Gobama...Gobama!

Holy buckets. So, you know I love our boy Barack. I've been a little nervous the last few days with all the excellent Clinton speakin' and Biden taking off the gloves. I was worried when he first came out and waxed poetic for awhile. For the Hilary supporters and undecideds, he needed to spell.it.out. And DAMN. Did he ever.

I loved pretty much everything he advocated for, but I'm a little hazy on exactly how we'll cut our dependence on foreign oil in just 10 years. I guess he'll be out of office by then and it'll be Hilary's problem, right? :) More details to come, I hope.

I knew he had this in him. Obama was in KC earlier this week and I heard part of his speech where he talked at length about how he'll implement social security reform (taxing the bracket from $100-$250K at a higher level) and how he'll make college affordable for all kids (giving reimbursements for volunteer work...though I'm unclear on where the cash comes from). I was excited to hear a prelude to what I saw last night. He's getting so good at anticipating what needs to be said. I'm proud to support him.

So, this morning I got an email from Biden and read the best line that has ever been added to a donation request:

"This new phase of the campaign will move quickly. By the time you read this, we may even know who John McCain has chosen to be the next Dick Cheney."

Way to pull the rug out from under McCain's Veep pick. I love you Joe Biden.

my favorite words

Everyone has a triple word score word. A gem of a word that is kept in your verbal arsenal for unexpected gatherings at a friend's home where snooty English majors might appear.

I love such words. I file them away in a mysterious mental catacomb that I imagine looks like the files of one mixed-up Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler.

These are my cherry picked favorites...at least upon quick recollection:

minutia: A small or trivial detail.

supercilious: Feeling or showing haughty disdain.

xenophobe: One unduly fearful or contemptuous of strangers or foreigners.

lexicon: A specialized vocabulary.

catbird seat: A position of great prominence or advantage .

beleaguer: To harass: beset.

flummox: To confuse: perplex.

onomatopoeia: The formation or use of words such as buzz or murmur that imitate the sounds associated with the objects or actions they refer to.

tuesday night plans

I do wish that I wrote something for fun or reflection every day.

Not practicing the craft leaves your brain wandering. The first few sessions in front of my computer are merciless.

But if I visit my journal, and spend some time surrounded by nature, the pen begins to drip.
drip drop, plip plop
We wrestle and writhe in furious bouts
of languid prose.
I am a step ahead of my hand,
able to correct small errors in a single neurological tic.

Ahhh...we become one, the surrounding land and my humanness. I feel more free when I depart. Ready to tackle life's minutia again.

Getting ready to jump OR Big decisions for Ally

I woke in bits, like all children, piecemeal over the years. I discovered myself and the world, and forgot them, and discovered them again. – Annie Dillard

I am waking up bit by bit these days. The murky fog of frustration has sat heavy upon me. It has followed with such persistence that I chuckle at the resemblance I must make to Linus from Peanuts.

I have tried to push my hands through the film to glimpse a sliver of daylight. Its crystal clear realization has been a long time coming and it flooded in like pure white hope.

The next part is apparent. It is just past the ledge before me. I am so very close. So ready to jump discover a new part of myself. So ready for the next chapter.

Upon my approach, I am quaking a bit internally, but sure as I’ll ever be. (Besides, I’ve seen that all the good jumps make your tummy flip-flop a bit.)

Closer and closer we inch…








****
Tomorrow: stretching before the jump

sounds of the city

The humid air licks my toes while a soft breeze picks up -
a welcome respite from our oppressive heat.

A secret dream:
My spirit wriggles and writhes in anticipation of the fall.
When we'll wear sweaters and dance, snuggled tightly,
holding hands in the cool twilight to keep warm
(and because our hands search each other out without thought).
There will be a next new season for us in our home.

The sounds here are unfamiliar and only mildly full of nature.
We're surrounded by small patches of grassy lawns
and the noises of bugs that exist everywhere.

Something rubs its legs together,
making an insect's musical soundtrack to a Saturday.
A handyman tinkers and pounds away on something nearby
as his wife leaves him to his own devices
(and a moment's peace to subdue his dominion).
Air conditioners and cars hum and whoosh -
we are a city people,
our bikes locked securely.

That bee buzzing nearby doesn't annoy today.
I welcome the company on this porch
so removed from the vast peace of nature's fields.

Mercy Me

When I went to Kenya, it was for such a smattering of different reasons, but I didn't realize that I was going to meet my heart there. For years it had dripped and ached with the desire to help. It'd gotten mad, fighting mad, plenty of times over how hard it is to reconcile ourselves with this world.

When I found my heart in the sky and laughter of that gorgeous country of God's, two things happened that made me positive of God's existence on earth.

1. Encoring my unsolicited solo performance of "Amazing Grace" with an entry in a Kenyan prayer book of "I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For."

2. Meeting Mercy. I don't know how you can not give birth a child and still feel that you own some part of her, but it is possible. I want her to be provided for, appreciated, thriving in a way that even feels different than desiring that for a sibling. I have woken up in the middle of the night with an inkling that she was thinking of me.

For those of you who know me well, you know that Mercy has become part and parcel of that time. She reminds me of my heart, of my humanity, of how very little we have to do to change the world.

Josie recently sent me this picture from her July trip and it appears that she's becoming a confident little leader.

Glory and praise to God. If this is the only prayer he answers for awhile,

keep it up, ok?

the bloodbath at the westport corral

Last night we went for a trivia fest at Westport Flea Market.

I swaggered on in to that little beer-soaked den of sin ready for a fight.

The fiesty, bald ringmaster looked to be a worthy competitor and the way he sucked down them sprites told me he'd been to this rodeo before and wasn't gonna be taken down by a budweiser or 12...unlike the the rowdy band of brothers to my left at 8 o'clock. Their team name, "cunning linguists" let me know they'd be victorious in any movie rounds but largely unthreating if women's lib should appear as the final category.

I settled in with a Newcastle in hand, cocky with English courage and ready to whoop up on the young'uns around me.

And then it started: A barrage of questions worthy of opponents like Ken Jennings or Roger Ebert or a flag afficianado (who knew what sort of flag Bulgaria trumpets off its capital building?)

The winning team celebrated with pitchers of frosty brew and a score of 67 points. I cannot remember their name as my pride had retreated to the parking lot and my ego was following it at a steady run.

Team Craptor finished up with a measly 28 points - our previous high score of 48 squandered on the last two categories at 10 points each: "bloodiness" and "the olympics"

I hang my head today. Not only did we lose, but I owe laundry duty and unsolicited peanut buster parfaits to the bf for my lack of trust in his ability to know the Swedish group that had 4 more gold records than any other group in history.

Abba, you broke my heart. Craig was right to trust that Roxette knew a little thing about love.

But it's over now...