A Penny's Worth

First Date

2010-11-01T11:28:00.000-04:00

“War of the Roses,” I say when he asks me to name my favorite romantic movie. His smile falters and he cocks his head to the side, perplexed. I know I’ve gone off script. The right answer on a first date is something along the lines of You’ve Got Mail, but I took a gamble that he meant it when he said he wanted to get to know me better.

He decides I’m joking, and he chuckles. He leans in across the table as if we’re conspirators sharing a deep secret, then confides, “I’m a sucker for a good romance. ” My internal bullshit meter is sending up flares of red alert.

I smile and sip my water. Already I know the date is over and we haven’t even ordered. Why in the world did I let my mother guilt me into this?

“Kate is a beautiful name,” he says. “It suits you. Tell me, why is such a beautiful woman still single?”

Because men are scum, I want to say, not that I’m bitter or anything.

A vision of my mother flashes: a mixture of wariness and hope in her expression. She’d come over earlier to the apartment I share with my sister to give me a pep talk, following me relentlessly as I got ready. “Mark is such a catch! You’re just going to love him.” I give her a look and she rephrases. “I thought he was absolutely charming. And he really needs someone to show him around town, help him get back into the dating game, you know. He said right away how much he wanted to meet you when I showed him your picture. Did I tell you he’s a lawyer?”

“Did you check his teeth?”

My sister snorts, but my mother sighs heavily and frowns. “All I’m saying is that you’re 39 and never been married. You could do worse.”

By worse she means I could stay single.

She stops me in the middle of putting on an earring, intent on making a point. “Katie, just try. Don’t be so closed off all the time. Please. For me. Just try.” She holds out the prospect of Mark to me like I’m a five year old who doesn’t want to eat her spinach.

I look over at my sister, the rebel in the family and so free from my mother’s machinations. She smiles knowingly at me and says, “She means, don’t turn into me.”

Remembering my spunky sister makes me smile. Mark, believing I’m flattered that he’s called me beautiful, relaxes back against his seat, encouraged. I’ve been through enough first dates to know the rules and the stakes.

“So, Mark,” I say. “Mom tells me you’re a patent lawyer. That sounds fascinating. Tell me all about your work.”

Pleased, he begins at the top of his resume, glad I’ve made it easy for him to impress me. I lean in and keep my eyes unwaveringly on his face, nodding my encouragement, asking a few questions when I think he needs to be wound up again. This keeps him talking so I can be free to think.

What I’m doing isn’t fair, I know.

I take good stock of him: 45, lean build, a little graying at the temple but no receding hairline. He is intelligent, responsibly employed, articulate. His greeting card compliments make me cringe, and I’m bored with the inane first date conversation, but I give him a pass because I know he’s just doing what is safe. Besides, I know my cynicism makes me judge him much harsher than I would have a scant few years ago. He’s probably a nice guy. My mother’s right. I could do worse.

Except that I don’t think I have the energy to do this all again, this delicate masquerade dance. I look across the table and feel the weight of all the dates we might have had. And I realize I want out.

At the end of the evening, I am genuine when I tell Mark thanks; definite when I decline an invitation for a second date.

I could do worse is not enough to take a risk, to make the effort.

Gertrude

2010-08-22T20:57:00.002-04:00

I turned the radio down despite the din of the vacuum cleaner. I didn’t want to accept that my heart had leapt to my throat four times already thinking I’d heard the phone ring, only to discover the real culprit to be an aria from Madame Butterfly. That was humiliating enough, but let’s not even contemplate that the only reason I was even vacuuming was to give my nervous hands something to do while I waited, breathless, with sweaty palms and clenched stomach because a boy had said he’d call me.

At this thought a giggle erupted from somewhere that was far too giddy to belong to me. I covered my mouth to trap in the mirth and let my hands linger over my lips, daydreaming again—indulging memories of days to come. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught the expression on my face in the mirror that hung in the hallway, the four foot expanse of space I’d been vacuuming for the past half an hour. I turned off the ancient appliance with my foot and approached my image with interest, as if seeing it for the first time.

There. That light in my eyes. He’d put that there with four simple words, “I’ll call you tomorrow.” I giggled again, this time because it was just so absurd. I continued examining myself in the mirror and a little of my smile slipped away.

“God, I don’t feel sixty-five.” But I couldn’t deny the evidence of it right in front of me. The lines that ridged my mouth; the bloated bags under my eyes. And my neck. Oh, dear Lord, I was so mortified about my neck. It didn’t waddle. Not exactly. The skin under my chin had one day decided that my neck was as good a place as any to go and have a lie down while it waited for the rest of my face to catch up to it. And despite the yoga class I attended with more regularity than Mass, there was a puffy, pasty doughnut in the place where I’d last seen my waist. I stuck my tongue out at my reflection and my insecurities: it didn’t matter. None of it mattered. He knew what I looked like and still he’d leaned toward me across the dinner table last night, covered my hands easily with one of his and said simply, “I like you.”

Andrew.

I smiled again, oh so glad I lived alone and no one, not even a pet, was witness to how I glowed merely remembering his name.

“Gertrude, get a hold of yourself,” I scolded good-naturedly.

Gertrude.

I sighed. The name of the unholy, humorless spirit that had possessed my parents on the eve of my birth, I’d surely like to know. Not that I let anyone call me that, of course. Gertrude was reserved for telemarketers and bankers.

The telemarketers always pronounced it with practiced familiarity hoping to convey trust and likeability. The banker had enunciated every syllable in it clearly as he endeavored to explain to the diminutive, crazy woman sitting uncomfortably in the faux leather chair across from him why it made no sense to want to open an art gallery in Midway, a town of only 1200 souls.

But no one who called me Gertrude would ever understand why one day twenty years ago, I’d awakened with a desire to create that simply would not be denied. I’d quit my job that day and used every last penny I’d ever saved to sustain my simple lifestyle while I took art classes in the community college. And from the caterpillar I’d been for the whole of my life emerged a sculptress. The worst thing I’ve ever done to her was to make her try to explain her dreams to that puny man, to reduce her talent to numbers for him to approve or deny. I was ridiculously joyous when he turned me out on my ear. My dream would never be beholden to the likes of him.

Andrew never called me Gertrude.

He’d called me Ma’am that first day when we met over coffee in the small lounge of the Motel Six that was his only option if he wanted lodging right in town. He’d seen my work showcased on network television six months earlier when I’d been part of a special report on female artists. He needed art for his home in Seattle and had agreed to come discuss it with me here, since the home had yet to be built.

With the architect’s plans spread out, but ignored, on the table in front of us we talked instead of life and dreams and the quest to find meaning somewhere in between. By the end of our time together he was calling me ‘honey,’ but he was originally from the South so I told myself not to make too much of it. Yet one day slipped effortlessly into the next and I couldn’t ignore that something inside me soared every time I looked into his eyes.

Last night at dinner, I flirted shamelessly for the first time in thirty years. Meaning that on exactly two occasions I “accidentally” let my hand brush his across the table. Both times I blushed furiously and thanked my guardian angel for the dim lighting in the restaurant. I couldn’t believe that at sixty-five I’d have a reason to feel like this.

The phone rang.

I turned my attention again to my reflection in the hallway mirror and coquettishly brought a hand up to smooth my hair. The sweetness of that ring turned sixty-five into sixteen.

Bird Attack

2010-08-22T20:44:00.002-04:00

“Don’t move a muscle,” Roldan instructed, his voice carefully controlled and authoritative. If he was feeling any panic, I could not detect it in his voice. Then again, since I was the one most likely to become the bird’s next meal, perhaps it was fitting that the heart about to burst through a chest and become airborne should be mine.

As for as not moving a muscle, I was way ahead of him on that one – terror had cemented me to the floor and my legs felt about as useful as a martini umbrella during a category five hurricane.

The bird circled the room above my head, its magnificent plumage already beginning to change colors from deep purple to red-violet as it concentrated on me. I remembered from Roldan’s lecture that when its satiny feathers turned blood red, the bird would be ready to devour its prey and its strength would multiply tenfold, making it able to bring down animals many times the bird’s own size and strength.

I hoped “don’t move a muscle” wasn’t the sum total of Roldan’s plan.

It all happened very quickly then.

With a piercing shriek the bird zoomed toward me, and I swear I saw the sunlight that poured in through the floor to ceiling glass windows reflecting off its razor sharp talons. I put my sleeveless arms up to defend myself, but I easily imagined them being frayed to ribbons in the space of a single breath.

“No!” I heard Roldan roar as he launched himself at me. He hit me with the force of a gale and knocked me out of the bird’s reach as we both tumbled to the ground. He immediately rolled on top of me, tucked my face in the crook of his neck and shielded my body with his.

Despite being in a protected I could hear terrible sounds around us, the bird’s banshee-like screeching joined by a second gruesome snarling that sent involuntary shivers down my spine. I struggled against Roldan’s steel embrace until I could glimpse at the action unraveling just over his shoulder. One of Roldan’s beasts – the word "dog" had never seemed less appropriate to describe the animal than now – was crouched in a fighting position inches from where Roldan and I lay, defenseless as field mice. As the bird, its feathers finally a bright red, swooped once again in attack, the canine bared his sharp incisors, growled a low warning and seemed, impossibly, to grow larger before my unbelieving eyes.

With a final roar, my improbable defender launched itself through the air and sunk its fangs into the bird’s neck, and blood started to gush from the wound. I gasped and recoiled from the gory sight, burying my face against Roldan’s neck again. But closing my eyes didn’t spare me from the horrible sounds of the bird as it screamed in agony – or from the metallic scent of blood. My stomach roiled and lurched dangerously. Because the nightmare we’d just experienced or from the weight of Roldan’s body on top of mine – but most likely from a combination of both – I found it impossible to take a breath.

Roldan rolled away from me and managed to sit me up all in one swift, smooth motion. The expression in his face was the familiar stone-like inscrutable mask I’d grown accustomed to. But he knelt beside me, leaning close to examine me. I could feel myself trembling beneath his scrutiny, and I tried to collect myself.

Roldan flinched and his eyes narrowed. “Looks like I didn’t get to you in time.”

I followed his gaze to discover a deep gash in my upper left arm that was pouring blood. For a moment, I felt confused as to how that had happened when I’d never even felt it. As if reading my mind, Roldan supplied an answer. “You’re in shock. In the middle of a fight, sometimes people never even realize they’re hurt until afterwards. Once your brain registers that the immediate danger has passed, that’s going to start to hurt like mad.”

On cue, I began to feel searing pain that started at the top of my arm and radiated, it seemed, all the way to my toes in waves. I felt light-headed.

“We need to put some pressure on that.” He stood up at once and then reached down to lift me into his arms with ease.

“I’m fine. I can walk,” I protested feebly.

He ignored me as he took long strides out of the room, through the main entry hall and out to the kitchen, where we found Brenda and Holly. Both gasped in unison when they saw my condition.

“What happened to her?”

“Is that blood?”

He lay me on the kitchen table. “Yeah, it’s blood, so let’s not just stand here, letting her bleed all over the table, shall we? Holly, go get a clean hand towel to staunch the blood. Brenda, I have a first aid kit on the floor of my closet.”

For a moment they still both stood looking at me uncomprehending, but one more hard look from Roldan sent them running to their assigned tasks.

Holly returned first from her mission. She handed a folded blue hand towel dutifully to Roldan, who immediately pressed it against my arm. I cried out loud at the fresh insult and pain.

“What happened?” Holly demanded.

I wanted to answer her, but I had to clench my teeth to keep from screaming out again as Roldan applied pressure to the wound. It seemed my entire universe had been reduced to the throbbing feeling in my arm. I closed my eyes and tried to find a happy place.

Just when I thought the pain couldn’t get worse, I felt Roldan take away the cloth and pour a warm liquid over the gash in my arm. My eyes flew open in surprise as my arm felt like it had been dipped in molten lava. I forgot all about being stoic. I yelled out in protest and tried to sit up, instinctively looking to find a way to flee from the pain.

Roldan growled at me, “Hold still, will you?”

I noticed Brenda was back in the room only when I felt her soft hands caressing my forehead. “It’s alright, baby, Roldan knows what he’s doing.”

“Baby?” He said with a sneer. “Heaven help me! That’s it… both of you: out of here! You can hover all over ‘baby’ as soon as I’m done with her. But right now, you’re in my way.”

Brenda and Holly looked torn. And afraid. In my short time in the house I’d discovered how intimidated both of them felt whenever Roldan bullied them.

“It’s ok. I’m fine.” I lied easily for their benefit.

“Of course she’s fine. I’ve never seen such a commotion being made over a scratch,” Roldan muttered under his breath as he did something unpleasant to my arm.
With reluctance, both Brenda and Holly turned away from the room.

“Why do you always have to be so mean to them?” I asked the minute we were alone. I concentrated on his face to distract me from what his hands were doing. Apparently, he believed my question to be purely rhetorical since he didn’t even bother to look up at me, much less give me an answer. “You know, you really scare them when you snap at them that way.”

“Good.” The hard set of his jaw made it obvious that he was not interested in any more conversation. I ignored it.

“Half the time you walk around here like we’re all some terrible burden that you would just as soon get rid of and the other half you just pretend we don’t exist. The only time you deign to talk to us mere mortals is when you have some order to issue, an order which of course can’t be questioned or disobeyed; and if one of us has anything at all to say to you, you act like a pesky fly invaded your private picnic and shoo us away with one word answers if you even answer at all. It’s annoying and rude and---"

"Are you quite through?"

"Of course not! Did I take a breath and give you the impression I was done talking?"
He looked at me, his stone face hard and cynical, the look in his eyes murderous. I didn't care. "It was natural for Holly and Brenda to be concerned when they saw me and you made them feel small and afraid. Why? Why do you need to frighten women and children in order to make you feel more like a man?"

Perhaps I'd gone too far.

A low hiss escaped his lips and he stopped tending to my arm. I had his undivided attention. He brought his face close to mine; his eyes shone bright with emotion as he glowered at me. His fists clenched and unclenched at his sides as he fought to bring his anger under control. His lips were pursed together into a tight, angry line and the veins in neck were bulging.

But I refused to back down.

Encouraged by the fact that he hadn't yet snapped my neck, I felt emboldened to go on. "I don't get you. Today you risked your own life to save me ---"

"A mistake I don't intend on repeating ---"

"But the minute I'm safe you treat me like you wished I had become bird food back there."

"And just exactly how did you come to be in harm's way today? That bird didn't attack you because it didn't like your political views, it attacked because that's what wild animals do… it was just acting on instinct. And now a beautiful, rare creature lies dead because some brat used to having her own way decides she needs a closer look. I told you its cage could never be opened!"

That revelation made me gasp in surprise. "You think I opened its cage?"

"Well, it sure as hell didn't open itself!"

I struggled to sit up and managed it this time. My fury gave way to confusion. "Roldan, I didn't open that cage. You have to believe me. When I walked into the room, I didn't even realize the bird wasn't safely locked away until it was too late. And if you hadn't walked by when you did, I would have been … " I couldn't let myself finish the sentence. As I remembered the attack, my fury ebbed away and left me deflated. He had stepped away from me when I sat up on the table and I stared at him now. I shuddered from the memory of my recent ordeal.

"I haven't thanked you. For saving my life. I don't know how the bird got out, Roldan. And I wouldn't have even been in that room, except that ---" In all the commotion, I'd forgotten the reason I'd walked in there in the first place.

"Except that what? Why were you there?"

"Except that I distinctly heard Hannah's voice inside the room. She called to me for help, but when I rushed in, she wasn't anywhere that I could see. And then I noticed the bird out of its cage. You know the rest."

Roldan's face twisted into a new expression. "Hannah was not in that room."

"I heard her clearly, I swear to you."

We stood in silence, staring at each other across the small space that separated us.

He seemed to be searching for something hidden in my eyes. I'm not sure what he found, but presently he sighed and returned to my side. "How does your arm feel now?"

I glanced down at it with surprise. Some time during my tirade against him, I'd forgotten all about it. Whatever he'd poured over the wound had the effect of numbing my arm completely.

"It feels fine," I mumbled.

He grunted something unintelligible and finished his makeshift medical attention by wrapping a bandage around the cut. His efficient hands were done in no time. When he started gathering his supplies, I placed my hand on his arm to get his attention.
"I'm not going crazy, Roldan. I heard her voice in there."

He hesitated a moment before meeting my eyes. "No, you're not going crazy. There's a perfectly reasonable explanation for what happened today."

Something in his voice stopped me from sighing in relief. "What is it?"

One side of his mouth lifted in a sardonic smile. "Someone in this house wants you dead."

Girl Overboard by Justina Chen Headley

2010-08-22T19:31:00.002-04:00

I closed the last pages of the book feeling as if I were standing outside on the porch, waving goodbye to a cherished friend who's been over for a long visit, remaining there until long after the taillights have disappeared into the night.

I react to my experience with the book on many levels – as a reader, a daughter, an artist, a woman – grateful for a story with layers of meaning and interest, a trademark, I now know, of Headley's writing. My weekend with Girl Overboard was, indeed, an experience, not a simple act of turning pages and absorbing words.

I found myself especially touched by Syrah, the protagonist. As I read her story, I revisited some of my own ghosts and self-doubts, crying when I needed to; ultimately, satisfyingly, reaching the same sense of peace.

One of my favorite authors, Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, once wrote that Love (and here I would substitute "Art") is the process leading you gently back to yourself.

And that is what Headley's writing does, why her books are different from the rest. To be sure, she is a master of the craft: her characters are believable, the plot is interesting and moves forward at a good pace, her subject matter is well-researched and yet presented in a manner that is accessible to a novice. But going beyond the technical and into the mystical is where she shines.

For me, Headley's writing is that gently leading back to oneself that Saint-Exupéry defines as love; a presentation of a story that rises above entertainment and leads softly, unrushed, to catharsis. Girl Overboard does entertain, but it invites self-reflection as well. Not because it is preachy, because it isn't at all, but because Syrah and the other characters live through a cacophony of emotions that resonate loudly with readers. The need to feel loved and the lengths to which we'll go to get it, the sometimes clumsy journey we take as we find our place in the world, the delicate balance we must achieve in understanding and accepting other...these themes (among others) awakened an answering chord in my heart as I read.

As a bonus, Headley sets these universal themes against a backdrop that is novel. Syrah is a snowboarder and a manga artist, two things about which I had little (in the case of snowboarding) or no (in case of manga art) knowledge. She is Chinese-American, a culture with which I'm not familiar. Headley interweaves information about all of this smoothly into the story, not to impress with her knowledge, but to lend more substance and depth to the writing, much like an artist adds shadows to a drawing. These details don't attract attention to themselves, but without them, the characters would be one-dimensional, stilted, unreal.

As a writer, Headley’s work inspires me; as a reader, it delights me. I know her characters will stay with me for a long time to come.

For a synopsis of the novel and information on the author, please visit her website at http://www.justinachenheadley.com.

Acceptance

2010-08-22T13:05:00.001-04:00

My birthday is coming up and I am now older than I'd ever pictured myself being when I was a teenager. As a kid, you know, you always imagine the cool ages: 18 when you'll finally be able to tell your parents off, 21 when you are more "officially" an adult, 25 because that age just sounds right – like you'd have your whole life figured out by then. Looking into the future, I couldn't wait for life to begin; couldn't wait for my license, my first car, graduating from college, getting my own place and decorating it with the modern furnishings my mom would never bring into our home. And then marriage and 2.5 kids, the perfect job where I'd be so successful. Then, well, nothing.

I never dreamed about anything beyond mid-20s. There was no other age that I considered magical or special. During my teen years, whenever I thought of life between 30 and 80 – the few times I ever did – I only thought of it in decline. Getting older, getting sick, dealing with whatever trials your own kids might bring. Nothing cool or appealing about any of that.

So here I stand, on the edge of 36, looking over the rim into the canyon of "Downhill."

And, I gotta say, it's a good view.

What I didn't know all those years ago is that life is less about the stuff and more about the being. Of course, I had hoped and expected—I'd gotten the car, the college degree and a career I love, the first apartment I got to decorate just like I wanted. (Although, to my mother's never ending sense of worry, there isn't yet the marriage and the 2.5 kids.) But none of that is what has brought me here. To this place of knowing myself, to this place of acceptance.

And OK, so there was a time when "acceptance" had such negative connotations for me; it sounded too much like giving up, like saying: yeah, this is all there is to me, so I'm just going to go have a lie down.

Conventional wisdom – you know, all the things "they" say – is that in looking back, the regrets people often have revolve around the chances not taken, the risks avoided, instead of the mistakes that were made. As I look back, I wouldn't say that I have regrets, per se. If anything, I'd want to spare Younger Me the emotional rollercoaster that came from always looking outward, always wondering if she was enough.

If I could go back, I would take Younger Me out to lunch. Someplace hip and expensive so she could see that 36 can be cool.

We'd be girlfriends gabbing and laughing over overpriced salads. Sometime during the meal, the talking would die down and I'd know the time was right.

I'd look at her and say: You're OK, you know. OK is all you ever have to be. You will have dreams and you will strive for them; you will want some materials things and you will get them. But at the end of the day, the only thing that will fill all the dark little corners you're afraid to into is being able to accept yourself for who you are.

I won't say much more, because I remember that Younger Me hates lectures. And as I drop her off I at home, I hope she'll think about what I said, but I know better.

Some lessons can only be learned through the passing of time.

I have goals and dreams and ambitions; but they've become things on my bucket list – not the measure by which I define my existence. And happiness is linked more closely to a sense of wonder and gratitude than a bank account or professional success.

Today is a lazy, quiet, summer afternoon. Even though it's warm, I've turned the AC off and opted for open windows. I can hear the birds calling out to each other, the constant ringing of cicadas; Michael Buble is playing softly in the background. Once I'm done writing, I'll go back to the Justina Chen Headley novel I started last night. I'll let myself sink into the story as if walking into the cool waters of a placid lake on a hot day. And like water, the words will embrace me, lift me until I'm weightless and serene. This day, this afternoon, taken and enjoyed on its own without comparing it to any other, real or imagined, brings contentment.

That's what I've learned about myself, too. When the roar of the should'ves and could'ves and might haves drowns out what is I am lost. Being content with who I am only comes when I can let myself be, without comparing to a better version of me. I know I haven't set the world on fire, but I am well loved for being just as I am. That is enough.

Review: North of Beautiful by Justina Chen Headley

2010-08-15T14:46:00.002-04:00

As I browsed through Borders for something to read, I was drawn to the lyricism of this title. North of Beautiful. It sounded so poetic. As I read the back cover, I became intrigued. The blurb described the story of a girl, Terra Cooper, who'd been born with a birthmark on the side of her face and who was struggling with understanding the meaning of beauty. I read a few passages from random spots in the book and liked the author's tone and writing, so I bought the book.

What I found within the pages was such a pleasure that I didn't want the experience to end. The story was complex and complete: the meaning beauty was central, of course, but so many other themes were also woven in a manner that felt effortless and natural. All of the characters were fully developed, not only in relation to Terra, but as figures of importance in their own right. The author, Justina Chen Headley, also introduces many other interesting things (art, mapmaking, geocaching, a trip to China) with enough details to educate, but not so many to overshadow the story.

As the central theme of the book, readers are swept along with the protagonist to examine the concept of beauty through its many forms: the way Terra deals with her scar; the way relationships can uplift or damage the soul; the healing power of art; the splendor of things others might find mundane. As Terra struggled with her insecurities, I found myself identifying with her as a woman and as an artist.

One of the things I most appreciated about this novel was the way Headley addressed the love interest. The love story was not an all-consuming issue for Terra; there was no "I must have him or I'll die" moment. The relationship grew from a friendship, over time, and it was a healthy, supportive one. The boy in the story, Jacob, is himself someone with a scar, with a differing understanding of beauty and with his quiet thoughtful ways, he encourages Terra to challenge her own perceptions.

Surprisingly, Justina Chen Headly, the author, has only been writing YA fiction for a few years. Her first book, Nothing but the Truth (and a few white lies) won the 2007 Asian Pacific American Award for Youth Literature. Her second novel, Girl Overboard (which I'm reading now) was a Junior Library Guild Premiere Selection. North of Beautiful has earned terrific reviews from Publishers Weekly and others, and recently became a finalist for the Walden Award (ALAN). She is hard at work on her next novel, Return to Me. I can't wait!

Find out more about the author and her work at www.justinachenheadley.com. But don't forget you first heard about her here!

I am a Reader

2010-08-13T15:28:00.002-04:00

I started reading fiction when I was in the sixth grade because of a Read-a-Thon we had at school. Long before the Read-a-Thon ended, I was hooked. I loved diving in and losing myself completely within the welcoming pages of a story. Books became my most constant, most loved companions. Each month I devoured the Scholastic catalog my teacher made available to us and I invested every cent that came my way (sometimes by nefarious means, I can confess) in my favorite authors and series. Of course there was the library at school and one not far from my house, but it never occurred to me to borrow a book; no, I had to possess it.

My books were my treasures.

Many adults turn to fiction in order to escape; but I don't think this is the case for children and teens. In my case, I know stories helped me interpret my world and gave me a vocabulary to define my feelings. The girls I read about didn't have lives like my own – they weren't recently transplanted to the US from another culture, another world – but they didn't need to be. They knew loneliness; they knew fear; they understood rejection. I found out through them that my insecurities were universal, maybe even normal. Reading was a way for me to safely experiment with trying on other versions of myself in my head: could I ever be as bold as Joanna? Would I ever be as beautiful as Rachel? What if I could run away like Laura?

I grew to love more than just the act of reading to encompass the whole experience of it: the weight of the book in my hands; the sharp smell of new pages, the musty smell of old ones; the enticing pictures on glossy covers; the sound of the characters' different voices as I imagined them.

I didn't read; I devoured. And in consuming these stories, they created much of who I am.

2010-08-12T15:43:00.000-04:00

OK so what is it with mechanics' shops and the lack of cleanliness in the waiting area? It's almost like they think the dirtier/greasier the shop, the better work they'll be able to produce. And it's not like I'm a housework goddess myself or anything even remotely related, but I don't understand why every shop I've ever visited (other than the super chains and dealerships) looks the same – threadbare industrial brown/grey carpet with grease spots; uncomfortable, stained chairs; and car magazines that look like they're from the 80s.

If you haven't realized it by now, I'm at the mechanics. I'm very self-reliant when it comes to repairs on my vehicle – I can pump gas, inflate a tire, and turn the radio up to cover over almost any sound – but the current issue is far above my abilities. I think it might be the brakes. Or the CV joints and axle. And I have no idea what that crazy sound my engine made yesterday might mean – nor can I mimic it now since (of course!) the car's not making that sound now that it has an audience.

I drive a Honda Accord. From 1989. It was supposed to be a transition car while I saved up for a new one. That was a couple of years ago. Since it was a "transition" car, I have been completely negligent: I've only changed the oil a couple of times and failed to do any other maintenance on it whatsoever. After all, I'm not keeping it for long, right?

The thing is, at 300+K miles, it's still going strong. Oh I had some issues when I first got it a couple of years back. I had to replace the thingie and my mechanic convinced me that the watchmacallit needed a new part. But other than that, I've not had to give my car much thought or care. So since it's been so good to me, maybe I should stop thinking of it as the rebound car, maybe start contemplating making some sort of commitment here.

You see, I'm jaded. I have been hurt and now I can't let myself trust again. I am a woman with a Past.

A few years after graduating college, flush with the confidence that comes from holding a "real" job, I was ready for my first adult purchase. I haughtily declined any offers of help from my parents and my boyfriend (who were they to tell me what to do?!). I read Consumer Reports; I searched online for tips on negotiation; I drank a lot caffeine, you know the usual. And, armed with all my strategies and wisdom, I walked into my first dealership. I walked out about two hours later with a key and a huge debt that I'd failed to negotiate down (in all the excitement of going on my first test drive, I forgot). After all my research, I picked, you know…. the pretty green one.

A Ford Escort.

A Ford Escort that clearly had enjoyed its short stay at the dealership and wasn't ready to go anywhere else just yet. It proceeded to live at said dealership's mechanic shop for the better part of the next two years. First, I spent a ton of money to replace the timing belt. Impossible, you say. But you'd be wrong. The mechanic did explain to me that it wasn't the timing belt itself that had failed; it was the screws which held it together which were poorly made and had basically rusted (yes, in a year!) and then caused the timing belt's demise.

Mind you, this was after already having spent a ton of money trying to find the non-existent flaw that kept making the service engine light come one.

Among other issues, the car kept going in and out of the shop because the Service Engine light kept coming on! Every time I took it in for service, they couldn't figure out what the problem was, but it cost me around $150 per trip.

Finally, we realized that that the little computer chip (which, of course was not covered by warranty) that kept detecting a flaw and making the light come on was itself flawed. It would cost $3500 to fix. There was no way to shut it off or remove it; it was so costly to repair because the whole engine had to be removed in order to reach it.

After costing me more in repairs than what I had paid down on the debt, I found myself with no money, a car I couldn't drive or fix or sell, and a serious lack of trust of anything on four wheels.

So fast forward six years and now here I sit, ready to admit that perhaps I have been too harsh. Maybe I'm punishing my Honda for sins the Ford committed. Maybe I should have been more careful, taken better of it. In fact, I know that's what I should have done. And, if given the chance, I can do better! I vow to change the oil at least every 6, no 8, no 10… every 10K miles. And I should find out what everyone means when they talk about a tune up. In fact, I promise that from now on, I will -----

******

Um.... The mechanic says my brakes are fine; there's a small crack in the axle, but nothing serious, and the engine's OK.

So, never mind.

Blame

2010-08-10T10:28:00.003-04:00

He blamed his parents, of course, long before he was old enough to understand that this was the fashionable thing to do. If he hadn't, Society itself would have ignored any rationalizations he might have been clever enough to proffer. Experts with wizened expressions and somber voices would have been brought in to intone phrases like "attachment disorder," "parental deprivation," and "permissive parenting" that no one would question for fear of being thought ignorant. But Gerald knew those phrases meant nothing.

The real reason for his life of crime was simply that they’d named him Gerald.

Gerald!

What else was he supposed to do? Become an accountant?

Dilema

2010-08-09T11:18:00.003-04:00

There is a destiny which makes us brothers
None goes his way alone
All that we send into the lives of others
Comes back into our own.

This quote, from Edwin Markham, is one of my absolute favorites. He states what I believe is the whole point of living in community, of realizing that our actions and words have meaning beyond our own little lives.

Last night in the middle of watching the Cowboys v Bengals game, I made the sudden (and very un-Cecilia) decision to go out and pump gas. I knew I still had about a quarter tank left, but I went against my typical urge to procrastinate, got dressed and left the house. When I arrived at the gas station at the corner, a gentleman approached me and explained his predicament: he'd bought groceries and intended to hail a cab, but he had been waiting for longer than an hour without being able to spot a single taxi; he lived down the street about two miles away, could I give him a ride home.

Every story I've ever heard or read about women getting killed or abducted came to mind. I hesitated. I didn't trust myself to make a judgement on his character simply by looks; I considered only the situation: we'd be alone in my car, at night, my cell phone safely left on its charger back in my living room. He took my hesitation as a good sign and began to pick up his many bags and case of water all the while saying, "Thank you; God bless you! Thank you so much." He had basically made himself a passenger in my car before I'd ever really made a definite decision.

I didn't relax at all during the short trip, and wondered how rude it would be if I asked him to keep his hands where I could see them. He tried to make small talk, telling me he was from Africa, asking me where I was from. He told me he was a Christian and had been praying for a way to get home for quite some time before I arrived. I answered his polite questions with as few words as possible and added no commentary to his prayer revelation.

After I dropped him off at his apartment building, I began to examine my reaction to the evening's events. There have been others to whom I've offered assistance. And typically, I love seeing the connection between people's prayers and how I "coincedentally" come into touch with them. There was the kid whose car broke down while on his way to take a final. I'd passed him on the road and barely noticed him because I was already late to a meeting, but the impression to go back was irresistible, so I turned around. There was the lady who was hopelessly lost and near tears because not getting to her destination meant she'd miss the one job interview she'd gotten in months. That time, I'd just decided to go for a drive during my lunch hour instead of eating at my desk per usual.

Last night, now that I think about it, was no different. Even though I always mean to pump gas when I get home in the afternoon or evening, I NEVER do.... I always leave it until morning. And I certainly would never go out specifically for such a mundane, boring task. But there I was, in the middle of enjoying my game with a sudden overwhelming desire to go out and do this.

I keep up with enough of the news to know my fears and hesitancy were well justified. But what about all the times someone has gone out of their way to help ME? I know I'm harmless, but the people who have stopped to help me don't. They, too, took a risk. I think back to the guy who stopped for me two years ago, in the middle of the night on I-95 when my car broke down at 1 AM. He let me use his cell phone to call AAA and waited with me until the tow truck arrived 45 minutes later: he said it wasn't safe for me to be alone. But, really, it wasn't safe for him either. He'd had no idea when he saw a car with blinking lights on the side of the road who might be there waiting for him.

This past weekend 10 health workers in Afganistan were killed by the Taliban. They had all devoted years of their lives to help the suffering Afghan poor. For their sacrifice, they received bullets instead of thanks. For each act of kindness, there are many more acts of brutality and senseless violence. And each of these makes us think twice before going out of our way to help someone else.

I think of my own response last night. I don't know that I'd be any more eager to help next time. I do think that it is wrong for simple kindness to die because of fear.

Olvidame Tu de Miguel Bose

2010-08-08T10:35:00.002-04:00

Por lo general, no me considero una persona muy romantica. Pero de vez en cuando, escuchando una cancion de Miguel Bose o Juan Fernando Velasco, pongo a un lado mi cinismo y recuerdo mis sueños.

Meaning

2010-08-07T21:15:00.004-04:00

Moving Stones by J Jordan Bruns (http://www.jjbruns.com/)

Like every good liberal arts student, I took the required Art Appreciation class where I learned to toss around words like "postmodernism" and "surrealism" and that it's WRONG to say things like "any two year old could have done this," even if with every fiber of your being you thought one could. I also learned that, with a piece of art, you're not supposed to, you know, like it. At least not without a good reason. A reason with a polysyllabic word in it (preferably a few). Of course, most important, any piece worth its salt had to have meaning; meaning that I could write about at length (10 pages, double spaced, with a one-inch margin all around); meaning that could bring up my GPA.

But meaning, I have found, is elusive at best – and deeply personal. It should not be dissected and pinned to a board for inspection.

Last year I blogged about Jordan Burns' exhibit because it moved me. Simply that. I'm sure there's a whole vocabulary to express the artist's mastery with the medium, but I don't possess it. All I know is that through my whole – oh let's call it "sabbatical" – my heart and thoughts kept drifting back to my memory of the pieces.

Today, I came back to the work itself. I sat on cross-legged across one piece, Swerve, and just let myself get lost in it. Felt a sort of home-coming in the play of light and shadow; a measure of comfort in the chaos and ruin it depicts; hope in the way the stones look full of life somehow. And meaning was revealed in what the print pulled out of me; in the tie – strong and true – that it has had over me even through the darkness and silence of the last few months.

A Day in the Life of a Writer (presumably, me)

2009-11-09T22:57:00.002-05:00

A little while ago, my friend Robert (who is writing a children’s book) described for the rest of us what a typical day looked like for him, living out his dream in his chosen profession. Now, I am not writing full time; however, I thought I might give you, my adoring public, a glimpse into my life as you peep through the keyhole in my front door (you voyeurs). I will relate to you the activities of this past Sunday (yesterday), a day carefully chosen and set aside to pursue my own writing endeavors.

8:00 AM
It’s a brand new day! I make a determined vow to forget how I procrastinated yesterday (and the day before that). So what if I was unable to reach my 2K word goal? I’ll just make up for it today! That’s right…. I’ll write 4K words. And, hey, why stop there. I bet I can get 6K, or even 8K….. I’m unstoppable!!!!!

Which is why I should stop and have breakfast.

I realize that I must go out of the house in order to do this because the only thing that’s edible in the entire apartment is the frost in the freezer and I don’t have any chocolate syrup to pour over it.

Anyway, it should only take me, like, 10 minutes to go grab some McD’s for my Breakfast of Champions meal.

10:37 AM
Time to turn my computer on so I can get started. While the computer boots up, I start to wonder about my belly button. Well, more specifically, my belly button lint. Actually, lest you think me self-centered, I start to tackle this mystery for the benefit of the entire human race.

Seriously, where does it come from? Does it come in peace? Is it influenced by diet?

The computer has finished its various morning exercises and is fully connected to the Internet. Which is great because I’ve got a lot of research to do!

Anyway, it should only take me, like, 10 minutes to find some answers.

12:43 PM
People! People! No need to panic! Turns out belly button lint is completely harmless, and requires no corrective action. Now we call all breath a collective sigh of relief.

Well. No more distractions. Time to wwwwwwrrrrrrrioiiioiisifsiofjs’dfisdj’ofjs’dofgjsd skdfsodisjoisd psofjspdovskx pefus09ihvxokvn popfos j’opsv;lk cvspiefwis pfosjovis

1:52 PM
Kitty climbed up to the keyboard looking for someplace warm to lay down. I’d have moved her but I felt so bad about having neglected her so much lately, what with all my writing getting in the way of running away from her in abject terror.

Of course now the morning’s gone. Still. I’m not panicked. It’s not like I’m a morning person anyway. All I need is a little inspiration. Since I’m writing a love story, it occurs to me that the reason I haven’t been very productive is that I’m not listening to the appropriate music. I need a song. No, I need The Song. You know, the one that just melts your heart because the guy says exactly the right words and promises just enough to make your heart soar, but not so much that you’re like: what kind of idiot do you take me for? Yeah. That one.

There was this song I used to listen to when I was in high school. Something about cactus in the spring time and fog… I think there was fog. Darn! What were the words again? I must find out because my brain has suddenly decided that it cannot live through another day without this song.

It’ll just take me a minute to find it on YouTube.

4:06 PM
Annie’s Song by John Denver.

I knew I’d find it!

Of course, now that I’ve listened to it for the first time in about 20 years, I’m not sure why I liked it to so much back then. It’s kind of depressing. Wow. What a waste of time. I need a break. I’ll just watch TV for a few seconds.

8:39 PM
No way!!!! I almost missed the Giants v. Chargers game… I can’t believe I’d forgotten that was today. Well, to be completely fair to myself, I didn’t really know that they were playing today, but boy was I glad I got to watch that blood bath.

Ha! In your face, Eli! The New York Giants are completely out of the running for Division leaders now, and with both Dallas and the Eagles doing so well right now, they’re not even looking good for being the Wild Card team. I’d be so psyched if they didn’t even make it to the play offs. :) Sweet!

See? NOW that that’s settled, I can sit down to write in peace. Oh, I know I didn’t get to write the whole day, like I’d planned. But I’m a night owl, so it’s all good! The night is young… Wooo Hooo!

11:19 PM
Wow. I must have drowsed off there for a minute….. The cat is sitting on my chest, licking my face so I gather she missed dinner. Hmmm…. Incredible. I can’t remember the last time I fell asleep so early. I must not be entirely over my cold yet. Maybe my body is trying to tell me something.

I should go to bed right now and start fresh in the morning. I know I didn’t reach my 2K-word goal for today. But I’m sure I can write 4K tomorrow.

Heck, why stop there, I could probably do 6K… maybe even 8K….

Medea

2009-11-04T12:56:00.002-05:00

Medea tilted her head back and allowed the spray of water to hit her face full force. The sound of running water had always soothed her, but she hadn't stepped into the shower today to be soothed or comforted today--she was beyond all of that now. What she hoped as she had made the water scalding hot was that she could scrub away the thin layer of cliché that clung to her pores.

Jason's betrayal had done more than deceive her; it had changed who she was. She had become a shallow grave, a faint memory, a déjà vu. The archetypal (her detractors would probably say stereotypical) woman scorned.

How many would ever understand what she'd done today? Would anyone?

She knew that she'd be vilified, but a strange sense of calm had overtaken her.

For Jason, and the ones who'd come before him, she'd been nothing more than a rag to be dirtied and then tossed aside. She had facilitated that by making excuses for them: he's tired; he's under so much stress; he hurts. I can wait. My needs can wait. And so, one after the other, they'd only scorned her, ridiculed her, used her.

But this time was different; she'd made sure of it.

There would be no next time, this time.

As she washed the blood from her hands, she felt an endless nothingness in the place her heart had lived. She had killed her hopes, her dreams, her future. She should have been weeping. Instead, she felt relieved. And in control of her own destiny for once.

There would be no next time, this time.

After her shower, she dressed in simple robes, then walked out to her balcony where the chorus was already assembled. She could hear their wailing and their cries.

"Jason is gone. The children are gone. Oh, Medea, you are left desolate. What is left you?"

She surveyed the crowd stoically. "What do you mean what is left? I am left. Everything is left."

My Thoughts on Writing Well: Step Aside, Zinsser!

2009-11-04T02:07:00.002-05:00

Every so often (every 784,467,901 words to be precise—-but, hey, who’s counting?), I write a phrase that is so beautifully, well, phrased and so accurately punctuated that I amaze myself with my own talent because this phrase, this thing of beauty and perfection, was brought forth from some hidden spot inside my creative brain without any actual work on my part.

Because of this admittedly uncommon happening, I make the very logical, realistic assumptions that (1) every word I write must rise to this level of genius and (2) unless this genius is achieved effortlessly, I’m not really a writer. The natural consequence of this particular line of reasoning is that I give up the minute my writing does not live up to those two self-imposed conditions.

Oh, don’t get me wrong: I’m not a slacker. I don’t give up easily. I mean, there’s a whole routine.

First, I read and re-read the Wonderful, Beautiful, Awe-Inspiring Phrase to remind myself how brilliant I am.

Second, I read and re-read the Wonderful, Beautiful, Awe-Inspiring Phrase again because now I’m beginning to think that maybe I could have written it differently.

Third through infinity, I meticulously pick apart all the other words surrounding the Wonderful (if you’re willing to overlook some things), Beautiful (or at least better looking than average) Phrase.

All this work is tiring. And time consuming.

It’s little wonder I can’t get any writing done!

Anyway, some time within the last few weeks, a weird little thought occurred to me: maybe, I heard it whisper, maybe writing is a craft that can be learned and practiced. And, maybe, the biggest obstacle of my writing career is finding and challenging all my preconceived notions about writing.

Miguel and I

2009-10-16T18:55:00.001-04:00

In my defense.... it's raining.

Deadlines

2009-10-15T22:24:00.004-04:00

Love them or hate them, most of us have to live with deadlines. Considering that the word's origin refers to the line beyond which prisoners were not allowed to cross on pain of being shot dead, I can completely understand why most people consider deadlines negative inspiration at best and a noose around their neck at worst.

Personally, I find that nothing focuses the mind better than panic, so I find that a looming deadline (meaning one that is only hours from now) is the only thing that can almost keep my attention trained on only one topic. This means that I can spend my time actually doing the work at hand instead of running after my thoughts like a child chasing dandelion seeds on a summer afternoon (this being my most natural state of mind!).

So, my new favorite quote comes from a blog I came across while reading about the reforms on banking that the Obama White House seeks to establish. The blogger was addressing the concern that the executive wants Congress to pass legislation on new regulations within a few months, which many believe to be an impossible deadline.

And so the blogger quotes this perfect line: "A deadline is optimism in its most kick-ass form."

Isn't that awesome?!

PS I found this article as I was researching early education for a grant I'm trying to write. What? Early eaducation, banking reform .... you don't see the connection? Huh. Oh, look, something shiny, gotta go!

Modesty Forbids Me Nothing .... She Knows Her Place

2009-10-13T23:01:00.005-04:00

(Just in case someone who doesn't know me actually ends up reading this: please know that it is meant as satire.)

Speaking as a writer, I'm in a unique position to tell you that….

Well, something that we writers have always known is …..

Oh, I understand now…. You’re not a writer, are you?

Don’t interrupt. I’m practicing condescending lines to use at parties and other social gatherings. Puritans, romantics, and my mother have warned me for years about the perils of putting others down or acting like a snob. But did they ever stop to consider my feelings on the matter, I ask you! I’ll also answer you (because I can tell from the way your shirt’s on inside out that you’re not the sharpest knife in the drawer): No, as a matter of fact, no one stopped to consider my needs or feed my delusions of grandeur.

I’m surprised Child Protective Services didn’t get involved, for there was little Cecilia, superior to her peers in every imaginable way and yet forced (yes, forced!) to blend in so others wouldn’t be quite so keenly aware of their own mediocrity. Oh, the horror.

Well, no more of that!

I'm using every once of determination and self-discipline to finally become the megalomaniac I was meant to be. Because I’m better than everyone else, and smarter than all of you idiots, and doggone it, who cares if people don’t like me!

Beginning today I’ll follow a carefully designed training regimen:

10 reps of “Disdainful Eyebrow Raises”
5 barely concealed yawns to be used when others are speaking
45 minutes of deep breathing so I won’t have to stop to take a breath while speaking
Humming lessons (to protect myself from people who will insist on talking to me)

You see, now that I’ve written a whole four pages (double spaced, two-inch margins all around) of a novel, I know for certain that I’m the only one with anything important to say. Isn't that what being a writer is all about?

No Shoes, No Shirt, No Helium Balloons

2009-10-12T15:23:00.001-04:00

So it wasn’t a fluke.

Last March (I think) when I went on my spur of the moment pilgrimage to the Outer Banks I had dinner by myself at a restaurant in Kitty Hawk, and –much to my surprise—I enjoyed the experience. The food was excellent, which really helped, but I mean that for the first time I didn’t feel awkward or self conscious or on display while dining alone. I’ll have to check my blog from that day because now I can’t remember, but I don’t think I even opened the book I took along with me as my date.

(Isn’t it funny how memory works: I can’t remember if I read the book while being in the restaurant, but I can clearly remember that the book was … uh…. the one about how robotics are changing the way we fight wars – the title had the word “war” in it, I’m sure of it! You know, it was written by that guy that was interviewed on The Daily Show and who works in some think thank here in DC. He’s the one who was the first to write a book on the use of child soldiers and another on the use of mercenary armies. Yeah, that guy!)

Anyway, I was very pleased with myself because this meant that I could now go to that jazz bar in the top floor of the Kennedy Center and have dinner there even if none of my friends wanted to join me (not that I’ve gone yet, of course).

I was worried. I worried that my Kitty Hawk experience had been a one-off and that I’d panic the moment I had to tell some over-friendly twelve year old hostess that, yes, I needed a table for one. What if when I sat at the table and she started to take away the other place setting, the last flimsy string that attaches me to some semblance of sanity suddenly snapped? I’d float away like a dollar-store helium balloon, leaving behind my mental health and a slightly bewildered pale, brunette (“don’t you want to hear tonight’s specials?).

See? Perfectly reasonable concerns.

But last night I went to see The Importance of Being Ernest at the Center Stage in Baltimore; before the show I had dinner by myself at the overpriced café in the theatre. (Green salad, re-heated veggie lasagna, piece of stale bread, and pumpkin and curry soup. Boy you people are nosy!) The café hummed with the sound of conversations and laughter from fellow theatre-goers. My heart was full of anticipation for the evening ahead.

I sat down at my table for one, and I didn’t float away once.

There's No Such Thing an Accident

2009-10-10T23:08:00.004-04:00

I’ve only ever had one car accident. By my count. Which means I’m not counting the time I skidded on ice at the intersection of Shady Grove Road and 355. I don’t think it counts as an accident because all I did was slide off the road a bit. And slam into the median. Hard enough that my car did a 180. And the axel broke. But it’s not like I hit anybody!

Not that hitting another car is the ultimate way I’m defining a car accident, since I’m also not counting the time I rear ended the Suburban with my Toyota Tercel. I figure that one shouldn’t count because my Tercel was only slightly bigger than a matchbox and it glided right under the Suburban in front of me. Besides, if he had just turned right like he should have, the whole unfortunate episode would never have happened. At least my car wasn’t damaged.

Not that damaging my car is the ultimate way I’m defining a car accident, since I’m also not counting the time I got my car stuck on the curb right outside the car wash near my house. I’d just gotten a used Eclipse and I was feeling very sporty and hip as I drove to the car wash. I gassed up, turned up the radio while going through the automatic wash, and got ready to take my baby out on the open road. I made a right as soon as I was free of the brushes. Why would anyone put a curb right there? I never even felt the tire going up on it; my first clue that I was in trouble was when I was no longer moving forward. When I got out to see why not, I saw the car perched securely on top of a cement block that divided the car wash exit from the rest of the parking lot. The passenger side front tire had climbed over the cement block and was free and undamaged.

Not that a damaged front tire is the ultimate way I’m defining a car accident, since I’m also not counting the time my front tire exploded when I hit a curb as I was trying to turn into the gas station (different gas station from the one with the car wash, you’ll be happy to know). That instance doesn’t count against me because, clearly, the fault lies only with the tire manufacturers for making something so flimsy that it falls apart just because it hit an object while going 50 miles per hour.

So, like I said, I’ve only ever had one car accident.

But it was about ten years ago and it happened before I knew I needed glasses to drive and before I had openly acknowledged that my night vision was quite so bad. So maybe that one shouldn’t count either…

Hmmm…..

My Own Version of Reality

2009-08-13T07:51:00.011-04:00

From the animals below, choose which are real and which are fake.

In darkness....

2009-08-05T23:30:00.001-04:00

And I will give you treasures hidden in the darkness—
secret riches.
I will do this so you may know that I am the Lord,
the God of Israel, the one who calls you by name.

My friend Andrew introduced me to this text last year and it has since become one of my favorites because I’m well acquainted with darkness. And, often, darkness of my own making—a tempest in a glass of water. I over think things and then end up getting lost in my own musings and self doubt.

So I find compassion in the text in Isaiah. God’s purpose is not that I wallow in misery. But if that is where I find myself, then He’ll meet me there. He’s not afraid to go into the shadows with me; indeed, He’s gone there ahead of me. Without judgment.

In the quiet that comes after the storm of my pain, there has often been revelation and a renewed commitment to action. Such was the case this week. I walked into a labyrinth that I created and found myself caught in old habits of thought and in the grip of old emotions. It was frustrating to feel that I’d made such little progress in some areas.

One of the biggest treasures I’ve received from a time of darkness is understanding that it is OK to stumble, that today’s failures don’t have to limit the growth I can yet experience.

So where to from here? Well, I get up. I’m a little achy from the fall, but I can get up. And I’ll take as many steps toward health and healing as I can. I’ll take up the work again of learning to think along new pathways.

I am grateful. Not for the fall or the darkness, but for the God and the friends who don’t let me go through it alone.

Squishy!

2009-07-30T10:38:00.015-04:00

I shall call him Squishy and he shall be mine; he shall be my Squishy!
OW!! Bad, Squishy!

For each animal below, decide which are real and which are fake. Good luck!

A)

B)

C)

D)

E)

F)

G)

H)

I)

J)

K)

L)

M)

N)

Fact or Fiction?

2009-07-09T08:04:00.011-04:00

From the pictures below, can you identify which animals are real and which are fake?

A)

B)

C)

D)

E)

F)

G)

H)

I)

J)

K)

Trust Me....

2009-07-02T08:10:00.011-04:00

From the pictures below, pick the animals that are real from the animals that are fake.

A)

B)

C)

D)

E)

F)

G)

H)

When Little Boys Have Dreams

2009-05-11T00:14:00.003-04:00

Mila, in case this was too big for your email :)

The Power of Stories

2009-04-30T04:58:00.004-04:00

Because stories are important.

People think that stories are shaped by people. In fact, it's the other way around.

Stories exist independently of their players. If you know that, the knowledge is power.

Stories, great flapping ribbons of shaped spacetime, have been blowing and uncoiling around the universe since the beginning of time. And they have evolved. The weakest have died and the strongest have survived and they have grown fat on the retelling . . . stories, twisting and blowing through the darkness.

And their very existence overlays a faint but insistent pattern on the chaos that is history. Stories etch grooves deep enough for people to follow in the same way that water follows certain paths down a mountainside. And every time fresh actors tread the path of the story, the groove runs deeper.

This is called the theory of narrative causality and it means that a story, once started, takes a shape. It picks up all the vibrations of all the other workings of that story that have ever been.

This is why history keeps on repeating all the time.

So a thousand heroes have stolen fire from the gods. A thousand wolves have eaten grandmother, a thousand princesses have been kissed. A million unknowing actors have moved, unknowing, through the pathways of story.

It is now impossible for the third and youngest son of any king, if he should embark on a quest which has so far claimed his older brothers, not to succeed.

Stories don't care who takes part in them. All that matters is that the story gets told, that the story repeats. Or, if you prefer to think of it like this: stories are a parasitical life form, warping lives in the service only of the story itself.

It takes a special kind of person to fight back, and become the bicarbonate of history.

Once upon a time...

***********

The theory of narrative causality, found on page 2 of Witches Abroad by Terry Pratchett.

This is my favorite quote from Terry Pratchett, author of the popular Discworld series. Daddy introduced me to his writing and I think he has a very original voice. His writing is primarily considered fantasy, or at least comedic fantasy. He's hilarious and very creative.

I Want to be Supergirl When I Grow Up!

2009-04-14T03:23:00.009-04:00

My transformation was sudden, but complete. With absolutely no preparation or premeditation on my part, I became an athlete.

On Sunday.

During our six-hour brunch at Andrew’s house.

Together with a group of dear friends (and barring a return to my senses), a year and a half from now I’ll have completed my first triathlon. The purpose of our getting together on Sunday was to begin planning for it. We now have a team name (I Am Not With Them) and a logo for our t-shirts!

I’ve been a committed couch potato for the past 35 years (I say 35 because I’m sure my mother wasn’t doing much of anything during the last few months of her pregnancy). Yet somewhere between the quiche, the ice cream, and the movie . . . it happened. Buoyed by great food, laughter, and (of course!) Craig’s and Jonathan's optimism, I made the amazing discovery that I didn’t need to be afraid of my inner (ummm. . . quick, somebody name an athlete!). Apparently, all I’d needed all these years was peer pressure. Somehow I thought radically changing my life would be more complicated than this.

Today marks the beginning of Training Day Two. So far, here’s what I have accomplished (in order of importance):

Whining
Brunch
Starting a blog (newhopetriathlon.blogspot.com)
Bragging
Research (trying to find swimming lessons)
A few guilty glances at my bike
Rationalizing (“I could go to the gym right now, but then I’d lose my parking spot”)
My first sport injury (It’s my left pinkie; I’m not really sure why it hurts, but I’m positive there’s a connection.)
More whining (it’s part of my charm)

I was sharing this new adventure with a colleague yesterday (you know, so I could check off “bragging” on my list of things to do for training). I mentioned how much I hate running, how I don’t know how to swim, how I’ve only been on a bike a sum total of seven times in my entire life and she looked a little perplexed. Frankly, so did the cat when I told her what I was planning (although I must admit she moved from perplexed to indifferent in about two seconds).

So, why am I doing this?

Three years ago, I started the process of reinventing myself. I don’t know if there’s really an athlete inside of me or not (although that would explain the weight gain), but I do hope to learn to make a commitment to something that I’m doing entirely for me. For a variety of reasons, even contemplating the notion of working so hard for something that will not benefit somebody else makes me squirm uncomfortably. Others in my life taught me that putting myself first in any situation is selfish. And I taught myself that I needed to justify my existence by being useful.

I’m curious now to see what happens if I take on something is that is so far out of what’s normal for me. Maybe in a few months I’ll wish I’d have tried to reach my inner “knitter”! Maybe I’ll be able to definitively put an end to this runner’s high myth, this urban legend, this siren song that lures many innocents to their untimely cardiac health. Or maybe . . .

It’s the wonder and the power of the “maybe” that compelled me to sign up.

I’m so predictable!

(Image by Erick Egon at DeviantArt.com)

Dream Deferred

2009-04-09T19:32:00.004-04:00

What happens to a dream deferred?
Does it dry up
Like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore--
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over--
like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.
Or does it explode?

Poem by Langston Hughes
Image by Jack Vettriano (In Thoughts of You)

Where are you from?

2009-04-08T11:22:00.000-04:00

"Where are you from?"

People ask this of me casually when they hear my accent or find out my last name is pronounced “leher” not “ledger”. I’m sure all they want to hear is the name of a country, but that’s the same as thinking that someone will know who I am merely because I’ve told them my name. Where I’m from is so much more than a place.

My childhood memories are a collage of music and food and giving. As a little girl, I understood that there were plenty of things we didn’t have because there wasn’t enough money; I just didn’t know we were poor! I lived in a house that Pato and his sons built by hand and that didn’t have running water or electricity. But since I knew the story all I felt was pride. I knew that my grandmother had been widowed when she was very young; she’d been left alone and penniless, with six little girls to raise. Somehow this woman who could barely write her name found a way to become a land owner; I knew that each piece of wood she used to build the house I grew up in came from trees that grew on her property.

I knew that each day my aunt Nina cooked more food than was necessary so that people who dropped by would never be turned away hungry. That my cousin took a plate of food each day, each meal, to the elderly man who lived down the street and who didn’t have any family left. And whenever visitors came, my aunt Maria went into the fields to gather for them whatever was in season: mango, avocado, limoncillo, cajuil, plantains, corn, beans, pineapple, guava, coffee, cacao, lemons, oranges, tamarindo, and whatever else she could lay her hands on or her guests had a predilection for.

In the U.S., it is customary to bring a gift when visiting someone; where I am from, it’s the opposite. Giving and service are not laudable acts, they are merely good manners. It is buena educacion, which has nothing to do with what books teach and everything to do with how you are raised to treat and respect others.

When I was thirteen, my mother and I had tickets to return to the U.S. via Puerto Plata (about six hours from my house) on the day of a general strike. As no public transportation would be available on the day of the strike we needed to go to Puerto Plata one day early, but not having any family there meant we would have no place to stay. No problem, the taxi driver she’d hired assured my mother: he had a cousin who lived near the airport. We arrived at this stranger’s house unannounced and were treated as honored guests that evening. I remember a lot of domino games, Presidente beer, and merengue that night—our visit was enough reason for a party. Our taxi driver had gone back to my little town that night and left it up to his cousin to figure out a way to get us safely to the airport the next day.

Two years ago, during my last visit, no one was available to pick me up from the airport in Santo Domingo. Times have changed and crime is running rampant, so my mother worried about how I’d get to the bus terminal from the airport without being mugged. When the plane landed in Santo Domingo, I asked a young man to direct me to a reputable taxi so I could begin my final journey home. When he found out I was traveling alone, he refused to let me take a taxi. His family was coming to pick him up and they would make sure I got on the right bus safely.

True to the promise he’d made on their behalf, his parents drove me to the bus terminal and waited to make sure I was able to purchase a ticket to Salcedo without any hassle. “If the last bus for the day has already gone, you must stay with us tonight. This city is not safe for a woman traveling alone,” my young hero’s mother emphatically stated. I have no doubt that I would have been welcome in their home if I’d been stranded in the city that night.

So, where am I from?

I’m from a people who never need to know my name as everyone from taxi drivers, to store clerks, to office receptionists calls me mami, corazon, mi amor, linda, muñeca, bebe, or any of many other terms of endearment. I belong to a people who color their lives with relationships and music (oh, and a LOT of alcohol!).

So, where am I from?

I’m from the Sosa’s and the Ureña’s who live in Palmarito, near Salcedo. You’ll have heard of them. Specially the Sosa’s—known for their bad temper and tender hearts.

I have now lived in the U.S. many more years than in the Dominican Republic and I consider myself an American. But where I’m from guides my most basic impulses. I don’t understand why I should wait until help is requested before I can offer it. I don’t see the point in checking my calendar or my wallet before deciding what my contribution should be. It makes no sense to me that the things I’ve been graced with aren’t meant for public use.

That’s what I'd like to say when people ask me where I’m from.

I love a good story . . .

2009-04-07T06:30:00.006-04:00

Hunting

A hunter – a successful hunter – has a superior knowledge of the habitat and behavior of the animals he hunts. He stalks his quarry with unhurried confidence, relishing even the danger of the game. He is a master tracker who is able to blend into the background so he can observe his prey and pick the perfect moment for attack. Hunting as an art form is a test of patience and mastery over emotion; the expert hunter does not go on a mindless rampage. No, he hones his instincts. He waits. He pursues. He must have complete self-discipline.

A measure of blood lust also helps.

Simon raised the cup of coffee leisurely to thin colorless lips as his eyes trained on the woman and her brat seated mere yards away from him on another park bench: he had no doubts about his measure of blood lust.

That she knew she was being hunted was not an accident. He savored each time she looked behind her in fear, considered it a personal triumph every time a stranger bumped into her and she reacted by hugging the boy close to her, ready to bolt. He’d let her survive this long because she amused him. And he toyed with her because she was trapped—trapped while living in complete freedom, trapped as she fled from city to city.

A week ago he’d even held her in his arms. He had followed her to the neighborhood grocery store, a run-down building that had once been a warehouse and whose outdated ventilation system did nothing to diminish the sickeningly sweet stench of rotting fruit or the pungent odor of the exotic fish the immigrants in this part of town loved to consume. Her arms burdened down with purchases in paper bags, she had used her body to push against the doors. He had abruptly pulled one open causing her to stumble into him.

He’d kept his hands on her arms a fraction longer than was necessary to steady her and how he’d loved seeing the panic rise up in her eyes. But he’d flashed her an affable smile and used his most soothing tone of voice, “Whoa! I’m so sorry.... are you OK?”

And she’d relaxed then, thanked him even! She’d rushed off but he was sure she was probably chastising herself for being so jumpy. Simon congratulated himself again on his mastery of disguise. His was the face she must see in every nightmare and yet she’d looked right at him and had not recognized her personal demon.

Of course, people only see what they want to see, as Simon knew. Having donned a clean shaven face and business suit he hardly looked like a predator to be feared. Who would ever choose to look past that to see the monster lying beneath? Lying isn’t about misleading people at all, he mused, it is merely letting people see what they are already begging to believe.

Simon smiled mirthlessly now as he overheard the lies the woman was telling the boy. “We’re explorers, honey. Like Marco Polo or Vasco De Gama! It’s exciting!”

The boy furrowed his brow as he considered her words. “But aren’t explorers supposed to go places where no one’s ever been? They’re supposed to discover new worlds, aren’t they?”

She touched his face tenderly and leaned in close so that their noses almost touched. “Sometimes, love, there are new worlds where we least expect to find them. Now go on! Go make friends!” She turned him around and gave him a gentle shove toward the playground.

Simon was pleased by the whole exchange. New worlds, she had promised the boy. He sipped again from his coffee: they had no idea.

Courage in a Crisis

2009-04-06T07:59:00.002-04:00

In a time of crisis, we all have romantic notions about ourselves: about the courage and selflessness which will mysteriously be available to us “when it finally counts.” Movies and books are filled with this theme—the common man who becomes the unwitting hero when events thrust him forward and life demands the ultimate sacrifice. Often we are presented with characters who redeem themselves after a lifetime of cowardice and self-centered behavior.

I just finished watching Battlestar Galactica this weekend; in the final episode, Admiral Adama asks for volunteers to go on a rescue mission that might result in their deaths. Gaius, who has spent all of season four (I haven’t seen the other seasons, so I don’t know what he was like previously) being a sniveling coward who only looks out for his own self interest, has a conversation with one of the heroes of the show in which he’s confronted with the reality that he thinks and acts only for himself. Following this revelation he decides to become one of the volunteers in this suicide mission. And, although I appreciate that the writers kept him as a nervous, frightened fighter, I would have been more interested had he remained selfish and self-centered to the end.

That’s the darkness in humanity we don’t always like to think about. In times of crisis, there are a great many who do rise above the circumstances and surprise even themselves with their acts of courage. But that’s not the full story. There are those who are frozen in place and those who become cruel and malicious. When it’s “lay-it-all-on-the-line-time” can you really be sure which side you’ll be on? Can you really know who you will show yourself to be?

In Saving Private Ryan, do you remember the soldier who cannot make himself face his fears and shoot his weapon even though he can hear his friend being killed? In The Red Badge of Courage, young Henry spends a great deal of the book spoiling for a fight and then ends up running away in the fear and confusion of his first battle. He rationalizes that the battle was lost anyway and his sacrifice would have been meaningless, then fakes a wound to explain away his absence from the front lines when he realizes that his battalion has actually won. In both works, the characters get a second chance to redeem themselves. However, I’d like to see more time spent on characters who do not.

What about a guy who leaves a burning building to save himself and leaves behind his own child? The audience could never forgive or like such a man. Partly, it is that we find such cowardice revolting. But could it be that we don’t want to face that maybe—just maybe—under the right circumstances we ourselves could be that cowardly?

On some level, it’s great to think about what we might be able to do given the chance. It is unlikely that any of us will ever have to face ourselves in the midst of such a crisis. But what about the hints of who we really are that we see during a thousand small disasters that we face during the course of a week? When we’re cut off in traffic? When precious time is wasted in a long line? When someone has treated us unfairly?

I know what I am like. I know that I am certainly not heroic or courageous when things do not go my way. When I’m hurt, I become a hermit. When I’m stressed, I lose my temper very easily. In times of deep emotional strife, I take care of myself first.

Oh, I’d love to think that in a crisis, I’d rise above all that and do the right thing. But I don’t really know. And even if I did, would that one act of courage be enough to redeem the years of self-centered behavior that I rationalize with “well, I’m having a really bad day.”

It is more heroic to face the little irritants of life consistently with grace and compassion than it is to have that one moment of courage in a crisis.

I've Got a Peaceful, Easy Feeling

2009-03-30T09:26:00.003-04:00

This weekend was about beauty, music, and friendship. Oh, and a little self-discovery. Isn’t it always? My trip to took me through the Smoky Mountains in North Carolina and Tennessee on my way to the Biltmore House, where I was expecting to be enchanted by the opulence and splendor of the palace. And to be sure, it didn’t disappoint. But it was the mountains that took my breath away. If there are words to describe what I felt when I first reached the top of the range and looked across, I don’t know them. It was raining but I got out of the car and just stood there, in complete wonder and delight. And humility---for how can one stand in the presence of such majesty without gaining perspective? Whatever cares I’d brought along on my trip disappeared in that one moment of joy, of beauty.

I spent Saturday night with my friend Stephen in Crossnore, about an hour or so East of Ashville. He was working and could not meet me in Asheville, but he offered me a place to stay Saturday night so we could spend time together. He cooked Spaghetti; we played ping pong, watched TV and talked about books, politics, and religion…. And in the morning he gave something wonderful: directions back to I-81 that took me through the back roads! I drove through the mountains I’d lost my heart to and through sleepy little towns that didn’t market their charm and package it for tourists. It was still raining and the fog at times was so thick I could barely see in front of me. There was mystery and adventure in that drive that I could not have purchased elsewhere. There had been warmth and comfort in the simplicity of the evening shared with a friend.

I tend to throw open the doors and windows to my heart, a policy that doesn’t always work in my favor! I experience things first with my feelings and then with reason. It’s risky – and I do get hurt and disappointed at times. But I get to live life passionately and that more than makes up for the risks. After I’d been so moved by the beauty of the mountains and nurtured by kindness of a friend, I had no hope of remaining unchanged by the music on Sunday night, of simply enjoying the concert.

Nothing reaches me more deeply than music. I stepped willingly, expectantly into the rollercoaster of emotion with the first strains of the guitar. Right along with the songs I felt nostalgia, exhilaration, loss, love, excitement, and so much more! By the end of the night, I felt as exhausted as if I’d been on stage, playing and singing with the musicians.

I feel a little silly writing this. Admitting that so much of life affects me so deeply. I’m sure it’s more adult to be detached, to admire things from a distance. But I don’t want to do that: I want to dive in; submerge myself completely, allow things and people to move me, change me. I want to feel my heart expand as it takes in life. I don’t want to lose the sense of wonder and wildness that each day brings.

Lauro

2009-03-25T03:10:00.004-04:00

I just sent some information about early intervention to a family whose little boy has been newly diagnosed with cortical dysplasia. So tonight I’m thinking of Lauro, a child on my caseload two years ago, who had the same diagnosis. The cortical dysplasia (neurologic disorder causing seizures) was the least of Lauro’s troubles. He was a micro preemie, born around 25 weeks gestation (if memory serves) with a birth weight of less than 1200 grams. By the time he came to me he was already 15 months old and in relative good health: he had bilateral hearing loss, so he needed to wear hearing aids at all times; he had sleep apnea, so he needed to be hooked up to a monitor any time he slept; he needed oxygen, although they were trying to reduce the amount; and with medication his seizures were down to only five to seven per day. Smooth sailing.

When I received the referral from the hospital and tried to make contact with the family, I found that the only phone number we had was disconnected. I sent a letter to the home and asked that they try to reach me, but no one did. I visited and found no one at home. At this point I should have closed the case, but I just kept going back whenever I was in the neighborhood and one day, I found them!

This family was already on the edge. The mother (let’s call her Maria) was only 20 and she had three children: a four year old in Mexico, Lauro, and Gabriel, who was eight days old when I met them. They shared the apartment with another couple who also had a little one: a girl whose name I don’t remember and who was almost two. After I explained our program, Maria asked for my help in filling out a form for Lauro’s social security disability benefits. It was a developmental questionnaire that asked fairly simple things about Lauro’s current abilities: when he started smiling, what sounds he was making, how much milk he was drinking and how often….that sort of thing. The scary thing was that Maria didn’t seem to know any of the answers.

It was hard to work with this family as they could only keep a cell phone turned on for about one week out of the month, so most conversations had to happen in person. I started visiting them at night so that I had a better chance to find them at home. Lauro started receiving once weekly visits from a special education teacher and twice monthly visits from a physical therapist (our program is home-based). But Maria kept missing appointments. With us, with Lauro’s specialists at the hospital. She had missed his RSV shots (preemies are particularly susceptible during flu season).

Worse yet, I got a call from the apnea clinic: the script from the monitor Lauro was supposed to use anytime he slept showed that the machine hadn’t been turned on in a month. Didn’t Maria realize that he could stop breathing at any time and she would never know?

As a team, her providers and I poured tons of time to make sure Lauro would get the best shot at life. We taught Maria basic life skills, helped her keep appointments, found her counseling when we realized she was suffering from post partum depression, tried to convince her to move out when we realized she was a victim of domestic violence, helped her apply for food stamps and other public assistance, and a myriad of other things. She was so young and so disoriented that I think all of us felt motherly toward her.

Slowly, Maria began to accept more responsibility. She learned how to keep a calendar and became more consistent about being home for her therapy appointments with our program. She started keeping all important documents in a binder we gave her. She told us she was using the apnea monitor and oxygen as she was supposed to. Maria even started selling phone cards from home so she could have some cash.

But our real joy came from Lauro. Lauro was making visible progress week to week, which is so rare! Most kids have a hard time adjusting to the hearing aids and fuss to take them out. Not Lauro! It was as if he understood that the aids were his entry into the world. He started cooing and babbling within weeks of getting his hearing aids. He enjoyed all of the toys the special educator brought, was always eager to play with her, and learned quickly. Even his PT sessions went well (for the most part), and soon he was rolling over all by himself and bearing weight on his legs when standing. We had started getting information from the neurologist about possible surgery to control his seizures.

He was almost sitting independently when he died. From a cold.

First Lauro’s cousin (the other little girl who lived in the apartment) got sick. Then Gabriel, Lauro’s brother. On Thursday, Lauro fell ill. By Friday morning, he was dead. When he got sick, he started vomiting; then he got a fever (Maria never knew how high since she didn’t have a thermometer in the house); then he got diarrhea. Because he was crying all night, Maria took off his oxygen so she could hold him in her arms as she paced around the room, hoping that would soothe him. It worked, she thought, because by around 5 AM, he had stopped crying and was finally asleep. She didn’t dare place him on oxygen again because she feared he’d awaken and he was sick….he needed the rest. She made plans to take him to the pediatrician’s office in the morning. But not until after his therapy session at 9. After all, how many times had we told her how important it was for her not to miss these appointments with us?

By the time the educator from our program arrived at her house Friday morning, Lauro’s lips were blue and he was unresponsive. She called 911 and began CPR. He was declared dead at the hospital a few minutes after the ambulance arrived with him. And there was Gabriel to worry about. When Maria mentioned that he, too, was ill, they worried that Lauro had had meningitis. Another ambulance was dispatched to the home and Gabriel was taken to Childrens Hospital in DC where they were equipped to do the necessary testing. Maria had to leave the body of her dead child at the neighborhood hospital so that she could go be with her other sick child who she now feared might die too.

I met her there and she was more bewildered than grieving. No one had explained to her why Lauro had died. No one had said anything about how long it would take to figure out if Gabriel might be next. Her world had been destroyed in less than 12 hours. It took six days for tests to reveal that Gabriel was fine and he could be released from the hospital; there was no meningitis. Lauro’s death was the result of a bad cold and some poor choices. The hardest thing I’ve ever had to do in my life was explain to Maria why Lauro had died. I’ll never forget the look in her eyes as it all started to make sense: the missing RSV shots, the dehydration from the vomiting and diarrhea, his need for the oxygen from the tank.

She and I sat on the cold floor of Gabriel’s hospital room, holding each other and crying. I couldn’t think of a single word to comfort her or assuage the guilt I knew she was feeling.

Some of my other kids have died; families with whom I’ve been just as involved. When Roberto’s mom decided to end life support, she waited until I arrived at the hospital. When Melissa died, I’m the one that made the funeral arrangements. But Roberto was never going to recover and Melissa’s disorder was degenerative. So, by comparison, Lauro’s death just seemed so unfair. Not when we had such plans for him! Not when we could see such progress….

It’s been two years and I guess I’m supposed to have more perspective now. Wisdom born of difficulty and sorrow. Oh, I can rationalize and I know that God can turn our sorrow around and help us grow from adversity and all that. I know we belong to eternity and that there’s a glorious promise of the day when death won’t exist.

But you know what? Sometimes sad things are sad no matter how much time has passed or how much wisdom has been gained. And it’s appropriate that the memory of a little boy’s death should still bring me to tears.

Lesbian Spank Inferno

2009-03-23T07:00:00.001-04:00

It’s been 16 posts and I’ve not uttered a single word about Coupling. That must be some sort of record in self-restraint. I deserve an award. Actually, I’ve been agonizing about this entry. If I hype the show up too much, I fear I’ll drive expectations up too high and you won’t like it. If I don’t introduce it properly, you might get the idea that I’m just casually mentioning some TV program I like. See my dilemma? Such a thin line!

Here’s the thing: watch the clip and form your own opinion. If you enjoy it, let me know! If you don’t, find yourself another Cecilia. No pressure.

In this clip, Steve’s girlfriend finds some of his porn while cleaning his apartment, a film titled Lesbian Spank Inferno. During a dinner party, he is challenged to describe the plot as he argues that the film is not porn but erotica.

And So It Goes

2009-03-23T04:52:00.009-04:00

“Sarah, wait! Damn it, wait!” In three long strides he’d caught up to her. His arm easily encircled her waist, gaining him a captive audience. Fine. She was waiting. But now what? What could he say? What was there to say?

Their silence was filled by the ghosts of the accusations they’d hurled heatedly at one another time and time again. When trust is gone, when it’s been eroded, how many platitudes are necessary to patch it back up? Until the next time.

He let his arm slacken and she turned to him; her eyes raked his face searching for a glimmer of understanding or hope somewhere, under some stone she’d previously left unturned, perhaps.

He knew she needed answers. Hell, he knew she deserved answers. But he couldn’t function under the weight of the regret and disappointment in her eyes. He reached up to brush the hair out of her face, a familiar gesture that had once been enough to convey all that he never seemed to have the courage to say. She closed her eyes and he traced her features, barely brushing her skin with his fingertips. Sarah, Sarah, how did I let it come to this?

Aware now of the warmth and nearness of her body, his mind tortured him with a thousand images of Sarah, his Sarah, playful, mischievous, seductive….her passion had been his undoing. He’d vowed never to be this reckless again and yet here he was, standing on this ledge, wanting for all the world to jump. He’d wanted only calculated risks, but her touch had shredded all his calculations, had left him tormented that he could not offer more, could not be more for her. And now he that he was losing her, he understood that he’d simply chosen not to give more. He’d chosen what he thought was safety. And now he was losing her who was his safety.

He stepped off the ledge.

Countless times he’d kissed her hungrily, greedily, driven by a need to possess and control. She’d been his obsession ever since that first harmless flirtation. He’d ruthlessly taken from her so that he might quench that obsession. To atone, he attempted now to give, feeling clumsy and awkward. He was tentative as he explored her mouth, no longer master now, trying to copy her artlessness, her abandon.

She broke off their embrace abruptly. She needed safety, too.

When he finally offered it to her, he was slumped against the wall for strength. He’d said the only thing that could have bridged the chasm that divided them and he’d meant it. Getting the words out had dissolved the last of his defenses.

When he finally said it, they were the last jagged words ripped from a dying man: “Sarah, I can’t live without you.”

When he finally said it, she was already gone.

********
The song "And so it goes" by Billy Joel is one of my favorites when I'm feeling sappy. I listened to it last night and woke up humming it. Beyond the sappyness, I do agree with his notion that a commitment to love is made without a safety net and with full acceptance that your heart may be broken. Billy Joel is awesome! He has another song, which is the most romantic thing I've ever heard. I'll keep that one to myself, though. :) I'm not feeling that sappy!

Creation

2009-03-22T14:25:00.000-04:00

(During Sabbath school, Dave asked us to think about what man's glory had been before the fall...these are my thoughts.)

It was absurd. That he should be down there, kneeling in the dirt. It was beneath his station and he didn’t even seem to notice or care. Muscles taunt and straining underneath the hot sun. Mud seeping and oozing through this fingers. A smudge on his face from where he wiped his brow. And a silly, besotted smile tugging at his mouth as he worked.

One word, one thought, and humanity would have burst into existence. Instead he toiled.

I will give him strength.

He fashioned.

I will make her beautiful.

He crafted.

They’re going to need a sense of humor!

He formed.

And creativity.

He dreamed.

They will bear my image.

He planned.

They must have free will.

Even before the light of that first dawn, he was intimately involved, personally invested. Deeply committed. Every detail was designed, nothing overlooked or forgotten. His hands worked with deliberate care; he knew no hurry.

They belong to eternity. They belong to me.

There was no hesitation as he leaned down to breathe life into his creation; there was only joy. “It is very good.”

“He loves us with passion, without regrets. He cannot love more and will not love less.” (Michael Card)

Finding My Inner Julia Child

2009-03-21T00:47:00.000-04:00

For many years, I thought I hated to cook. It turns out I was wrong! What I hate is following a recipe, measuring things, planning ahead, and cleaning up. Oh and on principle, I hate anything that requires my complete attention for longer than 20 minutes. I’m also not too keen on cooking for myself. Other than this---why, I love to cook!

For a long time now I’ve combined my love of cooking with my love of books and I collect all manner of cookbooks and recipe collections (you know, the little booklets they put by the cashier in the grocery store). Of course, this collecting began before I realized that I liked cooking, so many of these are still in boxes somewhere, waiting for my fairy Godmother to hurry up and buy me Billy bookcases from Ikea. (My love of Ikea is even stronger than my love of cooking!)

Through the magic of DVR I record 30-Minute Meals and Semi-Homemade (both are Food Network shows). I follow two blogs that showcase daily recipes and I’m a registered member of allrecipes.com where I have a profile full of recipes I find particularly tempting. I love shopping for cool kitchen gadgets and excitedly drool over such things as sifters, whisks, silicone tools, and serving dishes.

Considering all this, it’s amazing that such little actual cooking takes place! Let’s see… for Christmas I made cookies and cream fudge for David (I’ll go ahead and claim credit for that), but my contribution to Andrew’s magnificent Thanksgiving meal was water! And I was late getting there! (Why do my friends put up with me?)

Every week when I put out nothing but store-bought goodies for Sabbath School brunch, I promise myself that I’ll cook something the following week. The sad thing is that I believe this recurring lie! I think the last time I got excited about cooking was when I used to make breakfast for the praise team---hmm…maybe there’s some hidden meaning there!

Cognitive dissonance, I learned at AUC, is the fine art of holding two conflicting beliefs at the same time. In particular, it can apply to believing one thing and yet behaving in a contradictory manner. This theory goes on to argue that people cannot do this for very long; that there is an internal drive to resolve the dissonance by either altering the behavior or changing or rationalizing the beliefs. Very soon, this theory predicts, I will either return to the idea that I hate cooking, continue to make excuses, or actually start cooking.

Isn’t the suspense just killing you?

My Reading List

2009-03-20T08:56:00.000-04:00

I don’t get to read as much as I would like so I make up for it by typically reading more than one book at a time (what ADD?). Here’s what I’m reading right now:

The Giver by Lois Lowry

“Jonas’ world is perfect. Everything is under control. There is no war or fear or pain. There are no choices. Every person is assigned a role in the Community. When Jonas turns twelve, he is singled out to receive special training from The Giver. The Giver alone holds the memories of the true pain and pleasure of life. Now it’s time for Jonas to receive the truth. There is no turning back.”

This is my first Lois Lowry book and I’m thankful to Jared for introducing me to it. It’s a Newbery award-winner and a great read! Like so many other wonderful children’s books, it has so much to say for our adult world. As in all dystopias, there is a strong link between the control exerted over the populace and the control exerted over language. The book raises tough questions about wisdom and the importance of the past.

A Man of My Words by Richard Lederer

“Popular author and speaker Richard Lederer is one of the foremost and funniest commentators on the pleasures and quirks of the English language. In this far-ranging collection of essays, Lederer offers readers more of the irrepressible wordplay and linguistic high jinks his fans can’t get enough of, along with observations on a life of letters. From an inner-city classroom to a wordy weekend retreat, from centuries-old etymological legacies to the latest in slang, dialects, and faspeak, these essays transport, inform, and entertain as only Richard Lederer can.”

This is how the book opens: “The other day I went to the bookstore to buy a dictionary. The clerk showed me a really cheap one. I couldn’t find the words to thank her.” What can I say? Lederer had me at hello! The author is clearly and completely a lover of language; he is also quite funny! The book gives commentary on word usage and entertaining etymology, so this English major is in absolute heaven! Another big thanks to Jared!

Wired for War by PW Singer

“What happens when science fiction starts to become reality on the battlefield? A military expert reveals how technology is changing not just how wars are fought, but also the politics, economics, laws, and ethics that surround war itself.”

Chilling. That’s the best word I can use to describe this book. Singer uses a combination of history, technology, current events, and pop culture to help readers understand some very complex notions. Did you know that there are soldiers living in Nevada who are remotely killing terrorists in Afghanistan while sitting in a cubicle, then going home at night to dinner and little league games? That the same company that builds the Rumba (the little robot vacuum cleaner) also has a Pentagon contract to provide robot soldiers? That most of the companies that are creating these new technologies are private and would be perfectly happy to sell their wares to the Pentagon as they would to Al-Qaeda?

I heard an interview with the author on NPR (of course!). He has written extensively on the changing nature of war, with previous books on the nature and use of child warriors and mercenary armies. In this book he certainly describes the coolness factor of some of the cutting-edge technology being developed, but raises all the questions that he feels are being overlooked in our quest for the best and brightest toys. What about the psychological effects of the men who are fighting this new war? If wars in the past ended when one side couldn’t sustain any more deaths, what will happen if that is no longer a consideration? Current research is focusing on creating robots who will be able to collect information and then autonomously make a decision on how to respond, in essence “thinking” on their own. How far are we willing to take artificial intelligence? Didn’t anybody watch Terminator, for goodness’ sake?!

Waking the Dead by John Eldredge

OK. I’m cheating. I haven’t started this book yet. I’m putting it on the list because I plan on starting it tonight. It’s the book that we’ll be using as textbook for the Sabbath School class I attend. We just finished another book by Eldredge and will be starting this one tomorrow. I’ll write more about this one once I’ve actually read a chapter or two!

When Happily Ever After Fails

2009-03-19T03:22:00.000-04:00

It’s because I believe so strongly in the power of love that I’m largely turned off by most romantic novels, movies, and songs. I gravitate much more to what I term “optimistic realism” --- comprising anything that recognizes that loving another person takes singular valor and hard work.

Love (the kind that lasts) is dirt-under-your-fingernails messy; it must be fought for and defended against the push and pull of everyday living, which is it’s natural predator and worst enemy. For it is the mundane things that claw at and, unchecked, tear down the promises exchanged with such hope and devotion.

Don Henley writes in the song The End of the Innocence that we have been “poisoned by these fairy tales.” I don’t know that I would go so far as that, but I do think the myths we hold on to about romance make it harder to find and recognize love when we are graced by it. Prince Charming is supposed to fight dragons and rescue the damsel in distress all without damaging his perfectly coiffured mane of hair (and, no, he’s not gay). But only in the fine print do they both find out that the dragon is not some outside creature that needs to be slain once (to then leave the couple gazing in one another’s eyes, undisturbed, throughout eternity) but that instead, the dragon is the daily struggle, the daily decision to be loving at all costs. And it is a fight in which both people must engage.

When we find someone who has the characteristics we admire, we rejoice and call it love. But how hard is it to love beauty, kindness, humor, self-control, generosity, and whatever else is on the list of Things We Look for in a Mate? It’s how we react when confronted with the stuff we don’t want that makes the difference.

He’s lazy. She’s vain. He never picks up a sock! Why does she need so many shoes?

We broke up; we weren’t really compatible.

I’m writing this piece because I just finished watching The Story of Us, one of the most romantic movies I’ve ever seen. Bruce Willis and Michelle Pfiffer portray a couple who’s on the brink of divorce after 15 years of marriage. Their happily ever after has failed as both realize there are things about the other person that get under their skin, that drive them nuts, that are completely unacceptable. [Spoiler Alert] They manage to stay together only when they accept that such is the multifaceted nature of love. Love isn’t only “happily ever after”: it can be hurtful at times, confusing at times, lonely at times….but always present.

He’s lazy. She’s vain. He never picks up a sock! Why does she need so many shoes?

But I made a commitment to be loving and I will honor it anyway.

Love is unconditional, but it is never blind. Being loving means intentionally setting aside what I wish you were so that I can see, really see, who it is that you are. Being loving means not being afraid of the word submission, not resisting being accountable to you. Being loving means choosing to be vulnerable and uncomfortable and disappointed and angry all the while letting my heart expand to encompass you…ALL of you.

The Story of Us is one of my favorite movies because it does not gloss over the complexity of love in its rush to bask in the romance of it. When happily ever after fails, love is what remains.

Missing My Family

2009-03-13T16:07:00.000-04:00

I missed a call from my dad last night. I went to bed early and never heard the phone ring. My best memories, and my best self, are wrapped up in the warmth of my family’s love and acceptance. I’m not sure who I would be if they had not come into my life.

I remember my three brothers as little boys, fresh smelling from their bath, fighting for their spot next to me on the couch so I could read them a bed time story. Warm, wriggly little bodies pressed up against me, all wonder and delight. Better still, on the nights when dad was home from work, I remember all of us piling on top of mom and dad’s bed so that he could read.

I had read The Chronicles of Narnia on my own when I’d discovered them in high school….but I didn’t learn to love the books until college when dad’s voice rumbled as Aslan and crawled as Puddleglum. Because of dad, I long for a knight in shining armor who will postpone the dragon wars while he reads to me in bed (Craig, I don’t want to hear any snide remarks about this).

My sweetest memory involves David, the oldest of my brothers, and Matthew, the youngest. David was seven at the time and Matthew four. I was in the kitchen washing dishes after dinner and I could hear them playing Stratego in the living room. I heard David gleefully tell Matthew, “Matt, in three more moves I’m going to kill you!” There was silence.

Then David repeated, “Matt, in three more moves I’m going to kill you!” More silence.

Finally I heard Matthew’s tearful reply, “But David, couldn’t we just be friends?”

Today, my boys are men who tower over me. They love lifting me off the ground when they hug me hello and we still play games and watch TV as a family, a tradition that started when we’d have “picnics” of fruit and popcorn while watching Star Trek on Saturday nights.

There are family stories we tell and retell without tiring of them: like the time Matthew (three at the time) opened the front door for Uncle Dave and roared, “I am the man in black! You killed my father; prepare to die!” before running off with his imaginary sword. (Yes, the entire family still walks around quoting lines from The Princess Bride!) And the time I sent seven-year old Steven to his room for a five minute time-out where he calmly went to sleep after I forgot him there. And how mom had to throw away all my baseball caps, and then the boys’ baseball caps, in her unending quest to turn me into a girl!

This is the house where I love to bring my friends. For years now, I have dragged many people through the front door and dropped them at mom and dad’s feet, certain that they would find the same welcoming love that’s been given to me. I have brought friends home for Christmas and Thanksgiving unannounced; on two separate occasions dad has spent Christmas Eve in his woodworking shop making last-minute presents for my guests so that they’d have something to open on Christmas morning and wouldn’t feel left out of the festivities.

Theirs is the bosom where I hide when I need a place to run to. And theirs the arms that hold me when I need to cry over some boy who’s broken my heart. Theirs are the voices of encouragement I hear whenever I try something new; and the voices telling me they’re still proud of me whenever I fail. They are the ones who first said I was beautiful and kept repeating it until I believed they meant it.

I take them all for granted, of course. I’m self-centered and I don’t call or visit as often as I should. They are well-acquainted with all my faults and I push against the boundaries of their love, trying to find the limits. I haven’t yet.

I missed dad’s call last night. So this weekend, I’m going home.

(Pictured below: My sisters--Francina, Kimberly, and Nandini)

Living Stones by J Jordan Bruns

2009-03-03T13:04:00.000-05:00

I am drawn to chaos and mystery.

So when I walked into the studio at the top of the stairs inside Chautauqua Tower at Glen Echo, my heart simply stood still. I have struggled to find the words to complete this entry because I connected with these images in a place of my soul where words dare not go. I feel I’m perpetrating a sort of betrayal by condensing, reducing what I felt so it can fit this page.

Such delicate, precarious balance of stone upon stone and symbiotic alliance of light and shadow. Light does not dispel shadow, it instead lends it purpose and beauty. So I stood in front of this image and the let the waves wash over me: turbulence and rest; unanswered questions and faith; imbalance and adventure; a desire to understand and a beckoning to embrace ambiguity.

I met the artist briefly as I pulled him away from his book with questions about what had been his inspiration; I wish now that I had not made him do that. He did suggest that my friend and I visit another building, which also contained his work. It was there that I read his story written in an article for the Gazette.

After graduation from the Maryland Institute College of Art, J Jordan Bruns sold everything he owned and traveled the United States in an old Subaru, combining his love of illustration and painting as he journeyed. He arrived at the University of Indiana proud of his landscapes and eager to display what he’d created.

His professors called his work hotel art and told him to concentrate on painting or illustration, but not both. Within the first year, he was on probation. Ignored by his peers and his mentors, he put aside the landscapes and began working on abstract pieces that more closely expressed his heart.

During this time, he succumbed to an inexplicable illness: he gained 40 pounds, sometimes couldn’t understand what people were saying to him, and had no answers from his doctors. After a wearing struggle of six years to regain his health, a doctor finally found and removed the tumor that had been plaguing him.

In control of his faculties and body once more, he has spent the last three years working on the exhibit I saw, Living Stones. Bruns believes that there is “a kind of beauty in the destruction and renewal process.”

I agree.

(PS) See all the artist's works by clicking on the image at the top or here.

Beyond Words

2009-03-02T13:26:00.000-05:00

I found this image at deviantart.com. I won't even attempt to tell you why I like it so much. Like all the other things in today's post: it is beyond words.

L'Appuntamento
As I looked for this song, I found a site with the English translation of the lyrics. I navigated quickly away from the page. I don't want to know what the words mean, at least not yet. I want to concentrate on the beauty of her voice and music, which transcend the boundaries of language. The song is L'Appuntamento, sung here in Italian by the original artist, Ornella Vanoni. If you think it sounds familiar, it's because the song was used in one of the first scenes of Ocean's Twelve.

Dawn Mist
Another example of something that does not need my words, lifted shamelessly from one of the blogs I follow (http://oneloosenut.blogspot.com). I'll reserve my commentary, save an entreaty for you to click on the image so you can be blessed by the rest of Michael's work, just as I have been! The photograph is titled Dawn Mist and was taken recently in Upstate NY.

Hello, Kitty

2009-02-25T00:52:00.000-05:00

My cat somehow always knows when I’m not doing well.

In deference to my delicate condition, she retracts her claws, stops growling at the sound of my voice, doesn’t try to bite me when I fill her food bowl, and does other little acts of kindness and endearments. Tonight, she hopped up on my lap, allowed me to touch her for about 10 seconds, and gazed upon me with mild disdain instead of open hostility. Oh, how she loves me!

You may scoff, but a recent study shows that cat owners are less likely to die from heart attacks and other cardiovascular diseases. This does not surprise me: I get a lot of exercise dodging Baby’s claws. Cat lovers, the study explains, have less stress and anxiety levels (living in abject fear is invigorating, not stressful).

Another study asserts that cat owners live longer. Since I’m afraid to go to sleep at night, I know my baby has certainly added life to my years! I would have gotten a lot of things done with these extra hours, it’s just that Baby can’t sleep unless she’s on top of whatever book I’m trying to read or the keyboard as I try to type. I must respect her needs, as her exasperated sighs constantly remind me.

If you have heard disparaging comments, it is only because Baby’s enemies have mounted a relentless smear campaign. Why should she be blamed when people do not understand the mischievous nature of her hissing? The dilated pupils? The better to see you, my dear… The lashing tail? The ears flattened against her head? The way she pounces on you, leaping several feet in the air as her fangs try to reach your throat? Good-natured teasing, nothing more!

I know there are those who do not understand our relationship—and the sadistic few (one!) who have offered to throw her off my third-story balcony.

But she brings me joy. And I love her with the whole of my heart because she is mine. This denotes not possession, but belonging.

I had a truly horrible week last week. Feeling pathetic and battered, I needed a place to weather the storm. I found my refuge here: But now this is what the LORD says…Fear not, for I have redeemed you; I have summoned you by name; you are mine. (Isa. 43:1).

At my best and (especially) at my worst and my weakest, the truest thing about who I am is that I am loved. Passionately. Recklessly.

I've Learned My Lesson

2009-02-17T07:47:00.000-05:00

I’d like to jump on the “he’s-not-that-into-you-bandwagon” – mostly because I've already done so much research on this topic!

My Freshman year at AUC, my heart belonged unequivocally to one remarkable young man. If memory serves, he was a Junior that year. I was a tiny nameless speck in his peripheral vision (the left side). And he….well, he was absolutely perfect. I don’t actually remember what it was that made him so desirable (he drove a motorcycle), but I’m sure I was attracted to his intellect (he wore a leather jacket) and charisma (it was a brown leather jacket).

My only memory of him places both of us at the cafeteria and I remember it as vividly as if it had happened yesterday (well, maybe week before last). I was sitting with my best friend, in a chair picked because it gave me a particularly advantageous look at the back of his head. This was not a decision made lightly and several chairs were tried and rejected before finding the perfect one.

When he finished his meal, before my heart could steel itself, he stood and began walking in my direction (it was also the direction of the exit). When he passed me, without looking at me (the emphasis here is important so go back and read that again), he tapped my table twice and kept going.

My heart soared.

At seventeen and in love, there were several ways that the table tapping could be interpreted. For the next few days, I examined all of them: he knew I existed! It was only a matter of time before I would bump into him (at the library, maybe) and I’d saucily tap the table where he sat. I’d lean in close and seductively say something memorable: “um….remember the day you tapped my table at the cafeteria” (OK I’d have to work on that.) Anyway, then he would turn his complete attention over to the periphery and we’d live happily ever after. (Our children would be cross-eyed, but sometimes you have to pay a price for true love.)

Of course, I’m a grown-up now. And I have learned the hard way—a text message where he casually mentions his whereabouts later is not the same thing as a date! When he calls because he’s bored, it’s not the same thing as calling because he wants to hear the sound of my voice! Telling me I’m such a good pal is not the same thing as wanting to spend time with me!

I get it: he’s just not that into me!

(But if he only turned to a little to the left….)

On the Road

2009-02-16T08:16:00.000-05:00

There’s a map sitting on top of the passenger seat, so if I really had to, I can figure out what town I’m in. But I don’t want to.

There are better ways to define the place where I find myself than through the banality of naming it.

For starters, I can see the ocean and despite the chilly wind, I’ve rolled down the windows so I can hear the waves. Ahead of me is the promise and certainty of a sunrise over an endless expanse of water. Behind me, the tyrannical “to do” list and the sense of my own importance.

I am alone, save for my thoughts and the crooners I brought for company: Sinatra, Bublé, Jones, Coltrane, Fitzgerald. To them I owe the languidness of my mood as I drive, unrushed, to my final destination: no place in particular.

I’ll recognize it when I get there: it is where “I should be” recedes long enough for me to be reacquainted with “I am.”

Sunday Night

2009-02-16T08:09:00.000-05:00

I had the pan-seared, almond crusted salmon, presented prettily on a bed of rice and sautéed vegetables, zucchini and broccoli mostly. The chef had not overcooked the vegetables, as so many places do, and they still held their shape and crispness—this alone made me overlook the fact that they were a bit salty. The almonds made the salmon crunchy on the outside, but the inside was flaky and well done. The whole thing was drizzled with a decadent blueberry sauce (yes, blueberry), a surprising complement to the other flavors.

The meal was remarkable not just because I was eating seafood.

I remember once when I watched a friend prepare the coffee he’d ordered after our meal. Into the steaming cup went the contents of about 20 little containers of cream and an equal amount of packets of sugar. After watching him prepare this concoction I asked him if he’d ever considered that maybe he didn’t really like the taste of coffee.

So this is my problem with seafood: it tastes like fish.

Balanced with the sweet blueberry sauce and the tangy vegetables, this particular salmon was actually just “fishy” enough. Which was pleasant, but not remarkable.

What makes this meal noteworthy is that it is the first time I have ever enjoyed eating out alone. I’m not sure when or how the transformation took place since I’m pretty sure this was no gradual thing. The last time I had to eat in public solitude I’d been too uncomfortable to enjoy the food, and I’d sought safety behind the pages of a novel I’d bought for just such a cowardly act. I had not anticipated that this time would be any different, so I had come prepared with my book in tow. A sturdy hardback nearly 500 pages strong to shield me from curious onlookers and my own fearfulness.

I didn’t give myself any sort of pep talk before going into the restaurant; but I did begin to grow suspicious when the usual nervous butterflies didn’t follow me to the table the hostess led me to. Per my usual ritual I opened the book almost immediately after being seated. However, when the waitress came to take the order for my drink, I found myself looking around in interest instead of rushing back to the shelter of the written word.

The Chili Pepper is not a restaurant that is going to wind up on the pages of The New York Times food section. The bar was five steps from the front door and the dining room consisted of no more than small 15 tables (some of them pushed together). The walls had murals painted with bright colors depicting scenes of some decorator’s idea of the idyllic Mexican countryside and people.

I returned to my book out of a genuine desire to deepen the relationship I’d started with the author. When the food came, I politely asked P. W. Singer to wait while I ate…no, actually, savored the fare that the waitress had brought. I can’t say that I thought about anything in particular, just the same sort of stream of consciousness prattle that’s usually in my head and amusement over my newfound confidence.

I know this doesn’t sound like much, but there’s a whole new set of experiences that awaits me now that I find I can enjoy a meal alone. The jazz café on the top floor of the Kennedy Center and the mystery dinner theatre where guests can help solve the murder, these are now open to me!

I told Frank all about it when I got in the car on the way back to my hotel. But he was too busy singing about asking Joe for “one [drink] for my baby and one more for the road” to pay much attention to me.

That’s why I’m telling you.

Anonymous Intimacy

2009-02-13T07:31:00.000-05:00

There is in all of us a desire for relationship, a hunger to be known. And so important is man’s need to belong that exile from one’s country is recognized to be among the worst punishments a society can inflict upon an individual. To gain community, desperate souls have given up freedom, property, even their lives. Created in the image of a triune God means we were created for connection and community. But so much stands in the way.

The fear of rejection and the real possibility of betrayal keep most of us silent when our hearts long to shout. Painful memories from the past hold us captive convincing us that intimacy is too risky. As we grow older we become more cynical, hold on with more tenacity to the masks we wear, and call it all maturity. When new people enter our lives, we weigh our options carefully: how much to reveal, how deep to trust. Gone is the recklessness with which we used to love, if ever it was present. Caution is our new religion.

My own life is filled with plenty of evidence from this great struggle: the yearning for closeness balanced against the need for prudence.

So today I want to acknowledge and thank those who are brave on my behalf. Artists, musicians, writers whose creations are self revelation, not merely self expression. Their works reach parts of me I don’t often share with others. I cannot count the number of times I have been immersed in a book, or an image, or a song that grabs me and won’t let go. There are words that have shaped me as surely as any personal experience. There are times when the pages of a book have reduced me to tears and then built me up again.

To those whose creativity comes at a price, thank you:

How can you know how indelibly you have touched my life? In all likelihood we will never meet and yet you struggle and strain (in part) for me. I’m sure there are days that leave you breathless and weak, times when your own heart is torn apart by fear and doubt.

All your strength and vulnerability poured out so that we might live (if only for a moment) in the oneness for which we were created. Through your craft, I am lifted out of myself and bound up in community. We stand, intimate strangers, held together by the truths that sustain us and a commonality of experience.

If ever there are times when this sacred act of creation becomes tedious and mundane, please think of me—a life, a heart you have already transformed by your courageous act of love.

The Most Dangerous Game

2009-02-11T07:50:00.000-05:00

I've only been hunting once in my life.

Lost in my thoughts, I waited in silence and suspended disbelief: my fingers gripping the cold metal—would I have to courage to act when the time came? The frigid air ripped through me with each breath I took. The steady beat of my own blood pounding in my ears mocked me: coward!

Although it was not yet dusk, the woods were dark. Fitting, I thought, considering our darker purpose. Nature was protecting her own; I could hear the disdain in her voice as she greeted us. The trees all but ignored me as I trod carefully among them, head down, eyes scanning earnestly for signs of our quarry. Was it too late to seek reconciliation, to shrug off the role of predator? Perhaps the sun would shine again once I explained how innocently I had been swept up in the scheme when it had first been proposed, how I had not really considered that my adversary would be defenseless, how I did not mean to insult or injure the friend that so many times had granted me solace and peace.

But how could I face my friends with these childish thoughts? No, the grand adventure must be faced, endured…conquered.

There! In the underbrush! In one moment it would all be decided—I must find the courage!

With a burst of energy, I bellowed the cry my guides had taught me and my hands of their own accord deftly handled the flashlight. The remorse and moral dilemmas were pushed away by the rush of adrenaline: I was acting purely as an instinctive animal now.

But I failed. There was only emptiness.

To this day, I am haunted by memories of that elusive snipe.

Not a Question....Just a Thought

2009-02-09T23:05:00.000-05:00

Even in solitude and silence, my heart finds it hard to be still. There’s a vague restlessness that comes from relying only, always, on myself. It’s amazing, isn’t it, that the same voices that taunt me with condemnation and insults about my inadequacy are also the sirens convincing me that I am capable of being in control, that if I just try a little harder….

I was looking at the balance of power between God the Father and Jesus. Of Himself, Jesus said both that He does nothing without the consent of His Father and that all authority in heaven and on earth had been granted to Him.

In John 5, Jesus explains that it is the Father who is the source of all authority and who willingly has granted that authority to His Son, giving Jesus the power to give life and to judge. Jesus then gives that authority back to the Father by committing to doing nothing of His own accord and by sharing the authority to His followers.

So my desire for control of my life is a distortion… a reaching out for what God freely offers but bypassing the Giver.

Authority granted in the context of worship and service?

The Father gives the Son power, glory, and authority and in the giving He is Himself glorified. Jesus takes the glory and shares it: “I have given them the glory that you gave me that they might be one” (John 17:22). And in the giving, “…glory has come to me through them.” (John 17:10).

The glory flows downward, then. Not glory or authority that I give up….but glory and authority that I receive.

Hmmm….