i am not called to be pollyanna

This post is from the dearestdragonfly genre of 'forgotten posts caged as drafts, just now being let out'. From June 4, 2007:

Much as I would like it to be, and often can't get it out of my head and heart that it ain't so, life, especially the really important things, is rarely an eggs-neatly-all-in-one-basket, glorious-bouquet-of-Martha-Stewart-roses kind of thing. I keep looking for extreme of perfection...in all areas. But, recently, most especially in the affirmation category of "Things God's Will".

Life is messy and unpredictable. God's will is messy...and unpredictable. There's grit, there's potting soil. There's dustbunnies, gleaming wooden floors. Sticky fingers, silken caresses. Evil bermuda grass mixed into a neat border of lavender. Attempts to corral, contain, keep constant...simply unravel. "Stop!!! The point of life," I'd like to declare, "is to attain and then maintain the perfection."

In Ann Tyler's The Accidental Tourist, the title character reaches for the hand of an utterly forlorn boy...finding in its imperfect soiled, stickiness a celebration of sweetness. This variety of winningly sweet messiness I can relate to. Yet, it seems I have a certain radar (I hope not a 'magnet'...) for seeing - or at least acknowledging - a darkly discouraging side of things. I reluctantly leave the embrace of the freshness of the possibility of perfection and consider taking on the other side - almost, 'hello darkness, my old friend'. And look for the redemption that follows.

Maybe this is why I follow the Fr. C sermon template so well.

But therein I miss the point. Isn't the messy more interesting? more fun? And perhaps the point reaches past 'oh, go for the adventure: delight in the aberrant, the messy.'

Last Sunday, I cried a bit during the opening hymn. It is my absolute favorite hymn in the entire realm of hymnody: St. Patrick's Breastplate: "I bind unto myself this day...", (ancient text here, hymnal version here with a few 'bonus' verses) worthy of an entire blog entry of its own. Being a church musician, I often don't have the luxury of living 100% into the worship. I envy those who can...natural musicians, no doubt. But as I sang along with this one, with its sweeping, boundless affirmations following after affirmations of what we believe, I got to this stanza and lost it:

I bind unto myself today
The power of God to hold and lead,
His eye to watch, His might to stay,
His ear to hearken to my need.

Despite doubts, concerns...the spiritual glass half-full is ALWAYS there (thanks, Spaz...). Perhaps my call is to see the end result of redemption. Though I love every stanza of this hymn, this one was the most appropriate for my current state of heart and mind. Shall I be windswept by doubts, fears...loves...concerns...on all sides?

The beauty of redemption surpasses the original, lost perfection. So, I am called to revel in God's hand, leading, guiding, promising, fulfilling. And it is certainly my sticky hand that Redemption holds ever so tightly and lovingly.

Amen.

I arise today Through god's strength to pilot me; God's might to uphold me; God's wisdom to guide me; God's eye to look before me; God's ear to hear me; God's word to speak for me; God's hand to guard me; God's way to lie before me; God's shield to protect me; God's host to save me.

I'M FIVE!!!

I took the Real Age test last night. I'm feeling positively infantile! Two-and-a-half years younger than my chronological age...which puts me at something with a couple of fives in it.

Sing it, Barbra! (I bravely took out the irritating 'autoplay' HTML code, so you have to start it the old fashioned way - PRESS PLAY!)

I'm Five (from My Name Is Barbra) (Barbra Streisand)

Video Code provided by MusicRemedy.Com

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i object...!!!*

How can there not be an 'anglican choral music nerd' section on this test? Well...I'll gladly settle for the Minka 'cool club'.

I'm not sure I can hang out with Felipe anymore - 'uber cool'. I'm so sure...

Just had to get the dot dot dot in there somehow...

identity lost & found or found & lost ...or neither

Written last Sunday night...

I'm rather in the middle of an identity crisis dance. Not surprising after a big move. What of me stays there? What of me is found here? Part of it is a palpable presence today: A beloved and longtime Stockton musician slid onto the organ bench at St. John's. Here, in my new life that is still forming, I have wrestled - not with the wanting to continue that particular ministry, as I enjoy 'being' with the congregation and hearing the fruits of very talented musicians at St. Anne's - but with the saying goodbye part of it...and not knowing what - if any - sort of work might be mine to grasp later. Grasp. Now, there's a word. What part of me do I own?

I am beginning some work for Grace College here. It is both the same, and yet different, from the work I've done before. The same...in that part of it involves a bit of accompanying. A post-grad soprano working on a recital presents me with the 'Queen of the Night' aria from Magic Flute (orchestral reduction...hmmmm...) I'm reminded of the 'me' that did so much accompanying in my 20's (learning a lot about orchestral opera reductions), a bit in my 30's and 40's (counting school children and choirs), a huge lot in my 49th year and beyond. Always a shifting identity within those. (I would love to have that 20's identity right now. Actually, I wish to command it to appear.) I am the same person...yet different.

I want to tighten my grasp around....well, something. But it seems I can't even tighten a grasp around me. I feel for comforting parameters around me, but there is mostly empty, undefined space.

Enter Fr. C's Year C: Proper 18 (9 September, 2007) sermon. Way before the end, I had mentally and spiritually written that check to God with 'my identity' in the amount spot. Glad to do it, actually. Freeing...immensely. I felt rather like one of the Dog Whisperer's pups, who finds its true self in not being in charge. Exhale.

Now, almost a week after writing this, I find the 'unknown' has almost become a comfortable skin. I'm not sure what color it is. Or if it's silk threads or cotton ones weaving. But it feels strangely comforting and 'right'...in ways I may not even understand yet.

the dreaded '3'...

We had some strong and over-the-top exciting "wanting to buy" kind of interest in the house last weekend. There has been a steady stream of lookers at the Open Houses...some who used to live in it or used to play with people who used to live in it...some who are curious...and lots of people who wish they could buy, but must sell their own house first and not much is selling (San Joaquin County is top in the nation in foreclosures, though we did hear an interview with a Stockton realtor on NPR last week who says banks are working with people to help them keep their homes. There are too many foreclosures and the banks can't sell them either.). The house is intrinsically magical and has phenomenal magnetism -- and not just the kind that attracts people like me who see possibilities and don't mind imperfections and enjoy working on a house. It deserves special, loving owners. This couple was perfect: They loved it and were amazed at the affordable price. They had money to put into it (some important 'This Old House' projects remain). It was the husband's first choice. They spent an hour in it, returned the next day, and on the following day bought the house across the street. That one's pristine condition was irresistible. For me, compared to our house that one is boring...nothing beckons with interesting, personalizing projects. There's barely any yard at all. (Yup. It's Fr. C's dream house!)

But, we're happy for our former neighbors who are now living in Georgia. It's been way over a year since they put it on the market, and in that time they've put tens of thousands of dollars into it improving it. It sold for $100K less than the original price. And, they're paying $12K of the closing costs.

Our realtor is fabulous. Has lived in the 'historic district' for most of her life. Is always upbeat, encouraging and on top of things. She was disappointed about losing the sale...even though she has the listing on the house across the street. She went into a slight 'over-reactive' mode: Let's paint the interior (Probably thinking 'boring neutrals' -- 'neutering' ones, I call them -- which our friends had used)!! Nope. Can't afford that. "It will only cost $600-800 to 'stage' the house!!!" Ditto. We compromised on one project: repainting the Peony Pink dining room. That hurts. I cried. But, without my mother's Monet-like paintings...and the old rose and gold floral print couch...well, in the buff it looks like Pepto Bismal, she said.

We had lowered the price to to entice the lookers last weekend. Yesterday she called. For this Saturday's real estate section open house ad, she wants to lower it again. It still begins with a '4'. I ask -- what price will she want to put on it in a month if it hadn't sold by then? This one begins with a '3'. We knew that was coming. And we knew we would support it. And we know it's for the best. It might be that we were also in an over reactive mode. It might be that we were too impatient - it's been on the market for less than two months. But we said yes. And...it was an emotional day.

I fear we have devalued the house by doing that. And, devalued the many other houses for sale in the Magnolia district and every other district in Stockton. That's how a bottoming out market works. Two years ago, when we were needing to put a new roof on it, the house appraised at $500K. Great. But, perhaps, not really...

When we returned from visiting family in Brazil in August and exited the house three days later, I saw our realtor's information sheets on the kitchen counter. One was from a lender, showing creative ways for a buyer to afford its original list price. I gulped. Our mortgage is oppressive enough for us. I would like for my children -- and everyone's children -- to be able to afford to buy a house someday, and not have to take out one of those ridiculous should-be-illegal mortgages or spend half their income on it. Things must change.

Come Holy Spirit and comfort and inspire the souls of those yearning for shelter, stability...for a house to care for and a home to delight in.

Amen.

PB at GM...

OK. There is something seriously wrong with me. Fr. C and I went to Chicago on August 27th - an anniversary celebration - and we saw Patricia Barber at the Green Mill and I haven't blogged about it yet. A serious illness must be involved.

Life is busy...and yet not, sometimes. Maybe it's just the adjustment period in our new lives. The air is different. I don't think it has anything to do with exhausting activities like...It's midnight and I'm cleaning up some impressive Bixby projectile vomit in the living room...he was on the harvest table right by the stairs and, though there was a liquid heap on the tablecloth on said table, still, much of it left a lace-like effect splattered on a large area of the carpet...even reached the stairs...AND the railing...as well as embedding itself in the screws holding the stair railing in place...and, well, I can't even adequately describe the impressive scope of it. I'm not usually a big fan of carpet. But the rectory carpet is understated, lovely - low pile, cottony... And I want to be a good steward of it. So...I cleaned up the complicated slurpy canned cat food vomit crime scene with Nature's Miracle and SEVERAL rags; rolled up half of the organdy cloth on the harvest table to contain that portion for later (morning) cleanup. Climbed in bed. Hear a loud thud. Lucy has pulled the tablecloth onto the carpet, displacing several heavy items on the table (i.e., landed on the carpet) and actually rather quickly chewed through a corner of the valued, delicate cloth in her quick attempt to do her own thorough clean up. Yup, I'm sure. My lapse in blogging, decline in creative energy, has nothing to do with that.

BTW: Why I still like Clive Davis. His review of PB's latest CD - Mythologies (the result of her Guggenheim fellowship) : "Audacious is the only word for the Chicago-based singer-pianist's latest leap into the unknown. She's always pursued an unconventional course, and this, inspired by Ovid's Metamorphoses, no less, is one of the most unusual and memorable records to come my way in a long, long time. Oh, and this is a nice one from Time Out, NY: Patricia Barber is a demon of an improvising pianist, especially live. (YES!!) But the literary, even cerebral cast of her original material has evident highbrow appeal, especially as sung in her distinctively icy alto; Laurie Anderson with a nightclub gig... (Oops, I think I just threw Blogger into font confusion)

Green Mill is her stomping ground. I don't think she plays three sets just any place. She wears it like a comfortable, over-worn jean skirt. Relaxed, at home. Now, she is off working/playing on her UC Berkeley fellowship, then a couple nights at the Getty villa in Malibu. But when she's back in town, it will be Monday nights at the Green Mill as usual.

She looked like herself -- I was surprised at how well I 'know' her, how much I've seen on her website and on CD sleeves is real, really her. Wearing black. Her hair loosely clipped back. Signature facial expressions and gyrations at the piano. She even had her signature cognac-filled glass by the piano.

It just might be true that the other members of the quartet match her brilliance. But I'm not going to say that. It is The Patricia Barber quartet, and she reigns as queen. The first set included three, lengthy, impressive, on-the-spot improvisations from the group. Danson la Gigue was her only composition (setting a Verlaine poem) from a CD. There were a few cool, blue 'cover' ballads. I would have killed to hear 'If I Were Blue' and a few others of her original lyrics/music creations, but there was no opportunity. After announcing the first break -- with an astonishing promise of two more sets to come -- we waited and waited and waited and it was obvious the group was enjoying the night at 'home' so very much that, when it got to be midnight on Indiana EDT, we bailed and hit the road. Must stay the night next time!!!

Notes on the evening's offerings are buried deep in my purse. When excavated, there may be more to share.

(Oh -- and all this for a cover of $7 at the door, the price of a movie in Warsaw, and likely half a movie in Chicago. I don't sense this is because she hasn't forgotten her roots, but that she still is her roots. Nature Conservancy is her 'cause'.)

NPR's Jim Fusseli reviews her CD 'Verse' (2002) on All Things Considered.

Definitely click on 'Launch the Mythologies player' at the top of her news page.

something inane...why not? it's a holiday...

Your Heart Is Purple

For you, love is about establishing and developing a deep connection. If it's true love, it brings you more wisdom and inner strength. Your flirting style: Sincere Your lucky first date: An afternoon at a tea house Your dream lover: Is both thoughtful and expressive What you bring to relationships: Understanding

What Color Heart Do You Have?