devastated

I should be studying for one of two tests on Wednesday, writing a lab report due in tomorrow, or any number of things expected of a diligent college student with a week full of deadlines. Instead, I'm glued to the news, paralyzed with horror at the scenes unfolding in Japan. I specifically feel helpless - helpless and frustrated that the biggest worries in my life right now are my two tests on Wednesday. Why does that matter right now? Why do I have to be here, do this?

I was distressed and disdainful of my own privilege yesterday as I stepped casually into a grocery store after church to pick up food. Not only did I feel incapable of currently providing any sort of tangible, practical help in the face of such overwhelming need, but the juxtaposition of how easily and comfortably I was able to care for myself beyond what I needed and the total devastation on the other side of the world seemed almost obscene.

Thankfully, I serve a God who can intervene in miraculous and practical ways in the face of tragedy. Maybe all I can currently do is to support the Japanese here in whatever way that I can - whether that is prayer or financial support. Somehow, not being in the middle of things, beside people causes me to feel agitated (which could also be indicative of a depreciation of the power of prayer on my part). It's difficult to know, as a Christian, just how to respond to something like this. What do we do? Sometimes human effort seems so inadequate and I am ineffably grateful in this situation for my God who can intervene in unimaginable ways. Where else would we turn? What else to do than toll the bell ropes of heaven and not let go?

At this moment however, my feelings toward the disaster in Japan seem as incomprehensible and mangled as the wreckage itself. For now, Psalm 17:6-8 - "I call on you, my God, for you will answer me; turn your ear to me and hear my prayer. Show me the wonders of your great love, you who save by your right hand those who take refuge in you from their foes. Keep me as the apple of your eye; hide me in the shadow of your wings." This for Japan.

hibernation

It's not that I don't have anything to write about.

(because, oh, I do)

It's just that I have decided that there are some things that I would rather people figure out on their own.

i can't help it

There are very few things in life that make me laugh harder than this book. I think that half of it is the illustrations-- I just start laughing looking at them. It is very hard not to love idiotic, impertinent little Nutkin.

please don't touch. thank you.

I don't know whether or not it's possible for short-term exposure to a culture to start altering your personality, but I think it might have happened to me.


Those of you who are even remotely acquainted with me realize that I am NOT a touchy-feely person. You could probably call me a kleptomaniac, or maybe even organized before you could call me a hands-on person. Because I am not, by any stretch of the imagination, touchy-feely. Or should I say, was not?


All the social graces in my family were bestowed upon my mother-- she is a brilliant hostess, can make conversation with anyone, and has this talent for making people feel generally welcome. And that is where the social graces in my family end. I have been described as 'endearingly awkward'. Endearing? Maybe. Awkward? Ding-ding-ding. Spot on. To throw me in amongst a room of strange people always makes me feel like a dog that a bunch of guys threw in a pool to bet on whether it would sink or swim. That's just conversing with others. If you were to actually touch me...good heavens.

So, back to Africa. You would just be having a conversation and realize, "Okay, you are definitely going to stand here and hold my hand THE ENTIRE TIME we talk." or you are going to stand with your arm around my shoulders, or through my arm. You are going to drag me off by the hand somewhere. Or, hey, guess what, apparently everyone here wants to hug everyone else. Why must you people constantly touch me?

Yeah. And so then, all of the sudden, I was the one standing with my arms linked with other people, or dragging people off by the hand, or hugging people. Where on earth did all that come from? It was like, out of the blue, I couldn't not touch people. Someone commented, "Was that Ashlyn in that picture, lying on the floor with her arm around some lady's head while smiling?" Um. Yeah, apparently it was.

Temporary, or permanent change? I have no earthly idea, but as intrigued as I am, it freaks me out.

Aside from that, everything was incredible-- God really showed up and did a lot of things in and through the team. He opened some opportunities and closed others, but then, any mission trip is like that. He also painted an incredible picture of the global Church-- our family half a world apart. The whole thing takes my breath away.

things i will (and will not) do when i am an old lady*

(that's assuming I make it that far)

1. I will not have that haircut. You know the one. The one that is pretty much a status symbol with septuagenarian women across the country. It is puffy and wispy and reminds one of a spun gray confection perched atop the head (gross, someone have a go at a better description, please.) I don't care if I have to have a buzz cut, but I refuse it.

2. If a child asks me to play with her, I will not continue to stare mournfully out the window and reply, "As soon as this cloud passes over the house." without ever turning to make eye contact.

3. If I there are ever any children in my house for any reason, I will be absolutely sure to set up the tallest ladder I can find. Underneath that ladder, I will set up a very large and wonderfully springy mattress. Do you have any idea how great it is to jump off a ladder and land on a nice mattress? You could probably do it for hours.

4. I will not judge the location of everything by the nearest K&W Cafeteria, Cracker Barrel, Shoney's, or roadside motel.

5. I probably will drive a Cadillac or an Oldsmobile. I'm sorry. I know that I've disappointed you sorely, but let's face it-- they are pretty much classy. Maybe I'll get an obscene bumper sticker for the back to redeem myself for this.

6. I am not going to be one of those old women who looks like she is 33 because that freaks me out in a very large way. Seriously, kudos for staying healthy and all that, but there is such a thing as aging gracefully. I mean, it really reminds me of Dorian Gray. Weird.

7. I will not allow any plaques, tapestries, paintings, or inspirational posters with angels, cherubs, small rabbits in gardening togs, or small children skipping in a circle holding hands into my house. I would sooner procure a poster that says 'Mary-- Mother of Mexico' with said revered virgin superimposed over the Mexican flag and hang it in the entryway.

*a list gleaned from resolve, experience, and a tiny bit of revulsion.

a necessity

It perched on top of the cabinet that housed our TV and gazed down on the rest of the room. If you had looked at it long enough, it might have begun to seem smug and slightly imperious, like a judge swathed in his somber black robes, surveying his court. It was smug because it knew that I wanted it dearly.

Whether or not you believe that boxes can possess things such attributes is entirely up to you, but I'm telling you that this box did.

The box seemed to have been engineered with the sole purpose of tempting me-- the chipped paint, the smooth curve of the lid, and the ancient-looking hinges-- they all held some undefinable allure. I coveted that box. I knew that coveting was a sin, thanks to various Sunday School teachers and Bible Time every morning in Mrs. Matthews' second grade class, but such a box was so wonderful that God himself probably couldn't help yearning for it. And if God coveted it then surely he wouldn't condemn me for a bit of wanton sin...

It had the most wonderful things inside of it: a ticket stub, various dingy old coins, several pocket knives, various shiny pins shaped like planes and crosses, a pendant commemorating the 75th anniversary of Coca-Cola, and a picture of my cousin Reginald looking for all the world like the sort of kid who got beat up every day during lunch period for his money. It was in short, the best thing ever.

The concept of a box of treasures is pretty much integral to a childhood. Basically, the whole idea here is that it is useless to try and raise a child without one. Absolutely useless. Don't even try it.

envy

So, you are walking through a parking lot. Any parking lot. Walking past row upon row of immaculately parked cars and then you see THAT car. You know, the car that is parked inches away from the car on the left side, so close that the driver had to clamber over the console and exit the right side door to take advantage of the the abundance of unoccupied space on that side. The rear of the vehicle juts awkwardly out into the lane and is an impediment and a general nuisance to oncoming traffic, and a source of scorn to pedestrians.

That would be my car. Mmmhmm.

Everyone tells me that parking is an acquired skill. Liars. Every last one of them. It never really occurred to me that nobody else seems to have this problem until I was talking to one of my friends who got her license like maybe a month ago. "Yeah," Allie said, "my parking isn't even awkward anymore." I think my jaw almost hit my chest. And Allie drives a truck that is bigger than mine, so don't try and tell me that she drives a car so it's easier for her, or some junk like that. You either can park a car, or you can't. It's a skill you're born with. There's probably a gene for it.

Basically, I have 'parking envy'...I watch people whip into parking spaces perfectly straight-- a wonderful blend of precision and speed, and I sigh. Why can't I just park? They can just do it...it is like a light, fresh spring breeze. My parking? Well, it's more like someone trying to dock a ship.

Yesterday, I went to the grocery store, or maybe it was at church or something, but where it was was totally irrelevant because I had to park. Grant was with me and I parked, and turned off the truck. "Oh my gosh." Grant said. "What?" I really did want to know what had caused my brother to say that in such a tone of quiet awe. "You just parked and didn't have to back out of the space." It was a profound moment. We both sat and absorbed it for about three seconds and then we went and bought a bunch of milk (okay, so that was the grocery store.) The whole point of that is that decent parking jobs are few enough for me to be seriously notable to my normally sarcastic brother. That's not good.

Now what's really fun is my bi-monthly sojourn to pick up horse feed. That's where I have to back into a parking space to have feed loaded. I always manage to back up to a pole so that they can't open the back of my truck. And it's always the same person who loads the feed, so I'm like, "Wait, I'm really sorry, I can fix that. Really." I'm fairly sure he hates me and that I ruin his week. But that's his problem because I was born like this. Sad, but true.

If you are like me, I'm really sorry. It's hard to come to terms with. But you can do it. The first step is admitting you have a problem. We might even be able to start a support group.

*this post is dedicated to pull-through parking spaces.

glaucomys volans

Two weeks ago, I put some of my extra school pictures in an envelope, sealed it up and sent it off to Blue Ridge, Georgia to my grandparents. I addressed the envelope to my grandmother, which basically guarantees a thank-you note...Mama is a Southern Lady and so I fully expected the generic, floral-patterned thank-you card that promptly showed up in the mail four days later. What I didn't expect was for my grandmother to slip effortlessly from expressing her appreciation in her flowing blue script to giving me this gem:

"We caught a flying squirrel in the attic a couple of weeks ago. It made so much noise it actually sounded like a person in the attic. It was trying to get off the large glue trap and chewed most of its tail off. We haven't got anymore, so maybe we got all of them."

I anxiously await the day I can get away with slipping things like that into thank-you notes.

nostalgia

As I've gotten older, my tastes in decor have changed, which I suppose is natural; however, on the corner of my dresser, I stubbornly clutch onto a small piece of my childhood. A jet black stallion stands frozen in mid-gallop-- he is indisputably everything a good horse should be: loyal, and bright-eyed and powerful with an intelligent forehead and an eager, inquiring look. He isn't perfect though-- both his ears are chipped and white scratches mar the sheen of his body (reminiscent of the fights that occurred between him and my neighbor's Breyer model of Pilgrim, from The Horse Whisperer. You should have seen how gallant and courageous he was during such fights-- it was typical for him to leap four times his height straight into the air before battering the the other horse into the ground. After that, he generally ran off with all of Pilgrim's mares. It was, in short, amazing.)

Ever since enrollment in school, I sustained my ideal of the Black Stallion with Walter Farley's books of the same name. During recess, I pretended I was Alec, and I constantly trained Shetan for his next race (which he would miraculously win, no matter what handicap was placed on him. Actually, it was miraculous that Shetan was even allowed to race, seeing as the Jockey Club would have never allowed it because he wasn't even a Thoroughbred. But the mind of a blissfully oblivious 3rd grader knows no limits, I guess...)

Later in 3rd grade, I actually started riding real horses (which in no way interfered with the riding of imaginary ones during recess) and to my delight and against all odds, the humble little barn where I rode was in possession of one Jet Black Arabian Stallion by the name of Kasheik. Kasheik was perfect-- a glistening black coat, a flagging tail, a forelock so long that he constantly had to toss it out of his eyes, which made him look defiant, and one white mark in the center of his forehead which was curiously shaped like a tornado. Of course, it goes without saying that I instantly loved him.

After my lessons, I would hang adoringly on the fence of his paddock while he paced, silent and furious, with eyes burning-- much too absorbed in being moody and stallion-like to notice the scrawny blond girl who watched his every move. On occasion , he would deign to come over to sniff me and I would feed him the peppermint that I saved and as a rule, would feed only to him. Oh yes, and did I mention that Kasheik was the grandson of Cass Ole -- the horse who starred in the movie The Black Stallion? As far as I was concerned, Kasheik was the Black Stallion. It really couldn't have gotten much better...

Of course, as a horse with such bloodlines, Kasheik was owned by a Very Wealthy Man-- one Chris Grant. Mr. Grant never came to see his horse and of course, I fumed at this man for owning this wonderful, glorious stallion and never coming to see him. It was basically sacrilegious. It was at some point around this time that I decided that I was going to marry Kasheik. Marry him, and live out the rest of my life within the confines of his stall and pasture. I have since been persuaded that marriage within my own species is infinitely preferable and somewhat more generally acceptable. I was such an interesting kid, though...

Eventually, the barn closed down and all the horses were sold. I lost track of Kasheik . Five years later, a friend was showing me snapshots of the barn where she boarded her mare, and a photo of a small black horse peering inquiringly out of a stall caught my eye. He wasn't sleek any longer, his forelock was short, he looked small, but in the center of his forehead was one white mark that was curiously shaped like a tornado. I asked my friend the horse's name-- "We call him Sheiky because no one can pronounce his real name." (typical Southern barn...) No doubt in my mind that it was him-- with most of the sons and grandsons of Cass Ole standing at stud, how did this one horse slip through the cracks to live an obscure life in a barrel-racing barn? Somehow after that, my ideal was gone-- closure, maybe? Anyhow, the ungrateful, unloyal, bay Thoroughbred who more often than not throws me off without a bit of guilt, and who can be counted on to blow snot all over me at least twice a day is just as perfect to me now as Kasheik was then.

Yet, the jet black stallion stands on my dresser.

hamstern (german: 'to hoard')

I hoard things. It is a newfound discovery of mine. Apparently, it isn't material things I hoard-- it is an idea, a song, a word, maybe a memory. All locked up. All secrets. Not secrets like little girls share at sleepovers after their mothers have told them a hundred times stop-talking-and-sleep-because-you-have-things-to-do-tomorrow. Not who likes who, or who is doing something illicit and heinous-- things like that are sometimes better to share. But these things, if I told you one, it would very likely seem commonplace and incredibly mundane-- you would think I was being ridiculous, and it is entirely possible that I am being just that. But if I told you one of these thoughts, it wouldn't be special anymore-- the odd, mysterious appeal that the thing held for me would vanish because you might not attach the same importance to tit that I do. Risk. Know what I mean? Maybe. Maybe not.

The best way to describe it would probably be a collection. Occasionally, I take my little pile of thoughts and go to the front room in the house where hardly anyone goes and I sit cross legged on the enormous couch, clutching a pillow and I turn over the thoughts with my mind like someone turning over a collection of small, precious things with their hand. They enjoy the shape, and the curvature of the things, maybe the color-- it is nice and pleasing because they know the things and they are familiar. Everything in my collection is as familiar to me as any tangible thing and it makes me happy to sort through it. So I smile.

Kind of reminds me of this:
"So they hurried off and found Mary and Joseph, and the baby who was lying in the manger. When they had seen him, they spread the word concerning what had been told them about this child, and all who heard it were amazed at what the shepherds said to them. But Mary treasured up all these things and pondered them in her heart."
-Luke 2:16-19
Mary storing up proof that her child was actually the Son of God. I don't know-- I just enjoy reading that. Not like I have a secret like Mary though. Being able to say, "Hey, I'm pregnant with the Son of God." pretty much trumps anything I have.

Anyhow, I have no idea why I do this-- maybe I just keep secrets for the sake of having them? I guess I will continue to add to my collection.

ponder

• What is more important to cultivate-- a natural talent, or an acquired skill?
• Why must my neighbor constantly run heavy machinery in the wee hours of the morning? How does he manage to drive his bulldozer more backwards than he does forwards so that there is a constant beeping noise?
• Why can I not open a banana withouth turning the top into mush that oozes out the sides? Have I missed some secret?
• Is God sarcastic? Job 38-- or am I misinterpreting it grossly?
• The yogurt container in our fridge proudly announces that it contains 6 'live and active cultures'...not one, or four, but 6. A bold 6 with a sunburst behind it. Should this really make me want to eat it?
• Does it grate on anyone else's subconcious when you see someone walking around with a large red spot on the back of their calf because they have sat with their legs crossed for a really long period of time?
• Does my chin really quiver when I'm telling a lie?

and what have you done?

So, photography is not really my cup of tea, but sometimes it is easier for me to just show you something rather than attempting to describe it and completely messing it up...

I love my family... Merry Christmas everyone, and I hope yours is as wonderful as mine.

cranberries and drive-thrus mean thanksgiving

Dad insisted that I drive to my grandfather's house for Thanksgiving because he likes me to drive through Atlanta. I'm not really sure why he always insists on this and I'm not really sure why I always agree to it because A. I almost always rear end someone in Atlanta traffic B. I almost always go the wrong way and C. I always have to take my family through a drive-thru.

Not that I am normally a composed and systematic person but I cannot do anything right in a drive-thru. And really, it is not for lack of trying. Usually one of the following things happens:

A. I order. My family doesn't know what they want to order. And then suddenly they all know. At the same time. And then they start yelling it at me because everyone else is yelling and they want to be heard. I slowly sink down in the seat and wish to disappear into oblivion.

B. Ordering goes smoothly. I go forward and begin to pull out the required amount of cash, plus exact change. I love to give exact change. It is a bright spot in my life. Did you know that if you carry 4 pennies, 3 quarters, 2 nickels, and 1 dime then you have the least amount of coins that you can make exact change for anything with? I hand the coins out the window into the palm of the expectant cashier and proceed to drop half of them and then, while mumbling apologies, I climb out of the car and pick them up. When I finally do get them to the lady, she looks disgustedly at the small collection of coins in her hand. I feel like I should offer her hand-sanitizer or something. But I don't because that is just not something that you do. Society really does not have the correct appreciation for exact change.

C. Ordering goes smoothly. I proceed to the second window or whatever and don't get close enough to the window. I can't back up because there is a car behind me. So I smile sheepishly at the girl who is there to take my money and she looks down her nose at me, completely unamused, with her little visor perched imperiously atop her forehead, and rolls her eyes. I completely unbuckle and stretch about 5 feet, with my entire upper body out the window and hand her the money. I then hang suspended over the abyss while the girl takes her sweet time getting the receipt. It is really awkward.

There is an infinite amount of situations like this that I am forever getting caught in, so I won't elaborate any further. Anyhow...

An Excerpt from my Thanksgiving...
My little cousin Kelsey and I are sitting at the table stringing cranberries and popcorn to hang up on a tree so that my grandfather can watch the birds from his kitchen table. We have proceeded so far in relative peace and silence when suddenly I notice that Kelsey has stopped with her needle in midair and is regarding me thoughtfully. I scoot my chair away from her slightly because she is the kind of kid that might be entertaining notions of stabbing me with said needle to laugh at me or something. Then she speaks...
"Ashlyn, do you guys decorate for Halloween anymore?"
"No, it is a Satanic holiday."
Okay fine, I didn't actually say that-- for heaven's sake Kelsey is like 9-- but it still would have been funny.
So, I really said...
"No, we did when Grant, and Ans, and I were younger, but we just don't do that anymore."
"Oh." Kelsey looks slightly crestfallen at my admission. "Well we still do. But I do it for different reasons than Alyssa (her younger sister) because I have different beliefs than she does."
Kelsey says 'beliefs' in such a tone as to cause me to stop stringing popcorn completely and sit and stare at her.
"And what kind of beliefs do you have, Kelsey?" I unfreeze myself.
"Well, I believe in Vampires. I study superstitions like that. I have a whole book on vampires and werewolves."
I raise one eyebrow and concentrate very hard on stabbing through the center of my cranberry. "Really?"
"Yes. And in that book, there is this story about this ghost targeting a girl," at this point, Kelsey has put down her needle entirely and is gesturing expressively with her hands, "and the ghost killed her father," now she leans in closer to me conspiratorially and whispers, "and the ghost pulled the girl's hair." With this climactic bit of information off her chest, she sits back down and begins stringing cranberries.

Delightful child. We are going to have a talk.

this is not normal

Today, I am home alone. I don't get to be home by myself often, so it is rather lovely when I can be. I meander around the house in jeans and an oversized t-shirt and everything is quiet. Because I can think when it is quiet. I've been thinking a lot lately.

It is very disillusioning to realize that something that you have dreamed of since childhood, may not be part of the plan for your life. I love my horses, they are the thing I am passionate about-- honestly I can't think of many things I'd rather do than gallop Tom full out without a saddle down the trail. But sometimes I can think of things that I'd rather do. And it scares me. Because I know that I can't take a horse to college-- so, do I just lose that? I mean, that is something that I have let define who I am for so long...does that part of me just disappear? I have always been 'Ashlyn, the girl who rides horses'-- what am I without it?

(As you read this, please realize that I am not depressed-- I know this is way off my normal tone. After I write this, I'm not going to go into the kitchen and swallow a bunch of pills. Honestly. I'm just searching and thinking and I need to get this out of my head however incomprehensible it is.)

I know all these people who have known what they have wanted to do since like, 8th grade. And everyone leaves for school next year. And I don't know what I want to do. And I'm staying home to figure it out. This frustrates me badly-- something I've noticed about myself is that I can't stand not knowing the finish. I can't not have a goal. Like at cross country practice when Coach wouldn't tell us how much we were going to run...I hated the feeling of apathy, just running, and running endlessly and not knowing where the finish was and not being able to regulate my pace according to where I knew the finish was. Even that drives me up a wall, and now my life is like this? Good heavens.

Sometimes I think I know what I want to do. I think I have everything all figured out. I want to work at a national park, I want to have a medical career, and so on and so forth. And then I don't. And then God puts a new variable into my life and I stand there with my mouth open going, "Wait! I thought this was what I was supposed to do! What is this?" I've been learning lately that I just need to stop thinking that I know where God is going ("I know he will rise again in the resurrection on the last day.") because my preconceptions can keep me from going where He really wants me.

So, the new variable is Africa. I didn't go over and expect to come back wondering if I felt a call or not. It just sort of happened. And so it gets thrown into the mix.

"Just pray about it." that is what everyone tells me. Dad said, "Just pray about it, Ash. He might not answer you immediately. He may just want you to persist in that prayer and to sit there and just bask in you talking to Him for awhile. He may want you to pray for a couple of months." All right, not what I wanted to hear, but Dad is wise and I love him and I know he's right. But it is not that easy for me always because I am not good at making time for God. There, I've said it. I procrastinate with God like I procrastinate with the rest of my life and it carries over from there to there. I'm not saying that apathetically like, "Oh, I'm just not good at it. That is the way it is. It can never change." I've really been trying lately. And I think God has been talking. Which has been good, because sometimes I felt like I could make up an imaginary friend and talk to it and have it be more real than God. I'm not trying to be sacrilegious, or funny-- that is really how I thought about it.

"Fine." I say, "Fine, fine, fine." You win. I will be obedient. Because You promised that if I seek you with all my heart that I would find you. (Jeremiah 29:13) Because it isn't a one part thing. It is a two part thing. I seek and you reveal. And somehow through all of this, I am reminded that I didn't choose you before you chose me.

I swore I would never do one of these confessional, long post things. But I have. I just really needed to describe all that. Even if no one reads it, but I felt like people needed to know. Not sure why. I just did.

impromptu adventure

So yesterday, in the space of about 30 minutes, I managed to do most of the things that my mother has spent my entire life warning me not to-- with the exception of getting pregnant.

It all started when I wanted a banana. As I was getting the banana, I looked out the window and my dog was looking down at the road in an odd manner and making these strange barking noises. So I went out onto the porch and dropped my banana in horror-- my three horses and the donkey were in the process of galloping full tilt up the road towards the really busy road...for those of you who do not have horses please understand that if you did have horses, then this would be your worst nightmare-- your horse can slip and break a leg on the asphalt, step on a nail, get caught in something, or get hit by a car. Basically, the life of a horse is one long suicide attempt.

So in this thirty minutes, here is what happened:

1. I leave home without telling my family-- I am sprinting up the road with a halter and a lead rope as my horses disappear over a hill.
2. I realize that I have no shoes on.
3. An elderly man stops to ask me if I need to call someone. I obviously look very desperate. He cannot remember any number that I ask him to dial and will not let me hold the phone because he is obviously afraid that I will take off sprinting up the road with it. "Never mind, sir."
4. I get in a car with three complete strangers and we completely break the speed limit to catch up with the horses.
5. While I am in the car, I borrow a cell phone and dial my home number and instruct Strange Woman #1 to leave a message explaining that I am running after our horses in a cemetery off the main road. She leaves a message on the machine, "Hello, this is Rhonda..."
6. The horses are heading diagonally across the cemetery, so I cut across and reach the main road before they do and proceed to stopping traffic both ways so that the horses wouldn't get hit (you gain a whole new appreciation for the natural stamina and athleticism of a horse when chasing one on foot-- much less chasing three of them). The expressions on the faces of drivers are priceless.
7. The horses gallop several hundred yards down the main road, miraculously escaping certain death and almost running over several workmen who try to catch them. They turn into a subdivision where we commence to ruining several yards and scaring an indignant-looking older woman and her poodle to death.
8. I become aware of the fact that there is now a small procession of strange people in their vehicles following me wherever I go.
9. I catch one horse and the other horses and the donkey continue running because they don't care about him seeing as he is not the alpha horse. They decide to run back up towards the main road. I talk to the horse that I am now dragging behind me as I run-- "See, Rocky, they don't care about you at all." Stupid equine pecking order.
10. Somehow, Rocky and I beat the other horses up to the main road. Apparently, traffic will stop much more quickly for a girl and a horse than it will for just a girl.
11. I catch up with the other two horses in the cemetery where they are generally doing a very wonderful job of defiling everything. I catch my horse, Tom, and then start trying to catch the third horse. I realize that I don't have anything to hold him with. A helpful bystander offers me his belt.
12. Another helpful bystander (not the man with the belt) produces a rope from the back of his truck and catches Frosty. He offers to help me take the horses back home and I accept. He obviously wants to have a conversation and starts it out like this: "Well, I know exactly how you feel, because sometimes my labs get loose..." I stifle the urge to scream.
13. My family shows up-- they have extra lead ropes. I am so happy and I cheerfully wave goodbye to Rhonda & Company and start home. The donkey follows the horses and trots happily along the center of the road as if this is all completely normal...

chinese shar pei

I have developed an aversion to these dogs. I do not like them. Not one bit.

I am talking about Chinese Shar-Peis, not green eggs and ham. Good heavens, look at it...Maybe I just don't like the idea of having a dog whose skin I could use to hide various small objects in. Useful? Maybe. Appealing? Nope. (Okay, just to go ahead and say this because if I don't someone is bound to-- yes, I am sure that these dogs have wonderful personalities. But I still do not like them.)

I don't have a thing against wrinkles. At least not normally. My great-grandmother had tons of wrinkles and she was one of the neatest people ever. She had this big button collection in a golden tin and she would let me take them out and sort them into piles by color and shape and I spent many afternoons of my young life laying on the carpet in the sun sorting buttons into rainbow piles. When Great Mama visited the hospital she was too weak to do anything on her own but threaten the medical staff ("I'm going to slap you good." "If you do that another time you won't see daylight again."), but then when you are ninety-something, you can basically do whatever you want. I am getting off track-- Great Mama had wrinkles, but they came from doing things like smiling, living through the Great Depression, having cows, and raising six children during World War II. Those dogs are just born with them. Maybe that is what causes them to be so repulsive to me. Anyhow, I digress.

I leave in 8 days. Someone asked me yesterday when I left and I said, "In 8 days-- I am so excited-- I can count the days on two hands now!" The person gave me a strange look out of the corner of her eye and changed the subject. Yes, I am painfully aware of the fact that I have only two hands, but now to count the days, I only have to use each hand once. That has always been something I do. So anyhow, I'm not so bothered about the flying part now-- I'm not going to say I'm thrilled about flying over the Atlantic Ocean, but I've really been given a sense of peace about it lately. I sort of made the decision to go in a spilt second and wondered if it was the right thing to do, but now after the team meeting last Wednesday I definitely think God has something big planned and I can't wait to see what it is.

On an entirely different closing note, I love the entire cross country team and I am so glad I am running with them this season. It is part of my handful of favorite things.

an airbus A320

I have tried repeatedly to squish the fear down inside me and ignore it. But I can't.

I have this consuming hatred of flying in planes.

It all starts when I go through security. I cannot do more than two things at once and HERE is THIS MAN and he is telling me--

A. "I need your photo i.d."
B. "And your boarding pass."
C. "Put your bag in this box,"
D. "Oh, and take out all electronic devices."
E. "And take off your shoes."
F. "Okay, now move forward."
G. "Wait, come back! We are going to have to dispose of this liquid because it is over 3 oz."

It makes me want to scream...

Don't you think it would make a wonderful board game? "No photo i.d.-- back to start!" "All liquids are under 3 oz. AND a quart sized Ziploc baggie-- MOVE 4 SPACES!" It could be a best seller...

Moving on from security.

I sit at the gate listening to music and nervously twisting my boarding pass. I am listening to "The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald" (I have this ridiculous appreciation for songs about ships and sailing, no matter how old). It does nothing for my nerves. I wonder why. My boarding pass has now assumed a cloth-like texture and most of the printing is ruined. The gate attendant glares at me as I present it to him. He is supposed to have the simple job of scanning pieces of paper and it is apparently people like me that ruin his day.

Finally we taxi down the runway. I am sitting between my dad and my brother. The dialogue that ensues is reminiscent of those movies where the person has an angel on one shoulder and a devil on the other.

"Don't worry, Ash," Dad says, "it's safer than driving."
"Most accidents happen at take-off or landing." Grant reminds me gleefully, "Would you like me to tell you what our chances of death are?"He is a pilot-in-training, so I can't refute him. But I can tell him to shut up. So I do.

Eventually, we reach cruising altitude. The stereotypical screaming baby awakens in the row behind me. My mother and several other matronly-looking women swap sympathetic smiles with the parents. Half of me wants to smile too, but is afraid it would look more like a grimace. The other half of me wonders if the baby would stop crying if I shoved it in an overhead luggage compartment and closed the door.

This thought occupies me until we begin our descent which I really prefer not to discuss at all. At this point the predominant thought in my mind becomes, "Get off the plane as soon as is possible."

And of course, baggage claim is just loads of fun-- after walking off with suitcases that aren't mine several ties and apologizing profusely to the very angry rightful owners I get my suitcase and laugh on my way out at all the people who still don't have theirs.

The End. Or it would be if I never had to fly again. But, oh the irony, I leave on the longest flight of my life at the end of next month. Dear heavens. Maybe I'll make cards for the TSA employees or something. We'll see. But it will certainly be interesting.

emulation is the highest form of admiration (?)

If you listen faithfully to conversations, you start noticing the minute things...

It amuses me how people will change their inflection and tone of voice to mimic those around them-- I don't even think they do it conciously. It's like some weird subconscious way of paying homage to one person (if you listen, people tend to mimic one main person). Now that I see others doing this I catch myself doing it and it's like, "That is weird and semi-creepy and I am going to stop now."

Some people don't mimic the tone of voice and inflection, but the way people pair words together. Like, lots of people in TCC will pair words like this...instead of just saying, "That was horrifying." they say ,"That was vaguely horrifying." They take some adverb and just stick it in front of the verb and it is just so fun to say and it makes everything that much better. Okay, so lots of people do that because that is pretty much what adverbs are for, but anyhow. I guess I've had too much English.

What is incredibly fun to do is to listen to people on the phone and guess by their tone and word patterns, who their are talking to (okay, not like eavesdropping, but like being openly in earshot of someone else's phone conversation-- wait, it that eavesdropping?)If you listen to one person consistently on the phone you can tell who they are talking to by their tone of voice. Like when my mom answers the phone and it is my dad she says 'hello' in this completely unpretentious tone of voice. If my dad is talking to my next door neighbor, he magically gains an exaggerated Southern accent. If anyone answers the phone and they instantly begin answering questions about the weather then they are most likely talking to my Grandfather.

This all fascinates me to an unnecessary extent...

like dorothy hamill

I got a haircut yesterday.

I hate haircuts.

It's not that I mind actually having my hair cut, what I mind is a total stranger lopping off my hair as casually as if I were a topiary in someone's front lawn. And touching my head. It bothers me greatly. But, that's not my only reason for hating haircuts. My other experiences with barbershops haven't been so stellar either...

I was in third grade and I decided that I wanted my hair cut like Dorothy Hamill (an Olympic figureskater-- find a picture of her and see what her hair looked like). So, off we went to the little place by the Wal-Mart where I informed this indifferent looking woman how I wanted my hair, and for clarification I threw in, "You know short, like Dorothy Hamill's hair." At the end of the ordeal, it was entirely apparent that the lady either A. Had no idea who Dorothy Hamill was, or B. Thought that Dorothy Hamill was a little boy with a horrid looking bowl cut. I looked like a little boy with a horrid bowl cut.

Do you honestly think that I'm exaggerating? Okay, so not long after I got this haircut, a new family moved in next door to us. They had two boys, both of whom thought that I also was a boy for 3 months. 3 full months. They got a clue when I got a pink bike for my birthday. The older kid got this expression of horror and goes, "Wait, wait-- you're a girl?" Why yes, I do believe you've hit the nail on the head.

So I honestly have reasons for hating haircuts. So, understandibly, I was nervous when this woman with spiky black and red hair started toward my hair with a pair of scissors. She was also chewing gum-- seriously, what if she choked and spit it out into my hair? (I am slightly paranoid/overly imaginative-- call it what you will) And she constantly commented on how much hair I had. "There's just so much of it. It just kind of hangs." she said while picking up a strand of my hair and letting it fall back in place. Of course it hangs. It's hair. Would you rather it stand straight on end? (I was somewhat frustrated). Every time she cut off any of my hair, she would say, "Oh don't worry. It's fine. It's all right."

Finally, she was done and said,"Here look at it, do you like it?"

I was rather pleased (pleased meaning, I won't have to wear a hat for six months.)

But, hat or not, I am not about to start to start trusting random strangers with scissors.

merely shadows

Does anyone else have thoughts that run the lines of, "What would the world be like without..." (fill in the blank) and preoccupy yourself for long periods of time trying to figure out what the world would actually be like without that thing?

I do it all the time. Things like ball-point pens, computers, spiders (wonder out loud in front of lots of people what would happen if there were no spiders in the world. Someone unfailingly says, "We would be overrun by bugs, you idiot. What a stupid thing. A world without spiders." It bothers me so badly.)

Anyhow, I was wondering aimlessly the other day on the aforementioned, "What would the world be like without..." and I filled in the blank with 'shadows'. And I tried and I tried to imagine a world without shadows, but I can't. I'd look at things and it turns out that the smallest things I look at are affected by shadows. You can't even tell they're there unless you think about them. Like this picture: the shadows are there. You don't think about them. But when you do notice them, you still can't imagine the picture without them.

I don't even really know what a world without shadows would mean. Maybe one less dimension or no sun or something. It just interested me, but I am still absolutely clueless.