A Weekend to Remember

I've been putting off writing about last weekend; perhaps because I've written so much about it already, or perhaps because it was of such ineffable nature it is defying my petty words. In any case, here is a bit of what touched me, a mere nine pages ago;

bluesy rhythms dictate the tapping of shiny black shoes, as a soulful, half-smiling, saxophonist works his charm; "I'm getting sentimental over you". Likely, the song is working in reverse for most of his audience, and I smile as I snatch glimpses of others' reactions: Charlene with rain-boots crossed, fingers laced and a wistful look in her eyes; Andy with his fingers interwoven to rest his strong chin on as his broad shoulders prohibit anyone too big from claiming the seat next to him. Two older ladies sit on my left; one had been here reading before we ever entered the doors with sax and stand, speakers and (somewhere) sheet music. Her reading had disappeared to be replaced with the unanimous listening ear, attentive eyes, and tapping feet.

eyelashes that cast shadows on his cheekbones; dressed like an emperor penguin in blacks and whites. The slight bend of his knees reflect the impassioned tilts of his head, climbing up and down scales like the Tracy's precarious ladder as he retrieved the skis, but an hour earlier. "Foolish Heart"." Are all saxophone songs sensuous? I can see the flow of air increase through his cheeks as the music swells to mezzaforte. He would close his eyes and enlist his heart to play tunes through tumultuous times. A magenta wall is his backdrop, dusty peach blossom ones close us in as breathy saxophone sounds surround us.

I know, I know that's enough description, and plenty of adjectives to feed an army - but the moment so swept me up. Maybe that's all I can share right now.

It's not Thanksgiving, but there're so many thanks to be given!

Stripped of my journal, Bible, and The Confessions I am left with myself, and too many scrambled thoughts.

How can I expect to understand people when I am still baffled by my own behavior, and only beginning to understand myself?

Why do we yearn so deeply for the things we forbid ourselves?

Is the way that seems deeper always the darker?

Yup - I was very honest in saying I had a lot on my mind.

Met a bona-fide hippie today - Al, Jimmy's dad- we had a lot in common (un?)surprisingly. Alternative building, organic food, mild vendettas against Monsanto, an appreciation for Thomas Merton, garlic and veggie stir-frys, Christian meditation, strong convictions on three quarters to 7/8 of everything under the sun.

Some people drain others with their presence, getting to talk to Al was so energizing though - there's not a whole lot of "adult" talk to be had among a homogeneous group of Spring Arbor Sheeple. (To put it in a slightly cynical and over-critical light).

Andy, Trevor, Charlene, Jimmy and I sat on a ying-yang rug eating our stir-fry off the one plate (stacked atop several books) in the center. Before digging in to tasty pine nuts and onions, peppers and broccoli, we took the opportunity to pray (holding hands of course, which is how everyone would pray and talk if I had my way, at least a good more deal than we do now!)I feel the prayer really did consecrate our hearts to God; and I've rarely felt so connected to my brothers and sisters as I did in that moment, eating the same food off the same plate, even gingerly inserting a forkful in Jimmy's mouth (upon which Andy recalled the SpringHill method of feeding a friend at the first meal), listening to the same Rumi poetry of love and reeds. I could eat on the floor, sharing one plate far more often.

Later, dark chocolate ghiradelli chips tickled our tastebuds, as intellectual conversation stimulated our minds. Back to back sitting, Indian leg wrestling, and off-balance arm-thrusting occured over that same carpet. Why does it take someone so much older to show us the fun found in simplicity; we the generation who settles for multi-player games on our fancy cell phones. There's a comfort that's very present among this group of people. A group of everything bagel, resuscitated honey, Bengal Spice tea, molasses cookies, mediative music, haybale, peanut butter toast, cross country ski, others... et al...lovers - I believe that's how I'd describe us.

And I'm thankful- thankful for gifted musicians who smile (even while they play), coffee shops with inspiring signs, moms and papas, cawwing crows, abandoned flour mills, night-time walks in 1 degree weather (and those who are willing to take them), kindred spirits/or likeminded people-whichever you name them, friends to keep me warm on cold nights, hands to hold when my fingers are frozen, a Bible to read aloud and be transformed by, crazy kittens and friendly dogs who will lick your socks or cheeks, camraderie and familiarity, friendship seasoned with mystery, the questions asked and the evolving answers, board games and mind games, intelligent minds to play them with, common ground, good stories, generous friends, hospitable family, future adventures, open honesty, curiosity simultaneously quenched and awakened, perceptions perceived false, Zorro, wise fathers, cozy car rides, high speed sledding, exquisite, painted sunset skies and those to share them with.