Ow.

Reading 1 Corinthians is an exercise in humility.
I do not, for example, particularly want to realize that I've subconsciously accepted ignorance as faith. That when I read things in the Word that I don't like, or don't understand, or don't agree with at first glance, I've somehow convinced myself that ignoring it all is somehow a good thing.

It's not. How can I have a relationship with Christ if I brush him off? How, if I don't even bother getting to know him, or working past mistaken impressions, or refusing, even here, even with this, to be vulnerable? Where along the line did I buy into the lie that true faith is smothering the process?

I don't know. But I'm done. I'm done with passivity. I'm done with apathy. I'm done with being afraid that the Truth will somehow melt away if I am honest with my questions--that the solid Rock will shatter if I knock a few times. It is time for me to grow up, to pry open my eyes, and know in whom I have believed.

Life can roll on to something good...

Internal Processing Systems

I read somewhere once that mundane tasks can be good grief therapy: no matter who you have lost, someone still needs to vacuum the floors and the car will still need to be filled up with gas. Performing necessary tasks is supposed to help you come to terms with loss.
So this afternoon I washed the dishes.

A Balanced Diet

Consisting, so far today, of a slice of watermelon, three "wacky whales" (read: knockoff Goldfish crackers), a fake chocolate organic cookie (baked by roommate, slightly burned), a slice of questionable watermelon, a 32 oz. QT slushie (a sadly mistaken combo of white cherry, blue raspoberry, and orange? What was I thinking?), and a fried-egg-mashed-potato-leftovers combo washed down with glasses and glasses of water.
How's that for variety, and also, grossness?
There is an explanation for this bizarreness, however:
I am moving today!
My room is all packed (nearly, since I'm staying the night at the old place) and all that there's left to move are some big bulky items I'll need help for and the stuff I'm leaving here until the Last Time.
and so I am hot and sore and tired and susceptible to leftovers and 75-cent frozen sugar highs, and also I do not drink enough water.
Moving is an adventure. I'm glad I think that, because otherwise it would suck. This place, despite the hazards of the bachelor-predecessor, has been awfully good to us. Only ten months. But lots of memories. I'm grateful.
It's Father's Day, incidentally, and I'm thinking of mine today: the upsides and downsides and how grateful I am for him too. I have an unfairly good and easy life. I'm grateful for that too.

The melting remnants of my slushie await, and so do those last few boxes.

the Swing of Things

There's a rhythm and a pattern that's being established even in these unstructured summer months--little things that become common, though unexpected to begin with, or unusual in itself.
What that means is that I've been watching World Cup games with Vic and making delicious cheap meals and watching awesome movies with Eden.
What that also means is that this month is a dance of sorts, in which I am being led (I am a clumsy follower) through movements the choreography of which I cannot yet guess.
What that means is, simply, that I am trusting the Lord for a job.
And that I'm about to be moving to a new apartment,
and that in only a year I'll be done with school--the student part of it--for the foreseeable future
and that my life goals consist of being a folk-singing archaeologist and sailing across the Atlantic by myself (I do not know how to sail).
The "foreseeable future."
What a ridiculous thing to say.

And now to watch Wolverine with Eden. Hugh Jackman = my type.

I Kill Plants.

Kara gave me her potted calla lily (they are poisonous to cats? who knew.) and the blossoms are brown and crunchy. It wouldn't drink the water I gave it. It's terrible, because I love calla lilies. They are so fluted and solitary and pure.
However, the baby basil (named Larry by Vic) which I insisted on buying at a Nashville farmer's market, because I wanted to feel like I was really at a farmer's market, even though it was a March weekday, meaning cold-gray-drizzly-deserted, and drove through three states before I deposited it on the coffee table, is still green and bushy. It likes the water I give it when I remember to give it water. I pull leaves off every so often and throw them in vinaigrettes and chilis and salads and sauces, and am rewarded with a delicious smell and flavor and a feeling perhaps more delicious than either, that comes of reading too many books as a child about pioneers with vegetable gardens, which I still think is one of the most romantic things in the world. Showing conclusively that I have never had a vegetable garden.
Oh calla lily, you are so beautiful. why won't you let me feed you?

I need to go water the basil.

I can save your life. Maybe.

My roommate is watching a video of Lindsay Lohan's court proceedings, prompting a reflection: it would be awful if everyone knew my name.
Today I became certified to perform CPR on adults, children, and infants. Also I can alleviate hypothermia. Bring it on, babysitting.
While I was at the Red Cross building taking the class I met a girl named Sarah. She was funny and nice and hanging out with her (in the back of the class, of course) made the six hours exponentially more bearable.
We cracked jokes about the mannequins and the instructional videos, and we will probably never see each other again, but at the start of the day I did not know who she was, and now I do, and that is an amazing thing.
It's awfully nice to be obscure.

Statistics

In 2006 I posted 40 updates on this blog.

in 2009 I posted 8.

Demotivation much?

Already this year I've written 11 times, with this being the 12th.

I am not on track to beat my 2006 record, but (this being the 1st of June) with any degree of continuity I may be in line to pull ahead of 2007's 23.

Keep on truckin'?

Either way, I'm enjoying this again...a good sign.