Absorption

My ears burn with noise.

An imitation of music booming from closed windows, vibrating through the trunk, making the driver feel empowered, slowly sucking the magic of sound perception from his skull.

I hear the noise of false information, helping the distributor feel credible, intelligent even.

We are swarmed by 50,000 commercials per year while we are watching our 4 1/2 hours of television per day.

I hear more complaints than compliments, I witness more griping than good.

The voices of crickets, birds, and bullfrogs are covered by engine noise.

This guys modified muffler, that fellows Harley, that cowboys diesel, your impatient honking, and our friend there with his brain enveloped in Kanye so he doesn't have to think.

If only we had the freedom to think.

http://www.trashyourtv.com/

Conceit

When you criticize my enthusiasm, you are wrong. Perhaps you are fooled or confused by the plethora of other entitlements you have been privileged with since birth because of your endowment, your birthplace, the dowry of your nation.

I hope you are wiser than to believe you are owed something.

I hope you are wiser than to be predictable.

I hope you are fuller than to be empty.

My mother, husband and I sat next to a woman today in a restaurant not much unlike my sister. Though she was elegantly dressed and, to my “unfiltered” eye, exceptionally beautiful, she had one specific quality that would not be tolerated by the slaves of appearance enjoying their burgers under the same roof. When I look into so many judging faces and glance “covert” whispering, I am ashamed. The worst hurt I might experience today is that I look out into a sea of people and know what most of them are thinking.

Why are you so easy to be advertised to? Why are you so entitled? What makes your gifts, your shape, your perspective, your ability, your opinion so worthy… so much better? I hurt for you. I do not hurt for us that are unusual, you do well hurting us for us. We do not gain by your secret opinions or your social criticisms. We may even become more imperfect because of them. I do not get stronger because you are critical, but you give my soul purpose for turning to the true Perfect. For getting back up. For saying, “I acknowledge You. I hear them, but I choose You. I can keep going.”

If you are sick, I am not better because I am well. Because you are sick, the well become vulnerable. If you are sick, I will wrap my arms around you to show my true affection. If you are sick, you are not so forever. If you are sick, it is your choice. If you are sick, it is your choice.

Do nothing out of selfish ambition or vain conceit

In humility value others above yourselves...

...not looking to your own interests but each of you to the interests of others.

Philippians 2:3

Who are you doing all of this for?

The Fool Builds His House on Sand...

Mr. Beck (and others, past and present),

I acknowledge your repetitive elucidation of the parameters of your country's Constitution, particularly your familiarity with your FREEDOM of Religion, Press, and Expression. As a fellow partaker in these GIFTS, I would humbly encourage you to choose another date and/or venue to demonstrate your long-term plan for such a diverse, resilient nation whom is merely in her adolescence. Perhaps it is not wise to tread on a great reverend's legacy. The only MAN with whom the wise will fully trust with their futures has yet to return. Until then, I am determined to love you anyway.

All of Our Nest

Seven years is a long time to be a teenager. It's a long time to be judged, a long time to have the pressure of your future on your shoulders, to be told what to do and how to do it, to desire independence yet still depend on your caregivers and educators. It's a long time to have the physical and emotional pain of growth and expectations. But, if we look closely, we can learn so much from them.

Remember what it was like as you judge this group of kids, try to understand that not all of what they do defines them yet. Not yet. Did you not forgot most of your time in this uncomfortable dimension? They are impressionable and malleable, defensive of their rights and privileges. They are absorbing their surrounding world at a rate we all experienced at infancy, a rate we all secretly envy.

Who is more flexible? Who do we expect more of? Who is more alive?

Who is going to pick up where we left off?

Who will they become if we're only showing them that they're not good enough?

The horizon begins to...

I like today. I think it's because today I am not feeling as selfish as I normally do. I'm not thinking 'by back hurts, again', 'I should go work out but probably won't', 'why do I act like I'm lazy? because I'm really not lazy', 'I wish I could see that guy I married for more than 2 hrs. in the evenings and on Sundays', or 'exactly what sounds good right now is not in my frig... ever'.

Today, I don't care about those things. I'm feeling like a kid playing house instead (which I did when I was 19 and moved out with 3 friends, and...eek, two were boys, and....double eek, I married one of 'em). Today, I'm playing "It's not so bad", because, really IT JUST ISN'T BAD AT ALL. My mom loves these square tins that I've been putting together since I was little. I write, "It's Not So Bad" on them and put little memories- movie tickets, postcards, seashells from Alaska, hilarious printed conversations from AIM or Google chat, a piece of drift wood we picked up at the beach in HMB while we were celebrating our 18 monthiversary. I'll keep these boxes for life. I'll probably help my babies make them, too.

Like I was saying, it's probably worth it to ditch self-pity and probably not because someone somewhere has it worse because that just makes me sad again, but because we just should. We owe it to our parents, to our partners, to our blood pressure... One of my friends* recently posted, "If you ran as much as your mouth, you'd be in good shape". Mortality comes with aches and pains and comfort comes with bills and love comes with hurt. You can stress about never getting a say about coming into this blasted place, but in all reality, you were, and probably still are, someone's gift. I'm going to be someone's gift even if I don't shut-up about all the junk, but I'd like to shut-up, it's easier and far more pleasant. Favorite shirts get ruined, husbands get too tired to wrestle, landscapers makes noise on early holiday mornings, someone catches you stealing their joke, and the barista is sweet as hell but always, ALWAYS gives you the wrong drink or simply forgets to put the coffee in it. So, Here I am looking back at what I've written and noticing how many I's are in this paragraphs. We're allowed. I'm allowed. We're allowed to sit in our chonies and write until our heart's content or until the cat is causing the loud, crashing sounds coming from the kitchen, whichever comes first.

*Thanks, Chris Brown, for your unrelenting sarcasm. It is needed like a rabies booster.

Movement

There are treasures here that constantly save our lives. Some float on the surface and yet, many you have to dig for. They permeate every layer of humanity's infrastructure, they are found in what is good. We don't find when we don't look... We don't repair when we don't move.

When we wallow, which is such a strange phenomenon to me (because I do it), we are essentially undoing and dismantling, taking a sledge hammer to all of our hard work and perseverance, disengaging our support systems. We can come back, though, recover from almost anything. I do not believe that the "self-made man" is either self-made or happy, but I do believe in defibrillation that is self-made, self-induced, and all too, very lifesaving. I find the electricity in music, in little children being silly, in dancing alone in my living room when I can't help it, in a large meal with a lot of people talking and being together, in being under the ocean, in travel to where I do not speak the language. Why do I forget? Why do I ever set the paddles down?

Since we have been justified through faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ, through whom we have gained access by faith into this grace by which we now stand.

And we rejoice in the hope of the glory of God.

Not only so, but we also rejoice in our sufferings, because we know that

suffering produces perseverance;

perseverance, character;

and character, hope.

And hope does not disappoint us,

because God has poured out his love into our hearts by the Holy Spirit, whom he has given us.

All The Time Awake

Many moments pass in which I try to imprint this particular feeling or that particular event somewhere on the plane of my soul, wishing my soul were a plane and I could never forget, never let the significance or beauty fall away like it seems to do. I feel more like I am reading a book, a novel that romanticizes my every mundane move with articulate language and by simply including each normal detail as if it weren't also happening to everyone else. Everyday is course correction, talking to ourselves like we were teaching a child how to maneuver the chaos and savor the good. I never have had dreams of traffic, though, if I did one night I think that might do me over. We are always in the stuff. Everywhere each is moving forward at high speeds incased in such easily damageable shells, heavy with precious cargo, late and speeding, tired and distracted, ready to be where we are going. When we land, we soon do it all over.

The day my innocence was over was the day I learned the word monotony. It came from our literature, fifth grade reading material my favorite primary school teacher was getting us through aloud, a sort of calming tool after recess. We'd bounce our legs and mess with the pencils inside our desks while listening to the voice we heard for more hours of the day than we'd spend with our parents. I wish I could remember the book. He read past the word, a few sentences, and stopped, defined it for us, then continued, leaving us--those of us who weren't tortured and distracted by what would later be considered the ADHD epidemic-- scathed and old.

We never really learn to escape tedium. Slowly stress and semi-manic concerns are added to us, each with its own consequence for disobedience or tardiness... or worse: mistakes. I haven't figured out if the good becomes more real and beautiful as each straw is added to our backs.... as each wrinkle added to our face, each scar to our flesh. Perhaps beauty is more beautiful when coupled with youth and naivety. Then it is so easy to enjoy, but even more easy to take for granted. But it must also grow with age, with experience... with hurt. We do not function in or understand time when good was good before bad. Bad is how we know her converse. Pain is how we know pleasure. Maybe monotony is why I dream.