ER and Changing Seasons

Today I'm thinking through different seasons of my life, searching for God's faithfulness. Oddly enough, this memory trip was prompted by nothing less than a televison show.

Last night was the season finale of ER, a show that ran for 15 seasons from 1994 - 2009. Why is that significant? Maybe because 1994 was the year I moved to California. I remember the start of the series when I first worked with Campus Crusade at Cal Poly, and a few years later while working in Hollywood, I spent a good deal of time praying for the cast and crew during weekly prayer walks on the Warner Brothers lot.

But this isn't about ER. It's about remembering the seasons of my life over these last 15 years. First, a list: Season 1, Move to CA - Cal Poly Pomona; Season 2, Hollywood; Season 3, Atlanta - Grizzard; Season 4, Florida - Dad's illness; Season 5, Atlanta - slow recovery; Season 6, unemployment to career change; Season 7, writer.

It's bizarre for me to think back, each season carrying unique friendships and experiences that were not duplicated elsewhere. I'm amazed to think about how much I've been through, both good and bad.

How many times have I been in crisis, not knowing a way out, begging God for resolution? Too many to count. It's weird to look back from this distance and see that the ways that God answered were not the ways I expected. Very rarely did I get instant relief. Even with the life-changing miracle of my dad, it seemed to come about so slowly that I didn't even notice God was answering until much later.

That's not to say there were never instant, dramatic answers to prayers. There have been many, particularly regarding money and cars, where solutions just appeared at the last moment. But the bigger life crises, what to do when I was thinking about leaving Crusade staff in California for example, resolved over several years in small increments rather than with one big clear "answer from God."

I know God works differently with different people. Sometimes He moves powerfully and very fast, as was the case when I made the decision to move to Florida in two days and physically moved a week later. But that was a very rare exception for me, in fact I can't think of one other time that's happened.

It's helpful for me to think through the seasons and how God's moved me forward, particularly right now as I struggle with faith once again. While I still feel wrestle with some of the same angst I had two years ago, I don't feel the same angst I did 10 years ago. Maybe my problem is just that I want God to move faster. He may be very slow in some areas, but that doesn't mean there is no movement.

Watching ER last night I was struck by the fact that this season's cast was completely different from the cast of the first season. I haven't actively watched the show in almost 10 years, so I didn't know any of the characters. Until some of the old cast came back last and reminded me that this is the same ER. What I realize though is that the cast changes happened gradually; one character leaves, one new guy comes, but never all at once. I think God works the same way a lot of times. Slow, less disruptive change.

Not that I like it slow--I'm ready for big change, now (I think)--but it helps to see that God can be moving when we don't necessarily see it.

So now that ER is off the air, I wonder if that means a 15 year chapter of my life is closed? Will I have a new drama series to chart my seasons by? What's the next (positive) change coming down the pike?

Am I Really Going to Blog?

I kinda don't want to do this. I'm not exactly sure why. Maybe it's just the feeling of that first leap into a pool where you know the water is going to be cold and render an unpleasant shock. Maybe once I get in and get used to this blogging thing again I'll feel differently about it.

Okay, well I'd thought that The Amazing Race was coming on but Obama is on some show called 60 Minutes but seems like it must be 90 Minutes instead. So all that to say, I've got a few minutes to kill.

What do you guys want me to blog about? I mean why do you want me to blog? Do you want to know things about me? Or are you just kinda bored? It may take me a while before I figure out what kinds of things to write about.

Hmm... I'm thinking. But, I got nothin'.

Who do y'all like for The Amazing Race? Obviously the mother-deaf son team are appealing. I like the father-son team where the son is the screenwriter for ... is it School of Rock? I like them but I feel a little guilty rooting for them because come on, does he really need $1 million? But the dad's a sweetheart who is having trouble physically with some of the challenges so I want to root for him as an underdog. I also like the 4-foot-tall stunt men brothers, even though they're good at everything.

Okay, Obama is still on. Nothing against Obama, but I want less news--more entertainment at the moment. Plus, he's like everywhere, all the stinkin' time.

What else? I don't know. I guess I figure those who read this know what's going on in my life, at least in a big picture way. Keith writes about particular subjects. I don't have a subject. (You couldn't tell that, could you?)

Oh my gosh, Obama's gone, but they're starting another story! Only this story looks interesting so I'm going to go check it out. I may write a more coherent post another day. Or I may not.

That's what makes me interesting. You just never can tell.

Esteem boosters and busters

Something you should never, ever do: place a mirror flat on the counter and then bend over it. Talk about Ugly with a capital U! Take my word for it. Don't try it.

Which reminds me of a magazine article I read that was about how to boost your self-esteem. It said to get rid of your 10x magnification mirror. Totally made me laugh because it's SO TRUE. I borrow my mom's super-magnified mirror from time to time for superior brow-plucking, but the depression factor from the sudden appearance of a billion flaws far outweighs the precision eyebrows.

Oh! And I recently heard the greatest advice from my stepmother, Anne. (Hope you don't mind my sharing this, Anne, but it was so empowering!) Did you know that you can refuse to step on the scale when you go to the doctor? You know how they always make you weigh in and take your blood pressure before you see the doctor? You can actually say "No, I don't do that" when the nurse asks you to step on the scale. I didn't realize until Anne pointed it out how depressing it is to step on the scale at the doctor and hear an unexpected number. It clouds my head and depresses me for hours. Next time, they're getting a polite "No, thanks."

Switching topics, this morning after having mostly gotten over the anxiety of speaking yesterday, I got an email requesting me to speak again, this time just for 20 minutes in a Sunday school class. I feel a mixture of feeling honored at the request and simultaneously feel extremely nauseous. This one would be much lower pressure, but still, do I want to put myself through that again? The jury is still out.

Oh, I meant to ask this yesterday, but can I persuade anybody out there to do Body for Life with me? Twelve weeks to a fantastic body. Anyone? I'm three weeks in, but I know there is a high level of risk that I may quit before I reach my goal if I don't find some partners. Go get the book, and then give me a call. It's hard to work out and eat well when everybody around you is gobbling up all the Christmas party goodies. Think about it. Whether you have 5 pounds to lose or 100, let's help each other get there! Anyone? Anyone? Bueller? do you realize that reference is 22 years old?? yikes. no, don't think about it. This is about feeling better about yourself. (I plucked a gray hair this morning. I know, I know. I'm not in denial, but it was screaming at me.)

Oh, and people keep asking me about whether I'm still biking. Let's just say it's on hold. I mean it's freakin' cold out there and I'm somewhat of a wimp. (Those who know me are saying "Somewhat?") Anyway, I'll get back to it. They should make heaters for bikes. Don't laugh. They should. For real. I should look into that.

That's all for now. Got any esteem-boosting advice? Send it right on along. (Or simple esteem-boosting words of affirmation are welcome too.)

Is it weird?

Okay, I know. I know. I need to jump back into the blog loop. And since I don't have just one thing to talk about, I'm going to try out this cool bullet feature. (Who knows why it's cool on blogger when I use it daily in Word.)

• I did this big scary thing today. I gave a 40 minute talk to a women's brunch at church. And I kinda thought that afterwards I would have this great rush. You know, like after you do something scary you feel great and proud of your accomplishment and stuff. Or at least pleased that it went well. Only I didn't feel any of that. All I felt was intense relief and a desire to never think about it again. Is that weird?

• Is it weird that I'm jealous of Izzy on Grey's Anatomy for having a hunky ghost follow her around everywhere? So what that he's not real? Isn't imaginary love better than no love at all? (don't answer that.)

• While we're on the subject of TV shows, I cried tonight watching Survivor:Gabon. I know, weird, right? But all these survivor people saw video clips from home and got all weepy and I just love that kind of stuff. But then, then Bowtie Bob who won a challenge got to watch his entire video from home, only it was a trick of sorts because in the video his wife said "wait just a minute" and then she came around the corner FOR REAL and was right there in Gabon hugging him. And I'm crying. And THEN Bob took his wife back to the camp to introduce her to all the other survivors, and they all look so shocked ... and disappointed that their family members had probably come but they wouldn't get to see them. Only then, THEN, Bob whistled and over the hill walks everybody's family members! And everybody is crying, so of course I'm crying. Like snot runny crying. And THEN Matty, who cannot get over himself with how much he loves his girlfriend proposes to her right then and there, and gives her a handmade jungle necklace he'd made since he couldn't give her a ring. And I'm totally reaching for the tissues (because not only was it romantic that he proposed on the spot, but he made her something). I'm a SUCKER for stuff like that. (Did I overshare?)

• I'm doing so great with Body for Life. After a million false starts over the last two years, I am finally committed to getting back in shape--I mean really committed! I've lost seven pounds so far and am gaining muscle and eating so much better. Yay for me! It feels great to be doing it over the winter months, when it runs completely contrary to my natural inclinations, and the inclinations of most people. Did you know people crave more carbs in the winter? And even moreso for people with Seasonal Affective Disorder, which I have. And to further promote my emotional health I finally got a Sunbox--a full spectrum therapy light that I've been wanting for years. Is it weird that I'm excited about it? It just came today so I haven't really tried it out yet.

• Did I ever talk about my Thanksgiving? I didn't, did I? I went to a farm. A freakin' farm, with sheep and donkeys and goats and roosters, okay maybe just one rooster and it was so cool! Can you tell I'm totally a city girl? The trip to the farm was a Journey Daybook outing so we took our painted journals. I ended up painting this cool old rusted out pickup truck. There were a million cool things to paint. But the coolest thing, I couldn't paint. In fact I didn't even get a picture of it. There was a one-day-old baby lamb! It was the cutest thing ever. Barely standing with these wobbly legs and just looking up at me so sweetly! I'm using too many exclamation points. Real writers don't use exclamation points. But I hardly think of what I do here on this blog as real writing anyway. I loved the animals and I want to exclaim it! Is that weird?

Well, I guess I should get back to whatever--the end of Grey's Anatomy I guess. Is Izzy going to get rid of Denny? No, Izzy! Or if she does she should totally send him to me, even if he is a ghost. So what? It's just my silly little indulgence. And if that makes me weird, then so be it!!!!

View from the Back Porch

I'm sitting outside on the back porch in Cedar Key trying to enjoy some final hours outside, but it's mostly wet and cold. Not cold, cold, just not the blissfully summerlike day we had yesterday. And wet, did I mention wet? Like sticky humid and rainy. I can see the water from where I sit, which is pretty cool. Anne is out here too, working on her clay projects to prepare for an upcoming Art Walk that will be held in part on this porch in just a few weeks. And we're kinda sorta watching a movie on tv. Steve Martin and Queen Latifa. I'm not committed.

The cat, Smokey Grey, is sitting next to me in a chair I pulled up for him to discourage him from continually trying to sit in my lap and step all over my keyboard. And I just installed Internet Explorer 7. As it was installing Anne said she'd been told to use anything but Explorer 7, and I'm trying not to be worried about how my life is going to be more difficult now.

There's still a mess over by the door. It seems we have a racoon that has decided to visit the last two nights to wash some nuts, and then some cat food in the cat's water. Racoons are compelled to wash their food before eating it. I want to tell him the cat food is already clean, but I haven't had the privlege of a face to face meeting.

Yesterday when I exited the boat on North Key (an unexpected treat, as this is an island I knew nothing about), I hiked a bit back into the brush. I noticed tiny animal footprints as I crossed the sand, but when I hiked up to the top of a large sand dune, I noticed dozens and dozens of tiny footprints that were made by what seems to be quite a large colony of racoons. I didn't see them, but it seemed I'd happened upon the very path they take daily down to the water's edge to wash their food. I marvelled at all that goes on here on these tiny deserted islands when people like us are not invading their shore.

Tomorrow I head back to the big city, and back to a faster (and colder) life. But I'll be back here for Thanksgiving. Maybe I'll give you another update from the back porch then.

There's Just Something About Cedar Key

There's just something about Cedar Key. I don't know what it is, but whenever I'm here things are just, well, brighter. It's a little bit of a fairytale land to me now. Of course I didn't think of it in quite as romantic terms when I lived here, but that probably had more to do with the circumstances surrounding my residency here (taking care of my sick father), than with the city itself.

I hesitate to call it a city--the population is somewhere around 800--but technically it is a city with it's own mayor and city counsel. Some here refer to it as the Republic of Cedar Key, emphasizing the fact that it is a world unto itself. And indeed it is.

I got into town yesterday around noon. After checking in with work and getting my island legs, Dad invited me on a ride. A ride means a golf-cart ride around town, with no particular agenda. Anne had the golf cart down at George's where she was feverishly working to put up George's enormous Christmas tree (Christmas decorating is like a religion with George--I used to spend days helping him decorate when I lived here, and always before Thanksgiving), so we had to walk down the road to pick it up. I think Anne took the golf cart merely to give me an excuse to come see George's new puppy, Guy.

I had to change clothes before Dad and I left the house. I'd left Atlanta at 57 degrees and arrived here to find it above 80 and incredibly humid. No worries, I'll take it. We walked past the bed and breakfast where Alice was outside pulling weeds and stopped to chat for a minute. Then on to George's to see the Christmas tree and the puppy. Oh, and to see George. The house was a flurry with decorating explosions everywhere, and when little Guy came bounding in the door it felt like Christmas morning.

We got the golf cart and Dad drove us here and there and everywhere once, twice, three times or more. We went by the water this way, by the water that way, around the bend and down the hill. We waved and got waved at, searched for a couple of friends like Tom and Sherry who run the kayak rental, and Barbara who runs the boat cruises with her husband Doug, but neither were around. No matter. We crossed paths several times with Mark who teasingly calls me his girlfriend and loves to point out that the sun is always shining when I arrive and it's always raining when I leave. We spoke briefly to Miss Alice out on her porch as a neighbor was stopping by for a visit. Dad was quick to point out to the neighbor that Miss Alice didn't have any lunch leftovers to share, he'd already checked. And he probably had. Miss Alice has a reputation for keeping her friends well-fed.

I spent the rest of the afternoon doing some work stuff, but work just doesn't feel like work when you're doing it sitting out on the back porch watching the sun reflect off the water and enjoying a warm breeze in mid November.

Later in the afternoon as we were heading out to dinner, we encountered Miss Alice walking up to our house with a huge covered pot. Dad grabbed it exclaiming, "it's hot!" Much to my delight, it was a pot filled to the brim with chicken and dumplings, a favorite dish of mine that I'd raved about at the last church dinner I'd come to last time I was in town. It was something my grandmother used to make and I rarely come across it anymore. It's genuine comfort food and Miss Alice does it up right. She'd remembered, noticed I was in town, and threw together in the span of a couple hours. I love Cedar Key.

Despite the instant dinner, we'd already planned to go out so we left the chicken and dumplings for later and headed over to the Blue Desert for pizza. The food was great, but the crowd was small so after finishing her few orders the chef and owner, Terese came out to sit by the bar for a bit, say hello to us, and to chat up a few of the locals. As we left we could hear the whimpering of Terese's golden retriever, who forever lies at the kitchen doorway, wanting her master to get back to cooking.

Today I'm gearing up for our Journey Daybook island cruise and it looks like the perfect day to be out on the water. Wasn't something bothering me before I got into town yesterday? It seems like there was something ... Oh well, I forget. Crossing number four bridge will do that to you. Even better than the flashy thing in Men in Black, Cedar Key erases the mess and replaces it with magic.

Autumn in Atlanta

Here in Atlanta, we've had some gorgeous fall leaves lately. Photos don't do it justice, but you have to give me credit for taking some just the same! Digital cameras are still a relatively new animal for me.

Most of these were taken along the Suwannee Greenway where I've been biking. Aren't you proud of me for taking my camera with me on my bike rides? Speaking of that, I'm trying to figure out a way to take my journal on a bike ride, or my painted journal and water colors. Any ideas? Right now all I have is a little fanny pack. The bike has no basket. Anybody know of a way to bring a bag of books along on a bike ride without having to wear a full back pack on my back? Some people have those aluminum shelves or whatever that are attached to the back of their bike, but I don't really know how big a deal that is to get or do. Maybe I'll add that to my things-to-investigate list.

It's been really nice, having a colorful fall this year. It doesn't compare to Maine, but it's still been beautiful. I don't remember Atlanta being this colorful in years past. Maybe it's just the right mix of ... of something. What does it take to make for pretty leaves? Or maybe it's that I'm viewing them with eyes wide open this year, instead of eyes buried in other preoccupations. Either way, it's been a nice change.

Greenway to Renewal

I'm your quintessential introvert. In addition to that, my personality type is one that caters to things like psychology, art therapy, and purpose-driven work. So generally, most things I undertake are more than what they seem. They are pathways to deeper meaning, emotional healing, and spiritual renewal. (This doesn't make me weird, it makes me infinitely interesting.)

Take my recent bike rides down the Suwannee Greenway (five times in two weeks!). Yes, it's exercise. Yes, it's a new hobby and brings with it the drive to learn and become proficient at something that until recently I knew little about. But if it were just that, it would quickly become a dull shade of weathered army green. More than a hobby and exercise, it is a bright green renewing pathway--a chance for me to listen to God, work out my never-ending issues, and improve my mental health. Greenway therapy is not something that's black and white, something that I can just put my finger on and say "X accomplishes Y," yet I know it's helpful. After all, green is the color of growth, right?

Something else I'm re-immersing myself in is maintaining my painted journal. I started this journal a year ago, through a non-profit organization called Journey Daybook which my stepmother, Anne, introduced me to. It's an opportunity to capture visual and poetic images, and to track life's journey in a poignant way that for me is decidedly different than what I do with my handwritten journal.

Here's an example of a painted journal page to give you an idea of how cool it can be. No, goodness no, this isn’t mine. I'm far too intimidated to share mine which looks more like something done by a fourth grader.

This is a page by artist and Journey Daybook founder Peggy Herrick, painted last year on a Cedar Key cruise chartered specifically for the purpose of journal painting. I went on that cruise as my first introduction to watercolors and painted journals. To be on the water, in the sunlight, with a pencil and a paintbrush was exhilarating, even though I didn't have a clue what I was doing.

Over the last year, I've gotten out my painted journal here and there, a few times every couple months, to capture images that resonated with me, either real or imagined. But now it's been a while and I need to get back in the groove.

Next week I'm embarking on the second annual Journey Daybook cruise on the Princess Annie (named after Captain Doug’s adorable granddaughter) in the waters surrounding Cedar Key. This year, instead of spending all our time on the water, we'll travel to two small islands, Atsena Otie and Seahorse Key, where we'll disembark to paint the islands' notables.

Atsena Otie, the island closest to Cedar Key, used to be inhabited, but a tsunami washed it out in 1896, and everybody who survived moved to the main island. We’ll be visiting the remains of a cemetery back in the woods—something I’ve always wanted to see. It’ll be like our own little adventure into the past.

Seahorse Key is another nearby island I’ve never visited, primarily because it doesn’t allow visitors most of the year. (Now I’m sounding like The Island has a mind of its own. Maybe I’m mentally gearing up for the 5th season of LOST.) Seahorse Key is a bird sanctuary and if there’s one thing Cedar Key is protective of, it’s marine wildlife. On our visit to the island, we’ll get to sketch the island’s only landmark, an historic lighthouse.

If you can’t tell, I’m kind of stoked about these therapeutic experiences that are entering my life. Not only am I now Cycling Girl, soon I'll also be Artist Girl, Adventure Girl, Wildlife Girl, and general all-around Island Girl. What could be more therapeutic (and “green”) than that?

My Life on a Bike--Days Three, Four, and Five

So, yeah. I guess I should quit counting. I've been biking! Three different times since my last entry. How many times does it take before you can say something is a bonefide hobby? Six weeks of steady peddling? Yeah, well, okay. I'm not there yet. I don't even own my own bike yet. But I did try to go buy a bike rack for my car so I could return Tracy's to her. Bike racks are dang expensive! So no bike rack yet. I'm trying to decide whether to go the used route, the cheapo rack that could fall apart route, or the good ole save for it route. But, for the moment, I'm still good with Tracy's (with the gnawing sense that I need to not push my luck by delaying its return.)

Day three was a short, but fun ride with Lisa, testing out an area near my house where I thought I might potentially ride again. Day four was returning to that spot on my own and pushing myself for a good hour's ride with a mixture of straight aways and hills. (The hills were harder than they looked, and yes, I had to dismount and push the bike for a time while another cyclist passed me.) Still it was a good ride and I'll probably do it again (but maybe not quite as far into the hilly area).

Day five was today. David took me up to the Suwanee Greenway, which was super-great. I've been wanting to check it out for some time, to see what all the fuss was about. While it can't quite compare to the Silver Comet trail en mass, it is still a beautiful paved trail through the woods, with less of the freak-out factor than I get when I mention Silver Comet to people (who think "Death by Silver Comet" due to some crime statistics.) Suwanee Greenway is eight miles round trip if you don't stray, a comfortable ride with minimal hills, surrounded by nice park benches and greenspace should you want to take a lunch, or a journal and a pen, for a mid-ride break.

I'm definitely going again. At least I hope I am. There's a part of me that wonders if this is just another one of my things that I'm not going to stick with. But for this week, I'm still motivated. Woo Hoo!

You know, part of it is that I've always wanted to be one of "those people." By "those people" I don't mean just cyclists. I mean doing things normal people do that are generally way out of my personality scope. Like when I was running daily and lifting weights. All of the sudden I looked like one of "those people," but only in theory, because it never was me. I have always hated exercise, even when I was impeccably consistent, and I suppose I always will. I try to make myself do it, but I doubt I'll ever be someone who gets charged up about it.

But still, I'm going to try the biking thing a little longer. Because you know what? It kinda doesn't feel like exercise. And if I can trick my brain into thinking it's actually fun and theraputic, then I might not give it up the next time laziness and discouragement come back for me. I will say this though, if you ever see me signing up for a triathalon or something crazy like that, you will know, without a doubt, that someone has surgically replaced my brain with someone else's, in which case you should send help. Like, immediately.

My Life on a Bike--Day Three

Okay, yes, it's been like two months since Day Two, but the point is, I'm still moving forward. Since my last bike-related post I have 1. saved money toward the purchase of bike, 2. purchased my very own helmet (many thanks to Lisa for partnering with me in helmet shopping), and 3. borrowed a bike with no return date from Tracy.

Now granted, I had to spend the money I'd saved toward a bike on some gnarly car repairs (gnarly in the negative, not as in "cool! gnarly!"), and granted it's on the verge of being too cold to bike, but still, I'm making progress. And now here's where I insert the proverb that has carried me through the last three years, "Steady plodding brings prosperity" Pr. 21:5 (RSV). I have not quit. I am still going forward. And maybe, just maybe now the pace will increase. Since I actually have a bike to ride for a while.

So today I took my first ride on Tracy's bike. It took me three days to even get on it because the tires needed inflating, I had to buy a pump (oh yeah, add this too the list of accomplishments, it's a pump that attaches to the bike frame), only I couldn't figure it out, or there was too much air to pump and I gave up on that route. This morning I hiked it up on the bike rack (again borrowed from Tracy with much appreciation!) and took it down to the gas station to fill it up with air for a whopping 75 cents.

While I'm on that, I feel the need to comment that carrying around a bike on a car can be a bit of a pain, but not for the reasons you might think. On the way home from Tracy's Saturday night, I wanted to stop at the grocery to pick up a few things my mom had asked me to get for her. But I couldn't because of the vulnerability of the bike. And then today, after I got the tires pumped with air at the gas station, I wanted to run by the bookstore, but again, I couldn't for the same reason. Those of you who are regular cyclists, do you have a security device for things like this, or do you just avoid stopping elsewhere when your bike is on your car? See I still have things to learn.

So, my ride. I didn't think to check the time before I left, but it was probably about a half hour ride and not overly strenuous. Strenuous being determined by how many times I have to dismount from the bike during the ride (answer zero). There were some minor hills, but the bike took to them well. I found her road bike so much easier to ride than the mountain bikes I've tried thus far. Sorry, you mountain bike enthusiasts, I prefer the skinny tires.

I consider it a successful ride. I'm not sure my heartrate got up to maximum level, but I didn't want to push it. This was more of an experimental ride than a high-exercise ride. The end result is I want to go again, so that's my real measure of success. (Every time I come home from running, for example, I want to scream Never Again! at the top of my lungs. I desire to avoid this rage with biking.)

And the other perk about biking. It's outside by default, which while it has its minuses (weather, traffic), it also has it's bonus features, sunshine and nature of course, but also my personal favorite: honking truckers. The flattering (only mildly offensive) kind of honking. (This is a perk of running outside too.) I'll take a Hey Baby! over a Get a load of Flubber! any day. It reminds me that I am well on my way to getting back my Hot Bod!

My Fastest, Least Thought Through Blog Post Ever

I'm on a time crunch. And don't have much on my mind. But I want to post because it's a good habit.

I'm dogsitting again. This time for a giant fluffy dog named Faith. Here's my dilema of the moment. I am going to a friend's tonight for dinner + Auburn game + concert. I'm expected at 6:00. Which means I need to leave around 5:30. I need to shower and get ready which generally takes an hour so that takes me to 4:30. The crunch is, I need to take the dog for an extended walk, one in which she will need to do her big business (or be locked in a house for hours wishing she had done her big business). The dog walk takes half an hour. Meaning I need to go walk her at 4:00 (in six minutes) in order to keep on schedule and not have to walk her after I'm cleaned up.

No problem, right? Well . . . maybe. But she's used to being walked and doing her big business a few hours later than this. So, I wonder, will the early walk produce the desired result? It is an experiment of the likes of, what's the name of that show where those guys do things like drop a dummy in a plummeting elevator and make him jump the second before it hits the bottom to test the theory and see if he'll survive? The only TV Show name coming to mind at the moment is "What Not to Wear." Don't ask. Anyway, it's like that. MYTH BUSTERS!! Yes, thank you, whoever shouted that out.

It's 3:59pm. Time to put on my socks and shoes, grab a leash and two plastic bags (yes two, sometimes she does her big business twice!) and see what I can eke out of her. I'll keep you posted.

===

4:30pm update:

And the verdict is . . .

No Big Business

What will the evening hold for Faith? What will tonight's late-night return hold for Melanie? Time will tell.

Published in Germany

Okay, this is totally surreal. I just happened upon a blog from Germany (written primarily in German) that had posted the article I wrote on the economy. Germany. I mean, for real?

It's more or less the previous post on this blog, which was published yesterday on Burnside Writers Collective (burnsidewriterscollective.com), a website started by Donald Miller (author of Blue Like Jazz) that markets itself as "an alternative to franchise faith." I'm still getting over the shock that they actually published what I wrote, and now it's on some guy's blog in Germany? You gotta love the internet (and when I say love, what I mean is "be freaked out by").

The notion that other people may actually read what I write is . . . well, it still makes me uncomfortable. I know, I know, I've written on this blog for a year and a half, but that's just you guys--mostly friends and a handful of strangers. I've written for Network Magazine, but those are articles about other people, not ones expressing my own thoughts. I've written lots of corporate copy, but again, that doesn't express what I think. And while I've published personal essays a few other places, Burnside's audience is easily the largest yet to read my personal thoughts.

Suddenly I'm finding myself wanting to shout, "Wait! I'm not sure I meant that. Don't take me too seriously. Those were just some thoughts I had. Don't feel like you need to share what I wrote with friends or--with Germany, for goodness sake!"

There are two sides to this coin. Heads: I hope this helps me to gain the confidence to continue putting my work out there, rather than assuming I don't have anything to say or the ability to say it. Tails: I also hope I don't start thinking too much about the ramifications of something I might write and thus hinder myself from free- flowing thought.

I've heard of this happening to new authors who hit it big right out of the gate. They write their first book, freely expressing their passion for the subject and bam! it becomes a bestseller. Instantly they are asked to write a second, third, and fourth book. But now they can't write, because they're suddenly aware that people are actually going to read and form an opinion about what they write. They overly self-edit and their second book is a mere whisp of the first.

Okay, this was helpful. I just had to tell somebody about the Germany thing and talk it out. Shake it off, Mel, shake it off. All is well. Good in fact. Right? Absolutely. Is it too early for a glass of wine, do you think?

Embracing the Falling Economy: Why We Need to Hit Bottom

As word came last week that our major financial institutions faced massive failures, I was writing a magazine article about a missions team working among HIV-affected families in Ethiopia. The two stories could not have been more contrasting.

In interviewing a medical missionary in Ethiopia, I learned about a mother and her six children who live in a room the size of a double bed. The mother is dying of AIDS after having contracted the HIV virus from an unfaithful husband who then abandoned the family. She is shunned by society. And she is just one of thousands of women who share a similar story.

I have not visited Ethiopia. I have not met any of these mothers who are dying of AIDS, mothers who silently wonder what will become of their soon-to-be orphaned children. I have not stepped foot into their tiny dwellings made from corrugated metal and plastic tarps. I have only seen photos and spoken with those who work among them. And yet I am deeply disturbed.

Due to the timing, it was unavoidable for me to contrast the devastation in Ethiopia with the current devastation here in the U.S. Our stock market is as unsteady as a drunken man on a balance beam. Major financial institutions are falling apart. Wall Street brokers are in a frenzy, blindly reaching for anything they can find to steady themselves. And a young woman in Ethiopia with no concept of Wall Street awakens, wondering how many more meals she will share with her children.

This morning I sat in my living room, not large by most standards, but probably six to eight times larger than the single room shared by an Ethiopian family of seven, and let my eyes slowly absorb the view. This is my living room. This is just one room in my house. A room that is used purely for lounging, not for cooking or sleeping. A leisure room.

Glancing around I noticed the luxuries in this one room. Television (with cable, DVD player, and a rarely used VCR). Stereo. Gas fireplace. Wall-to-wall carpeting. Two couches and two chairs. Seven pillows. One blanket. Three tables. Two lamps, an overhead light fixture, and a ceiling fan. Two windows. Three entrances. Painted walls and a painted ceiling. Art on the wall. Four electrical outlets. A phone outlet, never used because I prefer a cell phone. A laptop computer with high-speed internet. And a stack of half-read magazines and catalogs two inches thick.

As I let each detail of the room sink into my consciousness, I thought about the Ethiopian mother in “a room the size of a double bed.” I reviewed my notes from the missionary interview and I hesitated about the accuracy of that quote until I noticed the photo. Several Ethiopian women were playing hostess to an American missionary, sharing a plate of bread or crackers in a tiny shelter. Yes, I realized, it was indeed that small.

Thinking about the daily lives of these families in Ethiopia, I wonder what it would take for us to understand that kind of poverty. These families are desperate for God in every way; for their health, their food, their safety, their children’s future. They are in a position to depend on God alone that we, as Americans, can’t begin to comprehend. As strange as this may sound, I can’t help but wonder what would happen if we were to embrace the falling economy rather than fight it.

The U.S. government is scrambling to make decisions about providing bail-out loans to save crashing institutions; administering quick fixes to keep the whole house of cards from overnight decimation. While I understand our “plug-up-the-dam” logic, I have to wonder if that isn’t a bit like giving an alcoholic the keys to the liquor cabinet.

I realize in this case the alcoholic controls our entire financial system, and that if the government fails to intervene, the U.S. economy will collapse, severely impacting people at every level of society. But still, I wonder if allowing the natural consequences rather than preventing them might be the more biblical response. Maybe our nation needs to hit bottom. Maybe we need to experience a depression in order to shock our systems enough to admit we have a significant idolatry problem and that we desperately need to seek treatment.

What would it do for our nation if we could live for even a few days in poverty akin to the daily experience of many around the world? Would we start to look at things a little differently? Would it be as important to own houses that are bigger than we need or can afford? Or would we begin to thank God for the cool breeze of the day, for another day of life to spend with our children, for a soft blanket, or a meal shared in love?

What we seem desperate to stop could potentially be the best thing our nation could ask for. As Christians, wouldn’t the wisest thing be to get on our knees and beg God to save us, not from financial devastation, but from our love of money? If the answer is yes, the daunting question then becomes, are we willing to suffer the consequences for the good of our nation?

Confidence vs. Humility

What’s the difference between the good kind of pride (aka self-worth), and the bad kind of pride (self-focus) and how do you attain one without the other? Recently I was complimented as having “remarkable wisdom” by someone I greatly respect. I was taken aback because I never get that kind of feedback and in fact, more often think the opposite of myself—that I have little of value to contribute to an intellectual discussion. To say the least, it felt great to receive the affirmation, and it sparked a chain of thoughts that haven’t reached their conclusion yet.

First I started wondering if he was right. Did I have the capacity to contribute wisdom to an intellectual discussion? If so, why have I felt otherwise? I started thinking of a number of things I could do if this were true. I could take more risks entering into conversations that feel a bit over my head with less fear of being thought of as foolish. I could write thoughtful editorials and submit them to various magazines and websites for possible publication, something I would have never even dared to consider before. My assumption has long been that I was not at an intellectual level where I could even compete. And I am beginning to realize that assumption has held me back.

But there’s another side to the thought process: the fact that all this sudden thinking about my wisdom and intelligence (which may or may not be reality, it was a passing comment by one person) has definitively served to feed my selfish pride, and surprisingly has not really served to quench my insecurity. I’ve started thinking, “wow, maybe I am something.” And then quickly sinking into thoughts like, “but maybe that was a fluke,” and remembering all the times I’d said something in a discussion that was met with blank stares and felt a sense of “poor girl, she doesn’t get it.”

Can you see the self-focus growing? I am learning I have zero ability to judge myself, and that others’ judgments are fickle and inconsistent. They can’t be trusted. And they say nothing at all about genuine worth which is found only in Christ.

Here’s where I’m supposed to come in and say that we’re not meant to find our worth in the eyes of the world which changes like shifting shadows. We’re meant to find our value in Christ alone. And that’s truth. But I haven’t figured out how to apply the truth yet. Neither have I learned what to do with affirming comments. Can I use them to help build my confidence and challenge me to try new things? Or should they be downplayed because of their inherent dangers? And what do I do with the rejections? Do I take them to mean I have no ability (to reason or to write) after all? How do I properly assess myself? How do I build confidence and humility at the same time?

As I mentioned at the beginning, I haven’t begun to reach conclusions in this matter. Maybe part of that is due to my relenting need to overanalyze everything. Maybe I need to work harder to let all the thoughts go, and trust that God will accomplish His purposes in me regardless. After all, He’s pretty darn good at knocking down selfish pride when He wants to. It’s the proper balance that I crave.

So I'm not Michael Phelps

Okay, so it’s time to catch you up. Here’s the short story. I started a new part-time job and have pretty much dropped everything else while I’ve been getting adjusted to it.

Which means I haven’t been:
a) blogging
b) running or biking or researching biking
c) dating
d) spending quality time with God
e) writing
f) moving forward in my life

And that I have been:
a) sleeping a lot
b) emotionally eating and gaining weight
c) saying no to social activities and then complaining that I’m lonely
d) watching the Olympics instead of thinking
e) spending too much time on Facebook
f) slipping backwards in my life

It’s amazing what happens when you default into coping mode. It's intensely frustrating. All of the sudden I felt like all these things I've worked so hard to achieve just disappeared, most importantly emotional stability. It's like when your immune system is compromised and you catch every little bug within two miles of your breathing space. There is no thinking of achieving great goals. Suddenly the goal becomes keeping it together, getting enough rest to make it to the next day, finding food whenever and wherever, trying not to destroy relationships.

I realize I probably sound overdramatic. But this is how it's felt to me. No transition is as easy and smooth as I think it should be. Eventually things will even out, and are beginning to do so already (evidenced by the fact that I'm blogging again), but none of it is fast enough to satisfy.

I hate this feeling of two steps forward, one step back. I desperately want to be one of those people who only moves forward. One who takes positive steps and is ever increasing in fulfilling their potential. One who leaps over roadblocks on the strength of a power bar.

I've been reading about Rick Warren lately. Big mistake! This guy is doing huge things to change culture around the world. Huge things! I can't even manage to take off five pounds. Or buy a bicycle helmet. Or go to the grocery. Or call a friend. Everywhere I look there seem be Rick Warrens and Michael Phelps and Oprah Winfreys and even 15-year-olds named Miley, not to mention a million others, who just touch things and they turn to gold. And then there's me.

The point I’m trying to make here is not that I'm a loser, though I suppose that could be debated, but rather that I hate seeing my own weakness. I hate that I am so easily sidelined. Weakened. Deterred. I hate that I'm not on the list of rising stars in any category.

It all comes down to worth. At the bottom of it all. What determines my worth? Is it fulfilling my potential? Is it being respected? Admired? Strong? Thin? Financially stable? Emotionally stable? Successful? Married? Able to cook?

True enough, the world says those things do determine who I am. The world says I'm slipping backwards. That I must become strong to earn worth, to earn love. The question is, am I going to listen?

Because this is reality: this world is not my home. I belong to Someone with a different set of values. Someone who wants to remind me I am just as valued as the world changers, and just as valued as the near-homeless alcoholic who has failed at every relationship and lost every possession.

Yes, I’m further down the mountain than I’d like to be. But I matter to God. May my frustrations of late serve to remind me that others, especially the weak and the discarded, matter just as much.

S.D.G.

www.lifeonatinyisland.blogspot.com

High School Reunion vs. Art Karaoke

Well, I did it. I skipped my twenty year high school reunion. It was last night. I just couldn't make myself go, despite Susan's months and months of pleas. In my opinion, it takes an extremely self-assured person to weather a reunion, especially when your life hasn't quite turned out the way you'd expected it would. And I'm the farthest thing from self-assured [which is kinda weird since I also think that I'm exceptionally amazing. It's just that I don't have the things that usually go along with being amazing (marriage, family, career, ministry, financial stability, etc.) Why is that?]

So, in leiu of my high school reunion, I did the most fun thing I could think of--I painted a la Van Gogh.

It was called Art Night, hosted by Church of the Redeemer, and it proved to be the perfect therapy for my anti-reunion angst. For $5, I got a canvas, brushes, paints, and all the encouragement I needed to play Van Gogh for the night.

I'm not an artist. I've never had that gift. But I love playing, pretending like I do. It's kind of like art karaoke. Instead of playing rock star, I got to play tortured post-impressionist for the night. This particular Art Night was all about Van Gogh, kind of like how American Idol has a music theme for the week where the idol-wannabees sing songs of a particular artist.

Now I am taking a big risk here by posting a photo of my copy of Van Gogh's Fishing Boats on the Beach at Saintes-Maries. Like I said, I'm not an artist, but rather I'm more like a first-grader eager to show off what she made in school that day.

Hmm, it came out kind of blurry. Well, that's probably a good thing. You can't see the flaws as well. This also marks the first time ever in my life that I have taken a photo with a digital camera, pulled it out of the camera, downloaded it onto my computer, and posted it on my blog, so I at least deserve credit for figuring out how to do all that. My word, I sound like my mother. I wonder if I'm going to be this far behind the technology wave for my entire life.

Oh, and to brag on another technological breakthrough [seriously, all this is a big deal. I'm the girl who doesn't know how to download music onto an ipod. (But if anyone has an old ipod they want to get rid of, I'd be willing to learn.)] So, where was I? Oh yeah, my new breakthrough. I learned how to funnel my blog through Facebook notes! Hooray for me. So if you're reading this on Facebook I guess I should tell you that this is my blog. Which is really located at http://www.lifeonatinyisland.blogspot.com/. I feel a little annoying-obnoxious feeding this through Facebook because it's going to show up on everybody's news feed every time I post something new. Which is kinda like "Hey. Over here. Look at me!" Hmmm. Just realized that's kind of what I was doing with my painting. I'm still in first grade, aren't I?

I'm meeting Susan for lunch today to get the down low on the reunion. I still want to know what everybody's up to. I just didn't want to explain what I've been up to (which is pretty much nothing.) I think it is entirely possible that Susan and I are the only two people from the Tucker High School class of '88 who never married. And I realized as I wrote that how much I dislike that phrase "never married." It sounds like it's a done deal forever. But at a certain point people stop saying "hasn't married yet" and start saying "never married." And now I'm doing it! Aaaah!

And I guess it's really not true that I've done nothing these last twenty years. I mean just last night, I painted a real painting on real canvas, just like Van Gogh. (Let's not mention the ear-severing thing, ok?)

Month Discrimination

August. Do y'all like August? Cause it's not up there with my favorite months. It's a bridge from July to September that must be endured. Wow, that was harsh, Mel. Yeah, it was. I should ease up on August. I mean while it is clearly the worst month from the half a year covering April to September, it outshines Novemeber, December, January, and February ten times over.

I admit it, I am a monthist. I discriminate against months that don't live up to my ideal month standards. August just doesn't cut the mustard. Reason number one? Unbearable heat and humidity. Well, at least in Atlanta. I think if I lived in Maine near Pete and Jackie for example, August could well transform into my favorite month of the year--a mindblowing achievement for a month if you think about it. But I do not live in Maine. I live in Georgia. Have you been in Georgia in August? I mean you cannot breathe because the humidity is so dense.

What I am thankful for is that I live in an age of air conditioning. Oh my word, I'm remembering that torturous summer when I drove a car without air conditioning. Oh man! Let's change the subject. I'm getting irritible just thinking about it.

Another bummer about August is just that it marks the end of summer. My teacher friends all go back to school and life gets rote again. Oh my goodness I just remembered a dream I had last night. There was Christmas music on the radio on one channel and I remember riding in the car with my mom and she asked if I could handle listening to that yet or if she should change the station. Man, my anti-August bias is mixing with my anti-Decemeber bias and affecting my dreams. This cannot be good.

So, let's swing to the saving grace of August, 2008. Beginning August 8th we'll be transported out of Atlanta and to one of my favorite places in the world: China. Yes, the Olympics. This August's silver lining. Now if you've ever been in Beijing in August, it ain't much better than Atlanta, but as long as we're all suffering together, let's get distracted with gymnastics and swimming and visions of Gold. Can you feel it easing up? The oppressive heat dissapates in the excitement.

Incidentally, I was in China for the Olympics back in 1996. Yes, the summer the Olympics were in Atlanta, I was in China. Let me tell ya, China is an amazing country to visit, but if you have to watch the Olympics on television, you do not want to do it in China. I'm not talking about the language barrier, I'm talking about Olympics priorities. Thankfully China is into gymnastics, so watching that was not a problem. Swimming? Diving? These were another matter. I remember several times I'd be watching a swimming or diving competition and mid-competition the station would suddenly switch to their favorite sport: ping pong. It made me crazy! I mean it is pretty fascinating to watch those guys play, but what about the US? Did we win a swimming medal? Who knows? I can assure you we did not win a medal in ping pong.

Yes, August is here, and yes, I'm anxious about it, but, I will endure it. Thanks to the Olympics. And air conditioning.

Ego Surgery, Elective

Sometimes I just get weary of being taught by God. He's been teaching me a lot lately. Which is supposed to be great, right? And it is. But it's also h-a-r-d, hard.

The crux of all the lessons is the same. I need to empty myself of my ego if I want greater intimacy with God. And I do want greater intimacy. So what have I been doing? Praying for greater intimacy. And what has God been doing? Revealing every barrier of desire, one by one, and asking me to kill them. Which of course I cannot do. So I have to ask Him to kill them. But in the middle of the execution I start screaming for Him to stop. I have changed my mind. I do not want this surgery. I do not want to die. Never mind, Lord. Forget I said anything. Let's go back to peace and quiet for a while, okay? He relents. And so the battle continues.

If anyone out there has the anesthesia that will make these surgeries more bearable, please share. I will pay big money for it. Well, if I had big money I would.

I really like this new show, Hopkins, a reality/documentary following doctors and patients at Johns Hopkins. On a recent episode, a patient had been brought into the ER who had dislocated his shoulder and was in severe pain. The doctor held the man's arm and told him they were going to pop it back into place, and that it would hurt, but only for a short time. The man, who seemed to be intoxicated, started yelling, "No, no, no. Stop. Don't do it!" The doctor let go of his arm, stepped back and said "Okay. You can go through life with your arm like that if you want to." Needless to say, the man left the hospital with his shoulder back in its rightful position.

God shot me with that one. Melanie, He said, Do you want to go through life with a dislocated self, full of ego, knowing that it will prevent you from the greater healing and intimacy that I want you to have? And I'm stuck. How do you answer that? And so it continues. Yes, Lord, do what you want. No! Stop! Wait!

So can you see, just a little, why I'm weary? Let's just do the surgery and be done with it! And yet I can't make it all the way through. So it's just a tedious, painful process.

But I'll grant God one thing, He is increasing my yearning for intimacy with Him. Day by day increasing it to the point where the pain begins to come from another direction, the pain of separation slowly competing with the pain of execution. And maybe that is exactly the anesthesia I need.

My Life on a Bike--Day Two

Okay, so I did ride again this week. After last week's challenging and frustrating bike ride up and down crazy hills I got scared. I thought I might never ride a bike again if I didn't find a positive experience. So I knew I had to jump into the most pleasant ride I could find, and decided that could be found on the Silver Comet Trail.

I knew it wouldn't fly well with some folks, my going alone, so I didn't tell anybody. Except my Dad who lives in another state. And I did write the name of the Bike Rental Shop I intended to use on a notepad in my mom's kitchen, so that if I never returned home she would know where to tell police to look.

So you either know about it or you don't. A woman was murdered on the Silver Comet Trail several years ago. And there was that mugging a couple months ago. So I had to weigh that against my intense desire to have a gorgeous bike ride on a long flat paved trail that could possibly turn me onto the love of cycling forever. I thought about it. Fear vs. Logic. And Logic won.

I reasoned that hundreds (thousands?) of folks have been walking, running, biking, and rollerblading on the Silver Comet Trail 365 days a year since that murder. Logically, it is more likely that I would be killed in a car accident than attacked on the Silver Comet Trail. True, it messes with your head. And I'd determined to be smart about it, wearing a whistle around my neck and making sure there were others on the path where I was riding, coming and going in both directions.

My final decision to go came from advice from an unusual source. As I was debating, I glanced over at the Parade Magazine laying on the counter. A picture of Kevin Costner and a quote, "Don't let fear hold you back." I laughed. Wisdom from Kevin Costner, who'd have thought? And I had to agree. I don't want to live my life based on fear. Who said "if I perish, i perish"? The fiery furnace guys? Oh, no it was Esther. Yes, Queen Esther. Of course she was risking her life to save Israel, but still.

Well I have to say that it was the best bike ride of my life. On flat, paved trails I was able to bike 20 miles without a problem. Which honestly shocked me because I could barely go one mile in Ken's neighborhood. The trail was gorgeous. Peaceful. Pleasant. Energizing. And really not at all scary. There were plenty of others on the trail.

One thing that surprised me was that it was harder than I thought it would be to get into the meditative frame of mind that I was searching for. I've wondered about those guys on the Blood:Water Mission cross-country ride that just ended. Were they able to meditate during their 80+ mile a day rides? I think I was surprised, that even on the easy breezy Silver Comet Trail, my mind was consumed by the energy it took to ride the bike. Is this because I'm inexperienced and out of shape, or is that just reality? I was able to pray some, but not nearly as much as I'd hoped.

Still, about 20 minutes into the ride I was certain that I wanted to do this every day for the rest of my life. I glanced out at neighborhoods I passed along the trail wondering if they had any rentals available. How amazing would it be to walk out your front door and be able to ride a bike for as long as you wanted in a setting like that?

The aftermath of the two hour bike ride was completely another matter. I felt great during the entire ride. As soon as I got off the bike and into my car, I crashed big time. I stopped at a convenience store for Gatorade and Power Bars. I could not wait until I got home to eat something. I hadn't even thought to bring any food because I knew I'd only be out for two hours. I had plenty of water (and there are plenty of places to stop for water along the trail) and it just didn't even cross my mind that food would be important.

Are y'all laughing at me? If you are then I know you're a real cyclist, someone who would say "of Course you have to eat, you idiot." I'm telling you. It didn't occur to me.

I was never sore, but it took me two full days to regain my normal energy level. Two days! And it was an easy ride. Really.

I have a lot to learn. But I'm getting there. I wore my first ever bicycle helmet that day. I now own bike shorts for the first time in my life.

A long way to go, but a step closer. I'll keep you posted. In the meantime, please take up my cause of improving the PR of the Silver Comet Trail. I'll give out free whistles if I need to.

My Life on a Bike--Day One

So, I've been looking into this biking thing. And yesterday, thanks to the lovely Robyn and witty Ken, I got my first chance to ride. And I have to say - it ain't easy!

It may be possible that I just picked the wrong place to start my biking quest because when I returned the bike and told Ken where I'd gone, his eyes got really big and said something like "Oh wow, them there's some hills over yonder, there are!" Okay, so Ken doesn't talk like that, but the senitment was the same.

Still, I can't exactly blame it all on the hills. I'm not quite what you'd call in shape. Yet. Yet. Yet. I may get there, IF I can keep myself from quitting after my first experience.

I tried out both Ken's bike and Robyn's bike. Ken's is a mountain bike, and a man's bike. My first question is: what difference does the sex of the bike make? Is it the seat? I don't see what advantage that straight bar on a man's bike gives anybody. Or is that just to tell the two apart? No matter. These questions will be answered in time.

I am embarrassed by how hard it was just to get out of Ken's neighborhood. The long slow hill was taxing, but after weaving from one side of the road to the other, I eventually made it. Though by the third hill (granted, a steep one), I had to get off and walk up the rest of the way. Even using the word walking is a bit of a misnomer. More like shuffled leaning. I moved like an asthmatic little old lady. (No offense to any little old ladies who might be reading this.)

On a positive note, I've decided I really like the downhill part of biking. And if I could find a place that was all downhill riding, I could really get into this. I would still pedal to get (or pretend to get) some exercise. But it would be fun.

Overall, I'm not sure I could call yesterday's ride fun. I have this fantasy image of what riding a bike should be. Zooming along on well-paved roads with nature singing to me all around, my mind freed from any thoughts but ones of contemplative meditation. Me and God, riding through life together.

Maybe I need to figure out why I really want to learn to ride. Exercise or pleasure? Of course I want both, but is that realistic? I think if I have to pick one, I'd pick pleasure. Which means easy riding is a must. But I do want to be able to check off my workout on the good ole to-do list. Who wants to go running after a bike ride? (Crazy triatholoners like Tracy or the Butlers, that's who.)

I think I don't really like the mountain bike. I tried Robyn's hybrid after I finished using Ken's and enjoyed it much more, but by then I was exhausted and could only ride around in circles in front of their house. Perhaps not the best way to judge the quality of a bike.

Oh, and here's another thing. I hurt in places I didn't expect to hurt. Quads, fine. But my hands and shoulders hurt. What is this about? I felt like all of my weight was on the handlebars. Why is it good to lean forward when biking? When we biked in China last summer, we got to sit up straight and it was delightful! We rode and we sang (ala The Sound of Music) and it was blissful. Why isn't that reality in America?

So, suffice it to say, I've got a long way to go. I've kicked up my investigation and begun talking to cyclists at all levels. One friend assures me I can get a decent bike for under $1,000; another says I can find a good one at a garage sale for $20. One friend says a mountain bike is the only way to go, another says a road bike is so much easier to ride.

My latest search has been for bike rental places around Atlanta. Naturally I checked out the one closest to my house, Bikeways of Tucker. I had to include this photo from their website because it cracked me up. If you have never been to Tucker, you may need a little help with the humor. Tucker looks nothing like this. If it did, trust me, I'd be on a bike faster than you can say zip-a-dee-do-da. (Okay, I realize it takes a bit of time to say zip-a-dee-do-da, thus making it an ineffective point, but it popped out.)

I'll keep y'all posted. As of today, it still remains to be seen whether there will be a Day Two of my cycling adventures.

Jammin' and Biking

Okay before I start, I have to kind of laugh at this guy at that table over there. He's working on his computer and is listening to his ipod. What's so funny is that he is totally jamming out but trying not to be obvious about it. He gets a serious look on his face and types something on his computer and then spontaneously starts head bobbing and stops typing with his right hand to tap out a rhythm on his left wrist. Then he looks around to make sure no one is watching, gets in another head jam or two, and then goes back to the computer. How he keeps managing to miss my stares is beyond me.

But that is not what I sat down to write about. What I sat down to write about is much more serious than that. It's spiritual. About sin and stuff. Only now my head is clouded with a fog and a craving for carbs. I should go work out. That's what I should do. But I just got here. And I'm all clean and dressed and such. You know what's wrong with Panera? No protein snacks. You want a snack, it's gotta be bread. I just want, I don't know, like some peanut butter or something. Or a cheese stick.

I don't know if the spiritual thing is going to work today. Because now I'm thinking about biking. Lately I've been wondering if I could be take up biking. I'm starting to ask around, find out what other people do and enjoy, but this really does nothing to tell me if I could really hack it. Here's the thing. I want to like it. But do you go and spend hundreds of dollars on a bike based on wanting to like it? I have this fear that I'll get a bike, ride around the neighborhood a few times, and realize that hills and humidity make me want to kill people, and then never get on the bike again. I mean, sure, there's a chance I could love it, and you don't know until you try. But there's also a chance I could hate it. And what then? Money down the drain.

I biked some when I lived in Cedar Key. I borrowed Lauren's bike, which was pretty nice, and rode all over the island for hours at a time. But. But Cedar Key is kinda like...Indiana. Flat. There is a hill on the way up to the schoolhouse, but no one in Atlanta would call it a hill. Really, the flat biking is the kind of biking I love. But that is just not possible in this city. But I don't want to wimp out when it could be a good thing. And suddenly I'm aware that I'm overusing the word "but."

So then, I guess, there's the borrow-a-bike route. Which I really should do. Both Robyn and Carrell have offerred. It's a matter of getting with them and coordinating. And Robyn told me Jessica bikes, so I should talk to her. I don't know, I guess I'm still just really intimidated. It's like the Peachtree. It's an easy breezy race for everybody I know, but I can currently only run for a few minutes at a time without having to stop and walk a bit, and then I just feel out of shape. I don't want to run the Peachtree unless I can be like them--where it's, you know, easy. It's probably the same with biking. Why do I honestly believe that everything is harder for me than for other people?

The guy is head bobbing again. And he has this really serious "music is king" look on his face like he's actually on stage with his bass guitar. His brow is furrowed and every now and then he opens his mouth in a silent high note scream. Man, is he jamming.

I wonder if he bikes.

True Confessions

Right now, this very moment as I write, I'm watching Denise Richards: It's Complicated. On purpose. I'm not proud of it, but in the spirit of being open with my weaknesses, I confess that one my biggest is reality tv. Not the Dancing With the Stars/American Idol kind of reality, but the behind-the-scenes-in-the-life-of-a-celebrity kind. Gene Simmons. The Two Coreys. Tori and Dean: Inn Love. And I keep finding more of them, some for celebrities I haven't even heard of. Who are the Kardashians? It doesn't matter, I'm still drawn in. (The one lake I haven't dipped my toes into is The Hills. But I would.)

What's the appeal? I'm not sure I know myself. I mean I know it's only pretend-reality, manufactured stories for the sake of entertainment, and that some of these people's lives are seriously messed up, but I don't really care. I'm still intrigued.

And if there's not reality tv, there's the new stream of true crime mysteries that I seem to keep getting sucked into. The other week they had this one where a totally normal seeming guy tried to kill his whole family, arranging to be shot in the leg himself by the "intruder" to throw suspicion off him. His Dad lived and is now his best friend, while he awaits execution. I couldn't sleep after that. But even more sleep-disrupting are the ones where you're not quite sure, even after the verdict, if the guy really did it.

I need a life, don't I?

You know what else? I love blockbuster movies. Pretty much, I love movies in general. In the theater, that is. I almost never rent DVDs or watch movies on TV. Why should I when there's reality tv or crime mysteries? (only reality crime, I don't like CSI-type shows.) Truth is I love the experience of being in the theater. Huge screen, music, drama, emotion. To me it's like the difference between going to a concert and listening to a CD. Is that weird?

There's this sense, with some of the movies I like to go see, that they are beneath me. I mean that in the sense that friends sometimes give me that look that says "You want to see what? Why?" Even movies that get bad reviews, if the preview intrigues me, I have to go.

Just as I appreciate good literature, NPR, and Frontline, I also enjoy good art films, brilliant screenwriting, and insightful directing. I support Project Greenlight. I used to go to the Telluride Film Festival every year. But that doesn't mean I don't love a good sci-fi special-effects-ridden blockbuster just as much. Bring on the aliens and the one-dimensional heros. I still know the difference between Peter Berg and the Coen Brothers.

I'm not sure why I get defensive. I guess I want to be thought of as possessing high-brow intelligence, but at the same time I have this insatiable need to defend my right to just be mindlessly entertained.

One final confession: I think Ellen Degeneres is just about the funniest person on tv.

Or maybe I just like her because she appreciates reality televison.

Looking Forward

What I'm looking forward to:

Tracy's Mama Mia party
Falling in love with a guy who gets that I'm amazing
Heaven (seriously)
Losing 10 pounds
The next season of LOST
Ghostwriting a book
Visiting Shannon in Hawaii
Seeing more of God's redemption in the life of someone I care about
More time with Dad
Getting my economic stimulus check (I'm at the bottom of the list.)
Taking a Chinese painting and caligraphy class
Feeling like I'm moving forward in life
Going out to dinner with Mom
Buying new clothes
Free wireless at the new Tucker Starbucks
Mom getting cable and hi-speed internet
Willie Ames new book (I know, I'm a Teen Beat geek.)
Skipping my 20 year high school reunion
More thunderstorms
Going to the dogpark with Dixie
Better television (Wipeout?? I Survived a Japanese Game Show??!)
Heidi writing me back (how's that for a hint?)
Getting over my Don Miller crush
Being recognized for my creative brillance while remaining humble
Getting comments on this blog post
Today's voice mails from Carrell
One day owning a massage chair like David Webb's
Having the confidence to post real pictures of myself
Alternative fuel
Rocky VII (kidding!)
Ending this blog

Cold Feet

Okay so I need to write. But there are a dozen things buzzing through my mind right now. You might get what my long distance friends recognize as my typical email style, which, though I have lots to say, really comes across as saying virtually nothing. Or, this could turn out to be brilliant. You just never can tell.

I'm supposed to write about sparklers. By supposed to I only mean that I asked the guys at the party what I could blog about and Dave tossed out the word "sparklers," which made sense because that's what we were holding at the time. But, sparklers aren't really on my mind at the moment so I'm going to take a risk and go out on my own a bit. Light my own fire, so to speak.

It is entirely possible that I just attempted to slice cheese with a letter opener. I can't be sure, because this instrument was found in a silverware drawer. I thought, "oh, this will work great!" Only it didn't. And as I was sawing at the cheese (Vermont White Cheddar Extra Sharp), it hit me. "This kinda looks like a letter opener." And then I got embarrassed. What if they find out? (They, being the people I'm dogsitting for--the wine people, who surely know how to properly cut cheese.) Still I can't be sure it was a letter opener. I mean who keeps a letter opener in a silverware drawer? It had a fat wooden handle, like an ice pick, but the stainless steel blade was very letter-openeresque. And it didn't cut cheese too well.

So that was one thing on my mind. Only now I seem to have forgotten the dozen or so other things I was thinking. Let me take a few minutes back with my book to possibly jump start my creative brain. I'm reading this brilliant book called A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius by Dave Eggers. I couldn't figure it out at all at first. The back cover of the book gives absolutely no insight other than things like "Exhilarating!" "Funny!" "Profoundly Moving" Which all made me want to read it but gave me zero insight into what exactly I was getting myself into.

It's a memoir, but I didn't even know that until a handful of pages in. Still, I didn't know, a memoir about what? My next thought, 100 pages in was, "okay, so this guy can ramble incessantly and it's entertaining enough, but brilliant? Pulitzer brilliant?" (He was a Pulitzer Finalist.) But now, half way through, I get it. He's brilliant, or at least wildly clever. I can't figure out if he knew what he was doing (planning it all out, how he would convey the story), or if he's just one of those naturally creative people out of whom spills a mess that people deem brilliant only because they don't have the gift. I guess what I mean is, how hard did he try? (And more importantly, could I do it?)

My feet are cold.

This is relevant because no longer do I harbor illusions that I will resume with inspiration and spill out brilliantly random thoughts here today. And the reason those illusions have faded is simple. My feet are cold. Just as hunger trumps good conversation, so cold feet trump blogging.

What I mean is this. I must go warm my feet. It is far more important than anything else in my world at this very moment. And the liklihood that I will return to this cold room with the computer is unlikely. What is more likely is that I will go warm my feet with socks and a blanket on the sofa, settle in with my almost Pulitzer-winning memoir and a Coke Zero, and shortly thereafter close my eyes and dream the afternoon away.

And this may be irrelevant, but I feel the need to share what I've discovered in the last 20 minutes: lemonade and extra sharp white cheddar cheese is a terrible combination.

Turning a Corner?

I'm settling into a few hours at Panera (my current favorite writing spot). I'm nibbling on a banana and sipping on a Diet Coke, checking email, and am now ready to blog.

It seems such a long time since I've written. It's only been two weeks, but it feels like an eternity. After my time in Florida for the funeral of my dear friend Theresa's mother, Cindy, I was back in Atlanta only briefly before learning of my grandfather's declining health. He passed away last week and thus ensued an unexpected trip with Mom up to Virginia. Things have been out of whack lately to say the least. I'm writing today in part to get myself back to some state of order and normalcy.

An upturn lately, separate from funerals and unplanned travel, has been the rounding a corner of sorts regarding my writing career. I still laugh writing those words, "Writing Career," as though it were an imaginary role I was playing. But more and more it is becoming reality, which floors me.

Recently a friend caught my attention as I was coming into church and she was leaving, and quickly mentioned that she liked the piece I'd written. I hesitated and looked at her with confusion, quickly scanning my brain to determine which piece she meant. My singles column? No, she's married. Did she know about the Bohemian Alien column? How would she know about that?

I finally asked, "What piece are you talking about?" "The one in ConnectHer," she answered, surprised that I hadn't immediately understood. Oh! I'd forgotten about that one since it had been turned in over a month ago. ConnectHer is the women's ministry newsletter produced by my church. I'd written a brief testimony about my father's illness.

Later that same day another friend said, "I read your article in..." before he finished I'd assumed he'd read the women's newsletter, even though he's a guy. I don't know, I figured he'd heard I'd written something and picked up a copy. But that wasn't what he was referring to. He finished his sentence, "...in Network." Oh! I had forgotten about that too, and hadn't realized it was even out.

That was a fun day, just sitting back and realizing that I had written so many things that I couldn't instantly put my finger on which one people were reading. Granted, some of those weren't paying jobs, I'm still paying my dues, but everything works together to build experience and credibility which both will help me land more work and more income.

In fact, I've just gotten a new paid writing assignment for a ministry publication that came through a referral from someone who felt confident enough in my abilities to refer me to the editor. Which will serve to further expand my experience and resume, and lay steps in place to my using the words "writing career" without the sense of it just being wishful thinking.

Of everything I'm doing, what I enjoy most is my column for single women called "single. together." It's become a ministry as well as a writing outlet. It's proven a challenge to maintain the discipline to produce it weekly, but the challenge is a good one that I need if this writing career thing is going to work. I am continually getting new subscribers and find I have hit a nerve among single Christian women.

My newest excitement is that I've been asked to ghostwrite a book. I'm so excited about the prospect of this project. The woman who wants me to tell her story has an incredible story of generations of abuse and the ultimate redemption she's experienced as she's uncovered her history piece by piece. I can't believe someone is going to pay me to write a book. It's a bit intimidating, but an exciting challenge.

I am sure I'll look back on this one day and laugh at the little things I felt excitement about. I'm still a hair's breath away from being an administrative assistant, but there is hope, at least today, that I can make this writing thing work.

And now that I've procrastinated for half an hour, I need to get back to rewriting the marketing campaign revision that's due by the end of the day.

After I refill my Diet Coke.

For the Love of Air Conditioning

I'm in Cedar Key for a few days and let me tell you, living here in the summer just ain't as easy as it used to be. I'm talking about the heat. It's like I can't move, my body is so heavy and sticky and blech.

See, I used to live here back when Dad was sick. I lived here for two full years, and yet I don't remember this miserable heat and humidity. I must have just gotten used to it. But I'm not used to it any more. Now I'm like a darn yankee down here.

Yes, it's hotter than something really hot in Atlanta too, but here's the difference. Atlantans have a healthy appreciation for air conditioning. Cedar Key folks seem to think its overrated. Oh, some places have it, sure. But it's like being in the shade versus the sun. It's still 95% humidity, and you still want to pull back your hair and stick your head in the freezer. Which I've done. Thank God for freezers.

My dad and I are both writers. He writes a weekly column for the Cedar Key Beacon called Trouble in Cedar Key. What both Dad and I would enjoy would be to find a place to write simultaneously, sharing the same work space while doing our own thing. But there's a problem. He loves the heat, I can't function in it.

He writes longhand so he frequently writes out on a bench overlooking the gulf. Or if he's in a restaurant (my preference for writing space), he prefers to be on the un-air conditioned porch. Which is fine with me in months of perfect temperature (March and November), but doesn't work in June.

Even when it doesn't come to writing, Dad's always trying to get me outside. I know this is unpopular to say publically, but I'm just not crazy about the outdoors. I love gazing outside through a gigantic plate glass window, but somehow nobody thinks that counts.

What's bizarre though, is that while I have been this pernickity non-outdoorsy self for most of my life, I adapted amazingly well to being outside when I lived here for two years. I became a different person, comfortable with sweat running down my back and collecting in soggy pools at clothing's edge. I could walk through a forest blanketed by 50 varieties of mosquitos on a nearby deserted island with mere annoyance. I would kayak weekly, disregarding the grunge that came with it.

But now, now I'm a city girl again. Now I need pedicures and air conditioning to function as a pleasant member of humanity.

It's true you adjust to your environment. But equally true that it does not happen in a week. So for now, I will enjoy my father's company though an air-tight wall of glass. I'm waving at him now.

Still Cutting the Grass

Well, I did end up cutting the grass last night. Sort of. Actually I decided to shower so I could comfortably go to dinner with mom (Frontera--yum!) and thought I'd nixed the grass-cutting idea. It wasn't until about 8:40pm, knee deep into the Bachleorette, that I thought, hey--it might be cool enough outside to cut the back yard.

It was cool enough. Problem is, it wasn't light enough. I cut half of the large back yard before the darkness had me guessing more than mowing. So I thought I'd finish it this morning. You know, first thing before getting ready for the day. Problem is, I woke up, forgot about the yard, and showered. About 8:30am I thought maybe I could still cut grass without getting too sweaty. Wrong. I ended up cutting another 1/4 of the yard and quitting when the sweat dripping down my back became uncomfortable.

So most of the yard is cut. The idea of cutting 1/4 of a yard is much less intimidating than cutting the whole thing. So I imagine I'll finish that tonight. To sum up, cutting the entire yard is taking four attempts (one for the front, 3 for the back).

You homeowner folks must be tough to cut grass every week in the Georgia humidity all summer long. I'm not even talking about things like edging, watering, weeding, fertilizing, and planting. I'm impressed.

Random

There's this weird pause that happens most of the time when I sit down to blog. What am I going to write about? Sometimes thoughts rush into my head, and I immediately judge and dismiss them. Where are the good blog posts? Where do they hide?

They say when you don't know where to start, just brainstorm and get everything down. So here, in no particular order, are some of my random thoughts.

Losing 530 pounds
My two favorite TV shows (Lost and Biggest Loser)
The joy of cutting grass
Keith leaves for Italy
The love of kitties
My fantasy world of travel writing
Crispy pepperoni, Crispy bacon
The secret of exercise I can't control
The love of fireflies (and hate of lovebugs)
My painted journal
Lemonade and fig newtons are fruit
Four dollar gas is just not okay

But these thoughts have just been usurped by a bigger decision that needs to be made. Should I shower before or after dinner? The question hinges on whether or not I'll cut the back yard tonight. Will I? That depends on the temperature, and whether or not it decides to rain. I suppose I should just wait, and shower later regardless, but. But, I long to be clean.

That's something you should know about me. I don't like being dirty. Never have, even as a child. I just feel gross, sticky, smelly, ugly. So this means if I don't shower, I'll feel icky until I do. My first shower was at 7am this morning, but I just worked out, so I'm gross again.

Randomness. Gotta love it.

The Great Outdoors

I'm sitting outside, on a faded cream-colored banister, legs outstretched in a balancing act. Now and again there's a pleasant breeze. I hear the steady din of Saturday afternoon traffic, not as a distraction, but as background to the cawing crows and falling magnoila leaves hitting the sidewalk. Close by are two girlfriends, quietly writing, and big black Max unconcerned that he is neither full-blooded labrador nor shepherd.

I am here trying to listen for God's voice. How has he been speaking in recent weeks? What has he been saying and what will he say today?

The magnolia reminds me of my childhood. I used to climb them voraciously. And the one in front of me now would be perfect for climbing. Large, aged, with limbs low to the ground and plentiful. The third step would be a bit tricky, though not impossible, and from there The path to the top is hidden by the plush leaves and blossoms.

They only bloom once a year, magnolias. All year they wait, steadily growing and standing proudly through the seasons. When the blossoms emerge, it is with long-expected joy. And, for a month or so, they reign victorious. Until slowly the blossoms close, brown, and drop to the ground petal by petal. It is another year of waiting, then, but the tree doesn't mind.

The wind blows through the leaves of the nearby maple and oak. A crescendo of rustling. To what end? To soothe me, my friends, and certainly Max, with his thick winter coat. The breeze also sifts the healthy growth from the dying leaves, sending those no longer needed to the ground. And somehow, pollenation rides on the back of the wind as well.

Do I let God blow through my life, plucking the dead leaves and carrying them away to make room for new growth? The trees don't resist the wind. They don't fight it. They allow it to have its way, joining together with its source for a common purpose.

Growth, especially in these large trees, takes a long time. Do they tire of waiting?

Max looks at me with anticipation I don't understand. He holds my gaze for a few seconds, then remembers he must bite at that place near his stomach for a while. He's not concerned with what the rest of the day will hold, whether things will get done, whether people will like him, or whether his life serves any greater purpose. He is happy just to be with us. And now, to provide us with entertainment, he chimes in with the passing ambulance in a mournful howl.

And if we have food and shelter we will be content with that. Isn't that in the bible? Look at the birds of the air. They do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly father feeds them.

There are lessons everywhere. If only I'll take the time to stop and listen.

When Mom Lives Next Door

I'm currently living next door to my mom, where I'm catsitting for a month. It's a fun arrangement. I have my space. I have her kitchen. Plus, she's there for me to ask important questions like when do they pick up the trash when trash day falls on a holiday. And to loan me her lawn mower when the owners' mower won't start.

She's also there to notice if, say I were to die. Don't laugh. If you live alone, you know what I mean. Or maybe I'm just morbid. But from time to time I think, if I were to die here how long would it take for someone to notice. Standard question for the single adult, I think.

I learned the answer yesterday when mom called around 4pm to say that she noticed I hadn't picked up the paper yet and was everything okay. She'd seen me the day before, so it only took 24 hours for her to think maybe something was wrong and call. (Of course now that I think about it, I didn't answer the phone and she didn't come knock on the door. I'd have expected that before nightfall I think if I didn't return her call.) I was fine -- just lazy and hadn't left the house all day.

I've said for years that I would love to live next door to my mother, just not with my mother. Now I'm proving that to be true. It's the best of both worlds. (And it is incredibly scary that the Hannah Montana song just went through my head as I wrote that. If you don't know what I mean, be thankful.)

This morning I called Mom to ask about trash pickup and she asked if I was watching the Today Show. I wasn't. She said "U2 is on. Did you ever like them?" She said it with a funny tone in her voice, as if she was hoping I'd say no way. Rather I got excited. U2 is on The Today Show? I flipped it on to see. Then immediately started laughing. "Mom, it's the B52s." "Yeah," she said, "I told you." "No, Mom, you said U2." Very Different.

I liked the B52s back in the day and stood watching them for a bit. "They're weird," Mom said. "And I can't understand any of the words. I did get that the name of this song is Red Lobster. That's all I can understand though."

"It's Rock Lobster, Mom. Not Red Lobster. Rock. But don't ask me what it means. I have no idea. I agree they're weird. But fun weird." I bragged to her that the B52s are from Athens. "They're local." As if that would make her see their value. Then the camera showed a woman who could have been Mom rockin' out in the audience and we both started laughing. "That could be you, Mom." "Yes, I see that," she said.

After a bit, the conversation moved on to chicken. And lunch. She's cooking chicken. Which will become chicken salad. And she'll sautee some vegetables. Would I like to come over for lunch? Of course I would. Like I said, her kitchen is perk number one of this arrangement.

But she benefits too. "When you come, can you bring that fancy tweezer of yours? Mine is just not cutting it anymore."

Sure, Mom. I'll see you soon.

Oh the Places I'll Go

Well, the digital camera idea hasn't taken off yet. I finally got around to trying to take some pictures today, only to be notified that my batteries are dead. Do these things run on regular batteries? Who even knows? So the camera thing will be on my list of things to work with over the next few days.

I've been reviewing my goals this afternoon. I wish I could say I had a highly functional up-to-date goal achieving system. I don't. Rather I have five or six word documents with various lists of goals, some for different time periods, some with an exclusive writing focus, some that are simply things I want to see manifest in my life.

One of the things on one of my lists was to have a digital camera, so at least for the time being I can check that one off. To some degree I've made progress over the last year. I'm getting paid to write, which was just a fantasy before. I'm self-publishing a column for single women. I have a better car. I have a flexible schedule. These are encouraging, though I'm still miles away from where I want to be. Keep walking. Keep walking. One step at a time. I admit, I'm ready for the leap to the top of the mountain.

I have the travel bug. Travel made just about every list I have. Did you hear Shannon is moving to Hawaii for a year?! I'm jealous while at the same time not being sure I could do it. A month I could do. And maybe I will. Who knows. I've never been to Hawaii, which is one of my biggest regrets from my time in California. I was so close and yet I never went. Of course I never went to the La Brea Tarpits either but that's a little easier to forgive.

I've been talking to Pete and Jackie, my friends in Maine, and now I want to go there too. I haven't been to California this year, which if I don't will be the first year in four years I haven't made that trip. Melissa is probably going to China and I want to go with her (which isn't an option, but still snags my wanderlust).

Arise oh my travel companion, whoever you are, and let's go see the world. All I need is batteries for the camera.

To Hide or Not to Hide

Apparently Keith is now giving me a run for my money, by deciding to blog DAILY. It's been a long time since I surrendered that fantasy, and yet here I am, writing again out of some sad need not to be outdone by Sir Keith.

I kinda feel like I'm embracing the role of writer lately so I might as well show it here. Yesterday I had a column published in a Christian literary online magazine, which is somehow more exciting to me than writing for Network Magazine or all the marketing/copywriting I've been doing lately. I guess it's because it just feels more like me, and allows me to express myself my way.

I know, I know, I should tell you where to go find it. But I'm not that brave yet. The column is personal, and was taken from my own singles column for women which I've just reformatted and started sending out again.

Here's the thing. I want women to read it, but not men. I mean soon enough, if I keep this writing gig going, it's all just going to be out there for anybody to find, but I'm not sure I'm ready for that yet. I'll say this to the men. If you do find it, keep it to yourself. Why is it easier to write stuff for strangers to read than men I know?

To the women, if you're single, you should be getting my column. We single women need to stick together. Chick power and all that. And now the column is pretty. I found a way to format it so it looks professional. I know, I need to get a new picture both for the column and for this blog, but I just can't bare to do it in my current physical condition. My cuteness has evaporated since that picture was taken and I'm waiting patiently for its return before I replace the photo.

Though there is promising news on the photo front. I have become the proud new non-owner of a previously used digital camera. It's Dad's. He hasn't given it to me--it's a loaner, but that' more than I've ever had before. True true, I've never owned a digital camera. I don't really know how to use it. But if I get a creative burst, and can then somehow figure out how to get the photos out of the camera, I may post some here. But likely not any of me. Not yet. Let's wait until I overcome my psychological issues and stop using eating as a source of love, okay? (Come on. It's not like you hadn't already thought it.)

And there it is out in the open light of day. I want to be known and I want to hide. I want to reveal my soul to some and yet hide it from others. I want to hide from the camera and simultaneously expose myself through blogging. It's the ultimate dilemma. I want to come out into the open and I want not to be seen.

I'm walking the tightrope, aren't I? Well I did want to be a trapeze artist when I was young. Until I found out that people who travel with the circus are considered odd. It was that, more than the fear of falling to my death, that deterred that particular dream. (Though I watched Circus of the Stars every year like it was the Superbowl.)

It's likely I won't be able to keep up with Keith in blogging frequency, but I may yet beat him in psychobabble. I hereby throw down the gauntlet, Sir Keith. Expose thy soul.

Keith Starts a Blog

I have news! Our very own Keith has started his own blog. Yes, it's true. I can't really believe it myself. So, dear Keith admirers, let me direct you to the source of endless fascination.

Okay, now here's where I show my ignorance. How in the heck do you post a link in here? I added it in this little URL box, but I don't know where it's going to show up. I have to confess, I'm still quite technologically stuck in the 80s.

Here is something that will show my age a bit. My first computer class came somewhere around 9th or 10th grade. All we had were these big things called "Apples," a name I never could grasp the meaning of. There was no such thing as Windows back then, well, other than the kind you'd look out of wishing you weren't in school. What a computer class meant back then was computer programming. I vaguely remember something having to do with "strings" and "variables" but don't ask me more than that. It was utterly irrelevant to how computers came to be used by the average joe in the future. (Read the word "future" with techno-echo sound effects emanating from it.)

Here's another embarrassing story. I didn't use email for the first time until after I was out of college. I remember the first time I heard of it. My friend Brooke, when I was a senior at Auburn, told me she was writing messages on a computer to her friend at another school and they were writing her back. And that it was free and every student could do it. I didn't really believe her at first. In fact, it sounded too weird for me to even investigate further. Brooke was always kind of a brain, and I thought of email as some techie thing that was weird and should be avoided at all costs.

But I digress. Keith. We were talking about Keith. Here is his blog address, old school: www.thiswackythingcalledlife.blogspot.com. Check it out. And leave him comments to encourage him to keep writing. Most bloggers quit within the first two weeks. We mustn't let this happen.

Speaking of comments. I love getting random comments here. Admittedly anonymous comments make me a little nutty. Oddly I prefer made up names like Little Red Riding Hood or Iron Man, though that's pretty much the same thing as anonymous. It's fine. You can be anonymous if you must. I know, I do make it kind of scary to fess up to who you are here. You might end up with a post written about you. Which you should think is kind of cool, rather than fearing it.

But then being known on the internet may be the new scary thing for you...like email was to me back in the day. Give it time. One day you, like our new blogger friend Keith, will see the benefits of internet notoriety.

On Trusting Strangers

I realized something today as I was working (yes working...for real money!) in a coffee shop. I spend a lot of time at coffee shops and other places that provide free wireless internet. I'm not alone. At any wireless venue, there are other wireless folks doing the same thing.

There must be this unspoken wireless community because on any given day I am asked at least once to guard the computer of someone I've never met while they go to the restroom or the counter or the car or somewhere that requires a temporary departure from their table.

I always say yes, and never once has some unsuspecting Joe tried to abscond with their computer, but I have to admit I do wonder at the ease in which I could get a free computer. I mean I could get almost one a day! The primary problem with this being the danger in reappearing at these coffee shops another day. I could be recognized as "the one who said she'd watch my computer" and be on my way to the county pen or wherever they'd take hardened criminals like me.

Okay, so I'll admit that my liklihood to reappear in the location of the theft is a deterrent from stealing computers from places I frequent. However, if I were to go across town to somewhere I never go, say Marietta, I could have some luck. It's worth thinking about. (Although suddenly I realize that by blogging about it I am basically confessing to the world that I'm not to be trusted with computer-sitting.)

The funny thing is, I have never heard of computers being stolen in this manner. I mean surely they are, don't you think? And yet I am guilty of the same crime of putting my faith in a complete stranger to watch my computer when I need to walk away.

I didn't use to do this. I used to fold up my computer and cart it with me to the bathroom, but really truly, that is a big pain. Not only do you have to lug this thing in there, but you usually have to set it somewhere which is either the floor (dirty!), the sink (potential water damage!), or on top of the trashcan (requiring a rather risky balancing act). And worst of all, you have to log back on to the internet when you get back to your table. Or maybe the worst part is the way your table neighbor glares at you as you carry your computer back from the bathroom as if to say "What, did you think I was going to steal your computer or something?"

The way I prefer to look at the whole scenario is one of putting self-focused materialistic Americans in the position of trusting one another. Of assuming the best rather than the worst of your neighbor. Maybe the coffee shops that host free wireless are doing more than just providing an internet service. Maybe they are building a community that harkens back to the days of Andy Griffith. The days where you could leave your door unlocked and your car windows down. Maybe there is hope for us yet. Or if not, there's always a free computer.

More About Keith

Who are you guys? I'm getting comments from people named Little Bo Peep, who apparently has a crush on my friend Keith, and Sir Arthur Angis Manori who's name I can't figure out at all. Don't get me wrong, I love comments, even anonymous ones, but where do you get these ideas for pseudonyms?

Ms. Bo Peep, you may be happy to learn that our friend Keith is available! However, he's not real keen to meeting strangers on the internet, and might be suspicious of someone who claims to have sheep. Or rather had sheep. Before she lost them. How do you lose sheep anyway? I mean sure, one now and then, but a whole flock of them? Okay, sorry. Back to Keith. He's not too keen on letting people find him anywhere online. He's been one of my primary targets for persuading to join Facebook. He won't. I've tried. Something about him being a teacher and not wanting students to find him. Teachers have it rough, man.

I actually haven't seen too much of Keith in the last few weeks. It's nearing the end of the school year and he's busy trying to make it through to the end without losiing his mind. And then. Then he goes to Italy.

I'm insanely jealous of the fact that Keith gets to go to Italy. He's a Latin teacher, so every other year he takes a load of high school students to Rome. For the last year I've been trying to come up with ways to tag along. Surely you need another chaperone, I suggest. Nope. Apparently I don't qualify. What? I don't qualify? I think you have to be staff. Or maybe a parent, I can't remember. I even asked Keith if I could go if I pretended to be his wife. Aside from the fact that my comment embarrassed him, he said that even then I couldn't go. No spouses. Dang.

I did get mistaken for Keith's wife, or at least significant other, last year in China. I accompanied Keith on a quest for pearls. China has incredibly affordable high quality pearls, and Keith wanted to buy a couple pearl necklaces as gifts. I sat next to him at the long mahogany table as our personal saleswoman elegantly displayed half a dozen strands of pearls. As Keith began to look more closely at the quality of each strand, the saleswoman picked up a strand and placed them around my neck and began to comment on how beautiful they looked on me. I then realized that she thought Keith was buying the pearls for me. I chuckled and Keith quickly corrected her. Which probably confused the woman completely. If he wasn't buying pearls for the woman next to him, who then was he buying pearls for? I took advantage of the opportunity of wearing the pearls and offered to hold on them for him for a while. It didn't work. Oh well. I wore a beautiful strand of pearls for nearly thirty seconds in the middle of China. How many people can say that?

Keith, you have a fan base now. Because of me. Because of me, women across the country may soon be begging for your number. I think that deserves a reward, don't you? Like perhaps...a trip to Italy?

Through the Foggy Half-Full Glass of Life

My brain has been pretty dead today. Have you ever had those moments where you couldn’t hold thoughts for very long and it seemed a lot easier to just turn your brain off together and let American Idol take over? That’s been my entire day today.

I somehow managed to hide it from Katie (coffee), Betsy (lunch), and Lisa (dinner) and my bible study group (snacks-a-plenty). The easiest way to get through foggy days is to deflect people from conversation about me, and to accomplish tasks that require minimal thought (ex. walking the dogs).

Lest you doubt the extent of the fog, I should tell you that it took me more than thirty minutes to write the last two paragraphs. The zone outs keep coming. I think maybe the best thing to do is to stop trying to resist it, and just let it go and see where it takes me. Who says I need to be engaged, logical, and cohesive to write a blog? Besides, this is my blog. I can write gibberish if it pleases me.

So I’ll try, just for a spell, to write whatever. Okay, it’s been ten minutes since that last sentence. I think I keep going to sleep. Some tv show is on. Couples are kissing. I find that annoying. Yet somehow I’m still watching. If you can call it watching. I think I may be too zoned out to really watch television.

Is this long enough for a blog post? Is there a word count minimum? Do I owe my readers quality posts? Oh my gosh, I’m tired. So very tired. Why is that? My eyes are half-closed, like Garfield. Is it half-closed or half-open? That seems a more valid question than the glass that’s half full or whatever. Half full of what is what I want to know. If it was Diet Coke and I drank half of it, it’s half empty. If it’s washer fluid or pureed liver, even half full is too full.

But I guess the point of that half full—half empty thing is perspective. How do you see things? Right now, I see things through a fog. I see through a glass darkly. Wait, is that in the bible? Oh, cool! I can have a spiritual metaphor even through my haze. So here it is: knowing that I’m only seeing things with half a brain or Garfield eyes or through a fog today is how we really see things on our clearest days compared to how God sees things from His perspective of eternity. We have such a dim view of life compared to how we will one day see things.

Tired, tired, tired. How does the above apply to my life? That, I’ll have to think about tomorrow. For now, thoughts just ebb and flow and I can’t put a period on the stream. How did I start this? Oh yeah, by telling you my brain is dead and mindless television is calling. By the way, the kissing stopped and now there’s fighting. And interruptions by commercials for Dancing with the Stars. I hear Pricilla Presley is gone now. Sad times. Sleep, sleep, sleep. Through a glass darkly. Treasures in jars of clay. Half-empty glasses. A pearl of great price. The princess and the pea.

And that, my friends, is good night. Nighty nighty night night. zzzzzzzzzzzzzz

Animal Love

Thanks, Fred, for encouraging me to blog more and to blog about anything. I think I’m going to try mentioning people’s names in here more often. I hear it’s a strange rush to be mentioned by name in a blog. Tracy has even told me she’s been jealous because I mentioned her friend’s dog and not hers. (Hugs and kisses to Rusty and Pearl. See you next week!) If you’ll read my blog, I’ll gladly mention your name, however I can’t promise what exactly I’ll say about you. But I suppose it’s in my best interest to be rather nice. I want to keep any readers I can get. (Don’t you like how I’m nice to serve my own interests, not just because it’s good to be nice?)

I’m killing time before I head off for dinner with friends. I'm finishing up dogsitting with Shelby. On our walk this afternoon, I let her choose the direction and we went down quite a lovely street I'd never been down before. Thanks, Shelby, for showing me around your neighborhood. Guess you wanted to smell your doggie friends who'd used that street earlier.

So you've probably figured this out, but I kinda love animals. I say kinda only because I'm embarrassed about it. Sometimes if I'm talking to someone and a cute dog is walking down the street, I completely lose focus on the person talking to me for a minute. I have to fight to remain in the conversation. What's sad is that I don't really have this distraction problem with babies (sometimes with toddlers) which would be far more acceptable.

On our walk home, we strolled past a home and I caught movement out of the corner of my eye. I saw them before Shelby did. Three adorable kittens playing behind the bushes next to the brick wall. Shelby caught on and it was all over. She rushed them, I grabbed her leash (in plenty of time), and they hobbled over one another to climb through three holes in the brick wall that led to underneath the house. Then they'd poke their little heads out one at a time to see if we were still there.
(This may be a disturbing image, but it kinda looked like those pop the weasel arcade games where you have to bang the weasel on the head when it pokes up.)

I was enthralled by the kittens. I tried to stay and encourage them back out, but realized that with Shelby, that just wasn't going to happen. So (this is embarrassing) I took Shelby back home, put her in her crate, and walked back to see the kittens without her. Yep, I'm in love with kittens that much. Two of them were back out on the dirt and I gingerly crept up on them and initially got their interest without frightening them. But try as I might, I could not get close enough to touch (which of course was my main goal. I just had to hug and squeeze them.) I'd move a little closer and wave a little leaf around (which intrigued them), but I couldn't get them to come to me, and they were constantly in and out of those brick holes. After a good 15-20 minutes (and getting hissed at a few times by the two less brave ones) I gave up and headed home with my dirty knees.

Just before I got back to the condo, the black cat I passed every day walking Shelby saw me, and saw that I was (gasp!) alone! I called to her and she eagerly trotted towards me and I knelt down and loved on her for a while. Whenever I would walk by with Shelby, the dog and the cat would glare at each other, but Shelby knew better than to truly run up to this cat. This is one of those cats who will not give up ground to a dog. She scared Shelby enough times that Shelby keeps her distance. After I finished scratching the cat, I got up and headed back down the sidewalk and to my surprise (and delight!) she followed me! I stopped to pet her some more and then left again. She followed a little further then gave up.

It is really sad how loved I felt by that cat. I did! Awww. She wants more of me. Nobody ever wants more of me. I cherished it. And yes, I am fully aware of how pathetic that must sound. I'm thinking now of seeing a girl who got kicked off The Bachelor who was talking about how her dog was the love of her life and she couldn't wait to get home to see him. I was a little embarrassed for her. But now that's me!

It's probably good I don't actually OWN any animals. I could become one of those old maid cat ladies pretty easily.

Before you call the pound or Dr. Phil on me, rest assured I do have a somewhat normal social life and will even be going out to a birthday dinner party shortly. (Yes, a people party.) I'm looking forward to some great conversation with friends. Unless of course a cute dog walks by.

For Keith

I casually mentioned to him that I hadn't been blogging lately. After correcting what he'd heard--that I hadn't been clogging lately (which is also true)--he asked me what kind of blog I have.

Stepping over the unintentional insult at the fact that he'd never really read my blog, I began to try to explain.

"Is it like a diary?" he asked.

"Well, no. I mean not really. Kinda, maybe?" I answered.

He probed further. "So like you don't talk about what you did that day?"

"Not really. I mean sometimes, but it's more my perspective on it than the details of events." I realized it was harder to explain than I thought.

"So then do you write your views on things? I know people with blogs who write what they think about things. Like letters to the editor espousing personal views," he said.

"Well, no I don't do that. Not really. I mean I don't write about politics or have a certain topic or anything. It's kinda more like I may tell a story that makes me think about other things and how it relates to my personal life."

"Okay, so you write about things important to you," he said, certain now that he'd captured it.

"Well, sometimes. But I also write some stuff that's just fluff." I hesitated, completely unsure as to how to proceed.

Finally I said what I should have said from the beginning. "You just need to go read it. Then you'll know. I just can't explain it."

I began to wonder at this point if he didn't really think blogs served much of a purpose. Why would people read them unless they were updates on people's lives who lived out of town, or were pushing a point of view on a particular subject, neither of which seemed of any real interest to him.

The truth is, I don't know what this blog really is. And I don't really know why I keep it. Other than it gives me pleasure. Some things you do just because you like doing them. And as far as why people would want to read it, I have no real idea. People are funny animals. Who can understand them?

Speaking of animals, I'm dogsitting right now for Shelby, an old lady yellow lab. Every day we take a walk through the neighborhood and meet the same neighborhood dogs, behind a friendly fence in the front yard of their homes.

There's a sweetie of a dog I stop and pet every time, which seems to annoy Shelby. Then there are the two fierce-sounding black chows. The first time I saw them, correction--heard them, I jumped back a couple feet. They sounded like they were out for blood with their vicious growl-barks. I glanced at sweet old Shelby hobbling by to see if she was worried.

To my surprise, she didn't even look their direction, completely ignoring their angry barking and mouth-foaming snarls, even as they jumped on the fence just two feet away from her. "How can you just walk by like they're not even there, Shelby?" I inquired.

Then, as if by divine doggie revelation, I got it. She's an old lady. In her 12 or so years, she's seen it all. And she knows, not just thinks, but knows, that these dogs posed no real danger. Their game was intimidation and Shelby wasn't buying it.

I thought of how often I get frightened by the snarling bark of the evil one. And how, just like these barking dogs, the devil's game is intimidation. If I can just refuse to listen to it, like wise old Shelby, the battle may be over before it's begun. Shelby showed me that old dogs can teach new tricks.

And there it is. A blog post. About what I did today? Sort of. My views? Sort of. Serious? Fluff? Yes. Yes.

So what do you think, Keith? What is my blog about?

Written Moments Before...

The following post should have been finished and published on Tuesday, February 26th. But. But then. Then, while mid-sentence, I heard the crack. And two seconds later, catastrophic destruction as an enormous tree hit the house. Here's insight into my thoughts moments prior to it all.

==========

Okay. Okay, okay, okay, okay okay. Okay already. Time to get back to blogging. There's no good way back in, just to take a flying leap and hope that my imaginary wings catch me. I like the hang gliding off a cliff image rather than the diving off the high board version. Ooh how I hated the high board, but that's a story for another day.

I don't know that I could really hang glide. Interestingly, the only time I've ever had a flying dream, I was sitting in a cardboard box when flying around. Somehow I was able to navigate the box, but I have to believe I lacked something upstairs from my inability to imagine myself Supermaning it. I mean who flies in a box?

Josh used to try to convince me I could control my dreams. Take charge and steer their direction, or even choose before falling asleep the dream I wanted to have. I've never been able to get it to work. I do have fascinating dreams on a regular basis (which could be blog-worthy, hmmm...) but they are never dreams my conscious self would choose.

Okay, here's a recent one. I dreamed I was a new cast member on Lost. I confess to being a Lost junkie, but blame Melissa entirely for getting me into late night Lost-themed web searches that affect my dreams.

So I was one of six new cast members (Six. As in the Oceanic Six?) We were having a press thingy and the fans were there to ask questions of all of us, only it was horribly organized and we were at the train station and the fans were a mile away down the track somewhere, which was frustrating because I think I was missing a party to be there. Anyway, while we waited for the coordinator to get the fans on the train to where we were, I had the shocking realizationg that becoming a new Lost cast member had done absolutely nothing to increase my understanding of the plot of the show. I think I had joined the cast mostly for that reason - to get the island secrets. But I got nothing.

Finally the fans showed up, but they weren't interested in asking me any questions which kind of ticked me off. Instead they were asking Dan all the questions like he was the show's newest hot shot. I kept thinking, "But what about me? I'm on the show too!" I think I eventually realized that it was just because I'd only been on one episode so far so I hadn't built up a fan base yet.

The whole experience left me deflated. It's not nearly as cool as you'd imagine to be a cast member on Lost. I think I decided to quit the show so I wouldn't have to miss any more parties on account of stupid press junkets. I'm sure they had no problem killing me off. It was probably Locke who did it

=============

CRRRACK! crackle-crackle-crackle and sounds impending doom. "JESUS! HELP!" and then BOOM!! An enormous tree crashed through roof, taking down a power line, and my sanity.

A Snow-Covered Life

This is literally my fourth attempt to write a post since my last one. I get mid way through and get stuck. Or it's negative, which makes me self conscious ever since someone commented that my posts are sometimes downers. Which I really hate because this is my blog and I should be able to be as negative as I want. I hold honesty as the highest value. But still, stuck, stuck, stuck.

But tonight it's snowing, which is kinda cool. Okay, really cool. I don't remember the last time I saw snow. It didn't snow here last year, and I think I was in Florida before that. Anyway, it's been a long time.

I'm spending the night at mom's tonight for easy access to borrow her car tomorrow. My car is in long-term park until I find a way to pay for a new transmission. The story is one I've been through before and I'm not particularly enjoying going through it again, but I'm working hard to see the positives and put it through God's lens.

I'm trying to learn to trust Him. And there is something really cool about God coming through in circumstances where I can't just take care of it myself. I'm forced to the point of counting on Him. I love those stories, usually in other countries, where God shows up in amazing ways to meet crucial needs at the exact right moment. We usually avoid those types of blessings in our country by relying on our own abilities to solve problems rather than allowing ourselves to be dependent on God and others. I want to be one of those people who truly knows that God is able to provide for me.

But it's not quite that easy. And it's rather humiliating in the process. Am I willing to be humiliated if God is glorified? Not really, but trying to be.

Snow is a welcome distraction from the trials of life. The beauty of the white skies harkens the days of childhood, those dreams of school closings, hope for enough to merit sledding and snowmen. Imagining a white wonderland upon looking out of the window first thing in the morning.

As snow falls onto my life, I'm thankful for the reminder of all things being washed as white as snow. Dirt covered, unmanicured lawns look just as fresh as pristine landscaped yards after a night of snowfall. For a little while at least, I'm as well off as anyone else.

I look forward to sharing God's provision for my car and job situation in the near future. And if you're if in Atlanta, come join me in a snowball fight tomorrow. Be there or beware.

Holy New Year

Tomorrow I'm leaving Cedar Key. I'm not quite sure I'm ready to leave. Things are so comfortable here. (Wow, who ever thought I'd say that? Four years ago this place was a prison.) I'm returning to Atlanta with a host of unanswered questions. I long list of desires I have no idea how to fulfill, a big wide open new year full of possibilities, and a pessimism urging me to crawl under the afghan Heidi made me and hide until spring.

There's this fear thing, which I hate, but haven't mastered. Then there's the fact that I care way too much what other people think. I'm significantly better at this than I used to be, but I still have trouble stomaching the way people look at me when they hear I'm not looking for full time employment or that I have little desire to own my own home. The pull to be what's expected rivals the need to determine my own life path, to the degree that God allows, rather than follow the herd.

Romance continues to be the unattainable dream that I can neither manage to capture, nor to kill. I've tried to love the men who deserve it, the ones who for some unimaginable reason find me appealing, and in fact I am still trying. These men will never know how much I treasure them for finding something in me worth loving. And yet the ones I think about again and again as potential soul mates (currently three men who shall remain nameless) remain either too blind to see me or lack the courage to fight the obstacles in the way. And I remain incapable of ceasing to love them. Will this year bring any change to this dreadful cycle? Do I want to face another year of letting God control this area of my life in ways that bring character-building frustration? Am I willing to?

Yet I know I must charge into 2008 with a hopeful spirit, believing there are some things I can change, and that God's grace in the things I can't is never-ceasing. This year I have the opportunity to seek God's face and to know him more than I ever have before. Will I take it? Each frustration is an opportunity to turn control over to God and imitate Christ in surrender to the Father. Will I see the opportunities and seize them?

I hope most of all to keep going and not quit before I get started. To look for the good along my path. To end the cycle of comparing myself to other people who have what I don't. To see the beauty in who God's made me to be and to celebrate. And to pay attention, knowing that God often leads in the most unexpected ways. I guess what I'm saying is I want more than a happy new year. I want a holy new year. Maybe, with that as my goal, this will be the year I'll discover a new perspective on success.

Bring on the Cheese

I'm a sucker for compliments. I mean they completely go to my head and I think about them repeatedly afterwards. It is an understatement to say my love language is words of encouragement. I am flattered by even the most ridiculous flirtations.

Today, while eating breakfast at Dock Street Depot, Dad's buddy Mark pulled up a chair and joined us for a while. Mark is a warm and gregarious man, probably in his mid to late 50s, who runs the motel across the street. Upon seeing me he sighed and after a dramatic pause made a comment about the last time we'd met. "Do you remember that it was raining the last time you left town? That was Cedar Key crying because you were leaving."

The line, delivered with utmost passion, left me clasping my heart with sentimental appreciation. Why things like that don't immediately strike me as cheesy I have no idea. Other than that I'm just a sucker for romance. Even from middle-aged rednecks with a penchant for alcohol.

A few weeks ago, I stopped at a gas station and the young Pakistani man behind the counter told me I had a beautiful smile. I was immediately smitten - he couldn't have been more than 22. He tried to sell me lottery tickets. I mocked his attempt, telling him it was a waste of money, and he pointed me towards the big money tickets. "You can win millions!" he said with utter confidence. He told me he plays every week. I wasn't buying, but I couldn't help asking him one final question before I left.

"What will you do if you win a million dollars?" I asked curiously.

Without hesitation he answered in a thick Pakistani accent. "I will marry you." My smile appeared instantaneously.

I know it's cheey, really I do, but there's something about this over the top line of flirtation that draws me in. Maybe this is because I have a horrible self image and am really needy. You think? But it's not like I think for a second of giving one of these random men my phone number. I'm not an idiot. But I do admit to liking the play of it. And yes, kind of wishing the guys at church could come up with some good cheesy lines to throw out every now and then, just for the fun of it.

It doesn't even have to be words, now that I think about it. About a month ago I pulled up at a stoplight and glanced over at the car next to me. A young African-American guy whose car eminated loud hip hop music was waving at me. Huh? I looked again, trying to figure out if I knew him. Why was he waving? When I glanced back with a puzzled look on my face, he held his thumb and pinkie up to his head like a phone and mouthed the words "Call me."

I immediately started laughing. I'd had no idea his wave had been flirtation. But with the "call me" sign, I felt a surge of rosey adrenaline and smiled back, raising my Coke Zero can to him in a toast, while shaking my head in disbelief. I carried the high with me for the rest of the day.

For some reason, every time I come to Cedar Key, I get flirtatious come-ons from men. Almost entirely from inappropriate men, but still, this kind of thing doesn't happen in my circles. Maybe I need to get out more. Hit the bars or something.

I'm not looking for a one night stand, or even a romance outside of the church. All I'm looking for is a little recognition. Pay attention guys, sometimes we just need to know that you notice we're women.

I am woman, here my cry. Toss the cheesy lines my direction any day.

A few hours in Cedar Key

Being back in Cedar Key is like entering a storybook full of hometown heros who all know your name. For the record, Cedar Key isn't my hometown. But I did live here for two years not too long ago, which gets me local status.

This morning Dad graciously let me sleep in and then joined me for a late breakfast at Annie's. It was his second breakfast, having gone out with Anne at 7am, and then with me at 10am, but to him, that's a welcome treat. The late breakfast worked out great because the locals table was filled with church folk I got to hug. Steve and his baby girl, Roy, and Miss Lee. Dad and I took a table across the room and I enjoyed the world's best hashbrowns. Dad was disappointed Shella hadn't made any cakes. He likes cakes for his second breakfast. Shella asked what kind he wanted her to make, as she might have time later in the day to make something. Orange-cranberry? Okay. If she can remember how she made it before, she said.

On the walk home, I left Dad and walked up to George's to check on Anne, who was working over at his house. George was home, to my delight, so we visited a bit, and I got to flip on and off his magical Christmas tree. It's full of ornaments that talk, make music, or make sounds like the space shuttle taking off. If you flip the light switch off and back on, you get a flood of lights and sounds all at once. A cacophony that is a warm memory of Christmas at George's.

Of course I also made time to say hello to Gal, George's dog that he named Gal to remember that she was female, and the calico cat who's never had a name. Dad calls her Brain Dead because she likes to sleep in the middle of the street. But I think she's the sweetest thing ever, if a little over confident that people will drive around her (which they always do).

I made it back out to the street for the walk home and Dad was still there, standing in the road talking to the Gas guy who'd stopped his gas truck to get out and visit with Dad, wondering why Dad wasn't down at the Depot for breakfast this morning as he usually is every Thursday morning. I was introduced as they swapped a few more stories before Dad and I headed home to finish the final clean-up before Anne's brother and sister-in-law arrived in town.

Phil and Louise showed up at the house a half an hour later and Anne suggested we go to Annie's for lunch. Dad and I had just come from there 45 minutes earlier, but what the heck, the Depot was crowded so back to Annie's it was. But in the short time we were away, Annie's filled up and we took the last table. Shella was the only waitress since it was technically a weekday. They hadn't staffed for the holiday. Since Anne used to work at Annie's, she got up and began clearing tables and refilling drink orders, and delivering menus to the tables that needed it. We finally got her to sit down and join us.

There's more to tell, but I need to get to bed. It's just a bit surreal whenever I come here. There is no dileniation between waitresses, gas line workers, and good friends. Your friends service you. You service them. Friendship happens in the process. You clean their house, they serve your meal, you get up and help refil drinks when things are busy, they stop to chat between gas service calls.

Maybe I'm just fascinated because apart from those two years here, I have never lived in a small town. You don't have the cashier from the market over for dinner. You don't worship with your postmaster. And you would never consider jumping in to help an understaffed waitress tend to needy customers.

Unless you live in a small town. A magical town like Cedar Key.

The Christmas Letter

I used to write Christmas letters. Okay, well mostly when I was with Campus Crusade when it doubled as a monthly newsletter. I tried to maintain the tradition after I left staff, but my discipline quickly waned. And also, I started going through a phase where I wanted to be real about my struggles and Christmas letters often seemed so sickeningly positive, listing all the great things people had done over the year. I don't know how to do that.

Thankfully I'm not that jaded anymore, and I have even received some refreshingly honest letters. (Thanks Susan, for admitting that you ranked almost dead last in your Alta Tennis league.) And I've realized there's a happy medium. Honesty and blessings can live together in harmony in one Christmas letter.

Well I didn't even try to get the letter out this year. Mainly because I didn't feel I had anything to say. I mean currently, I kinda feel I'm scraping the bottom of the barrel and don't have much of a life to boast about. But that's not really true. That's just one lens.

For one thing, I did go to China. That's pretty cool, right? Still it feels like that's the only thing worthy of Christmas letter mention. But upon further reflection, there is more to uncover. I did lose my job, but in the process I discovered my long ignored passion for writing. I haven't yet figured out how to make a living at it, but I have been published in a magazine, I'm due to be published in an online ezine next month and I've been asked to write a quarterly column for the ezine. I've also started my own singles' column, which is a vocation, a ministry, and a form of therapy all rolled up into one.

I'm still living with Michelle, when I'm not travelling or dogsitting. This summer I had non-stop dogsitting jobs, which continues to be something I enjoy and a much appreciated source of extra income. Merry Christmas to my favorite dogs: Rusty, Pearl, Simone, Shelby, Dixie, Hershel, Gal, Jack, Lolli, and Belle. Oh, and a shout out to kitties Sunny and Stormy. Meowy Christmas!

What else? Why is it so much easier to think of the hard things? My grandfather passed away in February. I said goodbye to my cherished '97 silver Honda Civic in March. I said goodbye to Brian when he moved to Texas in June. Money's been tighter than tight as I've struggled to figure out how to change careers.

But my dad is thriving. Mom's doing great. I have some awesome friends, with God continuing to provide new relationships as old ones change or fade. I got my first laptop computer in January. I started this blog, something I've really enjoyed, and have managed to maintain it all year. I co-led a bible study with Greg and participated for the first time ever in a Thursday morning women's study, breaking into the foreign world of stay-at-home moms. (It never even occurred to me that potty-training triplets could be a prayer request.)

Wow, there have been things going on in my life. It's surprising. I was in a writer's group for a while, but that didn't ultimately meet my needs and I backed away, leaving me feeling like it was my fault it didn't work out. Same feelings with life coaching - a blessing in my life for several months, but now that's on hold until I figure out how to make better use of it. The feelings of failure come quickly and don't dissipate easily.

So there's my year in a nutshell. Both the good and the bad. I haven't met my husband, bought a house, had children, gotten a job, or taken off my extra weight. But I'm still living life. Stil trying new things. Appreciative of the relationships in my life. And looking forward to exploring the ones that are just now beginning to bud. 2008 is a road waiting to be travelled. I'm ready for the journey.

Seeking Temporary Husband

I'm not meant to be single. This I somehow realized afresh today. I suppose I am meant to be single for the time being of God's design. But what I mean is that I'm just no good on my own. I'm not good at being independent, taking care of myself, functioning without another person around.

I wonder if I'm regressing. Or maybe that's not the right word because I don't mean going back to how I used to be. Because back in my twenties I used to be confidently independent. I could do, and did, just about everything on my own. In fact, I used to consider others as interference. Inconvenient interruptions to my plans.

I'd better be careful or you'll think I mean my current lack of independence as growth. You can look at it that way if you want to paint a falsely rosey image of my maturity. Wait, maybe I should just let you do that. It plays better for me, doesn't it.

But here's what I really mean. Nowadays it's like I can't even put on my socks in the morning by myself. I can't get through a day without having people around to propel me forward. I need someone to walk alongside of me. To know where I am and to expect me back at home. To have someone to plan my week with. To no longer have to make decisions on my own.

All of this is confusing because it's so different from who I used to be. How did I become this needy person? Where did the young, confident leader disappear to?

I wish I could marry for convenience, just for a time, until the man I'll love comes into the picture. I recognize the complete selfishness of this statement. But I'm currently at a loss for better solutions. I would be a great temporary spouse. I would be an amazing short-term asset to a guy who isn't particularly thriving on his own either.

Sounds desperate I know. But when did desperate become a bad word? We're created to need God. To be desperate for Him. And for others. Not to be okay taking care of ourselves on our own. We were not created to be independent. It's not good to be alone. That's scripture, people!

So I guess what this means is that now starting today I'm taking applications for a temporary husband. All needy men who are not in love with me, please apply. (Love is the primary disqualifier for this position.) Think about it. This could start a revolution. All the needy people can help each other weather the storms of life. You have to admit, the idea has potential. Honest communication is all that's needed. Some ground rules.

Yes, this is a truly great idea. Come on. Join the revolution.

Bye-Bye Dark Skies

There is a day coming up soon that I look forward to for months. It's not Christmas. Those of you who know me know I'm a grinch when it comes to Christmas. It's not New Year's Eve, or New Year's Day. And we all KNOW it's not Valentine's Day (my dreaded birthday). No, the day I look forward to more than any other winter day is December 22nd, the winter solstice, also known as the shortest day of the year.

The reason I look forward to this day has nothing to do with pagan solstice celebrations (to calm the nerves of some). Rather it is the simple fact that at the end of the day I know that for every day afterwards, the days will start getting longer. Which means more light. Day by day edging closer to lighter and warmer months. Yes, we will have much colder days to come. And yes, it will still be dark at 5:00pm for some time to come. But we know the tide has turned. Eventually, spring is coming.

Suffice it to say I'm not at my best during the winter. My generally pessimistic personality turns on itself and becomes even more melancholy. I gain weight and stop caring about it. I surrender the fight to believe that I am capable of accomplishing amazing things and winning the love of amazing people. In the back of my head I still know I'm immensely fascinating and capable, but somehow I stop believing that others are capable of noticing and I take up residence in the back corner of the classroom to wait it out.

But then comes the light. Day by day, more light. Day by day, the gift of extended vision.

The good side of this dark, introspective season is that I'm figuring things out about what I want to incorporate more of into my life over the next year. I still haven't figured out the job side of the puzzle (I'm looking for part-time work. Let me know of anything you hear about.) But I am realizing anew how much I value my relationships, and in particular deep relationships. I also value relationships with people I can minister to in some way. This is a category of relationships I want to expand this year. And I realize the same applies to writing. I enjoy writing particularly when I can encourage others or meet a need. This clarification helps significantly as I think through long-range goals.

This week, the tide of darkness will turn. Sounds like a soundbite from a Spiderman movie. The light is coming. Hope springs eternal and all that. And soon enough we'll all be lounging at the beach (Florida or Southern California, your choice) soaking up the summer rays. And the world will once again notice that I tan really well.

Blog More. Eat Less.

Okay, okay. Once again I want to try to blog more frequently. I realize it's kind of like dieting. The commitment works well for a while, but then the chocolate chip cookies start calling louder and louder and the commitment becomes less and less important. Then you see yourself in a photo and the commitment to diet starts all over again. After all, it's a lifestyle, right? Giving up gets you nowhere.

Is that a lame comparison to blogging? Probably. I mean what's the blogging equivalent of seeing yourself in a photo? I suppose it's people reminding me they're reading and I'm not writing. Which pretty much bares no resemblance to dieting now that I think about it. Maybe I make the comparison because I realize I want to change both aspects of my life. Blog more, eat less. Don't laugh. It could happen.

Also this weird thing has been happening lately. Complete strangers are finding and reading my blog. And even weirder, Dad tells me that people I know from Cedar Key have randomly found my blog without even knowing I had one. (Hi Tom & Sherry! Save a kayak for me after Christmas.) How that kind of thing happens I have no idea. I am internet illiterate. But it's pretty cool regardless.

And then there are the faithful who are good enough friends to keep checking back day after day of my unchanging blog on the off chance that I have a new post. Thank you faithful friends. Anyway, it all makes me want to blog more.

But the thing is... I don't always have something to say. You know? I mean my life is really pretty dull. I mean blogging daily could mean blogging about, well, nothing. Although that was Seinfeld's premise and it worked pretty well for them.

Let's see if I can think of a story of something that's happened over the last few days. Um.. I went Christmas carolling in 32 degree weather last night. I had a date to a wedding for the first time ever on Saturday. I missed my 4th Christmas party of the season (to my relief). And I made my bed for the first time in a week. Hmm. I guess I do have an eventful life from time to time.

And you know what? I could dredge up stories of old to blog about. Cedar Key is always blog worthy. And I did live in L.A. for more than six years. There has to be a story or two from those days, like when I was almost run over by Rob Lowe or when I watched George Clooney play basketball with something was hanging out of my nose (or maybe that was a cruel joke of Jackie's). Speaking of Jackie, I have dozens of Jackie stories. (Picture me running through a neighborhood chasing Jackie's runaway miniature horse down the street.)

Wow, this is good practice. I've been sitting around for days thinking about how boring my life is. So okay, the deal is, I'll try to blog more. Maybe there'll be old stories. Maybe there will be philosophical diatribes. Maybe just some crazy ranting. But maybe, just maybe, I can regain some momentum. Oh, and maybe lose some weight while I'm at it. What? Stranger things have happened.

Year End Introspection

December is always an odd month, sticking on the end of the year like a tassle, a decoration that doesn't fit anywhere else in the calendar. Nothing is quite normal in December.

I'm doing my best to guard against the craziness of Christmas and instead slow things down and use the time reflectively. I'm trying to assess the year. What went well, what didn't, how have I grown, how have I slipped, what surprises came my way, and what do I want for next year. And what does God want? Sadly, this is a question I've let slide into the background lately and I'm trying to bring it back to its rightful position.

I don't have a lot of answers yet, but I'm working on it. It's helpful for me to remember that God works in seasons. Some seasons are seasons of fast growth, some are seasons of harvest, some are seasons of clearing the brush and waiting for the best time to plant. I'm also trying to figure out what God is responsible for and what I'm responsible for.

It's clear my life is unbalanced, but I suppose that will always be true, depending upon where fruit is plentiful and where it is barren. Career questions loom ominously and I seek to discover God's leading for the future rather than my failings of the past. Relationally my life feels wonderously strong. I've been blessed with many beautiful intimate friendships. My relationship with my parents is a tremendous gift. At the same time I wonder if I am any closer to marriage than I was five years ago, which weighs heavy on my heart.

In it all I'm seeking God's perspective. What does He want for me? Am I seeking after the wrong things? If so, how do I correct my course?

My goal is to find all the answers by New Years and start off fresh with solid direction in 2008. But somehow I don't think God quite works that way. Regardless, I'll move forward until I know to turn or to stop. Or until God starts putting my deadlines on His calendar.

The Nostalgia of Housekeeping

This morning when I emerged from the shower in my new home for the week (dogsitting in Inman Park), I suddenly put together the reason for Shelby's barking during my shower. The housekeepers were here. She said they'd come sometime, but she didn't know when.

I poked my head around the corner and shouted hello to them over the noise of the leaf blower one of the women was using out on the back porch. I told them I'd be in the bedroom getting dressed and then would do my best to stay out of their way.

I finished in the bathroom first and let them know. Bathrooms take time and shouldn't be left for last. After I was dressed I busied myself in the bedroom until one of the women moved into the bathroom, at which point I grabbed a book and my hairbrush and moved to the kitched table so they could get into the bedroom.

It was then I realized I was thinking like a maid because I used to be a maid. It all came rushing back to me. Clean top to bottom. In a circle around the room. Floors and garbage last. Horizontal surfaces need more attention than vertical surfaces. The bedroom won't take long, the bathroom and the kitchen will. They'll be more comfortable if I move before they need to be in the room I'm occupying. That'll save time too. They won't have to create imaginary work waiting for me to move. It was zen. I was one with the cleaning ladies.

I tried to lose myself in my book (Love Walked In by Marisa de los Santos), but found myself in an odd state of cleaning nostalgia mixed with envy as I listened to the two women chatting spiritedly in Portuguese. I enjoyed cleaning houses more than you'd think, but if there's one thing that would have improved my experience, it would have been cleaning houses with a friend. I eavesdropped on the two women completely unable to understand a word of what they were saying, but I assure you, they were not talking about cleaning. They were having fun while they scrubbed toilets and dusted tables, sharing their lives with each other with ease, as if they'd been doing it it their whole lives, which perhaps they had.

When I cleaned homes in Cedar Key during the two years my dad was ill, it was magical. I worked in hotel rooms with a breathtaking view of the Gulf of Mexico. I cleaned for my favorite Cedar Key locals: George and his dog Gal, Pastor Chris and Wendy, and Miss Etta, as well as having the unique privilege of cleaning the tiny Baptist church. (I used to imagine I was a nun in the 16o0s polishing the pews.) Still, lonliness was never far away. I used to leave Carrell long messages while cleaning and would revel in listening to the messages she'd left the night before. When I cleaned for George, though, I did get my social time in, as George followed me from room to room, paying no attention to what I was doing, but just wanting to talk.

The vaccuum in the bedroom cut off and once again I became aware of a need to move out of their way again. I headed back to the bedroom with Shelby, while they moved on to the floors in the living room and kitc hen, continuing their chatter the entire time. Things made sense when I'd cleaned houses. Disorder turned to order at my bidding. Why doesn't that happen any more?

On Not Eating Dinner

I want to order pizza. Or something.

Mom's had this thing the whole time we've been in Savannah. It goes like this. Eat a decent lunch (which she thinks is a large meal), then don't eat dinner. It's not like a diet plan or anything. It's just that she's not hungry for dinner. Which is fine except that I do want to eat dinner. We're in a hotel room. She doesn't want to go out again. What to do, what to do?

This little inconvenience has crept into my life for three days now. The first day was Thanksgiving and I did eat a lot at lunch, and sort of saw Mom's point. Yesterday was a bit more frustrating. I ended up taking myself to a movie and eating buttered popcorn for dinner while Mom cozied down in the room watching Fox News for hours. (I know more than I ever wanted to know about the Stacy Peterson case.)

Today for lunch we finally made it to Paula Deen's restaurant where I had some scrumptious chicken pot pie. It was great, and I was stuffed when we left. But now it's dinnertime, and my tummy wants food again. Mom's not going back out. It looks like I missed my chance for the ghost tour I was thinking of taking tonight. But I don't want to miss my chance at dinner.

Where do I find a Chipotle in downtown Savannah? Can I find a chinese restaurant to deliver to room 417? Or do I just hunker down and fast? I'm a sad case. What makes it worse is that both my Auburn and non-Auburn friends are tailgating right now probably eating themselves into oblivian prepping for the big game.

War Eagle! Save me some nachos.

Chilly Black Friday

It's the day after Thanksgiving. Here's what I'm thankful for today--not doing the traditional Black Friday shopping thing anymore. Now granted, Mom and I did do some shopping today, but being in Savannah it was more of the laid back pop-in-and-out of a few River Street shops. What I used to dislike about this day back when Grandma led the charge was the Must Shop All Day among Crowds and buy Everything needed for Christmas.

What I do miss, the one crazy thing I miss about post-Thanksgiving shopping with Grandma and the family, was Grandma's method for securing a parking space at the mall. We'd scout the over-crowded parking lots and Grandma would see an open spot two lanes over. She'd holler her Yatzee yell and make us stop the car. She'd hop out of the passenger seat and dart over to the open spot and stand in it, waiting for us to drive around to it. It embarrassed me to death, but I loved it because it was so Grandma. Cars would try to pull into her spot and she would wave them away shouting "No, no, this spot is saved," no doubt leaving shoppers shaking their head in disbelief.

Thanksgiving in Savannah has been a nice change of scenery. I love the old squares with ginormous live oaks dressed in spanish moss. I'd hoped to find some time to get out and do some sketching and water color painting in my creative journal. Turns out time was not the issue, temperature was. I'm a wimp when it comes to sitting outside in the cold. If I come across a room with a view, I may yet paint, but so far the best scenes have been right in the heart of the chilly air.

Thanksgiving Eve Breakdown

Whenever I leave for a trip of some sort, I think about doing an online daily journal. But I never follow through. I think because trips and things that happen on trips don't especially interest me. I don't care to list all the things I did that day, all the places I visited or shopped. Just thinking about it induces yawns. That doesn't mean I don't enjoy doing these things, it just means they don't make for good reading. Of far greater appeal is my thought process throughout each day. To me at least. I confess I don't take into account much what my audience may find interesting. No offense.

So I'm leaving tomorrow for Savannah with mom. It's Thanksgiving eve, and as is habit, I'm going to bed without being fully packed. I've packed so many times that it's mostly a non-event that can be accomplished in the 10 minutes prior to walking out the door. Provided my clothes are clean (which is sometimes an issue). But, I did take this into consideration in advance and did two loads of laundry today. One step closer to maturity.

Tonight I decided to distract myself for a few hours by going to Chocolate with my books and my computer. I've been avoiding them lately because they changed their wireless internet policy and because I can't get a decent size Diet Coke. Props to Caribou for meeting my needs in those areas. But tonight I thought I'd give Chocolate some cash and try to score a seat on the royal sofa.

It didn't happen.

As I was pulling into the parking lot, my car began to veer off to the right and as I attempted to correct it, I recognized I'd lost my power steering. It took every ounce of energy to force the steering wheel to obey me and to coax my grandpamobile into a parking spot. The battery light was suddenly on showing I had no battery power and then came the painful noises from under the hood. I knew I couldn't drive it any further.

My first thought was "do I deal with this now, or do I go enjoy a cup of coffee and think it over?" I decided it would be better to at least attempt a diagnosis, but then another thought occurred to me. Maybe there is someone in the coffee shop who knows me who may be of some help. It's not unlikely for me to run into friends there. But my attempt proved futile. Being Thanksgiving eve, the owners had decided to close early. Not only were there no friends in sight, but I couldn't get my coffee even if I wanted to.

Jiffy Lube to the rescue, or so I hoped. It was all I could think of at the time. A couple guys took a look under the hood and showed me the problem. A belt had either broken or slipped out of place. They couldn't fix it. And no one could at that hour the day before Thanksgiving. Come to think of it, no one could fix it tomorrow either. Plus I'm leaving town with Mom. Thankfully her sweet little Honda (which I love and keep begging her to sell to me) runs like a kitten.

Long story short, I walked home lugging my laptop, bookbag, and purse, leaving my car to be dealt with upon my return. Adventure number one for the Thanksgiving holiday road trip, and I haven't even left town yet.

I'm emotionless. Why, I have to wonder, do I bury this kind of crisis in a box of "I can't deal with this now" tossing away all emotions, and yet in a crisis such as a trigger that reminds me of my singleness I'm easily overcome with storms of tears that aren't easily dammed? Why can I compartmentalize one and not the other? And neither is particularly healthy.

Pre-trip ponderings now down on paper (so to speak), I approach tomorrow with hope that perhaps, just once, I can do a daily trip blog. I'll have time after Mom goes to bed at 8:30pm. The question is, will I care enough to write?

Quirky Girl

I’m always on a quest for something. Peace, happiness, love, contentment, that sort of thing. I really am a stone’s throw away from being new agey, if I think about it. Except for the Jesus thing and the fact that I am convinced the bible is the word of God and that we can’t just make up our own hooey theology to satisfy our own needs. But I mean with regards to the whole quest thing, I relate to all the people out there trying to find the thing they’re looking for. And maybe this makes me weird, but I’m more and more okay with being weird.

One quest I’ve been on forever is the quest to be okay with me, with who I am at my core. I’ve made great strides in the last decade in this regard, but the thing that always trips me up, the thing that always stops me from fully reaching it, is trying to figure out what’s a fault that needs fixing, versus what’s just a personality quirk that needs embracing.

I climbed a tree today. I didn’t set out to climb a tree. It was an impulse decision. Just saying that alone makes me realize how far I’ve come in terms of becoming myself. I used to think through everything before taking a step in any direction. How freeing it is just to act (with imbedded wisdom keeping me from doing anything too rash). When it comes to climbing trees, this impulsiveness is something I love about the real Melanie. I’ve often viewed spontaneity as a flaw, but it doesn’t have to be. I would have missed out had I let too much reason intervene between me and the tree.

I was raking pinestraw at Mom’s. Loads and loads of pinestraw. The air was warming up, so much so that I shed my sweater in favor of my Fowler’s Bluff Fire Department t-shirt. While I was raking, the birds were playing some crazy game in the trees. Flit, land, flit, flit, over here, land. Rustle in the leaves. Up now and over there. At least half a dozen, maybe more, little birds danced around, playing their own little hot potato kind of game.

At the height of it, I turned to the nearby dogwood tree and spoke to the over-caffeinated birds, “What in the heck are y’all doing?” They paused, and laughed, and carried on. Suddenly I had to be in on it. I walked over to the tree and looked up into it, then put one foot on the bottom limb and hoisted myself up. One more step was all I could safely climb. Dogwoods are a bit frail for climbing. (The best tree for climbing is the magnolia. Thick branches reaching up for miles. The trick is to find one with a branch low enough to get started.) But my goal wasn’t to climb a tree. My goal was simply to be among the birds in their flutterings. You could say it was a St. Francis moment.

Have you ever looked at the underside of a bird when it’s sitting on a limb? I had a few moments to study the underbelly of several of them, all the while crossing my fingers that they wouldn’t choose that moment to do their business. I stood my post in the dogwood for several minutes as the birds continued on, landing, flitting off elsewhere, returning to a lower branch, then a higher one. Eventually they stopped coming to my tree. I must’ve freaked them out a bit. “Who is that human in our tree?” I can hear them saying. “I mean she seems safe enough, but who can really trust a human in a tree? Plus she’s kinda in our way.”

I let them have their way among the trees and I returned to my raking, delighted at having taken advantage of a stop-and-smell-the-roses moment. I may not be the most productive chick on the planet in terms of accomplishing things, but hey, when’s the last time you climbed a tree and played with the birds?

Where I've Been

Thanks for your comment, Anonymous, whoever you are. Yes, I have slacked off on blogging once again. Are there really people who are still poking around to see if I'm still here?

One thing that's been stealing my focus is a column for Christian single women I've started. I've wanted a venue to talk about some of my struggles as a thirty-something single woman but have hesitated to post such thoughts online where all my potential male suitors could read them, (I say only partly in jest.) I finally decided to start a targeted mailing list column, and I'm finding it incredibly theraputic. If you're a Christian single woman and you'd like to receive the weekly column (free of charge), send me an email at melanie.benedict@gmail.com. If you're a man who wants to receive the column just because you're curious...sorry buddy. You'll have to wait for the book. (At which point I will just have to get over my need for keeping such ramblings secret. Or change my name and move to another state.)

I've spent the last 4 days in Cedar Key. It's truly amazing how different this town has become for me than it was during the days I lived here caring for my dad. It's exquisitely magical now. Before it was an odd mix of prison and oddball fairy tale.

On Friday I took my first trip with Journey Daybook, a group promoting creative journalling. We took a boat, The Princess Annie, up the Gulf and the Suwannee River. I broke through my fears of visual art and did pages of watercolor painting, mixed with handwritten journalling. It was delightfully freeing. Our boat captain was a friend of mine from the time I lived in Cedar Key, Jenny. She's a mother of two and when I lived here she ran a small nursery (think plants, not children) out of her home. Now her family runs a boat tour company and Jenny has become a captain. She and her parents are now trying to recruit me to come work the docks with them February through March, during the busy season. Can you see me as a first mate touring the islands around Cedar Key? I have to confess, the thought of it is tempting enough for me to give it some thought.

As always happens when I come to Cedar Key, I'm hovering in a meditative state of mind. I am so thankful for all the amazing relationships in my life, and for the small treasures like breakfast at Annie's or Miss Betty's with Dad and Anne.

Right now I'm reading Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert, and she talks about how every city has a word that describes it, and in order to feel at home in a city, your word must be the same as the city's. I haven't decided what words belong to my cities, but I do realize that I am part-Atlanta, but not fully Atlanta; part Cedar Key, but not fully Cedar Key; and part Southern California, but not fully Southern California. If I'm in Atlanta too long, I need a dose of Cedar Key and occassionally California. If I'm in Cedar Key too long, I'm desperate for Atlanta. I think it's not so much a grass is always greener thing. I think it's that I'm a part of all of these places and no one fully satisfies all parts of my personality. I sometimes feel stifled in Atlanta, I sometimes feel lonely in Cedar Key, I sometimes feel ungrounded in California. But if I can get regular doses of all of my homes, I can breathe in more of the fullness of who I was created to be.

And before my ramblings take me further out into never-never land, I shall take my leave.

Pinestraw, Pumpkins, and Runaway Flies

Once again I've let time slip by without writing. Reasons escape me and I will not waste time attempting to dredge them up. Is it dredge or drudge? These are important things a writer should know.

Today the brain is filled with thoughts. Thoughts all over the map. Knowing not which to call the catch of the day, I'll simply fish for fun and throw them back.

Moments ago, as I was seated on the front stoop eating my 180 calorie lean cuisine beef stew and reading, I began dodging pine straw. It was falling at an extraordinary pace and creating quite a ruckus of noise. Upon realizing this, I stopped just to listen. It sounded like a rainstorm. Blat, blat, blat-blat-blat. How could pine straw be so loud? It's just straw! Another oddity catching my attention was the fact that I was not sitting under a pine tree. Here is a large magnolia. Over there a dogwood. And a couple other big leafy varieties which I can't easily name. Yet what fell was pine straw. Looking up, past the extended ceiling of the magnolia, I saw it, barely visable, yet towering over its tree neighbors. Best I can guess the loud noise was due to the magnolia's reluctance to bend and give way to the shedding pine.

There's a pumpkin on the front step, thanks to my domestic goddess roommate, Michelle. And there's another, hiding a step below the first. They keep demanding my attention. At first I can't figure out why, but further thought leads me to conclude it has something to do with light. The pumpkins are almost glowing. The way the light hits color in the fall can be so radiant. Yesterday evening as I was out running I glanced up at the light coming through the leaves of a tree just ahead. The brightness of the green was so crisp that I had to keep staring. These light reflecting moments seem to speak to me of the radiance of God in creation. "I am here," He seems to say, and I don't want to look away.

Now, back inside, I realize I have trapped a fly. He keeps making a ruckus at the windows begging to be let out, but he cannot manage to find an exit. Then he rests for a bit, perhaps rethinking his strategy, perhaps trying to reason how something that looks exactly like the outside is not the outside. Thoughts jump from trying to get him to the open front door, to leaving him alone and trying to ignore him, to clapping him to death and mastering my fly-killing strategy. He is quiet now so perhaps I will let him be.

Distractions keep leading me away so I will wrap up the observing for the moment. And there buzzes the fly again. Hang on. No luck, he's discovered the house has other rooms. And now the dogs are barking. Many dogs. I'm so glad we don't have to shout across neighborhoods to communicate with one another, aren't you? Someone should invent doggie telephones.

Reaching Base Camp

This week I will cross a milestone. Any day now I will receive my first ever paycheck from something I've written. It's a small step, but a first step, and a victory I want to celebrate.

It's amazing how something can be tremendous and minescule at the same time. It's a mere two articles in Network magazine (MTW's missions magazine). I imagine it's a bit like reaching base camp when climbing Mount Everest. To get there requires significant planning, time, and physical effort, but it's still just the base of the mountain.

Nevertheless I'm reveling in having reached my writing base camp. It's taken a significant amount of mental energy to attempt the belief that it is possible for me to do something other than administrative work. The fact that I haven't gone back to administrative work is a huge victory for me. I still know that I may have to go back, but for now I am pushing forward towards a new dream.

I also want to offer a big congratulations shout out to Heidi, who's just gotten her first offer to publish something she's written. Her story of her backpacking trip up Mt. Langley will appear in Backpacker Magazine. You can check out her hiking experience by clicking on Heidi! under Blogs I Follow. (I haven't yet figured out how to link within a blog. I'll work on that.) Congratulations, Heidi. You inspire me.

Small victories are sweet because they remind us we're alive, we're not stagnant, we're moving forward. What small victories are you seeing in your life? Choose to celebrate!

Scenes from a Coffee House

Last night I met Melissa at Chocolate (pronounced Choco-la-tay) for a much overdue meeting to review our six month personal goals with one another. It was also a chance to catch up and just enjoy one another. Which we did.

I was delighted to secure the ever-coveted leather sofa. When I overheard the man on the sofa promising someone over the phone that he was just leaving, I figured this was my chance. I grabbed my bag of books (which I tote practically everywhere) off of the tiny round table where I'd been sitting while waiting for Melissa and set them on the couch. I went back for my peppermint tea and was setting it down carefully on the coffee table (ah-ha, a real coffee table, for coffee!) when Sofa Guy hung up the phone. "Are you leaving?" I asked, just to be polite. "Yeah," he answered, "but you could have sat here even if I wasn't." Aww. What a nice Sofa Guy. And now it was too late to bother checking his hand for a ring.

Moving on. Melissa came and sat and allowed me to vent, which I realized I very much needed to do. It's been a hard week emotionally, and I'm just not good talking about things like that over the phone. It's much more easily accomplished on a leather sofa in a neighborhood coffee shop. She listened well, not caring that time was passing without our goals being discussed. We'd get to that. First things first. Relationship.

Being well positioned to see the door, I smiled to see Erica and Amy walk in. Erica waved as they wandered around the coffee shop looking for seating. Melissa and I continued talking and a few minutes later Jessica walked in. She came over and visited with us for a while, as she waited for the remaining girls in her travel group to arrive.

Melissa pointed out the dozen or so photos of India hanging on the wall. "Did you know those are Bobbi Jo's photos?" The three of us reveled in the fact that a friend of ours has art hanging on the wall of our coffeeshop. It seemed like the coolest thing.

Jessica realized that Christina and Laura had joined the others outside and took her leave to place her order while I had more hot water added to my cup. Melissa and I resumed our conversation and transitioned into goal discussion, thoroughly enjoying the atmosphere and the company.

When the evening ended, I drove home reflecting on where I live. It's as much of a tiny island as Cedar Key was. I run into friends at the coffee shop. I know the artist who's work hangs on the walls. I could even have walked to the coffee shop had I chosen to do so. Maybe I have lighted onto the best combination of worlds. Small town community, big city convenience. It suits me well.

Melancholy Mountaintop

There's a smell of sadness in the air around me. Let's call it melancholy, since this is a more poetic and nostaligic sort of sadness. I'm drifting around in a melancholy haze thinking about an old friend of mine who reached a milestone yesterday. A milestone I missed because the two of us are not really friends any more. Cannot be friends. At least not right now.

I remember when the dreams were new, a fresh vision in search of a name. I offered my opinion. It was neither rejected nor taken. What's in a name? I remember asking. A rose by any other name would smell as sweet, and yet marketing dost prove old Shakespeare wrong. The name is everything. And yet in its need for perfection, the choice of a name often postpones creation, a secret devil of delay. How had the devil been slain? I long to know.

I'm proud, and maybe that's what makes me the most sad. I'm proud of the victory and yet I cannot extend recognition. I dreamt of offering it anonymously, and yet realize the gesture's inherent flaws. No. Now is not the time. Perhaps the time for reconciliation will yet come, and the applause can be presented retroactively. I'm not sure it works that way, but it is all I have. A hope.

I wonder if the community gave what I cannot. Affirmation of a job well done, a solid nod of "we see you." Or if the victory is melancholy on the other side of the road as well. Mountains climbed alone can be disillusioning--is the summit as sweet as it appeared from the ground?

There is an odd sweetness, bittersweet I suppose, in the simple knowledge that I know what's transpired and what it must mean to taste long sought-after success. I was not there. I was not told or invited or boasted to about it, but in the quiet of my soul, in the dark when there are no conversations, I see.

Rejected by MySpace

I don't have a MySpace account. The reason is simple. I'm old. When MySpace first started becoming popular, it was all the rage among high school students and I was already in my thirties. Besides, I reasoned, I already had friends and I didn't need a page full of profile pictures to prove it.

As MySpace grew, apparently so did its appeal. I began to hear of friends who had accounts. I will be honest and admit that I chuckled at them underneath my breath. What was the point of it? I just didn't get it. Still, my friends who did have MySpace accounts were all younger than me. I shrugged that off with little inclination to investigate. Occassionally I would get frustrated that the snobs who run MySpace wouldn't let me look at certain pages because I didn't have an account. But I would just stick my nose up in return and thrust my palm out towards the computer with a snotty "Well, fine!" and go back to checking my email.

Not long ago, on a whim, I signed up with Facebook. I can't remember why. I think I was just curious to find out what it was and realized I needed an actual page to really get it. Facebook gave me an account but the Facebook snobs wouldn't let me search for friends because I didn't have a preferred email account. Apparently Earthlink is on its way out. They welcomed people with yahoo, gmail, and hotmail accounts, but sadly informed me they could not import my address book, thus stopping me from friend searching. It didn't matter. After more than a month on Facebook, and several invitations to friendship from people who found me, I still don't get it. I can't figure out how to use it or what its purpose is supposed to be. So while technically I have a Facebook account, I never use it.

Last night I was out with a couple of younger girlfriends, and one of them began talking about how much she loved MySpace. I asked her why. I mean, what is it that I don't get? The one intriguing answer she gave was that it lets people find you. She'd meet a guy and then he'd find her on MySpace and start emailing her. In addition, scores of friends from her past began showing up. I must confess, that piqued my interest. Maybe its the romance of nostalgia, but I love the idea of some old friend from college finding me out of the blue and rekindling a lost friendship. She urged me to try it. I gave her the "I'm too old" thing, but she waved it off with a whisk of her hand.

So late last night I did it. I signed up for a MySpace account. Or I should say, I tried to sign up for a MySpace account. I entered in the necessary information. Name. Email. Password. Birthdate. Checked the box saying I'd read all the rules and agreed with them. (Has anyone actually read those rules?) I then entered the secret code provided and hit enter. Then I awaited being awarded with My own Space.

Instead I got this: "Based on the information you submitted, you are inelligible for MySpace.com."

What? Surely I mis-entered something. I went through the entire process again.

"Based on the information you submitted, you are inelligible for MySpace.com."

Ouch. I admit, my ego was slugged. Maybe I really truly AM too old for MySpace. I frowned a sad, pathetic frown as I stared at the computer screen hoping something would magically change. Why don't they want me? Rejection sucks, even when it comes from a faceless robot.

At least I have some real friends. Right? Yet somehow that no longer seems as valuable as a page full of friend portraits.

The world becomes a lonely place when I can't even have my space.

When Time Slooooooows Down

Things are moving along slowly today. Some days are just like that. I must have checked my email 150 times in the last hour. Nothing.

I suppose I am glad for the slow days. Last week was busy and I haven't yet found a way to be busy without being stressed out so the contrast of the slow days to the busy ones is nice enough. Except when I need to connect with people online and I'm not getting emails.

Here's what usually happens. I come across a slow day. I check email 150 times. Then the thought occurs to me that maybe I should write somebody so I have a justification in expecting an email to appear in my inbox. Then I check my email 50 more times. Still nothing. Eventually I get distracted by something else and move on with my life.

Inevitably a few days later my life is busy again. This is when all the people I emailed on my slow day decide to write back. Suddenly when I check email there are a dozen new, personal emails, only now I have no time to respond to them. The cycle seems to have a personality of its own, laughing at the irony of my personal law of supply and demand.

I tried to watch Oprah, as a distraction to my emailless afternoon, but the cable was messing up. Which is fine. Oprah was about millionaire moms. I don't really want to be reminded that not only am I not a mom, I am also not a millionaire.

So I took to reading, which worked for a time. Now I am watching the clock, pleased that each 10 minute increment that passes brings me ever closer to my dinner plans. Oddly I find myself thankful that I have to be out in rush hour traffic to make it to Oakhurst by 6:00pm. Maybe I can leave at 5:30pm and that's only an hour away. It'll take some time to change my clothes and touch up my makeup, so that only leaves 45 minutes. What to do with my time?

Life laughs at me. I just tried to check email again. Hoping the enticement of something to open will lead me to end this post and move on to important reading. But Earthlink apologizes instead. They are temporarily offline. Of course they are.

I suppose the millionaire moms would have used the 15 minutes its taken me to write this post to make $15,000. Maybe I should try Oprah again and see if I can hurdle my bitterness and learn a thing or two.

If I don't, you may see another post within the half hour.

Ramblin' On

People have been asking me, for several months now, why I’m not blogging as regularly as I used to. I have struggled to discover the answer and repeatedly I come up empty. I don’t know why, only that the limited frequency of my posts disturbs me.

There is one thing breaks me out of blog fasts better than just about anything else. Reading good writing. There is a tone, a quality found in good writing, that smells of magic, which yanks me off of my lazy school and back into blogging mode.

Right now, this minute, it’s a delightful book that Katie Thompson turned me onto, a little known non-fiction book written by John Steinbeck called Travels With Charley. I’m just over a chapter in, so this won’t be a book review. What will it be then? At this juncture, God only knows.

One of my frustrations with blogging is having to come up with a topic to write about before I start. I do realize that this expectation should be a given, but since this is my blog I hereby recognize publicly that I do not want that expectation. You see, sometimes I just want to write stuff. Without knowing where it will go.

I love writing letters. I always have. Now nearly all my letter writing, with the primary exception being my Granny Agee in Virginia, is done by email. But it is still letter writing in my mind. I frequently write friends who live in California. And the big appeal of that, as opposed to posting a blog, is not just that letter writing expects a reply, but that I can say whatever I want without having to stick to one subject or plot it out in advance.

In my email letters I write about anything and everything. I might, for example, mention that at this moment I am munching down on frozen Hershey Special Dark Almond Nuggets I took from Pete and Joanne’s freezer without asking. (Pete and Joanne, I promise to replace them if I eat too many!) Or I might ramble on about having heard author Terry Kay speak at Decatur Library and how the audience was mostly blue-haired ladies. Or I might talk about the boiled peanuts I had for dinner and sing the praises of what I used to think were called “bald” peanuts to West-coasters who would probably be revolted by the notion of hot, mushy (delicious!) peanuts.

The point is, if I were writing a letter I could start where I want and go where I want and end where I want. And maybe that’s what I’m going to do here. Just ramble a while and see what roads it takes me down. I wonder if Steinbeck, reflecting on his travels across the country with his French poodle Charley, plotted out just what he would write, or if he just wrote and let it go wherever it went.

Maybe it’s the wanderer in me, not wanting to know exactly where life will take me, always looking for the next adventure. I may try some aimlessness for a while. Just to see. Just for fun. Who knows, it might make this thing called blogging a little more palatable. At least for the writer.

Fear Facing

I'm afraid a lot.

Not of the dark or boogie men or spiders (though I admit there are some mean looking wasps outside the front door that I'm not handling well). What scares me the most is being exposed, that people will find out that I really am all I imagine myself to be: unsuccessful, untalented, immature, irresponsible, incapable, and all sorts of other negative labels I've pasted on myself.

Last night I attended my weekly writer's critique group. Reading something I've written to the group is a literal exam in facing fear. After a singer finishes an onstage performance, the theater holds its breath for the briefest moment of anticipation and then it comes, the rush of applause. This same pause hung in the air the moment after I finished reading the piece I'd written entitled The Black Dress. With the pause came anxiety and stomach-churning anticipation, but I knew that the next sound I would hear wouldn't be applause, but rather the slow beginnings of constructive criticism.

Even if you agree with advice others give on what they think you need to change, it can be hard to swallow. "Okay," I said with a pasted smile as one group member said that a particular sentence had no meaning and should be taken out. "Show, don't tell," came another piece of advice. "What is the atmosphere of the room in that moment? What do you hear? What do you see?" I graciously nodded and took notes, forcing my heart to accept the advice my brain told me was valid.

The critique session on my piece lasted for fifteen to twenty minutes, at the end of which I was exhausted. "Will you bring it back again next week?" one woman asked with an air of encouragement.

"I don't know, we'll see. Maybe if I get the chance to work on it," came my reply. Translation? Maybe, if I have the courage to ever look at it again; maybe if I have the courage to ever see you people again.

"I don't know why I'm here," one woman interjected, graciously taking the attention off of me. "I don't even want to bring anything in for critique until I've re-written it over and over again. " She made it clear that she was afraid a critique would overwhelm her and that afterwards she would just quit.

Her confession was the most freeing thing anyone could have said. It wasn't just me. There are others, better writers, who are afraid just like I am. I realized the power in sharing our fears with one another. It takes the sting out of it.

The secret then is to press on without allowing the fear to make decisions for me. Not something that's easy to do, but something that is made easier by the acknowledgement that I'm not alone in being afraid. Everyone has fear. Some decide that it's worth the risk of facing it. And these are the ones who succeed.
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"I wanted you to see what real courage is, instead of getting the idea that courage is a man with a gun in his hand. It's when you know you're licked before you begin but you begin anyway and you see it through no matter what. "
--Harper Lee, To Kill a Mockingbird

Wish They All Could Be California Girls

I'm writing from Southern California. This is day three of an eight day trip back to the west coast to connect with old friends and enjoy the things I most love about California.

It is hard to believe that it has been nearly seven years since I moved back home to Atlanta from L.A. California still courses through my veins and when I come to visit, it is as though I am breathing fresh mountain air. My senses are peaked and I feel delight at every turn. The beaches are so glorious, the climate so temperate, my friends here so dear.

Yesterday Pauline and I drove down to San Diego for the day. We spent several hours casually drifting around La Jolla, browsing in the shops, walking the boardwalk by the beach surrounded by cliffs and jetties, lunching on the grassy park overlooking the ocean while listening to a live band and chatting endlessly about God, shopping, international travel, work, the price someone would pay for a hot dog, bicycle riding, men, and our plans for getting older. It was delightful.

Today we slept in and then headed out for a delectable brunch at Long Shore Cafe in Long Beach before tackling some of Pauline's errands. Errands are so much more pleasant when done on vacation near the beach in the company of a good friend. The lazy afternoon allowed for some reading and a nap so I could rest up before my dinner outing with Heidi.

"How do you feel about ethnic food?" Heidi asked. "Are we going to Open Sesame again?" I responded. She had forgotten it was the restaurant she'd taken me to on 2nd Street when I'd visited two years ago. We decided it would be our place and eagerly made our way in that direction while we both talked a mile a minute trying to catch up on everything (and verbally process the events of the last few weeks) so as not to waste one second. It is so amazing that I have been able to maintain such deep and important relationships with friends 2,000 miles away for so many years. I am blessed with relationships near and far. God has been good to me.

Tomorrow I'll see Cassandra on Balboa Island, an unexpected treat. I am trying to remember the last time we saw each other. She lives in Sonoma Valley, beautiful wine country, an hour north of San Francisco. It has probably been eight years since I last saw her face. What a fantastic gift to discover that she had planned a trip to visit her brother in Orange County the same week I would be here. She'd had no idea that I was coming.

It appears I won't be able to see Renee, my dear friend in L.A. and my most faithful email friend. Though I'm saddened to be so close and not able to connect face to face, I am so thankful for her friendship. She's the one I can tell my craziest thoughts to, the ones that are too embarrassing to admit to just anybody, and I value the freedom of such a friendship.

I am so rich in friends. I realize it more fully in the blessing of this trip. Thank you God for blessing me. Thank you for the beauty of the ocean and the beaches and the coolness of the night air. Thank you for friends who love me, who share their very souls with me, who encourage me continually both in California and at home in Atlanta. What's that cheesy line from the end of It's a Wonderful Life? "No man is a failure who has friends." So shoot me for being cheesy--it's true!
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This post is dedicated to Pauline, Heidi, Cassandra, and Renee - my treasured friends of California.

Perseverance

Perseverance: to persist in spite of difficulties.

I'm not so good at perseverance. Great at starting things. Not so great at finishing. Not so great at continuing to walk along the path when it involves challenges, which of course most paths worth taking do.

Once again this week I plan on marching forward with the job hunt, feigning confidence and flooding myself with compassion at every failed attempt. Steady plodding brings prosperity. Keep going, Melanie. Keep going.

On my good days, I'm a writer who just hasn't yet found her niche. On my bad days I'm an unemployed administrative assistant, destined to a life of mediocrity and underemployment. The mind game is a powerful one, and I find ease at avoiding the game by engaging a multitude of other tasks clawing for my attention. Mom wants her windows cleaned? Sure! I'm your girl. Need a ride to the airport? Why not? I'm not working right now, a phrase which can all too easily be translated, "I have all the time in the world."

The unemployment season has been a reflective time, an aspect I love. Rather than letting life rush by me in unnoticed windstorms, I see my choices more clearly. I've been able to build things into my life that I value such as travel (China, and soon California), regular lunches with friends, a weekly writers' critique group, a weekly creativity group, and an ever developing list of goals and hopes I'd like to see manifest in my life. And finally but most importantly, concentrated time in God's Word, something I confess has only come in recent days, but has been of great value.

Mastering perseverance is not something I know how to do. I only know that my desire is to keep getting up, to keep trying again, and to keep seeking God for guidance and direction. I suppose I've been learning perseverance all of my adult life. God loves to use the word "wait" and I have accepted it more times than I can count. I ought to be a certified perseverance expert if you stop and think about it. And yet I'm not. It's still a struggle. I still want things easily and now.

But I will choose to keep walking. One foot in front of the other. Falling and then getting up again. Enjoying the ride where it takes me. If steady plodding brings prosperity, a plodding I will go.

This is Not Your Father's China

"Do you use Skype?" a Chinese college student asked me, wanting to stay in touch after my return to the U.S.

I had heard of Skype, an internet phone system making it possible to talk internationally for almost nothing, but have never used it.

"No," I answered, somewhat proud that I at least knew what it was. (I later polled others on my team and found many who had never heard of it.)

"That's okay," she said encouragingly. "You can download it for free."

I paused, somewhat embarrassed, and admitted, "I can't. My computer is too slow."
Score: China 1, USA 0

Not that we're keeping score, but I must confess I had somewhat of an prejudiced attitude towards China prior to my recent trip. The China I remember from 11 years ago was a Communisty Country with a capital C, a black and white Kansas incapable of even imagining a technicolor life. A country whose oppressive regime had locked its beautiful people in a smog-filled time warp that subtly denounced hope. I thought Communism meant repressed, backwards, stuck in the past.

Not only was I slightly wrong in my stereotyping an entire country, I was dramatically wrong. This was not the same China I encountered ten years ago. This China is technologically advanced and economically thriving. Skyscrapers are everwhere, with new high rises in process on every available corner. Giant billboards, neon signs, and fliers permeated the city where we stayed.

Granted, you will still encounter bong bong men carrying heavy loads on sticks or carts, and you will still see shoe shine ladies chasing potential customers across the street for a buff on the go. The dollar still goes a long way and China's musical tastes seem stuck in the eighties. But the bong bong man now crosses marble outdoor squares that are polished daily and the shoe shine lady coaxes customers exiting the Rolex store on their way to Starbucks.

One afternoon, we rounded the corner near our hotel past the KFC, Pizza Hut, and Starbucks, we saw four scantily clothed women dancing on stage to eighties music. Surrounding the stage was a crowd of mostly men, enjoying the show. Before I could ask the purpose of the dancing, the long-term missionary giving us a tour announced that these were the Cell Phone Dancers, dancing exclusively to sell mobile phones, and that it went on every day. I didn't believe him at first, but he pointed out the banner directly over their heads advertising cell phones (I think it was Nokia) and said that sometimes the dancers even held the phones in their hands while they performed. I was appalled at first. How can they stoop to dancing to sell phones? And then the thought struck me. Why didn't we think of that?

How did China get to be so...Western?

The thought disturbs me some now. At the time I was delighted to be able to get a mocha frappucino whenever I wanted, but now I'm wondering where all this "advancement" is taking China. When I talked with some Chinese college students about what they hoped for in life, the answers were resoundingly financial. A good job that pays well. More and more, this is what the Chinese are striving for. And China's economic freedom is making it possible.

My fear is that the god of money will soon blind the eyes of unbelievers in China. Some church leaders have commented that while the underground church in China continues to grow, the spiritual depth of new believers is not what it once was. The lure of money and material success is a strong one, as we know all too well in our country.

I hope to return to China again soon. Let me know if you want to go with me. I can't imagine what China will be like if I wait another ten years.

China Faith

We met two Chinese house church pastors, M and K, on the fifth night of our trip. They met us for dinner, but K didn’t eat. Wednesday is his fasting day. Every Wednesday. This single fact humbled me more than anything else on the entire trip. Sure, I can raise $2,300. I can travel for 24 hours to the other side of the world. I can even eek out a few words about Jesus to English-speaking college students. But would I willingly fast one day a week? It is a question I can't readily answer and one I have been trying unsuccessfully to ignore.

K became a Christian when he was about 30 years old. Profoundly depressed, he had no idea what he was going to do with his life, had no sense of direction, no sense of purpose. Life had no meaning. It was during that time that he met an American on a summer mission trip who told him about Jesus. K’s life made a dramatic turnaround as he put his trust in Christ and began to seek God for purpose and direction. Now, seven years later, he is being trained to pastor an underground church.

K’s passion now is to help Chinese people find peace through Jesus Christ. He has a particular passion for transforming families in China. The Chinese have no idea how to create successful marriages and families. Most children are cared for by their grandparents, while parents focus more and more on building their careers. A girl on our team met a young man who'd been raised in an orphanage because his parents were both doctors and didn't have time to care for him.

M also became a Christian through an American summer project to China. He encouraged us greatly with the value of our trip, even though it was short. Every seed planted, even through one conversation, can result in a changed life. He was proof of it.

I thought of those with whom I shared my faith. Hannah and I had the privilege of meeting with six or seven girls in a dorm room and planting seeds among them. We only had half an hour before we had to meet back with our group and both Hannah and I knew our time was valuable. We needed God to lead us into a gospel conversation quickly.

God showed up as just a few minutes into the conversation with these English-speaking freshmen girls. One girl said that she wanted to be a writer so that she could write about the differences between Chinese and American cultures.

"What differences?" I asked.

"You know, beliefs. Like Americans believe in Christianity and freedom and independence." I confess I forget what she mentioned as Chinese beliefs in the shock of hearing Christianity brought up in conversation so easily. (I remember they focused on unity and value of the whole rather than the individual.)

It was easy from there to ask if anyone believed in God. Simultaneously all seven of them shook their heads and said no. When asked what they believe in, a girl answered "goodness," to which all heads nodded in agreement. Yes, goodness. That is what we believe.

Over the next 20 minutes we talked about where goodness orginated, Creationism versus Darwinism, and who Jesus was (a good teacher or God). One of the girls, to my surprise, had read the new testament. She had it in her dorm room down the hall. She believed Jesus was a good example but not God. I challenged her belief with C.S. Lewis' Lord, Liar, Lunatic argument, which she followed intently. (In Mere Christianity, C.S. Lewis reasons that there is no room for Jesus as a good teacher. Jesus claimed to be God. So was he a liar? Was he crazy? Or was he who he said he was?) She was skeptical and said she would have to read the context of Jesus' claim to be God. I encouraged her to do so.

I thought over these encounters as I listened to Pastor M speak. Every seed that is planted in China will be watered by God. I don't know if Hannah and I were the first believers to speak truth into the lives of these women, but I am certain we will not be the last. Pray for these women and others in China who heard truth spoken this summer.

I'm still processing the impact this trip has had on my life. God is alive in China. It's evident. The question is, is God alive in my life? Can I trust him with my job search? My income? My living situation? My singleness? It's challenging to realize that it's far easier for me to trust God to transform China than to take care of the details of my life.

It's a challenge I need, just like Pastor K's commitment to weekly fasting. China has helped to wake me up and realize the smallness of my faith. My prayer is that I will learn to embrace my faith challenges rather than hide from them.

I'm Back, Mostly

I'm back from China, would somebody please tell my body?

Jet lag is just an odd thing. I mean I know what time it is, I know when I'm supposed to sleep and when I'm supposed to be awake. So why does my body have such a hard time recognizing it? I arrived home on Monday, July 2nd--a day late due to missing a connecting flight--and here, two days later, I awoke at 3:30am. The afternoons have been the hardest, with a nauseaus sick feeling coupled with the sensation of having taken two Ambien and yet being unable to sleep. When awake, I've been walking around in a fog.

I haven't yet begun to process my time in China. I may write in a stream-of-consciousness fashion and just see where things lead. I'm hoping I can write over the course of several days, but I know better than to make promises. Come with me on a journey and we'll just see where it leads, okay?

To my delight, the trip was fruitful. We'd been told prior to leaving the US that security concerning religion in China had tightened substantially and that we might not be able to talk with openly students. The leadership decided we should avoid group activities like teaching English classes, but we still had opportunities to meet with students and engage in meaningful conversations.

One morning we visited a Buddhist temple. I used that as a springboard to ask a girl if she ever went to the Buddhist temple. She did go occasionally, but she did not believe. She asked what religious faith I was. I answered Christian and asked what she believed. "Nothing," was her answer.

This is all too common among the Chinese. China prides itself on being accepting of all religions, even Christianity, but still most Chinese would say they believe in nothing, or they believe in themselves. I enjoyed telling the young student what I believed and challenging her to think more about it. To my surprise she told me that two of her Chinese friends are Christians. "It is becoming more and more popular in China." For a Chinese to recognize the growth of Christianity in China is evidence of the far reaching affects of God's work. I'm praying that she will tell her Christian friends that she met a Christian from America and that they will talk openly with her about their faith.

Two things stuck with me regarding the spiritual climate in China. One - the underground church is growing. Chinese leaders are being raised up (though more men are needed) and training is becoming more readily available. And two - security is a real concern. The government has eyes everywhere and remains ready to crack down on activities they deem dangerous to China.

Would you take a minute or two right now to pray for China? Pray for protection of believers there and for continued growth of the church.

And if you feel like throwing in a prayer about my body getting a clue that we are in the Eastern Time Zone, it would be much appreciated.

Out of Office - Back in July

Tonight was our final China meeting before we leave on Friday. It was good to meet because until today, it's still kind of just been this idea out there, you know? Like I've been telling people I'm going to China, but now I'm actually Going To China.

We discussed all the important must know questions such as: Will I be able to use my hairdryer? (Maybe. If I bring a converter. Which I won't. So, no.) Will someone have drugs in case one of us happen to be on the D-train? (think stomach problems. Answer, yes. Sara will bring the drugs.) How long is the flight? (10 hours? 15 hours? No consensus other than long.) Is it true there is a Starbucks on the corner? (Yes, yes, yes. And all the people said, Amen.)

We're meeting at the church at 5:30am on Friday. Five-thirty AM. In the morning. If anybody hasn't yet met Cranky Mel, and has a twisted desire to see her, show up at the church at 5:30 Friday morning. It is likely to be scary. Is the sun up at 5:30am? Is Dunkin Donuts open? Do the stoplights work at 5:30 in the morning? I realize there is so much I don't know about mornings. I mean, are there people who are up at that time?

It is likely that this will be my last post before leaving the country. I will be out of commission June 22 - July 1. When I return, I'll eagerly share with you stories from my trip. While I'm still bemoaning the fact that I won't have my laptop, I am determined to take good notes.

Bye-bye, friends. I'm Going To China now. I'll see you all in July. Hopefully without experiencing the D-train.

What's Chinese for Laptop?

Wo yao jie ni de zhao xiang ji.

This is the phrase that I committed to memory upon leaving China back in 1996. It was a sentence I composed myself from the language skills I had acquired during my summer there, and I have been quite proud of it. I like it because when I speak it, Americans look impressed, as if I'm saying something of great significance in a commanding foreign tongue they could never hope to understand. It means, "I want to borrow your camera."

If you hear me say it, don't worry. I don't really want to borrow your camera. If I did, I would most likely just grab it from your hand with a point and a grunt. Rather, I just want you to look impressed by my Chinese. Be careful about giving me too much approval because you may have to sit through listening to me count to ten (or rather eight - I learned to count from listening to the student soldiers count while marching across campus), or shout BU YAO! (I don't want it!) in your ear, as we learned to say to the street peddlers. On second thought, it may be better if you just nod and walk away.

I'm leaving for China in just 10 days. Whoop whoop! I am in the beginning stages of growing excitement. I'm going to China. I'm off to see the wizard. Can you see me now, singing and skipping along the Great Wall?

Speaking of the Great Wall, when I went to the Wall last time I was determined to bring back my own piece of it. As we climbed, I glued my eyes to the ground, eager for a stray rock to call my own. There were surprisingly few, but to my delight before we left, I'd pocketed two small rocks, my own personal Great Wall to proudly display back home in the USA.

Later as I showed them to friends from our group they rolled their eyes. "What?" I asked, obviously disappointed at their lack of enthusiasm. "You don't actually think those are pieces of the Great Wall do you?" one friend said. "Well of course they are. I picked them up myself." My friends went on to show me that they were not even rock, but rather pieces of mortar, likely crumbled leftovers of some recent restoration work. My balloon was deflated and I sulked for a while. Later though I did look at the rocks and still think that maybe, just maybe, one of them is real. I stuck it somewhere important just in case. Somewhere I've long since forgotten about.

I can't tell you how much I wish I could bring my laptop with me on my 10-day trip. I would love to write daily entries about my encounters. Alas, my fear that my computer would be stolen (and my unwillingness to carry it everywhere), impresses me to leave it at home. I promise though to take some notes and try to have a story or two for you upon my return.

Either that or I could learn a new Chinese word. You may hear stories of me walking all over China saying, "Wo yao jie ni de laptop computer."

Getting My Grits Together

I'm having a hard time managing my life. Might as well just fess up. I can’t get my grits together. Yep, it’s true. Melanie’s a mess.

It's an age old problem. I should have it figured out by now. I know about time management. I even gave a speech once using the illustration of the rocks and the jar. You have a jar, and you have all these things that need to fit into it: rocks of various sizes, some sand and some water. If you start by adding the sand and the water, you will not have enough room for all the rocks. If you start with the smaller rocks, you will not have room for the larger rocks. The only way it works is to put the biggest rocks in first, then the smaller ones, then the sand, and lastly the water. The point is, if the important things don't get put into your schedule first, there won't be room for them.

It's a good illustration, but I'm having trouble figuring out what the big rocks are in my life. The easy answers are friends, family, faith, health. But what beyond that? How does it figure into Unemployed Girl’s life?

I'm in a unique place right now. For the first time in forever I have all these great things I want to focus on. I don’t have to eat my eggs sunny side up. I can have them scrambled with cheese. Or baked in a quiche. Heck, I can have them poached over crab meat if I want (which by the way is called Crab Benedict, the eggs Dad says are named after me.) But, I'm still finding that even with all these great options, I can't do it all. I can't even do most of it.

Is it lack of focus? Lack of discipline? Genetic cluelessness? (This would come from Dad’s side.)

A few months ago I made a goal of blogging five days a week. Yes, I can see you laughing now. I may have had one week of success while in Cedar Key, (where interesting things happen) but beyond that the goal has been sadly unrealized. I keep trying, really I do. And then sometimes I quit trying because trying doesn’t work. And then I give myself a pep talk and try again. (You rock, Mel! You’re a blogging machine!)

Here, at the end of the post, is where I’m supposed to wrap it up with my answer to a life that is scattered, smothered, covered, chunked, and diced. Sadly, Clueless Girl has nothing to offer in the way of wisdom. (And is suddenly hungry for greasy hashbrowns.)

I’m off to try again to sort through my crazy hazy life. Come up with some sort of game plan. Discipline, Mel. Stick to the program. But first I need food. Anybody up for breakfast?

Seasons

Life is marked by seasons. It's the change that keeps life interesting. After a significant drought drying everything in sight, June finally showed up with her much welcomed thunderstorms. The sudden storm this afternoon lasted about twenty minutes, and left a steady rising steam emanating from nearly every surface, as if the ground was releasing a sigh of refreshment.

The allure of the fresh rain was too great to resist. I wondered if Hershel, the miniature doberman I'm caring for, would be interested in a walk in the rain with me. I threw up my hair, slung off my shoes, put on Hershel's leash, and together we charged eagerly into the weather. Hershel didn't seem to care that it was raining. At first. But before we made it to the end of the driveway, the shower became a downpour, and Hershel decided he'd had enough.

I took Hershel inside then stepped back outside on my own, determined to bask in the beauty of the storm. I found a spot on the driveway under a tree limb where I was protected from the worst of it, but where I could still experience the downpour firsthand. Exhilarating. When was the last time you stood in the rain by choice? I challenge you not to miss the next opportunity.

Until yesterday, I'd gone about two weeks without posting anything to this blog. You could call it my dry season. To my delight, you missed me. Many of you told me so. I was surprised to note that a few of you even got agitated at my posting drought, as if I owed it to you to keep this blog updated. It made me feel loved.

I suppose I was going through a season of my own, investing my energy in other writing projects and forgetting about the people who actually want to read (for some bizarre reason I haven't yet figured out) what I'm writing. My apologies.

What has shocked me, since I posted yesterday after my hiatus, is that you all were there waiting for me, showing up without knowing I would be here. I thought surely I'd chased you all away by now. But you waited for me, just as I've been waiting for the thunderstorms. Did you sense the season was about to change?

I'm still in a season of uncertainty in my life, having no idea what tomorrow will bring. A thunderstorm or a sunny humid sauna day, or maybe a cocktail of both? Life keeps me guessing, but I wouldn't have it any other way.

Resurrection

After weeks and weeks of brainstorming names for my blog, reviewing more than 160 ideas and nearly settling on one or another half a dozen times, it hit me. The one I liked the best wasn't even on my list. Because I thought it couldn't be. But I decided I was wrong.

I like "life on a tiny island." This is no longer be Cedar Key, but perhaps metaphorically it can be. In a grander sense I'm still living the island life, even though I now reside in the chic southern metropolis of Atlanta. I'm still a woman on her own, desperately seeking connection with those in the outside world while trying to maintain an idyllic, if overly self-protective, islander life.

I painted the picture in March when I spent the month in Cedar Key recooperating from my job loss and waiting on my Buick as it cycled through three transmissions. One sun-drenched afternoon I took the golf cart out for a leisurely drive along the coast to the airport, not for any particular reason other than it was a lovely day for cruising. As I drove past a stretch of beach, I saw a young woman sitting on the beach in her sundress journalling. I'd seen her earlier in the day with an easel and a paintbrush, enraptured by her opportunity to capture the sailboats on the Gulf in watercolor.

Both images captured me though the scenes were not unusual. Cedar Key is an artist's haven and you often see outdoor art workshops or painters carefully positioned along the shore. Once, when I lived in Cedar Key, a woman asked if she could set up her easel in our yard, since it overlooked the water. She later gave us the painting, a simple view of a beached catamaran, and it hangs in Dad and Anne's bathroom today.

The idea of artists creating beauty at the ocean appeals to my romantic nature, and captures a piece of who I am as well, so I decided to try my own art experiement by "painting" the woman journalling, who could have been me. Today I uncovered the painting and it seemed a fitting addition to my new title.

I learned, though my two solitary years in Cedar Key, the reality that no man is an island. I don't want a life on a tiny island if it's a solitary life. But I would love it if you would join me on my island. I invite you to come kayaking this very afternoon. The waters are warm and glistening on my tiny metaphorical island. Come and see.

Professional Unemployment

I'm discovering something about unemployment. Something that's potentially problematic. You see, the longer I'm unemployed the more I realize how much I enjoy it.

I do. I like the flexibility. I like that I get to decide what to do with my time, who gets it and when. There's just one tiny little issue that makes this a problem. The lack of a paycheck.

It's such a sidebar that I hesitate to even mention it. I don't want to complain because truly, this is a great way of life, and I'm immensely thankful for it. I can run errands in the middle of the day. When there is zero traffic. I can breeze into Taqueria del Sol at 11:10am, pre-crowds, and get some carnitas tacos to go with no wait time. No wait time at Taqueria. It's amazing.

There are other perks as well. I can make phone calls during the day. I can go to the post office and to the doctor and to get my hair cutwith no inconvenience to anyone and no worries about how to make up the time or the workload.

In addition, I can meet people for lunch. People all over town, not just co-workers from my office. And as we enjoy lunches on a veranda, I catch that glint of envy in the eye of my lunch date, wishing that they too had the freedom of casual lunches with no office to which they must hurry back.

So with this ever-growing appreciation of unemployment, I am henceforth attempting to make my condition permanent. Yes, you heard me correctly. I don't want any of this to change. This is the way of life for me. With only one adjustment necessary. I will need a source of income. Again, minor problem, but one to consider.

Recently I heard a successful novelist say that to be a professional writer you need three things. Inspiration, perspiration, and desperation, the last of which is the desperate need to avoid getting a real job. Lightbulb moment. That's me.

It's not that I don't want to work at all. It's that I don't want to do what I've always done. I want more freedom, more choices, and more opportunity to use previously buried talents. I want to work at something I feel in which I feel a measure of ownership, which contributes to something greater.

The goal I've come to is that of a freelance writer. To my surprise and delight, I have come across two freelance writing jobs, or rather they have come across me. Out of the blue it seems two different people have discovered my writing and approached me, offering to pay me to write. Isn't that crazy? People want to pay me to write. It's bizarre. One job is ghostwriting a monthly newsletter for a small business, and the other is writing for a Christian magazine. These opportunities encourage me that while steady income may yet be a ways down the road, freelance writing is a road of possibility.

I'm still surprised that I'm saying that out loud. It sounds so presumptious to think I could make it work. I have no writing credits whatsoever. But you have to start somewhere, and this route has presented itself as an appealing option. I still need tons of encouragement. I beg you not to throw this post in my face when I succomb back to a 9-5 admin job with an "I told you it wouldn't work" finger shake. It may not work. I'm aware of that. But I'm going to try.

In the meantime, despite my no-work soapbox speech, I am willing to do odd jobs to make ends meet until my professional unemployment plan kicks in. Do you need a dogsitter? Grass-cutter? House cleaner? Errand runner? Surprisingly I have yet to find anyone to take me up on one of my most highly marketable skills. Are you getting married? Having a baby? If so, keep me in mind. You will not find a better thank-you- note writer.

Grass Therapy

I’ve developed an odd therapy. I stumbled across it quite by accident. I was merely trying to keep up with the chore load involved in caring for both the house where I am cat sitting, and my mother’s house which happens to be next door. Mom trotted off to Hilton Head and I was left with the duty I used to dread. Mowing the grass.

Mowing four yards in one week would take some doing. Lest your head explode, let me tell you that in saying four, I really mean two. I can’t manage an entire yard in one day, so I have to break it up into halves. Front, back, front, back. Four. See?

I tackled Mom’s back yard first since it was the most needy. I was lucky to find a cool afternoon. I threw on a cami top and shorts, pulled out some white socks, and forced my foot into my green yard shoes. They’re not supposed to be green, they’re supposed to be white, but the grass stains haven’t been tended to in a while. I opened the garage and pushed out the mower. Two pumps and two yanks and she cranked right on up. I started where I always do, in the front corner where the pine straw beds meet the overly healthy ivy, and began to weave my way along the bed, marking out a border.

It didn’t take long to get in the groove and my mind easily drifted from the grass to the tasks of the day, to one issue, then another, before circling back around and settling. One end of the yard, turn, around the tree, and back again. All the while my mind calmly, and semi-unconsciously worked through the concerns on my mind. Back and forth, pleasantly lining up each new sweep of the yard for a seamless carpet of green.

As the grass was cut, my mind worked, yet not in the anxious, churned-up, must-find-a-solution style in which it’s used to functioning. I felt calm. Serene. At peace. A sense of accomplishment mixed with psychological advancement. When I finished the yard and pushed the mower back towards the garage, surveying my completed handiwork, I noticed that my problems seemed a little clearer, a little more manageable, and I seemed a good bit more hopeful.

And what was this odd desire coming over me? The next day, I wanted to cut more grass. I had three more to go for the week, and I looked forward to them. I couldn’t explain it, but I felt I’d stumbled onto a chore worth tackling. Have I found a new form of therapy? Is grass-cutting the poor-man’s shrink? If so, there’s only one more question to be asked. Just how many yards it will take before all of my problems sink magically into soil?

Back to Blog Basics

It’s that time again. Time to write another blog post. I’ve been getting lazy. Can you tell? I think Cedar Key was an auspices to propel me into almost daily blog writing, and now that I’m settling back into Atlanta life, that is becoming more difficult. It’s not for lack of time. I have more time than I’ve had in years, and it’s glorious. Glorious enough, in fact, to have me looking under every cushion, and reaching in the back of every junk-filled drawer, for ideas that will allow me to maintain this lifestyle.

I’m reveling in the time I have, and though I did use the word lazy, I am trying to make at least somewhat decent use of my time. Okay, let’s face it, I am prone to slovenliness. But, I am courageously charging against it knowing that mental health lies somewhere in the middle, somewhere between overwork and underwork. My goal is to apply myself to things I want to accomplish, on my own time table. And this I like. I like that I can take a nap mid-afternoon. I like that I can “work” at 10:00pm at night if I choose. I like that I can drive down to Macon to meet Jean for lunch or up to Gainesville to meet Mandy. The more I think about giving all this up to get a job, the harder I start looking for other solutions.

While I may be slowing in blog writing, I am not slowing in writing as a whole. Which, now that I think about it, is perhaps the reason for the blog downshift. Blogging is no longer my sole creative writing outlet. I’m trying out all other sorts of things, which is energizing me creatively, if dividing my focus.

If other roads are pats to travel, blogging is home, and I am committed to home until you have all left the table. But you won’t, will you? You’ll stick with me through this rollercoaster life of fanatical ideas and naïve adolescent ramblings, right? Because I can’t be truly crazy alone. I need all of your help to fully realize my ranting potential.

Letter Affections

I have a fondness for letters. Handwritten words put to the page with pen and ink communicating friendship, love, news of home, or merely thoughts of the moment. Letters are old-fashioned but perhaps this is what adds to their charm. Receiving a letter from an old friend would bring a surge of matchless delight to my heart. I would never rip open a handwritten letter. Rather I would carry it gently, as on an imaginary silver platter, to my chosen spot and set it down. With percolating anticipation and delight, I would take care to prepare my tea, to clear away other distractions, to select the perfect pillow or blanket or candle for the occasion. When everything was just so, I would lift the envelope, gently open it, and then sit back to savor words and friendship and peppermint tea while my spirit soaked up indulgence.

An article in the AJC caught my attention. Georgia author Flannery O’Connor exchanged letters on a weekly basis for nearly a decade with a woman, Betty Hester, whom O’Connor had met on only a few occasions. The letters, written between 1955 and 1964, are being opened to the public this weekend at Emory. As I read the article, and letter excerpts, I found myself intrigued. I’ve never read a Flannery O’Connor book or if I have I’ve forgotten. I’m not a fan. And yet I’m intrigued simply because they are intimate letters between friends. What did they share with one another? Did they write things to each other they would not have felt able to speak in person?

I can’t explain why I care. I don’t feel a need to see the O’Connor letters firsthand, but I would love to read them. They carry a magical air about them. I love old war letters between mothers and sons or between lovers who have been separated by distance but not by soul. Perhaps it’s just my quirky fondness for the written word, which in letters often makes poetry out of what would otherwise be rote relation of facts. There is a romance to it, a crisp deep breath of Colorado mountain air captured on paper.

I still receive weekly letters from Granny Agee in Virginia. I’m confess I’m not as good about writing her. My letter writing friends of the past and I have gone through the inevitable transformation to email as a means of communication and rarely exchange letters anymore. I love email—instant written word communication with the click of a button. But I still miss the postage stamp variety. I miss knowing my friend has held this very paper in their hands and has taken the time to pour their soul upon it. I miss the excuse to sit down and shut out the world for a few minutes to savor the words of a friend.

I know the days of letters are gone. They will no sooner return than eight track tapes of John Denver. They have now become a pleasure of nostalgia, a sweet remembrance of days gone by.

Time For a New Name

You all know that I don't have a clue what I'm doing, right? I just feel compelled to remind you. I don't have a clue what I'm doing. But I'm starting to feel like that's kind of cool, to not know so much. Because it means I'm human and people can relate to human. At least that's what I'm hoping.

So here' s the deal. I'm planning to grow my blog. Tom, my blog-growing guru has been sharing his priceless knowledge and insight. But I haven't really done anything with it yet. You're my core audience. And I need your help.

This blog needs a new name. I don't like The Writer's Block. It means nothing to me. It was just a name chosen on a whim when all of this was still rather experimental. But it just won't do anymore. I need a real name. One that can last. One that I like. One that I'll want to promote.

I have a marketing background and understand the significance of branding, but I wish I didn't. It makes it too important of a decision, and that shuts me down entirely. Another thing I don't like about my marketing background is that it tells me that I have to be positive about my product at all times. But I've already told you repeatedly that I don't know what I'm doing. I've already tarnished my image by revealing my fears and my flaws. And you know what? I kind of like that. I want to walk around with my slip showing and have it be okay. Because that's real, and that's what people relate to. But how do I represent that in a name?

Perhaps the biggest compliment I've gotten on my blog came from a friend who said reading it made her feel a little less lonely. That makes my heart soar and if showing my flaws and insecurities here and there can accomplish that, then I'm all the more motivated to continue it.

This is why I'm drawn to reading creative non-fiction, particularly memoirs. Memoirs thrive on the author's ability to be transparent without being whiny. I do have a whining tendency that I need to continue to work on (which is hard when things are just so bad so much of the time--I'm kidding!!)

But back to the matter at hand. I need a name for my blog. Tom is telling me to buy a domain name which scares the bejeezes out of me because I feel like whatever I pick I have to stick with. I feel like I'm a band trying to pick the perfect name. Who decided The Beatles was the best name for a band? And what if they decided they didn't like it three albums in? Would they have been as popular if they had been called the Flying Caterpillars?

It's brainstorming time. I need your ideas for a new name for this blog. Give me one, give me a dozen. Heck, stay up all night and send me 100. My goal is to have a new blog name by June 1st. You can send it via comments or via email. I've started my own list. I can't wait to see how much better your suggestions are.

Please help by sending a blog name contribution today. It may not seem like much, but you can make a world of difference in the life of one clueless blogger.
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melbenedict@earthlink.net

Roadkill Stew

"Did Anne tell you about my roadkill stew?" Dad asked.

I paused a moment, collected myself, and asked the question. "Roadkill stew?"

"Yeah. Dave found it on the road and brought it to me. It's gonna be great!"

I'm forever trying to weed through fact and fiction with Dad. He is a great story teller. Not too long ago he'd mentioned he couldn't ride his bike because he was recovering from his accident. "Accident?" I'd asked. "Yeah," he casually mentioned, "I rolled the car."

He went on to describe an elaborate story of a near head-on collision he'd had and how he'd had to roll the car into the ditch to get out of the way. Apparently it had left him too sore to ride a bike. What!? I'd never heard of any accident. And how could he talk about it with such calm?

I smelled that something was off, but I didn't know what to ask. Finally he built to a climax and revealed that it was all a dream. A dream that caused a real-life roll off the bed where he injured himself enough to keep him from riding his bike for a few days. I think I yelled at him. He gloated that his mission had been accomplished. He'd sucked me in.

True, I was suspicious of his roadkill stew. I'd have dismissed it altogether if it hadn't been for one thing. The story came from Cedar Key.

"What is it? Deer?" I asked, intrigued enough to hear the story. Deer was the only plausible roadkill I could think of that one might actually eat.

"I haven't started cooking it yet. Dave and Carol found a skunk and some gator we might add to it."

"What!?" Something did smell of skunk, but I mean, how can I not react? I mean it was Cedar Key. He might be telling the truth.

"Yeah, I haven't cleaned it yet. Dave picked it up off 347 just after it had been hit so it's fresh. I was going to clean it last night, but the bugs were so bad."

"Dad," I demanded. "Are you joking with me?"

"No," he assured me. "Anne saw it, you can ask her."

"What IS it?" I have to admit, I was hanging on his every word. After a dramatic pause, he answered.

"Turkey."

Wow, really? A turkey? Now I was a bit fascinated. I know there are wild turkeys on 347. I have seen them. I accepted that he was telling the truth. I wasn't sure about the skunk and gator comment, but I reaized he really did have a wild turkey.

I didn't know where to go from there. It was beyond disturbing to pick up and cook roadkill, but somehow having a wild turkey was kinda cool. And then another troubling thought came to me.

"Where is it? Did you leave it out back?" I asked.

"No, it's in the refrigerator."

"What!? You mean like the whole turkey? The head and the neck and the feet and everything?" I sort of freaked out at that idea.

"It's in a plastic bag," he said as if that made it less creepy.

He cleaned it the next day. Cut off the head. Saved the neck ("good for all sorts of things," he said), plucked the feathers ("easier than you'd think") and otherwised converted the roadkill into a slimmed-down version of Thanksgiving dinner. ("They're not puffed out and injected with water like the kind in the store, but the meat's the same.")

The skunk and the gator had been roadkill Dave and Carol and he had seen along the road and joked about taking home. "You didn't, did you?" No, he'd assured me, although if the gator had been bigger, he might have.

There will not be roadkill stew, but there will be turkey dinner, some day soon after Anne returns from North Carolina. The unfortunate bird rests headless in the freezer, awaiting the proper occasion and the proper seasoning.

I can't decide whether I want Dad to wait for my return to Cedar Key to cook up the roadkill or not. I admit, I'm a wee bit disappointed I wasn't there for the adventure. Why don't things like that happen in Atlanta? Maybe we just miss opportunities. Anybody up for some squirrel kabobs?

Social Exhaustion

It's funny. I spent a month in Cedar Key. I returned to Atlanta and spent a week (of unemployed living, remember) seeing only a couple of friends for brief interludes. Then, as the week drew closer to the weekend, I knew I had to do something. I was starting to feel the need to be social. I needed a friend for face to face conversation. After a quiet week alone, on top of a month away from friends, I was eager to reconnect.

I made dinner plans Friday night (which turned into a wonderful picnic in the park!) I arranged to meet a friend for brunch in Stone Mountain on Saturday. Then I was off to Lawrenceville to connect with other friends for the afternoon. And then there was dinner in Decatur, catching up with yet another friend. I enjoyed every minute of plugging in. I danced my way through the weekend skipping from one friend to another.

You know how it is when you have a busy week? You go and go and then you finally finish the last thing on your list and sit down on the sofa, or in your favorite chair. And then it's as if all of the adrenaline runs out of your body and onto the floor and your eyes get heavy and your feet get heavy and you realize you may never be able to stand again. For me it wasn't work. It wasn't days on end of activity. It was one 24 hour period of steady social activity, and yet the end result was the same. By the end of the day I was just plain tired. Physically tired. Emotionally weary.

I have to be honest, I wasn't too motivated to go to church this morning. I wanted to worship, but I didn't want to socialize. The frustrating thing, and I don't know if this is going to make sense or not, is that I still wanted to reconnect with people. I wanted to see people and weave my way back into their lives again, I just lacked the emotional energy to pull it off.

I went to church anyway. My desire to engage in worship won out over my fear of social exhaustion. Worship was great. But this wasn't just any Sunday. Not only did we get a new pastor and commission a church-planting pastor, but it was also the one Sunday of the year on which is held our annual church picnic on the grounds.

If you're an introvert like me, you get where this is going. The last thing an overspent introvert wants to do is go to a church picnic. What stinks is that I did want to go. I just didn't have it in me. Lisa cajoled me into at least getting free food. "Only if you promise I can leave at any time," I said as I reluctantly agreed.

I didn't make it to the free food. From my seat in the sanctuary to the door outside, I must have talked at good length with about ten people. Which was great, I mean I wanted to talk with every one of them, and I kept seeing more people I wanted to talk to, but with every conversation, I further drained my battery. I began nodding and smiling. Ask easy questions, I began to beg my companions with my eyes.

"How's the job hunt coming? What are you looking for?" No, no, no. I can't. I don't know. I um...well, you know, maybe some writing, I don't know, we'll see. Wrong answer. The writing comment only invites further questions, and I was quickly slipping farther into exhaustion oblivion. Generalize Melanie, generalize. Not sure yet we'll see. So are you going to the picnic? This is a good tactic for the weary introvert, ask questions. Get them to talk. Easy questions that don't require intense follow up. Me? Yeah, no, I was planning to but I think maybe not. No no no, don't ask why. I want to do the asking. Okay, well I have to run to the bathroom, I'll talk to you later. Escape, escape.

And finally the door. The door leading away from the picnic quickly growing out back. I picked up my cell and called Lisa. "Where are you?" she asked. I could hear the festive crowds in the background of the phone. "I had to bail. I just can't do it. I'm exhausted. Forgive me?" And of course, she does.

Introverts of the world unite! We are not strange. We are not sullen and isolating. We are not disinterested and snobby. We are not socially inept loners. We're just tired.

Writer's Dilemma

I’ve encountered a problem. I knew it was there, but until yesterday, I’d managed to shrug it off and wait until it resolved itself. The problem is this. Sometimes I just don’t feel like writing.

It’s only a problem because I’m in a place now where I am considering whether I might be able to pursue writing as a career. Writing is not new to me. What is new is production, churning out words on demand.

I don’t, as of yet, have a boss or a deadline, so it’s not yet critical. But I can see it becoming a problem down the road. Take yesterday for example. I sat down to write a blog post. I had a subject in mind which had come to me the night before. But I didn’t feel like writing. I didn’t feel inspired. It wasn’t that I had nothing to say, though that could be a forthcoming problem as well, it was that I just wasn’t feeling it.

For a while I procrastinated by email. Then with a surge of motivation I gave myself a little pep talk. Just write it, Melanie. Pretend you’re a real writer. What would Frank McCourt do (homage to Angela’s Ashes which I’m currently reading)? He’d suck it up and write it. Either you have it in you to be a writer or you don’t. And if you don’t then you’d better just go ahead and sign up with a temp agency for another round of administrative jobs because this writing thing is not the life for you.

I know, I know, I can be tough, huh? I mean come on, it’s only a blog! But you gotta start somewhere and I had to admit, I had a point. You can’t be committed to something and then do it only when you feel like it. Okay, Melanie, you’re right, I said to myself. (I talk to myself quite a bit if you haven’t noticed. It’s okay, we’re good company for one another, myself and me.) You have your topic, now write it.

So I did. For the next 30-45 minutes or so I wrote my blog post. First it was as though I were pulling words out of a paper shredder. Keep going, it’s okay. So I wrote some more. And some more. And then I read what I’d written. It was, in a word, boring. I couldn’t bring myself to finish because I knew I wouldn’t bring myself to post it. The forcing it thing just wasn’t working.

The topic wasn’t the problem. The only reason I’m not telling you what the topic was is that I intend to try it again. I believe that a good writer can write about anything and make it compelling. The problem was, I just wasn’t in the mood to write.

So. So I have no grand conclusion here. I don’t know what to do about it. Here, as I write this, the words flow, and though it’s not great writing, it’s a moderately interesting read. I know because at this moment, I feel like writing, and it’s always better when I feel like writing.

I have no solution. I fear what will happen when depression rears its ugly head. Will I be unable to write for weeks or month at a time? After all, I’ve never before tried to write this consistently so I really don't know what happens down the road.

Solutions and suggestions welcomed. I have always been a proponent of just push through and do it anyway, but really, I’m not so convinced anymore that that works. My worldview is changing! Is truth relative? (She screams and runs around the room flailing her arms fearing world collapse is close at hand.) Help!

And now, dear friends, you know my secret. I have no idea what I am doing.

The Coffee Shop Office

Goody, goody. You wrote comments! Thank you. I feel loved. See, that wasn't so hard now, was it?

This morning I got up early, as if I had a job to get to. I've set a goal of being "at work" by 8:00am, just as I did when work used to mean settling into my cubicle, firing up the computer, checking work emails and voice mails, looking at the day's calendar, and determining whether it was more appealing to begin the day by mailing out receipts, transcribing tapes, or editing executive meeting minutes.

Today I arrived at "work" a little late, by 8:20am or so, but seeing as how this work doesn't pay me based on what time I walk in the door, I'd figure I wouldn't sweat it. My office for the day is the local independent coffee house around the corner from my house.

I've always held working in a coffee shop as some sort of ideal. I don't mean serving up the chai lattes and scones, although that does hold an odd appeal. I mean laptop work, setting up my computer in a place where the office is a potpourri of students, businessmen, artists, intellectuals, and vagabonds.

At the moment, I'm second guessing this ideal. Primarily because I've been here for an hour now and have gotten nothing accomplished. It hasn't been for lack of trying. I picked a spot at the window, good lighting and all that. It started off well enough. I got a cup of English Breakfast and a chocolate chip muffin, 3 Splendas and 4 napkins and started up my computer.

I thought I'd warm up by checking emails. Only one new email, which didn't necessitate immediate reading. Good, I can get right into writing my blog, and then move onto some other writing, some goal setting, develop a to do list, and other sorts of valuable work for which I am not getting paid. I had just logged into my blog when I glanced out the window (one can't help but glance out the window when it is a wall directly in front of you) and saw Brian.

He was on his way to Nashville I think and needed a coffee for the road. I hadn't seen him in a while and we had to play catch up. Wedding planning, house shopping, work woes from him, and Florida, unemployment, and the other Brian's going away party from me.

"Don't get a muffin," I cautioned. "Stale," I whispered. He thanked me for my advice and went to the counter and I set about getting back to work, pleased at having run into a friendly face.

In a few minutes he was back. Might as well chat a bit more while eating his eclair, can't eat eclairs while driving, you know. "An eclair? For breakfast?" I gave him a hard time. "At least my chocolate chip muffin masquerades as breakfast." As he broke off a piece of his eclair to share the wealth, we both glanced out the window (again, impossible not to) and Brian started laughing.

"Did you see that?" he asked. Indeed I had. A man had just turned into the parking lot and into a parking space, making the 180 degree turn with one hand because he was brushing his teeth with the other. I'm not sure what was funnier, that he was brushing his teeth while driving, or that he was brushing his teeth immediately before coming in to get coffee. I tried to make eye contact with the guy, to let him know we'd caught him, but he didn't look our direction. Interestingly, he ordered an espresso shot or whatever comes in those tiny cups, sat down at the window bar, drank it in less than a minute, got back in his car and left. It struck me as funny. Who comes to a coffee shop for a 3o second shot? Obviously I'm still a novice.

Brian left, toothbrush espresso man left, and once again I began what I'm trying to call work. I finished my muffin, typed a few words, glanced up (unavoidable!) and there was Louisa, walking in from the parking lot. "Hey!" she squealed as she came over to give me a hug. "How are you? Melissa told me you were in Florida." And we proceeded on our catch up conversation. Business licence office lines, film festivals, and dancing from her, transmissions, career change, and goal setting from me.

And so I'm assessing the pros and cons of my coffee shop office. I love running into people I know. I feel energized and affirmed. On the other hand it does distract from getting things accomplished. And yet it provides me with social interaction, which is not a given when you work outside of an office. I never had to worry about laughing at men brushing while driving when work was in a cubicle. But then scenes like that give me something to write about.

What do you think? Is a coffee shop a good place for an office? Where would you go to work if you wanted to get out of the house? Even with the distractions, I will say that a coffee shop office is preferable to the claustrophic cubicle, and window walls preferable to fluorescent lighting.

A coffee shop does have its benefits. It's got gourmet coffee. Free wireless. Dessert for breakfast. Excellent people watching. An assortment of friends who may walk in the door at any moment. I could choose to see the distractions as benefits rather than detractors. I don't know, maybe working from a coffee shop is a good idea. Well, except for the pay.

Comment Tithing

There is a sermon every pastor is reticent to preach. You know what I’m talking about. The tithing sermon. People roll their eyes when they realize it. Uh-oh, here it comes. Another sermon to guilt trip me into giving money. (You don't really think that, do you? It is biblical, you know.)

But, I’m not here to talk about that kind of tithing. That’s between you and God. No, my sermon for today is on another kind of tithing. Comment tithing. I’ll give you my disclaimer upfront. You won’t find this in the Bible. And you will likely see it as a selfish ploy on the part of the blog author. This thought will be spot on. The blog author needs validation, man. Don’t you know, it’s a lonely world out there?

If you have not heard of comment tithing, you are not alone. I made it up. Well I just figure if we’re supposed to give 10% of our income to God, it makes sense to tithe comments on a blog. It works like this.

Some of you are new visitors to this blog. I welcome you to enjoy this blog free of charge. Come back. Stay a while. Consider becoming a regular attender. Others of you have become regular visitors. You come back repeatedly. I don’t really want to be bothered with membership classes and member interviews, so blog membership is not an option. However, I would ask you to consider how you can give back to the generous blog author whose blog you frequent.

No, no, keep your wallets closed. I don’t want your money (although Caribou Coffee gift cards are always welcome). What I want are your comments. I am merely suggesting that for every ten blog posts that you read, you leave one comment. It can be left anonymously. It need say nothing more than, “Hey dude. Cool blog.” Or it can be a page long diatribe of your opinion on the post subject. Hey, you can write about the war in Iraq if you want. Just give me something.

That sounded a bit pathetic, didn’t it? A little like begging? Did I go overboard? Well, here’s the thing. I have a hit counter. I know you people are reading. Have you no thoughts on anything? (My apologies and appreciation to those who are comment tithing already. You will receive your due reward one day.)

Yes, it is true that encouraging words fill my love tank. But I also want to know your opinions. What posts appeal to you? What posts do you zoom past with little interest? What would you like to see more of? Do you have a suggested item of interest? Should I give up this whole blogging thing altogether? (I just realized that “blogging” sounds a little like Euroslang for some sort of expletive. My apologies to the offended.)

Think about it. What are you willing to do? Will you give your ten percent? Even if the preacher is a narcissist? And all the people said, “Amen.”

The author climbs down from her soap box, and heads off to the refrigerator for a Coke Zero. The sermon has ended. And now for our offertory.

On the Road Again?

Tomorrow I leave Cedar Key and return to Atlanta. I think.

I feel like I have been living the verse about not boasting about tomorrow. Ah, here it is. James 4:13-15.

"Now listen, you who say, 'Today or tomorrow we will go to this or that city, spend a year there, carry on business and make money.' Why you do not even know what will happen tomorrow. What is your life? You are a mist that appears for a little while and then vanishes. Instead you ought to say, 'If it is the Lord's will, we will live and do this or that.'"

If it is the Lord's will. Didn't figure that one in.

My initial plan of coming down here for a week or perhaps two to recoop from my job loss and to pick up my grandfather's car has turned into four weeks. The extention was not a part of my plan. The car kept having problems. Then the mechanic kept having problems. I cancelled commitments I'd had in Atlanta and rescheduled them, only to have to call and cancel them again.

Despite the frustrations, the extra time has been good. In hindsight, I realize God may have known what He was doing. I've needed the full month to mentally process my recent job loss and think through how to shift the course of my life so that it points in a more fulfilling direction.

Here it is in a nutshell. I want to get paid to write. This is a huge shift of thinking for me, and a scary one. I have dozens of ideas I want to look into, but it means breaking free of the traditional brush up my resume, get the Sunday paper method of looking for a job.

I will confess to you that my stomach is churning even as I write this. I can't do that, all the voices in my head seem to shout. The only work I'm equipped to do is office administration. That or cleaning houses. (I made a meager living scrubbing toilets when I lived in Cedar Key.) I'm not sure how or if this idea is going to work, but I am trying to work up the courage to give it a shot.

There is a scene in The Matrix. Neo is in the car being driven to the place where he can find out about the matrix, and after a disturbing episode with a robotic bug, he demands Trinty stop the car and let him out. Trinity begs Neo to trust her and he asks her why he should. Her reply is what keeps running through my mind. "Because you have been down there Neo, you know that road, you know exactly where it ends. And I know that's not where you want to be."

I have been unemployed before, and every time (with a few early exceptions) I chose the most familiar roads back into the job market. I know where they lead. Time and time again, they lead me back into a world I know well, but don't enjoy.

I want to do it. I want to take the red pill, explore the rabbit hole and all that. But I'm afraid. Is it okay to tell you I'm afraid? Is that too personal? If so, I take it back. I'll run through the streets with my guitar case like Julie Andrews singing I have confidence in sunshine. I'll twirl around and toss my hat up in the air like Mary Tyler Moore. But it will be a fascade.

I'm returning to Atlanta tomorrow. To a new life with a new direction. To new hopes and new trials. In my now driveable new car.

If it is the Lord's will.

Dolphin or Shark?

Whenever I go out kayaking in the Gulf, I say a little prayer that I might see dolphins. This trip was no exception. Things started out with the calm serene landscape that I relish in, back in the marshy greenways near Dad’s home. Bright sunshine glimmered off the water while seagulls, pelicans, egrets, and the occasional osprey or blue heron sailed overhead or landed nearby.

I decided I’d make the loop around Piney Point and let the current carry me back to shore. As I crossed the Point, where calm marsh waters converge with deeper Gulf water, I saw something in the water out of the corner of my eye. A fin! And to me that meant dolphin. I yelped a yelp o’ glee and began to turn the kayak in the fin’s direction to get a closer look.

It was when I saw the dark point flash out of the water again that my heart stopped cold. Melanie, are you sure that’s a dolphin? It wasn’t behaving like a dolphin. The giant fish was thrashing around in a shallow cove of water, seemingly agitated, or more likely, hungry. Surely that’s not a… I couldn’t bring myself to say it. But my adrenaline shot up as the thought began pounding through my mind. Shark? Shark. Shark! Panic! But I had to be sure. One more glance would tell me. Look for the diving movement of the dolphin, Mel, the smooth out of the water into the water glide. Thrash! Splash! Black dark pointy fin. And now it seemed to be coming my direction. Yes that’s a shark. That’s definitely a shark.

I began to paddle at a speed as yet unseen around the waters of Cedar Key. Left, right, left, right. Go! Go! Go! I aimed for the dock across the way. Could I get there in time? What if I didn’t? Do sharks attack kayaks? How deep is the water? Why does that matter? Do I blow my emergency whistle? Use my cell phone? Help! Help! There was not a soul around, except me, a few birds, and the shark, who was now heading steadily in my direction.

I kept glancing over my shoulder until it was clear I would reach the dock before the shark would catch up with me. I caught hold of the wooden piling at the dock’s edge and held on for dear life. My heart still pounding, I sat still in the kayak, clutching the post, as I watched the shark swim back in the direction from which he had come. As I began to calm down, I started to think logically through my options. One, leave the kayak here, climb up the dock, and walk home. We’d figure out the rest later. Or two, carry on in my journey and stay close to shore, taking my chances with the sharks. Neither option seemed particularly appealing.

Then I saw something out a ways from the dock. Another fin. Panic! Wait. Watch. Watch, Melanie. Breathe. And then I saw it, the glorious and unmistakable dive of a dolphin. Oh thank you God! It’s a dolphin. I watched cautiously as the dolphin swam in the direction of the shark. Oddly, the dolphin then met up with said shark, and they began feeding together on a rowdy school of fish. That’s odd. I thought. Wait, am I sure that was a shark? As I watched, the answer became clear. My shark was not a shark. He’d been a dolphin all along, merely deceiving me by fishing rather than playfully swimming the dolphin stroke that I had expected.

Waves of relief rushed over me, panic turned to curiosity, and gradually to delight. Dolphins! Soon I saw another one off to my left and I adventurously pushed off from the dock and paddled out in his direction. Before long, the other two dolphins came my direction. In front of me, to my right, behind me, it seemed every 15 seconds or so I would see one raise out of the water around me.

Wow. This is amazing, absolutely amazing, I thought. I would squeal every time I got close and one surfaced, at times even stretching out my arms hoping one would swim close enough to touch. And then, as I was looking toward the dolphin I’d seen surface a dozen or so yards ahead of me, one swam right past the kayak. I caught a glimpse of him underwater only seconds before he passed, too late to reach out to the one I most certainly could have touched. I gasped, and had to force myself to breathe. The wonder of it was beyond description.

My favorite moment came as I chased one dolphin in particular. After a time, most of them had scattered, with the exception of one. I could distinguish her from the others because she had a torn fin that fell over to one side. She seemed content to stay nearby and play with me, sometimes up ahead, then disappearing behind me when I’d catch up to where she’d last surfaced. I called to her, come here, come over here, in my best dolphin voice. How do you call a dolphin? I admit, I called for her rather like I’d call a dog. Here, girl. Over here. And then, in a freeze-frame moment there she was, not 20 feet away, suspended mid-dive and looking directly at me with a Mona Lisa smile. A second later she disappeared into the surf below and with a flash and a tease she swam off. Breathtaking.

Once I was sure they’d all gone out to sea, I rounded the turn to catch the current, and floated home mentally replaying my awe-inspiring adventure. After I pulled the kayak ashore and was walking up to the house, I passed the construction crew working on some condos. They could tell I’d just come in from heaven. “Nice out there?” one of them shouted. With the giddy smile of a girl after a first kiss, I glanced their direction and with a nod simply said “I played with dolphins.”

Intrigue and Embarrassment

Do you want to hear something embarrassing?

Somehow this question is full of intrigue. You're not quite sure whether you want to or not. The same way you're not sure whether you want to look at that crash closing off the left two lanes, just in case it's really bad. Still you don't want to just leave it be.

I went out with a guy I met online and we did this little game to get to know each other better before meeting in person. I'll tell you something embarrassing, now you tell me something. I not only watch American Idol, I've voted. I religiously watch Veronica Mars, he says. Now you go again, he says, and make it something good. So I shared something else I thought was insightful if a bit embarrassing and then (you guessed it) he stopped emailing. Just stopped cold. For 8 months. When he started emailing again and we eventually went out, he blamed his sudden disappearance on fear, but I always wondered if it was that thing, that embarrassing thing I shared, that had him running for the hills.

How much is too much and how do you know? Granted, in dating scenarios caution is usually wise. But how about in general? How do I decide how personal to get in this blog, for example? How do I share parts of myself without crossing the invisible line and leaving blood on the pavement?

It makes for an interesting discussion. Once it's out there, it's not take-backable. Yet I am uninspired by the notion that I need to guard every thought I share. It comes back to an innate desire we all have--to be known and to be loved. To be loved for only the good, is not love at all. And being known is impossible without taking the risks involved in exposing the layers of who we are. Who we really are.

Have I gotten too deep? Have I drowned out your screams of "No! No! Abort! Abort!" with my own voice foolishly compelling me onward? Well, fear not, for here it ends. I'll save my embarrassing secret for another day. (Whew! the collective masses sigh.)

But admit it, for a moment there you were intrigued, were you not?

Puppies Go To Sea

I hid from the Arts Festival. I know, I know, I should have at least walked through downtown and taken in some portion of Cedar Key's biggest event of the year. But I realize those kinds of things just aren't appealing without a friend along to whom you can voice your opinions. Ew, who would buy that? Or oh my gosh, I LOVE that. Do you have an extra $600? I knew I wasn't buying, and without a sidekick, I just didn't see the point.

Instead I golf-carted around the less populated parts of town, enjoying the sunshine and the water a little farther away from the crowds. I parked along the coast on Airport Road and stretched out on the back of the cart with my book (currently Angela's Ashes by Frank McCourt) to relax and perfect my tan.

After about half a dozen pages and an interruption by a tourist asking directions, Bed & Breakfast Bill crossed the street pulling his Sunfish sailboat. He called out to me, "Like father, like daughter, huh?" Oh dear, Dad does lay out on the golf cart like this doesn't he? I thought, shuddering at the realization. "Yeah, guess so," I shouted back, "You going sailing?"

"Yep, first time with the puppy," he answered. Soon enough Alice came across the street with a leash attached to a puppy in a lifejacket. "Had to pull the straps pretty tight to get it to fit. Sweetpea is used to this, but this little one isn't yet," Alice called out. I watched, intrigued as the two of them prepared to set sail from the shore in a tiny boat with a puppy who has not yet acquired her sea legs. At first, upon realization that Mum and Dad were expecting her to get onto that floating thing, she laid down firmly in the sand, a definite no can do. But after a little coaxing, she climbed onto the hull and laid down against the mast, as if trying to secure herself in a place that was by definition, unsafe.

It was entertaining to watch. Sure enough, Bill and Alice pushed off, and Puppy hung on for the ride. They said they'd probably be right back, as they'd gauge the length of the trip by the puppy's anxiety level. But they sailed off and eventually out of sight. I am left to assume Puppy got her sea legs, and perhaps even found her true calling.

Oddly enough, yesterday I was sunning down at the shore behind the house (what else have I to do, really?) and a couple was putting in a kayak, a two-seater. And guess who they were bringing along? A puppy! No, not the same puppy, but apparently a puppy who had never been to sea before. Again with the snug life jacket and the reassuring voices. Again with the anticipation of it being a short trip. Again with the anxious puppy feeling much more confident on shore. And then they were off. And soon, out of sight.

I confess I would like to try it, animal lover that I am. I would love to take a puppy out on a kayak, yes, even by myself. It does make me laugh a little bit to picture it. I mean both hands are required to paddle. And if Puppy jumped out, well, I'm not sure how I'd manage that. Still I'd love to try. But don't worry, I won't. I am still trying to find a stray cat for Anne and Dad to adopt. Alas, there is no puppy for me to introduce to the sea.

Or I Could Stay

Well, I thought I was returning to Atlanta.

As it turns out, my new transmission was a lemon so the hunt for another one begins again, which means I am stuck in Cedar Key into next week. I went through quite a fit when my plans for returning on Thursday looked improbable, and then the fit turned ugly when, after rescheduling everything I was to miss by delaying my return one day, I learned I could not go anywhere for at least several more days.

I keep thinking I've mastered that surrender thing, but every single time it comes up, every single time my plans are thwarted, I instinctively react with a vengenace. No! Those were My plans! Unforseen Circumstance does not have my permission to change them. And yet good ole' Unforseen (who appears to have a hearing problem) goes and changes them anyway.

The fight has nearly finished now, having been reduced to a few minor fist swings and spitting episodes every so often. I know I have lost, and I even know that technically that's a good thing. I want God to lead, and if He has reason to keep me here a few more days, even if it is just to reveal to the world, once again, that I have control issues, I am willing to let him have His way.

I've been intrigued by observing how others have reacted to my frustration. We all have an instinct to want to reduce frustration in others by attempting to minimize the consequences of the problem. So you stay in Cedar Key a few more days. Cedar Key is a good place. What's the hurry? And while the point is valid, it doesn't attend the frustration. The frustration is not so much factual, it is not so much about me needing to be in Atlanta and not wanting to stay in Cedar Key as it is about me wanting to have control of Something in my life, when so much has been out of my control lately.

My Ah-Ha! moment came yesterday when I called Mandy to tell her I could not meet her for dinner. She reminded me that feeling like I don't have control over my life is a great place to be. Anytime we feel out of control, or unsure of ourselves, it forces us to turn to God for His help. Which is the very thing in which He most delights. It's a great reminder. Our Father loves to provide for His children. He just needs us to let Him do it His way.

Now that I'm nearly surrendered to this delay (grrr), I can get back to observing Cedar Key oddities. The annual Cedar Key Arts Festival is this weekend and the town is buzzing with art and tourists and fried fish. My instinct is to hide out until the town becomes serene once again, but if I venture out and encounter anything of interest, you'll be the first to know.

Returning From Oz

Tomorrow I head back to Atlanta. I confess I have mixed feelings about my return. Cedar Key has been a safe haven, an island Oz, a magical land where unemployment is just another word for holiday.

I have decided to return (though some have encouraged me to stay) and reintegrate back into my former life while trying not to let that life take control of who I wish to be. It has a way of doing that. New patterns of thought come easily in an alternate environment. The challenge is to figure out how to staple them into your worldview so they are still there when you click your heels back to Kansas.

What became of Dorothy after she'd been back in Kansas for a few weeks or months? Did she return to the same old household chores? Did she grow bored with farm life? Did she begin to long for another rainbow connection?

Perhaps the analogy is not a good one, after all, I am returning wanting to change things in my life, not merely appreciate what I already have. But the question still remains, how do I resist the current which will inevitably try to sweep me back into what I've always done? How do I maintain a new perspective?

I know myself pretty well. I know my weaknesses, I know the points at which I am most likely to fail. This is both good and bad. Good because I can be on the lookout for them, and possibly plan ways to step to avoid tripping the wire. But bad because the knowledge that my weaknesses (lack of discipline for example) do not merge well with the goals I'm trying to accomplish, and so I'm likely to quit before I fail.

I suppose the solution does not lie so much in figuring it out as it does in walking through it with awareness and a decision to persevere. Besides, if all fails I, unlike poor Dorothy, can return to Oz--land of sun, kayaking, and errant roosters.

Roosters Come to Town

"Have you seen the roosters? You gotta go see the roosters," Anne blurted out as she rushed out the door on her way erranding. I heard her, but her words didn't register right away. "Roosters?" I questioned, as one does when they are sure the speaker misspoke. "Yeah," she chuckled. "Across from Miss Etta's. Go look." And with that she was gone.

In an instant I was up, intent on finding out for myself if there were, in fact, roosters in the neighborhood. "Come on, Dad. Let's go see the roosters," I urged as I grabbed the golf cart keys. "Nah," he answered from his slovenly position on the sofa, like roosters in Cedar Key were an everyday occurrance. I didn't have time to waste. I grabbed my sweater and dashed out the door to go rooster hunting.

As I headed down the road to the place where the roosters had taken up residence, just a few houses down from Dad's, I noticed a man and woman in the street, curiously staring at the yard. "I heard there are roosters?" I questioned. They just pointed, I looked, and there they were. Two of the most gorgeous roosters I've ever seen, the kind with feathers all the way down to their feet. And these weren't small roosters either. They were big. They were fluffy. They were walking around the fenceless front yard of an unoccupied house, cock-a-doodling at will.

I asked the couple what they knew. Nothing. I glanced up towards the construction workers leaning over the balcony of the roosters' new home. "Are they your chickens?" I asked. "Nope," came the bemused reply. "They just showed up here around 6:00 this morning and have been hanging out." What? How do two exotic roosters just show up? It was now well after 2:00pm and they had been there all day? With no coop, no fencing, no known owners? Yes. Everyone seemed to have the same questions.

I cruised back to the house and practically demanded that Dad come with me. Now up from his nap, he didn't refuse. By this time, another small crowd had gathered. Miss Marianna said she'd called the police. The police? What do the police do about stray roosters?

This might be a good time to point out that although Cedar Key is an island out in the middle of nowhere, it is still a town, not a farming village. Houses sit close together in neighborhoods where the closest thing to domestic livestock is...well, clams. It was not as if the roosters could have flown over to F Street from some neighborhood farm with poor fencing.

I thought they looked friendly. Indeed, as I squatted low to the ground and eased my way towards them, they also made their way towards me. They would get just close enough to see, perhaps, if I had any food, but not close enough to let me touch them. Don't ask me why I wanted to touch them, I just did. I do that. I want to touch all animals (well, the cute ones anyway), and see no reason to be fearful of them.

Well, apparently even roosters have a dark side. As I reached out and cock-a-doodled one too many times, the giant feathery white rooster decided to attack. Yes, attack. He charged, he flew, he squawked, he pecked, he bit! I grabbed ahold of my dad and screamed, holding onto him for dear life, just as I felt a nip or a spur on the back of my leg.

Dad just laughed. "Help me!" I screamed. He did nothing. Nothing! "Well, what do you want me to do?" he said calmly with blatant disregard for my panic. I gave up on him for protection and made a fast break for the road, screaming the whole way. Thank my dear God, Giant Evil Rooster did not follow.

I later learned I was not the only person who'd been attacked by the errant roosters. Oliver from the Faraway Inn and the minister's wife were victims, as well as naive tourists strolling down the sidewalk unaware they were entering rooster territory.

The birds have gone to roost by now. Neighbors are preparing for early morning wake up calls. The methodist minister's wife, who lives next door to the roosters and has been bombarded with endless cock-a-doodling, has named them Baked and Fried.

Where did they come from? Will they live to crow another day? Questions are many, answers are few. But as those who've heard me talk of this place as Mayberry meets The Twilight Zone know, wayward roosters are par for the course on this tiny island known as Cedar Key.

On Being Single

It comes up from time to time, this desire to encourage single women, to share some of my journey with others who can relate and possibly help them along this unique road. But whenever the thought comes up, I quickly shut it down. Not yet, I say to myself, or perhaps to God. Not yet. Not until I've become victorious. Not until I've either found the secret to living joyfully through the struggle of singleness, or until I've found the door leading out, into the admittedly all-too-glamorized land of Blissful Relationship. After all, what I want most is to give women hope. That it is possible to one day find love and marriage. And I'm not sure I can honestly communicate that until IT happens.

A dear friend, upon reading several of my blog posts, mentioned that I should give some thought to writing a devotional for single women. Something that doesn't currently exist, that doesn't focus on finding the right relationship with a man. Something that appeals to singles in search of God. While I would love to be able to write something like that, I don't imagine I could. For me being single is (sad perhaps, but true) wrapped up in the fact that I am living without something. To pretend otherwise would be to betray my struggle.

I do wonder if there is a market for ministering to single women built simply along the lines of I Understand. Not I have the answers, or I know the way out, or here's the path to contentment, but simply I Understand. If I were, for example, to write more about my honest struggles with being single, would there be a benefit? Or would that bring more discouragement than hope?

The struggle is real. There are moments of victory. And there are moments I wish desperately would never come at all. How do you honestly convey struggles in a way that encourages others, gives others hope? I'm not there yet, but I do hope I will one day figure it out. They say write what you know. If there's one area I am an expert in its being single. I know it inside and out. But have I anything to teach others? I'm not sure. Maybe just being in the trenches with others is enough.

Yet I guess, in my own life, I'm looking for more.

Finally, Kayaking!

I finally did what I have been wanting to do ever since I got here. I got my butt in a kayak and ventured out into the open seas. Okay, open seas may be a little bit of a stretch. Cedar Key is actually the Cedar Keys, a host of tiny islands, and you have to paddle quite a way to get to what you'd think of as open waters.

My outing was delightful. Being in a kayak is sitting on the water. It's as close to being a part of it as you can get without jumping in. I am not what you'd refer to as an outdoorsy kind of girl, but I do enjoy the affinity with nature that you feel in a kayak. I cautiously slipped up on several variets of water birds who were camping out on mini oyster bed islands. They accepted my presence and gave a polite nod of acknowledgement. (I wonder if waterfoul out west are as hospitable or if it's a southern thing.) I returned from the trip feeling sunned and serene. Ahhhh...mission accomplished.

Carrell asked me if I was nervous kayaking by myself without anyone knowing I was going. The truth is, I was never in more than three feet of water. In fact, I don't even think I could have capsized even if the water had gotten rough. How do you tip over in three feet of water? All that to say, I did have a life jacket within arms reach and a safety whistle and even a cell phone (conveniently stored inside a ziplock bag).

Yes, I said a cell phone. I used to attempt to make calls, you know, just to chat, while I was out kayaking. My phone doesn't work inside the house, and when you're out on the water, there's not a whole lot to do, so I used to make calls. Unfortunately, wind was a major deterrant and I eventually gave up the attempt.

I still bring the phone when I kayak, though I no longer make calls. I guess it's a safety thing, although it does occasionally interfere with the ultimate kayaking goal of gellin' with nature. A while back I was sunbathing on the beach of an uninhabited island, accessible only by boat. There I laid, blissfully imagining myself a million miles away from civilization, when my cell phone rang. Awakened and momentarily disoriented, I answered the phone. Hello? "Hey!" came the voice of my dad. "You coming home soon? I'm getting hungry."

My Lego City

A while back I was hanging out at a friend's house and noticed an elaborate Lego city that was being constructed on the dining room table. It was impressive and had obviously taken a great deal of time and concentration to build. "That's my roommate's," my friend said, as if that explained it all. As I admired his handiwork, the next question came without thinking, "Is he unemployed?" My friend broke into instant laughter as he nodded his head yes. How could I tell?

When I first became aware of blogging several years ago, I remember thinking, do these people have no life? Who has time for that? And now I shamelessly find myself blogging almost daily. It is amazing what you can find to do when you have extra time on your hands. It's a bit embarrassing. Many of my friends are busy with important jobs, endless commitments, and the ones with kids--heaven help them find a second to themselves, and yet here I am with nothing but time, writing an online journal, an admittedly selfish pursuit.

But you know what? It really is rather fun. I still can't quite get why people would want to read about My thoughts on My life. Yet, according to the hit counter, somebody does appear to be reading. Who are you people? Well, I appreciate you all immensely because writing on this blog is an outlet for me. It's quite theraputic really. If only I could blog professionally. All my problems would be solved. With time left to travel!

I dropped Anne and Dad off at the Gainesville airport today. They're off to Omaha to see Anne's son Mike for four days and I get the house (and golf cart, and kayak, and refrigerator) all to myself. What will I do with my time? A lot of it will hopefully be spent thinking. What is really next for me? Is there a path out of the hole of office administration jobs? What values are important to me as I make choices? Does God have an opinion and will He share it with me?

I'm going to need your help over the next several weeks. Support, encouragement, and also brainstorm suggestions. Any ideas on what I could do? Send them my way. (For those Commentphobes out there, my email is melbenedict@earthlink.net, and I welcome emails from friends and strangers alike.)

I understand better now where my friend's roommate was coming from. Perhaps solitude, rather than necessity, is the mother of invention. I intend to keep blogging. And even though it may be no different than a Lego city, it is My Lego city. Thanks for coming to watch me play.

Dead Poet Perspective

Do you remember the scene in Dead Poet Society where Robin Williams’ character has the students stand on his desk one at a time so they can see things from a different perspective? Being jobless in Cedar Key is having a similar affect on me. I have yet to decide whether that’s good or bad.

Yesterday I applied for a job as an animal handling trainer at Zoo Atlanta. Yes, this is the kind of craziness I am talking about. What am I thinking? Even I don’t know, except that I feel this urge to break all the rules and do something radically different. Zoo animals. That's different, right?

I admit the Zoo job is a bit out of left field. I’m not at all qualified (and oddly feel overqualified at the same time.) But wouldn’t it be fun to hold a baby panda and teach people the proper handling procedures? Admit it, even though you think I’m crazy, you’re also intrigued, right? The thing is (well aside from the minor fact that I’m not trained to handle animals), the job posting said something about being willing to handle arthropods. I’m not sure what that means, but I’m thinking tarantula. Could I do that? Hmm. [Shiver] Let’s change the subject.

Dad doesn’t like the zoo idea. In fact he is encouraging me to write a book. To take a real sabbatical and commit to writing for a certain amount of time each day and actually write an honest-to-goodness book. What? But how would I live? That’s not practical! What would people think? He has answers to all these questions, challenging every objection. Which is insanely dangerous. Because of course a part of me would absolutely love to do just that. And I’m in a vulnerable state.

Oddly, money, for now anyway, is sort of taking care of itself. For six months, since the end of my Crown class, I have been trying to build an emergency savings. It hasn’t worked. Until the last month. I can’t even detail how it’s come together. Well, let’s see. There was a tax refund, and the $200 for my car. Then some overtime pay. And unspent money from last month’s dogsitting jobs. But even that doesn’t seem to account for it all. It is as if God prepared me in advance for this job loss. That should be a good thing, and it is, believe me. Except that it allows me to think outside the box for a little while longer before the panic of I Must Have Income settles in. Who knows what rash ideas may come into my head by then.

This Dead Poet side of me isn’t new. I am, after all, Gene & Peggy’s daughter. Dad the dreamer and Mom the realist, all rolled up into one. Which one will be victorious at the end of this road? The answer is yet unknown.

Getting Stoned with Savages

I mentioned that I have been reading a lot lately. And by lately I mean the last, oh, week and a half or so. Today I finished The Glass Castle by Jeannette Walls (which has completely redefined my view of homelessness) and then started book number three of the three books purchased for my Cedar Key stay, Getting Stoned with Savages by J. Maarten Troost.

I picked this book up because of the author. J. Maarten Troost wrote The Sex Lives of Cannibals, which despite the dangerous title, is by far the most entertaining memoir/travel log I have ever read. When I saw he’d written another book, this time detailing his escape to the islands of Fiji and Vanuatu, I knew I needed to add it to my reading list.

Tonight, I devoured the first chapter of Getting Stoned with Savages and splashed joyfully in Troost’s no-nonsense revolt against his Washington D.C. power job filled with critical deadlines, Brooks Brothers’ suits, never-ending emails, urgent meetings, and endless office supplies. Yes! I wanted to shout along with every groan of his spirit as he wondered how he had given into this corporate world that encompassed him.

I reveled in his argument because he gave value to the pursuit of a different life, even a life viewed by most as escapist. Why must I live the way everyone else lives? Who made the rules? Which ones must be followed and which are merely unquestioned assumptions? (The Glass Castle contained this lesson as well, but from a radically different angle.) I was made for Adventure not for life in a cubicle! Carpe Diem! Aaarrrgh!

It is a dangerous time for me to be reading such a book, me being unemployed and such. You never know what might happen. (Let’s just say it’s a good thing that Chuck has my passport and I'm out of state.)

The Not-So-Real World

This is day five of my stint in Cedar Key. I must say I'm enjoying my break from reality. Dad gets onto me whenever I refer to "the real world" as being anywhere outside of this tiny island, but come on, how many people live 50 yards from the water and travel everywhere by golf cart?

People here don't think of it as a bad thing that I've lost my job. Rather, they see it as a backhanded blessing, an opportunity to spend endless amounts of time in this tiny island paradise. Who wouldn't want that? No one seems to see any reason why I should go back to Crazy Atlanta, at least not any time soon.

I must admit, the idea is rubbing off. Yesterday, I offered to take the golf cart downtown at 5pm to pick Anne up from work and I couldn't find my shoes. After walking from room to room, looking to see where I'd taken them off, I realized why I hadn't found them. They were still in the closet. They were still in the closet because I hadn't yet put on shoes that day. 5pm. No shoes all day. How crazy is that?

I like that shoes are optional in Cedar Key. I like that I can sit out front and read or mess around on my computer AND catch up with neighbors, dogs, friends, and strangers who inevitably walk by. I like that I can see the water from almost any angle. I like seeing dolphins nearly every time I stare out at the water this time of year. I like that I turned around yesterday to see a four-foot tall white heron standing in the yard just 2-3 yards away.

I like driving everywhere in a golf cart (which is way cooler than my powder blue 1994 Buick La Sabre). I even like Dad telling me to Slow Down because the speed limit is only 10mph. How do you know what speed you're going in a golf cart? I ask. You're just going too fast, he says. This is Cedar Key, as if that answers everything. So I drop him off at home and zoom away on my own.

I like that I can zip up the street to George's and visit with him and Gal and the nameless Calico from his front porch, and I like that he sends me home with a bag full of giant lemons straight from his tree. I like that I'm invited to the View and Chew at Dave & Carol's and that since I'm the special guest, I get to pick the movie.

There's a whole host of other likes I haven't ventured into yet. Like breakfast with Miss Betty, or kayaking over to Atsena Otie or back under the bridge. I've yet to take advantage of Alice's fresh cookies free for the taking next door at the Bed & Breakfast. And I'm looking forward to camping out in front of the bank on Good Friday to watch the youth from the Baptist Church walk a giant wooden cross down through the center of town to plant in the park for the Easter Sunrise Service.

I know I know, I talked like it was a prison back when I lived here, but it's amazing what a little perspective can do. I assure you, my stay here is temporary, but if refreshment and perspective is the goal, the mission is being accomplished.

Learn and Learn Again

When I enter any crisis, the first thing I do is react. This is where the bulk of the emotion lies. Then I work towards taking it all in. This is also my method of trying to calm myself down and have those little pep-talks with myself about how it's all going to be okay. That slowly gives way to internal processing, something that can take a considerable amount of time. This is where I attempt to transition from crisis to productivity, while tending to my wounds at the same time.

Once these steps are underway, I can begin to ask the question. What am I supposed to get out of this, God? When I say I begin to ask it, I mean I begin to ask it without sarcasm or bitterness. Not as a means of arguing with God, but as a means of surrender. Okay, you win, now how can I get out of this what you want me to? I have learned (and learned and learned again) that the fastest way to peace is to surrender and try to see things God's way for a while.

Lesson number one rising out of the ashes is something I don't particularly want to admit. That my value is not in what I have or don't have (car, house, job, status, husband, kids) nor is it in what other people think. It's embarrassing to admit this struggle because I really thought I had that one down. I've never been particularly materialistic. But it's more than that. I thought I didn't especially care what people thought of me. Wrong! [insert loud buzzer noise] Turns out I do care. More than I realized. I notice it now because the primary feeling I've felt in all this has been Humiliation. And that seeps down through my hard shell crevices to weaken my very foundations of self worth.

Which, it seems, is exactly God's objective. To make sure my worth is grounded only in Him. Am I willing to be humiliated if that is what it takes to be in the center of God's will? Or is my pride and how I appear to others more important?

It's a hard lesson to learn and not one I welcome. But I have to admit God has a point. I do put things in front of Him. I do feel better about who I am when I am making decent money, in a respectable job, or in a promising relationship. But none of those things make me more in God's eyes, only in the eyes of others and in my own eyes. O that I had the eyes of my Father. O that I did not give thought to my own life, except where it glorifies Him.

I am not where I want to be in my perception of things, but I suppose just looking brings me one baby step closer. Make me what you want me to be, Lord. Tie me down if you must, for I don't know how to stop fighting. But I want to be Yours more than I want to belong to the world.
=================================
"Please take from me my life, when I don't have the strength to give it away to you, Jesus."
--Third Day

And The Things I Draw Come True

Does anyone remember Simon? The boy with the white piece of chalk who climbed over a fence into the land of chalk drawings? He had an addictive little theme song.

Well you know my name is Simon
And the things I draw come true...

You try crazy things when you have nothing to lose so I figured I'd give Simon's method a shot. Now I have to admit, this isn't really my dream car (mainly because my limited artistic skills make me incapable of drawing my dream car), but this one does run, at least in my imagination, and it's red which is really cool. Does anyone care for a spin? She can do 0-60 in .25 seconds. And she corners like a jet. She has a great sound system too. Who wants shotgun?

I drew this a few weeks ago during a late night too-tired-to-think-but-not-ready-to-sleep episode of wistfulness. And you're not going to believe this, but it actually worked. I drew a car, and now I have one.

Okay, okay. I am not going down that path of looney theology. God gets the credit, not some cartoon boy, but the fact remains, I do now have a car. One for which I did not have to go into debt. One, in fact, for which I did not even have to pay.

Last fall I took the Crown Financial class offered at church. At the time I was debating selling my car, which had nearly 200,000 miles on it and was beginning to give me problems. As the class ended, I left with a conviction that I should not go into debt to buy another car, that I needed to start saving and hold on to the old mare a while longer.

I started researching ways to buy a car without going into debt, and actually googled "Free Car". Believe it or not there are ways to get a free car that are not illegal. Unfortunately they do require your car to be wrapped with giant glaring ads, and I wasn't daring enough to try it. I began to pray for God to provide and dared to believe that He could.

When my car died last month, I had saved exactly $0 towards the purchase of another car. It wasn't for lack of trying, but other needs took priority. So I was stuck. No car, no savings. Going into debt seemed the only option, and no one encouraged me otherwise. Yet a still, small voice said Don't. Wait. Watch.

For three weeks I managed life carlessly, catching rides as I could. When I lost my job I was incredibly thankful I hadn't jumped into debt, but still had no solution. Then I got the call that my grandfather's car was mine for the taking as soon as I could retrieve it. It had been left to Donna, Grandpa's closet friend, but she heard of my need and waived her right to ownership. It's an old-man car, a big boat with more than 100,000 miles on it and no CD player, but it's mine and it's absolutely free.

Jehovah Jirah, my Provider, His grace is sufficient for me.

The Road to Recovery

Today is the first day of the rest of my life. Who came up with that? It sounds rather cliché, but nevertheless it feels more true today than on other days. Thursday was my last day of work, and this morning I am sitting in a hotel room in Gainesville, Florida beginning, for the first time, to think about what might be next.

Mom drove me down yesterday and Dad will pick me up sometime this morning and cart me back to Cedar Key, my tiny island paradise, where I’ll spend a brief season recuperating before plunging into the scary world of Looking for a Job in the Big City.

For the past two weeks I’ve mostly felt panic, discouragement, fear, disillusionment, depression, and humiliation. Today is the first day I feel a glimmer of hope. Don’t go dancing down the streets just yet, it’s only a glimmer. But it’s something.

I’m reading incessantly, devouring memoirs as if the pages were calorie free chocolate-covered truffles. Right now it’s Truth and Beauty by Ann Patchett, and I imagine I’ll finish by tomorrow. I bought two others on Friday to carry me through my time here, providing escape as well as inspiration to write more often. It’s infinitely satisfying for me to read memoirs of writers, and realize I, like them, get something out of the task of writing, even if what I write is never seen. I feel understood and less alone in these books. (The memoir I just finished, The Tender Bar by JR Moehringer, so enchanted me that I long to chase down the author and demand that he become my bosom friend forevermore.)

The hope is that being away, in an environment devoid of job-hunting pressure, will help me to begin to see possibilities. Do I want to take another administrative job? Do I want to once again begin the impossible quest of discovering what I was meant to do? Or is there an in-between path I haven’t considered. Is it time for a complete change?

I saw on the Today show this morning a woman who left her high-paying executive job to fulfill a passion she had for working with animals. I’ve always loved animals and wonder if something completely different like that might be something to consider. It wouldn’t require me to take the 75% pay cut this woman took. Or should I further investigate a writing track, knowing that I couldn’t do what I really wanted with writing for years to come, but that it would give me more of a career path than what I’ve been on so far.

The questions overwhelm me so I must be careful to take them in small doses. I haven’t figured it out in the last 15 years; I don’t have to figure it out in the next few weeks. But I do hope to make some progress.

Crazy Tragical Springtime

I love this crazy, tragic,
Sometimes almost magic,
Awful, beautiful life

That’s the chorus to a Darryl Worley song that I found myself singing this weekend.