Mere Thought

Cookies. They don't just happen.

2006-06-30T13:19:00.000-07:00

Some of you are boy scouts, some of you were boy scouts, some of you scout boys. That said, all of you know to “be prepared.” It’s good thing, preparedness. I just wasn’t.

There’s a cookie store I really enjoy in downtown St. Paul. And don’t think you know where this going, cause you don’t. It is known to it’s loyal patrons as Doughey’s because when the old donut shop that used to occupy that spot moved out in 1986 it left behind a lot of dough in secret spots. Every so often at Doughey’s – to this day- you’ll be leaning with your hand against a tile on the wall and think “Hey what’s so squis- ARG!” and you’ll find dough is oozing out of the cracks onto your manicure. This has not affected the cookies.

I pulled up to Doughey’s yesterday dressed in my usual yellow jumper (known affectionately by me as the “electric lemon”). I walked in and ordered the build-your-own-cookie so that I could, well, build my own cookie. First you have to pick that animal you want it shaped as, which I’ve always thought was just a bit much. “Do you think I could maybe get it shaped as like a medical instrument instead?” I asked .
“Creature only,” replied the stern and heavily bearded man behind the counter.
“Um…ugh, I don’t know… Pterodactyl.”

“Not extinct.”
“I guess a newt, then.” (Newts are always my plan B in every life scenario.)
“Okay. What kind of sugar?” he asked without looking up from his order pad.
“Sugar?” I asked, “Really?”
“…Sweet cookie.” He said, I blushed briefly and then quickly remembered we were discussing my order.
“Powdered.”
“Kind of dried fruit?”
“Yellow. –er, I mean lemons. Make that an electric lemon, haha,” I laughed as I looked down at and petted my jumper, congratulating my self on being SO witty. He did not laugh, which puzzled me. I had probably forgotten to mention to him the name of my jumper.
“…and Type of Purée?”
“chicken.”
“K. Sour or whipped cream on that?” Can you believe he would even ASK that?!
“Sour!”

Without so much as a goodbye or a high-five he walked back to the kitchen to start making my chicken-topped lemon powdered sugar pterodactyl- ugh, I mean newt- cookie. When he came out with it I may have peed just a little (out of the pure excitement of it, I’m a lot like a puppy or a very old woman in that sense.)
“$1.85” he said after ringing me up. I took out my wallet. What? Why don’t I have any money. I sifted through six or so gift cards to Petco (it’s where the pets go), and about a dozen coupons for tortillas (but why?).

“I, uh….well, um. See, suddenly I can’t seem to find my money.”
His eyebrows lowered (even lower than before! How low can they GO?! And that’s when I got the idea of eyebrow limbo – but that’s for another blog). “If you’ll just let me run home and-“
“No home.”
“El-sa phone home,” I said and I reached out with one glowing finger.
He shook his head. “Fine.” I said.”…look. Say I promise you my first born?….seamonkey” I muttered the last part under my breath, thinking about my growing colony at home.
“PLEASE.” I pleased as a felt a tear well up in my left eye (the insincere eye.) “I REALLY WANT THIS COOKIE……please sir. (gulp). I built it. …..(in a muted whisper)…please.” His gaze softened and I could tell I was gaining ground. “Sir,” I went on. “Have you ever had to give up something you built? Do you know how it rips your heart?” His lower lip began to quiver and I really never do try to make people cry…but this we had a crier on our hands.
“I can’t just let you have this cookie. Perhaps an exchange?” He whipered, so as to repress his sobs.
“Listen.” I grabbed his arm. “What if I traded you a lemon for this cookie? An electric lemon?”

And that’s the story of me not being prepared. That’s also the story of why if you passed me the other day on I-94, I was naked. It’s not a pretty story. It’s a hard tale to tell. I got my newt-cookie, but I lost my favorite jumper. My point is, bring money because coupons for tortillas just don’t cut it.

Sun n' Fun [or Dodging Wet Wrinkles]

2006-06-02T17:05:00.000-07:00

Summer is upon us. How do I know? Well, the sun is shinning, pants are getting shorter, dogs pant more, Starbucks doesn’t even stock hot drink cups anymore, and grandma has called me to invite me to her annual pool party. It’s like clock work, her call is. Just when the sun seems like its staying out too long to be true, she rings me up.
I never want to go. She’s been inviting me since I turned 12 – the age one can first handle seeing thirty seniors in bikinis (there’s really no good age for it). Try as I may, somehow I always end up over there. She’s a tricky lady.
“Elsa, come over. I made cookies!”
“Wow! Okay grandma!” I say on the phone
“…And don’t forget your swim cap.”
“Okay! Cookies and swim cap! …..wait.”
Sometimes I catch her.
Other times she’s more direct. Like this year, for instance. She called me this afternoon.
“Hello? ….Well hello there grandma!…Oh, I’m fine. Just fine…no, I missed Wheel of Fortune this afternoon…yes, a shame indeed…..did she?….Vanna White did what?…..seven vowels? Grandma, there’s only five actual vowels….yes. a,e,I,o, and u….well, yes I suppose sometimes y, but that’s still only six…..no, I think you should write a letter!….at any rate…. AquaFest ’06? Oh, ha, is that today? It’s fun how elaborately you name it every year….what is the theme this year? ….hedgehogs, okay….
Heh….grandma- I….gra- ….ma-…see, I just don’t think I can make it…see, we just bought this mule…no, not a pool, grandma, a mule, and I promised mother I’d shampoo it…..well, it’s just a little soiled, that’s all….no, I can’t even

come later. The mule is actually a lot soiled…well, I didn’t want to tell you this, but the mule did roll around for a while in its own- ….yes, mules can roll…she’s a hybrid, you’re fine….well, I know you’ve never seen the mule, but I’ve never seen my senator, does it mean he doesn’t exist? You know?….listen. okay, grandma, there’s no mule…no..NO MULE...but I can’t come… its just last year was a little scarring, that’s all….don’t know what I’m talking about?….grandma, remember last year when Myrtle’s swimsuit fell off….and no one noticed?”
She’s a sweet one. But I was just busy this year. Luckily, we’re okay, because she invited me over on Thursday for fruit salad and she wants me to make sure I bring my water wings…-wait.

Buh-Bye Now

2006-04-25T12:19:00.000-07:00

We have forgotten the word "goodbye". I never hear it. I never really do say it. -and why would we say it? We know we're about to text the same person we're leaving in an hour, or we'll call them later that night, or we'll sit with them in class the next day. It's almost as if the contact never ends.

But goodbye is important. I think you can tell a lot about how much someone values time with you by how, and moreover, if they say "goodbye" even when they won't be gone for long. Doesn't it always mean something when a friend finds you or goes out of their way just to say goodbye? I always feel like goodbye is saying- "I know I'll see you soon, but if for some reason I didn't, I would want this goodbye to hold us for a little longer."

"Goodbye" is closure and we need it. Even when it's a small matter. I think that's part of the reason everyone is so stressed all the time. Everything runs together into everything else- everything becomes one long interaction. Let's break it up.

This is something to practice. Maybe if we get good enough at forming the small "goodbyes" it won't be so hard when we have to muster up those painful, long-term farewells.

Welcome Back, Blog! (I hope you aren't sick.)

2006-03-25T21:25:00.000-08:00

Oh, Blog. Where have you been? You’ve grown since January, you really have. And is that a new hair cut? Were you actually going for the mullet look? Promise you won’t run off again. I’ll never forget that day I chased you down the street. Me in my tennis shoes and you with a nap sack.

A lot of people say “Elsa, you never blog anymore!” and that’s true. But it is also true that Blog doesn’t return my calls. I can’t tell you how sick I got of always getting it’s answering machine.

“Hey, you’ve reached Blog. Sorry I can’t come to the phone right now because I don’t have eyelids. Leave a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can function as something other than a website.”

I was getting sick of it always playing the “eyelid” card, you know?

I don’t get sick that often. And I’d be lying if I said that my self-esteem wasn’t entirely rooted in that quality. I’m proud that I am able to withstand harsh winters, usually suffering only one cold. I often swallow just to note how non-painful it is (but who doesn’t?)

There are other folks, however, who seem to always be sick. I’m almost able to predict their cough cycle.

“Cough cough….chouuuuuuugh cough.” -Anonymous

Or else they start to say “Man, my glands are sw-”

“-swollen, we know.”

I do not resent these people. I applaud their financial contributions to the pharmaceutical industry, and admire their bravery in the face of such frail immune systems.

I do, however, have a small problem with those who try to be too brave. You know they type. They come to school with a fever, a box of Kleenex, and wearing clothes (usually sweats) that are trying so hard to say “I’m so sick I didn’t even want to shower. A water spout was just too much today.”

If nothing else know this: You are not being a hero by coming to school; you are ruining everyone else’s lives.

Somewhere in our schooling people were taught that they had to be strong and come to school despite the fact that they are overflowing with germs. That’s a lie you’ve been spoon-fed. Contrary to popular belief, the show doesn’t have to go on. The world will spin without your daily routine.

According to recent studies (a tally I took on the back of my class while sitting in Math), a sick student who decided to “ride out” their disease actually gets eight other people sick. Yes, I made that up, but it sounds fantastically accurate.

“Slimies” (sick who won’t ever stay home (is that name too harsh?)) also destroy the academic environment of school. My entire knowledge of the civil war is made up of something about Lincoln and a sneeze. I also don’t appreciate when these people expend our group work time on talking about their congestion. We're in the midst of a group discussion when they bust in with "It feels like a manatee is trying to raise a family in my sinues…”

Of course the group stops, is disrupted and I say, “Yes, but what’s that got to do with the Spanish Inquisition?”

I usually throw my pencil in disgust (and outrage) about the time they start comparing their mucous to the overbearing arm of Ferdinand I of Spain.

It's easy to joke, but whether you’re sick, or stressed, or sad: don’t be afraid to take a break. You need to. Things won’t come undone.

More often than not, we add our own gravity to otherwise simple situations.

Rest.

I Had to Shower

2006-01-10T16:50:00.000-08:00

“Elsa,” my grandma once said to me while quietly and tenderly flipping through old photo albums, drinking tea in her recliner, “where do you think the most drama goes down?”

“Well-uh-…I…drama? Don’t you mean knitting?”

“No, drama.” She replied.

"Grandma, I'm uncomfortable."

"Answer."

“Well then, I, uh, suppose …-the library.” I decided as I pictured in my head two women both named Nancy fighting over the last copy of Dr. Phil’s newest weight loss solution in the self-help isle.

My grandma looked up from her photos as if awakened from a bad dream. She lowered her bifocals, looked me straight in eye, peering into my soul, and said with an unfaltering voice. “Nuh-uh,” she scratched her chin. “It’s the gas station.”

“Like anyone could even know that…” I sneered.

Now I know. Now I know (purses and bites bottom lip while staring longingly up at the sky as if holding back tears)

I had to get gas early this morning. Usually I love getting-purchasing, that is- gas. “GAS!!!” I screamed like a baby with a new rattle as I ran out to my car this morning. Bundled up in my favorite scarf, gloves, and jacket- only the best for gasoline- I started my car and began scraping the ice off her.

When I finally hit the road, I was ecstatic. I pulled into my favorite station…but all too soon. “Yay!” I exclaimed as I drove up next to the pump, oblivious to the misfortune that lay just ahead. I popped the gas tank and got out of my car.

“Dang!” I noticed my gas tank was on the wrong side of the car, away from the pump. “Embarassing. Who forgets that…” I asked myself, casting my eyes down. Not wanting to look dumb to the woman pumping gas beside me, I opened my back seat and began rumaging through the contents as if I had stopped at this pump only to check something in the back.

After taking out a text book and a random blanket, putting them back in, and mumbling a couple of “Ok! There we go!”s I figured I had covered my blunder pretty well. That, or she may have thought I was running a small animal shelter out of the backseat of my car because I may or may not have said “That’s all the lettuce you’re getting for now!” I don’t know why I say that so much. It’s almost second nature now.

Anyway, after turning my car around, I finally proceeded to pump. I planned to pay about $10. With the nozzle pumping away, my mind started to wander as it usually will when given a walking stick and access to mapquest. I thought about carrots for a long time. Why are they always the noses on snowmen? You’ve got to be kidding me that a carrot is the produce that most closely resembles the human nose! They’re so orange and pointy. A potato, I thought would perhaps the best representation especially when placed verticall- “OH MY GOSH $9.95!!” I screamed in my brain. “Quick! Pull it out before it before you can’t pay perfectly with your ten dollar bill!!” Not realizing I had the pump locked so it would pump automatically, I yanked it out. Gas sprayed everywhere! All over my car, my shoes, my gloves…my polar fleece.

Regretting my entire existence, I dragged my humiliated self to the counter and paid. $10.07- UGH! This wansn’t anything I could fake my way out of by digging in the backseat, or running an animal shelter for that matter.

I walked into my first hour, out of breath, and very much flustered, still wearing my jacket. I sat down.

“Um…,” began Ellen, “Does anyone smell rubber?? Why does it suddenly smell like a garage in here?”

“Ugh!” said Dillion. “That’s an awful smell!”

“What IS that!?” asked the other Ellen with the utmost disgust.

Others chimed in and soon enough the whole class was in a roar trying to figure out the source of the garage smell.

“It’s me…” I mumbled.

“What?” asked Ellen (the first one)

“Look….,” I proceed to tell my tragic tale and how I was drenched in gasoline.

Of course the class laughed and high-fived each other with the kind of vigor you only find at lunch, including my teacher. They then called me “Gassy”. I consoled myself by convincing myself they were calling me “Cassie”…

“Is it on your hands?” my teacher asked. I looked down at my hand and saw a huge discolored white patch of skin.

“AH! …can I go wash my hands?”

After coming back in to the classroom, I found the clever French class had made another name for me…Eau D’Elsa. Like the French word for perfume….Eau D’toilette.

When the smell permeated the class and became simply too much to bear, my teacher offered me her sweat suit to wear which she uses to work out in afterschool.

“That’s nice,” I told her, “But no thank you.”

The whole day I was basically a Gas Fest ’98. Today was a good reminder, I think, for me to not take myself too seriously. I had no choice but to make “Elsa smells” jokes with the rest of ‘em. And really, how can we ever remember who we really are if aren’t consistently laughing at ourselves? If my day is too important for a little gasoline spill, then maybe I need to reconsider how I spend my days.

It was Bob Newhart who said “Laughter gives us a distance. It allows us to step back from an event, deal with it, and then move on.” The gas is in the past now. Not just because I showered for an hour, but because I laughed.

Treatise on Time

2006-01-01T14:46:00.000-08:00

The new year is I one of those times I believe our humanity is most clear. Happy New Year? We’re the only ones to whom that phrase matters.

Humans unlike the animals we share this planet with have the beautiful ability to sense time. C.S. Lewis wrote that humans are “so far above time that they [can] perceive time flowing past.” As I lie on the couch with my dog, petting his little head, I am completely aware of the passing of time. I can understand that something is continually passing by me although I myself am not moving. What is more, I can remember years past and understand that the reason I am not eternally dwelling in those memories is the passing of time.

I look down at my dog. His mind, on the other hand, cannot conceptualize time. He has no measure of how long he’s been on the couch. Whether it’s five minutes or an hour, he won’t have a recollection of long lounging naps in my lap. If he jumps down from the furniture we can be certain it’s not because he determined “Well, that’s enough of that.” It’s because he spotted his squeaky toy across the room or because he smelled meat coming from the kitchen and, living completely on his whims, abruptly abandoned his previous activity.

While I am consumed by time and my dog is too far beneath it, how refreshing is the knowledge that God exists outside of time? “All times are eternally present to God,” Lewis writes. Does he not work in a multi-dimensional eternity?

We are prisoners of time, make no mistake. It ages us. It measures us. And whether we are passing through it or it through us, we cannot control it. So, shall we use our human consciousness of time and simply sit back and helplessly comprehend and acknowledge it? No, we have a greater gift as humans still. We can make it count.

We can’t know how much of this precious time fabric has been entrusted to us or to those we love. We can safely say, it’s not enough. We've seen enough heartache and death to know. Why, then, do we perpetually squander time on half-hearted relationships, cheapness, drunken debauchery, and cruelty? Let’s use our unique grasp of time to really see its passing and perhaps thereby the dire need for genuine unconditional love, and unrestrained forgiveness in our time-wearied, broken world. I recently saw a t-shirt that read “Love God, Love People, Nothing Else Matters.” The truth in that! If we spent half as much time loving the loveless and feeding the hungry out of pure love as we do ignoring them, holding grudges towards them, how much more would the passing time count? If we put as much of this “time” into our relationship with God- the One who has so graciously bestowed, is owed, and desires more than anything, our time- as we put into our struggle to maintain our relationships with fickle friends, perhaps then…perhaps we would see that though we live within the bounds of time, we are constantly pursed by the Love that does not.

So, here’s to 2006. May we see how trifling our sad occupations are. And may we be consumed not by our obsession with our own time, but by Him.

Sad Clown (Tapir)

2005-12-29T19:49:00.000-08:00

Say, how's the weather?

So I look out the window to brighten my soul, but I can't control

the rain

that keeps fallin'.

Smile on the outside... it never comes in.

Comedy, mystery, irony, tradgedy

so I scream, "Let the show begin!"

You break me open.

Turn on the light , stumble inside with me.

Do I entertain you?

Do I preoccupy you my wit to cover this lie?

Are you mezmorized?

Do you think me faithful?

Do you think me a clown?

I picked out this shirt, put on this hat, wore all this paint

just for you.

You break me open. Turn on the light, stumble inside with me.

Cards and the jokers who send them

2005-12-20T18:36:00.000-08:00

Everyone who’s anyone, or at least partially someone, or three quarters nobody, knows this is an exciting time of year. One of my most treasured activities during these bitterly cold winter months is receiving Christmas cards.

About the beginning of December they begin to trickle in, slowly at first, but soon I find myself buried up to my ankles in letters as they cover the kitchen floor (ankles may not feel like very high, but I would ask you to remember the width of an envelope…how could you forget, right?) . The first card to arrive at my house is usually from somewhat of an obscure family, but I enjoy it all the same because it has become somewhat of a trumpet-like proclamation “CHRISTMAS IS HERE! IT’S HERE RIGHT NOW!” – but just a little more musically.

I think we all love the cards. We love them not only because it’s a reminder that other people may actually enjoy us, but because we get to review them. You know type. You open them up, cautiously at first because you’ve seen the name McHogan on the front (which always gets an eyebrow raise from mom), and you pull out the letter. “Oh, Karen…” you say sympathetically shaking your head in somewhat disbelief, as you realize that Mrs. Karen McHogan has decided yet again to wear a backless evening gown in the photo while posing with her two bundled up kids (Jason, 7 and Christine, 4) with a snowman in the front yard. Backless? Really? "The therapy those kids will need..." you think to yourself. Or the card from Pernanells, your old neighbors who had the weird children who always peed in your back yard. “Oh…they had a seventh baby….that’s a sha-”

“Don’t say it.” Your mom says, reading the card over your shoulder.

Or the card from your dad’s creepy third cousin who refuses to write a return address yet sends a solo portrait of himself posing next to a soybean field with cursive text underneath that reads, "May all the joys of the season be yours". This time your dad is reading over your shoulder, “Hey! Is that Mrs. McHogan?” he asks?

“No, Cousin Ernie is just wearing the same backless dress"

Oh, the list goes on….

This year I recived a very interesting Christmas card addressed only to me. My name and address was spelled out with pine needles on the front and the whole envelope smelled like a giant Douglas Fur (…or a spruce). I was very surprised to read the letter inside. I have since lost that original letter but I do have the letter I wrote in response. And I will share it with you, right now….

Dear My Christmas Tree, (Can I call you Christie?)
I can’t tell you how delighted I was to recieve your letter! It was a TREEt! Haha, you may not know this but I love puns. On a more serious level, I must tell you how thoroughly disturbed I was by what you wrote. All I can say is…I am so sorry. I- I had NO idea that the decorative lights gave you a rash. Although anatomically I’m a far cry from a pine tree, I can imagine how uncomfortable that must be! Tell me, are the aluminum balls okay? Is there something I can do. I would be lying if I told you I had some sort of ointment I could prescribe… I was also very upset to hear that my dog makes fun of you at night! And then he pees on you! You poor, defenseless little ball of arbor delight! Would it help if I sang you my rendition of “O Tannenbaum?” Really, how lovely are your branches? Alright, C.T. I gotta run –oh…it’s okay to not have legs…um. I have to be honest, these interspecies correspondences are a little much to handle. Ok, well…keep growin’! (In a purely figurative sense of course. I mean, obviously you’ve been uprooted).

Your Maple-Tree Hatin’ owner,
Elsa

P.V. Update: Ok, we’re up to 181 profile views, which- I don’t even know 181 words. Good work, folks. 200 Clicks in 2006!

What a truth.

2005-12-06T18:08:00.000-08:00

Profile Views(!)

2005-12-03T12:06:00.000-08:00

Ok. So for roughly the entire life of this little blog, when you click on my profile it's said that I've had 56 views. Now, I can't stress what a lie that is. I know I've checked it at LEAST 40 times since it's creation to ensure that it maintains it's aesthetic appeal, naturally. And I know that at leat one, maybe (if I'm lucky) two or three other people read this and have inevitably clicked on view profile. I'm pleased to report that the number of views is up to 99! Yay! Now, the question is: Who will be the hundreth viewer? I wish I could promise that ballons and confetti would drop from the sky upon the hundreth viewer as soon as they click, but instead I can only guarentee a feeling of unparalleld fufillment for that lucky someone. But, really...does anyone else feel like that number is somewhat off? I mean, when I look at other people's blogs they have like 700 viewers! I mean -I'm not bitter, really. But 99? Come on. Let's pull together as a team and see if we can get that number up to 200 by 2006. I know, I know, it's a stretch, but at the same time it is an experiment in teamwork. Ready? On your marks, get set, VIEW!

200 CLICKS IN 2006!

Zoo-sational!

2005-12-01T20:30:00.000-08:00

I enjoy zoos. It’s nothing I’ve ever been ashamed to say (except for a brief period in 8th grade when a popular phrase was “zoos suck”). From the over priced novelty cups with two bear cubs embracing on the cover to the random birds/peacocks/ostridges that fly around the zoo as if to boast to guests and tigers alike, “That’s right… No cage for us, Mr. Stripes” (obviously aimed at the tiger who paces furiously around his antelope carcass.) Even I find my self occasionally jealous of those birds (but why?).
I’m a proud volunteer at the Minnesota Zoo, and one of my favorite parts is the walk through the zoo to where I work. I usually arrive very early in the morning before guests are allowed to roam the path. It’s quiet, the sun is coming up, and for that delightful 15 minutes it feels like it’s just me and the animals. The first (outdoor, mind you) exhibit I pass is the tigers. I love to stare at the grass, waiting….watching, for a tiger to move or to come out of hiding in the shade. I tread a little further up the path until I reach my favorite place. As I come around a bend of bushes I see a clearing….then a swamp….until finally I stand 10 feet from the enormous moose standing knee deep in the green pond- staring at me. I look back at him and I find it hard to catch my breath. Somewhere deep inside myself I hear a gasp and a “wow.” The only sounds I can hear is the moose wading gently in the water. He looks up at me as if to ask why I decided to wear my hair like that. I nod back at him, reminding him that HE’s the moose here and he should worry about that hairless patch on his back before he attacks my more-than-lumpy-ponytail. Still in a state of awe I turn around to see a herd of caribou making it’s way through exhibit across the way. I gaze at them, entirely taken with the complexity of their antlers. A couple of them lay sleeping under a tree 50 feet away. They blend right in! I look at back at Antonio (oh, that’s what I named the moose. Antonio) and then back at the ‘bou herd. I remember why I love zoos and I keep on walking.

Zoos give people like myself (a person surrounded with only squirrels and a dog…occasionally a chipmunk if I’m lucky) the opportunity to come face to face and hand to hoof with animals that about which I could have only dreamed.

I think we’ve lost that feeling as a society. Do you remember the first time you saw an elephant? Do you remember what you thought? How you felt when it looked at you? We’ve forgotten that awe. I know I have. We’ve lost the wonder that comes with gazing upon a creature 10 times bigger than ourselves. But mostly, we’ve lost the silent breathlessness that only happens when we make eye contact with elephant. I feel like in those moments life becomes so simple and yet so inexpressible.

When the school year gets hectic and friend get far too complicated, I look back longingly at those summer volunteer days and wish me and Antonio were just starring at each other in the swamp again. It’s important to realize that wonder and excitement exist outside of the walls and we’ve created for ourselves. Find and elephant and live again.

P.S
Why are pandas always on “loan”? Can China please just commit?

You will always be a part of us.

2005-11-20T22:21:00.000-08:00

It’s done. I poured my soul, every energy, every breath of the last three months into it, and now, as if without warning, it’s over. I don’t think I understand that yet. I feel like my brain is saying “The musical is over” and my heart, in the words of Colette is asking “Really?”.

Oh, but I can’t get over how beautiful it was. It wasn’t in the music, it wasn’t even in the set. It was in the people. In the way that 80 people could come together and through this relentless collective labor create another world. I don’t remember reading “Beautiful”, or “Dedication” or “Encouragement” in the script or notated in the music, and yet there it was on and off the stage every night.

I can’t believe how much I fell in love with the cast. I can’t believe how much I laughed. I can’t believe how much Sacajawea (Isn’t it fun how it works as a plural?) I collected. I can’t believe that I had passed these people in the halls everyday of my life and just met them now.

There wasn’t a minute I didn’t love it. 7th hour for me had become somewhat of a “wait fest”. I would stare at the clock until 2:40 would come around and I would RUN to the theatre when the bell rang. Some things I loved: laughing at Nate on the ramp as he would graciously accept the praise of the peasants below; Seeking out Alto heretics (you know who you are.) and burning them at the bass clef (Friends don’t let friends sing above middle C); Pens and clipboards flying across the auditorium (hooc), Benji and Ben (in general); Claire’s two handed rain dance and jokes she would tell about snakes and the way she filled Aime’s shoes and drew killer lines on my face, the list goes on; Colette and her doggone ladybugs; Jon pointing his toes and fanning himself during Sad Tale of the Beauxhommes and making me laugh uncontrollably, The couch at Elana’s party room (Fire Log); Finding blood stains on Ms. Butzen’s wall. Is it any wonder that at 5:00 when everyone was excited to go home, (and I didn’t tell anyone this) I was always sad because nothing at home was as much fun as theatre? The rehearsals went so fast, and maybe that’s because I’m new, but I barely noticed the time passing.

It was nothing I could have anticipated and yet infinitely more that I could have wanted. There’s this song that was cut from the original Once on This Island called “Come Down From the Tree” which is a song sung by Mama to little Ti Moune.

“Come down from the tree. Just open your arms and trust. You know in your heart that one of these days you must. Come down from the tree. It’s easy to feel afraid and hard giving up that safe little nest you’ve made. When you have something so warm familiar to cling to your arms won’t let go. You close your eyes to the dark press your nose to the back and hold on. Yes I know. But down below is where you must be, and what you were meant to do. So hold out your hand and listen to someone who was once in a tree like you. Soon you’ll have someone so warm and familiar to cling to and love till you die. When your heart knows what it needs you must go where it leads. Leave the nest. Learn to fly… And that’s why I came down from my tree and all that I held so dear. When I found my love the rest of my life was clear, Come down from your tree, come down. I’m here.”

In a lot of ways, I see myself in Little Ti Moune, the little girl clinging desperately to the tree. I’ve spent most of my life in that tree, in that safe place, happy to stay there forever; never knowing everything that lay just below it. This play took a girl who was so afraid of the world, and of every criticism…and of singing, pulled her out of her safe tree of complacency and showed her that there’s a world apart from the leafs and the bark. And though I went kicking… what I found was the most fun I’ve ever had.

I could have missed it all. Had I stayed in that tree, I wouldn’t have met the incredible people I did, I wouldn’t have learned what patience means, and the fall of 2005 would have been just another season.

Tonight it all culminated in the tears in Piper’s eyes. When I caught a glimpse of the tear stained face of this little girl, my heart broke open right there on the stage. I looked around at the cast who was also crying and laughing. And as we sat together at the end of the line looking out down the amazing road we had traveled... for the first time I felt like I belonged there. And when I took my bow I wasn’t thinking anymore about whether or not the audience was clapping, but instead I bowed thinking only of the irreplaceable relationships I had formed and deepened, and feeling entirely overwhelmed and thankful that I was dragged to that theatre interest meeting this September.

I feel like this is going to be one of those memories I’ll look back on ten years down the road, when life is a little colder than I expected… and I’ll just smile.

Goodbye, Once on This Island. I could not have foreseen you; but I will never forget you. And though I was only a part of you for what seems but a sand in the hour glass, you will always be a part of me.

Oh won't you stay...

2005-11-14T14:46:00.000-08:00

Dear Fall Musical,

Please don't leave so fast...because I love you. And I don't know what I'm going to do with myself after Sunday. Can't you stick around a little bit longer?

Sincearly,
Elsa.

Oh, Swedes...

2005-11-09T17:08:00.000-08:00

This photo was sent to me by some family in Sweden on my birthday. This might be one of the many reasons I love them.

Obviously by "me" you meant "you"

2005-11-03T21:10:00.000-08:00

I hate when things and people try to tell me what I “mean” (or that I am mean :-( )

Microsoft Word: Nothing is more annoying than when I’m typing along on my little mac, humming (usually something from West Side Story or a new Metallica tune, but that’s not my point…--> not for sure), and I spell something that Microsoft Word hasn’t seen before like “corncobchicken” or “birkenstock” and I keep typing…then I look back and it changed my word! Corncobchicken is now “Corncob Chicks”. That’s not even what I meant. Take it back, AutoCorrect. Take it back. It’s such a slap in the face from a computer… and a mac at that! I feel like my computer took one look at my essay and was like (in a latino accent, obviously) “…honey, I know you didn’t mean to write abou’ corncobchicken…”

“Yeah, honey. I did” (talking my natural long “O” Scandinavian accent with a touch of sarcasm)

“…Ugh. Honey, you know corncobs and chickens are incompatible”

“I wasn’t trying to create a race of corncob-chickens!” I scream as tears begin to gather in the corners of my eyes (but all the while I secretly laugh at the thought of chickens running around with husks for wings..). I take a breath through the sobs… “I was trying to create a recipe for a lunch dish that would incorporate all aspects of farming….the fields AND the fowl.” I usually just get so heated up that in a fit of unbridled rage I shove my mouse to the upper left corner and click “Edit” with vengeance and slowly scroll down to “Undo AutoCorrect”…click. HA! I laugh as Word Empire crumbles and my corncobchicken recipe is restored.

It's always a shame when you realize Word was right and you have to come crawling back. My first instinct when the over confidant word processor corrects MY spelling is "UNDO AUTO CORRECT!! UNDO AUTO CORRECT!!" but about 4 seconds later, or roughly the time it takes for me to blink my left eye, I take a second look and realize "ooohh....that's how you spell 'illiterate'...that's a shame." It's such a defeat to let the computer have that victory. All of a sudden the moniter stands up all straight and you wanna be like "don't get all high and mighty now, you little 400 pixel piece of junk."

The freaky little paper clip man in the little “help” box doesn’t actually “help” matters any. He just stands there with his wiry hand on his little clip hip, “Do you need help?” he asks with such authority. “Do you have a nervous system?” I ask. “That’s what I thought.”

I have to be honest, I thought I was going to end up talking about more things that try to tell me what I mean, like drive-thru attendants and google search…but I don’t feel as angry anymore.

Maybe it’s because I sent this letter:

To Whom It May Concern (MICROSOFT WORD!):

Listen, ‘Softy…I don’t know what kind of gig you think you’re running but you’re single handedly (or single giga-bitedly) bringing down the self- esteem of wordsmiths everywhere.

With Regards,
Elsa

“I meant what I said, and I said what I meant. An elephant’s faithful…100%”
-Dr. Seuss.

Me against myself

2005-10-25T17:09:00.000-07:00

We all struggle. Some struggle with their families, some with their hair, some with their accordion abilities (those private lessons were junk!), and others of us with ourselves. This morning was a major Elsa vs. herself moment(s).

I’m an incredibly deep sleeper…some say I “sleep like a log”, only because I grow moss. And yes, it is a little embarrassing, and I tend to avoid sleepovers for that reason (“let’s make popcor- OH MY GOSH WHAT IS THAT GREEN FUZZ ON ELSA’S NECK?!”) Anyway, getting up is always a huge battle when that alarm finally rings. And honestly, I’m little surprised how articulate the arguments are from both my brain and eyelids at that hour…, as I lie there helpless, fighting both to get up and also to lay there eternally.
This happens pretty much every morning mind you, but today I managed to transcribe a good eighth of it.

(Alarm rings, 6:15 am)
Eyelids: …Oh no…
Brain: Go on, you heard the ‘larm.
Eyelids: Um…last time we checked we weren’t the EARS.
Brain: Whoa, someone woke up on the wrong side of the retina…
Eyelids: Don’t even.
Brain: You need to open now- perhaps you remember Elsa’s little mental note from last night about straightening her hair this morning, it can never happen if you lie here.
Eyelids: Why you gotta judge all the time?
Brain: Because I’m the brain. That’s sorta my function.
Eyelids: Hands, push the snooze
(Hand reaches)
Brain: NO!!
Eyelids: Do it, Handy.
(Hand hits the button)
Brain: Fine. Five minutes only. But just for that… no continuing the dream she just woke up from.
(Five minutes later….alarm rings)
Eyelids: there’s no way that was five minutes!
Brain: Hah. You wonder why internal clock never invites you to its parties. Open up!
Lids: I don’t think I/we can.
Brain: Do I have to get the hand involved?
Lids (in a broken kind of unison): NO!
Brain: While we’re fighting (and Elsa’s sleeping) can I discuss something with you really quick?
Lids: Shoot.
Brain: You mean fire. I fire nerve impulses.
Lids: I can’t imagine anyone with a worse sense of humor…unless it’s Elsa
Lids and Brain (all of a sudden best of friends): Ahahahahahhaha! What a shame she is…
Brain (regaining composure): Ahh, but seriously, did you tell Elsa her outfit was okay yesterday?
Lids: Oh heavens no! I could never condone the wounding of other people’s eyes. [snickers]. I thought you did it!
Brain: No! I screamed for a good half hour yesterday and she still thought the lime pants were okay.
Lids: Oh! And did you see the grade she got on her math test last Thursday!?
Brain: How does she even make it through the day without running into a post?
Lids and Brain: Hahahahaha hehehehe ahahahaha, you kill me!

This is when I stopped transcribing because I was feeling a little hurt. I just got up then because I figured my body parts were too busy mocking me to care about anything after that point. I guess what I'm trying to say is find something you trust, and that's not afriad of a little moss to wake you up.

He's still, he's still Bucky from the block.

2005-10-20T18:58:00.000-07:00

Today I took my dog on a record breaking three walks! Typically, I’d say I walk him about, oh…every other day….well, every other week….alright, just Christmas, but only cause he looks so DOGgone cute in his fur-lined parka! Something inside me always gets a little angry/bitter when I pass a dog wearing a sweater; number one because I’m wearing the same one in navy blue, but number two because my dog always chews apart the sweaters I try to put him in. Granted they have those freaky stirrups attached that are supposed to wrap around his thighs, but I really think if he put forth the effort he could pull off the look a lot better than most.
I have to be honest… lately I’ve really been trying to improve my dog’s image for the neighborhood. He’s small and white without the poodletude (“poodle attitude”) and therefore slightly memorable for those who see me walking him. The problem is that when I walk him he feels like he has to urinate on everything green, made of brick, breathing, or run over. When I have to stop by a tree to wait for him to pee, awkwardness ensues. I’m just standing there, usually dressed in what feels like the worst outfit I could have picked (Sweatpants and neon things always seem like a good idea to take the dog out in until you leave the house), right in front of someone’s home waiting for my dog to finish peeing. It doesn’t help that the family who lives there is having a picnic (happens more often than not): they’re all dishing up potato salad and I’m just standing on their sidewalk, eyes cast down (but not at the dog, that would be gross)…waiting. Occasionally I’ll glance up and muster a “hello” or a “good evening” depending on how British I feel, and I see the mother shielding her child’s eyes as if a murder is taking place in her front yard and the grandmother shaking her head at me in matronly disgust. That’s usually when I’ll say something completely non-awkward like “How’s the apple pickin’ been this year?” Or, “That’s some scarecrow you’ve made…” to which they usually respond “um, that’s Grandpa Lloyd.” I tell them he’s done an impeccable job of keeping away the crows and I then proceed to thank him formally… at about that time I hear my dog has finished what feels like his perpetual urination process. My dog looks up at me, suddenly with a poodletude like “can we GO now?” as if he’s the one who had to suffer the public shame. That’s when I know I let him watch Clueless too much, when he starts copping that tone with me.
So basically, I feel like a sweater for Buck (that’s his name…yes, he IS small and white), would help the neighbors to accept him as they would a squirrel, or anyone else who wears GAP sweaters. Please let me know if you have any tips as to how to squeeze him into the one piece sweat suit I bought him.

Here's my point...

2005-10-17T20:54:00.000-07:00

Ok, so, a lot of people have been asking where my old blog went. The "weird one", the "funny one", the "why is that girl so disturbed one". In all honesty, the reason I created this new blog was because I forgot the username and password for my account for the last one! In case anyone is interested, it still exists and can be found at www.swedeinthebigcity.blogspot.com . Most of my posts on this new blog, I think have been a bit more, well, shall we say not made up, where as my last blog was most usually nonsense all the time. I've been thinking (go figure) I miss that "insanity" side of my blog ( as bizarre as it was), so I might just start interspersing some good ol' "what is she thinking" type stuff in this little merethought blog. All opposed? Good.

It's back to my roots.

I feel like...

2005-10-10T17:45:00.000-07:00

Our plans are worthless, and the best friendships are unexpected.

On the Verge of All That is.

2005-10-04T15:35:00.000-07:00

After a somewhat nauseating flight and a six hour drive we pulled wearily in to our hotel's entrance way. It was long after dark and my family and I had finally found our hotel located deep in the heart of Grand Canyon National Park, El Tovar. The only hotel situated directly on the rim of the grand canyon. We were escorted to our room by a courteous bellman, and my dad surprised us by reserving a suite! The bellman showed us where things were located and then asked if we would like to see our "patio".

Our patio? He opened a large screen door and the four of us stepped cautiously in to the night. The patio was enormous, the size of a small class room. I walked to its edge and peered over. Directly 10 feet underneath I saw a small cobblestone wall lit by tiny lamps that ran beside it. "That's the rim" the bellman whispered not knowing the overwhelming feelings that would ensue.
"That's the grand canyon?" I asked. "My patio is sitting on the rim of the grand canyon?" I tried to make sense of the whole matter.
"Right there." he confirmed.

I stared out, nearly breathless into the dense blackness that lay before me. Though my eyes could not perceive it, I began to understand that 15 feet in front of me lay a wonder of the world. An incredible canyon of deep reds and rusty oranges, miles deep and hundreds of miles across was existing before my eyes. Yet I could not see it.

After my family went back inside our room to prepare for bed, I sat there on that patio. Starring in hushed awe into the abyss the shrouded everything past the cobblestone wall, I tried to imagine what the canyon might look like. I had seen pictures, yes, but somehow the darkness that hovered so silently in front of me, and over that canyon, bore an unexplainable depth that told me there was more to this canyon that I had ever known. I let my head go back in my chair and all at once I was startled by the gleaming stars, reaching far across the clear Arizona sky.

This became to much for me to take in. There I sat. A human, 5'8", at best, on the rim of one of the most unfathomable sights in the world and underneath a sweeping array of twinkling stars. At the moment I felt like I was standing on verge of
that is.

I dreamed of the moment when dawn's soft rays would illuminate my canyon and maybe then my eyes could see that at which they had been staring so unknowingly. I knew I had no choice but to sleep on my patio.

With a couple blankets I made myself a little bed on the reclining chair. I woke up every 15 minutes waiting for the first glimpse, and the temperature got down to 39 degrees. I shook, freezing, but I didn't want to miss the first glimpse of the canyon.

Finally, the moment had come. I awakened to the most beautiful picture I could have ever imagined. Though the sun rose behind me, the gentle sun beams fell softly on the canyon, producing amazing reds, oranges, yellows, and even purples that gleamed from the canyon walls.

My family joined me on the deck and together we stood in the presence of a legend.

I know I seem like the biggest cliche right now, but it was one of those feelings that comes rarely but doesn't fade quickly. Plus, I don't think anyone even reads this blog, but I kind of had to see that experience in writing.

There are times when you get so sick of serving YOURSELF all the time.

2005-09-02T14:54:00.000-07:00

What have I been thinking?

What Great Gravity is This?

2005-08-29T17:33:00.000-07:00

This is a profoundly beautiful monologue from "Blue Like Jazz", a marvelous and paradigm-shifting book by Donald Miller. Read this breif excerpt slowly, if you have the time. I think I've read this twenty times and each time I discover another aspect of its depth.

This is whispered by a kneeling husband to his sleeping wife at her bedside after experiencing unbearable tension.

"What great gravity is this that drew my soul toward yours? What great force, that though I went falsely, went kicking, went disguising myself to earn your love, also disguised, to earn your keeping, your resting, your staying, your will fleshed into mine, rasped by a slowly revealed truth, the barter of my soul, the soul that I fear, the soul that I loathe, the soul that: if you will love, I will love. I will redeem you, if you will redeem me? Is this our purpose, you and I together to pacify each other, to lead each other toward the lie that we are good, that we are noble, that we need not redemption, save the one that you and I invented of our own clay?

I am not scared of you, my love, I am scared of me.

I went looking, I wrote out a list, I drew an image, I bled a poem of you. You were pretty, and my friends believed I was worthy of you. You were clever, but I was smarter, perhaps the only one smarter, the only one able to lead you. You see, love, I did not love you, I loved me. And you were only a tool that I used to fix myself, to fool myself, to redeem myself. And though I have taught you to lay your lily hand in mine, I walk alone, for I cannot talk to you, lest you talk it back to me, lest I believe that I am not worthy, not deserving, not redeemed.

I want desperately for you to be my friend. But you are not my friend; you have slid up warmly to the man I wanted to be, the man I pretended to be, and I was your Jesus and you were mine. Should I show you who I am, we may crumble. I am not scared of you, my love, I am scared of me.

I want to be known and loved anyway. Can you do this? I trust by your easy breathing that you are human like me, that you are fallen like me, that you are lonely, like me. My love, do I know you? What is this great gravity that pulls us so painfully toward each other? Why do we not connect? Will we be forever in fleshing this out? And how will we with words, narrow words, come into the knowing of each other? Is this God’s way of meriting grace, of teaching us of the labyrinth of His love for us, teaching us, in degrees, that which He is sacrificing to join ourselves to Him? Or better yet, has He formed our being fractional so that we might conclude one great hope, plodding and sighing and breathing into one another in such a great push that we might break through into the known and being loved, only to cave into a greater perdition and fall down at His throne still begging for our acceptance? Begging for our completion?

We were fools to believe that we would redeem each other.

Were I some sleeping Adam, to wake and find you resting at my rib, to share these things that God has done, to walk you through the garden, to counsel your timid steps, your bewildered eye, your heart so slow to love, so careful to love, so sheepish that I stepped up my aim and became a man. Is this what God intended? That though He made you from my rib, it is you who is making me, humbling me, destroying me, and in so doing revealing Him.

Will we be in ashes before we are one?

What great gravity is this that drew my heart toward yours? What great force collapsed my orbit, my lonesome state? What is this that wants in me the want in you? Don’t we go at each other with yielded eyes, with cumbered hands and feet, with clunky tongues? This deed is unattainable! We cannot know each other!

I am quitting this thing, but not what you think. I am not going away. I will give you this, my love, and I will not bargain or barter any longer. I will love you, as sure as He has loved me. I will discover what I can discover and though you remain a mystery, save God’s own knowledge, what I disclose of you I will keep in the warmest chamber of my heart, the very chamber where God has stowed Himself in me. And I will do this to my death, and to death it may bring me.

I will love you like God, because of God, mighted by the power of God. I will stop expecting your love, demanding your love, trading for your love, gaming for your love. I will simply love. I am giving myself to you, and tomorrow I will do it again. I suppose the clock itself will wear thin its time before I am ended at this altar of dying and dying again. God risked Himself on me. I will risk myself on you. And together, we will learn to love, and perhaps then, and only then, understand this gravity that drew Him, unto us."

Great.

2005-08-25T16:32:00.000-07:00

Home is not where you live but where they understand you.
-Christian Morgenstern

Oh no...

The Sentimental Fool is Numb Again

2005-08-22T08:59:00.000-07:00

I've been cleaning out my room for the past couple days preparing to paint and redecorate it. While the incentive to have a brand new living environment is incredibly motivating...cleaning this time around has been the hardest yet. I've thrown so much away, and with that I feel that (false as it may be), I've thrown parts of my life away. The logical part of me, though small, tells me I can't keep storing things from the past. But the sentimental part of me, and mind you, I've not yet introduced Mr. Sentiment to Mr. Logic, makes me keep EVERYTHING.

There are certain things, I've decided that I cannot throw away. I will not throw away any card, sign, or note for me. I'm a little stubborn that way. But lately I've been thinking about all those cards, signs, and notes, and I realized that half my card box are silly birthday cards from 5 years ago from kids who were....well, mean. And some of those notes I have amassed, I've noticed are just painful reminders of times in my life when my self esteem rested in the ever-incapable hands of fickle friends and their lies. I've proceeded to throw those things away. I don't need them. I don't need them taking up space and I don't need them to make me angry.

But then there are those things, those beautiful things, those rare things from people who cared. I've kept so many signs, notes, and cards from those incredible people who wanted to encourage me, congratulate me, or comfort me. They're from people I love that I see often and people I love who I never really do see anymore. These are things, I've decided that I WANT in my room. When they days get rough and tough (as they so often seem to do) out in the world, it's a joy to have those testements to love and friendship from from those I'm so delighted to have and have had in my life.

Mr. Sentiment, meet Mr. Logic...

A Little Poem With Much to Say.

2005-08-19T09:27:00.000-07:00

When finishing the rocky path,
Something caught my eye.
Not bird, nor rock, nor fish nor flower,
Not bear, nor even sky.
I gazed into its watery depth and that which brightly shone
Was a gift, a curse, a mystery!
...The reflection was my own.

-L.L. Hatten

Beauty Beyond Words

2005-08-14T19:36:00.000-07:00

I've just returned from a whirl-wind 22 day tour of Sweden. I could easily spend a week at the keyboard blogging of each and every experience and sweetly dwelling on each fleeting memory- but before I write about anything else I had to post these pictures. Typically I'm not one to photograph flowers, nature, or anything "landscapey"- mostly people having fun. In Sweden, however, I can't explain how blown away I was by actually stopping and taking a closer look and these gorgeous plants. It's as if I finally realized that "Oh my gosh, there are flowers in the world". I'm so amazed that beauty like this exists all around me- and just now I decide to notice it. The ever over-quoted Raloh Waldo Emerson once wrote "If the Stars should appear one night in a thousand years, how would men believe and adore; and preserve for many generations the remembrance of the city of God which had been shown! But every night come out these envoys of beauty, and light the universe with their admonishing smile." Basically, because the stars are out everynight, we don't think to stop and fathom how huge and wonderful they are. So, who are WE that we have been given flowers in our world while at the same time we ourselves create so much ugliness? ... After all that thinking, I took some pictures. I'll write more of incredible Swedish experiences soon...But until then I need to take in these flowers.

Victory Shot

2005-07-14T09:53:00.000-07:00

It was the end. We had done it. Together, we had braved a week of paddeling, latrines, misquitos, and heat. We first climbed into our wobbely canoes as strangers, but we emerged from those vast waters as a family. We came out stronger, gentler, and with a renewed sense of what it is to live in complete community. We finished victorious having conquered all of those things which threatened to tear our group apart. This is a picture taken of my canoe group as our van pulled up, ready to pluck us from the trail and bring us back to base camp. I love this picture. Granted, my fist in the air looks way weak and somewhat unenthusiastic, but for me this picture captures all of the things I learned out there.

Oh my gosh, I had so much fun.

What You Don't Hear

2005-07-10T14:12:00.000-07:00

(I'm going to try not to acknowledge that this is the first post ever on this blog). So, I recently returned home from a glorious eight-day trip to the Boundary Waters in northern Minnesota. For those of you (dreadfully unfortunate) people who have not yet ventured to the Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness (or, the BWCAW), allow me to paint you a picture. Basically, the Boundary Waters is a series of hundreds of beautiful lakes and rivers stretching along the Minnesota-Ontario Border. It is home to fish, bears, moose, loons, foxes, and even otters!
The BWCAW posses a beauty all its own. It's hard not be completely awe struck as you sit around a crackling campfire and gaze at the moon's reflection shining right off the placid lake, softly illuminating the tall pine trees covering the shore line. It was a joy to wake up with the sun's gentle morning rays and climb out of a tent to see the blue lake, so calm, and so glasslike, painted with images of the vibrant green trees surrounding the lake. But, perhaps the most unforgettable part of the entire experience is the overwhelming solitude. You can sit on a rock and hear nothing but soft waves rolling up upon the shore. Occasionally you may hear a loon call off in the distance, or the sound of your own paddle dipping below the surface of the water, but aside from that.... stillness. It was so beautiful we had designated "quite times". An hour, perhaps of no talking... but simply being. Before I had ever gone to the Boundary Waters, I couldn't have imagined enjoying such extended periods of quietness. How often here in the city do we ever have it quiet? When was the last time you sat in silence? Do you drive with your car radio on? Do you eat at the TV? Do you listen to music while doing homework? Do you fall asleep to music? I'm talking about noise in general now. When you can't have noise, do you find yourself humming? Are people talking non-stop at work? Do your friends never stop talking? How often do you have headaches? Even as I sit here typing, I have a favorite CD of mine playing.
I'm growing increasingly aware of how shot my attention span is. I surround myself with music, television, and often meaningless chatter to avoid sitting in silence. It's hard to face those thoughts that quietness will surely provoke. Silence does not allow us to run.
One of the biggest questions we encountered on the BWCAW trail as a group was why God doesn’t speak today as we read of Him speaking in the Bible. "He just doesn't talk to anyone today like that.", one girl noted. One response that we came up with was.... is anyone listening? We are so caught up in the noise of our lives that we've completely ignored the only voice worth hearing. If I can't even turn down the music long enough to figure out my own thoughts, I certainly can't expect myself to be listening for a God who "comes as a gentle whisper" (Is. 19:12).
What am I to do about all this? I've been trying to devote about a half hour in the mornings for being quiet since I've returned. Now, sometimes I neglect to do it, but I find that the times when I have deliberately turned off my radio and simply sat there have proved more beneficial to my day and overall character than any noise that could have happened during that time. It's a time to regain focus...and listen.
There's a lovely poster in my room of a little island with a cabin and a canoe on it in the middle of a lake.... sort of Boundary Waters-esque. There's a quote on it by Lord Byron, which reads, "In solitude we are least alone." At first I laughed at such a claim, but I'm slowly beginning to see the undeniable truth in it.

Shhh...