Is it my hair?

I was waiting at the bus stop for my forthcoming bus, standing there in my nice gap pants with my cute red wedges, stylish anthropology shirt, and long coat with a fuzzy hood.  A man, who might have been attractive if he had cut his shaggy beard and took a bath, scootches up next to me and says: 

"Hey, are you looking for a shmerrffshkjd?" 

"I'm sorry?"

"Are you looking for a good ksdjfhksjdhfjks?"

"Hmm?"

"Are you looking for a good place to get mushrooms?"

"OH!! NO! Thanks!"

I have had some interesting experiences with people at bus stops before, but I have never been offered mushrooms! My bus stop Downtown is a prime location for that kind of crowd, but never before have any of them pegged me as someone who might be interested. 

Gee dee it, Butch Hair. I blame you.

November 5th 1999

I still remember this day, exactly 13 years ago. I remember the smell of the hospital mixed with the smell of flowers. I remember family members squeezing into a smallish room. I remember my uncle making some comment on how song lyrics used to be much less complicated and then quoting the Beatles' "I love you, yeah yeah yeah." I remember seeing my Grandfather cry inconsolably. I remember standing in a circle around my Grandmother's hospital bed. I remember holding her hand. I remember what her last breath looked like. I remember saying the Lord's Prayer while holding hands with my family around her bed after she left.

I haven't really talked about this memory much. This was one of my first experiences with death, at 11 years old, and it was terrifying and sickening. I wrote this date down in my little kitten diary, though, so I would never forget it.

I'm wondering now if I should post this - it's a bit morose and personal. I was intending to write more about my gratitude to Eleanor for mothering my own Mother, who in turn so wonderfully mothered myself, Jenny, and Louis with such profound wisdom, compassion, joy, whit, and skill.

And oh how I miss Grandma's yellow kitchen, that blue room, that den, that bookshelf with unlimited Dr. Seuss books, that living room with the spinning clock on the TV, and that dining room with all the pictures and the candy dish. What a magical, magical place.

My participation in Fall

Walking to church this morning, I couldn't help but feel a little like the many trees around me. Today the leaves suddenly decided to expedite their Autumn festivities by shedding themselves in a red fury of swirling wind, leaving their trees exposed and bare. You see, I cut my hair yesterday - like really cut it - and it is shockingly short, sharp, stylish, and not very Laura-like. On my walk to church early this morning to rehearse for my vocal solo, I felt humbly exposed and bare.

Singing in front of the congregation this morning, I experienced something really nice. Perhaps it was the humiliation from my new hair, but my music was more intimate and heart-exposing than it has been in awhile. I sang "Cry of the Broken" by Darlene Zschech - a song that deeply resonates with me. There is something so solidifying about proclaiming your faith in front of other people, especially through such a personal and intimate medium as singing. Through my own experience of worship before my congregation and the words of others this morning, I am reminded of one of the very few things I've known I'm meant to do. At the age of 25, I am still not sure what I am supposed to do with my life. However, I know I am meant to sing true things in front of other human persons.

So despite my hair, I am grateful for the effect it had on me today.

"Gratitude begets generosity"

...said a woman from my church a few weeks ago. Ohh. and ouch.

This phrase has been cycling through my thoughts so much lately. Since my brother convinced me to participate in nablowhatchamaloo, I've decided to use the topic of gratitude as a theme for the next month of blog posts. Not that every post will necessarily be a list of things that I'm grateful for, but maybe I'll use the concept of gratitude as a color with which I shade my thoughts and words.

Nablopomo. Nabloshmomo.

I'm only doing this (or attempting to) because LouLou made it sound so nice for all of the Swingrovers to participate. Perhaps since I feel so isolated from everyone (everyone being "Swingrovers" so to speak), it is especially nice sounding to feel near to them.

Hhokay!

NaBloPoMo is upon us

Poor sad blog. Mmmaybe I'll attempt it again. Maybe baby.

Ohhh

So that's how you back date. It's in the computer!

whoops

whelp, I'm out of the game. It was fun while it lasted.

However, I am home. It is warm and sunny and dry and blue skies and my very own family and baby nephew and friends and no responsibilities and love and acceptance and music and my old starbucks and reading nice book and pumpkin cookies and roots.

HOME

is where I am going in just a few hours.

Togetherness

"We are human because we belong. We are made for community, for togetherness, for family, to exist in a delicate network of interdependence...We are sisters and brothers of one another whether we like it nor not, and each of us is a precious individual."

~Desmond Tutu

Wingelburt Humptywack, Slap Von Walla, Jerry Dorsey, Engelbert Humperdink

I proudly sat in the audience at UW tonight, watching my Cristieloo steal the opera as Hansel in Hansel and Gretel. If you have not heard and/or seen this opera, do so. At least listen to this thing.

More Life!

When we say we are tired of life, it is death of which we are actually tired.

"Life is so exhausting right now. I need a break."

No, death is exhausting you. You need more life.

"Life is weighing me down!"

No, death is weighing you down.

Those who numb themselves from "life", revert to any form of escapism from "life", or eventually seek death to escape from "life," are escaping to the very thing they are attempting to escape from, which is death.

"Discontent...is the life in us that has not enough of itself, is not enough to itself, so calls for more. He has the victory who, in the midst of pain and weakness, cries out, not for death, not for the repose of forgetfulness, but for strength to fight; for more power, more consciousness of being, more God in him" (MacDonald, Unspoken Sermons, 117).

And in refusing the so-called "repose of forgetfulness," but choosing to fight for life's sake, only then will you and I receive the most fulfilling rest--that of abundant life.

"Home is when I'm alone with you"

When I come to my computer at the end of the day, aspiring to write a nablopomo post, I have a specific process I follow. In determining my topic, I think of the most lovely or significant thought, feeling, or moment on the top of my head or heart that is worthy of sharing in a setting such as blogger.com.

As I sit in front of my computer and scoop up the top layer of my heart, as I would from an excessively foamy late, this is the sentiment I find...

In 4 days, I go home. HOME.

That is all.

My "Aristotle" Poem

L-is for the way you look at me
Ambiturner
Unflappable, and I don't mean it the way fowl mean it
Ride's the tide (bum, bum, bum)
Ask-kicking

Lessons From Trees

"Because a sycamore's primitive bark is not elastic but frangible, it sheds continuously as it grows; seen from a distance, a sycamore seems to grow in pallor and vulnerability as it grows in height; the bare uppermost branches are white against the sky."

Annie Dillard, Pilgrim at Tinker Creek

Little Rituals

On the way home from one of my bus stops, I walk up a hill. There is a certain evergreen tree whom I have befriended along this walk, whose elegant arched arms gracefully droop over the sidewalk. Whenever I walk under this tree, I always secretly make sure to let one of its droopy needles gently brush against my face, as if to say 'hello.' This has become a little secret ritual, of which I am rather fond.

When on the verge of implosion...

see a ballet. or listen to Brahms. or both.

case in point.

Characters of Downtown Seattle Part 2

The first time I saw them, I couldn't help but giggle. What a pair they are. Like the sweet hunchback man, they too walk past my work often. The first time I saw them, I could not rip my eyes away from the spectacle. Two older ladies, perhaps in their 60s, one tied to the other's wrist by rope of some sort. The rope was what caught my eye first, the reason for which I quickly discovered by the 4 inch thick glasses (goggles, really) of the lady whose wrist was tied to the other's. She is obviously nearly blind and in need of assistance. The funny thing is that the other lady, who seems to be guiding Goggled Lady, is rather old and uses a walker, which usually has about 6 full grocery bags hanging off of it. The last time I saw them, as they bumbled along at a rather slow pace, Walker Lady's bags were so heavy, her walker completely tumbled over! My first reaction was to run outside to help, but after a few attempts of picking up her walker, she succeeded. They continued to bumble along. I feel a little prick of joy every time I see them.

Aslan is on the move

I am talking to Brianna-boo. She is wildly squeaking about Reep-a-cheep! Nobody knows Reepacheep like BriBee (so she says).

And now she is singing songs from Alice in Wonderland. No, really. I just had a personal 10 minute medley...o wait....it's still going...and...yep, still going.

And now i am going to Fremont Coffee Co. to escape my lonely house, drink myself some coffee, and read about Diamond and North Wind.

15 of those whose written words have influenced my mind and life the most

In no particular order...

1. George MacDonald

2. Charlotte Bronte

3. J.R.R. Tolkien

4. C.S. Lewis

5. The Apostle John

6. Isaiah the prophet

7. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

8. Madeleine L’Engle

9. Dorothy Sayers

10. Victor Hugo

11. L.M. Montegomery

12. A.W. Tozer

13. Henri Nouwen

14. Annie Dillard

15. Elizabeth Elliot