Next on the agenda...

The itinerary:

• Frankfurt
• Grenoble
• La Buisse
• Barnas par Thueyts, Ardeche
• Grenoble
• Frankfurt

The agenda:

• visit my very first language helpers, and usher in their 60th year of wedded bliss :)
• visit one of my very best French friends 
• attend GEM's annual conference, and reconnect with some very special people
• ride on the TGV
• read a French newspaper
• eat amazing French food
• speak French
• rediscover my French personality
• discover a new corner of Germany
• eat European chocolate
• drink European coffee
• read poems
• write poems
• wonder. learn

The music:

• Philip Glass, Pandora 
• French Cafe, also Pandora

The mood:

• nostalgic

Stay tuned...

Back to the Boatyard

There's always a bit of a letdown after a trip.  One returns to the mundane: bills to be paid, a car that might need a jump start, laundry and grocery shopping, and scads of backed-up emails.  How tempting to look at the jet plane flying overhead, and wish to be on it.  

On the other hand, I am always overwhelmingly grateful for the warm shower, the comfortable bed, the ability to regulate heat and eating to my liking, and safety.  Gifts not to be taken lightly.  There's no place like home.

There will always be another jet plane.  In the meantime... 

It's back to the Boatyard!  

My second chapbook, The Boatman's Daughter, begins advance sales on Monday, so my thoughts  return to proofreading, the promo tour and social media marketing.  

Thanks for following these adventures, and for your various comments on Facebook. I appreciate the time you take to stop by and read, and hope you'll join me in the Boatyard for some poetic adventures!  

See you there!
   
  

Heading Home...

Our time in England had come to a close...the glory of the gathering, and the frenzy of the passport issue resolved, unfortunately too late to preclude our early morning departure.  But our 90-minute drive to the Manchester airport was far more joyful, knowing we were facing only a few extra hours in the lounge, rather than interrogation at the immigration office.  

A leisurely breakfast at the airport cafe was our new first priority, and we relished the hot coffee and pastries while bubbling over with the joy of the passport find, the energizing company of the artists, and the prospect of heading home, or to the next stop.  Mission accomplished.  Exhausted but exuberant.

Soon we were shuffled through security, called to board, and settled into our seats--now just Jess and I.  Mat headed into Manchester to visit friends, and then further onto a conference in Denmark; the rest of the guys left for Germany for a tour (Bill Drake Band), following the release of Bill's new CD, Broken and Complete.  Separation anxiety...hard to say goodbye to brothers you've been through intensity with!

I thought I would be one of these passengers:

but the excitement of the past days kept me awake and writing all the way home, with only a movie and a short nap after lunch to interrupt (or feed) the creative surge I was feeling.  I returned as I often do: feeling beyond privileged to be part of this great adventure, with some of the coolest people in the world, seeing some of the sights of the world, hidden or famous, the subtle secrets of a culture or the more stereotypical ones.  The highs and lows, cold showers and short nights.  Broken by the needs in the world, complete in my satisfaction of working to do something about it.  

"The place God calls you is where your deep gladness and the world's deep hunger meet."--Frederick Buechner   

Bridgnorth

The cute little English village...check. 

Tiny, winding lanes to stroll through...check.

Surrounded by sheep-filled--or, better, lamb-filled pastures...check.

The castle with ruins...check.

The bridge over the lazy, winding river...check.

The swan...check. 

History...check. 

The pub with the fish and chips...check. 

Bill desired to take his leadership team out for the quintessential British country village experience. Having lived in England for many years, he knew what he was looking for.  And on our free Sunday evening, while the participants went to Birmingham, or a barbecue, or took a nap, we piled in a van.  Forty-five minutes later, after a drive through the loveliest of English countrysides, the sun streaming down on those lamb-filled pastures, we arrived in Bridgnorth.

Perched on the crest of a hill, Bridgnorth overlooked the winding river, complete with geese, swans and ducks, willows and bridges--positively Shakespearean.  We meandered till sunset, the strain of the past week melting in the charm of English gardens, and the fragrance of violets.  Near the old church, the ruins of an old castle tilted like the Tower of Pisa, and a sign attested to its purpose: to defend against the Danes.  

We followed old donkey paths around former ramparts, and took pictures of Hobbit-like doors and windows.  

Back on the main street, with its centuries-old town market, we found the quintessential pub.  After decoding the menu (what in the world are homemade faggots?!), we ordered our meals, complete with elderberry juice or red wine, and the banter of good friends, until it was time to head back.  

In case you missed the album on Facebook, with all the pix, here are a few teasers.  

And if you ever find yourself in the Black Country around Birmingham, check it out.  And I recommend the upstairs table in the window at La Brasserie :) 

  

  

The Covenant of Salt

During our various field presentations and worship times, I was injecting a bit of salt.  A too-obvious symbol for a SALT conference?  Not if you dig into the less-than-obvious Covenant of Salt, mentioned only three times in the Old Testament.  And dug I did...one cannot be obvious in a group of artists, without getting the artistic equivalent of a tomato thrown at you.  

The digging was especially appropriate after Erica had led us in a simulated archaeologic dig, with kits from Toys R Us!  As we chipped away for the 'gems' hidden in these plaster blocks (child safe no doubt), we were to consider the digging it took to find the gems hidden in each culture.  

And one of the gems I have found in Hebrew culture was the Covenant of Salt--a subject that has fascinated me for years, but for which I could find little in literature or on the internet. 

And so I created my own little bit of liturgy, asking the students to bring salt from their countries.  If any eye-rolling went on at that request, no one shared it.  The salt mostly came, and those that didn't bring any bought it in town and eventually brought in an offering.  

I read some of the gems of history and Scripture that I had found--about the depths and meanings of covenants, and the salt added to the sacrifices, salt water at the Passover Seder, and the move of salt away from the table and into rites of baptism, healing and exorcism.  Why that transition away from covenant meals?  I don't know, but if any of you do, please fill me in!  

The Arabs have expressions that retain the early covenant-making element that salt, um, brought to the table:  "There is salt between us" and "We have eaten salt together."  How appropriate as we spent 3 days together sharing hearts, plans, challenges and dreams--literally and figuratively, we ate salt together.

At our closing communion/commissioning time, the table of salt came over to join the communion table, and the salt was mixed in one big bowl--pink, gray, white--from which we scooped and filled a salt shaker for each one.  We prayed over one another, overfilled shakers and made a mess on the floor, sprinkled salt over one another, and finally sent each other off with salt shakers.  But not before the worship kicked in again, and we included the final element of the covenant of salt: healing.  Prayers for the healing of a number of our artists began, while the dancers and musicians lifted the roof off once again.       

Yes, the salt was flying...I've not scratched the surface of this deeply symbolic little grain, but plan to keep on digging, with my new salt shaker sitting on the counter encouraging me on.  

Halesowen

I seriously need to wrap up these stories...in less than one week, I need to get back to the Boatyard!  The advance sales period of my second chapbook, The Boatman's Daughter, is about to begin...I'm preparing my media blitz!

In the meantime, let me tell you about Halesowen, the village we were based in.  Small and not-so-small row houses, pretty little flowers springing up as the season was definitely warming up (astonishingly, we had no rain during our time in England!), and soft clouds.  A pedestrian shopping district, peppered with thrift shops and pubs.  And one mall.  To which we were drawn for its coffee bars and chocolate shop...  

Then there was the obligatory millennium-old church with its cemetery, across which an empty potato chip bag blew incongruously.  A downward path to our hosts' home took us past the White Friars building dating from 1300, just around the corner from the tattoo and piercing parlor.  Juxtaposition...  

And from our hosts' home to the training center, we took a stone staircase, went up a hill, across a parking lot, and took the dirt path through the chain link fence to get to the training center.  We passed a snooker club along the way, and the Queen's Pub.  A sign says Little Cornbow.  Have a glimpse:

What Else Happened

If you’ve been following along, you would think I made a trip to England and back, only to lose my passport and find it again.  Ah, but there was more...this was a subplot in a story that wove together friendship, covenant, worship, pubs, encouragement, creativity...and (of course) coffee & chocolate! 

The main plot?  I think it was supposed to be about training, but became more about creating community, worshipping God.  

Most of what I’ve written about the passport adventure took place in the nanoseconds between meetings, or during meetings, or just before crashing into bed after the 18hr day.  So here‘ s a few snapshots of what happened in those long days.  Starting with worship:

There is no worship like that with a roomful of artists.  Try it some time!  The roof usually comes off, along with the shoes.  Musicians jump on various instruments, dancers break out in interpretive worship dance, and there is likely a visual artist up front working on something.  There may be a dramatic reading or presentation, spoken word, or poetry.  Our technical arts whiz, if he’s around, puts up the most stunning graphics to move us along through the songs, or a video to transition us from one phase to the next.  It is a multi-sensory, multi-media extravaganza, rich and textured.    

Our SALT worship times were no exception: over-the-top music--including violins, guitar, piano, recorder, all manner of percussion instruments (at one point, a box was passed around and everyone invited to select one).   

One morning, with community as our theme, we created trinity motifs with ink while listening to Bach’s Mass in B Minor. 

The next, one of our leaders brought out children’s archeological kits, and set them up at various work stations, recreating the search for precious gems in our cultures.  Video prayer links played in the background, while we moved around prayer stations for each of the nations represented by our group.  We stood or moved from chairs to cushions, poring over prayer requests and info cards on each country.  

Our grand finale--after three days of listening to each other’s stories, challenges and victories, three days of hearts knitting together--followed a time of communion and commission, and was a veritable explosion.  Somewhere in those three days, community happened--a community of artists yearning for freedom of expression--and no one needed to ask permission anymore.  

No one needed to act like a politically correct Christian, whether charismatic or conservative.   Everyone could act like an artist.  The musicians rose, the dancers danced, and one brave visual artist went up front and painted.

At one point, someone threw a chain out in the middle of the room, imploring each one of us to leave any chains that still bound us behind, as the evening came to a close.  (Or tried to.)  A Scripture was read, and some came forward for prayer.  Others sat quietly and soaked it all in.  Some had only tears for offerings.  

When we ended two hours later (oddly enough, with a Christmas carol!), everyone stayed another hour, reluctant to leave.  I think I got a minimum of three hugs per person in the final farewells!  Our tanks were full.  

Isak Dinesen's words, from her short story, "Babette's Feast," come to mind: 

"Through all the world there goes one long cry from the heart of the artist: Give me leave to do my utmost!"  

To see the artists worshipping that night was to hear that cry, and want to answer it.