My Strange Brain

I started knitting again last month. I really hadn’t picked up needles or yarn all summer, so it was a teeny bit momentous when I decided to plop my butt down and cast on for a new project. I actually surfed the internet for cool patterns for two weeks, not being able to find anything I loved enough to knit. So on the suggestion of a friend, I opened up the cupboard o’ yarn and let it tell me what to do. Two single-skeins of Cleckheaton wool-blend jumped out and told me that I should knit them together into a two-colored hat. Never one to disobey a clear command (snerk), I toddled off to find a pattern. I found the Opus Spicatum pattern and away I went. Only one false start, I was amazed, considering I was knitting with yarns in both hands. I finished it in only a few nights of TV-knitting, and ta daaa!! It’s too small for me.

Duh.
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This Sunday at church our pastor set up four prayer stations in the chapel. She believes strongly that people need to make the time and effort to pray regularly. I tend to believe she’s right, although I’ve never really done it (to make special time — I do pray fairly often, informally). She invited people to take some time to go check out the stations during the services, and then left them intact for people who wanted to come back later, when no one else was around. I think that people responded positively to the whole thing, considering it’s pretty far out of the norm for our vanilla church.

I stopped in yesterday and read the “instructions” at each of the stations. They were really nice. I considered plopping down and trying it out. But I couldn’t make myself do it. As much as I like the idea of new things, I’m not very good at giving them a fair shot. I took copies of the meditations provided and headed toward home. I admit I felt a little dumb, carrying my prayer sheets around without even having attempted to pray.

But then I got outdoors and the sun hit me and the breeze blew by and I said a quick “thanks for all this” prayer. I crossed the street and saw someone I knew, and ducked into my car. (I ought to have taken a moment to prayer for her, but didn’t think of that– “‘I’ll do that next time,’ said Jack.”) I got to thinking about my run the day before, where I spent 45 minutes running in the midst of trails and trees and squirrels and birds and the creek and music in my ears and I spent most of that time meditating on things. I do that pretty often when I run (I admit, there are some really suckass runs that are not prayerful at all). When I am out in God’s creation, I feel most connected to God. I’ve long known that when things are darkest I feel the need to head outside.

Even after all this time (38 whole years in this body so far) this surprises me a little. I’m just not an outdoorsy person. I am a novice runner, but I’ve really never been a hiker/climber/biker/swimmer/boater at all. I knit. And read. And email. Hell, I can’t even be bothered go outside long enough to weed my tiny little backyard garden. It’s clear though that I pray better outdoors.

Another reason this is so weird for me is my love for the building where our church lives. It’s gorgeous. It’s filled with brick and stone and hand-carved walnut and high ceilings and exposed beams. Lots of people gasp the first time they walk into our sanctuary. I love this building but it doesn’t make me feel close to the Divine. It makes me feel close to the other people who come there, close to the other people to love it, to the people who built it. The building, while stunning, is completely optional for me. And apparently, I’m coming to realize, inhibits my connection to God (blasphemy, I know).

For now, I’ll forgive myself for not being able to go through the steps that others have found to enrich their prayer lives, and go outside and run and squish my toes in the mud and listen to U2*. That’s going to have to do for me for now. Some day I’ll learn to pray with a slate roof and big brass bell above my head. Or maybe not. The woods and rivers will always be there for me when I need them.

* Pride (In The Name of Love) and Where the Streets Have No Name and Beautiful Day are amazingly prayerful songs. As are thousands of “secular” songs from all over the place. We don’ need no stinkin’ “contemporary Christian” music.

I bought a Swiffer Wet Jet today. I’ll be handing over my natural organic hippie granola membership card over to the authorities asap.

I had had a Clorox ready mop a bunch of years ago and liked it because I could use my homemade cleaner in it and use old washcloths instead of the disposable pads. When it broke and I couldn’t find another one, I decided not to do the Swiffer because you have to use their solution which is very synthetic and smelly. I had always vowed not to buy into their hype.

But our old swish-in-a-bucket-type mop is getting pretty shabby and the Swiffer sang to me at Target (such a pretty little ditty). So $19 and 4 AA batteries later, I toddled off with the purple monstrosity in my basket. Shortly thereafter I found myself with a hefty case of buyer’s remorse.

Got home, freed the thing from its 10 ounces of plastic wrap cardboard and magic tape. Found a new batch of buyer’s remorse (how could I be taken in by this thing? It takes only NONrechargeable batteries, for Pete’s sake).

Ten minutes after that I witnessed my 8-year-old happily mopping the kitchen floor. If she continues to mop willingly, I’ll consider it money well-spent, even if the cleaner’s scent gives me a headache. Tylenol is cheap, after all.