Newsy-type Fireside Chat

Ummm...so, wow. Well, I'm going to Omaha now. Seem abrupt? Well, it was. Hope called me on Wednesday morning and told me that it was suddenly possible for her family to chip in to fly me up there. I was gone for the next two days on a trip to Austin with my family (yes, another abrupt decision) and then when I got back on Friday, we bought a plane ticket for the following Monday. I have two days (well, now only one day) to get ready for a ten day trip to Omaha and then when I get back I will have a week to get ready for a semester long trip to Australia. Where did my summer go? All of sudden I went from having two weeks left to prepare myself to be ready-emotionally, mentally, and in the actual details of traveling-as soon as I possibly can. Was that a really dumb decision I just made? Actually, I feel rather overwhelmed and scared by what I've done. It all happened so fast, and what with the money and the time that I'll be spending, I'm afraid that I just jumped into this situation like a big dumb fool and I'm not going to be able to handle it-logistically or mentally. But in a way, it seems so appropriate that before I go forward on my plans for Australia, I return to my Nebraskan roots (eliciting a shudder, but hey, I'm from where I'm from). I feel like I haven't been able to do the preparation for I thought I would have time and clear-headedness to perform this summer, but maybe this is preparation of a different sort, though valid just the same. And furthermore, I've been aching to see my friends all summer, so I guess that would explain why I basically just followed my gut without really thinking about it too much. So this is just to say, if you haven't heard from me in a while, you probably won't hear from me for a while longer, cause things are going to be awfully busy until I leave. And hey, if you live in Omaha, watch out, because the kid is coming back!

Also, I guess this is to notify that at this point in time this blog is going to be serving another purpose. I'm doing an independent study on travel writing while I'm in Australia, and this blog is going to serve as my journal to keep all of my notes and observations on what I'm seeing and experiencing in Australia. So, basically, the blog is going to stay pretty much as I'd envisioned it would when I started this, but now I'll get class credit for it as well! But at this point I'm supposed to start recording my impressions and expectations and thoughts leading up to the trip, so we're kind of moving into "Shannon's Blog: Part 2." Hopefully, as part of this second phase I'll be able to keep posting occassionally while I'm in Omaha, so stay tuned. Soon, I'll also hopefully have some things that I'd like you to keep in your prayers for me while I'm gone. So, I guess I just wanted to say thanks to those of you who've been reading and hey, don't stop, because it ought to be more interesting while I'm in Oz than when I'm at home, right?

A much needed repose

Okay, I guess I have to realize from the outset that there's no way I am going to be able to express myself adequately over this. Lately especially, I seem to be running into my own limitations with words again and again and again. But, today was special. Today, we went to the ballet. Maybe you're thinking, ah Houston, a city of first class entertainment. Well, this was not that kind of engagement. We heard about this little show through a friend of a friend, an original ballet done by a tiny dance company that no one has ever even heard of before. But when my mom forwarded me the e-mail, I jumped at the chance to go. Because, you see, this was a production put on by a Christian ballet company, a show called "World without End." And let me tell you something, having seen what I have seen over the past few years and especially during my semester in London, I jump at a chance for Christianity to reclaim its place in the fine arts. I said to myself, I don't even care if this show is going to suck, I want to support this kind of endeavor. And that's how we all ended up piled in someone else's minivan on our way to the Jewish Community Center downtown. I wasn't expecting much. In truth, the setting was actually kind of ghetto. The curtain groaned as it raised like it was about to crash back down again given the least provocation. But the curtain and even the theater were quickly forgotten once the curtain went up. This was no typical ballet. The first dance opened with a regal woman all dressed in white, blowing a shofar. Right off the bat I had chills. Then I realized that the music for this feature was not the orderly compositions of Chopin or Tchaicovsky. There were drums. Just drums. Then the first of just two principals began dancing. She wore a pale green satin tunic over very wide leg, flowing pants of the same color, an ensemble which goaded me to envy. She was an amazingly beautiful woman, with proud posture and wonderful dark skin the color of coffee. And her dancing...well, I don't think I've ever seen anyone move like that. She was amazing flexible, amazingly talented, amazingly strong. Her movements were so tight, so controlled, and so graceful. The other women were all beautiful too, in their own ways. About half of the other dancers were at least over forty. There was a woman dancing up there who must have been at least sixty years old, and she had long, smooth grey hair tied back in a ponytail and a wonderful look of tranquility and joy on her face. She kept up with the best of them, and they were not doing stuff for amateurs either. God, please please let me have the ability to dance half that well when I'm sixty...and seventy...and eighty. As I said, the music was atypical, and so was the dancing. Not just an average mix of Western ballet; actually the staple of the program was something that looked distinctly African to me. There was even a couple numbers of belly dancing (kind of a Song of Solomon, church-as-bride kind of motif, I think you had to be there not to be scandalized). If I ever had any doubts about Katie's theory about Westerner's dancing vs. everybody else, they have been laid to rest. I don't even know how they did it. I have never seen anybody move like they moved (I think I may have already said this). But the looseness, the freedom, the joy, so expressive, yet never becoming sloppy or careless. I don't know how they did it. I think my body might shatter if there was so much power and so much expression coursing through it. But it was so refreshing, such a joy to watch. You know, I may never be able to move just that way, but I am willing to spend the rest of my life trying. It was inspirational really. I have long found dancing (either my own or others) to be a balm to the soul. It was exactly what I needed, considering that the week leading up to it has just been shitty (sorry for the language, but no other word would quite do). It was good to see something so redeeming after a week like that. This ballet was one that somehow managed to express the deepest and highest of Christian truths in a way that would appeal or at least be respected by most modern- (or postmodern?) minded people. I guess my only question now is, where do I sign up?

a VerY Bad CaSE of THe MeAn ReDS

Please excuse me as I sound my barbaric yawp into the emptiness of cyberspace to release frustration in a way that will not do harm to myself or others: YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAWWWWWWWWWWWWPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPP!!!!

Life as I know it

So, I have developed a great fondness for bike riding in these past few weeks. It has been very surprising to discover how many strange and adventuresome things one can discover in one's own neighborhood. Today, for example, I realized that I have a most unnatural fascination with unfinished houses. I was riding through some new developments which surround our subdivision, and there were a number of houses just sitting there, empty and incomplete. A great and irresistible force drew me to the houses. I think it has something to do with my dad, I think, because when we lived in Omaha and our subdivision was new, we used to do the same thing every chance we got. So I had a grand old time this morning, exploring houses that were in various stages of being built. I think my favorite were the ones that didn't have the drywall up yet. It was like a see through map of the house, a much better way to see how things fit together than after the walls were up. It was fun trying to guess which room would be the kitchen, or the living room, or the bathroom (those were the easiest to guess). I think, actually, a lot of the appeal comes from the fact that you're doing something just a little bit edgy, because you know if anyone found you there they wouldn't like it. It makes it exciting. Kind of sad, that my life has been reduced to this...oh well. Also, I was riding past the new developments and I stumbled onto a very old neighborhood, the kind that your grandparents might live in, where large trees hang over and shade the road and people still own lawn gnomes. The streets had names like Dunkirk and Kilrenny and there was even a Bonnie Sean Drive. It was like little Ireland in the heart of Houston. All the houses there had so much character, some had rows of arches along the front and some were tall with columns. Some were totally overgrown in the front with a riot of vegetation so that the lawn was completely swallowed up. Okay, looking at what I wrote, it actually looks pretty darn boring. Hmmm...time to reevaluate the sad direction my life seems to have taken...

Why small dogs are evil

My family has always had golden retrievers. They are large, beautiful dogs which shed a lot. But they are basically good and many of them have a degree of that special something which makes us think of dogs as almost human. Well, in fall of this past year, we lost our last golden retriever to cancer. (Yes I know, very sad, boo hoo) So then I went back to college for the spring semester, and in my absence my family got a new dog, a daschund (blast those German names!) I wonder if this would have happened at all if I had been around to prevent it. And so a great evil was permitted entrance into our house. That's right, I said evil. You know, I expected that I would like this dog. I even wanted to like it. But...I don't. The problem with this particular small dog is that she is very cute in appearance and that saves her from a great many hardships which should have rightly fallen on her by now for her many crimes. For example, she periodically decides to relieve herself on our carpets. This is sometimes for a reason as trivial as being frightened by a clap of thunder, or sometimes for no reason whatsoever. You see the fine person that gave her to us made sure to tell us quite after the fact that this particular breed of dog can never really be potty-trained. Grrreat... For this reason, we spend much of our days occupied in letting her in and out of the house. Furthermore, she is rather neurotic as dogs go. She barks at anyone who comes to the door or near the house or drives by on the street or animals on the TV or animals in the neighborhood and again, sometimes, for no reason at all. She is a rather hostile creature, to all other animals (remember the Kujo entry) especially cats and squirrels. Also, she is much riled by everything that goes on wheels. Once, when I was not yet home again, there was a report of her chasing and biting a girl in the neighborhood because she was on a bike. My sister defended this action, saying the girl deserved it. When asked why, she said it was because the girl had tried to pet her. Imagine, the nerve of some people!

Furthermore, I think what is most distressing and disturbing about this particular dog is the unnatural degree of affection which my mom seems to feel towards her. She will, for example, use the same terms of endearment on us that she uses for the dog. She allows this little creature to totally rule her life, having to go to be very early in the evening so that she can get up at 5 or 6:00 so she can let the dog out. We have to plan our outings around being home in time to feed the dog or let her out again. She spends hundreds of dollars on the dog's medical problems and the dog's training (which didn't work, by the way, she is still quite bratty). The dog sleeps with her in her bed at night. All of this she gets away with because of some dark magic by which she controls the occupants of this house. I fortunately, have not yet fallen under this spell and so I still maintain control over my own faculties. Pray for me friends, that I may have resilience in the face of this four-legged terror.

How to Dance in 3 Simple Steps--Part I

So, once upon a time when I was a small thing I lived in a little room with a little roommate who made an observation about Western dancing. She was saying that there just doesn't seem to be the same sense of fluidity, of comfort, of looseness when Westerners dance. In short there is no "there," there. I have always contested this, for the sake of myself mostly; as a Western dancer I would like to think that I do not come off as stiff and stodgy. But the more I have considered this, the more I fear that she was right, especially as I have seen dancing in other cultures and realized what it could be. So, in order to explain this, I have developed a hypothesis. I think that the root of this problem is found in Platonic dualism, which separates a persons body and soul into two different categories and exalts the latter over the former. I think this philosophy is at the root of many Westerners distate for the human body. It is so often seen as a base, degraded thing, the part of us that is the most animal. The problem is, the people who hate their own bodies will never be able to dance successfully. The best dancing is done by people who love their bodies and want to use them well. For example, when you dance, you can feel each movement of each muscle, the stretch and the twist involved in each maneuver. The curve of your foot's arch when you kick or point your toe. Dancing is what makes you most aware of your body, because you use every inch. And I think that one of the reason that Westerners have a hard time dancing is that they shy away from that face to face encounter with their own physicality. I think the other thing that comes into play in producing bad dancing is a general self-conciousness that inhibits people's willingness to experiment. I have found that the best cure to this (and don't scoff, Will) is actually dancing to rap music. It is so unpredictable and unorthodox and devoid of melody that you can't do the same old stuff, you have to get weird. Anyway, these are my brief and random observations for the night.

Random thoughts of a tired girl

So, coherency, yes. The only reason I'm up is that my mom has ordered me to keep the dog from sleeping so that the dog won't wake up and wake my mom up too early. So in the meantime, I'm watching a rap about Magilla Gorilla and philosophizing (only not really, but the rap part was true). And so, here is the update. MY SISTER KNOWS HOW TO RIDE A BIKE! This is great and wonderful news, first of all since my sister was 13 years old before she learned how to ride said bike and secondly because I was the one who taught her. It was the most wonderful feeling when everything clicked for her and she flew off on her own, with me running behind. Secondly, she is off in Omaha this week (so keep a lookout, Omaha peeps) and so tonight me and my mom went to see Phantom of the Opera downtown. It was really wonderful. I enjoyed it more than I expected to, even though it still confuses me. Wow...I hope to have the music from that stuck in my head for a long time. Blah...z z z...

I'm a Yankee Doodle Dandy?

Being the patriotic soul that I am, I am not ashamed to confess that I love the Fourth of July. I have always loved this particular holiday, largely because I am a pyro. I could not help but become such because it is in my genes. My dad taught me the way of the pyromaniac since I was a wee babe. I remember him trying to get a whole package of fireworks to go off at the same time by lighting the box on fire. He used to gather up all the sawdust that the snaps were packaged in with the other trash that was left over after nights of revelry and start a little driveway bonfire. So, to this day I continue to adore this holiday celebrating the birth of our great country, though since we have moved to Texas, a lot has changed. For example, the buying of fireworks is quite a bit different than back in the good old days. In Omaha, there was pretty much one long stretch of road where companies would come and set up big carnival tents and fill them with fireworks. Down here, there are little trailers selling fireworks on just about every corner around Independence Day. Then there are also a couple of warehouse stores run by bands or girl scout troops who are trying to raise money. All of the fireworks are fenced in to keep you from getting near them and the little members of the band walk around to put the fireworks in your cart. You see, in the great state of Texas, one is not allowed to lay one finger on one's fireworks until they are paid for and they people will walk around these warehouses looking for perpetrators to scold. An odd rule, I know, I don't actually understand it either.

All of this to say that, yesterday being this greatest of holidays, my family was looking about for something to do. My mom's co-worker was having a little soiree, and so we decided to drop by. It was by default, really, there was nothing better going on, but my sister was not quite resigned to the idea. She rode all the way there in the backseat with her arms crossed. I must admit, on arriving I was quite disappointed. For being DINKs (yeah, my mom just taught me that, industry term) their backyard was about the size of a postage stamp. The pool was filled to capacity and those who couldn't fit lined the sides sipping drinks and looking bored. What have we gotten ourselves into, I wondered. My mom had been lecturing us on the way over on how to be social, about how if you ask them people will go on for hours about themselves, and isn't it funny how they never ask about you. This had me in a very anti-social mood, not really willing to talk to any of these strange adults. Well, most of the party did turn out to be pretty boring, until I actually, purely by accident, did start talking to some people. I found out that one of the men was the spouse of an international aerobics instructor and so they had traveled all over the world and he was telling me about the countries they had been to. Then I found out that another one of the people there was an amateur magician, and he showed us card tricks and tricks with these little red balls and a light, the kind of tricks that you actually can't figure out how it was done. Basically, I was surrounded by really cool people that I was too stubborn to discover because I was assuming that I already knew everything about them and it was all boring. A great lesson for a great holiday. I just hope I can keep this in mind when I get to Australia...

Flashback

This one is for all my peeps from World Religions class. So, we're painting my room the other day, and to keep our spirits up we're listening to the oldies station on the radio. Then this song comes on called "My Sweet Lord." For those of you not present in the aforementioned class, our teacher brought up a recollection of this song from her own youth. She recalled its popularity and how excited all the church people were at the time to hear a popular song on the radio that was supposedly about Jesus. She went on to say that she had heard it again more recently, and realized that the song wasn't about Jesus at all. During the chorus, she heard them repeating "Hare, Hare. Krishna, Krishna." (For those of you not familiar with Hinduism, Hare Krishna is one of the incarnations of the god Vishnu) The song they had rejoiced over wasn't about Jesus at all, but about a Hindu god. So when I recognized the song, you better believe my ears were perked right up to see if it was true. And sure enough, during the final choruses, I heard them singing the very name my prof had mentioned. I smiled quietly to myself, my prof's story verified. Kind of makes you wonder what other things we misconstrue like that...

HAPPY FOURTH OF JULY EVE EVERYBODY!!!!!!!!!

Name the quote for a free scone...

"Let's sing a little song/With eight little words/'Bout a rocket ship/And flightless birds"

Kujo Returns

In high hopes of recovering some semblance of intimacy, Thursday night was dubbed "Family Fun Night," and of course no such occassion could be complete without a trip to our neighborhood park. Okay, okay, in all honesty it is not our neighborhood park, since it is in the next subdivision over. In many other parts of the world, this is not a heinous crime, but in the dangerous land of Texas, it is a capital sin to go into the park of a neighborhood that is not yours. In fact, they even have signs posted to that point and purpose, warning away non-residents from said park. So when we go, we have to go in cognito as residents of "Memorial Northwest" (all of these preliminaries is just to set the scene that what we did was pure madness). So we headed over to the park of forbidden pleasures (such as the long rope where you can swing through the air like Tarzan, as long as you remember to drop before colliding with the monkey bars) and much to our chagrin we saw that family fun time would have to be shared with another family, no doubt legal residents of the subdivision. Upon closer inspection, we discovered an even more discouraging fact, that said residents also had brought with them a dog, a dog without a leash. Now, our dog is just a little Daushund (sp?) and this dog was a large Weimeriner (stupid dogs with German names...). We brought our dog into the park and took her off the leash momentarily to let her run down the slide, which she seems to enjoy. Upon her exit from the slide, I went to grab her, but she was small and slippery and I was too late. A confrontation ensued as the other dog came over to inspect the intruder. It was a knock down drag out tussle that any of the stray dogs of Italy or Mexico would have been proud to witness. Our dog (posing under the sweet street name of "Rosa") actually went for the other dog's soft underbelly (which she could reach, having a stature of about six inches) biting and growling and barking with all the ferocity of a junkyard killer. The other dog did it's best to put up a respectable fight, but was really rather frightened, I think. It took the other guy a good deal of yanking to finally get the animals apart. Am I the only one who thinks it is folly to keep such a vicious (though miniscule) creature in the house?

Ugly Americans and other atrocities on the high seas

Well I have, unfortunately, come home A-OK. No pirates, no shipwrecks, no snakebites or jaguar attacks in the rainforest. Ocean liners are singularly tame. Seriously, I think that body of water we were traversing could hardly be called the ocean, since you couldn't even feel the boat moving. Anyway, I have seen many things in my travels which have only further kindled the fire of my love for Americans into a blazing inferno. Bless their pointy little heads, the dears, they ride about in an oblivious stupor upon the ocean blue, eyes glazed, in the deepest of trances because of the fact that they have been spending days doing no more than feeding constantly and lying out in the sun. That sounds like the lifestyle of some sort of mushroom or sea cucumber, not a human being. They shop on the ship and they shop on the shore, not to mention the massive amounts of money that they spent to even get this choicest of vacation opportunities to begin with. However, in spite of the gobs of cash they spent for this opportunity, nothing seems to satisfy this weird hybrid version of human-mushroom. They complain about the food, they complain about the service, they complain about the entertainment, they complain about the excursions, they complain about the accomodations. If there is something in existence within five miles of their personhood, they complain about it. Of course, that doesn't stop them from consuming said goods and services with all the satisfaction and verve of one who is completely satisfied. Then, on said excursions, they journey into foreign lands, unfortunately forced to pass by the "shacks" of the natives ("They're shacks, that's the only thing you could call them" even though those shacks are not actually the worst housing made of corrugated tin and other found materials but the more respectable cinderblock versions--and what gives these cultural imperialists the right to say that those people aren't happy with their "shacks?") So, on said excursions they view with mourning the utterly woeful poverty of those who are our central American neighbors and geographical children (via the Monroe Doctrine) and then they get back onto our big boat and lament this terrible state of affairs over our meal of filet mignon. "If only," they sob into their champagne, "there was some way we could help these poor, poor people. If only we had enough money to help out somehow. But alas, we no more than upper-middle class Americans with tight belts ourselves (Starbucks only three times a week), and there is nothing that can be done, please pass the lobster." Truly, these goodly Americans are victims of having hearts that are too big and pocketbooks that are too small.

Who knows why peoples of other lands despise these kind Americans? They patronize their shuttles in large droves with their big fat cigars smoking up the whole interior and are willing to purchase their Corona necklaces so they don't have to waste a hand holding their beers. Then when they come back to the boat they are quite loud and drunk and jovial as ducks. They are quite warm and friendly to the local women as well. Surely it must remain a mystery to us all why the good people of this land are so persecuted abroad.

(You know, my dear good friend Mr. Hoshaw also told us it was very difficult to write sarcasm effectively. I never really did understood why.)

"For them that go down to the sea in ships..."

Well, this is it folks. Tomorrow we leave for our big luxury trip on the great tin ocean liner. For those of you who haven't already heard, my family and I are going on a cruise this summer as our big vacation-type trip. Yippee. Well, anyway, I just wanted to make this post as a precaution in case I never come back. You know how it is when you go out on the ocean. Anything could happen to you. The ship may be attacked by a group of desperate pirates. I may be taken prisoner and have to beg for my life. The capitan may take me on as a cabin boy, and tell me every night, "I'll most likely kill you in the morning." By the end of that internship, I'll likely be a most excellent pirate. Or, on the other hand, the whole ship could just sink right down into the ocean and we could all just bob around in the frigid waters of the Western Carribean until we are rescued, though half of us may have frozen to death by that point. Or, the rest of the ship may try to maroon me on a tiny island and I'll have to fight for my survival until I can ride away on a raft of sea turtles that I lashed together with hair from my back. Or, the whole ship may crash and we may all end up on an entirely different island and either run away and join the local band of gypsies or have to duke it out for survival and pick each other off one by one. Everything of real interest, you see, happens by the sea. So I should be a great deal happier to head down there, I guess. In any case, if any of those things happen, you will probably never hear from me again. I just wanted you all to be prepared. I miss you all very much. Adios.

"Will Somebody Please tell Protestants that the Reformation is Over?"

Well, first of all I would just to notify everyone of today's great achievement: I made two eggs sunny side up this morning and didn't break either of the yolks.

So, once upon a time a few years ago in a mythical land called Omaha, I was driving somewhere with my family and my best friend Hope. We are rolling along all peaceable-like, when out of the blue my sister, who is riding in the back seat with said friend, turns to her and asks, "Are you Catholic?" Hope laughs a little at the strange question before answering yes. My sister turns her gaze back toward the window and says in the sly, self-assured voice of an inquisitor, "Just as I suspected." Bursts of laughter errupted from all three adults, thankfully including Hope. I swivel around from my position in the front seat and ask her, "Why do you say that?"

"Well," my sister answers, still in the dark as to what has brought about all the mirth, "she looks like a Catholic!" Hmmm... We never could get her to spill what were the precise physical features that marked someone out as a member of this faith.

My sister and I, you see, were raised under the tutelage of a very disaffected Catholic, namely my mother. We will never forget her horror stories of having to pin Kleenexes on her head if she forgot her hat on a Sunday morning, or the infamous nun who wouldn't believe her when she said she broke her arm on the playground. It is no wonder that we had misrepresentations in our minds from an early age. This is a fact that Hope can definitely attest to, since my negative attitudes carried me all the way to high school, where I somehow found myself at the lunch table with a best friend who happened to be Catholic, telling her that Catholics weren't really Christians because they worshipped Mary and believed that good works can get you to heaven. Ouch. Thankfully, Hope was patient and took the time to start straightening me out.

I started to get a lot less bent out of shape when I actually tried going to Mass and a couple of other Catholic services while I was traveling in Europe this past spring. Then I happened to take a Christian theology class this past fall that was taught by a professor who was very knowledgeable of and sympathetic to Catholic doctrine. Now, perhaps five years after that car trip, I have come to believe that not only are Catholics Christian, there is much that Protestants can learn from them. For example, I love the way in which they embrace the arts, and I found the more liturgical, structured style of their worship (which I had been told for years led to spectator-Christianity and spiritual dryness) to be an engaging framework in which personal and corporate expressions of faith could bloom. Don't get me wrong, I am not ready to jump ship, but I am quite fed up with all of the finger-pointing and back-biting. In true Postmodern "smorgasboard" style, I want to be able to learn what I can from that tradition, while still maintaining the good parts of the faith that I've grown up in.

Partially to that end, and partially to feed my own hunger for liturgy, I have been attending a morning prayer service that meets every weekday over at St. Ignatius of Loyola Catholic Community, just about 15 minutes from my house. I love these services and the spiritual food that I get from them, which is so different from my own tradition. My mom doesn't know yet that I've been going. It's not that I'm keeping it secret, it just hasn't come up, and furthermore I really can't tell how she'd take it. Her opinion has not changed much in the past 15 years. I think it's pretty funny that my only instance of teenage rebellion would be going to a church service. Do you think she would prefer it if I took up pot smoking? In any case, I am no longer willing to write off either Catholics or Protestants for their differing beliefs, and will continue to pray for and work towards the knitting of both traditions back into one unified family of God.

How do you like your fruit flies?

So, tonight I'm finishing off a garlic cream sauce to go over fetucinni and chicken for dinner (yes, I'm possibly the most underappreciated gourmet cook in America) and I add just a dollop of yogurt for creamy thickness and tang without all the fat of sour cream. Unfortunately, someone let my family into the kitchen while I was cooking, and my mom sees me and blurts out "YOGURT?!?!" which of course summons the attention of my sister, who loves fetucinni with chicken but subsequently comes to refuse to consume this batch simply because of that little dollop of yogurt. Grrrr... My sister is a notoriously picky-eater. The other night was saying the prayer to bless our food, and my sister happened to look down and see a little fruit fly that had landed on her ear of corn. In the middle of said prayer my sister begins screaming and leaps up from her chair and begins running around the room yelling "Ewww, ewww!" She then decided that she wasn't really hungry for any more of her dinner. All because of a little tiny fly.

So, after tonight's yogurt fiasco, I was fed up. So in my wrath I laid upon her the Curse of the Picky-Eaters. I told her that she would grow up to become a missionary in Africa and eat bugs every day that have been roasted on a spit over a fire until they're nice and crunchy. I think that might have contributed to the subsequent loss of appetite.

Driveway Nights

Greetings loyal readers! In case anyone is interested, we're battening down the hatches for one of those good ol' Texas thunderstorms. My sister and I were going to head down to the courts for a killer badminton match when she pointed out the curiously two-tone clouds that were roiling around like a lava lamp on steroids. Now the rain is pounding down on my window, while I stay warm and dry and feeling comfortably artsy, with my laptop and candles lit and a dog nearby.

But, all of that has nothing to do with what I intended to post. I was driving home a few nights ago from a college bible study that my church has organized (perhaps more on this at a later date). It is probably the first night driving I have done since getting home. Now I must tell you, I love driving at night. The lights flashing past my window in the city or the cool, quiet country sounds floating in with the breeze. Driving with the windows down at night always makes me feel a little antsy, like something exciting could break loose any minute, so I better be ready. I was greatly enjoying my ride home when I pulled into my subdivision. I rounded a corner and saw at a house a few blocks down from ours two meditative teens sitting in the driveway, one a boy with long unkempt hair and one a girl with a ponytail, legs sprawled out in front of her. There was also another very skinny girl kind of dancing around the driveway in a distracted manner.

Wow, what a blast from the past. This sparked sudden flashbacks of warm summer nights lit by the streetlamps and cooled by the breeze. Laying on the hot cement and getting bit by mosquitos. A good philosophical or religious debate that was never really settled because someone was always obfuscating more than the conversation could bear. Walks down to the lake shore or pick-up basketball games in the dark. Many of my best high school memories are connected to driveways. There was the time Eddius came after us with his squirt gun while we waited on the porch for him to answer the door. Or playing horse in Hope's driveway where the ball would roll halfway down the block if it got away because the driveway was so steep. Sitting in each other's cars for hours in the winter, just to get a little privacy. Talking trash to the middle schoolers over our basketball prowess (they may have had the skills, but we had the height). The delivery of Eddius' famous line: "Got any good people to talk about?" That awful night we came back so late from Francis' house that Mom thought we were dead. The day Eddius asked both Hope and I to the prom and we sat out in the rain to pound out the details. And our last conversation, where Eddius reassured us that just to be realistic we should probably expect to never hear from him again. Rolling past that driveway was like looking at a picture of myself from only a couple of years ago (can it be such a short time has passed?) and seeing with mirror-like accuracy the way life used to be.

I look back at my high school self with envy and no small degree of frustration. To the current me, it seems like I had it so good back then, and didn't appreciate it a bit, caught up in complaining about how little there was to do, or how I wished this or that was different. I never appreciated the simple fact that I had friends to sit with me in the driveway until late at night, talking nonsense or searching for the most sublime of truths.

I find myself daydreaming more this summer than ever before about how things might have been if I had chosen to stay in Omaha for college, or if my family had at least not moved away. Because I am definitely a "grass is always greener" kind of person, I think, "Of course, if only this or this would have happened, everything would be lovely." In my thinking brain, I know that isn't true. But I still cringe a little at the sight of someone else enjoying the driveways and summer nights that are no longer mine.

Espionage in Myer Park

Well, I was going to post something deep and intricate here, but then it got to be late, and my brain stopped functioning on that level, so this is lighter fare.

Intermittently, when we forget about the draining and near lethal effects of mid-summer Texas heat, my sister and I decide to take our fitness gig on the road to nearby Myer Park (for those of you who remember the Omaha house: not that nearby, we actually have to get in the car for this one). The funny thing about Myer Park, aside from its near perpetually deserted status, is the behavior of the squirrels that live there. There are not hoardes of them, but there are enough so that you could see from five to seven strategically placed squirrels through the course of one rotation around the park's circumference. They sit on things (trees, benches, grills) like little watch dogs and stare at you menacingly as you make your way past them, sometimes following you a bit down the trail, just so you know who's in charge. Today, one was actually laying flat against the sidewalk commando style and then as we got closer it hopped up and started charging. Fortunately my sister screamed and ran away, disorienting it momentarily and allowing us to make a fairly clean escape. She has designated herself as the official squirrel scout, a bastion of safety and awareness to protect us from the evil schemes of the four-footed furballs. The only hitch is that she never sees the little beasties until we're practically on top of them, so the whole screaming thing is probably as much from surprise as it is from fear.

I think it would be great sport if we brought our dog out and let her tear around chasing after the little critters. But, it's best to remember that it could get ugly, since this dog is about the most vicious 16 lbs. of squirrel-hating frenzy you could ever wish to see. Furthermore, my sister has some only half-comprehendable fears about her getting sucked into one of the rider mowers that roam the park like bottom feeding fish. Ummm...I don't get it either.

My sister, by the way, is convinced that these particular squirrels are all in cahoots in a plot for world domination. This was decided from our very first encounters with them last summer, probably because they do seem at times to be so well-organized. Today the scheme was further refined when she decided that the black birds that you also see intermittently are in on it too, serving as some kind of guard to give the squirrels advance warning of our approach. Keep in mind, the girl is already thirteen, so it's not like these are mere childhood fancies. No, the complexity and vividness of this fantasy life are signs of a sickness of mind that could only mean one thing: she's destined to become a writer someday as well.

Warning

A word to the wise: Stay-at-home moms are one of the most vicious and cut throat groups I have ever run up against. They'd break your arm to get to that last can of half-price tuna fish. I'm thinking of carrying mace with me on my next trip to WalMart...

Thoughts on the Pilgrimage

"They confessed that they were strangers and foreigners on the earth, for people who speak in this way make it clear that they are seeking a homeland."--Hebrews 11:13-14

So right about this point, dear readers, you may be wondering about the title of this blog: why it was chosen, what it means, and etc. For your enjoyment/amusement, I will try to offer an explanation.

During the summer after my senior year of high school, my family moved down to Houston, Texas and I had the delight of being sent down with them. The irony was that I had lived in Omaha, NE for 11 years before the move, hating the whole state ever since we first set foot in it and begging my parents periodically for a move. Well, I finally got one. Unfortunately, it only came right before I was about to move away myself.

It has been difficult coming back to my "new home" in Houston for Christmas and summer breaks. There has not been a time since we moved down here that I have been able to stick around long enough to put down roots or establish myself. Because of this, every time I come back the reality of the situation slaps me in the face. I might as well be a tourist in this city (in fact, my family even refers to me sometimes as a guest). I have not been here long enough to make friends, and time here is spent far away from my old ones. It is still hard for me to find my way around in my car, and I can get disoriented just running errands. I can't get comfortable in the room in which I now live, since I haven't spent more than four consecutive months in it. I could not refer to this place as home by any stretch of the imagination.

Yet, on trips that I have taken back to Omaha to visit my father and my friends, I have found myself unable to return like a prodigal on the way back to the family farm (that was a metaphor, not everyone in Nebraska lives on a farm). That place has my past, my memories. Yet I find it awkward sometimes to be with old friends, catching up on a year's worth of happenings in the space of a few days, not to mention the changes have both gone through in the interim. Our old home was sold to people who put ugly wooden flowers in the yard and don't take advantage of the beckoning wilds of Pinesacott, which stretches behind the house. And of course, West O where I grew up is the building capital of the world, so everytime I go back, acres of new shopping centers have sprung up and rearranged scenery that was once familiar. Hmmm...now what?

Houghton is more my home now than anywhere, but if I ever stop to think about it (which I avoid doing because the thought is painful) I am only passing through in the strictest sense of the words. There are only two more short years in my college career and after that I will be thrust out into the howling wasteland we know as the "real world."

Okay, what exactly is the point of all this? During my Mayterm in Mexico, Profe told us that missionaries are happiest on an airplane, because they don't quite belong in either the culture they just left or the one they are heading towards. On the plane they can look forward to the good points of the culture they are heading too, forgetting all the negatives and the inevitable awkwardness of realizing that they don't fit. But the only time they truly feel at home is when they're in limbo. This feeling of uneasiness lead somebody to coin the phrase Pilgrim Principle, which basically says that this feeling keeps us liberated from being entangled by the things of this world so we can know with greater clarity that our only true home is in heaven.

I say that's crap. While it may be true enough, it is tougher to deal with living it out in flesh-and-blood existence than it sounds when it's so nicely packaged with its alliterative title. I can't speak for everybody, but I truly ache for whatever it is that we mean by "home." I want a place to belong, a place that's safe and familiar. I want a place with people who love me and want to see me grow. When times are tough, it is even harder not to have those things; those are the times that awaken desires in me for freedom, for real life, for fulfillment and purpose. I want to go home.

But for now I know I'm only a pilgrim, and pilgrims have to live with that ache. I set my sights on where the lights are warm and the people are loving, but for now I see that place only as a tiny speck at the end of a long road. All I can do is try to do all the good I can for my fellow pilgrims and for anyone else I meet along the journey. I'm not a fan of those who let themselves get lost in daydreams of flying away to stardust and clouds of glory. All we have to work with is the here and now. And by God's grace, I hope to do the best I can with what I've got, and maybe permit myself just an occassional glance over the River Jordan.

The First Entry

When I was in my junior year of high school, I had my first creative writing class with my dear good friend Mr. Hoshaw. One of the disciplines that Mr. Hoshaw wanted us to get into, at least for the duration of the class, was keeping a writing journal and writing in it every day. While this was not my first introduction to the beauty and grace of life lived inside the composition notebook (thanks to Mrs. Thurber...maybe more on that later?) he did provide us with a revolutionary and very valuable tip. "Open up your journal," he said, as we all sat with our shiny new notebooks lying on our desks, "Take the first page, and turn it over. Don't write anything on that first page. Leave it blank." The reasoning was this: writing on the first page of a new journal can be so intimidating that some people would rather never write anything at all. (Some people may also have nervous breakdowns and run screaming from the room, but that can happen at any stage of the writing process, so we mostably ignore them) You want to sound cool and intelligent from the get go, or at least not make an ass of yourself, and so you can sit there sweating for hours trying to come up with the perfect first sentence. This effect is compounded when you remember that forever afterwards, when anyone opens this journal, these are the words that will stare them in the face. This way, there is no pressure, no attempt to sound more sophisticated and brilliant than you actually are. Suddenly, you are not at the beginning, you are just tossed into the mix, and from there you're liberated to simply write like mad. Welcome, friends, to the beauty and freedom of the blank first page.