Furniture

Sometimes it takes you six matches to light three candlewicks. Just saying. What a week. I cried a lot on Friday. I think my one eye is swollen because of it. It was good, though--a great release of some emotion and a chance to get it all out there. A good cry is often the perfect medicine, and afterwards, everything generally seems better--sort of like that feeling you got when you were ten and had been swimming outside in the lake under the hot sun for hours. When the evening came and after a warm dinner, you were exhausted in all the right ways.

I have my coffee and granola here next to me now. It was a stressful week at work, and there is an equally intense week that is right around the corner. After the 13th, however, all will be well. On the bright side, however, we have just found an apartment near Grand Ave! And it is exactly what we were looking for. Wood floors, a brick wall, curved archways and old-fashioned light fixtures, lots of space, a big kitchen, and a vintage tub. And a screened-in front and back porch!

Despite all of this, I got pretty nostalgic when I pulled up to the apartment I'm sitting in now--the one I've learned to call home for the last two years. It's strange that we'll soon be packing everything into boxes and going our separate ways to new homes and new roommates after two years of this. It's also funny to look at the ugly plaid couch across the living room and think about giving it away or dumping it in a dumpster. So much has happened on that couch over the past four years (we had it in the dorms too). So many tears shed and deep, nighttime talks on those cushions. So much food eaten on it and movies watched and naps taken. We studied late into the night, read book after book, and graduated via that couch. It really is ugly, though--gold, olive green, and 1970's burnt orange--all meshed together. It dips down in the middle and the arm cushion covers fall off almost every day. I can't help but simultaneously hate it and love it at the same time. Kirsten always said there was no such thing as an ugly couch, and you could fix anything with the right pillows. It will be sad to leave all of this, but I'm also excited to move on to something new. God keeps telling me to trust Him, and see what's in store next. I'm enjoying the anticipation this time around.

Well, time to get ready. I'm getting my hair cut in a couple hours (on none other than Grand) and then going out to eat with family and friends for my mom's birthday. 53 today! If you think of it, wish her happy birthday because she is the best of moms.

- L

A Summary

At the beginning of March, I decided that my initiative would be to blog something every day, in the spirit of cultivating the discipline of writing every day, for the entire month. What I soon discovered was that this was a really good thing, a really hard thing, and something that I could truly see myself doing as part of a career at some point. I also realized that if I didn't make enough time for blogging, I would end up staying awake extra late (which would lead to pre- and post-lunch coffee the next day) or end up posting something that I internally didn't value as much. So, even though I have five days left, I want to retract my initiative in order to preserve some quality of what I publish. I don't want to force anything or post boring things. I'm really excited for the season of my life that will give me time to write all day long. Until then, I'm just going to post when it comes and not push anything.

On another note, here's some of the music that will always make me remember this last month:

[youtube https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IyJ_8myBqh0&w=420&h=315]

[youtube https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ml1oJb-uswo&w=420&h=315]

[youtube https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3D6DwskD3Yo&w=420&h=315]

[youtube https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p7MSAKABh4Q&w=420&h=315]

One of the Things I Like Most

One of the things I like most about birthdays is hearing from people I haven't heard from in a long time---months or even years. There's something about a birthday that acts as an open gate for communication. Birthdays are something everyone has in common. Even if it's merely a couple of words, wishing a happy day, from someone I haven't seen or heard from for awhile or don't know very well, I feel loved and cared about.

Some might call this naivety, but I think it means something if someone takes a few seconds to intentionally jot a line or say something. To me, it speaks for humanity at large---that there is goodness in the world and love in people. Yesterday, I felt communally wished a happy birthday.

This is probably my being an ENFP at best (Yet another great test to take! Click here for the Myers Briggs, and then Google your letters). But I take joy in knowing that people care enough to send happy birthday wishes no matter their closeness.

Of the 5...

I noticed something interesting today that might not be so interesting to anyone else. But I think it's amazing how I can't really do a lot when my sense of touch is lessened. If I'm wearing gloves---not even mittens where my fingers are all clumped together, but plain, old, ordinary leather gloves that I can grab things with---I can't function to the same degree that I can when I'm not wearing either at all. I hadn't realized how much I rely on my sense of touch to do things. When I'm driving down the interstate and can't look anywhere but the road in front of me, but need a chapstick, it's my hand that blindly searches through my purse. I can feel lumps of things jostling around the bag with my gloves on, but I have to take them off if I am to truly feel and find the Burt's Bees without driving off the road.

As a person who's primary love language is physical touch, I'm a big proponent of what a hug, handhold, or even a simple nudge can do. (Actually, I normally feel like I have all 5 love languages as my primary love language. But I guess that's what I would choose if I only had five minutes to receive or give love of some

sort. If you haven't ever taken the Love Languages test before, click here. It's well worth it). I've always heard in science classes that touch releases a stress-reducing neurotransmitter in your brain called oxytocin and that babies can't bond to their mothers or even grow up in any sort of healthy manner unless they receive lots and lots of physical touch as infants. It makes me think that touch has so many more implications than I normally think about.

So if you're sad, depressed, anxious, or any other negative feeling, go ask for a hug or sit close to someone or whatever else you can manage. It's probably one of the best cures out there.

Trips

I am sitting on the couch, freshly showered, with a gingerale by my side. It's fizzing and popping quietly in the can. Currently searching for some getaways. Any suggestions? I'm thinking a four- or five-day trip somewhere at the end of April. Dawnette and I were looking up ideas online and came across several wonderful bed and breakfasts here in MN as well as a beautiful lodge in Washington (this is out of the question as of now, but I can't stop looking at it). Celly and I have also been talking about the writing retreat trip we want to take here at some point. It will include many things, not excluding the Appalachian Mountain range, a convent or monastery, and hopefully an eastern beach house.

The Murmur

It will be how they remember us. There is glass over dirt here, clouded over with the voices of ten thousand souls. I see straight through that window after a regular scan.

In the white clearness of an afternoon, the blankly moving people walk around with their souls scraped clean.

Half of themselves.

We only look to the dropping of the sun, so we can sleep it off or press our organs, dipped in ink, onto a page.

(How brilliant could we grow?)

I’ve taken to drifting off in public places, and once even prayed myself to a cycle of REMs that barely ended.

A whitewashed tomb, this reckoning is, and us.

Cold air seeps, and then, a breath toward the sea.

Getting Away

Maybe it's because I'm a person who really values change and variety in my everyday life, but taking a trip or getting away does something really peaceful to me. Whether it's a vacation to Duluth or camping at a state park or even just sleeping somewhere other than my brown-post, duvet-covered bed at my apartment, going somewhere new and different rests me in a way that nothing else can. Tonight I'm staying at a friend's house to spend some time and also as an experiment to see if my work commute will work from this direction. I might be living here come summer! It's been nothing but a restful evening: glorious flank steak with peppers and rice for dinner, some lovely after-meal conversation, and mugs of mint chocolate ice cream. Can I value a shower? Even the shower was wonderful. It's fun to be in a different bed under different covers.

Well, I'm going to continue soaking this up. Early, early morning tomorrow.

Goodnight one and all!

Cold and Tired?

I think it's safe to say that most everyone in Minnesota is tired of the weather. Winter has lasted unusually long, and March, normally a springtime month, is now half over without any sign of greenery. From Facebook statuses to Instagram pictures to tweets about the Winter Weather Advisory and the snow accumulations of up to five inches tomorrow, most everyone seems to be feeling a bit dreary or, in fact, angry, about it all. And rightfully so! There is a public outcry against the elements.

It's interesting how communal complaint often helps us through the hardest of times. If we all can gripe about the geometry final tomorrow or make a fuss about how behind we are at work, then perhaps...just maybe...we'll make it through. I often struggle with the line between some good, old-fashioned explanation of emotions and classical whining. There is certainly a place for the collective grumble---it is how we learn to sympathize, how we become alert of the need to encourage, and it is often where we draw strength.

However, I think it's also easy, and unfortunately common, to raise a stink that sucks all the joy out of a work week, a friendship, or even the art of daily living. Things looked bleak, and now, things are looking even bleaker because of all the negativity. It's a difficult line to draw, but I think it's worthy of looking into. You don't want to be stuck, wet and miserable, under a soggy newspaper when you have the opportunity to be sailing through the storm, telescope out, torches lit, and the hope of a warm hearth in your near future.

I challenge you in this. Are you really creating an arena where others can gather verbally and emotionally and draw strength and joy, or are you simply grouching and bellyaching at others' expense? If you're sad, overwhelmed, stressed, or anxious, by all means, let some of your community know. But this might look like talking with one or two trusted friends, asking for prayer, or verbally processing what's happening. It also looks like coming to God with your troubles. As cliche or annoying as it might sound to just "give it to the Lord," it truly is amazing what a little journaling or praying can do. Sometimes you just need someone else to know how you feel. It's a relief that we can repeatedly come to a God who will never let us down, think we're annoying, or shame us for our emotions.

Best of luck in the push toward less complaining. It's a habit that I have definitely been guilty of before and often still struggle with. It can take a lot of conscious effort to change. But it is possible.

Goodnight, and drive safe tomorrow.

A Goodnight Poem

So very tiredDrew suggested a haiku Haiku it will be

Fiction

I've forgotten what stories these were attached to, but these are just some short, practice, fiction blurbs. They were meant to be paragraphs inserted into the middle of different, already-written stories by other authors.

(After: “’You don’t know me!’ the girl shouted, chin high, and ran till her ribs ached.”) Ran until her feet were the numb, sooty, friable rocks strewn over the field. The sun in the pale white-blue sky was jarring back and forth in the corner of her eye. Bouncing back and forth, a swinging bulb, bare over the powdery pines. She trotted until a glaring rock stubbed her toe. She slid the seeds off of the ryegrass and clenched them tight in a sweaty palm and then opened it. The seeds stuck and fell like bugs or dirt in the yellow light. Without reason and they burned like daggers in the creases of her fingers. She jammed three stalks in her mouth, sucking the bitter acidic stems, tasting the shoots and running her hands over the tips of the straw grass that itched her calves. She rubbed the irritated skin and yelled at the angling bracketed tree branches in her path. Unblinking, she sat, colorless and feral with her back to the pitted uneven tree trunk and rubbed a silky weed over her closed eyelid.

(After: “I look up at the tree and I think I am at home."): Mother always had neat, prim hands, pale as an egg with nails curved gently across the top. She’d hold thin knuckles to her

forehead and display the soft underbelly of her forearm, gentle as a feather, to the powder blue wood on the porch ceiling, breathing in and out with the hot wind. Whenever we went out to the store, she’d skim her hands into small, white gloves, the finger pads a bit grey and pilled. Those were the days my mother would grab our hands and pull so that my elbow hurt and my brother would look startled and walk with an open mouth while I tripped over my toes to keep up. I could be an animal then, at that nine-o’clock-in-the-early-sun hour and curl into a shape like a ferret, all dirty and brown in the sunlight. I would never be clean or smooth.

(After: “The voices and the shapes and the nights filled with visions ended abruptly several weeks ago. I take it as a sign.") On the subway last month, there was a period of time where I sat next to a man with wilting, brown skin who looked at his knees with sad eyes. With one knobby hand, he clutched a blue plastic lunch box that had a picture of a well-dressed man and a woman in a red dress taped to it. The tape was yellow and fraying.

“Is that your son?” I asked the fourth day I saw him.

With a prolonged nod, he ran his thumb over the faces. “He’s in sales. Sold two hundred thousand vacuum cleaners in ’98, you know.”

His other hand was busy creasing pinched hills into his khakis.

The subway drifted to a stop, and people picked up their leather bags and purses and clutched at the silver poles.

“He looks like a nice boy.” I said and fingered the gold watch on my wrist. Vikram had always worn it on special occasions or when we went to get tea with the Indo-Canada Society down in the Dhongre section of town.

The man dipped his head and heaved himself up, using the subway pole as support. Holding the lunch box firmly in his right hand, he looked toward the door, toward the people pressing outward. He faltered for a moment, stepping back on his heel, but then, regaining his composure, he shuffled forward with fixed eyes and was lost in the crowd.

Wellness

In early February, I joined a gym. The first thing I thought when I went in to sign up was that the main room looked as though it was filled with an army of men and women all simultaneously running in place like hamsters on a wheel (which, I suppose, is exactly what they were doing). There were TV's with the news flashing across them. Guys who thought they were hott in their muscle shirts were checking themselves out in the mirror, and a couple of middle-aged moms were laughing and talking and sipping water bottles as they walked to a group fitness class in the back of the room. I was still bundled up in my coat and gloves and receiving a tour from a cheerful woman in spandex and a half-zip. After she showed me the pool and locker rooms, she walked through the pricing binder with me and pointed to the dotted line. It was a stretch, but I paid the entrance fee and signed my way into a membership. I'd never belonged to a gym before. I have to say, it's been a painful four weeks. In the best of ways. I can only say that now because I think I've finally just gotten over the hump. There's something about exercising that's so incredibly frustrating when you are starting out. You're out of shape, everything hurts, you can't keep up with anyone else, you sweat and strain, and soon discover that results aren't happening right away like you thought they would. Getting into a schedule is hard too.

My parents are pretty active in sports of one kind or another, which is something I've always admired about them, and my mom would always tell me, "Don't waste a work out. Why would you put yourself through all of that if you're not going to stick with it?" This is what I tell myself when I feel like throwing my gym card out my car window and into the snow. Wisely, she would also say, "But don't burn yourself out either. Pick three or four days out of the week and leave it at that."

One thing I do enjoy about a gym is how kinesthetically social it is. There's something about running on a treadmill when eighty other people are running on treadmills, climbing stair-steppers and pushing ellipticals back and forth right along with you. It's like we're all collectively pushing towards better health as one, sweat sheen above our eyebrows and guzzling water bottle after water bottle. Amy has been coming with me each day too and sometimes Liz or my roommates for Body Pump or Yoga. It's turned into a really fun, group goal, and I feel encouraged when I'm at work the next day that I'm not the only one walking around with sore quads and triceps. The endorphins have been pretty nice too.

Here's to situps, squats, and high knees, and also to breaks from exercising on Fridays!

80%

As of late, when I pray, I feel like Jesus and I are yelling down a long, dim tunnel to each other. Like my prayers are bouncing off each other and the walls all the way down to the small light at the end. And then I can faintly hear replies if I strain to listen. Or as if I'm trying to listen for responses through a hundred sheets of hanging plastic. I can see something faintly on the other side, but it's all muddled. Or feel something. I've been discovering that most of the time, when I interact with God, I feel things about Him and from Him more than actually hear things. Which isn't incredibly surprising. One of my professors used to say that art and english majors are always emoting and that just by sitting in our chairs in the classroom (where we currently were), we were probably all emoting right then and there. I think I could easily say that's me about 80% of the time. Tonight is a night for a lot of that 80% actually. (Side note: My MacBook is fairly old, and the colored pinwheel of death that an Apple user gets when the program is freezing or processing or whatever else keeps coming up. Windows Users, this looks like an hour glass for you. I just want to say that during those intervals, which are often, I have sudden sweeping feelings of tiredness. Once the colored pinwheel goes away, and I can move forward and write or visit Facebook or whatever else, I don't feel tired anymore. I think this is a fascinating example of how distraction can easily deteriorate healthy sleeping habits). Anyways, emotions. There are a lot of them happening tonight.

(Side note 2: Elsie just asked me if her coughing is going to be in my blog, so I thought I'd mention it for good measure. If you think of her, she would appreciate cough drops or warm drinks as she's been sick for about a week now).

Well, I'm headed to bed. I'm determined to get a full 8 hours tonight.

All my love, Lo

Good Food, Good Drink

It's not every day that I come to my blog and know exactly what I want to write about. But tonight, I do. One of the things I most appreciate about where I work is the hospitality that happens there on a daily basis. Someone is always brewing coffee or bringing in something sweet to eat. Last week, one of my co-workers brought in the best chicken salad spread you've ever tasted and garden crackers to eat it with. Yesterday, Craig brought us a whole box of bagels with three different cream cheeses, and today, a woman in the business office brought in current and cranberry scones with devonshire cream and emailed us right away to come take what we wanted. When we flew to Dallas in February, I noticed the increase in hospitality right away. The little jar of honey at the hotel. The helpful man who got my carry-on out of the overhead bid on the airplane for me. The special touches. It's something I've grown to value more and more over the years, and it's something I want to cultivate and cultivate in myself. I want to make warm loaves of homemade bread, hearty stews, apple pies and tortes with meringue for people. I want the guest room to have crisp, cold sheets---the covers arranged nicely, a chocolate on the pillow. A basket of wonderful things on the nightstand beside. Books arranged to read, a restful leather chair with many blankets beside it, a note with helpful instructions. A roaring fire would be made in the fireplace each night. The coffee will always be hot in the morning and ready with cream, sugar, and the like, and people will have their needs met, and feel free to sit out on the porch and look out over the garden. This would be my ideal future.

I do look forward to the capacity that owning a home can provide for this sort of thing. In the meantime, I'm happy with the small touches I can offer guests right now when they visit at the apartment. It's fun to take care of people.

The Best of TED Talks.

If you haven't ever heard of a TED talk, allow me to introduce you. TED stands for Technology, Entertainment, and Design. They are a nonprofit devoted to ideas worth spreading and host conferences with award-winning speakers all over the world. Their talks are meant to stir your curiosity and help share ideas. Check out the TED website here.

This TED talk, in particular, is one of the best.

[youtube https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iCvmsMzlF7o&w=560&h=315]

What's Next

The apartment is quiet, short of Elsie brushing her teeth in the bathroom. I can hear something clanging outside the open window---a wind chime maybe or the flag on the flagpole of the hospital next door. It's comforting. Every now and then I can hear people walking up and down the stairs and opening and closing the foyer door. Sometimes I can hear bits of their conversations.

I'm alone on the couch enjoying the cold air drifting in close to the ground. Somehow we've lost all control of our thermostat, and the heat rises and falls now on its own accord. Today, I woke up from a nap hot and clammy with my covers kicked to the foot of the bed. We run a fan to keep things mediocre at night, though, and it usually does the trick. It's funny to think that I have lived in this apartment for almost two years now and that our lease will be up in May. It's been the perfect place for the season we've been in, but we're all ready to move on from here to whatever is next.

Things that I am thinking about right now:

- Where to live come summertime. I have a couple options, and I'm praying for direction in which to choose.
- The book I'm reading. With by Skye Jethani is rocking some pretty deep-seated beliefs I've had throughout my life about the Lord. For the better. I'm also enjoying the book Lilith by George MacDonald.
- Tetanus shot and dentist appointment tomorrow.

Well, I was hoping something deep and profound would emerge from this post but nothing has. Goodnight anyways.

Climate

Finally, a first glimpse of spring! Today was rainy, foggy, and damp---my favorite of the weathers. I've always liked the month of March. Partly because I may or may not have a birthday during it and mostly because it means that the long, midwest Minnesota winter is coming to an end. Driving home to my apartment this evening was nice, especially on 94W when we rounded the big curve in the freeway and were right underneath the skyscrapers in St. Paul but couldn't see them because of all the fog. The streetlights were soft and haloed, and the windshield wipers swished back and forth every now and then to clear the mist off the window. It was wonderful. There's still quite a bit of snow on the ground, though, and my body, mind, and spirit are thrashing out in all impatience for it to melt and be gone for another nine months. I'm lying in my bed right now, listening to the rain outside and feeling very happy that at least part of the process of spring has begun. There are great puddles everywhere---more like small ponds---in the giant potholes in the street and in the places where our apartment parking lot dips downhill.

I'm hoping to hear the birds again in the morning while I sip coffee and read. I'm already looking forward to waking up.

Rosi Sums It Up.

[youtube http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oZgTgpxj7Tc&w=420&h=315]

Routines

Have you ever thought about what routines really are? I've heard both sides of the spectrum---it's good to have a bedtime routine, for instance, but it's bad to get stuck in the dreariness of an everyday routine or a routine filled with bad habits. Routines can mean safety and stability, and within them, there is always room to move around and adjust as needed. Personally, I recommend a few good routines each day---they're good for the soul.

One of the first things my roommate asked me when we moved in was what my morning routine was. This was something I had never actually thought about before, and I found it pretty interesting to walk through my entire wake-up process. Here's what it entails:

1. Alarm (preferably something that does not blare or yell is my preference) goes off. I check the Sleep Cycle app on my phone to see how well and how many hours I slept.

2. I sit in bed for at least five to ten minutes. Literally, just sit. Mornings are hard.

3. Get up. Brush teeth. Always the very first active thing I do.

4. Depending on if the bathroom is occupied or not, I either get dressed, do my hair, or put on makeup. This also is interchangeable with #5.

5. Keurig for coffee. Measure out Starbucks Dark Roast (any flavor) (if you love me, you will buy me dark roast), and then a splash of cream and honey. This is always the part of my morning I look forward to the most.

6. Granola or an egg. Or an apple if I'm in a rush.

7. Finish anything that I paused before...clothes, hair, makeup, packing my purse, lunch, or gym bag for the day.

8. Make my bed if I'm feeling especially triumphant.

9. Coat, gloves, boots, transfer coffee in mug to thermos (or sometimes just leave in mug), purse, lunch all in hand and out the door.

10. Google Maps app the shortest route to work on my phone. I have about a 35 minute commute, and depending on the time of morning, rush hour is worse or better in different areas.

11. Listen to the news and radio for the drive. This is also a nice part of my morning.

And there you have it. A morning routine. Have any quirks in your AM routine? Feel free to share.

Handling Big Emotions

I've always loved it when people felt like they could trust me enough to tell me something really hard in their life. I love vulnerability and talking through something. I mainly enjoy asking questions. I heard once that "...it's possible to learn how to handle big emotions." I like the idea of this. It also made me feel more assured. While I feel like I enjoy helping others and listening to people tell their stories, it's usually pretty hard for me to get to that place of exposure myself. I assume that, just like handling others' emotions, I am in the process of learning how to let other people handle my big emotions.

The same person who talked about this also explained that "We don't lose control of 'face' and 'composure' enough in our culture. It's a beautiful thing to see something so raw." In my head, I thought, Well yes, like childbirth I suppose? But it's true. It can be difficult and strange at first, especially if you're not used to it. I think eventually, though, you begin to see the loveliness of a real, sloppy, broken person (which is truly what we all are) through those open, vulnerable times. 2 Corinthians 1:3-5 says, "Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves receive from God. For just as we share abundantly in the sufferings of Christ, so also our comfort abounds through Christ."

Isn't it great that the comfort that God shows us is enough comfort for us to give to others? We don't have to muster it up because it's already there!

Imitation

Occasionally, for creative writing classes, our professors would give us famous authors to imitate. Anne Carson is one such author, and this was one of my favorite imitations assigned. To most, these paragraphs will seem like nonsense, but they're sort of meant to make you wonder. Carson writes very, very lyrically.

FIN

            Yesterday evening, all of my thoughts fell out. After that, they crawled back in. Fervor was, far was. For me, Sandburg says, he will read ashes if I let him and tell me how the fire runs as far as the sea. A pile of iron was waiting for me in the kitchen. Why would you think of moving me? it said. I knew then that the lights were misting and I was always going to flip the sheets down prematurely and force smelling salts in all the wrong places, the kind my grandmother grew with her rosewater. I closed it all up outside. The wind can disintegrate it in its own time, without the rush of the trains. Please be cognizant of this. I have jumped trains before. It is a skill I won’t lose. You can blankly wander them, manage a slew of them, natively follow them, place your foreign cards on them, lay your impressions out like dried newspaper atop them.

ON COTTON SUBSTANCES

With careful strokes, Mary Jane girl dyed the tips of her fingers with the bluer tint of the pigment, dwelling on the supper table that night. Wine. The field. Throwing rocks over his shoulder. On every sea line there comes a place where the rocks sidle up and quit. I will sit right here. This is why the explorers stopped looking – a startling.

ON MY COUSIN CHASE ABOUT 12:35AM

A capital idea, I haven’t spoken with him since I was twelve. This is a tomorrow day.

ON CICADAS

I’ve noticed that every poet includes some formation of the insect named cicada – “this rare bird” and “one half report” and “the color of forgotten things” are the lines I tucked away. Rare bird and one half report are only pictures that make their sound distinct. They are visionary membranes, quite loud, making their way to glue themselves to trees. Always, they drone in the late summer by the porch lights. This was the most common trend chronicled.