Dear WomanNeverSleeps,
Are you asleep? You haven’t posted anything for so long, it almost seems like you’re hibernating. What’s the deal?
Signed,
AwakeWomanWondering

Dear Awake,
Thanks for asking. To tell you the truth, I haven’t had much time to blog lately. But then, I’ve never really had time to blog. I’ve always made the time to blog and usually relished every moment that I was blogging when I should have been cleaning out the fridge or something. So, I guess that hasn’t really been the problem. No, the problem is that lately I just haven’t had the words – or at least what I thought were the right ones.

But I have the right word now, and its one which I was always told was wrong. I’m reconsidering this word – and not just because I have some Scotch-Irish in my blood. If you ever – and we here in America rarely do – get the opportunity to hear it used *appropriately* you know you’ve fallen into a pit of heartbreaking discovery – a deep, lonely, place of understanding you’re own sin and stupidity. You know instinctively that there’s only one word that describes that kind of honest introspection.

This word that has inspired me really comes from a whole set of words in a song. I first heard this song on a video right after I listened to the same group sing one of my favorite hymns, “Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing.” It was probably one of the most attention-getting moments of my life – going from words of prayer and praise to words of confession. It reminded me of what Flannery O’Connor said, “I use the grotesque the way I do because people are deaf and dumb and need help to see and hear.”

So, Awake, listen to this song and tell me what you think. Does using this “grotesque” word help you to see and hear? (You can read the lyrics below the song while you listen.)

Truly Yours,
WomanNeverSleeps

Lyrics to Little Lion Man
Weep for yourself, my man,
You’ll never be what is in your heart
Weep Little Lion Man,
You’re not as brave as you were at the start
Rate yourself and rake yourself,
Take all the courage you have left
Wasted on fixing all the problems
That you made in your own head

But it was not your fault but mine
And it was your heart on the line
I really fucked it up this time
Didn’t I, my dear?
Didn’t I, my…

Tremble for yourself, my man,
You know that you have seen this all before
Tremble Little Lion Man,
You’ll never settle any of your scores
Your grace is wasted in your face,
Your boldness stands alone among the wreck
Now learn from your mother or else spend your days Biting your own neck

But it was not your fault but mine
And it was your heart on the line
I really fucked it up this time
Didn’t I, my dear? (x2)

Didn’t I, my dear?

Ahhhhh……

But it was not your fault but mine
And it was your heart on the line
I really fucked it up this time
Didn’t I, my dear? (x2)

Didn’t I, my dear?

Because my high school pep band totally rocked Sweet Caroline back in the day, and because I’m still nostalgic over the night my brother once treated me and my husband to a certain concert in Oklahoma City’s Lloyd Noble Center, a burned copy of The Essential Neil Diamond was playing in the CD player as I was being chauffeured around the West Valley a few days ago. Sadly, I was miffed because I was spending some of my precious “free time” taking Daughter #2 around to pick up job apps. My driver was Daughter #1, and as she steered into the wrong lane approaching a stop light, I lost my composure and succumbed to a mid-life mother meltdown. It was a mother of a meltdown, too. It brought a whole new context to “You hardly talk to me anymore when you come through the door at the end of the day.” If I didn’t shape up, that would soon describe me and my daughters. So…there is a subdued and dimly lit new wing in the gallery of my conscience; it’s filled with scenes depicting a mother begging forgiveness as she traverses a grey phase of parenthood, a phase which demands that she overcome her fears and releaseher babies into the streets and establishments of the big, wide world.

“SALVADOR? WHO IS SALVADOR? SALVADOR DALI?” Such were the questions fired from the mouth-turned-machine gun of my daughter-turned Barbara Walters. The person/object in question was an inscribed baseball in the pull-out cup holder of my husband’s Camry. I’d had my Barbara Walters moment with my husband yesterday, so I could absorb the rapid-fire onslaught and field the questions with the wisdom I’d gained.

Sorry, Bob, but I’m moving on. To Keith (as in Richards.)

I decided to read Keith’s new book, “Life,” primarily for two reasons: (1) my husband’s interest in the Rolling Stones, and (2) his status as an accomplished musician. Unfortunately, because it’s a new book at the library, we could only borrow it for two weeks. When my husband finished it I only had time to read about a quarter of it. I’ve reserved it again; I’m 90th on the list (again.)

I did read enough of it to find something to admire in Keith as a musician. As a traditionally trained musician myself, I couldn’t help but be impressed with his tenacity. There’s something very admirable about a man -a musically untrained teenager, really – who will take his instrument and lock himself in his room and listen to a recording until he can play the music himself. My piano teacher probably would have been grateful if I had ever shown a tenth of that kind of determination.

But, of course, Keith’s “Life” is about more than music, although you sometimes do have to read between the lines to find that story. If his life is the music on a grand staff (or maybe a chord chart in his case) it’s necessary to read the accompanying lyrics in order to truly appreciate the song. One thing I “heard” in his “lyrics” relates to my first reason for reading his book – my husband’s interest in the Rolling Stones.

I’ve been married for 25 years. My husband and I have had our ups and downs, and we work every day to learn how to do marriage better. We’ve learned to enjoy each other’s interests; we’ve learned what ticks each other off and what makes each other tick. One thing that makes my husband tick is a little something Aretha taught our generation, “R-E-S-P-E-C-T.” Aretha’s plea is so convincing and so in line with the women’s movement of our time, that we often forget that the song was written by Otis Redding. It was originally a man’s plea for respect from a woman. Do you see a pattern here? The short list is Otis, my husband, and now…Keith.

On page 181, in comparing “English chicks” to “black chicks” he met on tour, Keith wrote, “They were great because they were chicks, but they were much more like guys than English girls were…I remember being in the Ambassador Hotel with this black chick called Flo…she’d take of me. Love, no. Respect, yeah.” (Emphasis mine.)

I was struck to find, here in a book by a free-wheeling rock-and-roller, this desire to be respected by women. I know it annoys some women. Some would say Aretha is the one that still needs to be getting the message out. However, I have found that my husband’s need to be respected isn’t because of some egotistical chauvinism. And though a young Keith Richards might have been disappointed in the reason, I must acknowledge that my husband’s desire for respect is generally rooted in his love for me. He doesn’t demand conspicuous acts of respect. He wants me to respect him enough to turn the light off when I leave a room because he tries to be good with our money. He wants me to respect him enough to take my cell phone with me when I go out alone, because he’s concerned about my safety. Yep, it’s the little things.

If we remember history, this “little thing” is actually quite ancient. The apostle Paul wrote to the Christians in Ephesus: “…let each individual among you also love his own wife even as himself; and let the wife see to it that she respect her husband.” Otis, Keith, my husband and I – we’re all just demonstrating the truth – that God has created men with the need for respect (and women with the need for love). And if we ever forget the seriousness of the situation, we have another rocker to remind us. Tell us again, Pat Benatar: what is love?

NOTE: Lest one think I put my Thanksgiving decorations up AFTER Thanksgiving, the reader should know that I actually wrote this a few days ago, but am just now getting it posted. Such is my life.

I spent the morning putting up Thanksgiving decorations then getting my ironing done while my daughter danced to Vivaldi’s Four Seasons. Yes, I STILL iron, and if you are someone who takes pride in expertly finding ways to get out of ironing, “Great for you!” but I happen to like the smell of hot cotton.

It was a pretty ambitious morning for me, but now I’m sitting here eating Ramen noodle soup and feeling like the most boring person in the world. I’m thinking about giving the blog the boot because surely no one wants to read about my life with Ramen noodles even if it is spiced up with Vivaldi. That just makes me sound like a Ramen snob. “Well, I prefer my noodles with the Adagio Molto movement from The Autumn concerto.” Sniff. Sniff.

Perhaps worse than succumbing to being a Ramen snob, is that I’ve also been devising desperate last ditch schemes to increase readership, and since my blog about the Bob Dylan concert a while back was my most commented upon ever, I’ve considered just typing “Bob Dylan” about a thousand times to see how many hits I get. However, believe it or not, I have too much respect for Dylan fans to do that. Instead, I’m just going to direct you to a book review I wrote on a book about Mr. Dylan. If you happen to be a Dylan fan, who is reading this because I’ve now used Dylan’s name five times and cyberspace directed you here, great. However, I’ll understand if you prefer your Dylan served up a by a non-Ramen snob. (Click here to read the review.)

This review is on my church’s website. We’re Presbyterians and it’s been hinted that that makes us “bookish.” Some might even call us book snobs. So, am I Presbyterian because I love books, or do I love books because I am Presbyterian? Neither. My love for anything worthy of being loved is due to my love for Jesus who has given me eyes to see and ears to hear and tongue to taste and experience all that is good. I think Bob Dylan probably loves Jesus, too. It was not the book that convinced me of this, though; it was his own words, the lyrics to some of his songs.
Whether one speaks of Vivaldi or Dylan, I’ve found it’s usually the artist’s work itself that says the most. I hope that doesn’t sound too much like a snob – of any kind.

Regardless of what I might say about quaffing and quotidian quandaries, sometimes life is a muddy deluge that leaves me gasping and sputtering, drenched like a precocious pup. I need a “River Glorious” or a “Fount of Every Blessing…”

“Come, thou fount of ev’ry blessing
tune my heart to sing thy grace;
streams of mercy, never ceasing,
call for songs of loudest praise.
Teach me some melodious sonnet,
sung by flaming tongues above;
praise the mount! I’m fixed upon it,
mount of God’s unchanging love.

Here I raise my Ebenezer;
hither by they help I’m come;
and I hope, by thy good pleasure,
safely to arrive at home.
Jesus sought me when a stranger,
wand’ring from the fold of God:
he, to rescue me from danger,
interposed his precious blood.

O to grace how great a debtor
daily I’m constrained to be;
let that grace now, like a fetter,
bind my wand’ring heart to thee.
Prone to wander – Lord, I feel it –
prone to leave the God I love:
here’s my heart, O take and seal it,
seal it for thy courts above.

– Robert Robinson, 1758

Personally speaking, today’s defining sin was greed. I awoke to one of the rarest of Arizona days – partly cloudy. For someone whose blood was apparently infused with a cloud gene during my years in Oregon, it should have been a delight. But no, partly cloudy wasn’t enough today. I despised the patches of sunlight, the golden linings. I wanted utter and complete cloudiness.

I’ve come up with the invention of the decade, and if you steal it from me, I will hunt you down with a salad fork. Why? Because I have 22 of them in my flatware drawer, that’s why! There’s a chance there might also be an unlikely few in the dishwasher, and if the kids were younger, I’d say there are probably several in the sandbox, too. But the kids are older now, so my bet is that you might find one under a bed – but only because someone mistook it for a spoon when she was sneaking a midnight bowl of cereal.

Now ask me how many cereal spoons are in my flatware drawer. You guessed it. Zero. Battle Creek, we have a problem.

The Little Mermaid may have had a cute idea for forks, and those wind chimes are nifty, but I’m all about being practical, and that means (tune the drum roll on a cereal box…) the Salad Fork Converter Attachment! As seen in the prototype pictured above, the SFCA would be a spoon-shaped piece that snaps on over the tines of a salad fork. (This one was molded out of aluminum foil, but you get the idea.) All out of spoons AGAIN? Just snap on the SFCA, and voila! I think I hear Tony now.

Should I market them in sets of 50 or 100?

One day in January 2006, my husband’s brother called him with an exceptional birthday surprise – the offer of a new job. It seemed to be a fantastic opportunity, but it wasn’t a slam dunk decision. It would mean uprooting our family and moving to Arizona from Oregon, a place where we had put down roots as deep as those of the fir trees in our neighborhood. After much prayer and many pro/con lists which consistently pointed to accepting the job, we put our house on the market, and my husband headed for Arizona. Given the way houses had been flying off the market, we were quite confident the kids and I would be following him in no time.

Two months later and with Doubt waving from his perch atop our For Sale sign, we were elated to finally get a contract on our house one Wednesday afternoon. I went to church that Sunday rejoicing. To add to my joy, my friend, Dan, sent me home with a new tune he’d written for Psalm 57. I took it home eager to sit down at the piano and play it.

The tune was quickly forgotten when I pulled into our driveway and saw that the “Sale Pending” sign had been removed. A call to our realtor confirmed what my heart feared: the prospective buyers had backed out. Needless to say, it was quite a blow. Since childhood I’ve always done one thing under such circumstances – sit down at my piano. I pulled out Dan’s music and began to play it and read the words… “Show me mercy, O God, show me mercy, for my soul finds its trust in you. In your shadowing wings I take refuge, until sorrows have all passed by…”

The sorrows of losing the sale did pass and a sale did finally come through, but not for another two and a half months. I’ve played Dan’s tune many times since. It’s in the key of D minor, and I love minor keys – whatever that may say about me. But a couple of months ago I asked Dan if he would mind if I transposed the last verse of the song into the major key. It took me four years and many trials and tribulations, but I finally realized that (for me, at least) I needed to sing the last verse with an obvious change in tone. “I will give thanks to you with the people, with the nations I’ll sing praise to you. For your love is great to the heavens, and your truth unto the clouds. Be exalted, O God, in the heav’ns, let your glory be over all the earth. Be exalted, O God, in the heavens; let your glory be over the earth.”