can we go back to handwriting letters and sending them through snailmail?

The following thoughts were inspired by this, which I discovered by way of my new friend Carlos, whom I met through my former-acquaintance-turned-friend Aaron.

And that there, my dearies, is what we call 'networking.' But that's not what I'm writing about in this blopgost. What I'm writing about is communication overload.

How much is too much? How many is too many? Every day, most of us receive at least one electronic message--be it email, text message, or something relating to Facebook--that requires some sort of written follow-up. Some sort of written response. And some of us take an inordinate amount of time to make that necessary (I'm not saying 'required') response.

Why? Why is it so hard to hit 'reply' and type something? Why do we take so long to answer? One message per day isn't a lot, right?

What about 365 messages per year?

Some of you--and here I'm talking to my fellow old folks--will recall the days before email. No, really, such days did exist. They're dim and foggy in my memory, but I swear they really happened. In those days, the riotous heydays of my youth, I received about...oh, let's take a guess on the high side...20 hand- or type-written letters per year that required a hand- or type-written reply. Add to that various greeting cards for holidays and birthday, etc etc, and that number goes up to maybe 50. Maybe. Per year.

So, flash forward (and no, I'm not making a TV reference) to today. If I get one response-required message per day, I'm no longer at 50 per year, I'm at 365.

But I don't get one response-required message per day.

I get an average of 5.

That's 1825 messages per year. And each one requires a response. If I spend only half an hour answering each one, I will spend 38 twenty-four-hour days (24! Count dem! 24 hours! Ah-ah-ah-ah-ahhhhhhh!) out of every year doing nothing but answer messages. That's more than one month per year.

In the inbox of the email account Ed and I use jointly, there are currently 7576 emails. Of these, 667 are unread. I have no idea how many are unanswered. Most times, I feel like closing that account completely and starting from scratch. Except I know that eventually, the new account will look exactly the same, and I'll end up exactly where I am now with all this, which is:

frustrated
overwhelmed
angry with myself
and disappointed in myself, because I know some of those unanswered messages came from people who are disappointed in me for not answering.

I also have this continual, grand plan to answer all the comments I've received on this blog. Haven't been able to get that done, either--and every time I think about it, I feel a painful twinge in the center of my brain.

That twinge is one part irritation and three parts guilt.

At what point is it too much?

I'm so tired of communications-inspired guilt that I'm just tired.

I know 100% for sugar-torting certain I'm not alone in this. How do *you* handle the odious monster guilt blob masquerading as your inbox?

this wasn't supposed to be my first blopgost of the year

...but it's just kinda happening, because I had this thought, and I wanted to record it.

In public.

Sheesh.

I am sick and tired of not saying what I really think.
I am sick and tired of not saying what I really feel.
I am sick and tired of not saying what I really believe.

I am tired of worrying about what other people will think of me.
Oh, I talk a great game of not caring, not letting others' opinions determine the course of my actions, blah de blah blah blah.

But really, in my secret heart, I want you all to like me.
I hate being the recipient of criticism, disapproval, and--o, the horror--rejection.

If I speak the truth about something, and someone responds by chastising me, my heartrate shoots through the roof, and my desire to make it all okay again shoots through the stratosphere.

This is not a healthy reaction on my part.
I have boundary problems.

And I'm sick and tired of it.

I don't want to be the gutless one.
I don't want to cower when a stronger personality tells me I Have No Right To Say _____________.
I don't want to be afraid anymore.

In the religious denomination I grew up in, I was taught to keep my mouth shut about _____________--because expressing my rock-the-boat opinions might lead another person to trip over something and get hurt.

But what if that something isn't even really there?
What about the other person learning to take responsibility for looking at where they're putting their feet?
What if the thing they need most, in order to learn to walk better, is someone (like me?) who will holler at the top of their (my?) voice about the discrepancies and the dis-integrity?

I've been told that a lot of people in this world look up to me.
If that's true, I don't really know why they do that. I'm a continual screw-up--didn't you know?

And one of the ways in which I screw up is by keeping my mouth shut out of cowardice.

Yes, there is a time and a place for expressing my thoughts/feelings/beliefs about certain things. I need to choose wisely ( --> discern) when and in whose company to verbalize these things.

But if I'm staying quiet simply because I ***fear*** others' reactions...then that right there, O Friends and Neighbors, is Screwing Up In Grand Fashion.

So.

Maybe this was the right blopgost to start the New Year with, after all.

peace out, or easy out?

There are a lot of things I don't talk about here.

Not because I'm ashamed of my own thoughts or feelings,

and not because I'm afraid of offending someone.


Quite simply, I keep certain opinion and feelings to myself because I just don't want to have to deal with the fallout from people who, I know, will disagree with me and be combative about it.


Does that make me smart and wise for wanting to keep the peace?

Or does that just make me a big chicken?

another episode in stream-of-c

Dear Blog,

I had the feeling I've been neglecting you, so I decided to come post something on you. Kind of like writing on a Post-It Note and sticking it to someone's back without their knowledge. But then I checked, and I saw that I actually posted a few things recently. So I guess the neglecting was all in my imagination. Do carry on with whatever blogginess you were engaged in before I so rudely interrupted.

Sincerely,
C.

In other news, apparently I've had fund-raising on the brain of late. Last week, I participated in the Wishing Well Walk. Amy and I walked 2.5 miles, carrying 2 gallons of dirty water apiece, helping raise awareness of the well shortage in Africa. Lest you be overly impressed with our feat, there were many, many people who carried more water than we did. They rocked the Walk, so to speak.
Then, this evening, I drove up to Edmond to attend Heartbeat for Hope's fundraiser at Adora. It was fun, I bought two cute shirts (15% of the proceeds from Adora's sales tonight will go toward Heartbeat for Hope), and I got to hear a really good band named Countdown for Reno, if I recall correctly.

So, yay for helping people. ;o)

Furthermore, I'd just like to state for the record that it's not my fault my cat has a flabby tummy. We throw away about half the food we give her because she won't eat. And we're already giving her half the recommended amount. So I don't know why her tummy sags, unless it's from getting spayed and no longer having taut tummy muscles. But she has a lot of fur--how'm I s'posed to figure out what happened to her six-pack?!

Also, I think there has got to be a more efficient way of picking jurors for trials. A friend of mine got called in for jury duty and is looking at Day 3 of sitting in a courtroom, waiting to get called in for an interview. They might pick him for the jury, or they might not. Nobody knows. So far, two days of sitting, maybe reading, maybe texting, but mostly just sitting. Why can't they just give people appointments so that not all 160 potential jurors have to come in at the same time and sit? Somehow, I doubt it's stimulating the economy very much to have all these people missing work.

In addition, whoever made the decision to cancel "Firefly" is an annoying person.

Not only that, but I've finally started getting my pomegranate obsession out into the open. Oh yes. There has been a quiet pomegranate obsession of late. A quiet, mental, internalized pomegranate obsession. I don't know why. I only know that I've finally drawn a picture of one, and I like it, and I'm going to add pomegranates to the painting that's been in-progress since January. Themes of Hades and Persephone have been drifting in and out of my awareness. It's all very ethereal and amusing. Now that I've started drawing/painting pomegranates, though, it's about to get concrete and amusing. Bam.

And I wrote two poems during the past week. One for slightly-public consumption (meaning I've shared it with a few people), and one not (meaning nobody gets to see it--yet).

Finally, lest I forget--no, no, no, not Gethsemane, whaddaya think this is, a hymn? ;o) --I've also been working on Deren's Story. And I've decided that Deren's Story is definitely for the boys. Except Deren keeps insisting on having all these romantic thoughts about the girl. I know that romantic thoughts and "for the boys" aren't mutually exclusive--but the oy-vey-potential is there, and I've got my work cut out for me in not turning my poor hero into a feminine shadow of his former self. ;oD Just kidding. Deren and I are not that bad off, I'm just acknowledging some potential here. Maybe blogging about it will help my subconscious mind stay where it's supposed to be. Namely on Heinlein-esque perkiness. And that's all I'm gonna say 'bout that, 'cause that's just how I roll.

;oD

Please forgive the crudity of this blopgost. I didn't have the mental energy to write it to scale.

status update

My neck still hurts. It felt better yesterday (after Refinnej worked on it on Tuesday--thank you again!!!), but the betterness has not progressed into today. Alas, alack. I feel discouraged. And irritated with vertebrae. Why do I need those, again?

Also, I need to trim my fingernails. They're interfering with typing.

That's all.


Oh, and I have neat writer friends. :o)

two items of ridiculousness

1. Cellulite.
There is absolutely no logical reason why my thighs are not as muscular as my calves. Not that my calves are entirely free of fat, but they're doing a lot better than what's above them. There is no logical reason for this. Cellulite is a cosmic joke on women. Gah.

2. Journalists who don't know what subject-verb agreement are.
Error intentional. 'Nuff said.


P.S. I have had a severe case of writer's block over the last ten days. This does not swing my verge in the least. I'm going to do something about it today. When I figure out what that something is, I'll let you know. ;o)

book comments 17 and a reading adventure story

"The Right Hand of Evil" by John Saul
--general reaction: Meh.
--story of a family in which Satanic possession is passed down through the generations like an heirloom
--lots of long, confusing dream sequence stuff
--Teenagers who talk like 40-year-olds are not believable.
--I never really connected with any of the characters. I spent most of the book wishing the mom would grow a backbone and wondering if none of these people ever watched "The Exorcist."
--some very good imagery, though, especially the cathedral scenes
--Saul fans might like it, but I don't recommend.

"The Good Guy" by Dean Koontz
--story of mistaken identity leading to a high-thrills cat-and-mouse hunt between a serial killer and two innocent bystanders
--Can you already tell I thoroughly enjoyed this one? ;o)
--vivid, compelling characters, especially the main character --> loved him!
--a serial killer so charming it hurts --> excellent
--Koontz is the master of clever dialogue.
--an UPDA* read
--highly recommend

"Maia" by Richard Adams
--fantasy epic spanning 1223 pages
--story of a girl sold into slavery as a prostitute, does oodles of heroic stuff, and lives happily ever after
--This is one of the most complex stories I have ever read.
--way too much gratuitous sex in this one --> kinda freaks me out that a 62-year-old man wrote this
--too much description --> I appreciate that Adams made both the culture and the landscape into characters, but honestly, I skimmed at least a fourth of the book, thinking, "Just get on with the plot already!"
--In my opinion, the main character falls in love with the wrong person, and her obsession with him is not believable.
--incredibly vivid characters, imagery that puts detailed pictures into the reader's mind
--You might like this if you have thick skin, a strong stomach, and the stamina for sticking with a book that's 2.5 inches long (paperback).

"Pride and Prejudice and Zombies" by Jane Austen and Seth Grahame-Smith
--title says it all: The Bennett girls are zombie-killers, and so is Mr. Darcy.
--no complaints about this one, I loved and laughed my way through every moment of this read
--definitely UPDA*
--I love the irreverence of making a horror spoof out of a classic. SO fun.
--highly recommend

"Flight of the Raven" and "A Tapestry of Lions" by Jennifer Roberson
--books 7 and 8, respectively, of Roberson's "Shapechanger" series

I have a history with these books: For years, I have owned books 1-6 and 8 of the series. For years, I have read only books 1-6, because I refused to read 8 without reading 7. However, 7 has been out of print for for*ever* and I couldn't find a copy. Then, Roberson came out with omnibus editions of the series: four huge books containing all eight. Well, naturally I wasn't going to buy those simply in order to read one story, when I already owned seven of the individual novels!

Are you following me so far? ;o)

A couple of weeks ago, I visited a used bookstore with Celia. Out of curiosity and without intending to purchase anything, I was browsing through the fantasy section, when there! right before my eyes! there is a copy of book 7!!! Of course, I couldn't leave it there, and of course I bought it, and of course I started reading it immediately, and of course I fell in love with the story from the beginning, and of course I was enjoying it with every shred of my being, when...

...I got to page 116--and the next page was 85.

Guh?

I checked again. Pages 1-116. Then pages 85-116 again, followed by pages 149-372.

Yeah, that's right. The pages in my copy of "Flight of the Raven" number 1-116, 85-116, and 149-372. This copy, WHICH I HAVE BEEN WAITING TEN YEARS TO GET MY HANDS ON, is missing the chunk of story spanning pages 117-148.

Which means my brain is still missing thirty-one pages of the "Shapechanger" series. So close...and yet, so far.

*sigh*

Dismay and chagrin do not quite cover it.

But moving right along. "Flight of the Raven" is still an amazing UPDA* novel, with a main character who just breaks your heart. And after I finished that one, I finally got to read "A Tapestry of Lions"--also quite UPDA and also with a main character a reader can fall in love with, not to mention one of the best, most spectacular endings I have ever read in a fantasy series.

Aside from the minor irritation of 31 missing pages, I am well satisfied. And I will read the series again...

...and continue the search for a complete, individual copy of book 7. Never give up, never surrender! ;o)


2009 Book Count To-Date: 27.



*UPDA = UnPutDownAble

good grief, people. free your minds, wouldja?!?

This morning, I read two articles in "Newsweek" that annoyed the poo out of me.

The first concerned white supremacy beliefs in the USA. Apparently, the popularity of white supremacist groups has started going up since Obama was elected. Perfect. The article was complete with pictures of good ol' home folks with swastikas on their T-shirts. Their new party line, it seems, is "preach love of white, not hate of black, don't come on radical, be quiet and subtle, or you'll scare people off before you can get them to come around to the right way of thinking." "Right way," meaning: deportation of all immigrants and incarcerated non-whites. Ad infinitum ad nauseam.

There are a lot of names I'd like to apply to people who think this way. But instead of using those names, I'll just say this: I grew up visiting concentration camps in Germany. You wear a swastika and come within twenty feet of me, and I am deaf to you before the first word exits your white supremacist mouth.

Ugh. Utterly revolting.

The other annoyance was in an article about new apps (read: applications) for cell phones, specifically apps of the Bible. The author was presenting differing viewpoints. Apparently, there are people out there who disapprove of having the Bible on a hand-held electronic device, because having the Bible accessible this way "takes away from the sacredness of scripture." Or somesuch.

Huh? Am I understanding them right? They're saying it's a bad thing to have access to the Bible no matter where you are?

That's almost the dumbest thing I've read all day. (For the dumbest, see the second and third paragraphs of this post.) Do you really think God cares in what medium his Word appears? When you carry the Bible in book form, there is absolutely nothing sacred about the paper, ink, leather, plastic, and glue with which that book is put together. There is not one iota of holiness inherent in a printed copy of the Bible--or a audio copy, or an electronic copy, or a copy written in the sky with airplane vapor trails. The medium doesn't matter.

I would even venture to say that the words themselves don't matter. A word is merely a symbol we use to convey an idea or a set of ideas. House, Haus, and maison are different symbols that convey the same idea. Same goes for cat, Katze, and gato. Same for ichthys, Fisch, and pesce. Symbols for ideas/concepts/specific meanings.

When it comes to sacredness and holiness of the Bible, all that signifies are the concepts behind the symbols. Aletheia, Wahrheit, truth. Symbols which, in themselves, are not sacred. Heaven, Himmel, ouranos. The sacredness belongs solely to the concept, the reality, behind the symbols.

It matters not what form those symbols take. Whether printed or electronic, the symbols convey concepts that have unlimited power to work on the human heart and change it. Consuming those symbols--and, through them, the bedrock reality concepts--through an electronic medium doesn't dilute their effect in the least.

Come on, people. Have a little faith!

telling it like it is--a side effect of mission work

Frankly, when you do mission work, a lot of people put you up on a pedestal, and that's a really bad place to be.

Because it's easy to fall off.

I'm not going to go into the every-Christian-is-by-definition-a-missionary, because that is another story and shall be told another time. My point for this particular blopgost is that many people (1) seem to think that only a "special few" have what it takes to tell others about Jesus in a "foreign" (also a topic for another time) country; (2) these same people make a big fuss over those who tell others about Jesus in a foreign country; and (3) these same people continue to put the "missionaries" up on a pedestal even 1.4 years after said "missionaries" are no longer working in a foreign country.

Please note that I am not trying to mock anyone or infuse my post with contempt for the well-intentioned folks who "fuss" over me.

I just wish there were a brief yet polite way to communicate that...

..."I'm proud of you" is not a phrase that makes me feel good.
I am not the one who did the work--*God* did it--so there's no reason for me to be proud. The other person is not the one who did the work--so why should they be proud? I am glad I did the work; I wouldn't trade my time as a "missionary" for anything; I am pleased that God used me to encourage others. But pride is a dangerous thing for me, and I'd like to avoid even the appearance of it, even if it's well-meant.

...I appreciate the encouragement, but I do not want to be elevated in anyone's eyes.
The pedestal thing really doesn't work for me. Actually, it scares me--because pedestals are high; and I've been up there before; and I have liked it; and I have fallen. I really don't want to be up there again and face the possibility of liking the lofty heights again. There's only one way off, and it's fast, and it really hurts when you hit the bottom.

...it's an honor for people to be in the presence of God.
It is not an honor for people to be in the presence of me. I am no different, no better, no higher, no purer, nor more admirable than any other human being. Save the honor and the praise for God, because he is the only one who has done something to deserve it. He is the only one who *is* something to deserve it.

...I love to feel appreciated, and I love to hear that I'm appreciated.
Encourage me, yes. Be my friend, yes. Tell me you love me, yes. Ask me for my stories, yes. That is the way to let me know that I have encouraged you, that I mean something to you. But don't feed my ego. It's big enough already.

What is the way to say this in ten words or fewer? :o) I try really hard to give credit where it's due (--> GOD), but it's hard to find the right words without hurting the feelings of the well-intentioned. And I just don't want to hurt anybody. I've done enough of that, too.

*sigh* Life is hard, and then you do the potato wave.

I don't know exactly what that means, but I think it's the truth. ;o)

book comments 12

I didn't think I'd be blogging book comments again so soon, but now I find I just gotta, and for two reasons: (1) I'm currently taking a break from noveling, having just finished the second draft of my book, and I'm getting antsy and must write, must write, must write something! and (2) this evening I finished a book that made me really mad, so I must write about it.

"No Plot? No Problem! A Low-Stress, High-Velocity Guide to Writing A Novel In 30 Days" by Chris Baty, NaNoWriMo Grand Poobah and Dispenser of Many Witticisms
--You might already be able to tell that I heartily approve of Mr. Baty and his book. ;o)
--title is self-explanatory
--I actually started this one during NaNo 2008, but got so involved in NaNo-ing that I forgot to keep reading.
--Baty invented NaNo, so obviously he knows what he's talking about throughout.
--highly recommend for anyone considering NaNoWriMo

"Even Now" by Karen Kingsbury
--story of the consequences (a) of teen promiscuity and (b) of parents' not allowing their children to experience the consequences of their actions
--excellent, well-flowing writing
--clear, well-developed characters
--I didn't like the ending; even though it was a "happy" one, it seemed contrived and out-of-character for the adult Lauren.
--also, I wish Kingsbury had delved into and developed the theme that God is not to blame for the wrong choices that humans make
--recommend, especially for readers who enjoy coming-of-age stories; this would also be a great book for parents and teens to read together

Finally, the book that has me so irritated right now, with spoilers:

"Here on Earth" by Alice Hoffman
--story of a woman named March, who goes back to her hometown after 21 years and starts having an extramarital affair with the guy she slept with as a teenager
--what's frustrating is that this is a very well-written novel: *very* strong, well-developed characters; nothing happens in the story that is not character-driven; clear, flowing style; Hoffman even makes the landscape a character in the story --> masterful
BUT:
--40 pages into the story, I already HATED Hollis, March's "lust interest" (please note that I do *not* use the word "love"), and halfway through the story, I just wanted him to die. I guess that's another tribute to Hoffman's skill: that one of her characters provoked such a powerful reaction in me.
I hate March's ridiculous dependence on Hollis.
I hate the fact that neither March nor Hollis understand that what they have is NOT love; it is obsession, addiction, dependence, immorality, manipulation, enabling, hate, and cowardice.
By the time March finally opened her eyes to what was going on, I had lost all sympathy for her and was ready for her to die, too!
--I think Mandy was right: These two are a darker, more disturbing version of Kathy and Heathcliff of "Wuthering Heights"--which is saying a lot.
--The only characters I liked were March's reporter friend, Susie, and Gwen, the rebellious teen who's in love with her first cousin.
--This one tied me up in knots, so I can't recommend it--though I stand by my opinion that Hoffman did a good job. ;o)


My next read is going to be Christopher Paolini's "Brisingr," which I expect will leave me knot-free and feeling much more pleasant. ;o)

hypocrisy?

Sony has recalled a new game for its Playstation3. "LittleBigPlanet" isn't even on store shelves yet, but it's being recalled because in some of the background music, the singer quotes two verses from the Qu'ran. This is offensive to Muslims, so the game is being recalled and the offensive content deleted before the game goes back to stores.

Fine. I have absolutely no problem with that.

But if the content had been something like, oh, I dunno...language offensive to Christians, or inappropriate use of God's name, or something of that sort...would anyone have even considered recalling the game?

I doubt it.

Heaven forbid we offend any particular group of people. Except Christians. They're free game, didn't you know?

2. Timothy 3:12.

a lot of modern music just doesn't swing my verge

I would like to comment on a trend that seems to have exploded in the modern music scene over the last few years. I'm not going to speculate on where it originated or why it originated. But it seems to be proliferating itself exponentially--judging by the number of qualifying songs floating around on today's airwaves.

Anyway, the trend is this: twentysomething males with whiny, nasal voices who sound as though their throats are so closed off, only the barest thread of voice escapes in between their overabundance of glottal stops.

My comment: I don't like it. It makes my larynx ache.

transitional ruminations

I feel as though I'm overdue in penning some words about the cultural transition that Ed and I have been going through. To begin, I'd like to grace you with a top ten list that illustrates one of the frustrations that goes along with transitioning, namely, the fact that people often don't know what to say to us. (Please note that I am not angry over these utterances, but frustrated.)

Top Ten Things NOT To Say To Cultural Transitioners And Why
(in random order, though I have a particular dislike for #s 5 and 7)

1. How was your trip?
It wasn't a trip. It wasn't a vacation. It was my life. Please to be noticing the difference, thank you. ;o)

2. We've been praying for you to come back.
I think I know what you mean when you say that, and you might think that's a lovely sentiment. But when you say that, what I hear is that you've been praying for me to be separated from people and places I love. That's neither helpful nor encouraging.

3. You've got a lot of time on your hands now! You could (fill in blank with an activity or a job for which I have expressed no interest).
I didn't come back here with no plan of what I want to do with my life. This was not a spontaneous, frivolous decision. Much thought and prayer and planning went into it. Please don't assume I'm sitting around, bored, with nothing to do, just waiting for you to come rescue me with ideas that would make *you* happy.

4. Oh, you were in XLand? I was in XLand back in the '70s....XLanders are so (fill in the blank with a prejudice you developed while you were over there for two years 30 years ago).
Please don't assume your experiences were my experiences. Also, please refrain from telling me, based on your few months' experience, what the people of my homeland are like. Not to be snotty, but I do believe I know them better than you do.

5. Adjusting? Oh, give it a couple of months, you'll be fine.
I see. And the last time you went through cross-cultural reentry was...? Oh, you've never left your home state? Ah.

6. It's so good to have you back. I don't know why anyone would want to leave here in the first place.
(Okay, so nobody has said these words to me directly....but the implication is all over the place.) Well, probably because God created a whole, huge, interesting planet that I want to know about, not just a single continent.

7. I bet you're proud to be back.
I'm sorry, but I don't even know what that statement means.

8. It's good to have you back.
Why? You've never had more than two or three conversations with me. You don't know me. How could my presence possibly signify in your life one way or the other?
(Note: This truly applies only to those who haven't made an effort to get to know the returnee. If you do know me, and if you have made the effort, it is definitely heart-warming to hear you say that you're thankful for my being here!)

9. Aren't you glad to be back?
Yes. No. Maybe. Sometimes, the answer changes from one hour to the next. If you're not prepared to listen to an answer you don't really want to hear, please don't ask.

10. We're so glad to have you home.
This isn't my home. For one thing, I didn't grow up here. From that perspective, I haven't lived in my "home" for 12 years. For another, I spent the last 6 years building relationships and planting roots somewhere far removed from here. This isn't my home. This is your home. On this earth, I don't have a home. And actually, I'd like it to stay that way.

11. Unspecified.
Open to anyone who wants to share some of their own experiences of being on the receiving end of remarks of this sort, as well as dealing graciously with them. I don't always. Especially when it's stuff like #s 5 and 7. ;o)


Looking over the last 8 months (we have been here over 8 months--that is so weird), I can see a lot of lows, a lot of highs, a few plateaus, and some banged-up knees and elbows as we've tripped and fallen and sprawled flat on our faces and gotten back up again. I say "we" because Ed and I both have dealt with our share of spiritual and emotional scrapes and bruises...but really, I'm talking about my own transition here. Cross-cultural reentry is an intensely personal experience (which is what makes it so difficult to describe to anyone who has never experienced it), so each person's is different.

My lowest point so far was Earlyapril through mid-May. The bathtub incidents kind of set off the depression--but if it hadn't been the bathtub, it would've been something else. But I've had help. Help from a wonderful, loving God, who has sent wonderful, loving people into my life and placed me in loving, wonderful communion with them. I've had help through open, honest, in-depth conversation. I've had help through "The Artist's Way" (by Julia Cameron--THANK YOU, GAIL!!!), which is opening my eyes more and more to what it truly is that God created me to be. I've had help through a loving, wonderful, commiserating husband, who has actively grown with me even as he deals with his own transition issues.

I feel very blessed. I not only feel it, I *am* it, and I live it. I hesitate to say that I am learning to be content, since that is such a huge concept....but I think I am beginning to learn it. I am beginning to know why I am here, I am beginning to know what the next step could look like, and it's an unknown shape, but I'm excited about it instead of terrified. I feel as though I am unpacking my mind here, instead of merely unpacking cardboard boxes. I am beginning to travel light again, instead of schlepping around the misery of not knowing who I am. I am beginning to feel/see/hear reference points, reorient my inner compass, tune my inner self to the resonance of God's universe.

No matter what happens, I always know that eventually, I'll be at peace. Moving over here, finding myself in a low spot of sadness and depression, I knew that eventually I'd be at peace.

It's nice that at-peace is starting to happen again.

anybody like to help me out?

Okay, without going into a long spiel to try talking all and sundry into my plan, here's the deal:

I am in need of an extra $100.00 this month.

Would anyone like to brighten my corner by buying one of my oil paintings or commissioning one for that amount?

If you'd like to buy one, I have about 35 or 40 to choose from.

If you'd like to commission one, I'll need an advance. ;o)

Whoever's interested, let me know here, or email me!

hamster huey and the gooey kablooey

(Name that reference!)

I have a zit under the chicken pox scar on my chin.

I find this to be mildly ridiculous.

in which i vent my spleen

So, ever since Ed and I got our Oklahoman cell phones (Handys, to my dear German readers), I have gotten heaps of unsolicited phone calls. Ed doesn't seem to get any at all, so I figure he's been blessed with a phone number that has never before been used in this dimension.

My number, however, seems to have had a previous owner who was either up to the nose in debt and on the lam (not lamb, hee hee ;o) from creditors and/or the Mafia, or simply enjoyed giving out the number to all and sundry so that all and sundry could use the number for the purposes of pointless harassment of The Innocent and Unsuspecting.

Namely, me.

I submitted my number to the National Do Not Call Registry (NDNCR), which is probably a misnomer. National We'd Like To Help You But We're Basically Powerless Would You Like a Teddy Bear? Registry would be more apt. The NDNCR is apparently maintained by the Federal Trade Commission, whose website even states that they cannot resolve individual customer complaints. Whoopee. The number of telemarketer calls has dropped since I registered, I'll give them that... But this does not resolve my problem of receiving about 6 calls a day, for five days in a row, approximately every two weeks, from the company HSBC Mortgage Services.

HSBC Mortgage Services is kinda clueless. Were they clueful, they would realize that I have never owned a house and, therefore, have never had a mortgage. Still, they persist on calling me x times per week (see previously noted statistics) VIA COMPUTER. That's right. Not only are they calling me, but they're using a poor, innocent computer to do their dirty work. The computer is voice activated, so it doesn't start talking until it hears a voice on the line.

Namely, mine.

I no longer answer the phone when I see that the display reads 800-395-3489. Sometimes, the computer stays on the line enough to be kicked over to voicemail, in which case I get a message that begins in the middle of a sentence, informs me ominously that "this is an attempt to collect a debt," and asks me to return the call to the aforementioned 800 number. (I never do, of course.)

HSBC called five times yesterday. Six times today. The day is young, yet.

Occasionally, I also receive calls from NCO Financial Systems at 800-477-1827.

As well as multiple calls from "Unknown," which I believe is HSBC cleverly disguising themselves so as to blend in with the wireless foliage of the modern telemarketing jungle.

Bunch of scaly, evil chameleons.

Personally, I think this should be illegal.

Stupid-kenupid telemarketercreditormortagerulemakers.

Blech.

"what is your glitch?" --"my glitch?"

Sometimes, I think my main problem is simply that I want to understand everything yesterday.

cultural transitions bite...

...and I despise bathtub drains that leak into the neighbor's apartment *AGAIN*, thereby depriving me of a well-earned bubble bath.

Blech.

i've been blogging this in my head since 7am

Dear Traffic Hazards,

While watching you today, aiming snarky comments at you in my head--or aloud, when I was alone in the car--I decided that the time has come, as the walrus said, to let the you-relevant snarkiness leak from my mind, ooze down through my nervous system, trickle out of my fingertips, gush into my keyboard, and spawn its way onto my blog, where you may gnash your gnashing teeth over it in impotence. That said, here are the points I've wished all day that you might see fit to ponder:

1. The manufacturer of your car, law-abiding and foresightful individual that s/he is, wisely equipped your car with headlights. Yeah, if you could turn those on when it's dark outside....ummmmm.....that'd be grrreaaaat.

2. The aforementioned mountain-top-guru-esque manufacturer also built into your car a couple of nifty gadgets called turn signals.
     a. Some of you are using turn signals as a method for asking permission to change lanes, instead of using them to announce your intention to change lanes. Asking permission is not only a misuse of the turn signal (a misuse which should, I might add, be a federal offense, like tearing the tag off of a pillow--yeah, they know who you are, you delinquent pillow-tag-tear-offers!), it is also dumb.
     b. Some of you aren't using the turn signals at all. This is not only dumb, it is also stupid, because you are begging me to run into you because I don't know where you're going.

3. Entrance ramps are not parking lots. Please to be noticing the difference. Thank you.

4. Random Breaking Syndrome* is a disease. Seek help before it's too late**.

5. When I am abiding by the speed limit of 25mph and you, in your culturally-induced haste to get from Point A to Point Z so fast it threatens to tear the skin off your face, run up behind me and begin trying to push me to break the speed limit, the law of cause and effect comes into play.
     a. The effect might be that I simply ignore you, because I am in a good mood and not susceptible to your wily speed demon ways; stay thee behind me! Pwned!
     b. The effect might be that I actually slow down because I am annoyed (and you are not a droid, which is unfortunate, because it would make you more interesting). You are SO not swinging my verge, here.
          --> The cause of these effects is you, so do not gnash your teeth at me, or the effect will be that I purchase and apply to my car a bumper sticker that reads "I might be slow, but I'm ahead of you."

Cause-and-effect-really swings my verge.

6. I'm sure there's another point of severe snarkiness, but ruminating about you has kept me up long enough past my bedtime, so I think I'm going to go to sleep now.

Yours Truly,
The Chick in the Ancient Red Nissan

*Random Breaking Syndrome (RBS): the illness which causes vehicle drivers to slam on their brakes without warning and for no discernible reason, seeing as how there are no cars in front of them, much less cars that are braking. The braking of a car in front of you, by the way, is indicated by the glow of two brake lights at the back of the aforementioned car. Or one brake light, if you are in Oklahoma. Or no brake light at all, in which case we move on to the condition of the breaking of the car in front of you, which occurs when you run into said car because it is rapidly decelerating and not bothering to inform you of the fact.

**In this case, "late" would be a condition occurring, for example, when you begin using the entrance ramp for a parking lot.

my transition meltdown. let me show you it.

I ought to be getting in bed right now. I've actually not been doing half bad about keeping to a regular sleep schedule lately. I'd hate to mess it up just because of a little case of RRRCS. Reverse Reverse Reverse Culture Shock. But as I was about to shut down the taplop, I realized I simply didn't want to go to sleep without blogging about this first.

Don't let the sun go down on your culture shock. Isn't that how the scripture goes?

Anyway...

I've been feeling edgy the last few days. Partially because of hormones--I'll spare you those details. But even if it is hormone-related, that doesn't make the emotions any less valid.

So. Edginess. Still, okay. Then came a couple of phone calls yesterday. Well-meant, and ordinarily not something I'd react to adversely. But I came away from them feeling inadequate, untrustworthy, weak, and foolish (notably, not by the callers' doing). I don't need to say that this did nothing to take the edge off the edge. So I won't say it.

Today, I got an email from our dear friend Elsa, reporting on the latest ETM class that took place last week. And there was a photo, too. Not only that, but there was a meeting over the past weekend for *all* the ETM participants *ever*.

I took one look at that photo, read the first line of Elsa's email, and promptly started bawling.

I should have been there, was what I was thinking. I wanted to be there. Desperately. But I couldn't be there. And I suddenly felt like I was wholly and irrevocably in the wrong place.

Shortly thereafter, I called my parents to talk about something totally unrelated, ended up misunderstanding something Daddy said and getting upset all over again, and then bawling to both him and Mama. Later, Jennifer came for coffee, and I bawled to her. Then Isaac arrived, and I bawled to him, too.

By the time Ed got home, I was all cried out. Besides, just seeing him made me feel better. Later, Jennifer and I went for a walk and a talk, and that helped a lot, too.

I don't *really* think I'm in the wrong place. I'm not *truly* dissatisfied with where I am in life and why and whatnot. That might be how I feel right now, but I know it's not so. The feelings are valid, but they aren't a reflection of reality. They're simply part of the transition process.

So eventually, I'll be okay. Today was just a rough day. I've known for awhile it was coming. But, like the day I cried in Buy-for-Less, I didn't expect it on a particular day. It's impossible to predict what will trigger it.

Tomorrow evening, I'm supposed to substitute teach a Ladies' Class. On personal evangelism. You know, that thing I did fulltime in Chemnitz. That thing I believe is part of the definition of "Christian." I hope I can get through the class. With God's help, I know I can. But only if I let him take care of the transition-emotions. And I'm not sure I'm ready to let go of them and let him, yet.

Blech.

I don't like this.

I think I might do some painting this week.

That's all. I feel better now. :o)