donne i-iv

from Holy Sonnet

XIV by JOHN DONNE

Batter my heart, three-person'd God; for you
As yet but knock; breathe, shine, and seek to mend;
That I may rise, and stand, o'erthrow me, and bend
Your force, to break, blow, burn, and make me new.

Here is the contained violence of a relationship with the Trinity. Can you feel the tension?

He pursues me in three persons. He breaks me, so He can put me back together... so He can mend me. That verb, mend, implies gentle care over something delicate. Picture white fingers pulling a needle and thread through skin and skin.

He mends.

I rise, and stand.

He o'erthrows me, breaks me again, to blow and burn and make me new. In my mind, I see Him knocking me down, gathering me up, knocking me down, gathering me up. He is at once violence and peace, renderer and restorer.

I just keep thinking, every morning and every night--especially tonight, when I sit alone on a swing by the water and watch the satellites stir in the sky--

batter my heart

batter my heart

batter my heart.

Because it's better to be broken.

Two Slaps

Yester:

Thanks to my brother and the Press Coffeehouse & Lounge for the opportunity to play and sing some music for a small group of friends and a few strangers at the coolest café in Olympia. Performing always gives me further inspiration and challenges me to perform more and perform even better.

The Moral Of:

Sometimes I really don't want to give grace to other people because I don't feel like they deserve it. I feel like they ought to earn it somehow, like they need to work for it because they've done some kind of damage that requires repair.

I don't want to be kind to the person who cuts me down in front of my peers, or invest in someone who always flakes out, or go out of my way to include the person who overlooks me.

When I was a teenager, I used to lay in my mom's bed at night and talk her to sleep. I would tell her about boys that I liked, probe her mind about things that I didn't understand, and ask her advice about how to deal with people I didn't get along with.

She would always listen... she would listen so well that often, I would think she had fallen asleep while I was talking.

"Mom," I would say, "are you still awake?"

"Yes."

"Well, what do you think?"

"I think you still need to be gracious, Amanda. When you see that person, smile and say hello. No one's asking you to be her best friend, but you do need to be kind and give grace, no matter what."

Sometimes she would use the phrase "be the better person," or, "don't stoop to their level." My mother's advice may seem simple and trite, but her instruction is like gold to me.

It's not that giving grace makes me better than anyone else, or puts me on a higher level than other people; rather, giving grace makes me better than I was. Giving grace grows me in such a way that I reach a higher level than I was at before. I compare myself with no one but myself.

So, I'm trying to be gracious to you. I know I have enough grace for you because He gives it to me... more and more and more and more and more, etc.

Gigs

Today officially ended twelve minutes ago, but I'm counting this for August 27... it's still dark outside, people.

First round of FAC meetings= Entertaining (Eye patch stories) + Confusing (Why was he talking about how much golf he plays per year?) + Informative (I didn't know Rychelle had a key to the paint supplies... I will utilize this information... soon....)

It all makes me very excited for the school year, and very overwhelmed at how much I still have to do! But I LOVE my job, and I'm so blessed to be teaching.

Also, Captain Ketchum (Principale Pirate) hails from the Caribbean. So you know he's legit.

AND I'm playing at a swanky coffee/wine house, The Press, in downtown Olympia tomorrow night. Do come!

I guess "Jones" is slang for Heroin?

Starting tonight, I'm going to try actual blogging here, instead of confusing people with my indulgence in abstract creativity.

I figure I have the guts to post at least one interesting anecdote a day from my weekdays as a teacher and my weekends as a struggling adventurer. That's right, if Indiana Jones were a woman, she would be me.

Tomorrow, I embark on my second year of teaching high school literature. Classes start in a week, but tomorrow we begin faculty/staff meetings, etc. "Etc." is all you need to know about that for now. We have some madcap meetings, but they serve for great entertainment (unless you're really tired and have a stackload of grading).

You never know what will happen at a faculty meeting: people cry, cell phones ring the melody of The Lord of the Rings (actually, you can ALWAYS count on that one), someone asks if the office is spying on the teachers through speaker phones, we discuss how best to avoid gunshots from inside and outside intruders, we are called on to recite obscure "mottos," etc., etc., etc.

I so look forward to more of that. I'm rather fond of it, really.

Also, my principal is a pirate. But, he's a good pirate. You can tell because he wears his eye patch over the right eye. Principale Pirate. He's got magnificent sense, and I think I would maraud any class under his command.

This One Time

It's 1993. A Monday night, a café in Paris. Jeff Buckley croons. Jeff's guitar croons.

I sit in a metal chair. I wear black shoes, a black hat, a black dress. I drink black tea.

The wind outside moans in harmony with Jeff's haunting Corpus Christi.

It doesn't even matter that I'm alone. I'll be leaving soon,

Before it becomes the same, before you

Lose that something that was worth living through tragedy.

It's 1993.