So much for aspirations of writing every day of Lent. Blame end the end of the trimester. And being in a show. And simple a growing tendency to become easily distracted.
Last night was our third show. We're almost halfway through now. The performance felt the tiniest bit off, though I don't know if that means my perception was off or if we were off. I know I caught myself anticipating lines and actions last night, spoiling my performance. Hopefully not enough that anyone else noticed, though most likely if they did, it was an unconscious awareness. Will need to focus tonight to make sure it doesn't happen again.
Lots of friends and family in the audience last night - my parents; the Ball's; Russ, an old friend from college I haven't seen in about 20 years; Angela, Izaac and Sophie; one of my students and his mom. I came out after the show to chat, but kept getting distracted. Like I said, it all felt a little off. Combined with the usual post-show buzz, I probably came across as rude and uncaring. 'Twas not my intention, but I couldn't seem to track anything. Mea culpa.
Nothing officially planned for the day - I've started some much-needed laundry and need to sit down and finally gather all my tax materials together. No grading today - Saturday is my sabbath from all things school, even when I have piles still to go like I do. One day a week seems reasonable. I was going to try and grade last night during the show, but that didn't happen, which is probably good for all involved. The last thing you want is a distracted teacher grading your essays.
Maybe it's the greyness of the day, but my daily life seems to lack the lustre you'd want if you're going to share it with the world. Events of the past several days, weeks, run through my head, but none seem interesting enough to share. Or they seem self-indulgent (yes, I know the whole idea of a blog is in itself self-indulgent, but you know what I mean). This is what kept me away for so long. Nothing worse than having your own mundaneness and selfishness confirmed in public. And I don't dare open the door to my thoughts because I don't understand them most of the time and can't imagine what they would look like to outsiders.
Maybe I'm beginning to lose my mind.
Gee, aren't you glad you decided to check back in and see if I was writing? Time to stop.
Æ
----------------
Now playing: The Dust Brothers - This Is Your Life
via FoxyTunes
Saturday, February 28, 2009
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
what I've left undone
We start with a confession - forgive me, for I have sinned. It's been 56 days since my last post. This was an unintentional sabbatical. No forethought, it simply turned out this way. For some reason, my thoughts didn't feel worth posting. I know, I know, it's never stopped me before. But it did this time.
I'm not sure I have anything of significance to share tonight, either, but it's Ash Wednesday, the beginning of Lent, and I thought I throw a handful of my thoughts at the screen and see what didn't disappear into the void.
At Thinplace Sunday night, this phrase from Psalm 27:11 jumped out at me: "Seek my face." This is what I wrote about it at the time:
I imagine the scene - waiting at the airport terminal (heh - I wrote "terminable" originally), anxiously scanning the crowd as they come out the door, looking for the one we love. The crowd is filled with a myriad of faces, ones we could easily fall in love with or in lust with, faces whose eyes tell stories we long to hear. But not today. Today we long to see our beloved's face, the one whose absence has caused an ache deep within us. And oh the joy when we find them! Our entire demeanor transforms, our breath shortens and with a fierce determination, we begin pushing through the crowd. And then they see us and we see our own adoration reflected in their expression as they too begin to move toward us, oblivious to the many many bodies between us, intent only to find ourselves in one another's embrace. And there, arms wrapped around each other, we trace the contours of our beloved's face with our eyes, hoping to burn this memory into our consciousness forever. Like Peter on the mountain top, we proclaim it is good to be here. But like him we cannot stay, we must leave, hand in hand with our beloved.
When you're in love, every other face dims before the beloved. We stare at the brightness of their face and discover just how shabby everything else appears. The beloved is transfigured and we will never look at the or the rest of the world the same way.
This is my prayer for this season of Lent, that by seeking His face, I will be unable to see the world quite the same. I've begun by seeking to remove distractions from my life, those other "faces" that threaten to pull my focus away. No TV this year, which should give me more time to write down my thoughts here. But it's more than getting rid of distractions. I was reminded Sunday night and again tonight with the reading of Isaiah 58, that part of seeking His face means finding His face in the face of those who hungry, those who are thirsty, those who are naked, those who are imprisoned, those who are oppressed. Only when love is turned outward can it truly light up the darkness. Only then can we fall into the arms of the beloved.
I have miles to go on this Lenten journey. And I know it will not be easy. But I also know it will be worth it. Æ
----------------
Now playing: The Pains of Being Pure at Heart - Orchard of My Eye
via FoxyTunes
I'm not sure I have anything of significance to share tonight, either, but it's Ash Wednesday, the beginning of Lent, and I thought I throw a handful of my thoughts at the screen and see what didn't disappear into the void.
At Thinplace Sunday night, this phrase from Psalm 27:11 jumped out at me: "Seek my face." This is what I wrote about it at the time:
I imagine the scene - waiting at the airport terminal (heh - I wrote "terminable" originally), anxiously scanning the crowd as they come out the door, looking for the one we love. The crowd is filled with a myriad of faces, ones we could easily fall in love with or in lust with, faces whose eyes tell stories we long to hear. But not today. Today we long to see our beloved's face, the one whose absence has caused an ache deep within us. And oh the joy when we find them! Our entire demeanor transforms, our breath shortens and with a fierce determination, we begin pushing through the crowd. And then they see us and we see our own adoration reflected in their expression as they too begin to move toward us, oblivious to the many many bodies between us, intent only to find ourselves in one another's embrace. And there, arms wrapped around each other, we trace the contours of our beloved's face with our eyes, hoping to burn this memory into our consciousness forever. Like Peter on the mountain top, we proclaim it is good to be here. But like him we cannot stay, we must leave, hand in hand with our beloved.
When you're in love, every other face dims before the beloved. We stare at the brightness of their face and discover just how shabby everything else appears. The beloved is transfigured and we will never look at the or the rest of the world the same way.
This is my prayer for this season of Lent, that by seeking His face, I will be unable to see the world quite the same. I've begun by seeking to remove distractions from my life, those other "faces" that threaten to pull my focus away. No TV this year, which should give me more time to write down my thoughts here. But it's more than getting rid of distractions. I was reminded Sunday night and again tonight with the reading of Isaiah 58, that part of seeking His face means finding His face in the face of those who hungry, those who are thirsty, those who are naked, those who are imprisoned, those who are oppressed. Only when love is turned outward can it truly light up the darkness. Only then can we fall into the arms of the beloved.
I have miles to go on this Lenten journey. And I know it will not be easy. But I also know it will be worth it. Æ
----------------
Now playing: The Pains of Being Pure at Heart - Orchard of My Eye
via FoxyTunes
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
