only aimee | the blog

A dream and a prayer.

2012-02-16T06:26:00.001-06:00

Old friend,

I dreamed of you last night. I dream of you every so often; I think of you more.

I know you walked away, and I couldn't stop you. You weren't mine to sway. But my heart aches for the vacancy; will always feel your absence in my life, in my heart.

There are a thousand times I've wanted to ask you, such a simple question... Not why you left or how you've changed or what you're doing or when it started. But only this: will you ever come back?

I still love you. I will always love you. You were my kindred, my sweet sister.

Much as my heart aches for you, there's a God who longs for you infinitely more. I pray, with tears in my eyes, that you won't forget him forever.

I will always feel the weight of your missing. I hope that one day we may be found again together.

A pocket full of excuses, and little things that prove true.

2012-02-09T00:51:00.001-06:00

I tried to be productive. I really did. (And by 'tried' I mean that I thought about it while doing a bunch of other not-so-productive things. Twitter, I'm looking at you.)

Do you ever come face to face with the realization that you're not unique? Just like Ecclesiastes said, there's nothing new out there. I'm nothing special. My ideas aren't brilliant or ground-breaking or cutting edge or even creative. They've already been done, and better, by someone with a lot more energy. What am I bothering about all this for?

It's creepy, in a fascinating, narcissistic sort of way, to discover a doppelgänger. It's depressing, in a might-as-well-quit-the-business sort of way, when you stumble across someone whose ideas are so like your own that you wonder if you haven't pilfered them from the get go. Someone you have never met, to boot.

The reaction is strong then, to slump, in what's cheekishly being referred to as Bradying, and to feel justified in giving up. I've got a particular loathing for the thought of being an also-ran, a second-best, a copycat. I'd rather do nothing, be nothing, achieve nothing than be described as "just like so-&-so's something."

Insignificant. That's what this boils down to, right? I don't want to be another brick in the wall. I don't want to be relegated to just another book on the shelf, another kid in the class, another Christian in the church.

I don't want to be invisible. Yet oddly enough, I don't want to be seen.

I dreamed last night that I was directing again, only this time my cast was much larger than twenty-some middle and high school students. The production contained adults and children alike, and while I don't know what the play was, I know I was doing a lot of yelling over it. The actors wanted out of practice, saying the performances would be fine. As the director, my neck was on the line, even though I wouldn't be seen. Invisible, yet laid bare.

I don't know what the point of this is. I know that in the context of my faith that I'm not just another blonde girl or just another writer or just another someone with a chronic illness. But insofar as my existence on this rocky planet, I struggle to feel known... to muster the energy (for every small bit is a struggle) when I know that there is nothing new; I've no quips or quirks that are anything more than repeat episodes, at best -- cheap knock-offs, realistically -- or flatly plagiaristic, at worst.

I am what I am, but what am I? And in this convoluted sea of social networks and societal noise, who's listening anyway? Like in my dream last night, where I had to shout repeatedly just for momentary blips of attentiveness from my cast, how am I to ever be anything other than a drop in the bucket of cosmic noise? What'll make anyone stand up and take notice of me or what I've got to say when there are millions clamoring around me, crying heigh-ho and hay-diddle-diddle and hey-nonny-nonny?

These are things I ponder when I should be doing lots of other things. Like sleeping. Which is what I'm going to do now. And just like the Dread Pirate Roberts said to Westley at night, so say I to this blog: "Goodnight, strange contemplative little post. I'll most likely kill you in the morning."

A prayer for Tuesday.

2012-02-07T11:02:00.001-06:00

I awoke in the early morning hours from dreams of being held hostage, trapped in an elevator, by psychotic Asians with Uzis. When I did free myself from the elevator, I was roaming a dilapidated hotel, with an Olympic sized pool, and a shady lounge with the kind of plush, red carpet that your footprints sank into.

I was always in pursuit of someone or something, and always in the company of a faceless man who thought I was recklessly endangering myself and whatever I sought. We roamed the streets of my town, half the city park (where it was spring), half downtown (where the pavement was covered in dirty snow and the air was chilled enough to see my breath).

Most of the dream was running, searching, trying to get around and through the roadblocks and checkpoints that were set up to apprehend me; to prevent me from obtaining the object of my quest. I woke up before I knew what I was searching for, but it was then that reality assaulted me and I battled stress and anxiety and exhaustion for several hours before I managed to doze off again.

Thus I begin this day unsure whether I feel more as if I'm chasing a runaway train...or if the train has gone and run over me. Whatever the case, and it's probably some of both, I'm feeling the need to be undeniably rescued.

"Rescue me because you are so faithful and good. For I am poor and needy,and my heart is full of pain. Help me, O LORD my God! Save me because of your unfailing love."
(Psalm 109:21, 22, 26 NLT)

Greyhouse: Revisited.

2012-01-26T02:05:00.002-06:00

This house. Has made an indelible impression on my soul. And that's a truth, understated.

If you've followed this blog for any length of time, perhaps you remember my series of dreams and lamentations, written last spring, when the house was lost to me. (In the event that you have not: parts 1, 2, 3, and 4, for your convenience.) Yesterday was the first time I've driven by it since.

I stepped out of the car, stood in the street, and snapped a photo. The winter gloom does nothing for the Greyhouse, of course. In fact, reality will never be as magical, or larger-than-life, or hauntingly prevalent as the house that exists but in my memory alone.

The house that, with but a single glimpse, can transport me to nostalgic places of the heart.

The house that whispers in my ear of Golden Delicious apples, the comforting aroma of vanilla-scented candle wax, brown fuzzy blankets, The Eleventh Hour, coloring books, rock gardens, sand boxes, swimming pools and Where The Sidewalk Ends.

The house that spawned countless hours of adventures among seven child cousins; three girls, four boys. There were dress-ups and bicycle rides and campfires and LiteBrites and unfairly executed games of tag in which the boys ganged up against the girls; games which often made Emily strike a pose of protest, defiantly removing her hand from the tree base and declaring that we "weren't going to keep playing this way." Jesse, capitalizing on the rules of the game, would invariably interrupt her outcry, tag her "it," and then sprint away, cackling as he shouted, "No tag backs!"

My love for the place is relentless, but not half so precious to me as the memories left in its wake, or the relationships gained from the hours upon hours spent within and about the acreage of the Greyhouse.

With love... for my siblings Tori and Asher, and my cousins, Isaac, Jesse, Emily, Marcus (and Trace, too, even though he's a wee bit younger than the bunch of us), and to their respective spouses + children. Time marches on, but with hope that the best days are ones yet to come.

Paging Joss Whedon.

2012-01-23T14:50:00.000-06:00

What sorts of things do we do when we're together, my siblings and I, now that we're all adults? Wonder no further!

Somehow there've been numerous rounds of outbursts of showtunes, particularly from Annie Get Your Gun. Well, one thing led to another...

We're fans of the original movie, but we love a good remake, too. Here's what we propose! Hold on to your hats, folks!

ORIGINAL CAST, L-R: Buffalo Bill, Annie Oakley, Frank Butler

OUR NEW CAST: Jeff Bridges, Reese Witherspoon, Nathan Fillion

Director? Joss Whedon, of course.

Please, universe? Please, can this happen?

Life is beautiful.

2012-01-22T12:29:00.000-06:00

¹³ You made all the delicate, inner parts of my body
      and knit me together in my mother’s womb.
¹⁴ Thank you for making me so wonderfully complex!
      Your workmanship is marvelous—how well I know it.
¹⁵ You watched me as I was being formed in utter seclusion,
      as I was woven together in the dark of the womb.
¹⁶ You saw me before I was born.
      Every day of my life was recorded in your book.
   Every moment was laid out
      before a single day had passed. {Psalm 139, NLT}

That includes all of the precious innocents whose days are cut short before they have even passed a single day on this earth.

Life is painful.

Life is dangerous.

Life is turbulent.

Life is conflicting.

Life is confusing.

Life is complexity.

Life is beautiful.

Photo credit.

Life is not optional.

Destroying it is.

'tis only my interpretation.

2012-01-20T09:44:00.000-06:00

When I found out that I had to do an "interpretive project" for one of my classes, I nearly spat my SimplyOrange all over the computer screen. (Good thing I didn't, since that would've been a sticky mess, and I'm not fond of sticky messes. Or spewed orange juice.)

Interpret? As in, artistically!? Oh, fail me now. Just slap the big ol' "F" on there and call it a day. I'll start writing the extra credit papers right now and maybe I won't --

What's that, you say? I can sure be a melodramatic punk? You don't think I know this? I live with me. Which is why I was freaking out!

What to do, what to do. I can't paint and I can't draw and I can't write poetry and I can't sing and I can't dance and how on earth else is one supposed to artistically interpret a psalm?

{Insert several weeks of perfectionism-induced panic here.}

Alas, behold! I got an "A!" But it really is all thanks to the creative efforts of... not me. Allow me to explain. And by explain, I mean here I shall post the summary that I wrote to go along with the project:

It didn’t take me long to know which Psalm I wanted to work with for this project. Psalm 73 has long been a favorite of mine. It is one that has resonated with me, particularly over the last decade of my life. The psalmist writes of disillusionment and discouragement, two sentiments that I have become quite familiar with, especially during my ongoing struggle with Chronic Fatigue Syndrome.
            What grips me about this Psalm, however, is not the lament, but the resounding way with which the psalmist resolves his struggle. These are no mere words of praise, they are what I consider to be the most conclusive declaration that anyone could put forth: “I desire you more than anything on earth” (v. 25, NLT)
            I am not artistic in the sense that I cannot draw, paint, write music, or sing. As I contemplated how to interpret this psalm, I decided that I wanted to work with a visual medium. Being a writer, I am always limited to the black and white of the page; I wanted this project to have more color to it. The weekend of Thanksgiving 2011 marked my third week of bed rest following a fairly serious bout with a virus and subsequent flare-up of my CFS. My sister is a professional photographer and was home for the holiday. On a whim, we ended up venturing out of the house and she did a photoshoot of me. We like to do that once or twice a year, believing that pictures can document and commemorate the seasons of one’s life, in some ways far more effectively than a book full of journal entries.
            I have combined some of those photographs with selected verses from Psalm 73, interspersed with words from a piece that I wrote called “Broke,” which I would say is my own personal “Psalm 73.” As the psalmist conveyed his disillusionment and discouragement through the words of this psalm, but ended on a note of trust and hope, so my piece does the same.

You see, this "A" would not have been possible without the photographic magic of my marvelous sister... or the stellar music composed by Eric Clayton/Saviour Machine.

Curious to see what I came up with? The curiosity ends...now:

The writing's on the wall.

2012-01-19T11:55:00.000-06:00

I like posting things to my wall. My literal wall, not the bit of cyberspace that I occupy in the ubiquitous land of the facebook.

Sometimes my postings are quotes, sometimes verses. Sometimes lyrics or favorite words I stumble upon in various readings of thesauri or dictionaries. (Yes, I'm that kind of nerd. What are you going to do about it?)

What they all have in common, however, is that they produce inspiration. They remind me of truth. They are the gluons that bind me to reality. They are the fanciful notions that dance through my head when I otherwise catch myself staring at a blank wall. They are symptomatic of aesthetic and intellectual gravity.

I keep a container of 3x5 cards in a plethora of colors, and felt pens with which to write, so that I'm at all times prepared to throw another word, another phrase, another haphazard thought onto the white page of my corner of the world.

So what quotes do you love? What words compel you to think deeper? What verses renew your sense of perspective?

The Procrastination Files:: Videoblogged.

2012-01-19T01:18:00.001-06:00

9pm

11:30pm

1am

Welcome to the nightmare.

2012-01-18T15:42:00.002-06:00

"In a world where Rob Lowe has the scoop on Peyton Manning's impending retirement..."

No. It's too preposterous! Even in a world of fictional novels (I'm aware that's redundant) come true, that's too far-fetched.

What is happening!?
This world is spiraling into madness!
Madness, I say!

My Colts, my Colts, my beloved Colts.

In other news, apparently those Mayans knew a thing or two about ends-o'-the-world. Buckle up. 2012's gonna be a bumpy ride.

Occupy Verizon.

2012-01-16T00:57:00.001-06:00

In September 2010 I got a Droid. It has been a comedy of errors -- with the comedic bits left out -- trying to get said Droid to function as it should. I've gone round and round with Verizon in attempts to get a phone that isn't possessed with a fury. Today I reached the end of the line. Here's what happened...

For the fifth time in the last sixteen months, I stalked through the doors of the Verizon store. I don't know about you, but I'm not quite so attached to my cell phone carrier that I need to be visiting their shop every few months. I don't need to be on a first-name basis with multiple employees. In fact, all I really need is for my phone to do what it's supposed to: be smart. Not a smart-mouth, as it seems to have translated its function, but a regular ol' miniature computer-in-my-hand that also makes phone calls.

Remember simpler days? When phones were phones and they weren't capable of composing text messages in gibberish, dialing someone on the other side of the galaxy, and generally tap-dancing your notions of submissive technology into smithereens? Yeah, I miss them, too.

But I digress. I stormed through the doors of Verizon (read: calmly entered the premises while dislodging a curl from the edge of my glasses that had been whipped round by the wind) and approached the first available employee. A man by the name of Geraldo. (Not really, but this makes it more exciting.) Geraldo looked up at me. "How can I help you?"

I showed him my phone, the screen of which, not two minutes before, had been spasmodically turning cartwheels, but was now in perfect working order. "My phone doesn't work properly."

Geraldo acknowledged the phone as if to say, yes, I know this mystical device that you speak of. "What seems to be the problem?"

"Oh, what isn't the problem? It won't turn off and it won't turn on. It won't make phone calls, and calls people at random. It won't send texts, and composes gibberish to strangers. It also talks behind my back, insults me to my face, changes the radio dial, throws fits in the grocery store, and loves Justin Bieber. I want a new one."

"Mmkay," Geraldo said. "Well, we have two options. I can send you another refurbished one--"

"You mean, just like these other four have been refurbished?"

"Precisely."

"Because I'm pretty sure that Verizon defines refurbish as to repurpose one person's woes for another."

"Or you can get your contractual upgrade."

"We'll go with that."

Geraldo begins to type. "Name on the account? Password?"

This information I had, as well as a number of other tidbits that ought to have been more-than-enough to get the thing accomplished. But no. It's never as simple as that! I mean, we only live in the 21st century, and it's only the year 2012. Life's nothing if it's not a convoluted minefield of cell phone contracts and incompetent business policies.

Geraldo proceeded to ask me a multitude of questions because, of course, nothing is ever as simple as get a new phone.

"What is your blood type?"

I stared at him.

"Mother's father's father's mother's maternal grandmother's maiden name?"

You surely must be joking...

"Month of the year that the issuer of your social security number was born?"

"Septembruary," I said, fastening a glare upon his ill-shaven face. "And you know what, while we're at it, why don't I just give you my full medical history, too! And my ancestry! Why, I think I had a relative once who was a pirate who used to sail the high seas of Lake Michigan. I'm also related to Pluto. Yes, as in the planet. And I invented the cotton gin. I had a pet leviathan as a child, watched the Blarney Stone get into a fight with the Fraggle Rock over me, and I own the Guinness World Record for longest string of Shakespearean insults uttered in a single breath!"

"Pluto's not a planet any more," Geraldo said without emotion.

"And I suppose my name's not Aimee, either! I just want a new phone!"

He stared at me dispassionately. "Then I'll just need..."

"Yes, yes, yes. The whole freakin' world history, size 12, Times New Roman, double-spaced--"

"Actually, Verizon Wireless prefers single."

Thus, I left the building without a new phone.

Okay, confession: That's not exactly how the conversation went down, verbatim. But let's just say that after tomorrow, once I've jumped through a few more needless hoops due to the nature of our account being "business" and not "personal," I shall be well on my way to being dispossessed of my schizophrenic Droid... and firmly ensconced in the land of the iPhone.

Oh for grace.

2012-01-15T11:08:00.000-06:00

"You have been weighed. You have been measured. And you have been found wanting." --- A Knight's Tale

This iconic quote passes through my head quite frequently; I woke up with it in my head this morning. It is just such a morning that I awake feeling somewhat spoon-deprived, which makes little sense since I slept for more than eight hours.

But what, really, is sense and why should I ever think that I will make it?

It's easy for me to get down on myself when I feel more tired than I think I ought. But I'm no fan of self-pity, so before I toss myself with the bathwater, I try to make quick work of the doldrums by focusing intently on what I know to be true.

I am loved, exceptionally.
I am cared for, extravagantly.
I am held, continuously.
I am beautiful, intrinsically.
Because he says so.

And so, on this snowy morning, I take joy in that marvelous reality.

The Things They Google:: 12 for '12

2012-01-14T12:30:00.001-06:00

I blogged a lot of shenanigans throughout the last year, but this series has by far been my favorite. For the year 2012, you can expect even more hilarity as each month I will cover 12 of the most popular, relevant, preposterous, outrageous, hilarious, or just plain stupid Google queries that have, for one reason or another, stranded a reader at my blog.

In this edition of The Things They Google I'll be stooping to give the readers what they're asking for. I know, it's a dangerous world out there, fraught with reckless googlers who'd rather hit up an internet search engine before they deign to use their brains, but what can I say? It's 2012 now. Time for me to give up the ghost of old ways and succumb to the frippery.

For this edition, it's all about you, the reader.

Yes, you there, who is looking for the blonde haired ventriloquist dummies. Or you, who wants to learn how to make your own Princess Aurora tiara. Even you, good sir, who, for some incalculable reason, googled "i'm trying to be your" man.

Give the people what they want, I say! Though by what "they" want, of course I mean what I want, and what I want is ~~more cowbell~~ an unparsimonious dose of snark!

To the person searching for a reproval look, sad to say the best I could come up with was this photo from seven years ago. That's right, count 'em. Sev-en! Still the same Aimee, just a different shade of hair and... well, quite seven years younger. But look at that finger-pointing action! Look at that... okay, well, technically this would be a lot more intimidating if I had the spectacles on and was peering over the top of them, making you feel as if at any second you might be obliterated by the caustic punch of my glare, but we make do with what we have! In this economy, you have to take what you can get. So you want reproval? I'll give you reproval... as frugally as can be done.

Combover? Who actually googles that? Well, I aim to please, so here you go:

(Yeah, yeah, I get it. It doesn't exactly work with curly hair. So why were you clicking on this blog in search of combover'd answers anyway? The world needs to know.)

Also, I hate to break it to he/she who is looking for an obese toad, the World's biggest coin worth 70 million, and the goa'uld empire. I've none of those things. Nor do I happen to be any of those things. If I had the coin, you better believe I wouldn't be sitting in chilly Indiana blogging about combovers and obese toads, but rather'd be off and sailing in some tropical ocean on a boat the size of a small European country, sipping coconut milk from an actual coconut. And the goa'uld empire? Seriously? That show's been canceled...

Someone wants to know about George Clooney dibs. Lady (...or Sir... I don't judge...), you can have him. Someone else wants to know if there's an aimee with a giraffe tattoo. You've come to the wrong Aimee, for I've none. nathan fillion moustache? All I have to say to you is does he look like he's got a moustache? No? Then why are you asking me all these questions for?

Finally: someone is trying to bait me, but it won't work. To the ~~concerned~~ endangered citizen who googled only aimee is most likely too young to blog, oh har-har. Very funny. OnlyAimee might look too young to eat in the pub without getting carded, and OnlyAimee might seem too young to be the manager of the business, and OnlyAimee might constantly be questioned as to what grade she is in. But I assure you that OnlyAimee isn't laughing. She is far from this "too young to blog" that you speak of, and further still from being too young to eviscerate you in fiction, nonfiction, or any other artistic medium with which she can muster a modicum of wherewithal. It has been duly noted, and you have been appropriately warned. So take a pause next time before you google yourself to infamy-ever-after. (So say we all.)

An Ode to Pain.

2012-01-12T23:14:00.001-06:00

As I sit here in my room listening to the blustering wind outside my window, wrapped up in many layers of fleece, wool, and cotton, I came across an excerpt from a journal entry that I wrote in May 2011. As I am reading and researching on a number of topics right now, pain being one of them, I thought it interesting:

...I get to the point where I realize that I'm so afraid of looking at the pain, admitting that it's there, that I go go go and try to keep busy. I'll twirl and spin and plug my ears and look everywhere but at the thing that's really inside of me, and think that by all this idiotic waltzing I'll avoid that which scares me: an emotional tornado. But by ignoring that which needs dealt with, I actually brew the storms that I fear so badly.

Dealing with hurt and admitting to it straight up seems so horrifying. Why is it that I can so easily delude myself into believing that by sidestepping it, dancing around it, being too busy for it, ignoring it, that the pain will just dissipate? Because it never does. It just stays there and waits. Patiently. It can stand by while I whip my whole self into the frenzy of being "too busy for it," "not having time to care about it," "refusing to stop and think about it," so that when I finally do have to face it, it's more monstrous and heinous than it was before and I've exhausted myself on the side from trying to ignore it all in the first place.

What'n'earth is so dadgum fearful about pain?

I need to face it, embrace it, cry about it. It's okay (and moreover, healthy) because a sad face is good for the heart. The Bible says so.

I am hurt, and have been hurt, and will be hurt again, but that doesn't make me sub-par or lesser than. It makes me something else entirely: something I seem to fear. It makes me human.

2012::Stuff to Do.

2012-01-10T12:58:00.001-06:00

Publish my work in one form or another.

Get healthy enough to run again.

Take a big risk and do something wild and crazy.

Go see my sister without nearly losing my sanity on the West Virginia portion of the trip.

Complete another year of school and get one step closer to graduation.

Let my hair grow and resist the temptation to do anything wild and crazy with it.

Read at least a dozen books for my own benefit.

Bake my own bread because it just seems like the thing to do.

Go to museums just because I want to!

Turn 28 because, yet again, this seems to be inevitable.

Do something epic to celebrate my birthday.

Raise a toast to the Mayans... the day after the world is supposed to have ended.

2011::Taking stock.

2012-01-10T12:43:00.002-06:00

I reviewed my list of things to accomplish from last year, and I am shocked (appalled, even!) that for the first time in my life, I hit everything on the list, with one exception.

Here's the list, with commentary [in brackets]:

work on my self-image:: half of the time when I look in the mirror, I still see someone who's fatter than she should be and quite strange looking. [Would definitely say that I made progress on this. It helps that I made it another year entirely without gaining any weight back, and thus continue to adjust to the reality of who I am as relates to how I feel. Sure, I still have times where I loathe myself, but I'm pretty sure that's called "being a woman."]

expand my portfolio:: by writing things I normally wouldn't. This means more short stories and nonfiction, but still no poetry. [Holy smokes, I did both of these things. More than once! I kind of threw that nonfiction on there as a joke last year, or at least wasn't very serious about it, and it turned out to be my favored project of 2011. Never say never!]

have adventures:: and really enjoy them without stressing over silly things like getting my feet wet or my hair messed up or my hands dirty. [Umm, I stood in the ocean. In a dress. Which means that I got wet and there was sand stuck all over my feet. Sure, that distressed me... a little bit... but I did it!]

see a shuttle launch:: since there are only two left, and all. [Saaaaad. Sad sad sad. I was only able to watch these on TV, and yes, I shall admit, I teared up when the last one was off and away, and when it landed for that final time. So that's that.]

walk down the aisle:: as Lindsey-lou's maid of honor (without wanting to pass out). [I didn't pass out, either from nerves or the insatiable heat!]

groove down memory lane:: by revisiting favorite things from the past, including Cornerstone festival. [Yesss! Spent one really-hot-and-humid day there with my dad, catching up with cool kids like Mike Roe, Steve and Derri from The Choir, and getting to see Randy Stonehill and Phil Keaggy rock the mainstage. Good memories.]

get a grip on my obsession:: and stop trying to count and/or figure out if I actually have gray hairs. [Answer: yes, I have a few. Fact: I don't have the energy to care. So, I guess that issue is officially dealt with.]

experiment with flavor:: and cook new/different things (that I can actually eat). [Yup! Favorite accidental concoction: mookies. I tweaked a recipe a bit too much, and ended up getting gluten free cookie-looking treats that had the consistency of muffins. Hence the name: cookies + muffins = mookies.]

turn 27:: because it seems it's inevitable (but I've got 9 more months to acclimate to that). [I did turn 27, and am no worse for the wear. Still getting asked what grade I am in...on a regular basis.]

disentangle God:: from the personalities of humanity. [Would definitely say that 2011 marked a distinct period of growth for me, yet at the same time, has only opened the door for showing me how much infinitely farther I've got to go...]

live:: and love and learn what it means to be aimee (and not everyone else who I think I should be.) [I think I can say with some confidence that now, more than ever, I feel quite thoroughly myself and feel a stronger vision of who God has made and called me to be. It is the most thrilling sensation of all.]

Something That I Should (Not) Be Doing

2012-01-06T18:12:00.002-06:00

I'm supposed to be writing a paper. Seems that's my life story these days. Of course, seeing as how I'm a writer, nothing has really changed. Before I was in school, I always should have been writing something anyway.

Today's procrastination, however, is too great not to share. (Thanks to Daniel for discovering this gem. And to Elijah for introducing the song originally. This is why social networking is never a waste of time.)

A Tale for the New Year.

2011-12-31T23:43:00.000-06:00

I'm going to tell you a story. Unlike so many of them, this one's true.

Between the years of 1948 and 1953 the flatlands of northwestern Indiana were home to the best sheriff any American county has ever seen. The man's name was Harry, and you would do right in conjuring images of a handsomer, softer-spoken version of Andy Griffith; a man with a tender smile and a spunky wife, and who, in later years, would find a favorite novel in Atlas Shrugged.

Because of its proximity to Chicago, this particular county had an enduring problem with an overflow of mob-related crime and corruption. Even though slot machines and all other forms of gambling were illegal, its presence could be found in nearly every little shop, restaurant, and convenience store in the county. At the behest of Governor Schricker, Sheriff Harry and his two deputies (yes -- all two of them) embarked on a mission to clean house in Newton County.

The sheriff and his deputies painstakingly searched out and confiscated every slot machine in their domain, in spite of the general popularity of and affinity for such things. As could be expected, they stepped on a few toes along the way. But Harry was a man of great determination, and dadgum it, the thing had to be done. Once in his possession, he turned them all over to the judge.

Days later, the slot machines were right back where they'd started. The judge was on the payroll of the gangsters, of course, because what's a truly great story without an abominable setback? Harry and the deputies were back where they started.

What's more, the cheeky criminals had a beguiling notion: pay off the sheriff to look the other way. A fur coat was offered to his wife, but she would have none. $40,000 cash, then? In a day and age when a man's house could be bought for $3,000? Surely Harry could not resist that!

Harry, however, was a principled man. He turned them down flat, and then redoubled his efforts, along with the deputies, to resolve the slot machines once and for all.

One might have thought, perhaps, that he would gather them up, take them to the governor himself. They had been commissioned by Schricker in the first place; why not leave them in his hands?

Never one to expend needless energy, Harry made his rounds to each of the slot machines, this time armed with a sledge-hammer. He and those trusty deputies destroyed every single one.

That man was my great-grandfather. And today would have been his 95th birthday. He passed away when I was only in second grade, but I have the fondest memories of him. I never knew him when he wasn't sick, though I desperately wish I had. He was a remarkable man, and paging through one of those questionnaires that thoughtful relatives fill out for their descendants, I learned that his favorite color was blue; his favorite TV show was I Love Lucy; and that when he first met my grandmother, he thought she was snotty.

I will always miss him, and always wish that I'd had more time to get to know him. But I'm thankful for my grandfather who still remembers stories of when his dad was sheriff, and for the time spent happily discussing such topics so near to my heart.

(Additionally, tomorrow, New Year's Day, would have been my great-grandmother's 93rd birthday. I always thought it remarkable that two people from such a rural area could meet and marry with birthdays on New Year's Eve and New Year's Day respectively. My great-grandma always said that it wasn't fair, because people would party it up for his birthday and be hungover for hers. But it didn't really matter what she said, because whenever she told that particular story, she always had a twinkle in her eye. Photo: Harry and Dorothy on their wedding day.)

Happy New Year, friends!

To my brother, on his twenty-second birthday.

2011-12-27T01:09:00.001-06:00

Dear Asher,

You're welcome.

For what?

-For not destroying you when you were a kid with my older sister antics.

-For letting you play with me and Tori that one time.

-For all the proofreading I have done over the last four years of your college career.

-For not telling the server at Texas Roadhouse that it was your birthday and making you ride that saddle two years in a row.

Oh, but don't let me forget the most important part: Thank you.

Thank you for being so much more than a sibling; thank you for being one of my best friends.

Thank you for your spunk and spontaneity and spark for life. Thank you for your bluntness, your passionate heart and devotion to Jesus. Thank you for your ability to make me laugh, as well as to challenge me. Thank you for always being just exactly who you are.

The world doesn't always see you... the real you... but I feel privileged to know and be a part of your life. I adored that chubby-cheeked baby brother I got when I was five and a half; I love and respect the man you have become today. I look forward to seeing where you go from here, as you take on another year, as you graduate in the spring, as you hopefully avoid further injury in your last and final rugby season, as you continue expanding your interests and attempt to find that perfect blend of impeccably roasted coffee beans...

Basically, kid, I think the world of you. I love you.

{Oh, and happy birthday.}

Love,
me

But Plato didn't have to write papers.

2011-12-20T00:21:00.000-06:00

"The beginning is the most important part of the work." -- Plato

Every time I begin a new writing project, doesn't matter what it's for, I am gripped with the fearful reality that I am going to fail. I don't know how to do this. What makes me think I can do this? So what if I've done it before, will I be able to do it again?

How many years will it take for me to stop fretting over beginnings? There's no science to them, no special formula. Other than simply starting. How long will it be till I realize and believe that I actually am a writer?

Doesn't matter if it's academic or creative in nature, I always stare at a blank document, fretful that by beginning something it is sure not to end well. But the dummy in me fails to realize that by not beginning things, they're sure to end badly, too. As in, by never happening at all.

So I push away and I prolong and I procrastinate. I do other things and tell myself I'll wait to start writing till the perfect beginning happens upon me. But all the while that I am not writing, I can't stop thinking about the writing, and how it's going to be dreadful, and how I'll never be able to do it right or get it done, and how these last ten years I've been ridiculous to call myself a "writer" because surely writers don't resist writing as stringently as I do! What am I doing with my life?

I work this mindset -- or rather, it works me -- until I've got my head in such a blustery hash that the only thing left to do is write the damn thing.

Then, of course, after wrestling with that initial opening paragraph for a good deal longer than it takes me to write the rest of the page, I wonder what I was having fits over in the first place. Nevertheless, this is a process always repeated at the onset of a new document, and I wonder: why can't projects in the real world come with predictable preset openings? Perhaps once upon a time is too ingratiating, but how about a simple, streamlined introductory paragraph that covers a one-size-fits-all approach? Academically speaking, perhaps it would work well to have a fill-in-the-blank format?

As someone who faces the traumatic process of beginning projects every week, I feel it is up to me to solve this crisis which, by all signs, is ripping society up one seam and down the other.

I only wish I knew how to begin.

The house of mourning.

2011-12-16T11:08:00.000-06:00

I was crying for other reasons. It seems there are many of them these days. God knows my heart is heavy, and at times I feel incapable of handling the burden of sorrow which seems to have lodged in my chest.

And then I saw these, what someone has dubbed the 45 Most Powerful Images of 2011. I cried over some of them, too.

Some days there are no words. Yet tears are not voiceless, and they do not go uncollected, unnoticed.

The following passage came to mind, and the words are now stumbling over my heart.

Ecclesiastes 7 :: Wisdom

¹ A good name is better than fine perfume,

and the day of death better than the day of birth.

^{² It is better to go to a house of mourning}

than to go to a house of feasting,

for death is the destiny of everyone;

the living should take this to heart.

^{³ Frustration is better than laughter,}

because a sad face is good for the heart.

^{⁴ The heart of the wise is in the house of mourning,}

but the heart of fools is in the house of pleasure.

^{⁵ It is better to heed the rebuke of a wise person}

than to listen to the song of fools.

^{⁶ Like the crackling of thorns under the pot,}

so is the laughter of fools.

This too is meaningless.

Also, from Jeremiah 8:

²¹ Since my people are crushed, I am crushed;

I mourn, and horror grips me.

^{²² Is there no balm in Gilead?}

Is there no physician there?

Why then is there no healing

for the wound of my people?

Six weeks away from the world (and counting).

2011-12-14T20:54:00.002-06:00

It doesn't seem like it's been six weeks since this "episode" began. It feels ever so much longer.

It has been raining all day. I haven't been outside. I don't even think I've looked out a window, but I hear it, plunking and beating against my window, my walls, the roof. I don't have to go outside, don't have to muddy my jeans in a puddle, but it still aggravates me. I long for silence.

It's December, isn't it? My calendar tells me so. The Christmas tree in the living room tells me so. Otherwise, it might as well be January, or mid-March. I wish it were March.

These last six weeks have, truth be told, been some of the darkest of my life. This is the longest continual fatigue flare I've experienced, but that's probably because this time, I'm letting my body recover strength before I try plunging it back into reality. I miss the outer world. And yet, I don't.

Any normal person might have lost their marbles long ago from being cooped up so thoroughly, but not me. I'm no zanier than I've always been, and if I had my druthers, I'd get to work from home all the time. That being said, I'd love to have more energy. This whole chronic-illness-thing, it's for the birds.

Which reminds me. I've been playing lots of Angry Birds lately. I know they're collectively angry, but maybe they need to forgive them some pigs, and not destroy themselves in the process of seeking vengeance for their stolen eggs. You know it's a strange day in the universe when I'm feeling contemplative about destroying green hams who have shifty eyes and taunting smiles.

Between Tim Tebow and Words With Friends (and a few other more academic pursuits), somehow my days pass from one to another. Today, in particular, my sister blogged a shoot she did of me while she was here for Thanksgiving. Want to see some holiday magic? In spite of my raging fatigue, somehow her marvelous abilities made me look alive... quite so that I almost feel... human.

Special shout-out to my Words With Friends compatriots: Dawn, Sarah, Gretchen, Benjamin, Lauren, and the Doctor-O'-Love.

It's beginning to look a lot like...

2011-12-13T17:22:00.001-06:00

So apparently it's December or something. I wouldn't really know. Having been on bed-rest for 6 weeks now, one day literally bleeds into the next.

I haven't really been "into" Christmas these last several years, truth be told. I'm not an intensely social person, so I don't crave the parties. My body is a cornucopia of food intolerances, so I can't appreciate all (if any) of the typical sweets that come with the holiday. And logically speaking, there is no biblically mandated reason for celebrating the birth of Christ now in this way.

Don't get me wrong. I'm no Scrooge, in spite of what it may sound like. I don't besmirch anyone their Christmas happiness. I think we should all be able to say Merry Christmas as often as we wish (it is a free country). I don't even take issue with Christmas trees and what-have-you, even though it all technically stems from pagan origins. The celebration takes place inwardly, not because an evergreen tree is present in a house or because someone puts cookies and milk out for Santa.

Speaking of cookies, I have to brag on my little brother for a moment. He's a well-rounded, multifaceted guy who's about to graduate from college with a business degree and looks pretty dang suave in a suit, but who also uses his spare time to cook outrageously delicious meals, drive his Porsche or ride around on his motorcycle, roast his own coffee beans, AND (as of this week) make sugar cookies that look like this:

I am so impressed. I might not be in a very festive mood, but seeing these pieces of edible goodness actually brought a smile to my face. It's just a pity they're actually going to get eaten.

Sleep and sheep.

2011-12-10T00:07:00.001-06:00

This is the second time in a week that I've let myself get overtired. How can one get OVERtired when they're on perpetual bedrest, you might ask?

The first time was the day of my cousin's wedding. I was away from the house for 8 hours, and while I certainly didn't overexert myself, it was the most movement and activity I had been put through in a month. Not to mention, the coldest I had been. I did not get a nap that day, but regardless of the physical consequences, it was worth it. My cousin's only getting married once, and I was there to stand up in her wedding.

Today, however, is strangely different. I slept in till I woke naturally, but then I chose not to take an afternoon nap, thinking I would start to resume a pattern of 'normal' life, at least in some ways. Because I didn't take a nap, however, I was ready for bed at 8:30. Well, I couldn't really go to bed that early, now could I?

I kept myself up till 9:30, but by that point it was too late. Something happens in my body when I get overtired. My head wants to sleep, I cannot keep my eyes open very well, but my body starts aching and hurting to the point that sleep, while desperately wanted, is now impossible. So I lie awake, crushingly tired, but unable to get rest.

Now, 2.5 hours later, I am mind-numbingly tired, in pain, and still awake. I finally caved and took some ibuprofen, which seemed to help last time, but you can bet I won't be missing my nap again for some time to come.

I don't know how I'm to get out of this funk, only I know that it's happened before and it'll happen again. I wish I had kept better track in the past so that I had a better understanding of my body and these phases. I guess this can serve as proof that I ought never underestimate the power of a nap.

Now, I need to count my blessings instead of sheep, so I can fall asleep... counting my blessings. But mostly so I can fall asleep.

Midnight prayers.

2011-12-08T00:45:00.001-06:00

I'm tired of trying to be strong. I'm not strong. I'm weak. I'm clinging to verses that I've repeated so often they feel tattered in my hands... the truths no less true, just tired, worn.

I'm weary and exhausted. I want to be rescued. I want to be fought for. I want to be enveloped in strong arms and told that everything's gonna be okay, and not 'cause I'm gonna have to force it, but because it really will be okay.

My heart is afraid. I'm tired of walking on eggshells everywhere I turn. Life is not easy, life is risk, life can be brutal, I can't fix that. I don't know how to even know what it is that I ought to be wanting.

God, seize my heart and make it your own. Blot out the words I've spoken in foolishness. Erase their presence, dim the volume to all ears who can hear. Wipe away the unwise things I have done. Mop the floor of my messes; you know there are too many. Don't let others be snared in my own grating stupidness. Forgive me for running ahead and ignoring your cautions; don't let others get tripped in the knotted shoelaces of my personal idiocy.

In other words, save them all from me. Save me from me. Cover me by your mercy, and teach me the art of having a quiet heart that trusts you first and shirks this dimwitted behavior like the stenchy shroud that it is.

Peace. I crave your peace. Infuse my life, my head, my heart, my body, my spirit with your peace... and may it truly and literally pass all understanding.

Amen.