Hodgepodge Holiday

Martha Stewart would not approve, I thought to myself as I sat back on my bed, admiring my just-decorated, newly-lit Christmas tree through the darkness for the first time.

You see, my tree is not (never has been, and never will be) a "fancy" Christmas tree. It does not have a theme or a color scheme. It does not coordinate. It is not designed to ooh, ahh, and entertain. It is not carefully orchestrated to be whimsical.

No, you see, my Christmas tree would not be found in Martha Stewart's living room (she'd probably burst a blood vessel at the thought), no overly-decorated mall, no governor's mansion. Mine is the hodgepodge sort-- the kind decorated with all the random ornaments I've collected over the years (and it has been many, many years).

There are the ornaments that remind me of specific events-- the wooden tooth printed with "1991" (I had a lot of baby teeth pulled that year); the gold star signifying a family trip to Alaska; the delicate papier-mache elephant from the year I traveled to South Africa; or the maroon Calvin College globe ornament from the year I graduated.

There are the ornaments that remind me of special people-- like the little red watering can (among many others) from my great-aunt Jean, who used to send us each an ornament every year; or the little silver frame hanging by a ribbon, from which peer the baby faces of my sweet niece and nephew.

There are others that simply remind me of long-running traditions-- the big multi-colored ball, or the twirly red icicle, also (like most of the event-related pieces) given by my parents, who gave my brothers and I an ornament each Christmas. Then there's the wooden bird, or the glass sparrows clipped to several branches-- tokens from the ornament-exchanging tradition that my siblings and I now carry on amongst ourselves.

Some have origins now forgotten to me, but seem to have been there my entire life, carefully unpacked each year and placed lovingly upon the tree-- the pastel-colored stork, always the first to be hung on the tree (and always, appropriately, right above the manger scene); the fragile reindeer rocking horse who's long been missing an antler; or my favorite of all, the tiny wooden angel with the little red wings. I add her last.

So you see, Martha Stewart and the botanic gardens, malls and mansions, they can have their fancy, color-coordinated, artfully-themed monstrosities. I'll come and look. I'll ooh and ahh. I'll find them marvelous, delightful, and beautiful. But me? I'll take my hodgepodge holiday... and all the lovely memories it entails.

Heredity

As humans, we spend much of our lives-- particularly our young lives-- wondering (or having wondered on our behalf) who we take after. When a new baby is born, everyone asks themselves and each other: whose eyes, or nose, or dimples will she have? Whose hair color, or build, or chin will he develop? That shy smile recollects Aunt Sally's mischievous grin, and that hand gesture is so reminiscent of Uncle Phil.

And it is not just the physical, but other traits and talents, as well. Is his propensity for music related to great-uncle Herb's career as a concert cellist? Does she take after cousin Beth's natural athleticism? Will he have his grandma's artistic talent? Will she be a clown like her brother? Likewise, adopted parents get to marvel at each new characteristic as it appears, wondering where it comes from: those unusual stunning eyes, or that skill at math.

As a child, you of course never actually think you look like anyone. No matter how many times people tell you that you look like your mom, dad, cousin, grandpa, or sister, you just don't see it. Personality traits are slightly more understandable, but even with those, you tend to believe more that you are just one of a kind. But then you get older. You start to see your family members in your own photographs, and in your reflection. Things come out of your mouth, and you're a little bit horrified how much you sound like your parents or some other family memebr. As younger cousins, nieces or nephews are born, you begin to see how deep the family resemblances run. And you wonder: who do I take after more?

Then, one day, the answer strikes you: well... I guess it must be Dad.

And then you go start trying to un-superglue your hand.

A matter of perspective

This week I read an article from CNN about the alleged shooter at the Fort Hood Army base last week. After brief updates on his status, the article went into a lengthy discussion of various past incidents that may have indicated that Maj. Nidal Hasan as a "militant man" who held "extremist" views. As I was reading through the article, however, I found that 90% of the examples given did not seem to foreshadow any bloody attack such as the one that happened at Fort Hood: and in fact, if a different religion had been inserted into these stores, many Americans would have found it quite honorable.

Case 1: "Those who knew Hasan before he was a major in the Army say he was long known for militant Islamist views. Doctors who crossed paths with Hasan in medical programs paint a picture of a subpar student who wore his religious views on his sleeve... Hasan 'was clearly espousing Islamist ideology' during his time as a medical student at the Uniformed Services University of the Health Sciences in Bethesda, Maryland, one of his former classmates said."

First of all, there is nothing "militant" about the example given. Perhaps he did share militant Islamist views at other times-- but then, why can no one come up with an example?

Imagine a Christian student who wore his religious views on his sleeve, and clearly espoused Christian ideology to his classmates. Not only would American Christians find this kind of open faith to be admirable, but there would likely be great protest against anyone who tried to silence such expressions of faith.

Case 2: "After the shooting, Hasan's family revealed little about him, saying in media interviews that Hasan was a 'good American' and a lifelong Muslim who complained that he was harassed in the Army because of his religion. His former classmates describe a much more militant man. His presentations for school were often laced with extremist Muslim views, one source said. 'Is your allegiance to Sharia [Islamic] law or the United States?' students once challenged Hasan, the source said. 'Sharia law,' the source says Hasan responded."

Again, what are these "extremist Muslim views"? I can only assume, since it is the only example given, that this refers to the question of Maj. Hasan's reported allegiances. Um... as Christians, are we supposed to be more loyal to U.S. law than to Christ's teachings? I know, give to Caesar what is Caesar's, and all, but in the end... that's still a matter of following what God has instructed. Frankly, I find it a little disturbing that people had beef with this answer by Hasan. This wouldn't even be an issue if the question had asked "the ten commandments" instead of "Sharia law."

Case 3: "The source also recalled an instance in which Hasan was asked if the U.S. Constitution was a brilliant document, to which Hasan replied, 'No, not particularly.'"

The U.S. Constitution was apparently so incomplete when drafted that it has been amended 27 times since. Countless other amendments have been proposed. The fact that this man does not find it to be a particularly brilliant document did not, itself, indicate that he was a militant, extremist, or bad person.

Case 4: "In these presentations, which were supposed to be about health, the source said that Hasan justified suicide bombings and spoke about the persecution of Muslims in the Middle East, in the United States and in the U.S. military."

Finally! Something that is troubling! (At least part of it.) Justifying suicide bombings = not ok. Speaking about the persecution of Muslims in the Middle East, U.S., and U.S. military = is ok.

In conclusion... If this individual did shoot up the Fort Hood base, killing and injuring many (and it seems like a fairly straightforward case that he did... though it is still "allegedly," pending a trial) that is bad. I don't know if he was mentally ill, just plain evil, or some third alternative. It may be that he really was an extremist, militant Muslim and was acting based on these beliefs. But the things that people point to in this article are not indicitive of that. What they indicate is that he was a religious man-- it just happened to be a religion that was different from the other people engaged in these interactions.

When we put forth attacks like this, based on examples that could refer to any reasonable religious person, we lose credibility with people of other religions, in this country, and with the rest of the world. No wonder Hasan gave presentations on the persecution of Muslims. If someone called me a terrorist because I was open about my religious faith, that would be ridiculous. So let's not open ourselves for such ridicule. Let's take the facts for what they are, deal with this terrible tragedy and the horrible acts that brought it about, and not have to sensationalize and villify as our primary coping mechanism.

Article: Alleged Fort Hood shooter paralyzed from waist down, lawyer says

"It's communistic!"

This evening the local news carried a story about an area mobile home park, whose owners were unable to negotiate a price deal with Comcast for its tenants, and thus has opted to go with some other company. Apparently it is legal for mobile homes, apartments and the like to determine which company wires its properties for service-- but this has caused quite a stir among the residents of said mobile home park.

My replies to the upset tenants:

1. Comcast is evil.
2. Why are you complaining that Comcast is out?
3. Comcast is evil.

The comment from one aghast woman: "It's communistic!"

1. Hmm... really? Because having an absolute monopoly on an industry is so democratic and freeing?
2. Comcast is evil.
3. I'm pretty sure "communistic" is not a word. I could be wrong. But either way, you said it because you made it up-- not because you actually know that it is a word.
4. Comcast is evil.

She continued: "What am I going to do-- listen to the radio? This isn't 1940."

1. WTF?
2. Yes. Listen to the radio. Despite being 1940, it does still exist.
3. Go outside. You live in freaking Colorado.
4. (Insert extensive list of obvious other things she could do, other than watch the TV, here.)
5. Comcast is evil.
6. I understand that people in 1940 were tortured by their lack of cable television. Soon we re-calculate our very time system itself, to break at the "B.C." (before cable) point in time. But really... you will still survive. I promise.
6. Comcast is evil.
7. If this was in fact 1940, you'd have all sorts of other things with which to entertain yourself-- like world war, segregation, and polio. Poor you, living in 2009 without Comcast, whatever are you to do?
8. Comcast is evil.

Overall conclusions from this story:

1. Comcast is evil.
2. The residents of (at least this particular) mobile home park are not real bright.
3. It's communistic!
4. Comcast is evil.

Hahaha. That just sorta made my day. Except, that... Comcast is evil. And don't you forget it.

**And yes, I am a Comcast customer. Because satellite dishes don't work so well in apartment buildings, and I need my Discovery Channel, yo. (I do not, however, think I will die or revert to 1940 without it.) By the way, these mobile home park tenants could, apparently, get a dish-based TV service, which I just now realized. (But then again, see #2 above.)

Oh, please.

A recent article in the Huffington Post purportedly provided us with some sneak previews at a former Bush speechwriter's tell-all book. Among the tidbits shared: the fact that good ol' W apparently-- once in his life-- showed reluctance to share an anti-gay-marriage soundbite with the world:

For a commencement address at Furman University in spring 2008, Ed Gillespie wanted to insert a few lines condemning gay marriage. Bush called the speech too "condemnatory" and said, "I'm not going to tell some gay kid in the audience that he can't get married."

LIKE. WE. CARE.

Does anyone out there actually give a rat's behind that Bush restrained himself on this one particular occasion? Is this newfound "belief" about the condemnatory nature of the speech supposed to make us forget all his previous statements and actions on the topics? Even if he really felt that way, and more-- like, even if Bush really is a big fan of gay marriage, unbeknownst to us all, it would not make me any fonder of him (perhaps less so). Because really-- what do our feelings and intentions matter if we do not have the courage to act in accordance with them?

(And that's about all I have to say about that.)

Reflections on the day the world changed

Eight years ago, I was a 17-year-old International Relations major, off to her first semester at college, when some terrorists decided to launch a massive attack on my country, and turned the whole world upside down. On this, the anniversary of those attacks, I dug out an old floppy disk and pulled up the thoughts I logged on those events, closer to that date-- the original entries scrawled by hand on a notebook I kept up on my dorm room loft. The thoughts of those earlier days and years are here presented, unchanged and as they were. They cover that day, when my suitemate and I watched a skyscraper fall, and also many of the thoughts and emotions that were to come later on.

The day the world changed-- Part I

written midafternoon on September 11, 2001

Someday my children and grandchildren will ask me where I was today, what I was doing, how I found out. I will tell them now, while it is freshly imprinted in my mind, while the world is falling apart around me. Though I don’t think I could ever forget any of it.

A normal Tuesday morning for me, in the third week of my college career: up at 8:30, showered, dragged myself to my 9:10 public affairs discussion. We sat there talking about missile defense, national security. The biggest things on our minds were when this class was going to end, and whether or not we’d be able to fit in a nap in the 20 minutes before the next. Finally we were released.

The tea I had made that morning still sat, cool and sweet, on the dresser next to the microwave. I hadn’t had time to drink it in my rush to MC 201. I would have just enough time to reheat it before hustling back upstairs to my writing class. My suitemate poked her head through the open bathroom door as I pulled the dripping teabag from my mug.

“Have you seen the news?” I stared back blankly. “The country is under terrorist attack.”

I was seven during the Persian Gulf War. I remember being terrified of Saddam Hussein. I was eleven when the federal building in Oklahoma City was bombed. Like every other person in America, I will never forget the images. I was fourteen when the U.S. Embassies in AfricaU.S.Iraq. I remember being shocked. were attacked; I was away at camp and my mom and grandma told me about it when they picked up a few days later. I remember the counterstrikes. I was fifteen and my friends were dying my hair when I was called from a musty basement to stand in a kitchen doorway, careful not to drip on the carpet, as I watched the flashing green-and-black screens which signified bombs dropping on

Eventually I learned to be outraged at what I thought were unjust, violent acts of my country all over the world, or even the few crazed madmen who would attack their own country. But they were far away. I could look at the pictures of injured children, displaced families, weeping wives at soldiers’ funerals, and feel sorrow, but it was displaced from me. At the end of the day, I didn’t really have to pay attention. I was not required to care.

All that changed at 10:08 this morning, with a few steps across the bathroom dividing two dorm rooms. My roommate and I had just rearranged our room the previous evening, so our TV was not plugged in. I think she told me before I saw the screen, but I’m not really sure, it all hit me like a brick in my stomach. Two planes crashed into the World Trade Center. One of the towers just collapsed. The Pentagon is on fire. They’ve evacuated Capitol Hill.

“They showed them evacuating the White House,” she told me. “They were all running, all in their suits, running out of there.”

As would be repeated on one news station after the next, America had never seen anything like it.

I dragged myself to MC 111. Usually I loved that class, never wanted it to be over. It was the longest session ever.

My schoolmates wondered how much defense loss had been incurred in the attack on the Pentagon, discussed the comparative structural integrity of buildings now and in the past, and called for swift retaliation and war. What kind of systematic defense do we have against this sort of thing? one fellow wondered.

You can’t defend against people flying jumbo jets into buildings. You’ve just got to try and pick up the pieces.

It didn’t dawn on me until later that day that in the few moments of coverage I had witnessed between my two classes, the reporters had been speculating on more possible damage: more to New York or D.C., or on other major cities. Los Angeles, Chicago. My brother works in downtown Chicago.

I wasn’t worried. All the missing planes had been accounted for. Everything had happened in the space of an hour. But it could have come closer. Someone had said that another student in the college had a family member in one of those planes. It could have come much, much closer.

All the televisions in the dorm were on the news all day. By the doors of the cafeteria, behind the front desk, in the second floor lobby where a silent group had gathered, and in every hall the grisly news was repeated. All day long, flashes of fire as a plane crashes through a tower, crumbling buildings, billowing smoke everywhere-- these were the sights of the day, on every channel but Sesame Street. The faint and echoing sound of sirens haunted the background and became ingrained in my subconscious.

If America had seen nothing like it, I certainly hadn’t. I was raised in a country which taught its children to feel impervious to turmoil in the rest of the world. Other than the brief encounter in the Gulf, we had seen no war, and certainly nothing had threatened our homeland.

Now, less than a day’s drive from the green lawns and clear, cloudless blue sky outside my window, people are dying under a thick cloud of ash and smoke that paints a picture akin to nuclear winter. We never thought it would come from the jumbo jets. Spend your billions and trillions on weapons and defenses, but at the end of the day we’re as mortal as anyone else. Maybe more so, because we’re so much more surprised by it.

Whoever did this are already being called “madmen,” “cowards,” “the bastards.” Why shouldn’t we retaliate against, crush, whoever caused people flying home to their families to become weapons; buildings to collapse upon their inhabitants?

Because we do the same thing. But no one notices that, because we aren’t required to care. As I sit here I listen to a man’s description of watching people leap from the windows of the Trade Center towers. He said it was the most horrible thing he’s ever had to witness. Hearing him describe the body of a woman melted, encrusted into the cement, I feel sick. Not only because someone has done this to us, but because I know we’re going to do it right back. We have done it before. And I’m afraid it is never going to end.

When are we all going to figure out that we can keep killing each other off, but in the end the only difference it makes is pain for that many more people? It’s a game, but the stakes are lives all over the world. I just don’t want to play anymore.

The day the world changed-- Part II

written at 8pm on September 11, 2001

Everyone on the news keeps saying it’s like Pearl Harbor. Except worse. 78 NYPD officers unaccounted for. 200-some firefighters missing in New York. Reportedly up to 285 people killed on the four hijacked planes alone. Uncountable thousands killed in the Trade Center collapse. 50,000 people work there in that one building. 150,000 people visit daily. They had an hour and 20 minutes before the first tower collapsed entirely. 23 minutes later the north tower went down too. The first time the Congress has ever been evacuated. Ever.

Does anyone, however, remember what happened when Pearl Harbor was bombed? We dropped the bomb on Hiroshima and Nagasaki. If this time is worse, I don’t think I want to know what is going to happen next.

I saw the Congress singing “God Bless America” on the steps of the Capitol building earlier this evening. Bush wants to “hunt down and crush” whoever is responsible. Even Madeline Albright-- who we had been longing to have back-- didn’t seem too promising. There have been explosions in Afghanistan. Either the U.S. is responsible (the White House has been denying it, but everyone’s been pretty much ignoring it) or the accusations that had been flying all evening are a little less relevant, and then what do we do?

I don’t know. I honestly can’t deal with all the hatred and racism and nationalism and militarism-- and mostly, with all combined-- that is in this college, this whole nation tonight. I just pray for us all. Let us not do anything for which our children and our God will condemn us.

The day the world changed-- Part III

written around noon on September 13, 2001, two days after the attacks

They say the reason womyn shouldn’t hold high offices of power in this country is that we’re not rational, that we’re too emotional. Without discussing gender stereotypes here, I find that nonetheless an almost amusingly ironic declaration. I see nothing rational in revenge, in killing innocent lives in attempts to resurrect those our own country has lost, in striking out against those we assume responsible without discovering the truth, in two wrongs making a right. I learned that in kindergarten. Apparently some people missed that lesson.

I couldn’t say any more in MC 111 this morning. We started with a discussion of the weeks’ events-- or mostly, the future and how we should or must respond-- sparked by a few thoughts by the professor. One person in the class remarked that he didn’t believe in killing innocent lives, but, well, “sometimes that’s just necessary in war.” Will we really feel better when the terrified people leaping from buildings, running through the streets, crushed under steel, melted into the concrete, have foreign names rather than those we easily recognize? Will that really be enough? We might feel a superficial sense of satisfaction, but never peace. Never peace, not that way.

That is what worries me. Everyone wants world peace at the holidays, but when it comes down to wounded pride, peace be damned.

I think I might be going into the right field.

The day the world changed -- Part IV

written at 3pm on Thursday, September 11, 2003, two years after the attacks

It’s been two years, and I can hardly believe it. I still remember that morning like it happened yesterday. No, that’s not even true. I, too, have become distanced from the feelings that day, have learned to deal in hate and revenge and politics rather than in the sweet value of human lives. I, too, have become bitter and angry with those who feel differently than I.

So much has happened in the last two years. So many people-- millions, I’m sure-- have had to learn how to live life all over again, how to go on without their loved ones. Those people are all over the world now-- in the United States, in Afghanistan, in Iraq. And what have we solved? We cannot even solve our “victories” for themselves, let enough with adequate certainty to make amends for those lives we lost that fateful day. Many died on this day, two years ago, and so many, many more have died since then.

Our country has forgotten about Afghanistan. We were so impassioned about bombing the shit out of them at the time, sure that once we had obliterated all their hopes and securities and a good many of their children, we would feel complete, feel that just reparation had been made for the attacks of those who used planes as weapons. But it wasn’t enough. Oh, wait-- we did manage to bomb the Red Cross. Twice. That would be ridiculously funny, except that it’s not. And still, it wasn’t enough.

So we wrote off Afghanistan. Declared that even if we hadn’t found or killed bin Laden, it was ok because, look, we did other good things. We justified killing civilians by the reasoning that we had really helped them by taking the Taliban out of power. Bomb first, justify later. We wouldn’t have sent our forces to remove the Taliban for the sake of the Afghanistan people. That’s far too selfless. It’s just a convenient after-the-fact excuse.

Meanwhile we were rounding up our own people like cattle. Didn’t we try this before? Does this scene look frighteningly familiar to anyone else? I wasn’t even there, and I can see it. Open your eyes! In school they tell the children about the internment camps and the Japanese families (U.S. citizens, even!) that were torn from their homes and held for no other crime than their race. We tell the children that this was an awful idea, that many of these people were very patriotic and would have served the U.S. in our forces, that never again will we do something like this. That we learned the first time.

And then we tell them that this time, well, this is just different. The Japanese weren’t actually threats to the country, which we didn’t realize at the time-- or did we?-- but, you know, Arabs and dissenters and generally anyone not a nice white person with a “God bless America” bumper sticker-- now, those people are actual threats. It’s such an obvious difference, can’t you see?

Take out a map. Hold your finger over the Middle East. Close your eyes. Pick a country. Or, better yet, inherit an enemy. Saddam made a nice target the first time, good thing Daddy didn’t finish him of or W would really be in a fix. Well no, not really, we can always find another enemy, another really good reason to hate.

More dead, victory declared, but still more--and more--and more people dying almost every day. But it’s ok because, look, we did other good things. We justify killing civilians by the reasoning that we had really helped them by taking Saddam’s regime out of power. Bomb first, justify later. We wouldn’t have sent our forces to remove the Saddam for the sake of the Iraqi people (…but for their oil?). That’s far too selfless. It’s just a convenient after-the-fact excuse.

There were so many reasons to hope though, as well, over these last two years. For every twenty letters to the paper demanding revenge (on anyone or everyone, it seldom mattered) or denouncing a “non-patriotic,” “un-American” war protester, or praising the president and his brilliant plan for war(s), there was maybe one letter, or two, questioning, protesting, demanding reasons and calling for compassion and peace.

The peace vigil I coordinated in March was one of the most moving things I’ve ever experienced. That’s as lightly as I can phrase it, and still it comes out as me taking far more credit for it than I really feel I deserve. One simple act-- adding a location to an online registry of vigils worldwide-- and it just exploded without any further help from me. Yes, I emailed those who’d signed up on the website, giving details about the location and encouraging them to bring their children along and finding someone who could take digital pictures and notified the news media about the event…. but I would see signs for the vigil up places around town, at Kava House when I stopped for a hot chocolate. And there was this amazing sense of connectedness. There-- physical proof that someone else in the city was working for the same things I was, that I was not alone in my protest and in my longing for peace, that all that was needed was for someone to take the very first step, and people would run with it. And I learned that I could be the one to take that first step. I had the power to actually, concretely, make a difference.

And this all came together in just a very few days. When I showed up at the Calder Plaza at seven that Sunday night, there were people everywhere. It was incredible. It was like nothing I had dreamed of-- I’d been worried that not many people would actually show up. The entire thing had been taken out of my hands, would survive whether I was there or not, because there were hundreds of people who cared enough to make it down there that night and light a candle for peace.

There were men in suits, nuns, toddlers, sullen-looking teenagers-- everyone was there. And people did bring their children.

Two hours after planes crashed into the World Trade Towers, the Pentagon, a Pennsylvania field, I learned to fear and to grieve. Two days later, I had learned to despair and become angry at what my country-- yes, it is mine too-- was doing. Two years later, I have seen much pain but also some hope. And so I hope than in twenty years, perhaps we will finally be able to see more of the second, somewhat less of the first. Hopefully the children that came to the peace vigils this year, the children I may be raising, will learn from my generation better than we have learned from those of the past. Hopefully they will continue our struggle to change the world for the better.

It will not be complete, that struggle, in twenty years. It has been going on much longer than that, and will continue after me and my children and their children are all forgotten. But to keep struggling, to get a little closer to that world of peace and hope-- that is what really matters for now.

The actual greatest show on Earth

The past week, I had an unforgettable opportunity, to see Cirque du Soleil's "Kooza" show here in Denver. (For free, no less.)

I can absolutely say that I have never been so captivated and entertained by anything in my entire life. Pretty much every second of the show was absolutely mesmerizing, from the high-energy feats to the mind-boggling reaches of the human body's capacities. You cannot help but laugh, applaud, cry out, and hold your breath as the acts-- some of which simply defy description-- unfold before you.

To back up, the reason I got to see this show for free is that Cirque du Soleil gave the organization where I work-- Urban Peak, a nonprofit agency serving homeless and runaway youth in Denver-- tickets so that youth and staff could attend. Upon arriving, it became apparent that many of the dress rehearsal tickets were given to various groups involving youth. And let me tell you, even if you've been to a Cirque show before, if you ever have the chance sometime, you should try going with a bunch of homeless teens and young adults who don't often get such an opportunity.

Anyway, so there are 2 points I have on why Cirque du Soleil-- and not Ringling Brothers or any of the other popular animal-based circuses-- is in fact the "greatest show on Earth." The first being their amazing generosity, not only in providing an amazing opportunity for urban youth to experience the show, but also in the fact that they gave Urban Peak 700 level-one tickets to sell for 100% profit. This is not the first time they've made such a generous contribution.

The second is that every last second of this incredible, unforgettable show was 100% guilt-free. None of the entertainment was tinged with questions of how they got the animals to do that, or guilt over the confinement and cruel training that went into creating the show in front of us. There were no lingering questions of what the children were learning about what was right or wrong, to distract from the sheer joy. I'm not going to get into all the issues involved with animal-based circuses and entertainment acts (though if you want to know more, I'd be of course willing to get into that at another time), but the question is, why are they even "necessary"? I cannot imagine anything more entertaining that what occurred before me the other night.

Who needs scared elephants and cramped tigers when you have THIS kind of magic?


(And no, these are not actual pictures from the Denver run. But they are from the Kooza show. I'm glad they don't allow any sort of photography within the show.)

Security... more generally speaking

So, if you notice, it's about 3:30am at the moment. And you know the wee-hours-of-the-morning blogs are never going to be good. Especially when I was going to be getting up for work around 5am, so this is not like a planned late-night adventure.

(Mom, before you read any further, remember that I am blogging. Which means that I must be more or less ok.)

So, a really great way to spend your night is to wake up at 2:30am to the sound of a key turning in your lock. Of course, you don't know it's 2:30am, because of the aforementioned sleep out of which you were just jolted. And because of your groggy state, at first you aren't entirely certain that the key and footsteps you are hearing are actually in your apartment. At first you think you were just being paranoid in that split second that you woke up, and assume that the sounds are most likely really from the apartment above or below.

That is, until you see the hall light go on.

Turns out, I do not have anything in my bedroom that could effectively crush someone's skull. At least, not anything that I could recall and locate on a second's notice immediately after awakening. (Don't worry, this is a scenario I will be amending before another night passes. A geode bookend should serve nicely for this purpose, as long as I remember not to leave it next to the bed where I will inevitably just step on it.)

Adrenaline is a funny thing. In those few moments (seriously, it was probably under 60 seconds) in which I crawled silently out of bed to brace myself at my bedroom door while I waited as the unknown entrant turned off the light and left (to only close the push-button lock-- seriously, you came in through the deadbolt, so lock the &!@$ deadbolt again after yourself! Inconsiderate trespasser) I am sort of surprised that my heart didn't seize up from how hard it was pounding. After it sounded like the apartment was otherwise unoccupied again, and I located my cell phone and ventured out of my bedroom, I'm not entirely sure what I shouted into the empty apartment, but I'm pretty sure it involved something about ripping someone's face of. (Actually, now after the fact, I am experiencing a deep sense of shame that I wasn't able to come up with something more creative and ferocious. I will have to take some notes for next time, and leave them next to my handy blunt object.)

Anyway, it wasn't till after I'd checked the time, called the management company (maintenance somewhat bewilderedly told me that there shouldn't be anyone out at that hour), and was on the phone with the non-emergency police that I realized how hard I was shaking. I'm really glad the !%*&%# did turn on the hall light and thus assure me that I was not going crazy (cue flashbacks to those first times your parents left you home alone, or you were babysitting in a strange house with its own creepy sounds, and imagining all the various intruders just around the corner). I really appreciated being able to add "oh and then I saw the hall light go on and off" during the various times I told this story to assorted members of property management and law enforcement.

So the un-exciting end of this story is that two nice DPD officers came out, looked around with their nice big cop flashlights (now there's a handy blunt object for you... wonder where I could get one of those...) and told me that it was most likely someone else who lived in the apartment building. Apparently when your property management company totally blows (oh yeah, I will be having some strong words for them in the sleep-deprived morning) they basically order like 4 different locks for the entire building, and they're all really close to the same lock anyway, so pretty much you can open other peoples' apartments. Their take on the situation: somebody was drunker than they realized, and once they looked around and saw that this was not their place, they departed. The cops went to look around (though I would have been happier if they'd vowed to knock on every door in the building and report back to me with reassurance that the drunkard in such-and-such unit really had just unwittingly wandered in) and the one wished me, "try to have a good night." Such a nice, knowingly feeble attempt to reassure someone who had all sense of security just taken away from them.

Tomorrow, I'll be calling the management company. They will be changing the lock. And after they do so (and I will tell them this in advance), I will be taking the new key and trying it on every apartment in the building. I'll stop once they do it right. The lock to my place is going to be one-of-a-kind. I'll also be getting a chain lock to install, as it appears some previous resident had, based on the holes in the door.

But the point is, I shouldn't have to do any of this. I live in a secure building, with a locked main entry and buzzer system. My door has a peephole, a push-button lock and a deadbolt (both of which are locked every night-- and any time that I'm home, for that matter-- though apparently this does not matter). I should be able to sleep at night-- literally-- and rest secure.

&*@$@%#!

...is all I have to say about that.

Job security

In case you've missed the memo, the economy is terrible. Supposedly, recovery is on the horizon. We're hearing less about home foreclosures (if only because all of the homes have already been foreclosed on). New unemployment claims are supposedly on the decline (again, perhaps because there are less people left with jobs to lose?). Stimulus packages are coming down left and right (though, don't get me started on those). But this past week, it seemed like Denver was just plain falling apart.

On Monday evening, there was a story on the news about the closing of the busy ESPN Zone store and restaurant downtown. They interviewed one of the former employees. She said that there'd been rumors about six months ago, but that they had been reassured that the site would not be closing, and their jobs were safe. On the day she was being interviewed, she had showed up for work, only to find the doors locked.

(Interestingly, the news story also included information on a new business that would be opening in part of the former restaurant location this fall. Somebody clearly new in advance that the restaurant would be closing.)

On Tuesday evening, I went to pick up my CSA share at a local restaurant in the popular Larimer Square shopping and restaurant district. When I opened the door, I saw that all the barstools were up on the tables. The manager told me that the CSA boxes were out back by the delivery door. The employee I found there informed me that the restaurant was closing its doors, and they had already arranged a new pick-up location for the CSA shares. I asked if the closing was sudden. She seemed a tad shell-shocked.

On Wednesday evening, I was heading home from running errands when I passed by the delightful gourmet pizza joint just around the corner from me, that opened just last summer. Or should I say, the former delightful gourmet pizza joint. The building is now for sale.

On Thursday evening, I went to my church potluck group. Others spoke of layoffs at their companies with the uneasy security of those whose jobs have been spared, but knowing that theirs could be the next positions to be eliminated. In my job, too, the future is ever tenuous. I work for a non-profit, which means every position relies on donations and, mine especially, grants. We just ended a program year and are awaiting news on our renewal.

But more notably, the thought that has crossed my mind with each of these quietly disappearing businesses is, this is the economy in which I am an employment counselor. People who already have jobs-- and degrees, experience, and professional connections-- cannot know their own job future. Yet I am charged with helping homeless and at-risk youth, who face so many additional barriers-- from not having a roof over their head, to lacking the needed documents to get a state ID, to struggling to find childcare that doesn't cost more than they make in their own job, to being completely inexperienced-- carve out a career for themselves.

And this in a state with relatively low unemployment-- particularly compared to my home state of Michigan, which has the unwanted distinction of leading the country in that measure.

Matthew 6:25-34
"Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or drink; or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more important than food, and the body more important than clothes? Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they? Who of you by worrying can add a single hour to his life?
"And why do you worry about clothes? See how the lilies of the field grow. They do not labor or spin. Yet I tell you that not even Solomon in all his splendor was dressed like one of these. If that is how God clothes the grass of the field, which is here today and tomorrow is thrown into the fire, will he not much more clothe you, O you of little faith? So do not worry, saying, 'What shall we eat?' or 'What shall we drink?' or 'What shall we wear?' For the pagans run after all these things, and your heavenly Father knows that you need them. But seek first his kingdom and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well. Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own."

But how are we to take all of this in an atmosphere of such rampant insecurity? Do we scorn our savings accounts, figuring that tomorrow will worry about itself? Fail to keep our resumes up-to-date? How are we to not worry about tomorrow, when at any time we might show up to work to find the doors locked, or be told that our position is being eliminated, effective immediately? And what of those who have already lost their jobs, and are now desperately job-seeking, unable to keep up in the meantime with mortages, car payments, and rising utility and food bills?



(Oh... what... you thought I was about to provide the answer? Oh, sorry. Nope. You're on your own there. But if you do find the answer, let me know. I'm sure I can find some folks who would love to hear it, as well.)

A striking story

First, go read the (short) story I encountered today: Dying girl granted last wish for "Up"

I don't know what about this story struck me so. Maybe it was the apparent total grace with which the mother let her young daughter go. Maybe it was the efforts of everyone involved to help fulfill the girl's dying wish, however simple or silly it might have seemed. (It's not like she asked, after all, to go skydiving or see Europe just once before she died.)

But I think mostly it's the girl. Often in life we encounter the hypothetical question, "if you had 24 hours left to live, how would you spend your last day?" It's an uncomfortable and ultimately ridiculous question-- because when are we ever faced with that opportunity or that curse, to know of our impending end but still be blessed with the boundless health, money, and freedom required to fulfill the typical answers to the question?

The young girl in this story demonstrated at once both incredible bravery-- facing, with full knowledge, her own death-- and the true spirit of a 10-year-old. After all, she just wanted to see the latest Disney movie.

Now, I don't know this particular 10-year-old's views on the afterlife. But imagine just wanting to savor one last little joy in life-- to, in fact, put off dying in order to do so-- even though you won't remember it, wouldn't experience any sorrow for having not seen it after all, because you knew you would not be here any more.

I can't think of a better way to spend your last day.

How's life? Well, funny you should ask...

I thought I'd just throw out a post of "all the cool stuff Corrie has going on this summer." Just in case random people have missed out on random parts of these updates. So here goes...

This Tuesday I'm getting my first weekly veggie and fruit shares from the Grant Family Farms CSA in Wellington, Colorado. Likely inclusions this week? Lettuce, spinach, radishes, cilantro, kale, parsley, rhubarb, beets, raspberries, and strawberries! YUM!

I'm excited to try out the tasty, fresh local treats that I'll get to pick up each week (not far from my home & work). One of the ways I'll get to put that produce to good use is making dishes for my "Meals That Matter" group through church. Sadly, I'll be missing the first meal, as I'll be out of town, but for the next 7 weeks thereafter, I'll get to share a meal once a week with the same group of about 15 other people from my church.

Soon, it may be heating up like last summer, and those goodies from my fruit share will go to good use in many a summer smoothie. For the last couple of weeks, though, we've been having what I've affectionately dubbed "monsoon season" here in Colorado. Every single day brings a thunderstorm (and thus sends Potok fleeing under the futon-- or, if I'm home, under a snug blanket hideaway, as seen at right.) Each day breaks clear and sunny (as does every day in Denver, of course), but sometime in the afternoon or early evening, quite suddenly the sky grows dark and the drops start to fall.

Oftentimes this has involved 5-10 minutes of pounding hail, bouncing off my window sills and collecting on the streets and sidewalks below. We haven't had any tornadoes (and aren't likely to) here so close to downtown, but they've already started tearing up the suburbs and plains, and outlying areas have been even more heavily carpeted with large hail.

Yesterday I was so fortunate as to perfectly time a long bus ride with the day's storm. The streets were so flooded that the bus pushed up huge waves of water onto the sidewalk as it passed, drenching unlucky pedestrians and bus-waiters several inches deep. Parking lots quickly turned into rushing rivers many yards wide. And as the bus plowed along, it kicked up spray as high as the bus itself, creating a wake like that from a cruise ship.

As soon as the day's storm is through, however (which usually happens within 10 minutes to an hour), the sun breaks out with a vengeance and it's sunny Denver weather all over again.

Side note: Potok's timidity at thunderstorms inspired me, one day as I walked home from the bus stop in the rain and blazing sunshine, to pen (well, in my head) this little ditty (to the tune of "The Itsy Bitsy Spider"):

The fluffy fuzzy Potok hid underneath the couch.
Home came the Corrie and coaxed the Potok out.
Out came the sun and dried up all the rain.
The fluffy fuzzy Potok can lounge in peace again.

Off the summer storm topic... Also in my summer plans is building a house with Habitat for Humanity. Well, not an entire house. My church has committed to 4 "build days," with 10 volunteers working on the house each day (and raising $2,500 toward the material costs for building the house-- more details to come on how you can contribute to this great cause if you feel so moved!)

I also plan on involving a whole lot of music in my summer. I already caught the Dead here in Denver last month (from a killer floor seat, mind you). Next up: a show in the cornfields with one of my best friends on the planet. Later in the summer, the same music festival I attend every August. Hopefully more to be packed in, in between there, but for some reason I have an exceedingly difficult time getting anyone in Denver to want to do anything other than go to the movies.

Let's see, what else... I'm still working as an Employment & Education Counselor working with homeless and at-risk youth. I'm looking forward to our summer GED graduation coming up in a few weeks-- it's gonna be big!

Oh, and soon I'm going to start volunteering with the children's ministry at church-- just because I don't get my hands on my sweet niece & nephew (who are about to be ONE, can you believe it?!) as often as I'd like, doesn't mean I can't at least get in some time with the local kiddos!

Man... I'm probably forgetting something else, too... :)

Life as a cat person

Growing up, I was always lobbying for a cat. Don't get me wrong; we were dog people. The dog I grew up with for my first dozen years, Raisin, was a top-notch dog. Really awesome. Levi, who we got to love for next dozen, was (and may always be) the best friend I've ever had. But still, throughout my childhood, I never gave up the campaign for a cat.

Then came college, and the various rentals and uprootings that entailed. No place for a cat. As a kid, I really wanted a kitten, probably because I'd never had a real baby animal, in terms of something tiny, itty bitty (though Levi, at 10 months when he adopted us, was quite a pup). And kittens are among the cutest things there are. During my college years my menagerie of smaller fare waxed and waned, through various offcast animals-- the fish I'd seen hatched as babies, taken in after their owner moved away. Zeke, my first parakeet, joined the family from an allergic owner. Jackie soon joined the flock, as he wasn't getting enough attention (but getting too much attention from the cat) in his prior home. Crooked Face and Baby Fish eventually passed away, and I found their lonely sister Orange One a new home with other fish in a giant classroom tank. Zeke and Jackie became good buddies, and when I moved to Denver, embarked on the 1,000+ mile roadtrip with me like troopers.

And then came cat.

Potok arrived. He was unsure of the new arrangement, after leaving his lifelong home, being very dramatically jammed into a carrier, hoisted out at airport security, and taking to the air for a total 10-hour trip with someone he barely knew. And for background, Potok is not really that fond of people he barely knows. He tends to flee at best, and hiss, bite, and punch at worst. Thus I was unsure as well-- of just exactly how happy Potok would end up, out in Colorado with me.

But behold...He digs me! :)

It only took Potok a few days to warm up, to the point where he wanted to jump on my lap for some lovin'. Of course, during that first week or two, it was tentative at first-- snuggling for pettings, but still wary of the human giving them. Since then, however, he has decided that I am his Person now, and has accepted me whole-heartedly (as much as cat might, that is-- he still might sock me in the legs as I pass, if he's mad that I'm not allowed to let him into my bedroom, or dash up to chomp at my arm if he's just feeling frisky).

I've learned many things from this cat. For instance, that under his fierce exterior, there can be a precious little guy who really just wants to cuddle, knead my stomach, and kiss my elbows. Or that a cat can go from zero to 60 in the time it takes to click on a laser pointer. That a cat who remains silent all evening can instantly began caterwauling (pun intended) while playing with jingly ball toys, the minute I go to bed. Or that while a nice comfy new pet bed may be of zero interest whatsoever, a cardboard box can be the very best present ever. Or that cats know how to barf a lot.

(Sadly, this evening Potok barfed in his cardboard box. This is good news for me, since it was a much more convenient than his previous ventures to barf on my braided jute rug, which is possibly the most difficult surface in the universe from which to clean cat barf, or the even more exciting option, one of my sandals. This was a very sad incident for Potok, however, since he has really grown immensely fond of this box.)

The verdict, in the end: Good kitty.

Appreciation

(None of this is aimed at any one person. If you don't believe me, carry on to the following introduction.)

Lately (by which I mean, increasingly cumulatively over much of the course of my life, finally culminating here, tonight) I have been thinking about appreciation. What it means, and what it entails, and what it looks like in actuality.

Saying that someone has done a good job, is all well and good. Appreciation days, appreciation dinners, (delectable appreciation CREPES, like we had at my work!!) etc. are all very nice. Telling someone that you like having them around is always welcome. But what does it mean to actually appreciate someone?

The dictionary speaks thus:

ap-pre-ci-ate
VERB:

1. To recognize the quality, significance, or magnitude of.
2. To be fully aware of or sensitive to; realize.
3. To be thankful or show gratitude for.
4. To admire greatly; value.

Normally "appreciation" covers the last two, at very best. And those are nice enough. It does feel good to hear that someone loves you, or that they think you're doing really great at your job, or to be thanked for help you have given. But I'm sort of over those things-- in the sense of, if I had the option of choosing one option or another, I'd opt for the former two. (Assuming as I am, of course, that choosing "all of the above" was not provided as an option on this particular survey.)

So. You want to front like you appreciate me?

Ask me about the things that are most important to me, not just the things about me that are interesting to you. Every once in a while, stop to remember that I would give my friends the shirt off my back if they needed it (or if I guessed that they needed it). Don't just say you enjoy spending time with me, make time for me, go out of your way to see me. Remember that I am here and have my own struggles and issues and heartbreaks, even when I am willing to set them aside for a time to let you rant about yours. Stop asking what I do for a living to make small talk, and instead actually care when I tell you about my day. Don't forget about me. Stop writing off 99 amazing things for the 1 thing you see as a flaw. Give me credit where credit is due, especially when it's a matter of my effort to improve myself or my relationship with you. Don't pretend that where I am now, comes easy. Remember what I'm drinking at the bar and what I like to eat. If you want to tell me something you appreciate about me, point out the victories that you know were hardest-won. Do not come in and out of my life at will and think that you can live off just the good parts. If you want respect from me, show it to me as well, because I am growing ever more wary of those around me whom I cannot trust but who know that I am loving, and loyal, and kind. If you've wronged me, simply apologize; forgiveness and hugs are among my favorite things, and I do not have the energy to hold a grudge-- but neither will I stand by as you try to tread all over me in the same old ways. Find out about me-- know my history, my old wounds, my goals, my triumphs. When I tell you that I'm sorry, or that I care, or that I just don't understand, or that I am really trying-- I'm not lying; please just believe me. Be the one to call me first. Don't pretend to be my friend but make me beg. Smile when I walk into the room. Don't ignore me when I speak to you. Make me feel like my being in your life matters. Don't have a double standard for how you treat me and how you expect me to treat you. Don't try to control me by holding onto me with one hand and pushing me away with the other (because, anyway, I'm onto you). Don't play games, in general. I am straightforward. I will tell you how I feel, why I feel that way, and want to know the same things about you. Don't tell me you admire something I'm trying to accomplish, while all the while you are doing things to undermine me at every step along the way.

I am tired now. I'm going to bed. I'm just worn out of people being really passive aggressive. If you appreciate somebody, just ask like it for once. And this goes for everybody in your life, not just me. The specifics may be different, but you probably can figure some things out. Because you will mess it up. You will, at some point, say the wrong thing, or be really selfish, or jealous or vindictive or something else really nasty in that relationship. (And by "you," I mean "people," most certainly including myself in that analysis.) So that is why you need to actually show how you feel about that person, 99% of the time.

Baptism

As you may know, this morning I was baptized. It was awesome.

First, to back up a bit, this is my amazing church: Pathways Church. It's just a couple of blocks from me, and I love, love, love it. I wish I could be there every day of the week. So anyway, that's where another woman, me, and a father and son got baptized today. (More to come this evening! I'm excited to go back and get to witness them from a more spectator viewpoint, instead of the about-to-be-baptized and dripping-wet-outside-the-door viewpoints.)

Secondly, earlier this week Gil (the pastor) asked me to write up a brief bit about what brought me to this place. I didn't have anyone take pictures this morning (sorry to those who requested them-- I had enough going on this morning!) but thought I'd post that here. (And no, I did not have to read it myself... Gil read them.)

"I was raised in the church. I grew up knowing all the “right answers” about God. Yet it always seemed like everyone around me was so much more secure in their faith than I was. Others seemed to sail through incredible struggles with unwavering belief, whereas I always needed to know “why.”

"I’ve never doubted that there was a God, because I see the overwhelming beauty of creation around me. But there have been many times when I feared that God was not the loving, personal savior that I longed for. In recent years, broken relationships and unfulfilled dreams made it easy for me to write God off. I was so caught up in my own plans for myself, it was hard to accept that God might have something different in mind. So I moved 1,000 miles to a city where I knew virtually no one, hoping for a new chance to create the future I’d hoped for. What I found instead was the greatest uncertainty, loneliness and doubt that I’ve ever experienced. It seemed like God had failed me.

"Fortunately, God didn’t write me off. Patiently and persistently, he kept dropping small reminders of his presence and his love, just waiting for me to recognize them. My life may not be exactly how I planned it, but I am starting to see that the best things in my life have come about when I got exhausted from trying to control everything, gave up, and made room for God to work. I am starting to realize that he has a vision and a plan for me that is much bigger than anything I could come up with.

"I still don’t have anywhere close to all the answers, but I’m starting to look for them in the right places. It’s still not easy in the hard times, to trust that God knows what’s best for me and loves me even when I don’t feel like loving myself. But I’m trying to keep in sight the amazing grace of having Jesus as my eternal savior and guide as I continue to fumble through life. I chose to be baptized today as a symbol to myself, to God, and to my faith family that I am seeking to follow God’s direction now, even if I don't know where it might lead me."

Part II:

I went back for the evening service, because I wanted to see the other baptisms, wanted to actually be able to worship and listen to the message without being nervous about my own upcoming baptism, etc. (I suppose I should note that the services are the same, or this explanation would seem rather random.) It. Was. Amazing. If you're around in Denver, or ever visiting, when a baptism service at Pathways rolls around, I'll be persuading you to come along. God is in that place. (All the time, I mean. Not just on baptism days.) Being at Pathways is sort of like going to an extended family reunion-- there's all these people who you don't really know, but they all love you anyway.

Life, carless

So, I've been in Denver for a little over a year and a half now, and it's the first extended period of my life that I have been without ready access to a car. I was about to say "at least since I've been able to drive," but that's not really true-- since before then, I had parents with vehicles, and didn't have to think about how we were going to get places unless a car was in the shop or there was some other unusual circumstance.

When I first moved to Denver, I rather intended to get a car again at some point soon. Not initially, since I'd sold my car before moving (it wasn't gonna make the trip, plus driving a car and a moving truck at the same time is something I've yet to master) and, what with the costs of moving and still looking for a job for the first few months out here, I had other priorities at the time.

So, now I'm in the spot of having had a good job for over a year, and could buy a car if I really wanted to. But I haven't, yet. What I have done is discover a lot of unexpected difficulties (and bonuses) of living life, carless.

There is no such thing as a quick run to the store (or take-out restaurant, or friend's house, etc). At some points in my time in Denver, I've lived such a distance from downtown that an hour of travel by foot and bus was required to get to and from work. Even small grocery runs require planning out a minimum of an hour.

There is also no such thing as "stocking up" at the store. When I do walk to the closest grocery store (6 blocks away), I have to pick and choose, careful not to end up with a load that will be too heavy or unwieldy to lug back home.

Dark is another issue. Back in Michigan, I thought nothing of a 2am run to Meijer. This does not so much happen without the protection of a car. While the bus and neighborhood may be perfectly fine during the day, they are not the best of options for late-night excursions alone.

But I have discovered some delightful solutions, along the way. In just the past couple of months I've discovered the marvel of having groceries delivered right to my door (and cheaply!). It still has some inconveniences, but I think I might continue using it even if I did have a car again.

Plus, I see more. Hear more. Squirrels and pigeons on my way to work (and I sure do love me some squirrels and pigeons!). Interesting characters on the street. Overheard cell phone conversations on the light rail. Cheerful (and some not so cheerful) bus drivers. Neighborhoods as they pass by through the bus window. Sunsets over the mountains as I head out to Golden to visit friends.

I don't know what songs are on the radio these days, because I don't catch them over the car radio. Instead I turn on the ipod during long bus rides.

I can help the youth I work with to figure out how to get places, because I know how to get to the shelter by bus, and how to plan transit routes to where they're trying to go.

I've waited in the cold and heat (not so much rain, alas for arid climes) at bus stops. I've talked to groups of neighborhood old men hanging out on front stoops, small children, and Jehovah's Witnesses.

My living room is still lacking a rug, because I can't just pick one up if I see one at a store, or run over to check one out from a craigslist ad.

...and I tread more lightly (though more literally) on this delicate, complicated planet.

The art of searching

Things I found while searching my apartment tonight:*

- Tent stakes
- Free weights
- A pencil made out of money
- A tiny Eeyore figurine
- Many framed pictures
- 4 plant pots
- A set of dip spreaders
- 3 DVDs
- A set of nativity figures
- Outdated address labels
- 2 homemade mix CD's (one by me, one by someone else)
- A lamp
- A frisbee I didn't know I'd had
- One yummy smelling soy candle
- My college graduation cap
- A framed photo of a squirrel
- A key (don't ask me what it goes to)
- A book I'd started reading and lost 3 years (and 4 moves) ago
(*very incomplete list)

Things I did not find while searching my apartment tonight:
- The DVD set that I was looking for

Also found in my apartment tonight (or mailbox, more accurately): a summons for jury duty. Strange, the things you find when you're not even looking for them.

Facebook: the matchmaking mother I never wanted... and wish would take up knitting

So, over the past few months I have noticed something. Facebook, it would appear, is desperately upset about the fact that I am single.

I'm referring to those little ads that appear down the right side of the screen. I'm guessing that it is my "single" status that has spurred Facebook to fling ads for singles sites at me willy-nilly (though they also sprinkle in a few for wedding planning-- perhaps in an attempt to make me feel jealous, bitter and lonely, and thus visit the multitude of singles sites?)

And no, Facebook is not content just to throw in a match.com ad, or something so generic. Instead, I am daily solicited to peruse interracial dating sites (though the question always arises: how do they make sure you are interracially dating on their site? Do you select which races you're seeking? Or do they just refuse to pair you with your own ethnic persuasion?), persue millionaire men (who are these "verified" millionaires who are cruising for ladies on facebook, anyway?), find a match made in heaven with Christian hunks, or-- this is a new one-- find myself a "big and beautiful single" near me.

For one, this brings up the question: since when did "single" become a noun? ...As it relates to humans, anyhow. A "single" is a perfectly acceptable noun when describing a monetary denomination. A hotel room may even be appropriately labelled a "single," if such is its designation as a unit. But "singles" out there looking for me? Meet other "singles" now? Single has become the new "old maid," or perhaps, "leper."

For another thing, why is it that Facebook is so concerned with my single-hood? I figured out that they now provide a "thumbs-up" or "thumbs-down" option below the ads, with the supposed purpose of tailoring the ads to your particular interests and tastes. While this may be the idea in practice, in reality, Facebook is not to be swayed by the "thumbs-down"... no matter which reason I provide when prompted: offensive, uninteresting, irrelevant... despite my reporting of these ads under all such categories, Facebook will not be convinced. Of course she needs a man, Facebook thinks (or perhaps discusses with its girl friends over bridge). How could she not?

So here is my message to Facebook:

Thank you for your concern. I appreciate the thought. Really. (Sort of.) But, really. Don't worry about me. I'm fine. And when I want or need your help finding big, interracial, Christian millionaires, I promise- promise- I will let you know first. In the meantime, feel free to stick up some ads for concerts, or random quirky apparel, or whatever else it is that you may like to post up there-- I'm not really sure what your usual fare for non-"singles" may be, since I so rarely see anything else. (That ad for the wildlife sanctuary? That one worked out all right. Though the "thumbs-up" did not mean I wanted you to continue showing it every day. I was just trying to encourage some options other than matchmaking ads.)

Yes, Facebook, I say this not to hurt you or appear ungrateful for all the overbearing, meddling love you have poured out on me over the past few months of frenzied matchmaking attempts, but... I have to say it. THUMBS DOWN, Facebook! THUMBS DOWN!

My Miss America platform

No, do not fear, I am not running for (is that what it's called?) Miss America anytime soon, nor have you, good reader, accidentally navigated to the wrong blog (unless you have, of course). But isn't "world peace" the cliche' Miss America answer for... I don't even know what the question is supposed to be (see, I told you I don't know anything about this Miss America business)-- "what do you want for Christmas?"?

But anyway, what made me think of all this is recent events (by "recent" I mean since before I was born, but more relevantly, those of the past couple of weeks) in Israel. Israeli attacks on Palestinians; Palestinian attacks on Israel. Bush denouncing the Palestinians as "terrorists," but just sort of suggesting that Israel play nice.

This afternoon as I was going to catch a bus, I was cutting across the state capitol lot (as I do most times I'm heading toward downtown) and as I looked down the lawn towards the street, I saw the protesters gathered there along Lincoln St. (I'd heard on the news that there was going to be a protest, but had forgotten.) The news had said there was going to be a protest against Israel's recent actions. From where I passed by, up on capitol hill, the only sign I could read among that group was one that read "War is not the answer." A few yards down the sidewalk stood a few folks with pro-Israel signs. I think. One appeared to just say "Israel," from what I could see.

I got to thinking about extremes. Classifying one group as allies, another as terrorists. Feeling forced to choose one camp-- the pro-Israel or the pro-Palestinian protest huddles. The notion that this conflict (or any other) will be over, as soon as one side or the other "wins."

But that is simply not the case. Neither side will ever "win." And if they do-- if they manage to drive the other side down, crush their spirits, take their guns, their land, their forms of making a living-- it will not end the conflict. It might suppress its expression for a while, but it will always return, because there cannot be one "winner" in a conflict like this one. It is a conflict that will only be resolved once all involved (which includes their international allies) become willing to hold off on the statements of absolutes, willing to compromise and make concessions, willing to accept that they will not be crowned victorious at the end of the day, willing to admit the wrongs they committed in the road that led up to that point.

Because what is this conflict really about? I mean really-- when you get past the pride, the political and military fronting, the retaliation and the keeping of score.

It's about people who want to go home.

Everybody just wants to go home. They want to be home. Both sides. Wanting to have a place to call their own, that is safe, and stable, where they can live and work and raise their families and go about their lives. And who can't relate to that?

That is why-- someday, even if it is many holidays from now-- all I want for Christmas really is world peace.

A lost post

(I just found this post, in June, saved as a draft. I'm not sure where I was going with all this. But it sort of entertains me, 5 months later.)

Why I love squirrels:
They are fat.

Why I love vanilla ice cream:
It is delicious and creamy.

Why I love blankets:
They are snuggly and nesty.

While I love my birds:
They say hi when they see me.

Why I love pigeons:
They are shiny.

Why I love books:
They are intriguing.

Why I love sleep:
It is peaceful.

Why I love my niece and nephew:
They are huggable.
(Among many other reasons.)