Rosa's Poetry Snippet Archives::B

He has not left you orphaned

or alone

since He knit you together 

soul and bone

through space and time

He winds His silver thread

for you to feel along

with heart and head

Allow no clamor to undo you

or hasty hoary hand to misconstrue you

Remember the first kisses of your

wakening day

and rush to meet your Maker

along the way.  

-B

This sweet little snippet was found floating around on our office desk, written several years ago on the back of an index card; I preserve it here with love. It is possibly written with our little G in mind, I'll have to confirm it with the poet.

The picture, by the incomparable illustrator Jessie Wilcox Smith, is from the 1920 edition of 'Princess and the Goblin' by George MacDonald. Note the thin sliver of thread that the princess Irene is holding; one of the finest metaphors of faith that I have found. The thread stretches from her ring to her great great grandmother, who sits at the top of Irene's rambling castle home; Irene has to follow the thread where ever it leads her, no matter how roundabout, in order to find her way out of the goblin's cave, and then-but wait, you really should read it yourself. And then you can read 'The Princess and Curdie', and come over for tea and a wee blether. If you need a refresher course on George MacDonald, here is a post from yesteryear to get you started.

Did You Mean Obtuse?

 As I did a Google search for this image, I misspelled 'goblin' and was asked, "Did you mean princess and the globulin?"

Trade As One

 Vintage Faith Church of Santa Cruz, CA will be partnering with Trade As One to host a Fair Trade boutique November 15, 2009. It'll be in the Fireside Room- click on the church link for directions. I for one will enjoy this detour from the normal frenzy of purchasing that Christmas can become. I'm excited to buy gifts that will bring justice to those who need it. So come on out! Tell them rosa sent you.

Truth Amidst Schlock

Because of the Lord's great love
we are not consumed,
for his compassions never fail.
They are new every morning;
great is your faithfulness.
I say to myself, The Lord is my portion;
therefore I will wait for him.

The Lord is good to those whose hope is in him,
to the one who seeks him;
it is good to wait quietly
for the salvation of the Lord.
Lamentations 3:22-26

1-800-CHRISTIAN
Who knows how these things happen, but somehow a catalog appeared on my coffee table bearing the title 'Christian Gifts: to Encourage, Comfort and Inspire'. You know the sort: filled with things like Guitar Praise: Solid Rock Edition, inspirational banners, key chains, wind chimes, mouse pads, and bible cosies. Also something called God's Girlz ('tired of toys with a worldly appearance? You'll welcome these dolls with a perfect fit of faith and fashion!'). I think my favorite is the description of the Gospel Masters CD set; Elvis Presley singing the hits of the tent revival era: 'Worship the King of heaven with the king of rock 'n' roll!' Normally I try to stay away from these sorts of Christian junk venues, it's bad for my soul, and I don't need any more fodder for bitterness and cynicism.
What Would Jesus Buy?
Years ago I read in Voice Of The Martyrs magazine about the Christian pastor in China who
was imprisoned for his faith and put into a labor camp-where he was forced to make Christmas tree lights, sold to the West. The very idea makes my head want to explode, and is why I found the whole WWJD? bracelets (made in China) particularly repugnant. As a culture we don't need more schlock, and we need even less the schlock that is based around the teachings of the homeless One who exhorts us to store up treasures in heaven, rather than on earth, for 'where your treasure is, there your heart will be also." And we give tacit approval to the social injustice of slave labor when we support an industry that is built on the backs of the oppressed. I should be the first to point out that I struggle with living this out: I don't check the labels of everything I buy, or boycott China and other nations with dodgy human rights records. But I'm trying.
Balaam's Ass
But this morning I found myself flipping through the Jesus junk catalog, just prior to chucking it out. I veered past the faux Gucci handbag-style Bible cosies (horrors!) & averted my gaze from the sick-making Precious Moments section. ("Lord, I've Sentimentalized the Gospel for Money!")
My eye was caught by a Scripture reference that I didn't recognize (I think it was on a Scripture-based travel coffee mug.) I looked it up,and found the above scripture from Lamentations. It was soothing, sweet & beautiful, and suddenly I had been handed the balm that I didn't know I needed. I sat still for a few moments, my anger and indignation momentarily placed on my emotional back-burner. God is so good, and always gets in there with just what I need to hear.

"For the word of God is living and active. Sharper than any double-edged sword, it penetrates even to dividing soul and spirit, joints and marrow; it judges the thoughts and attitudes of the heart." Hebrews 4:12

It also made me laugh, and remember that God is not above speaking to me through the pages of Christian schlock. And neither should I be. Who am I to snigger at the way truth comes to me? It's like finding an oasis in the desert and then turning up my nose at the glass of water that I'm handed because it isn't Waterford crystal.
(But I still threw the catalog in the bin.)

Hand Drawn Map Association : This is map #180

Hand Drawn Map Association : This is map #180

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I am so intrigued by the Handmade Map Association and this particular map. I've always loved a good map, and have been known to use old atlas pages for everything from gift wrap to wallpaper. Go get lost in their collection of hand drawn maps, and tell them rosa sent you.

Tahoe, Baseball & "Did I ever tell you about the time........"

I just got back from a week away. I flew up to Tahoe with the Littles to meet my dad, step mom
& younger brother. I don't know if I was exactly looking forward to it; it was just me flying with 2 small children to spend some time in an area I hadn't been in since my parents divorced, when I was a toddler. Too much emotion, tiredness, stress, and did I mention the altitude sickness?
It actually was a lot better than I'd anticipated, and even though we drove around and looked at all the houses my parents lived in before D day, it was not half as emotionally draining as I'd expected. It has been over 30 years since that happened, nearly all my life, and I've never really known any different.
But even writing the word 'parents' is difficult. I have a 'mom' in this corner, and a 'dad' over here, but never the twain shall meet. Actually the only place I really saw them meet when I was growing up was at the Denny's in King City, half-way between their two houses when
we would do the summers and holidays swap. When B's parents split up, he moved to King City for a year with his mom and sis, so he's always had similar associations with poor ole King City, which never had a lot going for it anyway, unless you fancy air shows.
Anyway, the Tahoe trip was lovely. Snow, granite, alpine meadows, lakes & thin air all helped ameliorate the faintly awkward family dynamics and marathon of single-handed child-wrangling (for which I could competently compete).

I started writing this post one night when we were still in Tahoe: one-handed, a sleeping baby in one arm (a cramp eminent), with an earful of my dad's intermittent stories, set against the comforting rise & fall of a baseball announcer's "hey batter-batter" schlocky patter. The combination of my dad's presence and the baseball game really made me remember a lot of my childhood, when my brother and I would stay with my dad and we'd be off on summer trips through the Sierras or cross country to visit the Texas relations. Here's what I wrote:
I haven't listened to a ball game in a long time; it calls up memories of long summer car rides with my dad, traversing the south western states. I remember lying on the mattress in the back of the green 70's Scooby Doo van at night, my sister asleep next to me amidst grubby blankets, books and the odd louse. I would rest my foot against the hot metal van doors and listen to the sports announcer on the AM radio; bouncing our way through the desert. I never understood much of it, although I loved the way the expressions 'runner on first' & 'bottom of the ninth" rolled around in my mouth.
Pork rinds, candied cactus and A&W root beer made up the majority of our diet in those days, or at least in my memory. We saw the Garden of the Gods that summer and a lightning storm over the Grand Canyon. We camped on the shores of Lake Havasu, Arizona, where I learned to float on my back. It was so hot we packed up camp in the middle of the night and left. For some reason 'Queen of Hearts' by Juice Newton was the soundtrack of that trip. I think I was 7 or 8.

This is a small example of the stories that sort of waft out of my dad. My dad's side of the family hail from Oklahoma, and between the Cherokee and the Irish roots, the story-telling runs deep in our blood. My dad's anecdotes are....well, legendary, and my grandmother's stories are nothing to sneeze at, either. If you've ever seen the movie Big Fish you've heard a faint echo of what life with my dad is like. Just being with him triggers memories of ten thousand anecdotes that together spell a lifetime of camping, car wrecks, fishing, hiking, Mexico trips, teaching school, coaching little league, living in Hawaii, growing up in San Jose. Sometimes I feel like I am floundering in a sea of his stories, flailing around for a line from shore. I end up wanting quiet, wanting to be listened to, wanting to be asked questions of, looked in the eye, the quiet nod that says the other person understands. I get this from all sorts of people, God has given me understanding, listeny-types in spades. And when I don't have it, I really notice it. But I think there has always been this part of me that just wants my dad to listen to me. This is probably a father/daughter thing. I realized when I was with him this time that he never tells me the things I really want to hear, and I suppose I am too afraid to ask him. Why is this always the case? We can talk about everything in the world except what is most important. I know I'm a charter member of my own local Self-Preservation Society, and this keeps me from venturing out there and having the hard conversations I need to, especially with someone like my dad, who can speak a lot, but not say very much, if that makes any sense. My prayer is that beyond wading through the deluge of stories, I can have the courage to talk about what is real with him, and that I can remember to button up and listen to the people around me. So, anyone need a listener? And I promise not tell you about that time I went fishing....

Rosa's Poetry Archives: A.A. Milne

Bad Sir Brian Botany

by A.A. Milne

Sir Brian had a battleaxe with great big knobs on.

He went among the villagers and blipped them on the head.

On Wednesday and on Saturday,

Especially on the latter day,

He called on all the cottages and this is what he said:

"I am Sir Brian!" (Ting-ling!)

"I am Sir Brian!" (Rat-tat!)

"I am Sir Brian,

"As bold as a lion!

"Take that, and that, and that!"

Sir Brian had a pair of boots with great big spurs on;.

A fighting pair of which he was particularly fond.

On Tuesday and on Friday,

Just to make the street look tidy,

He'd collect the passing villagers and kick them in the pond.

"I am Sir Brian!" (Sper-lash!)

"I am Sir Brian!" (Sper-losh!)

"I am Sir Brian,

"As bold as a Lion!

"Is anyone else for a wash?"

Sir Brian woke one morning and he couldn't find his battleaxe.

He walked into the village in his second pair of boots.

He had gone a hundred paces

When the street was full of faces

And the villagers were round him with ironical salutes.

"You are Sir Brian? My, my.

"You are Sir Brian? Dear, dear.

"You are Sir Brian

"As bold as a lion?

"Delighted to meet you here!"

Sir Brian went a journey and he found a lot of duckweed.

They pulled him out and dried him and they blipped him on the head.

They took him by the breeches

And they hurled him into ditches

And they pushed him under waterfalls and this is what they said:

"You are Sir Brian -- don't laugh!

"You are Sir Brian -- don't cry!

"You are Sir Brian

"As bold as a lion --

"Sir Brian the Lion, goodbye!"

Sir Brian struggled home again and chopped up his battleaxe.

Sir Brian took his fighting boots and threw them in the fire.

He is quite a different person

Now he hasn't got his spurs on,

And he goes about the village as B. Botany, Esquire.

"I am Sir Brian? Oh, no!

"I am Sir Brian? Who's he?

"I haven't any title, I'm Botany;

"Plain Mr. Botany (B.)"

for the Elevens

The Sun Has Got His Hat On

It's rare that I get to lift my head above the waters of hearth and home these days. In the past few weeks I've felt especially tethered to the house by the heat and Mother Hubbard-style pocketbook.
It's that time of year around here, that last gasp of a drought-filled and forest fire-riddled summer (tongue twister du jour). Which is all fine for the dry-farmed tomatoes, which just get juicier and sweeter the hotter and drier it gets. For me, not so much. My skin is librarian pale & I look like I belong on some misty moor somewhere, drinking tea out of a thermos and picking dead bracken out of my knee socks. Here in the SC mountains, when two weeks ago it reached 104 on my porch and we haven't had rain since the end of May, I can be found cowering indoors and administering lime Popsicles to sweating children. I can't even go out into the garden, it's too dispiriting. The tall stalks of my white Japanese anemones have a hangdog expression, and the Dutchman's Breeches (dicentra formosa) has gone all dry and crispy, which in garden parlance means dead. Most everything is still technically alive, thanks to drip hose irrigation, which is exempt from our County's water rationing, but since I can only overhead water before 10AM and after 6PM on Tuesdays and Saturdays the plants are looking fusty and cobwebby and the whole garden wants its face washed. I refuse to give in to the Red and White Sparkly Rocks School of drought-tolerant suburban landscaping, but if this continues, a foray into the world of California native bunch grasses might not be so far away. And what a desperate day that will be, I've never been able to get excited about bunch grasses.
Saved!
But then the other night-most unexpectedly-the foggy marine layer's condensation turned into heavy mist, which turned into drip drip drop and soon it was barreling down, for the first time since the end of May. It was glorious.
Yesterday morning we woke up early and trundled Gracie off for her first day of preschool, which we reached after a five minute walk through our sylvan burgh. The rain had softened the edges of everything, like my life suddenly filmed with a gauze filter. I felt on top of things, for the first time in a long time, walking with the Littles, Gracie and Henry.
My heart flipped over to see little Gracie, so eager and fearless in her ladybug raincoat and yellow boots. She was a bundle of four year-old inconsistencies, skipping valiantly ahead and then doubling back to clutch my hand, nervously: "Hold my hand, Mommy! A car is coming. Do they see us?" We were even early to school. Now that is a miracle.

So much has happened on our little street in the 13 years I've lived here, but this morning's Preschool Walk felt like a processional of sorts, a culmination of all the late night walks with friends, with B, the runaway balls chased down, the post office jaunts and creek walk expeditions....it is a dear place to me, and I guess being tethered to it is not so bad right now.
Current Happy Things
1. The Mistmantle Chronicles by M.L. McAllister thanks, Blessed! Man oh man, these are great!
2. the Thursday Next books by Jasper Fforde. Totally silly! 'The Eyre Affair' is the first. I'm on Book 5.
3. Sammy, my nephew-I got to meet him this weekend. Los Angeles is too far away!