Everyday News

::    Here's a bit I just rediscovered . . . I'm not at all unorganized, *ahem*.     ::

There's nothing like that gloriously sweet, wafting scent of freshly cut grass. Sometimes I think cows are blessed little creatures to be able to eat something as sweetly, deliciously smelling as grass. . . .

How's that for a conversation starter? ;-)

This morning God woke me up again to His gloriously beautiful world as I drove along and good-morning-to-this-fair-assembly-ed my way along sweet country roads brimming over with freshly flowering tulips and cherry blossoms. I'm not a city girl. If I didn't know that before, seven months in a crowded D.C. suburb has convinced me of it. Small southern towns, or maybe even Yankee country ones, are much more my cuppa. As one of my favorite bloggers once expressed, without the greenspace, quiet, and yes, even the Southern humidity, I lose something very much a part of myself, and yet I always find another bit of Jane Ellen -- or is it another Jane Ellen entirely? -- whilst in the city.

All these little thoughts strolled their ways across my mind this morning as I drove home -- on a "completely intentional, I-totally-know-where-this-road-goes, senic route" -- after posting a package, and it occured to me that I have done a poor job at keeping you posted on my adventures during this odd year. I'm not very good at simple updates, for there is something of the actress in me always preferring a good soul out-pouring to a holiday snapshot rambling. But one day I'll wish I had documented daily life during P.C. And so here I am.

For those of you unaware, "P.C." stands for Pastor's College, the whole reason for my living in Maryland. My dear father has been diligently slaving away at his books for the past seven months; we've dubbed him "the hermit" here because of his habit of sitting in one corner of his bedroom, back to the world, whole body hunched forward in a book or fingers tap-tapping away at a laptop. But unlike seminary or even university, Pastor's College is about more than theology and doctrine, more than professors and students, more than graduation and ordination. It truly is a whole family, whole life ordeal. Thrust into a circle of people all from different backgrounds but in similar situations, it's a time when God takes up his knitting needles and starts knit-purling heart strings together. (I pray none of you are offended by that metaphor -- what would Rachel Lynde say?)

There are twenty three family units here, twenty two dear, wonderful, friends-forever families and one unattached young man. I am the oldest P.C.K. -- Pastor's College kid, as we're referred to by . . . non-P.C.K.s . . . what is this fascination with abbreviations? -- living here with my family and one of the few above the age of ten. That makes for plenty of babysitting opportunities, let me tell you. But I couldn't be happier, really. Many of my mornings are spent encouraging young girls in their musical and scholarly pursuits; many of my evenings are whiled away playing house, acting charades, doling out stories, and holding sleepy babies. Actually, truth be told, the average age of my closest circle of friends in the P.C. is around four. (And, no, I'm not concerned about that.) :)

Other than playing with children, my time is happily passed with a high dose of simplicity. My senior year of high school is probably my easiest one since toddlerhood, and consequently I'm far more behind than I've ever been since, well,  probably toddlerhood. But spring fever's pumping through my veins this Holy Week and with it diligence. Hopefully I'll prove a trendsetter for myself. Next year looms ahead of me like Everest in my simple path, but even Everest in all its towering glory stirs up the dust of an adventurous soul.

::    Afterthought: I'm sure I had ample more details that I intended to share before this little post slipped through the cyber-cracks, but I've long since forgotten what they were. So now you can just jump to the conclusion, which I had already written, and you can get a picture of just how not-intuitively I dream up blog posts. Actually I think I had mentally composed the beginning and the end of this post and attempted to write something to glue the two together. Fail.    ::

I was driving north out of the bustle of the city to guard some sweet children in their slumber this evening. (That's my epic way of saying "babysitting," because doesn't that term just bother you, too? I mean think about it . . . ) And the setting sun was casting such warm golden light onto the maples, red with blooms, and her sister trees dripping with infantile leaflets. All around me was naught but warmth and fairy dust. But as I rounded the bend in the road, sleepy Apollo pierced down the roadway in all his last minute mustering. Indescribably golden, like the purest honey and the softest butter, that sunset demanded such reverence and awe yet incited impish desires. All I wanted to do was drive straight for that sun, into the sunset, and bask in all that amber goodness.

No, life in Maryland is far from bad.

*sigh*

Dance in the Streetlight

I sat outside on the front porch this evening, swaddled like a babe 'against the chilled night air. Trying to imagine away the rushing current of cars driving past, I looked up at the stars in all their flaming glory and at a solitary wisp of cloud sailing along the black sea. Distant chimney smoke wafts across the lawn, and a lonely airplane, naught but a starry light, creeps across the sky. I know that up there in that aerial transport people, as large and living and breathing as I, eat, speak, and sleep. But somehow, from earthbound perspective, I just can't fathom that.

 The night is perfectly beautiful, marred by only two things: the traffic noise and a streetlight. Traffic noise can, with willpower and an imagination, be willed away. Yet that orangey hue cannot. It slashes it's way through my picturesque scene like a paper cut through my finger.

Suddenly I am struck by how terrified I have been of those horrid street lights the past few years. They're not the pleasant lamposts one reads of in Narnia; they're the spine-chilling, heart-gripping sort just waiting for action heroes to race through or their nemeses to cower just beyond, gun loaded and cocked. I'd rather trust my (admittedly over-active) imagination to the pitch black than to those menacing lights. But then as I pondered such dismal thoughts -- and, I confess, felt the slightest tremblings within my gut -- a beautiful memory flooded my mind.

I was back in my hometown, in the heart of it, just off Palm Blvd., and I was young. A kindred spirit and I flitted about her front lawn. We were girls one minute and fairies the next. Of course Chloe was a dark fairy; nothing else would do. I was a mixed breed: earth fairy, to suit my infatuation with all things green; water fairy, to excuse my midnight swims; and light fairy, to appease Chloe's insistence that blond hair made it a foregone conclusion. And you now what I did? I danced in a streetlight.

One sat sentinel in the farthest corner of their property, and in my girlhood innocence, I filtered it into our game. I was a queen of the fairies with light exuding from every pore of my elven skin, as the moon in George Bailey's dream. And so the light fell on me and I danced like Tinuviel or Titania. Of course there was an enemy lurking in the shadows; Chloe always was in our fantasies.

As I relived that sliver of childhood with vim and vigor, I stared down that beaming pillar. I stared it down, and slowly all its Bourne-esque ambiance melted, and am eleven year old fairy queen danced before me. I cannot speak for all of humankind, but if one must let loose one's imagination on a lamplight, isn't it nicer to dance in its rays rather than dread its gaze?

An Accident

after the game

tug of war

push and pull

like a fat man

in a small door

they squeeze

and call and cry

with effusive faces

and merry hearts

leaving the field

and littered stadium

popcorn and potato chips

trodden on concrete

to inch home in traffic

cause it's great to be

a blank.

Sometimes I feel like an archaeologist as I sift through various pages of my scribblings and sketches; I feel as if my younger self, even if only a few weeks younger, was more a distant ancestor than my same self. Sometimes I shake my head with amused shame at my naivete or my fleshly attitudes. Other times I wonder at the wisdom I had in that moment -- the wisdom I seem to have discarded over a lapse of time.

I unearthed this poem a few pages back in my poetry journal from September. Written to complete a school assignment, I faintly remember slapping the words onto paper and then laughing out loud at its ending. The "blank" at the end was intended to pose for an unspecified sports team, but upon re-reading I realized how philosophical and morbid it sounded! :) I can see students poring over, attempting to unearth my hidden meaning, probably something along the lines of the anonymity of modern society. And all I was doing was writing a poem with similes in it.

It would fit very well in the pages of my English Composition II anthology. (And that is not a compliment...)

Take Them Captive

Bam!

A sudden pain bolted its way through my head, burning and searing whatever's in there as it went. Pained and angered and exhausted all at the same time, I threw down the vacuum handle and rushed out of the room, glaring icily at the assailant, a sharp shelf's corner. Holding my head in my hand, I dove into the coolness of my pillows and heaved a huge sigh. Then, down flooded the tears.

But it wasn't just the pain of a bruised brow that let loose the floodgates. As quickly as I ran retreated across the hallway to my bedroom, my mind ran over all the grievances it could possibly find, not just reaching back through the past day or week, but months and even years. No small injustice, no minor sorrow stayed behind from the conference called inside. They all flocked to the forefront of my mind, each shouting its pitiful sob story.

As the clamorous rampage in my mind continued, my weeping's volume increased. Soon, I was loudly sobbing and nearly convulsing from the anger and resentment, from the grief and the heartache, from the sharp and shooting pain.

From the other room, the vacuum cleaner and my little cleaning companion, Emmy Xiang, sat deserted. I heard her call, confused, to me, "Uh, did someone die in your game, or something?" Even one so enthralled in a pity party could smile at that, but I said nothing. Knowing that someone was listening, I only let loose greater sobs, holding nothing back as is my normal practice.

Finally I heard the pad-pad-pad of her feet coming toward me. She leaned against the bed, not sure whether touching me would invite an embrace or a shove. Finally, I rolled over to her, and she looked at me quizzically. We remained thus for a while, I piteously allowing tears to roll down my cheeks and she wondering what had caused and how to fix the mourning. At last she spoke:

"Why did you put them in there?"

"Um, what," was my confused reply?

"The sad thoughts -- why did you put them in your mind?"

I stared. She stared.

"Oh."

She was right. A simple clumsy knock on the head and I lay prostrate upon my bed weeping as if I had "married an unloveable man," as Emmy Xiang described me. That seven year old saw right into the depths of my heart. You look ridiculous. You hit your head on the shelf, and now you are replaying every sad or angering episode you've experienced in the past year. What is your problem?

"Finally, brothers and sisters,

whatever is true,

whatever is noble,

whatever is right,

whatever is pure,

whatever is lovely,

whatever is admirable,

if anything is excellent

or praiseworthy,

think about such things."

Philippians 4:8

In a Funny Mood...

Why this amuses me so very much, I'll never know. :)

Austen

"The real circumstances of this pathetic piece of family history were that the Musgroves had had the ill fortune of a very troublesome, hopeless son; and the good fortune to lose him before he reached his twentieth year; that he had been sent to sea because he was stupid and unmanageable on shore; that he had been very little cared for at any time by his family, though quite as much as he deserved; seldom heard of, and scarcely at all regretted, when the intelligence of his death abroad had worked its way to Uppercross, two years before.

"He had, in fact, though his sisters were now doing all they could for him, by calling him 'poor Richard,' been nothing better than a thickheaded, unfeeling, unprofitable Dick Musgrove, who had never done anything to entitle himself to more than the abbreviation of his name, living or dead."

- Jane Austen, Persuasion

Sparkling. Witty. Sarcastic. Hysterical. Austen.

How can one not love her?

Minnie the Moocher

My family has lately settled down in the evenings to enjoy the wit and charm of A&E's adaptation of Jeeves and Wooster, stories created by P.G. Wodehouse. How I have lived thus far without Wooster's frivolous friends (bearing nick-names like Gussie Fink-Nottle and Barmy Fungy-Phipps) or Jeeves' dry, "feudal spirit" and abhorrence of trendy fashion, I will never understand.

Below is one of my (many) favorite clips from the series. Though difficult to see in this YouTube version, Jeeves' persistence with the respectful title, "sir," forces a laugh out of me every time.

Minnie the Moocher as sung by Bertie Wooster

May this cheery song brighten your Monday!

*Happy Sigh*

"You know you're in love when you can't fall asleep because reality is finally better than your dreams." ~ Dr. Suess

What can I say? It's a new favorite quote! So sappy and sentimental . . . kinda like me. ;-)

Go on...

Tell me, 'cause I know.

I should start working out.

How else is a big sister to keep away the boys in a few years?!?!

Just Tea!

Tea, though ridiculed by those who are naturally coarse in their nervous sensibilities . . . will always be the favored beverage of the intellectual. ~ Thomas de Quincey

Stolen from the amazing Thoroughly Alive.

An Eulogy and Update

Between the season's festivities and approaching deadlines, this dear blog has been neglected of late. Hopefully I'll be able to carve out some time for posting in the coming weeks. For now, however, enjoy a little poem that my darling sister, Katie, penned:

The Eulogy

Bunbury, my fellow, once so jolly,

Your death makes me melancholy.

You were to me a fantastic mate.

I'm sorry combustion was your fate.

Whenever I needed an excuse,

No matter the matter you I could use.

You had once pneumonia, twice depression,

But thrice my sympathy made a fine impression.

And now, what shall your chap Algy do,

Since you can be no longer my impromptu?

No friend could ever have been as faithful.

Your timing always proved impeccable.

Here I stand at your graveside,

Shamefully and remarkably teary-eyed,

For now what, oh what, will I do,

When I'm faced with things I don't want to do?

Ode to Bunbury, now deceased,

May you forever rest in peace!

If you aren't familiar with the inspiration for this poem, you need to pick up a copy of Oscar Wilde's The Importance of Being Earnest from your library. The play is absolutely hysterical and thoroughly British -- a perfect combination! ;)

By the way, Katie did have surgery. Her cyst is gone, and she's now a bionic woman! ;) This past week, two weeks after surgery, my bling-loving girl has begun walking on only two legs rather than three... The crutches strangely resembling flamingo legs have been stored in the attic!

The only thought that comes to mind in all these circumstances is this:

Praise God from whom all blessings flow. Praise Him all creatures here below. Praise Him above, ye heavenly hosts. Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. Forever and ever, Amen!

Just Keep Swimming...

Well, they're all swimming around in my brain right now:

"You're no match for my brains!" - Vizzini

Nothing like Princess Bride! :)

"There is no love more sincere than the love of food." - Carrabba's bag

I love this. I just do.

"Hou! Cio-Cio-San!" - Friends and Relatives

After performing in a concert version of Madama Butterfly, this, and other quotes, have been ringing.... and ringing and ringing! :|

An Evening's Labors

What's in a name?

That which we call a rose, by any other name, would smell as sweet.

~ William Shakespeare ~

I love names. I love the creativity, symbolism, and memory that is so often breathed into them. I love name meanings. I love naming imaginary friends and children. I love watching people go about their daily business and guessing at their names. And, yes, I know I'm strange.

This is one of my favorite (and, consequently, one of my most frequented) websites: www.behindthename.com. Enjoy, my fellow name-lovers!

You're Invited. . .

(The Luncheon, Claude Monet)

This morning I am making my way to a fanciful picnic tea on a fantastical river. Won't you, dear kindred spirits, join me as imaginary guests?

(Morning on the Seine, Claude Monet)

Well, the actual river isn't fantastical, for its the Seine; however, enjoying luncheon beside it is quite the lovely fantasy.

(Sunshine and Shadow, Frank Benson)

You say you're too busy? Impossible! Bring along your handwork -- conversation abounds at this little social, so you shan't be bored.

(Summertime, Mary Cassatt)

We can eat and drink as we please, spending the rest of our delightful day on the river.

(Boating on the Seine, Pierre-August Renoir)

Perhaps we'll even try our hands at paddling the boats.

(A Corner of the Garden at Montgeron, Claude Monet)

On shore, of course, all the flowers are bursting brilliantly with color and texture. (But, remember, the weather is delightfully cool, for this is our fantasy that is not subject to the laws of natural seasons!)

(Woman with Parasol, Pierre-Auguste Renoir)

If you aren't among the riverfolk, I'm sure you'll enjoy the tantalizing scents and myriad blooms or perhaps the indescribable view.

(Two Women Asleep in a Punt, John Singer Sargent)

I, for one, might indulge my temptation brought on by the quiet lull of the water to slip in a moment with closed eyes and daydreams -- after all, this day of delights is to make a commonplace, tiring day just a bit more bearable!

Waiting According to Katie

"Yeah, I'm just waiting for Prince Charming to giddy-up his way over here!"

Luther on Music

I truly desire that all Christians would love and regard as worthy the lovely gift of music, which is a precious, worthy, and costly treasure given to mankind by God.

Next to the Word of God, the noble art of music is the greatest treasure in the world. It controls our thoughts, minds, hearts, and spirits.

The precious gift has been given to man alone that he might thereby remind himself that God has created man for the express purpose of praising and extolling God.

I found these quotes of Martin Luther's interesting recently. The mysteries of music intruige me greatly. It's amazing how music speaks to us as human beings. A song carries memories, provokes emotions, fixes thoughts. Some of my darkest moments have been lightened by a song that comes to mind. I have memorized so much Scripture because it was put to song. Fascinating . . .

Of course, I love how Luther sums up his point. A bit, uh, passionate?

A person who gives this some thought and yet does not regard music as a marvelous creation of God, must be a clodhopper indeed and does not deserve to be called a human being; he should be permitted to hear nothing but the braying of asses and the grunting of hogs.

Well, that's that settled.

Randomness

I read a quote today that thoroughly contradicts what I believe with each minute fiber of my being: "So much of life, it seems to me is determined by pure randomness." I believe in the omnipotent, omniscient God who is sovereign over all things. Not a flower blooms, not a leaf drops, not a dove sings without my great and awesome Father ordaining it and knowing it.

Though God is completely and thoroughly sovereign (i.e. no event is truly random), He often gives me thoughts, feelings, and inspirations that I cannot describe with any other word except random! And God, knowing how I love to jot those random thoughts down, gave me this dear little kingdom in blogworld to keep them in. So, without further ado, a peek into my mind.

~ I love the print on paper towels. Do any of ya'll out there who are persistent enough to read this far agree? The roll we have now has the most cheerful little sketches of birds, butterflies and flowers in the brightest shades of yellow, blue, and green. Those are some of my favorite colors, done in the right shades, of course. I cannot stand some shades of green they are too closely related to . . . disgusting elements . . .

~ Mozart's Symphony No. 39 in E Flat is brilliant! I want to sing every time I hear it! No wonder it's a staple for symphony orchestras.

~ The other day I realized how very much others' attitudes affect my own. (Not good, I know!) A boy walked in late to a little class I attend, and the only seat available was the one in front of me. He proceeded to sit down and push his seat back pressing my desk into my ribs! Needless to say, his rather un-gentlemanly behavior was enough to activate an internal hissy fit. Then, later that day, as I walked toward the library the same afternoon, a man passed me and exuberantly chirped, "Good afternoon! How are you today?" Ah. That was refreshing!

~ Speaking of something affecting me, I learned the cutest little affect/effect acronym the other day! Raven: R- remember that A- affect is the V- verb and E- effect is the N- noun! Isn't that adorable?

~ Emmy Xiang looks more and more Chinese everyday. When we first got her, she didn't look very Chinese at all. But as she thins out and matures, those sweet black eyes curve into that characteristic almond shape. And she has the most darling little dimples you've ever seen on a child. I've been missing China so much recently. I shouldn't have been looking at those huge maps of Asia today! But, alas! what's done is done. And, really, I cannot resist a map!

~ After reviewing the Middle Ages for a Music History course, I am missing dreadfully the chivalrous, idyllic days of legend. Edmund Blair Leighton's paintings don't help much, do they?

~ Sometimes I wish I could go back to being eleven or twelve, like my darling sister, Gracie. I miss the carefree days of girlhood on the brink of womanhood -- spending more time in dress up than in normal clothes, reading dear books and writing childish concoctions in my spare time, basking in the simplicity and innocence of the world through those eyes. This isn't to say that I'm "all grown up" or that I don't enjoy these traits, but I do find myself nostalgically wishing I could turn back the hands of the clock.

~ I love the built-in bookshelves that Daddy built this December. They are so amazingly wonderful! Sometimes, I pass through the library and stop staring at them with a silly smile on my face. They're just too lovely for words. Of course, the familiar faces that inhabit those shelves have something to do with it! :)

Well, I suppose that is enough of the mushy heart-gushing, random thought-dumping feelings from a silly, sinful, nostalgic bibliophile! Ta ta for now!

Ain't That the Truth...

(John Bull, Cooking Housewives, UK)

"Don't forget that very true remark that, while face powder may catch a man, baking powder is the stuff to hold him." -Dos and Don'ts for Wives, 1936

You've just gotta love vintage advice!

Memories

Have you ever remembered something you were sure you had forgotten? It's like the key to a long-locked room in your mind unexpectedly turns up. You rush down the halls and up staircases to that room filled with trunks and boxes of memories. As scents of age assault your nostrils, you sift through each one until that memory rises through the fog of dust. A contented smile plays upon your lips as you play over and over again in your head that sweet morsel of the past.

This happened to me this evening while I was drying dinner dishes. Katie and I twirled around the kitchen while croaking out silly songs from silly movies. All the memories of watching those movies with friends (and playing dress up afterwards, of course) flooded over me.

*Sigh* I'm so overly sentimental.

By the way, does anyone else see their minds as a cottage with different rooms? There's the porch, the kitchen, the attic, the music room, the gallery, the living room...on and on and on.