Forgive my grief for one removed,
Thy creature, whom I found so fair.
I trust he lives in thee, and there
I find him worthier to be loved.

Gut-Wrenching Vomit

Hey.


I hope for your sake that you aren't reading this.

This is me talking. Hi God.

So.

Me: We haven't been on good terms today.

God:

Me: Yup. I thought as much.

God:

Me: Listen, I don't want one the only one talking. I want to be able to hear you- and I know that requires me actually listening.

God: Draw near to me and I will draw near to you

Me: Okay.

God:

Me: Gosh, I've been so angry lately. Why is that, God?

God:

Me: Is it because I'm menstrual? No, it can't be. This has been a season of angryness- not just a week.

God:

Me: I'm glad you understand. Okay, so is it because of meds catching up to me?

God:

Me: Okay, so I know that you aren't in the wind, or in the hurricane, or in the fire. But where are you?  Lord, I'm not really angry at you. I mean, I am, but I also realize that I'm angry at myself deep down. I'm angry because I simply don't feel like following you and I know that I should want to . It's like this art class- I know that in order to succeed I HAVE to want to be in the piece. I HAVE to want to put my heart all the way into it. And I WANT to put my heart into it- IT JUST ISN'T INTO IT. So I'm angry at you for my own deficiency.
And then I just desperately want to be happy. I don't want to work hard, I don't want to do the work of Christianity. I want to live a comfortable life on Pinterest, going to school and going to work, not being bothered with praying and spending quality time with you or something. I am so afraid that you are going to ask me to do something that is going to hurt, and to be honest, I've thought I've heard from you in the past and it wasn't. So I naturally play it safe these days.

Lord, Lord, Lord, how I need you!!!!! I can't tell you how much I want to both be pleasing to you, and yet simply be pleased. I want to be in the place where I can do exactly what I want to do, and it is perfectly in your will. Even when it comes to just my eating habits. I resist the idea of eating healthy, yet when I give into the chips and the cake, etc, I don't enjoy them because I feel guilty.  The same goes for this Kid.

I can't tell you how much I want to be in love with him, but my Spirit just won't let me go there. Somehow, I feel like it is wrong to NEED someone as much as I feel the need for him. And I know it's not him. It's the idea of him-it's that SOMEBODY void in my heart,

I know I need to trust you here, to believe that like Rivers, you never are trying purposefully to hurt me. You wound me like a surgeon- intentionally, purposefully- knowing that you will fix me. You don't pick up the broken pieces in a desperate attempt to put me back together. Nothing takes you by surprise.

So.

The question is how do I want to spend time with you????????


God: Behold, my servant whom I uphold, my chosen, in whom my soul delights; I have put my Spirit upon you. A bruised reed I will not break, and a faintly burning wick I will not quench. I will not grow faint or be discouraged til I have established justice in the earth. I am the Lord. I have called you in righteousness. I will take you by the hand and keep you. Nevertheless, I am continually with you. I hold your right hand. I guide you with counsel. And afterward, I will receive you into glory. Your heart and your flesh may fail, but I am the strength of your heart and your portion forever.

selfish empathy.

I don't do well with other people suffering. I can't handle it. It hurts.

I realized today that I am a very selfish empathizer. I will feel your pain, but then I buckle. I remove myself from the situation so I do not have to feel your pain anymore. I wish you would recover, because I selfishly can't stand how bad it hurts knowing how bad it hurts you.

I am trying to write a novel about pain. Well, pain is a large factor in the story at least. But, I don't know if I can really be in the moment enough. I used to think I was good at emotion regulation. I really am just good at forgetting pain, drowning it in fuzzy things.

I am praying that the Lord with help me tolerate feeling pain. I want to feel it, because only then will I know how to fix it. Only then will my convictions stand up to the test. I want to feel others' pain deeply. I want to help heal. 

the many emotions of 35 minutes

-Excitement: the idea that you can do things if you have money and exercise discipline
ie: study abroad and learn basic navigation aboard a sailing vessel
-Determination: calculating and budgeting out for a projected three years
ie: adding up a projected savings of $300 a month for 36 months
-Disbelief: when your suppressed hopes do a nosedive
ie: realizing that it wouldn't cover half the cost of a trip
-Anger: the emotion that comes out of an attitude of entitlement
ie: Down with taxes! Down with the upper class!! Anarchy!!!!
-Depression: a side effect of guilt
ie: when you realize how unthankful the aforementioned sounds out loud

I guess I struggle with greed. I never really thought I would because I've never had a lot of money, but I really really like money. I like to spend money. I wish I didn't.
It seems that many people go on trips abroad like it's no big deal. I have some friends who go abroad fairly often. One friend and particular- I feel like she isn't afraid to dream big.
I thought this blog post would be about the injustice of dreams, how they give you a magic carpet and then tug as you tumble over- but that's not the poin anymore.
God deals so graciously with me. I mean, I have a beautiful family. We live in a beautiful home. We easy very well, I want for nothing foodwise.
It's easy for me to see the limitations in my life. My friends cars are typically much nicer. Many of them don't care about the cost of their college.

I need Jesus to help me get the right perspective. I need to trust him when he says he has good things in store for Me, that he doesn't like to deprive his children, that he isn't miserly. He gave all, and continues to give.

The Struggle With Colours

My tendency to bring bright colours into my wardrobe can actually be a real pain. I love being different, and portraying that difference through colours (it's not just about being different though. It's also about just having more colour!) But people are really judgy of that.

For example: hair colour. I was talking to my coworker about how unnatural hair colour is not professional. That got me thinking: why is it considered unprofessional? I guess that's because many people with colourful hair don't keep up their appearance with pressed jackets and tidy updo's. I understand that. If you're working, you ought to be efficient, professional, courteous, productive- but why can't I be all that and have purple hair tucked neatly into a topknot?

I don't normally shake my fists at discrimination in society, but this area bothers me a bit. Those people who give hair colour a bad name by being irresponsible, unproductive, and unprofessional sure make it difficult for those who could be both creatively expressive and a beneficial member of society. It's a crying shame.

Let's keep up this rant, shall we?

I don't want to walk outside with tattoos, gauges, and coloured hair afraid that I'll be made an object of lust. It's true: many, many people alter their bodies in such ways because they want to be sexy. To some, such an appearance communicates, "I'm adventurous. I live life dangerously. Come see how dangerous I can be." But what about those who just like the aesthetic??? It's also a product of victim's fault mentality.

I could be wrong, but I think it should be fine for me to have tattoos and coloured hair. As long as I dress in a manner respectful of myself and my brothers in Christ, and I conduct myself with honor, I see no reason why I should be deemed "easy."

What do ya'll think? 

"It suddenly struck me that that tiny pea, pretty and blue, was the Earth. I put up my thumb and shut one eye, and my thumb blotted out the planet Earth. I didn't feel like a giant. I felt very, very small."

~Neil Armstrong

Passion 2015 Thoughts

The Passion 2015 conference was being streamed online, so my family and I watched some of it this weekend. My brothers and sister have been to Passion, two of them several times. The teaching is amazing and the worship phenomenal. This year, it didn't seem as outstanding to me. I mean, just the fact that there are so many students interested in Jesus Christ is pretty amazing, but you know what I mean.

Well.

 This morning, I woke up in trepidation about a job training test-run I have today. For apparently no reason, my little mindey mind couldn't shake the idea that God wants to hurt me, that he enjoys inflicting pain on his people.

But I remembered what one of the speakers said, and it encouraged me:

God doesn't drive an ambulance, showing up to fix the damage. God wounds you like a surgeon: purposefully, intentionally, in order to bring you healing.

(paraphrase)

CLEP Test Stress/ Failings

I just want to say for the record that I'm terrified of life.

I feel the weight of results before I even begin.

Whatever you're doing, it better be good when you finish.

She's much better at art than you.

Just look at her shading.

Good grief, look at that perspective.

So creative. Too bad you're not that smart.

Are you really going to eat ANOTHER thing tonight? For real?

She's better at learning languages.

Wow, can't you remember anything?

You don't practice enough to be any good at anything.



SO before I even begin studying for this CLEP test, I think it'd be good to remind myself of a few things.

I AM.

She may have more technical skill, but remember you're not even in school right now, so you're not getting the same instruction. Don't compare yourself with others.

There's something about your work that makes it different than everybody else's, even if you feel it's not as valuable.

That's a crock of poop. You flipping have a 4.0... and you've had a 4.0 since you were a Freshman in high school.

They like to roll you like dough, Honey.

Okay, she may be better at learning languages, but you're flipping LEARNING A LANGUAGE. Stop throwing a pity party and just be excited that you can sound out the Cyrillic alphabet.

But above all, Darling, remember Tom Hiddleston is still single.

Okay, so that's pretty great, but REALLY, just remember that I love you. I actually do. 

The Paris Wife, and Other Stories

I love Hemingway.

For the record, I generally hate his plots, but I absolutely love his soul and, of course, his writing style.

My sister lent me a copy of  Paula McClain's The Paris Wife, a historical fiction about Hemingway's first marriage. It's lovely. McClain does a magnificent job mimicking Hemingway's style whenever he speaks, and Hadley feels terribly real and alive.

I stumbled across this quote in the book, and I did a reader's double take.

It gave me a sharp kind of sadness to think that no matter how much I loved him and tried to put him back together again. he might stay broken forever.

Um...


Can we....


Merrrrrrrrr...

...

...

... Even this....

I have problems.

"But he's really kind and gentle"

kind and gentle

The Sort of Person Everyone Speaks Well of

Mrs. Dashwood: "You're a very wicked pair. Colonel Brandon will be sadly missed."

Willoughby: "Why,when's he the sort of person everyone speaks well of, and no one remembers to talk to?"



Oh, the rants I could go on! This quote has haunted me for years.

But now, I'm okay with being the sort of person everyone speaks well of. You know, it seems my whole family is respected, admired, and not invited to things very much. People will come to us for advice and they trust our judgement, but it seems that in general we're not deemed very fun company.

Which of course is ridiculous. I mean, we make Star Wars cookies and eat dinner on our rooftop. Come on, now.

In the past, it bothered me that we were Colonel Brandon's, but I don't mind now because I actually have friends who enjoy hanging out with me. I'm fun. I'm funny. And people actually like me.


Cheers.

Short Story

I wrote this short story a while ago, but I dusted it off a bit and gave it a good paint job for this holiday season. Enjoy :)

His Favorite Christmas Story

            Her two bluebell eyes peeped out from underneath a crimson hat, a crown upon her curled brunette hair. Her lipstick matched the red of her satin dress which wrapped around her ivory shoulders. Catching the eye of the young man in the corner, she blushed and tucked a curl behind her ear.

             Jim swallowed to contain his toothy smile. The delicate creature in the corner was lovely beyond all imagining. “Just like a princess,” he thought to himself, biting his lip to prevent the ruination of his handsome face by his bucktoothed grin. The musicians started up a waltz and he swallowed hard, but when those bluebell eyes looked back, Jim found himself staring at his glass of punch once more.

            Curiosity won out, and Jim looked up. The girl’s eyes widened and she snapped back to her attentive stare at the dance floor. Despite his best efforts, Jim couldn’t hide his buckteeth.

            The clock ticked on to a quarter to eleven.  Jim slammed his glass on the table.

            That’s it. Squaring his shoulders, Jim marched forward.  Several heads turned toward him in surprise as he made his way to where the girl sat.  Sweat dripped down the back of his neck and his hands grew warm inside of his pockets. 

            “’Scuse me, ma’am,” Jim’s voice quavered against his will, “but would you like to dance?”

            The girl in red peeped her face out from under her hat and nodded, a timid smile curling her red lips.

            “Oh. Well, good.” Jim cleared his throat and wiped his hand on his pant leg as inconspicuously as possible, aware that he hadn’t put enough thought into his appearance that night. He held out his hand and the girl took it.

            As they twirled round the dance floor, Jim felt a strange pride having secured her as a partner. The red satin shimmered in the candlelight as her eyes shined from underneath her hat. Jim talked most, about his life of travel once he had come of age after the death of his parents.  The girl blushed.

            “Do you like Delaware?” She asked.

            “Delaware? I love it. I think it’s a jolly place. Why do you ask?”

            The girl blushed and averted her gaze.  Panic rose in his chest.

            “If I’ve offended you, Miss—“

            “Certainly not!” Her eyes flashed, and her cheeks followed with a blush. “It’s just, I’ve lived in Delaware all my life.  The town hall always has a Christmas party on Christmas Eve, but I’ve never seen you here before.”

            “Oh.” Relief washed over him. “See, I came here in search of relatives, an aunt and uncle.  I never get any letters, wanted to see if they were still around.  Turns out, they’ve moved.  Just my luck.”

            The girl nodded and looked at the ground.

            When the dance was over, Jim escorted the girl off of the dance floor.  He smiled at her, and she smiled back with a blush. 

            “So, who are your—,” Jim began, when a large man with a dark mustache appeared next to him with a scowl that could ice a cup of cocoa.

            “Come on, it’s time to go home.” The man said as he hooked his arm around the girl’s waist.

            “Papa, wait, I—“

            The man’s eyes flamed. The girl’s head drooped and she scampered away with the big man, one glance of those bluebell eyes and she was gone.

Jim stood in shock.  He hadn’t even learned her name.

           

Jim stepped off of the ship onto American soil for the first time in three years.  He subconsciously touched the scar on his right cheek where a piece of shrapnel had wounded his face, but his skin was healed now. The former soldier picked up his bags and began his walk. With all his friends lost to the German forces and every relative dead or living in mystery, Jim had no idea where to go, or any clue where he could find the widow of Robert Long.

            “Give Megan this for me,” Bob gasped as he pulled the papers from his pocket. Jim had nodded and held his friend’s hand as he watched life depart from his Bob’s body.

            With no sweetheart of his own to carry a picture of into battle, Jim held in his memory the girl in the red dress from the Christmas Eve party of years ago. He wondered what had happened to the Girl with No Name, as he liked to call her. Did she marry and have children? Perhaps she still lived in Delaware with her over-protective father. Jim sighed and continued to walk. A neon sign shined through the frost-covered window in a greeting.

A piano quivered through the diner. Red candles glowed on the table and little twigs of holly decorated each plate.  Jim stood in the doorway overwhelmed by it all. Of course, it was Christmas Day. A hostess in black welcomed him inside. At a table for one, Jim stared at the menu glassy-eyed as his mind drifted to other days.

His friends sat around the table with him still in uniform.  They smiled and held up their glasses to toast the Allied victory. There sat Donald and George and Robert. Captain Stewart winked and handed Jim a glass. Charles clapped his hand on the shoulders of his companions, spilling his drink on their clothes, always the first to get drunk but as usual, easy to forgive. William smiled to himself, the boy from Kentucky so shy off the battlefield. Jim lifted his glass to drink with his friends.

A young waitress bounded up to Jim’s table, shaking him out of his reverie. The wine lingered bittersweet on his lips. 

“We are so honored to have you here tonight, Sir. Thank you for serving our country. Always proud to serve one of our boys.”  The waitress held her hand over her heart and smiled.  Jim nodded. The waitress took his order.

“On the house, under one condition.” She said with a wink as she left the table.

Jim wondered what kind of price he would have to pay for his dinner.  He liked this waitress; she eased the loneliness in his heart. She returned with his dinner, and when he had finished, she pulled out a chair, resting her elbows on the table.

“Tell me a story,” she commanded.

“A story?”

“A Christmas story,” she said, “Just a short one, to spread some holiday cheer.”

“I don’t really feel up to it at the moment.”

“Come on, I’m working! On Christmas!” She pouted.

The world-weary traveler smiled.

“Well, I do have one Christmas Story. It’s my favorite one, actually, about a girl. A Girl with no name.” He took a deep breath and began. “I met her up in Delaware, 1937.  She was wearing red lipstick to match her pretty dress.  December 24^th at a quarter to eleven’s when I finally gained the courage to ask her to dance…”

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------          

Alpaca wool draped over the man’s knees to keep out the December chill. Next to the redwood rocking chair a red hound rested on the bohemian rug, the wind blowing frost onto the edges of the mat.

“It’s not too bad.  The children will still come.” The man murmured to himself.

Jim had long finished his wandering days. In all his travels he never found a relation of any kind, but he encountered many adventures. In the end, he chose Maryland for his permanent residence because it provided a contrast to his life. Few things changed here.

The people of the town soon grew fond of the aged Travelling Man. While some doubted the legitimacy of his tales, Jim found ready listeners in the children. When he suggested four years ago to the parents of Jack and June a Christmas Eve story time, the idea was readily received and over the years, the children would cry if they were not allowed on Jim’s porch at eight o’clock on Christmas Eve.

But the snow had started to fall early that night and Jim wondered if anyone would show up to hear his famous Christmas Story.  One day perhaps when the children had grown, he knew he would have to spend Christmas Eve alone, but he couldn’t accept his loneliness just yet.

“They’ll come, Red. You’ll see.”

Yellow headlights flashed up the driveway and a hoard of young kids piled out of the car, each one carrying a wrapped present. The driver, Jack and Jane’s father, thrust a hand out of the window to wave before driving away- he worked night shifts. Jim anticipated the arrival of Mrs. Jack and Jane fifteen minutes later, rolling the stroller up the road which sheltered the twins from the snow. Of course, there was Little Tiffany in her classic pink coat and hat which left only her nose visible as she walked with her mother up the driveway. Thus swaddled, all of the children and a few parents arrived at the porch, chatting and giggling. Jim cleared his throat.

 “I met her up in Delaware, 1937. She was wearing red lipstick to match her pretty dress.  December 24th at a quarter to eleven’s when I finally gained the courage to ask her to dance…”    The older children closed their eyes as they mouthed the words. 

“…And even though I never learned her name, I never forgot the Girl in the Red Dress.” Jim concluded.

 A few of them lingered to say thank you before they left. Some left presents by the tree in the house, and one little boy patted Red’s old head in farewell. Little Tiffany rushed back to Jim as he rose from his rocking chair. She held something out.

“What’s this?”  He asked as he took it in his hands.

“’To match her pretty dress,’” The girl quoted with her hands behind her back.  She blushed and scampered away.  Jim looked down at the present in his hands.  It was a brand new doll with red lips and a red dress.  He smiled and walked inside the house.  He placed the doll on his mantelpiece next to a photo of himself in uniform, a reminder of days gone by.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The acrid smell of alcohol overwhelmed his senses. Everything in the room was white, like the snow that fell outside that day.  Jim breathed in, but his lungs couldn’t trap enough air to satisfy his body. Christmas Eve should not be spent this way.

“Ma’am,” he asked, “could you share a little holiday cheer?”

“What was that?” The little old nurse leaned in to hear Jim’s low voice.

“A Christmas story.” He wheezed. His lungs burned.

Twenty years had passed since the last time he told the neighborhood children his favorite Christmas story. The tradition stopped when Jim developed a wheezing cough which he later learned was the beginning symptom of chronic obstructive pulmonary disease, cause by exposure to certain chemicals during the war. But even then he knew that the children were not as young as they once were, and they began to have young love of their own. No one was left to care about the Girl with No Name. No one but Jim, and he was about to die.

The nurse waited for him to gain catch his breath.  He bluebell eyes were soft like the blanket of snow falling outside.

“I have one story. It’s my favorite.” She cleared her throat. “I met him up in Delaware in 1937, though I never got his name; he was a travelling man.  December 24^th at a quarter to eleven, I’m so glad he got the courage to ask me to dance.”

A tear ran down Jim’s cheek.  Concern filled the nurse’s eyes.

“Would you like to hear something else?” She asked in a low voice.

“No.” Jim choked. “It’s just… that’s my favorite Christmas story.” Jim smiled and raised his right hand to stroke the nurse’s face. A cloud of compassion passed over her face. She thinks I’m delusional.

“Scuse me, ma’am, but would you like to dance? He croaked.

The little nurse’s bluebell eyes grew wide. Jim closed his eyes.

“I finally found you.” A calm passed over his body as all the world fell back into place. “But I still don’t know your name.” He murmured.

The nurse too closed her eyes. Not diamond ring ever graced her finger because one man already had claim of her heart. She watched as her friends in the little Delaware town were married one by one. Then, as they had children and grandchildren. Year after year, she seemed alone on Christmas Eve. But she was never truly alone, for she carried the Travelling Man in her heart. The nurse, once upon a time youthful and red lipped, opened her eyes again. Jim lay there with her hand in his own, a bucktoothed smile on his glassy face.

"Can I Still Get Into Heaven If I Kill Myself?"

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Pa9mi5Pd8aY

This is a song that I heard a couple months ago. Tonight, I needed something this raw to get out all of the emotions I've been feeling lately, but please don't listen to this and think I'm suicidal. I'm not. I'm just grieving for the world's depravity and trying to figure everything out.

It tells a true story of a murder and a murderer who before he took his life asked this question, "Can I still get into Heaven if I kill myself?"

I still relate to the guilt that he felt in that moment, even though I've been forgiven by Christ. I guess this is where my love for quote unquote "misunderstood villains" comes in; I relate to them.

As Loki says, "Satisfaction's not in my nature."

But God says He opens his hand and satisfies the desires of every. living. thing.

Grace. Guilt. Forgiveness. Shame. Anger. Mercy.

"Evil. Prisoners. Rats. Suffering. It all fits together so neatly, so sweetly. Oh, it is a lovely world, a lovely, dark world." ~The Tale of Despereaux

Let God be True

"Let God be true, though every one were a liar, as it is written,.." ~Romans 8:4

Ever since coming to this school, I have been angry. Scratch that, I was angry before I came here.

But it has gotten worse.

I feel so angry when I think about the things we are taught as art: feces, exorcisms, pornography, etc. For me, this beautiful, wonderful thing called art is being desecrated because the world is full of liars. Like the story of the Emperor's New Clothes, no one wants to speak up for fear of being thought a fool. Even I have to wonder if I'm just being small-minded.

For the record, I have been able to see things for their artistic value that I might not have in the past, and I think that is a good thing. But at some point, there has to be a line between what is art and what isn't.

I mean, what is the difference between Cabanel's "Birth of Venus" and Vanessa Beecroft's "Show?" Although one could argue for the painterly skill that is revealed in Cabanel's piece, it is still very pornographic, especially at the time of its creation.

It just makes me sick. I feel threatened, and I am concerned that I will be drawn in and become a modern art convert. I feel so small and afraid and depressed.

"Depressed?" You say. "Why depressed?" Because when it comes down to it, no matter how much I try to put up walls of safety and morality, I find I am not enough. My heart wants to wander and feast on sin. I feel like a werewolf that comes to its senses and wails in agony. And even though I am not a terribly immoral person as the standards go (sexually pure, not a murderer, nor a thief, etc.) I finish my day feeling like such a failure.

I'm so dang tired.

And there's absolutely nothing I can do about it. If there was some spiritual enlightenment test that required me climbing a mountain or scaling a building, I would take it. But you can't rush art, and you can't rush God.

"For the creation was subjected to frustration, not by its own choice, but by the will of the one who subjected it, in hope that the creation itself will be liberated from its bondage to decay and brought into the freedom and glory of the children of God. We know that the whole creation groans and suffers the pains of childbirth together until now. And not only this, but even we ourselves groan within ourselves, waiting eagerly for our adoption as sons, the redemption of our bodies." ~Romans 8:20-23

We live in The Now and Not Yet, even in the art world. I guess that is why art is not always beautiful, but is still valuable. Our pain is valuable, although not beautiful and if it is captured, somehow, it can still be art. There's a fine line and I don't know if we'll ever discover the truest meter for rating what is art and what isn't until Jesus comes back.

Come, Lord Jesus. Deliver us from this bondage to sin and death.

I Digress...

I'm reading In the Making by Linda Weintraub for homework, homework I procrastinated on (shout out to you WARP students woot woot)

I don't know if I have the words to express how much I hate this book. To give you a little perspective, this book highlights modern "artists;" one artist makes guttural noises to herself to give voice to the two animals that live inside her head, and one procreates "children" with a machine, going through the gestation period and all sorts of existential helter-skelter.
As I read the profile of the latter artist, I mentally screamed, "SOMETHING IS WRONG WITH THIS PERSON. SHE IS SERIOUSLY MESSED UP."

And then, I had to think a while.

Is she really any more messed up than me? Granted, I don't think I've gone as far as to believe that my love life with my computer is as fulfilling as a relationship with a human being, but I've done other things, things that are as unholy.

I have a duality (we use that word a lot in this class) in my mind: on the one hand, I am disgusted with this perversion of art. I am outraged by this abuse of what I believe to be a characteristic of God.  Righteous indignation, I guess.

And on the other hand, I wonder if I should catch myself. "Let he who is without sin cast the first stone." God would not have me believe I am any better than another sinner. Maybe I haven't gone as far, but my sin is just as black. Me sinning differently does not make me any more holy. Holiness is all-or-nothing. Only God is holy.

I haven't exactly felt very close to God as of late, but I guess my subconscious has really been contemplating that David Crowder CD I play in the car for white noise. It's so strange- as I meditate on my unholiness, it makes me want to praise God. Me. Praise God. On a whim.

^That's a big deal, guys. That's a big deal for me.

3 Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, who has blessed us in Christ with every spiritual blessing in the heavenly places, 4 even as he chose us in him before the foundation of the world, that we should be holy and blameless before him. In love 5 he predestined us for adoption as sons through Jesus Christ, according to the purpose of his will, 6 to the praise of his glorious grace, with which he has blessed us in the Beloved.7 In him we have redemption through his blood, the forgiveness of our trespasses,according to the riches of his grace, 8 which he lavished upon us, in all wisdom and insight 9 making known to us the mystery of his will, according to his purpose, which he set forth in Christ 10 as a plan for the fullness of time, to unite all things in him, things in heaven and things on earth."~Ephesians 1:3-10

Praise the Lord.

basic art classes

I think Eugene Delacroix would be mortified to know he started the modernist art movement...

"The use of linear perspective had had a great influence upon the development of art in the western cultures, but, in the art of today, it is being cast aside by many who feel that art is more an extended expression of themselves than a mirroring of nature and reality. In some cases, I view this as a lazy excuse to avoid the hard labor of learning to draw."- some book on perspective that I failed to write the title of for future reference, I didn't know how often I would recall this quote
"They muddy the water to make it seem deep. "- Friedrich Nietzsche

"Life is deep and simple and what our society gives us is shallow and complicated. "- Fred Rogers

On The Death of Robin Williams

I haven't written in a while, but I wanted to voice this thought to a more personal void than Facebook so here goes:

I get it, Robin Williams. 

I mean, I don't understand what exactly prompted you to take your life, whether it was the reaction to a moment of overwhelming sadness or the buildup of pain over many many years or something else entirely. I don't know why you took that step, but I can honestly say that I would've, too, if it weren't for one, lone truth.

"The devil's singing over me an age old song

That I am cursed and gone astray

Singing the first verse so conveniently over me

He's forgotten the refrain

Jesus Saves."

I am sorry that you didn't feel the full impact of this truth, but I am praying that you had a small knowledge. After all, a bruised reed he will not break; when we are faithless, he remains faithful. 

As I go off to college- a big college, a "hell-hole," a college I did not want to go to at all- at least I have this confidence, that God does not abandon us, even if it feels like it. Don't worry, Abi, 'cause I'm going to be okay. I know the truth and even when I choose to live in guilt and misery, there's always a voice in the back of my mind that reminds me that it can't be that bad, that there really never comes a moment when there is no hope. God does not bring to the point of birth and fail to deliver. So I'm gona be okay. I love you.

Musings By the Fire

Was P. L. Travers really such a sad person?  Did she love her father that much to change her name, or was it out of some deep regret she wished to mend?  In the movie, Saving Mr. Banks, she hated pears because her father loved them, and she failed to give him pears before he died.  Was that a fragment of fiction?  And if she really didn't hate pears, suppose she did, would she have thrown them out her window?  Is that within her character?

I enjoyed that *English country dance thoroughly, though I might have wished my feet wouldn't have hurt.  I love that sort of thing.  How nice they preserved such a tradition for us modern people.

What kind of person would I be like if I grew up in Regency times?  Would I have been a terrible flirt, since my family would surely have been different and they influence my morals so?  Would my family really be so very different?  If I grew up then, marriage was the expected.  Would my family expect me to marry well, to not be a burden on my father?  You know, I bet my father would be very like he is now.  He would still feel the burden to take good care of us.  I should think my family would want me to marry for love, but I wouldn't say they expected it.  I certainly would marry, but who?  Would he be a great gentleman, meeting moral standards to a tee?  Would he be coarse and dutiful, or would he be tender and gentle?  Perhaps he would be very very rich, or mayhaps I would end up a clergyman's wife.  I don't think I am suited to such a position.

Mother sleeps, her eyes restful and her skin peachy.  She looks like Aurora from Sleeping Beauty.

The log from the fire just fell.  I hope it does not burn a hole in the chimney.  Oh well.


^Such were the musings of my head as I watched our family's fire tonight.
*I recently attended an English country dance with some friends, where we danced in regency fashion like Jane Austen.

Dead Hearts

I've been thinking about the team that just went to Ukraine for Christmas and wishing I could have gone with them.  They went to Kharciv and saw all the kids from two summers ago: David, Oksana, Stam, cont.  My sister was with them.  This is like the eighth time she's been to Ukraine.  Every time she's come back, she always listens to this song and since she is interning away from home, she hasn't been here to play it.  But it came on when I had my ipod on shuffle and I haven't been able to get it out of my head...

"Dead Hearts"

Tell me everything that happened
Tell me everything you saw
They had lights inside their eyes
They had lights inside their eyes

Did you see the closing window?
Did you hear the slamming door?
They moved forward, my heart died
They moved forward, my heart died

Please, please tell me what they look like
Did they seem afraid of you?
They were kids that I once knew
They were kids that I once knew

[Chorus]
I could say it, but you won't believe me
You say you do, but you don't deceive me
It's hard to know they're out there
It's hard to know that you still care
I could say it but you wont believe me
You say you do but you don't deceive me
Dead hearts are everywhere
Dead hearts are everywhere

Did you touch them, did you hold them?
Did they follow you to town?
They make me feel I'm falling down
They make me feel I'm falling down

Was there one you saw too clearly?
Did they seem too real to you?
They were kids that I once knew
They were kids that I once knew

[Chorus x2]

They were kids that I once knew
They were kids that I once knew
Now they're all dead hearts to you
Now they're all dead hearts to you

They were kids that I once knew
They were kids that I once knew
Now they're all dead hearts to you

I miss Ukraine.  I miss the kids I met there.  I wish I could go back to let them know that I have not forgotten them.  Sometimes, it's heartbreaking to think of them because I don't know if anything has changed for them, if their circumstances have gotten any better.  I think I also wish I could go back to relieve myself of the guilt of knowing how often I have forgotten them, how I have taken my circumstances for granted and ignored how hard life is for them.  Or, just forgotten about them, forgotten that they are out there still.  

Isn't it great to know that God never forgets?

Day Two

The sun trickled through a hole in our alcove and disrupted my sleep.  I rolled onto my stomach and shoved my face into the soft sea grass and sighed.  I had just slipped into a new dream when Zenaide’s smooth hand touched my shoulder. 

            “Isolde,” she said, “Isolde, it’s time to get up.  Mother wants to see you.”

            I toyed with the idea of ignoring her, but then she shook me and I knew sleep wasn’t going to happen.  My tangled mat of hair flopped in my face as I thrust my body from the spongy rock and sat up. 

            “What time is it?” I mumbled as I rubbed my webbed hands on my face. 

            “It’s 7:30.  Mother let you sleep in.”

            I pushed the hair out of my eyes and looked at Zenaide with contempt. 

            “7:30 is not sleeping in.”

            She raised her perfects eyebrows and shrugged.  I remained in bed and adjusted my eyes to the morning light as Zenaide ordered our room.  She picked up my comb and placed it on the dressing table and pulled back the seaweed from the windows.   Her iridescent tail glimmered as she swam back to the table and sat in the chair.  I watched her ivory arms shimmer in the light as she brushed her hair out with the sea urchin.  Her hair rippled and flowed like the ink of a squid, perfect and black.

            Mother’s voice echoed through the stone walls: “Isolde!”

            I threw back the sea grass mat and flopped out of bed.  The sand rose around me in billowed clouds and I coughed.  I blinked to rid the dust from my eyes and sputtered to clear my lungs, when I felt a sponge thrust in my hand.  I wiped my eyes and stared at my feet. 

            “Thanks, Zenie.”  I said with a blush.  I looked up to see Zenaide smile.  She glanced towards the entryway.  “Better hurry up.  Mother isn’t herself today.”

            I wrinkled my nose, but didn’t reply.  The golden sand of our bedroom settled as I ripped through my hair with the urchin comb and stuffed it in a spotted cowrie.  Zenaide had finished dressing and sat on her bed to weave.  Her hair cascaded down her back and shoulders and a blue sea star held in place a ribbon of red kelp.  I searched the walls to pluck a sea star so I, too, could have something fashionable.  I could only find a red one, but I set it on my hip anyhow.  I skipped the sash because I heard Mother call again.

            Mother sat in the sandy clearing, her eyes fixed on the tapestry she wove.  Without a glance my way, she picked up a new thread of sea weed and said, “Isolde, you slept in today.”

            “I know.”  It must have come across cocky, but I didn’t mean it to.  Mother looked up at me.

            “What was that?”

            “Nothing, Mother.  I’m sorry I slept in.”

            Mother looked back at her tapestry and nodded.  “It’s okay, love.  Your breakfast is on the table and your tapestry is waiting for you there.”

            I spurted to the kitchen to eat my breakfast.  The crab was slick and stringy and I relished the taste.  It was almost as good as when I had it at the Grotenburg’s.  I reached for more on the table, but Mother walked in.

            “Is that how a lady eats?”

            “No?”  I guessed.

            “No, it isn’t. You’ve had your fill, now it’s time to get to work on your tapestry.”

            I slumped in the chair and quickly sat back up again when I caught Mother’s gaze.  My hands fumbled with the threads of sea weed as I labored to produce some kind of image. 

“Is it a shark?”  Mother suggested.

“I don’t think so.”  I held back themat and squinted my eyes.  Somehow, the colors just didn’t work out.  When I started the tapestry a year ago, I had grand ideas of making a coral reef, but I learned that my fingers were far too clumsy.  I gave up on the reef idea and hoped that I could discover some other picture in the threads, but the tapestry failed to produce an image.  After an hour or so, Mother had compassion on me and let me leave that horrid work to play outside.

I scampered out of the house.  The fishherder boy was out with the Yellowtail and I hoped he hadn’t seen me with my hair up.  I coasted over the flat sands that led to the great coral heaps until at last I arrived at the main section of the reef.  The market was alive with merpeople selling crustaceans and gastropods.  I passed by one vendor who thrust out an arm covered with shiny metals. 

“Upperworld beauties for sale!  Get them from Ol’ Hurlei!” The man croaked.  My eyes locked on the jewelry and I stopped to stare.  Just then Seine tackled me from behind. 

“Hey you.” She cackled.  Her green eyes glittered.  “I have a surprise for you today.”

“What kind of surprise?”

“A secret.”  Seine oozed mischief.

Phantom Ladies

Wisps of fog blew over the wooden deck.  The railing grew damp under the captain’s hand as he strolled along the side of his ship.  The wind whistled in his ears.

            “Head East, Mr. Foster.” He called to the coxswain.

“Aye, Sir.”

The great helm creaked.  A bell rung out, clear and ominous, above the deck.  The captain narrowed his eyes and stared at the horizon.

“My glass, Mr. Barrow, if you please.”

The First Lieutenant placed the glass in the captain’s weathered hands.  He lifted the instrument to his right eye, closed his left, and searched the horizon.

A sweet voice floated above the waters to the ears of the sailors.  The song was light and airy and the men’s eyes grew wide with the sound.

“South-South West, Mr. Tremain.”  The captain barked.  He raised the glass again.  Through the gusts of fog, the figure of a woman appeared.  She sat on the rocks and stroked her auburn hair with her long fingers.  Her eyes turned toward the ship.

She beckoned them closer with a wave of her hand and the song swelled in crescendo.  The sailors flocked to the starboard side of the ship, their eyes wide and their mouths open.  Never before had his men beheld such an enchanting creature.

As the ship drew nearer, the woman’s features grew distinct.  Her perfect lips were blue and her arms were adorned with blue tattoos.  Gold bangles draped on her wrists and neck.  A gold brooch nestled in her hair.  She suddenly ceased her song.  The sailors leaned in.  Some blew kisses in the air while others smiled and waved.  The creature smiled back at them.  Her eyes were warm and inviting.  She leaned her head back, and shrieked at the noonday sun.

Eel-like tendrils burst out of the water and seized the ship.  The main mast snapped and toppled to the deck.  Wet ropes writhed in the air and landed in twisted coils on top of crippled men.  Sea water burst through giant punctures in the side of the ship and flooded the lower deck.  The captain reeled and stumbled.  He gripped the railing on the starboard side as the ship was lifted out of the water.  Sailors tumbled out and plunged into the dark water below.  The ship shook and the captain was flung towards the sea.  The shock of the water stung his body and he sunk, frozen, but his eyes flew open and he kicked towards the surface.  All at once, three creatures appeared and circled around him.  They were not women at all, but had tails like eels and pointed teeth.  They wrapped their fingers around his arms and swam down.  The captain’s heart beat fast.  The light grew dark.