a centerpiece for humanhood

Hand-me Down Heaven

2012-01-01T18:55:00.000-08:00

Every year around this time, gifts are bought, wrapped and exchanged for either the love of giving or consuming. For the past two or three Christmases/Christmasi (?), I’ve decided to make my own gifts for my friends and family. Yes, it is because I like to be creative, but it’s also due to my frugality and/or lack of money along with the fear of being trampled by mainstream mall shoppers to the tacky-designed, carpeted floor, under the boat-sized reindeer that are spindled from the ceiling of shopping center meccas of America. However, there is a cure for this fear - thrift stores!

Thrift stores are a Kringle crafter’s best friend. Walking in to the Salvation Army Thrift Shop off of Oakwood Avenue yesterday, there were people strolling and humming down every aisle full of worn books, gently used couches and shelves upon shelves of kitchenware. I began to gather my supplies needed to assemble my highly homemade amateur artistry, and when I went to the counter to check out, I had misplaced my driver’s license to accompany my debit card - a typical occurrence in the life of this 24-year-old grown up. The cashier, being a studiously diligent clerk as she was, informed me that she could not complete my purchase without proof of my identification. I told her I would be back and cheerily waved goodbye even though I let out my complete frustration of myself and the clerk when I drove away in my car to venture back into the holiday traffic.

After returning a few hours later, I went to the check-out counter to find my bag of nooks and crannies wrapped and tucked safely in newspaper pages. The cashier, a different woman than before, asked me how much my total was from earlier that day. I told her it was around nine dollars, and as I handed her my dynamic duo of debit card and driver’s license, she looked at me and said, “Oh that’s not necessary.” I paused and drew in a breath. You could have heard the pitter patter of reindeer or perhaps just the Christmas classic tunes permeating through the store. I replied, “This is my second attempt here today to buy my plates, and I was unsuccessful at the first purchase because I did not have both cards with me.” She informed that my items had already been paid for by a man who made a very generous donation just an hour before my arrival. I looked at her in surprise, and my wrinkled-ridden forehead began to relax on my unplucked eyebrows. Some stranger had written a check with many zeros,

and instructed the employees to not let customers pay for the remaining store hours of the day.

I ended up grabbing a few extra items that I fully intended on buying, but those were given to me as well. It was a great reminder for me to remember that amidst all of my thingy-things and plastic toys that I seem to treasure, it all - all of it - has already been paid for by a man. However, this man is very well-known. He’s mysterious but majestic. He’s humble yet heroic. He is my friend as well as my Father.

He has already paid it all.

Hobbies While Unemployed

2011-01-21T14:22:00.000-08:00

I put Spanish flan in my blueberry/strawberry protein shake because that's what you have to do to look like Jillian Michaels. Ya know, the highly fervent personal trainer from the show "Biggest Loser."

OK, she has never really recommended this, but she looks a little Spanish. Why not attribute something to that little fireball after her amazing 20 minute workout video that I performed in my mother's living room? To continue, I kept adding ingredients to my "super healthy, build muscle" concoction (i.e. passion fruit juice, more protein, seaweed juice), but nothing improved its yummy gumption status. You would think I would have developed a high tolerance for pasty, powder based mixtures that smell like a combination of stale carpet and new tennis balls. Growing up, my dad always drank this protein drink called Rip Fuel that came in a cheesy plastic red bottle with metallic glittery labeling; it's body builders' drink of choice. My entire family is fitness fanatics, but that protein makes me feel like I've climbed into the front pocket of some elderly person's pants after they applied some geriatric joint relief lotion all over.

So, I downed the drink while I distracted myself with writing the lines above. However, if you'd like my recipe, I've included it below.

2 scoops of protein the size of your fist
14 blueberries (no pre-wash! test your immune system)
1 cup of milk for excessive protein
6 strawberries (frozen with the sugary juice that comes with them because that's what they grow in)
2 tablespoons of seaweed juice
1 splashing dash of fruit juice concentrate (improves your focus)
1 heaping pie slice size of flan with a bit of caramel juice drizzled over it all
ice

My Kids First Words: QWERTY

2011-01-18T09:27:00.000-08:00

What is this entirely new revolution of broke college graduates in insurmountable tuition debt who are creating businesses that are spawns of Internet marketing and blogging which then reach unbelievable magnitudes of fame and prosperity?

Lately, I've been reading about blogs and tribes in order to find out what I'm missing (http://www.copyblogger.com/two-tribes/). According to this blog whose authors have figured out the missing link to acquiring money from once loyal readers to now paying customers (still loyal though), there are two initial tribes and one up-and-coming tribe, the third tribe (http://thirdtribemarketing.com/).

In a nutshell of these two websites, there are the tech-savvy, build-your-own-computer gurus (i.e. my brother) and the social networking, Tweeting, Facebooking, status updating, whatever-ing, popular clan. These two tribes, supposedly, are reaching a middle ground though. The third tribe is the overlapping oval when the two circles cross lines.

Experienced editors, social media professors, veteran corporate communication coordinators, and so many more individuals are sticking it to the man and branching out to fulfill their beautiful ideas online. These entrepreneurs are redefining the 8 hour work day while gaining readership around the world. Making a mark in the digital media world and teaching others how to channel their talents through social media is earning them bookoos of money. (Yes, I just Googled the word "bookoo" which is a real word!) I become a bit envious but more motivated when I see those individuals throttling past the normal online users and raking in the rewards through mastering this intangible world that lives in a computer screen!

Now, where to locate my bookoos and yours as well? Yes, we know how to navigate around and into the deep dark corners of the Internet to find the best music, the hippest blogs and the sweetest widgets. We can update our statuses and tweet with the best of them, but where is the real meat amongst all this easy cheese? What are we subconsciously training for? All this typing and syndicated searching with a heaping jarful of e-mailing and designing profiles must lead to something. Right? It's got to clear our laps for something to fall from the sky and land on us, embracing us with all the love of the world. Right?
It's been almost eight months of job searching, internships, freelance writing, waiting tables, and teaching, yet nothing has done any sort of landing. If I got something, it eluded to a specific marching chase into my sought after job location of some sort. I had to give my real live face in front of another face (equalling interfacing). It involved incessant phone calls and e-mails to editors, directors and restaurant and small business owners. I thought for a while that I could get a job through websites, and for some folks out there, you can. It does work, some of the time. However, if you break it down into a literal sense, isn't your computer which is the means for applying sitting on or in the vicinity of your lap? I'm not saying I won't chunk my resume and writing samples into that deep dark abyss of "Apply Here" links anymore. I definitely will, but I'll take the "Thank you for your submission" confirmation e-mails with a jar of salt. Grains are just merely hopeless, and I'm very determined

So keep up the good fight! Chug along, and if you have a job that you love, congratulations. I mean that in all sincere seriousness. You are blessed. As for us others, entrepreneurship is the beckoning path. Part time jobs pay the bills while you build your experience for your passion. So drum up a way to funnel your ideas into reality which create jobs, revamp neighborhoods and stimulate endless beautiful minds.

November

2010-11-09T12:17:00.001-08:00

How am I dealing with my struggles? Do I run from my problems and my past? Yes. I try to run. I clean and organize all the small details of my life. Whether it be the tiny objects in my car and around the house or the way I move and carry myself, it makes me feel more in place when things appear to be in place. Then slowly, everything gets moved and rearranged. Things get messy again as I start to slip from my organization, from my facade of sanity.

Transitions are the biggest part of life. They are how we are received by others and ourselves as well. When we walk into a restaurant, get into our cars, pass a person on the street - we are transitioning physically. How do we move in and out of these moving moments of time? Is it rapid and disheveled? Are we so worried about making an entrance, an appearance that no one notices us at all? Is your transition delicate and honorable? Do you honor who you are and the others around you?
I’m learning that it’s important to polish our transitions and love the process. I believe then we can appreciate the next part of our lives.

Phalange Feet Talk

2010-09-20T14:26:00.000-07:00

I just bought the Vibram 5 Finger toe shoes, and they hurt my feet.

I have seen these "shoes" wrapping around the feet of their ever-so willing customers; these people being runners, cyclists, hikers and even walkers. I approached and asked every person I saw flitting about in these barely-soled shoes, "Do you like your shoes" and "Are they comfortable?" Each one responded with an enthusiastic "yes" and and "I love them!"

After requesting the shoes as a graduation gift, I finally purchased them. I liked them in the store, and I liked them even more as I wore them on the plane out to Colorado that afternoon. That was the first day.

In Colorado, I saw people hiking up and down a 14,000 foot mountain with these shoes embracing every step. At the time, I thought to myself, "Yes, I made the right choice."

When I returned home, I began running and exercising in them. The "shoes" made me want to run more because they were interestingly cool. However, my feet, ankles, tops of my feet, big toes, and calves began to ache. The pain wasn't the "no pain, no gain" type. It was the "I can't run anymore, or I'm going to blow a tendon and/or ligament and fall to the ground."

I stopped wearing them for a couple of weeks even though I wanted to love these "shoes."

Yesterday, I joined a gym. Yay for manufactured active lifestyles! I wore my "shoes" on the treadmill and began to pick up the speed with a bit of an incline. As I started to run, I realized my heel was not naturally or fluidly touching the moving strip of plastic. So I started to run from heel to toe. It felt better and relieved my calves a bit. Well, with my iPod blaring into my ears, about eight minutes went by before I realized I was shaking the entire treadmill, and the knocking, boom sound wasn't from the sunny skies outside. Because I have no platform on my "shoe," there was nothing to cushion my step, so everyone in the gym now knows that the blonde chick with the wedgie in her work out shorts was running on treadmill number 23. Hi new fellow gym members! I'm here!

So I'm going to the gym again, and I'll probably wear the "shoes" again.
Why? Because people said the "shoes" changed their lives, so I thought I'd give it a shot.
However, as I'm getting older, I'm realizing change isn't always what it's molded to be. Maybe I'll just focus on changing my calves. Start small and develop from that.

Healthy Garbage

2010-08-31T20:49:00.000-07:00

For some extra cash these days, my boyfriend, his sister and I clean a cluster of buildings over on Azalea Road. We vacuum the offices, mop the lobbies, clean the bathrooms and change out the trash cans. It’s an easy job that we carry out five times per week. Yes, it smells, and yes, it can be dirty at times. Maintenance on the other end of the totem pole in these offices might seem like surface duties, but it can also be a highly revealing job as well. Although it’s not the most ideal job, you can learn so much about a person just by looking in their trash.

Before I go any further, I don’t mean to say that we dig through the people’s trash. That would be rude and disgusting. However, when we dump each small bin into the larger bin, it’s hard not to see what these people are chunking away each day. Along with some old office supplies and shredded papers, their health is being plopped into these wastebaskets as well. Here is a just a little food for thought about food for the body.

Paper wads and dried up chewing gum can be found in just about every person’s trash can; the typical stacks of paper, opened mail and used envelopes is usually thrown in there too. I am amazed at the other contents that we empty out of the cans daily. From McDonald’s Quarter-pounder super size meals to a variety of vending machine candy bars and Little Debbie snack packs, these office workers are consuming large amounts of fat, sugar, calories, sodium, high fructose corn syrup, partially hydrogenated oils, monosodium glutamate, synthetic hormones and tons of other highly processed products.

When you dispose of the remnants of what these people eat and eat one day after another, one wonders why they are doing this to there bodies. It’s not as though these employees are exercising to compensate the other half of their health. Many of them stay late and are overweight. It gets my mind rolling more than the dice all scrambled up in Yahtzee - do they even realize the damage and the havoc they choose to reek on their bodies? There is an obvious physical health problem occurring among these people, but emotional and psychological issues come with this way of eating as well.

One woman’s desk trash can always has candy bars and chocolate wrappers, a fast food restaurant’s bag and some sort of empty soda bottle There is an entire office of ladies that pile high their used paper plates of fried chicken wings, ranch dressing and casseroles. Some people even have empty beer bottles and six-packs in the mini fridges. Several offices have a designated corner cabinet. Each shelf is stacked with bags of candy, jelly rolls, doughnuts, chocolate bars and chips. These cubby holes are the mini snack aisle replicas we cruise through in the grocery stores.

The saddest part is that they are not alone. America has quickly become the fastest at making a burger which has ironically led to the majority of US citizens becoming the slowest and fattest. Last Thursday, a national news website informed us of a startling fact that said, “The average waistline for an American man is 40 inches and the average waistline for the American woman is 35 inches” (www.today.msnbc.msn.com/). Americans work hard with 40 to 80 hour work weeks and then leave work feeling overworked, tired, bloated and crashed from the artificial sugar high. It’s safe as well as alarming to say that the proof is in the pudding which I find in the trash.

The junk that is available for edible, human consumption has wharfed our food industry and is making the wholesome, homegrown, organic foods the minority. There are alternatives; it just takes a bit more effort than pulling up to the drive-thru. Virginia’s Healthfood store, located off Airport Blvd, next to Books-a-Million is a great option. Grocery stores have so many healthy options. There are plenty of books and magazine articles that give quick tips for a healthy lifestyle. Let’s face it, we know what to do. It is information that has become easy to find and readily available. It’s just a matter of training ourselves to want carrot sticks and apples over Cheetos and pudding packs. It’s a matter of seeking help for every aspect of our lives, physically, emotionally, mentally and spiritually. It’s time to take out the trash in our own lives.

Glass Bubbles

2010-08-04T11:46:00.001-07:00

Lately my six-month-old puppy, Dexter, has been viciously attacking socks. I find my running and dress socks all about the house, half-dead with holes in their heads; bleeding little trails of cotton in just about every room of the house. I’m not too sure why the obsession that dogs seem to have with feet accessories, but it must be widespread. Maybe it’s a relative form of our use of stress balls. This morning, I found him in the bathtub, sniffing gooey soaps and licking the walls. It was the first time, but I know it won’t be the last. The innocent, once-white socks, the waterless bathtub and my dog make up an uncommon trio that allows for my frustrating entertainment and his instinctive animal curiosity on a Sunday morning.

We all have awkwardly abrupt mornings from time to time with some unexpected discoveries. We just want to sleepwalk to the coffeepot, the shower or even the closet to get dressed for a morning run, bike, snuggle on the couch. Some wake-up with company (human warmth or wet kisses of a beloved pet) while others wake to the quiet simplicity of their own thoughts. Majority of us can say that our morning breath can be an abrupt alarm clock in itself. Either way, we typically wake out of our subconscious in the mornings which causes us to be a bit sensitive and timid at first, especially when the unexpectedness of life decides to tap in at the dawn.

Life is funny. It doesn’t walk in a straight line or move in chronological order. It doesn’t even form directly to the paved curves in the roads. It takes the unbeaten path, the directions that don’t follow the GPS system. Life doesn’t arrive on time or settle in perfectly. It’s not a fan of convenient stores that sell 100 percent guarantees and fairness. Life doesn’t expect you while it tends to befriend unexpected in the left field. It doesn’t show off but likes to show itself in the hardest of times. Life isn’t a chair that will hold you up when you’re tired. It isn’t found in plastic, metal or even glass bubbles.

Life, our funny, tiny lives, plays in the amusement parks - on the rusty or the new roller-coasters. Life is your favorite place in the world and your most delicious recipe you invented on accident. It is the corner you cried in when your parents told you about their divorce. It is your first car wreck and those first moments that you realize you are still breathing. Life is when you found God or found the Devil. It is when you overdraw in your checking account and when you swallow your pride to ask for help. It is when someone you love, dies or when you talk to a loved one for the first time in a long time. Life is living on a tight budget to save money so you can see the world. It’s figuring out what you truly want in it. It’s stepping out of your parents’ shoes to find your own, even if the shoes are mismatched for a little while. Life is being robbed of your money but still having your health. It’s knowing the core of who you are and what makes your windmill churn the wind, your clock tick. It’s knowing what triggers the gun powder inside of you and being able to control it. It’s screaming from the tallest peak of a mountain you just climbed, a hill you just hiked and then feeling better afterward. It’s failing at everything you try, and then failing again at everything. Life is what we don’t know, what we want to know. Life is unexpected and life is funny. Life is the death of your socks and finding your dog in the bathtub.

Re-learing My Southern Roots

2010-07-30T07:11:00.000-07:00

I graduated college in May and now, officially, a University of Alabama alumni who is on to bigger and better things. So what is bigger and better? Bigger than the Paul Bear Bryant Stadium that I walked by everyday for the past four years? Better than the irreplaceable college lifestyle? Lately, it’s as though the bigger and the better have seemed more like unexpected situations that redefine one’s sense of reality.
As a new resident of Mobile, my recent perspective has changed. This city, unknowingly, fosters the biggest heart of Southern hospitality. Growing up in Huntsville, AL, the opposite end of the state, things are a bit, well, opposite to say the least. Huntsville is quite the Metropolitan area full of people from around the world. A blend of cultures is found in the middle of it while the Southern traditions seem to seep out to the more rural parts of the city. However, in Mobile and the towns that assemble this creative jumble by the bay, there are many generations of families that have naturally honed in on what it is to be a Southerner. The hospitality is hard to escape and while the laid-back lifestyle is more than addictive. It’s safe to say that I am truly re-learning my Southern ways and re-growing the roots that are rich in family get-togethers, stories of how it used to be and sightseeing of dilapidated high school hangouts.
In Tuscaloosa, during college, I biked the streets and really studied the city more than my books. I found every local original and random coffeehouse even though they were scarce. It was hard when the few unchained places closed down because of lack of business. In Mobile and across the bay, I can’t get away from the authenticity that pulses throughout so many cracks and crevices of this place. From Thursday night bike rides and Tuesday night runs at the Loop to trendy, hip yet classy shops and restaurants, I am blow away of how quaint it is here. I’m digging it amidst this oil spoil and tropical storm repercussions.
Native Mobilians – thank you for the welcome and inviting me to trample on your well treaded, lived out, broken in, oak shaded streets and favorite hide-a-ways. It’s far enough from where I’m from but slowly becoming where I am from. At what point will I say, “I’m from Mobile, AL”? Soon, I hope.

french me

2010-06-25T06:08:00.000-07:00

There are many processes throughout our days. Many steps involved to get from one place, one moment of time, one face to another. To make connections to meet someone else who knows that important person. Perhaps its a bunch of writing to get out all the crappy writing, so you can get to the good stuff. Some processess we hate to go through, but we know we must endure them to get to that oh-so-green grass on the other side. Like teaching your puppy to not chew on the sides of walls or important wires. Or the frustration of learning a new trade such as guitar or sewing. You must repetitively do them before you're ever even decent at it.

Then there are the processes that have perks and benefits from beginning to end. Processes that become enjoyable habits and make life a grin at you when things seem a bit grim within your head.

Every morning, I sleepily find my way down the stairs to the coffee cabinet where we keep the coffee tubs full of ground coffee. There are different types - the regular brew coffee and the french press coarsely ground kind. I take the second. I get out the same silver pot and fill it about half-full of tap water. I set the stove on high heat, and put the cold water on the hot eye. I get two scoops of the coffee and put it in the glass press. Usually, I doubt my measurements out of fear of not getting enough caffeine, so I pour in an extra half scoop. After about ten minutes, I hear the water rolling, and go fetch my water to ease into my press. The water tumbles out of the steaming pot, and perfectly mixes with the grinds. At first, the liquid is muddy black and opaque, but give it a few minutes and all the coffee grinds begin to rise to the top giving the layer underneath a transparent caramel glisten. I put my head on the countertop, the press in between my face and the sunlight coming through the window. This is how I see the color change. Magic. I know. I set the filter atop that thick mass of gathered grinds and push down slowly - watching the glisten disappear one grind at a time. I always know if I've put in the right amount of coffee by the two toned colors that collide when the water is forced through the coffee.

It's a favorite process that awakens me - even before the first sip of the java-drinking remedy.

123 memory ln.

2010-06-24T18:23:00.000-07:00

Cleaning out drawers from the room I had in high school. It's pretty interesting what you find. I never considered myself a collector. I never had dolls lining the shelves of my room or little teacups and saucer sets by the dozens. Yes, I did have a bunch of one thing like shoes and bracelets, but everyone has those in multiples.

So as I dig through old drawers I discovered, on the contrary, that I am a collector, a bit of hoarder. I have enough pieces of paper to fill a spiral-ring notebook. Pages upon pages of notes and letters from all kinds of people I knew when I was younger. Cheesy cards and lost words written all to me. To my very own soul that was a different one than she is now.

Then there are the journals. I thought I packed them up in a brown, cardboard box, but those moldy diaries keep popping up here and there. Frightens me a little because I've forgotten what's in most of them. Those are the ones full of emo-poems and high school insecurities. Recently, I had a homemade poetry reading to my sister and her boyfriend. I read from one of those journals, and although I remember feeling that way, I don't remember writing it. I can't remember where I was. Perhaps that's not the important part. The reading went over well. Many snaps and rolling laughs as I shared my once deepest secrets which are now funny childhood poetic stories.

I'm moving to Mobile next week to start a new life. A new chapter full of real jobs and never-ending bills. I'm excited about the responsibilities and independence. I'm anxious to invest more deeply into new relationships and meet those Mobilians that love their waters and deep South commonality. But my heart still dreams of traveling that big ole, blue globe one day. Would it be easier to go back to high school and wander through the halls to find my way to geometry class, then chemistry? Maybe, but that route surely doesn't take you to a terminal, to a plane, to an around the world adventure.

Here we go.

Love Calling Love

2010-05-26T09:13:00.000-07:00

I can't tell you how many pictures I have captured like this one here. It is a view that I'll never get over. I always take a second, third, fourth look; and then just sit and let my memory drink up the sight.

It's no wonder why I prefer the mountains to any oceanic body of water or some Taj Mahal, look-a-like structured building. Look closely. You see no visible boundary. Two vast distances, the sky and the mountains. The most ideal and loveliest pair around. And then it's this untouchable, incomprehensible view that you can only breathe in. It's perfect symmetry as each ridge modestly shares the skyline - shadowing one another's trace. Beautifully complimenting the one before and behind it.

I've been up in Western North Carolina for the past 4 days, visiting my brother and his wife - soaking in the comfort of a different place. And although the mountains have been refreshing, they don't beat the community I've shared with the people while being here. It's nice to feel loved and immediately feel as though I am a part of this quaint mountain town. Seeing some family and old friends, I've been reminded how much I genuinely love catching up with hearts known from the past and meeting new ones as well. There are some really good people in this world - some real, live and kickin' with passion people. Full-of-life individuals who are abundantly blessed with talent and hearts, big hearts. Some still being worked on and others, being finely tuned. However, in that case, we are all a work in progress - never fully progressed but always progressing.

So as I gazed at all the greenery, covering the big bumps in the earth, I noticed; it's hard to stand in front of all these soaring green giants that pose for pictures at the lookouts on the Blue Ridge Parkway, and overlook God. It's quiet and simple there; attributes that He shares with this place. Last summer out in the Wyoming mountains, I wrote something about this observation. I scrambled it together after ascending the saddle of a mountain one morning at sunrise.

Summit Sunlight

The mountains silhouetted as the foreground of the deep indigo canopy

invites a King's daughter to softly trample between the valleys that

these giants house

Something somber, a bit silent that welcomes the footsteps in the icy snow

Balance from rock to boulder as the sun lifts the darkness and the light seeps in

from the east

Vertical ascent increases and the golden rays warm my face

as they shyly greet us from behind one of

the tallest peaks

For miles across this tangerine sunrise, the eyes are captivated

with the hazy glow, illuminating the ridges that slice

the visible horizon

Snow fills the empty nooks they inhabit

while mostly green grass blankets the tops

in the distance

I sit up here in reverent awe and try to match words

to remember this climb, but perhaps just to be an audience

in silent wonder is enough

It's all a little more than breathtaking - a bit more is taken than just my breath.

Hand-Me-Downs

2010-05-20T08:53:00.000-07:00

With all my freetime lately...and my cute little college degree...and my college debt just a accruing with those lovely interest rates...and my broke humble piggy bank that doesn't even 'oink', some would say, "Go get a job." I say, "Use your time wisely."

So with the days being filled in the shapes of visits to the thrifty nifties, long mountain hikes with funky, fruitful friends, and mornings consisting of french press coffee and no alarm clocks, well, it's no wonder I found my way into a used bookstore. Full of dust-saturated pages that haven't been read in years and bookcover fibers that have held the scent of their beloved first owner, I wandered past tiny corridors made up of bookcases and labels. Each category has its own alphabetical order with sections of religion, health and nutrition, art and philosphy, and history. I immediately admired this place. It wasn't like the mega, super-organized million and noble ones. It was an array of books, old and new; a bit out of order but perfectly placed. A collection of people's words.

I found this book called Honey in the Rock. It has neither a publication date nor a publisher. The author is Bud Robinson, and I doubt you could ever find it on Amazon.com. It has a sticker on it from a bookstore in North Carolina, which is the only trace I have of where it's from. No fancy New York editor or bestseller list - just an old-fashioned book written by a country boy. It's the sweetest book I've found in a while, and that is pun highly intended. It's raw, organic thought. Honest and free-flowing. I'll let you read the Intro/Dedication that is a direct quote from the author (mispellings and grammar errors and all).

To all the people of America that can read, and to those who are going to learn to read later on in this life, I send out this new book, "Honey in the Rock," hoping that it may find a place on your shelves, and that you will read it until you get the back so dirty that you will have to have it rebound. It is just what its name indicates - honey in the Rock, and I give you my word there are no dead bees in the book; every bee is a working bee, no drones, not one, to be found. As I wrote the book, the Lord and the devil know that my bees swarmed a number of times, but for every swarm of bees I found a hundred acres of retop clover, and I want you to have on old, fat bee-gum full of honey in the backyard of your soul that you have not robbed this summer, and in case of immergency you can rob your bees.

I wonder if you catch on?

Lovingly,

Bud Robinson

I like a gently-used, well thought out hand-me-down. I don't think any job, right now, could give me a better introduction than this. Wisely using this temporary time.

My College Aftermath Continued

2010-05-18T13:44:00.000-07:00

It has been a week and a half since I graduated from college. It doesn't seem that significant in words, but as life carries on afterward for me, it starts to settle in a bit more starkly than smoothly.

I received my whopping 2nd job rejection letter in the mail today. Yes, both organizations I applied for notified me through ole snail mail. What's ironic is that the preferred method of application for these job positions was through email. It seems there is a bit of a disconnect, or perhaps, an "email rejection" is still considered a cold one with little regard for empathy.

So with 2 rejections, I have my resume out there to two more places, awaiting acceptance or denial of my sweet and savvy skills. In the meantime, I have picked up some crazy awesome group and private swim lessons. Not only do I make some hefty mula, I get to hang with happy and funny kids, 10 and under, at a pool. It's a fun summer job that I've returned to, on and off, since I was 15.

One thing that is evident and growing - I am getting older. The signs of these times are here. Without thinking, I've managed to find comfort with elastic-waisted pants riding high on my hips while I enjoy only one glass of wine - red wine, of course, for my circulation. Also, I enjoy Tea Tree Oil, which I've been told, smells of a geriatric clinic. There are more promising signs, but these are just a few.

Bring on the rejection...and the aging.

Cloud Castles

2010-05-16T11:43:00.000-07:00

Sometimes, if it's right, I change my perspective of what the clouds appear to be.

No longer are they these mountain shaped clouds, but they are the mountains that surround the edge of the city. If you have ever visited Denver, you know exactly what I mean. The mountains, capped with snow, lace the brink of the vast horizon. When I drive around my Alabama hometown, there is a bit of a ridge-line, but when the clouds soar beyond the real rock to mimic their shape, it's beautiful. My imagination rekindles a perspective that I once had as a little girl. Every boundary and blockade funnels out and scatters on the ground, like water being forcefully dumped out of a plastic water bottle. I see past the reality of what surrounds me and let fiction trade places with old mr. fact for a little while. Pretend ridges help shake the rigidity of life.

stage of mind.

2010-03-08T20:46:00.000-08:00

Today, in my acting class, we talked about opposites - even if you hate someone, that hate is derived from love, an original joy. And the opposite of that would be loving, feeling love out of fear. My professor said he agreed with that., yet right now, at the beginning of this writing, I don’t know if I believe that - if my life’s actions and emotions follow that route.

I’ve loved when I was alone, when I was fearful of being alone. I’ve loved because I did not know what I would do in my down time of not being busy. Then I have loved because it felt right, wholly good to love that person - because that person needed my love and I, theirs. Since I was a gawky third grader, I remember driving in my mother’s green Town & Country forest green mini-van, listening to some sort of ballet-fashioned music and imagining dancing around on a black stage in a traditional pink ballet costume. These thoughts are occurring in my present, as a confused twenty-two year old. These little renditions are all make believe because I do not dance nor do I wear pink outfits - not even outfits for that matter. I’m stage fearing as well. Big fairytale that I always go back to, in my mind. In the single passenger, middle seat of my mother’s mini-van. It was entirely opposite of who I am. I hate being in the spotlight, but I think about it a lot. I’m in acting class for peter and john’s sake. I day dream of dancing, and I’m completely uncoordinated. It’s strange that I would fantasize about something, many things that do not inhabit my soul at all. What’s that mean for much of my thoughts, my dreams and goals? How about you? Where do allow or even find your mind mazing off to? Something that you’re passionate about or somewhere entirely random, unsuspecting

Opposites. Opposite thoughts and many opposite intricacies involve discoveries. What do we find out about ourselves in the melting pot of our thought process? Something new or something we deny? I’m not sure, but I do know that I enjoy that I can say “we” because it’s a human thing - personal, yes; but common among persons as well. For a while, when people acted like they had it all together in front of me, I believed them. Not saying they didn’t have many things in place, but I viewed them as perfect and myself as a screw-up. It’s only been recently that I’ve truly realized that we’re all in this world, and it really is a good fight. A fight to find. Not sure what, but to find growth in the next endeavor, the next ballet we dance on our stage of mind.

get it out.

2010-03-07T13:29:00.000-08:00

It flows and it disburses into the night sky. Your thoughts, tears, fears, dreams and hopes, your exhibition wishes, and your lonely walks around the neighborhood. Feet shuffle along the path of life, and you can only move fast enough to keep up with your mind’s next adventure that seems to trail off in the distant sunset. "Well now you’ve got me all humble jumbled" - she said. I can’t think straight, but wait, did I ever think,thunk in a line? It’s always been a maze. A

jungle of words that floated about your head. Spindled about your little broken off ends of hair that dance around like thin pieces of sea anemone. You’ve got the bottom of the sea, of your brother’s fishtank, atop your melon head - and I like it.

So when I stop writing, it’s because I think too much. I “overthink” my mind’s ability to write. Then I just get so overwhelmed about what to write, what not to write or even how not to write, that I don’t write at all. I despise the style of writing that I will no longer attempt to write. Then, after a little while, I’ll pick up the pen again and start making eye contact with my journal. I’ll begin to carry it around and keep it close. Not writing in it yet, but eventually, I’ll nearly tear the thing apart trying to get to the first available white sheet of paper. The beauty that radiates from it. The pure perfection of a simple white piece of paper just melts me. It’s a beautiful loneliness that invites me in every time. Invites me to write on its walls.

Write Right on a Typewri(gh)ter

2010-02-14T20:40:00.000-08:00

I guess I could and will start this out with correct grammar, or at least, I'll try. Perhaps I've already messed up. This rusty, sticky typewriter catches my guard and the very letters that live on the pecking board. The ding still works though, and that is something just lovely to hear in an empty house. I sit in the kitchen, at a breakfast table to to be exact. The overhead light exposes the paw prints across the wooden floors that trace the coordinating cabinets which hold up the speckled-egg colored granite countertops. It all seems to fit together like an easy child's puzzle. Can you believe that. A kitchen can come together more nicely than we can balance our own lives. It seems a little far fetched, but then again, you count the complete puzzles and mazes and crossword games of life and the pile is quite nimble. Well, then I begin to wonder, wander down another tangent...are our lives meant to be stacked and each piece fitting as it should? It seems as though a perfect God would design His own creation like so, but then again, maybe not. If we were perfect and He was perfect, what would a mistake be? Nonexistent? A mind could roll and tumble with hypothetical instances all day, everyday - trying to spindle our earthly thoughts in circumference with heavenly creations. What's the point? A diagnosis. So now I'm supposed to come up with a conclusion to wrap all this up, but I don't think I'm going to do that. I think I'll leave you with just this very..last...word to edit.

A Poem for You

2010-02-14T20:18:00.000-08:00

I could call you blue eyes,

but that would be a lie.

Instead I'll remember how they look

when you laugh uncontrollably and still keep that eye contact.

I'd rather know what your thinking when you look at me

than quote some stupid color that just ends up changing anyway.

I could call you curly cue with those dark brown curls atop your head,

but then you'll just cut all your ringlets on the hot summer day.

Instead I'll sit on the sink and shave your face for you

when you have a show or a business interview.

I'd rather you wear your array of hats and ask for my opinion

than you worry about a good or bad hair day.

I could call you dude or man,

but then you would just be another friend that is a guy.

Instead I'll call you love and handsome

when you answer the phone or call my name.

I'd rather assure you of your one-and-only status

than you feel like a number in a big amateur painting.

I could've left you alone to eat by yourself

but then I wouldn't have had a reason to talk to you three years later.

Instead I bullied you about your chicken salad in that silly coffee shop,

and you remembered the clothes I was wearing.

I'd rather drink coffee and hit on just you

than hassle another stranger about some smelly food.

cut it out.

2009-12-13T15:23:00.000-08:00

I found some creme colored scissors.

The plastic handle was a chilled french vanilla cheesecake.

I’ve never been a proficient scissor cutter and I have yet to be transformed into one;

but i just couldn’t stop looking at these scissors.

The hazard road sign orange ones that I used to cut with just made me feel rushed and icky.

These provoked a calm sense when I used them to cut off the bottom

of a beloved sticky note.

2009-12-08T15:23:00.001-08:00

just burned my tongue on the scalding water

that settles around a ginger green tea bag.

looks nice and sweet in the decorative christmas cup

which just laughs as your lips quiver and your throat screams with hot pain.

the second hand on the big gold watch ticks around

that hovers above the disillusioned numbers.

a cute little pink heart sits on the head of it

which finds pleasure in the continuous tisk-a-tisk motion it lives by.

i don't really know what i'm talking about on the topic

that has this scalding pain in ticking motion.

you probably thought you knew my mind

which is cold and quivering for some hot originality.

if I could take a cigarette butt and put it out on my forearm

that would leave a scar next to the one my sister gave me when we were kids,

i wouldn't do it without considering the options

which would be my foot, forearm and finger.

My Psychic Friend

2009-12-03T13:16:00.001-08:00

Alright, so today has been a still day. I haven’t really produced anything - done anything proactive or really tangible.

Lately, I’ve been researching some plans for life after college. I’d love to travel, speak Spanish and tell people about Jesus with words, actions, compassion and/or leadership. So I ordered a machine off Ebay that said I could put all my hopes and dreams in this little hole on the top of it. After about three or four minutes, it spits out what I’m supposed to do with my whole life. It even has a setting so that it will cover multiple decades of your life. Supposedly, one person’s testimonial review about the machine said it told him that he would ride on a live zebra through the savannas of Africa BAREBACK, and it happened. He must have put in adventure or animal lover or something. I hoped it would tell me something about having a pet whale or at least one for a friend.

Well my machine came in, and I tried it out. It laughed at me, my dreams and said my aspirations were silly and too complicated. It said I need to be more general and keep it simple. It also said that I should just go get a job and settle down to save money. It said I didn’t need to travel and that I could definitely find Jesus in a pew just down the road from my house.

I threw the machine out the window of my 4th floor dorm and put on my ear muffs. I went for a walk and decided to just paint my dreams in the air, but they vanished in the middle somewhere. So I wrote them down and researched some plans for life...

some goodness.

2009-12-02T23:38:00.000-08:00

Recently, someone openly and outwardly criticized me in a blog post. It talked about Bible thumpers and called out people for being self-righteous. It mentioned about how it's okay to sin because we are forgiven; we're not perfect. What bothers me is the okay with sinning. Thank God we are forgiven when we sin. It's the danger of knowing what sin is before, during and after we sin. In other words, it's having the knowledge of what truth is and doing the opposite.

There was never an intention to write this in order to defend myself or my radical change-of-pace in the past month. There are already enough people in the world that want to shout out louder than everyone else, so they can be heard. Self-righteousness is not something that my heart is striving for. Perhaps it could come across as that very thing when one steps back from the life of advancing his or her own self-esteem in order to find that security in the greatest comforter in the world.

Something happens when God ignites His Spirit in a human life. Here's how it goes down. Jesus seeps into every single part of your life, and one just can't contain the love that pulses through every part of you. It's like it becomes the most important part of you, and you relentlessly fall in love with the Creator of the Universe who is in love with you. :) And when you're in love, c'mon, you just can't say enough goodness about that lover!

It's overwhelming and not ever meant to condemn others. I hope this brings some clarity to the written confusion.

High five to some sweet love :)

Blockage

2009-10-11T12:02:00.000-07:00

Run Run

as fast as you can, as I can, from you.

Hide and Seek
you'll never find me, but I'll never find me unless you do.

Tag
you're it, all I need for my life.

Sometimes talking in a British accent makes me feel dignified. I can become a different person with a tweak of an accent or syllable. Peppermints all swirl together to form a refreshing taste in your mouth that only last until the buds extract all they can and the teeth crack open round candy. Then the aftertaste is bitter and hard to swallow.

Shh. Don't make a sound. Someone might hear you scream, and that would make many of us uncomfortable. Walk, one foot after another because if you skip, then people will think you're too happy. Wave then look away. Leave the person to receive the friendly greeting alone so that it's just enough, never too much. That would be overwhelming to stay for a warm hug.

Walk around all walled up. Some of us with foam cushions surrounding us while others have ply wood surrounding drywall that only a baby atomic bomb could knock a hole through.

Eggshells were meant to be cracked, so step on them. It can be awakening to crunch them underneath your sole. Hopefully, reassuring to know your life is being heard. Watch the deep sunny yolk permeate out and brighten up the stark white covering.

Blindsided

2009-09-16T20:24:00.000-07:00

Funny

how

come to church,

dressed up or at least feeling compelled to tuck in our shirts and smell of flowers

file into skinny rows with padded benches and chairs for comfort

sit and stand in an organized manner

etc.

but God, when you let him, completely and divinely wrecks all this -

takes you out of the control and into His.

He relentlessly sifts you through the tiny square holes

as we try our hardest to grip tight to the crisscrossed bars

that we, eventually,

let go

and

fall through.

So take a new grip with your tired hands and strengthen your weak knees.

Mark out a straight path for your feet so that those who are weak and lame

will not fall but become strong. Heb. 12:12-13

Wait! It’s not what you think.

2009-09-16T13:57:00.001-07:00

With every passenger and driver seat housing a fanatics excited bottom and heart, all genres of vehicles kissed the black paved pathway leading to the Mcfarland gates. During weekends when the leaves begin to think about turning and do eventually change their summer color, supporters of the longtime tradition of Tuscaloosa escape to the overcrowded streets and benches to visit that glorified stadium.

Meanwhile, I ride as an audience, going the opposite way. Passing the curves and twists of this metal snake, the cars become more spread out with each mile closer to Birmingham.

An alternative route for the day’s activity - Slash Pine Press: Poetry Reading.

Generic green paint missing from the squeaky, hard-to-open wooden door of Greencup Books opens up to a big, authentic room that is more than just a mega-chain bookstore with a built in coffee shop and shiny, new keychains and desk planners. With random books ranging from Chinese Horticulture to a series of encyclopedias boiling over with American life from each decade of the 20th century, this place has incomparable character. Worn violet suede and floral cloth couches hide behind the rows of dressers for books. A painting of a naked woman accents one of the back doors while another door leads to a “bohemian” unisex bathroom, as a dear strawberry redheaded friend described it. (If you don’t know what this is, have a visit to this place.) Mazing around these monumental accents and decor leads to a set of spray-painted silver stairs to, what it seems like, the secret gathering of the day. The second floor loft of the musty, creaky building brightens up with a centerpiece of white sunlight, flowing in from little forearm-sized windows that make up a mural of one. It’s as if it’s a curio case of light and everyone sits before it in inspirational awe. Perspiring water bottles and a few beer cans leave their wet rings on the rotting wood-paneled floor. Shuffles and scuffs of people’s feet and chairs simmer down as poets and listeners, readers and writers get cozy being tucked away in the hot attic of the surviving, makeshift library. Words that were once captive on white computer paper canvas are now set free into the room and into the ears, minds and souls of those listening. The microphone is dialed into the perfect volume to pick up each poet’s pitch of passion.

The crowd goes soulfully wild.

Four hours later, the reverent audience absorbs the last words of the last poet, the last play of the last quarter. Humidity so heavy that it’s found in the skin, the fans trickle down the staircase and out the door to a local bar for some simple talk. Greencup, still full of books, dust and coffee, quiets down as the stadium lights mute to black as well.

Musicians perform in bars while people dance and twirl.

Athletes race and compete as fans become professional pep teams of intense supporters.

Writers receive more of a quiet admiration for their paper and pen talent. With over $200 earned at the poetry reading last Saturday, it’s obvious some poets didn’t have to wait to be read. With a mic, some natural light and open ears, they simply read to us.

2009-08-25T08:38:00.000-07:00

Still light...

lightly dusts over the canopy of the soft black dark,

hollowly lit from the moon’s reflective submission of the sun.

I want to be like the moon, open and submissive to the will of the Son. Reflective of the rich golden attributes this center of the universe possesses. Steadfast in its journey to rise above the darkness every night. Silently spindled above and among the faint to serve as a light when life’s grimness inhibits their vision. Acting as a mere canvas when supernovas and exploding stars yearn for a place to paint their destiny for a greater, pure purpose than their own.

Rabbit Food

2009-06-11T09:26:00.000-07:00

Humming “Where have all the cowboys gone” and waiting on some carrot burfi to simmer, I realize the life we cannot see, the metaphorical life rides in an almost complete parallel highway to our physical actions. Signs, smelling the roses, and humbly but wholly opening our eyes might just save us all.

I shaved the orange sticks and chopped their heads off. I shoved them down into the powerful metal and shiny blades that separated the pulp from its beloved carrot juice. I sipped the liquidy goodness and welcomed a golden orange mustache. Peach fuzz is for pansies. I’ll stick with the brightest tones.

Too excited for my own creation, I popped the top off the juicer to early. Slices, chunks, mush catapulted in every 180 degree direction in front of the original Mr. slicer and dicer. I now stand in a realm I’ve never been before, in a room of carrot goo, gooiness under my toes and in the blonde matted hairs.

On the mirrors.

Leaving trails on the green painted walls of my mother’s kitchen.

In between Diet and Fit sappy magazines.

Dotting and decorating the windows’ blinds.

A slight cough and a look from my mother and we would have rolled on the floor laughing if it wasn’t for the field of orange baby food. I almost started to sing the Clean up song that Barney taught us as kids when we made a mess of some multi-colored legos and Barbie furniture.

About to take on a 40 day adventure in the woods starting Monday. Just talked to my friend this morning who is whimfully backpacking through Asia for the summer. Received a wake up call from my best friend who hasn’t been to sleep in over 24 hours due an unexpected adventure in New York City.

Life sends us spinning. Then sometimes, we are the spinners of life. Many say, “I’ll do (insert an extravagant adventure here) when pigs fly.” I’d like to see that too, but I’ll take the flying carrots as a sign.

That’ll do just fine.

Flowers by the Pound

2009-06-10T22:44:00.000-07:00

I sit beside these colorful creatures

And their perfection is intimidating

The hue of the petals against the crisp green

Is more than eye-catching, it’s enthralling and attractive

Not just to the bees and smaller unmentionable critters

But to the dominate, top-of-the-food-chain human of me

I’d like to name the color that each one presents

In my mother’s garden back behind her house

But if I did, I’d get it wrong and end up

Making some names up that just don’t quite describe the rich delicious eye candy

It’s starting to rain and sprinkle on my arms and techy computer

Which means I have to go in or at least that’s how I’m wired to think

The flowers get to stay out here and soak in the rainwater

And they don’t need a towel to dry off because they drink up every drop

They won’t ever look like a wet dog after getting poured upon from above

They’ll remain rooted in the ground and acquire strength from a simple morning shower

To think that we like all the pretty flowers because they are, well, so pretty

Is just one of many reasons why we adore them so much

Acting Lessons

2009-06-10T22:35:00.000-07:00

We all laid on the floor and thought about what we wanted to be

No one touching or talking; blinking or mocking

She walked between and among our stretched out bodies

No judgement nor condemnation; simple soft tones

We heard the words pour from her lips

No noise but calm breathing and strumming notes

She lifted her hands above and up and then back down

Not a change in her voice; only meditating words of encouragement

We relaxed and melted like butter into her living room carpet

Not a squirm or a wiggle out of us kids

Mrs. Jean asked us to breathe and concentrate on the inhales

No one exhaled until she gently permitted us to let it go

We relished in our little dreams that always grew to a piece of what could be

No doubts ever surfaced in our minds whenever she would invite us in

Professor, teacher, coach, inspirational Mrs. Jean enveloped our daydreams

Not one thought went without admiration or molding

Biked past that old house with the small eroding sidewalk that still leads up to a dull turquoise door; I saw a man, a stranger, in the yard and knew she wasn’t there anymore. My mom told me her husband died a couple of years ago, but I never saw her after my visits that took place over ten years ago. I think she is gone too, from the house and this world that whizzes around so fast, toppling and passing many of our dreams.

ANThology

2009-05-30T10:26:00.000-07:00

ONE

Laying on my yoga mat,

I see the world as an ant and all the objects that hover above.

Everything is always raised. A simple piece of mulch, scattered out of the flower patch is a bit of a path block. A human foot must be a godzilla in their world.

They never stop building their red and black dirt mounds

and constantly find treasure in our crumbs we unknowingly drop from above.

I don’t mind that the ants crawl over the many strands of my hair as I stretch out from my sleep. The black ones don’t sting too bad and if they have tempers like we think they do, they’re a bit more melancholy than the red ones.

TWO

I’d like to meet an ant

at a coffee shop and have a chat

The ant would sit up rather straight in a chair

and would talk in an British accent

It would probably be a he

and an english professor at Cambridge University

His antennas would rest above his raised eyebrows

and his legs would be crossed as he talked with his first pair of arms

We’d talk about poetry

and some of our favorite authors

He would tell me how he began his first book

and who inspired him the most

We'd laugh together

and become friends for quite a while

THREE

There’s an ant on my keyboard and he’s crawling around it like he’s in a maze. He goes in and around each letter and sometimes, underneath the keys like the T and the 3.

I don’t know why he is a he but I think it fits him because he’s like a little boy exploring all the buttons and gadgets of the world surrounding him. I don’t know where he is now, but I think he’s resting under F4.

La Luna

2009-05-28T15:31:00.000-07:00

I think I’ve been here before

Yeah, its here, the place, this hole

Spindled here in the blackness

You dance, draw back your weight

And present yourself

To the audience below, beneath, beside

It’s crisp, this atmosphere, distant

You hide in these dark crevices, corners

You have seen others fade, their lives explode nearby

Yet your journey is everlasting, enthralling

You keep looking at me, all of you

That is rude to wink, blink with no smile

Glow to me, grow on me

And tie a string from me to you

So I can catch a glimpse

Of your effervescent

Life in these outers

Fusion Framework

2009-05-28T12:24:00.000-07:00

at a big fancy table

that engulfs my height

bare feet scuffle the white carpet

and bruises and old scars take comfort in its soft fibers

gold plates at each of the six seats

and a centerpiece filled with fake peach flowers and a big green bow

a tattered green striped pajama t-shirt and royal blue shorts

kind of clash with all the order in the room

champagne glasses rest atop the shiny platters

stuffed with cloth napkins that overflow past the rim

unbrushed curls and birds nest hair

bungees and flows down her back in a non-coordinated way

a chandelier hovers above all this

quietly and almost entirely unreservedly for the mild observers

nontraditional thoughts and words flow from the brain to the fingers

and the recorded voice inside her head never stops

ceilings shoots up with the walls that house a bay window

and all the silver platters are displayed in a glass curio case

soft study and writing tunes strum out of the apple mac computer speakers

to fill the room with some life and a bit of reckless, random ritual

h two 0h

2009-05-25T10:09:00.000-07:00

Do you think we’d like the rain if we didn’t have cars to wipe away the pelting droplets on our windshields in order to prevent a crashing accident on the side of the road?

Perhaps if we didn’t take so much time to wash and dry our clothes and hair, umbrellas would be seen as a plastic fake shields that are more of a weapon to poke someone’s eyes out and cause some bad luck to pop up when opened indoors?

What if we liked the rain in every instance, in every form it took?

Watery rain, sprinkles, afternoon showers, morning mists, drizzly dews.

What if we just enjoyed what it provided and recognized what it could and always give if we allowed it.

A beautiful tapping on a tin roof

A reason to stay in bed and make love

A proof of nature’s lovely life cycle

A promise of some cheery chirps after it’s finished

A couple of puddles to cool the hot cement for sumer barefoot adventures

A new growth from an herb or flower garden

A piece of fruit to savor when it reaches a local marketplace for purchase

A writer’s paradise