Fluffy

I rejoice because my travel-weary friend is back from afar. I hope she kissed the ground when she got out of the airport. I've never had the courage to do so, but I've always wanted to because it seems kind of cinematic. It's not too late. I'll make her do it when I see her next.

She got a gas mask as a souvenir.  She's the best.

Last night I was driving home late after doing my friend's hair. There were few cars on the road, and nobody tailgating me up hills. I was in the dark silence of my neighborhood and reached a familiar four-way intersection at exactly the same time as two other vehicles. Our headlights intersected as we decided who would go first. I wonder if the other drivers found our coincidental midnight meeting to be as eerie as I did.

I pondered this the rest of the way home - I guess I felt like this was an event akin to the alignment of planets. Who in my quiet neighborhood but me would be out driving this late? No one. But tonight, there were two cars prowling the development and they met in the center by chance, with me. We were all deer in our collective headlights.

On the other hand, I'm sure my neighbors must have lives (go figure) even as they keep to themselves. Lives that may require late-night driving.

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May I discuss losing my phone? I found it in my car a day after I found that it was missing, but I'm mentioning that I misplaced it the other day because the morning I woke up without my phone, I stayed in bed as long as I could, grumpy and purposeless, because I didn't have my phone.

Is that not ridiculous?

I depend on my phone. I can leave it alone for long periods of time but it is a valuable communication tool to let people know I'm thinking of them, to schedule get-togethers, and to hold conversations. It has many other valuable functions but that one is the one I missed and was moping around about.

Sometimes I get lonely and realize it's because forgotten to that I have the power to make plans with buddies. Critique it or not, my phone enables me to do that.

Upon finding my phone, I went through my written list (in my journal) of people to text and re-set my life.

To-do lists give me something to live for. Mom would tell me that's over-dramatic, but sometimes the reason I get out of bed is to write down the list forming in my head. The list gives me little birds to shoot down, and I can always keep rolling over incomplete tasks from old lists into new ones. Looking back at a list from my past gives me a good picture of my recent history and takes me back to the time when I wrote that specific list.

Once I spoke to a woman, at a doctor's office about to-do lists (or it could have been a grocery store cashier...I forget) and we agreed about how great they are. And I continued excitedly, "Don't you love crossing off stuff like " take shower" and "text Johnny?!"" And she sighed wearily and replied, "No, my to-do lists have big things on them, like taxes and insurance and such." "Oh." I hold my smile and give her an empathetic expression.

As long as they get her out of bed too, right?

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So, I went to the dentist's office a few months back to get my teeth cleaned and my friendly hygienist wanted to know all about the road trip I had taken with my sister.

She had even read our blogs, she said.

It eventually came out that she mostly read my sister's posts because, I quote, "They seemed the most informative."

Really.

You decided to hold that opinion. And then you decided to tell me that.

My blogs were not fluffy. They were detailed and accurate. They were thoughtful. They described people we encountered and things we felt and explained differences between home and the rest of the country.

My hygienist is mentally fluffy.

I am also watching a cat named Fluffy right now. I love Fluffy. Fluffy takes me seriously. Fluffy is portable. Fluffy cuddles well. Fluffy talks to me. Fluffy also desecrated my suitcase, but Fluffy is old.

Watching Fluffy entails watering plants. This frightens me. I just pout water on all of them, but I'm not sure if that constitutes "watering" them. I just killed about ten seedlings I had planted. Let it not be so of this helpless greenery.

Speaking of greenery, I just watched WALL-E for the first time today. I didn't realize how beautiful it would be. I expected something very mediocre, but instead I cried at the unfair plot movements, the heroic acts of love between characters, the open and naïve enthusiasm of earth's colonists, the cruelty of machines, and the message of hope for our world. The movie, unlike some films that leave me certain of mankind's flawed nature and of reality's cruelty, assured me that resilience exists alongside entropy. In the movie, it took 700 years for humans to take the first step back to truly living, but what counts is that they took the step.

All I could see when the humans stepped off their ship onto the dusty planet they had left behind was a heck of a lot of work and nobody to do it. But I looked at the faces of the ship's residents and saw that they all wanted to start.

The closing credits took on a different visual tone than the rest of the movie. They looked like moving paintings, filled with color and depicting scenes of planting and growing, a boy fishing, and a tall tree. The prophetic illustrations suggested that the humans would not give up and that they would find joy from living on Earth again. This without having to make a whole series of movies about re-habitating the earth.
This movie reminded me of the good qualities humans possess, both from watching the characters on screen and from the knowledge that there is a team of workers who created this movie and believe in its message.

That is all.

Pride Moment

I had a big pride moment the other day, where I was feeling wise beyond my years.

I love when people call me that, or tell me I act older than I am. I've always wanted to be a grown-up, to run with the adults.

So anyway, pride. And also a little spiritual, like I was using a little  prophecy.

Side note. I used to tell people, "I think God gave me the gift of prophecy, but some of the glitter fell out of the box on its way to earth." I thought it was genius and people thought it was funny. But I was attending a sermon (wonder of wonders) when these words were thrown like arrows to my heart:

"When God gives gifts, he is giving them to you to serve him and he doesn't kind of sort of give you gifts, he doesn't give you half gifts - he gives you GIFTS. And he wants you to use them for the benefit of the church body."

Wow.

Maybe no glitter didn't fall out of the box, and I should stop joking about it. (But be aware of my opinions and guesses versus what God actually says).

So the other day, I became certain as I listened to an acquaintance proudly detail her relationship with her boyfriend and his family: this relationship is destined to fail this is why:
1)She couldn't stop talking trash about him.
2)She made it evident that the two of them do not make important decisions together.
3)She boasts about how much she has changed him into a better man.

I think that's enough. I just saw it. If I can't respect my husband behind his back, he deserves better. If we don't make decisions as a couple, then becoming one through marriage means nothing. And I believe a relationship is baseless if my husband did not come to love the very person he first met, not the person he molded, or think they molded to his own desires. 

Paint

I am trying to paint the walls of my room.

It turns out my mom is an expert in wall painting. It should be no surprise to me since she and my father have painted nearly every room in our house twice over the last several years of our residence.

She speaks of semi-gloss, kilz, cleaning solution and drop cloths like a pro. What a woman. The only thing I've done so far is go on a rampage of (1) the crawl space, looking for empty boxes, and (2) my room, emptying drawers and filling boxes indiscriminately with all the contents of my room. No organization or concern for sorting - just boxing. And at some point I gave up, because there was just too much stuff. And when I asked if Mom was impressed, I was disappointed by her answer, because she told me I didn't need to have emptied my drawers and she wished I would have covered the quilt in my sister's room before I out boxes on it.

In my last post, I wondered if the world was meant to be seen alone or with others. It seems painting a room is not meant to be done by oneself. Rampages might be more successful with prior advising.

By Myself

I read a book once called "The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Nighttime" which was about an autistic boy trying to make sense of his surroundings.

Making sense of life was frustrating for him to the point that he wished he could be the only person in the world.

But don't we all wish that? Or don't we wish everyone could be exactly like us, or at least understand us and do what we want?

I want to go on a road trip again, by myself. I don't think I'm autistic. Nobody has told me I am.

Have you ever wondered if you're mentally retarded, impaired, or I'll and you don't know it because you're you? And nobody has ever told you? Or if they have you thought they were joking? Scary stuff. Or maybe not scary, if you're content with your life, unless you're worried about burdening others.

I would get lost as often as I wanted and not care. I would make as many stops as I wanted, or not stop at all, and I would pull over for every photo op or none of them. I would also listen to MY music or none of it. I could pray out loud and stay at grimy hotels or sleep in the car.

I wonder if I've blogged about this before. It sounds familiar. It also sounds kind of selfish.

Is the world meant to be seen with others or by oneself?

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I'm coming to realize that I use sound effects a lot more than I thought. Onomatopoeia. I thought sound effects were for comedians, class clowns and beat boxers, but it has become apparent that they are for me as well.

I noticed when people started commenting on them that I was using sounds instead of words, like "ploop" and such, to describe tasks and recount events.

I always admired the above-mentioned types of people to whom onomatopoeia came naturally. Now I admire myself.

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You know those songs about the "afterglow"? How they sound so gut-wrenching and thoughtful and pensive, because they use that word?

But I never really thought about what it meant until the other night when I turned off my light and the lightbulb kept glowing in the blackness. Not just burning on my retina, but actually glowing with leftover energy.

" Oh," thought I, "this is afterglow."

Something ends and it almost feels like it hasn't, and you can make yourself believe it hasn't, for a minute. When people sing about the afterglow of something, they are singing about a pointless extension of hope.

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My grandma showed me balloon flowers on the 4th of July. Before the violet flowers open, their petals are folded together to form hollow lantern-like "balloons." Grandma has been considering mortality lately. No reason, she says, except that she is almost ninety.

I think she may be the next Enoch, just walking away with the Lord one day without actually dying.

Either way, though, she's starting to worry about having so many possessions for her children and grandchildren to deal with after her passing. It was a disquieting Fourth of July conversation topic, but I kept calm since Grandma is always so matter-of-fact about these things.  

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One last thing: at Landis Homes, one of the residents had some art on display which I made a point of seeing.

Dad asked me later how I liked it.

"It was crappy," I said without thinking - a heartless remark. I corrected myself: "It was not to my taste." Nobody's art should ever be described as crappy if it is evident the artist has put effort into it. Especially if that artist is dying of cancer.

I learned the "it is not to my taste" phrase one thanksgiving when I told Aunt Linda I only wanted a small piece of the cake she made in case I didn't like it - and my family laughed and someone suggested a more polite way to say that might be "I would like a small piece so I can determine if the cake is to my taste."

How genius.

The Human Condition

Today I waxed my legs and didn't make a mess, which gives me great satisfaction.

I woke up with words and to-do's circling my head like a newsreel.

Days when I wake up like that are good days.

They are days with purpose.

I grabbed my journal and wrote things like, "eat fiber" and "pray about job" and "bring cup downstairs."

My friend has been sending me Bible chunks via text so I can get away with not actually opening the thing to get my daily bread (this is debatable).

When was the last time you saw an elderly woman smoking in her car?  I saw one last week. For some reason I was mildly shocked. Most ladies must be dead before they get to be seen old and smoking at traffic lights.

Did you know that male peacocks actually rattle their tail feathers when they spread them? It's true! It's not just the colors they use to impress; it's the noise of the latticework of their feathers rubbing rapidly against each other for a few seconds at a time.

I heard it with my own ears.

Mom told me my ears got red yesterday when I was upset.

That in itself is rather upsetting, since with my haircut I might not be able to hide my angst behind hair and a blank face.

Not that I'm a very opaque person to begin with.

I was upset because instead of complaining to my face a very sweet and jovial guest at my waxing center went and mentioned me by name  in a negative comment on yelp.

It took till today for me to listen to reason say "she's one of a hundred or so people you've served AND PLEASED so far!"

Don't you love reuniting with friends and finding that you're still friends just like you were before?

I just watched one of the "Airplane" movies and got the feeling that I could be laughing harder if I chose. It has the air of a cult flick and I desperately wanted to be a part of the cult, but the movie and its humor reached me in an unsaturated way as gray as its color scheme. It makes me realize that I really am helplessly a product of my times since I do respond much better to contemporary humor.

That makes me think of a "comedian" named Chonda Pierce. She uses comedy to "reach" people for God. My only problem with this is that she uses comedy as the hook and then switches to drawn out sad and serious songs, ballet numbers, and talks.

I'd rather be reached without the bait and switch method.

There's a book in my friends' bathroom (in which you have to sit on the toilet sideways because the room is so small - cute, right?) that is titled something like "1,000 Feelings Which Have No Name." I think I've mentioned it before.  I'll describe one of my own: the internal conflict between knowing I love working with guests and not wanting them to come in because I like sitting around and doing nothing"

I'm thinking this might have something to do with the human condition.

Nevertheless, I really hate that nagging feeling, and also the human condition.

Vocation

Today I am not performing my vocation. 

I am awaiting five o'clock when I will make a call and find out if I am needed for jury duty tomorrow. 

I made that call yesterday and was told not to report. 

I really hope the voice on the phone tells me to report tomorrow so the rigamarole getting to Philadelphia and getting covers for my shifts wasn't all for nothing!

I want to experience sitting in a room and waiting for a long time only to be (likely) sent home. 

It's a form of serving my country. 

Did you know that the word "vocation" comes from the Latin word "vocatio" which MEANS "calling."

When I tell people I am going to work, I'm telling them I will be working. 

When I tell people I am on my way to my vocation, I am telling them I am on my way to fulfill my calling in life. 

I am a waxer, or waxologist. I remove body hair. This specifically may not be my  calling - but my calling is to do it to the best of my ability as if I am doing it for God. 

I'm at a friend's house and her books are more interesting than my own. I actually picked one up and it explored work and vocation. 

Is greed good?

I have to admit that I am often driven by greed. 

I can use a nicer word to veil the graininess of the term, like "ambition," or "drive" but it all kind of equates to the same thing if I'm not fixating on the right thing. 

Even if I'm focused wholly on improving myself and sharpening my skills and polishing myself, well, then is it about glorifying God anymore?

And really, what's my reason for doing these things? (1) So I can think highly of myself and (2) So I can increase my paycheck. 

Greed for status and the freedom to possess. 

So what is my drive supposed to be? 

God created me to work, and to rest, and to find satisfaction and purpose in it. And if by working I am fulfilling my purpose - how simple! A purpose-driven life! If I can find joy in everything I do, every effort I exert, not even in my workplace, because God intended it to be so, and then found the same kind of joy in resting, because God intended it to be so also, is that not enough to drive me to excel, exceed, perform, and show up every morning ready to do my work?

Fascinating booklet. 

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I called the number. 

They don't need me for jury duty the second day either. It appears that I will be finding joy in rest from my work. Perhaps my calling is to rest and enjoy the company of once-lost friends, and to take long walks in the heat, and to enjoy playing games with strangers in houses without air conditioning. 

This is rest. To wear the same clothes out of my backpack at a place where no one notices, brush my teeth when I want to, sleep hugging a docile dog that resembles a deer, and drink tea that I don't know how to make. 

I let my friend guide me around the city to places I never knew existed. It was like being in Missouri, where I had to shrug my shoulders and say "Well, people have to live somewhere." I felt left out not having known that there was more to the city than the north and the center part. 

I sat outside the grocery store with my deer-dog as she kept vigil for my friend to come back out bearing groceries. 

I have never met such a docile dog. There is no other word. Docile. 

I am riding home now. 

I am excited to be clean, to work; excited to return to that part of my vocation. 

This unexpected vacation has changed me. It revealed hospitality: "Wanna stay another night?" It revealed my desire to act: "Let's share bread with strangers!"

And it revealed hidden dog parks to me. 

Philadelphia has been a second home to me ever since I lived there in college, but having experienced it more broadly over the past few days, I feel even closer to its heart and want to know more.