tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-71191870187900498572024-02-19T01:02:12.272-06:00Message for you on the waysideconfessions of a fragmentary faithrebekahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03561086505390745572noreply@blogger.comBlogger95125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7119187018790049857.post-30025712133748007762013-08-05T12:26:00.000-05:002013-08-05T12:26:54.688-05:00bits & fragments<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">we're in the heart of a wet mississippi summer. we've had to say goodbye to a few of our much cared-for plants that just couldn't swim. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">the crape myrtles are in full bloom and grace my dining room table shadowing the oranges. the neighbors share their tomatoes. the mint i picked from below the back steps and potted has outgrown its quarters. and the rosemary is just as content as ever to never die. i had a pear right off the tree. they are only excellent when they are crunchy.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">still somehow on a school schedule, i am yet again amazed at how quickly the summer break flies by. i am relieved, for the first time, that it has done so. the work days are so much longer when the kids are at the Club all day. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">two weddings have come and passed. one, a traditional first methodist gig with chill-bump-inducing choir music, rooftop dancing, and shrimp & grits. the other, a horror movie themed union of jew and catholic in an historical musicale. both were rather elegant in their own way, and when there's cake, there's always a good time.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">i had another birthday. this one came during a vacation for the first time. the beach, gourmet popsicles, lots and lots of Italian food, winning trivia, lots and lots of cake, my first cannoli, a musical review, my first chocolate martini (which was delicious and made me realize i should never waste my money on that again because white russians), and breakfast every day with family i never see.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">i'm reading <i>the cuckoo's calling</i> by <strike>jk rowling</strike> robert galbraith. cracking the spine of the ninth book by such a master has for the ninth time, reminded me of how inadequate i feel as a writer and how eager i can be as a writer. but once more, i remind myself to be a reader.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">wedding pictures are available <a href="http://mylatestbuzz.com/2013/06/30/rustic-wedding-part-i-justin-rebekah/" target="_blank">here </a>and <a href="http://mylatestbuzz.com/2013/07/16/justin-bekahs-wedding-part-ii/" target="_blank">here</a></span>. <span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">we were tremendously blessed to have <a href="http://mylatestbuzz.com/" target="_blank">Sara Beth</a></span><a href="http://mylatestbuzz.com/" target="_blank"> </a><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">taking stock of each moment that day, as well as many others who gave the use of their cameras to supply more memories. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">i have been home for one week, and i ache for travel again. moving around a lot lets you know that you don't need as many things as you think you do. keeps life lighter. to be able to pick up and go at a moment's notice, and you know what is of value.</span><br />
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<i><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">“Traveling is a brutality. It forces you to trust strangers and to lose sight of all that familiar comfort of home and friends.<br />You
are constantly off balance. Nothing is yours except the essential
things: air, sleep, dreams, sea, the sky - all things tending towards
the eternal or what we imagine of it.”</span></span></span></i></h1>
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<i><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">~Cesare Pavese~ </span></span></span></i></h1>
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rebekahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03561086505390745572noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7119187018790049857.post-13300349108701147752013-06-18T15:39:00.001-05:002013-08-26T17:21:52.570-05:00the trade<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">it is no surprise to those who know me well or to those who may have caught a previous post that i like to express my current frustrations with the global system in which we find ourselves a part. since those sentiments have been written here more than once, i will refrain from them in this post, as there is another reason for these words today.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">in my confusion and concerns for how i am to find my place in this world without taking part in the systems that exploit other humans in the form of child labor or slavery, i recognize that it is very hard. it is seemingly impossible. how do i avoid cheap clothes and necessary food items even though i know that someone somewhere could have been abused for it? many times i can't. or i don't. the argument, as i said, is not the point of this post, but the argument is what leads me to the point. just because avoiding is hard to do does not mean it's not worth the try. and in this journey, i have learned a lot about how this system has changed things for the worse. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">one such thing is the occupation known as the trade. the butcher. the milkman. the beekeeper. the seamstress. the clockmaker. the cheesemaker. the jeweller. the tailor. the welder. the florist. the theatrical technician. the lumberjack. the carpenter. the cleaner. the painter. the brewer.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">many of these are still around, but not in abundance. and while florists are still up and running, how many people do you know who go to school to become a florist? at this point in our world, my generation and the one before it have become so accustomed to the convenience and the practicality of walmart and amazon. and while i will be the last one to argue against amazon, i have to say that there is comfort in purchasing your goods from someone who knows those goods. and i don't just mean in general. i mean <i>those</i> goods. those particular ones you have in your hands. i am blessed to have come from an upbringing that valued working with your hands. my father and his brothers all were/are self-employed in jewelry repair, carpentry, farming, and electricity. and now that i have my own home, pinterest has made me believe that i can do things too! i know how to make a scarf, soap, sugar scrub, candles, lip balm, and envelopes. i want to make my own vanilla, root beer, butters, flavor-infused sugars, and salad dressings. i dream of a world where i buy my dining room table from the person who made it. where i get my dress's rip mended from the person who sewed it. where i get advice on how to not kill my oregano from the one who grew it. and i do not believe that world to be dead. which is why, in my efforts to expand the expertise of my hands, i hope to be a part of keeping that world alive.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">not that i expect such things to make a career for me, but what a blessing it is to connect with the creator of our world by doing the very thing that defines our existence? what a blessing it is to always be learning something new about how the tiniest aspects of the world work when you watch how the champagne yeast is fermenting your root beer in your laundry room?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">i am encouraged by the pockets of society who continue to keep this going. and you would be surprised to find many of these trades exist quietly in your own backyard. the artisans are coming back. the coffee roaster. the salt harvester. the photographer. the woodworker. the writer. some are blessed to be able to support themselves and their families on these talents, some are not. but for me, i am also blessed by the ability to recognize that art expands far beyond painting and drawing. for me, the only one of my mom's girls without that interest, it feels good.</span><br />
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rebekahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03561086505390745572noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7119187018790049857.post-14342794127715996462013-05-20T16:21:00.000-05:002013-05-20T16:43:00.826-05:00weddings/engagements: now that i have experience to offer<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">1. you will not think of everything, no matter how hard you try.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">2. you will not think of everything, no matter how hard you try.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">2.a. however, do try your hardest to think of everything, you will get farther than you think.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">3. the smartest thing you can do (that is if you are like me and lack the budget for a professional wedding planner), is to reach out to your friends who know what they're doing/have done it a time or twelve, and let them think of things for you. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">4. regardless of how well things are planned, stress happens. you will feel bad about how much your family and friends are stressing themselves for you. but they are your family and friends, it's sort of in the understood contract, and heaven knows you worked your butt for them a time or two.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">5. do not wear blue panties when trying on dresses.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">6. playing the "i won't tell them, i'll just try to find reasons to make my ring obvious until they notice it" game is not worth it, nor is it all that fun. most people will not pay attention. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />7. i've yet to meet anyone who wedded in a courthouse and regretted it.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />8. if you don't have to pay more, then don't.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />9. never swear to never declare, "it's <b><i>my </i></b>wedding" because you will.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />10. never swear that your plans will be so simple that you won't be like all those other brides who declared they wished they had eloped when all the stress settled in, because you will.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />11. within reason, it's okay to declare, "it's <i><b>my</b></i> wedding"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />12. it's never too early to complete a task</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />13. even though it may get old when everyone wants to share their own stories related to planning/wedding/showers/parties/honeymoon/family dealings, it's worth it in the end.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />14. sometimes you will have to badger people for help. don't feel bad about this. if they offered, it is up to you to keep reminding them of that.</span><br />
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15. vendors give your name to other vendors. those vendors will then contact you without your permission to sell you things.when an unsolicited vendor keeps calling you, suck it up and answer the phone to say that you are not interested. ignoring each phone call in hopes that they will give up is futile. they never give up.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">16. re-gifting is not a sin, it's a practicality.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">17. some people elope, some people create spectacles. do what you want, and don't let anyone take away the things that mean the most to you. you and your fiance are in charge of the guest list. you and your fiance are in charge of everything. if you have to have boundaries, then you figure out how to work with them. no one gets to figure them out for you. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">18. you won't truly believe it until it's the day of, but you will get married regardless of what happens with the flowers, the food, the weather, the music, the sound system, or your nails.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">19. and most importantly, <b>SWITCH PHONES WITH YOUR SISTER THE DAY BEFORE AND THE DAY OF AND DON'T TELL ANYONE. </b>well, you know, except for maybe your mom and fiance. BUT<b> NO ONE </b>ELSE<b>.</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">20. Tell everyone that you love them.<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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</span>rebekahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03561086505390745572noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7119187018790049857.post-25361177895028549852013-03-05T17:09:00.000-06:002013-08-26T17:22:18.357-05:00on becoming<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">i think we all have those moments that hit us never in expectation. something is said, and we reply as we may have replied many a time, but for this time, we pay attention to our words. it's like when you catch your reflection in another mirror's reflection, and you're inopinate because while you see yourself all the time, you never get to look directly at that side of yourself. and suddenly you aren't as familiar as you thought you were. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">why did i say that?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">when did i start feeling this way?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">i don't remember always being like this.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">i amaze myself with the change in me. i am in awe of the capacity of a person to metamorphose over time. ever so slowly through changes that seem not too far from the original being until time is over and the original being has gone. i will never lose my reverence for the sentiments of Henri Bergson:</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: #b6d7a8; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; text-align: start;">"We are seeking only the precise meaning that our consciousness gives to this word "exist," and we find that for a conscious being, to exist is to change, to change is to mature, to mature is to go on creating oneself endlessly. "</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">i credit many circumstances and individuals as the hands that i allowed to shape my mind. my mother is the unconventional sort who rebels against boundaries and lives for the loopholes of rules. perhaps this is part of why i never accept them without understanding them. it is not in my nature to rebel, intrinsically, but rather to question. the world is bounteous in beauty and enchantment and allure, and my chimera involves all of these whisking me into them. but the world also brings disillusionment and egos for ill-gain. and the faces for these often emulate one another. i fear more than anything being ruined because i chose to trust. because i chose to shut my mind to all the possibilities to the what-ifs that could have warned me. and that is why i inquire. i credit my professor for broadening my perception of the passion of a female voice, and her husband for revealing the ways my words make me. i credit the mistakes of those before me as my measure. i credit my father for my belief in living truth above speaking it. i credit the one with whom i may never be on speaking terms again for for my utmost happiness, and the one i know will be sitting next to me as we knit and drink french press coffee as old ladies for the same. i credit this generation of thinkers and doubters and questioners and artists and makers for how i wish to live my every day. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">i changed. the one i was and the one i am are not the same, though we are. we remember each other, and we do not get to stay together. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">i have to say how the truth of change blesses me. how refreshing to know that when we have reached the end of ourselves there is more ground to tread, and it is therefore not the end. how refreshing it is to know that when we have made such a mess of our days and we want to escape ourselves, we can! i am not the person i was ten years ago or even five years ago, and i can say with as much certainty i will not be the same person in the next five or ten years. and to watch the change happen within us is just as fascinating as watching the change happen outside of us. i have understood the notion and the necessity of social justice and caring for the lowly more than i ever have before, and that has some to do with my growth, but it has much to do with the changing world around me. the rise in number of days of service and the spread of occupations such as my own bring excitement and inspiration and the thought that maybe things really can be better. and even in the changes that are not as inspirational, i wonder for the good in them. i am marrying in a time when it seems everyone around me is unmarrying. and i wonder. for the tragedy that breaks the heart and the family in two is unforeseen, until it has passed. and then it was seen coming all along. i wonder at the paradox of my heart finding a home in the midst of all others searching for shelters. i wonder what this means for me and for the world. i feel gratitude for the paths my life brought me through, and i pray i will always say that. i pray for them to say that as well. for our stories begin and end. and we can't say how or why. but just as spring opens, touching skilfully, mysteriously, her first rose, i wait for light to open in these other lives. i want their stories to be sense to them. and i wish them to know that gratitude for change that i hope to always know.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">i feel an end approaching as the next two months close in on me. and i say goodbye with bittersweetness. it's always sad to see a dear friend leave for good. but somehow another makes her way into your world, and she becomes the person you never knew you needed. and she so overwhelms your life, you forget the hole left by the last visitor, as if there were never a hole to begin with. i am excited to meet this new girl. i hope she becomes my life with all pleasantness and patience as the ones before her.</span><br />
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rebekahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03561086505390745572noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7119187018790049857.post-5556153025704953622013-02-15T14:07:00.001-06:002013-08-26T17:22:33.330-05:00the only thing more annoying than valentine's day is everyone who complains about it<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Happy Valentine's Day, everyone! </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I feel somewhat reflective on this particular day, as work is slow, Lent has recently begun, everybody's talking about love, and in the constant flux of my life, I just like to ponder. Once, my pastor told me something and suggested I do like Mary and ponder those things in my heart. It was such an interesting piece of advice for what he then said to me, but I've since held onto those words as I realized that my life is always a pondering of my heart. I never felt such a close connection with any of the protagonists in the many stories of the Bible, but it gave me great encouragement to identify with Mary.</span><br />
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Until last year, I never had a boy to do the Valentine's thing with, but I still liked Valentine's Day. First of all, if I was ever sad about being single, it wasn't because it was Valentine's Day. I didn't need a holiday to make me feel sad about not having somebody. Second of all, (and this should actually be first of all, but we'll keep moving) candy. I can't think of any reason why we should be sad about candy (outside of the extremes where child labor is the reason we have chocolate). And now that I do have somebody, it's simply an excuse for a date (again, as if I needed a holiday for this). But whatever the sentiments, I believe that with winter being such a dull time, any reason for someone to get or give a piece of paper, cardboard, or foliage to say that you're great is a wonderful thing well worth the effort. Also, candy. We should be looking for excuses every day to make somebody feel lovely and loved, so since the work has already been done for us on February 14th, we should be happy and relieved. I have felt just as loved and appreciated when my friends, roommate, or mom made me Valentines as I have these past two Valentine's holidays with my special someone. I never had a reason to dread the day. And I never called it Singles Awareness Day, because again, I didn't need a holiday to remind me of that. So as ridiculous as the notion of this day can be, I have no problems with it.</span><br />
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As for my ponderings about Lent and whether or not I should physically do something to commemorate this time of year, I've decided to be more intentional about the structure of my life. Every day I wake up, feed my dog, feed myself, clothe myself, make my lunch, go to work, come home, feed myself, shower, zone out in front of a computer screen, and go to bed. I believe there is more I can do to expand my time and make the most of my being. I need to read more and write more. I need to learn new things without neglecting the perfecting of the things I know. I need to bathe my dog. I need to be outside more. I need to make sure May 11th doesn't surprise me with unfinished tasks. </span><br />
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Unfortunately, pondering doesn't accomplish all of those things. But I have to do it. </span><br />
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Some people stay busy so they won't be caught pondering. It inevitably brings up things that are painful because we find the truths about ourselves and about others that we normally wish to avoid. I have many times brought myself to tears in my lonesome hours because the silence revealed to me the unpleasant needs for change in my life. But you see, I feel odd in that I have never been one to busy myself so I don't have to think about something. I have been just the opposite. There are many things that do not get accomplished because I like to sit and think too much. Even in the pain, I like it. I like the cleansing that I feel when I dwell on situations and events and people. I like the resolve that I feel ever more closer to when I've completed inner discussion on an issue. People are never as introspective as they should be, and while I consider myself quite the introspecter, (it's not a word, you don't have to look it up) I should hate anyone to think I feel better than others. I most certainly do not. With these activities bringing faults to light, I can assure you that I feel awful at times. But in order to clean a wound, the dirt must be brought to the surface. And only then will we feel like the clean, healed, and unblemished individuals we always hope to be.</span>rebekahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03561086505390745572noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7119187018790049857.post-73074437931329090262013-02-11T22:29:00.001-06:002013-08-26T17:22:44.832-05:00âmes sœurs<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The postmistress delivered three things for me today. I love getting mail. I do not love the postal service, and I dare say that I never will, but it made me so happy today to see my first issue of the <i>Oxford American</i> (Christmas present from little sister), a thank-you letter from Compassion International for my donation to help educate impoverished mothers, and a darling note from my dear friend, the soon-to-be doctor of whatever you do in a lab. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">As we move away from our years of undergraduate learning, the correspondences become less frequent. And this is as natural as it is sad. Because in reading her precious hand-written words, sentiments, and news, I smiled as each sentence reminded me why we were and are friends. All of my friends are different, and different, too, are the reasons we are friends. Each one has something unique that connected with me, and I feel that is a testament to how complex a person can be. That each friend is in some way a representation of the many compartments that make up a soul. It is a beautiful realization that revives my gratitude for each friend I have ever had.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">This particular friend is the one with whom I write letters, adore <i>My Fair Lady </i>and <i>Anne of Green Gables</i>, dream of Paris, and quote old movies. We are, as Anne would say, kindred spirits. A term people don't put as much thought into as they should. Because it matters greatly that people acknowledge a kindred spirit. Such is not any friend, but more than a friend. Almost a soulmate. This person's soul, was made for yours, in a way. Not necessarily to be a perfect fit for every aspect. But for this aspect or that aspect, there is no one better. Who are your kindred spirits? Treat them for the treasures that they are.</span>rebekahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03561086505390745572noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7119187018790049857.post-33087500717750873292012-12-13T20:54:00.002-06:002013-08-26T17:23:09.300-05:00new<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">ring</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">new puppy </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">christmas tree shopping</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">new job</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">my lovely</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">thanksgiving breakfast </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">with the beginning of winter season, i have begun the seasons of engagement, a new job, and a first dog. with each passing decision i wonder what i have gotten myself into. i've never been happier. i've never been more myself. being in love is finding a home, and only then realizing that you were homeless. it is a resting place i never knew i was missing.</span>rebekahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03561086505390745572noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7119187018790049857.post-42982434555416549092012-12-11T22:51:00.001-06:002013-08-26T17:23:39.938-05:00joyeux noelle<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">cold and gloomy days bring forth effort from us, in that we must search for comfort. and when that comfort is found, we withdraw into ourselves, which should be a truly treasured time. introspection is a necessity for the self, for there is no other way the self can grow. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">it is easy to love the biting cold when your hands surround a ceramic mug made by your sister, and the steam winds its way to your nostrils. when your grandmother's afghan is swirled below your neck. when you hear the satisfying grating sound of a match being lit, and you watch the wick so faithfully carry that same light. when the wood cracks and collapses, and when cedar and pine fill your home. </span><br />
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in my own life, i have easily learned to love what seasons bring. and each one is good. i grew up with experiences i was later to find foreign for many of my peers. i shucked corn in july and shelled pecans in december. i made hot chocolate mix with my mom</span><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"> </span><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">every winter. i enjoyed a living room of homemade potpourri on the wood stove. i also filled the rooms with daffodils and lily of the valley every march and day lilies every june. i enjoyed pears in august. i took long walks every day of the year in rain, heat, chill, and snow and sat down to a homemade meal every night. </span><br />
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as i have gotten older, i have realized through the unfamiliarity of such practices by others, how for granted i have taken each of those moments. and i realize this even more in recent months with my addictions to pinterest and instagram where we can all pretend to be martha stewarts and professional photographers if we want to. i realize this in the now-trendy ways of recycling your glass jars and composting your vegetable scraps. in wearing grandmother clothes from second hand vendors. and i take pride in that i grew up in an environment way ahead of all this and later realizing that this was done because of low finances, not because it was cool. and then i become angry at the phonies.</span><br />
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but let me tell another reason why i appreciate the beginning of every season, because in the change that seems to take too long to happen, i am forced to scrutinize it in my impatience. and in such scrutiny, i see all the details. and in all the details, i learn to savor each and every small thing because it is all i have as i wait. and for those who want to live in such hippie ways, this is how you will find those who truly understand it. i will never be able to go too long without a computer or my phone, but i know well how to understand the priceless and matchless experiences of a simple something involving neither of those things.</span><br />
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i also can recognize when it is time to leave the computer and the phone off and make that effort to find the comforts i saw in the virtual others. it is time to knit and water the christmas tree. it is time for the sun to start setting earlier and sending us inside. in our newly confined quarters, we will learn to savor the simple beauties the season made us acknowledge. the way his eyes roll upwards when he is uncomfortable or bored. the way she stares through the window wishing to be a part of what the humans are doing. the way she folds the edge of her pages. the way sticks his chin out when watching something. the smell of steam wafting through the house after someone's shower. the sound of the trees tapping the roof.</span>rebekahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03561086505390745572noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7119187018790049857.post-55418551556779161862012-10-15T21:06:00.001-05:002013-08-26T17:24:06.828-05:00place<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i>i first understood the notion of place when i rented an apartment beneath the home of a local mother of four. this home of mine stretched from the front of the house all the way to the back, but only on the right side. the other side contained two much smaller studio apartments, and in the back was an extra two car garage that stood under another apartment. the family's residence dwelt on the second floor of the main house.</i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i>my memories of the year spent in this place remain in my thoughts with nothing but fondness. the house was old, and it was falling apart in places, and it was not always conducive to energy efficiency in the wintertime. however, there is not a single moment spent in that home that i would trade. i remember weeks in december spent curled up under the window unit reading Anne of Windy Poplars and listening to the ep Poison and Wine on repeat. i remember sitting at my desk writing letters to various friends because the romance of written correspondence can be replaced by nothing. i remember sitting at the kitchen table on lonely mornings staring out the window with my french press coffee. i remember playing host to old friends and making blueberry muffins in the mid mornings while they lazed in my bed reminiscing in giddiness like preteens waking from a sleepover. i remember long conversations with a special ginger friend about life over tyson chicken patties and pasta. i remember writing final papers and exams in the wee hours of the morning with The Half-Blood Prince rolling in the background as we needed to be prepared for the soon-to-be-released 7th installment. i remember knitting on the borrowed pullout couch while movies entertained. i remember the cold early morning walks down two blocks to work. i remember the countless treks across the street to class every day. i remember becoming more myself than i ever had before as each corner of this place closed in to familiarize itself with me and mold me.</i></span><br />
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<i><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">our hobbit hole is what we called this place. the ceilings were surprisingly low, and like a tunnel, it wound its way to the back of the house lined with carpet, tile, paneling, and plaster. this is where i lived when my views of the world and my perceived responsibilities in it as a Christian were drastically remodeled and became unrecognizable by my younger self. this is where i truly felt at home, at my home, as the walls and features reflected my being. </span></i><br />
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<i><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">much of the time, the world looks at the envied life of a globe-trotter, those few with the fortune, the smarts, and/or the luck to be able to travel from one place to another, never settling for long before the next adventure pulls. and the world views those lives as amorous and charming. and for those who truly feel the calling to live such a way, and can do it with the peace that is necessary, they are doing what is right. and sometimes i myself desire such liberty. and perhaps the moments will make themselves available for a season or two. however, there is no other kind of peace that can replace the peace of present permanence. in my year of residence in the hobbit hole, i knew sooner or later i would be filing out with all of my possessions, but for the time i was there, i could not think about that. i had to be at home should that truth of home be for one year or for many years. </span></i><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i>photo by Rachel Guerry</i></span></td></tr>
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<i><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">place is as much a part of who we are as humans as anything else that makes up our days and memories. place is to be treasured and loved as an old friend would be. </span></i><br />
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<i><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">i should like to continue this journey through the notion of place in future writings. </span></i>rebekahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03561086505390745572noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7119187018790049857.post-79509375523166797412012-09-29T14:07:00.000-05:002013-08-26T17:24:26.252-05:00does my stuff have a story?<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">in the last two years, i've learned more about the personal effects of globalization than i've ever known before. and i don't know that much at all. i had always been familiar with the tags that say 'made in china/honduras/indonesia/taiwan/nicaragua/panama/vietnam' but scarcely gave much thought at all about what that really means. and then i started to notice that 'made in the usa' was rather rare. and then i realized that the themes in zoolander were actually serious themes that were not made up at all. i once read in the book that triggered my recent thought on these issues that instead of asking 'what am i wearing?' we need to be thinking 'where am i wearing?' it doesn't take more than one story about a child who was hit in the face by his employer for not working on clothes fast enough, clothes that would eventually be shipped to my state and sold in the department stores where i buy christmas presents for my family. and then i think, that can't be a daily reality for every single worker in every single sweatshop in every single country. but how do i know that? i'm not there. i see pictures, and i can say that i would never want to live that reality. and then i say that they have it better than they would otherwise. they get food and clothes and a job, i say to soften my pillow at night. but what if it were me?</span><br />
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would i want my reality as awful as it is to be ignored or glazed over so people in the 'first world' can cure their consciences and continue as if my reality is not the reality and theirs is?</span><br />
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in our spare time we create blogs that document asians sleeping in libraries and tweeting about our #firstworldprobs and complaining because our iphones take too long to update. i mourn the evils that prevail in the many facets of this world, and i buy a pair of shorts at jcpenny. that's too small to make a difference, maybe. but i am interacting with the problems that exist outside my door, and it is not an interaction that makes them better. i have bought into the injustice with my purchase, and it's fifteen dollars, not even a scratch on the surface of the whole issue, but in my life, i have been polluted. it's not just about how i supported the horror. i have tainted myself. </span><br />
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christians are supposed to be different. people are supposed to notice something odd about us. perhaps for me that difference begins with refusal of certain purchases. the truth is, i didn't need another pair of shorts anyway. </span><br />
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i just found out there are people here who can roast their own coffee beans. and i can knit my own scarves.</span> rebekahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03561086505390745572noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7119187018790049857.post-59026835984755813412012-09-24T14:54:00.000-05:002013-08-26T17:24:45.504-05:00remain<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">the mornings are colder. and the trees wait for the edges of their crowns to yet again spread in death, and to give way for this death to once more have its due grasp on our world. and yet this very season, this in-between we must live through every year, this expectation of the coldness and the bitterness that nature holds in store for us has always been, for me, the most inspiring of all. no other spell pulls me from my tread to lay me down and let the time pass over me as wistfully as it pleases. in our world of do and have, the change calls me to be. i've learned through each year, as autumn re-enters my life, to anticipate. but such anticipation happens with waiting. i wait for something. i don't know what it is. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">but more than anything, autumn brings up things i've forgotten. summer is the lull for me, but my daydreams and plans keep me as busy as anything, and in the past, my autumn came with new learning and knowledge. a new year of getting back to work. getting back to routine. getting back to what i know. getting back to the familiar. i remember the things i miss that i once had. i am reminded of the things i miss that i never had. but this year, they never left. this is my first autumn as a graduate, and i don't feel as accomplished as i hoped i would. i fear the world takes off without me sometimes. and then autumn sweetly tells me there is always a change ahead. autumn sweetly tells me that if the world should take off, then let it take off. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">the world will always come back around. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">one thing i mourn the west for lacking is the understanding of cycles. in our linear perspectives, we know birth, life, death, the end. but in another mindset, time is cyclical. a chance gone is not a chance lost. </span>rebekahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03561086505390745572noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7119187018790049857.post-38525248941140222132012-07-21T13:04:00.000-05:002013-08-26T17:25:02.710-05:00Some thoughts on an election.<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Shel Silverstein is a brilliant author and artist whose words and pictures will be a staple in my children's lives. In his book, <i>The Missing Piece</i>, he writes of a creature in search of something missing within himself. Once he finds this piece, he discovers that his happiness was in the search, not in having what he wanted. The valuable lesson here is that if we are too satisfied or complete, there is not much need for interaction with the outside world. If we have all the answers, if there is nothing to learn, what's the point in living?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">An election year is always going to cause nervousness among citizens because we all know how those we elect can make decisions that can likely trickle down to affect our daily lives. Some of us have experienced it in negative ways, some of us haven't been affected enough to be too concerned. This is the first election year where I'm not as concerned as I used to be, and my reason is because I know that the world's problems will not be resolved when our only choices are two very flawed parties with candidates more concerned with representing their party than the people. I have read a lot lately regarding many current heated political issues, and the comments on these articles are as educational as the articles themselves.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">But the main discouragement for me came when I realized that the passionate ones are unfortunately the oblivious ones. I don't just mean oblivious of the facts, which is very common. I mean oblivious of the person. If someone has disagreed with me on what I believe about something, what I would like is for that person to ask me why. Ask me what my story is. Ask for the reason behind why I believe what you think is wrong. If you make it your goal to love me more than you love your ideals, you will be surprised to find your ideals make more sense. If you make the person your concern and put the issue aside, you will find understanding. You will understand the person, and when you discover their reasons and their values, you will understand yourself. And through that, you will understand the issue much better. There is no way to lose when you put people above politics. Because if you don't care about the people, than what are you fighting for?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Another discouragement is the pride among many in these discussions. I don't care how much you've read or how many people you've talked to, there is still something you don't know. Part of what it means to be human is to be limited. Limited in our understanding, our views, our sight, our knowledge. There is always something you will not get, because there is always someone whose mind doesn't work the way yours does. There is always someone who has experiences you will never have. There is always someone who will never be able to express their passions in a language you both understand. When you recognize that, you have no choice but to make concessions for others in their beliefs. You cannot argue what you do not know. But if you care more about the person than about being right, your relationships will be better, and what is your life if you have none of those? </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Please remember above all else that while our political figures affect our lives, they are not the ones who will be bringing you meals when your loved ones have gone or when you've lost your job. I believe that what goes on in the government is worth our attention and our voices, but when what they do affects you, they are not the ones who will be there for you when you have to deal with it. It is your neighbors, your family, your coworkers, your friends. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I know there is much to learn and much in my current beliefs to cause concern among some, but I don't have everything figured out, and I don't ever intend to. But I will keep learning and I will keep asking questions and I will keep searching, and if I'm right, then that's just wonderful. If I'm wrong, I'll keep learning. </span>rebekahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03561086505390745572noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7119187018790049857.post-58766323724115975852012-06-14T22:03:00.001-05:002013-08-26T17:25:15.036-05:00'i just believe in putting kindness into the universe'<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Three and a
half weeks of travels, and I still don't feel like I've seen the world. I
guess this hunger is only temporarily satisfied like my normal daily
hungers. I love every new experience now that it's all in hindsight, but
I was all too ready to return. And I surprised even myself with that.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I
think often of what makes life full and meaningful. And what I just did
certainly ranks at the top of that. But I fear that many will too
quickly assume extravagance and heavy expense are necessary. But
truthfully, fullness is, the majority of the time, found in candles and
fresh flowers. Food prepared by familiar hands. Live musical sounds.
Invigorating conversation by those drunk on the excitement of being
together. An afghan and the written word. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I
find my life unsettling in its awkward position of the in-between.
Contentment and desire. I choose always to be happy where I am, but I
always want more. I always want to see something else while I want to
stay home and sleep.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And
now, two weeks after those travels have ended, I can't believe that so
much of what I have been working toward has finally happened, and I'm
left with the only thing I know how to do now, which is to ask: now
what? There are too many things that I want to do in my time in this
world, and I've mentioned many of them here before. But if there's
anything I have to do, it is to keep writing. And through that I will
hopefully find a way to all those other things that I want. I would love
to one day lose myself in the titles of librarian, teacher, editor,
writer, bookseller. But at the same time, I have piles of yarn,
cookbooks rarely opened, journals still unfamiliar to the pen, a guitar
case collecting dust, tennis balls somewhere, and I swore to myself that
I would learn to french braid and drive a manual before I died. I would
also like to master chess and sourdough bread. I have patterns and
fabric waiting for me, and if I believe about the world the things I say
I believe about the world, I better learn how to make my own living.
And I mean make my own money as well as make my own food and clothes and
gardens and sugar scrub. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">That
was a bit of a rave. But it brings me to my next point which is a bit
of encouragement. Go to your local farmer's market before you make a
trip to Walmart. When your clothing rips, don't buy new ones right away.
Make a friend who has a sewing machine. When you meet your <i>copains</i>, don't go out to eat, make a mess in somebody's kitchen.
If your house is stuffy, try to plant something before you pay too much
money for the Febreze plug-in. These are only a few of the many places
and moments where community sprouts, and through that, I believe one can
find that life is full, because everything you think you need and all
the things you weren't aware you needed are hidden there.</span>rebekahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03561086505390745572noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7119187018790049857.post-62885027620768540012012-04-04T18:24:00.000-05:002013-08-26T17:25:28.534-05:00When we had winter in July<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">it's heavy today</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">this sense of loss</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">the dark of the sky</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">and the cold of the brick</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">and the coarse, brown grass</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">remind me of your constant absence</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">though you left on a sunny summer day. </span>rebekahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03561086505390745572noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7119187018790049857.post-73950324627988742122012-03-28T11:24:00.003-05:002013-08-26T17:25:53.537-05:00Poverty 101 by Martha FrizLanger<div style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>A note from the poet:</b> Two years ago, our church opened
its doors and began serving meals to our community. The immense and
overwhelming feelings I felt scared me and so I penned them in this
poem. Working with the poor among us has been eye-opening and has really
pushed me to re-evaluate my thinking and life, for which I am immensely
grateful.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">
<i><i><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I hate poverty</span></i></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"> <i><i>and I blame the poor</i></i><br /> <i><i>with their unclean bodies</i></i><br /> <i><i>their stale sweat smell</i></i><br /> <i><i>their tabacco breath</i></i><br /> <i><i>their rotting teeth</i></i><br /> <i><i>their unkempt clothes</i></i><br /> <i><i>their self inflicted tattoos</i></i><br /> <i><i>their unshaved chins</i></i><br /> <i><i>their lack of manners</i></i><br /> <i><i>their constant need</i></i><br /><br /> <i><i>I hate poverty </i></i><br /> <i><i>and I blame my mom</i></i><br /> <i><i>with her tapes in my head</i></i><br /> <i><i>saying, "Go anyway</i></i><br /> <i><i>Do what is right</i></i><br /> <i><i>Put on the mask</i></i><br /> <i><i>Smile and engage</i></i><br /> <i><i>Start conversation</i></i><br /> <i><i>Control your thoughts </i></i><br /> <i><i>Sit at their table</i></i><br /> <i><i>'til it comes naturally"</i></i><br /><br /> <i><i>I hate poverty </i></i><br /> <i><i>and I blame myself</i></i><br /> <i><i>as I judge on the inside</i></i><br /> <i><i>and feign interest</i></i> outside<br /> <i><i>as I secretly mock</i></i><br /> <i><i>and puff up my righteousness</i></i><br /> <i><i>as I believe deep down</i></i><br /> <i><i>I'm above, they're below</i></i><br /> <i><i>as I look at the clock</i></i><br /> <i><i>and hope this encounter will end soon</i></i><br /> <i><i>as I lie, lie, lie</i></i><br /><br /> <i><i>I hate poverty </i></i><br /> <i><i>and now I blame her</i></i>---<br /> <i><i>the one across the table</i></i>---<br /> <i><i>who claims she recognizes me</i></i><br /> <i><i>"Aren't you your mother's daughter?</i></i><br /> <i><i>Isn't she my cousin?"</i></i><br /> <i><i>How can I sit here</i></i><br /> <i><i>at the table of judgment</i></i><br /> <i><i>when the woman sharing bread</i></i><br /> <i><i>is my kin</i></i><br /> <i><i>offering me hospitality?</i></i><br /><br /> <i><i>I hate poverty</i></i><br /> <i><i>and I blame you, Jesus</i></i><br /> <i><i>as you bless the poor</i></i><br /> <i><i>and invite me in</i></i><br /> <i><i>and wash my feet</i></i><br /> <i><i>and offer me bread</i></i><br /> <i><i>and look at me</i></i><br /> <i><i>when I deny you</i></i><br /> <i><i>"No, I don't know him."</i></i><br /> <i><i>or ask </i></i><br /> <i><i>"Am I my brother's keeper?"</i></i><br /><br /> <i><i>I hate poverty</i></i></span></i> </div>
rebekahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03561086505390745572noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7119187018790049857.post-30117061206510800202012-02-27T12:03:00.006-06:002013-08-26T17:26:07.476-05:00I had a dream<span style="font-family: courier new;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">"I was a little girl<br />alone in my little world<br />who dreamed of a little home for me<br /><br />I played pretend between the trees<br />and fed my houseguests bark and leaves<br />and laughed in my pretty bed of green<br /><br />I had a dream<br />that I could fly from the highest swing<br />I had a dream"<br /><br />I discovered this song in mid-June of last year, loving it so much and listening to it on repeat. It was in my head all through my time in Zambrano, and I hummed it to myself constantly.<br /><br />The song reminds me of when I was a small lass of ten, and I used to roam the green pastures of my childhood and daydream... I remember when my life was simpler, though it didn't seem that way then. And I'm all too certain that in another ten years I'll look back on my life now and perceive it to be simpler now. I will only gain more in the way of knowledge and understanding as I grow older, and that makes the mess of my mind feel so much . . . messier. But of all the new things that I learn, one thing that I'm realizing more and more since I've left my teens is that the things that were at the forefront of my everyday ideas of what mattered really don't matter at all. Like the amassing of things. The need for a lot of money. The plans every child unknowingly makes that involve good grades so they can get into a good college so they can get a good education so they can get a good job so they can make good money so they can have a good family so they can raise good kids to get good grades to go to a good college and so on.<br /><br />The American Dream is something I'm looking at and wondering if it aligns at all with the dream Jesus had. It is defined as the opportunity for prosperity and success according to ability and achievement, and I'm not so sure that's exactly what Jesus had in mind. It's not a sin to own your own home, but Jesus was homeless. It's not a sin to work hard to provide income, but Jesus lived entirely off of the generosity of others (specifically rich wives, but that's beside the point). When I look at the system that has been set in place as industry and time swiftly proceed, I begin to wonder if the faces that are left behind were worth the price. And I shutter when I think that I have been a part of leaving those faces behind.<br /><br />I look at the food in my pantry, and I wonder whose hands were responsible for growing what made that food. And do those hands get to rest as often as mine do? I look at the clothes in my closet, and I wonder whose child's hands were responsible for putting them together. And did I really need half of those clothes? Many of us would look at our full closets and pantries, and we think we are blessed, but when I realize that these blessings were borne on the backs of cheap labor and exploited humans, I begin to wonder if they are really blessings at all. God has blessed America, we say, but by torturing the workers of other countries? I have realized that my failure as a Christian was not so much that I bought a cup of coffee, not sure who was rightfully paid for it or that I have helped to keep Old Navy in business. My failure was that I succumbed to the belief that this is the only way of living. This is what is offered to me, so I have to take it.<br /><br />And I then realize that an even deeper failure exists beneath all that. It is the failure to believe that as a being of God's image, I have the ability to create, meaning that my imagination is to reflect God's imagination. I have failed to believe that God's imagination for how we are to live is way bigger than, and not limited to the ways of living that are so infused into our society. I have been given new eyes to see that the way of Jesus is possible without leaving others behind, with our scraps and leftovers - if we've left any. Jesus had a dream where the kingdom that he was/is building would be a kingdom open to everyone, and that has to start with me. Everyone deserves a full life, and so much is required for that: food, education, medicine, friendship. There is no reason why everyone in the world cannot have that other than those who have too much will not give to those who have none. I read once that the only way to make poverty history is to make affluence history. I don't need ten coats and thirty sweaters. Especially when the majority of my neighbors have none.<br /><br />I would like very much to wake up every day and commit to a different path. A path that excludes taking part in a lifestyle that has abused someone else along the way. And I know that I will fail many times. I will still buy Hershey's chocolate at some point, I will still pay four dollars for a cup of coffee, and I may buy a garment at Wal-Mart. But what I have decided for today is that I'm tired of stuff. And I really don't ever need what I think I need. What I need is to extend my hand as it holds what I've been given, and offer what I know to the sweatshop workers in Honduras who made my hoodie, or to the immigrant farmers in Florida who put the orange juice in my fridge, or to the many, many children who can't get to school because they can't afford the uniforms or the supplies. The world that Jesus dreamed of does not have to be the world I live in, and I certainly won't succeed in making it that world when I'm still stuck believing that the old way is the only way. While I miss being ten years old, and my biggest concerns were how much I hated it when people still called me "little," I am glad that my dreams have expanded as my knowledge has expanded, and I can't say for sure that I'd like to go back.<br /><br />My dream now is that I will be able to look at everyone and see the image of my God reflected in them, and I will be able to clasp my hand with theirs, not as an American, but as a Christian, a sister whose familial love exceeds national, economic, societal, and racial borders.</span></span>rebekahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03561086505390745572noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7119187018790049857.post-34430335642374417322012-01-30T22:07:00.006-06:002013-08-26T17:26:33.481-05:00love sorrow<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik7G6tjnzNFVb1YwKUGC_w49iswl-wlwd7qzo2Ciu6F7WDnz1YaIrYqmIK_CkHbrplufGIGISWn0JptOeOeX3c56mmdY3xHfVIkRLlkyOwPq0Ho7G_p2Jmfwaysy0DzMxA_Rty9fen9aen/s1600/iStock_000011462234XSmall.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5704020033671414130" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik7G6tjnzNFVb1YwKUGC_w49iswl-wlwd7qzo2Ciu6F7WDnz1YaIrYqmIK_CkHbrplufGIGISWn0JptOeOeX3c56mmdY3xHfVIkRLlkyOwPq0Ho7G_p2Jmfwaysy0DzMxA_Rty9fen9aen/s320/iStock_000011462234XSmall.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; float: right; height: 212px; margin: 0 0 10px 10px; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The times are hard, they always say. The days are dark and bleak. And the world greets us every day broken and splintered. And one by one, the grievances accumulate. The sharp edges of shattered ideals and wishes. The realization that the love lost is never coming back. The grey skies that wake you in the morning instead of your faithful sun. The thought that your efforts were futile. The pain of knowing your feelings meant nothing. The loneliness of being left behind or forgotten. The weight of your chosen path. The confusion at why you are where you are and not somewhere better.<br /><br />And the worst of it all is that the desire to make something of it has left with your optimism. The desire to use the tears to water and heal the dry ground. To use the darkness as a much needed prayer closet. To continue the momentum of tearing down the much-tended-to dreams you once had so something bigger and better can be built. How does one believe in a God that only means good for the world when good has yet to find you? And how do you find that good when the bad walls up so strongly around you?<br /><br />But when I look through the backpack of my past and I see the tear-stained pages and the smeared words, I realize so much more than the fact that I made it through. I realize that each moment of despondency was only one of the many dots that form a connected line to get me here. And here is also just another dot.<br /><br />We know that a person can all too easily become so absorbed with an end goal that the present is all too forgotten. And so our teachers and self-help books counter with the urge to live in the present and enjoy the moment. But just like all the other pieces of life advice, this one too becomes a pendulum. It is all about the journey, they say.<br /><br />No it is not. Didn't your teacher tell you to NEVER use universals? To imply that ALL meaning is in the travel alone will also teach that the destination is either dramatically lessened in importance or completely erased of it. My journey is important, but it is still a journey, meaning that there is still a goal, and I cannot lose my concern for it.<br /><br />Although, I will do my best to revel in my circumstances. That's all I can do. And my bad days cannot be excluded from that. 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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Love sorrow. She is yours now, and you must<br />take care of what has been<br />given. Brush her hair, help her<br />into her little coat, hold her hand,<br />especially when crossing a street. For, think,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">what if you should lose her? Then you would be<br />sorrow yourself; her drawn face, her sleeplessness<br />would be yours. Take care, touch<br />her forehead that she feel herself not so</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">utterly alone. And smile, that she does not<br />altogether forget the world before the lesson.<br />Have patience in abundance. And do not<br />ever lie or ever leave her even for a moment</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">by herself, which is to say, possibly, again,<br />abandoned. She is strange, mute, difficult,<br />sometimes unmanageable but, remember, she is a child.<br />And amazing things can happen. And you may see, </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">as the two of you go<br />walking together in the morning light, how<br />little by little she relaxes; she looks about her;<br />she begins to grow. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">-Mary Oliver, <span style="font-style: italic;">Red Bird</span></span></span></div>
rebekahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03561086505390745572noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7119187018790049857.post-82905159214060710702011-12-14T21:58:00.004-06:002013-08-26T17:26:58.407-05:00"It is a solemn thing for a soul to grow ripe"<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">a wise poet by the name of Emily Dickinson once claimed.<br /><br />Solemn, indeed. However, I wonder how one gets to the point of recognizing when this happens. How can one know when he is done growing? I could think of nothing more disappointing than the idea that I will one day reach a point in my life where I have done all I can do, I have seen all I can see,and I have reached all I can reach. There are so many moments in my life where perfection, or at least what I believe at the time is perfection, is sweet. And then something changes. The wind makes the shadows dance a little more lively. The sun makes the water sparkle a little more vibrantly. The company makes me laugh a little more hysterically. The thought that it doesn't get any better is soon dispelled as what is sweet soon becomes that much sweeter.<br /><br />I lie in bed wide awake in the middle of the day thinking that some things are too good to be true. How can things be so wonderful after so many trials of heart's pain in which I wondered if anything would ever be lovely for me after my first realizations that life can be terrible and hurt is inevitable?<br /><br />Around this time last year, I was alone at my aunt's house, down the road from my home, overlooking a large lake late at night. I remember it being strangely warm as it is now, and I was curled up in the rocking chair of her front porch under a blanket, pondering life as one should always do when he or she is in the middle of nowhere under the stars. I was in the initial stages of falling for someone which unfortunately includes the hurt of not having such feelings returned which is due to the uncertainty of how to get to that point if one is so lucky. This of course led to so many other questions I had about life, and I wrote a letter to God with my questions and ponderings. 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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Remember when I was a child, and I trusted you with everything? When I knew, beyond doubt, that you would make sure my desires were met. My heart was untouched by the prickly caress of sorrow, and my mind was incomprehensive of death’s routine visits, and my eyes would twinkle with Tomorrow’s dreams. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And then I learned that I would get hurt. I learned that I would get betrayed and left and broken. I learned that sorrow wants to be my friend. And then I wonder how, after everything I’ve seen and known and done, any of the beautiful things I once wanted could ever be real for me. I wonder how any of that will ever happen for me.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-style: italic;">I wonder how I will love without fear of being left. I wonder how I will love without thoughts of failing. I wonder how I will be loved with all I’ve done. I wonder, who could ever take all of me? Who could really be in love with all that I am?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Regardless of who you are and how your life progresses, death will eventually make an entrance into your life. There is nothing that can be done to prevent it. Childhood will come to an end with a death of some kind. And when that happens, it is hard to continue with hope in dreams. When sorrow jars your focus, it can be overwhelming to think you can return it to its original point of view on the world. The one that believed it was good and bright and held nothing but the best things in life for you. We all know that to return to it just like that is impossible, but that does not mean such ideas become untrue.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And truer still, you cannot appreciate the sweetness of the ripeness unless you know what bitterness tastes like. You cannot find yourself lying in bed midday with a smile at yourself because you feel so purely content unless you have been unhappy. I don't want to erase the hurts if that is how I got to be here. I welcome the changes it brought in me, for I love who I am and where I am, and I couldn't if I didn't know the sorrow of things never being the way they were. For a soul to grow ripe, it cannot go back.</span></div>
rebekahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03561086505390745572noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7119187018790049857.post-42020819019343310642011-11-27T14:40:00.003-06:002011-11-27T14:42:21.936-06:00Well said.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgNaQVaShyU7hmJyaoHE7kL5_S7BU8klBtNmHpvJJp_raK0SIu6GgyWZuXcFvqhFdpL8wF-U-EpvH6mPON-M7bhHJbf1e80Ns-agHR5R6K1cC8lRyLcoHIcbuomRZKs2uMvW1M8hn8W1Cs/s1600/389813_238897839511531_217514361649879_670973_1699252096_n.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgNaQVaShyU7hmJyaoHE7kL5_S7BU8klBtNmHpvJJp_raK0SIu6GgyWZuXcFvqhFdpL8wF-U-EpvH6mPON-M7bhHJbf1e80Ns-agHR5R6K1cC8lRyLcoHIcbuomRZKs2uMvW1M8hn8W1Cs/s320/389813_238897839511531_217514361649879_670973_1699252096_n.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5679778436344788194" border="0" /></a>rebekahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03561086505390745572noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7119187018790049857.post-36276643994184591062011-11-07T21:35:00.005-06:002013-08-26T17:27:44.398-05:00A woman is often measured...<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPk7KjTPkHGyRkq3FmNbATO9-__B4rX0wjW1nrOudxqurrpz10QkZ53cMdl4wvzJGytVNsm2pTQrxC2My5gKNwDuhZcHJmCR2T6Wit7Ok5RkTuhsceEfyMm9SLy1DmWkfkuD_ulcjUCVa8/s1600/100_7595+-+Copy.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><img alt="" border="0" height="300" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5672468637513568962" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPk7KjTPkHGyRkq3FmNbATO9-__B4rX0wjW1nrOudxqurrpz10QkZ53cMdl4wvzJGytVNsm2pTQrxC2My5gKNwDuhZcHJmCR2T6Wit7Ok5RkTuhsceEfyMm9SLy1DmWkfkuD_ulcjUCVa8/s400/100_7595+-+Copy.JPG" style="display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" width="400" /></span></a><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNOGDbZAWGjYx4XD2BZj-E7stZN4rQAwbaGjPFs3dTxSIhMY7Z9mYcWEw1raxYBHUgp2OJcK_899UzZcNl-kXaCtA_j6t4kusSGzFXNmf19Djm2Nzt2rfEFC2QOEDWP2d7W0WR_uhXReRR/s1600/100_7653.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></a>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSy0ee_Z6mPT0_u1Rkb3pm0BTJQmx-ZVrCOjhK0pBr5jV2pDWpWwPeMDHxBYEoXKYjzqWrPTWaCT3nzM8k6vJDDsnVqpKSIIjfBo12ScmqM7N4mDiu64Iif-FHWDm7ql6U8u8FeQKeD9_p/s1600/100_7595+-+Copy.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></a>
<span style="font-family: courier new;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">by the things she cannot control. She is measured by the way her body curves or doesn't curve. By where she is flat or straight or round. She is measured by 36-24-36 and inches and ages and numbers. By all the outside things that don't ever add up to who she is on the inside. And so if a woman is to be measured, let her be measured by the things she can control. By who she is and who she is trying to become because as every woman knows, measurements are only statistics and <span style="font-weight: bold;">STATISTICS LIE</span>.<br /><br />~unknown<br /></span></span>rebekahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03561086505390745572noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7119187018790049857.post-60109825182535341242011-10-19T22:14:00.002-05:002013-08-26T17:28:00.422-05:00When you build bridges you can keep crossing them.<span style="font-family: courier new;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Did they tell you, you should grow up</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">when you wanted to dream? </span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Did they tell you, better shape up</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">if you want to succeed?</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">I don't know about you,</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">who are they talking to?</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">They aren't talking to me.<br /></span>No noise but the clothes in the dryer. No movement but the dancing shadows from the lone candle's flame. No company, but the warmth of my coffee mug rapidly escaping as the drink is consumed. Lonely evenings can only mean one thing: ponderings about life and questions about who I am(in case you're unfamiliar with this routine).<br /><br />How is it possible to miss something you've never had?<br /><br />I can remember being 8 or 9 years old when my mother taught my brother how to do his laundry when he was 12. Her thinking was that if my sister could learn to do it when she was his age, it was time for him to learn. I felt left out and demanded that she show me how to do my own laundry too. I also remember having my own ideas, from a very early age, of what a home should be like if it were to be in order. I don't really ever remember a time, once my awareness exceeded myself, where I wasn't picking up after people, cleaning up after people, putting their things away, keeping things in shape, telling everyone what to do. It wasn't long before I was dubbed by my siblings, "Mama Bekah."<br /><span style="font-style: italic;"></span><br />"Mama Bekah has spoken!" they would say. It was their own way of humoring me by making me think I really did have a say in how their attitudes and behaviors would manifest themselves in our home. In my family, you are loved if you are teased and picked on. Because love, to us, means a lot of things including not letting anyone "get the big head," as my brother would say. Sarcasm: it keeps you humble.<br /><br />They would (and continue to) tease me about my homemaking skills (or lack thereof, I got the laundry and cleaning down, but the cooking and sewing need a bit of work). It wasn't that I was terribly bad at any of those things, but they knew this was not all I desired. They knew there was - and is - something inside of me that yearns for adventure, something different, out of the ordinary. My mom always told me that while I can be a predictable, simple-living, practical, safe individual, "there's something in you that longs for the exotic." They taunted me with these ideas of what a good little homemaker I would be, knowing the idea bothered me just a tad, somewhere in the back of my mind, in a room I hadn't found the way to yet.<br /><br />I have many dreams. They have each found their paths to a home in my heart over the years in their own special ways. They accumulate one by one with each new experience I have and each new love I acquire. Some have stayed with me consistently, some have bloomed, withered, and died. But the one dream, that has had neither a beginning, nor an end, just a constant existence in my basic makeup as a person, was to be a mom. The teasing about how I always have to keep things together for people...it stuck with me. Somewhere deep down, I knew that while it was completely ridiculous for me to think as a ten-year-old that I should be able to run the lives of my siblings, those inclinations and desires came from a place within me that simply wants to make everything better for others. This thing in me that wants to solve your problems and clean up after you and make sure you're safe and watch out for you so you don't hurt yourself. This thing in me that just wants everything to be okay for you. The mother instinct. Even now with kids not 5, 6, or 7 years younger than myself, I have this uncontrollable urge to take care of them. To bake bread for them and be there for them and drive them places and look out for them. I don't know why, but I just love them too much. I know with absolute certainty that I would do anything for any of them at any time of day. Because that's who I am and that's what I was meant to do. It's what I want to do.<br /><br />The dilemma I make of it is whether or not I can do that along with all the other things I want to do. I feel an expectation that if I don't fulfill all these dreams because of this original desire, than I have not reached my potential as a woman. And I must admit, I do worry about that sometimes. But if I had to give up everything for this one dream, I would. I just don't believe God would ask me to. For what can I offer my children of myself if there is no self to give? If I have allowed my personal identity to be dissolved into the role of a mom, who will they have as a mom? I have no problem with the idea of sacrificing. I will gladly do that for the opportunity of motherhood. I just have a problem with losing myself completely.<br /><br />I do long for the exotic. I do fear a life of never getting away. But after a time, I wouldn't mind it. As much as I want to do all the things I want to do, there's something appealing and endearing to the idea of sitting on a couch folding sheets and towels.</span></span>rebekahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03561086505390745572noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7119187018790049857.post-2386293837912309062011-10-06T18:21:00.003-05:002013-08-26T17:28:20.157-05:00A statement of belief... about things.<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">An interesting discussion took place in the after-class chatty moments of walking out the door with my beloved professor (easily among the list of top ten women who inspire me) and another classmate. It began over a discussion of some uneducated comments someone made on someone else's Facebook status. It led me to thinking about how many times an opinion has been made known and responded to with absolute harshness and opposition before ever being fully understood or clarified.<br /><br />Now, while I don't always support the sharing of feelings through a Facebook status update, I do realize that we are all different, and sometimes events and emotions swell up to the point that the venue in which a person expresses such welling up can't always be thought through. A time and a place, and all. I understand. One of the things my professor said after class was that it shocked her how easily people can get angry over someone who disagrees with him or her. And it is shocking, not just in the area of social networks, but in life in general. People cannot realize or accept the fact that the world is not full of humans who agree with each other and with themselves on every area and every angle in every perspective of every issue relating to every kind of human being in every culture of every standing and background. And thank God for that.<br /><br />Another thing she said was that people who don't understand such opinions and statements of belief and respond in such passionate ignorance are uneducated because the only other people they talk to are ones who think and believe exactly the same way they do. And so they are merely reflecting and regurgitating each other. Iron cannot sharpen iron if they are not opposing each other. You will not grow if you are never opposed.<br /><br />My requests for humankind (for today):<br />1: Please do not personally debate disagreements over religious and political issues through a social network of any kind (or texting, while we're at it). It is impersonal, cold, and somewhat cowardly.<br /><br />2:Please know what you're talking about.<br /><br />3:Please, please know what you're talking about.<br /><br />4:If you insist on writing out your feelings, please spell your words completely. In other words, the second person pronoun needs all three of its letters. We are intelligent human beings, and the laziness of not adding two more characters to a word is unacceptable.<br /><br />5:Please understand that the world is also not full of humans who are out to attempt with every action and word to destroy your belief system and tear down your values. Some, like myself, are curious, passionate ponderers who simply want to know more. We will never know more unless we understand those who are not of our school of thought. When we ask questions, when we challenge your statements, it is for the purpose of challenging ourselves in order to expand our understanding beyond what it is.<br /><br />So stand up to your statements when challenged because I want to be smarter.</span>rebekahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03561086505390745572noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7119187018790049857.post-73242497810746286062011-10-04T10:13:00.005-05:002013-08-26T17:28:44.993-05:00The basis of art is truth, both in matter and in mode. -Flannery<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8_OmpTDHShKAqdkRy-XBk-rNcByopCH7tIqy-FjWpgKGC19NUo_wTU0y2tmKbHKDB8UecTUt6lfZp4egbT88VXV4Q6-g_tpTUMa421B_WL-oThsjKlVCCC1mKPr2yhyphenhyphen-viLr8vI3FO4Xp/s1600/Love_of_the_written_word_Wallpaper__yvt2.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5659677752217513922" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8_OmpTDHShKAqdkRy-XBk-rNcByopCH7tIqy-FjWpgKGC19NUo_wTU0y2tmKbHKDB8UecTUt6lfZp4egbT88VXV4Q6-g_tpTUMa421B_WL-oThsjKlVCCC1mKPr2yhyphenhyphen-viLr8vI3FO4Xp/s1600/Love_of_the_written_word_Wallpaper__yvt2.jpg" style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></a><br />
<br /><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">It has always been a dream of mine to work as a librarian. The idea of living and working every single day in a world consumed with books is one of the most thrilling vocations I can imagine. My picture of heaven includes a lot of things, but one in particular is an endless shelf full of books. Kind of like the library the Beast showed Belle. It makes me giddy inside.<br /><br />I bought a Kindle. I'm not ashamed. I have a reason for it and I have justified it in my mind, so no worries. But I will never give up the feel of binding and paper between my hands. I will never give up the ink stains on my thumbs or the cramps in my finger joints from being strained in the same position of balancing an open book. I will never give up my library card. I don't care whether people read only from hard copies or only from digital formats. I care that they read.<br /><br />Some people are not readers, and while I accept that, I just don't understand it. I feel like there is a laziness of sorts at the root of it. Literacy is a gift, a privilege. People don't realize that there still are classes and societies and cultures where the ability to read is not as prominent as the class, society and culture in which I find myself. The choice to not read, I believe, is to forfeit the chance to expand the horizons of one's mind, the perimeters of one's understanding. Knowledge is power in many senses, and reading is the basis of how knowledge is attained for oneself. The written word is a gift. Literature is an eternal conversation, in a way, and by reading and writing, we add to that conversation. We make our voices heard by writing as well as listening to the voices of others by reading.<br /><br />Some people are avid readers, some people simply read books. It is not important what pace a person goes in reading or what amount a person reads. Some people like to go slow, some like to flit through the pages. All modes are for various reasons. And that doesn't even really matter. It matters to me (and to every reader and writer) that the word simply be read.<br /><br />So. Read.</span>rebekahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03561086505390745572noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7119187018790049857.post-59313751385492639692011-09-29T09:45:00.005-05:002013-08-26T17:28:59.941-05:00anticipation<span style="font-family: courier new;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">it's a funny feeling<br />the anxiousness of seeing you<br />the nervousness of knowing<br />i get to soon be near you<br /><br />and how strange it is<br />that when i finally am<br />it all goes away<br />i'm completely comfortable<br /><br /></span></span>rebekahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03561086505390745572noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7119187018790049857.post-56749620165283540032011-09-26T21:33:00.003-05:002013-08-26T17:29:14.792-05:00this is just to say<h6 class="uiStreamMessage" face="courier new" ft="{"type":1}">
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">"Nobody tells this to people who are beginners, I wish someone told me. All of us who do creative work, we get into it because we have good taste. But there is this gap. For the first couple years you make stuff, it’s just not that good. It’s trying to be good, it has potential, but it’s not. But your taste, the thing that got you into the game, is still killer. And your taste is why your work disappoints you. A lot of people never get past this phase, they quit. Most people I know who do interesting, creative work went through years of this. We know our work doesn’t have this special thing that we want it to have. We all go through this. And if you are just starting out or you are still in this phase, you gotta know its normal and the most important thing you can do is do a lot of work. Put yourself on a deadline so that every week you will finish one story. It is only by going through a volume of work that you will close that gap, and your work will be as good as your ambitions. And I took longer to figure out how to do this than anyone I’ve ever met. It’s gonna take awhile. It’s normal to take awhile. You’ve just gotta fight your way through."</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">-unknown</span>rebekahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03561086505390745572noreply@blogger.com0