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 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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.