Repeat the Sounding Joy!

Tuesday night. Again. Tuesday nights, Greg teaches down in Hamilton and I have the house to myself. On Tuesday nights I do things like talk to Linds for two hours, hands-free set in use, while walking around the house, cleaning up, organizing. I eat crackers and cheese for supper, or maybe a grilled cheese sandwich, or a quesadilla (yes, I know there's a theme here!). I blog. I enjoy this space; it is good for me. But I am always glad to see him when I get home from work on Wednesday afternoon.

Basil is sitting on my lap, purring. How do cats know? They wait until you're doing something that requires mobility, or until you are just about ready to stand up and go into the other room--and bam, they leap in their elegant fluid way onto your lap, walk in a circle or three, and start purring. It's the purring that does it. I can't resist it, especially when it's Basil. He is not always affectionate, so when he is, I feel compelled to stay sitting, to be slightly inconvenienced in order to enjoy his cuddly company. He is still esconced in his "cone of shame," and will be for another couple of weeks, unfortunately. I do hope we can take it off before we leave for Iowa . . . and Morocco . . . and Egypt. Fingers crossed.

It is cold outside. -3 degrees, to be exact. It is also very clear, and if I look outside I can see Orion hanging above the eastern mountains. Inside I am cozy. The Christmas tree lights shine gently in the corner; another string outlines the window behind me. It is what they call "the Christmas season," yet I am not quite feeling it yet. It is Advent, one of my very favorite seasons of the church year, and yet my life feels too hurried to enjoy it, to slow down and recognize that it is here.

In church on Sunday we lit two blue candles, one for hope, one for peace. Blue banners hung from the ceiling, and Pastor Jean wore a blue stole over her robe. All this to help us remember what season we are in. I want to feel it, to let it sink in.

At work yesterday, I listened to Christmas music, to try to get myself into the mood. As I write that, I wonder--what does that mean? What is this "mood" of Christmas that I'm seeking? What I mean by that is that I am wanting to feel that my life is slowing down enough for me to see it clearly. I want to take time to walk outside and see Orion glimmering in the black December sky. I want to see the beauty around me, the depths of the world around me, to sense the magic, the mystery of this season. That's it, right there: I want the magic of it. The magic of people loving one another. The magic of snow falling on the trees and houses and past the streetlights. The magic of walking with the man I love through the snow, past houses with cozy yellow light spilling from their windows. The magic of feeling that there is love in the world, that all the world is loved, that there is a loving God who wraps this world--with all its hurts and happinesses--in her arms.

That is the magic that I'm seeking.

As I listened to all my favorite Christmas songs playing--O Holy Night, music from the Nutcracker, the Hallelujah chorus--I felt just a little bit of that magic swelling around me. I looked out my window at the mountains, their tops dusted with snow, gleaming brightly in the sunshine. I listened to the words of "Joy to the World," another favorite. And four words played themselves over and over in my mind: "Repeat the sounding joy!"

Repeat the sounding joy. Hearing it reminds me of that line from Garden State: "Good luck exploring the infinite abyss!" Reminds me that THIS is what we're meant to do: explore the infinite (and beautiful, and terrifying, and dazzling) abyss . . . and remember that we also need to repeat, and repeat, and repeat again the sounding joy.

. . . the echoes of joy sounding in the starlight and the brilliant cold air, in the snowflakes, in the purring of kitties and the comfort of down slippers. In the glow of the Christmas lights, in bear hugs, in letters from friends on the other side of the world. In the voices of friends and the songs of angels--

repeat the sounding joy.

Tuesday Evening

A nearly full moon shines brightly in the sky. A light dusting of snow covers the ground, and the air is chill in a very December-y type of way. I left work late tonight--we had a party for our volunteers, so it was not a bad sort of late night--and, at 6:30, the sun was completely down (and had been down for quite a while), the moon was high and bright, and the sky was dazzlingly dark. I realized that I don't often go out at night, now. I usually come home from work in mid-afternoon, and promptly change into comfy clothes . . . or even pajamas, depending on the day. It's the time of year to curl up in a blanket and read a book, or watch a movie, or cook something warm and delicious in the kitchen, or snuggle with my husband and/or my cat and/or my kitty.

I almost went for a walk when I got home--I was so tempted by the clear cold air and the moonlight and the darkness--but my wonderful Basil-cat needed some love and attention. Over Thanksgiving we discovered a nickel-sized scabby sore above his left eye, and we took him to the vet, who sedated him, scraped the sore in order to do some tests on it, stuck the poor little guy in one of those ridiculous and humiliating neck cones, and gave us some drugs to give him twice a day. He hates the cone. I can't laugh at him, can't even take a picture of him, because he is so horribly sad and confused about why he has to wear this dreadful plastic THING that he can't see around, can't scratch around, can't clean himself around. He mopes around the house and ends up curling up in hidden places, unless I can coax him onto my lap . . . and then he cuddles against me and purrs and purrs and purrs. At least we're getting plenty of cuddle time. He has to wear the darned thing for the next ten days, until we finish with the medication, and I do so hope that by then the sore (whatever it is) will be healed and he will be back to his usual confident, Dude-like self. I wish I could explain to him that it's for his own good, and that he hasn't done anything to deserve it, and that he's a GOOD kitty . . . and maybe he understands, at least a little.

I have been reading blog updates from my dear friend Rachel, who returned recently from several months in Africa--Kenya, Uganda, Congo. I love reading about her travels. I am reminded of what a different place she is in her life, a place between places, a place where she's seeking to find her place. And on a purely geographical level, I have found my place here in Missoula, Montana, amidst mountains and rivers and wild landscapes, and I am content.

But on another level, a meaning-in-life level, I think I'm just as much at an in-between place as Rach is. I enjoy my job; it's great to work for a non-profit and a cause I deeply believe in. I love my husband and I love being married, love sharing my life, with all its fun and challenges and seekings, with my wonderful Greg. I love my little house, my cats, my homey yellow kitchen, my garden. Yet I feel that there is more I should be doing. Is this one of those feelings that everyone has? Do we all feel that we're not quite doing enough, that we could be doing so much more? Or have some people actually found their niche, their calling?

I spoke tonight with one of the volunteers, a woman with whom I've had some wonderful conversations, someone with whom I could be friends. She is a writer, too. She spoke about wanting to write more, to discuss writing together, to push ourselves into disciplined creativity, and our conversation reminded me that this is a big part of what is missing in my life right now. The writing. The putting pen to paper, the typing of words on a screen, the formation of ideas onto a page. This writing ability, once which I like to think I've explored and honed and bettered over the years, is a gift, and right now it feels like a gift I'm not using. Sitting here tonight, typing this little post, feels good. It feels like I'm thinking about my life. It feels like I'm processing. It feels like I'm journaling, at least, if not creating something particularly structured. And those are all things that I want to be feeling. Writing has always helped me to slow down my life, to examine it, to hold it in my hands, look at it, and truly see it--in ways that I don't when I'm not writing.

So here is my challenge to myself. To write. To see. To feel. To explore, examine, imagine. And I wish myself luck . . . and a whole lot of new-found discipline.

Holland Lake Overlook

I am hiking with two friends to a high lookout in the Swan Valley. It is steep--4 miles and 4,000+ feet . . . and my lungs and legs tire quickly of the up, up, up, the constant incline that rarely gives us relief. It is a perfect August day, bright and blue and warm, and the sun pours its golden morning light on us as we push our feet, our legs, our bodies forward--and upward.

I get frustrated sometimes, while hiking. I get frustrated when my body doesn't work as well as I want it to, when it tires, when blisters form, when my breath comes short and my legs ache. I get angry at silly things. I start thinking things like, "I didn't know this was going to be such a steep trail! I hate this constant up up up! It's dumb! What's the point? I'm not sure I would have done this if I'd known exactly what was involved!" . . . etc.

I find myself complaining, getting grumpy. Because I am with other people, I try (sort of) to be positive. I pause occasionally to look around me--there's meadowrue, seed pods dangling. I glance at clumps of fireweed, the brightness of goldenrod, the beautiful mottled green of the mountain stretching above me. But then I notice the trail switching back and forth across the face, a continuous upward climb with no level space in sight. This mountain seems to get higher with each turn, each switchback--and we are no closer to the top. Or so it seems.

Grumpy me.

I know better--I know the view will probably be nice; indeed, as I look out over the valley behind me, and the backs of the Mission Mountains, I am in awe of the beauty. We are high. Holland Lake glimmers blue and green below us, and Seeley Lake comes into view as we trudge ever higher. In the shade of a Ponderosa pine we come across a patch of fresh huckleberries and wortleberries, and their bright juicyness surprises my tongue, lightens my senses.

Up, up, up.

We pause at a switchback so I can strip off my sock and apply a bandaid and moleskin to my blister, which is already the size of a quarter and filled with fluid. Ouch. I walk gingerly, doing my best to keep from rubbing my left heel any more than possible. We are in the sun now, on an exposed south-facing slope, and the sweat trickles down my face and my back.

There is a sudden sharp turn and there, just above us, is the roof of a dilapidated fire cabin--the cabin that sits on top of the ridge, the cabin that marks the end of our trek. We are nearly there. I limp up the suddenly rocky slope--I can see the top of the ridge--I crest the ridge--and there, before me, stretched out like an infinite banner, is wilderness.

I see mountain after mountain reaching to the horizon. I can see miles upon miles into pure wilderness: rocky slopes, alpine lakes, subalpine larches, far-off ridges dark with distance, a few patches of snow. My eyes are dazzled by green and brown, grey and white, and the oh-so-blue of sky. I turn, slowly, and see the Missions stretching out behind me, the whole vast landscape laid out before me like a feast. My eyes drink it up greedily, all 360 glorious degrees of it. Aching legs and blistered heels are forgotten as I gaze at the bright world around me. The breeze cools my face, the sun beats down on my hair, and I bask in the light and wind dancing around me.

Oh, beautiful, wonderful, wild Montana. I feel contentment pour into me like water: I could stay here forever. I could stay here forever.

Wintry Fun

Ah, yes, time for another post. Yikes, this is long due!!

So Greg's birthday was at the beginning of January, and what better way to celebrate than to drive up to Chief Joseph Pass for a celebratory ski? The weather was stunning--freezing cold (as in, -5 degrees) and gorgeous blue skies and sunshine. We skied in the late afternoon as the sun was going down, and its rays lit the snow-laden trees with brilliant light.



There's a lot of snow up there!



Look closely--there are TWO poles here!



Is this heaven? . . . no, it's Montana. Ahhh.



Posing for the camera . . .



Sadly, our 3 liters of water were undrinkable, as the water in the drinking tube froze solid. Greg tried, though!



The requisite self-portrait.



We haven't had much snow lately, but in late December and early January it was nice to snuggle up indoors and watch the snow fly outside:



My street, just before Christmas.



This is back up at Chief Joseph Pass--we took Beth and Britta and their aunt Darla up to ski there, and were blessed with another glorious sunny day!



Still lots of snow up there.



Britta and Darla basking in the sunshine . . . and taking pictures, of course!



We've also had fun contra dancing lately. The last Missoula dance was a black-and-white themed one, so we went to the costume store to buy appropriate garb for Greg. The galabeeyah was perfect!



Last weekend Greg and I headed over to Bozeman for the Wintergreen contra dance festival. Once again, the theme of the dance was black-and-white . . . a black-and-white inaugural ball, graced by President Obama himself! Of course I had to get a picture.



And Greg and I were resplendent in our costumes--he was told by several dancers that he was the belle of the ball! And he was, oh, he was.



This coming weekend promises more fun--we're heading over to Spokane for Greg's dad's retirement party. Bill and Becky are also celebrating their 40th wedding anniversary, so it will be a fun, full weekend!

In the meantime, the job searching continues. Wish me luck! Right now I'm writing skits for a children's radio show and doing a little babysitting, but insha'allah something more consistent will make its way to me soon. Insha'allah. Cheers to the possibilities!