Bananas hate to travel
(they get bruised on all the bumps).
Their nerves start to unravel
and they're widely known as grumps
They quickly lose all muscle tone
(their posture starts to slip).
They simply have no backbone
when you make them take a trip.
They hate the car, the plane, the bus
(they'd rather stay and sit).
But, strange enough, despite the fuss,
they sure do love to split!
Monday, November 24, 2008
Sunday, August 03, 2008
Fine, we are social creatures. Now stop bothering me.
Why is it that there are some people you can spend your whole day with, talking, not talking...just living life...and it's so easy, almost like they're an extension of yourself. Your relationship glides. And then there are other people, people with whom having conversation is like pulling teeth. The awkwardness is palpable. You breathe it in and it chokes you. Words don't come. Not constructive words, anyway. You simply want to yell, "Why are we fighting for this? Why can't we just say hello and move on and drop this facade that we are actually involved in each other's lives?" Actually, you don't even want to yell. You just want to calmly state the obvious. It's not worth expending the sort of passion that yelling requires.
But we are social creatures. We are, even if I often want to run and hide and put up a sign that says "Not today, please." There is an appearance we must uphold because it is woven into the fabric of community, even if it seems false. And, sometimes...sometimes...you are blessedly wrong, and that conversation you dreaded becomes something indescribable. Something totally and completely unexpected is exchanged, and you lend or gain insight that brings pure, fresh air rushing in, blowing your hair about and swirling your skirt around your knees. Sometimes this happens, and it is extraordinary. Hope for these moments keeps me fighting through all the stagnant small talk, as much as I hate it.
But, still, often I fail and just head for the nearest exit.
But we are social creatures. We are, even if I often want to run and hide and put up a sign that says "Not today, please." There is an appearance we must uphold because it is woven into the fabric of community, even if it seems false. And, sometimes...sometimes...you are blessedly wrong, and that conversation you dreaded becomes something indescribable. Something totally and completely unexpected is exchanged, and you lend or gain insight that brings pure, fresh air rushing in, blowing your hair about and swirling your skirt around your knees. Sometimes this happens, and it is extraordinary. Hope for these moments keeps me fighting through all the stagnant small talk, as much as I hate it.
But, still, often I fail and just head for the nearest exit.
Friday, August 01, 2008
Monday, January 21, 2008
The dentist and I are not friends.
Inhaling the dust of my tooth as I sit,
My mouth in an oversize O,
I stare at the light
And try hard not to bite
The hands working under my nose.
I feel nothing. I’m numb from the lip to the gum
As my tooth is attacked by the drill.
My mouth tastes of rubber;
I try not to blubber.
The hygienist tells me, “Sit still.”
Breathe in. Now breathe out, I silently chant.
Don’t panic. You’re doing just fine.
I unclench my fists,
Let my insides untwist
To the lullaby of the drill’s whine.
Enough with the drilling!
Just finish the filling!
(Hours later)
The work’s finally done.
I still can’t feel my tongue
As I walk to the front with a frown.
The receptionist files, looks up with a smile:
“Now, when can we schedule that crown?”
*Luckily for me, the crown part is just poetic license :)
**PS. Thanks to my 2 "fans" who inspired me to blog again! May this post not make them wish they had kept their mouths shut...
My mouth in an oversize O,
I stare at the light
And try hard not to bite
The hands working under my nose.
I feel nothing. I’m numb from the lip to the gum
As my tooth is attacked by the drill.
My mouth tastes of rubber;
I try not to blubber.
The hygienist tells me, “Sit still.”
Breathe in. Now breathe out, I silently chant.
Don’t panic. You’re doing just fine.
I unclench my fists,
Let my insides untwist
To the lullaby of the drill’s whine.
Enough with the drilling!
Just finish the filling!
(Hours later)
The work’s finally done.
I still can’t feel my tongue
As I walk to the front with a frown.
The receptionist files, looks up with a smile:
“Now, when can we schedule that crown?”
*Luckily for me, the crown part is just poetic license :)
**PS. Thanks to my 2 "fans" who inspired me to blog again! May this post not make them wish they had kept their mouths shut...
Friday, November 02, 2007
Nightbreak
I don’t know about you, but my dawn doesn’t break.
No, it seeps through the cracks in the quivering night
that can no longer hold all those stars.
Or…
Do fingers of morning peel layers of evening
til nothing remains but the flimsiest fibers
of dark in unreachable corners?
Perhaps…
Bottom to top, deepest midnight is rent,
silently, silken, with pussycat claws
and left in a ball by the stairs.
Either way…
If anything’s broken, it’s darkness, not morning.
The fire of sunrise sets darkness to dancing.
And dancing’s the nightbreak of dawn.
No, it seeps through the cracks in the quivering night
that can no longer hold all those stars.
Or…
Do fingers of morning peel layers of evening
til nothing remains but the flimsiest fibers
of dark in unreachable corners?
Perhaps…
Bottom to top, deepest midnight is rent,
silently, silken, with pussycat claws
and left in a ball by the stairs.
Either way…
If anything’s broken, it’s darkness, not morning.
The fire of sunrise sets darkness to dancing.
And dancing’s the nightbreak of dawn.
Sunday, July 29, 2007
My eyebrows and other dramatic things...
About two weeks ago, my dance company had a visiting choreographer spend a week setting a piece on us. (For those of you scratching your heads, setting a piece on us means teaching us a dance that usually has already been choreographed). I had just injured my leg in a tragic cirque-du-soleil-style rope incident and was limping around with a large bandage covering the 4-inch long rope burn on the back of my right calf. Great timing, huh? So, we got the rehearsal schedule and to my great surprise I had been given a solo and would have the first rehearsl with Danika. Now, don't get me wrong...it's great to be given a solo and I was pretty excited. But Danika knew I was injured and had even seen me limping around. So I was a little confused as to why she had chosen me as the soloist.
We met for rehearsal that Friday and began the evening discussing the intent of the solo. I learned that I'm supposed to be a sort of 40's Bela Lugosi-type female character. A bit freaky, a bit over the top. "Jan told me that you learn quickly and have a great eye for detail," Danika shared. "But when I met you and saw your eyebrows I knew you'd be perfect for the part. You have very dramatic, expressive eyebrows." !!!! Who knew that I would one day have my eyebrows to thank for a solo? So, in closing I'd like to thank my grandpa, whose thick, arched eyebrows I inherited, and my mom for teaching me how to pluck them into sophisticated, dramatic submission. I wouldn't be where I am today without you both. Thank you.
***
In other unusual news, Colorado was humid on Friday. I was not at all pleased with this turn of events. Nor was my hair. But a light brown bucket hat sprinkled with skull-and-crossbones and a teal cotton batik tie made in Malaysia (like me!) redeemed the evening at Alli D's hat and tie bday party! Very dramatic if you ask me...
We met for rehearsal that Friday and began the evening discussing the intent of the solo. I learned that I'm supposed to be a sort of 40's Bela Lugosi-type female character. A bit freaky, a bit over the top. "Jan told me that you learn quickly and have a great eye for detail," Danika shared. "But when I met you and saw your eyebrows I knew you'd be perfect for the part. You have very dramatic, expressive eyebrows." !!!! Who knew that I would one day have my eyebrows to thank for a solo? So, in closing I'd like to thank my grandpa, whose thick, arched eyebrows I inherited, and my mom for teaching me how to pluck them into sophisticated, dramatic submission. I wouldn't be where I am today without you both. Thank you.
***
In other unusual news, Colorado was humid on Friday. I was not at all pleased with this turn of events. Nor was my hair. But a light brown bucket hat sprinkled with skull-and-crossbones and a teal cotton batik tie made in Malaysia (like me!) redeemed the evening at Alli D's hat and tie bday party! Very dramatic if you ask me...
Monday, June 11, 2007
How sweet fresh sheets feel...
...after a week of camping. Even if it is a week in Yosemite National
Park, one of the most gorgeous places on Earth. Breathe in deep--the
smell of fresh laundry is even stronger when you've smelled like
campfire all week!
Park, one of the most gorgeous places on Earth. Breathe in deep--the
smell of fresh laundry is even stronger when you've smelled like
campfire all week!
I'll have photos posted soon. Keep checking back...I took over 600. I
am officially obsessed.
Friday, June 01, 2007
Southern Lovin'
Click on the picture to view more pics from Laura and Casey's wedding in Charleston, SC, over Memorial Day weekend. It was awesome! And I was thrilled with my new Nikor 50mm 1.8 lens...I used it and only it all weekend! Yay for happy investments! I'd highly recommend it. I'm taking it with me to Yosemite next week so hopefully I will be as happy in the great outdoors!
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
The dark side of powder
Yep, that's me. I was "that girl," the one on the injury toboggan. On the way down I kept pushing the yellow tarp off my face and lifting my head to look around, just so people would know I wasn't, y'know, paralyzed or dead or something horrible. I wanted to yell, "Just a shoulder injury, people, just a shoulder. Looks much worse than it is." More pics to come of my adventurous trip on my flickr account
Sunday, March 11, 2007
Why I love city neighborhoods
Diedrich's is a neighborhood coffee shop on the corner of Downing and 9th in downtown Denver. It's exactly what a local java haunt should be: nestled among old, subdivided houses, it wraps around the corner of the block, surrounded by wrought iron tables and chairs at which Merrell-clad Denverites and their de rigeur dogs slurp large espressos and pant, respectively. The locals have turned out full force this crisp Sunday morning and the place is buzzing (pun intended).
I am a stranger in this mess of neighbors and, new to this part of Denver, I am all eyes and ears. I am not disappointed.
Although at first it appeared that I was checked out rather enthusiastically by a table of young guys as I approached, Paul's MacBook and paperback tucked under my arm, I quickly realize that this must be a gay part of town. Glancing around, I count about five women total in the place, two of whom are old, roll-out-of-bed ratty and very obviously regulars.
After ordering my mocha with soy, I plop down at small table in the center of the place, facing a wall of windows--the perfect people-watching post. Men in suits (Jehovahs' Witnesses, perhaps?), joggers and plenty of young, trendy lads walk by. The early Spring has the city outside in droves, enjoying what may be only a temporary respite from a particularly snowy winter.
On the small table adjacent to mine sits an abandoned Denver Post in disarray. I flip through the Sunday magazine, learning about the fascinating love swaps of the rich and bored, before turning to my borrowed book, Bill Bryson's Neither Here Nor There, a side-splitting account of a middle-aged man's travels around Europe. I'm not sure if I should read this in public, certain that I will laugh, perhaps snort, out loud, but decide to throw caution to the wind. It's a good choice. I have read this book three or four times already and will probably read it half a dozen more times in my lifetime. The newspaper sits, lonely, off to my right.
All of a sudden, the pierced older man from behind me approaches the paper and begins rifling through the sections. Turns out he is searching with remarkable focus for dog food coupons. He doesn't smile, ask or even nod. Although I didn't buy the paper, I feel a sense of ownership (it's at MY table!) and am slightly miffed that my presence is neither acknowleged nor my consent sought. How does he know that I didn't buy that paper? My silence must mean that it's alright. Slight annoyance fades to mild amusement as he finds multiple coupons, tears them out and returns to his seat.
A few minutes later, another older man pops up at my side, eyeing the paper. He scoops it up--all except the Sunday magazine, I note--and swoops it away, without so much as a questioning glance. I make a mental note: be in physical contact at all times with a newspaper if you don't want people to treat it as community property. I wonder what would have happened if I had protested. Every scenario I imagine always ends up the same: they somehow find out that I work for a ministry and accuse me of hatred and intolerance for not openly sharing my paper, that somehow claiming something as my own makes me a bigoted gay-hater. I realize that I am always the tiniest bit uncomfortable when surrounded by large groups of homosexuals, afraid that somehow I will be found out and persecuted for choosing heterosexuality and Jesus. It's a strange realization. As a dancer, I've had many gay friends, but they've usually been the minority. Here, the tables are turned. I'm not sure I like this newly discovered aspect of my character; at the same time I know that I'm being ridiculous and melodramatic.
Newspaper-swiping aside, I am charmed by this little place, with its bright jazz music, toasty-pastry smells, and the whirr and shoosh of the coffee drinks being made behind the counter. I could live around here, I think. I would walk here every weekend, Saturday mornings perhaps, and get to know the old man behind the counter in the pageboy cap (currently not behind the counter but outside socializing and furiously dragging on a cigarette). He called me dearie when he handed over my coffee; he would know my name for sure if I lived nearby. I imagine a new scenario: entering to a chorus of hellos (well, friendly nods, at least) from the locals, chatting and laughing with new friends and having civilized, rational conversations about the Bible and what it says about homosexuality. It's a nice thought, anyway.
So here I sit, banging away on this borrowed computer, surrounded by gay men who rifle unapolagetically through the newspaper that could be mine without so much as a nod or a smile. My mocha is rich and hot, the sun is shining and Bill Bryson's book is as funny as the first time I read it. I heart the city.
I am a stranger in this mess of neighbors and, new to this part of Denver, I am all eyes and ears. I am not disappointed.
Although at first it appeared that I was checked out rather enthusiastically by a table of young guys as I approached, Paul's MacBook and paperback tucked under my arm, I quickly realize that this must be a gay part of town. Glancing around, I count about five women total in the place, two of whom are old, roll-out-of-bed ratty and very obviously regulars.
After ordering my mocha with soy, I plop down at small table in the center of the place, facing a wall of windows--the perfect people-watching post. Men in suits (Jehovahs' Witnesses, perhaps?), joggers and plenty of young, trendy lads walk by. The early Spring has the city outside in droves, enjoying what may be only a temporary respite from a particularly snowy winter.
On the small table adjacent to mine sits an abandoned Denver Post in disarray. I flip through the Sunday magazine, learning about the fascinating love swaps of the rich and bored, before turning to my borrowed book, Bill Bryson's Neither Here Nor There, a side-splitting account of a middle-aged man's travels around Europe. I'm not sure if I should read this in public, certain that I will laugh, perhaps snort, out loud, but decide to throw caution to the wind. It's a good choice. I have read this book three or four times already and will probably read it half a dozen more times in my lifetime. The newspaper sits, lonely, off to my right.
All of a sudden, the pierced older man from behind me approaches the paper and begins rifling through the sections. Turns out he is searching with remarkable focus for dog food coupons. He doesn't smile, ask or even nod. Although I didn't buy the paper, I feel a sense of ownership (it's at MY table!) and am slightly miffed that my presence is neither acknowleged nor my consent sought. How does he know that I didn't buy that paper? My silence must mean that it's alright. Slight annoyance fades to mild amusement as he finds multiple coupons, tears them out and returns to his seat.
A few minutes later, another older man pops up at my side, eyeing the paper. He scoops it up--all except the Sunday magazine, I note--and swoops it away, without so much as a questioning glance. I make a mental note: be in physical contact at all times with a newspaper if you don't want people to treat it as community property. I wonder what would have happened if I had protested. Every scenario I imagine always ends up the same: they somehow find out that I work for a ministry and accuse me of hatred and intolerance for not openly sharing my paper, that somehow claiming something as my own makes me a bigoted gay-hater. I realize that I am always the tiniest bit uncomfortable when surrounded by large groups of homosexuals, afraid that somehow I will be found out and persecuted for choosing heterosexuality and Jesus. It's a strange realization. As a dancer, I've had many gay friends, but they've usually been the minority. Here, the tables are turned. I'm not sure I like this newly discovered aspect of my character; at the same time I know that I'm being ridiculous and melodramatic.
Newspaper-swiping aside, I am charmed by this little place, with its bright jazz music, toasty-pastry smells, and the whirr and shoosh of the coffee drinks being made behind the counter. I could live around here, I think. I would walk here every weekend, Saturday mornings perhaps, and get to know the old man behind the counter in the pageboy cap (currently not behind the counter but outside socializing and furiously dragging on a cigarette). He called me dearie when he handed over my coffee; he would know my name for sure if I lived nearby. I imagine a new scenario: entering to a chorus of hellos (well, friendly nods, at least) from the locals, chatting and laughing with new friends and having civilized, rational conversations about the Bible and what it says about homosexuality. It's a nice thought, anyway.
So here I sit, banging away on this borrowed computer, surrounded by gay men who rifle unapolagetically through the newspaper that could be mine without so much as a nod or a smile. My mocha is rich and hot, the sun is shining and Bill Bryson's book is as funny as the first time I read it. I heart the city.
Thursday, December 21, 2006
Written shortly after the November elections
STATE OF A NATION
We are people so blessed, but our blessing’s a curse
For it seals shut our eyes as it fattens our purse.
We celebrate selfishness posing as love.
We lift up each wolf in the clothes of a dove.
We’ve opened our minds (and diluted the truth),
We despise age’s wisdom (we’d rather have youth).
We totter on fences, one foot on each side.
Our pleasure’s our purpose—we’re here for the ride.
We are certainly blessed—we are fat, we are free...
Never has death crept in so silently.
We are people so blessed, but our blessing’s a curse
For it seals shut our eyes as it fattens our purse.
We celebrate selfishness posing as love.
We lift up each wolf in the clothes of a dove.
We’ve opened our minds (and diluted the truth),
We despise age’s wisdom (we’d rather have youth).
We totter on fences, one foot on each side.
Our pleasure’s our purpose—we’re here for the ride.
We are certainly blessed—we are fat, we are free...
Never has death crept in so silently.
Saturday, December 16, 2006
From the minds of children...
...come some pretty strange ideas.
On my way to work today I saw a car abandoned in the bike lane. Now, it wasn't a particularly huge car--maybe a Corolla or something similar--but the entire thing fit in the bike lane. I don't know how many times I've driven this street. Probably four times a day for over a year, and that's a conservative guess. But never in my life would I have imagined that the bike lane could practically be an extra car lane. It fascinates me still. But the reason I bring this all up is the train of thought that it started. It all goes back to my dad.
My dad is an insanely smart man. He knows bunches about everything, it seems. Often, when you ask him a question involving knowledge (not a when's-dinner-type question), you'd better precede it with "In a yes or no answer..." or you'll be listening for at least 3 months. And knowing my father and his boundless wisdom makes me love this story even more. When he was a wee, tow-headed boy, he was afraid to learn to ride his bike. Not because he was afraid to fail, not because he didn't want to get hurt. No, he was afraid to start riding his bike because he thought the bike lane was the double yellow line that divided the road! It never occured to him that he had never seen a single person cycling in between the yellow lines; somehow, that idea had just fixed itself in his brain and IT WAS TRUE!
Because of the way our minds love tangents, I found myself reminiscing about my own vehicular misconception as a young teenager. Maybe a year before I got my permit, I was riding on the interstate with my mom and she mentioned, off-hand, that one should not stop in the middle of the highway. Perfectly logical. Well, for some reason, that was seared into my brain as "you're not allowed to use your brakes on the highway." For months, I silently fretted over this: "But what if I need to slow down??? Do I just coast to a more reasonable speed? What if traffic doesn't allow me to do that???" I was scared to death about highway driving, and I wasn't even allowed to drive yet. Luckily, this myth was dispelled when I did in fact get my driving permit. And today I proudly apply my brakes on highways across the country.
So this little story got a smile out of me, then jolted me further back in my childhood to my very first memory of a miscommunication. When I lived in England, we had a drawer in the kitchen where all manner of pens lived, including highlighters. There was one highlighter in particular that was extraordinarily bright yellow. It was the first thing you noticed upon opening the drawer. Well, one fateful day, I needed a pen. Naturally, I went for the drawer and, as usual, my gaze went straight to the highlighter. But that day, I saw something I had never read before. WARNING, the highlighter announced. AVOID EYE CONTACT. Of course, what it meant was don't try to use the highlighter on your eyeball, but this was England, remember, and they have a funny way of phrasing things. So, to my young, mostly-American mind, this meant DO NOT, UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES, LOOK AT THE HIGHLIGHTER. IT IS BRIGHTER THAN 1000 BLAZING SUNS AND WILL PERMANENTLY SEAR YOUR RETINAS, THUS RENDERING YOU BLIND FOR ALL ETERNITY. MWAHAHAHA. Or something similar to that (not sure if I had a concept of the "evil laugh" at this point). From that day on, every time I opened the pen drawer, I had to search for a pen by feel because I would immediately close my eyes or look away. It made things very difficult, but I was sure that a slight inconvience in pen selection was a whole lot better than being RENDERED BLIND FOR ALL ETERNITY. I honestly could not figure out why they would sell pens that caused instant eye damage, or why my parents would keep it in the house, but of course, I never thought to ask.
Then, last month, I realized my error.
Just kidding. I don't remember when I came around, but it was years ago. But it brings me to another random thought. The programmer who is helping build our website at work has a page of funny fake computer error messages. My favorite:
USER ERROR.
REPLACE USER.
Indeed. Indeed.
On my way to work today I saw a car abandoned in the bike lane. Now, it wasn't a particularly huge car--maybe a Corolla or something similar--but the entire thing fit in the bike lane. I don't know how many times I've driven this street. Probably four times a day for over a year, and that's a conservative guess. But never in my life would I have imagined that the bike lane could practically be an extra car lane. It fascinates me still. But the reason I bring this all up is the train of thought that it started. It all goes back to my dad.
My dad is an insanely smart man. He knows bunches about everything, it seems. Often, when you ask him a question involving knowledge (not a when's-dinner-type question), you'd better precede it with "In a yes or no answer..." or you'll be listening for at least 3 months. And knowing my father and his boundless wisdom makes me love this story even more. When he was a wee, tow-headed boy, he was afraid to learn to ride his bike. Not because he was afraid to fail, not because he didn't want to get hurt. No, he was afraid to start riding his bike because he thought the bike lane was the double yellow line that divided the road! It never occured to him that he had never seen a single person cycling in between the yellow lines; somehow, that idea had just fixed itself in his brain and IT WAS TRUE!
Because of the way our minds love tangents, I found myself reminiscing about my own vehicular misconception as a young teenager. Maybe a year before I got my permit, I was riding on the interstate with my mom and she mentioned, off-hand, that one should not stop in the middle of the highway. Perfectly logical. Well, for some reason, that was seared into my brain as "you're not allowed to use your brakes on the highway." For months, I silently fretted over this: "But what if I need to slow down??? Do I just coast to a more reasonable speed? What if traffic doesn't allow me to do that???" I was scared to death about highway driving, and I wasn't even allowed to drive yet. Luckily, this myth was dispelled when I did in fact get my driving permit. And today I proudly apply my brakes on highways across the country.
So this little story got a smile out of me, then jolted me further back in my childhood to my very first memory of a miscommunication. When I lived in England, we had a drawer in the kitchen where all manner of pens lived, including highlighters. There was one highlighter in particular that was extraordinarily bright yellow. It was the first thing you noticed upon opening the drawer. Well, one fateful day, I needed a pen. Naturally, I went for the drawer and, as usual, my gaze went straight to the highlighter. But that day, I saw something I had never read before. WARNING, the highlighter announced. AVOID EYE CONTACT. Of course, what it meant was don't try to use the highlighter on your eyeball, but this was England, remember, and they have a funny way of phrasing things. So, to my young, mostly-American mind, this meant DO NOT, UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES, LOOK AT THE HIGHLIGHTER. IT IS BRIGHTER THAN 1000 BLAZING SUNS AND WILL PERMANENTLY SEAR YOUR RETINAS, THUS RENDERING YOU BLIND FOR ALL ETERNITY. MWAHAHAHA. Or something similar to that (not sure if I had a concept of the "evil laugh" at this point). From that day on, every time I opened the pen drawer, I had to search for a pen by feel because I would immediately close my eyes or look away. It made things very difficult, but I was sure that a slight inconvience in pen selection was a whole lot better than being RENDERED BLIND FOR ALL ETERNITY. I honestly could not figure out why they would sell pens that caused instant eye damage, or why my parents would keep it in the house, but of course, I never thought to ask.
Then, last month, I realized my error.
Just kidding. I don't remember when I came around, but it was years ago. But it brings me to another random thought. The programmer who is helping build our website at work has a page of funny fake computer error messages. My favorite:
USER ERROR.
REPLACE USER.
Indeed. Indeed.
Thursday, December 14, 2006
Psalm 33:17
Horsepower is a vain hope for deliverance.
The blackest asphalt, no matter how smooth or how far it stretches, cannot save.
The distance between a memory and me sets nothing right.
Sin, like love, transcends space and time.
Luckily, love is the more persistent of the two.
The blackest asphalt, no matter how smooth or how far it stretches, cannot save.
The distance between a memory and me sets nothing right.
Sin, like love, transcends space and time.
Luckily, love is the more persistent of the two.
Thursday, November 23, 2006
-nksgiving...
Ankfulness: the state of having exceptionally large ankles. Also known as cankles.
Hankfulness: the state of having pockets overflowing with handkerchiefs. Everyone’s best friend in flu season. 2) the state of owning every Tom Hanks movie ever made. Also popular during flu season.
Thankfulness: the state of overwhelming gratitude for every undeserved blessing God has showered upon me.
Whether you’re ankful, hankful (or Hankful), or thankful, I hope you have an amazing Thanksgiving with people you love. Happy Thanksgiving!
Hankfulness: the state of having pockets overflowing with handkerchiefs. Everyone’s best friend in flu season. 2) the state of owning every Tom Hanks movie ever made. Also popular during flu season.
Thankfulness: the state of overwhelming gratitude for every undeserved blessing God has showered upon me.
Whether you’re ankful, hankful (or Hankful), or thankful, I hope you have an amazing Thanksgiving with people you love. Happy Thanksgiving!
Sunday, October 29, 2006
Acts of Dubious Intelligence #1
Take some time out of your day today and simply observe the other people who share our tiny slice of this great big planet. What I believe you will find is that many people are frightfully lacking in common sense, for they do things that anyone who possessed that fine trait would never consider.
I'd like to state for the record that these things shall henceforth be known as Acts of Dubious Intelligence. And one to get us off and running:
1) Riding a Motorcycle without a Helmet
Never in my life have I seen as many people riding these two-wheeled death machines without some sort of skull protection as here in CO Springs. Perhaps it is a side-effect of oxygen deprevation--CO is awfully high up in the atmosphere. Now, I understand that your chances of survival upon being thrown from your seat at 50, 60, 75 miles per hour have GOT to be slim to none, even if you were wearing a helmet. But just toodling around town in the 30-45 mph range, I'd imagine that hard hat would greatly increase the possibility that you would one day be able to function normally after taking a spill from your bike. Not to mention the fact that your baby girl/boy might get to grow up with you rather than not. That your wife or husband would not be left alone with the cash from your life insurance policy, which on all counts is not very good to cuddle with at night.
The point is, I'm baffled. Is the feeling of wind tossling your hair SO TREMENDOUSLY INTOXICATING as to render all thoughts of family, health and safety null and void? If anyone can help me understand this, I'm willing to listen. I don't know that my opinion will ever be changed on this issue, but I'd like to hear you out. And if it's just about the fact that, in CO, one CAN legally ride sans helmet, I don't want to hear it. I don't believe the government is here to protect us from ourselves in most situations. But I would hope that, given the freedom to choose between permanently scrambled brain and perhaps temporary steamed brain (I'm guessing helmets can get toasty), people would choose the latter for the sake of everyone involved. But that's just me.
I'd like to state for the record that these things shall henceforth be known as Acts of Dubious Intelligence. And one to get us off and running:
1) Riding a Motorcycle without a Helmet
Never in my life have I seen as many people riding these two-wheeled death machines without some sort of skull protection as here in CO Springs. Perhaps it is a side-effect of oxygen deprevation--CO is awfully high up in the atmosphere. Now, I understand that your chances of survival upon being thrown from your seat at 50, 60, 75 miles per hour have GOT to be slim to none, even if you were wearing a helmet. But just toodling around town in the 30-45 mph range, I'd imagine that hard hat would greatly increase the possibility that you would one day be able to function normally after taking a spill from your bike. Not to mention the fact that your baby girl/boy might get to grow up with you rather than not. That your wife or husband would not be left alone with the cash from your life insurance policy, which on all counts is not very good to cuddle with at night.
The point is, I'm baffled. Is the feeling of wind tossling your hair SO TREMENDOUSLY INTOXICATING as to render all thoughts of family, health and safety null and void? If anyone can help me understand this, I'm willing to listen. I don't know that my opinion will ever be changed on this issue, but I'd like to hear you out. And if it's just about the fact that, in CO, one CAN legally ride sans helmet, I don't want to hear it. I don't believe the government is here to protect us from ourselves in most situations. But I would hope that, given the freedom to choose between permanently scrambled brain and perhaps temporary steamed brain (I'm guessing helmets can get toasty), people would choose the latter for the sake of everyone involved. But that's just me.
Ah, the life I lead
I have pondered at length and reached this very definite conclusion: There are few things as scandalously luxurious as lying in bed under a down comforter, reading on a weekend morning.
Monday, September 11, 2006
Been shootin' again...
New photos are up! Shots from my Labor Day Weekend O' Fun with Katie (aka Kumquat): Rennell and Tyler's wedding in Eagle and Maroon Bells outside Aspen. Both great for a snap happy gal like myself :) Click on the Snappy Snaps link on the right for a peek. And yes, many are artsy-fartsy...consider yourself warned!
Saturday, August 26, 2006
I asked
I wish I could claim this as my own, for I think it is beautiful and true—two things I strive for in my writing—but the credit goes to an anonymous poet.
I asked for strength
and God gave me difficulties to make me strong.
I asked for wisdom
and God gave me problems to solve.
I asked for prosperity
and God gave me brawn and brain to work.
I asked for courage
and God gave me dangers to overcome.
I asked for love
and God gave me troubled people to help...
My prayers were answered.
I asked for strength
and God gave me difficulties to make me strong.
I asked for wisdom
and God gave me problems to solve.
I asked for prosperity
and God gave me brawn and brain to work.
I asked for courage
and God gave me dangers to overcome.
I asked for love
and God gave me troubled people to help...
My prayers were answered.
Saturday, July 08, 2006
The speckles are really more like ridges
I don't lie on my floor and stare at the ceiling enough. My current life is not conducive to this.
Reason #1) Colorado is not a state that encourages you to lie on the floor and stare at the ceiling. 300+ sunny days! Mountains in your backyard! Zero humidity and refreshing breezes! You feel guilty for running errands, emptying the dishwasher, being inside for any reason, like you're wasting a perfect day.
Reason #2) I wake up at 7, arrive at work by 8:30. Write and design and generally be creative until 5:30. Home by 5:45 to eat dinner and be out the door by 6:10 for dance or shortly thereafter for other regularly scheduled activities. I often don't get home until around 10, when I usually check my email, tidy my room, tuck in my roommate. Then bed for me. Breathe.
BUT...
For the past 4 days it has rained nonstop. We are under flash flood warnings. The temperature is a damp 65 degrees and the thick white brightness of a cloudy day pours in my window. It is yucky. And for once, I do not feel guilty for being inside. It is not a perfect day.
And so I spent considerable time this morning lying on the floor staring at the ceiling. I loved every second of it.
Reason #1) Colorado is not a state that encourages you to lie on the floor and stare at the ceiling. 300+ sunny days! Mountains in your backyard! Zero humidity and refreshing breezes! You feel guilty for running errands, emptying the dishwasher, being inside for any reason, like you're wasting a perfect day.
Reason #2) I wake up at 7, arrive at work by 8:30. Write and design and generally be creative until 5:30. Home by 5:45 to eat dinner and be out the door by 6:10 for dance or shortly thereafter for other regularly scheduled activities. I often don't get home until around 10, when I usually check my email, tidy my room, tuck in my roommate. Then bed for me. Breathe.
BUT...
For the past 4 days it has rained nonstop. We are under flash flood warnings. The temperature is a damp 65 degrees and the thick white brightness of a cloudy day pours in my window. It is yucky. And for once, I do not feel guilty for being inside. It is not a perfect day.
And so I spent considerable time this morning lying on the floor staring at the ceiling. I loved every second of it.
Tuesday, July 04, 2006
Land of the Free From?
Today is July 4th. Today we are suppposed to remember that we are free. Today we tend to focus less on what we are "free from" but what we are "free to"--free to worship anything, free to disagree with the President, free to waste our time, our money, our lives, free to decide how we decide. In the great span of culture and time, it's quite an unusual position, the freedom to live how we like. And so we celebrate with mass quanities of juicy griled beef, fresh ripe strawberries, sugar-sweet corn-on-the-cob, triple-scooped ice cream cones. Great food is a blessing. So is "freedom to". But really, "freedom from" is the most mind-boggling concept of all. Freedom from sin, freedom from fear, freedom from death, freedom from crippling anxieties, freedom from destructive lusts. "Freedom from" is a gift, one that cost Him dearly. Only by exploring "freedom from" can we properly appreciate the "freedom to" that most Americans think is an irrevocable right. So many people practicing their "freedom to" are anything but free. And those of us who, with wide eyes, have accepted the gift of "freedom from" must exercise our "freedom to" and share that gift. Maybe accompanied by a nice scoop of ice cream.
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