This little blog has been going along steadily for seven years now! Here’s a look back at my first post, from August, 2007.

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From Alice’s Adventures Through the Looking Glass.

“As I was saying,” continued Humpty Dumpty, “that seems to be done right — though I haven’t time to look it over thoroughly just now — and that shows that there are three hundred and sixty-four days when you might get un-birthday presents —

“Certainly,” said Alice.

“And only one for birthday presents, you know. There’s glory for you!”

“I don’t know what you mean by “glory,” Alice said.

Humpty Dumpty smiled contemptuously. “Of course you don’t — till I tell you. I meant ‘there’s a nice knock-down arguement for you!”

“But ‘glory’ doesn’t mean ‘a nice knock-down arguement’,” Alice objected.

“When I use a word,” Humpty Dumpty said, in rather a scornful tone, “it means just what I choose it to mean — neither more nor less.”

“The question is,” said Alice, “whether you can make words mean so many different things.”

“The question is,” said Humpty Dumpty, “which is to be master — that’s all.”

Alice was too much puzzled to say anything; so after a minute Humpty Dumpty began again. “They’ve a temper, some of them — particularly verbs: they’re the proudest — adjectives you can do anything with, but not verbs — however, I can manage the whole lot of them! Impenetrability! That’s what I say!”

“Would you tell me please,” said Alice, “What that means?”

“Now you talk like a reasonable child,” said Humpty Dumpty, looking very much pleased. “I meant by ‘impenetrability’ that we’ve had enough of that subject, and it would be just as well if you’d mention what you mean to do next, as I suppose you don’t mean to stop here all the rest of your life.”

“That’s a great deal to make one word mean,” Alice said in a thoughtful tone.

“When I make a word do a lot of work like that,” said Humpty Dumpty, “I always pay it extra.”

“Oh!” said Alice. She was too much puzzled to make any other remark.

“Ah, you should see ’em come round me of a Saturday night,” Humpty Dumpty went on, wagging his head gravely from side to side, “for to get their wages, you know.”

(Alice didn’t venture to ask what he paid them with; and so you see I can’t tell you.)

So funny — and a little bit true!

“I Like My Own Poems,” by Jack Grapes

I like my own poems
best.
I quote from them
from time to time
saying, “A poet once said,”
and then follow up
with a line or two
from one of my own poems
appropriate to the event.
How those lines sing!
All that wisdom and beauty!
Why it tickles my ass
off its spine.
“Why those lines are mine!”
I say
and Jesus, what a bang
I get out of it.
I like the ideas in them,
my poems,
ideas that hit home.
They speak to me.
I mean, I understand
what the hell
the damn poet’s
talking about.
“Why I’ve been there,
the same thing,” I shout,
and Christ! What a shot it is,
a shot.
And hey,
The words!
Whew!
I can hardly stand it.
Words sure do not fail
this guy, I say.
From some world
only he knows
he bangs the bong,
but I can feel it
in the wood,
in the wood of the word,
rising to its form
in the world.
“Now, you gotta be good
to do that!” I say
and damn! It just shakes
my heart,
you know?

Awesome story by my little brother, David Kantrowitz

I think that, as an introvert, part of the reason I need so much time alone is paradoxically because people are so important to me.  I need time  to process them and our interactions thoroughly. Last week I had an unusually active and people-filled week, and I was so exhausted by the end that Saturday I just crashed. I stayed home by myself all day.  Sunday I spent the day alone, too, but I actually made it out of the house to the library to do some work. But before I started my work, I typed out a journal entry of all the people I had seen last week. I wrote a seperate paragraph about each person and what he or she means to me.  Then, finally, the buzzing stopped, because I had fully realized my time with each person by thinking and writing about it.

Moving from one social interaction to another is like eating meal after meal without giving myself time to digest. I love people, and I couldn’t live without them, but once I’ve had my fill I need to process for a while before I’m ready for more.

More soon, still recharging…

The linden tree

I learned the words flora and fauna on 3-2-1 Contact — how I loved that show! — but it took me years to get them straight. I’m not sure why, since flora sounds like flower and fauna like fawn. Still, I was excited to learn new words and excited, too, that one was about animals. Here at Primrose Street there is quite a bit of both categories. Behind our house our neighbors keep chickens who cluck peacefully about it the morning and evening (do they sleep during the day, or do I just not notice them?). Thankfully there don’t seem to be any roosters. That is probably against the zoning rules of the neighborhood. In the front, across the street, our neighbors have love birds up in the third floor window. I can’t see them from the porch because of the linden tree, but I hear their happy chirping. Then there are the various wild birds: robins, blue jays, sparrows, mourning doves, orioles, swallows, warblers, and others that I haven’t yet identified. Overhead there is the occasional red-tailed hawk and, once, a heron.  My two favorites so far are the black, white, and red downy woodpecker and the one tiny hummingbird that made an appearance the other day.

Then of course there are the neighborhood cats who haven’t been informed of the property lines, and always look shocked and offended when I show up in my own yard or driveway, interrupting their sleep or play. I suspect they are the ones responsible for the occasional smell of skunk. And the adorably big and old dog who sleeps in a giant pile of yellow fur in the driveway next door, outside of Mark’s window. Mark has adopted him as the closest thing he can have to a pet right now, and updates me regularly on his activities — or lack therof.

The most significant flora, besides my ever-increasing collection of house plants, is the linden tree in the front. It looks rather scraggly in the winter, but fills out in spring and summer with heart-shaped green leaves. An interesting feature of the linden tree is that its leaves and twigs secrete a kind of sap that attracts bees and wasps as well as birds. So there is always a faint hum and rustle of activity coming from the tree, and if you look closely you can see movement everywhere. Fortunately the bees stay near the tree, and don’t bother me much on the porch, except for the occasional foray to check out my mums and marigolds. Lately, though, there have been more bees than usual wandering over to see if my clothes might be edible, and I wonder if the sap has begun to dry up. Some of the leaves are already turning yellow, which was their color last October when we moved in. The unfortunate thing about the sap is that it drips down and covers any car parked beneath it, and it’s difficult to get it off. I had to give my car a good scrub, and now I park farther up the street.

Our neighbors have a gorgeous, twisty tree which looks like VanGogh drew it. Anybody know what type of tree this is?

And then we are a five minute walk from the Arnold Arboretum which has hundreds of types of trees and plants, some quite rare. Because Boston and Japan have a similar climate, many species of Japanese trees thrive at the Arboretum. My favorite are the hundred year old, two-hundred year old, and even older bonsai trees, incredible, tiny trees which could make even the most hardened realist imagine himself in fairyland.

Jen Hatmaker just shared a post about the re-issuing of her book, Interrupted. It is her story of growing disillusioned with her church experience and seeking something deeper. She writes

When I wrote Interrupted, I felt alone, crazy. Brandon and I thought we’d struck out as pioneers, fighting for a church that was gracious and kind again, advocating on behalf of the poor and ignored, searching for a prophetic voice in a context where we’d lost our thunder almost entirely.

I haven’t read Interrupted yet, but from Jen’s description it sounds similar to some of my own experiences. Except that, at the moment, I can’t relate to her energy. I don’t have the tenth of her energy. Maybe once I had a quarter of it, but not now.  And I can’t quite relate anymore to her willingness to leap back in.

I was all in for my whole adult life up until last year, out-monking the monks as Martin Luther once said — taking class after class at seminary, involved in every kind of ministry, even doing fundraising (which I was surprisingly good at) and attempting evangelism (which I was so so horrible at, at least the kind that I was supposed to be doing). I did youth ministry, lead worship at church and small groups, taught Bible studies and lead small group discussions, preached a few times, went on mission trips, did campus ministry, international student ministry, homeless outreach, served on missions committees and other committees, and finally lived in an intentional Christian community for seven years. Seven years. I just moved out last September.

I’m tired. Last fall when I left the community I was trying to figure out what to do next. But I had no energy left to do anything. So I finally decided to give myself a break and just rest. It’s a little weird to not be involved in a church or other Christian group, to not be going to meetings or discussing the Bible or praying with others. A little weird, but mostly, hugely, almost overwhelmingly good. It’s like I’m taking a deep breath for the first time in years; drinking a big glass of ice water after living on sips of tepid water for so long. I can hear myself think, hear my own heart, feel my own body. There is space inside me and around me, space in my house and in my days. I feel like myself in a way I haven’t in a very long time.

I have a lot more to write about this — a LOT more — but for now I just wanted to share an encouraging paragraph from Jen’s post. I do believe this, what she writes. I’m just not sure where I fit into it yet, or if I ever will. But it’s still encouraging to read.

If you are plagued with tension or discontent or a nagging sense that there must be more—that there has to be a faith somewhere that rings true and hopeful and gracious, a faith other than this mean, ugly, partisan, judgmental, self-indulgent version of Christianity, which has to be total bunk—then get down on your knees and thank your lucky stars. God has blessed you with this inner conflict. He isn’t leaving you in complacency and boredom to check boxes and do church. He has enlisted you in the cause of your generation and is calling you forward. You lucky thing. You will not be left and lost, wondering what all the fuss is about, wishing things would never change.

You can read the rest of Jen’s post here, and order Interrupted here.