Those four days, which started off innocently enough, seemed to last forever. I tell you, I HATED that place.

Day one: drive, eat, drink, conversations of bases (and far more ridiculous topics), ice cream, drive, hostel, guitar, oppression and sleep. Days two through four were far simpler: reading and oppression (though endured through a complex state of mind.)

Not that I realized it at the time, mind you. And, reader, you might even doubt the reality of what I will explain, yet it exists despite your potential cynicism. Separate views of the same world: mine, holistic. Will yours blend with mine, or do you instead wrap yourself in the mere physical?

It seems that all oppressions are grounded in partial reality, slight as it might appear. And for that reason, I insist that this is not entirely the fault of those daemons. There are, in fact, real matters to be dealt with on my part, and those lessons will be learned, and relearned, in due time.

However, when that truth is twisted, warped, by the imps who chase and tempt us hourly, suffocation ensues. I began to believe and internalize (as I’m certain you’ve done before) these exaggerated, revised versions of my true reality (but what is true reality?)

Thus began my journey, my travels, down the dark road that lie before me. I never saw the enlightened path just to my right, as I wasn’t searching for it. Not until day four.

If you asked me on day three (oh, you say you did?) why I sat listless, quiet, absent-mindedly absorbed in the minute glades of grass between my toes, I would have only stared at you.

Was it the heart of the matter? Was it the confusion, the blackness? Was it simply a day to be?

If I had to testify before the Judge, I would cite all three as sources of my silence, my distance.

I’m still at university, you see, learning through osmosis, studying the lessons of the beliefs to which I adhere, doing my best to experience, to become, these absolute realities. As an ex-disciple of selfishness, gluttony, worldliness, and egoism, I have travelled far from my homeland. And yet, I am still a great distance from the rest area which promises sweet relief.

Today, as we drove farther and farther from that scarred battleground, the rains lightened and the clouds lifted (oh, I assure you, this is quite the literal sentence) and I became reacquainted with both my subdued, battered soul and my risen Lord.

I followed Him with weary footsteps, trusting that He would play the soundtrack of His grace over my life (this song plays incessantly on repeat, until I lose that cd again).

That I might remember who I am, who He is. And what we are to become.

I sit here, hunched over this patio table and high above the street below, watching the happenings below with a halfhearted interest. It’s 12:21am on Friday night (technically, Saturday morning) in Cairns, Queensland, Australia, and my heart is restless.

A few people online try to distract me from my brief bout with introspection from thousands of miles away.

As I sit, staring vacantly down towards the pavement, I see 5 drunken kids swaggering towards the opposite side of the street, heading home into the dark, cool night. I catch myself thinking that I hope they know which way to look as they walk into traffic.

I’m alone on this balcony and I like it. There are people yelling, there is music blaring, and MW is less than 10 feet away from me, inside our hotel room.

Somehow, miraculously, I have managed to escape into my own cocoon, amongst this madness.

I wonder at our world - what does it all mean?

I have strong beliefs as to why I am here, what my purpose is, and the overarching ideas of my spirituality, but as I stare humanity in the face this early Saturday morning, I wonder what it is that I even see.

I’m tired of relationships; I’m tired of trying to read into situations and events. I am exhausted from analysis; I wish for nothing more but straightforward people with love in their hearts.

I wish I was that type of person. While I'm wishing, I wish that I could just BE. And not think so damn much.

I’d be lying if I said that relationships were not work for me, for they utterly exhaust me. (Yes, yes, they exhaust you, too!) I fatigue myself with incessant considerations that are irrelevant and unimportant. And then, somehow, I manage to halfway offend a friend by not being observant about behaviours surrounding me.

Where is my balance? My scale?

There are days that I think I could live here forever, and nights that I wish nothing more than to be at home. But where is my home? I am nothing more than a vagabond, blowing around as leaves in the wind.

I thank you in advance for assuring me that my home is Orlando, or Atlanta, or wherever my heart is, but the reality is that I feel

homeless.

A friend of mine once told me that he never really felt at home in Orlando, in the multiple years he has resided there. I never knew what he meant until now.

Except, he’s considerably more lucky, because he has a place that he remembers as home.

My memory is far to faint to recall anything of the sort.

I long for it, I really do.

Some day, I do believe I shall find it again. For now, though, I shall kiss Hope and Love on the cheek and consider myself blessed to be in Australia in my current situation. My heart continues to wail out its song, calling for that home that no longer exists. This song will recreate, redraw, repaint over the coming months or years; and I will then rediscover my safe haven and my peace.

But tonight, I sit, perched in my quiet nest, thinking about tomorrow.

i once read a line on a page that said, 'i know everything.'

and so i thought. and i thought.

everything? to know everything! what a blessing. and what a curse. to be burdened by the mundane knowledge of the average life of a fly during a nuclear winter, or the number of times the light in downtown cairns blinks per hour: overwhelming. but maybe worth the trade off to be aware of your nemesis' strongest power or greatest weakness? to hold the secret of the event horizon, the big bang, within your brain, to be able to explain the idea to the most brilliant minds of our times as if they are children?

ah, maybe.

and then i realized the one who wrote it wasn't considering the literal statement made.

eureka.

and then i smiled.

because i knew that the author was only fooling himself; for even all of the facts of all of the events and the happenings

could
never
contain
everything.

The Fade Away

Ebbing and flowing
But ebbing more readily
Further and further back

Away from these dangerous shores
These cliffs made of age old rock
These crashing waves that force you inward

You and I
We embrace each other
We fool each other
We fight each other
And we give in

But both of us hold back

You say you give,
But you really don’t.

I don’t either.

We are both far too protective of our exoskeletons

And so we ebb

And ebb.

Swept away by a storm (My alternate title)

When I was mentally planning my trip to Australia, one of my top priorities was reading.

I love to read. I find that since I've become very involved in the Status community, my reading somewhat decreased due that increase in my social life. Therefore, I made a vow to myself to read unceasingly on this trip, when time was plentiful and books many.

I've failed. Miserably. I find that spare time is spent online (when available) or chatting with M, W, or both. A bonus is that some of that time has been followed up with discipline in my Spirituality. But I have only completed 1 book since I left the States (for those of you who care, it was Angels & Demons, which I was re-reading before the movie came out.)

Despite all of this, I recently picked up the 1000+ page book, Gone with the Wind, which I lovingly stole from my mom when I was in Georgia this winter. My mom is an English teacher who has thousands of books, so it would be years (or never) before she realized it was gone. I must add that any time I read a book she owns (that she has found time to read), I learn much from it due to her markings, scribblings, and highlighting. Enlightenment.

I'm about 1/3 of the way through this book. Disclaimer: for those of you who haven't read it and want to read it, you might not want to continue. I have many thoughts on it which might give away plot points.

I've just arrived at the point in the book where Scarlett has arrived back home at Tara, following her departure from Atlanta, which was under attack by the Yankees. She has only just been told that her mother is dead and that Tara was spared, but desolated, by the Yankee army.

This book fascinates me, while depressing me thoroughly.

I grew up in the Atlanta area - the deep South. I understand the Southern sense of pride, their attitude towards the war in general, their attitude towards the North in general, etc. Particularly the older generations, of which my grandparents were part.

I suppose that I should feel more appalled at the situation that the South found itself in; however, this novel is not designed to question the morality of slavery.

Well, at least not by page 400, which is where I'm at.

I have been wrecked by the significant, massive separation of my world and the world of the late 19th century, the Civil War world.

First, the South was ablaze with tradition, politeness, and what many would call ignorance. They wouldn't tell women truths much of the time, for fear that women couldn't (physically, mentally) handle the truth. Women were not allowed to show their bosom before 3 pm. Women in mourning were not allowed to go to parties, or to dance, or to see other men, for many years after the death of their husband. It was shameful for a woman to talk about being pregnant with a man other than her husband.

These traditions seem ludicrous in this liberal world in which we live. White Lies? Separation and Hierarchy? And yet, there is so much history in these ideas. Misguided, ignorant, maybe, but history and reality nonetheless.

Second, I am astounded at the South's pride. Mind you, I've told you that I grew up amongst people who were very prideful of their heritage. Georgia's state flag has incorporated, and still proudly displays, the Confederate Flag. But the sense that the author would write "One confederate soldier is worth 12 Yankees!" is outrageous. They were confident without much reason, as far as I can see. I will never forget my grandmother telling me that her great grandmother believed the war would quickly be over, with a Southern victory easily at hand.

This very reason is that I adore Rhett Butler's entrance into the era before the War began. His character isn't concerned with what society thinks of him, but instead is set upon wreaking havoc (polite havoc?) amongst these haughty and intolerant, yet beautiful and family-oriented Southerners. Rhett loves Scarlett because he sees a bit of his rebellious nature in her, and he works endlessly to bring these qualities from the confines of her subconscious into the reality of her culture.

And yet, I must interject here that the personalities and the characters - feeling as though I'm their friend, or at least an associate - their ideas, their misguided notions, their methods of thinking - they all give me a more sympathetic and understanding insight into this world which I was once so quick to logically write off.

Thirdly, I am incredibly frustrated by the senseless death that this war brought about. The conditions of a 19th century war are so far removed from modern wars. The same can be said even for WWII, but the vast difference in the methods of strategy is blatantly evident. I must confess that I am a bit ignorant myself about the real reasons that the North was adamant about keeping the South as part of this nation - I do intend to do follow up research on this very topic. However, both sides appear to have been so very quick to jump into a battle, to believe in their own rights, their own superiority. And this stupidity on both parts frustrates me.

I believe the largest American death toll of any war is the Civil War - some 600,000+. While in one sense, this is logical (being that we were fighting both sides of the war), in another it's completely ridiculous. The statement of brothers fighting brothers and neighbors fighting neighbors is 100% grounded in reality.

That is shocking and disturbing.

There are many other things that strike me about the war, the environment, etc just from reading this book; these are the main ideas at this time. I continue to be depressed as I read about this young girl's journey before, through and after the war. It's a heavy topic, a real topic that can't be waved away by the mere idea of fiction.

I should also reference the book The Unvanquished, by Faulkner. I read this book at my mom's this past holiday season and was absolutely fascinated Civil War fiction. (It spawned my interest in GWTW.) Again, the idea that the literal ending of the war was not known by the public, particularly the remote regions of the South, for the longest time (due to differences in technology) blew my mind. I think I even blogged about it on this blog before.

I highly recommend reading GWTW if you haven't. And if you know of any literature that is similar, but written from the Union's perspective, PLEASE recommend. I am so curious to read something from that mindset, from those ideals, from that culture from the same period.

Cheers!

Parallel Universe

Climbing, Climbing
Higher, higher
The boundless ocean below, an orchestra,
Crescendoing against the sands of the beach below

Fortissimo!

I hear the winds howling
Blowing powerfully thorough the trees deeply rooted behind me
In awe of Your might
Mouth gaping at displays of Your power

I smile inwardly at my smallness
My cockiness, my egocentric view of the world
I know You are changing this
I laugh, often, at my jokes

So rooted in my reality.

The music plays on
As I hear with my eyes
And see with my ears
As I taste with my nose
And smell with my mouth

Everything is different

But You remain the same

Everything is foreign

But I find stability in You, Written for me to believe

An ounce of Faith,
Granted so mercifully
Growing incessantly
Clarifying internally

All that I am

All that You ask me to be

I fall
I fall again
I fail
I fail again
Frustration abounds.

Self-reliance is intoxicating.

She wrote, then sang:
Even the high and mighty ones learn to slide.

I’m sliding, tripping, falling;
Hands reaching,
Grasping, grabbing for anything to hold me upright,
To pull me back to my higher stance

And I fall to the sandy beach below
Broken in body
Torn in half
But entirely whole in Spirit

I lay with the sea lapping at my feet
Unaware of the frostbite encroaching
My focus, and fear, drawn only to Your presence beside me
Inside me.

Awestruck and Dumbfounded

I ask no questions
I need no answers

You are more than enough.

Islands Away

She floats atop the turbulent sapphire sea, eyes scanning the horizon, subconsciously searching for something, for someone.

Her search is continual, an incessant journey across the perilous waters, passing the expansive seven mile beach, steering clear of the jagged rocks and red clay cliffs which lead inland.

She occasionally sees fellow travelers along the horizon, floating along on their own little piece of earth.

She frequently floats up next to these vagabonds, upon the enormous sea of life.

One of these welcomes her over with waving arms, a toothy smile, and a hearty hug. She hops upon this stranger’s turf, unaware of the influence she exudes. She sits alongside her new friend, listening to the exciting tales of her past and watches the hopeful lines this friend casts out toward the future.

She is slow to offer herself, but always quick to lend an ear, or advice.

Finding common ground within the strong words her new friend offers, she enthusiastically engages in conversation. Her face is animated by the various stares her enormous eyes emit, and her new friend is encouraged to give more and more.

After enough time, she leaves her new friend, and both of them exclaim their delight at the new friendship, and their hope in the fates allowing future meetings.

So she is back to this beautiful water which has forever been her home. She ponders this latest relationship that she was part of for a brief time, and considers her feelings towards the introduction, the experience, the potential for growth.

Oh, how she values her time alone with Him as her own island swims along beneath her.

And shortly, there is yet another who is watching her from his own side of the ocean. He sits behind his fence, eyes peering over the top, wondering at her expression and her approach.

She doesn’t let the fence deter her - in fact, it might even be what spurs her towards the hidden man. Or boy? She’s not sure until she attempts to step onto his land.

“Why are you here?” He asks gruffly.

She turns on her charm, greeting him with the eyes he can’t stop staring into. “You were floating by and I thought I’d introduce myself to you, to share a bit of my food with you. Are you hungry?”

And so, he doesn’t open the gate, but he puts his hand through the narrow slit, hand open for her peace offering. She sits along the far side of this fence, directly in front of him, and waits for him to speak. She chews slowly on the Bread that has always been her lifeline, pondering his questioning stare.

She asks him a question.

She asks him another question.

And another.

Fairly soon, the gate has slightly opened, but she doesn’t go inside just yet. While the open gate is significant, she still continues to attack this one’s attitude - the mental obstruction. Her charm and wit fight hand in hand against any guard that he could put out.

Before she knows it, she’s in the gate.

There’s a wall that separates this front yard from the deeper parts of this small island, but she doesn’t concern herself with it at all. She is where she wants to be - where she needs to be.

The conversation carries on rapidly, until it comes back around to her. She adeptly parries the heavy fire of questioning, without allowing this new intimacy to circle back around to her. Her tactic of keeping her new friend focused on his own story has been successful so many times before that she is caught completely unaware when her mind connects with what her mouth now utters.

And she wonders how in the hell she got here.

On this stranger’s land - so close to home, but not home - how did she end up revealing so much?

Surprisingly, she doesn’t desire to run, to paddle away, to escape like she has before.

For the rest of her time in this foreign land, she is completely within her own mind, analyzing feelings and logic, while externally appearing to be focused only on the conversation at hand.

When she leaves later, the fence is in shambles, but the wall stands strong behind the man.

And her own piece of life never felt so welcoming.

Day after day, the girl pasted pieces of her heart into the brown paper journal. She loved the time she spent with her heart and her journal, baring it all to the lined pages. She played with the rubber cement she applied, pulling off fingerprint after fingerprint. She smoothed down the edges of the bits of her tender heart she placed so gingerly onto the severed trees.

Every now and then, she’d go back and look at the parts of her soul strewn across the pages, smiling at a past thought, frowning at a past demon. All in all, you were written within the pages of this journal and that’s what made her happy.

Something was amiss today, as she came down for breakfast and sat sullenly at the table. The book she always had by her side (as if her imaginary friend was trapped within) was not there. She answered none of our questions; she parried our interrogations rather well with her silence.

And later in the day, as the sky grew pink with its snowy potential, we sat on the front porch smoking cigars and talking in hushed voices as to not disturb her. She sat in the corner of the yard with her once-treasured papers, weeping over the heartache contained within her human heart. The pages apparently no longer meant anything to her.

I nudged my neighbor and we watched her set the journal afire with a single match. The wind whispered loudly, nearly extinguishing the match, but Fate was intertwined with my little girl that day as the inner pages suddenly caught fire and burned quickly. She sobbed and sobbed at her heart blowing away as ashes on the cold breeze. The thicker paper cover was slower to light and still remained when all of the insides had burned into the atmosphere.

She spoke words of wisdom to us (far beyond her years) as she brushed by with only the cover left: “This paper shell is all that remains of my heart; the insides are nothing but ash.”

She dropped it at our feet and sulked inside to sleep again.

It would be years before my angel drew near to the One who could restore her heart.

Sometimes, the words just don't come out.

There are emotions and frustrations brewing within. There is a storm of epic proportions - one that can lift a 252 ton (that's 500,000 pounds) rock from the bottom of the ocean to the edge of the shoreline cliffs - that is causing a deadly rise and fall within.

Isolation and lack of comfortability consistently bring issues to the surface I had either long forgotten or never known.

So I sit, my cursor blinking, trying to compose my thoughts into coherent poetry to express this storm. But the storm will not be described. It will not be quelled by an outpouring of wind or rain. The storm refuses to weaken by such understanding, but instead will smirk and strengthen by repeatedly regurgitating the emotion(s) on which it feeds.

I think about him, multiple hims.
I think about me.
I think about the patterns, the compositions of my relationships.
I think about identity.
I think about God.

I wonder how He is capable of explaining my world in more clear terms (or probably less clear, knowing Jesus).
I wonder how I can change behaviours, even if only mental.
I wonder how relationships form and how they are destroyed.
I wonder how I relate to people.
I wonder at being isolated, forever.

To say I feel anguish would be inaccurate; it is far more similar to confusion, to reaching into a murky ocean and wondering what might be swimming amongst the coral or sand along the bottom.

Who Am I, and Why do I feel this way?

Psalm 102

The Lord looked down from his sanctuary on high, from heaven he viewed the earth/to hear the groans of the prisoners and release those condemned to death...

I am reading Psalm 102 this morning & this catches my attention.

I spent Wednesday afternoon touring Alcatraz, the infamous prison in the San Francisco Bay. We took a boat over to the island, disembarked, and were instructed a bit in the history of this island. It was many things, including a military compound, before it became a prison. After after it was closed down by the city of SF because it was too expensive to run, Native Americans came in and took over the land. They were soon kicked out, and the island was taken under the city or state's national park program.

The rock was a prison for roughly 30 years, which is far shorter than I had realized. We toured everything from the warden's house to the social hall to the cell blocks to the recreation areas. The cell blocks were the most haunting. Al Capone was housed in Cell Block D, which was for the worst of these misled souls. There were cells in this block that were a decent size, but they weren't allowed out at all, unlike the other cell blocks. And then, there was solitary. Confinement without light for days on end.

Walter has written, or at least spoken to me, of the way that the prisoners were so isolated from society. If the wind blew just right, they might be lucky/unlucky enough to hear trailing sounds from the shore. It seems like these sounds would be both wonderful - connecting them to something from which they came, which they could remember - and horrible - reminding them of their extreme isolation.

This recent venture is why this verse from Psalm 102 called out to me as I was reading through it.

Our cries from the rock - the earth - are haunting, desperate, loud, frequent, and frustrated. God heard those cries and came after us, saving us from our own isolation. Our souls heard the soft, stealthy music coming from the other dimension in which we truly belong, and we consider ourselves lucky and unlucky to hear them. For they make us long for our true destiny, for our true nature and for our true God. But they also remind us how we have fallen and are not yet able to get to that other dimension.

Longing. Beauty and Hope in isolation. This is the difference between Alcatraz and Christianity. There was very little, if any, hope in Alcatraz. Even an escape to the exterior of the prison, which was near impossible, meant you were faced with about a mile swim in shark infested waters. If you were lucky. And if you weren't - and you were caught - you were punished with a ball and chain upon your return. Good luck swimming with that, the guards would say, smirking.

This has all been said before; I think that the reason I wanted to write about it was simply a better understanding of the desperation and separation of the Rock as compared to the Savior of Humanity.

Nobody hears the cries from the Rock.
The creator of the Universe hears the cries from this rock.

Meaningless humanity made ever important through Christ.

Paradox.

Life, lately, is a seemingly endless array of minutes, hours and days. I find that without a job, or school, or church, to keep me aligned with what day of the week it is, it's near impossible to remember. Every morning, I wake up and ask Mel or Wally what day it is. I find that they often take a few minutes to try to recall themselves.

It seems that thus far, our flights have kept us semi-grounded in the day of the week, when we ARE able to remember. We know we leave for San Fran on Wednesday. We also leave for LA on Saturday (tomorrow) and for Fiji/Sydney on Monday, very late at night.

But what happens when our last real connection to a day disappears, following Wednesday (our connection to Sydney from Fiji)?

Walt told me today of a camp he attended where the attendees were required to give up their watches. They could tell approximate times from the sun, sure, but real connections with the exact time were lost. Only the counselors and/or coordinators of this camp were privy to such information.

I begin to wonder, as I continue to feel lost in my days, what relevance this has to the picture of life. Does it matter whether today is Monday, or Thursday? I have no real commitments once we leave the states, so what relevance do time and dates have for me, really? Do I need to keep a calendar with me, marking off my passing life, or is it more reasonable to simply be instead?

Do days matter?

I'm guessing that once LOST in Australia catches up with where we are (I think it's about 3-4 weeks behind), we will organize our weeks by Wednesdays.

It's very bizarre to feel so unaware of something that recently held such significance for my life.

And on we go...

Blackjack at the Hard Rock

Today we are in Las Vegas. We arrived here again last night from the Grand Canyon around 7pm. We checked into the Hard Rock hotel, which is just off the strip, and hung out in the gigantic room for a while, trying to recover from the 5 hour drive.

I needed alone time last night, so Mel and Walter went off on their own. I went downstairs to play Blackjack. What I love about blackjack is that if you sit down at the right table, you can have a fantastic time with the other players. I love players who are excited and optimistic. They stand up, or sit down, and they ask for the cards they want. They do it like they are commanding an army, demanding pushups or something: "Come on Dealer! Give me that 4! You know I NEED that 4!" And sometimes the dealer gives them a 4, and sometimes the dealer gives them a 10, but they usually don't lose their optimism. These are my favorite types of people to play with, especially on a hot table. They dance around, yelling for blackjacks and tens like they are preaching on a Sunday morning, inflamed with excitement and obsession. These are the type of people who make you look across the casino at their table and consider leaving your own perch to join their fantasy world, where the house doesn't always win.

So, I sit at a table with 3 guys (I tend to gravitate to these tables, because often they know how to play BJ by 'the book', thereby increasing my own odds of winning. I sit at 'Third base', as they call it, which is the seat directly before the dealer. I also tend to gravitate to this seat or 'First base' (the first chair, always the first hand dealt). What's interesting is that the luck of Third Base is constantly changing as people sit and leave, where First Base is always the first hand dealt. So I sit by this guy, I forget his name, but I'll call him Timmy for kicks. I sit down by Timmy and immediately like him. "What's your name? I'm Timmy." "Jeanne" I reply, "How's this table doing tonight?" So we carry on the intro conversation that's so common at these places. He makes me laugh, even though he's more of a pessimist than an optimist. He's also one of those guys who consistently interacts with the dealer, calling her by name, tipping her, etc. One of the other guys at my table is quiet, so he doesn't talk much. The final guy is a German from Bavaria. This makes for an interesting time when the dealer changes and a Bosnian-American sits down to give us our cards. She talks A LOT more than the last dealer, giving the German a hard time, casting out her opinions on everything from discipline for her stepkids to German-Bosnian relations to how effed up (her words, not mine) America is, despite her adoration for it.

At first, the dealers are consistently taking my money. I'm winning a few hands, so I stick around, but I get down to about $25 out of my original $100 after about 45-60 minutes. But then our table gets a great shoe (8 decks, the place the cards are dealt from) and I go on a roll. A while later, I'm up about $75, and I leave the table as it cools off. I head to another table after wandering around the Hard Rock lobby a bit, and win another $25.

I find a $10 single deck BJ table (my favorite type of black jack) and stand behind it. There are 5 guys at the table, with 1 seat open. I ask one of the guys if I can sit and he nods his approval. I sit after the deck finishes. These guys are AWESOME. They are what I would label biker-rockers. They have long dark hair. One of them has on a cowboy hat - but it's a rocker cowboy hat, not a genuine one. The first thing the one to my left says as I sit down (because I don't look like your stereotypical BJ shark) is "You better know to hit a 16 against a 17." I smile grandly at him, because I adore his no bullshit introduction, and assure him that I know most of the rules, and I ask if I don't. There is an audible sigh of relief as I tell him that and we play the game. Despite the fact that I lose $87 in probably 15 minutes, which is most of my winnings, this is my favorite table of the night. They tell me their favorite parts of Australia (Brisbane being the best, apparently) and wish me goodbye as the dealer takes the last money I am willing to part with.

This is how I end my evening - walking to the cashier's cage with $113. I realize that many people see gambling as wrong (and it certainly can be addictive and destructive), but it's purely entertainment to me. I walked away $13 richer and several hours of enjoyment later, I am happy to head to bed. 

Pride versus Magi

My weary soul has traveled this road before

I stand at its start

Once again in awe at my re-arrival,

Convinced I took a different turn at the noted black rock this time

Apparently, more than one path returns this way.

I stand back, wary of wandering that way again

There are whispers on the wind;

There are deep voices calling, echoing my way

Even the wind seems to push me towards you

But I don’t know that I can return, retrace my steps another time

Pride

Oh she is the assertive & mighty one

Shrieking gleefully

As her hands pluck at my ego:

She is familiar with which chords wreck my soul

But I sing louder, 

Louder than the tune she strums against my heart

And for a brief moment I have shut her down

Refusing to allow her presence,

Her reaction to affect my decision

The next maestro brings the orchestra into full volume

Crescendoing as I turn the benefits in my mind

The noise hardens my heart

And thus my heart throbs in time with the vocals of pride

(now resurfacing)

Demanding vengeance and retribution for your wrongs

Exhausted from the battle of the symphonies, 

I take a seat along the edge of the path

Lying back on the green, green grass

Letting wisdom, freedom and forgiveness

Arise to their proper position of Magi

They convene and converse

They frown, then smile

They lean in closely, debating wildly

As I simply watch with a bemused smile

Finally, clapping their hands in glee

They will now distribute and confirm

Their position on this decision

(which I’ve known for some time)

Their optimism shining through any doubt

While their realism advises a secure distance is prudent

And together, the four of us stride towards the far, far end of the path:

Reconciliation.

Quite a long road

And we are all indeed aware of the potential of death before arrival.

Regardless, we confidently set off on that route, 

Our futures tightly bound by

Hope.

There is this push and pull with you that I can't wrap my mind around.

In previous times, I would have certainly tried to control it, manipulate it. Twist it, turn it; weave it, thread it. 

Become it.

And while it exasperates me, the aura of confusion that you reside within, it also causes me to revel in my own transformation.

Freedom to allow you to choose how you want: I will not define this relationship. Even in regard to friendship. Does it really exist? I'm confident you are interested in the person that I am, but I believe you feel that way towards many friends in our community. The thoughts in my head collaborate and deliberate and come to agreement over convenience and distraction as your primary other motives.

This is acceptable, provided I understand your motives. 

I chide the older, immature sections of Jeanne who want to force YOU to recognize your motives as well, but she's no longer in control. Your growth is not my responsibility. 

What I have acknowledged, again (I had forgotten the 4 Jeannes have already had this conversation), is that I can't confuse the adept manner in which you entwine your words and actions of intimacy with the idea itself.

So I smile at our laughing snapshots and put them where I can remember the night, but they won't force their way into my heart the way the last smooth-talking, intimacy-tossing man did.

This me & You thing

i relate to You best
in utter silence
creaking wooden floors
chuckling beneath my feet
air conditioning
cycling on and then off again
this is how i hear You,
amongst basic vibrations

in the social scene around me
the dust has quickly settled
revealing effort and character
supporting reality and depth
superficiality has checked out, 
departed from this ghost town
leaving me a bit dirty, but joyous

and thus it all revolves around You

as it should

as it was always meant to

people sigh
i hear their voices laden with frustration
i watch their attitudes clashing
their perceptions battling
the hearts wanting to find level fields
pastures to lie in
meadows of simplicity
ease

they will get here

on the far side of these grassy expanses
i sit watching with field glasses
atop a short stout plateau
sitting back with You
Your words
Your peace
You

it's all that i need

and as i ponder You
we feel the vibrant silence
until the air conditioner kicks back on
until the neighbor's noise pollution reaches my ears

but i just smile

and relish this combination

this whole me and You thing.

Welcome back, Jeannie.

I've had a day and a half back in Florida. Yesterday, I walked out of the chilly airport into the beautiful February weather that this state has to offer. After being in 30 degree temperatures for almost 3 weeks, to say I appreciated the day doesn't suffice. It was stunning, great for the soul. 

I took Leslie to work today, and she let me borrow her jeep. I drove the mundane route home, but it was transformed into a beautiful scenic highway. It mattered not that I know Sand Lake and Kirkman like the back of my hand; it was irrelevant that I have traversed this trail many, many times. It was mind-blowing.

I spent the afternoon debating politics with Drew over Chickfila. It was an impromptu trip, based on his spontaneous phone call. It seems that he and I are consistently debating politics. He's a devout Obama supporter and we've never seen eye to eye on his support of our new Prez. Many times, he'll give me a statement he believes in, and I'll just debate with him for sheer sport. He knows this and loves it. But don't you feel sorry for him - he does the same to me, except he might be more adept at it. His comment to me as I left him at Kate's house was: I'll see you soon and we'll debate some more.

I told him it couldn't be about politics.

We'll talk CS Lewis or theology instead.

I drove back down I-4 in the ruby red jeep, weaving in and out of traffic, wishing that the top was down. Les and I verbally spar about the jeep top. She has refused to take it off for anything less majestic than a beach trip - which we haven't yet done in her jeep. I can't understand the point of having a jeep in Floridian spring unless you take the top off. I know she expects me to show up to pick her up this afternoon topless. The jeep, that is. Maybe on Friday!

Tonight, more time to spend with some of my favorite people in Orlando. We're going to Dandy's on Colonial. Tiff and I first met with Chris Slankard here when we were heading up our sphere, Disappointment with God. We wanted to hang with him and get to know him better. Somehow that has transformed into many early evenings over a Scattegories board... which in turn developed into debates over ridiculous answers (Something that is in the sky... Rocks. This is still an ongoing debate, trust me. He plans to write a book with this title someday: There ARE Rocks in the Sky. In fact, we've often discussed how many will believe it to be a truly groundbreaking statement, expecting a book on life and love and happiness. They will be either incredibly disappointed or infinitely entertained by its true content.)

So tonight, we cheers to one last Scattegories tournament. Walter, Carolina and Alecia plan to join, which will mix up the pre-existing regulars at our Scattegories table. I might add that I'm rather excited to add two logical ENTJs to the mix to balance out these wacky and creative types that are usually at odds with my black and white world.

Now for the rest of you that I haven't been lucky enough to see yet: let's get on it. 

But a lot of the time, I don't have a car.

Orlando, I'm relishing your love, your people, and your sunshine.

How I ADORE you.

Things I Have Lost

- My favorite ring, purchased from Seattle when I visited there this summer with my mom. The ring is nice and all, but what I truly lost is the memories aroused by said ring.
- My childhood innocence. It has turned into cynicism and doubt. The good news is that I'm softening up a bit - but I've a long road to travel.
- My 2 favorite cats ever: Bonnie and Clyde, later nicknamed Sissy and Pooh-Bear. We got them when I was 12 - they saw a divorce, 3 graduations, a Navy enrollment, an engagement breakup, the birth of a beautiful nephew, and so much more. I miss them forever.
- A fiance. Well, let's be honest - I know exactly where he is. But I lost the relationship and the intimacy of a long-term relationship. It was absolutely for the best, but I do miss the bonuses of a relationship like that.
- Most of my ability to converse in French. I remember words, improper conjugations, etc.
- My college photographs. I need to search the attic. Thanks to digital photography, storage of newer photographs is much easier.
- Self-consciousness. I have grown more comfortable with the woman I am, physically and personally. Like anyone, I am insecure. And I think of improvement all the time - praying for it, actually. But I do like who I am. ENTJ criticism and all.
- Memories of my childhood. This is by far my saddest loss. For some reason, I don't remember a good deal of growing up. I can remember stories, once mentioned, but I don't have the ability to quickly recall those times of happiness, sadness, anger, mundane-ness, etc. I wish I had journaled, like Mel.
- The worst Sorry game in the history of the world. Sorry is a child's game that is intended to destroy relationships. I am a bad sport. Add to the game a sister and nephew who hinder their ability to win in order to send me 'home' and you have a recipe for an explosion. I'm so embarrassed, in a funny way. Humility. This is something I need to GAIN.
- My ability to feel at home in solitude. I'm recovering this quickly, thanks to my trip to Georgia.
- My home. I am a vagabond right now - sleeping in random beds and on various couches until... I don't know when. It's strange to be so dependent on others, and the flexibility is a challenge.
- My grandfather. He is still alive, but he is in the early stages of dementia. He is too stubborn to have the proper surgery to lengthen his life, and so he continues to deteriorate. I have him to thank for my teasing tendencies. He was a great man, fallen as he was.
- My imagination and ability to be easily entertained. I spent yesterday morning with Kyla, a vivacious and wild (almost) 2 year old who I claim to be the godmother of. Jessie and Matt haven't acquiesced to my request yet :) She hid behind a fern, only to pop out after I asked the question, "Where is Kyla?" in a singsong voice. We must have done this 20 times and she never grew bored with it. I long for this part of childhood: the wonder, the awe, the magic.
- My interest in superficial relationships. Being apart from your community for several weeks gives you the blessing of knowing who your real friends are, and who you have time for, and who you care about, and who you relate to, etc. It's nice to see people once a week and say hello... but the true friendships are those I want to invest heavily in. The rest are a byproduct of a large community. It's truth, even if it's blunt.
- My love for Edward Cullen. I just write this for pure entertainment. There are things about fictional characters that draw me to them, whether male or female. I obsessed over Eddie C for a while - I admit - but he's not my role model for men. Robbie Pattinson is adorable. I have now, however, moved on to Hugh Jackman as the Drovah. A man's man. A woman's man. A man who lives the life he believes in even if he becomes an outcast as the result of his associations. DROVAH! 

What have you lost?

L'amitie

Friendship is often forged,

Fabricated as a result of like circumstances

Contrived from similar interests

Constructed due to the mere ease of it all.

Occasionally these effortless friendships

Outrun the duration of the likeness

But it seems that they often instead

Fall aside as conveniently as they arose.

And yet, the friendships that I crave

Are far beyond the circumstances,

Based rather in the true meeting of the souls involved:

Pure acceptance and love and truthfulness.

And as our worlds begin to revolve,

Orbit around different stars

The friendships adapt, evolve

The golden, shimmery strings of connection

Simultaneously loosen and tighten, 

Allowing freedom while maintaining intimacy.

Your Absence Makes My Heart Grow Fonder

Where are you? Inspiration that used to flourish, creative flower that used to radiate her fantastic words into my mind, fleeting pixie with endless energy - you have left, departed my soul, returned to your birthplace in that distant land.

I've searched every inch of my timeworn heart for you, but you left no trace of your past love for me. I have to be frank, to admit that I didn't notice your absence immediately. But they say that absence makes the heart grow fonder! Oh, how mine did and still does. I miss the soft mornings I spent with you, keys chattering like a five year old's teeth on a blustery, snowy morn. I miss the late nights, lying in bed, writing your words in my head. How I would snort in disgust at you for demanding I arise and capture your beauty just then! You always threatened me with forgetfulness. Instead, I wanted to pull the pillow over my head to drown out your alluring, captivating voice to catch a few z's.

Yet I now long for the darkened midnight that I can awake from a deepened sleep to find your tiny breath upon my face, caressing my thoughts and mind in your skillful manner.

Please come home. We can share?

The door opens, the door closes

The revolving door spins, quickly.

People arrive, people depart

I, the watcher, merely observe.

So it was, until recently.

Now, I leave, unnoticeably

Striding through the twisting exit

Whispers of the past echoing.

Calls of the future bellowing.

Farewell, overwhelming clusters

Good morning, solitude and self.