Wind whipped away our threads
Of words, while laughter settled gentle
Down as rain, unforced;
I could not cling to rain or wind.
My fingers would not find the force
Of beauty clenched.
Open,
Strands of life fly through my hands
While I stand watching at an intersection
Of eternities. We do not see the pattern of the present
Looking forward ignorant of hope, but still
Refuse despair. Hope comes sudden as a rush of spring or
Drop of sun when one has waited on the moon.
Mouth-wide-open-wonder at
Our wait of glory.
Sunday, November 30, 2008
Friday, November 21, 2008
Peek-a-boo With the Almighty
Met for coffee with various ladies from Italian class this morning. We were very international: Lebanese, Malaysian, Mexican, American, and of course Italian. (One elderly lady in the coffee shop heard us chatting and cooing at the babies in English and walked over--I expected to admire baby Anna--and said, reprovingly, "One speaks Italian here." We smiled.) Besides Anna, there was Patrizio, a little latin lover-ble whose mother let me hold him for awhile. When he started getting fussy I tried the ancient game of Peek-a-boo, and it worked (When I was first here I bent down in front of the bar and the barista couldn't find me to give me my coffee; when I popped up I think he said boobasettete or something of the kind).
Why do babies smile when seeing the face of a stranger suddenly appear from behind closed hands?
We crave confidence in unseen reality. I love seeing in a baby's face the delight of realizing that where nothing could be seen, there was really, all the time, a person, recognizable and loving.
I sympathize--I get anxious when I can't see the smiling face of God. Is He really there? Does He really know and understand me and have my best interest at heart? I fret and worry. How do I even know myself--if I am truly abandoned to His will as I say I am? The secret is peace.
"Ultimately the secret is perfect abandonment to the will of God in things you cannot control, and perfect obedience to Him in everything that depends on your own volition, so that in all things, in your interior life and in your outward works for God, you desire only one thing, which is the fulfillment of His will.
If you do this, your activity will share the disinterested peace that you are able to find at prayer, and in the simplicity of the things you do men will recognize your peacefulness and give glory to God...For the saint preaches sermons by the way he walks and the way he stands and the way he sits down and the way he picks things up and holds them in his hand."
And the way he waits, expecting to be delighted.
"I know now, Lord, why you utter no answer. You are yourself the answer. Before your face questions die away. What other answer would suffice?"
Why do babies smile when seeing the face of a stranger suddenly appear from behind closed hands?
We crave confidence in unseen reality. I love seeing in a baby's face the delight of realizing that where nothing could be seen, there was really, all the time, a person, recognizable and loving.
I sympathize--I get anxious when I can't see the smiling face of God. Is He really there? Does He really know and understand me and have my best interest at heart? I fret and worry. How do I even know myself--if I am truly abandoned to His will as I say I am? The secret is peace.
"Ultimately the secret is perfect abandonment to the will of God in things you cannot control, and perfect obedience to Him in everything that depends on your own volition, so that in all things, in your interior life and in your outward works for God, you desire only one thing, which is the fulfillment of His will.
If you do this, your activity will share the disinterested peace that you are able to find at prayer, and in the simplicity of the things you do men will recognize your peacefulness and give glory to God...For the saint preaches sermons by the way he walks and the way he stands and the way he sits down and the way he picks things up and holds them in his hand."
And the way he waits, expecting to be delighted.
"I know now, Lord, why you utter no answer. You are yourself the answer. Before your face questions die away. What other answer would suffice?"
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
I got myself laughed at...
Yesterday I went to the market and asked for "una mazza di broccoli."
The guy serving me grinned--out loud.
"Or do I mean un mazzo?" I asked.
When I got back I looked up my mistake (I had been trying to ask for a "bunch"). At least now I know the word for club, mallet, baseball bat.
But I had my revenge when I looked at the train website in English. Instead of riding in a coach, you can come here and get a seat in a couch.
The current words giving my students the most trouble are attached and attacked--especially since in Italian, the same word is used for both, and the "ch" is always a "k" sound. Successful caused them some chagrin--and me some unintended laughter--today, too.
Fasting gave a bit of trouble. When fast= veloce--what does "ing" have to do with it? But they had their revenge when I said digiuniare instead of digiunare (I think) and once again (my besetting confusion) said something happened next week instead of last.
Italians, in case you have not heard this, give a very important place to food in their culture. This is reflected in the language-- "greedy," or "gluttonous" is the the best equivalent I've found for their common adjective "goloso"; but we still don't use it like they do. Today I explained that we would say "have a sweet tooth," instead of being "goloso di dolci." "I have a salty tooth," one student declared.
Someone told me the other day that a friend who had been living in America made them pancakes. "But we didn't have syrup, so we ate them with Nutella," she said.
They also have a little bit of a hard time believing that there are foods that exist in the world that don't in Italy--try explaining Thanksgiving dinner, and you'll end up having to reassure them that you are quite certain cranberries are not the same as rasberries, nor are pecans walnuts, sweet potatoes gray, or pie, cake. Maybe I'm stubborn--alright, maybe no maybe--but I corrected one student thrice today when she referred to apple cake as "apple pie." "But the dictionary says 'apple pie!'" she replied, equally stubborn. "I don't care what the dictionary says," quoth I. "It is wrong. I have eaten torte di mele, and, although delicious, I can assure you it is not apple pie. I know apple pie. It is American. In fact, it's as American as..."
She also told me her mother cut her hair short when she was young, because she wasn't growing and her mom thought all the nutrition was going to her hair. They laughed, and called it something. "Oh, we say things like that are 'wives' tales,'" I said. "Like the idea that you get cramps if you go swimming after eating, or..." "No, that's true!" they said. I decided not to mention the getting-wet-feet-gives-you-a-cold or air-conditioning-gives-you-neck-cramps-or-diarrhea ideas.
Someone thought I was Italian yesterday, even after talking for a few minutes! Of course, she herself wasn't--but she's been in Italy a while and is married to one. She also told me when I checked her out that I needed to give her a discount of 10%. "Why is that?" I said. "Because I'm your customer!" she replied. Interesting logic.
On the other hand, when I wandered into a different-looking pasticceria the other day (it turned out to be Tunisian. I like Tunisian desserts. They are light almondy exotic-fruit fried-and-covered-in-honey good, that remind one of distant places that probably don't exist, but did once, when one read Lewis or Tolkien) the proprietor spotted me immediately as Unitalian. He guessed French.
At a pizza place the other night I saw a sign for "American pizza." "What is that?" I asked. "It's a really really big pizza," they told me. I grinned. It wasn't that long ago that I bought a slice at a pizzeria because it was actually thick and cut in pie-pieces like American pizza. "Just a minute," the guy said before handing it to me, and quickly ruined the perfect pizza-slice-shape by cutting it into 3 much more manageable triangles. I thanked him anyway.
The guy serving me grinned--out loud.
"Or do I mean un mazzo?" I asked.
When I got back I looked up my mistake (I had been trying to ask for a "bunch"). At least now I know the word for club, mallet, baseball bat.
But I had my revenge when I looked at the train website in English. Instead of riding in a coach, you can come here and get a seat in a couch.
The current words giving my students the most trouble are attached and attacked--especially since in Italian, the same word is used for both, and the "ch" is always a "k" sound. Successful caused them some chagrin--and me some unintended laughter--today, too.
Fasting gave a bit of trouble. When fast= veloce--what does "ing" have to do with it? But they had their revenge when I said digiuniare instead of digiunare (I think) and once again (my besetting confusion) said something happened next week instead of last.
Italians, in case you have not heard this, give a very important place to food in their culture. This is reflected in the language-- "greedy," or "gluttonous" is the the best equivalent I've found for their common adjective "goloso"; but we still don't use it like they do. Today I explained that we would say "have a sweet tooth," instead of being "goloso di dolci." "I have a salty tooth," one student declared.
Someone told me the other day that a friend who had been living in America made them pancakes. "But we didn't have syrup, so we ate them with Nutella," she said.
They also have a little bit of a hard time believing that there are foods that exist in the world that don't in Italy--try explaining Thanksgiving dinner, and you'll end up having to reassure them that you are quite certain cranberries are not the same as rasberries, nor are pecans walnuts, sweet potatoes gray, or pie, cake. Maybe I'm stubborn--alright, maybe no maybe--but I corrected one student thrice today when she referred to apple cake as "apple pie." "But the dictionary says 'apple pie!'" she replied, equally stubborn. "I don't care what the dictionary says," quoth I. "It is wrong. I have eaten torte di mele, and, although delicious, I can assure you it is not apple pie. I know apple pie. It is American. In fact, it's as American as..."
She also told me her mother cut her hair short when she was young, because she wasn't growing and her mom thought all the nutrition was going to her hair. They laughed, and called it something. "Oh, we say things like that are 'wives' tales,'" I said. "Like the idea that you get cramps if you go swimming after eating, or..." "No, that's true!" they said. I decided not to mention the getting-wet-feet-gives-you-a-cold or air-conditioning-gives-you-neck-cramps-or-diarrhea ideas.
Someone thought I was Italian yesterday, even after talking for a few minutes! Of course, she herself wasn't--but she's been in Italy a while and is married to one. She also told me when I checked her out that I needed to give her a discount of 10%. "Why is that?" I said. "Because I'm your customer!" she replied. Interesting logic.
On the other hand, when I wandered into a different-looking pasticceria the other day (it turned out to be Tunisian. I like Tunisian desserts. They are light almondy exotic-fruit fried-and-covered-in-honey good, that remind one of distant places that probably don't exist, but did once, when one read Lewis or Tolkien) the proprietor spotted me immediately as Unitalian. He guessed French.
At a pizza place the other night I saw a sign for "American pizza." "What is that?" I asked. "It's a really really big pizza," they told me. I grinned. It wasn't that long ago that I bought a slice at a pizzeria because it was actually thick and cut in pie-pieces like American pizza. "Just a minute," the guy said before handing it to me, and quickly ruined the perfect pizza-slice-shape by cutting it into 3 much more manageable triangles. I thanked him anyway.
Saturday, November 15, 2008
Nothing in particular
“Now it is a strange thing, but things that are good to have and days that are good to spend are soon told about, and not much to listen to.” ~The Hobbit, currently being read (by me)
I had a lovely time babysitting (or playing with, whichever you prefer) 10 charges last weekend—ages 2-13; for the Avant team in Genova. I don’t remember particularly a lot of what we did, but we did a lot—I taught the older ones the Virginia Reel, read with the younger ones and paid fake money for cleaning up. And I could feel my imagination coming back to me just by the presence of young minds—I almost believed me when I said we were spies and had to be quiet so the enemies wouldn’t find us. I didn’t realize how deprived of children I’ve been feeling until one of them said, “We haven’t met you for a long time; we love you!” and gave me a kiss. I melted.
But then, one has to come back, and I was tired. And had to go through Milan. I already had bad associations with it—the only other times I’ve been there, I (1) was running to catch the train that left 3 minutes after I arrived, and (2) had just returned from a beautiful week at the Avant Europe conference in Switzerland and was sad to be leaving friends and homesick and getting sick and I sat in the muggy heat and cried. It wasn’t hot and muggy Monday (rainy nasty cold), but I didn’t feel many degrees more cheerful.
And yet, God is good, and is still with me, even when I don’t “feel” like it. And He reminds me of it in verses and books and conversations. He is real and really involved in real life. Even mine.
Things have been going on strike here. The library was last Friday, then the buses and trains Monday; yesterday it was some other group that I don’t know what they do besides marching along the street I need to cross waving red flags and yelling through a loudspeaker that they are opposed to the government and for themselves. I brandished my trusty red umbrella Excalciobrrr and made it through unharmed, only a little further downstream than I intended to be.
Today a little girl I’ve seen before but whose name I forget came in the bookstore—I smiled at her and said, “Ciao!” And she hid at first, but then said, “Ciao, Anna!” She walked up the steps to where I was working and when she went back told her dad I was up there. “Oh, are you happy?” he asked. “Yes,” she said, “She’s my friend!” I melted again.
I wrestled with the key at the publishing house for nearly an hour today, because I couldn’t get it closed. The mailman even stopped to give a hand—and was happy when he opened it until I explained that I was actually trying to close it—maybe I shouldn’t have told him. Eventually I called Michael and he said, “Why don’t you try moving it right to left?” Which I did, and it didn’t work—but when I moved it left to right, it did! Praise God.
The street vendors are out selling hot roasted chestnuts, and candy—a little girl with brown eyes trying to fit a bite of the cotton candy her mother had bought her into her mouth. The street artists are selling crafts; and I stopped and bought a nativity set in a seashell. The clerk at the grocery store this evening said, “I haven’t seen you for a long time!” “No,” I said, “I’ve been too lazy to get out in the cold and rain—and then my bike had a flat tire…and you?” “I’m always here, rain or snow,” she said. “Like the post!” I replied, and then realized we were in Italy. Well, maybe not then.
I hear that the post office close to us had their bancomat bombed a couple of weeks ago and this messed up some of the mail.
And I got an SMS from the questura—at 2 a.m.—saying I have an appointment for fingerprinting December 2nd after applying for my permesso at the end of October. Wow, that was fast!
And I broke the handle on my freezer. Everything I touch…
I think I’ll go to the library now. Assuming it’s not on strike.
I had a lovely time babysitting (or playing with, whichever you prefer) 10 charges last weekend—ages 2-13; for the Avant team in Genova. I don’t remember particularly a lot of what we did, but we did a lot—I taught the older ones the Virginia Reel, read with the younger ones and paid fake money for cleaning up. And I could feel my imagination coming back to me just by the presence of young minds—I almost believed me when I said we were spies and had to be quiet so the enemies wouldn’t find us. I didn’t realize how deprived of children I’ve been feeling until one of them said, “We haven’t met you for a long time; we love you!” and gave me a kiss. I melted.
But then, one has to come back, and I was tired. And had to go through Milan. I already had bad associations with it—the only other times I’ve been there, I (1) was running to catch the train that left 3 minutes after I arrived, and (2) had just returned from a beautiful week at the Avant Europe conference in Switzerland and was sad to be leaving friends and homesick and getting sick and I sat in the muggy heat and cried. It wasn’t hot and muggy Monday (rainy nasty cold), but I didn’t feel many degrees more cheerful.
And yet, God is good, and is still with me, even when I don’t “feel” like it. And He reminds me of it in verses and books and conversations. He is real and really involved in real life. Even mine.
Things have been going on strike here. The library was last Friday, then the buses and trains Monday; yesterday it was some other group that I don’t know what they do besides marching along the street I need to cross waving red flags and yelling through a loudspeaker that they are opposed to the government and for themselves. I brandished my trusty red umbrella Excalciobrrr and made it through unharmed, only a little further downstream than I intended to be.
Today a little girl I’ve seen before but whose name I forget came in the bookstore—I smiled at her and said, “Ciao!” And she hid at first, but then said, “Ciao, Anna!” She walked up the steps to where I was working and when she went back told her dad I was up there. “Oh, are you happy?” he asked. “Yes,” she said, “She’s my friend!” I melted again.
I wrestled with the key at the publishing house for nearly an hour today, because I couldn’t get it closed. The mailman even stopped to give a hand—and was happy when he opened it until I explained that I was actually trying to close it—maybe I shouldn’t have told him. Eventually I called Michael and he said, “Why don’t you try moving it right to left?” Which I did, and it didn’t work—but when I moved it left to right, it did! Praise God.
The street vendors are out selling hot roasted chestnuts, and candy—a little girl with brown eyes trying to fit a bite of the cotton candy her mother had bought her into her mouth. The street artists are selling crafts; and I stopped and bought a nativity set in a seashell. The clerk at the grocery store this evening said, “I haven’t seen you for a long time!” “No,” I said, “I’ve been too lazy to get out in the cold and rain—and then my bike had a flat tire…and you?” “I’m always here, rain or snow,” she said. “Like the post!” I replied, and then realized we were in Italy. Well, maybe not then.
I hear that the post office close to us had their bancomat bombed a couple of weeks ago and this messed up some of the mail.
And I got an SMS from the questura—at 2 a.m.—saying I have an appointment for fingerprinting December 2nd after applying for my permesso at the end of October. Wow, that was fast!
And I broke the handle on my freezer. Everything I touch…
I think I’ll go to the library now. Assuming it’s not on strike.
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