Sacred Water

I am told I must keep up the posting, so here goes.

I admit to feeling rather stressed lately. I have not taken enough time out for prayer, meditation, reflection, and, two months into the semester, this lack is beginning to wear on me. I seem to do little besides work and study, though occasionally I'll go out for supper with friends or take a hike in the mountains or bake zucchini bread. But I am feeling the need to structure such things as exercise, prayer, and writing into my day, and that has not yet happened. The longer I live (and granted, 26 years isn't really that long), the more I realize that this is a constant struggle.

On the other hand, I've enjoyed going out to the Old Post the past couple of nights to watch games 3 and 4 of the World Series, and I'm thrilled that the White Sox won! Though I woudn't have minded six or seven games--the Astros could have put up a little more of a fight, couldn't they have? At any rate, last night I was there with several friends from my environmental writing class, and we got into an involved discussion about the definition of "environmental" writing. I realized that, while I do dream of writing a book and publishing articles in magazines, I haven't done much, yet, to focus myself in that direction. When I write, I write things I feel need to be written--but they are more for me than for any outside audience. Another challenge.

But here's some more writing, since I know I need to be sharing my efforts with others. It's an excerpt from my second essay for my writing class.


Sacred Water

The most beautiful sea in which I’ve swam is at Moon Beach, a small resort on the shores of the Red Sea in Egypt’s Sinai Peninsula. Egypt, land of desert, heat, and sun—a land that knows and cherishes every drop of water, that guards with its craggy hills and harsh desert this slim sliver of sea. No palm trees, no sage brush, no superfluous vegetation, just sun and golden sand and red-brown rocky hills, and the sea,

the sea,

of the most exquisite blue-green you can imagine, turquoise water stretching out to touch a sapphire sky, with the horizon glittering between, and a caressing breeze to bring the water’s freshness to nose and mouth and lungs.

I splashed into that clear sea, calm but for a few wind-made ripples, and swam out, out, out—and then lay, effortlessly buoyant, and let the hot afternoon sunshine and warm perfect water lull me into a state of rest and salaam. Peace.

One night I abandoned my bungalow to sleep on the beach, pulling the thick wool blanket off my bed to wrap around me as I lay on a soft-cushioned beach chair. I woke several times during the night to see the stars luminous, glowing huge in the black sky above, to hear the waves singing softly with the rolling sand, to feel the tears sliding down my cheeks. When the sun rose early the next morning, sending golden light to reflect on the dawn-smooth sea, I sat on the cool sand, blanket tucked around me, and watched as a school of tiny silver fish flashed upward, leaping above the water, glittering like tossed coins.

My last swim in that water was a glorious baptism of water and light. Both skin and soul quenched their thirst as I swam half a kilometer out into the gulf. The sun shone down, the water buoyed me up, and my body was not light as air but light as water, and I felt myself become as transparent and fluid as the aquamarine sea. And my soul hovered on the surface of the deep.

Writings: An Essay's Beginning

Wendell Berry knows the importance of place.

“If you have no land,” he writes, “you have nothing: no food, no shelter, no warmth, no freedom, no life . . . I don’t think that being landed necessarily means owning land. It does mean being connected to a home landscape . . . The land is a gift of immeasurable value.”

I have learned, in my wanderings from place to place—Iowa to Egypt, Chicago to Charlotte, Midwest to mountain west—how right he is, how, unless I am connected to the landscape, I am not connected to a place at all.

My earliest connecting place—and the one to which I somehow keep returning—is in Sioux Center, Iowa, a little town tucked away in the northwest corner of the state. My connection to this landscape consists of lying on a soccer field, feeling cool dewy grass beneath my fingertips and seeing bright stars glimmering in the dark sky above. In that simple act of touching the earth with skull, spine, calves, palms, I feel linked not only to rural Iowa but to all of creation—sky, wind, earth, breath—and to God. Strange, perhaps, that something as mundane as a soccer field could provide a path to God, could heal (without fail) my tired and bruised spirit; strange, yes, that spending fifteen minutes lying on the precisely-clipped grass will almost always calm and quiet me.

My place of quiet and calm shifted to the shores of Lake Michigan when I lived in Chicago. The vast stretch of water, shifting and shimmering from deepest blue to green to silver, reminded me of long rows of corn and soybeans, changing colors as they shivered in the wind. But I discovered a new love, sitting on the edge of the lake. My eye was constantly drawn to that line between water and sky: the horizon, luring me, causing tears to lodge in the back of my throat, inspiring profusions of words that poured onto the pages of my journal. In the horizon I discovered a physical representation of hope.

I have never owned land. But so long as I have such places, places as simple as a soccer field or a lake, a place to be silent, a place to be healed, I recognize, and am grateful for, the gift of land. And for those few moments, I am an owner. I have bought that bit of space with the weight of my body, the reverence in my soul.

Party Night!

 We did NOT plan the red, but doesn't it look cool? Me, Teresa, Peter, Jeff, Catherine (all EVSTers), Cindy (my friend from church), Ruby, Joel (another friend from church), and Jeremy (fellow TA).

Amusing anecdote from our party night: So I bought this corkscrew from a thrift store for 50 cents. Beware anything that costs so little! Anyway, the darned thing doesn't work. So we had this lovely bottle of white wine, and a dysfunctional corkscrew. Jeff attempted his hiking boot method (holding the bottle upside-down, bang on it firmly with a heavy boot until the cork comes out about three-quarters of the way, making sure to stop before it comes all the way out, unless you want wine all over your carpet)--but to no avail. (In his defense, I have seen the hiking boot method used successfully.) Then Joel brilliantly remembered that he had a hatchet in his 4Runner. Of course--why didn't anyone think of it before?? Doesn't everyone use a hatchet in lieu of a corkscrew? We all trooped downstairs, standing on the porch a safe distance from Joel, who performed his act in the middle of the front lawn. Holding the bottle with one hand, he raised the other arm and--whoosh!--sliced the hatchet through the neck. The top of the bottle shattered into the darkness beyond the small pool of light from the porch, and Joel leaped to grab the bottom half before the precious wine spilled into the grass. Approximately half the wine was left, which was good enough for us. After picking up as many shards of glass as we could find using a dim flashlight, we went back inside to enjoy our victory.

Kids, please don't try this at home!

Jeff kindly bought us another corkscrew, which is far superior to the fifty-cent one, the boot, or the hatchet.

And today Teresa got a package from her parents, and inside was another corkscrew with a note: "So you don't have to use an axe. Love, Dad and Mom."









This is the creek I cross on my way down to the trail that parallels the Clark Fork River.

it's been awhile . . .

Missoula winter cloudiness is settling in, and I'm realizing already how much I'm going to miss the sunshine. We had a glorious sunny day yesterday, so I sat out on the Oval at school and soaked up the sun rays. But today was cloudy and cold, so I came home from my office early to cuddle up with a blanket or two and my philosophy reading. Philosophy reading is not terribly cozy, but I had little choice.

Life continues busily along, filled with grading student essays, designing lesson plans, reading reading reading, writing writing writing, a little partying on the weekends, a little socializing here and there, and some darned good baking! I made challah for a party last week, zucchini bread this weekend, and a caramel-almond torte for a birthday dinner yesterday. I'm finding baking to be very therapeautic; it's a good break from all the studying, and provides me and Teresa (and other fortunate friends) with happy tastebuds.

I can't believe I'm in my seventh week of grad school already. It hardly seems possible! Where did September go? How can it be October 11th already? But I can tell we're getting later into the semester: the work load is getting heavier, though it's still manageable. I don't have much down time, however, and I'm starting to feel the lack. All this beautiful wilderness around me, and I've hardly been able to enjoy it!

Today I'm a little more on top of the homework. I have my readings done for Thursday already, so perhaps I can get started working on my philosophy paper (due the 20th) or my second essay for environmental writing (due the 24th). Getting ahead: what a concept! Or perhaps I'll just finish reading The Blue Sword, which I've read 40 times, yet I've been trying to finish it for the past three weeks. (There's telling evidence of how little free time I have!)

Blessings to you all!