Snapshots of the journey

We're here! ... and there, and all places in between

I'm so sorry -- we drove west, but I did not in fact fall off the face of the earth.  Life has been, in a word, a whirlwind.  There have been many moments of 'maybe *now* we've made it' or 'at least *this* part is done' in the past two weeks, but we're white-water rafting a river of change and my feet won't feel firmly planted for a good long while.

The trip:  The border-crossing took all of TEN minutes (still in shock over that one -- we spent more time taking everyone to the bathroom and distributing granola bars and juice boxes than we did filling out forms and answering questions).  Parting ways with Mom and Frank in western ND was heart-tearing.  The ever-changing scenery was lovely and never monotonous.  The kids were fantastic, the boys especially, and Annalyn did better than we'd hoped (as long as she had a near-constant supply of parent-peeled stickers and a stream of toys handed to her which she could drop on the van floor at will.  And she did will).  Driving I-90 to its end in downtown Seattle was momentous.  There was an epic soundtrack in my head.

So we've set up temporary camp, and before we can even figure out which way is up, Orion and I and Annalyn are flying to LA tomorrow.  We need to see Orion's grandfather, whose health is failing.  It's an important trip, especially as Grandpa hasn't met Annalyn yet.  I'm sad about leaving the boys (I feel I'm in a season of abandoning them), but they have showed no signs of worry.  I know they'll be fine.  It's just a topsy-turvy time, and I'm learning/choosing to be okay with that. There is more than enough grace, even while my heart is being stretched east, west and south.

On finding warmth in the dissonance

I snagged a five-minute window to play some Rachmaninoff this morning.  Silas was lounging on the futon by my side, and this was his quiet monologue:

"This is beautiful music."
[pause]
"God is beautiful."
[pause]
"God is very tall."
[pause]
"We can't see God's face."

I was moved that my playing would inspire theological wonderings in my three-year-old boy.   Mind you, his theological wonderings may well have been an excuse to get out of his morning chores, but I'm choosing to go with the whole 'creating space for art invites wonder and reflection' theme.  It was a good moment, and one I wanted to capture.

I had a mentor/professor in university who would coach me to find 'the warmth in the dissonance.'  She was encouraging me to voice my chords carefully, bringing out the tones that would best compliment my fellow musician's line.  It was a learning process for me, because it involved training my eye and my ear to not only tolerate but to actively seek out dissonance and use it to add dimension and warmth to the sound.  Dissonance was not simply something to be avoided, nor was it a necessary, evil stepping-stone on the way to the perfect cadence.  And in this process, my jaw dropped and I came to realize how much beauty I'd been missing by equating dissonance with ugliness.

Rachmaninoff.  I deeply love his music for many reasons, but I think my primary reason for loving Rachmaninoff is his masterful handling of dissonance and resolution.  He writes incredibly lush harmonies that build in tension, but it's the chords that are most dissonant that I find the most beautiful, those chords that are full of suspensions, carrying notes of where the music has been into where the music is and where it is going.

When I started this post, I was hoping to offer a neat-ish explanation of how I'm finding warmth in my current dissonance, but in reality I feel sick to my stomach and my hands are shaking.   I feel a wall inside that's both protective (numbing) and fortifying (trying to stave off the fatigue and emotions).  In this moment, the discord is clanging.

It is not only prayer that gives God glory but work.  Smiting on an anvil, sawing a beam, white-washing a wall, driving horses, sweeping, scouring, everything gives God some glory if being in His grace you do it as your duty.  To go to communion worthily gives God great glory, but to take food in thankfulness and temperance gives Him glory too.  To lift up the hands in prayer gives God glory, but a man with a dungfork in his hand, a woman with a slop pail, give Him glory, too.  God is so great that all things give Him glory if you mean that they should.

~ Gerard Manley Hopkins

I take immense comfort in Hopkins' eloquence today. Actually, I take immense comfort in his words every time that my mind rests on them.  They were part of the idea behind the title of this blog: there is incarnational, glorious beauty in the everyday.

Here on the ground, I struggle to remain calm every time I look at our schedule for the next 10 days leading up to The Big Move.  The couch is sold, the boxes are piling higher each day, but so much still needs to happen.  And I get so tired that it's hard to think straight (let's face it: I've lost three placentas so it's hard to think straight on a good day).  What am I thankful for today?  A phonecall from a friend.  A three-year-old son who gives me the giggles.  Air conditioning.

Back to the packing.