Issues

Immigration issues are plastered all over the news - particularly today, because of recent protests and marches. Even our small town (<10,000) had a gathering at one of the local parks.

I'll be frank and upfront and say that I'm a bigot. I don't mean that I think that one race (especially my own) is better than another. What I mean by "bigot" is that I have to fight looking at a stranger from another race and not making assumptions. I don't tend to have any problem when I know someone personally. My friends are not limited by gender, race, age, etc.

Controversial issues make me feel uncomfortable. It isn't because I don't care about those issues, it's that I dislike conflict. I feel tense and uneasy in personal conflicts unless I'm fighting someone on behalf of someone I love who has been wronged. I can be ruthless if it comes down to loyalty...

Immigration issues make me feel tense because there isn't an easy answer. Declare all illegal immigrants to be citizens or give them all visas? OK, and how do you respond to the people from other nations who went through the process to obtain a US visa but were turned down? Should the US remove all border/immigration requirements and let whoever wants entry to come? The current social systems can support that (housing, economy, defense, treasury, labor, education, transportation...).

Do you say some can become citizens and some cannot? How do you decide who can and who cannot?

Do you say they're all illegal and no one should be allowed in the country illegally? If this is the option you select, I seriously question how much you know about the immigrant laborers that propel the agriculture, manufacturing and service industries. Many immigrants are willing to do jobs we Americans (with our pride and inflated sense of entitlement) are not willing to do.

As I said, I don't see any easy answers. No matter how things happen, no matter what decision is made, people will be angry.

I'm glad I'm not in the position to actually make a decision on this.

Shopping Struggles

My sweet, adorable, tiny baby boy has become a squirming, squealing 18-lb. lug.

My mom and I went shopping last Thursday and (of course) took Small Boy. Mom, in her infinite wisdom, suggested we take a stroller. I voted for the front carrier, but deferred to her experience. For Petsmart, the first instance of pull-Nathan-from-the-car-seat, I figured it was a short errand; why not just carry him and save myself the hassle of the stroller?

Problem #1: It wasn't a short errand. Petsmart's ID tag machines are cool and all, but engraving isn't fast in any sense of the word. Each character takes two passes. Go ahead and imagine how many characters there are in a dog's name, reference address, and home phone number. Now double that (we have two dogs, after all).

Problem #2: Nathan wasn't the calm, observant sort he used to be. We weren't done with Tag 1 before he started squirming and hyperextending in my arms. Since he discovered his ability to move on his own without parental intervention, he strongly disapproves of that option being denied him. He rocked back and forth; he tried crawling up my rib cage and over my left shoulder; he tried twisting his head and upper torso from side to side to escape the dreaded motherly arm enclosure. When all these failed, he expressed himself in the sort of high-pitched scream/squeal/wail that only ever happens when he's positioned just perfectly to pierce my eardrum.

Problem #3: By the time Tag 1 was done, I had to go to the bathroom. I pushed in the tokens for Tag 2 and proceeded to dance the recognizable "I have to go to the bathroom but am being forced to delay the action for now" dance while holding an 18-lb. squirming mass in my arms. Both tags finally done, I crammed them into a pocket and tried to calmly, coolly walk to the back of the store while desperately scanning the aisles for the rescue portal labeled "WOMEN". Since I wasn't up for trying to hold Nathan while going to the bathroom, I put his burp pad on the poured cement floor, put Nathan down on top of it, then did my duty - all the while trying not to think of how many dogs had been on that floor where my son was now playing. Correction: the floor where my son was now crawling, crawling to the floor drain (conveniently located in the stall I had chosen). I finished, pulled up my jeans, fastened the necessary toggles, and swooped Nathan and his burp pad back to my shoulder just before Nathan stuck his little fingers into the alluring holes of the drain.

I'm not up for the describing what it takes to wash one's hands while one is holding a 7-month-old. Life is too short.

I never thought to revel in going to the bathroom by myself before I had children. I didn't know having a child would remove that experience from my life. It's not something they tell you in premarital counseling or childbirth prep classes.

It's a Woman-Eat-Woman World

After reading a couple of blog posts about the world from the female perspective, I've been thinking about this topic. It wasn't until I got married and tried to tell my husband some of this stuff that he even had a clue some of it existed.

In college, I had to cross a bridge with few streetlights to get back to my dorm. Whenever there was a male behind me - individual or a group of them - I automatically felt for my pepper spray. A guy friend was floored by this response; he didn't like the thought of other women reaching for pepper spray if he was the one walking behind them. I tried explaining that I simply couldn't take a chance that he wasn't a good guy, but I don't think he understood.

In college classrooms, I wore jeans, hiking boots and a flannel shirt to classes. No make-up, rarely did my hair, and dragged the same ratty backpack for 4 1/2 years. When a girl walked into a lecture wearing stylish attire, I knew she wouldn't be taken as seriously by most of the engineering professors. If you're there to be noticed rather than to learn, you won't stay in an engineering major for long.

When traveling for work, I made a point of approaching my rental car carefully in the parking garage, splaying keys between my fingers so I would have a weapon if I got grabbed from behind. Understand that I'm not paranoid about this; it was just a pragmatic step to take for my safety.

If male clients had sexist attitudes, I couldn't call them on it, but had to soldier through. I was actually told that in order to get along with one person in particular, I should "kiss up to him until he likes you and starts to trust you; then he'll be willing to work with you."

I learned to flirt appropriately and hold my head, my body, my facial expression just so to convey the right amount of professionalism with femininity. There is a "keep your distance from me" tone, a "you're the only big, strong man who can solve my problem" tone, and "I'm so much better at this job than you are that you should be licking my shoes" tone - with a variety of facial expressions of every degree to match. No one taught me this. I had to figure it out and handle things on my own. For all the hassles of dealing with men in this world, I would still take them almost any day instead of other women.

Aided and abetted by the media and entertainment industries, we women are cruel to each other. Even close girlfriends (to whom the good women are fiercely loyal) aren't immune to a calculating appraisal of looks and outfit. When it's a stranger, the thought "Wow, are those earrings bad with that outfit" get voiced to whoever the woman is with. When it's a good friend, she keeps the thought to herself - unless they're really, really good friends and someplace private. In that case, she may tell her friend, causing the earrings to be exchanged for another pair.

I know incredibly talented women in the corporate world: intelligent, savvy, professional, capable leagues beyond many of their peers. Some were helpful by their example. Many - and even most - of them were hard as nails. The aura I got around them was that it was harder than hard for them to scale the ladder to where they were; they would make sure I had to work as hard to get where I wanted to go.

No lie: I do not recall a single female in a superior role from 4 1/2 years of college and 5 years of corporate experience who offered mentor-like advice or took me under a wing.

Horrible? Sexist? Sure. Whining that it shouldn't be this way for women doesn't actually change anything in my world, though. Learn to play the hand you were dealt. There are no bad hands in poker, just bad players.

Feeling Crushed?

Ever wondered why it seems like we learn so much more during the hard blows life throws? The hard times in my life don't seem easier later on, but they do seem... sweeter, somehow. Do I want to go through them again? No thank you. At the same time, there's a heart-level sort of learning that happens during those times that never sinks in during the la-dee-dah experiences.

I was thinking about this recently and realized there's a parallel in nature. Herbs (pronounced "erb," not "herb") only release their fragrance and flavor when they're crushed or torn in some way.

It's almost like our lives don't bring fragrance or beauty to someone else until we have been crushed or torn in some way.

Something to ponder.
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Nathan has started pulling himself up to a standing position using people, couches or whatever's available. He's not always successful, mind you. It's rather frightening to realize he doesn't have the balance to sit up, yet he's using his arms to pull himself up as high as he possibly can just to see what the change in view is like.

Having him turn 180 degrees from the videos stored beneath the TV, crawl toward me, climb into my lap and scale my chest so he can stand up, look me in the face and grin turns my heart into a puddle.

This is one of those little things that makes 3 a.m. feedings feel paid for.

My Moving Target

The garbage disposal that is my son continues his sprint to toddlerhood, with me clinging to his ankles in a pathetic attempt to hold him back.

He's 18 pounds, who knows how many inches long, now crawling (has already been into Grandpa and Grandma's TV armoire, hands among the videocassette tapes), consumes three meals of solids - two jars of baby food at each - plus four nursing sessions. He's a squealing, ravenous, solid, MOVING (pardon me while I rescue him from being decapitated by crawing under his exersaucer...) bundle of energy and grins.

I'm enchanted and bordering on exhausted trying to keep up with him - No! Not the computer cords!...

[sigh] At this point, the blanket spread on the floor is just the equivalent of the 'Go' square on a Monopoly board.

Please, dear God in heaven, don't let him start walking at the end of his 7th month like my girlfriend's first kidlet did.

Joys & Concerns

At my former corporate job, we'd take turns sharing what was working and what wasn't in our various projects. One of my team members jokingly called it "Joys and Concerns," referencing a Methodist custom of asking for prayer requests by asking the congregation if anyone had any joys or concerns.

My joys seem uppermost tonight.
A wonderful, cradle-to-grave girlfriend is moving back to the area. She's the sort of friend I only have contact with once a year, but we're able to dive deep into what's really important to us now without any shallow social chitchat. Not only will we be able to connect more often, our houses are actually going to be within four blocks of each other. Talk about God having a sense of humor...

Another joy? A dear friend gave birth to her first several weeks ago. On a recent journal entry online, she (writing from her baby son's perspective) mentioned that he had slept for two four-hour sessions between feedings and that both Mommy and Daddy were glad for the extra sleep.

I'm pretty sure I'll be there again someday, but right now I'm extremely grateful to be where I am with a six-month-old. Nathan wakes once during the night ~3:30, eats, is back in bed without a murmur 15 minutes later, sleeps 'til 6:30/7, is awake/cute/interactive/eats for 1 1/2 to 2 hours, sleeps from 9-10:30/11, is awake/cute/interactive/eats for another 2 hours, sleeps for ~2-3 hours more, has one more 2-hr awake session, eats one last time, and goes down to bed for the night at 6 p.m.

Yes, you read that correctly: 6:00 p.m.
He's gone entire nights without waking - 6 p.m. until 6:30/7 a.m.

12 1/2 to 13 hours of sleeping.

Sometimes I wonder if I should be concerned that he sleeps upwards of 16 hours a day; but he's alert, cheerful, eats well, is active - and is just stinkin' cute. In the picture below, he's trying to grab his shadow off the bottom of the clothes basket. Cheap entertainment.

$60,000 Shower

Wouldn't you like to have a $60,000 shower in your house? We can have it if we want it; it's ours for the taking.

My youngest brother works for a company that manufactures carbon fiber products. If you don't know what carbon fiber is, check here. If a carbon fiber board doesn't meet specifications, it can't be used. Each board (depending on size) has a retail price of around $10,000.

We've got six reject boards sitting in my dad's workshop. One of my family members had the "brilliant" idea of surrounding the walls of the steel shower in our basement with these carbon fiber boards: no rust, and wow, is it indestructible!

I still don't think we'll go this direction. Bookshelves, maybe; shower? No thanks.

Lately in the Stanley World

Recent discoveries in Nathan's life:
Sweet potatoes (with corn, with chicken, with turkey, plain... bring 'em on)
Prunes
Spinach (plain, with carrots, whatever)
Crocs (who knew they'd be incredible teething devices? Chewy and drool resistant!)
Crawling (more inchworm than crawl, but still)
Textures of all sorts (wood, corduroy, Minky, hair, anything & everything)

Recent occupiers of Mommy's time:
House, house and more house!
paint, faux finishes, flooring, design ideas (hallelujah for HGTV... I've seen some ideas I'd like to try and plenty I never want to try; they might work on one of the coasts, but not in the Midwest, where beige walls reign supreme)

Looks like we might close on the house this Friday, which would mean demolition can start that day! I'm looking forward to tearing out carpet.

Yes, Brian, we'll save the dining room light for you. : )

Let Them Eat Milk Bones

Every night it's my responsibility to put our dogs to bed.

This entails leaving the house, following the stone path to my parents' barn (read: shed that looks like a barn), and entering a space that has transformed since my childhood memories of it.

Our dogs were indoor dogs at our house. Kennel-trained, but indoor dogs. There was no way we could do that to my parents. 70-lb dog plus 50-lb dog totals potential damage that is truly greater than the sum of its parts. The dogs are therefore located in the shed and attached dog run in the back yard.

Iowa winters aren't as kind as Kansas ones. The phrase "I wouldn't put a dog out on a night like this" must have originated in Iowa. We have such nights. Even inside a shed, the dogs wouldn't be warm enough to last the winter. Late last fall, before the worst of the sub-zero weather, Trent insulated the barn and hooked up the electrical line we ran down there this summer. The dogs have heat and greater warmth than I ever remember experiencing when we kids used that building as a clubhouse.

The dogs express their gratitude by barking at passing cars outside, climbing the lumber stacked up on one side of the inside space, and (in Sugar's case) shredding any accessible insulation. There must be something about the taste of fiberglass...

Back to my original point: I put the dogs to bed. There's a routine - and go figure, that I, of all people, would have a routine. Pick up the food dish, slide the panel in to block the dog door (raccoons or rodents with caged dogs sounds interesting in theory, but the reality would be a mess), and give the dogs affection for a while. Usually Jasper (the black behemoth, the one we call Hellhound) loves this time. Sugar is too excited for her daily treat fix to want much attention. The last couple of nights, they've been too eager for the next step in the routine: once in their kennels, they each get a Milk Bone.

They don't want my love anymore; they'd rather have treats.

Hmph. Ungrateful beasts.

Shudder Lane

I think it will be a Good Thing(tm) once we're in our own house without cable TV again.

Trent & I have talked about this. I tend to turn into a helpless addict if the TV is on - a sort of ADD compulsion to watch it if it's on rather than walk away. While spending some time with Nathan this afternoon, I flipped through channels and came across Cheerleader Nation. Watching it was a trip down memory lane - and not all of those memories were good ones.

In a matter of minutes I remembered going through flag corp camp with snotty juniors and contemptuous seniors, sitting on a hard gym floor as the volleyball coach ran through the list of who made JV and who made varsity, watching the popular girls flirt with their boyfriends and look incredible in bathing suits while I huddled in a far corner on my towel with a book, and (above all of these) the irritation I had with conversation time spent on stupid subjects. Who cares whether this freshman is getting above herself by trying to break out of her clique and hang with the upperclassmen? Why does it matter if that senior has never gone out for something until her last year and thinks she can make the team/squad/roster/choir/cast?

So much of high school is usually spent being uncomfortable in your own skin; you're so concerned about others articulating your shortcomings that you find it hard to believe they have any. I alternated between anxiety about not fitting in and irritation that my peers were being so immature and shallow. It didn't change until college.

You couldn't pay me enough money to put me back in junior high or high school.

Ugh. [shudder]

Marital Benefits

Thoughts while watching my brother's girlfriend pack yesterday for a wedding this weekend (including a sleeping bag):

- Benefit to marrying (aside from the obvious ones): you usually score a bed or at least an air mattress when it comes to family gatherings or friends' events

- Benefit of having a small child or infant: you usually get a room of your own at family gatherings or friends' events


I don't remember the last time I was asked to sleep on the floor or on a couch. I think it was when I was in college or shortly after.

Again, Tired of Consulting

I've been in some kind of funk the last several days... Nathan likes the taste of solids, but his digestive system doesn't like processing them; he screams at the drop of a hat now as food works its way through his gastrointestinal tract. The weather was nice today, but has been gray and rainy the two preceding days. Trent's wrestling with a sleep problem; I think it's obstructive sleep apnea, but we don't have the $3,000 a nearby sleep clinic would charge to get an official diagnosis (let alone the $1,200 for the machine needed to treat it), so meanwhile Trent's getting the equivalent of 3-4 hours of sleep a night.

He hasn't been very social lately.

It was while we were talking this morning that I realized what I miss so much about where we were: there, I knew so many people who were actively seeking God - more than that, pursuing him with abandon. Here, I think more people consult God. There's a big difference.

My dad has remarked that this area is perhaps the hardest area in which to be a Christian - not physically, since there isn't persecution, but emotionally and spiritually. Everyone is surrounded by the forms of religion from childhood. We're close to being innoculated against true, life-changing belief. It's how I grew up: keep all the rules and try harder, because you're not doing enough.

I don't want to be back there. I don't want to live my life and take my blueprints to God for his rubber-stamp sign off. That's consulting, not surrender. I got enough of consulting at my former employer. Form of language mattered more than the content, and there were a million ways of answering a question without saying anything of substance - certainly no promises I could be held accountable to keep... I left the corporate world because of the changes I saw in how I responded to friends and family; I don't want my relationship with God to be that way. "Fake" and "truth" cannot exist in the same relationship for longer than a breath.

I miss being part of a group of seekers. Here devotions seem more "discipline" and less "devotion".

Marveling over the Inane

For all that being a stay-at-home mom can be viewed as drudgery (whether you're living it or observing someone else live it), there are some amazing plusses in my life because of it.

I took Nathan on a walk to the park a few days ago. He was in the Snugli front-carrier, facing out (his preference). I tried zipping my jacket up over his front and arms so he'd stay warm, but he insisted on having his arms out where they could grab things. I bent down a few times to pick up things and hold them close to him to explore: a handful of snow, which he thrust his little fingers into; a stick, that he grasped and tried to insert in his mouth; and gravel, the sound of which seemed to catch his interest as I let it fall through my fingers. I managed to climb the narrow stairs of a curly slide, squeeze the two of us through the child-sized opening at the top - without hitting Nathan's head on the bar overhead - and slide back down to the ground.

When I am in a peaceful state, I think I observe more detail than many people do. Even without Nathan, I would easily marvel over grains of ice and snow. Because of Nathan, though, my observations increase enormously. He matters to me, and therefore what interests him matters to me. Tumbling clothes in a dryer (why do I normally walk right past that fascinating montage of swirling color?), the small grains of dust caught in my dog's hair... I wouldn't see these things if I wasn't watching Nathan so closely.

Watching him play today on the floor, I realized that I envy him his unapologetic life. He doesn't consider someone else's misunderstanding a reason to feel hurt; he's currently impervious to ridicule or derisive laughter; he doesn't for one minute think it might be stupid to put dog hair in his mouth to see what it tastes like.

I wish I could keep that quality in his life. I want him to care about others, but I know he'll also care about others' perspective of him. I know already that I can't protect him from hurt. I know when I tell him during his teen years that he is unique and special and that trying to be like everyone else around him isn't the path to joy, he will discount my words just like I and scores of other kids discount their parents' words. Parents are supposed to think you're special. It's their job.

There will be times, possibly several years, when he is embarrassed to be seen with me in public. My hope is that some part of my wonder, my delight in the little things in life, will leave a deep enough impact in the early years that it calls him back as an adult...

I don't care whether he's 8 or 58: I want him to keep playing - though if he's still trying to put dog hair in his mouth when he's 58, I'll express my concerns.

Working Children

OK, so this week's been even crazier than last... I not only got Nathan's cold, I got an ear infection and apparently reinjured my neck (I herniated the disc between C5/C6 in my neck a little over three years ago; it stabilized with steroids, so I didn't have to have surgery - now the injury's back). Once again, pain in my shoulders, radiating down my left arm, and some tingling sensations in my thumb and first two fingers on my left hand (the bulging disc was pressing on a spinal nerve).

I came away from my doctor's appointment Monday afternoon with antibiotics (for the ear infection), steroids (for the disc) and painkillers (to keep me happy throughout). Monday, Tuesday & Wednesday I was on 60mg of codeine every four hours. I was a very happy girl... I kept looking at Trent and telling him how much I loved him. He kept laughing at me and shaking his head.

I'm trying to wean myself off the Tylenol 3 (the stash is getting low, for one thing), but I'm still wearing a cervical collar in an attempt to keep my neck immobilized. It's amazing how much more I appreciate my body's ability to move when it's restricted. There are a couple of times I've had to feed Nathan by Braille - I can't see what I'm doing or how he's doing!

Now that I've excused myself for the lack of posts, I had to share this picture my sister sent me; it sends me into cackles just looking at it. Makes me want to get one for Nathan:

The text accompanying the picture is this -
"After the birth of a child there's always the temptation to say, 'Yes, it's cute, but what can it do?' Until recently the answer was simply 'lie there and cry,' but now babies can be put on the payroll, so to speak, almost as soon as they're born.

"Just dress your young one in Baby Mops and set him or her down on any hard wood or tile floor that needs cleaning. You may at first need to get things started by calling to the infant form across the room, but pretty soon they'll be doing it all by themselves.

"There's no child exploitation involved. The kid is doing what he does best anyway: crawling. But with Baby Mops he's also learning responsibility and a healthy work ethic."

Cool.

Home, (Almost) Sweet Home

Great - now I'm sick.

Since I don't feel up to being terribly creative (and who knows how long I have before Nathan's up from his nap), I thought I'd share pictures of the house we're in the processing of purchasing:

In the words of the merchant in the movie Aladdin, "Do not be fooled by eets commonplace appearance..." - Thees is no ordinary house!

It was built in 1964, and some of the decor (which hasn't really been updated since then) reflects that:
Love that carpet - and the stove has an analog timer mounted on top of it, plus that always necessary feature in a kitchen: an upper electrical outlet for a kitchen clock!


This fixture has already been claimed by my brother-in-law; the light can be extended or retracted from the ceiling mount as desired... he said he'd give us an IKEA fixture in trade. I think this one will go over better in San Francisco anyway, so have at it, Brian. : )

It's a small house - two bedrooms, one bath on the main floor and another bathroom in worse condition (a steel shower with rust patches to prove it!) in the basement.

What do we like about it? Good location, good price, good-sized rooms, fairly easy updating we can do, and (for me) storage, storage, STORAGE! Seven closets:


Four good-sized storage cabinets (in addition to three walls' worth of cupboards in the kitchen):


-Even a basement workroom for Trent:

We're waiting to see if our loan application goes through, but if it does, we'll tear out carpet, install flooring, paint all of the upstairs rooms, do some electrical work (I love being married to an electrician) and put in new appliances.

Yay! Our own space to own and cuddle and boss. I've missed having our library of books since we moved here... Most of them have been boxed and in storage since May. True torture for bibliophiles like we are.

Another Gourmand on the Loose

So... this last week wasn't just adjusting to a new sleep schedule for Nathan (he's rarely awake for more than two hours at a time this way, but he's a lot more cheerful for those two hours!). In the time since I've posted, he finally finished the meds for his first ear infection, got his latest cold (and 2nd ear infection), got shades of Trent's abdominal infection (Trent stayed home from work Thursday, Friday and Monday, which means he was really sick). And Jasper (one of our dogs) was sick. Ever try getting cough syrup down a 60-70lb. dog's throat? I recommend a loving, trusting relationship before attempting it - particularly if the dog's teeth are sharp. -Oh, and we bought a house.

I've been pretty busy. Really busy. "Too busy to post" busy. It's not my fault.

Really.

Trent is now better, Nathan's on a second course of antibiotics (Amoxil last time, Cefzil this time - somewhere it must be written that children's antibiotics must be flavored a sugary bubble gum pink, which requires the most permanently staining pink dyes this world has ever seen. Oy.) and Jasper, too, is better.

I'll post pictures of the house some other time (maybe even later today, depending on how the afternoon goes), but I wanted to post pictures of Nathan's first experience with solid food.

He's been eyeing our food as we eat for a while, and recently started reaching for glasses, sandwiches, spoons and anything else that seemed food-like. I sat him in his feeding chair on Valentine's Day and made his first bowl of rice cereal. Play with the water temperature, cereal consistency - all so that bowl of sticky glue-like stuff is just perfect for putting in my child's mouth. I seriously think you could stick the bib to the kid using cereal alone.

I read in some baby reference/publication that if you give the kid a spoon of their own to hold, they don't grab for the one you're using to feed them. I gave Nathan his own little yellow spoon (that I remember using as a kid), but he chucked it over the side of his chair, reached for the spoon I was using with both hands, and rammed the spoon and its cereal contents into his mouth.

So much for the delicate eating worries:

Please note that at least one hand is "assisting" me in each picture. He seemed worried I wasn't going to get it to his mouth fast enough. If I took too long between spoonfuls, he would solicit food by leaning toward me with his mouth open.

Look out, world. Another gourmand (concerned with quantity rather than the gourmet's concern of quality) has been created.

Life by the Hour

My apologies for the lack of posts... We're putting Nathan on a new schedule, courtesy of Dr. Weisbluth. I'm sure I'll love the difference in Nathan when it's finally in place, but implementing it is hard. He's basically sleeping or I'm trying to feed him/interact with him from 7 a.m. until he goes down to bed ~6 p.m. [yawn] Now if only I could get in better sleep habits...

In an act of saving face, try reading this post and see if you're as flabbergasted as I was when I read it. If ever I needed proof that our lives are too hectic and too work-focused, this would be it.

I'll get back to posting when I've figured out where little things like laundry and cleaning and meals fit.

Surrendering the Stage

I think it could be said of most artists, whatever their medium, that seeing another artist's work gives them the desire to try to express the thought or emotion themselves.

I hear someone sing and want to sing myself, to see if the lyrics I heard fit my life and my voice any better than what I heard. I listen to piano music and want to play the piece myself, to highlight some notes I think could say more. I read writing and want to write myself; could I write it better? paint the word picture better?

Every great once in a while, I hear or see someone's artistic expression and want to X myself. X-ing has to do with the Echthroi and soul annihilation, but I'm talking about a slightly lesser version of X-ing than Madeleine L'Engle described in A Wind in the Door. When I want to X myself, I simply want to surrender the stage. There are voices so beautiful, musical expression so perfect, writing so wonderfully put that I know at first contact that I should surrender the stage: their expression says it better than I ever could.

That being the case, I could write for a while about thoughts I've had while (finally) reading Don Miller's book, Blue Like Jazz; I could, but reading this book is one of those times I want to surrender the stage.

How could I say it better than this?

"Andrew says it is not enough to be politically active. He says legislation will never save the world. On Saturday mornings Andrew feeds the homeless. He sets up a makeshift kitchen on a sidewalk and makes breakfast for people who live on the street. He serves coffee and sits with his homeless friends and talk and laughs, and if they want to pray he will pray with them. He's a flaming liberal, really. The things about it is, though, Andrew believes this is what Jesus wants him to do. Andrew does not believe in empty passion.

"All great Christian leaders are simple thinkers. Andrew doesn't cloak his altruism with a trickle-down economic theory that allows him to spend fifty dollars on a round of golf to feed the economy and provide jobs for the poor. He actually believes that when Jesus says to feed the poor, He means you should do this directly.

"Andrew is the one who taught me that what I believe is not what I say I believe; what I believe is what I do.

"I used to say that I believed it was important to tell people about Jesus, but I never did. Andrew very kindly explained that if I do not introduce people to Jesus, then I don't believe Jesus is an important person. It doesn't matter what I say. Andrew said I should not live like a politician, but like a Christian. Like I said, Andrew is a simple thinker."

I've written many of these posts like a politician... If I write about such-and-such or write in this tone, what would this person think? It's not that I've written anything I don't consider true; it's that I'm trying to present myself rather than be myself.

I don't know what that difference looks like, but I think my writing could only have a canned harvest (to go with the canned and packaged presentations) until I quit worrying about how others perceive me and focus on being me.

Bear with me while I try dancing like nobody's looking.

Stupid, Stupid...

Toto, we're not in college anymore.

Was up talking until 3 a.m. Got to bed and (inconceivably) wasn't tired enough, so read until 5 a.m.

Nathan woke up at 8 a.m.

Do the math with me: 8... minus 5... equals... three!


Thanks to the presence of caffeine, I've managed to hold coherent conversations today, but I was pathetically grateful for the hour and a half nap I managed in the time between watching Merlin and eating supper.

Must go. There's a cute boy on my parents' all-season porch who's waiting for me.

TV Accidents

I think the allure in shows like "American Idol" is akin to slowing down as I drive past a car accident - morbid curiosity coupled with deep relief that I haven't made such an idiot of myself as to crash and burn in public view.

We watched most of last night's "American Idol" show, and I finally put my finger on the combination of annoyance/fascination it has for me.

1. I'm deeply empathetic; I rejoice for the true finds - like the Wyoming cowboy who had only ever sung to his turkeys. Unfortunately, I also feel embarrassed for those who don't have the wisdom to be embarrassed themselves. It's like watching George on "Seinfeld" is for me: cringing as the person says or does something else that socially unacceptable.

2. For all those who will never be superstar singers, I'm irritated that public floggings by the judges and host will stop them from ever singing again. Don't misinterpret me: I don't personally want to hear every one of these people sing, but if that's a way they express joy, why take the wind out of their sails? It's like telling a 5-yr-old kid that he isn't creative. For the rest of his life, he'll suck at creative writing class because he believes he isn't creative.

3. I'm appalled at the depths of unprofessionalism - partly from the judges, but mostly from the contestants. I'm always relieved when someone takes the news of their rejection calmly. There seem to be too many egos who believe their mom's opinion of their voice rather than the judges. It reminds me of my choir director's story of an audition when the people did so poorly that they kicked their music out the door. As he said, "Not that I would have given them rave reviews anyway, but their behavior simply solidified my opinion."

I supposed I can be grateful that TV programs are so ephemeral. Years from now, the chance is very small that some archaeologist will dig up one of these stupid "reality" shows years from now and use it to deduce our culture. I don't like the thought of my life being viewed through the lens of "Skating with the Stars!"

Peh.