walls, but astonishment.

[tweaked & reposted.]

I sit in my little house and look at the walls, and look at how the furniture fits so nicely with the overall picture, and I plot colors and wall hangings.

And I feel like the woman who built the Winchester house. Keep the spirits at bay. 

I'm happy to have this little house, and I'm not ungrateful about it, and I smile at the ways in which it all fell together perfectly, in all the ways I needed. This house is a blessing, and what it represents for me - stability, privacy, return to autonomy, regaining a measure of control - are a balm.

But the walls can whisper, and something about sitting on one's couch at ten o'clock at night, and glancing into a corner of the living room, and seeing the way a yellow lightbulb catches a shadow against each ripple or sag or unevenness which lend so much charm to an older house with character in the bright sunlight of huge, antique windows - ten o'clock at night is an uneasy time in the literal light and shadow of so much shift.

Every day, I am grateful to have more than what I need. I've lost so much, and I have so much, but none of what I'm so lucky to have soothes the loss. And I miss.

I miss myself.

I miss so much when I didn't have to defend. Constantly defend. Disregard every dismissal that screams to life before I publish one single word. I miss myself when vulnerability wasn't a stupid, stupid luxury. Part of me wants to find my way back to times when I didn't have to scream a broken heart in hopes of being heard or believed; all of me wants to return to times before I gave up screaming. Part of me wants no part in vulnerability, ever again. But I'm going to die without it. Drama drama drama, you read; but really, no.

And I miss having felt a sense of home. I wish to feel like not a vagabond in this little house, in whose walls I confide I wonder how long you'll be mine as I make myself hang curtains and choose wall colors and take deep breaths, in whose walls I shut out numbness with projects, and sadness with loud media, against whose walls fear still kicks and breaks, outside of whose walls I navigate grocery stores and other humans, none of whom I know, all of which are just too big anymore.

_____________

I miss being with people who know me, the people who have developed sense enough of my unseen that whatever air I breathe carries the fragrance of their presence; maybe this is what they mean when they say home is wherever you find yourself, but these fleeting intuitions of sanctuary, which were once a balm in bleak times, swell and echo in static silence as they return a call to home in a language I no longer speak, a call whose sounds I know, but the words of which I can't return; a dead language.

I fear that who I am now is rejected by those who knew me before, from my deepest roots - embryonic, raw-nerve earthen anchor - to the sunlit tips of my experience, to the ways in which I will lean into the sun, before. Always before. I crave to huddle under the cedars of Lebanon whose boughs stretch holyward and tower over their younglings, but I don't know if my now - in which nothing I knew before remains intact, in which all I know of God is you're there and I don't know what I believe of you and I'm furious and I will not shrink from any single question I scream at you -  is labeled, garden-row-style, as rebellious or okay or arrogant or hurry-it-along or let-it-linger. If I am a prodigal, I need sleep so badly.

I miss moving under the holy gaze of people who look into others’ eyes and seek to know outside their own experiences.

I miss the air Who knows me in a place that is not Florida, all uprooted and arrogant in the way of surface-pretty with no substance, sharp versions grass suspending the walker above young, misplaced earth that knows neither how to sustain nor embalm. I miss a nuanced sun that lingers too long at summer’s end, the way it feels filtered on the skin by the patience of trees, and the wisdom of soil that has been ancient for ten thousand years.

I miss the presence of the female Divine in the cycle of seasons. I miss salted ice and a pale sun waiting behind the filigreed, bride-attendant billows of winter cloud; I miss the hills tumbling for miles and miles with no break of humanity; I miss the springtime ripening of sweet earth and her delicate, girlish promissory fragrance of life; later, I miss the heavy, honeyed musk of a thousand slain gardens after birth, at harvest, and the satisfied exhaustion of impending slumber, after which it all begins anew. I miss the astonishment of vibrant, God-breathed physical life bigger than myself. I miss not palm trees.

I miss the safety of places that exist as fully inside my skin as outside, and I am tired of evergreen violence that knows no season; I am tired of crimes against sleep and memory, and of the wounds and grief indigenous to this place, and I am tired of being required to consecrate them with the dignity of my attention. I am tired of the fight against that which will never, ever, ever be content to stay outside the contested borders of my bloodstream. I am tired that, at one time, I could not speak my life at full voice; I am exhausted that, now that I could speak, if I chose, I can't find the language that would explode from me, if I knew it.

The sonorous paths of grief, love, joy, anger, pain – in satisfaction, or phantom pain for that which is lost, or vindication, or reacquaintance with grief at levels yet to be awakened, or the womanly seasons of the world: they defy the human intention toward the ease of straight lines. Everything comes back around, eventually. Everything, to be navigated in curvature and intersection, each time to change the color of the world a bit and refresh one's sense of astonishment, for better or worse, til death.

I ache for a return to the familiar colors of my life, which shall be new; I am ready for acres of astonishment.

reasons, on a Tuesday, why i will be a horrible mother.

[tweaked and reposted.]

I'm babysitting while I write this.

His name is Asher. He is four. He is petite, waif-like, with a puppy smile that melts his whole face into warm lines, and with a straight, blond bowl-cut, and with the vocabulary of an exceptionally-intelligent 35-year-old man who rounds his "r" sounds just slightly enough to betray the fact that he is, in many ways, closer to "baby" than "boy."

Asher and I, we're buddies. We sing stupid songs in the car and pretend to see rhinos lumbering along the interstate. He spits and says poopy and booger, but I try to discourage fart and outright draw the line at stupid. He's not much into physical activity; he's an intellectual, somewhat arrogant, a masterful manipulator, and I often feel like he's matching wits with me in every conversation, so much so that I'm always surprised at his propensity to worm his way into my arms or lap for a brief thumbsucking.

I like this kid. A lot. Currently, I'm letting him rot his brain in front of the TV.

____________________ 

I've never had a real hankering for motherhood. It's all contingent on meeting up with someone with whom I can trust the experience of shared parenthood. Since that hasn't happened, I'm happy to be single and childless, because, as they say: Love is like a fart; if you have to force it, it's probably shit.

I've fielded my share of shit. And I know, to my toes, that to lack is better than to be hip-deep in shit.

There are many ways in which I'd be a fantastic mother. I love to actually know the little people in my care; I love for them to know that they're known. I love the particulars of physical care - knowing that you're bathed and fed and well-slept, and combed, and secure in what you need. Part of me is surprisingly nurturing, and I never know when that part of me will wake up and take over. (Not surprisingly, that part never wakes up before 10 am.). I am a firm-but-loving-boundary person, and even though I joke about letting kids run all over me, they do not, ever, and they probably won't, ever (after 10 am).

But there are ways in which I know I'll be the kind of mother who will stride fast and stare at the floor while walking you to your daycare classroom, hoping that I'm at least out of the room before you, Future Child Of Mine, start innocently confessing my sins to the adults around you.

1. I am a clean person, life-wise, but I do not care how clean my car is. I do not care. I care even less that you'll be in the car and will have to put up with my mess. I know this will probably set you up for a life of slovenly car care, and I know I'm handing you ammo for middle-childhood fights over the importance of cleaning your room or, more importantly, not trashing my kitchen because it will make me crazy (oh, really, Mom? I'll clean my room when you clean your car! This statement lurks in my maternal future.)

2. I will drag your little self to the beach more than you'll want to go; I will grease you up with parabens and set you loose in the sand and then yell at you when you get too far away and refuse to come back, and i'll probably only remember to grab crappy snacks, like stale Wheat Thins and maybe that ageless half-bottle of water from the backseat.

3. Healthy eating is one thing. But you'll be stuck with a mama who is 1) a chef, and 2) highly project-oriented. I will make ridiculous foods, and I will make you eat them. This might be smooth sailing until you hit the age of two-ish and realize that you have a will, a mouth that will close, and a firm grasp of the word NO and all its cousins (Tantrum, Breath-Holding, Kicking/Screaming/Punching, and the like).

And when you'll want to eat nothing but powdered orange quote-unquote cheese and mysterious, unidentifiable breaded items, I will drown myself in mommy guilt for not having worked harder to develop your palate and you'll totally pick up on it because you're smart and I'll probably influence you to develop an eating disorder. *throws self on floor in despair*

(By the way: You'll eat what I cook. I'm a chef, not a restaurant.)

4. I will be afraid of hurting you. Of saying stupid things that will inform your world in fifteen years. Of holding you too close, and hovering, and making you feel unsafe and insecure in a world full of good people. I'm afraid I'll make you think you can't function without me. I know how vulnerable and open you are, and I know the ways in which you can be hurt. I can't know what it must be like to have to let go, little by little, so you can learn to trust that the world is good, and so you can learn that, for the most part, the good in the world will help me protect you from the bad.

5. I will be worthless before 10 am. And eventually, you'll learn that Mama likes her morning coffee 1) with whole milk, and 2) flat on her back.

6. I will probably let you wear the same socks for multiple days.

7. My introvert days are definitely introvert days. And there will be times when you'll want to play with your friends and I will say nope, simply because you're too little to truck yourself over there alone, and I can't deal with the parental small-talk right now.

8. I will interrupt your soliloquy on batteries they have one part of space, no, two parts of spaces so you can put two batteries in, and there's the space inside and that's where the power is so when it's dead, the rest of it isn't, doesn't have the spaces anymore, it's like they get closed up by abruptly getting up, walking to the bathroom, and closing the door for no reason. But it's okay, because you're still talking about batteries. Right now. Still talking.

9. If today's babysitting is any indication of your future, Not-Yet-My-Child, I'll be writing blogs while you're lounging on a recliner with your hand inside your pants, munching on fried potato sticks at 9 am and soaking in the brain-killing LCD glow of talking cars, sheep who wear skirts, fat French dragons, and little girls with pigtails that stick straight out from their heads who have full conversations with their super-nurturing, fully-dressed fathers who are cooking breakfast while smiling. And I'll take comfort in the fact that your experience will be sooooo removed from that, you won't even know to compare and find me lacking. [See? TV isn't all bad.]

But here's the thing.

I will love you.

And love you, and love you, and love you. And love you.

I (and your dad, presumably) will draw the lines, yes, and I will set the boundaries, and yes, you'll throw things at me every now and then and screech about how awful and mean I am.

But I will know you. And I will love you how you need.

There will be the yelling, and the quiet, and the spankings (rarely), and the quiet, sweaty, restless collapses together on a couch, wherein both of us would really rather be doing other things, but right now, we just need to do this.

And then, never fear, little one:

I'll shove you out of my lap and say gah, go take a shower; you smell like a butt.

locks.

If you've been a crime victim, you know some things.

The incredible, sanity- and heart-saving power that comes of connecting with other survivors.

The unique healing balm of being with people who have no idea what you're dealing with, but who observe your heartbreak without judgments and welcome you into their space.

The loss.

The division of life thereafter: before, and after. And the grief for who you were.

________

The morning after the first break-in, I woke up with the inside of my stomach on fire.

Incredibly edgy. Nauseous, panicky, ten-on-a-scale-of-ten urgency - awake in the sunlight and feeling utterly displaced. but for what? lisa. what is the problem here? I silently lectured myself. When depression and anxiety are parts of your life, you learn to introspect to your benefit: you sift through reactions that are legitimate, and reactions that are free-floating and can be disregarded. so what's the problem, lisa? you just woke up. nothing's wrong. relax. let it go. I stretched out in bed for a few more minutes.

I couldn't let it go.

So I got up. Went straight to the bathroom, took a shower, music blaring, trying to quell the mental nausea growing in my gut. Got dressed. Walked into my kitchen, rubbing one palm against my face, reaching half-blind for the refrigerator door.

And then, I noticed the dirt collected on the plastic bag holding my plastic recyclables, hanging on the back doorknob. Stopped with one hand on the fridge handle and, in my sleep-stupor, realized that my gut was absolutely screaming.

Moved the bag slightly from the doorknob; dirt slid down the side of the bag to land on top of the small pile of dirt at the base of the door. The pile of dirt, which was actually a pile of ground-up wood, from someone trying to jam some sort of tool between the wooden door and door frame.

Touched the doorknob with two fingers, and pulled it slightly toward myself.

The door swung, unlatched in any way, toward me. A ping of metal, as the metal doorknob plate in the doorframe hung, top-heavy, from its bottom screw; the top screw bounced toward my toe.

In that second, all Lifetime-movie-dramatical-style, my heart stopped. My breathing stopped. My body went numb. All that crap. And also, I thought: someone's in my house? I whipped around and faced the empty kitchen, fully expecting to see a figure hulking behind me. Grabbed a knife, and swept every corner, every closet, shoved aside the shower curtain I'd stood behind fewer than three minutes prior, kicked every behind-those-boxes in my garage. Forced myself. It was like walking against a current.

Nobody was in my house.

But somebody had been in my house?

A crowd shoving against my brain: nobody was in here. but they got the door open. why would they work so hard to open the door, but not come in. nothing is missing. nothing moved. was anybody in here. when did it happen. were they inside here with me. 

Came back into the house from the garage. Pulled the door shut behind me, and started to lock the door - but then, in a heat-prickling roar of blood to my head, I stared at the doorknob.

Lock the door? really. 

Lock the door.  

 I stared at the doorknob and barked one loud, dry laugh in my living room.

What the fuck is a lock, anyway?

What the fuck is a lock supposed to keep out of my house? me? my life? everywhere? anywhere? 

______

So, tonight, I'm sitting in my house. Locks, alarms, an angry poster on, and a large stove in front of the back door. I'm in my PJs, sans bra, bad hair, menu-costing. The house smells like lasagna. It's quiet.

It's quiet. Which makes me listen. And ask myself: where are my keys?

In the kitchen, hanging on the hook. Okay.

But then: they're in the kitchen. what if something happens at the back door. you have to run toward it to get your keys. go get your keys. where's your purse. where are your shoes. be ready. what if something happens. 

And really, what can you do. That's the helpless, angry, I-have-no-fight heartbreak of it: what can you do.

Is it paranoia sometimes? Sure. Should you root yourself to the couch, sometimes, and refuse to indulge it? Yes.

If you're ready, you'll probably win. Because you'll never doze off on your couch, or open the back window while you're making lasagna, or walk into the side room because you haven't replaced the miniblinds yet, and there's that one gap. It's beautiful outside, and I can't open my door.

If you relax: you're not ready.

If you're not ready, why weren't you, how could you let, why didn't you, that was stupid.

If you're ready, relax, so paranoid, overreacting, really just being silly, such dramatics. 

Inside your head, and out.

No winners.

Just locks, and those who remember to lock them, and those who might not, and those who don't know locks.

And I wonder, Lifetime-movie-style. all over again, with a dramatical ending flourish to an emo-blogger blog entry, if anything will ever be the same again.

carrots and lentils and cheese; oh, my.

When the carnivore’s away, the vegetarian comes out to forage for roots, shrubs, nuts, and berries.

Literally.

With some cheese.

Someone laughed at me recently when I said I’m “mostly vegetarian.” It’s true that, in vegetarian-land, there’s no “mostly.” If you eat meat, you’re not a vegetarian.

But when my carnivorous roommate’s got an overnight work function, and when I’m all by myself for dinner, and when we recently got some gorgeous organic arugula from a local farmer’s market, and there are half-dead carrots screaming to be used… When I cook for myself, I rarely bother with meat. It’s the perfect time, to quote the great Julia Roberts, to be still like vegetables; lay like broccoli. 

This video has nothing to do with the above quote, but it's the best part of the movie. If you disagree, you have no soul.


I blame my restaurant experience for a love affair with lentils - one restaurant in particular has a fantastic warm lentil salad – bright and lemony, with salty bits of salami and sharp fennel. I kind of hate them for coming up with it first. I dream about this salad.

The Lentil Salad dreams take shape in nightmare format, though, because most of my restaurant-related kitchen disasters involved mishaps with those blankety-blank stupid whore lentils. Whether overcooking them, or undercooking them, or accidentally dumping them in floor drains while trying to drain huge, boiling vats, or the constant paranoia that I wouldn't have enough to last the night - I’m surprised that The Lentil and I are still on good terms.

And there was the Saturday night when I thought I only had two quarts of prepared lentils left – not nearly enough – and was running the station by myself, so I had to field a board full of orders AND fine-brunois a quart each of onion, carrot, and celery for the blankety-blank stupid whore lentils. I’m hustling. I’m about to cry. Every chance I get, I run to the back table and fine-brunois my fat little fingers to the fat little bones, trying to do it on the sly, lest Chef French-brogue at me, knowingly singsongy-style, from across the kitchen liiiiisaaaaaaaa, what are you dooooooing? and I’m telling myself you’ve got time, it’ll be okay, and meanwhile more people than the Earth can hold keep walking in off the street ordering the blankety-blank stupid whore lentil salad like nobody’s business, along with everything else out of my station…

That, friends, is panic.

… So I finish the veg, and I get the pot and colander and olive oil and water and strainer, and I get my lentils going, and I’m truly and actually and fat-ly running back and forth between my station and the back stove, and Chef is grinning but not asking. And I finish cooking them, and I drain them, and I lay them out on sheet pans.

Success. Done. Oh my god oh my god oh my god. And, of course, service slows down right then. I slump a little and a bead of sweat falls from my nose onto my shoe.

And the night kitchen manager saunters past, then stops, comes back around the corner, narrows his eyes at me with a head-cocked-to-the-side smile, and says:

You know you have, like, a gallon of cooked lentils in the walk-in, right?

I said words that I won’t type here, preceded by a loud WHAT. I hear Chef roaring with laughter behind us on the way to his office.

Kitchen Manager grins broadly.

I repeat all of those untypeables.

Kitchen Manager laughs. Picks up a handful of lentils and pops them in his mouth. Chews, then grabs another handful. Well, at least they’re cooked perfectly, he chuckles over his shoulder. Cryovac them and put them away. Not too shabby.

Good times.

But the moral is: Mind your lentils, kids.

Arugula Salad with Roasted Carrots and Lentils
(serves 1)

LENTILS:
2 tbsp. olive oil
1 tsp. each finely-minced onion, carrot, and celery
¼ cup dried French lentils
Water

VINAIGRETTE (this is a fairly dry salad; double or triple the vinaigrette, if you know you'll want more)
1 clove roasted garlic, with oil (directions follow), mashed
2 tsp. honey
A generous tablespoon apple cider vinegar (maybe a splash more than a tablespoon; use it to taste)
1 tbsp. olive oil
Salt and pepper

EVERYTHING ELSE:
2 medium carrots, peeled and sliced thin on the bias
Olive oil
2 tbsp. slivered almonds, toasted
2 tbsp. crumbled blue cheese
2 tbsp. dried cranberries
1 ½ cups arugula
Salt and pepper

DIRECTIONS:

Preheat oven to 450 degrees.

Lay a clove of garlic on a square of aluminum foil. Drizzle with a scant tablespoon of olive oil. Wrap tightly, then place in oven. Roast for about 15-20 minutes, or until softened and lightly browned. Set aside to cool briefly.

Toss carrots with olive oil, salt, and pepper; arrange in a single layer on one side of a sheet pan. Roast until tender and caramelized, about 20 minutes (depending on their thickness; mine were pretty thin, and they took about 15 minutes. Just test them every now and then.)

Lentils: Meanwhile, heat the olive oil over medium heat in a small pot. Add the diced veggies; cook about 2 minutes. Add the lentils, then cover with about 2 cups of water. Bring to a boil, reduce heat, and simmer about 20 minutes, or until lentils are firm but tender, then drain.

Vinaigrette: Combine the garlic clove and oil from roasting with the other vinaigrette ingredients. Season to taste.

In a large bowl, combine arugula, lentils, carrots; set aside to let arugula wilt. Toss everything with the vinaigrette, then season to taste with salt and pepper.

This might be my favorite of any meal I've made so far.

i like a little gluten in my christianity.

The other day, I made a vegan cheese thing and it tasted like straight-up coconut. 

And then before that, I made a gluten-free/vegan/white-stuff-free pound cake, and it was like chewing on a greasy sponge that crumbled into tiny soft pebbles in my mouth in the worst way you can imagine (but it tasted like vanilla and maple, so there's that). 

And then before that, I made a gluten-free gingerbread cupcake which wasn't half-bad, which was topped with a no-white-sugar/only-coconut-oil "frosting" the texture of which was kinda like this: if you put some coarse, stale bread in the food processor to make medium crumbs, then mixed canned frosting into it, with some hair. 

I've also had these "raw energy cookies" that my boss made, which aren't cookies at all, because they're much more like truffles, and they are absolutely outrageously delicious. 

We sell several varieties of gluten-free brownies where I work, and I swear, I love them more than conventional brownies, and, if you know me, you know I hate chocolate, but one day, I ate, like, three of them (I paid for them, Cyn, I swear). 

I made the vegan cheese thing again, minus the coconut oil, and it was really pretty doggone good. Who would've thunk. 

_________________

I think a cardinal rule of effort should be: 

Don't base your effort on what you perceive to be a deficit in the recipient's experience. 

This is why I, as a chef, don't often invest in dabbling with alternative-type recipes or methods, including gluten-free baked goods, vegan "meat" substitutes, or the like. 

It's why I, as a Christian, am critical of Christian attempts at mainstream entertainment. Sorry. But I am. I'm a musician with opinions. (waves at you.)

I think that both fall short in parallel ways. And it's not because of the passion of the person/people spearheading the efforts, and not because delicious gluten-free/vegan bread is impossible to achieve, and not because a Christian director/producer/whatever can't create a deeply-connective experience for millions of people of different faiths, or lack of. 

I think it's because, often, the creators are playing to the deficit. 

I've been testing some alternative-type recipes lately, as I mentioned up there; gluten-free pound cake, soy-free vegan cheeses, raw vegan desserts. The results have been varied: and interesting, and laughable, and sometimes, surprisingly intriguing, leading to other ideas that I've tucked away.

If I were gluten-intolerant, and one of my non-culinary friends baked me a gluten-free cake because s/he loved me, I would be thrilled. I would eat bites of it and be so tickled that a person with little passion for the culinary had gone out of his/her way to make me something that requires lots of effort, expense, and planning (as alternative baking does). I would hardly even care how it tasted, because it would taste like love, and, as schmoopy as that sounds, it's absolutely true.  

If I, on the other hand, entered a restaurant, bakery, or other food outlet which advertised gluten-free goodies, I would have expectations in place. These expectations would be borne of my own culinary perspective and artistic process: I would expect that the chef had thoroughly tested these recipes against their traditional counterparts, compared the results, and made adjustments to get the results they wanted. I would expect that the chef be knowledgeable enough in his/her craft in order to know how to make these adjustments. I would expect this chef to compare his/her work and perspective with those of other professionals. I would expect that this chef would be just as anal-retentive as I am in these truths: 1) I will not serve you something with which I am at all dissatisfied, and 2) if I am happy with it, I have lost sleep, spent way too much money on testing, and generally busted my tail repeatedly in order to achieve a result as close to perfect as I can get. 

Because why wouldn't I? Why wouldn't I want to achieve a result that's as relevant as I can get to the genre in which I'm working? Why wouldn't I want to serve you something that you'll remember for months and drive two hours in order to repeat the experience? Why bother, otherwise?

When I, as a lucky person with a normal digestive system and few food sensitivities (darn you, raw apples), rip open the wrapper to some alternatively-produced goodie proclaiming itself to be just as good as the "real" thing! and I end up with a mouthful of vanilla-flavored sawdust, or a chewy, greasy sponge, or a salty, gritty mess which tastes like tumeric and coconut (not in a good way): I think to myself how utterly disrespectful. 

I am offended by it. 

And I expect better. 

How disrespectful, to bank on the excitement of a person who can't enjoy this treat conventionally, only to serve them something that doesn't at all resemble the picture on the package. How disrespectful, to bank on the dangling-carrot effect; they can't eat cake, so they're gonna be really excited to eat this! they probably know it's hard to make a good cake without gluten/animal products, so they'll appreciate it, even though we all know it misses the mark! 

[They know what Hollywood/media/the music industry is like! They'll appreciate that this is wholesome and nourishing! They'll enjoy the taste of barley because it's good for them, and because of that, they'll never miss the luxuriant taste of butter. It says God on the packaging, so Christians have to like it!]

Seriously, how lazy, to gamble that a person's excitement at eating something called "cake" will supersede their ability to know that they are not chewing on anything that resembles a piece of cake (my coworker, Rebekah, and I call this having smart mouth cells. because we're stupid like that). And I'm sorry, but: how lazy, to expect Christians to be grateful for subpar attempts at mainstream relevance within prescribed "Christian" understandings of what's "cool." It says God on it and panders to our whitewashed-jean button-down early '90s sensibilities, so we'll swallow it up and be grateful! 

What a wide range of permission you grant yourself to produce subpar work when you play to the deficit. If you market yourself as better-than, for a set of reasons, then your effort is going to be scrutinized across the board, and your claims' follow-through better follow through. 

I just think this: 

If you're gonna call it cake, it had better resemble meet the standards of what a cake is. It had better be light and fluffy, if it's to resemble a butter cake; it had better be dense and tender and moist, if it's to resemble a pound cake, or springy and fluffy to resemble genoise. If you serve me cashew butter in a crust and call it cheesecake, or if you puree dates and call it salted caramel, I swear. 

If you're gonna call it a cookie, it had better crumble, or chew, or cake-up like a cookie. If you call it frosting, it had better be fluffy and sweet and melt in my mouth. If you're gonna call it a baguette, it had better be just that, and it had better not taste like almonds, for crying out loud. 

Make it better.

Do it well, or don't do it. Or you risk becoming a parody of yourself. 

I really believe that there are some great alternative recipes and methods out there, if I'm willing to work at learning how to use ingredients differently. 

That is all. 

church.

I don't really have many words of criticism for the church.

If you know me (or don't), you may (or may not) be surprised to read that. But it's true.

The church is big, and deep, and wide, and complex, made up of thousands of people and cultures, all with their own particulars, strengths, weaknesses, shades of vision, yada yada yada. It is an imperfect band of ragamuffins, no matter how hard some of them would try to convince you otherwise, with big screens and flashing lights and big, flashing teeth, and pithy -isms intended to distance suffering rather than sit with it.

The church has both sustained me and broken my heart. Given me tools to survive, and slashed my legs out from beneath me. I've seen dead churches filter millions of dollars through themselves for stupid, lame reasons; I've seen incredible faith communities virtually ignored by their parent denominations. Seen the church eat its young and euthanize its old with one hand while feeding the poor and lifting the needy with the other.

Is it any wonder why so many people are so exhausted with the ambivalence of it?

I have my gripes and wounds just like any other current or former churchgoer, but I'm not nearly educated (or, lately, graceful) enough to feel qualified to speak outside my own experience. I'm heartened to read many well-written, well-balanced, forward-thinking commentaries lately - other peoples' takes on the church's direction. Deaths and births. Those leaving, and those staying amid the exodus, and why anyone would bother doing any of it. They all say, with grace and frankness, the things I feel, but can't speak (a wordless season for a writer is torturous). And in reading their words and not writing any of my own, I realize that they are starting the engine on what I've been subconsciously bit-chomping for: how long do we hold out? how long do we wait? how long? They're pulling the blinds and letting the light in. And I feel less alone, though I still can't exactly tell you why.

Whether the truth is closer to I have so many criticisms that I don't even know where to start, or the state of the church may not be as dismal as I believe it to be - it's probably best I keep my mouth shut until I figure out where to plant each foot. Because the truth is probably found somewhere near the middle.

I do know that, although I need so much distance from it so frequently, I can't quit it. I won't quit it. Sometimes I feel like a motherless child, like a guilty outlier groaning rich aspersions set to heartbroken chords that press the masses' bruises and cause them to echo forth, and maybe that's why I keep my mouth shut, because who are you, standing outside, to criticize what's happening inside? - but I think the truth is that the state and direction of the church means so much to me that I can't articulate the ways in which its misdirections break my heart. My heart, which is no better than, no more tender or righteous, than anyone else's - but if I needed to state a criticism of the church (and, lately, I do need to), it is that my heart is broken with how many hearts the church has broken and walked away from - so often turned on its heel and left inconvenient souls in the dust while walking toward meaningless things that will swallow its soul.

I identify with the outliers, the I-walked-away-from-it-to-save-myself, the abuses and wrongs and where-was-God??? - and identifying with pain that touches your own is a heady thing, an occasionally irresistible draw that can lead you to darker places than you intended before you realize it. But I also identify with the very center, God-breathed core of the church - go, and do, in My name. I've been both the hand that's fed and, in spite of my wounds, the rod that's smitten. I don't have the words, but I identify with the triune: the church in spite of its deep imperfections, the broken under its feet, and, somehow, still, with the God who redeems it all in ways that I'm too tired to think about.

In all the things each side is crying out: they're both right. Sometimes at odds, and sometimes, they cry out over different wording of the same things, though they don't realize it.

And if the question is where can I go with this? I think the answer is the same as the answer to this question:

If your church were stripped of everything - building, every cent, community standing, all political influence, slogans, billboards, affiliations, sponsorships, everything - if your church were, in ten minutes, reduced to a group of bewildered people holding each others' squalling babies and bandaging each others' foreheads, sitting in a circle, just them and God: where would your church go from there? and who would you be? what would you be?

hm.