despair

Misery, scars, depression, despair, brokenness – these make up our world. People strangling their own screams for help. Damaged beyond repair, they turn and silence the cries for help of others. Blind people leading blind people. The world is full of desolation. In a room full of friends, their laughing faces conceal a black gaping hole of despair that has consumed their lives. The quiet ones as well as the loud ones suffer the same. Abuse, pain, fear, distrust – this is reality. Despair has no preference.

Despair. It is a hopelessness that reaches the very soul. It petrifies and freezes those who might have a chance at life. It makes life devoid of good. Nothing can free. The abandonment of hope is the abandonment of life. There is no light at the end of the tunnel. No one cares. I am alone.

lies

Allow that word to marinate in your brain and heart. Lies - an untruth that people allow themselves to believe. LIES. A false statement that is deliberately used to deceive others or one’s self. Despair is a lie that whispers that there no hope. False. Hope is living and healthy. According to George Bernard Shaw, “He who has never hoped can never despair.” Therefore, one who is despairing did at one time have hope. Consequently, hope is achievable. Hope is the belief that what is wanted can be had.

In the morning with the sunshine, hope arrives. Many people believe that night has no hope. Generally, dawn is considered as the arrival of hope. Yet, in the dark of night, there are stars. These specks of light hold promise of the morning to come. The moon personifies the patient, enduring hope within one’s heart. There is hope.
The reality of this world is sobering. Nothing within this world is enduring enough to be confident of it persisting long enough for hope to be placed in it. This entire world is fickle. It is slippery. One’s fingers cannot grasp onto anything that persists. Nothing is concrete. Hope that will never be disappointed cannot be found in this world. That is a sure way to despair.

Real hope is found in things not of this world. Yet, things not of this world are unexplainable. These do not fit the logical part of one’s brain. Hope is God. God is hope. Both the idea of God and Hope are abstract concepts. Without hope, life would be hell. Without God, there would be no hope. Concrete hope is found in God for “those who hope in the LORD will renew their strength” so says Isaiah 40:31. Hope is not tangible. Yet, it greatly influences the human population. Likewise, God is not often tangible, but He continues to influence the human culture. God is Hope.

“If you lose hope, somehow you lose the vitality that keeps life moving, you lose that courage to be, that quality that helps you go on in spite of it all. And so today I still have a dream.” –Martin Luther King, jr.

Thank You Note

Dear Jesus,

At my house, we write thank you notes. I think that surprises people sometimes. I mean, we've always done it. When we were little, we couldn't play with any of our toys until we wrote our thank you notes. I thought it was a cruel and unusual punishment then. After all, I had spent all Christmas Eve in a squirming bundle of sleepless expectation waiting for Christmas to come. In the early hours of morning, I'd dash down the stairs to behold a Christmas tree swimming amongst a pile of gifts. With childish dexterity,I would turn the Christmas tree lights on. Then, in wonder, I would go a couple of feet away from the tree and lay on my stomach and just gaze at this brilliant picture. There I would wait. The expectation was great.

Anymore, Christmas is not like that for me. The reality is working eight to nine hellish hours in a busy bakery up until Christmas Eve. During that time, I forget my wonder. My eyes glaze over in exhaustion as I wait in a horribly long line of other last minute Christmas shoppers. People are cranky and rude. During that time, I forget my childish awe. Christmas is not what it used to be. I have become a disillusioned old hag.

And yet, in all of this, I find that I am grateful. Thank you for this season that is so widely celebrated. When I drive anywhere at night, my way is lit by Christmas displays and colorful bushes. Perhaps some do celebrate Christmas for the wrong reason. However, someone recognizes the fact that something needs to be celebrated. I am thankful for the music of hope and cheer that celebrates Your birth and Christmas magic. It lightens my heart. Thank you for giving us a reason to exchange gifts and promote generosity. Sure, some might feel obligated, but when else are you encouraged to give in this way?

Jesus, thank you for being my best friend and wanting to know me. Thank you for choosing us. I still don't understand why.

Please stay close to me.
I love you.

Love,
Barbara

O Holy Night

Always, these words give me pause. Always, I stop and consider the holiness of a God that would die for humans. Always, I am quieted in this song.

O Holy Night! The stars are brightly shining,
It is the night of the dear Saviour's birth.
Long lay the world in sin and error pining.
Till He appeared and the Spirit felt its worth.
A thrill of hope the weary world rejoices,
For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn.
Fall on your knees! Oh, hear the angel voices!
O night divine, the night when Christ was born;
O night, O Holy Night , O night divine!
O night, O Holy Night , O night divine!

Led by the light of faith serenely beaming,
With glowing hearts by His cradle we stand.
O'er the world a star is sweetly gleaming,
Now come the wisemen from out of the Orient land.
The King of kings lay thus lowly manger;
In all our trials born to be our friends.
He knows our need, our weakness is no stranger,
Behold your King! Before him lowly bend!
Behold your King! Before him lowly bend!

Truly He taught us to love one another,
His law is love and His gospel is peace.
Chains he shall break, for the slave is our brother.
And in his name all oppression shall cease.
Sweet hymns of joy in grateful chorus raise we,
With all our hearts we praise His holy name.
Christ is the Lord! Then ever, ever praise we,
His power and glory ever more proclaim!
His power and glory ever more proclaim!

surrendering

What is surrender?

I got thinking about this and so I went to my friendly dictionary.com to find out what they had to say about surrender. I was dreadfully disappointed with the definitions that I found. Let me give you the first two definitions.

sur·ren·der   [suh-ren-der]
–verb (used with object)
1.
to yield (something) to the possession or power of another; deliver up possession of on demand or under duress: to surrender the fort to the enemy; to surrender the stolen goods to the police.
2.
to give (oneself) up, as to the police.

From this definition, I get the idea that surrender is bad. Surrender is something that only criminals do. Surrender is for the bad guys in the movie where the good guys finally win out. Surrender is the waving of this tattered white scrap of clothe on the end of a shattered stick. Surrender is to be scorned.

"Don't Give Up!!!"

This phrase has become a motto for Americans. Surrender is for the weak. If you want to get anywhere in life, you have to obstinately pursue your own way and never give up. To surrender is to proclaim your weakness.

Personally, I have always hated the word surrender and any word that was in any way, shape, or form connected with it. Surrender is not something that I willingly embrace in my own life. When I was a child, I was often called 'stubborn' or 'obstinate.' Just because I'm older doesn't mean those names don't apply to me any longer. In fact, I'm probably just better at hiding these sometimes unpleasant qualities.

What is surrender?

Surrender cannot be totally bad. After all, war comes to an end with a surrender. May haps, surrender is more of an accurate measurement of strength because surrender is a letting go of one's own will. The following are some quotes that seem to describe what surrender is.

I was being called to surrender the very citadel of my self. I was completely in the dark. I did not really know what repentance was or what I was required to repent of. It was indeed the turning point of my life.
Bede Griffiths

If you surrender completely to the moments as they pass, you live more richly those moments.
Anne Morrow Lindbergh

If you want to make someone feel emotion, you have to make them let go. Listening to something is an act of surrender.
Brian Eno

The creative process is a process of surrender, not control.
Julia Cameron

Give up all bad qualities in you, banish the ego and develop the spirit of surrender. You will then experience Bliss. - Sri Sathya Sai Baba

At fifteen life had taught me undeniably that surrender, in its place, was as honorable as resistance, especially if one had no choice. - Maya Angelou

Companionship: Winter Colds

It starts with an irresistible tickle in your throat. It's midways between a laugh and a cough. You are never quite sure if it will reveal itself as one or the other. However, you start popping vitamin C like it's some sort of candy.

The next day, one's voice is thick and deep. It squeaks when you are serious and rumbles when you are giddy. I find that I become quite garrulous as I explore all the odd noises that this voice which isn't quite my own is speaking. One moment, I feel sultry. The next moment, I feel like a pubescent boy.

And then, you hit a brick wall. Your head feels as though it has been slammed against this brick wall multiple times. Your nose is like a fountain of snot. Sleeping is difficult because your head pounds and your nose tries to drown you in a pool of liquid boogers.

Blankets become a must. Sweatpants and big t-shirts are mandatory. A delectable novel is the medicine of choice. Vitamin C sticks closer than an enemy. And somehow in all this comfort, your face still feels like it's going to fall off.

Thank you, Winter Cold, for making life a bit more miserable.

A Hit List

December 11th. Another member of my Dominican Republic team, Kirstin, found out about a fatal car accident that killed her mother. The next morning, her sister died from injuries. Her father shall survive. Kirstin has other siblings.

I hate that this has happened. I hate that there seems to be some strange hit list floating about for fatal car accidents. I hate that my DR family continues to watch different members of this family deal with grief. I hate it.

It hasn't even been a year since we left the Dominican Republic and two of our team members have dealt with the death of family members. Currently, our rate is at least a family member a semester. Where ever this hit list is...I want to find it and destroy it.

My mom told me that she never had to walk beside a friend who was grieving the loss of a parent or sibling in college. I want that. I don't get that.

Death is sweet for those who have the certainty of heaven and death is bitter for those who are left behind. My heart grieves.

Shop With A Cop

The cellphone alarm crankily threw its wake up alarm at my sleeping ear. It took me a while to separate my dream from reality since the music became a part of my dream that I cease to recall. My eyes creaked open and my hand scurried to find this obnoxious noisy object so it could be silenced. After all, two of my roommates still wanted to sleep. The other had already flown out of the room like a sleepy summer storm. It was six thirty in the morning.

Within thirty minutes, Alysha and I were in the newly scraped off car driving 45 minutes to a high school. We had agreed to be Spanish translators for the program Shop with a Cop. We were groggy and tired. Miraculously, we made it to this high school that neither one of us had ever been to. If you know Alysha's driving and my navigating skills, you would understand why this type of arrival is so very miraculous.

Upon entrance into the high school, we were overwhelmed by a huge mass of humanity that was somehow carefully organized in family groups. Little ones were everywhere complaining in English and Spanish. A prayer was said over the program while the families enjoyed juice and donuts.

Eventually, we all relocated to Walmart. At this destination, each family was paired up with a cop. If one had gone to this particular Walmart on this specific Saturday morning and walked to the very back of the store, this person might have been stunned by the long line of families that took up more the half the wall. Another line of Police men and women, firemen, and emergency workers was created opposite the line of families. Where these two lines met in the middle of the store, stood a woman with a list of names of families. She connected families with their cop and sometimes inserted a translator into the mix.

Of the children of these families, there were about three hundred. Each cop knew exact the amount of money to spend upon each child in these families. It was quite the orderly process.

Although I was a translator, truly I got to practice my English skills more than my Spanish. The mother, Elbia, who was pregnant had her three daughters with her and they were bilingual. The mother could understand English as well. I was more or less another set of hands and another heart to love on this family.

The girls piled pink sparkly clothing into the cart while the cop wrote down costs. The youngest daughter played hide and seek with the cop while the middle daughter asked me what the cop had in his belt. She was far to shy to ask him herself. I asked. The eldest daughter stayed by her mother's side and aided her as she found clothing for the girls. It was a happy occasion as the girls found clothes for themselves.

Shop with a Cop. (i didn't find any articles written about the Shop with a Cop program that I participated with. however, this is the gist)

The most that I did during this Saturday morning was drive an hour and half round trip, become a part of a delightful Hispanic family for an hour, watch a person's dream of caring for neighbors happen, and become dreadfully slap happy once the lack of sleep hit me. Honestly, I did nothing this morning. Yet, I did see a dream happen. Somebody saw a need. Somebody dreamed a dream. Somebody acted. Now, many somebodies get blessed because of that first somebody.

Most of my morning was spent standing and watching the wheels of this program work. And I am thankful.

Yellow Hermit House

There was a day where I was set on being a hermit living in a yellow cabin with a big dog. This was my happy place. It was a simple place. This was where it would always be sunny and laughter filled.

It's still a fond thought.

However, I could not imagine utterly isolating myself from people even to devote myself to writing. It would be a rather boring existence and what more...I would be confined to live in the reality or unreality of my brain for the extent of my isolation. My brain, though I love it, is a torturous place.

My yellow hermit house is not dead.

It's still a dream.

And maybe, I'll vacation there even if I might not live there.

Light a Candle

Even amongst the commercialism of Christmas, this time of the year is holy to me. I feel as though I walk on holy ground always as snow covers the blemishes of the world. Music is holy. It sets the tone of the heart. The lyrics below are from my favorite Christmas song "Light a Candle" by Avalon.


light a candle
for the woman who is lonely
and every Christmas is the same

for the children who need
more than presents can bring

light a candle
light the dark
light the world
light a heart or two
light a candle for me
I'll light a candle for you

light a candle
for the homeless and the hungry
a little shelter from the cold

light a candle
for the broken and forgotten
may the season warm their souls

can we open our eyes
to shine through the dark

light a candle
light the dark
light the world
light a heart or two
light a candle for me
I'll light a candle for you

and in this special time of year
may peace on earth surround us here
and teach us there's a better way to live
and with every (every) flame that burns
we must somehow learn
that love's the greatest gift
that we could ever give.....

light a candle
light the dark
(light the world)
light the world
(light a heart or two)
light a heart or two
light a candle for me
i'll light a candle for you
light a candle (oh yea)
light the dark (everybody needs a light)
light the world
light a heart or two
light a candle for me )
I'll light a candle for you
light candle for me
I'll light a candle for you
light a candle for me
I'll light a candle for you

Oh, the Odd Lens with which I view the World

singing is...as though there was an empty porcelain jug within the depths of your being. When you sing, the music echoes about in this jug and spills out. You are empty of anything, but that song. that moment. you are a vessel of the music.

I think winter may or may not be out to turn all of our bladders into a frozen chunk of pee.

Sleeplessness is followed by a strange clarity of mind that does not seem possible. Eventually, the body screams for sleep...and the mind does a crash landing into a headache which incapacitates the body's ability to persevere. Sleep becomes a necessity.

If I don't eat the cookies, they will eat me.

Pet Peeve: LOL Oh, no. That wasn't a joke and I'm not laughing out loud. I'm actually staring sardonically at the computer as you make a fool of yourself for not knowing that LOL makes me think of your tongue hanging out of your face in a desperate sort way. Wait. You mean, it actually means that you laughed out loud. That's a hard one to believe since we're only having this conversation through a computer. Just know, that I'm not impressed by your ability to LOL every other word in our conversation. It's kind of annoying. Thank you (oh, this is not pointed specifically at any poor old tongue-hanging-out-of-your-face person who is always in a conniption of LOLing)

I think steps were created to see if we could actually fall up something. Let me allay your fears. I can fall up.

Mice. Forget the gym. Get a mouse. Chase it around the house. Get a work out for free without leaving your room. An added bonus is the vocal warm-up that will naturally occur.

Me: "I can't study and eat because I would eat far too much and gain so much weight."
Roommate: "I look at the weight gained as a natural burden of education. The weight signifies how much education and learning that I have had."
(actual conversation occurred. above sentences paraphrased.)

i shall not apologize for this piece of ridiculousness. however, i shall explain here that i'm functioning on very few hours of sleep. right now, i feel as though my thinking capabilities have been heightened and my amusement at the thoughts in my head is narrating my current existence.

A Woman's Mind

A woman’s mind has been described as a big mess of spaghetti. Issues spill into other seemingly separate problems. The wonder of this type of thinking is that women have the ability to see similarities in situations that seem entirely different. Women are relational creatures and this pasta type thinking creates connection between people. A woman’s mind is a wonder in its ability to connect everything. However, it can create some amusing problems.

"A woman's strength is the intuitive grasp of the living concrete; especially of the personal element. She has the special gift of making herself at home in the inner world of others."
~ "Heroines" by Mary Riso

Women are known for being home-makers in the sense that they take care of house and clean house. However, young girls are already perfecting the art of relationship and understanding the inner worlds of others. While men are more action focused, women would prefer to sit down, chatter, and listen to the thoughts of the people around them. Obviously, men and women are incomparable. Yet, out of the human race, they are the only things to compare sometimes. Anyways, a most important strength of the female mind is the fact that women desire to create an inner home within themselves and others rather than just a physical home.

Largely, women are stereotyped as shallow, illogical, flirtatious sprites. If a man or even woman desires to make fun of the female gender, this stereotype raises its impish head. Suddenly, blonde jokes are being cracked and silly impersonations are being enacted. Silly women are definitely a reality. Of course, women also often fall under the category of pragmatic. These women are more recognized as the mothers and wives that keep households and businesses together with their quick and logical thinking. Honestly, people have many facets. They may be thought of in one particular aspect, but they generally have another side that is stereotype-blowing.

Sometimes this spaghetti noodle mindset of women creates problems such as over-analyzing and over-thinking things that really have no significance. However, these small instances that occur in a female’s life can be connected to other issues. For example, a man could say, “hello.” To the man, it was a simple greeting. To the girl, it can be analyzed a million different ways –the most extreme being that the man has just declared his undying love for her in the simplistic word of ‘hello.’ It seems ridiculous. It is ridiculous.

“A lady's imagination is very rapid; it jumps from admiration to love, from love to matrimony in a moment.” - Jane Austen

I would love to joke about the absurdity of this quote. I mean it is seemingly silly. However, as I get older, I believe in the truth of this statement. From what I have seen (and dare I admit it – experienced), women do have rapid imaginations. Of course, these imaginations tend to create an emotional connection. Everything is connected in a woman’s mind and every little aspect has some sort of emotional consequence.

We girls misunderstand a lot of things that go on around us because we over-simplify or over-exaggerate the meaning of conversations or teasing. Having a younger brother, he and I tend to tease and annoy each other purposefully. Of course, we are siblings so as a girl I know his only purpose is to lovingly bother me. However, confusion comes about when girls and boys who are not siblings interact. To a boy, he may only be teasing a girl in a brotherly way. In the girl’s eyes, she sees this kind of behavior as flirting. Somewhere the message is getting confused. It’s a grand mess.

Rapid imagination feeds emotional trauma. In only moments, a hapless female can within the realm of her own mind connect herself with golden threads of dreaming and wishings to some oblivious male. In extreme cases (because I have never actually heard of this or seen it), it might only take crossing paths with this male on a public sidewalk to feed this imagined connection. In her mind, the girl details a million different scenarios of meetings and clandestine whisperings. The girl’s heart flutters over this imagined love. It becomes almost a reality in her mind.

Her fantastic imagined reality becomes obsolete upon the knowledge that this dream man is in a relationship. Crushed, she turns to chocolates and romantic films with sappy endings. This girl wonders where her sappy ever after is. The girl has emotionally traumatized herself because she has secretly connected herself to a man who is totally oblivious possibly even to the girl’s existence. If she stopped falling in love with figments of her imagination, friendships - at the very least - might be a possibility.

“Women are considered deep - why? Because one can never discover any bottom to them. Women are not even shallow.” – Friedrich Nietzsche

Society has pegged many women as shallow. Yet, this shallowness generally covers up a complex story that may explain the woman’s wall of shallow behavior. For example, my roommate has an uncanny way of always getting to the bottom of my inexplicable behavior. I often believe that I do different things just because I do. However, my roommate continually frustrates that belief with a single question of “why.” Even if I haven’t admitted to myself that I have a particular motivation for something, I almost always do. This complexity of reasoning even confuses me since I don’t always understand why I do the things that I do.

On the other hand, a woman’s mind even in its complexity and confusion has a depth that cannot be fathomed or understood. Even to a female, her mind is a confusing and sometimes frustrating place. However, women are loyal to a fault. With tenacity unknown to man, women will cling to their dysfunctional and broken families. These are the things that make her who she is. Attack one that a woman cares for and be prepared for a terrible defensive onslaught. Women will fiercely protect those they love even if this protection does not make sense.

Disclaimer: I may be a woman, but I am still learning about the way that women think. Please feel free to share your opinions about this or go on appropriate tangents related to this particular subject.

kissing bubbles

I kissed a bubble and it had the audacity to burst in my face.
Perhaps, I should have known that it would explode.
I mean, it was a bubble.
If I had caught it in my hand, it would have been for not.
Perhaps, a butterfly kiss would have been more gentle.
However, some gentle things are quite harsh.
The bubble burst in my face.
And that was harsh.

A bubble is like a dream. It looks well and floats on air. Yet, it does not last long. A dream or a hope can be made in a moment and broken in half a moment. A bubble is made out of iridescent whisperings of breath and whimsy and it might as well be the physical representation of a dream. To catch a bubble or a dream, one must take good care to create the perfect green house atmosphere for said bubble dream. Have you noticed that a bubble can be caught? On the end of the stick from which it was blown, a bubble can be caught again. Therefore, a dream can be re-captured upon the thinking of the mind from which it flew.

So grab your bubble wands and your minds to search out these bursting bubbles and slippery dreams.

a list in no particular order

1. soft toilet paper
2. dinner finds you - not vice versa
3. family kind of has to love you
4. brother
5. public librarians that know your name
6. sister
7. liquid spraying out of mouth and nose
8. being mothered
9. daddy hugs
10. private family dwelling
11. independently dependent
12. family photos
13. food in the fridge
14. tissues
15. sibling squabbles
16. dentist appointments

This is the short list of things that make me think of family. of home. and home-dwellings. these are also things that i am thankful for.

thinking

"You were born to privilege and with that comes specific obligations."

This line is repeated multiple times to the French prince Henry in the movie Ever After. He refuses to hear the truth behind the statement and desires to fling off his obligations. This prince would prefer to do his own thing. From his perspective, there seems to be no particular purpose to life except duty. He rejects duty as a purpose and desires to live without obligation.

Without much effort, this line echoes in one's mind. However, one sees it only as being directed to the prince. Consider for a moment your circumstances in life. Consider your family. Consider the fact that you may be privileged. You may not be a prince or a queen or even loved by one of these in reality. Yet, you are privileged in station of life and even by the country that you live in. You are privileged merely in the way that you choose to view yourself. It is a state of mind.

Americans, you were born to privilege and with that comes specific obligation.

We Get On

Allow this to be a sneak peak of a blogpost that is in the process of being written. It explores some aspects of the way that women think. For now, chuckle over these lyrics and even the possibly the video.

"We Get On" by Kate Nash

Simply knowing you exist
Ain't good enough for me
But asking for your telephone number
Seems highly inappropriate

Seeing as I can't
Even say hi
When you walk by

And that time you shook my hand
It felt so nice
I swear I never felt
This way about any other guy
And I don't usually notice people's eyes but

I conducted a plan
To bump into you most accidentally
But I was walking along
And I bumped into you much more heavily
Than I'd originally planned
It was well embarrassing and
I think you thought that I was a bit of a twat

I just think that we get on
I wish I could tell you face to face
Instead of singing this stupid song
But yeah I just think that we might get on

So I went to that party and everyone
They were kind of arty
And I was wearing this dress
Because I wanted to impress
But I wasn't sure if I looked my best
'Cause I was so nervous
But I carried on regardless
Strutting through each room
Trying to find you

And when I saw you
Kissing that girl
My heart it shattered
And my eyes, they watered
And when I tried to speak I stuttered

And my friends were like whatever
You'll find someone better
His eyes were way too close together
And we never even liked him from the start
And now he's with that tart
And I heard she done some really nasty stuff
Down in the park with Michael
He said she's easy
And if your guy's with someone that's sleazy
Then he ain't worth your time
'Cause you deserve a real nice guy

So I proceeded to get drunk and cry
And lock myself in the toilets
For the entire night

Saturday night
I watched channel five
I particularly liked CSI

I don't ever dream
About you and me
I don't ever make up stuff about us
That would be classed as insanity
I don't ever drive by your house to see if you're in
I don't even have an opinion
On that tramp that you're still seeing
I don't know your timetable
I don't know your face off by heart
But I must admit
That there is still a part of me
That thinks we might get on
That we could get on
That we should get on

risk

risk –noun
exposure to the chance of injury or loss; a hazard or dangerous chance: It's not worth the risk.

Fear is based upon risk. People fear doing things because they risk emotional or physical pain. Fear binds them.

However, good things seem to come from pain or struggle. A person who has knots in his or her back has to undergo an intense massage that will primarily cause pain. After this painful massage, the person's back will be loosened and the pain will be eased. This person had to submit themselves to pain before they could experience release.

"Flowers often grow more beautifully on dung-hills than in gardens that look beautifully kept." ~Saint Francis de Sales

A lot of poop happens in the world. Yes, poop. Struggles come in all forms. It's difficult and these problems seem to last forever. Yet, they help us grow. One of these days, we'll look back at that poop that happened in our lives and we'll be shocked to see a flower blooming in the midst of the poop.

Risk: going to another country, driving a car, taking a breath, going to college, making friends, loving, living, eating...Risk is Life. Life is risk. They are inseparable.

Once in a conversation with my dad about relationships and love, we talked about risk. He told me, "When I married your mother, I thought I loved her as much as I ever could. I was wrong. I love her more today than I ever thought was possible."

I think loving is a risk. Sometimes, I wonder if loving is a risk that is worth taking. My dad obviously votes yes.

The thing about risk is that it is so uncertain and so ambiguously full of 'what if' circumstances. There are a million things that could occur. There is nothing to trust. No one can tell you that your risk will turn out well. No one can tell you it won't hurt. No one can promise you perfection.

The promise of risk is loss. Even if your risk was worth it, you will lose something. Something will change within yourself. It might seem to be a bit of an abstract thought, but a risk results in growth. Growth builds off of old thoughts and discards others.

Risk demands surrender of self. It means letting go of the 'what if' moments and leaping for all you're worth. Don't hop. LEAP. Commit to the unknown and embrace it. Perhaps, you'll impale yourself upon a thorn. However, you may look up and see that the thorn is attached to a rose. That rose bloom won't ease the pain, but it will be a part of the growth.

Without risk, life would not be worth living. There would be no thrill. A life without risk would be easy, but this life of ennui is unfulfilling. A life risked wisely is a life lived and learned.

my glass menagerie.

inner turmoil.20 years.simple dreams.huge expectations.great dissappointment.the weight.trying life.depth.power.beliefs.opinions.selfishness.hate.defined by society and one's view of society.

"I thought I had escaped the boundaries of society. I rebelled in small and subtle ways. I raised my head defiantly at everything the world handed me. Now, I find that I have been defined by reverse psychology. As much as I fought against the social boundaries that people placed upon me. I have been ensnared by the lack of identity and I have become something that I am not. When did I begin fighting against me?"

"I became exactly what society dictated. I followed to the very last dot on the 'i'. I am a shell."

"I built my life out of expectation. The thing that came out of life was disappointment."

breathing.life.ambrosial.vulnerability.risk.fear.relationship.definitions.words.years.song.laughter.cake.early birds.what is life.masks.truth hidden.truth found.influences.persuasion.i'm not who i was meant to be.loss.

these are a few of my favorite things...

……………………snowflakes that stay on my nose and eyelashes

..........................................faces of confused wonder (this happens when a girl likes a boy and a boy likes her back)
……………………………………………………………………autumn leaves that land on my head
..curling up on a warm sunshiney rock
………reveling in the life learning of others

…………………gazing at pretty eyes (that stare at me too)
…..snickering cynically (at something no one else sees)
..annoying my friends
………………………………………….the bells of children’s laughter
……..the companionship of the moon
……………………..relief after a good poop (I’m being frank)
…the risk and the joy of vulnerability.swinging
…..imitating the way that people walk (it’s rather fun. Try it)

……………………………………………………………………………………………………….dancing with the wind
..sending love looks to friends
…………………………………being friends with the Holy Spirit
………………the touch of inspiration..community shared
……..posh, pensive, ambrosial, presence, perhaps, (words that appear in my vocabulary)
……………..a flight of fancy

Slippery Sinks

Watch your step when tiptoeing across a kitchen sink, you may slip and fall into the garbage disposal. I should have known this would happen. In my ridiculous desire to dance upon the lip of the kitchen sink with my long hair frolicking behind me, I slipped. I slipped and fell. Do you know how long it takes to fall down the slippery side of a sink? Do YOU? DO YOU?? I slipped. I did not mean to. I had every intention of keeping my precarious balance. Unfortunately, you know how sometimes there is a bit of residue from forgotten food or soap scum? Well, I was the one who discovered such a patch on the sink. I think it may have been a bit of milk left over from yesterday.

I slipped. I fell. Have you ever felt the cold metal of the kitchen sink? It’s cold. It’s hard. It’s unwelcoming. That’s where I fell. I fell into the depths of the sink. Through my momentum of the slipping, I proceeded all the way to the garbage disposal. Have you seen that thing? It’s like the teeth of some ominous aquatic animal. So while I’m standing on one of the blades realizing the predicament that I have found myself, a spaghetti noodle flops onto my foot. I shy away. It’s like a dead thing. It wiggles and a low rumble erupts from the darkness below. Frantically, my hand reaches for some useful nook to climb out of this angry abyss. Water like a torrent pounds at my fragile self. My happy dance across the lip of the sink has turned into a battle with death.

The teeth of this aquatic monster below spin in a terrifying and hypnotic circle. Somehow, I am suspended between the teeth of this creature. The water funneling from above pulls me down. My will to fight for survival lessens. My acceptance of the situation is impending. Death, he comes to me in the form of a gaping mouth. My hand slips and the powerful water carries me to the dark throat. Eyes clenched shut. Lip bleeding from gnawing on it. A soul tired. At the forceful hand of the water, I am shoved into the thrashing teeth of this uncaring monster.

Suddenly, the scream of metal upon metal shocks me out of my despair. My eyelids fling open in surprise as my overwhelmed body thuds painfully on shuddering blades. There it is – my savior. A huge spoon has forced its head into the mouth of the garbage disposal. The clanking and shuttering of the angry monster below is silenced. Quickly, I gather my water-logged and battered body in an attempt to stand. Staggering like a drunken person, I wrap myself around the neck of the spoon and hold onto this savior. I cling there shivering in horror. The spoon is wrenched out of the garbage disposal by a large hand and laid on the counter. I grip the spoon still.

Finally, after many minutes have passed, I begin to loosen my hold on this cut and scarred spoon. The marks of the teeth slash angrily across the face of the spoon. Looking sadly at the disfigurement of this savior, I see my face. I look like a drowned rat. Figures. Slowly, I re-acquaint myself with my body. It’s still there and I am all in one piece. I shake my head. Water droplets fling everywhere. Yet, there is an absence of something. A familiar weight is gone. With dread in my heart, my hand reaches up to my head. The laughing locks of my hair have vanished. Tears add to the wetness of my face. I survived. My hair did not. It’s shaggy and short.

…so the other day, I tiptoed across the kitchen sink and slipped. I mean, it’s a great excuse for a bad haircut.

Personal Connection

a single hand clasp ... you are not alone.

picture compliments of homarte on deviantart.

Will You Love Me?

“Mommy, pick me up.”
The child looked up with wide pleading eyes. It was adorable.
How could a parent ignore this plea?
“Daddy, I’m hungry.”
The rumbling of the small tummy harmonized to the child’s plea.
How could a parent not feed this sweet child?
“Sissy, play with me.”
The desire in the shining eye could not be ignored.
How could a sister not play with that eager heart?
“Mommy, do you love me?”
“Daddy, do you love me?”
“Sissy, do you love me?”
And we know that they love this small child because they care for her every desire.

“Mommy, I need a new backpack.”
So they go to the store and buy one.
How could a mother not fulfill her child’s need?
“Daddy, will you help me with my homework?”
They spend hours working together on this homework.
How could a father deny his child help?
“Sissy, why do boys act so weird?”
The sisters giggle together for hours as they chatter.
How could a sister refuse to give advice?
“Mommy, do you love me?”
“Daddy, do you love me?”
“Sister, do you love me?”
And we know that they love this girl because they give her time.

“Mommy, I want a boyfriend.”
The mother smiles worriedly.
What will this turbulence look like?
“Daddy, can I have the car?”
The father proffers the keys in exchange for a promised return by the set time.
How could he refuse his baby?
“Sister, let’s go shopping.”
But, friends come.
How could she be forgotten?
“Mommy, love me.”
“Daddy, you have to love me.”
“Sister, will you love me still?”
And they love her still.

“Mommy, how can I love you?”
Shock rushes across Mommy’s face.
When did this growth happen?
“Daddy, how can I love you?”
And the father is surprised.
How did this growth happen?
“Sister, how can I love you?”
Forgiveness is exchanged.
What changed?
“Mommy, I love you.”
“Daddy, I love you.”
“Sissy, I love you.”
And their love for each other was greater.

A Present Thought

It was Thursday of Fall break. I spent the entire day studying with one of my roommates who I generally don’t see because she is so busy. It was a good day. I was productive. We ate lunch together and it was like a long day date. When we got home, we rejoined another of our roommates and rewarded ourselves with the movie An Affair To Remember. Old movies just have a certain sophisticated ambiance about them. It was divine and it was lovely. And then, the movie ended. I had a sense of loss. Oh, yes. It was quite connected to the movie. However, my sense of missing was because I had not seen my fourth roommate, Alysha, since the night before. She and I share a particular bond having survived a number of difficulties together. For a while, I wandered around my room a bit forlorn. I tried to distract myself with facebook. It was no use. Finally, I gave up.

With the petulance of a child, I stomped out of my dorm room and went to the entrance of my building. For about ten minutes, I pressed my face against the glass of the window peering out into the inky night. My heart screamed, “Alysha, come back to me!” After leaving quite the nose mark on this window, I finally marched outside. I stood smack dab in front of my building in the middle of the sidewalk and unceremoniously plopped myself down on the pavement. I was resolved to sit there until Alysha came home. Did I mention that it was a chilly autumn evening? I got pelted with raindrops and leaves. I wouldn’t move. I was resolute.

For a while, I got distracted by the way that the parking lot lights shown on the leaves of the trees. For a moment or two, the iridescent moon sparkling softly through the clouds intrigued me. Probably for more than a moment, I became very interested in the sounds of the night. And then, I became enthralled with the sound of my voice harmonizing with those night sounds. If you had been sitting near my dorm, you would have been treated to a free concert of my heart chords. The concert may have lasted for the greater part of an hour. It was attended by rain, leaves, and wind. There were a couple of intermissions that occurred upon the sighting of a passerby. I must say that the rain that came fell like sparkling diamonds but thankfully these diamond raindrops were soft and melted into liquid silver. It became a time of enchantment.

Finally, Alysha came. The smile that spread across her face upon the sighting of me sitting in the middle of the sidewalk at such a late hour warmed my heart. I was relieved because honestly I was getting a bit chilled. You would think that I would have immediately glued myself to Alysha’s side, but I didn’t. Now, that she was back, I felt no urgency to be with her. I was contented because I knew she was back. Alysha and I ended up hanging out with some other people. It was good.

Later on, I sat next to Alysha on the couch while we worked on separate things. I was confused because I knew that I had missed Alysha a lot. However, when she was actually there, I didn’t feel the need to be actively interacting with her. I could not understand it in my head. It just wasn’t making sense. And then, I realized it. I turned to Alysha and piped up, “Alysha, I missed your presence.”

Like an avalanche, my thoughts all slid into place. I love interacting with Alysha. Yet, my favorite thing is living next to Alysha day by day not necessarily talking or doing anything. I just like being next to her, knowing that she’s there, and knowing that we don’t have to interact. I never really understood the idea of presence. I mean, obviously, one is present in class or we live in the present time. The idea of presence has and had confused me. I have heard that the Holy Spirit is God’s presence. What in the world does that mean? God’s presence is something that should never leave you because He is everywhere. And yet, we are not always aware of His presence. The presence of friends is much easier to miss because it is a very visible and tangible thing. Of course, we don’t have to be aware of God’s presence. There is a choice involved. I am in the presence of Alysha because I want to be. I’m sitting next to her right now. God’s presence is with me because He wants to be with me and I want Him to be with me. Presence.

Lockets

A heart-shaped locket cherishes memories, pictures, or locks of hair. Lockets are necklaces kept close to the heart. They are history and future sewn together. The locket is carried into the future on the bearer's neck and it is a window to the past at the unclasping of the sides. Every person has a locket whether or not it is worn around the neck or draped about the heart. It is a safe place for secret thoughts, hopeful dreams, childhood happiness, memorable faces, or remorseful memory. A locket is carried close to the heart.

I'll open my locket for you. Although tiny and not often visible, it is packed with frozen moments that breath in my memory. Some have become living prayers.

A picture in my locket that I have revisited often in the past couple of days is of a couple riding the train. Judging by their clothing, I would say that they were marginally young. The man had dark hair, a tired face, and a black eye. In his hand, he clasped a wide-tooth comb with strands of blonde hair stuck in it. These strands of blonde hair belonged to the woman who sat beside him on the train. There was something not quite right about the woman's eyes and skin. Her skin was sallow and her eyes distant. The woman's hair had a horrific ponytail dent and had been combed through. When the couple had situated themselves in their seats, the woman lay her head in the man's lap and he began to methodically comb her hair. I glanced away from this couple in time to catch a young man across the aisle whispering in repulsion to his friend, "That's disgusting." I looked back at the couple and realized that the man was searching out lice.

At first, I was angry at this disgusted man who chose to only look at the physical circumstances of this couple. Of course, I understood how easy it was to judge by appearance. After all, I was judging that whispering man. If any observer were to glance at this man, they could assume by his clothing that he had lived a posh existence.

This couple captivated me. Obviously, life or circumstance had dealt them a heavy blow. Why did that man have such a black eye? People don't just randomly wake up with black eyes. How did the woman get lice? How did they have money for public transportation if they obviously were in such dire circumstance? This couple also showed deep commitment. Perhaps a man might find it a joy to comb his significant other's hair, but probably only if it is clean and bug-free. What brought this couple to such a deep commitment to each other?

I got off at the next stop. My questions remain unanswered.

dragon skin

The transformation would begin at my elbows. I mean haven't you ever touched your elbows. They are so very strange. To the touch, they are a bit leathery, dry, and bumpy. It seems like the perfect place for magic to begin since elbows are so often forgotten. Magic seems to begin on the edge of being. You don't realize it happened until suddenly the transformation is almost completed.

When I shape shift into a dragon, it always begins at the elbows. The thin leathery skin of humans hardens to a thick bullet-proof scale. My pale coloring begins to appear mildly bluish. The change is so gradually rapid that is unnoticeable in a multitude of blinks. However, the brain of an observer suddenly registers a confusion. The transformation was so subtle that it leaves that observer blinking quickly trying to understand what just happened. Of course, before this observer gains the ability to speak, I am off.

Perhaps, I am a small dragon after all I was contained in a small fragile human body. Being half human and half dragon is a difficult position to be in. Humanly, I am so weak. Dragonly, I have got immeasurable strength. This existence is a lonely one. However, there are others. Yes, there are others. We are a family of mythical things that are scientifically unrecognized and humanly feared.

I most definitely struggled when I first found out this strange existence with which I could participate. Dragons were of fairytale and story. They were killing machines with a taste for human flesh. Honestly, I didn't understand how dragon and man could possibly peaceably dwell within the same body. Occasionally, they do war with each other. I, myself, have seen my dragon head try to gnaw on my human foot that is still in process of transformation. Sometimes, my human mind will start to come up with ways to control the world. However, most days, these two separate but united parts work together.

The transformation begins at my elbows, but it started in the inner core of my being. It was an acceptance and a surrender to something greater than my own desire. I had to let go of my human control and give myself over to the transformation of something wild and untameable.

Pistevo: Why Do You Believe?

Why do you believe? It’s another haunting question. What is the root of your thoughts and beliefs in the world? Do you believe that all men are evil because of some past experience? Or that all women are inevitably control freaks because you have met one too many who exude this characteristic? What drives thought? Why do you believe what you believe? Why do you believe that people will always disappoint you so much so that you aren’t willing to trust? Why are you always waiting to be hit and you expect it? How is it that this has become the norm?

We live what we believe. One can say as much as you want, but one’s true beliefs and closely held values shall bleed out into one’s actions. Allow me to use myself as an example. About a month ago, I chatted with a friend and he told me that I believed that men could not be trusted. This surprised me because I do not vocalize that belief. However, he knew already just by living life beside me over the past two years. I know I do not trust easily. Yet, I thought I was decent. I never had to tell my friend that I have a hard time trusting men. He just knew from life. Now, I cannot explain quite yet why I have difficulties trusting men. That’s an entirely other journey for me to explore solo and in time I may share it. However, this thought that men are not trustworthy permeates the way that I live and navigate through life. Somewhere along the way this idea has cemented itself as some sort of value in my life. Values are the root of one’s action.

I believe that socks belong on feet. This is a value that I cling to. Therefore, I wear my socks upon my feet. Perhaps it is because this was taught to me by not only my mother but it is also culturally and socially acceptable. However, I have worn socks on my hands and I find this to be quite comfortable especially in the winter when my fingers resemble icicles in temperature.

A wild momentary belief of mine is that apples actually fall up. However, we would not know this because we are confused in our perspective of the world. You see, we humans actually are individually suspended to the earth by invisible cables. These cables are designed in such a way that they make everything appear to be falling down. Yet, in fact, things are falling up. In this way, an apple falls up from the tree branches to the ground. In time, the seeds take root. These roots provide life. Although not visible to the human eye, these roots are the values of the tree. Why do I believe all of this? Simply because this whimsical idea caught my fancy and I like the idea.

Why do I believe that a relationship with Jesus Christ is crucial in life? Once upon a time, I tried to imagine my life without Him. I could. I did. It was purposeless. Oh, don’t get me wrong. Life would be fun. I would still be a deep thinker, but I’d probably be a bit of a skank. I would be a feminist. I would control everything shamelessly. And I might be dead.

“Wait.” You say. “But, you are such a good person! That can’t be true.”

Let me assure you that the above is very possible. Oh, it may seem extreme, but life is full of extremity. My innate self does not desire goodness. I would much rather run wild or live in an eternal pathetic party than surrender my life and my control over to this higher being that has been considered fictional by others. What is the purpose of life? Well, it could just be one huge party. However, that would not satiate this desire to have purpose and leave a legacy. After all, death is inevitable. If death is our final destination and the only purpose of life is to please self, then let’s just escalate the process and die.

This past week, I was talking to a friend about the upcoming musical auditions. She was proclaiming her intense desire to be in the musical because it was the very pulse of her heart. Her intensity scared me because I wanted her to not be disappointed. When she asked me if I was audition, I replied, “Yes, I am auditioning. If I don’t get in, that’s fine with me. You see, I’ll help out with it anyways. I just want to be a part of something that is bigger than myself.”

If I live my life solo for my own pleasure and the pleasing of my friends, I am a part of nothing - only a cycle of mutual pleasing. I want more in life. Dear friends, I love you greatly but there must be more to life than just trying to be a people pleaser. I have been offered the opportunity to participate in a family that has been growing, struggling, and learning for the past 2000 or so years. Not only does that make me a part of a legacy, it gives me an opportunity to be a part of a continuing legacy. We are most definitely dysfunctional, but that doesn’t make me stop loving this family any less. It may seem corny to say that I am a part of God’s family, but it’s the very core of my life purpose.

“There are pictures of the people in my family where we look like the most awkward and desperate folk you ever saw, poster children for the human condition. But I like that, when you get to see something real and human. I think that's why most of us stay close to our families, no matter how neurotic the members, how deeply annoying or dull - because when people have seen you at your worst, you don't have to put on the masks as much. And that gives us license to try on that radical hat of liberation, the hat of self-acceptance; we're allowed to escape from underneath one of the fatwas.”
Traveling Mercies by Anne Lamott

I believe in the importance of family, the body of Christ. I believe that my relationship with God is the best thing that I have to offer the world. I believe that I will continue to screw things up, but that I will always yearn after God’s ways. I believe that God has saved me from myself multiple times. Why do I believe this? It’s personal, you see, I have seen the evident hand of God in my life. It’s been in small ways and big ways. One day, God might choose to spare me from a multitude of ticks and mosquitoes while all my other companions were plagued by them. Another day, God completely and totally removes a huge struggle and shame-filled activity from my life. Oh, don’t you dare tell me that the ticks don’t like me or that I was able in my own self to spare myself from that previously mentioned activity. After all, I have likeable blood. I’m 0+. Oh, and that activity. I tried to stop. I couldn’t.

“People see God every day, they just don't recognize him.” ~Pearl Bailey

When I dance with the wind because I do dance with the wind, I know that God has a grin across His face. I believe He and I are great friends. Why do I believe that He is so intimately involved in my life? Once when this woman was in Panama, a rugby ball was being tossed around. I was a bit angry, cynical, and tired of people. I growled between terse lips to my friends, “If that ball hits me, I will kill somebody.” I hadn’t even gotten the words fully out of my mouth before this ball hit me square in the back. I could feel God smirking and laughing. Guess what. I didn’t kill them. Instead, I shook my head at God’s sense of humor and accepted their rushed apologies.

Why do you believe?

ami

Ami glanced at the lighted window across the grass and she laughed at herself. As she took the trash out to the dumpster, she called out silently to the invisible occupants of the lighted window, “Will you just fall in love with me please?” Immediately, Ami shook her head and flung the trash bag into the waiting mouth of the dumpster. It was a magnificent throw and Ami tossed her head back to allow the chill temperature of the night to slightly touch the base of her neck.

Ami enjoyed the subtleties of life and the occasional making eyes at the shocked squirrels. After all, they were squirrels – not men. Of course, it would be just Ami’s luck if one of these squirrels might just happen to be some enchanted man. Ami laughed and felt beautiful. There was something about laughter that just allowed the soul to spring free.

Under the soft glow of a street light, Ami did a slow pirouette in rapture of the embrace of the cool evening. Even amongst the audience of the sleeping cars in their parking spaces, Ami wove between them in graceful leaps of joy in the knowledge of being alive. To an observer, she would have seemed partly ridiculous in the seriousness that she took herself. The music to which Ami seemed to dance was punctuated by her laughter and melodious because of the sounds of the evening.

Abruptly, Ami’s dance froze. In the distance, she had sighted a walker. Ami could dance and pretend flight if there were not a soul to see. However, if a person were to see her, Ami’s private reality would dissolve in the moment that it brushed against another’s reality. In that moment, the enchantment of the night receded. Such a person always caused her to melt back into normality.

With quick steps, Ami’s feet carried her back to her apartment building. As she entered her building, she acknowledged the interrupter of her private reality with a slight head nod. Ami’s return to her apartment reminded Ami of her ocean of responsibilities and she dove back into them.

what if

"'What' and ‘if’ two words as nonthreatening
as words come. But put
them together side-by-side and they
have the power to haunt you for the
rest of your life: ‘What if?'..." ~ Letters to Juliet.

What if I had been born a boy
What if I had wings
What if instead of snow, we had flamingoes falling from the sky
What if the night was the day and day was the night
What if there was no facebook
What if fingernails were petals
What if curls grew on my head
what if I had gone to prom with a date
what if i had chosen my parent's college
what if the dominican republic had never been my home
what if a sock fell in love with me
what if the sky opened and the ocean poured out
what if these two small repetitive words haunted my life
what if jeans were hats and hats were pants

what if a blanket had the ability to eat a person (we'd have some lumpy blankets)

what if popcorn didn't pop but laughed instead
what if this list lasted forever, would you read it?
what if walking on ceilings was possible
what if shape-shifting was a reality
what if stars could be captured for jewelry. (Stars are a girl's bestfriend)
what if life were a fairytale and not referred to as reality
what if Calvin (& Hobbes) was my little brother

what if farts were of perfume and burps bubbled

what if a church could reflect Jesus in every minute detail
what if homelessness was a thing of myth

what if abuse was obsolete

what if one could live without regret
what if life could not be lost
what if my roommates were crazy
what if rain were candy
what if money were not an issue
what if kindness
what if sprinkles turned into butterflies
what if generosity happened

what if people lived genuine lives

what if apples ate worms
what if sunshine made everyone sparkly
what if this actually stimulates thought
what if people filled needs of others as they saw them
what if
what if
what if
what if
what if
what if trust was not so difficult
what if
what if
what if

what if histories didn't influence futures

what if
what if a kiss were a thimble

what if

what if
what if
what if the imaginative worlds of children did exist
what if the world did not harden person
what if
WHAT IF
what if
what if
what if
what if
what if
what if

what if

what if
what if
what if

to be something or nothing?

noth·ing   
[nuhth-ing] –noun
1.no thing; not anything; naught: to say nothing.
2.no part, share, or trace (usually fol. by of ): The house showed nothing of its former magnificence.
3.something that is nonexistent.
4.nonexistence; nothingness: The sound faded to nothing.
5.something or someone of no importance or significance: Money is nothing when you're without health.
6.a trivial action, matter, circumstance, thing, or remark: to exchange a few nothings when being introduced.
7.a person of little or no importance; a nobody.
8.something that is without quantity or magnitude.
9.a cipher or naught: Nothing from nine leaves nine.
10.(used in conventional responses to expressions of thanks): Think nothing of it. It's nothing. Nothing to it.

It's rather interesting to me that there would be ten different definitions for the word 'nothing'. It must be the fact that to know 'nothing' is to have been 'nothing.' What is nothing? How does one be nothing? Do we want to be nothing or would we rather be something.

Oh, yes. Nothing is also the word that is commonly yelled when caught in some action that might be disapproved by parents. I often find myself squeaking the word 'nothing' as well when caught by a friend looking at things that I find comical but would not be generally considered funny. I feel that children learn the word 'nothing' very soon in life to be excused from questionable activities.

How to Harmlessly Creep

We all do it. We watch people. It’s called people watching. There are those who claim this activity for their own personal hobby while others just observe without much reason. In these acts of observation, a person learns many things. A girl in her perusal of the weight room may learn how much a guy can lift and a guy might discover that a particular girl has an affinity for raisins and applesauce together.

Across the dining commons table, I saw one of my acquaintances observing those around her. Abruptly, I piped up, “Do you people watch?” After an affirmative answer, I asked Maggie, “How do you watch people?” Bluntly, she proclaimed, “Just stare.” This created a ripple of laughter throughout our companions and a bantering conversation commenced about times caught staring.

People watching is an uncomplicated hobby. Of course, there are a couple of essentials in which a person should invest. If you are to take up this particular hobby, purchase an exceptionally boring book and a large cup of caffeination. Once these are chosen, it is time to carefully consider where your observation shall take place. Will it be the small café down the street or a local park? After the location is set, opt for the chair or bench that gives an especially good view of a large portion of the park or restaurant. Be prepared to spend an hour or two in this spot. The coffee is there for stimulation just in case the people activity is on a minimum and your book becomes the main attraction.

On the off chance that you might be interested in tapping into your inner child, start asking yourself questions about the people that you observe. For example, in the movie Date Night, Phil Foster asks his wife, “What’s their story?” in regards to other restaurant diners. This question produces an amusing scene where the Fosters create original stories for unknowing couples. The realm of imagination has endless possibilities. In my mind’s eye, I have often observed couples fall desperately in love in the space of one normal moment or a seemingly typical dog that has complete control over its owner with a calculated movement of its tail. Therefore, ask yourself, “what’s their story?”

If you fear being termed a ‘stalker’ or a ‘creeper,’ I suggest that you consider a different hobby. People watching is not for the faint of heart nor for those who are not curious about their fellow earthlings. However, there are a couple of ways to not gain the above labels. Namely, refrain from anything in the way of Facebook stalking, hiding in bushes, or physically stalking. Now you know the rules, go and observe your fellow man or woman.

published in the Bethel Beacon.

Psalm 13

How long, O LORD ? Will you forget me forever?
How long will you hide your face from me?
How long must I wrestle with my thoughts
and every day have sorrow in my heart?
How long will my enemy triumph over me?

Look on me and answer, O LORD my God.
Give light to my eyes, or I will sleep in death;

my enemy will say, "I have overcome him,"
and my foes will rejoice when I fall.

But I trust in your unfailing love;
my heart rejoices in your salvation.

I will sing to the LORD,
for he has been good to me.

This has been a prayer on my heart.

of winds and things

The sunrise had a stalker this morning so did the stork that visits the pond. The sun courageously rose and the stork flew away bashfully. The sun painted the sky in oranges and pinks to the symphony of the wind while the stork sat upon the roof of the library and unceremoniously pooped (If you see a white drool across the roof, it was the stork).

Life is certain for the sun. It comes and it goes. It's like clockwork, but this clock will never break nor stop. However, the stork is jumpy expecting death around the corner. Although he has become a part of the scenery of this campus, life could easily cut him out of the picture. Who would miss him? Would any notice? His presence is always noted. Yet, the stork's appearances are uncertain and sporadic. He comes and goes as he will.

Uncertainty is a major part of my life. Like the stork finds comfort in the constancy of the sun, I find comfort in the certainty of the one who created the sun. He must be much more constant than the sun which is one of the most constant things on this planet. Certainty is found in the love of Jesus.

What is a real man?

Lately, a question has plagued me like no other question. It has settled in the depths of my stomach and has festered there. This pestering thought was actually stimulated by a conversation with a friend. However, it has been a couple of weeks since that initial conversation and my thoughts have fermented into, hopefully, a wise wine. This question was first asked to a group of us across the meal table. What makes a real man?

I was deeply disappointed in our ability to answer that question. The general consensus was simply "I don't know." Disappointment occasionally motivates me and so I began to think. I realized that there were many questions connected to that single question. What makes a real man? As a woman, how can I inspire men around me to be the best man that they can be? What characteristics are needed here? Is there actually a recipe to this question?

First of all, no man is equal. Therefore, each man has his own unique 'real man' qualities to discover and strengthen. However, that does not mean a man cannot learn patience if patience is not already his gift. We must realize if one were to try to name all the characteristics a man "should have," one would discover that they had just described God. Also, it's doubtful that a woman could inspire a man to true masculinity on her own. Sex might be inspiring, but it wouldn't inspire a true masculinity just a carnal response. It's easy to live a good life, but to live an inspirational life can only be acquired with the aid of Jesus.

Finally, during the length of a conversation with another friend, we talked about this 'real man' question. We came to a conclusion. Each of us already had men that we respected so we looked at them and asked, "why do we respect them?" Suddenly, the answer to this mind-boggling question seemed to be in grasp. There is no cookie cutter recipe for a real man. However, on the basis of this realization, a 'real' man is a reality. Namely, a real man is someone that can be respected in all areas of his life and lives above reproach.

Also, in my search for what a real man is, I googled the question like any true person of my generation would. I was both impressed and disappointed with what I found. What is a real man? Ten traits were listed. I would now like to take the liberty to add a bit of thought to these ten.

Trait #1 says, "A real man is strong." There is nothing wrong with this statement. And yet, I disagree with the print that backs up this phrase. Largely, I disagree with the statement, "A real man doesn't cry." Allow me to say that from a woman's perspective, I believe the biggest sign of strength is a man who can and does cry. This shows me that he is secure in who he is and is not afraid to show his true emotion. As this quote aptly states, "There is nothing so strong as gentleness, and nothing so gentle as real strength." Vulnerability is strength.

I would also like to respond to Trait #2 which states, "A real man is focused." Recently, I have noticed that a lot of men have no idea what they want in life. Not only are they confused, but they confuse those around them - namely, girls. Like butterflies, these men flit about from girl to girl. This is entirely unattractive unless the man actually embodies this insect. Yes, there are many beautiful flowers - I mean - girls in the world. However, why don't you save yourself and those gazillion girls from heartache by finding focus? If you don't know what you want, wait. You will surely figure it out.

"A real man can defend himself." aka Trait #10. I cannot agree more thoroughly with this one. I see plenty of potential leaders in the men about me. However, I don't see many who are willing to buck up and to take on a challenge. Hey, mistakes are scary. Yet, they are so very worth it. Those who are willing to fall on their faces a couple of times are so much more worthy of admiration especially when success comes because it will. So in the words of Mrs. Frizzle, "Take chances, make mistakes, get messy!" Also, a real man not only defends himself but he defends others. The latter part of that statement actually may be more important than the former so take note. Defend others, men.

It's time. It's time for men to rise up. We have all grown weary of these poor examples of masculinity. Men being emasculated and women losing belief that real men do exist in the world is a sad reality. This is a reality that must be discarded. "Real" men do exist in the world. I have seen them.

books and life and how they connect

There are many things in this world that I just don't understand.
homework at 2 in the morning
boys
girls
the power of a smile

However, one thing that confuses me enough to equate a small blogpost is the following. Have you ever heard of those people who read the end of the book before the beginning? Why would anyone do that? I never understand why people choose to skip to the end of the book. I, myself, would lose any interest in reading the book if I already know the ending of the story.

Why does a person read a book? Well, ultimately, to get to the end of the book - sure. Yet, I think that books are enjoyable for the journey that the reader joins the protagonist on. The end has no meaning unless you have traveled the length of the book with the main character.

These are the musings of my mind that are bouncing around in my head. I read books because I enjoy the length of them and I often dislike coming to the end of the story because it means the end of that particular journey.

I think all these thoughts apply to life. If my life is a book and I'm striving towards the end, that means I am on a journey now. The journey is just as or more important than the ending of this book.

All these thoughts have stemmed from this lovely thing at my college entitled Spiritual Emphasis week. Remember that organization that I spent some of my summer with? Well, they're here at my college for this week and I'm loving it.

So, anyone want to share a favorite book or a particular journey in their lives that was memorable?

a frolic of my kind

I'm looking for inspiration, you see. Sometimes, I dance around my room in complete oblivion because no one is there to see me look like a complete nincompoop. Other afternoons, you might find me completely delighted to take an excruciatingly long shower and then using lotion like sunscreen. After this lather of lotion, I sit on the couch and try to imagine that I'm a mango mandarin. Since I smell like one, I might as well try to picture how I would look. All I get in my head is a very strange looking girl-fruit. For a moment, responsibility will peek its head into my room of felicity.

I'll do homework.

As soon as responsibility leaves, though, I'm on my feet. I will imagine a bird that likes to stick its head in the ground. Well, instead of doing that, I will hypnotize myself by the odd way that my feet move. Why do they do that? What if I were to only walk on my heels and never on my toes or only on my toes and never on my heels! With a flick of my wrist, I will tie a ribbon of bells around my ankle and a new dance begins - this one is focused totally on the rhythm that I can make with a pound of my foot.

In this whirl of celebration of the world, I will catch a glance of my laughing eyes in the bathroom mirror. Like a magnet, I will be drawn to that pair of eyes. Why? Simply because I will have caught a glimmer of a sparkle. This sparkle is a familiar one - it was a part of my eyes years ago. This glimmer is a rebirth of the child's spirit within myself. I'll whirl away again feeling alive and incomparably ambrosial.

and this will be
because i am alone
and i am happy

of the questionable

Have you ever been so frustrated with something that you just shredded it to pieces?

Or been so inspired by something that you imitated it?

has something been so beautiful that it took your breath away?

was there a moment that has been so right that you can taste it?

Have you ever followed a beautiful person through a crowd of people and amused yourself with the reactions that the beautiful person garners?

When have you not cried when you should have been crying?

what do Sharpies mean to you?

these aren't necessarily rhetorical questions. feel free to respond and even ask to have me answer one of those questions.

a smudge

The sidewalk is one that I see daily. My feet carry myself and my book bag over this cement daily - maybe multiple times during one day or hour. Therefore, my eyes have become quite familiar with the strange scratches and markings on this particular slab of cement. One particular mark that never ceases to captivate me is that of a vibrant simmering smudge. I fancy that it is the last remains of a shooting star that chose to be forever implanted in my sidewalk and in my life. Sometimes, I think it was where a newborn fairy skipped over a butterfly and then took a swift tumble. Other days, it's a poop smear of a squirrel who ate food from the Dining Commons that just didn't agree with him. My smudge can be whatever I want it to be. Welcome, September.

journey to the moon

I went in search of the moon last night after a well timed text from a friend declaring that I must find the moon. I sallied forth sans interest in anything but the discovery of the moon. As soon as I stepped from my dorm, I looked up trying to find her glowing presence. I found her. Her glow brightly shown through the full green trees and so I walked towards her.

When I could look at the moon face to face, I perched upon a rock. As I sat upon the rock, there was a scuttle of movement across the road. My eyes sought the noise and I saw a raccoon fearfully looking in my direction. I couldn't help myself. I hissed at the creature and it looked as though it was ready to be hit.

This moment of quiet, I could have stayed within it forever. I felt at home within myself and the cool of the night. As I stared at the moon, I could think of the problems and frustrations that seemed to be at my every side. All was well at that rock facing the moon.

My moment was interrupted by the purr of an engine. I felt my muscles tighten because cars driving by usually means stares. I'm not a fan of being the object of a stare. I hoped the car would pass, but instead, I heard a masculine voice asking me about a pool. If you know my college, you would know that we do not have a pool. It was a ridiculous question made by a ridiculous senior who was out and about around midnight. I tersely replied 'no' to all his questions of a pool. Finally, the car pulled away with his lingering whiney and jokey voice.

As I tried to return to my thoughts, I settled down within myself and my surroundings. Before I was completely comfortable, I heard another car. I hoped that the first car was just an abnormality. Again, my muscles tensed. Abruptly, the noise of barking exploded from the car's open window. I jumped and turned to see an athlete's head stuck out the window. I laughed at myself and growled to myself about these strange boys that go to my school.

I would like to state that the raccoon was much more frightened than I was by the barking and he had scurried up a tall tree with no intention of coming down again.

When I left high school, I had hoped that I would enter an atmosphere of much more maturity. I forgot that high school boys go to college as well and they bring their immaturity with them. Disappointment seems to be a familiar drink to me. Perhaps, I expect too much.

My Pale Pink Memories

To find one's childhood diary is quite an experience. I found myself slowly being drawn into this pale pink tome with its fairy perched on the back of a butterfly who was in deep conversation with a bumble bee. This diary of my childhood was where I wrote the intense feelings that poured forth furiously from my soul. These feelings came with a strength that dulls as one ages. After all, the woes of young love captured in those pages was so terrible that I knew that it would kill me - there are a couple of pages of that diary devoted to my child-will. Well, I am alive and more or less well. The blush of intense embarrassment might as well turned the pages of my diary deep red for how deeply I felt that embarrassment. My recorded moments of fury were vibrant and vivid entries where I felt that my anger would cause my diary to burst into flame. Even as I relived those moments of intensity, I could not help but smile at this child-me. There was something entirely enchanting about the chunky childlike handwriting sprawling across the pale pink pages and the flush of memories long forgotten.

snow angels

It is in the way of my family to adopt grandparents. For as long as I can remember, I have always had an aunt or uncle that truly wasn't blood related. When my family moved a couple of years ago, we started adopting new grandparents. (I mean, we have blood related grandparents, but we function on the mantra of 'the more, the merrier.')

We started with the widow across the street. It was like a secret game to us children to sally forth with our shovels over our marshmallow like shoulders. While snowflakes draped themselves across our eyelashes, we piled snow at the edges of our neighbor's driveway. After finishing that drive way, we would cross the street and begin upon another un-shoveled driveway.

The widows on our street were thrown into a confused cloud of gratitude toward these unknown 'snow angels' who always came to shovel their driveways and then disappeared before caught. It was a lovely mystery to create. Of course, the mystery only lasted so long.

Upon discovery, each woman was eager to place cash into the hands of these do-gooders. My mother who had instigated this type of mystery also kindly refused this monetary gift. That's when the term 'snow angels' began to truly stick. In this way, we have acquired more grandparents who are interested in the intricacies of our lives.

These women have greatly influenced my life and the lives of my siblings. Throughout the years, we have shoveled their driveways and tended to their yards. They, in turn, have creatively found ways to pay us in gift form although they are well aware that we do not wish to be paid at all. I think this is the way community is supposed to work. We watch out for each other.

An interview with Mr. Pipe Man

Almost a year ago, I wrote a blog post entitled "Mr. Pipe Man." It was a dreamy and whimsical take on an elderly gentleman who could be seen daily sitting on his bench puffing on his pipe. This habitual routine caught my attention and my imagination ran positively wild. At first when I sat down to write that post, I wanted to create a conversation between the man and I. Yet, I found that my imagination couldn't extend that far. Therefore, I left him speechless.

A couple of months later, my mother decided it would be a grand idea to give him this essay that I had written about him. She walked it over and she presented it to him. Thankfully, he liked it even plans on framing it. Naturally, he wanted to meet the author. Never had I any intention of meeting this man of my essay; but at the encouragement of my mother and then at his request, I went to visit Mr. Pipe Man.

As I walked up his sidewalk and knocked on his door, I could not help but muse at how potentially awkward my introduction could be. After five minutes, the door creaked open and there stood the man himself entirely clothed in a vibrant red robe with feet bared to the world. The introductions took place after he apologized for his dress in a most gentlemanly way. Light dawned in his eyes when I tried to explain that my mother had been here with an essay before and suddenly he was saying, "Please go sit on the bench over there and I will go get dressed."

As I sat in the shade of the tree on the very bench of which I had previously written, I tried to relax. It was impossible. For the moment had come and I was going to meet the object of my imagination. No longer would he be confined to the figments of imagination. Through my excited melancholy, I saw Mr. Pipe Man emerge from the house in paint smeared pants and white shirt. In his hand, he grasped his iconic pipe with a canister of tobacco and matches.

Mr Pipe Man aka Mike sat down next to me on the bench and he began talking. Once ascertaining that I was indeed majoring in English, he began to ramble about his teaching days because "I just want to give you a clear idea of what teaching is like." There were moments where I wished for a tape recorder so that I could listen to his rough voice tell a couple of his stories once again.

"There were some days where I wanted an airplane to plow into the side of specific buses so that some of my students wouldn't arrive to school. A boy in my class drew a picture of me with a handle bar mustache right before the end of school. During the summer, I grew this (gesturing to his regal handle bar mustache). Imagine that boy's face when school began." Mr. Pipe man chuckled to himself.

"I hated my school. I urinated in a bag. Then, I flew an airplane over the school and I opened the windows as I flew over the roof. The thud of that bag of urine on the roof of that school was the most satisfying feeling that I have ever experienced." chortled Mr. Pipe Man.

At this point, my eyebrows were about sky high. My imagination had not taken into any consideration surprises possibly packed into this seemingly serene person. He was Eccentric with a capital 'e'. Nothing had prepared me for this surprise, but it was rather a comical one.

Mr. Pipe Man has a keen dry wit that I was unprepared for. His comments left me confused or laughing hesitantly. Dry humor is hard to catch. I did find out that he's a great fan of the Three Stooges, silent films, and archaic horror films. In his basement, he proudly serves as dictator and handyman at a miniature town. Mr. Pipe Man revels in the naming of the different buildings with witty and slapstick play on words. These names either had me chuckling at his keen mind or blushing at the meaning of the words.

At a pause in Mr. Pipe Man's flow of conversation, I asked him about when he began smoking his pipe that he was currently puffing away at. Apparently, in the winter of '59 when he was a junior in high school, Mr. Pipe Man had walked down to a convenience store to purchase the pipe. From that day on, he smoked his pipe. Originally, Mr. Pipe Man had tried to hide the ashes of his tobacco within the ashes of his father's cigarettes. Yet, his father had come home, taken a look at the ashes, and asked, "Son, when did you begin smoking a pipe?" Mr. Pipe Man recalled that no one had tried to make him stop pipe smoking.

Heidi, the wolf dog, was contentedly eating her dinner within the house or so said Mr. Pipe Man. Therefore, I did not have the pleasure of meeting the wolf dog that took at least a portion of the spotlight of my previous essay on Mr. Pipe Man. I did see tufts of fur throughout the yard that proclaimed the presence of this wolf dog.

My imagination in no way prepared me for my meeting with Mr. Pipe Man. His appearance of wisdom and serenity hid a man who lived life in a cantankerous and witty way. I knew he was eccentric, but I did not realize quite how eccentric the man actually was. I do believe that he played up his eccentricities with the hope of shocking me. Well, he did good. I'm shocked and happily so. Bubbles are made to burst. When visit ended and I left his cloud of pipe smoke, I walked away with the desire to have a wit that matched his so that we could smoke pipes together and chuckle over our old fashioned wit. Oh, and let's just say that I'm very thankful that I never did give Mr. Pipe Man speech in my first blog post because it would have sounded completely absurd next to reality.

eyeSee

My mother pointed across the room to a young boy who was focused entirely on his project. She stated, "That boy has stars in his eyes. People cannot help but be drawn to him." I looked and saw a set of brown eyes. There was nothing special about them. Actually, they mirrored my own in color and set. For me, it was the quirk that rested in the corner of his mouth that surprised me. What was it doing there? Through half glances, I realized that the quirk framed a twinkle that sparkled in the eyes of the boy.

From that moment on, my mother's love for eyes full of stars captivated me.

Once, I lived in the book by Lucy Maud Montgomery. My thoughts were in flights of fancy and my feet were often in muddy boots. People always seemed to find my peculiarities although they masked their words in crooning sentences of 'she is such a sweet girl'. Accidently, I overheard a conversation about my eyes. "Those eyes are 'come hither' eyes and one day, mark my words, she will only have to lift her eyes to call a man to her side."

Many book characters fade from my memory, but this moment is emblazoned in my brain.

His eyes, windows to his soul, brooded with many thoughts. No emotion spilled from his eyes to his face. The depth of the youth's soul was locked in the vault of his eyes. These two pinpoints were the only parts of his being that showed a crack of human feeling. Yet, he was unseeing. The youth lived within himself. Although he could not see out of his eyes, these portals to his soul were vulnerable to the seeing eyes of the world. His beautifully tragic eyes showed a struggling person. Although his eyes were dead to the ability of sight, they lived with his emotion whereas his body that lived was dead.

Emotion must spill from the eyes into the rest of a being.

Regrets Revisited

If a man does not make new acquaintances as he advances through life, he will soon find himself alone. A man should keep his friendships in constant repair. ~Samuel Johnson

One thing that I have always tried to avoid with the nimbleness of a dancer is what we humans term 'regret.' To me, regret has a taste that is unforgettable. It's the sour taste of something gone wrong. Regret is a disappointment in a person's life or decision.

Random note about me: When I was a child, I got disciplined. Yet, the punishment wasn't as bad to me as the fact that I had just disappointed my parents. Once again, I had that most unpleasant taste of regret in my mouth after such an incidence of disappointment. As much as I desire to dwell upon that small regret, I have to make the conscience decision to allow life to continue.

I loathe the feeling of regret permeating any part of my life. I rarely allow it take a place in my thought. Yet, sometimes a regret slowly examined may show some nugget of truth that will facilitate learning. The 10 hour car ride of the past day was perfect for this type of contemplation. It's a painful way of learning from one's mistakes, but this type of analyzation is imperative.

For a moment, bear with me as I muse upon a regret in my life. It's a regret that spans the majority of my life. Regrets with friendships and people are the worst kind.

When I was a young child, my mother had a best friend who we would visit monthly. My mother and her friend talked daily on the phone, but they looked forward to the visits. Mrs. C had three children but her son, Robby, was only a year older than me. On our monthly visits, we would bring donuts to Robby's house and then we children (which included my two siblings) would scurry downstairs to play video games. I was in awe of Robby. Oh, I knew he wasn't perfect. We had our childish disagreements and miscommunications. Even still in my childish eyes, Robby could walk on the very clouds if he desired.

As all children do, we grew up. Robby's family moved. We still saw each other. Robby became wrapped up in school and I was homeschooled. We were tentative friends as adolescence rocked our separate worlds. High school broadened the gap that had started with a small crack of an ill-placed comment and poor decision. I saw it. Yet, I could not find any bridge.

The gap was a mixture of distrust, fear of judgement, and rebellion. I am sure that there is much more in this gap that I do not see. I know that I aided in the growth of this grand canyon. After all, during those turbulent teen years, I harbored a couple of romantic notions towards Robby that cause me now to cringe at my silliness. All of my teen crushes snatched away my ability to communicate anything but silence. That would cause a problem in a friendship - don't you think?

With all these thoughts resurfacing in my head as my mother and I discussed my childhood, I continually came back to this lost friendship. Sitting in the car next to my mother as we talked about the past, I realized that I regretted the loss of this friendship. To my mother, I said, "Mom, if I could go back in time and know what to change in my friendship with Robby so that I could be friends with him now - I would do it."

I mourn this lost friendship. He and I are both grown. I told my mother, "We will most likely never meet again unless you or his mother plans something that we both happen to attend which is fairly unlikely. Even then, we shall probably not talk." From my perspective, I see no type of mending possible. After all, it's not as simple as an apology.

I made decisions that I regret, and I took them as learning experiences... I'm human, not perfect, like anybody else.
Queen Latifah

for ali

Once upon a sun set, a fisherman sat on the end of a pier with a pole three times the length of him. A shark tattoo swam across his calf as the man sat perched on the railing. Suddenly, something was on his hook. He sprang like a cat to the deck and grasped his pole. Moments later, a small shark clung to a hook on his line. Arrogantly but with skill, he removed the hook, flaunted the shark in front of the tourists and then mystery fisherman threw the shark back into the stomach of the ocean. He turned to his pole and looked once at the crowd. His eyes caught on those of a girl.

The fisherman's eyes softened under the gaze of the girl. Just as he represented all things wild and strong, she emanated the soft comforts of home and tranquility. She was the eye of his hurricane. In that moment, all stilled except for the conversation in their eyes and it spoke volumes. The girl's heart pounded in recognition of the raw strength coming from him and the mystery fisherman's eyes hardened in a sly look of planned pursuit.

The girl blinked at a zephyr that knocked her hair across her face. With her hand, she brushed her hair away and glanced up at the fisherman to see him again perched upon the rail of the pier. He was looking out to sea. The girl heard the rush of the ocean. Its roar was a familiar cry that had beat in the hearts of many adventurers and sailors. It called for movement and change.

With the song of the ocean singing in her ears, the girl walked across the pier to stand by the fisherman. Together, they stared out to sea. If a bystander had looked at this odd couple, he or she would have seen a slight smile on the face of the fisherman. This smile, although fitting upon the fisherman's face, was one that had been a complete stranger to this man until this particular evening. Now, in the girl, a bystander might perhaps not see past the calm demeanor of the girl's upbringing. However, if this bystander were to look closer he or she would see a pair of eyes dancing with wild fear and excitement of the unknown.

In all appearances, this fisherman and this girl did not fit together. Yet, they complimented each other in an almost indiscernible way. As her eyes reflected the wildness of her spirit, those same eyes mirrored the rough and untamable exterior of the fisherman. Meanwhile, the expression of softness that rested gracelessly on the face of the fisherman was an echo of tranquility that resonated from the girl's presence. The uproarious and unsung melody of the ocean bound their hearts together.