This past Monday, Greg and I were in Colorado. However, someone in Mexico with my debit card number spent a little over $1,600 of our money in some sort of shopping spree.
We saw the first charge Sunday morning. It was only $187 at that point, and we called the banks 24/7 hotline which was, inexplicably, not working. So we kept trying throughout the day, and it wasn’t until Monday morning that we were able to cancel the card number. By that time, the damage had been done.
Things are sorted out now, a day off of work to fill out police reports, bank papers and the like and our money is being returned. Not from the person of course, they got away with it, but from our bank. Thankfully we were covered for this type of problem.
So I would like to rationalize this: My co-worker, Joe, and I were discussing this.
“You know,” I said, “I would really like to think that this was some person who desperately needed the money.”
“Yah,” Said Joe “Someone with 8 or so very sick kids who were dying and badly needed medical care he couldn’t afford, so he used your card.”
“Right,” Says I. “except I think it was some restaurant that this person used my card at.”
“So maybe they were some hungry sick kids.”
“A $346 food bill in Mexico points to either some serious food consumption, or a ritzy restaurant.” I pointed out. “Also, there were some clothing stores with a couple hundred dollar charges to each of them.”
Joe digested this for a second; “I got it! The whole village was hungry, their clothes were threadbare, and no one knew what to do. No one had the money to afford clothes or food, and people were going to die. This person, with your card number in hand, knew what he had to do. He had to take the whole village out to a few big dinners, then, he had to buy them all clothes. Now, a village is safe thanks to your money.”
I think I like this explanation over the rational alternative. It is rather heroic and has a purpose. “How I saved a whole Mexican Village” seemed an appropriate title, and it does end happily. Since we got back our money, and a village was clothed and fed, no one was really hurt – right?
6.22.2006
Laughter is the best medicine
So on my way home last Friday I was riding the shuttlebus to my main bus home. It had been a long day - I was tired and grumpy. I noticed a couple across the aisle laughing to each other. . . .they'd stop, look secretively at me, then they'd start laughing again. I was sure that on top of my tired day . . .I was now being laughed at. My Ipod was playing in my ears, but I had no music I really felt like listening to, so I turned it off (with the buds still in my ears so no one would make the potentially fatal mistake of talking to me).
Then I noticed a strange noise from behind me. I turned and there were two larger women, sitting at the back of the bus, breathless from laughter. They were silent for a few seconds, and then one of them snorted with a non-too-successful attempt at holding back more laughter, and the other one shrieked with delight before they started laughing again. They giggled, they sighed, they were silent for a few seconds, and then they'd squeal and start hysterically laughing again. It was absolutely ridiculous, two grown women probably in their 50's, laughing like they were 4. A smile started to creep across my face, and I glanced back at the couple who previously I thought were laughing at me. The girl pointed with a 'you see?!' sort of motion at me. And I got it. They were laughing at the women behind me.
I'm not sure what the women were laughing about. Every minute or so one would try to catch her breath to say something. . . but whatever she was trying to say became unintelligible as the other started giggling, snorting, the sentence ended in some high-pitched noise, and they'd both start laughing again.
For almost 10 blocks we went like this, and I saw every new person who got on the bus got through the same line of thought that I did. First "why is everyone laughing at me?" and then "Oh! Those women are ridiculous" as they started to smile too.
Pretty soon I was giggling with the couple across from me, and a few other strangers started laughing as well. The two women thought this was even funnier. . . and, if possible, laughed even harder, with less control. I thought they would be the first known cases to die from laughter. . .there was no oxygen going to those dear brains.
By the end of the ride, we were all infected with what these two women had.
Joy.
I had to think that it had been a while since I had laughed that hard and how ironic it was that two complete strangers without really saying a word to me, were able to lift my spirits so high.
Then I noticed a strange noise from behind me. I turned and there were two larger women, sitting at the back of the bus, breathless from laughter. They were silent for a few seconds, and then one of them snorted with a non-too-successful attempt at holding back more laughter, and the other one shrieked with delight before they started laughing again. They giggled, they sighed, they were silent for a few seconds, and then they'd squeal and start hysterically laughing again. It was absolutely ridiculous, two grown women probably in their 50's, laughing like they were 4. A smile started to creep across my face, and I glanced back at the couple who previously I thought were laughing at me. The girl pointed with a 'you see?!' sort of motion at me. And I got it. They were laughing at the women behind me.
I'm not sure what the women were laughing about. Every minute or so one would try to catch her breath to say something. . . but whatever she was trying to say became unintelligible as the other started giggling, snorting, the sentence ended in some high-pitched noise, and they'd both start laughing again.
For almost 10 blocks we went like this, and I saw every new person who got on the bus got through the same line of thought that I did. First "why is everyone laughing at me?" and then "Oh! Those women are ridiculous" as they started to smile too.
Pretty soon I was giggling with the couple across from me, and a few other strangers started laughing as well. The two women thought this was even funnier. . . and, if possible, laughed even harder, with less control. I thought they would be the first known cases to die from laughter. . .there was no oxygen going to those dear brains.
By the end of the ride, we were all infected with what these two women had.
Joy.
I had to think that it had been a while since I had laughed that hard and how ironic it was that two complete strangers without really saying a word to me, were able to lift my spirits so high.
6.18.2006
Of Girls and Horses
My best friend Christi came to visit yesterday. While she only lives about 40 minutes away, we don't see each other as often as we may like, and it's always a treat when I'm able to visit with her at any time.
We've known each other since she was 7 and I was 8. We went through elementary school and junior high together. We each had a horse, and we lived our summers out horseback riding through green pastures and dark forests. Her horse was a dark bay named Dallas, mine was a palomino named Ruler, and both of those horses had infinite patience with us two little girls who didn't know too much about anything. . . especially horseback riding.
You want to know why I still believe that magic exists in this practical, scientific world of ours? It's because I saw it all around me growing up. I don't think that our childhood could have really been more perfect. We caught frogs, climbed trees, chased snakes, put peacock feathers in our horses manes and rode them like we were on parade, splashed in the river, rescued baby birds, and laid back on tree-benches while our horses grazed in knee-deep grass to talk about everything. It would be a mistake to say that it was only the two of us . . . in reality it was the four of us, for our horses were equal companions on our Great Adventures.
This lasted for years, and ended abruptly when her father accepted a position on the other side of the state, and my father took us to live in India for some time. Within a short few months everything we'd ever known was gone. Our families had sold or packed everything, and we both had to sell our beloved horses. I don't remember who was the first to go, but I think it was Ruler. She and I gave him a final bath on that hot summer day (herbal essence shampoo and conditioner of course) took a few final pictures of him, and wept behind her house as we heard him screaming his goodbye out of the horsetrailer that took him. Dallas was next, and the ritual was the same.
The foundations of our lives shook violently, and within a month we were both gone from our childhood homes. I was on the other side of the world, and she was learning a new life in a new town.
Ruler died within a few months of him being sold. I don't think he wanted to go on. Dallas fared better for some years, but we've lost touch with the family who bought him and are pretty sure that by now he's gone too.
The river of life moves on, and there are some things that no matter how cherished and loved, simply can't continue with you.
It's amazing how bonded you become to someone who shares those kind of memories. While over time we've definitely lived our own lives, there is a part of us that is deeply connected to each other. Now, here we are, both adults, and both still good friends. Christi told me yesterday that she's picking up and moving to the east coast this fall, and while that makes me sad, at the same time I'm not overly worried about it. Life has contrived to take me thousands and thousands of miles away from her, and I ended up a mere 30 miles away some years later.
I have no doubt that the same thing will happen again in time, for I don't believe our adventures are yet over.
We've known each other since she was 7 and I was 8. We went through elementary school and junior high together. We each had a horse, and we lived our summers out horseback riding through green pastures and dark forests. Her horse was a dark bay named Dallas, mine was a palomino named Ruler, and both of those horses had infinite patience with us two little girls who didn't know too much about anything. . . especially horseback riding.
You want to know why I still believe that magic exists in this practical, scientific world of ours? It's because I saw it all around me growing up. I don't think that our childhood could have really been more perfect. We caught frogs, climbed trees, chased snakes, put peacock feathers in our horses manes and rode them like we were on parade, splashed in the river, rescued baby birds, and laid back on tree-benches while our horses grazed in knee-deep grass to talk about everything. It would be a mistake to say that it was only the two of us . . . in reality it was the four of us, for our horses were equal companions on our Great Adventures.
This lasted for years, and ended abruptly when her father accepted a position on the other side of the state, and my father took us to live in India for some time. Within a short few months everything we'd ever known was gone. Our families had sold or packed everything, and we both had to sell our beloved horses. I don't remember who was the first to go, but I think it was Ruler. She and I gave him a final bath on that hot summer day (herbal essence shampoo and conditioner of course) took a few final pictures of him, and wept behind her house as we heard him screaming his goodbye out of the horsetrailer that took him. Dallas was next, and the ritual was the same.
The foundations of our lives shook violently, and within a month we were both gone from our childhood homes. I was on the other side of the world, and she was learning a new life in a new town.
Ruler died within a few months of him being sold. I don't think he wanted to go on. Dallas fared better for some years, but we've lost touch with the family who bought him and are pretty sure that by now he's gone too.
The river of life moves on, and there are some things that no matter how cherished and loved, simply can't continue with you.
It's amazing how bonded you become to someone who shares those kind of memories. While over time we've definitely lived our own lives, there is a part of us that is deeply connected to each other. Now, here we are, both adults, and both still good friends. Christi told me yesterday that she's picking up and moving to the east coast this fall, and while that makes me sad, at the same time I'm not overly worried about it. Life has contrived to take me thousands and thousands of miles away from her, and I ended up a mere 30 miles away some years later.
I have no doubt that the same thing will happen again in time, for I don't believe our adventures are yet over.
6.13.2006
Some like it HOT
So this afternoon Greg and I were driving home from work. We were in my fabulous '96 Ford Escort, which is our daily driver (40 mpg and it would be your daily driver too!), and were noticing that the AC wasn't working as well as it should have. Well, really I was noticing. I don't love it anything above about 70 degrees, so I was cookin'. We had a few errands to run, and while we were at Home Depot I bought Greg a chili dog, and was going to drive us home while he ate it.
Except the AC really wasn't acting right. My car loves me, my car knows me, I've been with my car for 6 years now, and she knows that she can run just TERRIBLY. . .as long as my AC is working well. And we've never had problems until today. So I knew right away when the 3 minute 'cool down' time was up and she was still blowing hot air that something was wrong. And then she shuddered in a positively ghastly way. The temperature gauge soared to 'H' in about 10 seconds. I dove into the nearest parking lot, and Greg (who was a mechanic before he went back to school) did a quick diagnostic.
Underneath the engine all sorts of things were bubbling. He determined that my coolant fan had stopped working, and that we needed to wait for the car to cool off before we could do anything, but we could probably limp home as long as we didn't use the AC.
So we grabbed dinner at the nearest restaraunt, and came back out to start her up again, sans AC. What Greg had failed to mention is that in order to keep cool air blowing over the engine, we needed to FLOOR the heater on the freeway. It's 98 degrees today. I did NOT want to floor the heater.
But, I'm not the mechanic and therefore lose all veto power in the car department. So off we went down the freeway, heater blasting, with the windows down. It was probably close to about 120 degrees or so. Maybe more; definitely FELT like more.
As we reached home, which is a considerable distance from the city, Mr. Positive hollered at me over all the rushing air; "Hey, I think it's a degree or two cooler up here!!!!"
So optimistic.
And here's where the two of us really have different life views when it comes to heat. Because you see, when I'm boiling at 120 degrees, 1 or 2 wee degrees isn't going to really cheer me up.
:)
6.11.2006
Magical Macaroni
Today, I've been more than a little grumpy.
Maybe it was the weekend with relatives, maybe it's because I've been a little under the weather the past few days, maybe it's the fact that Greg was out golfing and having fun today while I did laundry. . . whatever. Either way, I'm not quite as cheery as I like to think I normally am. So when Greg called to kindly let me know he was on his way home I more or less bit his head off. I have that marvelous talent to completely gut someone with harsh words in one minute or less, and I absolutely hate it when I do it. Especially to Greg. So. . .after stewing about it for a bit, I called him back to apologize, then wallowed around the house in my misery for another 45 minutes.
Sweet Greg, he called me to let me know he was at the store and asked if I needed anything. I didn't even need to think about it for a nano-second.
Kraft Macaroni and Cheese please!
For no matter how good of a cook I have become in our past 3 years of marriage, Greg is the only one who can make this mac and cheese the way that I love it, all buttery and fattening. I can't figure it out no many how many times I do it, it's always a bit too milky, or a bit too dry. And it does always cheer me up pretty quick. If chocolate cake is an IV drip of sheer pleasure, then mac and cheese is like taking aspirin. Not quite as immediate perhaps, but still pretty darn effective after a few minutes.
Which reminds me of a time about 2 years ago that Greg had made me some mac and cheese when I was down and out with the flu. He was preparing it in the kitchen and he was really excited for me to try this particular batch. (At this point in time we were buying these little blue boxes by the ton at Sam's Club - and I'd gone through almost all of them that hellish week.) He put the bowl in my hands, and I started eating, noticing that he had added
a pinch of
no, a bit of,
heavens; a LOT of
PEPPER!
I was on fire. I gasped, I sneezed, I pawed at my tongue, I drank more water than was good for me and finally got around to asking what happened. Apparently he was experimenting a bit with the pepper when the top of the jar fell off and the whole lot of it fell into the pot. Rather than dump it all out and start over, he thought he'd just stir it all in and see how it tasted.
Not very good in this humble writer's opinion.
But we always laugh over that story whenever we do have mac and cheese these days, and I swear I can still taste a hint of pepper each time I go to eat it.
Maybe it was the weekend with relatives, maybe it's because I've been a little under the weather the past few days, maybe it's the fact that Greg was out golfing and having fun today while I did laundry. . . whatever. Either way, I'm not quite as cheery as I like to think I normally am. So when Greg called to kindly let me know he was on his way home I more or less bit his head off. I have that marvelous talent to completely gut someone with harsh words in one minute or less, and I absolutely hate it when I do it. Especially to Greg. So. . .after stewing about it for a bit, I called him back to apologize, then wallowed around the house in my misery for another 45 minutes.
Sweet Greg, he called me to let me know he was at the store and asked if I needed anything. I didn't even need to think about it for a nano-second.
Kraft Macaroni and Cheese please!
For no matter how good of a cook I have become in our past 3 years of marriage, Greg is the only one who can make this mac and cheese the way that I love it, all buttery and fattening. I can't figure it out no many how many times I do it, it's always a bit too milky, or a bit too dry. And it does always cheer me up pretty quick. If chocolate cake is an IV drip of sheer pleasure, then mac and cheese is like taking aspirin. Not quite as immediate perhaps, but still pretty darn effective after a few minutes.
Which reminds me of a time about 2 years ago that Greg had made me some mac and cheese when I was down and out with the flu. He was preparing it in the kitchen and he was really excited for me to try this particular batch. (At this point in time we were buying these little blue boxes by the ton at Sam's Club - and I'd gone through almost all of them that hellish week.) He put the bowl in my hands, and I started eating, noticing that he had added
a pinch of
no, a bit of,
heavens; a LOT of
PEPPER!
I was on fire. I gasped, I sneezed, I pawed at my tongue, I drank more water than was good for me and finally got around to asking what happened. Apparently he was experimenting a bit with the pepper when the top of the jar fell off and the whole lot of it fell into the pot. Rather than dump it all out and start over, he thought he'd just stir it all in and see how it tasted.
Not very good in this humble writer's opinion.
But we always laugh over that story whenever we do have mac and cheese these days, and I swear I can still taste a hint of pepper each time I go to eat it.
6.09.2006
Farmers Markets and Blue Tooth
I was reading a friends blog about things that have gone by the wayside. It was clever and got me to thinking about an incident 3 Saturdays ago when Greg and I were at a Farmers Market.
I had finally convinced him that this was a good idea, that Boulder wasn't such a bad place, there were just some people with open minds who lived there and they probably weren't mind-readers and wouldn't roast him in a fire if they ever found out that he is, in fact, quite conservative. He was reluctant, a bit nervous, but up for the challenge, and off we went at 7:30 to see what we could see.
It was great, I felt right at home. Lovely signs that said cool things like 'organic', 'fresh', 'Hydroponic', and the like. There was jewelry from Tibet, paintings from a local artist, and everyone was really nice. I had finally found some people I could relate to.
I was browsing the jewelry, when Greg received a phone call from his friend. Now, we have recently purchased new phones and have those very trendy little Bluetooth headsets that attach to your ear via wireless. Mine is (naturally) pink, and Greg's is grey. The downside is that my hair often covers up my headset, and people think I'm talking to myself. Greg was wearing a baseball cap this day, and apparently was dealing with the same problem. This was Boulder. People have the money for these kinds of things, but like to refrain from using them in public, as it's not really the 'down to earth' image they like to project. He was getting some weird stares, some snotty stares, and some 'wow, I can totally relate with him' kind of stares. I kept my distance. I liked talking with everyone and pretending to be a hippie myself, and Greg was seriously ruining that image.
Finally in the middle of a conversation with a guitarist, I glanced over to see a middle-aged man with long dreadlocks, and ratty clothes start to approach Greg; who, true to nature chatted obliviously on and on. I noticed that this man, too, was talking to himself. . . minus the headset and phone of course. He slowly approached, muttering and whatnot, and finally came to stand beside Greg. They were both looking at across the lawn talking to invisible friends, until Mr. Dreadlocks decided to link the conversations all together. He nudged Greg and spoke a bit louder, something completely incomprehensible.
Greg stooped. He stared. And then, with the grace that only someone who is NOT from Boulder can do, he brandished his first finger and pointed in a very aristocratic way at his ear. Which then revealed to the man that Greg, at least, was talking to someone real and had no time for another conversation.
Mr Dreadlocks didn't seem to mind and shuffled off. I on the other hand was appalled by Greg's behavior. Greg was miffed that he had been interrupted and then scolded!
We went home shortly thereafter.
And thus ended our adventures into the wide world of Farmers Markets. Greg is of the mind that a Safeway produce section is much quieter and more stable environment to shop at anyways. Besides, people don't interrupt you when you're talking to yourself there.
I had finally convinced him that this was a good idea, that Boulder wasn't such a bad place, there were just some people with open minds who lived there and they probably weren't mind-readers and wouldn't roast him in a fire if they ever found out that he is, in fact, quite conservative. He was reluctant, a bit nervous, but up for the challenge, and off we went at 7:30 to see what we could see.
It was great, I felt right at home. Lovely signs that said cool things like 'organic', 'fresh', 'Hydroponic', and the like. There was jewelry from Tibet, paintings from a local artist, and everyone was really nice. I had finally found some people I could relate to.
I was browsing the jewelry, when Greg received a phone call from his friend. Now, we have recently purchased new phones and have those very trendy little Bluetooth headsets that attach to your ear via wireless. Mine is (naturally) pink, and Greg's is grey. The downside is that my hair often covers up my headset, and people think I'm talking to myself. Greg was wearing a baseball cap this day, and apparently was dealing with the same problem. This was Boulder. People have the money for these kinds of things, but like to refrain from using them in public, as it's not really the 'down to earth' image they like to project. He was getting some weird stares, some snotty stares, and some 'wow, I can totally relate with him' kind of stares. I kept my distance. I liked talking with everyone and pretending to be a hippie myself, and Greg was seriously ruining that image.
Finally in the middle of a conversation with a guitarist, I glanced over to see a middle-aged man with long dreadlocks, and ratty clothes start to approach Greg; who, true to nature chatted obliviously on and on. I noticed that this man, too, was talking to himself. . . minus the headset and phone of course. He slowly approached, muttering and whatnot, and finally came to stand beside Greg. They were both looking at across the lawn talking to invisible friends, until Mr. Dreadlocks decided to link the conversations all together. He nudged Greg and spoke a bit louder, something completely incomprehensible.
Greg stooped. He stared. And then, with the grace that only someone who is NOT from Boulder can do, he brandished his first finger and pointed in a very aristocratic way at his ear. Which then revealed to the man that Greg, at least, was talking to someone real and had no time for another conversation.
Mr Dreadlocks didn't seem to mind and shuffled off. I on the other hand was appalled by Greg's behavior. Greg was miffed that he had been interrupted and then scolded!
We went home shortly thereafter.
And thus ended our adventures into the wide world of Farmers Markets. Greg is of the mind that a Safeway produce section is much quieter and more stable environment to shop at anyways. Besides, people don't interrupt you when you're talking to yourself there.
Red Ants
This evening I’m sitting on my back porch, watching my cats roll in the dirt and the grass sway gently in the wind. I’m sitting here and wondering how such a scene could go so . . .wrong.
I pride myself on my love of all life, of respecting the earth and everything that lives on it (with the possible exception of spiders) and yet here, on my first bit of ground that is officially mine; I have already sinned. I have waged a bloody war and lost bitterly.
“What is this war?” You ask.
“Red Ants.” I sadly reply.
Those little creatures have brought me to this wretched state. We have a BIG nest of them in the back corner of our yard. The same place where I intend to have some sort of glorious garden; clearly the ants had to go as we couldn’t coexist peacefully as I dug in the dirt. . . so much for respect of nature.
The hitch here is that I’m pretty adamant about pesticides, herbicides, suicides, whatever. None of that in my back yard please, I have cats.
So I read online that with about 3 gallons of boiling water, you could eradicate an anthill once and for all. Sounded great, perhaps not entirely sensible when thinking about the boiling and transportation of 3 gallons of water – but I was not concerned about such things. This website is not about sensibility, it’s about magic. But, even so, this idea was neither of those two things.
So off I went, and Greg (my game-for-anything husband) decided to help. Took forever to boil the water, and it was probably a maximum of 2 gallons, not 3. (who has pots that big when there are only 2 of you?!) Out the back door we CAREFULLY went, a pot in each hand. About halfway out there I discovered that my right wrist is significantly weaker than my left, and had to leave 1 pot in the middle of the backyard lest I eradicate my foot along with the ants. We poured the searing water slowly down the hole, and the results were devastating. The good news is I don’t think they hardly felt a thing, but heavens, it was effective. For good measure Greg took a shovel and dug up the dirt a bit and we poured more water down. Aside from a handful of ants that weren’t at the pile when the massacre happened. . .there was no movement. Feeling slightly guilty I headed back inside.
The next morning I went out to check the hill. They managed to dig a tunnel in the night and miraculously find survivors. I admired them, it was impressive, I boiled more water and poured it down the new hole. Still they surface. I’ve turned into a ruthless, cunning murderer – much like those serial killers I read about in crazy novels. It bothers me a bit, all those poor ants, but I have no time to dwell on it. I have more water to put on the stove. . .their numbers are quite large today. . . .
I pride myself on my love of all life, of respecting the earth and everything that lives on it (with the possible exception of spiders) and yet here, on my first bit of ground that is officially mine; I have already sinned. I have waged a bloody war and lost bitterly.
“What is this war?” You ask.
“Red Ants.” I sadly reply.
Those little creatures have brought me to this wretched state. We have a BIG nest of them in the back corner of our yard. The same place where I intend to have some sort of glorious garden; clearly the ants had to go as we couldn’t coexist peacefully as I dug in the dirt. . . so much for respect of nature.
The hitch here is that I’m pretty adamant about pesticides, herbicides, suicides, whatever. None of that in my back yard please, I have cats.
So I read online that with about 3 gallons of boiling water, you could eradicate an anthill once and for all. Sounded great, perhaps not entirely sensible when thinking about the boiling and transportation of 3 gallons of water – but I was not concerned about such things. This website is not about sensibility, it’s about magic. But, even so, this idea was neither of those two things.
So off I went, and Greg (my game-for-anything husband) decided to help. Took forever to boil the water, and it was probably a maximum of 2 gallons, not 3. (who has pots that big when there are only 2 of you?!) Out the back door we CAREFULLY went, a pot in each hand. About halfway out there I discovered that my right wrist is significantly weaker than my left, and had to leave 1 pot in the middle of the backyard lest I eradicate my foot along with the ants. We poured the searing water slowly down the hole, and the results were devastating. The good news is I don’t think they hardly felt a thing, but heavens, it was effective. For good measure Greg took a shovel and dug up the dirt a bit and we poured more water down. Aside from a handful of ants that weren’t at the pile when the massacre happened. . .there was no movement. Feeling slightly guilty I headed back inside.
The next morning I went out to check the hill. They managed to dig a tunnel in the night and miraculously find survivors. I admired them, it was impressive, I boiled more water and poured it down the new hole. Still they surface. I’ve turned into a ruthless, cunning murderer – much like those serial killers I read about in crazy novels. It bothers me a bit, all those poor ants, but I have no time to dwell on it. I have more water to put on the stove. . .their numbers are quite large today. . . .
6.07.2006
River
Greg and I were talking the other day about time. He was upset about how long it was taking us to get moved into our house completely, he was concerned about money, he was frustrated that the house wasn’t very clean at the moment. We sat on the floor of our living room (still need couches!) and stared at each other for a while, I was thinking, and he was too. Finally he asked me why I wasn’t as bothered by all this as much as he was, why I wasn’t taking life as seriously.
That was a question I didn’t have an immediate answer to. Why wouldn’t I be as upset as him that so many things were going wrong, were going right, that life was moving so swiftly now that we could hardly keep up. . . and after a bit of thought, I realized that it’s a deep-seated life’s philosophy that I have, that I’ve never really examined before.
Life is a river, and time is the current. There are times that the current pulls you along swiftly, and times that you meander with all the speed of a summer’s day. There are bends and turns, some unexpected, some expected. Some moments time can’t pull you away fast enough, others are so precious, so dear that we want to hang on to them, and they’re gone in an instant. I have all those in my life’s river, I’m sure you do too. The funny thing is that everything we have here is so. . . .impermanent, so trivial. It’s difficult to take things seriously when you know they’ll be gone in a month, a year, 10 years. . . the river moves on and takes you with it, ultimately leaving your possessions and youth behind. So what is there that you should take seriously? What should you invest your emotional energy in with all the life and death passion that you look at the monthly finances with?
Your spiritual journey. Take care of your body, soul, and spirit. Without those all in place and functioning correctly, you’ve lost your best ally in this adventure. Without those in place you won't have the strength to really take care of your next charge;
Relationships.
It seems to me that people can get so caught up in the little things, and place so much stress on them that they lose perspective. The spouse/partner/friend that years previously you couldn’t even breathe without becomes a side priority, and something else takes center stage. That relationship that took you so long to cultivate and mature starts to wither for lack of attention. . . and that new thing you’re focusing on isn’t even that important compared to the bigger picture.
Greg and I had to sit down and realize (not for the first time, probably not for the last time) that a house, furniture, jobs or material possessions can all come and go, but it’s our relationship that will stand the test of time if we continue to nurture it. I found that so profound that I had to share it, regardless of how obvious it may seem. I think this world encourages us to focus on things that don’t matter, and I hope that this gets you to thinking about the things that do. Don’t let the current rip you away from what you hold dear simply for lack of attention.
6.04.2006
A Lark Ascending
I was listening to the David Crowder Band CD I have on my Ipod the other day, and the very last song (which I had never made it to before) resounded with me in a powerful way.
And I’m trying to make you sing
From inside where you believe
Like it’s something that you need
Like it means everything
And I’m trying to make you feel
That this is all for real, that life is happening
That it means everything
....I’m just trying to make you sing
I think as I grow, and look at where life has taken me and where I have willingly gone. . . this song defines much of who I feel I've become, and it also makes me think of the people who have been my lark; carrying me above my problems with their love of life and everything in it.
The song is titled "A Lark Ascending" and I love the poem that inspired it.
He rises and begins to round,
He drops the silver chain of sound,
Of many links without a break,
In chirrup, whistle, slur and shake.
For singing till his heaven fills,
‘Tis love of earth that he instils,
And ever winging up and up,
Our valley is his golden cup
And he the wine which overflows
to lift us with him as he goes.
Till lost on his aerial rings
In light, and then the fancy sings.
~ George Meredith
6.01.2006
Bus Rides to Work
I ride the bus from home to the bus station, and then from the bus station down the 16th Street Mall downtown to my work. 2 different busses, 2 very different rides.
The first bus I take is approximately 25 minutes long. I start north of the City, and everyone I ride with are commuters like me. Dressed in the work attire of drab grays, blacks, browns, whites and blue, we load in about 5:30, and sit quietly. Really it's too early for intelligent conversation, but I'm not sure we'd talk to each other either way. We are a somber, quiet group. Reading our books, listening to our headphones, or perhaps vacantly staring out the window. I often feel a bit of poetic martyrdom sitting there, like we're all shuffling towards some long-decided fate, all dressed alike, all going to similar jobs. . . All pretty miserable about it.
Some mornings.
Other mornings on that bus I feel like I'm part of something great. That I've been assimilated into some sort of Corporate Borg unit, and I'm doing my part to really make some sort of difference, if not in the world, then at least in my small sphere of influence as I bring home a happy paycheck every other Friday.
Regardless of how I'm feeling that particular morning (martyr or Borg) I disembark on the Northern part of downtown, and hop on a shuttle to ride 10 minutes down the street. On this bus, a few of the commuters have joined me, and it's now approaching 6:00. The homeless people are waking up and heading towards various (and I admit, unknown) destinations, the janitors are out cleaning the streets from last nights activities and hop on and off at different stops. The cleaning ladies for the nearby hotels are just starting their morning shifts, and hop on the bus in groups. All laughing and talking excitedly, arms around each other with smiling faces; I find that I can't help but smile with them, even though I can't understand a word they're saying.
Some mornings there's a guy who's a bit mad that hops on the shuttle with me. He always ducks down behind the windows after the door shuts, muttering to himself, keeping a watchful eye out for some unseen enemy. When he's not completely paranoid (which is rare), he'll start poking fun of the other passengers, usually women. First, he begins with the compliment "that skirt looks very nice". . .it's difficult to know what kind of response to give him, for I've seen the range of "thanks" to stony silence, and they all produce the same result. He angrily mutters to himself, then takes back the compliment, then waits for the poor female to disembark, and which point he starts to yell at them "you better hurry!!!" perhaps for the lack of something more intimidating coming to his mind.
Either way he's about 5 feet tall, not too much of a threat, and treated with general good humor.
There are a ton more characters to list for the shuttle; the Ladies Man who loves nothing more than a good conversation first thing in the morning (a different lady EVERY morning. Don't pretend to know him, he forgets you pretty quick); the Security Guard who suspiciously eyes everyone on the bus, probably taking his duty a bit too seriously; the Jogger who must not jog very much because he's always riding the bus; the Homeless Businessman - a character who intrigues me, he is always dressed in slacks and a button-down shirt with loafers. . .you'd never guess he was homeless except for the grocery cart with all his baggage in it (and nice, name-brand baggage too, if a bit worn) .
I could go on and on. The shorter shuttle ride is always a TON more interesting than the long commuter ride, and that's when I think to myself how boring the world would be if everyone chose the same life-path.
The first bus I take is approximately 25 minutes long. I start north of the City, and everyone I ride with are commuters like me. Dressed in the work attire of drab grays, blacks, browns, whites and blue, we load in about 5:30, and sit quietly. Really it's too early for intelligent conversation, but I'm not sure we'd talk to each other either way. We are a somber, quiet group. Reading our books, listening to our headphones, or perhaps vacantly staring out the window. I often feel a bit of poetic martyrdom sitting there, like we're all shuffling towards some long-decided fate, all dressed alike, all going to similar jobs. . . All pretty miserable about it.
Some mornings.
Other mornings on that bus I feel like I'm part of something great. That I've been assimilated into some sort of Corporate Borg unit, and I'm doing my part to really make some sort of difference, if not in the world, then at least in my small sphere of influence as I bring home a happy paycheck every other Friday.
Regardless of how I'm feeling that particular morning (martyr or Borg) I disembark on the Northern part of downtown, and hop on a shuttle to ride 10 minutes down the street. On this bus, a few of the commuters have joined me, and it's now approaching 6:00. The homeless people are waking up and heading towards various (and I admit, unknown) destinations, the janitors are out cleaning the streets from last nights activities and hop on and off at different stops. The cleaning ladies for the nearby hotels are just starting their morning shifts, and hop on the bus in groups. All laughing and talking excitedly, arms around each other with smiling faces; I find that I can't help but smile with them, even though I can't understand a word they're saying.
Some mornings there's a guy who's a bit mad that hops on the shuttle with me. He always ducks down behind the windows after the door shuts, muttering to himself, keeping a watchful eye out for some unseen enemy. When he's not completely paranoid (which is rare), he'll start poking fun of the other passengers, usually women. First, he begins with the compliment "that skirt looks very nice". . .it's difficult to know what kind of response to give him, for I've seen the range of "thanks" to stony silence, and they all produce the same result. He angrily mutters to himself, then takes back the compliment, then waits for the poor female to disembark, and which point he starts to yell at them "you better hurry!!!" perhaps for the lack of something more intimidating coming to his mind.
Either way he's about 5 feet tall, not too much of a threat, and treated with general good humor.
There are a ton more characters to list for the shuttle; the Ladies Man who loves nothing more than a good conversation first thing in the morning (a different lady EVERY morning. Don't pretend to know him, he forgets you pretty quick); the Security Guard who suspiciously eyes everyone on the bus, probably taking his duty a bit too seriously; the Jogger who must not jog very much because he's always riding the bus; the Homeless Businessman - a character who intrigues me, he is always dressed in slacks and a button-down shirt with loafers. . .you'd never guess he was homeless except for the grocery cart with all his baggage in it (and nice, name-brand baggage too, if a bit worn) .
I could go on and on. The shorter shuttle ride is always a TON more interesting than the long commuter ride, and that's when I think to myself how boring the world would be if everyone chose the same life-path.
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