Comtemplating thankfulness after Thanksgiving = Sending a Belated Birthday card (belatedly)

At the start of last week, I had an enormous amount of negative energy in my body. An enormous amount. I felt choked by it. I could've written several entries in which I ranted and bitched about all the crap that was clogging the pipes of my happiness, but I chose not to. I was practicing some some self-restraint in the spirit of Thanksgiving. I chose to focus on the positive and not let every little worry and frustration (and my growing contempt and disgust in the human race) overtake me. As I thought about it I realized the truth as it is, that I have an immense amount of things to be thankful for right now. God has blessed me more than I deserve to be blessed. I have a job I love (for the most part). I have many comforts and luxuries that others don't. I'm in love. I have great friends. I've had lots of good hair days lately. But, listing the things I'm thankful for would have been the MOST unoriginal thing I could have done. Seeing as Thanksgiving is over now, I could have just skipped this subject altogether, but I really did want to write about it. So...I'm gonna give it a shot.

Instead of thankfulness, I'm going to talk about forgiveness. Why forgiveness? Because I've reached the conclusion that thankfulness isn't possible without forgiveness. I'll do my best to explain...

I read this one day last week. "God is more interested in making us what we ought to be than in giving us what we want to have." I began to disect this the instant I read it. I thought about "wants" as they relate to thankfulness. Should we only be thankful when we recieve the things we want? Or should we be thankful for everything in our lives; the good stuff, the bad stuff, the stuff we hoped for, AND the stuff we never expected?

A friend of mine taught me a couple of years ago (during a very dark time)to be thankful PARTICULARLY for the bad stuff. I thought she was crazy at first. I immediately told her that there was no way I could thank God for the things that were making me miserable at the time. (There were a lot of them.) And, even if I offered thanks, I would be doing so insincerely...and God would know the difference, anyway. She insisted that I should do it; that I should repeatedly send up praise for every little thing that made me sad and angry and worrisome. Because I trusted my friend and because I was desperate to feel God at the time...I took her advice...and it took it fully. I audibly said "Thank You" to God probably 50-75 times a day. I said it after EVERY negative thought and every unpleasant spark of emotion. And I hated it.

Nothing changed at first, and the continuous task of expressing gratitude in my time of despair took a toll on my already fragile emotional state, and also on my patience. But, much to my surprise, it didn't take long to understand the advice she gave. Before long, I found that all the little ugly things didn't bother me so much...and I was soon able to focus more on the things that WEREN'T ugly. And then something else happened. I realized that I had been blaming myself for all the ugly things that I felt so burdened by. I had convinced myself that they were all, in one way or another, either directly or abstractly, the factor of my failure. But somewhere in my forced, concentrated thankfulness, I forgave myself. I wasn't even concious of it at the time...but it came to me in shallow waves of relief. As the miracle continued, I found myself more thankful...for life and for breath and for love and for opportunity...than I ever had been before. And my focus shifted to the beautiful and away from the ugly.

Since then, I've thought a lot about forgiveness, and I've learned how to forgive not only myself, but others. I know we think that all of us already know how to forgive, but it's an ability that we aren't born with. It's completely unnatural. It's a hard thing to learn; such a painful process...like riding a bike without training wheels. I had bruised legs...and a bruised ego...for months. The more I've forgiven...and the BIGGER I've forgiven...the more thankful I've become. This is partly the power of positive thinking, but mostly it's power that allows beauty to come into my life. I forgive...I let go...and great things follow. I don't even have to look for them. It's as if greatness automatically fills the space that my unforgiveness was once occupying...just like a commonplace act of nature.

If forgiveness can work such miracles in my tiny little life, then what other powers does it possess?

I just read a book called "Left to Tell". It was written by a woman who survived the Rwandan Holocaust by hiding in a bathroom for 3 months. Her entire family, with the exception of one brother, was brutally murdered during the genocide. She tells of the horrible things that happened in Africa during that time. Things that no human being should ever have to witness and endure. But what she talks about more is how she learned to forgive the people that put an entire country through Hell. She even forgave the individuals that slaughtered those she loved most. She instead chose to be thankful for survival and for her faith. This woman has gone on to achieve amazing things, and has spread messages of hope and healing to millions of people around the world. She would never have accomplished anything without forgiveness.

I think of Elie Weisel, one of the best known survivors of the Holocaust during World War II. He has spent years talking about forgiveness. I cry every time I hear him speak and every time I read his works. I cry not only at the emotion I hear in his voice and for the memories he wakes up to every day of his life, but for the way he has embraced life since that horrible time. He has credited much of his success to the power of forgiveness...and he,too, has changed many lives with his wisdom.

I could name dozens of other examples of extreme forgiveness, and all of them would tell a different story of lives changed. I believe that every single one of them would mention thankfulness as a key factor...a prominent outcome.

Being thankful really does transform us. It pushes us towards success, inner peace, and healthy relationships. It gives us hope and acceptance. When you think about it, it enables us to be "what we ought to be" (referring to the afore mentioned quote), doesn't it? Aren't those characteristics things that we "ought" to display? Wouldn't most people WANT those things?

We can look at all of this mathematically. Please keep in mind I have NEVER been good at math.

Pain + Thankfulness = Forgiveness
Forgiveness X more Thankfulness = Great things/things we WANT

So, if God really does care more about making us better people more than he cares about giving us our desires, he's actually killing two birds with one stone. Or something like that.

I'll never look at Tenacious "D" the same way again

This morning...around 4:45 am, I woke up from one of the most terrifying nightmares I’ve ever had. It was gruesome, bloody, and life-changingly disturbing. It was so horrible, in fact, that I had to turn on all the lights, the t.v. in the living room, and the radio in my bedroom just for the sake of distraction. I sat up in bed and prayed for a solid hour before I finally fell back asleep. (I’ll spare you the details of the dream. I’ll even spare you the concept. I did share them with my coworker this morning, however, and he was more than eager to interpret the meaning for me. His insights actually gave me a great deal of clarity, and I’m sure I’ll be obsessing over what he said for the next week or so.)

Anyway…as awful as the nightmare was, it ended in a rather amusing way. It was me and Jesus…dancing the waltz. That I was dancing with Jesus wasn’t the funny part. It was quite beautiful, really, considering what had happened previously in the dream. No, the funny part was that “the role” of Jesus was played by Jack Black. Jack Black…looking up at me with those beady eyes and that goofy little crooked grin of his….reciting scripture and assuring me that it was all going to be okay. Surprisingly, I found tremendous comfort in this.

Again, I’m reminded that God REALLY does have a sense of humor. I love that about God.

Or, then again, maybe I'll just stick to kitty cats and goldfish.

It never ceases to amaze me how many parents there are in the world that really have no business at all being such. It’s truly alarming. Disturbing. We’ve all suffered the wrath of poorly disciplined children in restaurants and grocery stores and shot judging glares in the direction of their complacent mothers and fathers. It seems that lately I’ve been inclined to shoot a horrific number of these glares.

An example: A few weeks ago I was at a Chinese restaurant with a friend of mine when I witnessed a disturbing sight. A group of 6 or 7 small children was roaming the place under no supervision whatsoever. Their parents (several sets of them) were dumpy looking fat-asses, apparently too absorbed in their own gorging to pay attention to their spawn. Instead of accompanying the kids to the buffet or, better yet, choosing their food for them, they were left to wander the bar area as freely as they chose…picking shrimp up one at a time and popping them into their mouths…poking their fingers in the orange chicken…and making things float in the sweet and sour soup. (I know….another buffet story. I told you have an issue with these.)

The sight that angered and concerned me most was the 2 year old that visited our table more than a few times…usually to hand me a piece of eggroll or a fortune cookie message she’d happened upon. Not only did the parents of these brats not CARE what was going on; they couldn’t even SEE them because they were seated in another room entirely. I could’ve taken off with that baby and nobody would have ever known. (In fact, I tried to. But she smelled like pooh so I took her out of my purse and sent her on her way.) Every time I attempted to look in their direction to stare at them judgingly, they were lost in open-mouth-full-of-half-chewed-crap conversation. I ended up complaining to the cashier that I was appalled they let children tear through their restaurant with no supervision. He was completely confused as to why I would be annoyed by such a situation and had nothing of satisfaction to say back to me.

And then, on the other hand, there are parents who pay quite a bit of “attention” to their children; but the outcome is equally as alarming to me. My office is located immediately next door to an elementary school. Being in a poor urban neighborhood, most of the children that go to this school live close by in the community, and a good many of them walk to and from the school every day unaccompanied by an adult.

There’s one mother that picks a large group of children up every afternoon when the bell rings. She’s a monster of a woman; large, loud, and scantily clad. On a daily basis we hear her walking in front of our building, screaming obscenities at the tykes around her. She calls them a variety of vulgar names and often makes physical threats. Sometimes, when those two methods don’t get their attention, she’ll take off her shoes and throw them directly at the back of one of their heads or grab them by the bicep and shake them violently. I’ve heard some of my coworkers let out a chuckle at the sight of this and say “Well, at least she’s walking home with them. Most parents don’t even do that.” I can see the logic in such a comment, but it’s really just sad to me that our society is so quick to negotiate on standards of appropriate parenting.

I know I’m not a parent yet and some would say that I, therefore, have no right to judge the parenting styles of others. But it just seems like common sense to note how many people SUCK at being mothers and fathers. I don’t understand why we can’t do more about this problem. You have to pass a test to drive a car or to work in a fast food restaurant. You have to fill out a stack of forms and sign waivers to get a hunting license. Foster and adoptive parents are required to go through weeks, months, or even years of interviews and supervision in order to be “given” a child. So why is it that any idiot or sack-of-trash can pop out as many kids as they want to without any outside force determining whether or not they’re capable of such a responsibility? The older I get, the more intolerant I become of insufficient parents. Maybe it’s my maternal instincts starting to bloom. (Which I guess should be reassuring because I always wondered if they would ever bloom at all.)

Of all the potentially-future events and/or situations I occasionally and/or frequently feel unnecessary anxiety over, motherhood isn’t one of them. (Pregnancy is another story completely, however. We’ll discuss that at another time.) I’m mostly confidant that I will be a good mother, if I’m blessed with the opportunity one day. Yes, I’ll probably be overprotective. Being a “mother” to Bridget has already shown me that. Yes, I'll be strict in the areas of housekeeping and personal hygiene. And yes, I’ll threaten to sell my kids to gypsies when they piss me off. I may even seriously contemplate doing so. But other than that, I think I’ll be alright.

I’ll be one of those “cool moms”. You know the kind. Not the “cool kind” that gives the neighborhood kids sex advice. Not the “cool kind” that barges into the classroom, hair in a scrunchee, unlit cigarette in hand, to cuss out the teacher when he/she complains about her child’s poor behavior. I’ll be the kind that makes homemade chocolate chip pancakes for dinner on a Tuesday. The kind that makes them laugh so hard, milk squirts out of their noses. The kind that will dance in the rain in her socks and pajamas. The kind that doesn’t stifle creativity. The kind that establishes it’s OKAY to make mistakes; in fact, it’s propitious. The kind that puts plastic fruit in their lunchboxes on April Fool’s day (I stole that one from my aunt.). The kind that listens to great music…even when she’s over 40. The kind that doesn’t wear elastic-waist pants or “mom jeans”. The kind that really loves their father…and isn’t afraid to show it. The kind that loves her kids so much that they have no choice but to go out into the world spreading the superfluous love to others.

And God forbid that I’ll EVER be one of those mothers that people shake their heads at in public as they mumble to their friends what a joke I am; that my children are hellions that need a good spanking. I shouldn’t even publish this because I’m sure that, one day, far in the future, my kids will find this and present it to me as some type of bribe. They’ll use it as proof that I vowed to be “cool”. The only comeback I’ll have is a weak, non-original one like “Because…I told you so! Yeah, that’s it! Because my rule is law!” And then I’ll have to send them to bed without their dinner just to reinforce my authority.

Those uniforms are lovely. Would you call that color "grape" or "aubergine"?

I’ve said it before and I’m sure I’ll have to say it again. Brace yourself. I don’t care about football. I don’t hate football. I don’t loathe it. I just don’t care about it. I’m completely ambivalent about it. I say it with no apology attached. It is what it is. I am what I am. And I’m not a football fan. When I’ve admitted this in the past, I’ve often been met with surprised gasps and dirty looks and sighs of disappointment. I don’t quite get why my lack of interest is so impossible to accept.

I think a common misassumption about me upon learning this shocking fact is that I’m a “girly girl”. Or maybe that I grew up with two homosexual fathers. Neither assumption is accurate.

In many respects, I AM quite girly. And thank God for that. If I wasn’t girly then I’d most likely be a lesbian. And not even a pretty lesbian. I’d be one of the butch kind. (to all you butch lesbians out there, please don’t be offended) Anyway, my girliness has never really influenced my interests a great deal. At least, I don’t think so. I have two older brothers and no sisters and, therefore, grew up in an environment that reeked primarily of maleness. I took dance lessons and had slumber parties and LOVED my Barbie dolls, but from a very young age, I really just wanted to be like my brothers. I wanted to do everything they did. I played with G.I. Joes and Matchbox cars. I adventured through the woods many times, trailing behind my oldest brother as he cut paths for us with his machete. I built forts. I always wanted to wear the boys’ hand-me-downs. I climbed trees and almost always had skinned up knees from playing outside. I watched violent, bloody action films with more enthusiasm than when I watched My Little Pony reruns. I was the ONLY girl in the 4th grade that listened to The Grateful Dead and Supertramp and knew every song from The Beatles’ White Album.

Despite all the testosterone-laden activities we partook of, however, football was never concentrated on with a lot of fervor. Sure, I remember my dad and my brothers watching football sometimes. They were (and still are) devoted Crimson Tide fans. One of my brothers even tried out for the football team at one point. But it wasn’t something that we talked about all the time. It wasn’t a force that ruled our household. It was lagniappe but not the main course (so to speak). So, maybe all of this is why I can’t make myself get excited about football.

I actually attended a football party last Saturday to watch LSU vs. Florida. I can almost always get on board with good socialization, good food, and good beer. And that’s why I accepted the invite. And, I admittedly get a kick out of watching my drunk friends scream and holler and curse and punch the air with their fists as an expression of both pleasure and rage. (I usually can’t tell which is which.) Sometimes I even play along, if I’m in a good mood. I’ll be watching the game (usually thinking about something else), and even if I don’t really understand what has happened, I’ll let out an explicative or an “Aww, yeah!” when everyone else does. Then I’ll dart my eyes around, all subtle like, to see if anyone has caught on, but nobody ever seems to notice my insincerity. I get a strange satisfaction in that. Makes me feel crafty and cool. And then I go back to reading the latest edition of “US” magazine so that I can find out why Vince Vaughn really dumped Jennifer Anniston. Yes…I actually did that very thing on Saturday.

But…I swear…I just CANNOT relate to what makes someone truly passionate about whether or not some guy in a helmet ran a certain distance with a ball to score a certain amount of points. I really just don’t get it. Where does that passion come from? Please…feel free to explain it to me. I can appreciate athletic talent and teamsmanship (made up word), but it’s not something that’s ever gonna make me refer to the referee’s mother as a “dirty, lazy, whore”. And people that get all depressed and bitchy for days on end when their favorite team looses…please find something worthy to devote your emotions to. Volunteer. Take a lover. Get a pet. Call your grandma. But spare me your pathetic complaints about how life just isn’t what you thought it was since “we lost the big game”, because I will offer you no empathy and certainly no sympathy.

All of this is one of the many, many, many reasons why I’m so in love with a certain man named David. He, too, doesn’t care all that much about football. He, too, enjoys it mostly as a socialization opportunity. He, too, would rather go for a tasty meal than watch the game. So, unlike in other relationships I’ve been in, I will never have to fake a temper tantrum over a failed attempt at a touch down just to please him. And he is, by the way, 100% heterosexual. Trust me.

(I just wanted to add before you roll your eyes and make fun of me that I will not try to slip in a mention of him in EVERY blog entry I write from now on. I’ll try not to. But I can’t make any promises of such.)

An appropriate end to this is the following quote from Jenna Fischer’s article “10 Things You Don’t Know About Women”, featured in a recent edition of Esquire. In case you don’t know who Jenna Fischer is, she’s a very funny gal on the extremely funny show, The Office. If you don’t watch it, you should. Anyway, back to the quote:

“You know what's really gay? Football. Instead of watching it, just have sex with another dude once a year. Get it all out of your system at once.”

Well said, Jenna. Well said.

It's a wonder that Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy made it through the awkward stage

Today I saw a couple sitting on a park bench holding an umbrella above their heads. There was not a cloud in sight, by the way. Unless they were just crazy, I assume the umbrella was there to block the sun. I smirked at the 1930’s of it all…the Mickey Mouse/Minnie Mouse, Mickey Rooney/Judy Garland quality that it bestowed.

Very briefly, I thought…”Wouldn’t it be nice if romance was still like that?” And then I thought again. In my younger, less experienced, years, I would often make low-browed statements such as that. It seemed to me somehow that things were so much easier “in the olden days”. (“The olden days” can actually refer to innumerous time periods any time before now. Well, any time before 1960, anyway. The 80’s were way too complicated. Right now, I’m referring particularly to the “really olden days”, not the more modern ones.) I would spend alarming amounts of time lost in soliloquies about the simplicity and purity of love and relationships in times past.

The girls always seemed to snag the heart of a devoted man…effortlessly and with an immense amount of dignity…and I was convinced that games were NEVER played. One would catch the eye of another, and within days, a dowry was supplied by the girl’s father and all the women would begin knitting white lace. Do you KNIT lace? Is it embroidered? Sewn? Laser cut? Anyway, whatever the hell you do to make lace, they’d do it immediately. The couple would participate in quaint courting rituals like pushing each other on swings, singing about suries with fringe-lined tops, skipping through fields, and dreaming about the future in front of the fire place. They would never fight…never even disagree. What was there to fight about, after all? (“Who the **** forgot to empty the chamber pot?” “But, I milked Bessie LAST time, you lazy dolt!” “JEZEBEL! I saw you expose your ankle when you climbed into the wagon last night!”) No. Nothing to fight about. Not ever.

Of course, after I watched movies such as Pride and Prejudice, Little Women, Gone with the Wind, and Meet Me in St. Louis , (as well as countless others) I began to realize that romance back then wasn’t all that pretty. Games were ALWAYS played, at least according to the world of film and literature. Complications of class, money, fidelity, and ugly vs. handsome were just as evident then as now. More so, maybe. I’d place a fair amount of certainty on the guess that the only time and place that any couple ever broke into spontaneous and choreographed song was in musicals. Except, many…on rare occasions…in situations of extreme inebriation. And the only reason that couples sat by the fire in silence almost every night was because they didn’t have cable, all the really good bars charged exorbitant covers, and making out was a No-No. They had nothing to discuss because all they did all day every day was harvest corn, pick flowers, and whittle wood. (And when I say “whittle wood”, I don’t mean it in a dirty way.)

I’ve decided that I’m glad to live in a time where romance is…well…romantic. Romantic as defined by no “proper” definition of what is romantic…romance that takes its own shape and style as love between two people designs itself. Disagreements are okay because our opinions are what make us wonderfully unique…and the making up is so much fun. Fireplaces are nice and warm and even amorous…but better when accompanied by scary movies, wine, and some friendly wrestling. I love being able to talk for hours and hours about life and world issues and all the wonderful and horrible things that have made us who we are. I love it that I can dress sexy for my man, talk about bodily functions without being labeled as “imprudent”, and express myself without fear of chastisement. I love it that I can choose NOT to participate in game-playing. And I REALLY love it that I will never be expected to craft any type of household item out of lace. Yes, that’s the detail I’m MOST happy about.


On a significantly non-related note, in the same park that I spotted the umbrella-holding couple that inspired this entry, I often see young, glowing brides-to-be having their bridal portraits taken by the lake. They always look so smug and bridey as they prance around in their dresses. Almost every time I see one, I cross my fingers in hopes that she’ll trip over a tree root or a snoozing duck and plunge backwards into the water. It hasn’t happened yet, but I’m still holding out.

And then she woke up...

You know how this goes. Every time I’ve been absent from my blog for quite some time, I always say that I’ve just been “too busy”. It’s true, too. I can honestly say that I’ve just been too busy to write blogs. But nobody wants to hear that. It sounds lame and cliché and unapologetic. What to do, what to do?? And the thing is…I HATE not having time to write. The worst part of it is (like anything else) is that the longer I stray from it, the harder it is to pick it up again. I guess that’s one of the guarantees about life that we can’t escape. Absence…nonactivity…neglect…always heeds an awkward return. We expect to be welcomed back by whatever it is we abandoned like a cheating, unfaithful whore; crawling on all fours while wailing about our intended innocence. Well, here I am again, my absolving blog. The knees of my khakis are filthy, indeed.

Other than writing (my first to-be-published work, preferably), there are SO many other things I’d be doing (either in the immediate present, or in the ongoing) if I didn’t have to spend between 8 and 14 hours working 5 days a week.

Things I Would Be Doing if I Didn’t Have to Work

Reading through the stack of novels I have at home that REALLY do look very interesting. I attempt to read them before bed quite frequently, but I usually manage to fall asleep with the lamp…and my glasses still on.

Traveling. Let’s ignore the fact that if I was, in fact, not working, I’d have absolutely no money and would, therefore, not be able to travel anywhere, ever. Actually, let’s ignore that fact for the duration of this list.

Working out with a personal trainer on a daily basis in efforts to attain and maintain a rock star body.

Learning how to use chopsticks. Apparently, I need at least 5 hours a day to devote to mastering this skill. My wonderful boyfriend pretends to not find my lack of skill pathetic even though his patient coaching hasn’t yet amounted to much improvement. (It’s humiliating to always be the white girl at the table who has to ask for a fork.)

Dancing in public.

Planting and tending to a fabulous garden. If I had somewhere to plant one, that is.

Collecting Fraggle Rock memorabilia.

Watching all the great “classics” that I’ve just never had time to watch. Wait. Scratch that. Most of the “classics” I’ve missed, I’ve never cared to watch in the first place. Which is the real reason why I haven’t. Let’s replace this one with watching the “American Pie” series. That’s more realistic.

Straightening my priorities.

Brainstorming new and more creative names for the colors of Crayola crayons. They wouldn’t even have to pay me. (i.e. indigo= “blueberry parade”, apricot= “clammy flesh”, yellow green= “acidic pee”, and dandelion= “buttery nipple”) Although, I suppose it’s not appropriate to refer to a liquor shot when naming a child’s educational tool.

Spending time with my nieces before they cease to call me “Aunt Al” and start referring to me as “that funny lady that used to be Daddy’s sister”.

Elaborately painting my toenails to represent and correspond with every national holiday.

Watching the clouds.

Flipping turn-of-the-century houses for profit.

Rescuing abandoned and orphaned children from all over the world and sending them to live with Oprah…or maybe even her friend, Gayle.

Hugging strangers.

Mastering the guitar. And then playing it for no one but the people I love. (Bridget included.)

A Dedication

“18th Floor Balcony” and Blue October is one of my favorite songs and one of my favorite bands, respectively. The former is a product of the latter.

I’ve always loved this song. The first time I heard it was live at one of their outdoor concerts and I remember being almost paralyzed by the magic of it. Maybe it was the intensity of Justin’s voice or the haunting of Ryan’s violin. Maybe it was the breeze and the starlight. Or maybe it was the way the words gave me chill bumps.

I’ve thought for a long time that I understood the words to the song; that I related to them from a place of deep personal experience. But I’ve realized somewhere in the course of today that I never REALLY understood them until now.

I don’t live on an 18th floor. I don’t even have a balcony. And I haven’t been on one with you (you know who you are). But we’re still standing on a ledge of some type…overlooking something of immeasurable greatness. Our “balcony” is somewhere a lot less tangible. I could use my own words (and I have) but they're too personal for all to read...so I'm using someone else's.


"18th Floor Balcony"

I close my eyes and I smile
Knowing that everything is alright
To the core
Close that door
Is this happening?
My breath is on your hair
I'm unaware
That you opened the blinds and let the city in
God, you held my hand
As we stand
Taking in everything.

And I knew it from the start
So my arms are open wide
Your head is on my stomach
And we're trying so hard not to fall asleep
But Here we are
On this 18th floor balcony...
We're both flying away.

We talked about moms and dads
About family pasts
Getting to know where we came from
Our hearts were on display
For all to see
I can't believe this is happening….to me.
I raised my hand as if to show you I was yours,
That I was SO yours for the taking
I'm still SO yours for the taking
That’s when I felt the wind pick up
I grabbed the rail while choking up
These words to say and then you kissed me...

I knew from the start
So my arms are open wide
And your head is on my stomach
And we're trying so hard not to fall asleep
But here we are
On this 18th floor balcony...
We're both flying away.

And I'll try to sleep
To keep you in my dreams
So I can bring you home with me
And I'll try to sleep
And when I do I'll keep you in my...dreams

I knew it from the start
My arms are open wide
Your head is on my stomach
We're not going to sleep
But here we are
On this 18th floor balcony...we're both..Flying away.

On Mud and Its Radiance

When the plane landed, I wasn't nervous. It hadn't occurred to me to be nervous. I felt excited and confident; eager to dive head first into what would be my new and temporary life. The airport was small and dimly lit as I recall, but surprisingly clean and well-managed. It took quite a while to get through customs, and I bit the tongue of my impatience despite my anxious desire to get outside. When we were finally allowed to gather our luggage and exit the facility, we didn't hesitate to do so.

We walked outside in a group, ready to find our ride. I stepped into the intense heat and before I could determine my direction, my senses overcame me with a disorienting flurry of stimuli. I think what hit me first was the noise. The muddled sound of human voice was almost deafening. I say it was muddled because I couldn't understand anything I was hearing. I was an infant in a strange world of developed human language. I could distinguish emotions in the voices, but that was where my knowledge ended. There were people everywhere, coming at us from all directions. We were swallowed up by a crowd of the unfamiliar. Pressing in on every side were people asking me questions that I was unable to answer. What hit me second was the smell. Repugnant body odor unlike any I had ever smelled before. Gaseous dirt and disease relentlessly invaded my nostrils and throat. The third hit was to my sight. I was swimming in a blur of faces and colors; lost in a Madhubani painting. The haze cleared and I was suddenly able to focus on individuals. I saw mostly young men. They were pulling on my bags, offering to carry them for 20 rupees...15 rupees...10. I felt hands on my arms and some pulling on my t-shirt and pants legs. I looked down to see that one hand was disfigured; missing several fingers. My heart skipped a beat when I realized it belonged to a leper.

We made our way through the chaos and began loading the shuttle that had been sent for us. The plastic seats were cracked and dirty, but I was thankful to be in a contained space. I sat silently, barely breathing through the stifling, musty heat. From my spot in the small bus, I had an elevated view of the city that would be my home for the next few months. Even from my perch on the hilltop, the devastating poverty was unmistakable.


...I can't recall the exact date of my arrival in Kathmandu, Nepal. We had been in Thailand for a week...so I think our arrival was on a Saturday afternoon. It was the very beginning of June (maybe the first or the second of) in 2000. (It's hard to believe that it was so long ago.)

As I mentioned, we had been in Thailand for a week. This week in the small coastal city of Pattaya (on the Indian Ocean) was our orientation...a time of learning about what we could expect to experience for the next 3 months. We talked mostly about Hindi/Buddhist culture, how to be safe, how to behave, etc. We spent quite a bit of time out in the city trying to acquaint ourselves with, well...everything. Pattaya was, by no means, a wealthy city, but its' modernity was not dramatically behind what we were used to in the states.

We talked extensively about the indigence we would encounter while living in Nepal. We were told that the average yearly income in Nepal (at the time) was equivalent to 200 American dollars. We were educated about the widespread disease, the unhealthy living conditions, the lack of food and clean water, the human trafficking rings, and the abandoned/homeless children that spent their days and nights on the streets. I wasn't suprised by anything I heard. I had done my research. I had watched movies and documentaries. And I certainly wasn't new to the concept of poverty. I had worked with impoverished people all over the United States. I was ready. I was prepared. Nothing was going to shake me.


As we drove from the airport to our hotel in the middle of the valley, none of us said much. We didn't know what to say. Words wouldn't have been helpful in expressing what was going through our minds at the time, anyway. The crowded streets, apparently governed by no traffic rules, were overridden by pedestrians carrying oversized loads on their heads and backs, slow moving rickshaws, and gaunt cows. Bikes or motorcycles carried so many passengers at once they looked like clown transportation at Ringling Bros. If you've ever been to Hell's Kitchen in New York City, then you have a vague idea of what the storefronts are like in Kathmandu, only...there, they're about 50 times dirtier and 100 times less sophisticated. Grocery stores, tailors, electronics shops, post offices....they all looked the same.

Driving by the entrances of various bastis (or slum colonies), one could see down the narrow alleys that appeared to go on and on forever; a horizontal precipice into unfathomable despair. I never did enter any of those bastis, but I knew that following any of the alleys would lead me to hundreds of families living on top of each other like foul in a coop. Tiny one-room huts with tin roofs and tacked-up bedsheets for doors; communal bathrooms without so much as a toilet stall; no plumbing and no electricity; row after row after row of human doghouses. These bastis were all over, and every one I saw was sadder and more vast than the last.

Once we arrived at our hotel, we walked a few blocks to the closest bank. I pulled out of my bag an American Traveler's Check for $200. I stared at it for a moment and realized that, in my hand, I was holding an entire year's income for a family in Nepal. I started sobbing uncontrollably right there in the bank. A travel-mate of mine was already at the counter when my emotion bursted out of me like a monsoon storm. The banker took notice and asked her why I was crying. Thinking quickly, she told him that we had just arrived in Kathmandu and that I was overcome by the beauty of the city. He believed her and was touched by the sentiment. He greeted me with a huge smile and gentle words and did the same every time I visited him that summer.

I didn't break down in that way again while I was in Nepal (except maybe when I left to go back home). However, I did cry many times after that, and, suprisingly, every cry really did express that I was overcome by the beauty of Kathmandu...the beauty that I learned to see. I learned to see the poverty as a birth mark. It was an imperfection that would probably never fade, but after I gazed at it for a while, I almost didn't even notice it anymore. Instead of detracting from the radiance of the figure, it enhanced it. Just as kudzu can overtake the side of a building or a forest, the beauty of the culture of that place grew over my soul. I became completely entangled in it, and to this day, I still haven't been able to free myself from its leafy grasp. I hope I never break free of it. So much physical freedom would mean that my soul has disconnected from what it learned that summer.

The draw-back...or maybe the benefit (depending on how you look at it) of my new job is that I'm faced with impoverished people on a daily basis. They are my work now; my sustenance; my heart. Sometimes it all gets to me. Sometimes I feel discouraged and dirty in the midst of the ugliness of poverty. It makes me feel diseased and injured and lame...just like the leper that begged me for money that day so long ago. But I think I'm re-learning how to see the beauty through the dirt. My soul is trying to remember.

injustice never ends

It's the little things that affirm for me that I am working in the appropriate field. If I weren't doing something close to what I'm doing, I think I'd be in the wrong place. I'll give you a couple of examples.

I went to see the new Pirates of the Caribbean movie the other night (Dead Man's Handbag, or whatever). Did you see the first one? Remember the skinny, oafish pirate with the troublesome wooden eye? Well, in the new movie there's a scene with him trying to rescue his eye back from the ghosty skeleton monkey. They're on a wrecked ship and the monkey is, predictably, jumping from sail to sail with the eye in paw as the pirate is in frantics trying to get it back. Everyone in the theater was laughing, as well they should of been. It was meant to be funny. I even laughed a bit. But under my laughter I couldn't help but feel sorry for the guy. I sat for a full 10 seconds or so worrying about this fictional pirate's life condition. I was thinking "You know, that's really not funny. He's obviously poor and couldn't afford proper medical treatment to begin with. If that damn monkey loses his eye, how will he get another one? Artificial eyes, whether wooden or not, certainly weren't easy to come by back then. He must be really upset and hopeless right now. He's had such a hard life. This is just one more thing for him to worry about. Hasn't he suffered enough at the hands of that cruel world?" I swear to you...I was really processing all of this during that 10 second scene. I got all teary eyed. If I was going to analyze it, I should have gone in from the angle of: the reality is that he probably deserved losing an eye after all the thieving and pillaging he devoted himself to over the years. Karma, baby.

What? Oh, yeah. This isn't a real person I'm talking about here.

On to the next example. There's a commercial currently airing for some type of kitty litter. It shows a cute lil' orange kitty on the internet searching ask.com (or something) for his litter box. The point of the advertisement is that the litter absorbs odor so well, you won't even notice your litter pan. Clever, huh? When the internet is no help, he calls information...and he lets out this sad, pathetic meow...pleading for an answer. As cute as it is, I just feel so badly for the kitty. Cats don't ask for much. All they need is food, water, love, and a litter pan to shit in. (Or, if it's Allie's kitty, a litter pan to shit NEXT to.) I can only assume that the little guy has been holding it in all day so that he doesn't have to go in a houseplant or on the bathroom rug, and nobody understands. Nobody even cares! This is all very upsetting to me, as you can tell. It's an atrocious defacation on the dignity of domestic felines.

It's a good thing I'm working with the homeless and impoverished and not within the pirate community or for the SPCA. If so, I'd get no sleep at night.

Here's to Breathing

A lot can happen in a year. The past year has been rife with unexpected turns along the path of this; my journey. A lot has happened, yes. Much has changed. I've changed. Actually, I've changed more than once and in more than one way. Lots of changes.

I was explaining to an old friend (to whom I hadn't spoken in many many months) this morning how the transition in moving here proved itself to be a challenging one. Challenging is a G-rated term, considering. If you've visited my site before, then you may have read through some of what the past 14 months has supplied to me. To be honest, I've expressed my various impediments through mostly indirect stories and illogical thought patterns. But maybe you've caught on despite that. Anyway, the good news is that the discomfort of my minor and major tribulations has led to...something else. I don't know yet what this "something else" is exactly, but I feel better right now than I have in over two years.

Now, when times of "something else" come about, it's usually difficult to pinpoint the reason(s) for it. This, of course, is due to the process of overcoming. A coworker of mine is a fan of gospel music, and he frequently plays it loudly in his office. There's one song in particular that he must like a lot because several times he has set it on "repeat" for hours at a time. "This too shall pass" is the phrase that the song iterates over and over. I've never found extreme comfort in that phrase...even though I believe the truth it speaks. (Sometimes when things suck, they just suck...and knowing that they won't suck forever doesn't always help.) But, what inevitably happens is that we keep an eye out for "the passing" and we aren't always aware of the process around us and with us and IN us that is leading us there. Suddenly we poke our heads up for a breath of fresh air and find that there is plenty of air to breathe, after all; that the dungeoness tunnel we've been spooning out for so long has finally taken us to the other side.

So, while I'm certainly aware of what has transpired to lead me where I am, I can't specifically credit any one factor with my current healthy state. In my ongoing analyzation of why the past year went the way it did, the word "fear" has consistently come to mind. I unintentionally allowed myself to be covered with fear. I felt it in many ways. Fear of loss was the big one (loss of relationships, loss of pride, loss of physical belongings, loss of safety, loss of comfort, etc.). Fear of being alone. Fear of failure. Fear of lost independence. Fear of too much of it. Fear of monetary shortcomings. Fear of ineffectiveness. Fear of the condition of the world. Fear of insignificance. Fear of poor health (of myself and loved ones). Fear of God punishing me for any and every imperfect move I made ( speaking of unhealthy...).

Most of my fears didn't render me immobile, but they definitely made me miserable. They definitely robbed me of sleep and of joy and of full life. (My first few months here I will forever consider lost time. I was dead for a while, and I'll never get that time back.) While I was aware of how fear was holding me captive, I couldn't figure out how to break free of it. I worked month after month to restore fortitude in my being. I made some rattalingly difficult decisions as I went. It often seemed that my efforts were getting me nowhere. But then, before I knew what was happening, the fears dissolved. All of them. It was just like that sudden breath of fresh air...it came into my lungs almost as quickly as it had been knocked out.

I've been breathing nonlaborously now for about 2 months, and I'm deliriously thankful for the fresh air. I know full well that I am not here due to my efforts alone, but my faith in myself has been restored nonetheless. Sometimes losing THAT is the thing we should fear the most.

Disclaimer: As I continue to post blogs, don't discount what I said yesterday about it being wasted energy. I meant every word. I just have to keep myself busy and writing in the meantime.

I've been thinking. Why do I continue to spend my time writing blogs? If I really enjoy writing this much, then why am I not focusing on writing something more tangible and, possibly, more lucrative? If I took all the time and energy and thought I've placed into my blogsite and devoted it elsewhere, I could have had a book written by now. Who knows if it would be good enough for publishing, but at least it would be an attempt for something real. I need to be reminded of the concept of delayed satisfaction. This is fucking ridiculous. (pardon my language, but its that kind of day)

A Different Kind of Orphanage

One of the peculiar details of my experience in being me is how particular themes seem to coat my thought patterns. This happens routinely and without fail. Does this happen to everyone, or is it just me? Sometimes I assume these themes are supernaturally planted by God in order to draw my attention to something that I wouldn't have considered otherwise. Sometimes I assume that it's just another product of my obsessive personality; my subconscious producing ideas that are either purposed to distract me or further fuel my preoccupation with some particular emotion or idea (just as dreams are often illuminating illustrations of what's REALLY going on in our heads).

The most recent subject on which I've been fixated is orphancy. Have you ever thought about why orphancy is such a common theme throughout history in various (if not all) religions and literature? In the bible alone I can find 7 stories that mention orphans by name, and that doesn't include the many times that the concept is referred to outside of those stories. Think about literary orphans that have been iconic and stable in the ever-changing world of popular culture: Annie, Oliver Twist, Pippi Longstocking, A Little Princess AND The Little Prince, Pollyanna (my blog's namesake), Tom Sawyer, Harry Potter, Anne Shirley (from Anne of Green Gables), Frodo Baggins, and Cinderella. Luke Skywalker grew up without parents, and so did Princess Leia. Spider-Man, Batman, and Superman were ALL orphans. Did you know that even James Bond was orphaned at a young age?

Is it that human beings are so enchanted by orphancy? I think it's just the opposite: I think we're terrified by it, and we always have been. This is one definition of the word orphan:

An orphan is a person (or animal), who has lost one or both parents, often through death. One legal definition used in the USA is someone bereft through "death or disappearance of, abandonment or desertion by, or separation or loss from, of both parents". Common usage limits the term to children, (or the young of animals) who have lost both parents. On this basis half-orphans are those with one surviving parent.

The words "abandonment", "desertion", and "separation" are so cold and scary; but they very accurately pinpoint how most of us relate to orphancy. Due to spiritual engineering, there is something inside of us that makes us NOT want to be alone. Our souls as well as our physical bodies need connection and support, and in the extremes of our imaginations, being an orphan means being without those things. Because, to most of us, the pain of this is so unfathomable, we tend to heroize those who know the pain personally. It's an inspirational concept...overcoming all that accompanies aloneness and reaching happiness when all odds are against you. All of the orphaned figures that we've looked upon with favor act as a reassurance that we, too, can triumph over the empty plates we've all been served. Yes, even WE can save an entire household or community or even Middle Earth in it's entirety despite our shortcomings. (Interesting to note that most of the literary orphans I mentioned did exactly that...they were saviors or martyrs or redeemers or superheroes...and none of them started out the confidence or knowledge to be so.)

I guess I started pondering all of this subconsciously about a month or so ago when I was feeling particularly lonely. The loneliness was present for a while, and, momentarily, it knocked the breath out of me. All of the sudden, every time I heard or saw anything having to do with orphans or adoption, my stomach would flip. I took it personally without even realizing it. I think all the while I was being nudged to analyze exactly what I'm writing about today. I needed to find encouragement in an unexpected form.

I've always said that I want to adopt at least one child...someday. In fact, I told some coworkers last week that if I'm still single with no children in 5 or 6 years, I may consider adopting on my own. I've always loved the idea of bringing home a baby from some far off place to give him/her a life that he/she wouldn't have elsewhere. Of course, the romantic ideal is adopting a child from a foreign country, but we all know that there are plenty of children on our home turf that need loving, capable parents. I've developed a very powerful affinity of racial diversity within families. And by "families" I don't necessarily mean in the traditional sense. This affinity was always there...but it's grown stronger. It's beautiful to me; beauty in its truest and simplest form...almost like a tiny (tiny) glimpse of Heaven. The beauty being that there is (seemingly) no end to our cultural and racial uniqueness. I want that kind of family, I think (given that I have the funds to care for them all). I want to sit down for Thanksgiving dinner and look into the faces of God's creative genius.

Even though most of us have at least one parent, we've all been abandoned by something or someone. We've all been lonely. We've all felt the ache of separation. And if you haven't, then I'm sure you've laid awake and feared it. So maybe orphancy isn't so unfamiliar. And maybe that's why we're all here...to adopt each other from time to time.


and, by the way, I don't feel lonely anymore...

Kick off Your Sunday Shoes

It's amazing how far I've come and how much my life has changed in the past year. This entry is one that I originally published a year ago tomorrow. It's one of my favorite things I've written. I happened to re-read it this morning, and it spoke to me as if it hadn't come from my own inner thoughts. (you should all really read through some of my archived entries from time to time. they're much heartier than recent ones.)


While stuck in the dizzying awfulness of searching for a full time job, I've been helping out a friend of my mother's who owns a daycare. She calls me off and on when she needs me, and my response is always eager. (it's funny how poverty makes you eager.) I worked at daycares throughout college, but now that I'm degreed and experienced, the environment is much more humbling. Social theory ain't real applicable when you're changing poopy diapers.

I was with four 1-year olds yesterday...watching as they scooted around the room in pursuit of various things to chew on...when Footloose came on the radio (I refuse to spend 8 hours at a time listening to Barney and BJ sing about sharing). Simultaneously, all four babies broke into freedance. Bottoms bounced, heads bobbed from side to side, arms waved in nonrythmic patterns, and it all made me smile bigger than I had done in quite some time. I couldn't help but imagine them all wearing 80's prom attire. Puffy sleeves. Powder blue tuxes. Mullets and Farrah Fawcett waves. I began to wonder what they'll look like in 17 years; who they'll become. Very briefly, I felt a faint hint of jealousy just then. The wonderful truth is that their futures are still blank canvases. They don't know worry or regret. They're still perfect. I wanted to join them in spirit; to dance inhibitiously with them and get drunk in the joy of innocence. I tried to concentrate on myself as an infant; a child; an adolescent; to connect with my former selves and borrow their ignorance. It didn't work, of course. None of us can go back to those places.

I remember a dream that I had 3 years ago. It's one of those dreams that will always stick with me. When the scene opened, I was walking into the courtyard of my preschool. It still looked the same. Or, at least, it looked the way I remember it in my head. I knew immediately that I was going to see myself as a 4-year old, and a wave of anxiety rushed over me. I wanted to leave, but I couldn't. Something was keeping me there. Across a playground, a group of children were playing duck-duck-goose. I saw her. Her hair was strawberry blonde then. The strands were softer and blew more easily in the breeze than they do now. Her face was round and happy....no sign of lines around the eyes that I now look into every day. Her limbs, not yet long and lanky, showed evidence of residual babyfat. She was more beautiful than any photograph has ever made her.

I stared at her intently while she played, as was suddenly overcome with emotion. Afraid she would hear me crying, I ran up a stairway and hid on an outside landing. I felt ashamed. I just knew that I had let her down and that she would never forgive me for it. What a dissapointment I must be to her....I was nothing of what she COULD have become. Choking on my tears, I wished had I had never come to see her. However, I couldn't escape her. She had followed me up the stairs and had been waiting patiently for me to compose myself. She put her right hand on mine, and I noticed the same freckle there that I have now. Looking into her eyes, I apologized silently. No words were exchanged, but I knew all at once that she forgave me. She loved me as I was. She was proud of me. And before she ran back to her game, she hugged me.

That dream was the best self-therapy I've ever experienced. Every time I think of it, it repairs a little piece of my soul. I guess that longing to be younger is inevitable, but childhood (or any other phase of our respective "youth") wouldn't offer any solution; even if we could access it. Regardless of our age, we always have a canvas that is awaiting completion of a masterpiece. Youth is all about perspective, anyway. We may lose our freshness and crave the days of not knowing, but the later we pick up a brush to complete a certain phase of life, the more experienced we are with the brush techniques. The inability to go back is a blessing, not a hinderance. Experiencing life more than once would be overwhelming, I think. It's hard enough to do it once. Feel free to celebrate like a toddler. Your younger self accepts you even if you dance like a whitey.

Bathtime Occurrences on This, Our Hypothesized Last Day on Earth

Two things occurred to me while I was in the shower this morning. Things often occur to me in the shower. In fact, that's really the only reason I ever take showers; so that things will occur to me. Otherwise I wander the streets completely incoherent and void of all thought. Last time that happened I was picked up for prostitution.

The first thing that occurred to me this morning was that I seem to have temporarily lost my desire to make fun of people I don't know. (okay. not true. the FIRST thing that occurred to me this morning was actually that I had an unusual amount of eye crust upon waking.) I've had no trouble at all lately making fun of people I know...to their faces. It's my dysfunctional way of showing affection; or maybe my passive aggressive way of revealing underlying hatred. Either way, I've had no trouble doing it. But when it comes to the normal vituperation of strangers (or even people that I know but just don't care for) that I strive for, I've become soft. For instance: I've attempted to write several blog entries in the past week serving no purpose at all but to gibe, but my conscious has prevented me from publishing them, or even finish them, for that matter. I've pasted one example below. It was birthed from a bitter dislike...and I just couldn't bring myself to complete it.


"There's this woman I know who talks incessantly about her daughter. I've never met the girl, but apparently she is the most charming, brilliant, hilarious, life-impacting human being of all time. It would be impossible for me to calculate the number of glorifying stories I've heard her tell about her beloved flesh and blood.

Crystal (not really her name...but I picture her the way I picture a "Crystal"...fat, unsettlingly unattractive like her mother, promiscuous, and of sour personality) is the epitome of what's good (good, not great. because the two are very different concepts) about today's youth. Believe it or not, EVERY single one of her peers from birth till now have been jealous of her to the point of sabotaging her physically, emotionally, or relationally. Every story told about Crystal paints her as an unappreciated savior. She's a modern day martyr. And all of this despite her earlier days of drug and alcohol addiction, frequent incarceration, flunking out of school, and whoring around (the latter two she's never overcome). "


I got that far and stopped to remind myself that this woman is someone who carries no significance in my life; and therefore, why would I bother to think enough of her to continue writing about her? If I considered her a friend who might actually get a laugh out of my ranting, then maybe it would be worth my time. My efforts suddenly felt snide and pointless. My balloon of contempt was deflated. Part of this condition is the fact that I'm working with really wonderful people now. I, as most people, have always enjoyed complaining about my employers/coworkers. Seems like I can't do that anymore. My new workplace has thrown me in with a bunch of freaks that so far seem like wonderfully gracious souls. What will I do now?? I can't afford to lose my edge. I'm too young to lose my edge.

The second thing that occurred to me this morning really has nothing at all to do with the first. Some of my most beloved and most lovable friends are coming here to spend my birthday with me this weekend. I'm absolutely joyous in this fact, by the way. I've been stressing out a tad bit, however, as I attempt to plan something of a celebratory nature for the big day. Many people know that I've been less than thrilled with my social life since moving back to Louisiana. I know lots of people here. Lots of great people. But the percentage of these great people that I have been enchanted with to the point that I actually like to spend time with them is a bit on the smallish side. I've invited a few of them already to participate in the grandeur of my birthday, but I'm struggling to make much progress. It has OCCURRED to me that I don't have a clue how to begin to plan something that will accommodate/appeal to all of my friends here.

I've bragged before about how all of my friends are "so very different"...like it says something good about ME...and this social detail has popped up once again. However, I currently find it more troublesome than charming. I can't imagine putting all of these people in a room together (or around a table, or at a bar, i.e.) with the outcome that they'd all enjoy each others' company. I picture a party at which Anna Nicole Smith is serving up the queso, Jim J. Bullock is pouring the booze (and throwing quite a few back, I'm sure), Ann Graham Lott is playing DJ, and George Stepanopolous is in charge of the kareoke machine. I think such a gathering would be categorized somewhere in rank between a cock fight and a car wreck. Sounds like a rockin time, huh? Would be for me, in fact, but my constant concern for the emotional comfort of others would have me unbearably anxious throughout the entire event. Perhaps I just don't have enough faith in people. Why do I always assume that others will always be more uncomfortable than myself in social situations? Is it more adult of me to be concerned or to expect everyone else to behave as adults and fend for themselves? tough one. As long as I don't force them all to play Truth or Dare, they should be fine, I guess. My project for tonight is create a way to combine Trivial Pursuit, Strip Poker, and Bible Monopoly.

The Dough-Boy's Sugar-Coated View of Adulthood

That one of the most painful human experiences is to lose a child is a completely believable concept. I would say that it's completely "understandable" but, as someone with no children, much less someone who has LOST a child, how could I possibly understand it? I've heard parents whose children have passed express the pain by saying that it's "unnatural" or "against nature"...that parents should always go first; not the other way around.

While I cannot possibly comprehend the above mentioned scenario, it makes me think about other variations of "unnatural" events within the parent/child relationship. My current and ongoing situation is in no way as tragic or painful as the death of a loved one, but it prompts a very unique range of emotions. I will venture to say that no "child" should have to parent their own parents.

Most of us will grow to an old age. Most of us will have at least one parent arrive at old age before we do. It's one of our many responsibilities as members of a family...as decent human beings...to care for our parents and look after them once they are unable to physically care for themselves. It's really the only way we repay them for raising us to adulthood, right?

But there is a distinct difference in CARING for parents and PARENTING parents. It feels quite unnatural to have to have to discuss with your siblings what "Tough Love" tactics must be used with your mother and father in order for them to learn from their mistakes. Lecturing 60-somethings about irresponsibility and decision making isn't as much fun as it sounds. And lying awake in your bed at night hoping and praying that you've equipped them to the best of your abilities to take on that next big thing....well, it sucks. It bruises the soul in a way that is pretty much indescribable to anyone who hasn't experienced it personally. Debasement, worry, vexation, frustration, sorrow. Mostly sorrow. When combined they create a dull pain that isn't sharp enough to cut your spirit completely in two, but it's a sensation that never really subsides. It jabs you between the ribs just enough so that you never feel totally comfortable.

That absent comfort, like a nice clean house where the family can gather at holidays just like they do in Pilsbury commercials, is something I never stop pining after.

I'm just a step away from support hose and Wheel of Fortune

In a little over a month, I'll be turning 27. Yikes!! That number sounds so old. Old and....insignificant. 27 is MUCH closer to 30 than 26 is. 26 is hanging out right after 25, and that seems pretty cool, still. 27... not so much. I keep discussing the big two-seven with people lately, and I'm becoming completely paranoid about my age. I'm starting to freak out a little bit, actually. Don't even get me started on the "I'm still not married and have produced no offspring" issue.

Signs that I'm Getting Old:

1. Those "laugh lines" don't think it's funny anymore. For the first time ever, I cracked open a jar of anti-wrinkle cream last night. I think I heard the sorrowful sound of the violin as I applied it. It was a sad moment. But, I figured it can't hurt, right? It's the good stuff, too. $125 a pop. (got it for free, by the way.) Maybe if it works on my face, I'll try it on my butt, too. Just as a precaution.
2. My feet began hurting my first day in New York...and that was almost 2 weeks ago. Shouldn't a good foot soak have worked by now?
3. I recently spent a good 3 hours with a group of fraternity boys (long story), and all but one of them insisted on calling me "m'am" the entire time. The "but one" did flirt with me quite a bit, though, so that should count for something. I thought about making out with him just to boost my self esteem, but in the end decided against it.
4. Going home on a Friday night is now far more appealing than going out to socialize.
5. As time goes by, I grow to like Simon and Garfunkel more and more.
6. I use expressions like "Yikes!".
7. I distinctly remember referring to a guy (who was probably 5-6 years older than myself) as a "nice young man" last week. And I didn't say it to be funny.
8. I get really excited about eating spinach.
9. If I'm around anyone who's under the age of 23, I feel the need to counsel them about their life choices even when they don't ask for my advice.
10. My day feels incomplete without coffee and at least one viewing of the national news.
11. If I go a night without at least 6 hours of sleep, I'm dragging ass the next day.
12. I make moany noises when getting up off the floor.
13. When in public, if I see a kid misbehaving, I give her the evil eye when her mommy isn't looking.
14. When someone suggests dining at Picadilly, I'm totally up for it.



If anyone catches me playing The Weather Channel just for the benefit of the music, please just go ahead and put me out of my misery.

The Point

Foreword: I did, actually, begin writing this on April 15th while in New York City. My feet hurt too badly to finish it at the time. A lot has happened since then, and it worked to transform this entry into something else entirely. So...for those of you who have been updated on my life, don't be confused by the date.

When two of my closest friends moved to NYC a coupla months ago, I was....I dunno....proud of them, I suppose. Saying that one is moving there (here) is almost like a euphenism for the dream of success, excitement, fame, or living out "the dream" itself. It sounds cliche', almost. But guess what? People actually do it. People actually pack up thier belongings, sell their cars, and go for it. And the fact that two people I care about decided to put the plan into action grew an even larger amount of respect in me for them. Then again, I always respect people for taking risks...for daring to do things and go places (physically and emotionally) that don't seem "safe" for the chance of experiencing greatness or, at the very least, newness. I've tried my own version of this several times in, perhaps, less grandiose form. But the success of my well-intentioned adventures hasn't always been quick to show itself. In fact, at times, it hasn't shown itself at all.

At this particular juncture in what is, apparently, my life...I'm once again considering another change. Another risk. Another move. Honestly, just the thought of it makes me want to curl into the fetal position and hide under the covers. BUT, I'm forever romanced by the possibility of...well, possibility. At least, that's the positive spin I'm choosing to put on things right now for the sake of my sanity. Yes. POSSIBILITY. Beautiful word, don't ya think?

The myriad of details that is turning my eyes towards all of this possible-ness is too much to review. But I'll say this about it. Sometimes, no matter what you do, things just don't go as planned. Do you ever sit back in frustration and wonder what the point is in doing "the right thing"? (I guess if you're a horrible person who prefers to do "the wrong thing" in most cases, then you won't be able to relate.) For months, I've had to talk myself into the concept of doing what I know is RIGHT on a daily basis. It wasn't that I had forgotten what was RIGHT or that I didn't know what was RIGHT. It's just that it's so much easier to do what is, in fact, WRONG, when you are surrounded by crappy people or crappy situations. The human part of me has lusted after spite, anger, laziness, and the consistent urge to hit certain someones in the face with harsh honesty and perhaps a open-handed bitch slap. By the grace of God, I've managed to put that lust aside for the most part. And I've asked God continually what the point is in ignoring those tempting desires. It would be extremely easy for me at this point to say it was all for nothing, even though I really know better.

I came across something this morning that solidified for me "WHY". Why, indeed, it was (and always will be) worth it. This is a portion of what I read, and it would not be "the right thing" for me to not share it.

"Let me commend to you a life of trust in God in temporal things. Trusting in God, you will not be compelled to mourn because you have used sinful means to grow rich. Serve God with integrity, and if you acheive no success, at least no sin will lie upon your conscience. Trusting God, you will not be guilty of self-contradiction. Those who trust in skill sail this way today and that way the next, like a vessel tossed about by the fickle wind; but they who trust in the Lord are like a vessel propelled by steam, which cuts through the waves, defies the wind, and makes one bright, straight, silvery track to her destined haven. Be someone with living principles within; never bow to the varying customs of worldy wisdom. Walk in your path of integrity with firm steps, and show that you are invincibly strong in the strengh which confidence in God alone can confer. This is how you will be delivered from anxiety; you will not be troubled by bad news, your heart will be fixed, trusting in the Lord. How pleasant to float along the stream of providence! There is no more blessed a way of living a life of dependence upon a covenant-keeping God. We have no care, for he cares for us; we have no troubles, because we cast our burdens upon the Lord."

Oh, yeah. So that's it.
THIS is why I can sleep at night (when I don't have stressed-induced insomnia, that is). THIS is why I feel healthier now than I have in many months. THIS is one of the many reasons that I live for the God that I do. His grace and his covenant make it all worth something. I praise him for the ability to trust. I praise him for truth.

Paradise With a Side of Bacon

There was a bit on the news the other day about crime-related T.V. shows. Police departments all over the country are frustrated with shows like C.S.I. (all 14 versions) and Law & Order (all 57 versions) because they give potential criminals too much instruction about how NOT to get caught. Fingerprints, hair strands, and blood splatters are getting harder to come by behind the yellow tape. Not only that, but police say that these shows give the public unrealistic expectations about crime solving...making it harder for them to do their jobs. My thoughts about that type of entertainment is that it gives already crazy people even more creative ways to do horrible things. Of course, in the mid 80's, cops in Miami were pissed off because of the pressure to wear pastel sports jackets. If it's not one thing, it's another.

Instead of barking about the unrealistic expectations of crime shows, I think we should all talk about how shows like Friends equip us to feel crappy about our personal lives. Don't you sometimes wish that a predictable joke or an espresso at your favorite coffee shop (oh, yeah....and EVERY time you go there, one of your best pals is on the couch) could smooth things over when they get complicated and frustrating and not-so-pretty? Why aren't psychologists and case workers complaining about how Joey and Rachel are making THEIR jobs difficult? pansy policeman......

A friend very recently mentioned the idea of WOULDN'T IT BE GREAT IF EVERYONE THAT WE CARE ABOUT COULD ALL COEXIST IN THE SAME LIFE?(loose translation) We've all thought about this, haven't we? I think most of us would want it. It doesn't sound all that tricky, but it's so difficult, in fact, that it's almost impossible. Well, I guess it's not that far fetched for some. If you've lived in the same hick town your entire life and you've never gone anywhere and never done anything and nobody you know has gone anywhere or done anything and your circle of relationship has wound itself so tightly that nobody new comes in and nobody old gets out.....then everyone you care about can exist together. But for most of us, it's just not that simple. Most of us are stuck in the middle of the giant complex organism of life, and people come and go from all directions and half of the time they never bump into each other. They only bump into YOU; and the only evidence they see of the others are the bruises left on your arms from time to time.

I had a dream last night that I was in a cramped, smoky Waffle House. I went in with a small group of friends (ones that I happen to be missing right now). We sat down, ordered our food. Seconds later, another group of my (our) friends walked in. We were all surprised to see each other. "Haayyy!! What are YOU doing here?" We scooted over and made room. But then it happened again. And again. And again. Before long just about every friend I have, their friends, people that I met once or twice but really liked and never saw again, my family members, and so on had walked into the restaurant. We eventually stopped acting surprised to see everyone else there. It was normal. Expected. We pulled up additional tables and shared chairs...nobody seemed to mind the lack of space. There was no awkwardness and every single person there felt acknowledged and welcomed. I was eating waffles smothered with blueberry compote. I was laughing so much that my face was covered in purple mush. It was dripping down my chin and I couldn't have cared less. Nobody did. It was beautiful.

My only conclusion of the dream is that it was a clear and obvious expression of my longing for a relationship utopia. (I can't help but grin when I realize that the setting of my personal utopia was an establishment that serves carb-laden breakfast food. How telling.) While the details of the dream are unrealistic (everyone knows that Waffle House doesn't serve compote), I can't shake off the thought of "Why not?" So much of life truly is complicated, but more often than not, I make it unnecessarily so. Thomas More believed that utopia was possible. Joey and Rachel believed it. Why shouldn't we? It's definitely a goal worth striving for.

Fear # 32

I've always been very dependent on relationships. People are important to me. My friendships act as the thermostat that regulates everything else in my world. This fact about me has often made me question my strength and my morality. Is my reliance....No, my NEED for others a weakness and a sin? Deep down I believe that the answer to that question is "no". I think we were all created to need relationship. Nobody is meant to be alone. If we were, then why would we all crave the company and the nuturing of people that love us?

It was during a conversation I had today that I was able to vocalize something that has been sitting in the back of my throat for a while. I haven't stopped relying on my friends. On a daily basis I talk to at least one person who loves me. It's a necessity I allow myself to indulge. But most of the people I talk to are not here with me. As it would be with most people, this occassionally leads me to the ever-so-familiar valley of loneliness that all of us have traveled through. But more than that....the sensation that's stronger is that I feel unknown.

It's amazing how much of what we see in ourselves is actually just a reflection of who we are in the eyes of others. The reflection that I have (subconsciously) grown so accustomed to seeing over the years has become very cloudy here. In fact, I can barely make it out at all anymore. There are people here that love me; but I just don't think I'm SEEN the way I used to be. (The people I spend eight hours a day with, for example, have no clue who I am. Sometimes people decide to see us a certain way, and there's nothing we can do to change that.)

As crazy as it sounds, I'm afraid that I'm disappearing. If no one really sees you....really KNOWS you....can that actually happen? I'm losing my ability to see myself; I'm forgetting what the reflection used to look like. The solution is one of two things: either I need new glasses or a cleaner mirror.