Silken Tent

Reasons Why I Might Start Shaking With Pure Stress if You Ask Me "How Are You?"

2012-01-27T12:51:00.000-06:00

1. M.A. exam. THE exam. The four hour exam tomorrow. The one that decides if I actually get my Masters degree. The one for which I have prepared, but not enough, and right now I feel like I'm a total fraud and I'll get in there and everyone will know it. Will I put in enough details? Will I have some sort of orderly thought pattern? Will I think of anything to say about Milton besides "hierarchy'? And they'll read my essays and laugh ominously and I don't find out for 3 weeks if I pass or not.

2. Finishing Thesis. Oh yeah, that thing that I was going to do such a good job on, so maybe I could get some stuff published, and I should have finished it all up over Christmas break, but I didn't. And it's not good. It's not bad. It's mediocre and right now I just want it finished.

3. Thesis Defense. This is in a month, when they will all see how mediocre I am. My stomach lurches thinking of this.

4. Planning a wedding. Oh yeah, it's all fun and games on Pinterest, but how about when you end up with a guest list that's 344 people long and your venue holds only 250 and your mother knows half the people in the Southeast?

5. Keeping up with a new job. Hey guess what - it's difficult to study for a ridiculous exam when I work 9 hours a day, and not only that but I'm trying to figure out what I'm supposed to do and get it done, because I should be able to step into a new position and do it perfectly, right? RIGHT. Lack of perfect performance = I AM A WORTHLESS PERSON.

Things That Are Keeping Me From Spontaneous Combustion

1. The wedding. Because I get to marry the man who is my best friend and kindred spirit. The one who sees my flaws and loves me in them. The one who keeps me sane and lets me cry and makes me laugh. Oh, and he's really hot.

2. The new job. Because everyone has been overwhelmingly kind and helpful. Because I have a job, and it combines my interests (children, education and writing). Because I have a job, period. It's excellent experience, good pay, and I'm learning a lot. I also learned how health insurance works, WHAT?

3. Distance-no-more. Because the previously mentioned amazing man now lives only 7 minutes away, instead of 7 hours.

4. In 5.5 weeks, two of the stressors will be done and the other will have diminished. I'll be 2 months into this job, instead of 3 weeks, the thesis will be finished, and the exam and defense will be over.
Heck, just tomorrow at 2:30 will take off a lot of the stress. Keep chanting it. Tomorrow at 2:30. Five and half weeks til freedom. Take heart.

in which a favorite gets its due

2011-07-06T18:17:00.000-05:00

I am writing this in between shoving huge chunks of watermelon into my mouth. To me, watermelon is like a magic cake that appears in the summer, a perfect cake with calories of nothingness, beautiful pink cake that I can eat until my tummy bursts and still not gain any weight because it's basically all water. Watermelon, kids, it's the original 100 calorie snack. Except it comes in huge green melons bigger than your head instead of a sissy little pouch that you can inhale in a couple of seconds.

Ah, where was I? Oh yes. Today has been a rewardingly productive day. And it has been one of those days that is both wonderfully and realistically efficient, so that I'm left feeling like, "Yeah, I can do this EVERY day."

For all that, it started pretty slow. I woke up feeling like I'd been kicked in the head (which I was, in fact, a few weeks ago - more on that later), which is per usual these days what with summertime allergies, and slowly dragged myself to life through means of coffee and internet (i.e. blogs with more pictures than words). Then I went to the John Webster seminar, which I have to admit is pretty fascinating right now, and I sort of talked a lot. And yes, this is the class I have told everybody about that is going to be so boring. It's not.

After I talked poetry with one friend and had a happy reunion with another, I was heading out from the chapel when I turned my head and there, on eye level, sitting on the fountain, was the very fattest robin I have ever seen. Puffed out even more by his bath in the fountain. It was one of those things that made me smile before I even knew I was smiling. I love those moments. They catch you in pure, unconscious delight, instead of the "Oh yes, I should smile at this" forethought. And then they stay with you all day.

I also:

*added two poems to the portfolio, including one about The Full Monty. This alone makes the day. Don't judge. Quick -- what movies should I write on next to complete the project?

*visited my man at work and met his co-workers. I like this living in the same town, seeing him every day thing.

*rounded out dinner preparation for tonight, and planned meals for the rest of the week, and made a ginormous load of stuff that used up a ton of the stuff I needed to . . . use up.

*got through more of Bleak House and realized I'm going to be sad when I'm done. Hello, my name is Anna, and I love Charles Dickens. Hi Anna.

And at the end of the day, what can we say but that we were faithful to the day's work, and that everything else is grace.

the color of summer

2011-06-30T19:49:00.000-05:00

I don't really like alcohol. Just don't. I grew up begging sips up my parents' wine at dinner, and waiting for the time when my taste buds would suddenly change and I would also drink that magic liquid from pretty glasses. My favorite Bible story was even Jesus at the wedding in Cana; I would enact the scene in the bathtub at least once a week.

"Jesus, there's no more wine!" I'd say while my mom or dad sat on the edge. "Please make some more for us."

After filling the "jars" (read plastic 1992 Alabama National Championship cups), I would take a huge swig of bathwater and proclaim that "this is the best wine I've ever tasted."

I tell you all this to make the point clear: when I turned 21, I was disappointed to discover I don't like wine (which turned out okay; more on that later). When we went to Spain, I thought maybe this would change. If I had to drink red wine at every meal, surely I'd learn to at least tolerate it, right? Nope. Especially after this one horrible night where I drank it cause I was thirsty and then the wonderfully generous bartender gave free lemon liqueur to the strange family of Americans as a sign of friendship, and Jim was hissing in my ear, "drink it all, or you'll look rude" and NO I never wanted to see the stuff again in my life.

Except. Except for this magic in a bottle:

Tinto de verano. Ice, lemon, and you've got yourself the best summer-afternoon-at-a-European-cafe drink, ever. I thought it was sangria. Literally, it means red wine of summer.

When I got home, I missed tinto de verano more than even the groaningly delicious Italian pastas. I found the recipe after a search of about, oh, 3 seconds. Wanna know it?

Red wine + Sprite + ice + lemon.

That's IT. I've even substituted ginger ale for the sprite.

So go put on some Drunkard's Prayer by Over the Rhine, set out on the porch, and sip your glass of summer.

Hear Me Calling Your Name

2011-06-26T21:06:00.000-05:00

On Friday morning, I woke up from the first night in my bed in over a week, wrote one poem and finished another, cleaned my room, and got in the car to go to a family lunch. At the bottom of the driveway, there was a dog. This dog, in fact.

In our lives, there has been the lack of a dog. One dog, in particular, but also dogginess in general. In fact, the night before we had just been talking about getting a dog, whether it was too early, etc. I slammed the car stopped, jumped out, and the tick-covered little love ran straight into my arms.

I could tell you about how she crawls way down low because of mean people that hurt her, how she flips over on her back and puts up her tummy to be rubbed, how she scrambles herself into one's lap as if she thinks she's still a small puppy. I could tell you about the sickening number of ticks that covered her, the way her ribs feel as though they are about to break through her skin, the complete sweetness and trust with which she endures medicines and tweezers and all kinds of doctoring.

But to make a long story short, I'll tell you only this: her name is Gypsy.

tulip poplar iris. and no, i didn't forget my commas

2011-06-13T17:43:00.000-05:00

Today, I went out to feed the amazing survivalist cats (another post on them another time), and a blur of neon orange and yellow caught my eye. "TULIP POPLAR," I thought. Dr. Brown and the folklore days brainwashed me well. On closer inspection, I found it was an iris, but imitating the tulip poplar blossom in its electric colored blossoms (I should write for an agriculture publication, no?).

Warm and lovely and velvet. I can't get enough of color these days, and this much pure joy saturation sates my hunger.

Stove by a Whale

2011-06-06T22:06:00.000-05:00

At some point during high school, I decided that I needed to read Moby Dick. Even then, I think, I knew my calling as an English scholar, that my commitment to musical theatre was fading and I needed to start preparing for my future discipline.

Or maybe I was just a stupid teenager who read big books for show.

Either way, I had no idea what I was getting into. I had a tempestuous, tenacious relationship with Melville from then on. "Why do I need to know how they swab the decks?" I wailed. "Can we stop talking about harpoon technique?"

Perhaps if I'd known Melville based his gargantuan tome on a real live story, I would have found it more interesting. Probably not. But what I'm trying to say is - Moby Dick was REAL. And there weren't no happy ending for them fellas, either.

A couple of weeks ago, I picked up this book. I've been a Nathaniel Philbrick nerd-fan for four years now, since I read Mayflower. (Every American needs to read this book. Not even kidding. Did you know Squanto was evil? It's TRUE.) The man can make any history into a fascinating adventure-mystery tale. If I was ever to teach Moby Dick (or any of Melville's sea stories, for that matter) I'd have the students read this first. Philbrick explains the Nantucket culture, ship life, and the whaling industry with clarity, sharp and urgent prose, a sense of humor and humanity (he was an English major, yepthat'sright).

Did you know that men spent 3 years at sea? Did you know that men went out in these tiny little boats and stuck their own dang tiny harpoons into these enormous creatures? Did you know how amazing their ships were?

Oh my word, yes, I admit it. I'm interested in whaling. And I sort of have a huge academic crush on said Nathaniel.

I won't say much about the Essex history except: a whale rammed their boat. But they didn't die then, oh no. There were 94 more days of horror at sea in tiny boats to come. Fascinating. Terrifying. Superlative-ing. It - it even - it makes me want to (sort of) read Moby Dick again.

And if that's not an endorsement . . .

Heartsick.

2011-04-29T18:41:00.000-05:00

Words don't really have a place in the raw pain of such devastation, except in stories. And I don't have any story apart from my grief. Grief for cities I love, neighborhoods I know, people I see helpless in the face of the monster.

I'm praying for healing, of these new hurts, and of old, old hurts. Hurts of white and black divide, of mountaintop mansions and 3 room houses in the hills. I'm praying that this great evil will lead to greater healing for the city.

And I'm looking forward to getting back and finding a way to help. Go here to look for ways you can make your compassion particular.

la Corrida

2011-03-23T15:06:00.004-05:00

Hey folks. Instead of me complaining/praising/ignoring Mississippi life, I have, for only the second time in the history of this blog . . . . a guest post!!!

That's right. Today I am featuring none other than my own flesh and blood, my kith and kin, my only brother and world traveler extraordinaire, Jim. He's in Spain for the semester, and every week or so we get emails from him full of juicy cultural details, stories, and spectacles. His last writing was on attending a Spanish bullfight, and he's agreed to share it with the world. Enjoy!

*****l
la Corrida

Yesterday (Sunday) I finally made it to my first bullfight, called a corrida in Spanish. Honestly I hadn't known what to expect. History? Cruelty? Art? Brutality? Turns out it was every one of those, with a lot more mixed in.
First I suppose I should explain how bullfights work. Every corrida consists of 6 different rounds - 3 toreros (bullfighters) each fight 2 bulls. The bulls are usually around 1100 pounds. Within each round are 3 stages, called tercios. First the bull is fought by the picadores, who are men on horseback with lances. They attack the bull with their lance, striking it in the back to weaken it somewhat. Their lance points are limited to a certain length to prevent any real damage to the bull except for blood loss. The picadors also provide an opportunity for the torero (the matador) to gauge the bull's strength, and see if he has any tendencies to hook to a certain side. The fights between the picadors and the bulls are really intense - the bulls are trying their best to gore the horse and the rider. There were a couple bulls that got low and used leverage, and almost flipped the whole horse. The horses are protected by armor, as are the legs of the picador. They blindfold the horses to keep them calm, but I still couldn't believe how tranquil they were while an enraged bull was trying to flip them over. I never heard them make a sound, and afterward they almost seemed bored.

Next come the banderilleros - I'm not sure if any person in the ring is braver than another, because everything is dangerous, but these guys are pretty gutsy. Their job is to place banderillas in the back of the bull - basically 3 foot sticks with points that keep them stuck in to weaken the bull some more. The way they do this is to face off with the bull from across the ring with a banderilla in each hand, arms spread out wide, and then both charge toward each other full speed. The Banderillero runs toward one side a bit while he's charging, and at the last minute jumps to one side and drives the banderillas into the bull. A couple of times the banderilleros bailed at the last minute and jumped out of the way of the charging bull, inciting boos and jeers from the crowd. I wondered how many of the people booing would go into the ring and do what those guys do....

Finally, the matador enters the ring alone with his sword and his cape and begins the faena, or the dance with the bull. It was absolutely incredible to see this in person. The bull was at times brushing the matadors as he passed them. There are countless techniques and styles to this, which is part of the deep, fascinating world of bullfighting. If the matador is doing well, the crowd shouts out "Olé!" after every pass and goes crazy as he walks away to begin the next series. Finally, the faena comes to a close when the matador kills the bull with his sword. The matador lines up about 10 feet in front of the bull with his sword pointed straight out. He draws the bull to charge using his cape and lunges forward at almost the same instant, ideally burying the sword up to the hilt between the shoulder blades of the bull as it passes by him. If it's not delivered well, the sword won't go in all the way and the matador has to pick it up and face the bull for another try. During a couple of rounds the matadors had to try 3 or 4 times - they were relatively inexperienced matadors. If the blow is delivered well, the bull can fall almost immediately. Other times it'll take a few minutes of using the cape to make the bull charge.

After the bull is dead, the sword is pulled out (risky at times - think Monty Python's quote "he's not quite dead!") and a team of 3 mules pulls the dead bull out of the ring really fast. There's two guys driving the mules and another one popping a huge whip on the ground yelling, and the mules are absolutely hauling. After the last bull was killed I was leaving through the tunnel under the stadium with all the other spectators when the team of mules came flying past right past us, going out of the stadium with the bull and leaving a trail of blood behind them that you had to step over.

So that's a how the corrida actually works. My first one was at the bullring of Madrid - built in 1929, it's not as old as some others (the one in Sevilla was first used in 1785), but it's regarded as one of the best and most important in the world. It was a fantastic day - warm weather, but not too hot and without a cloud in the sky. I took the 8am train to Madrid to hang out in the city for most of the day, as the corrida started at 5pm. The atmosphere outside the stadium before the match was awesome - all the old aficionados were there hanging out for hours before it started. There's tons of old men that go to every single corrida, and they were all arguing and talking about bullfighting constantly.

The corrida began with the parade to salute the president of the bullring. Two marshals of the stadium - older men, wearing 18th century clothes and mounted on horseback - led out the three matadors, each of whom was followed by his entourage of 3 banderilleros on foot and his 2 picadors mounted on their horses. They marched to the center of the arena as the band played the traditional entrance song of the Madrid bullring. It was pretty awesome - it really gives you chills. The stadium was only about half-filled (the toreros weren't really famous - still pretty young) but there was so much energy it felt like it was full. I sat on the first row, right over the entrance to the tunnel that the bulls run out of. I had the great fortune to sit next to a really nice old guy who goes to every single bullfight. He explained everything that happened, and I learned a ton. It was also great to hear his commentary on the bulls, the matadors, the crowd, and everything else in between. A particularly fierce bull entered the ring, rushing past mere feet below us, and he studied it intently, saying, "See! This is a bull's bull!" Later the same bull sent a banderillero diving over the wall, taking a big chunk out of the wood where the guy had been not even a second before. The old man exclaimed, "$#&@! That's a lot of bull! That's what I was talking about!"

The craziest part of the day was during the second fight, when the matador from Madrid was about to strike his death blow. He lunged towards the bull, but it must have hooked left or right, because it caught him right in his stomach and he was flung through the air like a rag doll, landing about fifteen feet in front of the bull. He rolled over, and I immediately saw a huge, dark red stain all over his stomach. The whole crowd made a collective gasp. It looked like his stomach had been skewered right through. He started trying to crawl away, but the bull rushed him, pummeling him further. The bullfighting version of rodeo clowns rushed in to distract the bull, finally bringing it over to a far corner to keep it distracted. Miraculously, the matador stood up and limped to the center of the ring, where his banderilleros were waiting to help him. He stood doubled over for a minute, and then suddenly stood up straight. Everyone realized that the blood all over his stomach was actually from the bull - he had somehow escaped the horns. I still have no idea how. The matador slowly walked over and picked up his sword and his cape, and motioned for the banderilleros to leave the ring. The crowd went crazy. Everyone stood up cheering for him for a minute or so as he caught his breath, then the guys distracting the bull in the corner hopped over the fence and he was alone with the bull once again. He faced it down again, and his next strike drove the sword home. Afterwards everyone went nuts. He walked out of the ring into the infirmary, and no one knew if he'd fight again. Sure enough, he came back out for the last match, blood still covering his stomach, and did very well considering the beating he took. It was an impressive performance to even finish the fight, because that bull absolutely nailed him. It really drove home that it's not a sport or a show - it's a life or death thing for them.

So that was my introduction to bullfighting, and I'm afraid I'm hooked. It was absolutely fascinating, probably one of my best experiences here so far. I can't say how I justify watching it though - it was indeed very cruel, and it goes against what I believe about not making animals suffer unnecessarily. However, when I saw it I immediately understood why they call it art. It portrays so much about the culture of Spain and about life and death that it's astounding. But it's definitely not for everyone - when's the last time you went to a sporting event or performance and had to step over a blood trail on your way out? In spite of my doubts about it - which I'm sure will always stay with me - I can't wait to see my next corrida and continue learning about this incredibly unique national pastime.

a thousand stars

2011-03-14T13:35:00.000-05:00

Today, I have to share with you one of my favorite artists. I discovered him through a children's book. Yes, that's right. Children's books have some of the crappiest art out there, but they also have some of the loveliest, imaginative, creative, real art.

So I discovered today's artist in The Jesus Storybook Bible, by Sally Lloyd-Jones. Yes, it is a children's Bible. Yes, I may like it more than my actual Bible (except for the Psalms). And you know it's gonna be good because the writer and illustrator are BOTH British. [Note: if you go to the Storybook website, check out the video - it's narrated by David Suchet. Whoa, I thought. Not THAT David Suchet? But it is! The Hercule Poirot, British actor David Suchet, and I'm probably the only one who is nerdy enough to watch Agatha Christie movies so I have to tell you how awesome it is that David frickin Suchet is reading the Jesus Storybook Bible! Ahem. Back to our regularly scheduled program.]

Anyway. Back to the artist. Jago is his name, and he makes a living illustrating children's books. How wonderful is that. The first thing I noticed about his art on the Storybook's pages is the beautiful use of texture and layering. His creations are simultaneously earthy and luminous, whimsical and poignant. I don't know how. Apparently his work is all digitally done, and it is absolutely. gorgeous. absolutely.

What's even better - I discovered that you can buy his work at deviantART, and also at photobox, if you are so inclined (I am).

Unfortunately, due to both copyright laws and my own technical ineptitude, I can't share any of his lovely stuff directly with you on this blog. So, as the Reading Rainbow guy would say (I love you LeVar!) - don't take my word for it. Find out for yourself!

P.S. Okay, now you can expect a post in homage to LeVar Burton. I was seriously in love with that man. Stay tuned.

Me and Emily Bronte: the difference

2011-03-03T20:21:00.001-06:00

If you have hang around this English nerd girl for long enough, sooner or later you will hear me tell a story about Emily Bronte (the Wuthering Heights girl. Yeah, that one). Emily, see, was in charge of the kitchen in the Bronte home. So one day, she's in there whipping up some gruel, and a mad dog dashes through the open door and bites her on the arm. So what does she do? Does she run screaming for Charlotte and Anne? Does she pass out in a pool of blood? Does she hightail it to the nearest pharmacist who claimed to practice surgery?

No. She didn't do any of those things, because she was Emily Bronte and she's a pillar of the literary canon. She sticks a poker in the fire til it's nice and glowing, and cauterizes her own bleeding, rabid wound.

Apparently she didn't think this was important enough to mention, because nobody knew until 3 weeks later, when Charlotte walked into the kitchen where Emily had her sleeves rolled up, peeling potatoes. I imagine it went something like this.
           "Sister!" Charlotte said. "What injury did your limb so grievously undertake?"
          "Dog bite," Emily said coolly, and kept slicing potatoes.
Charlotte starts to panic. In a town of 88 people, news about a mad dog gets around. It's been the most exciting thing since that farmer lost control of his herd of pigs market day three months ago.
          "Shut up! Was it the mad one?" Charlotte asks. Emily nods and flicks a speck of potato skin of her apron. She nods toward the fireplace.
          "Poker," she says laconically.

*****
       I tell this story to make two points: One, Emily Bronte was a beast, and there's a reason she wrote a book like Heights (which I do love). Two, I am not Emily Bronte. When I sliced my finger open peeling an apple last night, I stared at the wound in horror, covered it from my sight with a paper towel, and called my dad. I already knew I only had two options, but I needed someone to know that I had done this horrendous thing to myself and that there was blood. I drove to the Urgent Care clinic. They were darn CLOSED. So I went to Walgreens, all the while wearing black fleece pajama bottoms covered in hearts, peace signs, and daisies. I staggered up to the pharmaceuticals counter and said, "I know you probably can't do this because of insurance and I understand if you just don't want to cause it's really gross but I cut my finger and can you please help me but a bandaid on cause my roommate's in class and I can't do it with one hand but if you don't want to that's okay."

She stared at me. "Yeah, just let me put some gloves on . . . "

So what lesson do we glean from this, children?

One: I will never write a novel like Wuthering Heights.
Two: I am immensely thankful I do not have the life experience to write a novel like Wuthering Heights.

And that's how I cut my finger.

Walking the Line

2011-03-02T10:42:00.000-06:00

On Sunday, I spent an hour with Old Crow Medicine Show. One of the better decisions I've made in a while. Wisdom, humor, and darn good music. I love those guys.

On Monday, I helped myself to a small cluster of daffodils growing outside the education building. They're huge and fragrant and starry.

Yesterday, I talked with Erin and she made me laugh because a) she's hilarious and b) I love her. And we talked about life, both heavy and light.

Today, I woke up to sunshine and and peace and bluegrass. And when I went out into the morning, I felt like running up the stairs and singing Gillian Welch songs at the top of my lungs. I should get this type of sleep more often.

*****

In other news, I have a great brother in Spain. Even when he's not in Spain, he's pretty great. When I told him of my passion for Mumford and Sons, he sent me this video. New item on my to-do list: live in Paris and be serenaded by a British folk band.

Daffydowndilly

2011-02-19T21:56:00.000-06:00

These are not the first daffodils of spring. I didn't have my camera with me when I spotted the first.

But these are so wonderful, because they are just one cluster from a whole rash of daffodils growing by the side of the road, here in the mountain top neighborhood. And today was full of warm breezes
and I worked up a sweat hiking the old asphalt road. The warmth and spring and sun made me so happy, there's no other word for it. Happy. A lift from heavy thoughts and prisoned feelings, from the chest-tight worry of the week. Just the plain bread happy Denise Levertov names, just -

happy.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

2011-02-16T13:25:00.000-06:00

What is the best thing about February in Mississippi?

Three whole days of a sunshine wash, of the black branches turned hot to the touch in the sun. I don't want it to get cold again, ever. It feels like everything is splitting open warm and sweet again, and I keep wearing turquoise and fuchsia and other color-bright t-shirts and shoes. Today and yesterday, I sat in the sun on a wooden bench and ate my lunch and read Tinkers and then just soaked in blue sky and sun and turned my mind loose.

You know those rubber squeeze toys, that you press all the way in and they slowly expand back out. I feel like I've been compressed and it's hard getting enough air before anxiety closes my throat again. No one ever told me that peace is a discipline.

*****
What other things made me happy today?

My brother wrote me an actual email. Yes, a bona fide long one, and it made me laugh so hard. I mean, really hard. I soaked it up and shook with laughter.

Today is a Sam day. That means I get to play with the sweet kid and have 3 hours not school-haunted.

The spring holds gelato, and train rides, and medieval roads.

There are two chocolate chip cookies in my bag. I got a day's worth of laughter in one morning.

Things aren't easy. But they are good. In the deep kind of way, as a certain boy would say.

Mississippi Ice

2011-02-09T19:43:00.000-06:00

It's snowing outside. I mean, it's really snowing. For the second time in a month. I'm a little bit cranky about it, honestly. I want to get through this semester, by golly, and they've already added a make-up day and if it keeps going this way school won't be out til next August and then we'll start all over again.

Am I old? Does not wanting a snow day make me old and boring?

No, I say, no. These are the reasons I don't want a snow day: because I want Michael to make it here safely tomorrow. Because I want to leave for Spain on time in April, and missing school days could interfere. Because even though I love winter, the word and the season, I'm ready for spring this year weeks earlier than usual. I want to paint my toenails turquoise and wear yellow sandals. I want to go stretch out on warm white sand in North Florida. I want to gather a massive bouquet of daffodils and bury my face in the fresh golden smell. I want warm.

General Beauregard Lee, I just hope your little furry tail is right about an early spring. Else we's gonna get a groundhog stew goin.

*****
I never will get over falling snow, though. I stood in front of the window with baby S. in my arms, and we looked out at the fat falling flakes, and even as I sighed at the weather, I reveled in it. At the soft flakes, and the weight of the baby in my arms and his sweet warm baby smell, and all the soft silent white outside and the warmth of the quiet room. He was lovely and sweet and sleepy today, and I think I was more comforted to hold his tiny weight against me than he was to be held. And all was peaceful and he went to sleep while we stood watching the snow come down.

*****
In other news, did you know that Mozilla Firefox has REAL live baby FOX CUBS???? Which you can watch on a live webcam (I actually don't recommend this, the room is mint green and depressing, and you will be tempted to stage a rescue mission as Michael suggested).

Been hankering to watch Bambi lately. When my dad came back from a deer hunt when I was 3, I was terrified that he had shot Bambi. No, it was Bruno, my dad said. And I was like, "Whew! Okay good" and kept watching Land Before Time with a diapered Jim.

Over the Rhine NPR interview. Go listen! Now, slave. (Note: pay extra attention to the photo. I want to play in a field of six foot Queen Anne's lace).

Irish Postcolonial class = marvelous. It also makes me want to stuff myself with oatmeal cookies and speak in a fake Irish brogue all the time. I've managed to resist the latter (most of the time, at least).

Old dirt road
Knee deep snow
Watching the fire
as we grow old
well I'm sold

Babies, undocumented.

2011-01-31T10:02:00.000-06:00

Last week, I got to hold a baby. An extremely small, barely seven week old baby. He spit white gluey stuff on my sweater.

I'm in love.

People usually call babies "miracles." I don't know that I agree. It is a natural thing, after all. I think when we say "miracle," we really mean wonder. Which it is. I sat there and jiggled Baby S. until he fell asleep in my arms. He curled his head into my chest and held his impossibly tiny right hand up to his face. I sat there for over half an hour with this tiny person sleeping in my arms, and the whole time I was full of wonder. At the crook of his knee. At the small sleeping grunts he made with each breath. At the way his left arm strewn out wildly to the side. At his face, his small and perfect human face. And at the way he woke up, his eyelids slowly opening and closing like the wings of a butterfly when it lands on a branch and you sit watching it suddenly still and slow.

And then he opened his eyes for real and stretched his neck out and squawked like a flightless bird and I couldn't stop laughing. Babies are incredibly weird. And entertaining.

*****
So all this got me thinking about babies. Why do I love them? It's not that I'm romantic about them. Heck no. I spent two months this summer changing diaper situations I never thought I'd face, and handling scream fests 6 times an hour (not to mention toddler meltdown every 3 minutes). They are hard hard work, and I want to wait a long time before I get one of my own. They know they are being bad a lot earlier than we give them credit for, and they are selfish little devils. So . . . why are they so much fun?

Because they delight in things like a roll of toilet paper. And because . . . they need us.

You can understand dependence when you know the Maker's hand
-"The Cave," Mumford and Sons

Awake My Soul

2011-01-21T15:10:00.006-06:00

When I was a little girl --around the 3-5 age range-- my mom used to think that I would be a performer one day. I sat in my car seat and sang songs to myself with words like, "He left me, oooohhhhh, and my broken heart, he left me, ohhhhh." She thought I would become a country singer.

I became an English major instead.

However, after an older childhood spent hating twangy music, I fell in with Nickel Creek. And then I fell deeper down the bluegrass hole and then newgrass got popular and now I love the Avett Bros. and Ralph Stanley and Emmylou alike.

And yet I've still got this thing for folk music. Which is my I love Mumford and Sons so much. Ballad-esque lyrics, the strings I love, but the movement, the energy, that's what's most wonderful. One risk folk music takes is of all the songs sounding alike, but these guys craft each song into a separate orb of meaning. And yet the album, all the music taken together, creates this lovely prism of song.

Awake my soul
for you were made to meet your Maker

Good Day Sunshine

2011-01-21T09:06:00.002-06:00

Should I be writing a blog post now? Yes. Of course I should. It doesn't matter that it's a Friday morning and I could be working on other things. But one of my resolutions for the new year was to blog at least once a week. And you can look at the sidebar and see how faithful I've been. This will change.

What do you say after days that have been less than blissful? I'd like this post to be strong, triumphant. I'd like to say I'm so much farther along, that I left despair and its cousins in 2010, for good. I'd like to be an overcomer.

And. I'm not.

I've been discouraged this week to be dealing with thoughts and feelings and crap I thought I'd somehow gotten past. Instead I am staring my own unbelief in the face, and it hurts. I say along with Kathleen Norris that "faith is a sad business." Right now, what I am seeing and feeling is that living by faith sort of sucks. What I mean is, it is contrary to what I, as a human, want. None of us want faith in something we can't control. And that is where God says life is found. And I'm not really sure why I keep trying to go to Him except for Jesus, where else would I go.

*****
This week, though, is sandwiched between two wonderful weekends. One past, one future. This past weekend, sweet boyfriend drove 7 hours to spend 3 glorious days with me in the wilds of Mississippi. We didn't do anything but regular life. Schoolwork, reading, cooking, walking, movie watching. Pretending that we were a normal couple who get to share every day life face to face instead of over the phone. It was bliss.

And this weekend, I go home to Alabama. To my parents. To the bare limb trees and wide brown fields around my house. To be with my dad and hear my mom's stories and tell her mine. You know, it is a huge blessing to like your parents. Thanks, guys.

I'm gonna learn to love
without fear

i won't worry

2011-01-05T20:29:00.003-06:00

This morning, I left a month of sweet Alabama home time, and drove back to school and work. Only one class today, so not that bad. I'm not teaching this semester, and while I'm pretty sad about that, I'm also energized by the thought of more time to devote to school work. I'm in a fiction class this semester, which is highly exciting (would be more exciting if it didn't have a Friday class . . .). I like writing fiction. Why? I don't have to be good at it! Writing a poem is sweating blood and crafting and cutting and putting back in and basically agony. Writing a story is like making mudpies.

So it's back to the flatlands and the cozy apartment, which is only made cozier by the wind-sharp drizzle outside. And above, you get to see a little glimpse of how lovely and homey Jannell has made the apartment. And how I clutter it up, as demonstrated by the two black blobs on each sofa (my coat and blanket, respectively. I have a bad habit of dragging around in blankets, especially in the morning. It makes me look like a depressed hobo. Which is terrible, because all true hobos are happy and lighthearted. I would be too, if I had a campfire and songs every night. "I'm a singin' hobo, not a stabbin' hobo." Name that quote!).

The maps are courtesy the history department via Dr. Brown, via Alan and Lee who told me about them and led me to the room where we chose and cut and rolled and went away happy with our spoils a few years ago. I have a map of the Balkan states from 1683-1914! I love the Balkan states. True riches.

Tune in next time for the first half of my reading list for 2011. Suggestions welcome/appreciated/needed!

Christmas in pictures

2010-12-28T18:16:00.004-06:00

Favorite cousin! Austibear is taller than I am . . . when did that happen? I used to give him piggy back rides along that very sidewalk. Not anymore. Sweet little cousin, now a future English major! Yes, I've influenced another to take the life of thankless poverty and bumming parties for free food.

Sweet aunt and uncle. Aunt Laura's stories make me laugh so hard. And she is a kindred spirit of the book world!

FAVORITE COUSIN! "PaPa, you must've gone to the bank for this." Brannon was in fine form, and didn't trash talk too badly about the BCS game. Yes, we have Auburnites in the family.

Favorite cousin! Tyler, mid-evil laugh. I forget what infamous plan he was sharing, but know this: it wasn't good. However, he's also one of only two of the cousins who have read Harry Potter. Which gives him major points.

Jim's present to Dad. Nice wrapping job, Jim.

The snow on the fields look like a huge frosted mini wheat. (I know, can you believe that beautiful simile?) And the sun shone on the mountain across the way . . .

. . . and the horses rode in the snow . . .

. . . and Mom tried out her childhood sled but it didn't really do anything except sit and look pretty . . .

. . . and the Loop was perfect in the snow.

"We know that we abide with quarks and constellations . . . the matrix of our supposedly quotidian existence."
-Marilynne Robinson, Absence of Mind

Exactly. Just look around and you'll find that everything is interesting.

Being with

2010-12-25T15:30:00.002-06:00

(We have a white Christmas, and it is gorgeous and fat fluffy flakes, and my aunt saw a cardinal in a bush and it was lovely.)

All this was a long time ago, I remember
And I would do it again, but set down
This set down
This: were we led all that way for
Birth or Death? There was a Birth, certainly,
We had evidence and no doubt. I had seen birth and death,
But had thought they were different; this Birth was
Hard and bitter agony for us, like Death, our death.
We returned to our places, these Kingdoms,
But no longer at ease here, in the old dispensation,
With an alien people clutching their gods.
I should be glad of another death.

-T.S. Eliot, Journey of the Magi, lines 32-43

Lord Jesus, in our doubt and pride and wounds, in our laugh and wonder and joys, in the earthy grit of our inescapable humanness,

give us Thy death that we may live

O Christ

give us Thyself.

epithalamion to epithelium

2010-12-22T17:11:00.003-06:00

Last week? Lovely. Anna came into town on Wednesday, and we spent Thursday seeing friends, in particular the wonderful Joanna. Getting trapped by the rain in a consignment store, wandering around the streets and stores I love so much, trading stories and worries and joy, frozen yogurt for supper, and Preston-bygolly-Lovinggood at a random house concert! (Wild Sweet Orange captured my heart almost 3 years ago. Go listen to Ten Dead Dogs. Right. Now. Oh and there was also the sweetest sweetest St. Bernard/lab mix thing dog at the house concert, and it was PRECIOUS. The end.)

Being with friends who know you is like relief breathed warm and sweet.

I went to Texas, and got to hug Val. And I walked into Michael's arms and hugged him tight, and he gave me The Long Surrender and I screamed with glee. And we stuck it in the CD player and listened to good music during the golden afternoon drive through flat rippling fields and blue sky. And on Sunday night, he took me to a concert, Andrew Peterson's Behold the Lamb of God tour, which was way more awesome and beautiful and marvelous than I could have expected.

And then he threw up. And after biding my time for two days, last night I threw up, and it was gross and I was calm because by that time I pretty much was expecting it. So today has been Sprite, toast, tea, and four hour naps. What a thoughtful gift.

During my conscious times, I have been reading what is frankly one of the best ever ideas for a book. Okay see, I really only had two years of science in high school, Chemistry (anathema) and Physics (love). The first two years, I was supposed to be doing Biology and Anatomy. I did Biology, yes, but maybe Mom trusted me a little too much on the Anatomy part. Anyway, I reached and graduated college without having more than a rudimentary idea of how my body works, much less where everything is. Then, back during the wrist saga (which is not over, my friends, oh no) I was waiting in the doctor's office and bored and I picked up a tattered kid's book about the body that was sitting on the counter. Oh. My. Goodness. Do you how insanely cool and fascinating the body is? Did you know that our bodies make new cells to mend our broken bones? Do you know how complicated we are and how things just work, that we are these marvelous machines? Did you know that your liver is not where your appendix is but actually by your ribs? I told you I was clueless. So I was flipping through this book going, "So that's how that works!" and decided I needed to know more about my body. Enter the Human Body section of the Hoover Children's library department, in particular Dr. Frankenstein's Human Body Book. BEST THING EVER. Seriously, folks. The human body? Amazing.

darlin, darlin

2010-12-14T17:59:00.004-06:00

Tonight is mine. Everyone's going out but me and I'm . . . excited. (Note: This is one of those things you're not supposed to post online-"Hey criminals! I'm home alone!"-so if any psychotic killers are reading, know this: I don't shoot to injure.)

Well, that got morbid in a hurry. Back to more cheerful things, like . . . seafoam nail polish!

I've been craving this color polish ever since I saw a similar hue on Rummey Bears. Today, I found it at Sephora. I sang (internally) with glee. I tried it on. Then I looked at the price: $18. For a tablespoon of polish? No no. And then the very same color was just sitting in the bargain bin at Forever 21, waiting for me. It cost $2.50. Result: Seafoam turquoise happiness, sans guilt. It makes me happy like a five year old child to look down and see shiny color glinting on my toenails. Winter needs some color.

And now. To turn off the computer and t.v. and sit in the great room where the tree is all lit up and there's a fire in the fireplace. I want to read and write and think and pray. And then I want to read Flavia and the Christmas Legacy because it's the best thing ever.

I've got clementines and popcorn and real dark chocolate. And Snow Angels, one of the addictive Christmas albums by--you guessed it!--Over the Rhine.

Darlin Christmas is coming
do you believe in angels singing

Falling like forgiveness

2010-12-13T21:03:00.003-06:00

Yesterday afternoon involved snow and ice and driving and terror. Lots of terror. If I ever do achieve the Minnesota dream, I'll be . . . walking.

But. Last night, I curled in bed and listened to the wind keen snow flurries around the roof. I woke up and had books and coffee time, and then I bundled up in a ski jacket and walked in the sunshine and snow that spun like glitter in the light.

Jim and I ate lunch with Dad, and then our widower horse-training neighbor came and set with us for a while. We talked about horses and religion and dogs and significant others. And the weather. Of course.

And my family ate supper together, on the gold tablecloth while the dark gathered outside.

Simply thankful.

***
Beautiful winter poem. Take me to the Czech Republic, now please.

Reading Marilynne Robinson's take on the Freudian self (among other things). She makes me look up words. It's great. Thank you Michael.

The very worst missionary? My favorite site. Ever.

Sweet, sweet Dog

2010-12-09T20:38:00.004-06:00

I don't know how to write this post.

Last Friday, the Sweet Dog got sick. My dad took him to the vet. Saturday morning, the vet called. Mo was poisoned. He didn't make it.

A dog's death is a strange grief. Internally, it hurts like hell. But I feel sort of ashamed of the tears, too. I mean, what about orphans, and babies with cancer, or a raw and ugly divorce, or the multitudinous sea of human pain? How can the loss of a sweet stupid dog even register on the grief scale? And I wonder if I even have a right to weep.

One day back in October or so, I was driving and talking to God. I was telling Him my frustrations and fears and questions. At one point, I passed a dog's dead body lying on the side of the highway. I got mad. You see that puppy, God? I said. That's wrong. That's so wrong. How can I trust you when there's so much wrong in the world and it hurts me so much?
I won't say I heard God speak, because that kind of language always irritates me some (note: if God speaks to you, that's fine, as long as you don't think you're supposed to kill people or stop washing your hair). But I did realize something in a way that seemed to come from outside. Oh, I said. This is all yours . . . how must more it must hurt you.

Nature's groaning, right? And even broken, the world is beautiful. I want the wonder and joy that Mo brought to my life to lead me to a deeper delight in life - animals, trees, rivers, the way the winter sky turns deep burning red at sundown. Because life is everywhere, and thank God for Mo who opened my eyes to that.

Flashwrite

2010-12-01T13:37:00.005-06:00

Last day of classes. Last day of first semester of grad school. Last time in the library in 2010. Last bite of a Clif Bar. Last time I will use the word "last" in this post.

This morning, I brought doughnuts to my baby freshmen, and when one girl tried to study her Psych book instead of doing the exercise I assigned, I snatched the book from her and read them tips on prejudice issues ("You should just be glad I don't write 'This wants to make me put my head on the table and cry' on your papers!" I told them). Then I laughed maniacally and wandered around the room. They wrote. I calculated their grades. I went on a rant about energy drinks. They laughed. I went on a rant about how they should never never get drunk because you lose control of yourself and just try sitting in a Dave Matthews' concert full of drunk people and how it's not so much wrong as it is SAD and HORRIBLE. They laughed again, more hesitantly this time. I slammed my fist on the table and said I was serious. Then I smiled and said that they should choose coffee as their addiction of choice instead.

Sigh. I will miss these children. I have an urge right now to write encouraging notes to each of them on their papers that I will return Friday. And then I think, "Hey, I can go read Marilynne Robinson!" or "Hey, I can spend an hour browsing the Sartorialist!" and I know that urge will probably not be completed.

***
In other news, I'm leaving on Friday. Fo' good (at least until I have to come back in January). Done done done except for two minor things, and full of happiness at the thought of home and Christmas and oh yes--home.

New poems coming up! Stay tuned. The Grimms' stories are back in my poems, and I've also got a peacock and playhouse in the mix.

Bare trees, blue sky, grass fields - winter is beautiful.

so I can close my eyes

2010-11-15T19:08:00.000-06:00

Apparently, when I have papers to write, I make blog posts instead.

Why yes, I have eaten a lot of chocolate. And I want more more more.

I'm already missing Jan term. Next term starts back earrrlyyyy January, and that leaves me not much time to make the rounds and visit everyone I want. But I'm gonna try, by gum. Atlanta, Nashville, and Texas. Three weeks. Here I come. It's going to be busy, yes. But remember two years ago, when I did Texas/Missouri/Utah/Tuscaloosa(oh yes it counts) in 3 weeks? Yep. I can make it.

***
Let me tell you a secret: Mississippi's growing on me. I think I'm just now realizing that. This is not an easy place for me. But it is good. I think I can say that honestly. I'm with good people. I laugh a lot. The fields do have a roll to them and the trees and earth are beautiful, and the sky is really wide. I guess what I mean is - sometimes happiness isn't the best way to be happy. And I'm okay with that.

***
In other news, last weekend I went to Texas. It was sunny and lovely and best of all a really wonderful guy was there and we hung out a lot.

And I drove seven hours, both ways. All by myself. The End.

***
Quick, gimme a topic for the next poem. I'm game for anything from ancient Rome to rollerskating. Winner gets satisfaction of suggesting the best thing and my deep deep gratitude. Thanks folks.

I love this, I love that too . . .

2010-11-12T07:00:00.000-06:00

So no . . . I usually don't do the round-up things. But sometimes, things out there in internet land are so beautiful and interesting and marvelous that I can't help but say "Go 'ave a look!"

Train + New Mexico + Over the Rhine . . . it's killin me.

Evie love. One of my favorite blogs ever. Nashville artist/gourmand/teacher/world traveler/writer. Stop by and rest your weary mind for a while.

A steady surprise of stars.

I would buy this tent, and I would pitch it in a green grassy field, and I would live in it with lots of blankets and pillows and . . . flashlights, I guess.

Happy birthday to me, hint hint. Just kidding . . . sort of.

for today

2010-11-08T14:26:00.002-06:00

I have a lot to do right now. Three papers. One presentation. Essays to grade. Tests to grade. Lessons to plan. Friends (Erin&Shannon&Kait&Lee, you're at the top of the list) to call and write. Bills to pay. Miles to walk. Meals to make. And I want to GET ON IT, by golly. I'm ready to go in to Robot Productive Mode.

But. Instead . . .

Well, first of all, I am eating an orange. And second - I'm writing this blog post.

I don't like it when I stay away from my blog. Because I don't like it when other people stay away from their blogs. At this point I could compare the orange to the blog and say writing is like Vitamin C for my sanity, but I won't do that. That's way too Hallmark.

***
Today, I'm going to sit in the sun and work. Must start fighting off Seasonal Affective Disorder. Somebody get me one of those sun lamps. Now, slave! Oh sorry. I forgot I wasn't talking to my class.

***
I'm writing a research project on Penelope Fitzgerald. She's absolutely marvelous. That is, if you're looking for a British writer whose novels have broken down people and mess and heartbreak and a strange sort of hope and all in the most subtly luminous prose. If you're looking for that, I think you'd like her. And it's fun to research something I care about it. I am on a bona fide crusade for the woman's novels now. Treat her like a real writer, literary critics, and stop talking about how she didn't publish til she was 59 but her books are so great - come on, scholars, get into the meat of her work. Sheesh.

***
Lately, I've been getting lots of emails from my precious students that go something like this:

"HEY do wE haVe Cla$$ toMorRow??????", or "what is due on wensday i forgot".

So, this morning in class, I gave the children a short but concentrated lesson on writing appropriate emails to professors and future bosses. It involved me bursting into the class, talking very loudly, and saying "OMG" a lot. I also stressed the importance of acknowledging that you are writing to a REAL human warm body being with salutory words such as "Hello." I think they got the point.

***
Don't forget to pick out your very own Puritan name this Thanksgiving! Ok, I laugh, but I have to admit they were on to something. There's something sort of lovely in the thought of naming someone for life, of names as a gift:"Joy-again" and "Hope-still".

That said, whoever named their kid "Ashes" or "Fly-fornication" . . .

Plan B . . .

2010-10-27T18:46:00.003-05:00

Today, I was completing my usual 4 mile march around the complex (that sounds a little too Soviet, so let me make clear that I love walking and seeing the sky a

nd ducks and it is my sanity time). I saw a bush and, in the bush, what appeared to be a very small cow. "That looks like a very tiny cow," I thought. But I am nearsighted and given to an overactive imagination, so I told myself it was not a cow and was probably some kind of mysterious black box connected to boring things like electricity or cable. I grew closer, and discovered I had been correct. It was not a cow sitting in the bush.

It was a goat. A small black goat. A small black goat tied to a stake. "What is a goat doing tied to a stake?" I thought. Then I realized what it meant. The goat is going to be eaten. Why else would it be tied down on the grass in front of an apartment building? Obviously there is a fiesta going on this weekend. I looked at the goat again and realized that it still had fuzzy baby fur. It bleated and looked at me. I began to plan its rescue.

Operation Baby Goat Deliverance, Part 1: Offer to buy it from the owners. If they refuse, take it. Yes, I think I just plotted theft online.

Part 2: Yet to be determined. I need a way to a) get it home, b) convince parents to keep it somewhere on our 9 acres, and c) did I mention get it home.

And now, images of tiny helpless fuzzy baby goats keep running through my head.

Not helped by the fact that I found a small, surprisingly sweet daschund on the loose as well, and could not convince it to come home and am worried it will be hit by a car.

I'm not a crazy animal person. Promise.

I just want to save the goat, okay?

"Help us!"

The Sun Was Unclouded

2010-10-19T09:08:00.004-05:00

Here in the flatlands, it's autumn and absolutely gorgeous. I'll admit it: Mississippi is growing on me. This weekend roommate and I went with a sweet friend to ride horses in the southern part of the state, and it was gorgeous and rolling hills and her parents are vets and I felt I'd stepped into the Mississippi version of James Herriot. All that to say--the desert is starting to bloom.

And last week, in poetry class, we each got individual assignments. Mine was to write about something BIG--a war, a natural disaster, etc. Arghh. Now, I write about small things, ordinary things, I am kin to Dickinson, not Whitman. But I set myself to do it, and I'm not sure how it happened but somehow a poem about the Alabama Cherokee and Trail of Tears came out. Near Florence, there's a man who's spent years building a wall, a memorial to the tragedy. So here's another stone for the remembering.

The Sun Was Unclouded--

“The Cherokees are a peaceable, harmless people, but you may drive them to desperation, and this treaty cannot be carried into effect except by the strong arm of force.”
-Major William M. Davis, 1837

How can I put you in a poem, dustfoot
people? Your trees were faithless, in the end.
How you wove rivers in the skin and glassed
the long hut after all. The forest went wild
for grief after you left. Oh sweet warrior,
first friend, the smoke and salt of you lingered
long after the cane broke. How many calloused
eyes, how much broken before the wheels?
The tear-pocked dust should have swollen, crumbled
into earth red earth, sprouted sudden
mountains on the empty distant line of land and sky.
If the rocks rose up to cave you, if your graves
mounded numb and deep, if you somehow found
eastern sky again, if the trees refused to cover
your desperate bare--if anyone tried to say
you were fully desirous--then know your blood
was too fresh for them, too wooded,
too earth for that manifest. Real people, know
your soft language still tongues their brain.

what's lost

2010-10-10T22:46:00.003-05:00

Sometimes, sad things happen.

I know. Understatement of the century. I'm an English major, but with all the poetry and gorgeous literature in the world, still simple language serves us best sometimes.

Thirteen days ago, the Sweet Dog was hit by a car. He's alive, I don't know how. Only the vet couldn't save his right hind leg, so now Mo is home and learning how to get around again.

It feels foolish to grieve over an injured dog. You don't know how people are going to take it, because obviously it's a lot bigger deal to us than them. I mean, we make fun of the folks who take their animals too seriously. I'm not a blindly infatuated animal person, I promise.

But. It's sad.

And the whole time I've been home has been a rapid wash of two emotions: the sadness of seeing a more subdued Mo learn how to live on three legs. And the gladness and sheer wonder that he's still here and still with us. I guess this is our existence, yes? The rebellion at the way things go wrong - he should still have all four legs. Sweet dumb Mo was not meant to live this way. And the grace in the way things go right - he also should be dead. But he isn't. He's ok and he's healing and I'm awfully glad this crazy dog is still here to lick my face and chase more balls.

And if it's only autumn and the desire for security and rest and hope that keeps me from turning away from these words in bitterness - well then, I'll take it.

Only love can turn this around

I wake up dreaming

Everything we've lost can be found

We'll wake up dreaming

-Over the Rhine

one single camera

2010-09-28T17:03:00.003-05:00

Today has been fall. Yesterday was, too. And Sunday was almost there. We sat in an old crumbly cemetery that afternoon and read headstones with names "Temperance" engraved on them, and the afternoon light was lovely in the trees and it smelled like October.

As if that wasn't enough, I discovered that the dark and slightly creepy Kroger has a kid's cookie club. And that changed my opinion of them right then and there, as I inhaled a double chocolate cookie in the dairy aisle. Tuesday = success.

*****

And now I have a cast. On my arm. It is brightneonhotglaring pink and reaches past my elbow, halfway to my shoulder. We have had a tumultuous relationship. It went like this.

The first day was a mix of fascination and wonderings. This is strange. I have a cast. Can I drive? Oooh, people can write on it. How will I wash my hair?

Then, that night, I woke up. Not once, but several times. As I remember, there were tears and helpless flailings of the casted arm against a pillow. Everything was sad and miserable. The next few days were continuations of this theme. I cycled from frustrated discomfort ("dangit, this is awkward") to claustrophobic rage (GET IT OFF MY ARM GET IT OFF GETITOFFFFF) to fetal position whimpers (help,please,mama,help).

But now, though it is an annoyance and have the feeling that my elbow will be really sore in a week or so, I have grown accustomed to it. Hours pass and I forget that I have a Neon Barbie Robot arm. Sometimes it feels almost comfortable, familiar. And then I freak out. What is this, Stockholm Syndrome?

*****

This weekend was good and needed. Michael came to visit, and we ate Chinese food and walked through downtown (which took 10 minutes) and watched movies and most of all it was good to see him, his real live self, not the skype-pixelated version. Deborah and Evan also came and spent Saturday night, and introduced us to a place with good scones and coffee. They are fun and delightful, and we had fun and delightful conversation.

And now I just want to run off and live in the mountains by a lake, with all my friends and lots of s'mores supplies and my dog. Who's with me?

Categorized, for your convenience

2010-09-09T21:27:00.003-05:00

Injuries Sustained Since Moving to the Flatlands

-one knuckle cut. Cause: the sinister ice maker that makes and makes and makes and in trying to empty it I cut my finger. On ice.

-one sprained wrist. Cause: flip-flops and rain. I should have known better. Prognosis: After a brace and 2 weeks - it still hurts.

-one near miss: on the English building stairs, when I took a flying leap over 2 stairs. Ankle breakage avoided.

-one bruised eye socket bone: from hitting my face on a chair when I bent down to pick up a bag.

-one sore shoulder: from walking into a doorframe.

Prognosis: send bubble wrap, please. I will be swathing myself in it from now on.

Today, Thursday, or Thor's Day, or the Day Almost as Happy as Friday

-I had eggs+onions+cheese and toast for supper. And hot cocoa after. It was simple. It was good.

-I got to leave at 1:30 instead of 4 because of televised SEC football on campus. Sometimes I like this big state school thing.

-grading papers=my life

-research and writing=my life

-avoiding grading and research in favor of 1.5 hour walks=my life

Continuum

-I've been steadily working on poems, a little or a lot, but every day. Writing routines are good.

-There's a frog that lives in the mossy water run-off area by our door. He's adorable. Clever roommate named him Sean. We're going to make him a house. Soon to follow: best-selling children's book, A House for Sean. Who needs grad school?

-I'm almost tired of peanut butter. And even beans and rice. Can one girl live on cereal alone?

living the grit

2010-09-07T20:43:00.002-05:00

I have had a revelation. Would you like to know?

Grad school is a job.

(Maybe I should've been clued in by a tuition waiver and stipend. Or the fact that people talk about grad students not having a life. Or the prospect of teaching fourteen fresh-faced teenagers. Or . . . ).

Do I have to come back? It's just that the loneliness and stress are hitting and I know they said this would be hard, but - well. I guess these are the adulthood growing pains.

And I will say this: I know the best is not past, and much good is ahead.

It just feels a little dreary right now.

*****

What makes it all harder to return to is that I just had 4 days off. Which were marvelous. I spent them with my favorite guy, and we went to used bookstores and watched good movies and hiked and talked and ate ice cream. And I didn't think about school work at all. In fact, I think I sort of forgot all about it for a while.

It's good to be with people who make you laugh.

*****

And it's strange, because of all the people I miss I think my mom is maybe at the top a lot of the time. I remember the little kid needing-mommy feeling, but this is a different take on it. But the older I get, the closer I feel to my mother, and the more I need her. I need to cook with her and watch the way she slices cantaloupe. I need to show her decorating pictures from Southern Living. I need to go to Macy's with her and hit up the sales. I need to sit on her bed after lunch while she reads and absorb all her stories about boys and friends and God and the after-college years so I'll know that life goes on.

Most of all, I need to absorb her kindness and joy and love. Because she is my mother and the only way I know of being a woman and something about being her daughter roots me and if she thinks I'm doing ok, well then maybe I am ok.

Wendy: What about your mother?

Peter Pan: Haven't got a mother.

Wendy: No wonder you were crying.

news from the flatlands

2010-08-30T20:58:00.004-05:00

But you know how it is. There's always more work to be done, or so (too) much has happened, or it's 8 o'clock and exhaustion has already hit, or I'm just not feeling it.

Enough with the excuses. This blog is my sanity.

Almost 2 weeks ago now, I taught my very own class for the first time. Writing that down still thrills and startles me a little bit. Remember how for the last seven years I've said I will do anything but teach? Remember that? Well. Now I've got 14 bright faced freshmen babies. Half of them are bigger than I am. They are still my chilluns. And I go in, and I just get -I don't know- excited. Happy to see them every MWF, 8 am. Let's hope that doesn't change.

***

Grad school, so far, is a bit like being a freshman all over again. The same lostness. The overwhelming mass of work. The loneliness and wondering why I'm here and what I'm doing.

In the midst of all the lonely and tired, there are definite glimmerings and outright excitements. Like supper with J. and N. after that first week, laughing and remembering and storytelling. And glory be, I've already found folks who are Arrested Development devotees and we've had the second of what I think will be many Sunday night viewings. And going to a genuine supper club and chatting with warm and welcoming adult mid-20s people and feeling like an absolute baby by comparison and loving it.

I've got to grieve, as I learn the balance of keeping the gold and still letting go of what's gone. I miss my city. I miss my friends. I miss the hills. I miss having a Target closer than 2 hours away.

It's a desert. And the chance to make it bloom.

the first wilds

2010-08-10T22:07:00.004-05:00

How long does it take an English student to put together a simple wooden desk?

(Much, much too long)

But my lovely $20 IKEA desk is finished, and if I weren't so tired I would be proud. Now all I need is a chair. So I can sit at it. And do work. Instead of on my bed.

Then again, the bed is very comfortable.

***

Today was the second day of orientation. Yesterday was the University wide program, and it was excruciating. Unbearable. Primal scream inducing painful. Awful. I'm not going to say anymore about it.

This morning was better. Yes, the speakers were still dull. But there are students here from Cameroon and Sri Lanka. And when I bought a candy bar at the vending machine, but it didn't drop all the way out, and I was feebly pounding the side, a forestry student emerged from the dark hallway and shook the dickens out of that machine and I got my candy bar.

And then, thank heaven, after lunch we were released to the English department orientation. And were let go early, in order to, get this: relax. And I am excited about teaching and the poetry class, and yet more than anything, dead tired and now I want to read. Adieu, dear people. More to come.

Be my love

2010-07-17T09:10:00.007-05:00

Today, I have no commitments, except my own lazy list. No projects. Nothing with a due date.

Most importantly -

no place to be.

This is something I need for sanity and health. I love adventures and activities, whirlwind and laughter and exploring. But between work and play rehearsal and weekend commitments, this is the first day I've had in a long time with just - no thing. Which is good. Because I start to get (irrationally) resentful if I don't make the space and time to breathe and be and stop for awhile.

***

Currently obsessed with:

This movie. Which is strange and beautiful and I love it. It's full of gorgeous details, and the acting is all awkward pauses and real, and the cinematography is secret and lovely and mysterious. And it's about a pillar of the English lit. canon, which means I have to watch it.

Walking. Which I have not been getting enough of as it's ridiculously hot and every time I make to go work out my mother yells, "The heat index is 101 today!" so I am confined to jogging in place while watching Gilmore Girls. But today I have allll day, which means the morning and the evening, and I'm gonna get in a walk, a good one.

State Fair. Our community theatre play is a GREAT community theatre, is a GREAT, is a GREAT, is a great community theatre! I have Rodgers and Hammerstein on a constant loop in my head. I have put together pretty 1940s costumes. I wear character shoes almost every night. I get to sing and act (and dance, Lord help us). And what makes it all so wonderful is that I really like the people I get to see at rehearsal every night, because they are fun and wonderful and talented and did I say fun. And I'm so thrilled about being in community theatre again I can hardly stop smiling. Come see show, July 30 &31, Aug. 1, 6, 7, 8!!! Call 205-699-3902 for reservations.

This band. Over the Rhine. And when I say obsessed, do I ever mean obsessed. They sing the songs I want at my wedding. They sing the songs that paint my life. And they have red in nearly all their publicity photos. This is meant to be.

I was born to laugh

I learned to laugh

through my tears.

I was born to love,

I'm gonna learn to love

without fear.

from time to time

2010-06-29T22:30:00.002-05:00

I want to write something articulate and lovely and whimsical, but I'm just too dadgum tired. It's true. I can only think in lists and bullet points right now. So that is what this is.

Today:

brand new character shoes with taps, scored at thrift store for $2. Yes, thank you.

also I bought shorts for $1.79, and found costumes for the play. Done and done. I love my thrift store shorts.

frustration, sheer and not simple frustration at life. said frustration probably produced current headache.

folding laundry + Foyle's War + popcorn = a combination that makes me much too satisfied

130 pounds is 10 more pounds than I want to be. Hello smaller portions and exercise.

waltzing and singing, singing and waltzing, rehearsal. It was in very fact a grand night for singing. I love waltzing. And singing. Put 'em together: happiness.

Welcome-though-too-brief call from Anna E. I like unexpected phone calls.

weariness. keep plowing away or change tactics? neither. I know I'm not trusting.

The sky was too too beautiful at evening, all high thunderclouds and sunlight in the rain.

***

Tomorrow:

blueberries at breakfast, and sleep.

GRE project = 95% done

no work. no rehearsal. deep restful breaths.

a Michael phone call

reading. reading. reading.

writing. writing. writing.

walk. in the sun. with my iPod. with Over the Rhine.

and always the unknown. ask strength for the suffering and eyes to see beauty.

in this moonlit field

2010-06-14T22:32:00.002-05:00

Today has been good. That simple. I am off Mondays, so I spent five hours on the freelance project. Two of my favorites, Mr. and Mrs. N., are staying with us this week, so I got to chat with them during lunch and enjoy the silent companionship of working on our own projects. I went on a walk, and swam, and there were two thunderstorms, and then rehearsal tonight was long and tiring but good.

Sometimes, just sometimes, Mondays aren't so bad.

***

So tomorrow is back to the littles. And I wasn't especially looking forward to it til just now, when I remembered I get to see favorites (Jack/Evie/Thomas/Sarah/squeal) and hold them. I like being with the babies. I like it when they want to be held for a while, and so I just sit and hold the warm toddler weight of them and their heads fit into the crook of my neck and I want one for my very own.

Then I change five diapers in a row. And I decide I can wait for a while.

***

On the return - to theatre, that is. The community kind. So, I'm in a play for the first time in 4 years, and it's weird and I feel out of it but the slow excitement and delight are growing in me and really emerged tonight and I am starting to remember why I love corny musical songs and diving into a character. It's State Fair, thank you ma'am, and I get to be Margy Frake this summer. I wanted the part of the seductress singer. Instead I am the fresh-faced, independent farm girl.

Type casting? No comment.

***

In other news: Over the Rhine. Best thing ever. Go buy it now, Drunkard's Prayer. Although it does mean I now own a song with a saxophone solo. I'm not sure how I feel about that.

the high country

2010-06-03T07:44:00.002-05:00

Announcement: Earlier this morning, a mysterious white cat was spotted by two members of the household. So far it has managed to avoid the over-exuberant Mo and has left the offering of a very large, very dead rat on the front walk. I think it wants to stay.

***

Memorial weekend was four days lost from civilization in the mountains of North Carolina. We stayed at the gloriously simple Hemlock Inn. It's like someone smushed together a camp and a bed and breakfast and a grandparents' home. There are no computers, no T.V.s, and you unlock the door with a real key, not a piece of plastic. Guests smile at each other and talk, and Mr. White, the husband and father of the inn family, sits down to chat with you before breakfast. There are rows of red rocking chairs, and a swing, and ping pong, and a twisty meandering hiking trail, and a long lovely field that slopes in front of the mountains. At 8:30 am and 6:30 pm, a bell clangs and you rush to the dining room, where Mr. White asks the blessing and then you sit down at a big round table with the other folks. In the center of the table is a lazy susan piled with heaps of amazing food.

And if you are lucky, the family at your table has three awesome kids, two boys and a little girl named Jill wedged in the middle. And then you make friends with them and in the evenings you play pretend and catch fireflies, and Cy, the littlest, looks up at you gravely and says, "Hannah, I love you when you are here," because he always puts an "H" in front of your name. And then his brow furrows fierce, and he says, "You will be here all the time and you have to play with us and I will be the good guy."

Yes, these kids made the trip for me. Jill and I sat by each other at meals, and her toy cat drank coffee from my mug. On Sunday morning, when they were about to leave, Jill and Cy were piled on me and stuck their toys in my pockets and were talking both at once real fast and I thought, forget grad school, I want to be a nanny. A little late for that one.

***

After the kids left, I was ready to go too. Because I'm realizing something, and it's that I can't do rural yet. What I mean is, I need people. I love country and space and quiet, I do, and after two days I was restless and society-hungry. I wanted something to and friends to share it with. I think I will have to stay in civilization a while longer yet.

life of a saturday

2010-04-17T09:29:00.002-05:00

That's right. I haven't written in a while. Sixteen days, to be exact. Which is a while, for me, seeing that I process life through writing.

I'm taking this day slow and welcome. It's not black-and-white - not slave to plan, either of work or play. I'll get some stuff done. And I'll rest some too. I decided to do the simple and quiet first, instead of waiting til the list got finished, and it feels good.

Can I say too many times how I love a Saturday with no commitments?

***

Required life updates: I have received four rejection letters, from Wash U., Vandy, Boston and Rice. I think you already know I'm okay with this, except that I really wanted to live in Nashville, and St. Louis I love too (can anybody say Ted Drewe's?).

So when I got a letter the other day from Virginia, I was braced already for the "We regret to inform you . . . " - and it was there. They were very sorry that the MA program does not offer funding, but they were pleased to offer me a place in their program. And I am a little bit astounded. And a little bit yearning, because one I don't have the money and two I'm excited about ESL, dangit.

I'm basically saying that I want both, I want to see the light of understanding in the eyes of children and I want to analyze and argue literature. My dad wanted to be a pilot and a doctor. So I'm filling out financial aid forms and going for an interview at UAB next week. And I feel, I don't know how I feel, I feel that whatever I do will not be the whole picture. If I stay here and do the practical and wise thing, that costs the least money and has the best program and provides the most valued set of skills, then my parents will be glad and some of my friends will be disappointed, and some will be excited, and I will be both okay and disappointed. If it somehow worked out that an MA program is financially do-able, then my parents would be less happy and my friends would be supportive and I would still get to use my English brain and I would emerge in 2 years with a worthless sheet of paper that says I have a Masters in English.

All that word spillage to say - I'm not even trying to work things out.

***

Breathing in sunshine. Trying to lose the pressure to believe right, to be right. Captive to fear and fixing most of the time. And the thought of God, He wants us to have Himself, not an experience, just Him in this ragged life, that thought sparks pinpoints of hope in me, and I get gloomy because I can't hold onto them, because I am not consistent and my prayers are anchor-less a lot. So I say to myself, and to you, don't hold on to the pinpoints because you feel you have to, don't make the holding on a burden, because that's what I have done. But realize that you can hold on, sometimes, if you want to, and pray pray pray for freedom.

where I wanted to go

2010-03-31T11:14:00.002-05:00

It just took me over an hour to write the last 295 words of my thesis essay. Some of the more painful writing I have ripped from my soul. But it is finally wrung out of me and it's not getting another word.

This morning I went with former roomie to the airport before she left for real-life important interviews. I am so glad I got to hug her.

I am going home tomorrow. I will see sweet Mo and he will body slam me and slobber on my face and get mud on my jeans and I will laugh and baby-talk him.

I also get to sit in the kitchen with my Mom and just talk to her. I want to sit at the counter and listen to stories and look at recipes and bask in being her daughter. I want to be there when my dad walks in from work, and listen to him walk around the house and sing hymns and songs from old Westerns.

Obsession with Drew/Ellie Holcomb continues. Their music is beautiful and real and warm and aching and exquisitely tender. And they write songs with words like this.

Oh magnolia

won't you stay with me

won't you wake up and see

that I'm waiting

Oh magnolia

won't you walk with me

won't you let me be

your sweet companion

you've been working til your hands they bleed

and your eyes can't see the dress you're wearing

you've been hopingthat you could make it right

but the more you try, the more you're failing

You've been walking through this world alone,

no place to call your home, except your heartache

You've been trying to make it all work out,

when the sun goes down your soul is burdened

won't you please come home

you don't have to walk alone

won't you rest your head on my shoulder

desert

2010-03-28T12:48:00.011-05:00

No energy, people. For optimism at least. Confession time: that's why I've been avoiding this blog the past few weeks. Cataloguing mercies drains and dries the soul when done under obligation. It's not good when "supposed to" becomes the reason behind hope.

Things are not okay, and that's okay.

Being close to other people is difficult. And I'm surprisingly comfortable with the mess, in my friends and family, and in me. Problems do not equal loss of relationship. That is a good thing to realize.

"Yet Jesus came, whose will of grace precedes our will, whose purpose of love outruns our desire for salvation"

-C.H. Spurgeon

Right now, those words feel like a rope around my waist, holding me to ground and rock and yes, hope.

a regresar

2010-03-22T07:26:00.003-05:00

At the moment, there is a six-pound can of peanut butter sitting on our table. Left over from Spring Break lunch supplies. This makes me yes, very happy.

[Technically, it belongs to RUF. Not me. This does not dilute my glee.]

***

Last week, I went on my second mission trip, ever. To Miami, with RUF. We worked with Deborah's church, painting and cleaning and moving, and I could try to tell you how wonderful it was but I would fail. So you'll have to take my word for it. Just know that it included salsa dancing, lots of rice and beans, and laughter every day. Also the pure turquoise Atlantic waves, the warm and lovely Rodriguez family, and the sweetest, funniest people ever.

I loved it. I loved the sunshine, and the break from academia and thinking, the relief of physical work, and people in a completely different culture. It felt warm and healing and strangely restful.

***

And now this semester is going to fly entirely too fast. I'm trying not to think about that, that my best friend/roommate/clone is going to North Carolina for two years, and then another friend is going to Texas for probably ever. My friends are spreading, to Tennessee and Kentucky and Missouri and Florida and who-knows-where, and I can't let myself feel that right now. I'm just trying to savor every day, the work and the people, and keep my heart from splitting clean in two.

I've got some stuff to distract me from all the ache, stuff like a 12 page story due next week of which I have written not one word. And throwing a wedding shower with (Jo)anna for Deborah in a few weeks, which is thrilling and fun and very strange all at the same time. Stuff like figuring out what exactly it is I'll be doing in the summer/fall. And stuff like wasting less time on the web, which means goodbye for now, children.

Suspended

2010-03-04T21:57:00.003-06:00

I'm writing a paper on Denise Levertov. And I found this.

Suspended

I had grasped God's garment in the void

but my hand slipped

on the rich silk of it.

The 'everlasting arms' my sister loved to remember

must have upheld my leaden weight

from falling, even so,

for though I claw at empty air and feel

nothing, no embrace,

I have not plummeted.

Surprised by Joy

2010-02-27T13:54:00.003-06:00

The Medical Spanish course requires so many hours of service credit. Today was my first day.

I was not looking forward to it.

Why? Because I'm not proud of my Spanish. Because it was from 10-2. Because these things require dealing with people and I just wanted to sleep in and have my Saturday.

Maybe you can guess what's coming. This tends to be the theme of my blog/life, my gloomy expectations that are smashed into a thousand pieces of joy.

Yes. It was wonderful. We were at a health fair, manning the dental education table. I had fun (so much), I had my presentation on dental care down and everyone was really sweet and patient with my Spanish. The kids were adorable beyond description of course, and the moms and dads were sweet and smiling. There are so many dads, is what I kept thinking, and later I processed my surprise and realized it's because you don't see that so much in my demographic. You know, families with dads still there and hugging their kids. I loved it. I loved it a lot. Tomorrow I'm going to a screening, and have no idea what awaits. But I have a much better attitude about it.

***

In other news, I am still in love with my Mr. Rogers red sneakers, and Drew and Ellie Holcomb are the best. Most adorable husband/wife in the world, and rich lovely music. Give 'em a listen.

***

And right now, I am exhausted. I would like to nap for two hours. But there are too many things this afternoon, and even some of them will have to give. Working out, working on thesis, shopping for dinner, making dinner, and it would be nice to have some introvert time to sort out my inner self (it's hard knowing how much attention to pay to my inside. Too much, and I get neurotic and morbid. Too little, and I forget who I am).

To the quad. To sunshine and outside when responsibility crowds.

Notes from the Front

2010-02-23T07:49:00.002-06:00

This morning, before I really woke up, I thought I was back in my bedroom at the old house, the one we lived fifteen years, sleeping in the pink daybed I had til I was eleven. Then my roommate made a noise and I was very confused for a few minutes.

The last time I heard John Stone speak, on repentance, things converged in my life to one of those turning times, the kind you look back at again and again to remember how clear God is sometimes. This weekend, I heard him speak again, on the cross of Jesus. The same kind of convergence, though not as dramatic, and, I think, longer worked-out.

I am not going to exercise today. Usually I make this decision midday-afternoon. See what happens, hope that I can still squeeze it in. Not today. Exhaustion + tight schedule, pure and simple. Decide accordingly.

Leonardo was in a Monday mood yesterday. Sometimes, I try to cheer him up and it doesn't really work. Yesterday I decided to make fun of him instead and things were great. Moral: a little meanness can be very effective.

Lately I have been writing poems off Grimms' fairytales. Disturbing, deeply deeply disturbing. That is all. Ever read The Juniper Tree? My children will grow up on Beatrix Potter and A.A. Milne, thank you very much.

Yesterday, I put some clothes in the wash. Then I collapsed on the bed and fell asleep with my shoes on. The nap was much too short. And they were red sneakers that I bought for five bucks at WalMart. In case you were wondering.

I have not been dependent on coffee since early January. This is a good thing, I think. Today is a coffee day, though. In fact, a constant caffeine drip, that would be preferable. I'd even numb my fear of IVs. Ohhh. That is a tough decision . . . yes. The caffeine wins. Take my left hand, though.

P.S. I love you too

2010-02-15T16:14:00.002-06:00

My shoes, my new and favorite black suede ruffled flats, have decided to run away. I run up the stairs, look down, and see a shoe resting several steps down. The first few times this happened, I felt like Cinderella. After another fifty get-away attempts, I just felt ticked.

***

Today, I did not see Leonardo because of President's Day. I was sad, but honestly not too sad because I had a bunch of work to do and he was probably having a great time because he wasn't in school. The point is, I had an extra hour or so I hadn't expected. So I sat in Harry's and worked on the short story that has been draining the life out of me. Then I had lunch with Erin, went to the library, and worked for almost two hours. 950 words later, story is done. It's about my great-great grandmother, Bathsheba Thornton. Yes, that really was her name. Glad the parents decided not to pass that one down.

***

In other news, this was a really happy Valentine's weekend. I didn't realize this until Erin said so yesterday, I suddenly saw it was so. I got to spend time with the perfect group of good friends on Friday. On Saturday night, Swing Kids kindly let us butt in on their dance and take the money for our mission trip. More friends there, and so much fun. Awkward, yes, to be dipped two dances in a row by short and silent men, but I am a writer. I welcome awkward. Good material. And on Sunday I watched I Capture the Castle with Joanna C. and two other awesome English major girls. They'd all read the book, too. We had ourselves a nice English major party, what with the BBC movie and tea and pastry.

Oh, and my cousin Brannon's email from last week. Brannon is 23. He and his twin were born super early, and he has some physical and mental challenges, but I for one think he does quite well. He's got email now, and it's the best thing ever. Here's part of his email.

Dear Anna,

Thank you for the Email you send me, It was really sweet of you as a cousin to send me that Email, and I appreciated it. My cold and allergies went away, and I have gone back to my normal walks. But last Wednesday, I was streching out of bed too hard, and I popped my back neck. My dad told me that my back neck was going to be sore, but when I got out of bed the next day, my back neck was feeling a lot better, it was just for 1 day for my back neck to start hurting, but I just hope I'll never strech out of bed like that again. I hope you found a Valentine, because Valentine's Day is on Sunday, I got to find myself a pretty girl to be my Valentine for Valentine's Day, so that I can start dating pretty soon. Maybe I should give a pretty girl some roses for Valentine's Day. I sure hope I can find a girlfriend pretty soon that is too crazy for me. Keep up with your schoolwork at Samford, and I hope you have a romantic Valentine's Day. We will hope to see you in Easter.

Love,

Brannon

P.S I love you too.

One down, five to go

2010-02-13T09:13:00.004-06:00

I'm a pale shade of blue this morning. The kind that doesn't exactly keep me from life, just drains energy and makes me subdued.

Reason? I got my first grad school notification yesterday. From Wash. U. It was an "I am so sorry to inform you" notification.

Sigh. Mixed feelings, as always. It would've been nice for the first news to be acceptance. And it would've been really nice to have St. Louis as an option. Then again, I am already torn and leaning closer to home. And like A.P. said, if all the schools say no that makes my decision much easier. In fact, that would be excellent. Clear-cut direction, God, that is what I like. None of this uncertainty stuff.

And I get to the end of the week and realize things have been hard (inside my head, I mean) and I haven't been dealing with it very well. It's not that life- there have been many bright things. But sometimes I hurtle through the days and then find myself wishing to weep out the frustration and pain, to grieve the heaviness of life.

Now I feel the urge to qualify. There is so much good in my life. Like last night, resting with friends who know me, the comfort of laughter and saying whatever came into our heads and knowing it was safe. Or the bird I saw on my way to work the other day, that made me smile because it was so fat and funny. Things like chai tea and high merriment with my roommate.

And snow. Which is funny, because I didn't want it to come. Too mush and mess. And now that it's here, I am enchanted in spite of myself.

Oh, and also: friends who do things like this to your car

S-P-E-C-T-A-C-U-L-A-R

2010-02-08T13:00:00.003-06:00

Every Monday morning, I get to go to a nearby elementary school. I see Leonardo and we write a story with his spelling words and read Henry and Mudge and he tells me his own stories. Because he is one of those people who sees life as an epic adventure. That's why school makes him a little bit cranky sometimes. Nothing is routine to him.

Last week, I got a card from my best boy. It had all my favorite things: butterflies, flowers, and lots of pink and red. He'd spent a lot of time on it. It made my eyes go all wet and blurry for a moment.

In the card, he wrote his name in cursive and used the word "spectacular." I smile all over again when I read that word.

Besides being an awesome storyteller, Leo also loves animals and knows more about them than I do. So now he brings his animal book every week and he is so interested he reads hard words without realizing they are hard. Did you know that cheetahs are not considered big cats because they cannot roar? We both felt sorry for the cheetah.

I never wanted to be an elementary school teacher. You can't adequately help all the kids, and most of the time is spent in discipline. I still feel that way.

But I love working with Leonardo. I love it when we find new and fun ways to practice spelling, I love it when he sounds out words right, I love to see the light of understanding come on in his eyes. And I love what Mrs. T., the ESL teacher, does. She works one-on-one or in very small groups with the ESL kids, and her classroom is a safe place for them. They laugh, they feel confident.

So all this has confused my career plan. I love literature and analysis, I love thinking big thoughts. But I also love what I get to do with Leonardo. And I don't want to stop.

This has messed up my tidy post-graduation path. And I don't know which way to go.

One thing is for sure: this kid has got my heart.

Intermezzo

2010-02-04T22:01:00.002-06:00

Home. A gold blanket and the most comfortable couch in the world. The rattle of the dryer (laundry noises=love). The sweet grey dog curled up dry in the basement. And the sound of rain on the porch and roof and windows.

I am content. And, lately, hopeful. It came pretty easy last week. This week - it's a fight.

Go back to this: hope is a practice, not a feeling. A tightrope of trust I'm only just learning to walk.

Tonight, I rest in that.

***

Tomorrow: busy. But good busy. Cooking and cleaning and m-a-y-b-e homework busy.

Hard part: Deciding what to cook. For the concert snacks, that is. Strawberry shortcake cake? Chocolate nut bark? Pecan shortbread? Cake pops? Nut butter cups? Raspberry twists? Choices, choices. Suggestions welcome.

***

To clear up some confusion: First of all, I forget that people read this blog more than once in a blue moon. And did not think anyone would catch the V-day joke. The boy in my life is named Leonardo, and he is ten years old, and every Monday I go to his school and we practice spelling and reading and he manipulates my heart strings. And because he is hilarious and sweet and amazing and I want to adopt him, he is getting his own special Leonardo post in the very near future. Yay Leo!

My heart is a winter sky

2010-02-02T19:40:00.008-06:00

Photo by Pete Sy

Today, I wore my hair curly and drank vanilla caramel truffle tea.

I wrestled with lots of heavy thoughts by 1 pm, and had to fight very hard to keep my eyes open in Shakespeare. I didn't really win.

I dreamed that I married a super nice guy named Darcy, and I was miserable because he was so nice but I didn't love him and was afraid to cancel the wedding because we spent so much money on invitations.

In the dream, my dad and I drank mojitos and he said I should have the marriage annulled. My dad would never drink a mojito. Or advise an annullment.

I had supper with Joanna and Deborah and English major Joanna, and ate left-over bake sale cookies back in the room.

And I wore a pink shirt and decided to write a blog post instead of working on my thesis.

***

Semi-guilty announcement: I now have class only on Tuesdays and Thursdays. It feels a little bit wrong. And a lot wonderful. The thing is, my classes are pretty much all writing classes. That means I have to actually do work on the non-class days.

RUF had a bake sale today, and the cookies I made all sold. That made me feel like a real woman. The cupcakes I made did not all sell. That made me question my cupcake decorating skills. Which could pass for a third grader's.

And this evening I got to hang out at the Sterlings and laugh and talk with Susie and some really wonderful girls. I laughed a lot. I needed it. I also ate a lot of m&ms. Those I did not need.

Stay tuned for up-coming episodes, which will feature such issues as the Stephen Gordon house concert (come one, come all, this Saturday!), updates on the salamander quest, and a post on the amazing boy named Leonardo in my life. Stay tuned, kids.

And then go home

2010-01-27T07:55:00.000-06:00

I have been amiss. In writing on this blog, I mean (and in lots of other things too. But it would take a long time to list them all here).

In the time between my last post and this, I went through the door of twenty two. It feels much different than twenty one. Twenty two makes me feel like I should be getting on with my life: securing a high-powered job at a magazine, or working at a bank, or doing something practical and useful and adult.

And I have never felt more like a child in my life.

And whether it's the birthday or not, I've been re-thinking things. Future plan things, mostly. Like, maybe I will get a masters' in ESL and teach elementary school kids, instead of going for my Ph.D. right away. Basically, do I want to teach 8 and 9 year olds, or 18 and 19 year olds?

And like how far away I am willing to go. See, somewhere I swallowed this idea that I'm a loser if I don't go pretty far away from home, for at least a while (why I applied to schools in Boston and Texas). But I don't want to live in Boston. I want to live in the South. I love it here, so much. But I feel guilty and unadventurous for not wanting to leave for a real long time. So I was telling this to my sweet mother and she reminded me of William Faulkner and Eudora Welty and other writers who lived where they were raised.

Don't get me wrong, I feel the ancient fairy tale need of leave-and-return. I still feel the tug away, I still long for pilgrimage. But I am beginning to grasp that it wouldn't be wrong to make my home in these green hills, in a place I love, in home. That it's OK if I want to root myself in family and land. That I can leave just to have the joy of return.

***

And now I'm back at school, my other home. Home because of the friends here who really are family. Talking with Anna before sleep and enjoying the comfortable quiet of living in the same space. Sitting with Ryan and Michael at first breakfast, because just watching them laugh and talk makes me happy. Quoting "A Very Potter Musical" with Erin and watching it together for the next hour in the Mac lab. Lee's Civil War beard and how perfectly it suits the hat I made for him. Two classes in a row with my lovely English girls. Two hour supper with Josh and Ryan and the girls. New Lamb Chop episodes with Shannon. And knitting in the cosy apartment while Claire crocheted and Valerie crafted jewelry.

Oh friends, you rich my life.

The Higher Common Sense

2010-01-16T13:31:00.000-06:00

On some days, I wake up, and I have a tidy mind. I feel the urge straighten things up . . . to re-organize my book shelf . . . to read (or watch): Cold Comfort Farm.

These are my Flora Poste days, January days. 1930s modern. I straighten my hair and make up my face. I write out my calendar for the next five months and make eleven lists. I shut all the closet doors and take all my vitamins and throw away old letters without regret.

Flora reformed a family of dirty tragic figures into people of sensible fulfillment. She is poised and neat and even believes in arranged marriages. And on these days, like her, I am order reforming mess, common sense coolly defeating neurosis, humor quipping romance, sweeping dust out of attic corners.

And the image I always have in mind is this. Peace and order with a hint of glamour. No untidiness. And, at the end of the day, Charles Fairford in his airplane to take me to London. Because, after all, things will get messy again. Tomorrow Flora might be subsumed in Hardy-like melancholy.

But for now, the clean cold brisk January order. The satisfying starkness of black branches against the winter sky. All new, in order, everything arranged.

"Jane Austen and I have so much in common. Neither of can stand mess."

-Flora Poste, Cold Comfort Farm

Please read the letter

2010-01-05T08:04:00.000-06:00

Just drained a cup of hot Afghan tea, and about to down some orange and spice. Both with gobs of honey. That's right, I have not had coffee in 48 hours. I have not wanted coffee in more like 144 hours.
Por que? Well, somehow the bean of the gods loses its appeal when your body is a 24 hour sneezies factory (how can one body produce this much snot, I ask in disbelief). Last night I spent over an hour coughing instead of sleeping, and I went outside yesterday for .03 seconds. Coffee, my daily walks, normal functioning energy level - what else will this consumption steal from me?

***
We have not had personal photos displayed in our home for over 2 years. This is sad to me. We took them down when we put the old house for sale, and they've been lingering in a neglectful pile in the basement ever since. Not to mention the masses of more photos in my dad's back office, i.e. catch-all for everything we haven't found a place for yet in this house. So for Christmas I gave my dad some service coupons, which included "organizing the pile of photos."
A bigger task than I first realized. But fun. He asked me also to organize the basement and the attic, and of course I said yes. So that is my job for Jan-term, and what a job it will be.

But really, I'm looking forward to it. I'm just on the photos now, and it's fun to go through and see our personalities change through pictures. Jim was a stern and unsmiling toddler who is a goofball by the time he's eight. I was a flamboyant camera-loving diva, until I stopped smiling when I was nine (when I figure out how to scan photos in a .jpg instead of .jsp format, I'll show you on here!).

And it will be fun to re-discover all the treasures in the attic, like the mallard duck sketch I always loathed and the Anacapri watercolor I loved. It's a treasure hunt into the forgotten, and who knows what I'll find?

***
In other news: my mom and I spent 20 minutes on Sunday morning coordinating our outfits (she used to dress me up. Now I dress her up). What with the sickness, I go to be first and wake up last (solid 11 hours, night before last). It feels lazy and wasteful, and oh so wonderful. Erin visited yesterday, and we spent yes, the entire time, watching "A Very Potter Musical," and I loved it.
And my dog, my Sweet Dog, who we kept warm and safe in the War Room last night, and I was reminded of just how much I love him more all the time. His sweet velvet fragile tents of ears. His wide submissive eyes when he wants to be stroked. His exuberant happy eyes when he tries to knock me down in his excitement. The way he runs off in the completely opposite direction when I throw the ball for him. His sweet snuffling nose and the way he tries to lick all over my face (I understand I may be the only one who appreciates this. No one else is expected to enjoy my dog's slobbering. End of disclaimer). Sweet sweet Mo.

A Study in Contrasts

2010-01-01T21:29:00.000-06:00

What with everything, I have been inclined to dwell more on the differences this last year has wrought, before I go making resolutions for the new one. So here are the ways I've grown from last January to this January, categorized for your convenience.

Pass on the Vermouth Bianco.

Last Jan 1, I was a nondrinker per being underage. This January 1, I am a nondrinker by choice. A decision made in consideration of my personality and genes. Nothing wrong with alcohol. Just not for me right now.

O when I was young and foolish.

A year ago, I was coming off an autumn of being brittle and hard. I had laughed too loudly. I had used another person solely for my own emotional needs, to keep myself from hurting. I was proud and unkind, and I still blush over my behavior and heart during that time.

That whole autumn can be summed up this way: I thought that by being careless, I could avoid feeling all the pain of what had happened. And it works, for a while. But let me tell you this: it's much better to grieve. To feel the loneliness. To ache over the losses.

Last January, I had just broken and begun that process. And let me tell you - it's so much lighter on this side.

Come back to Normal.

I've told you what the last part of 2008 was like. The first part was horrible depression and darkness. Needless to say, I hadn't felt normal for quite a while last January. But little did I know, the coming spring would hold incredible gifts. I still remember my first taste of Normal in the sunshine of a warm February afternoon. And the wonderful friends and adventures of folklore, the dear friendships that developed with both the Deborahs and Jessica and other wonderful RUF-ers, the sweetness of simple happiness again. Because of all that, I enter this year a little more healed, a little more at peace.

Wear and Tear; or, Let's Get Physical

I have two tiny scars on my tummy that I didn't have last year. And suffered no ill effects. Thank you Lord for smooth surgeries. There was a tough time when I was "et up" with fear. But I got my first IV and really liked anesthesia and when I think about how scared I was all I can say is: thank you Lord that nothing was wrong.

As for everything else health-wise: weight's the same, height's not changing, and I have taken up Pilates. Which is wonderful.

Three Words

2008: pain, dark, love

2009: light, struggle, laugh

Direction

Last year, a professor had just approached me with the possibility of doing research. So we applied, and received the grant, and through that and the following TA opportunity, God made me to understand that I really love to teach and think researching and writing papers is fun. So this year I'm waiting to hear from grad schools. Next year? It's either the halls of academia or the one-room insurance agency in Kansas. Guess which one I'm hoping for.

Awareness

A year ago, I lived in the grip of fear. And today, I still live mostly in the grip of fear. But now I understand that it is fear, and fear leads only to a tiny, twisted version of the truth. Never freedom. Never peace. A year ago, I thought that if I could think through things and figure out what my problem was, I could fix it. Now, I more often just pray. For courage, courage to walk through the fear. Or for faith and peace. Or I just sit and breathe, "Help."

So that's where I am right now. No resolutions yet; no impossible goals that lead to defeat, just trying to stay balanced.

And oh, all you folks that read this blog - thank you for spending time on these ramblings. I do love all you sweet people - have a full, rich and glad new year. And that's an order, children.

My Favorite Things, New Mexican Style

2009-12-29T23:53:00.000-06:00

Mamma Pat and Bobbo. They have got to be some of the warmest, most welcoming people in the world. Not to mention the funniest. Every day before we'd ski Mama Pat would make sure we had our gloves and sunscreen and chocolate (for energy, y'know), while Bob cracked jokes. I love their marriage, love to watch how they still delight in and enjoy each other after 35 years. When I expressed this to Pat, she smiled. "Well, we laugh a lot," she said. Note taken: laughter a key ingredient for good relationship.
And we have laughed much during our time here. At their 20 year old deaf cat. At Bob's dry and rapid fire wit. At Pat's sudden and outrageous statements. And at their lifetime of wonderfully comic stories.

Ski Santa Fe. I like the mountains here better than Utah, I think - they're softer and more embracing. And Jim and I had great fun sliding down the slopes. He fell first, but I predicted that I would accomplish the most dramatic wipe-out. And I did. Twice. But for the most part, we both did pretty well for second-timers, and I remembered the graceful dip and sweep and float of skiing. Except for when I'd realize I was going fast (ish). Then I'd panic. Then I'd calm myself down and keep dipping and floating.

Meandering Irish Scarves. I am knitting what was supposed to be an Irish Hiking Scarf. Somewhere along the way, though, the pattern, well it . . . changed. So Bob named it the Irish Meandering Scarf. The End.

Straight as a stick. There is No. Humidity. out here. And I love it. You know why? I straighten my hair, and it stays straight. For more than 15 minutes! Yes, there is the slight problem of constant dehydration, but who cares when I can wake up and run my fingers through perfectly straight, tangle-free locks?

She can bake a cherry pie. Sweet Aunt Roberta, who is late eighties, 5 foot 1, and still has an immaculate yard and clear mind and fabulous cooking and more energy than most anyone I know. Gracious. She fed us lasagna and an absolutely perfect cherry pie, and told us about the year the family lived in Alaska, and about her and Glenn's square dancing days, and their friends Poncho and Marie. That woman is amazing.

Sky and earth and color. You'd think New Mexico would be brown. Just brown. But it's not. The earth is red and gold and tawny beneath the pure-white snow, and the sky is every shade of purple and blue. But the light. Oh, the light is the best part - perfect and golden and clear.

Here is all a-right

2009-12-24T21:56:00.000-06:00

Current position: Great room, fire blazing beside the lovely tree. Sharing the couch and a cosy blanket with Mom, and taking a short break from knitting my third scarf since Monday.

Verdict: Nearly idyllic.

(The "nearly" is for the leaks I just discovered in two windows. The tree happens to be stationed close to one of the leaky spots, so we had to turn the lights off. Still pretty, though. Now, back to our regularly scheduled program.)

***

We had our big family Christmas yesterday, in Marietta. Jim and I went to the favorite cousins' on Tuesday, though, and much hilarity ensued. Ty and Austin make me laugh until I ache. And Brannon is just a pure delight ("Anna, I think you should be Mrs. Claus for Christmas." Thanks?) I just love being at the Georgia family's place, period. Aunt Laura entertains with easy grace, always has a funny story, and has impeccable booksense. Their house is full of laughter and running and collapsing on the couch for naps.

And when you wake up at 2 am, there is most likely a fuzzy cat kneading your feet and purring. Happy sigh.

***

So yes, after all the excitement, a quiet Christmas Eve is not so unwelcome. Jim and I are flying to New Mexico on Saturday (we are going to stay with Mama Pat and Bob, and ski, and hug Roberta and all the other sweet family), so today was spent rounding up the last minute ski necessities (I have developed a sudden addiction to knit caps. Straight hair does this to a girl. Curly hair hates hats. Did I mention I have straight hair now? I digress). So the four of us ate lasagna and tiramisu while the storm howled, considered watching The Godfather (which idea was nixed by the female half of the family as too violent for Christmas Eve) and watched Waking Ned Devine instead (Irish music/scenery/accents = love).

Dad just joined us on the couch (and informed me that Alan Ladd was 5"6 . . .), and family and crackly fire and peace - Merry Christmas, dear people.

The Christ-child lay on Mary's heart,

his hair was like a fire -

oh weary, weary is the world

but here the world's desire

-G. K. Chesterton

Late November Loveliness

2009-12-20T18:27:00.000-06:00

One day during Thanksgiving break, I took a ramble in the lovely golden afternoon splendor of late autumn. I love November's golden browns, and the bare twigs and brittle grasses and purple leaves. I'm no photographer, but maybe these photos will show some of the loveliness that is Alabama in November.

Golden wispies.

Gorgeous silky field. See the terraces? And the barn peeping over the hill?

Sweet Mo.

Last remnants of red.

I loved the way these leaves caught the afternoon light and shone against the gray, dead ground.

And the woods behind the house. Brambles and branches and mystery.

There were just a few red remnants hanging on to the branch, and they were beautiful against the blue sky. Too bad my camera skills couldn't capture it. You'll just have to trust me.

Golden stands of grass. I never get tired of it.

Winter Song

2009-12-16T17:28:00.000-06:00

This afternoon, when I climbed the stairs and pulled the shades and crawled onto my enormous fluffy white bed, it was light outside.

Now it is not.

I slept for two hours. And I took a nap yesterday, too. And the day before that.

I think this is what they call "hibernation."

***

Items of Note:

- I have decided that Mosby does not run, he does not walk, he gambols. This is the only word for his weird, clumsy, hyena-like lope. And it makes me laugh and I love it. Sweet Mo. I love him to pieces. We played fetch-the-ball for a solid hour on Monday. Sweet Mo. He's also a little obsessive.

- Yesterday was my day to put things in order. As in, unpack and organize everything. Originally, I was going to spread the process out over a few days. But I have found that once I begin to sort and organize, I cannot stop until I collapse from hunger. I didn't just unpack, I organized my closets and half the attic. When the dust settled, I found a Very Tidy room, three bags of stuff to give away, and five large plastic bins filled with things. I have three childhood boxes, one high school box and a costume box.

- Speaking of childhood: my dad recently unearthed some books that had disappeared somewhere into the black hole of moving. Among the salvaged was one of my favorite ever books: Minnikin, Midgie and Moppet. I was completely obsessed with this book when I was three, and the obsession has never quite gone away. Three mice that live in a tree with their mom and go out to lead their own lives for a while but all come back to live in the big tree. Sorry if I just spoiled the ending for anyone.

- I am learning to knit. Yes, that is right. Un-crafty Anna is trying to learn an art that involves physical dexterity. And . . . it's a little bit addictive. You feel relaxed and productive at the same time (as in, I can knit while watching a T.V. with my family. I usually sort of hate watching television, because it's so passive and I think of everything else I could be doing and I can feel my brain cells dying from the lack of stimulation). Last night Jim and I watched Arrested Development and I knitted and somewhere in the episode where Gob makes the yacht disappear I dropped a stitch because I was laughing so hard and now there's a huge hole in my practice swatch. I like that show.

***

Yes, I am home and glad to be here. The people-deprivation will set in soon enough. But for right now, it is good to have no school and a real kitchen, and naps whenever I want them.

There was a little melancholy the end of last week - but then, I was melancholy all of last week. A combination of knowing it was the last week with friends for a while, and finishing the durn paper, and, as I wrote last week, "that peculiar melancholy that hits at random times." Where I get sad about ridiculous things that don't bother me most days.

I guess change makes us a little nostalgic, and it makes us long for the things that used to comfort. Whether they were good or bad. For me, it's mostly bad, because I tend to deal with those feelings by sinking into a comfortable gloom. I may not like my little black rain cloud blanket, but at least it's familiar.

For others, it may be a relationship, or Calvin and Hobbes, or smoking, or maybe just cookie dough ice cream.

What about you? What comfortable habit do you go back to when you feel down?

Light will come again

2009-12-02T21:32:00.000-06:00

Well, yes. I could be using this time to finish that review due on Friday. Or edit a poem. Or start brainstorming for the paper due Tuesday. And maybe I will do one of those things in a while.

But right now - right now I just came in out of the cold. And washed my face. And took down my hair. And slid into pajamas. And inside a blanket.

And that's why I'm writing.

***

In news of great import: I finished the Deathly Hallows. Yesterday. As in, the seventh, the last, the final book in the Harry Potter series. And I always thought they were overrated. Or uninteresting. Or too trendy. Or . . . something. And I thought the people who got excited about them were strange. Well.

Is it too weird that the end of Harry Potter pulled me out of my Eyeore complex enough to believe that things will be right in the end, that God is good and joy is true?

Yes. It made me pretty happy.

"Of house-elves and children's tales, of love, loyalty, and innocence, Voldemort knows and understands nothing. Nothing. That they all have a power beyond his own, a power beyond the reach of any magic, is a truth he has never grasped."

Well said, Albus.

***

I've made my finals game plan. It's written in colored pencil and hung on the wall beside my desk. It's nice to have it out of my head. Plus I love scratching things off the list. Maybe too much. I just love study plans.

Only maybe I should call it "project plans." Because I have no finals this year. Nada. Just papers, and a presentation. And I like it, I like it lots. I'm the world's worst studier, and I'd much rather sit down and think and analyze and write than . . . study.

Oh yes - and the last GRE? It proved what I've always known: my right brain is abnormally large, and my left brain is the size of a shriveled pea. I got a very exciting score on the Verbal section, and a dismal - nay, abysmal - score on the Quantitative. But that's ok, because my field is English! Take that, mathematics, you have no power over me anymore.

Now. Time for poem revision (cue nerdy excitement), sleep, and finishing strong. Then Jan term: New Mexico ski slopes, good books, and knitting. You heard me right.

On our way home

2009-11-23T13:32:00.000-06:00

Just got off the phone with little brother. I mean younger brother who is twice my size. He wants to go to Peru during spring break with Bama RUF. I told him about Miami. We chatted about movies (like The Full Monty which is oddly very good. I'll explain later) and the quiz I'm writing for tomorrow and he made me laugh, as always. It turns out we both have class til 5 tomorrow and neither of us are skipping.

But we'll both be home for supper. And I'm looking forward to that, to my family sitting together, and Jim's hilarious stories and Mom's random phrases that make Jim and me die with laughter and she doesn't know why, and seeing Dad happy and trading jokes with Jim.

Can you tell I'm ready for school to be over?

***
And that is why I'm sitting here in the last half hour before that class I really want to skip but am attending anyway, writing about how my brother's phone call made me happy when I should be writing about the plays of Calderon.

Yes, I am ready for a break. Not from friends. But I want to hang out with my family, and see Kait, and read Deathly Hallows and every Frederic Buechner book I can find. I read Godric this weekend (in the summer I read On the Road with the Archangel), and I love his stuff a lot.

"This much I will tell: what's lost is nothing to what's found, and all the death that ever was, set next to life, would scarcely fill a cup."

You hold me glad

2009-11-17T20:27:00.000-06:00

Tonight, I saw a fat and fluffy raccoon scamper over the sidewalk. The sunset spread a sheet of red-gold light against the evening clouds, and the air was cold and smelled like leaves and pine needles.

Everywhere, beauty.

***

I should be writing a sestina, but instead I want to tell you that the past several days have been better, OCD-wise. Quite a bit better. I am able to slow down my mind and trust God a little bit more and realize that this is my battle to fight. So I've been fighting.

So far I have hesitated to write directly about that on this blog. I'm not sure why. But anyway, I bear the official diagnosis of "Obsessive Compulsive Disorder," only I don't wash my hands a million times a day (um, that's when I was a six year old hypchondriac. Yeah). Anyway, I've been astonished and, well, relieved, to learn that so many other people also struggle with it. With me, it takes the form of (ahem) "recurrent, unwanted thoughts." So instead of having to check the actual door 30 times to make sure it's locked (which is what some people do), I have to go back and check the door in my mind. And that sounds really abstract. Sorry, folks.

But the point is, you can do stuff to make it better and things have been better this week. And I am grateful.

***

In other news, I feel subdued, but that's ok. I want to go and sit with people who are my friends and just be quiet and smile and listen. To just - be. To not plan or make conversation or exert energy of any type. Is that ok?

I took an hour and a half dreaming nap yesterday. At 4 o'clock of the afternoon. It was wonderful.

I want to be home and baking. Yes? Yes.

Acquired music from Where the Wild Things Are soundtrack by Karen O and the Kids. It's lovely stuff.

Took me so many miles and they never wore out

my worried shoes

I looked all around and saw the sun shining down

took off my worried shoes

Breathing

2009-11-11T07:22:00.000-06:00

Here in college, my cooking creativity has grown exponentially. For better, or (often) for worse. The better includes things like learning how to boil pasta in the microwave, or using whipped cream cheese on top of my beans-rice-salsa in the absence of sour cream. Things like stirring in some peanut butter with my oatmeal (divine. And comforting).

Sometimes, though, things go too far. There are only so many things you can change before your creation morphs from yummy with a twist to some food-version of Frankenstein's monster. And that's what happened this morning. One element too many, and my morning oatmeal turned into a peanut butter-cocoa-brown sugar-applesauce bomb. I blame the applesauce. And myself.

***

Of note:

*I went to Nashville this weekend with Anna and we stayed at her sweet grandmother's house. Then we walked around Vanderbilt and the ginkgo trees there captured our hearts. I've got some serious university infatuation going on.

*In a poetry thesis meeting, Dr. J. and I were talking about my stuffs, and I expressed the fear that my poems are too serious. See, they tend to come out sometimes more sad or cynical than I would like. I mean, I try to fight my pessimism, ya know? And I'd like to write stuff that reflects hope and redemption. But you can't just sit down and say "I'm going to make it turn out this way," or it comes out forced. So I asked him how to deal the fact that I'm not going to write cheery stuff, but I also don't want to give in to full-out cynicism. He smiled. "Just accept it with a whimsical smile," he said.

Strangely, that has helped.

*Grad school update: GRE fun again next week! I'm not studying any math this time. Ha! Personal statement is written and enduring the scrutinizing eagle eyes of respected professors. I'm trying not to dream too much. It's hard.

*Exciting: I've long been obsessed with this band called The Format. I mean, I love them. A lot (even the "Does your cat have a moustache" song, and that's just not a comfortable image). Only problem is they split up a year or two ago, so no obsessively following their tour dates and waiting for them to come here. Good news, though: one of the guys has formed another band, called Fun, and I like them, I like them much.

*In other strange news, I forgot to eat dinner last Thursday. This testifies to my busy-ness because, as most know, I have no hunger tolerance. Feed me. Feed me now. That's my motto. When I don't care about food, my world is upside down. All that to say - last week was insane.

This week? This week I have time to lie on the bed and read Albion's Seed and write blog posts.

*Last Tuesday I watched Shane for the very first time. He's beautiful.

Shane! Come back, Shane.

I turn my camera on

2009-10-29T22:33:00.000-05:00

Seriously, children. I was useless today after 3 pm. I plugged some music into my ear and ambled around for a while, but dragged myself back before it turned into a proper walk. Then I went to the beauty of Chris Thile playing with the ASO and all I could do was smile really big and bask.

What has happened, I would like to know, that I wake up at 2 am and stay that way for the next two hours?

And why is it that when I have been trying to work really, really hard and get Lots of Stuff done so I can relax for a bit, that I crash and find myself incapable of doing anything but browsing Anthropologie and searching for the perfect pair of grey pumps?

[Speaking of which, let me introduce you to the latest obsession, also destined to be a serious relationship - Academic Chic. 3 female grad students and their gorgeous, creative, and inexpensive fashion. I love.]

Usually the crash coincides with an urgent desire to blog. And here I am.

***

In other news, my sweet parents decided, semi-spontaneously, to sojourn up to Townsend, Tennessee. Explanation. Townsend is the stuff of my childhood. I grew up going to Cades Cove and having our photo taken by the same golden tree each year. We usually stayed at one of the wonderful Pioneer Cabins, which has grassy meadows and a pond and goats (and the guy who played Birdseye Johnson in the television series of Christy. He is a former accountant. No lie). So the Cades Cove/Townsend area is one of my very favorite places on earth and I haven't been in four long years. That's where I'll be this weekend. I have three objectives:

1. Finish the Half-Blood Prince (why did I deprive myself of the sweet addiction of Harry Potter for so long?). Repress all consciousness of school until Sunday afternoon.

2. Sit by the river on the Abram's Falls trail.

3. Eat Bears in the Snow at the Pancake Pantry.

I am a simple girl. No, not that kind of simple.

Next time on your favorite (cough) blog: The exquisite mastery of Where the Wild Things Are. I love it. I love it so. much. It takes the themes of the book - the difficulty of living in relationship, the desire to go wild and live without restraint, and the isolation that brings - and takes it all really, really deep. It is visually beautiful and perfect and hilarious and aching and I want to watch it a million times over. Yes, it is my new Big Fish, my new Lars and the Real Girl. And . . . it has miles to go before DVD release. Dang it.

The thing with feathers

2009-10-21T22:32:00.000-05:00

Let me just say that when I started this blog o'mine and subtitled it "a catalogue of mercies" - it wasn't because my life was particularly full of sweetness and light.

I gave it that name because it was a huge effort, a conscious, counterintuitive, nanosecond-by-nanosecond effort, to see the good in life. So I tried to start by listing little things, things like the June sunlight at 7 am, or a cinnamon scone, or a friend's letter written in green ink.

Well. Be careful when you go titling something "a catalogue of mercies," because that's just what it'll become. I know I do a lot of whining, but the year and something since I started this has been chock full of unexpected good things. I'm grateful. So I'll list some more.

* The RUF retreat this past weekend. The girls who rode in my car are wonderful in every way, and I cannot rave enough about them. Or the weekend itself. My freshman year (at the same lakehouse), only one upperclassman talked to me. This year, we all talked and laughed together and there were no cliques and community is beautiful, isn't it.

* During tutoring tonight, I spent an hour and half with three freshmen athletes, explicating an Auden poem. By the end of the time, I was jumping around the cubicle frantically and writing on the white board and exclaiming things like, "And HERE is where he argues that Virgil totally fails!" It was really fun. And I'm a nerd.

* Google Calendar. My latest obsession, destined to be lasting. I love it so much. I can make lists! I can see my 4-day agenda! I can view my life in month, week or day mode! I can make events - and tasks!

* In other news, I love my roommate. Her name is Anna too! On our door there is a sign that says "Anna." It makes me smile. Every night we talk for a really long time and I can be my own neurotic, dorky self around her and she just laughs and still loves me. Also we have the exact same thoughts and sometimes communicate telepathically. I love being a clone.

Speaking of which, it's time for our nightly ramble of conversation. Good night, world.

Counting: My life in numbers

2009-10-14T13:16:00.000-05:00

1. Things are still not where I'd like them to be, but I recently realized that God's goodness is much more real to me than it was two years ago. And He's really, really patient. Good thing because I'm stubborn.

2. I took the GRE this morning, and did not die. Not as well as I hoped, not as badly as I feared. Next step: application essay.

3. Residence Life, always in tune with the needs of students, bought two sets of cookware that

can be "checked out" by all comers in the RL office. I think that's gross.

4. Last Sunday night, it was almost 11 and my suitemate and I had degenerated into nonsensical phrases and raucous laughter. All the sudden the conversation turned to Lamb Chop's Play Along. I loved Lamb Chop. I identified with her so much, probably because she was selfish and sort of irritating. Anyway, 11 pm = prime impulse buy time, so come Tuesday I picked up this in the mail:

Yes, I have my very own Lamb Chop puppet now, and she's GREAT. Last night we spent more time than I will disclose here playing with her and taking pictures. Look for a Lamb Chop photo shoot coming up soon.

"I make de bes' picnic! Ham samiches, peanut buttah and jelly samiches . . ." Oh the memories.

5. Why yes, I am a senior in college. Why do you ask?

6. If I have so much to do, then why I am writing blog posts and eating lollipops and watching Shall We Dance, yes, all at the same time. Why not go write that quiz for tomorrow? Sigh, ok. After all, I am skipping that awful, terrible, really bad Spanish class that I do believe is slowly killing off our brain cells and turning us into zombies who can help the Profesora in her nefarious quest to take over the world.

But maybe that's just me.

Who pulled the plug?

2009-10-07T20:40:00.000-05:00

I'm tired.

Exhausted. Drained. Jes' plumb wore out. Beat. Sapped dry. Weary.

I have also noticed a distinct lack of energy.

I don't know why, ezackly. I mean, a fall break that was too early, yes, overcommitments, yes, a paper and grad school stress and party planning and concert planning and did I mention overcommitment, yes yes yes yes yes.

I'm used to my brain going a little wacky when life gets crazy and stressful. I'm a little bit (ok, a lot) OCD, so when I feel like my life is out of control I get even weirder than usual. The thing is, though, I don't want to give anything up. I like volunteering with Leonardo. Tutoring in the Athletic Department brings in grocery money. RUF is a non-negotiable, seeing as my life revolves around it. School is sort of what I'm here for, and I really do like all my classes except for the despised Spanish lit class (don't get me started). GRE and grad school stuff are necessary for my future and I'm excited about all the nerdy stuff in higher level studies. And then there's the extra social stuff - throwing the party was a blast and I'm thrilled about the house concert. I love hanging out with my friends. I really can't give anything up.

It's just that I feel like something with all the juice drained out. Running on fumes. And the bad thing is that I'm not just forgetting words and where I'm supposed to be, I'm a social zombie. It isn't cool when you find yourself stringing together a random garble of words and hoping they make sense and not having the energy to care if they don't.

Yeah.

Weekend, weekend, weekend. It's what I'm a-living for.

Surfacing for air

2009-10-05T01:58:00.000-05:00

Ok, so I badly feel the need to write but it's almost midnight and I'm just plumb tired. So before I pull out an unpublished post I scribbled a few weeks ago - here's what's going in my life. Since you all want to know.
1. I am preparing for the GRE and fixing up grad school applications. Scary.

2. Saturday was perfect, so perfect and autumn and library with Deborah and talk with Kait and supper with friends and I want to live it all over again.
3. Fall break was last week, in Tennessee, and it was so lovely, a golden wheat field and river paradise that made me forget about school for four whole days.
4. Paper due Tuesday. Haven't finished homework for tomorrow, still need to buy book for Tuesday, and study for the music test same day, and work out somewhere in there cause I've been a bottomless pit of inhalation lately and it feels gross and dang I am a really mediocre poet which is worse than being just plain bad and -

5. Ready for another fall break. Sigh.

6. Is it Thanksgiving yet?

Anyways, here is the old unpublished post. Enjoy?

***
From the time I was quite small, I have resisted trends. I loved pale pink when hot pink was the fashion, and didn't wear jeans until I was 12 (I'm still not sure how I managed that. Shudder.)

But I'm giving into a trend now. You know that one on facebook that's been around forever where you name 10 or 25 or 371 random things about yourself? Yeah, that one. Sorry, folks.

1. I have this thing with planning for catastrophes. Once when I was eight I sat in the car with my brother and imagined what I would do if the telephone pole next to us started fall. How to get him unbuckled and which way to run. The paranoia started early.

2. The fall is medieval scholar season to me. Can someone find me a stone monastery where I can eat apples and cheese and practice my illuminated calligraphy?
3. Also, breakfast dates at restaurants scare me. Lunch is fun-get-together, supper is relax-and-good-conversation, coffee is catch-up time, but mention breakfast and I get unpleasant butterflies, this uncomfortable feeling that we're going to sit down and talk about something really big and serious. Unless it's a Saturday morning and we're going to the Pancake House at 5 Points. Count me in.

4. My OCD tendencies trace to very early childhood, when I had to wash my hands after brushing my hair and was paranoid about things like getting Windex on my toothbrush when the bathroom was cleaned. I also made both parents check my heartbeat every night to make sure nothing was abnormal.
I should have asked them to check my neurotic little brain.

5. College has brought out my extroverted side (I really like people). It's also toned me down (I use to be even more of an attention loving little freak). Both are good things.

Lecture day; or, not that kind of doctor

2009-09-22T20:08:00.000-05:00

So. I taught my first class today. I had two fears going in:
1) that I would talk for five minutes and be done
2) that I would be unbearably boring

The first, at least, was foundless. We had a good forty minute class discussion/lecture. And I didn't have to worry about the second because the people in that class are so smart and with it, they wouldn't stop spouting great stuff.

This teaching thing?

I think I like it.

Ok. I know I like it.

Which is a huge relief. Because if I didn't like it, or if I didn't do an acceptable job, then my plans for next year were going to disappear with a tiny poof and some pink smoke, and I was going to start thinking about being a librarian in Kansas.

Yes, teaching is fun. So . . . I think I'm gonna be a professor. If I can do ok on the GRE (three weeks) and get into a decent grad school. This brings up questions. Like, I still want babies. And if I have babies, I want them to stay with me, not in a germy daycare. Of course, teaching is a lot more flexible than, say, working for corporate America. Like my chemistry teacher. She has a doctorate from Rice and five kids. It can be done. And this is quite a ways in the future and a man has to show up first anyway and I'm not seeing anything happening on that front anytime soon so why don't I just concentrate on taking this dingdang test and writing my "Why You Should Let Me in to Your School" essay?

Yes, let's do that.

***
As for the rain, I've done enough complaining. How 'bout the lovely and fascinating bright red mushrooms that the monsoon has brought up from the earth? They look like the pretty domed mushrooms in those books about elves and fairies.

Fall break this weekend. Yes, it is too soon. Samford's schedule mystifies me. Usually this is the weekend that everyone stays at school and studies so that they won't have to work during fall break. Not this year. But we are going to Rugby which will be wonderful rain, shine, or snow, and I am planning to sleep and read and sleep some more. I nearly fell asleep while I was walking today, yes, actually moving. I closed my eyes and thought how wonderful it felt and then sort of jerked back to the fact that I was still trudging along the sidewalk. Sigh.

***
And after fall break: Depression-Era Party!!! Title: 'Scuse Me for Livin'. Bring your guitar and overalls. Soup and bread lines provided. Friday, Oct. 2. Co-hostess: Carrie. Location: Carrie's house. If you're reading this blog you're invited (anonymous creepers excluded), so contact me for details!

We're having banana pudding and checkers. Y'all come.

So good to be home

2009-09-18T08:19:00.000-05:00

I haven't written for a while. Every time I've looked at this here blog over the past weeks, all my life-blood would drain out my fingertips and I'd shrivel up and dry out.

At least, that's what it felt like.

Basically, I didn't have the energy or will, which is very strange for me. I mean, narration is the way I cope with life. Oh, I've had excuses. Like Sorority Rush (very life blood draining) and schoolwork and a commitment every dadgum minute of the day. The stress lump in my chest has been a constant. My life feels like a train I was supposed to catch, and now I'm running after it trying to jump on.

But now, suddenly, on this wet Friday when I am skipping the only class of the day so I can put a dent in my schoolwork - I am not working out or reading 15th century Spanish literature or any of the other things I should be doing. I am still in my pajamas, draining the last bit of my half-caf coffee (see below), enjoying the lamplight and my fuzzy blanket.

Maybe the cozy feeling is left over from last night. We had a reunion of the legendary Folklore class at Dr. Brown's lovely home. His sweet wife put out quite a spread and we all sat around the table and talked and laughed and reminisced and then we went into the living room and J.Brown and Josh and Blaine played guitars and we sang some and Jordan snapped photos and Drew made us laugh and it was wonderful.

Wonderful.

***

In other news:

-I am breaking myself of the coffee addiction. Note: I did not say giving up coffee! Lawsamercy, it's sweet nectar of heaven. But after a rushed Monday when I did not have the usual morning cup and suffered from an acute, horrible, wrenching, eyeball searing headache all day - I decided that my codependence was unhealthy. So I'm slowly loosening the grip of the coffee bean, so that I can enjoy it, instead of need it to survive.

-I am teaching a class on A Doll's House on Tuesday. Gulp. Excited/scared.

-Fall break next weekend is much too early. But I'll enjoy it nonetheless.

-Shannon makes me laugh harder than anyone except maybe Jim.

-I've spent way too much time on this post. Time to work.

This is the sound of all of us
Singing with love and the will to trust
Leave the rest behind it will turn to dust
This is the sound of all of us

-"One Voice," the Wailin' Jennys

Report from academia

2009-08-26T16:23:00.000-05:00

I'm sitting in our airy room, trying not to collapse. All I want to do is lay me down on my fluffy green bed and drift into unconsciousness.

But I shouldn't. I should memorize 10 lines of a poem for tomorrow. Only problem is that it has to come out of the Vintage Anth. of Contemporary American Poets, and thank you very much but I'm in a British mood right now. Like "Ideal Home" by C. Day Lewis (yes, father of Daniel).

If only there could lives enough, you're wishing? . . .

For one or two

Of all the possible loves a dozen lifetimes

Would hardly do:

Oak learns to be oak through a rooted discipline.

(I love this poem which is not on the internet. Especially the oak line.)

Or one of Heaney's Glanmore Sonnets.

I dreamt we slept in a moss in Donegal

On turf banks under blankets, with our faces

Exposed all night in a wetting drizzle,

Pallid as the dripping sapling birches.

But I'm resigning myself to New World writings.

***

So the above is what I wrote last Wednesday. As in, a week ago when it was still August. Now it's the second of September, and I just got back from a nearby elementary school. On Wednesdays (soon to be Mondays), I get to spend 45 minutes with Leonardo, who is ten and from Mexico. Now, a fifth grade boy would usually not be my first tutoring pick, but last semester I experienced how sweet and hilarious they are and I pretty much want five sons now (with token daughter. Of course, after a night of babysitting the Sterling girls I think that all daughters would be pretty fun too . . . and all of this is so far in the future I don't even know why I'm thinking about it. Scusi.) Anyway, Leonardo is so funny, and I totally have a ball with him. He loves to tell stories and he gets so animated and excited that he has to stop on a word sometimes ("You mean we - we - we - we don't have school on Monday?!") which I do too so I love him.

In fact, I love the whole ESL (English as Second Language) deal at this school. Because when the kids walk into the ESL classroom, they can talk in outside voices and be animated and, well - themselves. They smile and laugh and (at least in Leonardo and Aymin's case) insult each other with fifth grade wit ("Well, you are just Mr. - Mr. Moustache!"). I just wish I had more time to go, because the kids need so much more help. So if you're in the area and would like to spend time with some awesome kids, let me know.

I think you'll love it too.

***

Life is crazy again, but good and full and rich. There are so many things to look forward to that I feel like shining sometimes. Folklore reunions, fall break in Tennessee, co-hostessing a Depression-era party in October (y'all come). Weekend dinners and weekly rounds of the RUF Ladies Who Lunch club.

In other news, I have the most wonderful roommate and suitemates. Anna and I have trouble shutting off our chatterboxes before midnight, and Lauren and Shannon together have made me laugh more in the past week than this whole summer. Our room is pink-and-green pretty and homey and lamplight cosy. I'm not burning the coffee anymore.

To stop and rest would be nice, though. Let's try that this evening. No homework or mindless internet after 9 pm. Ok? Ok.

[EDITED VERSION] I have been temperate always, but

2009-08-14T22:48:00.000-05:00

EDIT: You may have wondered why my writing suddenly turned willowy and gentle and beautiful in this post. Well -ahem- my dear friend Deborah and I pulled a switcheroo and wrote a guest post on each other's blogs! Only we didn't tell anyone. So that's her wonderful writing below. Method: Find Fleet Foxes song, pick a stanza, and write on it! My mini-essay can be found at Deborah's lovely site - make sure to keep reading and check out her thoughtful, beautifully crafted posts while you're there (of course, if you're a Samford folk, you know what I'm talking about). We had lotsa fun on Friday writing our mystery appearances, sipping tea and laughing when we found out we'd ended exactly the same way.

***
Today is one of these rare, refreshingly alive-feeling days (at least, rare in the summer; the heat alone is almost enough to wilt me and when the humidity is up it well nigh saps the lifeblood out of me!). Those are more common in the spring, when all about me appears new after the bland sameness of the frosty months.

Really, though. Even now in mid-August, I find myself wanting to go skip through the ankle-deep manicured meadow (that is, the campus Quadrangle), proclaiming to anybody and nobody who'll listen that life is beautiful and wondrous and, well, alive. Problem is, it's another week before most of campus returns and, in all likelihood, there will be nobody there to listen. I feel as though I've prematurely arrived to a play, presented my ticket, and found only the empty, incomplete set on the stage (but I have been so anxious to see this performance that I don't mind it--I've gotten an early glimpse, that's all). However, now it's whet my appetite for more.

And there I go, about to wear out that old line from Shakespeare in which "all the world's a stage." Can't I just say, "I'm ready for school to begin again," and be done with it? But it's more than that now. It reminds me of quiet weekends on campus when everyone's off home or on some adventure and I go outside to enjoy the surrounding view--then realize no one's here to share the moment with me. Not to mention that in order to get into this little haven from any direction requires quite the climb up and over and down these leafy green hills. One lyric keeps weaseling its way into my thoughts: "Come down from the mountain, you have been gone too long... Darling, I can barely remember you beside me--you should come back home, back on your own now." (and isn't it interesting how a song seems to find me in the precise moment I need it?) Other times I might find the situation lonely and somewhat depressing, but I guess the anticipation is what's so invigorating today. Looking forward to returning here as a resident and not just a guest in a dear friend's dormitory. To welcoming back everybody I've missed in the past two months. To do all the catching up I can stand and sail into the year with fresh energy.

I'm just ready to see the life return down from the mountain.

Walls Fall Down

2009-08-13T15:58:00.000-05:00

Finis! Almost. With the research project, that is. I took the 50 pages to the good Doctor today and she approved, and I was grateful. Now all that remains is some final tweaking.

The meeting also changed my fall schedule. Dr. S. offered me a TA position in one of her classes. I did some quick mental calculation, realized that the only two classes that mattered (Poetry and Tap) didn't conflict, and gave my enthusiastic "yes."

You see, something strange has been happening. All my life - and I do mean all my life - I have shunned the profession of teaching with all my being. Not because I dislike teachers or disvalue teaching. After my parents, I count my teachers and professors among the most important influences in my life. In fact, that was one of the reasons I avoided it - my favorite ones are so good (like Mr. and Mrs. C.) that I took it as one of my reasons for not teaching. You must love teaching to be a good teacher, I'm convinced, and I didn't want to sell any future students less than the genuine goods. The only folks I looked forward to teaching were my own little childer in that far-off day after husband and lots of maturing time (and that I really do look forward to. I'm obsessed with putting together curriculums. It's a sickness. I can't wait).

Lately, though, lately - okay, farther back than lately - my objections to teaching have started to crumble. Like when I was thinking about my desires for future career - point 1: A combination of solitary work and involvement with people. Teaching: check. Also, I love to find out new things and tell people what I've found. And when I realize teaching can combine drama and counseling and writing and idea-talk, all things I love.

So, ok, I'm trying not to get all gung-ho, I'm just saying I'm open where there were once defenses. And I'm actually really excited. I get to teach for a week! That's very frightening and I need to start preparing now. Can I wear my plaid skirt?

So I'm dropping the 6 credit JMC course and becoming a teaching assistant (maybe I can actually have time for a job and earn some money).

I just hope the other kids don't think I'm a freshman.

(This calls for a wardrobe revamp. I'm guessing Nickel Creek shirts and denim don't say "professional." Which reminds me that Chris Thile is coming to B'ham in October and I bought my tickets last night. Lemme know if you're interested, we'll have a bluegrass party before. Anyway, now I am seriously going to accomplish productive things that do not involve eating Yoplait and reading Harry Potter).

Strange, isn't it, how when I try and make things work out they get so tangled. And opportunities like this - the research job, the teaching position - just fall into my lap.
And even my inner skeptic can't ignore the hand of God.

Enchanted

2009-08-11T13:32:00.000-05:00

A week ago, I went to Santa Fe. It was pretty. There was purple sage everywhere.

On the way to Taos, we stopped at a chapel. There was dirt inside that people say is holy. But my favorite part was the horses and creek and mountain.

There was so much to drink in on the High Road to Taos - every new bend of the road revealed a view so beautiful we'd all gasp and try to say something that would express our wonder.

We never could. And I wished the camera could take perfectly clear pictures out of the car. But the wildflowers are still lovely.

First stop in Taos? Kit Carson's home, of course. Did you know he was my height and weighed 130? That's only ten pounds more than me. Scrawny little mountain man. But tough. Yes, very tough. One day, though, he took off his hat and coat and never put them back on.

Our first night in Taos, we drove out to the gorge at sunset. I didn't want to walk across the bridge, but by the time the others had walked it and come back, I had decided I need to increase my risk-taking skills. So I dragged them back across with me. And I must say it was beautiful. A bit difficult to appreciate when a 2 ton vehicle hurtles past you at 55 mph, but beautiful nonetheless.

And that just helped develop my brave side. Which is the size of a pea.

So when the others were living dangerously on the bridge the first time, I was wandering along a well-fenced path beside the gorge. I saw a rainbow. I shouted to my family: "Look at the rainbow!" Then they came back and we noticed that the rainbow stretched from the foot of the mountain where I noticed it to the other side. All across the valley. And as if that wasn't amazing enough, then we noticed something else.

It was a double rainbow. Yes, by some weird and beautiful physics of light, the rainbow was reflecting a mirror image of itself, creating two rainbows.

You should know I took a lot more photos of the rainbow than I'm putting on here.

I liked Santa Fe, but I loved Taos. As in, think I could live there. For a while at least. Longer if I got double rainbows at least once a week. There is no humidity, it's 55 degrees at night, and the moon is almost frighteningly enormous and gorgeous. There are also apple trees and skiing. And something about being among the mountains makes me feel secure and free at the same time.

Or maybe that's just altitude sickness.

Best of all, though, about the Santa Fe trip - our amazing family. Jim and I were not looking forward so much to the big family gathering our first night there. Mom might be close to them, but we didn't know them and couldn't we just make a quick escape to the hotel? 3 1/2 hours later, we emerged from sweet Roberta's little adobe home raving about how much we loved our new-found relatives. All of them were so nice. Above are Aunt Roberta (87, who still gardens and cooks and runs around and has way more energy than I ever will. Did I mention she baked an exquisite cherry pie the night this was taken?) and her daughter Pat (or Mama Pat, as she instructed us to call her). Not 24 hours after we'd been holding our breaths about the family party, we were eagerly scrawling down Pat's number so we could visit her and Bob on Saturday night. And now Mama Pat and her hilarious husband Bob want us to come visit them and ski this winter. They are kind and sweet and generous and laugh a lot.

Yes. Jim and I sort of adore them now.

Besos, Nueva Mexico. Hasta luego.

The Method, Please

2009-08-03T16:19:00.000-05:00

I've discovered my perfect work method. Wake up, coffee, read. Between 8 and 9, position self on too-high crisp, fluffy white bed with matching white Notebook. Write steadily all morning (for me, about one page, unspaced 12 font Times). Oh, and this helps:

A window-perfect, gauzy fog, rain.

If you follow this method faithfully, you will end up with a ten page paper (and growing), and all without delving into the cigarettes or eating all the cashews in the house (note: I do not smoke, and never will because of this winter. But sometimes the wrist-slitting intensity of writing makes me want to really bad. As for the cashews? They're why I've taken up Pilates. Now back to our regularly scheduled program).

Results not guaranteed for anyone without an Anna brain. You blessed, blessed people, of whom I am very envious because surely you do not like climb the stairs a dozen times acting like different characters (I was running stairs. I needed something to make it interesting. So far I have climbed as Scarlett O'Hara, Miss Minchin, the ubiquitous gullible person that climbs into the attic and gets eaten by the monster in countless horror films, and Anne getting married in Anne's House of Dreams. I think I'm ten years old . . . don't tell college).

Anyway. Write all morning. Editing and physical tasks in the afternoon. It's a needed balance. You've no idea how much I enjoy mopping the floor and cooking supper after I've forced myself to sit and work. And you've no idea how empty the mopping and cooking can seem without the blood-sweat-tears thinking work.

***
In other news, I just picked the first tomato from our tomato plants and I am going to New Mexico tomorrow.

(Left the Sweet Dog at a bona fide boarding place. Broke my heart to leave the stinky lug of shedding hair. If it's this bad with an outdoor pet, how much harder to leave a kid in day care . . .)

I'm excited because from what I've read, Santa Fe is all about art, history, outdoor-sy stuff, and good food. Wonderful! I'll be sure to post photos on return.

Also of interest: I read an article in yesterday's paper about how you can travel around Europe living at people's farms and working for room and board and this is what I want to do. I want to go to Switzerland and live like Heidi.

But first, one more year of school. And my but I'll be surrounded by such good people. For this, I'm thankful.

Solitude, escape, and fourth grade flashbacks

2009-07-29T19:22:00.000-05:00

How do I spend my time when the parents are out of town and Jim has disappeared into the city?

Do I use the quiet free time to devote myself to the paper? No (though I did get another solid two pages today).

Do I clean and mop and do lots of laundry and dusting? Again, No.

Do I call or contact or at the very least write to dear friends? no . . . (and of this "no" I'm hang-my-head ashamed)

Do I organize all the books, write fifteen poems, or practice my sadly neglected piano? You supply the answer. I can't stand the relentless negation.

Well then, what does an Anna do when she's out in the country and left to herself?

For one, she runs errands. She buys cantaloupe and watermelon, returns that movie (Defiance, oh, Daniel Craig) to a Redbox and has trouble forcing it into the return slot (um - press "Return DVD" on the screen. Yeah), picks up a prescription, and makes a Winn-Dixie run. Which would all sound very productive except for the first stop, which was the motivating force behind the whole trip into town. The first visit was the tiny P.C. library, which held in its humble shelves Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire.

Did I mention that I just started this series with the second book last Thursday? It's a sad proof of the quick-acting nature of series addiction. But I would like to state that I did not start reading it immediately when I got home. Nope. I cleaned my car, sliced up the melons, and made myself a bowl of lentils and rice, which I ate with a splash of salsa verde while I listened to Bach.

I felt very cultured.

Then I dove back into Hogwarts. And re-emerged only to eat some chocolate and type this post.

[Note: I do hit trends about ten years too late. That's why I never quote Youtube videos. I'm always bound to discover it the week right after it's dropped on the social meter from "witty" to "overquoted" or "defunct." Another reason is that I hate giving in to trendy stuff, like Francine Rivers books or Sperrys, because it reminds me of being in 4th grade when everyone was wearing hot pink girl power shirts and makeup and all I could think was how stupid it was for nine year old girls to use lip stick and blush. Unfortunately, this bit of precocious wisdom led to a fierce foolish resistance to anything popular, even if it is good and I'd really enjoy it if people weren't so crazy about it. I'm learning, though. I'm about to go buy a Beyonce song.]

Life in Between

2009-07-27T13:10:00.000-05:00

What am I doing today? Writing the Great American Poetry Research Paper, of course. Day One. And . . . I'm really enjoying it.

It's an interesting phenomenon I've observed time and time again. Read widely about something, and then its story starts to come together, and I realize I'm bursting to tell people about it. I will tell everyone who will listen about why the urban gothic novel was so popular in mid-19th century America (reasons economic, social, political and psychological). Or how the history and dynamics of Japanese culture led to its role in World War Two. I even enjoyed Dr. Brown's insane essay questions, that basically said "Tell me everything you know about Germany from the Grimms to Hitler." There's just this joy in understanding, in not just knowing the facts but seeing the story. I love that.

But this paper reporting my research "findings." It's in the really absorbing stage, and I dare say no more lest I tire of it too soon. I might even post some of it over at my sadly neglected poetry blog. It's interesting, I promise! I bring in Youtube and Friends.

***

Back from Destin, and gorgeous gorgeous clear green ocean. I avoided spending money at the outlet shops. And I started the Harry Potter series.

Or re-started. I read the first one back in the eighth grade - I was at my Georgia aunt's house, and it was so fascinating I don't think I moved from the couch all day. And I haven't touched them since then. Until now. I finished the second on Friday and should be done with the third sometime today or tomorrow. And gracious but I can't wait to get back to Hogwarts. Addictive, so addictive.

***

In other news, I am very frustrated with God because He doesn't do things my way. Which means surrender is a lot, a whole lot harder than last week and the only way to have peace. And surprisingly, in some ways I prefer this to the fuzzy feel good of last week (I should explain: last week was wonderful in its peace and calm, but life starts to feel small. The goal of life is not just to be peaceful and calm. Of course, as a friend reminded me, it's not to have a restless spirit either). Why? Because it's more real. See, I'm a pessimistic idealist, and I've been praying for about a year (almost e-zackly) to become an optimistic realist. And I'm starting to see the glimmerings of that happening. It's just that it's frustrating to a personality like mine - the thought of rest when there's still tension, of contentment that hopes, of grace connected with discipline (didn't someone write a book about that? I should read it again), it all throws me for a frustrating loop. No tension, God! You're either supposed to make me perfect right away or let me do what I want. None of this in between changing stuff.

I have two trains of thought that keep me from absolutely exploding with irritation. One is refusing to look farther than this 24 hour time frame (as far as walking with Him goes, I mean. I still do stuff like buy my books for class and plan my Oscar acceptance speech. I just don't imagine the struggles of tomorrow, and tomorrow, and . . .).

The second is remembering that He loves me. Not trying to feel it or get a warm glow. Just putting the fingers of my mind around it like you might hold onto a satisfyingly weighty pebble stone. And letting go of all the suitcases full of rocks I've been trying to drag around. (Well, that got abstract in a hurry.) Rocks like blaming God, pride, impatience, performance, anxious controlling thoughts, anger anger anger, fear. I can't do anything to change or get rid of them -which really infuriates me - but I can let go of them instead of using them to build a wall between God and me.

***

And with that, it's about time for the mail to come (an excitement out here in the country) and for me to get back to scribbling about the relationship of poetry and the American people.

I will go out to get the mail, say thank you for the sunshine and my Sweet Dog, and write.

Today? It's hard. It's also good.

(And then I'll sweep the kitchen. 19 year old brothers forget to clean the kitchen when their families are at the beach.)

Roasted Daily

2009-07-22T07:29:00.000-05:00

This, friends, is out of the ordinary.

For one: a post only 2 days after the last post.

[Just for the record, I could easily write every day, but I try to condense that stream of consciousness into one effort. Who wants to hear me rambling about how I nearly fell down the stairs again? I'm writing all the time in my head. It just doesn't all make it into cold type. And that's a good thing.]

For two: a post before 8 in the morning. I write in the evening. Because I feel guilty about resting until after 7 pm. Even if I have nothing whatsoever pressing, if I am lost between two fat weeks of no responsibilities, I will gosh darn make something for myself to do. Even if it's just wandering aimlessly around the house with a broom. It's rule #73 in my Very Long List of Useless Rules: Engaging in recreational activity, such as reading a book, in the middle of the day is Lazy and Shiftless and Wrong.

I told you they were useless rules.

***

So. Then why am I writing?

Just to say I'm glad. That's all.

It's a Stumptown kind of day.

Party Like It's 1949

2009-07-20T19:35:00.001-05:00

This weekend?

It was a good weekend. Though it didn't turn out the way I had originally planned.

Original plan: Clean and cook frantically Friday. Run around frantically at grandparents' anniversary party Saturday. Leave right after and drive frantically to friend's farmhouse in Georgia. Drive back Sunday.

Sometimes, though, one simply cannot do everything one would wish to do. So I bid a tearful goodbye to the farmhouse plan and slowed down.

It was nice.

***

Yes, the weekend was very fun. A party at the Senior Citizens' Center? Fun? Why yes. My favorite cousins were there and my very good friend Kait was there and there were lots and lots of family and friends that I don't get to see very often and it was just . . . fun.

And if I got told that I am the exact replica of my mother once, I got told a thousand times.

Another fun part was Austin and Tyler. Every time I see them, they are a little taller and a little wittier and a little - well, older. Friday night was very nice because we got to hang out, just me and them. This almost never happens because they are strumming the guitar with Jim and I'm cleaning or cooking or keeping the other cousins from killing themselves. So it was good, on Friday, to watch "Lars" (fifth time in six months), and reminisce about "Milo and Otis" (Shannon, I refuse to believe animals died in the making of that movie . . . though it's probably true).

And the next day Kait came down and we had more good hang out time. In fact, the conversation was so good that I didn't notice we were headed west instead of east on the interstate until we'd taken a good half hour detour. Really, I did it on purpose. More conversation time.

***

The other good part of the weekend? My mind. It was calm. I let things go. I practiced trusting God. I enjoyed the people and the beautiful weather.

Really, you don't know how much anxiety sucks the life out of things until you choose to live without it for a few days. Wonderful.

And it's weird, because I'm such a natural skeptic, but I've had several of those, "Wow, God is real" moments . . . you know, when He's weaving such an obvious theme in your life that all you can do is shake your head and laugh. Right now, it's surrender. And guess what? You can't do it all in go. It's a daily - no wait, nanosecond by nanosecond - kind of deal.

***

In other news, I peeled 8 pounds of carrots today. And decided it would be fun to teach poetry to kids. And that sub-80 degree weather in July in Alabama is occasion for much rejoicing. And that I will never, ever get tired of white clouds and blue sky.

Wandering Soul

2009-07-14T21:56:00.001-05:00

Currently watching a Mystery Science Theatre episode, "Hercules and the Moon Men," with Jim (his pick). Mom studying for her computer class (Excel passed, on to Access). Jim laughing uproariously.

He is a fun brother when the death cloud of work isn't hanging over his head. But when he first comes home, I've established a system. Don't ask about his day. Don't ask him anything. Just say "Hey" and leave him alone for an hour or so. Eventually the scowl will fade some and he

will tell you about the entire family of motorized scooter users that came through his register that day.

"This is what I was built for . . . good old-fashioned violence."

***

I spent most of the weekend with Kait, and a good time we had too. A balance of good conversation and pure fun. She knows how to throw really good (seven hour) parties. And the best part was after everyone but the last four had left, and we sat around the kitchen table and enjoyed the one a.m. thunder and lightning show.

Then I came home to a deliriously happy Mosby, who I love more every day. I always mocked those people who are so crazy about a dog - you know, the kind of people whose dog slobbers in your ear and they exclaim that oh, Fluffy likes you, and you grimace out a wan smile. Yuck.

And now I am one of those blind, besotted fools. The Sweet Dog slobbers on me and body slams me (he's getting better) and smells absolutely awful and I absolutely do not mind. How did this happen?

Dogs just . . . they need you. And then you need them back.

P.S. Credit Joanna with the lovely photo!

Apples of Love: Sweet One Hundred

2009-07-09T15:35:00.001-05:00

Side note: Don't you love it when appointments fall through and suddenly you've got the rest of the whole, long, lovely afternoon? I do.

To the subject at hand. It is a truth of long standing that I do Not like tomatoes. No no no. And I am a lover of exotic foods, the toddler who happily munched on raw vidalia onions, the three year old that begged her mother to buy an artichoke, the four year old who calmly ordered a cheese omelette at her first Waffle House visit. The list of foods I will not eat is very short indeed.

But it does contain tomatoes (I think the only other things are sardines, salmon, and shrimp. Three nasty alliterative seafood). Pretty close to the top. I have never liked them: they look amazing, but then they are too acidic, too watery, too seedy, too . . . tomato-y. The only ones I make an exception for are yellow tomatoes, and they are divine. They are what red tomatoes want to be and never can attain. They are sweet, golden summer exploding in your mouth. But red tomatoes?

Anathema.

Ok, all that was just to establish that I am not a tomato fan, so that the following incident will have more significance. Yesterday, see, I came back from a hot, happy, sweaty walk, and ran some banana bread next door to our sweet elderly neighbors (Mom makes them banana bread about once a week. That woman . . . I've got a lot to live up to). I delivered the bread, explained to sweet Mrs. B. that if I hugged her she would have to shower too, and Mr. B. dropped a plastic bag in my hand - a ziploc full of tiny bright red tomatoes.
"Sweet One Hundred," he said. "They're the only tomatoes I eat, beside the ones on a hamburger."
Those words made me perk up. A fellow tomato hater proclaiming their praises? I popped one in my mouth.

Cold. Juicy. Flavorful but not tart. Lawsamercy, but they were good. I ate five more on the way home. And another five before supper.

I have found my tomato kindred spirit. Thank you, Mr. B.

***
And now for another long walk. And blueberry picking this evening! I really can't handle all the excitement in our little town. Next thing you know we'll be having a barn raising (actually that would be really, really fun. I digress).
These walks are becoming my sanity. Doing something physical is such a relief after five straight hours of reading/writing. Vacuuming is positively enjoyable, scrubbing sets me humming, and during the walks I think and wander and just decompress.

Then I go back and read the rest of the evening.

I've got so much to read this summer. Not just for the research, but my own personal list. I realized the other day a stack of 12 books had made its way into the den, and there are even more in the small study where I'm trying to keep them corralled. I'm trying to absorb all the Kathleen Norris possible, and then there's Common Grounds, The Genesis Question, Confessions from an Honest Wife, Inkheart, The Scent of Water, a wonderful Steve Brown, How People Change, Standing by Words - and that's just currently reading. I've got Graham Greene, Frederic Buechner, and Kierkegaard on the list. Will I get to them? Um, probably not. At least not before school starts. And then the things I read are always referencing other things to read and there are just so many books. And I want to devour them all.

"The hours between eight in the evening and one or two in the morning have always been my magic hours. Against the blue candlewick bedspread the white pages of my open book, illuminated by a circle of lamplight, were the gateway to another world."
-Diane Setterfield, The Thirteenth Tale

Starry night

2009-07-03T20:00:00.000-05:00

Hello, class. It's Friday night. And I'm pretty content.

That right there is the difference between my two lives, at home and at college. At college, I never ever (ever) spend a night chilling in the room. I just feel physically incapable of solitude on weekend nights. Usually because there's something happening, but even if there isn't, then by golly I'm gonna make something happen. People, people, people. I want people. I need people. The End.

That is my college life.

When I go home, something happens. My introverted nature emerges, and I can pretty much live at home for a week without venturing into society, even for a trip to Walgreens. In the evenings I read books and watch Masterpiece Theatre (why yes, I am a nerd, how did you guess) and sometimes my dad and I make a trip to McDonald's for an ice cream cone. A vanilla ice cream cone. Cue the strains of "Old Folks at Home."

And yet I know I still need people. Which is why I'm so glad when I do spend time with people: Val, Christine, Claire and Amy are in town, I had breakfast and good conversation with Mrs. Morgan this morning, and I get to see Kait next weekend. They remind me of our human need for relationship, community, friends who really see you. It's good for me to break out of my summer homebody cocoon.

Now, time for an episode of "Foyle's War."

***

I'm celebrating the 4th at Liberty Church (appropriate, no?), for a Sacred Harp singin. I hope we sing Bridgewater.

Reading Inkheart. Good for book lovers, and those in need of reality escape.

Done done done with class. Now to concentrate on research alone, which excites me. Next on the horizon: link between poetry and film. Is it weird that sometimes research makes me feel like an explorer?

Speaking of poetry: I revamped my poetry site. Drop by and leave a comment on what you'd like to see! Unless it has something to do with Edgar Guest . . .

Let Evening Come

2009-06-25T21:52:00.000-05:00

Tonight, something a bit different. I took an evening walk, and things were so sunset pretty I had to grab a camera (despite my lack of any photography skills. Leave that to artsy people like Joanna. Who took my profile photo! She's amazing). I just snapped pictures of random things I thought were interesting; here's what I found:

Recognize this fair leaf? All the folklore five together: It's a tulip poplar!

We picked blackberries the other day. Mom made a cobbler. I'm content just to look at them. And then eat them raw off the bush.

Mountains. Ahhh. Fields and mountains. And . . . barbwire fences.

I love marten houses. And I love this one most of all because of its tilt. P.S., I also went half-blind from the sun trying to get this photo.

Another strange fascination, in addition to tilting marten houses: the way this tree grew around a barbwire fence. Again: why do I like this so much?

Hay. Dusk. Golden. Peace.

***

Photos I did Not take:

-the strange furry carcass (squirrel?) in our front yard (suspects: the Sweet Dog).

-the vicious horsefly that attacked me

-our neighbor careening around shirtless on his bush hog (heavens to Betsy. Scarring).

Last night I spent with Valerie and Claire in their lovely apartment. Thank you, dear friends, for letting me crash and sit in that amazingly comfortable chair. Oh, and getting me addicted to "So You Think You Can Dance." You do my heart good.

Good night, sky.

In which I go crazy for hyperlinks

2009-06-20T17:33:00.000-05:00

Let's go right to the shore and forget our troubles here

I'm gonna gas up the ford, the waves are crashing

and the sky is clear - I want to be by your side

- the everybodyfields

I picked up a copy of "Christianity Today" in some office the other day, and flipped to the main article. It was on pilgrimage, and I was immediately intrigued (one of my favorite books during the Homeschool Years involved a boy and girl in the 1300s who go on a religious pilgrimage. I loved The Ramsay Scallop, and for a long time I put myself to bed at night by imagining medieval pilgrimage stories). The article was lovely and now I want to go on a pilgrimage. This makes sense. Pilgrimages are not aimless wanderings, and they are not all about the destination either. The journey is part of the discipline.

So I want a good long modern pilgrimage, with the comfort of the passenger seat late at night and drowsing to Fleet Foxes or Kate Rusby and the stars over the highway. One of my playlists is already named "Starry Roadtrip Night" - I'm aching to just go.

Deborah, you are my music clone/road trip twin - let's go! I'll bring the hummus and fruit this time.

***

Here we are at the transmission party

I love your friends,

they're all so arty

-Franz Ferdinand

A couple of weeks ago, our home was graced by the presence of two very wonderful musicians. Stephen Gordon and Adam Agin played for a small group of friends and then we roasted s'mores outside and the boys swam and it was so. much. fun. Anna Rubia had gotten me hooked on Stephen's music when she introduced me to Doug Burr, so I already knew I loved his stuff. I hadn't heard Adam before though, and he was amazing. And I loved the feel of the tiny house concert, just a group of folks crowded in our great room and listening to two guys who happen to make incredible music.

So I grilled Adam and Stephen on how they write songs (Adam is very emotionally involved, Stephen is detached - fyi) and really awful concerts in their past and whatever I didn't question, my mother did. Besides being astounding musicians, they are also super nice guys. Go listen to their music!

***

From all that dwells below the skies

let the Redeemer's praise arise:

let the Redeemer's name be sung

through ev'ry land, by ev'ry tongue.

-Isaac Watts

"Bridgewater," the tune to the words above, is my favorite Sacred Harp song. They didn't sing it today at the National Sacred Harp Assembly, but that's ok. I went and got my fix, and the sound - oh the sound. And I bought my own hymnal so that I can vary my routine, instead of pulling the usual number and singing the same line over and over again at really obnoxious volumes.

And yes, I know, watching to the video you will probably think What the heck does Anna see in that weird abrasive music? Well. I'm not always sure myself; I just know I love it. But that singing, it just fills you and swells up and makes me feel right and whole. It also gives me a headache after about three hours, but it's so worth it.

And people recognized me and called me by name. How can you not love any group of people where that happens?

***

Well. I didn't post on Daniel Craig this time. But remember how long it took me to get around to Narcissa Whitman? James Bond's time is coming. In the meantime, I need y'all's opinion on something. I've been a poem writing machine these past three weeks (ok, not really, but I have written three) and I need to know - what does the phrase "gypsy broom" mean to you? As in, a broom that a gypsy would leave lying around their caravanserai wagon. Does it seem weird for a gypsy to have something domestic - like a broom? Or am I crazy? Sigh. Poetic anguish of searching for the bon mot. Please help me out, people. Go to my poetry site if you're brave enough to read the poem and lemme know if the gist is getting across. Thankee.

Announcement! Anuncio! Anunce!

2009-06-17T10:25:00.000-05:00

My mind just turned off. It will remain off the rest of my life.

Thank you for your attention. Please return to your regularly scheduled activities.

[I have too much to do. It's my fault. It's getting better. Please tell me if/where/why I should go to grad school or if I should be a blueberry farmer. I'm trying to cut back. But there's so much to do. BALANCE, child, BALANCE.]

***
O-kay. That's semi out of my system now. I have a meeting with my research professor in half an hour and I feel behind on my research and I should be writing the article on "health insurance for new grads" that's due, um, tomorrow.

But you know what? I miss this blog. I miss it because it is how I process life, basically, and to just not write for over a week drives me cra-zy.

And more than that, I love you folks who actually read the musings of my crazy mind. Can I take this opportunity to wave frantically at Mr. McKeown and say how thrilled I am that you read this? You are the very jolliest person I know and whenever I hear you laugh (or even think about you laugh) I want to dissolve into laughter too. Please please (please!) come visit us soon.

There is nothing that makes me beam more than when people I love and respect take the time to read this blog. Thank you, dear people.

***
So in the time when I basically have fallen into a very deep hole and am feverishly working (I feel like a meerkat peeping out of its hole whenever I venture into the real world), I have shamefully neglected people. Like Kait, for instance, whose sweet sweet messages I have not yet replied to even though I have read them all, Kait, and yes I've put that on my calendar, and I had the very best time with you last Saturday (I want one of those wok burner things). And I just replied to Anna Rubia last night when she sent her email from Germany, oh, two weeks ago. And I missed Erin's phone call and really want to hear about her time in Italy. And to alllll the other people I have not responded to - know that every time I think about the unanswered messages, it's like a throbbing blister that needs to be cauterized. Sorry for the disgusting imagery.

***
(Yes, the post gets more fragmented.) In other news, I am currently experiencing a tiny bit of the life of a working mom. How so? you ask. Well. My mom has been in and out of commission the past four weeks due to excrutiating back pain (still trying to figure it out . . .). During these incapacitating episodes, I have realized just how much she does. Do you realize? Stay-at-home moms do not eat bon-bons (I mean, have you seen how skinny she is?). She does a lot.

So during an especially bad spell the past two days, I've been trying to balance my class, my research job, an interview for this article, exercising so that I will not gain 30 lbs from stress, fixing supper, and oh yes, trying to figure out God. And doing none of it well (actually, the ginger chicken stir fry last night was pretty good).

But I don't have horrible pain spasms. Please, sweet Mother, get better. We'll even keep on making supper and cleaning and all that, if you'll just stop hurting.

***
If you think this post has a lot of italics, you should see the pre-edited version.
So now I am sitting in the O'Neal library.

I read a chapter of poetry criticism (I disagree vehemently with Vernon Shetley. He wants to give poetry back to the intellectuals. Which is certainly better than having it die completely but I say, Poetry for the Masses!)

I bought a cup of warm lemonade from the curly blond headed siblings outside (2 boys and a girl, e-zackly what I want in that far-off day of motherhood. I asked them to mix the pink and yellow. They were not pleased but assented).

And after I write this article on health insurance, I am going semi-rogue for the rest of the day. Which means I will go home and make supper and work out and craft a Father's day card and chill.

***
P.S. Stay tuned for the next post, in which I declare my undying obsession with the new James Bond movies and how I've been dreaming poems about Confederate soldiers. Ciao.

Obscure objects of my affection

2009-06-05T21:04:00.000-05:00

I love this book. I read it because I needed a break from academic articles. Submerging myself in the free-for-all, let's play forever with uncertainty in our ivory tower until we die - reading these had me down in the doubts. Just plain old aching. [I'm still asking God: How does it all fit, these valid points and You? I know they can, I just don't know the how yet. Why do I still have to deal with this? Can I be a meaning-of-life-deep-thoughts person and a real-life-feet-on-the-ground person? And I love new ideas and I know I could do academia, but do I want to? Could I survive it? And will I feel like a failure for the rest of my life if I don't pursue it? Can I be in it without being of it? And why am I regressing to Jr. High italics???]

So you see. I just needed some thing that doesn't use phrases like "performing identity" or "poetics of gender." So I picked up this slim and lyrical book.

"A writer looking for subjects inquires not after what he loves best, but after what he alone loves at all. Strange seizures beset us. Frank Conroy loved his yo-yo tricks, Emily Dickinson her slant of light."

And it got me thinking about the obscure things I love. Like a certain shade of pink, the one in the Dr. Seuss alphabet book that is the color of the fizzy drink and the weird crocodile creature. And tilt-top tea tables. Gaslight lamps. Real shutters on inside windows. Single drawers in bedside tables. (The last three are from Peter Pan the stage version. Umm.) The bowl of mush and dollhouse in Goodnight Moon. The rim of water surface that you look at in the pool through your goggles. Making half-moon indentions on aloe leaves or yellow squash with my thumbnail. The sandy stone doorsteps on old cabins. How when you press the button on our fridge to change from ice to water dispenser it sounds just like "A Million Ways" by OK Go. And the high heel shoes the girl wore in that Care Bear book at my grandparents' house! I have been searching all my life for those shoes.

I've revealed enough of my weirdness. Your turn.

2009-05-31T19:33:00.000-05:00

Sometimes, the unexpected.

Let me explain.

During Christmas break, I joined a freelance networking site. Premise is simple: employers post freelance jobs, workers post bids, employers award winning worker with job. This could be useful for my future life as a starving English major in the real world, I thought. So I joined and read some of the jobs posted and got intimidated. Thank goodness I don't have to think about that stuff for another year and a half, I thought. In May I saw I'd been invited to submit a proposal for some random project, and I thought, well, what's it hurt just to get some practice posting a bid. Have to start sometime. And promptly forgot about it.

Then today I logged onto the email I never use, and saw I'd been awarded the proposal. Yes. $300 to update some book from the 1880s, and 12 days to do it. Whoops.

So now I've got school in the morning, research project all afternoon, and ghostwriting a book in the evenings.

As Stephen Fry says:

Lord-a-mercy, shut my mouth.

***

Yes, I'm taking a class during the month of June. Heavy sigh. I really didn't want to. I mean, I really really really didn't want to. But it will save me from having to take thesis and Shakespeare at the same time as Brit Lit 1798-present (I just can't get over how relevant my chosen major is), so I'm taking the plunge. And it is Dr. W.'s last class ever before he retires. And I am one of only two students. Yep. Two whole students. Get ready for some absolutely rousing Coleridge discussions.

***

In other news, today Mom and I went on a bike road. A pleasant, carefree, Sunday afternoon bike road around the mountain top. Until we rode by a massive beast of a German shepherd that was like two German shepherds packed together and we had to ride uphill past it and Mom's chain decided to break right then and I was just glad it wasn't the chain holding the dog to the tree (which I frown on as a rule, but approved of heartily just right then). When we got to the top of the hill and past the monster we didn't say anything for a while. For one, our lungs were shriveled ruins. For two, our mouths were dry as August cotton. When we finally could communicate, all we could manage was:

"That was a big dog."

"Uh-huh."

Blackball that road.

***

And now I'm going to enjoy my remaining few hours as a free woman before I am consumed by work (and now I'm sidetracked because I just realized referred to myself as a woman instead of a girl. Umm). But before I leave - a poem (oh, you knew it was coming).

What is my apology for poetry?

The empty briar is swishing

When I come down, and beyond, inside, your face

Haunts like a new moon glimpsed through tangled glass.

-Seamus Heaney, "Glanmore Sonnets"

Why should the fire die

2009-05-27T21:02:00.000-05:00

After a day of slow-going research on poetry, I needed the actual stuff.

Even reading quickly, it's time consuming just to read and summarize one article. Let alone the masses of books and websites and journals out there. So I spent the day immersed in a collection of interviews with poets from the early 1970s (in which Allen Ginsberg feverishly declared that all the oceans would be dead by 2000 and the apocalypse is here and if only people would recycle their bottles maybe we could avert disaster), and reading articles with titles like "Song, Ritual and Commemoration in Early Greek Poetry and Tragedy."

So I needed to remember why I am doing this. I fished out my high school copy of Sound and Sense and re-read some of the stuff that made my heart stop four years ago, before I knew anything about poetry, or even liked it (yes, I used to hate the stuff. But I also used to loathe Kait, who has been a dear dear friend for nigh on ten years now. What can I say? I deal in extremes). I read "the mother," by Gwendolyn Brooks ("Abortions will not let you forget. / You remember the children you got that you did not get"), and discovered another villanelle by Elizabeth Bishop.

And then. I re-found "Sorting Laundry," one of those poems I love and cannot say why. I have loved it from the first reading when I was 16 or 17. The first stanza is my favorite.

Folding clothes,

I think of folding you

Into my life.

Simple, no? And yet I love it so much I couldn't for the life of me be objective. I quote it to myself when I'm walking around the house, or going to class, or yes, folding laundry. And each time I hurt because I love this poem so much. Whew. Go read it, that's all I ask. Just don't tell me if you don't like it.

***

In other news, the smoothie obsession is still going strong (today's lunch = blueberry banana oatmeal, with the ubiquitous Greek yogurt and vanilla soymilk. Purple but good). Dad is watching Shane - oh good, here comes another brawl (I love Westerns). The Sweet Dog has not indulged his lust for chicken blood recently (though he does show up for breakfast each morning covered in mud and obscenely happy). And the moon is waxing, not waning.

If you were to leave me,

if I were to fold

only my own clothes,

a mountain of unsorted wash

could not fill

the empty side of the bed.

Of smoothies and Scotland

2009-05-23T20:56:00.000-05:00

Cold food. Like cold fusion. Only not as elusive. Or important. But much more pleasurable.

I've been a fan lately. Last night for supper, I made a blueberry/yogurt/soymilk smoothie and ate it from a bowl (more fun that way), with some vanilla Kashi cereal for interest. And then I gorged myself on chilled green grapes. Ahhh. I love refrigeration.

***

Today, I shopped. With my mother. Who, Lord love her, can shop me under the table. I was the enthusiastic one yesterday: "Mom, I'm desperate! I need clothes!" And she just sort of vaguely acquiesced. But today, I was ready to drop by 2 and she was still diving into clothing racks and pulling me into dressing rooms for opinions. I thoroughly enjoyed it, but goodness, I'm 21 to her 50-something - I'm supposed to have the surplus energy.

Although I found out the other day that I have inherited her boundless nature to some degree. Right after that post bemoaning my Sad Little Raincloud personality, I hear from a former coworker:

"I met your mother the other day, and was glad to see the resemblance" he typed. "You are both joyful."

How lovely. Thank you, Mom.

***

And tonight we watched Slumdog Millionare. Unbearable and beautiful and heartwrenching and a really, really, really good movie. Yes, I know I am one of the last people in the States to see it, but I never go to movies, and then when it came to the dollar theatre I found out Jim hadn't seen it yet either, and so I had to wait until school was out so we could watch it together. And good thing too, because my parents had already seen it so they could tell me to leave during the part when - oh wait. I nearly did it, but I didn't. You see that? I caught myself before I gave away a crucial part of the plot! I am making progress, oh yes.

Now off to read the newest installment of Alexander McCall Smith's newest Scottish book, The Comfort of a Muddy Saturday. And while this is not his strongest, he's still worth it.

"Why, Isabel wondered, did we need loss and parting to remind us of how much friendship, and indeed love, meant to us? Yes we did."

In which I fall in love with parentheses and confess melancholia

2009-05-21T15:33:00.000-05:00

I've got to tell you something (imagine that we're sitting across from each other at a cafe, and we've been laughing all afternoon and suddenly I get moody and stare off into space and then I turn and say that). After all, this blog did start as some sort of attempt to be honest and real and genuine and etc.

The thing is, I've been strangely down the past few days. Not in despair or full-out depressed, just a vague sort of misery. And I have no reason. In fact, I feel guilty for not being ecstatic. I mean, the horrid lump wasn't cancer (that in itself should be enough to send me out rejoicing the rest of the year). The surgery went fine. I have interesting and exciting (to me) work to do this summer.

Why then this weird blue mood?

I know some of it is undoubtedly physical. I mean, my tummy is sore and has nasty stitches, and my body is still trying to make sense of the fact that some doctor was fiddling around with my insides; and my inner curmudgeon emerges when I don't feel good.

But I also think the body and spirit are woven together, and issues don't fall neatly into "physical" and "spiritual" problems. So even if my melancholy has physical roots, the way I deal with it is spiritual, and I just feel contrary. Disagreeable for the sake of disagreeing. I don't want what's good. I don't know what I want. So I watch a movie or go to sleep and escape for a while. And when I pray, I feel like honesty eludes me, because who can discern her own heart?

Funny, too, because I just picked up Acedia and Me by Kathleen Norris. Acedia is a sort of combination between sloth and depression, just plain not caring because it's too hard. I've been reading it since Sunday, but depression was so last year, and it wasn't til I started writing this post that I realized the book actually has some relevance to my life-right-now. Strange; I know I am naturally melancholy, and think that somehow knowing will stop me from beingI think recognition is the only step, not just a big one. But self-knowledge alone is not enough. I actually have to fight and live with myself. Just like knowing you have a weakness for brownies is not enough to stop you from eating ten of them.

And right there is where I would like Jesus to be more of a weighty presence in my life (don't you like how human and concrete and God he is?). I'll admit something else: you know how people are always talking about how they love Jesus? I'm not sure that I do - all I know is that he's strangely attractive and I don't want to leave him. I guess that's where St. Teresa's prayer comes in:

O God, I do not love you,

I do not even want to love you,

But I want to want to love you.

It's an Aunt Voula!

2009-05-19T07:29:00.000-05:00

Yesterday, as I sat in the hospital room with my awesome little bracelet, I was:

-nervous about receiving my first IV

-scared as heck about anaesthesia and the slight possibility that this weird lump was cancer

-and the writerly part of me was just really, really interested and couldn't wait to, well, write about it all. I've discovered that no matter what happens to me - when I ace a paper, when I fight with a friend, when I'm about to pass out because they're fiddling around with a vein in my left arm and it won't stop rolling - no matter how upset or happy I am, there is always the writer in me that's removed and observing and mulling over all the creative potential in the experience. While I freak out, there will always be that 10% of my mind going, "Hmm, this is interesting. Let's take notes."

Anyway. They did stick me with an IV, and it really was not that bad. And the last thing I remember was my mom sitting beside me and three nurses came in and started to wheel me out and then I was waking up, thinking great, now it's about to start, when this sweet nurse told me the surgery was over and I was in the recovery room and did I want some water. I remember thinking something like, "Sweet, it's over," and wondering why I couldn't keep my eyes open more than 5 seconds at a time. I was also vaguely excited because when they raised the bed, they used a turn crank at the foot, just like in Madeline.

And then they were wheeling me back to the room, and my mom came in smiling and telling me everything went fine and the horrid lump was not cancer at all, but a harmless dermoid thing. And then we said Thank You, God.

***

So now I'm laid up at home on the comfiest couch in the world (yes, that one), and can't wait to show off my Madeline scar. My tummy feels like someone stood over me and made me do 500 billion sit-ups, and I don't feel like eating for the next six years, but other than that, I'm great. I get to lie on the couch and watch movies and read books. Or . . . just lie on the couch. That sounds good too.

Stream of not-quite-consciousness

2009-05-18T20:21:00.000-05:00

Anaesthesia hangover and sore tummy but no cancer.

Thank You, God.

Ohhhhh, sleeeep.

Home, where I wanted to go

2009-05-16T16:08:00.000-05:00

I'm writing from my window seat, one of the two coziest places in the house. The other is the keeping room couch (the most comfortable sofa ever to grace the world of upholstered seating). I can nap and read and nap and stare out the window and read and stare some more.

But when I'm not craving company, I like this window nook. Gorgeous view of fluid green field? Check. Right amount of sun streaming through glass? Check. Books and comfy linen pillows? Double-check.

So finals = over and I'm home. Home and ready to get started on this poetry research thing. I get to read lots and lots of articles and books and websites and compile an annotated bibliography of everything relevant that I find, and write a poem each week to workshop with Dr. Steward, and do minion-research tasks in between for her To Kill a Mockingbird paper. I'm actually super excited. I'm also a nerd.

In preparation for this summer of academic exercise, I've read nothing but cooking and decorating magazines since I've been home. Oh - and the latest World and part of Jane of Lantern Hill for old time's sake. Whenever I need comfort reading, I go to my handy L.M. Montgomery shelf (arranged by color since I was twelve. Somethings should not be changed. Like how I always sit at my dad's left at the dinner table, or how we always pack beach towels in the same weird old rope bag, or how I turn off music and roll down the window every time I come home and start up the mountain). Yesterday I made baked lemon pasta that Jim devoured, and today I made sweet potato coconut muffins and plotted with Mom to steal a hydrangea from the cut-off road.

Oh. And I stumbled upon a place of slaughter in the woods. Let me explain.

On Wednesday, my family reunited at the meat-and-three Olympius, a.k.a. the Pell City Steakhouse, and chatted with our neighbor Mr. Clanton. We were talking about how I don't like walking along the road because of crazy NASCAR wannabe drivers, and he suggested this path off the road. Only Mr. Clanton sort of doesn't move his chin when he talks, so the directions were hard to follow, but I thought I knew where he was talking about. So the next day, I set off down the overgrown dirt path he recommended. Soon I felt eerie. "Soon" being 47 seconds into the trek when I came upon an old exam table. "Gross," I thought, but everyone knows that rednecks have a fascination with things like old dentist's chairs and shopping carts (and yes, I'll go ahead and admit I tried to buy a shopping cart from the Bruno's that closed at Wildwood. They thought I was weird). I went, feeling increasingly more creeped out, but turn around? Why would I turn around in secluded woods where people were obviously up to strange things? I may be in the Honors program, but I'm not that intelligent. When I finally turned around and made my way back to the old exam table, I noticed something that I had not noticed before. An enormous spine. As in, cow-enormous. As in, PEOPLE WERE SLAUGHTERING A COW BACK THERE.

I ran blindly towards the road. And continued my walk, laden with the knowledge that there are cow poachers operating practically in my back yard. Ewwww.

***

And now it is almost 5, and it is a Saturday evening, and that means my mom will be listening to the Prairie Home Companion. Ah yes, there's the snotty NPR announcer now (I do love NPR, sans the condescension). And maybe it will be Billy Collins and Chris Thile or Allison Krauss, and Garrison Keillor will do one of his English major segments. Or maybe it will be weird jazz music and Garrison trying to sing (shudder). But either way it will be comforting because it means I'm home and it's Saturday and my mom is here.

We interrupt our regularly scheduled programming . . .

2009-05-07T22:29:00.000-05:00

. . . to talk about surgery. Yes, boys and girls, the Monday after finals they are going to stick a tube in my bellybutton and tackle a spot in my tummy.

Warning to male readers: While nothing very graphic is contained below, if the word "ovary" has the same effect on you that "kidneys" has on me - well, I would stop now if I were you. [Note: "kidneys" makes the hair stand up on the back of neck and makes my knees feel weak and shaky. In case you wanted to know. And if you want to make me flop over in a comatose state for the next two weeks, just mention something about getting "punched in the kidneys." Even typing it makes me break out in cold sweats.]

I've got this cyst on my left -um, you know, the 0-word. And it won't go away and has pretty much taken over the whole darn thing, so the doctor says it needs to come out. And of course, me being me, I am sort of freaked out. About the anesthesia. About the very slight possibility of cancer. About the thought of even a minimally invasive TUBE poking around in my insides.

And I know, I know, I know that this is not a huge deal, comparatively. I mean, people have major surgery all the time and get on with their lives, and this is outpatient stuff for gosh sake. And still I imagine the worst, and ask questions like: How will I have enough faith to trust God if it is something serious? What about being ready to die, heaven forbid?

I feel like Dr. Wallace's kid at the doctor's office. "I'm not brave, Daddy! I'm so scared!"

And of course there is the probability that it is a dermoid growth (say dermoid, boys and girls), which means there might just be a tooth or something in there, and which I am really hoping for because that would make me just like Aunt Voula, my favorite character in "My Big Fat Greek Wedding." And I want to read Madeline again, because I loved it when she went to the hospital to get her appendix out and was always a little bit jealous. She got a dollhouse.

***

I saw Stephen Gordon tonight (!) and he was amazing and I bought his new CD. Thank you so much to Anna for introducing me to his music and alerting me to the concert tonight. It was lovely.

Go read something by Kathleen Norris right now. Dakota is one of her beautiful book, a "spiritual geography," as she puts it, and I love it.

And I found this quote by Philip Yancey that's pretty much helped me balance life this week:

"Life is not a problem to be solved but a work to be made."

Hear ye, hear ye

2009-04-27T19:14:00.000-05:00

Announcement, world: I am going craz-y.

Yes, I know. People proclaim this all the time, especially the last few weeks of school. But of me, it is actually true. I talk to my paper on Urban Gothic Novel Theology. I think about Masai warriors and find myself aimlessly jumping up and down in front of the window and humming. I . . . . I . . . I think the Sacred Harp people brainwashed me.

You see, this past week I have been singing. A lot. And - loudly (as my long-suffering roommate pointed out). I have been wondering where it came from, this sudden feeling of music swelling in me, and finally have pinpointed the shape note singing as the cause. Yes. Something about that vibrant, eerie, ear-splitting music made me fall in love again with singing and I've been warbling my lungs out this past week.

It comes as an especial comfort now. Ever since I lost all my music in the Great Hard Drive Crash, my music-loving self has been depressed, apathetic. I began to worry that I was losing my passion, that I would become one of those people, you know, the kind who don't listen to music. Even Nickel Creek -Nickel Creek- couldn't pull me out of the funk.

And I realize something now. Since I abandoned the world of Musical Theatre, voice lessons, etc., to pursue English (oh my love), musical exploration - as opposed to performance - has been my only outlet. So I've delved deep and wide (mostly deep) across different musical spectrums, and have discovered many new infatuations in the process (Franz Ferdinand. Kate Rusby. Ingrid Michaelson. The Format. Doug Burr). All this has been well and good and wonderful. But I handed the singing rights to all those other legit voice people who stuck with it, and screwed a very tight lid on my own interest in musical expression. And now Sacred Harp has made me remember that I have a voice, and even if though it isn't the best or prettiest or well-trained, it's still an utter joy to use it.

And so using it I am. Although I want to apologize to Val for that rousing 8 a.m. rendition of "I Dreamed a Dream" while she was studying for a nursing quiz. Sorry, roomie.

Some Questions

2009-04-23T11:09:00.000-05:00

Why don't I feel like doing anything except lying down in the sun and sleeping for a long, long time?

What if Handel had written music for the Heidelberg Confession?

When did my brain decide to shut down for 50 minutes out of every hour?

How do you balance the importance of orthodoxy and realizing that God is much, much bigger than having the right theology?

Where can I find a good recipe for sugar-free fried pies?

What if I shut myself up in the ivory tower of academia for the rest of my life? Could I still come down and visit sometimes?

Will the bamboo shoot lodged under my left finger get infected?

How do you go from being childish to childlike?

And lastly: What kind of ice cream is in the caf today?
At least I can find out the answer to that one.

Continuing Adventures of the Folklore Five and J. Brown

2009-04-19T16:40:00.000-05:00

Current location: basement of the library. Wild storm brewing outside. Just returned from somewhere near Collinsville, AL, a shape note singin'.

Yes. This weekend has been rather - intense. I knew it would be when I went to sketch my poplar bud, and in gently grasping the branch it shook tulip poplar nectar on me. Just like Mott said. Mott taught J. Brown how to snare the elusive Cahaba redhorse, and the time is right when poplar buds spill their nectar . . .

Day 1 - the Little Cahaba; or, Don't Put All the Lunches in One Canoe
Yesterday, see, 23 students, of varying levels of skill, canoed 7 miles down the Cahaba. Dr. Brown in the lead (of course). Some guy named Randy in the back. The trip was not for the faint-hearted. An experienced canoeist even took a dunking early in the journey. We waded around in muddy Chacos and munched soggy trail mix and gazed in wonder at the unbelievable beauty of the river. Do you know how peace-full it is when the river is clear and cool and grey and the freshly-green trees and vines grow down to the banks and the only sounds are water-noises and the occasional bird cries?
And do you know how tired your arms get when you sit in the front the whole dang time?

We rode with our same happy group of five, and laughed and talked in the comfortableness of knowing we enjoy each other and appreciate nerdy stuff like dogtrot houses and the redhorse snaring. Ellen and Jordan survived their unexpected dip in the water, Drew and Josh took the river by storm (or tried to - they encountered some, um, difficulties) and I enjoyed just sitting in the front being the little engine that could with an experienced canoeist steering in the back. We came back tired, hungry, covered with rock-and-thorn battle wounds, and very happy.

Day 2 - Shape Note Singing and Dinner on the Grounds, i.e. I ate like a starving lumberjack
Our happy band united this morning with slightly more sleep than when we parted, and set out for "Collinsville." That was all we knew. We argued over whether it was in Georgia, Alabama or Tennessee (Dr. Brown loves to keep us guessing). It ended up being in Alabama, up a dirt road on a mountain.
It felt like a scene from a movie: the haunting music swelling from inside the tiny concrete building, marching single-file in a line of Sunday dressed kids, and entering the embrace of the explosive singing in the one room church. Ellen and I sat with a very nice lady in the treble section, and I would've been even more lost without her leading me through the labyrinth of notes. And she sang on the Cold Mtn. album(!). And the girl who sang "Lady Margret" sat right in front of me with her precious two year old(!). And I felt like I was surrounded by celebrities.

And then. Oh, then. Dinner on the Grounds. It deserves the capitals. Icy well water lemonade, and more food than I have ever seen in my life in one place, and I committed the sin of gluttony about three times over. On my first time through I loaded up a plate that could have served for two and half meals any other time, and inhaled it like a ravenous little street orphan. And then, against all better judgment, I went back for more and made another meal off the desserts. And promptly felt very sick. Even now, five hours later, I'm not sure I ever want to eat again. Food. Why do people eat food?
On the drive back through the lovely green fields, we played the "I Have Never" game to keep from falling asleep, and boy but I'm going to miss this class when it's over.

Just call me Nostradamus

2009-04-17T08:45:00.000-05:00

In the 29 minutes between now and my Latin American culture test, I will hold forth on: the benefits of a drowsy quad afternoon, the horrors of the Urban Gothic novel, the Orwellian nightmare that is Barack Obama, and the life of a professional cane stripper.

Or I could just tell you about the dream I had night before last.

But then I should start with the POW-like injury I sustained yesterday. I was weaving my darned basket, and no I did not have gloves on because you can't wear gloves and weave a delicate basket, when a small cane-bamboo shoot just jammed straight under my left pointer fingernail. I stared at it for a moment in fascinated horror. Slash shock. Slash this basket thing has put me beyond caring so I just got up and pulled the splinter out. But then I remembered.
See, the night before I'd had this horrible dream about slicing open my left pointer finger. I had to wander around trying to keep a piece of kleenex wrapped around it and a bone was poking out and people were oblivious and I was like, "Guys? Um, can we do something about my hand?"

And then I hurt the same finger. The Very. Next. Day. I was a little bit creeped out. Was this a physical Freudian slip, where I unconsciously acted on some desire to harm myself? [To that: No. My subconscious prefers to let me knock against things and get abuse-worthy bruises. Even my subconscious is too cowardly for the searing pain of bamboo shoots under the fingernails.] Or was I subject to some kind of second sight? [An even freakier option.]

Then I remembered my Mom has predicting dreams. And I was comforted. If it's hereditary, it can't be bad. Right?

***
In other news, I am writing a paper on the theology of the urban gothic-sensational literature of mid-19th century America (low anguished groan). I realized last night I'm reading lots of books by/about Jews (Judaism is fascinating. And I really want to do that chair-dance thing at my wedding). I almost let myself sleep in this morning and skip the boring pointless class, but remembered in time that we have a test today.

A test, as in, 11 minutes. Bye.

From the North Country

2009-04-02T11:03:00.000-05:00

Back from Minnesota, and glad. Highlights:

-I loved the girls on the trip! It was so much fun to hang out with them for five days and get to know some other English major girls better. The three I roomed with had me laughing all the time - it was wonderful.

-The landscape, which was like Lars and the Real Girl. I love that movie. L.O.V.E. And better stop before I give in to the urge and watch it again for the fourth time since December.

-The hordes of nerds there who made me feel just a little bit less nerdy (let me state now that I am not, nor ever will be, a Battle Star Galactica fan. Thank you Lord). I felt pretty normal right up until I went to the poetry session, and loved hearing other people read their stuff and got way too excited about reading mine. In my session: a slight Korean Buddhist boy, an emo gay guy, a plump-ish, smiley, bohemian skirts girl, and a 53 year old man from a coal mining Kentucky town. They all had really good stuff.

-Finding the Mississippi river and devouring Thai food with Christine and Liz.

-The Minnesotan people. They are so nice. Like, really really nice. Like, people-helping-you-on-the-bus kind of nice. And I love their accents.

***

Now I'm back to spring in the South, spring in Alabama, spring at Samford. Which is certainly one of the loveliest things in the world. I'm much more an autumn than springtime person, but this right now is so beautiful I can't help but rejoice in all the alive and warm and soft of it all.

I took a walk yesterday in the neighborhood behind Samford, and found all sorts of lacey white and fuschia and purple and yellow loveliness, and even a pink dogwood.

And I went to the little park and laid myself down on a rock for a while, and it was good.

See the marketplace in old Algiers

send me photographs and souvenirs

Just remember when a dream appears

you belong to me

-Kate Rusby