Message for you on the wayside

"It is a solemn thing for a soul to grow ripe"

2011-12-14T21:58:00.004-06:00

a wise poet by the name of Emily Dickinson once claimed.

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.

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?

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. To give an excerpt:

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

Well said.

2011-11-27T14:40:00.003-06:00

A woman is often measured...

2011-11-07T21:35:00.005-06:00

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 STATISTICS LIE.

~unknown

When you build bridges you can keep crossing them.

2011-10-19T22:14:00.002-05:00

Did they tell you, you should grow up
when you wanted to dream?
Did they tell you, better shape up
if you want to succeed?
I don't know about you,
who are they talking to?
They aren't talking to me.

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).

How is it possible to miss something you've never had?

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."

"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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

A statement of belief... about things.

2011-10-06T18:21:00.003-05:00

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.

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.

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.

My requests for humankind (for today):
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.

2:Please know what you're talking about.

3:Please, please know what you're talking about.

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.

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.

So stand up to your statements when challenged because I want to be smarter.

The basis of art is truth, both in matter and in mode. -Flannery

2011-10-04T10:13:00.005-05:00

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.

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.

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.

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.

So. Read.

anticipation

2011-09-29T09:45:00.005-05:00

it's a funny feeling
the anxiousness of seeing you
the nervousness of knowing
i get to soon be near you

and how strange it is
that when i finally do
it all goes away
i'm completely comfortable

this is just to say

2011-09-26T21:33:00.003-05:00

"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."

-unknown

"you cannot discover new oceans unless you have the courage to lose sight of the shore"

2011-08-28T14:43:00.007-05:00

Sometimes when I sit under the giant pecan tree branches on the patio in a breeze that moves the wind chimes to produce a soundtrack for such a moment in my life, talking to my mother, I almost feel like my problems and pressing responsibilities are nonexistent.

This has been a summer quite unlike any other in my life, and I have lived fully every possible extreme emotion that could be felt by someone whose life is less than tragic. It has been one of the fullest summers of my life in that, looking back, I find it hard to believe I was able to cram as much into it as I did. I have gone to school, left the country, road tripped quite a bit, worked hard, changed residences, applied for graduation, and finally became THAT girl who gets to figure out what "call you sometime" means. I feel like I have stretched myself to great lengths for everyone, and like I don't deserve any of the wonderful people in my life whose wonderfulness has put me in awe.

Many months ago, I fell for someone. As to how far, I still don't quite know since I have yet to find a landing. I dread it because I don't know if it will be firmly on my feet, unharmed or flat on my face, injured. I have transitioned into different phases of various friendships, some good, some not-so-great. I have also learned more about what I need to do to change who I am for the better than I ever have before. And last night, I was immersed and practically drowned in music that I missed so much. Let me tell you about sitting and listening to someone else play so loudly that everything is drowned out: it is also a lovely thing in that it too can convince you for just a short while that all other problems and responsibilities are completely gone from your life.

I want to believe that these pieces will be put together to make sense of something soon, but all I know right now is this (and I quote my darling capstone professor): "starting in October, it's gonna be hell, pretty much." So when the research and papers and annotated bibliographies and rough drafts and presentations and portfolios and late nights and crying mates and piles of dirty laundry/dishes and procrastinated grocery store trips begin to overtake me and suffocate me, I shall be seeking out those tunes.

And thus the whirligig of time brings in his revenges.

2011-08-22T15:31:00.002-05:00

~Twelfth Night Act 5, scene 1

Oh my teachers are so inspiring. I want to be like all of them. Today in poetry workshop, we talked about authenticity. We read essays by poets who pondered this idea and how it is expressed through writings. The artist faces many dilemmas, but one in particular that I want to discuss is the dilemma of authenticity. To be authentic is a tough thing because you have to decide how you're going to do it. We think authenticity is genuineness and using your own voice, and that's true. But as a writer, you have to be authentic to your audience. You have to take into account what your readers want, since you are, after all, writing for them. But the way that this authenticity fails is when the writer forgets that while his product has to appeal to someone, it still has to maintain its appeal to him.

My poetry has gone through workshops and conferences and critiques and forums, and everyone from friends, students, teachers and strangers have all had their say in what should be done with it and how it can be best revised, and that is needed. It is a well-known fact that nothing beautiful can be generated without the input of fresh eyes and ears who have no bias to your work. But as artists, it is a common downfall to get so caught up in what other people want, that we forget the most important thing which is that our work has to have value to us. My poems need to mean something to me, and if I sell out to the point that I'm only including or adding what others think should be there when I know deep down, because I know my poems better than anyone, that I am destroying the soul of the poem, I have gone too far.

Dear ones, I must inform you of something. I feel like God is trying to tell me something. For so long, I have lived under the guidance and supervision of others. And this is a good thing which I have no intention of disrupting. But it has to change. I have realized that I have taken a certain ideal too far. "With many advisers, plans succeed," the proverb says. True, very true. But I am forgetting that it is I who makes the decisions on my life. Those I trust more than anything have golden advice which I appreciate sincerely and take seriously, but I have to recognize that these people are not the sole authority on what is best for me. I'm sure most of you already knew that, and no one (most of the time) has ever given me advice I did not first ask for, so this is a realization more for myself than for (most of) the rest of you. But after asking twenty people what they think I should do, and hearing twenty different responses, I have to accept the fact that it comes down to me. And only me. I decide. I act. I cannot let myself be run by others anymore.

"refuse to leave the best things in life to chance" - daddy

2011-08-13T14:05:00.005-05:00

Today I did something I've never done before. I browsed the internets for job opportunities in teaching English as a second language. Of course, most of the ones I found were immediate, and it would have been nice if I were a year into my future because the one in Czech Republic paid an oh-so-nice salary. I'm excited. This isn't just some distant dream anymore. It's here. And I can go get it. I am seeing the facts come to reality that the world can be mine to subdue and conquer. Oh it brings me so much joy to know that I can do this. I've always known this, but it's an entirely different thing to realize it.

I can honestly say that there has always been within me a desire for other places. I know that's nothing special, every third person in the world has this hunger. And at different times I have different reasons for this desire. A lot of the time, I desire this in order to escape from the messes in which I find myself. I feel that if I can run away, the world I left behind that I messed up can move on, forget about me, and be happy. Sometimes, I'm just tired of the same scenery. Familiarity numbs me sometimes, and that scares me. And at other times, there is no specific reason other than that hunger needs to be satisfied.

I'm changing, y'all. A matter of weeks ago, I decided that I do not have to be a person I'm not happy with. Lauren Graham said, "I feel like the only thing you can do with your choices is be happy with them. Or change them." I like who I am. I always have. But being introverted does not mean that I can't go out there and get me some. I told God I wanted to change, to be made better. And over the past few weeks, I have seen opportunity after opportunity for me to be the active one and confront others as well as myself in order to get what I want or think I need.

What can I give to you but nothing, if nothing is all I have

2011-08-04T17:16:00.003-05:00

Well the day is darkened due to the summer storm that has taken place just now, and the world is ever so lovely still. One of my favorite rainy-day artists is serenading me now, and and the open window is making everything about this moment enjoyable.

You see, I don't ask for much in life. You all well know that I only desire to see as much of the world as is possible for me and to settle down in a comfortable home with a front porch and a swing, windows that open without the barrier of a screen to the world, someone to love and make magic with in whatever art form we have access to, and an ever growing desire to expand the knowledge of what I know and love. A fireplace would be nice. I want contentment and never to lose my thirst for what's over the hill. I truly believe I could be happy wherever I am, as long as I had the chance to trot around first. I don't know. We shall see how this all pans out. The interesting facet to this is that even though my desire to travel has stayed where it was in my heart for as long as I can remember, I am finding that it is not so much about the place as it is the people. I have fallen in deep love with every new place I've visited in my life, but I've realized that the people there with me made up over half of why I was so in love at that time in that place. Though the places were still all special on their own. I don't know how this works or where this will end up. I don't know where I'm going with this. All I can do is keep going.

"Not knowing when the dawn will come, I open every door."

-Emily Dickinson

But I always think that the best way to know God is to love many things.

2011-07-26T15:40:00.004-05:00

Precious lovelies, I have things to say. I heard someone say the other day that all of our dreams will be fulfilled somehow, eventually, at some point throughout our lifetimes, though likely not in the way, shape, form, or time we had originally imagined. But fulfilled, nonetheless. This came as a relief to me, as I have plenty of dreams. Too many to the point that I wonder if any of them will happen in the particular time frames that I desire. But the good news is that I have, more so than ever before, begun to gain a firm handle on who I am. More and more now, I am comfortable with myself, confident of my own dreams, and certain of what I want and who I want it all with. I am reaching a point now, where even though the next few steps are foggy, I am sure of which one I stand on now.

My recent thoughts and ponderings have been centered on graduation and what next and such, among other things. I have plans. Aspirations I'm in the process of reaching. The big ones, Europe, teaching, moving around, travel. Then comes the "what after that?" And truth be told, I'm not sure. It's a case of "what shouldn't I do after that?" I want to do everything. A few days ago, some of my friends brought up the idea of Boston. Boston? I don't know where that came from, but immediately, the thought of it washed over me so pleasantly, I had no reason to turn my nose up at it. Graduate school is also an option. Alabama has a creative writing program that is phenomenal. If I get accepted, full tuition, two additional stipends, and health insurance. Um, yes please. Then seminary. Honestly, if I had known how much I would love the classes in my minor, I would have gone to a school that allowed me to major in it. But I love the W, and I love English just as much. But more than that, at the moment, I want to travel and teach English as a second language. I want to go everywhere. And ultimately, I want to settle down somewhere in a Nashville-ish area (preferably Nashville) in an old house with a big porch for coffee in the mornings, reading during the rain, and jam sessions at night.

And here's the crazy part, y'all. I'm finally beginning to accept that if I want to do something, I can do it. Over the past several months, it's been like a dimmer switch where I finally realized that I don't have to sit here and let things happen TO me and jostle me and my self around. So much great advice has been compiled by my professors over the years, but this one gem will stick to the forefront of my mind: "If you want to do something, then do it! Quit complaining about how you're too old and too much time has gone by." So. It's up to me to make this happen. I will be hurt, I know. But I will find so much more that will make it all worth it. And if I believe I will find that, I will find it.

I just need to get over this hurdle. Whatever mysterious road block that causes me to clench my teeth to the point that my dentist is freaked out, lose hair to the point that my stylist brings it up, and lose weight to the point that I don't really care so much. Why am I this stressed? I don't know. And not knowing is stressing me. I really do feel fine. Relaxed, even. And when I wake up, I don't feel deprived of sleep at all. But I still have that slight pang greeting me in my jaw and gums that say they've been busy while I dreamed.

For some reason, a certain memory has popped up in my mind in recent days. I have had my heart set on Nashville since I was a little girl. Not sure why exactly. It was just one of those things that's always been in the back of my mind. When I graduated high school, my dear aunt took me to this music city for a few days, and I loved it all. But the evening I adored more than anything, was the night we went to the Bluebird Cafe. Seventeen songwriters, y'all. Seventeen. Each one doing two or three songs. My aunt and I had gotten there late, so there were no tables left, and as I was seventeen at the time, we couldn't sit at the bar. So I took my spot on a cabinet behind the hostess stand, and my aunt had the stool in front of it. That was where we ate our food and watched the show for those lovely long hours. I really don't understand why that has been on my thoughts lately, but I do miss it. I miss live music. I want to go find it again. We were happy together once, and maybe we can be happy together again.

Nothing is ever lost to us as long as we remember it

2011-07-14T15:17:00.003-05:00

The days have rolled into a lull. And I am more than okay with this, mostly because I know that this lull will not last. In a matter of weeks I will be back into the routine that I have known and grown to love, a routine that has been mine for nearly four years. It will be the last of this routine for me. Graduation looms on my horizon, and I'm at the point now where I don't know how I feel about it. We've been in this long-distance relationship for a while now, I'm nervous about how well we will be acquainted when we finally meet. I'm excited, though, and I've been waiting and looking ahead this whole time. I know I'll be ready to leave. There may be a pull in my heart towards this place and these years, but there will be no desire to stay.
In every season of my life, I have been as eager to leave when it was over as my heart has been melded to everything associated with it while I was there.

I've never had any trouble attaching myself to people, places, and times. If ever there was any struggle, it was simply in the expressing of such felt attachments. If I could, I would send out a big I LOVE YOU to every soul and moment that so touched my life while I was in its presence. I love you for being gracious in allowing me to be near. In allowing me to sit on your green lawn and cry on your pillowcases under your windowsills. I love you for cooking for me and letting me sleep on your couch and ride with you. I love you for showing me what I didn't know and exposing me to something greater. I love you for holding my hand and paying for my dinner. I love you for laughing with me and at me, and for playing the music for that time of my life. I love you because you know what I don't and see what I don't, and because you love what I'm learning to love. I love you for your smiles and your precious faces. For your innocence and your experience.

It's time to tell about these tales

2011-07-05T09:03:00.004-05:00

Everyone, I completed the first of my world travels in the form of a mission trip, and it was wonderful. For those of you who supported me in the form of prayer and finances and encouragement and advice, I want to do my best to let you know what you did and what you were a part of. Thanks to everyone who contributed, I wish you could know the full extent of what you did, but hopefully this little bit will help.

June 23rd, day 1: We flew out of Jackson to Houston, barely made it on the plane to Tegucigalpa where we arrived at midday sometime (I never had a watch on me). We got to the home of Luis Sorto and his family and were served the first of the most wonderful meals before we went to meet the kids and play soccer. Well, they played soccer. I watched. And the Americans suck. They were no match for ten-year-old Honduran boys.

Everything here was as beautiful as I knew it would be. Before we go any further, let me let you in on who I am. I have always believed that I was meant to spend a time in my life as a nomad of sorts. A world traveler. During these unattached years of my life, I have this constant itch to get out. When I do, usually in the form of road trips with someone I'm related to or best friends with, I always felt the sigh of relief when I returned to my home and my bed because towards the end of the journey I felt a pull back to that place. This time I did not. I love you all immensely, but for the first time, I felt no urge to come back. When I got back, I missed everybody and was glad to be back, but I felt no sigh of relief. This was my first time in a plane, and I was a tad bit nervous getting on that first flight, but it all disappeared immediately. I was meant to do this. I was meant to travel, whatever the purpose. Deep in my heart, I have this dream and desire that I've had for as long as I can remember that involves a front porch and a swing and kids everywhere, kids that belong to me. But a time for everything, right? Anyway, so all that to say that I really did know it was going to be beautiful. I knew that wherever we ended up, I was going to love it because I was meant to do this.

The drive from the airport in Tegucigalpa to Luis's home in Zambrano was crazy, as all Latin American driving is, apparently. I was glad I was so tired I slept the whole way. That was the last time that happened, however, as the bumpy terrain's influence on my tummy did not allow me to sit past the front seat of this 16ish passenger van for the remainder of the trip.

Luis's home was truly a home, and they only made us feel like we belonged. My only objection was the plumbing, and I was grateful when getting back to the States that I didn't have to put the toilet paper in the trash can anymore. And another objection was to me that I didn't know Spanish. How I regretted it. There is nothing worse than having this strong desire to express yourself in the form of communication to these children and to have a language barrier. But they knew no strangers, and they fell in love with everyone, especially Len and Chelvis.

June 24th day 2: We went to a nearby house that Luis was building for someone, and we mixed concrete to lay a floor for the house. This time I really do mean "we" because I picked up that shovel. We had to carry water in 5 gallon buckets from a well at the bottom of the hill and it was heavy. The mixing was probably the easiest, except after a while, Luis told us that two Hondurans would take care of it when it was time for mixing, because two Hondurans could to what it took 8 Americans to do in the same time. Kind of sad, yes. That afternoon, we had our first VBS with the kids in Zambrano, that I led. The format for all these was a short story, some questions, a craft or game, then handing out a snack or something for them to take home. That night I played spades, and I needed my brother.

June 25th day 3: This was the busiest day in that Saturday is church day. We did a VBS that morning, some people helped to pack food bags to give away that afternoon. 500 people typically show up every week. Each of us took over specific areas for Luis and his family, such as the adults, teenage girls, teenage boys, and kids, while they each translated for us. Then we served a meal to everyone who came to the church service which was an interesting experience to say the least. Hectic, but interesting. That night, Luis told his story. He's a good storyteller. I love storytelling. I wish everyone could hear it, but I won't even begin to try to think I could do it justice.

June 26th day 4: We went to Tegucigalpa to the Valley of Angels for shopping, and it was really a neat place. Sort of a strip mall with outdoor markets. We learned how to watch out for the tourist-y places as those were the most expensive. But I got what I came for: coffee. It was fun, I'm glad we went. That afternoon was a marriage conference, and those of us who didn't do that went with Carolina (Luis's oldest, who coordinates the children's ministry) to hand out shoes to some older girls who are regular church attendees. It was a bit emotional to say the least. And now a trip to the back-story department: The day before, as Bo preached his sermon for the adults, he noticed (because he has eyes) that out of the 150+ adults in that room, maybe 5 of them were men. He asked Luis about this, and Luis says, "Well, you see a boy and a girl hold hands, and then you see a baby, and then you never see him again." And that's how it is with Honduran men. This caused Bo to want to tell these girls a thing or two about what they really deserved from God out of life. So after we gave them their shoes, Carolina encouraged him to say what he felt he needed to for these girls. It was beautiful.

June 27th day 5: We went to the village of Proteccion which was pretty high up there in the mountainous/hilly area. Very rocky, but positively gorgeous. We got to walk around a bit before Luis led some singing and then the kids went with us while the adults got to listen to a sermon. We did another VBS of sorts in the same format as we had done. Then when it was over, most of the others proceeded to play soccer with the kids in a field of cowpies. Because their cows and such run free. That afternoon we had nothing on the schedule, so we went on a hike of sorts to see this waterfall that Luis had heard of but never been to. It wasn't so much of a hike as it was a rock climb (or rock slide, it was for me at times). We ended up at the top of this waterfall, and there were some other Americans there jumping in the water and being American who told us we'd have to go down this really dangerous cliff to see that waterfall. So of course we went down this really dangerous cliff. I had never really done anything like that in my life, but oh my goodness, it was one of the most exhilarating, invigorating, refreshing things I had ever done. And then when we got to the bottom and look up to see this (at least) 200 foot water fall, it was so worth it.
Then that night we all stayed up late with our sunburned, aching bodies laughing and telling and listening to stories in loopy, spacy, caffeinated bliss.

June 28th day 6: We went to the village of El Espino, and did basically the same thing we did in Proteccion the day before, except we did not play soccer. This landscape was not as rocky, and there was a lot more agriculture and farmland nearby. We handed out food bags as we did the day before. And for some reason, I feel like I connected with these kids a little more than I had any others. It was a good morning. That afternoon, we did more food packing and a VBS back in Zambrano. Then that night, we did another VBS/church service for the Zambranians which I only made it halfway through before my allergies kicked in like a rock and made me ready to drop dead. That didn't last long, however. One Zyrtec, 2 ibuprofen, 3 cups of caffeine, and I was feeling much better and found myself awake and thoroughly entertained for the better portion of the evening. More loopy bliss, as I like to say. But that has always been my favorite setting. Some guitar in the background with lots of laughs and stories going around the room.

June 29th day 7: Last full day. Most of us went to another house to work on more concrete floors, while I and a few others got to go to the school to do a short Bible story, a song, some coloring and passing out a snack. We only spent an hour here, my shortest time in any spot so far, and there was a pull that I had not had before. For some reason, being in this place, this school, it affected me differently. My heart has always been in education and simply eliminating ignorance, so maybe that has something to do with it. I don't know. But I had a harder time leaving the school. "Knowledge is power" may be a strong statement, but if only everyone knew how many problems could be eliminated by simply educating people. I don't know. Perhaps it will be a while before I understand fully that feeling I had.
That afternoon, we walked around Zambrano for a bit before we played with the kids one last time. Saying goodbye wasn't easy. But I hope it's not for good. I doubt it.

June 30th day 8: As I said before, I did not want to leave. We stopped at the grocery store before the airport so everyone could stock up on that heavenly coffee and other things. Then of course the battery dies in our big van, so we all pile up in the mini-van to go the the airport. Some were not so lucky to be squashed as we were:

But we made it to our plane, we made it home. So thanks. Thank you from the bottom of my heart. I will be talking and posting about this for a while to come, so I hope you'll journey back to my messages from the wayside!

I feel a tingle of artsy again

2011-05-11T22:27:00.001-05:00

There's this place that I want to be. Art House America. Cultivating creativity and community for the common good. I believe that everyone should be aware of this as a thing that is happening. But more than wanting to be there, I want to make my own art house. I want this to go on everywhere. I want to live with other people and do this as my life work. Please go to this blog and tell everyone you know about it. There are articles under Truth, Justice, Creation Care, Hospitality, Feast, Artful Kids, Music, Bookish, Visual Art, Stage & Screen, and Crafty. Even in this charming, slightly time-warped town, I see so much ample and ripe opportunity for it to happen right here, I can only imagine the many other towns that are ready for it, and I want to be there in those towns. I want to cultivate. "Dwell in the land, and cultivate faithfulness," the psalmist says. I love it for so many reasons. It makes me want to decorate my home like a Southern Living cover and make all my meals from scratch and grow my own vegetable garden and put up flyers for all the local bands and teach finger-painting to children and have legit tea time every day at 4:00.

I also want to lose fifteen pounds, relearn guitar, learn to French-braid and drive a manual, and be a better tennis player. Summer plans: commence.

Also, I am going to Honduras. Not sure if this has been announced on my page, but now it has.

Southern Gothic

2011-04-14T22:44:00.008-05:00

It's interesting to me how genres can split in countless ways over time. It wasn't fifty years ago that you bought a record, and it was classified as "this." Now, we by albums that are more likely to be classified as "this, this, this, and that, and a little of that." Some people like this, some don't. There's no such thing as "rock music" anymore. It has to be classified as alternative, experimental, art rock, grunge, heavy metal, instrumental, progressive, punk, southern rock....

We have come a long way since the time of The Beatles. Life is not so simple anymore. We are genre-less.

My favorite band changes every few years, and of course this is because of what I'm drawn to in other areas of life, and of course that has to do with where I am at the time. As a writer, I'm drawn to the rawness and honesty in the stories around me, the books I read, the friends I make in my writing classes, the burnt coffee, the hidden family secrets, the struggles of my neighbors. The things I am drawn to in my personal life and the situations I find myself in when I study for my degree strangely seem to coincide with each other.

I've been a Joy Williams fan since I was 12 years old. The first CD I bought with my own money was her debut. I was sad when she disappeared for a couple years after she released her third album. Then in fall 2007, I ran across an article online that stated she had created another Myspace profile in addition to the one she maintained for personal and what little musical activity she had been sharing at the time. This one would be for her songwriting activities. So for several months, I visited these two sites to see what she had been producing. She released a few EP's, wrote for some pop artists here and there, did a handful of shows, then in early 2009, she announced that she was teaming up with some guy I'd never heard of. Two years later, almost every show of theirs is sold out. Can you put them into one category? No. The best one can do is: folk, Americana, singer/songwriter, country? We are all being influenced by so many, and so the art we produce in these times will exude traces of the many, and there rarely exists these days a musician or a singer who falls strictly into one style of music. And these beautiful artists don't care where they're put. They just want to play. And they're always sold out.

I believe that this is largely due to the fact that so many people are realizing how malnourished they are musically. For the past several years, pop radio has ruled people's ears, and sugar, though delicious and loverly, eventually makes you sick. So when someone comes along with something so organic and pure and unglistened, it pierces needs we didn't even realize we had.

These are artists who realize that the stories we tell should be honest, the tension in our relationships should not be brushed under the rug. And that's what people need to hear. We need to be okay with the fact that our stories can't be put into one box or one category or one section of the music store.

This comes as a relief to those of us who grew up in the setting that inspires many of these songs. But honestly, we're just glad that more people are starting to realize this. Some of us have already been familiar with these concepts because we have Tennessee Williams, William Faulkner, Kate Chopin, Flannery O'Connor, Eudora Welty, Truman Capote, Cormac McCarthy, Larry Brown, William Gay, Harper Lee. Writers who defined what has come to be known as "Southern Gothic". This is basically defined as stories that reject the common stereotypes of the South in the form of the happy slave, the southern belle, the God-fearing preacher, and the chivalrous gentleman, and instead write stories about what life in this environment is really like for some people. It's okay if you had an uncle who did nothing but drink his family into depression and lifelong therapy. You can tell that story. It's okay if your parents never had enough money to buy you a pair of shoes without holes in it. It's okay if you never married like your family wanted you to. Life is hard regardless of the region you call home. But at least some regions have those who are willing to advertise it on the paint-chipped front porch if it will put others at ease and make them sigh in relief that they're not the only ones, even though not all will go so far as to admit it.

My favorite quote on this literature is by Flannery herself, "anything that comes out of the South is going to be called grotesque by the Northern reader, unless it is grotesque, in which case it is going to be called realistic." This can be explained by another quote of hers: "I don't deserve any credit for turning the other cheek as my tongue is always in it."

little girl

2011-04-14T17:14:00.002-05:00

Be thrilled, little girl

And smack your lips

From the fruitsy pops,

Lick every drip

Be frilled, little girl

Not with laces and things

With giggles and smiles

And summers and springs

Be blithe, little girl

The sun is still there

Behind the grey puffs

And the drab, dingy air

Be at ease, little girl

With tears, fears, and burns

Make a mess, if you must

Think not of your concerns

Be soft, little girl

And love all you make

Be proud of your hands

And eat lots of cake

And live, little girl

Make a splash in your world

Always keep a piece

Of the once little girl

Just running forward

2011-03-05T23:19:00.003-06:00

I cannot believe the entire month of February went by without a post from me! I guess you could say I have writer's block, but I cannot say that because I don't believe in writer's block. I am wondering what I could write that would be worth writing about, I am searching for something that won't be overwritten or overdone. But it's hard to find something I feel I can successfully produce. I don't believe the well of inspiration is ever dry. I just think we sometimes just lose the bucket. I want to believe that I always have something brewing in me that needs to get out, and I do.

All I know is that I always want to be better. I have a green shutter in the corner of my living room that's been there for about four months. I took it from someone's trash because I thought something creative could be done with it. I planned to nail some knobs or something on it and hang my coats and hats, but winter has gone along with the need for coats and hats, and the shutter is still sitting there.

I want to drink tea everyday at the same-ish time, from my teapot and kettle, and I still stick the teabag and water in the microwave. I want to eat more fresh foods, salads, sandwiches, soups, and all those are in my fridge and freezer in different forms, but I still grab the prepackaged, processed snacks from Walmart when I'm hungry. I want to display photos of faces more prevalently around my apartment, but they're still in an envelope in my desk. I want to write more, but the thoughts stay impermanently in my conscious self and eventually drift to my much larger subconscious before I have the chance to remember them.

I always want to be better. And I know that's a good thing, because if I were perfect, there would be no point in continuing my existence because I would be in the wrong species. I know I'm always growing, and I can never be at a point where I will never need to improve, but when I feel like I want to be better, I always feel like I'm reaching for something even though I know I will never grasp it. That's a hopeless feeling. Hopelessness is not something I want.

More than anything, I want to stop writing about myself. It is only natural for artists to internalize everything these days, and as beautiful as that can be, and as necessary as that was when the twentieth century came about, I still think the pendulum needs to go back towards the other way (preferably stopping in the middle). The world is so much bigger than that. The Romantics and the Realists saw that from two completely perspectives, and even though it was an extreme, they still have what we modernists and contemporaries don't. I wish there was a way to meld the two.

I wish I was Mary Oliver. Never have I encountered someone who could so beautifully observe and express nature in a way that so profoundly reflects the self the way she does. She is so external in her writings and yet so internal with her content. I hope that's something that can be learned, because if it is a gift, I shall find it very hard to accept if I don't have it.

So to those of you who read (and those of you who don't), I want to know you so I can write about you. And I want to learn to make steak in my skillet. And use up my spaghetti noodles and sauce. In different meals, though.

l'art de vivre

2011-01-20T23:18:00.004-06:00

It is a dream of mine (I have many of those in case you can't quite tell) to live in a community with artful people. And no, I don't mean a commune of painters, writers, musicians, and actors who merely want an excuse to not work. And I don't mean an early 1900's Paris neighborhood with Hemingway, Pound, Moore, Eliot, and Lawrence. I mean a hub of sorts for creative conversation, hospitality in forms of feast, making things, care for creation, music, books and developing ideas that to live as a disciple faithfully means to live in an artful and imaginative way. A community where sound spiritual counsel is readily available. Where coffee conversations take place in a home and not a Starbucks. Where a party is for celebration and not getting wasted. Where academics and the arts are not separate things. Where theology and imagination go hand in hand. Where everybody has a vegetable garden and a compost pile. Where people are looking everyday to be interested in the same things Jesus was interested in. Where our sights and goals are not for the amassing of things, but the advancement of care for hungry, lonely, criminals, strangers, and overlooked. Where music is stripped down and raw. Where nursing homes are scarce. And cemeteries aren't overgrown. Where every day someone wants to know what's going on with that family down the street who's son was arrested the other day. Where every day someone wants to know what happened in Darfur yesterday. Where learning and study are essential and encouraged. Where people can ride bikes all the time for transportation because it's fun. Where we have guests to share our food and couch every day. Where someone else's laughter is always heard in my home.

There was a time

2011-01-10T11:19:00.003-06:00

All great stories start with "there was a time," and that is not why I began this story with it because this is not a great story. It is a sad one, but not a great one.

There was a time when I was a 79 lb. ten-year-old who could eat whatever I wanted with no fear of disease, sickness, or weight gain. There WAS a time. Now here I am twelve years, sixty-ish pounds, and two ER visits later and now I can't even have a coffee with French vanilla and a waffle without crashing. Yes, it is a sad story. I like to think I take relatively good care of myself. I always have a water bottle with me. However, the responsibility of cooking for myself comes with challenges, and habits become sporadic.

Now I have to WATCH what I eat. I always thought that's what old people do. Not me. I'm in college, my body's invincible, right? This is no fun.

In my daydreams, I...

2011-01-04T19:06:00.005-06:00

am an accomplished swing dancer, jazz singer, and theatre actress

live by the sea -- not the beach -- the sea

travel to coffee shops, bistros, cafes, small bookstores and taverns to read excerpts from my writing

teach things that I love, and get paid for it

take my children on a tour through Paris (without a nanny!)

have lunch with JK Rowling, Joy Williams, and/or Tina Fey

have read all "the classics"

like beer

know how to knit and sew everything

cook every day

can play a piano that is not out of tune

can swim

have a few precious little brunettes running around calling me mommy and learning how to knit and read and play musical things

Probably the only empathetic cynic you'll ever meet.

2010-12-23T15:12:00.004-06:00

“I’m expecting great things from you,” he said to her as they stood alone in the front yard of the white house that early summer. She doesn't remember what she said, if she said anything at all, but she did think about those words a lot later on as she went to bed that night.

It was a beautiful landscape out in the west part of the county. And a large farmhouse stood by the road.

It was Saturday night. She was about two months shy of her eleventh birthday and awkwardly skinny like a bunch of toothpicks glued together. He was sitting on the patio swing. So she headed out the back door to see him. He was there with his arms crossed watching the sky post sunset. She skipped out the door and landed by plotting down right next to him.

It was a bit past dusk, but still light enough to see outlines in the distance. It was quiet.

“I’m gonna have to go and get the paper,” he said.

“Ok, I’ll walk with you,” she said.

They made it about two thirds of the way. Once they reached the scuppernong vine, he stopped to take a breath, “I don’t think I’ll be able to make it the rest of the way. You’ll have to go yourself and get it for me.”

So she hopped the rest of the way through the yard and across the gravel road to the mailbox.

He was waiting for her when she returned, and she handed the paper to him.

“Thank you,” he said. “You’re a good girl. I’m expecting great things from you.”

And he died the next year.

She always remembered that story because it was the story of her life. How many times had she or would she begin a journey with someone who believed in her, but for whatever reason, would not continue the journey with her. And she would finish the journey alone.

Maybe that's why she's a cynic. Maybe that's why she never trusts for anything, maybe that's why she never expects people to stay or follow through or actually do what they say they will do or be what they could be. Maybe that's why she never expects things to work out. Circumstance, time, and frailty will never allow anyone to finish the journey with her. How many times had she started a journey with someone she thought would stay with her, and for whatever reason, they wouldn't finish it with her, and she went the rest of the way alone?

People will ask you when you think your childhood ended, hers was over when she was eleven. When fairy tale dreams and imaginative happenings became void of possibility by the introduction of death into her world.

A pondering while gazing through wheezing trees

2010-12-04T14:28:00.005-06:00

"You think the dead we love ever truly leave us? You think that we don't recall them more clearly than ever in times of great trouble?"

So profound to think that our wounds of lost loves stay with us forever. So true to think that we only see in retrospect how that pain seeps into every part of our lives. How the influence of a person's life and the influence of that person's death are marks upon our lives forever.

And how sometimes the pain is like a soul-sucking Dementor erasing every good thing we've ever known.

And how sometimes the memories of pain are the forces that urge us on.

And how sometimes those aches are whispers of things we'll never have.

And how true the statement that you will laugh again when something is really really funny.

I wish I knew

2010-11-13T10:25:00.005-06:00

I’m so confused and I don’t know how to believe. Why do we get to pick and choose what should be literal and what should only be realized through cultural context?

The Bible says women cannot have leadership over men. The Bible says wives submit to husbands. Bible also says Christians submit to each other. Bible also says there is neither male nor female, all are one in Christ. The Bible promotes equality and illustrates female leadership in churches and society and family. Why are these few verses taken literally, while the others have explanations? Why not the other way around? If a woman is not allowed leadership over a man, why is it okay for her to be a teacher or a CEO, but not a pastor? Is the excuse that she only can’t have leadership in the church? So does that mean that we are to live separate lives? The rules we abide by in church, we don’t have to abide by in the world? What about in the New Testament when women were church leaders? What about the women who financially supported Jesus’ ministry?

Women have been shown to be the backbone and the muscle of how religion is practiced. The Catholic Church remains adamant that the priesthood is not for women, yet the lack of male clergy forces female laity to conduct services and take care of all the day to day activities of the church in local settings. But to receive the ordination is never to happen. I do not believe God allowed for this exclusion.

As for roles in the home, I agree that men and women have separate responsibilities and innate abilities the other doesn’t have. I still don’t see the connection of the wife’s subordination to the husband always having final say. If he’s a Christian, why does he not also practice the command of Christians (referring to both male and female) to submit to each other? Shouldn’t it be 100% both ways? Then why does the submission issue even have to matter? Besides, if the wife stays home all day and basically runs it while the husband is out working, why is she not the “head of the household?” I’m so confused.

Why is it a big deal whether or not a woman wants to work? If a woman chooses what she wants to do, why does anyone else get a say in it? Why can’t I make my decision to stay home all day or to stay away from home all day and have everyone else not care? It’s none of your business.

Should I be addressing these issues because I’m simply not happy with them? Would God ordain things that make us feel oppressed? I certainly think so. But I don’t think that ends this issue. Why is it a problem for me to question? It’s not like I’ve been researching this for 40 years and still digging. It’s just that for the first time, I don’t want to accept something because somebody told me it was so.

I don’t believe that either gender is by design stronger, smarter, more spiritually gifted, better, weaker or more susceptible to frailty than the other. I believe the Bible needs to be reread, researched, and realized again.

I’m at a place where I’m unsure of where I stand on an issue, and I think God likes my questions, welcomes my questions, loves that I use the brain he gave me instead of being shaped my anyone who desires to do so. I know he can handle my questions. I hope you can to. For there will be more to come.

Simile is not for poets because poets see things as they is,

2010-10-24T21:34:00.003-05:00

not as they like. - Shirlette Ammons

Sometimes I wonder what would have become of me if I didn't sell my keyboard. How I miss the way the keys would do what I told them to. Now I have the feel of a different kind of keyboard under my fingers, and I'm very happy with that, but I still wonder. What if I kept that keyboard and actually practiced the music I learned how to read so well? What if I kept that keyboard and let it teach my voice how to match it? In the back of my mind, I still have dreams of playing. Singing. Now I keep thinking it's too late.

I have other dreams. I write and I travel to coffee shops and bars and living rooms and libraries and I read what I write.

I've never been upset at my circumstances. I've never blamed anyone else for the way I am or the way I went. If I wished things were different, I would only be angry at myself. No one forced me into a decision, only I had the power to change something or continue in it. And if I was forced, only I could allow such a force upon me. My circumstances were only doing their jobs. So I guess what I mean is - if I want to play piano, there's a way for me to play the piano. And if I'm not playing the piano, I should stop making excuses for myself.

I love how one can always tell who the writers are. It's like going to an outdoor concert, and the bands that aren't currently performing walk among the crowd, and you can always tell which ones are with the band. It's more than just their skinny jeans, their brother's Vans from high school, their flannel shirt and Gene Kelly's hat. Or the art students. It's more than just the mismatched hand-me-downs, the missing fingernails, or the purple hair. The writers. It's more than just the haircut from 1995, the beret, the pantsuit, and the Converse. For some reason, you recognize them. They do what they do and it's never near enough to pay the bills, but they love it too much so they still do it in addition to one or two other jobs which means that they don't have time to check up on People's latest "Style" issue.

So..... I guess..... love what you do. Whatever it is. And though people won't know your name, they'll know who you are.

Every child is an artist.

2010-10-11T22:42:00.005-05:00

The problem is how to remain an artist once he grows up. - Picasso

Lately there have been quite a few thoughts when it comes to art and storytelling. I'm reading about this guy who published a book about his life, and it made a lot of money, and people wanted to make a movie out of it, and they wanted him to write the screenplay, and what I'm reading now is a book about him writing a screenplay for the movie based on the book based on his life.

And there has been a lot of talk of writer's block (whatever that is I don't believe it exists but that's another topic) and how to deal with it. There is a discussion that involves the idea of the artist living vs. creating. If the artist tells the story, he has no time to live in it. If he lives in it, he has no time to tell the story. So what are we to do? Which is more important? Someone has to tell these stories.

But isn't it also possible that, while we are gifted in that we can speak for those with no words, it is ultimately up to an individual whether or not he would like us to speak for him? Wouldn't our time be better served if we could teach people how to tell their own stories? And if people knew how to tell their own stories, wouldn't it be much easier for all of us to tell our own stories as we live them?

Storytelling is special. It is what makes us uniquely human. It is, I believe, part of being in God's image. Being able to tell a story. Being able to live a story. But it is all too easy to think we are better than others and we are serving a better purpose in the world by locking ourselves in our rooms and "making art."

One possible interpretation of Tennyson's "Lady of Shalott" is that he felt a distance from society and could not relate to them. Thus, the Lady is cursed to stay in her room weaving constantly and can only view society from its reflection in her mirror. It's that thought of, "they just don't understand"

But isn't it our job to make them understand? It is not art if it is not an attempt to help the world understand something better or at least grapple with something complicated. No more excuses of "we're just too different" or " they won't get it."

But this book. It makes me think a lot about my story. It makes me aware that I am a character. And I have a plot.

a lost soulmate's lament

2010-09-19T23:24:00.002-05:00

when you leave me i cry. i stand in the empty space of this room and i'm lost. i turn around in circles in the dark and i can't find you. when you leave me i can't sleep. i don't want to eat. there's no point. i loved you with all of me and now there's a hole. and it hurts so much. i can't focus on any of the things i want to do. i don't want to do anything. why, when you live your life so far away, should i live mine? how can i be happy again? i don't want to remember our good times because it only hurts more. when you leave me i cry. and i wonder why we ever love at all when the hurt of your absence is greater than the emptiness before i found you.

Sometimes my arms aren't long enough

2010-09-19T19:39:00.003-05:00

to reach out and gather you all
into my embrace to squeeze you tightly
to simply say "I love you this much."

I wish my arms were big enough
because nothing fully shows you
how I really feel when you're near me
or how you bring my heart its warmth.

I wish my arms were strong enough
to keep you locked inside
because I never want to let you go
to leave me and live your life.

I wish my arms were enough
to hold myself so tightly
to make up for your being away from me
and bring me the love
I miss giving to you.

"The most dangerous strategy is to jump a chasm in two leaps."

2010-09-17T22:36:00.003-05:00

Sometimes when I write . . . I don't want to. Sometimes I stare at blank lines that look to be filled. The pen rests and stares back at me with questioning eyes. I pick up the pen with exceeding effort, and I feel like I'm peeling off pieces of myself with something really sharp. But I continue even though it gets painful. I feel like it's my life or my identity, and I must continue, I must press forward even though I have no desire or will to. I wonder if this is healthy. I wonder . . . if something is not ready to leave the safety of my self. But I still push it. For I fear that if I do not write, then I will lose the desire or the will altogether. If I do not write, if I do not force myself, the pages will never have any meaning. People look at a painting and assume it was naturally done. Maybe it was. But naturally does not always mean easy. Sometimes . . . to write is to urge something out of oneself with great pain. And the hope that someday it will be worth it.

BAHAHAHAHA

2010-09-08T16:09:00.002-05:00

"Do you say your prayers night and morning?" continued my interrogator.

"Yes, sir."

"Do you read your Bible?"
"Sometimes."
"With pleasure? Are you fond of it?"

"I like Revelations, and the book of Daniel, and Genesis and Samuel, and a little bit of Exodus, and some parts of Kings and Chronicles, and Job and Jonah."

"And the Psalms? I hope you like them?"

"No, sir."

"No? oh, shocking! I have a little boy, younger than you, who knows six Psalms by heart: and when you ask him which he would rather have, a ginger-bread nut to eat, or a verse of a Psalm to learn, he says: 'Oh! the verse of a Psalm! angels sing Psalms;' says he, "I wish to be a little angel here below;' he then gets two nuts in recompense for his infant piety."

"Psalms are not interesting," I remarked.

"That proves you have a wicked heart; and you must pray to God to change it: to give you a new and clean one: to take away your heart of stone and give you a heart of flesh."
--Jane Eyre, Chapter 4

Windows

2010-09-03T13:13:00.003-05:00

"Your eyes are windows into your body. If you open your eyes wide in wonder and belief, your body fills up with light. If you live squinty-eyed in greed and distrust, your body is a dank cellar. If you pull the blinds on your windows, what a dark life you will have!" - Jesus

I think we often forget that windows are meant to be two-way. When we think of windows, we imagine looking out. When we search for windows in Google Images, we find images of people looking out. But when Jesus starts off this announcement, it seems as if people are to look in. And he ends with saying that we need to be open so light can come in. What a dark life you will have... when you hold your money too close in greed... when you turn away from the needy stranger in distrust... when your fear takes hold of your freedom to love and be open and let somebody inside.

What happened to open doors and making too much bread or cake or tea because you could always expect somebody to stop by? Oh, nobody stops by? Maybe they want to. Maybe you just haven't made it known to them that they could. Anytime they wanted to. Of course you said, "Come by anytime!" but so does every one else. That's the equivalent of "How are you? I'm fine." Neither question or response is ever sincere. It's sincerity, people. Sincerity and integrity. Two of the three things I try to live my life by. I can't remember the third one. That's why I have them written down, but I don't have that piece of paper with me.

That's what I already miss about dorm life. As long as we were there (and even if we weren't) the TV or the computer or the microwave or the refrigerator or the bed was available. And we were available. I wish the world knew that.

Dear old world, you are lovely, and I am glad to be alive in you.

2010-08-23T10:29:00.002-05:00

Days come when I wonder "Why am I here?" and I can't focus on anything because of that question. And then days end when a boy wants to walk me home because he's a nice boy, and for no other reason. When I reach those days where I feel like I'm losing the grip on who I am, it's refreshing to have someone else say "Your existence matters." Even if it's in the form of "Let me get some shoes and I'll walk you back." Or, It's late, and you shouldn't get raped and murdered on your way back. Whatever. I still like knowing that selfless people exist.

Also, classes are in full swing, and I still have a hard time believing that I'm back at school. 12 hours. Slow. I need papers and tests and assignments and grades. I need that stress to be in my head to say "Hey you better work hard or you'll fail and you'll be a failure for the rest of your life and your whole future will be screwed if you don't make an A on this test." I love college.

Imagining the future is a kind of nostalgia.

2010-08-04T10:47:00.002-05:00

It is strange to me how when the moments before, my motivation level drops. I have a final tomorrow and I've yet to study. I have to wash my sheets and fold my laundry. I have to clean my room and pack up what I'm taking with me. I have to study my manual for work. I have to get out of my pj's. I have to balance my checkbook. I have to remember things forgotten. I have to get internet in my apartment. I have to wash my face. I should probably brush my teeth. I have to write.

I have to search for that long lost.

"Let each man practice the art he knows."

2010-07-10T15:34:00.003-05:00

Have I told anyone that I love jazz? Melody Gardot has over the past couple of months become one of my favorite new feel-breezy kinds of music. When I imagine her recording, I think she is sitting in an overstuffed armchair with a glass of wine, a cigarette, legs hanging over the side, and singing as she pleases. A quite relaxing feel.

It is an observation of mine that many would like to think art is something that overflows from a person's soul as naturally as rain falls. And I think this is true. But just because something comes from the soul, does not mean it comes easily. You see, I believe that the soul is as mysterious to it's possessor as it is to outsiders. There are many areas, dark corners, crevices and closets that one may not even dare to venture for fear of things they have a strange inkling are there, but also wish that they are not there if they were. Sometimes what we need is a full length mirror. The kind they put in dressing rooms. With the not-so-pleasant lighting that is not so pleasant because it exposes EVERYTHING from zit scars to love handles.

Unfortunately, while such mirrors are readily available for the body, the ones that are needed for the soul are not as easy to come across. And perhaps some of us are okay with that. "Oh well, guess I'll just have to go with what I see and know about myself. Why go exploring down there for things that will only hurt me and others more."

So what if we were to search for those mirrors? What if we did put on our brave faces and dig deep? Of course we would find what we feared. Wounds. That is what keeps us from exploring the soul. Wounds. If we were to travel down this road, we would have to uncover those hurts that we buried a long time ago. That breakup, that death, that fight, that betrayal, that mistake, that lie, that night. If we were to place our whole selves in front of that mirror, we would find more than we wanted to admit was still there. Leftover pieces we thought we had dealt with that were just lying around in the attics of our souls collecting dust to the point that it just blended in with the floorboards.

So for art to be true, for a creation to be sincere, the artist has to know himself completely to the point that he's not afraid to expose what he's been through and what he's done. Beauty is not in the covering up of things or the addition of new things, but in removing the dirt to reveal the original beauty that God put there. Beauty is in the process of chipping and chiseling and carving and pruning and getting messy.

I believe that the purest definition for art is anything a person does to make life beautiful, understandable or enjoyable for someone else. And your art matters. To truly do this, we have to be honest with ourselves and admit to the past and present in which we find ourselves a part.

Do I know you?

2010-06-30T11:45:00.004-05:00

Collages I made
Mosaics I formed
Faces that should make sense

Pieces I knew
Ends I loosed
Sadly confused, clouded, and dense

An aimless day takes me to a clue
And my eyes crinkle at you
I know I should know where you belong
But I can't remember

Minds don't fit you so well anymore
Closets assume a natural habitat
Yes, I'm confused, I know that,
But Mama's calling me in for dinner.

I'm very definitely a woman, and I enjoy it.

2010-06-27T15:51:00.004-05:00

Don't worry, she said, I still dream.
I want to know what it is to act like a woman. I feel like my conservative Christian environment along with my liberal, modern society has it all wrong. I believe they both have elements of truth to their views on women, but I feel like all those are not enough. I find myself confused at how I'm supposed to be the very thing I am. I have all the lady parts, so why is acting like a woman not the most natural and easiest thing in the world for me? I don't believe that either of these views have the most accurate biblical ideas about femininity, and I would like to know what that is.

It is a simple answer that all answers are based on. My life's understandings will come only when I have placed my Bible at the core of my learning. Truth and femininity will meet in a beautiful embrace that will feel natural, unforced, and unexplainable. I will find my place in Heaven's kingdom as a woman and as a woman named Rebekah. So I've decided to reread two books that I've had on my bookshelf for the past 5 or 6 years. Maybe they'll make better sense to me now than they did when I was 15.

'Tis a familiar itch.

2010-06-24T22:09:00.004-05:00

Today was that day. I worked physically demanding all day. I worked alone all day. I thought alone all day. I had plenty of space to think of all my problems all day. I ended up being angry at every person I knew by the end of the day. And I ended up hating this town by the end of the day.

I have had these days before. I'm only concerned because they are increasing in number with each passing season. It would not be as much of a bother if they had waited until I could do something about it. But no. These days come when I feel my most trapped. My desires to see the world are staring at me in my cage, mocking me. They come to taunt me when I feel the burdens of money, class, time, and age. They laugh at me as I scrub someone else's coffee stains off the floor. They glare at me as I sweep someone else's crumbs under the rug. They smirk at me as I wash someone else's dirty laundry.

I always believed that I was one who could be content whatever the circumstances. And perhaps I used to be that one, and I've changed. Or perhaps I was never that one, and I was merely a girl deceived by her own facade. And now the shell has cracked. And now truth and dreams do not have so pleasant a meeting. It's time to leave this town. And my feet are glued. And I glued them. Perhaps the burdens of money, class, time, and age are only there because I allowed them to be. Perhaps there is nothing wrong with this town or these people, and my familiarity has calloused me.

Perhaps . . . my dreams are too big for me.

In my brokenness, I collapse on the floor heaving tears, but my anger barely allows enough to sting my eyes before they evaporate. In the night, there is nothing more beautiful than watching storm clouds glide past the moon as lightning and wind that you know came from another world sweep over the fields with a peace that comes only from those who have seen it all. I never want to feel as if I've seen it all, but I sure would like to know that peace.

I was gratified to be able to answer promptly. I said I don't know. - Mark Twain

2010-06-19T15:58:00.008-05:00

What's the opposite of reminiscent? Because that's the feeling I got today as I browsed through wedding photography online and created a spot on my computer for wedding ideas. Except it couldn't be reminiscent because it is not a thing of the past for me, but the future - hopefully. So what's the word for reminiscent when it's a future happening?

My sister asked me what I was doing today, and I told her. She asked if I had found the groom yet. I said it's on my to do list. No need for jokes, I get it. But that is what I said. I would post what I found, but I'm afraid one of the photographers will happen upon my blog and sue me. And I don't want anyone to steal my ideas. And yes, I get the irony of my last statement, too. So... just curious.

Of Love

2010-06-18T19:06:00.003-05:00

I have been in love more times than one,
thank the Lord. Sometimes it was lasting
whether active or not. Sometimes
it was all but ephemeral, maybe only
an afternoon, but not less real for that.
They stay in my mind, these beautiful people,
or anyway people beautiful to me, of which
there are so many. You, and you, and you,
whom I had the fortune to meet, or maybe
missed. Love, love, love, it was the
core of my life, from which, of course, comes
the word of the heart. And, oh, have I mentioned
that some of them were men and some were women
and some -- now carry my revelation with you --
were trees. Or places. Or music flying above
the names of their makers. Or clouds, or the sun
which was the first, and the best, the most
loyal for certain, who looked so faithfully into
my eyes, every morning. So I imagine
such love of the world -- its fervency, its shining, its
innocence and hunger to give of itself -- I imagine
this is how it began.

by Mary Oliver

Oh, you're in my veins, and I cannot get you out.

2010-06-12T16:25:00.003-05:00

The word "summer" connotes a medley of sweet sensations for everyone. We all seem to understand eating strawberries on the porch. We all seem to know sweet tea in mason jars. We all seem to smile at the memory of watermelon stains on our white, sweaty shirts. We all love the smell of cut grass (though not necessarily the cutting of grass), the ever abundant green outside the window, the tangled hair from beach wind, and of course, the kiss of sun. And with all this is the fondness of reading a good book in the bed of an air conditioned house, homemade ice cream which tastes just as good indoors as it does when in melts in your bowl outside, and whipped cream. Always a fondness for whipped cream.

Every year when September comes through my door (yes, it comes straight through; it never knocks) I always feel as though I never got enough of summer. We are good pals, Summer and I. You see, I am a July baby, and while I do love every day of every season, I have a special connection to the mugginess and the green and the closeness of the sun's heat and light. And I am always sad to see it leave, even though I know it will soon return. I love winter, I love spring, I love autumn, but to me, they are always transitions to get me to summer - a destination of sorts. Which is true when one has the mindset of a student. I don't care what you say, summer is a destination.

In heaven, it will always be summer, and it will never be hot.

The world is full of you, and you are just too wonderful.

2010-06-06T19:43:00.003-05:00

Moments come into my life where I find myself surrounded by people, and I actually pay attention to them. Each one is as different from the other as a crocodile is from a mouse. But the blessings I get from simply being in their presence is just too much at times. These people are just too wonderful, and I wonder how in the world I got to be with them.

I find unique gifts and smiles and laughs and fun and I find myself falling in love, and I want to hug them all and keep them with me forever.

These people are just too wonderful, and I only wonder how I got to be here with them.

A southern summer storm...

2010-05-15T20:37:00.005-05:00

over as quickly as it began...

My life is Jello. Sitting and waiting in the bowl. Patiently to gel

2010-05-12T21:54:00.004-05:00

It's a haiku.

You know when you're at a weird point in your life when things could go amazingly well or oh-no-oh-gosh badly,if everything happened exactly the way you wanted it to, then you would be on a smooth path, or if things didn't go the way you wanted them to, then your life would suck, and you're sitting on the sidelines of such happenings that you have no control over trying to make it all go the way it's supposed to even though you know that it's not doing anything to influence the happenings?

Just curious.

I'm waiting to sign a lease for the first time ever. I'm waiting on hours for a new experimental-ish job. I'm waiting for acceptance into a summer course that I hopefully will pass. I'm waiting to see if my tires will last. And I'm waiting. But the last thing I want to do is be passive. Waiting, by definition, is a passive verb, but I don't want to be so just because that is what I find myself doing a lot. At the end of my life, I want to feel the ache of spent muscles in my legs instead of a broken back from the load of meaningless crap I sat and collected while others traveled by.

I'm not a fuzzy hangover.

2010-05-03T00:26:00.004-05:00

Do you remember when
we sat on the curb
and we had no reason to

dance through the unwelcome
territory. So
we played all the more in the

rain. Last night I knew that
no other life could
exist outside of what we

had decided to make
of our snickers and
bored musings and wasted gas.

But the weekend's ended
and winter comes to
write this is the end.

I want to map a world of you.

2010-04-29T19:07:00.008-05:00

There has always been and will always be that question of whether or not we can go back. Memories beg for our attention, and our feet refuse. In our innocence, we are so certain that long ago was our best. We yearn for things to be the way they were, but those ways have left us, and they're never coming back. We long for what's behind, ignoring what's ahead. Why do we wish for what was known and gone when the unknown will always be there for us? The past has left. Though tomorrow is not a promise, the unknown is guaranteed to never leave us. At least that companionship is something we can always count on.

"I feel the distance of the journey yet walked, even though a few steps of it have been taken...just a few. Still, along the way, Heaven has dropped a few articles in my backpack of a heart- Polaroids of faces I've met on my travels, confetti from former celebrations, dust from different corners of the globe, laughter kept in jars from loved ones, prayers on paper, ashes from deep grieving and loss, cages too small to live in any further...unresolved questions that lounge around like loose change at the bottom of my bag. And as I rummage through it all, I am thankful...curious...continually humbled...forever a student on this earth. I am still so stubborn, so impatient, so young... and yet so grateful for the chance to continue learning on this journey...I am standing on tip toe to see what else God's got up His divine sleeve, what else will find it's way into my backpack along the way..." -Joy Williams

So inexperienced, yet sometimes I feel so old. Sometimes I wonder if I lived in Eden whether or not my eyes would be as acquainted as they are with all these things. I know I was never meant to know the grief and pain I have known, and I can only imagine what true innocence is.

But.

My yearning for better life has stretched me. My journeys through these uncharted territories have met me with you. I have found my love in your face that is stained with the bruises of your own stories. I have found my place in your hand as we jump over the hurdles and fall down on the other side. I have seen myself reflected in your eyes too. And knowing that I can call you and hear you say the same things makes my weak arms and feeble knees think that maybe they can go a little longer.

And hearing you laugh revives my heart and my tired head. Thanks for being with me. Thanks for being my friends.

Are you happy? Someone should tell your face.

2010-04-15T17:16:00.005-05:00

There was a volcanic eruption in Iceland?

I want to talk about my pet peeves.

One is the current popular hair part for women. Not that part in itself. I am glad we've moved away from the butt parts. But sometimes your part goes so far on the other side that it's literally on the side of your head. Again, not a bad thing in itself. Unless you have really long hair in which case you feel the need to walk with your head sideways because if you don't, then your hair will get in your face. And no one wants hair in their faces. But please, how do you see? How do you keep from running into things? Is it that hard to pull your hair back or put your "bangs" in a clip? I know you have long hair so that people can see how pretty it is, but believe me, when you walk with your head sideways, no one's looking at your hair.

Second, people who can't park. Do you think the lines are there so you can center your car over them? And yes, I am talking to you who go to my church. Yes, you. And the other half of Columbus' resident drivers. I know you own the road, you've established that, but no one said anything about letting you have the parking lot, so BACK OFF and let me park without having to be intimidated by your sucky skills trying to take over my space. My car may not be that big, but I can still cause a sizable dent in yours. I have witnesses.

Third, girls who come to the cafeteria and sit in the booth right behind me to talk about your guy problems. I don't want to hear about how he keeps texting you and hanging out with you but won't ask you out. I don't want to hear about how he was TOTALLY flirting with that other girl from chorale and how you're heartbroken because he's now dating her. I don't care and I really just want to eat my french toast sticks in peace.

Fourth, loud people.

Fifth, messy people. Did your mama raise you right? Or did she do everything for you? You're a big boy/girl now, you should have become well acquainted with the real world in which you will not have people following you around and washing your dishes and taking out the trash. You're going to have to learn to pick up your own pieces. I can only do that for so long.

Also, I have urticaria, and I'm on steroids.

Pitter-pat, the angel on my shoulder is haunting me tonight.

2010-04-08T16:01:00.003-05:00

The story of today.

I sat at this desk two hours ago to write a two-page response paper on one of my favorite poems (I know that doesn't narrow it down) and I have succeeded at just now reaching my third paragraph. I have also accomplished an empty glass of Pepsi as well as the disappearance of two cookies and a mug of cappuccino along with a change in wardrobe and the addition of socks on my feet. I wish I could impress you more by saying I did it all without leaving my chair.

It has been fifteen minutes and I have finished the paper.

If only I could have also finished the cleaning of my room, a trip to the gym, a shower, the cleaning of my bathroom, the washing/vacuuming of my car, the filling of gas in my car, my Gryffindor scarf, my book for Nonfiction Writing, all my reading assignments, my six-page seminar paper, my personality profile of JK Rowling, and the basic decluttering of all aspects of my life.

In my dream I am waiting to board a train from Greece to Prague with a blue suitcase that doesn't have any stickers on it because that's tacky. I meet someone who interests me and we begin a conversation with coffee. We are so enthralled with each other that we miss our train. We therefore decide to travel with no map and make up our own, and I have found my best friend.

In my dream I have an accent and I always wear a scarf from Pakistan. In my dream I am someone who has learned to appreciate the fact that life should be sticky and adventurous instead of plastic and ordinary. In my dream I can love people as they need and not as they deserve. Because in my dream I am my definition of perfect.

This is the mess of where dreams cross with reality. And truly, I don't believe that is ever supposed to happen. Because dreams are not meant to be reality. Even when they do, supposedly become so, it is never as we dreamed. It is either better or worse, but never the same. And if we could spend our time loving what is given, perhaps we could let our dreams be just what they are and nothing more.

I do believe in dreaming. I believe in dreaming big. But I also believe in living small. And I believe that dreams are gifts. But I also believe that small things are gifts. A dream may come true, but we must be sure to know the difference between what is now dream and what is now reality and quit comparing. Make sense? I hope so because I surely don't understand it.

Also, feast your eyes on this --

This is what happens when one searches "feet" on Google images.

I miss you, my farewell friend

2010-04-02T09:48:00.004-05:00

I logged into Myspace this morning, which is something I haven't done in a long time. I found on my profile a picture collage that I forgot was there. As I stared at each one that went by, I found myself once again missing something: my past, or more specifically, my senior year into my freshman year. And then I'm wowed when I remember that I'm a junior. And even that title is about to run out with only 19 days of school left.

I saw the smiles of myself and all those around me. I seemed happy then. Content. Now, I certainly didn't feel that way at the time. If I were to stare long enough I would remember that I was sick in that picture. I was worrying about a test in that one. And in that one I was very mad at my sister. If I stared long enough to remember the circumstances. But most of the time, all I see is happy. And most of the time, that's all I remember.

The thing is, I used to always do this. Look back. Look back and miss. The natural answer is, of course, "well time goes by fast, better soak it all up, live and love in the present, don't think ahead too much, don't miss what's in front of you." Yes, yes, all true. But I used to always do this. And I haven't in a long time. I haven't in a long time really contemplated and pondered my past and the people I knew and what I gained at that time and why it's important to me now. Am I moving too fast? I can argue that I'm not. I have thoroughly enjoyed every age and season of my life so far, and I think the fact that I have such fond and vivid memories of those ages proves it. But why is there still that feeling of loss?

I know that people come into our lives for a reason, a season, or a lifetime, but is the ache of missing those people and times supposed to be there? Is that how we're supposed to remember them? Is that ache the proof we're left with to show us that it really did happen and we really did know them? I always wonder. I wonder if when I get to heaven all these questions will be answered. That would be nice.

Questions are good. I fully support them. But I really just want to soak up the sun in my skin and the laughter in my ears and the flowers in my nose and the blue sky in my eyes, and coffee on my tongue. I want to absorb you, all my friends, and let you love me. Freedom. No hiding.

Ever had the feeling you misplaced something you don't have?

2010-03-25T19:29:00.005-05:00

Excuse me,
Beg your pardon,
I was wondering if he went that way
Did you see him?
Did he pass you?
You see, I've lost my lover today.

I left him baking cookies
I had entrusted to him my special spoon
But then I had returned to him
And he had left the room

He did not leave me any note
Or any clues or crumbs
To find where he had disappeared to
So on this search I have come

Describe him?
Tell you about him?
Oh that's quite easy, let me think.
He's... got a nose
And... and two eyeballs
...I think.

Maybe beffuddlement does become me.

2010-03-15T12:32:00.004-05:00

I reach and I reach
But my arms are never long enough
I stand high on my toes
By my balance is never proportioned
I run and I run
And I'm still on this dirt road

When will I see the buildings?
When will I seen the people?
Trees and flowers are lovely
Birds and clouds are pretty
But my eyes long for a change in scenery

Mountains don't grow where I'm from
Planes are only a distant imagination
The only things I see that scrape the sky
Are the birds that flap their formation

I dream and I dream
But I'm still rolling in my bed asleep
I wish and I wish
But my goals are no further away from words on a page
I run and I run
And I'm still on this dirt road.

i've still never had creme brulee.

2010-03-04T18:56:00.005-06:00

But every time I watch Amelie, I sure wish I had some. The Honey Trees are singing to me right now. I have successfully completed one page of each of the 4-page papers I have due next week. One for Wednesday and one for Thursday. I have successfully completed the three page rough draft I have due for Monday, and I've yet to study for either of my tests on Monday. Although I did make my study guides for those tests. I just have yet to look at them . . . .

No worries though. I am exactly where I planned to be. And that rarely happens.

Right now I'd just like to curl up in my grandma's afghan and knit my scarf while drinking my tea and watching . . . well I don't know exactly . . . I guess Amelie or having someone read to me. Perhaps something from H.D. or the book I'm trying to get through right now that doesn't pertain to college, The Elegance of the Hedgehog. Marvelous book. It makes me feel smart, and I'd really love to just finish it though I still have about a third of it left.

I miss those January days where I'd curl up in my dorm room and read Harry Potter and feel no guilt whatsoever about not doing homework because none of my books had arrived yet. So long ago . . . last year.

Also, I decided tonight . . . or like two minutes ago . . . that I want to be that person that no one really knows but recognizes. That person with a title because I have one distinguishing feature. I don't know. Like "that girl with the red tights" or "that chick with the moon boots" or "that lady who always wears plaid." I just think that would be cool for a little while. Or something. So one day in the future I will move to a new city far away and buy myself some red tights and wear them every day for a month. Okay, I'll buy several pairs and wash them.

and so i watched helplessly as a world fell apart

2010-02-25T17:15:00.007-06:00

Why do some people, wonderful people, people with the best of life's intentions, people with the sweetest souls, people with innocent longings, people with wholesome lifestyles, why do some people who so desperately want a baby get denied that blessing as if they didn't deserve it or weren't good enough?

Why so some people, young people, people with wild intentions, people with careless souls, people with selfish longings, people with questionable lifestyles, why do some people who have a chance at that blessing throw it away like it's a piece of food on their plate they didn't feel like eating?

I never appreciated the argument, "It's her body, it's her choice, she can do what she wants." That may be true, but in my opinion, this has never been a women's right issue, but one of human rights. And I have never met anyone who did it that doesn't regret it. I cannot imagine it when all I've ever wanted most of all was my own kids. And I would even take this one. I would take nine months of humiliation. I would take an unfinished degree. I would take a life I didn't expect. If I could. If that meant this one would be saved. If that were possible. I would. Right now.

But no. We don't think of that. We think of ourselves. "I'm too scared to tell my mom." Thinking of yourself and your horrible backbone. "I don't want the whole school to know." Thinking of yourself and your cowardice. "I don't want to go through the pain." Right. Because waiting four months requiring major surgery to murder someone by repulsive methods risking future breast and cervical cancer, the ability to have children later on, constant bleeding later on, constant psychological and emotional destress, lifelong regret, lifelong what-ifs will be so much less painlful.

Life is sad, y'all. Not everything has a beginning, a middle, and a nicely tied up end. Sometimes, stuff just happens. And if it works out, great. If not. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ?

. . .

2010-02-17T22:03:00.005-06:00

Sometimes I don't know which is worse.

Having something awful happen and making an awful decision in response.
Or watching someone have something awful happen and make an awful decision in response. And knowing there's nothing you can do about it.

My heart is heavy. And it's not even my burden.

Of music and such things to revive the pieces of one's soul

2010-02-11T19:41:00.003-06:00

Peter Bradley Adams and Matthew Perryman Jones each have voices that have stolen my heart. I was listening to them both earlier tonight, and the only thing that came to my mind in terms of describing the feeling I get from their music is that it feels like cold water running down a parched throat. You know what I mean. The cold water that not only feels marvelous on your tongue, but you can feel it go all the way down like a slow relaxing exhalation that goes all the way to your tummy.

It is refreshing. It is a deep breath. It is much needed. It sometimes lulls me to oblivion of all other things. It feels good. I believe in soaking up music the way a fois gras connoisseur savours every ounce of their dish. Absorbing to the full extent everything there is to absorb about a truly fantastically crafted portion of the ever growing music library. You might have to close your eyes to get the best experience. Unless you're driving. Don't close your eyes then, please.

Like riding a bike!

2010-02-09T22:36:00.006-06:00

In that one never forgets. Supposedly.

I haven't worked at Beans & Cream in over two years. And I haven't filled in for someone at Beans & Cream in well over one year. Yet when I returned to fill in for two nights this week, I found that though there have been a few changes in the business over the past two years, I slipped quite easily back into my routine.

And I'm not gonna lie. I miss it. I quit because I didn't enjoy giving up my nightly study hours. It wasn't like my gpa suffered, B average was pretty good for my freshman year, I thought. I had been considering it for a month or two prior to my final decision. What finalized it for me was sitting in the cafeteria in early November sitting next to Melis and across the coffee girl.

Coffee girl: I need to go to Walmart. Y'all wanna come?

Me and Melis: Sure.

Coffee girl: other stuff I don't remember ... and let's get a movie YOU GUYS WANNA WATCH A MOVIE?!?!?! *eyes darting back and forth between the two of us like she does when she gets excited*

Melis: says nothing and shrugs

Me: I can't. I have to work. (I never understood why I have to constantly remind people of my routines, especially since this particular one had been set for about a year.)

Coffee girl: *eyes fall and huge sigh and turns to Melis* I'm so sick of her having this job.

Yeah. I was too.

But the truth is that when I return to that routine, I remember everything from that time in my life. Graduating high school. My first car wreck. My awkward but wonderful and memorable eighteenth summer. My freshman year of college. My sister's apartment. My first car. My tiny dorm. The smell of the coffee and the supply closet. Washing the coffee pots. Wiping down the espresso machine. refilling the sugar. The scrapes of the chairs as I sweep. And I miss it. I miss all the things I used to think about when I was there by myself. I miss the way it would wear me out each night. I miss the leftover stale donuts. And how my hands would always feel cold from all the water from all the dishes I'd wash and all the surfaces I had to wipe down.

It was truly my job. And I knew it well. And it knew me. I obviously didn't forget it. And it obviously hasn't forgotten me. Like riding a bike.

I think hipsters are the dead end of western civilization.

2010-02-01T09:31:00.004-06:00

"Oh my gosh we are so cool!"

You all know how much I despise labels. so I apologize for spending time talking about a certain one, but I think we can all agree that things need to be said about hipsters.

First, let's go back to the history of the term. According to Wikipedia, "hipster" was a term first used to refer to aficionados of the jazz age. You know, the middle class white people who began to try to "emulate" the (musical) styles of African Americans. Jive talk, hot jazz, etc. A literary scene eventually became associated with this subculture after WWII.

And now my favorite commentary on the hipsters of contemporary days:

"Hipsters are the friends who sneer when you cop to liking Coldplay. They're the people who wear t-shirts silk-screened with quotes from movies you've never heard of and the only ones in America who still think Pabst Blue Ribbon is a good beer. They sport cowboy hats and berets and think Kanye West stole their sunglasses. Everything about them is exactingly constructed to give off the vibe that they just don't care." -Time 7/09

I love all people, but sometimes liking certain ones doesn't come easily, and maybe not at all. I see nothing wrong with identifying oneself to a certain style or like of things, however, I'm not okay with seeing someone buy or "be interested" in things and issues because that's what people like them are supposed to be interested in. You know, I can just see their thought processes:

"I shop at thrift stores because I don't give in to consumerism and capitalism. Although I have no problem spending all my money on music and plays and road trips and band shirts and expensive shoes (you know the kind I'm talking about)." Because apparently that doesn't benefit capitalism. I feel like these people take what's genuine, claim it as their own, and strip it of it's genuineness by doing so. You know why? Because they and all their friends and their friends' friends and their myspace music gods, and their indie film actors are all the same. So I see nothing authentic.

Then there's the most well-known attribute of these folk: their disdain for their peers and their apathetic nature. "Let's criticize them for their hair/clothes/money/car/music/movies/book tastes because ours is better and the world just doesn't understand it. Let's be judgmental and give weird apathetic looks because we are a pathetic people." And yes I meant to spell it that way.

But then again, I've never had a true conversation with very many of these people. I only go on appearances and attitudes and emo blogs. Just the surface stuff. So maybe I'm the judgmental one.

I just want to be me. Even though I don't fully know what that means, I do know it means no pretending. So help me not to. You're the only ones who can. And when I forget, please remind me. That's all. Thanks.

I should be writing papers instead...

2010-01-28T22:57:00.003-06:00

I'm wide awake now thanks to the energy of my favorite redheaded person with whom I traipsed through Walmart while she claimed to be sleepy, but managed to find excitement with nearly every item at her eye level in the store. I do not know if that is an entirely grammatical sentence.

So instead of writing a five page paper on Shakespeare's sonnet 14 or my memoir for nonfiction writing, I'm here. I have no thoughts except that I am feeling rather accomplished. I've done all my homework for tomorrow, Monday, and Tuesday. So yay me!

I was labeled a liberal last night. I don't know who was the originator of the pairing of that term with my name. And then when we were trying to make the film we were told to "do what your shirt says." What does that mean? How do you do liberal things while playing Clue? At least I wasn't the "slob" or the "blonde."

So the definition of "veracity:"
"We see into our memories in much the way that we see across the floor of a sunbaked desert: everything we conjure, every object, creature, or event we perceive in there, is distorted, before it reaches us, by mirages created by subjectivity, time and distance. . . The best the a would-be nonfiction writer can do is use imperfect language to invoke imperfectly remembered events based on imperfect perceptions."

SO in creating a memoir, or memory in words, the facts aren't just so. Unless one has a journal they keep all the time and photographs. Oh hey! I do! But still, memories are subjective, selective, and clouded by time. But it's my memory. And even if it isn't true, I'm being faithful to the spirit of my memory. Because it is mine. My memory, my perspective, my viewpoint.

I still haven't decided what memory I'm going to write about. I'm thinking a conversation I had with my granddaddy at dusk on May 27, 2000, on a patio swing, just the two of us. A walk to get the paper. One sentence I'll never forget.

Five thingies

2010-01-23T08:32:00.002-06:00

Ok, I'll try to be creative...

1. Where were you ten years ago?

1. I was ten
2. I was basically a toothpick
3. I first started wearing deodorant
4. I first dreamed of going to France
5. And I fell in love with zebra cakes

2. What is on your to-do list for today?

1. Eat.
2. Read (what I want because I did all my homework yay)
3. Clean (of course)
4. A movie?
5. Post a blog.

3. What five snacks do you enjoy?
Oh goodness. Only five?

1. Reese's peanut butter cups
2. Chips and green onion dip
3. Graham crackers with peanut butter and chocolate chips
4. Peanut butter
5. Nuts

4. Where are five places you have lived?
Haha. Ok, this is hard.

1. In the southwest part of the county
2. In the further west part of the county
3. On campus
4. My sister's appartment
5. My own world

5. Name 5 things you would do if you were a billionare.

1. France. Duh.
2. Get Mom her mustang.
3. Sue the U.S. Postal Service
3. (when I get over that) Expose the pop-culture infested world to better things
4. Share it.
5. Set up accounts for all my kids and grandkids.

Yes I do recognize that there are really six things among that last set, but breaking the rules is what I do when I feel rebellious. I feel like letting it out today:)

Labor to make all one glow of beauty...

2010-01-17T23:52:00.003-06:00

There is no reason. Why certain girls had to be the ones to die in a fire. Why the earth has to suddenly release energy to create seismic waves. Why the accident had to happen at that time in that place. We do love logic. And reason. And we strive to create patterns and formulas that explain why and how. But sometimes the why and how have no place. There is no why or how.

I have no answer, and I don't know if I ever will. But I understand. I can put myself in these people's shoes. I understand the feeling of loss. I know the feeling of being lost. Where you're in this strange place, and the sounds are all muffled, but you can clearly hear the frozen earth crunch beneath your numb foot. And when you kneel for rest, the dirt is hard and doesn't relent for you. I know what it's like to see your breath in the cold air and still feel unsure if it's you that's breathing. I know what it's like to hear people call your name and you squint at them because you know you're supposed to recognize them, but you don't. Nothing is familiar anymore. The life we planned is gone. The future we hoped for no longer exists. Just like that.

Just like that we find ourselves waking up. And we don't recognize this reality, though we know it's ours. Just like that we find ourselves asking every morning if it was only a dream, and just like that we find ourselves being reminded every morning that it was not. Truth: one of the hardest part of saying goodbye is having to say it every day. Every day is a different reality than what was originally planned.

But guess what that means? It's new.

Guess what else that means? Your only choice is to recreate. You imagined one thing, and it's left you. You get to imagine again. Every day is a blank canvas. You get to choose a new course, you get to choose a better route, you get to choose new words, new gestures, new loves, new interests, new desires. That is your only option. You have no choice but to imagine. As long as there is breath in your lungs, you are meant to go on. You are meant to do what you're meant to do. What is that? I don't know. Try, some new things! But "never cease chiseling your statue."

That story.

2010-01-15T23:32:00.002-06:00

It is a sad one we all know. The one where I gathered all my toys, created a beautiful castle, wrapped it in a pretty box, and handed it to God and said, "Please?" And God said, "No."

My castle was so beautiful. It had a story and a prince. I planned every piece. I structured every angle. I said, "But God, it's such a pretty castle." And God said, "I know." And I said "Please?" And God said, "No."

I held it close and cried over it. The castle in its box was so precious to me. It truly was a pretty castle. And I said, "But God, I made it." And God said, "I know." And I said, "Please?" And God said, "No."

I was so hurt. My loving God should give me what I want. My loving father should acquiesce my desires. He should supply me with happiness. My castle made me happy.

And I said, "Why, God?" And God said, "Why, what?" And I said, "Why can't I have my castle? I built it." And God said, "What do you plan on doing with your castle? You can't fit in it, it's in a box. My castles are bigger." And I said, "Oh."

And that is precisely what we do with our dreams. We think they're so big and beautiful, but they come from tiny minds. So naturally, they are rather tiny. Not big enough for us. God knows we need bigger. He dreams big dreams.

But keep dreaming. You might be surprised at what he can do with yours.

A hike.

2010-01-13T09:01:00.003-06:00

"Travel is only glamorous in retrospect." -Paul Theroux

Sometimes it's true. When we glance back through the photos we don't remember the fights, the headaches, the crying, or the near death experiences. Well maybe the last one.
Unless you're like me and you like to record every moment. I have a pen and a digital camera so watch out. Not to mention my awesome photographic and numerical memory. But they're important to me. I want to remember everything from my travels. The sand in my shoes, the scars on my knees, the songs that get stuck in my head, the one-liners that become famous quotes in my head. I stuff them all in my back pack and move on to new people and new places. My back pack gets heavier with everything I stuff into it, but I don't care. I won't take anything out. I want to remember how that house smelled and how that road sounded and how his laugh made me happy. I want to remember the way the music lulled me to sleep, and how the conversation was just so good that I couldn't go to sleep. I want to remember the past. Without it, I have no understanding of how I got here.

"Everywhere I go I find a poet who has been there before me." -Sigmund Freud

Milk, eggs, vodka...

2010-01-10T17:41:00.006-06:00

I'm back at school, and I missed everybody and everything. I'm excited about my classes. I love reading and writing, and that's pretty much all my homework! And taped to the wall right next to my desk and computer is the brochure for the Abbey program in the Loire Valley in France, just two hours from Paris and Pontlevoy! It's good to constantly be reminded of my goals. So no frivolous shopping or road trips:( Unless anyone else wants to pay? Just a suggestion...

Also, I was quite awake at 2:30 this afternoon when I arrived at my dorm, and after an hour and a half of unpacking and rearranging and settling myself, I'm ready to drop into bed. After Taco Bell. But I won't buy a lot. Just a drink. And maybe one taco. Just one. Maybe Roommate's presence just wears me out. *wink*

Also-also, I just found Pandora. Thanks for all the "You have to get on pandora"s. I am now. But just the free kind. I must say it's nice. I offer a big thankyou to the inventor of this great invention. Though you probably don't need it in addition to all your new moneys and stuffs. But thanks just the same. Right now I'm listening to "One Headlight" by The Wallflowers (I do like that song) on the station invented when I searched The Hush Sound. Hmmm...

We can drive home with one headlight.

Book everyone should read (or at least flip through): Milk, Eggs, Vodka: Grocery Lists Lost and Found. You will never be the same, and you will never view you fellow grocery shoppers the same way either.
Background. So this guy from the midwest or whatever has a strange hobby and eventually made a book out of it. Y'all, it isn't tiny. Christmas present courtesy of Little Sister.
Strange hobby indeed. But I am not against strange hobbies. I say if you find something fascinating or interesting and you love to do it, by all means (well not unpleasant means if you can avoid it) do it! It is a belief of mine that if you can apply yourself to something that is not a requirement of your job, family, or classes, you will be a far more well-rounded person. When we do things just for fun, we discover so much because we want to. Just like a guy who scouts grocery parking lots across America, we can find adventure. And just think of the good he has accomplished. By collecting these lost pieces of paper, he's being green. Then he's using these discarded fragments of a person's day to make the rest of America laugh.

I do love to laugh.

ZOMG the location of the second zero has moved.

2010-01-05T19:22:00.004-06:00

Happy 2010!!!

Yeah I said zomg. So what? I know, I know. I always say I will never conform as it is my biggest fear, but sometimes I just get tired of fighting. Sometimes there is no better expression. Sometimes sounding out "oh em gee" is the only way others will understand certain emotions. Sad. I wish I had real words. It's my culture. And I am a part of it.

Next, I watched Defiance today with Daniel Craig. It was soooo good. Except that I was left saddened at the end when my favorite character died. He was my favorite, not because he was a cutie, (which he was) but because he was just such a sweet one.
It's amazing to me how every WWII movie I watch always brings out so many emotions. Anger, sadness, frustration, pity. I'm always so confused. When I see these soldiers killing Jews without thought I can't ever comprehend why. It's more than following orders. Everybody had a choice. What could possibly motivate any one person to determine anybody else's value or lack therof? Why punish a person for living? Not that any ethnicity is a bad thing. Only the opposite. But even in some crazy, alternate, unbelievable world in which it could be a bad thing, why punish any person for something that is not under their control? It never made sense to me.

But I guess that's a good thing. It would be terrible if I did understand it. I don't think I would ever want to know what that hatred feels like. Why does any person think they have a right to determine another person's life and value? It's cruel. Who gave them that right? Sometimes I'm not even confidant enough to speak my mind, I can't even imagine assuming such power.

The past will always exist. I wonder if dealing with that existence will ever stop being such a struggle. For groups and for individuals. But we just keep swimming. Sometimes that's all we can do. And it may not seem like much, but it's something. The fact that we can still do something is worthy of gratitude. We show that gratitude by doing that something.

So good luck with your somethings!

The only moment we were alone.

2009-12-20T20:30:00.004-06:00

It always comes as an understatement: Music is powerful. I seem to be reminded of this most of all when I listen to something instrumental. As someone who loves language, writing, and words, I look for the lyrics first in a song. The lyrics are a big deal to me. They need to be clever. Whatever words are used, they need to be clever. And there's no limit to how this can be done. I've heard songs with short and simple repetitive words, and I've heard songs with phrases and words I've never heard of or would never think to put together, and they all are brilliantly written. It's not the words that are used, it's how they're arranged. If I can predict the next line in the song, it's usually a poorly written one. I love lyrics.

But without the lyrics, the song still stands. It's the instrumental stuff that pierces me because sometimes it's not about words. Sometimes I just need to shut up. One of my favortite stories (probably made up, who knows) was about Beethoven going to visit a friend mouring the death of a loved one. Beethoven never spoke a word at this visit. He simply went to his friend's piano, played a song, and left. The friend said he received more comfort from that visit than from anyone else's.

On Sunday mornings I have a brilliant and talented group to lead me in worship. They know and love their music. Sometimes, my worship leader can go a whole song without ever opening his eyes. That's power. To be taken somewhere else entirely by an arrangement of sounds. Music is powerful. Beautiful. When you see someone that lost, the words don't matter anymore. Perhaps even the music doesn't matter anymore. It's all been blended into a collection of somethings that takes you ...... somewhere. And you're lost. But right where God wants you. I'm listening to Explosions in the Sky right now and I gotta say, it does a pretty good job of clearing my head. That's nice at the end of the day. It wouldn't work if the song was cluttered with words which would only clutter my mind more.

So many of my greatest blessings were experienced with music in the starring role. Tonight at our Christmas service, our worship leader played my favorite worship song. It wasn't planned, it was the last one, and I never hear anyone do it in church anymore. I usually have to sing it to myself to hear it. But God can do anything. For me. On the way back to my house on July 27, 2009, I was stuck in a traffic jam. Never think your day can't get any worse. Sitting in a daze of hardest loss I've encountered, what should come on the radio station that rarely comes in? That song where every word and sound matches your every thought and feeling at that time. Because God can do anything. For me.

"Music is a fair and glorious gift of God," a random piece of wood on a wall once said. Indeed.
"We'll sing and dance in heaven," Grandma once said. I sure hope so. Because I think "pretty music" is in the definition of heaven somewhere. Along with "smells like chocolate chip cookies" and "Bekah will finally be able to play the violin."

And so the warmth and fragrance fade as the mug empties for my consumption.

2009-12-17T18:13:00.013-06:00

Sand castles have been on my brain recently. As I spent Sunday afternoon by the ocean and created a few things with my creativity, I began to ponder why I bother. Sometimes I feel as if all my actions are merely sand castles waiting to be trampled by other feet or just nature herself.

My actions are impermanent. And it doesn't matter where I work. I could work with stone or rock, but water will eventually corrode that as well. All material actions mean something for a while, but time always destroys gradually the effect of such effort.

So I try not to be materialistic. All my clothes will wear out. All my cleaning will be uncleaned. And my skin will not always be so smooth. So my energies should be spent on words and music and food and homemade salsa with fresh celantro and lime juice and jalepenos and sweet onions and mmmmm......

Every time I spend money on something for pure enjoyment, I have to try not to regret it. I've never been in trouble, so I shouldn't stress too much about it. But I always feel like I could have not spent it. But at the same time, I don't want to turn down all invitations and lose friends so I can save ALL my monies to do something absolutely spectacular by myself because I have no friends. But I haven't been doing that either. So I guess I'm okay and ranting for nothing.

Why do I worry... I've added nothing to my life. If anything I feel like I've shortened it because I wasted time. How about I not do that anymore?

I'm currently reading James Patterson's When the Wind Blows and listening to Rosi Golan.

Also I have a Harry Potter snuggie. I know you're jealous.

Cinnamon sticks.

2009-12-08T21:57:00.002-06:00

My new favorite music for rainy days is Rosi Golan and the Dan in Real Life soundtrack. Just listen to it, and you'll want to do nothing but lay on the couch and sip coffee while you stare out the window. I promise.

Rainy days can become boring. But I've learned how to knit, and that's taken up much of my time for the day. And don't bother with the old lady jokes, I've heard them all. I even sat in a rocking chair with a lap blanket while I worked on my scarf today. Also I have a stack of books that are needing to be read by me this Christmas vacation, so I guess I'll just say bring on the rainy days! just don't flood my driveway, please.

Time to reflect, as that is what rain does when it keeps us inside. So far no new reflections have surfaced. I wish so-and-so were still here. I wonder how things would be different if such-and-such happened. I should have done this-and-this differently.
And then there's the constant in the back of my head: Be better.

It's quite tiring. Always having to be better. I know God doesn't want to leave me the way I am, but sometimes I wish he'd just back off. Can I just be messed up for a while? It's such hard work having to be better. But then time goes by and I realize that I haven't done any work. And I'm still not better. So I really shouldn't complain about having to work so hard because I haven't.

Oh God make me better.

And my room smells like cinnamon because my Secret Santa friend gave me a broom so I can finally play Quidditch! And it smells like cinnamon. Perfect! Because it isn't Christmas unless life smells like cinnamon. I mean that. It is an established fact. A fact established by me.

Done rambling. So all I have to say is please stop and smell the cinnamon. Please just sit by your window and stare at the rain. Please don't rush anywhere, and take your time with your coffee.

I've decided POA is one of my favorites. After HBP.

2009-12-05T19:12:00.005-06:00

And then that might change after Deathly Hallows. I'm talking about the movies, not the books. Actually I think it's the same with the books. So nevermind. Also, my dog will be named Harry Potter. Yes, I am pulling a Lorelai. Also, also, what is up with Ron's wardrobe in POA?

In other news, I've finally started watching True Blood at the urging of the coffee girl.

. . . um . . .

That's all I have to say about the show so far.

Speaking of Louisiana, I'd really like to go to New Orleans. SO if someone knows someone that would let me stay there for free so I can explore Cajun country, that would be awesome. I love French and Frenchish things. I'll be in France in a year to get the French things, so I just need a trip to New Orleans to get the Frenchish things.

Meanwhile, I'm having a fascination with Bohemian and Romani cultures. I don't know why, but something attracts me to these simple and unattached lifestyles. And yet, in it's unattachedness, there's strong ties among those in the culture. Besides that, they all just look so cool! And those Roma people have pretty skin. Maybe I'll find me one and I can have pretty skinned babies. I think what I love, though, is the unconventional lifestyle.
Honestly, I don't know how well I'd adjust. I do love the idea of being untied, and I already have the free spirit part down, but I like to have some conventionality. Obedience is necessary for anyone to live. And yet perhaps that isn't even an issue. Because, even if one is disobedient to one authority, it's because they're being obedient to another. There is always something or someone we're going to follow. So really, no one can accuse them of being disobedient to authority because they are being obedient to their own laws. SO THERE.

And I'm on Twitter. I don't know. You should follow me. I'd post a link but I don't know how.
Oh yeah that reminds me of what else I wanted to say! I'd like to be more computer savvy. I should make a list of all the things I want to do, and maybe I'll have a friend who will show me all those things and when I get rich, I'll buy an island and name it after them. Maybe. If so, I can move to LiveJournal and do more things.

And since I can't seem to find a "listening to" or "currently watching" thingie on here I'll just tell you I'm listening to the Hush Sound and watching Prisoner of Azkaban and I'm not reading anything. Oh yeah that reminds me of what else what else I wanted to say!

Christmas break projects 2009:

learn to knit and make Gryffindor scarf
read lots of things
road trip
be lazy
and look awesome doing it

Ok I think that's all. For real. I love all you peoples.

IT'S F.I.N.A.L.S. Y'ALL!!!!!!!!!!

2009-11-30T23:51:00.005-06:00

It's also after midnight and I have no reason to be awake. I mean, I have no exam tomorrow so it's not like I'm studying or anything. I do have one on Wednesday at 11:30 which will probably take me around 2 hours, and I might do good to get a good grip on the information before the day before the exam, but come on, really who does that?

On an exciting note: we no longer have to check out with our CA before we leave for Christmas if we're coming back next semester. Yaya! Praise the Lord, that was such an unnecessary hassle. I mean come on, we're coming back, do we really have to go through watching you snoop around so you can just say, "ok cool you can go"? No worries though. I can finish my exam, pack up, clean so I won't get charged and fly away! Well not really. I have to be somewhere on campus at 7:30 so really I'll just be killing time. And considering that I sorta live in town, I'm kinda not going anywhere. So the excitement is a bit... um... dumb.

Also on my mind: thirty-second soulmates. "What are those" you ask? Oh, well allow me to enlighten you on such things. Thirty-second soulmates are the names I have given for those people (mainly strangers) who share a moment so wonderful with you that even though you'll never see them again, you feel all light and giddy inside knowing that for those thirty seconds you were perfect for each other. Or maybe that was just me.
I've had three thirty-second soulmates so far.

First one:

Freshman year. On campus, walking to Cromwell alongside the white not-picket fence bordering the Dem school field beginning to cross the street in front of the art building. I'm passing a guy in a yellow running suit.

Guy in yellow running suit: on cell phone rambling nothing important to me

Me: ACHOOOO!!!!

Guy in yellow running suit: rambling blah blah BLESS YOU blah blah

Me: ACHOOOO!!!!

Guy in yellow running suit: rambling blah blah AGAIN blah blah

Me after having passed him: THANKS! (i think i might love you can we be friends what's your name you're kinda cute)

Second one:

Some camping trip last summer. Sitting on a picnic table staring at random guy's back. Dude, even that was pretty.

Me and random guy: start singing the same song at the same time that someone randomly brought up in random conversation that I cannot for the life of me remember Oh why can't I remember it????

Third one:

Starcucks. Weekend of Little Sister's birthday in Eastern Shore trying to order a chai latte. mmmm.

Me trying to say "grande chai latte" and "medium chai latte" at the same time:uagmahduhfsdjhdlfkjhghrguihsd. sigh.

Starbucks barista: ?

Me talking slowly: Can I have a medium chai latte, please? (giggle.)

Starbucks barista: It's okay (laugh). There are no words to describe how awesome a chai latte is!

Both of us: Laugh.

Shut up y'all. These are my moments. I'm keeping 'em.

Grace & peace,
Me

Meanwhile... in a town called Spoons...

2009-11-25T14:36:00.002-06:00

Went to see New Moon on Sunday... wasn't bad. I liked it. I mean, I didn't leave the theatre wide-eyed and keeping my fingers crossed for the Oscars, but I was very well pleased with the production. And of course I loved the storyline. But I like romance in books and movies, so it's not that surprising.

With this story on my mind, I want to take a moment to express my irritation with Twilight obsessed people. I'm not just talking about the ones that sigh and squeel every time an Edward or Jacob shows up on a TV or a magazine cover or a door to Burger King. I'm also talking about those that sigh and roll their eyes and talk about how much it sucks and how Meyer ruined the vampire image and how it wasn't that great of a book and how Bella's an anti-feminist and whatever else came next that I tuned out.

I will say this one more time. I know I've said it before, but that doesn't stop people from complaining. Stephanie Meyer is not a bad writer. I think she has many strengths when it comes to fiction and painting imagery with words. I may not consider her works to be worthy of the classics, but I'm also sure there were many who were pissed when Dickens or Poe or Twain were put among them. If you want to go there, then I'll ask, what exactly makes something classic? As I think over this, the only response I can come up with is that it has to be so widely recognized and loved by the masses, that it becomes something timeless. Timeless=classic. It is so popular that it will be passed on to our kids. Classic -- because it's timeless. So basically, it is society (with their notoriously ever-changing popular viewpoint) that decides what is classic. And you know what? That's how it's always been. I guess in that case, Twilight could be on its way to "The Classics."

I don't have a problem with that. Again, if it's society that decides this, then what can I do? I don't have to like it. If having "Twilight" everywhere annoys me, so what? There are many things so much worse in this world, why would I dwell on a cult classic that will be replaced by something else in about 5 to 10 years? But the thing is, I do like it. I like the story. As stated before, I like that kind of thing.

As for her ruining the vampire image, well... that argument just sucks. Who owns the rights to non-sparkly vampires? Nobody. Guess what, y'all? It's her mythology. She created this world. She had the freakin dream, let her put it in the story. It's not a story that revolves around vampires anyway. It's a love story that just happens to have vampires involved. In fact, I may have been even more impressed with this than if she had just followed what had been decided about vampires long ago. She writes fiction. Fiction is creative writing. The thing about creative writing is that we get to do what we want. We get to CREATE. We get to do new things. We get to throw everyone else's rules out the window because following what everyone else does is not creative. Duh. If you like the other kind of vampires better, then go read about them and stop complaining.

As for the anti-feminism, well... I say just shut up. Bella chose what she wanted to do, and isn't that the foundation of feminism? She chose it. No one forced her into it so stop whining, feminazis. Geez.

If I have annoyed anyone with my love of the story, I apologize. Just so you know, this hasn't received any more attention than anything else I've fallen in love with in the past (such as Harry, Stars Hollow, the Winchesters, most recent crush). I'll do my best to be better. I know it's not easy. We, who claim to have a life, are rather annoyed with those who don't and live in this fantasy world of books. But I say just let them. They're not hurting anybody. Yet.

Next time you hear fifteen-year-old what's-her-name fawning over a Cullen or Quileute, just ignore it. By having to lash back all the time you become one of them -- an obsessed Twilight person. So don't let it get to you. And let me enjoy the movie. Thanks!

Before you stone me...

2009-11-12T21:58:00.004-06:00

Concerning the recent announcement that the governor will request a merger with the W and MSU, I would like to say that I am in favor of it. I do realize all that it could possibly entail, but my position comes from, I believe, a practical view.

There are many (faculty, students, and alumni) who are beginning to strategize in order to fight this "tooth and nail" (as one professor eloquently put it). I, however, would like all of us to simply breathe, slow down for a few seconds, and realize

THIS IS JUST A FREAKIN ANNOUNCEMENT

It very well could be months before any final decision is made, and even if the state does decide to merge, the transition could take a year or two or three... I don't know... No need to freak out. Yet.

But back to the reason I approve of the merger. Let's say we all band together to wage this battle to save this university, and we win. The question I ask is, what exactly are we saving? We are still going to be left with a university that is struggling for money, struggling for students, struggling for faculty, struggling for more and better programs, and struggling for a better campus.

I recognize the fear that all of the W, its history, its personality, its traditions, and its specialization in women's studies and history, will be absorbed and essentially lost in the ginormous institute that is MSU. And I do greatly love the W for all these things. I like the smaller classes. I like that the professors know my name. I like that I can walk to all my classes and save my gas. I like that we have social clubs instead of sororities full of carbon copies. Of course I don't want that to be lost. But my hope is that maybe it won't have to be. I don't see a problem with both campuses offering core classes. MSU is a technical school. They can keep that. We can keep all our specialties as well. We can keep our housing. There's no need to require students to drive between towns to get all their classes.

I also recognize the fear of job loss. And that point is not easy to debate, so I won't. I only know that the W was already planning on cutting 70 jobs over the next two years. Well to be more accurate, I only heard that and I'm not sure of the original source, so I really don't know for sure.

In the long run, I believe a merger will be the best decision. The state does not need (and cannot support) 7 universities. And it especially does not need two universities half an hour apart. I know the tradition, "Boys go to State, girls go to the W. We're sister schools." But change is inevitable. I say embrace it, and make it work for you. If we could keep our personality and history, then what will it hurt? If we become a fine arts extension, those with degrees from here not in fine arts may not have to worry, employers might just look at the MSU part of the name. And for those who, being caught in the transition, fear having to completely restructure their schedules, don't worry. I believe that State will have to honor what y'all have already done and not require you to switch to their curriculum, which may require starting over. I think they will let you finish as if you were at the W.

That is my opinion and my position. For those who oppose this, go ahead and do something. However you feel, there's no need to sit by and watch things happen. Be active!

My only request: please wait until I graduate. I cannot afford MSU's tuition. That is, after all, why I came to the W.

My ultimate dream(s)

2009-11-07T14:27:00.002-06:00

First: to be a roadie. That doesn't sleep with the band. Well, unless I'm married to one of them I guess. I do want me a musician:) I'd like to be with the band but not in it. And I like travelling. And I love music. So that sounds good, doesn't it?

Second: to open my own business. A cafe that everyone loves because I'll be open early for the mommies with kids and I'll be open late for the students. And I'll have wireless internet. And I'll be able to afford a staff so I don't have to work all the time. And I'll have a store with it too, and we'll sell fun things like Vera Bradley crap and monogramed toilet paper and "after you go" spray and homemade candles and soap and coffee mugs that don't have another like it. And they won't be name brands. And I'll also give away free recipes instead of coupons at the register. Well maybe I'll give away coupons. And it'll smell like chocolate chip cookies. Until it starts to hurt my business. And it won't be crazy expensive!

Next on my mind is that I'm turning into an all-things-organic lover as long as it tastes good and I recognize it and it's not too much out of my wallet (as all-things-organic likes to have as a characteristic). For example, yesterday I bought a bottle of Naked All Natural Fruit + Boosts superfood. It's blended juice that tastes like a smoothie. My particular flavor is Blue Machine and it has 57 blueberries, 6 blackberries, 6 3/4 apples and 2 1/3 bananas. AND it comes in a 100% recyclable & recycled bottle. AND it's rain forest alliance certified (I don't know what that means actually, but it sounds nice). It cost me about $4, but it's 32 oz. and there's no sugar added and it's worth it because it's way more than you'd get for the same price-ish at a coffee shop that shall remain unnamed.

I used to get annoyed with the environment activists (still do sometimes) because I thought they took things too far, but really, how is it so bad to recycle more or reuse the other side of your paper before you throw it away? Or make sure you get every drop of that lotion before you discard the bottle? Or throw your leftover food outside instead of in the trash can? There's no way to avoid using and wasting energy, but what does it hurt to at least attempt cutting back? If anything, you'd also be saving money because you don't have to buy trash bags as often if you don't fill your trash can as much. I think it's a good thing.

And when I become a roadie, we'll use vegetable oil for the bus that will be the location of the creation of my great novel.

I didn't sign up for this.

2009-10-22T22:47:00.003-05:00

It's quiet right now. As quiet as the city can get. Phone's silent. Well it was until Melissa just texted me. Roomie's gone. Music's ended. TV's off. Three months ago I would have gladly soaked this in. Three months ago, I had a life I thought was put together.

It wasn't what I would have called put together then, but after realizing how worse things could get, it definitely looks put together compared to now.

My days are never easy, nobody's are. And even though this last string of days has been worthy of me calling them "good" and really meaning it, I still feel like I'm about to fall apart. My threads are barely holding me in. Everything's about to burst and I don't know why. I need to let it out, but I can't. The tears won't come. The screams won't come. The words don't exist.

Why won't they come? Has my biggest fear come true:
“Do you not know that there comes a midnight hour when everyone has to throw off his mask? Do you believe that life will always let itself be mocked? Do you think you can slip away a little before midnight to avoid this? Or are you not terrified by it? I have seen men in real life who so long deceived others that at last their true nature could not reveal itself;… In every man there is something which to a certain degree prevents him from becoming perfectly transparent to himself; and this may be the case in so high a degree, he may be so inexplicably woven into relationships of life which extend far beyond himself that he almost cannot reveal himself. But he who cannot reveal himself cannot love, and he who cannot love is the most unhappy man of all.” – Soren Kierkegaard

Have I hidden myself for so long that the real me simply doesn't have the ability to reveal itself? I feel alone, but I know I'm not. I feel unloved, but I know I'm not. I feel unnecessary, but I know I'm not. It's a tiring feeling, but I'm not tired. And there's a horde of other things holding all this in. One of them being that I don't want to share this with anyone because any person I choose is just as tired as I am. I can't add to their load. It's this same reason that leads to the guilt for feeling this way. Every direction I face reveals someone who has it worse than me. Always. Why should I feel sad and tired and want to cry when everyone else has more of a right to it than I do? My problems aren't worth getting upset over. If I lost a child or had cancer or was confined to a wheel chair, then I would be justified in hurt or anger or sadness. But not my petty problems. This is why I don't like the quiet anymore. I'm not strong enough to battle my thoughts.

Oh but it's eating at me. I want it out.

This leads to a daze. You know this feeling, don't deny it. The one where you're driving and you don't know how fast you're going and you don't care. Then you see a light pole and think of how easily a car can veer off the road without any effort from the driver.

The effort goes into keeping the driver alive. It's so hard sometimes.

P.S. This is not a suicide note. I may be conceited, but I'm not selfish.

Accompanied by the scent of coffee

2009-10-13T13:27:00.000-05:00

I want to talk about inspiration: a muse, people you love, nature, music. What influences your creativity? What is your inspiration? Or a better question might be: what exactly IS inspiration?

I think all would agree that it's a feeling, something that encourages action to create. I want to say that it's a spiritual power, an energy. It's something that takes you from one perspective to another. Your focus has shifted, and you see something new. The response is to create something new. So that can eventually lead to: what is your inspiration?

I hate cliches, but I'd have to say - anything! I find inspiration in the common things like art, music, movies, nature, my close friends, good conversations, the Bible, and other literature. But I want to propose that the best and most surprising ways inspiration comes is through the little things.

My daffodils, my coffee, the fire crackling, some stranger laughing, the singing leaves in the breeze, random quotes, a fine piece of chocolate cake, driving windows down and tangling the hair, a baby's dimples, clean laundry, church bells, someone who holds my hand. These are just a small number of all the possible things that spur my writing.

I have always believed in the importance of tiny things. I believe that God is in the little things just as much as he's in the big things. I believe that there is a purpose to every bird that sings and every stranger that smiles and every orange that just tastes so good I don't even care about the juice staining my shirt. And I believe that God delights in our enjoyment of it. I think it makes him happy when he can provide us with something and we revel in it. I encourage indulgence of these small pleasures. Because I find peace in them. I know that they are from God, and they are for me. I believe that it makes his heart happy when I smile at something.

Because when I smile at something, I usually will turn that smile into a piece of writing. As a being created in the image of a Creator, how can I NOT create? I think he likes seeing us attempt to follow his steps.

Sanity calms, but madness is more interesting.

2009-10-05T23:02:00.000-05:00

My life is full of fears. I fear I'll never find the love of my life. I fear I'll never leave town. I fear I'm wasting my time. I fear I won't pass a class or an assignment. I fear my friends will leave me. I fear for my safety. I fear for my family's safety. I fear I'll forget what I'm supposed to remember. I fear I'll say what's really on my mind. I fear I'll embarrass myself. I fear rejection. I fear vulnerability. I fear humility. I fear community. I fear poverty.

But I love too. My life is full of loves. How can that be? How can the two coexist in me? Perfect love drives out fear (1 John 4:18). Oooohh it's 11:11, make a wish! I think this verse is talking about salvation and how we shouldn't fear because fear involves torment, but there is none of that in salvation. "He who fears has not been made perfect in love."

To love someone, you must trust them utterly and completely. If you fear, then you do not trust and if you do not trust, is that love? I guess it all makes sense now. If I fear, I am not trusting God with my life and everything that is involved with it. I am safe, that's for sure. My soul is secure, so what is there to be afraid of? Everything that depends ultimately and only on me has been done. To fear is not to love. The two cannot coexist. One is always beating down the other one.

He who cannot forgive breaks the bridge over which he himself must pass.

2009-09-21T14:05:00.000-05:00

I've been thinking a lot on forgiveness today. When someone who cares nothing for you offends you, it is far easier to let it go, move on, and perhaps even smile at them as they pass you by. But when a love of your life causes you hurt, it feels so right to hold it against them forever. They should have known better, you say. There's no excuse. And you're right. There is none. Not ignorance or distraction or forgetfulness. None.

So what does that say about you? That you care more for the well being of some almost stranger to release them from your grip, but for someone closer they, have to live under your bitterness until you decide you're ready to let it go? Oh, well that's different. The stranger didn't know better. Okay. Is that still an excuse?

"Wounds from a friend can be trusted, but an enemy multiplies kisses." - Proverbs 27:6
What does that mean? I took it to say that when our close ones rebuke or discipline us that we shouldn't be discouraged. We should trust them to speak those things for our benefit. And when others we don't know or trust very well begin to feed us with words sweet to our ears, we should be suspicious. They might be after something for their own selfish benefit.

What if it means that when someone we love hurts us deeply, whether intentionally or not, it is still to be trusted? Only the ones who know us best can know how to hurt us most. What does that mean? At what point do you give up and say enough? Never? What if it continues? How much hurt are you supposed to endure? And maybe they didn't know better, though they should have. Isn't that an excuse? Maybe they really should have known better, and there is no excuse.

However, the ultimate truth of all these questions is that no matter the extent of betrayal and cruelty, the only true freedom from it is forgiveness. Never let anyone have a grip on you because of somthing so wrong. And never hold a grip on them, because you will hurt yourself and strengthen the pain. I have no answers. Just that people, no matter who they are in your life, will cause you harm. And people, no matter what they've done, can only be saved through forgiveness. Don't you want everybody saved?

I will live by my pen...and a man who makes money.

2009-09-19T19:52:00.001-05:00

I'm going to spoil a movie if you haven't seen it. But don't worry. When you watch it you'll see that I've really done nothing wrong.

Why can't I have both? Must I choose between love and the pen? This feeds the hate side of my relationship with pop culture. I just finished watching Becoming Jane and I will say it was not a bad movie. The only problem was that I kept seeing Anne Hathaway instead of Jane Austen in it. But other than that issue, I was pleased with the overall production.

As for the actual message of the movie, though, I was saddened. Jane couldn't marry the man she loved because they were both too poor and he had to support his family. She left him so he could marry someone with more money to provide for his parents and siblings. And she would "live by her pen." It is a rather encouraging message on one hand, it proves that no matter how desirable a lover may be, he is not necessary. She made it just fine by her career. However, when she was making plans to run away with her love (though they were both engaged to other people at the time) her sister pleads, "How will you write?"

What the heck? Is that supposed to mean she can't pursue her other dreams and desires because she's married?!? I'm sorry, but I thought we lived in a world where having both is entirely possible. Certainly not easy, but having each individually isn't easy either. And I don't want to hear how the times were different then. It's easy to say that because of Emily Dickinson, Phillis Wheatley, Harriet Beecher Stowe, and Louisa May Alcott. And then we have those of the 20th century, Anne Sexton and Sylvia Plath, whose lives were downright tragic.

Guess what? I don't want anyone telling me what I can have and how much I can have. I'm not unaware that most of those things will be sacrificed at times, but I'm getting what I want and you better understand that. I will work and I will love. I've never had trouble with priorities. I'll make it. And I'll prove that to you.

But the dilemma is, if some things will have to be sacrificed at times, how will I know which one to sacrifice and when? am I being too selfish if I say no to love so I can build up my career? Am I making the biggest mistake of my life if I give up my dreams so I can have a husband? Either way, I'm going to look back and wonder what could have been if...

No. If I want both, I'm getting both. If he doesn't support me and my aspirations, then he doesn't deserve me. I know there IS someone out there who understands that if he wants a woman to support him and what he wants, than he BETTER be expecting to offer the same. And he better realize that if she doesn't expect that from him, he deserves better. And that's when I will introduce myself, "Hello, my name is Better, and you are?... Oh, well it's nice to meet you Mr. I've Been Waiting For You My Whole Life. I'm so glad to be making your acquaintance and your life worth it."
Hmmm... it does sound nice in my head. But we can't all live in a Jane Austen novel. Let's just be thankful we don't live in a Jane Austen biography. That would suck. Although, if she did marry for love, would we still have those novels? It was, after all, a different time. And the ending was satisfactory.

Sad day, sad say.

2009-09-13T23:18:00.001-05:00

I have a love/hate relationship with pop culture. I love movies with happy endings (predictable chick flicks) and I love top 40 (my seat bouncing music in the car). What I don't love is that when I turn the radio off or leave the theatre, the world I return to is nothing like what I've just left.

I want to have a sit-down with Taylor Swift and make sure she knew that Romeo didn't get a happy love story ending with Juliet.

I want to document an attempted entry into Harvard Law School using the same techniques as Elle Woods and send it to MGM.

Life isn't full of happy endings. It's full of crying little girls begging Daddy not to go away again. It's bombarded with disappointment over both possibilities of a pregnancy test. It's abuntantly supplied with headstones displaying a shorter than wished for lifespan. It brings us big red F's and criticism. It has long and drawn out court dates. It has the brokenness of unreturned love, the shattered pieces of relationships, and the tears of unanswered prayers. And worst of all, the unbearable loudness of God's silence.

The movie told me I could leave everything behind. I could run away with nothing but a duffel bag, and begin a new and successful and better life. I've tried running from my problems. On a smaller scale, of course. Guess what? They followed me. Like the smell of Mexican food from Mi Toro. They just stuck around.

But maybe a happy ending wasn't always the intent. Honestly, I don't think God ever intended on any kind of ending. Just an ongoing party forever. And if I flew straight to the happy ending, I'd miss the whole middle. And I'd never grow. And I'd never be better. And I'd never know the beauty of hope or how far grace would go. If I missed the whole middle of brokenness and strain and missing pieces that I endlessly search for. How would I ever know how far his love for me goes if everything's peachy?

I don't always wake up to peppy music starting my day. It was rainy this morning. And dark.

All I want is a room somewhere...

2009-09-02T22:34:00.000-05:00

I had to get a new phone last Thursday. First one they offered me? The iPhone. Did I want my monthly phone bill doubled? No, thanks! Would I have used half of what it offered me? Most definitely not. Soooo... I settled for some other touch screen thing that I don't like. I'm taking it back. I like buttons. And preferably something that doesn't cost $100.

This recession has caused many people to cut back. For instance, microwaves and dryers have gone down in sales. Kind of scary, isn't it? That is until you look at the products that have NOT suffered any decline: HD televisions, iPhones, and designer jeans.

Hmmm...

That makes me wonder if we really are in trouble or if most don't believe we're really in trouble. Probably the latter. Those all sound nice. I like pretty and shiny, but come on, let's be practical here. If I'm going to spend a buttload of cash on something, it's probably going to be my trip to Europe, or children in India, or something that won't completely die once water contacts it. As I read recently, "Trips to Europe give memories that last a lifetime." Jeans from Europe?

You know, I've never been one for labels. Truth is, you could be covered in them and I wouldn't think they were any different from my hand-me-downs. I just don't notice it. And maybe it makes me weird, but I just don't get the big deal about it. I almost want to be famous so I can go to some award show and have all the annoying people with microphones ask me what I'm wearing so I can say (after all the stars have responded "Armani/Dolce & Gabbana/Dior"), "My mommy made it!"

I do love pretty things. But I aspire to practicality. What will this mean to me in a year? A microwave is something I would rather have on hand. Seeing how I don't like to cook and we're not allowed to have anything else in our dorms and that's my only way of food preparation and I don't want to pay money all the time to get food when the caf's closed, I kinda need it.

The life of a nomad is looking pretty good to me right now. Yes, yes, I know. A guaranteed roof and income for food and gas and stuff is nice. And anyone who really knows me knows that I go on freakout mode when that's in jeopardy (at that point I usally run from the room and call mommy so she can talk me down with common sense). But Jesus never had any needs unmet. I wish we could still live like that. I wish I trusted God enough to not worry about anything if my life did take some crazy turn.

No, I don't feel a call to leave my home and travel around with no money, trusting fellow brothers and sisters to take me in until I have to pull out my umbella and fly to the next set of people in need. I feel like a spiritual nomad already, and that's enough unsettling for me. In a way, we're all travellers, wandering, searching, running, dancing, limping, crawling, even being carried at times. But physically speaking, I'm supposed to be here right now. And I like stability. But even then, perhaps the simpler life of those with nothing but peace and trust in God to provide for them in their area of calling can teach me that I don't need much. The state of the economy is scary, but if it shows me that I can cut back and still be okay, then it's not all bad. I really don't need much. Just to see the world. I can do that barefoot, right?

Let's all be hippies! And then stuff ourselves with Twinkies when we get tired of it.

I have a blog.

2009-09-01T15:10:00.000-05:00

I have to admit that I thought blogs were for people with no social life. And I like to think I have a social life. But I like to write. And I like people to hear what I write. And Facebook isn't primarily for that. So I have a blog. If you want tidbits of my scholarly wisdom, if you're bored, or if you're a stalker, then hopefully you can find something of use to you here. I enjoy expressing what I think through type and ink, but I am learning to use my mouth when necessary. But I still like writing more than talking. (Okay, maybe that's a lie half the time, BUT I love writing.)

I think everybody has something to offer. This is what I have. I'll be back.

Grace and peace to you all!