I’ve always been a big New Year’s Resolutions fan. I know there are some unbelievers out there. Some may criticize the idea of making resolutions, saying that they’re unrealistic and that people forget about them anyway. And, perhaps that is true for the most part, but I like to try to make realistic ones and I do my best to stick to them.
I looked back through my journals to see what resolutions I’ve made in past years, and I realized that I haven’t made resolutions for the past two years! In 2004 I was too caught up in preparing to go to Spain, and in 2005 I was worried about my student teaching placement for my last semester in college. The last time I made concrete resolutions was in 2003, and out of the 7 that I made, I followed through completely with 3. I’d say that 3 out of 7 is pretty good—better than none, anyway.
This year? Here’s what I have in mind:
1. I want to consistently set aside time for God every day (whether that be offering a prayer, reading the Bible or simply sitting quietly and meditating on Him and nothing else). Even if it’s just 10-15 minutes, I want it to be something I do every day.
2. I want to read at least a chapter out of the Bible every day. Now, in years past, I’ve made resolutions to read the whole thing, and I will admit that I have accomplished reading the entire Bible through only once. But maybe it would be more realistic to say a chapter a day. That’s doable.
3. I want to continue my regimen of taking care of my skin and hair. These things have always been a bit of a struggle for me (my face breaking out, my hair not being my friend), but I’ve gotten it to where my skin has calmed down and my hair is growing and is nicer to me. I want to keep it that way.
4. I want to do a significant amount of physical activity at least once a week. That might seem like a weak resolution, but I’ve never been this huge workout person and I would like to be. My ideal is to take an invigorating walk at the park near where I live every Saturday morning.
5. I want to be more honest with myself and with others. I consider myself an honest person in general, but I want to get to the point where I feel comfortable saying “no” to people and not feel so worried about what other people will think of me if I express how I truly feel about things. I want to be more honest with myself by not being in self-denial about my feelings and by admitting to myself that there are some things I cannot do on my own.
I think these resolutions are pretty reasonable and doable. Now, for a reflection on this past year: Several pretty important things have happened, lots of firsts, and it’s hard to sum everything up, but I’ll try.
1. I completed a scholarly article of research on Second Language Learning, and finally got it published. I cannot even begin to tell you how much work that was.
2. I student taught while taking a class and being a Resident Assistant all at the same time. I thought I wasn’t going to make it, but I did, and finally walked across the stage May 7th, 2005.
3. I had to make a difficult decision over whether I would continue and go straight into grad school to get a Master’s degree or to take a break from school and work in my profession.
4. I was recruited and interviewed for the first real professional job in my life, and in the end, I signed on the dotted line to be a real, live teacher. I got my first professional paycheck in August, and I finally got a taste of what the working world is like.
5. I had the first serious relationship ever in my life.
6. I became a part of the first Spanish ministry our church has ever had.
7. I went to a Young Adult conference in St. Louis (the first of its kind) and got a lot of direction that has influenced some of my choices and plans.
I pray that the Lord will continue to order my steps in whatever I do, and I pray the same for all who are reading this. Happy New Year, everyone!
Saturday, December 31, 2005
Wednesday, December 28, 2005
The Banquet Babe Returns: The Proof
I promised that pictures would be forthcoming, and they say that a picture is worth a thousand words, so I'll just let my words be few and let the pictures speak to you.
Me and the Christmas tree!
Me and the girls!
Great minds dress alike.
Guess which one is my mom. Who knew?
The Banquet Babe rests her case. Until next year!
Me and the Christmas tree!
Me and the girls!
Great minds dress alike.
Guess which one is my mom. Who knew?
The Banquet Babe rests her case. Until next year!
Marathon Reader
Whew! I finally finished The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle by Haruki Murakami. I think it must be the longest book I've ever read in my life (well, except for the Bible). That sucker was 600+ pages long!
I'm not going to sit here and like give a book review or anything, but I'll just say it was quite an engrossing read. Now, I need to take the same energy and fervor I had reading Wind-Up Bird to reading my Bible and things that'll help me out spiritually. I started The Purpose Driven Life by Rick Warren. It's not meant to be devoured in large chunks. So far I've gotten some pretty amazing, yet simple pointers that will help me focus on the most important things.
Today I had lunch with some old high school friends. I sat savoring an iced chai tea latte as we caught up on each other's lives. My high school years were pretty memorable, in a good way. I went to a public college prep magnet school. Anytime I told anyone where I went to high school, I often got, "Oh, you go to that nerd school" in response. We were all nerds and proud of it. I can't tell you how liberating it was to be in an all-nerd environment. I could be myself and nobody cared! And we were pretty tight-knit. We had a graduating class of like 50 something kids.
Later on, I met up with one of my road dawgs that I also graduated from high school with. I'll just call him Brother, because he really is just like a brother to me. When people see us together, they often ask if we're related. We hit up Barnes and Noble and he took my book recommendations (well, some of them). He absolutely had to read Invisible Man by Ralph Ellison. And I begged him to get Blink by Malcolm Gladwell. I bought that book on a Friday night and had it finished Saturday night. I was so enthralled with it, I passed it on to the assistant pastor.
Then we went to Family Christian Bookstores where Brother went on a search for an illusive affordable Bible with a Greek and Hebrew lexicon, and I went on a hunt for some uplifting music. From now on, I'm going to try to put on postive stuff to lighten my mood when I start feeling blue instead of putting on mood-appropriate music and wallowing. Ugh. I've done more than my fair share of that.
Oh, I've only one more week of unadulterated bliss left before I have to go back to the daily routine. I must soak it all in before the clock strikes twelve and my carriage turns back into a pumpkin and my lovely dress back into plain old house clothes. Well, at least I'll get to keep the glass slippers.
I'm not going to sit here and like give a book review or anything, but I'll just say it was quite an engrossing read. Now, I need to take the same energy and fervor I had reading Wind-Up Bird to reading my Bible and things that'll help me out spiritually. I started The Purpose Driven Life by Rick Warren. It's not meant to be devoured in large chunks. So far I've gotten some pretty amazing, yet simple pointers that will help me focus on the most important things.
Today I had lunch with some old high school friends. I sat savoring an iced chai tea latte as we caught up on each other's lives. My high school years were pretty memorable, in a good way. I went to a public college prep magnet school. Anytime I told anyone where I went to high school, I often got, "Oh, you go to that nerd school" in response. We were all nerds and proud of it. I can't tell you how liberating it was to be in an all-nerd environment. I could be myself and nobody cared! And we were pretty tight-knit. We had a graduating class of like 50 something kids.
Later on, I met up with one of my road dawgs that I also graduated from high school with. I'll just call him Brother, because he really is just like a brother to me. When people see us together, they often ask if we're related. We hit up Barnes and Noble and he took my book recommendations (well, some of them). He absolutely had to read Invisible Man by Ralph Ellison. And I begged him to get Blink by Malcolm Gladwell. I bought that book on a Friday night and had it finished Saturday night. I was so enthralled with it, I passed it on to the assistant pastor.
Then we went to Family Christian Bookstores where Brother went on a search for an illusive affordable Bible with a Greek and Hebrew lexicon, and I went on a hunt for some uplifting music. From now on, I'm going to try to put on postive stuff to lighten my mood when I start feeling blue instead of putting on mood-appropriate music and wallowing. Ugh. I've done more than my fair share of that.
Oh, I've only one more week of unadulterated bliss left before I have to go back to the daily routine. I must soak it all in before the clock strikes twelve and my carriage turns back into a pumpkin and my lovely dress back into plain old house clothes. Well, at least I'll get to keep the glass slippers.
Sunday, December 25, 2005
Here I sit, not knowing
whether I’m really going to post this or not. But this is my way, this is my outlet, my opportunity to let things go. To release whatever I need to get rid of and fling it into the far reaches of the blogosphere.
What do I need to let go of? What do I need to fling away? Oh, it’s just a jumble, a mixture. Partly my fault, partly part of being a human being, I suppose. Ugh. Awkwardness. Trying to keep things under a smooth veneer of “I’m fine.” Trying to be natural, but inside, wringing my cold, clammy hands together. Trying to smile, but inside on the verge of tears. Is it anyone’s fault? No, not anyone else’s. And now that I think about it, not my own, either. It’s just a part of the circumstances of life. When life puts you in a circumstance, what else is there to do but behave and think and feel like any other normal human being in the same circumstance? Sigh. No, it’s not that bad, really. I wonder how many psychiatrists would eventually lose their jobs if blogging were prescribed instead of Prozac?
Now my mind is drifting back to this morning. To spending time with my family and opening gifts and reflecting on all the wonderful things God has done for us this year. He’s greater than any circumstance of life.
What do I need to let go of? What do I need to fling away? Oh, it’s just a jumble, a mixture. Partly my fault, partly part of being a human being, I suppose. Ugh. Awkwardness. Trying to keep things under a smooth veneer of “I’m fine.” Trying to be natural, but inside, wringing my cold, clammy hands together. Trying to smile, but inside on the verge of tears. Is it anyone’s fault? No, not anyone else’s. And now that I think about it, not my own, either. It’s just a part of the circumstances of life. When life puts you in a circumstance, what else is there to do but behave and think and feel like any other normal human being in the same circumstance? Sigh. No, it’s not that bad, really. I wonder how many psychiatrists would eventually lose their jobs if blogging were prescribed instead of Prozac?
Now my mind is drifting back to this morning. To spending time with my family and opening gifts and reflecting on all the wonderful things God has done for us this year. He’s greater than any circumstance of life.
Saturday, December 24, 2005
Christmas and Haruki Murakami
What does the day that our culture has chosen to celebrate the birth of Christ have anything to do with a contemporary Japanese writer?
I’m always trying to make connections in my mind. I have this romantic (not as in hearts and roses, but you know, the other meaning of “romantic” that has to do with artistic and literary movements—well, I guess it could be hearts and roses too, depending on how you look at it) idea that things, no matter how seemingly unrelated, are somehow connected.
It’s really interesting. I guess because I read a Haruki Murakami novel last Christmas break too. Maybe that’s how the connection made its initial appearance. Last year I read Dance, Dance, Dance. This year I’m reading The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle.
Just yesterday I was musing over a cup of decaf coffee that in our lifetime, we are only allowed to see the world from our own point of view. For example, could I ever really understand my younger brother? No, I reasoned, because I could never be him. I could never know what it’s like to be a male (I mean, not that I would ever want to be a male—I’m pretty happy being a woman). I don’t know what it feels like to be a middle child. I haven’t had the same experiences as he has had in his life nor fought the same struggles. As much as I claim to know my brother, my flesh and blood brother that I grew up with, could I ever really truly understand him? Then I thought about people in foreign countries, like Third World countries who just barely eke out an existence every day. I couldn’t fathom wondering if I were going to eat every day I woke up. I could never know what it’s like to be Chinese. To speak a tonal language where much of meaning depends on pitch and to write characters to convey meaning instead of like a phonetic system. The idea fascinates me for some reason. That we can never be anyone but ourselves. And we can’t have a true understanding of the world outside of our own understanding of it.
But then, let me rewind to last week. I was pondering the word Bildungsroman. It’s a German word used to describe a genre of literature that is just a fancy way of saying ‘a coming of age novel.’ I got to thinking about Bildungsroman because I was searching in the archives of my blog for a particular entry and I happened upon a haunting poem that I posted by a brooding turn-of the-century German poet named Rainer Maria Rilke. And then Rilke’s German-ness made me think of Bildungsroman, a word that one of my rather wordy English professors used when we began discussion of some novel we had to read: “So, what genre would you say this novel falls under? Is it a satire, a semi-autobiography, a Bildungsroman?”
Now, fast-forward. I checked out The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle by Haruki Murakami from the library earlier this week. On the front inside flap, I read that among other things, this novel is “a bildungsroman about a compassionate young man’s search for his own identity as well as that of his nation.” I suppose the word is so common that it can appear now in un-capitalized, un-italicized form. Connection. Then, the first paragraph of Chapter 2: “Is it possible, finally, for one human being to achieve perfect understanding of another? We can invest enormous time and energy in serious efforts to know another person, but in the end, how close are we able to come to that person’s essence? We convince ourselves that we know the other person well, but do we really know anything important about anyone?” Back to those musings over decaf coffee. Connection.
So, today I sat, comfortably curled in a chair, reading Haruki Murakami during Christmas time, the air thick with déjà vu.
Merry Christmas, everybody, and Happy Birthday, Jesus!
I’m always trying to make connections in my mind. I have this romantic (not as in hearts and roses, but you know, the other meaning of “romantic” that has to do with artistic and literary movements—well, I guess it could be hearts and roses too, depending on how you look at it) idea that things, no matter how seemingly unrelated, are somehow connected.
It’s really interesting. I guess because I read a Haruki Murakami novel last Christmas break too. Maybe that’s how the connection made its initial appearance. Last year I read Dance, Dance, Dance. This year I’m reading The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle.
Just yesterday I was musing over a cup of decaf coffee that in our lifetime, we are only allowed to see the world from our own point of view. For example, could I ever really understand my younger brother? No, I reasoned, because I could never be him. I could never know what it’s like to be a male (I mean, not that I would ever want to be a male—I’m pretty happy being a woman). I don’t know what it feels like to be a middle child. I haven’t had the same experiences as he has had in his life nor fought the same struggles. As much as I claim to know my brother, my flesh and blood brother that I grew up with, could I ever really truly understand him? Then I thought about people in foreign countries, like Third World countries who just barely eke out an existence every day. I couldn’t fathom wondering if I were going to eat every day I woke up. I could never know what it’s like to be Chinese. To speak a tonal language where much of meaning depends on pitch and to write characters to convey meaning instead of like a phonetic system. The idea fascinates me for some reason. That we can never be anyone but ourselves. And we can’t have a true understanding of the world outside of our own understanding of it.
But then, let me rewind to last week. I was pondering the word Bildungsroman. It’s a German word used to describe a genre of literature that is just a fancy way of saying ‘a coming of age novel.’ I got to thinking about Bildungsroman because I was searching in the archives of my blog for a particular entry and I happened upon a haunting poem that I posted by a brooding turn-of the-century German poet named Rainer Maria Rilke. And then Rilke’s German-ness made me think of Bildungsroman, a word that one of my rather wordy English professors used when we began discussion of some novel we had to read: “So, what genre would you say this novel falls under? Is it a satire, a semi-autobiography, a Bildungsroman?”
Now, fast-forward. I checked out The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle by Haruki Murakami from the library earlier this week. On the front inside flap, I read that among other things, this novel is “a bildungsroman about a compassionate young man’s search for his own identity as well as that of his nation.” I suppose the word is so common that it can appear now in un-capitalized, un-italicized form. Connection. Then, the first paragraph of Chapter 2: “Is it possible, finally, for one human being to achieve perfect understanding of another? We can invest enormous time and energy in serious efforts to know another person, but in the end, how close are we able to come to that person’s essence? We convince ourselves that we know the other person well, but do we really know anything important about anyone?” Back to those musings over decaf coffee. Connection.
So, today I sat, comfortably curled in a chair, reading Haruki Murakami during Christmas time, the air thick with déjà vu.
Merry Christmas, everybody, and Happy Birthday, Jesus!
Wednesday, December 21, 2005
Bliss
Bliss is not having to go to work in the morning. Bliss is having the choice to sleep in for as long as you want. Bliss is having the opportunity to take long, leisurely showers without brothers yelling for you to get out and stop using up the hot water. Bliss is having time in the morning to go to Chick-fil-a and get a much-craved-after chicken biscuit breakfast combo with orange juice instead of coffee. Bliss is having the time and money to get your family and friends special things for Christmas. Bliss is sashaying around the house blasting Louis Armstrong's "Is That You Santa Claus?" while decorating the Christmas tree. Bliss is having time to read for pleasure. Bliss is having the opportunity to go to my favorite place in Montgomery of all time--The Alabama Shakespeare Festival--and to enjoy a production with friends.
I truly believe I have found my calling as a teacher. There aren't many other professions that allow the professionals so many opportunities to have moments of bliss. I know the kids are overjoyed for their two-and-a-half weeks off, but believe me, the teachers get pretty giddy about it too, and I'm savoring every moment of my having-to-do-nothingness.
I truly believe I have found my calling as a teacher. There aren't many other professions that allow the professionals so many opportunities to have moments of bliss. I know the kids are overjoyed for their two-and-a-half weeks off, but believe me, the teachers get pretty giddy about it too, and I'm savoring every moment of my having-to-do-nothingness.
Saturday, December 17, 2005
The Banquet Babe Speaks
Now, I don't believe that I am a conceited person. Many times, after appraising myself in the mirror, the results are unsatisfactory. But today was one of the few times I thought I looked pretty good.
Okay, okay, before you think my head has increased in size to near exploding point, let me give a little background. Tonight was our church's annual Christmas banquet. I've been looking forward to this one especially because I haven't been to one the past 3 or so years--when I was a Resident Assistant at UA, I usually wasn't able to leave campus in time to make it. But since my college and RA years are over, this time I was able. Secondly, the Christmas banquet is like the only time of the year that I can get super dressed up. I love getting super dressed up. But since I'm not like this . . . socialite or whatever that goes to balls and numerous social galas all the time, the Christmas banquet is like my chance. Thirdly, I took special care to do the whole accessorizing thing just right. I wore a long, red, short-sleeved, mock-turtleneck dress with a black sweaterish top over it with (fake) fur around the collar. Since I had the fake black fur thing going on, I had to accessorize accordingly. I found the perfect black purse that had kind of feathery fur lining the top. I borrowed some perfect black shoes with the furriness thing. I scoured hair accessory stores and finally settled on a black flower surrounded by soft fluffy black fur. And to bring out the red a little more, I pinned on one of my favorite pins--a little one of Santa and Mrs. Claus under the mistletoe. I did my hair in my favorite curly, tendrily up-do. I was ready.
I will admit, however, that negativity tried to slide its ugly way in. It said: Why are you going through all this trouble trying to fix yourself all up like you're trying to impress someone? Why are you going through all of this trouble trying to look nice when there will be no one there to really appreciate it? Sure, a few church folks will say 'Oh, you look nice,' but you know what I'm talking about. Come on, who are you kidding? Your labor is in vain.
But I refused to let it lodge. I told negativity to chill, and I had a fantabulous time. I smiled my big toothy smile (I know my teeth are huge, but it's all good) and took loads of pictures by the pretty little Christmas tree afterwards. And just for that, negativity, for trying to ruin my time at the banquet, I hereby crown myself the Banquet Babe, and I rebuke you forever and always. Take that!
Oh, and pictures will be forthcoming.
Okay, okay, before you think my head has increased in size to near exploding point, let me give a little background. Tonight was our church's annual Christmas banquet. I've been looking forward to this one especially because I haven't been to one the past 3 or so years--when I was a Resident Assistant at UA, I usually wasn't able to leave campus in time to make it. But since my college and RA years are over, this time I was able. Secondly, the Christmas banquet is like the only time of the year that I can get super dressed up. I love getting super dressed up. But since I'm not like this . . . socialite or whatever that goes to balls and numerous social galas all the time, the Christmas banquet is like my chance. Thirdly, I took special care to do the whole accessorizing thing just right. I wore a long, red, short-sleeved, mock-turtleneck dress with a black sweaterish top over it with (fake) fur around the collar. Since I had the fake black fur thing going on, I had to accessorize accordingly. I found the perfect black purse that had kind of feathery fur lining the top. I borrowed some perfect black shoes with the furriness thing. I scoured hair accessory stores and finally settled on a black flower surrounded by soft fluffy black fur. And to bring out the red a little more, I pinned on one of my favorite pins--a little one of Santa and Mrs. Claus under the mistletoe. I did my hair in my favorite curly, tendrily up-do. I was ready.
I will admit, however, that negativity tried to slide its ugly way in. It said: Why are you going through all this trouble trying to fix yourself all up like you're trying to impress someone? Why are you going through all of this trouble trying to look nice when there will be no one there to really appreciate it? Sure, a few church folks will say 'Oh, you look nice,' but you know what I'm talking about. Come on, who are you kidding? Your labor is in vain.
But I refused to let it lodge. I told negativity to chill, and I had a fantabulous time. I smiled my big toothy smile (I know my teeth are huge, but it's all good) and took loads of pictures by the pretty little Christmas tree afterwards. And just for that, negativity, for trying to ruin my time at the banquet, I hereby crown myself the Banquet Babe, and I rebuke you forever and always. Take that!
Oh, and pictures will be forthcoming.
Tuesday, December 13, 2005
Subcultures
I often take pity on myself and bewail the fact that it seems that I don’t fit in anywhere and that no one understands me, etc. Those things are, at the core, untrue. I realize that, and I know that those self-piteous complaints are old and tired.
But there is a new knowledge awakening in my brain. (No, not of the Kate Chopin variety, thank God.) That is that there are chunks of me that fit into certain slots. Not that I’m separated into slots, but maybe I’m more like a Venn diagram, and the circles of the different categories or whatever interlock to create who I am.
We’re all members of varying subcultures.
sub'·cul· ture n. 1. a distinctive social group within a larger social group 2. its cultural patterns
I don’t completely fit into the conventional version of each one, of course, but I will admit that parts of me do fit in somewhere. Something that I love about subcultures is that each one has its own specialized jargon that wouldn’t make sense to those without it. Part of belonging is understanding the significance of the lingo. Examples:
The black female subculture
Biology pretty much decided my inclusion in this one. One subculture concept that is extremely common is the term “new growth.” Now, to most people that would seem to be something positive, especially when referring to hair. But anyone in the know would understand that “Look at all the new growth in that girl’s hair” is not a compliment. Among those of us who have relaxed hair, the “new growth” is the natural hair that begins to grow in at the roots. If you get to the point where you have too much new growth, that means it’s time for a “retouch,” otherwise known as the application of a chemical crème at the roots of the hair in order to straighten it.
The Apostolic/Pentecostal subculture
Biology was not a factor in my inclusion in this one, but it may seem the case for the so-called “generational” members. Now, there is so much specialized lingo up in this one, it would be an exercise in futility to try and enumerate. And some of it is so convoluted that it confounds sometimes even the members. But a simple example is the term “shout.” Now, to your average Joe, “shout” means just what it appears, a synonym for “yell,” right? However, the question “Did you see Sis. Susie shouting tonight?” indicates that it involves movement as well as sound. For those in the know, “shout” is a simplified way of saying “scream, jump up and down, do a Holy Ghost dance, spin around a couple of times, cry, and/or fall out speaking in tongues.” Only a visit to a jumpin’ Sunday night service would do it justice.
The student “college kid” subculture
Alright, alright, I’m not a member of this one anymore, but I can still relate. Here’s a quick vocab list:
cereal – one of the major food groups
next semester – when you promise yourself you’re going to do better
studying – looking over notes the night before a cumulative final
dinner – free pizza at an activity put on by the Residence Hall Association
office hours – a time during which you can never find your professor when you need him/her
laundromat – your parents’ washer and dryer on the weekends you go home
So next time I start pulling out the streamers and balloons for a pity party, I’ll think of subcultures and Venn diagrams to counteract it.
But there is a new knowledge awakening in my brain. (No, not of the Kate Chopin variety, thank God.) That is that there are chunks of me that fit into certain slots. Not that I’m separated into slots, but maybe I’m more like a Venn diagram, and the circles of the different categories or whatever interlock to create who I am.
We’re all members of varying subcultures.
sub'·cul· ture n. 1. a distinctive social group within a larger social group 2. its cultural patterns
I don’t completely fit into the conventional version of each one, of course, but I will admit that parts of me do fit in somewhere. Something that I love about subcultures is that each one has its own specialized jargon that wouldn’t make sense to those without it. Part of belonging is understanding the significance of the lingo. Examples:
The black female subculture
Biology pretty much decided my inclusion in this one. One subculture concept that is extremely common is the term “new growth.” Now, to most people that would seem to be something positive, especially when referring to hair. But anyone in the know would understand that “Look at all the new growth in that girl’s hair” is not a compliment. Among those of us who have relaxed hair, the “new growth” is the natural hair that begins to grow in at the roots. If you get to the point where you have too much new growth, that means it’s time for a “retouch,” otherwise known as the application of a chemical crème at the roots of the hair in order to straighten it.
The Apostolic/Pentecostal subculture
Biology was not a factor in my inclusion in this one, but it may seem the case for the so-called “generational” members. Now, there is so much specialized lingo up in this one, it would be an exercise in futility to try and enumerate. And some of it is so convoluted that it confounds sometimes even the members. But a simple example is the term “shout.” Now, to your average Joe, “shout” means just what it appears, a synonym for “yell,” right? However, the question “Did you see Sis. Susie shouting tonight?” indicates that it involves movement as well as sound. For those in the know, “shout” is a simplified way of saying “scream, jump up and down, do a Holy Ghost dance, spin around a couple of times, cry, and/or fall out speaking in tongues.” Only a visit to a jumpin’ Sunday night service would do it justice.
The student “college kid” subculture
Alright, alright, I’m not a member of this one anymore, but I can still relate. Here’s a quick vocab list:
cereal – one of the major food groups
next semester – when you promise yourself you’re going to do better
studying – looking over notes the night before a cumulative final
dinner – free pizza at an activity put on by the Residence Hall Association
office hours – a time during which you can never find your professor when you need him/her
laundromat – your parents’ washer and dryer on the weekends you go home
So next time I start pulling out the streamers and balloons for a pity party, I’ll think of subcultures and Venn diagrams to counteract it.
Monday, December 12, 2005
In the Midst of Ouches
And Samuel said, Hath the LORD [as great] delight in burnt offerings and sacrifices, as in obeying the voice of the LORD? Behold, to obey [is] better than sacrifice, [and] to hearken than the fat of rams. -- 1 Samuel 15:22
Wherefore seeing we also are compassed about with so great a cloud of witnesses, let us lay aside every weight, and the sin which doth so easily beset [us], and let us run with patience the race that is set before us. -- Hebrews 12:1
Obedience really hurts sometimes.
This is not the first time I have learned this lesson. Some of the times have been more difficult than others, however. But what I've also realized is that when you suck it up and obey, God will honor it. And I have learned that whatever you give up for God can never compare to what He can and will give in exchange.
I've also come to the realization that not everything God may want you to give up is something blatantly bad, evil, sinful, what-have-you. Hebrews 12:1 says to "lay aside every weight." The scripture makes a distinction between the "weight" and the "sin which doth so easily beset," therefore, the "weight" is not necessarily a sin. The weight is not something that has the devil written all over it. It is not necessarily something that will give you a one-way ticket to the pit. But perhaps it is something that is ever so slightly hindering you. Perhaps it is one of the little things that is weighing you down and is preventing you from progressing in your walk with God.
I've been convicted to give up some favorite things, and it hurt to give them up. But though I held out a little while--I knew for a while that maybe I needed to have done this long before now--ultimately, I couldn't let anything take precedence over what I felt that God was leading me to do, even in the midst of ouches.
Wherefore seeing we also are compassed about with so great a cloud of witnesses, let us lay aside every weight, and the sin which doth so easily beset [us], and let us run with patience the race that is set before us. -- Hebrews 12:1
Obedience really hurts sometimes.
This is not the first time I have learned this lesson. Some of the times have been more difficult than others, however. But what I've also realized is that when you suck it up and obey, God will honor it. And I have learned that whatever you give up for God can never compare to what He can and will give in exchange.
I've also come to the realization that not everything God may want you to give up is something blatantly bad, evil, sinful, what-have-you. Hebrews 12:1 says to "lay aside every weight." The scripture makes a distinction between the "weight" and the "sin which doth so easily beset," therefore, the "weight" is not necessarily a sin. The weight is not something that has the devil written all over it. It is not necessarily something that will give you a one-way ticket to the pit. But perhaps it is something that is ever so slightly hindering you. Perhaps it is one of the little things that is weighing you down and is preventing you from progressing in your walk with God.
I've been convicted to give up some favorite things, and it hurt to give them up. But though I held out a little while--I knew for a while that maybe I needed to have done this long before now--ultimately, I couldn't let anything take precedence over what I felt that God was leading me to do, even in the midst of ouches.
Thursday, December 08, 2005
The Will, Revisited
A while ago, I wrote a post about the elusive Will of God. I never really came to a conclusion about the whole thing. However, I read a blog entry posted by a young lady whose blog I frequent often and was absolutely blown away by the clarity of her thoughts on the subject. It is definitely worth your time to read. It just made so much sense. I now have a fresh take on what it really means to be in the Will. Check it out here.
Tuesday, December 06, 2005
The Writer
One of my best friends, Homegirl, and I have this running joke. We always remind each other that we could never marry a writer because it just wouldn’t do to be with someone who would be more dramatic and emotional than we are. Of course, this writer we are talking about is a stereotypical one. He wears black-rimmed glasses, is a caffeine-a-holic, is always brooding, and always intensely releasing the agonies of his soul through his writing. Here is a fully fleshed-out account of the content of our joke:
Brooding in a dimly lit corner in the study of an apartment, in a student-ghetto complex filled with graduate students, sits the writer.
The only light in the room consists of the glow of his laptop screen and the streetlight that shines through the window, creating an eerie cast over his pale skin and black-rimmed glasses. He runs a hand over his unruly dark hair and sighs deeply as he stares at the blank Word document screen before him. The cursor blinks unceasingly, taunting him.
He rubs at his bag-laden eyes, red-rimmed from lack of sleep. Scattered about are empty venti-sized Starbucks cups, drained of coffee he could barely afford to drink. He is trying to do what he supposedly does best—write. But inspiration is lacking. His muse has been uncomfortably silent. He has nearly spent himself, trying to reach into the depths of his tormented soul—tormented by the same demons that torment writers and artists and musicians and all those of the creative bent—to draw out that one nugget of raw, unadulterated impetus that he could always depend upon to get him going, to get his thoughts rushing from brain to fingertips like adrenaline-laced blood through his veins.
But lately, he has turned up nothing. Every attempt he makes seems futile, and, there, in the solitude of his study, mesmerized by the emptiness of the Word document, he finds himself sinking deeper and deeper into the abysmal abyss of losing his writer-identity forever.
A timid knock at the door jolts him into existence. He remembers his girlfriend said she would come over at about this time. She was a waif of a thing, almost like the wind could blow her away, he thinks, remembering the time they met at the reading held by the Creative Writing department. He could feel her eyes burning into him as he read an excerpt from his unpublished novel. Though she had the air of a complacent child at times, her intensity about things, about life, was what had initially attracted him. But no, she is not what he needs now. Not right now. Not when his grasp on the craft that has become a part of him is so weak. Not right now, he almost says aloud as he opens the door.
“I brought you some peanut butter cookies,” she whispers. “Your favorite.” She hands him a freezer bag bulging with them. He takes them and mumbles a greeting as he stands back to let her inside. It is as if he forgets she is even there as he goes back into his study to take up staring at the empty screen again. She cautiously follows him. “Are you uhh . . . going to try some?” she ventures. His back is to her as he sits slumped before the computer. No answer. “Baby, what’s wrong? You can tell me.” Her voice is soothing, almost musical, and she lays a soft hand upon his shoulder. He stiffens.
“No.” She doesn’t realize that his “no” is not really a refusal to tell her what is troubling him. At this moment, it’s more of a refusal to entertain any living entity in any manner whatsoever.
“Oh, it’s okay, baby, you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. It just seems as if--”
He suddenly lifts his hand to silence her. “No . . . not now,” He says brusquely. Doesn’t she understand? His identity is slipping away from him and all she has to give in response are empty words and peanut butter cookies? He just needs to be left alone.
Tears well up in her eyes. How can he just shut her out like that? She has always been there for him, been his emotional support. She was always able to calm him, to soothe his mental anguish. “But honey, I--”
“NO! LEAVE ME ALONE!” He spins around in his chair to face her. Though his voice is harsh and bellowing, one could sense a tinge of desperate pleading in it.
She flees the apartment, sobbing, and slams the door behind her.
Brooding in a dimly lit corner in the study of an apartment, in a student-ghetto complex filled with graduate students, sits the writer, alone.
(That was for you, Homegirl. Love ya much!)
Brooding in a dimly lit corner in the study of an apartment, in a student-ghetto complex filled with graduate students, sits the writer.
The only light in the room consists of the glow of his laptop screen and the streetlight that shines through the window, creating an eerie cast over his pale skin and black-rimmed glasses. He runs a hand over his unruly dark hair and sighs deeply as he stares at the blank Word document screen before him. The cursor blinks unceasingly, taunting him.
He rubs at his bag-laden eyes, red-rimmed from lack of sleep. Scattered about are empty venti-sized Starbucks cups, drained of coffee he could barely afford to drink. He is trying to do what he supposedly does best—write. But inspiration is lacking. His muse has been uncomfortably silent. He has nearly spent himself, trying to reach into the depths of his tormented soul—tormented by the same demons that torment writers and artists and musicians and all those of the creative bent—to draw out that one nugget of raw, unadulterated impetus that he could always depend upon to get him going, to get his thoughts rushing from brain to fingertips like adrenaline-laced blood through his veins.
But lately, he has turned up nothing. Every attempt he makes seems futile, and, there, in the solitude of his study, mesmerized by the emptiness of the Word document, he finds himself sinking deeper and deeper into the abysmal abyss of losing his writer-identity forever.
A timid knock at the door jolts him into existence. He remembers his girlfriend said she would come over at about this time. She was a waif of a thing, almost like the wind could blow her away, he thinks, remembering the time they met at the reading held by the Creative Writing department. He could feel her eyes burning into him as he read an excerpt from his unpublished novel. Though she had the air of a complacent child at times, her intensity about things, about life, was what had initially attracted him. But no, she is not what he needs now. Not right now. Not when his grasp on the craft that has become a part of him is so weak. Not right now, he almost says aloud as he opens the door.
“I brought you some peanut butter cookies,” she whispers. “Your favorite.” She hands him a freezer bag bulging with them. He takes them and mumbles a greeting as he stands back to let her inside. It is as if he forgets she is even there as he goes back into his study to take up staring at the empty screen again. She cautiously follows him. “Are you uhh . . . going to try some?” she ventures. His back is to her as he sits slumped before the computer. No answer. “Baby, what’s wrong? You can tell me.” Her voice is soothing, almost musical, and she lays a soft hand upon his shoulder. He stiffens.
“No.” She doesn’t realize that his “no” is not really a refusal to tell her what is troubling him. At this moment, it’s more of a refusal to entertain any living entity in any manner whatsoever.
“Oh, it’s okay, baby, you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. It just seems as if--”
He suddenly lifts his hand to silence her. “No . . . not now,” He says brusquely. Doesn’t she understand? His identity is slipping away from him and all she has to give in response are empty words and peanut butter cookies? He just needs to be left alone.
Tears well up in her eyes. How can he just shut her out like that? She has always been there for him, been his emotional support. She was always able to calm him, to soothe his mental anguish. “But honey, I--”
“NO! LEAVE ME ALONE!” He spins around in his chair to face her. Though his voice is harsh and bellowing, one could sense a tinge of desperate pleading in it.
She flees the apartment, sobbing, and slams the door behind her.
Brooding in a dimly lit corner in the study of an apartment, in a student-ghetto complex filled with graduate students, sits the writer, alone.
(That was for you, Homegirl. Love ya much!)
Saturday, December 03, 2005
Moody
It happened some time after I got home from work yesterday. The gray clouds descended. I don't know why or how, exactly, but they did, and now I'm waiting it out, trying not to annoy those around me.
I'm moody. At least I'm honest and I recognize this little . . . quirk of mine for what it is. Though I will add that many times it is not simply a quirk of my personality but one that assaults all of those of the female gender during certain times more than others. Moving on.
It is during these times when my gaze is locked into space. I don't want to be touched or bothered by anyone. I get extra mad when people cut in front of me while I'm driving. I don't feel like going out and doing spontaneous stuff. I cry easily. I want to clean up the kitchen, scour the bathroom, wash clothes and bedsheets in a frenzy. I want to sit on the floor and listen to Coldplay. I want to curl up in the corner and read. I want to sleep. Man, I got a lot of sleep last night. I went to bed at 9:30. It was probably much needed.
During times like this, my brothers always frustratedly tell me that they feel sorry for whoever marries me. It used to bother me and make me feel even worse. But now that I think about it, I sort of feel sorry for whoever marries me too when I'm in a moody mood. I mean, what is a guy supposed to do when he has a woman who begins to cry inconsolably about nothing?
Oh, well. Writing this has helped me get it out of my system a little. In the end, I know it's all good. This too shall pass. Stop sulking and count my blessings. I know, I know. In my mind, I know. But somehow, it doesn't stop the sighs from escaping.
I'm moody. At least I'm honest and I recognize this little . . . quirk of mine for what it is. Though I will add that many times it is not simply a quirk of my personality but one that assaults all of those of the female gender during certain times more than others. Moving on.
It is during these times when my gaze is locked into space. I don't want to be touched or bothered by anyone. I get extra mad when people cut in front of me while I'm driving. I don't feel like going out and doing spontaneous stuff. I cry easily. I want to clean up the kitchen, scour the bathroom, wash clothes and bedsheets in a frenzy. I want to sit on the floor and listen to Coldplay. I want to curl up in the corner and read. I want to sleep. Man, I got a lot of sleep last night. I went to bed at 9:30. It was probably much needed.
During times like this, my brothers always frustratedly tell me that they feel sorry for whoever marries me. It used to bother me and make me feel even worse. But now that I think about it, I sort of feel sorry for whoever marries me too when I'm in a moody mood. I mean, what is a guy supposed to do when he has a woman who begins to cry inconsolably about nothing?
Oh, well. Writing this has helped me get it out of my system a little. In the end, I know it's all good. This too shall pass. Stop sulking and count my blessings. I know, I know. In my mind, I know. But somehow, it doesn't stop the sighs from escaping.
Friday, December 02, 2005
The End of an Era
I knew the time was coming. I just didn't know when.
I still check my old Bamamail (University of AL student and faculty email system) every once in a while, and, with much dismay, I received the following message today (an excerpt):
"Our records indicate that your account on the bama.ua.edu system is flagged for removal and deletion. This is a normal purging process which is designed to remove accounts belonging to individuals who are no longer authorized to use the bama.ua.edu system. The bama.ua.edu system is for current students, faculty and staff at The University of Alabama. According to our records, you are no longer a University of Alabama faculty or staff member, active student, or retiree. Therefore, your account has been scheduled for removal and deletion on December 20, 2005."
A small part of me died after reading that. I am scheduled to be purged from the University of Alabama system forever and always. Whatever evidence remains on the bama server of my existence as a student for 5 years of UA life will be wiped out with a few keystrokes and clicks of a mouse. I am no longer an active student. I am no longer authorized to use Bamamail. My exit from the college world into the so-called real world is about to be sealed and finalized. There is no turning back.
Let it be known hereupon, that on the twentieth day of December, in the year of our Lord two-thousand five, Chantell Irene Smith will be permanently erased from the electronic memory of the University of Alabama. This momentous occasion marks the end of an era, and the subject is hereby welcomed into the world called real.
So-long, Bamamail. You were the conduit through which many a professorial-crush-laden email was sent. You were there through every heart-pounding checking of email, and you were the only witness to my disappointment at finding an empty inbox. You helped me keep in touch with family and friends near and far while I was away at school. You archived many a sentimental message and many a friend-sent poem, and you were the proof that I was an enrolled student which helped me get discounted plane tickets to Spain. We had some good times together, didn't we? I'm only sorry that it has to end this way. Perhaps you will forget that I ever existed come December 20th, but know that I will never forget you and that you will always have a special place in my heart.
There are just some things Gmail can't replace.
I still check my old Bamamail (University of AL student and faculty email system) every once in a while, and, with much dismay, I received the following message today (an excerpt):
"Our records indicate that your account on the bama.ua.edu system is flagged for removal and deletion. This is a normal purging process which is designed to remove accounts belonging to individuals who are no longer authorized to use the bama.ua.edu system. The bama.ua.edu system is for current students, faculty and staff at The University of Alabama. According to our records, you are no longer a University of Alabama faculty or staff member, active student, or retiree. Therefore, your account has been scheduled for removal and deletion on December 20, 2005."
A small part of me died after reading that. I am scheduled to be purged from the University of Alabama system forever and always. Whatever evidence remains on the bama server of my existence as a student for 5 years of UA life will be wiped out with a few keystrokes and clicks of a mouse. I am no longer an active student. I am no longer authorized to use Bamamail. My exit from the college world into the so-called real world is about to be sealed and finalized. There is no turning back.
Let it be known hereupon, that on the twentieth day of December, in the year of our Lord two-thousand five, Chantell Irene Smith will be permanently erased from the electronic memory of the University of Alabama. This momentous occasion marks the end of an era, and the subject is hereby welcomed into the world called real.
So-long, Bamamail. You were the conduit through which many a professorial-crush-laden email was sent. You were there through every heart-pounding checking of email, and you were the only witness to my disappointment at finding an empty inbox. You helped me keep in touch with family and friends near and far while I was away at school. You archived many a sentimental message and many a friend-sent poem, and you were the proof that I was an enrolled student which helped me get discounted plane tickets to Spain. We had some good times together, didn't we? I'm only sorry that it has to end this way. Perhaps you will forget that I ever existed come December 20th, but know that I will never forget you and that you will always have a special place in my heart.
There are just some things Gmail can't replace.
Monday, November 28, 2005
Turkey Day Wrap-Up
Ah, all the turkey has been eaten. All that's left is a hollow carcass of what once was a living, moving, gobbling bird. That last bit of cranberry sauce, downed on the sly. I'm remembering that corn pudding and those collard greens that I savored with a bit of hot sauce. (Some a y'all know what I'm talkin' 'bout.) Anyway, enough with the enumeration of Thanksgiving foods.
However, my household has no leftovers because we had the fantabulous opportunity to visit some relatives in sunny California! This was the first time I had ever been to that side of the US. There are loads of palm trees just like in the movies. And on the way to my uncle's house, we saw the Pacific Ocean. The western edge of the United States.
Okay, 'nuff said. I had loads of fun and spent some time with family that I don't see very often. My little cousins are the cutest kids alive. Here's a pic so you can soak in the familyness.
However, my household has no leftovers because we had the fantabulous opportunity to visit some relatives in sunny California! This was the first time I had ever been to that side of the US. There are loads of palm trees just like in the movies. And on the way to my uncle's house, we saw the Pacific Ocean. The western edge of the United States.
Okay, 'nuff said. I had loads of fun and spent some time with family that I don't see very often. My little cousins are the cutest kids alive. Here's a pic so you can soak in the familyness.
Monday, November 21, 2005
Shout-out
I received a flattering shout-out via a letter to the editor in none other than my fave webzine of all time, ninetyandnine.com. The author of this letter? Well, a fellow IQ Forum attendee from my little St. Louis excursion last month. Check it out here.
His letter is the very first in the lineup. If you click on the title of the letter, it will link to the original article I wrote that he refers to. I will add a slight disclaimer (a notorious habit of mine) if you happen to have time and intentions to read it—one may note a bit of feminine ire poking through. But it was, I believe, justifiably felt ire at the time that I wrote it. And apparently, I wasn’t the only one because after it ran, it got a lot of “right ons” from other women who wrote in. It even inspired a guy to write a counter-article, or rather, a guy version of mine.
At any rate, my day was greatly made after reading that this morning. Said letter-writer scores 100 points for that one!
His letter is the very first in the lineup. If you click on the title of the letter, it will link to the original article I wrote that he refers to. I will add a slight disclaimer (a notorious habit of mine) if you happen to have time and intentions to read it—one may note a bit of feminine ire poking through. But it was, I believe, justifiably felt ire at the time that I wrote it. And apparently, I wasn’t the only one because after it ran, it got a lot of “right ons” from other women who wrote in. It even inspired a guy to write a counter-article, or rather, a guy version of mine.
At any rate, my day was greatly made after reading that this morning. Said letter-writer scores 100 points for that one!
Sunday, November 20, 2005
I Was a Mom Today
for about 7 hours to a 7-year-old and a 4-year-old while the real mom and dad went to church leadership training and ran other errands.
I came prepared with a little craft for them to do. Imagine a table spread with newspapers covering it, paint, those little googly eyes, and multi-colored Popsicle sticks, among other things, scattered about.
I also came bearing a recently-bought-from-the St.James-book-fair-book, A Treasury of Curious George. It has eight stories of my favorite little mischievous monkey, and the kids tell me he is their favorite, too. Imagine a full lap and little arms and legs snuggled up against you, ears listening in wonder as you read the phrase “George was curious” for at least the 10th time.
Settling arguments, explaining “why,” weathering little temper tantrums, playing house, giving hugs, drying tears, boiling pots of spaghetti—is this the stuff motherhood is made of?
I let my mind wander as I put the leftover spaghetti sauce in a Tupperware bowl (they wanted their noodles plain)—am I cut out for it? I like to think and hope that I am. I already have possible names and ideas for that possible phase in my life in the uncertain future. But I guess I realized even more today how all-consuming it must be to introduce a life into the world. More than that, an eternal soul. To nurture that soul and to be responsible for it.
There is a part of me that craves that simple kind of life Gwen Stefani sang about before she went solo, and for some reason, I used to be reluctant to admit it. But how will this craving ever be reconciled with my career woman, travel-the-world bent? Why do I always feel like I’m going to be forced to choose one day? Maybe because I will.
At least it’s not a decision I’ll have to make anytime soon, despite my text-messaged marriage proposal. lol. I will continue to ignore subsequent messages, voice mails and phone calls. There is no earthly reason to respond to any of that in any manner whatsoever unless I would want to prove to him that indeed I am the blithering idiot that he must’ve taken me to be when the ludicrous idea first entered his mind that somehow I would be his ticket to legality in this country. Oh, well. Así es la vida.
I came prepared with a little craft for them to do. Imagine a table spread with newspapers covering it, paint, those little googly eyes, and multi-colored Popsicle sticks, among other things, scattered about.
I also came bearing a recently-bought-from-the St.James-book-fair-book, A Treasury of Curious George. It has eight stories of my favorite little mischievous monkey, and the kids tell me he is their favorite, too. Imagine a full lap and little arms and legs snuggled up against you, ears listening in wonder as you read the phrase “George was curious” for at least the 10th time.
Settling arguments, explaining “why,” weathering little temper tantrums, playing house, giving hugs, drying tears, boiling pots of spaghetti—is this the stuff motherhood is made of?
I let my mind wander as I put the leftover spaghetti sauce in a Tupperware bowl (they wanted their noodles plain)—am I cut out for it? I like to think and hope that I am. I already have possible names and ideas for that possible phase in my life in the uncertain future. But I guess I realized even more today how all-consuming it must be to introduce a life into the world. More than that, an eternal soul. To nurture that soul and to be responsible for it.
There is a part of me that craves that simple kind of life Gwen Stefani sang about before she went solo, and for some reason, I used to be reluctant to admit it. But how will this craving ever be reconciled with my career woman, travel-the-world bent? Why do I always feel like I’m going to be forced to choose one day? Maybe because I will.
At least it’s not a decision I’ll have to make anytime soon, despite my text-messaged marriage proposal. lol. I will continue to ignore subsequent messages, voice mails and phone calls. There is no earthly reason to respond to any of that in any manner whatsoever unless I would want to prove to him that indeed I am the blithering idiot that he must’ve taken me to be when the ludicrous idea first entered his mind that somehow I would be his ticket to legality in this country. Oh, well. Así es la vida.
Tuesday, November 15, 2005
¡Ay, Caramba!
It's just a Spanish interjection which is the equivalent of "Oh, my goodness!" or some such variation.
Without boring you with detail upon detail of this whole FTC rigamarole (see previous post for more info), suffice it to say that my decision to end the friendship was one that was made quite rightly. I felt bad and such last night when I tried to (a bit tearily) explain to him why it was best that we stop "being friends." It wasn't so much that I felt so . . . attached to him, come on, I didn't know him for real. It was more that I felt bad for kind of cutting him off because he hadn't really given me an outright reason to suspect his motives of being less than noble. But now after reevaluating some things that perhaps I overlooked and doing a little bit of thinking (which is something I need to do more of these days), and in light of the following recent text message from him, I know without a doubt that womanly intuition or godly discernment or whatever it was that prompted me to say adios to him was on the real. It read (translated by yours truly):
"Forgive me for writing you, but I couldn't sleep from worry, thinking about you. Don't ever leave me, marry me, and I am not kidding. I will await forever a message from you. Take care."
No explanation needed. All I have to say is illegal immigrant seeking a green card by any means necessary.
Without boring you with detail upon detail of this whole FTC rigamarole (see previous post for more info), suffice it to say that my decision to end the friendship was one that was made quite rightly. I felt bad and such last night when I tried to (a bit tearily) explain to him why it was best that we stop "being friends." It wasn't so much that I felt so . . . attached to him, come on, I didn't know him for real. It was more that I felt bad for kind of cutting him off because he hadn't really given me an outright reason to suspect his motives of being less than noble. But now after reevaluating some things that perhaps I overlooked and doing a little bit of thinking (which is something I need to do more of these days), and in light of the following recent text message from him, I know without a doubt that womanly intuition or godly discernment or whatever it was that prompted me to say adios to him was on the real. It read (translated by yours truly):
"Forgive me for writing you, but I couldn't sleep from worry, thinking about you. Don't ever leave me, marry me, and I am not kidding. I will await forever a message from you. Take care."
No explanation needed. All I have to say is illegal immigrant seeking a green card by any means necessary.
Monday, November 14, 2005
Another Sunday Night
and here I am, wasting time again, when I should be getting some sleep, thinking over my week.
I don’t want to sit here and type out a what-I-did-this-week post. I really don’t. Perhaps this is not the best time to even write since I’m feeling a tad . . . unexplainable right now.
This is what happens. I always put myself into situations, usually impulsively, and then feel bad and even shed a few tears when I have to sort of somehow get out of them. Not that it’s something so . . . you know, serious or detrimental. But here I am, feeling ambiguous and melancholy (once again), and for something that was all my fault.
In short, I told FTC (see other related stories here and here) that we shouldn’t be friends anymore. I don’t want to go into the whole . . . story. I felt bad because it’s not like he did anything wrong. He didn’t give me any outright reason to suspect his motives of anything ulterior, but he’s like, something that I don’t need right now. There were just too many factors that could have turned an innocent I’m-practicing-Spanish-with-a-hottie thing into a mess. If that makes any sense.
Speaking of Spanish, my pastor, another Spanish-speaking young lady, the Honduran man we’re giving a Bible study to, and I went to the Southeastern Regional Spanish Conference in Atlanta this weekend. It pretty awesome, and the Honduran man received the wonderful gift of the Holy Ghost. It was pretty amazing. And I claim not to be a conference junkie, right?
Last night I ran what you could call a mouth marathon. First I talked to one of my way back buds from junior high and high school. I’ll just call him Brother because he’s like the brother I never had (even though I have two flesh and blood ones already). He’s doing well in med school, and I know that God is really leading him. For that, I am thankful.
I also talked to McD. I’ll be honest and say that at first, there was a part of me that was compelled to put lots of space between us. I tried to convince myself that it was easiest and best, and that eventually my system would be cleansed of any residue. Of course it helped that he is no longer in my locale. But what I’m learning is that once someone has . . . gotten into your system, so to speak, in a certain way, you cannot simply cut them off. Even though I realize our relationship is different now, and has been for about 4 months, and though I know without a doubt that things happened the way that they did for a reason, there is a part of me that always wants the best for him. That wants him to be happy. And once I am assured of that, I am content.
After church tonight, I received a blush-worthy compliment from a dear (married, just so you know) brother. He said that I looked so beautiful that he thinks I’m trying to capture some guy’s attention. I looked around the near-empty sanctuary, devoid of any hopefuls, and knowing that there were none in the foyer chatting with the rest of the church folk either, I simply laughed and said, “Thanks, but, I can assure you, that is not my purpose at all.”
Then he replies with something about some, “Well we’re going to have to change that, I might have to start doing a bit of meddling.”
I told him, “Uhhh . . . I’d rather leave that to God. The Bible says whosoever findeth a wife findeth a good thing, so I’m not on the hunt. I’m just doing my thing until I’m found.” And I should have added, and after I’m found, I’m going to keep on doing my thing!
I don’t want to sit here and type out a what-I-did-this-week post. I really don’t. Perhaps this is not the best time to even write since I’m feeling a tad . . . unexplainable right now.
This is what happens. I always put myself into situations, usually impulsively, and then feel bad and even shed a few tears when I have to sort of somehow get out of them. Not that it’s something so . . . you know, serious or detrimental. But here I am, feeling ambiguous and melancholy (once again), and for something that was all my fault.
In short, I told FTC (see other related stories here and here) that we shouldn’t be friends anymore. I don’t want to go into the whole . . . story. I felt bad because it’s not like he did anything wrong. He didn’t give me any outright reason to suspect his motives of anything ulterior, but he’s like, something that I don’t need right now. There were just too many factors that could have turned an innocent I’m-practicing-Spanish-with-a-hottie thing into a mess. If that makes any sense.
Speaking of Spanish, my pastor, another Spanish-speaking young lady, the Honduran man we’re giving a Bible study to, and I went to the Southeastern Regional Spanish Conference in Atlanta this weekend. It pretty awesome, and the Honduran man received the wonderful gift of the Holy Ghost. It was pretty amazing. And I claim not to be a conference junkie, right?
Last night I ran what you could call a mouth marathon. First I talked to one of my way back buds from junior high and high school. I’ll just call him Brother because he’s like the brother I never had (even though I have two flesh and blood ones already). He’s doing well in med school, and I know that God is really leading him. For that, I am thankful.
I also talked to McD. I’ll be honest and say that at first, there was a part of me that was compelled to put lots of space between us. I tried to convince myself that it was easiest and best, and that eventually my system would be cleansed of any residue. Of course it helped that he is no longer in my locale. But what I’m learning is that once someone has . . . gotten into your system, so to speak, in a certain way, you cannot simply cut them off. Even though I realize our relationship is different now, and has been for about 4 months, and though I know without a doubt that things happened the way that they did for a reason, there is a part of me that always wants the best for him. That wants him to be happy. And once I am assured of that, I am content.
After church tonight, I received a blush-worthy compliment from a dear (married, just so you know) brother. He said that I looked so beautiful that he thinks I’m trying to capture some guy’s attention. I looked around the near-empty sanctuary, devoid of any hopefuls, and knowing that there were none in the foyer chatting with the rest of the church folk either, I simply laughed and said, “Thanks, but, I can assure you, that is not my purpose at all.”
Then he replies with something about some, “Well we’re going to have to change that, I might have to start doing a bit of meddling.”
I told him, “Uhhh . . . I’d rather leave that to God. The Bible says whosoever findeth a wife findeth a good thing, so I’m not on the hunt. I’m just doing my thing until I’m found.” And I should have added, and after I’m found, I’m going to keep on doing my thing!
Tuesday, November 01, 2005
Hotdogs and Other Musings
Today I was starving. Mom promised to bring home some Chinese food (one of my faves, second only to Mexican), but she had some other errands to run first. Being a supposed adult who has a job and money, I could have gone out and gotten some food on my own if I really wanted to. But I was content to wait. For a while.
Two little kids from church were over the house, and it was up to me to play babysitter until she came home with the goods. In the meantime, “Could you make the kids some h-o-t-d-o-g-s?” Mom spelled after she dropped them off and before she headed back out. They’re still young enough where you can spell stuff out you don’t want to them to necessarily hear and it go unknown to them.
So I made them some hotdogs. I was telling myself just wait until Mom gets back with takeout. In other words, I was trying to tell myself to wait until Mom came home with some delicious, higher quality food than settling for some processed, God-knows-what-all-is-in-there hotdog. But I put a third hotdog in to cook too. Like I said, I was starving. So when the hotdogs were done, I fixed the kids theirs, and, against my better judgment, I put one on a bun, slathered it with mustard and downed it. And not in as lady-like a fashion as I would have liked.
Yeah, my hunger was satisfied. And the hotdog wasn’t bad, in spite of everything. But now, when mom comes home with steaming hot cartons full of shrimp fried rice, chicken lo mein, egg foo young and sweet and sour pork, I may get a little bit, but I won’t be able to enjoy it like I would have been able to had I not eaten that ridiculous hotdog.
Okay, this is going to turn into an analogy, (who knew?) but it’s not as . . . one track as it may seem. Waiting for the Chinese food is not simply an absurd allusion to True Love Waits. Though it does kind of work, I guess. But I promise, it wasn’t even my intention when I first decided to write about eating a hotdog, of all things. I guess I was more thinking about waiting and life in general.
Not that I’ve had such profound experiences in my life that I’m so seasoned and have this Solomon-esque air about everything that happens. But I guess I’m starting to see that many facets of life will require waiting, refusing to settle for the fake, processed stuff and sticking it out until the goods come along—whatever it is that you truly, really want.
Imagine marrying a hotdog guy/girl. Settling for a hotdog job. Having a hotdog relationship with God. Blowing your money on hotdog things. Surrounding yourself with hotdog people and getting involved in hotdog friendships and hotdog relationships. And . . . okay, eating hotdogs on the side when you should have waited for a legally binding, long term, til-death-do-us-part deal with Chinese takeout. lol. What a yucky existence. Okay for the moment, but filled with ground cow and pig and whatever processed leftovers in the long run.
I pray to God that I will never get to the point where I am so undisciplined and impatient that I will be willing to settle for any hotdogs in life. The hotdog is a lii-ya! I have faith that there’s some Chinese takeout waiting in the wings.
Two little kids from church were over the house, and it was up to me to play babysitter until she came home with the goods. In the meantime, “Could you make the kids some h-o-t-d-o-g-s?” Mom spelled after she dropped them off and before she headed back out. They’re still young enough where you can spell stuff out you don’t want to them to necessarily hear and it go unknown to them.
So I made them some hotdogs. I was telling myself just wait until Mom gets back with takeout. In other words, I was trying to tell myself to wait until Mom came home with some delicious, higher quality food than settling for some processed, God-knows-what-all-is-in-there hotdog. But I put a third hotdog in to cook too. Like I said, I was starving. So when the hotdogs were done, I fixed the kids theirs, and, against my better judgment, I put one on a bun, slathered it with mustard and downed it. And not in as lady-like a fashion as I would have liked.
Yeah, my hunger was satisfied. And the hotdog wasn’t bad, in spite of everything. But now, when mom comes home with steaming hot cartons full of shrimp fried rice, chicken lo mein, egg foo young and sweet and sour pork, I may get a little bit, but I won’t be able to enjoy it like I would have been able to had I not eaten that ridiculous hotdog.
Okay, this is going to turn into an analogy, (who knew?) but it’s not as . . . one track as it may seem. Waiting for the Chinese food is not simply an absurd allusion to True Love Waits. Though it does kind of work, I guess. But I promise, it wasn’t even my intention when I first decided to write about eating a hotdog, of all things. I guess I was more thinking about waiting and life in general.
Not that I’ve had such profound experiences in my life that I’m so seasoned and have this Solomon-esque air about everything that happens. But I guess I’m starting to see that many facets of life will require waiting, refusing to settle for the fake, processed stuff and sticking it out until the goods come along—whatever it is that you truly, really want.
Imagine marrying a hotdog guy/girl. Settling for a hotdog job. Having a hotdog relationship with God. Blowing your money on hotdog things. Surrounding yourself with hotdog people and getting involved in hotdog friendships and hotdog relationships. And . . . okay, eating hotdogs on the side when you should have waited for a legally binding, long term, til-death-do-us-part deal with Chinese takeout. lol. What a yucky existence. Okay for the moment, but filled with ground cow and pig and whatever processed leftovers in the long run.
I pray to God that I will never get to the point where I am so undisciplined and impatient that I will be willing to settle for any hotdogs in life. The hotdog is a lii-ya! I have faith that there’s some Chinese takeout waiting in the wings.
Thursday, October 27, 2005
The Forum
I think it’s taken me so long to update because I’m still processing all of the info I received at one of the most innovative conferences I’ve ever attended.
October 21st-22nd was the first ever Identity Quotient Forum held at Gateway College of Evangelism in St. Louis, MO. As I’ve explained before, as soon as I got an email from the coordinator of the forum advertising it, I just felt compelled to go. I recruited two other young ladies from my church to join me, and, needless to say, the 8-9 hour road trip from Montgomery to St. Louis was well worth it.
Among the topics: Accountability, Time Management, Christian Bio-Ethics of Stem Cell Research (the speaker of which surprised me with his overall perspective), Islam, Self Image, Transitioning from College to the Real World, Debt Management, Colonizing the Media for the Kingdom, and Creating Your Own Ministry are some of the sessions I attended. As you can see, the topics were fresh, contemporary, and varied, yet all had a sound biblical perspective in their presentation.
What I loved is that this Forum defied all conventional definitions. It was not a singles conference, a.k.a. Pentecostal meat market with an air of desperation—okay, that’s a little extreme, I know; neither was it a preaching conference, a.k.a. go hear Bro. BigName preach to the point of losing his voice, get all temporarily fired up and remain ultimately unchanged—okay, also a bit cynical, but just because I’ve been guilty of it too. Rather than a one-way monologue, each session was a two-way dialogue. Because of the intimacy and the format, all participants could actively engage the speakers.
Overall, I think the session that most inspired me was Creating Your Own Ministry. So many times, some people’s definition of “ministry” is limited to preaching, singing, and piano playing. These are undoubtedly ministries, but at times it seems that if your abilities do not include one of these three then you are limited. So, I was challenged to create my own ministry if I have talents that God can use that sort of fall outside of the already established box. A little light bulb went off in my mind. As soon as I get my ideas in a formal format to present to my pastor, I will begin giving free conversational Spanish lessons at my church. It’s a small door, but to my knowledge, Jesus only needed a child’s lunch to feed a multitude.
Not only was I informed and inspired, but I had the awesome chance to meet people of like faith and interest and to make connections. Of course, nothing is set in stone about . . . anything, but I know that this is not the last time that I will make a trip to St. Louis, and now I’ve established a rapport with people who could help me should St. Louis become a more permanent part of my life’s plans.
My traveling companions and I got the chance to do a little bit of sightseeing after the conference was over, and we also got the awesome chance to chat with whom I would like to call one of the “new pioneers.” Kent Curry (executive editor of ninetyandnine.com) and his wife Nita were the main coordinators of the Forum, and it was such a delight to meet them. Through ninetyandnine dealings, I had corresponded with Kent over email since I was a freshman in college, so in a way, it was like I already knew him. Our conversation just flowed like we were old friends. It is always so refreshing to be able to connect with people so easily and talk about things that resonate within you because you’re on the same wavelength.
They’re planning one for next year. (Sigh.) Despite my protests about conference junkies and professing not to be one, the IQ Forum may have to be one of the exceptions to the rule.
A little photo gallery follows:
Me and the legendary Gateway Arch!
Oh, I'm in love with a cardboard soldier who lives at the top of the Arch . . .
Me and the bridge
Downtown St. Louis at night
City view from the top of the Arch
Me and Alicia--one of my Montgomery traveling companions. She did the driving!
Yours truly along with Kent and Nita Curry--a treat to meet!
Me and Tanya--my other accompanying Montgomery friend--post-conference. We made it safely home!
October 21st-22nd was the first ever Identity Quotient Forum held at Gateway College of Evangelism in St. Louis, MO. As I’ve explained before, as soon as I got an email from the coordinator of the forum advertising it, I just felt compelled to go. I recruited two other young ladies from my church to join me, and, needless to say, the 8-9 hour road trip from Montgomery to St. Louis was well worth it.
Among the topics: Accountability, Time Management, Christian Bio-Ethics of Stem Cell Research (the speaker of which surprised me with his overall perspective), Islam, Self Image, Transitioning from College to the Real World, Debt Management, Colonizing the Media for the Kingdom, and Creating Your Own Ministry are some of the sessions I attended. As you can see, the topics were fresh, contemporary, and varied, yet all had a sound biblical perspective in their presentation.
What I loved is that this Forum defied all conventional definitions. It was not a singles conference, a.k.a. Pentecostal meat market with an air of desperation—okay, that’s a little extreme, I know; neither was it a preaching conference, a.k.a. go hear Bro. BigName preach to the point of losing his voice, get all temporarily fired up and remain ultimately unchanged—okay, also a bit cynical, but just because I’ve been guilty of it too. Rather than a one-way monologue, each session was a two-way dialogue. Because of the intimacy and the format, all participants could actively engage the speakers.
Overall, I think the session that most inspired me was Creating Your Own Ministry. So many times, some people’s definition of “ministry” is limited to preaching, singing, and piano playing. These are undoubtedly ministries, but at times it seems that if your abilities do not include one of these three then you are limited. So, I was challenged to create my own ministry if I have talents that God can use that sort of fall outside of the already established box. A little light bulb went off in my mind. As soon as I get my ideas in a formal format to present to my pastor, I will begin giving free conversational Spanish lessons at my church. It’s a small door, but to my knowledge, Jesus only needed a child’s lunch to feed a multitude.
Not only was I informed and inspired, but I had the awesome chance to meet people of like faith and interest and to make connections. Of course, nothing is set in stone about . . . anything, but I know that this is not the last time that I will make a trip to St. Louis, and now I’ve established a rapport with people who could help me should St. Louis become a more permanent part of my life’s plans.
My traveling companions and I got the chance to do a little bit of sightseeing after the conference was over, and we also got the awesome chance to chat with whom I would like to call one of the “new pioneers.” Kent Curry (executive editor of ninetyandnine.com) and his wife Nita were the main coordinators of the Forum, and it was such a delight to meet them. Through ninetyandnine dealings, I had corresponded with Kent over email since I was a freshman in college, so in a way, it was like I already knew him. Our conversation just flowed like we were old friends. It is always so refreshing to be able to connect with people so easily and talk about things that resonate within you because you’re on the same wavelength.
They’re planning one for next year. (Sigh.) Despite my protests about conference junkies and professing not to be one, the IQ Forum may have to be one of the exceptions to the rule.
A little photo gallery follows:
Me and the legendary Gateway Arch!
Oh, I'm in love with a cardboard soldier who lives at the top of the Arch . . .
Me and the bridge
Downtown St. Louis at night
City view from the top of the Arch
Me and Alicia--one of my Montgomery traveling companions. She did the driving!
Yours truly along with Kent and Nita Curry--a treat to meet!
Me and Tanya--my other accompanying Montgomery friend--post-conference. We made it safely home!
Thursday, October 20, 2005
Great Expectations
Ever read that book back in the day? Pip and his benefactor. Miss Havisham and her moldy wedding cake and her twisted protégé, Estella. Nevertheless, my expectations have nothing to do with 19th century England or any fictional characters that inhabit it. It’s just that tomorrow morning, I will be taking a long road trip to a place I’ve never been before—St. Louis, MO.
As I’ve said probably 15 or so times already, I am so not a conference person. So, why is the prospect of going to the IQ Forum so titillating? I don’t know . . . I guess maybe because I’ve been on this personal quest to find some sort of niche where I actually fit in somewhere, and somehow, I have a feeling that going to this conference is the beginning of my answer. Excerpt from my personal journal (after getting into an argument with my dad and being branded as a “liberal” by him once again):
“Me and my “liberal tendencies.” A liberal Pentecostal. What a tormented oxymoron. A sad and twisted intertwining of supposedly seemingly polar opposites. Out of sorts in the big globe, out of sorts in the little bubble. But does there exist some sort of Aristotelian golden mean in this free-floating limbo that mashes your heart and brain over and over until they are indistinguishable masses of human tissue?”
I do not claim to be a “liberal.” I am not a bleeding heart Democrat, or a wannabe member of the ACLU and I don’t have soapbox-smelling bumper stickers all over my car. I will admit, however, that I did not vote for Bush and do not think he’s the best thing since sliced bread. I will admit that the whole Iraq business went very sharply against my grain and that I don’t think Affirmative Action is nothing but reverse discrimination. Is it possible to be anti-death penalty yet pro-life? Is it possible to be politically left of center, but to be . . . so religiously “right” that many consider my lifestyle near fundamentalist extremism? But my mixed feelings concerning politics are just the tip of the iceberg in the “free-floating limbo” I find myself in.
I really didn’t mean to get so political. It’s just that I’m tired of falling into the “no one understands me” mode, when at the core, I know it’s not true. I know that I’m not alone. Not that the niche I seek is one where everyone is “left of center” politically—not at all. What I seek is a . . . network, if you will, of like-goaled people. People who think, people who are about education, people who believe that logic is not necessarily something to be shunned, yet people who are about living for God and people who are about dedicating themselves to furthering His kingdom. Another oxymoron? I beg to differ.
As I’ve said probably 15 or so times already, I am so not a conference person. So, why is the prospect of going to the IQ Forum so titillating? I don’t know . . . I guess maybe because I’ve been on this personal quest to find some sort of niche where I actually fit in somewhere, and somehow, I have a feeling that going to this conference is the beginning of my answer. Excerpt from my personal journal (after getting into an argument with my dad and being branded as a “liberal” by him once again):
“Me and my “liberal tendencies.” A liberal Pentecostal. What a tormented oxymoron. A sad and twisted intertwining of supposedly seemingly polar opposites. Out of sorts in the big globe, out of sorts in the little bubble. But does there exist some sort of Aristotelian golden mean in this free-floating limbo that mashes your heart and brain over and over until they are indistinguishable masses of human tissue?”
I do not claim to be a “liberal.” I am not a bleeding heart Democrat, or a wannabe member of the ACLU and I don’t have soapbox-smelling bumper stickers all over my car. I will admit, however, that I did not vote for Bush and do not think he’s the best thing since sliced bread. I will admit that the whole Iraq business went very sharply against my grain and that I don’t think Affirmative Action is nothing but reverse discrimination. Is it possible to be anti-death penalty yet pro-life? Is it possible to be politically left of center, but to be . . . so religiously “right” that many consider my lifestyle near fundamentalist extremism? But my mixed feelings concerning politics are just the tip of the iceberg in the “free-floating limbo” I find myself in.
I really didn’t mean to get so political. It’s just that I’m tired of falling into the “no one understands me” mode, when at the core, I know it’s not true. I know that I’m not alone. Not that the niche I seek is one where everyone is “left of center” politically—not at all. What I seek is a . . . network, if you will, of like-goaled people. People who think, people who are about education, people who believe that logic is not necessarily something to be shunned, yet people who are about living for God and people who are about dedicating themselves to furthering His kingdom. Another oxymoron? I beg to differ.
Tuesday, October 04, 2005
FTC, Installment 3
Oh, right now, I’m listening to Coldplay’s newest CD, X&Y. It’s so classically Coldplay. You know how some groups experiment and deviate so far from their solid original sound that endeared them to you in the first place? Not so with my fave British blokes. Chris Martin’s haunting falsetto soars above the driving drums and the melodically melancholic guitar. (sigh).
I bring to you the third installment of Flirt to Convert (FTC). For backstory, see here and here. Tonight, at FTC’s suggestion, another Spanish-speaking friend and I met him at Olive Garden. His Mexican chivalrousness refused to let us foot our part of the bill. We had an exquisite dinner and had a good, if not profound, conversation. Again, he gave neither of us any reason to suspect his motives of anything ulterior. We talked about many things, ranging from the atrocities that many Mexicans endure to try to cross the border into the US to having an intimate personal relationship with God. Actually, he was the one to bring up “religion.” And though he didn’t, you know . . . fall out speaking in tongues or whatever after our conversation, I could tell that he was taking it in. Maybe this is the first time he’s ever talked with people so frankly about spiritual matters. Something that he asked that sort of caught me off guard was, “Why do you think the three of us are here together right now? Do you think there’s a reason?” Yes, there’s a reason, but we don’t always know what it is. Some things we may never know in this life.
And I finally, finally, finished translating the Bible study that my pastor wrote into Spanish. Well, actually, I didn’t do the initial translation, but I sort of revised and corrected grammatical and stylistic errors. And boy, did it take forever. But I finally finished it. Now I just need to get it off of the dinosaur of a laptop that I own and onto the sleeker and CD-burning-capable computer that my family owns so that I can get it onto a CD, give it to my pastor, and eventually get it into print. Pentecostal Publishing House, wassaaapp??
I’ve got a new group of 6th, 7th and 8th graders this week. Today was our little intro day. With one rotation already under my belt, I feel a little more equipped this time. I think I have a bit of a better group than last time, too (especially of the 8th graders). At the beginning of the rotation, after the bell rings, and they’re all sitting expectantly in their seats wondering, “What’s this new Spanish teacher all about?” I look at them all and start rattling off in Spanish: Me llamo Señora Smith, y soy la profesora de español. Vamos a aprender muchas cosas en esta clase . . . lol. I just love the wide-eyed look it produces from each of them. But then I give ‘em a break and translate what I just said. But it sure gets their attention and lets them know that I do know Spanish for real. Señora Smith’s ready for you this time, baby. Bring it on!
I bring to you the third installment of Flirt to Convert (FTC). For backstory, see here and here. Tonight, at FTC’s suggestion, another Spanish-speaking friend and I met him at Olive Garden. His Mexican chivalrousness refused to let us foot our part of the bill. We had an exquisite dinner and had a good, if not profound, conversation. Again, he gave neither of us any reason to suspect his motives of anything ulterior. We talked about many things, ranging from the atrocities that many Mexicans endure to try to cross the border into the US to having an intimate personal relationship with God. Actually, he was the one to bring up “religion.” And though he didn’t, you know . . . fall out speaking in tongues or whatever after our conversation, I could tell that he was taking it in. Maybe this is the first time he’s ever talked with people so frankly about spiritual matters. Something that he asked that sort of caught me off guard was, “Why do you think the three of us are here together right now? Do you think there’s a reason?” Yes, there’s a reason, but we don’t always know what it is. Some things we may never know in this life.
And I finally, finally, finished translating the Bible study that my pastor wrote into Spanish. Well, actually, I didn’t do the initial translation, but I sort of revised and corrected grammatical and stylistic errors. And boy, did it take forever. But I finally finished it. Now I just need to get it off of the dinosaur of a laptop that I own and onto the sleeker and CD-burning-capable computer that my family owns so that I can get it onto a CD, give it to my pastor, and eventually get it into print. Pentecostal Publishing House, wassaaapp??
I’ve got a new group of 6th, 7th and 8th graders this week. Today was our little intro day. With one rotation already under my belt, I feel a little more equipped this time. I think I have a bit of a better group than last time, too (especially of the 8th graders). At the beginning of the rotation, after the bell rings, and they’re all sitting expectantly in their seats wondering, “What’s this new Spanish teacher all about?” I look at them all and start rattling off in Spanish: Me llamo Señora Smith, y soy la profesora de español. Vamos a aprender muchas cosas en esta clase . . . lol. I just love the wide-eyed look it produces from each of them. But then I give ‘em a break and translate what I just said. But it sure gets their attention and lets them know that I do know Spanish for real. Señora Smith’s ready for you this time, baby. Bring it on!
Friday, September 30, 2005
The World as We Know It
I used to have this recurring dream that I was flying above the city where I live. It was like everything was spread before me--everything that was familiar to me, but just from an aerial perspective. I can't believe it's been 5 years since I've written this. It doesn't really seem like that very long ago at all.
I have to go far, far away from this place . . .
Away from the world as we know it,
And never come back—ever, ever.
Give me the wings of the morning,
Let me fly
Guided by the light of the dawn,
Floating, soaring in the bliss of flight.
Let me gaze upon the city below and take in the beauty—
Take and share the pain of the people
So that I can reach out.
I want to kiss a star and laugh with the moon.
Let me delve into the deepest parts of the sea,
Uncovering new treasures and unknown wonders.
I have a need to roll in the bare, sacred earth of a wide, open plain,
Each spinning turn eroding layers upon layers,
Stripping away, exposing parts deeper and deeper,
Until there’s nothing
Left but
Me.
September 26, 2000
Away from the world as we know it,
And never come back—ever, ever.
Give me the wings of the morning,
Let me fly
Guided by the light of the dawn,
Floating, soaring in the bliss of flight.
Let me gaze upon the city below and take in the beauty—
Take and share the pain of the people
So that I can reach out.
I want to kiss a star and laugh with the moon.
Let me delve into the deepest parts of the sea,
Uncovering new treasures and unknown wonders.
I have a need to roll in the bare, sacred earth of a wide, open plain,
Each spinning turn eroding layers upon layers,
Stripping away, exposing parts deeper and deeper,
Until there’s nothing
Left but
Me.
September 26, 2000
Tuesday, September 27, 2005
It Rained Today
The sky was heavy and gray, and there was a generous downpour. Teacher bag in tow, and flimsy light pink umbrella my only shield. I smartly wore my hair up (else, it would have been a disaster), but not-so-smartly wore my new beige heeled sandals. Once inside, brown paper towel pats saved my leaking feet.
The elementary lesson was about the Amazonian Rainforest. “But what does the rainforest have to do with Spanish?” I asked them. I had to make sure they could make the connection. They laughed till red-faced at my quirky animal voices when I read them the story of how a man almost cut down a Kapok tree. The toucan stole the show.
The middle schoolers: oh, what a delight. 7th grade was cool, 6th grade questioned me out (as usual), but 8th grade burned me up. Written in blood red on the papers of two boys who sit next to each other: “It was quite obvious that you turned this assignment into a ‘group project.’ 0/20. If you want to talk about it, see me after class.” Neither of them did. Did they think I was brainless?
The late afternoon greeted me with a sinus headache. After lollygagging a bit, I finally settled down to sorting out the best of the colored, cut, assembled, and pasted-onto-construction-paper faces each class created for my two gargantuan bulletin boards. (We learned body parts last week.)
I sat in one of the window seats of the elementary school library during our 45-minute joint faculty meeting. I let the emerging sun warm my back as I listened to the headmaster talk about short-term and long-term goals for the school. The future. I let my mind wander (I often do) and I pondered short-term and long-term goals for myself. My future. I snapped back into the present when the room filled with laughter as the headmaster presented a German proverb on his PowerPoint slide: “If you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans for the future.” Yes, I cracked a smile.
The elementary lesson was about the Amazonian Rainforest. “But what does the rainforest have to do with Spanish?” I asked them. I had to make sure they could make the connection. They laughed till red-faced at my quirky animal voices when I read them the story of how a man almost cut down a Kapok tree. The toucan stole the show.
The middle schoolers: oh, what a delight. 7th grade was cool, 6th grade questioned me out (as usual), but 8th grade burned me up. Written in blood red on the papers of two boys who sit next to each other: “It was quite obvious that you turned this assignment into a ‘group project.’ 0/20. If you want to talk about it, see me after class.” Neither of them did. Did they think I was brainless?
The late afternoon greeted me with a sinus headache. After lollygagging a bit, I finally settled down to sorting out the best of the colored, cut, assembled, and pasted-onto-construction-paper faces each class created for my two gargantuan bulletin boards. (We learned body parts last week.)
I sat in one of the window seats of the elementary school library during our 45-minute joint faculty meeting. I let the emerging sun warm my back as I listened to the headmaster talk about short-term and long-term goals for the school. The future. I let my mind wander (I often do) and I pondered short-term and long-term goals for myself. My future. I snapped back into the present when the room filled with laughter as the headmaster presented a German proverb on his PowerPoint slide: “If you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans for the future.” Yes, I cracked a smile.
Saturday, September 24, 2005
Linger
I love words. There are so many things about them. Several words can mean the same thing generally, but have different minute shades that add variety and color. I’m such a word nerd; I have a thesaurus handy at my little desk. For example, some variations for the word “linger”: tarry, saunter, lag, vacillate, dawdle. I have this lingering cold. I have this lagging cold. Ha! I have this dawdling cold. I like that one better.
I finally went to the doctor after having this cold for 2+ weeks. It’s been ridiculous. I never get sick, and when I do, I get over it promptly. “Your body’s getting used to being around all of these kids,” the old teachers say in their been-there-done-that tone. But 2+ weeks is way too long for a cold, and I’m not exactly keen on developing bronchitis or worse, so to the doctor I went. My preconceived notion of a doctor was shattered when he was not the middle-aged white man I was expecting, but a surprisingly young and Asian one. As much as I ascend my soapbox about not making generalizations and following preconceived ideas, God always reminds me that I have a few of my own. At any rate, my mom should be happy now; she was starting to freak out and lecture me about how I’m not taking care of myself and such.
But, speaking of lingering, this cold is not the only thing. Lately, I have been reexamining lingering thoughts and lingering feelings. It makes me wish that I could literally call God up and be like, “Hey, God, so . . . what was up with that?” And then He would, ever so calmly and God-like, answer my every concern, speaking audibly. That would be so awesome.
And, speaking of words, I wrote a poem (or something like one) about words. As much as I love them, they’re so transitory, so ephemeral, so fleeting. (Told you I was a word nerd.) Our words:
Our words
have time limits.
Hourglasses tipped and
shifting sand.
“I love you” today
does not equal love eternal.
Our words
aren’t God-words.
Never caused existence.
Just describe
what already was
wish into being what isn’t,
and speculate on what will be
until the last
sand grain
falls.
I finally went to the doctor after having this cold for 2+ weeks. It’s been ridiculous. I never get sick, and when I do, I get over it promptly. “Your body’s getting used to being around all of these kids,” the old teachers say in their been-there-done-that tone. But 2+ weeks is way too long for a cold, and I’m not exactly keen on developing bronchitis or worse, so to the doctor I went. My preconceived notion of a doctor was shattered when he was not the middle-aged white man I was expecting, but a surprisingly young and Asian one. As much as I ascend my soapbox about not making generalizations and following preconceived ideas, God always reminds me that I have a few of my own. At any rate, my mom should be happy now; she was starting to freak out and lecture me about how I’m not taking care of myself and such.
But, speaking of lingering, this cold is not the only thing. Lately, I have been reexamining lingering thoughts and lingering feelings. It makes me wish that I could literally call God up and be like, “Hey, God, so . . . what was up with that?” And then He would, ever so calmly and God-like, answer my every concern, speaking audibly. That would be so awesome.
And, speaking of words, I wrote a poem (or something like one) about words. As much as I love them, they’re so transitory, so ephemeral, so fleeting. (Told you I was a word nerd.) Our words:
Our words
have time limits.
Hourglasses tipped and
shifting sand.
“I love you” today
does not equal love eternal.
Our words
aren’t God-words.
Never caused existence.
Just describe
what already was
wish into being what isn’t,
and speculate on what will be
until the last
sand grain
falls.
Tuesday, September 20, 2005
Trippin’ in Tusky
As I mentioned at the end of my last post, T-town time was so overdue. This weekend I graced ol’ Tusky with my presence, as well as that of my little bro (okay, he’s not little for real. But he used to be).
Ahhh, it’s so weird. A few months ago, pre-graduation, the Gump was my haven away from the doldrums of T-town. Now, T-town has somehow magically transformed into this glittering city of escape. I don’t get it.
Well, I suppose it has something to do with the fact that my friends and associates still reside there. A couple of them are in for the long haul in grad school. I was thinking about doing that, but I was nearly burnt to a crisp after 5 undergrad years. The world of work was beckoning. I had to make sure Education was really my calling before jumping into a Master’s or more. A couple of others are continuing on their undergraduate journey, or going back for another round of undergraduate life. And here I am, little teacher, the creator and giver of schoolwork instead of being on the receiving end. But then I have to grade all the mess I assign. So, I don’t exactly get off scot-free.
Nevertheless, I’m slightly envious. The doing work part, I don’t really yearn for, but it’s the whole status, the whole collegiate atmosphere that I miss. Going to art shows and readings. Hearing the latest gossip on inter- and intra-departmental spats. Running into professors at Wal-mart. Writing letters to the editor of the campus newspaper. Getting free t-shirt after free t-shirt as a Resident Assistant. The suspense over how much money I’d get from selling my books back at the end of the semester. Learning how to write my name in Japanese and Russian at Starbucks with international students. Seeing free foreign films during international movie series. Wide-eyed and innocently reminding the mechanic about the student discount while paying for an oil change after flashing my ACTion card. Free food at Bama Blast even though it’s just for the freshmen. Supposedly. Getting a new life every semester. Dining Dollars. Those are the things I miss. Yep, the grass is always greener.
Oh, but I had a good time. Friday night, I came bearing brownies. Homegirl and I met up with McD, went to Applebee’s and then went Crimsoning (Crimsoning = going to the Crimson Café). After spending the night at Homegirl’s new apartment, the next morning we went Wal-Marting for the fixings of an Italian dinner party and invited the crew over Saturday night. Oh, and in-between Wal-Mart and dinner, I got a pedicure. It was fabulous. At first I was a little skittish about this smooth-talking, bespectacled Vietnamese guy handling my feet, but I calmed down and enjoyed the massage chair and the jet bubbles. He said that out of all of the feet he’s handled, mine were the best—that I had baby feet and didn’t have all the “leftovers” that other people’s feet have. Empowered by my newly prettified feet, I bought shoes and shirts and such on sale with Sam (female) at University Mall. Saturday night post-dinner I spent with Sam, and we ate brownies and ice cream watching a movie. Sunday morn was a walk down memory lane at First UPC of T-town. Everyone was glad to see me, and I was glad to see them too. I had to wake McD out of his church-oversleeping stupor. At least he made it for the preaching. My lovely weekend culminated with the crew again, over at Sam’s place this time, for post-Sunday-morning lunch.
Good friends, good times. Now, it’s back to the grind . . .
Ahhh, it’s so weird. A few months ago, pre-graduation, the Gump was my haven away from the doldrums of T-town. Now, T-town has somehow magically transformed into this glittering city of escape. I don’t get it.
Well, I suppose it has something to do with the fact that my friends and associates still reside there. A couple of them are in for the long haul in grad school. I was thinking about doing that, but I was nearly burnt to a crisp after 5 undergrad years. The world of work was beckoning. I had to make sure Education was really my calling before jumping into a Master’s or more. A couple of others are continuing on their undergraduate journey, or going back for another round of undergraduate life. And here I am, little teacher, the creator and giver of schoolwork instead of being on the receiving end. But then I have to grade all the mess I assign. So, I don’t exactly get off scot-free.
Nevertheless, I’m slightly envious. The doing work part, I don’t really yearn for, but it’s the whole status, the whole collegiate atmosphere that I miss. Going to art shows and readings. Hearing the latest gossip on inter- and intra-departmental spats. Running into professors at Wal-mart. Writing letters to the editor of the campus newspaper. Getting free t-shirt after free t-shirt as a Resident Assistant. The suspense over how much money I’d get from selling my books back at the end of the semester. Learning how to write my name in Japanese and Russian at Starbucks with international students. Seeing free foreign films during international movie series. Wide-eyed and innocently reminding the mechanic about the student discount while paying for an oil change after flashing my ACTion card. Free food at Bama Blast even though it’s just for the freshmen. Supposedly. Getting a new life every semester. Dining Dollars. Those are the things I miss. Yep, the grass is always greener.
Oh, but I had a good time. Friday night, I came bearing brownies. Homegirl and I met up with McD, went to Applebee’s and then went Crimsoning (Crimsoning = going to the Crimson Café). After spending the night at Homegirl’s new apartment, the next morning we went Wal-Marting for the fixings of an Italian dinner party and invited the crew over Saturday night. Oh, and in-between Wal-Mart and dinner, I got a pedicure. It was fabulous. At first I was a little skittish about this smooth-talking, bespectacled Vietnamese guy handling my feet, but I calmed down and enjoyed the massage chair and the jet bubbles. He said that out of all of the feet he’s handled, mine were the best—that I had baby feet and didn’t have all the “leftovers” that other people’s feet have. Empowered by my newly prettified feet, I bought shoes and shirts and such on sale with Sam (female) at University Mall. Saturday night post-dinner I spent with Sam, and we ate brownies and ice cream watching a movie. Sunday morn was a walk down memory lane at First UPC of T-town. Everyone was glad to see me, and I was glad to see them too. I had to wake McD out of his church-oversleeping stupor. At least he made it for the preaching. My lovely weekend culminated with the crew again, over at Sam’s place this time, for post-Sunday-morning lunch.
Good friends, good times. Now, it’s back to the grind . . .
Wednesday, September 14, 2005
Take Time Out
Sometimes we have to do this. Take time out. When we don’t have time, we have to make time. (sigh) I feel so inundated lately. I just love that word. Inundated. It conveys the sense of busyness, of being immersed in the world of “having to do.” That was a phrase I introduced to my 8th graders today. Tengo que. I have to . . . whatever.
On one note, Spanish-ministry dealings have heightened significantly. Another Spanish-speaking young lady and I are doing a Bible study with a man from Honduras, and I’ve been Ms. Translator lately because he’s starting to come to church regularly. I’m also feverishly working on trying to finish the Spanish version of the two-day Bible study my pastor wrote. There’s a group of Hispanics from another city close-by that may begin to come to church as well—I’m excited about what God is doing on one hand, but on the other hand, God’s work . . . well, it takes work.
On another note, Flirt to Convert (FTC) guy is still hanging on in the picture, so to speak. However, the FTC focus of the guy has sort of shifted away from me and toward the other Spanish-speaking young lady. Go figure. She met him when we went to the restaurant where he works a couple of weeks ago. She was not enthralled at all by his Hispanic charm (as I will admit I was a little bit at first)—smart girl. Anyway, he still claims to want to come to church; however, I hope it’s for the right reasons. Time will tell.
I’m super fired up about this Young Adult conference going on in St. Louis next month. I’ve never been like this huge conference person, but I don’t know . . . there’s just something about it that really captured my interest, and I’ve drafted two other young ladies from church to join me. And the thought of the conference brings me to another thought . . .
McDougal. I hope he doesn’t mind. It’s been a while since I’ve used his pseudonym. He’s still in the picture, too, albeit in a different form. I always jokingly tell him how we have completely switched places. Like, literally. Now I’m immersed in the working world, and he’s the poor college student. This conference will have been my first time in a Bible school environment, and this is his first time in a secular college environment . . . well, at a major university. And the thought of college environments brings me to another thought . . .
This upcoming weekend is T-town time. It is so past due. I haven’t been up to old Tusky since graduation in May. I used to always look forward to when I had time to escape to the Gump. Now I’m sneaking away from the Gump to T-town. When will the madness stop? Shall we ever be satisfied? It should be fun.
Oh, and I finally got a cell phone after surviving perfectly fine without one for several years. Ooh, I’m super cool now. Worthy to join the hordes of unlimited night and weekend minute gluttons. Oh, well. Excuse me while I end this procrastinatory rambling and mourn the wilting of my sunflowers.
On one note, Spanish-ministry dealings have heightened significantly. Another Spanish-speaking young lady and I are doing a Bible study with a man from Honduras, and I’ve been Ms. Translator lately because he’s starting to come to church regularly. I’m also feverishly working on trying to finish the Spanish version of the two-day Bible study my pastor wrote. There’s a group of Hispanics from another city close-by that may begin to come to church as well—I’m excited about what God is doing on one hand, but on the other hand, God’s work . . . well, it takes work.
On another note, Flirt to Convert (FTC) guy is still hanging on in the picture, so to speak. However, the FTC focus of the guy has sort of shifted away from me and toward the other Spanish-speaking young lady. Go figure. She met him when we went to the restaurant where he works a couple of weeks ago. She was not enthralled at all by his Hispanic charm (as I will admit I was a little bit at first)—smart girl. Anyway, he still claims to want to come to church; however, I hope it’s for the right reasons. Time will tell.
I’m super fired up about this Young Adult conference going on in St. Louis next month. I’ve never been like this huge conference person, but I don’t know . . . there’s just something about it that really captured my interest, and I’ve drafted two other young ladies from church to join me. And the thought of the conference brings me to another thought . . .
McDougal. I hope he doesn’t mind. It’s been a while since I’ve used his pseudonym. He’s still in the picture, too, albeit in a different form. I always jokingly tell him how we have completely switched places. Like, literally. Now I’m immersed in the working world, and he’s the poor college student. This conference will have been my first time in a Bible school environment, and this is his first time in a secular college environment . . . well, at a major university. And the thought of college environments brings me to another thought . . .
This upcoming weekend is T-town time. It is so past due. I haven’t been up to old Tusky since graduation in May. I used to always look forward to when I had time to escape to the Gump. Now I’m sneaking away from the Gump to T-town. When will the madness stop? Shall we ever be satisfied? It should be fun.
Oh, and I finally got a cell phone after surviving perfectly fine without one for several years. Ooh, I’m super cool now. Worthy to join the hordes of unlimited night and weekend minute gluttons. Oh, well. Excuse me while I end this procrastinatory rambling and mourn the wilting of my sunflowers.
Friday, September 09, 2005
Today I Got Flowers
They’re sitting right here, brightening my reclaimed room as I type. If you know me, you know what kind they are. Bright yellow-orange petals. Big, circular, dark-chocolate brown center with the little fuzzies in a swirly pattern. Little green leafies with pointed tips that round the flower head. Long, stalky, fuzzy green stem.
Ah, sunflowers.
There’s just something about them. And I’m so happy the person that got them for me thought enough about me to want to get them for me. This is the first time I’ve ever gotten real, live sunflowers before.
To be honest, there have been times when I really didn’t think very highly of this person. Filled with adolescent angst, I thought this person was not the most attractive kid around, and didn’t really have much to offer. But as I got older and matured, I finally began to see this person in a new light. Eh, not too bad, I thought. I began to appreciate this person more than I ever had before. I realized that I could indeed love this person and that, as a result, my life would have a more positive, brighter, and more fulfilling outlook.
Who is this person? Eh . . . not exactly Mr. Wonderful.
Rather, it’s me.
Sunflowers on sale at Publix. A bunch of three for $3.27. Oh, who could resist?
Ah, sunflowers.
There’s just something about them. And I’m so happy the person that got them for me thought enough about me to want to get them for me. This is the first time I’ve ever gotten real, live sunflowers before.
To be honest, there have been times when I really didn’t think very highly of this person. Filled with adolescent angst, I thought this person was not the most attractive kid around, and didn’t really have much to offer. But as I got older and matured, I finally began to see this person in a new light. Eh, not too bad, I thought. I began to appreciate this person more than I ever had before. I realized that I could indeed love this person and that, as a result, my life would have a more positive, brighter, and more fulfilling outlook.
Who is this person? Eh . . . not exactly Mr. Wonderful.
Rather, it’s me.
Sunflowers on sale at Publix. A bunch of three for $3.27. Oh, who could resist?
Sunday, September 04, 2005
The Voices
There are these voices that have this running commentary going on in my mind. Not for real (lest it be thought that I’m in need of professional help), but . . . well, it’s a funny idea, anyway.
The first one is named Melancholia. She is clad in black. She is a writer and an accomplished lyre-player. She usually sits brooding in the corner of my mind, either writing her latest depressing poem or playing some medieval ballad in a minor key on her lyre, and when she decides to come out, she usually does so at the most inopportune times. She likes Coldplay. Her ultimate wish is to be able to play Rachmaninoff’s Prelude in C sharp minor on the piano in its entirety because she just loves the darkly romantic, brooding melody. What books line her library shelves? The Complete Anthology of Edgar Allan Poe. Tess of the D’Ubervilles by Thomas Hardy. The Old Man and the Sea by Ernest Hemingway. She has a collection of all of Shakespeare’s major tragedies. She does read her Bible though, surprisingly. What are her favorite books? Lamentations, Job, and Ecclesiates. Her favorite scripture? Ecclesiates 1:2, “Vanity of vanities, all is vanity.” Her eyes are perpetually swollen because she does a lot of crying. Sometimes she doesn’t even know why. She just sits there, absently strumming her lyre, tears slipping down her tragically beautiful cheeks.
The second is named Manica. She has this really loud, wide-mouthed laugh that just bursts from her belly. People sometimes make fun of her for it, but she doesn’t really care. And most of the time she laughs at stuff that most people don’t think is all that funny. And don’t let her get a little sleepy. Then she laughs at everything. She likes Curious George, the PowerPuff Girls, butterflies, and big, yellow smiley faces. She’s energetic, perpetually upbeat, and likes to bounce around to Christian rock on a pogo stick, pretending she’s Tigger. She always takes her vitamins. She’s sort of impulsive, too. She says things to people on a whim, and sometimes does silly things she may not have done had she thought about it for a second longer. But part of that impulsiveness explains her willingness to try new things, especially food. She’s tried things from snails to squid to sheep brains. She’s also the queen of procrastination: she puts things off till the last minute, then does it all in one sitting in the nick of time in an especially manic burst of energy. She doesn’t have as extensive a library as Melancholia, but at least she reads—the Comics section of the newspaper. And she does get a bit of Bible reading in, too. She’s not a complete heathen—unfortunately, it only consists of leafing through Song of Solomon and snickering to herself.
Next, we have Sarcasma. To say that she’s a smart aleck would be an understatement. She’s always rolling her eyes and coming up with quick quips and comebacks. She’s confident (some of the other voices thinks she’s too confident) and she knows what she wants and refuses to settle for less. She’s always arguing with the other voices and reminds them in little snide ways that she’s an educated woman. She’s spent five years at an Ivy League, has two-and-a-half majors, 3 minors and is certified in Deep Sea Diving. She also spent a year in the Philippines and speaks near-native-level Tagalog. She relishes a good debate, can really get fired up about politics and has a polite disdain for those who disagree with her. She’s a bit left of center. No “I refuse to believe the liberal media” bumper stickers on her car. She’s kind of a know-it-all and is unintentionally patronizing when she gives advice. She’s been there and done that. She is a big reader, among her favorite authors Kurt Vonnegut and Margaret Atwood. She reads the Bible too—Proverbs is her favorite.
Last but not least is Obsessa. The other voices call her OCD and Anal-retentive. She worries an awful lot about what people think about her, therefore, she always gives her opinions and explanations with a preamble—a “disclaimer” if you will, and it drives the other voices nuts. “Just spit it out!” they yell. She flosses her teeth at least twice a day (sometimes three times) and feels incomplete if she doesn’t. Sometimes she lies awake at night, rehearsing every conversation she’s had that day and each time she remembers that she said something that she would have liked to have said differently, she turns on her bedside lamp, takes out a pocket calendar and pencil, and writes down a little minus sign next to the date. For lunch, she cuts up pieces of cantaloupe, and uses a ruler to ensure that each piece is a perfect square. When she makes a sandwich, she always cuts it diagonally. She would have it no other way. She always feels that she’s not doing enough on her job, and always feels that she’s forgetting something every time she takes a trip. She seeks constant approval to make sure she’s doing things “right.” Her reading consists of “How To” books because she always feels that she’s in need of improvement and is forever trying to minimize her seemingly overwhelming flaws. She tries to read the Bible through once a year and always obsesses when she fails to meet her goal.
For the most part, my voices get along. Funny how they each have at least a little piece of what makes up the real me.
The first one is named Melancholia. She is clad in black. She is a writer and an accomplished lyre-player. She usually sits brooding in the corner of my mind, either writing her latest depressing poem or playing some medieval ballad in a minor key on her lyre, and when she decides to come out, she usually does so at the most inopportune times. She likes Coldplay. Her ultimate wish is to be able to play Rachmaninoff’s Prelude in C sharp minor on the piano in its entirety because she just loves the darkly romantic, brooding melody. What books line her library shelves? The Complete Anthology of Edgar Allan Poe. Tess of the D’Ubervilles by Thomas Hardy. The Old Man and the Sea by Ernest Hemingway. She has a collection of all of Shakespeare’s major tragedies. She does read her Bible though, surprisingly. What are her favorite books? Lamentations, Job, and Ecclesiates. Her favorite scripture? Ecclesiates 1:2, “Vanity of vanities, all is vanity.” Her eyes are perpetually swollen because she does a lot of crying. Sometimes she doesn’t even know why. She just sits there, absently strumming her lyre, tears slipping down her tragically beautiful cheeks.
The second is named Manica. She has this really loud, wide-mouthed laugh that just bursts from her belly. People sometimes make fun of her for it, but she doesn’t really care. And most of the time she laughs at stuff that most people don’t think is all that funny. And don’t let her get a little sleepy. Then she laughs at everything. She likes Curious George, the PowerPuff Girls, butterflies, and big, yellow smiley faces. She’s energetic, perpetually upbeat, and likes to bounce around to Christian rock on a pogo stick, pretending she’s Tigger. She always takes her vitamins. She’s sort of impulsive, too. She says things to people on a whim, and sometimes does silly things she may not have done had she thought about it for a second longer. But part of that impulsiveness explains her willingness to try new things, especially food. She’s tried things from snails to squid to sheep brains. She’s also the queen of procrastination: she puts things off till the last minute, then does it all in one sitting in the nick of time in an especially manic burst of energy. She doesn’t have as extensive a library as Melancholia, but at least she reads—the Comics section of the newspaper. And she does get a bit of Bible reading in, too. She’s not a complete heathen—unfortunately, it only consists of leafing through Song of Solomon and snickering to herself.
Next, we have Sarcasma. To say that she’s a smart aleck would be an understatement. She’s always rolling her eyes and coming up with quick quips and comebacks. She’s confident (some of the other voices thinks she’s too confident) and she knows what she wants and refuses to settle for less. She’s always arguing with the other voices and reminds them in little snide ways that she’s an educated woman. She’s spent five years at an Ivy League, has two-and-a-half majors, 3 minors and is certified in Deep Sea Diving. She also spent a year in the Philippines and speaks near-native-level Tagalog. She relishes a good debate, can really get fired up about politics and has a polite disdain for those who disagree with her. She’s a bit left of center. No “I refuse to believe the liberal media” bumper stickers on her car. She’s kind of a know-it-all and is unintentionally patronizing when she gives advice. She’s been there and done that. She is a big reader, among her favorite authors Kurt Vonnegut and Margaret Atwood. She reads the Bible too—Proverbs is her favorite.
Last but not least is Obsessa. The other voices call her OCD and Anal-retentive. She worries an awful lot about what people think about her, therefore, she always gives her opinions and explanations with a preamble—a “disclaimer” if you will, and it drives the other voices nuts. “Just spit it out!” they yell. She flosses her teeth at least twice a day (sometimes three times) and feels incomplete if she doesn’t. Sometimes she lies awake at night, rehearsing every conversation she’s had that day and each time she remembers that she said something that she would have liked to have said differently, she turns on her bedside lamp, takes out a pocket calendar and pencil, and writes down a little minus sign next to the date. For lunch, she cuts up pieces of cantaloupe, and uses a ruler to ensure that each piece is a perfect square. When she makes a sandwich, she always cuts it diagonally. She would have it no other way. She always feels that she’s not doing enough on her job, and always feels that she’s forgetting something every time she takes a trip. She seeks constant approval to make sure she’s doing things “right.” Her reading consists of “How To” books because she always feels that she’s in need of improvement and is forever trying to minimize her seemingly overwhelming flaws. She tries to read the Bible through once a year and always obsesses when she fails to meet her goal.
For the most part, my voices get along. Funny how they each have at least a little piece of what makes up the real me.
Thursday, September 01, 2005
Hurricane Katrina vs. Payday
Today was payday. But how in the world can I be happy-go-lucky about my first professional paycheck when people's houses are underwater? I mean it's like . . . ugh. I just can't fathom it. How can I be like, "Ooh, I'm gonna use that 30% off coupon at New York & CO this weekend" when people are just about killing each other over food and stuff? When floating dead bodies are being passed by to try to save people who are in even worse danger?
Oh, any time things happen like this, I feel so detached, so . . . out of touch. Because I feel like I can't relate and I feel spoiled and uncaring because I don't have to deal with it. I can sit in front of my laptop and reminisce and think about eating an omelet. Crazy.
Well, at church, we took up a special offering, because there were so many people connected to the church in these areas that were affected, and at least I put my 2 cents in. The least I could do, really. I just pray that God will help and comfort these people who are in such a dire situation right now.
Oh, any time things happen like this, I feel so detached, so . . . out of touch. Because I feel like I can't relate and I feel spoiled and uncaring because I don't have to deal with it. I can sit in front of my laptop and reminisce and think about eating an omelet. Crazy.
Well, at church, we took up a special offering, because there were so many people connected to the church in these areas that were affected, and at least I put my 2 cents in. The least I could do, really. I just pray that God will help and comfort these people who are in such a dire situation right now.
Tuesday, August 30, 2005
Real Sex and Flirt to Convert Part II
I meant to write a review on this book a long time ago because I finished it a long time ago. It's called Real Sex:The Naked Truth about Chastity by Lauren F. Winner. I promise you, it's not another one of those "just don't have sex, okay?" kind of books. And even though it was written by a woman, it is addressed to members of both sexes. It was the most eye-opening, most beautifully premised book about this subject that I have ever read in my entire life. Really. I wish that all young people such as myself who are trying to live their lives according to God's Word would read this book. It was so refreshing. One of my blog buddies, Wendy Scoggins, has written a review of it on her blog and does a better job of explaining why this book is so great than I have. Check it out.
Now for a brief Flirt to Convert (FTC) update. (See here for the backstory.) And, sorry, there are no juicy details. lol. Without putting all my business out there on the street, suffice it to say that I had to (well, didn't have to, but anyway) sort of cancel out on a dinner invitation that I had previously accepted. But all is not lost. He was very understanding, we chatted some more, and still, I have no reason to believe that he is not on the up-and-up. So, in the end, I guess I'm glad that I didn't "nip it in the bud." If, in the future, I do meet with him, though, for precaution's sake, I will not do so alone. And, for the record, I really am not a true believer in FTC--I just like the phrase because it rhymes and because it is seemingly fitting to the situation. Emphasis on seemingly.
And, though one of my worst fears is to ever be labeled as a conference junkie, there is a tentative upcoming conference that I hope becomes set in stone that I would seriously make the effort to attend. It's called the IQ Forum and will be held at Gateway College of Evangelism in St. Louis. It seems like something that is right up my alley and I think would be worthwhile to attend. I could definitely get a sub for work since I know ahead of time, and, thanks to finally entering the real working world, I should have the resources. We'll see!
Now for a brief Flirt to Convert (FTC) update. (See here for the backstory.) And, sorry, there are no juicy details. lol. Without putting all my business out there on the street, suffice it to say that I had to (well, didn't have to, but anyway) sort of cancel out on a dinner invitation that I had previously accepted. But all is not lost. He was very understanding, we chatted some more, and still, I have no reason to believe that he is not on the up-and-up. So, in the end, I guess I'm glad that I didn't "nip it in the bud." If, in the future, I do meet with him, though, for precaution's sake, I will not do so alone. And, for the record, I really am not a true believer in FTC--I just like the phrase because it rhymes and because it is seemingly fitting to the situation. Emphasis on seemingly.
And, though one of my worst fears is to ever be labeled as a conference junkie, there is a tentative upcoming conference that I hope becomes set in stone that I would seriously make the effort to attend. It's called the IQ Forum and will be held at Gateway College of Evangelism in St. Louis. It seems like something that is right up my alley and I think would be worthwhile to attend. I could definitely get a sub for work since I know ahead of time, and, thanks to finally entering the real working world, I should have the resources. We'll see!
Monday, August 22, 2005
Flirt to Convert
I got this phrase from a comment left on another blog that I frequent often. It’s a doctrine that some Pentecostal girls and guys subscribe to for lack of available fish in the pond of believers. “Flirting to convert” in its more advanced stages is called “missionary dating.” And if the conversion doesn’t happen before the wedding date, it’s called “unequally yoked.” So, for reasons that need not be detailed, I’m not a subscriber.
However, I have found myself in a circumstance that may lead others to believe that I am a subscriber, and I do protest that I am not. But, lest I run the risk of protesting too much, I will describe the circumstances and let them speak for themselves.
It all started with a quesadilla.
My mom and I are lovers of Mexican food, and we frequent a restaurant called San Marcos. Tuesday night, we went out for quesadilla dinners. Now, every time we go to a Mexican restaurant, I order in Spanish. Oftentimes, when I do, I get the attention of the Spanish-speaking waiters, and things get a little flirty. I know this. But I do it anyway. Sad, but true.
So, Tuesday night was no different. This time, one of the busboys sort of eased on over to where my mom and I were sitting and started chatting in Spanish with me, telling me about Mexico and discussing cultural differences between Mexico and the US. Eventually he got around to wanting my phone number. Why? He claimed that he didn’t have many friends and that he really needed help with his English. I laughed.
(In Spanish) “You’re telling me you’ve been in the United States for 6 years and you work at a restaurant with plenty of people from your country and you don’t know any English or have any friends? I don’t believe you.”
He proceeded to promise that he was telling the truth. “That’s why I can’t work as a waiter—because I can’t speak English.” He then went on and on about how he really just wants someone to talk to, he wouldn’t bother me or ask me to go out . . . I was skeptical even when he said that he was 24 until he showed me his ID. He looked to be more in his late twenties. I will admit, though, that he was a hottie. And taller than most men his persuasion. Side note: I’m almost embarrassed at how easily I am attracted to Hispanic men. Even so, I kept telling him, amidst his protests, that I didn’t think it would be a good idea for us to be amigos. Still, he persisted. Finally, Mom suggested that I invite him to church. I hadn’t thought of that. (Bad me.) So, I told him that I would give him my number if he agreed to come to my church. He lit up. He said he would love to come . . . yadda yadda yadda. Before we left, he said he would call Sunday afternoon to get directions so that he could make it to the Sunday night service.
Sunday afternoon, he calls. I give him directions to the church in my not-so-perfect Spanish. I have a feeling that he’s going to be a no-show. I don’t know why.
Sunday night, he’s a no-show.
Sunday night post-church, he leaves a message. As I get the phone to call him back, it rings. It’s him. In his rapid, non-stop Spanish, he explains how he got lost and how he went back and tried to find it but couldn’t, he’s sorry, but he tried . . . as I suspected. But then we ended up talking for a while on the phone. He still claims to just want to be friends, it’s so rare for him to have an American friend because he can’t speak English, and on and on. (sigh) I feel myself slowly starting to give in. Aw, give the guy a chance. Maybe he’s not a typical guy just out to see what he can get. Maybe he does just want a friend to talk to and to help improve his English.
Part of me says, "Nip it in the bud, you're making yourself look desperate. A Mexican busboy?" But the other part of me is intrigued and is like, “Why? You're not trying to get with him or anything. You could use a bit of brushing up on your Spanish anyway.” How do I get myself into these quandaries? Next time I go to a Mexican restaurant, I’m keeping my mouth shut.
However, I have found myself in a circumstance that may lead others to believe that I am a subscriber, and I do protest that I am not. But, lest I run the risk of protesting too much, I will describe the circumstances and let them speak for themselves.
It all started with a quesadilla.
My mom and I are lovers of Mexican food, and we frequent a restaurant called San Marcos. Tuesday night, we went out for quesadilla dinners. Now, every time we go to a Mexican restaurant, I order in Spanish. Oftentimes, when I do, I get the attention of the Spanish-speaking waiters, and things get a little flirty. I know this. But I do it anyway. Sad, but true.
So, Tuesday night was no different. This time, one of the busboys sort of eased on over to where my mom and I were sitting and started chatting in Spanish with me, telling me about Mexico and discussing cultural differences between Mexico and the US. Eventually he got around to wanting my phone number. Why? He claimed that he didn’t have many friends and that he really needed help with his English. I laughed.
(In Spanish) “You’re telling me you’ve been in the United States for 6 years and you work at a restaurant with plenty of people from your country and you don’t know any English or have any friends? I don’t believe you.”
He proceeded to promise that he was telling the truth. “That’s why I can’t work as a waiter—because I can’t speak English.” He then went on and on about how he really just wants someone to talk to, he wouldn’t bother me or ask me to go out . . . I was skeptical even when he said that he was 24 until he showed me his ID. He looked to be more in his late twenties. I will admit, though, that he was a hottie. And taller than most men his persuasion. Side note: I’m almost embarrassed at how easily I am attracted to Hispanic men. Even so, I kept telling him, amidst his protests, that I didn’t think it would be a good idea for us to be amigos. Still, he persisted. Finally, Mom suggested that I invite him to church. I hadn’t thought of that. (Bad me.) So, I told him that I would give him my number if he agreed to come to my church. He lit up. He said he would love to come . . . yadda yadda yadda. Before we left, he said he would call Sunday afternoon to get directions so that he could make it to the Sunday night service.
Sunday afternoon, he calls. I give him directions to the church in my not-so-perfect Spanish. I have a feeling that he’s going to be a no-show. I don’t know why.
Sunday night, he’s a no-show.
Sunday night post-church, he leaves a message. As I get the phone to call him back, it rings. It’s him. In his rapid, non-stop Spanish, he explains how he got lost and how he went back and tried to find it but couldn’t, he’s sorry, but he tried . . . as I suspected. But then we ended up talking for a while on the phone. He still claims to just want to be friends, it’s so rare for him to have an American friend because he can’t speak English, and on and on. (sigh) I feel myself slowly starting to give in. Aw, give the guy a chance. Maybe he’s not a typical guy just out to see what he can get. Maybe he does just want a friend to talk to and to help improve his English.
Part of me says, "Nip it in the bud, you're making yourself look desperate. A Mexican busboy?" But the other part of me is intrigued and is like, “Why? You're not trying to get with him or anything. You could use a bit of brushing up on your Spanish anyway.” How do I get myself into these quandaries? Next time I go to a Mexican restaurant, I’m keeping my mouth shut.
Thursday, August 18, 2005
Poem
today I got torn
a piece of me
I never knew would leave
such a token of
its greater existence.
a flesh skin rip
a love blood rivulet
and all I could do
was watch, water-eyed
as it trickled and dripped,
will it to heal
and wish it the best.
a piece of me
I never knew would leave
such a token of
its greater existence.
a flesh skin rip
a love blood rivulet
and all I could do
was watch, water-eyed
as it trickled and dripped,
will it to heal
and wish it the best.
Sunday, August 14, 2005
La Conferencia
As soon as I walked into the doors of the church where the Spanish Conference was being held, before I could even find a seat, I was approached by five tall, fine Hispanic men, one after the other, and was asked for my número de teléfono.
Yeah, right.
Anyway, I had a grand time. Another young lady from church and I got up at the crack of dawn and made the three-hour-drive to Foley, Alabama. Hearing the sanctuary filled with Spanish renditions of “Praise the Lord, oh, yes, He is good! Give the Lord a hand-praise!” brought back so many memories. Many of the choruses that we sang were ones that I had already learned from going to church during my time in Spain. Most of the Spanish-speaking people there were Mexican and Guatemalan. The ministers were bilingual, so they would say a little something in Spanish, translate it into English (for the non-Spanish speakers there for support), say a little something else in Spanish, repeat it in English—it was amazing how they could do that and keep their thoughts straight. I met some folks, practiced a little bit of Spanish, got the Search for Truth Bible study in Spanish, and got my mouth burned up by some spicy post-church guacamole.
There is such a need for ministries that reach out to Spanish-speaking people, without a doubt. The Hispanic population is exploding in Alabama. We don’t have one at our church yet, but the groundwork is being laid, and I want to be ready!
Yeah, right.
Anyway, I had a grand time. Another young lady from church and I got up at the crack of dawn and made the three-hour-drive to Foley, Alabama. Hearing the sanctuary filled with Spanish renditions of “Praise the Lord, oh, yes, He is good! Give the Lord a hand-praise!” brought back so many memories. Many of the choruses that we sang were ones that I had already learned from going to church during my time in Spain. Most of the Spanish-speaking people there were Mexican and Guatemalan. The ministers were bilingual, so they would say a little something in Spanish, translate it into English (for the non-Spanish speakers there for support), say a little something else in Spanish, repeat it in English—it was amazing how they could do that and keep their thoughts straight. I met some folks, practiced a little bit of Spanish, got the Search for Truth Bible study in Spanish, and got my mouth burned up by some spicy post-church guacamole.
There is such a need for ministries that reach out to Spanish-speaking people, without a doubt. The Hispanic population is exploding in Alabama. We don’t have one at our church yet, but the groundwork is being laid, and I want to be ready!
Tuesday, August 09, 2005
As I Sit Waiting
I still haven’t read Faulkner’s As I Lay Dying. A terrible admission for a Language Arts major, I know. But I have read Dr. Seuss’s Oh, The Places You’ll Go! In fact, I read it all the time to a certain adorable little girl who spends a lot of time at our house. She’s only three, but we’ve read it so much that she can look at the pictures and approximate pretty well what the words are.
There’s a point in the book where the little protagonist is going along in his life’s journey and after some “bang ups and hang ups,” he reaches The Waiting Place. In the picture, all of the little Dr. Seuss-looking figures are standing in line, sitting perched by a telephone, watching a pot, doing anything that involves having to wait. Oh, I so feel that I’m in The Waiting Place right now.
It gets monotonous. Lord, what is it that I’m waiting for?
It’s not that I don’t have enough on my plate to keep me busy. In-service for new teachers starts Wednesday, and the rest of the week is for all teachers culminating with the elementary school open house Friday afternoon. The first day of school, next Monday, is breathing down my neck. “Are you ready? Are you excited?” everyone asks. Upon learning that this is my first year teaching, all of the older teachers pat me on the shoulder saying, “The first year is the hardest, but you’ll get through it.” What other choice do I have?
I meant to tell the minister who preached last night that the message was for me. It really had me written all over it. He talked about trusting God, trusting that He has a plan for our lives, seeing that He has a reason for why things happen, believing that “he which hath begun a good work in [me] will perform it until the day of Jesus Christ” (Philippians 1:6), knowing that if we can hang on and endure, that one day we will see how all the pieces of the puzzle fit.
As the altar call was given, I didn’t go up there like I knew that I should have. It seemed like he was talking to me when he said several times, “Don’t be embarrassed to come. It doesn’t mean that you’re backslidden or anything negative about you. I would just like people who have questions about what’s going on in their lives or anyone who just needs a little extra boost of encouragement to feel free to come to the altar.” I just sat there, feeling like I had had more than my fair share of boo-hooing sessions at the altar lately. God can touch me right where I am. I realize now that that was just my pride getting in the way.
I have so much to be thankful for. I know that I do, and I thank God for what He has done for me. A million people would probably love to exchange places with me. I don’t ever want to fall into complaining. If I look at the big picture, honestly, truly, things could be a million times worse, and I am grateful that they aren’t. I know deep down inside that I just need to be patient, focus on things that have been set before me (i.e. my job) and be content with where I am at right now.
“But they that wait upon the LORD shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run and not be weary; they shall walk and not faint” (Isaiah 40: 31).
There’s a point in the book where the little protagonist is going along in his life’s journey and after some “bang ups and hang ups,” he reaches The Waiting Place. In the picture, all of the little Dr. Seuss-looking figures are standing in line, sitting perched by a telephone, watching a pot, doing anything that involves having to wait. Oh, I so feel that I’m in The Waiting Place right now.
It gets monotonous. Lord, what is it that I’m waiting for?
It’s not that I don’t have enough on my plate to keep me busy. In-service for new teachers starts Wednesday, and the rest of the week is for all teachers culminating with the elementary school open house Friday afternoon. The first day of school, next Monday, is breathing down my neck. “Are you ready? Are you excited?” everyone asks. Upon learning that this is my first year teaching, all of the older teachers pat me on the shoulder saying, “The first year is the hardest, but you’ll get through it.” What other choice do I have?
I meant to tell the minister who preached last night that the message was for me. It really had me written all over it. He talked about trusting God, trusting that He has a plan for our lives, seeing that He has a reason for why things happen, believing that “he which hath begun a good work in [me] will perform it until the day of Jesus Christ” (Philippians 1:6), knowing that if we can hang on and endure, that one day we will see how all the pieces of the puzzle fit.
As the altar call was given, I didn’t go up there like I knew that I should have. It seemed like he was talking to me when he said several times, “Don’t be embarrassed to come. It doesn’t mean that you’re backslidden or anything negative about you. I would just like people who have questions about what’s going on in their lives or anyone who just needs a little extra boost of encouragement to feel free to come to the altar.” I just sat there, feeling like I had had more than my fair share of boo-hooing sessions at the altar lately. God can touch me right where I am. I realize now that that was just my pride getting in the way.
I have so much to be thankful for. I know that I do, and I thank God for what He has done for me. A million people would probably love to exchange places with me. I don’t ever want to fall into complaining. If I look at the big picture, honestly, truly, things could be a million times worse, and I am grateful that they aren’t. I know deep down inside that I just need to be patient, focus on things that have been set before me (i.e. my job) and be content with where I am at right now.
“But they that wait upon the LORD shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run and not be weary; they shall walk and not faint” (Isaiah 40: 31).
Sunday, July 31, 2005
These Are a Few of My Fa-vo-rite Things . . .
Think Julie Andrews during Christmas time. Yeah, that song. Nothing exciting is going on, and I’m procrastinating as usual, so why not make it fun? These are in no way in order of importance, or favorability. (I just love making up words. Hey, Shakespeare did it, so why can’t I?):
1. Curious George. He is the cutest thing ever. I have a stuffed toy, a flashlight, various posters, a calendar, he even serves as my laptop’s wallpaper . . . it’s a bit on the juvenile side, I know, but I can’t help it. I guess he kind of reminds me of me: He wants to do the right thing, but somehow always ends up getting into trouble. lol. At least it all works out in the end.
2. Mary Higgins Clark. Her murder mysteries are must-reads. No, they’ll never win the Pulitzer Prize for literature, I know, but they’re so . . . classic. Her trademarks? A professional, single, beautiful woman who is the main character somehow gets mixed up in a murder investigation and becomes the next target. The killer is always 1. a surprise, 2. male, and 3. stalkerish and psychopathic. Gotta love ‘em.
3. Iced Chai Tea Lattes. We’ve gone there.
4. Shakespeare. He was simply brilliant. No facts to back it up, but he’s probably the most quoted man in history. He was also way before his time. Just read Othello, and you’ll know what I mean.
5. Lavender. It’s such a soft, feminine color that I’m always told compliments my skin. I have many lavender-colored articles of clothing, lavender journals, a lavender desk lamp, lavender note cards, lavender flip-flops, a lavender hole-punch and a lavender toothbrush. I would have it no other way.
6. Coldplay. We’ve gone there with them too, but I just have to brag on my favorite British blokes. There was an article about them in USA Weekend last Sunday, and this sentence pretty much sums them up: “The resulting album [their newest one, X&Y], filled with standard Coldplay themes of love, loss and longing, goes far in satisfying fans’ yearnings for understanding and empathy in the form of Martin’s haunting falsetto.”
7. Sunflowers. They’re so encouraging, bright, and lovely. I keep warning people that I’m going to have a sunflower wedding bouquet. Okay . . . maybe not like, sunflowers and nothing else, but at least have sunflowers in it. I don’t care what anybody says, a sunflowery wedding bouquet would be the bomb.
8. Spain and all things Spanish. I could go on and on and on, but just suffice it to say that Spain became my home away from home—studying abroad was a blast. I know I have to go back there someday, I will. I also love being able to enter into another culture because I have a command of the language. It’s one of the most awesome feelings in the world.
9. Glasses. I cannot and will not attempt to describe the fixation I have with them. There is just something intelligent, distinguished, and refined about them. I’m always fascinated when people who wear them go through the glasses-wearer ritual of taking them off, massaging the bridges of their noses, examining them, wiping them off, and putting them back on. Whooooa. (Said in a surfer dude voice.)
10. Sally Hansen’s Hard as Nails. I got tired of having chipped, pantyhose-snagging nails. And let me tell you, that stuff is the best nail hardener in town. Come on, the clear kind, of course!
Of course this isn’t it. You know, it’s just a little list of random favorites, not by any means all of the favorites that exist. If these 10 things suddenly ceased to exist, I wouldn’t die. No, I know I would make it somehow. But if they were to cease to exist, rest assured that the world would be a smaller, darker, colder place.
1. Curious George. He is the cutest thing ever. I have a stuffed toy, a flashlight, various posters, a calendar, he even serves as my laptop’s wallpaper . . . it’s a bit on the juvenile side, I know, but I can’t help it. I guess he kind of reminds me of me: He wants to do the right thing, but somehow always ends up getting into trouble. lol. At least it all works out in the end.
2. Mary Higgins Clark. Her murder mysteries are must-reads. No, they’ll never win the Pulitzer Prize for literature, I know, but they’re so . . . classic. Her trademarks? A professional, single, beautiful woman who is the main character somehow gets mixed up in a murder investigation and becomes the next target. The killer is always 1. a surprise, 2. male, and 3. stalkerish and psychopathic. Gotta love ‘em.
3. Iced Chai Tea Lattes. We’ve gone there.
4. Shakespeare. He was simply brilliant. No facts to back it up, but he’s probably the most quoted man in history. He was also way before his time. Just read Othello, and you’ll know what I mean.
5. Lavender. It’s such a soft, feminine color that I’m always told compliments my skin. I have many lavender-colored articles of clothing, lavender journals, a lavender desk lamp, lavender note cards, lavender flip-flops, a lavender hole-punch and a lavender toothbrush. I would have it no other way.
6. Coldplay. We’ve gone there with them too, but I just have to brag on my favorite British blokes. There was an article about them in USA Weekend last Sunday, and this sentence pretty much sums them up: “The resulting album [their newest one, X&Y], filled with standard Coldplay themes of love, loss and longing, goes far in satisfying fans’ yearnings for understanding and empathy in the form of Martin’s haunting falsetto.”
7. Sunflowers. They’re so encouraging, bright, and lovely. I keep warning people that I’m going to have a sunflower wedding bouquet. Okay . . . maybe not like, sunflowers and nothing else, but at least have sunflowers in it. I don’t care what anybody says, a sunflowery wedding bouquet would be the bomb.
8. Spain and all things Spanish. I could go on and on and on, but just suffice it to say that Spain became my home away from home—studying abroad was a blast. I know I have to go back there someday, I will. I also love being able to enter into another culture because I have a command of the language. It’s one of the most awesome feelings in the world.
9. Glasses. I cannot and will not attempt to describe the fixation I have with them. There is just something intelligent, distinguished, and refined about them. I’m always fascinated when people who wear them go through the glasses-wearer ritual of taking them off, massaging the bridges of their noses, examining them, wiping them off, and putting them back on. Whooooa. (Said in a surfer dude voice.)
10. Sally Hansen’s Hard as Nails. I got tired of having chipped, pantyhose-snagging nails. And let me tell you, that stuff is the best nail hardener in town. Come on, the clear kind, of course!
Of course this isn’t it. You know, it’s just a little list of random favorites, not by any means all of the favorites that exist. If these 10 things suddenly ceased to exist, I wouldn’t die. No, I know I would make it somehow. But if they were to cease to exist, rest assured that the world would be a smaller, darker, colder place.
Wednesday, July 27, 2005
A Way with Words
Disclaimer: For those who do not care for Shakespeare and/or do not want to be further convinced that I am a hard-core nerd, read no further.
It was time for a change of scrolling screen saver quotation, so I gleaned from one of my most treasured pieces of literature, my favorite Shakespearean play of all time, Julius Caesar. You probably thought I was going to say Romeo and Juliet, what with all of the melancholia that’s been floating around in my blog lately. But no, it’s Julius Caesar, hands down.
What is it about such a seemingly stuffy play written in such archaic language that moves me so passionately? There’s no love story, very little comic relief. Much of the dialogue consists of speeches and soliloquies. A bunch of ancient Roman statesmen gang up on the play’s namesake and stab him to death. Whoopdie-doo.
But there’s one central element of the play that moves the whole plot and that simply fascinates me: Rhetoric and the power of language. How simple words can persuade great men to err, and incite the least of men to violent action. It’s so powerful. And the character that best embodies this central element (also my favorite literary character of all time—I will be naming my future dog after him) is none other than Marcus Antonius, more popularly known as Marc Antony.
I wrote my 11th grade research paper on his funeral oration. Nothing else. The whole paper was about Marc Antony’s speech over Caesar’s bloodied body. It’s the best part in the whole play. At first, the plebeians are pretty cool with the fact that Caesar was offed. But Antony is so smooth, he understands the mechanics and the power of language so well, that he takes the plebeians from thinking “good riddance, Caesar” to “let’s get the guys who killed Caesar!” Amazing.
“Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears,” he begins. And in the end, he sits back with a satisfied smirk as the plebeians rush off to riot: “Now let it work: mischief, thou art afoot. Take thou what course thou wilt!” Antony knew words, he loved words, and understood their power so that he accomplished his goal without lifting a finger. Though Antony was manipulative in his approach, I still admire him for his skill.
Marc Antony makes me think about why I couldn’t choose between Language Arts and Spanish. I was compelled to study both because they’re both about language. Language connects people, language allows you to understand culture and ways of life, and language is made up of words. There’s just something about people, literary or real-life, who have a way with words. They thrill me.
I tell you that which you yourselves do know;
Show you sweet Caesar’s wounds, poor poor dumb mouths,
And bid them speak for me: but were I Brutus,
And Brutus Antony, there were an Antony
Would ruffle up your spirits, and put a tongue
In every wound of Caesar, that should move
The stones of Rome to rise and mutiny.
--Marc Antony (Julius Caesar, Act III, scene ii)
It was time for a change of scrolling screen saver quotation, so I gleaned from one of my most treasured pieces of literature, my favorite Shakespearean play of all time, Julius Caesar. You probably thought I was going to say Romeo and Juliet, what with all of the melancholia that’s been floating around in my blog lately. But no, it’s Julius Caesar, hands down.
What is it about such a seemingly stuffy play written in such archaic language that moves me so passionately? There’s no love story, very little comic relief. Much of the dialogue consists of speeches and soliloquies. A bunch of ancient Roman statesmen gang up on the play’s namesake and stab him to death. Whoopdie-doo.
But there’s one central element of the play that moves the whole plot and that simply fascinates me: Rhetoric and the power of language. How simple words can persuade great men to err, and incite the least of men to violent action. It’s so powerful. And the character that best embodies this central element (also my favorite literary character of all time—I will be naming my future dog after him) is none other than Marcus Antonius, more popularly known as Marc Antony.
I wrote my 11th grade research paper on his funeral oration. Nothing else. The whole paper was about Marc Antony’s speech over Caesar’s bloodied body. It’s the best part in the whole play. At first, the plebeians are pretty cool with the fact that Caesar was offed. But Antony is so smooth, he understands the mechanics and the power of language so well, that he takes the plebeians from thinking “good riddance, Caesar” to “let’s get the guys who killed Caesar!” Amazing.
“Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears,” he begins. And in the end, he sits back with a satisfied smirk as the plebeians rush off to riot: “Now let it work: mischief, thou art afoot. Take thou what course thou wilt!” Antony knew words, he loved words, and understood their power so that he accomplished his goal without lifting a finger. Though Antony was manipulative in his approach, I still admire him for his skill.
Marc Antony makes me think about why I couldn’t choose between Language Arts and Spanish. I was compelled to study both because they’re both about language. Language connects people, language allows you to understand culture and ways of life, and language is made up of words. There’s just something about people, literary or real-life, who have a way with words. They thrill me.
I tell you that which you yourselves do know;
Show you sweet Caesar’s wounds, poor poor dumb mouths,
And bid them speak for me: but were I Brutus,
And Brutus Antony, there were an Antony
Would ruffle up your spirits, and put a tongue
In every wound of Caesar, that should move
The stones of Rome to rise and mutiny.
--Marc Antony (Julius Caesar, Act III, scene ii)
Monday, July 25, 2005
Relapse
re·lapse vi. to slip back into a former state, esp. into illness after apparent recovery—n. a relapsing
I had a relapsing Saturday afternoon. And I state this fact with a slightly self-deprecatory snicker. I can always do that in retrospect.
It all started post-our church ladies’ hair seminar. Ladies’ hair seminar. I could almost say that phrase with a snicker, but I won’t because I will admit that I got some helpful hints. Anyway, there is a very nice church sister who is extremely encouraging and whom I love to death. She called the other day “to make sure I was okay,” but we didn’t get a chance to chat because I was out and about for most of the day. So, post-hair seminar we chatted a little bit, exchanged niceties and social apologies for not getting back with one another that day, and she mentioned that she was just “checking in on me.” She is privy to the demise of the cake, and I realize that I have been withdrawn and a little extra-weepy during altar call lately (not to mention my little tissue-filled moment during Thursday night prayer), so I thought I should give her a little reassurance that I was okay, or at least doing better.
Let’s go off on a tiny tangent and allow me to make a confession. I am a big fat crybaby. I wish I could explain the triggers that turn my eye-faucets on, but it happens. A lot. I’m one of those cry-when-you-laughers too. So I have avoided discussion of anything cake-related for those reasons.
So, back to the encouraging sister. I started out with a half-hearted, “I’m doing okay,” and progressed to a series of unfinished, broken explanations of why I still feel the way I do sometimes and then they started slipping. The throat constriction, the heightening of voice pitch, the facial heat and ocular stinging.
“See, that’s why I don’t really like to talk about it . . .” I trailed off, forcing a smile and quickly brushing the wetness away.
“Well, just know that I’m always here if you need to talk,” she smiled.
On the drive back home, I tried to keep a stiff upper lip. Suck it up, suck it up, suck it up. But, inevitably, I ended up sprawled across my bed, burying my face into a pillow, swelling my eyes up and giving myself a headache. I have nothing better to do on a Saturday but confine myself in my room and wallow in self-pity! Oh, boo-hoo-hoo. Boo-hoo-hoo. And nobody understands! Oh, boo-hoo-hoo. Boo-hoo-hoo. And I’m 23! Oh, boo-hoo-hoo. Boo-hoo-hoo.
It’s amazing how irrational the snowball effect really is. But despite my overly emotional and, at times, irrational ways of coping, I will not underestimate the power of having a good cry. It’s so releasing and cathartic. Even though I look like a monstrosity afterwards (or “lookin' like who done it and what for” as my brothers would say), I will admit that I do feel better. Afterwards, I can take a step back and start to look at things rationally. Start to reorder my thoughts and my outlook.
Thou tellest my wanderings: put thou my tears into thy bottle:are they not in thy book? (Psalm 56:8)
I had a relapsing Saturday afternoon. And I state this fact with a slightly self-deprecatory snicker. I can always do that in retrospect.
It all started post-our church ladies’ hair seminar. Ladies’ hair seminar. I could almost say that phrase with a snicker, but I won’t because I will admit that I got some helpful hints. Anyway, there is a very nice church sister who is extremely encouraging and whom I love to death. She called the other day “to make sure I was okay,” but we didn’t get a chance to chat because I was out and about for most of the day. So, post-hair seminar we chatted a little bit, exchanged niceties and social apologies for not getting back with one another that day, and she mentioned that she was just “checking in on me.” She is privy to the demise of the cake, and I realize that I have been withdrawn and a little extra-weepy during altar call lately (not to mention my little tissue-filled moment during Thursday night prayer), so I thought I should give her a little reassurance that I was okay, or at least doing better.
Let’s go off on a tiny tangent and allow me to make a confession. I am a big fat crybaby. I wish I could explain the triggers that turn my eye-faucets on, but it happens. A lot. I’m one of those cry-when-you-laughers too. So I have avoided discussion of anything cake-related for those reasons.
So, back to the encouraging sister. I started out with a half-hearted, “I’m doing okay,” and progressed to a series of unfinished, broken explanations of why I still feel the way I do sometimes and then they started slipping. The throat constriction, the heightening of voice pitch, the facial heat and ocular stinging.
“See, that’s why I don’t really like to talk about it . . .” I trailed off, forcing a smile and quickly brushing the wetness away.
“Well, just know that I’m always here if you need to talk,” she smiled.
On the drive back home, I tried to keep a stiff upper lip. Suck it up, suck it up, suck it up. But, inevitably, I ended up sprawled across my bed, burying my face into a pillow, swelling my eyes up and giving myself a headache. I have nothing better to do on a Saturday but confine myself in my room and wallow in self-pity! Oh, boo-hoo-hoo. Boo-hoo-hoo. And nobody understands! Oh, boo-hoo-hoo. Boo-hoo-hoo. And I’m 23! Oh, boo-hoo-hoo. Boo-hoo-hoo.
It’s amazing how irrational the snowball effect really is. But despite my overly emotional and, at times, irrational ways of coping, I will not underestimate the power of having a good cry. It’s so releasing and cathartic. Even though I look like a monstrosity afterwards (or “lookin' like who done it and what for” as my brothers would say), I will admit that I do feel better. Afterwards, I can take a step back and start to look at things rationally. Start to reorder my thoughts and my outlook.
Thou tellest my wanderings: put thou my tears into thy bottle:are they not in thy book? (Psalm 56:8)
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