In My Own Little Corner

I’m unofficially, temporarily back in the office for the first time since March 2020. The rest of the university (including students, yay!) returned last month. My department is under construction, so we’re working remotely until the project is completed. Construction is expected to last the duration of the fall semester, and was projected to begin August 1. It is now September 16; it still hasn’t started. I’m taking advantage of being in the office while my officemate is on paternity leave. I’m enjoying being in a space intended for work, quiet and with effective air conditioning that I don’t pay for. 

It’s been interesting this week relying on muscle memory for old habits I had to pause last year. I forgot how to pack a lunch the night before, how to bring a sweater no matter the time of year because it’s always cold indoors. How to walk across campus to a meeting. 

As I crossed the lawn onto campus Monday morning, I was struck with the realization that I’m working for an actual place, not just an idea. 

Returning to work means returning to commuting by train. Taking the train again is, as always, a mixed bag. Today, a man was smoking a cigarette on the train, and I stepped on a pile of broken glass in my flats (I’m OK!). Train stations continue to smell like urine, whether or not you can see the puddles. Commuting by train is, for me, a mostly ugly experience. Public transit is an emotionally and physically complicated place to be, strewn everywhere with examples of human suffering and thriving and garbage of every description. 

Walking down the steps to the train station is like reading a series of clues. What was the situation that caused someone to take off first their left shoe, then their sweater, then three different face masks, then a pair of pants, and then their right shoe, all while running down the stairs? 

Yesterday morning, I dropped my lunchbag on my kitchen floor and the glass container inside shattered. I did not cry. Morning resiliency isn’t a strength of mine, so I chose to stay home. Even after only two days in the office, working from home was jarring. The apartment next door is being painted, and it is the loudest, most antagonistic noise you could imagine. I sat on the couch, typing and watching men on skinny, wooden ladders spackle and sand high in the air. I was not very productive. I stayed in my pajamas for too long and watched too many episodes of Nine Perfect Strangers, which is too engrossing to just have on in the background. 

Today, I’m back in the office, enjoying the morning calm and the vase of red and white dianthus basking in the glow of my desk lamp. 

Feeling thankful (and a little grossed out). Time to do the writing I get paid for.

The Girl in Yellow: Behold, You are Loved!

Dear Reader,

There are two things I want you to know today:

     1) God makes room for himself inside us.
     2) You are loved.

Pt. I
This week, I've been trying to think about dwelling in the middle of nowhere. I'm learning to be comfortable waiting, and I've learned waiting is often more about the formational process of waiting than about the things waited for.

For the last 2 1/2 years or so, my life has neatly paralleled the Israelites' wandering in the desert. After several months of examining this metaphor, I've learned that feeling lost, being in-between, having questions but not answers, living in the still barrenness of winter, is OK. I've learned that the wilderness is a place of preparation, a place that disabuses you of former treasures, visions, and joys. The wilderness creates a longing for the Promised Land, that is, walking through the wilderness results in a deeper desire for God.

I have learned that even Moses' time tending sheep in Midian, all 40 of those years before he became the champion of his people, before any bushes burned, were not wasted. God doesn't waste time, he uses every second of it, even when for us each second feels like Chinese water torture. Moses slowly learned to tend sheep, and then he slowly led a stiff-necked and wayward people through the wilderness. Even in the desert, God provides and leads: there are pillars of fire and cloud, piles of manna waiting on the ground, and the law, lovingly revealed. God never, ever goes away.

I have heard God say to me, over and over again, "Have courage, and say yes." I have often felt, reflecting on these words, that God is preparing me for something big, something that will take a lot of courage to face. This new thing is something that will require absolute, full, trusting obedience: the kind that dwells in furnaces of fire and lions' dens and does not let the cup pass.

My perspective is focused on earthly measures of success. It's as though I'm waiting for God to make me richer, or prettier, or more widely loved. But really, as I've been walking through this awful wilderness of being, or my twenties, I've learned that one of the most important things to have is an open, empty heart.

We think of emptiness as a bad thing. It's bad when your fridge is empty, when your wallet is empty, when your brain is empty, when your schedule or womb or stomach is empty. We are so focused on being and staying filled. In the short span of time I call my Grown-Up Life, the most important thing I have learned is that God is carving out a big space inside of me for Himself.

At least, I used to think this big space inside of me was for Himself. Sometimes I think that the big, empty space is just for the sake of emptiness. All I know is that this big, empty space is one of the most important things about me. I've become a large receptacle, and I'm waiting to be filled.

Kathleen Norris, in Cloister Walk, though married, writes about celibacy from the perspective and insight of her monastic friends. Norris writes about how, in celibacy, the heart grows large and opens; there is room enough for the entire world, because there is no room designated for just one person or one exclusive type of love. I don't know if I'm going to be celibate my entire life, but I am celibate now. And I do find, when I look deep inside myself, that there is all this room and space, waiting for something. Sometimes, being empty inside feels horrible, and I run around frantically, trying to fill that hole with something  anything  that will remove the feeling of hollowness I bear. But more often, I feel and know that this space is good; it means that there is room in my heart for lots of people, it means that there is a lot of room in my heart for the love of God.

I want to be a person who is comfortable with space and silence. When you think about a cathedral, or a chapel, you think about empty space. Those spaces we call sacred are nothing but concrete cavities for love and worship. If there is one thing I know about God, it is that he loves it when we make room for him. I have become a room entirely. It is not that I have room for God, but that I am room for God.

"Aubade for a Friend" was written by Fr. Gregory Elmer, O.S.B. of St. Andrew's Abbey. You should read the entire poem, it's wonderful. I'm copying the relevant parts of it here.

Whoever excavates a deeper bay
In your heart, so that you can the better
Yearn to love Him more, Who carves
Out this most precious space in
Your soul, a wound that curiously
Comforts you, a cave of the heart
Now being painfully excavated to
House more God, more love, to build
Within the middle of that heart, not
Only a more capacious pilgrim hostel,
On the shores of your spirit, but digs
Deeper the secret pilgrim road to the
Bottom of our heart, where. . . .we pass
Over the world, and set forth to cross
The wilderness. . . .We stumble down a way ever more interior. . . .
which leads on, in this life. . . .to the life eternal.

Becoming a temple of the Holy Spirit is painful and takes time.

&

Pt. II
Today I went with my roommate to Urth Caffé for breakfast while her tires were being replaced. Over our multi-grain waffles and tea lattes, roommate and I talked about the weeks we'd had, both of which were full of unpleasant people doing and saying unpleasant things, to put it mildly. While we were eating, two deferential, hipsterish twenty-somethings approached our table and apologized for interrupting us. They said they had a word from God for a woman in yellow, and that I was the only person matching that description in the restaurant (I was wearing a yellow cardigan). I can't remember every word they spoke, but by the end of that encounter, both roommate and I were wiping tears away.

The content of their message was that God sees me and wants me to know a new season is being ushered in, that a lot of changes are coming all at once which will be hard to understand. But God is leading you, they told me, like Dorothy down a yellow brick road in the Wizard of Oz. And, speaking even to this wilder-wandering time, they said that God has seen me in the shadows.

Every time God speaks it is always good news. I keep forgetting this, but it's true. Every time God speaks, it is always good news. 

The pinnacle of encouragement is to hear another person say that God loves and delights in you. God sent someone today I didn't know to just the right place at the right time, because he wants me to know I am loved. I am dearly loved.

Roommate bought me a Rifle Paper Co.-esque art print to commemorate the day. Do you know what it says? It says, "You are loved."

Dear Reader, you are becoming room for God, and you are dearly loved.


Oh! How he loves us! 

Grace: A Beautiful Punch in the Face

My word of the year is grace. I’m living this year trying to understand what it means when we say that God is gracious, that we are transformed and renewed by grace, that grace is free and present and abundant all of the time. One thing I’ve been learning is that sometimes the working of grace in my life looks like a punch in the face—it shocks me, hurts me, makes me take a look around and reconsider my expectations. But other times, grace is like a warm hug, a spicy samosa shared with a friend, a cup of Earl Grey, laughing in the midst of a field of poppies, an infant’s little fingers wrapped around my pinky, breathing.

God gives us grace, in the packaging and dosage we most need, at the times when we most need it. I’m learning to recognize the presence of God in the everyday. I eat a strawberry: its sweet redness, its heart-shaped perfection, reminds me that God is good.

And then there are those other moments. The moments when what I most want is to just walk out of the room, out of the door, into nothingness, because existence feels futile, and frustrating, and impossible to bear. Then I think grace is like a sharp slap across my face, because it makes me remember that I have been created for something more: for something good, and true, and lovely. The me who was satisfied wandering around in circles pretending to live is more desperate than the me who is sitting on the ground, rubbing my sore jaw and wondering what just happened.

Grace is supernatural. That means that grace intervenes in nature—in the ordinary, the mundane, the status quo, the expected. Grace is wholly unexpected, wholly undeserved, and dearly needed. My natural self cannot get anywhere without God’s cosmic karate chop. I need God’s power not just to make all of my dreams come true, but to shatter the dreams that are built on false and shaky hopes, and to build new dreams on substantial foundations.

Grace meets me where I am, and then, like a whirlwind, it picks me up and whirls me around until I lose my bearings—leaving me somewhere else. The land may look barren—broken rocking chairs strewn about the desert, someone’s dazed cat stalking by on wobbly feet, but it is here, in this place, that I can meet God, because there is nothing else I expect to see. I have been taken out of myself to meet him. To meet God on his own terms, in his own timing, on his own fruitful soil.

To find one’s self in the economy of grace is to find that you do not have enough money for the journey. In fact, you are a thief and a stowaway and you have been found out. But instead of being tossed off the train, with your raggedy carpet bag tossed behind you, you find that you are invited to dine in the first class coach, provided you admit to the other passengers that your fashionable clothes are borrowed, and that your fare has been donated, not earned. It is in grace that we learn how poor we are. Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. This means, blessed are you when you can’t pretend anymore that you have anything to give, anything left to bargain with, anything to cover the fact that left to yourself you are only naked and mean and ugly.

Grace takes this ugly unkindness and dresses you up, beautifully, generously. Suddenly, you are the belle of the ball, and you remain here—in twinkling crystal slippers and a blue gown—until you forget that your carriage is really only a winter squash and that rodents alone will befriend you. Then, here comes grace, like a clock chiming twelve, to remind you that all you can claim for yourself are rags and woes and a bed made of ash.

Thank you, God, for the punch in the face that reminds us of how good you are, and of our poverty without you.

As Anne Lamott says,

“Remember, God loves you exactly the way you are, and he loves you too much to let you stay like this.”

What Are All These Fragments For (Why Aren't You Writing, Ayodele)?

Working makes me feel good and responsible, but not working makes me feel amazing. This week, and probably next week, business is slow, so I'm enjoying lots of time off. The problem with time off  is that it feels so entirely natural--the way I expect Heaven to feel--fantastically new and sweetly familiar. With time off, my creative side takes over. Usually, I spend a great deal of time whining about how I'm bad at choosing creativity, but at times like this I know that I only forsake creativity because I'm tired. I don't feel that my profession demands very much creative spirit, so why does it still suck me dry?

This week a few of my best loved activities have come back. Well, not writing. I'm not counting blog posts as creative expression in written form. But time off this summer has meant indulging in culinary arts and paper crafts. Want to see? Ahem.

First, Art Project 1 of 2

OK, so the picture quality isn't great, but it's a quotation from M. Robinson, my favorite. I've been trying to read through some of her non-fiction this week, but it's too hot for intellectual activity, apparently. This quotation is from Housekeeping, which is my favorite book of hers, next to Gilead. I painted the frame gold because it was originally supposed to gird my $3.50 print of "St. Joseph and the Infant Christ" (see previous post); it turns out that St. Joe and our Young Redeemer look really kitschy in a painted gold frame. Lucky for me, this is not true of anything penned by Marilynne Robinson (or stamped by me). Do you like my color scheme? I'm going to hang it somewhere.



Art Project: 2 of 2

I should have done this one a while ago. This is from the last 3 lines of The Divine Comedy, translated into English of course. I added some black dots to the top left side because it seemed out of balance. I just don't know what to do with it now. I can't frame it, like the other one, and if hang it I'm afraid it won't stay flat. I had to pile books on top of it to keep the edges from curling through the entire process.  Oh!  I added punctuation marks, too (this is so not the final draft). I really need to buy punctuation stamps.

Iced Lollies: 1 of 2
Green tea with lavender. Aromatic, sweet, but not worth the thousand words.

Gratuitous Lavender Field

Iced Lollies: 2 of 2

Watermelon Rosemary Popsicles

These popsicle sticks have wee blue hearts on them because I have another flavor of popsicles in the freezer (in the same mold).

Rosemary

Imagine me using this to make simple syrup. This is the actual rosemary I used.

Lemons

Watermelon

And these, the actual lemons.














Note the swirly lines in the watermelon.

Everything all mixed up

Avant garde iced lolly molds

Here they are, the finished product. More pinkish now, than reddish.

My name is Ayodele, and I enjoy cutting, stirring, and pasting as an excuse for not writing. Next week, I'll write while looking at my art projects and eating popsicles. I won't have any excuses then--there won't be anything left for me to do.

Jolly Folly

Last night, we had a party. A Jolly Fall-i-day party. A costume party. We made pies and truffles and caramel corn and funnel cake. We set out chips and salsa and guacamole and crackers and cheese. We offered hot spiced cider and coffee. We had piles and piles of cookies. We made candy sushi out of rice krispies treats and fruit roll ups. We rearranged the furniture. There were sugar cookies to decorate. I dressed up like the Riddler from Batman. My other roommates dressed up like 1) An Avatar, 2) The Count from Sesame Street, 3) A Dolly, 4) An annoying next door neighbor in a bathrobe, 5) a Ninja, 6) A Hot Topic model, 7) Sara from the show Chuck (her boyfriend came as Chuck). We played the Nightmare Before Christmas on the TV in the garage. We sang Christmas carols. We put floating tea light candles in the pool. We played Apples-to-Apples and other Christian party games. We laughed and mingled and talked for hours. All the guys from our "brother house" came over. My best friend came dressed up like the Queen of Hearts. We tossed whipped cream up into the air and tried to catch it in our mouths.

I don't like parties.

OK, I like tea parties, but that's it.

I think there was a time in my life when I found parties interesting, but that phase has passed on. It really has. I like hosting parties about one billion times more than I like going to them, but still. I hate parties. What is wrong with me that I think fun is boring?? I like tea parties because they're all about drinking tea and looking at pretty things and sitting down and eating scones with clotted cream and having conversations with your bosom friends. That's the only kind of party I ever want to have or ever want to go to.

Why am I 97 years old? I had several moments last night where I remembered the last time I lived in a house with a bunch of women and had parties all the time. That was 5 years ago. I think I've died and been reincarnated into my exact same life. That is punishment enough. Thanks be to God that I'm graduating in the Spring. I'll be 25 then. That ought to mean something, right? I need something to change.
I need life to be more than rolling up gummy worms in rice crispies treats before a party. More than making sure guests have places to sit and anxiously awaiting any lulls in conversation. More than painting my roommate blue and trying to make sure we stash all the last-minute piles of homework and books underneath the furniture. More than wrapping up all the extra pies at the end of the night and not getting to bed before 1:30 am.
My favorite part of the whole night was after everything was cleaned up and everyone had gone to bed and all the lights were off. I went into the living room and sat down in one of those big, round Ikea chairs. It was the best moment of my entire week.

If it were within my power to join a convent, I'd do it now.

Trinkets make me feel loved.

I feel SO loved today. Why? Because I'm eating spaghetti and chocolate layer cake for lunch made by my roommate Kaitlin; because I'm wearing earrings and bangles from my friend Katelyn in India; because I will eat Jamaican food for dinner tonight sent from my home by my mama; because I have rainbow ribbon ballet flats that used to belong to my friend Emily; because I have pretty pink Gerber daisies on the coffee table beside me from my roommate Melissa; because I'm using for a bookmark a postcard from my friend Amber in New Mexico; because I hugged a lot of Kindergartners today. I love stuff. Judge me if you need to. I love having pretty things around me that remind me of the dear ones far away. And, let me tell you, 98% of all the dear ones there are, are far away. It's the saddest thing. But it makes me feel better to drink from the little white teapot that served as a centerpiece at my friend Jenn's wedding in Idaho; or to wear the cameo that was my bridesmaid gift from Bethany who's living in Istanbul. I am not denying my materialism. I should probably sell all I have and give it to the poor and seek treasure in heaven. But, the point is, that being surrounded by aesthetically pleasing, visual reminders of friendship is really important to me.

That's why I've got so much stuff. That's why when I'm homesick for a place it's the trees I miss most. It's raining today.