A bitter winter wind claws at my face. Flighty snowflakes float through early morning sunbeams. I trudge up the steep hill to work, my lungs straining under the weight of icy air. Due to Monday's snowstorm, our hill is too slick to drive on, which means I have to park at the bottom. As my feet, cocooned inside soft black boots, stumble over the slippery slope, I muse about a world away, a world removed. Somewhere someone has lost a home to flooding (Australia). Somewhere a baby is dying of malnutrition (Africa, India, etc.) Somewhere a woman is being raped (Haiti).
Oblivious? Read the headlines. Yet in all the pain, there is hope. There are stories of people who forget themselves, forget to be selfish, who remind us what it really means to live/and die.
What's my biggest problem today? Not parking at the bottom of the hill. My biggest problem is forgetting myself. I'm not selling fish, but I am selfish.
www.edition.cnn.com/2011/WORLD/asiapcf/01/13/flood.teenager/index.html?hpt=C1
Greater love has no one than this, that he lay down his life for his friends.
John 15:13
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Love Letters
This is a response to my last blog. It is written by someone much wiser than I. And, due to its simplistic truth, I have decided to share it here.
". . .Perhaps your definition of love letters is too limited – what about the crumpled, grubby fingered letter from Elias, complete with cookie crumbs? What about the BOXES of love letters you brought back from Honduras? What about love letters from parents? From niece and nephews… 'Hannah, I’m a wreck without you!'
Perhaps your book can explore the theme .. what is love? .. What is a love letter?.. what are the most precious expressions of love I have experienced?.. what individuals have I met who have exemplified true love?"
Thank you Mom for putting things in perspective :)
". . .Perhaps your definition of love letters is too limited – what about the crumpled, grubby fingered letter from Elias, complete with cookie crumbs? What about the BOXES of love letters you brought back from Honduras? What about love letters from parents? From niece and nephews… 'Hannah, I’m a wreck without you!'
Perhaps your book can explore the theme .. what is love? .. What is a love letter?.. what are the most precious expressions of love I have experienced?.. what individuals have I met who have exemplified true love?"
Thank you Mom for putting things in perspective :)
Sunday, January 9, 2011
Palabras on Paper
¿Qué hacer para explicarte
si quiero hablar contigo
no me salen las palabras?
No sé que hacer para decirte
que eres como una carta
que me falta por abrir
¿Qué hacer para explicarte
que no encuentro las palabras
que había escrito para tí?
No sé que hacer para explicarte
que tú eres como un libro
que no supe escribir
con palabras de amor,
con palabras que no mienten
con palabras que se esconden
y que nunca sabré donde
-Jarabe de Palo
I'm stuck. I'm supposed to start writing a book, but nothing's coming to me.
No sé que hacer para explicarte que tú eres como un libro que no supe escribir. . . I know what he's talking about! The memories are there inside my head, but putting them on paper is a different story. Get it? A different story? Maybe what's inside my head isn't meant to be written down. Maybe what makes the story so special is that only I know it. It's mine to tell, or not to tell.
What about paper? It's not special until someone graces it with a fluid flourish of paint or ink. Suddenly, that insignificant piece of paper is special. We frame it, treasure it, store it away, put it on display. What's the difference between a receipt and a love letter? They're both just pieces of paper. . . aren't they? One's a record of money spent, the other a record of feelings revealed. One goes in the trash can and the other. . . well, you get the idea.
I'm afraid I've dealt with more receipts than love letters.
A piece of paper is nothing more than paper until it's covered with feeling. A book is just a figment of the imagination until it's brought to life on paper.
I have special paper, but no book.
si quiero hablar contigo
no me salen las palabras?
No sé que hacer para decirte
que eres como una carta
que me falta por abrir
¿Qué hacer para explicarte
que no encuentro las palabras
que había escrito para tí?
No sé que hacer para explicarte
que tú eres como un libro
que no supe escribir
con palabras de amor,
con palabras que no mienten
con palabras que se esconden
y que nunca sabré donde
-Jarabe de Palo
I'm stuck. I'm supposed to start writing a book, but nothing's coming to me.
No sé que hacer para explicarte que tú eres como un libro que no supe escribir. . . I know what he's talking about! The memories are there inside my head, but putting them on paper is a different story. Get it? A different story? Maybe what's inside my head isn't meant to be written down. Maybe what makes the story so special is that only I know it. It's mine to tell, or not to tell.
What about paper? It's not special until someone graces it with a fluid flourish of paint or ink. Suddenly, that insignificant piece of paper is special. We frame it, treasure it, store it away, put it on display. What's the difference between a receipt and a love letter? They're both just pieces of paper. . . aren't they? One's a record of money spent, the other a record of feelings revealed. One goes in the trash can and the other. . . well, you get the idea.
I'm afraid I've dealt with more receipts than love letters.
A piece of paper is nothing more than paper until it's covered with feeling. A book is just a figment of the imagination until it's brought to life on paper.
I have special paper, but no book.
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