So, it's Been a While

I haven't written anything anywhere since before my birthday-- which, by the way, thank you all very much for your incredibly non-Christmasy well wishes.

Here's the general update: Christmas with the fam was good; cold, but good. Actually, my mom and grandma thought I looked sad on Christmas morning. I said I wasn't, but perhaps I was (and I know they'll read this, so here's the explanation). I wasn't sad about what I did or did not receive, I was sad about what I was unable to give. I had a lot of grand ideas for gifts (that I will not give away here since it's bound to be read by those parties to whom I wished to give and perhaps someday might still be able to give) that never actually materialized. They weren't fancy gifts, just things I wanted to be able to do. That's all. I wasn't sad with them, but with me because to me the present thing is more about giving than receiving. (yes, yes, I know, thank you Tiny Tim) And presents are more about the thought put into them than the dollar value. So, I guess I was just sad that my thoughts never materialized and I wasn't able to show my family how much I truly love them. I mean, it really is the little things that mean everything.

Right now I have a lot of those little things swimming around in my heart and mind.

Preamble to a Birthday

Today is not my birthday. Tomorrow is. However, tonight I am having a small group of friends over to mark this lovely occasion. Last night I slaved over my family's traditional birthday rum cake-- which came perfectly out of the bundt pan this morning without any finagling or cutting it away from the sides of the pan, exciting me beyond words. Tomorrow night, on my actual birthday, a friend is having a Christmas party and promises to have a cake for me, as well-- a very sweet notion, but I almost wish she wouldn't.

It's not that I'm completely bitter or anything. I mean, I like Christmas and all, but when it comes to my birthday, Christmas celebrations tend to steal what little flame my birthday might have had. Over the years I've shared my birthday with Christmas/Holiday celebrations, winter dances, final exams and graduations. For once, I just wish I could be selfish and say my birthday is mine. Last year I sort of did this by devoting the whole day to the Lord of the Rings "Trilogy Tuesday" marathon. And what a glorious, butt-numbing day it was!

So, tonight I'm having people over. We'll sit around, chit chat, eat cake and other tid bits and just relax, because that is what I want to do with my birthday. I want to slow down. I want to break the cycle of going out for birthdays and simply stay in. I want a low-key night with good food and good people. That's my idea of a wonderful birthday. In fact, the very thought of the stillness of it all sends joyful shivers of excitement down my spine.

One dreams of being blessed with great friends, but in awaking to the reality of them finds the dreams wholly unsatisfactory. 

I remember my grandfather as a brilliant engineer who used to watch debates on CNN and C-SPAN while we kids roamed around the house. Though generally slow to speak, he surprised us time and again with quick, witty barbs. As years racked up and passed him by, however, my grandfather slowly fell to the dimming effects of Parkinson's disease. His quick wit came off the shelf less and less until his hibernating lucidity pinned it forever to the far back corner of the shelf. In the end the disease sapped him of all energy, mental or otherwise until he could hardly recognize us, much less summon quick anecdotes.

I can hardly measure which left a greater pang, seeing the gears in his head grinding away only to stop stubbornly on the tip of his tongue or the altogether vacuous expression of an ever-ebbing memory. So often I looked into his eyes to be met with an impish glint of mischief. Over the years that sparkle morphed into something else. Instead of dimming, like one might automatically assume, the light in his eyes seemed to diffuse from a glint to a gleam to an overall glaze, as though they simply reflected another light, not unlike the moon reflects the sun. Yes, in the end his eyes shone not the story of his years, but a mere echo of the soul that once extended to the tips of his every limb.

Though technically my grandfather by marriage and therefore not linked by genetic makeup, I nearly understand how it must have felt, for I too sense a form of sanity slipping through my fingers. Too often I feel my eyes glazing over like a deer caught in the headlights of life. Whether it be the ubiquitous act of walking into a room only to completely forget the purpose of doing so, the easily understandable act of typing the wrong password into one of my many email accounts or the more heinous crime of missing a loved one’s birthday, I find myself stepping on the virtual toes of this dance partner called memory day in and out.

And yet, others often accuse me of grandiose acts of nostalgia and sentiment. My mother went through yet another box of my left behind, but not forgotten, wares and relics hibernating in her cellar. In it she found old pompons, a diary from my cheerleading trip to Ireland, books I had written and illustrated in grade school and notes and birthday cards hailing from the beginning of time. Some objects she finally wrenched through my imaginary protective shield, enabling her to throw them away. Others, however, still emanated the spell of my sentimental value, charming her into keeping them for yet another day or year.

Perhaps this is why I find little room to remember menial things today such as my locker combination or home zip code. My memory banks simply cannot contain it all. Years of treasures, pages of stories and reels of homemade movies hold them captive. You see, the fact of it is this: I do not so much cherish sentiment as much as sentiment has long since besieged my heart and mind, stubbornly refusing to let them go and making room for the new only when they have finally become old.


For what you label sentiment, captivates my every step.
Binding history round my soul. Ne'er to let this prisoner go.
To live the moment, yore's lessons borrowed
For every today turns yesterday tomorrow.

The Least Wonderful Time of the Day

As I groggily rolled out of bed this morning I had a running commentary going through my head about the blog I needed to post regarding my disdain towards waking up. Surely waking up heads the list of my least favorite times of day, right? Then I worked on my budget and finances... oy. Ladies and gentlemen, we have a new winner.

I think I'm going to go drown my sorrows in a homemade mocha consisting of cheap powdered hot chocolate mixed with the sludge that oozes from our staff kitchen coffee pot.

Stay tuned for more on this subject...

Open the Eyes of My Heart

We sang this song at church on Sunday. I learned it in college and it tends to bring a certain meaning to my worship times. It reminds me of different times in my life and many times of worship. The song used to be one of my favorites. I used to smile at hearing the opening chords. When I was down, hearing the song reminded me of happier times.

I spent one summer on a mission trip where we sang praise songs every morning. That summer the song made me homesick; made me cry. Whenever I hear this song, I retreat to my own little world. Over the past few years I've hardly heard it, but when I have, it has filled me not with joy or homesickness, but awe and fear. To be perfectly honest, I'm terrified to, as the lyrics beg, "see You."

I don't want to see God. I mean, I do, of course and I long to see Him-- when He has brought me up to Glory with Him. At the thought of seeing God, I find myself less like Thomas, boldly asking to touch His side, and more like Isaiah, crying, "I am ruined!" I know that Christ has "bridged the gap" between God and man, but I am still afraid.

Maybe it's my Catholic upbringing, the one that had me fearing morning lightening bolts for forgetting bedtime prayer-- literally. It was that God who scared me away from religion at all. Who wants a god who will strike him down for simply being human? And yet, though my frequent sacrilegious humor would suggest otherwise, it is that God I still fear.

I think it's healthy to fear God, though perhaps not to the extent that I sometimes do-- and not nearly to the extent that I most often find myself where I forgo any fear at all. Jesus is not my buddy. He is not my pal. He is my friend, yes. But He is also my King and my Savior and my Lord. He deserves reverence. He offers grace and mercy. We deserve death. He offers adoption into His family.

Just as adoptive parents ought not lord it over their adopted children, neither does God lord His adoption of us over us. Just as adoptive parents do, God cherishes us as His children and as gifts. As the Christmas season draws near and I think of so many gifts that will be opened and tossed aside, I think about the gift of adoption. Adoption is gift to both parent and child. It is a gift to be cherished and revered.

This isn't to say that the parents and children don't still get in fights; that the children don't still disobey and the parents don't lose their tempers. It isn't to say that the children won't go afoul, go astray, have a hard time looking into their parents' eyes when they've lied. Too often, my human state leads me to many a situation where I lie not only to my adoptive Father, but to myself, thinking that it'll be alright. After these situations, I find myself like that disobedient child, looking at the floor, kicking the dirt.

Unfortunately, these situations happen so often that I find my head easily bowed, not out of reverence, but fear and shame. Fortunately, my Father is not ashamed of me and there is no fear in Him (for He is Love and there is no fear in Love). What I am thankful for, then, this Thanksgiving, is not only my adoption and my redemption and His forgiveness; it's that He lifts my head and allows me to look on His splendor, allows me to be bathed in His beauty while I would have wallowed in my filth. For, even when I am terrified of asking to see Him, even when I don't want to see Him, He wants to see me.

Just Curious-- A Poll

How many people would actually want my CD?
Even if was just a somewhat ghetto copy (aka--price negotiable)?
Leave a comment, even if you've already told me.
Thinking about options here, kids.

Kamikaze Animals
or
There's My Hubcap!

Few random things today.

There is a large pale yellow dog (perhaps a lab, but probably a mix--still cute and playful looking) in my neighborhood who thinks it's fun to chase my car and run, particularly, in front of it. Excuse me doggy, but I don't want to hurt you, so please stop trying to meet your maker via my tires-- they're not that great to begin with-- my tires, that is.

Last night a deer ran out in front of the car in front of me. In five o'clock traffic. In a completely non-wooded area. From a school parking lot, even. It was a doe, I could tell that much. And a little too far from home. Looks like they ought to put a deer crossing sign next to the children crossing sign.

This morning on my way to work I saw a hubcap laying on the sidewalk, half emerged in some bushes. Someone might need that.

Last night I finally put a light bulb in our final living room lamp that has been light bulb-less since we moved in May. Subsequently, my roommate knocked the lamp over this morning and broke the bulb. I actually thought that pretty funny.

I love that I've gotten to know the people who work at the gas station. They treat me so well.

The lady who calls me "baby" (in a very southern-motherly way) at Arby's doesn't seem to be there any more. So sad.

I like soup.

And sleep.

A sparrow flew overhead, its tawny underbelly grazing a wayward leaf. Surely this dainty creature meant to escape this frigid clime. Perhaps the sudden onset of winter caught her as much off guard as your suddenly cold demeanor caught me. As she wheeled through the sky I wondered where she might land. I wondered her intentions, or if she even owned the capability to intend at all. More than likely she merely wound around the world on instinct, chasing the sun like the moon rising and setting without pause or recourse, day after day, night after night.

I wondered your intentions, and conversely, if you wielded the desire to intend anything at all. Perhaps you just float through life on whims and instincts, chasing skirts as an Autumn gale chases sienna leaves, leaving the trees naked and bare; leaving them cold and alone.

Above me, the sparrow alit on an already stark branch, the end of which jutted out in a jagged mess-- presumably some damage from one of the many recent storms. She sat there. She didn't sing or preen. She just sat there. Once, I almost thought she looked at me; almost thought she was wondering what I was wondering. Almost.

You sat there. You didn't apologize or make excuses. You just sat there. Once, I almost thought you looked at me; once I almost thought you wondered what I was wondering. Once. Almost. Almost. Once.

And I sat there. Staring. Staring at her. Staring at you. Never looking at myself. I never wondered what I intended or what I was truly wondering, deep down in the honest depths where I loathe to go. Never. Not almost. Not once. Never.

Then she flew away. And you flew away. So I sat there, naked and bare, cold and alone as the trees in winter. Not because of her. Not because of you. Because of me.

Um, uh...oops

I'm wearing red, white and blue. Today. Election day. Not on purpose. Gives new meaning to the term "Freudian slip."

Dear Mother Nature,

I hate to sound resentful or insolent, but Autumn ought to be gilded with a few gusty winds and loads of brilliant sunshine, not dull, dreary, overcast skies day after day, night after night. Forgive me my rebuke, but I do believe you may have mistaken Autumn for Spring.

Sincerely yours,

Lady M

what's going on over there?

Heeeeeeere's Elmo! (little costume part-ay last weekend to preview Halloween this coming weekend)
 

Yen

I have been craving pizza for days now. Even the consumption of some the other day did nothing to sate this desire. And yet, I cannot bring myself to actually purchase some pizza. Therefore, I will sit here with the food I have and glower and dream of crust and sauce and toppings of splendor.

A Cold and A Broken Hallelujah

It seems the most draining and most exhilarating times of my life can be punctuated by a cold and a broken "hallelujah." The root of "hallelujah" in Hebrew is "hallel" which means "to praise." There's actually a difference between "Allelujah" and "Hallelujah." "Hallelujah" means "praise him" and "Allelujah" means "I praise him." (if parsing and memory serve me correctly) It may not seem like much of a difference, but it really can be. For it is in those most dark and disparaging times when one must cry out through humility and shambles, Hallelujah! For here it is a challenge, a proclamation, a demand, not only to ones' self, but to others as well "Praise him!" It is in these times that we need reminding to praise. It is in these times that I do not readily come to him saying "allelujah," "I praise him" that I must be reminded, "hallelujah," "praise him." "Hallelujah Ha-melek" "Praise the King."

For once in my life I was actually chastized for using my "filter."

Last night I picked my car up from the shop and ended up adding an oil change onto the tab. I sat around talking with one of the guys there and another customer while another mechanic changed my oil. We went through the normal exchange of pleasantries: Are you from around here? No? Where are you from? What brought you here? yadda yadda yadda.

After giving some of my explanations the two men responded as though I had given them the shaft. They said they could see a lot more going on, they could see the wheels turning in my head, spinning furiously, only to have me spit out an abrigded edition in the end. Perhaps it actually just takes me that much effort to not say everything that I'm thinking! That's probably it. Filters take a lot of work. Phew.

Maybe that's why I don't write as easily on here any more either. I know that, whether I like it or not, every word must be strained through a necessary filter lest it come off too brash or garrish and land me into another intervention with those who have yet to attain a greater understanding of the fine nuances involved in the art of blogging. Hence, if you see my wheels turning, don't look away. Just know I wish there was more that I could say.

Dependence and Departure from Reason

The past, oh (thurs, fri, sat, sun, mon...) five days have been relatively interesting relying on the kindness, generosity, patience and transportation of my benevolent friends. My car's been in the shop since Thursday, as you can probably devise from the above. I'm not very good at relying on others, so it's been a good lesson. And the lesson is: I need my car. Ok, ok, I need to be a little less independent at times. But I'll probably forget that once I have my car back which will hopefully be today-- however, I still need a ride to the bank to get money and then to the shop to get my car. Another lesson is in a source of dependence that I could use less of-- that of falling back on family for cash flow. Sucky. I hate it. Strong budget, here I come. At least I'm not overdrawing any more-- that's a step in the right direction, right? I hope so.

Any hoo- I've also decided that I'm going back to being random. This blog was created to be both an outlet for my inappropriate humor and a pressure release for my over-analytical brain. I've been doing too much of one and not enough of either. So, here we go.

I got honey in my hair this morning, which is sad because I could have used more in my oatmeal.
I haven't missed not seeing the sun rise, I hope to go back to not seeing it rise sometime very soon.

I'm wearing an awful lot of pink and brown today.-- I guess you could include my brown hair in that.

I've said it before and I'll say it again: I love hearing "Friday I'm in Love" on the radio, but it still weirds me out when it's played on a day that's not Friday. Maybe Katie Couric heard it today, too and that's why she said it was Friday this morning. We've got a long week ahead kids.

I sent in a resume for a Proof Editor position, but didn't proof the cover email-- which had errors. Yeah, good job, kid. :-P

I'm off to finesse an article into saying something else.

Over and out.

Till Death Do Us Part

In all my quarter-life thoughts about marriage, this is not a phrase I have spent enough time contemplating, or at least not in the right way. I have recently realized that in spending a considerable amounts of time weighing the gravity of the lifetime commitment of "to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, till death do us part," I have overlooked the eternal ramifications of "for this reason a man will leave his father and mother and be united to his wife, and the two will become one flesh."

A week ago, one of our chaplains lost his wife to a long battle with a particularly rare form of cancer. He's taking it very hard, as well he should. He's lost the women who he fell in love with at first sight. I've heard the story once or twice, but it's just as beautiful no matter how many times I hear it. While visiting his home on break from college, he saw her from afar and asked his brother, "Who is that girl?" Then he said, "I am going to marry that girl." She was only about sixteen at the time and he was about nineteen, but in the years to come he pursued her and they had a beautiful, long, devoted marriage.

The past couple of years have been really hard on him, you can see it in his face, hear it in his voice. When she was doing well, so was he, but when she went through rough patches, it was his face that stood as the weatherworn billboard of their trials. Hearing him talking about her and the faith he has had throughout this entire process encourages me greatly, which I suppose is why I have felt such a devastating loss at her passing.

To hear and see him speak is to understand how much she truly means to him. In her passing, I've come to realize that sometimes there are bonds so strong that death simply can't "do us part." In thinking about love and marriage, I find myself hoping for something that will last the strains of life, I've never given thought to enduring the strains of death.

In light of all this thinking, I've also been carving out some little lyrical snippets, here's a bit:

I said I would hold you, have you till the end
Promised only death would do us part
Now I know those solemn vows were mere lies upon my lips
For even death cannot tear me from your heart

It's not fair. It's not fair. No one asked my opinion
It's not fair. It's not fair. No one had my heart in mind
No one told me today would feel like the end of time
No one told me I'd be buried in your grave

Less Is More

That's my excuse of the moments as to why I haven't been writing very much. I could give you the day-to-day updates, but who wants those, right? Don't say you do. I won't believe you.

Just know that I'm home safe and sound and had a wonderful time with family and friends. Work has not let up any more, but hopefully I will have something to say soon.

~til then.

Actually Busy

Sorry I haven't written! To be honest, I've actually been rather busy and when I'm not, I haven't the energy left for contemplation. Sad excuse, really, but it's true.

I'm also trying to go about writing a different way. Not necessarily the content of my writing, just my commitment to it and composition of it. I'd like to extent an inky tentacle into journalistic avenues beyond these pixels. I'm simply trying to reevaluate my style and substance. Perhaps I've spent so much time pondering those haphazard alleys that I've left barren the street on which I'd grown up. Forgive me. I have no news regarding these exploits, but be assured that when I do, you'll be the first to know.

Speaking of where I grew up, however, I'm heading off to my mom's house tonight for about 5 or 6 days with a quick overnight jaunt. Therefore, please do not be angry with me if I do not check in as much-- however, seeing as how I'll have a little less to focus on, I might just be writing more! Guess we'll find out.