In the Light of Darkness

I posted those pictures two days ago. Then, yesterday, London was attacked and I almost took them all down because the smiles looked so rude and out of place.

And yet, I left them-- if only to be a reminder that there is still joy somewhere in the world.

I was complaining to a friend yesterday about some trite matter and he said (somewhat tongue in cheek, I believe) that I should think about people in London who have real problems right now. To this I abashedly bowed in defeat.

You see, the thing is this: I *want* to think about the world problems, and yet I *do not* want to at all. There are just so many of them! Terrorism. AIDS. Poverty. Natural Disasters. Ecological Damage. World Economics. Social Security. Homeland Security. Foreign Security. Moral Security.

SIN.

Which of these things is greater? Which of these should I worry about now? Today? Honestly, I can't worry about all of them. It would crush me. Even Atlas bowed under such weight. I only know of one Man who could carry such a burden and even He cried out to God, "Why have you forsaken me?"

This may sound incredibly shallow-- but it's just so much easier to think about what's going on with me-- and even there lies a root to every one of the problems listed--- sin. There's enough darkness in my own heart. If I thought about the darkness of every heart of the world, I may never smile again.

Thankfully, there was One who did consider every dark heart and who took the weight of it all. One who shouldered the burden and rose in triumph over it. Because He did so, we do not have to be eternally crestfallen. Because He has promised to wipe away every tear one day. And that gives me hope enough to smile.

It's Friday, I'm in Love

I've been marinating this post for a little while, but after reading Dave's about favorite song lines, I decided to pop this baby on to the grill.

I listen to a lot of mellow/sad music. When I want to get hyped up, I have to search through my music for something appropriate-- and it may only be a song here and a song there. There are only a couple of cds that I can pop in and let run without running into downer mode somewhere along the playlist. (no, I don't have an ipod or an mp3 player to make playlists-- or even a cd burner to make mixes. yes, I am bitter about it, so please don't bring it up. thanks) ;-)

Any hooo...

There are certain songs, though, that can make me smile at almost any time- such as The Cure's Friday I'm in Love, or for that matter, basically anything by The Cure. What are the others, you ask? Well, let's see, shall we? (now, remember, these make me happy- so even if they're lame, I hope you understand and will not rain [too hard] on my parade)

Songs That Make Me Almost as Happy as a New Lipgloss:

Drop the Pilot--Mandy Moore's version

Short Skirt, Long Jacket--Cake

Bye, Bye, Bye--N*SYNC (I know, I know)

Anna Begins--Counting Crows

Guero, E-Pro and Girl--Beck

Come Pick Me Up--Ryan Adams

Righteously--Lucinda Williams

This Is How We Do It--Montel Williams

When You Come Back Down--Nickel Creek

Love Fool--The Cardigans

Kiss--Prince

There are probably more, but these come to me off the top of my head.

What songs make you smile?

Stone Cold

While running the other day I learned it's better for your joints to run on asphalt instead of concrete (ie, the road instead of the sidewalk). It was one of those insights where I kind of went, "duh, that makes sense, why didn't I think of that sooner?" However, due to the slant of the road, it's not always good to run on there either...

Any way, the whole thing got me thinking about the physical attributes of concrete vs. asphalt. I once read a joke about Wisconsin that said it only has three seasons: football season, winter and construction season. I don't remember when, but I learned a long time ago (probably when I was working for the city parks dept) that concrete and asphalt have to laid at a specific time of year and at specific temperatures in order to provide the highest quality and safety.

You see, all objects expand and contract with the weather. It's a physical attribute of matter: when molecules heat up, they move at a faster speed and the substance of which they comprise, expands. When they cool, molecules slow down and compact a little more, causing the object to sort of shrink. This is why I can't make rings pass over my knuckles in the summer that will fall off of my hands in the winter.

Have you ever wondered why there are man-made partitions in sidewalks? It's so they can inhale and exhale with the changing temperatures. If they were one big slab, they'd break apart in the winter or crunch together like teutonic plates in the summer. Asphalt has a little give and take in its composition, so it breathes better throughout the seasons. It also gives a little more underfoot for runs.

God states twice through the prophet Ezekiel that he will remove hearts of stone and replace them with hearts of flesh. Usually when I think about a heart of stone, I think about being stubborn, about putting up walls to try to keep things in or out. I never really think about the inflexibility of a heart of stone. A heart of stone can't expand and contract without cresting or cracking. It is unable to "breathe," or more importantly, unable to beat.

When I harden my heart, I'm not just putting up walls, I'm closing off my life lines-- literally. Figuratively I'm cutting off friends, family, God. Literally, a heart of stone can't swell and fall with the pressures and depressions of life. When heat comes, it will crust up and when cooled, it will break open- revealing chambers suffocated by the swell. It has no give and take. It has no respite and requires a consistency found only in death-- a fate all too assured for such a heart. For in the end, all stone can do is fracture, fragment and fail.

What's that? You Want a CD Recommendation? Alrighty Then.

So, if you haven't heard of Aqualung, I'm sorry. However, the good news is that I just told you! yay!

For those of you who have already heard of the greatness that is Aqualung and are currently saying, "duh, I could have told you that." Well, to you I say, "why didn't you?"

Although the album, Strange and Beautiful released in March, I just picked up and expect it to haunt my CD player for quite some time. After numerous attempts at band formation, and a couple of record deals for said bands, Matt Hales finally branched out on his own. If you can remember far back enough, you might recall Hales' launch pad into fame with 30 seconds of haunting music in Volkswagen's 2002 (or was it 2003?) ad for the new Beetle.

Haunting? Maybe I should call it "strange and beautiful." At least, that's what Hales called it. That's right, it appeared on his 2003 release and is the title track of my current new favorite CD. Wait, did I just say "2003 release?" Yep. He's a Brit, so the UK got first dibs and then apparently there was a Japanese release of Still Life in 2004. Meanwhile, we didn't get the Strange and Beautiful release here in the states until this past March. And now he's playing here in Nashville this weekend. mmmmm.

What does he sound like? Well, Rolling Stones put it this way, "Hales delivers keenly focused keyboard-based drama that blows away all pretenders trailing in Coldplay's wake," and then gave it four stars. For those of you well accustomed to my musical pallet, no great surprise lies in my enamored review of Matt Hales' drowsy, whimsical style. Therefore, I highly recommend you check it out for yourself.

The end.

They Must Not Know Me

I am a weak person. When it comes to my "spiritual life," I don't have a "thorn in my flesh," I have a freaking briar patch. Honestly. They may not all prick at once, but they're still there-- always. They don't go away. They're like incurable cancers for my soul. They might go into remission-- but they're still there, bidding time until the chance to become active arises once again.

Depending on how I move and turn, a pricker is there to remind me of my faults. And you know what? Sometimes the pain feels good. No pain, no gain, right? bah. And yet, it's true that sometimes I relish the pain; I play chicken with the pain. I see how far the thorn can dig into my flesh before I cry uncle and crawl back into the only Healing Hands I know.

Yesterday was Communion Sunday. Usually I *love* communion Sunday. I run to the altar, ready to lay my wretched self before my God. Yesterday I felt hobbled. I prayed for God to meet me where I was, to pick me up and carry me to the table-- to cradle His beloved between His shoulders. I prayed to even be that beloved one.

Eventually I shuffled to the front, briar patch in tow, and cried and hugged friends and took the body and blood of Christ to my sour lips. I felt as if my body might reject it-- or worse, it might reject being in my body. I prayed that it would, like a drop of soap in a pool of oil, dispel the darkness, displace the yuck.

And people asked me if I was ok. No. No, I'm not-- but I will be, hopefully, someday. Someday.

Then, in the wake of feeling so inadequate as a person, much less a Christian, one of the Church elders suggested I lead a class or something! Say what?!? I had sent him some of my writing and he loved it. From these short essays (things I've published here), he determined that I have a lot to teach the women, the people, of our church. To teach our church (since the people are the church). I felt like running and hiding. Me? You've got to be kidding me. You must not know me that well.

I wouldn't know what to say! I wouldn't know what to "teach"! I'm far too inadequate to teach others! I once asked my dad to teach me how to golf. He said no and that there was too much wrong with his stroke to teach me.

People, when it comes to spiritual strokes, you might as well call me Happy Gilmore--I have my own, not-so-graceful, form, etiquette and style. He asked me to pray about teaching; about leading some sort of small group or however it is that God would want me to lead others. hmmm, I guess that means I *actually* have to pray... something I don't seem to do much. So, I'll pray. Um, and freak out. And then try to pray some more-- or at all.

Who knows. Maybe God wants to teach the Church about taking sloppy strokes, replacing monstrous divots and cute plaid pants. Maybe nothing will happen at all and the whole silly idea will just slip away. Or, maybe it has nothing to do with anyone else, maybe He just wants to work on my stroke... we'll see.

Whudda Thunkit?

So, I've hit a few milestones as of late. I believe they're share-worthy.

I took my first real vacation as an adult two weekends ago. Since college, I've gone on missions trips and spent numerous weekends heading back to the motherland or attending to wedding festivities, but two weekends ago I got to go to Florida and sit around doing nothing but soaking in rays, reading and enjoying the fellowship of some great friends. Now *that's* an actual vacation.

As of last Saturday morning, I am officially signed up to train for the Nike Women's Marathon in San Francisco, October 23 with Team in Training. Over the next five months I will not only get to kick my butt in gear (Saturday was my first run in about a year... four miles, not too bad) and get a Tiffany's Necklace for a medal-- I will also get to raise money to help Leukemia and Lymphoma research-- and yes, I will set up an online account so that you can all help me raise the $3,800! This is a big step for a girl who would duck out of the mile warm up in 8th and 9th grade track practices! Whatever, I was a sprinter! Remind me to get new shoes and refill my asthma inhaler... Seriously, I don't know which thought seems most daunting right now, running 26.2 miles, raising $3,8000 or having to be at group runs at 7 a.m. on Saturday mornings in order to prepare. ;-)

Thanks to Teacher Dave for letting me know that Relevant picked up my Skydiving essay! It's my first time being published!!! yay!!

fun times, friends, fun times.

I Want To Do This

The World's Got Me On A String

My freshman year of college I decided to go skydiving with a group from my dorm. Being that I was already 18, I didn't need parental consent, so I didn't tell my parents until after I had done it, which allowed them to freak out but be happy for my safety. It was actually a rather safe process. We had to go through extensive training. We spent one night watching safety videos and then an entire afternoon practicing on-site before they let us anywhere near the plane.

The kind of skydiving we did was called "static line." Basically, your ripcord is attached to the plane so that, when you're at the end of the static line, your parachute is pulled for you. A large portion of our training involved "what to do if your static line fails to pull the ripcord." Every jumper pack was equipped with a primary and a backup parachute, you know, just in case.

Due to weather conditions, our foursome didn't make it into the air that day and had to come back later, but when we did, there were so few people around we got to go up twice each, if we wanted. And, honestly, who doesn't want to jump out of a plane twice in one day?

Looking back, I can pretty much view the actual act of skydiving in four phases. First of all, you have the anticipation: riding up into the sky, huddled on the back floor of a little plane, waiting your turn. For me, this phase involved a lot of praying. "Dear God, please don't let me die." The second phase is the actual jump: the fear of stepping out into the sky and letting go of the plane. Here, there is actually too much attention being paid to the actual process and being prepared for "plan b" should the static line fail, that little attention is being paid to anything else.

Third, after the anticipation of the jump, the shock of the jump and the relieving jerk of an opening parachute, comes the wait. This is the most peaceful part of the jump, if you're not impatient. I remember sitting up in the air thinking, "wow, the world looks amazing from up here," and "wow, this is taking forever!" You can toggle left or right here, maybe do a little circle or whirly gig, but, especially for a novice such as myself, you just wait and keep your eye on the landing ground.

Finally, fourth and last, comes the landing. After the seemingly endless stint of sitting on top of the world, you have to focus in again and prepare for the quicker-than-you-ever-thought-it-would-come-at-you landing. The closer you get to the ground, the faster it comes at you and if you're good (or lucky), you'll hit the ground running. If you're not, you'll end up like me, on your hands and knees in a mound of muddy snow: twice.

Right now I feel like I'm in the third phase of this particular stage of life. I've been anticipating big things, I've mustered the courage to let go of the plane and I've felt a little tug of assurance at my back, opening to a canopy above. I'm just waiting like a kite on a string, trying to not let my impatience ruin the view and focusing on landing, hoping it doesn't come too quickly or too fiercely.

Thrown by the Unthrown

I've been thinking. I know, it's a dangerous activity, but I've engaged in it, nonetheless. I've started wondering what those famous words in John 8, "Let he who is without sin cast the first stone," and "go and sin no more," really meant to the woman caught in adultery. So often these passages are preached as ones of freedom. These words freed the woman from her accusers, freed her from debt, freed her from her sinful life... the only life she may have ever known.

I think these words wrecked her life. It may have been a shamble of a life, but what it was wrecked, nonetheless. I've heard it preached that the adultery was a set-up: how else could all of those godly Pharisees know where to catch such a sinful act? I've also heard that perhaps the woman wanted to get caught. Perhaps she let down her guard. Perhaps she was in such a horrible state that she didn't care who knew anymore.

I've had this feeling. You may scoff but, honestly, if no one sin is graver than another, than I can feel that anxiety, too. And I have. It's a strangling feeling. It's a feeling somewhere beyond lonely. It's isolatory. It's a deadly silence.

Even if she didn't abide by the laws of Moses, she clearly knew them. In such a saturated environment, it would be hard not to. This woman knew where her acts would lead; she knew the consequence. I think she let down her guard because she wanted to be caught. She wanted to be stoned. For her, death was the only way out.

Finally, her day out had come and she was caught. Maybe standing before Jesus wasn't as hard as we all think it might have been. Standing there in her shame. Maybe she was relieved; relieved to finally be released from her suffocating secret. Perhaps she stood there relieved that her hellish life would finally be over. She stood there awaiting the stones.

And then came those words, "Let he who is without sin cast the first stone," and her accusers turned slowly away. Her hopes of release slipped from their reluctant hands as her heart fell with every stoney thud to the earth. And the tears probably streamed faster and harder now, her face turning red with anger towards the man who stole her only way out.

Then Jesus looked up. He met her eyes and her fever cooled, her hands began to tremble in a way they never had before. He confessed he would not condemn her, he would give her freedom. Freedom to return not to the life she's always known, but to something else-- what she did not know. "Go and sin no more," he said.

And with those words, her hollow lifestyle shattered, revealing a tender, new child. The life she had known was over, just as she wanted, but she was not yet released. Now she had to learn everything anew. But something in those eyes both calmed and riled her soul. Just the fact that she finally felt the presence of a soul was enough to stir the butterflies in her stomach. Now she had a new skin, one delicate and pure, yet stronger than any of the surrounding stones.

Her old life was wrecked. Her whole sense of being was wrecked. The only way she could think of to get out of this world was no longer an option. And yet, Christ had given her a new way out, one she could have possibly never imagined: one difficult to comprehend even after the fact.

As a child of God, myself, one who has heard, "go and sin no more," I still have a difficult time accepting the saving power of grace. I still expect stones and lightening bolts, plagues for my misdeeds. I expect penance. I expect to do my part. Grace takes most of that away. God says, "In repentance and rest is your salvation... but you would have none of it." (Isaiah 30:15) Grace wants me to repent and then rest in it's faithfulness.

This sort of revelation wrecks my world. It takes away my control, leaving my mode of operation in a pile of rubble-- a heaping pile of uncast stones.

But You Have Such a Youthful Spirit

This past Sunday I had lunch with a new friend. We've known each other for quite some time, but we don't really know much about each other. We've hung out in groups, but this was our first one-on-one. It was nice.

We got to learn more about each other, including ages. Since she just moved to Nashville a short number of months ago, I suppose I assumed she graduated recently. Well, you know what happens when you assume, right? yeah. What's funny, to me at least, is that she thought I was about 21 or 22-- a few years younger than herself, while I am, in actuality, a year her senior.

She was shocked. Was it my wife-beater tank and my cute little skirt? My sparkly self-tanner? (which, for the record, I would prefer to not have sparkles) No, she's seen me in more refined attire and a paler complexion. I mean, she doesn't even know about my snickerings at the President's pronunciation of the word "assume." She just thinks I have a youthful way about me. I'm ok with that.

This test is pretty right on, though. The age I act changes by a year depending on whether I answer that I watch The OC or CSI. So, the question begs to be asked: What Age Do You Act? Holla...

You Are 25 Years Old

25 Under 12: You are a kid at heart. You still have an optimistic life view - and you look at the world with awe. 13-19: You are a teenager at heart. You question authority and are still trying to find your place in this world. 20-29: You are a twentysomething at heart. You feel excited about what's to come... love, work, and new experiences. 30-39: You are a thirtysomething at heart. You've had a taste of success and true love, but you want more! 40+: You are a mature adult. You've been through most of the ups and downs of life already. Now you get to sit back and relax.

What Age Do You Act?

Excuses, Excuses

I do my best, most creative thinking at night. Right before falling sleep, I lay in bed, my mind reeling and twisting around colorful imagery. My brain rattles off deep, intellectual essays expounding upon theological and psychological revelations. Well, perhaps not to you, but they're awfully revealing to me.

Well, they might bring you revelation, if only I posted them for you. You see, the thing is this: my words never seem to flow as well by morning's light. I know, I know, I should write them down at night so that I can then share them with you in the morning. I thought of that last night, but it seemed too much effort at the time. It really is the weirdest thing. It's like my mental word processor shuts down when I fall asleep, without saving the project on which I was working.

I have a lot of great thoughts. Thoughts about waiting. Thoughts about singleness. (those two are actually not connected) Thoughts on emptiness and echoing. Thoughts about how God takes all that away. I was just about to say, "if we let him," but it's not even about letting him, it's about realizing that he can... and has. It's funny how we lock ourselves in imaginary cages like that.

It reminds me of a quote from The Last Battle; Chronicles of Narnia, Book 7, "You see," said Aslan. "They will not let us help them. They have chosen cunning instead of belief. Their prison is only in their own minds, yet they are in that prison; and so afraid of being taken in that they cannot be taken out."

We are all so selfish, prideful and independent that we don't see the beauty of being weak, dependent on someone else's strength-- especially when that someone else is all-powerful. I suppose all of this is to say that I realize my own god-complex more and more with each bedtime, mini-revelation. If only I could carry those lessons through the night.

What I Shouldn't Say

Does anyone know of a good exorcist? I swear I've been inhabited by the demon known as "a-12-year-old-boy's-sense-of-humor," "heh heh, heh heh" for short.

For instance, I was at a friend's house during President Bush's press conference the other night. She was on the phone. Our dear president would say something about the nation's conditions and assets and I would giggle. And did anyone notice how he pronounced "assume?" Just not right.

What's even worse is that during church yesterday our pastor was talking about prayer and faith and the such when he said something about our duty. At this point I tittered and poked my friend whispering, "he said 'doody.'"

I'm really kicking against the goads of aging hard, aren't I?


As a matter of fact, I just wrote "tittered." heh heh heh heh

More Secrets Revealed!

Ok friends, one more confession... I have been seriously delinquent in updating my links and in doing so, have kept some amazing people from you. I'm terribly sorry. I think I may have doubled my links section today! Sheesh. That's a lot of peops. Well, I hope you enjoy them as much as I do.

These are mostly people I know from college and they all have wonderful, funny and perhaps wonderfully funny things to say. :-) I have also added my cousin because she rocks and because perhaps if I have a link to her, she'll write more. Perhaps even about her newly announced pregnancy!!! Maybe she'll follow in Dooce's footsteps and recount the process for us. Then again, do we really need to go through that again? ;-)

Ok, ok. There are the links. You see them. Enjoy!

Confession

Stay away from me, I'll be gone soon... It's just so hard to let go once you've grabbed hold. ~from Twenty Three Places by Matt Wertz

I have a confession to make: I shut people out, push people away. Now, I'm not so naive or self-centered as to assume that this confession is mind-boggling or that I am alone in such tactics. I guess I just needed to get it off of my chest: to confess.

Obviously people tend to push away and shut out others whom they might find annoying or crass. However, this is not the offense to which I am confessing. I am speaking of the more heinous, more negligent misdemeanor of closing one's self off from the ones he or she loves. And this, my friends, is a crime I believe more of us than not commit.

It is an offense I hold near and dear. It is a defense mechanism I cherish. After all, isn't life more about self-preservation? Survival of the fittest? Hammy. Perhaps. Unless, of course, you believe in the healing power of community.

You may not know this but you, my friends, have become a community to me. And yet, by not posting or by posting inane trivialities, I have pushed you away, shut you out. It's not that I don't want your advice, your help, your succor. It's just that I don't think you *can* help right now.

All too recently I have learned the draining effects of spilling all to others who are in no position to help. Since I know you are in no position to help, I have simply left my musings to those nearest me. I'm not going through any problem of great consequence, just living life. And those day-to-day decisions can be difficult sometimes.

So, I post randomly and beg you not to forsake me completely, while, at the same time, giving you no real reason not to do just that.

Perhaps this is just another of those misleading posts. One of those pleas to love me even when I'm inaccessible. Or possibly to begin to love me, at all.

In truth, you don't have to love me. I know enough people do. I know God does. And I am learning to even love myself.

In short, you may come or go; do as you please. Just know that I'm out there somewhere, even if not at the keys.

The Hardest Thing

What I've learned so far in life is that rejections are not the hardest part: disappointment is.

Whether it's disappointment in one's self, disappointment in someone else or disappointing someone else, the presences of disappointment takes the reins far too often in my life.

My mom would say that she spanked me when I was growing up, but I don't remember that. What I remember most, and remember fearing the most, was disappointment. While most kids feared the phrases, "Bend over" or "Get the paddle," I feared the phrase, "I'm so disappointed in you."

There were times in my life when I knew I did something wrong or had information my parents should know. Usually, I would hide. At least, at first. However, after a few minutes in the dark closet or under the bed, I would feel the threat of impending disappointment. Knowing that I my faults required discipline, I also learned early on that running from the inevitable discipline only increased it's term or severity. I also knew that if I didn't face up to responsibility, my father would be "very disappointed" in me.

So, I squiggled out from under the bed or pushed through the pleats and sleeves to face the music: face my responsibilities.

Lately I have regressed to that little girl who runs for cover when things go awry. I know I have a responsibility to step up to in this life: to live and be joyful. This is probably the greatest responsibility I will ever face and if I don't, the repercussions will surely devastate. I need to face my responsibility and take whatever consequences result from my decisions-- be they good or bad.

Unlike that little girl, however, I am not going to simply sit on my bed and wait for a punishment. I am not going to sit by in fear and trepidation, stiff-lipped and blurry-eyed. I don't have to wait with steely conviction to appease my accuser and confess my errors.

No, this time I won't wait for disappointment to threaten my character before I step up. Because this time I know the accuser has no power over my intercessor. I know impending disappointment is rebuked by grace, rebuffed by mercy. I don't have to fear because I love and am loved. And, if I'm not mistaken, there is no fear in love. Nor is there disappointment or guilt or shame.

There are, however, actions and reactions, causes and effects, consequences and responsibilities.

And that is okay.

Dialect

When I tell people I'm from Wisconsin, they generally respond with a few different things. My responses/commentary are in parentheses.

A very nasal, "You mean, Wis-KAHN-sin?" ("Did I say it like that? I didn't think so.")

"So you're a cheesehead?" (or some other equally unoriginal comment about cheese. yeah, Wisconsin makes cheese, get over it.)

"Do you like the Packers?" ("I'm pretty sure I'd be disowned if I didn't.")

"Brrrrr."

"How'd ya git down here?" ("I drove.")

or, my personal favorite:

"You don't sound like you're from Wisconsin." ("Thank you. Thank you very much.")


Conversely, when I visit Wisconsin and tell people I moved to Nashville, I hear the following:

"Do you like country music?" ("I did. Then I moved to Nashville and found better music.")

"What are you doing down there?" (And a bunch of other questions like that.)

"What brought you to Nashville?" (too long to answer here)

and, of course my favorite:

"Do you have an accent, yet?" ("Does it sound like it? Ok, ok, only on certain words.")


I attribute my lack of midwestern or southern accent to music (and perhaps my over all love of the English language and its grammar-- yep, I'm a nerd and I don't care). I grew up singing in choirs and taking voice lessons. You don't really get to have a personal accent when you sing choral music. You take on the accent of the piece. You absorb the accent of the choir; the phonetics of the language in which the piece was written. I've had the priviledge of singing in German, Latin, Italian, Spanish, French, Hebrew and Swahili, to name a few.

I've also had the priviledge of singing in a cappella. I don't think you understand the necessary absence of personal accent until you're trying to get a group of fifteen women to pronounce such phrases as "bwah bwah dop," "bwher neher lerhder der der" and prolonged vowels as one voice. I can't tell you how many hours we spent in rehearsal just matching words, vowels and consonants. But it was worth it.

Therefore, when I took a short accent quiz today (as seen on Perfect Blue Buildings), I wasn't really surprised at the results:

Your Linguistic Profile:

70% General American English

10% Dixie

10% Upper Midwestern

10% Yankee

0% Midwestern

What Kind of American English Do You Speak?

Although I find it "Upper Midwestern" kind of offensive to be lumped in with the Dakotas and the U.P. (you would too if you'd ever heard them)-- at least it's only 10% and I'll attribute that to me saying that I drink from "water fountains" when I'm not having a "soda." I also fault them for not having some sort of West Coast language classification.

So, there are my results. Now how about you? What kind of American English do you speak?

Because I Love You

I had to tell you about Ray Lamontagne's Forever My Friend. For some reason it has struck a chord with me (no pun intended) and I just want to listen to it over and over and over again. It's amazing.

Give it a listen.

Once again the world around me struggles to overcome one season with another, birthing a new sense to its scenery and skyline. The comparison of seasons stands stark as the winter-grey sky rumbles and rolls its clouds over the spritely green lawns and flowering branches.

Spring rain bothers me not as it brings the promise of softening the frozen earth and encouraging the emerging buds. The air, itself, eases with the release of spring rains, as though Spring herself laughs at the final tantrums of Winter's reign before he at last subsides before her gentle smile and countenance.

This is the time of year when Demeter might savor and rejoice in the company of her daughter, Persephone, released, if only for a short time, from her Underworld Kingdom. The ground bursts into flower at the passing of her dainty footfall. The air lightens by her very breath. The wind calms himself by weaving ever so delightfully through her tresses.

No, Winter has no power in her presence, though obstinate he might be. Soon he shall succumb to her radiant beauty. Soon her song will leave no blade unfurled, no branch unheralded. Soon Winter shall be denied his tyranny till she at last returns to her husband and master below. Till then, he must quit the earth and bother us no more. Till then, we might think of him no more and in her homage find delight unforeseen in her absence.

Welcome her friends. Welcome Spring's fondness and mercy, at last.

Hello There Stranger

I know it's been awhile. I'm feeling much better and thank you for your well wishes.

I apologize for my absence, and for that matter my lack of substance prior to my absence. It seems, however, that life has been far too real lately to spin imagery for you.

I finally saw "Finding Neverland" recently. I understand J.M. Barrie's desire to retain childhood wonder so much. I fear with each waking day I become less imaginative and more real, if that makes any sense at all. Just as the character Barrie says in the movie: "Young boys should never be sent to bed... they always wake up a day older."

I fear I've seen too many nights sent to bed and too many mornings awoken to a lessening wonder.

Life as a Pariah

Since it has been a while since I have posted or even been around, perhaps I should explain. I think I have been sick for about a month now. First I had regular old sinus problems, and then the flu attacked me, only to ebb away into sinus problems again. Now, I apparently have strep throat.

I cannot remember the last time I had the flu. Aside from being born with a strep bacterium, I have never had strep throat. Needless to say, I am not really sure how to deal with these things and have spent a lot of time on the phone with my mom and sister in the past few weeks.

My friends have been good. One even brought me popsicles last night. He and my roommates are about the only ones who have not treated me like a leper or social pariah. Honestly, my friends and (especially) my roommates are the ones who should be most afraid of catching whatever ails me! I got some penicillin yesterday and feel better already, but my co-workers look at me like I am Satan reincarnated for coming to work! I am not contagious anymore! Especially since I do not plan on sharing fluids with any of them.

Any way, I still feel bad for being here in case I might give someone else something. So, I guess I should go home. I am far to exhausted to argue or reason with them anyway.