Weekend madness.
Saturday, Kate Paulsen came out of NOWHERE and landed in the Magic Theatre to watch my play. Her parents oh-so-generously bought a-slab-of-a Round Table pizza and we shared a wonderful little catch up session in the break before the show. Then my worlds collided:
Fourteen!! other Bay-area friends invaded the theatre to claim their comp tickets and see the first preview performance of "Tough Titty." I reconnected with Daniel Rufener, mastermind mathematician who just earlier that morning at a pancake breakfast was explaining to me the "potentiality of electron matter, otherwise known as light-matter waves, in quantum physics." (I'm probably misquoting him, but I assure you any mistakes in that last statement were mine and most certainly not his). A fleet of five Raphael Housers showed up, anchored by Bob Harrison himself. -The- Bob Harrison, maintenance warrior of the Raphael House, who I KNOW I have not sufficiently described in this blog. I was honored by Tim and Melissa's appearance. I was thrilled by Chelsea and Marian's attendance. [Now I must pause to say that while you, my dear friend/reader, have met Tim and Melissa in previous blogs, I have yet to introduce the not-quite-proud-to-be-Southern ladies that have volunteered at the Raphael House for the last three weeks. Chelsea and Marian came in on a school project, and left this morning with hopes to return. They proved to be quite the adventurous travelers, hopping from touristy locations to hipster locales, seeing almost every part of the city in the mere twenty something days they were here.] Ah, yes, Ms. Cora Rose with Seignor Schoolland. And.... Andy? Interesting. Red headed guy from Treasure Island. A casual friend of the Schoolland, I understand. Oh, yes, and the two Westmontees: Migs and Laurie. Who! by the way, brought me a wonderful, congratulatory, hanging plant. It will be a lovely addition to the Solarium Zen Garden. Many thanks, Ms. Nieson.
Apologies for the poor formatting of this last paragraph. I was just so excited to see so many people that I just couldn't contain myself. But I digress...
After the show I had a lovely meeting with Suzy. And her visiting fam. And then just Suzy. We talked long into the night about all manner of life's finer points.
Sunday: Church at Holy Trinity. I met a fascinating man - an ordained Reader - who had spent years of missionary service in Uganda training priests. His eyes were bright, and his words were straight-shooting. He suggested I read N.T. Wright's paper called New Perspectives on Paul. He said it was shaking up a bunch of evangelicals, and bouncing them toward Orthodoxy.
Then the play... again. Afterwards, a quick meal, tour of the Raphael House, and bus-stop goodbye with Suzy. Later that night a Raphael House ensemble travelled to Twin Peaks. (Whoa! What a view of the city!) A brilliant piece of Triple Berry Cheesecake at Sweet Inspirations, and our evening was complete. Our adventure was inspired by Clif, a chipper post-seminary guy who has a wonderfully sweet spirit.
No theatre today. So I took the whole day to press computer keys into words and squeeze thoughts into verbal submission. It was a full day of processing. Journaling is a good thing, I've decided.
I would appreciate your prayers in these days. I seem to have lost a good portion of my desire and/or ability to pray. This is not good. Your prayers on my behalf would be greatly appreciated.
Peaceful, thankful love to you, my readers.
Monday, January 26, 2009
Friday, January 23, 2009
What. A. Day.
Today has been a CRAZY day. I mean, try this on for size:
1. Orthodox morning prayer.
2. Photocopy and subsequently send Socialist Theatre Material to former Westmont professor.
3. Write mom a letter.
4. Have a two hour conversation with Orthodox Priest Father John.
5. Water houseplants.
6. Sit in Tough Titty tech and get a call from Kate Paulsen (of Westmont Theatre).
7. Buy and begin reading The Picture of Dorian Gray.
8. Watch full play with invited audience of breast cancer survivors.
9. Attend talkback after play with breast cancer audience.
10. On the way home, walk past a huge building with a STEAM ENGINE parked out front in the street. (I learned that there was an Edwardian Party going on. What that is, I have no idea. There was loud circus music.)
11. Almost physically run into a prostitute while crossing the street (but who knows... maybe she was just a woman dressed to go to this Edwardian party thing. Ummm... no.)
12. Stumble into the Raphael House.
I have very little to say in addition to that.
1. Orthodox morning prayer.
2. Photocopy and subsequently send Socialist Theatre Material to former Westmont professor.
3. Write mom a letter.
4. Have a two hour conversation with Orthodox Priest Father John.
5. Water houseplants.
6. Sit in Tough Titty tech and get a call from Kate Paulsen (of Westmont Theatre).
7. Buy and begin reading The Picture of Dorian Gray.
8. Watch full play with invited audience of breast cancer survivors.
9. Attend talkback after play with breast cancer audience.
10. On the way home, walk past a huge building with a STEAM ENGINE parked out front in the street. (I learned that there was an Edwardian Party going on. What that is, I have no idea. There was loud circus music.)
11. Almost physically run into a prostitute while crossing the street (but who knows... maybe she was just a woman dressed to go to this Edwardian party thing. Ummm... no.)
12. Stumble into the Raphael House.
I have very little to say in addition to that.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Hey, y'all. It's gettin' a little crazy up in here.
I prayed today. I prayed today like I haven't prayed in a veeerrrry long time.
...and it. was. Good.
Praise God that I was raised a Protestant, because callin' out yo' shit to God is OK.
Praise God that I'm living in Orthodoxy right now, because if I get lost in my own ramble, wandering wishes, selfish desires... those written prayers pull me back in. Like lines to a play. I ain't getting lost in life with people like John Chrysostom (or however you spell his name) pullin' me back to Center.
Praise God for the Deep moments in this life, where tension doesn't get resolved because it CAN'T be resolved till heaven.
Give me Peace, Lord. You know I need it. Amen.
...and it. was. Good.
Praise God that I was raised a Protestant, because callin' out yo' shit to God is OK.
Praise God that I'm living in Orthodoxy right now, because if I get lost in my own ramble, wandering wishes, selfish desires... those written prayers pull me back in. Like lines to a play. I ain't getting lost in life with people like John Chrysostom (or however you spell his name) pullin' me back to Center.
Praise God for the Deep moments in this life, where tension doesn't get resolved because it CAN'T be resolved till heaven.
Give me Peace, Lord. You know I need it. Amen.
Monday, January 19, 2009
Icon and Image
In a strict, time sense, I have not had much of a day. I have been awake about ten hours and it is now 11pm. I am not particularly proud of this fact, but like the man of Jesus' parable who works an hour to be surprised by a full day's wages, I feel blessed beyond measure. Please, just let me just share with you:
8am: Groggy eyed, dull minded, and weak-limbed, I fight to stay present while I am in the company of Saints, praying before the Icon of Christ, listening to the confidently untrained chants of Tim Lindwall. He sing-speaks Psalms, prayers, and passages from Galatians while Father David, in all his Priestly array, holds vigil over this little piece of Earth. The black robes are a Peaceful, practiced presence, ever-patient as he guides Tim's voice with a long-fingered point to the next prayer. There are seven bright souls that stand together, braving the day by bowing in submission. Our right hands take a familiar form - first two fingers together with the thumb, last two pressed into the palm - and remind our tired brains that we worship a God that is Three in One and follow after a God-Man who possesses two natures. We bow before the Icons because our backs and hamstrings, like our souls, are stiff from sleep. We touch the Trinity-remembering fingers to our forehead to say, "MIND wake up!" our chest: "hey HEART," and shoulders, "BODY, you ready to carry this thing?" We have drawn our cross on our chest, owning the hard saying of Christ: "If anyone would come after me, he must deny himself and take up his cross and follow me." We have begun our day as: Christians.
8:30am: Now I am surrounded by books - Shelves and Shelves and Shelves of words, words, words, words, words - seated at a massive, oaken table where the gold-crossed Priest sits to my right and three bright college eyes sit before me. Ron Sider's book, Rich Christians in an Age of Hunger, is our morning meal of the mind, and I sum up the hundred-or-so pages I've already read. Our discussion takes us to the plowshare-edge of what's happening in Orthodox communities; the American Orthodox Church is mobilizing to fight global poverty. A wind of courage sails into the room with Father David's smiling remarks.
9am: Back to the room, back to the I-can-almost-imagine-they're-still-warm covers.
1:30: Whoops! NOOO WAY! Was I that tired?!
3:00: A mad scramble to catch up on a full day's housekeeping work in an hour ends in the expected phone call: "Hey Zak, it's Laurie... I'm just outside." "Laurie!! I'll be right down." Begin the two-hour friend bonanza: coffee first, let's catch up!, tour the building, how's Westmont?, what about the Magic Theatre?, have you ever been to an Orthodox service? Today, Laurie Nieson is Joy and Hope and Life swirled into a cherubic smile and sparkling eyes. Full and expectant Life is before her, and she is ready for it. I could not have asked for a better remembrance of what it feels like to sit in the dorms of Westmont College.
6pm: (sung) "Ooooooohhhhh, the Lord is Good to me, and so I thank the Lord, for giving me the things I need, the sun and the rain and the apple seed. The Lord is good to me. Amen." Plates and forks clink as food circles each table, and all the green-aproned volunteer waiters are moving through the dining room with smiles and "Would you like some coffee?" To my right is the recently-returned-from-Kansas Melissa Shippy, a woman so slight of being that her words, which come only slightly above a whisper, feel like they should be cupped in the palms of hands and gingerly brought to the ear. To my left is Kimberly Gregory: social worker, New York actress, mom, Bright Spirit; her deep, from-the-earth laughter makes the Angels laugh right along with her.
8pm: Kimberly and I swirl the wine in our glasses; this Chestnut Street wine bar is a tucked away Napa-meets-da-Club delight. Some funky waiter with a mustache, a plaid shirt, and wacky charisma asks us what we want. "We'd like to try a couple; reds for me, whites for her." "This'll be fun," he says with a glint-in-the-eye grin, and away he bustles. Kimberly, the aforementioned Angel entertainer who also happens to be the lead actress in the play I'm working on, speaks as one who has found her calling and is delighted to live every day in that calling. She speaks of acting as a gift she gives to other people, not altogether different from the social work she's been a part of for most of her adult life. Her Spirit is... talking with her is like... hm. Praying before an Icon.
Now stick with me, people. I realize that it's taken me all this time to get to what I really want to talk about; the English Majors in the audience will have to forgive the unashamedly meandering introduction.
Icon and Image. Image and Icon.
Tonight speaking with Kimberly, and this afternoon speaking with Laurie, I saw "behind their eyes," as it were, a spirit that radiated the Light of the Spirit. Now, of course, I was speaking with them, to them, about our lives, about our day-to-day joys, but at times it's as though our conversation Broke Through. And it's really this idea of through that fascinates me.
In Orthodoxy, the Byzantine-style Icons, with their gold halos, holy looking Saints, and ornate lettering, are meant to be prayed through. Ok, yes, the icons themselves are wood, paint, and gold leaf; they are a two-dimensional likeness. Believe me, as a Protestant, I understand this. But... they are also Portals. Gateways. Thin Spaces. Icons bring us, actually and mysteriously, right up to the Heavenly Kingdom. Now how can I say this authoritatively? Hm. I suppose I can only point to feelings, experiences, moments that get at what I mean: that glorious moment of "giving over" when you "forget" that there's a worship band playing in front of you and get lost in the words and the sounds and the experience. Or the moment you fall into the pages of a good novel where all time and space seems to vanish as we loose ourselves to a world of another's creation, completely unaware that we are, in fact, turning pages. The same is true of performance. When I performed as Oberon in a Midsummer Night's Dream, my best moments were the moments I had fully given myself over to experiencing life in the character, willfully forgetting that I was 'acting.' An Icon frees us to do that in our prayer lives. It channels our attention, focuses our spirit, allows us to disappear into the act of praying. And disappearing into the act of praying - like a musician would disappear into his music - is a disappearance into the Kingdom of God. A transport-ation. This is what I mean, roughly, when I say we are meant to see through Icons. (Interestingly, this seeing is an active process. Our reason can only take us so far, then our souls require a leap. This "seeing through" that I'm talking about happens in the leap.)
In the same way, a great conversation can be a Portal, as well. Today, in speaking with Laurie and with Kimberly, I found myself marveling at the beauty of their personhood, their being. "This is a Beautiful Person," I thought to myself. "Wow, God really did know what he was doing, making this woman." I believe I was seeing some... essence... something refer to as Light. The Imago Dei. The Image of the Living God, stamped mystically onto and into each person, that sometimes just radiates to a degree we can see it. Like a cracked earth pot with a candle inside, rays just bursts forth, triumphantly proclaiming the Power within.
The deeper I go, it seems, the more of Christ I see.
Today was a good day.
Peace be with you.
8am: Groggy eyed, dull minded, and weak-limbed, I fight to stay present while I am in the company of Saints, praying before the Icon of Christ, listening to the confidently untrained chants of Tim Lindwall. He sing-speaks Psalms, prayers, and passages from Galatians while Father David, in all his Priestly array, holds vigil over this little piece of Earth. The black robes are a Peaceful, practiced presence, ever-patient as he guides Tim's voice with a long-fingered point to the next prayer. There are seven bright souls that stand together, braving the day by bowing in submission. Our right hands take a familiar form - first two fingers together with the thumb, last two pressed into the palm - and remind our tired brains that we worship a God that is Three in One and follow after a God-Man who possesses two natures. We bow before the Icons because our backs and hamstrings, like our souls, are stiff from sleep. We touch the Trinity-remembering fingers to our forehead to say, "MIND wake up!" our chest: "hey HEART," and shoulders, "BODY, you ready to carry this thing?" We have drawn our cross on our chest, owning the hard saying of Christ: "If anyone would come after me, he must deny himself and take up his cross and follow me." We have begun our day as: Christians.
8:30am: Now I am surrounded by books - Shelves and Shelves and Shelves of words, words, words, words, words - seated at a massive, oaken table where the gold-crossed Priest sits to my right and three bright college eyes sit before me. Ron Sider's book, Rich Christians in an Age of Hunger, is our morning meal of the mind, and I sum up the hundred-or-so pages I've already read. Our discussion takes us to the plowshare-edge of what's happening in Orthodox communities; the American Orthodox Church is mobilizing to fight global poverty. A wind of courage sails into the room with Father David's smiling remarks.
9am: Back to the room, back to the I-can-almost-imagine-they're-still-warm covers.
1:30: Whoops! NOOO WAY! Was I that tired?!
3:00: A mad scramble to catch up on a full day's housekeeping work in an hour ends in the expected phone call: "Hey Zak, it's Laurie... I'm just outside." "Laurie!! I'll be right down." Begin the two-hour friend bonanza: coffee first, let's catch up!, tour the building, how's Westmont?, what about the Magic Theatre?, have you ever been to an Orthodox service? Today, Laurie Nieson is Joy and Hope and Life swirled into a cherubic smile and sparkling eyes. Full and expectant Life is before her, and she is ready for it. I could not have asked for a better remembrance of what it feels like to sit in the dorms of Westmont College.
6pm: (sung) "Ooooooohhhhh, the Lord is Good to me, and so I thank the Lord, for giving me the things I need, the sun and the rain and the apple seed. The Lord is good to me. Amen." Plates and forks clink as food circles each table, and all the green-aproned volunteer waiters are moving through the dining room with smiles and "Would you like some coffee?" To my right is the recently-returned-from-Kansas Melissa Shippy, a woman so slight of being that her words, which come only slightly above a whisper, feel like they should be cupped in the palms of hands and gingerly brought to the ear. To my left is Kimberly Gregory: social worker, New York actress, mom, Bright Spirit; her deep, from-the-earth laughter makes the Angels laugh right along with her.
8pm: Kimberly and I swirl the wine in our glasses; this Chestnut Street wine bar is a tucked away Napa-meets-da-Club delight. Some funky waiter with a mustache, a plaid shirt, and wacky charisma asks us what we want. "We'd like to try a couple; reds for me, whites for her." "This'll be fun," he says with a glint-in-the-eye grin, and away he bustles. Kimberly, the aforementioned Angel entertainer who also happens to be the lead actress in the play I'm working on, speaks as one who has found her calling and is delighted to live every day in that calling. She speaks of acting as a gift she gives to other people, not altogether different from the social work she's been a part of for most of her adult life. Her Spirit is... talking with her is like... hm. Praying before an Icon.
Now stick with me, people. I realize that it's taken me all this time to get to what I really want to talk about; the English Majors in the audience will have to forgive the unashamedly meandering introduction.
Icon and Image. Image and Icon.
Tonight speaking with Kimberly, and this afternoon speaking with Laurie, I saw "behind their eyes," as it were, a spirit that radiated the Light of the Spirit. Now, of course, I was speaking with them, to them, about our lives, about our day-to-day joys, but at times it's as though our conversation Broke Through. And it's really this idea of through that fascinates me.
In Orthodoxy, the Byzantine-style Icons, with their gold halos, holy looking Saints, and ornate lettering, are meant to be prayed through. Ok, yes, the icons themselves are wood, paint, and gold leaf; they are a two-dimensional likeness. Believe me, as a Protestant, I understand this. But... they are also Portals. Gateways. Thin Spaces. Icons bring us, actually and mysteriously, right up to the Heavenly Kingdom. Now how can I say this authoritatively? Hm. I suppose I can only point to feelings, experiences, moments that get at what I mean: that glorious moment of "giving over" when you "forget" that there's a worship band playing in front of you and get lost in the words and the sounds and the experience. Or the moment you fall into the pages of a good novel where all time and space seems to vanish as we loose ourselves to a world of another's creation, completely unaware that we are, in fact, turning pages. The same is true of performance. When I performed as Oberon in a Midsummer Night's Dream, my best moments were the moments I had fully given myself over to experiencing life in the character, willfully forgetting that I was 'acting.' An Icon frees us to do that in our prayer lives. It channels our attention, focuses our spirit, allows us to disappear into the act of praying. And disappearing into the act of praying - like a musician would disappear into his music - is a disappearance into the Kingdom of God. A transport-ation. This is what I mean, roughly, when I say we are meant to see through Icons. (Interestingly, this seeing is an active process. Our reason can only take us so far, then our souls require a leap. This "seeing through" that I'm talking about happens in the leap.)
In the same way, a great conversation can be a Portal, as well. Today, in speaking with Laurie and with Kimberly, I found myself marveling at the beauty of their personhood, their being. "This is a Beautiful Person," I thought to myself. "Wow, God really did know what he was doing, making this woman." I believe I was seeing some... essence... something refer to as Light. The Imago Dei. The Image of the Living God, stamped mystically onto and into each person, that sometimes just radiates to a degree we can see it. Like a cracked earth pot with a candle inside, rays just bursts forth, triumphantly proclaiming the Power within.
The deeper I go, it seems, the more of Christ I see.
Today was a good day.
Peace be with you.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
A breath
Congratulations to Ms. Parkinson for her new teaching position. I'm wearing a contented smile and sighing a deep "ahhhh" even as I speak those words. You'll do just fine.
Tonight promises to be a quiet night of reading and prayer after a fast-moving day at the Magic. Our play is almost ready. Come see it!! If you talk to me about the days Jan 24, 25, 28, 29, or 30, I can get you in for free. So come on down!!
Goodnight. Sleep in His Peace.
Tonight promises to be a quiet night of reading and prayer after a fast-moving day at the Magic. Our play is almost ready. Come see it!! If you talk to me about the days Jan 24, 25, 28, 29, or 30, I can get you in for free. So come on down!!
Goodnight. Sleep in His Peace.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Solarium
Tonight. Begins. The Solarium Garden.
This new development is nearly impossible to explain if you have not been to the Raphael House, but I will explain nonetheless...
The Raphael House itself - not the mission, the structure - is an old hospital building, impenetrable concrete building frame mazed through with long hallways and rooms, and was only converted to a livable shelter in the last thirty years or so, bedrooms replacing most of the patients' areas. On the roof of this House, the Brotherhood, (The Holy Order of Mans) constructed a huge children play area (with large barriers to the side of the building to make it safe) and a smaller "garden" area that is available only to staff. It is to this smaller, largely neglected area that Bob the Maintenance Guy and I are turning our attention. Officially it's name is The Solarium Garden, but soon, because of plans carefully crafted over the last few months, it will carry the essence of a Japanese Zen Garden.
We will build it.
Tonight, Tim, Marian, Chelsea, and I rearranged plants, talked about water devices (originally suggested by Ms. Kellie Parkinson), and designed, designed, designed. We RH live-in volunteers labored and laughed until we were too cold to continue, and decided to reconvene at approximately midnight to.... Doughnut Run.
So, the D-run forthcoming, I must be brief:
The comment on the previous blog involving the phrase "Zak-in-theatre" will be discussed in the near future.
And just a general note of thanks to ye old commenters: Y'all are great. Thanks fer hollerin' back.
God keep us this night. Amen.
This new development is nearly impossible to explain if you have not been to the Raphael House, but I will explain nonetheless...
The Raphael House itself - not the mission, the structure - is an old hospital building, impenetrable concrete building frame mazed through with long hallways and rooms, and was only converted to a livable shelter in the last thirty years or so, bedrooms replacing most of the patients' areas. On the roof of this House, the Brotherhood, (The Holy Order of Mans) constructed a huge children play area (with large barriers to the side of the building to make it safe) and a smaller "garden" area that is available only to staff. It is to this smaller, largely neglected area that Bob the Maintenance Guy and I are turning our attention. Officially it's name is The Solarium Garden, but soon, because of plans carefully crafted over the last few months, it will carry the essence of a Japanese Zen Garden.
We will build it.
Tonight, Tim, Marian, Chelsea, and I rearranged plants, talked about water devices (originally suggested by Ms. Kellie Parkinson), and designed, designed, designed. We RH live-in volunteers labored and laughed until we were too cold to continue, and decided to reconvene at approximately midnight to.... Doughnut Run.
So, the D-run forthcoming, I must be brief:
The comment on the previous blog involving the phrase "Zak-in-theatre" will be discussed in the near future.
And just a general note of thanks to ye old commenters: Y'all are great. Thanks fer hollerin' back.
God keep us this night. Amen.
Monday, January 12, 2009
Slower, Cleaner, Deeper
Two blogs! In a day!
...I know it's a bit excessive, but hey. I've missed you.
"This is the work of warriors," I growled at Tim tonight as we swabbed the kitchen decks. Sweat on our foreheads, the steam of the industrial kitchen sterilizer surrounding our mop-wielding, muscle-rippling arms, we prayed with our bodies. Stroke after stroke. This is what the Raphael House will do to a man.
Rowlitza is from Bulgaria. I know this because I asked a stupid question tonight: "Sooo..." I asked in response to an accent-heavy request for more dish soap, "where are you from originally?" "Bulgaria." "And how long've you lived in the States?" The response was instantaneous: "Eighteen and a half years." "Hm," I say because I was expecting the meditative pause that comes after a question like that. "You get that question a lot?" I ask. "From every person I meet for the first time."
Wow, Zak. You lose.
I followed it up with a question about pizza. This got a lot more thought. And for the record, she likes Pepperoni from Round Table.
Pang. Gut wrenching hollowness. Gah! I miss my foreign friends! Fredy Traub, Aude, Clo, Fanny, Marina, Nadia, Stefan Zierock, Emma, Eileen and Molly and Harry and Nora and Norman and Valarie, the Caldwells. I want so badly to visit them! And now, look at this... I'm living down the hall from Randa (from Lebanon), Rowlitza (from *eh hem* Bulgaria), Olga and Elena (from Russia). If I made it my personal goal to visit each one of my foreign friends at their home, it would take a lifetime of travel and boatloads of money. They - and I'm speaking especially of my friends from American University - are so driven to see everything that they possibly can. Every day is an adventure to be lived. Travelers are by nature, I think, exciting (and excitable) people. And there is a particular beauty to the way each wanderer whispers tales from her home country, eyes far away and softer, and call it the most beautiful place that exists. Home.
In my quieter moments, I wonder what 'home' is for me; living in many different worlds has made my world larger, certainly, but also rootless. "Rolling stones gather no moss." I may have no moss, but I still enjoy Japanese Gardens.
Which, unintentionally, brings me to this afternoon's nature-y walk. I travelled to the heart of San Francisco's Golden Gate Park: the Japanese Tea Garden.
That time was...
Stepping stones over glass water
Heavenly bamboo tightly trimmed
Ponds made of gravel and moss
Shade, sunlight, shadows.
Stillness.
Quiet.
Peace.
I must take more time. Slow time.
Master, give me breath for slow moments.
...I know it's a bit excessive, but hey. I've missed you.
"This is the work of warriors," I growled at Tim tonight as we swabbed the kitchen decks. Sweat on our foreheads, the steam of the industrial kitchen sterilizer surrounding our mop-wielding, muscle-rippling arms, we prayed with our bodies. Stroke after stroke. This is what the Raphael House will do to a man.
Rowlitza is from Bulgaria. I know this because I asked a stupid question tonight: "Sooo..." I asked in response to an accent-heavy request for more dish soap, "where are you from originally?" "Bulgaria." "And how long've you lived in the States?" The response was instantaneous: "Eighteen and a half years." "Hm," I say because I was expecting the meditative pause that comes after a question like that. "You get that question a lot?" I ask. "From every person I meet for the first time."
Wow, Zak. You lose.
I followed it up with a question about pizza. This got a lot more thought. And for the record, she likes Pepperoni from Round Table.
Pang. Gut wrenching hollowness. Gah! I miss my foreign friends! Fredy Traub, Aude, Clo, Fanny, Marina, Nadia, Stefan Zierock, Emma, Eileen and Molly and Harry and Nora and Norman and Valarie, the Caldwells. I want so badly to visit them! And now, look at this... I'm living down the hall from Randa (from Lebanon), Rowlitza (from *eh hem* Bulgaria), Olga and Elena (from Russia). If I made it my personal goal to visit each one of my foreign friends at their home, it would take a lifetime of travel and boatloads of money. They - and I'm speaking especially of my friends from American University - are so driven to see everything that they possibly can. Every day is an adventure to be lived. Travelers are by nature, I think, exciting (and excitable) people. And there is a particular beauty to the way each wanderer whispers tales from her home country, eyes far away and softer, and call it the most beautiful place that exists. Home.
In my quieter moments, I wonder what 'home' is for me; living in many different worlds has made my world larger, certainly, but also rootless. "Rolling stones gather no moss." I may have no moss, but I still enjoy Japanese Gardens.
Which, unintentionally, brings me to this afternoon's nature-y walk. I travelled to the heart of San Francisco's Golden Gate Park: the Japanese Tea Garden.
That time was...
Stepping stones over glass water
Heavenly bamboo tightly trimmed
Ponds made of gravel and moss
Shade, sunlight, shadows.
Stillness.
Quiet.
Peace.
I must take more time. Slow time.
Master, give me breath for slow moments.
...after a few days' rest
I cannot tell you how nice it's been the last few days to catch up on sleep, mail letters, and fold laundry. But I'm back. Thank you, too, for coming back.
I finished Sakharov's book on Saphrony's theology; it was well worth the labor. Some theology books have the mind-numbing effect of tenderly placing your mind into a yatzee cup and then "Mwa hahaha..." they have a go at you, tumbling, jostling your soul about until -spew- there you are all over the floor. By contrast, Sakharov's words and cadence felt much more like a ship at harbor on a still night, calm, rocking easily back and forth. His words would never command me out to sea, but the words were filled with the promise of adventurous voyage. Most often, they would come in a soft whisper, "It's so simple: love." How like the entire tradition of Orthodoxy.
This morning, after morning prayers (which happen every morning at 8am at the Raphael House), Father David asked me to present to the other college agers at the house what I'd learned from Saphrony's theology. I presented for about ten minutes, and was quite thankful for Telford's "present on what you've read" days throughout my college experience; it made today's summary of fairly complex ideas seem like a walk in the park.
So thanks, Telford.
And while I'm on personal communication: Heather Marie, you have a deal. But you had better show up as a follower on my blog... Oh, and I love, love, love the more letters resolution. I'm with you on that one.
Lynne: I'm meeting with Cora Rose next week re: financial wisdom post-college life. So expect a full report on the financial world after that conversation.
People, especially people up here, are asking about the Magic Theatre, because it's imprisoning most of my time (ummm...in the good way). Rehearsals are... rehearsals. Once the mysterious allure of the title "assistant director" gets stripped away, it's a pretty mundane list of things I have to do: scribble verbatim the words Robert (the director) whispers during a run-through like "He needs to stand a little to the left." I make frequent lunch runs. I tell the actors they're doing a good job (because Robert rarely does). And yes... I do get to make occasional creative comments. I'm very pleased to say that I've made a number of suggestions that have found their way into the staging. On the whole: a valuable experience. It tells me Westmont is a solid preparation for life-after-itself if it's taken in tandem with an internship. Will Zak-in-theatre continue? This is doubtful, but remains to be seen.
A nature-y walk is today's goal. I'll also be green-thumbin' it up at the Raphael House, doing some spider-plant relocation.
I finish with a quote from Saphrony [and for clarity's sake, when he says "hating oneself" he's talking about the complete opposite of "self-love" or "selfishness"]: "I is a magnificent word. It signifies persona. Its principal ingredient is love, which opens out, first and foremost, to God. This I does not live in a convulsion of egoistic concentration on self. If wrapped up in self it will continue in its nothingness. The love towards God commanded of us by Christ, which entails hating oneself and renouncing all emotional and fleshly ties, draws the spirit of man into the expanses of Divine eternity. This kind of love is an attribute of Divinity."
The Peace of our Lord Jesus Christ be with you.
I finished Sakharov's book on Saphrony's theology; it was well worth the labor. Some theology books have the mind-numbing effect of tenderly placing your mind into a yatzee cup and then "Mwa hahaha..." they have a go at you, tumbling, jostling your soul about until -spew- there you are all over the floor. By contrast, Sakharov's words and cadence felt much more like a ship at harbor on a still night, calm, rocking easily back and forth. His words would never command me out to sea, but the words were filled with the promise of adventurous voyage. Most often, they would come in a soft whisper, "It's so simple: love." How like the entire tradition of Orthodoxy.
This morning, after morning prayers (which happen every morning at 8am at the Raphael House), Father David asked me to present to the other college agers at the house what I'd learned from Saphrony's theology. I presented for about ten minutes, and was quite thankful for Telford's "present on what you've read" days throughout my college experience; it made today's summary of fairly complex ideas seem like a walk in the park.
So thanks, Telford.
And while I'm on personal communication: Heather Marie, you have a deal. But you had better show up as a follower on my blog... Oh, and I love, love, love the more letters resolution. I'm with you on that one.
Lynne: I'm meeting with Cora Rose next week re: financial wisdom post-college life. So expect a full report on the financial world after that conversation.
People, especially people up here, are asking about the Magic Theatre, because it's imprisoning most of my time (ummm...in the good way). Rehearsals are... rehearsals. Once the mysterious allure of the title "assistant director" gets stripped away, it's a pretty mundane list of things I have to do: scribble verbatim the words Robert (the director) whispers during a run-through like "He needs to stand a little to the left." I make frequent lunch runs. I tell the actors they're doing a good job (because Robert rarely does). And yes... I do get to make occasional creative comments. I'm very pleased to say that I've made a number of suggestions that have found their way into the staging. On the whole: a valuable experience. It tells me Westmont is a solid preparation for life-after-itself if it's taken in tandem with an internship. Will Zak-in-theatre continue? This is doubtful, but remains to be seen.
A nature-y walk is today's goal. I'll also be green-thumbin' it up at the Raphael House, doing some spider-plant relocation.
I finish with a quote from Saphrony [and for clarity's sake, when he says "hating oneself" he's talking about the complete opposite of "self-love" or "selfishness"]: "I is a magnificent word. It signifies persona. Its principal ingredient is love, which opens out, first and foremost, to God. This I does not live in a convulsion of egoistic concentration on self. If wrapped up in self it will continue in its nothingness. The love towards God commanded of us by Christ, which entails hating oneself and renouncing all emotional and fleshly ties, draws the spirit of man into the expanses of Divine eternity. This kind of love is an attribute of Divinity."
The Peace of our Lord Jesus Christ be with you.
Thursday, January 8, 2009
Rest
Listen...
Be Still...
Breathe...
Begin.
There's the extent of my internal monologue.
Tonight the thoughts are too slow to capture even a moment of today. Rest awaits.
Into thy hands, O Lord, I commend my soul and my body. Do thou thyself bless me, have mercy upon me, and grant me life eternal. Amen.
Be Still...
Breathe...
Begin.
There's the extent of my internal monologue.
Tonight the thoughts are too slow to capture even a moment of today. Rest awaits.
Into thy hands, O Lord, I commend my soul and my body. Do thou thyself bless me, have mercy upon me, and grant me life eternal. Amen.
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
7
Angels. Words. Fire. Beings. Light. Energy. Power.
.................I LOVE the number Seven........................
Allow me to take you into my day:
Father John Takahashi reclines in his black cassock, long grey-black hair tied behind him, a hint of a smirk asking me to search harder for the answer to the simple question I've asked. A brilliant chain of gold links shines from his chest and terminates in a huge golden cross. In all the time I sit in his office today, in every moment, I am mindful of this cross.
"What links us to the Saints?" His question to answer mine. He is the image of wisdom: unmoving in his black office chair, one leg casually crossed over the other, coffee mug poised on the armrest. His black eyes are unreadable. He is waiting.
"Ummmm...." I shift uncomfortably in my seat, not sure if wearing a beanie in the office of the priest is something I'm actually allowed to do. I sluff off my hat. "I, uh..." The silence is becoming unbearable. "The Holy Spirit?"
He says nothing for a long time. He blinks once.
"Do you know what a wild card is?" His voice is deep - not booming deep but grating deep, pleasant to hear for the slight foreigness, but wonderfully intimidating. He waits again until I am clearly not going to answer for sheer confusion.
"Do you play cards?"
"Ummm.... yes?" I am uncomfortable to the point of sweating, now. My jacket needs to come off, but too obvious a gesture of discomfort may be an even greater deviation from standard priest protocal. I leave the jacket on.
"Then you know... what is the wild card?"
"The... eh hem... the uh... Joker?"
His eyes betray the slightest twinkle of amusement. A pause. He smiles.
"Yes, the Joker. Once you play the Joker, you win. It's easy. It's too easy." I can't believe that the Joker is becoming a way into my lesson for the day with Father John. "In Orthodoxy," he says in a way that makes me subtly brace for what's coming next, "we do not take the easy way out. Saying 'the Holy Spirit' as an answer to a question from the priest is like playing the Joker in the first round. Too easy. Let's try again."
Have I found the right mentor or WHAT??
For obvious reasons, I LOVED the talk with Father John. For almost forty minutes after the Divine Liturgy (today's the Feast of John the Baptist!), I grilled Father John with questions about Saints, the Orthodox vision for holiness, and even purgatory (which the Orthodox don't subscribe to, I discovered; it was an invention of the middle-ages merchant class that gained widespread acceptance in the Catholic Church). Here are a couple ideas that lingered with me all day:
In the Orthodox understanding, holiness is dynamic. Moving. We Christians have the ability to become more or less holy after we're baptized. My specific question was in regard to the Saints... basically, who are these guys and why are they important enough to pray to? So the first question first. Who are they? ...or what makes saints Saints?
Father John put it this way: many can swim, but not all are Olympic swimmers. He pointed out that Paul calls all Christians 'saints' [there's a good chance he'd point to a passage like Col 1:12 to back this up], and went on to explain the power of holiness conferred to a believer at baptism. At baptism it's like: Boom. Holy. Covered with Christ and Annointed by Spirit. Yet that just begins the process of sanctification. The 'Saints' celebrated in Orthodoxy are the ones that really did what Jesus taught. They lived the words to completion in their God-given situations. This idea makes a lot of sense to me, how you might be a "swimmer," but not an "Olympian." Furthermore, we might say people are "born with an abundance of talent that allows them even the chance at the Olympics." In the same way, perhaps we could say God blesses some with the Grace to become Saints. I don't mean in any way to diminish our role to actually work out the faith. Holiness is, in a huge part, up to us. I like how Orthodoxy calls that one as it is: you gotta work for Sanctification. ...and it ain't easy.
To the other question - why pray to them? - Father John had a couple interesting things to say. He first redefined prayer: "We do not pray to Saints; we pray to God." That made me curious, because I've seen many "prayers to Saints." He said, "Prayer is our language of conversation with God, and it can take many forms. Crossing yourself is a form of prayer. Doing good works is a form of prayer. Reciting the Creed, or speaking the Psalms, or asking for counsel can also all be forms of prayer." So, it seems to me that by his definition, prayer is an intentional mode of being. Prayer is living your life in relation to the Other. It's a much larger view of prayer. So in this context, it makes total sense: "We do not pray to Saints, we pray to God." But, he said, we ask Saints for guidance, and we ask Saints to pray for us. His example was again helpful: "If your kitchen faucet doesn't work, what would you do?" We set up a little scheme where I'd try to fix it myself, then call a friend if I couldn't fix it, then call the plummer if we both couldn't fix it, etc. The chain would go to the SF dept of Water, then the Mayor, the Governor, the President. (Apparently, this was a really bad kitchen sink problem.) His point was that "it's the same in Orthodoxy." It was kind of the do-it-yourself method of Sanctification. When the problem is too big for you to handle on your own strength, have a friend help you, then the Priest, and then the Saints, and if none of them can help you, you pray to God. Now, obviously, Father John would tell me to pray, and to invoke the Saints help even if I wasn't in a dire situation. But this helped me to see the value of asking the Saints for help; they are certainly farther along than I in the whole Sanctification process.
So, there you have it. Notes from the Office of Father John Takahashi, Holy Trinity Cathedral, San Francisco, CA.
Lord, teach me to pray. Teach me the hard road to Sainthood. I fear I may not understand what I'm praying... but there it is. As it is written, let it stand. Lord, have mercy. Amen.
.................I LOVE the number Seven........................
Allow me to take you into my day:
Father John Takahashi reclines in his black cassock, long grey-black hair tied behind him, a hint of a smirk asking me to search harder for the answer to the simple question I've asked. A brilliant chain of gold links shines from his chest and terminates in a huge golden cross. In all the time I sit in his office today, in every moment, I am mindful of this cross.
"What links us to the Saints?" His question to answer mine. He is the image of wisdom: unmoving in his black office chair, one leg casually crossed over the other, coffee mug poised on the armrest. His black eyes are unreadable. He is waiting.
"Ummmm...." I shift uncomfortably in my seat, not sure if wearing a beanie in the office of the priest is something I'm actually allowed to do. I sluff off my hat. "I, uh..." The silence is becoming unbearable. "The Holy Spirit?"
He says nothing for a long time. He blinks once.
"Do you know what a wild card is?" His voice is deep - not booming deep but grating deep, pleasant to hear for the slight foreigness, but wonderfully intimidating. He waits again until I am clearly not going to answer for sheer confusion.
"Do you play cards?"
"Ummm.... yes?" I am uncomfortable to the point of sweating, now. My jacket needs to come off, but too obvious a gesture of discomfort may be an even greater deviation from standard priest protocal. I leave the jacket on.
"Then you know... what is the wild card?"
"The... eh hem... the uh... Joker?"
His eyes betray the slightest twinkle of amusement. A pause. He smiles.
"Yes, the Joker. Once you play the Joker, you win. It's easy. It's too easy." I can't believe that the Joker is becoming a way into my lesson for the day with Father John. "In Orthodoxy," he says in a way that makes me subtly brace for what's coming next, "we do not take the easy way out. Saying 'the Holy Spirit' as an answer to a question from the priest is like playing the Joker in the first round. Too easy. Let's try again."
Have I found the right mentor or WHAT??
For obvious reasons, I LOVED the talk with Father John. For almost forty minutes after the Divine Liturgy (today's the Feast of John the Baptist!), I grilled Father John with questions about Saints, the Orthodox vision for holiness, and even purgatory (which the Orthodox don't subscribe to, I discovered; it was an invention of the middle-ages merchant class that gained widespread acceptance in the Catholic Church). Here are a couple ideas that lingered with me all day:
In the Orthodox understanding, holiness is dynamic. Moving. We Christians have the ability to become more or less holy after we're baptized. My specific question was in regard to the Saints... basically, who are these guys and why are they important enough to pray to? So the first question first. Who are they? ...or what makes saints Saints?
Father John put it this way: many can swim, but not all are Olympic swimmers. He pointed out that Paul calls all Christians 'saints' [there's a good chance he'd point to a passage like Col 1:12 to back this up], and went on to explain the power of holiness conferred to a believer at baptism. At baptism it's like: Boom. Holy. Covered with Christ and Annointed by Spirit. Yet that just begins the process of sanctification. The 'Saints' celebrated in Orthodoxy are the ones that really did what Jesus taught. They lived the words to completion in their God-given situations. This idea makes a lot of sense to me, how you might be a "swimmer," but not an "Olympian." Furthermore, we might say people are "born with an abundance of talent that allows them even the chance at the Olympics." In the same way, perhaps we could say God blesses some with the Grace to become Saints. I don't mean in any way to diminish our role to actually work out the faith. Holiness is, in a huge part, up to us. I like how Orthodoxy calls that one as it is: you gotta work for Sanctification. ...and it ain't easy.
To the other question - why pray to them? - Father John had a couple interesting things to say. He first redefined prayer: "We do not pray to Saints; we pray to God." That made me curious, because I've seen many "prayers to Saints." He said, "Prayer is our language of conversation with God, and it can take many forms. Crossing yourself is a form of prayer. Doing good works is a form of prayer. Reciting the Creed, or speaking the Psalms, or asking for counsel can also all be forms of prayer." So, it seems to me that by his definition, prayer is an intentional mode of being. Prayer is living your life in relation to the Other. It's a much larger view of prayer. So in this context, it makes total sense: "We do not pray to Saints, we pray to God." But, he said, we ask Saints for guidance, and we ask Saints to pray for us. His example was again helpful: "If your kitchen faucet doesn't work, what would you do?" We set up a little scheme where I'd try to fix it myself, then call a friend if I couldn't fix it, then call the plummer if we both couldn't fix it, etc. The chain would go to the SF dept of Water, then the Mayor, the Governor, the President. (Apparently, this was a really bad kitchen sink problem.) His point was that "it's the same in Orthodoxy." It was kind of the do-it-yourself method of Sanctification. When the problem is too big for you to handle on your own strength, have a friend help you, then the Priest, and then the Saints, and if none of them can help you, you pray to God. Now, obviously, Father John would tell me to pray, and to invoke the Saints help even if I wasn't in a dire situation. But this helped me to see the value of asking the Saints for help; they are certainly farther along than I in the whole Sanctification process.
So, there you have it. Notes from the Office of Father John Takahashi, Holy Trinity Cathedral, San Francisco, CA.
Lord, teach me to pray. Teach me the hard road to Sainthood. I fear I may not understand what I'm praying... but there it is. As it is written, let it stand. Lord, have mercy. Amen.
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
San Francisco is Magic
Ladies and Gents,
I owe you the deepest of apologies. I have been railing for days now about how I only have amorphous "READERS" and no co-story-livers, and, idiot that I am, found out yesterday night that y'all had been commenting the whole time. And SO! My humblest groveling. This is what I have to say to you:
SUZY!!! Not only do you win the prize for being -The First- to comment on my blog, Ever, you also get the "wow she's awesome" award for, ummm..... telling me to 'peace' out in a way that made me imagine you in a sideways ball cap with ghetto, frown-but-hard-core lips and a peace sign in front of the camera. I also owe you a phone call. :)
Mr. Hayward... You are a pillar of erudition, my friend. I hope and expect that our conversations become, well, more erudite. I'll do my best on the Orthodox end if you boost my American History knowledge. Mwa ha ha. Here's to post-Mont learning.
Lynne: Victorian England indeed! I had that planned all along. I have three things to say to you: 1) I'm excited to write about the two topics you asked me to write about 2) your blog is amazingly well bloggericized, as in, I want you to give me LESSONS in how to make my blog as aesthetically super-cool as yours and 3) I invite, hope, and anticipate your inclusion in the 'followers' section of my blog. ..............You have three days.
Ms. White: your commenting skills rank is....... no.
Kellie: your words are... WOW. I know I tell you this a bunch, but here's a public hoot and holler (you should read that as though I'm in full cowboy regalia: Stetson hat and Justin boots, horse behind me) Daaaamn, wumin! Ya kin write dam dang wurds now purty well i gotta say! (Oh, yes, and on a slightly more serious note, I really, really love your comments on my theology/spiritual writing/heart travails. They tend to make the cloudier things clear. So thanks.)
KELSEY QUINLAN?! I almost fell off my chair. You read my blog? (to be spoken with an ascending trill reaching the falsetto, which, of course, brings with it a single tear) I'm honored.
NOW...... while we're being personal.........
Michael Conrad the Second??? WHERE are YOU???
And less loudly, but with eyebrows raised, FAMILY??? ANYONE???
Ah hem...
After a deep sigh, a hearty laugh, and a 'hmmmmm' that begins the thoughts of the day, I continue:
Church was wonderful. My goal is to write an entry on Orthodoxy by the end of this week. And oh, what an entry it will be. Orthodoxy is affecting me; I'd love to take y'all along for the ride.
Tough Titty continues to be wonderful. We began blocking today. Line of the day: [to God] "And in the name of Saint Francis the Sissy, please bless my dog Sloopy, even though she's just a dog, and please don't let her die before me, ok?"
Saphrony's theology (remember this is the book I'm reading?) is beautiful. Just beautiful. In a carefully systematic way, he shows us how Jesus makes God known by the willful emptying of himself, the pouring out, the kenosis, even in abandonment on the cross. And we can enter into this divine love by pouring ourselves out. We can, in the emptying of ourselves and complete concern for the other people in our lives, begin to know God experientially. (I hope I didn't lose y'all with that statement.) Basically, this man has gotten me excited to pour myself out, because that is the path of Christ.
Friends, (for I now thankfully know to whom I write)
May Christ be with you tonight and always. May the Spirit send His blessed Peace to your Hearts. With love. Always.
-ZL
I owe you the deepest of apologies. I have been railing for days now about how I only have amorphous "READERS" and no co-story-livers, and, idiot that I am, found out yesterday night that y'all had been commenting the whole time. And SO! My humblest groveling. This is what I have to say to you:
SUZY!!! Not only do you win the prize for being -The First- to comment on my blog, Ever, you also get the "wow she's awesome" award for, ummm..... telling me to 'peace' out in a way that made me imagine you in a sideways ball cap with ghetto, frown-but-hard-core lips and a peace sign in front of the camera. I also owe you a phone call. :)
Mr. Hayward... You are a pillar of erudition, my friend. I hope and expect that our conversations become, well, more erudite. I'll do my best on the Orthodox end if you boost my American History knowledge. Mwa ha ha. Here's to post-Mont learning.
Lynne: Victorian England indeed! I had that planned all along. I have three things to say to you: 1) I'm excited to write about the two topics you asked me to write about 2) your blog is amazingly well bloggericized, as in, I want you to give me LESSONS in how to make my blog as aesthetically super-cool as yours and 3) I invite, hope, and anticipate your inclusion in the 'followers' section of my blog. ..............You have three days.
Ms. White: your commenting skills rank is....... no.
Kellie: your words are... WOW. I know I tell you this a bunch, but here's a public hoot and holler (you should read that as though I'm in full cowboy regalia: Stetson hat and Justin boots, horse behind me) Daaaamn, wumin! Ya kin write dam dang wurds now purty well i gotta say! (Oh, yes, and on a slightly more serious note, I really, really love your comments on my theology/spiritual writing/heart travails. They tend to make the cloudier things clear. So thanks.)
KELSEY QUINLAN?! I almost fell off my chair. You read my blog? (to be spoken with an ascending trill reaching the falsetto, which, of course, brings with it a single tear) I'm honored.
NOW...... while we're being personal.........
Michael Conrad the Second??? WHERE are YOU???
And less loudly, but with eyebrows raised, FAMILY??? ANYONE???
Ah hem...
After a deep sigh, a hearty laugh, and a 'hmmmmm' that begins the thoughts of the day, I continue:
Church was wonderful. My goal is to write an entry on Orthodoxy by the end of this week. And oh, what an entry it will be. Orthodoxy is affecting me; I'd love to take y'all along for the ride.
Tough Titty continues to be wonderful. We began blocking today. Line of the day: [to God] "And in the name of Saint Francis the Sissy, please bless my dog Sloopy, even though she's just a dog, and please don't let her die before me, ok?"
Saphrony's theology (remember this is the book I'm reading?) is beautiful. Just beautiful. In a carefully systematic way, he shows us how Jesus makes God known by the willful emptying of himself, the pouring out, the kenosis, even in abandonment on the cross. And we can enter into this divine love by pouring ourselves out. We can, in the emptying of ourselves and complete concern for the other people in our lives, begin to know God experientially. (I hope I didn't lose y'all with that statement.) Basically, this man has gotten me excited to pour myself out, because that is the path of Christ.
Friends, (for I now thankfully know to whom I write)
May Christ be with you tonight and always. May the Spirit send His blessed Peace to your Hearts. With love. Always.
-ZL
Monday, January 5, 2009
5 for 5. 1.000 avg. Not bad for a Ball Player.
Five days into the New Year, I've blogged... Five days. For a man whose average project works at the ratio of 300% efficiency to 10% consistency, this blog represents a surprising, if not stunning development in the New Year's resolution game.
But can it continue? Dun dun dun...
Watch out, reader, tonight I'm feeling verbose; it's been an all-out sprint through the first five days of 2009 - four of which have been spent in the theatre, the Ultimate Cauldron of Intensity - and just now am I finally excited to write to my unseen audience. I have hours before me, and a good book waiting for me. My spirit is energetic Peace, bubbling with blips of imagination. How much can I say? Where should I start?
First, reader, (if you exist) I would love to know that you exist. Drop a comment under my words. Tell me something clever, like, "Hey, author, why don't you stop calling me reader!" and then tell me how I should read that in a three and a half year old's voice and should probably respond with a "Nuh uuh! I'm telling daddy yur callin me bad naaaames.........."
Whoa. Zak. Did you really just write that? Self respect = all-time low.
Today I washed mold from my bathroom ceiling, and there's a good chance the chemicals or the air-borne mold spores are affecting my brain. I also changed water filters. The old ones were caked with a layer of brown unidentifiable muck, and touching said muck is also probably causing adverse effects. The Raphael House will get the best of me.
Structure would really help my blogging. As in: for the next five days, I will speak on... [This is where reader input would be spectacular.]
K. I'm breathing slower now...
I have really two things I'd like to talk about before I retire to the book that's waiting for me. (In case you, reader, are wondering, this book is monk Nicholas V. Sakharov's theological encouragment to Love. Though it's hard to understand at times, it's gloriously rewarding.) So. The two things:
The first is an email I wrote to Rachel Mertensmeyer, editor of this year's Westmont publication, The Horizon, where I basically begged to write for the paper. The tone was more or less, "I'm living this amazing life, and I'm learning so much about the just-after-college mystery. Can I please share some of the lessons with Westmontees?" Then the Montecito fires happened.
As Westmont's life plows ahead (or sprints ahead), my thoughts, ideas, "lessons," are left like a hitchhiker in the desert. However, my interest hasn't died, and as this is my blog, I figure I'll pick up where the Horizon's interest dropped off. Here's the email I sent to Rachel a few months ago:
****
****
So there it is.
Perhaps I could just substitue "Hey YOU!" for "Dear Rachel," at the beginning of this note. Any thoughts? You should send me an email or comment or call me or refer me to your blog so that I can know what you want to know. I would love to write on all these topics - I did author the list - and have also come up with a number of other ideas since. Write to me. I will write back.
Number 2. Remember, I had two things to tell you before I retire to my book?
I'm looking forward to tomorrow. The sounds of the San Francisco Muni system intrude through my window as I close my eyes, breathe, smile, and then imagine: tomorrow will be... Prayer in a 100 year old Cathedral, mysterious gold thread of the priestly vestments, sung Creeds and blessed water. January 6th is the Great Feast of the Theophany of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ, the Great Feast where we celebrates the Trinity's revelation to the world at Christ's baptism. I imagine my meeting with Father John: sage words meet curious questioner's impulsive voice. And after that? A plodding walk to Magic opens a world of staging, planning, creating a working piece of cancerously poetic theatre. I have a full day to anticipate.
So the summed up version of Number 2 is: Dream More, Visionary.
If I claim to have these big plans with even bigger ideas, then why does it take an extreme will of effort to carve out even a fraction of a moment in the day to Dream? Even the mini-dreams of what happens tomorrow! Without feeding this playful beast, I will become the greatest fear of any man: insignificant static.
Lord, let my Dreams, Words, Future, be bent on feeding the souls of others. "Poured out like a drink offering." Teach me what those words mean, not in the abstract, but in the tangibly touched. Teach me to Give. Amen.
But can it continue? Dun dun dun...
Watch out, reader, tonight I'm feeling verbose; it's been an all-out sprint through the first five days of 2009 - four of which have been spent in the theatre, the Ultimate Cauldron of Intensity - and just now am I finally excited to write to my unseen audience. I have hours before me, and a good book waiting for me. My spirit is energetic Peace, bubbling with blips of imagination. How much can I say? Where should I start?
First, reader, (if you exist) I would love to know that you exist. Drop a comment under my words. Tell me something clever, like, "Hey, author, why don't you stop calling me reader!" and then tell me how I should read that in a three and a half year old's voice and should probably respond with a "Nuh uuh! I'm telling daddy yur callin me bad naaaames.........."
Whoa. Zak. Did you really just write that? Self respect = all-time low.
Today I washed mold from my bathroom ceiling, and there's a good chance the chemicals or the air-borne mold spores are affecting my brain. I also changed water filters. The old ones were caked with a layer of brown unidentifiable muck, and touching said muck is also probably causing adverse effects. The Raphael House will get the best of me.
Structure would really help my blogging. As in: for the next five days, I will speak on... [This is where reader input would be spectacular.]
K. I'm breathing slower now...
I have really two things I'd like to talk about before I retire to the book that's waiting for me. (In case you, reader, are wondering, this book is monk Nicholas V. Sakharov's theological encouragment to Love. Though it's hard to understand at times, it's gloriously rewarding.) So. The two things:
The first is an email I wrote to Rachel Mertensmeyer, editor of this year's Westmont publication, The Horizon, where I basically begged to write for the paper. The tone was more or less, "I'm living this amazing life, and I'm learning so much about the just-after-college mystery. Can I please share some of the lessons with Westmontees?" Then the Montecito fires happened.
As Westmont's life plows ahead (or sprints ahead), my thoughts, ideas, "lessons," are left like a hitchhiker in the desert. However, my interest hasn't died, and as this is my blog, I figure I'll pick up where the Horizon's interest dropped off. Here's the email I sent to Rachel a few months ago:
****
Rachel,
I've been thinking quite a lot about contributing to the Horizon recently. It's weird... I'm in one of the coolest cities in the world, and for a long time I didn't feel like I really had anything to talk about. It was as though I was so overwhelmed by the last two months of complete immersion, that I couldn't even sink my thoughts into anything simple enough to be "just a Horizon article." But as I was working the other day, meditatively painting, it was as though the Peace of God descended and I began to think, "Yeah... that's what I need to write." So here is my proposal:
I would like to write a regular or semi-regular column for the Horizon (that could potentially continue through the end of the school year) that deals with very practical (and sometimes not-so-practical) first-year-out-of-college issues. I have been harshly confronted by many realities in the city of San Francisco that my experience at Westmont simply didn't prepare me for, and I think students would both benefit by and immensely enjoy the honest travails of a just-graduated alumni making life decisions off the Mont. Here's a small list of topics I think have immediate interest:
1) Manual Labor - a lost art in Liberal Arts (I'm working as a Carpenter in the city; liberal arts at work indeed! Where are my books?! I had to confront the fact that in order to eat, I had to make money, and the only way to do that was by doing the classic blue-collar clock-in, clock-out.)
2) Homosexuality: is it really wrong? (I'm working very closely with an outspoken gay man on a play, and one night we had a wonderfully open conversation about homosexuals vs. religious people and the judgments that run rampant between the crowds)
3) Why I'm becoming Orthodox (Redemption History led me quite directly to the gates of the Orthodox Church... I believe Westmont perfectly prepared me for this rich tradition of faith, but I knew practically nothing of it until the last week of my senior year. How is that possible?)
4) Volunteering as a way of life (I'm living at "The Raphael House," a shelter that helps families in transition. I do maintenance work in exchange for room and board. It's an Orthodox community here, and - edging out Westmont for number one - is the closest thing I've ever experienced to the Kingdom of God outside the Church.)
5) 401K, Savings, Tithe, and Massive Bills: How to deal (While I can really only speak from my experience - all two and a half months of it! :) - I have been starkly confronted with the reality of money. I think I could offer a little wisdom as a navigate all of these things, planning for the future myself. For example: how much does it cost for health insurance? Car insurance? What percent of your income is good to save/spend?
6) Learning as a way of life (Reading keeps you on your toes intellectually, and I have some thoughts in terms of how to continue the education past Westmont, first of which is that to continue learning is A CHOICE. I would particularly highlight the relatively young website "Goodreads" as a great resource)
7) Using the Alumni Network (I've had regular conversations with this absolutely lovely, elderly woman named Rusty who used to work at Westmont. She has so much wisdom, and this could easily be an article about the power of having older, wiser people in our lives as mentors)
8) Domestic in an International City (I shop in Chinatown, get coffee in Little Italy, live two blocks from the Tenderloin, and go to Church near Russian Hill. I hear different languages all the time. Oh, yes, and live with people from Russia, Lebanon, and other parts of the world. Do Westmont people realize how important current events are? ...ummm. No. They don't.)
9) (and I'm not sure if I should write this...but it's an idea, anyway) Long Distance Dating: What keeps the connection alive? (Kellie and I have been together now for about six months, and most of that time has been long distance. While I certainly don't want to make the paper a forum for my 'private' life, I do feel like it's an issue lots of Westmontees deal with and something that not many people talk about.)
All of this to say, I have been living life in the extreme, and would love to share with an audience where I still have some connection. I'm close enough to Westmont to still know how it works and what it's like to be "in it," but have been living outside of it enough that I think I could really help some seniors with big questions. There are still many people there who I deeply love and care for, and this would be a fun and engaging way for them to hear "what's going on with that guy who moved to San Francisco."
Love to hear your thoughts,
Zak
****
So there it is.
Perhaps I could just substitue "Hey YOU!" for "Dear Rachel," at the beginning of this note. Any thoughts? You should send me an email or comment or call me or refer me to your blog so that I can know what you want to know. I would love to write on all these topics - I did author the list - and have also come up with a number of other ideas since. Write to me. I will write back.
Number 2. Remember, I had two things to tell you before I retire to my book?
I'm looking forward to tomorrow. The sounds of the San Francisco Muni system intrude through my window as I close my eyes, breathe, smile, and then imagine: tomorrow will be... Prayer in a 100 year old Cathedral, mysterious gold thread of the priestly vestments, sung Creeds and blessed water. January 6th is the Great Feast of the Theophany of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ, the Great Feast where we celebrates the Trinity's revelation to the world at Christ's baptism. I imagine my meeting with Father John: sage words meet curious questioner's impulsive voice. And after that? A plodding walk to Magic opens a world of staging, planning, creating a working piece of cancerously poetic theatre. I have a full day to anticipate.
So the summed up version of Number 2 is: Dream More, Visionary.
If I claim to have these big plans with even bigger ideas, then why does it take an extreme will of effort to carve out even a fraction of a moment in the day to Dream? Even the mini-dreams of what happens tomorrow! Without feeding this playful beast, I will become the greatest fear of any man: insignificant static.
Lord, let my Dreams, Words, Future, be bent on feeding the souls of others. "Poured out like a drink offering." Teach me what those words mean, not in the abstract, but in the tangibly touched. Teach me to Give. Amen.
Sunday, January 4, 2009
The Sun, Moon, and Stars day of Creation
How is it I can't start writing until 9:51PM?
Sigh.
More happened today.
...Deep, I know.
It's Sunday.
One brief account before I stumble the fifteen feet from my computer to my bed:
I was more than a little nervous ascending the steps of Holy Trinity Cathedral today. After a lovely breakfast with Ruth and Cora, I walked up Van Ness wondering, "Should I wait six minutes for the bus and pay a dollar fifty or just book it for the Church and hope my six minutes of walking will get me there on time?" I opted for the walking. It must be the Scottish in me: "I ain't payin' no dullurr 'n a haf to rrrrride me no boos ta cherrrrrch."
But I digress.
Nervousness. Right.
It had been almost a month since I'd been to Holy Trinity and there had been a trip to visit my family - the ultimate 'return to your roots' tour - and I was unsure of whether Holy Trinity, much less Orthodoxy in general, would feel as Right, True, Correct as it did before I left. Also, with the Magic Theatre feeling so Church-like over the last two days I was Off. Center. Walking up those stairs and then smelling the incense, the priest's intonation, the bells, Bishop Benjamin, the candles, the icons.... I felt like a top wobbling on the table just before crash-and-burn.
But - and how the Holy Spirit does this, I will not even begin to TRY to explain - by the end of that service I felt like I was back Home. Back in Peace. Back in Tune. There were a number of small course corrections that happened to my spirit in the Divine Liturgy: a delighted smile from a friend who I hadn't seen in a month, a quick hand on my shoulder to say "I'm happy you're here," a twitchy wave from someone so as not to disrupt the service. Then the words: the Creed, the Confession, the Gospel, Father David's homily, Bishop Benjamin's blessing. In all these moments, I felt the Holy Spirit kneading, working my soul. But after Communion today, I was transported; Ian, my actor friend who runs a painting business and reads the epistle in the Service, unknowingly returned me to my first real moment of Orthodoxy: he gave me bread. I didn't go get communion (I'm not allowed to yet...), and Ian knows this. Many people in the Church know this by now: Zak is not Orthodox, but he keeps coming to service. So Ian, after he takes Communion, gets a piece of blessed bread and comes straight for me. I'm sitting in the back, praying. His hands are at my eye level, and his fingers slowly unfold a napkin hiding the bread he's brought specifically for me. I look up to his gentle eyes and goofy smile, and he says, "Have some." In that moment, Christ came to me. "This is what it's about," I thought. Feeding the family. Feeding those that come to the door and knock. Giving. Blessing. Inviting.
As Ian walked away, back toward his official post, I almost started crying.
Thanks, Jesus, for working through your Body today.
Lord, have mercy upon Christians everywhere as they do this kind of work. Give them Peaceful smiles and the open palms to do...well...what you ask us to. Fill them with Joy. And as with them, so also with me. Lord, have mercy.
Sigh.
More happened today.
...Deep, I know.
It's Sunday.
One brief account before I stumble the fifteen feet from my computer to my bed:
I was more than a little nervous ascending the steps of Holy Trinity Cathedral today. After a lovely breakfast with Ruth and Cora, I walked up Van Ness wondering, "Should I wait six minutes for the bus and pay a dollar fifty or just book it for the Church and hope my six minutes of walking will get me there on time?" I opted for the walking. It must be the Scottish in me: "I ain't payin' no dullurr 'n a haf to rrrrride me no boos ta cherrrrrch."
But I digress.
Nervousness. Right.
It had been almost a month since I'd been to Holy Trinity and there had been a trip to visit my family - the ultimate 'return to your roots' tour - and I was unsure of whether Holy Trinity, much less Orthodoxy in general, would feel as Right, True, Correct as it did before I left. Also, with the Magic Theatre feeling so Church-like over the last two days I was Off. Center. Walking up those stairs and then smelling the incense, the priest's intonation, the bells, Bishop Benjamin, the candles, the icons.... I felt like a top wobbling on the table just before crash-and-burn.
But - and how the Holy Spirit does this, I will not even begin to TRY to explain - by the end of that service I felt like I was back Home. Back in Peace. Back in Tune. There were a number of small course corrections that happened to my spirit in the Divine Liturgy: a delighted smile from a friend who I hadn't seen in a month, a quick hand on my shoulder to say "I'm happy you're here," a twitchy wave from someone so as not to disrupt the service. Then the words: the Creed, the Confession, the Gospel, Father David's homily, Bishop Benjamin's blessing. In all these moments, I felt the Holy Spirit kneading, working my soul. But after Communion today, I was transported; Ian, my actor friend who runs a painting business and reads the epistle in the Service, unknowingly returned me to my first real moment of Orthodoxy: he gave me bread. I didn't go get communion (I'm not allowed to yet...), and Ian knows this. Many people in the Church know this by now: Zak is not Orthodox, but he keeps coming to service. So Ian, after he takes Communion, gets a piece of blessed bread and comes straight for me. I'm sitting in the back, praying. His hands are at my eye level, and his fingers slowly unfold a napkin hiding the bread he's brought specifically for me. I look up to his gentle eyes and goofy smile, and he says, "Have some." In that moment, Christ came to me. "This is what it's about," I thought. Feeding the family. Feeding those that come to the door and knock. Giving. Blessing. Inviting.
As Ian walked away, back toward his official post, I almost started crying.
Thanks, Jesus, for working through your Body today.
Lord, have mercy upon Christians everywhere as they do this kind of work. Give them Peaceful smiles and the open palms to do...well...what you ask us to. Fill them with Joy. And as with them, so also with me. Lord, have mercy.
Saturday, January 3, 2009
And on the third day...
I am really beginning to wonder how this is supposed to work.
Is it really helpful for me just to spew my thoughts to cyberspace and pretend that someone's listening? Should blog replace journal? You, dear reader (if I am to dare address you as such), are experiencing not just the days thoughts and reflections, but are listening to a wandering soul who is wondering: Just what IS a blog?
Should I tell them every detail? ...or just one thought of the day?
Do I bare my real concerns, fears, toxic thoughts that need healing? ...or do I make this a place of "imparting wisdom"? (what wisdom, son?)
Is the place to sum up the day or welcome in the dreams of tomorrow?
Can a blog be a 'web' 'log' like Jean Luc Picard's "Captain's Log"? Yes, friends, that was a Star Trek reference.
And just WHO is my AUDIENCE???
THAT, right there, is what I Must. Know. Till then, this blog is just a riddle shot like a bullet straight in the air. Figure me out! I dare you! Take these words and dissect me! But who's out there??? Who am I talking to??? Who are YOU?
Until I know...
Dear God of cyberspace, my unseen, ever-listening, all-too-honest friend, please enjoy my stories and whisper to that small place just inside my ear, "Your day was worth something."
I walked the forty-five minute journey to the theatre today. Quite the story, I know. ...But here's one thing I noticed: just outside the building christened "Beauty School," were two trees coming out of the pavement. You know what I mean: one of the squares of concrete had been removed so a little "green" could exist on the city sidewalks. Charming. Right? Well, around these trees, where dirt or small flowers should have been was instead: astroturf. Fake grass was the Beauty School's solution to the problem of dirt around their trees.
A philosophy on life, perhaps: if it ain't pretty, cover it up with somethin fake. Make up, astroturf, doesn't matter! Just cover up the dirt.
I shook my head and walked on.
Today was more of the same: wonderfully raw human connection. There were eleven people around our table today (which just so happened to be in the middle of the stage where this is gonna be performed) and we picnicked through this play. Laughter, tears, jokes, anger; we were com-passion today.
I wish the Church talked about humanity with the same love that my co-creators do. I wish the body of Christ would talk about making love and making bread with the same openness, giving honor to the prayer-acts of this life that people live out every day. I wish that the Church would take the time to understand people - to Stand Under people - in the way that our cast has joined in the suffering of Oni Feida Lampley. We honor this woman's legacy by diving into every doctor's office, evening with the kids, tender moment with her Momma, and join with her, traversing the path of suffering. She loses herself to the cancer. And I don't mean this like "she lost the battle with cancer" even though she ultimately did; I mean she surrendered to her path, the Path God set before her since time immemorial, and she learned to Love in her situation. Her last line breathes acceptance, surrender, Peace. When she accepts she has no wisdom, she breaks through to Wisdom itself. And no! It's not. that. deep. But all day I was confronted with "Zak, what have you given up? What do you give up on a regular basis? You have your health, your body, your energy, your living expenses paid for, no college debt looming over your head, a life full of people who love you, and what? What, Zak, are you surrendering? What will it take for you to learn how to pray as this woman, Angie, Oni, did? Have you really accepted who you are? Or are you still blindly searching?" The questions, come, unrelenting from the small voice inside.
I think we all have our own set of uncomfortable questions, these self-made realities that lurk unseen till some brutal force makes us confront them. We all have demons. Am I accepting myself? And even so, is that the ultimate path to freedom? Self-acceptance? What about Christ -- where does He fit in this picture? Jesus is God dying to Self, and being raised to the right hand of the Father, the ultimate example of dying to Self and being glorified because of it. It's hard to name in myself what part of the path I'm on right now: should I accept myself or pour myself out for others? Or is that myself, this 'pouring out'? To Name my own shortcomings and strengths so I can accept them is... difficult. But, Zak. Seriously? Get over yourself. It's not actually all about you.
There you go, reader: what this play - only two days in - is already doing to me.
Confession: I regret I became a bit of a Christian contender today. A loud-mouth of the faith. Great work, Zak. The kind that gives evangelicals, Christians, just people in general a bad name. And the root of it? I stopped listening. I tried to be 'right' in a world where what's 'right' is the woman in front of you, speaking her heart. I repent. The Church of the Magic Theatre is teaching me... by not judging me even when I am judgmental.
So. I stop. Sit. Listen to the sound of dogs' paws in the wet grass of Fort Mason park. I take a nap under the warm sun and my even warmer scarf, even as the angrily cold wind tries to take a bite out of my cheek. I sigh, deeply, and... smell. Suddenly, strangers passing become visible, and not just their bodies but their stories, their reasons for passing in that park today. They become important, regal, human. I begin to see: the Other.
Lord have mercy. Lord have mercy. Lord have mercy.
Amen.
Is it really helpful for me just to spew my thoughts to cyberspace and pretend that someone's listening? Should blog replace journal? You, dear reader (if I am to dare address you as such), are experiencing not just the days thoughts and reflections, but are listening to a wandering soul who is wondering: Just what IS a blog?
Should I tell them every detail? ...or just one thought of the day?
Do I bare my real concerns, fears, toxic thoughts that need healing? ...or do I make this a place of "imparting wisdom"? (what wisdom, son?)
Is the place to sum up the day or welcome in the dreams of tomorrow?
Can a blog be a 'web' 'log' like Jean Luc Picard's "Captain's Log"? Yes, friends, that was a Star Trek reference.
And just WHO is my AUDIENCE???
THAT, right there, is what I Must. Know. Till then, this blog is just a riddle shot like a bullet straight in the air. Figure me out! I dare you! Take these words and dissect me! But who's out there??? Who am I talking to??? Who are YOU?
Until I know...
Dear God of cyberspace, my unseen, ever-listening, all-too-honest friend, please enjoy my stories and whisper to that small place just inside my ear, "Your day was worth something."
I walked the forty-five minute journey to the theatre today. Quite the story, I know. ...But here's one thing I noticed: just outside the building christened "Beauty School," were two trees coming out of the pavement. You know what I mean: one of the squares of concrete had been removed so a little "green" could exist on the city sidewalks. Charming. Right? Well, around these trees, where dirt or small flowers should have been was instead: astroturf. Fake grass was the Beauty School's solution to the problem of dirt around their trees.
A philosophy on life, perhaps: if it ain't pretty, cover it up with somethin fake. Make up, astroturf, doesn't matter! Just cover up the dirt.
I shook my head and walked on.
Today was more of the same: wonderfully raw human connection. There were eleven people around our table today (which just so happened to be in the middle of the stage where this is gonna be performed) and we picnicked through this play. Laughter, tears, jokes, anger; we were com-passion today.
I wish the Church talked about humanity with the same love that my co-creators do. I wish the body of Christ would talk about making love and making bread with the same openness, giving honor to the prayer-acts of this life that people live out every day. I wish that the Church would take the time to understand people - to Stand Under people - in the way that our cast has joined in the suffering of Oni Feida Lampley. We honor this woman's legacy by diving into every doctor's office, evening with the kids, tender moment with her Momma, and join with her, traversing the path of suffering. She loses herself to the cancer. And I don't mean this like "she lost the battle with cancer" even though she ultimately did; I mean she surrendered to her path, the Path God set before her since time immemorial, and she learned to Love in her situation. Her last line breathes acceptance, surrender, Peace. When she accepts she has no wisdom, she breaks through to Wisdom itself. And no! It's not. that. deep. But all day I was confronted with "Zak, what have you given up? What do you give up on a regular basis? You have your health, your body, your energy, your living expenses paid for, no college debt looming over your head, a life full of people who love you, and what? What, Zak, are you surrendering? What will it take for you to learn how to pray as this woman, Angie, Oni, did? Have you really accepted who you are? Or are you still blindly searching?" The questions, come, unrelenting from the small voice inside.
I think we all have our own set of uncomfortable questions, these self-made realities that lurk unseen till some brutal force makes us confront them. We all have demons. Am I accepting myself? And even so, is that the ultimate path to freedom? Self-acceptance? What about Christ -- where does He fit in this picture? Jesus is God dying to Self, and being raised to the right hand of the Father, the ultimate example of dying to Self and being glorified because of it. It's hard to name in myself what part of the path I'm on right now: should I accept myself or pour myself out for others? Or is that myself, this 'pouring out'? To Name my own shortcomings and strengths so I can accept them is... difficult. But, Zak. Seriously? Get over yourself. It's not actually all about you.
There you go, reader: what this play - only two days in - is already doing to me.
Confession: I regret I became a bit of a Christian contender today. A loud-mouth of the faith. Great work, Zak. The kind that gives evangelicals, Christians, just people in general a bad name. And the root of it? I stopped listening. I tried to be 'right' in a world where what's 'right' is the woman in front of you, speaking her heart. I repent. The Church of the Magic Theatre is teaching me... by not judging me even when I am judgmental.
So. I stop. Sit. Listen to the sound of dogs' paws in the wet grass of Fort Mason park. I take a nap under the warm sun and my even warmer scarf, even as the angrily cold wind tries to take a bite out of my cheek. I sigh, deeply, and... smell. Suddenly, strangers passing become visible, and not just their bodies but their stories, their reasons for passing in that park today. They become important, regal, human. I begin to see: the Other.
Lord have mercy. Lord have mercy. Lord have mercy.
Amen.
Friday, January 2, 2009
Day 2
...of the New Year.
"I can't believe it's 2009." How many times have I heard that already? And how many times have I already said it? So, yes, it's here. And the way that I know it's here is particularly cool:
I started working as an Assistant Director at the Magic Theatre today.
The 9:30AM San Francisco mist followed me to the doors of Fort Mason, Warehouse D, Magic Theatre Conference Room. There, in my new poofy blue Michigan jacket still dripping from the morning walk, I sat down beside Robert O' Hara, superb New York director, and exchanged greeting smiles with at least ten production staff. All the departments that got lumped together in Westmont's small world were neatly broken apart here: Costume Designer, Set Designer, Lighting Designer, Technical Director, Production Manager, Production Manager's Assitant, Stage Manager, Costume Assistant, Leiason to the Theatre, Director, Dramaturge, and not least of all - well, no, actually least of all - Assistant Director. Or Assistant to the Director. Time will tell which of these roles I will actually end up playing.
So yes. My first professional theatre meeting. Now I just have to figure out how to get paid.
The real fun, though, came just after lunch today when all the actors (Tough Titty - yes that is the name of this play - has a cast of seven). They did a read through of the full play, then we (by now it's the core production staff and the actors) broke it down scene by scene. The last three hours of today were - I have to say it - simply magic. The cast unlocked the play by breaking open their own hearts: "This moment reminds me of my grandfather who would..." "This is dead-on for my experience as a black woman..." "Ah, she just gets it here when she talks about her friend; I mean I had that same experience..." The openness and vulnerability of today's talk about the play felt strangely like... church. Hm.
A brief note: "Tough Titty" is about an African American woman who battles breast cancer and its crazy effects on her life. And no... it's not "Wit," that super-tear-jerking play that leaves everybody thinking "Oh my GOSH, that's horrible, and I'm so glad I don't have breast cancer." The feeling of this play is much lighter: it's a wild ride of words, feelings that don't always make sense, relationships that have to continue through cancer, and what it means to live with a condition. Angela - the main character - is full of life. Oh, yes, and this is a semi-autobiographical work of a woman named Oni Faida Lampley. She passed just a few months ago.
I am so thankful for tonight. After a long day of work on this lovely play, I walked to Cora's house for a wonderful dinner, then home to this house of Peace. The Raphael House. I am honored and delighted every time I open the door to "my" little room. God's presence hovers over, in, throughout this house. It is a haven.
Lord Jesus, thank you for this House. Thank you for the Magic Theatre. Thank you for this life. I am blessed beyond measure.
"I can't believe it's 2009." How many times have I heard that already? And how many times have I already said it? So, yes, it's here. And the way that I know it's here is particularly cool:
I started working as an Assistant Director at the Magic Theatre today.
The 9:30AM San Francisco mist followed me to the doors of Fort Mason, Warehouse D, Magic Theatre Conference Room. There, in my new poofy blue Michigan jacket still dripping from the morning walk, I sat down beside Robert O' Hara, superb New York director, and exchanged greeting smiles with at least ten production staff. All the departments that got lumped together in Westmont's small world were neatly broken apart here: Costume Designer, Set Designer, Lighting Designer, Technical Director, Production Manager, Production Manager's Assitant, Stage Manager, Costume Assistant, Leiason to the Theatre, Director, Dramaturge, and not least of all - well, no, actually least of all - Assistant Director. Or Assistant to the Director. Time will tell which of these roles I will actually end up playing.
So yes. My first professional theatre meeting. Now I just have to figure out how to get paid.
The real fun, though, came just after lunch today when all the actors (Tough Titty - yes that is the name of this play - has a cast of seven). They did a read through of the full play, then we (by now it's the core production staff and the actors) broke it down scene by scene. The last three hours of today were - I have to say it - simply magic. The cast unlocked the play by breaking open their own hearts: "This moment reminds me of my grandfather who would..." "This is dead-on for my experience as a black woman..." "Ah, she just gets it here when she talks about her friend; I mean I had that same experience..." The openness and vulnerability of today's talk about the play felt strangely like... church. Hm.
A brief note: "Tough Titty" is about an African American woman who battles breast cancer and its crazy effects on her life. And no... it's not "Wit," that super-tear-jerking play that leaves everybody thinking "Oh my GOSH, that's horrible, and I'm so glad I don't have breast cancer." The feeling of this play is much lighter: it's a wild ride of words, feelings that don't always make sense, relationships that have to continue through cancer, and what it means to live with a condition. Angela - the main character - is full of life. Oh, yes, and this is a semi-autobiographical work of a woman named Oni Faida Lampley. She passed just a few months ago.
I am so thankful for tonight. After a long day of work on this lovely play, I walked to Cora's house for a wonderful dinner, then home to this house of Peace. The Raphael House. I am honored and delighted every time I open the door to "my" little room. God's presence hovers over, in, throughout this house. It is a haven.
Lord Jesus, thank you for this House. Thank you for the Magic Theatre. Thank you for this life. I am blessed beyond measure.
Thursday, January 1, 2009
Ab Initio
In the haze of a jetlagged stumble into a Raphael House room: I begin...
...a New Year:
The first year to start away from family, I'm staring down the barrel of the growing-up gun that says, "You're on your own, kid." But I smile back, because I'm not on my own. I am surrounded by people who want only the Kingdom's work to be done, and are willing to simply walk in faith to see it done. The 15 or so staff of the Raphael House are a constant reminder that we are here to serve, here to give ourselves away.
God, help me give myself away. This year...
I will write more. Stamps will be my ever coming and going friends.
I will visit old folks homes. I will ask questions. I will honor their lives.
I will read more - to learn, to encounter, to engage, to go DEEP
I will donate: time, clothes, money, energy, passion, blood
I will pour out mySelf in prayer, in service, in love
How perfectly mysterious that the spark of Hope, of new beginnings, and longing for God's best should come in the quietest, coldest moments of winter.
This promises to be a full, hard, wonderful, important year for
our families
our close friends
our neighbors
our country.
And things will get worse before they get better.
My pledge for the coming months is to strap on the Battle Gear to fight with weapons of Love Lived Out. I will invoke the Guardian of Peace and the Song of Jubilee, for I am going about Kingdom work. Now... and until my breath gives out.
-ZL
2009
Magno Cum Gaudio
Provehito In Altum
"with great joy, launch forward into the deep"
...a New Year:
The first year to start away from family, I'm staring down the barrel of the growing-up gun that says, "You're on your own, kid." But I smile back, because I'm not on my own. I am surrounded by people who want only the Kingdom's work to be done, and are willing to simply walk in faith to see it done. The 15 or so staff of the Raphael House are a constant reminder that we are here to serve, here to give ourselves away.
God, help me give myself away. This year...
I will write more. Stamps will be my ever coming and going friends.
I will visit old folks homes. I will ask questions. I will honor their lives.
I will read more - to learn, to encounter, to engage, to go DEEP
I will donate: time, clothes, money, energy, passion, blood
I will pour out mySelf in prayer, in service, in love
How perfectly mysterious that the spark of Hope, of new beginnings, and longing for God's best should come in the quietest, coldest moments of winter.
This promises to be a full, hard, wonderful, important year for
our families
our close friends
our neighbors
our country.
And things will get worse before they get better.
My pledge for the coming months is to strap on the Battle Gear to fight with weapons of Love Lived Out. I will invoke the Guardian of Peace and the Song of Jubilee, for I am going about Kingdom work. Now... and until my breath gives out.
-ZL
2009
Magno Cum Gaudio
Provehito In Altum
"with great joy, launch forward into the deep"
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