Confessions of the Absentminded

I mentioned over dinner to my family the other day that I had been particularly spacy that day.  "Today?"  They laughed at me.  Here's why.
Four afternoons a week my brother Eddie and I drive to campus together.  Twice a week we have a New Testament class together and the other two days I have German while he has Algebra.  
On Monday afternoon I had a bowl of pesto pasta as a late lunch, gathered my books and jacket in a hurry (as per usual) and headed out the door, yelling over my shoulder to Eli to let everyone know I had left.  Twenty minutes down the road my phone rang and it was my dad, on the other side of town with our only other car, wondering why Eddie was not with me.

On Tuesday we were late to Eddie's morning class, so I dropped him off in front and drove to the south parking lot on campus, across from where we usually park.  Three hours later we left for home, walked across the driveway in front of the main office building into the north parking lot.

"Where's the car?"  Eddie asked.
"I don't see it," I said. "Actually I don't remember parking it over here.  You must have parked it."
"Did I drive this morning?"  For that, I think he partly shares the blame for making our walk to the car three times as long as it should have been.
"You must have.  Where did you leave the car?  Wait."  I froze in the middle of the lot.
Eddie looked at me like I was crazy.
"I parked.  In the other lot over there."
That one at least gave us some exercise and a good laugh.
Later that day, when we left for New Testament I found my set of keys still in the ignition. I should not have been surprised.
After class we were asked to stop at the pharmacy in Wal-Mart to pick up a prescription.  I went to the wrong Wal-Mart, naturally.  That at least was not a total loss. I exchanged a journal I bought the week before.  The one I had picked out before was  grey and purple plaid and gave off a bit too much of a preteen schoolgirl vibe.  I exchanged it for a brown one and congratulated myself all the way to the car that this was definitely the notebook C. S. Lewis would have chosen.  It just looks Oxfordian; even has a ribbon pagemarker and cream-colored pages.
But then I got to the car and remembered I had a longsuffering sibling waiting for me, who informed me, barely looking up from the guitar he was frantically plucking, that I had been gone for nearly half an hour.
Would it be too pretentiously cliche to say there's a lot going on in my head and it's very absorbing?  I was not long ago told by an acquaintance, after about ten minutes of conversation, that I reminded him of Sheldon from "The Big Bang Theory" (funny, mostly untrue, but ouch).  Maybe I need to pay more attention.  There ought to be a healthy balance between introspection and observation.  Focusing inward, to process thoughts, try to understand things, and see where we need to improve can be a good thing.  But the standard of what we ought to be, how we become such must be external, from God and expressed outwardly in our behavior towards others.  Hence, I shall do my best to be more aware of what goes on around me, especially where it affects other people.

Ah Words

Another freewrite*.  Sort of.
In the abstract, I am severely tired of writing words.  The possibility does not always look endless, especially from the unpracticed perspective.  Here is my old complaint coming back to haunt me and keep me company in my lethargy: I have nothing to say.  But then I start.  And all these vague wisps of thought, words upon words strung one next to another, build into rythmic and reasoned ideas and sentiments I did not know I possessed.  A fusion of language from a fission of thought.   Ah.  That's why I wanted to be a writer.
Lovely as the words themselves may be, happy as the thought of expressing something well may be, it is nothing if I have not waded through confusion and sorted through information to articulate something worthwhile.  That is difficult.  Lord, it is so wearing!  And it takes up so much time.  And it makes it dissatisfasying to compare the process and outcome to others' efforts, but by necessity I must compare the style and content to  others' efforts, to grow better.  Then I feel such a sad lack of accomplishment that I forget that accomplishment is not precisely my aim.  Life is so incomplete here.  And redundant rants on a same old theme are easier to write than actually saying something.  Phooey.

*A label here used to justify a prolix jeremiad or bombast.

One Frosty Morn

The cold provides respite, if you live in Tucson.  And getting out early on a frosty morning, alone with God and the air and the wide blue sky and His quieter creatures can be sort of reviving.  I like that, going out and finding beauty in what no man made.  Which I think makes me more appreciative of man-made beauty too. 
I don't want to flood this blog with pictures, but thought I would share a few.
Cameras are fun.  Pictures make me want to draw more too.
I think my right brain is ADD.

 

Whatever is true

 

Whatever is noble

 

Whatever is right

 

Whatever is pure

 

Whatever is lovely

 

Anything excellent

 

Or praiseworthy

   

Think on these

 

Let no one steal your wonder.

Seasons Greetings

I thought I would never want to see another bite of turkey again.  Oh the misery of overeating.  A temporary misery, but thoroughly regrettable.  After my family's Thanksgiving feast I briefly sympathised with the idea fasting forever.  Before eating a slice each of two kinds of pie for dessert.  All our leftovers are gone by now, I think (I hope).  But for a week after, all our biggest leftover containers were taken up with mashed potatoes, gravy, turkey, green bean casserole, spiced and honeyed sweet potatoes, home-made rolls, pumpkin and apple pies, cheesecake, sweet corn and cranberry stuffing. 
Friday morning breakfast, in other words. 
I filled my plate with a little of everything minus the stuffing and cranberry sauce and stuck it in the microwave to break my fast at noontime.  My brothers joined me in post-thankful indulgence.  Which made me feel a little better, not being the only one having a late breakfast.  Our parents were gone and Ellie was sleeping off some Black Friday craziness.  We sat at the table, stiff from Turkey Bowl football the morning before (we tied 1-1), not quite ready for Christmas music but glad for a lazy day after the festivities.
Eddie, when he eats Thanksgivingness, piles everything in one mass: cranberry sauce on top of turkey on top of green beans on top of pie on top of gravy and potatoes.  It's like the Thanksgiving version of Buddy the Elf's spaghetti breakfast.
"You could just stick that in the blender, save yourself the trouble," I said. 
"Don't tempt me," he said, before taking a bite.
I think he knew I was being facetious.  But it's Eddie.  So he got the blender out.
"No," I said, probably grinning like a fool.
"I'm gonna try it," he said, sounding determined.
"Are you crazy?"  I stood and followed him to the counter where he was setting up the blender.  "You know, you could use the food processor."
"I'll just use the blender."
Eli stood and joined us, scrunching his nose in consternation.  "Eddie, that's gross."
"It'll be fine," he protested.
"The texture's going to be really gross," I said, as he began to spoon the contents of his plate into the blender.  "Do you want to add a roll and some apple pie too?"
"Just pumpkin pie.  Toss me a roll."
He covered the appliance and turned it on.  We watched it whir, whipping foodstuffs into one pinkish brown mass.  It was thick.
"That looks like cat barf," Eli said.
"It's fine."  Eddie said reassuringly, scooping it onto his plate.  It did look something like wet cat food, with appropriately festive flecks of red and green.  If we lived in a cartoon, this is probably the meal that would come alive, eat the family dog, and go on a rampage, terrorizing the neighborhood.  That would make an auspicious beginning to the Christmas season.  Sounds like something Eli would draw a comic about.  I am so thankful I have brothers.
It didn't taste too bad.  A little sweet for my taste, but basically Thanksgiving-like.
"Well?" I asked, after Eddie had consumed a third of the blob.
He groaned.  "I miss the texture."

Advent Means Coming

The world in darkness, unchanging, still in its madness.  The Fall, the Fall!  An instance, a moment, a singular situation, broke the original perfection, shifted all things away from splendor.  One act tore all life from the nearness of God.  We were made to be holy, and are now tainted.  We were made to be perfect, and are now broken.  We were made to belong, and are now traitors.
Thanks a lot, Adam.
How long, Lord?  Questions.  Why and how and what for.  I know who.  We are all of the same brokenness, the same weakness, born into the same wretchedness.  How long, Lord?  This, I cannot escape.  It is infused into my soul, tattooed on my heart, burned into my flesh that I am fallen.  Should I talk of deserving it is all death and horror and darkness.  That is mine.  That is all my right.  How long, Lord?  Anathema to all purity: that is all my deserving.  What one man did has spread to the furthest reaches of his seed.  What we touch is tainted.  Did scorpions sting and disease lead to death before he introduced it to the world?
Life is pain, life is striving, life is struggle and biting and little gains for great trials.  Yet something cries.  How long, Lord?  Yet something reaches, tentative and desperately hopeful, towards what is not in this wretched shadow of nature.  Something cries for Life.  How long, Lord?  This I cannot explain.  I was born in darkness, and somehow my scarlet heart yearns for what it has not known in itself: Light.  My soul, which wallows still further in darkness, knows this is not its end.  I am a traitor, a bitter one.  But eternity tenaciously grips my heart and captures some part of my longing.
This is not the end.  There is a longing that consumes, that burns, in the part of us that we cannot see.  This is the corresponding call to a purpose thwarted by the workings of death in us.  We can't run back.  We can't return.  We cannot undo or unbetray.  Like a single drop spreads to be part of the entire ocean, every part is infected, unclean, lost, wicked, made of death.  And yet something cries.  For before this something was intended which was not death.  And the One betrayed once called all things made "good".  And He once loved us with a love that is immovable.  And He once made us for Life.  How long, how long, Lord?
"In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.  He was with God in the beginning.  Through him all things were made; without him nothing was made that has been made.  In him was life, and that life was the light of men.  The light shines in the darkness, but the darkness has not understood it."  John 1: 1-5

Wineskins

I am stretched.  Like too little butter over too much bread.  I am stretched.  Like what?  Like cellophane, taut and smooth over an expanse of potato salad nearly too wide?  Like deerskin not yet useful which must be pulled at every side and softened to make it pliable and smooth enough to keep wearers warm and not chafe?  Like a new wineskin containing new wine.  No old patches here.  I have been broken, made anew, and taken beyond what I could bear.  I am fragile.  And I marvel at how I am used in spite of me.  I am failed.  And I press on, exhilarated by hope, by goodness.  I am weak.  And I strive, reckless, for no promise of rest but the end.  Am I a fool?  Am I a failure?  Am I bound to wear my bones to nothing?  Or until I snap?  What if that is where I get up -- dry bones dancing on their own grave.  The old wineskin, fervently clutched in weary hands, desperately held to death-dry lips, bursts, breaks, and is emptied.  I am a new wineskin, taut with new wine, stretched and stretching to new capacity: breaking point unknown and irrelevant.  I shall be made new.  I shall be filled.  I shall be taken beyond what I can bear.  I am fragile and must be broken.  Then weariness shall not defeat Him in me who is not me but my Lord.
I am stretched and it is good.  I am a new wineskin filled with new wine.

Child of Mine (lyrics)

Small Details and a Bigger Picture.

Child of Mine
Stand in Wonder,
Let your awe sweetly overcome.
Child of Mine
Lost in Wonder,
Can't you see I've held you e'er so long?

I've never kept from you
What you needed to see,
I've never held you back
Save from what harm would bring,
I never left you
Though you couldn't see me,
And I've never hurt you
Except to make you free.

Child of Mine
Stand in Wonder,
Let your awe sweetly overcome.
Child of mine
Lost in wonder,
I will love you forever long.

So let your questions
In my knowing melt to peace;
Let your fears
Chase themselves beyond the sea;
Though you sorrow,
Share in whelming joy and grief,
Your soul I've harrowed
Only to make you see.

Child of Mine,
Let no one steal your wonder.
Child of Mine,
Let no one steal your wonder.
Child of Mine
Stand in awe
Stand in Me

Child of mine
Stand in wonder,
I will love you forever long.

Written 10/2/11

Recipe for an Hour Well Spent

The other day I laid on a bed in a quiet room with the doors closed, the sunlight softly shining in, my books strewn around me, and simply listened to five songs I like.  I closed my eyes, stretched out my legs, laid my arms over my head and drifted on the words, holding the music in my mind, attentive wholly to the goodness wrought into each song. I had thought to read a little.  I picked up my Bible at one point and held it on my chest for awhile, opening my eyes only long enough to hit play again on "Invictus", which I did two or three times before floating into sleep.

It had been so long since I did that: just listened to music, without trying to multitask or consigning it to background noise.  Probably just as long since I had laid down to rest with no pressing thought or must-do or even consciousness of the need for rest and precisely how much.  I count my hours of sleep and calculate the need for naps.  And I hardly ever just listen to music, which sounds a little sad now I think about it.  It is good to have moments like this; meditation in the sense of quiet thanks for peace and rest and things well made.

Songs for a sunny afternoon:
5. The Boxer, by Simon and Garfunkel
4. White Winter Hymnal, by Fleet Foxes
3. Casimir Pulaski Day, by Sufjan Stevens
2. Beautiful, by Phil Wickham
1. Invictus, by Brave Saint Saturn

Love People. Cook Them Tasty Food.

A trip to Mexico usually means visiting people as an excuse to eat a lot of delicious food.  Or vice versa. Sometimes it means eating new things.  Earlier this month my mom and I went to my grandparents' house for the weekend.  It being the anniversary of Mexican Independence, everyone was on vacation and some of the cousins and uncles were able to join.  Which of course meant secret-family-recipe birria at cousin One's house, and several kilos of shrimp to be prepared various ways at Mamacame and Papachuy's house.  We had the requisite breaded shrimp twice as well as ceviche and boiled jumbo shrimp with limon (lime).
There were also, this time, several foods that were new to me.  The first day in our little coastal village, at my grandparents place of residence, I had caldo de cabeza (beef's head soup).  To be precise, I don't know exactly what I ate.  Besides some tongue and cheek.  The broth was good.  The cheek was tender and comfortingly beef-like.  The tongue tasted good, but had an usual texture (smooth muscle tissue, I think) and some scary looking skin attached to it -- black and pink with pointy little cow-tongue buds.  The only part I couldn't down was some grisly bit of something that reminded me of overbaked custard.  Except brown and gray.  Or maybe the browner, greasier, firmer version of cottage cheese.  Suffice to say, that bit of carnage was fished out of the bowl and set aside on a special little plate with the inedible fat and squeezed remains of half a limon.
We had camaron ahogado as well (drowned shrimp -- in limon).  Which was good, even if I was a little wary of the uncookedness.
On the drive over from Navajoa to my grandparents' house my cousin Eli bought a cup of tepache at a stoplight, which several of us in the car shared.  Fermented pineapple and piloncillo (brown sugar/crystallized molasses).  I believe this may be my favorite alcoholic beverage.  Unfortunately it was also the means of  discovering I really need to avoid alcohol.  Heat, sleep deprivation, dehydration, and sugar overload notwithstanding, past experience convinces me the three sips I had were what tipped me over into some serious pain in the Kopf (head).  Two ibuprofen tablets, and three or so fresh tortillas (which I helped make) later, I was fine; ready for bed and more food the next day.
We had a wonderful time.  I think cooking tasty food for people is our dear viejitos' love language.  Fortunately, I am fluent.  At least at the receiving end.

Special thanks to Penzeys Spices for the use of the text off one of their billboards.  Which is genius.  I agree wholeheartedly.

... We'll Travel to Very Distant Lands

Five minute pre-German 101 free write.  Take 2:

I rode the bus all night.  Not the first time I've done that.  Not the funnest thing to do.  Most fun or funnest?  Whatevs.  We got in at 4:48am, my mom and I.  My poor dad had to pick us up.  At least that's not as bad as the first time I rode the bus alone.  Yeah, I'm that hardcore. 
I fell asleep.  I rode during the day and slept almost the whole day through.  At one point I woke up and had to wonder if the rapture had happened and I and the dirty-mouthed bus driver and his buddies were the only ones left.  They freaked out a little when I went to follow them off the bus at the cleaning station. 
"What are you doing here?"  So accusatory.
I was just slightly less than mortified, but I waited on the bus until we got back to the station and everyone else got on.  I stayed awake through the whole ordeal of crossing the border and the hour-long drive from Nogales to Tucson.  That was an adventure.  I keep forgetting I need to have those once in a while.
You see, it's not just a matter of waiting for adventures to happen, or even thinking adventure only ever happens in that other, grassier lawn over there.  It's all about attitude.  My life is one grand, glorious adventure because I choose to see it that way.  Tell me otherwise, I'll have to prove you wrong.  Don't believe me?  Just wait until you hear what I ate on this last trip.

Addendum: What I meant to say is, living adventurously requires a readiness for action on one's part, as opposed to fatalistic passivity.  Not that delusion or escapism are recommendable, but that one should strive to do the better (often harder, sometimes riskier) thing in present circumstances -- and revel with hopeful expectation in the unknownness of the outcome.  That is all.

Ha. What a Whiner.

Five minute free write.  Before German class.  Aaaaaaand go!

I have nothing to say.  Do you have any idea how frustrating this can be?  I love words.  Words dance in my head; they have color and sound and tone and such lovely subtleties.  And you can say things with them!  Not just to convey some vague idea, but to express what a heart truly feels, to articulate what a mind truly thinks, to give validity to what we seek to understand and make known to others. 
But what if you have nothing to say?  I love words! I love expression.  Lord God, creativity and communication can only come from You!  So what if I can line up words into ear-tickling bits of syntax.  Little bite-size, pixie stix shots, sugary nothings of rhetoric.  But what am I to write?  I get so lazy.  I get so frustrated.  Ask me if I second guess myself ever.  The answer: always.  Without fail, the contents of my mind evade any attempt at evaluation.  We are not simple creatures, human persons.  I like alliteration.  But what use is a well-turned phrase if it says nothing?  I complain bitterly to the pages of a journal that is for my eyes and God's omniscience -- even there, to say all that I feel and think and vaguely know fails to really come forth in a way that I know will be of any benefit to anyone.  Is that the problem?  How am I supposed to think about writing?  I waver back and forth so much in this!  Among other things.  Which is what nearly depresses me, even though I talked myself out of the idea of depression years ago.  I vacillate.  I love words.  But what the hell am I supposed to do with them?

Apologies for the language.  It is uncouth, unladylike, and unnecessary.  But further editing felt dishonest... Do as I say, not as I do.  That is all.

22

22 years, 15 days, 22 hours -- how long I have lived on this earth.  In Korea I would have been 23 since January 1st, but that is just a fat, juicy red herring.  I like and dislike those.  They're like a side dish that can taste good but clashes with the main course.  Like serving Pad Thai with a side of meatballs and mashed potatoes.
     Dare I attempt to summarize a year?  21 was not easy, but it was good. Odd numbered years always seem more significant.  I can't tell why.  22 sounds like settling more comfortably into the 20's is all.  21 was changeful and confusing. 
     1 year and 2 weeks ago, I was crying because I couldn't transfer to the University of Arizona.  I didn't want to go to the UofA.  I don't like the UofA.  But I still cried.  Months of phone calls and paperwork and research and waiting and paperwork and planning and searching and paperwork, obstacles every step of the way, only to be thwarted by a missed deadline I didn't even know about.  I felt frustrated and ashamed of my own irresponsibility and confusion.  But there was relief mixed in.  It is one of those things I can't explain in words, but that particular plan never felt right.  In all these attempts to plan, to spend time like a responsible adult, to calculate what ought to happen, uncertainty can easily scare peace away.  But even if I felt a little lost and directionless for months after, I have not regretted not going to school last year.
      Something similar happened this year.  Financial circumstances being what they are, I was not able to go to the school I had planned and looked forward to since February.  It shakes me a bit just how much potential there is for despair in this change.  I did everything I could to prepare for going back to school, online.  Now I am back at my old community college, rethinking things.  For all that, I can't conjure enough disappointment to really be depressed.  I don't feel like any of the last year has been wasted at all.  I've wavered a little in the past couple weeks, but mostly I have such an odd, inexplicable peace. 
     The thing is, I have had enough changes in recent years, both inward and out, to know the only thing I can do is trust.  If something I begin to rely on is ripped away from me, it's only what I asked for, and something better is about to come.  That's grace.  In the time I have spent not working towards a degree or law school or a career, there has been so much.  Just that: muchness.  Life is so deliciously, frighteningly unpredictable in the particulars (even without jabberwocky smackdowns).  Sometimes all I can do is stand in awe-filled wonder.
     It was a good year.  And I am optimistic about the one that just began.  New adventures and daring to live!

Songs for the passing of the age:
"Mature" by Ryanhood
"Forward Motion" by Relient K 
"Let That Be Enough" by Switchfoot
"You Have Me" by Gungor
"Feelin' Good" by Michael Buble

Like a Hurricane

Recommended listening : How He Loves, John Mark McMillan; and (then) Make You Feel My Love, Adele.

Have you ever been overwhelmed by love? Please do not misunderstand. I mean unconditional love which is so vast you can't resist and could never repay it. Love like a hurricane that floods your carefully wrought balance of give and take. Love that plunges you into such a sea of kindness all you can do is float along and marvel at its vastness. You can't contain or understand or categorize or measure it. It seems presumptuous even to say you receive it. As if you have a choice. As if. You cannot contain it; it has no fathom. You cannot encompass it; it is beyond you. And yet.
And yet, you find yourself the object of it. Like molten gold poured into a plastic cup. Like the ocean tenderly tipped into a thimble. Love that crashes you into quietness. The only thing you could say, in a whisper: God, I am so unworthy. This is love that humbles; something so painfully beautiful. Joyous despair. Tender terror. I cannot contain. I cannot comprehend. And yet.
And yet, I am loved. And yet, the God who holds back His glory, knowing it would kill us, pulls back the curtain enough for this glimpse which slays self importance and overcomes all you are.
You hold your head in your hands and silently sob at the disparity between your capacity and the sheer greatness of what you are freely given. Oh, this is not a love that puffs up. Harrowing sorrow comes with seeing your own efforts try to stand up next to it. What a fool I was to think I could repay! What a painful delusion to ever think I could earn it! And yet.
And yet, O still, small, thunderous Voice, and yet You are with me even to the end of the age. This love never leaves you nor forsakes you at any moment. This love took and withstood the searing, Almighty wrath meant to burn up unworthiness. For you. In your place. And this love knows your heart. Knows it! Floods and overwhelms and overcomes it!
What can this love not do? What CAN this love not do? Have you ever been overwhelmed by such love? The love that you surrounds you, that you cannot always see?
Oh yes. You are loved like that.

Also posted on Dare to Live.

Mundane narrative corollary to follow. Maybe.

Harrow My Soul

In quiet You come
And strip away all
That has held me down.
And it aches
And it tears.
Like bandages ripped away,
Scabs suddenly pealed;
It hurts like chains left too long
Leave their cruel pricking shadows.
Like I was once bound
And now I am loosed:
The sharpness of full breath stings
Though it's free.
Could be I mistake
Freedom for pain.
This is fear,
but You
Smash that too, in Your zeal.

In quiet You come
And get me alone;
No reason to grasp,
No comfort to hold,
No strength to stand up on;
So I free fall
Only to find
You held me all along, so tenderly.

I was blind, now I see a little.
In quiet You come
And You harrow my soul,
But so tenderly,
How can I not love You?

You wash and rip away all
That prevented
My coming to You, and jealously.
How can I not love You,
Who free me so tenderly?
Can I not love You?

I was blind, now I see a little.
In quiet You come
And You harrow my soul.
How gentle is Your touch, after all.

Strangers Who Impressed Me: Tod

The entire right wall of the front room of Guitar Center in eastside Tucson is covered, floor to ceiling, in colorful electric guitars. Various displays in the front room hold more guitars, amps, cords, pedals, picks, strings, CD’s, chord charts, and other related paraphernalia. To the left are the registers. Beyond this the store extends into various rooms devoted to acoustic guitars, drums and percussion, keyboards, mixing equipment, and more. Including my favorite room in the back full of electric pianos. Plenty of fun stuff. But the best part of going to Guitar Center may be attributed to two things. One is the stools placed all over the store, particularly near the guitars and turned-on keyboards. The other is the people who come with the confidence of music makers to sit on those stools to try out instruments and play their favorite melodies over whatever classic rock tune is sounding as a backdrop. Some of these are employees who keep their energy up for dealing with people by – what else – playing music. They are the ones who really keep the entire atmosphere of casual ease with their lumberjack shirts and band tees (usually paired with skinny pants and a beard). Something I can really appreciate having been in skate shops – these guys manage to be casually helpful without making you feel guilty for not buying everything in sight.
I was there a couple months ago with my dad and friends from Mexicali. Crissy was looking for a violin and I was the designated interpreter. I led her towards one of the lumberjack impersonators who looked to be wandering without too much of a fixed purpose. He appeared to be in his late twenties, a few years older than us; tall, thin, with shoulder-length blond hair, black-rimmed glasses, and a confident smile.
“We are looking for a violin,” I said after stopping him to request assistance.
Without a pause he replied, “We don’t carry violins, actually. But I can check and see if there’s another store nearby that does.”
First point in his favor: offering service beyond what was asked.
So far pleased, I glanced back at Crissy with raised eyebrows and followed him towards the last register.
He spent just a moment at the computer before turning his attention back to us. “Rainbow Guitars has violins. Do you know where that is?” He had a pack of Marlboros in the front pocket of his plaid.
“I know of it. I don’t know exactly where it is.” Sheepish.
“Do you know where Campbell is?” he asked intently.
“I don’t know this part of town very well,” I had to admit with a smile and a shrug. Directions: my one weakness. A la Ms. Dorcas Lane.
But he was hardly dampened. “Here,” he said before reaching for a scrap of paper and pencil and quickly drawing a map. “Here’s how you get to Rainbow guitars.” He leaned over the counter on his elbows, showing me the map, and explained how to get there from where we were. “Just tell them Tod sent you. They’ll treat you right.”
I looked up, again with gratified surprise. “Thanks very much.”
He smiled. Imaginative recollection makes me want to say he winked. But I think he just said, “No problem,” with a smile that looked thoroughly satisfied in giving.
I led Crissy away with a smile, thoroughly happy in receiving, not at all feeling the need to tell him we really had no intention of going to Rainbow Guitars since we had not driven there ourselves, had plans for later, and Crissy and co. were leaving the next day.
I have a high regard for individuals who enjoy doing their jobs, and brief interactions with people like Tod make me happy. There is something very pleasing about customer service offered with relish. The attitude, not the condiment.

Rain

I like rain. Virga especially is one of my favorite things to look at.

Currently: it looks like rain. And this is wonderful. I live in the desert and we have not had rain in too long. I have not seen rain, I think since February or April. I haven't seen a good long storm probably since last summer. But it's building now. You know what that looks like? Glory. It's not just the way it looks, it's the way it sounds, the way it feels, the way it smells. It's nearly frightening, it's so beautiful. Clouds from gray to glowing white build and move and condense, converging in a way that almost makes them look angry. Like they fight one another and the wind, and end up piled and melted into denser and denser masses of dark skywaters. Winds just sound rushing. Not rushing like hurried, just rushing with steady purpose, nearly and kindly mindless of us and all life in their focus. They seem to say, "A storm is due here," and work with a noisy intensity to bring it. Even the mountains participate, as if their part is to anchor the world and challenge the storm, though they shudder with the thunder. They bask in sun rays while they last, soak up and take on the warmth of the sun fitfully, petulantly trying to break up the building clouds. And while the storm comes, everything glows greener. Every tree and bush, twigs and leaves, flowers and earth; it's like they thrum in anticipation, exuberant, fragrant, scandalous, and beautiful. It's a full and heady scent, rain. It would be too unkind to say the air is thick with it. But it is. And it's not even here yet. Ah, but when it comes. When droplets begin to fall, striking the ground with soft, pattering music which grows and grows until it is the echo of God's voice and shakes the very mountains in their majesty. When the clouds' feuding turns to flashes, strikes of light chased by growls and deep, rolling blows of mind-shaking sound. When dry and weary ground, crying out with all its ardor, is drenched in the clear wine of the heavens, so overcome it cannot drink it all in, and rivers and rivulets form and reform the very earth. When the storm comes, cool overcoming summer's hubris, wet overcoming a soulful drought, sound overcoming silence such that I must feel very small and somehow at the same time fearful and joyously, recklessly bold. I must think this is creation's song of praise to its Creator.

Yes, we are a bit rain-deprived.

Dare To Live

I have begun a new blog. Not to fear, I have no intention of abandoning this one. And I give an explanation of why and what for below. What I intend is to continue posting to both and occasionally post a link here to the new one, Dare To Live, leave it up to Hawksquill readers whether they want something more weighty in their lexical diet. It has the same author*. And I nearly giggled to myself just now, both about referring to blog-reading as a consumption of words and about referring to my own writing as weighty.
What do you think of this plan? Comments welcome!

The Introduction

I have been wanting to do this for some time, have some sort of outlet for more devotional-type writings and spiritual musings. Writing often is my way of reasoning things out, to understand better. Going back and reading what I have written before, seeing how I have grown and how God's grace has worked in me is encouraging and at the same time humbling. It may sound odd to say that, but it is true. I can't help but recognize that any good in me has been God's work alone. And I thank Him for that.
As far as actually sharing what has encouraged me, I have hesitated for a couple reasons. One is that it feels presumptuous to think what I wrote will be any help to others. The other is that I already have a blog, Hawksquill, which I have tried to keep fairly light in content and aimed at a broad audience. I didn't want to change the feel of Hawksquill (maybe I've paying too much attention to other blogs, getting stuck on terms like "niche", instead actually writing, I don't know), and I wasn't sure I wanted to have something completely separate simply because it will feel like more pressure to keep up two blogs.
What finally tipped the scale was the account in Acts 3 of Peter healing the crippled beggar outside the temple...
Read More...

Philadelphia

An old one. Free verse or rambling thoughts, as you will.

Mine is a wretched heart
That fails in even returning
A fellow seeker's love.
Friend is he who gives
For no return;
Friend is she who takes thought
For my way, unasked;
Friends are they who seem to call
A smile reward,
Or timid thanks
When overwhelming kindness
Exhausts my poor attempts to give.
I am overwhelmed even by the lowness of my gratitude
And would rather mention again
The greatness of brotherly love
I fail to reflect.

So how is it that You
-- even You
-- Would call me friend?
Love so vast,
So deep, so wide, so high, so great
Defies description.
I have not loved You
Near well enough
Who have been friend and more to me.

Contemplation Of...

A landfill is a desolate place. An acres-long, loveless hole for society's refuse. We went there late and the workers tried to hurry us from their great machinery -- cranking, groaning, like weary giants about their work shoving, tarping, piling and compiling garbage. The only soft sound is the frenzied flutter of dark-winged pigeons that make their home there. They are not delicate eaters, but neither are their city-gray gentledove cousins. The smell is unpleasant, but not impossible to ignore. It is a sad sort of place, the dump. Like I said, desolate.
I couldn't help thinking it was perfect place to drop someone who had been knocked unconscious and needed to be out of the way for a while. I believe that would be insult upon injury upon treachery. Especially for a directionally-challenged germophobe.
My mind takes strange directions sometimes, still. But it did seem like an interesting, almost solemn place. It gave me a little bit of the feeling I get in a cemetery. Not fear or even necessarily sorrow. Just a contemplative interest in the remains of what was and the memories, feelings, thoughts and ideas that die in their decay.

Validation

Hugh Newman is my hero.

YOU... are great. You are amazing! Has anyone ever told you how handsome you look in that shirt? I can tell you have good taste. And you really do have beautiful eyes. You're so caring too! Most people might not realize that by smiling at a stranger, by praising what's good, you are giving of yourself, your time. But that's what you do. You give. And you really care. You have it in you to validate the heck out of people. Because YOU are awesome. You have a wonderful day!

Creativity! Part 2: The Sledgehammer of Inspiration

There is an unfortunate tendency among many would-be writers to wait for inspiration to hit them over the head like a sledgehammer. Unfortunate, because it rarely resembles anything so forceful. It's more like the Invisible Swordsman. He'll help you, but you have to work to find him and be careful not to shoot him (Beware singing bushes; they'll only distract you).
Creativity really is something you have to work at (even barely tenable movie metaphors). No matter how much we may romanticize the life of a writer (or any generic artist), no matter how effortless our right-brained friends make it look, there is a real element of discipline necessary to realizing creative accomplishment. Like anything, the most important step in achieving is to try. Simply do and keep doing, even if not every attempt results in something mind-blowingly wonderful. Along with having a healthy dose of tenacity, you have to be willing to fail a little. Maybe even a lot.
We want to be original. But this can also become an excuse to wait on the muse -- who is a capricious little renegade on a good day. If accepting (and learning from) failure is the first step towards excellence, then the second step may be realizing absolute originality is unfeasible. We learn by imitating and improving on what has already been done. This is perfectly okay. Solomon's assertion that there is nothing new under the sun still holds true. This is why exposure to a lot of good writing (or music or...) is important.
So, discipline and failure. Perhaps more like a two-sided ax than a sledgehammer.

Incidentally, making oneself write while bushy eyed and bright tailed feels good. I recommend waking early, maybe finding a cool hat (Jo March style), and making yourself pen a few words.

Marty McFly We Ain't

Future, present, past. I wish not to belabor the point that the present is the only moment we really have. Yet what temptation there is to live in a moment that does not exist.
I say things sometimes without thoroughly thinking through what effect they will have. Not an uncommon trait, I think. Unfortunately my particular brand of neurosis has involved dwelling on past experiences, picking them apart for possible negative reactions (which I can do nothing about) and what I could have said or done (when it's too late). There needs to be a balance between thinking through something before following through, taking advantage of opportunities as they come, and letting go of what's already been. Essentially, this is living in the present -- not in a screw-it-for-all-I-care kind of way, but in a present-and-fully-engaged kind of way.

Looking too far ahead is not good either. Worry accomplishes nothing, and an odd thing happens if you try to plan in your head how a situation will unfold. A conversation with yourself, for example, where you argue some point with a miniature version of an acquaintance who fits in your head, may help to reason out something, but it can also tweak your view of the actual person (or situation) the accommodating projection is based upon, so that later when you do talk to them you end up shocked and dismayed that they are not as agreeable as the little them you won an argument against. Having goals is good, but setting up unrealistic expectations usually results in disappointment and mars your ability to enjoy living in the present.

There is so much unknown, unchangeable. It usually does seem easier to have things all planned out, controlled. But that detracts so much from the adventure of simply living with what comes at you. It's like dancing. I teach Zumba, where each song is choreographed and each time we dance it is the same. There is a performance aspect to it, which I enjoy. But I am also learning to swing dance, where I, as a follow, have no idea what is coming up except that I must stay in sync with my partner, trust him to lead, and follow through on whatever crazy steps or turns or jumps he throws at me. Which do you suppose I make more mistakes on? Which do you suppose is more exciting?
I like this dancing-as-a-metaphor-for-living-in-the-present thing (and hyphens, apparently). God's providence has a tendency to foil plans, change circumstances, switch timing, and generally quash (obliterate, annihilate, extirpate, pulverize, massacre) expectations. Following well feels risky. But there is something so exhilarating in not knowing what your steps will be before you take them, flying in the arms of someone who does. It involves trust, strength, obedience, and a mind fully engaged in what you are doing. In the end the dance was beautiful, mistakes and all. In a word, this is faith. And taking the time to listen to the music (the Lead's words, His serenade) helps.

Creativity! Part 1: Extracting the Juice

Roughly a month ago a friend issued a challenge to describe my creative process and inspiration. It happens sometimes that another person inadvertently becomes the harbinger of a period of trial and woe. Fortunately the period harbingered in this case has been one of contemplation and analysis of all that it means to be creative. The how, the what, and the why of creativity have been on my mind a lot lately. Some may have noted the absence of fiction on Hawksquill in the last few months. This was intended for the much-needed reevalution of how much time I was giving to creating fiction, and to what purpose (they weren't much help at The OFIS, so I was forced to consult reality). I hope it is some comfort to blog-deprived readers to know the author (your servant) has benefited spiritually, psychologically, and/or grammatically. The right side of my brain does appear to be waking from hibernation with this warm weather.

Hence, I am tentatively titling this collection of thoughts "Part 1," with the expectation that more will follow.

Creative Beginnings.

When it comes to writing stories it will sometimes happen that another story or music -- something with strong emotive tension or cognitively stimulating -- will put me in the mood for creating fiction. This has only resulted in stories when it inspires the creation of a character or plot twist I can develop and use later. The quick-flash feeling of inspiration usually wears off pretty quickly if it is indulged right away. I write more when I feel the need to express something or when thoughts and ideas need the written word to be organized and understood. Although much of what I have written resulted when I had no clear idea at all of what I needed to say but simply began putting words down. The act of writing itself, arranging words which are pleasing or finding delight in seeing my tattered thoughts made clear, can become the stimulus. This is when metaphors begin to form and unexpected phrases appear. For motivation in writing, the only thing that tops being able to say "I can do better" to bestsellers, is looking at your own writing and saying, "That's brilliant. I never would have thought of that," and wondering where it came from. I think these are things that come of reading a lot and then writing a lot.

Composing music, on the other hand, has been (for me) something a bit more abstract and subjective, guided by emotions -- which may be why I have been later in developing this (and dancing and doodling, et. al.) as artistic pursuits. Writing feels more measurable in value and allows more thought beforehand. The above is more a matter of feeling and improvising. If writing has been the vehicle for expressing and making thoughts clear, then music might be what fills in the blanks, expressing what words cannot. Sometimes I sit at the piano, begin with whatever chord my fingers reach to quickest, and play through my mood from there. Sometimes I do play with articulate thoughts, starting with a few words, or lines, or phrases that need only a melody to carry the weight of what they say. Occasionally little, harmonious bits of wordage even blossom into a poem or a song, if I still like them the next day, or the next week. And sometimes I write lyrics which are later lost, for the better of the song made to fit them. My words and music don't always play well together. Sometimes I have to separate them. Music is becoming easier though, and I can usually play what I hear in my head. This comes with doing and listening a lot too.

One thing I still feel I need to much further develop is what may be called intuition. When being creative -- that is, when making a sally at originality -- there is usually a feeling of how something ought to go. This is hard to quantify or describe. With either stories or songs, I think it is easy to mistake for familiarity. I have found myself repeating cliches inadvertently, so it is not always first instinct which must be followed, but possibilities must be considered. But there is often a definite "feel" for how a melody will go before it is composed, or how a story will go, particularly with dialogue. I think this is where disciplined practice and outside critique come in. I can speak only from the experience of one, but both have been (I should say, are) critical in my development as an (aspiring, hopefully getting there) artist.

How do you go about extracting creative juices?

Reminisce, Resolve, Rinse and Repeat

Recomm... Required (!) listening for this post: "Beautiful Things," by Gungor

2010 was not as I expected. It brought good things: answers to prayer and unexpected friendships, release of expectations and conquering of fears. But it has left me not knowing what to expect of 2011.
I am not even inclined to make New Years' resolutions. Partially because I'm almost sure not to keep them. But I think partly because the newness of the year is frightening. It can be exciting. But new things, changes can also be confusing, unsettling. I suppose it's just that the New Year means letting go of what you had hoped for the previous year, even while its insecurities and fears might not so easily go away.
And here's a daffodil. I love the fact that they bloom in the middle of winter, when everything else looks dry and dead. It's so unexpected. I wonder if God meant it as a metaphor. In the darkness, light shines the brightest. That's a hearty little bit of sunshine.

I did make a personal resolution at the beginning of 2011, but not only for the new year.

Dare to Live Resolution #1: To let go of what-ifs and experience life in all its gritty, confusing, slowly-unfolding mystery. To build hope on what I know is true and not on an imaginary paradigm. To let relationships unfold naturally, seeking to know rather than be known. To accept that the future is unpredictable and not fear the unknown. To release control of circumstances to God. To honor others by observing and responding to who they truly are. To observe things as they are and then do what is good, rather than imagine it. To expect the unexpected and be confident of God's grace in it all.

Here's to beautiful, scary newness. I am determined to emulate daffodils and dare to live.

Happy Christmas to All!

My brothers take creative liberties with tradition.

Hawksquill's Top Christmas Songs for 2010 (in no particular order):

"What is Christmas to You" by Ryanhood

"Sleigh Ride" by Relient K

"The Gift" by Aselin Debison

"Jingle Bells" by Barenaked Ladies

"Joseph's Lullaby" by MercyMe

"Santa Claus is Coming to Town" by Straight No Chaser

"I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day" by Jars of Clay

"Let it Snow" by Michael Buble

"Labor of Love" by Andrew Peterson

"Mary, Did You Know?" by Mark Lowry and Buddy Greene

"God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen"

What has this season meant to you?

I almost tend to think of Christmas as two things. It is culturally significant as a season when we see family, sing carols, give gifts, and eat too many cookies. This might be similar to what it means for anyone who celebrates Hanukkah or Kwanzaa or "the holidays." Or Festivus.

But Christmas itself is the season that has been set apart as a time to remember the Advent of Jesus Christ, how He came and why. It still blows me away to think that the God who made the universe chose to do this, the most significant event in all our history, in such a humble way. Time began when a Baby was born in the stable of an overcrowded inn in a little town under Roman occupation in the Middle East a couple thousand ago. Amazing. That Baby brought hope, which is good news now as it was then. But it's already been said better than I could.

The people walking in darkness have seen a great light;

on those living in the land of the shadow of death a light has dawned....

For to us a child is born,

to us a son is given,

and the government will be on his shoulders.

And he will be called Wonderful Counselor,

Mighty God,

Everlasting Father,

Prince of Peace.

Of the increase of his government and peace there will be no end. (Isaiah 9:2, 6-7a)

And there were shepherds living out in the fields nearby keeping watch over their flocks at night. An angel of the Lord appeared to them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were terrified. But the angel said to them, "Do not be afraid. I bring you good news of great joy that will be for all the people. Today in the town of David a Savior has been born to you; he is Christ the Lord. This will be a sign to you: You will find a baby wrapped in cloths and lying in a manger."

Suddenly a great company of the heavenly host appeared with the angel, praising God and saying,

"Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace to men on whom his favor rests." (Luke 2:8-14)

Happy Birthday, Jesus. Thank You for being born.

What Introverts Won't Tell You

I have been too reticent.
The other day a friend was relating how amazing it was to read an autobiographical book written by an acquaintance of hers. She wondered why the woman had always appeared standoffish before, when she apparently could bare her soul in written words.
"Do you experience anything like that when you write?" she asked me.
"Yes," I had to admit, "sometimes it's easier to say things in writing than to have to verbally articulate them."
"Why is that?" asks the extroverted feeler.
For the sake of conquering such timidity, I may as well admit this: questions that touch on my personal feelings loose my tongue and make me feel very exposed, sometimes even foolish.
For some introverts it is easier to say things in writing, when no particular audience may judge without hearing us out and we have all the time we want to think through our words before releasing them. I understand perfectly why some introverts appear standoffish. We observe, we listen. A lack of contribution does not indicate a lack of interest.
Not all introverts are shy either. Some are observant, analytical and articulate. The commonality -- and this is reiterated in several articles by and about introverts -- is a need for alone time to recharge. We can learn to behave like extroverts, but this is merely acting, which gets to be exhausting. Interacting with groups can be exhausting. Conversing with multiple people in the course of one evening-- though stimulating -- can be exhausting. Having a conversation with a few people who like to talk, say interesting things, and can even coax out our thoughts without prying, is wonderful -- preferably taken one at a time if extroverts.
In other words, introverts are socially more pansies than butterflies and we spend a lot of time in our own heads. I have to disagree with some of what writers and psychologists are saying about introverts, or at least their attitude towards introversion. Humans are relational beings. There is merit in trying for some extroversion if that is what it takes to relate to people and build them up, like my friend who suffered from a lack of connection with a woman she liked, respected, and worked with for years. Just as there is merit in extroverts trying to relate to the need for quietness.
Why the researched, wordy rant? I've felt convicted lately. There is so much I write that is never shared and when I sit down to write what I know will be read, there is often an accompanying apprehension which can rapidly grown into writer's block. This is not a plea for sympathy. This is me figuratively shaking myself by the scruff of the neck and saying, "Get a grip, Hawkins. Risk a little extroversion." Because it is worth it to do hard things, to step out of comfort zones.
Truth is, I believe there is a real calling to be a better (the best and most unique) version of ourselves. Adam sinned and fell from grace and humanity has never been the same since. Human nature is cursed, and God is just. I can't afford to hide behind personality, who I think I inevitably am. I can stand behind Christ, though. Considering He is the only One Who is perfect and can make me perfect, that seems like the safest place to be: in Him and imitating Him. Even if it means being a little more extroverted. Even with feelings. It's worth it.

"For those God foreknew He also predestined to be conformed to the likeness of His Son, so that He might be the firstborn among many brothers. Those he predestined, He also called; those He called, He also justified; those He justified, he also glorified." 1 Corinthians 8:29-30

Advent: Definition

One day Glory came to earth. The dust we walk on was tread upon, the air we breathe was inhaled by a Person who was more a person than we are. He came from the Origin of personality. He was human. He was divine. He is human, He is divine. He was carried and born and ate and grew and talked and walked and experienced and felt and gave and received and enjoyed and suffered and learned and lived as we do. But all this He did without our doomed nature. He suffered all the consequences of sin and our fallenness without earning it, as we inevitably do. There was nothing to compel Him against His will to endure this unjust life, justly ours. Glory came down because the one Absolute, Almighty, Infinite Person chose to identify with us, the mortal, finite, fallible people He made. He wanted to identify with us. Not because He needed help understanding us, but so that we could have a chance to personally know Him and understand how God loves us.

One day Glory came to earth. His name is Jesus.

Better Late Than... Unthankful

My family's Thanksgiving tradition has been to invite neighbors and friends who do not have family nearby. This year, however, ours was a small group. Relatives came up from Mexico, my grandparents (Mama-Came and Papa-Chuy), an aunt and a cousin with her husband and two toddlers. They happened to be in town for Thanksgiving.
I love having a bicultural family.
My mom made everything from scratch. I baked pies -- one too many as it turned out. I was supposed to make the rolls too, but, you know, Turkey Bowl (I still have bruises. And it was thoroughly worth it. My team pwned).
When Mama-Came saw our traditional Thanksgiving fare being prepared, she said, "You're not having tortillas?" with both a look and tone of shock.
My dad partly translated George Washington's Thanksgiving Proclamation and explained the origins of our holiday just before we gave thanks for our meal.
Papa-Chuy is the reason for Mama-Came's concern. He's a picky eater and has no qualms about expressing his distaste. While the rest of us downed nice portions of mashed potatoes, green-bean casserole, cranberry sauce, et. al.; he ate a little turkey, liberally sprinkled with salt, a large helping of cooked corn and a roll. He did enjoy the pumpkin pie. Then he accidentally served himself a glass of eggnog, which he mistook for milk. His lips turned down in a perfect expression of disgust as he set the glass away from himself, shaking his head at the wrongness of it. It was great.
Carmen and Chuy are seventy-six, have been married about five and half decades, have twenty-five grandchildren and a dozen great-grandchildren, and they come from another world. I am thankful for them. And for having a day set aside to give thanks to God for blessings like family, food, football, and napping, among many others.
And now, I am thankful for Christmas music.
No, it is not too early. Enjoy it while you can.

A Murky Stream of Consciousness

Have I a canvas

On which thoughts pour

In some order not

Conceived by my own mind

Yet somehow coherent in

Spite of my own best efforts?

A mind not centered

Is my own enemy

Though words here come,

Ready enough,

Some part of me loves them

In spite of my tongue's trepidity.

I don't get it.

In small steps, in

Quotidian glory, relentless

And dull, I'm moving,

I'm getting there.

Tell me where

There is and I'll

Tell you my innermost thoughts.

A promise

In irony,

A tongue

In cheek where

It cannot speak when put on the spot.

So to speak.

But still and all.

I'm getting there.

I've gotten there,

At times.

Can't complain.

This bit of wordage is hereby dedicated to the veterans who served their country. Thank you and God bless you. Rock on.

Just Picture a Predatory Bird Plucking a Porcupine

Recommended listening for this post: "Why Do You Let Me Stay Here?" by She and Him*



Overheard snippets of conversation between strangers can result in confused and amused musings. Much of the material of my periodic bouts of fiction is gathered while dropping eaves. Art only imitates life, after all.
One can learn things by having curious ears as well.
We continue with the subject of names thanks to a man in a bright, striped shirt of whom the only other thing I can say is that he was conscious of dental hygiene.
"What's your name again?" the stranger said in a deep voice, the kind you would have to describe as booming if he were to raise it.
"My name's Danielle," the friendly receptionist said in her friendly receptionist voice.
I could hear them speaking at the counter behind where I sat.
"I'll remember it now," the man said, "I pride myself on remembering names. I'll just think of you as Danielle Boone."
Danielle laughed.
"You have to make up ways to remember people by their name," he continued.
"Oh really," another receptionist said. A non-comment, but bless it for continuing the exchange.
"If I meet someone whose name is Barbara, I just have to picture her with barbed wire coming out of her head and I'll remember."
This visual caught my full attention. I bit the smile beginning to engulf my face and stealthily glanced up from the pages of Les Miserables to see if any of the other three people in the waiting room were also stifling giggles. They were unaffected as far as I could tell.
The fish tank bubbled, a drill whirred somewhere in the back rooms, the dialogue continued.
"How would you remember 'Crystal'?" the second receptionist asked.
"Crystal's easy," he immediately replied. "I'm from Tennessee. We have Crystal's Burgers. So I would just picture you with a burger in your mouth. Every time I see you, I'll just think, 'Why does she have a burger in her mouth?' Easy. Crystal's Burgers. Your name's Crystal."
Actually, the striped-shirt man from Tennessee was using a common memory trick. The more bizarre the association the more likely one is to remember it. Mnemonics. Fun stuff.
Except now every time I go to see the dentist I'm going to picture a female barber with barbed wire for hair with her lips clamped around a giant hamburger.

*Which hardly has any tenable connection to this post. I just felt like having music again.
Same goes for the picture, now I think about it. Oh well.

Make Your Move

Recommended listening for this post: "People C'mon" by Delta Spirit

Is it simply human nature to grow restless? We need consistency, but we crave change. If a person is middle aged, this might lead to buying a Corvette. In the times in between it might lead to a new hairstyle (and dyeing my bangs purple sounds really tempting right now).
For twenty-somethings it seems the change may be something more internal, constrained, invisible. Like a nuclear reaction.
21 may be a young age to check quarter life crisis off one's list of life experiences. Or not. As of now, it is just half checked for me: a single line, like a castaway marking the days of his exile without knowing when it will end, but at least comforted in knowing how long he's been gone. So maybe I can at least claim some empathy with other victims of uncertainty or even (dare I say)purposelessness.
All these decisions, choices, possibilities, options, questions, unknowns, wonderings. Comfort comes in strange ways for what we of the quarter-life section face. Here are a few oddities that have emboldened me to take a few of those frightening steps, albeit small ones, without looking back. Because, really, what's the use of looking back if you can't go back?

1. There is nothing new under the sun. You are not unique in this. The stress you face is nothing that humanity has not suffered before. Yes, that is a good thing.

2. There is a saying that goes, "You become an adult when you begin to take responsibility for your decisions." Something like that; I translated it from Spanish. Decisions are hard. This is growing up. Maybe we never even really "arrive" at certainty at this life, so maybe this is being an adult. Maybe. I'll let you know when I get there.

3. "All the days ordained for me were written in Your book before one of them came to be" (Psalm 139:16). Free to choose what path we take, but foreordained. Not impossible, just hard to grasp. What logically follows is that no choice you take can really result in missing out on something you were "supposed" to do. Not that we escape consequences or responsibility. But you'll never catch Providence off guard. God has a plan and He's working it out in your life too, no matter what you choose.

4. What breaks your heart and what makes you come alive? Give it some thought. The answers might cut down on the "what to do with my life" quandary considerably.

Thoughts?

Hey Bob, What's Your Name Again?

I'm sure someone could put together a nice little list of faux pas' I've committed. Fortunately, I think I'm oblivious to most of them. Which perhaps is not so fortunate for everyone else.
However, a person getting your name wrong after you've known them for more than year is pretty dang awkward.

I sometimes forget people's names after being introduced. Which is a bit gauche, but easily excused with the tired, misleading, detestable little phrase, "I'm terrible with names." I recommend repeating a person's name back to them when you first hear it. People are funny that way, we need more than one stimuli (in this case, oral as well as aural) to tack things onto our memory. See. I just gave you visual, so now you're more likely to remember it.

We can all appreciate it when someone we just met uses our name. It is an acknowledgement of one as an individual, a signal that the person using our name counts us as worth remembering and referring to. If they pronounce it wrong or call us something altogether different, it can have the opposite effect, but the offender is usually apologetic and learns his lesson if corrected right away. There should be no shame in asking a person to repeat his or her name.

But what do you do with someone you've known for over a year, who has been to your home, who you have had conversations with, who interacts with your loved ones weekly, calling you a name one letter off from your own? Several times throughout an evening. Out loud, referencing you in a familiar way.

In a recent case, our acquaintance was too far along for me to feel polite correcting the guilty party. And it was embarrassing for her sake to know others heard the mistake too. I quietly cringed, then twitched, then waited for some braver soul to point out that my name is not, in fact, "Larissa*." For which I thank the assertive soul in question. And my parents and God.

I get the feeling the person who did point out this faux pas wouldn't stand for being called anything other than her own name. Maybe most normal people wouldn't. I respect them for it.

Maybe the rest of us could learn to be more assertive.

Or we could just wear nametags.

*Please know that I have nothing against anyone named Larissa -- aside from the name being too close to my own. I just happen to be fond of being called by my own name.

photo courtesy of Flickr

Interrupted!

What the heck.
Time passes, time flows, time jerks and whips you along in its trail. And life moves on whether we will or no. Although I find it hard to believe anyone would really wish otherwise.
Anyways.
Enjoy this video. It cracks me up. I crack myself up in it.

Wonder Why

You set stars up in the sky

Who wink and whisper, wonder why

The God who made them dares to die

For lowly creatures such as I,

Wipes tender tears from human eyes

And listens to hearts' humble cry,

Yet knows the names of lights on high

Who watch, amazed, and wonder why.

Somehow, They Reminded Me of Children

Gas stations always seem shady at night (no pun intended, honest). Even if they're not the type that seem shady during the day. Especially if you're a girl. Watching you're nearly six-foot brother walk away. Leaving you alone. In short shorts.

We had just come from the Y. Eddie walked over to Basha's in search of a skateboard magazine while I searched the Red Box in front of the station's convenience store for a couple movies for my littler sister's sleepover. There really would be no reason to expect any trouble at the little store attached to the gas station in the corner of a grocery store's parking lot. Still, I looked over my shoulder when I heard the rumbling motor of a car pull up next to our minivan, remembering that I had left the windows down -- a dangerous thing to do if you parked a whole ten feet away from your destination.

The other car was a little, beat-up Ford pickup. In it were a man and what appeared to be his daughter. Then they started making out. Not his daughter. I turned back to searching for movies, head up, shoulders squared with one hand on my purse.

Ah, Red Box. The thing about these nifty entertainment dispensers is that the billboards announcing their contents are rarely accurate. In order to determine whether they really have a movie or not, one has to scan through "All," then search A-Z, then search in the genre of the desired title. Or maybe that's just me.

Heavy metal suddenly augmented the rumbling coming from the car behind me. And not in the musical sense.

Red Box lied. It did not have Letters to Juliet. I did a quick genre search under Action & Adventure for Prince of Persia, then another quick A-Z under P. They didn't have that one either.

I got a better look at the couple in the truck as I left. The girl was older than I had taken her to be, the sort of person who looks forty-something and turns out to be twenty-eight.

From behind, the guy looked like he had either worked hard all day or hadn't changed his clothes in a few. The latter of which seemed more probable considering you could have buttered a couple pieces of toast with what a quick run-through with a comb might have strained from the stringy mess on his head.

His lady friend had a nicer head of hair: long, thick, wheat-blond, the top half of which was pulled up into a ponytail. The bottom half sported a buzz job. Sort of a Jekyll/Hyde thing. Which somehow went perfectly with her leopard-print pajama pants.

Right Here, Right Now

I gave myself a lecture and it came out in rhyme. Poetry? That is questionable.

Enjoy. Or, check out last year's post on 9/11.

Let me keep eyes on the present,

And will and mind, thoughts never absent.

I’ll lose not a moment, a second, a jiff.

It’s all that I have; the present’s a gift.

It’s only the moment that’s real and near,

Touching eternity. We hold it not dear

If we struggle and strive to hold what’s not there

And keep in mind’s eye past, future, and cares

Not in keeping with the task here at hand.

Why worry about it? It’s good to prepare

And remember; the present’s a duller affair.

But tasks not attended soon become regrets.

A great, flitting idea that’s vague only gets

Swollen egos, dulled senses, time stolen away

From thoughts worthy – though slow – to articulate.

A thought with some bearing may be worthy of all

Your focus, sans haste, lest it be sure to fall

Far short of the weight of the task here at hand

Do all with intention! It’s right here, right now,

The moment’s the present. We rarely think how

The present’s the only time we can miss out on

And God, being Spirit’s not in time and not gone.

He dwells in eternity and knows our mind

And in the present He’s only too kind.

Time touches eternity the moment He’s near;

Now is when He listens and would have us hear

The call to attend to the task here at hand.

Waste not a moment to dwell on what’s not

More urgent, more dear is the moment you’ve got,

For hope’s in the present, and lovelier still

Than ought you could hope for that could become nil.

Hope touching eternity touching right now

Is what you can cling to, and Love’s only how

We bring about hope to the world, to our friends

Pouring out love that every hurt mends,

And that, above all, is the task here at hand.