A few weeks ago, as we headed into Lent, I decided that for the first 10 days, I wanted to do the master cleanse.

This is not my first go-round with the master cleanse (quickly, if you are not familiar, it involves fasting except for drinking a homemade lemonade - the purpose is to cleanse your system - for 10 or more days). While it’s not something I would want to do all the time, there are certain times that I find myself feeling as though I need it, in a way. The thought will cross my mind, and instead of disappearing for good a few moments later, as so many thoughts do, it will circle and tug at me.

I tried to write about the experience while I was still doing it - in fact, I’ve tried to write about it before during the process as well - and I was as unsuccessful this time as the others.  It seems as though, while I’m in it, I get caught up - either feeling like I’m bragging somehow, or trying to decide how much of the physical process to share, or being unable to describe the mental / emotional / spiritual aspects completely enough. Some people view this thing as a diet, others as a discipline, still others as a health regimen. The lines are blurrier to me, and although I lean toward viewing it through a spiritual lens, one of the things I really appreciate about this cleanse is how it affects all those aspects: my physical state of hunger affects my thoughts and feelings, my weaknesses in all of these places are quickly exposed, my need drives me again and again to God.

These things are not separate: I relate to God differently if I physically kneel before him or raise my hands to him (not that I must do either to talk to him); a warm mocha from Starbucks can comfort me emotionally. Doing yoga helps me listen.

I find that when I strip away something as major as food, it helps me to bring those other areas into focus - helps me to clearly see what I have been overlooking.

********

Another benefit of not eating for an extended period of time is that when the time comes to begin eating again, there is a renewed carefulness about what you are willing to eat.  For me, at least, much of the time spent on the cleanse is reminding myself that I can’t eat that right now - really, it’s amazing how often I pick up food in a completely unconscious way, how I would have something halfway to my mouth before remembering. So then afterward, you have this extra thought picked up from the habit of fasting - wait - just time enough to be grateful that I am eating again and to have the thought - is that really what I want to put in my mouth?

Somewhere mid-cleanse, I picked up Animal, Vegetable, Miracle from the library.  I’m only part of the way through it now, but so far I am loving it. Partly because I can totally identify with challenging yourself with a decision and then writing about it (the author’s family pledged to live on local food only - that they or neighboring farms grew - for a year). I’m not sure about all the ways that this book will affect me - I think that definitely this movie is in my near future - but I did want to share one way that it has already, because it’s something almost anyone can do.

Here in central AR we are lucky enough to be able to buy good food - produced locally and often organically too - year round. For the last 2 weeks, I have ordered fresh eggs and milk, salad greens and sweet potatoes, from farms right here in Arkansas.  In the past I have also subscribed to the Basket-A-Month program - which I enjoyed - but I am liking this online market so much.  The main difference is that you pay for 3 months baskets up front and are guaranteed a certain amount of produce each month, but the contents are up to the suppliers. With the market, you can order exactly what you want (same farms supplying the food) and that’s all you pay for when you pick it up.

There are so many good reasons to do this - it’s better for you, for the world around you - and I’m sure I will revisit this subject in greater detail.  But for now, I don’t want to scare you to death by outlining the vast network of ways that food suppliers and producers are controlling what we eat - and not in ways that are designed to be healthy for us, but to make money for them - no, before I get all conspiracy theorist on you, I want to be positive.

And so I will say - this stuff is just better. Drinking fresh, organic milk (I know you’re drinking the organic stuff already, right? RIGHT?) from a glass jar for less than I can buy it for at Kroger - that’s just better. Cracking open an egg with a rich goldy orange yolk that stands up off the white because it’s not weeks old is just better. The taste of that same egg, produced by a chicken roaming and eating what a chicken is supposed to eat, rather than a processed feed - I can’t tell you how much better that is. I do love eggs, but these eggs? Oh. My. Goodness.

So far everything is this way - the lettuce tastes good enough to eat it alone, straight out of the bag. Elizabeth microwaves herself sweet potatoes and scrapes every bit out of the bare skin. Each week, I’m going to get a little braver, try more things new…

If you’re still with me after reading all this, go here and look around. The site is clear and easy to use. You can still order until tonight for pickup in Argenta this weekend. Try something - you will be helping yourself and a real farmer right here in your state. Because it’s a basket delivery week, the dairy isn’t up right now, so I would suggest starting with the eggs.  But that’s just me.

I’d love to tell you anything you’d like to know about the online market, basket program, or the cleanse - just ask!

this time last year: haiku tribute to the virus that has taken down our entire family, one by one (10. 03. 2009)

I am looking forward to the paring down, the stripping away.

This quote, from a book that is part of a great series, inspires…

…Lent requires me, as a Christian,
to stop for a while, to reflect again
on what is going on in me.
I am challenged again to decide whether I, myself,
do truly believe that Jesus is the Christ -
and if I believe, whether I will live accordingly
when I can no longer hear the
song of angels in my life and the star of Bethlehem has grown dim for me.
Lent is not a ritual.
It is time given to think seriously about who Jesus is for us,
to renew our faith from the inside out.
- Joan Chittister, The Liturgical Year

As does this post by Catherine Falsani - an author who I admire for her determination to find God in unlikely places - such as the pages of Playboy.

This idea, this tradition, this ritual of a season set aside for preparing oneself - for taking an honest look, being quiet, practicing confession and reverence - seems especially appealing to my heart right now.  Joining with the greater church around the world because this observance is needed by more than just me; it is part of the rhythm of our life of faith. Taking away something, not just to take it away, but to open up space and time for the getting ready. I don’t know yet what form, exactly, that will take. Guess I have a couple more days to figure that out.

I did love doing this last year with Alison and Taido…

Hmmm.  What about you? Have you had any thoughts about it all this year? What are you planning?

this time last year: prison choir (25. 02. 2009)

Because the ground is all white outside, he said.

During our last snow/sleet/mud day we had talked about sledding on the golf course behind my parents’ house, but the lazies got us and we mostly sat by the fire. And then we heard some people had gone sledding there and that the police finally ran them off; and really, there is no better incentive than that, right? So yesterday, we were ready to try it out. (If you want to see these pictures bigger, just click on them)

We got over there right as the snow really started to fall…

Some of us were more into building than sledding…

Some of us were more into playing with our camera…

Enough of that Mom. Take a picture of me sledding!

But wait kids, there are some snowy branches over here…

And the abandoned Radio Flyer.  The snow was too wet for the poor girl.

And more branches!  But, I finally pulled myself away from this fascinating scenery so that we could head over to the big hill.

North Little Rockians, you know the one I mean.

I think I said I cannot believe this snow about 100 times.

And then, of course, it was time to hike back across the course for cookies and hot chocolate at Nana’s.

This was my favorite shot of the day. Like that snow, just pure magic. Even looking at it, I can hardly believe it really happened.

this time last year: prison choir (25. 02. 2009)

To which, one friend turned and looked me directly in the eyes and said, You have them on?

Heck yes.  I’ve believed for a long time that Christmas lights should really be Winter lights.  Or Still In The Coldest, Darkest Part Of The Year lights. No Good Holiday In Sight lights? Whatever. They make me happy and this time of year I take what I can get.

These pictures are from a trip to Garvan Gardens in December; we had never been before and I would highly recommend it.  Next December.  Not that this post isn’t timely…I’m not late, I’m just giving you eleven whole months to plan next year’s trip.

The whole place was full of giant lighted displays, many of them looking like they’d been crafted specifically for Garvan.  I wish I had better pictures, but I’ve decided after looking through the set from that night that at this point, great Christmas light pictures need a little more expertise than I have.  Or maybe a tripod.  The ones that came out best for me don’t give you the overall view, but look more like this…

You’re able to be this close because you walk through the displays, and that was a part of it I really enjoyed.  It was cold, we were bundled, and somehow the walking with with our little crowd felt homey and old-fashioned.

And the crowd that we were walking with wasn’t too shabby either.  We toured Garvan with some friends we’ve met on Twitter.

I realize that last sentence could fall into the catagory of Crazy Things She Says - but seriously, meeting these folks over the course of the last few months has been a truly nice surprise.  When Bryan and I first went to a “tweetup” last summer, I pretty much thought we had crossed the line into complete geekery.  I kept trying to explain it.

I would have never thought, then, that by now we would have shared meals together, or that I would have gotten so much good advice on topics ranging from how best to communicate through social media to how best to sit whilst appearing on TV.  I have gained much from knowing these people.

But perhaps the best part of the process for me has been realizing that while we may heartily agree on the best movie we saw last year, we don’t always agree on everything else. It has turned out to be a new way for me to see the personal side of whatever the topic of the day is - to understand the ‘other’ side.  To give a little more room in my heart.

Which is always a good thing.

this time last year: prison choir (25. 02. 2009)

But as I went back through it typing in several pages of quotes that I loved, it became clear to me that I wanted to write about it too.  First off, please read this book - if you like memoirs, if you are not afraid of hard stories, if you like someone who can make you laugh out loud.

There are a few places that especially touched me.  Like here, when a writing mentor (Etheridge) tells her exactly what he thinks is wrong with her poems…

Etheridge used a pen to poke the fedora back on his head. Looking at me with bloodshot eyes, he asked with frank curiosity, Now, why is a little girl from Bumf___, Texas, dragging Friedrich Nietzsche – kicking and screaming – into this poem? Like you’re gonna preach.  You ain’t no preacher, Mary Karr.  You’re a singer.

When I bristled that I’d been a philosophy major in college, he said, And that’s all you’re telling anybody. What you took in college. You’re pointing right back at your own head, telling everybody how smart it is. Write what you know.

But according to you, I don’t know squat.

Your heart, Mary Karr, he’d say. His pen touched my sternum, and it felt for all the world like the point of a dull spear as he said, Your heart knows what your head don’t. Or won’t.

How many times do I try to point right back at my own head, telling the world how smart I am? How many times do I try to preach instead of sing?

Such a small, pure object a poem could be, made of nothing but air, a tiny string of letters, maybe small enough to fit in the palm of your hand. But it could blow everybody’s head off.

Mmmm.  I love any good description of art done well, but this one will stick with me for awhile.  Who doesn’t want to write a poem that could blow everybody’s head off? Of course, I love reading every part of her story having to do with writing - it is a gift to sit with someone so well versed and with such reverence for that craft - but the thing that really struck me about her story was the way she seemed to crawl inside my brain.  The way her thinking sounded so familiar. It’s astounding how a great writer can do that, make you feel like someone took the thoughts right out of your head and arranged them on paper with such exacting language that it makes you suck in your breath. But this time had a slightly different turn.

Did I mention that this memoir is largely the story of her dealing with an addiction to alcohol?

The more I read, the more I thought I think like an addict, I am an addict in some sense of the word, heck, I think we all are. I felt myself growing a little envious of the people in her story, the coping mechanisms she ended up with to help keep her sober.  Let me try to say this better: I don’t want to diminish the struggle of addiction in any way, I’m not trying to be flippant.  But it did make me think, really, that most everyone I know has some seriously wrong thinking going on (personalized through our own life experiences) and that we have bent our lives around that thinking in ways that aren’t helpful.  I may not be an alcoholic, but these sentences are about me:

…What happened to those great poems I was going to set the world weeping with? Tomorrow!

How sweet it’s prospects for a drunkard the night before. There is no better word. Before the earth hurls itself into sunshine, nothing is not possible. Tomorrow, I will rise at three a.m. and log two hours writing before Dev [her son] stumps out. I’ll take a five-mile jog, start a cheap but nutritious stew, submit a query letter to The American Scholar for an essay.  If only I could be left alone for a few days to drink like I want to, I could get my papers graded.

And, that I could certainly be helped by someone like Joan, Mary Karr’s sponsor, helping me straighten that thinking out:

Part of me clings to the idea that I am the most disadvantaged person trying to get sober – a joke given that I’m thin and white and employed, HIV-negative, with insurance and reasonably straight teeth. Before I judge somebody or indulge a groundless fear, Joan says I’m supposed to ask myself: What is your source of information? If the answer is – as it usually is – I thought it up, I should dismiss the idea.

Actually, if I am honest, I am helped by people, all the time.  They listen to what comes out of my head, hold up grace and truth.  I guess what I saw in her book is the constant awareness that an addict has of their brokenness, the complete knowing that trying to fake it will end up badly.  It’s something I could stand to hold a little more of.

Ok, one final quote - great (and scary) advice from her mentor, Toby, on writing about yourself.  I can only hope that I will try and heed it…

Don’t approach your history as something to be shaken for its cautionary fruit…Tell your stories, and your story will be revealed…Don’t be afraid of appearing angry, small-minded, obtuse, mean, immoral, amoral, calculating, or anything else. Take no care for your dignity. Those were hard things for me to come by, and I offer them to you for what they may be worth.

this time last year: prison choir (25. 02. 2009)

Today, under such a winter sky, with bright sun streaming down, dirty cotton ball clouds scudding by - today I stood behind a girl much too young as she stood by her mother’s grave.  My daughter’s friend, this girl I’ve known since kindergarten days, faced a loss that I with all my 38 years cannot imagine facing. I cried for her, for the future so radically changed before her eyes.

Earlier we sat in pews, noses stinging from incense, ancient unfamiliar words ringing around our heads.  When I recognized a single verse the relief that washed over me brought fresh tears. Even that strangeness was fitting, since every step down the short path to this unwanted day has been one more step of utter disbelief. Too many things that could never have happened simply did.

Around me sat dear friends and almost strangers, fellow mothers-met-in-kindergarten and the teacher from that same bright classroom. Looking between their shoulders to the front of the church, I watched my daughter huddle close to her friend, leaning her head close to whisper.  I alternatively hoped and worried over what was happening in that space ahead of me; wanting her to be a comfort, hoping neither one would giggle. The chanting beat out a rhythm, the incense circled and swirled again.

Somewhere in the middle of it all, I see my daughter’s arm creep around the shoulder of her friend. Only after it is over will I realize how she cried.  Far from being a distraction, she has loved someone in a hard place, in the best way she knows how.

And the branches, bleak and bare, open their arms to the cold bright sky.

this time last year: prison choir (25. 02. 2009)

How To Be a Poet

by Wendell Berry

(to remind myself)

i

Make a place to sit down.
Sit down. Be quiet.
You must depend upon
affection, reading, knowledge,
skill—more of each
than you have—inspiration,
work, growing older, patience,
for patience joins time
to eternity. Any readers
who like your poems,
doubt their judgment.

ii

Breathe with unconditional breath
the unconditioned air.
Shun electric wire.
Communicate slowly. Live
a three-dimensioned life;
stay away from screens.
Stay away from anything
that obscures the place it is in.
There are no unsacred places;
there are only sacred places
and desecrated places.

iii

Accept what comes from silence.
Make the best you can of it.
Of the little words that come
out of the silence, like prayers
prayed back to the one who prays,
make a poem that does not disturb
the silence from which it came.

this time last year: come back to texas (09. 01. 2009)

These frames from iStockphoto were so cheerful that it was hard to pick just one:

Gracie liked the idea of using a silhouette, and once we found one that fit her, the frame pretty much picked itself.  I was really happy with the way our party girl balanced out the swirls on the frame.

I had so much fun working on something so whimsical - thanks Gracie!  I see many fabulous parties in your future…

this time last year: come back to texas (09. 01. 2009)

You may remember (in what, unexpectedly, turned out to be my last post of 2009) that I said I had a couple of projects in the works.  I have this thing, when I’m working on something, that I don’t want to spoil the surprise of whatever it is.  I distinctly remember feeling that way about these particular things, especially this one.

In fact, before the whole thing really got rolling I had this belief that somehow I would get through this whole December and no one would really know who was behind The Joy Project.  It would all be so mysterious…ha!

I had to let go of that idea about as soon as I sent out a mass email inviting people to join in this with me.  I mean really, how did I think I could keep it a secret? So by now, I’m sure you know at least some of this story.  But for my friends who may not be close by, and of course, for the official record - well, I’d like to put some of it down here.  I talked about the Joy Project in church last Sunday - what follows is roughly what I said there, with a few additions. Bonus features, if you will.

*****

Today brings us to the end of our Christmas season here at church - a season in which we have really tried to look at Christmas in a new way, to frame it differently than we have before.  And so, I want to tell you a story about something that has been a big part of framing my own Christmas season this year.

Back in September or October, Bryan and I watched a video on YouTube, a commercial that had been shot in a train station.  We had both seen it before, and other things like it - and it just made us smile every time we saw it.  This is such a great idea, I kept saying - and Bryan said - you need to do that here.  At that point I was thinking literally here, at Fellowship North.  So I said back to him, When?  When could we do that here?  Christmas, he said.

That could have easily been the end of it - it’s really easy for me to get excited about an idea and then never do anything about it.  But this was one of those ideas. It wasn’t mine - in the sense that I saw it on YouTube, but also in another sense - it was one of those ideas that feels like it comes from outside of you, and just keeps on knocking on a door inside you, waiting for you to open up.

That’s not all what my creative process is — I’m not the pipeline!  I’m a mule, and the way that I have to work is that I have to get up at the same time every day, and sweat and labor and barrel through it really awkwardly. But even I, in my mulishness,  even I have brushed up against that thing, at times. And I would imagine that a lot of you have too. You know, even I have had work or ideas come through me from a source that I honestly cannot identify. And what is that thing? And how are we to relate to it in a way that will not make us lose our minds, but, in fact, might actually keep us sane.

- Elizabeth Gilbert

And so I cracked the door.  I started to talk to other people about this idea, to show them the video.  Sometimes responses I got were very enthusiastic - one person asked me “when can I invite my friends to come and do this with me?  when do we start?  Others were more hesitant - asking me questions, trying to figure out what exactly I was trying to do and how it was going to work.  And both types of responses were what I needed. The fact that other people thought it was a good idea was an encouragement, and those who asked me questions helped me to figure out what I really did think.

I didn’t want it to be just for our church, or just for people who go to church. I wanted it to be for anyone who wanted to do this - to share the joy of Jesus at Christmas by dancing like a crazy person. I began to refer to this idea as “a gift of joy to our community at Christmas.”

And now here’s where I need to tell you just a little bit of what I’m really like.  Because I don’t tend to use the word joy, especially at Christmas.  I tend to brush off joy (wrongly, I might add) as shallow and superficial - as someone who thinks they have to be happy all the time because they are a Christian.  And that’s just on a normal day.  At Christmas, I can be even worse.  I am a cynical person, and there is much to be cynical about at Christmas.  I tend to want there to be a deeper meaning to everything, and at Christmastime, many things seem very shiny and shallow to me.

And now I was talking about joy and Christmas in the same sentence.  Somehow, in the middle of this idea that I kind of fell in love with, God tricked me.  He gave me a new way to frame this Christmas season.

Things began to happen: a couple of people I met through Twitter helped me name this thing ‘the joy project.’  One of them began tweeting quotes about joy every day during December.  I can’t tell you how many times that day’s little quote was an encouragement to me to keep going. We found a choreographer who was excited about the possibilities and was able to come up with a dance quickly.  One that all of us could do.  I made a mix with GarageBand. And then I made another, and another. And finally found someone who knew what they were doing to smooth it all out.

I am always doing things I can’t do, that’s how I get to do them.

- Pablo Picasso

And then, most amazing of all, people began to say yes to this idea.  It’s hard to know exactly, but my best guess is that between 150 and 200 people learned this dance.  Many of you here. And you brought your friends, and neighbors, and people you work with. And we began to dance.  On the first night we went out and did this in early December, we ended up in a Kroger parking lot doing the dance for a Salvation Army bellringer and a couple of grocery store checkers.  Not a huge crowd.  It was easy to feel a little ridiculous.  But then, that bell ringer started ringing his bell and dancing along with us, and later that night he left a note on the joy project website.

You not only made my night and brought me joy, you have prepared for the Christmas Season, and I will always remember seeing you dance….I even attempted to join in and dance but you guys definitely were much better and had much more practice. Thanks again for the joy you bring and brought to me.

- Sean Smith [bellringer]

At that point, I remember thinking, “Ok God, if this is all that happens from this whole thing, it was worth it.” But of course, that wasn’t all that happened. God used this crazy idea - all these people dancing - to change my Christmas.  At first it was as simple as “Stop snapping at your kids.  You can’t do this thing called Joy Project all during December and then come home and yell at your kids.”

This was such an incredible experience and something so completely out of my comfort zone. I’m so thankful to be involved as a ‘visitor’ to your church. I’ve met so many nice people in the past few weeks.

- joy project dancer

But then it became more.  There’s a line in a song toward the end of our dance that says “unspeakable joy - rises in my soul, never lets me go” And that’s what this has become for me: a reminder that there really is joy at Christmas, joy that never lets me go.

So sweet to me that he is invited to the party.  He loved doing it so much on Saturday and I thought later that he’s probably never been included in something like that in his life.  The fact that anyone can do this makes it a little like heaven to me!

- joy project dancer [speaking about another dancer]

And hopefully, that’s what I’ll keep from it all - that even though I said “I” a lot in this post, the things that happened in December are really not much about me, but about what amazing things can happen when we are finally able to say yes…

I am convinced that each work of art, be it a great work of genius or something very small, has its own life, and it will come to the artist, the composer or the writer or the painter, and say, “Here I am: compose me; or write me; or paint me”; and the job of the artist is to serve the work. I have never served a work as I would like to, but I do try, with each book, to serve to the best of my ability, and this attempt at serving is the greatest privilege and the greatest joy that I know.

- Madeleine L’Engle

this time last year: what's for lunch? (03. 01. 2009)

For the last couple of years we’ve gone camping with friends over the November break, but it didn’t work out this year for our organizers, and I am not much one to strike out into the woods without an organizer leading the way.  And hopefully cooking most of the meals.  So, since no one was volunteering to take on that responsibility, I mentioned to my sweet friend Michelle that it might be fun to take a day trip somewhere.

One of the many things I love about Michelle is that when I have an idea about, say, a day trip - she pretty much has us packed and ready to go before I have even finished the sentence. I need that kind of enthusiasm in my life.

I have to be honest here, I was pulling for a drive to Long Pool campground, which is a beautiful spot close to Dover. In particular, I was thinking of how nicely my camping chairs would sit on the wide rocky beach while I watched my kids roam around the bend of the river.  Michelle thought we should go to Petit Jean and do a little hiking. And since Petit Jean was slightly closer and I was an hour late picking her up, I agreed to switch. A little hiking never hurt anyone. I still had my camp chairs in the back of the car.

Michelle had a good laugh about those camp chairs later on.

Let’s just say that if she suggests a little hike to you, you might should prepare yourself to see a sign that says, and I quote: “Strenuous Trail Ahead - Not Appropriate For All Hikers. You Will Definitely Feel Every Single One Of Your 38 Years, And Quite Possibly Have To Pull Your Middle Schooler Uphill For The Last Quarter Mile.”  Yes, it really says that.

Before the actual hiking, though, we stopped at Petit Jean’s grave and overlook. I love how sunshine and really big rocks turn all of us into scrambling adventurers, no matter our age.

We had lunch by a waterfall, a man-made spillway. Lots of portable food and beautiful views. Did I mention that Michelle made a fire so that we could cook hot dogs and marshmallows? That almost makes up for the hike.

And then we set off: down the mountain, across a bridge, along a stream.

It’ll be worth it, Michelle said. And it was.

[there are a few more pics here...]

this time last year: bending it (16. 11. 2008)