::BO-RING!

I have far too many friends who consider themselves "boring."

I assume that they often assign themselves this false classification because they have "settled down" with a spouse and children, so they can no longer be as autonomous as they once were.

I'm certain that this is a "the grass is always greener" sort of thing, but frankly, the stereotypical American societal "single life" is actually what I find boring.
I also find it pointless, vapid, evasive.

I'm not a huge fan of sitting in a bar for hours, choked by cigarette smoke swirling everywhere, annoyed by intoxicated idiots, exhausted by the fact that I'm only there because I don't want to be sitting at home.
So, somehow, driving to a different location to sit with other single people, ingest alcohol, and have shallow conversation means that I have "a social life"?

In so many ways, I wish I could be satisfied by going out to the bar every weekend.
I feel as though I might "fit in" better or feel less isolated.

But the fact is, being in mutual love with someone, creating another human being with them, and nurturing that tiny human as they become who they were created to be?
That doesn't sound boring at all.

Although, since I'm a member of the human race and we're a notoriously restless lot, I bet that I would feel "boring" too.

I'm upset that I live in a body and a culture that are so consumed with desire.
It's as if we are constantly advised that we should have more, do more, be more, because we are so drab and lackluster and no matter what, we will never have or be enough.

Perhaps I am not the only one who could use a healthy dose of the gratitude and contentment of St. Paul.

::numbering the stars

I love autumn.

I love baby-sitting my niece, Emma, who is now 14 months old, and continues to amaze me every time I see her.

And when I say she's "amazing," I don't mean that she's the watered-down cliche of the word that has nearly lost all meaning, after being employed by the ignorant masses to describe such mundane fare as souvenir shot glasses and comfortable footwear.

I mean she amazes me, as in:

a⋅maze

–verb (used with object)

1.	to overwhelm with surprise or sudden wonder; astonish greatly.

2.	to bewilder; perplex.

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Here are two recent shots I've adored:



She loves to collect acorns :)


Her smiles are so infectious

Although she is my brother's progeny and not my own, she has completely altered my entire life.
She has unwittingly handed me an entirely fresh lens through which I now view all that brushes against my senses.

No word is big or strong or descriptive enough.

Love is the best one I know.

::you're sitting in a chair...in the SKY

Sometimes it just takes a comedian - employing pure, unadulterated exasperation - to express the sentiments I feel so deeply.

::forfeiting their leaves

Emma with Grandpa, 10-1-09

October is my favorite month.

I always fall in love anew with the crisp, chilly air that greets my lungs.
I adore the cornucopia of colors pleasantly brushing past our corneas as we perform our mundane routines of daily drudgery.


And even when the trees have just surrendered
To the harvest time
Forfeiting their leaves in late September
And sending us inside
Still I notice You when change begins
And I am braced for colder winds
I will offer thanks for what has been and what's to come
You are autumn

~Nichole Nordeman

::two-legged memorials to the laws of happenstance

Over the weekend, I was very blessed to spend lots of quality time with my dear friends Zachary and Erin.
After dinner on Saturday evening, we discussed one of my all-time favorite musicians/songwriters, the late Rich Mullins.
We noted our shared affinity for his gorgeous song, Here in America.
Some of the phrases in these lyrics feel almost otherworldly, they are so brilliantly joyful and poignant.
I have included them here, after the video.
Enjoy.


Here In America - Rich Mullins


Saints and children we have gathered here to hear the sacred story
And I'm glad to bring it to you with my best rhyming and rhythm
'Cause I know the thirsty listen and down to the waters come
And the Holy King of Israel loves me here in America

And if you listen to my songs I hope you hear the water falling
I hope you feel the oceans crashing on the coast of north New England
I wish I could be there just to see them, two summers past I was
And the Holy King of Israel loves me here in America

And if I were a painter I do not know which I'd paint
The calling of the ancient stars or assembling of the saints
And there's so much beauty around us for just two eyes to see
But everywhere I go I'm looking

And once I went to Appalachia for my father he was born there
And I saw the mountains waking with the innocence of children
And my soul is still there with them wrapped in the songs they brought
And the Holy King of Israel loves me here in America

And I've seen by the highways on a million exit ramps
Those two-legged memorials to the laws of happenstance
Waiting for four-wheeled messiahs to take them home again
But I am home anywhere if You are where I am

And if you listen to my songs I hope you hear the water falling
I hope you feel the oceans crashing on the coast of north New England
I wish I could be there just to see them, two summers past I was
And the Holy King of Israel loves me here in America

::if I had a hammer

Early this morning, while driving to my brother's house, I heard some upsetting news.

"Mary Travers has died."



Folk is, by far, my favorite genre of music, its raw simplicity a constant source of solace and joy for my sensitive soul.

I vividly remember the moments when this adoration presented itself.
I was riding in a car with my lifelong "bff" Annie on the way home from Meijer.
The fact that she was moving to Utah that week hung suspended in the air like a pungent odor, its nefarious tentacles dangerously close to our membranes.

She asked if she could play Peter, Paul and Mary for me, and I agreed, secretly thinking, Umm, my parents listen to them...are you serious?

As the music softly swelled to its apex, however, I found myself transfixed.
As much as Leavin' on a Jet Plane has been dismissed, maligned, and ridiculed, it remains, to me, a powerful lament of bittersweet melancholy.
The strong, rich vocals by Mary Travers, fused with gentle harmony by Peter Yarrow and Paul Stookey, somehow managed to isolate all the emotions I could not even identify, extract and soothe every gnawing anxiety.
As Annie and I joined our voices with the chorus, inhaling the palpable reality, I was forever changed.

Years later, I went with my parents to see Peter, Paul and Mary perform live at Meadowbrook Theatre.
My parents, rarely fans of Public Displays of Affection, sat cuddled together as they swayed and sang along to Where Have All the Flowers Gone?
I still recall the tranquil grandeur of that breezy summer evening with a deeply crystallized fondness.

I am certain that I am merely one of thousands who, if not for Mary Travers, would never have shared such precious, intimate moments of sheer delight and poignancy.

For that, I am forever grateful, both to her and for her.

::television, here I come...

I've always loved this questionnaire, posed to every guest by James Lipton on Inside the Actors Studio.



I decided to take a stab at it.

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What is your favorite word?
Shalom

What is your least favorite word?
Fat

What turns you on?
Compassion and laughter

What turns you off?
Insensitivity

What sound or noise do you love?
The laughter of people I love

What sound or noise do you hate?
Angry shouting

What is your favorite curse word?
F*#!

What profession other than yours would you like to attempt?
I really want Samantha Brown's job

What profession other than yours would you not like to attempt?
Mathematician

If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates?
"I love you, Stacey."