simple. one sentence.

It is not simple to describe the "simple" life.

more fairness - more ponzi

I'm feeling a little tetchy.

I live in Maryland, where the estimate is that we will be having to spend some 11 million dollars as a result of the upcoming inauguration.

It appears now that our governor is asking that we not use the major road - the beltway - during that time.

Right.

Fairness at work. We pay for others. Fine, but who pays for me? That's where it always seems to break down.

Kind of like a pyramid scheme, you know? Which is pretty much the same thing as a Ponzi Scheme, which we keep hearing about on account of the arrest of Bernard Madoff, who is alleged to have caused a "loss" of some 50 BILLION dollars to his "investors".

Chump change, compared to the numbers contemplated by the various bailouts being tossed about by "Our Government".

When you stop to think about it, this is a Ponzi Scheme taken to new heights, in that we are not even "investing" money we have at this point. We're being set up to lose money we've borrowed. Who we're borrowing from is a little less certain, as is who will be paying it back. It's all magic. It's all about grabbing what you can, when you can. Sort of like Ireland, which used E.U. subsidies to build its infrastructure (leading to its "Celtic Tiger" booming economy) but which is a recent hold-out on ratifying an E.U. Constitution finalizing the formal relationship. It has also announced that it is opting out of a proposed 200 Billion euro European Union "Recovery Plan."

That's the problem with Ponzi schemes. The minute the have-nots become overnight haves, they stop wanting to give to have-nots. They "opt out." I am not being given that opportunity. Neither, however, have I been handed subsidies. What's wrong with this picture?

Interesting article in the Wall Street Journal Op-Ed pages, by the way: "Atlas Shrugged": From Fact to Fiction in 52 Years.

Our lotto mentality has come home to roost. Nothing will change until we start working again. Hard work. For a long time. No more get-rich-quick schemes or overnight fixes.

Meanwhile, I think I'll take the beginning of next week off. And to preserve any semblance of a positive outlook, I think I'll also keep the television switched off. I've had about all the hope I can stand.

I love Lush; I hate Lush. . . .

I love Lush.

Specifically, their bath bombs.

More specifically still, the Avo bath bomb.*  (although I hate avocado, which is apparently an ingredient.  [?!!]  Don't let it put you off, though, there is nothing resembling avocado in the aroma or texture, although it does turn the water green.  Still, it is not an advocado green. . . .)

They've gone even further "green" and done away with the little plastic bags they used to use to bag the bombs.  That's fine.  Yellow paper bags are fine.  But not this.

Look at the fine print.  The bag asks to be re-used. ("Is there life after Lush?") Talk about a guilt trip.

Don't throw it out?  

Put it in my sock drawer?!  

How long before I have drawers of Lush bags instead of socks?!!!

I hate Lush.

______________

*Man!  Checking out their website for the above links I found several other bath bombs that were not in the store, but sound heavenly. . . .  The geo-phyzz, the bon-bomb and fizzy O'therapy.

Looks like my sock drawers will be filling up, fast. Maybe they could have passed along the packaging savings to us, though, or give us a price break if we re-use the yellow bag to take more bath bombs home? Those things are expensive!

simple essentials

Setting limitations forces you to choose the essential. So in everything you do, learn to set limitations.

Choose the essential to create great impact with minimal resources. (i.e.: maximize your time and energy.)

Finally: all that simplifying isn’t meant to leave your life empty, it’s meant to leave space in your life for what you really want to do.
**********************
from Leo Babauta's The Power of Less, by way of the unclutterer dot com
**********************
My problem? I always feel this incredible urge to make sure I've "covered all the bases". It's a failing.

music for looking ahead

My latest 'favorite song'.

don't blink. . . .

Yes, a salute. On video, no less! And yes, I see where the "MacDonald's" descriptive comes from.

yours truly,
prophet.

the end

Tomorrow, I leave for an undisclosed European destination where I will don Academic Regalia and parade to solemn music, line up in a gorgeous old-building-setting, and eventually walk forward when my name is called. I will return to my seat bearing a document of some sort, which I hope is beribboned, with stamped insignias and flowing calligraphy, on parchment.

Instead, it will probably be a cardboard tube, with a laserjet-printed A4 sheet telling me that my certificate, "suitable for framing", will arrive by mail in 30 to 60 days. This is Ireland, after all. They are not known for speedy anything, let alone mail delivery.

I had not been looking forward to this journey until I received the following email from a fellow postgrad, who was a year ahead of me:

Did you book your gown? A. calls it the "McDonalds" gown. Very apt really. Do take lots of photos and send us one. We should start a gallery, last year I know for the first time a photo of the Seniors was taken for wall hanging, just like the Medics do traditionally. So hope to catch up, and so happy for you. Well and done and enjoy the pomp and ceremony (there is lots of that, but you might be familiar having worked in Law?), it's well earned and it is quite a spectacle.

So who knows? Perhaps you'll get to see a picture of the little-p 'prophet' in the McDonald's gown. . . . What do you think?

Anyway - I am suddenly excited to be going, and that's a gift.

Yesterday, the bluebird of happiness came calling. I was sans camera, and didn't want to miss bluebird time to go get it so there is no photo this time. He sat on the back of a chair out on the portico. Then he fluttered up against the window. Then he flew to a hole high in a snag tree I'd never noticed out back in the woods. Then he flew back and fluttered at the window closest to me. Back, then, to his home.

I know now where the bluebird lives.

another late night. . . . writing

I'd forgotten how much I hate late night command performances in front of a blank word.doc screen with only the prospect of having nothing to say to those expecting to hear a presentation of your paper to goad you on.

I sit and jiggle my legs.

I get more tea.

I check email.

I wrestle three more sentences onto the screen.

Inevitably I remember Annie Lamott's Bird by Bird and her command to write a "shitty first draft" and then hope you don't get run over by a bus before you can get to it the next day and revise it before other people read it and think "what a crapola writer she was, after all!"

I write something here and wonder if I should look for a picture to ease the nakedness of the words.

I stretch my neck and back muscles - looking upwards - and notice that the chandelier has cobwebs in between the candelabra lights. The feather duster is 7 steps away tucked into the bookshelves. Maybe I could dust it real quick and then take a look outside to see if Jupiter and Venus are still visibly aligned. The cold air would revive me.

Crap.

The house alarm is on. Setting and unsetting it makes loud beeps which will wake up the king, who's asleep.

And I want to be asleep!

Okay. So push "PUBLISH POST" and return to pulling words out of hiding and push-pinning them onto paper. 22 hundred of them so far - a little more than half the amount that proved too much for the last academic conference I attended not too long ago. That was a real academic presentation, though. The thing tomorrow is supposed to just be an informal 'work-in-progress' discussion among colleagues. What's more, the head of department has already edited the blurb describing my work to cut out the more academic references. "Don't want to scare anybody off before they get there!"

Great.

For this, I'm still up at midnight, agonizing.

I'm considering forgoing the ubiquitous powerpoint presentation as a mute protest. Thinking is not about entertainment, it's about thinking.

"Physician, heal theyself?" Philosopher, think thyself! Stop looking for rest and entertainment.

Then, maybe I can get some sleep.

6 umbrellas . . . .

Six umbrellas in one block. That’s got to be a record. Well at least the wind’s died down, even if the rain hasn’t. Stepping out of the shelter of the building on Nassau Street quickly disabused me of that notion. . . . The wind had merely changed directions momentarily. It was back in force.

I walked past another umbrella corpse, ribs splayed and broken, the fabric hanging limply off to the side like a popped balloon. By the next garbage can, two ruined umbrellas, Burberry plaid knock-offs. A red fold-up umbrella looked like it had wrecked trying to make a crash landing on top of the bin. It hung half in, half out of the trash. And skimming along the puddle that wrapped around the corner of Nassau and Kildare Streets was the perfect top of an umbrella, handle broken off. It looked for all the world like a giant polka dotted jellyfish. . . . I found myself thinking of jellyfish fondly – they don’t show up until the heat of summer has really warmed the water. Ahhhhh for the heat of summer. . . .

I’ve been away from Galway too long. And the west coast of Ireland. I’ve gotten soft from the easy living of not braving gale-force winds and sideways rain on a weekly – if not daily – basis. Clearly, Galwegians are made of sterner stuff. You won’t see wrecked umbrellas littering their streets. They know better than to even carry them. I own one – see picture – but only keep it because I like the roses on it. I certainly wouldn’t expect it to keep rain off me in this country.

What folly to open an umbrella in the teeth of a wind such as that! I feel foolishly fond of the Dubh’s* who’ve idealistically done so. . . . Even as I irritably help beat down the runaway umbrella that is threatening to take out the eyes of the rest of us huddled for shelter and waiting for the eternally non-appearing No. 7 bus. . . . The young woman’s laughter grates on my ears. What was she thinking?! No hat; no gloves; and a ridiculous piece of nylon and cheap aluminum she thinks to hold up between her and lashing wind, rain, and ice so fierce that I can barely stand up straight under the onslaught. A ridiculous contraption that, as it disintegrates, threatens bodily harm all around. Nice enough, though, for a nice soft rain. . . .

We stand at the bus stop not minding that we touch all around. For once, ‘personal space’ is on hold. I feel like a member of a herd of bison hunkered down against a blizzard. We tuck our chins into our coats and pull in close. I am lucky. I have the plexiglass wall of the bus shelter behind me. It is still holding.

It was the polka-dotted umbrella that put things into perspective for me. I wanted to pick it up and take it home with me. I love polka dots! But there was no handle. It would do me no good. I walked by wistfully. I’ll long remember the sight of it gaily skimming across the puddle. The crash-landed shredded red one, however, really showed the damage the elements can do to our meager shelter. To inappropriate shelter! And the damage inappropriate shelter can do to us. Sometimes you’re just going to get wet. . . . And sometimes, that’s a good thing. It forces you to head for real shelter.

I was coming home from the hospital. I’d braved the worst of the storm to get there. My friend Brian was admitted after complaining of double vision. Some days later, they found something in his lung. A ‘shadow’ they said. Then they said cancer. And then other ugly words like ‘chemo’ and non-operable and tumour.

“For double vision?!” I argued.

“I don’t know.” Brian said. “They don’t know! Imagine, the doctor comes in every morning and asks me how I am. I keep telling him he’s supposed to be telling me.”

I wasn’t terribly surprised when they found something in the brain. ‘Just a matter of time’, I’d thought. Not that I said anything. Brian’s double vision has persisted. He got out of the hospital for a couple hours this weekend and we watched a rugby match together at the Pub. “It’s not too bad if I close one eye.” he said. “But other than that, there’s entirely too many men on the field!” I’m to make him a jaunty patch. I’ve already made him a Fez-type tassel cap for when he loses his hair. . . . My own little bits of shelter, I guess.

Radiation is supposed to start today. With ongoing chemo, which started last week. I don’t know the prognosis. Irish doctors aren’t real keen – apparently – about talking turkey to their patients. Brian says he wants to know, but I’m not completely convinced of that, either. There seems to be a sense of ‘what I don’t know, won’t hurt me.’ Everyone just hopes for the best. A frail umbrella in the teeth of a storm. . . .

Francis Schaeffer in his book The God Who Is There talks about a “point of tension” between people’s belief systems and the reality they actually experience. He identifies this point in connection with those who have “non-Christian” presuppositions, but I think we can easily take it one step further, and talk instead about our own incomplete or erroneous worldview – whether Christian or non-Christian. . . . There is always a point where we can see that we are not living out what we say we believe. Or where we discover – by what we are living out – that what we say we believe and what we are actually thinking about God and about our world are not the same.

For example, I say I wish to trust God in everything, but how often am I busily coming up with my own plans, even as I’m praying to Him? By the time I reach “amen”, I have Plans A, B, and C all laid out. “Good show. Thanks God. Off we go.”

Have you ever noticed that God doesn’t normally require Plan B? Let alone Plan C. . . .

Right. It’s usually a dead give-away when you have ‘God’s answer’ by the time you’ve stopped speaking. Not always, mind you. He has been known to interrupt. But my actions often show that I trust myself to answer more than I expect God to. May He forgive me. . . .

And as an example involving a world-view that does not include the Creator-God, what good are the almost involuntary prayers in the worst of situations? “Can’t hurt – might help.” I’ve heard people say. Well, it demonstrates the point of tension.

“Every person has the pull of two consistencies,” Schaeffer says, “the pull towards the real world and the pull towards the logic of his system.” The point of tension is where the man ultimately sets up camp, short of the logical conclusion of his worldview, and – on the other side – short of his actual experience of the world and of himself. The more faithful he is living up to his own presuppositions, Schaeffer says, the further away he is from the ‘real world.’ And the nearer he is to the ‘real world’, the more unfaithful he will be, living up to his presuppositions.

Schaeffer talks of how most people put up a little shelter at the point they seek to camp out: “At the point of tension, the person is not in a place of consistency in his system, and the roof is built as a protection against the blows of the world, both internal and external.” It’s where we can see the inconsistency of what we supposedly believe, and how we actually live.

Ultimately, that roof needs to come off so that we can see the falseness of our supposed protection. . . . And it can’t go back up again. Another form of protection is needed. A fortress, instead of an umbrella!

Brian’s had his umbrella blown off its handle, that’s for sure. What had protected him – or at least diverted him – has been exposed as flimsy and worthless in the face of the storm he’s currently facing. Old age, sickness, and death certainly do have a way of making us ‘attend’ to the realities of life on earth. Suddenly, good manners don’t mean much. Nor does one’s popularity with the lads at the pub. Or with the ladies. Or the year and model of one’s car. . . . the number written in a bank statement. . . the name on a handbag or trousers. . . .

Nothing means much in the face of that ultimate question – that ultimate challenge. “Who are you – if/when you once no longer live on this earth?”

I don’t have any clever wind-up for this one. No marvelous magical polka-dotted umbrella. No immediate answer. . . .

Brian is learning about prayer. The hard way. They say there are no atheists in fox holes. I figure a bed in a cancer ward is no different. Perhaps even more grueling, mentally. No let-up.

The roof is off and the wind is blowing hard.
*********************************************
*people from Dublin – generally with a pretty heavy accent. Just as you will have figured out that Galwegians are those from Galway. . . . With their own heavy accent!

quotes are from pp. 152 & 158, Francis Schaeffer, The God Who Is There, InterVarsity Press, Downers Grove, IL (30th Anniversary Edition) (1st Ed. 1968 L’Abri Fellowship) (2nd Ed. 1982 Francis A. Schaeffer).

still thinking

Now that the dissertation is done, this site has been going through an identity crisis.

I started writing here as an outlet during the long, lonely, grueling days of finishing my PhD. But that's over now.

Now what?

I know a lot of people who write about political matters, and for a while I thought I might be interested in that. But no. That's not it.

General chit-chat feels self-indulgent, not to mention the fact that I have a husband and friends who cheerfully take up much of my social time, so no, that's not it either.

What am I doing here?

The funny thing is that a lot of people visit here via searches for pictures. That was a surprise to me. Then again, maybe it makes sense, when I think that writing is about showing, about describing what is. Really taking a good look around you can result in some pretty vivid pictures. Funny. That's what I did for years, traveling as a musician and missionary of sorts. Every month I'd send dispatches, stories and pictures of life on the road, people I'd met, problems and hardships but also wonderful life and laughter and good times over good food, drink, and conversation.

I'm thinking that's what I'm heading back towards.

Meanwhile, I came across one of my old dispatches, which I think I'll post, just to try the idea on for size. No illustrations, though. I wonder if the words are grown up enough to stand on their own.

almost made it

I almost made it an entire month without posts. . . . It's one month exactly today.

I found that I did not want an archive with no posts at all for the month of October, however, so here goes:

There is no overarching point or purpose here, unless you could call change - and the setting in of fall - a theme of sorts. That, and loss. Depression even. There's a change in the air, and even the beautifully brilliant colours can't hide the loss of summer and growing things, and the death that winter brings.

So, too, the brilliancy of the hope that is being bandied about can not hide the loss of so much of what I have valued in the United States of America. I was particularly struck by the thoughts of Patrick Dineen in this article. Surprisingly, it added an element of hopefulness to my outlook amidst all the gloom and doom. Not that Dineen sees much promise ahead. Au contraire, he predicts a season in the wilderness. Maybe several seasons.

What I found encouraging, though, was his sense that at least the Republican party appears to be thinking and re-thinking its position, viability and values. Not so, the side of liberalism. I was most taken with his image of a recent debate - or some such program - at Georgetown. For all the youthful enthusiasm of Obama's supporters, Dineen noted that he "was struck that it appeared to be an inversion of a McCain-Obama debate, with a youthful, thoughtful conservative and an old, hackneyed liberal."

Interesting.

Meanwhile, I've also cut back on a lot of my outside reading. I'm surprised at what I've kept up with, though. I'll read just about anything from Dineen, so long as he doesn't post 5 lengthy perambulations, which he is more than capable of doing on any given day. Ditto Gretchen Rubin's The Happiness Project (occasional fluff, but frequent gems. . . . scan quickly). Fellow postgrad Lee Anne, in the final throes of her doctoral quest and now new pregnancy, whenever she has the time or energy to post. . . . Unclutterer, because I am still hopelessly cluttered and overwhelmed. . . . but trying to dig out, now that we've moved and are into our "permanent home."

You know, I don't know that I've ever been in a Permanent Home. There's a lot of pressure on me now, to set it up right, because this is Permanent. Before, I could always get away with "This'll do for now.

There's still a lot of this'll-have-to-do-for-now-ing going on, as I continue unpacking boxes and throwing books onto shelves, way too many kitchen-ey things into cabinets, and try to figure out what happened to any concept of linen closets to house things like towels, napkins, sheets, and tablecloths. . . .

Meanwhile, I'm getting on with the fellowship (the time is flying), I leave for Belgium in a few days to give a paper (I'll see Magda! Yay!), and I have another paper to prepare for a conference in January. San Diego! That'll be nice. We're still considering traveling to Ireland for an official graduation the middle of December, depending on what air fare does in the meantime. Not to mention what the Euro/Dollar exchange rate does! Our big fellowship conference is in March - or is it April? - and I understand that, if I want to do this same sort of thing next year, now is the time to be applying for it.

Bad thought. Because that just dropped me into the abyss of recognizing that our elected officials spend most of their time raising money and campaigning, rather than actually DOING anything. . . . And now I might have to be doing a very similar thing, and not working right now, so that I can hope to have work next year. This is pretty silly.

Okay! Let's think of something pretty instead.

Thinking. . . .

Thinking. . . .

Thinking. . . .

Hmmm. Maybe it's time for another cup of coffee. Then start in on the various unpleasant phone calls on my list of things to do today. Oh, and tidy the house, at least. The king's mother is coming over for the first time today. This is the same woman who, when the king mentioned one day that he had to get home to get started on the laundry, asked him "Oh honey. . . .is everything ok with your marriage?"

Yah.

Think of something pretty. . . . .

thinking. . . .

thinking. . . .

thinking. . . .

*********************************
I would be less than honest if I didn't tell you that it's very easy for me to think of something pretty these days. . . . All I have to do is look out the window. Ah! And there goes something else very pretty: the deep bells of the grandfather clock of my childhood. It's older than I am, has been in an attic somewhere for years now, and my parents delivered it to our house yesterday. It's so good to see it - and hear it - again.

I feel better.

one sorry puppy. . . .

The eyes say it all.

mea culpa. . . .

regrets - one sentence

All the good I expect out of Luther's gelding evaporates in the face of the pain I see cut into him as he still lies - boneless - on his big-boy bed twenty-four hours after the event.

The clown edwardian collar is the final insult.

back again, briefly

Life's been busy.

New work.

New house.

New name.

Trying to settle into all of that.

I remember reading once that moving, changing jobs, and beginning/ending a marriage rank right up there with among the most stressful things in life. All at once? Killer.

It helps that I love my work and am really excited about the new house. It helps that the weather is getting cooler. It helps that the dog is getting older, and is giving glimpses of the the lovely-behaviored boy he promises to be - when he gets a few more months [years?] under his collar. It helps that I've figured out that my name is [formally] Dr. Maiden Name plus Married Name or - if they can't handle both names - then Dr. Maiden Name. NOT Dr. Married Name. They still call me Dr. Not-Quite-Married Name. They can't even get that right. It's close, mind you, but not right.

sigh.

Anyway, looking forward to moving into our 'castle'.Wondering what I'd have to do to get the gardens to look like this.I may be shutting this site down. I think it might be time to stop speaking personally - but anonymously. It's something that bothered me from the first, but it was a good outlet during a tough time for me. We'll see how my thoughts go. I'm thinking about it.

Meanwhile - this weekend is all about packing up my studio and getting ready for the movers to arrive to start packing us up on Monday. Tuesday, we should spend at my folks house - they're out of town, and our bed will be on the moving truck - and Wednesday we should move in and spend our first night at our very own house.

whew. It's been a long, long, long, LONG road. The end of a long ending and the start of a new beginning.

I can hardly wait.

lessons from Luther - self-control

Words; no pictures. Sorry. No time to find a shot to post!

I continue to be amazed at how much I have learned about growing up from my dealings with my dog. Just this morning I put him in his crate because he was completely outside of himself: leaping, barking, chewing, demanding.

How many times have I found myself effectively incarcerated - unable to move either forward or backward - because of my own inability [or unwillingness] to control myself? It's embarrassing to recognize myself in the behavior of a 6 month old dog. But hey! I'll take the lessons wherever and whenever I can find them.

I finally let him out when he settled down, and he's now happily chewing on his rawhide bone on his big-boy bed.

And if I settle down, maybe I'll get let out, too. . . .

magic t-shirt folding kit

oh yeah. I have GOT to make me one of these!

Complete with a little music chip that will play that song.

clarity

I have always loved this time of day, when the setting sun throws much of the world into shadow relief, and the loss of distracting detail shows up in stark, black, definite lines against the jewel of the sky.

This, from Elizabeth Perry's woolgathering site, where she has posted a sketch a day for several years now. . . .

self; means; ends. . . .

"Not being able to govern events, I govern myself."

Michel de Montaigne, essayist (1533-1592)

Interesting thought, that.

The one thing we have a hope of controlling is the one thing we so often neglect, in the vain hope of changing another or of securing a "favorable" outcome through protest, manipulation, shouting, wheedling, argumentation, or sulking. . . .

talking too much - one sentence

Why is it that the person who most needs to realize - "Hey! I talk too much!" - is the last person to recognize that in themselves, even in the course of conversations about other people who are talking too much?

['scuse me as I creep off to consider how this is true in my own life. . . .]

changing seasons - one sentence

No matter how hard I try to keep watch, at the beginning and end of summer I am always surprised to find that - without my having noticed exactly when - the leaves are finally out and that - at the end of summer - the bug sounds have imperceptibly changed from locusts to crickets.