Fun with Film.

I thought it would be exciting to use my old film camera for a change. Here are my favorite photographs from the roll:

This was the first blue sky in a very long time!

Plank and White-washed,

Reading on this plank
and white-washed
porch on the hottest
day of the year.
This is the humid
twilight of the
deep south, of
history, of calloused
plantation slaves turning
on beds of straw
and hardened dirt, and
white women in
white cotton
underthings fanning their
faces, under a ring
of flying beetles,
bathed in sweat, and
(fading) lantern light.

The funny thing about joy.

The funny thing about joy, the kind of joy C.S. Lewis spent his life talking about, is that its not dependent on circumstances, money, or even one's potential. It's about recognizing the magic of our day to day lives. Seeing every blessing and nurturing it into a joy that lasts. Joy is daily wonder.

I have been given the seeds of joy. I have a wonderful boyfriend who makes me reconsider my attitudes. I have a wonderful friend who just happens to be my roommate. I have a job where I'm not treated like dirt. A community of Christ-seeking people have really blossomed around me this summer. God is here. It's been so long since I let myself become vulnerable enough to recognize that He is here and He wants to transform me and everyone else. And He's doing great things in all of our lives. And I'm excited.

I wrote a poem Sunday night. I also sang a worship song while Matt played his guitar. Both gave me a peace and a hope. All is not lost. Nothing has degraded.

Joy motivates us, in the end, to fulfill Christ's message of hope and love for others. Our potential is given to us. We don't find worth in doing it alone.

joy

I have this nagging, almost desperate feeling that I’m not reaching my full potential. It’s not about efficiency. It’s that somehow I got stuck in this niche, this routine of activities, hobbies, and social interactions that make me only moderately happy. They keep me moving, but they don’t fill me with anything apart from fleeting joy or happiness. Religion club, book discussions, conversation hours, they’re things I want to do, but they’re subordinate to singing, to poetry, to swing dancing. I love to swing dance. There is something glorious in the carelessness, the child-like activity of spinning and kicking and holding a partner. I miss it, that joy, that adrenaline rush. The flushed, exhausted contentment. I miss the introspection and complex emotion conveyed through simplistic, quiet, imagery. I haven’t let my mind rest long enough to allow words, phrases, and insight accumulate into anything that resembles art. What I miss - and what troubles me - the most is singing. My voice has altered from an area of contentment to a trigger for pain, an entanglement of bitterness, sorrow, feelings of inadequacy. I’m losing my voice. Singing has been a source of stability. And I still need it; I need to learn, to understand my voice, to harmonize, to perform. I need to do the things that make me see everything with more light, more contentment, more poetry. I need to stop crying when I think about singing.

I need to sing instead.

Christine Lincoln - from "Sap Rising"

We share the story about the women called maniacs. Women who lived a long time ago. They were just country women, really, who got tired of cookin' and cleanin', takin' care of their husband and chirrun. Got tired of everybody else usin' up what was supposed to be their lives. So they met in the woods one night and had this dance. When the men found out, they got angry and tried to put an end to their womens' foolishness. But they couldn't. The women rebelled. Started gatherin' every night. Before long, the men started callin' the women crazy, and started treatin' them like they was, until the women began to believe it. Why is it when a man wants to be free, he's just being a man, but when a woman wants to live life from the position of the birds, the first thing folks say is that she's crazy?

Grass.

Grass is compelling. It springs up in cities and countrysides. It clutters the space between sidewalk slats. It's a bit like wild, sustainable, outdoor carpet.

I have this body spray from the GAP called "Grass." I wanted it because of its calm green color and also because anything grass-related lifts my spirits. But before today, I didn't realize that grass really does have a remarkable fragrance. GAP did a good job imitating its scent. It is tart and fresh and sweet and joyful. Beneath our trudging feet, it grows in understated complexity. It is beautiful. A forest that shelters tiny insect cities.

Two Thursdays ago, yoga and discussion time made me painfully aware that for a long, stressful period I had chosen to remain unaware of small blessings. That day I finally smelled the pink flowering trees in the Rogers parking lot I had before then only glanced at in passing. Since then, I wonder at the moon, revel in the first blue sky we've seen in weeks, and today I smelled grass.

It's been worth it.

Time for a Joke.

A man is walking in a graveyard when he hears the Third Symphony played backward. When it's over, the Second Symphony starts playing, also backward, and then the First. "What's going on?" he asks the cemetery worker. "It's Beethoven," says the worker. "He's decomposing."