an interval

Mrs Understood

A long time ago, I remember hearing someone say they had a “high need to be understood.”   I’d be lying if I said I couldn’t relate.

In the film Avatar, these fantasy beings have the ability to physically connect with each other, one-to-one, in a way that they know the thoughts and feelings of each other.   They see each other.   It’s a little corny in the film when they “hook up” and literally say “I see you” to each other, but then again, it’s my dream come true.  Instant understanding.

It was a given that in moving as we did, from Alabama to Ireland, fewer people would SEE me in my new home.  For good reasons – with no shared history and cultural differences – it is bound to take a while to build relationships where people really do get you.   I suppose I braced myself for being misunderstood in the first couple of years as I began to get to know people and understand them  . . . and hoped they’d eventually understand me.  And then, without even noticing it, I took it for granted that because I have felt that I’ve understood my friends, I thought they understood me.   Honestly most people are too polite to say if they’ve no idea what you are like.

Imagine my stunned surprise to find out that a good friend (i think?) has been harboring ideas that we actually belong to a cult and has what I’d call fears and reservations about what might my intentions might be.  Still walking around with my high need to be understood, I was more than stung with hurt.   I can see where the friend is coming from, to an extent.   But then, I was naive enough to think that my character would speak for itself.  Naive enough to think that where frame of reference doesn’t exist, somehow me being me would be enough.  I’ve avoided no questions.  I’ve been honest to the point of raw and painful.  I’ve answered the same questions repeatedly, giving the only story I have, the truth.

If anyone has EVER known me, they know that what you see is what you get.   I’m terrible at pretending. . . . or lying.   I’m me, straight up.   Ask me who I am, what I believe, what I’m about,  and I will tell you, no holds barred, simply because I’m not capable of doing anything outside of total honesty.  I’ve totally taken it for granted that my transparency is – well, transparent.

For the record, I’m a Christian, which isn’t a cult.  I’m not Catholic, but I tend to go with the Protestant label here because I suppose it’s close enough.  I’m not much on liturgy but it has its merits.  I have lots of Catholic friends, whom I love.  Some are more into God, some less.  I have some atheist friends, some agnostic friends, some Jewish friends.   I believe they can all vouch for me when I say that I respect their right to their viewpoint and I have not ever tried to force anything on any of them.   If they want to know something about my faith, they only have to ask.

We came here because Alabama, and even beyond that, the Southeast U.S., is teeming with active churches who love and serve the community as well as serving as community within themselves.  There are healthy churches everywhere.  There are people who love God everywhere.   We were just a couple of active church-going people who felt like God could probably use us somewhere else in the world where churches were struggling and the people who actively love God were few in number.   So churches and individuals in Alabama and other places, who feel that they’ve got a really good thing going with God (through the church, but not solely), have a generosity of spirit when it comes to sharing that good thing with other churches around the world.   When something is really fabulous for you, there is a tendency to want to share it.   And we two big Slates said “You know what – we’d like to go help out” and a couple of churches and load of people we know said “You know what – we’d like to make that happen.”  Call it charity.  Call it love.   It’s both.  And it happens in a lot of places, this willingness to go help out and this willingness to make that happen.  Frankly, I think the people who make it happen are spectacularly broad-visioned, kind-hearted, generous people.

Several years of exploring and one large detour from Spain to Ireland, here we are, motivated by our passion for God and the world-wide community that worships him.  But within that passion is a belief that people who want God – want him.  And people who don’t – don’t.   There is no brainwashing, no insidious subliminal messages, no hidden agenda.   We love God, we love people.  If people want God, we hope that we can point the way to him while we are here helping to build up the church.  It’s that simple.

I’m not as naive as I was last week, but then, I’m still pretty simple.  One friend said to me today, “I know you well.   Can I say one thing to you?   Crazy wife.”

That’s a little out of context, but that’s what Scott has always (lovingly) called me – a little bit kooky.   I’ll stand by that.

Today

Today, I tried to distract myself so I learned to read football league tables.  Or maybe I’ve only begun to read them.   And I had a go at analyzing team scores and thinking what that might mean in terms of playing offensively and defensively against certain teams within a league.  I’m sure there’s a science to this (-ish), but I thought I’d take my brain out for a spin and see if she can still accelerate, stop, and change directions.   That’s good for distraction.

Today, I spoke to my Mom and to several friends about some of the things that are weighing me down –  these same things that are bringing about the need for distraction.  These people love me, so even though I had to think about and talk about hard things, it was a little therapeutic.

Today I had a good walk.  I did dishes, laundry, helped with homework, went to the pharmacy, dropped something to a friend.  All ordinary stuff.  Ordinary stuff can be downright embraceable sometimes.

Last night, I didn’t sleep, really, until it was morning and then dreamt of witnessing an axe murder of a troll.   Can you say stress?   Of course, it’s quirky stress, but that’s my kind.

Yesterday afternoon, I went for a consultation with a doctor who suggested a couple of procedures that require anesthesia – one, exploratory, the other, more purpose-driven.  There is much to consider.  Not real excited about any of it, but when something is staring you in the face, you should react.  If you can.

If you can’t . . . . distract.

 

Box people

I have to say it.  We have been really blessed lately with quite a few packages from friends and loved ones.   The tall guy who delivers our post daily is probably beginning to wonder what day he isn’t going to have to ring the bell and see me in my early morning half-pajama/half workout clothes ensemble.  Because he ALWAYS comes as I’m getting dressed.  I never thought my life was that predictable, but apparently, some segments of being me and pretty much the same day to day.  I open the door and there I am, old sheep slippers, pajama bottoms, workout top, glasses and hair pulled back.  Teeth brushed would be a bonus day.   What must he think – this hideously dressed woman receiving nearly daily packages – and what for?  He probably hopes there are clothes inside these boxes.   Today I felt a pang of remorse that he doesn’t know that decent people live here. I’m well behaved and polite enough, but I look like something out of a What Not to Wear episode.

To receive the parcels, I’ve always signed my name on paper, until today.  Now, it’s a gizmo, a gadget, a high tech device that the post man  (shame I don’t know his name, what am I like?) says is more difficult to use at first, but easier as you go.   He inputs things on it, I sign it, I type in my name with block letters with a stylus and then he does more things with the gadget.  Apparently, it is a phone as well.  And it has GPS, he said.  As in, his movements can be tracked.   No parcels lost, no parcel delivery people lost.   Gosh, some things are fancy.   I wanted to offer to clean off the fancy gadget with an antibacterial wipe to compensate for my sniffles and possible germy-ness this morning.  But I didn’t.  He would have said no worries, not a problem anyway.  Besides, who knows how one cleans these things?

These little people came in a box from some friends recently.  These little ones aren’t particularly sharp dressers, and there’s probably no need to clean them as they only stand and salute the harvest season.  They are uncomplicated.  But they remind me of who I am, where I come from, who I am to other people . . . and that somebody loves me.  Even if I look like I should be standing in a field of corn, scaring off the crows.

Grateful for these box people.  Also known as scarecrows.  Happy autumn everybody!

gems among the seaweed

I am a sea glass, sea pottery hunting fan. Not a spectator. An actual sea glass gathering athlete. Do you scoff at my athletic reference? There’s squatting, there’s squatting and there’s bending down. And systematic walking, stooping, walking, squatting, scanning. And more scanning with swiping, swiping, swiping and avoiding the doggie business on the beach. I was fouled last week. Told ya. It’s an athletic event.

Today, after 3 solid days of rain and big crashing waves, the sun came out and I sprinted to the beach to see what I could win. The beach was brown and mounded with seaweed from ages past and present. And all the gnatty kind of insects came to swarm. So I ducked and swatted and avoided and squatted and I cautioned my children five times not to throw rocks and not to touch what looked like a cow femur, recently separated from the cow. Ew.

And I think I won. I got lots of trophies. What do you think?

residential artist

There is an artist living in my house.  In truth, there are several, but this one in particular has been really busy being extra-arty lately.   Above, note the second painting ever done by my residential artist.  I think it’s lovely.  He tells me it’s trial and error, the color mixing, the shaping, the shading, the remembering what things actually look like.   Painting is an art, not a science.  Oh, and credit going where credit is due, this is a painting of a painting pulled from a calendar. Still, it is talent.

Once a week, he goes to help out with a family resource center art class and he gets to stay and take the class as well.  Bonus!  More than once, my artist has been surprised by how painting goes.   The trial and error aspect was a bit of a surprise.   He was surprised what colors give their hue to make up certain things, like red in the river.   Again, surprised at how little one needs to get started – paint on the back of wallpaper, use old jars filled with water and old plates to mix paint and clean off the brushes, just make do.   Surprised that certain brushes actually are annoying and others are favorites.   Surprised that one can overpaint – in fact, he has been told by the teacher to STOP painting because he keeps trying to correct, to blend, to make it more like the perfect thing it represents.   Now we know why Van Gogh’s Starry Night is so thickly laid with paint, eh?

My artist also sang recently at an event and was asked to sing a couple of things solo.   It’s been a while, but he worked that craft, practicing at home. Practicing, practicing, practicing.  And when it came time for me to sit and appreciate the performance, one that i thought I’d already had at home, it wasn’t at all what I thought.  No, it was better, stronger, more  beautiful, more powerful.  People cried.  And I’m people too.

It is hard, when you have a creative way about you, to go a long time without expressing it.

And it is the most natural thing in the world, that when an artist is squeezed, beauty comes out.   If you haven’t squeezed your inner or residential artist lately, you should do that.   Make beauty.

do i want to run in 15 minutes

there’s a time limit here, folks.  hubby says that it’s t- 15 minutes to runners and the huffing and puffing that goes with running.   i don’t have to run, but i want to run. and i have proper shoes for that.

i don’t have to think about asthma, but a good few in our little family seem to have it.  i’ve got  inhalers for that.

we didn’t have to step back from membership with the Community we’ve journeyed with in the last year, but it seemed like that was what God was calling us to do, even though it’s hard.  we’ve got reasons for that.

e doesn’t have to have a friend over after school, but i promised it, and we’ve got plenty of house and food to share for that.

i don’t have to allow my child to record a dvd to be sent to the local media, but her teacher asked  and she’s got the talent for that, even though we only have a couple days preparation.

the kids don’t have to play football, but it’s good exercise and they love it, so we will stand on the pitches and cheer them on.  we’ve got the desire and all the gear for that.

we’ve one rather introverted child and need to provide experiences that push out the boundaries, foster gifts and talents – we have a God-given responsibility to do that.

there are many people and places that I see and go to, many commitments that I make – and many of these bring me joy.  on a good day, i’ve got the energy for that.

there is homework and housework and a million billion things that lay before me like a long stretch of road . . . so do i want to run?  it seems that running is what i do, in my mind, in my life. . . one long stretch of road.  so much of it, I choose, and yet, i often feel pushed. pushed for time, for energy, for resources, for exellence, for a life without regrets.

this is definitely a marathon.

thankfully not a marathon for one.

but i might need to catch my breath.