Welcome to the new home of WomanNeverSleeps. After three years on another blog site, I’ve switched to Word Press. Here I hope to continue to “quaff at the fount of quotidian quandaries – the quirky, the quaint, the quietly holy.” This will be a work in progress for awhile. I’ve imported all my old posts, but I hope you don’t mind overlooking a few glitches in the appearance until I can get them reformatted. Thanks for your patience, and thanks for reading.
Author: Bri Sperry-Renfrew
La Señora Loca con la Cámara
It begs for a story…
This is the same field of flowers pictured in my last blog, except when I took that photo these easy chairs had yet to be dumped beside them. Not long after I took the first photo, I was doing my regular afternoon drive to pick up the kids from school, when I noticed what looked like a pile of junk. At that time the chairs were bowed over kissing the dirt, their tan under bottoms disguising their true blue identity. Breezing past, I couldn’t even tell they were chairs. By the time the kids and I drove back by on our way home, the chairs had been righted, perfectly positioned as if looking out a giant picture window.
I like to imagine they were set there for me – that the migrants working across the road had peered out from underneath their wide-brimmed hats and spied me with my camera that day. Maybe one of them said, “La senora loca con la cámara!” But the other one, the one who worked the fields out of a love for the land and the flowers, said, “Su corazon es capturado por las flores. Tengo una idea.”
And that is how the two blue recliners, one for me and one for my muse, came to be a roadside fixture.
The Secret of Dirt
I have not been a barren woman. I have been blessed with more chairs around my kitchen table than I ever imagined. My womb has known the twinges and tugs of life grasping and straining existence from my own. Yet it is the image of barrenness that clutches at my viscera today.
School has resumed and with it my commute. I transport my seedlings. Twenty-two minutes we drive, past an air force base and a salt mine, but mostly past fields. I relish this time. I am reminded of my rural roots – the wheat, corn and alfalfa fields that yielded up life for me, my family, the neighbors down the road. The acres I drive past today grow flowers, shrubs and plants I can’t even identify – a reminder that at times I, too, have been a seed carried by seasonal breezes.
I am fascinated by the fields in their various stages of growth: some newly sprouted, some ready to be harvested, and stages in between. But it is not the perfect rows of blooming flowers or the determined little sprouts that capture my attention as I drive today. It is the fallow fields, the barren, the ones that have known the slicing blades of the plow. They are brown and empty – or stubbly with the yellowed, dried remains of a crop they birthed in another season. They are not attractive like the verdant and flowering. They are exposed; their frail top layers heedlessly frolic with the fickle wind. Worst of all, they don’t appear to be fruitful. Aren’t appearances “everything?” Do these that are bare yearn to be visibly pregnant with life? Do they long to exemplify the produce of their fertility?
No, I am the one who is uncomfortable with the fallow season. I have been spoiled; I don’t like looking unfruitful, unnecessary. I haven’t learned the secret of dirt: to know to be content with the beauty of emptiness, with the necessity of invisible replenishing, with the purposeful cuts of the plow.
Memory Lessons from Life’s Cafe
“Memory is a child walking along a seashore. You never can tell what small pebble it will pick up and store away among its treasured things.”
– Pierce Harris, Atlanta Journal
More and more my memory fails me. Ask my husband, my kids, my friend who went to a concert with me the other night. (“You were there?” I asked during my moment of temporary insanity.) The things I do remember seem to come from left field, those small, bizarre pebbles I must have picked up as a child – or in the following case, as a teenager. However, more and more I see that the things I do remember have a purpose. Its almost as if there was an angel sitting on my child-sized shoulder, whispering in my ear, “That motley one! Pick that one up! You’ll need it in 30 years.” Only the angel muttered the last part under its breath, so I never really knew why I picked up the pebble. Until now.
My daughter called the other night, rather discouraged with her new work in a trendy deli market. Her angst stoked my memory. I remembered my own job as a waitress in a small town restaurant. I was a teenager, a couple years younger than my daughter is now. The cooks, two tough broads, harassed me ceaselessly. I had no idea why I was the target of their incessant verbal abuse. I was a quick learner; I did a fairly decent job. I did forget to wear a slip under my dress one day, but I never saw how my increase in tips should have bothered them. There was also the time I spilled a bowl of soup in a guy’s lap. (He was a big city actor, in our neck of the woods with his troupe doing a performance at the request of our thriving Arts Council.) At least I was wearing a slip that day.
So, I made a couple of mistakes. Did it justify being mocked and berated every time I placed an order? I was just a shy kid trying to earn a buck. I was also a kid who was determined not to crumble under the harassment. I was determined to persevere, to prove myself. And I did. By the time I quit that job, I had those cooks eating out of my hand. Well, maybe not exactly, but they would at least sit at the same table with me and engage in civil conversation.
This story of perseverance, I thought, was the purpose of my memory. I encouraged my daughter to “hang in there,” prove what she’s made of. But even as I told her this, I was growing unsettled with my own answer. Perhaps the angel had returned to my adult shoulder and was shouting, “No, no! There’s something else.”
It was, as it turns out, maybe not about me. As I was telling my daughter about those two mean, crusty cooks, I remembered other things about them. They didn’t have the easiest of lives; one was well past the prime of life, the other was a struggling single parent. Those women needed compassion, they needed Jesus…just like the people my daughter works with – just like everybody.
As my daughter and I talked about this, I found myself hoping – hoping that she was picking up a memory to tell to her own daughter someday, and that maybe she’ll listen to the angel a little more closely than I did.
"Cows no have pants."
“Cows no have pants” is the sage observation of my niece’s three-year-old son, and my quotidian quote for the day. It makes me think about pants from a whole new perspective. Three days ago my biggest pant concern was finding the right ones for my son’s school uniform. The day before that I had to pick up some new ones for my husband to wear on business appointments. Just yesterday I was frustrated that my own seemed to be getting a little too snug. Then, of course, there’s the routine care of sorting, washing, drying, ironing, and putting up pants in the course of family laundry duties. Until today, I had never stopped to consider that my dealing with pants only concerns the two-legged variety. I’m not sure how I would manage four pant legs, but… it’s fun to imagine!
My heroes fill jars and fold napkins
Today’s “Quotidian Hero” award goes to country singer Ashton Shepherd. In an NPR interview Ashton, who still lives in a single-wide trailer on six acres in Alabama, says, “It makes me feel good to grow things in the garden and put things up in jars.”
The “Junior Quotidian Hero” award goes to my little friend who just happened to be hanging out at my house the other day when I took a load of linens from the dryer. As I folded bath towels, she spied the table napkins and decided to join me in my endeavors. I watched her delicate fingers grasp and grapple with the clean but fading pieces of fabric that serve to wipe away savory messes from my family and friends’ hands and faces. She persisted until every napkin was folded and stacked. Her help saved me a little effort, but more than that, it showed me the beauty to be found in youthful eagerness and diligent, determined hands. It reminded me of what “Quotidian Mysteries” author, Kathleen Norris wrote, “We must look for blessings to come from unlikely, everyday places…the aesthetic sensibility is attuned to the sacramental possibility in all things.”
Thank you, Ashton Shepherd and Little Napkin Folder, for reminding me to look for sacramental possibilities.
Made for you and me
You know the song…”California…New York Island…Redwood Forest…Gulf Stream waters…ribbon of highway…endless skyway…golden valley…diamond deserts…wheat fields waving…dust clouds rolling…”
My recent vacation back to my home state (and Woody Guthrie’s) brought these words to mind as I relished the sights, sounds and scents of familiar – though not recently traversed – terrain. As I was re-exploring the verdant beauty of my sister’s property one morning, I was struck by how similar it was to some of the places I visited on my vacation to another continent last summer. Yes, many who have not experienced the beauties found in my home state might find it shocking, but I don’t think any natives of Oklahoma would be surprised to find that one can compare her secret glories to those of… Ireland! And while my time in Ireland included several overcast and drizzly days that make one want to curl up with warm blankets and beverages, my home state also delivered a similar, albeit more demanding-of-attention cozy, grey beauty. There’s nothing like a good thunder-rolling, lightning-electrified, gusty rainstorm. I love the way another writer describes these scenes found in the Midwest. “…fat spring clouds went somersaulting, rumbling east. Then it poured, a storm that walked on legs of lightning, dragging its shaggy belly over the fields.” (From “Mother” by Ted Kooser) Perfect imagery that – “legs of lightning,” “dragging its shaggy belly.”
Now I am back in the land of “diamond deserts,” and hoping that all who vacation or travel through this land of yours and mine, will be as moved as I was to take time to marvel and give thanks for it.
A scene from the West of Ireland
A "Lot" to Consider
Last year my youngest daughter (she was nine at the time) came to me and told me she was going to try to read through the Bible. I gave her my hearty approval without a second thought. Not too many days later she came to me with her Bible and said, “Mommy, I don’t like this story.” She was pointing to verses in Genesis 19. The verses tell the story of Lot’s scheming daughters getting him drunk and sleeping with him in their efforts to preserve their family.
My first reaction was one of grief for my daughter. Like any mother, I don’t’ like my children to be upset. BUT…I also know that grief – sometimes in pretty hefty doses – is part of this life. So, my next reaction was one of relief. A couple of very positive things were happening in this interaction. First, my daughter came to me with her concern. As a very imperfect parent, I think it’s an amazingly cool act of God’s grace when my children come to me with their concerns. Second, she recognized that this story reveals some seriously scary things about the human heart. That her young mind could grasp this truth was also an incredible grace. These two good things led to the best part of all – an opportunity to talk about the gospel, the good news that Jesus came to live, die and live again for people like Lot and his daughters, for people like her and me.
I share this story because lately I’ve had more than the usual number of opportunities to consider these kinds of stories and situations. I’ve been thinking about how the Bible is full of stories of sin: murder, rape, adultery, immorality, coveting, lying, etc., etc. My church’s book study group has been reading through some of Flannery O’Connor’s short stories. Like stories in the Bible, O’Connor uses dark and grotesque situations and language to contrast the beauty of God’s grace. Other authors and screenwriters do this, as well, but Miss O’Connor specifically stated this as her purpose in writing. On March 31st I also blogged about the use of grotesque language in music.
It might seem better, and it might be easier, to make no place in my life or my children’s lives for such stories, movies, and songs; but, to extract them from our lives seems to me a denial of the power of the gospel. “What if God, although willing to demonstrate His wrath and to make His power known, endured with much patience vessels of wrath prepared for destruction? And He did so in order that He might make known the riches of His glory upon vessels of mercy, which He prepared beforehand for glory.” (Romans 9:22, 23)
I don’t ever want to condone gratuitous sex, violence and profanity. I do want to thoughtfully consider the Bible’s example in presenting stories that show sin and sin’s consequence for what they are. I don’t ever want to expose my children to stories they’re not mature enough to handle, but I also don’t want to censor them from ones which, when they are ready, will further their understanding of God’s grace and help them become discerning adults. Indeed, there is more than a “Lot” at stake.
Just call me "Blog Killer"
Yes, I am on a poetry kick, which I realize is probably a blog killer. Former Poet Laureate, Ted Kooser, writes that “There’s no money in poetry because most of my neighbors, and most of yours, don’t have any use for it.” Nevertheless, I’m reading Kooser’s Poetry Home Repair Manualto try to improve my – er-“craft.” Well, Neighbor, I don’t think you’ll have to worry about this becoming a poetry blog – even if am inspired and convinced of Kooser’s reasons FOR writing poetry, and actually improve my techniques.
Kooser would probably approve of little, if any, of what you’re about to read. (Doesn’t that just make you want to get right down to reading it?) Actually, he might acknowledge that there is structure. Might.
I wrote this Seuss-like little rhyme for my daughter’s high school graduation last year. Now she’s moving away for culinary school, and these thoughts have come back to mind.
On Your Head
Your MeMa would say you “weren’t big as a minute,”
but you set a big goal and eventually you’d win it
Just barely four you were back then
but I will always remember when
from the time you got up until going to bed
you were determined to STAND ON YOUR HEAD!
With your head in the floor and your feet in the air
you learned many things, but just three that I’ll share
Just three little things from back in the day
but they’ll serve you well as you start on your way
The first thing you learned form your time on your head
is it takes PERSEVERANCE to get up and ahead
You employed this as you studied for tests
or perfected a recipe for special guests
You learned what it means to persevere
and I know you’ll persist through joy or fear
Now the next thing you learned – this is number two
is that sometimes you just have to change your view
We have another word – we call it PERSPECTIVE
and this requires that you be perceptive
to learn with all things and all people you meet
if you should be standing on your head or your feet
And finally the third thing you’ve heard as a fact
that life is simply a BALANCING ACT
In your room where you taped scriptures on the door
there also were stacks of movies galore
For a Christian young woman in the century we’re in
you must juggle two worlds with discipline
You are in, not of, this place
and ultimately you must walk through each door with grace
PERSEVERANCE, PERSPECTIVE and BALANCE – these three
are three things I think will help you to see
when all is done and all is said
you’ve learned quite a bit from your time on your head!
Backyard Poetry – June 2011
“Recess in the Trees”
By Bri Harding
WomanNeverSleeps 