finding inspiration

It's snowing, fattish flakes drifting gently down from a grey-white sky.  The weather's been unseasonably warm lately, with most of the snow melting away, revealing the brown wintry earth beneath.  I am glad for the snow this afternoon.  I hope it falls long enough to cover the brown dead grass and dark streets, to remind us that it is still winter.

Winter should be a good time to hunker down indoors and get some writing done.  It has been, in the past, but this winter I've spent more time hunkering down reading books or watching movies (or playing piano, or knitting, or sewing, so there's been at least some creative outlet).  Now, though, I'm feeling the desire to be inspired to work on the story that's been lurking in my subconscious for the past several months.  The characters are fleshing themselves out in my imagination, and I hear their whispers in my mind--the whispers of their thoughts, their futures, their personalities.  I want to get to know them better, and the only way to do that is to write them out as truly as I can.  I think they have a good--compelling, even--story to tell, and I want to see where it goes.

Some of this inspiration bubbling up inside is due to the creative ventures of others, in particular, the creators of my new favorite modern adaptation of that most-beloved Jane Austen novel, Pride & Prejudice:  The Lizzie Bennet Diaries.  The story is told in the form of video blogs made by the heroine, Lizzie Bennet, a 24-year-old deep-in-debt grad student.  And for those of us who love Pride & Prejudice, we get to know all the familiar characters (Jane, Lydia, Charlotte, Mr. Darcy!!) in a modern setting, with some delightfully clever twists.  The videos began last April, but the story is not yet completed, and I'm enjoying following it along as it happens (though waiting for the next video has become a bit torturous now that it's getting so near the end).  All this to say: I'm inspired by the results of others' creativity--and I know the creators of this particular venture had no clue if this web series would succeed or fail (fyi, it's succeeded. wildly.), but they did it anyway.  (If you're interested in checking out the LBD, go here to watch all the videos in order.)

One has to begin somewhere.  I doubt I'm going to write the next great young adult fantasy novel . . . but then again, you never know.  :)  Nothing ventured, nothing gained, etc., etc., etc.  This is not rocket science.  I'm almost embarrassed to share these thought processes, since they are in no way profound or revolutionary--yet it's something we so easily forget (or at least I do):  we have only this one life, and we might as well spend it doing the things we love, and if that means risking failure (again, and again, and again) . . . so be it.

The ground is white now, and it's still snowing . . . and I have some writing to do.

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.

a bit of unexpected order

In the midst of disjointedness and randomness and utter chaos, occasionally a bit of unexpected order creeps in. When it does, one should probably listen to it, right? All those big questions are out there--What do I do with my life? Where do I go? What's the next step? etc., with no answers forthcoming. One of things I am sure about, however, is that right now I need to be working on my thesis, and I have seven weeks (well, six now) to work at Adventure Life only 25 hours a week, with my mornings fully dedicated to writing and researching. This year, Lent begins earlier than it has in over a century, and lasts 40 days (or six and a half weeks). Times like these, I think the cosmos is telling me something. My academic discipline is going hand in hand with my spiritual discipline, and there's some mental and emotional discipline happening, too. I'm curious to see where this Lenten journey takes me, where I'll be by Easter . . .

One result of earlier discipline (from about two years ago, actually) is the recent publication of one of my essays in Perspectives: A Journal of Reformed Thought. Exciting!

Besides the discipline, though, I've been having fun skiing in the all the great snow we're getting this winter, hanging out with Beth and Britta, having time to cook and bake again--finally!--and simply enjoying the season. Of course, we need some pictures.

Once again Christa and I drove over to Bozeman for a weekend of good contra dancing fun! Three cheers for dancing three days' straight on a VERY slippery floor! Ah, Wintergreen. It is a wonderful tradition. Check out the link and you'll see a familiar face.



Oh, and of course I don't have any pictures of the actual dance, but I do have pics of the gorgeous place we stayed!



And then, of course, there's been tons of snow this winter, and thus tons of fantastic skiing. I have gone with co-workers, like my friends Moe:



and Julia:



This past weekend I went up the Rattlesnake with Beth and Britta, and it was stunningly beautiful:



And we skied the WHOLE TIME . . . except when the expanse of perfect packing snow tempted us too strongly, and we succumbed thus:



creating a voluptuous snow goddess to reflect all our own goddess-like qualities. Ahem.

Below, our poles (and skis, for that matter, but they're rather buried), waiting for us to return from our creative work:



Then we skied away, quite merrily, until Beth called out in a resonant whisper, "MOOSE!" We turned, and there she was, not 20 feet away, munching on the shrubbery.



Just in case I needed a reminder of why I live in Montana.

Caminante, No Hay Camino

Caminante, no hay camino.
Se hace camino al andar. --Antonio Machado

Oh, you want a translation?

Traveller, there is no path.
The path is made by walking .

There is so much going on in my world right now. I feel these monumental pieces shifting inside, some of them disintegrating to dust while others move towards alignment, preparing to click into place. Looking inside, I wonder if those pieces that are about to click are now able to do so because of the pieces that have crumbled away? I am reminded of an Anne Lamott essay, in which she talks about the need for us to be distracted, sometimes, so that something beautiful can be born--how if we aren't distracted, our selves get too much in the way of the grace and beauty that are waiting to burst into our lives.


I've been so busy lately--with work, with friends, with class, with efforts to control my life--that I'm glad for this unexpected space that I've stumbled into, space that is giving me the chance to look around and truly see the world around me and myself within that world. There's a part of me that is terrified to think that there is no path . . . and another part of me that is deeply grateful and excited that the path is made by walking, simply taking one stumbling step after another.


I don't know the last time I recognized so clearly the healing that was going on in my heart and soul. It's as though I've been granted x-ray vision that sears through every layer and lays bare the inner core, and what I see sparks hope rather than fear.


In our pragmatic culture, we are not often given to visions, but every once in a while one will break through the layers of logic and practicality with which we surround ourselves. One broke through to me last Monday morning, early, when my logic layer was still soft and muddled with sleep.

It is morning, early. The room is still dark, though the light edging the horizon seeps through my blinds, and when I raise them, just a little, I can see the stark outline of the mountain against the eastern sky. It is the edge of dawn, the edge of night. I float in the space between, watching the deep blue-green sky shifting ever, subtly, to September dawn blue. There are no clouds; all is clear this morning.

I look out the window, and I rest there, for a minute or five, just being myself. I watch the dawn creeping up behind the mountains, and the deepness of the dome of the sky; I hear the birds and see them flinging themselves towards morning, and their silhouettes are free and joyful. The valley is deep in shadow yet, and the shadows are beautiful.

I see myself, this morning. I look out the window, but I am looking inside, deep inside, seeing the shadows spread across my soul, but seeing too the dawn outlining the edges of the mountains. One long ray of sunshine slips over the curve of the earth and shoots into the interior, bathing it in gold, a pure radiant fire. It is me; this is my life, and for the first time in too long (for the first time ever?), I see the core of strength that lies inside. It is not just that others see it in me; it is that I see it in myself, illuminated by that long ray of light. It may be shadowed again tonight, tomorrow, but even in shadow it is there. It is there, and now I know where to look, even when darkness falls.

I will grieve for what was lost. I can’t expect myself not to. I will grieve, and I will move into the pain—but I will also step out on the other side of pain and grief, as though climbing over the eastern mountains at sunrise. The western slopes will be in shadow as I climb, and I will stumble, and my breath will come short and my legs will ache, but I will edge over the summit and be bathed in light.

Hump Day

Yes, it is Wednesday again, and I am glad for it. My Mondays and Tuesdays always seem so weighed down, but my class schedule lightens in the latter half of the week. This past weekend I was also working hard on an essay I should have been working hard on all semester, and I turned in the first draft last night. It is not brilliant by any means, but I like it. Writing it, I felt for the first time in a long time that I was creating something that has a purpose, that is going somewhere. This essay is taking on a life of its own, and I'm excited to see where it goes.

Tonight I am going out for dollar sushi and then to a concert-- David Boone and Tom Catmull--with my friend Jacob. This will be the third time in my life that I've had sushi, the fourth time I've heard David Boone, and the fifth time I've heard Tom Catmull. It should be a good evening--have I mentioned how much I love the Missoula music scene?

Last night I went to the Old Post and had Moose Drool and nachos for the first time in three weeks. Three weeks without Old Post nachos--well, it's not something that should ever happen again. There is an EVST joke about how quickly Teresa and I can put away a plate of nachos . . . we are pretty talented when it comes to devouring good food. Mmm, nachos.

I think I will post here the ending of my essay. I'm not sure that I'll keep it as the ending (it depends on how the essay itself develops and changes), but I like it. It's been raining every day this week, and the grass is turning green and the buds are appearing on the trees . . . spring is coming!

My essay is on communion, and Iowa, and manna from heaven . . . and unknown other topics, to be discovered in the next few weeks. Enjoy.

It is raining today, a quiet, washing spring rain. I heard it in those first moments of consciousness early this morning, heard it dripping on the roof, heard the water-muffled sounds of traffic outside my window, saw the gray dim light spilling into my bedroom. I walked out into the day, into one of the first rains of spring, and felt the cold drops on my cheeks and nose and hair. The grass will turn green now, and other flowers will pop up to join the fallen bits of crocus color that lie scattered on my neighbors’ lawns. And perhaps, along with the rain, sweet white flakes will come drifting down from heaven, falling down to rest on the glistening grass, and I will pick them up, filling my hands with what I need for the day and no more. My neighbors, too, will be out on their lawns, marveling at this gift from the sky. We will kneel to scoop it up; we will smile at one another across the street and over the fence. We will bring our brimming hands to our mouths, and the flakes will melt on our tongues, will be washed down with raindrops.

When writing class gets boring . . .

we the writers get creative. Below you will find a conglomerate poem, written by Teresa, Christa, and myself (a.k.a. "Terry Christalson"). It's a bit of a spoof on the Camas submissions--Camas is the literary journal put out by the EVST department, the editorial board of which we are all members. Enjoy!

The Nature of the West: A (really, really) Profoundly Meaningful Poem

O Camas!
The quiet waiting-ness of your
sweet root in rich Western soil
The quivering shoot that culminates
in your crowning glory, sapphire flower
You put forth your Rooty sustenance
to keep flesh rosy on our bodies
A gentle whitetail doe,
quick, wild, free!
Steps among your shiny
profusion of azure blooms
You caress her legs, moving softly
As the prairie wind strokes your face
Breath soft with prairie spring
A Hawk soars, floating overhead
through blue sky that echoes your glory
He soars, then dives, and
Death blooms at your stems.
Your cool blue beauty is undisturbed.
The Death-Hawk
carries his prey over the
mountains with a cry
of Triumph.
The wind whispers through your leaves:
sssshhhhsssshhhh!
A tacit understanding
to hide the bloody kill
your flowers shield
one of your many silent secrets.
As summer glides, slow, into fall,
the whisper turns to the
rattle & rustle
of drying leaves
Blue bleaches into golden autumn
Then, the pure white shroud
of the Winter’s snow
is thrown upon the land.
Beneath it, your roots wait,
and with them, their Secrets.
Swelling through the long cold season
until the warm Spring’s wind
calls you forth
bursting with new life
to feed our rosy flesh again.
You are the Nature of the West!
O Camas!

The End.

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.

A Pigeon Dying

I touched a bird this week. On Tuesday night, it was; I held gently to my breast a pigeon dying. We were on our way to get ice cream, a nice summery thing to do, and delightful to do in Missoula where the Big Dipper serves up generous cones of huckleberry ice cream or lemon-ginger sorbet. We were a block away, and a sudden fluttering caught Poe’s attention, and she dashed in her loping yellow-lab way to leap upon the flutterer: a pigeon dying.

He was frantic and lopsided. As soon as Poe let him go he flapped crazily upward, only to loop sideways and crash into a lilac hedge, wings still beating wildly. He staggered in uncertain circles around the lawn, a pitiable pigeon who looked as though he’d had a few too many. Jeff moved toward him slowly and wrapped him gently in his shirt, smoothing down ruffled wings and holding him steady. The shirt vibrated wildly with the pigeon’s terrified shuddering, which lessened only slightly as we ordered our ice cream and sat to eat it (and to look up numbers of animal hospitals).

No bird experts being immediately available, we headed home, and Jeff passed the poor quivering creature to me. I could feel the erratic thump of the pigeon’s heart, but the shaking had subsided, and he rested almost quietly in my grasp as I held him to the warmth of my body. I felt his fear, and wondered what had scared him so completely; or was it only his animal sense of imminent death, his instinctive resistance to annihilation?

As we walked through the September twilight beneath wide-spreading maples, his frantic struggle began again, and I tried to calm him with soft words and pigeon coos. And he became still. Too still? Yet I could feel a heartbeat—or was it only my own blood pumping into my fingertips? He remained still, still, and the weight in my hands changed, almost imperceptibly, as a pigeon spirit soared upwards toward the slender crescent moon.

An irrational fear twitched through my heart and down my arms, a deep, dark terror that broke through all the fragile securities with which I surround myself; for an infinitesimal moment I knew, in each cell and sinew, that I too would die, that this pigeon’s death was just a foreshadowing of my own future.

And then I felt his weight in my hands again, felt my heart thumping out an affirmation of life, felt the caress of the breath in my lungs, and knew, in each cell and sinew, that I was alive. The pigeon would be returned to the earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust, and I would continue on the side of life. I breathed deeply of the rich evening air.