Click here to listen to this post, or opt to read it below.
_______________

Listen to me, you who pursue righteousness, you who seek God
Look to the rock from which you were hewn,
and to the quarry from which you were dug.
Look to Abraham and to Sarah who bore you;
For they were but two when I called them,
but once I blessed them they multiplied.

God will comfort Zion; God will comfort all her waste places,
God will comfort all her mounds of ruins.
I will transform her dead ground into Eden,
her moonscape into the garden of God,
a place filled with exuberance and laughter…

This was the lectionary reading from Isaiah this Sunday. When I heard it read aloud in the clipped Danish accent of Hanna, my sister in liturgical ministry, I was immediately transported back to Stonehenge, where I lay my hand upon an ancient heel stone. It made me think of my ancestry, held in ancient stories, and of my—of our—deep connection to the earth. These words and this memory released inside me a wellspring of gratitude for the very real connection I have to such an ancient heritage.

When I returned home and read the text again, I was struck by the feminine language that Isaiah uses for Zion. This is a word which has many meanings, but perhaps most meaningfully to me is how it holds the idea of homeland–the physical or metaphysical place in which we find our source, our identity and our solace. It encouraged me to know that this ancient statement of true things, this old poet’s tongue, still stands. It is an affirmation to me and to my soulsisters, known and unknown, who are feeling as though bits of them have been converted in mounds of ruin–who feel as though they are living in wasted places.

As my dear Jen always says, “Whatever you do hold on to hope…that this is not the end of your story.” Our sisters, our mothers, our ancestral Sarah’s, have been holding on to the hope that the homeland of our hearts and hearths would be comforted—would be made into gardens like unto Eden. Whatever you do today, in whatever way you can, hold on to hope—like a seed in your palm, like the scrap of a fortune cookie paper cupped in your hand. For this is not the end of our story, but the very place from which it is born. Amen. May it be so.

click for more podcasts: Beaches and Bodies, The Care and Keeping of Sacred Stories.
click to learn more about Sacred Sunday.

In my ongoing struggle to make peace with time, I’ve hit a brick wall. I’m having a very difficult time coming to terms with the amount of time I have to write; the way my illness and my children’s needs impacts my writing time; and what I achieve in the time I have.

In order to see if I can get a little break through, my life-coach Jena Strong has given me the assignment of only writing one hour day for the next two weeks. (Well, one week and then we’ll re-evaluate and see if we should keep it up another week.) I’m having a good migraine week right now, so I’m nervous that I’ll be well during these 1-hour weeks, then sick again when I’m free to write as many hours as I want. But, I’m curious to see if I can surprise myself about what I can get done in a short, focused amount of time.

That being said, there may be fewer written posts on Magpie Girl, although I’m thinking of trying my hand at more non-verbals, so stay tuned. I’m also planning on feeding my insights regarding this experiment into my new obsession with Twitter. If you’re interested in how this one-hour restriction affects the creative process, I’ll be channeling my thoughts into a daily update there (just 140 characters, so it will only take a sec.) You can track me here.

See you on the flip side!

p.s. Today I wrote this plus half a chapter (1,400 words) in an hour!

A picture book by Cate Chapman, age 8. (To see it on a bigger screen click here. )

I’ve been trying to write a book, and to get it picked up by a publisher since 2005. There have been a couple of manuscript proposals with sample chapters, and some interest, and some more chapters, and some more interest, and another proposal, but alas, nothing definitive has come about.

When I realized it’s been three years since I started verbalizing “I am writing a book” and two since I finished my first real draft, I got discouraged. What was I doing really? Furthermore, what did I want to be doing really?

I’ve been swirling around in an eddy of repeated thoughts about my work as a writer/teacher/learner–most of which are diametrically opposed to one another—and I can’t seem to find the momentum or the release to get myself out of the cycle. So I hired a life coach. Someone I’ve been reading on line for quite some time, Jena Strong of Strong Coaching. (blog│coaching site) We’ve just started working together, but so far so good. I’ve given her permission to blow the “bullshit bullhorn” whenever I am clearly talking out of my ass, and she’s given me…assignments.

One of the first exercises Jena gave me was a Values Clarification exercise. Part of the procedure was to look at a list of values and narrow it down to ten. Then she helped me order those ten values from by drawing a set of concentric circles and putting the most central value in the middle, working my way out to the outer ring. Jena described the outer ring as the ‘container’ that provides the structure to hold all the others. It took a long time to narrow down the right word for some of the values I was trying to represent, and more than once Jena had to blow the bullshit bullhorn when I was trying to claim a noble word that was not really describing what I was getting after. In the end these were my ten — from inner ring to outer ring:

Integrity
Generosity
Attentiveness
Clarity
Guidance
Freedom
Integrity
Beauty
Props (as in “getting’ my props!”)
Security

For a long time I’ve felt really guilty about my high need for security – especially for financial security. I’ve felt pampered, spoiled, and weak when I couldn’t follow my brave and brazen friends in to a life of voluntary poverty and extreme adventure. But when Jena had me draw my values out in concentric rings, I realized that the security was the container that allowed everything else – the generosity, and the guidance, and the beauty – to thrive.

Because embodying emotional and spiritual thoughts into physical symbol is so powerful to me, Jena suggested that I find some way to physically represent my values. She mentioned that she’s always wanted someone to make a mobile of their values so they could see how they move in and out amongst one another. That wasn’t something I could engineer, but it did make me think of those collapsing water cups we used as kids – the type that were made of concentric plastic rings that collapsed down inside the lid of the cup for compact travel. Remember those? (I had an orange one that I kept by the sink as my tooth mug.) I decided to try to make one of those…which turned into a mobile…which looks suspiciously like the color scheme from Oh the Places You’ll Go by Dr. Seuss…which I figure is all pretty much prophetic, don’t you think?

Even though while I was making it I kept thinking “Really? This is what grown adults do with their free time?” I’m finding it to be quite well worth it. It’s hanging in the corner of my studio by my writing desk, and somehow it’s helping me feel grounded and hopeful from time to time – like I’ve done something meaningful, like I’ve taken a good first step.
—
What are your top ten values? How might you give them a concrete form? Make a little list, muck something up and show it to us in a photo, or blog about it and give us the link – the comments are open!

This is my dreamboard for August as I pray/wish/hope for shalom in my physical self.

Last month’s dream of curtains and spotlights is still alive and kicking. I’m still playing guitar, and I’m working with a life coach to figure out what that mysterious phrase might mean for me.

For more information about dreamboarding click here. Good shabbat to you!

“Tell me true things,” she said as fear raged around her. So I read to her from words on a page, novels and psalms, poems and stories. What amongst them were true? What amongst them was fiction? In truth, I cannot tell. But every word was like a slat tied on to the other across a great chasm, until at last we reached the other side across a swaying bridge of stories.
—

I’ve written/podcast before about the importance of stories and the power that lies in their telling. It’s a theme that keeps occurring and re-occurring around me – a strong theme of the postmodern cultural milieu in which we all dwell. Last week I went to an expat’s writers group here in Copenhagen and the talk turned to the topic of truth and storytelling. The personal essayists were struggling with the reality that whenever they told a story it was but one version of the truth. Another person telling the same tale would have different true things to say about how the whole thing went down. So were we, in fact, writing ‘true life tales,’ or a form of fiction? Furthermore, how should the very knowledge of that question affect our storytelling? Then again, the novelists among us were using real people and situations to form the basis of their characters and scenes – so perhaps they were not creating fiction, either but telling a version of the real, of the true? And which was more honest – calling the real fiction or calling the fiction real? Which is it then…all truth, or all fiction? Ah, there’s the rub. In a postmodern world, the answer is: both.

When we tell our stories, they intersect with the stories of others. There is overlap there, between my experience and yours, and that makes the telling of the tale tricky at times. This is never more so then when we write about the people most embedded in our hearts: mothers and fathers, children, soul mates, lovers. So when we tell stories that involve the hearts of those who are dear to us we tread lightly, trying to be faithful to our truth, without trampling the experience of the other. This doesn’t mean we don’t tell the hard stories – the failures or the confusion or the break ups or the fights. It just means, that on our best days, we try to balance being as honest with ourselves and our memories, with the act of treading with kindness. After all, it is not all that often that people invite us into their hearts. We should be a careful while roaming around in there.

This balance of brave truth telling and tender care is but one of the reasons I love the way Sylvia brings honesty and gentleness to this complex story which is, among other things, about loss. Here she must tell the story of herself, her lover, her child, and her mother –each on embedded deep into soul territory. This is no easy task. Yet as she begins to sing her hidden tale here in spare and simple prose, she brings to us all important thoughts about surviving loss, confronting expectations, and mothering our own hearts. I hope you will receive her story with kindness, and give her encouragement for the telling of this tale. May Sylvia’s story be a good with mate for you on your journey today. Namaste.

—

Mothering, Lost and Found
Guest Blogger: Silvia@ Dreamer Girl

A little over two years ago I almost became a mommy, without forgetfulness, planning or expecting—just loving and some magic dust from the Universe. For a long time I wondered why it was sprinkled on me and why it didn’t last.

I can remember the moment when the magic dust evaporated into thin air very vividly. At the time I didn’t know it was (had been?) nesting in my body. Looking back there had been many signs but I didn’t pick up on them until the very moment it was over. In the blink of an eye I knew. I knew what all those weird feelings had been; those moments of crying without a seemingly good reason, why my body had been so tired and why I felt more resistance to food than appetite. As soon as I realized that I was no longer alone, fate conspired to make me ‘one’ again.

Of course I thought, “this isn’t a big deal”–although it scared the person I loved at that time so much that he ran away and never looked back. Even though I was hurting and read about this kind of loss and knew how it can have a very big impact, I still thought it wasn’t a big deal –or at least that’s what I told myself, because that is what I was told by my mother.

After telling me that I probably imagined the whole ordeal, in spite of what the doctor had said, she acknowledged it in the end. But at first, she told me to just get over it. Because really, who wants to become a mommy at twenty two? “I do,” I thought. I had always wanted to become a young mommy and even though there had not been any planning and even though there was no more loving between him and me, there was still lots and lots of longing inside of me. But I soldiered on, without grieving, without acknowledging the sadness in my bones.

Looking back I haven’t taken good care of myself these past two years. I poured all my love in taking care of others, ignoring those feelings of hurt and anger inside of me. I felt that not only had I lost a chance of being a mommy, but that I had lost my own mother as well.

I wondered for a long time how I could take better care of myself and I think I’ve finally found out what the purpose of the magic dust was. I no longer act according to what I was taught, instead I teach.

I teach myself to love myself like I would tell my child of my love for him/her. I tell myself to sit with my feelings, that they are genuine and sacred, like I would tell my child that his/her feeling are genuine and sacred and should never be pushed back. I take care of myself like I would take care of my child.

I have no idea what it is like to mother a child, but I do know that mothering oneself is harder than I ever could have imagined, but more rewarding too. In the end this is a lesson that I think I’m learning so when I do become a mommy I can mother by example. I never felt I truly had one, but now I do.

*8 Things to Love About Housemates

1. The adults out number the children.

2. Hearing the night owl’s desk chair squeak in the room next to you when you’re up with insomnia.

3. There’s someone to water the flowers/feed the cat/walk the dog while you are gone.

4. If you hear a bump in the night, it can be your housemate and not anything scary.

5. When you need to be zipped up, someone’s around.

6. Extra kitchen wisdom from someone who’s lived ahead of you.

7. There’s always a reason for beer on the porch swing.

8. Getting to live with the family you’ve adopted by affection.

Got *8 Things to love about living with housemates? What about *8 Things to love about living alone? Drop ‘em in the comments…we’d like to know!

Hello friends!
I’ve been posting hither and yon on the web this week. Here’s a little round-up, just in case you were curious.

Minti: Powered by Parents
Tips for Traveling to Big Cities with Kids

Food Hero: Food by friends and for friends.
Lazy Gourmet Bruschetta
White Sauce with Proscuitto, Spinach and Peas over Tortellini

BlogHer: You say it. We Share it.
Finding Happiness

Last Sunday evening we got home from a wonderful trip to tiny Bornholm Island in the clear Baltic Sea. I was nervous to come back to our Copenhagen, fearing that it would not feel like a homecoming at all. When we finished our London spree in the Spring, our return to our flat was just that – a return. We were still too displaced to feel as though we were coming home. Thankfully, this time when we cracked open our door and wadded through a week’s worth of unnecessary mail, we found that we were happy to see our apartment, to wander through the rooms raising the shades and opening the windows, and to sleep in our own beds.

After the first few minutes of re-orientation though, I started to feel a bit ill at ease. Sure, part of it was just the let-down of coming back to the mundane tasks of the everyday after a week in a sunny slice of heaven. But there was also an underlying twitchiness that made me feel as though there was some uncompleted task following me through the quiet rooms. Then it struck me – where were the housemates?

Since 1998 we have always lived with wonderful housemates–some for short terms during life transitions, some for years as we watched our histories weave together. After ten years of coming home to someone, the sudden nuclear family-ness of it all has left us disoriented. Now, once we’ve unlocked the door, flopped down our bags and grabbed a drink of water we start to wonder…where are our housemates to talk to? Who can we tell about our trip? Who can we ask about how work is going, or whether or not the garden survived the record heat? And most importantly who’s around to explain why the dog’s tail is purple?!?!? (Yes, once our housemates dyed the dog’s tail with kool aid. She’s quirky, that Emily.)

It’s odd to live just us four after ten years of living with Sharon, Susan, Lindell, Duffy, Amber, Josh, Kristen, Rebecca & ‘Ren. I don’t dislike it, but it’s strange, so strange it’s affecting my dreams. Last night I dreamt we were moving into to a sublet rental. It belonged to someone we knew, and we had thought we’d let them leave their office set up in the spare room. Then I realized, “Hey! We could have another room for someone to live in!” Next scene: a garage sale and a guest room.

My guess? That communal living thing, it’s not just a part of our past… it’s simmering on the back burner. I hope so. I certainly do.

I enjoy the architecture of holy spaces: churches, abbeys, monasteries, temples of all types. Europe suits such a fancy, and lets me see a wide variety of structures meant to honor something – though what they honor is sometimes a bit off from the original goal. This week we are on holiday at Børnholm: Denmark’s only rocky island! (Sometimes the Danglish on signs can be quite amusing. My favorite so far is “Feminism Squats my Heart”…but I digress.) Børnholm has proven to be far more charming than its English tourism by-line. It’s a pretty leafy island in the Baltic Sea, with fine sandy beaches, clear water, and pretty woods through which to bike. In addition to home brewed brown ale (quite nice) and smoked herring (not so nice), Bornholm’s claim to fame includes several Rundekirks – round stone churches white washed to a gleaming brilliance. We were lucky enough to visit a couple of these unique bulwarks, which have served as a combination places-of-worship-cum-look-out-towers since the early 1100’s.

I was particularly struck by Nylars Kirke, the smallest and least significant of the bunch. It’s stolid bulk and cool interior is just the type of space that appeals to me – old, earth-rooted, and simple. I was compelled to touch things there. I ran my fingers along the rim of the grey stone of the baptismal fount, planted firm in the center of the building; placed my palms on the stout center column and felt the wisdom held in its age; ran my hands along the curving outer walls to feel the warmth of the sun-kissed wash and the underlying chill of the hewed stones.

These are the kind of places that speak of home to me—these simple rooms with history in their walls, with time poured into their mortar. It is in these nearly abandoned places, anchored deep in the unwinding days of time, where I my footing can be found.