Tree Hugger

Is there any thing more patient than a tree?

I have been taking coffee, book, journal and myself to the park across the street as often as possible, sitting at the roots of an old maple hoping that I might absorb its steadfast elegance by some miraculous osmosis.  (The osmosis hasn't worked.  I have, however, gotten a crick in my neck from craning upward to watch the wind play in the leaves, and grass stuck to my sandals and shorts.) 

The glory of a tree is its long memory.  By that I mean the way it bends and deepens over the years, persevering in its slow growth through all kinds of weather, drought, and trauma.  Joy, too, I suppose.  I imagine the tree holding within itself memories of the last storm or the last branch lopped off, so that it doesn't lose heart when the wind starts howling but instead keeps pushing inch by inch into the earth.  

In my current transience and impatience, I resemble something more like a dandelion than a tree: sprouting up when the sun shines and keeling over when the temperature drops, hasty, green and trigger-happy.  Dandelions rarely survive a good frost, much less an entire winter.  Compare this with the old maple who has the wisdom of two hundred weathered storms!  What can shake her?  She is drinking from deep, ancient veins of water far below the frenzied surface.  Do not blame me, then, for asking to borrow from this weathered soul.  In her is the long-suffering Hope of her Maker.  

Blessed is the one who does not walk in the counsel of the wicked [...]

but whose delight is in the law of the Lord

He is like a tree planted by streams of water, 

which yields its fruit in season and whose leaf does not wither

Psalm 1 

Receiving, or An Argument for Commuting by Bike

 I agree with the maxim, "Tis more blessed to give than to receive," but for what are assuredly selfish reasons, namely that I would rather be in the empowered position of giving.  Receiving is humble.  

So when I found myself with a dead car and dead battery this morning on the side of the road, I first shuffled through my wallet in order to find my AAA member card, because I figured if I was going to need help I may as well get it from professional helpers, people from whom I would not mind receiving aid.   But I was parked on the side of a residential road, surrounded by doors on which I might knock...around the corner from shops to which I could go... therefore I sat like a bump on a log in my car.  I met the eyes of people driving by, my hood popped open, and dared them to decide to stop.  They didn't.  Small wonder. 

A red Taurus idled past (lost? looking for parking?) and I decided to follow another maxim, "the Lord helps those who help themselves."  I flagged down The Red Taurus.   Krista --aka Good Samaritan-- had the kindness to step out of her car and lend her time and jumper cables, and I was soon able to be on my way.  

Krista seemed honestly pleased to stop and help. Really, I mean, she smiled the whole time and it wasn't because I was smiling at her: I was too busy swearing silently at my car.  It made me think that the neat thing about being in a position of receiving is its reflexive quality; that is, the Giver may also be the Receiver.  In this scenario, though she was technically extending me the gift of time, cables, and a willing attitude, Krista was given the gift of being invaluable to another human being at a particular moment in time.  The outcome of my day depended on her presence in my life.  Krista was made very important. 

A reluctance to receive, then, may in fact be an insult to those around me, sending the message that I am not willing to let them play an important role in my life.  It becomes a matter of control, a question whether or not I have the humility to surrender the reins when it becomes clear I am not enough in and of myself?  Mostly no, I do not.  

C'est la vie.  Back to where I started.  Still, I am grateful to the small kindness of another human and the also small opportunity to practice the posture of receiving.  

Fair Game?

There is a forty-something year old man who comes into my store and acts like junior high boy. That is, he makes dirty jokes, comments on my appearance, tells co-workers he "has a thing for me", tells ME he comes to the store to see me, and then stands by the espresso bar during mid-morning rush and either watches me or tries to make conversation. 

That's sexual harassment, homes.  

I simultaneously feel angry, belittled, and nervous.  Angry because I am a captive audience; he's in my work place where I am stuck behind register or coffee bar.  Belittled because his attention is so unwanted and insensitive that I feel shrunken-- I want to take up less space for him to notice.  And nervous because I am not sure what he will say or do next. 

I am a free, adult woman, and this creep has rendered me fair game for whatever fantasies about nice, blond baristas keep him company at night.  I didn't sign up for the job, but I am nonetheless a participant, even if unwilling.  

On the flip side, I have yet to tell him off.  He has caught me off guard with his innuendo and his pointed interest.  And I am perpetually nice.  It's a bad habit: I am used to seeing sheep and have trouble recognizing a wolf in disguise.  Maybe in someway I have let myself be victimized by not taking a firm stand?  I can either let my co-workers and manager take care of my business while I cower in the corner, or I can muster up my best F-off speech and angry eyes and stand up for myself, refusing to be a part of his perversion.  

I don't want to play into a role that has been played many times before: helpless, harassed female.  That still leaves him in the position of power.  I want to turn the tables and decide whether or not I am an object of a middle-aged man's sexual desire.  I choose NOT.  And when I tell him to start behaving or get lost, I will top it off with a customer-appropriate smile and a damn good cup of coffee thankyouverymuch.  

  

The Bachelorette Pad

Its true-- Janelle and I have a new Bachelorette Pad.  

Here's the low down on the apartment in numbers: 

Ikea couches: 1

Completed bottles of wine: 4

New scratches in the hardwood floor: 1

Bags of tortilla chips consumed: 2

Loud house parties next door that keep us awake: 2

Times Janelle has glued her fingers together with wood stain: 1

That is not a comprehensive list. 

Though The Move for me has been within the same city, I nonetheless find myself in the throes of transitional angst (big surprise, right??)  It takes 30 minutes longer to get to work than before, and the number of new expenses are staggering.   It is hot hot hot when bed time comes because our third and top floor apartment soaks up sun all day for a cumulative effect similar to an oven.  The smells and sounds and patterns are unfamiliar. I yearn for the day when I stagger into the kitchen for morning coffee and grind/brew/pour like on automatic, without fumbling for beans, outlets or counter space. 

Still, this place has hints of Home forming in it.  Already I like the way evening light filters in the northwest windows.  Our gerbera daisies seem comfortable on the windowsill.  The floors creak gently to welcome me back from work.  We are fortunate for this little apartment, and for the chance to begin a new life chapter. (And will keep the Trader Joe's wine flowing until we feel sane again.) 

Old Stuff

I cracked open my journal from January 2008, the month I traveled to South Africa.  I have not thought about the trip in over a year; I think I was anxious to move on from it.  Today, though, I felt a desire to remember what I was thinking during those bewildering few weeks. The eclectic nature of the following 'snapshots' is a very truthful reflection of my experience of contrast throughout the entire country.  Here goes. 

Babes

 Today I sat with a woman dying of AIDS. Her name was Babes, and her smile was like a crescent moon in an otherwise diminished face. Babes asked me questions even though the process of forming words seemed laborious.  She talked more than I did, because finding language in my brain was like dipping a bucket in a dry well.  

 I perched like a nervous bird on her bed, awkward because of my backpack and because of the dirty sheets, and I am embarrassed to say that the first thing I thought as she reached for my hand was, "What if I have an open cut where the virus could creep in?"  (the answer was yes and no: yes, a small cut on my pointer finger, and no, her hands were eerily clean and elegant.)  

It felt like acting on television.  Was everyone in the room watching the white woman crouch over the dying coloured one?  My colleagues receded into the background. Visitors and nurses watched silent as gravestones.

Her fragility was luminous. Maybe people close to death get a little extra beauty, or maybe beauty ordinarily hidden by the trappings of daily life shines more clearly because it is all that is left?  Either way, Babes is (though now she is probably a "was") beautiful in the truest sense. 

How does beauty accompany death?

Cranky

I don't want to go back to the home stay where I feel awkward and cramped. I don't want to make conversation with our hosts. I want my bed and my blanket and to make my own food and not be around any people. I don't want to eat whatever the hell it is Touma is making.  I am tired of meat I don't recognize.   

I want an apple. 

Today I am sick of South Africa. 

African Hope

 The world is a cold gray ember (I read yesterday in Gilead) that God blows into a flame which flares and burns for a moment, or a day, or a lifetime, and then dies leaving no sign that it was ever related to fire.  But the flame does come, and it takes courage both to witness the transfiguration and to hope for another. 

Perhaps in Africa I need more hope, not less.  

I have been reading in Isaiah and the passages of restoration and redemption are almost painful for all that they seem so unfulfilled.  How does the person selling ostrich feathers and beads for a living interpret the rich promises of safety and blessing?  Was Isaiah a false prophet?  Or, for the more sophisticated, a prophet writing from specific context and history?  Or, did he dream of a future reality still undisclosed?  

Or maybe their lives have a richness that I in my relative wealth and busyness cannot fathom.  

Maybe hope has nothing to do with apparent reality.  

Naughty Monkeys

Andi left her window open and the monkeys got in.  They got the marshmallows and the instant coffee and left sticky, caffeinated fingerprints on her wall.  "Naughty monkeys," said Zama. "Damn rodents," said Andi.  

Two Poems

In comparison to the exploits of many literary giants, Emily Dickinson's life seems small. In her entire lifetime, historians say, she did not stray far from her bedroom window in Amherst, Massachusetts.  I am glad Ms. Dickinson stayed put.  We are indebted to the "soul upon a windowpane" that observed its world --however tiny-- with such microscopic precision. 

I really like these two poems.  

Success Is Counted Sweetest 

Success is counted sweetest 

by those who ne'er succeed. 

To comprehend a nectar

requires sorest need. 

Not one of all the purple Host 

Who took the Flag today

Can tell the definition 

so clear of Victory

As he defeated- dying- 

On whose forbidden ear

The distant strains of triumph 

Burst agonized and clear!

I Had Been Hungry,

 All the Years

I had been hungry, all the Years- 

My Noon had Come - to dine- 

I trembling drew the Table near-

and touched the Curious Wine-

'Twas this on Tables I had seen- 

When turning, hungry, Home

I looked in Windows, for the Wealth

I could not hope - for Mine- 

I did not know the ample Bread- 

'Twas so unlike the Crumb

The Birds and I, had often shared

In Nature's - Dining Room- 

The Plenty hurt me- 'twas so new- 

Myself felt ill - and odd- 

As Berry- of a Mountain Bush- 

Transplanted - to the Road- 

Nor was I hungry- so I found

That Hunger- was a way

Of Persons outside Windows- 

The Entering - takes away- 

 

Top 5 Reasons Why a Self-Respecting Woman Might Opt to Work At Starbucks Rather than Attend Princeton

1.  People who come to Starbucks do not want anything from the barista except coffee.  They are satisfied with espresso mixed with milk, sometimes topped with caramel.  Some people even go so far as to want extra hot milk, and there are the very few who even want to make small talk.  Those people are rewarded with a smile and a chat about weather.  That is all. 

2.  Besides needing a pretty good memory and common sense, being a barista requires little intellectual stimulation.  This is nice for someone, say, who is tired from 16 straight years of school. 

3.  When one removes The Green Apron, the job is done.  No Green Apron, no more work.  Redundant?  Yes, but it is nice to emphasize the truth of the statement.  Even if the employee happens to be in the store but doesn't have the Green Apron, he or she is totally off limits.  Do customers ask her for advice?  No.  Does the barista need to make follow up calls and coffee dates to make sure the customer is alright? No.  Is there outside required reading? No!  Additional meetings or prep?  No no no.  You get the point.  

4.  Starbucks--in all its corporate glory-- runs like a machine.  No lulls, no lack of things to do.  Hours at work are efficient, busy, and productive (and the productivity is quantifiable: number of drinks poured, pots of coffee brewed, condiments stocked, floors mopped...).   

5.  Finally, it is pretty cushy to get a free pound of beans a week, 'specially if one happens to burn through about that much anyway.  It is a cost-efficient way to be addicted to coffee.  Thank you, Starbucks, for supporting the habit.