Sometimes, when I see pictures of certain places in Central and Eastern Europe, I have such an emotional and physical reaction. It tears me up inside; it’s so hard for me to explain. It’s so hard for me to put into words.
It’s like it makes me very happy and it makes me very sad and it makes me not quite sure where I belong.
And the fact that I can’t ever seem to write about it properly haunts me, the way these photographs do.
Images: Alessandro Vincenzi for Radio Free Europe Radio Liberty
The California coast always makes my heart soar.
There’s something so special about
those cliffs and
that icy water and
the way the sky changes color every minute.
Liz, who blogs beautifully at Yellow Finch, was kind enough to post more of my words about the way Bodega Bay makes me feel.
One doesn’t open the windows, often, here, in this place where the air holds a strange combination of constant heat and dampness.
Most times there’s barely a difference in the numbers telling us the temperature and the percentage of water in the air.
Most times the air outside smells thick and old, as if it hasn’t moved in hundreds of years; it’s clinging to the trunks of trees, inching down the crevices in the sidewalk, barely keeping itself afloat, pouring itself into your lungs.
Inside, we empty the dehumidifier, over and over and over again.
But then, sometimes, ever so rarely, there comes a day when the dampness leaves momentarily and the humidity dips down, just a tease, just for a handful of hours. And I run to fling open all the windows, and shake out the blankets and rugs, and turn up the music and laugh and breath it all in and think of Pablo Neruda, who said —
“Walking down a path
I met the air,
saluted it and said
respectfully:
‘It makes me happy
that for once
you left your transparency,
let’s talk.’
He tirelessly
danced, moved leaves,
beat the dust
from my soles
with his laughter…
the day is coming
when we will liberate
the light and the water,
earth and men,
and all will be
for all, as you are.
For this, for now,
be careful!
And come with me,
much remains
that dances and sings,
let’s go
the length of the sea,
to the height of the mountains,
let’s go
where the new spring
is flowering
and in one gust of wind
and song
we’ll share the flowers,
the scent, the fruit,
the air
of tomorrow.”
And I am happy, with this one short gust of fresh wind.
“In returning and rest shall you be saved;
in quietness and in confidence shall be your strength.” (Isaiah 30:15)
These words keep coming back to me. In the midst of frantically getting this and that done, in the midst of the bowl of macaroni & cheese dumped on the carpet, in the midst of the screaming fits which two-year-olds are wont to do from time to time, in the midst of lists and laundry…in the midst of it all, these words echo.
And I know I need to stop, and truly listen.
In rest. In quietness. In confidence — a kind of calm assurance, free from anxiety.
This same Lord also whispers in my ear,
Come to Me, all who are weary and heavy-laden,
and I will give you rest.
Take My yoke upon you and learn from Me,
for I am gentle and humble in heart,
and you will find rest for your souls.
For My yoke is easy and My burden is light. (Matthew 11:28-30)
How foolish I am to refuse!
Sometimes, I miss life before the internet, when a girl could just get lost in an old National Geographic, without knowing it was trendy to like Reykjavik.
Or geometric shapes, or the colors coral and mint, or hand-drawn arrows, or chevrons.
A girl can get swallowed by this handmade world. There is talent and inspiration yes, but there is so much repetition so much repetition.
I want to get back to reading The Joy of Cooking, not the “OMG. Need recipe.” comments on pictures of a stranger’s lunch.
I need more actual fabric swatches, and fewer repins of photos of fabric swatches. I need fewer “One gazillion places to go in 2013” websites and more discovering the sidewalks around my own house.
I want to stitch together more projects for my daughter and our home, and not as many for listings on Etsy. I need more torn paper and splashes of watercolor, and fewer Pinterest boards. More dirt under my fingernails, more glue on the palms of my hands, more paint on the table around the edges of the canvas, more spontaneous midnight cookie-baking.
I’m tired. And I don’t think I’m going to find my lost creativity if I just keep looking inside this screen.
Do any of you ever feel like this?
Christmas in the subtropics is different, but it teaches us something about waiting with hope-filled expectancy, not just for Christmas, but for Christ’s return.
Here, in the humid fog
(which, I imagine, might not be much
unlike The Night
in which the angel appeared)
here in the humid fog
the only snow looks like
paper scraps and
shaving cream. Bubbles and
these circles of vinyl we
press to the windowpanes
with hearts of hope
as though we were two again
or five or nine or eighty-four
as though we pressed up our noses
to the glass
waiting for papa to come home
or waiting for Christmas time
or waiting for snow.
But while we are grown
and while we are tall
and while we can reach the upper shelves, now —
we are still children.
We are still waiting for Papa,
every day,
and this window is a glass, dimly, and
we see glimmers of celestial light
inside claypots and
outside trimmed oil lamps, and
in cups of cold water, given.
Christmas day was the first time He came and
so now through the centuries since
we press our noses to the glass
reaching,
waiting,
longing
expecting,
Christmas Day, Round Two
(in which we will all be made wholecompleteperfected
and the sky will light up.)
These are tidings
of the greatest joy.
A bit later, He told us this, so that His
joy might be in us, and
our joy might be full.
So now let’s all press our noses
to the glass
and look heavenward
and reach high
and hope
and rejoice.
“Everyone’s Christmas tree is different. Some people have a quiet tree with tiny twinkling lights, silvery tinsel, and fluffy white snow. Other people have neon trees with bright garish bulbs, twitching and blinking against the backdrop of Santas in Hawaiian shirts, and elephants wearing antlers.
But when I was a little girl, our Christmas tree was very different.
Our tree was dotted with cookies.
And candles.
Candles with fire…”
To continue reading my story about Christmas in the former Yugoslavia, go to page 36 of the Babiekins Magazine gift guide.
(The accompanying illustration was created by Maia Larkin of The Voyagers, and is available here.)
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