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Sunday, June 20, 2010

the faja, you know, the dad

"Fathers, be good to your daughters.  Daughters will love like you do."
-Daughters


To the man who never fails to show me how much I am loved and how beautiful he thinks I am.  To the man who, every year, would stuff straw in his flannel shirt to escort a Dorothy in little red, plastic shoes as Scarecrow from door to door on Halloween.  To the man who plays hymns most every Sunday morning on our piano.

To the man who loves his Venti (iced or regular) coffee from Starbucks and his Tootsie-Roll pops.  The man who dips into the pool every night without fail.

He's the man who taught me everything I know about technology and literature.  The man who can kick everyone's bootay at scrabble, and crossword puzzles.  He's the one I incessantly quote Seinfeld to.  The one who puts up with my crazy musical singing, and came to every single Into Hymn concert.  He cheered loudest for the Duke Dogs.

He's the man who loves the Lord and leads our family in a simultaneous fearless and hysterical manner.  I love you, Dad.

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the faja, you know, the dad

"Fathers, be good to your daughters.  Daughters will love like you do."
-Daughters


To the man who never fails to show me how much I am loved and how beautiful he thinks I am.  To the man who, every year, would stuff straw in his flannel shirt to escort a Dorothy in little red, plastic shoes as Scarecrow from door to door on Halloween.  To the man who plays hymns most every Sunday morning on our piano.

To the man who loves his Venti (iced or regular) coffee from Starbucks and his Tootsie-Roll pops.  The man who dips into the pool every night without fail.

He's the man who taught me everything I know about technology and literature.  The man who can kick everyone's bootay at scrabble, and crossword puzzles.  He's the one I incessantly quote Seinfeld to.  The one who puts up with my crazy musical singing, and came to every single Into Hymn concert.  He cheered loudest for the Duke Dogs.

He's the man who loves the Lord and leads our family in a simultaneous fearless and hysterical manner.  I love you, Dad.

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Friday, June 18, 2010

becoming jane

"Poor Jane. Still, a girl likes to be crossed in love now and then. It gives her something to think of... and a sort of distinction amongst her companions."
-Mr. Bennet, Pride and Prejudice


Most of my posts begin with me saying I've forgotten how much I love something.  But, I really mean it this time.  Really mean it.  I forgot how much I love the story of Pride and Prejudice

Perhaps it is the admiration of a beautiful writer who was ahead of her time.  Maybe it's the inevitable, "incandescently happy" endings.  Maybe it's the fact that the rich, handsome, charming men fall for the poor, handsome, witty women.

Whatever, it's totally the white gloves that they wear (I have a thing for white gloves.  Before you get all weird on me, there are people out there who agree with me.  I don't know who or where they are, but they're out there.  I think.  Maybe I am strange...rats).

The quote at the beginning of this post has always struck me.  Do young women really enjoy being unlucky in love? 

I think, yes.

Isn't there so much more delicious drama when you're talking to your girlfriends when you're bashing your significant other for something he did or didn't do?  What he said about your best friend, or your favorite movie?  How he held his glance just a little too long on another girl?  How he picks fights with your father, or disrespects his mother? 

How he won't return your calls, or is being standoffish.  Or worse, how he cheated on you?

When your relationship is perfect, there's nothing to talk about (or better yet, blog about!).

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Wednesday, June 16, 2010

this makes me almost unbearably happy



I'm not on my own, for I have been made new.
Please don't let me go.  I desperately need you.

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this makes me almost unbearably happy



I'm not on my own, for I have been made new.
Please don't let me go.  I desperately need you.

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let my love be your blue skies

This past week I was fortunate enough to spend some quality time with my favorite beach (and my favorite girls): the Outer Banks.  Look!  There we are - on our eighth attempt of a "High School Musical-jumping" picture.  A nice, all-American man and his wife (clad in every sort of red, white and blue thing imaginable, and some Harley Davidson apparel) offered to take photos of us.  All of them look like this.

Walt Disney can talk all he wants, the OBX is the happiest place on earth.  There is something about cranking the GLEE soundtrack to the max, rolling down the windows, letting the wind tangle your hair and smelling the salty air that is so cathartic.  If you're suffering any sort of depression or feeling of worthlessness, I humbly suggest you try that winning combination before you shell out thousands for therapy.  Just sayin', it works wonders. 

Furthering my obsession, Clinique has not yet matched the perfect "beachy" smell.  There's nothing better.  They tried on an episode of Seinfeld once, remember?  It was Kramer's idea.  He may have been a nut, but he was right about that one thing, I suppose.

My wonderful friends and I sat on our hotel's deck every morning and did our quiet times together.  Let me just say that is the way the Bible should be read: On the beach with friends.  The first day we were there, I found myself conveniently not reading scripture, and spacing out.

I was thinking about how seeing, quite frankly, isn't believing.

Like, what do I mean?

I mean, I was staring out into the beautiful blue ocean.  Captivated by the white capsules tumbling to the surface of the water, then weaving back to the depths of the sea.  I looked out into the vast - and there it was.     And, of course, I know that the ocean doesn't go on forever.  But, it goes so much further than what I could see.  But, my eyes created a horizontal line in the distance.  My own eyes had to create some sort of boundary, some ending to this ocean that goes on much further than I could ever begin to imagine.

I was reminded of a time I was coloring a picture in the first grade.  I drew a straight green line for the grass, then about three-fourths of the way up on the page, a straight blue line.  There was a big hunk of white space in the middle.  My teacher, Mrs. Tuck, walked by my desk and told me that the sky doesn't just begin.  It's not a line, it is all around us.

I colored in the white space with my robin's egg blue crayon, but I still didn't understand how the sky could fill up all of that white space.

It was the same when I was looking at the ocean. My finite mind couldn't for one second believe that the ocean continued, even as it rolled there before me.  It's the same with God, I suppose.  He shows himself to me daily, but I've never physically witnessed His own splendor.  His own being.

And you know, if I did I wouldn't live to tell about it.  Secondly, I probably couldn't believe it.  Some things are better left to the imagination.  Although, God is so much more magnificent than what we could ever begin to create in my mind.

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let my love be your blue skies

This past week I was fortunate enough to spend some quality time with my favorite beach (and my favorite girls): the Outer Banks.  Look!  There we are - on our eighth attempt of a "High School Musical-jumping" picture.  A nice, all-American man and his wife (clad in every sort of red, white and blue thing imaginable, and some Harley Davidson apparel) offered to take photos of us.  All of them look like this.

Walt Disney can talk all he wants, the OBX is the happiest place on earth.  There is something about cranking the GLEE soundtrack to the max, rolling down the windows, letting the wind tangle your hair and smelling the salty air that is so cathartic.  If you're suffering any sort of depression or feeling of worthlessness, I humbly suggest you try that winning combination before you shell out thousands for therapy.  Just sayin', it works wonders. 

Furthering my obsession, Clinique has not yet matched the perfect "beachy" smell.  There's nothing better.  They tried on an episode of Seinfeld once, remember?  It was Kramer's idea.  He may have been a nut, but he was right about that one thing, I suppose.

My wonderful friends and I sat on our hotel's deck every morning and did our quiet times together.  Let me just say that is the way the Bible should be read: On the beach with friends.  The first day we were there, I found myself conveniently not reading scripture, and spacing out.

I was thinking about how seeing, quite frankly, isn't believing.

Like, what do I mean?

I mean, I was staring out into the beautiful blue ocean.  Captivated by the white capsules tumbling to the surface of the water, then weaving back to the depths of the sea.  I looked out into the vast - and there it was.     And, of course, I know that the ocean doesn't go on forever.  But, it goes so much further than what I could see.  But, my eyes created a horizontal line in the distance.  My own eyes had to create some sort of boundary, some ending to this ocean that goes on much further than I could ever begin to imagine.

I was reminded of a time I was coloring a picture in the first grade.  I drew a straight green line for the grass, then about three-fourths of the way up on the page, a straight blue line.  There was a big hunk of white space in the middle.  My teacher, Mrs. Tuck, walked by my desk and told me that the sky doesn't just begin.  It's not a line, it is all around us.

I colored in the white space with my robin's egg blue crayon, but I still didn't understand how the sky could fill up all of that white space.

It was the same when I was looking at the ocean. My finite mind couldn't for one second believe that the ocean continued, even as it rolled there before me.  It's the same with God, I suppose.  He shows himself to me daily, but I've never physically witnessed His own splendor.  His own being.

And you know, if I did I wouldn't live to tell about it.  Secondly, I probably couldn't believe it.  Some things are better left to the imagination.  Although, God is so much more magnificent than what we could ever begin to create in my mind.

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Thursday, June 10, 2010

the world was a song, and the song was exciting

 "But the tigers come at night, with their voices soft as thunder.  As they tear your hopes apart, as they turn your dreams to shame."
-I Dreamed A Dream, Les Misreables


I've been listening to a lot of Les Mis lately. A lot of Les Mis. Kind of a musical nut. I make no apologies for my abundant references or my frequent outbursts of song.

It's funny, one of my dear friends, BBB (who I've given a shout out here before, hey girl hey! Lovemiss you), recently wrote a post about finding your innisfree.  Yeats' definition of personal paradise.  The place where you mind wanders and finds its resting place. 

Innisfree happens to me when I'm in the midst of a musical.  Whether I'm watching them on YouTube (sorry, I know it's illegal, but 80 bucks to see a show, on top of several hundred more to actually get to New York is so not in my budget right now.  Hello, trying to get my Master's here!), listening to them or playing numbers from them on the piano - it's my silly, worldly pleasure.

And it's special because only a few (very few, ridiculously few) amount of people understand this. 

This is completely besides the point I was originally trying to make with this post.  It's happening more and more, this easily-distractedness.  Must be the summer heat.

So, recently, I've been drilling my mind with Les Mis.  It's a hard story to summarize, so many subplots.  But, in the beginning there is this woman, Fantine, a factory-worker-soon-turned-prostitute.  She is thrown out of work because it's discovered that she has a child she is supporting out of wedlock. The child's, Cossette's, father "abandoned them leaving them flat."  And it is her reputation that suffers, and her loss of a job as a result.

She sings a song that is pure sorrow in musical form.  It's haunting. 

And it made me so thankful.  So thankful to live in a culture where (for the most part) a woman is not held at arm's length if she is in a situation where she has to support a child on her own, she is not shunned from society.

Last year in the Dominican Republic, I was visiting homes in the beautiful city of Santa Domingo with Pastor Carlos and a few church friends.  We approached this young woman with a child.  She, we discovered after a lengthy and challengingly-translated conversation, was sixteen years old. 

Carlos looked at her and asked, "Do you enjoy being a mother?"

No judgment.  No ugliness.  Just genuine curiosity.  This is the world that we are living in today.  It is the result of countless women's efforts throughout the years.  We are reaping the rewards. 

I guess I just write this to say that I'm thankful that the society I live in, though it definitely has its flaws, would not brand me with a scarlet letter and write me off as no better than an impure breed of a dog, or rat if I were in Fantine's position. 

Watch this, you'll see what I mean.  Perhaps you'll find an innisfree of your own to escape to.  Oh, and don't say a thing about Susan Boyle.  She may have turned the public's attention to this song, and this wonderful, epic musical, but she does not sing it better.  I promise. 



And we were all put here for "Such a time as this." Makes you think, doesn't it? We were all placed here with these special opportunities that other women before us were not able to have. What are you going to live for now that the generations before us suffered in our place? It's so beautiful. It's so inspiring. Don't waste it.

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the world was a song, and the song was exciting

 "But the tigers come at night, with their voices soft as thunder.  As they tear your hopes apart, as they turn your dreams to shame."
-I Dreamed A Dream, Les Misreables


I've been listening to a lot of Les Mis lately. A lot of Les Mis. Kind of a musical nut. I make no apologies for my abundant references or my frequent outbursts of song.

It's funny, one of my dear friends, BBB (who I've given a shout out here before, hey girl hey! Lovemiss you), recently wrote a post about finding your innisfree.  Yeats' definition of personal paradise.  The place where you mind wanders and finds its resting place. 

Innisfree happens to me when I'm in the midst of a musical.  Whether I'm watching them on YouTube (sorry, I know it's illegal, but 80 bucks to see a show, on top of several hundred more to actually get to New York is so not in my budget right now.  Hello, trying to get my Master's here!), listening to them or playing numbers from them on the piano - it's my silly, worldly pleasure.

And it's special because only a few (very few, ridiculously few) amount of people understand this. 

This is completely besides the point I was originally trying to make with this post.  It's happening more and more, this easily-distractedness.  Must be the summer heat.

So, recently, I've been drilling my mind with Les Mis.  It's a hard story to summarize, so many subplots.  But, in the beginning there is this woman, Fantine, a factory-worker-soon-turned-prostitute.  She is thrown out of work because it's discovered that she has a child she is supporting out of wedlock. The child's, Cossette's, father "abandoned them leaving them flat."  And it is her reputation that suffers, and her loss of a job as a result.

She sings a song that is pure sorrow in musical form.  It's haunting. 

And it made me so thankful.  So thankful to live in a culture where (for the most part) a woman is not held at arm's length if she is in a situation where she has to support a child on her own, she is not shunned from society.

Last year in the Dominican Republic, I was visiting homes in the beautiful city of Santa Domingo with Pastor Carlos and a few church friends.  We approached this young woman with a child.  She, we discovered after a lengthy and challengingly-translated conversation, was sixteen years old. 

Carlos looked at her and asked, "Do you enjoy being a mother?"

No judgment.  No ugliness.  Just genuine curiosity.  This is the world that we are living in today.  It is the result of countless women's efforts throughout the years.  We are reaping the rewards. 

I guess I just write this to say that I'm thankful that the society I live in, though it definitely has its flaws, would not brand me with a scarlet letter and write me off as no better than an impure breed of a dog, or rat if I were in Fantine's position. 

Watch this, you'll see what I mean.  Perhaps you'll find an innisfree of your own to escape to.  Oh, and don't say a thing about Susan Boyle.  She may have turned the public's attention to this song, and this wonderful, epic musical, but she does not sing it better.  I promise. 



And we were all put here for "Such a time as this." Makes you think, doesn't it? We were all placed here with these special opportunities that other women before us were not able to have. What are you going to live for now that the generations before us suffered in our place? It's so beautiful. It's so inspiring. Don't waste it.

SHARE:

Wednesday, June 9, 2010

so, I've been a little m.i.a. lately

My life is crazy.

And random.

And so, utterly, overwhelmingly good.

[youtube http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kuGzicRuUx4&hl=en_US&fs=1&]
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so, I've been a little m.i.a. lately

My life is crazy.

And random.

And so, utterly, overwhelmingly good.

SHARE:

Thursday, June 3, 2010

in the good old summertime



This movie is the cutest.  It was made before the words, "You've Got Mail," were ever uttered in a robotic, computer generated tone.  It was made in the time when letters were the fashion.  Can you imagine?  Letters.  There is something so personal about letters.  I strongly believe that the most unique thing about a person is their handwriting.  Think about it.

We're all confined to numbers for our pants or shoe size.  We're blondes, or brunettes or redheads.  We all fit into categories.  Even people who desperately try to break these categories are in the category of "people trying to break categories."  But, handwriting, you can't categorize that.  It's not like the internet.  There are millions of blogs that have "georgia" as their "handwriting."  But, you can't categorize handwriting.  Sure, you can say that someone's letters are sans serif (mine are adequately serifed).  You can say they're loopy, or intertwiney.  But you can't categorize handwriting.  You can't copy it.  It, like blood, rushes from your fingertips onto a page.

That's why letter writing is so romantic.  It's like sending a little piece of your soul.

 I get so excited when mail comes for me.  It must be something about seeing my name in print, I think.  What a rush.  So, you can imagine, if I had some stranger writing, professing his love to me, how excited I would be.  This movie captures and melds my two obsessions: mail and music.

It's about a man and a woman sending love letters to one another.  In reality, they are arch enemies.  But in the world where letters fly from one hand and into another, they were lovers.

Meg and Tom, don't get me wrong, I love your movie.  It's one of my favorites.  But, you understand.  You just sang one song in your movie.  This is the original You've Got Mail, and it's a musical.  So, sorry.  You lose this race.  You'll still get a nice, yellow "participants" ribbon for your trouble, though.

Why do I write this?  No idea.  I just saw this clip on YouTube, yet another of my obsessions, and thought it pertained well to my attitude.  It's no secret how much I love Judy Garland.  It's so fun when you discover that your favorite, glamorous movie star has a freak flag.

She remind you of anyone, here?

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in the good old summertime



This movie is the cutest.  It was made before the words, "You've Got Mail," were ever uttered in a robotic, computer generated tone.  It was made in the time when letters were the fashion.  Can you imagine?  Letters.  There is something so personal about letters.  I strongly believe that the most unique thing about a person is their handwriting.  Think about it.

We're all confined to numbers for our pants or shoe size.  We're blondes, or brunettes or redheads.  We all fit into categories.  Even people who desperately try to break these categories are in the category of "people trying to break categories."  But, handwriting, you can't categorize that.  It's not like the internet.  There are millions of blogs that have "georgia" as their "handwriting."  But, you can't categorize handwriting.  Sure, you can say that someone's letters are sans serif (mine are adequately serifed).  You can say they're loopy, or intertwiney.  But you can't categorize handwriting.  You can't copy it.  It, like blood, rushes from your fingertips onto a page.

That's why letter writing is so romantic.  It's like sending a little piece of your soul.

 I get so excited when mail comes for me.  It must be something about seeing my name in print, I think.  What a rush.  So, you can imagine, if I had some stranger writing, professing his love to me, how excited I would be.  This movie captures and melds my two obsessions: mail and music.

It's about a man and a woman sending love letters to one another.  In reality, they are arch enemies.  But in the world where letters fly from one hand and into another, they were lovers.

Meg and Tom, don't get me wrong, I love your movie.  It's one of my favorites.  But, you understand.  You just sang one song in your movie.  This is the original You've Got Mail, and it's a musical.  So, sorry.  You lose this race.  You'll still get a nice, yellow "participants" ribbon for your trouble, though.

Why do I write this?  No idea.  I just saw this clip on YouTube, yet another of my obsessions, and thought it pertained well to my attitude.  It's no secret how much I love Judy Garland.  It's so fun when you discover that your favorite, glamorous movie star has a freak flag.

She remind you of anyone, here?

SHARE:
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