Stolen--or is it?

Over the past few weeks, there are several moments (days, even) that, if pressed to describe, I would say that "it feels like my joy, my happiness, is just...gone." Some of these moments have definite causes. I feel criticized for things I cannot help or sincerely cannot see anything wrong with (such as the way I eat beef jerky...that was a weird conversation). I had to follow a driver who was doing a poor job and made me have to swerve or slam on my brakes multiple times to avoid an accident. Over the past few days especially, I've had encounters with a large amount of very rude people...something that instantly gets under my skin on even the brightest of days.

Even as a child, Stephanie Tanner had a good grasp of the situation.

I've "dealt" with these situations and moved on from each specific occurrence, but there still seems to be something--or someone--keeping me from being the bubbly person I normally am. Instead of laughing and smiling all the time, I'm getting a little mopey and have even burst into tears a couple of times for no reason. No, it's not PMS (and shame on you for thinking so...hehehe). The blue fog fades after a few minutes or hours...and then I'll be busy with one of my jobs, projects, or listening to my Christian fantasy novels on my iPod. The joy returns.

A close friend told me that it sounded like a spiritual attack--Satan was stealing my joy, putting obstacles in my way, because he's scared of me and the wonderful work I'm doing for God. It made (and still does make) a lot of sense. All of my jobs are service-oriented. My writing is primarily Christian or from Christian perspective. The music and books I listen to are almost all Christian as well. My sports and singing work, the goodies I bake...all are tied to my church. When I'm serving God, I'm joyful again. The more I work, the more joyful I am...and the more I encounter these periods of blue funk. Hmmm. Doesn't take a genius to start connecting these dots.

What is really striking about these attacks is how they are resolved. I do something, whether it's praying, serving someone, singing, worshiping, reading something inspiring, or using the talent God gave me for writing and creating a new blog entry or advancing a fiction novel to the next level. Satan may know exactly what buttons to push to drain out the stores of joy I've built up, but there's a problem with his plumbing pranks. He's stealing a renewable resource. Every time I turn back to my faith, turn back to the path that God has me on, I'm given joy unspeakable and full of glory (to paraphrase that old song). I will never run out of joy provided that I never stop choosing God over the darkness.

Just one of many daily occurrences as a Christian...although I don't look *this* fantastic in draped fabric.

I will still have bad days. I will still have moments where I doubt myself or God when I truly know better than that (just like I know better than to walk down the candy aisle at Wal-Mart....). I will still struggle sometimes and need friends and God to help push me back to where I need to be. The difference between the woman I was six years ago who fell to the brink of no return and woman I am now is mostly my relationship with God. It's not a perfect relationship by any means--I want it to be a closer, stronger one. I need it to be.

I still find great comfort in knowing that God's got my back. With Him for me, who can really be against me? I have faith in that no matter how I feel or what is going on, God will NEVER give me more than what I can handle. He will ALWAYS keep me, love me, and protect me in his infinite wisdom and power. It's like ADT...only a billion times better with an unbreakable guarantee.

A supernatural security plan is more available than you might think....

Passionate Devotion

It's no secret to those who get to be around me for even just a short while that I'm a very passionate person. I love a lot of things, and I pour myself into them. My time, money, energy, creativity...you name it, it's in there.

Kind of like the chemical composition of some processed food...only I don't think I cause cancer.

I adopt a church family and suddenly I'm there all the time, taking care of babies, baking pies, dashing off trays of danishes, crooning worship songs, and catching fly softballs (well, I try, anyway). I take on teaching classes and I'm bringing in treats, buying DVDs of documentaries to show (Netflix isn't that reliable around here), and even agreeing to meet with students on the weekends or talk them through tough paper problems in the late evening hours (I've stopped the 1am conferences mostly out of respect to a promise I made to a friend about erecting and policing boundaries). As a babysitter, I can't leave a sink full of nasty dirty dishes behind, even though I didn't contribute to them while making the kids' dinner. I've even scrubbed tile grout on my hands and knees while the children were sleeping because it needed to be done. Passion...and insanity..are intrinsic to who I am as a person.

This goes double for me in relationships. I pour who I am into my serious relationships. I call, send texts, write emails and mail off cards (just don't expect one on the "normal" days, like birthdays or anniversaries, because I can't seem to remember those obvious ones). The investment I make into these relationships involves money, energy, and an extreme amount of time and caring. I give people my heart as though it was that crappy tootsie-roll wannabe candy people on floats throw out during homecoming parades--with near-complete abandon and way too much trust. It's no wonder, then, that my heart ends up trampled and damaged on a fairly regular basis. I want to believe people will treat me the way I treat them...and since we're all humans, it's going to involve mistakes and disappointments. Lately I've been learning that someone I gave my heart to really didn't deserve it...and the consequences for this choice are still somewhat affecting me.

We're going to need to buy stock in Scotch tape on this one, folks....

The simple solution, at least for future avoidance of this painful problem, seems to be to just guard my heart with jealous abandon and stop giving it away. In fact, it's even Biblical--we are supposed to guard our hearts so that we aren't influenced by Satan's attacks and seductive promises.

Not too bad of a job, but even the National Guard gets a day off once in a while.

Still, for me to not invest myself in something I care deeply about, whether it be my career, my friends, my family, my faith, my relationships...it's just not me. God created me to be a person who loves, and loves deeply. Guarding my heart is fine, but closing it off to where I don't give of myself anymore...that's not an option.

So what am I supposed to do with this incredible spirit of devotion and passion within me? If I trust other people with it, I get hurt. If I trust only myself with it, I lose the blessings I receive from my successful interactions with others...and I waste the gift that it is. It rots on a shelf, the opportunities for sharing long gone and now nobody can receive anything beneficial from it. There doesn't seem to be a safe path...or is there?

Enter God. It seems so obvious, but it is also what I forget the most. God is more wise, powerful, loving, and gracious than anyone or anything in the universe and beyond. He sacrificed so much for me so I could have this relationship with Him. He wants my heart, my passion, my devotion, and it's not a fallible human relationship on His end. He will NEVER mistreat or mishandle the gift of my love and devotion...and the benefits of giving everything to Him are unending and truly amazing. God will guide me through the brambles of life, showing me where and whom I need to love...even if it may hurt. No matter what, God will always love me. I need to say that again. No matter what, God will always love me. If He is holding my hand, I can make it through the pain and strife in this frail human life. He's never going to let me down, betray me, or suddenly decide that He just doesn't have feelings for me anymore. I'm safe with Him. I can trust Him.

For once, there won't even be the awkwardness that always comes with my gigantic-sized hands--everything fits perfectly. Now if this could only translate to when I go shoe shopping....

I've had a burning desire for nearly all of my life to be a wife and a mother. I know God has given me the ability and temperament to be pretty darn good at both. For right now, though, I'm accepting that it's just not God's plan. He has things for me to do that I can do better as a single woman. All my projects, the ministries I'm involved in, the jobs I hold that help so many people--they all need time and attention that I would have to (and want to) give to a husband/family. In a way, it's hard for me to do this, give up fighting for this dream. In another way...it's incredibly freeing. The guilt, confusion, pain, and disappointment that comes with shattered dreams is only hindering me in what is a truly joyful existence. Instead of jealousy watching my married friends be held and loved by their husbands, I will be happy for them...and happy that I don't have to deal with twice the laundry and weird video game obsessions. If God grants my dream someday, I will joyfully accept the glass slipper and cry tears of happiness down the aisle. If not...then I will joyfully accept my independence and relax with a "perfect" husband that no mortal man can ever compete with.

So today I will use my passionate devotion to work on a few projects for my church, perhaps revise more of my novel, and maybe even finish the final storyboards for a children's book or two (and, of course, finish my grading/teaching prep for the week). Watch out, world...I'm going to love you. :)

Held in Heaven

If you asked me if there was one thing I could change about how my relationship with God works, most days I'd probably say that I'd like to have regular, face-to-face conversations with Him where I could ask questions and get (hopefully) straight answers. That this sort of reduces the need for faith...well, that's an unfortunate side effect. Lately, though, my heart has been changing my usual answer to that "genie wish" question. I want some cuddle time with Jesus.

Squeeze as tight as you like.

We as human beings need to touch and be touched (although how much and to what degree varies widely). Babies can die if they aren't loved on enough. I'm a very touchy-feely person and adore hugs. I get a few each Sunday during our church's meet and greet...but there are times I need more than just that. I need a cuddle. When I was dating a guy, I practically glued myself to him on the few times I was able to see him because I was so desperate for that kind of safety, love, and security that comes with cuddling and hugging, holding and being held. Now that I'm single again, it's hard to find someone willing and able to be a cuddle buddy. I do have a teddy bear I still sleep with every night partially for this reason (and it keeps me from flipping over and squishing my cat at 3am).

This photo should be just as endearing and cute if she was in her thirties.

Still...cuddling with an inanimate object just isn't fulfilling enough. Sure, Beary Michael is a great listener and hasn't complained once, but he also gets thrown to the floor and ends up burning his fur on the heat registers (ever see a white bear with brown stripes?). He fits perfectly within my arms, but I can't remotely fit in his. I need something, someone, alive. My cat might work, but he's not remotely a lap cat (more like a proximity cat...he'll sleep with me occasionally and usually is in the same room, but rarely ever on my lap). So...my options are pretty much limited to humans now (especially as I'm no Brittney Spears and DO NOT find a python's squeeze remotely comforting).

Hugging humans is great...except for finding good situations for doing so. Most of my good friends who would qualify for cuddle buddies are extremely busy women...like me. :) I feel guilty talking to them on the phone for half an hour when I'm upset. Asking for even a five or ten-minute cuddle session seems absolutely ridiculous. Besides, finding opportunities or appropriate places for such sessions is even harder sometimes than finding someone to do it with.

Two is company...and this is just *WRONG*. If you have to put on nametags before cuddling, it's not a good cuddle. It's creepy (especially if you noticed some of those hands are on butts). Not cool.

One solution to my need for this kind of affection has been gifted to me in the form of children. I babysit for a couple of girls (9 and 11) while their mother is overseas. I've known the family for years, and am close to the girls anyway, but over the past month of babysitting after a three-year hiatus, I find myself becoming extremely affectionate towards the girls. I tussle their hair, tickle ribs, give hugs, and kiss their foreheads goodnight as I put them to bed. When we sack out to watch a movie, they usually curl up on the couch with me, letting me stroke their hair or trail my fingers up and down their arms like my mother used to do to me when I was sick as a child. They miss that female touch...and I'm more than willing to share in such moments. I want to be in their shoes, but can't. I can, however, live vicariously through them.

Someday...this will be me with my own daughter instead of a borrowed one.

Still, when their mother comes back next week, when school starts, when they are finally old enough not to really need a babysitter (which will happen all too soon), I'll be left without my two adorable cuddle buddies. God, in His infinite wisdom, put me in a church that already has a good smattering of babies and several more on the way. Babies. The perfect solution for a woman who needs physical attention. They need to be held and they hold onto you. They adore and love you (as long as they don't realize that they want their real mothers more at the moment) without judging...and think rocking to sleep is one of the best things in the world. What a coincidence--so do I.

Go on, baby. Make my day.

Still, I can't always grab my pastor's daughter from his wife's arms and carry her off for cuddle'n'fun time whenever I'm needing it. She's growing up...and her mother rather likes having her daughter around her (go figure). Even if God blesses me with a husband and a family of my own someday--which He may not, and for reasons I know are for the best for me and my ministry to others--I still won't have unlimited access to the kind of peace, comfort, love, and tranquility that comes from sweet hugs and being held/holding others. The world doesn't revolve around my desires (although if it did...wow. Talk about a huge blessing and a huge mess all in one :) ). That's why my deepest genie wish is for cuddle time with God. Omnipresent partners who are infinitely kind, loving, forgiving, giving, patient...it's the perfect situation. God can soothe my soul in the relationship we have now, and does on a daily basis. Many days, though...I want to be held by my Creator, have Him stroke my hair, and just love me in one of the most powerful ways I know. I think I'll spend at least half of my eternity in Heaven in that position. :)

Until I get to those bejeweled gates, though, I'm still looking for those cuddle partners, people made in the image of the One I love more than anyone else who can minister to me until I see Him face-to-face. Any takers, apply immediately.

Soon, God...soon.

Logic Bombs

A friend of mine was telling me the other day about a situation she found herself in a few years ago. She was at church and a few older people had mentioned that they didn't think her attire was quite appropriate for being in services. She saw absolutely nothing wrong with the outfit--it covered everything, was a moderate length, and there was only a tiny hint of cleavage (and she's a very buxom woman, so it's hard to avoid "showing the line"). Being judged isn't something any person wants to have happen, and some respond very strongly to this kind of scenario. I've seen women burst into tears immediately after the confrontation, locking themselves into bathroom stalls for nearly an hour. I've seen women decide to "give 'em a show" in order to contrast "truly inappropriate" attire with what they normally wore--in one case, a 30ish lady donned stripper heels, a miniskirt that didn't even cover the bottom of her bottom, and a top that left nothing to the imagination.

You don't have to cover every inch of skin, but the congregation can't blur you out, either.

I can understand that instinct to pull out the logic bomb on people who, to us, have such ridiculous opinions that it offends us. I've had students deem me as stupid and apalling due to my weight right in front of me and during class. At that moment, I pulled out the biggest logic bomb I had and let it explode all over their judging faces. Not only did I disprove that fat people are always jolly (my German-Austrian temper was highly evident), but I also pulled their logic out and showed all the holes involved in making assumptions about people simply because of outward appearances. Problem was, we as humans make assumptions all the time. If I see someone who looks like they're a heavy drug user fiddling around my car when there are no other cars parked remotely close to mine, I'm going to suspect that they're trying to break in and steal something. It's a defensive mechanism that originates within our primal instincts of survival.

While I'm sure the rhyme has helped many a person stay safe when dealing with snakes, I just scream and run no matter what they look like--that way instead of a 50% chance, I'm hitting closer to 100% of surviving the encounter.

We should confront those with mistaken assumptions, especially if they are potentially damaging to other people, and logic bombs can help. Paul pulled one in Galations 2:11-16. Peter was falling back into his legalistic ways and, due to being a major influence on so many, was causing others to fall away from the truth. In front of the others, Paul chastises his friend and mentor, reminding him, and those following him, of the truth.

Sometimes a logic bomb can go the wrong way, though, blowing true logic all to pieces instead of demolishing falsehoods. (If you don't believe me, go to the E.R. on Independence Day and count all the injuries from fireworks that "weren't supposed to do that.") The woman who decided to channel her inner Brittney Spears and let it all hang out in church? It was definitely an explosive move...and not one that necessarily reflects the point she was trying to make--that she has discernment when it comes to dressing. Yes, showing up the "enemy" can be very self-satisfying. Doing so, however, is not always the most effective at actually resolving the situation. Those students in my class learned that I was a caring, very intelligent, and capable person not through my outburst but through my day-to-day dealings with them in the class. I had one-on-one conferences with them over their papers that really highlighted just how much I knew...and how much I could really teach them.

What should we do when we find ourselves chastised for something we don't see as wrong? Well, there are a few options. Talk to the people involved, find out why they have the issue, and see if you can come to an understanding (sometimes we really do have to "agree to disagree" and let it go at that). If they are staunch on the issue, especially if they claim it is tempting/harming others, then the Bible clearly states what our solution has to be: give it up. We wouldn't have wine bottles everywhere when inviting a recovering alcoholic to our house, so why would we flash cleavage and thigh at men who are recovering adulterers or porn addicts? If we want others to respect our choices and needs, we need to respect theirs. Otherwise, we're heading for war...and those bombs really hurt.

Tiny Things

My drive home from church consists first of ten miles on a very twisting, curving road that is a nightmare in the winter months and can make you feel like you're on a terrific roller coaster when driving fast in the summer. There's rarely a stretch of road straight enough to help you avoid anything in your path. Potholes, the occasional plastic tumbleweed (otherwise known as the empty Walmart sack), and especially in these wild hills, animals are hard if not impossible to not hit with a resounding thud, clunk, or crash. I've been blessed so far in that I haven't taken any human or animal lives yet on this road (really praying that at least the former stays true). Not everyone is so lucky.

Sunday night I left the evening service a little late, but it was still very light out at 8:40pm. Cows and llamas dotted the mint-frosted hills in their usual chocolate sprinkle way, meandering slowly enough not to distract me too much as I followed the crumbled-edge pavement. About two miles down the road, I spotted what looked to be a medium-sized animal lying in my lane. When I approached closer, hitting the brakes, my eyes widened at what was really before me. There was an animal lying in its blood, clearly dead, but it was only a sparrow. What I had seen was a group of about ten more sparrows gathered around the fallen bird in a loose oval configuration.

I'm by no means an expert on sparrows, but I've never heard of or seen this phenomenon before. With their dark brown feathers and the first shadows of the night encroaching, the ring of creatures seemed to be mourning the loss of one of their own. Instantly I thought of Matthew 10:29, where God says He notices even the fall of a single sparrow. He was there, with those birds, and if animals have souls, then he was taking that little bird to Heaven with Him. Maybe it seems a little ludicrous, but the image of my Heavenly Father reaching down with his powerful and kind hands to escort a bird to the next life...it's so incredibly comforting to me. If He cares enough for sparrows to mourn each other, then how much must He care for even the smallest of my issues?

God knows everything that is going on in my life, even the things I don't see or understand. Not only does he know about all of these things, He *cares* about them. He's doing things about them, too. (A thought--ever think about what God's to-do list must look like? Mine seems so much more manageable now.) He's not going to leave me, lying on the side of the road, without help or sending someone to notice. God's got me. What more do I really need?

The Dandelion's Manifesto

Some say I'm a downright pest--
Poking my stalk in among the best,
Bouncing around on my own personal breeze,
Enjoying my days as if they were in ease,
Smiling and laughing though the rain will only drown
And the brilliant sun scorches everything brown.
Nothing's going to keep me down.

My exuberant petals spring from the earth
As if I was gifted Slinkies at birth
To propel me to heights I should never reach
'Cause the joy of my soul is a favorite fluid to leech.

I ruin perfect rows of perfectly planned pansies and petunias,
Purple poppies and potatoes and peas that go right through ya.
Where an exact order of beauty is established through selection and mutation,
I creep into the ranks, a new variable for computation.

My stalk's too fat, my leaves curl the wrong way,
My scent's intolerable, my roots have gone gray.
I ruin everything just by existing,
My rights and my desires--everyone's nixing.

Since I am not always self-sustaining and "properly" entertaining,
economical and ecological
with a smile maniacal
as I recite alphabetical
what is right and good and Cosmo-certified to work in 30 days or your money back
Not that it'll get you back on track
With the credit cards
And manicured yards
Botox injections and
Heart infections
Revealing the disease
If you please
Is not curable by the pill
Or by giving "reality" audiences a thrill
Or through donating large sums to charity
(As though dollars ever buy us clarity).

It's healed through tears,
Fighting constant fears,
Ignoring hateful leers,
Stubbornly insisting, "I'm HERE!"
And nothing's gonna keep me down.

So bring on the Weed-B-Gone,
Pour it out from dusk 'til dawn,
Rip up my supports deep in the earth,
Declare my agony's result is stillbirth,
Refuse to allow me to live or exist
As you get high on your powerful twist
Of what you claim is "the way it's gotta be--"
And there is utterly no reason for me
To breathe
To live
To smile
To give

'Cause my life is a hint of something soul-saving sweet,
But with your lack of faith, it'll be a bitter-tasting treat.
My God-given, spirit-pleasin' remedy
Is just what our P.C. world needs:
A little faith, hope, and love,
Truth without the kid gloves,
The kind of power that can conquer America's permanent frown,
Because you can't keep an agape weed like me down.

Further Adventures at Wal-Mart...as it's the most populated area in town...

Every year my father inflates a 8-foot swimming pool, parks it in the backyard, and then overchlorinates it to the point where only he is brave enough to sit in the water that decimates bug life faster than a Tim-Taylor-superpowered-bugzapper (since I used to invest so much in dying/highlighting my hair, I wasn't insane enough to ruin my hairdresser's expensive work for just five minutes of buoyancy). Every year he keeps "forgetting" to take it down...until really late in the season where the water's starting to freeze on top. Between the chemicals and the ice, let's just say that these pools didn't last more than a couple years around our house. Last year's entry into the wild world of Sackville looked to have survived the winter...until Dad started to fill it and found a huge, gaping hole in the bottom. He then decided, due to financial issues, to 86 his swimming plans this year. I, being the good daughter with a savings account (love you, Sis!), decided to spoil him for Father's Day and buy him a replacement pool. Besides, I'm giving up coloring my hair and figure the bleach will just help me return to my natural color faster. :)

Fun for every family unafraid of sanitizing their genes...and the resulting cancer outbreaks

So I trek into Wal-Mart, select the new pool, hoist it through the checkout, and cart it to my car. It's when I'm attempting to put this very ungainly, very heavy box into my backseat that I find major conflict. This box is heavier than I remember it being. It's also getting consistently caught on the edge of the cart, which is continuously wheeling away from my car thanks to a sloped parking lot. Two tries only succeed in making my lower back ache, my shoulder pop, and nearly landing me in a heap on the ground as I attempt to control too many moving objects at once. It is at the moment that I'm glaring at this now obnoxious present when I hear laughter. It's not very loud, not overwhelming, but just the soft chuckles of someone observing what must look like the equivalent of an uncoordinated penguin troop performing Swan Lake.

It's only cute if you're three years old and still look good in a leotard.

Parked in the row behind me is a big red SUV...with a hefty-looking 40+ year-old man in the driver's seat. Now, normally I'd just ignore him, or at the most, smile embarrassedly while trying for a third time to wrangle the plastic pool of doom. This time, however, I've had a great time at music practice. I've eaten a fair amount of sugar. I'm high on life. I open my mouth.

"Well, if you're going to get such a kick out of this free show, the least you could do is come over here and help me!" My teasing remark, sassy and full of enough sweetness to counteract the sarcasm, works like a charm. The gentleman exits his vehicle, showing off his lovely work-roughed jeans and faded t-shirt, and saunters over to my car. He puts one strong hand on the edge of the cart and anchors it against the wheel well. "Ok, then, I'll hold 'er steady while you haul it in there."

Time out.

I'm sorry, but did my audience, obviously much bigger and stronger and very MALE, just take the easy job in this ordeal? I mean, I know our current world culture has more of a humorous attitude towards chivalry.

See? Soldiers know how to treat a lady (at least I'm assuming that's a lady).

I know that even simple chivalric manners, like opening car doors, seems to be a thing of the past (although I was delighted to find that there are guys out there still insisting on this little treat...and they're forgiving when our decades-old habit of having to open our own car doors kicks in before they can circle the car).

The manners and his suit have become "old-fashioned," but her hairstyle has come back into fashion at least three times.

Despite this, the current situation was obviously one in which the correct thing was not being done. Yes, I am technically strong enough to haul the box in my backseat (I've carried much heavier things before with few problems) and the problem is more of one of logistics and not strength. Still, if guys in China are completely comfortable--and often insist upon--carrying their girl's purse...

My purse, coincidentally, is about 2/3 the weight of the pool most days... (My school packback has reached 100 pounds before...and you wonder why I go monthly to a chiropractor).

...then the chivalry isn't about doing what we can't do. I can open my own door. It's just nice to have someone to help me, to take care of me, to show me a little extra respect and help when it's appropriate (grabbing a girl's puse without permission is known as mugging--not the thing to do).

So my response to Mr. Helpful? Playful banter, of course, full of smiles and sassy expressions. :)

Mr. Helpful: Ok, then, I'll hold 'er steady while you haul it in there.
Me: Um, no, I will hold 'er steady and you will haul the pool in there.
Mr. Helpful: (chuckles) But you're a strong young'un!
Me: But you're the guy LAUGHING AT ME.

((Still chuckling, Mr. Helpful easily hoists the pool into my backseat and gently closes the door. Mrs. Helpful just happens to approach at this moment, her shopping cart overflowing with bagged purchases.))

Mrs. Helpful: I thought you were going to stay in the car...?
Mr. Helpful: She made me come help her load her car after she caught me laughing at her.
Mrs. Helpful: (big smile at me) Well, then, you can get your butt over here and load up our car.
Mr. Helpful: I knew I shouldn't have laughed...

So, lessons for today:
1. Park in the flat section of the lot.
2. Teasing others can earn you extra (home)work.
3. A little Southern accent and a big smile still charms the opposite sex.

Erasing Poetry

Ok, ok. So not everyone likes poetry. I can't really blame them too much--I used to be one of them. I mean, I wrote the sing-songy, uber-rhyming, cliche-ridden poems in high school like many teenage girls, but when it came to good poetry, I really didn't like it. I was even an English major for years and still didn't like it. My poetic problems weren't so much an issue with what I was reading but rather how I was reading it.

Poetry, in truth, was not at all like how it had been presented to me throughout my early years of public education. I had been taught to read the lines and figure out what exactly it was supposed to mean, usually because there was a written response or a multiple-choice question involved. There were right and wrong answers to the symbolism, theme, and meter of poetry, just like there were right and wrong answers to the chemical formula for photosynthesis and subject/verb agreement for "she went to the store." It wasn't until I reached graduate school (yes, my sixth year of English studies) that I learned to appreciate poetry...through a class on how to teach poetry to students. The biggest thing I had to learn was that poetry is subjective by its very nature...and that's ok.

Once I let go of my right/wrong attitude and adopted the better founded/unsubstantiated stance, poetry became intriguing and almost addictive to me. While there were some meanings that wouldn't make sense simply because they couldn't be logically connected to the poem's imagery (and yes, imagery and sound are two of the most important parts of many poems...so much so that the words themselves can be meaningless--just their sounds matter), as long as you could find some sort of decent (hopefully strong) connection, it fit. After all, no one really knows what the author was thinking/feeling/meaning 100% of the time...sometimes not even the author him/herself.

Still...putting words on paper in poetic form was difficult. There were formulas for sonnets and haiku that helped, but to just let go of meaning and enjoy the nonsensical abstractness of words, images, and sounds (especially just disjointed ones) was extremely difficult. Enter a new muse: Mary Ruefle. I met the well-known poet in person once as part of a conference, and while I didn't connect with her personally, I adored a small book of hers. A Little White Shadow. It was the first I had ever seen of erasure-style poetry, a twist on found poetry but more raw and semi-artistic (The hard-to-find Humument by Tom Phillips is extremely artistic and more intense as it attempts to be its own story-within-a-story). The point of erasure poetry was to find prose, even really bad prose, and locate the gems of disjointed words that, when brought together through erasing all that was around them, created new thoughts and ideas. Sometimes erasures are completely silly images or statements. Sometimes they end up profound. The challenge of using only words already printed on the page, and then figuring out how to work with their existing order, was like the ultimate word-search puzzle with hidden prizes under the ink.

I was wanting to play around with this new composing form, so I picked up a 25-cent paperback copy of The Horse Without A Head from a sorority's booksale fundraiser on campus. It had some good words that popped out at me while I flipped through pages, the copyright had to be nearly up if I ever decided to publish my reworking of the text, and the original children's mystery was...horrible. Even the worst erasure of the text would be an improvement. For the next few days, I carried the conveniently-sized book in my purse, along with a purple pen, and began outlining the text I would keep. Over the next few months, I experimented with different types of white-out, acrylic paint, and correction fluids to banish the unworthy words from the page. I rather liked the non-uniformity of the erasing, with some pages glossy with white and others hosting cracked strips of eggshell tape. It was a wonderfully freeing exercise...and the creativity born in erasure poetry not only spurned wonderful poetic images that I wove into my prose, but eventually led to a few freeverse poems that I'm actually rather proud of.

My retitled collection of erasure poems, He With A Head, includes nearly two hundred pages of good, great, and uh-oh bad erasures. Most are to be taken individually, a single moment to be considered, perhaps savored, and then either stored away for future musings or tossed aside like an amusing but meaningless status update on Facebook. Not being able to draw a straight line meant some words were accidentally erased too much...and it was more of a playbook than a truly careful endeavor, so I wasn't super-obsessive about neatness. It's a little messy...kind of like me. Erasure lets me do that.



So to look at the title poem for my rediscovered text..."He with a head should pay dearly for it." What does it mean? Maybe it means that those who have the awareness of decision also have the awareness of consequences. Maybe it means that men who think logically will suffer for it (especially when they're around PMSing women). Maybe it means that being able to think is such a precious thing, a costly thing, something that should be valued much more than it is (the intellect versus, say, braun). Maybe it means that this guy is about to have one huge headache and needs to take an Excedrin. It could mean any of these. It could mean none of them. Ultimately, erasure is about taking away...in order to give. What meaning will you give this piece?



Or this one?

Getting Uncomfortable

A friend of mine changed her status on Facebook to "If we want to grow, we are always out of our comfort zones." I've heard this sentiment before, usually with the imagery of stagnant ponds that, while they are useful, aren't the beautiful bodies of water that can really make a difference (tell that to the family of tree frogs who thoroughly enjoy the unchanging pond off my backyard, but....point made). This one brings to mind a tender green shoot of a plant, having to push through first earth, then air that is often unforgiving and rarely protecting. Honestly, that plant was safer under a layer of black dirt, even with the beetles scurrying around down there.

I made a choice a few weeks ago to put myself in a new and rather uncomfortable situation: I joined my church's recreational softball league. To put this in context for you, I am very unathletic. I'm tall, overweight, not very coordinated in a gross-motor way, my hand-eye coordination works excellent with embroidery needles but not so much with large balls that could potentially concuss my skull, and I have a multitude of physical problems that make sports difficult (no cartilidge in my knees and fibromyalgia, mainly). I don't even necessarily like sports. I am easily the worst player on the team and not just because I don't even understand all the basic rules of baseball (let alone slow-pitch softball).

The thing is, our city's recreational league rules demand that there be at least four girls playing on each team at all times. The pitcher and catcher must be of opposite genders. At least two girls must be on the infield besides the pitcher/catcher. Batters must be lined up in alternating gender order. If there aren't enough girls on the team, the team forfeits...and loses a costly deposit. Needless to say, our church was having issues getting enough girls. The first few times the pastor asked the congregation for volunteers and a few friends invited me, I shrugged them off. I'm not an athlete. I'll be gone several weekends visiting my boyfriend. It wouldn't work. I'm not comfortable playing sports--and I don't like doing things, especially publically, if I don't think I'll be very good at them.

God had other ideas. Within a week, I had been dumped by my boyfriend and had two ladies practically push me into going to a practice for the team just so I wouldn't be stuck moping around the house, trying to kill off old feelings and deal with being a single woman again. "A little exercise will help distract you, and besides, you need to be around Christian friends right now." I was needed and apparently wanted despite having nothing substantial to offer the team besides my gender. I showed up.

Through a couple practices and a tragic double-header game, I decimated any high hopes of being an asset to the team. I can throw shorter distances ok, but catching is not my strong suit and batting...I'd have better luck if the ball was five feet in diameter. It took me a game and a half to realize, as catcher, that I was supposed to try to catch the foul balls. I kept, to my dismay, squealing and jumping out of the way of close pitches as I batted, terrified of getting hit (not that it kept me from some painful impact bruises). A few bad catches, the ball hitting my left forearm twice with considerable force, ended up jamming the nerve in my arm and I lost the use of my hand for nearly an hour. I tried cracking jokes all the time to relieve the tension I felt, the feelings of being a failure, and basically to keep myself from crying in pain and anger. Not everyone got them...and few of them were laughed at. Apparently my discomfort wasn't so hidden after all.

The logic that a very unathletic girl in athletics probably wouldn't be successful was something to fight against. I was a very intelligent, stubborn, persistent, and often patient person. God wouldn't have pushed me into this activity to make a fool out of me...would he?

Besides a nice dose of humility, something even Paul said was needed for Christians, I believe that God wanted me to stretch myself. I'll never be scouted by a professional team and may never actually hit a ball and get on base in my lifetime (although getting "walked" to first is such a wonderful blessing). I do need to try new things, keeping my focus on being out there, in this crazy uncomfortable world, so I can shine with God's love and be a witness for Him. I can't show my faith if I'm sequestered in my house or only venturing out to do things I know I'm good at (although, if I am willing to remember, I wasn't always good at those things, either).

Surprise of all surprises, I rather like softball. I'm watching baseball games on TV and picking up some ideas. I'm getting excited about games and want to do what I can, as much as I can, to support my church in this ministry. I never would have done this if I hadn't been in so much emotional turmoil over the dissolution of my long-distance romance. Already there is a silver lining, a purpose to losing a guy I thought I could marry someday. Now I'm looking forward to finding a new guy who is even better for me...and who knows. Maybe he'll like softball, too.