Of music and words

I don't how it always happens, but no matter where I am or what my title, I always end up spending too much time and energy working. I take extra shifts, work extra hours, schedule more meetings, send too many e-mails. Even when I hate my job I overwork myself.

Monday was supposed to be a day off for me. I didn't drive into Liberty or schedule any meetings, but that didn't stop me from spending 2.5 hours on my laptop and phone following up with camp counselors and reminding people of upcoming events. By 2 pm I realized what I was doing and knew I needed to get myself out of the house. I packed my journal and a book on writing and headed to Loose Park for the rest of the afternoon. I made a loop around the rose garden and set off to find a bench when I heard what sounded like the faint sound of a violin. Walls and hedges kept me from a direct route to my destination, but I followed my ears and eventually ended up in the center of the garden.

On a weathered gray bench a small man in black glasses sat playing the violin. He had nothing with him - no sheet music, messenger bag, or water bottle - just the black cloth case that sat closed beneath the bench. I wandered about the inner circle of the garden, avoiding the shirtless man with the long blond hair, beach towel, and radio; searching for a sunless spot to open my book on writing. I picked a patch of shade just a few feet from the musician, and with my head on my tote bag I lied down to listen. Sheltered from the sun, I felt the music wash over. Time passed and the tall green crab grass began itching my legs, urging me to get up. Tiredness won out, and I stayed a while longer, wrapped in my sundress, eyes clamped shut.

An hour later I moved to a bench and opened the book I'd been meaning to read. The gift of the music maker unlocked my desire to write, and so I did, for pages and pages.

"In front of a dead fountain still cloaked in its winter protection
he pours forth music, song after song.
Not for profit or practice, but the sheer pleasure of playing -
of producing a song and sending it out.
A slight cool breeze brought it to me, waking my senses from deep hibernation.
His melody mingles with that of the birds, as he joins in their sweet ceaseless song.
He brings us together - the runners, dog-walkers, soccer moms, and baby-sitters;
The students, senior citizens, and fortunate few who can lounge in a park on a Monday afternoon.
Song after song is stored in his head, danced out out by his fingers, bow upon strings.
He plays away the bright hot sun, and into the cool of late afternoon.
I lie on my back waiting for sleep, wondering what summer dreams may come."

"I, with all of my words, lack the courage to spill them out and offer and them freely as the song of this man. I, the educated writer with my books and tools and methods and thoughts cannot put pen to paper the way he puts bow to string. I am afraid of the noise I will make, or worse yet, that my words make no noise at all. That I have nothing to offer, no song to play. The musician has courage and I hesitation. If I get up the nerve, write a piece, scrawl a poem, will the dog-walkers, soccer moms, and students stop for me? The senior citizens, nannies, lovers, and friends? Will they take in my song? Breathe in my words? Or do I play only for myself?"

A place to write - and vent

I am remiss to confess that I have neglected, abandoned, and forgotten this blog like one-too-many New Year's resolutions. In fact, I probably had a New Year's resolution to blog more often. Then again, I also thought I'd give up alcohol at the beginning of the year. Based on the fact that my sister and I shared a bottle of wine on January 3rd, the future of this blog looked grim from the start. But now I return, like a dog to its vomit (2nd Peter 2:22) or a squirrel to a forgotten stash of acorns, hoping to reactivate a blog that has for so long laid dormant.

This is my excuse:

Not long after starting work at St. Stephen Lutheran Church, I was introduced to The Voice, a weekly newsletter in which I was allowed to make announcements, solicit volunteers, advertise events, and (most importantly) write articles. The promise of a regular (though small and somewhat eccentric) weekly audience was enticing and empowering. In the 72 weeks that I have worked at St. Stephen I have probably written over 60 articles on topics ranging from the preschool Christmas program to my relationship with the late Cody Kuehn (our beloved family shelty) to my most recent series on the ground-breaking and new sanctuary. Most of these articles were written in two hours on a Tuesday afternoon or Wednesday morning (noon on Wednesday is the weekly deadline), and for some reason I thought that was adequate for my weekly writing praxis. Please accept my apologies for such a terrible judgement call. 

In the beginning I posted sundry Voice articles to this blog, which I told myself was beneficial and resourceful, but was actually just a lazy cop out for writing. All of that is about to change, however. And under circumstances that are just a little less than ideal. 

Let me explain:

Prior to about a week ago I was given free reign to choose the themes and topics of my weekly Voice articles. On weeks when youth ministry lacked its usual luster, my Voice articles became the one part of my job I knew I did well (or thought I did well at any rate). By the estimations of most of the members of the small Lutheran congregation, I'm a pretty good writer, and at times that has been the most validating part of my weekly work. I didn't often plan on my topics ahead of time. I just looked for themes, ideas, or things that struck me as interesting, moving, or peculiar. I began to consider my Voice articles as sort of like blog posts in print. That was a mistake. 

Following an annual review at which the director of the youth board tersely and unexpectedly shared with me some of the many areas in which I needed to improve, I was looking for a way to establish better rapport with the congregation. I reflected on the fact that not many of them knew me very well and had little idea of how I ended up in the youth position at St. Stephen. That tale, as you know if you have read this blog in the past, is no short story. But I decided to share it through a series of articles, sandwiched between one on the power of claiming our own stories and another on the importance of sharing them. 

I was more satisfied with these articles than most, and tickled by the number of people who e-mailed, facebooked, or approached me to say how much they had enjoyed reading them. Seldom have I been more pleased with a response to my writing. And seldom have I been more disappointed or hurt than when I received an e-mail from the youth board director asking why I felt it was necessary to spend three weeks focusing on myself and filling my pages with stories that were "Amanda-centered" rather than "Christ-centered." I sort of wanted to cry, but mostly I was just angry. I probably should have waited to e-mail her back and spared myself from needing to make yet another apology. 

Future Voice articles will not be published without the approval of the youth board director, which means that I need to find another place where I can freely share my thoughts and speak what I believe to be truth as I come realize it. More than any sense of duty or obligation to my readers, that is the reason why I am returning to this blog. That, and the fact that I just wrote a really bitter poem about censorship that I'm compelled to send into cyberspace. 

I might wait until I've left my job before making such a move. In the meantime, look for updates to come.