life moves pretty fast

if you don't stop and look around, you might miss it."

Ahh, Ferris Bueller. Man of wisdom, that one...but he's right. Here's the cool stuff going on in my universe:

1. I ran the 4-mile Trolley Run yesterday with Cass and we had a blast. First off, it's all downhill, so your times rock (I finished in 41:30 - averaging a 10:29 mile...UNBELIEVABLY fast for me). Second off, 10,000 people ran, so the energy was amazing. Third, my quads are killing me. I realize this shouldn't be a plus, but I feel like a bonafide runner now.

2. Soulfari Kenya is having their launch party and face.africa gallery show on Friday, June 1. My painting of Mercy will be on display and it's gonna be just great. More details will be forthcoming...for now save the date, but try to come by if you're in town!

3. Jacob's Well has been doing a series that's got me all sorts of bajiggity about how I consume things. For starters, I'm trying to change where I purchase things (directly from the farmers, growers, clothing makers) and how much I consume (saying no to disposable sacks, carrying a water bottle instead of always getting a plastic one). JW is holding a forum this Thursday night to discuss it, and if you've thought about these things, it might be worth your time too.

4. The opera season is over. Cue the singing opera lady...and our new logo! It's time to start thinking about our 50th Anniversary Season now! Woot!

5. And on a totally horrendous note, a man shot up a mall in KC yesterday afternoon and killed 3 people. It just reminded me that life is precious and friends and family are a gift. We must practice kindness everyday. May you all be well and treat those you meet with compassion. The world is begging for it.

le sigh

I just plopped open my beloved blue journal and it smells like the coffee bar I spent the afternoon playing madam observer in. Now, isn't there just something magical about that? All my coffee-swilling brethren can attest to it - there's magic swimming about in the aroma of a beautifully caffeinated cup o' joe. Mmmm...Roasterie, take me away.

Here I was - ready to opine about the joys of life or being single and getting happy with it or how utterly blessed and magical this time seems...but there it is again. Mmmm...that earthy smell, merging with the blue leather of the journal. Wow.

And there we have it. I'm all out of words for tonight, but am set to dream of my morning cup, deliciously deserved after a completely peaceful Friday morning run.

...and life just don't get much better than that.

the eye of the beholder

“The faculty of creating is never given to us all by itself. It always goes hand in hand with the gift of observation. And the true creator may be recognized by his ability to find about him in the commonest and humblest thing, items worthy of note.” - Igor Stravinsky

There was a period of life where I painted furiously. Color dripped from my veins onto canvas. Ideas buzzed through my brain like caged bees, frenzied and incensed until their release.

Then all of a sudden, I don’t paint much.

Sometimes there is peace about it, but I do lament its absence. Has my creativity dried up? Am I done for? As one does when something vanishes, I searched for its original source. What had inspired me then? What was my state of mind?

When I began to paint, the source of creativity was largely a catharsis – the self-clearing of the dry brush surrounding an injured heart. When the space was clean, the process became self-renewing. I’d see a child walk by and would hold her in my heart until I returned home and could place her on paper. That creative spark inspired me to keep looking around me. It seemed that painting made me observe things differently - in chunks, as if I could freezeframe my existence and preserve it.

Why, Eureka! It seems that observation and a healthy sense of voyeurism were my impetus.
bg
Last night I stared at the paintings above my couch. Paintings I'd done to pay homage to the gift of Kenya and the people it encompassed. They made me want to try and catalog this murky season of my life - to separate the fused bits of this amalgamation that is my modern life.

As summer hastens his humid return to upon our fair city, I have confidence that color will drip from these hands once more. Patios make fantastic watchposts, and I’m planning on sitting in the catbird seat at McCoy’s as soon as possible. Won't you join me for a pint and some inspiration?

Today's soundtrack: Simple Things - Zero 7 - Simple Things (Bonus)

Loyally

I don't think much about being an ADPI now that I'm out of school.

My letters still emblazon my gym t-shirts. I frequently run in my favorite hat. Last night I had an amazing 2 hour talk with one of my favorite sisters. My sorority was largely a thing of the past.

Then today I got an email from a woman who I admire so fiercely. She was 2 years ahead of me and in her kindness, she was the true embodiment of sisterhood. She's now an active advisor for my old chapter and she'd heard about the tragedy at Virginia Tech. Her first reaction was to extend her prayers and support to the Eta Pi chapter there.

In her correspondence, it turns out that one of my little sisters at VT was injured. Thankfully, she's going to be all right.

As I read my sister's email and the response back from the VT Eta Pi president, I instantly remembered the words I uttered in our ceremonies. Our colors, azure blue and white. Our mascot. Our secrets. The women I've lost touch with over time. Holding their hands during a candle pass. Our initiation robes.

I am thankful that they are all safe...as far as I know.

Their safety is a warm blanket.

Today I'm reminded that true sisterhood bridges time, generation and space. This recovering woman is a sister of mine, and today, I grieve for her and her chapter, and I pray the 15th Psalm over her.

"He that doeth these things shall never be moved."

Loyally,

Your sister from Epsilon Mu <>

Old Grooves

This weekend I caught part of an old BET awards presentation that rocked my face off. They paid tribute to Chaka Khan (someone I haven't paid that much attention to). What really grabbed me was how Prince, Stevie Wonder and India.Arie serenaded her...then she joined up. Man. She can SANG.

Suffice it to say that my neighbors must have thought I was crazy because I was dancin' all around the apartment and trying to sing to I'm Every Woman. But that's another story for another day.

So fast-forward to today at the opera. I'm doing some writing and creative stuff before our opening of The End of the Affair this Saturday (which I'm totally pumped for). I figured I should pick up an old groove soundtrack on iTunes to stimulate creativity.

So far I've bought:

Rapture - Anita Baker. Holy crap I forgot how good this album is. My Mom used to play this in the car on the way to my ballet lessons. Well, this, Luther Vandross and Gregory Abbott, anyway. No wonder I've got some great taste in R&B.
Must listens: No One In The World, Sweet Love

I Feel For You, Ain't Nobody - Chaka Khan. Great dancin' tunes. Being the Prince fan that I am, I especially love I Feel For You. I need to check out more of her stuff.

Anyway, it's lunchtim and all this old tuneage buyin' has got me wondering - what do you listen to that your parents instilled in you? I've talked before about my Dad's penchant for '70s classic rock and the impact it's had in my musical tastes. I owe Mom big time for R&B and Motown.

Did your Dad love Willie Nelson? Your Mom in to Sinatra? Throw your thoughts up in the comments...

And heaven met earth...

last Friday night in Lawrence, where cherubim and seraphim took a break from all their white cloud loafing-about to inhabit the bodies of Neko Case and her opening band, The Jon Rauhouse Quartet.

To try and explain the aural bliss I encountered with my buddy Josh is next to impossible (so take this guy's word for it), but I dare say that this show was the best concert I've ever been to.

Neko has this mesmerizingly powerful voice, with a sort of Patty Griffin-ish vibe. But she's louder. And crazier. And hilarious. Though both songstresses have this delightful shyness to them, you get this feeling that Patty would sip on some cammomile tea and Neko would throw back some Jack.

Oh, and there was banjoin' at this show. Lots of it.

If you haven't taken my advice and gotten hip to Neko, pick some of it up this weekend. She plays well with wine and company or coffee and a car ride...you pick.

Setlist: A Widow's Toast; Things That Scare Me; That Teenage Feeling; The Tigers Have Spoken; Lady Pilot; Maybe Sparrow; Dirty Knife; Tightly; If You Knew; Margaret vs. Pauline; Buckets of Rain; I Wish I Was the Moon; Deep Red Bells; Lion's Jaws; Train From Kansas City; Hold On, Hold On; Star Witness.

Encores: The Tigers Have Spoken; The Needle Has Landed; John Saw That Number; Knock Loud.

My concert highlights: That Teenage Feeling; I Wish I Was the Moon; John Saw That Number

nib·ble

1 a : to bite gently b : to eat or chew in small bits
2 : to take away bit by bit

I haven't had the will to finish a book in quite some time (a result of last month's quest to take the pressure off). In the interim I haven't stopped reading, but I've been enjoying various papers, essays, poetry and short articles.

There’s a particular pleasure in this sort of literary nibbling that I forgot about. Wandering through 10 pages here and there feels like a quiet oasis in the middle of my over-thought days. It’s made me realize how easy it is to break our lives up into novel-sized proportions – each book a goal or project - all or nothing.

My actions have written many novels by:
-running an entire 5K
-going to Kenya
-working to change certain habits
-dating, not-dating, stepping into the gray-area, not-dating

With each completed manuscript, amazing things have become part of my story. Things are completed, direction is gained, and ink has dried.

But this sort of lengthy, focused existence with beginning, middle and end is not my life’s natural proclivity.

Like these poems and essays of varying length and substance, I’m made to be broken up into chunks. My existence is that of a born nibbler.

I like to know small parts of things. We even joke about it in my family - as my brother would say, “we know a little bit about a lot.”

It’s frustrating because there’s this unspoken societal taboo in America with regards to nibbling. We see potential in a child, foster it, and encourage them to excel. With time, they must choose between scat-singing and pirouetting.

Maybe it’s a bit of mid-twenties rebellion, but I think that choosing just sucks.

See, I like Nebraska Cornhusker football, Common, Kenyan skies, Red Zinfandel, talking to strangers, watching an opera, reading the paper, Wendell Berry, ballet dancing, making coffee in a French press, Newcastle, praying while in my car, black sharpies, crime and detective books, being frustrated while running, writing in my journal, buying shoes, eating cheese and bread for dinner, talking about God, putting on lip gloss, dancing around my apartment, hugging just about anyone, Aqua Teen Hunger Force, and peanut butter.

(And that’s just off the top of my head.)

These are all things I know about to varying degrees. I have nibbled and chomped down on them, sinking my teeth into all that makes up this special life. The list reads like that of a schizophrenic, but it is entirely me, through and through.

(chomp.)

Dress-up

This Easter, I'm reminded of the importance of family.

Because of all the stuff with my Aunt, my Mom and Grandma have been down in Florida taking care of all the business and won't be back in time for Easter.

Usually parts of the Donaldson clan trek over to Lincoln for Easter mass and brunch somewhere. We're only there for part of the day, but it's an exceptionally good day. The new (great) Grandchildren would be running around after eggs, wearing frilly white socks with their shoes, giggling when the "Easter Bunny" stops by our table.

When I was a child, an especially magical part of this time involved pretty new Easter dresses. Sometime the week before, I'd go to the mall with Mom and search for something lovely, but somewhat warm (it was a little too early for sundresses in March). I spent many an Easter shivering, or (gasp) taking in the "dreaded white sweater."

Blech. I hated when she made me do that.

During my first year down in Kansas City, it was odd think that the new dress tradition might end. I was really broke, so Mom came to the rescue, letting me get a new yellow dress that I wore to my first Easter as an "independent, workin' woman."

It felt good to be between two worlds - still taken care of, at the same time making my own way in my own city.

I'll remember that feeling this Sunday.

I'll go to my first Easter service at my own church. In my own world. Surrounded by my own people. But I'll be wearing that yellow dress. And I'll be missing you, Mom.

And we are free.

There are so many themes that can relate to Holy Week: redemption, thankfulness, forgiveness, darkness.

At my church, the community has done a remarkable job of tackling the subject of slavery (both in theory and in reality). My crew and I are in the process of wrapping our arms around a particularly butt-kicking Sunday sermon (which I expect to post about more concretely in a bit).

But in my own life’s circumstances, I’ve been captivated by liberation.

This week, an amazing liberation is taking root in the life of my aunt. She’s already failed a few times, but I’ve remained hopeful and prayed a lot.

So my heart just melted yesterday when I got the news that she's agreed to go into rehab.

I’m so unbelievably proud of her. To face your inner demons, all the while knowing the consequences will separate you from your children - that’s no small feat.

I’m also sort of knocked on my ass about this. I’ve been praying for this redemption for awhile, and God delivered. He came through. Though I’ve seen some miraculous things in my life, it never ceases to amaze me when that happens. But that’s the beautiful part about God’s liberation. He doesn’t give up on us.

“With your hand you drove out the nations,
and planted our fathers;
you crushed the peoples
and made our fathers flourish.
It was not by their own sword that they won the land,
nor did their arm bring them victory;
It was your right hand, your arm,
and the light of your face, for you loved them.”

Psalm 44:2-3

So, my friends...I see again what true, flourishing, life-giving liberation can be like. Please join the chorus in prayer and thanksgiving, because this Holy Week, my heart is singing, loud and off-key and in inappropriate places:

"You are so good to me,
You heal my broken heart,
You are my father in heaven...
You are beautiful, my sweet, sweet song."

You Are So Good To Me - 100 Portraits & Waterdeep Album: Enter the Worship Circle