[As you can see by the timestamps, it's been nearly a year since I've posted anything at all. For whatever reason, this post came out last night, and I didn't know what to do with it, so naturally, the answer was to put it on the internet.]


For me to say that color is a big part of my spirituality might put you off a little, though it may not surprise you. If you are on one side of things, you might say that this is "hyperspirituality," and pretty soon, everything and anything will be "holy," right down to picking your nose. On another side, you may say that it is idolatry, or pantheism, or something like that.

And, well, as with most things important to one's spiritual life, I struggle to keep things where they should be.

But disclaimers aside, this is what color is to me--

a sign of Grace. a sign of Love.

I'm finding that the more I discover, the more I unfold, the fewer words I have to describe things like 'Grace,' miracles like 'Love.'They are big words. They are brimming words, words that throb when you pick them up and hold them in your hand.

But anyway, colors are just so lavishly given, aren't they?

It reminds me of a friends favorite saying about food: "God could have just designed us to be hooked up to a gas pump or something and get nutrients in our armpits. But He didn't."

But He didn't. And that makes me think of things like Grace and Love.

I don't know what the equivalent would be to color. I'm sure scientists could tell me that our brains need it to keep us safe, as sensory communication, something. Me no talk science good. Me watch Planet Earth and Disney Cats.

Maybe. I don't think that threatens the beauty of it, though.

Additionally, color is one of the few things, one of the few experiences that I daresay can be shared by all of humanity. All can experience the freedom in a clear blue sky, the glory in a person's skin tone.

It is a gift.

More than once, it has been the deep purple of a favorite shirt, the rich green of tree, the grey-blue of my own eyes that has pulled me out of despair, as whispers of hope, tokens of love, causes of praise, reminders of the One who gave them.

I know this isn't the same for everyone--my friend Erica takes butterflies to be those signposts to the Giver of all good things, and even I have other examples--squirrels and quail are reminders of joy, and don't even get me started on the spiritual experience a good meal (especially with good people!) can be.

Or, this may not make sense to you at all. I get that.
But I hope maybe you start to notice things like color, or food, or music, or friends as gifts, as glory, and are pointed to their Giver, the Glorious One.

I haven't posted lately due to my need to read copious amounts of Dante (because of course, I am veryveryvery far from my reading goal at the beginning of the summer,) and  due to the fact that I am moving back to Waco day after tomorrow. And even now, this is post is half-filled with poetry (but don't stop reading now! :) )


With the stressexcitement of moving back, the frustration I feel with financial aid and all things monetary, the somewhat-imminence of graduation, and a plethora of other worries and emotions, I have taken little time to pause in my spirit. Part of me says "'Pause in my spirit?' Sheesh, like I haven't heard the 'Lookattheliliesandseehowtheydonotworry sermon' before." 


But the other part (hopefully the stronger part) of me knows that I desperately need to be reminded that His eye is on the sparrow. And that my worry depletes my ability to praise, to have joy, to love properly...and so many other things. 


Anyway, I came across this poem and was struck by the reminder to recognize beauty daily, and to transform 'regular' moments into ones of praise. I had to share. Enjoy it, enjoy this day, for He has made it good. 




Morning Song  by Marcia Brown


Here, I place
a blue glazed cup
where the wood
is slightly whitened.
Here, I lay down
two bright spoons,
our breakfast saucers, napkins
white and smooth as milk.

I am stirring at the sink,
I am stirring
the amount of dew
you can gather in two hands,
folding it into the fragile
quiet of the house.
Before the eggs,
before the coffee
heaving like a warm cat,
I step out to the feeder-
one foot, then the other,
alive on wet blades.
Air lifts my gown - I might fly-

This thistle seed I pour
is for the tiny birds.
This ritual,
for all things frail
and imperiled.
Wings surround me, frothing
the air. I am struck
by what becomes holy.

A woman
who lost her teenage child
to an illness without mercy,
said that at the end, her daughter
sat up in her hospital bed
and asked:
What should I do?
What should I do?

Into a white enamel bath
I lower four brown eggs.
You fill the door frame,
warm and rumpled, kiss
the crown of my head.
I know how the topmost leaves
of dusty trees
feel at the advent
of the monsoon rains.

I carry the woman with the lost child
in my pocket, where she murmurs
her love song without end:
           Just this, each day:
           Bear yourself up on small wings
           to receive what is given.
           Feed one another
           with such tenderness,
           it could almost be an answer.

Just a bit over a week until I move back to the bustling metropolis of Waco, and all of the nervousexcitement has been building up again.

You would think that after doing this twice, I wouldn't have butterflies about starting college...again.

It's my third year, and my third time to be facing new things simultaneously scary and thrilling. At first it was freshman year in its entirety, and last year it was being in a CL in a new hall and a new staff.

And you know, both turned out splendidly. Freshman year was incredible, and being a NoRo CL was better than I ever dreamed. I grew and grew through them both. I hope and pray that this time next year, I will be saying the same thing about changing my major to GTX and adding Creative Writing as a minor.

I don't like decisions I make myself: if it doesn't turn out the way I want it to, then guess what? My fault. [I learned that the hard way this summer.] . Understanding direction and His will have always been desperate points of panic for me. I feel like if I get on the wrong train, nothing can be right again; the whole trip is ruined. But all in all, I feel good about this one. I think I've done my best listening to whisperings and responding to nudges. I have no idea where any of this is taking me, and my mother's talk of picking a grad school makes me want to cry, but...cross my fingers, hope to die I think it'll be ok.

And now for a Billy Collins poem. It's relative, sort of. Well, really just to the fact that I'm minoring in poetry now. Anyways, enjoy :)




The Effort
Would anyone care to join me
in flicking a few pebbles in the direction
of teachers who are fond of asking the question:
"What is the poet trying to say?"

as if Thomas Hardy and Emily Dickinson
had struggled but ultimately failed in their efforts—
inarticulate wretches that they were,
biting their pens and staring out the window for a clue.

Yes, it seems that Whitman, Amy Lowell
and the rest could only try and fail
but we in Mrs. Parker's third-period English class
here at Springfield High will succeed

with the help of these study questions
in saying what the poor poet could not,
and we will get all this done before
that orgy of egg salad and tuna fish known as lunch.

Tonight, however, I am the one trying
to say what it is this absence means,
the two of us sleeping and waking under different roofs.
The image of this vase of cut flowers,

not from our garden, is no help.
And the same goes for the single plate,
the solitary lamp, and the weather that presses its face
against these new windows--the drizzle and the
    morning frost.

So I will leave it up to Mrs. Parker,
who is tapping a piece of chalk against the blackboard,
and her students—a few with their hands up,
others slouching with their caps on backwards—

to figure out what it is I am trying to say
about this place where I find myself
and to do it before the noon bell rings
and that whirlwind of meatloaf is unleashed. 

There are few memories of my childhood (pre-10) that I can truly pin down when I try.

Mostly, images flit randomly across a screen between my ears--a dalmatian jumping against a screen door, the Eiffel Tower, a lizard in the garden, Mom telling Dad that the neighbor's yard smells like pot, and me being very much in love with one of the homeschool co-op kids when I was 7.

But one of few is clear.

I am about 6, and I am kneeling on my bedroom floor. The afternoon sun bathes the pepto-bismol walls and the wood floor. I am trying to pry bright pink play-doh out of the cracks in the floorboards. I suddenly look up as my mom calls my name. [I don't think I am supposed to be playing with play-doh.]

She tells me that a neighbor unknowingly ran over Wolfie, the best dog in the universe. The world stops.

The truth is, now I can't remember much of Wolfie, except that he was named for Mozart, and that my mom spoke to him in Spanish sometimes.

And yet I have this strange urge to visit his grave behind my grandmother's house every time I visit. It's been 14 or 15 years, true, but the blank cement brick in the ground under the apricot tree marks my first memory of loss.

But then, as I intimated in the previous post, I have odd nostalgic associations. I keep things.

Which is why it is hard to imagine that my grandmother will be selling her house soonish. Ok, well, not because of the dog buried in the backyard, but also because Opa and I planted a garden in the courtyard. And picked fruit from the back trees. And because Nano and I watched hummingbirds on her porch, and then went inside to play dominoes.
I have picked swiss chard,
chased lizards with my cousins,
taken awkward family photos (I insisted on holding an American flag to cover up the bruise on my arm. The bruise showed anyway),
chatted at dinner parties,
lined the driveway with luminarias,
and spent hours opening Christmas presents.

Amidst changing houses and parents and schools and friends, this house is what I have always been able to come back to. So, coming to grips with the fact that all this nacimientos and paintings will have to go somewhere else soon is a bit overwhelming.

But hey, a house is a house right? Memories are one thing, but people are another.

All that said, if you appreciate beauty at all, you should check out the virtual tour of the house--and you might come to understand where I got any of my personal style and love of color :)
enjoy! (Facebookers, you might have to click "view original post" to see it.)

Tomorrow morning, my house is undergoing surgery. At least, that's how I've been thinking of it--our abode has a disease, and people much smarter than us (we? correct me) are going to literally cut it out and make it good again.

Well, really, there's apparently a lot of moldnastiness growing in the wall that joins my bedroom to the bathroom. Guys with tools will be here at a(n?) hour that I would normally like to be waking up.

Anyways. Therefore, somehow all this means that my bedroom gets a new paint job and carpet. Yay me. I've spent a good part of the day deconstructing my room, bit by bit, and I have learned something about myself. I am a pack rat. Of memories, mostly. Pinned to my bulletin board were:

• remnants of homecoming/prom corsages. I like dead flowers, apparently. 
• tickets from operas, plays, and even movies I deemed important at the time (Pirates 3, Bourne Ultimatum, Spiderman, and so forth.)
• a collection of junk with my name on it. Call it narcicissim narcissism, but my "Antonia" (in case you didn't know), is difficult to find on bicycle license plates and gift-shop coffee mugs. So, I keep most things that bear my name: keychains, bracelets,  even name tags from Student Leadership University (uh, 2005?) and Baylor orientation and Line Camp. You know too much, this is embarrassing.
• pictures: my sister when she was yet a tiny imp, New Mexico churches and sunsets, and high school dances and homecoming traditions. My favorite of the latter might be one of Joshua, Karon, and Taylor in full wacky-tacky apparel karate-chopping the air. 
• Various fortune cookie fortunes that have meant something to me at some point. My favorite might be: "you create your own stage. The audience is waiting." It sounds a lot like something my dear friend and teacher Angela told me--about taking the stage, stepping into the spotlight and so forth, and fully committing to the character that I am supposed to play in this story. [She was my theater teacher, so I rolled with it :) ]
• Posters and other memorabilia from The Visitors, the play that Alia, Joshua, and I wrote, directed, and produced. For some reason, I feel the need to keep everything--I still have a full box of flyers. Not just one or two, but the whole box of 'em.
• I should also note that if you have written me a note or a birthday card in the last five years or so, I probably still have it. They remind me of how freakin blessed I am to have the friends and family that I have.

There is something to be said about a friend that will leave you alone in her house, trusting you to feed the cat and lock the door when you leave. "Stay as long as you need to," she says.

I am in awe of friendship. I am sitting in a house of long-standing friendship, thinking, "how did I get here? and why haven't these people kicked me out yet?" Alia and I have, in a sense, shared our lives for several years now, so our friendship is like wearing a pair of broken-in jeans; they just fit well. I don't know if I am more "myself" with her than with most people, because I don't know what that means, but it comes pretty close. And then Angela. Little did I know that the woman who gushed about Donald Miller at a state speech meet competition would also live in this long-standingfriendshiphouse. From theater teacher to mentor to friend, from Montana and back again, I've discovered that this lady's my twin, so I need to pay attention. I have bared all before them, and have borne a lot with them. And they still love me a lot.

And these are only two of my friends. There are certainly more I could write about. How did I get so lucky?


 

From musical stars to Baylor professors, from getting arrested to owning a menagerie, for the past week, I've been having really nutso dreams, full of random characters and events.  And I don't know why. I've never really been able to remember my dreams, especially in the minute detail of late. So yes, this is blog-worthy. Really, this post started out as me just recording these rare occurrences. But why not share, especially since it's summer, and most of us are bored already? Maybe some Joseph with a technicolor dreamcoat reads my blog and will tell me about years of plenty to come.

1. Gettin' a haircut TODAY. SO excited.
2. Alia and Erica are going to be back today and tomorrow! I miss them. Maggie also needs to get back from Africa.
3. I finished the 5th season of Bones yesterday...I am up-to-date. Please do not do the math between how many episodes there are in the whole series and how many days I have been home. It's sad. But I'm coming back to the surface of real life again.
4. Camp starts REALLY soon. I am simultaneously freaked out of my mind that I will be in charge of children again, and psyched that I get to have fun with them all summer. Plus, $$ is always good. I'm runnin dry.
5. IT IS OFFICIALLY MY BIRTHDAY MONTH!! I am going to be 20. Two decades old. I can barely handle that information. But here's a pretty countdown:


Countdown Clocks, Birthday Countdowns at WishAFriend.com

Hey look! What is this I see? A blogpost! A real, live blogpost!
I know, it's been over a month....but it's been a really full month. Basically, everything after Spring Break was mostly a blur.
One change that is stands out from the blur is that I officially changed my major to Great Texts [...of the Western Tradition.] GTX, if you will. (I supplied the link for clarification...though descriptions of the program remain ambiguous.)
And I'm tentatively minoring in creative writing...we'll see how that goes. If nothing else, I always said I wanted to take a poetry class at some point in college--which is what I will be doing in the fall.

[I should stop here and apologize for all this scattered, stream-of-consciousness. It's late.]

Anyways--closedown of North Russell was an added part of the blur. What I thought would feel longer ended up passing by superfast--I didn't have a chance to say goodbyes to most of my residents, and I wasn't able to relax after the stress of finals, though I was behind on packing, etc.
The most surreal day might have been Thursday morning, when I realized that all of my girls had left. As I staggered into the oh-so-community bathroom, I realized that the last time these rooms were completely empty was at the very start of the year--back when I only had numbers before I had names, before the names turned into faces, and the faces into stories. The evolution from the first to the last has been incredible to see, and I'll never forget the relationships built over tie-dye, sharing meals, and making oreo balls.
I don't mean to romanticize about this year as a CL--I made a lot of mistakes (ask any 2D resident, or Lisa and Leslie, for that matter) and the CL life certainly comes with its woes. I still have so much to learn. And really, I've discovered that most of that learning is trial-and-error. It was truly by the grace of God that the atmosphere on my hall was what it was...which was pretty wonderful :)


Next order of business: I am newly obsessed with the TV show Bones. No, really, it's bad. I even looked up intro to anthropology courses on the Baylor course listings site. I'm addicted.


Last but not least: in order to be up-to-date with the material I'll be jumping into this fall, I'll be reading roughly 2,500 pages of context, as prescribed by my GTX friend, Preston. From saints to Dante to Dr. Murray, this booklist seems to cover it all. Mostly I mention it for accountability purposes--though no one in the blogosphere will probably hold me to it, knowing that the commitment is there on the screen will be enough for me =e. 2,500 pages, 11 books in 12-ish weeks. Here we go.

Funnily enough, I started writing this post in the hopes describing the nostalgia I felt today upon discovering a box full of high school stuff. Another day.

As I wait for my coffee to brew (yes, at 1am), a Billy Collins poem comes to mind (surprised?). So, before I go back to revamping this poorly-written essay on bureacracy bureaucracy and labor unions...I leave you with dear Billy's poem which so accurately describes the essence of the scene in which I inhabit, and expresses how I feel tonight.

except I think that I would come back as a Baylor squirrel.



Pavilion

I sit in the study,
simple walls, complicated design of carpet.
I read a book with a bright red cover.
I write something down

I look up a fact in an encyclopedia
and copy it onto a card,
the lamp burning,
a painting leaning against a chair.

I find a word in a dictionary
and copy it onto the back of an envelope,
the piano heavy in the corner,
the fan turning slowly overhead.

Such is life in this pavilion
of paper and ink
where a cup of tea is cooling,
where the windows darken then fill with light.

But I have had enough of it--
the slope of the paper on the desk,
books on the floor like water lilies,
the jasmine drying out in its pot.

In fact, I am ready to die,
ready to return as something else,
like a brown-and-white dog
with his head always out the car window.

Then maybe, if you were still around,
walking along a street in linen clothes,
a portfolio under your arm,
you would see me go by,

my eyes closed,
wet nose twitching,
my ears blown back,
a kind of smile on my long dark lips.

I have started and stopped writing this post about half a dozen times.

mostly because my thoughts are scattered and somehow inconclusive. [*disclaimer*] But yet, here I am.

This week was not a good one for me. From freakouts about the future to car conundrums to money mismanagement....to just a general sense of being at odds with everything around me. Not to mention a general hopelessness that results from attending Natural World (we did a breakout on world hunger this time). All of this spiraled into a big fat glum that happened on Thursday night, the kind that you don't want to remember, the kind that you don't typically blog about.

But this poem was on my mind all last week, and I've shared it before, not because of the form or diction, but because of this honesty and identification that strikes a chord in me:

First of all, I have some blog-type questions for whoever happens to read this (aka Erica.)

1. Should I un-sync the blogposts with the facebook notes app? For some reason, I don't like the idea of having a lot of bitty "notes" that would be otherwise appropriate and normal in a blog-type scenario. But I realize linking to a whole new website as opposed to fbook could be annoying for some. Thoughts, anyone?
2. Should I change the url to something shorter than inhisbeautygraceandlight.blogspot.com? I think it's kinda intense, but then, I don't know if this is actually important.

1. Gateway to India is happening on Saturday (6:30-10:30)!! I have fun memories of attending last year, and I thought it was generally beautiful and fun. I've been looking forward to it all semester :)
2. Friday, my Spanish class (the last of the day) is canceled, so early start to the weekend! And today, my AmLit class was canceled, which made room for
3. an awesome phone conversation with my mom about life and calling. It was so needed. She has a really amazing way of grounding me in the middle of a panic-attack-explosion. I love her a lot. 
4. It's been a pretty solid week academically. Nothing crazy going on, and I've been handed back some decent grades. I definitely needed the encouragement in that area...
5. My dad sent me a gorgeous bouquet of flowers  yesterday upon reading my last post. I can't help but smile at them and at the thoughtfulness of my dad...something that lots of girls go without. :)
6. Yesterday especially was filled with lots of sunshine, and the rest of the week should have some too! Mags and I read outside for a good while because it was just that beautiful outside. We both got a bit of sun on our winterpale skin :)
7. the annual UBC outdoor service is this Sunday!! I loved it last year, and it's another event I've been looking forward to for a few weeks.
8. Tomorrow Robbie Seay, John Mark McMillan, and Jillian Edwards are playing at CG. I bought my ticket, I am ready to go. I love all three of them, so naturally, I'm pretty psyched.
9. I just got back from CG, reading on the front porch while the most incredible storm exploded. Lightning unfurling frantically across the dark sky, rain slapping the pavement, cars gliding through the slick streets, and thunder clamoring from every direction, harmonizing with the bells of Pat Neff. How utterly epic. {the heavens declare the glory of God, the skies proclaim the works of His hands.}
10. Stompfest is coming. If you have talked to me recently, chances are I have expressed HOWEXCITED I am about this fact.

That's right, John Keats popped into my head when I was standing in H-E-B trying to decide whether or not I wanted to purchase flowers. Yellowish pinky orange gerbera daisies, to be exact. One criticism I have heard about buying flowers is that they die so soon. And to this I make the Keats reply above.The other thing that popped into my head was one of the last really good memories I have of my great-grandmother, "Nano." On one of my visits to her apartment, I brought her a  boquet bouqet bouquet of flowers in her favorite colors. Nano, always one to be appreciative of beauty, oohed and ahhed for quite a while as I cut them and arranged them in one of her many old vases. She told me that my great-grandfather always said

"If it came down to it and I had to choose between a loaf of bread and a bunch of flowers, I would always choose the flowers."

I like to think that this love of beauty runs in my veins from my Nano and her husband, whom I never even met. It certainly seems genetic--my grandmother, "Mimi" would rather buy a painting than invest in anything "practical" any day.  And to think that it goes further than that, that the One who crafted the moon  and the stars and the sunshine and these gerbera daisies of ambiguous color...and us, for that matter...loves beauty as much as we do, and infinitely more.

So, basically, buying flowers is never a bad decision.

I did that thing where someone posts ambiguous lyrics and says "it just means a lot to me right now, ok?"
Cliche as it is, that's where the title of this post came from, and really the whole song "Falling Slowly" [yes, yes, the one from Once] has meant a lot in different ways this week...even though I have no idea what the song as a whole is supposed to be about. I think maybe addiction? Listen here to decide for yourself. It really is a beautiful song.

........
Later.

Well, I promise I was actually going somewhere with that last post. Sometime soon I'll share more about direction and the future and such, but it's just too late for my thoughts to be together.

But one thing remains on my mind. Today was a tough one at Waco Arts. It just seemed like we were hit full force with the world the kids live in. Tragedy, violence, hatred, brokenness. It's just so distanced from my reality, it's mind-blowing. That Baylor bubble? it's real, and the edge is as close as a footstep.

This kind of thing simultaneously makes me wonder at the relevancy of art in the lives of these kids who face such darkness, and makes me want to keep coming, keep trying to offer them creativity and beauty.
And expression. In class today, my prof pointed out a line from a short story by James Baldwin, in which music shows itself to be a powerful force to "soothe the poison," to create a safe moment, to give beauty, but most importantly, to express. There is power in expression and sharing experiences [here in the form of storytelling.]

For, while the tale of how we suffer, and how we are delighted, and how we may triumph is never new, is always must be heard. There isn't any other tale to tell, it's the only light we have in all this darkness.

While I would argue that there is another Light to the darkness, I guess this quote gives me hope for the purpose of Waco Arts--maybe for these kids to learn how to tell their story. I wish we could do more, though.

it's a depressing reality, really. I have class on Monday. Monday???

Monday, back to the grind, back to the humdrum monotony of homework, tests, and projects.
[And if you asked me, I would tell you that I like school. ]
I just really enjoy being schedule-less, I guess. Filling my hours with poetry that I want to read, movies I've been meaning to see, friends that I rarely get to connect with...not a bad way to spend my time, and I really needed it.
But responsibility is creeping in fast, with the end of the semester. I have to find a summer job, I need to figure out this whole changing majors thing, I have to figure out my other potential major/minor/interest/passion...I have to figure out how to conserve money.

on another note, one thing that has been on my mind recently is how much I value public opinion. It's a subject that has surely been beaten to the ground, with platitudes like "be your own person," and "be who you are and say what you feel, because those who mind don't matter, and those who matter don't mind." [Dr. Seuss]

but I am realizing that I find myself behaving in some ways in an effort to exude a certain persona, instead of doing things, choosing things, saying things, just because...I want to. Not because I wish to appear intellectual, more spiritual, less spiritual, cool, socially conscious, brave, nonchalant, wise...

anyways. I have no further thoughts on that, really, except that it's dishonest...and I'm working on it.
A final thought. I've read a bit of All the King's Men...and I unexpectedly found the reason behind my parent's attempt to keep reeling me back home this week:

When you get born your father and mother lost something out of themselves, and they are going to try to bust a hame trying to get it back, and you are it. They know they can't get it all back but they will get as big a chunk out of you as they can. And the good old family reunion, with picnic dinner under the maples, is very much like diving into the octopus tank at the aquarium.

an interesting theory, anyway.

well...that's all there is, there isn't any more :)

Since I just picked up "Sailing Alone Around the Room" by Billy Collins yesterday at Half-Price, and a great book/commentary of Whitman's poems at the opera house in Denton...be expecting some poetry. I will write about adventures with no power soon enough I think.

Nothing significant, except a quote and a sort of response poemish...in light of this week, it's humorous that I'm posting, but this has been on my mind lately.

"What is this praise He's after? It is Praise Living. It is GOD leaning in and shouting, "I am the center!" and the sum of our lives nodding back in agreement." --D*Crowd, Praise Habit

2010. Twenty ten. Two thousand and ten. Crazy. I am somewhere between intense interest in the new year, and apathy—it’s just another day, after all. As a student, I tend to think in school terms, anyway: “Did that happen sophomore or junior year? What teacher did we have then?” So the change from one calendar year to the next has never had much significance.

But something feels different now. Maybe it’s the fact that I have indeed been alive for two whole decades and that my quarter-life crisis is impending—instead of looking over my life so far and thinking “where has it gone? What have I done?” (i.e. mid-life crisis) I am approaching questions like “Where will I go? What will I do?” Unanswerable questions, indeed. I know I am not alone in asking them, but that knowledge does not always help—(“Ok cool, your ship is sinking too? Well, I guess we’ll drown together! Hooray!”)

And then of course, there the resolutions. One might be to actually become resolved. About something. Anything. There’s a good start.

I think another would be to notice life more. To wake up and smell the beauty. To taste how extraordinary this world, this Love, this life can really be. I think this is something I have lost of late. I used to be freakin fantabulous at breathing praise in my soul, of acknowledging God, even if only in my spirit (my stupid fear of turning God into a cliché often gets in my way.) Since reading some of Donald Miller’s new book, I realize that I have stopped noticing it all—

“What I’m saying is I think life is staggering and we’re just used to it. We are all like spoiled children no longer impressed with the gifts we’re given—it’s just another sunset, just another rainstorm moving over the mountain, just another child being born, just another funeral...If I have a hope, it’s that God sat over the dark nothing and wrote you and me, specifically, into the story, and put us in with the sunset and the rainstorm as though to say, Enjoy your place in my story. The beauty of it means you matter, and you can create within it even as I have created you. “

So, resolution: to notice the beauty of every day, every person, of the mysterious God that made all of this.

Another one would be—to listen more to His voice. Whatever that means. The mystery and of this concept slips through my fingers so often, though I know I have experienced it before. Maybe this is supposed to start small, with the nudging that we sometimes call our conscience, and then moving forward with that. And maybe it’s more than that. Again, Donald Miller affected this resolution:

“I believe there is a writer outside ourselves, plotting a better story for us, interacting with us, even, and whispering a better story into our consciousness...I realized the Voice, the Writer who was not me, was trying to make a better story, a more meaningful series of experiences I could live through.”

By listening better, perhaps I can live better. What a concept…

While these resolutions have no way to be counted or really attainable, somehow they seem more optimistic than “get better grades” (though that would be nice), “lose 10 pounds” (though that would definitely be nice) or “save x amount of money” (which is probably needed. I hate money.)

In some way or another, my resolutions encompass the UBC benediction, “love God, embrace beauty, and live life to the fullest.”

Maybe I’ll say those words with greater resolve every week.

Also, I need to drink less coffee. And blog more.

(So much for resolutions…)

Late night desk shift at the NoRo front desk, where I should be studying for spanish, but I am restless.

I will practice translations.

• Este dia fue muy extraño: Today was sort of an off day, to go with the weather this morning. It started out with my bike breaking, and my slipping and falling twice this morning. (TOMS + slick floors = no bueno.) To top it all, I saw a dead squirrel behind the SUB. Strange as it sounds, I found myself choking up a bit. God speaks to some people consistently with rain or butterflies, but he sends me squirrels as symbols of joy. The day perked up a bit, again coinciding with the brightening weather. Bought a ticket for Where the Wild Things Are, got an A on a paper, had dinner with good people...so really, that Relient K lyric, "lately the weather has been so bipolar and consequently, so have I" is really fitting.
• Voy a Dallas porque necesito a ver mi familia: I miss my family. Not that this should be surprising, necessarily, but I don't know that there has been a time in my college experience so far that I have felt like I legitimately needed a break, and that I needed to go home for that break. It'll be good to see everyone after being away for over two months.

That's about it for now. Time to stop procrastinating,

I hope everyone has a wonderful Fall Friday! :)