In nearly every Brazilian grocery store you’ll find plastic tubs filled with sparkling green fruits, like oversized sugar-studded raw emeralds, and more ominous looking tubs containing pale green liquid in which float large moss-colored teardrops. Figs. Preserved in sugar syrup, the figs are oddly gelatinous, mysteriously creamy and hinting at crunchy at the same time, their flesh infused with cloves and sweetness. Eating one is the taste experience of an afternoon at a French perfumer’s workshop.
For several weeks now, the grocery stores have been offering boxes of fresh figs, most so squashed and mushy, wrapped in plastic film and oozing through the soft cardboard, that I avoided even experimenting. How wrong I was! I finally broke down and bought a carton the other day because this recipe for a warm fig, pesto and mozzarella sandwich wouldn’t leave my food-obsessed brain. Figs were never part of my fruit vocabulary. In Bible stories, yes, where I had some vague idea of them being fuzzy and yellow, or maybe hard green things a bit like olives. But besides the preserved kind, I’d never eaten a real fig. (Well, maybe one fig newton when I was a kid, because the television commercials tricked me…)
I have now eaten half the carton: drenched with honey for breakfast, alone, sandwiched between leaves of fresh basil, mozzarella and olive oil on my cheap 9-grain bread...
I like them. I really like them. It's such an interesting taste combination, with the skin and the flesh and the teeny-tiny seeds. I can't wait to do some more experiments. Send recipes, dear readers, please!
Monday, March 31, 2008
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Physical Therapist, Session 1
So I’m lying on a table in a frigid room with 12 springy needles hanging from various appendages, one of which feels as though it is actually buzzing in the middle of my forehead. I'm thinking about how to explain our philosophy of street ministry to one of our new, enthusiastic volunteers. I'm thinking deep thoughts to avoid seeing the silver needle just within my visual horizon, hanging over my left eyebrow. And I’m thinking to myself that this is probably a waste of time, and money, and that surely this vague tremor running from my toes through my fingertips is just a figment of my imagination. That the physical therapist will come back in 15 minutes and I’ll just have a couple pale pink dots on my skin to record the whole experience.
And I do have the faintest of faint dots, if I look hard enough.
But my shoes fit.
And ladies and gentlemen, fit maybe isn’t the word. They nearly fell off my feet. I swear, my swelling went down so markedly between 3:30 and 5:00 pm today that I had a brief moment in which I wanted to go out and spend a credit card limit on all those high heeled, strapped and otherwise completely unsuitable for a missionary’s life shoes that I’ve been deprived of for so long. (I did try on these fantastic thick 1930’s glamour girl platforms but didn’t let the salesgirl know that the R$300 price tag was oh, about 20% of my SALARY. They stayed in the store. But then there were these gladiator boot things that have been running around in my mind all day…why oh why was I not born in Paris? Rome?) Shoe fetishes aside, I have no other explanation for the pain free way I nearly floated out of that office, except to say, acupuncture works?
The therapeutic massage yielded some humorous exchanges. I wasn’t feeling terrible when I showed up for my first session today, which made me feel somewhat guilty. I only want to go to the doctor when I’m at death’s door, so I guess it’s only natural that I would want my massage to feel like someone is kneading pine cones into sunburned flesh. Somehow, that makes it more worth the money? I didn’t feel much pain at all, but she was pretty freaked out. “Doesn’t this hurt??? Please, tell me when I hit a sore spot….Wow. Are you feeling ANYTHING? Do you get headaches? You should get headaches…oh my. Oh my. My.”
I tried to warn her beforehand but I don’t think she believed me.
We’ve scheduled a couple of sessions to experiment with what kind of treatment will work best for me: some funky French chiropractic-like therapy, acupuncture, massage. There are things I draw the line at: I’m not paying anyone to place seeds in my ears, for example, like the flyer a well-meaning acquaintance dropped off the other day. That goes against pretty much everything my mother taught me. And in this humidity? What if there’s a seed miscount and a few weeks later a bean plant starts sending forth shoots between my piercings? I’ll pass…
And I do have the faintest of faint dots, if I look hard enough.
But my shoes fit.
And ladies and gentlemen, fit maybe isn’t the word. They nearly fell off my feet. I swear, my swelling went down so markedly between 3:30 and 5:00 pm today that I had a brief moment in which I wanted to go out and spend a credit card limit on all those high heeled, strapped and otherwise completely unsuitable for a missionary’s life shoes that I’ve been deprived of for so long. (I did try on these fantastic thick 1930’s glamour girl platforms but didn’t let the salesgirl know that the R$300 price tag was oh, about 20% of my SALARY. They stayed in the store. But then there were these gladiator boot things that have been running around in my mind all day…why oh why was I not born in Paris? Rome?) Shoe fetishes aside, I have no other explanation for the pain free way I nearly floated out of that office, except to say, acupuncture works?
The therapeutic massage yielded some humorous exchanges. I wasn’t feeling terrible when I showed up for my first session today, which made me feel somewhat guilty. I only want to go to the doctor when I’m at death’s door, so I guess it’s only natural that I would want my massage to feel like someone is kneading pine cones into sunburned flesh. Somehow, that makes it more worth the money? I didn’t feel much pain at all, but she was pretty freaked out. “Doesn’t this hurt??? Please, tell me when I hit a sore spot….Wow. Are you feeling ANYTHING? Do you get headaches? You should get headaches…oh my. Oh my. My.”
I tried to warn her beforehand but I don’t think she believed me.
We’ve scheduled a couple of sessions to experiment with what kind of treatment will work best for me: some funky French chiropractic-like therapy, acupuncture, massage. There are things I draw the line at: I’m not paying anyone to place seeds in my ears, for example, like the flyer a well-meaning acquaintance dropped off the other day. That goes against pretty much everything my mother taught me. And in this humidity? What if there’s a seed miscount and a few weeks later a bean plant starts sending forth shoots between my piercings? I’ll pass…
Just a typical Tuesday
Today’s accomplishments:
-Reading a chapter of “The Voyage of the Dawn Treader” by C. S. Lewis in Portuguese while simultaneously impeding the pinching attacks the 4 and 8 year old were launching on each other. We ended up with all five of them lying their heads on my legs (Jenna the human octopus) while I acted out the puking scenes and high-pitched rat voices and the bashing of the waves…
-After listening to a tirade about how so-and-so was doing terribly in school and needed to study more because he wasn’t even copying the homework at school, I did a very rudimentary eye exam on the poor kid. He sits much, much too close to the television, so that should have been a dead giveaway for everyone. That’s how MY extreme nearsightedness was discovered. (One of my sisters was less fortunate. When she finally received glasses, she wanted to know what all those little things in the trees were. Poor thing had never seen leaves.) So his dad took him to the hospital today, to rule out dengue as he was all feverish*, and to get a referral for an eye doctor. I'm betting a batch of brownies that he needs glasses...and that his academics will improve.
*Side note: Both adult women at the home were positive that his fever was induced by post-Easter chocolate eating. One informed me that he had a liver infection from eating too much. I maintain this is bunk, yet another absurdity like “eating ice-cream at the beach will put your body into shock” or “avocados and milk are okay for a shake, but if you mix mangos and milk you will DIE.” Anyone care to venture a comment on the topic? Chocolate causes liver infections? Please, restore my faith in my rudimentary medical knowledge!
-I let the 6 year old do my hair and rub lipgloss into my eyelids. There should be some kind of sainthood for sitting through this, or at least a really fat paycheck. On a high note, this girl has both the ego and the skill to work high fashion…
-Worked on reading, syllables and general 2nd grade Portuguese with one of the boys. He's not too bad, actually, but he's L.A.Z.Y. Then again, he's a boy. He wants to play with his fighter dolls and have them act out vicious WWF moves, not read pastel purple** words like butterfly and onion while determining if they have one, two or poly-syllabic shape.
(**What came before xerox? That's the copy method of choice at elementary schools here. It uses alcohol somehow...)
And there were stops at:
-the bank
-the post office
-bread store
-fruit store
-various stores to buy hair creme, a 2008 Rio streets guide as my old one is missing several important pages and is about 3 years out of date, a pair of badly-needed-not-fraying-at-the-seams jeans and a winter shirt (I seem to have left them all in Indiana.)
-the doctor with my anemic lab reports. Yes, I'll eat more beans and red meat. Anyone want to make donations for an Outback night???
-the physical therapist (separate post)
Also, a nap on the bus.
Like I said. Average Tuesday.
-Reading a chapter of “The Voyage of the Dawn Treader” by C. S. Lewis in Portuguese while simultaneously impeding the pinching attacks the 4 and 8 year old were launching on each other. We ended up with all five of them lying their heads on my legs (Jenna the human octopus) while I acted out the puking scenes and high-pitched rat voices and the bashing of the waves…
-After listening to a tirade about how so-and-so was doing terribly in school and needed to study more because he wasn’t even copying the homework at school, I did a very rudimentary eye exam on the poor kid. He sits much, much too close to the television, so that should have been a dead giveaway for everyone. That’s how MY extreme nearsightedness was discovered. (One of my sisters was less fortunate. When she finally received glasses, she wanted to know what all those little things in the trees were. Poor thing had never seen leaves.) So his dad took him to the hospital today, to rule out dengue as he was all feverish*, and to get a referral for an eye doctor. I'm betting a batch of brownies that he needs glasses...and that his academics will improve.
*Side note: Both adult women at the home were positive that his fever was induced by post-Easter chocolate eating. One informed me that he had a liver infection from eating too much. I maintain this is bunk, yet another absurdity like “eating ice-cream at the beach will put your body into shock” or “avocados and milk are okay for a shake, but if you mix mangos and milk you will DIE.” Anyone care to venture a comment on the topic? Chocolate causes liver infections? Please, restore my faith in my rudimentary medical knowledge!
-I let the 6 year old do my hair and rub lipgloss into my eyelids. There should be some kind of sainthood for sitting through this, or at least a really fat paycheck. On a high note, this girl has both the ego and the skill to work high fashion…
-Worked on reading, syllables and general 2nd grade Portuguese with one of the boys. He's not too bad, actually, but he's L.A.Z.Y. Then again, he's a boy. He wants to play with his fighter dolls and have them act out vicious WWF moves, not read pastel purple** words like butterfly and onion while determining if they have one, two or poly-syllabic shape.
(**What came before xerox? That's the copy method of choice at elementary schools here. It uses alcohol somehow...)
And there were stops at:
-the bank
-the post office
-bread store
-fruit store
-various stores to buy hair creme, a 2008 Rio streets guide as my old one is missing several important pages and is about 3 years out of date, a pair of badly-needed-not-fraying-at-the-seams jeans and a winter shirt (I seem to have left them all in Indiana.)
-the doctor with my anemic lab reports. Yes, I'll eat more beans and red meat. Anyone want to make donations for an Outback night???
-the physical therapist (separate post)
Also, a nap on the bus.
Like I said. Average Tuesday.
Sunday, March 16, 2008
Out of the closet...into the kitchen
Every week the Veja Rio magazine has a list of featured restaurants listed by speciality: Peruvian, Italian, French, Contemporary. And every time this magazine makes it to my hands, I find myself ravishing it cover to cover. Guiltily. Like a teenage boy with a...oh. Let's not go there. Suffice to say that my interest in food writing is disturbingly addicting. This is partly due to the lack of sufficient funds and adventurous friends so necessary for a visit to these places of culinary delight, where lamb rests on a cloud of mint rice and haddock swims in sauces of “beurre noir” brought nearly flaming to the table. Buffets that cost more per kilo than the jeans I am currently wearing are not really within my budget, but oh, how I wish they were!
Reading this magazine brings me back to my adolescent years, when I would borrow my father’s Wall Street Journal, weekend edition, and scurry off to my room to read the wine guide. I’d never drunk wine, didn’t know anyone who did. But I was fascinated by the descriptions, by the words that made tastes come alive in my head, flavors I’d never imagined or experienced but which left me reeling when I stepped away from the newsprint.
And that’s perhaps why this poor post-graduate student/missionary/starving artist is a closet foodie. I read food blogs, cover to cover my cookbooks and am a fan (but THIS is inherited from my father) of the occasional television chef. And in the spirit of full disclosure, I have decided to share a few of my favorite food links and/or books and introduce the latest addition to the blog: an attempted weekly culinary posting.
Because this home is woefully short on basic cookbooks: Recipezaar
Bread Alone. The bible for anyone who dreams of taking a flight to France just to eat a real baguette. This book is somewhere in Indiana (the Souphouse, perhaps?), with flour and yeast clogging the pages. It was an invaluable teacher, leading me into the mysteries of artisan yeast bread. I once made and froze 20 loaves for a graduation party using the basic recipe given in this book. I’m not sure I graduated much farther than basic wheat bread, but that was more out of unadulterated satisfaction…
Chocolate. And Zucchini. And a recipe for Nutella ice cream. Will I be excommunicated for admitting that for a lifetime supply of said sorvete I would seriously consider never having sex, eating meat or listening to U2 until the Second Coming? I wish this blogger would be my friend. And send me presents every month. I'd reciprocate. Promise!
Spirituality, barbeque sauce and the best salsa recipe I have yet found. Oh, and the writing is excellent. Why, oh why can’t my mother find this book in the innards of our home and express it to Brazil, where it clearly belongs?
Reading this magazine brings me back to my adolescent years, when I would borrow my father’s Wall Street Journal, weekend edition, and scurry off to my room to read the wine guide. I’d never drunk wine, didn’t know anyone who did. But I was fascinated by the descriptions, by the words that made tastes come alive in my head, flavors I’d never imagined or experienced but which left me reeling when I stepped away from the newsprint.
And that’s perhaps why this poor post-graduate student/missionary/starving artist is a closet foodie. I read food blogs, cover to cover my cookbooks and am a fan (but THIS is inherited from my father) of the occasional television chef. And in the spirit of full disclosure, I have decided to share a few of my favorite food links and/or books and introduce the latest addition to the blog: an attempted weekly culinary posting.
Because this home is woefully short on basic cookbooks: Recipezaar
Bread Alone. The bible for anyone who dreams of taking a flight to France just to eat a real baguette. This book is somewhere in Indiana (the Souphouse, perhaps?), with flour and yeast clogging the pages. It was an invaluable teacher, leading me into the mysteries of artisan yeast bread. I once made and froze 20 loaves for a graduation party using the basic recipe given in this book. I’m not sure I graduated much farther than basic wheat bread, but that was more out of unadulterated satisfaction…
Chocolate. And Zucchini. And a recipe for Nutella ice cream. Will I be excommunicated for admitting that for a lifetime supply of said sorvete I would seriously consider never having sex, eating meat or listening to U2 until the Second Coming? I wish this blogger would be my friend. And send me presents every month. I'd reciprocate. Promise!
Spirituality, barbeque sauce and the best salsa recipe I have yet found. Oh, and the writing is excellent. Why, oh why can’t my mother find this book in the innards of our home and express it to Brazil, where it clearly belongs?
Sunday Scribblings: Smorgasbord
Smorgasbord.
Brings back memories of Sunday morning fried biscuits with apple butter. Before a fire destroyed the historic building and the murals, there was a great buffet restaurant in downtown Spencer, where I grew up. It took me years to learn house to pronounce the name. Perhaps it would have helped to know the Swedish roots of "smorgasbord." All I knew was that they served an impressive variety of breakfast food, which has been, still is and ever will be my favorite comfort food. Waffles, sausage links, bacon, scrambled eggs with cheese...those unforgettable fried biscuits dripping with thick, cinnamony apple butter. Biscuits and gravy that sold out as soon as the truckers and the church crowd walked in. We used to go as a family on Sunday mornings after church, sit in the back room (non-smoking) with the big blue mural and I would eat my sausage while imagining what the painter must have daydreamed about...
I know what I will dream about tonight. Scrapple and plate-sized pancakes, a big crackled red plastic cup filled with chocolate milk, my Mom's iron-skillet eggs. And waking up to more rain, I'll slip into my Havaianas and trudge down to the bakery to try to make a Brazilian breakfast equivalent before church...but it won't fill that hole in my stomach. Some recipes need more than just ingredients.
Anyone know where I can find extract of Mom's kitchen?
Brings back memories of Sunday morning fried biscuits with apple butter. Before a fire destroyed the historic building and the murals, there was a great buffet restaurant in downtown Spencer, where I grew up. It took me years to learn house to pronounce the name. Perhaps it would have helped to know the Swedish roots of "smorgasbord." All I knew was that they served an impressive variety of breakfast food, which has been, still is and ever will be my favorite comfort food. Waffles, sausage links, bacon, scrambled eggs with cheese...those unforgettable fried biscuits dripping with thick, cinnamony apple butter. Biscuits and gravy that sold out as soon as the truckers and the church crowd walked in. We used to go as a family on Sunday mornings after church, sit in the back room (non-smoking) with the big blue mural and I would eat my sausage while imagining what the painter must have daydreamed about...
I know what I will dream about tonight. Scrapple and plate-sized pancakes, a big crackled red plastic cup filled with chocolate milk, my Mom's iron-skillet eggs. And waking up to more rain, I'll slip into my Havaianas and trudge down to the bakery to try to make a Brazilian breakfast equivalent before church...but it won't fill that hole in my stomach. Some recipes need more than just ingredients.
Anyone know where I can find extract of Mom's kitchen?
Two straight days of rain
I am a bit overwhelmed by the things I have on my plate.
Most stressful at the moment? Post-graduate work in Portugese. This was a good idea, really. I just didn't expect that I'd end up the leader in most of my group work...or that I'd be doing such levels of research in a foreign language. To be sure, great stuff for a resume...but today, that isn't too inspiring.
Rain isn't the best remedy for arthritis either. Or homesickness. (I actually counted the number of months since I've seen my family today. Clear case of saudades.) But thankfully, even though the cell phone may not be ringing, I do have people I can count on. Friends make all the difference between just getting by and walking confidently through the eye of the storm. My friend R- took one look at me and raised his eyebrows in that "What's-wrong-with-you-and-why-haven't-you-talked-to-me-about-it-yet?" look, and stood in the rain with me, our umbrellas making a drippy tent, to give me a hug and let me cry. And N- took me to her home for salty ravioli and coconut cookies. Food and hug therapy. Nothin' better.
Most stressful at the moment? Post-graduate work in Portugese. This was a good idea, really. I just didn't expect that I'd end up the leader in most of my group work...or that I'd be doing such levels of research in a foreign language. To be sure, great stuff for a resume...but today, that isn't too inspiring.
Rain isn't the best remedy for arthritis either. Or homesickness. (I actually counted the number of months since I've seen my family today. Clear case of saudades.) But thankfully, even though the cell phone may not be ringing, I do have people I can count on. Friends make all the difference between just getting by and walking confidently through the eye of the storm. My friend R- took one look at me and raised his eyebrows in that "What's-wrong-with-you-and-why-haven't-you-talked-to-me-about-it-yet?" look, and stood in the rain with me, our umbrellas making a drippy tent, to give me a hug and let me cry. And N- took me to her home for salty ravioli and coconut cookies. Food and hug therapy. Nothin' better.
Friday, March 14, 2008
Cold front
A Midwest-style storm blew in yesterday, pummeling the city. Earlier in the evening, I had accepted a friend's offer to attend a birthday party in Leblon and forgot to grab my umbrella. Five minutes into the ride and the rain started coming down...we must have stayed in the car a good half an hour in front of the restaurant just waiting for the rain to subside enough not to completely soak us. I really liked this bar. A Starbucks kind of atmosphere, with couches and poufs to sit on, one rich orange wall, black and white photography and books everywhere, and a textured wall made of lots of stone blocks splashed at jaunty angles; a bit like the Brazilian sidewalks, uneven and organic. The juice was good too. My caffeine and alcohol days were numbered a long time ago...too bad, because I ended up paying more than the people buying beers.
A fifty-some year old woman leaned over towards me, gesturing to my green, frothy drink:
- What kind of exotic cocktail is that?
I had to smile as I whispered, as if I was divulging a lurid secret:
It's dangerous. Mint and...pineapple juice.
Now that the rain has slowed to a kind of Irish drizzle, I'm enjoying the cold but not feeling particularly cheery. Last night I had a surge of energy and stayed up until 2 am researching the Brazilian pasta industry, looking at general consumption figures and competitors' websites for the group project we have to present at the end of the year. Fascinating stuff, I'm sure, for someone. I finally tired and went to bed...waking up at 10:00 in the morning to a phone call that jolted me out of a dream involving a ski slope/miniature golf range in the nearby mall and a frantic search for the women's bathroom, which was taken over by a group of frat boys drinking amarula out of jam jars...it was a good thing I woke up. But I'm still really, really tired and it doesn't have anything to do with sleep or the lack of it. I don't have dengue. If my left arm wasn't purple from a nurse's incompetency at hitting the vein, I'd go back and get a mono test. But first, I have to figure out how to ask for it in Portuguese.
Maybe I won't be going to class tonight.
A fifty-some year old woman leaned over towards me, gesturing to my green, frothy drink:
- What kind of exotic cocktail is that?
I had to smile as I whispered, as if I was divulging a lurid secret:
It's dangerous. Mint and...pineapple juice.
Now that the rain has slowed to a kind of Irish drizzle, I'm enjoying the cold but not feeling particularly cheery. Last night I had a surge of energy and stayed up until 2 am researching the Brazilian pasta industry, looking at general consumption figures and competitors' websites for the group project we have to present at the end of the year. Fascinating stuff, I'm sure, for someone. I finally tired and went to bed...waking up at 10:00 in the morning to a phone call that jolted me out of a dream involving a ski slope/miniature golf range in the nearby mall and a frantic search for the women's bathroom, which was taken over by a group of frat boys drinking amarula out of jam jars...it was a good thing I woke up. But I'm still really, really tired and it doesn't have anything to do with sleep or the lack of it. I don't have dengue. If my left arm wasn't purple from a nurse's incompetency at hitting the vein, I'd go back and get a mono test. But first, I have to figure out how to ask for it in Portuguese.
Maybe I won't be going to class tonight.
Saturday, March 08, 2008
Blog Series: Introduction
I've decided to start writing more than just off-the-cuff foreign culture pieces and updates about life and ministry here in Rio de Janeiro. And something a bit more thematic than the wonderful Sunday Scribblings. So I've decided to do a short blog series of arts and the Christian culture. I'd like to have reader input on the topics, because I'm going to be writing as an American living in Brazil and cultural issues might be different from place to place. I'm curious to see what other people's experiences have been, regardless of religious affiliation.
To begin:
The other day, I was standing in line at a beauty supplies store when I was privileged to hear an argument going on among the employees. Like all good Brazilian stores, they had a large speaker set up near the sidewalk, where they pumped out music and a young man with a microphone calling out occasional comments about promotions while inviting customers into the store. The reason for the argument was that someone had put on some early 90's English-language music on the sound system. And it wasn't Christian music. Apparently, the owners of the store prefer to have only Christian songs played. Most of the employees, however, were truly annoyed. It must not have been the first time, because the complaints were verbal and loud. Comments like,
-It's in English; who understands the words anyway?
-I can't TAKE more Christian music...ALL DAY LONG...
-...forcing us to listen to this...can't there be a little something for everyone?
-Come on, can't there be options?
-Well, I TRY to mix it up, but the owners don't like it, and there's ALWAYS someone who complains...either it's too secular or it's too Christian, I just can't please EVERYONE...
And so forth.
I was standing there listening, smiling, because I empathized with the employees. And the customers. I can guess why the shop owners play Christian music. It's probably not to please their clientele. It's probably because they feel this is an acceptable way to witness to said clientele without actually having to get out and talk to each person individually about God's wonderful plan for the world. But it didn't look to me like that plan was working. It was just turning a lot of people off.
That experience reminded me of certain ideas we argued about a lot in college (where I was a music major). One was the idea that the arts exist to serve a higher purpose than art itself. A good song isn't good because it's good. A good song is good because it brings people to Jesus. Which means that classical music is okay, because there aren't "secular" words to corrupt people, but "Jesus loves me," while technically inferior, is better because it serves a purpose. Art as tool, means, and not as an end in itself.
This kind of thinking tends to make its followers less than expansive in their choice of artistic fare. Shrinks horizons. Great example? I was told this week that our volunteers were with some friends and when asked what Brazilian music they knew, offered up Gilberto Gil and Caetano Veloso. The friends were shocked. And immediately offered to introduce the volunteers to REAL Brazilian music. Which, of course, was exclusively Christian (and mostly produced in the last 10 years).
This is my 2 minute translation of two randomly Googled songs by a "secular" and a "Christian" artist. Please tell me what YOU think...about it all.
If I want to talk with God
Gilberto Gil
1980
If I want to talk with God
I have to be alone
I have to turn off the lights
I have to silence (my) voice
I have to find peace
I have to loosen the knots
on (my) shoes, of (my) tie,
of desires, of fears
I have to forget the date
I have to lose the bill
Have to have empty hands
Soul and body naked
if I want to talk with God
I have to accept the pain
I have to eat the bread
the devil kneaded
Have to become a dog
Lick the ground
of sumptuous palaces, of castles
of my dreams
I have to see myself saddened
I have to find myself hideous
And in spite of a terrible size
Bring joy to my heart
If I want to speak with God
I have to put myself to adventure
I have to scale the heavens
without ropes to secure
I have to say goodbye forever
Turn my back, walk on
Decided, on the road
Which at the end, will end in nothing
nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing (3x)
of what I expected to find.
Prophet's Prayer
Fernanda Brum, Emerson Pinheiro e Marcus Salles
I give up my dreams
I give up my life
I will spend myself completly
to realize your desires.
I don't want anything in exchange
let me stay at your feet
surrounded by many
loved by few
that's how I feel
let me stay here.
Because I know that God is
always protecting me
Will cease my cry
as the morning comes
I know that nothing will
keep me away from you
Lion and Lamb
my all, my love.
To begin:
The other day, I was standing in line at a beauty supplies store when I was privileged to hear an argument going on among the employees. Like all good Brazilian stores, they had a large speaker set up near the sidewalk, where they pumped out music and a young man with a microphone calling out occasional comments about promotions while inviting customers into the store. The reason for the argument was that someone had put on some early 90's English-language music on the sound system. And it wasn't Christian music. Apparently, the owners of the store prefer to have only Christian songs played. Most of the employees, however, were truly annoyed. It must not have been the first time, because the complaints were verbal and loud. Comments like,
-It's in English; who understands the words anyway?
-I can't TAKE more Christian music...ALL DAY LONG...
-...forcing us to listen to this...can't there be a little something for everyone?
-Come on, can't there be options?
-Well, I TRY to mix it up, but the owners don't like it, and there's ALWAYS someone who complains...either it's too secular or it's too Christian, I just can't please EVERYONE...
And so forth.
I was standing there listening, smiling, because I empathized with the employees. And the customers. I can guess why the shop owners play Christian music. It's probably not to please their clientele. It's probably because they feel this is an acceptable way to witness to said clientele without actually having to get out and talk to each person individually about God's wonderful plan for the world. But it didn't look to me like that plan was working. It was just turning a lot of people off.
That experience reminded me of certain ideas we argued about a lot in college (where I was a music major). One was the idea that the arts exist to serve a higher purpose than art itself. A good song isn't good because it's good. A good song is good because it brings people to Jesus. Which means that classical music is okay, because there aren't "secular" words to corrupt people, but "Jesus loves me," while technically inferior, is better because it serves a purpose. Art as tool, means, and not as an end in itself.
This kind of thinking tends to make its followers less than expansive in their choice of artistic fare. Shrinks horizons. Great example? I was told this week that our volunteers were with some friends and when asked what Brazilian music they knew, offered up Gilberto Gil and Caetano Veloso. The friends were shocked. And immediately offered to introduce the volunteers to REAL Brazilian music. Which, of course, was exclusively Christian (and mostly produced in the last 10 years).
This is my 2 minute translation of two randomly Googled songs by a "secular" and a "Christian" artist. Please tell me what YOU think...about it all.
If I want to talk with God
Gilberto Gil
1980
If I want to talk with God
I have to be alone
I have to turn off the lights
I have to silence (my) voice
I have to find peace
I have to loosen the knots
on (my) shoes, of (my) tie,
of desires, of fears
I have to forget the date
I have to lose the bill
Have to have empty hands
Soul and body naked
if I want to talk with God
I have to accept the pain
I have to eat the bread
the devil kneaded
Have to become a dog
Lick the ground
of sumptuous palaces, of castles
of my dreams
I have to see myself saddened
I have to find myself hideous
And in spite of a terrible size
Bring joy to my heart
If I want to speak with God
I have to put myself to adventure
I have to scale the heavens
without ropes to secure
I have to say goodbye forever
Turn my back, walk on
Decided, on the road
Which at the end, will end in nothing
nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing (3x)
of what I expected to find.
Prophet's Prayer
Fernanda Brum, Emerson Pinheiro e Marcus Salles
I give up my dreams
I give up my life
I will spend myself completly
to realize your desires.
I don't want anything in exchange
let me stay at your feet
surrounded by many
loved by few
that's how I feel
let me stay here.
Because I know that God is
always protecting me
Will cease my cry
as the morning comes
I know that nothing will
keep me away from you
Lion and Lamb
my all, my love.
Friday, March 07, 2008
Sunday Scribblings: Experiment (al)
These haven't been the most pleasant weeks. Late Brazilian summer is bringing really hot temperatures and my house has sun exposure from sunup to sundown. Baking heat. I think I could gently roast a turkey in my living room from 1 to 5 pm if I tried...
I've been waking up with that syndrome they call morning stiffness. I prefer to think of it as one step prior to rigor mortis. I fought with myself this morning for two hours, trying to figure out a good reason to get out of bed, to attempt to wiggle my toes, trying very hard to not have to get up and penguin waddle to the bathroom. These things attached to my legs are puffy replicas of actual human feet. At 8 am, I'm not sure they actually qualify.
My morning pages are fun too, as they tend to be typed with the left hand and one finger of my right, depending on how swollen my wrist has decided to be...
So I've kind of been feeling sorry for myself, lately. I dreamed about climbing last night and woke up really sad, because that's something totally out of my league now. I ached to be on a wall, tasted chalk dust on my tongue, felt the scratch of the holds under my hands...it stayed with me the whole day. They say that people with rheumatoid arthritis have difficulty just working a regular job after 10 or 20 years of the disease. I'm at 8 years. I'm hoping that I'm not on the low end of that scale. I don't think I'm close yet. But these last few weeks, I have definitely seen difficulties increase. I have a sink full of dishes because I couldn't face washing them (and was afraid I'd drop the plates, which happens much too often). They have been sitting there for two days. My laundry? Just got washed last week, because a kind friend let me use her washer and dryer. Someone spilled beer on my pants today; I'm trying to figure out how I'm going to wash my clothes. I guess I'll have to call in a favor from the neighbors.
I'm starting to kind of wish I had a roommate. Or personal assistant. (Or let's be honest: servant?) Because some days, this is all too much for me. A 2 liter of water too heavy. Folding clothes and putting them away takes a half an hour. Washing laundry occasion to contemplate the virtues of amputation...just kidding. Let's not even talk about food. Between my schedule and my energy levels...bananas and chocolate milk are STILL my best friends. Even a self-pitying arthritic can manage to swirl a spoon.
I've experimented lots of "cures" in these eight years:
Natural medicine. (Proof of my mother's love for me--when the regular medicines weren't working, my normally very conservative mother took me to a big yellow house in Bloomington where a well-meaning but totally crackpot lady put bottles of pills in my hands and pushed on my arms, then loaded us up with $200 worth of rancid tasting Chinese supplements, which I managed to swallow for two months before realizing that their biggest accomplishment was giving me herbal belches.)
Atrociously expensive medications which I had to inject twice a week into fatty areas. (Much harder to do than it sounds; I still remember watching the factory packed needles bounce off my belly as they were inferiorly sharpened...)
Steroids. (Moon face.)
Prayer chains. (Which make me feel super guilty and faith-less after no miraculous healing takes place. I don't let people bully me into them anymore. A thorn in the flesh sometimes just has to be borne.)
Special diets. (Vegetarian. One or two weeks of veganism. Starvation. That one works, but there's no way to keep it up...a day of fasting=one day of feeling wonderful, except for the nagging stomach and the desire to attack anything that even smells like calories! Super-low-calorie diets didn't work either--measuring almonds isn't worth it.)
I guess I'll experiment forever. Some of the experiments have proved helpful, if not miraculous. Pork, for instance, does a bitter number on me. So bacon and sausage are very, very rare occurrences. Mostly for McDonald's Bacon Egg and Cheese breakfast biscuits, which are my favorite home-from-the-airport food.
I intend to keep on experimenting, if for no other reason than to not let the "oh, woe is me" crowd of grumpy thoughts that run around like gerbils on an exercise wheel get in the way of my real life. Even if that means getting up swollen to go walk three kilometers in the air-conditioned gym. Or if that means taking dance lessons regardless of the fact that I can't do all the moves. And it doesn't have to be just about drugs and exercise. Experimentation goes a long way. It's about trying new things and not being afraid to fail...I've become so much more courageous SINCE arthritis and not the other way around. It's about "taking every thought captive." It's about trying, for once, to actually take my own advice. Take, for instance, the gerbils in my mind. I could experiment with putting them in permanent hibernation. I could ask for help once in a while. Maybe even admit that this simple lifestyle is great, but I can't do laundry by hand anymore. And that's nothing to be ashamed about.
Nor is announcing my weakness over the blogwaves...because really? Who is strong 100% of the time? And who wants to be?
I've been waking up with that syndrome they call morning stiffness. I prefer to think of it as one step prior to rigor mortis. I fought with myself this morning for two hours, trying to figure out a good reason to get out of bed, to attempt to wiggle my toes, trying very hard to not have to get up and penguin waddle to the bathroom. These things attached to my legs are puffy replicas of actual human feet. At 8 am, I'm not sure they actually qualify.
My morning pages are fun too, as they tend to be typed with the left hand and one finger of my right, depending on how swollen my wrist has decided to be...
So I've kind of been feeling sorry for myself, lately. I dreamed about climbing last night and woke up really sad, because that's something totally out of my league now. I ached to be on a wall, tasted chalk dust on my tongue, felt the scratch of the holds under my hands...it stayed with me the whole day. They say that people with rheumatoid arthritis have difficulty just working a regular job after 10 or 20 years of the disease. I'm at 8 years. I'm hoping that I'm not on the low end of that scale. I don't think I'm close yet. But these last few weeks, I have definitely seen difficulties increase. I have a sink full of dishes because I couldn't face washing them (and was afraid I'd drop the plates, which happens much too often). They have been sitting there for two days. My laundry? Just got washed last week, because a kind friend let me use her washer and dryer. Someone spilled beer on my pants today; I'm trying to figure out how I'm going to wash my clothes. I guess I'll have to call in a favor from the neighbors.
I'm starting to kind of wish I had a roommate. Or personal assistant. (Or let's be honest: servant?) Because some days, this is all too much for me. A 2 liter of water too heavy. Folding clothes and putting them away takes a half an hour. Washing laundry occasion to contemplate the virtues of amputation...just kidding. Let's not even talk about food. Between my schedule and my energy levels...bananas and chocolate milk are STILL my best friends. Even a self-pitying arthritic can manage to swirl a spoon.
I've experimented lots of "cures" in these eight years:
Natural medicine. (Proof of my mother's love for me--when the regular medicines weren't working, my normally very conservative mother took me to a big yellow house in Bloomington where a well-meaning but totally crackpot lady put bottles of pills in my hands and pushed on my arms, then loaded us up with $200 worth of rancid tasting Chinese supplements, which I managed to swallow for two months before realizing that their biggest accomplishment was giving me herbal belches.)
Atrociously expensive medications which I had to inject twice a week into fatty areas. (Much harder to do than it sounds; I still remember watching the factory packed needles bounce off my belly as they were inferiorly sharpened...)
Steroids. (Moon face.)
Prayer chains. (Which make me feel super guilty and faith-less after no miraculous healing takes place. I don't let people bully me into them anymore. A thorn in the flesh sometimes just has to be borne.)
Special diets. (Vegetarian. One or two weeks of veganism. Starvation. That one works, but there's no way to keep it up...a day of fasting=one day of feeling wonderful, except for the nagging stomach and the desire to attack anything that even smells like calories! Super-low-calorie diets didn't work either--measuring almonds isn't worth it.)
I guess I'll experiment forever. Some of the experiments have proved helpful, if not miraculous. Pork, for instance, does a bitter number on me. So bacon and sausage are very, very rare occurrences. Mostly for McDonald's Bacon Egg and Cheese breakfast biscuits, which are my favorite home-from-the-airport food.
I intend to keep on experimenting, if for no other reason than to not let the "oh, woe is me" crowd of grumpy thoughts that run around like gerbils on an exercise wheel get in the way of my real life. Even if that means getting up swollen to go walk three kilometers in the air-conditioned gym. Or if that means taking dance lessons regardless of the fact that I can't do all the moves. And it doesn't have to be just about drugs and exercise. Experimentation goes a long way. It's about trying new things and not being afraid to fail...I've become so much more courageous SINCE arthritis and not the other way around. It's about "taking every thought captive." It's about trying, for once, to actually take my own advice. Take, for instance, the gerbils in my mind. I could experiment with putting them in permanent hibernation. I could ask for help once in a while. Maybe even admit that this simple lifestyle is great, but I can't do laundry by hand anymore. And that's nothing to be ashamed about.
Nor is announcing my weakness over the blogwaves...because really? Who is strong 100% of the time? And who wants to be?
27
Odd years make me happy. As do crepes. Filled with Nutella. And a huge table full of friends...and happy birthday shouted out by a classroom full of adorable children.
Thanks for a good birthday everyone!!!!
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