Archive for category Life
Deleted Scene: The Scar
Posted by Lisa Ohlen Harris in Cross Post, Life, Writing on March 8, 2010
Lisa Ohlen Harris provides us with a short passage that didn’t make it into her forthcoming book Through the Veil. (This post first appeared on her website LisaOhlenHarris.com.)
I stayed home with the baby that night. I must have fallen asleep on the sofa, because when I woke about midnight, Todd wasn’t home yet. The gathering at the Manning’s house must have run late, I thought.
While I was putting on pajamas and brushing my teeth, Todd was helping Tim out of the wrecked taxi. A couple of Arab shabab stopped at the scene of the accident to ask if they could help; they took Tim to the emergency room to have his head sewn shut.
When they left the Manning’s house, the guys had waved down a taxi. Tim sat in the front seat, because his Arabic was better than Todd’s. There was a seat belt on the passenger’s side, Tim remembered later, but it was grimy and dusty. He thought briefly that he should put it on anyway, but pushed the thought away knowing that the driver would interpret this as an insult to his driving—and a lack of trust in the will of God.
Todd woke me up when he finally got home, early in the morning. It was still dark, but I remember hearing the birds sing outside our bedroom window. When I turned on a lamp, I saw blood all over Todd’s sandals and a deep gash between his toes, almost splitting his foot for an inch or so. It should have been sutured, but he hadn’t noticed his own injury while he was at the hospital with Tim. Todd’s wound took weeks to heal, and he still has the scar. It’s easy to hide under socks and shoes.
We didn’t see Tim over the weekend, and when he came to the language school that Monday he had a big piece of gauze taped over the wound. When his forehead healed enough he took gauze off, but it wasn’t until the sutures were removed that we all saw the jagged crescent.
———-
So there’s the “deleted scene.” The guys were in a taxi crash. Tim hurt his head and ended up with a crescent-shaped scar. It’s kinda interesting, but so what? I mean, really, why would this story matter to anyone but our family and Tim’s? I might tell about the accident when we get the old gang together, sure, but that doesn’t mean it’s book-worthy.
As I assembled my chapters for Through the Veil, I wanted each memory, each chapter to say something more than, “This happened then that happened, now isn’t the Middle East exotic?”
Ultimately, the taxi accident memory just didn’t make the cut.
***
Lisa Ohlen Harris is Relief’s Creative Nonfiction editor. Her Middle East memoir, Through the Veil, will be published by Canon Press in 2010. Lisa’s essays have appeared in journals like River Teeth, Arts & Letters, and The Laurel Review, and have received special mention in Pushcart Prize XXXIII: Best of the Small Presses (2009) and in Best American Spiritual Writing (2008 and 2010). Lisa enjoys mentoring and editing the work of emerging writers through her critique service.
Faith, Love, Acceptance: All Summed Up in a Yogurt Shop
Posted by Travis Griffith in Faith, General, Life on February 28, 2010
Travis Griffith shares a brief moment in time that, in his opinion, sums up all that is right with humanity. Does it? We’d love to hear your stories too!
Sometimes conversations about faith get so bogged down in philosophy that we forget to look at the human aspect.
We can discuss the relativity of truth and whether or not Jesus is a triune God until we throw up, then wonder if we even got anywhere.
Religious commentary and mock speeches for the pope are interesting and worthy of conversation, but what about the little moments that happen in everyday life that so often go overlooked? Sometimes that’s where the answers, or at least the most valuable lessons, lie.
One of those moments happened last Tuesday when I was at a small, locally-owned frozen yogurt shop with my wife, sister-in-law and two kids. The shop is in a university district and frequented by college kids (especially on Tuesday nights… $1.69 mediums!).
On this night, among the throngs of nubile college co-eds, two of the oldest people I’d ever seen were there; sitting a few tables away from us. This couple had to be close to celebrating their hundredth wedding anniversary. The man, wearing a matching tweed hat and jacket, was hunched over and moving slowly. The woman was seemingly frozen in mid-bite. A folded up walker rested against the man’s chair. The couple didn’t say a word to each other and seemed oblivious to the incredibly diverse, laughing, chatty, text-messaging crowd that surrounded their table.
I was just amazed that the kids had enough respect to keep their distance and allow the couple to enjoy some peace. But then the frail lovers of frozen yogurt began the arduous process of getting up from the table and exiting the building. It was then that a complex choreography of absolute human beauty unfolded.
First, one of the college girls at a table next to ours nudged her friend and uttered a quiet, “Cute…” as the couple stood up. Then a man across from their table fluidly stood up, while talking on a cell phone, and in one motion unfolded the old man’s walker and set it in front of him before gracefully falling back into his seat and not missing a beat in his conversation.
Walker in place, the couple put on their jackets and made their way for the door. Crowds parted to allow them access. A customer just entering the shop stopped and held the door open for much longer than would have been necessary, allowing the couple to exit without having to lift a finger.
The couple’s Cadillac was parked directly in front of the shop, but the man had to shuffle down the sidewalk until he could step off a lower part of the curb before shuffling his way back up to his car. By the time he got there and started the process of opening the passenger side door, another yogurt customer was passing by and opened it for him. The man gave a small nod before disappearing into the leather-clad abyss of the Caddy’s interior.
The man’s walker was still outside the car though. His wife managed to fold it up, but when she opened the back door to slide the walker in, she lost her grip on the door and it slammed shut. A customer exiting the shop with her daughter noticed, and opened the door again. She even took a moment to slide the walker onto the rear seat. The old lady smiled, held her purse in front of her chest with both hands, said thank you and began to work her way around to the driver’s seat.
As the white reverse lights blinked on, I turned to my wife who had happened to watch the entire chain of events unfold too. We mouthed the word “wow” to each other and went on with our conversation. Everyone else in the shop was either engaged in conversation or had thumbs flying across phone keypads. They were oblivious.
The amazing thing about this? No one who helped the couple seemed to notice the person who helped just prior. This was not inspired kindness, but pure, genuine individual compassion that when viewed from 15 feet away looked like a perfectly timed and choreographed TV commercial for human grace. It was nothing short of heart warming and inspiring.
In that little yogurt shop, and for no more than five minutes, humanity came together as one to help an elderly couple in need of a little love and assistance. Then everything returned to normal. But for that moment it didn’t matter what religion anyone in that shop followed. Prejudices and orientations and races and beliefs were all overshadowed by one commonality between us all:
Pure, unconditional acceptance of humanity.
Ahh… if only the rest of life was so easy.
Have you seen any similar moments of human compassion unfold? Let’s hear your stories!
***
Travis Griffith, who left behind the corporate marketing world, choosing family and writing in lieu of “a comfortable life” financially, is a former atheist trying to define what leading a spiritual life really means. His children’s book, Your Father Forever, published in 2005 by Illumination Arts Publishing Company, Inc. captures only a fraction of his passion for fatherhood.
Lent: The Ultimate Sacrifice
Posted by Stephen Swanson in General, Life on February 25, 2010
Stephen Swanson, despite his public expressions of dislike of columns governed by the calendar, writes about a personal struggle with “snark”.
“Snark”, a Definition and Use
In addition to the definitions from urbandictionary that I link to above, I think it important to give a personal definition in order to further what might be perceived as an overly general terminology. “Snark”, the combination of “snide” and “remark”, fills a large quantity of time in on-line communication and chiefly serves as a tone for self-righteous indignation and belittling of others. For that reason, my omission of snark for the coming weeks might appear as a wholly beneficial enterprise, and to some degree, they have significant points.
At the same time, my snarkiness also serves as an outlet of frustration and a mask for more overtly offensive reactions to others. Rather than calling someone an idiot or just staring at them aghast and their comment question, I can compose a snarky reply in my mind which I will post later. It allows for some degree of fantasy play where I star in an amazingly hilarious sit-com filled with cutting commentary and insightful absurdity.
The Cost of Snark
However, as with all fantasies, there remains a significant price to be paid. Just like hours-upon-hours of GTA can breed a desire to not stop for a stoplight or an urge to pull in front of a better car and pull the driver out to claim their wheels as your own, snark can explode or, in my case, leak.
I find myself leaking snark in a variety of ways. First, I make noises. A not-so-subtle “humph” or a snicker that is not quite masked by a cough can emerge at the most inopportune times, faculty meetings for example. Second, my eyes tell my story. It is not just the huge eye-roll of adolescence. Even a looking away or a squint can be noticed and queried by a friend, student, family member, or coworker. It’s unavoidable. We are conditioned to pick up non-verbal cues, and when they are left unexpressed, the audience can interpret them as they will, often to my own detriment. After all, people will often assume the worst when left to their own devices.
What to Do? What to Do?
Well, I’m hoping to employ a two-pronged approach. First, I’m going to work on composing the snark into specific communications, things I CAN actually say or write to people. This will not only still allow me to think and create an outlet for my feelings but also force me to channel that into something public and more productive.
For example, this week in a college meeting, I was growing increasingly frustrated at the lack of direction in the meeting. We’d been there two hours and not really made any progress. A member of the campus communications and marketing area was having a devil of a time of pinning faculty down on who they were supposed to reach out to and what the message needed to be. Generally, I would spend that time creating snark. It’s fun. It makes for good bar/party stories and generally makes me feel better.
However, it does not really solve the underlying problem, and that’s the problem that I’m really seeing with snark, especially when compared to effective satire or critique. It papers over the issue and ignores the underlying causes, and I’ve determined that these sorts of communication represent central concerns in any hope in overcoming significant issues to our culture today. It’s much easier to snarkily point out others and label them as such.
As I tell my students, it’s easier to construct a fallacious argument or a general opinion than it is to construct something thoughtful and useful. I need to give it a try. I need to cage the snark.
***
Stephen Swanson teaches as an assistant professor of English at McLennan Community College. Aside from guiding students through the pitfalls of college writing and literature, he spends most of his time trying to remain aware of popular culture, cooking, and enjoying time with his wife and son. He holds degrees in Communications (Calvin College), Film Studies (Central Michigan University), and Media and American Culture Studies (Bowling Green State University. In addition to editing a collection, Battleground States: Scholarship in Contemporary America, he has forthcoming projects on Johnny Cash and depiction of ethics in detective narratives.
The Speech that can Save Christianity
Posted by Travis Griffith in Faith, General, Life on February 21, 2010
Travis Griffith has some advice for Pope Benedict XVI. What do you think of it?
A recent Associated Press news article says Pope Benedict XVI is condemning what he calls a “growing aversion” to the Christian faith.
The article says ‘the pope is urging Christians to invigorate efforts to spread their faith’s message despite what he described as the unfriendly climate to Christianity in parts of the world.’ Benedict is quoted as saying,
In a world marked by religious indifference and even by a growing aversion toward the Christian faith, a new intense activity of evangelization is necessary.
The pontiff went on to say that Christians need to put aside their differences so they can unite their efforts.
Regular readers know by now that I adore the Christian faith and the people who follow it. I believe their religion is the correct one… for them. I also happen to believe that every other religion (or faith or form of spirituality) is equally correct for their respective followers.
I know I’m just a lowly blogger and Benedict is, you know, the pope, but that doesn’t mean I can’t disagree with him. Was he wrong in making the statement he did? Of course not. His truth lies with the Christian faith and he’s just walking his path.
But, it’s not a path I believe is best for the world. I believe intense evangelizing is exactly why there is an aversion to Christianity in the first place. It pisses people off.
With that in mind, instead of saying what he did, I would have liked to see the pope deliver this speech (yeah, now I’m writing speeches for the pope, which is kind of cheesy, but I’d sure have a lot of respect for him if he’d say something like this):
Dear Friends,
It is with great humility that I recognize a growing world trend; a trend that is leading many of the world’s people away from the Christian faith. In fact, I acknowledge that there is even a troubling, and growing, aversion to Christianity.
Our world is marked by religious indifference, and even worse, intolerance. While I, and the followers of Christianity, believe that Christ is the way and the truth, we must also be aware enough to realize not everyone will believe as we do.
In the past I might have called for intense evangelizing to spread the Word and convert non-believers. Today though, I ask of you something even greater. Rather than join the ranks of the intolerant, I ask that we, as Catholics and Christians, evolve to the ranks of acceptance.
How can we preach tolerance without following it? How can we know love if we don’t experience it?
It is simple arrogance to preach that all people of the world should believe as we do. So please, do not evangelize to your Muslim, pagan and atheist neighbors. Love them and accept them for who they are, but remind them the door to Christianity is always open should they choose to walk through it and follow us.
Upon all of you, I invoke the abundant blessings of the Almighty and, in particular, the gift of peace.
Love… to all.
Do you think a speech like this would help reverse the aversion to Christianity? I sure do, but feel free to discuss amongst yourselves, or make fun of me, in the comment section.
***
Travis Griffith, who left behind the corporate marketing world, choosing family and writing in lieu of “a comfortable life” financially, is a former atheist trying to define what leading a spiritual life really means. His children’s book, Your Father Forever, published in 2005 by Illumination Arts Publishing Company, Inc. captures only a fraction of his passion for fatherhood.
***
Editorial Note: The thoughts presented within this blog post are those of the individual author and do not necessarily reflect the beliefs of the entire Relief staff. Though there may be some differences between the journal’s theology and that of the author, we believe that the questions this author raises about faith and love are important.
Giving It Up
Posted by Amanda Bauch in Faith, General, Life on February 20, 2010
Relief’s Assistant Editor, Amanda C. Bauch, ruminates on ritual compulsions and Lent.
My fingers were bleeding. Again.
Even as I pause while typing this, my right hand reaches over to the left hand, longing to pluck at a piece of loose skin on my pointer finger. I worried this piece of loose skin on the drive home yesterday, when I was working out, and while I watched the Winter Olympics with my husband.
But it’s not only the fingers. It’s also my legs, my face, my scalp. All subjected to frequent, almost ritualistic, picking. I’ve scratched and dug at my legs so often that they’re bloody and bruised. My face bears scars from years of attempting to rid myself of imperfections, whether real or perceived.
The face digging began when I was in junior high. The finger mangling started in college. The leg scratching and scalp digging are fairly new developments, added to my repertoire over the past year or so.
The escalation of my finger picking during college prompted me to seek counseling. I felt out of control, and I knew the problem wouldn’t go away on its own. All of my fingers wrapped in band-aids, torn and bloody, I cried as I told the doctor that I couldn’t stop and I actually enjoyed hurting myself on some level.
This initial appointment set me on a road I’ve now been on for over a decade, trying to understand why I do what I do.
While I’ve been diagnosed with OCD for some time, I’ve only recently learned about a disorder that goes by many names, but is most frequently referred to as dermatillomania. In layman’s terms, compulsive skin picking.
Viewing a variety of websites and reading testimonies of those who suffer from this ailment, I am amazed to see my story reflecting back at me from my computer monitor. However, one young lady’s comment resonates: “I have not felt worthy.”
Now that we’ve entered the holy season of Lent, I had to decide if I was going to give something up, and if so, what. During Ash Wednesday service, I sat in the pew, praying to God to help me make this decision, all the while picking my cuticles into oblivion. I pulled a particularly tenacious piece of skin I’d been attacking for some time, immediately feeling the tingle and rush of pain derived from tearing off layers of skin.
At that moment, I knew it had to stop, and I felt that God was telling me that it was time.
Granted, this skin picking is a habit I’ve developed over about twenty years of my life, and I know that it’s not going to vaporize overnight. However, I made a commitment to the Lord to try to change. To truly believe that with Him, all things are possible. I am learning to trust Him, trust myself. I’m learning to combat the self-criticism and feelings of unworthiness with His Word: “When I said, ‘My foot is slipping,’ your love, O Lord supported me. When anxiety was great within me, your consolation brought joy to my soul” (Ps 94:18-19).
Over these forty days of Lent, I’m giving up my self-criticism. I’m giving up the belief that if I just had enough faith, all of my problems would be resolved. And perhaps most importantly, I’m giving up the belief that I am unworthy.
***
Amanda C. Bauch, is Relief’s Assistant Editor, a writer, and a teacher. She fled the harsh Upstate New York winters and now resides outside of Jacksonville, Florida. She has an MFA in Creative Writing from Lesley University and is currently working on a young adult novel and a memoir. Her short fiction has appeared in Tattoo Highway, Bent Pin Quarterly, The Hiss Quarterly, and nonfiction pieces have been published in Writer Advice, Empowerment4Women, as well as two print anthologies, Tainted Mirror and MOTIF: Writing By Ear. She is also a monthly contributor to 30 Points of View, a blog/ezine/something-or-rather ( www.30pov.com).
Living in the Hours
Posted by Michelle Metcalf in Faith, General, Life, Writing on February 19, 2010
Good Morning. It i
s 5:45am, still dark. I have been up since 4:15. I woke up cold, restless, a little hungry. In the past hour and a half I’ve done what I can to satisfy myself: I’m now wrapped in a huge quilt sitting on top of the furnace vent on the floor in my living room; my dog is under the covers on my lap. I have been packing boxes in the kitchen—we’re moving to our first house in under a week and a half. I packed dishes quietly in the kitchen as my husband slept upstairs. I wrapped glasses in newspaper and towels. All of this while bread baked in the oven and too hungry to wait for it, I ate a bowl full of cut watermelon squares.
I wish all days started like today—with purpose and darkness and quiet and productivity. Just today, I feel somewhat akin to the monastic life; I feel connected to all the others awake right now in the world—working in quiet—its not just about waking up early—its about getting to work, about the ritual of living in these divine early hours.
Today, I will pray the hours, connected with the monks and restless morning pilgrims. Today I will not just intend it, I will do it. I will remember. I will stop. I will allow moments to be holy.
Today I will write. I will pray for inspiration. I will ask God for help. Today I will let it come. I will not be in a hurry. I will move through this work as if my life depends on it, and it does. Today I will not be afraid. Today I will believe for myself what I believe for others. Today I will show up and do the work. Today I will be a professional writer, even if I have to pretend. Today I will turn off my phone, today I will listen to silence. Today I will light candles. I will burn Fir Balsam incense and smell the air. Today I will look at what has been left undone and leave it undone. Today I will not be lost in distraction, in necessity that does not involve words. Today, I will listen to words; I will listen inside of my head. Today I will not use my ears, today I will not use my eyes. Today I will live in my spirit. I will condition my mind. Today I will work until the moon rises. I will pray the hours before I sleep.
An invitation to pray the hours during Lent, and maybe not during Lent too: 
http://www.explorefaith.org/prayer/fixed/
* * *
Michelle Metcalf feels inspired today because the sun has finally started to shine in Cincinnati, OH, where she lives with her husband and dog. She lead a writer’s group this morning, just like she does every Friday. That’s her favorite part of the week.
Today’s Attack – An Austin Perspective
Posted by RobertGarbacz in Life on February 18, 2010
It doesn’t feel like 9/11 today, for which I am thankful.
For those of you not involved in the news, a plane crashed into a Northwest Austin office building, probably aimed at the IRS offices. I am thankful that, so far, no deaths have been reported (though the pilot has yet to be recovered.) Prior to his actions, the pilot posted an angry letter asking the IRS to “take my pound of flesh and sleep well.” The Austin American Statesman has coverage here.
At this point, I don’t really feel I have all that much to blog about, even though the attack was less than five miles away from me. I’m thankful that–miraculously–it seems that no one (except probably the pilot) is dead. I’d like people to remember it as a reminder that Islamic foreigners don’t hold a monopoly on terrorism. We Americans have more than our share of home-grown sin and madness. Other than that, well, I’m sure the government will do what they can to increase security and prevent similar actions from happening.
One other thing is strange, though. This morning, feeling the wind on my skin and the warmth of the sun (it has been an unexpectedly cold winter), I thought of how odd it was to start the season of Lent in such pleasant conditions. I didn’t yet know about the attack, and it seemed like a weird day to think about the words “from dust you have come, to dust you will return.”
It’s a bit cloudier in Austin now, but still not uncomfortably cold. It still feels like a pleasant day to be outside, a good day for a walk. My prayers are with the victims whose lives have been turned upside down, with the friends and family of the “kind, quiet, not at all brooding” man who flew his plane into a building. I pray that God will work to bring peace and love to a world with far too much hate and fear.
I am glad that things are far better than they could have been.
Susan is giving up Facebook for Lent
Posted by Guest Blogger in Faith, Guest Blog, Life, Writing on February 17, 2010
Susan is giving up Facebook for Lent.
Susan’s fingers instinctively reach for the F for Facebook.
Susan wants to check in with God fifty-million times a day, instead of checking for status updates.
Susan is grateful for the friend who emails her status updates the first day.
Susan wonders what role Facebook plays in her life, what boredom it staves off and what will become of her without it.
Susan has to go on Facebook the very first day – to retrieve business information from an old message. She shields the page with her hand, ignores the new message in the inbox and finds what she needs before exiting quickly.
Susan is not exactly praying more yet, but it has been a busy day.
Susan has realized she thinks of events now in terms of how she will frame or caption them for Facebook: how will life be shaped into a status update?
Susan thinks about how Facebook is utterly self-centred. What is the motto again: connecting and helping you share with friends. Something like that. But every sentence starts with me.
Susan has more than 25 random facts to tell you about herself. She is so fascinating. To herself. And can she employ her skills (Random Fact: Susan is good with words) to make you fascinated with her too?
Susan wonders what this Facebook fast is about, anyhow. Narcissus not being allowed to look into the pool? Perhaps.
Susan wants to express her feelings, to be heard. Is FB more gratifying than prayer? If a tree falls in the forest, does God hear? And will God comment on the status of the fall?
Susan misses the juiciness of the details. And can make a rational argument that FB is better than gossip or reading tabloid stories.
Susan decided not to break her fast on Sundays. It seems arbitrary and weak to take a break.
Susan’s grandma is sick and she wants to blurt it out once and get lots of nice notes back. Would that be so wrong?
Susan watches how she fills her Facebook hole and is not exactly proud. But I’m trying.
Susan thinks it’s funny to speak in the third person. Not the royal we. The self-reflexive she.
Susan really, really, really, really, really wants to go on Facebook. A lot. A really lot.
Susan is going to Italy tomorrow.
Susan is exploding with anticipation and she has already called everyone reasonable to call. Must. Get. Going. To. Italy. Presto.
Susan hopes she is not sending her children into therapy by leaving them on the other side of the world.
Susan is dreadfully homesick, jetlagged and culture shocked but she has never ever seen such beauty.
Susan was wooed in a garden today.
Susan is in a quiet place: no Internet, no phone, no tv.
Susan’s thoughts are clearer, way clearer.
Susan was afraid to be alone for ten days with her husband and without her kids and the props of daily life, but now she loves it.
Susan is dreaming in Italian…un poco.
Susan is dazzled by beauty.
Susan is pondering.
Susan is learning that anxiety comes more often than I would like, but it goes too, every time.
Susan feared they would have to spend the night in the car when they got lost, but they got home. Grace.
Susan’s children are doing well. More grace.
Susan thinks people are delightfully kind.
Susan learned to make pasta.
Susan does not have Stendhal Syndrome, just Art Overload.
Susan may have had the happiest time of her life.
Susan can’t wait to be home.
Susan is dizzy with fatigue. Her kids are not.
Susan needs more beauty, less noise.
Susan is scared it will recede and fade. How do you hold onto it?
Susan is sorting things out, examining the things I stuffed away, preparing to enter the fray again.
Susan feels like my garden: boggy, slightly mildewed and winter-weathered, but with fresh green shoots of hope.
Susan is editing up a beautiful storm.
Susan is sleeping naked.
Susan is glad to see the world greening up.
Susan no longer feels like there is a glass ceiling between her and God.
Susan has fancy eyelids.
Susan can now write about prayer in a visceral way.
Susan feels surprisingly regretful at the end of Lent: do I want to start narrating my life again? Unlike other addictions, this one is social. Can you go to a party and just sit in the corner? Why not stay home?
Susan circles the site like a cold pool, dipping a toe in here and there, reluctant to take the plunge.
***
Susan Fish is a writer, editor, wife, and mother of three school aged children who lives in Waterloo, Ontario, Canada. Her first novel Seeker of Stars was published in 2005, while her second is still looking for a home. She is always intrigued by the signs people choose to erect on their garages, fields, or lawns, and once had both a pesticide sign and a Green party sign on her front lawn at the same time. Fortunately, she saw the irony in the situation. Susan’s story “That Sign” can be found in Relief Issue 3.2.
Damascus, February 1990
Posted by Lisa Ohlen Harris in Cross Post, Editor's Blog, Life, Writing on February 15, 2010
Lisa Ohlen Harris provides us with a short passage that didn’t make it into her forthcoming book Through the Veil. The post first appeared on her website LisaOhlenHarris.com.
We bumped suitcases up a set of stone stairs, and into the narrow pathway of the Old City. Along with the eleven other Americans in my research group, I followed our team leader, Steve, through a maze of stone and dust, of small doorways and little children. I could not imagine finding my way in or out of these corridors every day for three months, but Steve assured us, “Everyone will know where the foreigners are living. If you get lost, just stop and ask.” Two boys playing soccer with a grubby ball stopped their game to stare at our strange procession of suitcases and foreigners. I thought I heard one of them whisper the name of our Syrian host, Abu Mousa.
Steve smiled in triumph as we rounded the turn leading to Abu Mousa’s doorway. One by one we passed through the front door and into a wide atrium garden, where Um Mousa had prepared a welcome feast—chicken over rice, with vegetables and pine nuts. We were jet-lagged and hungry, and the chicken was so good. We sat together and ate. A lot.
I remember it was cold in Syria in February in a hundreds-of-years-old stone house with no heat. I remember sneaking up to the rooftop to meet Todd after a day of ethnographic research. I remember weeping three months later when it was time to leave Damascus, the city I had learned in such a short time to love.
Twenty years ago. For every detail I remember there are dozens I’ve forgotten. And for every chapter inThrough the Veil there are memories that didn’t make it into the book. In these last months before the book releases (summer 2010) I’m going to post “deleted scenes” from Through the Veil. By sharing these memories I hope to serve up an appetizer for the forthcoming book as well as commemorating the twenty-year anniversary of our time living in Damascus.
***
Lisa Ohlen Harris is Relief’s Creative Nonfiction editor. Her Middle East memoir, Through the Veil, will be published by Canon Press in 2010. Lisa’s essays have appeared in journals like River Teeth, Arts & Letters, and The Laurel Review, and have received special mention in Pushcart Prize XXXIII: Best of the Small Presses (2009) and in Best American Spiritual Writing (2008 and 2010). Lisa enjoys mentoring and editing the work of emerging writers through her critique service.











