Clearly Crystal, The Davy Tales

I'm pretty sentimental about this blog for several reasons. I've posted about India on it. It has pictures from some fantastic times in the last few years. It chronicles (albeit sporadically) the newly married season of my life. And now it is time for it to end.

I am no longer a Taylor. my middle initial is definitely not a "c" . . .
Ben and I are on the brink of something entirely new.
I have this very unsophisticated expectation that a new blog will be inspiration for more writing. Soooooo
if you would like to grace this transition with your presence, you can link to the following blog:

http://crystaldavy.blogspot.com/

If you are female, this question is for you. If you are male, this question may seem ridiculous.

Do you remember when you wanted your Mom to French braid your hair while it was wet so that you could wear it curly the next day? It didn't matter that the first 6 inches of your hair retained its normal flatness. All the next day your hair would lay against your neck in perfectly aligned waves. If your Mom was really good, you wouldn't even have that straight scraggly bit at the end where the pony tail ended. I remember noticing when girls would come to school with braid induced waves. (Perhaps as a child of the 80s) I even thought it was fantastic when you could comb and tease your hair until your symmetrical braid waves billowed out in frizzed glory from your face. Braid waves were easy to poof and tease. I remember when chapstick was lipgloss and earned huge points if it came cherry flavored. Beautiful was glitter anywhere on your face.

I teach an after school Spanish club at an elementary school here in Lincoln. We meet for an hour on Tuesday afternoon, and my students remind me of many things. Today I was reminded of how simple it was to feel great about yourself, or at least inexpensive.

I made an Elote tonight. It was a moment of inspiration. I had on my stove freshly boiled corn on the cob and the hole in my stomach was just the right size. In case the genius strikes you, this is how you make an Elote:

1. smother corn on the cob with butter (or lukewarm mayo if you want to be really authentic)
2. sprinkle with salt, repeat
3. cover liberally with Parmesan cheese
4. squeeze fresh lime all over the corn
5. sprinkle with chili powder
6. Eat with gusto and 6 napkins handy

note: this isn't truly authentic unless you are using feed corn instead of sweet corn and are handed your Elote by a grinning dark skinned man behind a garish, wheeled Elote stand. The cob should also be speared with a stick. that is never quite long enough. My goodness this brings back great memories.

I've no aspirations of being recognized by Rachel Ray for this one (Ben will only eat an Elote under duress), but surely there must be a few people north of El Paso who will appreciate this particular medley of flavors. Go ahead, give it a good honest try!

On a completely different topic, I was reading Shaun Groves' blog (shaungroves.com) this evening and his posts about his trip to Ethiopia. There are several videos recently posted that are incredible. A story about the president of Compassion International visiting a refugee camp in Ethiopia 20 some years ago and entering the tent of the "severely malnourished." About 50 women were sitting in the tent, each holding a very small listless child, and he said he felt like that tent was the closest thing to the Kingdom of God that you can get. He asked if he could sit with them while the rest of the group moved on. So he sat in the tent with the flap closed behind him and watched one of the women give him her small baby girl, watched her eyes open slowly and close, watched the baby girl die in his arms. He returned the child to its mother, heard the wailing begin, and vowed that Compassion would enter Ethiopia.

I want those arms to be mine.
Tonight I'm reminded of why I care so badly that God is love and God is just.

"No sonata or tongue or equation could teach us
what we are learning already:
that to be human is to be heavy,
to carry more than one heart inside of you." (for the full poem by Sarah McKinstry-Brown go to http://midverse.com)

I'm sure this won't come as an announcement, as most of you already know, but I'm pregnant. Due in May. I feel the need more than ever to explain as I need to know that when you look at my belly you are thinking "baby" and not "fried food." I'm barely into the second trimester so the bulge still looks very tummy-like. And yet, under my belly-button is a person! A little, jalapeño sized Davy with eyes closed tight and perfect toes curled, untested. Little Davy is already moving around, is already familiar with the rhythmic vibrations of my guitar belly on belly. Besides my heart beat it is the most familiar sensation. I like that thought.

And I think Sarah is right. "To be human is to be heavy, to carry more than one heart inside you." How many hearts are you holding precious, in your chest?

I didn't really get to tell many people. It happened kind of fast. So I'm in Akron, Ohio, waiting for the rest of the band to arrive and choosing this very moment to tell you all that I am in Ohio until tomorrow afternoon for a Caedmon's show. Its been a good while since I've been able to do this, so I'm excited to catch up with people and sing again.

anybody in Ohio going to the festival in Cortland??

In other news. I have completed the first full week of "real teaching" in my young life. I think it went well. I like my kids - they are almost to the point of believing that I may just have a sense of humor. So not going to laugh though. I'm enjoying the consistency of every day and the relationships built with other teachers. One of my coworkers (another Spanish teacher) recently bought a home. So on Friday during lunch we all surprised him with lawn ornaments and house necessities and a huge chocolate cake topped with a red frosting house. I like my job.

and you should all know that Andrew Peterson is in Omaha this Sunday for a concert. if you have obliging wheels, you should go. His website, with the tour information, is http://andrew-peterson.blogspot.com/

I have identified my problem (the first step to recovery). I wait until I have something "good" to say before I write. always. its true with my music and with my sorry excuse for blogging. the result is that I second guess what I am wanting to write and delete it, or just don't even start. this is my problem. and I'm not saying that I am going to fix this necessarily, but tonight is I feel a step in the right direction. what follows is not good, it is not pre-fabricated, it is essentially crap.

just kidding

I'm a new teacher. I got a job teaching part time Spanish at Southwest High School. Viva Silverhawks! my brain is full of new teacher terms like "professional learning communities," "benchmarks," "easy grade pro," and "hola, me llamo Sra. Davy." I have a desk, A PHONE EXTENSION, my own trash can, and a cart that I intend to decorate with a string of jalapeño lights. I am a teacher. and I'm excited, because that is what I am made to be.

I'm home. Got back from India on Friday evening and thought Ben had never looked so good. I thought any minute I would wake up and be 3500 miles in the air, with an Indian business man nodding off beside me, and a Sky Mall magazine in the pocket in front of me. But I didn't! I crawled into soft sheets and fell asleep without the smell of moth balls and friendly geckos to keep me company.

There is a profound shift that happens in my brain somewhere between take-off and the much anticipated shower at home. I begin to think once again of appropriate dental hygiene expectations and laundry. I anticipate again the glory of strong coffee in ceramic mugs. I enjoy for the first time in 3.5 weeks the prospect of bare toes on carpet. Because I let myself. And this time, with a conscience free from comparison, I have been able to relish these things and still ache for Ganesh (the boy on the far right of my userpic) who is fighting to learn English with a 4 year old brain that his culture labels unworthy. . . and Kavita who is losing her childhood on the streets of Mumbai. . . and Jonah who is going to be a doctor and heal his own people in the slums. And while all of this is far too big and hard to fit between my ears, I'm learning to see God in all of it. In the desert and the rain. In the smooth and the broken. In the poverty of my own heart. In the clarity of a blind man's vision of Jesus.

more thoughts to come later, but I really do have a lot of laundry to do.
peace

to all who may be concerned,
I leave for India tomorrow.
I'm so excited that i can't sit still
Mom and I fly out tomorrow at 10 am and arrive in New Delhi early on Thursday.
I'll be home on the 27th of July.
check back later
:)

I believe my friend Carissa is responsible for this. Which makes me love her even more dearly.

this afternoon, some records were dropped off at the house, that included these:







and this one, which was produced the year I was born. . .




you will understand the prevailing sound of these records when I say that Michael's primary instrument is synthesizers. I'm listening to it now and I keep flipping the record because its priceless. Carissa, thank you. I have the sudden urge to tease my bangs. . .

"Ombligo"

come los globos
que flotan en las fiestas
tengo, para no desinflarme
un nudo en el estomago

- Alberto Forcada

English does not do this poem justice, but here is the basic genius

"Belly-button"

Like the balloons
that float in parties
I have, to keep myself from losing air
a knot in my stomach

I'm sitting in the music room at my house. i just heard someone pass by on my sidewalk and say, "hmmm. I like that porch. . ." which makes me smile. we've been trying our darndest to prettify it recently. D'Anjelo and I planted flowers in old white planters. Ben put up the sitting hammock. I've been snipping and talking sweetly to all our pretty blooming things (substitute name of pretty flower i can't remember) - asking them to please perk up and stop dragging their heads in the dirt. I even pulled out the stem-shredding bush trimmer and mauled the bushes out front. i'm glad she thought our porch was pretty. i like it too. its the most enchanting place to sit in the rains.

and in other news, if you haven't already, you should check out andrewosenga.com and download his new EP. its fantastic. and Melissa and I sing on it. kind of.
Andy had this great idea to come out with an EP that was inspired by the community that reads his blog. He asked people to inspire him, send him lyrics, ideas, pictures, anything that could become a song. And he produced this EP with the music that came out of those thoughts and comments. Its so great. Andy talks about it being the way music should be - created in community, inspired by community, collaborated and given. One of the songs is called Swing Wide the Glimmering Gates and Andy used background vocals that people sent in to record the song. Melissa and I contributed. we sound amazing, as do all the other voices we are mixed in with. its a blast and you should check it out. and donate. because its the way music is meant to be.
enough said.

This is my man





This is the bread I made for my man




I'm exceedingly proud of both.
I mean, seriously, just look at them . . .

so i know this won't be accessible for everyone. . . or for more than 5 people in my acquaintance. . .but I've been remembering one of my favorite scenes ever lately. maybe because i heard someone mention fig leaves, or Fred Astaire. Anyway, picture it:

black and white movie. Fred's in his dancing shoes, Ginger is wearing a perilously snug (for the time) riding suit. They find themselves hiding from the rain in the same gazebo:

Fred: You know, you could be a little kinder to me.

Ginger: Why should I? I don't know you from Adam.

Fred: Maybe its the way I'm dressed.


a few scenes later. Ginger is wrapped in ruffles and swishy material. Her dress maker, a self inflated, awkward Italian man, is watching her pack up her things into trunks:

Pompous Italian (in an injured tone): So, if you marry this Adam, this "snake in the grass," what will you wear?

Ginger: fig leaves.


enough said. :)

I want to remember D'Angelo's face forever. He stood paralyzed in front of the spray from my water hose. He had seen his brother pass through the pounding avalanche of drops. He had seen his cousin's face scrunch up with shock and happy. He knew it was going to be great. He was petrified.

Kenyatta asked if we could "get wet" this afternoon. It was 85 degrees outside. I wanted to get wet too. So the neighbor kids across the street, all 5 of them ranging from age 3 years old to 11, changed into "getting wet" clothes and had a romp in my yard. I loved it. You can't see that much happy without entering it. They screamed. They pushed each other into the spray. And D'Angelo braved his drenching rite of passage. He became fearless. But it was hysterical because every now and then he would forget that the water was cold and follow his older cousins straight into the heaviest spout of water. His little 3 year old shoulders would spike up to his ears, his eyes huge in surprise, his mouth open and round. He'd scream and pump his little arms and then laugh because it felt so good! such a great moment.

remember how great it felt to "get wet" ?

so here it is:

About 200 years ago, a Shudra (low caste) man wrote a book which contained a letter written to the Queen of England. This book was not widely circulated as the man's low caste prevented this. The letter's contents are profound, despite the author's misguided perception that the Queen of England was responsible for the existence of missionaries in India.

I was so impacted by this, and I don't really fully understand why, but basically the Shudra man gives the Queen his strategy for the conversion of all of India to Christianity. He told her to send translators from England to interpret for low caste, dalit, and tribal peoples who do not speak Hindi in court. The current situation (not very different today) was that the low caste Indians would approach the judge with their complaints of abuse or extortion and the judge would hear only the upper caste translator's side of the story. They were left unheard and exploited. The Shudra man tells the Queen that if unbiased English men would translate accurately the offenses of the Dalit and low caste peoples, all of India would become Christian.

Isn't that what it means to be an advocate? like Christ interpreting our groaning before the throne. . .
And I wonder what would happen 200 years later if we took that role seriously.

"defend the rights of the afflicted and needy"
"plead for the widow"
"seek justice"
"reprove the ruthless"
"open your mouth"

I went to the Dalit Festival in Norfolk, NE, this last weekend. I ate rice and dahl with my right hand. scraped dried lentils from my fingers. wore a salwar and felt comfortable. it was a great couple of hours - made even greater with the acquisition of a new analogy. New analogies are priceless. I shall strive to do it justice:
after i go to bed. . .

Hello all of you people:
I don't presume that all music lovers within the above radius will read my blog within the next 5 days. Don't worry, Andrew is coming back at the end of March as well.

I can unabashedly promote the music of Andrew Osenga (www.andrewosenga.com) and so unabashadly promote the concert he will be giving this Friday in Lincoln.

Grace Chapel (40th and Sheridan)
7:30pm
Friday, March 9th

And he will be back in Lincoln, at the Chatterbox, on March 29th. So much goodness. BE THERE AND YOUR FUTURE GENERATIONS WILL BLESS YOUR VERY HEAD.

I've been thinking about some random things lately. Have noticed a couple tidbits about life. I will write them here:

1. there are camels in the Lincoln Children's zoo. I wonder if their squishy, heavy, lumbering feet every miss cumbersome sand. I see them when I run on one of the bike trails by my house. Zoo personnel have long ago tucked away the turtles and the horses and parrots and the wicked little jabbering monkeys. The camels seem to be the only furry things left. And so they sit and lay and stand through the rain and wind and snow of Nebraska winter. I think I see bewilderment behind the snow flakes on their eyelashes. . .

2. lessons to be learned from vynl. Ben and I bought each other a record player for our birthdays. we love it. we feel that we have arrived somewhere significant. we now have something else to collect and amass. we sit and talk and listen and fall in love. Its been super. and i've learned something about myself - i like to control my world from my couch, with a remote, whenever I feel the urge to do so. vynl is teaching me to slow down, get up from the couch, lovingly flip the "live in central park" and sit down - knowing that I will need to get up again soon. this is good for me.

3.If other art forms were as forgiving to me as cooking has been, my house would look like a Good Houskeeping showcase. I'm off to concoct something new - continue to pray for my husband's gastric success.

till next time

There's just something about hospitals. Really doesn't matter what country they are in, what they do or do not have for disinfectant, whether the nurses are wearing scrubs or saris. Hospitals make me feel small. Maybe because pain is so big and the reminder that life is paper thin fills all the spaces between people. I know its strange to see my mother fragile. My mother who has capable, deft fingers and quick words. My mother who has held her pain under her clothes for years is sleeping soundly in a hospital gown too big for her. She is still strong - strong now against pain that seems to live outside her now in IV stands, draining away through plastic tubes. And I feel small. Small enough to fit in this space where life is paper thin. Small enough to find my way to her side behind monitors and bags of saline. Small enough to hold her hand and read her Steinbeck and be glad that i'm here.

I finally have a userpic. Its taken me enough time to get one. But I finally found one that I love. I'm in Mexico on my honeymoon. I'm tanned (trust me, its not just sepia . . .). I have an M.M. Kaye novel in my bag. Ben and I had just swam on a beach in Cozumel. Paid a pretty peso for an exceptional glass of something I could only inadequately describe and have never been able to recreate. Mexican Lemonade. Enough said.

I am utterly in love.

Yes, I love this picture. Because despite of my pernicious tendency to forget, I wasn't always in this place called Lincoln. Once upon a long long time ago, I was a wispy white haired orator, a winsome chronicler of adventure, a pale dreamer in a land of warm dark skin. And I dreamed of the day that I would be me. Nowhere on my horizon of canyon and mountain did I see this place - of people with my skin, of long stretches of road without switchbacks, of starches unscorched with chiles. I never imagined this day. Could never have seen me at 23. But if i could have seen this day, it would not have surprised me that i needed to wear sandals in December. I would have understood why my hot chocolate needed cinnamon in it. And the guerita, the blonde mexican made of glass, would have seen exactly what I see when I marvel at my life. I carry her rugged gentleness within me.