Sense & Sensibility

A New Title

2009-04-22T15:32:00.003-08:00

In light of the current state of our country (and that within my own home) I've come to realize that many an affliction can be remedied by good sense, logical research, and practical intent. And a healthy dose of sensibility walks hand in hand with good sense. Most humans may function primarily using their brain, but the heart is always present- whether or not it is given the respect it earns.

Today I wonder about our current administration's decision to spend billions of dollars that our country cannot possibly make good upon for a number of years into the future. A president's legacy is forever- Dave Ramsey spoke of this in his recent book, Priceless. He honored the work of Abraham Lincoln, who created a beautiful legacy of healing, hope and equality to many opressed Americans when he abolished slavery. Though I don't believe Obama's intention was to opress Americans, he has spearheaded a path of destruction for future generations with his "stimulus plan": a Band-Aid already full of dark red blood and earmark pus that will eventually seep us to our fiscal death. I, like many other Americans, feel a great weight in our current economy- and I revel in the fact that our freedom as a nation allows us to express that sadness with a simple "tea party." Maybe even this simple revolt will help call attention to a different kind of opression?

Light in the Darkness

2008-10-20T13:44:00.001-08:00

I have a relationship with God that is not visible to the naked eye. It is a quiet, imperfect one, based upon faith. The relationship is rooted in what my heart perceives as His character. The God I am committed to is a masterful Creator, a wise, loving, just being, and a merciful One who offers infinite grace. But He did not always appear to me this way, and I did not know Him as personally as I know Him now.

Lately my days have been filled with fear, confusion, and sorrow. I have been overwhelmed by my shortcomings, fearful for our country, saddened by the negativity and that is vomited by our society. It seeps into into my soul and there are moments I am at a loss to battle it. Then, I remember my story. The story that was beautifully crafted by He who loves me. It is beyond theology, opinions and the ever-present hypocrisy of the Christian world. Because it is my own, not one can argue with what has become the pinnacle of my life in faith. Though I'm not entirely comfortable writing this journal-like post, it is my hope that sharing it may remind those who mire in sadness, anger and doubt of God's ultimate place in our world.

I’ve had short periods of depression for most of my life, but in 1999, I suffered a lengthy term that lasted well over two years. I cannot pinpoint the cause, but I remember thinking in the early months that it would pass just as the others always had. The days turned into weeks and the weeks turned into months...then years. I lost interest in everything. Food that was once enjoyed with fervor became the enemy, something that caused pain (and subsequent ulcers) in my stomach. Friends, once welcomed and loved, came and went like ghosts. Church became just another place for me to cry uncontrollably. My family was familiar, but absent as I pushed them away time and time again. Calling in sick to work became a regular occurence, and my surroundings at Gram's became a silent tomb. I checked out on life in all the ways that matter, and there were days (eight in a row at one point) that I couldn’t get out of bed. I was clinically depressed and the numbness had overtaken me. I considered a myriad of ways I could escape the black hole: pills, alcohol, driving my car off a cliff. Death became an option...but my attempt was unsuccessful.

My former youth leader came to my house one morning, driving me to church so that the head pastors could pray over me. Unfortunately, though I believe the leadership loved and cared for me, they offered nothing but damning Old Testament theology, which boiled down to the notion that God cruelly and relentlessly punishes sinful behavior. Since I was “oppressed” as the pastor put it, I must have too much sin in my life, and God had chosen to punish me for that sin. I was guilt-ridden and confused, because I had always known God to be just...but lovingly so. While there are consequences for sin, I do not believe that God “punishes” us. My last hope that morning was God, and after that prayer session I was convinced He had turned His back on me. He had left me alone, and I was filled with such self-loathing and worthlessness that I felt there was no hope for a future.

I have never felt as alone as I did then. And I had never felt so far away from God. I couldn’t feel Him, and I’d always been taught in church that emotions and acting gifts of the spirit proved that God was present. I pleaded with the God I could not see to bring me home. Three days after that prayer session at the church, I was still in bed. It was nightfall and I fell asleep, as I often did, to tears. I had nightmares, so many that I could not count them. I dreamed only of death. Family, friends, even beloved pets, all brutally murdered with knives or scorched by flames. I even saw my own casket- a gruesome, limp figure with rotting flesh and bloody eye sockets. My efforts to stay awake were in vain. I would fall back asleep and the nightmares continued.

It was, ironically, a Sunday morning when I opened my eyes. But when I awoke that last time, there was no fear. Only peace, as I slowly took in the ultimate in comfort, protection and hope. I felt the presence of God, all-powerful and quietly glorious. I saw the sun peeking through blinds at my window. I heard a small bird singing in the tree outside my bedroom window. Then I felt the question, one so clear it was almost audible. “Do you want to live?” I did not hesitate before whispering yes. I made a choice that day, and I chose to live.

I don’t share this story for the sake of drama, but rather to emphasize the grace, love, and faithfulness that was shown to me on that day. It was a moment akin to dying and being reborn- a new beginning. His purpose has been made clear as time goes on. I have been blessed to meet others struggling with depression since that day who desperately needed not only empathy but a physical, human reminder that God never leaves us. I don’t think that every person must have a similar experience to know Him well, but I can tell you that not a day has gone by when I have doubted Him or His ever-present hand in all situations that we call life. He knows each of us intimately, and that intimacy demands personal, individual circumstance and action on God's part. I believe that there were many other circumstances in my life that could have provided the same depth as the one I just descibed. But God is gentle; there is always a choice. We must choose to see, hear, and follow Him.

Each path we travel upon has a purpose, and though it is not always clear at the beginning, we must trust that good will be found in every situation. God works everything for His good. It is this that I rest in as we battle the negativity that is in our world today. The government, the economy, and perhaps most greviously, the broken hearts and relationships that permeate our days. May we all mind what truly matters, and that is each other.

Feminism & Problematic Parties

2008-10-08T10:10:00.000-08:00

A www.salon.com excerpt by Camille Paglia, Sept. 10, 2008, along with a subsequent reader letter and response below. Camille Paglia is a professor of Humanities & Media Studies at the University of the Arts in Philadelphia. She is a refreshingly honest and well-spoken supporter of Barack Obama who is also an atheist. I encourage you to read on.

Pow! Wham! The Republicans unleashed a doozy -- one of the most stunning surprises that I have ever witnessed in my adult life. By lunchtime, Obama's triumph of the night before had been wiped right off the national radar screen. In a bold move I would never have thought him capable of, McCain introduced Gov. Sarah Palin of Alaska as his pick for vice president. I had heard vaguely about Palin but had never heard her speak. I nearly fell out of my chair. It was like watching a boxing match or a quarter of hard-hitting football -- or one of the great light-saber duels in "Star Wars." (Here are the two Jedi, Obi-Wan Kenobi and Qui-Gon Jinn, going at it with Darth Maul in "The Phantom Menace.") This woman turned out to be a tough, scrappy fighter with a mischievous sense of humor.

Conservative though she may be, I felt that Palin represented an explosion of a brand new style of muscular American feminism. At her startling debut on that day, she was combining male and female qualities in ways that I have never seen before. And she was somehow able to seem simultaneously reassuringly traditional and gung-ho futurist. In terms of redefining the persona for female authority and leadership, Palin has made the biggest step forward in feminism since Madonna channeled the dominatrix persona of high-glam Marlene Dietrich and rammed pro-sex, pro-beauty feminism down the throats of the prissy, victim-mongering, philistine feminist establishment.

In the U.S., the ultimate glass ceiling has been fiendishly complicated for women by the unique peculiarity that our president must also serve as commander in chief of the armed forces. Women have risen to the top in other countries by securing the leadership of their parties and then being routinely promoted to prime minister when that party won at the polls. But a woman candidate for president of the U.S. must show a potential capacity for military affairs and decision-making. Our president also symbolically represents the entire history of the nation -- a half-mystical role often filled elsewhere by a revered if politically powerless monarch.

As a dissident feminist, I have been arguing since my arrival on the scene nearly 20 years ago that young American women aspiring to political power should be studying military history rather than taking women's studies courses, with their rote agenda of never-ending grievances. I have repeatedly said that the politician who came closest in my view to the persona of the first woman president was Sen. Dianne Feinstein, whose steady nerves in crisis were demonstrated when she came to national attention after the mayor and a gay supervisor were murdered in their City Hall offices in San Francisco. Hillary Clinton, with her schizophrenic alteration of personae, has never seemed presidential to me -- and certainly not in her bland and overpraised farewell speech at the Democratic convention (which skittered from slow, pompous condescension to trademark stridency to unseemly haste).

Feinstein, with her deep knowledge of military matters, has true gravitas and knows how to shrewdly thrust and parry with pesky TV interviewers. But her style is reserved, discreet, mandarin. The gun-toting Sarah Palin is like Annie Oakley, a brash ambassador from America's pioneer past. She immediately reminded me of the frontier women of the Western states, which first granted women the right to vote after the Civil War -- long before the federal amendment guaranteeing universal woman suffrage was passed in 1919. Frontier women faced the same harsh challenges and had to tackle the same chores as men did -- which is why men could regard them as equals, unlike the genteel, corseted ladies of the Eastern seaboard, which fought granting women the vote right to the bitter end.

Over the Labor Day weekend, with most of the big enchiladas of the major media on vacation, the vacuum was filled with a hallucinatory hurricane in the leftist blogosphere, which unleashed a grotesquely lurid series of allegations, fantasies, half-truths and outright lies about Palin. What a tacky low in American politics -- which has already caused a backlash that could damage Obama's campaign. When liberals come off as childish, raving loonies, the right wing gains. I am still waiting for substantive evidence that Sarah Palin is a dangerous extremist. I am perfectly willing to be convinced, but right now, she seems to be merely an optimistic pragmatist like Ronald Reagan, someone who pays lip service to religious piety without being in the least wedded to it. I don't see her arrival as portending the end of civil liberties or life as we know it.

One reason I live in the leafy suburbs of Philadelphia and have never moved to New York or Washington is that, as a cultural analyst, I want to remain in touch with the mainstream of American life. I frequent fast-food restaurants, shop at the mall, and periodically visit Wal-Mart (its bird-seed section is nonpareil). Like Los Angeles and San Francisco, Manhattan and Washington occupy their own mental zones -- nice to visit but not a place to stay if you value independent thought these days. Ambitious professionals in those cities, if they want to preserve their social networks, are very vulnerable to received opinion. At receptions and parties (which I hate), they're sitting ducks. They have to go along to get along -- poor dears!

It is certainly premature to predict how the Palin saga will go. I may not agree a jot with her about basic principles, but I have immensely enjoyed Palin's boffo performances at her debut and at the Republican convention, where she astonishingly dealt with multiple technical malfunctions without missing a beat. A feminism that cannot admire the bravura under high pressure of the first woman governor of a frontier state isn't worth a warm bucket of spit.

Perhaps Palin seemed perfectly normal to me because she resembles so many women I grew up around in the snow belt of upstate New York. For example, there were the robust and hearty farm women of Oxford, a charming village where my father taught high school when I was a child. We first lived in an apartment on the top floor of a farmhouse on a working dairy farm. Our landlady, who was as physically imposing as her husband, was an all-American version of the Italian immigrant women of my grandmother's generation -- agrarian powerhouses who could do anything and whose trumpetlike voices could pierce stone walls.

Here's one episode. My father and his visiting brother, a dapper barber by trade, were standing outside having a smoke when a great noise came from the nearby barn. A calf had escaped. Our landlady yelled, "Stop her!" as the calf came careening at full speed toward my father and uncle, who both instinctively stepped back as the calf galloped through the mud between them. Irate, our landlady trudged past them to the upper pasture, cornered the calf, and carried that massive animal back to the barn in her arms. As she walked by my father and uncle, she exclaimed in amused disgust, "Men!"

Now that's the Sarah Palin brand of can-do, no-excuses, moose-hunting feminism -- a world away from the whining, sniping, wearily ironic mode of the establishment feminism represented by Gloria Steinem, a Hillary Clinton supporter whose shameless Democratic partisanship over the past four decades has severely limited American feminism and not allowed it to become the big tent it can and should be. Sarah Palin, if her reputation survives the punishing next two months, may be breaking down those barriers. Feminism, which should be about equal rights and equal opportunity, should not be a closed club requiring an ideological litmus test for membership.

Here's another example of the physical fortitude and indomitable spirit that Palin as an Alaskan sportswoman seems to represent right now. Last year, Toronto's Globe and Mail reprinted this remarkable obituary from 1905:

Abigail Becker, farmer and homemaker born in Frontenac County, Upper Canada, on March 14, 1830

A tall, handsome woman "who feared God greatly and the living or dead not at all," she married a widower with six children and settled in a trapper's cabin on Long Point, Lake Erie. On Nov. 23, 1854, with her husband away, she single-handedly rescued the crew of the schooner Conductor of Buffalo, which had run aground in a storm. The crew had clung to the frozen rigging all night, not daring to enter the raging surf. In the early morning, she waded chin-high into the water (she could not swim) and helped seven men reach shore. She was awarded medals for heroism and received $350 collected by the people of Buffalo, plus a handwritten letter from Queen Victoria that was accompanied by £50, all of which went toward buying a farm. She lost her husband to a storm, raised 17 children alone and died at Walsingham Centre, Ont.

Frontier women were far bolder and hardier than today's pampered, petulant bourgeois feminists, always looking to blame their complaints about life on someone else.

But what of Palin's pro-life stand? Creationism taught in schools? Book banning? Gay conversions? The Iraq war as God's plan? Zionism as a prelude to the apocalypse? We'll see how these big issues shake out. Right now, I don't believe much of what I read or hear about Palin in the media. To automatically assume that she is a religious fanatic who has embraced the most extreme ideas of her local church is exactly the kind of careless reasoning that has been unjustly applied to Barack Obama, whom the right wing is still trying to tar with the fulminating anti-American sermons of his longtime preacher, Jeremiah Wright.

The witch-trial hysteria of the past two incendiary weeks unfortunately reveals a disturbing trend in the Democratic Party, which has worsened over the past decade. Democrats are quick to attack the religiosity of Republicans, but Democratic ideology itself seems to have become a secular substitute religion. Since when did Democrats become so judgmental and intolerant? Conservatives are demonized, with the universe polarized into a Manichaean battle of us versus them, good versus evil. Democrats are clinging to pat group opinions as if they were inflexible moral absolutes. The party is in peril if it cannot observe and listen and adapt to changing social circumstances.

As I see it, the Palin Effect is a double-headed hydra. On one side you have Todd Palin, who is clearly a vibrant, macho force in his family’s life. Just as clearly, he has effectively embraced the role as a primary caregiver. What does it say that he and Sarah have a mutually aggrandizing partnership/marriage? A successful professional woman who embraces a masculine male rather than castrate him? Heaven forfend! Personally I see it as the benign (and noble) conclusion of the feminist movement. I guess fish don’t need bicycles, but some of them want one. And they’d rather it come with some cojones. Discussing the Sarah Palin effect is quickly becoming a national psychosis, to which I doubt I could add much. I think we’re seeing that Todd Palin isn’t the only man’s man out there who has a healthy appreciation for a strong member of the opposite sex. Here is another benign and admirable consequence of the feminist movement. -Steve Gurney, Niceville, FL

Yes, both Todd and Sarah Palin, whom most people in the U.S. and abroad had never even heard of until six weeks ago, have emerged as powerful new symbols of a revived contemporary feminism. That the macho Todd, with his champion athleticism and working-class cred, can so amiably cradle babies and care for children is a huge step forward in American sexual symbolism.

Although nothing will sway my vote for Obama, I continue to enjoy Sarah Palin's performance on the national stage. During her vice-presidential debate last week with Joe Biden (whose conspiratorial smiles with moderator Gwen Ifill were outrageous and condescending toward his opponent), I laughed heartily at Palin's digs and slams and marveled at the way she slowly took over the entire event. I was sorry when it ended! But Biden wasn't -- judging by his Gore-like sighs and his slow sinking like a punctured blimp. Of course Biden won on points, but TV (a visual medium) never cares about that.

The mountain of rubbish poured out about Palin over the past month would rival Everest. What a disgrace for our jabbering army of liberal journalists and commentators, too many of whom behaved like snippy jackasses. The bourgeois conventionalism and rank snobbery of these alleged humanitarians stank up the place. As for Palin's brutally edited interviews with Charlie Gibson and that viper, Katie Couric, don't we all know that the best bits ended up on the cutting-room floor? Something has gone seriously wrong with Democratic ideology, which seems to have become a candied set of holier-than-thou bromides attached like tutti-frutti to a quivering green Jell-O mold of adolescent sentimentality.

And where is all that lurid sexual fantasy coming from? When I watch Sarah Palin, I don't think sex -- I think Amazon warrior! I admire her competitive spirit and her exuberant vitality, which borders on the supernormal. The question that keeps popping up for me is whether Palin, who was born in Idaho, could possibly be part Native American (as we know her husband is), which sometimes seems suggested by her strong facial contours. I have felt that same extraordinary energy and hyper-alertness billowing out from other women with Native American ancestry -- including two overpowering celebrity icons with whom I have worked.

One of the most idiotic allegations batting around out there among urban media insiders is that Palin is "dumb." Are they kidding? What level of stupidity is now par for the course in those musty circles? (The value of Ivy League degrees, like sub-prime mortgages, has certainly been plummeting. As a Yale Ph.D., I have a perfect right to my scorn.) People who can't see how smart Palin is are trapped in their own narrow parochialism -- the tedious, hackneyed forms of their upper-middle-class syntax and vocabulary.

As someone whose first seven years were spent among Italian-American immigrants (I never met an elderly person who spoke English until we moved from Endicott to rural Oxford, New York, when I was in first grade), I am very used to understanding meaning through what might seem to others to be outlandish or fractured variations on standard English. Furthermore, I have spent virtually my entire teaching career (nearly four decades) in arts colleges, where the expressiveness of highly talented students in dance, music and the visual arts takes a hundred different forms. Finally, as a lover of poetry, I savor every kind of experimentation with standard English -- beginning with Shakespeare, who was the greatest improviser of them all at a time when there were no grammar rules.

Many others listening to Sarah Palin at her debate went into conniptions about what they assailed as her incoherence or incompetence. But I was never in doubt about what she intended at any given moment. On the contrary, I was admiring not only her always shapely and syncopated syllables but the innate structures of her discourse -- which did seem to fly by in fragments at times but are plainly ready to be filled with deeper policy knowledge, as she gains it (hopefully over the next eight years of the Obama presidencies). This is a tremendously talented politician whose moment has not yet come. That she holds views completely opposed to mine is irrelevant.

Even if she disappears from the scene forever after a McCain defeat, Palin will still have made an enormous and lasting contribution to feminism. Palin has made the biggest step forward in reshaping the persona of female authority since Madonna danced her dominatrix way through the shattered puritan barricades of the feminist establishment. In 1990, in a highly controversial New York Times op-ed that attacked old-guard feminist ideology, I declared that "Madonna is the future of feminism" -- a prophecy that was ridiculed at the time but that turned out to be quite true. Madonna put pro-sex feminism on the international map.

But it is now 18 years later -- the span of an entire generation. The instabilities and diminishments for young women raised in an increasingly shallow media environment have become all too obvious. I had grown up in a vibrant pop culture with glorious women stars of voluptuous sensuality -- above all Elizabeth Taylor, sewn into that silky white slip as the vixen Manhattan call girl of "Butterfield 8." In college, I feasted on foreign films starring sexual sophisticates like Jeanne Moreau, Anouk Aimée and Catherine Deneuve. Sex today, however, has become brittle and superficial. Except for the occasional diverting flash of Lindsay Lohan's borrowed bosom, I see nothing whatever that is worth a second glance. Pro-sex feminism has worked itself out and, like all movements, has degenerated into clichés. And even Madonna, with her skeletal megalomania, looks like a refugee from a horror movie.

The next phase of feminism must circle back and reappropriate the ancient persona of the mother -- without losing career ambition or power of assertion. Betty Friedan, who had first attacked the cult of postwar domesticity, had long warned second-wave feminists such as Gloria Steinem about the damaging exclusion of homemakers from their value system. The animus of liberal feminists toward religion must also end (I am speaking as an atheist). Feminism must reexamine all of its assumptions, including its death grip on abortion, if it wishes to survive.

The hysterical emotionalism and eruptions of amoral malice at the arrival of Sarah Palin exposed the weaknesses and limitations of current feminism. But I am convinced that Palin's bracing mix of male and female voices, as well as her grounding in frontier grit and audacity, will prove to be a galvanizing influence on aspiring Democratic women politicians too, from the municipal level on up. Palin has shown a brand-new way of defining female ambition -- without losing femininity, spontaneity or humor. She's no pre-programmed wonk of the backstage Hillary Clinton school; she's pugnacious and self-created, the product of no educational or political elite -- which is why her outsider style has been so hard for media lemmings to comprehend. And by the way, I think Tina Fey's witty impersonations of Palin have been fabulous. But while Fey has nailed Palin's cadences and charm, she can't capture the energy, which is a force of nature.

Death Becoming

2006-03-27T13:35:00.000-09:00

Death steals life from us in many forms: car crashes, bodily disease, suicide. Many would not consider it becoming, and its often stealthy nature scars those left behind. And scars always leave a mark- but sometimes those scars aren't scars at all, but beauty marks.

My good friend lost his father this week. I watched as he stepped gracefully in and out of grief, responsibility, shock, anger, and even joy. Overall it's a somber dance to be sure, but to miss a step only prolongs the pain. And while I don't wish loss upon anyone, I tearfully accept that death has its moments of beauty...and the marks that go along with it. To me, the true loss is not the loss of body leaving earth....it is another unbearable possibility. One of losing our loved one's endless gifts to us- the touch of their lives impacting our own like the ocean's waves, over and over again. The memories of joyous moments shared, hugs exchanged, wisdom given. The gift of life, which is earthly but infinite it's experience. And though the experience seems more real during life's existence, it only becomes crystallized after departure. Beauty isn't only found in joy, but often found in sorrow as well.

Happy Birthday, Gram

2006-03-27T13:27:00.000-09:00

~A re-posting in honor of Gram's birthday this past week.

My grandmother was one classy broad. She taught me many things, but the most wonderful legacy she left was the example of living life to the fullest extent. Milly Casteel McDougall overcame a life full of challenges. Her mother passed away when she was young, she survived a war, the Depression, and the deaths of a son and two husbands from cancer. I can only imagine that there were times she wasn’t sure she would make it, and I am sure she was not without fear, but her determination and optimism bolstered her through the toughest of times.

Gram showed love through money for much of my growing up years. One of the best birthdays I can remember was my twelfth- she took me shopping and I returned home with about a thousand dollars’ worth of clothes. A teenager’s dream! We bonded that day, not through a home cooked meal or a hug, but through many a woman’s trademark- the local mall. She also took me to Ohio with her for a month to visit family one summer. My mom was big on hugs, so I didn’t always understand the lack of affection on Gram’s part, but deep down I always knew I was loved.

Ever since I could remember, Gram traveled. She would jaunt off with a 22” rolling suitcase for a month at a time to China or some other country, all on her own. My mom and aunt would worry, but Gram always said no news was good news. When I first came to live with her, I was 22, working full time, and attending community college. I didn’t have a place to stay, and she needed a house sitter. Every year after that we would have The Talk. Out of guilt and independence, I would tell Gram I needed to be on my own and should stop taking advantage of her generosity. Gram would tell me that because she was gone so much, she really needed someone to stay in the big four-bedroom house. The discussion was over. She wasn’t a very good cook, had no time for pets, or for keeping house. I didn’t realize until later that it wasn’t just how much I helped her around the house- she needed me as much as I needed her.

I lived with Gram for eight years. We shared the paper Sunday mornings, a deep affinity for Tabasco sauce, and a weekend trip to Las Vegas. I would vacuum and climb into the attic for her suitcases when she went on long trips, and she would dust and garden. She always had a boyfriend, and would go out to cocktail parties and dinner with other widows, dancing the night away. Gram loved her Cadillac, pink lipstick, and gardenias. Often she would place the little white flowers in a small crystal dish on my nightstand. Most afternoons, by the time I got home from work, she would be on her second glass of white wine. I would either find her outside with a romance novel, or sitting at the organ, muttering curse words if she missed a note. She became a confidant and began to hug me more and more. After one of my breakups, she simply said, “Boys are like streetcars, Sugar. Another one will be along any minute.” Gram was also the one to urge me north to the job in Alaska. When I asked her if I should apply, she just told me that of course I was going, and she didn’t want to hear any more about it. My grandmother not only provided me the true home I had longed for since my parents’ divorce, but I often think she gave me wings to fly.

The day she told me she had lung cancer was also the day she told me that once things got bad, she wouldn’t “stick around.” If she couldn’t be out there living, and loving her life, she would move on to a better place. The lung cancer waged its war on her body for almost 5 months. She grew weak, and Mom and I took care of her. She named her oxygen machine Buster and made “vroom vroom” sounds when I wheeled her down the hallway to bed. It was only 24 hours from the moment she stopped eating and speaking that she passed away. I was with Gram that Sunday night, as she sat in her chair in our living room, and I have always feared the death of a loved one. Though it was a horrible thing…a surreal experience…I can’t tell you what a blessing that moment was for me. It was a not only a privilege to know her, but a privilege to be there with her as she took that last human step. She lived beautifully, and the lessons she taught me can never die. What might my life have been like if I had not stayed with her for those years? I’m so glad I’ll never have to know.

NOT an elephant, but a...

2006-03-16T13:31:00.000-09:00

The elephant has written me an apology note, thereby proving his existence as a human being. And after last night's episode, it's about damn time I got a note. Turns out I have a male upstairs neighbor, whom we'll call Gianni.

Gianni had company last night. I was able to pick out a female voice, and I began to wonder if I was about to experience something you see in the movies. You know, where there's a VERY loud couple in the hotel room next door boinking themselves to death with no mercy for those of who are single and sans bed partner nearby.

But alas, Gianni had company in from out of town. And apparently when his "boy" is in town, they "get a little crazy." There were many stomps, thumps, and creaks mixed with sporadic music blasting from the stereo...all of which occurred past the quiet hours of 10PM and on into the 2:30AM hour. At which point I had the brilliant thought to go to my balcony (which is underneath Gianni's) and proceed to slam my safety stick into the railing to gain attention. Mind you, it was about 5 degrees below zero and I was wearing a tank top and boxers. Only one head peeked over the top, but my violent act evoked a meek, "sorry" and subsequent note pinned to the window of my car this morning. Ahhh, sweet surrender. For today, anyway.

The Elephant Upstairs

2006-02-22T10:21:00.000-09:00

I know. You didn't think we had elephants in Alaska, did you? Indeed!

The elephant wakes each morning at approximately 5:12AM. There is a loud thud when his feet hit the floor and then several smaller thuds accented by high-pitched squeaks as he crosses the floor. This continues until 7:25AM when said elephant departs the 3rd floor. Please note that my alarm does not go off until 6:30AM. Thus, I am annoyed. I am also annoyed that my toilet doesn't flush properly, that my shower head shoots needles at my face, and that my LOUD furnace smells of gas and goes off and on every 7.5 minutes. It takes two hands for me to unlock the deadbolt my front door (quite inconvenient when you have 8 bags of groceries from Fred Meyer.) The kitchen countertops, refrigerator, and dishwasher are all sized to fit the vertically challenged. And I don't mean the tall ones, folks.

But then there's the view. Snow covered mountains, spruce trees, and blue sky from my 18-foot balcony. The abundant closets (four, to be exact) and the woodburning fireplace. The heated garage where Sasha stays warm sans block heater. The cozy bedroom with attached bathroom. And the fact that it's all mine:)

Meeses

2006-02-09T14:46:00.000-09:00

I haven't yet tired of seeing them. I still slow down when I see one on side of the road, taking in its characteristics and creating picture memories in my head. The long tuft of fur under their chins reminds me of Willie Nelson's beard, but I find the absence of a tail to be one of the most amusing things about them. Their ears are long and their snouts are turned downwards, hiding the teeth you can only see while they are gnawing on tree branches. Their legs are gangly and the young twins trot awkwardly forward when nudged along the grazing path by their mother. They are tall enough to step over the fence surrounding the baseball field, but not quite high enough to see into my office window.

The TV show Northern Exposure was a quirky one that boasted a moose walking down the middle of the street. I used to think that was funny, and I still do. But now that I live in Anchorage I realize that common isn't necessarily unprecious. Sure, they eat spring flowers, trample vegetable gardens, and cause a few automobile accidents. But I dearly love to look outside to the right of this computer and see the moose family of three that resides nearby. Someone once asked me what the plural term is for moose, and I don't know the right answer. But I think meeses fits the bill just fine:)

Priorities

2005-12-13T18:23:00.000-09:00

Growing up in southern California allowed a few unnecessary habits and thoughts to form in my psyche. One of the most important things was to not only keep up with the Joneses, but to exceed them by purchasing that Porsche convertible or DD breasts. There was also the need to be in a constant hurry, and if it were not for the amount of marijuana in a surfer's VW bus, San Diego would contain a majority of ulcer-ridden residents.

While my appointments at the local Aveda salon and a bottle of Silver Oak cabernet are still coveted, my priorities have shifted. What is the first thing that comes to mind when I hear the word "important?" Warmth. That's right. I like to be warm. My first day in Alaska was Thanksgiving and after receiving eighteen inches of snow, the temperature dropped to 2 degrees. It has vascillated up to 37 over the past three weeks, but generally remains in the teens this time of year. Thinsulate, wool, and down are the words I seek in clothing labels. But the most noticeable changes are in driving: heated garages are a luxury, studded tires, de-icing windshield wiper fluid and an ice scraper are must-haves. The speed limit is no longer something I exceed (you tend to slow down after you see cars in ditches every mile, and you can be killed if you hit a moose) I have purchased a humidifier and flood my nostrils with saline on a daily basis. I learned not to stick my hands in hot water to warm them after 30 minutes outside (the change is to quick for nerve endings and this process causes severe pain.) Drinking coffee, tea, or hot chocolate is key to warming the core, but Tuaca is my personal favorite.

One more thing...though Dansko clogs are the practical choice in Anchorage footwear, they can hardly be considered a fashion statement. For now, I will stick to my kitten-heel pumps and the subsequent ice-skating they require for nights out on the town:)

One Way Ticket

2005-11-11T07:27:00.000-09:00

The conversation with my mother went like this.

"So you're really going to just quit your job, sell everything you have, and move to another state? In two weeks?" "Yes, Mom." "Well, alright, then. Whatever you think is best." The beautiful part of our conversation is that Mom knows me well, and she gives me the freedom to be myself, with all the loving support in the world- even when she thinks I'm just a little bit crazy.

Steps of faith are always different. God appeals to each of us in our own way when He asks us to trust Him. Those of you who know me know I'm afraid of many things...heights and committed relationships being just two of them. But what I'm not afraid of is making it on my own...because God made me exactly the way He wants me, and I am confident in that. I've never had a doubt that my independence and resourcefulness would draw me up by my bootstraps if the going gets tough. Of course, the past few weeks have brought about some rational concerns. Where will I live? Will I find a job to pay my bills? What if I am miserable? What's interesting is that resounding thought in my head each time I look in the mirror: you go, girl! In my soul I have not a doubt that I can make this work- no matter what my circumstances turn out to be.

I am moving to Alaska without a job. I am selling that gorgeous armoire that I spent two weeks staining in Gram's garage. I am leaving the best roommate a girl could have, and our incredible conversations over Blackstone Merlot on the balcony overlooking Elliott Bay. There will be no more trips to Trader Joe's, and no more Target runs. Red Mill will continue to make the best damn burgers around, and I won't be here to eat them. The ridiculously outspoken liberals in Seattle will bitch and stitch as the monorail becomes defunct and the smoking ban initiative that I helped to pass becomes enforced. It will be cold and dark for the better part of 6 months in Anchorage. And I couldn't be more excited.

Another adventure is about to begin...and it's that occasional detour on the straight and narrow path of goals that makes life worth living. I will learn to snowboard this winter and fly-fish next summer. I will focus on my writing. I will continue my education. And I will finally learn how to be half of a committed relationship. Sometimes, new chapters in life begin with a one way ticket.

Past, Present, Future

2005-10-27T05:09:00.000-08:00

Faith has been a huge part of my past and present, and I hope it will be part of my future. My favorite visual image of faith is surprisingly not one from the Bible, but one in part courtesy of producer Steven Spielberg...I always picture Indiana Jones in the Last Crusade. While in the temple, he was forced to make a difficult choice: step into a deep black hole and gain life, or doubt his fate and fall to his death. Our faith rarely demands such dramatic choices, but it demands the same principle, one of turning our eyes away from the "what ifs" of fear and trusting in what we cannot see.

For the past few weeks I have been a poster child for the term, "O, ye of little faith." My days and nights have been filled with doubt, insecurity, and that nasty demon of fear. It's normal to be apprehensive about all the changes coming my way...but when we are on the verge of great blessings, miring in negativity is a waste of time. It's a constant check and balance on my end, this positive refocus of my heart, mind, and spirit. There is joy in possibility...the potential of those possibilities....the excitement that comes with change and growth. And when I remain in that good and healthy place, I become so excited for my future! A change from Stephanie's internal Temple of Doom indeed.

What decisions would you make if you were not afraid? A good question, and one I am trying to ask myself on a daily basis. Adventure is always at hand, and when we do not sieze those moments, we could miss an opportunity (as seems to be the theme of many of these blog entries!) There is a quote that I love: "Falling down doesn't make you a failure, but staying down does." What is the worst thing that can happen if I make a poor choice? I fall down...but the beauty of falling is that there is always a way back up. And I'm becoming less and less afraid of falling down, of failing. I am learning to embrace it instead, tucking away the lesson for future success.

I was recently reminded by a good friend of my "past". She described to me a scenario that was ugly, full of negativity and self-deprecation. It was portrayed as a future hypothetical situation with yours truly at the helm, but I remembered something upon that experience. While our past always has the propensity to be our present and our future, we don't have to allow it to be. Many of my friends, old and new, have not been privy to my innermost growth. The change that has occurred, and is occurring in me has been a powerful one, and it is one I can only see myself, though others may see the fruit from it eventually. My vision of Stephanie has evolved, and now I know in my soul what hope and love truly look like. I have hope for my life, and not only do I trust who I am- I love who I am. I could spend a lot of time trying to change the way people see me, but I choose instead to revel in my success and patiently wait for the absorption of those around me. After all, actions speak louder than words.

My thoughts, my opinions, my decisions...they are all mine. And with careful consideration, I will walk down many paths in life. But it is my hope that I always remember my definition of true success: to live life in the best way I know how with a heaping spoonful of grace. And what a great life it will be.

I Am, I Said

2005-09-21T05:19:00.000-08:00

He's still got it, folks.

The surprise was the 11-piece orchestra and three backup singers. The sequined shirt, gravelly voice and bushy eyebrows were not. After 30 years, Neil Diamond is still pumping out some cheesy tunes and pulling in millions of dollars a year. He's fond of the ladies and does nothing to hide his chest hair OR his seductive lyrics.

Granted, I was not alive in the mid-1960's when Neil was wooing women like my mother, but I've grown up loving him just the same. "Money talks, but it don't sing and dance and it don't walk" -Forever In Blue Jeans. "Pour me a drink and I'll tell you some lies" -Love On The Rocks. "Far! They've been traveling far...on the boats and on the planes" -America. "She got the way to move me" -Cherry, Cherry. And who can forget Sweet Caroline- "ba ba ba?" or Hello Again? But my favorite is definitely I Am,I Said for its common human simplicity: "I am, I said...to no one there...and no one heard at all...not even the chair. 'I am,' I cried...'I am,'said I. And I am lost, and I can't even say why. Leavin' me lonely still."

I enjoy the music for the heart strings it pulls...the sex appeal it oozes...and the never-changing image of the man with the gold chain. And yes, he's still got it. The 64-year-old charmer got lip from his beautiful redheaded backup singer during the duet of You Don't Bring Me Flowers. Who doesn't love that?

Great Expectations

2005-07-22T05:01:00.000-08:00

The power of expectations is great. Expectations can be the demise of one who struggles to achieve perfection...or an example of the presence and glory of a God who is faithful to our every heart's desire.

Most everyone has a dream. Dreams for professional success, for personal happiness or peace, for a life partner or a family. Being a perfectionist, I've spent most of my life in the prison of self-doubt because I could never attain the high standards I had set for my life. In the past, I would often rather mire in disbelief and the comfort of the familar than attempt to take a risk and fulfill a dream. Low expectations chain us to ordinary standards- when I truly believe that God desires for us to be living our wildest dreams and sharing our talents with those who surround us. It can seem an insurmountable challenge to try, but we must!

When we begin to visualize something wonderfully broad in our lives...that is when the dreams take root and sprout tender shoots. When we begin to take those baby steps or leaps of faith into the unknown...that is when we see the fruits of our labor producing. And when we stay in that unfamilar place of uncertainty but still believe...that is when we live those dreams to the fullest and receive extraordinary blessings!

What are your expectations?

"The eyes of your understanding being enlightened; that ye may know what is the hope of his calling, and what the riches of the glory of his inheritance in the saints, and what is the exceeding greatness of his power to us- ward who believe, according to the working of his mighty power." ~Ephesians 1:18-19

"That Christ may dwell in your hearts by faith; that ye, being rooted and grounded in love, may be able to comprehend with all saints what is the breadth, and length, and depth, and height; and to know the love of Christ, which passeth knowledge, that ye might be filled with all the fullness of God. Now unto him that is able to do exceeding abundantly above all that we ask or think, according to the power that worketh in us, unto him be glory in the church by Christ Jesus throughout all ages, world without end." ~Ephesians 3:17-21

"Ask, and it will be given you; seek, and you will find; knock, and it will be opened to you. For every one who asks receives, and he who seeks finds, and to him who knocks it will be opened. Or what man of you, if his son asks him for bread, will give him a stone? Or if he asks for a fish, will give him a serpent? If you then, who are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father who is in heaven give good things to those who ask him!" ~Matthew 7:7-11

Great Expectations by Steven Curtis Chapman

The morning finds me here at heaven's door
A place I've been so many times before
Familiar thoughts and phrases start to flow
And carry me to places that I know so well
But dare I go where I don't understand
And do I dare remember where I am
I stand before the great eternal throne
The one that God Himself is seated on
And I, I've been invited as a son, oh I, I've been invited to come and

[CHORUS]
Believe the unbelievable
Receive the inconceivable
And see beyond my wildest imagination
Lord, I come with great expectations

So wake the hope that slumbers in my soul
Stir the fire inside and make it glow
I'm trusting in a love that has no end
The Savior of this world has called me friend
And I, I've been invited with the Son, oh I, I've been invited to come and

[CHORUS]
Believe the unbelievable
Receive the inconceivable
And see beyond our wildest imagination
Lord, we come with great expectations

The Art of the Gift

2005-06-29T05:05:00.000-08:00

I was 10 when I received one of my most favorite gifts from my parents. My mother had asked me to take out the trash, and I complained because it was my birthday. She insisted that my special day could not continue until we had completed the household chores, so I grudgingly carried the trash bag down the hallway and into the garage. I opened the door to the side yard and was greeted with an orange and brown Huffy bicycle. It had bumpy dirt tires that were perfect for tearing around the field in back of our house, and was complete with streamers laced haphazardly in and out of the wheel spokes. Even though I had completed a task to find the bicycle, I remember thinking that I hadn't really had to earn that birthday present. My parents had given it to me because they loved me and wanted to make my day special.

Many gifts have been bestowed upon me since that I have done very little to earn- and therein lies a lifelong struggle for an independent woman who is often full of too much pride and low self-esteem. The most obvious would be the gift of salvation and forgiveness. Today I ponder the average of how long it takes a human being to truly accept this undeserved and precious gift, because for me it was fairly recently. I often remember the pastor of my church describing our salvation visually- a huge present, beautifully wrapped with a giant red bow tied on top. A common example for most Christians to be sure, but with the exception of this unimaginable forgiveness, my gifts have taken on many forms, material and intangible.

There was the time I received a $20 bill in an unmarked envelope during college, when I had not had anything to eat in almost three days. Samantha, my spunky and loyal Sheltie puppy who came to live with us when I was a teenager. The day I identified that God had blessed me with spiritual gifts of compassion and encouragement, used many a time over in my walk to love others. A home that was provided to me by my maternal grandmother when I feared I would never again feel the warm belonging of family after my parents' divorce. The beauty of friends as they drift in and out of my life leaving memories of unconditional love and sheer joy. The gift of life, all-encompassing when it came to me that cold and clear October morning of 1999. And the offering of a plane ticket, for the simple fact that I am worth it.

Today my gift is a lesson of humility, the state of total gratitude, and one of peace as I attempt to rest in the presence of others' human love. I am blessed.

Big Bad Wal-Mart

2005-06-11T12:02:00.000-08:00

What I'm about to write about will horrify many a Seattleite. Too bad. I absolutely love my "disgusting" habit and and I'm not giving it up. Democratic persecution and Republican orientation be damned!

Those of you who know me well know that Wal-Mart holds a special place in my heart. It began in 1997 when I lived in Branson, Missouri for the summer: it was the only drug/grocery store within 50 miles of our camp, and it was open 24 hours. We had Wal-Mart, and it supplied our food and personal care needs. It also came in handy when my good friend Lisa bleached her hair and it turned out orange...I came home late one night to find her crying in the parking lot with a towel wrapped around her head. This promptly resulted in a desperate 2:30AM journey to the store. Orange hair, be gone!

Wal-Mart sells just about everything a practical woman could want: Remington rifle ammunition, L'Oreal Panorama mascara, tacky hot pink underwear, the new Coldplay CD, Rubbermaid storage containers, Oreo cookies, hydrangea plants. My normal monthly visit lasts about two hours, and I drive 14 miles north to Lynnwood to get to the nearest one. I love to meander about the aisles, viewing rollback prices and scouring shelves for matches to my endless stock of coupons. The thrill I get when saving 16 cents less than I'd pay at dearest Tar-jay is unsurpassed. But I'll tell you what sold me on Wal-Mart: the greeters.

The greeters are usually senior citizens or physically restricted folk who enjoy their jobs for the most part. I have yet to see one who hasn't smiled at me upon entry or thanked me for my business when I left. This morning, Ms. Smiley-Face was even drying off the carts that had come in from the parking lot in the rain, so that customers wouldn't hold onto a wet handle. I don't hesitate to respond when they say hello or goodbye- because what retailers do you know of today that have greeters at their front doors? In this age of serious technology, human contact has become so rare that I welcome any form of warmth brought about by a stranger. And the customer service element isn't lost on me, either, having worked and shopped at Nordstrom for the last 17 years of my existence.

I can hear the negative comments now, the bitter opinions on corporate America and the big, bad chains who push all the small local businesses out of commission. I know, I know...all the money I'm saving on big-buying power is an injustice to others trying desperately to make a living. But what you're not bothering to note is that I do indeed support many of these local "mom and pop" shops. Bartell's is a family-owned Washington chain that still sees me every couple of weeks when I'm out of toothpaste. And Red Mill Burger, Uptown Espresso, Queen Anne Tailors, and Jim's Cobbler Shop get lots of business from me. Then there's the notion that Wal-Mart treats women unfairly in the workplace and keeps all its employees' wages and benefits at a bare minimum. I'm not here to confirm or deny this, but to remind the general population of one fact: America is a free country, and we all have choices. Wal-Mart is not forcing anyone to work for them. If an employee is unhappy, they should get another job. There have also been many attacks on the store for their refusal to carry CDs with explicit lyrics or make available in the magazine aisle certain "literary" works. Well, if you enjoy bad language or are addicted to pornography, go shop somewhere else. Some families would prefer their 6-year-olds aren't exposed to Hustler.

You have a choice to buy your laundry detergent or mayonnaise anywhere you would like to. All I ask is that you'll respect my choices to shop where I'd like to, a true runner-up to Disneyland's blue ribbon for Happiest Place on Earth. Wal-Mart, you're big and bad and I love you for it.

"I Wanna Be On You!"

2005-06-04T14:13:00.000-08:00

This, folks, was the oh-so-charming phrase ringing in my ears all last weekend. And when Josh yells it at Brandon, and Brandon yells it at Kevin, you realize the genuine affection these friends have for one another. I've only seen the movie Anchorman once...but it's easy to understand how this and other somewhat offensive lines could make their way into the hearts of millions of fans. After all, Will Ferrell is a god among any man who fancies himself a ladykiller. What woman wouldn't respond to such remarks as, "You have an absolutely breathtaking hiney. I wanna be friends with it." But of course! Even I did. And it became even more hilarious when there actually was a rainbow with which to use the catch phrase, "Look, I see a rainbow. Do me on it!" Will, you've brought nothing but joy to these Anchorage boys by inhabiting your character so well.

This past Memorial Day weekend, I had the privelege to camp on Kenai Lake in Alaska with some amazing souls, a few which are mentioned above. Our group was made up of mostly men, and they did a fabulous job cooking and keeping camp, but major props should go to the amazingly generous Eric and his beautiful friend Angela. After setting up camp and shuttling participants endlessly from the shore to the site, they continued to be wonderful hosts as they whittled roasters and toasted the perfect marshmallows. Then there was Tedlban, head cloaked in the white t-shirt of his kind. Forever the entertainer, he would yell approximately every 14 minutes. It was "I'm going to bed now!" (sure you are) or "Dottie!" (the dog) or "Jack!" (the drink, of course.) Though most of the guys were "beauties" to say the least, it was The Tedlban who consumed the most libations and cost us a trip to Seward for more after only Day 1. Between burning glove injuries (Sarah Beth) sliced fingers (Josh) and demonic stomach (Dottie, after she cleaned the cast iron pot of chili) we had quite the excitement around the campfire. Dave Matthews, U2, and Coldplay on the stereo...sing alongs ensued courtesy of Daniel and Kevin. Only Kevin was apparently out of hand and Josh wanted to be on him, so there was a tackle of tequila-sized proportions soon after.

Thank you, my friends, for giving me an incredible weekend- one of the best in my life. May there be many more like it with you.

Is there life after debt?

2005-01-08T09:35:00.000-09:00

Debt is a household word these days. Over two-thirds of the United States population owes something to someone. In many cases it is good, old-fashioned money: the green stuff that floats in and out of checking accounts on a daily basis. Like a sponge drawing the very water of life out of human beings, debt rarely lends itself to happiness. Debt is a heavy burden that silently pleads for a victim to jump into that black hole, offering characteristics of peace, danger, longsuffering grace, entrapment, acceptance, denial. Is there life after debt?

My freshman year of college was overwhelming, but the most ominous sight was the invoice given to me at registration. Not only was I in a strange town amongst people I didn’t know, I suddenly had the financial responsibilities of an adult. I shared a dorm space with two other girls and paid dearly for metal bunk beds, Potato Buds at dinner, and an early curfew. There were eight required textbooks that first semester, and tuition totaling more money than I had made the duration of my part time high school job. I needed bath towels, laundry soap, and contact lens solution. The job bussing tables in Café Nordstrom covered my bus fare and a portion of the student fees at the private school, but I was still in need. After eating Hostess cup cakes for two weeks straight during Christmas break, I went to the bank to apply for my first credit card. The representative convinced me that every young adult needed to build credit for a sound financial future. I was eighteen, and plastic, though firm and impersonal, became my saving grace. The weight was suddenly lifted from my shoulders, and I handed the card to cashier after cashier. Everything I needed, and items I never knew I wanted, became imprinted on that tangible piece of navy blue plastic. The monthly payments were small and the minimum fit perfectly into my budget. The balance grew steadily towards the limit, but I was unaware of the danger. I couldn’t see it. There was no accountability, and there was no authority figure to warn this new adult of the potential costs. The card represented pure and simple survival. The high credit line could have been reduced, properly balanced against income and monthly obligations, but it wasn’t. It was given carte blanche with full intent of financial gain by the institution. Business is business, right?

The offers came tumbling in. More money- they would extend more credit, and I could have more money. I was pre-approved for everything, and before I knew it, there were seven cards in that Dooney & Bourke wallet. The collection was full of not only navy, but platinum and gold with catchy symbols or printed, flowery backgrounds. The accruing interest soon outweighed the minimum payments, but I didn’t care. It was a charge now, pay later mentality. Later was years down the road, when I was a successful and rich college graduate. The peace had long since disappeared, but it was replaced with that good old grace period. I had been given time, and time was infinite at that point. I had grace in abundance, but before I knew it, that abundant grace had become a prison. The accounts could have been closed, and the debt-to-income ratio scrutinized by those creditors. Limits could have been decreased, but instead, the numbers rose, higher and higher and higher.

Denial is a beautiful thing, a far off Neverland full of todays but not tomorrows. Webster terms it as disbelief in the existence or reality of a thing. Ignorance is bliss, and as long as I stayed in that happy place, I would never have to face the challenges that reality brought to the table. The statements were filed without review, the payments taken automatically from my checking account. Years passed, college ended, and new, higher paying jobs were obtained, acting as insulation against the mountain of debt.. Occasionally there would be glimpses into that black hole, but I dimmed the light almost as quickly as it was flipped on. The lifestyle was ingrained, and I continued to live without regret and beyond my means. That is, until that day two years ago when I decided to accept my past and plan my future. Acceptance came in the form of Top Ramen- salty to the taste and hard to swallow after two straight weeks. All of a sudden, it had come full circle. I was a freshman all over again, but now it was eleven years later and immaturity and ignorance were not sufficient excuses. Sure, I could have kept on pretending, but I chose to grow up instead.

There are many required college courses, but one that teaches financial responsibility should be mandatory. There is even reason to believe a high school student considering further education could benefit from such a course early on. Saving for a vehicle, a down payment on a home, investing wisely, or planning for retirement- these are all are incredibly valuable life lessons, especially in today’s unstable economy. Not all parents choose to instruct their children in frugal matters, but much can be said for the basic concept of earning an allowance and paying cash for that Cabbage Patch Kid! These days, triumph comes in the form of The Great Payoff. Last October, I made my last car payment, and I celebrated by taking myself out to dinner at Red Mill Burger. A small reward for a long year of double payments, but that burger was one of the best I’ve ever tasted. I tackle one chunk at a time, with discipline and hard work. Sometimes the old fashioned way is truly the best way. It is rare for me to see a movie, and facial wash at the drugstore has replaced my department store brand. I cut coupons and re-sole my shoes instead of buying new ones. I may be on a budget, but I’m more alive than I’ve ever been.

Beauty

2004-01-06T09:27:00.000-09:00

I've experienced a lot of beautiful things in the world.

I have seen an orange sun set on the horizon in San Diego, a bird with her young in the nest in the yard where I grew up, fall colors on the Taylor Highway in Alaska. I have seen the various shades of green in moss found covering trees on the Twin Falls hiking trail, the blue sky when Seattle is on a "sun break" and the steam that rises from a freshly brewed latte. I have seen yellow flowers that poke their way up through the dirt on a highway, the bright lights that crown Las Vegas at night, and the clear blue of the Caribbean in Jamaica. I have watched my college friends work together to build a shelter for the homeless in Mexico, my high school friends perform onstage in the spring musical, and my elementary school friends become parents to little ones with cherub faces. I have seen my mother, a grown woman, sit cross-legged on the floor and play peek-a-boo with the dog, my father, a grown man, make faces at me in jest, and my grandparents beam with pride as they discuss the latest antics of their great-grandchild.
I was there to see my sister begin her career, spoke to my brother the moment after he became engaged, and cheered for my best friend as she received a richly deserved promotion.

Today I watched the snow come down in a city on Elliott Bay. The flakes changed from small ice particles to large, fat flakes that melt instantly on your tongue. I hear it doesn't snow here in Seattle too often, so 8" is quite a lot. I also hear it doesn't usually get this cold, but it is 25 degrees outside. The snow blanketed the golf course across the street, caused cars to slide on the road, and encouraged a rebel snowboarder to brave the powdery hill next to my apartment building. The trees, buildings, and cars are covered in white. It is still snowing, even now. As I stood outside today and the flakes came down, they covered even my eyelashes. I thought about the love and peace of God as it blankets us, and covers us. But if we aren't still, we don't feel it touch us. And though I've experienced a lot of beautiful things, this is one day that I'll never forget. I am blessed, and I am thankful for all experiences, good or bad, in my life.

Remembering the positive when all you can feel is the negative is a challenge. But I ask you- when was the last time you experienced something beautiful?