A still, small voice

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

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?

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...

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

"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."

"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

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

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

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)

"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

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

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

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'

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

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?

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

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.

"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

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

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.