually it would be too hard to hide the reality. And in others getting to know you- you inevitably begin to know yourself a bit more.
Scary sure, but worth it. Life’s too short to care about untagging pictures…it’s just too big and too short.
And I think we have to say things by actually saying them.
Thursday, December 20, 2007
Watch Hill, RI 02891
Watch Hill, RI likes to pretend it has it's own zip code, but it doesn't, matter of fact it's technically a part of Westerly- and if you were to mail something to someone who lived in Watch Hill- but happened to put Westerly on the envelope- truth is, it would get there just fine. But they won't tell you that.
You have to drive through Westerly in order to get to Watch Hill too, take 78 and keep going straight through the light, then take a left and head towards the water. Unless it's the summer- only tourists will take that route, and the rest of us will arrive en route another way.
So when you hang that left, not long afterwards you'll get to No Bottom Pond- and while I'm sure the pond does have some sort of floor to it, I will admit that it's fairly far down...so it seems to be endless. It has the classic wooden sign half tilted to the right that warns of such. I remember one afternoon when my Mom and I took a detour through the No Bottom residential area, and what they don't have in the bottom of that pond, they make up for in their housing, I assure you.
Up and on the right is Sun Up, a rather eclectic art and jewelry gallery where we often found birthday and Christmas presents. More often than not, there is a large, and rather modern sculpture on the front lawn of Sun Up and now to the right is a pottery place as well. You know, paint your own and what not.
Keep going, and on the left is the house with the hill of a front yard, only truly interesting because the owners of this home have well gardened this front..hill. It must be some sort of disaster if anything starts to slide, it's a wonder that garden doesn't gather at the bottom after a hurricane.
Speaking of which, the fire department will eventually also appear on the left, both my Father and brother were volunteer firemen, Dad even did the book keeping for them up until last year. Some of my clearest memories were playing in the firehouse at night while Dad did his office work. It had a very distinct smell about it, not bad, just distinct- as most fond memories do. And since he often left the lights off, the room I played in the most was left to be illuminated by the light of the soda machine. If I could scrounge up change it would be a toss up between orange and grape.
Next door to the firehouse live my great aunt and uncle. I can't put them into words much, mostly because they transcend them in many ways. They live, yknow? They tell my Dad he should travel, and when he questions why, they ask- whyever not? Last time we stopped by, we talked about Bend, OR. We share a mutual respect for that small town in the very middle. She is tall and has whitish blonde hair that is permed just like any other woman over the age of 70. You know what I mean. He is slightly stooped as he gets older, but in no way has it affected his stature in any other way, at least not to me. Shep and Marion can be found at the same spot on the Watch Hill beach during the summer. Well, not just them, but anyone who lives in Watch Hill. It's just the way it is, every family has their own accustomed location. They are right at the entrance and a bit to the right. We are down a bit farther and to the left, right at the corner. But that's getting ahead.
While their road was to the left of the firehouse, ours was directly across the street- Nepun Road, to be exact. I was sad when we moved from that house, but Mom assured me that it was better in my memory than it was in real life. I think she was speaking from her own experience, it was the same house that she grew up in. I remember the day that we moved, her intuitive and loving wisdom had sent me off to go ice skating with my cousins. That way, I never saw the change, it just happened. She saved me from any painful last memories, turns out she would do that a lot.
If you were to go through our back yard, past my grandfathers small guest house, you would walk into another yard- the front yard of my aunt's house to be exact. I didn't realize how unique that situation was until right now. Especially seeing that my Mother and her sister were not particularly close. Mom had my cousins over all the time though, and while the age gap between myself and my siblings keeps my memory fairly limitied, I do remember holidays at their home.and swimming in their pool. On the whole, however, I preferred our home to theirs, it was more peaceful.
We lived in a community of large houses that kept generations of familes in them, and while some still do, many have become summer homes for young families who live in cities. Including ours.
You could walk into downtown Watch Hill from our home, and we did, especially during the summer. We walked into town to get ice cream and watch the sun set. You have to sit on the sea wall to do that the best.
Downtown has changed a lot in some ways, and in others it has remained exactly the same. There will always be a popcorn machine at the last corner before the beach with an old woman who works it during the summers. She's worked at it for my whole life. Or there's the Olympia Tea Room, it's owned by a man who has two daughters. My sister went to school with the elder, and I went to school with the younger. Now that I think of it, they're a Jewish family.
The Candy Box is as pink and ruffled as any good candy store should be, and it smells like mint and chocolate. If nothing else, go in for the smell/ But if you don't want food or candy, just get a Dels and call it a day while you watch little kids on the Watch Hill Carousel. It's the oldest one in America and there are two rows of horses, the big ones on the outside are the coveted ones. If you run into the ring to get one fast enough it means you will also have a chance to grab at the brass ring when you go around. As the ride starts a long shute gets put out where rings will fall down, the brass ring is the last one, the rest you collect on the horses ears. Get the brass one and win a free ride.I'm much to big to take part anymore, but every chance I got to go to Watch Hill this summer always ended with Dels and watching others bring their children to the carousel. Someday I would like to take mine there to. And I will show them where their grandmother and I grew up, where I walked to the beach to find white stones, and where the Ocean House once stood.
The Ocean House was a huge hotel right on the water and surrounded by other Watch Hill mansions. They completely tore it down a couple of years ago and are now in the process of rebuilding it. There was an auction for all of the furniture and I went with my parents, I remember that my Mom was very sad and I feel certain that there will always exist the regret that they didn't buy anything. I have a photo of the Ocean House at the end of my bed now though, I found it at an art festival in Westely last summer, he was asking for a lot but I didn't mind. In some ways he wasn't asking for anything at all.
How could I know that days before Christmas, sitting in bed with music on and watching more snow fall, I would curl up with my Watch Hill sweatshirt on and look up at the foot of my bed and take the time to remember what was- and what will be, you know, when I bring the kids and all.
You have to drive through Westerly in order to get to Watch Hill too, take 78 and keep going straight through the light, then take a left and head towards the water. Unless it's the summer- only tourists will take that route, and the rest of us will arrive en route another way.
So when you hang that left, not long afterwards you'll get to No Bottom Pond- and while I'm sure the pond does have some sort of floor to it, I will admit that it's fairly far down...so it seems to be endless. It has the classic wooden sign half tilted to the right that warns of such. I remember one afternoon when my Mom and I took a detour through the No Bottom residential area, and what they don't have in the bottom of that pond, they make up for in their housing, I assure you.
Up and on the right is Sun Up, a rather eclectic art and jewelry gallery where we often found birthday and Christmas presents. More often than not, there is a large, and rather modern sculpture on the front lawn of Sun Up and now to the right is a pottery place as well. You know, paint your own and what not.
Keep going, and on the left is the house with the hill of a front yard, only truly interesting because the owners of this home have well gardened this front..hill. It must be some sort of disaster if anything starts to slide, it's a wonder that garden doesn't gather at the bottom after a hurricane.
Speaking of which, the fire department will eventually also appear on the left, both my Father and brother were volunteer firemen, Dad even did the book keeping for them up until last year. Some of my clearest memories were playing in the firehouse at night while Dad did his office work. It had a very distinct smell about it, not bad, just distinct- as most fond memories do. And since he often left the lights off, the room I played in the most was left to be illuminated by the light of the soda machine. If I could scrounge up change it would be a toss up between orange and grape.
Next door to the firehouse live my great aunt and uncle. I can't put them into words much, mostly because they transcend them in many ways. They live, yknow? They tell my Dad he should travel, and when he questions why, they ask- whyever not? Last time we stopped by, we talked about Bend, OR. We share a mutual respect for that small town in the very middle. She is tall and has whitish blonde hair that is permed just like any other woman over the age of 70. You know what I mean. He is slightly stooped as he gets older, but in no way has it affected his stature in any other way, at least not to me. Shep and Marion can be found at the same spot on the Watch Hill beach during the summer. Well, not just them, but anyone who lives in Watch Hill. It's just the way it is, every family has their own accustomed location. They are right at the entrance and a bit to the right. We are down a bit farther and to the left, right at the corner. But that's getting ahead.
While their road was to the left of the firehouse, ours was directly across the street- Nepun Road, to be exact. I was sad when we moved from that house, but Mom assured me that it was better in my memory than it was in real life. I think she was speaking from her own experience, it was the same house that she grew up in. I remember the day that we moved, her intuitive and loving wisdom had sent me off to go ice skating with my cousins. That way, I never saw the change, it just happened. She saved me from any painful last memories, turns out she would do that a lot.
If you were to go through our back yard, past my grandfathers small guest house, you would walk into another yard- the front yard of my aunt's house to be exact. I didn't realize how unique that situation was until right now. Especially seeing that my Mother and her sister were not particularly close. Mom had my cousins over all the time though, and while the age gap between myself and my siblings keeps my memory fairly limitied, I do remember holidays at their home.and swimming in their pool. On the whole, however, I preferred our home to theirs, it was more peaceful.
We lived in a community of large houses that kept generations of familes in them, and while some still do, many have become summer homes for young families who live in cities. Including ours.
You could walk into downtown Watch Hill from our home, and we did, especially during the summer. We walked into town to get ice cream and watch the sun set. You have to sit on the sea wall to do that the best.
Downtown has changed a lot in some ways, and in others it has remained exactly the same. There will always be a popcorn machine at the last corner before the beach with an old woman who works it during the summers. She's worked at it for my whole life. Or there's the Olympia Tea Room, it's owned by a man who has two daughters. My sister went to school with the elder, and I went to school with the younger. Now that I think of it, they're a Jewish family.
The Candy Box is as pink and ruffled as any good candy store should be, and it smells like mint and chocolate. If nothing else, go in for the smell/ But if you don't want food or candy, just get a Dels and call it a day while you watch little kids on the Watch Hill Carousel. It's the oldest one in America and there are two rows of horses, the big ones on the outside are the coveted ones. If you run into the ring to get one fast enough it means you will also have a chance to grab at the brass ring when you go around. As the ride starts a long shute gets put out where rings will fall down, the brass ring is the last one, the rest you collect on the horses ears. Get the brass one and win a free ride.I'm much to big to take part anymore, but every chance I got to go to Watch Hill this summer always ended with Dels and watching others bring their children to the carousel. Someday I would like to take mine there to. And I will show them where their grandmother and I grew up, where I walked to the beach to find white stones, and where the Ocean House once stood.
The Ocean House was a huge hotel right on the water and surrounded by other Watch Hill mansions. They completely tore it down a couple of years ago and are now in the process of rebuilding it. There was an auction for all of the furniture and I went with my parents, I remember that my Mom was very sad and I feel certain that there will always exist the regret that they didn't buy anything. I have a photo of the Ocean House at the end of my bed now though, I found it at an art festival in Westely last summer, he was asking for a lot but I didn't mind. In some ways he wasn't asking for anything at all.
How could I know that days before Christmas, sitting in bed with music on and watching more snow fall, I would curl up with my Watch Hill sweatshirt on and look up at the foot of my bed and take the time to remember what was- and what will be, you know, when I bring the kids and all.
Monday, December 17, 2007
drive.
There is something very right about driving home late at night with the heat blasting and windows down so that I can smell the crispness of the snow and the accompanying woodstove smoke. I had my music on and I had it up. I had it up loud. And like I said, it was very right. I got lost, intentionally. I like to do that, it makes me learn how small places really are. It also provided me with more opportunities to take in the Christmas lights on the houses. I’m glad I live in New England- they do it right with white lights and candles in the windows. “And it might not be the prettiest thing you’ll ever see…but it’s a new day…” that’s what was playing.
I wonder if making decisions in life feels like getting lost, only to learn how small and intricately connected life is to begin with. Maybe it only seems like the long way because it isn’t familiar or isn’t the norm. I think that our culture confuses what is normal with what is right. I really do. And I wish more people challenged that.
I think that taking the normal way only means you know what’s coming, it means you can multi task and still get there, or let your mind wander while you maneuver along the well lit road with others. Sometimes we get to places and realize that we have no recollection of the drive.
I don’t want to live my life like that.
I’m petrified of arriving at the end, with a gasp at the realization that I was unaware of how I was spending my time.
Because the reality of that would be that it was wasted…and no one desires to face that kind of tragedy about the most precious gift they could have been given. Surely no one does.
And I don’t care if it’s hard, or seemingly long and out of the way- and perhaps therefore lonely at times. I don’t care if it stings when it slaps, I don’t care if it makes me cry, I don’t care if it hurts. If it means that I am intrinsically aware of what is going on at all times, and that I am taking in the necessary details as I go, then I think it perhaps how it was supposed to be…unpredictable, challenging, fault finding, and inevitably an opportunity to grow- or perhaps learn? Both.
And if I’m to take it a step further and apply it to my faith, I think it falls into place a little bit. I was given life, and then, in a way, I chose to give it back. To say that although the choice is mine, I have decided to suppress what I think I know, in order that I may listen to someone else’s directions. Although listening to direction isn’t so easy. It requires constant attention to detail and doesn’t leave room for any lack of involvement on your part.
So that regardless of what I have already seen and understood, regardless of what I think I know, or even do know- I am instead to disregard it as normal and normal as a waste of time- although it may not seem like it at first. It will seem like that in the end.
By the end of my wanderings I had rolled the passenger window down too. I was leaning forward so that my arms were covering the top of the steering wheel and my chin was almost resting at the top. I was eventually dumped out onto Essex Street, and as I passed the small green street sign that inherently said to me- "now you know where you are"- I was happy to pay less attention to what I was doing and more to what had just been done. Which, in effect, then led me here.
I don’t want to live my life only to arrive and realize that I hadn’t paid attention to how I got there. Not for a moment.
I wonder if making decisions in life feels like getting lost, only to learn how small and intricately connected life is to begin with. Maybe it only seems like the long way because it isn’t familiar or isn’t the norm. I think that our culture confuses what is normal with what is right. I really do. And I wish more people challenged that.
I think that taking the normal way only means you know what’s coming, it means you can multi task and still get there, or let your mind wander while you maneuver along the well lit road with others. Sometimes we get to places and realize that we have no recollection of the drive.
I don’t want to live my life like that.
I’m petrified of arriving at the end, with a gasp at the realization that I was unaware of how I was spending my time.
Because the reality of that would be that it was wasted…and no one desires to face that kind of tragedy about the most precious gift they could have been given. Surely no one does.
And I don’t care if it’s hard, or seemingly long and out of the way- and perhaps therefore lonely at times. I don’t care if it stings when it slaps, I don’t care if it makes me cry, I don’t care if it hurts. If it means that I am intrinsically aware of what is going on at all times, and that I am taking in the necessary details as I go, then I think it perhaps how it was supposed to be…unpredictable, challenging, fault finding, and inevitably an opportunity to grow- or perhaps learn? Both.
And if I’m to take it a step further and apply it to my faith, I think it falls into place a little bit. I was given life, and then, in a way, I chose to give it back. To say that although the choice is mine, I have decided to suppress what I think I know, in order that I may listen to someone else’s directions. Although listening to direction isn’t so easy. It requires constant attention to detail and doesn’t leave room for any lack of involvement on your part.
So that regardless of what I have already seen and understood, regardless of what I think I know, or even do know- I am instead to disregard it as normal and normal as a waste of time- although it may not seem like it at first. It will seem like that in the end.
By the end of my wanderings I had rolled the passenger window down too. I was leaning forward so that my arms were covering the top of the steering wheel and my chin was almost resting at the top. I was eventually dumped out onto Essex Street, and as I passed the small green street sign that inherently said to me- "now you know where you are"- I was happy to pay less attention to what I was doing and more to what had just been done. Which, in effect, then led me here.
I don’t want to live my life only to arrive and realize that I hadn’t paid attention to how I got there. Not for a moment.
Monday, November 5, 2007
windows.
there were two chairs, one on each side of a small, round table. and i opted for the one to my right, seeing this option would allow to me to look out the window too. which i like to do quite a bit.i tried to read, i was on the last chapter but his comparison of christ and the church to romeo and juliet just wasn't doing it for me. disappointing, it being the final chapter and all. but it had hard competition. a little girl, her mother, and her grandmother had come in. while they waited for their drinks, the mom gently held the fingers of her tiny daughter- who therefore twirled around in circles, consistently delighted each time her mom smiled and asked "oh my, are you a ballerina??". each time she twirled around she began to catch my eye and grin, we all laughed together when she finally dizzily drifted out of motion and her mom had to scoop her back up into her arms to keep her from bumping into things as she walked. she was a good mom. she exuded warmth. and i noticed that the socks that peeped out from her jeans didn't match...i think that's the sign of a mom. that and the glittery scrunchy on her wrist, which i suspect was not her own accessory.i watched the three of them leave and thought about it for a long while, thankful to be near a window.
that afternoon i drove around with the heat on and the windows down. i like the windows down, more than i like being warm. but i also like the feeling of breaking the rules when i treat myself to both.i drove this way to winslow park, or at least that's what the sign said. it was the perfect combincation of beack and trees, and i chose beach first. having ordered my sandwich to go, i was soon happily sitting on the dock with a brown paper bag, a bottle of water, and my camera.and i sat for a long while.i was soon joined by a father and his two sons. they walked by me, down to the end of the dock and into the rocks; it was low tide. he was the kind of dad that seemed content to listen to their commentary, only occasionally offering a precautionary warning as they neared slippery rocks. although, he did correct the eldest's notion that a clam's age could be told by the number of marks it had. his son predicted his find to be the ripr, old age of anout a hundred years. his dad suggested that "stuffers" the clam was a year and a half at best. although, to my dismay he didn't explain to them how he knew this.i sat and looked out at the water and listened to them for a while. when i left to walk into the park, i passed him lying on the dock in the sun, with his hat over his face and his hands folded over his chest. meanwhile his two sons crawled around the dry rocks, continuing their educated conversations amongst themselves, occasionally including him in their conjectures.
i got cold after a while, so driving back into town to head to my final destination i stopped for tea, which i brought with me into the woods. you see, as i had sat on the dock, i thought about how being outside is such an easy way to find God. perhaps it sounds cliche, and perhaps it is. but it's true. the leaves were a perfect ochre yellow, the reflection on the water made mirrors look like the man made fabrications that they are, and the only thing i could hear was the sound of the trees. it reminded me of the first time i fell in love with the outdoors. i was sitting outside outside our house in an adirondack chair, and i just listened. since then, i can't not listen if given the opportunity.so while i sat on the dock and walked in the woods, i thought about this. this gift that is the manifestation of the God i strive to serve. this ability to find HIm in the quiet existence of His creation. it's like walking around someone's home, and after seeing how they choose to live, they seem to make more sense to you. and then even if they're not there in the home, you feel as though you are with them nonetheless. it's like that. i thought about how easy it seemed to be to find him when life was quieted down and what surrounded you was what He chose to surround Himself with. having also given considerable thought to the christian church, i was content to find that He seemed so much more here then inside the walls we so often seek to find Him in.so when i turned a corner on the path to see two branches bent across like a catherdral window, i could only stop and marvel. i laughed too, but there was no one to hear me, not that i minded.
that afternoon i drove around with the heat on and the windows down. i like the windows down, more than i like being warm. but i also like the feeling of breaking the rules when i treat myself to both.i drove this way to winslow park, or at least that's what the sign said. it was the perfect combincation of beack and trees, and i chose beach first. having ordered my sandwich to go, i was soon happily sitting on the dock with a brown paper bag, a bottle of water, and my camera.and i sat for a long while.i was soon joined by a father and his two sons. they walked by me, down to the end of the dock and into the rocks; it was low tide. he was the kind of dad that seemed content to listen to their commentary, only occasionally offering a precautionary warning as they neared slippery rocks. although, he did correct the eldest's notion that a clam's age could be told by the number of marks it had. his son predicted his find to be the ripr, old age of anout a hundred years. his dad suggested that "stuffers" the clam was a year and a half at best. although, to my dismay he didn't explain to them how he knew this.i sat and looked out at the water and listened to them for a while. when i left to walk into the park, i passed him lying on the dock in the sun, with his hat over his face and his hands folded over his chest. meanwhile his two sons crawled around the dry rocks, continuing their educated conversations amongst themselves, occasionally including him in their conjectures.
i got cold after a while, so driving back into town to head to my final destination i stopped for tea, which i brought with me into the woods. you see, as i had sat on the dock, i thought about how being outside is such an easy way to find God. perhaps it sounds cliche, and perhaps it is. but it's true. the leaves were a perfect ochre yellow, the reflection on the water made mirrors look like the man made fabrications that they are, and the only thing i could hear was the sound of the trees. it reminded me of the first time i fell in love with the outdoors. i was sitting outside outside our house in an adirondack chair, and i just listened. since then, i can't not listen if given the opportunity.so while i sat on the dock and walked in the woods, i thought about this. this gift that is the manifestation of the God i strive to serve. this ability to find HIm in the quiet existence of His creation. it's like walking around someone's home, and after seeing how they choose to live, they seem to make more sense to you. and then even if they're not there in the home, you feel as though you are with them nonetheless. it's like that. i thought about how easy it seemed to be to find him when life was quieted down and what surrounded you was what He chose to surround Himself with. having also given considerable thought to the christian church, i was content to find that He seemed so much more here then inside the walls we so often seek to find Him in.so when i turned a corner on the path to see two branches bent across like a catherdral window, i could only stop and marvel. i laughed too, but there was no one to hear me, not that i minded.
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