Photo by Jennifer Causey

As we remember the tragedies of September 11, 2001, Jenni Simmons offers a reminder of the small rituals that comfort and root us. This essay originally appeared in The Curator on November 28, 2008.

In some circles, I’m known as the “Tea Lady,” and this cutesy moniker is all my fault. I drink copious amounts of tea, both steaming and iced. I’ve stashed at least forty varieties of tea in my pantry (no kidding). I write about tea ad nauseam on my blog, as if what I’m drinking is late-breaking news. When I mail a card to a friend, I feel compelled to insert a tea bag in the envelope. I do love and drink coffee, but seeing as it’s quite a jolt to my genetic constitution, I’ve decided that if I must become dependent on a beverage, tea will be the one.

What’s interesting about this obsession is that my introduction to tea is sketchy. My parents were not big tea drinkers. My grandmother hated tea; coffee was rationed during WWII, so she remained fiercely loyal to coffee, determined to drink her fair share. My best guess is that I was smitten with tea while visiting my uncle in Detroit. He took my family to an Ethiopian restaurant where not only did my love for exotic food begin, but I drank glass after glass of spiced iced tea, strong on the cinnamon. Later during college, I visited my boyfriend’s house and his aunt offered me a toasty cup of Morning Thunder tea, a kind gesture that warmed me to his family as well. Frequenting a local Vietnamese restaurant a few years ago may have sealed the deal. After steamed spring rolls and peanut sauce, my friends and I ordered a teapot of jasmine green and sipped and chatted until delicate tea leaves graced the bottom of our small white cups.

It shouldn’t surprise you that I’ve read up on tea since I’m both bookish and a bit tea-crazy. It is the stuff of creation myths and other legends, steeped in the mountains of the East. Taoist alchemists considered the “froth of the liquid jade” to be an elixir of immortality. By way of oral tradition, Buddhist priests passed down fanciful tales of monkeys scampering the heights of mountains to gather wild tea leaves from among perilous rocks. Ancient Chinese connected tea to central themes in philosophy and literature, and the Japanese did likewise within haiku. I’m particularly fond of two by Matsuo Basho, the most famous poet of Japan’s Edo period.

A monk sips morning tea,
it’s quiet,
the chrysanthemum’s flowering.

Enduring poverty in life
I prepare a fire on the hearth
and enjoy the profound touch of tea.

Such descriptions incorporated tea as a symbol of a higher good, a spiritual touchstone, and an exemplary way of life. Eastern religious influence on the popularity of tea is more widespread, yet a little known fact is that Christianity also inspired the art of tea. Though the Chinese were notoriously secretive about their tea customs, they granted initial, partial access to Portuguese Jesuit missionaries in the 1500-1600s who became advocates of tea to the outside world. I suppose they seemed more trustworthy compared to some, and their reports did influence the early trade of tea, especially to Europe.

Photo by Jennifer Causey

In Makoto Fujimura’s exquisite essay, “Psalms and Lamentations: Fallen Towers and the Art of Tea” (IMAGE journal, Issue 32), I learned about Sen-no-Rikyu, a sixteenth-century tea master who is historically considered to have the most profound effect on the Japanese tea ceremony. The Chinese used tea for celebration and banqueting, but Rikyu transformed the ritual of tea to one of communication. One of Rikyu’s wives was an early Japanese convert to Christianity, and as he accompanied her to Mass in Kyoto he was forever inspired by the Eucharistic cup of Christ’s blood passed from person to person. This sparked his vision: no matter if they be man or woman, a high-ranking official or a farmer, a cup of green tea would be passed to each participant in a tea house of peace. Shogun Hideyoshi recognized rightly that the egalitarian nature of tea would destroy his power, so he eventually ordered Rikyu to commit suicide in his own tea house. But Rikyu defined essential principles of the tea ceremony that remain to this day: minimalism, simplicity, purity, harmony, love of nature, graceful composure, politeness, and an eye for aesthetics — particular utensils, and usually a simple painting and fresh flowers. In keeping the ceremony basic, he did away with previous ostentation and kept it within the financial means of the middle-classes.

I’ve never taken part in a Japanese tea ceremony, but I’d love to some day. Until then, I sense the ritualistic aspects of tea within the comforts of my home. I often light a stick of incense. I scoop loose tea into a filter or peel open a tea bag. I select a particular teacup or mug, maybe a bamboo spoon, and I wait. I listen to the rustle of boiling water, and admire the sunlight and foliage right outside my window. I try to be still, view art on the walls of our home, and soak in my surroundings. When the kettle suddenly sings, I pour piping hot water over the bits of tea, the steam warming my face, a prayer often escaping my lips. There is something inherently meditative and beautiful about tea, from the nuanced aromatherapy to a liquid palette of orange, green, red, sepia, and even gold. My own little ceremony is a subtle jump into the day, a respite from my work upstairs, or a vespers of sorts at dusk — almost liturgical, and very therapeutic.

Like Sen-no-Rikyu, I, too, glean inspiration from the Eucharistic table, the ultimate form of hospitality. When we host friends or family in our home, we offer food and drink. Most of our friends prefer coffee, but some of the females are fellow tea lovers.Whether I prepare a single mug of their choice or a teapotful, I think of my priest repeating Christ’s kind beckoning each Sunday, “Come to Me, all who are weary and heavy-laden, and I will give you rest.” And as I learned from my ex-boyfriend’s aunt several years ago, offering a cup of tea makes one feel welcome and at ease without speaking a word. So if my friend takes honey, I stir it in and share the cup to communicate, “Feel at home, be restored, and be well.”

Now, back to my impressive stockpile of tea, some of my favorite brews have been an introduction and a way to familiarize myself with other cultures. For instance, the Camellia sinensis plant is originally a gift from China. This flowering evergreen shrub gives us green tea (unfermented), black tea (fermented), oolong (semi-fermented), and white tea, which is fast-dried versus the roasting of green tea in an oven or pan. I also take a liking to Assam tea and chai from India, Earl Grey from England, rooibos from South Africa, yerba mate from South America, hibiscus mint tea from northern Sudan, Thai iced tea, and any number of herbal blends with ingredients cultivated from soil around the globe or in my own country. Oh, and I crave quirky bubble tea which originated in Taiwan.

Photo by Jennifer Causey

These cross-cultural aspects not only cause me to daydream of world travel, but such diversity also teaches me about human nature. Since the beginning, humanity has explored and cultivated the land, charged to beautify and to survive. As I type, I’m enjoying a mug of yerba mate, a cinnamon stick soaking in the brew. I can’t help but wonder, which South American soul came across this species of holly and thought to steep it in hot water? Hollow out a gourd for the drinking? How did they determine the numerous health benefits long before our current scientific methods and technology? Perhaps these feats are what we’re innately capable of as creative beings. We discover plants, herbs, and florals, and imaging the Creator, we develop them. We invent ways to pinpoint temperatures of water for brewing, hone each flavor to perfection, stamp our cultures with a unique tea, and unearth its medicinal benefits, heeding the adage to “heal thyself” along with our neighbors.

A grocery store’s tea aisle lures me in with all the exotic artistry to be found in a cup. Beauty is a requirement in my life, most definitely including the culinary realm. And each blend of tea conjures endless possibilities. Humankind has pursued the art of tea century upon century, so I love to imagine what else our hands will gather and create, and offer to one another. I think of my friend’s daughter, who once lived for any excuse to throw a make-believe tea party when I dropped by her house. Her face lit up with the delight of sharing invisible draughts of tea, cream, and sugar cubes. She laughed with joy if I asked for a refill in the little pink cup. Even at her young age, she sensed our design to serve others and to enjoy refreshment. How good it is to heal each other, bring ceremony into our homes, employ the art of waiting, share a cup, and take a drink ourselves, just for the sheer pleasure of a spot of tea.

For further reading: The Book of Coffee and Tea: Second Revised Edition by Joel, David, and Karl Schapira

I endorse the following tea suppliers (among many others):

• Adagio Teas
• Mighty Leaf Tea
• Traditional Medicinals
• Yogi Tea

To see more of Jennifer Causey’s photography, please visit her web site.

Photo by Jenni Simmons

It all started around November 2010, which was during autumn — my favorite of the two seasons in Houston. I remember a particularly cool, crisp, blue sky day. I walked out through the red doors, squinted and smiled into the sunlight, and pulled up a chair to the patio table full of friends. Fragrant white wisps of smoke swirled and hovered above our heads like the Holy Ghost. I closed my eyes and inhaled. Pipe tobacco has always been one of my favorite smells, but that day, the aroma of cigars caught my attention for the first time even though the men had smoked ‘em ever since my husband and I joined the church. All my life I’d had the notion that cigars reeked, but what I quickly figured out was that our menfolk were cigar connoisseurs. Week after week, I sniffed and asked many questions.

I showed enough interest that our friends offered me a cigar now and again. I hesitated at first. For one thing, I was the only female interested in a stogie. For another, I nearly coughed up a lung in high school trying one of my ex’s cigarettes. My chest burned as if charred by fire and I thought surely it was fatal. Apparently, I just wasn’t cool enough.

But after careful instruction from the men at church, and assurance that cigars were much different than a Marlboro (you do not inhale hellfire and brimstone into your precious lungs), I put serious thought to giving their patio pastime a try. I was six months past an epic surgery to remove endometriosis from my innards; I was literally a new person. I wasn’t shy anymore. I wasn’t as fearful. I was sassy and teased my friends good-naturedly. I was grateful, joyful. Colors were brighter. Illness, suffering, and surgery changed me and rewired my soul and senses, including my olfactory attentions.

A Kristoff Lancero | Photo by Jenni Simmons

So one evening at home I asked my husband, “May I try a cigar? Deacon Dave recommended a Fuente Hemingway Short Story. I mean, it’s even literary like me.” Johnny smiled and said yes, though silently he thought he’d have to hold back my hair while I puked.

He carried my wooden rocking chair and a breakfast nook chair out to our back patio, and reminded me how to smoke: take a draw but don’t inhale, then exhale, and do so slowly. I did not hurl, and I enjoyed the sweet-woodsy taste and warm smell. I was a bit concerned that I “didn’t do it right,” but it turns out I just smoked a cigar like me, a woman. I immediately knew that I would forever enjoy a good cigar.

Johnny and I began to smoke cigars regularly, which was not only the beginning of our back patio liturgy, but also another form of marital intimacy. It seems right and good that such a mutual pleasure would begin in the culture of our home — during warm Texas nights with cool breezes; our Drummond red maple rustling; our heads tipped upward to stargaze in a suburban sky; airplanes gliding overhead; sipping whiskey or bourbon; wind chimes singing lullabies. We often talked late into the night, long after our neighbors turned off their back porch twinkle lights.

Not everyone approved of my newfound hobby in light of potential health risks, and my femininity. I did listen; I understood their concerns, I prayed, and consulted with my husband as well as a few knowledgeable friends. As far as health, I absorb very little nicotine when I smoke a cigar and they are not addictive. Health risks will always and forever surround us. I don’t mean to impart fear or sound simplistic, but we risk our lives any time we drive a car, walk outdoors to air pollution, eat processed foods, or partake of the latest cancer-causing ingredient to shriek across news headlines. As best as I’m able, I enjoy my life to the fullest, which includes ignoring fear, even the fear of what may or may not cause illness or death. My joy also requires that I live not based on every person’s opinion of what I’m doing, but that of the Still Small Voice. If it is not sin, it is not sin.

Photo by Jenni Simmons

As far as my femininity, my husband and several friends assured me that the pleasure of cigars is not only masculine, and that I smoke elegantly, and even with sensuality (says Johnny). Besides, I’ve seen photographs of women walking the streets of Cuba (and elsewhere) smoking cigars along the way — perfectly normal in their country. I’m always happy to discover when a girlfriend smokes cigars, too. And I discovered my love for the Lancero size — long and slender. It’s a bit silly, but I pretend that I possess the ultimate elegance of Audrey Hepburn with her cigarette holder in Breakfast at Tiffany’s. Male or female, inhabitants of any country, and even religious types may enjoy cigars, plain and simple. Oh, and on Mary Karr’s Facebook page, I saw a photograph of her smoking a cigar. She’s female and awesome, from Texas, and one of my favorite authors. If that’s not validation, I don’t know what is.

We did find other folks besides church parishioners who approved of our love for cigars. A friend invited me and Johnny to a Zino promotional event at Santa Barbara Cigars. I hadn’t seen my friend in several years, so I thought we’d enjoy catching up with him and his fiancé (The Smoking Hot Cigar Chick, no less) and enjoy a good cigar, but Johnny and I were taken aback. Our “patio fellowship” unfolded in that cozy, smoky lounge; an instant camaraderie clicked between strangers. As Johnny and I walked around the rustic, aromatic humidor, we met all kinds of people — of different religions, political platforms, careers, budgets, and so forth. Whenever we explained that we were newbies still trying various cigars, the kindest of men recommended their favorites, excellent quality of all price ranges. One man even purchased a very expensive cigar for Johnny — an Illusione MJ12 — merely because the man loved it so much; he wanted to share that joy. My friend shared a bottle of Willett bourbon with us and those who circled and talked around his table. The generosity in that place was astounding.

Santa Barbara’s owner, Kenny, was quiet-mannered, but very welcoming and helpful. The Zino representative recommended for me a Platinum Low Rider (a full-bodied natural wrapper) based on my preferences even though up until that night Johnny and I had only smoked Maduros — dark, rich, chocolatey wrappers. We love dark roast coffee, dark chocolate, brown ales and stouts, and now, dark cigars. But that Low Rider, and education from the rep and my friends, opened my eyes to the wide variety of tobaccos, wrappers, geographical regions, and the artistry of rolling and sealing cigars by hand. The names of cigars are like poetry: Joya de Nicaragua, Romeo y Julieta, Tatuaje (“tattoo”), an Arturo Fuente Work of Art, Kristoff, Onyx, Macanudo, Casa Magna, and so on. The cigar bands are tiny works of art, too; I save them in the pocket of my Moleskine notebook for some future artistic project.

Photo by Jim Hime

Cigar events are a surprising, sincere experience of community, but our two patios are special. Church is familial; our home is intimate, and hospitable if we invite a few friends over to enjoy the blessing and pleasure of cigars and spirits. We pull out a few more breakfast nook chairs, go a little redneck and use our cooler for a table — the drink holders cradling fine whiskey glasses — and talk and laugh as the sun sets.

Lest you think I am merely a smoke-fiend, ‘tis not so. Cigars are intertwined with my love for the great outdoors. Jokingly, I think of myself as the “Nature Cigar Chick.” Mine and Johnny’s typical back patio liturgy begins between 8:30-9:00 pm, which right now displays either a glorious sunset or a cool, dark sky. The moon often creates the illusion of daylight, casting a dark tree-shadow on glowing green grass. Lately we’ve been enjoying inexpensive but excellent no-name Dominican Maduros from a local shop and different bottles of bourbon. We draw on our cigars, sip our bourbon neat, and watch the clouds, which for me is always a depiction of God’s mysterious creation of time. The puffs of condensation seem to float by slowly, but if I turn my head for a few minutes, the sky may suddenly be clear, sharing the stars. “With the Lord one day is as a thousand years, and a thousand years as one day.”

Our liturgy causes us to slow down. You don’t hork down a cigar; you draw and exhale at intervals. I’ve been told that “pipes are the pen of the mind.” I’ve found the same of cigars; they are meditative. As a breeze brushes across my cheek and cigar smoke curls upward, very often a prayer lifts to my mind. Or I’ll read part of Compline on my iPhone. I’ve hummed and sung Bon Iver songs, and hymns. Conversations with my husband dig deeper. As we enjoy the different flavors of the beginning, middle, and end of our cigars, and the same pace of our liturgy, the neighborhood gets quieter as do we. A cicada choir belts out an operatic benediction. “Be still,” I recall. We feel grateful for the incense of cigars and nightcaps aged in wooden barrels. Before we acquired my late aunt’s blue glass flowered ash tray, I smudged out my cigars on the concrete in the shape of a cross. Now we dump our ashes in the outdoors trash can. Either way, I can’t help but remember, “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.” We walk into our house, lay our heads down in peace, and dwell in safety. Another day to come, and another patio liturgy.

Or even better, an envelope or package bearing return addresses from family and friends. My mom might send interesting magazine clippings with sweet notes tucked inside. Or a friend will loan me a book with a handwritten poem slipped between the pages that I don’t discover until I’m well immersed in the story.

A recent postal excitement was the thoughtful gift of a ceramic bird-shaped whistle from a friend, which was a thank you gift for a gift I sent her in the hopes of imparting some kind of peace and joy in a very dark time of her life. I was astounded by her thoughtfulness in the midst of personal chaos. Not only did she ship the pretty whistle, but also a thank you note in an envelope bearing an Adolph Gottlieb painting-stamp, two 10 cent “J” stamps just for kicks, and rubber-stamped blue flowers on the front. On the back, a Bunting Bird sticker sealed the message inside — all of it such inspiring artistry. A Brown Wren perched on the front of the card; again, my friend remembered what would cheer me when she needs all the cheer in the world right now. Inside, her penmanship spoke:

Dear Jenni,

Just a little birdie

for your sill. Put a little

bit of water in and then

blow for birdsong. And

when you do remember there

is a friend who appreciates you.

 

Always.

I hung my head, wept, and prayed for my friend, seared by her suffering, strength, and humility.

Another recent snail mail discovery was from a different friend. ‘Twas a white envelope with a comforting texture, and this penmanship I knew all too well. This friend’s handwriting should be an electronic font, honest to God. The seal on the back of her envelope was that perfect script, “Hello! (See, look — I not only call, I send mail too!)” She referred to a personal joke of ours where I pretend to be irritated that she never calls, lives far away, boohoo . . . Whatever. She’s a busy mom for God’s sake.

The envelope did make me smile, but the note inside made me laugh out loud:

Jenni—

So, here’s what happened . . .

this weekend I was looking

through my box of memorabilia

from Italy & I found this post-

card that I never sent to you.

I am not sure why . . .

But anyway — here it is — 4 years

late. [smiley face] See, and now the cat

is even more appropriate since you just found Lily . . .

Enjoy the postcard!

(Now I miss Europe . . . [sad face] )

 

Love.

Her note was written on an old index page of a ledger and she, too, adhered a bird sticker to the faded surface. She ripped the page right out of the book; I loved the spontaneous, rustic aesthetic. The postcard did in fact bear her greeting from four years ago as well as a dignified black cat on the glossy cover along with French writing — she went to Paris, too. Belated, yet thoughtful. I don’t know many people who’d realize they’d forgotten to send a postcard four years ago, then actually send it upon the moment of realization. My friends are a rare, whimsical, priceless bunch.

Though I did send a little gift to my kind, suffering friend, my efforts at handwritten letters and notes have dwindled and ceased.

I once joined the Letter Writers Alliance with sincere devotion to their revolution. I was assigned a lovely pen pal, we exchanged several letters and notes, but then inexplicably, sloth settled into my fingers. We are now Facebook friends, not mailbox friends.

And ashamedly, I’ve even slacked off writing to the Compassion child my husband and I sponsor: Denise, who lives in Uganda. She is in our constant prayers, yet I can’t sit down and write a letter? What’s worse is that she writes to us faithfully, coloring the illustrations on the side of the Compassion stationery: an ingoma (drum), akabindi (pot), ingabo (shield), imbehe (dish), and an icyansi (milk container). She often begins her letters:

Dear John and Jenni Simmons,

To my sponsors.

I am greeting you in the name of Jesus . . .

Such a greeting reminds me of the Epistle books in the Bible, each page delicate as a butterfly wing.

***

My aunt died suddenly, recently. As my family and I sorted through her belongings in her apartment, we kept items that were special to each of us. I gratefully placed into cardboard boxes classic vinyl (the Beatles, Willie Nelson, Simon & Garfunkel, Bob Dylan . . . ); children’s books she read to me and my brother; plastic food-shaped magnets I used to arrange on her refrigerator; a green glass jar full of stones with words painted on one side and a short definition on the other; an old wooden piano-music box. My family bestowed to me two beautiful rocking chairs. And they also instructed me to cart back home my aunt’s photo albums, and a plastic bag full of letters and cards she received, organized and bundled neatly by large rubber bands.

I’m slowly finding the right places in my house for each memory of my aunt. The boxes are only partially unpacked. The photo albums wait alongside in a plastic blue crate.

I still feel the scars of guilt and remorse. I’d meant to call her for one of our rich, deep conversations the week before she died. I ache with that standard element of grief: if I’d had one more phone call and oh gosh, sent one more letter or card.

Missing her voice — vocal and written — I sat on my couch and held the stack of envelopes sliced open neatly at the top by a letter opener. She had grouped the correspondence by person: my late grandfather, his wife, my uncle, my mom, cousins, friends, and me.

Me. Before my eyes were cards that I’d carefully selected for her birthdays, to thank her for gifts, or just to say, “Hi.” One coffee & cream-colored envelope caught my eye. I pulled out the card with an angel and a quote on the front:

One is not born a woman — one becomes one.

—Simone de Beauvoir

On the inside I wrote:

Happy birthday Pat!

This card reminded me of

you, since you were a great

part of me becoming a

woman. [smiley face]

 

I love you!

Jenni

(talk to you soon)

As each year of our lives passed, she truly did help to shape me into who I am today. She and my mom (in-laws) used to joke they “co-mothered” me. And my aunt was an excellent card-sender. Sometimes they were her only gifts on my birthdays, but I cherished finding them in the mailbox each November. She picked just the right cards, and wrote just the right loving words in blue ink from aunt to niece.

There is something about grief and death that also resurrects life — through remembering and sharing stories of loved ones. Caring for their possessions entrusted to us, and seeing that person when we pass by or pick up those objects in our homes. And for me, there is a period of introspection.

How could I have been a better niece? I hope she really knew how much I loved her. I hope I am like her in many ways. I want to be a better woman, who God created me to be. I want to live life well.

My grandfather wrote inside one of the cards to his daughter:

I’m thinking of the many

times you have helped

me and mine along the

way. I love you very,

very much.

 

Dad

(Joy sends love)

Continuing to cultivate a life less of myself and lived more for others includes the resumption of hand-writing letters, notes, and cards. I confess my epistolary indolence and now I move forward. I’ll sit at my desk; pick up my my favorite Uni-Ball pen and one of my many neglected boxes of stationery or cards; put together belated boxes of gifts; return loaned books. You’ll see. Check your mailbox. Most likely you’ll spy a brown sock monkey stamped somewhere on your envelope or box, and find a few tea bags inside.

All photos by Kierstin Casella.

Photo by Jenni Simmons.

A good friend bugged me for at least four years to make a pilgrimage to St. John’s College in Santa Fe, New Mexico for the IMAGE journal’s Glen Workshop. Having read IMAGE for a decade or so, I always wanted to go to this Mecca for artists, but it was either a timidity or monetary issue. The emotional and dollar sign-stars aligned this year, though, so I took the plunge right before I scheduled one of two surgeries. I signed up for Lauren Winner’s Spiritual Writing class for a few reasons. One, Lauren is a favorite author of mine, especially her book, Girl Meets God, which was an early clue to the mystery that not only did I, look-at-the-floor shy, want to be a writer, but I also wanted to write creative memoirs with an honest, spiritual current. Two, when I mailed off my registration information, I didn’t know many writers in Houston — two at the most. Seeing as I felt brave this year, I craved sitting in a room with a great author, fellow writers, and yes, even the possibly harrowing workshop experience.

I trudged through a three-year health saga, survived two surgeries to remedy severe endometriosis, and then a stained glass window of St. Catherine of Alexandria caught my eye at church, so as best I could, I weaved Catherine’s story and mine into eighteen pages, gulped, and e-mailed them in on the deadline day by the skin of my teeth. Only two weeks prior did all the anesthesia and pain meds cooperate with my brain enough to write something. It was my first workshop, and my first time to write a long format-essay, so I knew I’d receive some constructive criticism, but I looked forward to it. I wake up every day wanting to be a better writer.

On August 1st, my husband took me to the airport and helped me check in. I hadn’t hopped on an airplane alone in what, seven years? I believe the last time was to see a friend in Nashville. As we snaked around the long, long line to check in my bag, I felt a pang of fear. I was so accustomed to an environment and routine of illness in our beautiful home. But as of that Sunday, the second successful surgery was 9-10 weeks behind me. I took a deep breath, kissed my husband goodbye, and reluctantly took off my TOMS to walk across what I’m sure was a germ-infested floor of the hellish airport security protocol. I found my gate in plenty of time, squirmed my way in to a middle seat between two nice people on a Southwest airplane, and buckled my seat belt. New Mexico or bust!

When we landed in Albuquerque, I wandered around the airport, passing kiosks draped with New Mexican kitsch, waiting on my aforementioned friend. I ordered an overpriced snack and a paper cup of green tea, sat down to rest, and people-watched. Then I received a text, “I’m here!” and met my friend in baggage claim. As we stepped outside to secure our rental car, the weather made me swoon. It was in the 80’s, but a cool, dry heat — even a breeze. I wasn’t in Houston anymore. And I saw mountains. I believe quite strongly that I’m supposed to live near mountains, but the only such things in my home state of Texas are the Davis and Franklin mountains out west, so I suppose my mountainous conviction is one of those divine mysteries; Houston has skyscrapers, not large, natural elevations of the land’s surface.

Photo by Jenni Simmons.

We drove an hour through clusters of adobe buildings to the college in Santa Fe. As we caught up on our lives over the past five years, I was paying attention to my friend, but also staring slightly slack-jawed at the Sangre de Cristo mountains as we pulled up to campus, fragrant with piñon, sage, juniper, and lavender — some of my favorite smells in the world. Those mountains were painted with hues of brown, gray, pink, orange; others in rich, brick red. The land offered a bleak, stark beauty; it cleansed the palette of my busy mind. Hummingbirds flitted about, and the New Mexico sky and clouds took my breath away. Have you ever noticed how skies are different in every state? My native Texas boasts amazing sky-vistas, but I now tip my hat to NM as well. My friend and I checked in and found our separate dorm rooms. I unpacked, peeked out my window, and marveled, Am I really, finally here?

It was a whirlwind of a week of creativity and fatigue. Within hours, I felt like I was around “my people” — not just writers, but artists: people who strived to always improve their craft, and spied inspiration in odd locations. I met both new and old online friends, such as The Curator’s Alissa Wilkinson, who somehow survived rooming with me for a week, even when I had “happy insomnia.” That’s when I couldn’t sleep because I was processing all of the fascinating speakers: B.H. Fairchild, Rodney Clapp, Barry Moser, Lauren Winner, Jeffrey Overstreet, Joel Sheesley, and Mary McCleary. There were a few other presentations I missed when my still-healing body insisted I trek up what seemed liked a million steps back to my dorm room to rest. That climb left me literally panting; I never did acclimate to the altitude.

The irony for all of us with little magic boxes called iPhones was that our cell reception sucked on campus. My husband packed a nifty contraption in my bag to legally rig my dorm room to be wireless, so after I caught my breath each night, we’d video, audio, or type-chat on my MacBook — whichever happened to work.

Photo by Barbara Lane.

Every morning, I’d step out of my dorm building to a cool breeze, a soft morning sky, and native flowers such as the shy Jimson Weed, which Georgia O’Keefe often painted. It unfolds in the early morning and folds back inward mid-morning. The walk downhill to the dining hall was much easier, and I made a beeline for the cafeteria coffee. I was warned beforehand that I’d drink a lot of coffee, a truthful prediction. I even carried a to-go cup to my 8:45 a.m. writing class in Santa Fe Hall. I’m not a morning person.

I didn’t know what to expect from that class. I’d never had the opportunity to learn to write from a favorite author. First of all, Lauren Winner’s vintage glasses were awesome (in the vein of Flannery O’Connor). She was intense about teaching, very challenging, sarcastic, funny, kind, and empathetic without having to say a word to display it. I can count on five fingers the great teachers I’ve had in my life, and Lauren is surely one. She began each class with a prayer (it was a spiritual writing class, after all), or some breathtaking poem, such as one by Mary Oliver. She’d also begin every morning with a writing exercise, but not just any writing exercise. My “favorite” was to write something, anything with only one-syllable words. It is harder than you think, but definitely exercised the writing muscles in my brain. I then realized I sorely lack writing discipline. A singer sings scales, right? Then a writer should write or type the equivalent every day. I’m determined to do just that.

We even introduced ourselves with one of our writing exercises, “Why I Write.” Here is mine, which I quickly scribbled on the pages of my Moleskine:

I feel called to, a calling I could never ignore. I write to witness — capture and share what I see, believe, feel, love, hate. I write because it is my voice, much more than my spoken voice. I write because it is the way I think, much better than I will ever verbalize. I write because I love words, sentences, paragraphs, and so on. I love stories and want to participate in that Great Conversation; again much “better” than I could ever verbalize in this room. I write to hopefully , one day, help. And to create and imagine.

I used to fear writing until I had no choice but to do so. I write to become a better writer. To learn a stronger voice, both written and verbal.

Lauren Winner and her famous frames.

Our class consisted of about 13-14 diverse people, but we bonded, often sitting together during meals, I think because we poured our guts out to each other as we critiqued one another’s very personal manuscripts. Initially skimming these writings, I noticed several regarded some form of suffering, which I suppose is no surprise in a spiritual, Judeo-Christian writing class.

And did I survive the critique of my manuscript, “Me and St. Catherine”? Well, the night before, my courage wore off with bleary-eyed fatigue, but as each person went around the table and critiqued my work the next day, I swear to God I enjoyed every minute. Everyone was honest, but also respectful. They started with the positive aspects (a strong writing voice, and occasional humor), and also rehumanized my spirit by telling me what to improve, such as, “There is way too much of St. Catherine at the beginning of your piece. The parallels need to be stronger. Take it apart and put it back together again.” I have a lot of work to do, but I can hardly wait. Those eighteen pages are destined to be either an essay, or expanded into a memoir. I won’t know until I revise it.

Photo by Barbara Lane.

I have so many good memories I’m afraid I’ll forget: dark chocolate, red wine, the Psalms, and prayer with two new friends one night in my dorm room; breakfast with Mary McCleary; meeting Gregory Wolfe; my crazy day off with three friends (another forthcoming essay); The Teahouse; the infamous late night Thomas Parker Society in the Overstreets’ apartment (I vowed to read next year), and the Over the Rhine concert, just to barely name a few. When I arrived home in Houston, I felt an inexplicable sorrow, even though I was thrilled to see my husband’s face at the airport. I quickly befriended everyone I’d met at the Glen on Facebook and Twitter, and pored over their photographs, wistful. I felt like I missed my new family.

I felt oddly uncomfortable. Through Lauren Winner’s excellent writing class, the entire week, and all of the people, I saw a vision of a standard of excellence I craved, yet one that I’m far away from. A week really can change a life because now I’m ready to work my tail off until I reach that standard, then climb to the next one. See ya next year, Glen.

I’m pretty sure my first concert was Stryper. I know. See, at the time, my parents had instituted a “Christian Music on Sundays Only” rule, and if there was good music being made by Christians at the time, I was clueless. I guess I heard Stryper on KSBJ and thought, Cool – rock ‘n’ roll! And, if I was going to any concert at a young age, it was with my parents, and it would be “Christian.” To my parents’ credit, they probably didn’t like the band any more than I do now, but they took me to that show regardless.

Even though I now shudder at the thought of that glam metal band, I must admit that something important happened during my first concert. The band I once listened to on the radio or cassette was playing live, right in front of me. I was bit by the magic of live music – yes, even by Stryper.

Thankfully, years later, I met some friends in college who introduced me to really good live music. Little did they know they had changed my life for the better, forever. I heard Ellis Paul at Mucky Duck at least four times because he’s an amazing songwriter (and a friend had a crush on him). The venue was so small we nearly sat at his feet, and she said hi to him afterward, nearly swooning. I also heard Buddy & Julie Miller, which were my first exposure to alt-country, which is awesome. Julie was quirky, funny, brilliant, and right in the middle of her set, she gave her conversion testimony to a crowd of beer drinkers so naturally as if to say, Here’s what I believe. He changed my life. Make of it what you will. And yet, she spoke with sincerity and gentleness – as opposed to the overpowering tactics of Stryper. The room was quiet with awe, then the rowdy music started up again. I sat very close to the stage that night, too, and that combination of artistry and honesty make me admire the Millers’ music to this very day.

A few years ago, my husband took me to a Sigur Rós show, and Jonsí’s voice sounded like a dream as he bowed his guitar like a violin. My Aunt Denise and I saw Sufjan Stevens at the Paramount in Austin, TX; he and his entire orchestra wore butterfly wings while he furtively tucked truthful lyrics into hipsters’ hearts (mine included). My aunt and I also watched Ryan Adams storm on and off stage in Stubb’s backyard. I’ve seen several great shows with my aunt; we bond over words both in music and books. Once at a Kasey Chambers show, the artist covered a classic song, “If I Needed You.” Denise turned to me and said, “Who wrote this song?” Quick as a whip I replied, “Townes Van Zandt.” She beamed and said, “We ARE related!”

You might’ve read here and there that health has not been my forte the past few years; I sit here awaiting a second surgery that should fix my body. But you know what? Live music is literally healing for me. It puts my head in the right place. For instance, recently I heard Waterdeep at Ecclesia/Taft St. Coffee. It was a fantastic show, and during the last song, a rat scampered straight down the wall behind the duo. There was a communal gasp, and everyone looked around their feet, trying to pay attention to the great song that is “Good Good End.” Now that’s live music. We also heard Derek Webb play a Haiti benefit there. Thankfully, no rats that time. The only surprise was Danielle Young (of Caedmon’s Call) joining him on stage. I sipped my usual from the coffee shop: Monk’s Prayer tea (chamomile + peppermint).

Photo: Jenni Simmons

In April, I noticed on Twitter that Andrew Osenga would play a free set on Ecclesia’s patio one Sunday. Houston had good weather for once, and as the sky darkened, bulb lights strung from the roof lit up. I sipped Monk’s Prayer (again). And right before his first song, Andrew looked straight at me and Johnny and said, “Hey, don’t I know y’all from Facebook?” We looked behind our seats, and to our left and right before we realized he was talking to us. Truly, the wonders of Facebook/Twitter never cease to amaze me.

Andrew was wearing casual, outdoorsy clothes with sandals, and in between songs he mentioned his toes were unusual, unique – we could ask him about them afterward. He played many of his greats with just his guitar, including crowd favorites “Canada” and “Anna and the Aliens.” He is such a great songwriter and guitarist – a master of melody, story, and humor.

So, I had to ask about the toes. He said, “Look at them.”

I counted 1, 2, 3 . . . 7, 8, 9 toes. I looked up, “You were born with only nine toes?”

“No,” he said, “I accidentally mowed one off.”

(Me, horrified) “Did it hurt?!”

He said something to the effect of, “Hell, yes! That’s how I met all of my new neighbors – writhing and screaming in pain on our front lawn.”

Now I ask you, would you hear a story like that just listening to a CD? I think not.

We went inside to buy an Andrew Osenga pint glass (wouldn’t you?) and to sponsor his favorite charity, Ellie’s Run. He said, “If you’re bored, I’m doing this taping thing somewhere next – y’all are welcome to come.” Seeing as my health was behaving, we accepted the invitation and drove over to an old warehouse where Andrew filmed for a music webcast called The Serial Box.

Photo: Jenni Simmons

We walked up the stairs around the coolest old freight elevator, knocked on a door, and entered a small room with old brown brick walls, a few folks, a scattering of chairs, and big cameras looming overhead. I tried to scribble down the set list accurately, but I was too fascinated by the whole filming process, not to mention Andrew’s songs. I’m fairly certain he sang “Memory” and “Swing Wide the Glimmering Gates” – two of my favorites. (Be sure and look up “Memory.” It’ll make you want to cry and go hug your spouse, but in a beautiful way.) All in all, it was a night of good health, great music, and meeting a talented, kind, and funny guy.

On Wednesday of that week, we returned to Ecclesia, this time to hear Jake Armerding and Kevin Gosa for a Provision of Hope benefit show, helping Liberian war-afflicted orphans, widows, and refugees. This was exciting on three counts: helping those in need, hearing Jake for the first time, and meeting Kevin – a fellow Curator writer & editor – my first of these New Yorkers to meet in the flesh! (I’m so proud to report that Houston is Kevin’s favorite city in Texas.)

We sat indoors this time near a stage softly lit by tall candelabras. Yes, I drank Monk’s Prayer tea again, but I think it has a lot to do with the poetic name. The music began, and I’d never heard anything like it. It was folk music, but without that Southern country flavor. Jake is from Boston and Kevin is from the Midwest by way of New Jersey, so I wondered if geography played into the difference – perhaps more of a Celtic, Old World influence. I’d (badly) describe it as jazz-tinged Northern folk. Whatever you call it, I loved it.

Photo: Jenni Simmons

Jake played acoustic guitar, mandolin, and fiddle; Kevin played the soprano and tenor saxophones; and a friend named Matt Davis played bass on a few songs. I never knew a saxophone and fiddle could sound so good together, but the chemistry between Jake and Kevin is amazing – they could really jam instrumentally, and Kevin killed it on the sax. Jake also sang songs about backpacking, a few love songs, a song about the devil, and a protest song about airport security. Can I get an amen? It was a wonderful night of meeting a virtual friend, and hearing a brand new genre.

The next day, we drove through a sea of bluebonnets to Dallas to see my parents, and to go to a Patty Griffin & Buddy Miller show at The House of Blues. As I mentioned above, I have a serious musical crush on Buddy & Julie Miller. I’ve also been a drooling fan of Patty Griffin ever since I was hypnotized by her very first record, Living with Ghosts, on the radio in Austin, TX. So you can imagine my excitement when Buddy Miller walked out on stage, that crazy white hair under his hat. I believe he opened with “Chalk,” which undoes me to the core. Then Patty walked out with her beautiful, crazy red hair, and the crowd went nuts. But she just stood there, very demure, obviously as in awe of Buddy as I was. She simply backed him to greats like “Gasoline and Matches,” a song that his wife, Julie, used to get him to stay home one night. She grabbed her guitar, yelled out the song, and he stayed (Patty played spoons on that one). He also played “All My Tears” (written by Julie), which is my funeral song. Weird, I know, but what could be a better song to celebrate the end of a good life?

When I go, don’t cry for me
in my Father’s arms I’ll be.
The wounds this world left on my soul
will all be healed and I’ll be whole.
The sun and moon will be replaced
with the light of Jesus’ face.
. . . It don’t matter where you bury me,
I’ll be home and I’ll be free . . .
all of my tears be washed away.

Photo: Jenni Simmons

Next was Patty’s main set, and she sang a wide spectrum of songs from her records. She informed us that “Heavenly Day” is a love song to her dog, which I found quite charming. And then she sang several gems from her latest album, Downtown Church, which she did in fact record in a Presbyterian church in downtown Nashville (and Buddy produced). She sang with soul, grit, Truth, rock, and blues. I sipped Chardonnay from a plastic cup and watched the patchwork curtains bleed red, purple, and blue light. I don’t think Patty is a regular church-goer, but I’m here to tell you, the Gospel breathed on every person in that dark club. My health began to fail me a bit, but I listened and swayed with the worship of the weary. Before we waded through the crowd to our car, Buddy announced that they’d partnered with World Vision for this tour – yet more great musicians giving to those in dire need.

We drove back home through the Texas countryside and I thought to myself, We just traveled to another city for live music. Good grief. And here’s why. A CD or digital file becomes “incarnate.” The musicians are there in the flesh, their songs taking on a whole new being – real, live, and breathing. Instead of endlessly consuming both free and paid-for music, we should migrate to an artful space and see, listen, and ingest the songs – let the volume pummel us for a bit, for the good. Oh, and be sure and document your experience with bad iPhone photography. It’s all the rage, you know.

We even need to venture out to hear unknown artists – you’ll never find the good unless you seek. The musicians need to see their fans, too, not just record sales. No matter if they are your favorite songwriter in the whole world and you’re very geeked up – they are just regular, hardworking people. And yet, you might get a chance to shake their hand and thank them for their many sacrifices to bring you good music; to commune with you.

When we go hear live music, we do join a community – so important in these days of isolation. Money is tight in our economy, but let us go and support live music together as patrons, and if it be a benefit show, even better. Music often rouses our hearts to give to those around the world, and paints music & lyric of people living in horrific conditions we can’t even imagine. Music can help save the world.

Photo: Jenni Simmons

Raven's Ladder will be released on February 16.

Last June, I had the pleasure of attending the Trinity Arts Conference in Dallas, TX, which was inspiring on every artistic level. One night, I settled into a chair in an auditorium to hear author and film critic, Jeffrey Overstreet, give a talk called “A Little Willingness to See,” the title taken from a quote by Marilynne Robinson in her book, Gilead:

Wherever you turn your eyes the world can shine like transfiguration. You don’t have to bring a thing to it except a little willingness to see. Only, who could have the courage to see it?

Every speaker at the conference was amazing, but Jeffrey’s presentation was out of this world – by far my favorite. He gave a brief tour of his personal history with film based on his book Through a Screen Darkly (on my to-read list). His talk was funny, insightful, moving, and very wise. He incorporated Star Wars, Lord of the Rings, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, Ephesians 5:11, Acts 17, and the beauty of trees and sky (among many other things). I madly scribbled down insufficient notes and wished he could extend his talk deep into the night.

Afterward, I stepped out into the lobby and wistfully meandered around Eighth Day Books’s tables, one of which held stacks of Jeffrey’s books – including Auralia’s Colors and Cyndere’s Midnight, two fantasy books in The Auralia Thread series. I picked up each book and read the descriptions on the back covers; they seemed magical to the touch. I couldn’t afford either one that night, but I added them to my to-read list as well.

I am happy to report I finally read Auralia’s Colors and Cyndere’s Midnight between December 2009 and January of this year, and I wholeheartedly gave each 5/5 stars on Goodreads. I read one after the other as quickly as I could, breathless.

Jeffrey’s writing is beautiful, sparse, poetic prose, but an unfamiliar style. I can honestly say that I had never read anything like it. I had to read slowly and meditate on the otherworldly details of House Abascar and the Expanse. Northchildren and the Keeper. King Cal-marcus and the ale boy. Maugam and the beastmen. Firewalkers, stonemasters, and wildspeakers. I’d never read a character like Auralia, a mysterious crafter of colors. She not only perplexed me, but also her fellow characters in the book. Then there’s two of my favorite characters, King Cal-raven and Jordam the beastman. I was spirited away into this mysterious, dark, and beautiful world.

As you can imagine, I was entirely geeked up to read the 3rd “gold strand” in The Auralia Thread series: Raven’s Ladder (releases on February 16). It was better than the first two books, if that’s even possible. So I was thrilled when Jeffrey agreed to answer some of my questions about these books, writing, so on, and so forth . . .

JS: I’ve heard some authors talk about how their characters were birthed. For instance, if I remember correctly, Marilynne Robinson once said she was sitting in a hotel room and sensed an old man writing a letter to his son, just as real as he could be, which came to be Gilead.

Did Auralia come to life in a similar way? Or did you see the Expanse first? And does one of your characters birth another, and another, and so on?

JO: Well, if I’m ever inspired the way Marilynne Robinson is inspired, that’ll be a glorious day. She has a magnificent gift. I love Gilead.

Auralia did appear out of the clear blue, yes.

I was hiking near Flathead Lake in Montana with my wife, Anne. We were talking about the imagination. I suddenly had a “What if?” moment. What if an entire society folded up their colorful and creative work and put it away? I saw a colorless city set in the middle of this beautiful forest.

And then I saw a person – a young boy or a young girl – looking out over the city from a high place. Eventually, I decided it was a young girl, and she was weeping. The more I thought about who she might be, the more I became convinced that she was an artist. She would try to help that colorless city by bringing them a gift of art.

The rest of the characters in Auralia’s Colors flowered out of that idea. I found characters who were curious about Auralia’s colors, and characters who were inspired by them. I found characters who were threatened by them, and characters who wanted to exploit them. Then, in Cyndere’s Midnight, I became curious about the monsters that were lurking around the edges of the first story, and wanted to know how they would react if they encountered Auralia’s colors.

I like learning about new worlds by looking through the eyes of different characters. How does the Cragavar forest feel to a Gatherer? To a child? To a soldier? By the time readers get to Raven’s Ladder, they’ve seen the Expanse from a lot of different perspectives.

Several times in this series, your books reminded me of Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings – an epic-scale story occurring in more than one location in the Expanse; otherworldly characters interconnected in surprising ways; divided kingdoms; and so on. Is Tolkien a big influence on your writing?

Who are your other influences?

Tolkien’s a big influence, I’m sure. I read The Lord of the Rings over and over between the ages of 9 and 29. But Tolkien’s nonfiction inspired me, too. He made me very curious about how the imagination works, and how mythology helps us begin to understand parts of the truth that the rational mind cannot comprehend or express.

Tolkien’s perspectives—and those of C.S. Lewis, George MacDonald, G.K. Chesterton, and Madeleine L’Engle—all made me want to explore and discover a story of my own. I eventually grew tired of stories about dragons and elves and dwarves and bloody battlefields. We have too many of those. I wanted to find a story that didn’t remind me of anything else.

I can guess at who might have influenced my style. I still love Richard Adams’s beautiful novel Watership Down. I’ve been reading a steady diet of books written by Patricia McKillip and Guy Gavriel Kay. I’ve spent a lot of time with Mervyn Peake. I read Cormac McCarthy’s The Road while writing Cyndere’s Midnight, and that affected my dreams about the world of the beastmen. And I listened to an unabridged audiobook of Moby-Dick all the way through during the early drafts of Raven’s Ladder. I have no idea what that did to me, but I loved it.

What is the appeal of fantasy books?

That’s hard to narrow down. It depends on the reader and it depends on the fantasy.

I’ve written an essay called “The Eagles Are Coming,” which is published in Response, a magazine produced by Seattle Pacific University. In that article, I tried to sum up why fantasy appeals to me.

In short, I think there are powers and mysteries at work in the world that can only be expressed through fairy tales. Fairy tales allow us to cast nets into mystery and catch things that are otherwise inexpressible. Tolkien said that fairy tales can give us a glimpse of our eventual redemption in a way no other story can.

At its best, fantasy provides us with an escape from the narrow, restrictive perspectives of modernism. And with its emphasis on the primal, it returns us to engagement with the elements, with the stuff of rocks and trees and fire and rivers and mountains. Since those elements of creation “pour forth speech,” according to the Psalmist, we’re able to hear some things more clearly when we meditate there.

But fantasy can be destructive, too. I’ve seen people who are dissatisfied with their lives attracted to the violence, to sorcery, to the ideas of tremendous power that are celebrated in some fantasy stories. I’ve watched people become severely irresponsible, abandoning engagement with their own world in order to indulge in fantasy role-playing games or non-stop fantasy media. Fantasy is dangerous territory and it demands discernment.

There is a lot of beauty in your books, but also a lot of evil and darkness. I remember finishing one of the chapters describing Maugam (Auralia’s Colors) right before bed, wishing I had read further for my dreams’ sake. Do you think good fiction must include this darkness in order to be great art?

Oh, I don’t think good fiction needs to have monsters like Maugam. I included Maugam because the story led me to him. I encountered this frightening dungeon master, and I needed to understand where he came from, and what experiences had made him. He was a creature who grew in a world without light, without color, without love or art.

Sometimes, though, we need to see visions of distortion in order to understand what is good. We can learn about the light by studying what happens when living things are deprived of light.

In Cyndere’s Midnight and Raven’s Ladder, I loved the hope for redemption of the beastmen. It made me wish the same for the Orcs (Lord of the Rings). One of the beastmen’s healing, Jordam’s, began when he first saw Auralia’s colors in the caves. Does this convey a belief of yours, perhaps that art is healing? That “beauty will save the world”?

I find healing in art almost every day. Music or a good movie can lift my spirits after a troubling day. I look forward to concerts by Over the Rhine and U2 because their performances always fill me with hope and joy. Books by Annie Dillard and poetry by Scott Cairns and Jane Hirshfield move me powerfully. And I love it when I lay down at the end of the day and listen to Anne read the latest poetic entries in her journal.

Several beautiful lines caught my eye in Raven’s Ladder, such as:

“The exhausted prisoners seemed to draw strength from that rhythmic ritual [singing House Abascar’s Morning Verse], prodding at the darkness until it bled hope.”
 
“You, boy . . . do you have the strength to tell us a story, to help us remember who we are?”
 
“Lesyl sings the truth. That’s the foundation of New Abascar.”
 
“’Isn’t it strange,’ she had said, ‘how most of us reach an age where we just fold up our imaginations and stuff them into our closets? I think I’ve learned more about you from these impossible dreams than from anything else you’ve said.’”

Are such lines glimpses of artful tenets that you believe?

It’s interesting that you’d single out that line about “folding up our imaginations.” That’s almost exactly what Anne said to me in 1996, while we were hiking at Flathead Lake in Montana. It was that question that gave me the idea for the story that became Auralia’s Colors.

I believe creation is a language that few of us learn to read. And when artists create, they’re often surprised as their work conveys ideas they never anticipated. Most of what I’ve learned about the world, about God, and about myself has come from nature and from works of art. So I suppose it doesn’t surprise me that some of my characters come to similar realizations.

What does a typical writing day look like for you? How do you make such a solitary act work in your marriage?

Anne and I spend a lot of time reading and writing together every week. That’s what our dating life was like—we’d ride out on Puget Sound ferryboats and critique one another’s writing. It’s an activity that never gets old. We’re learning about each other as we work, and we’re exercising our powers of observation together.

I won’t pretend it’s always easy. She’s a poet, and she likes quiet and solitude. I’m a busybody, and I tend to stir up activity wherever I go. It’s good for me to spend time in her quiet world, and sometimes I draw her out into “Hurricane Jeff.” It’s a complicated dance, and we stumble a lot. But it’s worth it.

On a typical day, I’m at the office working as an editor, a nonfiction writer, and a marketer for a university. So I don’t write much fiction on weekdays. Weekends give us a chance to go to the beach, or the coffee shop, or the library, or a hotel in a nearby small town, where we can break loose from distractions and demands and dream for a while. I get my best ideas while I’m walking. And I do my best writing with a good cup of tea or strong, black espresso.

I tweeted once that I really love the character of Cal-raven – a king who cares very much about his people, but also the restoration of art, color, and beauty. You tweeted in response, “I hope I never meet him. He’ll kill me for all I’ve put him through in Raven’s Ladder.” Now that I’ve finished the book, I know what you mean! Is it painful for you to put your characters through so much suffering?

Yeah. I feel like I’m right there, watching, with my hands tied, as things play out. But it’s worth it when I get that sense that the scenes are leading me to something that rings true. Finding meaning in my characters’ suffering helps me find meaning in my own, and it helps me trust the creator who’s in charge of my own life story.

There’s an interesting tension of people in the Expanse – do they believe in the Keeper and the Northchildren, or just believe they’re the stuff of dreams? It seems a common struggle of humanity – what do we believe? Do you think that’s an important struggle to convey in literature?

It’s strangely unpopular in our culture to discuss what we believe. People think religious convictions should be “private.” Me, I think faith is the most important subject of all. And the art I love best is alive with implications about spiritual matters.

But notice, I said “implications.” The best thing a work of art can do is suggest. Art is about “What if?” When art starts instructing or persuading, it stops being art and becomes something else. I go to art for an experience, not an explanation. I like stories that make me wonder, not stories that try to stop me from wondering.

There’s such a cinematic quality to Raven’s Ladder – to the whole series, actually. Does that have anything to do with your love of cinema? And by the way, these books would make great movies – any plans in the works (I wish)? Who would your dream cast be for Raven’s Ladder?

I don’t know that I’ve seen an actor who would be the right Cal-raven yet.

Pete Postlethwaite would make a perfect Krawg, and David Thewlis would be a great Warney.

Recently, someone suggested Emily Blunt as Cyndere, and I like that, but I also imagine either Romola Garai or Summer Glau in that role. And speaking of Firefly cast members, I think Moreena Baccarin would be enchanting as Emeriene. I’ve met both Summer and Moreena, and they’re amazing.

I’d love to see Benicio Del Toro play Jordam the beastman. And the young actor who played the Boy in The Road would be very good as the ale boy.

You’re writing the last book in this series, correct? When is it due for release? Any hints you can give us? Probably not, but a girl’s gotta ask . . .

The last book is tentatively scheduled for the spring of 2011. There are some wild revelations at the end of Raven’s Ladder, and they really complicate the story, so I have a lot to untangle in the final volume.

We’ll see the ruins of Abascar again. We’ll fly kites. We’ll visit House Jenta for the first time. We’ll finally spend some quality time with that meandering mage, Scharr ben Fray. And we may get to see the world through the eyes of a Northchild. That could solve a lot of mysteries, or it could reveal seemingly ordinary things to be mysterious.

If I told you we’d fly to the moon above the Expanse, would you believe me?

You know what? I just might.

You can hear Jeffrey speak about the need for good stories at this year’s IAM Encounter, March 4-6 in downtown Manhattan.

“If we are to love our neighbors, before doing anything else we must see our neighbors. With our imagination as well as our eyes, that is to say like artists, we must see just not their faces but the life behind and within their faces. Here it is love that is the frame that we see them in.”
– Frederick Buechner

I am an unabashed people-watcher. I don’t mean to be rude; I’m just fascinated by humanity. I furtively watch people in coffee shops, bookstores, grocery stores, in their cars (at stoplights), and so on. Just the other day, I took a hellacious glucose/insulin tolerance test and was in that waiting room for a good six hours. I packed a good book, but I kept peeking over the pages at the blank stares of others in that medical purgatory.

A Hispanic male nurse called my name every hour to draw blood. Along with light blue scrubs, he wore a black yarmulke bordered by silver stars of David, and cobalt blue Hebrew tattoos were etched onto his forearm. I was utterly intrigued – people-watching up close and personal – and we chatted while I looked away from the needle. When I looked back, I noticed he had scratches on his face. He winced at one, laughed, and said, “I got these on Hanukkah, can you believe that? It started out well, but it didn’t end so well.” The writerly side of my brain was madly screaming, “What IS his story? He’s a story to be written!”

Photo: KayLynn Deveney

I love photographs of people for the same reason. I pore over photographs on Flickr almost daily, and within that community I discovered a beautiful book that captures the essence of friendly people-watching: The Day-to-Day Life of Albert Hastings. The photographer, KayLynn Deveney, and her husband noticed Albert as they walked to and from their basement flat and the city center in southern Wales every day. The old man often leaned against his building, his quiet yet lively presence contrasting the architecture’s decay. He watered the gardens to sustain life. Others might have overlooked this lonely man, but KayLynn was attentive to a light in Albert’s face that made her want to know him.

She felt a bit shy to transition from watching to meeting Albert, but she mustered up the courage and he greeted her warmly. Soon after, she asked if they could work on a photographic project together. As they got to know one another, she noticed his daily liturgies – how he thoughtfully organized his belongings and his time. And through conversations with Bert, she realized that their perceptions about photography differed. To allow Bert to converse with her camera, she asked him to jot down captions in a pocket notebook. KayLynn’s empathetic, honest photography and Bert’s thoughts became a dialogue that eventually grew into this book.

In the introduction of The Day-to-Day Life of Albert Hastings, KayLynn states:

I believe photographs of our possessions and domestic patterns can be portraits, just like the photographs of our faces.

This truth shines forth from images of Bert, his small home, and his neighborhood. He poured “his inevitable cuppa chai” into two cups, not one. He salvaged a wind-broken daffodil by stabilizing it to a mug with a rubber band. He laughed into golden lamplight enjoying his evening whiskey. He looked straight at KayLynn’s camera and wrote, “Could this be a presumptive picture of my futuristic soul regarding a past world and friends?” He folded his pajamas on his bed. He washed his socks and hung them on a coat hanger to dry. He placed a Fedora on his head to go out. Birds alighted his hand. He listened to the radio. Interspersed within the photographs are Bert’s poems, drawings of his clock hobbies, his handwritten TV schedule, and old photographs of his late wife, daughter, and grandchildren. Each smooth page in the book seems to literally speak of Bert’s hospitality, compassion, simplicity, comfort, humor, humility, grief, and dignity.

Albert reminds me of my late father-in-law, who also lived a quiet, lonely life. They even resemble one another, and both served in their country’s military. My father-in-law’s primary joys were his dog, Twit; mystery novels; his cowboy boots for kicker dancing; Blue Bell homemade vanilla ice cream; and dinners with me and his son, where he always ordered salmon. His Air Force medals hung on the wall. These details and daily rituals of my husband’s father, and those of Albert’s life, are important and noteworthy because this is how they lived, and every life matters.

KayLynn documented Albert’s day-to-day life with creative tenderness. They collaborated to create both friendship and art. It inspires me to ponder the possibilities of our interactions with strangers outside of our social comfort zone. We could start by befriending and serving them, then really see our neighbors through art – perhaps by photography, recording or writing their stories, or making a short documentary film. Or we could simply talk with them, know who they are. Our society tragically tends to ignore the lonely, poor, and elderly.

KayLynn reminds us of this again in a beautifully painful portfolio entitled “Edith and Len.” She began photographing Mr. and Mrs. Crawshaw shortly after they moved into a Welsh nursing home for their combined failing health, though Edith was in slightly better shape at age 93; her husband was 92. These photographs are difficult to view just as any nursing home is difficult to visit.

I used to visit a couple in a nursing home around the corner from our church that reminded me very much of Edith and Len. Billie and Allan lived in adjacent rooms, but every Sunday morning I found Allan seated in an armchair at the foot of his wife’s bed watching a church service on TV. I will forever associate that elegant woman with Psalm 91 - it was quite possibly her favorite piece of poetry ever. She requested that I read it every Sunday morning and always said, “See? How can we fear anything?”

Yet I felt their displacement like the weight of an anvil on my shoulders, and I feel this same sense of the mourning of home in the portraits of Edith and Len. But I also see the beauty of the elderly – every line and wrinkle of age traces poems of the joys and tragedies they’ve lived, and the wisdom planted deep within. One of my favorites in the “Edith and Len” portfolio is a sad photograph of Edith’s beautiful old face, her furrowed brow looking upward seeming to say, “O Lord, how long?” KayLynn kept diary entries for this project and that particular photograph’s entry reads:

October 30

The seasons are changing today.
The sky is darker and more wet.
The leaves are dancing around the
streets. Edith asked me today if I
could imagine what it’s like to sit
there all day, every day, the way
she did. I thought, I am desperately
trying to imagine it.

Certainly, nursing homes are full of tragedy: neglected residents, suffering, and an unchosen home. But we cannot and should not look away from the tragedy depicted in KayLynn’s work. It is a powerful encouragement of how to live better: visit nursing homes often, or when you’re able, welcome elderly family into your home. But regardless of what we’re able to do, we must not forget anyone who lives and breathes in this world. Albert’s, Edith’s, and Len’s stories were written before they were born; it’s our job to learn their stories, share, and do likewise.

Click on the thumbnail to see the full-sized image.

I’ve lately been reading all manner of goodness on The Rabbit Room. The blog’s title is a nod to The Eagle and Child pub where the Inklings met to discuss their writings, drink beer, and be merry. As a rabid Tolkien and C.S. Lewis fan, I was sold on the virtual concept immediately. I geeked out further when I discovered that The Rabbit Room’s proprietor was none other than singer/songwriter and authorAndrew Peterson, and contributors included his brother, Pete, Eric Peters, Randall Goodgame, Ron Block, and several creative others. If I have repeatedly insisted that you read Peace Like a River by Leif Enger, well, you have Curt McLey to thank for that.

As I followed these folks’ artistic insightfulness, I discovered that their personal talents crisscrossed between genres – music, books, visual art, pastoring, and so on. Pete Peterson is”a film aficionado, book-lover, cheese-maker, sandwich critic, chair-sitter,” and the author of the forthcoming novelThe Fiddler’s Gun (December 1, 2009). But the book’s cover lists the author’s name as A.S. Peterson. Confused? Pete/A.S. explains, “I grew up going by ‘Sherman,’ which I never much cared for. You can probably imagine how well that went down in school. So after high school, I joined the Marine Corps and there ‘Peterson’ got shortened to ‘Pete.’ . . . I think ‘Pete Peterson’ would look silly on a book cover, so I use ‘A.S.’ instead.”

The book’s main character, Fin Button, came to life in Peterson’s cinematic imagination several Christmases ago when he had the genius idea of building treasure chests of gifts to bury on his parents’ farm, drawing a map for each family member, and making them hunt down their treasure and dig it up. One recipient was to come across a grave marker in the woods bearing the name “Phineas Button,” but Peterson accidentally carved “Phinea.” ” Initially, I thought I’d have to start over and recarve it, but the more I thought about it, the more I liked the way that leaving the ‘s’ off made the name feminine. So I kept it and for the rest of the season I wondered who Phinea might have been and how she came to be buried there and what stories she might have to tell,” said Peterson.

Such a sudden genesis of a fictional character gives me goosebumps. As with all my favorite books, Fin is yet another legendary character that began to live and breathe in the room where I sat and flipped page after page – from the minute she was born on September 25, 1755, to her growing up into a redheaded tomboy at the Ebenezer orphanage.

The Buttons left behind a bundle of red curls and unwanted promise, and Matilda-Mae uttered a silent prayer that her thirteenth baby girl would somehow know a full life in spite of her unkind beginnings. The Baab sisters of the Ebenezer orphanage were ready and willing to answer that prayer and see it through, but time has a way of leading a person along a crooked path. Sometimes the path is hard to hold to and people fall off along the way. They curse the road for its steep grades and muddy ruts and settle themselves in hinterlands of thorn and sorrow, never knowing or dreaming that the road meant all along to lead them home. Some call that road a tragedy and lose themselves along it. Others, those that see it home, call it an adventure.

The poetic rhythm of that paragraph hooked me line and sinker, with all its heartaching, foreboding beauty. I jumped in Fin’s corner, rallying for hope and redemption through her many adventures to come. I’ve stated before that I loathe reading most accounts of history – dry textbooks, facts, and such. But the grand scope of reality, I believe, is that we dwell in history framed by a much bigger story written by One greater than us all. Great books like The Fiddler’s Gun give a lifelike voice to historic characters on whose fictional shoulders we stand. We peer into Fin’s story through the eve and eye of The Revolutionary War. There’s her best friend Peter LaMee, her foe Sister Hilde; humor, romance, betrayal, grand ships, swearing sailors, pirates, gallows, Red Coats, Tories, and the hunger for American independence. Though within the epic framework, Fin just craves acceptance and love, to be an orphan no longer – to belong.

She has the endearing, headstrong spunk of Swede Land (Peace Like a River), which sometimes finds her in dire predicaments. As a stubborn female going through difficult times myself, I was heartened by the honesty of this young woman’s suffering, and the merciful shielding from the very worst case scenarios. In the darkness, there was always hope. She learned to do as her friend, the orphanage cook Bartimaeus, often advised, “Beautiful, that’s what you got to do with that hurtin’, you got to turn it beautiful.” And too, a good, tall tale does this for us all, thanks to the author. Peterson made Fin’s pain and peril beautiful with salvific strokes.

As inspiring as the hard work of a writer is, there’s more to it than just a well-written story. With the same spirit of the Americans fighting for independence – for their own name and identity and not Great Britain’s – Peterson resisted writing for just one genre or age group. The Fiddler’s Gun is historic, but not historic fiction per se. Along with the adventure, it’s literary, and resembles a young adult novel until the point where Fin is forced to mature for survival. The story quickly grows with her right before the reader’s eyes.

Peterson waded through the query submission process, nearly drowning in sixty rejections before finally finding an agent who submitted his book to a few of the big names such as Random House and Scholastic. But they all said no. One would think that a novel so versatile to genres and ages would be appealing to publishers, but it isn’t usually so. They want books that are easy to categorize along with the latest bestsellers, whether good writing or wretched. So Peterson faced a lot of rewrites that would make The Fiddler’s Gun more audience specific, but he was afraid he’d alter the voice of Fin’s story in ways he just didn’t like at all.

Living in Nashville, he looked around, inspired by his community, many of whom are independent musicians. They’re often outcasts in the radio-loving recording industry, yet they make it work, excel artistically, and create a loyal, lifetime following. And then it occurred to Peterson that he, too, could go that route; he could publish The Fiddler’s Gun on his own terms. “And if I was going to publish independently, what better book to publish than one that is, at its core, about independence?” he said.

Unlike the myopic process of self-publishing which often produces poor quality, Peterson gleaned wisdom from his peers. For an editor, he hired his friend, Kate Etue, who has an extensive background in professional editing. He formed a writer’s group of people whose skills and mindset he admired and readily took their advice. He had beta readers point out flaws rather than heap praises at his feet. He hired another friend and fellow Rabbit Roomer, Evie Coates, to design the cover artwork.

But the life of a writer always involves solitude. This whole independent publishing process took about a year, and most of that time was spent editing, rewriting, revising, and editing again. Living on a day job’s budget, Peterson also took on the typesetting himself. He had a little background in print design, but even so, this task of designing the book’s interior nearly made his eyes explode as he pondered margin sizes, fonts, font sizes, line spacing, spacing between words, spacing between letters, and so on. Furthermore, he balanced quality and budget and decided on paper with good color and texture, the heaviest cover stock he could afford, and selected a matte-finished cover because well, shiny covers are loathe-worthy. And he went with rough-edged pages to complement the cover depicting dark beauty on a calamitous sea.

Pete’s journey also inspired The Rabbit Room Press, the independent publishing arm of the aforementioned online pub. Their aim is to produce books that readers can trust – the kind of book you can’t help but recommend to everyone you know. Says Peterson, “Branding is something that Pixar has done masterfully in the movie world. I’ll go see a Pixar movie just because Pixar is willing to put their name on it. I trust them. I know their track record. I appreciate the respect they have for the art of storytelling. The book industry needs that type of branding. Dave Eggers and McSweeney’s have done a lot in that area and I hope the Rabbit Room Press will one day be able to claim that kind of trust and discernment.”

But neither Peterson nor The Rabbit Room Press have won the lottery (that I know of), and so he beseeched fellow bibliophiles and good story-fanatics to be patrons of his craft. There were the inspiring Renaissance patrons, of course, but these days, more and more artists are pursuing the patronage option, or at least considering it. Prog band Spock’s Beard and fellow Rabbit Roomer Eric Peters did so with their latest albums. Likewise, Peterson offered two tiers: for patronage of $50, the reader received two signed trade paperbacks of The Fiddler’s Gun, a copy of 100 signed and numbered Letters to Peter Companion, their name printed in the acknowledgments, and priority shipping before December. For patronage of $30, the reader received two signed trade paperbacks of The Fiddler’s Gun and a printed acknowledgement. Now his novel is off to the printer, so he can’t print any more patrons’ names (though he’d love to), but he “considers anyone that offers their support a patron. And believe me, I couldn’t do it without them,” Peterson said.

As one who’d like to publish books myself someday, I find the artful layers of Peterson’s Fiddler’s Gun publishing saga to be inspiring. There are good books released under the big names, but as the publishing industry changes with almost every day, it seems, an author treks on precarious ground. Here we have a book that is a New York Times bestseller’s equal produced in the very fashion of redemption.

Against all odds, Peterson forged through rejection and confining genre labels to create a classic-to-be. He invites us to be a part of his story, Fin’s story, and the age-old story of artistic humanity: ’tis good to give and receive and cultivate good art. And let us write great stories that ring true, and do so independently, if you have the courage of Fin Button.

Photo: Sam Plant

A few years out of high school, I became a big fan of Sixpence None the Richer. I haven’t listened to the band in years, but I still remember one particular EP which remained in heavy rotation. Smitten not only with Leigh Nash’s beautiful voice, but with the album title (Tickets for a Prayer Wheel),I read the liner notes like literature and discovered that the poetic phrase was borrowed from the title of a book of poetry by Annie Dillard.

After devouring that book, contemplating “The Shape of the Air” and other such lyrically scientific matters, I wandered around a Half Price Books store to find more of Annie Dillard’s writings. I felt something like a magnetic pull. There are times in my life where God shines a beam of otherworldly light directly onto a book on some shelf. Though it is invisible to other eyes, I know that that book is illuminated with a similar (though much less divine) revelatory sentiment as the angel spoke to St. John:

Take and eat it; it will make your stomach bitter, but in your mouth it will be sweet as honey.

There is a gastronomical upset brought upon by reading God-awful writing, but that is not the kind of which I speak. If these books which lure me do yield any bitterness, it is because they turn my world upside down with an unveiling of reality. They change me and form me – and sometimes reversing my mindset is a bit unpleasant. Not meant to be a quick gulp of novelty or escape, these are books to read, eat, and chew; slowly, like meditation.

So it was with a book aglow on a wooden bookshelf at Half Price all those years ago – Pilgrim at Tinker Creek. Once again, the title caught my eye – a little slice of poetry. I began to realize why a college professor inexplicably said I have the mind of a poet. I am not a poet, but I discern the poetry of life – all the intensity, emotion, mystery, and rhythm.

The very first paragraph minced no words, and beauty and violence walked side by side:

I used to have a cat, an old fighting tom, who would jump through the open window by my bed in the middle of the night and land on my chest. I’d half-awaken. He’d stick his skull under my nose and purr, stinking of urine and blood. Some nights he kneaded my bare chest with his front paws, powerfully, arching his back . . . And some mornings I’d wake in daylight to find my body covered with paw prints in blood; I looked as though I’d been painted with roses. . . . What blood was this, and what roses? It could have been the rose of union, the blood of murder, or the rose of beauty bare and the blood of some unspeakable sacrifice or birth.

I was both captivated and startled. Cats are cute, but bodily fluids? Such visceral, poetic writing prodded my five senses to life with each word. I kept reading. I took the first steps away from a timidity of words – providential seeds planted to cultivate who I am today, how I see the world, and what I write. As best I can describe, the book reads like a scientist-mystic’s journal, a bizarre narrative that might seem like a collection of essays as Dillard’s unusual mind jumped from philosophy to science to religion to absurd humor to meditation on nature, but there is a thread of continuity – her connections and conclusions arrive like a slap on the back. “We wake, if we ever wake at all, to mystery, ” she said.

Dillard lived near the suburban forests and mountains of Tinker Creek in Virginia, which teem with hordes of lively animal life. She walked outdoors by day and read voraciously at night. She filled twenty or so journals with quotes by Thoreau, Van Gogh, Marius von Senden, Pascal, and Galileo, as well as her observations of the natural world in her neighborhood. She transferred prime excerpts to notecards, and within eight months, she created the book that is Pilgrim at Tinker Creek. This literary madness granted her the Pulitzer Prize in 1975 when she was just 29 years old.

My copies of Tickets for a Prayer Wheel and Pilgrim at Tinker Creek are browning, the pages soft and familiar. They bear my maiden name on the front pages in blue and black ink, respectively, such a sweet bruising to my writerly soul. Both were published the year of my birth, so I feel a tender kinship with them. Pilgrim at Tinker Creek is not straightforwardly Christian; Dillard cites Jesus and the Bible, but also Judaism, Buddhism, Sufism, and Eskimo spirituality. I am one of those conservative Biblical types, yet this weaving of religion and art and startling beauty gave my writer’s voice its first breath. I was inspired by words and sentences for the first time.

. . . and I’ve got great plans. I’ve been thinking about seeing. There are lots of things to see, unwrapped gifts and free surprises. The world is fairly studded and strewn with pennies cast broadside from a generous hand. But – and this is the point – who gets excited by a mere penny? . . . if you cultivate a healthy poverty and simplicity, so that finding a penny will literally make your day, then, since the world is in fact planted in pennies, you have with your poverty bought a lifetime of days.

Why, I wondered after I read that, had I ever seen anything before? I don’t believe I hadn’t, but I made my own plans to see from that day forward. Her reflections left me breathless and wide-eyed: the frog sucked dry to mere skin by a giant water bug right before Dillard’s eyes; a still Osage orange tree suddenly released one hundred red-winged blackbirds; a mockingbird took a nosedive from a roof gutter straight toward the ground only to pull up seconds before death. She described the “night . . . knitting over my face an eyeless mask,” and boy howdy, I saw what she meant one starless night in Houston.

Soon thereafter, I moved into a small studio apartment with old wooden floors. I hung an Indian tapestry over the one big window in the main room. I marveled at how sunlight filtered through the fabric like fiery coals, threatening to lick the floor with flame and level my little home to ashes.

Now I dwell in the ‘burbs. Not as picturesque as Tinker Creek, but I still do this seeing, and I still revere this book. I reread the whole narrative from cover to cover, or I flip around and meditate on a paragraph or two. Either way, it is born again and new in a cyclical fashion. Oh, how a writer should see! There is so much to see and write and share – one just has to make the time.

I take a shower and see one long, thin vein of a spider web cascading from the ceiling light to top of the shower stall, glowing eerily with artificial light. You’d think I would knock it down, but I leave it for awhile, admiring the arachnid’s ingenuity.

My husband and I name a lizard who hovers on a window outside most nights. He’s “Marty.” Our cats peer with intent confusion, craving the prey. I walk into the kitchen and see Marty’s cousin swinging on a slat of the mini blinds on his tummy – no joke. He’s no threat to me, so I just let him swing in peace, tiny dots of eyes blinking. Would I have looked so closely before?

I often sit in a favorite chair and look to our backyard and pray for answers. Our tree and the neighbors’ trees sing and sway tipsy with praise. They shake off rain with sudden convulsions of tears, but for the joy of cleansing and the sun – healing and restoration. I move a rocking chair to the back porch and monarchs with fire-wings of grace flit overhead near enough to touch! The old wooden fence sings the sun through its weathered planks. I walk around my neighborhood to see all there is to see.

It all rings true. Jesus asked us to “look at the birds of the air: they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them” – to pay attention and not look past anything. The Bible is the icon of truth; beauty and tragedy are neighbors. Wars and persecutions; victories and loss; triumph and betrayal; violence and peace; and ultimately, death raised to life. These same realities echo through nature, and all things are made new.

And so, I see all there is to see not as mere scenery or just the weather, but creation: alive, speaking, waving, praising, mourning, groaning, awaiting redemption just like me. As a writer, and a Christian, I feel the weight of my responsibility to do as Dillard proclaimed:

. . . take a wider view, look at the whole landscape, really see it, and describe what’s going on here.

I make my pilgrimage through what is truthful, beautiful, good, and tragic, and Annie Dillard is one of my lifelong guides.

My husband’s practical wisdom prevailed, and walking into the two-story house in which we now live, we experienced the surprisingly truthful cliché: We just knew. I made it my mission to see the suburbs as I now see everything: to seek out what is rehumanizing right here, chain stores and all. Our neighborhood is very walkable, most of our neighbors are friendly, and we consider Cedar’s Mediterranean Grill & Market “our place,” offering the best hummus, hookahs, and Arabic music videos on the TV. We now feel as if the ‘burbs are home sweet home. However, if we won the lottery, we might be persuaded to move to one of those bungalows. Until that improbable day, my urban aesthetics are assuaged by driving to church every Sunday through the absence of notorious Houston traffic – it’s like God’s gift to the faithful.

As creatures of ritual and pleasure, our Sabbaths consist of a geographical trinity to which we migrate like birds to their homeland. We both work from home, so Sunday is our earliest day of the week. I am not a morning person. But, gratefully, Antidote Coffee is our first stop, its atmosphere just buzzed enough to gently wake fellow grumpy, slow risers. Cheery, multi-colored patio furniture awaits outside, and eclectic vintage furniture inside. Red brick walls sport local art and photography. The menu offers organic and fair trade coffee roasted in Marfa, Texas; organic artisanal tea, beer, wine, homemade baked goods, watermelon gazpacho, red bean hummus, and other delights. Happy hour includes spirits, of course, but also $1.00 espresso shots. The Beach Boys, The Kinks, and Old Country play overhead. They spin bad music at times, too, but at least it’s obscure bad music. The staff is attentive and kind – by now they know that Johnny takes his cappuccino wet with organic milk; they wait patiently as I rummage through the tea selection indecisively.

It’s a small, intimate space. I can’t help but eavesdrop on most conversations as they bounce off the stained concrete floor. And there’s no finding a secret, introverted nook in which to work or read. As I select a small wooden table or a velvet couch, I often have to ask a person, “Is this seat taken?” One afternoon, I poured my teapot of organic breakfast and spilled some of it in the process – very characteristically of me. A soft-spoken man chuckled in sympathy and asked what I was drinking, or spilling. I asked the same of him (Sencha green) and we oohed and ahhed over varieties of white tea, as well as our mutual preference for dark roast and chicory coffees. I discovered that he was born in France, adopted by an American family, and is now part of both families – he visits the French countryside regularly. I shared that my mom was adopted; her biological family is from Louisiana, and she, too, is part of both families. And when I said that just that morning, Johnny and I daydreamed of visiting Paris, the man said, “Oh, you should – there’s still a lot of magic in that city.” I marveled at this conversation with a kindred spirit-stranger.

Kaboom Books is right next door, a brilliant pairing. More rainbow-hued tables and chairs adorn the storefront, encouraging the enjoyment of coffee and used books here or there. The second Kaboom location is a little bigger and five minutes away, and our church is situated in the middle. The owners are a good-natured married couple, transplants from New Orleans after Katrina. We met the spunky red-haired wife, newly a Houston resident, and to our delight and surprise, she reported that they love their new hometown and neighbors.

I am not above a Barnes & Noble/Starbucks combo, but I do have a special place in my heart for the unshakable independents in our culture, and for the smell of old books. Kaboom’s tall, crude wooden shelves hold more mystery than a polished new store. Their selection musters up a literary faith in the face of uncertainty. Lately, I believe that I will find Wendell Berry’s Hannah Coulter on that high shelf with the B’s, though I cannot yet see it. Like the old bungalows in the neighborhood, these books spin yarns and tall tales to complement the story their pages hold. The front page might bear a reader’s name written with pencil or ink, provoking a sort of reverence in me as I flip through the pages, as if that long-lost soul is loaning it to me. Kaboom opens later than Antidote on a Sunday morning, so I wistfully peek into my dusty little sanctuary until I can step inside again. Sometimes we do so after church, or during the week. Our liturgy of the neighborhood is not just for the Sabbath, you see.

We hop in the car with to-go cups of caffeine and weave down Euclid Street for two minutes toward church. This neighborhood provides something suburbanites should cultivate: a deeper sense of community and beauty, which naturally pours into my soul as I spy porch swings, rocking chairs, hammocks, wind chimes, lush gardens bright with flowers, protective oak trees, and quirky art sculptures planted in front yards. The amicability also speaks from the bungalow architecture itself, with most homes boasting wide front porches that make hospitality visual. Friends drink wine on those shady havens in the evening, or sleepy-eyed fathers enjoy breakfast in solitude the next morning. History resides in these streets as well – old, tattered bungalows sit alongside newer models, but the Woodland Heights is committed to preserving “a hometown near downtown since 1907″ and beautiful American Craftsman design. Change is good at the right time, but I still admire this small town within the big city, one determined to conserve historical architecture which tells a large part of Houston’s story.

The impetus for our Sabbath migration sits on the corner of Beauchamp and Byrne: Church of the Holy Trinity, a small Anglican parish. “Worship is primary theology. It is also home, which, as the saying goes, is the place where they have to take you in” (Kathleen Norris, Amazing Grace). I grew up with Baptist mega-church roots, and so our little liturgical church feels exactly like our second family (after in-laws) with differences, squabbles, hugs, laughter, shared tears and joy, and all the rest. I actually know my priest – a far cry from a distant pastoral association, with a stage and bright lights. Fr. Doug loves local coffee shops, whiskey, good tobacco, the Coen Brothers, John Donne, Wendell Berry, and slow food, just for starters.

The liturgy suits people like me and Johnny, and many in the congregation – the artful-minded, craving visuals and symbols. We walk in the door to dip our fingertips in cold, holy water; trace a cross from our forehead to our chest; light a candle cupped in red glass to symbolize prayers weighing heavy on our hearts. I take a wooden pew under the St. Catherine of Alexandria stained glass. There is a still, sweet reverence under the wooden nave which looks like an upturned ark, drying out from a tragic flood. As we do “the people’s work,” peaceful repetition – kneeling, bowing, crossing – we embed Scripture and worship into our souls and movements. Liturgy is found in the pages of Genesis, the 1st century early church, and onward until now – more history rooted within a bustling, modern city. The music is both traditional hymns and new songs on guitar, piano, and djembe. Candles light the altar; incense tickles our noses and represents our collective prayers. When we walk out the door and gather on the patio, some smoke a cigar and others grab a Shiner (on tap in the kitchen). We adults sweat in a Houston summer, and the kids run helter-skelter on the playground. We take our worship back out into the old-and-new-bungalowed neighborhood – as they welcome us, we hope to welcome them into our home the next week, signaled by church bells sounding through the ‘hood.

Urbanites seek refuge from the traffic and workweek cacophony, and our activities are almost unconscious liturgical repetitions. We work with our hands in our home or in an office, completing similar tasks over and over again. We frequent our favorite places to eat, drink, and refuel. We are created to gravitate to rhythm, order, beauty, and our incarnational five senses. Or perhaps we rebel against these forces, our fallen dance.

But we are to live within our culture, our eyes roving for what is true, good, and beautiful – such as the Menil neighborhood, houses of art which continue to nourish and protect me. But even more nourishing and protective are our church, Antidote’s small town hospitality, and Kaboom’s cozy inspiration – making the Woodland Heights our second neighborhood. It’s like Isaiah said: “In returning and rest you shall be saved; in quietness and in trust shall be your strength.” And so we drink coffee & tea, read, and worship; return to our suburban neighborhood, rest, repeat – revisiting the rhythm of our Bayou City Sabbath after Sabbath, a world that ought to be, without end, amen.