Day Off

I had a day off last Wednesday. I mostly drove around by myself, snapping photos and taking names. 

Literally taking names. 

Before I left my cabin I ran into my mustached other half, Pivot. And took a picture of the note one of the cabins wrote him.

Then I spoke with Bo (my father).

Connie, the bank teller, helped me handled my monetary business.

Wesley, the friendly gas station attendant. 

Then I went to Starbucks.

Charlie made my tall, vanilla soy latte. 

You can always spot a camp person...Kavu, running shorts, t-shirt, chacos...hitting Starbucks in the off time.

Talked to Deb (my mom) as I drove from Cleveland to Gainesville.

I went to the Verizon store and talked to Wesley, who seemed to hate his life. 

I also spend nearly two hours wandering around a book store and taking pictures of books I want to read.

And marveling at how unique Nicholas Spark's books are. Not.

Went to Chick fil'a and found this, complimentary mouth wash. 

And thanks to a mix up by Imani, I ended up with someone else's meal. So I got way more food than I paid for. I offered to pay the difference, but she said don't worry about it. 

I also tried a peach milkshake for the first time, it was delicious. 

I also went to Plato's Closet and listened to Casey, Madeline and Amanda very loudly search for a dress for Casey to wear to a concert. 

There was also the cashier at Office Depot who was in training and his boss Chris, who seemed over it. 

Then I came back to camp, ate a frozen dinner, and these, and watched Arrested Development. 

Not a bad day.

Where I Stand

I just came from a random small group I don’t usually attend, but on a whim a friend invited me along. 

They were out of habit tonight and rather than study the bible like normal, they just had a sharing time. 

For a lot of months, my Spiritual walk has largely been a me and God affair. I have loved it. When it is just me and God, there is nothing to compare to but Himself. There is such joy at that intimate discussion, disclosure and growth that occurs. I still had opportunity to share, but it was mostly small, one on one discussion with a sister, my mom, or a friend.

But God desires us to share and grow as a body. So as I sat tonight and listened to my sisters in Christ share their struggles, share what they were learning I had to fight a sort of shock. 

There was so much to know! There was so much to struggle through! So much that I am so ignorant of! It was so overwhelming to me coming off my past few months. 

I sat there and started to get, not encouraged, as was the intention of the time, but discouraged, bogged down by all the things that were being tossed around to think about. Moreover, a strange sort of urgency, and stress came on, that I needed to stop life, to hurry up, to force myself into learning all these different things. 

That was wrong. 

Yes, I need to be challenged by sharing with others, and seeing their growth. Challenged, not to match it, but to continue to pursue my own growth. I don’t need to hear these stories and compare to all I know or have not known and find a value for my self-worth on whatever side I can check the most off on. I need to remember that all the different stories, came from all different people. It was not one person unloading all their knowledge, because God teaches us all differently. He teaches us all on different timing. There is no standardized test with God that He has for every year of life. We do not have a grade point average that warrants better scholarships or more elite schools. 

So many times this past year God has reminded me to live where I am. To not think about how temporary my stay in a place may be, but to think about the opportunities afforded me in that moment. This is one of those situations. 

As I sat there tonight I was tempted to take notes on all the things that I had not learned, and go home, chuck the things God has been laying on my heart out the window, and work on those so I can “keep up” with these other people. 

LIES! FALSE! NO!

God has me where I am for a reason. He is teaching me what He is teaching me, for a reason. Following that logic, I was at this bible study/share time for a reason. 

Not to say that I know all the reasons, but I believe that the topic of this post is one of them. 

I have been in such an intense, one on one growth time with the Lord, that to go back to a more community-like environment was almost culture shock, but in just four short months I will be fully immersed in a community like environment. 

I would have never have thought to consider this on my own, but God being what He is (AWESOME), and being as faithful as He is to teach me what I need, when I need it, did think about it. 

I have been nervous about some various things in my future, but tonight, in this one event, God has reminded me of His faithfulness. It is not on me to prepare, to plan, to research my life, because I don’t know it. My job is pursue Christ. He has time and again proven He is faithful to teach, to encourage, to challenge, and to grow where I need, when I need it.

Yes, I am ignorant, self-focused, squealing toddler of a Believer. I have learned so much in the past year, and one of the biggest lessons is how stinking little I know. I have not even gotten to the cusp of knowledge. If the Magellan Straight represents knowledge, experience, or maturity in Christ, then I am in Alaska on a tricycle. But that is where God has me, and He will take me as far and as fast as I need at that time. I just have to keep pursuing Him and trust Him to be, well, God.

US Highway 129

I turn right out of the Ingles and accelerate down the two lane road.

Many a writer and "scholar" has compared life to a journey, a road. I'm not sure about that, but there are certain roads that I love. Roads that tell a story about me. Roads that bring back stories that I have experienced. Roads that change with each pass. Roads like US Highway 129.

I accelerate up to somewhere between 55 and 60 mph, and hope I don't get stuck behind a large, "grandpa" motorcycle, driven by some bearded sexagenarian fulfilling his life long dream at 40 mph. Been there.

On my right, the sign that says, "You just passed Babyland" and laugh, imagining the one person who will see that sign and suddenly shout, "Oh SHOOT NO!" and pull a U-turn, bound for the birthplace of cabbage patch dolls.

I pass Yonah Bowl and Skate and a flood of memories emerge. Random dancing and picture taking with Dani, Owen and Thomas, watching Dustin, Bryant, Bekah, Lyd and Taylor race through crowds on the skating side, while I slowly and steadily find my feet underneath me and try to avoid the awkwardly grouped adolescents, one of whom has already tried and not-so-smooth pick up line.

I pass Linda's, and think of that tiny room with four washers and four dryers that half the staff counts on for clean clothes during the summer.

I pass the strange little store, specializing in Rebel paraphernalia, and remember a story I was told about the hijinks of the somewhat, and by that I mean completely, questionable woman who runs it.

Then I blow a kiss to my right as I coast past the lovely stone gates of Strong Rock Camp. I can not count the ways in which that place holds my heart.

Babyland General - it's a classy establishment

At this point in the road, my cell service all but disappears and I start to feel that strange feeling that I am leaving something behind. It feels like there are strings attached to my heart and as I drive further, they pull my heart, trying to get it through my shoulder blades and back to the people and places that hold their other ends. As I keep driving they stretch and twist and snap, begging me to stop and go the other way. I accelerate up the hills and curves, maybe a little too fast and Phala comes and whispers at me to slow down.

I pass Turners Corner and offer a silent wave to Dahlonega.

I head up the side of Blood Mountain, enjoying, maybe a little too much, the roller coaster turns. Phala shakes her head at me from the passenger seat, silently scolding me with her eyes. She knows better.

I start the more definite ascent and soon pass two crosses on the side of a curve. The larger one has been there, attached to the tree, for who knows how long. The name on each arm of the white-washed wood read, Phala Harper. I salute her every time I pass.

The name and my frequent passing of it, often on my own, have led to a characterization of sorts. In my head, Phala was a happily single 30-something, with chesnut red hair, that was maybe just a little too dry, and a made up face, that was maybe just a little too cakey. She worked the minor league tennis circuit and was on her way up. She liked to wear her white socks and mid calf, with white tennis shoes, and a matching visor. Every time I approach the mountain, my memory of her comes into the car with me, and reminds me to be careful, to be aware, to not let my guard down, to not go outside my comfort zone for the thrill. We ride the ascent together and she gets off when I reach the store at the top, biding me farewell till next time.

This may sound odd, and I think it probably is. I don't think she is actually there, and I don't really know anything about her, but her name was so striking that my imagination apparently couldn't just leave it on that plain white cross, it wanted to give Phala Harper purpose, and now she has it.

As I begin to coast down the opposite side of Blood Mountain, I pass the imaginary line that lies between, "call Daniel if I have trouble" and "call the Kough's if I have trouble". That's the thing about this road that makes me okay to drive it even at night. There's hardly a stretch of road anywhere else in the world that I am more covered by love and care.

I pass the runaway truck ramp, and think about my plan if I ever get stuck in front of one.

I pass the stretch of road that I sat on the shoulder with four boys after the old green Chevy overheated. We sat and talked and waited for it cool off before giving the one last pull over the mountain and back down into camp.

I wave to Vogel State park and think of all the day trips my family enjoyed there and resolve again to camp there sometime like the Brannon's do.

US Highway 129 over Blood Mountain

I come up to the Sunshine store and smile, because I am approaching the turn off to Richard Russell. In my mind I turn right, then another right and a left, down a long, uneven driveway. I blow a kiss to my dear friends, the Koughs, and let that expression of love float down the road, back to Toccoa, and across the ocean to Denmark and wherever else they may be scattered, and wish for the time when we can all just hang out and drink coffee and watch fun movies together.

I pass my favorite farm house with the odd, terraced, grass lawn.

I flip my headlights from bright to dim as a car with just running lights on one side approaches, throwing my perception with the offsides.

I come into the square of Blairsville and turn toward the hospital, careful to follow the stop sign that I ran on accident more than once, because the fact that it is an intersection is far from obvious.

I pass the hospital and turn at the lake, leaving the "call the Kough's" cloud and entering into the "call Chad and Erin" cloud.

I drive past the gas station at the Gum Log interestion and think fondly on the day that I embarked down it on a spontaneous adventure to find my way through the backroads to Brasstown without a map, or a GPS, just a full tank of gas and three road names ( one of which would prove to be incorrect).

I drive towards the North Carolina line, and salute, from my car, the friendly, Indian, man who seems severely out of place in my predominately white county, and works in the gas station on the border between states. Then, I honk twice as the pavement changes, just for fun.

I pull through the flea market and smile at the King Kong Zoo my little sister has been obsessed with, but to my knowledge, never attended.

I turn onto the four-lane and switch to low lights permanently and set the cruise. Just a few more miles before I enter into the most safe "call" cloud of all. The one where my call is to "Dad" who has a terrible habit of helping figure out all my problems and to "Mom" who has a terrible habit of letting me learn about grace, by practicing it, even when I mess up.

Almost Home

I pass through Murphy and smile at the black outline of my mountains, somehow even darker than the inky sky, uninterrupted by light in this stretch between towns.

I turn off the highway and drive past the river that holds one of my biggest fears. Drowning. Running off the road in the dark and into that water, while it just closes over the top of me. But fear has no power over me that I do not give it, so I face it, and stare it down.

I drive down a hill and remember the 'possum I accidentally ran over a few weeks ago, my first 'road-kill'. That's right, you can now call me 001.

I let the cornfields on my right, embrace me as I pass, welcoming me with their familiar stretch shapes, surrounding our small airport.

I turn left and up, and up. I turn left one more time. I am home. The strings that pull my heart are balanced by the pull of this house and the people in it, the people I will see tomorrow.

Thank you Lord, for the roads that you take me on and the stories you tell in my life.

Manifesto

For years, I have imagined that I aspired to be a writer. I assumed that because I hated scientific or research papers, and didn’t see myself as much of the reporter type, that I would write fiction. 

I love stories. I love hearing them. I love analyzing them. I love narratives. I love learning to see how the little twists effect the final product. I love how the struggles, joys and decisions take the character and teach them more than they could have learned. 

I love reading books and reveling in the authors care in creating full worlds, dynamic and different characters. I love watching movies and forcing myself to not guess so that I can enjoy the unfurling of the plot as the writer wanted. I have as of late been especially fascinated by the storytelling medium of scripted television. Shows like, “Chuck” are my favorite because for five seasons they look at the character of Chuck. I like that I can go back and watch them and see how the writers grew the character. 1st season Chuck looks vastly different than 5th season Chuck and you can go back and see all the experiences written in between changed him. I love analyzing that. 

You’d think, and for years I did think, that loving stories as much as I do, I should be writing them. I have stories in my head that I’ve been working on for years, but they never translate out of my head. With extensive study and trial and error, I imagine I could be a decent writer of fiction, as anyone who studies could be decent at anything. But its not something I find I love. It’s not something that comes naturally.

So why would I love stories so much, but not be able to write them? 

Because composition and appreciation are vastly different. I look at stories and I look at life and I love searching for the little details. The things that make the moment, or translate as significant later on. The more I do this, the less interest I have in adding my own fiction to the world. 

The world has plenty of stories in the lives of those living it, and even in those who have lived. Moreover some of those people are adept at using fiction with purpose. They can craft stories that call attention, soothe, teach, encourage, lift up, bring down, anger, shock, and embarrass. Why would I waste time adding my own mediocre voice of fiction, when what I love, and what I have so far had the most success in, is calling attention to what is already here. 

The story of my own life is what I have written on the most, because I know it best. I hope that I have been able to relate some of my journey to someone else, or help them, or entertain them. However, I also love to write on other’s stories, real or fiction. I move about the world and ideas pour into my mind. 

I drive my 60 mile round trip commute and listen to music, on the radio or in my cd player and think about our perceptions of life and love are translated in subtle ways through the things we watch and listen to. 

I proctor assessment tests for the GED department and look at the different faces around me and wonder what it is that brought them in to this room that evening. What bug bit them that was non-existent in high school? What hitch in their own story disappeared to enable them to pursue this?

I sit on my porch and start to form lists of everything that makes that particular moment great. The way the setting sun slants through the railing, it’s warmth slowly moving down my outstretched legs. The birds, just packing up for the winter and yelling at each other making last minute preparations. The wind flying in over the mountain and making the tall grass in the field across the street shake with anger at being disturbed. 

Why would I want to craft a new world when the one I’m in is so fantastic? I have pain, joy, love, beauty, lessons, anger, laughter, and vision contained within myself. I am surrounded by a sea of amazing and dynamic characters. To create a new world seems disrespectful to the one I am in. 

So will I give up watching TV? or movies? or reading? Not likely. It is fun to appreciate other’s work. It is good practice to try and notice the little things. Film, television, and fiction are all art forms of those who create it. From setting up an angle of a shot, to crafting a conflict, I have to assume that they were being intentional, and it seems equally disrespectful to ignore it. But regardless, appreciating others work does keep me from seeing what’s around me, so I will resolve to spend an equal or hopefully greater amount of time noticing where I am. 

What this changes for those who read my work? Not much. What this changes for me? Quite a bit. I will stop ragging on myself to practice storytelling. I will stop thinking of pursuing that as a career (teaching at least). I will allow myself to focus more on what I love to do. Appreciation and attention. Appreciating what I have been given and the art of other’s around me, and pulling attention to those little moments, little lessons. 

Now, just because I love the word, I will call this my “manifesto” and leave you so I can go focus on one of my self-assigned research papers while the pure white snow floats down from the sky to muffle the death of the winter world around me in clean soft goodness. 

What?

In keeping with our anti-theme, this picture has no real ties to
this post, but it always makes me smile.

What do you do when you have writers block? Do I even have writers block? What is the opposite of that? When too many ideas are in your head that you pick one to come out so they just sit there and accumulate until you still don't know what to write?

Do you write about the rain that has fallen steadily for four days? And how everywhere you go, the creeks have turned into fast and powerful rivers, and fields have turned into beautiful still pools, reflecting the gray sky above?

Do you write about your parents? And how hard they make you laugh with their goofy looks and exaggerated conversation? Or how much you appreciate the lengths they go to, to make you laugh and feel loved?

Do you write about how you have also had a growing appreciation for facebook and the advances that allow you to keep up, invest in, catch up with so many people? And how so many conversations have encouraged you, or put a smile on your face?

Do you talk about the weird dent in my life I feel sometimes that has to be made out of elastic because it always bounces back out? Do I talk about how I missed laughter today - and the people who live far away that keep laughing so hard?

Do I talk about the three journals lying on my bed that have helped soothe my mind, and simultaneously inspire more writing? Do I talk about all God has been teaching me through those? Do I list off things like, trust, prayer, perseverance, trust, Godly love, trust, prayer and letting the Holy Spirit have plenty of room in my life?

Do I talk about my guitar, and how it can't hold a tune since the neck broke, but I still have it out to learn to play it anyway, because I want to be able to bring music wherever I go?

Do I talk about how tired I am, but how full my day was that started 15 hours ago?

Do I talk about how insanely excited and blessed I am to be leaving tomorrow to go on a "tour de Georgia" stopping in Dahlonega, Lawrenceville, Dowtown ATL, Kennesaw, and beyond? Do I talk about what is really exciting is not the places I will see, but the people? Do I mention how full of love and hope I am for my camp sisters that I will be with?

Do I talk about how overwhelming thankful I am that my car's only problem was a loose sway bar and some unbalanced tires? And that the bill was less than a $30?

Do I go on to how much I love my town? With the honest, friendly mechanics? The librarians who take the time to know, not just your name, but care about your life? The signs declaring "We'll Keep Our Guns" that are posted in front of the sign welcoming travelers to town? That the front page news was on the demise of "Car-truck", a beloved parade feature for ten years?

Or do I tick off a bunch of past English professors and write a post that is nothing but questions?

Hey, what would you do in a situation like this?

Sounds of a Study Lab

I now work in the College and Career Readiness department of Tri County Community College. This means that I usually end up doing a lot of things during my three-hour shifts (it's part-time) one of which is occasionally facilitate an open lab for people who are studying to take their G.E.D.

Last night there were very few people and they were mostly studying on their own, so I grabbed a scrap piece of paper and a pen (which I have to travel with as this department has an obsession with pencils. I find, on average, one, three-year-old, promotional pen to every five #2 pencils) and then started my own version of a writing exercise.

Sidebar: I have found that being out of school, I will periodically give myself homework. Like telling myself to sit and think about the sounds I heard and how to describe them, rather than doodle. 

--------------------------

Sonic* Studying

- The rhythmic vibration of the old air condintoner, alternating between noise and quiet, like a weary Grandfather napping in an threadbare arm chair, snoring, in and out.

-The muffled static of papers sliding together and apart.

- The frustrated knock of a pencil hitting the table, only to be picked back up again seconds later. As if the driver of the wood encrusted lead was only looking for a different sound besides the steady pull of the black tip against the white scrap paper.

- An extended and somewhat labored copier, broken up by the incessant beeping of an error warning, which is broken up by the curt, yet good natured, "Shut up!" of the operator of the machine.

- A wide range of sighs:

     -The frustrated one that preceded the the pencil drop
     - The weary one that starts with a slow intake of breath
     - The wishful one, accompanied by an expression implying that their eyes are seeing anything but the ghostly yellow/white of the wall infront of them.

- The dynamic tones of the lead facilitator as she jokes back and forth with students. Inflecting more on the punchline of dry humor than on any legitimate statement or direction.

- The stifled puffs of air pushed, in quick succession, out of the nose of the girl who seems incapable of not laughing at everything that happens or is said.  

-------------------------

There was more sounds to be sure, but the students left and the lab closed. 

*Sonic |ˈsänik|: adjective 

relating to or using sound waves.

Brief Life Updates

I am easily captured by the ideas of things. It will start as a spark and simmer in my head till I act on it. Some of them are odd and some of them are stereotypical. Some are good, some are bad. My most recent action towards satisfying an idea was yesterday, when I bought two of Old Navy's baseball shirts. 

Since I was twelve I wanted a baseball shirt. I could even track it back younger to my days spent with Angels in the Outfield (1994) and Rookie of the Year (1993) or The Sandlot (1993).  

Never underestimate the power of movies in your childhood. One of my craziest dreams is to ride and elephant, bareback, which stems from growing up on Operation Dumbo Drop (1995).  

On a side-note of childhood and movies,  both Operation Dumbo Drop (1995) and Angels in the Outfield (1994) started a deep love for Danny Glover. You are probably all familiar with the idea of apple pie being a staple stereotype of home and America. I never liked apple pie too much, but I did like Danny Glover. His voice is my apple pie. 

Another idea I always thought would be fun is to dye my hair. Just one of those that washes out in six weeks because the goal is not to change how I'm made, but give myself the ability to adjust to change and have fun (and seeing my mom and sister's faces when they saw me yesterday was a lot of fun).  I've danced around it for about a year or more. SURPRISE! I acted on it on Monday. Beks, my former co-counselor and avid hair dye-r did the deed, and quite well I might add. 

So here I am, sitting on my bed at home on a 30 hour vacation from camp, with black hair and a baseball shirt, because sometimes that overused, cheesy, should-never-be-a-life-mantra phrase,"Seize the moment" applies. 

What next? I'm not sure, but due to everything that I need to do in life, it will probably involve a computer and a lot of writing. 

Bring it. 

But first, I really want to go hang out with Jesus. I am reading in the Timothys and its great stuff. Stay tuned for posts about that, and likely one about ending my fifth summer of camp, and since my life and plans are still cloudy/non-existent, there will still be plenty of posts addressing that issue. 

Until that time, don't let one phrase define your life, but "carpe diem" is not a terrible one to have in your vocabulary. 

The Best Policy

I don't understand.

Am I exhausted? Am I depressed? 

I am scrambling. I am wanting to volunteer 'selflessly' for things I don't want to do, so I can throw my own pity party and have an explanation for why I feel this way. To give myself a better reason to cry, to release the mess inside of me.  But that's cheap. That's a bandaid on a festering wound and I refuse to settle for any sort of false healing. 

I am wanting to be done. To be through with the checklist, the planning. I want to be done with the fine print. 

I want to be able to be still. To just live. To choose my chaos, to be free to pull an audible. 

So what do I do? I shed a disappointingly small fraction of the tears that have been building for a month and leave the rest weighing heavy on my chest.

I sit.

I pray. 

The only words I have, "God heal me."

I write. 

I wait.

How's that for honest?

Cornhole and Socks (Lydia's that is)

I feel as though I could write a novel a day. The little details of camp. But I don't have a notebook with me all the time,  and I definitely don't have time to write, so you get this: a mish-mash of moments and observations.

The other morning I went out on the field and the air was so humid and the sun was so hidden that the dew was still there at eleven in the morning. It made the grass silvery and all the footsteps of the morning classes left tracks like the beach or in the snow.

There is a camper who is here right now. When she smiles her eyes curve down and her mouth curves up, making the biggest, most lovable circle of joy around her face.  Her teeth take up nearly a third of the surface area of her face. The front teeth are a little too big, like many eight-year-old's are, and they are a little crooked on the sides, as her mouth tries to cope with the change from baby teeth. And like almost every child ever, there is normally a stain on her teeth from leftover chicken fingers or a ring pop from outpost.

On certain nights at the lodge between the hours of 10:30 and 11:55 you will find a group of staff on the front porch engaging in hardcore cornhole or hardcore rocking. I am in that position right now. My feet are crossed up in the chair and it's a little too small for me so the arms are digging into my thighs and the wicker seat is making marks in the side of my feet. If I think about it this is not very comfortable at all but it seems much better than having my feet on the ground.

Every time Lydia, in the chair next to me rocks, her arm catches the arm of mine and pulls it down disjointedly and I wonder if she looks over and reads what I am writing or if she is just letting me do my thing.

There is a loud arhythmic thud of the beanbags hitting the board and the encouragements and berating of the players, at others or themselves. Every minute or so Thomas will announce the score for those who care. And then he asks the Braves score from Laura who is sitting on the floor listening to the game on her phone.

Daniel is shooting against Dustin and the beanbags keep piling up around the hole.

To my left I have surrendered control of my camera to Meagan. She's filming the people around her, taking a break from talking to Rebecca on her right. The filming reminds Rebecca to tell a story about her time in China.

To my right Bailey is sitting her fleece, Grinch, pajama pants is watching the back and forth of the beanbags with a sleepy expression on her face. She is zoning in and out, much like Champ, still holding her phone.

James and Karina are on the end talking about her future plans.

At the board under the stairs Thomas is throwing against Lydia now. She's still wearing her tribal outfit of red shorts and long athletic socks.

At this point in the night its easy to get lost letting your head roll back and forth watching the beanbags fly over our heads and I think that this post is getting repetitive. I could go on writing but I need to stop.

So I'll leave you with one last observation from camp life:

The other night I lay on the pavement by field two, waiting to hand out gold coins to the campers for a game. I lay back and looked up at the sky. It was so open and perfect that it seemed like I could see the curve of the sky. The clouds looked like cotton that had been picked apart and stretched out against the bright blue. I made all the campers tell me a shape they saw before I gave them their coin.

The little moments make life. And mine is overflowing as of late. Keep looking for your own small moments and let them make your day.

"A Lone Wolf Set Loose Upon North Georgia"

Today was my day off and my biggest goal was to sleep. Done. Woke up at ten. Delightful. 

My family came to see me for a few hours and we sat in a park and talked and watched a squirrel literally do flips. Wouldn't you know I didn't have my camera. 

I came back and wandered aimlessly for a while before settling down to a kind of sad movie. Not the best three and half hours of my life. 

Then I went outside to write in a journal, which is below and the rest of the night will be in the pictures. 

Melancholy. 

It's not sadness, but it manifests itself similarly. 

The feeling that there's a blender at the bottom of your chest. Like it's creating a vacuum that churns your stomach and pulls on your heart till your insides feel like an indistinguishable mass. 

This is a symptom of sadness or of melancholy. 

Sadness is an attack, but melancholy I think is simply a complete inability to process, brought on by exhaustion.

So in an effort to combat the melancholy that makes me want to curl up in a ball and sob till I am drained of everything that could be confused, I'm redirecting with a list of things that make my heart happy.

1. The perfect asymmetric design of the white clouds, stretched out across the perfect blue of the sky. A sky so blue that the exact color has never and will never be harnessed or trapped to any medium other than reality.
2. That Laura, our photographer, just narrated her approach to hug me. "A walk, into a run...into a...jump!"
3. That I woke up and put a skirt on. I literally always wear bike shorts on under my skirts and dresses, but stil, wearing it and feeling the wind move the fabric around my knees or hearing the swish sound it makes as I walk. Something about wearing skirts makes me want to run on my tiptoes and use the words, "Flit" and "Flutter". 
4. Similarly, walking in bare feet. Something about being so solidly connected to the earth makes my hippie heart happy.
5. The phrase, "my hippie heart".
6. Finding different ways to capture and record life.
7. The silhouette of the leaves and trees against the sky.
8. Composition books and G2 pens. 

This is all I have written in the entry. For the purposes of this blog I am continuing the list for the rest of the evening. 

1. The smile on Danielle Harris's face and the way she let me borrow her car and escape the crazy melancholy of sitting by myself at camp.
2. Nearly every Ingrid Michelson, or He is We, song.
3. Overalls
4. The way my wheels turn while wandering Walmart alone. 
5. The conversations you have at random with cashiers in Walmart or Ingles.
6. Sitting by myself at the counter in Huddle House and enjoying a Western omelet and cheesy hash browns.
7. The conversations that people have with each other. (I heard a lot about eating cake from the cooks at Huddle House). 
8. The conversations that people have with me, especially after I tell them I can't eat bread. In case you were wondering the cook who expertly flipped my eggs in the pan by throwing it up in the air and catching it back "blows up" when she eats bread, but she still does. But she's starting to break the habit. She also compassionately scraped the griddle before cooking my food to get any break crumbs off. 
9. People surprising you with unexpected compassion.
10. Finding a present for someone that makes them laugh.
11. The feeling of being back with people, because going so long without interaction left a small hole in my fabric of being that was only partially filled by hugging a bunch of people and laughing way too hard with Mary Beth and Katlyn.
12. The way writing is therapy, worship, creativity and a processor at the same time.

PS - The title is what my sister said about me in a text when she asked what I did with the rest of my day.

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Grace: \ˈgrās\

unmerited divine assistance given humans for their regeneration or sanctification

I'm sitting on the cement square on the top the hill. My back is against the fiber glass rock that covers camp's well. As I sit I look down at, "The Oven".

"The Oven", by any other name is "Field Two" and it sits largely by itself, baking in the sun until 3:30 in the afternoon, when SNAG (Starting New at Golf) comes in.

Eight students and two instructors stand at the edge of the field, in the sun, and hit brightly colored, miniature, tennis balls at longs strips of tri folded velcro (the 'holes').

The moisture in the air starts to pool in the my bend of my elbow and along the back of my knee. Even though I've barely moved for twenty minutes, the sun is pulling sweat out of me like a magnet till it is running down my head and gathering around my nose.

Gross.

Then...grace comes.

A vacuum of air opens in the atmosphere around me and the particles of air rush to fill it.

A breeze.

Suddenly the sweat on my skin is helping me feel cooler. Making the breeze count for more than if it had been dry.

I want to take moments like this as reminders of grace, of the fall.

We fell away from God in the Garden. We fell away from His will and took the consequences of that. Pain, sweat, toil...sweat. But in the Garden God also saved our shame, and clothed us. One of the first acts of Grace.

Now we sweat and toil through and afternoon of golf in "the oven", and through colds, and long walks, and high temperatures, and bruised and scratched limbs, and difficult campers, and heartbreaking situations, and then, a breeze comes. Nothing but a vacuum of air being filled.

God created vacuums of air and it is Grace. We fell, we take the consequences, and God gives Grace.

The grace of a beautiful breeze.

^"Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, who has blessed us in the heavenly realms with every spiritual blessing in Christ. For he chose us in him before the creation of the world to be holy and blameless in his sight. In love he predestined us for adoption to sonship through Jesus Christ, in accordance with his pleasure and will—  to the praise of his glorious grace, which he has freely given us in the One he loves. In him we have redemptionthrough his blood, the forgiveness of sins, in accordance with the riches of God’s grace that he lavished on us. With all wisdom and understanding..."  -Ephesians 1:3-8

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Ramblings of an Arhythmic Night Owl

My day.

I woke up to my roommate and partner in crime, Mary Beth, informing me that we had somehow missed our alarms and in ten minutes I was supposed to be at the lodge helping to lead assembly. Made it on time...with time to spare. But I did loose my cellphone with the alarm on it until about four o'clock in the afternoon when Mary Beth's younger sister, also on staff managed to climb deep under my bed to unearth it. What would life be like for me without them?

Led assembly, more or less. I said the "Gooood Morning Strong Rock!!!" Then tried to lead a song that requires speaking in rhythm to the children's clapping. Every time I think about the rhythm I loose it. I continued in this for a few minutes until my other half (boy's head counselor) had mercy and took over...he had to take a minute to turn and laugh at me of course. I laughed a lot this morning.

I filled an empty spot in our Super Science class. We made cardboard cars propelled by balloons. Two boys set records as the best car in Strong Rock Super Science history. It was call the Shi-poodle.

I graded cabins. Overall a good day, 3 B's and 7 A's. The oldest boy's cabin finally broke the 90 marker. They also left a letter apologizing for a mis-led day of cabin-wrecking in an effort to achieve the lowest score...even though they even failed that.

I stayed in a cabin at rest hour to cover because one of their counselors was off for the day and the other had a doctor's appointment.  I told myself I wouldn't fall asleep...I did, but this time I got the alarm and successfully made it to outpost on time.

I ran outpost for the girls, then came up and met with Daniel about covering the afternoon festivities.

I watched a video that my brother posted on his wife's wall. It was this one. He said it was for the chorus.


I set up the screen for the movie and pinched the skin off the center of my finger. Then had to enlist Thomas to help put the screen on because I fail at getting it stretched the proper distance.

Filled in for fifth period cooking for the same two counselors who were absent in rest hour and learned how to make a buffalo chicken dip.

Went to the waterfront to do final set up for the girls beach party and discovered in was thundering pretty badly out. We pressed forward because the rain was not here, but when the conditions got worse we had to pull an audible and sent them all the cabins.

Pulled the videographer to help get the sound equipment put up and then made sure all the cabins were accounted for and that Pebblebrook was covered by our fantastic media staff in absence of either or their counselors.

Spent a ton of time on the radio trying to figure out what we were doing.

Hung out in cabins then went up to the lodge and helped get the food for the boys campout and run outpost and see them off.

Trip dropped me back off in the girls cabin area so I could tell them the newly formed plan for the evening.

Ran ahead of the cabins as they came to dinner and led an assembly with just the girls.

Set up the movie, "How to Train Your Dragon." Sat in the back with Trip.

Served ice cream halfway through then had an easy going staff meeting with the girls on the porch.


Watched the end of the movie.

Sent the girls back to their cabins with smiles on everyone's faces.

Decided with Trip to watch the second half of the movie we missed while in meeting.

Had a photo shoot with Trip, Spark, Dora and Justice. For no real reason.

Listened to the Lumineers.

Laughed an insane amount.

Downloaded Picasa to my computer so I could make photo collages.

Made a collage.

Watched Range kick herself out of the lodge.

Listened to Mary Beth cackle at "absolutely nothing" on facebook.

Posted this blog.

Went to bed.

 "Rejoice in the Lord always; again I will say, rejoice!  Let your gentle spirit be known to all men. The Lord is near.  Be anxious for nothing, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God.  And the peace of God, which surpasses all comprehension, willguard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus." -Phil 4:4-7

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Teal and Ash

This weekend I got to go home. It was restorative.

I was exceedingly blessed by so many people. People that had enough faith in my assurances to want to drive and hour and a half (thank you Dustin, Tyler, and Angela for giving your cars for rides!)

I was exceedingly blessed by my family, planning and hosting and loving the twelve of us.

There was dancing, food, movie watching, just sitting and talking, tetherball tournaments, pick up basketball, coffee, thrift stores, hiking, and a ton of laughter and music.

So much fun. In one of my favorite places in the world.

On Saturday, half the group went back to home but four boys decided to brave a day in my town which included hiking Wesser Bald and jumping in creeks (not photos of that) but before that we had to handle their laundry.

We spent about half an hour sitting in the laundromat finishing it up so I started taking pictures.

There were some fun details and fun colors.

I could write more, but as far as speed...photo blog was the easiest. Enjoy.

(And the boys didn't realize I was taking pictures...Brandon just smiled at the camera cause I filmed all weekend...every weekend.)