Wayfaring Wordsmith

weight of words

2012-02-08T17:30:00.001-06:00

Sometimes I write things in the poignancy of a moment that make me smile or even laugh when I look back at them later. Such is the case with a poem I just found, written towards the end of December, after a guy named Bryan called and broke things off. We had been dating for a few weeks and I was excited about the relationship, excited about the future, excited about him. Then he called and ended things, before they were even official. I was stunned. But I moved on. A couple of weeks later and I was shrugging my shoulders and saying, 'Oh well. Life goes on. It simply wasn't meant to be.' So it makes me smile to find the poem, written in a quiet frenzy of trying to understand and be at peace, before the peace came (even without any understanding).

Weight Of Words - 12.20.11

It’s really amazing
how
one phone call
a few words
can take the luminous joy that has been growing brighter and stronger
and reduce it to the feeble light of a firefly
winking in and out, in and out, in and out.

“I don’t know how to say this …”
An ominous beginning
my heart catching in my throat
before sinking to my soles
(gravity always plays her part and usually has her way).
“I don’t see things working out, going any further.”
A simple, “Oh,” - all that I can muster at the news.

“I’m sorry,” he says.
When he called I was laughing as I ran up the stairs,
kneeling on the floor to plug in my phone before it died.
Now something else has died, and I am left
kneeling on the floor of my room
leaning against a swivel chair
for some sort of tangible support.

“Thank you for your honesty,” I say.
Thank you for hurting me now and not later.
“I’ve really enjoyed spending time with you,
getting to know you.”
“Me too, yes,” he says.
“Alright then. Goodbye.”
“Goodbye.”

The finality of it, so crushing
a weight of words
falling clumsily around me
Oh, but I still wish him well
Oh, but I too will be well
Oh, but see?
I’ll take these weighty words
and try to craft them into something better.

Camera In My Heart

2012-02-03T22:25:00.000-06:00

Sometimes,
I think that there's a camera inside my heart.
Moments come which are so beautiful,
buoyant,
joyous,
and I will myself to remember them always.
That's when I hear the tiny
'click'
and know that there camera has taken a photograph
so that I will not forget.

Other times
something embarrassing or painful happens
and I press my eyes closed and think
No, please.
A heart is made o muscle and tissue and blood.
It is not mechanical.
I can will it to remember and I can will it to forget.
Right?
Yet my heart does not always listen to my mind
and I hear the film advance and feel the tiny
'click'
as it takes a photograph,
so I will not forget.
Because -
it goes both ways.

Two Dreams: Turtles And Tigers

2012-01-30T11:07:00.000-06:00

On Friday night, I had a vivid dream about pet turtles. I dreamed that I walked into a pet shop and the man behind the counter turned to me with a smile and a turtle sitting on his head. The turtle seemed quite content. His legs flopped down on either side of the man's ears, like a bean bag doll's would. He looked around absently, complacently; a creature from a Dr. Seuss tale.
"How did you train the turtle to sit on your head like that?" I exclaimed.
"Oh it was quite easy!" the man said.
"I love it! Do you have others who do that?" I asked.
"Indeed!" the man replied. He then proceeded to pull out a variety of turtles from behind his glass counter and try them on my head as though they were hats. Finally we found one that seemed just right. I was thrilled.
"He's perfect," I said. "This is wonderful! I can have my pet with me wherever I go."
The man nodded, holding up a leaf so that the turtle on his head could snack on it. In my dream there was a spot of worry about if my roommates would be okay with me having a pet turtle, so I begged the shop keeper to save that turtle for me while I ran home and spoke with them. Then I woke up.

On Sunday night, last night, I dreamed about a tiger. I dreamed that I and some of my family were living in the house that used to belong to my Grandmother. I was in the backyard: there was the tree I used to climb ever day and there was the screened-in back porch. That back yard, porch, and house was a tiny zoo. There were birds and a boa but the only thing I cared about was the tiger. The tiger was my special friend. I would step into the porch and there he'd be. He'd come up to me and I'd stroke him. He'd nuzzle into me and I'd wrap my arms around him. I always had to be gentle, so that he in turn was gentle with me. But then, as I embraced him, the tiger would lift his paws and embrace me back. He'd hold me tight but never roughly and I could fall apart in the wonder of that wild, strong, wordless, loving grip. We'd go for walks together through the park. I can't describe it well enough, but in my dream there was a bond of loyalty between us that was so fierce. There was this power we each had that we could exert over the other but wouldn't. With a swipe of his paws he could destroy me, and with a word I could have him locked up. But we would never, never do that, and we would always be loyal and close. I think that in my dream, that tiger was my best friend; fierce, loyal, loving, understanding. When my alarm went off I hit snooze, then I hit it again, just so I could slip back into that dream for a few more minutes, where a beautiful, terrible-but-tame tiger was my friend, and would put his paws on my shoulders and nuzzle against me and say a hundred things without a single word.

"War Horse": the buoyancy of hope

2012-01-25T22:25:00.001-06:00

I saw the movie "War Horse" tonight. Honestly I hadn't been that interested in seeing it: the trailer played such an emphasis on the epic and dramatic that I feared it would be over-done. But because the film has been awarded several Oscar nominations - including Best Picture - I decided that I should see it.

It was a certainly a beautiful movie, well deserving of the Best Cinematography nomination. The colors were all very lush and vivid, giving it more the feel of the novel and play it was based on rather than of something trying to be realistically dramatic. It felt a little long, weaving together a slew of encounters and taking time for sweeping panoramic views or heart-felt close-ups, while the music pulled one along emotionally throughout. There may have been moments when it tried a little too hard to pull on one's heart-strings, almost going into the cliche. Yet overall it was a good movie in that it portrayed the harshness of war coupled with the buoyancy of hope. It came together in a classic sigh-happily-at-the-screen Hollywood ending. Cliche probably, but satisfying.

One scene struck me particularly. I won't give it away: I'll just say that it was a scene which brought two enemies together for a little bit, and as is any moment of peace in the savage muddle of war, it was lovely. As the two men worked together, suspicious and cautious at first, then almost becoming comrades as they began to be bound in a common goal, it made me think how no man ever wants to go to war and kill people. Men go to war because they want peace, not death. They go to war because they want liberty, freedom, and the pursuit of happiness, but not because they want another man's blood on their hands. In a fictional scene where two men worked together in the ravaged, bloody field between two armies, I could almost imagine the war dissolving right then. Those two men didn't want to kill each other. The men watching from the trenches didn't want to kill each other. Yet there they were. It makes one wonder: how is it that things can get so bad that men have to make weapons and fight against each other, everything only being called off when one side has finally had too many of their people die?

"War Horse" is an interesting film because it focuses on the one being who had absolutely no choice about war or anything relating to it. Joey, the horse, it thrown about here and there. You don't know what he's thinking except that he wants to be home. So the viewer roots for him, hopes for him. Faith, hope, and love: what else is there in wartime, or anytime? Just those three things. Yet they're enough.

The Bad, The Worse, And The Very Good

2012-01-08T18:20:00.001-06:00

Goodbye 2011, hello 2012. Here's to you being a good new year. I that when I look back on 2011, I'll always remember two things: it was a rough year in many ways, but ... I had Scotland. If I had to summarize the whole year, it would look something like this:

January
:: I officially became the bookkeeper for my church, having trained under the old bookkeeper for the last few months before he moved to Scotland temporarily with his wife. It has been challenging in a good way.
:: Having quit my main job at a non-profit a few months I finally found a good part-time job nannying twin girls, only three months old at the time.
:: My car broke down. I had it towed to a shop and borrowed my parent's Camry in the meantime.

February
:: Diagnosis on my car; the water pump broke and timing belt went out, which also messed up the pistons.

March
:: My debit card was stolen and someone in Chicago started making charges. I canceled the card, filed a police report, and held my breath for a week until the money was debited back into my account.

April
:: Still waiting on my car to be fixed. The mechanic has given me several different cost estimates.
:: I make a wedding cake for a friend.

May
:: The estimate to fix my car gets higher. It looks as though I won't be able to visit my friends in Scotland like I had very much hoped.
:: A friend gives me money for my car; a generous amount. I am able to buy a plane ticket to Scotland after all.

June
:: For my birthday my family gives me a zoom lens for the Canon camera I bought last year after having saved up for almost a year for it. I had a fun birthday dinner with my family and closest friends.
:: I leave for Scotland! The flight goes from Austin to Houston to Heathrow to Edinburgh.

July
:: Ten days in Scotland. I wander the streets with a map, a camera, and a bus pass. I take a tour of the highlands. I visit castles and museums and memorials. I stay with my friends who know the city and are guides and lodging in one: the chance of a lifetime.
:: I get home and my car is still nowhere near to being finished. I call around and get estimates and have my car towed to a new shop.

August
:: My camera, zoom lens, SD card, camera case and GPS are all stolen from my car (my parent's Camry that I'm still driving). I file the second police report of the year.
:: The front brakes go out on the Camry so I have them replaced.

September
:: I make a wedding cake for the friend of a friend.
:: The repair on my car has taken four times longer than the mechanic said it would, and he never calls me when he says he will to let me know what's going on. I begin calling the repair shop every day to see how things are going with my car and getting the new engine put in. Finally it's finished and I get it back!
:: My church celebrates their tenth birthday. It's also the tenth anniversary of 9/11.

October
:: The check engine light keeps coming on and I can't get my car inspected. I take it back to the repair shop again and again but the light keeps coming back on.

November
:: The mechanic keeps promising that he's fixed the problem; instead the car starts making a terrible grinding noise so I take it to a friend, a mechanic whom I trust who doesn't work on my type of car but knows someone who does. Their diagnosis: the wrong type of engine was put in my car.
:: I start dating a guy named Bryan and start to like him more and more.

December
:: I get pictures of all the things that are wrong with the engine and a letter from the new mechanic and send them to a lawyer my Dad knows. I wait for the lawyer to send me a letter for the old mechanic, who put in the wrong engine, which will tell him he has two months to give me my money back.
:: My brother Huck graduates college.
:: Bryan calls the week before Christmas to break things off.
:: Christmas is great. All the family is together. We exchange gifts, play games, watch It's A Wonderful Life, and enjoy plenty of good food.
:: New Year's Eve; half the evening spent with family and half with friends. Ring in 2012!

The Man Who Collapsed

2011-12-26T12:30:00.000-06:00

I was sitting in a coffee shop, working on my laptop when I heard a phrase which caused me to look up:
"Should we call a paramedic?"

I had been absorbed in finding something online, and it wasn't until I heard those words and looked to my right that I realized that a man had collapsed. Nearly everyone else in the shop had stood up and gathered around him. At least two people knelt on the floor, supporting his head. The man was elderly: thin white hair and a frail frame. Yet he was completely limp, and the people kneeling beside him were having trouble holding up his head and back. It had all happened so quietly. No gasps, no cries of alarm, no crash. Hardly any drama at all actually. In the space of a few seconds a man had lost consciousness and sunk to the floor a mere six feet away from me, and it took the word 'paramedic' to make me realize that anything was wrong.

I stood with the rest of the people, glancing behind the counter at a barista who was a friend of mine, who was looking on anxiously with the rest of us. Everyone was at a loss for what to do. In the movies it is so much more dramatic. Someone collapses and everyone whips out their phones and dials 911, or someone with medical training is handily there, stepping forward and expertly accessing the situation. Yet in this case when someone asked the question about calling for help an elderly woman with short grey hair said, "No." She said, "He took his blood pressure medication at the wrong time, that's all. Help me get him to the couch. He needs to lay down for awhile."
So a couple of men who were present lifted the old man and carried him to the one couch in the shop and laid him down. Carrying a genuinely unconscious person in real life is also a lot more awkward and difficult than most of the movies portray. The man's shirt got all rolled up so that when they laid him down it was all crumpled and somewhat sideways, even after they tried to straighten it. The woman kept waving away people's questions about whether someone should be called to come check him out.
"He'll be fine, he just needs to rest," she insisted. "He didn't take his blood pressure medication last night so he took the big dose this morning and it was too much for him at once. He'll be fine."

Slowly everyone drifted back to their tables and friends. I sat back down at my laptop, glancing occasionally at the man on the couch. When he collapsed he had had an accident, so the barista and manager had to clean up the floor and put one of those yellow 'Caution: Wet Floor' signs, to avoid any other falls. The woman pulled a table and chairs in front of the couch and sat down. Another woman joined her, and a little while later another couple came in and sat down with them as well. They chatted and guarded the sleeping man, blocking him mostly from view while watching him themselves. I admit: a part of considered calling a paramedic so they could come check him out and make sure, but with the table of people sitting beside him and watching him it seemed like I'd be overstepping. If all four of them felt that he'd be fine then hopefully they were right. Of course he had to get up or be moved from the couch at some point, so in the end it might come down to the decision of the shop manager.
The man finally woke up. He continued to lay on the couch, though he was able to answer when the people at the table asked, "How are you feeling?" It seemed that the woman with the short grey hair was right: he was going to be alright.

It's strange to be an observer of such a scene. To never have a word to say or part to play. Before they moved the man to the couch someone said that they should put something under his head and I had picked up my jacket, ready to offer it as a makeshift pillow. But it wasn't needed after all, so I drifted back to my seat, an audience member is all, or an extra without a speaking part. There are so many roles in life that we can't ever be prepared for. Things happen and we react in some way, whether it be to be the one to carry someone to a couch or to simply hover in readiness. But ... readiness for what? For anything, I suppose. Outside the window I could see a couple sitting at a table with their coffee, oblivious to any of the goings-on inside. Had they known they probably wouldn't be able to do anything, like me, but it makes me wonder: how many things happen on a daily basis, so very close by, that I never realize? How much more involved could I be if I simply made myself look up, look around, look out for things? How much more aware should I be than I am right now?
I'll start by asking the question, and looking up, around, and out for the answer.

We'll Have To Muddle Through Somehow

2011-12-10T00:16:00.001-06:00

Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas

Have yourself a merry little Christmas, let your heart be light
From now on our troubles will be out of sight
Have yourself a merry little Christmas, make the Yule-tide gay,
From now on, our troubles will be miles away.

Here we are as in olden days, happy golden days of yore
Faithful friends who are dear to us, gather near to us once more

Through the years we all will be together, If the Lord allows
Until then we'll have to muddle through somehow
And have yourself a merry little Christmas now

Confession: my favorite line of that old Christmas song is perhaps the saddest: 'until then we'll have to muddle through somehow.' True, many people sing the song with the line changed to 'hang a shining star upon the highest bough', a more happy, glimmering image. However I love the hopeful acceptance of the original line: the singer confidently says that 'we all will be together', adds, 'if the Lord (or Fates in some versions) allows', then sighs and says the 'until then' verse. It's a wistful line, yet it's hopeful too. In fact maybe it's not so sad after all.

Muddle means mixed-up, confused, bumbled, jumbled. Because it's a Christmas song, when I hear the line I get the mental image of someone trudging through snow. The flakes are swirling around his face so that he can't see very far ahead of him. The snow is up to his knees, even up to his waist in parts, but still he keeps on going, keeps moving forward. Because through all the blinding flurry he sees a light ahead of him. He's not sure where he is, he's a little lost and a little confused, muddled, but he sees the light and he keeps going because he knows. He knows that his loved ones are going to meet him there, and in the moments of strongest clarity and conviction, his heart is light. It doesn't matter that he's muddling his way through the storm. He keeps going. That's what matters.

That's what I 'see' when I hear the song, and that's why I love that line.

It's a song with an interesting history. It was originally written for the movie 'Meet Me In St. Louis', a musical with Judy Garland. The original lyrics bounced even more distinctly between hope and sadness:

Have yourself a merry little Christmas, it may be your last,
Next year we may all be living in the past
Have yourself a merry little Christmas, pop that champagne cork,
Next year we will all be living in New York.

No good times like the olden days, happy golden days of yore,
Faithful friends who were dear to us, will be near to us no more.

But at least we all will be together, if the Fates allow,
From now on we'll have to muddle through somehow.
So have yourself a merry little Christmas now.

Apparently Garland and others were concerned that the lyrics were too depressing in places, convincing author Hugh Martin, with some difficulty, to modify the lyrics. Garland's haunting rendition of the song in the film became an instant classic. Later, Frank Sinatra also recorded the song to great success, and it was he who insisted that the 'muddle through' line be changed to 'hang a shining star upon the highest bough'. Since then, dozens of artists have recorded that song using either line they preferred.

Either way, it's a tune that is so familiar one hardly stops to think about the lyrics when it plays on the radio. It's short and sweet, both haunting and comforting. When the shops and DJ's stop playing the song after the Christmas season, we'll have to muddle through, somehow, until we hear those hopeful notes once more.

x-ray

2011-11-20T16:15:00.001-06:00

Figurative thoughts of literal truth.

If you cut a person open, slip past all the skin of different shades and the muscle and fat, you'll find that on the inside we're all nearly the same: skeletal structures of varying sizes (oh dem bones) and a composition of internal organs, messy and intricate; disgusting perhaps, yet the most fascinating and beautiful mystery one can encounter within the space of their own selves, if not on the entire earth.

No man-made creation can compete with the man himself.

One of these things is just like the other ...

Beautiful, Bones And All

2011-11-01T21:00:00.000-05:00

I think that if someone has a good childhood, they will love the land they are born in. Not just the country but the state, the city, the place that they recall being in on birthdays and Christmas's. It will be a definable part of them, something they can't help feeling some pride for and possession of. Even if that place is a barren flatland, or has deadly blizzards, or has dangerous animals, or reeks of oil, or has criminal gangs: if there are memories and people there that one loves, it's home.

I was born in Texas. Like any true Texan, a fierce pride for my native state runs through my veins. When someone rags on Texas, it hurts. It's an attack. This place is my home, and that makes it personal. To quote the movie 'You've Got Mail' - "Whatever else anything is, it ought to begin by being personal." *

People say that this state is 'too hot' or 'doesn't really have seasons' or 'doesn't have mountains or good beaches' or whatever. To which I think, So? If every place on earth had seasons and mountains and fewer days under one hundred degrees, wouldn't that be ... dull? Why would I ever want to travel to anywhere else if it were all the same? Besides, my Texas pride points out the state's rich diversity. From pine trees to hill country to flat lands to the coast to the changing weather, there's beauty and change and history. There's bluebonnets and mockingbirds, and be honest now: no other state has such a cool shape. That's not being biased, that's just fact.

This year, my beloved state has seen a terrible drought. Lakes and rivers are drying up. Grass is brown and trees are bare. Wildlife is moving closer to civilization in their quest for water. Yet even the bare bones of the land are beautiful to me. Texas isn't a state that just rolls over and gives up. Its people fought for it to be a state in the first place and their spirits aren't easily broken. This land will always be the place I was born in, grew up in, and call home, just as my parents and siblings do. There is love and laughter and natural marvels that I appreciate all the more for the drought and heat. I've been blessed to travel to many other states and even several countries outside the US. Each place has it's own special allure, history, messiness and endearment. If there are things I do not like about other places then at least I work at seeing the good as well. There's good in everything, if we really look. Why simply point out the bad, when in doing so it thrust darts into the heart of the person who loves that place?

To you who are from California, or New York, or someplace else that you feel is superior, remember this: you love your home state because it is just that; your home state. You love it because you were born there and grew up with that skyline or coastline or forest. I grew up under a wide open sky that spills over with a vast array of stars. It is an intrinsic part of me. It's personal, and I'm glad for that.

*quote from 'You've Got Mail', after Joe has closed down Kathleen's bookstore with his mega store:
Joe Fox: It wasn't... personal.
Kathleen Kelly: What is that supposed to mean? I am so sick of that. All that means is that it wasn't personal to you. But it was personal to me. It's personal to a lot of people. And what's so wrong with being personal, anyway?
Joe Fox: Uh, nothing.
Kathleen Kelly: Whatever else anything is, it ought to begin by being personal.

listen and do

2011-10-27T00:00:00.000-05:00

Evenings are one of my favorite times of day. I put on my pajamas and sit down at my computer. I plug in my headphones and watch a TV show online or listen to a podcast or CD. Around me, everything is quiet. With my headphones in I control the volume without disturbing my roommates. Even when I'm relaxing I try to make the most of time. I never simply sit and watch a show or movie if I can help it. The only time I do that is if I'm at the movie theater or watching something with friends. Otherwise, I catch up on work, or do a craft project such as jewelry making, or play sudoku, crosswords, or Angry Birds. In a way I probably listen to TV shows more than I watch them. Listening to the dialogue and the sounds while occasionally glancing up at the screen from whatever I'm doing. Maybe I enjoy multi-tasking or maybe I enjoy the feeling of seeping myself in a story yet staying grounded by some tangible thing in my hands. Two places at once. Here: sitting at the desk that my father made for my grandmother, and there; listening to characters in some intriguing storyline far removed from my own.

I like being in two places at once.

Grief and Gladness

2011-10-10T22:53:00.001-05:00

So there was this girl I knew, named Amy. She was the friend of some friends of mine. She was there at the wedding of our mutual friends, and I saw her at other get-togethers and birthday celebrations. She was sweet and funny and fun to hang out with. One day I went into the copy store she worked in. There was a quick moment of recognition and happy surprise when we saw each other. We leaned on the tall counter top and chatted as the copier churned out pages for my job. When my copies were finished we hugged goodbye and I looked forward to seeing her again. I did see her again a number of times. One time we talked about the trip to Colorado that she and her husband were going on to celebrate their one year anniversary. One time we talked about wedding cakes, since I had made the one for our mutual friends. We talked about how her hair was growing back in and about the procedures she was having done after her surgery. We talked about cancer.

When I first met Amy, she was in remission for leukemia. Her hair was growing back, she had a wonderful circle of friends (including her future husband), and she was optimistic that the cancer was completely gone. Life was good. It was the second time that she had battled with cancer. She was first diagnosed with leukemia when she was a senior in college. She went through chemo and went into remission. But then a new kind of leukemia attacked her. Again she went through treatment and again went into remission. Then out of the blue, Amy was diagnosed with breast cancer. She had to start treatment all over again.

I remember leaning across the store counter and watching Amy smile as she talked about the procedures that were being done to help her body fight the cancer. She was marveling at how medicine and science were continually advancing. I had to marvel with her, caught in an enthusiasm for how life goes on and how faith carries us through. She had tremendous faith. She was hopeful and optimistic. Inside her body there was battle of chemo and dying cells but around her was love and life and she clung to those things with a startlingly clear faith. Whenever I'd say goodbye to Amy I always felt happy. She had a glow that exuded from deep inside her and made her beautiful. It didn't matter that we were talking about how long it took for one's hair to grow back. Amy was smiling as she said it, smiling as she touched her scalp, smiling from an inner faith that was nothing short of miraculous.

A few days ago I heard the news: Amy had died. Three kinds of cancer over seven years had taken their toll, taken her life. I was sitting in the library when I saw the news on facebook. Some might say, "Of all places," but I would say, "Yes, of course," because I didn't know Amy's family, just her friends, so it would be from a much closer friend than I that the news would come, broadcast out of quiet yet public grief. I sat in the library and looked at pictures of Amy and began to cry. Amy, shaving off her hair for the first time. Amy, smiling with a group of friends. Amy, with her wonderful loving husband whose pain I felt like a sharp knife, doubling me over in my chair with tears I tried to keep as quiet as I could. Amy, so young. How could she be gone?

A few days later I was standing in church singing along with the worship songs when I started to cry again over Amy. I have lost people to cancer before but somehow this felt different. Amy was my age. She was newly married and had so much hope and life in front of her. It seems almost audacious that she would get cancer at all, let alone three times, and that it would finally claim someone so young and full of spirit. I sat down, once again doubled over as tears streamed down my face. I know that there is joy for Amy now. There is no more pain or bad news. No more surgery or chemo. Her infectious joy and faith are probably multiplied by a thousand. Amy is not crying, yet I don't feel bad about crying for earth's loss. It's okay to remember her dancing with her soon-to-be husband at our friend's wedding and to feel a well of sorrow that she won't dance on earth any more. I could say nice things about heaven, which I believe in though I've never seen, but instead I'll choose to focus on what I have seen: Amy's sweet spirit, her radiant smile, and how her life rippled dearly to those around her. I wasn't a close friend, but I knew her and that was enough. She was loved and is loved still, and I will think of her both with gladness and grief. She was this girl I knew, and so much more.

warm beating heart, generous soul

2011-10-04T18:07:00.000-05:00

"Come on now darling let's shake off these blues
I'll let my hair down and you take off your shoes
I feel like a baby, new born in the spring
I'm setting down this sadness and I won't remember it!"
- Coachella, by Brooke Fraser

The song talks about when the singer went to the famous music concert in California, Coachella. She sings "We're daughters, sons, brothers, and sisters tonight at Coachella." I've never been to that concert, but I know what she means. There are times when I've joined in with a crowd of strangers for a musical event and suddenly we're linked together because of our shared love for the music, the art, the artist; every sound and sense of those few hours. We've come from all over just for that time. Just for that experience. The notes are piercing and the lyrics enter our hearts. "I'm a warm beating heart, you're a generous soul, and I love you though I've never met you before."

I love the singer's bold and certain statement: "I'm setting down this sadness and I won't remember it!" There are things that can do that: things that can help us fold our worries up like a heavy cloak and set them down while we let ourselves be wrapped up instead in something beautiful. Music can certainly do that. I can be in any kind of mood - sad, angry, despondent, anything - and when a song comes on the radio that lifts me up or touches my heart I can turn up the volume and sing along and set everything else aside for a little while. For others, it might be something like dance, or art, or the company of loved ones, or running, or cooking. Things that heal and mend, because in setting our perspective on something better it allows us to step back for a moment and refocus.

Because music means so much to me, I decided long ago that it was something I would be willing to spend money on over many other things. Some people prefer to eat out at expensive restaurants or buy name brand clothes. Me, I'd rather go to concerts and buy music. Of course, there have been times when I've stood in line for an hour, or been jostled by crowds, or had incredibly sore feet by the end of the evening but there's always that moment when I loose myself to the music and the fact that I'm there united with dozens or hundreds or other people who are there nodding and humming and smiling right along with me, a sea of faces all tipped towards the stage, mesmerized, which makes it all worth it. It would have been easier to stay home and watch TV, to not have spent the money on a ticket and waited in line and stood in the midst of a sweaty crowd. But then again it would have been easier for the singer to stay home too, and never have gone to Coachella and never have written a song about it. Sometimes doing something that is a little more challenging can bring about something wonderful, like stepping away from one's sadness and gaining a better perspective. So come on my darling, let's shake off these blues. Do something that makes you set down your sadness. Do something that makes you feel a little more vibrantly alive. Then share it with someone else, love. I'm a warm beating heart, you're a generous soul, and that in itself can carry us as far as we let it.

Sunday musings

2011-09-16T09:19:00.001-05:00

The roads are quiet at 7:00 am on a Sunday. For over three years now I've gotten up between 6 and 6:30 on Sundays to help set up for church. Although I'm fully awake by the time I get in my car, tongue in cheek I imagine that I could make the drive in my sleep.

As always, I turned down one road that is both pretty and hazardous. On one side is a sort of green belt area that winds behind a shopping center, and on the other is a stretch of untouched nature. It's common for deer to wander across the road so drivers have to be wary. At the same time, there's never much traffic so it's easy to zip along without thinking of being cautious. However I've seen enough police cars patrolling the street, parked unexpectedly around various bends, to be mindful of it.

That day there was no police car, but there was a scanner attached to the speed limit sign. As I drove closer, the scanner blinks and sputters to life. Like some animal that was sleeping beside the road, it awoke and stared me down. Wordlessly it condemned me for going a few miles above the limit, warning me that I should be careful, should obey its desires, its silent commands, or else. I drove by, imagining that as I disappeared from sight the scanner's lights grew dim: the animal falls asleep once more, waiting to be startled to life by some other prey. It may seem fierce for a moment, but in actuality is harmless, even docile. A growling bulldog without teeth, tethered securely.

The next time I drove that way the scanner had been removed. I was almost sad. The blinking, sputtering beast could have become a tame little friend. A greeting and warning all in one. A lone patrol of the street, perhaps stared at quizzically by passing deer. Instead it was removed to some other location, some other street. It's true that I have seen it as an annoyance, plenty of times. But after all, it's only a piece of equipment. It will be moved around from street to street, a nomad without a choice. Blinking at other cars on other Sunday morning roads.

ripple effect

2011-09-12T20:57:00.000-05:00

Every now and then, your life collides with that of a stranger and you get the chance to do some good thing for them, or they for you, and both your lives are touched. I recently got such a chance. It was there in my face and I knew just what I was supposed to do.

But I didn't. I blew it.

I was at Target. The store didn't have the exact item I was looking for, so I wandered back to the front of the store, browsing along the way. I found something else I had been looking for so I put it in my basket and got in line to check out. There were two people in line in front of me. A woman with several purchases and a man with a single item: a bottle of water. I noticed this without thinking anything about it. It was noon, and my thoughts were controlled by one thing: I was hungry. It was an almost-headache-hunger that made me want to do nothing more than get home and eat. How self-focused.
As the man with the water bottle opened his wallet to pay he said, "My credit card may not work ... we can try it and see ..." His voice was mixed with resignation and hope. The cashier swiped his card and shook her head.
"I'm sorry, it didn't go through." The man said something - "Okay, yeah, thanks," - and walked away. Though this was happening right in front of me, my thoughts were elsewhere, and I watched and listened to the exchange as though from another place. I had been digging around in my purse and as I extracted my wallet and looked up the man was walking to the door and the cashier was ringing up my item.
"How has your day been so far?" she asked in a chipper voice.
"Fine," I mumbled, staring after the man's retreating frame. My thoughts cried out, "Wait! It's just a bottle of water. I'll get it." I wanted to call after the man, "Come back!" but the words stuck in my throat. Instead of just doing it, just saying it, I thought of the possibility of his being embarrassed. Mentally I saw myself calling out, him turning around and shaking his head, waving the offer away, and leaving before I could embarrass him further: a stranger offering charity while a cashier and other customers looked on. I saw this picture because it's probably what I would do if I were in the man's shoes. No, it's fine, I'm okay, thank you ... My instinct would be to say that, even as my heart would tell me to take it. Because charity is one of those funny things that everyone reacts a little differently to.

This all ran through my head within a couple of seconds, but by that time the man was about to walk out the door. The words were still there, stuck in my throat, and that's where they stayed. Then he was gone.

I could still catch him, I thought. I could buy the water and maybe I could catch up with him in the parking lot and hand it to him. In fact that might be the better way to do it anyway. I turned to the cashier but she was telling me my total and even though something inside me screamed, I'll buy the bottle of water too!, I didn't say it, again. I was mute. Dumbly I swiped my credit card and took my receipt and my bag. He's probably already gone, I thought. But when I went outside I could see him walking across the parking lot. If I had bought the bottle of water I would have had to run but I could have caught him. He would have looked at me strangely. We both would have been a little embarrassed. But ...

It was what I was supposed to do.

As I walked to my car I felt incredibly weighed down. I ran through the idea of running back inside to buy some water, but knew for certain that this time it would be too late. By the time I waited in line and got back outside the man would have been long gone. I had missed it. I had missed the chance to bless a stranger. Guilt swept over me. I knew that I was supposed to buy his water. Or at least to offer to buy it, even if he turned me down. I just knew it. What if he had been having an awful day and it just got worse and I could have brightened it just a tiny bit but didn't? I had no idea why his card didn't work or what he might be going through. All I knew was that I could have at least tried to help. He might have turned me down - 50/50 chance - but I could have tried. I should have, but I didn't.

When I got in my car I sat there and almost cried. It was such a small thing that I could have done. It might have been a big thing for the man. I didn't know, and wouldn't. I had the chance to pay a good thing forward and blew it. Every single day there are ways to bless people with good things of all shapes and sizes: encouraging words or notes, gifts, a helping hand, an embrace. It's easier to see and seize these chances when it's with people one loves. When it's with a stranger, out of our comfort zone, out of sync with our normal lives, it's easier to let the chances slip past unnoticed. I don't know that I've ever told myself to purposefully be on the look out for ways to bless strangers, to pay good things forward. The man with the water bottle was so incredibly obvious, a billboard in my face, and still I let him walk out the door without saying a word.

Maybe it's a small regret in the scale of life, but maybe it's much more. Maybe it's a humbling reminder to keep my eyes and heart open, to react and not analyze. Hush, you thoughts of 'what if' that stopped my speech. Hush, you fear of embarrassment. Wake up, eyes to really, truly see those around me. Wake up out of my quiet comfort zone and see how each life touches so many others, and decide to make that touch mean something. Pay it forward.

jury is out, doctor is in

2011-08-23T11:13:00.000-05:00

well the jury is out but the doctor is in
and he whisks me along and says "Time to begin"
while all of my peers
are fighting their own fears

so attendance is up but the average is low
and I'm talking too fast but I'm moving too slow
and everything grand
seems to happen unplanned

it's a pilfered design by an entrepreneur
it's a illness where poison is the only cure
the jury all yawns
while the judge just looks on

things could happen too fast if they happen at all
thought I knew what I wanted then wanted it all
and all of my doubts
come screaming on out

it's the dream that I have every time I'm awake
it's the choices and chances and odd-shaped mistakes
I'm giving my blood
in a trickling flood

keep on trying and breaking and mending again
though I'm made I'm no puppet of God or of man
doc points out the stars
as I'm counting my scars

so I'll write this on paper, the sky or the ground
as I swallow my pride, try to wash it all down
hold hope in a flask
like an illusive task

in the end may it not count when we ran away
but the times that we fought and the reasons we stayed
and before I appealed
the judge said I'd be healed

a meticulous, crashing, mellifluous song
so raw and heartbreaking, I'll shout right along
until life is done
make it count: there's just one

Another Earth - movie review

2011-08-16T22:52:00.000-05:00

I saw the film "Another Earth" today. It's sad that many good, thought-provoking films are in limited release, but then again ones without big-name actors and lots of visual effects tend to have a smaller audience.

The film was good. I'd like to say very good, but feel instead that it hovered on the cusp of greatness.
For both good and bad, it's a movie with a lot of waiting. The characters take their time to react, which makes it more like real life. I found myself in a continual state of mentally urging them forward: "Come on, say it, do it," or "No, stop!". It made the moments of swift action that much more impacting.

The visual of the second earth, suspended in space beside the moon and growing ever larger and more distinct throughout the film, was seamless and stunning. It actually caught my breath a few times because of what it meant in the story: a second earth that had come into our earth's orbit, or vice versa, completely identical to our own. Identical down to each person who lived on that planet. The question was: were those people, those twins of everyone alive, exactly the same, all the time? Did they make all the same choices? That is the question that the film's protagonist, a twenty-one year-old girl named Rhoda, longs to discover. In one moment her life was shattered and she wants to know if the other her is living with the same fate, the same guilt, the same consequences.

It's a fascinating idea. Humans have always wondered if there's other life somewhere out in the universe. Hundreds of scenarios have been imagined and explored. But another you? Who may or may not make all the same choices? Would you want to meet this person, and if so, what would you say?

At the end, I felt as though I was still waiting, hoping for a little more resolution, a little more clarity. Even so, it left me with a slew of thoughts. Many situations in the film had me wondering, What would I do? What would I chose and say? There are so many things that we say are 'universal': pain, love, longing, regret, and hope being just a few. The film had a couple of interesting twists that let the viewer's imagination take over as to what the characters might do and feel on both earths. If there's ever a case where a competent author could take a film and turn it into a more fleshed-out book, I would strongly argue for this one. For now at least, I walked away thinking of the many vivid images in the film, and the possibilities it presented.

Trailer -
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N8hEwMMDtFY

a wish

2011-08-07T21:20:00.005-05:00

I've always had vivid daydreams, and loved them. Often they involve something dangerous: something happens, and I must step up and be brave and selfless. They are heroic dreams. I feel that if faced with many of the circumstances in real life that I dream about, my pulse would race with cold fear, while in my dreams my heart beats with steadfast certainty and courage. Through the years there have been scenarios that I dream up again and again, reoccurring situations that are usually slightly different, and that I have to handle a little differently each time. I have eloquent conversations. I don meaningful pseudonyms. They are beautiful and terrible both at once, but I am never afraid and I never back down. Maybe I don't want the things in many of my daydreams to actually happen in real life, but I do want to be that person in my dreams. I want to be courageous and selfless. I want to be eloquent and steadfast. I want to be be the best possible person that I can be.

walking the edge of an unseen abyss
dueling with dragons and blowing a kiss
all is a pulse and a smile and sigh
mixed with a lovesong and a lullaby

a kiss in chaos

2011-07-31T22:38:00.002-05:00

I love this photo. I love the story behind it: the way the photographer snapped it without any realization of how startling a picture it was, how the world latched onto it and demanded to know if it was real or a set up, and how the man's family identified him and helped them come forward to tell what was actually happening. A passionate couple too in love to care about the rioting? More like a reassuring kiss in the midst of chaos.

http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2011/jun/17/vancouver-kiss-couple-riot-police

http://today.msnbc.msn.com/id/43461996/ns/today-today_people/t/vancouver-kissing-couple-reveal-secret-viral-photo

a bit of this, a pinch of that

2011-07-22T16:12:00.000-05:00

I like the click of a stapler, and the rustle of paper being filed.
I like the smell of fresh baked bread, and the look and taste of melting butter and rising steam.
I like the feel of a child's hand gripping mine: trusting, loving.
I like the sound of my keyboard as my fingers tap the keys.
I like the look of silver better than of gold.
I like taking a drink of cool water and waiting a second before letting it slip down my throat.
I like being held by someone I love.
I like the cinnamon freckles on my face.
I like old, gnarled tree roots.
I like the sound of rain on a tin roof.
I like watching dancing, and trying to dance myself.
I like the delicate loveliness of a butterfly.
I like it when someone calls for no reason other than just to catch up, deepening a friendship.
I like the smell of most books.
I like the color, taste, and texture of blueberries.
I like a mockingbird's song best of all.
I like the way that water looks like diamonds when the sun hits it just right.
I like stories, songs, and movies that move me to the point of tears.
I like the cool feel of silk.
I like being surrounded by friends and have good conversations.
I like having time alone to reflect/write/sing.
I like running, even after a few minutes when I don't like it anymore.
I like playful teasing.
I like the satisfaction of a job well done.
I like falling asleep at night and thinking about something good that is coming in the next day.
I like finding beauty in odd places.

What about you?

heartfelt

2011-07-18T23:03:00.004-05:00

Sometimes I want to simply disappear inside my skin
My body sitting like a cloak while I just slip within

To my heart I wander, curious, along a vein
Stepping to the rhythmic, mathematical refrain

I'll explore the inside of my heart and feel each beat
All the veins like pathways in a capillary street

I wonder, where's the cracks from when it's broken in my chest?
Where are the hopes and fears that I keep tucked beneath my vest?

All of the memories from every part of all of my years?
Is there no reflecting pool of all the laughter and the tears?

There's the valves, working so hard, they never get a rest
I'm sure there have been times when I have put them to the test

Looking round inside, so anatomical, I find
Anything that I have seen in books and my own mind

Finally I leave this strange adventure, say adieu
Thankful here in my own skin for all that it can do

Palm upon my chest to feel my heart beat right along
Strong and fierce and delicate; a mortal, hopeful song

a perfect moment

2011-07-08T13:05:00.004-05:00

guidebook in my hand
camera in my bag
unfamiliar pavement beneath my feet.
green scarf around my neck
accents all around me
a thousand people walking past whom I will never meet.

turning down a side street
from the Royal Mile
looking for a building only seen by bus.
see the solid building
gamely step inside
The Elephant House, painted red like rust.

a small pot of chai tea
a shortbread cookie please
an old wooden table that is character-filled.
stir in some milk
dunk the cookie in
look out the window at the castle on the hill.

the castle on the hill
the music on the stereo
Nick Drake's voice singing sweet and low.
the delicious shortbread
in an elephant shape
makes a perfect moment which I won't let go.

I won't let go
even as I leave
even as I fly a whole country away.
Scotland, I love you
a bit of my heart
in cobblestone streets and green hills will stay.

Scotland bound

2011-06-25T21:10:00.004-05:00

I'm leaving for Scotland tomorrow. I'll be there for ten days. I'm staying with friends who live there temporarily, so it's a very unique opportunity. My bags are packed and my camera is charged. I'm ready to see a new country, a new culture, and a new horizon.

then, and until then

2011-06-20T21:20:00.006-05:00

I wrote the first two stanzas of this poem almost five years ago. I found it and finished it today.

Forget the veil, forget the rose
I don't have time to stand and pose
Wait by the alter, you will see
I'll run to you if you'll wait for me

My hair is fine, I don't need shoes
More time I cannot bear to loose
Fling wide your arms, you're all I see
I'll run to you if you'll wait for me

It's never been about a dress
Only the moment we say yes
A ribbon ring would do for me
I'll run to you - please wait for me

I love tradition, this is true
Things to recall and help us through
Yet forget all but this one plea
I'll run to you - please wait for me

I'm watching for you as I go
Passing through the to and fro
Remember when you think of me
I'll run to you, so wait for me

Darling I can see your eyes
Clear before me without disguise
This love I pray for faithfully
I'll run to you, so wait for me

Oh will I be worth waiting for?
Will I be the one that you adore?
Just banish this uncertainty
I'll run to you and you'll wait for me

So be it then that till that day
When we're together for always
I'll feel you whisper back to me:
I'll run to you and you'll wait for me

reading 66 books in 90 days

2011-06-12T22:28:00.001-05:00

In case you might thinking that all I read was Dr. Seuss, or didn't get any sleep for three months, let me clarify: I read the Bible in 90 days. As a catchy song taught me when I was a little girl: "Sixty-six books in the whole Bible, each one a special part! Now we'll learn this song and it won't take long till you know them all by heart, all sixty-six books by heart." Ironically, that's the only part of the song I remember. I had already learned to recite the books using a different song. (ah lyrical education. You can poke fun but it really works! Ask me and I'll spout out the titles of all 66 books in less than 60 seconds.)

Of course, along with knowing the titles of the books and the stories therein, my family also read through it all together at various intervals. We followed a few "Read The Bible In A Year" plans. This included the tediousness of Numbers, every impressive but repetitious genealogy, every story of lust or murder that could get a little uncomfortable in general, let alone with kids of varying ages. We read through them all, taking turns reading aloud. I have to say: it was a really great thing. It was reverent, it was family time, it was educational, and many parts are of course quite entertaining. Remember being a child and imagining Jonah being swallowed by a fish, or a donkey that starts talking to her master? Story-time and history lesson all in one.

So earlier this year I decided to read the Bible in 90 days. As part of a discipleship group I'm in I had the option of picking how I would study or be in the Word for the next few weeks. Reading the Bible in 90 days was one option. I decided to go for it. I divided the number of pages in my Bible by 90 and settled on 10 pages a day. That number was actually a little more than needed, but I wanted to start out ahead in case I fell behind.

Genesis was great. All the stories I grew up hearing that were so familiar but even more incredible (as in seemingly impossible so that I felt incredulity) when read as an adult. I'm not even talking about things like Noah's ark or the Lot's-wife-pillar-of-salt episode. I'm talking about things such as how Abraham tried to pass off his beautiful wife as his sister, twice. Did he not learn that it didn't go well the first time? Also the instance where Jacob's two wives bargain for each other using vegetables as to who gets to sleep with their husband that night, and apparently Jacob mildly goes with the flow without raising an eyebrow. The poor guy didn't want two wives in the first place, and ended up working 14 years (14 years!) for Rachel, the wife he loved. On top of that his two wives are sisters, and though I don't live in Bible times that just seems awkward.

Even through Leviticus and Numbers it was pretty smooth sailing. Then I got to Psalms. I love the Psalms, but for whatever reason, I became bogged down. They are beautiful, but similar. I got lost in a forest of praises and laments. I read one or five but usually not the full ten pages I needed to read. Finally I realized that I had gotten really behind, so I made a plan to catch up. I blocked off more than an hour a night to sit and read. I flashed through Proverbs and the rest of the books between that and Job. Job is a little harder. There's a lot of talking, and it's pretty hard to keep Job's friends straight, because they are all pretty vocal about how they each think they're right. However I did catch a few unusual gems I had never noticed before: the book of Job references both dragons and unicorns. Suddenly I'm thinking that these mythical creatures may not have always been so mythical after all ...

I made it through the Old Testament and jumped into the New Testament. The home stretch. It's really interesting to read through each of the gospels, one right after another. Luke has always been my favorite because of his account of the nativity story and all the parables he includes. As I read through Acts, I found myself appreciating his attention to detail and his attention to other people. It makes sense: he's a physician after all.

When I got to Revelation I read through it in one sitting. Upon finishing, I stared at the closed book, awash in it's varying contents. Overall, it's definitely how I would recommend reading the Bible at least once, but not all the time. Normally I prefer to linger over certain pages and delve deeper into some chapters, but that's difficult to do when one is in a time crunch. However at the end I felt a deeper appreciation for how all the books flowed together to create the most magnificent volume ever given to man. I had a full scope of the whole thing: in 90 days I had read straight through it, laying it out in my mind like a timeline, like the geneologies that are recorded in careful detail. Parts are beautiful, strange, violent, sad and poetic. Some passages I read through that are familiar as my siblings names, some were a surprise to revisit and recall. 66 books in 90 days? So, so worth it.

learning

2011-06-03T08:07:00.001-05:00

I picked up the long, light wooden bow and went outside with my brothers to try shooting with it. It was a windy day and our first time to use the bow: we all felt clumsy. The arrows didn't go very far. None of mine hit the target. As I passed the bow to one of my brothers he turned and accidentally poked me in the stomach with an arrow. Concernedly, he asked if I was alright. I assured him that I was. It had only made a small red mark. We shot for a little while before again drawing indoors.
Later that afternoon my brother-in-law took the bow and tried his hand at it. When I went outside to watch he showed me that I had been holding it wrong. I had been pulling back on the arrow when I should have notched it and pulled back simply on the string. I had only ever shot with bows and arrows I made myself as a child from pliable juniper branches, peeled smooth, and the perfectly straight stalks of yucca plants. I had only ever shot as best I could from those, and as a child it was enough.
Now I took the bow in my hands and held it the correct way. I stood straight, focused on the target, and pulled the string back as far and tight as I could. When I let it go, the arrow went singing through the air and sank into the target. A satisfying feeling.

As a girl, my siblings and I all played characters from Robin Hood. We would have our own Sherwood Forest. We'd make pointed hats, and of course bows and arrows. We had grand adventures. These days my adventures are more real and less pretend, often less exciting but sometimes more so. I'm not pretending to be Maid Marion anymore, but I still see clearly that there's something strong, a little romantic in it's old-fashionedness, and fearlessly beautiful about picking up a bow an arrow, pulling it taut, and letting it whistle purposefully through the air. Something I won't ever grow away from.

doorways

2011-05-14T17:13:00.003-05:00

Go in and out the window,
Go in and out the window,
Go in and out the window,
As we have done before.
- traditional children's song

I never like it when I walk up to an automatic door and it doesn't open right away, making me pause in my stride to avoid smacking into it face-first. The pause is only for a fraction of a moment, but it unnerves me to have to wait for something to move so close in front of my face. I don't like having to reign in my momentum like that; I feel briefly nervous, as though something deep inside me wonders if the door will actually open for me at all, like it has a will of it's own, or as if it might decide to close before I'm fully through it.

I've never been a fan of revolving doors. I always feel that I have to time it just right when I step through, and keep up just the right pace to avoid being hit on my heels or stubbing my toes. Step through the doorway quickly and don't get stuck going around again.

Those gate things at baseball parks and other ticket booths? The things with the three metal rods that you have to step up to and push against, making it rotate so you can get on the other side of it? Momentary imprisonment.

My last pet-peeve with doorways is this: knocking or ringing a doorbell and then just standing there waiting ... waiting ... When will the door open, if it will at all? Will the people on the other side of the door be happy to see me, or not? I feel just a touch of nervousness as I wait for a door to open. You never know exactly what is waiting on the other side, if it ever even opens at all. I stand in the cold or the heat and the uncertainty, wondering.

Yet, as frustrating or nerve-wracking or silly as any door is, they have to be passed through. I can't avoid doorways and just go through windows. I find myself at a doorway because something compelled me to go up to it and attempt to enter through it. Something is on the other side that is worth any trivial, personal feelings. I'm not afraid of doorways by any means. I can still conjure up memories of being a child and being fascinated by automatic doors and revolving doors. They were highly interesting, if not magical. Of course there's a difference between going through a doorway while holding someone's hand and going through it alone. But both are good and both are right. Everything has it's time and place. Besides, there's a beauty in the mystery of not knowing what's on the other side, and that compels me forward as much or more than anything. So: doorways of all shapes and sizes, like a proverbial Alice In Wonderland, here I come. Come and go and twist and shout and see what's waiting on the other side.

sharp memories

2011-05-01T21:02:00.003-05:00

A poem for someone I love: hey you, I've been there too.

"It took me a year to believe it was over
It took me two more to get over the loss
(Whoa whoa)"
- Enid (song)

Thinking
of a missing heartbeat
Wishing
for a terrible lie
To walk in and hold me
only every night
Until I wake up and find everything's right

Plotting
a way to fall away
Laughing
at the sharp memories
Wracks me, distracts me
it's painful to breathe
Knowing you're out there without me

Hating
that I still want you, dear
Distance
is a double-edged sword
Closure, exposure,
oh which do I need?
Try to believe in the finality

Missing
many things about us
Breaking
all the strewn evidence
Give up on hoping
I'll be alright soon
One day at a time in this packed empty room

Intimate

2011-04-22T15:58:00.013-05:00

Thanks that was fun
Don't forget, no regrets
Except maybe one
Made a deal, not to feel
gosh that's dumb
- "Thanks That Was Fun", by The Barenaked Ladies

In just the past year, three movies have come out with the same theme: boy meets girl, girl invites boy to have casual sex with her, boy agrees and they begin to do so regularly, boy and girl start to fall for the other and (spoiler alert) the two that previously decided that committed relationships were for the birds end up together. I'm talking about "Love And Other Drugs", "No Strings Attached", and the upcoming "Friends With Benefits". Yes, yes ... I saw the first two. When I saw a trailer for "Friends With Benefits" I couldn't help thinking, "Really? Another movie with nearly the same plot? It's so predictable. So cliche." Of course lots of movies are cookie cutters these days, but on to my point.

To be honest, I was mildly attracted to the first two movies because of a similar theme: mainly, the question of whether or not purely sexual relationships can thrive without turning into deeper feelings of affection and love. I believe that the answer is no, one cannot separate their feelings into jars and trick their hearts into staying on the shelf until they're ready to commit, as much as today's society tries to tell us otherwise. So what did these modern, sexed-up films say? SPOILER ALERT: the answer that these secular films gave is that no, they can't. They actually agreed with me! Which maybe isn't such a spoiler since I guessed from the trailers that they had happy endings. Happy endings meaning that they ended up together: in other words, that they characters fell in love and committed themselves to each other on an emotional level, not just physical, which is why I was interested in seeing the films.

The strange thing is this: in a large way, don't endings like that go against one of Hollywood's main themes these days? Namely, that people can fall in and out of bed with each other as much as they please without any major consequences? It's portrayed all the time on television and in the movies. The fact that terms such as "casual sex", "friends with benefits" and "sex friends" exist is a testament is how lax our society views the most intimate of acts. It's all a part of free will, free love, free choices for all. That is, as long as one can afford birth control, condoms, and even an abortion if necessary.

Thus the thing that surprised me somewhat about these movies is that while Hollywood played full-on into the casual, commitment-less sex message, the endings spoke a different message entirely. In "Love And Other Drugs", Jamie, (played by Jake Gyllenhaal) is a self-focused medical drug rep who feels secure that, given time, he can get any woman he wants to sleep with him. Anne Hathaway plays Maggie, a forward woman who copes with her struggles with Parkinson's Disease by matching Jamie's self-confidence. After beating him over the head (literally) for standing in during her doctor visit, she looks him in the eye and invites him to have sex with her. One frantic tumble later leads to a string of others. It is all very surface: don't call me except for sex, don't get attached. Yet through their bravado both characters are both deeply uncertain in their own ways. They each need something real to cling to. As much as they might reject the idea, they need someone to love. They can't keep the intimacy of their bodies from creating an intimacy in their hearts.

A side plot line in "Love And Other Drugs" follows Jamie's brother: a fairly unattractive guy who is successful in business, praised by his parents, and envious of Jamie's easy charm with women. When his girlfriend breaks up with him he is crushed. At a party a girl woos him into having sex with her, but instead of empowering him - as is the most common message of today's media - it deflates him. He bemoans an empty feeling and says he is jealous no longer. He doesn't want any part in his brother's one night stands. His surprising reaction solidified the theme of commitment and it's importance that ran through the film. Yet a word of caution: it would have been nice if the film didn't use so many partial nudity scenes to tell their story.

"No Strings Attached" follows an remarkably similar theme. Natalie Portman plays Emma, a busy doctor who reasons that humans really aren't meant to be monogamous, believing that it just won't work out in the end. Thus she proposes a strictly sexual relationship to a handy guy friend, Adam (played by Ashton Kutcher). They go so far as to lay ground rules so that they won't fall for each other.
"No cuddling" she says, firmly. That could lead to having feelings for each other. He agrees. His guy friends congratulate him, saying that he's living out every guy's dream. Until violins begin to play whenever he sees her, and suddenly it's time to get committed to get out of there.

Another curious thing is that both movies (and seemingly from the trailer, it's the case in "Friends With Benefits" as well), have the female characters initiate the whole casual sex deal. Then again, isn't the fact that a girl initiates a sex-only relationship the thing that seems to make it okay? If a guy did that he'd be a jerk who was only after one thing and tossed some poor girl's heart around. But when a girl suggests it then everything is fair game. She knows what she's getting into and the guy in each of the stories is happy to go along for the ride. That is, until they guy and girl start falling for each other, despite the ground rules. So they try actually dating and it doesn't go so well because one of them is still stubbornly insisting that they only want one thing from the other person. Heartache follows for both individuals until they come to their senses and decide they actually want to be with each other, so they do things like hold hands in public and be an emotional support for the other person. They get together for real, playfully comparing flaws and seriously talking about their futures.

Of course, few Hollywood happy endings mirror real life. Plenty of girls moan about how Disney ruined them because all they've ever expected and wanted is Prince Charming or Mr. Right but all they can find is a surface-level charm of Mr. Right Now. The curious thing then, is that although the movies above portray attractive characters who sleep around with whomever and whenever with a winning smile, in the end it's not okay. In the end they each have to realize that they are a flawed person who somehow loves and are loved by another flawed person. They realize the stupid mistakes they have made in the past: namely, all their other sexual relationships that left scaring heartaches. Suddenly they are naked in a whole new way. They are vulnerable. They've reached true intimacy and it's just as terrifying as it is wonderful. It's not easy. It's love. They realize that maybe they did things backwards after all: first comes love, then comes commitment, then come sex. Because it's better with some strings attached.

swing jump fall fly

2011-03-23T21:31:00.004-05:00

Oh would you like to swing on a star
Carry moonbeams home in a jar
And be better off than you are
Or would you rather be a fish?
- Bing Crosby, from the song, "Would You Like To Swing On A Star"

When we were very small, someone who loved us picked us up and put us on a swing. We didn't understand what was happening, but we found that we liked it. When we got a little bit bigger we learned the meaning of heights and falling and pain. Perhaps, as someone lifted us up to put us on the swing, we held tight to the hands that held us, afraid of being let go, afraid of falling, but the person who held us said, "It's okay. It will be fun. Trust me, see?" So we trusted them. We sat on the swing and let ourselves be pushed skyward. We found that it was delightful.

When we were a little bit older, we ran outside and pointed to the swing because we knew we loved it, and someone who loved us would amiably stand and push us back and forth, back and forth, as we cried, "Higher, higher! Not so high! Yay!"

When we were just a little bit older than that, we would ask, "Would you please come push me on the swing?" The response was different, though just as loving: "You're big enough to push yourself now." So we were shown how to swing ourselves, and after many failed attempts, with flailing arms and legs and exagerated grunts, we finally learned how to work the mechanics of ourselves and move in a way which let us swing back and forth, back and forth. Before long we were masters, scoffing at the days when were babies and had to let someone else push us. We dared ourselves to go higher, higher, to touch a branch with our toe or swing while standing up. We were not afraid of heights. We loved them. We dreamed that if we swung hard enough and high enough we just might touch the sky. We thought that if we jumped off our swings that maybe we could fly, up up and away. We saw it all so clearly. So we swung and jumped, again and again, thrilling at the handful of seconds where it felt like flying. Magical. We were told to stop: we were warned of broken limbs and bloody noses. But the danger only made it that much more exciting.

As we swung, we laughed and talked and planned and dreamed and soared. We were amazing and the future was sunrise bright. It was hard to say when we stopped. Most of us couldn't pin-point any particular time. It simply became something we didn't do anymore. A swing - instead of a means of adventure - became a symbol of nostalgia. A time in the past. Just as we had once poohed at the days before we could swing ourselves, we sighed and shook our heads over childhood innocence. Those bygone times. Though we may not have really realized it, when we stopped swinging we started becoming afraid of falling. Pain took on a whole new and very real definition.

Yet just like before we were warned about what would happen if we fell, and we ignored the cautionary words until we actually did fall. Once we did, once we understood, we learned how to mask our fears. We learned how to masquerade as imperviable, bold, strong creatures. Before, if we scraped our knees we would cry unashamedly and run to someone who loved us for a kiss and a band-aid. Now, if we scrape our hearts, we cry secretly, quietly treating our wounds with lullaby-like promises. Call it self-defense, or cultural, or a way of processing and coping. Whatever it is, it gets us by. But of course, the view is too enchanting, the hope of flying is too heady for us to walk away from it all together. But for the most part we have become more cautious. We hold on tighter. We plan out our landings in advance. Sometimes, as we once more take up with love and hope and trust ourselves to those divine but often fickle arms, we still fall anyway. Sometimes we land on our feet. Sometimes, we actually fly. We are amazing: soaring into a bright future once more.

Every now and then I'll steal over to a swing set, sit down, and begin to swing back and forth, higher and higher. Maybe I'll jump and maybe I won't, but as I swing I'm not afraid. As I put myself out there and go for it, I'm delighted and thrilled and tingling in a good way. I can feel someone smiling at me and saying, "It's okay. It will be alright. Trust me, see?" I'll close my eyes, smile, and say, "Okay."

pretty

2011-03-21T12:56:00.006-05:00

It was a Saturday night, and I was babysitting. Sam is 5 ("and a half!"), Anna is 7, Madeline is 8. We had just come inside from playing baseball and were standing in the kitchen. Then Sam said something I was not expecting at all:
Sam: "Sonnet, you're hot!"
Me: (a little flummoxed and definitely amused), "Um, what?"
Sam: "You're hot!" (says it with certainty as well as a shrug, as though to say, 'come on, you know')
Me: (not sure how to respond), "Do you mean hot as in warm? Or ..."
Anna: "He means hot as in saxy!" (says it like she's shortened the word saxophone)
Me: (now I have to laugh), "I think you mean sexy. Thank you, but when you talk to a girl it's better to say 'You're pretty'. Pretty is nicer than hot or sexy. It's a better thing to say."

The children absorbed this information quietly. The shy smiles on their faces told me that they knew the words 'hot' and 'sexy' were grown-up words that they didn't really know the meaning of and felt important in saying them.
Me: "And I can say that you are handsome Sam! The girls are very pretty and you are handsome."
Sam: (speaks in an 'that's just how it is and it's fine' sort of tone) "No, I'm not handsome right now. I'm just wearing cargo pants and this is my old t-shirt since I've been playing in the sand."
Me: "Ha! Sam, it doesn't matter what you're wearing. You're still handsome. It's you that's handsome, not your clothes. It's who you are."
Sam smiled at me, but by then the children had mentally moved on to other topics and changed the conversation by asking what we would do next.

A wonderful thing about children is that they are always asking to be told what things mean. Always learning. In that same grain, I decided to get Webster's exact take on some of the words that came up that night.

The dictionary lists "hot" as an adjective with 27 definitions. Definition number 7 says,
Slang: A. sexually aroused; lustful. B. sexy, attractive

For the word and adjective "sexy" there are 3 definitions. These include
A. concerned predominately with sex (a sexy novel) B. sexually interesting or exciting (the sexiest professor on campus) C. excitingly appealing, glamorous (a sexy new car)

Finally, for the word and adjective "pretty" their are 7 definitions of how the word can be used. The first one is the kind I told Sam to use: A. pleasing or attractive to the eye, as by delicacy or gracefulness: a pretty face.

However I was also drawn to the second definition:

(of things, places, etc.): pleasing to the eye, especially without grandeur.

Pleasing but without grandeur. Everyday but lovely. Attractive as by gracefullness. There, that is the one I like. Something that seems uncomplicated yet is complex because it is attractive without making a fuss about it. The bud before the blossom of beauty.

If the children has asked me to explain what hot and sexy meant, I would have told them the best definition I every heard. Although it may be an unpopular thing to do, I'll be bold and quote Rob Bell in his book "Sex God: Exploring The Endless Connections Between Sexuality and Spirituality" when he writes what his wife once said to explain 'sexy' to their son: "Sexy is when it feels good to be in your own skin. Your own body feels right, it feels comfortable. Sexy is when you love being you." Bell then writes, "Because it all starts with being sexy on the inside."
I love that.

All that I need is to feel sexy inside. Appealing, sometimes glamorous, and just plain comfortable in my own skin and in my heart. Then I can be pleasing without grandeur on the outside. Pretty. Just pretty. No matter what I'm wearing or how much I weigh or if I have on any makeup. If I can be sexy on the inside then maybe I can be pretty through and through. So, thank you five-and-a-half year-old Sam. If maybe that's what's you meant then the same to you, handsome boy. The same to you.

the right ingredients

2011-03-15T23:23:00.004-05:00

3.14.11 (non-fiction except for the names)

It was almost 10:30 at night when we decided to walk to the corner store to buy milk. I had suggested we do it, then pulled back, protesting, “But it’s cold.” They didn’t seem to mind. Kate shrugged, her hood falling into her eyes, and Char said, “It’s alright”. So I said okay and we all put back on our shoes and headed out into the March night.
Char walked along the curb, triumphantly proclaiming, “I’m taller than you!”. I jumped onto the curb ahead of him with an “Aha!” Kate quickly followed suit. We were all battling to stay on the curb and stay first in line: three ducklings in a row. Then we stepped off and turned, crossing the neighborhood street and stepping onto the sidewalk, hemmed in by the street on one side and the back fences of the houses on the other side.
“It was dark, in the park, we found a thing and named him Clark,” Char whispered.
“Oi.” Kate rolled her eyes.
“I don’t know that we need to imagine things in the dark named Clark at this particular moment,” I said. “Besides, in the Dr. Seuss picture Clark lived in a giant fishbowl. He needs water. There’s no water around here.”
“What about over there?” Char pointed a dramatically wavering finger at a shadowed ditch.
“Haha,” Kate said, but she walked a little faster.
“Look up ahead, the sidewalk ends!” I cried. Of course I knew that the sidewalk ended: I had jogged that way plenty of times. But I wanted to amuse them, so I gasped and said, “What do we do now?”
“That’s a strange place for the sidewalk to just end,” noted Char.
“Look! There’s a beaten path,” I said, and we stepped off the sidewalk onto the path of dirt that had been worn hard by people doing just what we were doing: walking to the convenience store and back. Kate skipped ahead, reaching the pool of light cast by the next streetlight and by the lights around the convenience store.

I walked into the store, trailed by my two youngest siblings. Char is 13, Kate is 11. I am 25. I bought the milk and out we plunged once more into the night. We had already been to the grocery store earlier that day to buy eggs. I had purchased an egg waffle pan with Christmas money and was planning a grand breakfast the next morning. It would be the first time I would use the pan and I was excited. So were they. But when I got home and checked the ingredients list I discovered that milk was something I had forgotten I needed. I further discovered that the only milk in the house had gone sour. We could go get some the next morning. We could drive and get some either right then or the next day. Or …

“Can I take the milk?” Char asked, holding out his hand. I gave it to him gladly. The night was cold and the milk was quickly chilling my hand. We had gone but a few paces from the store when I said, “Guys, stop for a minute.” They obeyed, looking at me questioningly.
“Race you to the sidewalk,” I said, and took off without further warning. Char and Kate sprinted after me but my legs were longer and I had the advantage of foreknowledge. I won easily.
“Brat!” Kate called after me.
“Did you just call me a brat?” I asked, laughing.
“Here, can you take the milk again? It’s really cold,” Char said. He hadn’t brought a jacket. I took the milk but teased him by pressing it to his arms and back. He shied away from me, laughing. We walked amiably through the dark, joking. Kate said it was an adventure: walking to the store at night to buy milk. We rounded the corner and there was the house with all it’s light and warmth.

Up the driveway and inside. Put the milk in the fridge. Pour out the bad milk and put the carton in the recycling bin. Look over the recipe again. Decide when to get up the next morning. Get blankets for Char and Kate and try to make them comfortable on the couches, since they are spending the night with me. Tell them goodnight and go upstairs. Leave a hall light on for them. Put on my pajamas, read in bed for a while, and think about the two people downstairs who I’m bound to by blood and love. Turn off the light. Dream of egg waffles and nighttime adventures. Goodnight.

overheard truth

2011-03-08T17:44:00.003-06:00

A few months ago I was walking out of an office and overheard a snippet of conversation that has stayed with me. Two men were talking. One said to the other, "Even pessimists have good things happen to them. They just don't always realize or admit it."

The other man said something in agreement with him. I kept walking so I didn't hear any more of the conversation. I thought, What an interesting thing to say. It's true that all people have both bad and good things happen to them. How sad it is for anyone who is so focused on the bad things that they refuse to acknowledge the good things, whether purposefully or subconsciously after time. Always seeing grey clouds and never a silver lining.

absorbing the sun

2011-03-01T23:04:00.003-06:00

I'm absorbing the sun
I'm recounting each ray
I'm passing it on
till the end of the day

I'm shooting the breeze
and I only half care
The experience, please,
There's enough we can share

I'm counting the stars
till the break of the dawn
As my dreams fly past mars
I'm pulled back by a yawn

I'm building sandcastles
yes they'll wash away
Just escape from the hassle
in my memory stay

I'm chasing some tigers
though paper they be
Though barely a blighter
it's setting me free

I'm taking each day
by the handful, so raw
Watch the sparks fly away
Weep from what I just saw

I'm chasing it fast
one slow step at a time
"It" being what lasts
in life's upward climb

Each detour has meaning
each sunrise and storm
There's joy and there's keening
and sunlight so warm

Come, absorb the sun
We'll recount every ray
Then we'll pass it on
till the end of the day

fragile

2011-02-01T18:41:00.006-06:00

There are days so full of beauty,
I cannot look away.
There are days so full of sorrow,
I cry, "I cannot stay!"

They say the sorrow makes the beauty
that much more sweet and fair.
Yet beauty's hard to hold to
when the sorrow's hard to bear.

(and unfinished poem. a fragment of thought.)

quench

2011-01-18T23:10:00.005-06:00

:: Sometimes I have a feeling of being continually thirsty, suddenly conscious of my body never ever seeming to get enough water. My eyes are chronically dry. The skin around my fingernails and on my knuckles cracks easily. I have eye drops and lotion, and bottles of water cluttering my car and room. Tongue in cheek I'll think that perhaps I'm a mermaid who was cast out of the sea and is searching for a way to get back home, guided by puzzling clues; quick-surging salty tears, a love of the color blue, the urge to dance in the rain.

encounters/observations

2011-01-05T12:02:00.004-06:00

The man behind the counter didn't ask me what I wanted to order. He simply waited, looking at me with the most heartbroken eyes that I had ever seen starting at me from a stranger's face. I was taken aback by the intensity of sorrow written on his face. I placed my order and he set about making my lunch. We were separated by a pane of glass on the counter, and by everything we didn't know and could only guess about each other. He spoke little, as though anything more might break him down completely. I ate my lunch in contemplative solitude while he continued to work behind the counter, taking people's orders and dealing with whatever was happening behind his eyes.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I'm sitting in the library. All is quiet. Suddenly a voice speaks into an intercom that reverberates throughout the building:
"All available staff come to the break room right away. All available staff come to the break room."
There is a pause, then the voice adds, "Bethany that means you."

I laugh to myself, thinking, "Then why not say that in the first place?"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Every single register in the store had a substantial amount of people lined up and waiting to check out. Even the fast lanes, for people with only a few items, such as myself who had only one, were full. When I spotted a self-checkout lane with only one person I quickly got in line. Nearly just as quickly I realized that this line would be as slow as any other. The woman in front of me had a shopping cart filled with sale-priced Christmas decorations. Boxes filled with delicate ornaments which had to be handled with care, baskets stacked awkwardly and ribbons which showered bits of glitter on anything they came in contact with. The woman removed each item gingerly from her cart, scanned it, and placed it in a bag. The carousel of bags quickly grew full and she had to remove the bags and stack them in her cart before scanning more items.
It would have been faster for her and the people in line behind her if she had used a regular register, where one person would ring up her items and one would bag them. All she would have had to do was place them on the counter, I thought to myself, grumblingly. My one item was not that important. I considered putting it back and getting it another time but decided it would be better to wait in line instead of wasting all the time I had already spent in the store. I was annoyed with the woman in front of me for not planning things out better. But I didn't stare her down or sigh: I had had that happen to me before, and what is the point? She probably realized that what she was doing hadn't been the best idea, but there was nothing to do about it now. So I waited quietly, checking my phone and staring at the display of candy bars on my right instead of at her.
When the woman finished, she turned to me. "Thank you for being so patient," she said. There was a look of apology in her face and a tone of appreciation in her voice.
"Oh no problem!" I said, giving her a smile, a reflex with me. Yet it was also genuine: I appreciated that she acknowledged my quiet wait. I wasn't annoyed with her anymore. I felt for her. Sale-priced Christmas items may be easy to come by in late December, but kindness from strangers is often far too rare.

Movie review: 127 Hours

2010-12-30T11:30:00.005-06:00

Some stories are too incredible to be made up. Such is the case with "127 Hours", a movie adaptation of the book "Between A Rock And A Hard Place", written by Aron Ralston about true events. Danny Boyle takes the directorial helm of this film, and does he ever know how to tell a story. Director of the award winning "Slumdog Millionaire", his latest venture is no less colorful, well-paced, or intriguing. "127 Hours" is a movie which seems to have an open and shut premise: a man goes hiking, has a terrible accident where his arm is pinned beneath a boulder and has to amputate his arm in order to free himself. Tragic and miraculous both at once. Is it enough, however, to fill a movie? With the right actor and director, absolutely.

The film opens with a bang: loud music and vivid images of people. Crowds of people. The screen splits into three frames and shows people on beaches, in stadiums, and other large area places. A teaming populace. Then in the center frame we suddenly see our protagonist, Aron Ralston, played by James Franco. He is in his home, moving around busily with a set purpose. He sets a water bottle in the sink to fill while cramming various objects into a backpack. The phone rings but he ignores it. He has other things to do and nothing will get in his way. Because of his vigor, his singularity isn't noticed until later, especially at the end when things come full circle and the opening shots make perfect, artful sense.

The use of color and music in the film is a thing of beauty and distinct purpose. As Aron sets out on his adventure, the screen is filled with the bright blue and white of the sky, the striking orange brown of the landscape upon which Aron bikes and hikes with gusto, and even the orange of his t-shirt which sports a cheery sunflower in the center. Everything is vibrant, especially Aron. His enthusiasm for life is bountifully apparent. He seems to go at life full speed ahead, and I the viewer felt a surge of admiration and a twinge of longing.

When the accident occurs it is terrible and stark, not only because of what happens but because of who it happened to. Aron is so sure and confident (as I said, a bit enviably so): how could a single moment strip everything away? But that is when the real journey begins. Thankfully, James Franco is more than enough of a competent actor, pulling off the role so believably that I was riveted to my seat, eyes fastened on his face which portrayed so many nuances of emotion and expression. Pain, fear, regret, longing, calculated ingenuity and more plays across his face like light plays across the rocks which surround and entrap him.

The film is not for the weak-hearted (or weak stomached). At some parts I found myself practically writhing in my seat and sometimes averting my eyes completely as Aron struggles again and again to free himself. Yet his pain is played out with just enough realism for the viewer to understand - and feel - what Aron is going through, without going over board. The pain is horrific, but it is not a horror movie. The director is careful to show enough but not too much. With Franco's very convincing portrayal of excruciating pain and unrelenting determination, the audience is right there with him, squirming and cheering at the same time.

Ultimately, the film centers on a surprising moral: repentance. Certainly courage, tenacity, ingenuity and the strength of the human spirit are all key elements, but it is Aron's lingering memories on family, friends, and relationships - memories which lead to regrets, apologies, and hopeful promises - which are the quiet heart of a vibrant story. The ending had tears rolling down my cheeks, and the most solid thought which appeared in my mind as I left the theater was simply, "Wow".

I hope that James Franco and Danny Boyle both receive Oscar nods. In my mind they certainly deserve them. Though this film - because of the violence of the accident and the means of escape - may not be for everyone, if you can take it, watch it. It's a story that should be known and not soon forgotten.

the Magi would have told us this (all I have for all I want)

2010-12-20T09:55:00.007-06:00

There doesn’t have to be snow on the ground
We don’t have to have a tree
There doesn’t have to be presents around
As long as there’s you and me

I’ll be content with a silent night
Without frankinsense or gold
As long as you’re here with me keeping the light
Just a candle that we can hold

I’ll cut my hair and you’ll sell your watch
Or other quite priceless things
Love is not caring that we care so much
Worth more than five golden rings

I am not wishing for snow on the ground
I only pray there will be
Many Decembers that come around
With you always here with me

Brooke Fraser Concert

2010-12-05T13:58:00.008-06:00

I walk quickly along the sidewalk, past the bars that spill music and people which both seemed a notch too loud. The sky is dark with night but the streets are lit in various neon hues. I see my destination and am surprised by the long line of people trailing outside of the building. I walk against the line, pursuing it's end. The line wraps around the corner of the block and I step to the back, clutching my purse which holds, among other important things, the ticket to the concert I am there to see.
I catch the eye of the woman in front of me, a blond who looks to be in her forties, and ask, "Is this the line for the Brooke Fraser concert?"
"Yes!" she responds in a chipper voice. Encouraged by her ready smile, I consider asking if she is here by herself, as I am, thinking to strike up a conversation with another music fan while waiting in line, when she waves and another woman comes and joins her in line.
Other people line up behind me. The show is much more popular than I would have thought. I laugh inwardly at the circumstances that almost seem ironic: a Christian concert taking place at a bar downtown, with a line wrapped around the block on a Wednesday night. On top of that, the artist is from New Zealand. Each piece of the puzzle seems just slightly out of place, yet I'm hoping they will come together for a wonderful evening.
Finally the line begins to move. It is almost 9:00 pm and I got there around 8:30. The line of people is like a very long catepillar: lots of feet all moving in the same direction. I make it around the corner and into the building. Then up the stairs where I flash my ID and ticket at the first landing. Then up the rest of the stairs and into the large room where the concert will be held.
Imagine a house where the second story has nothing but one large room with a small bar area off to one side and a stage at the back. That is what this place is like. There's a booth to one side, across from the bar, where merchandise is sold. I stop here first and buy a CD. Then I wander into the mesh of people and find a spot facing the stage.
The concert is opened by another singer from New Zealand, someone I haven't heard of before. Sam Bradley is his name. I like his first song very much. In the second song he swears, and I like him less. Still he is entertaining which is all one can hope for in a first act. During the intermission I find that I am terribly thirsty. I go over to the bar area.
"What can I get you?" the bar tender asks. He is a man who looks to be in his late thirties and has a shaved head.
"I'd like a bottle of water please," I say. It might be my imagination but I think he looks a tad disappointed. Probably people who drink water don't come back for seconds or leave as good tips. I leave a nice tip and thank him. I am sure to look him in the eyes when I thank him. It was almost a subconscious act: something urged me to do it and I obeyed, though as I turned away I wondered why. Maybe because I have a tendency to be shy and am trying to be bolder or maybe because I simply felt that he needed a thank-you with extra firmness. Despite the crowd it seemed to be a slow night for him. What can I say, it is a Christian concert after all, on a Wednesday night at that.
I maneuver back through the crowd and find myself standing behind a man with a most incredible mustache. It is black and is curled into very precise curlicues. It is something you might see in an old movie which featured a very distinctive French man. It is the kind of mustache my brother used to say he wanted to have someday, back when he was seven. How did the man get it to look like that? My theory is that he put hair gel on his mustache and then curled it around the point of a pencil. It is the most curious thing I have seen tonight. A mustache worth writing home about.

When Brooke Fraser comes onstage the crowd goes nuts. I clap and cheer along with them as she launches into her first song. After the first number she thanks the crowd for being here tonight. Said crowd gives some appreciative yells back.
"This next song is about a girl with Canadian secrets," she says in a mysterious voice. Then, in a lighter tone, "I once saw a shirt that read, 'Canada: America's hat.'" The crowd laughs and she begins to sing about Betty: a girl with "a red birthmark in the shape of Canada, that you try to keep a secret." When she sings the line about Canada, she rolls her eyes for comic effect, as though the line is the most ridiculous thing, as though she herself didn't write it.
The crowd yells in excitement when she sings songs from her most well-known record, "Albtertine", and sings along to the refrains.
"This is such a great crowd!" she exclaims. "I did a show last night and the crowd wasn't this good at all. They would just look at me and I felt awkward." I laugh: it isn't the first time I heard an artist say that a show is better in this city, in a genuine not-just-saying-that way. We love live music here and aren't afraid to show it. It is in a moment like that when I feel that I belong. Suddenly I am at home in this room packed full of strangers. I do not think that I know a single one of them, but here we are, all coming together for the same thing, united by a common love. The crowd is one: we are one. We are unafraid to sing along, to yell and stomp and jostle each other just a little bit so we can get closer to the music. The woman on the stage has come all the way from New Zealand to sing for us, and we love her for it. We soak in her every word, every note. She is funny and talented and beautiful and we are thankful to be here in this moment, completely won over and completely content. When the show comes to an end we clap and cheer with all we are worth. We lean towards the stage, hoping, hoping ... Yes, here she comes, she will give us an encore. The cheering is even louder with appreciation. The last song is wistful and sweet. When it ends we are finally satisfied. Especially since we have one more treat to look forward to. As Brooke leaves the stage for the last time we turn but most of us don't leave quite yet. A line forms quickly at the merchandise table and a moment later Brooke reappears to sign autographs.
"Only one autograph per person and no pictures," someone calls out, instructing the crowd. I stand in line and unwrap the CD I just bought. It's interesting to get closer and closer to Brooke, to be so close to someone whom I've only ever seen on CD covers and in music videos. Behind her is a large poster of her face, and I wonder if that ever feels awkward or if it just become natural.
"What is your name?" Brooke asks when I hand her my CD, in her distinct and lovely accent. I tell her, but then say, "But just sign your name, don't sign it to me." She signs with a black sharpie, with a flourish.
"Thank you so much," I say.

I walk back down the stairs and out into the night. It's getting on towards midnight. I know that when I get home I will be tired and will practically fall into bed, but for now my step is quickened by a buzz of energy exuding from happiness. I went to the concert alone, but I was one with the crowd. It was a good night, a wonderful night. I have a new CD, autographed at that. More than that, I have the memories. Memories of a night of music that is filled with meaning. Memories of laughing and cheering and feeling the crowd united in love. As a final touch to the evening, a man with a guitar slung around his shoulder ambles up the sidewalk and begins to serenade me and a small group of pedestrians who are about to cross the street. The other people he is serenading are quite entertained when the guitarist begins to follow us, strumming and singing a little as they laugh and encourage him. I smile, but find that my steps move me more rapidly ahead, block after block until I am in my car, starting the engine, turning on some music and driving home.

http://www.brookefraser.com/video/
- Shadowfeet

Watching For Angels

2010-11-22T12:27:00.004-06:00

We're wrestling with angels
Like Jacob as of old.
Thinking that we have a chance
We have a mighty hold.

Though we feel strong and sure
And though at times they fall,
If we win it's by God's plan;
They're angels, after all.

Think we can do anything
That rules do not apply?
Happiness, it may not last
Things aren't so cut and dry.

We can reach out with our hands
Never even say "please".
Grasp a trivial moment that
Brings complexities.

If it's true we entertain
Some angels unawares,
I can't help wondering how
They take our selfish stares.

When we beg for our own will
And then proceed as planned,
According to our own design
Ignore the unseen hand.

Seeing strangers and angels
We cannot tell apart.
Wrestling for our own will
The mind against the heart.

So may we always look for ways
To help the least of all,
Beyond our will, not knowing when
Heavenly guests may call.

Unspoken Need

2010-11-17T13:24:00.004-06:00

The boy I watched over yesterday is one year old. He can speak a few words and can sign others. His small hands make gestures to say things such as “dog”, “hungry”, “more” and “finished”. His large, clear blue eyes say even more.

I am his nanny every Tuesday while his Mom is at work. I have watched him in the nursery at church since he was born so he is used to me and knows me, which is always good. His usual morning routine is breakfast, play time, a short nap, more play and then lunch. When it was time for him to wake up from his morning nap, I opened the door of his room quietly and said his name. He stirred, rolled over and blinked. I didn’t turn on the light just yet. I didn’t want it to hurt his eyes as he came out of sleep. I didn’t go and stand beside his crib either: I felt that it would be better if he could look over at me as he woke up, rather than seeing me looming over him. After all, though we have known each other for a long time, me being here on Tuesdays is still fairly new. Coming out of sleep, he would most likely expect to see his Mom. I didn’t want to startle him, so I sat down on an ottoman near the center of the room and softly called to him again.

The little boy sat up and rubbed his face with the back of his dimpled hands. He looked at me and gave a small smile, which I returned. He stood up and I went to him and picked him up out of his crib. Like most boys, he is nearly always active and busy. Playing and getting into things and trying to take things apart. Yet when I lifted him up out of his crib he didn’t try to get down and out of my arms so that he could go play. He didn’t twist around and point to a toy or make the sign for food as he usually does. Instead, he rested his head on my shoulder. His body relaxed. I held him securely, gently patting his back with one hand. I expected that at any moment he would have enough of the cuddling and want to get on to other things, but he didn’t. He remained thus, his head resting trustingly on my shoulder, perfectly content. I held him and rocked back and forth from one foot to the other, side to side, side to side. I was standing in front of a mirror and when I turned I could just see his large blue eyes, open and alert even while he body was perfectly relaxed. He wanted to be held just like that. So I held him and rocked him and patted his back.

The Mom and Dad of this little boy love him like there’s no tomorrow. He has an abundance of love and good things. But his Dad has been deployed to Iraq. He has been gone for several weeks and will be gone for several more months. The little boy’s mother is pregnant. I wonder if the little boy notices that his Mom has to hold him differently because of her growing belly. I’m sure that he does. I’m sure he senses some change that he cannot place. It doesn’t affect his mother’s love for him in any way. She still loves him as before but there is something that is changing, something that is pushing at the edges of the life he knows and feels secure in. Mostly though, he cannot understand why his father doesn’t come home at night. Why he only gets to hear his father’s voice occasionally on the phone or see an image of him on a screen. He is too young to comprehend why these things are happening but he knows that the changes are there. He can feel them, and maybe that makes it all the more confusing.

I’m not sure how long his head rested on my shoulder. All I knew, all I could sense beyond any words or signs, was that the most important thing I could do at that moment was to hold the little boy safely and securely in my arms as though nothing else in the world mattered and I had endless time and simple, pure affection to give to him. There could be no rush for anything else. Nothing else mattered to that boy in that moment. There was nothing else he needed except my solid shoulder beneath his check and my arms wrapped around him in reassuring security. I turned and kissed him on the head, then rested my cheek against his wispy blond hair. Suddenly the lyrics of a song came to me; a slow, sweet jazz-style tune that had been haunting me for the last few days:
“Hold me / Hold me / And never, ever, ever let me go.”*

The little boy will surely always have people who love him. Soon he will have a younger brother or sister. His father will return and his family will be complete once more. As I kissed him once more on the top of the head, I thought that, without a single word, this was the best I could do to reassure him of those things. That what he did not understand now would make sense one day. That through any uncertainty - for people always seem to forget how uncertain it can be to be a child, ever innocent and helpless to the will of others – that he was loved, that things would be okay, and that when he needed it there would be arms to hold and comfort, caress and reassure, oblivious to any passing of time, just as we all crave and need with words, signs, or unspoken requests that hum through the air like the lyrics of a sad and tender song.

*"Never Let Me Go", a song from and written for the movie of the same name.

bright pieces

2010-11-07T22:57:00.004-06:00

A pink balloon bobbed between the cars in front of me. A bit of white streamer danced along the pavement. I wondered where they had come from. Then I saw it: a truck and trailer were covered in streamers and balloons which fluttered merrily in the breeze. I drove behind it for awhile, wondering where the pink and white spectacle was going. At a stop light I pulled up beside it. The balloons and streamers went limp for a few seconds. They quickly rose to life again when the light turned green and the truck pulled forward. It was its own parade: cheerful, proclaiming some special occasion in a way that had to make passerbys smile. Even when they were clueless like me as to the reason for the celebration.

I imagined standing behind a trailer filled to overflowing with balloons and streamers of every color. I would give the signal and the trailer would pull forward. The streamers and balloons would shoot towards me and suddenly I would be surrounded in a cloud of color. The streamers would criss-cross over my shoulders and around my feet. The balloons would swirl around me. Then in a moment they would lift off into the sky, a bright mosaic that would eventually scatter once more into dozens of individual pieces.

Where The Glory Belongs

2010-10-25T21:20:00.005-05:00

I wrote the following in response to an optional assignment in a church discipleship group I'm a part of. The assignment: "Write an account, from Peter's perspective, of his water walk and the lesson to keep our eyes on Jesus". Here is what I wrote. I am interested to know how others might think differently of what Peter felt.

Looking back, I’ve always wished that I could have had every day perfectly recorded in my memory since that first day at the boat; the miracle of the fish that were so plentiful that they broke the nets of my brother and I. Of course I didn’t have the faintest idea of what would happen after I got back to shore, dropped the bursting nets and followed after the man, the miracle worker, the Messiah that all of Jerusalem had waited for for so long. Nothing was as I would ever have expected. Like so many others, I had envisioned a strong warrior, a shining captain who would come and sweep away our oppression with a mighty hand. A king who would reign victoriously: that is the figure that our people had waited for. It’s hard for me to explain, but this Messiah of gentle love and poignant truth is so much better than what anyone could have imagined and hoped for. If I may be so bold, I can see our great Yahweh smiling down on His children, all along having planned to send His son in the form of a humble carpenter and not a warrior. May the name of our God be eternally praised.

One memory that will always be preserved for me, often painfully and shamefully so, was the day our teacher walked on water. It had already been a day of great miracles. Jesus had fed a crowd of 5,000 people with merely a couple of loaves and fishes. The other disciples and I had visions of Jesus’s greatness finally being fully realized. A king who could stop hunger! Everyone would follow. Everyone would believe. But Jesus always seemed to have other ideas. After everyone had eaten, he sent them all away and told the rest of the disciples and I to take a boat and go to the other side of the water and wait for him there. We did as he asked. It was already late in the day, and by the time we got to the middle of the lake it was quite dark. Then the wind picked up. A storm arose and began to toss our small boat around so that we struggled to make any headway. We took turns at the mast as the night progressed.

It was around the fourth watch of the night, and the storm was still fiercely upon us. We were struggling to keep the small boat on course, when someone cried out. I don’t remember who first saw the figure coming towards us on the water. We all looked, and there was our teacher, walking on top of the rolling waves! We were paralyzed, staring at the apparition that made its way towards us with apparent ease.
“It’s a ghost!” someone cried, perhaps myself. We trembled in fear. But the figure raised a hand and called out to us.
“Take courage! It is I. Do not be afraid.”
In that moment, my spirit knew it to be Jesus. Yet my flesh asked for a test. Before I could even think about what I was saying, I blurted out, “Lord, if it is you, tell me to come to you on the water.”
Jesus answered, “Come.”

For a moment, I was outside of myself. I was trembling as I stepped out of the boat and onto the waves. Part of me expected to sink underneath the water yet I kept my eyes on Jesus, for the other part of me trusted Him to bring me safely to His side. After all the other miracles I had witnessed, I trusted and believed in Him. My foot touched the water and I stood beside the boat in the midst of the tossing waves.

I took a step, then another. I kept my eyes on Jesus. I was flooded with a feeling of amazement and awe. Jesus had his eyes on mine, locked in the firm but gentle gaze that drew people to Him but could also make people turn away, embarrassed or even angry because of the feeling that He was looking directly into one’s soul. A look as though He knew every bit of one’s past and future as well. Comforting and frightening both at once.
Jesus hadn’t moved from the time I stepped out of the boat. The waves rolled about His feet. I was getting closer and closer to Him. I held out one hand, nearly close enough to touch Him, when I let my gaze slip away from Him. For a moment I was prideful: I was walking on water! I was walking in the midst of a storm, the only one of the disciples who had enough courage to step onto the water. I alone of the twelve had this moment of glory. I alone was about to grasp Jesus’s hand and walk with Him back to the boat. My chest swelled with the thought as I looked at the waves crashing around us. The next moment, my pride turned to fear. Our little boat had struggled to keep from being tossed over in the wind. What had made me feel that I could fare any better, walking out into the midst of a storm! What had I been thinking! I glanced wildly back at Jesus, but my trust had already been broken. I had thought of myself and my own glory instead of my teacher’s power. Because I had succumbed to pride, I had been conquered by fear. Because of that, I was sinking.

“Lord, save me!” I cried, thrashing about in the dark water. I was terrified. I looked back up to Jesus. I will never forget the look He gave me. How could disappointment be so fully mixed with unconditional love? He reached out a hand and pulled me up.
“Ye of little faith,” He murmured. “Why did you doubt?”
Full of shame, I bowed my head. There was no need to answer: He knew my thoughts already. I could feel it. It was not with glory but with a silent remorse that I climbed back into the boat with Jesus. The moment that Jesus stepped off of the lake, the wind died down and the storm ceased. All was peaceful. I and the other disciples fell to our knees before Him.
“Truly you are the Son of God,” we said, once again filled with awe.

When we returned safely to land there was already a crowd of people waiting for Jesus. People of all ages and walks waiting to be healed, wanting to merely hear His voice or touch His robe. That’s how it was everywhere we went. Why He should have chosen me to be one of his twelve disciples – I who doubted and did not have enough faith to walk across the water to Him – has always been a wonderment and a mystery to me. I can explain why I doubted. I simply can’t explain why He believed in me in the first place, and so many other times. I can only thank Yahweh that He did. May the name of our Lord be praised.

You Can't Own The Sky

2010-10-18T09:43:00.008-05:00

I have always loved heights.

I think that dreaming of flying has always kept me from being afraid of falling. I'm a romantic like that I suppose. Instead of feeling unsettled when I'm at a great height, I feel grounded. Being able to see for miles and miles reminds me of just how small I am compared to the vastness of this places I live in: this earth and universe. I love to simply look and look, picking out people and buildings, landscapes and landmarks and possibly even the edge of vision where the earth meets the sky where one feels as though it would be possible to ride off into the sunset or follow a rainbow from one end to another.

I love the feeling of being in a roller coaster car that is slowly climbing to the top of the first peak. The anticipation - excitement mixed with fear - builds in one's stomach as the ground gets farther and farther away. If you can take in the view for just a second, before the coaster roars to life and begins the insane swoops and spins, it might take your breath away just as much as the coming corkscrews.

Once, I got the opportunity to go on an aerial tour of a forest in Costa Rica. I and the group I was with strapped ourselves in and hang glided from platform to platform, rushing through the trees, high above the lush ground below. When I was a little girl I loved to play outside, and perhaps my favorite things of all was to climb trees. Confession: I still love to climb trees, though I don't do it very often. In fact I think the last time was when a friend wanted to take a picture of a me in a tree so I gladly climbed up a huge, gnarled old oak. That was about two years ago. If I had my wish, I would live in a tree house that was a combination of the one in Swiss Family Robinson and the old Tarzan movies, with a hang gliding system to get one from the house to the group. Hang gliding may be as close to flying as I've yet come. However sky diving is high on my list of things to someday do.

At this moment, I am sitting beside a window in the second story of a library, marveling at how I can look out over the tops of other buildings and trees and down at my own car which appears to be merely the size of my thumb nail. An American flag rises high above the other single-story buildings, rippling majestically in the breeze. On the other side of me there is a large opening, an empty space, between the two floors of the library. This space is enclosed in glass. People can stand along it's railing and look down at the first story, and of course people below can look up. From where I am sitting I can look down and surreptitiously watch people who are walking through the atrium below. They maneuver around a couple of sculptures and past an information table which no one is currently sitting at. Where I am sitting it is quiet and there are few other people. Below, I can hear children's excited babble and grown-ups hushed voices in response. I think I have the best seat in the whole place.

Some people are drawn more towards water, some to the earth, and some to the sky. Curious, natural, beautiful tendencies. I've always been drawn to the sky. It's so vast and ... free. What about you?

Of Forgiveness And Such

2010-10-12T10:42:00.004-05:00

I'll gather up love in my hands
Collect from many patchwork lands
Don't tell me there's something I can't do
For I'm not you.

I'll send love to the least deserving
Wait, that would be me I'm serving
Remember that when you're judging me too
For I'm not you.

Clasp me close to the blue, blue sky
Float on the ocean with a sigh
Maybe that's farther than you can see
For you're not me.

Old fishing lines and nets entwined
Can't catch or hold my heart's designs
I know where you'll choose not to be
For you're not me.

Now take this bitterness that I
Hide with blitheness, a disguise
Let's both forgive and move on through
Me and you.

I'm sorry for the wrong I've done
From this pedestal I'll run
Let's be the best that we can be
You and me.

5-7-5

2010-09-29T17:16:00.006-05:00

Of Things Like 'New Classics'
"Trembling stillness". It
contradicts. Opposition
description. How odd.

Unspoken Honesty
I'm avoiding you.
See my plastered smile? No? Oh.
Here we go again.

A Thing I Have
I always notice
people's hands. In them I see
stories, and beauty.

A Conversation With Autumn (the season, not a person)

2010-09-27T22:01:00.001-05:00

Cold weather and I are not friends.

Each year, autumn comes along and tries to bribe me into liking the cold weather. She gets me to smile over pretty scarves and jackets, over pumpkin bread and the approach of Christmas. She says, "Look! It's so neat to be able to see your breath and watch the leaves change colors. I know how much you love pumpkins and cranberries. Summer was nice but it was so long, wasn't it? Aren't you excited about getting a new wardrobe and making a Christmas list?"
To which I reply: "Yes! I love all those things. There's just one problem. The COLD."
Autumn: "Oh come on, it's not that bad. Besides, I only make things a little nippy. If it's just cold you have a problem with, take it up with Winter."
Me: "Oh I will. I do every year. See, that's the problem: I really do like you, Autumn. You're great for so many reasons. Winter too! They don't say 'winter wonderland' for nothing. It can be so beautiful. Christmas is the trump card though: winter with no Christmas just wouldn't be a good thing. Hallmark would have to put out a 'Don't be so sad, it won't be cold forever' line of cards, and I bet they'd circulate pretty well in February."
Autumn: "You do like me! Good. Now, let me just show you how the whole cold weather thing really isn't all that bad ..."
Me: "Sorry Autumn, no can do. I live in a state which gets snow about once ever ten years. I'm made for sun, not ice. I used to think it would be cool to live in a place that had picture-perfect snow for Christmas, until I realized that snow means cold and wet and I don't like that combination. See, when you're out in 90 or 100 degree weather, like I'm used to in the summer, and need to cool down you simply sit in the shade, have some water, or jump in a pool or lake, pull out the sprinkler or simply crank up the AC and relax. All very fun things. When you're cold there comes a time when you have to get warm, and until you do, shivering, numbness, and chattering teeth aren't very fun to deal with. There comes a point when you simply can't function anymore because you're so cold. Does the word frostbite sound at all pleasant?"
Autumn: "Sunburn! Heat stroke! Weigh all the pros and cons will ya."
Me: "Oh I know about sunburn. But I still prefer summer to winter. That's all this is, after all: personal preference. Someone else will think the exact opposite of me, and that's fine!"
Autumn: "Fine. But you still like my pretty leaves and big turkey dinner, right?"
Me: "Of course I do. I've just realized that I'll never be as excited about the end of summer as I will be about the return of warm weather after winter."
Autumn: "Okay. So, friends?"
Me: "Friends."

So autumn and I are friends. It's winter that I'm still iffy about. I dislike the cold, but that's okay. Summers are long, and spring will come around eventually. Till then, pumpkin lattes are delicious, and I'm starting to look forward to hearing Christmas music again. I just wish there were more songs that were okay with Christmas not being covered in snow ...

So Long

2010-09-19T13:59:00.000-05:00

You may say I make you smile
Maybe I make you laugh
But you won't give me a penny for a song
It's crystal clear just for awhile
That I didn't get close to half
So I don't think I'll be staying here for long.

You make yourself seem generous
So my expectations rise
Till you leave me with a whiff of empty air
Me, I've been so amorous
See the wonder in my eyes?
Then you take us here so I must leave you there.

You can't buy love with pretty gifts
Or even pretty words
if there's no substance to them all along
This isn't just a little riff
Don't pretend you hadn't heard
When I say I won't be staying here for long.

I'll find someone and make them smile
With me they will laugh
Together we'll pitch a penny for a song
We each will go the extra mile
Love won't fit on a graph
That's why I won't be staying here for long.

The Purpose Of My Life Is _________ (fill in the blank)

2010-08-05T22:35:00.004-05:00

Ever since I was a little girl, I've firmly felt the need to seek and be open to the plan God has for my life. I've always felt that at some point there will be a divine purpose revealed to me. So urgent is the need for purpose, a need instilled in my being, that at one point I almost became depressed about not knowing what it is. I sharply recall the many times I pleaded with God to show me what it was. I felt like an empty hole was gaping inside me. I couldn't understand why God didn't clearly show me what He wanted me to do. I knew my life was supposed to be about so much more. An aching longing filled me to know what it was.

The hole began to be filled when I went on my first mission trip. There I was, out in the world doing something good, reaching out to people. When I returned home I wept, anguished both by the life here in America that I take for granted and at the thought of going back to the mundane day to day tasks I had known for so long. Yet the hole was filled a little more when I began to work for a maternity ministry. I was helping people. I was doing a small bit of good. I ended up going on three more mission trips, each time feeling a deeper sense of purpose. The hole didn't bother me like it used to.

As well as work for a maternity ministry, I'm also the ministry assistant for my church. As it's happened through the years, I've come to fill several different roles in my church. Many of those things are related to being the ministry assistant, plus other things like volunteering as the nursery coordinator. I was talking with my pastor the other day, and he mentioned the fact that they'd like to offer me more hours to work as ministry assistant. I was excited about the idea. I told him how I enjoy working for the church and planned to be there unless "God called me to Africa or something". I repeated this statement to a family member a few days later when discussing the future. I said this blithely, with a laugh. Yet ... I said it earnestly as well. Even as I feel an overall peace about where I am in life, there's still part of me that is waiting. Waiting for that hole to be completely filled, if it ever will be. Waiting for a divine purpose.

Maybe someday God really will call me clearly to do mission work overseas as I have envisioned. Maybe it will be some other kind of work that I haven't even thought of. Maybe it will turn out to be a wife and stay at home mom! Whatever it is that God has planned for me, I know that it may not completely fill the hole or cease the quiet longing from existing. In fact, I don't think I want it to ever cease completely. In this life, I don't really think that there can be a place of ultimate purpose, because we are human: prone to mess up, turn away, be discouraged, follow our own wills, and in general let our sinful nature come between us and the divine. That's why there's mercy, grace, and forgiveness. Our lives as Christians are a constant burning away of the dross. A continual perfecting as we walk in God's will and step closer to heaven. All I can do is stay moldable for my Creator, hearkening to the Spirit, and ready to follow my Savior wherever He leads. Could that be the purpose inside of the purpose? Simply to be ready and willing: to keep sandals on my feet like the Israelites on the night they left Egypt? It will take work to do it. My human flesh may cry against it, but my spirit aches for more than this world can hold. So let me hold on, hold fast, hold constant to the belief that there is a divine purpose which God is unfolding in my life, and yes beloved, in yours too.

Imagining: What If Words Could Leave Their Pages

2010-07-26T14:38:00.000-05:00

I open a book and close my eyes. I imagine that the words lift from the pages and float up into the air. Black type no longer imprinted onto their numbered pages, bound inside a cover, secured to the name of their author. They rise and swirl around me, free as they once were: before they entered someone's head and were pinned to a page by someone's hand. I catch glimpses of sentences, of phrases, just like if I were to open the book at random, jab my finger at a single line and read. The words are beautiful, plain, strange, mysterious, intriguing and illusive. A sentence trails off and I turn, trying to follow it, trying to discover where it is going. When the words first broke away from their pages they ascended slowly, lazily. Now they are moving faster and faster, swirling, catching me in the middle of a mad cyclone. The words are like puzzle pieces that I wish to put together. One handful of scattered words is not enough. What is their meaning, their purpose, their origin, their destination? I am turning, spinning, reading and reaching, trying to catch them.
"Wait, come back, slow down."

The words move faster until there are no more sentences. Just single verbs and adjectives, with meaningless exclamation points and commas thrown in. Will they behave like a phoenix? Is this a sort of death - an escape from the book that housed them, going down in a firey demise before rising again, restored to some new glory?

Then, the words answer me. A low murmur of narration.
"Chapter one," "Then he said," "So it was," Nevertheless,", "Epilogue."

The murmur of words and phrases grows. It rises like the tide, stronger and louder until I have to cover my ears. Then it dies down, and as it does, the swirling slows. A transition takes place. The words change from a hectic cyclone to something resembling snow. Softly, gently, they fall, obliging in an unremarked way to gravity's insistent pull. Some fall to the ground and some stick to me. They land on my arms, my nose, my feet. They cling to my hair and my clothes. I raise my hand and look at the disjointed, scattered words.

Lovely, then, perilous, glass, tremble, bird, hold, an, milestones, seven, Emily, earnest, breathtaking, blue, substantial, tree, less, penny, us, be.

I'm reminded of those little white magnetic strips that have words printed on them and are supposed to be arranged into poems or thoughts on a magnetic easel. I'm like a human easel, covered in a smattering of words and punctuation marks. I turn my hand over and the words on the top fall away, drifting to the ground. I shake my arms and they fly off. I shake my hair, my legs, all of me, until every word has fallen to the ground and is lying in odd, dark drifts around my feet. I reach for the book they came from. Every word, even the title and the dedication inside the cover, is gone, having joined the strange exodus away from their home. Poor book. So empty. Yet also so inviting, for anyone who feels compelled to write.

I kneel down and scoop up a handful of words. I sprinkle them over the empty pages. To my surprise, a few land and stick. I turn the book over so that the pages are facing downwards at the piles of words, and suddenly they begin to rise a second time, re-affixing themselves to the pages. There's a magnetic force that draws the words upwards, a force beyond their control. The book is reclaiming them. The phoenix is rising from the ashes.

When the last word and the last period has returned to its place on the last page, I close the book. The volume rests in my hands. The contents had taken me up, turned me around, and finally come to an end, bringing me back to where I had started. The murmuring narration hummed faintly still in my ears:

"Pondering", "However", "With hope", "She climbed," "They sang", "Thought-provoking", "So at last" ...

Daring To Deviate From Falling Away

2010-06-29T22:54:00.006-05:00

It’s no use to keep breathing
When all you are is pretending.
Wake up, wake up, I urge you
Say you would urge me too.

It’s no good to keep moving
When all you are is passing time.
Wake up, wake up, I urge you
Say you would urge me too.

movie review: Crazy Heart

2010-06-22T20:53:00.001-05:00

By now, everyone has heard of, if not seen, last year's acclaimed drama "Crazy Heart". Jeff Bridges's Oscar win for Best Actor was much anticipated and predicted. After seeing the difficult but very good film, I agree with the selection.

Jeff Bridges has the ability to inhabit each role he takes on with what looks like disarming ease; a natural and near effortless ability. I fully credit him as a hard-working actor, all the more so for being able to slip into his roles with such seeming effortlessness yet obvious dedication. Yet to each role an actor brings something of himself, something personal that can still be glimpsed through any transformation of makeup, accent, or character. With Bridges, I'd say it's his smile that almost seems to have a drawl to it: starting out slow, it stretches long out across his face and sparkles in his eyes with both good humor and a hint of assurance, as if to say that in the end he'll get his cake and eat it too, just wait and see.

The un-proclaimed assurance that glimmers in Bridge's eyes served him well in the role of Bad Blake: a man who doggedly keeps on hoping for applause long after the curtain has gone down. Bad is a worn out, washed up, alcoholic country singer/songwriter who stoically travels the country in a an old beat up suburban so he can perform at musty bowling allies and bars. His audience consists of a generation that knew him when he was something, when he was a legend. He takes the adoration of his few fans with barely a thank you, unless they offer him free alcohol or want to fall into bed with him in one of the delapdated hotel rooms he finds himself in at each stop along the way.

At odd moments while performing before some small-town gathering, you see a passion for his music that shaped him into a legend, even if that legend is now fading into obscurity. Yet more and more he simply lets himself disappear into a bottle, ruining himself faster with each resigned swig. Then along comes a woman who slowly starts to change things. This woman, Jean, is played by the pretty and capable Maggie Gyllenhaal. Gyllenhaal too, is an actress who always has a certain light in her eyes that sparks of determination no matter what. In "Crazy Heart", she plays a single mom who has seen a lot of men offer a lot of empty promises, and who is diligently raising her young son on her own steam. Jean is a small-town reporter who gets an interview with Bad thanks to her musician uncle. After the first interview, they both find reason for a second one, and things continue on from there.

Gyllenhaal brings many things to the role: she is believable both as a mother who is desperately loving and protective of her son, and as a woman who falls for a man against her will, knowing that he probably isn't the best for her. She radiates the screen in an understated way; she has a natural slouch about her shoulders, a gentle droop, while still exuding a strong will and intense passion. Gyllenhaal and Bridges seem like an unlikely couple, yet somehow they pull it off onscreen. They seem miss-matched in a clumsily sweet way, making an interesting and compelling pair of lovers.

Fortune seems to have found Bad Blake once more by way of a former protege who became a huge country music star and left his mentor in the dust years before. Along with his relationship with Jean, Bad seems to have hit the high road once more. But second chances often have to be earned, and Bad Blake's struggles with truly having a second shot at things - a second shot at life, essentially - are the core of the film.

When the credits rolled, "Crazy Heart" comes down to being a drama about redemption. Though sometimes uncomfortable (Bridges getting sick from alcohol, especially in one scene where more clothes would have been nice), the emotions, struggles, and outcomes depicted in the movie are raw and thought-provoking. As with any good drama, I invested in the characters, and in the end, wanted just a little something more.

Pondering

2010-06-17T17:00:00.002-05:00

Sara is married and I am single

Dana's in college and I am working
Joy is pregnant and I help in the nursery
pondering my life.

Ellen takes pictures, someday for a living
I do as a hobby, though it could be more
John is an artist and I like to sketch
and decorate cakes for friends.

Jake says I should record audio books
Adelle has never asked me to sing
I write poems and songs and nonsense
and save them in email drafts

James asks why I'm not taking college classes
is the answer procrastination?
Wanderlust fills me and scares me to death
I want to dance, but I'm clumsy.

The girl in the mirror looks through me
comparing to others, then back
When will she learn to just be herself
the best of the best she can be?

I am a dreamer, an artist, a question
An answer to someone someday
A giver, a looser, a winner, a poem
Potential for things yet unseen.

quarter of a century

2010-06-08T13:14:00.002-05:00

The days rush by. It really is rediculous how fast it can go. This month I'll be 25. When I close my eyes, I can remember being 15. A decade ago. My parents teaching me how to drive. Reaching up to adjust the rear-view mirror on my very first driving lesson, and having it break away from the glass as I held it and stared at it in shock. 15 was a clumsy age all around. High school. Slowly gaining a sense of who I was and wanted to be. Pulled towards older things by my parents, pulled towards childhood things by my younger siblings. Makeup and fashion that I resisted with an old-fashioned belief that I didn't have to change. That I was fine just how I was. Fast forward 3 years and those beliefs took a near 180 degree turn as the home-schooled girl was thrust into the "real world". There's never an easy way.

Close my eyes and remember being 5. Two decards ago. Older sister to a sister and brother. Our Grandmother living with us in a downstairs room, while I shared a room with my siblings upstairs. A room with a large window seat that I later used to sit on and read in the early light of morning, before the rest of the house was awake. A time when all that mattered was play time, and "look at me", and "what's for dinner" and "where are we going". I remember telling my parents that I wanted to be a teacher, or a missionary, or a singer. I would sing with abandon: Disney songs mostly, and a few that my mom loved to sing, such as old hymns or Broadway tunes. I was the leader of many of the games that my siblings and I played, yet I nearly always played the damsel in distress while my sister played the hero. I was always drawn towards the sad but hopeful roles while she towards that of the white knight. I'm sure that I could look up the psychoanalysis of that childhood tendency, but for now I prefer to leave the memories be.

Memories are important to me. Maybe because reading, listening to music, writing, family and friends are all important to me. Therefore I tend to gage the importance of things by memories and accomplishments.

The Bittersweet Longing

2010-06-02T22:50:00.001-05:00

Sometimes
for no reason at all
or at least for reasons that I can't understand
(something about something deep in my psyche
and rainbows ends and huckleberry friends)
I like to pretend I'm a child again
Mentally I throw my arms up over my head
and say
I'm a nightingale
or a mockingbird
or an angel in disguise
Something with wings
and a lovely singing voice
Those two things are the only qualifications for the being I wish to be

If I could fly, I would be happy
If I could sing, I would bring happiness to others
Have you ever heard a mockingbird sing and not had your spirits lifted?
I close my eyes
I am something better than myself
more beautiful
more loved
giving and caring, singing and soaring
Yet just the fact that I want that
Just the fact that I set my sights on heaven
Doesn't that mean something ... good?

A Man And A Gouge In A Wall

2010-05-18T15:37:00.001-05:00

Driving down a busy street. On one side is a shopping center: a cluster of buildings that includes a grocery store, nail salon, fast food places and a mail store. On the other side of the street is a neighborhood surrounded by a tall stone wall. As I drove by, I saw a man walking along the sidewalk inbetween the street and the wall. He was carrying a backpack, walking in the same direction I was driving, so I only saw him from the back. In the instant that I glance over and saw him, he reached up and touched the wall at a spot near his head. The wall was made of smooth white limestone, but in the place he touched there was a dent, a gouge. The spot looked to be a little wider than my fist but not as deep. The man reached up and touched the gouged stone with one finger, then dropped his arm back to his side, never breaking his pace. By the time his hand had pulled away and resumed it's previous vertical place I had driven past. The man was in my rearview mirror for a moment, then gone.

I found this moment interesting, only because it is something that we all do. At some point or another, we've all had the urge to touch something without reason. We've all had the urge to listen a moment longer, say something before thinking about it, take a taste or a sniff, poke, prod or move something, yet we can't truly explain why. There is no meaningful explanation. Our mind tells us to do it and we do. The man walking down the street saw a gouge in a smooth wall and reached out and touched it. Of course, I don't know his story. Perhaps he did in fact have a reason for touching the wall in that particular place, such as an old and silly tradition with friends, or a fond remembrance of something. But he didn't slow his pace, and the touch appeared to be a random act. He did it without pause and possibly without reason. Humans tend to be textile beings. We like to touch and feel. It's a part of how we learn and explore and appreciate things.

Because I've touched stone, I can imagine it and describe it. Rough and hard, cool in the shade, warm in the sun. Because I saw the man, I can describe it. In a moment, I can imagine being in that man's place; walking down the sidewalk, seeing a gouge in a smooth wall, reach, touch, let my arm fall back to my side, eyes ahead once more, moving and passing, thoughts continuing elsewhere, possibly forgetting. Unless you were someone who wondered, "How did that gouge get there in the first place?" An accident? The weather? We could spin our lives around little things, little worries. But in the end, we're all just people going along, doing similar things at different times and different things at the same time. We're strangers and friends and enemies and family. Just remember that we're never alone. Look around: there's someone nearby doing the same thing you're doing or have done, and it connects us. Over all of that, over all of us, there's a reason and purpose for that too.

a jumble of lyrics

2010-05-10T22:21:00.003-05:00

everybody's gotta learn sometime,
wild horses I want to be like you throwing caution to the wind I run free too wish I could recklessly love like I'm longing too,
somewhere beyond the sea somewhere waiting for me my lover stands on tawny sands and watches the ships that go sailing,
moon river wider than a mile I'm crossing you in style someday,
there's nothing you can do that can't be done,
far away far away I want to go far away to a new life on a new shoreline,
somewhere over the rainbow,
I'm a pilgrim soul I travel far and come back home,
it's a mystery of mercy and the song the song that I sing,
sing to me on the light of the dawn mercy comes in the morning,
daring daylight escape,
we will rise rise on the wings of the morning,
shed that shallow skin come and live again leave all your were before to believe is to begin,
all you need is love,
I need a hand to hold to hold me from the edge the edge of sliding fast hold onto me,
I don't want to live I don't want to breathe without you next to me you take the pain I feel,
I'll meet you on the other side I'll meet you in the light,
there can never be a more beautiful you,
I can see the tears filling your eyes and I know where they're coming from,
I want to be beautiful and make you stand in awe look inside my heart and be amazed,
when we've been there ten thousand years light shining as the sun,
the sweetest sounds I'll ever hear are still inside my head,
oh what a beautiful morning oh what a beautiful day,
one day more another day another destiny this never-ending road to cavalry,
swing low sweet chariot comin' for to carry me home,
this old house is old and shaking but I feel no fear or pain cause I see an angel peeking through a broken window pane,
who doesn't long for someone to hold who knows how to love them without being told,
I could be the one you need but I could never be the one to give you everything,
I know you've sat alone so many nights waiting for me,
don't wake me I'm in deep,
I must be swinging on a star,
bewitched bothered and bewildered,
come fly with me come fly let's fly away,
I just haven't met you yet,
fill my days with talk of summertime,
summertime when the living is easy fish are jumping and the cotton is high,
hush little baby don't say a word papa's gonna buy you a mockingbird,
little one when you play don't you mind what they say all those same people who've scorned you what they'd give just for the right to hold you,
I want to hold your hand,
blue moon you saw me standing alone without a dream in my heart without a love of my own, fish gotta swim and birds gotta fly,
singing in the rain I'm singing in the rain what a glorious feeling I'm happy again ...

haiku

2010-04-29T09:59:00.003-05:00

Sometimes dreaming hurts
Deeply wistful ... ah, still good.
Que sera sera.

"Wanted Something More": music review of Esperanza Spalding

2010-04-26T11:21:00.004-05:00

Last Friday night I learned that seeing Esperanza Spalding, the 25-year-old child-prodigy musician singer-songwriter, is a treat to not be missed. Even if you think her style of music - jazz, with other world music influences such as Portuguese and Spanish - may not be your cup of tea, I think you'd be surprised.

The older, medium-sized auditorium where she performed was packed. Esperanza is of both African American and Spanish decent, and the crowd who turned out to see her was a mix of many nationalities. A Brazilian pianist opened for her. He was accompanied by a drummer and guitarist, though clearly it was the ivory notes, up and down and all over the place with astonishing speed and clarity, or melodically slow and candid, which composed the heart of the music. Seeing a live concert always gives me a greater appreciation for the music I hear on a CD or the radio. Also, there is something uncannily fulfilling about gathering someplace with dozens or hundreds of other people, all of them strangers except for the friend or two you may have come with, who have all arrived at that place for the exact same purpose: to hear good music, and see a good show.

When Esperanza walked onstage the crowd began to clap and cheer. She picked her way through the sound equipment, then strode to the double base, with was about double her size. She held the instrument's neck with a practiced, comfortable hand, and said how normally the crowd might get some kind of introduction piece, some explanation about who they were and what they were about, but that instead they were going to jump right in and let "everything sort itself out later". Jump in they did, with an upbeat jazz piece that filled the room and everyone in it with an intoxicating rhythm and beat. From that moment, you knew it was going to be a good show.

Esperanza is a petite girl (or seems so up onstage next to the double bass) with long arms, legs and fingers. However with big hair and a dynamo stage presence, she isn't someone to be passed by. Watching her perform on stage was hypnotizing. Her fingers moved aptly on the double bass, playing it with the same gusto with which she sang. Her voice soared up and down over a wide range of notes. She played, sang, and even danced, moving her head and hips to the music she was making, all the while staying in complete control of the music, and of her mesmerized audience.

One of the best things about seeing a live performance is that you get to truly see how in love with the music the artist is. Esperanza seems to be someone who has music and talent pouring out of her, unstoppable as sunshine through parted clouds. Her performance was so good not only because of her abounding talent but because she is so in love with the music. Watching her playing the double bass, swaying and turning, her voice flying all over the place, her fingers caressing the strings, her arms embracing the instrument, was like watching a kind of very intimate affection, a girl making music, making love with the melody there on the stage in public; a thing that was personal but altogether too beautiful to keep private. With a live show, one also gets to see some of the artist's personality. Between songs Esperanza addressed the crowd in a low voice and short sentences. She was up on a stage but she seemed at ease, as though speaking to a much smaller group of friends and fans who had gathered in a more intimate coffee house setting. After a couple of songs she took off her shoes, "Which means it's time to ..." "Get down!" someone shouted from the crowd, and Esperanza answered with an affirmative nod. "That's right. My girl said it!" she said. A few songs later she put her shoes back on. "There's an exception to every rule," she said, again in that light-hearted way of hers.

At one point there was on stage a pianist, drummer, trombone player, trumpeter, saxophone player, and two backup singers to accompany her and her double bass or the guitar bass she switched to in the latter part of the show. During some songs part of the band would drift off stage, unneeded. At one point it was simply her and her bass in the spotlight. No matter what components made up the music, it was good each time.

After the show, I found myself wondering about someone like Esperanza. She is so talented, so beautiful, so full of charisma; such a combination could be almost dangerous in the wrong person. Yet the girl who took off and put on her shoes onstage and joked about getting rich so she could buy property and clean socks seems so down-to-earth that I could imagine asking her for directions and getting a helpful, genuine answer if I met her on the street. We tend to put artists and celebrities up on these pedestals when they are all just people like you and I. Sure I have friends whose talents I deeply admire, but I'll still ask to borrow a cup of sugar when I need one. We just each have to find our sweet spot; what we are each meant to do in life, with our life. Seeing Esperanza Spalding left me wanting something more. To hear more of her music, and to search deeper in my own life for what I am supposed to be doing with it.

Maybe it is that inspiration wrapped inside music is an artist's greatest gift.

4 a.m.: A softly insistent "Hush ..."

2010-04-20T22:56:00.008-05:00

It was 4:00 a.m. in the morning, and the night which surrounded me held a kind of hollow beauty that, when I tried to describe it, pulled away my words like it pulled away my very voice. I considered stabbing the stillness with a quick scream, but the dark sky, pierced from below by the unrelenting city lights and from above by the promising stars, seemed to hover over me like a hand. A warning that I was not to make that kind of noise right then, at least not unnecessarily, and that if I did, the sky would snatch it up in it’s great hand and absorb it, possibly echoing a bit back to me just to show me how small I am really am. Funny, because as I walked down the middle of the neighborhood street I found that I felt uncommonly large. The width of the road from sidewalk to sidewalk is really such a small space of pavement. When walking in the middle of it in the hours before the dawn, I felt that clearly. A few strides from one curb and there I was at the one on the other side. Yet it doesn’t seem so short a distance in the daytime, when one is looking both ways for cars, hurrying across from one point of safety to the next. At night, I didn't have to hurry. I could stand and observe and simply be; large in the middle of the street, small against the sky, sometimes helpless but not hopeless.

In the houses around me, people were sleeping. Pets were sleeping. Machines and cars were still; a sort of mechanical sleep. The house I had just walked out of would soon be quiet, dark, and sleeping. My friends and I had said goodnight, though good morning would be more accurate, like the song from "Singin' In The Rain". We had stayed up late talking, joking, playing games, eating good food and watching a good movie. Yet each of us were quite ready for bed, and I was thankful that I had only a short drive home.

My shoes against the pavement was a sound that I felt the night did not approve. There's an old poem by A. A. Milne that goes, "Hush, hush, whisper who dares, Christopher Robin is saying his prayers". It's a tender poem, one to be read in a quiet voice, almost reverently at the hush part. Yet one cannot help smiling at the rest of the poem as it relays a sweet and sometimes distracted child's prayer, as he squints through his fingers to see what he can see, then quickly asks God to bless each family member in turn. There at 4:00 a.m., I could imagine a softly insistent, or perhaps more cajoling, "Hush, hush ... whisper who dares." Certainly it wasn't a threat. It was a gentle statement made for everyone's good. "Hush ..." This is the time for quiet. The time for sleeping. Hush ...

I hated to get in my car and turn on my noisy engine. As I drove home, I cracked open the window. The night breeze caressed me and kept me focused on getting to my soft bed. I lingered a moment outside the front door. Finally I said goodnight to the night and hello to the new day. Both are connected, yet each are their own entities. When the earth rotates away from the sun, a new sort of world is created. Moonlight, starlight, darkness and quiet. Daylight reveals while the night rests and heals. Now hush, hush, hush ....

study of a sound

2010-04-12T22:01:00.001-05:00

A gasp is such a hollow sound. It's there and then it's gone: air being sucked away in a second or less, leaving behind not even an echo but an eerie memory. It etches itself on someone's face, and can therefore be seen even after it has happened. In the moment when someone might wonder if they even heard it at all, just look and you'll see it: the opposite of the rumble of thunder which follows lightning. A flickering shadow. An audible freezing, or sudden pounding, of the heart.

A gasp is a prequel to so many other things.

Echos of old fears

2010-03-25T09:53:00.006-05:00

I ran through the pouring rain, and when I was seated safely in the dry interior of my car, I found that I was as speckled with rain drops as a dalmation is speckled with spots. I began to drive. In a couple of minutes the rain and wind had picked up considerably. Sheets of rain were pushed sideways by the great gusts of wind. At a stop light I stared at the road, which was one continually moving river a couple of inches deep. Turning one way, I found that I was now driving against the wind and rain. The car ahead of me slowed to a crawl, and I did the same. I flicked my windshield wipers to turn them up another notch but found that they were already going as quickly as they could. The night was pitch black, but the storm was punctuated every few seconds by flashes of lightning and the boom and crack of thunder. The two came at nearly the same time. It was beautiful and terrible, and in my heart there trembled an old fear.

When I was a little girl I happened to read not one but several stories about people being struck by lightening. In those cases, two things always happened: either they died, or they experienced horrible pain and a long hospitalized recovery. I read details such as charred shoes and temporary paralises that played out very vividly in my imagination. Even one story I recall, about a girl who received the shock through the ground of lightning striking a metal fence post a few yards away and having to crawl home because for a time afterwards she was so numb that she couldn't walk, scared me like you wouldn't believe.

But it wasn't just lightning that I was afraid of. The potential of any kind of electric shock made me shiver. Scenes in movies where people get shocked, where they shake and yell and sometimes smell like smoke afterwards? Never funny to me. I hated seeing things like that. The old animated cartoon, "Ben And Me", about a mouse that basically gives Benjamin Franklin the ideas for all his most brilliant inventions? The scene where the mouse is tricked during one experiment to go up in a kite with a key attached during a thunderstorm and gets struck by lightning and comes back buzzing, glowing, and breathing smoke always made me cringe so badly I sometimes left the room. It was only an animated cartoon! But I just couldn't take it.

The fear has lessoned as I've grown older. I know that the chance of my car being struck by lightening is slim, however that doesn't make me feel much better about being in a metal object during a storm. I do admit that lightning is utterly beautiful. It's powerful, uncontrollable, and magnificent. I just appreciate these attributes more from a distance ... or in pictures. It's an old fear that still flutters at the back of my heart, but it's one that I can laugh about now, a thing that I as a serious little girl could never do. I'm thankful that the fear is dissipating slowly and not growing. I think that childhood fears should do that.

"When I was a child I used to speak as a child, think as a child, reason as a child. When I became a (wo)man, I did away with childish things." - 1 Corinthians 13.

I doubt I'll ever get to the point of being a storm chaser, but ... I resolve to keep working on chasing my fears away, because after all this life is so short. It is but a flash like lightning with an echo of thunder. I hope that my life lights up the sky in that way, if only for a moment.

In everything we are and could have been (there is a reason)

2010-03-22T09:51:00.011-05:00

I'm not exagerating when I say that I am shocked and startled by my legacy. It will hit me at odd moments, from odd angles. When I say legacy, I don't mean one of human heritage and bloodline. Well, I do mean of blood, but I'll get to that later. Let me explain:

I came close to dying twice before I was born and once immediately after. When my mother was pregnant with me, she was in a terrible car crash. One of her tires blew out when she was going down hill. The small car spun and swerved out of control, across the road and through a fence. It was completely totaled. My mom was rushed to the hospital, and amazingly, both she and I were fine. A month before her due date, but mom was sitting in her car as my dad grabbed a couple of things from a convenience store. A car backed up quickly without looking and banged straight into my parent's car. My mom was shaken, but seemed fine. However a couple of hours later she went into early labor and I was born four weeks premature. Before I was taken home from the hospital, a nurse told my mom that premee babies sometimes get jaundice, but that it wasn't a big deal.
"If she turns a little yellow, don't freak out, she'll be fine, really," the nurse told my mom. So my parents took me home. I was their first child, and as new parents, of course they both wanted to do everything right and were nervous about it. When my skin began to turn slightly yellow, my mom repeated the nurse's words to herself. When I turned even more yellow, she told herself to be calm, the nurse had said this would happen but that it wasn't a big deal, don't freak out. Finally I turned so yellow that my mom allowed her panic to take over and she took me back to the hospital. She wasn't the only one who panicked. My conditional was quickly given the labels of severe and critical, and premee baby me was rushed via starflight to a larger, more well-equipped hospital. The same nurse who had impressed upon my mom to not worry, turned to my parents and scolded them harshly.

"I can't believe you'd let this happen, why didn't you bring her in sooner? She's probably going to have brain damage now because of this. She may loose some of her hearing or vision because you let this go so long," she berated my grief-stricken parents. As a final stab as the nurse walked away, she said, "I have to go. My daughter is in a school play," leaving my parents to wonder if their own daughter would ever be able to be in a school play of her own, or if I had been damaged by the jaundice in a way that would stop me from having the kind of good and normal life they had hoped for.

Contrary to the nurse's predictions, but completely in line with my parent's prayers, I made a full recovery. Ever since I was a little girl I've known those stories; about the two car crashes and the jaundice scare. I loved to hear my mom tell those stories because when I'd hear them I'd feel something that I wasn't able to identify until I was older, yet I knew that it was part of my identity, my legacy, and I was proud of it. I was alive and well, and that wasn't a small thing. Nor was it a thing of chance. What I know now is this: everyone on this earth has a purpose given to us from God, and that God works all things out for His good. A time to be born and a time to die (Ecclesiastes 3:2a). Also a time to be well and a time to be ill. A time for prayers to be answered with yes, and a time for prayers to be answered with no. Yet never is there a time when God does not answer prayers in some way.

The answer to my parent's prayers was Yes. Yes, she will live. Yes, she will be well and whole. Yes, I will provide for you in all times, even when those times come very close to the edge; just have faith. I am thankful to God that he let me live, and that he let me not have any permant damage from the illness. Is it something I think about and thank Him for every day? No, but I should. I always should.

It's even more than that though, that fills me with shock and amazement. I've done social work long enough that I have seen and heard some horrible things. Children abused by their parents since they were babies. Conditions of extreme poverty, heavy substance abuse, crack babies, and parents that force their children to lie and do other immoral things because they claim it is for their collective good. I've seen this in the city where I work, but I've seen it abroad too. On mission trips in other countries, I've seen unparalled poverty and lack of education. In the midst of it, I've seen some of the most beautiful and authentic examples of faith as well, faith that makes me feel like a weak and fainting fool in shameful comparison to all I have and take for granted without daily falling on my knees in thanks and praise. Because my legacy is this: I am alive, I am well and whole, I have parents who love me and taught me about Christ, a church who nourishes me, and a country where I can freely worship God in my home or in the street. I have never been abused. I have never been without food, clothes, or shelter. I have been educated, and have the resouces to continue learning whenever I want. I have never been without a job, and I even have two jobs that I feel good about being a part of, that I enjoy and am thankful for. I have friends and family who support me, love me, share my faith, pray for me and with me. I could go on and on, even about the little things like being able to sing and draw or having people's trust. It's a tapestry of things that are overwhelmingly, unbelievably amazing. When I think about this, one word escapes my startled lips: "Why?" Why me? Why have I been so richly blessed, when others have lives of suffering? Of course my life is not "perfect", but only by the world's eyes. No, my parents could never afford to send me to college or buy me a car, but they taught me how to be wise with my finances, and they are always willing to be a part of each choice I make. No, I have no boyfriend, no husband, no children, as most of my friends do by now, but I trust that God has a plan in all things. Yes, I have two siblings in heaven who died before they were born. Yes, I've lost three grandparents. Yes, I've lied, cursed, selfishly put myself first and followed my own agenda above all else, struggled with a season of despair, harshly hurt those I love and let my pride block me from God's will. All of this - what I've done and do and the many struggles in life I could have had, juxtaposed against the life I am so richly and undeservedly blessed with - breaks my heart with astonished thanksgiving.

That is my legacy. This life that I don't deserve. The grace that God has poured out on each of us; His blood, freely spilt so that it washes us in a flood of mercy. When I stop and realize that, how can I not yearn until I ache to follow His purpose for me, seeking it out as I seek Him, with all my will? For His perfect will works in and through each of us. Even when a family member dies. Even when the future doesn't turn out as we expect. Even when the one we love walks away. Even when we aren't rich, or very pretty, or don't have grass as green as our neighbor's. God has a purpose in everything. He let me live, and so much more, and I can only believe that He has a purpose in that. I can only thank, worship, and praise Him for that. For everything.

Even in the heartache, He is there. I'm learning to find Him there; in the joy and the sorrow and the mundane, so that this life He has bestowed on me will have a singular, perfect purpose: His.

If grace knows my name ...

2010-03-19T09:46:00.007-05:00

Blindfolded

I transcend time
with my words, I'll build
a house for you and I
We will live there; together
Alone in surreal lives
Do we just exist?
And does love persist?
The questions of purpose and loving of destiny
Our conquest for bliss is
as much hit or miss /
as it is skimming the fat off our beliefs

(Refrain)
I walk around blindfolded
Talk
I'm not listening I read through a thousand books
But, forgot everything

If grace knows my name
Then I am to blame
Constantly spreading
My fear and my shame
The story exists
It's an option that ticks
But still my tongue cannot be trusted
It's so poetic
Like a black widow's kiss
Trembling as my muscles give
(Refrain)

I found out the proof itself
Was Not foolproof
I leave my mind daily
But You never see me move
Never see me
move Never see me move ...

- The Classic Crime

I was introduced to the above song by my sister. She loved it first, then let me fall for it as well. Go listen to it; the song has a haunting quality that strains your ears to find hidden meaning behind the lyrics. I'm never ready for it to be over when the final notes abruptly stop. There's things that I can take out of the song personally and apply, yet so much that also makes me want to know just what exactly the author of the song is really saying. It's personal and versatile at the same time.

The line, "If grace knows my name, then I am to blame, constantly spreading my fear and my shame," somehow makes me think of the song "Hallelujah", made famous by the late Jeff Buckley. In "Hallelujah", the singer mournfully tells of faith and love, things he's seen and known but now believes to be simply a "cold and broken hallelujah". In both songs, there is a deep yearning for something more. Something real and meaningful. Both songs have a broken, empty feel to them, while at the same time, spilling over the brim with emotion, experience, keen longing, hope, and yes, meaning.

"But still my tongue cannot be trusted". In "Blindfolded", the singer takes us through a beautifully imagined future: "I'd build a house for you and I, We would live there, together", painting a lovely picture, before continuing with, "Alone in surreal lives". He follows with hapless questions of existence, love, and purpose. Haven't we all been there? Haven't we all imagined a bright future, and all come crashing down to some place of rugged reality? Asking, "What's the point?" "Our conquest for bliss is as much hit or miss as it is skimming the fat off our beliefs."

So: what is the point? "Do we just exist?" Emphasis on Just. If we "read through a thousand books but forgot everything", then what's the point in reading them at all? Where is the purpose and meaning? "If grace knows my name ..."

The point is, Grace does know our name. My name, your name, everyone who's ever been and ever will be is known by the grace of God. No matter how much we spread our "fear and our shame", God is there to wipe it clean with His impenetrable grace and mercy. There is nothing that is not made right. In the song "Grace" by U2, Bono thoughtfully sings, "Grace finds beauty in everything".

As I mentioned before, when I listen to "Blindfolded", I'm never ready for the song to be over. I want it to wrap up with a positive note of hope at the end. But it doesn't. "I found out the proof itself is not foolproof", is about as hopeless at you can get. Then again, sometimes we have to wait and listen for a second song to play, before we can realize what is foolproof. I did, four years ago, when the beautiful future I thought I was going to have fell away and left me blaming myself, hurting myself, and wondering if I would ever feel joy again. The unrelenting goodness of God's grace is that yes, we will feel joy again. We will be made whole again. That's what will always be foolproof; the truth that is singing along with us, waiting for the moment when we'll stop and truly listen.

Movie Review: Remember Me

2010-03-14T16:17:00.005-05:00

I only knew a couple of things about the movie "Remember Me" before I saw it. To start, that it has four recognizable stars; Chris Cooper (has he ever played a good guy character?), Pierce Brosnan (he wears expensive suits, as usual), and up and coming stars Emilie De Ravin (of Lost fame) and Robert Pattinson (ever heard of Twilight?). Next, that much talk and speculation centered on Pattinson, and how this would be his make it or break it role. Would reviewers and audiences give him a thumbs up for other films, or would he flounder, thus strengthening his chances of never truly graduating from his Vampire-pretty-boy-lover role that catapulted him into fame in the first place? What an ironic catch-22 Hollywood stardom can be.

From the trailer of "Remember Me", Pattinson seemed to continue his famous brooding and wooing of a young girl, the only difference being that he was playing a guy in his early twenties in college and not a one-hundred-year-old repeating high school for the umpteenth time. Going into the movie, I had expectations of either liking or loathing Pattinson's performance. I was pleasantly surprised to find the former to be true.

The movie overall was alright. Not stunning, not bad. It was thoughtful and melancholy, the kind of film whose goal seems to be to take your heart out at one point or another while keeping you engaged with pretty actors and an occasional laugh. Each actor had studious shots of them deep in thought or filled with conflicting emotion, so that when someone smiled, it was like a gift bestowed upon the screen. Thankfully, the character of Emilie De Ravin, Pattinson's character's love interest, did a good amount of smiling. The camera wasn't afraid to hone in close on her bright blue eyes and often mischevous grin, which was a good thing.

The plot overall was fairly cliche. Maybe even mostly cliche. The actors themselves had mostly all played their roles before. Chris Cooper plays the closed-fisted father who feels that the best way to show love to his child is by demanding hard work because life is hard (as in "October Sky"). In this instance, he is a tough cop who suffered loss years ago and now is overbearingly protective and expecting of perfection from his smart, free-spirited daughter (De Ravin). Pierce Brosnan is a wealthy business man who also has a difficult time showing love to his son and daughter, and has also experienced family tragedy years before. Both men yell and stammer at their children in well-meant direction that comes from entirely the wrong place. Pattinson is the son who floats between three worlds: that of his college and his self-obsessed roommate buddy, his younger sister whom he adores and who lives with their mom, and his cold, affluent, image-driven father. As in Twilight, Pattinson does plenty of brooding, a requirement both for his vampire role and this one. He has now proved his talent at portraying conflicted characters. So, what else can he do?

Overall however, I felt that Pattinson was a strong presence on-screen. Likable, clever, and interesting, I cared about what happen to his character. His performance may not have been Oscar-worthy, but it was good. He fit his role and made me, the audience, care. If those two things aren't there in the main star, a movie doesn't have much to go on.

Emilie De Ravin also gave a solid performance. Sweetly fresh-faced, quick-witted, and just quirky enough without being weird, she played the part of a daughter who wants to figure things out for herself without the shadow of her protective cop father, especially when that comes to who she's going to date, and makes it look easy. Also interesting to note is that she took on an American accent for the part, covering up her Australian one. I guess that was an easier transition than for Cooper to take on an Australian accent, though if he did it would set his role in "Remember Me" apart from his other similar ones.

"Remember Me" is a film about belonging, uncertainty and angst, family, love, loss and coping. It's interesting but sad, and at the end I understood what they were trying to say, but I wasn't particularly moved by it. It isn't the kind of film that I would rush from the theater and beg my friends to go see. It was alright. Pattinson and De Ravin were good. They were worth watching, in my opinion. In the end, I felt like the actors were better than the story they were telling. I was moved by the actors, but not compelled by the story when the credits rolled. So interestingly, "Remember Me" is a film that I enjoyed while watching, but might not remember all that long.

Heaven's Daughter

2010-03-09T21:29:00.001-06:00

Sometimes I feel like water
rushing, rushing, rushing
Dreaming dreams of rising to the sky.
I must be someone's daughter
Earth, water, sky or wind
I look up to the sun and question why.

Onward, downward, propelled along
going, going, going
Yet where I go right now I do not know.
Part of one maddening song
It always fills my ears
It enters in my heart when I go slow.

I've heard that water changes
flowing, flowing, flowing
And that someday it's taken to the clouds.
Defying gravity's ranges
Finally up instead of down
To a new horizontal sort of crowd.

So if I feel like water
moving, moving, moving
In rivers, streams, or oceans or so wide.
Though a drop, I'm heaven's daughter
Peace like a river I'll seek
Till past the clouds and raindrops I'll abide.

Why Am I Here?

2010-03-03T14:51:00.006-06:00

Do you remember what you wanted to be "when you grew up", as a child? The various careers you dreamed of and pretended to inhabit, back when our perceptions couldn't imagine that we'd ever have a boring job or relationship issues. There we were, you and I and everyone else: we were going to be firefighters or artists, doctors or movie stars. We were all set to marry the kid our age down the block and have a couple of adorable children and live in a beautiful house. We'd always be pretty and handsome and we'd always have money. Wasn't that a wonderful time?

I think that everyone has a moment somewhere in life when they stop dead in their tracks and ask, "How did I get here and what am I doing? What is the point of my life, of everything? Why am I here?"

Maybe the moment comes while working at a job you don't like, while paying bills and not seeing how you'll be able to make ends meet, or while in the middle of a breakup with the person you've invested months of time and all your heart into and whom you thought you would be with forever. It's a moment of questioning followed by discouragement.

In such a case, I think it would be the best thing ever if we could each experience a George Bailey moment. If we could catch a glimpse of what life would be like without us - who we have touched, very hopefully in positive ways, like the hero of "It's A Wonderful Life" - the instant of discouragement would immediately dissipate, replaced by a sense of understanding and acceptance. Oh Clarence, won't you come visit me?

Maybe we don't have a quirky guardian angel come down to earth, both on a mission to help us see life's purpose and beauty while trying to earn his wings, but maybe we don't have to. I often find myself in what a call dime-sized "Why am I here?" moments. The most recent one came when wondering if there is any way to help someone I know who is going through a rough time. I live with a family, and the father has been going through a time of emotional hardship that I can't even fathom going through. A close family member of his was arrested for stealing money from people, and is looking at years and years in jail. The repercussions of this family member's actions are overwhelmingly painful on the entire family. The father of the family I live with is particularly effected, as much of the weight of helping other family members falls on his shoulders. My "Why am I here?" question in this instance is this: Why was I put here, in this time, in this situation, and how am I supposed to make the most of it? How am I supposed to help and encourage?

I don't believe in chance or coincidence. I know I'm here with this family at this time for a reason. So, what reason might that be? I try to be helpful; do the dishes, take out the trash, things like that. I'm an encourager by nature, and an optimist, but what kind of encouragement and hope can I give in this situation that isn't cheesy and unmeaningful - i.e., I'm not in that situation, so what I say carries no weight of empathy, but merely the fluff of well-meant yet basically ignorant sympathy from a bystander's perspective. Is is better even to not mention it? Stick to the face of normality, which, in all honestly, is what I tend to do anyway. The incident isn't glaring in my face, so it's easy to forget about it. Then I remember, and a bit of my heart breaks with sadness for the family who is going through such a trial.

You may be expecting a nice tidy answer to come next, a surprising reveal as to how I found my purpose in this situation, how it's effecting me and those around me and what I forsee the future bringing. But the honest truth is that I don't know the answer. I don't know why I am here at this time. I don't know what my purpose is in this instance, but I believe this, with all my heart: if I pray for God to keep me vulnerable to His molding, willing to be used by Him in each and every situation, then He will show me the answer to my repetitious wondering: "Why am I here?" He may not give me an answer on this earth, but I trust that He knows it, and has known it all along. When God gives you or I a peace about something, an assurance that yes, He is still in control and has been all along, isn't that better than any answer that we earthly beings may not understand anyway?

We may ask for night vision, and He might instead give us a hand to hold in the darkness. A hand that has been there all along. We just forgot about it because we were too busy straining our eyes to see into the night.

My challenge to myself is this: to never stop praying for His guidance in all situations, and to never forget that His hand is always there, always, guiding me. I don't have to use my eyes to see if He has me by the hand. Whether it's my whole life that I suddenly find reason to question, or just a puzzling dime-sized moment, "Trust and Prayer" will be the words tatooed on my conscience. To follow Him; obediantly, trustingly, prayerfully, diligently, faithfully, lovingly. That's why I'm here.

little joys

2010-02-18T12:29:00.006-06:00

Sometimes it's the little victories, the little joys, that mean the most. Ones which you can cup in your hand and then breathe on like a dandelion just to watch it skip and scatter around the place before coming back to rest in one piece in your hand. Slip it in your pocket; a warm sliver of sunlight, a falling star for a rainy day.

The thing that happened yesterday that made me do a small skipping victory dance was both menial and meaningful. It was a conformation of sorts, something that quietly stated that I was loved, wanted, and a "cool big sister". Yes, the latter is important. I want to be a good big sister, always. I want to be helpful and caring, but I also want to be interesting. I want to be the kind of big sister whom my younger siblings want to hang out with. Silly as it may sound, I want to be cool. Yesterday, I felt that that stamp of approval had arrived from my seventeen-year-old brother Peter.

He is the second boy in the family, the fifth oldest of fifth youngest, however you want to look at it. The middle child. His hobby is his bike: trick riding, jumping, fixing it up to be faster, lighter, whatever, and building ramps to do all his crazy tricks on in the driveway. He dyed his hair orange once. He recently got his ears pierced. His clothes are the epitome of teenage cool. I'm thankful that his attitude is, though "hip", still very loving towards his family. I shook my head at him when he got his ears pierced, but he's my brother and I love him, I love him.

I was at my parent's house the other day and someone mentioned that Peter didn't have a facebook profile but had started twittering.
"You tweet?" I asked, somewhat excited. So far I was the only person in my family who twittered. My parents think the 140 character status update social networking site is rediculous, and most of my other siblings don't care. I like it, for what it is, and was intrigued that Peter was a fellow tweeter.
"Yeah, I signed up, I use it every now and then," Peter said, shrugging and giving me that half-embarressed, "I don't know, what can I say?" smile that I know so well.

The next day I looked him up on twitter and found his username. I purused past tweets of his, often about biking. I was amused to find two he tweeted while on a trip with me. I wanted to request to follow him, almost did, before pausing and wondering, "Does he really want his big sister following his tweets? Would he be annoyed by that?" Sure, I'm friends with three of my siblings on facebook, and it's a lot of fun. But Peter is still seventeen, still an oh so cool teenager, and I am his older twenty-four-year old sister. So I didn't follow him, at least for now.

It was later that afternoon when I got an email that made me do the small dance of joy. I read, "Peter has requested to follow you on twitter". I was ecstatic! He wanted to follow me, his big sister. He found me on his own and wanted to follow me! Was it our equal curiousity about each other, us siblings who no longer live in the same house but of course still love each other and want to be in each other's lives? It was a small thing, a simple thing, but it made me oh so happy. I felt that yes, I am a cool big sister. My seventeen-year-old brother has approved it. I am a cool sister, and I am happy.

The need to be approved and wanted, liked and loved, is a vital human need. It's a part of each human's DNA, stronger in some than in others. Sure, my little brother didn't have to find me on a social networking site, and sure, it truly and honestly is a small thing to telescope on in the spectrum of life, but it was still meaningful. It was meaningful because, as the old song says, I wanted him to want me. I needed him to need me. People need each other. It can be easy to forget that these days. People strive for self-sufficency. I could probably go a whole day without face-to-face human interaction, if I wanted to. Pump my own gas, buy food and other neccessities at a store with a self-checkout lane, rent movies online, and on and on. It's easy to become an island. But when one is an island, where are the little joys in life? The jokes and smiles, the compliments and requests, the trust, relationships, and even the hurts and losses that ultimately make the blessings and joys that much sweeter? Victory can only be truly savored and appreciated when one knows the pain of defeat. Joy can only be truly felt when one has walked through a valley of sorrow. I'll take the little joys and keep them close to my heart, but I won't keep them just for me. I won't be an island or a hermit. I'll take those joys and spread them like flower seeds to all I know. Joy grows joy, one little bit at a time.

stroller moms

2010-02-17T10:08:00.003-06:00

There's a wooded park that I drive by each morning on my way to work, and if If drive by at the right time, I see a group of moms working out. I know that they are moms because they each have a stroller. Usually when I pass by they seem to be just warming up. They stretch their legs and arms; twisting, reaching, lifting, sometimes with one hand on the handle of their stroller for support, sometimes taking a step back. I only see them for a moment as I pass by, but they seem to be encouraging each other, glad that they have companions to help each other get or stay in shape.
I wonder what the babies or toddlers think about this. Do the babies look at each other, used to the routine but still not knowing what it's all about? Are they impatient for the stretching to be over, ready to be pushed along the gravel path?
I wonder if the moms have to go single file along the path. Today there was only three moms that I saw, but even so I don't know that the path is wide enough for them to stroll alongside each other. The Olympics are on right now, and when I think of mom's pushing strollers single-file down a path at a brisk pace, I think of speed skaters; all in a row, taking their time and setting a good pace for the first couple of laps before each begins to pick up speed and try to dart to the front of the line, weaving in and out of order with the rest of the competitors in an attempt to get to the front of the group and win. I don't know if the stroller moms ever race down the park path. They might. I'd like to see it if they did.

wolf girl

2010-02-08T09:54:00.005-06:00

There's a girl whom I've noticed a few times at church, a girl who carries a stuffed animal, a wolf, around with her. The toy is just the right size to fit into her arms. I don't know how old she is, but she is tall, just a few inches shorter than I am. I had noticed the wolf in her arms before but not in some time. Yesterday morning I was in the hall at church and she and a woman I'm guessing is her mom walked over the to the table where coffee and donuts were set up. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the wolf and did a double take. Then I realized it was a stuffed animal and laughed.
"For a minute I thought it was a real dog," I explained with a smile to her mother, who stood near me getting coffee. The mother made a face that showed exasperation and weariness. An assenting grunt and nod were her only reply. It seemed that it was perhaps a sore, long drawn out subject. I smiled at the girl, who looked at me under low eyelids with guarded eyes. She had the wolf cradled securely in one arm. She looked away from me, down at the wolf toy. She kissed it on the head ever so tenderly and stroked it with her free hand. She was so tender and loving to that lifeless toy. Her age, her lack of communication, her mothers response, and her focus on a stuffed animal were all disturbing.

The space of time it took for me, a complete outsider, to observe this was less than two minutes. If it was my little sister who was acting that way (and my sister is ten while this girl I would guess to be about twelve) I would think it would be strange and unhealthy behavior. I wonder what could have triggered it? Some kind of loss or other trauma? Something that made the girl feel insecure, to the point where she clings to a toy and pours affection on it, probably believing that it loves her back. Or, maybe it's a chemical imbalance. I have no idea. But after removing the inital strangeness of the situation, I find it very sad.

I wonder about the mother, whose patience seems to have run thin, at least at that particular moment. Does she tell her daughter that she loves her? Does she hold and caress her daughter every now and then like the girl does with her wolf toy? I hope she doesn't just roll her eyes and tell her daughter to grow up. I remember being a child. I remember the feeling of security that could be wavered by the smallest things. I remember the fear of disappointing my parents coupled with the strong dislike of being told I was wrong or couldn't do something, and the times I knowingly chose my own way over what I had been told. I remember having a child's reasoning, a reasoning that knew better but would often justify opposite actions anyway. But of course, don't we still all feel and do those kinds of things even now that we are all grown up?

I've seen stranger things before when I worked at the dentist office. I think that the funny thing about humans is is that while we all have so many similarities and can even find other people who look like us, act like us, like the things we like, come from nearly identical backgrounds and live nearly identical lives, we are each so incredibly and indescribably unique. How we feel, express ourselves, experience and process things, deal and cope with things will never be the same in any two people. No two relationships that anyone will ever have will be the same. Relationships such as parenting. I hope the wolf girl and her mother can understand each other. I hope the mother is able to help her daughter, and that her daughter will accept the help, each of them with love and understanding.
Dear Wolf Girl, I don't know you, but I hope you feel loved ...

It's going to be good

2010-02-04T15:33:00.006-06:00

During the week I leave for work at 8:30 to get there by 9:00. On the commute I switch through various radio stations; a surfer of music and talk who avoids commercials at all costs. There's one station in particular whose morning show I usually enjoy; four people behind the mics in a local radio station who are usually funny, up to date on world events, have interesting thoughts, contests, and callers, and keep things fairly clean. I appreciate the latter very much.

Yet when they switch to a commercial break or play a song I'm not into, I'll punch the buttons of the other stations programmed in my car stereo to see what else is on. There's this one rock station that, although I have it programmed into my stereo, I don't listen to it very much. It plays more rap and hip-hop than I'm interested in, and honestly the main reason I listen to it is to stay up to date on popular songs that, for one, my younger siblings are into. They too have a morning radio show, one that doesn't stay away from crass topics and opinions.

Though I knew the talk show on that station is rarely worth-while, I stopped my mad punching of buttons to pause on that station simply because it wasn't playing commercials or a song I didn't like. The topic of conversation between the morning show crew at the moment I landed on the station was sex and virginity. One guy on the station posed a question and scenario to another guy on the station. He said, "What if you were dating a girl in her mid-twenties, and she told you that she was a virgin who wanted to wait until marriage to have sex. What would you do?" The man who was being given the question reacted immediately, saying that he would run from that relationship as fast as he could, that he couldn't deal with a relationship that didn't include sex, and that there must be something wrong with the girl if she hadn't had sex already. I listened in shock which quickly became fury. The man talked on and on about how no sex was a deal breaker and how he would be worried that if (though it seemed unlikely of actually happening) that he accepted this and ended up marrying the girl, that she'd not know what to do, having had no experience. If I could have punched the man through the radio, I probably would have. "What about not wanting to get pregnant before getting married?" I wanted to shout. "What about STD's and emotional connections? Are you telling me you'd rather be with a girl who's 'tried out' any number of other guys sexually, instead of one who was pure? Do you not care about what your future wife might think about that?"

A tiny saving grace is that the guy who posed the questions stated that he at least could respect that in a girl. He felt that it would affect the relationship in some way, and that he'd be 'sad' to not get to have sex with her, but that he could definitely respect it if she felt that strongly about waiting until marriage. This was a little better, but it made me want to ask, "The girl who is pure isn't dreaming of a guy who has tried out sex with other women. She'll feel that he is comparing her to them. She'll worry about past ties."
That being said, I have many girl friends who were virgins when they got married, to men who were not. But the difference is is that the guys who became their husbands regretted their past actions and had abstained from it after realizing what it did to relationships, becoming committed to staying pure until marriage with the woman who then became their wife.

I can still hear the adament "No way!" of the guy on the radio in response to keeping a pure relationship until marriage. Such a selfish response makes me silently seethe, and ache. I AM that virgin girl in her mid-twenties. Run away if you so choose: you're not the one for me, then. Because I know this for a fact: when I do have sex, with my husband who I will be committed to for life, it will be good. My husband will be the receiver of my very generous passion, stored up until the time when a commitment will take away all boundaries, remove all doubts and leave us to freely and completely give ourselves to each other. In other words, my husband and I are going to have fun.

Writing this now, I feel sorry for the radio talk guy. He has purposefully blindsided himself; he is willing to give himself away to women who have done the same. Sex outside of love is cheap. Outside of marriage it is dangerous. Why has the majority of our society turned something so beautiful and intimate into something reckless? I worry for impressionable women who listen to men like the radio guy and think that in order to find love they have to give themselves away, when that's a heartbreaking lie. I know so many people who wish they could undo their sexual experiences, who wished they would have waited. Because it's worth the wait. Ignore what the world says about freedom and expression, choice and pleasure. Wait. It's going to be worth it. I haven't been there yet, but somehow I just know: it's worth the wait.

An article I read this afternoon on the other end of the spectrum: More Than "Damaged Goods", in Relevant Magazine - http://www.relevantmagazine.com/life/relationship/features/20278-more-than-qdamaged-goodsq

Lingering

2010-02-01T17:31:00.001-06:00

I wait,
casually,
as though I'm not even waiting at all.
Shuffling papers, or
going through my purse, or
pretending to look at my phone, or
cleaning my glasses.
Silent explanations
for why I am still there, lingering.

I look,
ernestly,
for little reasons to talk to you.
Trifling questions, or
small reminders, or
something to make you laugh, or
things that barely pertain to you at all.
Lighthearted remedy
for spaces both empty and lingering.

I leave,
regretfully,
wishing for a catch and not a fumble.
When I don't get to talk to you, or
I say something silly, or
you don't ask for my number, or
what I'm doing this weekend, again.
Doubts and daydreams
both begging to know if I should stay; lingering.

movie review: The Book Of Eli

2010-01-18T21:39:00.005-06:00

I had mixed expectations when I went to see the movie "The Book Of Eli". I had heard good things about it, but also that the violence was pretty strong. When I first saw the preview months before, it didn't interest me at all. It looked like a bleak, violent, post-apocalyptic tale following a single man who had to shoot and hack anyone in the way of his survival. Then I read a review for the movie which informed me of more of the actual plot. After that I was interested.

I did not leave the theater disappointed. I found the film to be deeply thought-provoking; one I'll probably be still processing for days, and which I couldn't wait to talk to about with someone else who had seen it. The violence is very strong and in some cases quite graphic. Denzel Washington's character, who plays title role and hero Eli, doesn't hesitate from slashing, hacking, shooting, smashing, and generally getting rid of anyone who gets in the way of his mission. It's a mission that is not revealed until part-way through the film. As a whole, the story unravels carefully, keeping the audience engrossed and surprised, never more so than near the end.

Eli's weapons of choice seem to be a very intimidating machete and a bow and arrows, both of which he uses with deadly accuracy, although he is also quite well versed in the use of firearms and physical defense as well. During every fight scene I found myself thinking: "Whatever were to happen, I'd want to be on that guy's side. Every. Single. Time."

Eli's mission is to protect something. A book; a Bible to be exact. He knows he must protect it at all costs, and the all costs comes in the form of a man intent on getting the Bible for himself. Eli must defend the book and himself against the man, his lies, and his brutal band of henchman. The fact that they are all fighting for survival in a wasteland that used to be America, where water is more and more scarce - the "good stuff" as one man dubs it - gives a feeling of hopelessness and desolation to the whole film, and adds to the urgency of Eli's mysterious mission.

It's hard to say much more without giving key elements of plot away. If I were to sum the film up in a few words, I'd use adjectives such as engaging, thought-provoking, violent, and moral. The heart of the film - the heart of Eli, his faith, and what he knows he must accomplish no matter what - is the driving force behind a film that was probably dressed in more violence than necessary in order to draw a wider main-stream crowd. If that is the case (or even if Denzel simply likes to be in movies where he gets to knock down a LOT of opponents) I hope it works. In my opinion, it is a movie worth seeing, because it is a message worth seriously contemplating.

a scribbling on books and writing

2010-01-12T10:43:00.003-06:00

I read a lot. I always have. But I'm not an especially fast reader. I prefer to take my time, rereading passages so I become immersered in the descriptions, finding myself in the world between the words. My sister on the other hand has always devoured books. She swallows them in long sessions of rapid page turning. As a little girl I was sometimes envious of this. She is my little sister, yet she would get ahead of me, reading things I hadn't yet gotten to and sometimes waiting for me to finish a book she wanted to consume. Yet I learned to become happy with my pace. Some books are easy to fly through, but others I think should be savored. I prefer the savoring.

When I was little my Mom would read aloud to my siblings and I. I grew up hearing and reading such fare as The Little House books, The Chronicles Of Narnia, The Borrowers, The Betsy-Tacy Books, and loving authors such as Lloyd Alexander, Frances Hodgson Burnett, J.R.R. Tolkien, Patricia McLauchlan and many others. Often though my Mom would read to us books that went along with what we were studying in school. We didn't just read fiction; I thrilled at hearing Endurance, the story of Shackleton and his crew's incredible voyage and survival in the atlantic, Carry On Mr. Bowditch, and others which, when I see them on the shelves, are like dear friends; much loved, and with much more love to give when I sit down to reread them as I surely plan to do.

On time I was told that I was like the Meg Ryan character in the movie "You've Got Mail". I was told that I tended to dress somewhat like her, say things like her, and read like her. I laughed at this, then realized, and said out loud, "Actually, I have read The Shoe Books." If you know the movie you will understand. I am also happy to say that Skating Shoes is now back in print.

Reading is a love of mine. Some of my favorite conversations center around books. Writing is inexplicably linked to my being (see? I say and write strange things like that, but I mean it and can't help it); I'll be going along, doing normal everything things, and in my head I'm writing an account of what is going on, narrating it as if I were trying to make it come alive on a page, making it interesting for some unknown reader. I love descriptions and am probably too flowery at times. I tend to be poetic, but I think it comes with the territory of having a name like Sonnet, so what can I say? I was born to be this way.

I so hope that my future husband shares this love with me. More than someone who can perhaps appreciate books and writing, I quietly long for someone who also writes, who also savors books, and with whom I can share the narratives playing inside my head, and be given something similar in return.

I'm not sure how this scribbling on books and writing came around to end with thoughts on my as-yet-unknown future husband. I guess it all plays into the narrative in my head, and how one thing connects to another in subtle and curious ways. If it's only interesting for me to read, I'm fine with that. Writing is an outlet as much as it is an expression. What about for you?