Favorite Anne Quotations

"The nicest and sweetest days are not those on which anything very splendid or wonderful or exciting happens, but just those that bring simple little pleasures, following one another softly, like pearls slipping off a string.” -Anne of Avonlea

"Perhaps, after all, romance did not come into one's life with pomp and blare, like a knight riding down; perhaps it crept to one's side like an old friend through quiet ways; perhaps it revealed itself in seeming prose, until some sudden shaft of illumination flung athwart its pages betrayed the rhythm and the music, perhaps. . . perhaps love unfolded naturally out of a beautiful friendship, as a golden-hearted rose slipping from the green earth. ” -Anne of the Island

The Undercurrent

I found this on a blog (http://laurenmhughes.com/) and liked it:

"Sometimes life – the situations you find yourself in, the people you find yourself around – makes it easy to forget that love is real. I think sometimes the things we forget the most easily are the things we’ve always known – the things we take for granted. Love is definitely one of those things.

Love is in the details. It’s the undercurrent to everything, sometimes it feels like it’s not there – but it is. It’s always there. Love is in forgiveness and fidelity. It’s in patience and perseverance. It’s in (constructive) criticism and compassion. It’s in honesty. It’s in the here and now. It’s certainly in the hereafter.

Love is that swelling in your chest when you walk outside and the sky is blue and the temperature is a perfect seventy-two and the wind blows across your face and your favorite song comes on your iPod and you think, YES. THIS IS IT. Love is when you wake up at seven in the morning when you don’t have to be up until ten to drive someone wherever they need to go. Love is answering a late night phone call long after you’ve gotten under the covers. Love is in the letters – the three page letters that you write because you just can’t seem to say the right things out loud. Love is in the listening – really listening - to all the stupid jokes, outrageous opinions, senseless rants, and random facts. Love is in the reading  – really reading - all the texts, emails, academic papers, and amateur book manuscripts. Love is in the talking – really talking - about ideas, opinions, wants, needs, and insecurities. Love, once it takes hold, is in the everything – the eyes, the lips, the touch – and it’s hard to disguise. It’s not easily suppressed. It doesn’t go away.

Because it is the undercurrent, love is everywhere. Even in the dark. A lot of people say that it isn’t – that love can only exist in the light – but they’re wrong. Love can be found in the darkest of places, too. You just have to look for it and, more often than not, it’s right there in front of you. Sometimes you realize it just in time, sometimes you don’t. But that doesn’t mean it wasn’t there all along – waiting to be acknowledged, waiting to be appreciated, waiting to be embraced. It doesn’t mean that love doesn’t exist.

Love is real. The realest thing in the entire world. In the light, in the dark. It always exists. But only when you let it – and, the thing is, you have to let it. It’s the only way to really live."

Haiku Poems

Shelby and I played a game today where we texted back and forth Haiku poems. We would take the last line of the other's poem and make it the first line of our next one. Here is what we came up with.

The first blue Iris
sprouts up on the mountain side.
rain drops fall harder.
. . .
Rain drops fall harder
on the crusted wood railing
Porch swing is empty

. . .
Porch swing is empty
as the pale clouds disband
Morning will soon break
. . .
Morning will soon break
The orange trees are in full bloom,
Blossoms fall in the dew
. . .
Blossoms fall in the dew
aglow in fractured light.
The lark sweetly sings.
. . .
The lark sweetly sings
in the dusty twilight hour.
Haze falls over hills.
. . .
Haze falls over hills
The tinge of night advances.
The screen door latches.
. . .
The screen door latches
And thunder rolls in heavy,
hot lightening splits the sky

A Good Reminder

“But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, forbearance, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control."

I want a simple life. I want to appreciate the sound of rain, and eat tart apples in the fall. I want to garden on Saturdays, getting dark dirt under my fingernails and watering the lawn in long summer twilights. I want to look at stars, and I want to bundle up and go to the snow on a whim. I want to play basketball in the front yard, and draw chalk on the driveway, and take long drives down windy roads. I want to cry without fear, I want to dance to shake off a funky mood. I want to pick shapes out of clouds, lying in ticklish grass and squinting against sunshine. I want to smile a lot, looking into the interesting faces of my students, kids who have their own stories to tell. I want to hear those stories. I want a kitty who purrs on my lap, a tea kettle that whistles and a fireplace that burns bright all winter. I want to read good books, and think strange new thoughts, and journal in a comfy chair. I want to find spots along the river where I can be alone. I want to give baths to my babies, with their dimpled fingers and crooked teeth and sweet-smelling hair. I want to make pies, and make a big deal out of birthdays and Christmas. I want to drink ice tea on the porch, I want to make pillows out of lavender. I want to talk over red wine with friends on a week night. I want to take the dog on walks after dinner and I want to sing along to music in the car. I want to eat Chinese food on the floor, and I want to be sarcastic and wear my pajamas on a rainy day. I want to lug books around in my purse, and ride into cities on trains. I want to get dressed up for dinners and have candles in all the corners of my house. I want to sit on beaches and I want to chew fruity gum. I want to write stories that bring the characters in my head to life. I want to love fiercely and long.

Promises.

“Praise the Lord, you are my God; I will exalt you and praise your name, for in perfect faithfulness you have done wonderful things, things planned long ago.”
The Sovereign Lord will wipe away the tears from all faces; he will remove his people’s disgrace from all the earth. The Lord has spoken. In that day they will say, “Surely this is our God; we trusted in him, and he saved us. This is the Lord, we trusted in him; let us rejoice and be glad in his salvation.” -Isaiah 25

5 things

Five things I'm jonesing to do, but can't until I settle down:

1. Start taking piano lessons again

2. Start taking dance classes again (and also, I want to learn how to line dance and ballroom dance).

3. Learn how to quilt, and take up crocheting again

4. Start learning Spanish again

5. Take a gourmet cooking class

Quiet Corral

"Feeling low, feeling low

Like lead in my bones

Feeling low, feeling low

But I'll follow hope

Underneath each stream is a traveled gravel road."

-Quiet Corral

I went into downtown Hollywood to hear this band this week. This quotation is part of a song that I really loved called "The River." It was about change, and about feeling swept along, unsure of where you're going. But it also talks about how there's something hopeful in the swift current of the stream, a constant aspect to its flow. Sometimes I feel so swept up and along, but if I follow hope, I'll realize that underneath my feet I'm really on solid ground that's been traveled many times before.

I really liked this band. Extremely talented, cute boys from Kansas who don't have any notion of fame, but just love their art. They were kind and humble and happy, with an innocence that did not mar maturity. They made me appreciate the simplicity of being alive -- that we get to experience beauty and express that beauty through music... painting... writing... to give to others, for no other reason than God is good.

phosphenes (n.): "the stars and colors you see when you rub your eyes."

Letters on a Sunny Day

Dear alarm clock, I'm glad I didn't have to set you for too early this morning.

Dear new skirt, thank you for being flowy and cute.

Dear sunshine, you make my cold toes warm.

Dear Harry Potter, in just 2 days I will own all 7 of your books and my life will be complete.

Dear mochas, you are good for both sunny and cloudy days.

Dear homework, I hate you. It's the truth, I'm sorry to be harsh.

Dear Amanda, I love our Grey's Anatomy dates. I look forward to them all week.

Dear Burt's Bees chapstick, I dig you.

Dear small children, how is it possible to be that cute?

Dear Bing Crosby, I like to whistle along to your music.

Dear fridge, I'm sorry I left your door partially open all day. I was in a hurry this morning.

Dear February, why is the weather so warm? I'm not complaining, but I'm just sayin'.

Dear Auntie, I love our bookclub. Hemmingway is the shiz.

Dear new shampoo, I like the way you smell.

Dear country music, you are great for driving with the windows down.

Dear future husband, can we dance in our jammies when we're old and married? And build forts in the living room?

Dear Pinterest, thank you for getting me through tonight's class.

Dear besties, I am lucky to have you.

Dear Bones (aka Dr. Brennan), I wish I was as badass as you.

Dear Italy, I'm glad you're a place.

Dear Amazon, will you please just ship my textbook already? It's been a month.

Dear candles, you make my apartment smell delicioso.

Dear Oscars, you picked some good movies this season.

Dear mountains and pine trees, I miss you.

Dear pancakes, you've been an excellent midnight snack these past few nights.

Dear sisters, "you complete me."

Dear football, never thought I'd say this, but you're growing on me.

Dear Khloe Kardashian, I can't help it, I think you're hilarious.

Dear sweatpants, I wish I didn't ever have to take you off.

Dear Tim Riggins, I am madly in love with you.

Dear chocolate, you're a life saver. But then again, you already knew that, didn't you?

Dear bobbypins, how do you manage to get all over my apartment?

Dear complexity, you are over-rated.

Dear Beauty & the Beast, you're even better in 3D.

Dear Thursday, how do you like being the day before Friday? I think that makes you pretty cool.

Dear Sylvie the car, I promise to wash you soon. Right now you look brown and white polk-a-dotted.

"That is part of the beauty of literature. You discover that your longings are universal longings, that you're not lonely or isolated from anyone. You belong."

-F. Scott Fitzgerald

Micah 6:8

“He has shown you, O mortal, what is good. And what does the Lord require of you? To act justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with your God.”

Changing the Educational Paradigm

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zDZFcDGpL4U

Check out this animation, and the commentary on today's education. Couldn't agree more.

Wisdom from Ecclesiastes

So my heart began to despair over all my toilsome labor under the sun. For a person may labor with wisdom, knowledge and skill, and then they must leave all they own to another who has not toiled for it. This too is meaningless. What do people get for all the toil and anxious striving with which they labor under the sun? All their days their work is grief and pain; even at night their minds do not rest. This too is meaningless.
A person can do nothing better than to eat and drink and find satisfaction in their own toil. This too, I see, is from the hand of God, for without him, who can eat or find enjoyment? To the person who pleases him, God gives wisdom, knowledge and happiness, but to the sinner he gives the task of gathering and storing up wealth to hand it over to the one who pleases God.

What do workers gain from their toil? I have seen the burden God has laid on the human race. He has made everything beautiful in its time. He has also set eternity in the human heart; yet no one can fathom what God has done from beginning to end. I know that there is nothing better for people than to be happy and to do good while they live. That each of them may eat and drink, and find satisfaction in all their toil—this is the gift of God.

From Bel Canto

Excerpt from "Bel Canto" by Anne Patchett. I loved the whole book, but this part particularly stood out to me. I like that it beautifully expresses the importance of art.

"Fyodorov began his story, putting himself in the mind of Russia and his childhood, the dark switchback staircase that led up to the apartment where his family lived. He bent his shoulders towards Roxane. He wondered what direction Russia was from where he sat.

'When I was a boy, the city was called Leningrad, but you know this. In those days, we all lived together, Mother and Father, my two brothers, my grandmother, who was my mother's mother. It was my grandmother who had the book of paintings. It was a massive thing.' Fyodorov held up his hands to mark the dimensions of the book in the air. If he was to be believed, it was an enormous book.

'She told us it was given to her by an admirer from Europe when she was a girl of fifteen, a man she called Julian. If that is true, I do not know. My grandmother was one for telling stories. Even more than how she came by the book, how she managed to hold onto it through the war remains a great mystery to me. That she did not try and sell it or burn it for fuel, because there was a time when people would burn anything, that it was not taken from her as it would have been a difficult thing to hide, all of these things are remarkable.

But when I was a boy, it was many years past the war and she was an old woman. We did not go to museums to look at paintings in those days. We would walk past the Winter Palace, a marvelous place, but then we did not go inside. I imagine there was not the money for such things.

But in the evenings, my grandmother brought out her book and told my brothers and me to go and wash our hands. I was not allowed to even touch the pages until I was ten, but still I washed my hands just for the privilege of looking. She kept it wrapped in a quilt under the sofa in the living room where she slept. She struggled to carry it, but would let no one help her. When she was certain the table was clean we would put the quilt with the book inside it on the table and slowly unfold the quilt. Then she would sit down. She was a small woman, and we stood beside her. She was very particular about the light over the table. It couldn't be too strong because she was afraid of fading the colors, and it couldn't be so weak that she felt the painting could not be fully comprehended. She wore white cotton gloves that were perfectly plain and saved for only this occasion and she turned the pages while we watched. Can you imagine this?

I will not say we were terribly poor because we were as rich or poor as everyone else. Our apartment was small, my brothers and I shared a bed. Our family was no different from the other families in our building except for this book. So extraordinary a thing was this book. "Masters of the Impressionist Period" it was called. No one knew we had it. We were never allowed to speak of it because my grandmother was afraid someone would try to take it away from her.

The paintings were by Pissarro, Bonnard, van Gogh, Monet, Manet, Cezanne, hundreds of paintings. The colors we saw at night while she turned the pages were miraculous. Every painting we were to study. Every one she said was something that deserved great consideration. There were nights that she only turned two pages and I'm sure it was a year before I had seen the book in its entirety. It was an extremely good book, I think, expertly done. Certainly, I have not seen the originals of all the painting, but the ones I saw years later looked very much the way I had remembered them.

My grandmother told us she spoke French in her youth and she would read to us as best she could remember the text beneath the plates. Of course she was making it up because the stories would change. Not that it mattered. They were beautiful stories. 'This is the field where van Gogh painted sunflowers,' she would say. 'All day he sat in the hot sun beneath the blue skies. When the white clouds curled past he would remember them for future paintings and here on this canvas he placed those clouds.'
This is the way she spoke to us, pretending she was reading. Sometimes she would read for twenty minutes when there was only a few lines of text. She would say that was because French was a much more complicated language than Russian and that every word contained several sentences' worth of meaning.

There were so many paintings to consider. It was many, many years before I had memorized all of them. Even now, I could tell you the number of haystacks in the field and from which direction the light is coming.' Fyodorov stopped to catch his breath. He took the opportunity to think of the people around the table: his grandmother, now dead, his mother and father, dead, his youngest brother Dimitri, drowned in a fishing accident at the age of twenty-one. There was only him and his brother Mikal left now.

'Every now and then she wouldn't bring out the book at all. She would say she was tired. She would say that so much beauty hurt her. Sometimes a week or even two would pass. No Seurat! I remember feeling almost frantic, such a dependency I had come to feel for those paintings. But it was the rest from it, the waiting that made us love the book so madly.

I could have had one life, but instead I had another because of this book my grandmother protected,' Fyodorov said, his voice quieter now. 'What a miracle is that? I was taught to love beautiful things. I had a language in which to consider beauty. Later that extended to opera, the the ballet, to architecture I saw, and even later still I came to realize that what I had seen in the paintings, I could see in the fields or a river. I could see it in people. All of that, I attribute to this book.

Towards the end of her life, she could not pick it up at all and she sent me to get it. Her hands shook so, she was afraid of tearing the paper and so she let us turn the pages. My hands were too large for her gloves by then, but she showed me how to use them between my fingers like a cloth so I could keep everything clean.' Fyodorov sighed.

'My brother has the book now. He is a doctor outside of Moscow. Every few years, we hand it off to each other. Neither of us could do without it completely. I have tried to find another copy, but I believe there is no other book like this in the world.
It was a tragedy to my grandmother that none of us showed a talent for painting. But it was not something I was capable of learning. My brothers and I were all excellent observers. Some people are born to make great art and others are born to appreciate it. Don't you think? It is a kind of talent in itself, to be an audience, whether you are the spectator in the gallery or you are listening to the voice of the world's greatest soprano. Not everyone can be the artist. There have to be those who witness the art, who love and appreciate what they have been privileged to see."

A Celebration

I'm a creature of habit. A traditionalist. I like the familiar, the comfort found in certain routines. I order the same food at restaurants, I listen to the same CD every year when I decorate the Christmas tree, I've had "creamy chicken pasta" on my birthday basically since I could chew, I've seen "You've Got Mail" more times than I can count, and my favorite books are absolutely falling apart from being read to death. I like having a knowable pattern and rhythm to my days.
However, I keep hitting these pockets of change. And I'm me, so of course, I'm always resistant to it.
But the more I think about it, I think God must purposefully weave change into our lives because it's good for us. Sometimes the change is hard, like selling the house you grew up in, or when a best friend gets married and moves to another state. This is why I'm probably wary of the unfamiliar. It always seems to hold loss.
And I'm in a state of change right now. I had a really hard time at first. But, somehow, someway, I'm finding I'm enjoying it. As I've been thrown into a new season, I'm seeing clearly for the first time just how stagnant parts of my life had become.
Familiar is still good. Nothing wrong with tradition or loyalty or even the comfort of certain routines. But in order for growth, there must be change. Super obvious, I know. I know. But for some reason, it hit home for me this last week.
There have been hard parts of the transition. Yet, the bittersweet aspect of change is just that -- both bitter and yet sweet. Sometimes I guess I need the bitter to bring out the sweet. Like the quiet kid in one of my summer classes who ran back on the last day of class to say "I will miss you, Miss Miller!" If I hadn't been moving on, he might not have said anything and I would have missed out on that lovely moment.
It's so human nature to realize exactly what you have right before you're moving on. All those memories hit me and it becomes even harder to let go. But I've been taking things for granted, and this reminds me not to. I'm also full of hope that the new, upcoming season of life will be an adventure. I'm not done growing and being stretched -- and I was not smart for thinking I was, for becoming too complacent. I need change. I need it just as much as I do the comfort of the familiar.
Think about it. God's built in change all around. The subtle shift of seasons-- the first frost or that first long day of the summer. The key change and crescendo in a song that gives chills. Graduations, marriages, deaths, births.
When you gain something new, you often lose something. But even in the loss, there is hope. For me, there's hope of a new job, a renewed friendship, a chance to explore a new place, living on my own, becoming alive again in certain areas of my life, being placed as a servant in someones life...
I'm realizing some changes are worth celebrating.

Johnny Lingo and His Eight Cow Wife

Many things can change a woman.

"When I sailed to Kiniwata, an island in the Pacific, I took along a notebook. After I got back it was filled with descriptions of flora and fauna, native customs and costume. But the only note that still interests me is the one that says: "Johnny Lingo gave eight cows to Sarita’s father." And I don’t need to have it in writing. I’m reminded of it every time I see a woman belittling her husband or a wife withering under her husband’s scorn. I want to say to them, "You should know why Johnny Lingo paid eight cows for his wife."
Johnny Lingo wasn’t exactly his name. But that’s what Shenkin, the manager of the guest house on Kiniwata, called him. Shenkin was from Chicago and had a habit of Americanizing the names of the islanders. But Johnny was mentioned by many people in many connections. If I wanted to spend a few days on the neighboring island of Nurabandi, Johnny Lingo would put me up. If I wanted to fish he could show me where the biting was best. If it was pearls I sought, he would bring the best buys. The people of Kiniwata all spoke highly of Johnny Lingo. Yet when they spoke they smiled, and the smiles were slightly mocking.
"Get Johnny Lingo to help you find what you want and let him do the bargaining," advised Shenkin. "Johnny knows how to make a deal."
"Johnny Lingo!" A boy seated nearby hooted the name and rocked with laughter.
"What goes on?" I demanded. "Everybody tells me to get in touch with Johnny Lingo and then breaks up. Let me in on the joke."
"Oh, the people like to laugh," Shenkin said, shrugging. "Johnny's the brightest, the strongest young man in the islands, and for his age, the richest."
"But if he’s all you say, what is there to laugh about?"
"Only one thing. Five months ago, at fall festival, Johnny came to Kiniwata and found himself a wife. He paid her father eight cows!
I knew enough about island customs to be impressed. Two or three cows would buy a fair-to-middling wife, four or five a highly satisfactory one. "Good Lord!" I said, "Eight cows! She must have beauty that takes your breath away."
"She’s not ugly," he conceded, and smiled a little. "But the kindest could only call Sarita plain. Sam Karoo, her father, was afraid she’d be left on his hands."
"But then he got eight cows for her? Isn’t that extraordinary?"
"Never been paid before."
"Yet you call Johnny’s wife plain?"
"I said it would be kindness to call her plain. She was skinny. She walked with her shoulders hunched and her head ducked. She was scared of her own shadow."
"Well," I said, "I guess there’s just no accounting for love."
"True enough," agreed the man. "And that’s why the villagers grin when they talk about Johnny. They get special satisfaction from the fact that the sharpest trader in the islands was bested by dull old Sam Karoo."
"But how?"
"No one knows and everyone wonders. All the cousins were urging Sam to ask for three cows and hold out for two until he was sure Johnny’d pay only one. Then Johnny came to Sam Karoo and said, ‘Father of Sarita, I offer eight cows for your daughter.’"
"Eight cows," I murmured. "I’d like to meet this Johnny Lingo."

I wanted fish and I wanted pearls, so the next afternoon I beached my boat at Nurabandi. And I noticed as I asked directions to Johnny’s house that his name brought no sly smile to the lips of his fellow Nurabandians. And when I met the slim, serious young man, when he welcomed me with grace to his home, I was glad that from his own people he had respect unmingled with mockery. We sat in his house and talked. Then he asked, "You come here from Kiniwata?"
"Yes."
"They speak of me on that island?"
"They say there’s nothing I might want that you can’t help me get."
He smiled gently. "My wife is from Kiniwata."
"Yes, I know."
"They speak of her?"
"A little."
"What do they say?"
"Why, just..." The question caught me off balance. "They told me you were married at festival time."
"Nothing more?" The curve of his eyebrows told me he knew there had to be more.
"They also say the marriage settlement was eight cows." I paused.
"They wonder why."
"They ask that?" His eyes lightened with pleasure. "Everyone in Kiniwata knows about the eight cows?"
I nodded.
"And in Nurabandi everyone knows it too." His chest expanded with satisfaction. "Always and forever, when they speak of marriage settlements, it will be remembered that Johnny Lingo paid eight cows for Sarita."
So that’s the answer, I thought: vanity.
And then I saw her. I watched her enter the room to place flowers on the table. She stood still a moment to smile at the young man beside me. Then she went swiftly out again. She was the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. The lift of her shoulders, the tilt of her chin the sparkle of her eyes all spelled a pride to which no one could deny her the right. I turned back to Johnny Lingo and found him looking at me. "You admire her?" he murmured.
"She...she’s glorious. But she’s not Sarita from Kiniwata," I said.
"There’s only one Sarita. Perhaps she does not look the way they say she looked in Kiniwata."
"She doesn’t. I heard she was homely. They all make fun of you because you let yourself be cheated by Sam Karoo."
"You think eight cows were too many?" A smile slid over his lips.
"No. But how can she be so different?"
"Do you ever think," he asked, "what it must mean to a woman to know that her husband has settled on the lowest price for which she can be bought? And then later, when the women talk, they boast of what their husbands paid for them. One says four cows, another maybe six. How does she feel, the woman who was sold for one or two? This could not happen to my Sarita."
"Then you did this just to make your wife happy?"
"I wanted Sarita to be happy, yes. But I wanted more than that. You say she is different, this is true. Many things can change a woman. Things that happen inside, things that happen outside. But the thing that matters most is what she thinks about herself. In Kiniwata, Sarita believed she was worth nothing. Now she knows she is worth more than any other woman in the islands."
"Then you wanted--"
"I wanted to marry Sarita. I loved her and no other woman."
"But —" I was close to understanding.
"But," he finished softly, "I wanted an eight-cow wife."

In Time of Silver Rain

"In time of silver rain
The earth puts forth new life again
Green grasses grow
And flowers life their heads
And all over the plain, the wonder spreads
Of life, of life of life

In the time of silver rain
The butterflies lift silken wings
To catch a rainbow cry
And trees put forth new leaves to sing
In joy beneath the sky
As down the roadway
Passing girls and boys go singing too
In the time of silver rain
When spring and life are new"

--Langston Hughes

A Prayer: Psalm 20

May the LORD answer you when you are in distress;
May the name of the God of Jacob protect you.
May he send you help from the sanctuary
and grant you support from Zion.
May he remember all your sacrifices
and accept your burnt offerings.
May he grant you the desires of your heart
and make all your plans succeed.
May we shout for joy over your victory
and lift up our banners in the name of our God.

May the Lord grant all your requests.

Now this I know:
The Lord gives victory to his anointed.
He answers him from his heavenly sanctuary
with the victorious power of his right hand.
Some trust in chariots and some in horses,
but we trust in the name of the Lord our God.
They are brought to their knees and fall,
but we rise up and stand firm.

Lord, answer us when we call!

Optimism: A Reflection on College

I've been studying Flannery O'Connor quite a lot lately for school. I taught a class on four of her short stories this last Monday. I chose her as the author for my teaching day because the first time I read her, I didn't know what to do with her. Her stories are all stunningly beautiful and interesting and –– as any writer knows –– brilliant. But they are sad and violent and strange. They made me think.

Maybe what makes them so good is that they're so . . . real. Christians don't always like to look at the ugliness of the world. We don't like to see the sin and pain or anything too jarring.
I've been like that most of my life. I would toss away any story with a slightly unhappy ending, completely frustrated by it. I would fall apart at the first sign of struggle, tension or heartbreak in my life. I was that girl that believed in prince charming and sunny days and a life that was like a movie –– a happy one with good music, of course.

But then, I got a little bit older. There were fights. There was bad heartbreak. There was rejection. There was failure. There was sickness and fear. There was disappointment. There was stress and money problems. I don't exactly think I'd been stupid before –– I just hadn't come up against it at once before. I couldn't understand why my optimistic, romantic view of life wasn't panning out. What if I let people down? What if I fail at this job? Why doesn't he love me back? What happens if I can't make my rent payment? How do I deal with missing my sisters so much that I ache? I didn't like it.

Not that my life was ever bad –– no, on the contrary it's been extraordinarily blessed. But I think I just came into a fuller realization of the pain in the world. Not just mine, but everyone's. And my little heart was heavy. I wondered if I was just getting wiser, or was I losing my optimism?

Yes, I was a die-hard romantic, but over these last few years, I found myself asking: Is it bad if I'm not anymore?

I think Flannery answered that question for me. She brought together a lot of the truths I've been learning over these years of college. Torrey's mantra is that we want to pursue the good, the true and the beautiful. And it's been hard work. These last four years haven't been a walk in the park . . . yet, in some ways they have. What I mean is: I didn't always find the good, the true or the beautiful, but the route was scenic. Maybe just the act of looking for them is optimistic -- because that means you believe the good is out there. God is out there.

As Flannery's stories showed me so poignantly, the good and beautiful in life are sometimes still painful. And the pain isn't something to shun. One of my favorite Flannery quotes is "Grace is change, and change is painful." That's hopeful, isn't it? Hard, but hopeful. Maybe the definition of optimism is seeing that pain is grace. It too can be beautiful.

I thought maybe I lost my optimism in a slew of real life -- work, tuition checks, conflict and boy drama. But then, I think of sitting in the sun on my deck, eating Panda Express with Lizzie, re-reading "Blue Castle," laughing at the antics of the two-year-olds in my Sunday School class, cooking, sleeping, chatting, giggling...
Both pain and pleasure are a part of reality. I can't ignore the good that comes along with pain. And I can see the good to be found in the pain of pursuing the good, the true, and the beautiful –– God. He's hard to find here on earth sometimes. Yet, He's magnificently everywhere.

"Grace is change, and change is pain."

Maybe I'm more of a realist now. Maybe like Flannery, I can see beauty in the jarring and the ugly in life, and I hope I won't run the other way. Knowing that grace and good are at the end –– and in between times too –– well, I think that makes me an optimist afterall.

From "Cold Tangerines"

"I have always, essentially, been waiting. Waiting to become something else, waiting to be that person I always thought I was on the verge of becoming, waiting for that life I thought I would have. In my head, I was always one step away.
And through all that waiting, here I am. My life is passing, day by day, and I am waiting for it to start. I am waiting for that time, that person, that event when my life will finally begin.
The Big Moment, unfortunately, is an urban myth. Some people have them, in a sense, when they win the Heisman or become the next American Idol. But even that football player or that singer is living a life made up of more than that one moment. Life is a collection of a million, billion moments, tiny little moments and choices, like a handful of luminous, glowing pearls. It takes so much time, and so much work, and those beads and moments are so small, and so much less fabulous and dramatic than the movies.
But this is what I’m finding, in glimpses and flashes: this is it. This is it, in the best possible way. That thing I’m waiting for, that adventure, that move-score-worthy experience unfolding gracefully. This is it. Normal, daily life ticking by on our streets and sidewalks, in our houses and apartments, in our beds and at our dinner tables, in our dreams and prayers and fights and secrets – this pedestrian life is the most precious thing any of use will ever experience.
Today is your big moment. Moments, really. The life you've been waiting for is happening all around you. The scene unfolding right outside your window is worth more than the most beautiful painting, and the crackers and peanut butter that you're having for lunch on the coffee table are as profound, in their own way, as the Last Supper. This is it. This is life in all its glory, swirling and unfolding around us, disguised as pedantic, pedestrian non-events. But pull off the mask and you will find your life, waiting to be made, chosen, woven, crafted.
I believe that this way of living, this focus on the present, the daily, the tangible, this intense concentration, not on the news headlines, but on the flowers growing in your own garden, the children growing in your own home. This way of living has the potential to open up the heavens, to yield a glittering handful of diamonds where a second ago there was coal. This way of living and noticing and building and crafting can crack through the movie sets and soundtracks that keep us waiting for our own life stories to begin, and set us free to observe the lives we have been creating all along without even realizing it."
-- Shauna Niequist

One Cold Night

The snow falls in downy flakes. She breathes in the night air, cold and sharp against her lungs. She exhales a puff of breath into the still night. From her spot on the porch step, she watches the snow slip down in a lazy pattern, listless and silent. She keeps breathing in and out.
"What are you doing out here?" His voice comes from behind her, as comfortable and warm as a taste of spicy apple cider.
"It's cold," he is saying. The screen door creaks open, bathing the porch in light. Music pulses through the open door. He closes it behind him; the night quiets again. He sits down next to her on the step, his shoulder brushing against her. She shivers a bit.
"You cold?" he asks gently, wrapping an arm around her, solid and protective. She leans into his warmth, shivering again.
"Too hectic in there for you?" he asks. "Nell's Christmas parties are always pretty high energy." He flashes a smile into the night.
"Just thinking," she answers, smiling back. Her heart pounds. She wishes it would stop.
"Bout what?" he prods, softly twirling her hair between his fingers.
She is quiet. If only he knew what she'd been thinking of. They've been friends for nine years now, but lately, she has found herself thinking of him differently. . . Thinking of the way he smiles with one side of his lips tipped higher than the other. Of his absurd love of orange soda. Of the way it might feel to kiss him. Of the way he sings too loud. Of the way he hugs everyone. Of the way he plays Suduko on his phone when he thinks no one is looking. Of the way he makes her feel-- like her insides are just a big, warm bubble, light and airy and ready to burst at any moment.
"Um, well." She starts to make up an answer, then stops. Maybe it's the shadowy romance of the twinkle lights strung around the eaves of the house. Maybe it's the crsip scent of the feathery snowflakes. Maybe it's the slow strains of "Santa Baby" leaking from the house. Or maybe, she just hopes it'll stop her heart from pounding in her ears. But suddenly, she finds herself wanting to tell him the truth.
"Well..." She says again-- her tongue feels large for her mouth. "You, actually."
She pulls herself out of his embrace. She sits up straight, focusing intently on tracing her fingers over the wooden knots patterned into the porch steps. "You should ask me out on a date," she says lightly-- much more lightly than she feels. She suddenly feels as though she's made of bricks.
"Oh." He exhales softly next to her. His shoulders stiffen.
Santa baby, hurry down the chimney tonight, the music croons.
The moment stretches delicately between them. She steals a glance at him. He purposefully catches her gaze, and it takes her breath away. She cannot read his expression at all. He is unreachable, unfathomable.
But then, he hesitates. His jaw clenches in a tight line and he looks away from her.
And then, the world falls dizzingly into a blur of white cold.

Isaiah 42:16

I will lead the blind by ways they have not known,
along unfamiliar paths I will guide them;
I will turn the darkness into light before them
and make the rough places smooth.
These are the things I will do;
I will not forsake them.

John 3:19-24

By this we shall know that we are of the truth and reassure our heart before him; for whenever our heart condemns us, God is greater than our heart, and he knows everything. Beloved, if our heart does not condemn us, we have confidence before God; and whatever we ask we receive from him, because we keep his commandments and do what pleases him. And this is his commandment, that we believe in the name of Son Jesus Christ and love one another, just as he commanded us. Whoever keeps his commandments abides in God, and God in him. And by this we know that he abides in us, by the Spirit whom he has given us.

Searching

Dig. Deep. Dirt.
One handful over the next
A small pile
Deep scent of earth
Overturned
Dense soil, thick and heavy
It's dark. Still
I am searching deep
In the dark dirt
I find nothing
In the depth of dark
Yet, I still dig to find
Find depth
Maybe I'll see blue sky
At the end

"Hello:" A Daydream

She has a mad crush on this guy from her English class.
He has eyes the color of a robin's egg, spackled with green.
His voice is deep and slow as a sad melody.
He looks like the sky on a day when the sun has warmed it to a light crisp.
He sits two seats away, but it might as well be the Grand Canyon.
She daydreams–– sometimes, not all the time–– about how it would feel if he turned around and smiled. At her. He has a dimple in the corner of his left cheek. Perhaps it would peek out. At her.
And sometimes, but only sometimes, she thinks about what it'd be like to reach over and hand him a note that just says, "hello." Because that's all she has to say. It's not much, but it's so much, all at once.
He writes poetry on the back of his black math notebook, but no one knows. She's not some kind of stalker. She just knows because she sits two seats away from him. Which is close enough, and yet not close enough.
She doesn't daydream all the time, only sometimes.
But when she does, she imagines him in her kitchen. In the little house she'll have one day, the one with the red door.
He puts warm arms tight around her, pulling her close, safe. Her head rests heavy against his chest.
He breaths in the sweet, soapy scent of the curve of her neck, and says "hello," low in her ear.

The Mark

Angry red. Rough ridges tattooed into skin.
It left a mark, the ring I wore today.
Bit my finger, sinking in and trying to stay.
Red marks like bumps of molded cheese.
I have removed the ring, but still it won't leave.
Its mark is indented deep in skin
The ring I wore left a mark
Though it's gone, it stays.
My fourth finger bears the mark that was left on my heart.

Juxtaposition

Maybe I'll fly, she says to herself
Or maybe I'll stay right here
Maybe I'll run, maybe I'll walk
If I can just push through fear

How can the sky be so endless, she thinks
While still slowly sealing me in
Trapped to the ground that's not at all solid
I'm rolled and tossed by wind

Maybe If I stayed in a vacuum
It's still & quiet-- I have space
Yet she realizes it sucks her breath
Till she longs for a breeze on her face

Quotation by Ralph Waldo Emerson

Beauty is the mark God sets upon virtue.
The world thus exists to the soul to satisfy our desire of beauty.
Beauty, in its largest and profoundest sense, is one expression for the universe. God is all-fair. Truth, and goodness, and beauty are but different faces of the same All.
Idealism sees the world in God. It beholds the whole circle of persons and things, of actions and events, not as painfully accumulated, atom after atom, act after act, in an aged creeping Past, but as one vast picture which God paints on the instant eternity for the contemplation of our soul.

Autumn Time and Family Ties

Tonight, I felt autumn. Yes, autumn is a feeling as much as it is a season. It’s my favorite time of year, hands down. The cold edge in the twilight. The hint of smokiness tinging the air. The crispness of colors, of breeze, of sunshine and shadow.

Fall makes me nostalgic. Suddenly, I’m a little kid again. In those moments as a child, I first grasped ––and reveled in–– the good in life. I believe in pursuing happiness, re-living being a child, enjoying moments, searching for the beautiful...all because I had these lovely, peaceful autumn moments...

Snuggling with sisters––three best friends. Fuzzy, striped socks curled under that old patchwork quilt. You can stick your little toes through the holes.

Eating marshmallow popovers on the couch ‘cause mom’s not in the room.

The pumpkins carved and standing plump and cheerful on the kitchen table.

The apple crisp baking in the oven, sending spicy cinnamon to the shadowy corners of the house.

The tea kettle whistling. There’s nothing wrong with a third cup of tea with lots of milk and sugar.

Rich smell of the fire being lit downstairs. George Winston’s piano lilting sweetly on the stereo.

The tapping of rain against window panes–– a soothing rhythm. The world grey, clean, chilled. Sitting in my own book-world, wrapped under my down comforter with a cat purring at my side.

The music of Little Women on the TV. There’s nothing more homey than the sound of Meg, Jo, Beth, and Amy. It’s about sisters who live life loving each other.

The Christmas lights winking-- demure, friendly.

These moments, small and seemingly insignificant, shaped me. They created memories that I hold onto (and re-create) now... especially when I feel alone, worried, insignificant, disappointed, burdened.

In those moments, life is cozy. No one can burst the golden. I’m secure, no one can break me. No one can hurt me. Here, I am untroubled by any petty problem.

In that moment, life is warm. And I am safe again.

The White Dress

There once was a girl in a white dress.

The dress is trimmed in lace, it has ruffled sleeves. When she twirls, it furls around her, a pearly parachute. She can float, she can dance, she is an angel, she is a princess.

Her small brown feet trip lightly through the meadow. She scatters dandelion petals in one breath. She plays hide-and-go-seek with the oak tree. The air sparkles like chilled champagne. She is young and carefree. She is beautiful.

But then, one afternoon when the sun is full and hot, she slips. Mud splatters dark stains against the white. The lace rips, shredding the dress into a gossamer cobweb. Her hair comes undone, curls slip onto her neck.
The tears fall then-- smooth, in long streams down her freckled cheeks. She sits in the pile of mud, bewildered and afraid.

Then, she stands up. She stands up tall. She steps away from the mud, dark as pain, and into the shade of the oak tree.

The rain starts. It starts with a rumble of thunder, a groan against the gray sky. It starts with a few droplets speckling the grass.
And then it pours. The torrent of water sends shivers of streams running over the meadow. The tree bends and bows regally in the gust.

She steps out in the rain, under the water. It soaks her. Her skin glistens. Her dress hangs off her small frame, delicate and cream.

The rain washes away all the mud.

And she raises her hands, and she dances in her white dress.

Things I Don't Understand

How tides control the sea, and what becomes of me
How little things can slip out of your hands
How often people change, not to remain the same
Why things don't always turn out as you plan

These are things that I don't understand
Yeah, these are things that I don't understand

I can't, and I can't decide
Wrong, oh my wrong from right
Day, oh my day from night
Dark, oh my dark from light
I live, but I love this life

How infinite is space, and who decides your fate
Why everything will dissolve into sand
How to avoid defeat, when truth and fiction meet
Why nothing ever turns out as you plan

These are things that I don't understand
Yeah, these are things that I don't understand

I can , and I can't decide
Wrong, oh my wrong from right
Day, oh my day from night
Or dark, oh my dark from light
I live, but I love this life

"Happiness is the consequence of personal effort. You fight for it, strive for it, insist upon it, and sometimes even travel around the world looking for it. You have to participate relentlessly in the manifestations of your blessings. And once you have achieved a state of contentedness, you must never become lax about maintaining it. You must make a mighty effort to keep swimming upward into that happiness forever, to stay afloat on top of it."
— Elizabeth Gilbert (Eat, Pray, Love)

This is Life

"This is life," Dad said to me,
"It's hard work, and its real and has pain.
But family, friends and simple moments
Are all you'll need at the end of the day."

"This is life," Mom said to me,
"People will always break your heart.
But our purpose here is to turn and serve others,
Then, through you, God's love will impart."

"This is life," Shelby said to me,
"Sometimes you go through trials.
But God speaks softly to us and says,
'My peace I leave with you, My child.'"

"This is life," Paige said to me,
"It's hard to know who to trust.
But know that you're strong and will find a smile,
So move onwards and pull yourself up."

"This is life," Auntie said to me,
"Sometimes things seem without reason.
But life is long, and God is good
And this is only just a season."

"This is life," Grandma said to me,
"You want to protect the ones you love.
But you can't, so just pray and entrust them
to Him who orchestrates all from above."

"This is life," the Father said to me,
"You'll fall, and sin, and know pain.
But I'll protect you & guide you, & be right beside you,
Even unto the end of your days."

Legacies

I sat in a quaint Grass Valley church today at my Papa's memorial service. Flowers were knotted at the end of each pew and lining the small stage. On the screen at the side, pictures of my grandfather flipped through in a slideshow. In each picture, he was surrounded by family. He had 6 kids--such a fun, large family. I loved seeing my dad in college in the tiny shorts. Or Aunt Margie when she was a spunky, brown kid running around on the beach. There were pictures of me and my sisters reading in his lap, or him and my Nana at family Christmas and birthday parties. When the slideshow ended, there wasn't a dry eye in the church.

Watching it, and listening to all his kids and grandkids share their favorite memories of Papa, I realized all over again the importance of family. I've always been a family girl, a homebody. But family can be frustrating, dysfunctional, and just a bit zany. But they're family. And sometimes, that's all that matters–– that's all we need. Hearing stories about a Papa that I could barely remember (he'd been sick for so long), I noticed that there were so many things he passed down to his kids. Those crazy random songs my dad makes up? He got that from Papa. The random nuttiness and humor... a strong emotional side... family loyalty and love of home...it's all stuff that started with him and got passed all the way down to us. My Papa and Nana started a legacy, and now we all have each other––one big, happy, crazy family. Everyone banned together over these last days, laughing and eating... and just remembering why we all love each other.

I loved seeing my Papa remembered. I loved seeing all the things he had passed down to his family. Things that I will one day pass on to my kids. Families can't help but be messy sometimes. But when we have unconditional love, when we cling to good memories, when we embrace the lovely things about family...that's what's good about life. I hope that at my memorial service, my children will be happy about the things I passed on to them. And I hope one thing they learn from me is the love of family.

The End of All Things

"Therefore, they are before the throne of God
and serve him day and night in his temple;
and he who sits on the throne will spread his tent over them.
Never again will they hunger;
never again will they thirst.
The sun will not beat upon them,
nor any scorching heat.
For the Lamb at the center of the throne will be their shepherd;
he will lead them to springs of living water.
And God will wipe away every tear from their eyes."
"And I heard a loud voice from the throne saying, "Now the dwelling of God is with men, and he will live with them. They will be his people, and God himself will be with them and be their God. He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away."
--Revelation

I always thought Revelation was a kind of a depressing book in the Bible. But then I re-read it and I realized how hopeful it was. God's heart is to be with us. Yes, He will reap judgment on those who he called and called, but who refused to listen. But he takes care of his beloved children. He wants to reveal himself to us more every day. He wants to give us all understanding of Himself.

This realization really came home to me this week. I've also have had to read Isaiah, Hosea, Daniel, and Jeremiah in the last week for classes... plus I'm trying to finish memorizing 1 Peter. So I've been inundated with God's word. And in all these different books with different authors, I saw God's heart flawlessly sewn together throughout the whole. He wants to love us and reveal himself to us! That's a major theme in any part of the Bible. He calls us, He's patient with us, we are His bride.

And Revelation reminded me that one day, there'll be no more mystery. Only awe. We'll be before this throne in the beautiful light and be utterly fulfilled with Him. No pain or longing or hardship. Just perfection... holiness..love...peace...joy...fulfillment. I love it.

Pick me up...

Things to do to bring a smile... even on a day when it doesn't seem possible:)

Play your happiest song with a fun beat. Play it LOUD.
Sit out in the sunshine. Bask in it.
Light candles. Good smelling ones.
Pick up your favorite food or dessert. Sit on the floor and eat it.
Take a bubble bath with the book you've read 8 times.
Watch a happy movie with quotes that make you laugh. Write down your favorite ones.
Bake. Chocolate cake preferably. oh yum.
Cuddle with a kitty. Their purr is the most contented sound in the world.
Cut roses and put them in your room. Let the colors cheer you up.
Wear your cutest outfit. Put on some flavored lipgloss.
Find some water: a fountain, the pool, a stream, the lake. The sound of water is soothing.
Hug someone. Hugging releases happy hormones. A nice big comfy bear hug.
Draw. Write. Sing. Play piano. Paint. Sew. Do something creative that you love. Be inspired.
Hang out with little kids. They lift your spirits.
Walk in the grass barefoot.
Cook something fabulous, and healthy.
Cuddle up in bed with blankets and a journal. Popcorn too.
If you love to drive as much as I do, just go for a drive. Windows down.
Go explore. Find a random spot with a tree or a pond.
Lie on your back and watch the clouds.
Go swing on some swings or climb on the monkey bars. Be carefree.
Go for a walk with your dog in the twilight.
Brew a cup of tea.

There's joy peaking round every corner. You just have to catch it sometimes.

The Psalms through Children's Art

I went to a lecture last night. It's a requirement for my Torrey program that I have to go to a certain amount of lectures every semester. This one was lead by Dr. Sanders. I was exhausted going into the lecture. I'd been on campus since 8 that morning. I worked from 8-10 am ( and I am not a morning person), had back-to-back glasses from 10:15-1:15, worked my second job from 1:30-4:30, then had Torrey class from 5-8 pm. So, by the time I sat down in the lecture room at 8:15, all I wanted to do was curl up in my own bed.
But then, Dr. Sanders introduced his topic.

Every night, he reads through the Bible with his 2 kids-- ages 7 and 9. They've read almost every chapter of the Bible starting with Genesis 1, all the way to the Psalms. But how do you teach your kids about the Psalms and keep them engaged? There aren't epic battles, crashing walls, floating zoos, or crazy plagues in this book. So, Dr. Sander's kids are drawing a picture every night that depicts the Psalm that's being read. Cool, huh?

This just made me think about how beautiful the Bible is and how even children can capture the emotions behind it.

9-year-old Freddy decided to give his drawings a common theme: the color orange and desert animals. In each one, Yahweh is portrayed as a mighty desert eagle, and the Psalmist is a striped armadillo. When foes surround the armadillo (a snake and coyotes), the eagles hovers above to carry him to safety. Isn't that such a true portrayal of David's heart in the psalms? God is right there to swoop in-- a mighty eagle.

Little Phoebe, who's only 7, also captured the Psalms through her art. My favorite one was her depiction of the verse that says, "My God, my God why have you forsaken me?" She put those words, in her faltering, child-like handwriting across the majority of the page. Just lots of blank space and that one scrawled verse. And then, in the corner, was the drawing of a small cat. Just a tiny kitty sitting there in the corner, all alone. From the marker of a 7 year old who doesn't yet know what it means to be forsaken, she captures the emotion perfectly.

Some of the drawings were so funny! For the verse "Serve me in fear", Phoebe drew a waiter serving a table saying "ahhhhh" in fear:) And my favorite: one of the Psalms said something like, "My God delivered me, He preserved me from my enemies." So Freddy drew the eagle driving the armadillo away in a mail truck (He delivered me), and then a picture of the eagle carrying the armadillo in a ziplock baggy (He preserved me). So cute:)

Anyways, all this got me thinking about the heart of children and how, no matter the age, the Bible can be understood. Yes, it's a confusing book sometimes, but we can still feel its impact on our souls. We can feel the beauty of His Word. We know at a young age that God is mighty. He can save us. He leads us beside the still waters. He favors us because we're His children. He blesses us and protects us. There's so much we can learn and know, even at a young age.

I just realized that I can't wait to get older and older and know more about God's character and His word as I keep growing up. But I also want to hold on to that child-like beauty and simplicity.

Nostalgia

Nostalgia: "a sentimental longing or wistful affection for the past, typically for a period or place with happy personal associations."

I've been thinking a lot about this concept lately. I have a natural sense of nostalgia, but for something that I can't quite put my finger on. Maybe the way to describe it is just by saying I have a constant sensation of longing. But for a place that I've never really been, and don't believe exists on earth.
I think we all have it. Some long for the south, the beach, the snow, the city, the mountains-- even if they've never seen them. For me, the place that most fulfilled my feelings of nostalgia was the Lake District in England. Driving up on the bus, I immediately felt like I was coming home–– except I'd never been here before. I took one look at the sleepy town, the orange and red hills, the sweeping views of the lake, and I began to tingle to my toes. I had to be out in it-- exploring, dancing, taking in every inch of it. How could I connect so intimately and fully to a place that two hours ago had only been a dot on a map?
I am a lover of beauty. It makes my soul ache in the deepest part of me, which is a weird way to describe it, I know. But it's the only way to phrase something this indescribable. Put me in the midst of nature and I am completely at peace. I love rolling hills, white picked fences, waterfalls, small stone bridges, orchards,streams, wildflowers, ivy, gray twilight, fall leaves... And yes, all these things can be found on earth. When I see these things, something in my soul rejoices. But what's strange is that even as I soak up earthly beauty, I still feel that nostalgia, that sense of sentiment–– as if these things are only reminding me of something better that I've enjoyed more.
So this got me thinking. It's so interesting that God has placed these longings within us. And I think it's because we are longing for small pieces of heaven. And while on earth, we can only capture fleeting glimpses of this perfect place. When I ache from experiencing something lovely here on earth, I must be nostalgic for heaven-- the place filled with all that's insanely beautiful and good. A place that will never leave me wanting more. And I must be headed there, because my soul is nostalgic for it every day.

Weary World

I'm weary of this world today,
There's no balance to be found.
I'm weary of this place today,
Only pain and fear abound

Everywhere I look there's hurt,
And sin wounds every heart.
Evil twists all that's good;
World falls deeper into dark

Instead of truth, beauty, sweetness
There's selfishness, pride, and malice
A gaping span between good and bad
How do I live in a world this callous?

(I'm told to be pure
In a sex-riddled world
I'm told to be hopeful
In a place damned to hell
I'm told to be kind
While torn apart inside
I'm told to be a servant
But will it be worth it
I'm told to just love
But I've found I can't trust
I'm told to have faith
But it's such a long wait).

But then in the chaos,
Amidst all the noise,
Comes a sweet whisper,
A strong and gentle voice:

'Breathe my fragrant peace'
I hear His tender call:
'Walk with me till morning
I won't ever let you fall...

'Rest in fields of flowers,
Find refuge in my strength,
Love me with all your heart,
I won't ever cause you pain...

'I'll draw near to you and be
A shepherd in your need.
You'll walk along still waters,
If you'll follow, I will lead...

'You're weary of this world today,
But I'm the One who saves.
You're weary of this time, I know,
But, beloved girl, just wait."

At His voice, the white noise stilled,
All pain was washed away.
Chains were loosed; I was free,
I found that I could pray:

'While I toil here on earth,
May I bring a smile to Your face
Wrap me in Your arms, God
For I'm weary of this place.'

Emily Dickinson wrote, “If I can stop one heart from breaking, I shall not live in vain.”

"All that is good, all that is true, all that is beautiful, all that is beneficent, be it great or small, be it perfect or fragmentary, natural as well as supernatural, moral as well as material, comes from Him."
-John Henry Newman (from "The Idea of a University")

I saw this as a kind of a partial response to my last post...

Food for Thought

The following article was written by atheist by Penn Jillette, an academic, lecturer, writer, and comedian. This was posted by him on NPR's blog. I found it fascinating and have been mulling over it ever since...
As a Christian, do I fall into some of these stereotypes that he mentions? How would I respond to the argument he is proposing? Do I fall into a judgemental bubble? Do I still have fun? Can I still learn and grow? Do I ostracize myself? Do I just stick to rigid rules of thought for no good reason? Why do I believe what I believe? How do I defend myself in the face of such persuasive arguments for the contrary? I know that my faith is real, but do I allow myself to be honest and human at the same time? Why do Christians have such a hard time being genuine?
Read it. Think.

"I believe that there is no God. I'm beyond atheism. Atheism is not believing in God. Not believing in God is easy -- you can't prove a negative, so there's no work to do. You can't prove that there isn't an elephant inside the trunk of my car. You sure? How about now? Maybe he was just hiding before. Check again. Did I mention that my personal heartfelt definition of the word "elephant" includes mystery, order, goodness, love and a spare tire?

So, anyone with a love for truth outside of herself has to start with no belief in God and then look for evidence of God. She needs to search for some objective evidence of a supernatural power. All the people I write e-mails to often are still stuck at this searching stage. The atheism part is easy.

But, this "This I Believe" thing seems to demand something more personal, some leap of faith that helps one see life's big picture, some rules to live by. So, I'm saying, "This I believe: I believe there is no God."

Having taken that step, it informs every moment of my life. I'm not greedy. I have love, blue skies, rainbows and Hallmark cards, and that has to be enough. It has to be enough, but it's everything in the world and everything in the world is plenty for me. It seems just rude to beg the invisible for more. Just the love of my family that raised me and the family I'm raising now is enough that I don't need heaven. I won the huge genetic lottery and I get joy every day.

Believing there's no God means I can't really be forgiven except by kindness and faulty memories. That's good; it makes me want to be more thoughtful. I have to try to treat people right the first time around.

Believing there's no God stops me from being solipsistic. I can read ideas from all different people from all different cultures. Without God, we can agree on reality, and I can keep learning where I'm wrong. We can all keep adjusting, so we can really communicate. I don't travel in circles where people say, "I have faith, I believe this in my heart and nothing you can say or do can shake my faith." That's just a long-winded religious way to say, "shut up," or another two words that the FCC likes less. But all obscenity is less insulting than, "How I was brought up and my imaginary friend means more to me than anything you can ever say or do." So, believing there is no God lets me be proven wrong and that's always fun. It means I'm learning something.

Believing there is no God means the suffering I've seen in my family, and indeed all the suffering in the world, isn't caused by an omniscient, omnipresent, omnipotent force that isn't bothered to help or is just testing us, but rather something we all may be able to help others with in the future. No God means the possibility of less suffering in the future.

Believing there is no God gives me more room for belief in family, people, love, truth, beauty, sex, Jell-O and all the other things I can prove and that make this life the best life I will ever have."

Shantih: A peace that passes all understanding.

A Wish

Dandelion chains
Dangled and tied
Delicate flowers
Knotted and white

Close your eyes
Whisper a wish
Watch them wisp
Away in the wind

"Do what you want and say what you feel because the people who mind don't matter and the people who matter don't mind."
--Dr. Seuss

Favorites

"The LORD your God is testing you to find out whether you love him with all your heart and with all your soul. It is the LORD your God you must follow, and him you must revere. Keep his commands and obey him; serve him and hold fast to him.”

“The LORD your God is with you, he is mighty to save. He will take great delight in you, he will quiet you with his love, he will rejoice over you with singing.”

"For you bless the righteous, Oh Lord, you cover him with favor as with a shield."

"My shield is with God, who saves the upright in heart."

"When I said, "My foot is slipping," your love, O LORD, supported me.When anxiety was great within me, your consolation brought joy to my soul."

"Therefore I am now going to allure her; I will lead her into the desert and speak tenderly to her."

"I have learned the secret of being content in any and every situation, whether well fed or hungry, whether living in plenty or in want. I can do everything through Him who gives me strength."

La Figlia che Piange (The Weeping Girl)

Stand on the highest pavement of the stair-
Lean on the garden urn-
Weave, weave the sunlight in your hair
Clasp your flowers to you with pained surprise-
Fling them to the ground and turn
With a fugitive resentment in your eyes:
But weave, weave the sunlight in your hair.

So I would have had him leave,
So I would have had her stand and grieve
So he would have left
As the soul leaves the body torn and bruised,
As the mind deserts the body it has used.
I should find
Some way incomparably light and deft
Some way we both would understand,
Simple and faithless as a smile and shake of the hand

She turned away, but with the autumn weather
Compelled my imagination many days,
Many days and many hours:
Her hair over her arms and her arms full of flowers
And I wonder how they should have been together!
I should have lost a gesture and a pose
Sometimes these cogitations still amaze
The troubled midnight and the noon's repose.

--T.S. Eliot

Vulnerable

Out of brokenness.
Cracked concrete now a canvas—
A new bud soon blooms.
But even spring brings harsh rains—
New buds are the first to break.

-Turell Peshek

“My salvation and my honor depend on God ; he is my mighty rock, my refuge.”- Psalm 62:7

Loneliness...

"Like fatigue, like hunger, loneliness is part of being human. Fatigue is cured by sleep and hunger by eating, but how do we handle loneliness? It's our very nature to seek an alter ego, a heart that responds to our human ache for understanding.

Our favorite women of the Bible were no strangers to periods of aloneness, which, interestingly, often presaged important events: Mary, during her pregnancy; Ruth, bereaved in Moab; Esther, in a pagan harem; Hannah, childless for years in a culture where barrenness was a disgrace.

In his crowded adult life, there were times when Jesus chose to be alone, deliberately making himself unavailable so that he might nourish his soul in communion with his Father. He experienced both isolation and alienation. His query to his disciples when the fawning crowds drifted off, "Will you also go away?" and his Gethsemane "Watch with me"--these are lonely words.

Yet even Jesus did not use his relationship with God as a substitute for human companionship. He found sustenance with his three closest disciples--Peter, James and John--and in the home of Mary, Martha and Lazarus.

But even the most congenial marriage, the closest friendship, the most satisfying child-parent relationship is both transient and unpredictable. Although some 1,500 years have passed since St. Augustine remarked that "our hearts will never be at rest away from the One who made them," it's still true.

Just because he has created us as unique individuals, our Father knows the best way to fill each one's empty places. It is only God who can fill our deepest longings, who never has an appointment elsewhere, who never replaces us with someone he likes better, who promises never to leave us totally alone. He is the only one who wants to be and always can be the unfailing companion on our journey."

Luke 5:12-16; I Kings 19:1-10; Psalm 27:7-10

Bound to Love

"In the case of women, they have a strange and strong loyalty. Some stupid people started the idea that because women obviously back up their loved ones through everything, therefore women are blind and do not see anything. They can hardly have known any women.. The same women who are ready to defend their men through thick and thin are almost morbidly lucid about the thinness of his excuses or the thickness of his head. A man's friend likes him but leaves him as he is: his wife loves him and is always trying to change him, help him. Love is not blind, that is the last thing it is. Love is bound: and the more it is bound, the less it is blind."
--G.K. Chesterton's "Orthodoxy"

Why is that? Where does our sense of undying loyalty come from? Is it helpful or harmful?
Love is beautiful. And to be bound to someone is something my heart longs for. But I find myself often unable to face the bad parts of love, to stand up against it. I am loyal, faithful, forgiving. I am bound to love. I am not blind to its flaws, but I am bound. Is that the way it should be?

Adventures

Strike out on an adventure. Leave behind the worries, the stresses, the homework, the bills. Leave the house, the boy, the pressure. Leave the time frame. Leave it all behind. Take your car keys and some CD's to sing along to. Take a Dr. Pepper or two, a bag of Doritos, the Oreos. Take the camera, take your journal. Take sunglasses and cherry lip balm. There's so many things to see, things to experience.
Mountain roads curving in green hills.
Small towns tucked in valleys.
Cliffs dropping off endlessly into ocean.
Book lofts. Antique stores. Coffee shops.
Pine trees, oak trees, palm trees.
Orange poppies, purple primrose, yellow daisies.
Meadows, forests, mountains, cliffs.
Drive or hike or meander or bike.
Go on an adventure. Just do it. The world is brimming with beauty. You never know what you'll see when you go around the next corner. There is water in different shades of blue. Trees of different sizes. Breezes with different tangs. Get out of the city and look at the stars. Get out of the rush and go skip some rocks. Walk upstream in a cold river, explore the streets of a historic town, push boulders off of cliffs, drive up the coast. Marvel at the beauty of God's creation...it's His masterpiece. He made it just for us, you know.

Jeremiah 17:7-8

“But blessed is the man who trusts in the LORD, whose confidence is in him. He will be like a tree planted by the water that sends out its roots by the stream. It does not fear when heat comes; its leaves are always green. It has no worries in a year of drought and never fails to bear fruit.”

Run Away With Me

I ran away to the sea
No one came with me

The day dawned young,
Fresh. Chilled. Bright.
Across open sweep of sky
Blue stretches out of sight

Breezes breathe, seagulls squall
A red scarf wraps my hair.
The air hangs heavy, full of salt
My feet are brown and bare.

A kite winks colorful above
Stolen by the wind
Cragged rocks tower tall
Waves swill 'round jagged ends

Halfway buried in the sand
With warm rays of champagne sun
Safe from foamy flecks I sit
All alone, no one's come

I watch the waves roll in and out
A pattern endlessly listless.
On the brink,the edge of the world
I am wistful or peaceful or restless

I ran away to the sea
Won't you come and find me

This is for you Shelby!

LORELAI: All right then. Relax. Be calm. Everything will be fine.

RORY: Okay.

LORELAI: I gotta go. Can I ask you one more question? Do you think my hair looks cool?

RORY: Bye.

LORELAI: 'Cause, you know, some days I wake up and I'm like, cool. Some days I'm like, could be cooler.

RORY: I won't wait up for you.

LORELAI: Like today I got up and I was like, left side cool, right side not so cool.

RORY: Bye.

LORELAI: Bye.

Proverbs 31 Woman

A wife of noble character who can find?
She is worth far more than rubies.
Her husband has full confidence in her
and lacks nothing of value.
She brings him good, not harm,
all the days of her life.
She selects wool and flax
and works with eager hands.
She is like the merchant ships,
bringing her food from afar.
She gets up while it is still dark;
she provides food for her family
and portions for her servant girls.
She considers a field and buys it;
out of her earnings she plants a vineyard.
She sets about her work vigorously;
her arms are strong for her tasks.
She sees that her trading is profitable,
and her lamp does not go out at night.
In her hand she holds the distaff
and grasps the spindle with her fingers.
She opens her arms to the poor
and extends her hands to the needy.
When it snows, she has no fear for her household;
for all of them are clothed in scarlet.
She makes coverings for her bed;
she is clothed in fine linen and purple.
Her husband is respected at the city gate,
where he takes his seat among the elders of the land.
She makes linen garments and sells them,
and supplies the merchants with sashes.
She is clothed with strength and dignity;
she can laugh at the days to come.
She speaks with wisdom,
and faithful instruction is on her tongue.
She watches over the affairs of her household
and does not eat the bread of idleness.
Her children arise and call her blessed;
her husband also, and he praises her:
"Many women do noble things,
but you surpass them all."
Charm is deceptive, and beauty is fleeting;
but a woman who fears the LORD is to be praised.

Oh How I Love Jane Eyre...

This is the part when Jane has just left Mr. Rochester. She has run away from the love of her life. She is heartbroken, alone, completely penniless and is sleeping under a tree. And this is her heart:

"Worn out from the torture of thought, I rose to my knees. Night was come, and her planets were risen: a safe, still night: too serene for the companionship of fear. We know that God is everywhere; but certainly we feel His presence most when His works are on the grandest scale before us; and it is in the unclouded night sky, where His worlds wheel their silent course, that we read clearest His infinitude, His omnipotence, His omnipresence.
I had risen to my knees to pray for Mr. Rochester. Looking up, I, with tear-dimmed eyes, saw the mighty Milky Way. Remembering what it was--what countless systems there swept space like a soft trace of light-- I felt the might and strength of God. Sure was I of His efficiency to save what He had made: convinced I grew that neither earth should perish, nor one of the souls it treasured. I turned my prayer to thanksgiving: the Source of Life was also the Savior of spirits. Mr Rochester was safe: he was God's, and by God would he be guarded. I again nestled to the breast of the hill; and ere long in sleep forgot sorrow."

Such an artlessly good and grateful perspective. God is God and we are not. We should be grateful that He's got all in control, He is God so He is so capable of guarding us and taking care of us.
I never realized how much Jane Eyre is a look into the peace, provision, joy, will, and blessings of a beautiful God.

Far Away

I will live my life as a lobsterman's wife on an island in the blue bay.
He will take care of me, he will smell like the sea,
And close to my heart he'll always stay.

I will bear three girls all with strawberry curls, little Ella and
Nelly and Faye.
While I'm combing their hair, I will catch his warm stare
On our island in the blue bay.

Far away far away, I want to go far away.
To a new life on a new shore line.
Where the water is blue and the people are new.
To another island, in another life.

There's a boy next to me and he never will be anything but a boy at the bar.
And I think he's the tops, he's where everything stops.
How I love to love him from afar.

When he walks right pass me then I finally see on this bar stool I can't stay.
So I'm taking my frown to a far distant town
On an island in the blue bay.

Far away far away, I want to go far away.
To a new life on a new shore line.
Where the water is blue and the people are new.
To another island, in another life.

I want to go far away.
Away away, I want to go far away, away, away
I want to go far away, far away.

Where the water is blue and the people are new.
To another life, to another life.
To another shore line
In another life.

--Ingrid Michaelson

Elizabeth's new take on love in "Pride and Prejudice"

(Elizabeth): "She certainly did not hate him. No; hatred had vanished long ago, and she had almost as long been ashamed of ever feeling a dislike against him that could be so called. The respect created by the conviction of his valuable qualities, though at first unwillingly admitted, had for some time ceased to be repugnant to her feelings; and it was now heightened into somewhat of a friendlier nature by the testimony so highly in his favour, and bringing forward his disposition in so amiable a light, which yesterday had produced.

But above all, above respect and esteem, there was a motive within her of good will which could not be overlooked. It was gratitude. -- Gratitude, not merely for having once loved her, but for loving her still well enough to forgive all the petulance and acrimony of her manner in rejecting him, and all the unjust accusations accompanying her rejection.

She respected, she esteemed, she was grateful to him; she felt a real interest in his welfare; and she only wanted to know how far she wished that welfare to depend upon herself, and how far it would be for the happiness of both that she should employ the power, which her fancy told her she still possessed, of bringing on the renewal of his addresses."

--Elizabeth's change of heart in Pride and Prejudice (I love this!)

Vanilla Twilight

The stars lean down to kiss you
And I lie awake and miss you
Pour me a heavy dose of atmosphere

'Cause I'll doze off safe and soundly
But I'll miss your arms around me
I'd send a postcard to you, dear
'Cause I wish you were here

I'll watch the night turn light-blue
But it's not the same without you
Because it takes two to whisper quietly

The silence isn't so bad
'Til I look at my hands and feel sad
'Cause the spaces between my fingers
Are right where yours fit perfectly

I'll find repose in new ways
Though I haven't slept in two days
'Cause cold nostalgia
Chills me to the bone

But drenched in vanilla twilight
I'll sit on the front porch all night
Waist-deep in thought because
When I think of you I don't feel so alone

I don't feel so alone, I don't feel so alone

As many times as I blink
I'll think of you tonight
I'll think of you tonight

When violet eyes get brighter
And heavy wings grow lighter
I'll taste the sky and feel alive again

And I'll forget the world that I knew
But I swear I won't forget you
Oh, if my voice could reach
Back through the past
I'd whisper in your ear
Oh darling, I wish you were here

--Owl City

About Critical Theory

"Deconstruction is inadequate because it has no way of talking sensibly about the meaning of indisputable human verities such as birth, life, love, and death. There are all sorts of things, obviously, which are social constructs, dependent upon the accidents of history, upon the manipulations of the powerful, upon the differences between genders, classes, and races. Literature may indeed fall into this category, but this does not mean that everything that literature describes, like death, does, too. You can't deconstruct death. Christian readers, by contrast, no matter how critical they may be, are, with at least one part of their being, attuned to meaning, and, when faced with death, they understand (and speak) the language of hope.

I would suggest, then, that we must recover in our scholarship and teaching of literature a greater degree of innocence. We must recapture some of the child-like wonder, which, one would guess, even the most jaded critic once had in the power and pleasure of words. Much of what we enjoy most in literature does lies right at the surface: the narrative thread (what's going to happen next?), the sound of the language, and the author's message. What is he or she trying to say to me or us? This last (now unfashionable) question presupposes a sort of submission on the part of the reader, a willingness to take a leap of imaginative faith that transcends the distance, temporal, geographical, and cultural, that may separate us from the author, a loving forbearance of an author who may indeed be of a different sex, or of a different time, or of a different political mindset, and a preliminary assumption that the author has something he or she wishes to say to us, on which it is the reader's duty and delight to put the best construction. Such a position does not simply replicate the traditional "humanist" confidence in human reason and "reasonability" as the basis for communication, but instead views language as an effectual activity grounded in God's love, in which humans, made in the image of God, may joyfully participate--or, which, like any other aspect of God's grace, we may disparage, manipulate, and reject. We should, then, in our study of literature, be amateurs in the strict sense of the word. Love is God's motive for communicating with humans, and it is also the backdrop for all Christian interrelations, including the way we respond to and ourselves use word.

--The Hermeneutics of Innocence: Literary Criticism from a Christian Perspective
by Carl P.E. Springer PhD

I just wanted to save this thought. I like the idea of approaching literature with innocence, with hope, and with love...words are His gift to us!

Love

“Be completely humble and gentle; be patient, bearing with one another in love.”-Ephesians 4:2

"Love is not love which alters when alteration finds or bends with the remover to remove. No, it is an ever fixed mark that looks on tempests and is never shaken." --Shakespeare (and Sense and Sensibility)

Goodbye Room

Goodbye Room full of 4 sweet roomies
Goodbye laughing and dancing and movies

Goodbye bathroom that's always so cold,
I won't miss the two faucets, or the mold

Goodbye hall that makes Kelsey's ring shine,
I'll miss running down to our door with signs

Goodbye staircase that's scary at night,
Go down, see spider web, then turn right

Goodbye living room full of people and noise
Hanging out and Nintendo with cussing boys

Goodbye Freezer Room- good homework times
The poster, the freezer, and the invading vine

Goodbye bustling kitchen, I'll miss you the most
Food group, music, and alarms from burning toast

Goodbye cake, Psych, guitars, and tea
Months of inside jokes and lovely memories

Goodbye house, where we never felt alone
Goodbye Crick, you've been a true home

Ode to Oxford

Oh my beautiful Oxford. I can't believe I almost have to leave you! I love every minute I've spent in your beautiful city! I love how you're a city, yet you're small enough that I still run into people I know while walking on the streets. I love the bikes zizzing by and filling up every pathway. I love the streets lined tall with architecturally gorgeous buildings. Everywhere you look, it takes your breath away. I love the dreary gray weather and the way colors light up against them. I love the red telephone booths and post boxes. I love hearing everyone speak in accent on the streets. "Cheers" and "Hiya" are two of my favorite words now. I don't think that I will miss the girls in leggings, but I did love making fun of them! I love that I have to wear a hat, scarf, boots, and coats as a necessity rather than an accessory. I love all the tempting clothing stores and fun souvenir shops. I love the long expanses of green, tree-covered parks. I love the churches, steeples, clocks. I love how old and famous the library I study in is. The security to get in to read is more intense than at an airport. And it's still amazing to me that sometimes when I'm heading in to study, there's a tour group right outside. Plus Susan from Narnia studies in the same library! I love the cobblestone streets, and the way they look splattered in the rain. I love the antique bookstores, the bustling streets, the pubs. The smells of Lush Body Soap and alcohol and fish and chips and cigarettes and wet pavement. I love seeing professors walk by with their elbow patches and book bags. And walking down the street hearing a group of English boys talking about Dante's "Paradise." I love the energy and sass, yet the solemnity and history of this place. It is so steeped in history and academia. I love that I have to walk anywhere up to 6 miles a day, come rain or sun or 30 degree weather. I love that pounds are just as natural to me as dollars (finally). I love that I walk along the places that so many great men have. I love that I studied CS Lewis and read his works while sitting at the same pub where he discussed them. I love that I can hop on a bus or train and be anywhere in the UK or Europe in a flash. I love that I know the whole city like the back of my hand: the best pub, coffee place, inexpensive clothes, tea place, library. I love that I have spots and niches where I feel like I belong. I guess that's it. I belong in this city. I'm not just a tourist, but I'm a part of it. I walk down the cobblestone road, hat on head, backpack full of Bodleian books on my back, and I actually get to be an Oxford student. It will be hard to leave a place that has become so much a home.

The Tree Outside My Window

The rutted spine of the trunk
Curves into a sponged sky
Diffusing to branched nerves
That feel at blankness of clouds

A scarred shell of bark
Thick coils of wood winding
Up to brittle stems webbed
Higher than a spider’s range.

The dim arrival of twilight etches
Its figure onto a pallid canvas
And wisp ends of branches are
Bleached out by the gray

Oxford Christmas Light Night!

Imagine Disneyland and Christmas all rolled into one...and that is the Christmas Night Light in Oxford. Tonight was a spectacular memory.
Cornmarket street was strung with lights across the tall buildings, twinkling merrily.
All down the streets and cobblestoned allies, vendors sold glow sticks and Santa balloons. Broad Street was closed down entirely and became a solid mob of families, kids, strollers, wheelchairs, students.
Tents and booths lined the side walks, selling food and warm chestnuts, jewelry and Christmas paraphernalia. We bought the most amazing sugary, doughy donuts.
Every shop in Oxford stayed open-- lit up and decorated festively. Small kids in snow hats and furry jackets rode on the shoulders of parents as everyone pushed towards the huge Christmas tree in the middle of the street.
When the bell chimed 6, all the street lights were turned off and all the Christmas decorations turned on! Every lampost was frosted with twinkle lights. The colored lights from the Christmas tree dazzled the whole street. The loud speaker played Christmas music (and some random Debussy and Norah Jones!). Flashing spotlights danced on the walls of the old stone buildings. All of Oxford was alive, twinkling, bustling with Christmas cheer. Parades marched down every main street with trumpets, dancing, singing.
On Broad St., all the elementary school children carried poles strung with lit-up paper stars and angels.
On Cornmarket St, there was a band all dressed up as Santas.
The Oxford Castle had ice carving and fake snow.
The Ashmolean Museum had cider, wine, and a strange women's choir.
I walked down the street in the brisk, freezing night air in my hat and mittens, singing christmas carols out loud with my friends (seriously).
I tried to take it all in-- the sparkling, magical sights and sounds of Christmas, and I couldn't have been more happy.

Hearts

"We shall draw nearer to God, not by trying to avoid the sufferings inherent in all loves, but by accepting them and offering them to Him; throwing away all defensive armor. If our hearts need to be broken, and if He chooses this as the way in which they should break, so be it."

“The natural loves (affection, friendship, and eros) prove that they are unworthy to take the place of God by the fact that they cannot even remain themselves and do what they promise without God’s help.”

--C.S. Lewis from The Four Loves

King Alfred's Jewel

This is a creative writing assignment. I went to the Ashmolean Museum here in Oxford (sooo cool!) and looked at a jewel that is from King Alfred the Great, the British Anglo Saxon King from the 800's AD. It was lovely. So here's my description of it:

Fragile as a raindrop
With a snowflake’s intricacy
The flecks of colored gems
Blend in mosaic delicacy

A saintly face peers out
In the fragments that are whole
Entombed in the web
Of pure gossamer gold

The twisted threads weave
A tale of aged legacy
Enwreathed exquisite jewel
Exhibits King’s supremacy

Wisdom

"But the wisdom that comes from heaven is first of all pure; then peace-loving, considerate, submissive, full of mercy and good fruit, impartial and sincere."

James 3:17

The Beloved Burford the Stoodle

On our way to see the town of Burford, in Cotswolds of England, Kelsey and I created a Children's book character! His name is Burford and he's a stoodle. What is a stoodle, one might ask? Well, I am pleased to enlighten you. Burford is the only one of his kind. He looks slightly like a bear. He has cute cuddly ears, and a big fluffy body. And he's blue. Burford lives under the big knotty roots of Mr. Tree. Mr. Tree (who has a slight stutter) tickles Burford with his roots in the morning to wake him up. Burford is enamored with leaves, he collects them and sleeps on them for his bed. He burrows into them until only his butt and little tail stick out. And yes, he has polk-a-dots on his butt. But considering he can't see them, he doesn't believe they're actually there. He has a big towel that he keeps on a large spool in his cave. Whenever he gets wet, which he hates, he pulls out his huge towel and rub rub rubs it on his back and wiggle wiggle wiggles his little polk-a-dotted bottom. He also keeps a comb in his cave, which he uses to keep his fur nice and soft. Burford is known for his big belly laugh, which can wake up the whole forest. His favorite pastime is to roll down grassy hills. He just plunks onto the hill and down his big cuddly body rolls! Burford makes the noise bur bur (one high and one low).
As for his friends, Burford's best friend is Murdle the Curly Tailed Squirrel. But don't mention to him his curly tail, for Murdle is very sensative about it. He also lives in Mr. Tree. He chatters away quickly, sometime too rapidly for Burford, and that is how they get into their crazy hairbrained adventures. They are also friends with Priscilla the Butterfly. Well, Burford and Priscilla are friends. She and Murdle don't always get along, you see. Murdle the Squirrel like to call her names like "Prissy" or "Miss Priss" and that does not go over well with our little butterfly friend!
But they all live happily and peacefully. And Burford the Stoodle is unbelievably cute and lovable!

3 Views of Oxford from 3 Points of View

View 1: Student on the way to the Bodleian Library (down Parks Road)

I breathe in the crystal-thin morning air
Fresh breeze and shy sunshine by layer
The grey sky above is a slate wiped clean
It inspires thought and jolly adventure

Down the lane, the brick houses peer
Through windows winking with cheer
My boots crunch the gold, dried leaves
Breaking through the suspended clear

I’m at the main road just as the world stirs
The bicycles clack and cars swish, whir
Then the rain falls, slowly at first
Stones turn a mosaic pattern

Cobblestones, spotted and smooth
To their own rhythm they ebb and move
The road curves in dappled shadow
Trees wave; orange and red duel

Ivy crawls the stone walls
The air smells crisply of fall
The lane is dotted with red-paned booths,
And in the distance, spires stretch tall

I've almost reached the edge of town
And the library ahead seems to say aloud,
“Enter these doors as so many before,
Let a plethora of wisdom abound.”



View 2: Older Woman walking in University Parks

The breeze holds a chill, but the warmth of the sun still clings. Slowly, she makes her way across the uneven grass. Her cane prods the clots of soft ground in front of her, gingerly testing. She makes her way to her favorite bench, right at the edge of the pond. The water laps against its muddy shore, and ducks cause lazy rings across the pond's surface. The maple tree behind her casts polk-a-dot shadows, shading her face from the mellow afternoon sun. Across the pond, the meadow, and over the small rivers and bridges, she sees the spires of Oxford peaking above the autumn line of trees. In the stillness of the afternoon, a child's laughter wafts by airily. She can see a little boy picnicking with his mum under the fir tree down the pathway. He is collecting his sandwich crusts to feed to the ducks later, happily chatting to no one in particular. And so, she smiles, tilting her head to catch a ray of sun as it filters fragile warmth through the maple leaves. The clock tower begins to chime in the distance. Four soft rings calling from the town centre. She's breathing in the mustiness of dried leaves and newly-mowed grass...she's listening to the child's giggles and the duck calls... she's gently snoring as she dozes off.


View 3: Dialogue (One-Sided) of a woman walking down Cornmarket Street with a friend

“Goodness! It’s so busy down on Cornmarket tonight! Look at that mob! Such an awful lot of heads bobbing about. Just look at that, dear! Why’d Susanne choose this pub again? Oh yes, that’s right. We like this one. Very cozy, great wine selection. Yes, yes I do remember now. We should hurry so she won’t be waiting on us.
Whew, feel that wind. The minute the sun starts going down it does get chilly doesn’t it? I’m so glad I grabbed my raincoat. It looks like we might see a little rain later...
Oh! Oh my goodness! That boy almost got ran over by that car! Scared me half to death! Those bicyclists take their own life into their hands, that’s for certain. I would not want to witness that collision. It’s just so hectic around here, how do these drivers stop from killing people on their way home?
Yes, yes I suppose you’re right. One becomes good at anything if they do it enough. This crosswalk is certainly taking forever to turn green.
Oh, here we go! Come along dear, don’t get lost in the crowd. I do hope that Jim puts the kiddies to bed on time; they have school tomorrow, you know.
Will you look at those scarves! Such bright, beautiful colors, aren’t they? I know, I love them too. I have a positive weakness for them actually. They’re such a temptation when they are sold right on the street. I’ve bought...well I won’t tell you how many scarves I own. It’s a ridiculous amount I assure you.
Oh, listen to that guitar. It’s a nice little tune actually. Some of the street performers along here are quite odd. Yes, I’ve seen the dancer as well. It does add color the city, I’ll give you that. Have you seen the violinist who plays on a tight rope? It’s really the craziest thing...
No thank you sir, not tonight. Why do they call it "Big Issue," dear? Do you know? Well yes, I see.
Come along, dear. We’re almost there. Look at that group of kids, just hanging around that bench. I hope that girl isn’t smoking, though I wouldn’t be surprised. Yes, she is! I could smell it as we walked by. Not good for her poor lungs. It almost looks like we are smoking too; it’s cold enough to see your breath in front of you.
Excuse us, excuse us! Sometimes you have to push a bit, you know? Oh finally, here we are at last! I’m so looking forward to a warm room to relax in. Look, I see Susanne ordering her merlot at the bar. Come along, dear.