afterthought composer

you are cool too.

2012-02-08T13:42:00.000-08:00

I probably shouldn't pit one cool person against another, or force comparisons amongst friends. How silly of me. For the record, I think you are pretty damn awesome, too.

Apparently, in 1920s Louisiana, if you weren’t standing on an alligator by age 3, you got sent
to a special school. I guess that would make me pretty special.
(via Pinterest)

Anita is (much) cooler than you

2012-02-08T09:37:00.000-08:00

first email of my day looked like this:

Today’s the day I perfect my plastic smile and perky strut.

-Anita

...May today be the day we all perfect our struts and shed the plastic from our smiles; though if plastic is required, then grin away. If you're really lucky, maybe today's the day you find a friend like Anita (you can't have her though; she's mine).

how to attain oily feathers

2012-02-06T15:41:00.000-08:00

File this one under "Rants and Raves."

...they're at it again. The women, I mean. They've grown tired of my snack eating, food-loving, non-weight gaining, happy in my skin. So now they do what they always do: talk about me, but not to.

It should come as no surprise to me really; I've been here before with alarmingly common rotation. My mom promised me in grade 10 that one day it would be over; so did the school counselors; so did the adults -- that high school and it's asinine cruelties would, eventually, stop.

Sadly, what I've found is just the opposite. Women will be cruel as long as they can be; they will mock as long as it suits them (as long as they don't like themselves), and in me they'll find a delightful loophole: it's politically correct to belittle thin women. So the words continue, the passive aggressive behavior continues, the ungrounded, unfounded exclusion continues; and the onlookers are silent.

Normally I smile pretty and say nothing and sit in the knowledge of what they haven't quite figured out yet: that I'm on to them; that I know it is out of their own desperate unhappiness with the mirror that they choose to pick on me (I and my weight are a litmus test for fledgling self esteems).

But this time, I'm reacting. I can't sit under cruel scrutinizing eyes anymore without bringing something to the table. As a sure sign of the mature adulthood I've long-since entered into: bring on all my form fitting skirts, the high heels that make my legs look longer, the shirts that show my tiny waist. Bring on extra snacks and extra snack crunching at my desk and my body's refusal to change shape.

"Like water off a duck's back" sounds good, and once adopted as a lifestyle, sort of works. But after a lifetime of being the lone oil-covered duck in a pond filled with haters, I've run out of the desire to make sure these women feel good about themselves while they pick me apart.

Duck, imploding (but damn, does she look good).

the day all lovers wait for

2012-02-03T14:48:00.000-08:00

Only 12 days left!!!

...until we can all buy chocolate at 50% off!

happy

2012-02-01T06:37:00.000-08:00

An epiphany landed on my heart's step:
Since I am happy,
I should be happy
(though I don't know the end,
nor exactly where this started).
So as I feel my pulse reacting
to better winds
and the wildness of unseen pages,
I find that I am, and am letting myself be,
and am breathing in
happy.
.

pinterest.com - 'happy'

every day is a new year

2012-01-29T16:27:00.000-08:00

I believe that the chance to start over comes every day at sunrise; that we don't need a year mark to feel something new. I believe that surprise friendships can heal old wounds, and gentle hands can do more than big hands ever could. I believe that strength is something we choose; gentleness, too. I believe we are all broken, and that for this reason, and this reason alone, we have the capacity to hurt and to help each other.

I believe that most lives are too short; that grief takes its time with us, baring our souls while the young ones go first. I believe I do not know how to let the young ones go first. Not sure I will ever know how to let them.

I believe it is important that we give the memories space; that we don't shut them out like pain, but rather, hold them ready by the windowsills as we wait for sunrise; for the light to move us on, like it does.

I believe I am writing about too many things at once.

.
.

January confessions, of a different sort.

2012-01-22T10:28:00.000-08:00

perhaps when I am feeling creative, I will follow in the footsteps of Sharelle.
.

My January started with a bit of difficulty, though I'm not exceptionally proud to admit that "difficulty" part. Ex-Manfriend decided to pop himself back into my world, as he has often tried to do; only this time, he did it via email on New Year's Eve (I wouldn't answer his phone calls, you see). It was a lengthy post, including far-too-personal information from his world, apologies for not calling me more often (insert quizzically furrowed brow: here), and a jovial invitation to coffee. I read the full email and sat in silence for a minute, and decided I must be terrible at ending things with men; to date, they all seem to speak to me as though I still want them, long after I've wiped their dust off my feet.

In any case, I slept on my response, though I knew immediately what I was going to say. The first day of this new year started with a stretch, a yawn, and a bold, "Dear ExManfriend: please stop calling me, please do not show up at my old house anymore to look for me [because this actually happened!!], and no thanks to the coffee invite." Brazen response, I know...especially the part where I clarified for him that breaking up meant I didn't want to spend anymore time with him. Oof. I would have felt terrible, except that I didn't. In fact, I felt a little proud. Unfortunately, the old adage hints correctly; my pride would come before the fall.

"What happened?" he replied. "You are a mean person; go before God and repent!"

I would love nothing more than to tell you that his response to my polite but pointed request (to leave me alone) did not make me at one with my kitchen floor; but in fact, I lost it. I became a sobbing heap; a mere reflection of a woman that had apparently grown stronger since walking away. But "It is clear you do not know God. Repent, sinner!" can take the wind out of anyone; especially when the delivery is so...out of context. Admittedly, I cried. A lot. Then I drove to the drugstore after midnight and bought Neo Citran and a lottery ticket; and then I came home, downed the hot-lemon drink, and passed out gratefully in my bed.

Over the next few days, I took the time to process my reaction in depth. I spoke to any of my Trusted One's who would listen and soaked up whatever they said with ease; I was a sponge, desperate to figure out how I could have lost my footing so readily. What I discovered in my chest was a mix of embarassment, grief, and anger quickly dissipating. Mostly, however, I found shock; and this explained my reaction more than the others. The mirror'd reflection of that email's tone was no longer me, but I saw with horror that it once had been; I once taught a man to treat me so belittingly, by accepting it when he did. It was this recognition that hurt the most. I cried for what had been, and how small I had let me be.

It goes without saying that, like anything else, this story eventually became a source of great healing; and to no one's suprise: funny. 'Funny' was not the crying part, of course, but the "Yah, so I asked my ex to leave me alone, and he responded by saying I didn't know God" part...that part makes me laugh. I decided, once it amused me, that I should recount this story in writing; as an anecdote to a greater story, perhaps (though the greater story will, here, be implied). There is perhaps some sadness in my laugh, that men like this exist at all - that arrogance is allowed to rule in any measure that grandiose...however, there is much joy in my laughter too. I'm not small at all, ExManfriend; nor am I bigger than you. I'm just me; shaped and bettered by the leaving, and by the moving on, happily, too.

ink and water

2012-01-14T16:27:00.000-08:00

.

some days
as I write,
I think I would rather
drink ink
than water.

staring at this photo has gotten me through the day.
high speed photograph of ink in water, by Alberto Seveso
find more info where I did: on Colossal

.
.

flight pattern

2012-01-14T08:58:00.000-08:00

Sometimes the best thing about the morning

is that it marches on into the day;

the night, that we get to sleep right through.

The birds come to and hurry on their way,

and mark out their envy inspiring path;

to wherever they will go, when they want to go there..

Lady Gaga causes brain farts.

2012-01-07T12:03:00.000-08:00

.
I was going to post something. The idea came to me yesterday, as all the threads of my life formed into a beautiful little tapestry that was worthy of a post (...worthy? what like I have some kind of standard for brilliance on this blog? Clearly not). Anyway, Lady Gaga came on the radio just now - as I was opening the internet window - and I regret to inform you that I don't remember, at all, what I was going to say just a few minutes ago; my brain has gone numb.

It had something to do with...something. I'll come back later.

it's a new year!

2012-01-01T14:45:00.000-08:00

Here's your instruction manual for 2012 (and I will do the same):

take deeper breaths, walk outside more, receive the hugs that are given to you, and wear your journey proudly.

blessings,
a.

the babbles; with a side order of salt.

2011-12-30T17:20:00.000-08:00

So here's the thing. I'm sitting here at my kitchen table with a giant bowl of popcorn in my lap with every intention of writing a new post. Unfortunately, I can't figure out how to phrase the thing that I want to phrase into any sort of format that would be coherent. There are so many weighted objects floating around in my brain, but none of them are willing to be fully discovered as of yet, so I can only guess as to their whereabouts and contents. Guess I might. Pardon the incoherency.

I guess I've been wondering what the point of being Right is, if the point if being Right is to be right(!). Does a person have more value if they agree with us? Or less if they do not? "Of course not!" you say, "how silly!" But then I ask you this: how many in your closest circle disagree with your core values? Sameness and closeness are not mutually exclusive...are they? Do we trust those that tell us what they really think, or do we trust those that tell us what we want to hear? On the flip side; how gently do we offer our opinion (because it is only that, at the base of it) to those who ask? Or do we even wait for them to ask?

I've also been thinking about wrongness, and who decides it. Surely there are books aplenty that guide us this way and that (some religious, some not). There are millions of people under one umbrella, millions under another, and millions who've claimed no land in the war. I suppose my big question here is this: when did belief in anything (be it a faith system, a cultural norm, a social system) become about the other person's wrongness, and has it always been this way? If we get enough people to salute us to the top of the podium; does that make us more right? Or just closer to the top of the podium?

Then of course, I have wondered about voices. How do we use them, and how do we hear well what the voices of others are saying without our own cloudy heads getting in the way? (are you offended that I called your head 'cloudy'?) Is a voice only as valid as its alignment with popular opinion? Or does a voice have value because it is and it is speaking? What makes popular opinion right, if that is what we call it; is that how we measure our moral code and the brilliance of our speeches? To what do we hold our standards, and to whom to we check ourselves in with?

The pull in culture as of late - as I have seen it - is toward a luminous middle ground; one in which we all agree with the other. I understand this to a certain extent. Those with strong opinions, more money and power, have spent much of history starting wars and killing shamelessly just to prove that they are right (or at least, that they are closer to the top of the podium). Of course we as a people - humans - are weary of the habit. So we make a collective motion in the great court room: if only we could all agree! Then the world would be at peace. So the fight, day in and day out, becomes about making the other person agree, or helping the other person see their wrongness.

But isn't the beauty of humanity that we are all different? That some believe in God and others think it's Hooey! That some hunt and fish for sport while others eat only green things? Some people only pray out loud and in front of other people and some people only pray in their rooms with their mouths shut, and some people pray at specific times of the day in certain rooms of the house, to a different God than their neighbors do. Some people get on hand and knee to tend to their lawns with nail clippers, while others let their lawns grow over and up the sides of the rusty car. Still others don't have homes at all, but wander willingly, living day to day by what they have, not by what they want. Some people think the Bible is literal while others believe it is a beautiful poem. Some people have a different Bible, while others prefer science fiction. Some people think Coke is better than Pepsi. Some are conservative, some are liberal; and some people think they are better than George Bush.

We learned long ago (and unfortunately some are still learning) that skin color and heritage were not dividing lines, but rather, beautiful marks of grace upon humanity. The human rights movement didn't try to make everyone the same; it valued the difference and taught others to do likewise. Martin Luther King Jr didn't kick people out of the room, he walked up to their doorsteps and into their streets and tried for conversation.

The worry as I see it, is that we've lost that humble ability. Our current culture calls for a crack down on difference, instead of a gracious understanding of it. Popular Fights are calling for silence from the other side. Anyone with a different opinion is a total idiot (put nicely) while anyone who agrees is the newest 15-minute hero. I admit it: I am afraid for a culture with no ability to reform or question the new limits (for fear or being kicked out of classrooms, for example).

Be strong enough to silence oppressors, YES, but do not be so weak that you silence opposition.

.

I have decided what to do in 2012.

2011-12-27T14:23:00.000-08:00

Oh boy.

I just got nervous.

A vision came about: my projects, all “finished” and whatnot, where people can see them; floating around the playground with the big dogs, the winners, the published; with the ones who are the stuff that dreams are made of.

Planning is safe, isn’t it? Dreaming, too. But actualizing the two is something else entirely, because you have to strap them and their realities on and call them things like “done” and “ready” and “this is the best of me; this is all I’ve got.” It means you have to take those web-like constructionisms outside of your head and dangle them in view of the passersby.

Oh my.

Regardless, I am still going to try. I’ve spent this afternoon in a brainstorm; making notes and jotting down specifics; writing lists and drawing empty boxes so I can put checks in them later. There is a little wench in my chest cavity; she dangles on my heart strings all day long and eats Validation for breakfast lunch and dinner. I’ve spent a vast amount of my day shushing her. She giggles in anticipation and refuses to be shushed; she pokes her elbows out and combs lanky hands through unsmoothable hair and watches my every move. She is hungry, after all. She is always hungry.

I suppose it would help if the lines I come from were lines that had silenced the wench. But I know too much of silent artists and repressed expression to know how to quiet her and at this point, I am only guessing. My suppositions imply that I just need to get on with it and not worry so much about the receipt at the other end. Perhaps I create because I feel like it, because I can’t help it, because I need to, and not because I know where me and my little creations will land.

all the winds and their changing

2011-12-26T09:14:00.000-08:00

found on Pinterest under "wind"

So apparently I have a crush on photographs involving wind. Can't really get enough of them, to be quite frank. Perhaps it's the emotional timing, or the year that's ending and the one that's coming up, or all three. The pictures seem to capture what my insides are hoping for: beautiful, freedom giving change. What a year it's been. Heartache seemed to chase a good number of those in my daily circles throughout the past twelve months; whether it was the death of a loved one or the death of a relationship, a giant leap of faith or an unanticipated fall, 2011 was big for many of us.

I have been thinking a lot about what I would like 2012 to look like, as I'm sure has been the case with many of you. The past few years, for me, have been somewhat restrained, dream-wise. I was distracted and unsettled and hesitant about my ability to withstand failure. I continually tried to pre-plan a lot of the planning for the things I've been wanting to do (if that sounds convoluted; it is). Now though, I have an unmistakable sense of urgency within me to get on with it; partly because it needs to happen, and partly to show 2011 who's boss. To help get the process started, I have already started the processes (!). I've told people about my goals for 2012, even down to the embarassing-if-this-doesnt-pan-out specifics, and I've begun compiling tangible pieces of evidence that I am actually going to do something with my life. If you came to my house right now, for example, you would see my projects. Out. On the table and the living room floor and not in the back of a drawer. My dreams have begun to leak toward the outside of my head. It's quite fascinating to see this all play out.

Related to all of this, of course, is the realization I had today: It is January! Not really of course, but Christmas came so fast after April that January is definitely going to be here soon after December exits from view; and despite my best efforts, I am having a difficult time convincing myself that it's not actually January. I like to think I'm getting a leg up on the competition between me and the steady clock hand by being so ahead of myself. I have paused to see what's coming, after all. I have the blueprints pasted all over the walls; I have the sketches lining the pathway to my bed. I have actual goals. I am actually going to reach them.

Brilliant.

.

Merry Christmas!

2011-12-24T12:00:00.000-08:00

I do not have snow

or tradition,

but I have a feeling

that these things

matter less; that

the heart

of the season

is still the reason

we call it

Christmas.

May you be warmed by plenty of gravy and hugs,

each in their own way, of course.

~ashley~

happy sad

2011-12-23T08:55:00.000-08:00

I will miss you when you go

2011-12-10T15:22:00.000-08:00

as I ponder my sweet little sister & her hubby moving to the other side of the world in 2 very short weeks
(...I will miss you when you go)
love, a.

Dear Time,

I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about you and the way you move, and I have to know why it is you move so fast; if you don’t mind my asking. One minute here and one year gone; I am having trouble keeping up. The matter presses closely now as another round of changes begin, marking out their chosen territory for the signposts, cakes and Kleenex boxes that are sure to arrive without delay. I can feel myself searching frantically for breaks, to slow the speeding. Christmas is soon here, like so many Christmases have previously 'soon' been, and the New Year is upon us…but I am quite confident that we just had one of those, too. I feel as if we are duplicating the seasons (and by we, I mean you)…but then I look again at my calendar, and I digress. The year is gone indeed. This Christmas is really this Christmas (not last), and the Year on its way is not old at all; it is, most definitely, new.

Do you know how dizzied we are by your passing? Are you aware of us as you march onward and rush us from morning to night? And do you care that people leave us, receive us, and in the better cases: stay? I wonder if these things register with you, or if there is compassion in the hands of the watch, as we journey through the months that make up the years that make up the wrinkles on our skin (oh, by the way, thank you for the wrinkles). Do you know about the people; do you know that I will miss them? I will miss them when they go.

With care,
Human

Dear Human,

You forget; my marching is just that: a steady and unchanging pace. I have been what I have been since I have been it. You could set your clock by me (…too soon for jokes?). But you, Human, you change. You busy and haste away the hours I give you. Though the hours have much capacity they are better enjoyed (like anything) when you take note of them, when you have them with you. Who, of any of us, likes to be noticed only after departing? I can not give you more than I have, because I have given you much. The rush you feel is the rush you have chosen for yourself. Remember, my march is steady, slow, and unchanging. You might do well to learn to follow my lead. Take note of the hours has you have them, and the people, too. The world will blur less if you do so.

Sincerely,
Time.

Dear Time,

I am still going to miss them when they go.

With sadness,
Human

Dearest Human,

I know.

Faithfully yours,
Time.

.
.

the art of breadmaking

2011-12-01T20:26:00.000-08:00

.
Well, if Today doesn't call itself productive, then Today gets a swift kick to the larynx. Not only was I super-on-time (read: half an hour early) for my RMT appointment this morning, but I am just finishing up not one, but two bread recipes. The first of my attempts came out of the oven awhile ago, and after some patience on my part, and the distraction of the other bread recipe, I am finally sitting down to sample batch #1; breadly indulgence at its finest.

Batch #1: 8 mini loaves. Specifically: 8 herbs-and-cheese pullapart mini loaves. If that sounds time consuming to make....it is. From start to finish, it took me approximately 3 hours (of course, 2.5 hours of that is "down time", which in my world is Pinterest Time).

So this is pretty much a deviation from my normal blogging habits, and it's likely stemming from the fact that I've been breathing in bread fumes all day long...but I've decided to review the recipes. After all, what good is Google without actual experience? Many people I know are on budgets and make their own bread to save money, or love baking, or like comfort food in the cold of winter - for all of these reasons I am patting myself on the back for the service this must be to you.

Recipe Review #1: Tiny Pull-Apart Breads, from Petite Kitcheness (follow link for recipe)
This afternoon's sunshine was radiant, and I was filled with soul-joy as I listened to Mozart loudly in my car on the way home from my appointment. Somewhere in the middle of my head-bops and conducting, I was inspired to make bread. When I got home I ran into my house and got all the ingredients out on the counter before I could change my mind. Then I went to Pinterest, hoping to find a good picture (inevitable), and therefore a good recipe, and stumbled across this beauty:


what my bread would look like if I had a nicer camera...right?

If I've learned anything from the many days I spend perusing Pinterest, it's that real life isn't exactly the same as that website. I hate to bring this up, but I'm sure everyone remembers my cakes. Case in point: perfection is hard. This time, however, I was pleasantly surprised to discover that my mini loaves not only resemble the original picture, they are edible. Admittedly, I find them too sweet. This bread is loaded with roasted garlic, and the flavor of the garlic somehow turns what you think would be a deep, savory bread to a light, sweet tasting bread. It's throwing me off. But I'm going to eat them anyway, warmed and draped in melting butter.

my final product

I swayed a bit from the original filling recipe, using only a selection of the herbs she did, using what I had on hand, and varying my cheeses too for the same reasons; settling on a mix of parmesan and cheddar. Maybe these variations are why it tastes funny to me. Or, it could be that food made by someone else always tastes better; this theory is usually the strongest, and if you'd like to test it out you can make this recipe and bring some to my house. My tips for when you make it: less herbs (I used almost half the amount specified and the dough was covered), and more cheese. Bread can always use more cheese. The saltiness of the cheese would, in my opinion, balance out the sweetness from the garlic.

me and Man Glass decide if we like this recipe or not.

Final thoughts? This recipe is alright but need some tweaking. At this point, it's not entirely worth the time and effort...maybe I'll revisit this one day and come up with something better. For now, this recipe's gonna drift back into Pinterest's dream world.

Recipe Review #2: Robin's Wheat Bread, from Blissfully Domestic (follow link for recipe)

Batch #2 is a standard whole wheat loaf, for sandwiches and toast (and plain old fashioned eatin'!). I found this standard recipe using the standard Google search. I halved the original recipe (which yeilds 5 full sized loaves) to end up with one full sized loaf and a pan of mini loaves. Can I just say? SO HAPPY I did that. This giant ball of dough needs to be kneaded for TWENTY MINUTES by hand; even halved it was enormous. Tip: the 20 minutes goes much faster if you crank Rihanna and pretend it's a workout.

Immediately after taking this picture, I dropped my phone in the flour.


Either the Fairies have been dancing on my counter again, or I'm making bread.

This bread is, by all counts, delicious; the final product is definitely worth the effort. The recipe uses honey instead of sugar to 'proof' (set) the yeast, and the taste at the end is quite nice; sweet, but only subtly, as bread should be. As a sidenote, I might substitute honey for sugar if I ever try Batch #1 again; my theory is that the sweetness of the dough was part of the problem (the first recipe uses sugar). Batch #2 bread is sturdy enough that it would hold a sandwich together, and it seems to cut well. As another bonus: making the full, 5 loaf recipe would mean you'd have to make it less often; the one shot deal appeals to my laziness.

1) I have a crush on my mini loaf pan...
2) My poor estimation skills show in the different loaf sizes.
But nobody cares about that really, except Martha, and she doesn't read my blog.

*swoon!* Mini bread!

we like this one.

Final thoughts: if you are looking to get a lot of bread for your buck (and time and effort), Batch #2 is the winner. Good luck, bakers!

it's just a flesh wound

2011-11-24T09:37:00.000-08:00

.
I have been thinking about bandaids;
I have been thinking of the ways we use them
to cover up; wounds, secrets, hopes deferred.
I have been wondering why we let the heartbeats
fester, in the dark, underneath our chosen flimsical coverings.

I can poorly choose, but this will not help the ache;
it will, instead, keep it stagnant, pulsating
against the soul's pane, shuddering with
the anticipation of being released. But then I wonder:
this pain, when it is free where will it go? And who
will see it? These uncertainties can only be kept at bay
by bandaids. And this, I suppose, is why we use them.

.
.

The wealthy are faithless

2011-11-19T12:47:00.000-08:00

The wealthy are faithless.
The faithful are wealthy.

...which is it?

From the Church, I cannot find a common answer.

I am a sinner if I do not give 10%;

I am a saint if I give what I can;

I am a sinner if I give 10% with a cold heart;

I am a saint if I’m financially illogical;

Which is it?

If I had more faith, my debts would be erased;
My overabundant faith is an others-sourced money-tree;
God will bless me if I put myself in need; not if I keep myself out of it.
God’s hand is not formulaic.
Which is it?

Those who go without are holier than those that store up to provide for them;
Those who store up provisions are faithless in the matters of tomorrow;
Giving means nothing unless I do not have enough to give;
If I have enough to give, I am not giving enough;
Which is it?

Is it possible to be free from condemnation
by those who pick a different answer?
Or is popular opinion about faith always going to be subject
to the dollar sign and the zero.

earth from space

2011-11-18T19:19:00.000-08:00

ENLARGE this.

Earth | Time Lapse View from Space, Fly Over | NASA, ISS from Michael König on Vimeo.

Time lapse sequences of photographs taken by the crew of expeditions
28 & 29 onboard the International Space Station from August to October,
2011...click on the "Vimeo" logo to see the original link for more credit information.

This was too beautiful not to share -- I simply can't get over it

and have watched it every day this week.
This made me miss the Northern Lights like crazy.

fall, fashion, frugality

2011-11-18T15:00:00.000-08:00

This weekend, I am doing what I have intended to do every fall for the past few years, but have never quite got around to: the Fall Wardrobe Overhaul. In a way, I do this regularly, purposing to give stuff away every time I move, get bored, shop, or re-arrange my bedroom (which, if you know me and have been counting, means I've done a LOT of stuff-purging this year). At least, I thought I purged clothing. Recently, I have discovered that I have far too many clothes, most of which I don't wear; that I've been neglecting the closet purge for longer than I realized. I can't remember if I announced it yet, but I moved again. Actually, I can't remember if I announced it the first time, but I moved in spring, too. That one was more traumatic though, which is why I didn't write about it. Here instead is a general summation of what happened on the morning of March twenty-third:

Silly New Roommate: "Hey, I gave notice yesterday"
Me: "Uhhhmmm..." *where is my defibrillator!?*
Silly New Roommate: *skips buoyantly out of house*

...Two point five weeks was the alloted time I now had -- thanks lady!-- to pack up the entire suite and find a place to live. Thanks to some frantic selling of my furniture on craiglist, and the fact that there are people that love me, I landed quite safely for the summer, nestling in to my cousin's extra room. Now, though, I live in a pretty little coach house; a house so pretty that I give myself proverbial pinches on a regular basis. It's not even a basement; it's not even shared. I don't even have a roommate to pull rugs out from under my feet anymore, which is a giant added bonus (as a result, I'll get my damage deposit back after I leave this time, which is also pretty neat; SNR's fabulous timing curtailed that luxury for me). If you're wondering: no, Silly New Roommate didn't make the list. Cousin, most definitely, did.

Where were we? Ah yes; my heartily stocked closet.

The urgency with which I am addressing the coming weekend's wardrobe cleanse can blamed on my new washing machine. The first time I used it, it broke; which I promise was not entirely my fault. After the initial breaking came the waiting: for repairs, for parts, for coordinated meetings with my landlord to install said parts, and so on, until it got fixed. After a couple weeks of patience I finally got to load up the machine. In went all my favorite coloreds, and I waited while it cycled through. Upon opening the machine at the end, I made a charming discovery...ah yes of course...the hot and cold taps had been swapped. Said goodbye to a few items that weren't meant for heat, and redeemed the rest with a bit of stretching. More waiting. More fixing. I am happy to announce that tonight, after almost a month sans-washing-machine, I can do laundry. Perhaps I should add to that, that I didn't really do laundry during October either, as I spent most of my time packing and moving boxes. So, off the top of my head, I'd say I have about 7 to 10 loads to get through before I can begin sorting. *giddy rush* OOoo!...sorting.

I had a gameplan already, that involved washing everything, folding everything, and laying it all out on my bed and deciding from there what to keep and what to donate. Then today, I read this article, written by the stunning Miranda from LouLouDi Image Consultants - which confirmed my chosen methodology. The great thing is, Miranda goes further, as she provides inspiration in the form helpful tips and insight for those undertaking the Fall Wardrobe Overhaul. Best part? She focuses on the financial benefits to doing this right, and helps us understand how to shop strategically for our fall wardrobes. As a woman who's just implemented a new and tighter budget, I'm very grateful. My aim is to simplify in every aspect; both in how much I own, and in how much I spend. This weekend's activities seem like a fabulously well-suited starting place.

With that, I'm off to daydream about the coming days, when I will not have laundry and boxes piled up all around me. Swoon.

what to do with pain

2011-11-14T21:11:00.000-08:00

The thing about writers is that we are, at our cores, absorbent observationalists. We sit, or stand - or walk - and while we do those things; we watch. Day and Conversation are two areas that transmit worlds of information into our writer's blocks...and then, after we have been handed all of these things (about you...or not), we write. A writer can't see a question mark without trying to fill in the blank space before it. A writer will struggle to stay silent when there are words to be said, ideas to be carved out and displayed, or overtones to be sewn into new or similar fabric. Every seen thing is a thread, and every word is a catalyst toward thought, ink, or the sound of clicking keys.

Jeannie Lynn Paske's Obsolete World

There's a stump here, though, and it comes in the form of the unanswerable. There are paradoxes of the heart that remain elusive and too personal to touch. I came across this stump recently, in the form of Pain. I looked it in the eye, talked about it with my wise older sister (a lengthy discourse on the subject), and at the end, realized I was no further along the road to understanding what we were talking about; or rather, what to do with it. Stubbed toes and paper-cuts can be left for another time - what I'm referring to here is not normally rooted in the external, though it may begin there. I am referring to something that happens to each of us at different times and to different extremes, and is dealt with in a thousand different ways. I am talking about the pain that comes from Mistakes.

I am going to wager that the word 'Mistake' turned quickly from a word you were reading to a memory clear as day. Who of us doesn't know what that feels like to realize how drastically we have altered our course? Or perhaps the awareness comes later, when we see only in hindsight what we've done. Maybe your mistakes weren't big, or maybe by some grace you missed the consequences; in which case I'm not really writing this one for you. This is probably for the others; those who are struggling to stand in the corner they've painted themselves into; those who don't remember what they've done - because to remember is to admit, and to admit is to collapse entirely.

This ties in so wholly with what I have been trying to come to terms with myself; whether there are safe places for the worst parts of who we are. There has to be, and if there aren't, we need to find that safety. The most dangerous thing about error is the innate desire within each of us: to cover it up and keep it to ourselves. Shame is a bigger motivator than we want it to be; solitude, more than any action, is the real soul killer. If only you could tell someone, then perhaps you wouldn't feel so swallowed up. I don't know that pain was meant to be kept a secret.

Jeannie Lynn Paske's Obsolete World

...and this is exactly where my thoughts stop. I really don't know how to go any further on this subject just yet. It's as if there's too much to deal with, or swallow, or sort through. Pain, the keeping of pain, the gravity of feeling it alone...there are so many facets here, and they change from person to person. Beyond "don't hide from it", I have nothing else to say. Maybe this annoys you. Maybe you're mad at me for bringing up your pain in the first place and then leaving it, all dangley and protrudey in front of your face like that. You're right; it isn't fair to leave you here. Keep reading.

"In stories, characters only change in crisis. Characters never, ever change when the story is going well. And of course the same is true with life. Pain is always an invitation to grow. Sadly, pain also has the opposite affect. If we cover over our pain with coping mechanisms, it’s as though we are going through a workout without gaining muscle. Some people do this for years and never grow...In stories and in life, pain is our friend. It’s an unwelcome friend, but a friend nonetheless. The good news is if we make friends with our pain, it won’t stay long and it will leave us with a gift. But if we avoid pain, it will chase us down until we finally accept the gift it has to offer." - Donald Miller (read the entire article here)

Even though Donald is wise and addresses the issue head on - that we can't avoid pain, though we may try - I still feel the subject warrants a million more conversations. Why do some people cope by forgetting? Why do some refuse to cope? Why is it that some turn to an others-focused self righteousness instead of admitting their own faults, while some stay slumped in the guilt of their own admission (or a heartbreaking mix of both)? And how do you free someone who doesn't see they are living as though their mistakes were it? Or, can you force someone to heal; so they get on with it, so they grow past the decades old decisions that have snared them.

Jeannie Lynn Paske's Obsolete World

I still don't know.

What I do know is this. Hiding because of what you've done is the fastest way to drain the purpose out of being alive. We are human, therefore, we err. Your mistakes are yours, yes, but they are not as unique as you think they are. Admitting fault does not make you less human; it makes you moreso. There is no shame-source worth the trade in for an entire life and all your giftings. I may not know how to encourage you to bridge the gap between your mistakes and your moving on from them, but I do know that you need to try. Forgiveness is only powerful when we use it, and it is meant to be used, so use it; on yourself. Grace cannot be properly extended by a person who has not given grace to their own misgivings - if you can't truly forgive yourself, how can we believe that you truly forgive us when we fail? If you hold on to pain, you are not the only one being held captive; we all are. So please, do us all a favor, and forgive yourself. Let those who love you in to the pain you feel; this is one of the reasons we love you.

thank you

2011-11-11T07:00:00.000-08:00

for our freedom, we are grateful.

cozy

2011-11-08T06:40:00.000-08:00

www.pinterest.com - cozy

I can hear my blankets from here.
"...come back, love" they sigh sweetly;
lying helpless
as they reel from my too-early departure.
Their calls tempt me with the knowledge that they
are warmer than my desk chair, softer
than my office walls,
and more welcoming than any of the arms
I'll see today.

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ready yourselves; ready your souls.

2011-11-03T21:21:00.000-07:00

It's true what you've heard, and if you haven't heard it: it's still true. Mumford & Sons is releasing a new album in February 2012. I am sitting here listening to/watching the debut video of their song "Ghosts (we knew)". Hands on cheeks, heart a-sighing, ears in peaceful gladitude; oh Mumford.

If you want to hear this song, and the others that have been released early online, go here, to Sharelle's blog. She did the work of listing the links all in a row for you. How nice! At the very least, you have got to listen to "Lover of the Light"...wait. It might be best if you listen to all of them.

Hey...remember that time I stood less than 5 feet from Marcus? Me too.

candy calm

2011-11-01T13:50:00.000-07:00

happy halloween - pinterest.com

One year ago today, you may remember that I was jostled (jostled!) while shopping for Candy. My rookie mistake was that I went at 8am. Everyone goes for 50% off candy at 8am. This year, I got smart. I phoned the store in advance to check what time they opened. 6am. I got there 5 minutes early. I waited outside the doors in the dark and cold of fall, eyeing the dozen-and-a-half-or-so patrons that had gathered there before me. I realized upon arrival that this was serious business; if you want to get yourself some 50% off Halloween candy, you've got to treat that candy like a Cabbage Patch Doll or IPod26 and get your butt to the store on time....nay, before time even has a chance to start.

Pleasantly, I did not get jostled at all this year. Nary a glance or limb came my way as each of those present had their eyes on chosen favorites - the old man who seemed to favor chips, for example, or the teenage boys who had cleared the entire ROCKETS shelf into their basket. Personally, I beeline for the mini Caramilks and the Reese Peanut Butter Cups; I even managed to score a 270lb bag of mini Tootsie Rolls - all for the scant price of twelve dollars. There was only one small moment of tension, as an otherwise classy-looking lady stared me in the eye and pushed her cart into the exact spot I was standing (the silent, grocery store aisle version of "move, bitch") - but thankfully, I am swift on my feet and sidestepped her anxiety on time.

Now all I need to do is eat massive amounts of protein, so I don't get diabetes from all the sugar I'll be eating. Don't worry, I share.

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the remarkable thing about being human

2011-10-30T12:27:00.000-07:00

'safe' - www.pinterest.com

The remarkable thing about being human is that the admission of such a state brings the other humans out of the wood work. Get any one person alone and safe, and there you’ll find the truth: they are human too. But out in the bigger world, you’d never know it. We all have shiny hair and friends and are happy-and-you-know-it. In large groups and public forums, our connections are often surface level: humor, agreeable beliefs, similar hobbies and like interests. While these things aren’t bad – in fact they are very good and I would even say they are necessary forms of connection – they aren’t as sticky as the bonds that are formed with honest confessions of failure, of love and genuine friendship. I often find myself gazing quizzically at Happy Façade, wondering why it still has strength to stand when there are so many obvious cracks in the idea. One on one, we’re honest. Why then, can’t we be honest with the world?

The trick as I’ve learned it is that safe venues for truth are limited and scarce. I once belonged to a community that was both welcoming and humble, until I cracked. I realized upon my breaking that I no longer fit the picture – my façade was off in a breeze somewhere, and I was left in the middle of The (overcrowded) Standard, bare bones and dirty soul a-showing, wondering where my friends went. In short? My safe place was not safe at all, it had only seemed that way. Oh, I could stay in the group if I wanted to, if I cleaned up my act, apologized for disrupting the peace, and practiced my glimmering speeches. To maintain the relationships, to continue receiving the elusive Good Opinion, to keep hearing “Welcome!” at the door, I’d have to dash madly after my façade, and put it sharply back in place. Poetic language aside: to stay there, I would have had to fake it.

And therein begs the question: what do we do with the daily pressure to do what The Group thinks we should? What would they do if they knew the truth; that we not only fell below the norm, but chose to live against it? I was speaking awhile ago with a friend of mine who lives in a beautiful Suburbia with her husband…and no children. The pressure upon the childless to have children is like the pressure on the single to wed, is like the pressure on the unholy to repent: silent, but pressing; subtle, but fully there. She knows and I understand her; that eventually, something’s gotta give. Next was raised a valid and haunting question: if I never fit here, will I have to leave?

'safe' - www.pinterest.com

Like it or not we are still, at large, afraid of things that are different. More specifically: of people that are not like us. That person does not believe what I do; this person does not have the same lifestyle; their choices are not choices that I would make. We like it when the people we like are like us. The fear of difference may not always exhibit itself as hatred, but rather: an odd mix of incapacitation and haphazardly naive instructions. I do not know what to do with this person’s decisions; therefore, I will keep myself apart from who they are and offer my salacious wisdom instead. One of my best friends, having been married for a good number of years, was given this sharp disapproval from a woman she hardly knew: “You’re waiting too long to have children.” Her response in the moment was a turn of the heel and a quick walk away, but later she confessed to me how much that comment had hurt her. “She doesn’t even know me. What if I can’t even have kids?” Incredible that the woman would blindly storm the gate with her opinion, rather than deal with her own discomfort that my friend had not borne children ‘yet’. It’s much easier, after all, to tell someone what we think of them without paying attention to who they are.

With all my quizzical glances at Happy Façade, there have been just as many if not more at the abuse of unpublic knowledge. The fly in the ointment of confession is that it is right to be afraid of where we’ll land when we come clean. The more honest I have been on afterthoughts, and in my day-to-day conversations, the more I have come to see that I’m not the only one practicing my dance steps. Most everyone I know balks at at least one of the standards: no kids, no husband, no career goals, no religion. Pick whichever one you’d like, and you’ll be doing some mighty fine footwork on the way to sorting yourself out. The goal is not to lie, but rather, to avoid getting burned. Or can we hope for as much? Will it always be important to be a checkmark on someone else’s list? Or will we, at some point, get to dance for the right reasons?

'safe' - www.pinterest.com

In regards to my friends and their children or lack of children, singleness or lack of singleness, faith or confusion, the only consolation I can offer you is that the journey is yours and you have to make it so. Part of figuring out what you want in life involves uncomfortable interactions with people who are self-appointed-sages on all-things-you. But take heart: the other part of the journey involves actually figuring out what you want, and becoming strong enough to be strong and honest about it, even in the tightest of corners. Eventually, something will give. Either you stay and grow, or leave and do the same; I’ve done both and seen benefit and strength come from each. My rule of thumb is that staying is for my human-self, and leaving is for when I’m not allowed to check my Happy Façade at the door. So far, it’s worked out well.

If I’ve learned anything from falling apart in view of the public, or quietly disclosing my humanity to one, or finding hearts that do not need to be the same as mine to welcome me in, it’s that Love is a better place to land than judgment. Let our familiarity as humans not be found in the likeness of our decisions, but in the likeness of our states, as messy, beautiful people. What a comfort it has been to meet and know those who do not require a makeshift shittogetherness for entry. It is my hope that I would be the same kind of place for others.

finally, a new Hyperbole!

2011-10-30T09:24:00.000-07:00

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as usual, the girl is right on point; and frickin hilarious to boot. Ladies and gentlemen: the new hyperbole.

how to break stuff; how to fix it

2011-10-26T00:28:00.000-07:00

I'm sitting here trying to think of a first sentence. My midnite snack is a mini bowl of butterscotch chips and a giant mug of Neo Citran; proof that I'm drawn toward opposing forces, even in the small things. It's a weird thing I've done you know - set myself up in a way for a really awkward silence-break. I tried to ease things off with terrible cake, although let's be honest, that cake hardly counted as 'easy'. How can someone announce that they are taking hiatus to fix themselves, and then come back unfixed? The whole-self-fix is not only unlikely, it's kind of silly. I suppose that's what I've realized during this month of stepbackitude: I'm not entirely fixable. Or maybe it's better to say it this way: I'm not fixable in my entirety. Next comes the oddly suprising truth: I'm okay with that. I'm not totally sure I need to be totally 'fixed'.

The past four days have been largely spent on this same kitchen chair, staring at this same laptop, watching the previously unseen Sex and the City series, from square one. I moved recently (timed perfectly with my bloggy silence, actually), and although I should be unpacking the boxes I find myself staring at them from across the room between episodes. I briefly relocated earlier this afternoon, and organized my bathroom cupboards to the tune of SJP's imitation of neurosis, slowly putting things in my cabinets during the conversational pauses. I've wondered if I have things in common with her, or if I'm just allowed to hate her tendencies. She's a writer, and she stole my habit of narrating life in her head all day as if she were writing a column. Aside from this singular commonality, I have developed over the course of the week a lengthy exegesis on why I think SATC is perhaps the reason for disillusionment among women about relationships and general expectations from life. It isn't real by any stretch; nor is it realistic. But, as it stands, watching these characters interact with and sabotage their own lives has got me thinking about my own approaches and quirks, as if I hadn't been doing that already.

I have not discovered anything new about myself this quiet month, but I have re-discovered some of the old things. A good friend of mine recently described the call she feels in her spirit to head "homeward" - back to who she is instead of who her rushing calendar and peers expect her to be. In this conversation I found comfort, as I too have been trying to figure out how to become unlost in the muss of everyday business, to be purposeful in quiet time; to figure out for the fifty-seventh time how to be me, down to the root. Of course there are distractions - loaned DVD TV series, shopping lists and meal planning. There are good friends, new kitchens, and limited bank accounts. Add to that: monumental thought processes that start at birth and finish...sometime. At the end of it all, whether it be finances or faith that wobbles my course, I'm still left sitting at the table, eyeing the boxes, narrating my life. Not much has changed about me even though much has changed around me, and I feel at peace about it. I'm starting to wonder if I should be as insistent on changing myself as I have been. Or if, like my good friend, I should spend more time here, settled in my heart: home.

Or am I the only one addicted to renewal? What is it about a switch in habit that makes us feel good about ourselves? What is it about the receipt tally that makes us feel like we've accomplished something? We could make all the cakes, buy all the cute teal frying pans and organize a world's worth of living spaces, but this alone won't fill it. Whatever 'it' is; that hole that propels us forward, each in our own way. I know a girl that lives to be complimented, though I'm not sure even she realizes this is true. I know another someone who has good eyes until a mirror comes into view. Whatever the vice, I certainly wish we each - as uniquely as we shape our hesitations - could stop living as if the holes were... it.

I am still learning how and where to set boundaries, and I have (as we all do) a list of experiences to help me draw those lines. But I know something now that I'm not sure I really knew a month ago: I am not my drawn-line slip-ups or busted fences; nor am I my cluttered mind, unpacked boxes, or perpetual list of to-do's. No, I am not each of those things; I am all of them at once, and I'm the good things too. Maybe the world will change, or my house will change, or my certainty of wealth or status-quo-perfectitude will change, but whatever comes I can be sure I'll make it through; because I am me, right down to the root.

it's just a cake. or two.

2011-10-14T22:46:00.000-07:00

this should hardly be my next post. but it is. if you're wondering, I will not be bringing a cake to the company cake walk tomorrow.

the worst part is? I was actually trying.
best part? haven't laughed this hard in a long time.

today is ashley's birthday

2011-09-25T20:39:00.000-07:00

Well actually, last week. My birthday was last week + a few more days before that. So maybe it's odd to point out my own birthday, especially as it is belated, but I have been thinking a lot in my recent bloggy silence, and most of that thought has to do with the dates on the calendar, and the age that I've just become, and the days that made this year up - and at the end of that: who I am because of it.

As I counted the days of 2011, I realized that I could tell you about this year with wholehearted sarcasm, if I wanted to. In fact, just this morning my pillow and I constructed a lengthy blog post about the ironic bitch 2011 has been. But I decided that classy women don't swear in public, and they certainly don't complain at length, so I am biting my tongue and eating my repressed feelings in the form of Cheesies and ice cream cake (though, not together). Oh, I am also not writing. You may have noticed. If you didn't notice, don't tell me; 2011 also deconstructed a lot of things and I will joke about you in public to make myself feel better.

Anyway.

This birthday marks a decade - and in that, a decade of endless decision that I'm going to write books; that my voice will matter and that this world will unfold for me and my pen like a willing oyster filled with open doors. I imagined that I would feel accomplished in my own right by now, or at least have a morsel of my proverbial shit together. Instead what I've encountered is writers block, blank pages, stupid boyfriends, stagnant ideas, and bad advice. I don't know how to stop tripping, or being alarmed by the fact that I trip, or being shocked that the general public are excited to walk on doormats.

I don't know how to write about life when it's inmyface; I don't know how to not write about myself. Poor phrasing, I suppose, as all writers write from their own perspective. But I have left behind the desire to share my thoughts with the world. At least, for now. The reality of the decade is looming, in more ways than one. I am feeling the need to withdraw to a place devoid of public scrutiny. Maybe then I won't get random text messages telling me I talk about ________ (insert topic) too much and must be a desperately sad person, or emails that spell out certain Bible passages at length, or a growing list of advisers giving advice on things they were neither invited nor qualified to give. Maybe people will stop reminding me of all the ways I am not meeting the status quo. My biggest hope, even more than those, is that I will figure out a way to stop caring so much that these people exist at all; that they see what I put out there and define me first, without bothering to know. I need to figure out a way to stop caring.

Luckily for me, New Year's comes in September; when the leaves change, when the air gets crisp, when my life gets a little older. In so many ways, my birthday this year was a needed catapult to changing winds. I am ready to shed this decade and start a new one; I am ready to leave these past few years on the pinboard of "times I pulled the short straw". And until I can write about something good, I won't be writing. I have made myself into someone that cares what people think and the wrong people know it. I accommodate beligerance on my behalf, absorb rudeness, and tie my responsive mouth shut.

I don't want to write because I don't want to give myself out like that anymore; at least until I know where the boundaries are, so I can tell people to fuck off if they're getting too close, because I don't know how.

Oops. There goes my class.

Maybe this is the good thing about the decade mark: it's time to do a little housekeeping, define myself for a change; take my heart off the dartboard. Happy birthday to me.

i would rather be

2011-09-01T10:01:00.000-07:00

what it feels like at sunset

2011-08-23T18:04:00.000-07:00

.
I got a call today from a member of my past.
He asked too many questions; I asked none.
This conversational imbalance pleased me so;
as if I’ve grown up, or become what he tried
to stop me from becoming: stronger.

I left the house he built for me today; I’ve left before,
but this was my long awaited last look
at the shallow ceilings, upturned floorboards, dusty books.
I don’t miss it here, in silence; I don’t miss
the suffocating grip of wanting something bad for me,
of pleasing someone bad to me, of being held
by the eyes of others that do not care, but care to judge.

The front door and the ring hold no curb appeal;
they were not worth the trade in: my whole self,
for something much less me. The air out here is sticky
with the welcoming heat of evening; the sun makes lines
and points to golden tree branches and floating bits of cotton;
it beckons me home.

I miss home.

When I was young there was a Voice that called me lovingly
from morning time to noon, from afternoon to evening.
I cannot find the Voice, but I am leaving; there is nothing
(no empty space, no chain, no silent direction) that could keep me
living placidly among the weeds, waiting to die, waiting
for a hand to save me. I am leaving by myself to save me.
You can keep your lofty hand; I am looking for one less clean,
less allergic to the soil beneath my feet.

The caving roof creaks; this old place knows that I am breathing.
Perhaps I owe it a word or two before I go, an offering of thanks,
a measure of condolence for the misery in which it could not keep me.
The poison in the walls has purged the poison in me; I can not be mean,
because I know what it feels like. I cannot oppress because it hinders
my own gracious freedom. I have been made grateful for the raindrops
and the chance to dance between them. My voice stands stronger
when I speak or sing than when I keep the words in;
.
to this old place I owe at least a small bit of gratitude,
for teaching me who I am,
and for teaching me who I am not.
.

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on why I've been avoiding you

2011-08-23T11:24:00.000-07:00

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Oh, good sweet Lord. You know what I just realized? It’s almost September. You know September marks the beginning of fall right? The last part of the year? Meaning…the year is almost over? Hot damn.

Yah, sure, I should have noticed this earlier – like you think maybe I would have noticed that the year was passing by me when the months did; march, may, august. Gulp. September?

…I didn’t really notice.

When I was little, one of my favourite things to do was roll down the giant slopes of Connaught Hill, and catch grass in my ponytail and pockets. What I didn’t realize back then was that the sensation feels quite differently when the hills are proverbial and seemingly endless and I am an adult – shouldn’t I have stopped rolling down hills by now? 2011 has been a giant stumbletumbletrip to the landing pad I’m hoping shows up soon (say, in September?). End over end, and I can’t quite catch my footing. You’ve probably noticed that for quite some time now I’ve avoided concrete thought. Nearly everything I’ve written could be paraphrased this way “Don’t ask. I don’t want to write about it” or “trala-laaa lalala!”

There are reasons for this; reasons I won’t fully explain now, because quite honestly, they’re still a little too fresh to use as writing material. The thing about being a writer is that personal experience is the perfect material, unless of course, the experiences are a little…too personal. I know that I will write in detail about this year at some point in the future. Maybe next year. For now, perhaps a summary will do.

I just read through many of this year’s posts; reliving the memories of where I was at each point, and feeling twinges of “oh, sweetheart, you have no idea what’s coming.” This year was marked with a decent sized list of bad decisions, some of which I made myself. The most painful ones, though, were made by others in regards to me. It is this second group of inflictions that have left me reeling. I’ve learned to compliment myself for leaving abusive relationships – this means I'm strong, right? – yet the tumbling comes as I wonder how not to wear or carry what was left at the ends. I have good days and bad days. I’ve learned much about myself, and I’ve learned who my friends are, which in every way makes this year worth it. Though the sifting was difficult, at least it seems to be over for now. (Dear Jesus, please let it be over).

Much of my time as of late has been spent in the recovery of hibernation, and I’ve been ruminating like mad about the point of it all: life, pain, choices; strength. All this thinking has helped me realize that I feel quite lucky: because I was strong enough; because I still have the ability to look forward, I have better friends than I realized, and thankfully, I still have hope in my eye. That’s the funny thing about being treated like someone else; it helps you realize who you are.

So if the first part of this year has been spent wondering where the ground went, I am hopeful that the last part of this year will be spent admiring the soil. It may look different than I was expecting, but I will have never been more thankful for the feel of cool earth on my cheek than I will be when September and the stillness finally hit.

Oh lord, let the stillness hit.
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distance, peace

2011-08-23T09:43:00.000-07:00

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to write I'd have to tell you where my heart's at,
how I feel and what I think about the issues;
and the truth is, I don't want to.

I want to keep the walls up
– at an arm's length –
so my pretend strength won't be seen for the cracks
that mark its fabled corner of possession.

now the mortar, brick by brick, builds thick
and keeps the dogs out, keeps the monsters at bay;
that space keeps the best away, too.

maybe I'm alone in here, but at least my secrets are safe
in here, no friend could betray in here; no two faces could
lie and say they love me.

I am at peace here.
But I still don't want to write it.
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starty

2011-08-19T14:44:00.000-07:00

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At coffee with a long lost friend a few weeks back, I mentioned that - after the chaos of my spring - I wasn't going to do anything too "starty" in the summertime. It took me a few days to realize the following necessary facts:

#1. Summer is nearly almost over. You just didn't notice it because June was a whiny girl.
#2. Hello my name is Ashley, and I am addicted to starty-ness.
#3. I've got so many loose ends on the go, my life could easily be compared to a rootless head of hair. Or some equally as rediculous analogy.

Vis a vis, the following: in an ever increasing attempt to get some ground beneath my feet, I have decided that I should start my finishing here, on the blog. Tie up a few of the open ends (there have been many, you probably just forgot about them). I actually have a running list in my head of all the things I need to update you on, but I forget what those things are right now, so I can't tell you what they are. Oh, wait, there was that one thing.

Remember that time I pulled a novel out of my ass? Over two and a half years ago, for those of you that lost count. Over two and a half years ago, for those of you that are wondering why I'd ever call myself something as made-up as 'starty'.

So anyway. The book's not done yet. But Take Heart! I have done the oh-so-necessary read through and overhaul, and my only task now is to sit down and re-arrange the document on the computer. I need to tweak the sentences that need tweaking (there were a lot of them), put the paragraphs in order, and print it out for the perusal of all interested parties. I feel compelled to say again that it won't be a good book, but it will be a book [insert trumpet fanfare] which totally counts for something.

Okay maybe that wasn't a very finishy announcement, seeing as I'm not actually finished the book yet (potato potato?) -- but in any case, it's an update, which is more than I can say for anything else on the growing list.

image source: http://www.sophieblackall.com/

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everybody's got a body...but does everybody have a brain?

2011-08-17T14:49:00.000-07:00

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doubtful.

...don't take that comment personally. It was directed at me.

Created by: Online Nursing Schools

the rights of passage

2011-08-07T11:34:00.000-07:00

photo source: http://i-spill-kisses-with-love.tumblr.com/

It's a ridiculous idea I suppose, but I’m thinking about planning a party – a gala event, if you will. For? Me. Like a wedding without the wedding. A friend of mine did something similar a few years back. On her 30th birthday, she had a bridal shower for herself instead of a birthday party – minus, of course, that “bridal” part. She was moving provinces, and instead of bearing the load on her own, she registered at Crate & Barrel. My own party idea is similar – minus, of course, that “bridal” part: I want to wear a gown and don a diamond ring and have everyone I love in the same room, for the sole purpose of celebrating our relationships, and sending me onward into life. Even if “onward” means in the same spot; even if “life” means happy solitude.

When I was younger, I didn’t give much secondary thought to weddings, other than -of course- happy cheer for the couple getting married. Weddings seemed common (they are), normal (still are), inevitable (…oh). I went through each wedding day expecting that I’d follow suit at some point, taking mental notes and admiring details; silently making a list of ideas for my own “one day someday”. Now that I’m older and I’ve become a woman quite at peace with my independence, I have begun to view weddings much differently. I no longer want the wedding – I just want the party. But this begs the question: can you even have the party without the wedding? Or will this bring on a glorious amount of labels and stigma cementers? Could I host this kind of a party for myself without feeling like a giant, self-centered ass?

I attended a marriage celebration last night; the first ceremony and reception I’ve attended since my change of heart about matrimony-as-a-goalset, and I admit the day felt quite different than it has in the past. The wedding was beautiful, the marriage sweet, the day spectacular; but as I admired the dress and the decorations and listened to the speeches, I felt saddened somehow. I felt like I was missing out on something good by desiring the life I currently have, instead of the life I’m supposed to want. If only I wanted to get married, then I might know how much people care, how happy people are for the life I’m leading; I, too, might be cared for in practical ways. I too might understand how deeply I am loved. I vocalized this thought to a friend at my table, and inquired aloud whether or not I would get to have speeches like this made about me if I never get married. Her response was honest and true and I knew it: “Sure you will,” she said. “At your funeral.”

photo source: spottr.hu

I am not complaining about my life or the people in it (I am blessed, and I know it), but rather, I am saying this as a form of observation: the rites of passage are only rights to those making certain passages; for those in the minority, those rites aren’t rights at all.

Obviously, the rite of getting married is reserved for those who get married. But what about the other ‘rites’? The celebration of life, the gifts, and in my mind the most enviable of all: the father-daughter speech. Do you want to know the real reason I get misty-eyed every time a father-daughter speech gets made? I’m jealous. I know my dad loves me, but I still want a speech. And I want it while I’m wearing a beautiful dress, and a ring I did not buy for myself, in a room full of people that are going to compliment me all day.

This is a risky announcement, I admit; that the only reasons I want a wedding have absolutely nothing to do with the actual wedding part; reasons that - based on their admission alone - make me sound rather pretentious. But I still can't help but wonder: do I really have to wait until I’m dead to celebrate my life on a grand scale?

You know, I think I’ll plan that party after all.
...I’ll let you know where I register.

shortness of breath

2011-08-04T20:18:00.000-07:00

There are moments unequivocal, that remind the soul of it's wealth at being here, on earth, and breathing. Those moments are unique though, in that they also remind us how quickly we could take our leave; life is short, and decisions ought to be made as if this fact were true.

It was a regular morning - up early, but not early enough to fit breakfast in with the getting ready. So I stopped at the Timmy's by my office before work; on a budget, but a two dollar cheese bagel would do. As I pulled up and parked my car between two yellow lines I couldn't help but notice that his sign said "hungry" somewhere near the bottom of the scrawl. He, sitting on the curbside and I, heels clicking as I walk over connect eyes and decide that breakfast time deserved breakfast - could I get him anything? A desperate voice emerges with urgent pleas for "anything with meat...I'm starving".

With the bagel and the breakfast sandwiches in hand I walk over to the man and hand him a very small token of humanity (what is one breakfast in 365?). His profuse thanks is jarring and I feel the drive-through line up boring holes between my shoulder blades. If you feed him breakfast, he might return, and I might eventually be made to feel guilty; how dare you.

While I'm feeling the heat on my back he asks a simple question, "Why are people so judgemental?" He tells of the woman who only yesterday scolded him for being on drugs and jobless; not before she marched off to her riches in her thick cloak of disdain. "I've never done drugs" he says defensively. "You think I want this life? You think I can apply for a job when people don't even want to look at me?"

I am stopped by his inquisition, and offer the words my mirror has told me with plentiful occasion: "You can't wear the judgement, it's not yours to keep. It doesn't have to define you," and then I add words that feel awkward but right, "I believe things will turn around for you soon," though I don't know if this is true.

His eyes are bright and blue and they choke with hope and his outstretched hand meets mine. Have a good day, we both wish for the other. The space between my car and I gets smaller as the air I breathe gets clear and heavy-scented with ideas. I find myself wondering if we've had it wrong this whole time, if monitoring morality is actually not the whole of the point, and if, perhaps, Jesus' eyes are actually blue.

I have been shown mercy and I have been in need of it; I have been in need of it and not received it. Which is better? - of course we know. Why then, do we insist on holding our graces too far above the heads of the ones in need? Should we not, as an echo to the sound of our lives so far, give mercy?

timing issues

2011-07-30T14:05:00.000-07:00

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I've been so inspired and motivated in the past few weeks to write some really profound and beautiful things about life and beauty and mercy and other various sundries that might make you sigh and think wistfully or nod your head or wonder aloud to your spousey-poo or roommate about the joys and delights of the blogsphere.

Problem is, I happen upon these ideas and moods-to-pen-the-ocean when my head is sinking gratefully into my pillow late at night, or when I'm in my car on the way to work (for this one, I could blame Bon Iver).

So instead of actually writing about these things, I'll just tell you that I'm thinking about these things, because at least, then, you'll know I've been thinking.
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to the young leaders at Utoeya

2011-07-24T10:09:00.000-07:00

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This seems silly to write in a way; as if there’s anything to be said; as if I could find words for the situation (after all, great sadness steals vocabulary). But there was a thought that struck me over and over as I read the news, and I think it warrants a mention.

Norway. Of course you know what I’m talking about. I have been trying to process the stories from the past few days and I keep coming up with blank spaces in my head as I stare at my keyboard, wondering if my fingers will find the words my brain can't. I simply don’t know what to do with this information. It is, in every way, tragic.

Specifically, I have been thinking about that island of young leaders and how their lives will be shaped by what happened. I have been thinking about the reasons they went to Utoeya in the first place, the reasons they are involved in politics and culture and the kinds of ideas they have to effect change as they go. I am thinking about them, and hoping these ideas and aspirations are not lost as they move forward. It sounds so cliche to say that these young people are the future but in this case, they actually are the future leaders of that country, and perhaps (likely) of a lot of other things as well.

To the young leaders at Utoeya: we still need you.

It is my hope and prayer that you will heal – and then, over time – allow yourself to lead once more.
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deconstructing the myth: meaning

2011-07-23T11:09:00.000-07:00

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I’m not quite sure what to pin this on – pop culture, society, belief systems or good old fashioned overanalyzing – but there is something in me that always felt pressured to ascribe meaning to everything; and I do mean everything. Was I raised this way? Did the Bible tell me so? Have I watched too many movies? Hard to say.

I’m tempted to throw the rope around this pop-sage phrase: everything happens for a reason. But to press even further, that lasso could probably extend itself over traditional Evangelical indoctrination that everything happens because God either loves you or is disciplining you or has handed you over to Satan like a modern day Job. Run into an ex on a bad hair day? Miss your dream-college application deadline? Get sick? Or, did you win the lottery, lose the sinus infection, and marry up? Clearly, God and the Universe and all the Heavenly Host are trying to tell you something.

Here’s the problem with this theology (and though it isn’t entirely religious, I’m calling it theology anyway, for the simple reason that most people abide by this rule in some fashion…like theology): it leaves the interpretation of life’s events far too heavily in my own hands, and quite frankly, leads to bipolar and OCD-like tendencies in at least 98% of adults who abide by the rule* (*conjecture). Personally, I don’t want to live under the assumption that I can tell what God has up his sleeve, simply because today went really well or not and therefore I’m obviously in his favour or not. To un-relig this idea: maybe the Universe isn’t telling me anything. Maybe the Universe wants me to lighten the frick up and stop asking the Universe so many near-sighted questions. Maybe instead of reading the events of today like a horoscope, I should just get some rest, drink lemonade on a porch somewhere, call my mom; tell her who I just ran into and why that’s so darn funny.

sigh.

Do you want the truth? I don’t ascribe meaning to things anymore, and I haven’t for quite awhile now. The reason is this: according to that popular sage, God and the Universe are in on a Joke that seems to revolve around me. In fact, the more days I gather under my belt, the more I realize that they’re either laughing with snooty self-gratification at that poor little game piece named ashley, or, I’ve been completely misinformed. It took awhile to kick in, but eventually I stopped deciding to believe that I am a pawn in some cosmic game. Perhaps it was an act of self preservation and nothing more, but hey, it worked.

What I’ve discovered as a result of the string-cut is both freeing and unsettling. First, the freedom comes in the everyday, in the ability to just enjoy life, to laugh when things are funny or f’d up and then to move on like an adult. The unsettling bits come when that question still arises and I have no answer afterwards. ‘What does this mean?’ is now met with silence instead of practiced belief. Instead of basing my understanding of God on situational experience, I’m now forced to find a new way of seeing Him in my world, and I admit it’s not that easy.

But here’s the thing: I can’t go back. The days of interpreting the voice of God via the checklist of Must Haves are behind me (Dear Jesus: I believe you are bigger than my culture). I believe that life is just life; a series of good windows and solid walls in no particular order; a run of miscellaneous ups and downs. I have experienced 'love' from those whose only goal was to test me because they felt I didn't measure up, and I can tell you: that isn’t love. So when I think about life, this thinking begs the question: is God testing me, or has he simply given me the ability to learn? It must be concluded that if God is Love, and if love is truly not self seeking, then the latter is true: it is more important to focus on what I do with my days, than on what my days do to me.

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i knew it.

2011-07-23T07:32:00.000-07:00

..
"We Who Are Your Closest Friends"

by Phillip Lopate
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we who are

your closest friends

feel the time
has come to tell you
that every Thursday
we have been meeting
as a group
to devise ways
to keep you
in perpetual uncertainty
frustration
discontent and
torture
by neither loving you
as much as you want

nor cutting you adrift

your analyst is
in on it

plus your boyfriend

and your ex-husband

and we have pledged

to disappoint you

as long as you need us

in announcing our

association
we realize we have
placed in your hands
a possible antidote
against uncertainty
indeed against ourselves
but since our Thursday nights
have brought us

to a community of purpose

rare in itself

with you as

the natural center

we feel hopeful you

will continue to make

unreasonable

demands for affection

if not as a consequence

of your

disastrous personality

then for the good of the collective

(from At the End of the Day. © Marsh Hawk Press, 2010)

luminosity

2011-07-22T13:50:00.000-07:00

When asked,

"Do you think all any of us really want,
deep down, is to be loved?"
famed author and storyteller Garrison Keillor responded:

"No, we want to be rich; to be admired;
to eat like a horse and be skinny as a snake;
to have small children
ask for our autographs; to be on terrific medications
that make us calm and witty and sexy; to
sing Irving Berlin and Gershwin and Porter at the Oak Room
and be described in the Times as 'luminous'.

But in the absence of all that,
it's enough to be loved."

inaugural clientele, part two

2011-07-20T17:52:00.000-07:00

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Dear Anita,

What a fabulous imagination you must have; either that, or a fabulously imaginative life. Which is it?

I have begun to mentally process, and also visualize, the awe-inspiring idea you had for a commissioned drawing. As I am not one to understand sarcasm or its uses, I have taken you for rote. I will begin working on a picture of the multi-talented, multi-tasking mountain man as soon as I am able. Please do wait with baited breath until I have finished. I will let you know when I have finished.

Sincerely,

the artist.

PS. Because you are my first commissioned piece, I will draw and then send this to you free of charge! Please note that any future commissionings will come at the steep price of one dollar. Per drawing. Unless all the drawings are all on one page, at which point I will still charge you just one dollar.

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inaugural clientele

2011-07-20T17:41:00.000-07:00

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Dear Leah,

Thank you for your interest in my obviously beautiful artwork. Your (original!) prints of "poorly drawn bird", "poorly drawn horse", and "poorly drawn houseboat" have been sealed in an envelope and sent to you post-haste, in exchange for the dollar you promised was on its way.

Sincerely,

the artist.

PS. Any one interested in a print will be sorely disappointed, as I forgot to photocopy the pictures before I sealed the envelope.

i seem to be missing my rabbit ears

2011-07-15T12:46:00.000-07:00

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I can’t tell if its apathy or hesitation on my part, but this blog is likely going to continue on its most recent streak of empty caloric value. “I just don’t feel like writing” said the incapable toddler. I don’t want to put life into words right now, I don’t want to mark these ideas in ink; I don’t want to advertise the increasingly shallowing depths of my psyche (you wouldn’t approve). I do, however, want to eat my body weight in pasta and bathe in music and doodle incoherently. Vis a vis, the following: Remarkable Drawings in a Three Piece Set, seen below. Pen on paper. For sale: $100 each, or 3 for a dollar.

A picture is normally worth a thousand words right? So, by combining the supposed-word-value of these three remarkable drawings, you’d get at least…10 words apiece if you tried really hard (words like “wow” and “augh! my eyes!”) – which would make for at least 30 words in total, which is kind of the same as a short love poem or a detailed ode to sock bunnies (max requirement for sock bunny odes: 30 words)...which kind of equals a blog post.

...I hope I have demonstrated to you, at least in part, why I am not writing anything down at the moment. With that, you may now stop your head from spinning and admire my beautiful artwork.
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beeeeeeeee....

2011-07-07T10:42:00.000-07:00

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the scale of radical hotness

2011-06-27T14:39:00.000-07:00

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So, if you are in a restaurant, walking past a table, and there are two men your age at that table watching you intently as you go by, and as you pass you hear one of them say to his friend, "yah, I'd say she's about a 4.5" ...are you to assume they mean "out of 10 and therefore just makes it past the 'bar of below averageness'"? Or do you take the positive route, and assume they meant "4.5 out of 4.5 on a scale of radical hotness"? I know which one I'm supposed to pick, but it doesn't mean I like it.

Dear,
men who evaluate women in public
(because we ALL know you do it):

talk quieter.

lines

2011-06-25T14:54:00.000-07:00

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I like vacuuming more than the other chores. I especially like it when the vacuum leaves lines in the carpet; I like to make abstract nonsensical patterns and I like quick, visible improvement. I do not like emptying the bag or filter or removing the grey matter that gathers on the bristles. I do not like it when the spiders stay alive on their way up the tube. I like playing the music louder than the machine and I like to dance around the living room on the un-lined bits of carpet. I do not like it when people mess up the lines before I am finished making them.

I do not have a carpet, or a vacuum (or a house of my own) but I felt the need to document my feelings anyway; to remind myself that I do like some things and I do not like some other things and though it may make me peculiar to have mentioned it at all, at least it makes me a someone that knows what not or what I want. Some days, that is the most important distinction.
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the end of something is the beginning of something

2011-06-15T20:12:00.000-07:00

i am okay, and i will be.
(i am sure of it. almost)
there are braver words to be spoken;

there are better days to be had.
but when love (whatever we've decided "love" is)...
when love ends
there is not much else to do but
drink tequila in the afternoon
cheer on your losing hockey team
walk in the sunshine
and think of all the ways love hurt you.

love is not love if it is selfish,
it is not love if empathy is far from hand.
love doesn't force or coerce or belittle
and yet
that is almost all i know of it.
(what then, should I not be glad?)

where is this love that builds?
i have heard of it,
but seeing is better.
i would like to see it; before
what's left of me believes what was left on me.

addressing the charges of my future self

2011-06-14T10:37:00.000-07:00

Dear Future Self,

You made it clear to me, and I have been thinking about what you said since first you said it. I can hear the phrase ringing around my head; taunting my perceptions, shuffling up my ideals.

I’m afraid of you, you know. Or, rather, I might just be intimidated ('afraid' is a pretty strong word). You know more than I do. The things you understand full well are the things I’ve yet to grasp; your favourite accomplishments are behind you – but the mountains it will take climbing to achieve still lie in front of me. You know more than I do; you’ve been places I have not, you’ve seen things I have yet to even picture. Your life is comprised of the results of my work; the ease with which you experience this world is an ease that came through the challenge of my tomorrow. So while you taste the sunlight and explore this earth, I sit quietly in an odd sort of penance; wondering where to go next.

You know my every move by heart (and I can only speculate what yours might be). The advantage of being you, Future Self, is that you’ve already been here. You know which decisions I should be making, and which way I should be making them. You love where I couldn’t, and stand strong where I fell down. You’ve learned from my mistakes. For me the learning is yet to come; at present I am required to quietly set myself into mistake making. How else will you learn? And how else will I, eventually at least, become you?

You are more than I thought you would be; bigger than even I have been predicting (and yet, smaller somehow, too). That glimpse was a little jarring, I admit, and have been thinking of what you showed me since you showed it. Your life doesn’t match any of my ideals, or any of my expectations, and yet it is the life…well, I think it is the life I want. Now I get selfish and ask: would You show me the rest of it? Mystery is exhausting, and Decisions can be daunting, and though I know both are required I am still in need of assistance – I am glued to the board; whether it be by fear or practice I’m not entirely sure. But I have heard the call and I know that I must move. How else will I learn? And how else will you, eventually at least, become you?

The next steps are hidden from my view and yet I know that I must make them. Can I borrow a bit of strength, and perhaps some clarity too? I know I’ll be okay because I’ve seen you – both your smile and your posture and I know life didn’t break you – why else would you call to me, and ask me to become you?

There are words that, in their whispering, halt the speed of any man.

stop playing small.

…who me? Am I to understand I’m not as perfect as can be?

Rise up, comes the challenge, ignoring pride. Even more

than the rising itself, perhaps, the challenge is to first

admit we are needing of a change. Once admitted,

(then) we see grace. Only then do we know

what it means to turn a page.

And once that page is turned, blank canvases await;

white spaces that invite

a change of pace.

The Author that, believed, will show His face,

hands out ink and freedom, and gives us the will to write.

Words take the form of days,

conversation, reaction (arrogance or humility?) and

the Human Opportunity to pass time well.

I hear the call, and must now decide what to do with it.

over

2011-06-13T16:32:00.000-07:00

Via: Engineering Degree

happy 2000

2011-06-08T16:49:00.000-07:00

So my friend Anita and I write emails at work a lot. Dear Boss, if you happen to be reading this: it's okay we get our work done. In fact, I would even say that writing Anita through the day keeps my mind alive, vis a vis, I am more productive in my work. It's true, I promise.

Anyway. Anita and I both work in cubicles in offices at computers, and we have been writing each other brief but daily "hello" and "guess what I did today that makes me super awesome" emails for that entire length of time; we're practically twins as it turns out (something we've discovered through years of story trading). Along the way, we've celebrated milestones. I believe we noticed our first milestone right around the 700 email mark - for one of our celebrations we even went to Milestones, which we both thought was pretty clever. We've also celebrated our email friendship at our respective houses with Lemon Liberte and older movies (anyone seen Greencard?).

This time, though, definitely ranks as my favorite celebrate-the-emails date.

[SIDENOTE: Thanks to DateBank for the plethora of good date ideas. Seriously, whether you're on a budget or you're simply uncreative, DateBank is the app you need!]

Through use of the app & some last minute use of our imaginations, we ended up going on a date that is pretty much going to go down in my history as the most fun date ever. I also feel I should point out that we spent a grand total of under $20 for the two of us for the entire evening. Happy 2000, friend.

How to have an awesome date on a budget:

First stop: the River Rock, where we each played $5 in the penny slots. Winner buys dinner...
Too bad we both lost.
Dinner is: courtesy of IKEA. All hail the 50 cent hot dog.

Next, park your car by the side of some road under the flight path of landing planes

at the airport. Put a blanket out on the hood, recline under the setting sun

and face upwards. Enjoy the views and volumes.

I did not zoom in for this picture, by the way.

Finally, if there’s some kind of an inside joke or reference-to-previum that you can muster up,

you should use it. Oh, and always include chocolate.

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the helplessness myth.

2011-06-06T14:51:00.000-07:00

I got called 'helpless' recently. To be fair, it was kind of true, and to be fairer, this person didn’t say I was helpless, but rather, that I sounded helpless; I suppose there’s a bit of a difference there...right? I admit the conclusion shocked me. I have been many things, and called much worse, but although I have been speechless, socially awkward, and wildly unequipped, I have never been or been called …helpless. So what gives?

To be honest, I have been acting a little crumbly as of late; falling apart at random, crying a lot, staring at the elliptical trainer while I eat all the brownies. Perhaps it was the move; or the things at work, or the time away, or the lack of solitary quietude; or perhaps it was the polar shift from March to May that has me grappling. Whatever it is, something’s amiss, and I’m certainly not dealing with it bravely. My eyes hurt. I want a nap. Someone bring me a cake.

I went to see a production of The Great Divorce this weekend, once because I had heard it was a wonderful production, twice because it swallowed me so wholly the first time. Though there are a million lines that stuck to me during each performance, there is one conversation that I am thinking of now, and I have included it below. I am thinking of it for myself and for people I know; thinking about ruts and regrets and grudges. I don’t want to become something undelightful, unholy, or unwhole. In other words, I hope there is always some me left to criticize the mood, or at least to enjoy it.

So then, what can I say about that difficult mirror of a conversation? I can say this: I am certainly not helpless, but I can choose it without noticing; either I survive on the empathy of others or I choose to appreciate it when at last it shows; that choice is only mine. The danger is not in the weak moment itself, but how long I dwell on my own insufficiency. And this is the thing about helplessness; the myth, if you will: it is not, in fact, as involuntary a state as the word itself suggests. Though the circumstances can explain it, they cannot take the blame for it. I am not helpless; I am stumbling.

If I am a bleeding heart, it is because I am alive. If I cry first and laugh later, then I thank God for laughter and for tears, and I thank him that I can feel. There are shifts in life that take time to adjust to, they may take energy to breathe through, but they are in their best and worst the moments that make up a life. Passed time is important, yes; but the days that make up the months are just as valuable as the months themselves and so we cannot ignore them. What is done today is important, and what I choose to speak is just as weighted; my words will in part define how people see me. That being said, I was reminded through that conversation that I need to watch my words more carefully, run to God more quickly, and hope more incessantly. If I feel helpless, I can be thankful it is only a feeling and not a reality. I solemnly refuse to become....a grumble.

from The Great Divorce, pp. 75-78.

[Damned Woman, walking by, speaking quickly]: "‘Oh, my dear, I’ve had such a dreadful time, I don’t know how I ever got here at all. . . I made it perfectly plain because I knew what she was like and if I told her once I told her a hundred times. . . not after the way she’d treated me. . .I felt sure you’d tell me I acted rightly. . .'

The shrill monotonous whine died away as the speaker, still accompanied by the bright patience at her side, moved out of hearing.

‘I am troubled, Sir,’ said I, ‘because that unhappy creature doesn’t seem to me to be the sort of soul that ought to be even in danger of damnation. She isn’t wicked: she’s only a silly, garrulous old woman who has got into a habit of grumbling, and feels that a little kindness, and rest, and change would due her all right.’

-‘That is what she once was. That is maybe what she still is. If so, she certainly will be cured. But the whole question is whether she is now a grumbler.’

‘I should have thought there was no doubt about that!’

-‘Aye, but ye misunderstand me. The question is whether she is a grumbler, or only… a grumble. If there is a real woman—even the least trace of one—still there inside the grumbling it can be brought to life again. If there’s one wee spark under all those ashes, we’ll blow it till the whole pile is red and clear. But if there’s nothing but ashes we’ll not go on blowing them in our own eyes forever. They must be swept up.’

‘But how can there be a grumble without a grumbler?’

-‘The whole difficulty of understanding Hell is that the thing to be understood is so nearly Nothing. But ye’ll have had experiences. . . it begins with a grumbling mood, and yourself still distinct from it: perhaps criticizing it. And yourself, in a dark hour, may will that mood, embrace it. Ye can repent and come out of it again. But there may come a day when you can do that no longer. Then there will be no you left to criticize the mood, nor even to enjoy it, but just the grumble itself going on forever like a machine. . .'”

Your Vancouver Plans: The Great Divorce

2011-06-03T11:09:00.000-07:00

You might have to hurry up on this one. Pacific Theatre is currently showing an adaptation of The Great Divorce by CS Lewis; the show runs until June 18. You want to buy tickets. You want to see it. You want your mind to go *poof!*

I’ve never actually read the book and did not know what to expect when I walked in the doors. Actually, I only kind of figured it was a book, and as we were watching the play I thought it sounded like it was probably a book, and after the play I turned to my lovely neighbor and said “this is a book, right?” However! I do not need to have read it to tell you that this adaptation is worth every one of the pennies you’ll spend on your ticket price. The characters are full and believable, sinking into their roles with panache and grace. The set design and the atmosphere are simple enough to let you imagine the rest, and detailed enough to let you know what you’re supposed to imagine. And the costumes are…well, they’re delicious (but I do have a penchant for almost anything made with tulle, so I could be a little biased on that one).

Riding the bus toward Heaven.
image taken from the Pacific Theatre Facebook page

"Every poet and musician and artist, but for Grace, is drawn away from the love of the thing he tells, to the love of the telling till, down in Deep Hell, they cannot be interested in God at all but only in what they say about Him"

— C.S. Lewis (The Great Divorce)

warming up in quiet

2011-06-01T09:54:00.000-07:00

welcome to the last day of your life

2011-05-21T09:57:00.000-07:00

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...no, I don't believe that today is the last day of the world as we know it. But of course, the hype and the humor surrounding the hype have got me thinking: what if it really was our last day?

As I have considered the idea of what it would be like to know it was our last day on this planet, I have realized that I wouldn't really do much to change my plans. I wouldn't run frantically to the airport for a last trip, I wouldn't empty my bank account, I wouldn't phone everyone I know. It's not because I know exactly what to expect when I die, and it's not because I'm regretless; it's because I'm not afraid of death (sorry, religious groups). I have discovered a profound truth in recent years: I am pleased with my life. Sure, there's been difficulty (most of it brought on by yours truly, fyi); and there's been sadness and misunderstanding and grief. But there's also been beauty, grace, joy, laughs and giggles, and the marvelous adventure found in the unknown and every day. My life so far has been lived to the fullest extent of the opportunities I've been given; and for that I am grateful. I haven't had the most brilliant life, but it has been brilliant enough for me.

So, Overzealous Religious Group, bring on your theories. I will not succumb to fear. Do you know why? Because I do not have anything to be afraid of. My faith is quieter than your faith and less prone to fear mongering, and I am okay with that. I can't pretend to know God (because who can truly know Him?), and I won't say I have figured out the end (or even the middle or the beginning) - because I haven't - but what I know is this: life on earth is beautiful because it is life; and I expect death to be no less purposeful. So, on second thought, you can keep your theories to yourself.

Should we herd people to our beliefs like overwrought cattle? No, I don't believe we should. We all have better things to do with our time, and I certainly have better things to do with my 'last hours' than to watch you walk around with your hastily constructed poster-board; things like laundry, perhaps, or wild attempts at organization in a room filled with boxes; and of course, there's always kissing. That's a pretty good way to end a world.

See you in the morning.

..

love and incidentals

2011-05-18T10:49:00.000-07:00

My thoughts today are filled with the awareness of how quickly life can change; how really, life is more beautiful and interesting (oh, so interesting!) than we sometimes give it credit for. More to come - I'm still processing. For now, I had to share this Incidental Comic. Those with a fondness for fonts will enjoy it best. I laughed out loud.

ps. I have not forgotten the pie. I will tell you all about the crappiness of my attempt... soon.

picking my outfit for the end of the world.

2011-05-16T15:49:00.000-07:00

Dear Jesus,

I have it on unreliable authority that you're coming for a visit this weekend? If you do come, this means you'll get to see my new shoes close up; they're so lovely. I'm picking them because I think they'll go quite nicely with Heaven, what with their eyelets and floral printing and overall whimsical nature. They're comfortable too - perfect for cloud dancing (if I could be so bold as to ask for a cloud dance with you).

I was thinking, if I get raptured, can you make sure to do it while I'm not driving? I'd hate for my car to veer off the road like that and hit someone; although I'm guessing you've thought these things through in advance. You are God after all, and from what I understand you have these things in your control; that, you know, I don't really need to worry.

There are so many things I want to talk to you about. I hope that with all those extra people arriving in Heaven that day, you'll still have time for me. Should I book an appointment? Or will you recognize me when I get there? Just look for the girl with the uncertain-I-should-be-here look on her face. Oh, and I'll be wearing those shoes. You can just look for those if you want to.

love,
ashley

ps. I just talked to Anita, and she would prefer it if you waited to come back until after the concert.
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of underarms and perfume samples.

2011-05-13T14:51:00.000-07:00

I just realized a short while ago that I forgot to put on deodorant this morning.

…how did I realize? I wondered what that smell was.

Turns out, that smell was me.
Easy remedy: quick jaunt to drugstore across the way to purchase emergency bar of deodorant. While there, feign interest in perfume, ask for samples. Leave the building to the privacy of vehicle. Place now-fragrant sample cards into bra-sides directly beneath the underarm area. Return to work, spend the rest of the day smelling half like Calvin Klein’s Euphoria and half like SJP’s Lovely. Compromise womanly mystery by posting this story on the internet.

misquote, diversion

2011-05-12T10:35:00.000-07:00

So, apparently when I said "tomorrow", I meant "whenever I get around to it." Coming soon: the tale of the pie failure. (did I just ruin the suprise?)

In the meantime, entertain yourself with this:

I believe my EXACT quote during the royal wedding was,
“Wow. It’s like a real life version of the ugly stepsisters.”

pie and taxes

2011-05-09T14:49:00.000-07:00

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It just so happens that my beautiful friend is my beautiful accountant is letting me pay her this year in the form of strawberry pie. After some schedule coordination, it was decided that tonight would be the night I would make it for her.

I really love to make: pie
On the shortlist of foods I could live off of with ease: pie

The best things in life are: pie

(my imaginative food-loving head is including “anything lined with pastry”, FYI).

Anyway, as if my evening wasn’t fun enough, guess what! A challenge has been put forward, via the good folks over at A Michelin and a Mom. What I understand of the challenge is this: I will make a strawberry pie and document the process and results, using photos and my rapier wit. Then, Mr Chef will do the same. My brain’s been spinning since this morning, figuring out how to make a pie better than a professional chef.

Good luck Ashley.

Results tomorrow.

(don’t worry Lavonne, I’m making more than one pie – one for you, and one for me the challenge. After all, what’s a pie challenge without a taste test?)

ashley, that's disgusting.

2011-05-06T16:19:00.000-07:00

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I'm sorry, I didn't mean to smit all over you.

I admit; I’m feeling the pressure these days to write something of consequence on here; it’s certainly been awhile since I formed a whole and meaningful thought driven post, hasn’t it? It might take awhile longer, too: at current, I’m sitting at my desk, composing some more bad drawings; trying to figure out how to make Manfriend a stickman without making him look wimpy and girlish. I drew a little five o’clock shadow; that helped. Call me crazy, but I actually think it looks like him.

What have I been thinking about lately? A million things: politics, personal futures, career goals, faith and of course: world peace. But the trouble with being an afterthought composer is that really: my most conclusive thoughts usually come…after. I expect that at some point, I’ll discover some new form of intelligent life in my head, but for now I hope you can bear with me as I settle into a life that is rapidly becoming unsettled (and in the same speed: becoming wildly exciting - even the question marks are bedazzled).

So while I sit over here and put hearts-in-the-form-of-cartoon-men onto the page, why don’t you go read this blog and regain your sense of Blog Reading Purpose? Recently discovered. As a wannabe Foodie, I am a huge fan. This blog is simply delicious.

a michelin and a mom

uh, YUM.

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it's true.

2011-05-06T09:23:00.000-07:00

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I stole this kitten picture from the place I steal all of them: gettyimages.com. Been there yet?

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350, bitches.

2011-05-05T15:17:00.000-07:00

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At my job this morning, I noticed (as I do every year around this time - which adds to the pleasure) the mass amounts of obvious mistakes I made at Year End last year. I then revelled in the gloriousness of how cool it is to realize you are in the completely wrong occupation and haven't a hot clue what to do with your life. To celebrate my accomplishments as both an employee and an adult, I went to the store and bought a bag of FudgeeO’s, and dove in quite promptly.

A few hours later, I realized that my next blog post would be my 350th. Looks like I have another reason to celebrate today.

Happy I Make a Lot of Mistakes But I am Still Awesome or At Least I Pretend To Be day.

"ALL": I could be exaggerating.

**I should clarify: I don't think you are a bitch. In fact, I think you are quite lovely and hope to have tea with you one day.

If I had been drinking milk, I would have spat it out.

2011-05-03T08:04:00.000-07:00

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Saw this yesterday. Laughed out loud. Considered switching continents.

fra.gments

2011-05-02T14:18:00.000-07:00

. .
In the past 40 days, I have packed, packed some more, business-tripped, moved, road-tripped, and vacationed. I also dined, visited, jogged, danced, sang, cheered, and picked up a manfriend along the way. Bring on the unpacking: bring on living in a room full of boxes. I’ve seen changes at work and lost access to my favourite home and been welcomed into a new one. I have no consistent thoughts after all this busyness. What you get are fragments.
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one. My life is a circus, only not in the sexy way like Britney’s life –more in the “funhouse mirrors reflect my inner sanctum quite accurately” kind of way.

two. I had a dream last week that I had a staring contest with a bear and won. Take that, fictitious woodland creature.

three. Strangers on a plane will make fun of you, so long as they don’t realize it’s you they’re mocking. God bless Canadian Politeness.

four. I got more stressed out during last night’s episode of “Cupcake Wars” than I did during ~~my college finals~~ my entire educational experience combined. But then, I was paying more attention to the details last night, which could be why.

five. Stuff. It seems important, until you have to move it all and store it all and stare at it all day. Love affair with Craigslist: commencing.

six. A spider is only as big as your lack of defences. Right?

seven. The phrase “I miss you” is about as useful as one stitch on a gaping flesh wound.

eight. 63 unread emails, an overflowing inbox, pending requests from management, and a box of unprocessed files where your chair should be. Welcome back from Vacation. Signed: Monday Morning.

nine. Can’t find your alarm clock? Get yourself a toddler, instead.

ten. I’ve often made gentle fun of those “normal” heart-shaped-eye-people that stare longingly at calendars, count days, and sigh from morning to night. Turns out, I’m normal. What a sweet tasting disappointment.
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today's brilliant quote

2011-05-02T12:36:00.000-07:00

"I mourn the loss of thousands of precious lives, but I will not rejoice in the death of one, not even an enemy. Returning hate for hate multiplies hate, adding deeper darkness to a night already devoid of stars. Darkness cannot drive out darkness: only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate: only love can do that."

Martin Luther King Jr.

Voting: oh yah, I remember now.

2011-04-30T23:57:00.000-07:00

Rightright. Election time.

...didn't I say something awhile ago about...informing the masses...saying what's what...blahdyblah. I think I did (promise to write about the election, that is). But then I spent 2 weeks with my niece. I ask you: at what point, while chillin' with the best three year old, is a person supposed to leave the incessant "why?"s, creative word pronunciations and heartwarming cuddles to stare at a computer screen? Um. NO POINT. Clearly. That goes without saying. Anyway, she goes to bed earlier than I do, which might have left me some time to write in the evenings... but my sisters don't go to bed that early, and neither do my parents, nor does my childhood best. Vis a vis: I had approximately 11 moments to myself whilst on Vacation: 10 of the 11 nights I actually slept and the 1 nap I took on a rainy afternoon. If you know me at all, you know I'm easily distracted by things like giggles and loved ones and sleepovers and toy trains. And also, Royal Weddings. Electoral issues took a wee bit of a backseat.

So anyway. That is the general summation of why I have not, in fact, written at all about the forthcoming MAJORLY CRITICAL EVENT. However: I've been giving this election, and my approach in writing about it, a lot of thought. My previous touchings on the subject have been...moody, at best. For example, I shared this bad drawing with my friends awhile back. To my knowledge, no one laughed.
I'm not gonna lie, I thought I was being pretty funny (and still do, actually).

And that's the problem: unless you consider it important, I am going to be hard-pressed to convince you otherwise. Sure, I could send you to the Elections Canada website which answers every single question you have about voting. Or maybe I could tell you it's your duty, your right, your obligation, your role as a citizen; that Cool People are to Voting as Deliciousness is to Cheese. But at the end of the day, you have to decide why it matters to you to vote...or (cringe) not vote. So how about this: I have decided to switch gears a bit, and tell you why I vote.

I vote because I can; I vote because millions can't.
I vote because I feel responsible: what is a voice worth, if I don't use it?
I vote because thousands upon thousands of men and women have fought for my right to do so;
through wars, campaigns, and movements. I want to honor their labors, and their victory.
I vote because voting effects change;
I don't want to be a member of the peanut gallery, I want my voice to matter.
I vote because I don't want to lose my say.
I vote to bring notice to the issues that matter to me.
I vote because I love this country, and its citizens, and the Freedoms that come from being one of that group.
I vote because democracy depends on it.
I vote because it matters that I do.

your turn. May 2.

Realtime Royal Wedding

2011-04-29T14:03:00.000-07:00

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At 3am local time, our favorite sweethearts Wills&Kate were married. Since I am at my sister's house and she has a PVR, I could have been a normal person, recorded it, and watched it upon waking this morning. But here's the thing: I'm not really one to miss out on live showings of Historic, Seismic-shift events. Especially when that event is one as romantic as this: a wedding between a Prince & his new once-was-a-commoner-like-me Princess (or, shall I say, Duke and Dutchess).

Perhaps it's because they're my age, or maybe it's their air of groundedness and approachability, or the class and regality that oozes from them, or maybe it was driven by the desire to finally see THE DRESS... regardless of the reason, I couldn't have slept even if I tried; by the time the ceremony started, I was more awake than I would have been if I had watched it this morning.

It's too late for some of you already, but if, say, in the future, there is a Royal Wedding at 3am and you want to stay up all night and watch it, here are some of the steps we took to help us take it in.

Step 1: COFFEE. Drank this beast at 11pm. Kicked in about midnite. Lasted 'til 1.
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...equal opportunity promotion; my sisters all got Timmy's.
And that, actually, is Step 2: gather some of your favorite people
who are also keen on staying up all night to watch the Royal Wedding
(which could play into the fact that they are your favorite people).
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Step 3: play a rousing game of ________.
In our case, we played Scene It! for awhile. I won a lot. Just saying.
(okay okay, we all did really well)
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Step 4: go for a drive. No really, when you are exhausted and starving,
this is sometimes your only option. See Step 5 for more details.
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Step 5: prevent the CRASH by eating something healthy and delicious.
It's been like, 8 hours since you've had dinner, after all.
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Step 6: Keep your eye on the clock....IT'S TIME!!!
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Step 7: watch and watch and watch and swoon as the Royals & Romantics make their way to the
church on time. Admire the bride's neckline, veil & tiara for the 10 minute drive there. Comment lots on how perfect she looks. Wonder loudly about what the WHOLE dress looks like!
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Step 8: let out a sigh or two (or five). The dress is perfect.
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Step 9: Read the lips of the people as they talk to each other.
Tear up as Harry leans over to Will and says, "Just wait till you see her"
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Step 10: Cheer. It's official!
bonus: count how many times the officiants use the word "betwixt" during the ceremony.
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Step 11: Have I mentioned the dress? The lady? The Prince? The men in uniform? The Abby? The music?

Swoon (swooning is Step 11).
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Finally: after much anticipation, you can let your heart relax into a flurry of pitter-patters
when at last, they kiss.

playing Bunny.

2011-04-23T13:00:00.000-07:00

I'd write a post, but I have to go hide the Easter eggs. Clearly, that's more important.

Happy Easter everyone!

doodle venting.

2011-04-15T12:50:00.000-07:00

It’s easy to ignore my faults, because they are so small;

but others’ faults aren’t difficult or hard to see at all;

‘cuz thankfully I’ve got these planks protruding from my eyes,

that make it so much easier to judge and criticize.

the process by which I eat a Peek Freans cookie.

2011-04-14T13:07:00.000-07:00

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It would be impossible to explain how desperately I need some time off - today has given me a HOST of examples (I'll spare you the mind numbing details). Instead, I leave you with this: a picture-by-picture example of the most productive, clear-thinking moment of my day. Mental Capacity? ...What's that?

the tottering tower of to-do's

2011-04-12T15:12:00.000-07:00

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Like an increasing amount of my favourite phrases, I stole that one from Anita. This post is being written on a whim, in between Peek Freans, excel spreadsheets, expense claims cheque deposits (hey-oh!), car insurance renewals, errands, phone calls, administrative duties both work related and not, and health-saving sips of EmergenC.

Ottawa was fantastic, productive, and rich with learning opportunities. Also, it was warm and sunny out. My hotel room vent made noise all night, and I had difficulty adjusting to the 3hr time change (wimp!), but overall it was a very good trip, and I’m actually sad that I won't be doing more of them. C'est la vie.
This Saturday I am moving, which means I am currently in the process of fitting the stuff of my life into an assortment of different sized boxes and bags. For one such as myself, who idealizes and daydreams about living a life of simplicity, I certainly have a lot of crap to pack; nostalgia won’t let me live simply, as it turns out. I have been making odd little giveaway piles here and there…even so, there are more boxes than I bargained for. The closer I get to moving day, the more anxious I am to just move.

It was a Mad March, as Clichés predicted. Though the madness was good and life giving, I am still ready for a change of pace. Less frantic sprints through the grocery store; more couch time. Luckily, I am heading up North on Sunday for a two week hiatus in my old stomping ground... actually, I hardly “stomped” while I was growing up – I spent more time quietly admiring the pot stirrers than I did stirring anything myself – but times have changed and it’s a phrase I’ve never used, and I wanted to say it. So I did. What was I saying?

Oh yah – the North. My family. Rows upon rows of days of sleeping in, niece cuddles and kisses, home-cooked-by-someone-other-than-me meals. Photoshoots with my radiantly beautiful sisters, catching up on this wildly changing life with my childhood best, enjoying some extra vitamin D in the sunny center of the province. Two week vacation to the homeland? Beauty.

Anyway, I have this thought in my head that I’ll post madly about politics in preparation for the upcoming Federal Election (May 2, all you Canadians) – specifically, I’d be addressing those of us between the ages of 18-30, wonderingly loudly and belligerently why we don’t all get off our asses and vote. I’m not sure how much I’ll actually be at my computer these next few weeks, but I do promise to post a general “How To” for voting at the very least, and possibly some other tidbits of info as we prep for this important time in our country (slowly making you excuseless, which is my goal).

This has been rambly, even for me.
Au revoir.
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Out of Office Reply

2011-04-06T15:02:00.000-07:00

Thank you for dropping by. I am currently out of the office, and should be returning on Monday, April 11. Where am I? Ottawa. Why? Business trip. So? Per diems. Dinners out. Fancy hotel suites. An actual use for my young enthusiastic brain. Nice.

Have a bless-ed weekend.
a.
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jumper cables and raindrops

2011-04-04T12:25:00.000-07:00

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Well, I’m not sure the evening could have been more...stereotypical. And by "evening", I mean "me." My manfriend had his car die last night, and I came to “help”…but: I do not own jumper cables, had forgotten my gas can at home, and I hold the weight of a sapling when it comes to pushing the car (well, in many other situations as well, but my lack of muscle is most clearly displayed in instances where I need it). In any case, it all worked out okay. Oh, I mean, the car didn’t start (even after we called another friend who has jumper cables), and still isn’t running (as of this morning), but, you know, it turned out to be a very memorable evening. It was dark outside and raining animals, which added to the drama. Plus, my manfriend is big and strong and the fact that I so easily filled the stereotypical “tiny and helpless, but cute” role meant there was a wiiiide open spot for the stereotypical man role – you know the one: brute strength, steady calm, ruggedness. ...Did I just say “ruggedness”? Hmm. I believe I did. Other high points: I learned that red goes on positive, that the two shouldn't touch or they spark, and reconfirmed that I like being a woman (tiny and helpless as I am). I also remembered by experience that I am oft' taken over by an awed fascination, watching men use their muscles. Maybe I'm jealous?

Items to be added to daily "be cooler" routine:

-obtain jumper cables

-increase soup can reps (start small).

-continue to practice sentence forming and conversational skills.

I'm so excited to do it.

2011-04-01T16:03:00.000-07:00

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...It's something that EVERYONE should be doing, really. I mean, in just a little while I get to spend those few minutes doing something I am priveleged to do, something I want to do, something I am greatly anticipating. It's so easy to do it, I really wonder why more people don't. I hope that when I do it, there are LOTS AND LOTS of people there, waiting their turn to do it next. When I am done, I know I will feel satisfied. If you don't know how to do it, just ask me, because I know all about these things and I could tell you everything you need to know: like how to do it, how often you should do it, why you should do it, and how really, it's easier than it looks and feels really good when it's done.
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...umm...excuse me? No no. I'm talking about voting.

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dem der boids.

2011-03-31T15:45:00.000-07:00

thanks to Aunty Sherry for that cute little poem!

Der spring is sprung, der grass is riz.
I wonder where dem boidies is?
Der little boids is on der wing.
Ain't dat absoid...
Der little wings is on der boid!

I am certainly feeling the flip of spring - the new hope, the idealistic daydreams, the
wandering through parking lots just to feel the sun...it's a good life. For the record: my
favorite things are the cozy things: cuddles and kisses, spontaneous naps, and comfort
food. But I might add "Spring" to my list of liked things; especially after this year. This
Spring has been a good Spring, indeed.
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if you can vote, and you don't, you are dumb.

2011-03-30T23:41:00.000-07:00

yah, I said it.

Rick Mercer said it more eloquently, though.
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...and a note specifically for you, students.

Canada, we've got a vote coming up. A VOTE. It's called that for a reason.

the Three

2011-03-29T13:58:00.000-07:00

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I have spent my week in la-la-land and have made no inky commitments for my return to reality and logical thought. But it’s been almost a week since last I posted and I feel obligated to put up something, though I can’t for the life of me formulate enough thought today for an entire post. Vis a vis, the following: I will put up someone else’s words instead. I don’t usually like to do this – call it “pride” if you want to, but actually it’s my wobbly writer-self-esteem; the stark realization that my words, in comparison to the greats like Anne Lamott and Emily Dickenson and Oscar Wild…well, my writing is poop if you place it next to these guys. Irregardless, I am inspired by these people, and so I leave you on this should-be-home-Tuesday with a few of my favorites by The Three.

“I do not at all understand the mystery of grace - only that it meets us

where we are but does not leave us where it found us.”

~ Anne Lamott

“Only the shallow know themselves.”

~ Oscar Wilde

“To hope means to be ready at every moment for that which is

not yet born, and yet not become desperate if there is no birth in our lifetime.”

~Emily Dickinson.
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build me a rice house, on Cranberry Lake.

2011-03-24T11:51:00.000-07:00

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Anita,

I think maybe you should be sitting down when you read this.

Of course you know that last night, I went to the Ari Hest concert at the Railway Club, here in Vancouver. And I know that even though you’re touring Europe with one of your most favourite people on earth, you are heartbroken that you couldn’t come to the show; that in fact your plane tickets were booked two days before he’d play here, and that made you sad. Without you giving me his CD two years ago, I may not have even known who Ari was. You LOVE Ari, which due to our twinness means that you knew I’d love him too (I do). So, knowing you’d be gone, that I’d be going to the show without you, there was a small part of me that was hoping it wouldn’t be a good evening, so I could say “Nah, you didn’t miss much.”

…but I can’t say it. Anita, it was the best concert scenario you could imagine. You were right, having seen him before you’d told me that I would fall in love with his music all over again and it’s true. But there was some crazy you're-not-gonna-believe-it stuff that happened. Ready? Here goes.

So Sharelle (one of my favorite concert buddies, specifically chosen for this event in your absence) and I went downtown a bit early, to grab some dinner before the show. We (well, I, keener that I am) wanted to arrive at the Club early enough to get a seat right near the front. So a couple hours before he was scheduled to play, we walked in to the Railway Club and started deliberating on where we should sit. There was this tall bar table near the front, with what looked like two empty seats, but there was a man sitting at the table. He had slick hair and was wearing a gorgeous leather jacket, beer in hand; he looked settled, but friendly. I don’t normally talk to strangers, or ask to sit with them no less, but this was Ari, and I would sit beside almost anyone if it meant being closer to the front, so I took my chances. “Is anyone…can we sit here?” I asked, my Canadian timidity right on par. “Sure!” said the man, so we sat down. A few moments later, Sharelle and I started chatting with the guy, Doug, and we mentioned who we were here to see, and he said with noted surprise, “You’re here to see Ari!” …”Yes” I said, completely unaware of who else we would be coming to see, hello. Doug continues, “I’m his drummer. That’s who is sitting beside me.”

Did you catch that, Anita? WE WERE SITTING AT HIS TABLE. (Sharelle says there are certain moments in life that warrant the all-caps recap. This is definitely one of them).

“No we’re not...are you joking!?” I asked, my jaw loose with shock.
Doug laughed, “No, this is his table, I’m his drummer.”
“No you’re not!!” I said, completely unable to hide my abject excitement. This continued for a long minute (longer for patient Doug, I’m sure), until finally the news sunk in: I was sitting at the same table as Ari Hest (and Doug, who turned out to be as awesome as you would expect Ari’s drummer & best friend & roadmate to be). I thought of you immediately, and how you’d die if you were here.

It didn’t take me long to decide that I should get a drink, because what I clearly needed was to calm the heck down, so I grabbed my cash from my purse and hurried off to the bar.

“One Strongbow, please”.

When I got back to the table, Anita, he was sitting there. And you know what I did? I acted so cool, and totally nonchalant and sexy, the way you’d imagine yourself acting if you met the tall drink of water in person yourself.

OR what happened was that I nearly tripped walking up to the table (because I had momentarily lost the location of my feet), stared at him with my eyebrows on top of my forehead, and said “ohmygoshiamlikesostarstruckrightnow!” as we shook hands. Throw in a bit of drool and a giggle, and the scene is just as pitiful as you imagine. Ari, on the other hand, actually was as cool and nonchalant as you have assumed he would be; the contrast in our behaviour immediately embarrassed me, and I calmed my wretching nervous system with a big ol’ sip of cider.

Ari & Doug had to leave our table soon after that, to set up the merch table…well, the videographer for the band before Ari sat on one of the stools (it was a prime videographing location), and then Sharelle let a band member take one of the stools for the band, which meant there were no longer two seats left, just one, so there technically wasn’t room for them anymore. Originally Sharelle and I joked that I’d be calling this post “Damn the Videographer”…but we decided later that it probably wasn’t her fault, or Sharelle’s for giving the seat away, or mine for being so shockingly ditsy, but rather, they simply had to set up their table. Right? We’re sticking with this explanation, to save my self esteem (and the videographer’s reputation).

I did talk to him a little bit later, before he went on stage, to see which albums he had with him and which payment methods he was accepting – and his gracious demeanour convinced me that I hadn’t embarrassed myself at all, and if I had, he was a true gentleman for not letting me know it. He really is as cool as you think he is, Anita.

Finally, Ari was on stage. His first note in the mic inspired me to punch Sharelle in the arm with excitement (Dear Sharelle, thank you for putting up with such a blatant dork). Once they finished sound check, they went on to the show, and I sat mesmerized. We ended up sharing our table (once the videographer left) with two of the other super fans in the room, whose names I can’t remember at the moment, but they were a chill, appreciative couple from Langley, and you would have liked them as I did. You would not have liked the quasi-drunk chicks dancing without propriety at the front for the first half of the concert, or the mass amounts of loud conversation going on behind us (afterward, quite a few of Ari's fans apologized to him actually). But I did my best to block all of the distraction out – an easier task than you’d think, because Ari’s voice takes the room over, and it’s easy to forget there’s anything else happening beyond the scope of his microphone. The four of us at our table, and the other Ari fans in the room, sat rapt with our attention on the stage. He sang a good mix of old and new – some so old I didn’t know them, one so new it’s not even on the new album. I thought of you when he sang “Dead End Driving” (because I think you really like that one?), and how they mixed it up at the end, he and Doug, and did a really cool a cappella bit to finish off the song. You can tell they've been doing music together for awhile.

At one point (between songs, don’t worry) I told Sharelle that I had been practicing Cranberry Lake in my car a lot, daydreaming frequently (since you gave me the album 2 years ago) about how unbelievably cool it would be to sing that song with him. That in fact every time I played it in my car, I considered it a practice for the main event. She laughed, understandably. I figured, though, that I had missed my chance earlier – I had been talking with Doug and Ari, after all, and failed to casually mention how great it would be if they sang that song wink wink. I settled my little heart by telling myself that at least I was at his concert, and at least I got to hear him sing live, and did I tell you yet that I won an autographed set list? I did. Those things combined appeased me.

But then something funny happened. A few songs later, Ari started a sentence between songs…a sentence I had pictured him saying so much that I actually answered him (loudly and obnoxiously, from my seat) before he had even got half way through the sentence. Here’s the re-inactment:

Ari: “Are there any women in the audience, who kno-”
Me: “I DO!” with my hand reaching toward the ceiling.
Ari: “Do we have any volunteers?”
Me: “ME!!!” I said again, nearly squealing (or, okay, maybe I actually was)
Ari: “Okay, come on up!”

DID YOU HEAR ME ANITA.

I walked carefully up to the stage, sure not to trip over the now-quiet-and-cool fans sitting down in front; watching my steps because I wasn’t sure I could still feel anything below or above my massive grin and pounding heart. I stopped in front of the stage, Ari refreshed his memory with my name, and then I joined Ari on stage. He let me hold his wine glass, because some people like to hold things while they sing (and I do, it’s true, it calms my nerves in a weird way), and then he told me I could have a sip, so obviously, I did. Then…then we situated ourselves around the mic and he started to play Cranberry Lake. Just like on the CD. Only this time, IT WAS REALLY ARI AND HE WAS PLAYING THE SONG RIGHT BESIDE ME AND I WAS GOING TO SHARE HIS MIC AND SING WITH HIM. Intro, first verse, musical break…it was my turn. I actually remembered most of the words (Ari had to feed me the last few lines, though, and I did mix up some stuff t’ward the end), and then we both leaned in to the mic and “ooo-oo-ooo”d together and I heard a dude in the audience say “eh, they practiced”, and I smiled as I watched my spirit ascend straight into heaven. And I thought of you, twin, and wished you were there to see me.
.

Thanks Sharelle for snapping this!!!

The song finished and I looked at Ari and he smiled at me and I died and then I somehow landed back in my seat where I once again punched Sharelle in the arm (I think I need to take an Excitement Management course?). The concert moved on but Sharelle and I sat in a shared state of awe as we giggled and she repeated how crazy it was that THAT had just happened and I responded by saying I can’t believe THAT just happened (our conversation may have been peppered with the odd punctuatory expletive). All the way home I repeated, “Sharelle, I just sang on stage with Ari Hest.”

How often does a silly little daydream become reality? How often does a “Wouldn’t that be hilarious if --” turn into a “Hey, remember when?”

Your autographed CD awaits you.
Come home safe,
..
love
ashley
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blogbumps

2011-03-22T15:01:00.000-07:00

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Drawn by Allie at hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.com

Like you, there are a few stops I always make in my hop around the blogsphere. Even so, I am always keen to find a new blog to read/check, and know others who feel the same way. So, I thought it might be fun to start sharing things I like as I find them. Here are my latest & favoritest findings:

Unsaid, While You Were Angrily Cleaning Up Dinner
by The Trouble With Poet.
This poem gave me heart sighs, goosebumps ...and poem envy.

The Concert
by Bill Richardson on Sonic Gypsy.
Sonic Gypsy makes the lofty world of classical music accessible and welcoming - an invitation I think this world needs a lot more often. I like all her phrasing and link shares, but this particular post features a poem by a well loved CBC radio host, and the poem was too smart and witty not to share it.

We Passed Each Other When the Sky was Pink
by Sophie Blackall
This is a link to MissedConnectionsNY - a site that, if you haven't visited already, is very much worth a stop. Sophie reads through the Missed Connections section of New York City, and then paints the moments. Hard to explain, unless you see it. Warning: if you are oft' swept up in whimsical daydreams, you might get stuck inside the world of Sophie Blackall. She is quite lovely.

Every Person in Vancouver
Anonymous
I actually do know who this is, but I have a feeling it's supposed to be a secret. I like the all-encompassing "Vancouver" blogs that have been springing up lately (like vancouverweloveyou.com - been there yet?). This one is up on that list.

The Scariest Story
by Hyperbole and a Half.

Another favorite from Allie. Don't read this post until you've swallowed your milk and moved your glass out of reach. Also, don't eat Triscuits while you're on this site, or anything else that's poky when inhaled.

...well that's it for now! Hope that passes some extra time for those of you bored at the office this afternoon.
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naked cliff diving

2011-03-21T11:48:00.000-07:00

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I am stopped;

who are you?

Even the earth is watching to see;

even then hum that comes from

taught heart strings

(the melody of nerves in waiting)

holds quiet in my chest;

scared to move, perhaps;

or scared that you’ll move, too;

or scared to hope that nervous humming
was my last bit of apprehensive nervousness.
My tongue has been swept up
by clichéd visuals: craggy rocks
and plunges into water; precipices,
blinded tours, and giant leaps.
But before I utter any phrase (clichéd or not),
I am stopped:
who are you?

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things I learned about dating by joining (and then leaving) eHarmony.

2011-03-17T15:52:00.000-07:00

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*precursory note: if you love to sing the praises of eHarmony, you might not like this post.

Awhile back, I wrote a post entitled “Things I learned about dating by joining eHarmony.” The problem is, I wrote it on my phone with the intent to post it “later”, and if you’ve followed this blog for a short while or longer, you know what happened. In the time since then, I have tried to scratch the inner recesses of my brain to retrieve said post, but have had a fair amount of difficulty. I could only remember the first 2 items on the list. Dang. But, since my stint on eHarmony is quickly becoming irrelevant, I thought I should post something. Also, I have discovered that a large majority of the people I interact with are either semi-to-wildly curious about what it’s like on eHarmony, or have joined it themselves. So you see, it’s kind of a hot topic. And since I want to be popular (who, whatnow?), I thought I should make up some stuff that feels like it relates to my time there, so people will see I’m talking about relevant things, and in turn, think I am cool. Or, something completely unrelated to that reasoning.

In this post, I will first address my overall thoughts about the website, and then, of course, move on to the Things I Learned.

Oh, eHarmony. You are so famous. It is because of your fame and for no other reason – I wouldn’t believe those commercials were the norm if I could spit on them (or whatever that cliché about spitting says) – that I chose YOU for my social experiment last fall. I enjoy a good social experiment, and decided I should give it a try. I haven’t dated a lot, and as such my SAQ (Social Awkwardness Quotient) is still running higher than the average 13 year old wallflower. So, off I went, hoping I would at least learn how to talk to boys without having my brain swell up inside my head.

Now, you’ll have to forgive me, eHarmony, because I don’t really believe in soul mates, and I especially don’t believe that you’ve gotten a hold of this thing called “Love” and boxed it in to a scientific formula and an hour long questionnaire. But I know some couples that have met via your website (okay, I know of two couples. Wait, three), which piqued my curiosity to the right level. Plus, people kept telling me that this is just what you do nowadays, that really, there’s “nowhere else left!” to meet people. Apparently, everyone in my generation has gone indoors; either to the sleezy onenightstandclubs, or to their computers. Hmm. Which one do I pick?

For the record, I will henceforth and occasionally be referring to eHarmony as eHarm – for the sake of brevity, sure, but also because it became a quickly adopted double entendre, and that’s just what I call it.

eHarm observation #1: there are a LOT of people looking for love…online. This is a phenomenon that honestly shocked me; just how many men I got “matched” with in my short time on the site, and how many more men and women were flocking forward to sign up. My issue isn’t really that people are looking for love and companionship – that part is cool – but what makes me pause and wonder is how they are doing it. A direct quote from one of the famed commercials is by a guy who excitedly exclaims that eHarm “takes the work out of it for you”. Uh, remember when men fought and hunted and used their strength? Remember when women knew how to be pursued and how not to be desperate? When dating was a social, and not an anti-social, thing? The internet dating phenomenon has certainly, to an extent, taken over my generation (and the ones immediately surrounding it), but I truly wonder where the benefit lies. I know of more desperate people on dating sites than I do successful online-beginnings couples.

eHarm observation #2: Matched? No no. Available. The word “match” on the eHarm site is supposed to imply that you are specifically matched with that person based on the scientifically proven criteria within the initial questionnaire. The problem lies in this: eHarm’s matching system assumes that everyone who has joined and made a profile knows themselves well enough to do so accurately, and honestly. Obviously, this isn’t the case. Plus, it’s basing the “match” on ideas and thoughts and standards, not on attraction. Yes, ideas and thoughts and standards matter, but if there is no attraction, these things become irrelevant. So instead of being “matched” with people you are sure to get along with, you are sent the profiles that sort of kind of maybe fit in with what you probably want in a person. It’s too ambiguous. Example: in the twelve short weeks I was on eHarm, I accepted new matches for a total of less than 6 weeks, and was matched with over 400 men. Four hundred. Shall I retrieve my calculator? Ahemahem: On average, while I was accepting matches, I was matched with 66.6 men per week (this worked out in reality to about 7-10 new matches per day – and no, I did not go on dates with more than 1% of these people). Now, I am not special, I am not prettier than the other girls, I am not cooler or more dateable (in fact, I’m willingly high maintenance and have my stubborn ugly bits, like anyone else). There is no way in Hades that I am actually scientifically matched in a lovey-dovey-meant-to-be way with 400 people. The dates I went on with my “matches” would confirm that I was not, in fact, “matched” to them, nor they to me. I don’t believe in The One, sure, but I certainly don’t believe in The Four Hundred, either. On the flip side: I had a friend on eHarm around the same time as I was, and she was matched, on average, with one or two people per month. According to the great gods of eHarmony, this hilarious beautiful spunky intelligent woman was less likely to date than me: the all-knees-&-elbows-awkward-teen knockoff. Highly unlikely. In fact, she started dating one of her real-life connections, in real life, before her time on eHarm was even up.

eHarm observation #3: It’s not science, it’s a game of percentage and chance. Okay, so in that group of 400 there were maybe possibly a few that I could have actually gotten along fine with – odds alone will tell you that much. But how does one search through the masses to find someone they like? Or should my friend, being matched with only a few, assume that she should just marry one of these three guys, because eHarmony’s proven science told her so? Not likely. There’s too much stumbling in the system, too much happenstance, to make it an exact science. Yes, your chances might increase because you already have marginally important things in common – but what of the chances that you’d meet someone in real life with common interests, if you, say, left the house? My other thought that’s roughly related to this one has to do with time, and the testing of time, and the beauty and honesty of time: how long will it be, do you think, before the "eHarm divorce" trend starts?

eHarm obvservation #4: ...Next! One of the guys I was matched with, right about the time I was seriously getting over this whole experiment (about 3 weeks in, if I recall correctly), was actually really cool. Albert (not his real name) was a coast guard; super laid back, one of the few guys I actually wished I was friends with in real life. We had only started to chat over email, and at one point I wrote to him that eHarm felt more like auditioning for a school play than it did dating. He agreed with me, and then added this comment: “Except maybe it's even just like sending in your short bio and head shots, and barely making it to auditions?” In other words, the trend is this: flip-flip-flip, profile-picture-profile, scan-scan-toss… next! The thing is that everyone does it, and simultaneously wonders why it 'happens' to them. In observation #1 I wondered what the benefit of online dating is, and it was for this very reason. You are paying to meet people that are dating other people. You are voluntarily pitting yourself against a group of unknown strangers with only a picture of your best side and a few words about yourself. You are choosing who you will meet based on a sentence and a headshot. And almost none of this happens in your real, human-to-human life – it happens in the pseudo-honest world of the internet, and, if you make it, through the first date. Instead of being intuitive and natural, you are required by force of format to be judgemental and defensive and on guard. Instead of having your expectations rise as you get to know a person and who they truly are – in context, and naturally – your expectations rise before you know them in person at all. ...Let down? Imminent.

eHarm observation #5: The Snobbery. Yes, I capitalized that one. Maybe I should emphasize again: there are some really cool couples that have formed from this website. Some couples so cool, in fact, that they’ve made commercials out of them (ironically, the only 3 couples I know who met on eHarm could be commercials themselves). But here is my point: apparently, the fact that I didn’t marry one of my matches implies that I have issues; that my “failure” at the outset & the end of this social experiment is indicative of great fault. To those who have used this site and “succeeded” (this observation is pulled from internet and other research, not just conversation), the general attitude is what I heard before I joined: this is, basically, it. There are no other realms left, really. If you want to date, you have to go online. This, to me, is as ludicrous as saying that since my parents met on a blind date, and obviously landed a successful relationship out of it, that I should stick only to blind dating. And then, of course, speak boldly to my friends who are (gasp!) not open to blind dating. My thought, instead, is this: online dating can be a useful tool for some. But so can offline dating. More often than not, I would say, the context-filled world outside your computer room is a healthier field to date in. It’s almost as if the world survived, met, loved, and procreated before the internet arrived.

...But let’s put all that ado aside for now. Maybe I should get on with my list? Though I don’t like the system as the system it claims to be, I did learn a fair amount about myself and about dating through my experience on the website, and on the dates created there from. So to that end I will give eHarmony the credit: it was a useful tool in expediting my social experiment. I will also say, though, that much of my learning came in the afterwards, once I had finished the whirlwind term and moved on to the great outdoors and the rest of the world. Friends, here you are: the Things I learned about Dating by joining, experiencing, meeting people from, talking about, and then leaving eHarmony.

1) If your date feels like a job interview, it probably is.

2) When a beautiful French man offers to make you beautiful French food, you accept. When he makes marriage inferences on your first date, you run.

3) Profiles and pictures are one dimensional, people are not. Vis a vis, the following: people are not their profiles, and they usually aren’t their pictures, either. Heck, even I sound cooler online.

4) “The Rules” were made up by single, lonely women and are analyzed, enforced, and stressed over by…single lonely women. Men, as far as I can tell, don’t even know what The Rules are, save one: “If I am interested, she will know I am interested.” My advice for women? If you have to apply and analyze The Rules, there is a 99.9% chance that he isn’t interested (and a 0.1% chance he’s probably not interested), plus a 100% chance that you need a new hobby. Put your Rules where the sun don’t shine. Walk away slowly. Enjoy your life. At the very least, stop telling me what The Rules are, before I drop kick you into the pile where I threw The Rules.

5) “Likeability” and “Compatibility” are two very, very different things. If your self worth doesn’t understand the vast difference between these two concepts, don’t date.

6) If you’re convinced you’ll never meet someone unless you join a dating website, you will not meet anyone unless you join a dating website.

7) Dating can be fun, so long as you resist The Empirical Tyranny of The Rules. Not having fun? See #4.

8) If you expect me to perfect my hair, makeup and outfit, smile brightly and show interest in your stories so you might think I am an attractive woman, I expect you act like an attractive man, and pay.

9) You probably won’t know what you want until you find a whole bunch of things you don’t. Contrary to the implication, this makes actually finding what you want a lot more exciting.

10) Paula Cole, I have the answer for you: most of them are at home, sprucing up their online profiles.

I am ready for you, Summer.

2011-03-16T14:57:00.000-07:00

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I am so ready for you,
Summer.
I can see you cresting over the hilltop,
carrying your beach buckets
full of sand;
wiggling your toes in
anticipation;
defrosting my soul with your ever
approaching arrival.

Melt away, winter.
Go away, frost.
You’ve had your turn, and now
your time
is up.

I’m trading you in, for
a different kind of love;
catching my breath in
anticipation;
holding my heart
in buckets full of sand;
watching you crest the hilltop
with my hope, and your arrival.

huh.

2011-03-15T11:38:00.000-07:00

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I have been feeling a quiet urge all weekend to post something From the Archives, although I wasn't entirely sure what it should be. I heard a sermon on Sunday that pointed me in one direction - a post I had written a few years back on Jesus' instructions to get up and walk. But somehow, reading those thoughts today, they didn't really fit the feeling in my gut. What was I looking for? So I read down the list of titles on that old blog of mine, till I found it. A post I wrote 3 years ago today, called The Beauty. The date part of this posting was a genuine shock; I didn't know that today was the date that matched that date three years ago, until I looked it up just now. I suppose I shouldn't be too suprised; God is usually funny like that with me. It seems fitting in so many ways, that I should find these words today, on a really weird sort of anniversary.

I'll leave the actual subject matter a mystery (that vault was closed years ago), but I'm reposting my afterthoughts in their original form anyway. Reading through this just now, I experienced what felt like the cathartic healing of an old wound, and I also had a small epiphany (one I've had many times before) - that at the end of the day, this is why I write. I write to be reminded.

saturday, march 15, 2008
the beauty

as fast and as big as a thunderous passing train, the moment - first daunting, then normal - is gone. all of the build up and all of the praying and all of the questions add up to a very normal day. and so i am sitting here in the midst of all the normalcy; my pant legs still soaked bottom up from puddles and fragmented sand, my cheeks still freshly felt with tears of understanding. and i am realizing that this is a moment i chose; i chose to break my own heart. Today is here as a direct result of grace, and Grace has to be here because of the choices i made that led to it.

how amazing is it that such a great and powerful God could stoop so low to love us in the forefront of reality? it amazes me, really. not that i expect any less from Him; i know what He has said. but it amazes me because even when we are forced to understand things that we don't want to (even things that we knew already), He is gently there beside us, here to gently hold us; when we are spent, when we are at peace, when we have finally begun to realize that He has loved us unceasingly from the beginning. where else should i look?

i have said before that life comes at me in themes. well this time, i am creating my own theme. it's called, "ashley, stop hiding"... and so, with that decision made, i am going to stop hiding. although, it might take me awhile to get used to that... why do we hide? ...yes, i know why; i have been there in repetition. but again i ask: why do we hide? hiding can bring no good. when we hide our truest thoughts, or our greatest beauty, or our deepest spoken words, we end up in regret, or we end up saying things too late, and we end up like Today; in moments like this one, where we can only know that it was by choice we have landed here; understanding, but hurting a little bit all the same.

i can not pretend to know the Lord's plan in all of this. each time i pretend to know i end up...well...like today. but i do know this: He has seen the last four years; it was He who began them, He who led me through them, it was He who kept me in them, and kept me in them, and kept me in them. and He sees me now, just the same as always. this is the greatest mystery i have ever known; how He could lead us down a path that has no ending; to hold us to a point and at the end of everything, keep the questions answerless. i am in love with this God. and i am starting to realize that the beauty of not understanding is that we don't actually have to. so, hurting hearts or peaceful hearts or both, He knows.
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Japan

2011-03-11T14:11:00.000-08:00

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You know, I wasn’t entirely sure I would post about Japan’s earthquake. Where does one even begin? Are there even words for this? The pictures are breath-taking (and not in a beautiful way, but in a humbling, soul-chilling kind of way). As the day moves on here at the office, the stories continue to pass around; nuclear plants, giant ocean whirlpools, tsunamis, full-earthquake-sized-aftershocks. So maybe I won’t say much, but instead, encourage you to pause with me; to engage, to help where we can.

Most recently, I’ve been reading a book called The Fiddler in the Subway by Gene Weingarten. Gene is a two times Pulitzer Prize winning journalist for the Washington Post; Fiddler is a collection of articles that he has written; some of his best, I am sure of it (this book is well worth the read). Each story has me captured from the opening line to the ending. Gene manages to make the reader feel and think about issues, and people, they might not normally feel for or think about. He is intelligent, witty and thoughtful, and his delivery is approachable and poignant. The article I started yesterday was called “None of the Above”, where Gene speaks frankly and insightfully about the large population of Americans that do not vote (near the 50% mark, if not higher). He discusses the idea that, contrary to popular expression, each vote doesn’t really count on its own. Not mathematically, at least. But the moral obligation of each voter to actually vote, well, that’s something else entirely. It is the moral obligation that makes each vote, and voter, count. (read the full article here)

When it comes to things like earthquakes and epidemics and natural disasters (which happen with a significant degree of frequency), and how we respond in the aftermath, a different sort of argument could be made. The response on our part plays both parts equally: a mathematical and moral role. To a great degree, how I, and you and you and you, choose to respond will impact relief efforts, hearts, and lives.

I’ve heard it said by more than one person today that this earthquake, for some reason, hits closer to home. We do live on an “earthquake hotspot” here in Vancouver, after all, and have been hearing cautionary tales about “The Big One” for years. We are no less susceptible than the rest of the world. So maybe that’s what I’m thinking about today, as I sort through the mess of stories and heartbreaks flooding over to us from Japan – I’m thinking about the fragility of life, and the resiliency of the human spirit, and of course, my moral obligation. I am a human and I am on one of the richest parts of the planet. How do I respond?

*Resources:

Google Crisis Response for Japan - this will be a helpful tool for those of you that know people in Japan, or are travelling in and around the area.

Red Cross (Canada) online donation center - obviously, one of the only ways many of us can respond is financially. Make sure you choose a reputable organization before donating funds.
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high point conundrum

2011-03-11T09:00:00.000-08:00

Since January, I have made it a goal to name a daily high point. Specifically, I decided to take a picture of my high point every day. Those of you in my closer circle will have seen the odd picture here and there, and for those of you who haven’t seen the pictures, I promise you haven’t missed much: food item, food item, sunset, food item, food item, sunset (to sum it up). When I started this practice back in January, I was using it as a motivational tool to kick my S.A.D in the rear; to give myself a daily purpose (small though it may be, it still felt like something). To be entirely honest, I wasn’t even sure I would be able to find a high point every single day (I blame you, Winter's Din). Soon, though, the sun came up, and I realized there were too many high points to pick just one per day.

Specifically, I began to notice a trend, and I admit it was a bit of a surprise. My daily high points, at their finest, aren’t captureable in pictures. The pictures I have taken are at the slower times of the day; in my cubicle after lunch, in my living room after dinner. The better ones (the uh…the ones not relating to food, I mean) usually come when I am out and about and moving; enjoying life, not staring at it. How do you put a conversation into a camera? How do you squeeze a hug into the frame? You don’t; and that, I suppose, is something I’m not sure I expected.

Harry and his brood of Dinosaurs.

The other day, for example, I was chillin’ with my buddy Seth (he’s 4). We were watching Harry and his Bucket Full of Dinosaurs, snuggled under a blanket on the couch while he ate his brie and crackers. “Water please” he says. Okay, Sethy. The cartoon is simple and amusing; the boy and his dinosaurs race around on wheely machines to try and go FAST, or FASTER, as they learn about gravity and speed. Most of the vehicles are impressive looking, with lights and colors and chrome, but poor Steggy (um, the Stegasaurus, hello) is in a wooden log with wheels on it; he doesn’t go quite as fast as the others; he can’t catch up. Plus, the thing keeps falling apart! At one point, it’s not even a vehicle, it's just Steggy, on wheels. Have you ever heard a 4 year old laugh so hard he can’t breathe because the dinosaur’s tires keep falling off his log-car? If not, you’re missing out.

And what of the letter that arrived on my step yesterday from Natalie, my childhood best? It was the high point, but it was because my friend is thoughtful (today’s high point: Natalie is thoughtful), and also because of the really cool feeling I got while reading it: I’m loved, and I have the coolest friends ever. A picture of an envelope doesn’t quite cut it, and in a way, felt like cheating.

So I am still looking for high points, and I am finding more than I thought would be there, and I am humbled by that realization. But more often than not, the pictures I take will probably look like this:

Today's High Point: someone just brought me a donut.

…Although…free donut? That’s gotta count for something.
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