Kony 2012 (It’s ok, wear the bracelet)

Alright, so here’s the story: This afternoon, I received this post on my Facebook wall:

“Hi Erin,
As an american, and as the person I remember you are, take a look at this video. If you’ll disagree I’d like to listen and learn. If not, good thing we’ve spread it.”

Especially intrigued by the invitation and having no clue what #stopkony was, I watched the viral video “KONY 2012”. The video aims to make Joseph Kony, head of the LRA, a household name; to “make him famous” and protect the existing efforts in Uganda which will hopefully bring him to justice in front of the ICC this year.

It was not long into the video that I got it: I understood the message. As I listened to the descriptions of Kony’s crimes against humanity and learned about the efforts of Invisible Children, I waited for the call to action. What did this video need me to do?

Brilliantly produced and marketed to the new media mouth – and to the colorful all-consuming generation that loves purpose – this video was compelling in every aspect.

I found myself curious why Shiri, the friend who shared the link, thought I might disagree. In researching online and following several twitter feeds, I quickly found the comments and critiques about the #stopkony campaign.

As I read the claims against Invisible Children, I was disturbed that the compassion I felt for 27 minutes of viewing started to become a skeptic too. Fortunately, the Invisible Children’s site hosts a list of responses to their critiques and, after reading all the remarks, I thankfully landed back on the bandwagon, on the inspired square one. Their mission is clear, their means identifiable.

I am an active proponent for dialogue and debate – but there is no siding here, there is only one direction. I understand the desire to know how a non profit is spending, but I just could not understand what online voices like Jezebel.com were trying to accomplish with their “think twice” posts or the intention behind people mocking viewers who bought in to the movement.

We are talking about human rights: child abduction – sex slavery – facial mutilation. Why scrutinize the efforts of Invisible Children? Is this a toxic result of the new media instant publisher? A handle who just can’t be mainstream, whose opinion has to be unique? – I find it to be an on the pulse, sick gratification of the sharp web based opinion; posting instantly to their followers to conjure up a conversation. To be different.

I urge people to simply respect this video’s – this effort’s – intelligibility. I understand resisting mass marketing; I too may question the marketing masterminds clever enough to capture your soul for 27 minutes, but, really? Let’s have a problem with Mars spending millions of dollars making videos about chocolate. The folks behind Invisible Children spent time and money in Uganda (which, not sure about you, is not on my vacation list) to make a video educating us on something we previously knew very little about. Have a little faith that these people aren’t perverse.

In trying to pinpoint exactly how I felt, I found a quote from French novelist George Sand. He wrote,

 “Faith is an excitement and an enthusiasm: it is a condition of intellectual magnificence to which we must cling as to a treasure, and not squander on our way through life in the small coin of empty words, or in exact and priggish argument.”

To criticize Invisible Children for spending money on video production is like criticizing a restaurant for spending money on plates. Their goal is to get the message out. It seems as though when someone delivers on a good intention – when they see success – this success is challenged. But there is a reason success happens on top of good, clear motives with strategically appealing means. This is an example of when being mainstream is ok. This is an example of when faith feels better (wear the bracelet) if only you would just let go the need to joke and doubt.

The odds of Invisible Children doing worse with your $5 than you will do with it are low – I know none of my lattes combine espresso & steamed milk with a world mission to end a pointless evil.  It’s okay to have opinions, but it is also okay to have faith. And though it is true I should just rest easy knowing throwing comments and stirring the conversation may increase the awareness, I also think there is a transparency present which proves it is obvious people are resisting simply to resist – to enjoy the fury of doubt – and this, I simply find, to be unnecessary.

Traction. Starting Point. Break Through. Pancake.

I asked for 5 minutes to log a dream before setting out to make chocolate chip pancakes.  Is my expectation for the time to add a note in my phone – chronicling an interesting track of turns – pathetic? Do I just need to get up and do what life is requesting? My love feels the same, the importance of the people is the same, it is just that I have finally placed love and importance to understanding a little bit more about what it takes to really be me.

It seems to me there are many clichés about being yourself – empowering statements to discover the things that guy discovered -  be all you can be… just like her. Then you have the roles in our society that you fall into or are raised to become. You know you always wanted to be a mother because you loved your mother, but why – what is the gift you intend on giving your children? Who are you outside of your mother’s model? As I find myself resisting all of the commonalities of life, as I find myself unable to absorb what is going on around me because so frankly: I am bored – I push to change from this illusive abomindable heroine I have become and become my own story’s antagonist; observationalist and motivator. Goal-seeker.

Always able to fit into whatever scene or setting – I can fit whatever role. I can charm in any dress. Walk in most – maybe any – pair of shoes. So who am I? Creatively speaking – professionally speaking. I need to break myself down philosophically to understand what exactly powers my brain and musically engineers my thoughts. Moreover, I want to take the goals I have now – the visions I have for my life – as transitional windows and entry ways into my full self who, once identified and embodied, will develop goals of her own.

While still being able to perfectly execute my mother’s pancake recipe.

Fortune Teller: You will read this and great things will come to you

Ellen has a new hobby… the ”fortune teller” made from a piece of square paper folded three times allowing choices like “green -  3 -  8 - 5″ to tell you your destiny.  I admit sadness when that sequence got me ”You will turn into Spongebob” and not ”You will fall in love with Justin Bieber” or “You will get a free box of popcorn”, but then I got to thinking: why did Ellen choose those predictions when making her fortune teller? Does she really think you can turn into Spongebob? (enter worry) Does she know that a car is more valuable than popcorn?

Rather than psychoanalyze my daughter, I opted to make a fortune teller for a co-worker. Feeling creative enough to fold paper and color but too bland to be confident in clever, I went and got this round orange piece of pottery from my living room which contains fortunes left from Chinese take out. I started throwing these little strips of telling into the jar about 6 years ago, feeling the fortunes compelling enough to keep while also feeling weird putting those that were uncanningly close to applicable in my Bible or on my fridge.

I was looking specifically for fortunes for a developer, the offer being – “when you think this is completely ridiculous, give the fortune teller a run and be told something patronizing and mildly amusing like “just keep looking and the answer will be somewhere”. So I sifted through 6 years of 2 1/4 inch long pieces of paper. (Thank you to those who appreciate my accuracy.) Initially, I was a little grossed out by the smell of this pile of paper – like cashew chicken mixed with crab rangoon – and how surpringly alike it smelled to the fresh stuff. When I got over that (and the sickness of the crusty ones – seriously, what was I thinking) I found myself entirely amused at how I really have taken these to mean something.

Of all the Chinese meals I have enjoyed, I have left full (for a little bit at least) and thinking about my wildly successful entertainment career, how I will definitely focus on the color yellow, and how my executive ability will bring me a life full of happiness. Such wonderful fortunes for us to choose whether or not they mean something. Whether or not it is a sign. Whether or not somehow the universe brought us meaning on a small little stinky piece of paper. Like Ellen’s choices, they technically boil down to hold nothing but entertainment value. But, alas, I will dig on lo mein and take my fortunes to heart - at least momentarily to enjoy the rush of receiving a clue or being told a fantastic dream come true. If for nothing else, because it just feels good to imagine life in love with Bieber, sharing a free box of popcorn in a pineapple under the sea.

San Antonio Missions

San Antonio brings back left-sided memories. Memories that equate smell to very specific feelings of empathy and forgiveness. The colors and dimensions of this city give sight directly to my soul and back in a  placid way that leaves me feeling normal, not enlightened. It’s an awareness brought by way of the smell of  ”hotel”…bar-b-que…and……perhaps the Alamo. (Can’t forget that.)

Never was able to engage directly but, in my defense, he was in an indepth conversation with himself.

See this guy above?  He was talking to himself. Just sitting by the river, crazy and yellow. I stood behind him for awhile – eager to continue on my mission for nostalgia & authentic cuisine. However I was taunted by the precense of such an obvious intervention… See, I fell the night prior. Trying not to wear out or rip stitches, I was swaying and limping up and down the Riverwalk when I saw this guy… Sitting in a wheelchair… Missing an entire leg. Needless to say I was humbled. Even while I wondered if he, too, tried to carry somebody across a gravel parking lot in heels.

I got the message from his shirt as the timing never did allow for me to interrupt either him or himself. I stood close to him and jotted down a handful of the 100 or so adjectives written all across the back that jumped out – words telling me what “to be”.  I have yet to piece together the meanings of these various words into a direction. But can tell you that I already have a footing into a whole new look at being human. 

Mosaic Tile found in Terminal D @ Dallas Fort Worth AP

A week before our trip to Texas, I was in Colorado for a conference on customer relationship technology where I engaged in numerous conversations a twitter ’bout social. This all being fresh in my head,  I “checked in” to the Dallas Fort Worth Airport while lounging near a WiFi hotspot. Foursquare recommended I “check out” Terminal D and thinking I had never been there before (I had), confirming we could make it there and back in 30 minutes (DFW has a lovely conceirge), and reading the reviews of the mosaic by local artists; I convinced my husband to join me on a prowl for Terminal D.

After sorting out we had been there before (what a wierd feeling) and finally remembering what layover that was (STL – Seattle) we began our trek back to our departing gate when this sunny dove caught my eye – it truly struck me. As unsettling as it can be to take risks, even those like a quick run to the other side of the airport 45 minutes before departure, I was reminded there is peace everywhere. And right there on the floor was an offering in form of thousands of little glowing gorgeous tiles.

I didn't even know how to hold that tamale. (Because it was so HOT) only kidding, I just didn't know how.

Speaking of risks, I ate a tamale. The only knowing I had of a tamale before this moment was as in “as hot as” and those little red candies that look like hell to eat.  I was enjoying a Stella while seated at a picnic table in a dusty lot outside a tin box tavern with a roller derby bartender who only takes cash and doesn’t have buckets. All the sudden a whole bunch of fuss came up when a woman approached our party with a basket of both corn and pork tamales. Any New Yorker or Saint Louisan was – I’m going to say forced – to try. Unfortunately, the mash didn’t mesh well with my taste preferences but had there been honey mustard; that little tamale would not have stood a chance. (Probably would not have….)

Our feet enjoying a Riverwalk Cruise

Our first night in San Antonio set the tone for the weekend – we checked in (actually, not virtually) at the lovely and accomodating Westin Riverwalk where an upgrade to a Junior Suite gave us the perfect space and view. Our hosts gathered all the first arrivals for drinks and appetizers before a commencing Riverwalk Cruise. Plenty of flashes were grabbing the whose who so I opted to catch our feet on vacation because they seemed to be having quite a good time.

The main event of the trip took place as Mission Espada - having been adopted into the wedding party, I was lucky enough to ride with the bride & company to the site. I wish I came away from the time spent at Mission Espada with more knowledge or feeling of the actual history behind its existence. Yet, more prominent than any fact, is a ghost story told by a family member while we were in the shuttle. Apparently, legend has it, that if you stop your vehicle on the traintracks on the way to the Mission and cover your bumper with baby powder (no baby powder necessary if your vehicle is dusty) – children that died when in a bus that stalled on the tracks will push you over and on your way….leaving little hand prints in the covering on the back side of the car. Needless to say, I was freaked out for about half of the wedding.

Spread out at Cafe Ole on the Riverwalk. 10/22/10 2:51PM

To close, I reflect back on the mission I originally started describing:  for authetic cuisine on the Riverwalk in just the right setting. Where I did not know exactly where I was going to find said experience, but knew I wanted it – to sit, to spread out – to watch pigeons drink coffee. I noted advice to myself in my journal when I finally sat, drinking coffee and eating Con Queso – I wrote…

In reading that now, I am not sure what the forgive part was for. Maybe forgiving myself for being wreckless and falling? Not sure. Perhaps I was talking about forgiving that shitty lovey little bee whom I lovingly shoo’d away multiple (multiple) times while I ate. San Antonio, in all the time I spent there – in all the memories not here described – gave me inspiration in that advice. I knew what that trip was about, I knew how I could best contribute – I knew what my husband needed – and I trusted that everything would be perfect. It’s why I rocked Gaga in heels w/ stitches. It’s why I listened and was patient with timing. A feeling of even-heartedness, this generosity – love - manifestation of joy in living - I claim was in me – in my little experiences - but when I consider all the people who were there that weekend; that feeling was the only thing that existed.

Women Cooking. Men Building.

A man's carrots + celery + onion

A man's carrots + celery + onion

Read a blog today that saw women as the heart and soul, the center & the responsible of a successful Food Revolution as bs. It depicted women in aprons, sexy and stirring in the kitchen. The blog was smart, well-written (view it here) – and pointed on the fact that if women are depended on to bring fresh fruits and vegetables to the table in a firm, tasty way,  men should be too.

I am going to disagree. Two main points: the me and the he.

The me: When I began focusing on basics of cooking – the essential pantry items, the versatile vegetables – I grew more protective of the kitchen. I ordered things. I explored spices and stacked them – messily, but I’ll get more organized in that area w/ a remodel. I stocked the kitchen to the point where I can say to my husband (in the case that I – a 2k10 working woman  – is at work late),

“Honey, there are meatballs in the freezer that I made last week. Serve that with some of the broccoli.”

 This is easy on him (he does all the laundry, drops off and picks up both girls, and is incredibly good-looking), still supports the concept, and keeps me in control of my domain. I am not a control freak – but health is important…as is evolution of the heart of your home and the knowledge that powers it.

The he: I don’t want my man to tie on an apron and whip something up. Can he? Yes. Is it adorable and relaxing when he does? Of course. But as women grew away from their domestic roles, became CEOs and started living off Jimmy Dean’s for breakfast, pizza for dinner, men also grew  from their domestic roles. Gentlemen, know how to build stuff. Be able to fix things without tape. 

Make me a shelf.

 There are few things sexier in my domestic world than when something urgent and terrible happens within the home and my husband has it fixed a half hour later.

My brother was talking today about our Grandpas who both were builders, carpenters. They built houses, furniture, knick-knacks carved by very sharp tools. How many guys do you know hone this talent? More focus is on building the bank account to afford that kind of girly resort vaca, gym membership, and Escalade then knowing how to start a fire…intelligently use a drill. Today’s men think about their fantasy team, happy hour plans, and jeans more than they think about how they can cultivate some sort of rustic sweat.

I want to see sawdust on my driveway, a sunburned back and maybe just a little blood. I want your body to be so sore from manual labor on a project so amazing that I have no choice but to be the most accomodating, lovely wife possible. I will make you a souffle (actually…can’t do that, but some garlic chicken sound good?)

So, my fellow blog writer, I say let the Food Revolution be for women and while we get our fine behinds back in the kitchen and work on throwing down mad grub, let’s see a Dude Revolution fire up and get our men back to good ol American labor that contributes to the home in some ways not processed by mint.com.

Goodnight Facebook

On the Internet
There was a link
To a groupon
And a picture of -

A young family on vacation

And there were 3 little likes
On a status of Mike’s

And 2 little pics
Of a kid turning 6

And a mafia game
And a tag of a name.

And a share and a post of a pic of a coast.
And a Facebook stalker who is on it the most.

Goodnight Internet.
Goodnight Facebook.
Goodnight friend posting on Facebook.

Goodnight check in
And the good deal groupon

Goodnight groups
Goodnight scoops

Goodnight notes
And goodnight votes

Goodnight places
And Goodnight faces

Goodnight friending
And Goodnight pending

Goodnight post
And Goodnight coast

Goodnight nobody
Goodnight boast

And Goodnight Facebook stalker who is on it the most

Goodnight blogs
Goodnight air
Goodnight people everywhere

A Cupcake Offering

So this random event occured where a woman sat down at a table in the middle of nowhere: green tablecloth, fresh flowers on the table, lovely tea. She was served a cupcake. A delicious looking, whipped up - indulgent and forbidden looking cupcake. She loved it. She looked at it so carefully and noticed that even the nooks of the cupcake were thoughtful. She wasn’t sure to eat it. Matter of fact, it looked as though so much time went into this cupcake she wasn’t sure if consuming it was really its purpose. Perhaps its purpose was solely to exist, for her to know that such a cupcake existed.

She continued to look at the cupcake and finally the server said, “This cupcake is yours.”

Without eating it, she acknowledged that it was in fact for her. Unnecessarily fascinated by this, she considered it unique, wrapped it up in a brown napkin and tucked it in her bag. On the way home, she crossed over several bridges. The buildings turned from multicolored towers to brick and stone. It began to rain with the sun still brightly shining – she was soaked and wincing. She began to walk faster, happy to be almost home – she was happy. Quickly, she passed by a storefront where there was a tower of cupcakes on display. They looked like hers.

She wondered if she should allow herself to feel foolish for the fascination or hold tightly to the experienced moment of offering. She is in her home now and the choice is hers.

Reflection on Romans 5

Trusting God is like getting into fresh sheets after an afternoon candlelit shower and falling asleep in a perfectly worn cotton t-shirt. Peace. When awake and standing, there is a certainty in the trust held closely to our chest due to the complete care of the universe repeating that, no matter what, being human isn’t easy and, no matter what, there is complete and total acceptance. Love.

Who we are is no more a choice than our dreams.

There is nothing but free will to stand in the way of relying on God’s total acceptance. This complete love promotes happiness. Yet even in times of grief, in times of wallowing, there is still something to drive us. When we must mark who we are and move on, we join the race. Real work. Through work and the manner in which obstacles are processed and humility is worn, we become ourselves more than we were yesterday.

Through this change, an endless birth, and through this growth, awareness peaks and again we find ourselves in the omnipresent arms of the divine, reminding us to always rely on its love. In this place: where we go when happy and where we go when struggling, we will not find disappointment because this place is the seed of love. And the power of God puts the spirit of love – infuses the soul – with a completely warm fluid motion of love.

This is amazing. If you believe this, you will always be free – from men and from yourself.

Why what is “subtle” matters.

The original title for this blog post was going to be “Why what is most sublte matters” – but the “most subtle” is technically undetectable by human intervention so I’m going to have to settle for addressing what is active in our daily lives. Which leaves me with: “subtle”.

Let’s start with the implications of the definition of “subtle”: delicacy requiring mental acuteness.

When talking with somebody, notice everything. Notice every word choice, the timing, the spacing. Notice the movement, the support and expression, the retracts and distracts – the humor and heart of it all - and, my friend, you will inevitably know the person. And now, as I am writing, I come to ask why “notice” isn’t spelled “knotice”?

(The answer to that question is probably because it looks ridiculous.)

When committed to an extraodinary life, one quickly learns how prayer and praise for everything come to be all that matters. Believing in omni present wisdom means that even when routinely moving through the most mundane of the mundance cycles, you can and do gain wisdom (possibly along with one of the universe’s other most precious gifts: understanding and / or knowledge.) It seems you do not learn to know these things by breezing through boss and typing through task, you know these things by agressively seeking out the truth - what is easily good and whole / pure/ just – in every waking moment. Leave your worry to your dreams, where the right mind can work it out.

And all of this has me thinking: what is subtle matters.

Lyric Interpretation: Rolling in The Deep

It is a day where I feel the remanants of crossing the line, of reaching a max, and – fortunately – I am not a wicked mess about it.

The timing is still there – there is still something positive about it all – but it is still just another serious part of my life. I can’t tell what is healthy and what isn’t. All I know is that I am being influenced by a lot of different sources and the one I want to influence me – well – isn’t. And the odd part is that – no matter what – at the end of the day, I can continue to try and change or I can just naturally evolve. And I am opting to evolve, naturally, and let it all come up to chance.

The truth of the moment is that I am loving every part of my life as I uncover and discover the gifts of God – through trial and triumph – through beauty and grace.

It’s one of those things where when you think about the things you must do: sleep, drink water, provide your body nourishment, it all gets really simple. // in life there’s gonna be times when you are feeling low // — // one thing we should know: don’t be scared to fly alone. find a path that is your own // The life stuff is what is complicated, what preoccupies, occupies, and predicts – so silly. So ridiculous. And then you just take a deep breath and realize – all the answers are just there. Easy - just live and do things right, as right as possible.

Now I get what my mom meant when she said not to let things get to me, why even give yourself that to worry about – I would defend myself “because!” – without ever ever finishing my lament. Looking back, much of my troubles weren’t truly matters of the heart – but matters of the mind that I let put my heart through a playdoh machine then fold it up in an envelope for the sky to have.

Anyway – for whatever reason this morning I had this thought trail: to have crime, you have to have a culprit. But there is also a victim. And in matters of absolute crime, the death of innocence – the taking of what’s not yours, sometimes you can’t avoid it – there is pursuit from another. But I also started thinking that if you are in proximity of all that is standard of human deviance, then you need to be aware that you are in the precense of the possibility of crime. This awareness should activate if not become a part of an active dialogue with whatever you believe protects you. Not to the point of paranoia or fear – for what matter is it to pray or hope if you should continue to live with either of those? But to the point of faith and consistency – connectivity and the exploration of human impact. Or perhaps, you have no choice – you are in an order of chaos and you are subject to crime. Regardless, if you pray you may know others who pray – and when you know others, you may gather – and where you gather in the name of God: God is.

The loop really brings to what I feel like is a truth: as a person, we have both a responsibility to interact and the ability to act with purpose. In reflecting on my day my week my year, I am left feeling like it is possible to have it all when all you want is God. And this has nothing to do with people, places or things – but (instead) with the adjectives that describe those nouns in your life. I guess it is something like Rolling in the Deep.

A Quick Trip to the Attic Room.

Last week, in prep to paint my writing room, I removed nearly everything and put the books – the writings – and the sequins in boxes and moved them up to the attic room. Now, this morning has been perfect thus far.  I am enjoying a spotless house with my daughters… Will is golfing. And in thinking of all the things I could spend my time doing (prep my closet for change of seasons, make banana bread, bust out some choc chip cookies to surprise Will or otherwise phsyically move around) I came to think of a writing project that has been ongoing this year but not my primary focus – I haven’t been focused on the goals I set for this deal.

I decided to go up to the attic room and see about what was moved up there that might inspire me. There on top of a pile of books I had removed when rummaging through boxes 3 days after moving all this stuff (…should have known better than to move my soul into boxes…) was “A Light in the Attic” by Sheil Silverstein. The project that motivated me to go looking for inspiration is a similar book – snippets and long strands of words that rhyme and otherwise make you smile. And – as if giving me instructions through it’s title, there underneath “A Light in the Attic” was “Something Big Has Been Here” by Jack Prelutsky. “Something Big Has Been Here” was the actual book that, as a kid, I read thoroughly. That and “Where The Sidewalk Ends”.

I grab “Something Big Has Been Here” and open up to reveal a note written by my dad – to me – in 1990. About me being “big” – very cool. Exactly what I needed – an inspirational light in my attic.

As a sidenote that probably only family will "get" - this is one of the few, if only, books given to me by dad that writes to me as "Erin" and not "Buff" or "Buffy"

Nice and Calm Now, Easy Does It

By the time it was Friday afternoon and I left work to go home and finish up packing, my mind was tied up with so much gargle, dyed yarn and lace that I couldn’t even fathom what it was going to feel like to decompress. I had no idea what vacation was going to do to me, just that I was going to be on it. I packed that night – ran to Target that night – made a list that night – put a cooler together that night – moved and thought and talked and moved until I found myself just kind of slowly sitting down…at the foot of my bed… and staring at the t.v.

Why hadn’t anybody told me the “World According to Paris” was fantastic?

And so I sat. My mind had grown so fatigued of – well – itself that it literally fixated on New York City, blonde hair, and neat things to pin on jackets. All the debates and the options – all the seen and the unseen – just stopped buzzing. Eager to really indulge in vast aesthetics, I took a shower – covered myself in lavender and vitamin E – and resumed my Hilton trance. Until Will wanted to go to bed… I convinced him to let me keep it on until the end of the hour and then, assuming it would be a marathon night (could I be so lucky to continue not thinking?), I would go out to the Family Room and turn it back on. I did exactly that… except it wasn’t a marathon. And about 4 minutes after setting myself, my candle, and my tea up perfectly in the middle of my pitch black / packed up house, a video montage of abused animals came on – begging me for my support. I sat there - faced with skinny horses and eyeless cats – thinking: this is a sign from the universe. My quest for decompression is not going to be as easy as I thought.

We left for Michigan on a Saturday morning and were on our final stretch onto Main Street in Harbor Springs at about 6pm that night. I was praying for my life – a mantra – over and over again – trying to get my mind into some sort of element of freedom. Life had become so chaotic – complex – emotional. Why? It certainly didn’t need to be. But that is where I was and where I was trying to get out of… vacation. Please, God save me, vacation. Some lyrics from that final leg: // I want to run – my heart won’t stay inside my chest. It won’t hit hard but it won’t rest. It seems to letting slowly go but yet I need to let you know – // And as these lyrics literally poured out from my soul, I started noting everything as inspiration: signs that read “No Fear” or “Trail Ends” a turn off for “Dogland”. “Yes!” I thought – “Yes! It will be creative thought that will pull me together. Vacation will inspire me – I will write everyday – I will finish this and complete that”.

OK. So… in the first 24 hours of vacation I logged 17 hours of sleep. And I wrote a minimal amount that week – minus a complete thesis on Jesus and wineskins. Vacation was not to inspire. Vacation was to give me rest.

Back in 2009 when my mom was in the ICU, I remember my friend driving me home from the hospital and I must have done something or said something to prompt her because she said “Wow. You just breathed for the first time in 3 days.” Well, on Monday, I was finally starting to emerge out of reality fog and into the perfection that is Harbor Springs. I put on my tennis shoes and my throwback strapless knit dress – put together a playlist – and started walking up State Street which is up on a bluff, with the town and Main Street below. I started to inhale – very slowly – through my nose and let Vampire Weekend take me away. The view of the lake caught me and I really started to feel the mellow set in… I wasn’t there yet. I needed to cook. And, based on a review I read before leaving town, I needed to download the Sara Bareilles album “Kaleidoscope Heart”.

Once the album was downloaded, I fired it up and flew solo to Ponds Hill Farm; a little organic piece of heaven about a ten minute drive from Harbor Springs. I rolled down all the windows, driving up and along the lake with deliriously perfect sun rolling through and here it goes – over and over – track one (on repeat, unbeknownst to me) and I feel myself glide away. As I pull into the farm and see the rows and rows of veggies – the flowers – the sunflowers – the store, I could feel a wash of calm, as if I was breathing for the first time in what honestly seemed like months.

I bought blueberries, avacados, basil, mint, some mineral water, tomatoes and jam. I made dinner. I read. I wrote. I drank tea. I met a dog. It was not easy all the time. I realized how much my insides are like a fishbowl full of water. And how it takes time for it to settle after being whirled and spun around. I also realize that I don’t need to be completely still – sometimes I just need to find the rhythm. Needless to say, when Will dropped the bomb on me that he wanted to leave earlier than planned – I wanted to cry. I wasn’t done decompressing after all that time it took me to get there – he even promised me Vegas every 6 months, but still – it pained me.

Ultimately, I agreed to leave early – taking the opportunity to serve my husband – accepting the truth that I needed to leave with all that I had gathered and calmed because reality again was inevitable. But, I have these: my personal pics put to the song that pumped oxygen back into my blood.

The Color of God

Ellen and I sat on a faded beach blanket – me with a Bud she with a Sprite, snacking on chips and watching our family out in the water. We sat in one of the last pieces of brightness and heat, about a dozen minutes before the sun tucked far enough back to leave the beach in the beginning of summer lakeside dusk.

Ellen: “Mom. Who made God – like, how was he made if he made everything else?”

Me: “Hmm. I wonder.”

Ellen: “Like who were his mom and his dad?”

Me: “Maybe the sun was his mommy and the moon was his daddy.”

She thinks about this… really squinting full of thought.

Me: Feeding her thought with maybe the first grasp of alpha, “But wait, he made the sun and the moon…”

Ellen nods.

Me: “So since he had to make even the sun and the moon maybe God just always was – always has been here – “

Ellen nods.

Ellen: “I know. Mom. I know what God did – I bet he found blocks and made himself.”

Me: “What kind of blocks?”

Ellen: “Just normal blocks. Like normal ones.”

Me: “Yup. I can see that. What color do you think they were?”

Ellen: Ever so concretely, “The color of God.”

A little too much science for Sunday? Molecules. Women. Twisting.

What it is important and interesting to the individual woman fascinates me. A week ago from this post, I stood in a room with about 50 others where there was genuine excitement on the 2011 Nobel Peace Prize Winners (women), an intuitive intrigue on space and chemistry, and really good spanokopita.

Throughout the room, there were women students in the fields of science, technology, engineering, and math who were ready and willing to present research and findings. After about 20 minutes learning about water on a comet, I went over to the other side of the room and met Teresa Bandrowsky. Teresa’s research project involved taking a normally flat and rigid molecule and twisting it, giving it multiple dimensions. She explained molecules have to interact with other molecules but the way they interact changes with their new design. Something about a matter of stacking vs. angles. She explained further the natural aggregation process when molecules are submerged in liquid, and that – once twisted – not only do they aggregate; they also give off light.

Though my week after this event continued on to involve gender role conversations and further personal musings on what exactly a strong woman is in her various roles and definitions, I won’t be so bold to attempt a full on Sunday morning thesis on how this particular experiment w/molecular design represents some elaborate draw on the female psyche in a modern world. Honestly, I – two tea cups into this post – am still at about 97% certainty I even know what I am saying. However, in acknowledging the pure fact I am not wired to think like Teresa, I find myself motivated by care to find personal application. It was a conversation I was really zoned in on and I have such respect for the time and focus that goes into molecule twisting. Perhaps one could say I think it it is “molecool“.

As I stood listening to Teresa, I was moved – and probably was a little odd-seeming in being so. And though I feel what she did with her molecules is in fact representative of the human experience, I truly find it to especially illustrate the luminous art of gender role bending as women step outside the stack of traits handed to us at the point of that pink “It’s a Girl!” bubblegum cigar and show the stork what it looks like when we network out per our interests.

And so my over-arching sketch of a summary is this: Built to build, born to bond – we naturally tend to group. By twisting ourselves, by adding new experiences and taking risks, by exploring our design and modifying our approaches / fine-tuning our opinions, we come to the point of shining. (…Still determing the life application of submerging the self in liquid, but I am pretty sure that is - in fact – life.) And so I blog…

Tea to Deep

 

My tea is bitter, my ending sweet.

 

The things I see, I want to eat.

 

To lay my head, would be to sleep.

 

I want to dream of all that’s deep.

where the lonely stood

my hand (my left)

goes up on the brick

the air this night

with sweetness thick

apple sounds

across the universe

as the breeze meets

my tears in that

sweet little doorway

where the child

meets the night

that sweet thick

night where the

lonely stood

Dolls Can’t See Even If They Have Glasses

On the phone with Ab, making plans for our trip to Chicago.

Me: “Sweet, so we can hang in Oak Park on Saturday – get bikes, play, find a park. Friday we can go to Navy Pier, play on the beach – have an adventure.”

Ab: “Yea, we can do Michigan Avenue.”

Me: “Oh yea..and hit up the American Girl Doll Store”

Ab: “True. Yes, we can do that.”

Me: “Because Molly needs some new glasses. Poor doll can’t see a thing.”

Ab: “I’m going to tell you right now that that is not because she needs new glasses. It’s because her eyes are made of plastic.”

This is how we are getting our leprechauns, jealous?

Yesterday, I stood baffled at a piece of artwork Lucy (my 4 yr old) brought home from pre-k. My original very mean thought was “Come on, Lucy, try harder” - when I realized that she might have actually tried very hard, I struck the thought. Perhaps all free art time produces odd landfill-esque pieces.

I posted a couple statuses on Facebook regarding artwork I don’t cherish, the wave of guilt I had for taking humor in this fact, then my odd attachment I had to this piece of work after using it for humor.

Well, folks, I found out there is a lot behind this piece and I am here this morning to share with you:

It’s a leprechaun trap. (Who the eff knew.)

Okay, so I sat with Lucy and asked her to give me a little walk thru of this device. The purpose: to destroy any leprechaun, pixie, gnome, elf. Not sure if she realized fairies could also be in trouble, but if you want to endanger one small thing, you pretty much take them all down with your intent regardless of whether or not this suits your actual motivation.

First and foremost – the white triangular upright dixie cup? That’s the net. See the handle? Yea, so the trap actually starts with the cup leaning back and then crashes down upon ye small thing.

The puzzle pieces are to stub their toes. Yikes, right? But they are also bait – because (duh) leprechauns love puzzles. (I hint that perhaps we should put gold in the trap, but apparently that’s way too obvious.)

I also guess that perhaps this is how she plans on filtering out the other nice small creatures of the universe. Everybody knows that fairies don’t like jigsaw puzzles – they prefer, hmmm, Jenga? Which, side thought, what would a fairy playing Jenga look like?

Alright so after we have baited them and stubbed their toes, they will walk across the board, trip over the white cheez puff-shaped foam pieces and then – in wild bewilderment of all the pain they have suffered – steer themselves right under the net which comes crashing down, altering all senses and understanding of reality.

Nice job, Lucy. I now understand and respsect this marvel and am also a little perplexed at the intense thought, anticipation, and excitement you had in preparing this fate-bringer.

i blow kisses

i blow kisses

to the night sky

i talk sweetly

and i know why

it pulls you in, love

feeds my heart, love

builds my certainty

that you are mine

What is adaptat…

What is adaptation?

By definition, adaptation refers to the “process of interaction between changes an organism makes on its environment and changes the environment makes in the organism.”

Further the text book writes, “this kind of two-way adjustment is necessary for the survival of all living forms, including humans.”

Special emphasis here is placed on the inclusion of humans and this might seem like one of those explosively sublte notions of self improvement one explores via the laws of our instincts and rules of our senses.

If I were to think about this a little further, as I am as I write, I add to this the thought that perhaps the environment us Americans habitate in has changed us to a constant, and from an early age. With norms so red white and blue, so web-based and marketed, we easily become one another. Changing the enivronment on a large scale seems daunting not because of the intricacies involved in la American mode, but because people seem so similar, all alike are alike, and the pools we live in are ocean-like in their certainty.

What is all this about?

If you were to take the meaning of adaptation to your life and what it means to your survival, the environment you impact can simply be your home. Your bed. Your walls. Your kitchen. Changing your environment in this sense, I believe, offers the opportunity to influence and impact a person needs to take root. Confidence. It seems to me, roots allow you to experience your larger environment peacefully and with a strength of position; whether the waves are over your head or over your feet while looking for shells.

“..It’s all so avant-garde”

My first run in with the phrase “avant-garde” was in French class… 1996… when Professor Gyllenborg - in reference to whatever art she was using to teach the term – posed a flurry of the hand and said ”it’s all so avant-garde”.

Last week I was in a conversation with an executive in web solutions who, when rapidly and enthusiastically discussing how we could possibly bubble up the right amount of context to deliver an exceptional customer experience, said “so this is going to be avant-garde”.

Experimental.

I noted “avant-garde” in my notebook as a list of concepts to redefine for myself upon my return back to the office. I have learned knowing what everybody else is talking about is not anything without  continually expanding my understanding of how they are talking about it – and doing due diligence to know my own position. Therefore, I have lists of terms and phrases to relearn in whatever given context.

Over the past 5 days since that conversation, I have found myself oddly (newly) aware of what I am willing to experiment with and what I wish to play by tradition. My time too short and my exhaustion too great to pose these in detail here, I point to my recognition of all that is inherently “me” and how those convictions root me as I cross lines and create futures.

I thought to check out a recommended Pandora station during my trip home from K.C. to Saint Louis when I was forewarned “it’s avant-garde”. With the girls in tow, I knew exactly how I wanted the trip home to go - it wasn’t the time to experiment. (Not even with snack choice.) But tonight… while indulging in the exact opposite of driving (hot shower + wine + candles), I tried a new addition to this throwback combo and let the innovative jazz station roll. I conclude this is exactly how you transform.

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