Flights of Lunacy

Movin' on...over

2012-01-15T00:13:00.001-05:00

So when I wrote my New Year's Eve post, I closed it with the line that I hoped "For 2012 to be a year of new beginnings and of joy, with opportunities that surprise even myself."

Well, color me surprised. I hardly imagined that within the month I'd be preparing to pack up my apartment. Now, I'm not moving to a new city or for a new job -- despite the fact that for years I said I wouldn't move unless I had a new job or new city to go to -- but into a new place about five minutes away from my current apartment, where I've lived for the past six years. And I only just got around to hanging that long-framed art on the wall two months ago. Go figure.

Anyway, my friend Pam told me her current housemate was moving out this month, and she asked me if I'd be interested in moving in. It took me several days to think about it and make a decision. See, I can talk a good game about being spontaneous, but I'm really a prototypical eldest child, with the need to be responsible and a propensity to over-think things. I have a serious lack of daring, generally, and like many (and not just eldest children, I imagine), both a desire for, and a fear of, change.

But at the same time, I realized that I've grown too comfortable. While the thought of packing and culling these next couple of weeks is more than just a little daunting, it needs to be done. I'm looking forward to being free of some of my stuff. Plus, I have this strange notion that if I don't make this smaller change now, I might be unwilling to make any sort of larger move in the future (worst cast scenario: 12 years from now, I'm still living in this apartment, crammed with even more stuff, and sharing the space with multiple cats...ok, maybe not the cats, but you get the idea).

Plus, moving will enable me to save significantly every month and, almost more importantly, I will never have to truck my dirty laundry to the laundromat (thereby avoiding being hit on by creepy men old enough to be my father) ever, ever again. It's the little things, really.

Like any transition, there will be some things to get used to (it has, after all, been a good nine years since I've shared living space with anyone besides an immediate family member), but Pam and I get along really well, and I already have a key to the place (from occasionally dog-sitting her pooch, Trustee), so I can gradually take boxes over as I pack them, saving the big items for last (this is the plan, at any rate). I'm sure there will be some adjustments, but I've been saying for a while that I need to be organized and more neat as a general rule, which Pam most certainly is, so hopefully a little of that will rub off. She is also fully prepared for (and excited about) the onslaught of books I'll be bringing with me.

And it looks like, if nothing else, I'll be able to put a check mark next to my New Year's Resolution to "clean out my refrigerator" sooner rather than later. :-)

I'm going to be needing more of these!

Books for 2012

2012-01-06T00:05:00.003-05:00

On New Year's Eve Day, a high school friend of mine (Kristen lives out in L.A., writes TV show reviews for an entertainment website and is working on a romance novel) wrote a blog post about books she'd read in 2011 and others she hopes to read this year.

I thought it was a fun idea. Well, the later portion, at any rate. With as fast as I read, I honestly can't remember how many books I read in 2011. But that contributed to this post, too, and I thought perhaps I should keep track in 2012. I'm not going to blog about all of them (that would be silly), but there are occasional books that I find myself wanting to write a term paper (for lack of a better, um, term) on and may deserve note. But I think I will use one of the many journals I've received as a gift to record them...that way at the end of 2012, I will know what and how many books I read this year. It should be interesting to look back on.

I received several books for Christmas, along with a Barnes & Noble gift card that enabled me to buy a few more. :) Plus, there's that giant bin underneath my bed, a few stacks scattered around the house and several books I'd like to reread.

Anyway, five days in, I've read one and started another. The one I've completed, "The House of Silk," which I finished yesterday, is one of the books I got for Christmas. It's a Sherlock Holmes novel, but the first one that was actually authorized by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's estate. I'm always up for a good mystery novel, and this one was entertaining.

I started the second book, Bill Bryson's "At Home," (which I also got for Christmas) last night before bed. The problem (if you can call it that) with Bryson is that A) he's an incredibly witty writer and B) there's so much fascinating information in this book (all kinds of crazy facts about the Crystal Palace, for instance), so I spent a fair amount of time laughing and really didn't want to put it down and go to sleep last night (or this afternoon while reading during lunch). I've found several topics/ facts that I want to know more about (Skara Brae in Scotland, for example. I'd never heard of the archaeological site. Reading about it also almost immediately triggered a time-travel novel idea, but that's another story). And I've only just made it into chapter 2.

But I digress. In addition to finishing "At Home," there are a few other books that I know I want to read this year. They include, in no particular order: "The History of the World in 100 Objects," written by the director of the British Museum; P.D. James' "Death Comes to Pemberley," a mystery that takes place about six years after the events described in "Pride and Prejudice;" then there's "Hedy's Folly: the life and breakthrough inventions of Hedy Lamarr," (no, that's not Hedley) which should be fascinating, since she was an incredibly beautiful and talented actress in old Hollywood, but she also was remarkably intelligent and helped create technology that aided the war effort in WWII and now makes our cell phones possible. Then there's "A Canticle for Leibowitz," by Walter M. Miller Jr. My friend Rebecca sent me a review of it written by Peter Kreeft in Dappled Things several months ago (sadly, I can't track it down now, even with Googling--whatever happened to things staying on the Internet forever?) which fascinated me, and so I ordered it off Amazon. It arrived just after Christmas.

Plus, I also want to reread "The Screwtape Letters." I haven't read it since I was in seventh or eighth grade, when I was required to read it in Theology class. I'm sure I will see parts of it differently, now that I'm an adult. For the same reason, I also want to reread "War and Peace."

Time to go read!

Fast away the old year passes...

2011-12-31T17:20:00.006-05:00

A mere seven hours remain of 2011, and it's natural to look back on the year that has gone (I gained a godson -- the newly crawling Charlie Rosario -- saw my brother Ethan deploy to the Middle East and come home safely, and I bought a car, an experience that was somewhat surreal and yet made me feel concretely an adult).

Like most people, I make resolutions for the one upon us. Although it's been true of past years, I want to write creatively more (which, in looking back, was really the only resolution I made last year. I kept it a little, but there's much room for improvement); to clean out my refrigerator (although more of a chore than a resolution) which so desperately needs it; to get back into the gym regularly because, even if I say so myself, I looked damn good for most of 2010. In 2011 I let it slide, and I want to get back into those clothes I only wore for a short period of time. I've also done a lamentable amount of cooking this year. So I resolve to cook at least one meal a week (and put all those back issues of Cooking Light to good use!) starting tomorrow with a crock-pot pork loin recipe I'm eager to try.

As for the writing, I was recently encouraged to continue by one of my fellow reporters at the paper. He's a veteran at the paper (he said his original plan when he started there was to stay three years. That was in 1990, which makes my two-year plan and six-year stay pale in comparison) who is also a poet, and was encouraged to hear I still write creatively, albeit not as frequently as I used to. But last night (well, about 1 a.m. this morning, to be honest), just before bed, I was thinking about how, to me, the New Year has always seemed slightly akin to Advent (although less liturgical, of course): a new season to be hopeful for coming joy. I was reflecting on hope, and I had this phrase trip through my brain, which I had to write down. It turned into something akin to a concrete poem:

Hope on a plate

There's a chance for me to take another international trip in 2012. I'm saving up for a ticket to further European adventures and the opportunity to knock out at least one of the places that's been on my to-visit bucket list (I started a bucket list post a few weeks back and haven't finished it) for a long time, Neuschwanstein Castle in Germany (more on that later), among other sights.

Of course, I want to continue to deepen my prayer life, and to trust in God more fully. This never changes, nor will it, I pray. I hope to say the Rosary more frequently, and to keep trucking through the Theology of the Body. I pray for good things for all my family and friends, for their intentions, for peace and wisdom and grace. For 2012 to be a year of new beginnings and of joy, with opportunities that surprise even myself.

So too may charity unite

Us all in bonds of endless light,

And bringing household peace, o'ercome

Life's woes in ev'ry earthly home.

- Pope Leo XIII

Just for fun

2011-10-26T20:26:00.004-04:00

I've found my wedding cake! You know, if I decide to have a Muppet-themed wedding when I get married...

I found this over at Cake Wrecks which, if you've never been there, is a source of nearly endless enjoyment (and sometimes horror, if you have any sort of grammar and spelling skills) at the expense of, well, lets just call them less-experienced cake decorators. On Sundays Jen, the creator, also posts fun and beautiful cakes baked and decorated by professionals. This cute monster creation falls under that category.

And yes, being a girl, I do think about wedding cakes occasionally, even though there is no wedding in the offing for me at the moment.

A hair-brained post

2011-10-23T02:12:00.000-04:00

I've been thinking about a hair-themed post for several weeks now, ever since an older woman stopped to stare at me in the library not too long ago. I thought something was wrong at first. "Oh, my," she said, pausing on her walk to the checkout kiosk, "What glorious hair." For a retiree, she was pretty speedy, and I barely had time to smile, probably somewhat goofily, and say thank you before she'd taken off again. It was a completely unexpected compliment, especially since I don't know that I've ever thought about myself, or any part thereof, as particularly glorious.

But her words stuck with me, and for the rest of that afternoon, I found hair-related quotes and incidents from literature popping into my head. First, the scene in Louisa May Alcott's "Little Women" where Jo reveals she's sold her "abundant" hair -- "her one beauty," as one of her sisters terms it -- to a wig maker to buy a train ticket for Marmee. Another Anne, Anne of Green Gables, bemoans her red mane and wishes she could have jet-black hair like her "bosom friend" Diana. She even goes so far as to try and dye it, resulting in her hair turning an unfortunate green hue. And St. Paul, in 1 Corinthians 11, says "the long hair of a woman is her glory," but likewise admonishes those who go to prayer with their heads uncovered because it shows a lack of humility.

Well, women can certainly be picky -- and, yes, vain -- about their hair. We want what we don't have and lament what we do, yearning for curls if our hair is straight (and vice versa) or wishing it was a different color. We dye it, straighten it with flatirons, perm it and fill it with product to be more shiny, less frizzy or sometimes just to keep it in place. Most of us have had at least one hair style that we regret (bangs, for example. I tried them twice, and they were no better the second time around).

When I was younger, somewhere around 6, I remember telling my mom that I wished I was a blond. Even at that age, somehow the "blondes have more fun" mantra had already worked it's way into my psyche. Or perhaps it was due to Barbie. I was incredibly excited when I received a Barbie doll that had even light brown hair and so looked slightly more like me. Funnily enough, I had honey blond hair when I was 2 and 3, but by the time I got to kindergarten, it was long gone. I would actually look terrible as a blond now, I think.

I've had my hair both long and short. For a long time, growing up, my mom cut it. There wasn't much to her cuts -- occasionally some layers, or the aforementioned bangs.

The first time I had my hair cut in a salon, I was 13, and I got one of those asymmetrical cuts that was popular in the early 90s. I don't know that I'd do that again, but it looked good at the time. By the time I went to college, it was the longest it's ever been, nearly to my elbow. A few months in, though, I chopped it almost all off, over a foot of it so it was less than chin-length. Sometimes, you just need a change. I know women who are incredibly intimidated by cutting their hair short. I've been to salons where, when I tell the stylist that I want it bobbed, they practically turn to stone and ask me, several times, if I'm sure. Once, there was even an older woman in the next chair over who said "You're very brave." Really? It's a haircut. I was hardly going into battle.

Right now, my hair is the longest it's been in several years. Though hardly Rapunzel-esque, it is practically to the middle of my back. Usually, when it gets to this point, I'm frustrated with it, especially if I try to blow-dry it -- I find myself looking like Gilda Radner playing Rosanne Rosannadanna on SNL, minus the bangs. But I have a really good stylist and a great cut. And I certainly appreciate the fact that it's pretty low-maintenance in the styling department.

Still, vanity has gotten the better of me, too, when it comes to my hair. Up until June of this year, I'd had what is typically referred to as virgin hair; never been dyed, never been permed. And I was proud of that. But thanks to genetics, my hair started to gray early (I found the first full-length one at 24), so over the summer I finally decided to dye it, just to cover up the gray. I was nervous that it would look strange, but practically no one noticed, which was my hope, since I didn't want the change to be drastic or obvious. One of these days, when I'm older, I'll let it go all nice and silver. I think having longer, silvery hair (why do almost all women cut their hair short into a helmet-like do when they reach a certain age?) will look quite striking. But not until I'm 50, let's say. :) Hopefully, it will still be glorious.

October's bright blue weather

2011-10-20T12:17:00.003-04:00

O sun and skies and clouds of June
And flowers of June together,
Ye cannot rival for one hour
October's bright blue weather.

-Helen Hunt Jackson

The first breath of chill in the air awakens something. An energy that has lain dormant. More than spring, to me, fall conveys its own special brand of verve. Perhaps it's because spring here dives right into summer without pause and the heat is more oppressive than it is welcome, and that it just seems to take more effort to do things slowly.

But this crispness is enchanting, the door cracked to Thanksgiving and Christmas and a peek around the frame to at least a semblance of the season that is in full flush north of here. Even without the vibrant change of color, autumn is an opening of windows at night and an opportunity to (literally) let down my hair from the near-constant buns and ponytails of languid summer, a time for scarves and sweaters; despite the protests of "it's cold" from neighbors, I rarely find it such.

Where I'm From

2011-09-29T00:04:00.000-04:00

I stumbled upon this writing exercise while meandering about the internet today (and honestly can't remember how I wound up on the this page in the first place. It links to another, possibly the original template. That led me to this information) and I thought it would be fun. I like writing exercises (yes, I know that makes me strange. I'm ok with being strange) and have fond memories of several I did in various creative writing classes in college. But also, I'm in a non-writing phase at the moment. I tend to beat myself up about this sometimes, but I'm realizing more and more that, as with most things, there is an ebb and flow to that as well. I found myself filling in the blanks out of order as the answers came to me, but I don't think that mattered, ultimately.

Where I'm From

I am from hand-me-down furniture, from Playskool's "Record your world of sounds" tape recorder, horse models, fairy tales, a Fort Apache play set and the Berenstain Bears.

I am from avocado green appliances, Legos underfoot, the once-despised but now fondly-recalled scent of paper mill, shuttle launches, the combined smell of mothballs and morning coffee, daydreaming under the dining room table, balled up newspaper wars and waking on weekends to The Beatles, the Beach Boys and the Bangles.

I am from my parent's lawn I started mowing at 12, the cherry laurel I'd climb to read "Romeo & Juliet," crepe myrtles, orange trees, gardenias, hydrangeas and pine needles.

I am from pigtails and honey blond hair darkening, Santa gifts left unwrapped on Christmas morning, Disney rides that no longer exist (20,000 Leagues Under the Sea), mom's overflowing tea cabinet, long car trips and going gray early, from Bertolotti and Klockenkemper and Lynes and Wilson.

I am from lengthy reminiscences (which is hardly surprising) and stubbornness from all sides.

From "Annie get your gun," "Don't spin in the piano room chairs," "Pick up your feet" and "Don't say 'hey,' hay is for horses."

I am from cradle Catholics and converts, prayers at meals and bedtime, ("Angel of God, my guardian dear...)," from chastisement for pretending a piece of Trident was a consecrated Host (at 6?), the only girl with no veil at my First Communion, from a mental snapshot of how my mother's hand looked to me as a child while resting on the pew at Mass, my great-grandmother's sterling Rosary which I am never without and hopes for a future unwritten.

I’m from Fort Polk, Louisiana, Mobile, Alabama and rural Illinois, old Dutch New York, Italy, Prussia and Florida (including Key West, which I'll get to someday), from sofrito-based turkey dressing, spinach Lafayette and chocolate pancakes.

From Great Aunt Julia Collins convicted of a murder she didn't commit and sent to the Alabama Insane Hospital, staying even once she was discovered innocent; from my dad who, as a boy started a forest fire playing cowboys and Indians; from Grandpa dropping silken handkerchiefs from his plane to girlfriends he planned to take out that night and my great-great grandfather Obediah Lynes lying about his age and running off to to join the Confederacy.

From old movies and Saturday morning cartoons and late nights reading and college football.

I am from both overflowing boxes of sepia photos with once-heard names scrawled on the back and alphabetized albums arranged by year, from scrapbooks of clippings and attics full of the past, a family tree written on the back of a paper shopping bag, glass-fronted bookcases and Chrysler cars.

I am from these people and things and more than this short list can convey, from stories forgotten and some written down, a hodge-podge and melting pot that can neither be weighed nor found wanting.

Remembrance

2011-09-11T00:41:00.000-04:00

September 11, 2001. I can't quite believe it's been 10 years. In a way, it seems like we've been living in a post-9/11 world for much longer than that.

While everyone experienced that day differently -- and I would never claim anything like those who experienced the events firsthand -- it was also the same: horror and grief and the knowledge that everything had changed. There are so many images from 9/11 ingrained on our collective memory: smoke, fire, tears and a tidal wave of ash, fluttering paper everywhere, remains of the towers stark against the sky. The planes careening into the buildings over and over and over again. Like my mother remembers exactly where she was when she heard JFK was assassinated, and how our grandparents knew what they were doing when they learned the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor, we will always remember where we were when the Twin Towers (and the planes flying into the Pentagon and the field in Shanksville, Pa. -- blow upon blow) were hit and, subsequently, fell to earth.

I wrote a short article recently on North Port's piece of one of the Twin Towers, eventually to become part of a permanent memorial there. I was almost hesitant about touching the I-beam:

"It’s a 500-pound, rusty chunk of metal with a strip of nuggety concrete still clinging to it. Protruding from one side, steel bolts at least an inch in diameter are bent like reeds in the wind.
But it wasn’t a gentle wind that caused these bolts to warp. It was pressure and heat and gravity, enough force to shear some of the bolts completely off at their base and fling others in directions opposite the bolts just next to them..."

In 2001, I lived in Gainesville, where I was going to grad school at UF. I didn't have class on 9/11, but was headed to work in the undergrad telecommunication department, where I was an office assistant. I was in my car, driving to the commuter lot to catch the bus into the heart of campus when I heard on the radio that a plane had crashed into the North Tower. Everyone thought it was a tragic accident, and no one was panicking because it was so early, not yet 9 a.m. I chatted with others on the bus about how terrible such an accident was.

It wasn't until I got off the bus and walked into Weimer Hall, the Journalism building, that I learned of the plane hitting the second tower. There was a wall of televisions just off the atrium next to the journalism library, and I joined the semi-circle of students standing or sitting on the brick floor in stunned silence. I was late for work -- not that anyone minded, ultimately -- but couldn't tear myself away from the screens. The whole day seemed to stop.

Eventually I did head up to my office on the second floor. I just remember flashes from the rest of my time at work. According to my journal, I spent a lot of time wandering down to the dean's office (where I recall the plants being incredibly green) and watching the TV there, waiting for confirmation that classes were cancelled for the day, as well as standing in the doorway of Dr. Debbie Treise's office (she had a TV, too) a few offices down from mine. It was there I watched one of the towers, possibly the second, fall, slack-jawed, hand over my mouth. It strikes me as silly now, but I apologized to her for just standing there. Waiting for the bus to head home later that day, one of the reporters for The Alligator, the college paper, asked me for my reaction. I remember all I could think to say was "It's just crazy." I couldn't come up with anything more than that.

I personally didn't know anyone who died or was injured. One of my classmates at the time, Gary Mattingly (a newscaster for one of the local TV stations) lost a cousin, a New York City firefighter. I had several college friends in D.C. at the time, and I was fortunately able to IM with both Marie (who worked two miles away) and Linda (who only lived a block and a half from the Pentagon) while still at work that day and make sure they were ok -- they were, but were scared. Linda's whole house shook, she said. My uncle Tim, retired Navy and a government contractor, worked in the Pentagon occasionally, but thankfully hadn't been there since the week before.

According to my journal, that night, in moments when I wasn't watching the news (although I probably just had it muted -- for days all my roommate and I could seem to do was watch the coverage, wiping away the tears and "waiting for another person to be pulled from the rubble." I remember the always nattily-dressed Peter Jennings reporting with tired eyes, in his shirt sleeves with thick 5 o'clock shadow, continuing to update people with the latest), I called home and all my close friends. I wrote that "It almost seemed necessary -- like an affirmation that some things were still the same."

Later daily Mass at 5:30 was packed that night. It was so nice to see the church full. All we felt we could do was pray, for those who had died, and in hope that some might be found alive.
Before going to bed, I wrote the day's events in my journal. At that point we had no idea how many had died -- some 50,000 worked in the towers. I remember sitting on the floor in front of my bedroom closet (not sure why exactly I was sitting just there) and wondering about whether we would soon see young men drafted and marching off to war. We still didn't know who was responsible. And we did go to war, but in a different way than we ever had before.

Soon after, radio stations started playing a version of Bruce Springsteen's "Secret Garden" that included sound bites of people reacting to the tragedy and remembering loved ones who had perished in the attacks. I always thought it was an interesting choice of song. Back in 1996, it was the theme song for my senior prom, although very few people had heard of it at the time. Only later that year did it became really popular once it was featured in "Jerry Maguire" ("Did you know the human head weighs eight pounds?" "Shut up. Just shut up. You had me at hello.") and clips from the movie were also added to the song.

Anyway, about a week later, I was heading home from a Catholic Young Adults meeting at my parish, Holy Faith. I don't remember anything about what we talked about that night, but as I was driving, I happened to glance up. I saw the lights of a plane in the air blinking against the night sky for the first time since the attacks. It seemed like I'd cried so much, but this, too, brought tears to my eyes, not of sadness, but as a small symbol of hope that things would, in a way, be ever-so-slightly more normal.

Afterwards, movies and TV shows airbrushed away previously filmed images of the WTC out of fear that people would be traumatized by seeing them still standing. One of those movies was "Serendipity" and, while I enjoyed the movie quite a bit, I thought taking the buildings out was silly. I remember sitting in the theater noting the absence of where the towers should have been. Shouldn't we remember them as they were?

I have newspapers from September 12 saved. Some of them show people in the Towers jumping out, choosing that instead of fire. There was a huge outcry when those were published, but they, too, show the horror of the day.

I read on one website last week that there was some backlash over all the coverage of the tenth anniversary, the argument being that the shows somehow trivialize the tragedies by turning them into entertainment. Seriously? None of the shows I have seen have been remotely pandering, instead honoring heroes and remembering those who were lost.

One such show was a special about three men, two who were New York Port Authority workers, who risked their lives to climb higher in the North Tower to help others get out. They made it to the 90th floor and rescued more than 70 people by opening jammed doors or guiding workers to safety through smoke and rubble. One of the three survived after helping someone with injuries down the stairs. The other two died, sacrificing themselves that others might live. It was a small story, one of thousands from that day and the days that followed, but one that shouldn't be forgotten. Those who had albeit brief interactions with these men credit them with their lives. Ten years on, still all I could do was cry. Watching one of the many videos of the planes smashing into the Towers, and then seeing them plummet to earth still comes close to stopping my heart. Images of people walking around the ash-covered war zone are still just as wrenching. I don't think that will ever change. Nor should it. I don't think there's enough we can do to remember -- not out of anger or a need for revenge, but out of honor and prayer. Not remembering would be the travesty.

But I think Peggy Noonan, in a piece she wrote for the Wall Street Journal late last week, said it better than I could:

"They tell us to get over it, they say to move on, and they mean it well: We can't bring an air of tragedy into the future. But I will never get over it. To get over it is to get over the guy who stayed behind on a high floor with his friend who was in a wheelchair. To get over it is to get over the woman by herself with the sign in the darkness: "America You Are Not Alone." To get over it is to get over the guys who ran into the fire and not away from the fire.
You've got to be loyal to pain sometimes to be loyal to the glory that came out of it."

Used bookapalooza!

2011-08-25T23:51:00.001-04:00

Anyone who knows me even slightly is aware that I have the tiniest smidgen of a book problem. An addiction really. They are my drug of choice. :) Anyway, when presented with a used book sale, well, that's even more fun than a store that sells new books, because you never know what will be in the piles. I also collect old books, and it's always fun to find inscriptions on the inside flyleaf or interesting bookplates affixed inside.

Today, I was charged with heading to the library to take a picture of the Friend's of the Library book sale. Once my job was done, I spent a few minutes perusing. And when you can buy a book for a $1, or eight books for $5, well, I was able to rack up those eight pretty quickly. The great thing was, I found one for each of my brothers and I found two for my mom as well (kids books were 50 cents apiece, so I picked up a few for my twin goddaughters, too).

But I found a few gems for myself, obviously. :) I'm a fan of old cookbooks -- the appeal is some amazing old-fashioned recipes (usually the desserts), along with some now-laughable ones that most modern cooks wouldn't want to make, let alone serve and eat (mostly those involving gelatin and things you should never encase in it), so coming across a 1938 copy of Canadian cookbook called "A Guide to Good Cooking" compiled by the makers of Five Roses Flour was neat. It also includes completely fabulous illustrations like this:

Jellied chicken, anyone?

Another book I picked up is called "Mirror, Mirror on the Wall," subtitled "Invitation to Beauty," published in 1961. Written by a man named Gayelord Hauser, it is apparently a self-help guide-to-a-more-beautiful-you type of book, where he encourages women to attain their true beauty through healthy eating, caring for the skin, etc... It should be interesting to flip through, since some of the advice about food seems before it's time. I suppose I'm just going to have to read to find out about the "Scandinavian Complexion Secret" and whether I really can make my own cottage cheese. Unfortunately, I think it will always be a mystery to me why Gary and Ethel Patton decided to give this book as a gift to Don and Mary Black on July 26th, 1962:

But I was most excited about a two books, one published in the late 50s, the other in 1961, that look brand new. If they didn't have separate publication dates, I'd have sworn they were a set. One is "The Life of Christ" and the other is a book of Catholic prayers.

Both are gorgeously illustrated. The Life of Christ has maps and an entire section devoted to Mary. The book of prayers includes prayers for every day, for each month, prayers dedicated to Our Lady and a number of saints and for the various sacraments, only for some reason, the sacraments of marriage and holy orders aren't included, and I can't for the life of me figure out why. I flipped through the sacraments section twice (why are there 12 pages of pictures depicting last rites?) before looking to the table of contents to confirm their absence.

No marriage or holy orders?

Sure enough, they're not there. Why would they have been left out? Could it possibly be a pre-Vatican II thing? It seems like a rather glaring omission. Hmm...must research.

"Ground down by mediocrity"

2011-08-24T17:21:00.000-04:00

So it had been probably more than a month since I went and looked at my Google Reader page, and today I found that there were hundreds of entries for the blogs I've subscribed to (note to self: must read them more frequently!).

But scrolling through some of them, I found exactly what I needed to hear today. I'd been struggling to put my feelings of inadequacy and frustration -- I'm not miserable but I'm hardly fulfilled after close to six years at my job with nothing to show for it aside from 36 extra cents per hour, single as I ever was and wishing for something more but not knowing what exactly that something more is -- into words (I even stooped to writing some mopey, very pathetic (and stupid) poetry this afternoon, from which you will be spared).

It makes me think of Belle in "Beauty and the Beast" -- the bookish "princess" I've always identified with most -- and that scene in the field just before her family horse rushes up to her, sans her father:

"I want adventure in the great wide somewhere, I want it more than I can tell. And for once it might be grand to have someone understand, I want so much more than they've got planned..."

But Blessed JP II (probably at a WYD) did it for me. Elizabeth Scalia, over at The Anchoress, posted it 13 days ago:

“It is Jesus in fact that you seek when you dream of happiness; he is waiting for you when nothing else you find satisfies you; he is the beauty to which you are so attracted; it is he who provokes you with that thirst for fullness that will not let you settle for compromise; it is he who urges you to shed the masks of a false life; it is he who reads in your hearts your most genuine choices, the choices that others try to stifle. It is Jesus who stirs in you the desire to do something great with your lives, the will to follow an ideal, the refusal to allow yourselves to be ground down by mediocrity, the courage to commit yourselves humbly and patiently to improving yourselves and society, making the world more human and more fraternal.”

I do feel mediocre, like I am settling somehow for the compromise, or that, sinner that I am, this is all I deserve. There are so many things I hope for, or would love to do, but I feel so limited. By my location, and by being either over or under-qualified for jobs I might want. I don't want to have a defeatist attitude...it's too much like how my father tends to handle things...and yet I find myself falling into that pattern sometimes, ground down by the day-to-day.

Yet, I think God uses it, too, to help us turn and return again and again to him, toward hope and away from doubt. It is a reminder I will always need, and I am thankful for it. I may have limitations, but God can and will step in where I lack, making me stronger than I am alone, improving me, one little bit at a time.

Letter from home

2011-08-15T18:28:00.001-04:00

I wrote a letter to my youngest brother, Ethan, today. He's deployed in the Middle East currently, and is slated to come home in early November from a short (in military terms, at any rate) six-month tour.

As I sat there, I struggled to come up with topics to write about. I felt terrible. Shouldn't I be able to come up with something witty to entertain my brother? We chatted online only last week -- a far more rapid mode of communication than snail mail -- so anything I said then would be repetitious. I wanted to write a letter that he'd be interested in reading, but everything I wrote sounded dull; trifles of my life that wouldn't mean much to him. I even mentioned the weather, usually the last of all possible conversational resorts. I am clearly in need of a more exciting life.

But as I continued writing, it occurred to me that even the boring little things I have to say do mean something to him, stationed as he is on a base in the middle of a desert (and where, I'm sure, Florida's daily thunderstorms would be a freak of nature). When he's not on missions he doesn't do much aside from play video games, read and work out, which can get old pretty quickly when you have no other options.

It also made me think that I was doing something that people have done for hundreds of years: write to their loved away at war. And although I don't necessarily think of Ethan being at war, per se (he's not in a fox hole somewhere), he is away from everything. I found myself picturing old World War II movies, where all the guys gather round for mail call, thrilled with a letter or even a flattened, stale cake from home. I'm sure it's done a bit differently now (and food sent isn't usually stale, what with faster transport times), but I have no doubt the excitement of receiving something from home is the same.

A number of years ago I read a book called War Letters. It started as an idea a man named Andrew Carroll had to preserve history in the form of letters written by servicemen and women overseas or away at war. He received thousands, and had letters (and later emails as well) from every campaign beginning with the American Revolution through Desert Storm (the book was published in the early 2000s). He's since gone on to edit several more books of the same type, one devoted solely to letters of faith. They're beautiful, moving books. The letters published are sometimes funny, almost always moving and, occasionally, incredibly sad. But they are a testament to those who were and are willing to give up their time (and sometimes more) to serve their country and the families they leave behind at home.

Even sometimes those overseas wished they had more to say (or could say more than the censors would let them) in letters home -- I know Ethan sometimes struggles with something new to come up with during Skype sessions, too. What can be said that hasn't been said already? And in one of the missives reprinted in "War Letters," an Army sergeant on Bataan during WWII laments to his wife that he doesn't have anything spectacular to write home about, either:

"I could write a lot of nonsense and a lot of foolishness but I know you will read between the lines and see more in spirit than in what I write."

So in the next week or so, Ethan should get my letter, written on the last few remaining sheets from a box of blue stationary, along with a small package. Hopefully it will prove distracting for a little while, and that he finds something to laugh at in what I've written him about movies I've watched and cleaning I've done around the house. The ubiquitous they say God is in the small stuff (although He is, of course, in everything), so I suppose it's not so much the content of a letter as it is the time taken: the love and pride implied and prayers prayed...

"A friend who gives candid advice"

2011-08-13T22:00:00.000-04:00

A friend of mine passed through town last night (such a rarity -- someone I know actually coming to Port Charlotte! -- is a cause for celebration). It was great to catch up with her, a FOCUS campus minister who I hadn't seen in probably two years. During dinner we talked about her work and the fact she has now fully discerned her call to religious life (it's been a lengthy process, but I, completely aware of my own stubbornness, can only admire her patience and openness to God's plan and the sometimes meandering path He's led her on) and the journey she's taking to find the right order. As we sat talking over delicious Mexican food, I realized couldn't recall the last time I used the word "charism" in a conversation and not had someone look at me askance or had to explain what it meant. :)

Afterwards, we headed to Books-A-Million and wandered among the shelves, laughing over ridiculous discount CD sets (3 CDs worth of Irish accordion music, for only $4!) and hunted for small gifts for her oldest godson. As we made our way toward the small Catholic section, she asked me, "So, what are you reading these days?"

I knew, of course, that she wasn't referring to novels or fun books about history. She was asking about my current spiritual reading. And right now, that would be a whole lotta nothin.' I told her about how excited I had been, starting over with my reading of Theology of the Body during Lent, and the fact that I wanted to continue with it post-Easter. While I didn't automatically stop reading the moment Lent was over, I haven't continued with it as I hoped to do, either. So much for commitment. I also mentioned several books that I have and want to read ("No Man is an Island" and "The Discernment of Spirits," among them) and books I've started, like "A Shorter Summa," that I've now attempted twice (I keep getting stuck because, at least at this point, I find Peter Kreeft's introduction far more readable than Aquinas' style. Maybe I'm just not ready for it yet...or maybe I should soldier on through...).

I told my friend that it's not that I don't want to read spiritual works, I do, but that it feels like "things" keep getting in the way. And as I said it, I realized it sounded like an excuse. Yes, I'm busy, but I always seem to find time to waste on things like Facebook, for example. Even reviewing morning and evening prayer and daily mass readings in Magnificat, something I've done for years now, has fallen by the wayside of late. It's not that I've stopped praying, far from it. But perhaps it's my own laziness setting up roadblocks. What things could possibly be more important and worth spending time on than my spiritual growth?

Back at my house later that evening, my friend pointed out a website a mutual friend of ours, a seminarian, recently began blogging for. Along the right side of the main page was a short anecdote about St. Jane Frances de Chantal, who's feast it was yesterday:

Saint Jane Frances de Chantal was heading to the chapel one day to pray. Seeing a young novice in the hallway, she asked "Why don't you join me in the chapel for prayer?" The young nun answered "Sister, I really don't feel like praying right now." Jane responded with "Sister, I haven't felt like praying in years! Now, let's go to the chapel and pray!"

The story made me laugh, but it also struck a chord. While God often speaks in a "still, small voice" to whisper in our ears, sometimes I think we need another, physically present voice to redirect us. My friend urged that, instead of beating myself up for not going through all the prayers of the day in Magnificat, I should ease back into it slowly, and also to not feel guilty about occasional spates of less-than-voracious spiritual reading, while at the same time, recommending several books she's found helpful. Her visit was so timely -- certainly not a coincidence, for God always sends what I need -- and a subtle, loving reminder to refocus myself on what's really important.

And although St. Pius X was addressing priests when he said the following back in 1908, he could just as easily be addressing me now:

"Everyone knows the great influence that is exerted by the voice of a friend who gives candid advice, assists by his counsel, corrects, encourages and leads one away from error. Blessed is the man who has found a true friend; he that has found him has found a treasure. We should, then, count pious books among our true friends. They solemnly remind us of our duties and of the prescriptions of legitimate discipline; they arouse the heavenly voices that were stifled in our souls; they rid our resolutions of listlessness; they disturb our deceitful complacency; they show the true nature of less worthy affections to which we have sought to close our eyes; they bring to light the many dangers which beset the path of the imprudent. They render all these services with such kindly discretion that they prove themselves to be not only our friends, but the very best of friends. They are always at hand, constantly beside us to assist us in the needs of our souls; their voice is never harsh, their advice is never self-seeking, their words are never timid or deceitful."

And who am I to argue with a saint? :)

Je parle un peu de français...but not much

2011-08-08T01:18:00.003-04:00

As a kid I remember watching old reruns of the "Addam's Family" and laughing at how Gomez would become suddenly amorous when Morticia would drop a French turn of phrase, kissing his way up her arm after loudly (and obviously) declaring, "Tish -- that's French!"

Now, although it is one of the Romance Languages, I hardly think that being able to speak it would have men falling at my feet a la Gomez, but lately I have had the yen to learn more French. I'm not sure what use it would be to me (I barely use my Spanish these days, truth be told), aside from just the sheer desire to learn something new. And while France isn't at the top of my countries-to-visit list, it is there, and it would be nice to have un soupçon of knowledge.

The idea struck me again the other night when I picked up a mystery set in fin de siecle Paris. And it's not really a new thought, though, me wanting to learn French. For years I've been somewhat fascinated by the language. When I was younger, being of a nerdy, bookish persuasion (moi?) and reading a lot of classics from the Regency and Victorian periods of English literature, I was often stymied by phrases, sentences or sometimes whole paragraphs of French thrown into the text, and lamented the lack of foot or end notes to help me understand. It was only later that I realized there wasn't such a key because the books were likely written for members of the upper classes who probably flitted across the Channel to the Continent with regularity and could speak French just as well as their mother tongue. That, or I just needed better editions with a glossary included.

At any rate, when it came time to choose a language to study in high school, I did briefly ponder French (after a course in eighth grade where French, along with Spanish and Latin, were each taught for six weeks), but settling on Spanish was practically a fait accompli, for several practical reasons. A) I lived in Florida, and B) my mom is a Spanish teacher, so (although she wouldn't be my teacher) I wouldn't have to travel farther than my kitchen should help be required. :)

I did love the elegant way the French words sounded, though. Ever since that six-week course, I've (quite randomly) enjoyed saying the number 60: soixante. Such a softly sibilant, fancy word for a number. :) The rest of my rather limited French vocabulary, aside from some basic counting and knowledge of various French foods, consists of "je m'appelle Anne" and, thanks to Renaissance, my high school's major fundraiser (it had a different theme every year and saw the seniors, costumed, pair off to greet guests and walk around showing silent auction items) called "An Evening in Paris," learned "bienvenue a Paris" and a few other sundry words and phrases. Somewhere along the line, from a TV show, I think, I also picked up "mon petit chou," although I don't have much cause to use the (admittedly odd) term of endearment "my little cabbage" on anyone.

My last foray into learning something new (the piano) was short lived (although that was due to my piano teacher moving away, rather then me up and quitting...although I admittedly haven't sought another instructor), and, aside from taking a class, which I'm not sure I can fit into my work schedule, I'm pondering getting a book or two and trying to learn French my own. Yet I wonder if it will go the same way as my brief flirtation with embroidery (it's only been 10 years since I almost finished the first of that pair of pillowcases) or, even better (worse?), my hope to learn Gaelic when I was 12 or 13. Though I have to say, French is a somewhat more practical selection than Gaelic.

At any rate, we shall see. For now I will wish you a bonne nuit.

Perspective

2011-08-02T23:23:00.001-04:00

I try not to get too whiney, but I have those moments (far too frequently, if I'm honest with myself) where all I seem to do is splutter at God about why isn't my life this or that way or why can't such-and-such happen because I'm bored/tired/frustrated? And then the news of someone else's tragedy puts my own petty worries and complaints into perspective.

A friend of mine, who for several years was my one Catholic friend in the area, moved to Georgia a few months ago with her two children, just lept and took that chance that I can't seem to take. This afternoon, without provocation, she popped into my head, so I made my way over to her Facebook wall and asked how she was and how things were going in the Peach State. I come back from exercising a little while ago to find her reply: "I'm in Florida actually. My father passed away from a massive stroke this afternoon."

And like that, my wants are nothing...just so much blather compared to how much she must be hurting right now. My heart goes out to her, my funny, sarcastic, self-deprecating friend and piano teacher who, despite feeling down sometimes, always managed to wink and smile at whatever it was that was bothering her. All I can do is pray for her, her children, the rest of her family, and that her dad, Jon Kangas, rest in God's peace. Bless and give her peace, oh Lord. May this time of sorrow not diminish her joy.

Too much stuff

2011-07-31T12:02:00.001-04:00

I have a confession to make.

I am a fourth generation pack rat. After my great-grandmother passed away in 2004 (at 109!), it was discovered that an upstairs room in her home (the rest of which, at least in my memory, was pretty spotlessly neat) was filled to the brim with old things, piles of clothes, old coffee tins (from the 20s and 30s) and who knows what else stuffed cheek-by-jowl into a tiny bedroom and its adjacent closet. Her eldest son, my grandfather, was also a saver, most likely as a result of the living through the Great Depression, holding on to things because they might, someday, have value or be of use to somebody. He was also a fixer, and, after he retired from the Navy, would often buy broken things (radios, drills, etc..) at the PX and fix them, then give them away. Most of the excess stuff was relegated to the attic or a large barn he built in their second back yard, but it was still there.

Naturally, my father inherited it from him. Because my grandparents died tragically, my dad tends to hold on to things that were theirs, regardless of the fact that certain items are beyond useless (a 1960s behemoth of an adding machine that must weigh at least 20 pounds, for example, and rightly belongs in a museum). My mother has to practically sneak bags of donations out of the house, because he'll go through them, saying "someone can use/wear this," despite the fact that no one has worn it in 10-odd years or it's been gathering dust. But he's getting better. Recently, we cleaned out a storage unit filled with things from my grandparent's house. Over half the contents were donated or thrown away. Progress.

While I'm far from being a hoarder, I also have the tendency to hold on to things, mostly because they have sentimental value. At the same time, I realize things are not people and that memories can serve. Looking for a certain notebook this morning with the eye to writing a completely different blog post, I realized I'd gone through several different drawers without being able to find it (I still don't know where it's wandered off to), and that most of the things in those drawers were completely useless (a reporter's notebook filled with meeting notes from 2005, old copies of Magnificat that are three years old, back issues of magazines that could easily be recycled, cassette tapes from the early 90s --"Rattle and Hum," anyone?) and need to be tossed or donated posthaste. I also have far more dishes and flatware than a single woman really requires.

And I'll admit I'm not the most organized of girls, but have I aspirations. :) I long for a clutter-free home, and make a concerted effort to donate items several times a year. A move would be the ideal way to cull junk I've accumulated over the nearly six years I've been in my apartment, but that doesn't seem in the cards right now. My brother, Daniel, who moved across country to Oregon about five years ago, took only several large suitcases with him when he left, and is scrupulous about keeping too many things out of his house that don't serve a purpose by being there. He's proof that the pack-rat gene can be conquered, and it gives me hope. :)

I read in a magazine not too long ago that a good exercise one family used when they realized they had too much stuff was to play a game they called "We're moving to Europe." The idea being, rather obviously, to imagine that you're making a transatlantic move and can only take so much with you, making getting rid of dead weight imperative. Perhaps it's something I should try.

2011-07-29T01:04:00.001-04:00

So tonight I did a favor for my friend Pam, the editor of the Punta Gorda Herald. She's working on her next issue, focusing on the theme "Girl's Night Out." She's been talking to women about what they like to do and where they go when they get together. There aren't a lot of options around here, and she'd been to several places already. Tonight, she wanted to go take some pictures at Jack's -- a restaurant in downtown Punta Gorda that has a ladies' night later in the evening on Thursdays -- and since she didn't want to go alone, she asked me to go with her.

Now, I did a bit of clubbing in college. Nothing too crazy, but I certainly owned the de rigeur black clubbing pants and a couple of skirts that were, in hindsight, probably too short. I hit the Late Night Library ("tell your parents you're at the library!" was their tagline), a few times (where, one night, someone opened up an entire can of pepper spray, causing the place to be evacuated since no one could breath), and got grabbed by drunk guys at the country-western bar (the name escapes me, but for a while there I could line dance with the best of them). But the regular clubs that played nothing but music with a throbbing bass line were never really my thing. Before too long, the only clubs I went to were to some of the bars to hear local bands (6 Degrees!), to Floyd's for Old Wave Night (which a number of us from the Catholic Student Union used to hit after Mass and dinner Sunday nights for the 80s music) and, more often, either Gordo's or Atlantis for hours of salsa dancing.

So as Jack's morphed from people eating a late dinner into a club, complete with flashing lights and deep thrums of bass (no one was dancing to), I just felt out of place. Actually, I just felt old, despite the fact that I was certainly younger than some of the other people there. It all just felt very surface. Women gathered in clumps near the bar and men, beer in hand, stood in separate groups eying the women from across the room. It reminded us both a little of junior high, actually, only with alcohol. It was so loud, we could barely hear each other. Pam, who is six years younger than me, said she felt the same way. After she got the photos she needed, and we'd had a drink apiece, we both decided to leave. It had only been about an hour.

I can't imagine going to a club (or a club-like environment) with the intent of meeting someone. And while I like going to one of the local pubs for a pint or two, even when I was in college I didn't go out drinking just to drink. It never held any appeal. I suppose it's because I want something more than just the superficial.

Anyway, on Sunday afternoon, Pam, myself and a few other ladies are going to have our own girl's outing, something with a little less bass and no strobe lighting. We're going pottery painting. :)

Thoughts on being single

2011-07-13T00:21:00.003-04:00

So I'm on day six of my 40-day writing commitment and I'm doing quite well. I've managed to write every day so far, even if only for a little while. Three cheers for dedication! Now if only I can get back into that exercise routine...

Fitness aside, I've spent a little time reviewing some things I've written in the past. One, a piece of fiction I started last year, I've decided to put more effort into and see if anything comes of it. I also found the below, some compiled reflections on faith and being single that, at the time, I titled Vignettes (probably because it doesn't have a solid conclusion).

I wrote them in March of 2008 (and very proud of my quote usage I was, too, although I was probably reading too much chick-lit at the time), and was clearly intending to do something with it, although I can't recall what. References I make to "not too long ago," are now three years in the past. It made me laugh, though, as I reread. I liked it when I wrote it and I still like it now. I probably didn't post it to this blog (which has been around quite a while now, even if I've only been more consistent posting to it recently) because I wasn't brave enough, and (gasp!) someone might actually read it. Maybe it's a symptom of being a few years older, but I care less about what people think, in terms of my writing, than I once did. I also received some positive reinforcement about it from a friend, who thought it was worthwhile to put out there as well.

And while I'm sure that, having had three additional years of single life go by, I could add to the piece, what is here still stands on its own, I think. So, barring a few tweaks and an update or two, here 'tis:

“Someone will come along someday. I hear Florida is a good place to find wealthy widowers … Of course, I hear they go pretty quickly. Both to marriage and death. Better hurry!”

From “What a Girl Wants” by Kristin Billerbeck

You know, if only the man I wanted was a wealthy, or even remotely well-off, widower, I would have my pick. The roads, stores, restaurants at 4 p.m. and indeed the very ground in Southwest Florida are thick with them. As my cousin Carrie once said to me jokingly, “If you wanted a sugar-daddy, you’d be all set.”

But I don’t want a wealthy widower. With all due respect to the retirees, I would prefer to date a man who’s closer to my age range than to my grandfather’s. The only problem is, there don’t seem to be any unmarried ones here.

Not too long ago, my friend Lance suggested I join a grandmother’s group at my parish.

“Maybe they’d have some grandsons your age,” he said before his wife Nicole slapped him playfully.

Well, even if I was that desperate about being single at 30, I couldn’t join a grandmother’s – or any other woman’s group – down here if I wanted to. They all meet during the day, sometime between 10 and 2, when I’m at work. So much for ministering to young adults, huh?

As far as single’s groups at area parishes go, there are a couple. But I don’t qualify for any of them, seeing as I’m under 45 and all.

And as for the potential grandsons, I very much doubt that any of them live here. They’re probably in Boston, New York, Chicago or Saskatchewan.

One of my college roommates, now a youth minister, used to go to a number of conferences. She would always come back and say something like, “I met this great guy. He’d be so perfect for you! Only he lives in Arizona.”

I’d scoff at her and say “Well, what good does that do me here?” I used to think that God would plunk a man into my lap wherever I was and that would be that. Nothing like that has happened yet.

But God certainly works in interesting ways. My friend Amanda joined one of the Catholic dating Web sites. She started sending messages back and forth with a man who lived in Massachusetts who volunteered with FOCUS ministries. Before they even met officially, they were dating. She said everything was so easy…but she still had doubt. “God is crazy…but in a good way,” she’d tell me. After five and a half months, tons of phone calls, Internet chatting sessions and flying back and forth to see each other (not to mention the fact that it turned out he’d known a friend of hers at Steubenville), he proposed. A little more than a year after she’d been mourning the loss of a relationship with a man she thought was the love of her life, Amanda found the true one (2011 update: they’re now expecting their second child).

I think sometimes that, for those of us who are still single, we lack the faith to believe that God will do amazing things like that for us, or that we are somehow less deserving of love like that that seems to just appear out of thin air. But that’s not the case at all. I have to remind myself that God is working in me and molding me for that other person, and vice versa. My best (now very happily married) friend and I used to think that love would just come. We both thought that we’d go to college, meet the man of our dreams, graduate, land a fabulous job and live happily every after. Looking back now, I know that didn’t happen because I wasn’t ready. I still don’t know if I am, but I do know I’m closer. My faith tells me so.

“(He) was the constant ray of hope in my life. The Omnipresent Potential. A reason to buy new clothes. It was the hope I was addicted to.”

From “What a Girl Wants” by Kristin Billerbeck

Hope is a heady thing. And it doesn’t take much to feed it. An e-mail. A sentence. A word of greeting spoken in passing. I will readily admit to having spent countless hours overanalyzing nearly everything a crush has said to me. Sometimes, I brought a friend along with me in these trips to happily-ever-after land. In fact, it was better that way, because you had someone to gush to. And if she happened to have a crush of her own to analyze it was even better. It was like crack.

More often than not, my crushes didn’t live in the same city as I did. There was the brother of a friend I met on a retreat. A crush who finally asked me to dinner the night before he moved across the country for work but then maintained a nearly three-year correspondence with me. Another who was the classmate of a former roommate at a different university (you follow?). I lived for their e-mails, imagining they were the modern version of love letters. The distance made it even easier to imagine different meanings to the words they wrote to me.

Even Charles Dickens commented on this once. I came a cross a quote in "Nicholas Nickleby" that reminded me so much of this. For some reason, it surprised me to no end that Charles Dickens would know what I felt 150-odd years later.

"Mystery and disappointment are not absolutely indispensable to thegrowth of love, but they are, very often, its powerful auxiliaries. 'Out of sight, out of mind,' is well enough as a proverb applicable to cases of friendship, though absence is not always necessary to hollowness of heart, even between friends, and truth and honesty, like precious stones, are perhaps most easily imitated at a distance, when the counterfeits often pass for real. Love, however, is very materially assisted by a warm and active imagination, which has a long memory, and will thrive for a considerable time on very slight and sparing food. Thus it is, that it often attains its most luxuriant growth in separation and under circumstances of utmost difficulty."

Dickens had a sense for human nature. And that doesn’t change much.

And it seems like most of these relationships that experienced “luxuriant growth” were the ones that didn’t have a concrete ending. There was still some kind of a connection, or no closure. For myself, and for some friends, those are those are ones you carry with you. The ones that make you think, “what if?” For far too long.

A couple of years ago, I was lucky enough to be able to attend the first night of a two-night presentation by Christopher West (who I was able to meet with briefly—I had him sign a book for me). He spent that evening addressing the women in the audience. Being a reporter, I of course took copious notes, and I’m glad I did, since I’ve gone back to read them several times. One of the things he said that stuck with me (and there were many) was that when we as women look to men to satisfy the deepest desires of our hearts, we commit idolatry. I’d never thought about it that way before, and thinking about all the time I spent worrying/wishing/wasting time thinking about and overanalyzing the relationships that almost were, well, that’s what I was doing. West said man can only be “a faint glimmer” of what Jesus can do for us. God will woo you if you let Him.

“The date was nothing like I expected it to be. Not that I knew what to expect. But I did have the odd imaginary scenario in my head, ranging from dreadful (he doesn’t turn up; it turns out he’s a Nazi) to fantastic (we end up … on a speedboat on the Thames and he asks me to marry him) …”

From “Can You Keep a Secret” by Sophie Kinsella

Not too long ago, I agreed to meet with a man I’d been exchanging e-mails with on a Catholic dating site. He was going to be visiting the area to meet with his spiritual director (so I figured he couldn’t be an ax-murderer, right?) and wanted to meet for coffee. After finding out his last name (so I’d know what name my friends should give the cops in case I turned up missing), and talking on the phone, I said agreed. It had been years since I’d had anything remotely resembling a date, but I offered it up to God and His will, figuring He’d cover me.

And in one way, it was a successful date. No, he didn’t sweep me off my feet and propose we jet to Scotland for a lavish wedding in a castle, and there wasn’t even a love connection, but I was confident and myself. In fact, I was so confident, I think I made this man nervous. He was having a hard time coming up with things to ask me about. And although the conversation was ok when it got going, there wasn’t a love connection. But nothing ventured, nothing gained, right?

The imagination weaves other storylines, too. In lieu of an actual date, the mind creates idiotic scenarios that could rival some of the best of Hollywood’s “meet cute” plot lines. It’s usually completely unrealistic, ridiculously detailed and takes place in a locale that the other person would either a) never show up in, or b) a place you tend to frequent, making option A all the more likely. Something like this:

“‘I meant to call you,’ he would say, as I swooned glamorously over his arm, defying gravity in the best of all possible ways. ‘But I was [hit by a cab; gored by a wild bull; in hospital with cholera]. Come to dinner with me and I’ll make it up to you.’”

From “The Deception of the Emerald Ring” by Lauren Willig

Imagine if the brain power we women wasted coming up with these scenarios was used for good, or even constructive prayer time, rather than silliness? What couldn’t we do?

“Truthfully, this is the fabric of all my fantasies: love shown not by a kiss or a wild look or a careful hand but by a willingness for research. I don’t dream of someone who understands me immediately, who seems to have known me my whole life, who says I know, me too. I want someone keen to learn my own strange organization, amazed at what’s revealed; someone who asks, and then what, and then what?”

From “The Giant’s House” by Elizabeth McCracken

I have a desire to be wooed. Most women do. I’ve tried pursuing before, which is what the world tells us we should do, but that didn’t work. It didn’t feel altogether natural, either. And sure, there’s a definite allure to the whole love at first sight thing. But being friends first takes time. It takes patience, which a lot of us pray for, but don’t have. We can’t wait on our own. We need God’s help.

The undiscovered country

2011-07-08T22:53:00.000-04:00

I found myself in tears this morning, standing in front of the newsroom TV watching the shuttle Atlantis vault into the firmament. And judging by some friend's Facebook posts, I wasn't the only one. Growing up in Central Florida, the shuttle program was part of our lives.

I didn't actually grow up on the Space Coast itself (the whole geographical area taking it's name from NASA's presence), but for a while my family lived in Orlando, which is awfully close--close enough for the sonic booms announcing a shuttle's return to earth to really rattle windows. :) We took school field trips to the Cape, wondering at the size of the rockets on display, often standing in their shade against the Florida heat and savoring the strange texture of the dehydrated ice cream we bought in the gift shop.

I was 7 when the Challenger exploded, and I remember that day. We'd been listening to the launch countdown on a radio in the classroom at Good Shepherd and, when it got close, our teacher, Mrs. Carillo, ushered us out to the front parking lot with the rest of the school, where we gathered whenever a shuttle went up. It was chilly, but bright. There wasn't a cloud in the sky, and we all watched as Challenger grew smaller, contrail spreading behind her. When the explosion happened and the solid rocket boosters kept climbing in divergent paths, we knew something had happened; I knew something was wrong. I was old enough to recognize, and I'd seen enough of them to know, that normal shuttle launches didn't look like that. Teachers quickly began herding us back into classrooms, and, once we were there, Mrs. Carillo quickly turned off the radio we'd left on and started us on some assignment. I'm sure we asked questions, and I'm equally sure she reassured us. But I remember her face. She was stunned.

Even after we moved from Orlando to Lakeland, about an hour further west, you could still see the shuttles go up if it was a clear day or night. I couldn't say how many times I'd run into my driveway and look east over the treeline just to see a shuttle fly, offering a prayer for their safe return.

In the wake of Challenger, President Reagan, addressing the nation said "The future doesn't belong to the fainthearted; it belongs to the brave." And maybe that's why I cry, even all these years later, especially seeing another shuttle (the last!) make it up safely. The fact that something so large and ungainly can rocket into the heavens, that men and women hazard their lives to ride it and orbit our planet is still a wonder, one I don't think will ever cease.

Jules Verne once asked, "What are the final frontiers in this quest for travel? Will humankind only be satisfied when journeys into space become readily available and affordable?” Star Trek, of course, answered that in it's opening monologue, declaring "Space: the final frontier..." (yes, I watched Star Trek). And good old Jules wasn't far from wrong, really, since there are already some who have taken flights into space simply for the pleasure of it. Of course, those people have the ridiculous amounts of money to pay their way. For the rest of us, recreational space travel is still cost-prohibitive. So I'm sure that's why there have been so many movies, books and TV shows about space exploration, why, despite the dangers and the losses, so many still effort. We dream of space, probably since so few of us have actually been there, and there are a myriad of mysteries it still holds. But perhaps one day...

In the mean time, may Atlantis and her crew come back to Earth safely.

The writer once I was

2011-07-06T01:12:00.000-04:00

I used to write all the time. I have folders upon backpacks filled with scribblings. Poems, random musings, journals, fun quotes I found and saved in the hopes of topping chapters with one day, the unfinished Elizabethan love story (72 pages worth!) I started when I was 13. :) I wrote my first story when I was five, and as the years went on, I was almost ridiculously prolific. I was a sucker for lengthy, sometimes almost Dickensian descriptions, historical accuracy and multi-syllabic words. And letters, oh the letters I used to write to my cousins, the occasional overseas pen pal, my best friend from kindergarten (we wrote each other letters beginning in third grade and didn't talk on the phone until high school. We kept on writing in to college, and didn't see each other physically until I was in her wedding in 1999). I've kept most of the letters I've received, and wonder often about the fate of mine.

In the last several years I've started short stories (and actually finished a couple), two novels (one made it to 30-some odd pages, the other about 15...so far) and only a handful of letters (most, in fact, were only cards). Last year a good friend from high school and I decided we would write letters to each other (she now lives in Texas). We wrote each other exactly one letter a piece and then I, well, I kept meaning to write, and then months went by and I haven't written her a letter since.

And I was a dedicated, one might say obsessively Victorian-like journal keeper. They're all mismatched, my journals, some large, some small, one a book of bound graphing paper, filled to the margins. Some of my entries are about serious things like family events or school. Mostly they're silly musings about boys who I spent entirely too much time worrying about and obsessing over. In recent years, there have been more writings about faith and my walk with and toward God. But the last time I did any serious journaling was in Rome and immediately after I returned. A year and a half ago.

And of course the ironic thing is that I write every day. I'm lucky in that I make my living writing. It's what I got that creative writing degree to be able to do. But I feel like many of my stories for the paper are mundane and lacking in creativity, boxed in by inch counts, dumbed down and shortened for people who don't have long enough attention spans to read to the end.

Maybe that's my fault. But sometimes I wonder if my creativity has vanished or simply gone on an extended hiatus. I have ideas occasionally, but I'm lucky if I get beyond writing them down. They come at the most inopportune times, while I'm in the shower or getting ready to go somewhere. The majority of the time, the last thing I want to do when I get home from writing at work all day is sit and write some more. Writing used to be a joy for me, a necessary outlet almost as integral as breathing. Now, mostly, it feels like a chore. I at least tried to keep my hand in at one point. Three or four years ago I used to play a game with my editor: I would try and use big words in stories and see how many she'd let me keep, or how many actually made it into the paper the next day. Once I managed to squeeze in triumvirate, and was most proud of using prestidigitation several years ago. Now we have this new rule that no story can exceed 20 inches (roughly 500 words), and I wonder how much further we can be curbed and still be able to tell a decent story.

My editor now jokes with me occasionally that I'm really sitting at my desk writing my 15th novel (the number keeps growing) and that I'll complete it by lunchtime. If only. It was never my dream to write the Great American Novel, not really, but to have one well-written one that I'm proud of published? Now that I dream of.

And I know this post smacks somewhat of bitterness and regret, but I don't want that, ultimately. God gave me a gift in my writing ability, and I don't want to waste it. Sitting here typing, I realized I can do something about that. While I think Lent would be the ideal time to rededicate myself to writing creatively or introspectively every day, I need to get back in the habit, and I shouldn't have to wait until next spring. I should be able to discipline myself to do that, writing a little (not on the computer, but by hand), whether it's journaling or something creative, be it ever so meager an effort, for the next 40 days. I'll start today...well, as it's after 1 in the morning, later today, although this post should count, right?

I pray for the intercession of St. Francis de Sales and St. Maximillian Kolbe, patrons of writers and journalists, for their help in sticking to my resolution. Counting it out, 40 days from today is August 14th. I can do that.

I just realized August 14th is St. Maximillian Kolbe's feast day. I sit here amazed.

Does not compute

2011-06-17T02:14:00.000-04:00

About two years ago, I wrote an article for the paper about seniors taking computer classes. I attended several of these classes, one of which (I think it was the intermediate course) required those in it to be able to "use a mouse with confidence." I laughed about it a little, and then went to the class, where, despite the requirement, some were far from sure in their abilities.

Somewhere along the way, my parents have become those people. Ok, I exaggerate. But while my mom emails regularly and my dad knows how to google things, that's about it, really.

And sometime within the past few years, I have become my parents' go-to person for solving computer problems (my brother Daniel would be a far more ideal consultant, but he lives in Oregon, and I'm only two hours away. That, and my dad and Daniel aren't speaking, but that's another (long) story...). Their problems are usually simple...to me: their router needs resetting or Skype has stopped working or mom needs to copy lesson-plan data from a jump drive onto the desktop. She will usually wait until evening to call with a problem, but my dad has taken to calling me in the middle of the workday when he needs assistance. As he relates his problem, he will describe every box and menu and option on the screen, most of which are entirely unrelated to the issue he's experiencing, unsure of what is relevant to the task at hand.

Earlier this week, he rang me up because he was trying to send an email with information my aunt had sent him, but didn't want to include her email address and contact information. Since my parents have used the same two passwords for years, I can easily log in to their email so I can point to exactly what he's looking at and he won't get completely lost. My coworkers giggled good-naturedly as I talked my dad -- he is the first one to admit he's a dinosaur when it comes to computers. He doesn't trust them, he says, and frequently longs for those halcyon days when typewriters were the height of technology -- through copying and deleting my aunt's email address, and then explained how to forward the email after he said he wanted to send it to two people at once. To simplify things, at one point, I said, "Here, dad, just tell me the addresses and, since I have your email open, I'll do it for you." My boss, from across the office, called out laughingly, "Stop being an enabler!" She had a point, though, and it gave me pause. I wasn't trying to be helpful, per se. What I was really trying to do was hurry the process up so I could get on with my day, rather than teach my dad the very simple steps for something that is second nature to most of us.

The problem, partially, is that I'm not there, and there is only so much that can be done over the phone. A few months ago, my mom was going through an online job application. She was beyond frustrated and feeling completely defeated by the computer. First off, she'd been using her Mac, but the fact she couldn't enable popups (required for some reason by the application) was stymieing her. So she switched to my dad's PC. Then she couldn't figure out how to transfer her resume from her Mac to the laptop. Since my parents didn't have a jump drive at the time, I told her to just email it to herself. Once that was done, I had help her find where she'd saved it on the laptop...no easy task when she's unfamiliar with where documents can be saved on the computer and wasn't sure where she'd saved her resume in the first place.

While I was walking her through this, I was putting away groceries. One of the shelves in my fridge door gave way, scattering bottles of condiments all over my kitchen floor. Thankfully nothing shattered, but I had to fix it. At that point, she was using the unfamiliar laptop, making frustrated noises and mumbling as she tried to navigate without the mouse.

"I hate this thing," she said of the touch pad. At one point, she paused to ask me, "have you eaten dinner?" I hadn't and said so. "Oh, well I can call you back and we can do this later."

"No, mom, I'm on the phone now, let's just do it now," I said, knowing the irritation I was feeling was seeping into my tone of voice.

My annoyance stemmed partially from how easy this is for me, and partially because it was interrupting my evening. And while I thought my directions were perfectly simple, they were beyond her -- and she is, as I've mentioned, by far the more computer savvy of my parents. As I sat there, walking her through this process (which she eventually conquered) and trying to eat my dinner, I was mentally reminding myself to be patient when 1 Corinthians 13:4 popped into my head. While it's typically read at weddings, love and kindness and honoring others aren't exclusive to a spousal relationship. It made me realize that at some point, I will be older, and there will be concepts or technology I don't understand or am slow to grasp, and that someone will, hopefully, walk me through them patiently and without anger.

It also got me thinking about role reversals. I'm teaching my first teachers. When did that switch happen?

Mother's helper

2011-05-18T23:29:00.000-04:00

I imagine for most people, spending a week's vacation in a house with a rambunctious nearly 3-year old and a two-month old baby wouldn't be at the top of their list. In fact, a number of people I know would likely run screaming in the opposite direction. But the largely low-key days spent in running errands, going to story time at the library or playing in parks in middle Georgia were perfect.

Sarah and I have been friends since college, and, for all intents and purposes, she is my sister. She has a PhD in microbiology and is hoping to start teaching in the fall. And although sometimes she wonders about the job she is doing as a parent, she's a fantastic mom. She and her husband, Michael, have two beautiful boys, the youngest of whom, Charlie, became my godson last week.

It's so strange how fascinating a 2-month old can be. And he's growing so fast. Even in the short week I was there, he started holding his head up more and smiling regularly in response to the smiles of those around him. Several mornings I simply found myself staring at him in wonder. Only about 10 pounds, it's amazing how quickly I'd have to switch arms when holding him (note to self: go back to the weights at the gym!). And being awakened by the crying baby in the early hours didn't even bother me.

Peter, his older brother, would cuddle into my lap -- sometimes transferring sticky remnants of his breakfast oatmeal from his pajamas to mine -- for a book, demanding I "read this!" Then, like as not, he'd throw the book at me a few minutes later. He kicked me in the face at one point as I was putting him into his car seat, but not out of any sort of malice. He's very much all boy and is completely acting his age: asserting his independence but looking for attention (At one point, on a playground, Sarah and I, at the exact same time, called out "No-no-no-no-no!") by running away in stores, fighting to not hold you hand in a parking lot, begging to watch more Wonder Pets or Sesame Street (several days after returning home, I still find myself humming or singing children's TV show theme songs), wriggling away when you attempt to come near him with shoes or clothes or a toothbrush and slowly coming to realize that this crying, pooping bundle of a little brother so recently thrust upon him isn't going anywhere.

I became handier at putting kids in and taking them out of car seats (even in the dark, without the benefit of a dome light). I can now open store doors and maneuver strollers through without a second thought. Taking an entire stroller, complete with its 22-month old passenger, into a bathroom stall, was a new experience. And speaking of that stroller, I finally managed to learn the trick to unfold it one-handed. I picked up some other tricks (the fine art of persuading, placating and distracting, for example) for future reference, too. :)

Wednesday morning, we went to Sarah's weekly mom's group meeting at Sacred Heart parish. Part social time, part Bible study, it allowed the moms time to chat, while their children were being taken care of by others. The group, composed of women with children of all ages, teens to newborns, were reading Kimberly Hahn's "Chosen and Cherished," which, among many things, talks about the sanctity of marriage. The group was on the last chapter, and the conversation meandered from marriage prep, how in-laws can help a married couple face challenges to the fear of losing one's identity in marriage and tackling discipline issues with misbehaving children. Despite some of the struggles they shared, listening to them (an occasionally chiming in), was both refreshing and reassuring.

The week before my vacation, I was on a phone interview with a woman I'd never met. As it was right before Mother's Day, I wished her a happy one. She asked if I was a mom, I assume because she wanted to know if she should wish me one back. I said no, but that I hoped to be one day. She said, quite emphatically, "Oh, you will."

That's not the first time something like that has happened to me. Random strangers telling me I'll make a good parent. My friend Jess said it could be the prompting of the Holy Spirit, sent to reassure me that the vocation I feel called to is really part of God's plan, and not something I've simply convinced myself of out of sheer cussedness.

At one point in the week, when I was trying to urge a fussy Peter to cooperate or maybe while juggling Charlie, Sarah asked me jokingly, "Convinced you not to want kids yet?" My answer was an honest no. She fusses that her house isn't neat enough, but I think that's a sign that she has more important things to worry about then, say, whether her ceiling fan blades are dusted regularly. And although she struggles to find time for herself amidst her job as a mom ("Be grateful," she said "for the single time you have now, because when you're a mom you find what extra time you do get to yourself is often spent catching up on chores.") she wouldn't trade this "adventure" -- her word, not mine -- for the wide world.

And while it was only a week, I thoroughly enjoyed being Sarah's helper. I look forward to the day when I'm blessed with children of my own, and have the opportunity to use some of the skills I had the chance to practice during my vacation.

A still, small voice

2011-04-24T16:28:00.000-04:00

For Lent this year, I decided to do two things, both of which came to me at the spur of the moment mere days before Ash Wednesday. Looking back, I realize now they were thoughts that didn't come from me.

Commenting on my friend Kim's status that Monday about her proposed Lenten sacrifice, I was about to type that I'd be giving up buying books (something I've done for the past several years, because I'm an addict, really) but instead found my fingers tapping out that I'd be going to daily Mass. As I hit enter to post the comment, I realized how perfect that actually was. I tend to guard my mornings somewhat selfishly. I like to ease into my day; sleep as late as possible, check my mail/Facebook over my bowl of cereal, read a little, enjoy my tea or coffee, and not rush (although I usually end up rushing anyway, because really, I'm lollygagging). And I tend to go through phases with daily Mass, where I'll go for a while, and then stop. But whenever I start going regularly again, I wonder why on earth I quite.

The first few days of Lent were rough. As a reporter, I don't typically have to be in the office until 9:30, so generally sleep until 8:15 or so. But daily Mass started at 8:30, so I was getting up between 7 and 7:30... by which time most people are already up and at 'em and out the door. But as the 40 days went on, it definitely got easier. There were three days I missed Mass, twice because I turned off the alarm and overslept and once because of a work commitment. Those three days I just felt incomplete. Did I miss sleeping later? Of course--sleeping in until 10 this morning (after going to Easter vigil last night) felt positively decadent. But having the set time to pray quietly and receiving Jesus focused me for the day. Plus I got to office a little earlier, which, oddly enough, made the workdays seem to pass more quickly.

The second thing was what I decided to read. No doubt prompted by the Holy Spirit (since it wasn't even in the stack of books I'd been considering), I've been reading JPII's "Theology of the Body." Back in 2001, I'd borrowed it from a friend, but didn't get very far. I bought myself a copy in 2008, not long after hearing Christopher West speak in Naples, and that time managed to read about 100 pages, or the first section of part I, "The Original Unity of Man and Woman, a Catechesis on the book of Genesis."

So on Ash Wednesday, I started again from the beginning, a different color of ink joining my notes and underlinings from three years before. I'm nowhere near done, but I've made it past the first 100 pages.

The beauty of JPII is how much he can glean from just a few verses. Because the text is so dense, there were times I'd have to read a paragraph several times, or bop back and forth between pages (or sections) as connections were revealed. And since I'm one to read foot and end notes (which often revealed fun new words, like kardiognostes and sklerokardia), those often revealed even more of the onion-like layers of our faith. Or, as Blessed John Henry Newman said, "Every passage in the history of our Lord and Savior is of unfathomable depth, and affords inexhaustible matter of contemplation." Unless, of course, the end notes were in a language I don't know. Notes in Spanish, and even Italian, I could work out, but occasionally there would be a note in, say, German, that was of no help to me. I found myself laughingly talking to the Venerable JPII, saying that while he spoke something like 12 languages, my skills didn't reach so far.
But as I continue to read, I'm learning a lot and finding in his words a comfort and a strength as I wait for "the accomplishment of (my) vocation."

So for the next 50 days of Easter celebration (and beyond), I'll keep reading. My alarm will remain set for 7:15. And I'll keep listening to that guiding voice, dropping suggestions in my ear to lead me closer along the path He wants me to follow. Because, in His infinite wisdom, He knows what I need more so than do I.

Birthday reflections

2011-02-21T14:28:00.000-05:00

I started this yesterday, but didn't get around to finishing. It was a busy birthday weekend, what with work, an outing with friends and a visit from my parents. It was lovely, but it's also nice to finally have a quiet day to myself.

I have to say, I don't feel 33. All this past week, people have guessed that I'm younger than I am, which is flattering, but it's also amusing. When I was in high school, people always thought I was older than I was.

Not that I'm complaining. But some days I still feel about 12 years old. I suppose because there's still so much I'd like to do. Like be more organized. I've been working on that (the plastic organizational bins I bought last week, just waiting to be filled, speak to that). And I want to write a book. My coworkers joke about my "sixth novel," and the number keeps rising (I think they've gotten up to nine now). A friend of mine from high school has been waiting for me to write a novel ever since then. Even a kids book would do. You know how some people say they knew very early on that they wanted to be a doctor, or a policeman? I knew when I was a child that I wanted to write books. And I write for a living, which is a blessing. But I need to make that time and be more dedicated with writing for me, even when I've been writing all day at the paper. And I should work on my Spanish. I haven't used it in so long and have lost so much of it already....perhaps traveling to a Spanish-speaking country would help with that. :) More travel? Yes, please!

I just don't want to look back later in life and have regrets. I see my parents and I know that there are things they wish they'd done, things they never tried or goals they still hope to accomplish.

And to be completely honest, beyond all that, I want to be married. I want children. I always have. Am I desperate? Hardly. Is my clock ticking? Quite possibly. Ultimately, it's God's will, not mine, but the thought of not experiencing those things makes me sad. Sometimes I wonder if that's what I'm called to give up. And yet, I pray for my husband and his intentions every day...wherever he is. I've done it for years. And I don't think I would have been prompted to do that if he wasn't out there to pray for. It is the desire of my heart. Funny, I didn't expect to write this paragraph. I started this with the intention of coming up with a bucket list of sorts, but that's the thing about writing...it doesn't always go the way you plan. Like life. :)

Will the real St. Valentine please stand up?

2011-02-14T21:19:00.000-05:00

I've been toying with the idea of writing a Valentine's Day-themed post for a few days now, and the focus has shifted several times. First, I was tempted to take the self-indulgent route (single, blue-stocking spinster just shy of 33 ponders the foibles of her timing vs. God's (infinitely wiser) plan), but that smacked too much of bitterness, which I try to avoid, so I nixed it. Then there was the tongue-in-cheek look at my lack of a love life stemming from the hopelessness of my very first crush, Errol Flynn. Yes, my father's purchase of a VCR in 1983 coupled with a renting of 1938's "The Adventures of Robin Hood" was a momentous event for my 5-year-old self. How was I to know Errol had been dead for 30-plus years when confronted with his green-tights-clad derring-do in glorious Technicolor?

But I thought better of that, too. I finally decided in favor of a topic I started researching several years ago when I began writing a draft of a Catholic chick-lit novel (which I still think would be fun to finish, even if just for the sake of having done it (and something which several of my girlfriends who I let read the 34-odd pages of text would thank me for, since they've all berated me several times for leaving them -- and my main character -- hanging)).

Anyway (now that I've completely buried the lede, sorry), one of the plot lines revolved around my protagonist discovering various saints (did you know there is a patron saint of spelunkers, and two patrons of unattractive people?) on the Patron Saints Index, where she (almost inevitably) stumbles upon those whose patronage extends to single people.

According to the Index, there are at least 32 saints one can pray to for intercession when it comes to romance, including St. Nicholas of Myra (yep, Santa Claus!) and St. Catherine of Alexandria, patron of young women and female students -- who I once saw referenced in a silly romp of a Paul Newman-Joanne Woodward 60s comedy, set in Paris, where Joanne’s character joins a parade of single shop girls carrying flowers to a statue of St. Catherine in hopes she'll intercede and find them husbands.

But St. Andrew the Apostle, feast day November 30, stood out. I remember hearing years ago that he was one of the patrons of the unmarried, and when I looked him up for my (now stalled) work-in-progress, his biographical information included the following strange superstitions:

* An old German tradition says that single women who wish to marry should ask for Saint Andrew's help on the Eve of his feast, then sleep naked that night; they will see their future husbands in their dreams.

* Another says that young women should note the location of barking dogs on Saint Andrew's Eve: their future husbands will come from that direction.

* On the day after Andrew's feast, young people float cups in a tub; if a boy's and a girl's cup drift together and are intercepted by a cup inscribed "priest," it indicates marriage.

Really? Sleeping naked, barking dogs and what sounds essentially like bobbing for a spouse? Very, very odd. How do these things get started?

And then, of course, there's St. Valentine. Actually, depending on the source, there are between eight and 14 saints Valentine. One has a feast on December 16, another on January 7. The St. Valentine commemorated on October 25 was from Spain and was martyred by invading Moors. St. Valentine Berrio-Ochoa was a missionary to the Philippines and Vietnam, where he was beheaded in 1861. St. Valentine of Genoa, feast day May 2, was bishop of that city and died circa 307. St. Valentine of Strasbourg was bishop of both Strasbourg and of Alsace, France in the fourth century. And then there's St. Valentine of Terni, who some believe, apparently, might be one and the same person as THE St. Valentine -- St. Valentine of Rome, since both their memorials fall on February 14.

Valentine of Rome, patron of love, lovers, engaged couples and happy marriages (as well as of travelers, young people, bee keepers (oddly enough), greeting card manufacturers (surprise!) and who can be invoked against epilepsy, the plague and fainting), was apparently martyred around the year 270, and there are any number of stories about him. One of them (even referenced on "How I Met Your Mother" earlier tonight!) says he invoked the ire of the emperor performing marriages for young Roman soldiers and their brides in secret when the emperor forbade members of his army to wed ostensibly because single men who weren't thinking about a wife and children made better fighters. Another recounts how Valentine was martyred helping early Christians escape their Roman captors. A third tale posits Valentine fell in love, while in prison himself, with the daughter of his jailer, writing her a letter before his death signed "from your Valentine."

Of course, there are several other possibilities about why love is celebrated in the spring, many having to do with the beginning of animal mating season. It is also said that the Church replaced the Roman fertility festival of Lupercalia with St. Valentine's Day.

According to History.com, during this festival members of the Luperci, an order of pagan Roman priests, would gather at the sacred cave where the infants Romulus and Remus were believed to have been raised by a she-wolf. The priests would sacrifice a goat, for fertility, and a dog, for purification. Young men then sliced the goat's hide into strips, dipped them in the blood and took to the streets, gently slapping both women and fields of crops with the goat hide strips. Can I just say, for the record, that I'm really glad this particular tradition is no longer practiced? I'd much rather be given a nice card, some flowers or have a lovely dinner than be smacked with a bloody strip of hide on Lupercalia Day.

Strangely enough, the Roman women really didn't mind the sanguineous salute, because they believed it would make them more fertile during the coming year. Later in the day, the legend says, all the young women in the city placed their names in a large urn so Roman bachelors could pluck a name and be matched for the year with the woman whose name he chose, with the pairing often ended in marriage. However, Pope Gelasius outlawed the "lottery system" of finding a mate and declared February 14 St. Valentine's Day around the end of the fifth century.

And as with St. Andrew, there's an interesting tradition related to St. Valentine that I'd never heard before -- pinning bay leaves to your pillow on Valentine’s Eve in order to see your future mate in your dreams that night.

Well, shoot. I have bay leaves in my spice cabinet. But I guess I missed my chance last night. I suppose I'll just have to wait until November and listen for barking dogs. ;)

St. Valentine -- all of you -- please pray for us!

Oh, Christmas tree...

2010-12-14T22:38:00.000-05:00

When I was a girl, my mother was the one who always put the lights on our Christmas tree, which I realize now was probably because my dad just doesn't have the patience for it. And of course, at the time, neither did my brothers and I. We bugged her as she worked, since none of the decorations could go on (something we could help with) until the lights were finished, and the lights always seemed to take forever.

I know people who have fake trees -- which now come pre-lit, simplifying the process even further -- prefer them because they're easier and don't leave a mess. They don't want the bother.

And as I wound those lights around my tree last night, I got to musing that putting lights onto a tree is a little like life. Sometimes you feel like you're going up and down and round and round in circles in this journey and not making any progress at all. Your hands get dirty. Occasionally you get stuck from all the weaving in and out and have to backtrack. Some spots are clear and easy to navigate, while in others the boughs are thick and dark and you can become lost in them. They poke you in the eye sometimes, or thwack you in the face, and unwelcome visitors -- like lizards or stinkbugs -- can pop out unexpectedly.

Then, there are the decorations. Some people like to have theme trees, or stick to a specific color pallette. On my tree, they're a hodgepodge of colors, and ages -- some of mine used to on my Granny B's tree when my mom was a girl -- animals, bells, birds, cartoon characters. It's a riot of color that, despite the seeming lack of any sort of organization, just works. Presents

And when you're done the seeming hassle is so worth it; sitting and gazing at the tree, your hands washed of sap. The tree is done, lights, decorations, golden garland and the star on top, all the effort is worth it, especially when you can sit back and just gaze at the blinking, colorful lights and the glow they cast on the wall behind the tree. That smell, the crisp piney scent that spreads throughout a room after the lights have been going for a while and the tree warms. It's beautiful.

In life, we sometimes don't know where we're going, either. Our free will takes us down paths we sometimes shouldn't take, but we can learn from them. We make mistakes and our hands get dirty. There are unwanted surprises. But on the flipside, we have family and collect friends who become part of us. God guides us out of the forest and gives us a chance to wash our hands. And hopefully, when the journey is done, we'll gaze at beauty. And I'm sure it'll smell nice, too.

Thankful

2010-11-25T14:47:00.000-05:00

"Do not let a day slip by without considering God's favors...

Preserve them assiduously in the greatest possible purity and love them dearly, but even more, love him who so blessed you."

- Fray Francisco De Osuna

How quickly we can forget the gifts we've been given. It is so easy to complain, to worry and fume over what we don't have or things that don't go our way. I'm as guilty of this as anyone. And for some, spouting near-constant streams of vitriol about how the world is going to hell in a handbasket comes more easily than being positive. Maybe it's naive of me, but I try, most of the time anyway, to look on the brighter side of things (mostly because maintaining such a level of negativity seems exhausting). There is so much we have been blessed with, abilities and possessions that we often take for granted. Life, for one.

Today, if she was still living, would have been my great-grandmother's 115 birthday. She made it to 109, so that in itself was pretty impressive. When she was born, she was very weak, and the doctor and her family didn't think she would survive. But after her baptism, according to family history, she began to improve. I first heard the story in 1995, when we had a huge celebration for her 100th birthday. I remember looking around the room that day, filled with my family -- there were probably 100 of us, easily, and there are more now -- in one of the smaller ballrooms at the Holiday Inn in Alton, Ill. and thinking if she had died as a baby, how few of the people in that room would have been born. The seven sons she raised into adulthood all married and had children, and most of them had kids of their own, too. The fourth generation is having children now as well. All those lives, and the things they did and do to touch the lives of others, wouldn't have existed.

So I am thankful for breath. For movement and vision and hearing. For the gifts and talents I've been graced with, and the opportunity to use and share them. For a job which, despite my mutterings about it, keeps food on my table, gas in my car and a roof over my head. Many these days aren't so fortunate. For my quirky family, who although they sometimes have the ability to exasperate me more than anyone, put up with me, too, and love me. They are always there. And for my friends, near and far, who laugh with me (and frequently at me), endure my near-constant spouting of random facts and, most importantly, pray for me. I praise God for all of you.

And for God, who gave me all, and who also gave His son, and the Son who gave his life. There aren't thanks enough.

"The coming kingdom, here and now."

2010-11-20T22:36:00.000-05:00

"No more waiting/Your love's exhaling"
My breathe came in clouds, mingling with the moisture in the air that fell as condensation on the tile beneath my feet, so damp I'd left a path. The chilly night smelled of charcoal, and light was dim in that corner of the convent's rooftop, a buttery reflection from the streetlights below and the one light near the doorway of the roof's entrance. The sound of people chatting on the sidewalk below and the alarum of a foreign ambulance siren racing to the hospital up the hill was all that broke the silence. My cousin Carrie had gone down to our room to fetch something, and I was alone for the first time in days. I'd been sitting at the solitary table we'd dragged into the light, journaling about my experiences thus far in the Eternal City, but I was restless and fidgety. It could have been from the cold; I really should have been wearing another sweater.

But it wasn't just the chill. That day alone, I'd been to a papal audience and been blessed by Pope Benedict XVI, visited the ancient Appian Way and toured catacombs where some of the earliest Christians were buried. In the days before, Mass celebrating the Feast of Christ the King and confession at St. Peter's Basilica, Mass at the grave of St. Peter, the Scavi tour of the necropolis far beneath it, so many churches, each more beautiful than the next; the Trevi Fountain, the Spanish Steps, the Colosseum, the Forum, the Pantheon. Rome, with it's smells and sounds, cobbles smoothed by thousands of years worth of feet crossing them, and history everywhere: seemingly mundane things like ancient water fountains and stairways even older than my entire nation, the food, the people -- and for that week, a community of Catholics, strangers for the most part thrown together, but with whom I felt so at home, and more myself than I had in a long time. There was, as yet, a day in Florence ahead of me and tours of the great basilicas also to come. The fact that I was even there was something of a miracle. It was most certainly the answer to a prayer.

"We're coming home/And all are one"
I'd never been out of the country before, you see, and sometimes despaired of ever being able to do much travel, especially on the salary I made. In July of 2009, I remember sitting on my couch, journaling about how frustrated I was with the sheer lack in my life. There was no church community where I lived, unless you happened to be a retiree, no such thing as a date to be had and I was tired, restless and whiny, so much so that I complained in my journal to God, telling him of my desire to roam, for an adventure. Less than three hours later, my phone rang. It was Carrie, my cousin and the closest thing to a sister I've ever had. Although we talked on the phone fairly often, what with one thing and another, we hadn't seen each other in four years. Her parish in Washington D.C. was organizing a trip to Rome, and would I be interested in going? she asked. All of her other close girlfriends weren't Catholic, and she didn't want to go by herself. I was ecstatic and thrilled, but also a bit reticent. I told her I would love to go, but couldn't promise I could raise the nearly $2,000 for the trip. But I gave her a tentative yes and asked for more information when she had it. It was only after we hung up that I recalled my journal entry from earlier in the afternoon. I picked up the notebook from the floor at the foot of my couch, reread the lines I'd written and just sat there, staring up at my ceiling, laughing. Rarely has the answer to a prayer come so quickly for me.

The first hurdle was getting the time off of work. The trip was over Thanksgiving, and my boss is typically loath to let anyone go on extended vacations over major holidays. But it was July, and a coworker said the earlier I asked, the higher the likelihood my boss would agree to it. I even prayed about the best way to approach her with it. So a few mornings later, I sat myself down at her desk, and told her about the trip, the papal audience, the places we were scheduled to visit. She said I had to go. "Really, it's ok?" I asked. "You thought I would say no?" she replied. Well, frankly, yes.

I almost immediately started saving. As a reporter with a community newspaper, I don't make that much money, and it is extremely hard to save anything. But I stopped buying snacks and sodas from the vending machine at work. I put Netflix on hold and cut off my cable and internet service. Addicted to reading, I stopped buying books. I bought fewer treats at the grocery store. By scrimping, I managed to save enough to make the deposit. The only thing was, if I couldn't save the money for the entire trip, I'd lose the deposit entirely. I'm not someone who usually takes chances, so it was a gamble and a leap of faith.

And as I saved, I prayed a lot. I offered the trip up to God's will, invoked the prayers of the Blessed Mother, and petitioned several of my favorite saints, all while trying -- and failing miserably -- not to imagine myself there, say, lounging at a sidewalk cafe, sipping coffee. At the same time, I'd see clothes in stores and think, "I could wear that in Italy." Only occasionally would I buy something for myself, and then only if it was seriously on sale, like a shirt at Target marked down to a ridiculously low price. I made the deposit, seeing it as a sign almost that I was on the right track, and kept on saving. But then, the payment deadline loomed, and I was short. My best friend, Sarah, encouraged me to ask my parents for a loan for the remaining $700 I needed. But I'd wanted to do this on my own, I said, and feared a litany of objections, especially from my father, who tends to be frugal and isn't big on traveling. Wisely, Sarah told me, "If you ask and they say no, it's on them. But if you don't ask, it's on you, and you'll never know. And then you'll regret it for the rest of your life." She was right. So with much prayer that God's will be done ("Your will, not mine, Your will, not mine, Your will, not mine" had become almost a mantra for me) I finally drummed up the courage and called. I explained the situation to my mom, who said, while it would surely be amazing, they'd just had to put in an new air conditioner and didn't think they could afford it. I'd prepared myself for the no, and was at peace with that answer. Fifteen minutes later, my phone rang again, my mom calling back. I thought there was probably just something she'd forgotten to tell me. She opened with, "I've been discussing the idea with Dad..." and I braced myself for an entire list of objections he was likely making. But her next words shocked me: "...and he thinks it's fine." Oh, Lord! I couldn't stop smiling, and I must have asked "Really?!" and "Are you sure?" so many times, because my mom just started laughing at me.

"Blessed and broken/The floodgates open"

So there I was, standing on the roof of the convent we called home for the week, Casa Nostra di Fatima, on the Via del Gianicolo. I had bees listening to Matt Maher on my my iPod as I wrote, and it was still in my pocket as I wandered over to the small Marian grotto set in the far, darkest corner of the roof. With only a small lantern hanging by a chain, Mary was hard to see in the dim, but her arms were spread in welcome. Maher's song "Here and Now" began playing, and suddenly I was in tears. I tend to be somewhat emotional -- honor, sacrifice and beauty regularly make me cry -- and I'd been surprised I hadn't cried much over any of the amazing things we'd experienced thus far. But in that moment, I found myself on my knees, sobbing uncontrollably -- over what, I still can't quite put into words. Perhaps it was the full weight and realization of where I was, a renewal and relief after nearly five years of waiting on something, reassurance that my time spent relying on God alone hadn't been for naught, an awakening, a letting go, sheer joy and thanksgiving. A recapturing of confidence I'd sometimes thought lost. Wonder and awe. Grace. As I cried, I also felt the need to jump up and down, fling my arms out and twirl in abandon. I may have done, actually. And while part of me wanted, at the time, to be discovered in the midst of my tears, I know now that time was not for others. It was entirely Gods and mine.

"Here and Now"

Try as I might, there are things I have forgotten about that week in Italy, despite trying to write down as much as I could at the time and taking a truly ridiculous number of pictures. I know we aren't supposed to live in the past, and I don't. But the memories still shine. While there have been moments in the year since that trip where I've felt that all I regained from it was fading, graces are still trickling through, small moments there resonate into the now, friendships have developed from one short week -- connections from which I like to think I have begun to see a pattern and a path. The renewed sense of myself and my faith linger, for which I am so thankful. I contemplate actions I might not have even considered before, because my restlessness is of a different sort, and there is more adventure waiting for me. I take baby steps toward taking a leap I know I will soon have to make, a bit anxious but more afraid now of standing still than anything else. And I know God will catch me.

Oh, the irony

2010-08-06T18:44:00.004-04:00

Last Friday, the pettiest things were driving me nuts at work -- down to the smoke-raspy, nasal-accented, New York tones of some coworkers' voices. I know part of the problem was that I hadn't worked out at all last week, but I was just fed up. Fed up with being where I am, and where I work, and how nothing seems to be changing even though I feel like I'm ready for it to, how I want to move somewhere vibrant with a good Catholic community (one that isn't geared toward retirees) and work in a job that allows me the opportunity to use the creative talents I sometimes feel are going to waste here.

During my lunch break, I'd finally had enough. I got up and drove to the nearest church, San Pedro, and went to the chapel to pray. But it wasn't just prayer...God knows what I want and need, and I figured He didn't need to hear it again (I did briefly remind Him...although I'm sure The Almighty is fairly sick of my whining). Alternately, I knelt and sat in front of the tabernacle, soaking up the peace and cool of the place, basking in the Presence of Jesus. After half an hour, I felt like I'd had a massage. The knots in my shoulders were gone, and I was peaceful again. God is so good.

And then something hit me. Almost exactly five years earlier (to the month, at least), I had knelt in the same church praying that, if it was God's will, I would get the job I'd just interviewed for, the job I currently hold. The irony of the fact that I'd just been praying to leave a job and an area I'd prayed to join five years before didn't escape me. In fact, it made me laugh.

This isn't the first time I've noticed the Lord's sense of irony (the time when a former crush (who I believed deep down wasn't meant to me a priest, and, therefore, was meant to marry me) went off to seminary, then left and proceeded to ask me for girl advice springs to mind), and it likely won't be the last.

God and His sense of humor.

In 2005, I was out of work and living with my parents. Having lived with my family or roommates all my life, I'd never had an apartment all to myself. While I wasn't exactly desperate, I felt so boxed in. Now, having recently had a taste of how wonderfully active the Catholic YA community in Washington D.C. (after having gone with my cousin and a group from D.C. to Rome in November and visited for Holy Week and Easter), with the addition of being really tired of coming home to an empty (even of pets, since my landlord doesn't allow them) apartment and not feeling like I can progress any farther in my current job, I feel like I'm stagnating.

Not that these five years have been a waste. I am more dedicated in my prayer life and spiritual reading. I've come to rely on God more fully than ever before. And while I still cling too tightly to some things, I've been able to let go of others -- bad habits, family situations that are beyond my control -- that I used to let plague me. I'm far from perfect, but I'm working on it. It could have been my free will and impatience that brought me here five years ago, God let me come here now for a reason.

My half hour in the San Pedro chapel was a reminder of how I am loved and cared for. I have offered my hopes and wants for the future up to God, and I trust that He will continue to guide toward the places and people I need. I might get antsy again waiting, but He will always be there to ease me off the ledge.

Too long absent, ponderings on bravery

2010-07-17T13:51:00.004-04:00

Sometimes I forget I have this blog, and they I'll read someone else's and think "Oh yeah, I have one, too."

A traditional pen-and-paper journaler, I'm sometimes reticent about posting things online because people will be able to, gulp, actually read them...when the only people who will proabably read my physical journals are, quite likely, not even born yet (i.e., children, grandchildren). But sometimes I wonder what it would be like to actually be brave enough to put something out there that I really do want to say, that I'm reticent to share because people might ridicule me for it or judge me--nothing bad, mind you, just thoughts and experiences (or the lack thereof) that many people might find unrealistic/naive/stupid/insert an adjective. But then I think, "What if if could benefit someone somehow?" I believe God leads us to connections and convictions when His time is right, and I'm feeling braver by the minute.

I know this is rather cryptic, and I probably have no reason to worry, because I don't think the few people who once read this blog do anymore. I'm probably over-thinking it, and an excess of musing never did me any good. Ramble, ramble, ramble.

The stupid, petty, green-eyed monster snuck up on me today

2008-09-27T17:42:00.004-04:00

Jealousy is a funny thing. I'm not jealous of people with vast amounts of money, or talents I don't possess. There is the occasional professional jealousy, but that's usually more akin to admiration for a writer with great skill than it is to envy. And yet the smallest thing this afternoon knocked me over, and I hate the fact that I now am possessed of what Shakespeare described as the emotion "which doth mock/The meat it feeds on (Othello)," also describing "How all the other passions fleet to air,/As doubtful thoughts, and rash-embraced despair,/And shuddering fear, and green-eyed jealousy(The Merchant of Venice)!"

I've had a really nice day. Got up, went to the an awesome class at the gym, came home and have been relaxing. The first issue of my subscription to Entertainment Weekly arrived in my mailbox this afternoon. Ole Miss beat the Gators, Miami lost, and FSU is currently looking more like their old selves than they have in awhile. Then earlier this afternoon, I noticed on Facebook that my cousin Matt is in London. He travels a lot for business, so that wasn't anything new. I shot him a note and jokingly told him to have a pint for me while he was there. He wrote me back just a little bit ago, telling me that he's actually on vacation, and his wife Sarah and his sister, my cousin Carrie, both flew over and joined him in Brussels, went to Paris while he continued to work, and are now hanging out in London, visiting with one of Sarah's brothers.

Being Navy brats, they've always traveled a lot, even as adults, and it's never phased me. I certainly have a longing to travel, have never been jealous of their globe-trotting. But London... I've always wanted to walk along the Thames, look at the Crown Jewels, stare up at Big Ben and wander amongst the giants resting in Poets Corner at Westminster Abby, not to mention just taking in the atmosphere of a city with a history far older than the country of my birth. And suddenly, sitting here reading Matt's note about Carrie being excited because she'd never been to Europe before, I found myself possessed by jealous thoughts, mixed with equal parts of inadequacy and mild despair, that flashed rapidly through my brain: Will I ever make it there? Or once I do, will I be too old to really enjoy it (the sensible part of my brain asking at the same time, 'And how old will that be, exactly?)? I think that if I had a different job and made more money, I'd be able to hop on a plane at the drop of a hat. I can hardly afford to go visit my brother in Oregon in the spring, much less fly overseas.

But at the same time, I'm mentally admonishing myself for this stupid, defeatist attitude. Who says I'll never go? Only me, and only if I listen to the ridiculous blather of the little cartoonish devil I'm preparing to flick off my left shoulder. I will make it there some day. Until then, I'll content myself with a post card, because Carrie never fails to send me one from wherever she travels. :)

Word Crack (*all credit for this amazingly accurate description of book obsession is due to Sabrina Simon)

2008-09-10T22:12:00.003-04:00

"I don't know why, but every time I'd read a book,
I'd end up wanting to fall in love."
- Seyyed Ebrahim Nabavi

As any of my good friends can tell you, I have a serious book problem. My duplex is filled with books--I moved in with 14 boxes of them, and after only three years, I shudder to think how many more I've acquired. I am in perpetual need of bookshelves, and yearn for the day when I will have built-ins in a library all my own. It's an addiction, really, bordering on obsession, especially when I find something I like. And recently, I found something new.

For several years now, I'd noticed the proliferation (if a four-book series could actually be called that) of stark, black books, always bearing a hint of red, be it fruit, flower, ribbon or chess piece, on the cover. The Twilight Saga, I learned from the beginning, without much interest at the time, was about a high school girl who falls in love with a vampire. Honestly, it seemed silly. And since they were geared toward those in their teenager years, a time of life I left more than half a score ago, they didn't arouse my pique.

Then, about three weeks ago, I was talking to my friend Michelle, who, as a 35 year-old mom of two, hasn't been in high school for a while either. After mass one Sunday, we sat in her minivan chatting. She'd recently had surgery, and she told me that one day, while recovering at home, she happened to pick up Twilight, the first book in the saga, that her 17 year-old baby sitter had accidentally left at the house. Bedridden and bored with television, she decided to give it a shot. And to make a long story short, she was hooked. "You have to read these," she said. "They're so good. I know they're not 19th century English literature, and I do feel kind of goofy since I'm old (hardly!) but the writing is amazing. And Edward (the vampire/hero) is my new boyfriend."

Of course I didn't tease her. I've had my share of crushes on fictional characters, heaven knows (Laurie in Little Women, Gilbert in Anne of Green Gables, and of course, Mr. Darcy) . And she had me a bit intrigued. So on a trip to Wal-mart the next day, I picked up the first two books, Twilight and New Moon, both in paperback and both on sale. Between Tropical Storm Fay, who threatened to come this way and then never did, the primary election that caused all kinds of work-craziness and another book, a biography of Nell Gwynn that I was determined to finish before I started anything else, I didn't start reading Twilight until the middle of last week.

I read most of it Wednesday night. The next morning, driving to work, I found myself scrawling my thoughts about the book down on the back of a work email I found in my purse (because writing and driving are something you should do at the same time, right?), lest I forget them. Frankly, I was amazed. I'd stayed up until nearly 2 a.m. reading, then woken up and read some more between breakfast, showering and dressing for work. The act of putting the book down and leaving for the office was almost physically painful (not the first time I've experienced this with a book, I might add), like a knot in my chest. I was suddenly in their world, and leaving it to spend 8-odd hours at the newspaper had me yearing to go back.

The book, as all really good books do, transported me. My reading was so fast, and I read quickly to begin with, that I'd go a page and a half, skimming it practically, then have to stop myself and go back to re-read more slowly. As the plot thickened, an endorphin rush kicked in as my eyes flew in a frenzied rush down each page. As I drove to work, jotting down notes, even the songs on the radio seemed to reflect the mood of the book. Strange. Or perhaps it was only my imagination.

I think part of the fascination is that the story has such a sensual air, a guilty pleasure. When I wasn't reading, I was bouncing plot points around in my head. What if such-and-such a thing happens? Or if Bella (the heroine) does this? On my way home from work that day, although I still had one chapter left in Twilight and hadn't even begun New Moon, I stopped and bought books three and four, Eclipse and Breaking Dawn, which had only been released earlier in the month, in hardback (I should point out that I rarely, if ever, "mix media." If I start a series in paperback, I try and keep it complete in paperback. This of course, can be frustrating if there's several years between books, and the waiting becomes too much to bear. I knew I wouldn't be able to wait a year or so to buy these in paperback, so went for it). Like Michelle, I was completely taken in by the flow of author Stephenie Meyer's writing--her attention to detail and the ease with which she seemed to capture so many "firsts" for Bella and Edward perfectly. Plus there was the mystery factor...how did the "traditional" vampire myths not apply here? Was it even possible for Edward and Bella to be together, when her blood called to him? And being single, I was of course living vicariously through this intense, deeply passionate yet chaste relationship she'd created for her main characters.

And reading them, there was even a part of me that, as a writer, was respectfully jealous--wishing I could turn a phrase or capture an image as well. It makes me wonder sometimes if, writing as I do these days for the deadline and inch-count driven format of the daily newspaper, if I've lost (hopefully only misplaced?) my creative writing ability.

I didn't bring the books to work with me to read during my lunch breaks. When I'm into a book, I'm noisy. I giggle, sigh, laugh, make sounds of frustration, cry (this happened several times when Edward said something moving...ok, sappy and romantic), talk to the characters, or even beat the book against the sofa cushions (which I did once when Bella was about to do something stupidly heroic yet unnecessary). My coworkers would think I'm mental...which clearly I am, but there's no reason to make it more obvious. Plus, I knew I wouldn't be able to give the books my undivided attention with certain coworkers who interrupt my lunch to ask work-related questions even when they see I'm reading (rude!) or when one of the customer service ladies up front inevitably starts yakking about the latest exploits of her cat. I am a very selfish reader.

But I digress (if that's even possible in a post this long!). Coming home that Thursday night, I finished Twilight and dived immediately into New Moon. I was off the next day, since I'd worked the Labor Day holiday, and so I just kept reading. I did stop to make a sandwich for dinner, and to watch about three hours of Turner Classic Movies (the original Ronald Coleman version of "Raffles" and a William Powell film "Jewel Robbery") for about three hours. There was the occasional bathroom break, but before I knew it, it was 4 in the morning and I'd finished the book, essentially in one sitting. Nut that I am, I figured out how many hours it had taken for me to read the book, which I then (quite nerdily) broke into pages per hour. 565 pages in about 6 hours equals roughly 94 pages an hour. Yes, I know, it isn't "War & Peace," but still. Scribbled on the back of an envelope next to my calculations is the sentence "Can't wait to start Eclipse. But must get some sleep--Edward-like dark circles under my eyes will result. 4:13 a.m."

Going out of town to visit my friend Michele and her husband Tim in Lakeland this past weekend certainly slowed my reading of Eclipse (which I don't regret, since it was great to hang out with them. Ironically, Michele (who's 32, btw) had been hearing about the books from several friends (and teens in the youth group she helps out with) and had meant to ask me about them when I told her of my new addiction). But I did manage to get some reading done, and finished the book this past Sunday night, staying up far too late. I was tired at work, and at night, I was actually having dreams where Bella and Edward were having conversations--too bad I can't remember what they were about.

Monday and Tuesday nights after work, I came home, scarfed some dinner and settled onto my love seat to read Breaking Dawn, not even bothering with the TV or the Internet. And as I reached the last 50 pages of the book Tuesday night (ok, it was about 12:15 Wednesday morning), I slowed my pace, reading dawdling and even reading passages aloud to savor what was left. And when I finished, I just sat there, musing, almost amazed it was over.

Michele (the one in Lakeland) had made it to the middle of book two last night, so I had the satisfaction of emailing with her back and forth today while we were at work, asking her what she thought (she's equally sucked in) and trying my best not to hint at things to come (she "yelled" at me in all caps at one point when I teased her too much with an insinuation about how my feelings for one of the characters flip-flopped through the third book. I promised I'd give myself 50 lashes with a wet noodle and then refused to give anything else away, even by hinting).

Tonight, clearly, I still have these books in my head, or I wouldn't be blogging about them like a giddy teenager. I almost felt bereft, not having one of them to come home to after work. Is it too early to start rereading? And my friend Michelle (the one who persuaded me to pick them up in the first place--she has two ls in her name-- perhaps I should be using last names) and I have a pact. We're going to go see the Twilight movie together when it comes out in November, so, if we happen to be the only 30-something, obsessed Twilighters in the crowd (which I doubt will be the case), we at least won't be alone.

Ikea--Disney World for home shoppers

2008-08-23T17:19:00.005-04:00

My goodness, it's been ages (I sense Sabrina, likely the only one who ever checks this anymore, dancing in her chair somewhere up Huntsville way at the sight of a new post).

I spent last weekend in Orlando, visiting with best friend Sarah, her hubby Michael and their oh-so-handsome 7 week-old son Peter. It was a delight to meet the little guy and spend quality time with Sarah, something I hadn't done in several months.

The Saturday I was there, Sarah asked me if I wanted to visit the relatively new Ikea store.
We pulled off I-4 at the International Mall exit, crawling through traffic headed to different parts of the shopping district. We turned a corner, and there in front of us was a massive Wal-Mart sized building painted in blue and gold (after flipping through the latest half-inch thick Ikea catalog the night before, the size shouldn't have surprised me). We were there by about 11 am, but already the main parking lot was full, and there were red-shirted men directing traffic to an unoccupied vacant lot across from Ikea's parking lot. We busted out the stroller, installed a sleeping Peter in it and made our way to the entrance.

First thing we did was grab a map (a map!). As we rode up to the second floor (the Showroom) in the industrial size elevator, Sarah explained the concept. Top floor had all the various layouts of furniture/lighting/dishes/housewares/carpeting/flooring set up in little vignettes. Every item was tagged with name and price, and conveniently, there was a lined area on the reverse of the map where shoppers could write down the name and price of whatever lamp/cushion/frame/sofa caught their fancy. The bottom floor was the Warehouse, where everything so creatively arranged upstairs was organized for purchase downstairs.

As I pushed the stroller, admittedly overwhelmed with the crowds of people, the arrows on the floor directing people in the appropriate traffic patterns and the scads of attractive yet inexpensive home decor, Sarah wandered amongst the displays, writing down shelving options. It didn't take me long to fall in love with a massively over-sized teal chaise lounge and a set of lamps. I also quickly began to harbor a sneaking suspicion that I could get in serious trouble very quickly if I wasn't careful. Admiring decorative items and extensive bookshelf displays as we wandered, I noticed the chair area. One style caught my eye, and reminded me of an arm chair I inherited from my grandparents. It is a squat, 70s-era chair upholstered in an orange and yellow burlap-like material, and despite the color, it is my favorite. I have to check, but it's possible the chair isn't as old as I imagine, but merely of Swedish styling.

After further meandering, sighing over furnishings and pointing out features we both liked and despised, Sarah, Peter and I were hungry. So without further ado, we repaired to the cafeteria. Yes, there's a cafeteria, selling Swedish favorites such as yummy meatballs (bags of said item, frozen, are also available for purchase). Placed near the children's furnishings area (a riot of fun color that made me long to either be a child again or have some of my own, if only too decorate their rooms (not the right reason, certainly)) the food was inexpensive and tasty, served on real dishes with real glass and silverware. As we ate and Sarah nursed the baby, I people watched, laughing at the balloon-animal artist and magician who stood not too far away entertaining laughing children. I was tempted to take a picture, and almost expected a costumed creature to walk by.

We wandered some more after eating, picking out a rug and sea creatures mobile for Peter's room, and then decided to make our way downstairs. I found the lamp and flowered lampshade I wanted. The baby began to fuss as we followed the arrows back and forth, and I found myself briefly disgruntled at the people with carts who seemed to just park in front of us. And it took forever to get out of there, rather like being at a theme park after a long, hot, sunburned day when you can't wait to get to the car but the people in front of you can't seem to gather their family and shopping bags fast enough. Instead of turnstiles, there were easily 40 checkout lines, but they moved smoothly despite the number of people with large crates of assemble-it-yourself furniture jockeying for position in the shortest line.

At the end of the afternoon, though admittedly tired, I still very much enjoyed my experience. And it got me to thinking. As we'd looked at furniture, I kept saying how one day I'd decorate my home nicely using some of the antiques I have in storage and other new items. Sarah asked me why I should wait.

That got me thinking. See, although I've lived in my duplex for three years, I've hardly hung anything on the walls. And the antiques from my grandmother don't fit in my living rooms with the window-unit air conditioner. Despite the furniture, I used to be so good about making my spaces homey and imprinted with my personality, but for some reason, haven't with my current home. And the more I thought about it, I realize I don't want to decorate my current space, mostly because it would imply permanence. And I don't want to stay here. I'm not sure where I do want to go just yet, but when I do, and have found new digs, I'm pretty sure I'll be returning to Ikea.

I was tagged

2007-12-18T23:06:00.000-05:00

I was tagged by Sabrina, who has officially shamed me into posting on my blog for the first time in 9 months. Thanks B! :)

The rules of the game:
*Link to the person that tagged you and post the rules on your blog.
*Share 7 random and/or weird facts about yourself on your blog, we all want to know them.
*Tag 7 random people at the end of your post and include links to their blogs.
*Let each person know that they've been tagged by leaving a comment on their blog.

So, here, in no particular order, are 7 random facts about me:

1. If they ever make another Charlie Brown special, I could totally provide the voices for any adults in the episode. You know how when Charlie Brown's teacher or mother, or any other adult they encounter for that matter, speaks, all we ever hear are "Mwaa mwa mwaa mwa mwa mwaa mwa" sounds? Well, I'm a pro at it. At least everyone in my office says so. :)

2. I maintain a sporadic e-mail correspondence with my old high school theology teacher, Amy Welborne, who, for Sabrina, Joy, Jenny and any other Santa Fe alum who happens to stumble across this, is now a Catholic author of multiple books. She lives in Indiana and has remarried and had two more children, both boys. The youngest is, I think, 2 or 3 now. Katie is in high school, but the two older boys have both graduated from college. Yeah, it makes me feel old, too.

3. I am, for all intents and purposes, addicted to milk. If I go to long without it, I'm not a happy camper. I think this is on my mind at the moment because I'm currently out of milk......I could really go for a cold glass now. I drink it with just about everything. It goes great with pizza, steak, turkey, anything. Not that a nice beer doesn't go well with the aforementioned entrees, but you can't pour beer on cereal, now can you?

4. While I keep a majority of the movie ticket stubs from films I see, unlike Sabrina's, they aren't organized by year into tidy rubber-banded piles. I find them in random boxes and old purses when I clean them out. I think there are even a few in my little fire safe...not sure why. But that's not my fourth random fact. Number four is I have a tendency to collect wrapping paper. I suppose it's a little bit of a fetish, but I just love Christmas wrapping paper. Most people I know will buy a couple rolls of wrapping paper each Christmas and use all of it, wrapping all their gifts in the same two or three patterns. I know others who will buy new decorations for their tree every year (throwing out the older decorations--shamefully wasteful, I say) and then buy paper to match the gifts to their tree. That's too obsessive-compulsive for my taste. When it comes to wrapping paper, I enjoy variety. Lots of bright colors and different patterns. Cartoons and angels and flowers. Stockings, Santas, robots in red and green. The space under my tree is a veritable smorgasbord of wrapping paper delight! And if there's getting to be too much paper leaning toward say, the blue end of the spectrum under the tree, it's time to wrap the next gift in a paper that has yellow, purple or orange. Ok, perhaps I'm a bit OCD myself here. But I get it from my mom, who still has some of a really large roll of paper she bought back in the late 70's (she bought 2 rolls. I think the first one was finally used up in 2004). She actually has to hide new rolls of gift wrap from my dad when she buys them. I've been very good an only bought one new roll of wrap this season.....of course, I still had 3 rolls from last year that I hadn't opened yet.

5. I enjoy going to the gun range for target shooting. It's not something I get to do very often, but it's fun to go with my dad and brother Ethan. I have a pistol, so it's good to practice occasionally. The last time we went--Father's Day weekend--I got to fire my Dad's AR-15. I'm a decent shot. I hit what I aim at.

6. If this whole journalist/writer thing I've got going as a career doesn't work out (and if all the shirt-folding jobs at Macy's are taken), I think I might has a future as a wedding planner. I'm now in the midst of bridesmaid gig #2 (technically, it's #4, over the course of my life, but I'm talking recently here), and I'm helping with a lot of the planning. I've been to cake tastings, dress fittings, table-linen rental haggling sessions, orchestrated bachelorette parties and bridal showers and put out fires regarding catering costs, aggravating future mothers-in-law and an inability to find shoes. By the time my friend Michele gets married in April, I'll have been a bridesmaid for more than a year and a half. I guess it's good to know that I have career options.

7. Classic, original Nintendo is still my favorite video game system of choice. Sure, I love the Wii, and some of the other systems aren't too shabby, but you can plunk me down with the original Super Mario Brothers in a heartbeat. I was actually saddened when I went to play Ghostbusters II on Halloween (a suitably seasonal choice, I thought), and the console wouldn't read the cartridge. Alas, only a camo-green screen appeared, try as I might to insert the cartridge softly, or with force, or while the console was tilted sideways. My friend Jason, who is equally enamored with the original Nintendo, and I are plotting a game swap soon. I don't think I'll let him borrow the Power Pad though. I mean, he is one of the sports writers at the paper, but I still don't think he'd get really pumped about Dance Aerobics or World Class Track Meet.

Now - who to TAG? Frankly, I have no idea. If I could post this on Facebook it would simplify things greatly. I'll have to ponder the tagging question. But I'll take suggestions. :)

City of contrasts

2007-04-03T21:15:00.000-04:00

I couldn't publish my entire column on my trip to Louisiana last month in the paper, so here's the entire thing:

One of my girlfriends and I recently took a week-long road trip to
Louisiana for our birthdays. Michele grew up less than an hour from New
Orleans, and I was born in Louisiana, though I’ve rarely been back to the
state of my birth, and I’d never been to the French Quarter and Mardi Gras.
What I discovered was a city filled with contrasts. There is faith and
immorality, devastation and renewal, but underlying it all was a spirit that
I hadn’t seen before. New Orleans is unlike any city I’ve ever visited.
The huge bag of beads I brought back from my trip to New Orleans smells
like the French Quarter – a combination of stale beer and Mississippi River
water. To me, it’s a foreign scent, but to the locals it means home.
There’s a definite vibe in the Quarter. Music blares from every open
doorway: jazz and blues and Zydeco competed with Salsa music from a Cuban
cigar shop, while down the street, I heard reggae and Gretchen Wilson’s
“Redneck Woman” trying to drown out the Scottish rock band The Bay City
Rollers.
And the diversity in people was staggering. Families with small children,
hippies who hadn’t bathed in days, one obviously wealthy couple who were
dropped off in front of Café Du Monde in a chauffeured car, grandmothers
wearing feather boas carrying large plastic cups of beer, couples young and
old, some heading to the several fancy restaurants the Quarter boasts, a
drunk woman with her group of friends who poked me in the shoulder as she
walked past me and said, “And I love YOU,” people who actually live in the
Quarter on their balconies just watching the tourists go by.
The heavy police presence in the Quarter was surprising, even for me.
Michele said in years past, there might have been one officer every few
blocks or so, but now, there were groups of three or four on every block.
Because of the recent crime statistics, I suppose city leaders want to make
sure tourists, whose patronage is so very needed to help New Orleans recover,
feel safe.
And I did. While I was offended at the blatant ads in the windows of some
of the sex clubs along one stretch of the Bourbon Street, I never felt
fearful for my personal safety. There is so much history, and so much to
seen and do.
And I have to mention the parades, of course. We didn’t actually go to any
in the French Quarter, because it would have been too crowded. I had to ask
Michele about some of the preparations being made along Bourbon Street
though, since I noticed huge metal supports being placed under balconies.
She explained the supports were needed to shore up some of the old balconies
that, on their own, can’t hold the weight of the crowds who gather on them
to watch floats go by.
“And they have to grease them to keep drunk people from shimmying up them,”
she said.
We did go to two other parades, though. One was the Krewe of Thor, in
Metairie, the other the Krewe of Omega in Hammond, a nearby town. Families
were in evidence at both these parades, where I learned you have to be
quick, or someone with faster hands will snag the beads flying in your
direction, and that some people go to parades to gather beads to sell back
to people for the next year. Recycling beads – who knew?
Which brings me back to smells. There were so many new smells on my trip,
things that trigger my memory, most of them related to food, which is a huge
part of the experience: the Cajun spiciness of 250 pounds of boiled crawfish
Michele’s Uncle Ricky boiled the first day we were there; the heavenly odor
of Café Du Monde’s café au lait and powdered sugar-topped beinettes. They’re
the only thing the Café sells, but so famous and so melt-in-your-mouth
delicious it manages to stay open 24 hours a day, 365 days a year, serving
only that on marble tables and faded green chairs sticky with years worth of
powdered sugar.
Then there’s the Corner Grocery on Decatur Street, a dingy little 100-plus
year-old grocery and deli (home of the Mufellata sandwich). They’ve been
family-owned that whole time, and have a poster-sized photo of Pope John
Paul II over the cash register. The floor is uneven and the food is stacked
cheek by jowl, but the whole place smells of garlic, peppers and spices, a
concoction so potent and I almost feel bereft walking back out into the
street.
St. Louis Cathedral sits just behind Jackson Square, an area formerly the
daily home of artists and street performers. Some of the performers – water
harpists, singers and trombonists – are back, as are the fortune-tellers
lined up directly opposite the cathedral entrance, who will read the bones,
tea leaves, your palm or a deck of Tarot cards. But the artists are not.
I’ve seen pictures from years past where you couldn’t even see into the
Square, there were so many paintings hanging on the black iron fence that
surrounds it. On my trip, there were fewer than 10 artists displaying their
wares.
It’s merely one example of how Hurricane Katrina changed the Crescent City.
Glen, the bartender at Pat O’Brian’s who served me my Hurricane (which was
extremely heavy on the run…I had to nurse it), admitted the crowds in the
Quarter were thinner than before Katrina.
“Forty percent of the population is just gone,” he said, at the same time
adding that crowds this year were already heavier than in 2006, when mostly
locals attended a smaller Mardi Gras celebration. “We’re already more busy
than last year.”
And though some people are coming back, damage from the hurricane is still
evident. Along the interstate you can still see rusty water lines along
walls and bridge supports where the flood peaked. There are a lot of
businesses on Canal Street that are still boarded up, as well as some
high-rise buildings with glass blown out of many of the windows in the upper
storeys. In Metairie, a suburb of New Orleans that directly abuts the city,
we saw many houses that bear the mark of police and National Guard soldiers
who went from house to house searching for bodies – giant orange Xs spray
painted on the front doors, no windows and for sale signs in the yard. I’m
not sure who will buy them.
And yet, in the midst of these derelicts, some homes have been reclaimed.
One or two have new front doors, and well-manicured lawns.
Some of the famous cemeteries were underwater after Katrina, too. And when
hey call them “cities of the dead,” they aren’t kidding. Some of the crypts
are made from solid blocks of marble, shipped from Italy and hand-carved.
Others tower 60 feet into the air. They have statues and stained glass, and
some of them are truly beautiful; miniature castles, or churches, and one
was even modeled after an Aztec temple! Multiple generations lay their
family members to rest in each mausoleum. When we toured Lake Lawn Cemetery
in Metairie, I noted some with the earliest date in the 1820’s, and the
latest burial in 2004.

There is so much more I could write. There is a determination to the people
of New Orleans, something I don’t know if I can capture in the short space I
have here.
But in the liner notes to his tribute cd to the city, “Oh my Nola,” New
Orleans son Harry Connick, Jr. said it better than I could.
“New Orleans is a city of paradox…sin, salvation, sex, sanctification, so
entwined yet so separate…the blurred lines from the dark blue of Mardi Gras
to the periwinkle of Ash Wednesday morning…”
And he’s right. Another famous singer, Jimmy Buffet, sings “There is a thin
line between Saturday night and Sunday morning.” New Orleans straddles that
line, and embraces it.

'The Collected E-mails of Charles Dickens'

2006-06-13T21:25:00.000-04:00

In my first post (I think), I wrote about how I was blogging against type, for lack of a better phrase, since I'd always kept written journals and have a great love for old books and letters. Well, Jay Leno had a conversation with guest Keanu Reeves last night that was oddly similar to that first blogging effort.

Keanu (who is now 41, believe it or not) was on the show to promote his new movie "The Lake House," which is about two people, his character and a woman played by Sandra Bullock, who write love letters to each other although they're living two years apart in time. So Jay asked Keanu, "In real life, are you a letter guy, or are you an e-mail guy?" To which Keanu replied, "I'm a letter guy." Jay said he was too, and that he preferred letters because they were more real, that when you're sitting and writing a letter, things sometimes flow from your pen that you wouldn't necessarily say in an e-mail. "I think it's because you can go back and edit emails, and correct them instantly," Jay said.

From the way I portray it, it sounds like they were having a really serious conversation, and to an extent, they were, but it was done in fun as well. I particularly liked Jay's comment about the permenance of letters. He said, "I don't think we'll ever see 'The Collected E-mails of Charles Dickens.'" And isn't that the truth....very few people save emails, or print them out for safe-keeping like they do treasured letters.

I actually wrote an honest-to-goodness letter yesterday. My brother Ethan is at Air Force ROTC field training in South Dakota right now, and as a cadet there, he's not allowed access to the telephone or e-mail (it's a distraction, apparently). He can, however, receive letters. So I wrote and mailed him a newsy one yesterday about different family things that have been going on since he left, results of some of the early World Cup matches and the minutiae going on in my own life at the moment. And now that I think about it, it's actually the first letter I think I've ever written to my youngest brother (birthday cards don't count). And while I know the content isn't exceptionally compelling, I think he'll save it. That's just the type of guy he is.

I think that's something you should do; save letters, I mean. It takes much more time and effort to write a letter than it does to type an e-mail. People put elements of themselves into letters, and like Jay said last night (although I really don't think he was trying to be as profound as this came out), you do sometimes say things beyond your original intent. Unlike an e-mail, you can't erase what you've written completely, either. I think letters are just more honest.

And will I go see "The Lake House?" Hmm, I'm not sure. While the idea is compelling, it might just be one I check out as a rental.

Lean not on your own understanding

2006-05-14T15:14:00.000-04:00

Without a doubt, one of the biggest faith challenges I have is giving up control and trusting in God, especially when it comes to money troubles or relationships (or a lack thereof...tho' I'm trying to convince myself that I'm too old to be worrying about boys...or I should refer to them as men now?).

Lately it's been a shortage of funds, and the only thing I've been doing for the last few days is to try my best to trust in His will and pray for the ability to trust more completely....because otherwise I'd get myself so worked up and stressed it would do me more harm than good.

And today, of course, everything has worked out and revealed itself to be prefectly fine. I feel gloriously free and I'm oh-so-grateful. But I have this sense that it's almost like God's up there laughing good-naturedly at me, saying "I told you so, didn't I? Come on Anne, when are you gonna learn to really give it up to me?" :)

Ok, ok, I get it, and I think the trust thing is slowly but surely working its way through my thick skull. Now if we could only get this guy-thing straightened out...... :)

Memories are made of....what exactly?

2006-05-09T22:40:00.000-04:00

Well, I hardly intended it to be close to a year between posts, but frankly, I had practically forgotten I had this blog. Oh, it was there in the back my my mind somewhere, hidden away in some corner gathering dust, but by and large abandoned. So much so that I had to send myself a reminder email to recall my password!

What's funny, though, was reading the several posts I had left here and recalling how I felt writing them. I think I captured the cyclonic giddiness of my trip to Hawaii pretty well, looking back on it now. It was such a joyful trip, and I found myself laughing as I read my "Listing" post....I really could have left so many things out of my suitcases!

What prompted my return to blogdom? I was on my friend Joy's site, checking out pics of her son, and she had posted some pictures of her younger brother going to prom. He goes to the same high school we went to, and his prom is someplace glamerous, like Disney. When we were in school we had to stay in the county; no mean feat to find a decent venue in Polk County, Florida, I might add. So I posted a reply to her comment, trying to remember where our senior prom was....I probably have the ticket someplace, but honestly, it's only been 10 years. It's too early to be losing my memory, right?

Anyway, so much has changed in in the nine months since I posted last. I've moved and have a new job. I'm still writing, only full-time now for a daily newspaper, and consider myself so blessed to be doing something I love everyday. Sure, it's not the highest-paying gig, but I would rather love my work and be underpaid than be over-paid and miserable any day.

One of the reasons I started this blog (having looked back at my old posts) was to keep writing creatively, or at least somewhat artistically, on a regular basis. Well obviously I haven't kept up with that lately. But the intent is still there. Sometimes I wonder if I will ever write those books and essays that are occupying space in my brain (filed in a less cluttered corner than my blogger password), especially since I spend a large portion of my day at work writing? I hope that I will. In fact, just last night, actually, I sat here in my office at home and made some progress on a fairy tale I'd begun two weekends ago, a story inspired by my goddaughter, Nora, who when I visited her recently in Tallahassee, prefered to be awake than asleep.

Speaking of fairy tales, I wish I could remember the ones I used to make up for these two little girls I babysat for in high school (who are now both taller than me. One is even in college!). I would make them up as I went along while I was putting the girls to bed. The stories were probably rambling things that meandered through other tales I'd read, but I remember them being pretty good, even if they were made up on the spot. :)

Listing to port

2005-08-04T23:12:00.000-04:00

I certainly hadn't intended four months to go by in between posts! I don't think I could possibly do justice to everything that's happened since April; if I did attempt it, this single post would probably meander so much that anyone who began reading it would lose interest before they hit the half-way mark. So, in order to avoid sending my (very few) readers on a trip to dreamland, I've chosen what I think is the most sussinct way to present a mostly chronoligical history of the past four months: a list.

1. I am still writing and occasionally taking pictures for the Florida Catholic on a free-lance basis. I've had more pieces published, and am becoming slightly more adept at taking publishable photos.

2. Shopping for the Hawaii trip was lots of fun, and draining on the bank account. And it seemed that whenever I thought I'd finished, I would find something else cute that I absolutely needed to take with me to the islands.

3. K-mart merging with Sears was a very good thing for me. On super-clearance I found a massive navy blue rolling suitcase for $24, and the pink linen dress I wore to my cousin's wedding (which looked not at all like something you would find in a K-mart) for $13.

4. Packing the aforementioned clothes items into the above-mentioned navy suitcase (and a smaller green one) was made 1000% easier by the creative people at the Spacebag company, who, through American Tourister, market bags that you put your clothing in, and then procede to squeeze all the air out of, thus shrinking the volume of the clothes and making room in your suitcases for things like shoes, hairdryer, toiletries, cameras, and the multiple other sundries that you think you'll need (disposable underwater camera, anyone?) but never use. Happily, both my suitcases came in at under the 50lb. weight limit (though the larger case admittedly topped out at 47lbs.) And no, I didn't wear all the clothes I took with me. I could have left three pairs of shoes and a few belts at home as well.

5. "The Count of Monte Cristo" is a very heavy book, but well worth carting half-way across the world and back. I don't understand how I managed to avoid reading it all these years. What a fantastic read! I also took 2 other books with me, which ended up merely adding extra ounces to my already heavy carry-on. Remind me why I needed two decks of playing cards, again? And did I listen to any of the cd's I took with me? Again, no, so I could have left the portable cd player on my bed. Well, these things are good to know for future reference.

6. The flight to Hawaii (non-stop from Atlanta to Honolulu) was very long. Airline food (on Delta at least) is very good. Bathrooms on airplanes are very small. During the flight I read, played Scrabble, slept not a wink, and avoided watching the in-flight movies (though "Hitch" I saw later. "Elektra" just looked too wierd for me.). I saw New Mexico (red and clay brown-sculpted mountains and valleys) from the air. And the last three hours of the ten-hour flight seemed closer to three years than their actual length.

7. I really have no words to truely describe Hawaii. The mountains are breathtaking and the beaches are beautiful. It is warm, but humidity is minimal and there is always a breeze. I hiked the Diamondhead Crater with my brother Ethan the first morning we were there, went to museums, lazed on the beach, walked a lot, visited the USS Arizona Memorial, ate far too much food. I hung out with family, joked around with my cousins, my cousin's other cousins, and my cousin Matt's now-wife Sarah's cousins, tried several tropical drinks, did lots of shopping and probably spent too much (again). The wedding was beautiful. I turned a nice tan (yes, I used sunscreen...no burning for me) and took over 300 pictures. One day, I will go back.

8. The flight back was fine, actually shorter than the flight out. Readjusting from a six-hour time difference, however, was not. I think the exhaustion of jet-lag is the closest I think I have ever felt to being dead. I couldn't fall asleep til 4:30 or 5 in the morning, and wouldn't wake up til nearly 2 in the afternoon. Once recovered from jet-leg, I promptly caught a summer flu bug. Lovely.

2005-04-02T19:07:00.000-05:00

"Do we all holy rites;
Let there be sung Non nobis and Te Deum,
The dead with charity enclos'd in clay."

King Henry, Henry V, IV.viii

And may the souls of the faithful departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace.
Amen

Be not afraid

2005-04-01T21:05:00.000-05:00

I have a picture leaning up against my computer monitor. It's a card depticting Pope John Paul II, greeting the crowds in New York on his first visit, as pope, to the United States in 1979. In the black and white photo, he's lifted his skull cap off his head and is waving to a crowd that isn't in the picture. He looks joyful, a subtle smile on his face, yet tired, as if after a long flight. But in my imagination, and knowing what little I do about his personality, you can almost see the energy he absorbs from those unseen many.

What a contrast to the pope we have seen recently. A man frail and bent by illness, who has struggled in the past weeks as the world watched. And tonight, as he lies near death, the end growing closer with each breath he takes, I think he must still be joyful. In his room in the Vatican, I think he somehow knew that there were thousands upon thousands in St. Peter's Square, and around the globe, praying the Rosary for him, their prayers giving him the strength to hold on a little longer, to pray for us as we pray for him. For at this point, he is closer to God than we are.

Some friends of mine, who were married on New Year's Eve, went to Rome on their honeymoon. While they were there, they attended a public audience with His Holiness in their wedding attire, the tradition being that when a couple comes to the audience so dressed, the pope will individually bless their marriage, often giving them a rosary or a medal. They have pictures of themselves, kneeling before John Paul, receiving his blessing. They told me that, while he was obviously struggling and in pain, his eyes were still so vibrant and full of life; that they could tell that the pope was doing his best to carry the cross he had been given and endure those physical limitations, while still serving his people. So very few are gifted with such strength.

I wasn't quite 2 when that picture was taken in New York, and I certainly wasn't aware that there was someone called a pope at that age. But as I've grown older, I've learned to love this man, our pope, not only because he is the leader of the Catholic Church on earth, but because of his strength and perseverance, his love of the Blessed Virgin Mary, his unwillingness to conform to those would change the precepts of the Church, his love for freedom and for his defense of life in every stage. He has traveled the globe and made himself available to those who would otherwise have never seen him. He has healed rifts in politics and changed the world in so many ways. Although he is the third pope that has held the Chair of Peter in my lifetime, he is, for all intents and purposes, the only pope I have ever known.

Who will be our new pope when John Paul II is gone? We can only add to the prayers which we pray now; that not only will John Paul's passing into the arms of God be eased, but that his successor will carry on the work that he has left behind; that our new pope, and the Catholic Church as a whole, should be not afraid.

Slash and burn

2005-03-29T04:03:00.000-05:00

I'm a free-lance writer, and right now I'm working on a profile piece for the Florida Catholic. They're doing a special section on vocations (which will run state-wide, not just in the Orlando Diocese edition where my previous articles have been published), and my story for this section is the profile of a local nun preparing to celebrate her 50th anniversary as a Sister of the Holy Name. I met with her Friday for about 2 and a half hours, but, it being the Easter weekend (and me being a procrastinator), I didn't really sit down to work on it until yesterday. My deadline to turn the story into the special section's editor is this afternoon, and that won't be a problem. My difficutly lies in another direction entirely.

I usually record my interviews and transcribe them later. Some people don't like to work this way, b/c it can be pretty time-consuming, but it helps me be more accurate. I also like the fact that I don't have to be constantly scratching notes while my subject is talking. I can make eye-contact and it's more like a conversation. Anyway, I was up late last night transcribing only the first side of one tape...and I have two more sides of tape to go. (Somehow, during that time, I managed to eat an entire solid chocolate bunny: 5 servings per one bunny. So much for trying to be in good shape for the wedding this summer, huh?). The one side of the tape turned out to equate 6 pages worth of single spaced interview. 650-900 words? I don't think so. Try the first page.

And so, the story is just not coming together with the ease that I thought it would. The problem is not that there isn't enough material, it's that there is too much, and it's all good stuff! It's so hard cutting good anecdotes, stuff you know that other people will think are neat, or could maybe relate to. And this nun, Sister Rose, has led a really interesting life, and she's a fantastic story-teller, who loves to talk about herself (though who doesn't, really?). I want to leave so much in, but don't think I'll be able. The "joys" of editing, I guess.

Fortunately, just before I took a lunch break, the special section editor (who, oddly enough, used to babysit for me and my younger brothers years ago) called and said that it's ok if I go over, and that if I can keep it at about the 1,500-word mark, that's ok; they'll edit it and maybe come up with a sidebar or something.

I just may be able to get it down to the 1,500-word area. Big sigh of relief. Now back to work.

"Vacation all I ever wanted, vacation had to get away"

2005-03-25T20:29:00.000-05:00

Yesterday, my life took a sad and pathetic turn. I actually counted the days until I leave to go to Hawaii.

As of yesterday, it was 75, which would make today 74.

Witness the lameness that is me.

I should explain that my cousin is getting married there in June, and my entire family, including my nuclear family and a large portion of the extended branch, will be attending. I have never been to Hawaii, but then, neither has my family. We were never a family that took exciting vacations. Some people's families would save up and take a big vacation every couple of years or so. They'd go skiing in the mountains, or rent a beach house somewhere for a week, or go on a cruise. Not so my family. Our vacations were always car trips (sometimes 20+ hours) to visit other family ( my father's unspoken motto is "If we can't drive, we don't go," if that tells you anything at all). The one near-exception is the trip we took to Washington D.C. when I was about 13. I really don't think that counts, though, since it was bookended with two weeks staying with my aunt, uncle and cousins in Virginia. We might have stayed in D.C. for a total of three days.

I've only flown twice in my life, which would probably strike most people as pretty strange. And I've never been further west than Louisiana. So imagine my joy when my cousin Matt announces that he and his fiance, who, though not an Islander, was born and raised in Hawaii, would be getting married on Oahu. Matt is the eldest son of my Dad's only sister, and she would probably hunt him down and kill him if he didn't come to the wedding. And so, wonder of wonders, we're going. It's official, since we bougfht out plane tickets and reserved our rooms last week. My Mom and I are only mildly thrilled. We already have poured through a few guidebooks and I've already started a list of places I want to go. And we went shopping the other day and hit some sales, where we scarfed up some fun new summer clothes.

And yesterday, as I flipped through my planner counting the days until June 7th, my memory whisked me back to about the age of seven, when I would start counting the days until Christmas while it was still July. Because if it's five months until Christmas, then I could start writing my Christmas list for Santa at the beginning of November.

Do you see a pattern here?

Word for the Day

2005-03-21T13:41:00.000-05:00

More for my own benefit than for anyone else's, I took the time to look up 'cretonne' (see my last post, end of paragraph four). After Googling the word, here are the definitions I found:

Definitions of cretonne
n. - An unglazed heavy fabric ³
n. - A strong white fabric with warp of hemp and weft of flax. ²
n. - A fabric with cotton warp and woolen weft. ²
n. - A kind of chintz with a glossy surface.

Hmm. Ok. I then had to look up warp and weft. Apparently they are terms used in textile-making, often relating to rugs. Moving on...

Then I found this definition and the words origin:

cretonne
noun

Etymology: 19c: French, named after the village of Creton in Normandy, where the fabric probably originated.

That's more specific, and gives a better idea of proper word usage. So, kids, that's our word for the day. Now go out and use it in a sentance! ;-)

Drowning in Books

2005-03-19T02:26:00.000-05:00

I'm reading a book called "Sixpence House: Lost in a Town of Books" by Paul Collins. It's a non-fiction account of the time Collins, his wife and young son spent living in the town Hay-on-Wye in Wales. I'm not sure why Collins moved from San Francisco to Hay, which is apparently very near the English-Welsh border, other than he'd visited before and loved it. His accounts of the locals, their habits and house-hunting, among other things, are charmingly descriptive, and often both intellectual and hilarious, with digressions to a semi-related, often laughter-inducing passage from some long-lost tome that no one has ever heard of.

Hay sounds like the town for me. There are 40 bookstores in this town of 1,500 people, some of whom are quaintly odd. 40!!! And not only are there innumerable bookstores, but all, save one, carry used and antiquarian books. I would be in heaven. I am a bibliophile, to put it mildly. There are stacks upon boxes of books in my house, and the shelves are all over-flowing. And I still go to the library and check out other books. Add to these the books I have waiting to be read, patiently sitting and asking for my attention, those that I've begun to read but put down in favor of something more entertaining or intruiging (yet still intend to come back to eventually) and those that I've read seemingly hundreds of times already that I try to peruse every year or so.

And then, there are the books I collect. Old books, musty with age. Books that, when you open them and smell the pages, exude the scent of aged paper, ink and dust. My grandmother is allergic to this smell, saying that it is caused by microscopic dust mites, and refuses to have many older books in her house. But I love this smell (not to be confused with the new-book smell and the scent of bookstores that only carry new books, which is also another favorite smell of mine. Those books are mysterys in their own right, and hold all sorts of promise. But I digress...). Many of the old books in my collection are merely old, and aren't all that valuable. Some have damaged spines. Many people would look at them and see trash. But they have character, and, much like the written journal, a past. They are treasures in their own right.

I try to read all of the old books in my collection at least once. Some are melodramatic novels, like "The Tides of Barnagat," by F. Hopkinson Smith, circa 1906, where I wouldn't have been surprised if the book ended with the sentance, "And the moral of our story is...". Others, though, are funny, like the "Modern Priscilla Home Furnishing Book," published by the Priscilla Publishing Company, which apparently put out women's magazines. This how-to book gives the with-it homemakers of 1925 handy tips on furniture arranging, instructions for making lampshades, the care of linoleum, and asks the all important question: "Where Shall We Use Cretonnes?" If the book mentioned what a cretonne was, maybe I'd know where to use it! :-)

But I think the main thing about collecting old books that really attracts me is the sense of history they have. For instance, inscriptions in books always fascinate me. Sometimes I can't even read the flowing cursive handwriting, or only the first name is legible, and the date, "Christmas, 1906." Or if I can read it, who was Bertha Langmill, and where was she in March, 1919? Was this book her favorite? Why did one person give this specific book to another in 1891? What was their relationship? And how did a book make it's way from East Middlebury, Vermont to the Friends of the Library booksale in Lakeland, Fl?

More fascinating still are the items people leave in books to mark pages. I've found handwritten poems, holy cards, pressed flowers, bits of newspaper and, once, a set of train ticket stubs from a trip someone made between Chicago and St. Louis in the 1920's. It's amazing to me that people don't flip through the pages of their books before they donate or sell them. I always leave the markers in between the pages where I find them. Often, the page has discolored to show the placement of these artifacts, and it seems wrong to move them somehow.

There's a book store in St. Petersburg that I've only been to twice. It's called Haslem's, and I long to return. It takes up an entire city block, and is filled almost entirely with used books. The last time I was there, with my Mom and brothers, I spent a blissful four hours searching the shelves, sometimes stopping to pause and just sit, taking in the unique smell of the thousands of old books, reveling in them, knowing that they have been places that I may never go (sitting also served the practical purpose of resting my arm, nearly numb from carrying the ever-weightier basket of books around the store). After those four hours, everyone else was hungry, but I wasn't even half done looking through the store. I could have happily stayed there the rest of the day.

Thinking about it though, if that one store took so much time, I would certainly drown in a whole town of books. You could never get me to leave. Maybe it's best that I don't live in Hay. :-)

I see leaves of green....

2005-03-17T02:47:00.000-05:00

It's been rainy and dim the last few days, so when I looked out the window this morning and saw more of the same, it was a little depressing. But for a little while this afternoon, before another front came through, the sun made it's way out from behind the clouds. And suddenly everything was green. Being Florida, it's been warm here for weeks, but without warning, it seems like Spring finally decided to declare itself. Shades of emerald and kelly green almost explode from the leaves on the trees, and when the breeze wafted over the scent of orange blossoms from my neighbor's yard, well....I can only wax so poetic, I guess. :-) Truely God's handiwork, and just in time for St. Patrick's Day tomorrow! What a wonderful world!

Up, up and away

2005-03-16T01:25:00.000-05:00

I originally signed up for Blogger merely with the intent to publish comments on my friend's blog, but a couple of months ago, decided I would give it a shot. But after I'd typed out my first post, which I recall as being pretty good (but which was probably no more than mediocre, hindsight being what it is), I tried to post it and suddenly, it simply disappeared.

That's actually one of the issues I have with blogs. I never thought I would actually start one. I suppose that I should explain this paradox, since here I am writing one. The best way to explain it is that I'm somewhat old-school. Ever since I was in the fourth grade, I've kept a written journal. I must have at least five or six mismatched books, filled with handwriting that has morphed from large, bubbly, juvenile markings to the current combination of print and cursive that I use today. Most people these days don't write anything, not even checks, and what I love about the written word on paper is the sense of permenance. Sure, it could be burned in a fire, or doused with water and destroyed that way. But a written journal has heft. There's a weight to a book filled with ink-covered pages. And it has value. Papers, letters and journals, even random scribblings, left by authors and humanitarians and scientists, presidents and criminals and kings, sell for thousands and are cherished by collectors and museums. Will blogs ever be so treated?

I cherish the journal that my mother kept the summer she spent as a Red Cross worker in Guatamala. In it I read about a woman who I love and know, but about a time in her life where I was no where near close to existing. And recently, I found a series of letters that my grandmother sent to my grandfather while they were engaged, while she was in Florida and he was stationed in Canada with the Navy. They're silly, hopeful letters, about her practicing cooking, wedding planning, the practicalities of obtaining base housing, everyday experiences, and her joyful response to the engagement ring he bought her. I only wish that I had his letters to her as well. But the ones I do have are a concrete link to them and they show how in love my grandparent's were, something that held true even when they were in their seventies, but in those letters, is still fresh.

And I think about the journals that I've written in, where I put down my troubles, joys, fears, struggles with my faith and ridiculous crushes on boys (probably more of this than any of the guys ever merited), and I know that someday my children will read them and have a good laugh, or at least come to know more about me as a young girl and a young woman.

So why am I condescending to blog, you might ask? Well, like everyone else, I also enjoy the convenience and speed of modern conveniences. I haven't been writing a whole lot lately, and I need to get back into the habit of doing it everyday. Let's call it an experiment. A flight of lunacy, if you will.