neither fish nor fowl nor good red herring!

Yep. I think the title pretty much says it all. I can stop writing now.

But I won't, not just yet. In case you're wondering: yes, that is a quote. It's from A Wrinkle in Time by Madeleine L'Engle, one of my favorite authors. I love Madeleine simply because she's real. Her characters are real. Real people that screw up and are confused and want to do the right thing but don't always know how. (The flying unicorns and singing stars and strange entities like It are just a bonus.)

"Mom," Meg Murry says, whining a little. "Charles Wallace says I'm neither one thing nor the other--neither fish nor fowl nor good red herring!"
"Who cares?" says Calvin. "You're Meg, aren't you?"

Sometimes I'm a lot like Meg. Even though logically we know that people don't fit neatly into pigeonholes, we still try. We still find it confusing or disheartening when we can't fit ourselves into some tidy category. I get frustrated, feeling that I fit nowhere.

Logically, no one "fits." I know, I know! Since when are emotions always logical? "I'm neither one thing nor the other!" I cry with Meg.

Who cares? I'm me. Me, with all my diverse bits and pieces. Deep down, I know that I am better off this way. God made me this way, and he's not in the habit of screwing up. And I do belong. I belong to him.

kinda queasy

Well, sports fans, I just submitted my first grad school application. Gulp. I feel sort of like that time I went to prom by myself...
Ha ha. Ok, not that bad.

I should find a way to post my writing sample for y'all to see. It is definitely the largest cohesive chuck of polished writing I've ever done. 40 pages! Hopefully it's good. To be honest, I've read it so many times I don't even know. Well, except for that new ending I stuck in at five o'clock yesterday...

Yeah, guess what I did all weekend. Yep. Nothing but. Ok, so almost nothing but. I did get out for church and coffee and powerflex (gar!), thankfully, or I would have gone mad. But now it's done. It's out of my hands.

Where's the Tums?

shhh! it's a secret!

Shh! Quiet! Come here--closer, closer. Want to know a secret? Do you? Come under the table with me, and I'll tell you. Oops--watch your head. Shh. Ready?

Deep down inside, I'm a romantic. Gasp! Shock!

It's true. I may not cry during movies, or particularly like babies, or send 'touching' greeting cards, but I'm vulnerable to romance nonetheless.

This very morning, as I backed the car out of my garage at 7:39, I was positively floored. The sun wasn't quite up yet, so everything was that silvery gray color--except for the white, white snow. I'd say six fresh inches. As my little Cavalier pushed its way down my long gravel driveway, the snow was deep enough to crest over my hood, sending silvery white waves of flakes up before me. It was lovely.

And then I noticed the trees.

The lower half of my driveway is wooded on both sides, and this morning it was a fairy land. Every branch of every tree was coating with several inches of snow, all white and graceful and perfectly still.

I had to stop the car. My heart practically pounded with the force of all that beauty. I guess I'm not always so tough, after all.

yeah...

I haven't posted in a while. I know, I know. The fam's in town, the leaves need raking, the Christmas presents needs sewing, the cookies and pies need baking, and...
I've decided to apply to grad school. Pretty much need to get all that done right now.

Oh, no. I'm not quite last-minute. Just...relatively close to last-minute. It's a good thing I'm so good at the hustle. What degree? Oh, yeah. I've decided to go for my MFA in creative writing, with a fiction focus.

More details to come, as I get them. Things are still pretty loosy-goosey. My job this week is to select the schools I wish to apply to and set up a schedule of what's due when. And figure out what to send as my writing samples. I have a lot of rewriting to do! I tend to start something and drop it as soon as anew idea comes along, which is fine if you're just writing for recreation. But now I need something...well, something at least mildly impressive...

I voted!

Yes, here I sit, proudly sporting the "I Voted" sticker, which handily coordinates rather well with my blue shirt. (An accidentally perfect wardrobe choice, may I add. I was not thinking of such matters when I opened the closet this morning, I assure you. No, I thought only of wearing comfortable shoes, in case I ended up standing in line for an hour or two.)

I am reminded of the "Be Nice To Me: I Gave Blood Today" stickers that are handed out when you donate blood. Unfortunately, about half of the time I line up to give blood, I end up with the slightly lame "I Tried To Give Blood Today" sticker instead. (Stupid iron test! What's one little point, huh? So close...and yet so far. But I digress.)

What I'm wondering today is why I haven't ever seen a "I Tried To Vote" sticker. Surely they should exist, right? Somewhere at some point in time today someone will get turned away from the polls, right? It must happen. Well, I think they deserve a sticker, too, just for trying.

Go vote!

for girls only...

OK, so guys could read this too. I don't particularly care--but don't say I didn't warn you!

I just wanted to share my everlasting delight at finally finding a bra that actually does what a sports bra should. I'm not large chested, but I'm large enough that the wimpy things they sell in Target and MC Sports just don't cut it. I demand dominance over gravity! Not much is less comfortable than feeling yourself bouncing with every step as you try to jog a couple miles. It's a de-motivator, for sure and for certain.

After endless--yet admittedly sporadic--searching for a bra in area stores, I finally and impulsively did something I've been tempted to do for a long time. I went to the Title Nine website and ordered The Frog Bra.


This puppy is 32% lycra. Zow! When I opened to package and tried it on, my initial response was simple and definitive. I said (out loud, even, to the chagrin of my cat) "Wow! I haven't been this flat since junior high!"
And that, my friends, is a beautiful thing when I'm jogging. Or riding my pogo stick. Or jumping rope. Or whatever else I want.

cubes

They are reconfiguring some of our offices today. I am so thankful I'm in a room with a door. It's quite chaotic out there. If I'm not careful, someone's going to throw a bookcase or desk or something in front of my door and trap me in here forever.

Then again, if that happens, no one would bother me and I could get lots of work done. Or take a nap. Whatever.

You know, I like my office. It's my own little brightly-lit world. I have a lamp with a fun red shade to soften the fluorescent light, lots of quotes and pics on the walls, and a rug shaped like a roadster tucked beneath my computer desk. I usually have my door mostly shut, in order to play music without needing headphones--which wouldn't work, since I bounce between two desks. Think My Big Fat Greek Wedding, when she tries to walk away from the desk while wearing her hands-free phone thing. Yank!

the old lady's still got it

And that, my friends, is a subject line that I just couldn't resist. But, at the same time, it's strangely accurate. Last night, for the first time in months, I went swing dancing. Not just standing there watching other people dancing, but full-out dancing type dancing.

It was a strange progression of an evening. After work I made my way down to the Hope Lodge, a really groovy organization that provides free lodging to cancer patients and their families who have come to GR for the hospital(s). My old roommate and some other people from her office provide dinner for the residents once a month. She received a last-minute word that, after dinner, there would be a swing band, and they were looking for dancers. I proceeded to drag up as many hipsters as I could. And, after dinner, naturally, we trickled down to the band.

There was a huge swing band--about twenty people--with their very own conductor. All older folk. And they played sloooooow. And the conductor talked between each song. We determined this was because 1) the band just couldn't physically play any faster and 2) the conductor was giving them breaks so no one in the band keeled over from the strain.

But still, it was nice to provide a little entertainment to the dozen or so patients who came to sit and listen. We had our own little audience of one out in the lobby, where we had elected to stay, and she seemed very happy to watch us.

This wrapped up about eight, and that's when things got interesting. One of the other dancers mentioned that there was more dancing in another venue. After an interesting twenty minutes of trying to find parking downtown and ending up in the wrong lane and parking at Burger King, we found ourselves at another swing dance--and instantly went from being the youngest folks to being the oldest. The Grand Rapids Tuesday night swing gang, mostly composed of high school kids and a few college punks, took over the Van Andel museum for the evening. It was fantastic and crowded--a couple hundred exuberant young people--with music at least three times faster than what we had just left. Albeit from a stereo, not a band, but at least we didn't have to worry about killing the band.

All warmed up from our "slow" session, we proceeded to cut many, many rugs, until ten. Ten is when I turn into a pumpkin and have to go home. And...that's when the music stopped. They make you leave when the music stops.

It's funny what bits and pieces are sore the next day when one participates in a strenuous physical activity one has not practiced in some time. In this case: my right hand. My left glute. Hmm.

But at least I don't have a shiner--there was a couple minutes last night when I thought I might. And at least I showed those kids that this old lady's still got it.

october sun

Things have been quite busy for me this last handful of days. My biannual German invasion occurred on Friday, the preparations for which kept me busily cleaning and tidying and painting and washing the tractor and...

(My German what? Oh--for those who are unaware, my house is owned by a lovely older German couple from Hamburg. Seriously. Twice a year, they come out for about two weeks and stay in their upstairs apartment. As I am both tenant and caretaker, and since they are particular in a very German way, I do quite a bit of extra work before they come.)

This fall was extra fun, as their apartment had been renovated over the last two months, and required some hardcore cleaning--which I was hired to do. No problem. I likes me a little extra cash. It just meant I went from being busy to being busier. But now they are here, and now I'm caught up on the housework for a few days. Well, except for vacuuming the ladybug invasion. I killed about a hundred in the sewing room yesterday. No exaggeration. But that's another story...

Yesterday, my dad came and picked me up on his motorcycle and we went for a two-hour ride, mostly through the country, and I got my fill of the wonderful warm sun, and saw lots of lovely fall color. Ahh. There's nothing like seeing those golden and red trees against a backdrop of crisp blue sky.

I finished off the afternoon with a trip to Jersey Junction for some pumpkin ice cream. Ahh again. Beautiful. And probably my last chance to eat ice cream for supper this year. Out of the carton just isn't the same. It's like...it's like s'mores done in the microwave. Just not quite right.

ho hum

I made the mistake of looking at the newspaper during my lunch break. Looks like it's another day for economic death and dismemberment. Doom! Doom! Apocalypse! I hate it. Everyone knows they shouldn't panic, because that might start a bigger panic and then we'll all panic and then boom! Great Depression II. But in this day and age, even thinking about talking about the possibility of panic seems to be enough to start one. Talk about self-fulfilling prophecy. How is it possible that America got so stupid with its money?

I think it's because we're a bunch of greedy monkeys. We want to have our cake and eat it too. My solution: don't spend money you don't have. Too simple? Maybe. But just because something is simple doesn't mean it's not the solution. I doubt my idea will be popular, though. It'll mean sacrificing our false sense of affluence.

Sigh.

On the plus side, there was also a little article announcing Starbucks' launch of its new hot chocolate, a "signature blend" of four different kinds of cocoa. The world can't be in that bad of shape, then, can it?

new dress

A few weeks ago, I found the most fabulous fabric--as you can see. Of course, I wasn't really looking to make a new dress right then, but when opportunity comes knocking, it's best to answer the door, ey?

In my repertoire of patterns both old and new, I had one rather magnificent blouse and skirt set from 1977. After a bit of trial and error and a lot of help from Gladys, that fabric and old pattern became this quite funktastically cute dress. This is one of those rare times when something looks better on me than it does on Gladys, but take a gander at that fantastic neckline and the empire-waist drawstring.
This dress is quite simply an instant party.

friend-type things

I'm elbow-deep in work today, but need to take a moment to mull over some naggling thoughts concerning my social life...

I'm not particularly gifted at the whole friendship thing, so I need to take a poll, here. Ok, here's the question: how many times can you initiate an "activity" with a friend or acquaintance without receiving any reciprocal invites? In other words: should you continually keep initiating? Some of us are better than others with things like brainstorming and planning and whatnot, but still. Still!

If the "offender" is a good friend, the clearest path is simply to smack them (lovingly) on the head and say "hey, what's the deal?" But what if it's someone you're not entirely secure with? What if the friendship's still incubating? What if you're not sure the person wants to be your friend at all? Do you simply keep asking, figuring that they will say no if they don't like you?

Or do you pave the way with an open-ended thing, like "if you ever want to ______, just let me know" and figure if they never get back to you it was intentional? Or do you just let them float around in that "gray area" of your relationship corral forever, tormenting you on the odd occasion that they pop into the forefront of your social radar?

I'm finding this particularly troubling today because there are occasionally specific things I like to do that not many of my "good" friends enjoy. Now, I'll do plenty of things alone, if necessary. The beach. Church. Shopping. Moving heavy furniture. Movie theaters, even. But there are some things that just can't be enjoyed solo. So what's a girl to do? Keep nagging for company? I can do that. I'm a good nagger. But...

But it'd sure be nice for my company to be sought, every once in a while. What to do, what to do.

the day of birth

Twenty-seven. Geesh.

I'm starting to bank into that second corner already. Not that it really matters. I don't particularly feel too old to do what I want in this life. I don't feel like "it's all slipping away" and I'd better hurry up and get depressed because clearly my chances have passed me by. Pah. (Noise of dismissive disgust, if you're wondering.)

What I do feel, however, is a twinge of regret that I have gotten this far without doing anything particularly awesome. I've got that whole independent stability thing down. I'm self-sufficient and debt free and responsible and living at a comfortable standard.

But I positively stink at risks. Well, I might be good at them. I don't know. I don't generally take them, at leat not the big hairy ones. Is this a good thing or a bad thing? I don't know that either. There are definite plusses to my current life. I'm secure. I'm stable. I get to do what I want most of the time.

And yet...the sense that something's missing remains. Haunting me just about every day--not simply on my birthday. A tickle in the back of my brain. And itchy sort of "what if" that sneaks up on me in the middle of my morning coffee.

Well, bring it on, life! I may not be a great risk-taker, but nor am I one to back down and give up. Let's see what this year has in store--and if I do go down, let it be in the midst of a grand adventure, both guns blazing.

poetry

There is no happiness like mine.
I have been eating poetry.
-Mark Strand

What shall I do with this book I love
so much I'd like to eat it? Meeting
the poet at a reading, I would cast
my eyes down. I'd walk behind him,
not stepping on his shadow. If he told me
I was half blind, I might lose sight
in both my eyes. At home, everything
I write becomes infected with his
wildness: for instance, this, which
I never planned, which has no ending.

Where shall I put the book, so full of life
my car could barely stick to the Expressway?
When my cold encyclopedias sense
its goofy brilliance, they climb and hang
on one another like Chinese gymnasts.
I must subtract to make a place
for the book to live. I lift out histories,
then other listless volumes. I toss my boring
files, erase the answering machine,
renounce the desk, computer, pens.

Only the illumination of St. John stays.
In my study's scooped-out heart
I wait beside the book, which glows
with light borrowed from some distant star.
I look at St. John's face. He gazes from
his throne, his eyes blazing with love
and understanding. Tongues of flame
play over him, sent from the Source
who is both arsonist and fireman,
and in his right hand, he holds a book.

~Jeanne Murray Walker

always makin' a splash

If anyone wants to know how I spent my labor day weekend...

Yeah, this is it. Let me tell you, those lovely Lake Mich waves didn't know what hit 'em.

happiness is...

Tonight, after work, I'm going to ride my bicycle to the library.

And browse like it's going out of style.

I'm an unashamed and regular library visitor but lately, it seems, I'm usually in and out, picking up and dropping off DVDs and books and flying off to my next destination.

But not tonight. Tonight I'm going to linger in the stacks, letting my fingers run over all the various-sized spines, picking and choosing books with a liberal hand, stopping to read chapters here and there, hunting for something new and worthwhile. Maybe tonight I'll even break my tendency to dismiss a book based on its cover art, and will actually take the time to skim before rejecting. (Contrary to the old phrase, you can almost always judge a book by its cover. Case in point: Harlequin.)

Then I'll ride home, in the golden light of a clear August evening. Sigh. Bliss.

deep thots

There are those among us who never make mistakes.

They're rather dreadfully dull.

ahh...icy hot!

On Sunday, I had the wonderful opportunity to play racquetball for the first time since...umm...January-February 2003. I'd been missing the game something fierce recently, and was able to hook up with the coworker of a friend to try out the beautiful new facilities at the downtown Y. We had a great time. I was pretty extraneously rusty for a few minutes, but as we warmed up, it all started coming back. Ish.

He creamed me the first game, but I made a comeback. Well, ok, I still lost, but he had to work for it. I enjoy playing with guys--the intensity they tend to bring prompts a similar reaction in me, one I don't often get to cut loose. Let me put it this way: when your opponent is shouting and whooping, it frees you up to do the same. Ha. Really. I have sound effects. I can reign those in if it doesn't feel appropriate, but on Sunday I didn't have to. I didn't have to tone it down or take it easy or worry about running someone over...not that I didn't nail the guy a couple times, but when you pretty much bounce off the other person, it's impossible to feel at fault.

There was certainly nothing tentative about our play. We were whaling the ball--I was caroming off walls and diving onto the floor. We played for a solid hour. I was hot-fuchsia-faced and literally dripping with sweat and...I already knew I would be catastrophically sore.

And I sure am. My racket arm did not want to hold the blow dryer up this morning. I'm all rubbed up with Icy Hot--hopefully, anyone coming by my office will simply think I've got a thing for peppermints.

Still, it's a beautiful thing. Thank God for little square rooms, short handled rackets, and blue rubber balls.

just...

Just another blue-eyed girl. Just another apathetic dreamer. Just another bit of commotion. Just a little bit of brain, a little bit of heart, a little bit of quickening in the spirit. A little dash of possibility. A pinch of perhaps. Just nothing. Just everything. Just me.

the fine art of keeping your clothes on

I don’t really have much of a problem with this. In fact, the only time I choose not to practice this art is when I’m home, especially when it’s so freaking hot outside. But at home, I’m safe from the eyes of everyone but the deer. And nosy turkeys.

However, more and more each day I realize that there are many men and women who do not seem to be able to stay clothed. Just look at all those guys walking down the street with their pants falling off! I doubt their ability to dodge if a car came careening around the corner and up over the curb. Nope—they’d just be plastered to the bumper, baggy pants and all. Or perhaps sans pants—perhaps the force of the blow would dislodge them from their precarious perch.

And don’t even get me started on the women. Maybe they are all just really, really poor laundresses, and they keep shrinking everything. And I do mean everything. That’s one of the only downsides of going to the beach—having to watch all the girls in ill-fitting suits walk by. Didn’t their mamas ever pull them aside and teach them how to dress their bodies appropriately? Sigh. I guess that’s a rhetorical question.
Still, it’s obvious that these teens are trying to look sexy—don’t they realize that they just look awful? Another rhetorical question.

However, no matter how bad teen girls are, the wounds to my eyes are always worse when the beach culprit is an adult. The stupidity and lack of thoughtfulness inherent in teenagers gives them a little bit of slack. but grownups have no such excuse. Come on, ladies! Just because you can wear a mini-kini doesn’t mean you should. And look at what you’re teaching your daughters!

Sigh again. These thoughts are nothing new. I’ve said this before—and heard other artfully-clad adults say the same. I guess our voices aren’t loud enough. Maybe it’s finally time for me to grab a roll of duct tape and let my actions speak louder than words. But I don’t want to get arrested for assaulting a minor.

So, what made me think of this now, as I sit in a conservative office atmosphere? Well, I was actually thinking about my weekend. Yesterday was warm and sunny and very humid, and I was washing my car and weeding my flowers in pretty much no shirt at all. Remember—none of my neighbors can see me. (I just had to make sure I sprayed on more bug spray, with all that extra skin.)

The weather and lack of clothing reminded me of the far-gone late summer days of my youth, when we’d have basketball practice in a boiling hot gymnasium. I’ll never forget—it still needles me—we’d be sweating gallons and would toss our T-shirts to the side. Most of the time, we still had practice jerseys on; the light mesh was much more bearable than drenched cotton. So, there we were, 16- and 17-year-old butch girls, absolutely not-sexy in our knee-length shorts and high-impact sports bras, running suicides and other drills. Someone’s mother comes by, sees us, and complains to the athletic director. And we are mandated not to take off our shirts.

Meanwhile, out in the much cooler—and more public—hallways, the cheer squad is practicing in their little spandex shorts. They aren’t sweating much. Neither are they wearing shirts. Do they get yelled at? Nope.

But I’m not bitter. Oh, not at all. Nor do I think that the attitudes and actions of adults are impacting our children in harmful ways. Oh, no.

that fresh-bound book smell...

Good books! I'm on the prowl for good books! I can find bad books, no problem, but lately NEW good books have been eluding me.

How is it possible that there is so much bad fiction in the world? Granted, I'm probably pickier than most. And am somewhat setting myself up for it by turning away from good, solid nonfiction (got a huge stack of that waiting) in favor of a fluffy story. But still. Good night, Nancy! Ninety-nine percent of all popular fiction--who reads this stuff? It sells like hotcakes, but I can't even get through a chapter with a straight face. There are exceptions, of course, but in general it makes me want to yack.

So...if y'all have read any good fiction lately, let me know. And if I hate it, I promise not to tell you. Or at least, I promise not to ridicule you publicly. Every one has different tastes in literature, for better or for worse.

There. I've vented. I feel better now. And I managed not to mention any of my employer's titles by name. Success.

yum!

Always on a quest for culinary adventure, last night I ventured into uncharted territory and made...Pineapple-Black Bean Enchiladas. They are absolutely fantastic. And quite healthy, with whole grain tortillas and fiber and whatnot. I think next time I'll add a bit of cooked chicken, but even vegetarian they are wonderful and tasty. Not too spicy, so I may also kick it up with more spices next time.

Here's the link: http://www.recipezaar.com/154388.

Perhaps I should have taken a picture; they even looked quite pretty. Occasionally I make things that taste delicious but don't quite look it.

Speaking of delicious, just wait until I get a post up here with a picture of my new dining room set! I'm almost done painting the last chair. Of course, then there's the small matter of getting the seats reconstructed...but at least I have the fabric already. Of course I do.

snippets

I think it's time to present a fun little snippet of story. At some point there will hopefully be more to this scene, but for now it's still quite short. Regardless, I think it has good potential for mischief. Enjoy!

She looked sideways at him, vastly annoyed. What right did he have to look so broad-chested and magnificent—godlike, even—with the evening sun beaming golden and kind against his face, turning his skin to honey gold, his eyes to deep pools under the strong jet-black brows. Even his beard was handsome, with his decisive cheekbones—and she hated beards. The light evening breezes were stirring, rippling his dark cloak. Nancy tore her eyes away before she could be caught staring, and took a reflective, perspective-restoring inventory of the condition of her fingernails. Such nonsense. Such annoying nonsense.

The wind that cast Ardeth’s clothes dramatically about him only made her hair blow into her eyes and sent a fine wave of grit into her nose and mouth. She rubbed her face with a sleeve, then raked her hair back and held it away by clamping her hand down on the top of her head. She had a moment of self-pity at her own lack of romantic suitability for the scene, then jerked herself loose and focused on the view, which was admittedly very fine whether she fit into it or not.

ramblings

Well, it's beyond time for another post.

Of course, I'm not sure what to post about. Ho hum. I could wax poetical about the fantastically gorgeous weather--again. I could comment on the baby deer--again. I could rejoice in my new washing machine, but that would just be painfully dull. I could reflect on what it means to be a single gal in America, but I'm not much for public, emotional baring-of-souls, and I'm not feeling the rational half of the issue just now.

What I should do is get to work. I think I'll do that--leaving y'all with the comforting (maybe) knowledge that even the Wonderspools is occasionally at a loss for appropriate commentary.

Peace out.

time to mow the lawn again

I’m the furthest thing from sentimental
and yet
and yet
the beauty of the early-morning summer sky
that fresh, brand-new air
the world aglow with new possibility
makes my heart just ache
and ache
and ache

fabric utopia

I sew. I do. Whether or not it's cool, I like it. I also just love fabric in general. Mmm. Lovely, delicious fabric. As I've been living in a house with plenty of space, I've been able to get my fabric out of it's bulging tub and into this nice shelving unit in the second bedroom--aka, the sewing room. Ah. An entire room just for sewing. Marvelous!
So, I had plenty of fabric bits and bobs...and then my parents moved, and my mother (a far better seamstress than I) decided it was time to purge her 30-year fabric collection. And VOILA!

Fabric Utopia! Ugly upholstery fabric! Canvas! Fleece! Salvaged tablecloths and sheets! Cotton remnants! I could sew for months without leaving the house. And if you look closely on the upper right-hand border, you can see there is more stacked in the closet next to the shelves.

Life is good.

oh deer!

The other day I realized that it had been a while since I'd seen my "regulars" in the yard--a doe and her two yearlings. (Ok, so I assume they are both hers--how could I ask her?) When I "met" them last August, they were a momma and two large fawns. Despite the gratuitous quantities of deer that I regularly see, I fancied that I could always pick them out, even when the fawns lost their spots. Not many does travel with two young. So, when I stopped seeing them, I suddenly realized a possible why--and an answer to why I haven't been seeing many deer at all lately.

It's spring! Birthing season. Think Bambi in the thicket. So, had my favorite deer family expanded? How could I know?

I can't know, not for sure. But yesterday evening, as I looked out the living room window in the pre-twilight gray, I saw a doe trot out of the heavy brush that borders the woods just west of my house. She was followed by the smallest fawn I have ever seen.

And I--even I--stopped to saw "aw, how adorable!" I think my cat could beat this little thing up. It was so small and wobbly--and absolutely all legs.

They are definitely nesting? roosting? bedding down? in that patch of thick brush and bramble close to my house. Hopefully, that means I'll see them again, and I'll get to watch that little guy grow.

And maybe I'll get to see his big siblings too. Though they're probably off with families of their own now. The next time I see the herd, I'll ask.

Love: 20¢ the First Quarter Mile

by Kenneth Fearing

All right. I may have lied to you and about you, and made a few
pronouncements a bit too sweeping, perhaps, and possibly forgotten
to tag the bases here or there,
And damned your extravagance, and maligned your tastes, and libeled
your relatives, and slandered a few of your friends,
O.K.,
Nevertheless, come back.

Come home. I will agree to forget the statements that you issued so
copiously to the neighbors and the press,
And you will forget that figment of your imagination, the blonde from Detroit;
I will agree that your lady friend who lives above us is not crazy, bats,
nutty as they come, but on the contrary rather bright,
And you will concede that poor old Steinberg is neither a drunk, nor
a swindler, but simply a guy, on the eccentric side, trying to get along.
(Are you listening, you [w]itch, and have you got this straight?)

Because I forgive you, yes, for everything.
I forgive you for being beautiful and generous and wise,
I forgive you, to put it simply, for being alive, and pardon you, in short, for being you.

Because tonight you are in my hair and eyes,
And every street light that our taxi passes shows me you again, still you,
And because tonight all other nights are black, all other hours are cold
and far away, and now, this minute, the stars are very near and bright.

Come back. We will have a celebration to end all celebrations.
We will invite the undertaker who lives beneath us, and a couple of
boys from the office, and some other friends.
And Steinberg, who is off the wagon, and that insane woman who lives
upstairs, and a few reporters, if anything should break.

"closet" pet peeves

1. Hoods that cannot actually be worn
2. Faux trouser pockets
3. T-shirts so thin you have to buy two
4. Nylons

summer cometh

A bold statement to make? Perhaps. Especially since there was a nice glisten of frost on the lawn this morning. But summer is definitely coming. And soon. How do I know?

Because summer softball starts tomorrow. And I, for one, am darn near geeked about it. I just plain old love to play. Granted, it's just church league coed slow pitch, but last year we weren't half bad. I have a fabulous sliding scar to prove it. Actually, to be technically honest, I have three scars. A triple hit, as it were. But the ones on my ankle and lower hip are inconsequential compared to the palm-sized beauty on the outside of my knee.

I had shorts and low socks on, ok? I didn't really expect to be sliding. But the right fielder blew the throw and I had a chance to stretch a triple into a homer...so of course I did it. The only problem was, the ump didn't clear the bat for me, so at the last second I had to sort of hop over it before going down into my slide. Hence the triple scar. It was a junior-high level slide. Not so graceful.

But I was safe and that's all that counts. That and the fact that I earned some points with my more masculine teammates. Ha.

But enough reliving the past! Tomorrow a new season starts! What has been done last year doesn't matter. Ol' Red and I are ready for another season at first base. And...I have tall socks now. Bring on the gravel!

blossom time

Pear blossoms stink. I didn't know that until I brought a handful into my house and ensconced them in a vase on my mantle. They are white, delicate, beautiful...and a bit stinky. It's that rotten flower smell. So from now on, I leave them outside to attract bees and turn into pears. Yum. Pears do not stink. Well, unless you let them rot, of course. But I digress.

The old, gnarly pear tree is just outside my bedroom window on the south side of the house. It surely is beautiful just now. The big, pale blooms have matured and are beginning to drop from the stem. This morning, in the still-dim early-morning light, a gust of wind kicked up and a shower of petals swirled through the air and across the dark green lawn. Ah. Magical.

today's deep thoughts

There's nothing wrong with a bit of ordinary--as long as it does not become a god.

Along the same vein, rebelling for the sake of rebelling is just as senseless as conforming for the sake of conforming.

Eating a sweet and juicy orange, however, should be accomplished with zeal no matter how messy the process becomes.

Luverly Lassitude

Last night, I slept with the window open. Fantastic. Spring has truly arrived. I woke up this morning at 6:30, and hit snooze as per usual, but instead of fully resuming unconsciousness I lay half-awake, breathing in the fresh air, hearing the bird song, and seeing the beginnings of the sunrise. Happy Friday. Oh, happy Friday indeed.
Today would be a good day to be a lanscaper or mailman or anything that took me outside. Instead I sit at a desk in an office that admirably has a door, but no windows. Ah, well. If I did have a window I assuredly wouldn't get as much work done. And if I were a mailman, winter would be much less pleasant. Give and take.

ps: the small bunch of daffodils in my yard have bloomed as of yesterday. Sweet yellow goodness.

ode to spring

Here I stand,
breakable.
Alive. Incomplete.
Hopeful.
Easily amused.

the honesty dance

Wanting to believe I am beautiful, managing it
some days—parts of days—struggling to hold on.
Struggling to be beautiful all the way through.
Wanting to always know that I am beloved,
cherished, magnificent, sexy. Failing to
eradicate the doubt. Failing to quite
erase the images of “more prettier” people
from my head. Failing to quite
manage to love my nose. Failing to
surrender vanity.

Failing, struggling, wanting.
Believing that all three of these
will someday cease. Clinging to
that. Clinging to faith. Living for the
moments—hours—half-days—nights
when I do not feel broken.

Let go let go let go.

The sweet soul ache for another. The pitifully small
trust that all things happen in God’s time. The fierce
independence and resolution to tackle
everything with bared hands and no excuses.
The lazy hours of longing. The belief that no one could
ever love me as you can, Lord.
The shame of my own imperfect passion.

I almost wish that I would
stop being moved by music.
It does me no good, stirring my heart like that. Making me
think of poetically melancholy things and dreams
worthy of a teenage-level crush.

And yet…
I stumble. I stumble. I dance.

buzz buzz

Well, I'm back on the coffee. Yesterday after church I had my first caffeine in nearly seven weeks. I was very awake all day. Not too buzzy, just...alert. I reined in and only had two cups of very delightful freshly ground Viking blend, which my sister sent me from the Valhalla roasters of Tacoma, Washington. Well done, vikings. Well done.

And I am currently enjoying the dark chocolate Dove heart that has been in my desk since Valentines' Day. Yum yum. Buzz buzz. Happy Monday, indeed.

the ugly truth

Ok, ok. Once again, the Adventures of Wonderspools have been sadly neglected. Inspiration and opportunity have just not been lining up lately.

And, to be honest--I wondered if anyone would notice. Pathetic, but true. For all my firm declaration that I keep this blog as a writing exercise for myself, the fact remains that I really, really like knowing that people read it. [blush with shame]

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, spring is coming, snow is melting, it's Holy Week, my favorite dog at the Humane Society has been adopted and I am both happy and sad about that, I will be seeing my family soon, I have paint samples hung up all over the house, I've discovered the musical delights of pandora.com, work is busy, Gladys is draped in a half-finished cotton dress, we cut massive amounts of firewood on Saturday and my lats are still a little sore from running the chainsaw, and it was warm enough on Friday to wash my car outside. The end.

a decaffeinated update

Well, I am happy to say that I am quiet firmly beyond the physical symptoms of caffeine withdrawal. It is a humbling, scary experience to realize the pull something as “normal” as coffee has on your life. I would not like to tangle with a more difficult addiction. This one, a mild habit of only four or five years’ depth, was quite enough. That may sound wimpy, but I don’t mind. It’s true. Four days of sludge-like headache (exedrin has caffeine too) was quite enough.

So, will I go back to drinking coffee after Lent? Probably. I’m already getting very tired of decaffeinated tea. My goal, however, is to significantly decrease the amount of caffeine I drink. To be honest, I will probably go back to drinking regular coffee soon. I will strive for half-caf, though. I adore dark roast, and the only way to get dark roast half-caf is to blend it yourself. Somewhat more trouble than usual, but not beyond me, I should hope.

Three weeks and three days until Easter. I might just have a big ol’ bar of dark chocolate for breakfast, chased with espresso. Mmmm. I want. Yes, the physical symptoms are gone…now only the psychological ones remain. And here we come to the true meaning of Lenten sacrifice: the humbling of human desires before the coming of the Christ. May I crave God more than coffee, and look to Easter with anticipation stronger than is warranted by any food.

On understanding God

Well, I’m somewhat glad I don’t. At least that’s how I feel most of the time. If God were small enough to be encompassed by my frail human understanding, then he’s not much of a God. I don’t want a God I can fold up and put in my wallet, convenient as that may seem sometimes. What’s the point of dedicating your entire life to something the size of a handkerchief? No thanks. If something is too easy, it’s not worth it. Give me a God so big and wild that I can barely understand even the parts of him I can see—not to mention the bits hiding around the bend. I have a knowledge of God deeper than understanding. I know that he is the ultimate Good. He loves me with unwavering fervor and I am his child, bought and paid for by the blood of Jesus. Compared to that, a little lack of comprehension is peanuts.

This may sound quite simplistic. Well, I don’t care. And I do still have those days when I wonder what’s going on. I wonder where God is, and what he’s doing. I wonder why I don’t feel more connected to him at times. I do wish I understood at least a little more. And that’s ok--God wants his children to continually seek him. We are build to continually grow and expand out understanding. It’s for our own good and his glory.

And when I do have low moments, that’s usually about the time that I get in the car to go to work--and am smacked in the face with a beautiful sunrise. I don’t need to understand what makes a sunrise tick to realize that it is beautiful and awe inspiring.

evil pothole season

Well, I can tell that we're over halfway through winter over here in western Mich. How, you may ask?

Because half of the roads 'round my house have become pothole death traps. Between the manic-depressive freeze-thaw-freeze-thaw of the weather (with its accompanying snow-rain-snow-ice-snow) and the harshly scraping snowplows, hardly a clear patch of pavement remains, especially on older, previously patched pavement. Like the road I take to and from work.

When the roads are clear (a rarity), I can do a little fancy evasive maneuvering, but when they are coated in some combination of snow, slush, and ice, I dare not carom too wildly. Hitting a pothole is still better than spinning out and hitting oncoming traffic. Even if I do occasionally get surprised by a bad patch where none was before, where my teeth practically rattle and I pray over my suspension and tires.

It's an odd feeling when I realize that I'm glad for that rare variety of packed-down snow on the road that at least partially fills the potholes and turns that large-caliber machine gun feeling into a series of dull thumps.

If only they could pave in the winter. Alas! Well, it will be orange barrel season soon enough, and then we can all complain about that. Until then, Happy February! Only two more months of winter.

Anti-Valentines Day

Well, I was going to let Valentines' Day slide by this year without harpooning it. But I just can't. It just seems like such a pointless holiday to me. So, over the last few years, I've taken to celebrating it somewhat differently. I make cookies. Lovely, heart shaped cookies with beautiful jewel-tone icing, pink and purple and teal and orange. And then I write mesages on them, like conversation hearts. Sweet, right?

Sort of. Here are a few of my cookies from last year...




My all-time favorite is "Not In A Million Years," but "Doofus" and "Pond Scum" rank pretty high as well.

coffeeeeeeeeeeeeee

So, it's been a while since I've posted. So sue me. Grouch grouch grouch. Grumble grumble grumble. Add one more small snarl and I'm done. There.

Well, in my own defense, things have been quite crazy-go-nuts at the office. No time for blogging breaks. Or inclination, generally. And just when things have been starting to settle down this week, I decided to make it a little more interesting.

This is my third day without any caffeine whatsoever. I must say, the incredible lethargy that attacked me Wednesday has gradually subsided into a dull headache today. Not once today have I found myself nodding, or my eyes spontaneously closing. It's a good day. I look forward to total freedom from physiological side effects by the end of the weekend. It is quite alarming to realize how dependent on caffeine my body had become. I drink coffee often--ok, every day--but not more than a cup...ok, usually two. But that doesn't seem extreme to me. Apparently, it was enough. I'm glad to break this habit now, instead of after drinking coffee for thirty years.

Yes, I really want coffee. And chocolate. Ah, yes, the secret weapon--no caffeine means no chocolate too. What's the reason for this self-denial? Why, Lent, of course. I wanted to go for something challenging this year. I wanted to deny myself something that had taken disproportionate importance in my life, to throw my focus back where it belongs--on God.

And boy, am I challenged already! I'm still waiting to start turning this challenge into something spiritually developing, something better than frantic prayers to stay awake at my desk. Perhaps I will manage that when the headache is gone.

One thing is sure, though. I'm not quitting. That would be pretty lame. To declare that some chemical substance like caffeine is more important to me than my Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. Nope. Not going to go there.

Will I go back to drinking coffee after Easter? Yes. At least, right now that sounds magnificent. Coffee and a big slab of bittersweet chocolate, that's what I'm having for breakfast on March 23rd. But I'm not going to think about now. No no no.

Adopt!

Gerard Manley Hopkins

This is too good not to share, friends...I hope you enjoy it as much as I do. Read it slowly.

God’s Grandeur

THE WORLD is charged with the grandeur of God.
It will flame out, like shining from shook foil;
It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil
Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod?
Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;
And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil;
And wears man’s smudge and shares man’s smell: the soil
Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.

And for all this, nature is never spent;
There lives the dearest freshness deep down things;
And though the last lights off the black West went
Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs—
Because the Holy Ghost over the bent
World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.

[from Poems, 1918]

welcoming Gladys

Well, it's about time I introduced everyone to my new friend. Meet Gladys, the sassy blue dressform. We've been taking some time lately to get to know each other--check out the lovely corduroy blazer that she helped me finish this weekend.

I must say, she is the quietest roommate I've ever had. She never bothers me with idle, inane remarks. She stays in the spare bedroom for days on end, never eats my food, never has rowdy friends over, and never fails to leave a room as clean as she's found it. On top of that, she lets me stick her full of pins and spin her round and round without a single word of complaint.

In fact, if she were human, I'd be somewhat worried.

the dialectical swing of the universe

First formally introduced to this concept as a sophomore in college...in a class held in the basement of a chapel...at 8:30 in the morning...with a very intelligent, very monotonous lecturer...YAWN...I felt an instant connection, a sympathetic vibration of truth. "Ah!" said I, trying to keep my note-writing legible, "this is Truth." And I still think so.

Throughout recorded history, mankind has swung back and forth, from one extreme to another, like a pendulum. Of course, being a three-dimensional world, this is a three-dimensional pendulum. Every swing and back-swing goes in a slightly different direction--forward, sideways, back a little toward Jupiter. As this was a literature class, I first connected the concept to major literary and societal movements: Enlightenment to Romanticism to the Age of Reason. (Don't question me too closely--much of that knowledge has faded from my conscious brain.)

Once I'd absorbed this concept, and gotten a happy mark on that particular written exam, I waited for the idea to fade away...but it hasn't. Another place to see evidence of this swing can be found in the Old Testament--the book of Judges, for example. Check out those Israelites, yo! They praise and worship God, they fall away from God, disaster strikes and a hero is sent, they come back to God...they fall away from God...they come back to God...tick-tock, tick-tock.

The American political scene: tick-tock, tick-tock.

This could be very depressing but for the relentlessly optimistic idea I hold that each time we swing, each time we hit a new extreme and then run from it, we learn a little something. We're not just repeating history verbatim.

I don't know why I think of this now, except I've just had a moment of self-witness: I personally do this too. From one end to the other, swing swing swing. It sounds depressing, but it's not--if you can recognize that ol' pendulum swing. "If I just ride this out a bit," I say. "I'll balance." Voila!

Well, life and history are not quite that simple. I know. But I hold out for the learning of a little something-something. A little more awareness. A little more balance. And a little less of taking our extreme self-moments so seriously.

Now, if I could only stop my brain of thinking of "swings" and get back to business. But they flood my mind. Dance styles. Fashion. The Middle East. The popularity of espresso. Tick-tock, tick-tock. Ahh. Balance.

happy muffins

Well, ok, so...I know I haven't written in a while. I care, I really do. I'm just quite busy at the moment...

Sigh. No excuse. I know. Well, to placate until opportunity and inspiration collide, here's a fantastic muffin recipe for all to taste and rejoice. It's quite a bit healthier than the rest of the holiday hoopla we've been eating, and hopefully will help us wean ourselves away from the junk. Baby steps...

Banana Carrot Muffins

Combine: 1 ½ c. flour (I use 50/50 wheat/white)
¾ c. sugar*
1 tsp. baking soda
1 tsp. baking powder
½ tsp. salt
½ tsp cinnamon
¼ tsp nutmeg
Set aside.

Separate: 2 eggs
Whip egg whites until stiff peaks form, set aside.

Beat egg yolks until light and lemon-colored, then mix in
1 tbs. honey
¼ tsp orange peel
2 ripe bananas, mashed
1 c. shredded carrot (2 lg.)
½ c. unsweetened applesauce (*regular, is ok; just use less sugar)

Stir in dry ingredients until just moistened, then fold in egg whites.
Sling into muffin cups or greased muffin tins, bake at 350 for 20-25 minutes.
Cool 5 minutes before transferring to cooling rack. Then eat them all.