Memoirous

One other memory, moment of transcendence—though I didn’t have the language to call it that—occurs to me. A time of mystery and innocence—and genuine enthrallment with the unseen, the unknowable, with the Holy. I was maybe four or five years old. At the Methodist church we attended in Kettering there was a spaghetti supper fundraiser. The whole family went. Afterwards in one of the side rooms was a craft sale. I begged my mother to buy me a bookmarker made out of felt shaped like a mitten that clipped onto the page. I kept that trinket on up through high school in a treasure box. Anyway, the fundraiser was a perfect time to explore the church outside of regular Sunday-service. Remarkably, it was just a regular building now empty of people, the pastor in his robes, the choir, the booming organ (no worship band with its fake rock and roll hipsters). I wandered into the sanctuary, lights out, dimmed, street lamps radiating in through the stained glass windows. There was a holy hush, the...

Lately I’ve been exploring transcendent moments. I’ve tried to let go of the strictures of dance, override the bodily chemical reaction of fear, the memory of shame that surrounds the times I’ve allowed myself to move and react with a whole heart to a spiritual impulse. But it’s hard. Since my divorce I knew if I wanted to travel, I’d have to go alone. It’s okay, I almost prefer it, then I don’t have to worry about if someone else is hungry, overtired, their feelings. I only have to worry about me—and getting lost. When I traveled this past fall, I’d already overcome many anxieties that come from traveling solo—with a bike. I managed to get me and my bike on the train to Berlin despite the fact that it seemed I had no real seat assignment, despite a fellow passenger telling me in English that I must have a valid ticket to ride. Thankfully, when the person coming through the cars asking for papers scanned what I produced from my backpack, all was settled. Then at the Berlin station, h...

After reading Transcendent Kingdom by Yaa Gyasi, I’ve been contemplating moments of transcendence I’ve experienced. Many of these occurred while on my bike—or maybe it was simply being in the zone, a state of mind achieved by athletes, a process of chemicals in the body allowing the brain to detach, rest, while being physically active. I’ve also been in a zone while writing—able to get down pages and pages that seem like true art, until I reread them, mortified that nothing makes sense. Leaving me questioning the validity of these moments of transcendence. Are they actually delusions? Mini psychotic breaks? A vacating of my body and “normal” personality to adopt a persona, a person who takes risks and enjoys making a spectacle of herself. For instance, dancing. I’m oblivious to rhythm; I clap on the off-beat. Four/four time means nothing to me. It’s as if the gene for dance is missing from my DNA. Yet, I longed to move to music. In not too subtle ways I’ve been told I lack what ...

In preparation for the upcoming Festival of Faith and Writing at Calvin University April 11-13, I’ve been a mad woman putting books on hold at the library and checking titles off my Reading List. There are far tooooo many workshop leaders to read all the books, so I’ve concentrated on the main ones, the plenary speakers. This past week I read Yaa Gyasi’s Transcendent Kingdom . Several things put me off at first. If you judge a book by its cover—which WE ALL DO (it’s the relevance behind that axiom)—I hated it. There was a sticker Read with Jenna (not a fan), the colors—sort of a putty puke contrasted against a charcoal not quite black with the figure of a woman awkwardly praying. Nevertheless, I opened up to page one. I was reminded of Daniel Keyes’ Flowers for Algernon , there is an experiment using mice that will ultimately impact the story, the scientist doing the research, and hold parallels for the universal reader. I would also critique the first sentence—“Whenever I think of my ...