I feel I haven’t accomplished what I would have liked, I feel as though I never had the chances my friends and peers had.  I look around and compare myself to others and I must confess I feel really unsuccessful.

That is my train of thought sometimes.  And it’s not that I am ungrateful.  I understand that everything has a purpose and that there are some things you JUST NEED TO LIVE THROUGH.  And it is in these things that you grow… That the Lord would have you walk through them is just proof enough of him willing to let you hurt, in order to allow you to grow.  That’s real love.

And of course, there are our own stupid mistakes.  From which the Lord also delivers.  =)

I confess I’ve had my fair share of short-sightedness and bad decisions (especially where it comes to money).

Anyway, as I was saying, this email is from a lovely friend abroad.  A wise and timely little note that helped me see things see with greater clarity.  I hope it encourages you as much as it did me.

I know it’s tempting to look at other people, and wonder why we’re not where they are…heck, I’m 56, and I don’t have anything saved towards retirement (I was 46 when we purchased our first home—the one we’re struggling to hold on to right now). Your hope for God having a plan for your life is justified–HE DOES! You are in a time of prepararton right now, and when God is ready to promote you–well, fasten your seat belt, you will know it, my sister. Remember that Abraham dude in Genesis: God says ‘go’, Abe goes, not knowing where. I think people who “have their lives planned out” are really missing out—the God we serve is NEVER safe–but, always good! As for that desire to come to the U.S….well, our Father gives us the desires of our heart, then he gives us the desires of our heart. Please know and understand that even though you’re tucked away way down there, you are a tremendous blessing and encouragement to your church family here in California—only God could have set up a family like this in the internet age!
Oh, by the way, I didn’t even come to Christ until I was 33.

God gives me picture analogies, and one I recollect is a space shuttle rocket lauching …before the rocket ever lifts off, there is a lot of preparation, and the engines are working hard to generate enough thrust to propel the craft out of the limitations of gravity into orbit. Listen closely…do you hear the engines building thrust in the Spirit realm?

You are occupying your territory…but, wait–there is a LOT more to come.

************

Mathew 6:33

But seek first his kingdom and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well.

This is what I’m trying to focus on now.

God bless you.  =)

Juana.

Tonight I held my daughter, rocking her for what felt like hours. She was obviously tired and her six-month body needed sleep. With my soothing whispers and gentle movements in the rocking chair she reacted with screams and tears. After she is asleep, I discover myself rubbing my eyes and yawning in a similar fashion. But I too choose to stay up, ignoring the cues my body provides. I am discovering that there are some major complications in our relationship with sleep.

Bud, my wife’s grandfather, was in a Yakima hospital showing symptoms of dementia, but also exhibiting moments of clarity. At one point I was standing at the end of his bed while he slept. I was most likely thinking of how inept I felt when it came to what to say to a person in this situation. When he woke, I clumsily asked him how his nap was, to which he replied “I was sleeping ninety miles per hour, Matt, and I didn’t ever want to wake up.”

My daughter sleeps at seventy miles per hour. No matter how fussy or awake she is, the moment my Subaru hits I-5, her eyes get heavy and her head begins to nod.

Ezekiel, in a dreaming vision, saw four creatures made of wheels. Does this mean the great prophet also slept at high speeds? And if so, how fast did he sleep?

Helene Cixous once claimed “we can hope to move closer to everything we can’t say without dying of fright through the School of Dreams.” It’s a complicated statement, but one which I believe points to the paradox of sleep; we need it, and can find safety in it, but there is something to be feared there as well. Jacob dreamed of the ascending and descending angels; there is something peaceful to think of angels ascending, but descending angels can stir fear. After all, these are the same beings who a few chapter before had performed some serious brimstone punishment on Sodom and Gomorrah. In dreams, in sleep, there is true biblical awe, the kind of awe that is charged with an excited fear.

When it became obvious that my dad was not going to defeat cancer a second time, he started to fight against sleep. He knew that most cancer patients ultimately die in their sleep, or at least a drug-induced coma of sorts, and he had no intention of going gently into any sort of night. Instead he fought. Though he was on a variety of high-powered painkillers, including oxycodone, he insisted on staying awake as much as possible. He would sit next to you in a daze, but refuse to close his eyes. He would take a nap, but remind me to wake him up in under an hour. He was afraid, though I will never know if it was a fear of death or dreams.

I rarely dream. When I do, I typically forget all or most of the dream by the time I wake. The one thing I sometimes remember is who was in the dream. Every dream I remember includes at least one relative and one celebrity. It’s a funny thought really, my mom, Brad Pitt, and me running errands together. Sure, it’s not angels moving up and down on some celestial escalator, yet there is still something fearful there. There is no control. I have to slip into a strange new world and trust that it will be good. Cixous describes this as “crossing the frontiers to the other world without transition, at the stroke of a signifier.” She finds this enjoyable. I am not so certain.

Describing faith, Abraham Heschel claimed that it “is an event…a moment in which the soul of man communes with the glory of God.” He goes on to say, “Man’s walled mind has no access to a ladder upon which he can, on his own strength, rise to knowledge of God. Yet his soul is endowed with translucent windows that open to the beyond.” Perhaps every time we close our eyes and allow sleep to take us, it is a moment of faith. Maybe sleep is where the largest translucent window is hidden.

Dad died in his sleep. There was no coma, just a very tough day, followed by a long night. When I woke up in the morning, things were too quiet, and I found him sitting on his chair with his eyes open. Heschel said, “God is not always silent, and man is not always blind.” I hope at least one of those was true for Dad.

The one dream I actually remember came after a close friend died of a drug overdose. He and I were in a valley where multiple rivers converged. It was a warm day and we were running across meadows and wading through the waters without fear. I woke up in tears, happy and sad to have seen and spoken with my friend. The paradox of sleep is too much for me. It is too profound and moves too quickly. It is too amazing and too frightening. But tonight, on faith, I go there yet again to learn from the School of Dreams.

On a somewhat sad, but at the same time, beautiful and exciting morning, we took our last close-up glimpses of the Colosseum as we left the busyness that is Rome and made our way to one of the highest hill-top towns of Tuscany, Montepulciano.

Beautifully encircled by cypress trees in the richly verdant Tuscan hills, Montepulciano welcomed us peacefully. Our guide map explained that Montepulciano stands atop a tufaceous outcrop reaching 605 m above sea level and boasts Etruscan origins. The town apparently reached the height of its splendour in the 16th century when it became part of the Medici Signoria.

Meandering up the main Via, one glimpses the picturesque valleys below the township’s stone buildings and archways and terracotta rooftops.

There are many shops to explore on the way to Piazza Santa Maria and we ventured into the Chiesa di Santa Maria Dei Servi and from there, made our way to the Piazza Grande which is quite grand and the town’s highest point! Piazza Grande contains the Palazzo Vecchio-like Palazzo Comunale (Town Hall) and the Duomo containing the huge masterpiece Triptych of the “Assumption of the Virgin” (1401) by Taddeo di Bartolo over the high altar along with cafes and restaurants.

Wandering Montepulciano’s numerous streets one discovers quaint shops housing beautiful copper wares and displays of art and stationary. One stop we delighted in finding a young owner who only spoke Italian and amongst laughs on both sides, my clumsy Italian words - and finger pointing, we managed to purchase the beautifully hand made speciality biscuits and gelato we desired - which were wonderful.

Of course there are the trademark flowering pot plants to be seen, along with topia potted pines, wooden doors and above the streets are the showy, floral window boxes, and even the day’s washing hanging between windows looks absolutely wonderful and not at all out of place!!

Then there are the numerous wine cellars boasting the vino for which Montepulciano is famous. The beautifully kept vineyards which provide the grapes for the famous Vino Nobile di Montepulciano (a robust red wine) and the productive orchards of both southern Tuscany and Umbria surround the town.

All this and wonderful Renaissance Palazzi and Chiese abound!!!

Of course, nearby is the famous, stately Renaissance church of San Biagio (1518-1534AD) made of cream and honey coloured stone, designed to perfection by Antonio da Sangallo to be found on the hillside below the town walls.

Montepulciano - A Tuscan town, not to be missed!

c. 2008 Anne Pickering, contact Anne: anne@falconmining.com.au

(if you happened to have taken a course in Film Analysis, you can skip the following paragraph)

Mobile Framing
An example of a writing tool borrowed from film is ‘mobile framing’ .
Mobile framing is, according to Film Art: An Introduction: “within the image, the framing of the object changes. The mobile frame thus produces changes of camera angle, level, height or distance during the shot…we often see ourselves as moving along with the frame. Through such framing we may approach the object or retreat from it, circle it, or move past it (…) we usually refer to the ability of the frame to be mobile as camera movement.
(Bordwell and Thompson, 266)
There are several kinds of mobile framing, and you can use each of them in your writing.
For example, you could use a pan, which means “rotating the camera on a vertical axis. The camera as a whole does not move to a new position. Onscreen, the pan gives the impression of a frame horizontally scanning space. It is as if the camera ‘turns its head’ right or left . ” (267).
Or you could use a tilt, which is “rotates the camera on a horizontal axis. It is as if the camera’s head were swiveling up or down. Again, the entire camera does not change position. Onscreen, the tilt movement yields the impression of unrolling a space from top to bottom or bottom to top.” (267)
Another example (and my personal favorite) is the tracking shot: “In the tracking, or dolly or trucking, shot, the camera as a whole does change position, traveling in any direction along the ground-forward, backward, circularly, diagonally, or from side to side. (267)” In other words, with a tracking shot you can, for instance, track in or track out.
The tracking shot is often used to follow two characters that are talking and walking, or generally to follow a character. A classical example of this is the opening scene of Hitchcock’s Marnie, or many of the shots in Last Year at Marienbad.
The most dramatic kind of mobile framing (and guaranteed to give you a breath-taking picture, such as LOTR, the Matrix films and every superhero movie) is the crane shot. This name maybe isn’t that accurate anymore (as helicopters are used as well), but it can be described as “the camera moves above ground level (… )it rises or descends(…) A crane shot may move not only up and down, like an elevator, but forward and backward or from side to side.” (267) One of my favorite crane shots can be found in Welles’ Citizen Kane, when the camera cranes down through the nightclub sign: (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=47l_q4YjSc4).

An example of mobile framing in writing
Let’s have a look at what can be seen as mobile framing in books. One of the best examples of mobile framing, (and more specifically of the tracking shot) can be found Chaim Potok’s The Chosen. The entire tracking shot is rather lengthy; it consists of two and a half page in my penguin copy, so I’ll quote parts of it. The main character, Reuven, has just gotten home after several weeks in the hospital (because of an accident which hurt his left eye) and the bandage from his left eye has just been removed. Therefore, his newly-regained vision plays a crucial part in this scene.

…I walked slowly through the apartment. I had lived in it all my life, but I never really saw it until I went through it that Friday afternoon.
I came out of the kitchen, and stood for a moment staring at the strip of gray carpet that ran the length of the hall. I turned left and walked slowly along the hall, past the telephone stand and the picture of Herzl, Bialik and Chaim Weizmann that hung from the wall on my right, and into my bedroom … I went to the window and stared out the alleyway. I could see a cat lying in the shade on our wall, and beyond was the grass of our back lawn and the ailanthus tree with the sun on its leaves. I turned, sat down, on the window seat and stared at the New York Times war maps I had put on the wall over my bed … [the maps and various other objects on the wall are described]
at the head of the bed was the door that led to my father’s study. The door was closed and I could hear my father working at his typewriter inside…I walked around behind my desk, opened the door and closed it quietly behind me.
My father’s study was the same size as my room, but it had no windows…The study in the darkest room in the apartment because it had no windows, and my father always worked with the desk lamp on, the yellow light bathing the desk and the floor around it. He sat there now, wearing his small, black skullcap and pecking at the typewriter with his index fingers, a thin frail man in his fifties, with gray hair, gaunt cheeks and spectacles…I went quietly through the study, walking over the gray carpet, then through the French doors into the living room.
Sunlight poured through the three wide windows that faced the street and spread gold against the gray rug, the French-style sofa, chairs and end tables, the polished, glass-topped coffee table, and along the white walls. I stood near the sofa for a moment, blinking my eyes which always hurt a little whenever I came from the darkness of my father’s study into the brightness of our living room.
The windows were open, and I could hear children playing in the street. A warm breeze came into the room and lifted the curtain that fronted the windows.
I stood in that room for a long time, watching the sunlight and listening to the sounds on the street outside. I stood there, tasting the room and the sunlight and the sounds, and thinking of the long hospital ward with its wide aisle and two rows of beds and little Mickey bouncing a ball and trying to find someone who would play catch with him. I wondered if little Mickey had ever seen sunlight come through the window of a front room apartment.
I turned, finally, and went back through the apartment and through the door that led from my father’s bedroom onto our wooden back porch. I sat in the lounge chair in the shade that covered the porch and looked out at the back lawn. Somehow everything had changed. I had spent five days in a hospital and the world around seemed sharpened now and pulsing with life….I felt I had crossed into another world, that little pieces of my old self had been left behind on the black asphalt floor of the school yard alongside the shattered lens of my glasses…I lay very still on the lounge chair and thought a long time about Danny. (100-102)
Application
One of the crucial aspects to be noticed in this passage from The Chosen is that has a tight structure: it consists of three elements, a given, a dramatization and a result.
it starts out with a given, a fact previously established: Reuven’s eye bandage has been removed
This is dramatized (i.e. turned into “drama” in the greek sense of action, it’s made tangible and concrete) by Reuven’s wandering around and seeing things, and these things in their turn tell a lot about Reuven and his father. The result of this is that he feels everything has changed, both Reuven himself and the world around him. It is this new vision which leads him to think about Danny, the boy who threw the ball into his eye and who will eventually become his best friend, in spite of their extreme differences in background. It is possible to claim that this “tracking shot” is a crucial scene in the novel, because it’s Reuven’s new view on things that enables a friendship between them to grow.

So, the point I’m trying to make is the following: any film technique you use in your writing shouldn’t just be some meaningless, it should contribute something to the events, to the characterization of the characters, the atmosphere of a place (anyone seen Last Year At Marienbad?)etc. In other words (and once again) the part should contribute to the whole. It’s crucial to ask yourself “How and what does this part contributes to the whole of my work of art?”

Here are some questions you could ask yourself when using mobile framing in your writing:
- Who is seeing this? The camera or a character? A camera can for instance soar above a city, while most characters can’t.
- What can be seen? Does the camera see more than the character can see? (in which case it is an omniscient narrator, and you can create Hitchcock suspense )What cannot be seen?
- How does the “viewer” in the text feel about what can be seen? Does this affect the way he or she sees things?
- What causes the mobile framing?
- What ends the mobile framing?

You can also keep an eye out for interesting film techniques the next time you watch a movie, and try to see if you can do a similar thing in your writing…and don’t forget, anything can be inspiring.
Good luck!
———————————————————————————————————————————

Works Cited.

Potok, Chaim. The Chosen. Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1971.
Bordwell, David and Kristin Thompson. Film Art: An Introduction. 7th ed. New York: McGraw-Hill, 2004.

I’m an undertaker, so, go ahead and imagine all the reasons I might be getting sued. Did I dispose of a body improperly? No! Did I fail to follow one of the fifty-gazillion guidelines the state imposes? No! Did I even, at any point, act like an insensitive jerk towards any of the survivors? No way!

You want to know why I’m in trouble? You won’t believe it, but here’s what happened.

My name is Louis Michaels, I live in the tiny town of Golden Cove, Florida. We’re on the bottom edge of the everglades and so far south that any farther and we’d be in Key West. Like my father before me, I run Michaels Funeral Home and Cemetery, the only such place in town.

Dad retired two years ago, staying on just long enough to make sure I had everything under control and then he and mom moved to Arizona. I tell people it was for that cool, northern weather.

My staff consists of my assistant, Bob, and a secretary, Christie. She’s my age. I figured if she was brave enough to work here, then maybe she’d be brave enough to date me, one of these days.

Maybe I brought all of this on myself, because the day things started, I was sitting in my office going over the books. I’m not proud to admit this, but we were getting behind and well, as I sat staring out the window at the fine circular drive that leads to the front door of the Home, I kind of wished someone would die. I know, that’s terrible, and really, it’s not a usual desire of mine. But at that moment, I couldn’t help it. I mean, Michael’s has been in this town, in some way, shape, or form, since the Spanish owned Florida. The remains of many people’s great-great-grandparents, including my own, are in this graveyard. I didn’t want to see it fall into financial ruin under my watch, and well, for my business to prosper…what can I say? I’m sorry.

All I can think is that God must have been listening in on these horrible thoughts because almost instantly, the door to my office banged open and Bob and Christie bounded inside like two kids on Christmas morning.

“Louis! Louis!” Christie shrieked. “We just got a call from Sheriff Hunt! He’s bringin’ over a body!”

My jaw dropped. “That’s…” God forgive me, I almost said, ‘Great!’ “Uh…who is the poor soul?”

Bob banged my desk. “Aw, c’mon, Louis, we really needed a funeral”

“No, we need money,” I corrected him. “During these bouts of good health we can open a car wash if we have to, but I refuse to say, ‘Hooray, somebody died.’” I rose to my feet, ready to chastise them both. “If you’ve lost focus of that, you need to get it back right now!”

Bob waved me off. “Okay, okay, but let me tell you who is coming over!”

“Alright, who is it?”

“Herman Saunders.”

I sank back into my seat letting the name settle in. Herman Saunders, richest man in town, owner of half the town. He founded a wildly successful chain of Cajun eateries during the sixties called, ‘The Blackened Shrimp,’ which, not only made him millions, it also helped him marry a former Miss America and send his two kids to big name universities. One of those kids, Senator Jack Saunders, was currently on the campaign trail, running for President of the United States.

I jumped up. “Christie, are we stocked with everything?”

“Yes, sir!” she gave me a little salute.

“Good, make sure we’ll be able to pick up anything extra we need at a moments notice.”

I hurried out into the hallway with both them at my heels. “Bob, I know the workshop is in order, but go give it a once-over just in case…”

Looking a bit too gleeful, Bob rushed off.

I had no idea what to expect or how big this memorial could be. During an election year, who can tell? Senator Saunders might want to keep things small and dignified or, he might make it a political three-ring circus. I wanted to be ready.

Christie and I spent the fifteen minutes I knew it would take for the body to arrive walking through the public side of my home making sure there wasn’t a hair out of place. In a few minutes, Bob re-joined us, in another few minutes, we heard the sound of a large vehicle rumbling up the driveway.

“What the…?” I muttered and peered out the window blinds. A big, white, semi came to a halt right on my driveway. Blazed on its sides was a company logo announcing to the entire world a single, solitary word.

“‘Beer?’” Bob read. “Louis, there’s a beer truck in the driveway.”

“I can see that!”

“What do we do?”

The air brakes on the truck let out a huge, prolonged hiss.

I blustered, storming toward the front door, “I’m going to find out what the hell he’s doing here!”

Outside, in the bright, south Florida sunshine, I saw the Sheriff pull in right behind the truck and I was glad. His presence would make it easier to shoo this guy out of the way for the ambulance, I was certain, would show up carrying Herman Saunders’s body.

I was wrong.

Sheriff Hunt climbed out of his squad car a broken man. He hitched his pants up over his gut and wiped a tear from his blotchy face as he slowly set his beige cowboy hat on his head.

I straightened my black suit coat and reminded myself not to let this incident throw me. I stepped toward the man.

“It is very good to see you, Sheriff. Wish the circumstances were better.”

“Yeah, me, too,” the big man said, letting out a sob. “Durned old Herman. He didn’t have a wicked bone in his body, but didn’t he like to play? Knew it would get him one of these days.” The sheriff whipped out a handkerchief and blew his nose. “Just wish it weren’t today. We were goin’ fishin’ t’night.”

The Sheriff hadn’t so much as blinked at the beer truck and it was beginning to bother me. “Maybe while we’re waiting for the ambulance, you can tell me what happened? And please excuse this truck, it just pulled in, I don’t know why.”

The Sheriff’s big head wagged back and forth. “Naw, there aint’ no ambulance. Doc Woods was with me earlier and he confirmed Herman’s death an’ everything. I got the certificate in my car.”

I raised an eyebrow. “What was the cause?’

Sheriff Hunt gave a great sniff as he walked forward and laid a hand on the side of the beer truck. “Cause of death: hypothermia.”

My jaw dropped as the situation dawned on me.

“No way!”

“Yep, hate to say it, but it’s true. Danged ol’ Herman. Best I can piece it together is this: Herman had all the stinkin’ money in the world, right? But he liked to fool around. He’d hate to pay up front for beers; he’d rather steal ‘em off the truck, y’know? Course, he’d always end up sending the company money for ‘em, but the quirky ol’ fool did it just for the adventure, I guess. Since his missus passed away he’s been a little off. I’ve gotten after him a few times myself, but he didn’t never listen.”

From around the corner of the truck, the driver appeared looking wide-eyed and pale.

The Sheriff continued. “This weekend starts the last fishing tournament of year and all the stores wanted to make sure they got their share of brew on the shelves. I figure Herman climbed in the semi while this young fellow was haulin’ in a palette of suds, but he got back before Herman could get out of the truck…”

Wringing his hands, the driver cut in. “Yeah, if I’d a known anyone was in there…I-I-I-I n-never would have left anyone inside! Not ever! He must have been hiding! I was supposed to head to Miami this morning with the rest of this load, but it was real late so I just slept. Then this morning the cooler inside sounded like it was runnin’ crazy high…s-s-so I looked in and…”

The guy looked like his legs were going to give out. I took him by the arm and had him take a seat on the curb. “Don’t worry, man. It’s going to be alright.”

“Yeah, you didn’t do nothin’ wrong, boy,” the Sheriff said. “It aint your fault.”

My brows wrinkled as I nodded at the back of the truck. “He’s in there?”

“Yep. The driver called me. I called the Doc, and then I called the Senator. He’s up in Naples campaigning. Gonna be here soon. He said to just take him over t’y'all.”

I glanced over at Bob, whose carefully set expression warned me he might excuse himself, run back into the home, and laugh himself silly.

“Let’s have a look,” I told him.

We opened up the back and climbed in. The chilly air inside the truck immediately mixed with the warm humidity we let inside and transformed into clouds of mist.

“He’s at the front,” Sheriff Hunt called from the door. “I think he tried to get the drivers attention while they were on the road and he must have kicked the cooler into high gear. Some of the bottled beers even froze over.”

Sure enough, through the swirling mist, first I saw the legs, then body and face of one Mr. Herman Saunders, deceased. His hand remained wrapped around an open can, his aging face froze in a position of smiling, pleased revelry, and a band of empties scattered about his remains.

I shook my head. “Yeah, that’s a dead guy in a beer truck alright.”

“You know what they say, Louis,” Bob said. “This bod’s for you.”

“Shut up.”
##
Senator Saunders didn’t go the quiet dignified route.

The last time I actually saw Jack Saunders, I was in the second grade and he had just graduated from Princeton. We were in Golden Coves only Dairy Queen, I was having a burger with my dad and Jack flounced in with a girl I recognized from McHenry’s Trailer Park. Her eyes were larger than the halter top she wore; her jeans were the kind my mother would have said came spray painted on.

“Ja-aaack,” she said in whiny, little kid voice. “I thought when you said we were goin’ out it would be to some place nice, you know, like that Hilton hotel in town where they have the ice sculptors…”

He playfully grabbed a fistful of her hair. “Ah, c’mon sweetie, this is our play day. Neither of us are dressed to go in there. Why, if I went near that place without a tie, I’d be shot on sight. Besides, you always take such good care of me, I gotta do something nice for you.”

The girl beamed.

When they were out of earshot, my dad looked at me and said, “When you grow up don’t act like that. When you deal with ladies, act like a man.”

At the time, I wondered what else I would possibly act like. I just told him, “Yes, sir.”

The Senator sat across from me, his hair perfectly styled and his blue-eyes somber. I noticed his suit carried a designer label.

“Senator, let me say up front that I am very sorry for your loss.”

Behind him stood a guy decked out in a black jacket, sunglasses and with a walkie-talkie sticking out of his pocket. Jack dismissed him with a wave and told the man to shut the door behind him.

“Mr. Michael’s, can I be straight with you? Man to man? And will you promise me none of this leaves this room? Because if I were to suddenly hear some of what I’m about to say reflected in a news story or two, I might make sure your business goes under and you never practice your trade again. Are we clear?”

That’s the point where I should have told him to leave. But, like I said, we were getting strapped. I kept going.

“You don’t have to threaten me to keep a secret,” I told him. “I keep more secrets than the CIA and I will take all them to my very own grave. I’m not your house boy, Senator. You want to bury your father, then let’s talk. Otherwise, stick your daddy back in the beer truck and hit the road.”

His eyes grew. “Well, well, well, this graveyard shift has a live wire. I like that. Alright then, I just wanted to make myself clear and…and…”

I gave him my iciest undertaker stare.

“…and I guess I did that. Okay, what I want you to know is…” his shoulders rose and fell. “I hated my dad. He was so old school he couldn’t even see straight. One of those old fashioned guys who felt people ought to spend their lives busting their rears instead of enjoying their time on earth. All that did was to keep him away from his family and running after the almighty dollar. You see where it got him: a ride to the undertakers in a beer truck. My god, how humiliating! When I get in office, the taxes I place on corporate spending are going to make life easier for everyone, but enough of that. Let’s talk specifics. I want to have a viewing, and the funeral itself, but most important some type of memorial service where I can speak and make it clear to people what my father believed and that he did his best to pass those traditions on to his children. It will make it easier for voters who still think like him to pull the lever for me in November.” He paid me his best campaign smile and darn it, I think his eyes even twinkled. “My dad had to be good for something in my life, know what I mean?”

From that, I gathered that his big secret was to make sure no one knew he was a first class jerk.

When we were finished, I had the funds for the most ostentatious funeral Golden Cove had ever seen. There was a ‘guest list’ that included celebrities and politicians of all stripes. I’ve got to admit, I was more than a little nervous.

The media began to camp on my front lawn. That annoyed me. I asked them to go please go away that this was a funeral home, not a party house. They just fired questions at me about how it felt to handle such a huge funeral.

Fortunately, I saw Christie glance out the window. I caught her eye, nodded and in seconds the sprinklers came on.

After they scattered, I disappeared inside.

“Louis, I called the rental company and we’ll be able to have all the chairs here tomorrow and a crew to set them up,” Christy said, chasing me with a paper and pen. “So the funeral is Wednesday, and that still looks good because the weather man is predicting no rain, we’ll get it tonight and tomorrow, but Wednesday looks good. And to stay on schedule, you’ll be embalming Mr. Saunders tonight, right?”

“Yes.”

“Alright. The local hotels have been notified and…is there anything else you need me to do?”

“Christie, you’re doing such a good job, I almost hate give you anything else…”

“Oh, it’s okay,” she said, smiling sweetly. “Looking after you is my job.”

I admit, I liked the sound of that. I smiled back. “Well, uh, could you take my suit to the cleaners?”

“Which one?”

“Let me see… maybe, the black one? Or how about light gray?”

Her eyebrows peaked. “‘Light gray?’ You’re living wild now, Louis! Much as I applaud your fashion sense, I think you ought to stay with the traditional black for this. I’ll pick up extra deodorant and baby powder.”

“Are you going to dress me, too?”

“Sure, I’ll powder you down. With this job you need to have someone make sure you don’t have white dust all over your black clothes.”

“Y’know, I’m not hatin’ this.”

She looked into my eyes and rolled hers. “I’ll see you later, you.”

##

Later, I met Bob in the work room. It was time to prep Herman Saunders for his big day. Rigor mortis left him in the same up right position in which we found him. It made storing his corpse a little awkward, but we figured it out.

We slipped into our black, rubber aprons and gloves. Bob turned on the small TV on the upper shelf. The talking heads at CNN were busy praising Senator Saunders for being such a devoted son.

“Jeesh, get me an air sick bag,” Bob said as we hauled Herman out of the cooler and set him on my table. “I’m telling you Louis, that guy’s phony as a three dollar bill.”

I sighed and grumbled, “Yeah, I know. Makes me feel sorry for the old guy. I remember when we were kids, he used to pass out baseball cards and gave really cool candy at Halloween. I kinda liked him.”

Bob grinned. “Yeah, me too.”

“Well, let’s cut his clothes off and straighten him out.” A picture flashed through my head and I laughed. “Hey, what if we left him sitting up like this, stuck a fresh beer in his hand and just sort of set him in the vault?”

“Bet he’d like that.”

The TV changed views to an in-depth interview with the Senator.

“Senator Saunders, you’re having a really heart felt memorial for your father in his home town. Golden Cove isn’t a very big place, how are the locals dealing with all the extra visitors?”

“Oh, you have to remember,” Saunders said, smile in place, “these are the salt of the earth, decent people my father lived and worked with everyday. I realize it’s a lot and yes, I’m over-taxing the poor Funeral Director…”

I paused from snipping off a pant leg, shot the TV a glance and growled, “Yeah? I won’t be over-taxed until you get in office, Loser!”

“No kidding.”

“You know what?” I said as we worked. “We are going to do a perfect funeral.”

I didn’t want to say anything, but another plan rattled across my brain. I could take some of what we earned from this massive affair and donate it to a certain lady who lived in the trailer park, no explanation, no nothing. But maybe someone in the press would notice her two kids looked a lot like the Senator.

But I could hear my dad warning me about not seeking revenge and decided to send her the money whether anyone noticed or not. From what I heard, she could use it.

We had just stripped his clothes away when a giant rumble of thunder shook the room. A bolt of lightning flashed outside the window.

“Aw, dang it,” Bob groaned. “I didn’t get the lightning rod put back up.”

I shot him a glance. “What?”

Bob lifted his hands. “I’m sorry. After that last storm…I just forgot man.”

I sighed. “We better get out. If lightning strikes anywhere near the roof…” I started packing up Herman as I spoke. “The joists are all metal. It will travel in here and…” I wordlessly gestured at the room. Everything in my shop is metal. This was as safe as standing in a pool of water holding a live wire. “We’ll give it half an hour.”

“Okay. Sorry man.”

“Forget it. Let’s just get out…”

‘BOOM!’

Overhead, thunder pounded the atmosphere. A sharp, blinding, light flashed over and over for several seconds. Bob shrieked and grabbed me like a girl. Above, the work lights exploded. We dove for the floor.

I saw it. The terrifying blue charge of a lightning strike whipped down the west side of the wall. Instantly, I knew it was following a set of wires.

I hauled Bob out of the way, yelling, “MOVE! MOVE!” The light zinged past us and collided with the pump at the back of my work table.

Sparks flew and for a second the entire surface glowed a horrible blue.

Bob screamed again and I didn’t blame him. Silhouetted in the dimness, Herman’s body had collapsed backwards, completely limp.

When the charge grounded out, Bob and I were on our knees in the dark. My heart pounded, I could hear Bob panting. There was a scent of ozone in the air and, much to my dread, the smell of burnt hair.

“Oh, no,” I whispered. “I think it fried Herman.”

“Oh crap. We better find a light. I stuck a flashlight in the drawer behind us. I’ll get it.”

I slowly rose. Whatever damage Herman incurred, I knew we could fix, but, well, I wasn’t looking forward to seeing it.

Bob fumbled around behind me feeling his way to the flashlight and while he did, I noticed something strange. I thought it was the air conditioner running oddly at first or maybe wind from the storm. Then out of the darkness, came a sound so unexpected, it sent Bob flailing to find me in the dark.

A man cleared his throat.

“Anyone seen my pants?” the man asked in a deep, southern drawl.

Bob shrieked and grabbed me again. I pulled the flashlight from his hands.

“Somebody there? Man, if you’re pissed about the beer, I’ll pay you back. I just need my pants.”

For a moment, after hearing him speak so clearly and sanely, I froze. You’ve got to understand, this was like a reversal of gravity, like watching pigs fly or making snowballs in hell. It was practically a law of physics that when someone landed on my table they never, ever asked about their pants. Or anything else. I was, frankly, awestruck.

“It’s a miracle…” I said in a hushed voice.

“‘Miracle?’ It’ll be a miracle if I don’t freeze to death!”

“Uh, too late, Mr. Saunders,” Bob said.

“What are ya’ talkin’ about? You take my clothes, ya dang homo?”

I got a grip and realized the best route was to quickly find something for the man to wear and calmly explain things as we drove him to the hospital.

But Bob dove right in. “Man, you’ve been dead almost a full 24 hours! Dude, we were about to embalm you!”

“Bob! Shut up!” I found the switch to the flashlight and turned it on and aimed it at my face.

“Mr. Saunders, I’m Louis Michaels…”

When he heard my name he gave one of those breaths that sounds like someone is trying to suck all the air out of a room.

“Holy crap!” he gasped. “You’re the undertaker! Am I in the funeral home?”

“Uh, yes, sir. Yes, you are.”

In the dimness, I could still make out the slack jawed look of pure shock that stretched across his entire face. “God Almighty,” he slowly whispered. “You think you guys would have an extra pair of pants around here….”

##

Weird, huh? We did get some pants for Herman to wear and a T-shirt and some coffee to warm him up.

Watching him sip his drink, I realized anything is possible.

“So, old Hunt thought I climbed in the truck, did he?” he asked after we filled him in on the details of his death. “Guess I can’t blame him. I do have that, let’s see, how did my boy put it? Oh, yeah, he called it my ‘signature eccentricity.’ Bet he learned that at Princeton.”

“So, if that’s not what happened, how did you get in the truck?” I asked.
“You just gotta do some quick math on this one. Here’s what I know: I’m in Naples one minute having dinner with my son in his hotel room. I fell asleep…and then I woke up here.”

For the first time, I saw tears form in the old man’s eyes.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Saunders.”

He gave his eyes a swipe and sucked in a deep breath. “We had our differences, but I didn’t think he hated me this much. I worked a hell of a lot to give him the things I never had, guess I would have done better to put him to work with me. Would have kept him out of trouble.” He grabbed a paper napkin, blew his nose, then stuck out his jaw. “I wanna go kick his ass so bad it aint funny. I don’t care how many hours I worked, there aint no excuse for this, you hear me?” He squeezed one hand into a fist and slammed it on the table. “No, excuse!”

I took a seat and folded my hands a minute. “You wanna get your kid?”

Herman nodded his grizzled head. “Yeah.”

“The TV said he’s doing a 9 PM press conference from the town hall. Let’s go.”

##

It didn’t take much. We had the element of surprise on our side, after all. Herman walked into the town hall, bellowing, “WHY, SON, WHY?”

Senator Saunders took one look, shrieked, and melted into a blithering, heap whimpering, “I’m sorry, daddy! I’m sorry! I shouldn’t have put you in that truck!”

That pretty well shot his bid for the presidency.

I thought we were done. Thank God the check the Senator wrote me cleared. No way I’m giving it back. I did make that donation to the trailer park lady. I asked Herman about it and he sighed. “Yeah, that’s the grandsons I’m supposed to pretend I don’t know. Heck, I wonder if they like fishin’? I’m gonna find out.”

So we were back on track. Except the reporters were replaced with medical experts who wanted to know exactly how Herman rose from the dead. What can I say? If it aint your time, you aint goin.’ God’s got it figured out, not me.

Herman has grandkids to look after, Bob still has an excess of personality, and Christie…well, we went on a date. And it was good. That’s all I’m saying.

But then, then, I got this letter in the mail. Kid number two, the daughter. Daddy didn’t die, so she isn’t getting her inheritance, so she’s suing me…for malpractice. Malpractice!

What is she saying? Her father lived so I screwed up?

I know I can get this tossed out, but after I do, I’m having a serious talk with Herman about his kids.
Man, do they have issues.

I bellied-up to the bar and searched the thick darkness of a pint of Guinness for answers. How could she do this to me, to us?

Her letter sits to my left, neatly folded on the table, and I dare not open it again. Just having it sit there rips at my heart, and at my mind. So many questions scream from within me. I think I’m going to loose my mind.

I hoped to drown the sting her letter caused, but all I found was memories. Sweet memories.

The first time I laid eyes on her was summer, three years ago, on the white sandy beaches of Okaloosa Island in Florida. With her tiny, red polka-dotted bikini, I couldn’t take my eyes off of her. Right up until I walked smack into a lifeguard chair. My nose began to bleed, and I left to attend to it. I was sure I would never see that heavenly body again.

Thankfully, I was wrong. Two nights later, I was out with the guys at The Swamp. There she was, on the opposite side of the bar, watching me. Our eyes met, and it was all over for the both of us.

The next three months were a whirlwind, and before we knew it, we were married. It was beautiful. We stood on the same beach where I first saw her, no one else around except the JP who officiated.

Our honeymoon seemed to last forever. I’m sure the island of Curacao is beautiful, but we didn’t see much of it. A couple of times, we ventured from our room, only to make love on the beaches late at night. The intimacy we shared was more than physical; I’ve never been so close to anyone. Every touch, every kiss told me that I was dead before I met her, and she brought life to me.

Maybe I should’ve known something was wrong, because it always felt so right. Beyond our honeymoon, it always felt so right. She was my lover, my best friend, every extension of what was good in me. Watching her get as excited about the Vikings confirmed to me how we were meant to be together.

We had our arguments, just as anyone would, but I confess that sometimes I started the fight just so we could make up. The making up was always the best part. There’s just something about the passion that still lingers after a fight.

Then we met Gary and Alice, our neighbors below our apartment. It was great to have another couple to hang out with, and Alex loved having a girlfriend she could go shopping with and talk to about husbands.

They would invite us over for dinner and we returned the favor. Alice and Alex were like sisters. Sometimes, on one of our dinner dates, they would start to talk to us about the Bible and Jesus. At first Alex and I tolerated it, because they were such good friends. Then things changed somehow. It wasn’t something that we had to suffer through once in awhile, but more something that made us have questions.

Three weeks ago, Alex and I decided to go to church with them. I used to go when I was a kid but hadn’t since I left home. Alex said she never stepped foot inside one in her life, not even as a child.

It was then that I realized I knew nothing about her life before us, and that was troubling. I couldn’t believe that I was so selfish that I just never asked. She knew everything about me, my home life, and even met my family. I tried to ask her, but she would change the subject or tell me that it was too painful.

I ached for her, wanted to heal those wounds that cut so deep in her.

When we went to church with Gary and Alice, something happened. I don’t know how to explain it, but it was tangible. Gary called it the move of the Spirit. He’s probably right, because I can find no other explanation for it. All I know is I couldn’t deny it, and I knew Alex felt the same. I could see it in her tears every Sunday we went.

Two days ago, we decided to stop fighting the pull of God on our lives, and we took Jesus as our Savior. It was exciting. Alex and I couldn’t stop dancing. Everything took on a new level, like our eyes were opened to the world around us for the first time. The sun was brighter; the air fresher; life was just sweeter. Next week we have plans on the whole baptism thing, but now…

I bring myself out of my haze of memories and look at the letter again, and the tears fall. I don’t know if I can go through with it. I haven’t seen her since she gave me the letter, two days ago.

God, how can I? How can I go through with this, knowing the lies that she’s been telling me?

I open the letter, hands trembling and eyes clouded, but I read it again:

My Dear Mark,

I don’t quite know how to write this, and I fear that you will never forgive me. Fact is I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t. First and foremost, know that I love you. I love you more than I could possibly express, and I don’t want to stop loving you. I didn’t think I would ever find a love like ours, and when I had it, I didn’t think it could ever get better. You and I both know that we’ve found something that is better, and that’s why I’m writing this. I have to confess, before I can be baptized, and even after I finish this letter I’m not sure if I can go through with it. I don’t know what God thinks about this, and I’m rambling again. Here it goes.

You’ve asked me on several occasions about my childhood, and I’ve been wary of telling you. I have good reason, but none are good enough to excuse keeping secrets from you.

You see, 25 years ago, my parents welcomed into this world a healthy baby they named Alex. The baby was a boy, the baby was me.

I know you feel betrayed, and I don’t know how to make you feel different. I can’t say it enough, and I don’t know if it ever will be enough. I love you. I hope and pray you can see that I am still the Alex you fell in love with, and I am woman. To lose you will kill me. I know God says it’s wrong, but won’t He forgive me?

I don’t know what to do. I need you. Please stand with me through this. Don’t forget that you love me, too.

Love,

Alex

I fold the letter up again and stuff it in my shirt pocket. I need something harder so I ask the bartender for Goldschlager.

What am I supposed to do God? Preachers are always telling us how homosexuals are an abomination.

Does this means she’s homosexual? Does it mean I am?

God I just want to bathe in acid. I want to burn everything she ever touched. I want to run, I want to scream, I want to…

“Mark?”

I turn and Alex stands behind me, her face still streaked with tears.

Jesus, I need you.

i.

I swear it was right here

the last time I checked

cold and sticky as a frog

frantic

except when cupped in your

hand

uglier, more fascinating

than expected

ii.

you should have known

it would be a costly endeavour

that it would take time to examine

approached it with the energy

of a NASA scientist

dreaming of colonies,

greenhouses that grow tomatoes on

Mars

never to leave the

grey-walled cubicle

float weightless in space

never to see or breathe or

walk the planet just

dream it

sense it, feel toward it

through meticulous science

probing from afar

stubborn, damned wonder

tucked in your shirt pocket

beside all the pencils

creating a way to see

iii.

this new vision

means a new

blindness too

you strain to see the planets

and forget the

shape of mountains

blades of grass

what it is to trudge

through the mud

and scrape off your

boots

iv.

I heard of a city

miles high

and just as wide

inside

street after street

concrete

billboards

and endless building projects

the skyline smudged

with smog

v.

come away with me

take my hand

we’ll run

to a place that is quiet

where we can

remember laughter,

get out of the city

sit as long as it takes

until we see again

wait for the stars

Song of the apocalypse

I reach for you
quake
feel around

blind
blood caked to my eardrums

in the rubble

of a world scorched

by light
cut fingers on split concrete
memory
exposed rebar
You are somewhere

buried deep
below screams

for air
water
horrors imagination won’t

produce
breathing

Wring the blood from my veins

like water from a sponge
unravel layer upon

layer

of muscle

fat

and

ligament
until the spool

is bare
stretch my limbs

organs

bones
blood vessels and

capillaries
all the inward things

we could once name

in science class
guts
they will stretch from here to the moon

and back to you
like a wet umbilical cord

that could coil around a small neck
starve a brain of oxygen
lay out

the miracle

of my love

My chin was itchy from the place where the tears had fallen from my face. Depression was nipping at my heels again, and I was afraid. At least it was a safe place to fall apart. After nagging and probably embarrassing him with my corrective whispers at a party, I had had the moment of realization that sucks so much: the real reason that I’m finding so many flaws in him is that I feel really, really crappy about myself. I pulled the car into a mostly empty parking lot and collapsed into tears and sobs. He somehow forgot about my lousy treatment of him and put his arms around me, understanding that the demons in my head were a lot bigger than the tiff we were having a few moments before.

I don’t know if you’ve walked with depression before, but if you have you know it’s not a pleasant journey. I discovered that depression had been following me around about 3 years ago. At first it was a relief, realizing that I wasn’t going crazy. But it took awhile to admit it. I would say things like “The counselor says I have depression.” After awhile I was finally able to get the actual words “I am depressed” out. Since then, I’ve learned a few other things…

It’s not what you think it is.

Depression is not merely being sad, or what I called being “depressed” when I went through an angsty breakup at the age of 14. For me it involved a lot of fear, anxiety, stress and of feeling very, very alone. I was sure that no one really understood how I was feeling. Most of all, there was this unsettling sense that I just wasn’t myself.

More people deal with it than you know.

After opening up to people about what I was going through, I found a lot of people who had also gone through similar struggles. I told a friend that I was in counseling, and she said “Me too!” and had heard of 3 other people that week who were also getting counseling. Curiously, I’ve found that it is an amazing connecting point. When you open up about your brokenness, people are very compassionate. And it helped me so much when I realized I really wasn’t alone, and that there were others who felt some of the same things I had been feeling and that they had survived.

People who love you can save your life.

A roommate walked with me through the whole scary process when I first discovered it was depression that I was dealing with. We talked about whether or not medication was something I should try. We talked about whether the cause of my turmoil was my situation, character flaws or if it was my brain chemistry. Ultimately, she wasn’t phased by me and my patheticness. She loved and accepted the parts of me that I couldn’t love or accept. Two years later when I had a brutal relapse into depression, two other friends helped me through one of the toughest summers of my life. They let me stay at their house, mostly sitting on their couch watching TV, because I couldn’t face anything else. They accepted me as I was and even genuinely seemed to want me there, which helped a whole heck of a lot. And then of course, there’s my fiance, who gave me the space and time to figure things out when I needed to. He’s also attentive when I tell him of the struggles in my mind and he encourages me to do things that help me feel better: being creative, exercising, and simply getting out of bed when I’d rather lay around and feel sorry for myself.

The ups are good, the downs are scary.

I go through seasons when I feel like myself again, when I’m comfortable with who I am and confident in my abilities. There are also seasons that are reminiscent of the bad times. I’ve been trying to teach myself to deal with negative emotions. It’s difficult. When I get stressed, anxious, or down, I immediately relate it to a time when those negative emotions were the only ones I felt. I have to remind myself that feelings of stress, and sadness are normal, human emotions and that everyone deals with them, and that it can be normal and good for me to respond to my circumstances with those emotions.

I wish I could say I have it figured out, or completely under control. Mostly, it is under control. I hope that I won’t have to be on antidepressants forever, but who knows. It’s things like this that help me remember to keep seeking, to keep asking for help. I know that it’s good to realize that “sometimes you can’t make it on your own.” For now, I’ll try to be open enough with my broken parts so that others don’t feel ashamed of theirs, and so that we can find strength in each other and in our God. And I’ll keep dealing with the itchy chin moments as they come.

The crux of all the lessons is the same. I need to empty myself of my ego if I want greater intimacy with God. And I do want greater intimacy. So what have I been doing? Praying for greater intimacy. And what has God been doing? Revealing every barrier of desire, one by one, and asking me to kill them. Which of course I cannot do. So I have to ask Him to kill them. But in the middle of the execution I start screaming for Him to stop. I have changed my mind. I do not want this surgery. I do not want to die. Never mind, Lord. Forget I said anything. Let’s go back to peace and quiet for a while, okay? He relents. And so the battle continues.

Hopkins, a documentary/reality show, follows doctors and patients at Johns Hopkins Hospital in Baltimore, Md. In one episode, a patient had been brought into the ER who had dislocated his shoulder and was in severe pain. The doctor held the man’s arm and told him they were going to pop it back into place and that it would hurt, but only for a second. The man, who seemed to be intoxicated, started yelling, “No, no, no. Stop. Don’t do it!” The doctor let go of his arm, stepped back and said “Okay. You can go through life with your arm like that if you want to.” Needless to say, the man left the hospital with his shoulder back in its rightful position.

God shot me with that one. Melanie, He said, Do you want to go through life with a dislocated self, full of ego, knowing that it will prevent you from the greater healing and intimacy that I want you to have? And I’m stuck. How do you answer that? And so it continues. Yes, Lord, do what you want. No! Stop! Wait!

So can you see, just a little, why I’m weary? Let’s just do the surgery and be done with it! And yet I can’t make it all the way through. So it’s just a tedious, painful process.

But I’ll grant God one thing, He is increasing my yearning for intimacy with Him. Day by day increasing it to the point where the pain begins to come from another direction, the pain of separation from Him slowly competing with the pain of execution. And maybe that is exactly the anesthesia I need.

[Jessi Gering] lives and works in Lynden, WA. She is addicted to coffee, the internet, and buying used books.

Who has time to accomplish everything they set out to during the day? Maybe more people out there are better at time management, and more realistic in their goal setting than I am (in fact, I’m positive that this is the case). Nevertheless, there must be some people who can relate to hitting the pillow every night with a sense of failure lurking in the dark because nothing on that ever-increasing list is getting done, and there doesn’t seem to be a way to change that. All you can do is continue to hope for a better day tomorrow.

There are 168 hours in a week. 40 of mine are spent at work. 45-50 spent sleeping. This leaves me with 78 free hours, more or less. We all have commitments outside of work and sleep, but even so, 78 hours is a significant chunk of time. Somehow, in those “free” hours this week, I haven’t found the time to put away the clean laundry that I pulled from the dryer and dumped in the laundry basket in the middle of my floor last Thursday. And trust me, that isn’t all I haven’t found time for (pardon my double negative), but listing more would require me to meditate again on everything I haven’t done. It’s depressing. And in the face of such frustrations, I’ve been searching for some calm.

40 days ago I was sitting on a bit of ruin on Palatine Hill. I know, Palatine sounds a lot like the name of a Star Wars character, but it’s actually the foundation of the city of Rome; the centermost of the storied Seven Hills. Compared with other circus-like touristy destinations nearby, like the Roman Forum and the Colosseum, Palatine is very quiet. In the heart of one of the world’s oldest cities, I sat above the noise. Out of earshot of traffic, and out of reach of the vendors hawking plaster miniatures of Michaelangelo’s David and the guys dressed up like Roman soldiers who loaf about the Colosseum. It was downright peaceful-a shock to the system after 10 days of busy travel and sight seeing. I found that on vacation I was having some of the same struggles that I have in real life-filling empty space with busyness. I sat for a while on the corner of an ancient foundation and wrote:

Others pass through; I bask in the sun, feet resting on brick laid by hand thousands of years ago. Others pass through, stopping only to take a self-portrait with the house where Augustus was born in the background. I am finally content to see less, and see it well. To live slowly in the Eternal City. I’ve walked myself off my feet, hitting every tourist destination, and using words like “Marathon” and “Push on through”, and “Do” as in: “We’ll do the Vatican, push on though to St. Peter’s Basilica, and cap off our Marathon with the Crypt of the Cappucin Monks.”

What a dumb plan. Today I’ll take a fresh breeze, warm sunshine, and a rock older than St. Paul.

Giving up the chance to stand where Charlemagne was crowned for that moment of peace in the sunshine was maybe the only smart thing I’ve done recently. I’ve been mulling over how to re-create these retreat-like moments in my every day, and it has been very tempting to blow off my commitments and make myself into a recluse. But would that really bring peace? I’ve been reading through Thomas Merton’s Thoughts in Solitude and on the first page he says, “There is no greater disaster in the spiritual life than to be immersed in unreality, for life is maintained and nourished in us by our vital relation with realities outside and above us…the death by which we enter into life is not an escape from reality but a complete gift of ourselves which involves total commitment to reality.”

How do I find the balance between running myself ragged, and running away?