Drunken Dandelion

I can’t ever remember my husband dressing me, or brushing my hair. I’ve never really wanted one of those Francine River moments where I let down my hair and my lover tenderly brushes my locks before we have hot sex. I mean, not that’s it’s totally of no interest. I was only towel-drying my hair after I got out of the shower when something happened to my neck. I managed to inch into the bedroom and fall on the bed moaning for Denis. When he arrived he was so concerned I thought of faking a faint to see where that got me. Anyway, he got my shirt on backwards the first try, and he kinda of brushed my hair - gouging my scalp, and scraping my ears. (It’s been a long time since he’s had hair of his own.) By then I was heavily into meds and didn’t care if I looked like a drunken dandelion head, but the occasion wasn’t entirely lost on me – it was a first.

With little ammo dumps going off up and down my right side, I shuffled into the chiropractor who, I think practices a form of chiro-voodoo. He doesn’t chant or anything, but he’s so cheerful about pain, which bothers me a little. “Lie down,” he says, “and we’ll have a look. Oh, you can’t get down there.” Thankfully, his tray table stands on end and if you can walk over, plant your feet in front of it, and lean forward slightly, you can ride the thing to a prone position. After gently tapping my spine, bending my knees, and asking me to look over my right shoulder – which I couldn’t do in any case, he said, “Okay, then. That should calm down, now.” “So what’s WRONG?” I wanted to wail, but I said it quiet, like I was only marginally interested in my ruptured disks and severed nerves; I couldn’t even breath without screaming. Inside. But no, he said I’d just wrenched my neck. I did start to feel better, but my day was shot, and I was discouraged.

Back home, Denis got me settled on the couch so I could watch daytime television. I wanted to see Jack Van Impe talk about End Times even though he makes me want to convert to Islam (temporary feeling). I want an illustration for my next Notes, but no Jack. Only Paula, the blonde with witch-nails. (I’d like some myself, except I don’t think I could afford them.) She’s sitting in a Queen Anne Chair, saying sincerely, “…you wouldn’t miss a doctor’s appointment or an appointment with your hair-dresser, so should you miss an appointment with GOD?” No, ma’am. I move on. An interior designer is re-doing a house so the know-nothing bachelor can sell. Charles Bronson is killing someone. A young lady with a thin waist and gorgeous, fat lips (I’d like them, too) is in a top register pitching notes, “You tore up my heart…” Oklahoma is under a tornado watch and flights out of LaGuardia are 70 minutes late. I shut it off, disappointed.

I was getting ready to nap when Denis brought the mail. I swear I never get packages, but today I got four! Two from Jeremy who sent me a pound of Ethiopian Yirgacheffe and a CD mix of Page France and Sigur Ros. Another package is from friends in Ghana – a tote bag, perfect for my computer. From Ann in Turkey, I get a disgusting, sick, beaded, smiley-face coin purse. I’d like to know how God managed to converge these things from across the globe and dump them all in my lap on the same day I wrack my neck and my husband dresses me and brushes my hair.

From evening prayers: Before I sleep, I would for a moment rejoice in the loves and friendships wherewith Thou hast blessed my life. … whom now, with my own soul, I entrust to Thy keeping through the hours of darkness. And for all who this night have not where to lay their heads or who, though lying down, cannot sleep for pain or for anxiety, I crave Thy pity in the name of our Lord Christ. Amen. – John Baillie.

What Are You Tapping

I’m in the midst of revising a manuscript I’ve written on coming to faith as a child – much of it reflected upon and seen through the prism of my adult eye. Over a year ago, I thought it was finished and as an afterthought I sent it to a consultant. (If all you want is validation, there are cheaper ways to get it.) He listed many strengths that were in place, and then he let me have it. Boom. I had plenty of wonderful stories, but what was the point? He wanted me to go deeper into my faith, deeper into who is God as father, (and he not a man of faith himself!) but for a year it sat, until I picked it up again last December. I knew he was right. So some of the colorful neighbors may have to leave along with my mother’s Maytag wringer-washer – which caught a hank of her auburn hair and ripped it off her scalp.

Today I read, The greater the depth at which you tap your own personal truth, the greater relevance your writing will have to humanity. – Gail Sher. Sometimes Zen Buddhists get it right. I’m afraid of finding an empty, meaningless shell at the core of my being. But that fear is a temptation to believe rot. I know God sits at the center of who I am and rather than making it my goal to be relevant to others, I prefer, I want, I need to write for his pleasure. All the time. And if it’s relevant to anyone else that’s just extra cream in my coffee. You know? Oh. And don’t ask when I’ll be done. I swear, if our income depended on the speed of my writing, we wouldn’t be starving, we’d be dead.

Talent Envy

Today, this is what I see if I look up. Every once in awhile we get to the North Shore of Lake Superior where a friend owns a cabin on the rocky shore. The waves have been high all night, pounding, thumping into caverns, throwing icy spray across the cliffs. It’s quiet. At least to my way of thinking -- no urban sounds. Denis is no distraction, he’s absorbed in writing for the next issue of Critique, and grading papers for a recent class he taught at the seminary. So I have no excuse not to concentrate on my writing. In preparation for this day and the few days to come a portion of a prayer stays with me: “…from thinking lightly of the one talent thou hast given me, because thou hast not given me five or ten: O God, set me free.” A Diary of Private Prayer by John Baillie.

You're Welcome

What’s with toadsdrinkcoffee? Well, we’ve lived in a house named Toad Hall since 1981. Toad Hall was an imaginative designation from our children who thought the old house looked like the mansion from the book, Wind in the Willows. This, in part, because they were little people and used to the low-slung adobes of New Mexico. I’ve been thinking we should’ve named our home something more chic or artful like Cascade Creek Cottage and we’d sound, if not look, a bit more charming. But we’re stuck. The “drinkcoffee” half is no surprise. We love coffee. I don’t like to think of it as a need, but I suppose if you have a nervous breakdown from accidentally drinking decaf, you need it, so I confess: regular, steaming, cold-pressed, iced in summer, laced with cream – just the sound of the grinder or the teakettle heating water for the French press – makes me happy. Coffee is a way of comforting friends and strangers. So, if you came by, I might offer you a cup of my favorite, Ethiopian yergacheffe. And finally, there is this: BLOG is a word a toad would probably like – it would sort of remind her of her damp, marshy home and she’d check it out? Right. It’s ludicrous to pretend toadsdrinkcoffee could replace a latte in real space and time, but we’d still like to think if you stepped into our living room or blog you’d feel safe, a little bit at home, and that we could talk about anything. You’ll probably get more of Margie’s voice here than Denis’. And a final warning: I’m not good with commas and I know how bitter that makes some people feel. I suggest a 20 ounce coffee with a triple depth charge, and you’ll be more apt to overlook a lot of things that upset you.

Easter Week

Yesterday morning, I took a plateful of warm buns down to the coffee shop where I keep a sort of second office. The Caribou Crew were so amazed -- like I’d given them a pay raise or something. Then, last night when, by chance, the manager saw us eating hamburgers in a little café, her face lit up, she came over gave us each a hug, and introduced her boyfriend. We were honored. These are far easier to make than one would think. And holy in their own little way.

Hot Cross Buns

4 cups flour
¼ cup candied fruit. (I hate candied fruit. I substitute ¼ cup raisins and ¼ cup snipped dried apricots.)
¼ cup chopped nuts
1 pkg (2 T.) yeast
2 T warm water
1 cup warm milk
¼ melted butter
1 ½ t. salt
¼ cup sugar
1 egg, beaten
½ t. vanilla
1 t. (or so) grated lemon zest (I use orange)

In a large bowl, mix warm water and yeast. Add warm milk and sugar, stirring to dissolve. Melt butter in a little dish and mix in the egg to reduce temperature. You don’t want to kill the yeast by adding boiling hot butter. Add to yeast mixture. Add vanilla, salt, and 2 cups of flour. Beat until the batter drools off the whisk. With a wooden spoon, stir in fruit and nuts and another cup of flour. Dust the dough really well with part of the last cup and then turn out on the counter to knead. Knead the dough until it springs back when you punch in your thumb. All the while add bits of flour to keep it from sticking to your hands and the surface. Replace in bowl and smear butter all over the top. Cover and place in a warm spot to rise until double. About an hour. Butter 2 cookie sheets or cake pans. Or something. Punch the dough down. You can be aggressive here. Grab little globs of dough about the size of a golf balls, shape into a ball and place in pans. They should not touch each other. With a sharp knife cut a cross in the center of each bun. Let rise about 45 minutes. Heat oven to 400 degrees and bake about 14-16 minutes. Keep a watch. You want them light brown on outside, but done in the middle. Makes about 2 dozen.

Cool for 5 - 10 minutes. While still warm, glaze with following: 1 ½ cups powdered sugar, a little orange zest, orange juice or ½ & ½ (a mixture will do) add liquid until it’s kinda runny – a little thicker than kid’s cough syrup. Put buns on a round platter and drizzle glaze into the cross marks. Immediately eat four or five to test them. Give the rest away.

Savory Friends

Last night we had dinner with Steve and Karen and Rachel. They cook like the apocalypse is coming and we'll never get this again. Lovely. It's not often I eat magenta colored food -- a whole plateful of beet risotto with a side of baby green beans, with crusty whole-grain bread. And chocolate -- a souffle you could eat forever because its velvet smooth layers of cream and cocoa just slide across your tongue. I looked at my bowl and sadly thought of licking it. Sometimes we're able to grab moments like this. When someone cooks for me, sure, it's sweet, but it's as much the dreaming, talking, and yes, Rachel, even the ranting -- that is good, and safe, and right. I pray they will be blessed for welcoming us as pilgrims in need of a brief wayside rest. Margie

Stake the earth on heaven

N.T. Wright had an interview with Time. I suppose it's old news by now -- that he said all this wonderful stuff about heaven. Right out in plain sight, destroying the long-held belief of wraith-like living on streets of gold with bad hymns and droning prayers forever and ever. (He didn't say it quite like that.(http://www.time.com/time/world/article/0,8599,1710844,00.html) I read it and just stared into space for awhile afterwards hoping when heaven happens, or "life after life" as he calls it, I'll be assigned some sort of environmental clean-up job, like scraping oil off rocks in the Puget sound. Or maybe I'll be given a huge pile of rocks and get to build a drystone wall. Seriously. That'd be so fine. Frederick Buechner writes, "The place God calls you to is the place where your deep gladness and the world’s deep hunger meet.” It's wonderful when you get those moments, it's what I want, but that's not my everyday. I'm more patient holding out, waiting with N.T. and others for restoration and consummation. Margie