tomato

“If a woman wants to be a poet, she must dwell in the house of the tomato.”
—Erica Jong

Tomato at my doorstep
Declares itself mediator
Talking tomato silenced on the cutting board
Ruptured flesh speaks foreign language
Gentle tomato smiles wounded
Blood meets acid tongue
Blood travels cracks of cemented heart
Alters topography
Maps reconciliation
Submits to vital organs
Submits to absorption
Sacrificial tomato is reborn
In blood and bone
Hospitality of natural law

 

“Hold me, blow all the pride from my bones, with your fire.

Hold me, breathe on this heart made of stone, keep it pure.”

Hope

Last year Sam, my 11 year-old son, called some kid named Jacob an “emo.” Jacob responded by pushing Sam to the ground and jumping on his leg. So tonight Sam said:

“Remember the guy I called an emo who tried to crush my leg?”

Me: “Unfortunately, yes.”

Sam: “I saw him today and I apologized.”

Me:  “Really?”

Sam: “Yeah, and he said he was sorry too. And you know what?”

Me:  “What?”

Sam: “He’s actually pretty cool. I think we could be friends.”

Just fruits?

I hate it when J and K act more “Christian” than we do. This morning, I was wondering why K feels the need to croon and make unintelligible, rednecky exclamations that cause Jack to howl before 9 a.m. Then I thought, if I do something nice for them maybe it will make them seem less irritating, but they beat me to the punch; five vine-ripened tomatos from their garden were left atop our air conditioner today. I’m considering myself tagged.

Active worship

I was reading some thought provoking ideas about creativity and worship over on The Complex Christ and it got me thinking about crayons.

Put a few small kids at a table with a box of crayons and some paper and they dive in. They don’t question their creative ability (that will happen soon enough) they just have at it and when they’re done, usually without fail, they’ll hand their work to someone and say, “I drew this for you.” And that person is always blessed by the gift from the child.

I don’t know much about the history or traditions of worship. When I started going to church just three years ago I thought it was musical entertainment. I saw a few people appearing to connect spiritually with God in those moments but I had no context for it.

The desire to serve or bring something to the gathering vs. taking from it, has never been foreign to me but I’m not sure I’ve ever applied it to worship. Worship has been mostly a meditative, private experience where, in the presence of others, I attempt to “feel” the presence of the Lord, express love for the Lord, etc. Not that it’s always one-dimensional, but it’s never become more external than praying for individuals in my midst or occasionally joining them in worship through some kind of physical contact.

I’m just wondering what it would be like, or if it would even be acceptable, to bring this idea of gifting to the worship environment. Maybe it starts with gifts left at the tables, or maybe materials for making art and music are placed at tables and people are encouraged to create as an expression of worship. Gifts for God, gifts for one another (same thing?). I know there’s been a lot of encouragment within the Bridge Community to be creative, but not necessarily during worship. It’s always been directed, not spontaneous. There may be a reason for this, I’m really just thinking out loud here. But I’d love to explore a more active type of worship unless that’s way off track in which case, feel free to edumacate me.

Why i’m not deleting the post about my least favorite things

Because it embarasses me that I’m such a bitch and that’s good because it humbles me. Yes, this is my brokeness: my neighbors bug the shit out of me and only when brought to the edge of reason do I submit to the will of my Lord with a kind word or gesture, an attempt to understand vs. being understood, a willingness to be kind instead of right.

The front door

Given what I’ve been pondering lately about transparency and being raw before one another instead of trying so much to be like Jesus, maybe I should change it from, “Enter in Peace,” to “Enter in Pieces.”

Widow’s houses

The other day I was loafing around my patio, looking for new plant growth and lizards, when I noticed a slew of new, creepy spider webs.

When we moved to Ventura I was terrified of spiders, even daddy long legs, but I soon learned that if I were to survive here I’d better adapt and quick. I’ve come a long way. I rarely kill them anymore and the only time I scream is if they’re meaty or on me. Plus, Lucy kills all insects on command, so I rarely worry. (Note to my geeky readers: I know spiders aren’t insects, I was using artistic license).

So, while I was outside I decided to investigate a particularly large, unstructured (never a good sign) web attached to the exterior wall of our living room and that’s when I spotted a massive female black widow looking for prey in broad daylight. This rare sighting caused me to respond accordingly: “OH MY GOD! TONY! THERE’S A BLACK WIDOW! IT’S EFFING HUGE!” It’s weird how spiders know when they’re done for and this widow is obviously a sharp gal, because when I returned with Tony, she was gone. But I know where she went: into a large crack between the wall and the foundation.

Scarier than knowing that while I’m relaxing on my sofa she’s on the other side of the wall doing whatever evil things widows do in private, is knowing that she’s undoubtedly harboring an egg sack somewhere.

Is there anything that preys on widows? I mean, do they have enemies? I don’t want to put Lucy on the hunt for obvious reasons, and I’m not a fan of bug sprays. I’m loathe to seal up the crack because then the widow is trapped in the wall and could try to find a way out via the interior of my house.

For now, I’ll keep checking a few times a day (OCD) to see if she’s in her web, so I can kill her with one of Sam’s swords. In the meantime I think I’ll buy some gardening gloves and tidy up the patio.

A few of my (least) favorite things

A short list of annoyances so far, for the period beginning 8/19/06 and ending 8/20/06 AKA: the weekend.
1. New neighbors (Initials to follow soon) parked their PT Cruiser in the upper lot.

Annoys the hell out of me because they have the carport but on weekends when their teenage son’s twin babies come to visit, it means a third vehicle enters the equation rendering the carport inadequate.

2. K is singing again.

K fancies himself a crooner and will break into song at any hour for no apparent reason. It’s Frank Sinatra at approximatley 2 decibels after a boozy night with Eva Gardner ( J ).

3. The twins are of course continually screeching. Andrea told me it’s just how God made them. I disagree.

obedience and the plumeria that was never mine

After the drug dealing, embezzling, best-neighbors-we-ever-had neighbors were evicted, a young couple moved in. Prior to their move-in we asked the landlords if we could have the carport space. Being elders of the shire, stalwart veterans and protectors of the roses, we felt it was only fair that we should graduate to the carport. For so long we’d toughed it out in the uncovered space on the far side of the carport. Because it was unmarked and generic in appearance, given it’s lack of a roof, visitors to the building next door would routinely park in our space which generally pissed us off and made it even more difficult for us to be friendly to anyone living in a one block radius. Also it’s a bit of a schlep to our front door from our designated parking spot and at night it’s creepy.

The landlords said they’d “think about it.”

We prayed, crossed our fingers, etc. until the day we returned home to find not one but two unfamiliar vehicles in the available car port space; a big-ass white truck and a Honda. Not only were we denied the parking space but the new vehicles made it almost dangerous to walk through the car port, toward the shire. (Our other neighbors the landlord replicas cum property managers parked their big-ass truck in the adjacent carport space).

The vehicles would often be parked so close together that we could barely squeeze through with our groceries. Sam couldn’t even get his bike through and on more than one occasion one of us was injured by protruding rear view mirrors while navigating the car port in the dark.

Once again, we were pissed.

Of course the new tenants had no idea of the sort of resentment that roiled in the unit next door or the history of disrespect we’d endured there. Which is why we felt it necessary to tell them.

So, a couple weeks passed and I was shopping locally for a gift for my friend Jamie. My browsing yielded something special for her and something special for me; a plumeria plant. I had wanted a plumeria plant for ages but didn’t know where to purchase one besides the county fair. If you’re not familiar with plumeria flowers they’re wildly fragrant, intoxicating and exotic. Who wouldn’t want one?

I placed it in its container on my tiki patio for a few days while I decided where to plant it. I would go outside and visit it, talk to it, smell it, water it. It was a happy time, until one day a small but authoritative voice whispered from my conscience, “Give it to the new neighbors.” What? No way! I’m NOT giving the plumeria to the new neighbors. I love this plant. I’ve waited years for the plumeria. They got the freaking car port. No.

The next day, same voice, same commanding message. I’m usually suspicous when people say, God spoke to them or God gave them a word or whatever. I always want to ask, “What tone was His voice, and did He address you by name?” Yet, I couldn’t deny what was happening here. God, the Holy Spirit (God), my conscience (God) was nudging me onto the path of reconcilliation.

With reluctant obedience, I wrote up a welcome card, tied it with a ribbon around the plumeria plant and placed it on my neighbor’s doorstep.

I’m not sure what was accomplished other than practicing obedience. I don’t know if my neighbor was blessed by it or if my resentment waned for longer than a moment. But maybe if it did wane for a moment, that’s long enough for God to shape me just a little.

The story doesn’t end there. Those neighbors eventually moved because the guy suffered a back injury on the job. We said our goodbyes and it seemed like a positive, if brief connection was made. It ended well. I felt clean in the relationship. I tried not to gloat privately or otherwise. Then, about a week after they moved, I looked out my bedroom window, where my neighbor J has her vegetable garden (don’t get me started on boundaries). There between her tomato plants and her rosemary bush was the plumeria plant. My plumeria plant. No longer my plumeria plant. J’s plumeria plant and ultimately God’s plumeria plant.

Sure, there was a moment where I considered telling J, “Hey, you know that plumeria plant in your garden? Well, that’s actually MINE.” I figured I’d tell her the whole story and maybe she’d return it. It was painful to see it so close yet out of my reach. To watch J care for it. It was such a perfect symbol of the way life has been for us in the shire. The way others have been blessed and rewarded as we sat by in our little Egypt getting the short end, the raw deal. Over and over again.

But the voice returned and it it said,

“You have not gotten the short end, the raw deal.”

“I haven’t?”

“No. When you look out the window what do you see?”

“The plumeria plant.”

“When it blossoms what will you smell?”

“Its intoxicating fragrance.”

“And this fragrance will waft into your bedroom window, and the plumeria’s beauty will be nearer to you than it’s ever been. In a sense, you and J are sharing the plumeria and that’s a very good thing.”

Indeed.