Tag Archives: husband

Patty, Buddy, Pike Place: Maundy Thursday in Seattle

Last night, Husband and I went to see the ever-wonderful Patty Griffin and Buddy Miller at the Moore.  On Maundy Thursday, Patty’s haunting covers of gospel standards (from her most recent album Downtown Church) were quenching parts me I didn’t even know had dried up.  She wasn’t necessarily trying to facilitate worship, but for me, that’s what it was…a quality of music that transcends anything I can normally experience during worship, and no one was up there trying to manage how I should be feeling…I was just able to experience it.

Beforehand, we grabbed dinner at a hole-in-the-wall in the International District, played cribbage at Starbucks, and took some pics at the market at dusk.  I’ve been messing with the manual features on our Nikon D60 lately, because it seems sinful to own such a great camera and keep using it as a point and shoot.  No pics of the concert, but a few snapshots of the streets of Seattle on a quiet Thursday night.

Yoga: Be Still and Breathe

Preface:

I love to cook healthy.  I hate to exercise.

The Story:

One of my best buds, whom we’ll call Starbuck (re: the fictional kick-bootay pilot) has been telling me for two years that yoga is about breathing, stillness, listening to your body, and God.  Honestly, until Monday night, I don’t know that I really got it.  I’ve always thought yoga was about exercise, because that’s the context in which I’ve always pursued it: exercise where I don’t have to wind myself and sweat a lot.  I was first introduced to yoga many years after I’d hung up my tutu of 11+ years, and I was like, “Oooh!  Ballet for grown ups!  Awesome!”  But I’ve mostly only done yoga via DVD or at the gym, which hasn’t provided much instruction on the meditative and spiritual elements of yoga.

When I have done yoga, I’ve enjoyed it, but it’s never really stuck, and I’ve never really pursued it with passion.  I would say, it’s like, my exercise of choice whenever I choose exercise, which is rarely.

A miracle of miracles happened the other night, though, when I finally trekked out to Movement Arts, a yoga studio in this beautiful red barn near our small town. Continue reading

Crazy Heart and Worship

Husband and I went to see Crazy Heart the other night.  I have to pause every time I go to utter the movie title, because I always, almost say Crazy Horse, which reminds me of this, which reminds me of traveling 2000 miles on I-90 with Brother in Summer 2004, which has nothing to do with going to see a movie with Husband.  This digressive train of thought has, thus, made it difficult to reflect on Crazy Heart, a movie starring Jeff Bridges and Maggie Gyllenhaal.

It’s Sunday morning, and I’m in between worship team practice and choir practice before Sunday morning service.  As I was getting ready for church, I was reflecting on worship, and somehow the reflection on worship led me to 2 nights ago watching Crazy Heart.

Crazy Heart is about a seemingly washed-up, alcohol-soaked musician/songwriter, who has arrived at 57 fueled by addiction, and without any touch points of  responsibility and intimacy.  His longing for intimacy and his fear of himself leads him to rehab, where he allegedly shapes up and cleans up.

What I’m thinking about this morning is how Bad Blake makes sense of his world through song.  Songwriting is the place where he has a raw and honest voice, one that can cut through the whiskey and emptiness to find significance.

As I prepare to lead worship this morning, I pray that my words would not be empty.  Probably three weeks out of four in any given month, my mind is somewhere else during the bulk of the weekly church service.  My mouth opens and closes singing words on the screen without ever really filtering them through my consciousness.

This morning, the image I’m struck with is Bad Blake, sitting on his porch strumming his guitar after Buddy and Jean leave.  His words are an offering, for him, probably not to God, but to the world, to music, to Jean, or to life.  Regardless, the painful fullness of it feels like a kind of worship…one I desire to emulate, by searching for that place in my own life and drawing it out as an offering.  It’s from that place, the bottom, the place of despair, the deepest recesses of the soul, from which I long to sing this morning.

More With Less

I know I must have been engrossed in what he was saying, because I had already forgotten that my pants zipper had broken in the ladies restroom only moments before.  I had already tuned out the energy I was expending pulling the hem of my camisole over the broken zipper while simultaneously pretending nothing had happened.  The brain cells that were focused on projecting the breeziness the evening required were apparently now fully integrated into my autosomatic nervous system.  My full attention was focused on him, on this first meeting, and the conversation at hand.

Continue reading