The beginning...

We've been working fairly constantly since I got back from break. I don't mind work, and it was worth it all to sleep/camp in our own house on Christmas Eve, after a year homeless. I'll throw up some pictures when the place doesn't look so much like a construction site, but here's one to start out with, so you know where I'm coming from. We'll be done by New Year's Eve. And that's a promise. Just wait and see.

Elma Fuddly

Christmas was unpredictable. I guess that was a blessing, stepping out of the comfort zone, blah blah blah. I played for the entire Christmas program at church—what a heart-stopping time. The stress was practically dripping off my fingers. Gotta love adrenaline but when I can’t use it immediately, it pools in my muscles and starts to ache. I can’t decide whether my favorite part was the middle of the first piece( where I forgot what key the song was in), the time I dashed up front to sing with Grandma because she was having trouble with the song (and I do. not. sing. in. public), or the last of it, when I thought I was done and sat down only to discover, as the entire church is looking at me, that I’m supposed to accompany while the guys sing “We Three Kings.” By that point, though, it was jolly, since so many other things had gone wrong, and been switched around, that I was feeling rather cheerful--it couldn't get any worse. It helped that the boys were all dressed in fluffy blue bathrobes and Elmer Fudd hats, though. I dearly hope somebody got a picture. Ms. Linda shouldn’t have told them to use their own discretion when picking out wise man outfits.

A Ronny Christmas

“How are you doing today, Ronny?”


“Oh, fair to middlin’. I’m just hanging on like a hair inna biscuit.”

“Are you going up on the mountain to open presents?”

“Naw, I don’t worship no Christmas tree. The little’uns are going to be doing their ho ho ho, Merry dang crap, but I’m just gonna go drink beer and watch the game. Bah, humbeer.” And he laughs.

What a cheerful man Ronny is. He truly has a heart of gold. If he hates you, he's going to kill you (literally); but if he likes you, then there is nothing on heaven and earth that he wouldn't do for you.

Snapshots

A silent, snow-swept ridge, empty save for a large brown dog, old and moving stiffly now but still full of repressed glee, and a girl, dodging slowly in her winter farm gear but still running. Everything is muffled—the cows stare out from the sheltering pines, boggle-eyed and too astonished by the spectacle to make a sound from their forest shadows—and even the dog’s low-pitched whuffs and the girl’s high fox-yips seem to fade before they reach the tree line. C’mon, girl! They flip snow at each other and struggle forward through the drifts, until they reach the fence-line and cross.

The girl crouches beside a thick log wall, wire strippers and an outlet her hands. It is dark outside in the snowy woods, but in this open room, covered with sawdust, boards, and pieces of tile, it is warm. The iron stove in the corner glows with heat, and adds its flickering light to the glow of the work lamps. She is singing under her breath, "It's a marvelous night for a moondance," loving the way the sound echoes in here, and mixes with conversation from upstairs where the others are laying tile, a job she will complete tomorrow. She finishes twisting the copper wires together and wraps the ends in electrical tape, screwing the completed outlet into the wall and moving on.

The girl stands behind her father, hands on his shoulders as he runs an electronic debrider in the large, infected wound. She’s hungry, and wishes she could blame her dizziness on the faintness that always accompanies low blood sugar, but she can’t. It’s amazing, what her father’s hands can accomplish, but as the blood makes a quick trickle down the skin, she feels a sweep of vertigo. The anger doesn’t help—why is this happening? I don’t understand—and she feels a surge of shame. Her life will consist of this, so she grits her teeth and focuses. Surely I can control my own mind...and her hands relax as the dizziness fades.

She sits in the half-light glow of an empty half-finished house, next to the window whose frame she’s just sealed, and stares out at the dark and snow. The cat in her lap curls deeper into the tan work coveralls that are pulled down to snug around her waist, and pushes her head into the girl’s stomach as the absent-minded petting ceases momentarily. But there is so much to think about, so much to worry over. She feels her soul shrink a little more every time she thinks about the work she could have put into the past semester, and didn’t. I am ashamed. And she worries even more for a sister who can’t seem to see that a failure to give everything she has, now, is going to keep her from realizing the future she has planned. She worries about money, and about her future and her past. Her faith in herself is almost gone—and she wonders how giving your worries to God actually happens. She needs to know.

The couch is almost too small for the people piled on it, but it doesn't matter. The girl shifts to accommodate an elbow in her ribs, and continues crocheting the soft red yarn in her hands. She laughs and sends back a quick retort to her cousin's jibe about empty ring fingers; and then the girl indulges herself in doing what she does best. She fades back into the couch and watches everyone around her, stepping outside of the talking and laughing to simply enjoy the picture and the feeling of family. It is a beautiful thing and tugs on her heart so hard that she almost can't stand it--so she takes the unfinished hat in her hands and plops it down over the back of her tall cousin's head, turning him into a Jew with questionable fashion sense and adding to the joy.

The girl darts into the house and up the stairs, shedding snow and clothing. Once she warms her fingers under scaldingly hot water, she reaches for a brush to attack the icy dreadlocks gently clinking against her frozen ears—and then stops. She leans forward intently, one hand lightly touching the mirror, and really looks. For months it’s been, You look tired. You need to get more sleep, and stop worrying so much. Are you all right? But now the eyes looking back are glowing, clear green with a golden center, brilliant and alive in a laughing, rosy face. She leans back with a surprised chortle, thrilled beyond belief.  I guess I woke up, after all.

Illusion

A little bit of reality and a whole lot of "what was I eating to dream this?" mixed together. And I left out the part where the mighty hunter tripped and rolled down a bank, and Coco fell on top of me. The horse that was watching looked appalled.

Silent snowswept ridge

Seemingly empty
Save for a small dark figure
In shades of brown and green and blue
Stark against the landscape
Waiting
Watching a world encased
In perfect stillness
By her side sits
A large brown dog
Graying at the muzzle
But upright and alert still.

A sudden wind snatches
At the snow
Sending bright coruscation
To obscure the ridge in a
Shimmery cloud
The sky ripples for a moment
As the icy particles wave apart to give
Short glimpses
Of the pair on the ridge
And the figure leans on her spear
Worn skins and bright beadwork
Brushing wolverine hood back
From her face
As the crystals whirl ‘round
The wolf crouching at her feet
Eyes the wild woods
With deadly intent
A shadow stirs deep in the trees
And the pair darts forward
Skimming wild drifts in an
Uncivilized wilderness
The wolf releasing a long
Rushing howl
To mingle with her high fox-yip
As they give chase.

The wind dies
And the snow settles and shifts
Leaving only a laughing girl
And an aging dog
Dashing along a sparkling ridge
Skirmishing and barking
And giving the high call of a fox
Unaware
Of the solitary wolf and hunter
Waiting
Watching from the shivery swirls
Of ice
That dance in their wake

Finals are Imminent

All of my finals are...tomorrow.
My head hurts.
I wish I hadn't given up on biochem. Because I realized I couldn't win, so I didn't even keep trying. I should have.
Also, I'm so very, very lazy when I want to be. And I hate that about myself. Nobody else will believe it, and that makes me feel even worse.
So, we have a lovely mixture of self-loathing and glycolysis degredation and amino acids and hot and sour soup in a massive red-and-black bowl and despair and little bits of snow and a prospective climbing "date" and the pentose phosphate cycle and class additions and piano recitals and burned fingers and the chocolate chip cookies that burned them and Fructose 1,6-bisphosphatate that is turned into Fructose 6-phosphate by...wait for it...Fructose 1,6-bisphosphatase-1. The levels of which are regulated by Fructose 2,6-bisphosphatate. Which is regulated by insulin.
Basically, I'm a wreck. But when I'm wallowing, it does me good to write out all the reasons why. So then I can look at the list and feel justified in my wallowing and maybe, perhaps, feel a little better about life in general. Because of the good things that sneak onto the list, even when you're not looking for them.

Waking up tired

I dream a lot. Some nights, I wake up in the middle of a particularly interesting version of reality, grab a glass of water, and then go back to bed and pick up the dream where it left off. Until a few years ago, I didn't know that not everybody can do this. I also didn't realize that people don't always know that they're dreaming, or that they can't control what happens once the dream begins.

Unless you can't connect the dots, this means I'm a little odd. But it's not my fault, I swear.

It's called "lucid dreaming", or waking dreams, whichever you prefer. Creepy, huh? I've actually continued dreams from night to night, once or twice, and when it happened again this week I thought I'd do some research on the subject. Since finals are upon us, the research consisted of ten minutes of surfing the interweb--but still. I found out that some people are actually able to hold conversations while their brains are still in sleep mode, and can control how fast or how slow the dream goes. I haven't tried yet, but it sounds like fun.

Last night, I dreamed about flying.

Incidentally, I also dreamed about foxes. Thus, the flying fox.

more bloody lines

I'm not sure my heart is good for many more knocks. At least not without damage.

I love debating between my friends. Some of them are so precious when they get worked up! Everything from Lord of the Rings chronology to the proper seepage time of jamaica leaves--every side argued with skill and style, or at least enthusiam. Especially with LotR.

We talked about jewelry and dress this evening at dinner. As one of the two that don't have pierced ears, I tend to advocate that simple is better. Therefore, I kept out of it tonight, because I didn't want to bring discord into the house on Sabbath--but I think there's something not quite right with the line of reasoning that "Jewelry is just fine. There are a lot of people who do it out of rebellion, but that's not why we do it. Old people just focus on the effects of your spiritual life instead of worrying about the actual God-relationship itself. We shouldn't have to change what we do because it bothers them. They shouldn't judge us." All of which are true.

Except that, the reason the "old people" think it's so alarming when young people pierce their ears is that it usually IS a sign of rebellion. Remember the whole "fruits" thing? To my idea of common sense, it is rational to avoid something if it is practiced by people I don't want to be associated with. I'm not going to dye my hair black and dress like a Goth--not because there's anything wrong with that, but because 99% of the people who do, do not exhibit characteristics which I want attributed to me! Yet if I did dress like that, could I blame people who assumed that's what I was like? Could I blame them for being offended if I was claiming to be somebody else, representing God, while still taking on all the appearance of someone who is not?

And, actually, when the people in Acts were eating meat offered to idols, which was perfectly fine because they didn't believe the idols were holy anymore, they offended people. People were bothered that they would do something like that, because they themselves still struggled with idol worship. But the people eating the meat just saw it as a way to save money, since they got it discounted after the heathens used it. How practical! It appeals to me.

But what did the apostles tell those thrifty Jews (or was it the Jews who were offended? I don't remember. "Thrifty Jews" just has a nice ring).

Stop eating the idol-sacrificed meat.

Wow. You know, I think that if I had lived then and gotten half-price lamb, I would have been offended. How dare they judge me because something I do bothers them? There's nothing wrong with what I'm doing.

Sounds familiar, doesn't it? Still. Stop eating the cheap meat.

But I didn't say any of this tonight. Not yet. People were having so much fun with this conversation that it would have taken a lot of lung power to make myself heard, and I don't roll that way. I just sat there and fidgited and practiced my invisibility.

The conversation ended with a friend saying that we need to live according to how we actually believe--all of us, old and young. He feels that the old people live more conservatively than they actually believe, and the young people more liberally. But he ended with a strong statement of things we need to be doing, such as keeping the Sabbath focused solely on God, and being different from those around us in our actions and purpose--not necessarily what we look like. Hmm. Well. There are some good things in there. The debate ended on what felt like a good note.

In fact, I was enjoying myself. A lovely Friday evening in Southern Village, leaning back against the couch and falling asleep as another friend combed my hair with her fingers. Around me, talk hummed in a contented fashion as we simply enjoyed each other's company, after flinging some mad scrummy nosh (translation: eating really good food). I was so contented!

And then...two of my friends casually started setting up speakers and a computer. Of course, I never let go of consciousness enough to miss anything odd happening in my vicinity, so I wake up to find that they have every intention of watching a movie. With plans to watch an episode of their favorite show afterwards.

I was dumbfounded. A movie? Did we not just finish saying that we had to live out our faith, particularly and specifically with keeping Sabbath all about God? What about standards? How are we any different?

I said goodnight and left early, and that question has haunted every step since. The friend I left with walked me to my car. I hesitatingly said her name, and she sighed and said, "I know." Neither one of us could answer it, this question of mine. How can some things be so clear to me, and yet to others they are opaque? Is it a question of raising, a question of theology, or a question of lifestyle? When do we acknowledge grey and when is there a time to take a stand on right and wrong? And am I right to feel disappointed again?

Again with the lines.

bits and pieces

Blips from the thing I call my life. Although sometimes, instead of living it, I feel like holding it out, dripping, at arms length like some horrific but perversely fascinating thing I've just dredged out of the deepest weedy parts of the ocean. It's that strange and awful and horribly funny sometimes.

On Tuesday, I drove nine hours (ending at midnight) through constant torrential downpours which turned to snow as I got further north. The semis would pass me and I couldn't see a thing; and it was dark, and I hate driving after dark; and there were no really visible lines on the road; and traffic was horrific. And, unfortunately, I was so high-strung and tense the entire time, trying not to die every single second, that I cursed out loud for the first time in my life. And I did it multiple times, with increasing volume. I was appalled but didn't hold back, merely promised myself that, once I left that car, the incident would never again be repeated. It still makes me shudder. I hate swearing.

Oh, and I was desperately trying to get someone to cover my 6am shift, and might have somewhat manipulated a nice young man into doing it for me--I know it's not right, but I was desperate--and now, he wants a date in payment. Huh. I generally don't turn down a date if it's someone I know enough to know that they have certain morals--say, aren't going to drug my food--and are generally pleasant. And so I do not mind, but at the same time, I feel like to a certain extent I couldn't say no if I wanted to, since I owe him, and I don't like that feeling.

On Wednesday, had my interview at WV School of Medicine, which I think went well. I did make the mistake of wearing heels, and then being toured around by the sweetest, most scatterbrained med student ever (Oh! Let's go up to the top floor! There's a really good view of the Law school from there! Oh, let's go to the playroom!). My feet still hurt. Oh, and then I drove back 9 hours (again mostly in the dark), but it was much better because I discovered that you can "rent" audiobooks at Cracker Barrel. I got into this young adult spy book, which was lacking but much better than the Nora Roberts romances I could have gone with. Reading that stuff would be bad enough--having someone else read it to you? Infinitely grody.

And today wasn't much better--I've hurried through it in a daze. Had to work at six, had to scramble to overnight the last of my reference letters to a school to be considered by them, might have to reinterview at another place because they did a crummy job the first time around, have to prepare for a mini-recital on Monday with a song that I love but am nowhere near performing, got approached by the Air Force about a scholorship I qualify for (which I'm actually considering, kind of), had my antivirus run out (and that stuff is expensive to renew!), and now I'm running in to a piano lesson to try and fix all of my problems. And I'm 15 hours behind in practice, because I started late and have had no time for piano, even though I love it.

I'm a bit whelmed over. And tired. Here come finals...somebody, shoot me now. Quick.