stereotypes

There are all sorts of stereotypes out there, most of which I try to avoid like the plague. I like to be open-minded. I try to avoid pigeonholing anyone. Inevitably I do stereotype. Unavoidably I fall into stereotypes others have when I stumble into a dumb blonde moment or confess that my appreciation and ability in the areas of writing and reading far exceed my appreciation and abilities in the areas of math and science (excluding my beloved social sciences).

There's a stereotype I've been trying to avoid for a few months. I tried really hard. I convinced myself I didn't want that change. I wanted to let the changes remain internal. I wanted the indications of said life change to be subtle. I didn't want to broadcast it or make a big deal of it. So I held out as long as I could. I was stubborn and made excuses. But truth be told this change has been patiently waiting for five or six months. And maybe everything else was just a catalyst, was just what flipped the light switch into the ON position so I could see how much I really wanted it. Regardless of what made me say yes instead of no, I've done it.

BEFORE



DURING



AFTER

intimidation

I have this belief that the gifts I give indicate how much I love that person. The more money, time, thought, effort I spend on the gift the more they mean to me.

This year for Christmas my family drew names. One of the names I drew was my cousin, Lizzy. She is one of my very best friends and also happens to be incredible at giving me exactly what I want, even if I didn't know it until unwrapping it. I instantly felt pressure to give her the most amazing gift ever. Along with the gifts I give indicating how much someone means to me I also feel like I must one-up myself each time I give a gift. I was very happy with the last gift I'd given her [a one of a kind HKC original painting] which meant that I had to really deliver this time. So I called her sister and her husband for hints. I asked her for hints.

And then, due to an excessive fear of giving a terrible gift, gave her nothing at all.

Shortly after Christmas I called and explained all of this to her. And I am pleased to announce that after continuing to psych myself out for three consecutive months I have purchased her Christmas gift. No, I'm not going to post what it is because she reads this little blog of mine [Hi Liz!].

So come Saturday we'll have Christmas in March and all will be well again. Until May 29, her birthday.

PS. If all I've ever given you is a gift card please don't be offended. Rules are meant to be broken.

unexpected

There are people, places and things that normally encourage me. Not normally as in on a regular basis, but normally as in typically, usually, as in it doesn't surprise me to hear it from them/get it from them:

PEOPLE
my mom
my sisters
my cousins
Erica Sue
Doug [Yes, my therapist. I'm that girl.]

PLACES
East Cliff
the State Park exit ramp [there's an amazing view of the ocean]
Mount Hermon
Doug's office
Verve
Cannon Beach
that bench that overlooks Sea Cliff beach

THINGS
the Word
good books
coffee
music

Then there are the people and places I don't expect, the ones that catch me off guard, the ones for which I am unprepared. These experiences are such gifts, are so wonderful. I had one such experience today amidst the pre-Easter, pre-Isaiah Project frenzy and it turned a day that, if I were using previous days as predictor, I would have tended to be emotional and trying into one that has been full of joy and laughter.

Thank you dear friend.

brave faces and proper grammar

I put on a brave face.  I smile when I see familiar faces.  I smile when I see friends.  I smile when I see the people it's supposed to be okay to cry with.  The people I can just be with.  Because I should be okay.  Because it's not supposed to be hard for me.


Sometimes the way things are supposed to be and the way things are differ.  The way things are supposed to be and the way things are now differ.  I am dreaming different dreams.  Not new dreams, but dreams that have, until recently, seen less light, been given less attention.


I am learning to love these different feelings and no longer neglected dreams.  I am learning to welcome solitude and find pleasure in time alone in ways I've not done before.  I am rediscovering the feeling of a paintbrush in my hand and the way my fingers grip the pen as I strain to write as fast as I think.


But these rediscoveries, these new feelings, these dreams all fill spaces that were filled with different discoveries, feelings and dreams.  The transformation from one discovery to the other, one way of feeling or dreaming to the other has been painful.  A pain I thought I knew, but from this side of things it feels different.  There is no one else to look to but the person I see in the mirror.


The tears are mine and I have caused them.


The heartache is mine and I am the heartbreaker.


So I put on this brave face and say, "I'm doing well."  Because it is correct both in situation and grammar.

i am quickly going crazy

I am slowly going crazy

1

2

3

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5

6

Stop.

Crazy going slowly am I

6

5

4

3

2

1

Stop.

Seriously.

And maybe not so slowly.

all things new

I love the rain.  I LOVE it.  I love watching the rainwater running along the edge of the street, in ditches, tearing down streams and rivers swollen with the extra water.  It's all moving so quickly.  The old is being washed away.  And the way it smells: clean, fresh.  I love it.

I was walking from one building to another this morning as we set up for this morning's service and it just started pouring.  Everyone else outside was huddled under eves or making themselves as small as they could under their umbrellas.  But I walked through it, face up, eyes open with a big grin on my face.  I could just feel it making things new.  Clearing away the groggyness of not enough sleep, washing away the sadness, and bringing with it joy.

And the colors after the rain are so vibrant!  The soot, dirt, and exhaust have been washed away and everything is so verdant, so brilliant, so new.

As I write my mind immediately goes to baptism, to Jesus and the fact that we are made new in Him.  And I love that.  It makes the rain even more beautiful.

safe

In His arms I am safe
The worries of today
and tomorrow
and tomorrow
disappear
There is nothing but
love
joy
peace
clarity
safety
and love
did I mention love?

swollen lymph nodes and happy valentines day

I've been sick since Friday, taking it easy since Saturday, and doing absolutely nothing but wallowing in my sickness since Sunday afternoon.  It was miserable and a blessing in disguise.  I got to rest and not feel guilty about it.  I ate only soup for four days straight.  I set a personal record for number of trips to the bathroom and amount of liquid consumed in one day.  Too much information?  Oh well.  It's true.  I watched lots of movies, read my book, knitted my arm warmers, napped, and slept in.

I am now up and about.  I am at work [taking a break] again.  Looking forward to a weekend away.  Going home to visit my family and am taking wonderful boyfriend home with me to meet them all.

I've never taken anyone home to meet my family.  Ever.  The closest I've ever come is having my extended family present the evening of my junior prom so they could see my date pick me up.  I loved my dress [ivory, empire waist, spaghetti straps, a princess dress without too much poofiness]  and my hair looked like a sheep.

I digress.  I am going home–WE are going home.  We.  The two of us.  There will be trips down memory lane, lots of good food, french press coffee [for mom and me, he doesn't drink coffee, neither does dad], laughter, snow, rain, mountains, and love.  He will meet LOTS of family and close friends.  The people who have mattered most for so many years will get to meet this new person who matters so much to me.

I am nervous.  I have no previous experience with which to compare this.  I think back to my junior prom and how nervous I was to walk down the stairs, to see my boyfriend.  Small potatoes compared to this weekend.  A thousand scenarios run through my mind ending in anything from tears to fist fights, there's even one that ends in a mobster style shootout.  It's silly really.  He's fabulous.  My people are fabulous.  I'm even fabulous now and then, and intend to be on my most fabulous behavior for this weekend.  What could go wrong?  [This question is the kiss of mobster style shootout death.]

It will all be okay.  It will all turn out how it is supposed to turn out.  So now I take a deep breath, glance at the lily on my arm, and remind myself that each day has enough worries of its own, and I've been out of the office long enough to have plenty to worry about right here and now.

Mobster style shootout or not this weekend will be one to remember.

a weekend [mostly] alone

With friends and boyfriend away at Snow Camp it's been quiet. I have missed this quiet. And if I'm being perfectly honest I have missed being selfish with my time. I have done things I want to do. I have watched movies I wanted to watch. I have created things I want to create, first for others, and soon for myself.

I went to bed last night wishing I had more time like this. I thought about how nice it was to only ask myself what I felt like doing, how nice it was to only wonder what I was in the mood for for dinner that night, how nice to consider what movie I felt like watching. All this time alone seemed so rich...until Clint called today. And then I realized how much I missed him, how much I missed my friends, how much I missed spending Saturday afternoons with them.

It has been wonderful to create all on my own. To have time to spend all day knitting, run errands, come home and realize I want to spend all night knitting as well! I have loved having time to learn new knitting techniques and tricks [Intarsia and Fair Isle to start], to create things for friends and something for myself as soon as I post this.

I love this time to just do what I want. But life gets lonely when your friends are away. So come home soon. I miss you.

what happens next?

Words, emotions, dreams, memories flood my overtaxed mind.  This life I live is beautiful.  Is more, is better, is much different than the life I imagined living, is at a different part of the story than I expected.  I guess, in my haste to learn the ending, I must have skipped this part.  That was not my intention I assure you.  But, you see, this is my story.  I am eager to see what happens next.

waiting to be set free

All I want to do is knit.  That's all.  I don't want to come in to work.  I want to put on cozy socks and a warm hoodie, make myself a pot of french press, put on some music and knit for hours.  I want to finish my current knitting project (a pair of sleeves, the pattern is from a book on loan from dear Sarah SD).  I want to make fingerless gloves for my sister for her birthday.  I want to make more scarves for all the people whose lives inspire me to create patterns just for them.  I want to knit myself a hoodie.  I want to try new patterns and yarns and techniques.  I want to buy and borrow books with more and more elaborate patterns and projects.  I want to knit a bath mat for the bathroom that, one day, I won't have to share with two little girls (who I love dearly, just for the record).

I want to be creative.  I want to watch my creativity click and clack back and forth, row by row, in front of me the same way I watch these words appear on the screen as my thoughts transfer from neuron to neuron until they reach my fingertips.  I want to express myself in as many ways as possible.  Because I have thoughts and ideas and paintings and songs and stories and scarves inside my head just waiting to be set free!  

I just don't have the time.  Or rather I have not made the time.  So I will make time.  Because all these things waiting inside me are driving me crazy!  They beg, entreat, beseech and implore me to get up.  To do something about them–do something with them.  To stay up late or get up early and CREATE.  To acknowledge my Creator by creating, using the gifts He's given me.

And there are so many reasons not to.  There are so many excuses.  And they all are true-ish.  They are plausible arguments in favor of waiting to create.  Waiting until I have a place of my own where I can spread out and create spaces for each of my creative endeavors.  Waiting until the more pressing tasks and chores are completed.  Waiting until there is money to purchase books, yarn, patterns when I have so much left over yarn that it wouldn't be any sort of challenge to make something with what I have left over.

I am done waiting to be set free.  I am ready to create.  To give these ideas and projects places to live and room to breathe fresh, clean, ocean-infused air.

learning slowly

I'm in the office on a Friday morning.  A day I am not usually here.  Why?  Because I left the wire I need to reattach the tailpipe of my car on my desk when I left last night.  And to look up some phone numbers so I could cancel one and make another appointment.  Why?  Because my car doesn't feel like starting on a regular basis anymore.

On the upside I will get to sit inside and enjoy the amazing rainy weather today.  I will get to watch movies under a blanket and hopefully finish a knitting project that has been left unfinished for far too long.  I will also, at the end of the day, get to spend the evening devouring sushi with good friends, or rather my wonderful boyfriend and his good friends.

When things like cars, computers, cellphones and iPods refuse to start/crash/die/whatever my first reaction is alway annoyance.  My head is filled with screams of, "How dare this piece of technology be unable to serve me and make my life easier!" and, "Why today!?  Why today!?  Don't you understand how many things I have to do today!?" and of course at least a few choice cuss words cause I'm classy like that.  And then after the annoyance and fits of internal rage have calmed down I find myself taking a few deep breaths.  I mutter a prayer in a somewhat facetious tone which tends to progress into one that is scared but grateful.  I realize that if I don't make it to the west side to have coffee with my friend she will understand.  And in fact it worked out better for her this morning to not have coffee.  Imagine that.  Then I called my mechanics and rather than hearing that they were swamped with all their other customers they said they'd be able to get me in on Monday morning first thing, and get me the oil change I've needed for the past 1500 miles.  And then, just after canceling my counseling appointment, my aforementioned wonderful boyfriend called me, told me that canceling my appointment was silly, and he'd be here to pick me up and take me to breakfast and then to my appointment in 30 minutes.

Does my car work?  Not really.  Is everything going to be okay?  Yes.  You'd think I would remember that since I've got it tattooed on my arm.  I think sometimes I am a slow learner.

I love knitting

I just finished a scarf for a good friend and I love it.  It's beautiful for several reasons.
1. I love the yarn I've used [Rapture, it's a blend of natural fibers...I can't remember what they are now, but it's divine.]
2. It's a new pattern that is asymmetrical and involves a cable pattern.
3. It's the first pattern I've really used and followed.
4. I'm going to block it tonight which means that I get to learn a new knitting skill.

I also, in the process of learning how to block, discovered two websites that proved fairly helpful and I want to further investigate and see if they really are as wonderful as they seem.  For the knitting inclined [SJ and Eri Sue] here they are: Knitty, an online knitting magazine and Knitting Help, a website that offers exactly what it says with videos in both the English and Continental styles of knitting.

I love it.  I love knitting.  I'm going to The Yarn Place after work today.  Speaking of work I should probably get back to it....

waking up early

I got up this morning EARLY to meet a friend for a run.  And I'm not talking 7:00am early, or even 6:30.  I'm talking 5:15.  I woke up at 5:15 this morning, got my butt out of bed and chose to enjoy the company of a friend and the beautiful view along East Cliff Drive rather than the warmth of my bed.  I think it's one of the best decisions I've made in awhile.

There is something about being up that early, when it feels like no one else is awake.  It makes you appreciate–it makes ME appreciate being alive.  Getting out of the car, stretching my legs, lengthening my stride as we settled into a good, sweat inducing pace.  I forgot how good cold morning air feels on my face, how good it feels to breathe it in deeply as I find my cadence.

And the sunrise...oh the sunrise!  It was so beautiful.  To think that the sun rises each morning and I miss it more often than I appreciate it...sometimes I wonder if I've got my priorities straight.  Don't get me wrong the reasons that keep me up late: a good book, just one more row on a beautiful scarf or hat, sweet kisses and whispered I love yous, these are all good reasons to stay up late and sleep in a few extra minutes.

But this morning I remembered a few good reasons to wake up early: alone time, the smells and sounds of the ocean, the burnt orange of the sky.

it's been awhile

It has been just shy of nine months since I last posted.  I realize I don't post often.  And I imagine people venture here far less often.   A little over a year ago I thought, "I'd like to have a blog.  A blog would be cool."  I still like the idea.  A lot actually.  It's just that writing a blog means I have to sit down and write.  And who says anyone should read what I write?  Not this girl.  But I still want to, even if it's only me who reads it.

waterhole 2.0

It's weird to me how meeting for coffee is no longer a trend. It is now just what people do when they meet. It is faster and cheaper than breakfast, lunch, dinner or adult only type drinks. It is no longer just for adults either. I take high school and junior high students our for coffee at Starbucks or their preferred local coffee shop. My boss has almost all of his off site meetings at places that specialize in caffeinated beverages. My uncle has started a tradition with his three year old niece that revolves around Starbucks. Fortunately she's drinking coffee...yet (she gets hot chocolate and a doughnut). But she's already familiar with this strange social behavior we've established. Perhaps Starbucks, Peet's, Tully's, Seattle's Best, Mr. Toot's, Coffeetopia, NPCC, the North Point, and all the other tens of thousands of coffee shops, independent and otherwise, are simply our modern, evolved version of the watering hole I see featured on almost every Animal Planet show I've watched. It is no longer acceptable, and more importantly convenient, for us to meet at the watering hole. It goes without saying that most of us wouldn't have the faintest idea how to get to the water source that provides our drinking and bathing water. So we've come up with a sophisticated and cultured alternative to the water hole. And unlike the old fashioned, less evolved water hole you can find this modern version on almost every street corner.

war stories

We don't talk very often. And we talk even less about real things, things other than the week's menus, or work, or the weather, or... well... that's it really. When we talk about things that matter it is hard. There are scars that I have grown so used to that I forget they are there. Until he calls. Until we talk about real things. All of a sudden I realize I am covered in these scars, I was not born with them, I have not always looked like this. They are the result of years, decades now, of conflict. In this place, this relationship, that should be neutral (like Switzerland), a no fly, safe zone, but this is the battlefield. And I've tried peace talks more times that I can count. I've been careful about the setup of the room, a round table so no one is at the head or "in charge." I've chosen neutral locations, locations on his turf, locations on my turf. I've had strategic planning sessions, utilized script writers, and more self-restraint that I ever thought I had in order to craft perfect peace talks and treaties. I have offered gifts in the form of vulnerability, intimate knowledge of my emotions, given the blueprints to my heart, my mind, my beliefs. The results are always the same. There is a grand gesture of thanks and apology, there are always tears (at least from me). We vow to strive for peace and healing in this land of our relationship. But as the years, battles, scars, and failed attempts at peace treaties increase I realize we are just another war torn nation engaged in ongoing civil war with depleted resources and battle weary troops who grow more reluctant to go into battle each time the call to arms is sounded. And if I have scars from all of these engagements and peace keeping missions I know he is at least as battered and bruised and covered in war wounds. And the shrapnel lodged in my heart may not alert me to oncoming rain storms, but it pulses with each beat of my heart; its presence warning me of upcoming battles like the air raid sirens in London. All I want is to wave the white flag of surrender. At this point I will sign anything to make this war stop. Because what I want is to sit on the porch reminiscing about the war years, and instead I'm nervously awaiting the shrill whine of the air raid sirens deep within my heart or the construction of another Berlin wall separating east from west.

limping

"I continue to find the Bible the most mysterious book - the more insight I gain, the more I realize how much I don't know. It inspires and encourages and it also frustrates and provokes." (Rob Bell, Velvet Elvis: Repainting the Christian Faith, pg. 41)

I've been reading Velvet Elvis for two days now. I have been meaning to read it since Erica and I first went to coffee in April. I finished Movement Two just a few minutes ago and I am so excited. I am excited because someone has not just told me it is okay to ask questions, but they have given me biblical support for my desires to ask questions (Bell, 30; Genesis 18). Abraham, the father of many nations, gets into this debate with God about whether or not the "Ruler of the earth" will do right. (Genesis 18) Are you kidding me? Abraham just asked God a question, and not any question, none of this "why is the sky blue" crap. No, he questioned the actions of God, he questioned God's judgement. Why did he question the judgement of God? Because he knows that his God is a loving God who cares for His people.

So I'm reading and I'm in Movement Two and I almost jump up and down. "Sometimes when people are backing up their points and the Bible is used to prove they are right, everything within me says, 'There is no way that's what God meant by that verse.'" (Bell, 43) Why the almost jumping? Because I think that. I wonder what version of the Bible several of our politicians are reading. I wonder what Bible leaders of several churches my loved ones attend are thinking. And I think, "there's no way that's what God meant by that verse!"

Bell further acknowledges something that I have thought for some time: the fact that the writers of the Bible were people within their own cultures who had been shaped socially before their writings. The analogies used, the language, the formats, these were all relevant and understood by those who read or heard these books at the time they were written. (Bell, 64 & 65) Does this mean that they are not relevant for us because we're not first century Greeks, Jews, Romans, etc? No. It means that there is a cultural context that is important to both acknowledge and understand before moving onto what it means for us today. Does that mean I/we/you have to do a big history report on 1 Corinthians before reading it? Absolutly not! God will work through His word whether I understand the historical context of the scriptures or not.

But here's why I started this. Here is what inspired me to, instead of climbing up into bed, sit down and write this. The importance of asking questions. Not arrogant questions that are vain attempts at disproving God (i.e. can God make a rock so heavy God can't lift it?). Questions that help me to further understand my God, my Creator, my Savior and my faith. "We have to embrace the Bible as the wild, uncensored, passionate account it is of people experiencing the living God. Doubting the one true God. Wrestling with, arguing with, getting angry with, reconciling with, loving, worshiping, thanking, following the one who gives us everything." (Bell, 63) Praise the Lord I'm allowed to doubt and question and get angry and attempt the silent treatment with, and love and cry out to in both healthy and despereately needy ways, the love of the living God, of my savior Jesus Christ. What a blessing that he welcomes and appreciates my questions. Because my questions are my way of learning more about God. They are the way I discover more of who God is and more of who God intends me to be.

"A Christian doesn't avoid the questions; a Christian embraces them. In fact, to truly pursue the living God, we have to see the need for questions. Questions are not scary. What is scary is when people don't have any. What is tragic is faith that has no room for them." (Bell, 28 & 29). Questions are scary when we are locked into a black and white belief system, a legalistic way of believing and understanding God. How arrogant to believe that we can create a set of rules, a system within which both we and God opperates, a set of rules for how we interact with, please, understand, serve, disobey, and worship God. One might argue that it is God who created this system. Why would an infinite God, the Creator of heaven and earth, the Creator of everything that ever was, is, or will be place Himself within a set of guidelines and rules? Why would God limit Himself? The ultimate creative power decides to give Himself a set of rules by which He is to abide? My answer: I don't think so! No way. No stinkin' way.

At the end of Movement Two Bell mentions the story of Jacob wresting with the angel and how rabbis used this metaphor when they wrestle with a particularly difficult piece of Biblical text. Here's what Genesis 32: 24-31 says:
"So Jacob was left alone, and a man wrestled with him till daybreak. When the man saw that he could not overpower him, he touched the socket of Jacob's hip so that his hip was wrenched as he wrestled with the man. Then the man said, 'Let me go, for it is daybreak.' But Jacob replied, 'I will not let you go unless you bless me.' The man asked him, 'What is your name?' 'Jacob,' he answered. Then the man said, 'Your name will no longer be Jacob, but Israel [d: Israel means he struggles with God], because you have struggled with God and with men and have overcome.' Jacob said, 'Please tell me your name.' But he replied, 'Why do you ask my name?' Then he blessed him there. So Jacob called the place Peniel [e: Peniel means face of God], saying, 'It is because I saw God face to face, and yet my life was spared.' The sun rose above him as he passed Peniel [a: Hebrew Penuel, a variant of Peniel], and he was limping because of his hip."
"And some people have no limp, because they haven't wrestled. But the ones limping have had an experience with the living God." (Bell, 69) I love this invitation to wrestle with God, the story of Jacob wrestling with Him is so beautiful. They wrestle all night long, Jacob refusing to let go, demanding a blessing, knowing that his demand could be met with death because he is demanding something of God, a blessing nonetheless! But he hangs on because he knows this wrestling is significant.

I can read my Bible, I can learn things at church and in books, but what is the point if I just take them all in without questioning? Sure, I just quoted lots of what Bell has to say. I read Velvet Elvis and I underline lots of things and fill the margins with my notes on what he's said, the questions his writing provokes, my agreements and my disagreements. Because I have to. I cannot go through life without questioning what I encounter, the written, the seen, the heard, the felt. I am not a passive being. I was created to experience the life with which my Creator has blessed me. Passivity is a terrible way, in fact it is no way, to praise Him and respond to His gift of life, His gift of spiritual gifts and the talents with which He has created me. I choose limping and questions because through my questions, through delving deeper I don't figure it out, or get to be right or know The Meaning. I do get to seek and find Truth. And in that Truth I uncover more questions, and I ask and I cry and kick and srcream and laugh and smile and hold onto Him for dear life, and best of all we grow closer, God and I. I learn more about the Ultimate Mystery, the Creator, my God, my Creator, my Abba, Yahweh.

"it's not my job to wait by the phone"

I find myself on one side of a window looking in at so many people I know and love. They are with their boyfriends, fiances, and husbands. They make breakfast or coffee for each other. One of them rushes off to work calling farewell, perhaps mentioning something about dinner or a phone call that will take place later that day, during a lunch break or the ride home. The other is making the bed or is only a few seconds behind the other, finding themselves in just the right place for a quick kiss goodbye and time to call, "love you," as the door closes and their partner rushes down the hall, out the door, or down the steps.

I keep wondering what it is I have to learn. What life lesson am I missing? Where do I go and what do I have to do to earn the merit badge that okays me for that stage of life. I don't mean the dating stage. I have done the dating stage. I have thought I had the one. I am, in retrospect, glad I was wrong about them. Yes, them. Serial monogamist at your service. And I am tired of thinking about the one, hoping he's the one. I am ready for a new stage. The last first kiss, I know he's the one, no more heart broken loneliness, tears streaming down my cheeks forgetting to say yes because I'm so happy this is finally it stage. The stage in which so many of my friends find themselves. When I finally get to that stage, and I am past the place where I doubtfully pout that it will literally never happen, I imagine a light, invisible to all those who are not ethereal, above my head changing from red or perhaps yellow to green. I imagine those angelic beings pressing tips of fingers to ears, like they do in spy movies, like Sidney Bristo in "Alias," intently listening to the instructions of their commander. Then they signal to each other with complicated special opps sign language that I have been cleared. Send in the one their signals say.

Most of the time I am not upset by this loneliness. In fact loneliness is rarely what it feels like. Most frequently it is just where I am. And I like where I am. Mostly. My own room, apartment, or even house would be nice. Maybe I would have a cat, definitely not a fish. I have the freedom to, mostly, do what I want when I want. Today I relaxed. I spent a good 90 minutes making lunch, slowly simmering my tomato sauce until it was just sweet enough for the pasta over which it was poured. I read a magazine. My friend came over and we went for a walk on the beach. We talked about singleness, actually. We talked about being so happy for our friends and the success of their different relationships. And we talked about the bitterness that occasionally creeps in, and how much we dislike those moments. I am not certain who said it, but I entirely agree that comparison is the thief of all joy.

Perhaps instead of waiting for the green light and secret agent type angels with special hand signals, I just want to be content with this place. This time I am in now. Not just content. Hopefully content. Genuinely satisfied with where I am, while hoping, but not longing, for the future. A time when a relatively unplanned, but absolutely perfect roadtrip requires the consideration of more than my schedule. When we have plans for the weekend. When my close friends are not the only ones with a distinct ringtone. When I can cuddle with more than a blanket on a rainy day. When rather than looking through a window into coupledom, I am on the other side making the bed, or hurrying out the door.

green is for grace

I remember over a year ago now when I stood in my friend's little apartment in Portland and we watched a trailer for something called "Invisible Children." Back then I didn't know anyone other than the two of us who had any idea what it was. As the weeks and months progressed I met more people who'd heard about Invisible Children.

I remember 11 months ago when that same friend created an art piece that represented the Invisible Children. It was beautiful, it was inspiring. Then he told me he was putting on a huge showing of "Invisivble Chlidren" in Colorado where he was living at the time. And again, I was inspired and proud. It is beautiful to watch people we care about be passionate, especially when the passion is directed at something other than themselves.

I remember February 2nd 2006 when I saw "Invisible Children" for the first time. I sat on my friend's couch with 20 other people and sobbed silently for 30 minutes. My shoulders shook and tears and snot streamed down my cheeks. I vaguely remember being passed Kleenex on and off throughout the movie. I remember the movie ending and someone from the group giving a brief statement about the film and what the filmmakers are doing. We watched the extras section that talks about their ultimate goal of a safe place the children can live, work and learn. I remember sitting next to my good friends and being rendered completely speechless for half an hour, something I can honestly say that, since I began talking, has never happened.

I remember April 29th 2006 when I sat in a parking lot off Pacific Avenue in Santa Cruz, CA writing letters to the President and the senators of California. I remember the frustration I felt, not being able to put into words my passion for the lives of these children. I felt hope and dissapointment all at the same time. I was hopeful that we would, combined with all the other people in all the other cities and states, write enough letters to not only bring this situation to the attention of our government, but would inspire them to do something. I was dissapointed because after only six years of voting exprience I have very little faith in our government anymore. And I remember fear. I was afraid that the government might actually do something about the violence to which we were attempting to open their eyes. My fear was that their response would be equally violent. These children and even the Lord's Resistance Army have seen enough violence. Their country has been in the middle of this war for over 20 years. Another war, another "peace-keeping mission" is not what this country needs. But I was afraid—am afraid—that if or when the United States decides to respond, the United Nations decides to respond, it will be with fatigues, combat boots, and fire power.

I remember finally getting my first bracelet in the mail and how excited I was to finally participate financially in this heart wrenching movement. I remember the knot in the pit of my stomach when I saw the DVD that came with the bracelet. Grace, a child mother, a sex slave at only 13, pregnant. I put on my bracelet and left the DVD on a set of drawers and promised myself I would watch her story soon.

I remember waking up this morning wondering what I would do before meeting a friend for lunch. I looked around the floor of my room, strewn with clean and dirty clothe nagging me to put them away. My eyes caught on a black box, the words "Invisible Children" wrapped around it over and over, reminding me of these children I had put on the back burner until it was convenient for me, until I was ready. I picked up the box and walked downstairs, and as I reheated my coffee I was scared. This beautiful young woman named Grace, a name that screams irony, was waiting to have her story told. And it was beautiful—is beautiful. Her story...her child...her name...the name of her newborn child...I cried. I cried and I cried and I prayed. I watched a montage of shots as "Amazing Grace" played in the background, and I couldn't understand how I was supposed to respond. The woman narrating the film quoted Anne Lamott, "I do not understand the mystery of grace—only that it meets us where we are but does not leave us where it found us," and as the film progressed and as I have reflected on this brief description of a beautiful life that has become two beautiful lives I am astouded by the truth in that quote.