Paul Simon, Art Garfunkel, and Kevin Arnold

[If you're short on time, skip the following paragraph and insert "long, busy day with greasy hair."]

you, too?

There is comfort in seeing yourself in someone else.

Maybe it comes from knowing you’re not the first one who’s made that mistake. Maybe it lets you know your taste isn’t as strange as you thought. Maybe it’s just part of being human, one of 7 billion in the world -- no two exactly alike, but not altogether different, either.

on the sublime (another post about mountains)

I was new in town, trying not to use my GPS, and not sure where I would end up. Just wandering.

I took in fields, barns, and windy roads while I sang along with Bethany Dillon, “our God is faithful!” Then out of what seemed like nowhere I saw a shiny lake sitting at the feet of mountains. I rolled down the windows and stuck my hand into the warm August air. I wanted to touch them. I pulled over at the lakeside recreational area and stood beside my car for what seemed like an hour, although it was probably five minutes, munching on some fruit snacks and smiling. I slipped my shoes off and felt the grass between my toes -- the warm, tickly, mountain grass. The families enjoying picnics must have thought I was a loon. I didn’t care. I wanted to wrap my arms around the mountains and hold them forever.

This is why I live in TN.

This picture does no justice to the view from the top of The Chimneys.

Sunset over the Great Smoky Mountains

in my perfect world

I could say “Table for 1, please,” and not get that “I’m sorry” look from the hostess

Apartment A would’ve been rented by a tall, single, Jesus-lovin white boy who likes Europe and orphans

I would have chance meetings with people I know when I’m not wearing gym clothes

People would laugh at my jokes and not laugh when I’m not joking

The guy wearing the awesome hat who just walked by would’ve looked down and noticed how charming I look sitting in the grass with my laptop, nalgene, and schoolbag

My fingernails would clip themselves

Old people would never make embarrassing comments in front of your friends

All the dishes would fit in the dish drainer

Roly Poly bugs would die if they came within a mile of my door

Black men wouldn’t stare at my backside

Water would be free

All my friends would live in the same state

I would get paid or at least appreciated for the things I really love, things I already do: writing, playing with kids, hanging out with internationals, singing Taylor Swift in public...

Ok, so the last one is partially already true. The rest I guess I can live without.

difernt

I'm beginning to understand something about myself: I don't like Americans.

I do love them with the love of Christ. I want each one of them to know Him, to experience His abundant life. But I'd much rather be friends with a foreigner, or for that matter, even be a foreigner.

chopsticks > sporks

But then again, I never have been like everyone else. No matter how hard I try, I cannot be normal. I just can't. I can't make friends in my peer group; I'd rather hang out with older women, borrowed parents, and people somewhat younger than myself. I can't be a herd animal. I can't buy things I know I could make for a fraction of the cost. I can't laugh at SNL because it isn't funny. I can't wear trendy clothes because they're... trendy.

I hate conformity (not to be confused with submission, I'm ok with that). I can't subject my likes/dislikes, my daily habits, my sense of humor, my footwear to the pressure of homogeneity. I'd rather be markedly different than not quite same enough to match. I mean, you don't wear violet pants and a lavender shirt just because they're both "purple." You wear that lavender shirt with pants of some different but complementary color! This is common sense, folks.

So perhaps this is why I find myself befriending the underdogs, the outcasts, the immigrants and exchange students. I find common ground with those who know nothing of norms, either in themselves or their friends. It's comforting to know that we're not expecting anything but open minds, generosity to share ourselves, and peculiarities unveiled. When we're all foreigners, our differences are what we have in common.

I've spent my whole life trying to befriend you, American youth, and how often you've turned your nose up at me. Sometimes the feeling is mutual.

seasonal poetry

I found these on a wall exhibit inside the Burlington International Airport, which features poetry and journal entries by Cora Vail Brooks, a Vermont native (so is Coffee Heath Bar Crunch, an almost equally poetic experience by Ben & Jerry). I always enjoy seasonal poetry, especially about Autumn, and I think these have beautiful imagery and perspective.


September
we returned to school
or we remember
we carried summer
on our backs

October
Autumn, you turned
each leaf
into a letter inviting the wind
to its own celebration

November
trees, having heaved
their branches free of leaves
stiffened their dark bones
to hold up the sky

December
Snow
where you would
swing
your arms into wings

-Cora Vail Brooks

on a slightly prettier note

I hate when my most recent blog entry happens to seem a little blue... so I decided I needed to fix that.

Who of you out there in blog-land has ever played the game of Pit? My life was definitely changed last night in this loud, pushy, selfish commodity-trading game. I love games that force me to be the opposite of who I really am! I am neither loud nor pushy, although sometimes a bit selfish -- quietly selfish, but selfish nonetheless.

Equally useful in reminding us of our real selves are the old friends who made us so. Nothing is more soothing to a wandering soul than a visit with someone broken-in and cozy, and better yet, two someones! In a town that as of right now is filled with many many familiar strangers, I was delighted to have house guests from Georgia this weekend. Bless them for wandering downtown Knoxville, hiking to Grotto Falls, and lounging on the sofa with me. I'm so glad we're all so different, because being together reminds me that we're really all so different -- you remind me of who I am. For that I must give you credit.

Time to go to class now and learn how to make a pronunciation syllabus. I can't wait to be a good teacher.

well done?

"Jesus" put his hands on my shoulders and said, "Well done." I know it was just pretend, I know he's some church member I haven't met yet and so didn't recognize. But just hearing it, just hearing the words spoken, not in my head while I read them silently from a crisp black and white page... I want to know how He will really sound. I want to hear His voice.

It will be worth keeping my job that I hate, simply out of gratitude and in defiance of discouragement. It will be worth moving to a town full of strangers for two more years of school (gross, I hate that word). It will be worth all the wrong guys I turned down when there didn't seem to be a right one around. It will be worth being the only one in the room who didn't laugh. It will be worth keeping my mouth shut and my heart open. It will be worth the gas money, the B- in a class, the goodbyes, the embarrassment of naked truth.

This set-apart life is not about doing huge things or making drastic changes, although those things happen. The difference is in the ordinary, day-to-day choices, the ones that are not a matter of right and wrong, but of beneficial and merely acceptable. In those tug-of-war moments, when Light and dark are engaged in fierce battle, every step matters. So I keep moving forward, hue by hue, confident that one day I will hear that it was worth being faithful in the shades of gray.

walking

      I choose to go on foot, "pe jos" as they would say in Romania. I make my way down the street, farther and farther from home, and approach an intersection. Stepping into the crosswalk I consider that someone expected me -- not me personally, with my name and the thoughts and intricacies and vocal inflections by which I am recognized, but me the pedestrian. I am not cut off like those in heavy metal cases that move along in solitude, nor am I protected by their doors and windows, but by a sign commanding them to allow me passage. And so I parade across the street, feeling not a little privileged, but still jogging a bit as if to say "Pardon me, I'll just be getting out of your way." I step up onto the sidewalk, back onto my pedestal. I proceed to observe the world at eye level.

panic NOW

Graduation was hard enough...

to be loved.

      My head rests sideways on the tray table, with a backpack full of snacks and souvenirs as a pillow. The already busy day is nowhere near its end, and I want to use every opportunity to make up for what I know will be a long night of interstate driving. Alas, I can never sleep on an airplane.

Sunday Afternoon

      There is nothing like a Sunday afternoon nap on the couch after a big, greasy lunch from your local truckstop diner. These are the things I miss about home -- the excitement of seeing "country fried steak" on the daily special menu, the sunset the way it looks from our living room, the puppy licking my hand to let me know I'm the only one in the house still asleep... even the smell of horses and chickens (and donkey) and the nasty scratches on my legs because my dog is happy to see me. There is nothing like a few weeks at home after a long, stressful year filled with too much work and many good times, and not enough chances to breathe it all in before it suddenly and finally came to an end.

Rima IV

Say not that, its treasure exhausted,
The lyre is mute, lacking a melody:
There may be no poets, but forever
Poesy will be.

Rima IV

No digais que agotado su tesoro,
De asuntos falta, enmudecio la lira;
Podra no haber poetas; pero siempre
Habra poesia.

Deja Vu and Second Chances

May 16, 2009
What if progress could be retroactive? So that growth, new success, learning, and moving ahead would go back and cover the past? It would make up for lost opportunities and failed attempts. Isn't that kind of what we get with mercy, grace, and redemption? He doesn't count our sins (and most of all, our selves) against us. No, but He gives us all that is necessary to come out of hopelessness and have life. The past only matters as it relates to our glorifying Him for bringing us out of it, and then applying that change to the present and future.

coming out

Ok, so secretly I write songs. all the time. And it's not really a secret, except that I don't like to share my work. Most of the time I write fragments that never get finished (not the Coleridge kind -- real fragments). But I've decided to start sharing a bit, because sometimes... well, sometimes I just like poetry better than prose.