Once upon a time
There were three camels
And when they were young, they had no names
Besides "Baby White" "Baby Black" and "Baby Brown"

But as they grew into adolescents this was more troublesome
Because proper camels should have proper names
So their Bedouin owner sat in his tent and tried different names aloud
"Wise one" "Strong one" "Fair one"
He would shake his head dismally each time.
Occasionally his wife would call suggestions as she bent over the hearth
"Bright eyes? Starry one? Path Seeker?"
He would only shake his head again and lament the fate of the poor nameless camels, and the shame that would bring to his tent.

But one day, a traveller visited the nomad village
As was courteous, he greeted them in peace and asked if he might stay and trade stories for a time
Since storytellers were highly thought of, he was immediately welcomed to the chief's tent, fed the finest foods, and invited to stay as long as he wished.
Each night that week, he told a different story, or perhaps two or three

And one night, while the poor owner of the camels was squatting with the men by the campfire, the storyteller told a tale of three men, serving in the court of a king
The king was fierce and mighty, and demanded much respect from his people
(The men nodded - this was only right)
And one feast day, the people gathered, and much music was played
(The women, listening from within the tents, murmured approvingly- what was a feast with no fine foods and accompaniment?)

And then - the storyteller threw his hands up to the sky - a huge statue was revealed, shining and golden!
(The children, playing around the fire, gasped excitedly)
And the storyteller explained dramatically that as the vast sea of people bowed, as commanded, to worship the statue and their king...
Three men remained standing!
The entire village, listening to the story, fell into stunned silence.
"What audacity!" "What dishonour to their families and to the king!" "Surely he would have them killed or thrown out for defying his power!"

The storyteller swept his gaze around the tents
"The three men," he said slowly, "were called to the king's presence."
" O king," the three said, "we do not need to defend ourselves before you."
(The villagers rolled their eyes and clicked their tongues. "Foolish men, to not plead for mercy or at least a quick death.")
But the storyteller continued in a measured voice,"if we are killed, the God we serve is able to save us, and he will rescue us from your hand, O king."
Quiet murmurs. This was a new idea. That Allah would step into fate and change it for the sake of three rebels... this would need discussed by the elders.
"But even if He does not, we want you to know, O king, that we will not serve your gods or worship the image of gold you have set up."
The storyteller was silent, and let that sink in
Again, a new concept. It would need due attention.
And the village was intent on giving it due attention, silently and not so silently, when a small hand tugged at the storyteller's robes.
"And then what? Then what?" came a child's voice clearly over the crackle of the flames.
The storyteller, lit by the bonfire's light, looked gravely at the small one
(The child's mother put her hand over her mouth and waited)
"Then, my child...
Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego were thrown into a FIRE."
The children gasped.
The mothers swished their skirts nervously.
The fathers pulled their beards and tried to look unconcerned.

Suddenly, oddly, the storyteller smiled
"The king," he continued, "looked into the fire and gasped too!
For there, walking around unharmed, were the three men!"

The storyteller paused to let the hum die down.
"And with those fearless three was one more, a shining one, who appeared as a son of the gods.
The king cried out, 'Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego, servants of the Most High God, come out! Come here!'
And they stepped out.
Unharmed.
Untouched by the smoke, even.
The king saw what a fool he had been.
To set himself up against God and God's followers.
He decreed that his entire kingdom should worship the one true God,
Saying, 'For no other god can save in this way!' "

The storyteller bowed his head, and indicated that his story was at an end
The villagers had much to think about that night.
And for many nights after, as long as the storyteller stayed, and then after that.
For many of them became followers of the one true God, and storytellers to their own people as well

And the camel owner...

Well, he had names for his three camels *and* a story to tell to those who recorded the camel pedigrees.

Once upon a time

There was a dinosaur
Who lived under a bridge on a table with other interesting items
But he was a lonely dinosaur
And he used to watch the humans go by sadly,
wishing he belonged to a little girl or boy who would love and hug him.

One day, a girl walked by
But stopped to look at him with bright curious eyes
She wasn't a little girl tho
Or even a medium girl
She was a big girl
Practically a grownup
But she had young eyes
And he liked the way she smiled at him
He liked even more the way she walked up and tapped his head softly.
He let himself hope - just for half a moment.
He hoped that she was little girl enough inside to buy him.

But she didn't buy him
Just smiled one more time and walked away
And he tried not to let it matter too much
But then!
A few days later
Another girl walked right up to him
She was also a big girl
Who also had young eyes
Which he found very curious
Two girls like that in one week!
But this girl (he held his dinosaurish breath) held out money
The vendor took it

Then the girl picked him up in her warm hands
Took him home in her bookbag
And when she pulled him, out, blinking, he saw a comfy room in a quick glance
Before he landed, upside down and sideways, in another pair of warm hands
When he was turned right side up
And lifted gently up to another face
He was surprised
And delighted

Because he was looking at the young eyes of the first girl
And suddenly he was squished carefully into a hug
As the girls hugged too
Then he heard a voice saying, "You told me you saw a dinosaur... so i got it for you."
In that way, the lonely dinosaur found a home with *two* girls who loved him.
And they lived happily ever after.

(And one day, another small not-quite-dinosaurish friend came to live with them, but that is another story...)

Once upon a time.


There was an attack on the regal city of Krakow.
A very long time ago, by the Tartars, who come from the far northeast with curved swords and black beards.
they scoured the city
They made made fearsome noises round the outer walls
And freaked out the poor inhabitants
And the poor Kasia's and Asia's and Magda's clutched their children closely.
The Piotr's and Jan's and Matteusz'es chewed their mustaches and sharpened their swords.
And the Izdebski and Mazurek and Skowrońska families went to church and prayed that God would fight with them against the outsiders.

But there were burly men who lived on the river
And they poled their rafts on the Wisla
Through the scorching sun and biting snow
And they were not going to put up with any foreign nonsense
So they put their grizzly peasant heads together
And by night, they crept up on those Tartars, who had the audacity and stupidity to take on the polish brave ones
And knocked the tar out of the rascals.

Naturally, though, being good Polish men...
The rafters were not about to let bygones be bygones and walk sweetly back home
So they ordered the bruised and beaten 'attackers' to disrobe
And while the Tartars crept home embaressedly in their old century undergarments
The mischievous rafters pulled on the brightly embroidered red and gold foreign garments and crept back into the city by their river ways

Once in, they ran amok and waved around the purloined swords.
They shouted gibberish in Tartar accents and knocked on doors and tried to hide laughs under fierce war cries.
Once the town was thoroughly roused, nervous, and confused
The rafters stripped off the outlandish clothes and revealed their true selves
And were proclaimed the heroes of krakow
Toasted as saviours with much food and drink.
And the church bells rang and the streets were filled with shouting children and smiling monks.

And that is how the legend of Lajkonik began

The End

once upon a time

there was a little mouse
who lived under a toadstool
and who lost her memory

so every morning she woke up
and it was a fresh new day
and whether the sun warmed her little mouse tail
or the rain dripped over the edge of the toadstool like a silver curtain
she was filled with excitement at all the possibilities
and she wandered the forest in awe at the 'new' trees and 'new' flowers and 'new' friends

and her friends were very patient with her

and while some grew irritated with the constant reminding, and occasionally just found it easier to avoid her
but most of them grew to like the constant introductions, because, while they could never be certain of shared memories
she could never hold on to old hurts or problems either
so they built many half stories together

and every night she tucked herself in under the warm leaves and told herself what an amazing new world she lived in


(and then one evening, heading home, she met a bat, who changed her life... but that is a different story.)

the end

once there was.

and one day there wasn't, and it didn't know what to do with itself.

it was before, it blamed the not on the lack of.

or clung to a will be.

but once it wasn't, there was nothing left to blame and there wasn't going to be.

so there just wasn't.

occasionally hints of is dropped in.

occasionally what might be showed up.

and what wasn't had a chance to someday become.

so it just is or isn't, and tries to be content.

once there was a happy group of stick figures who played basketball. but they had no colour so it was hard to see the lines on the court or where they began and the ball left off. on the bright side, they could reach through one another to steal the ball or even to pull the net closer. the longer they played, the more creative they got with bending lines... and rules... and soon they had to give the game a new name. they called it... ice under the hill. because that's how much sense it made. the end.

WiddlyTinks.com

once upon a time...

there was a small dragon.
she lived with her younger hatchling brothers and sisters in a little cave on the coast.
the group of little wiggly bodies and wings and scales were put to bed every night in a small tunnel off the main cave by their deep-blue mama dragon and their silver-grey papa dragon.
the papa dragon would gently pat each spiky head with his long wings, and he would rumble a good night to them all as they curled up in little heaps.
and the mama dragon would gently hum into the little ears as they swiveled toward her, and rub the little scaly backs until they stopped wiggling around (and poking eachother with not-yet-grown claws).
and some nights, when the dragonlets were VERY restless and VERY full of poking claws, the mama dragon would curl up in a big ball around them and softly growl at them until they were quiet. and if they were quiet enough, she would hum them small dragon songs until their eyelids shut over bright eyes and they lay absolutely still in dragon dreams.
and as the small dragon grew older, she learned the dragon-hums from her mother, and started adding to them. and soon she was the one to hum them to sleep, when the mama dragon was busy or away. and sometimes she would pat the others too, even if the papa dragon had already patted them, just to practice.
but years later, when the small dragon had grown into a big dragon and had a cave of her own, she would still come back to the home-cave to visit. and she would curl up in the old room with the other dragonlets and shut her eyes too. and the mama and papa dragons would come in and smile dragon-smiles at all the hatchlings together again.

because no matter how old or big of a dragon you are, papa-dragon pats and mama-dragon hums are beautiful things before bedtime.

once upon a time

there was a girl
she used to spend all her free time playing outside or reading books
and she was a very lucky girl
because her house had hundreds of books
and her outside was very large
besides her yard and the fields surrounding it, there was a long beach nestled between high cliffs

the girl often read about castles
in books of ancient times, and medieval ages, and modern eras
but she would look around her own white stucco house, and her own backyard, and the timeless cliffs by the beach, and feel she was missing something

that she didn't have a sword, she didn't mind
she used poplar branches from the tree her father pruned
or broke off bamboo lengths near the shore
that she didn't have a horse, she didn't mind
many of the great bards and travelling warriors went a-foot
that she didn't have trusty squires or a handsome prince, she didn't mind
(or fair princess sisters or maidservants)
she simply adapted her sister, brothers, and friends for those roles, as needed
but she didn't have a castle
which was challenging, because castles are the heart and home of so many stories
so she drew her own
she told stories of her own
she claimed some day she'd find one

and one day, her father led the girl, her brother, and their best friend up into the mountains to explore
and there, right at the headland
she found her castle
a giant outcropping of rocks, leaning together, forming a natural small cave and an outlook on the shore and the sea and the rest of the cliffs
she named it "minas tirith", from one of her favourite books
and persuaded her brother and friend to give the corresponding names to their respective castles - for there were three rock clusters!
and for a while they had their castles, somewhere to climb and claim as theirs
for who else would fight for a bunch of rocks on a lonely coastline?

but one day
the girl's mother and father said they were moving
and the girl had to say goodbye
so they took photos
and waved
knew they would always remember their rock castles
but the girl did one more thing
she made a small paper book
and wrote in it with pencil - which may fade but doesn't run like ink
and then she put the small book in a waterproof bag
and she hid it well underneath her castle
and when she said goodbye, she knew that the book would be there and safe a good while yet
and that it would always be her castle

the end

once upon a time
there was a harpist
who strolled the land, went where he pleased, sang what teased his fancy
one day, his laconic elegant self visited a castle he had visited before
and one of the overlords, a greedy ruthless man, was of a mind to punish a waif
this boy had accidentally angered the lord, who recognised him in the great hall and motioned him forward
bent on utter humiliation, if not injury or death, of the helpless wretch
the boy, however, saw Herluin the minstrel, and flung himself at his feet in a silent plea for mercy
"hai my, what is this clinging, small one?" asked the lazy voice
and the long and short of it was, herluin saved the day and won the boy's undying allegiance by trumping the overlord in a chess match
"i am a creature of whim, and i have a mind to this boy".
the boy had a master, an idol, a safety for the first time in his young life.

and yet...
a time later, and a safer, more honourable overlord was visiting, and then travelling to his own estate
and Herluin the minstrel, as much as he liked the boy, in his own careless veneer way...
knew that the only way to really protect the boy from any later revenge or danger, was to send him with the safer overlord

so he did
casually, coolly
citing travel, citing abroad-concerns and almost-concerns at the fate of a boy strapped to a good-for-nothing wanderer.

so he sent him on
and nearly broke the boy's heart
yet they parted on good terms
a final hair ruffle and possibly perceptible undertone of 'i wish you the best' from the languid bard
and the boy rode off, comforted slightly
and found, albeit unwillingly, a new home and life with his new master

and while he only ever met herluin now and again through the wars and days ahead, he never forgot him

whether he ever knew why herluin gave him up, is another question

the end




Retold tale from Rosemary Sutcliff's "Knight's Fee"

Uwaga. Be careful.


"The steps of a man are established by the LORD,
And He delights in his way.

When he falls, he will not be hurled headlong,
Because the LORD is the One who holds his hand.

I once was young, now I am old
not once have I seen an abandoned believer..."

(Mixed paraphrase, Ps 37:23-26)

Once upon a time...

There was a beautiful red brick university. And its bold mascot was a bulldog, and its team colours were red and blue, and its graceful walkways were decorated with peach-toned pansies. One student said, "I didn't want to study here, so close to home, so I travelled the country to find something more exciting. And yet somehow, when I came back, I saw how beautiful it was, and it just felt like where I belonged."

Once upon a time, there was a girl who also did not want to go to that university, despite its history and beauty. Nevertheless, she was pulled to it at times, so she learned acceptance. If it was the closest university to offer a basketball camp, she would show up for a few days and play her heart out. And if it was the warmest university where her friends from Bible study and hang-times attended, she would show up every few weeks on the way to adventures. And if it was the easiest university to offer exams, she would show up every few months to earn and transfer credits.

So she came when convenient and left on cordial terms. More leaving than coming, but she smiled how small bits of the university culture made their way into her life. But as she grew out of the college years, her college friends grew up and moved away from the school too. Her T-shirt from basketball camp wore out while playing volleyball in Europe. Her keychain from the rival school store got scratched up while working in the Middle East.

But one, grown-up day, on the other side of the world, the girl stayed a week with a good friend. Since they were both a long way away from Southern sun, they had to wear coats outside the house and turn on radiators inside the house. And one evening, while talking late into the night, the girl got colder than normal, too cold even for the radiator to help, and asked to borrow an extra sweater. And her friend pointed to a cupboard....

And that night the girl slept warm inside a sweatshirt from the old red and blue and peach school.

once' a time

the world turned over

held a hover

crept in cover

looked in dark to find release


once' a time

the world rolled under

took a wander

held a bonder

wrapped itself up in the black


once' a time

the world ashamed hung

stayed a course long

showed an unstrong

God stepped in to take it back


once' a time

the world stopped climbing

tried reframing

love came Naming

we stepped out and into peace

once upon a time

there was a grandpa
He had a tall son (who does not come into this story at all)
And he had a short daughter in law (who is very important)
As well as two short granddaughters and an even shorter grandson (who are also important, but not as much as their mom).

And one day, all the grandchildren were at their grandpa's big comfortable house
And their mom, the daughter-in-law, who was a wonderful cook, started a big batch of delicious chocolate chip cookies
And she rolled fifteen perfect small balls - three rows of five on one pan, three rows of five on the next
But then she was called away (probably to go shopping with the grandmother, another wonderful cook)
The mother looked worried. The oven was already heated, and the dough was already made, and the children were so excited about the cookies- what was she to do?

"Sir," she said politely (she was a very polite daughter-in-law) " could you possibly make some of these cookies?"
the grandpa, who loved eating all the good cooking in the house, was happy to agree
and the grandkids climbed on stools and chairs to watch, and kissed their mom goodbye
as he rolled out three rows of five chocolate chip cookie dough balls

however....
the day went on, and the clock ticked away.
and the grandpa got tired, and the grandkids got hungry.
so he made a few small changes here, and the kids laughed.
and he made a few small changes there, and the kids opened their mouths to taste.
and the kitchen was filled with happy noises

and when the mother walked back in, she was happy to see all the chocolatey cheerful faces
and she was pleased that such a good solution had been found to her little problem
but then she leaned down a little
and she looked into the big happy oven...
and she saw two cookie pans
and she saw the cookies on them
and she made a not happy face.

the grandpa looked a little worried.he loved his daughter-in-law and didn't like to make her sad... but it had been such a good chance, and it had made the kids so happy. and when the mom turned around and saw all the waiting faces...

she gave in and laughed too. and for years and years later, the mother told the story of how she left the grandpa in the kitchen with the cookie dough
and how when she came back, she did not find fifteen perfect, small circles on each tray
but four huge ones=

and how he had looked and her and laughed, and said, "but now i can tell my wife, "i only ate two!"

once upon a time

there was a girl who was out travelling the globe, hummed independent songs and convinced everybody that she was happy with no sweetheart, no attachments, no home. she kept a small list of a few friends that she 'still kept up with,' a couple of boys she had 'enjoyed hanging out with,' and a few places she 'once was fond of',but it was a very small list on a very small notebook that fit easily her pocket. and every few years she would look at the current page, pretend to be surprised it was outdated, and carefully rip it off. and then as she dropped it and walked away, she would start penning in neat cursive letters the next list of friends, boys, and places.

one day she paused by a bridge railing and looked over the water thoughtfully. as she stood there, one of her friends from two lists ago walked up and held out one of the pieces of paper. the girl recognised her handwriting, but didn't know what to do with this past page. her friend looked her straight in the eyes and said, "i've been trying to catch up with you for a while. you dropped this." the girl tried to put on her usual, "i can't help it, my life moves too fast" face, but failed. she quietly took the paper. as she tried to tuck it in the back of her notebook, another old friend walked up and handed her another page. the girl felt even more ashamed, as she looked down the road and saw how many places and faces she abandoned because she didn't want to take the time for them.

but, practically speaking? a voice in her head argued. when does anyone have time for all the friends and loves and homes they once had? she almost believed the voice, almost stopped tucking papers messily in the back of her oh-so-tidy and controlled notebook... and then one last friend bounced up exuberantly, handed her a paperclip, and gave her a huge hug.

don't stop turning over pages and writing new ones. but don't toss out the old ones either. find paperclip people.

once upon a time


there was a girl who had nothing under control except herself. her parents arranged her schedule, her friends arranged her activities, her coaches arranged her sports position. but *she* had control of her emotions, and she let them out on little coloured leashes when she decided to. orange for happy, blue for calm, green for useful... an occasional black for low, lonely days, a very rare pink leash for girly hours, and the occasional red leash for when she was ticked off at the world and everyone arranging her life.

one day, she moved to a new house. her new friends not only refused to arrange her life, they refused to let her use leashes. "just be yourself" they insisted. they took away the leashes and hid them and made her train her emotions to obey verbal commands instead of physical restraints.

then the girl moved to a new house. she found the leashes in the bottom of a box... and they started making innocent whimpers. "just pull us out and you'll be all colour-coded and in control again," they suggested, temptingly.

...
the girl hung the leashes by the front door, at least until she found new friends to pack them away...

the end

Once upon a time...

There was a little girl
Her father was a mighty hunter

(Another day, i shall tell you the story of when her mother brought her father a small yet powerful weapon....
But for now, know that he had this fearsome weapon.)

In their village, the mountain lions roamed the streets, and they yowled their presence.
Every night
All summer, every night.

And the little girl's father would take his weapon and shoot at them.

Every night.
All summer.
Every night.

Each evening, as the sky dropped over the village, he loaded his weapon with pebbles.
He checked the breeze
He aimed out the window
He coolly fired at the mountain lions

Every night he spent scaring them away, protecting his streets
And his wife would put her arms around him because her small children could go to sleep in peace
She was a very loving wife
But also a very tidy one

One day she was cleaning the house, and, by chance, threw away the precious pebbles

There had been peace lately in the village
But that night, the mountain lions returned
And the father reached with his right hand for the weapon
And with his left hand for the pebbles
But alas!
His left hand came back empty
And his children began crying
And the noise in the streets grew steadily louder
And his wife began to worry

So the brave father-hunter grew creative out of desperation
And he searched the room
Only to find a small pouch of sweets to suck on during illness
So he quickly loaded his weapon with the new ammunition
And commenced firing

And suddenly, there was blessed silence
He gave a smile of jubilatioin
And his children stopped crying
And his wife started humming, secure in the knowledge that her husband had once again taken care of their family

But just as the father turned from the window...
A new noise began
A deeper, rougher noise
The mother came into the room, confused

They stared out the window together
And wondered what new threat had arisen
And suddenly, they laughed
They looked at eachother and shared a small smile
"Those were not mountain lions, this time," they agreed with satisfaction
"Those were the village wolfhounds...
And they had sore throats tonight."


The End

Once upon a time

There was a small bird. She woke up early every morning to watch the sun rise and explore a new day. There was a sea to swim in and an ocean breeze to dry off in... there were small tidying chores to finish before freedom... there were other birds to chirp happy stories with. As she got older she learned it was not polite to play tricks on her nest-mates who slept late, but she could make small bird-laughs and watch while they wasted the day.

Somewhere along the years she found that there were different sorts of adventures to be had when the sun started setting. There were stars to watch... there were new evening-wind ideas to scratch down... and the night owls to talk about deep things with. And as she got older she learned it was not polite to go food-hunting when her nest-mates were slept early, but she could sing very quietly and watch while they wasted the night.

And somewhere along the years she built a new nest of her own. And she learned to not spend so much time with the owls that she neglected her sparrow friends... and she learned not to spend so much time watching the sun that she missed the moon. Or the opposite. And she learned to get enough of both... and of it all... to sing her best stories and scratch her best stories together.

once upon a time

there were three cousins who lived together. they came and they went, they walked in and walked out, but their house perched on a field corner and stayed the same. one or the other or all of them could be heard talking or humming or singing throughout the day, so the house was content. and in the rare quiet moments, trains could be heard humming past as well, because that very same field where they lived was bordered by two train tracks, and near a third. it was a perfect double triangle of a life most days, as the youngest listened to her older, wiser cousins, and watched their faces as the trains went by. and they sang, and came, and went and life traveled on. but some days the youngest cousin felt too drenched in music and too far from the trains, and she thought in triangles.

"if only the trains would run closer. if only i could run farther. if only i could sing sweeter. maybe then i would feel safer."

but one day, the oldest cousin sang her last songs, and talked her last talks, and hummed her last hums... and then she left. past one, two, three train tracks she left, and found a new house and a new life to sing and talk and hum about.

it was quieter in the house after the oldest cousin left. there were only two cousins left to make up the contentment, but they did their best, and learned different harmonies. even the trains seemed to come at different times, and the tracks rumbled in different rhythms. some days it was as if there had only ever been three tracks and two cousins... but other days all the train whistles and songs and hums seemed lonely. the almost-oldest, almost-youngest sister reminded the youngest sister to be grateful for the music and trains anyway, especially when they don't last forever.

so the youngest cousin learned to be content, even with the oldest cousin missing. she learned to love the duets all through the house and to spend long hours being peaceful with the middle cousin. and the older she got the more she realised how fragile the house and the music could be. so she soaked up the music while she could, and listened for the train whistles on the tracks by herself. and she looked at other houses nearby, because she didn't want to live with the echoes of the cousins and the trains going always away.

and then one day, the middle cousin sang her last songs, and talked her last talks, and hummed her last hums... and then she left. past one, two, three train tracks she left, and found a new house and a new life to sing and talk and hum about.

and the youngest cousin sang her last songs and hummed her last hums in an empty house, and moved to a house down the road. friends came and went, and talking came and went, but when the house was very quiet and very empty, the youngest cousin could still hear the trains echo over the roof of the cousins' old house. and she learned to sing her own songs, and to hum her own hums. and she learned to be content all over again.

Fall Cleaning


One of the biggest themes for me lately has been fall-cleaning, and not just because it's autumn. To make some very long, very overdue stories short, I will be moving apartments and adjusting to a different life here in about two weeks. Both roommates will have left to go back to the States by then, and the responsibility will be a lot more on my shoulders for my life. So many things to say that I get overwhelmed, and this is a very long update. Apologies :/

It's so odd... I keep thinking I'm growing up. And yet every time I turn around, there's something I have no idea how to do (or worse, something I didn't know I didn't know how to even start on). Paying for the utilities I had down, for example, but then had to be taught how to keep records for internet bills. The weekend my one roommate moved, I finally learned to just enjoy *being* with her and not insist on understanding. And I've since realised just how many of my friends I've been demanding with and had to go back and apologise to. I learned guitar on my own by following music moods and chords, but then asked someone to teach me a song and realised my impatience was stopping me learning. I started applying for grad school and realised I don't really know why I want a higher education. My other roommate informed me that I've actually been a stablising factor the last while, a concept so foreign that I feel like I've had to meet myself all over again!

Each new month, I think "I should send out an update, tell what's going on, what God's doing, to people who I love and who love me. I should be sending out stories to friends who like stories, who are praying for me while I'm working and learning overseas." And every month I come up with a good excuse (or several) for me not to update. For one, there are so many stories. I could write you several stories a *day*, let alone one per month. But I don't. And I could pull together photos, videos, songs, like crazy, to get across the things that grip me, the sense of urgency and time ticking down for me and others. But I don't. And I feel regretful, upset... but eventually shrug the feelings off and get back to 'real' life. Which, ironically enough, I could tell you, every month, I'm still waiting for. One of these days maybe it'll ring on the apartment buzzer like the 'poczta', mail, deliverers. Maybe 'real life' will show up in an email offer from a mentor or boss. Maybe I'll wake up some morning and KNOW, for certain, that there's a certain path I'm supposed to be taking.

I feel like I've been waiting for life to happen for a long time now. There have been plenty of reasons not to actually start it myself- lack of work details, residency and equipment delays, transitions. But, unless something major changes, I'll be headed back to the States in one week and one year. Regardless of how 'real' life was. And that's pretty sobering. I got a lot done since I've been here, but not *nearly* as much as I could have. And I made a lot of relationships, but not *nearly* as deep as I could have. And I don't want to look back on these two years and regret them. I already wish I hadn't waited this long to get serious, get joyful. But here I am now. And I'm asking you, when you pray for me, to pray that I don't go back to waiting. And I'm asking you, when you talk to me, email me, chat with me- to remind me not to go back to waiting. Because, sure, there's a time to wait, to be patient. But there's also a time when waiting is unfaithfulness. And I have no more excuses for that. So I'll be looking for you in the next unwaiting year and a week, perfect or not.



"Caleb, I don't know how to process this. This is not normal for you." "Welcome to the new normal."
- 'Fireproof'

once upon a time


there was a little girl who lived in a blue world
technically, it was a colour-mix world
but it tasted blue to her

the sky was almost always an amazing turquoise
the sea was almost always a lovely deep sapphire
and the music in her house was almost always classical

the little girl had a little mother, who loved blue
so the couches, and the curtains, and the carpets, in the house were blue with white
even the dishes in the kitchen and the sheets on the beds were blue.

every dusky blue night, the little girl climbed into a little blue bed wearing little blue pajamas.
and her little mother would come in and sing soft blue songs
until her little daughter closed her blueberry eyes and dreamed blue dreams

the end.

Once upon a time

There was an older girl who spent most of her time thinking, first in her mind and then with her hands. And when she thought long enough about something, she wrote it to others, or made it into photos and videos and shared it with others. When she spoke it out loud, she showed what she meant with her hands, so they could understand better what she was trying to give. She shared a lot, all the time, but she still felt selfish, no matter how much she shared. It seemed that every time she looked out her window she saw another face, another story that should be told, that she wasn't sharing. Or she talked with friends who knew how to share without thinking so much.

And she decided that was her problem. But she also remembered there was an answer. Once upon a time, God decided to share part of His story with humans, to even create them in the first place to be in a story with Him. And He shared freely, and didn't hold back. But the older girl spent so much of her time holding back, she didn't know how to stop. So she had to ask God, over and over, how to share with the same openness He did. It was a funny case of opposites, she often thought - the more she shared, the more she had left to share. But the more she held back, the more slipped out of her fingers and mind.

So she learned, surely but slowly, how to let go of what was not hers to keep. Time, space, freedom. And she also learned to hold on to what was hers - trust, faith, and friends. And her hands grew more graceful along the way....

Once upon a time...

There was a little girl who lived in the Mediterranean. Most mornings she woke up, ate her breakfast, and had schoolwork to do... but *some* special mornings she didn't. On those days she woke up to hear her Papa calling up the stairs, "Everybody wake up -we're going on an ADVENTURE!" And then her mouth would put on the biggest grin it could hold, and she would climb down the ladder from her bunkbed. Sometimes she jumped on her sister's bed to wake her up (her sister liked to sleep in) and sometimes she helped pull her baby brother out of his crib (he was little but fat).... but she almost always started singing, because singing is what you do when you are happy in the mornings. She also ate, because eating is very important, at almost every time of the day. Sometimes she asked with a mouthful of cereal about the adventure, and her Mama would tell her not to talk with her mouth full. But then her Mama would give her a hug, and some fresh orange juice, and no one would be upset. And sometimes her Papa would say, "We're going to the mountains!" and sometimes he would say, "We're going to the beach!" and sometimes- these were fun times- he would say, "You'll just have to wait and see!"

After she was done with breakfast, the little girl got ready for the adventure. If her Papa had said "Beach!" she wore her swimsuit, but if he had said "Mountains!" she wore her tshirt and jeans and sneakers. But no matter where he said, she alway packed a water bottle, a snack, and a book in her small backpack, because her Mama said that is what you take on adventure. Then she would climb into the van with her brothers and sister in the early morning and start up the winding roads. Sometimes she felt sick, because the roads were very, very twisty, but her mom told her, "Roll down your window, sweet-pea," and so she did. Then the cool, fresh breeze would rush down through the pines and into the van and ruffle her hair. And the little girl would stick her face out the window as far as she could and take deep, deep breaths. If she went swimming at the beach, she let her hair loose on the way home, and it blew dry as they zoomed back to their little city.

The little girl loved the beach, and the soft warm water, and all the shells hidden in the sand. And she loved the mountains, and the tall singing trees, and all the flowers hiding between the rocks. But when she grew up, and friends asked her which one was her favourite, she didn't know, until she remembered one of the best adventure days ever. That day, her Papa woke them up early, and they went to the beach, and played in the morning sand. And then, just as they went home and thought the fun was over, her Papa made them pack their bags again, and they went to the mountains too! And it was so cold there was even snow on the mountains, and her little sister didn't even want to get out of the van. "It's an adventure," the little girl said, and brought her a snowball. When the family was finally tired of playing in the snow, they went back down the mountain to their house. And the little girl found bits of snow and bits of sand in her backpack, and was very happy. And she decided that one day when she was big and got married, she would also take her children on adventures to the beach, and to the mountains, and sometimes even to *both*, because it's fun to mix opposites and surprise people.

The End.

Anything new in your hand today?
Anything old
That could be regiven
Or for me retold?

All you need is the quiet
When I need the sound
Of your voice but it says
You just want me around

And the rift grows in my mind
Till you're here, I'm half gone
Cause I feel we're drifiting
When we don't row on

You're all fine
As I worry I'm losing you
As I sigh and pause
You say don't refuse
With no cause

When I go sad
And the silences fill
You reach out
And I find I'm found
Long enough to be still

When it's okay to be sad

Once upon a time there was a very grown-up girl. And as she grew up to get there, she realised along the way that she didn't feel what most people did when they felt it. So she decided to start telling herself what she felt.

"This is not a good time to be sad," she might tell herself in the morning, looking out at snow. "This is a good time to be sad," she might tell herself, lying in her bed at night, realising there would be more snow and more grown-up decisions in the morning. "This is a good time to be happy," she might tell herself in the evening, surrounded by too many people who were having fun. "This is also a good time to be happy," she might tell herself in the afternoon, when she was standing on her balconey and looking at her new city.

And because she was such a grown-up girl, most of the time she obeyed what she told herself. She even started reminding herself what she decided- she had a sun-face towel that she would turn right-side-up on happy days and up-side-down on sad days. (Sometimes she decided to change partway through the day, and would turn her towel around. She wondered if anyone ever noticed.)

Sometimes she didn't have to decide anything about emotions at all- she *knew*. And she especially liked spending time with the friends that helped her *know* how she felt. She didn't need to decide anything- she just was sad or happy and it was okay with them. And she had other friends that she also loved... but she rarely knew how to feel around them. She had to decide how to feel when they said things, when they did things, even just when they walked into the room. When she spent time with them she felt like switching the towel face every ten minutes.

One day she realised that life was settling down. She no longer switched the towel back and forth so much, not even in her mind. If she could find a way in-between happy and sad to hang her towel, she would. Since she couldn't, she started leaving it face-up more. And she spent less time deciding how she should feel... and more time just living. And that meant that she felt sad more, because she spent less time being carefully not-sad.

But she felt sad less, because she had more time to feel happy.

And she was happy about that.

Once upon a time...

There was there was a teenager who wanted to move away from home.
Because she was tired of where she lived, because she felt caged in by sameness.
Because every time she moved, the picture of 'home' in her mind changed
The collage of that word kept growing every few years

When she was four, 'home' was a little crayon drawing in her little mind
A tin roof... wooden walls... a long porch
With little squares around the sides to mark where one Grandma's house white house was and where the other Grandma's red house was.

Over the years, more papers got stapled next to the first drawing

A square boxy white house smudged in chalk
A watercolour of a long cream house hugged by poplars and grape vines and flowers.
A coloured pencil sketch of a sprawling lodge in the woods

The teenager was still waiting in that lodge when the word came she was moving again with her family
She could barely believe it
And she wondered very hard what her new home would look like

When she arrived, it was a whole new kind
She wanted to add it to the collage.
But she had left some of her art kits behind at each other home

So she stood in the back yard grass, and looked at it
And she stood on the front sidewalk, and looked at it
And she even looked at it from above, in satellite image on her parents' computer
And she didn't know how to put it on paper

Until she found a small camera at the store
And took a photo of her new home
From the red tiled roof to the breezy living room to the friendly neighbor houses leaning next to it.
And she printed out the photo and stapled it next to all her other homes

And then she took another photo
Of all her homes stapled together
And she hung that photo as a poster in every house she ever lived in after that.

The End

Once upon a time...

There was a preschooler who woke up too early
When she looked over, her door was not shut any more.
She heard someone on the stairs, and decided that the door had creaked open as they passed
So she sleepily sat up, pushed the door shut, and lay down again
She shut her eyes

But she always slept on her stomach, so she pulled her comforter up and rolled over
Then she heard a small noise
When she opened her eyes, her friend was suddenly, surprisingly standing just a foot away
And the poor preschooler gave a huge startle

And her friend laughed and laughed
And put down a big mug full of frothy coffee so it wouldn't spill while she was laughing at the poor preschooler
And she said, "haha! i'm sorry! haha! i just wanted to bring you coffee in bed! haha! go back to sleep! haha!"
So the preschooler woke up all the way, and laughed too
And drank her coffee

And decided it hadn't been to early to wake up, after all

Once upon a time...

There was a giving-up place. It had a small door with a lock on the inside, and two small eight-sided windows toward the path. And there was a stone wall inside the giving up place, right in the middle, so no one looking in the windows could see the people when they came to give up. And some days the door was locked, and when a giver-up pulled the handle, the door wouldn't open. And the giver-up would rest a hand on the door and think peace-thoughts for the giver-up inside, then leave quietly. But some days the handle would open, and the giver-up could walk inside and around the wall. And the giver-up might see another giver-up, or two, or three... and maybe they would share hugs and quiet help-thoughts. Or maybe they would read from the life-book together. Or sing quiet openness-songs. Sometimes they would do everything for a short time, and then leave, with a little more life in them from the book and a little more help in them from the thoughts and a little more openness in them from the songs.

But some early mornings, when there was frozen mist hanging between the mountains and the sky, a giver-up would walk down the path to the giving-up place. And the giver-up would try the door, and it would open. And the giver-up would walk inside, and there would be no one else there. And the giver-up would sit on the floor and watch as the sun pushed between the icy trees through the glass wall of the giving-up place.

And the giver-up would give it all up. And that would be enough for a heart for one day.

Once upon a time

There was a big girl who moved to the Middle East.
Her first day there, she could hardly pay attention to anything her friends said.
Because she used to live in the Middle East.
And it felt like home again.

The night before she flew there, she stayed up too late
She sat in the living room in her family's home, and she looked around at her brothers and sister and parents
And she wondered when she'd be back

It was a little after christmas
And it was so cold outside
But so warm inside
They had taken extra photos by the tree
Extra photos of fireworks and sparklers
Extra photos of extra cookies they baked

And the big girl wondered where she would be for the next holidays

At the airport, she handed her heavy jacket to her mom as she hugged and kissed her family goodbye
The plane was the same chilly that planes always seem to be
But when she touched down at the airport by the desert, she started feeling warmer

And the air smelled like it used to- loquat tree blossoms
And the air felt like it used to - a little salt, a little sand
And the air sounded like it used to- rolling syllables and rough laughs and haunting prayer calls from the mosque

And the big girl was content
But sleepy
It had been a late night
And a long travel day
And several time zones
And a plane ride full of quiet excitement

So just as the girl was looking wistfully at her quiet room with a small gecko on the wall...
Her friend tapped her on the shoulder
"Pack your backpack", she said
And the girl was surprised
She wondered if she had heard wrong

But she hadn't
And when she looked in the kitchen, she saw kebabs marinating
And when she looked in the hall, she saw folding chairs
So she asked some questions, and packed her backpack, again

And that night she sat by a campfire, surrounded by the desert dunes
And she looked up at the stars
And she wondered if they were the same ones she had seen as a little girl
And she reached out and hugged her friends
And went to sleep content
Because there was still a whole life ahead to explore

And whether she spent the next set of holidays back with her family in the cold weather
Or here with her friends in the hot weather
She was held in the palm of God's hand
And that was precisely where she was meant to be


The End

I wish I had something worth the telling. I am home. I'm not going anywhere. But my stories are getting smaller and smaller, and I think my own story is getting smaller, even as it's getting re-dimensioned. Smaller can be okay as long as it goes with faster, but what about when it's just a little swallow with dusty wings? Still tracing the telephone wires, still feeling the hum of the life-tracks, half wishing there was a migration south waiting. Wondering, though, if its flight pattern is simply to fly along other birds and bring them to the waiting warmth, chirp them into the nests of parent birds who know the wind currents better.

Once upon a time...

There was a song about stolen hearts. And it played through the house. Was hummed in the kitchen. Was guitarred on the balconey under the stars.

But there was no stolen heart in the house. The heart in the house was fine, more than fine if less than wonderful. What would being stolen feel like, it wondered?

And the song kept playing. It reminded the heart of beaches by afternoon... of mountains under pine tree mornings... of foggy unfamiliar noons. The heart knew where it was now, safe in the city, no where wild. It had taken vacations into uncertainties under the stars and tuggings by lamplight before, but never been stolen. Where would a stealing take place, anyway? Outside, inside, or standing in a doorway? Would it be pulled in from freedom, pulled out of security, or told to pause in the doorway of both, like instructions during an earthquake?

And would a heart know until later that it had been stolen? The song kept playing. Maybe it was giving hints of what was around the corner, like the door creaking open, like a warning to the strong that a thief was coming. Or maybe it was like one more dusk before the end of the end, too far away to worry or start packing. Take your time... take your sweet time.

Once upon a time...

There was a little girl who moved with her family to the Middle East.
And she was soooooo excited.
And her little brother was soooooo excited.
And their daddy was sooooooo excited.
But their mommy was sooooooo stressed.

And they had several months of happy explorations.

And then... culture shock.
And the little girl was just learning to read, so she escaped into books.
And the little boy was just learning to play legos and duplos, so he escaped into that.
And the daddy... he loved it there.

So when he did want to escape, he went to the market.
Or the airport.
Or the streets.

But the poor mommy had just had a baby.
And the poor mommy had two small kids at home.
So the mommy couldn't escape the house for long.

And Christmas was coming.
So she had an idea.

And she told the little girl to pull out the flour.
And she told the little boy to pull out the sugar.
And she put the baby in the bassinet to watch the party.
And they turned on music and started baking.

And when the daddy came home, the house smelled sooooo good.
And the daddy was happy that day, because there were gingersnaps on the counter.

But the next day when he came home, the house didn't smell like gingersnaps any more.
It smelled like peppermint.
Because the mommy had baked peppermint shortbread.

And the next day the house smelled different.
Again.

And years later, the mommy would give other new mommies hugs when they were overseas and stressed.
And she would say, "after a while, life will get better, dear.
And then she would grin.
And she would look at all her grown up, well adjusted children.

And she would say, "One of MY first Christmases overseas....
I baked 15 kinds of cookies."

And all the children would smile.
And kind of wish their mom would get stressed again....

we're not friends, or so i gather.
we're not family, so you say
(shake hands we'll say goodbye this way)

companions on the road that was
in and out a northern day
(shake hands we'll say goodbye this way)

thanks for all you did and were
lovely time, a pleasant stay
(shake hands we'll say goodbye this way)

grace to you, good landing too
go with God, go as you may
(shake hands we'll say goodbye this way)

Busy trains
And railway track
Me and my
Abandoned pack

Lonely me while
Benches empty
No more tickets.
No one sent me.

Work to do
I'm told there's plenty
Here to do
To be contenting

Here I am
Till evening sunshine
Brings perspective
Slowly unwinds

Waiting people
Dirty tiles
Time announcements
Calling miles

Blending in
Grey trekker shoes
"Platform 5,
Non-travel blues."

Not down to obedience at the moment. It's direction...

"It's not about losing faith, it's not about trust. It's all about *comfortable*, when I move so much." (Sara Groves). Even a step beyond that song, a step beyond that simple dichotomy of motion or no. I'm not there any more. A month ago, at meeting, instead of finding out where I was going... I found out where I was. Not in the waiting any more, but not in the motion either.

I had a chance then to share my heart, say, "I'm a great loose cannon. I can go anywhere, do anything, without any warning-- and turn it into media. So give me a travel pass and USE me." And since then, I have been used, and have enjoyed it... but have no travel pass. Which means the question becomes, do I accept that or no? I can go back to living in waiting. Or I can 'push that door', knowing that there is no travel budget for work and I'll have to mostly solo it.

Or... I can settle down. "This place is many things, but I'd never call it home..." (TFK). I can get past that, move into a new apartment, join sports teams, help homeschool kids, keep working and brainstorming with media friends via Skype. I can save money for the future, dive more into language, make this a sweet home of my own, see how God grows me and friendships in the process.

Settling down like that... it wouldn't be a bad life. But do you really think two years of 'not bad' is worth it? Waiting, growing times are useful. We know this. But God grew me up with so much else, *soaked* me with so much different, and it seems so strange to waste that. A house is a house, and I am one of the expatriate, believing, community around the world. And you can add Persian carpets and Swedish bookshelves, Chinese teapots and African wall hangings, and make a welcoming haven, wherever you are.

But a treehouse stands out among magnolia mansions and glass highrises all the same.

i just never thought i'd grow up like this. i neglected to add in emotions when i painted the picture of who i wanted to be. i am nearly everything i ever wanted to be; i have nearly everything i ever wanted. i am a photojournalist in europe with a funky room, spiked hair and sunglasses, a bike, an ipod, a phone, and *freedom*. i can get by in six sports and five languages; i have acquaintances in thirty to forty countries.

and i'm sitting here in a coffeeshop on my own with my computer, skyping with one of my best friends and watching people walk by. if i could have seen five different snapshots of who i'd be at this age, i'd have wanted this life. and yet could i have looked at the snapshot and seen the uncertainty in my eyes? that when i walk back into my apartment tonight, it'll be quietly, because i won't know what moods or discussions my roommates will be in. (if i were to ask, i'd probably be told that it didn't matter- that i can be my own person and not react off them.) could you see the after-snapshot, when i carry my bike up the flights of stairs and wonder how far i can escape the next day. (escape with my computer, naturally, to find a new adventure and a new place to work, somewhere outside of this seven-month city.) rewind the snapshot a few hours to when the youth group and summer interns are hanging out at my apartment, and i'm hugging them and baking cookies and sharing stories. what is not to like about that? especially if you can't tell that i'm tired from too many late night soul-searching talks with a friend who's 7 time zones away and somehow is better at calming me down than any one else. do i look like i'm calm in all the snapshots, like i'm having fun, like i'm not going crazy inside because i've been in the same city for seven months and with the same people for seven months and both have essentially told me to get a life?

and most days, most snapshots, i am good. i am really good. but there was too much i didn't read between the lines when i scripted out this life. the prices for all those adventures and the process of building a life like this. and the person i've become while creating and maintaining it all. it wasn't a waste- it wasn't one big loss. it's been something incredible, but "in-credible" - 'un-believeable' tends to cover all areas, not just the moments when the grins are everywhere and the flash goes off.

check the fine print when you buy a life... blow up the photo and see if the resolution holds true, if the hidden pixels point out what you get to brush into every day.

ruins

rebuild a roof, sweep out the sand
ruin follows saving steps
move the rubble, make a plan
sweat and shift the rocks by hand
turn round to see them crumble down
was born to need to understand

i can't see the ground for all the dust
i can't see the stars for the dirt i stirred up
finally left alone on a rock
to lean back and look at my failures
to sit on a stone and have nothing to come

but more scratches on my skin
yesterday's burns i wouldn't share
or let you in, see me fail again
too little left of me already
to be enough as my shadow grows thin

and then the morning glory vines
start growing on the wall
and a song starts welling up
and soaks me like a waterfall
the walls - they come down for a reason
why rebuild? why rebuild?
despair is for a purpose
a blossom for each hope i killed
a star behind each hole i filled

why rebuild?

why rebuild?



(Lamentations 2:8, 19)

The LORD determined to destroy
The wall of the daughter of Zion.
He has stretched out a line,
He has not restrained His hand from destroying,
And He has caused rampart and wall to lament...
Pour out your heart like water
Before the presence of the Lord;

“At sunrise everything is luminous but not clear. It is those we live with and love and should know who elude us. You can love completely without complete understanding. - A River Runs Through it”

Once upon a time there was a girl who lived in an ancient northern city. In the winter, the snow hurled its fury at the walls, and only the inhabitants dared brave the streets. But in the summer- oh, the summer! Then the city was so beautiful and gracious that people came from the ends of the earth to marvel at the palaces and rest in the fragrant gardens. One day the girl was out on a walk with three friends. Oh, the sight these girls made as they wandered. One watched the sunset with melting brown eyes; another smiled through her long lashes at the birds in the trees. One tossed her glossy chestnut curls in the evening wind and the fourth laughed through cherry lips at the freedom of such an evening.

Suddenly, there arose an obstacle in their path. No longer could the four happy maidens walk side by side and converse sweetly. They must needs walk around two laborers and a carriage in the path. They carefully began moving to the side to pass, and as their bubbling speech paused, one of the men spoke to the other. The girl who lived in the city had learned some of the tongue when she moved there, and caught the word 'Touristka.'
"Ah," she thought to herself wisely, "They think we are tourists. To be sure, we are not blonde, and are not tall, and are not dressed in tall slippers, as are their maidens. But even were we clothed the same, they might have known we are not of their kind. Because- alas!- they can hardly ignore how our Anglo-Saxon words fall at a quicker, more lively pace than those of their Slavic graciousness...."

And while she pondered in this manner, it was as if one of the laborers had heard her very thoughts. And, indeed, were it not so, he must have noted their bonnie dark looks and warm nature. And he spoke to them.

"Buona sera."

"do you know what would make you happy though?"

Chatting with one of my best friends. She has the bright idea to ask this simple, pointed question when I am at a simple, pointed, crossroads in life here. Other people have asked me equally good questions, others have asked me at equally good times. But to combine both while it's almost 2am, I'm still awake, and my room is in a state of deconstruction because square furniture and halfpacked duffels are driving me crazy.... yeah.
reply.

"what would make me happy, in 450 words or less
a rail pass for the next 2-3 months
a small apartment, mine or someone else's, to dump my two duffels and two boxes of books and guitar in
and the good [digital] camera, my vidcam, and macbook in a maroon trekker backpack
and an iphone with continual work suggestions and contact numbers for our people across europe
and connections to shoot articles, photos, and videos to on a regular basis so my work would stay quality and in motion too
*spreads hands
that's what i want
maybe a hammock too"


funny how stepping back puts things in perspective. all i have to do now is pray about it, then talk all this through with my bosses and get approval, step by step... right?

“Is life so wretched? Isn't it rather your hands which are too small, your vision which is muddled? You are the one who must grow up.” - Dag Hammarskjold

nu ik alles kan bekennen
moet jij er nog aan wennen
dat het waar is wat ik zeg
streep mijn naam maar weg
- blof

roughly translates to
'now that i can admit everything/ you'll have to get used to/that it's true what i say/mark my name away'.

learning to mark my name away on any number of things. will admit honestly that a lot of what i do, what i say, isn't honest. it's learned behaviour, a coping mechanism. and to some degree, we all have to live with that. we learn to walk a little slower when walking with a toddler; we learn to cram two-year goodbyes into half an hour at the airport. but that doesn't mean we normally hold hands when stepping off curbs. it doesn't mean we normally talk 120 km an hour and memorise every details of eachother's faces. maybe we should.

but maybe we should learn to distinguish between reality and coping mechanisms. had a semi-shock moment this afternoon, realised how different my life would be if i had my own apartment. i'd known from near the beginning that i'd have roommates, so there was never really a time when i thought, "would i live differently if i didn't have built-in sisters/friends?"

not to say i've held their hands. they've held mine some, having been in this city longer. and we've had moments of memorising faces, or at least of savouring laughing and hanging out together. would we have had so many if we didn't room together, though? interesting to think that through.

Got my residency card.

Now what?

Work meeting in a few days, formal or informal, don't know yet - hopefully will get to do more of the journalism I came here for!

This, I could get used to.

Long good busy day... workmovegosinghelpwalksing. Almost fell asleep on the bus home, my one holdout-against-depressing-tourist-places friend is caving tomorrow and I'll be the loner. Leaning on a friend here to get pierced, and her mom's all for it. One of my best friends in the States had dinner with my family last night after I coaxed them into it, and now I'm jealous of them all. More residency bureaucracy tomorrow- how my luck would it be if they finally kicked me out now I'm not so hungry for escape?

Got annoyed at forgetting footage, started complaining to myself in Slavic without having to think about it. Finished one video, built another ground-up in the last 24 hours, rave reviews. Have to rewrite an article with more info. Doing a photo shoot tomorrow for friends. Love my job.

Helped moving friends clean their place, spent a sweet hour out with their Tesoro who is currently my favourite one-year-old on the planet. Walked where we normally walk, and then some, carried him on my shoulders, taught him birdcalls, took photos. Come July, I'm not gonna see him again for a long while. He's not even gonna remember my name by then....

Learning the song "What Do We Know" and learning it on the guitar. Slung its case on my back yesterday and jetted the house to play by the train tracks yesterday, surprised the commuters and ticked off a German shepherd. Haven't broken anything all week, started packing for vacation a week ahead. Be very proud. Put a pause to overprocessing thinking and stayed out of the kitchen (related?) and haven't been OCD about cleaning, been highly productive and charmingly distracted.

And- wrap thy head around this- I'm quoting less. Still singing at every turn, but the need to sum it all up, spin it over, is lessening... then again, I'm writing more poetry lately. Words and word again.

huge fan of being busy, of being tired and content, grabbing tiny moments of silence and soaking up the shades of cloud edges in the sunset, soaking up the notes and tones in my roommates voices.'

tons of work this week. easiest way to deal with it is to back off from normality, stop all other busy-ness and activity and watching. it's just me and my music and my computer, and hugs to those who want them, laughs and a helping hand to those that need them.

for the rest- especially when i'm running on very few hours of sleep- i just stop wondering, stop feeling. stop trying to figure out what's going on in my friends and roommates heads, stop caring what they think of me. all my emotion, all my energy, is wrapped up in turning pressure into presentation. in taking lifeless dv tapes and memory cards and crafting out living stories.

there's pressure, and the moments of, "o... am i worrying you by deliberate absence?" but there's also a definite freedom in blocking out everything around me. tap me on the shoulder and i'll tell you how i've been- if i remember. and i'll ask you how you've been, and listen. but in a minute or two, i'm gonna walk away and back to work, and, for once, not replay the conversation over and over in my head, feel through it all.

the whole processing process? dramatically different or deleted these days...

Connecting...

Watched 'Terminator Salvation' yesterday, enthralled. The last movie I watched in a cinema was 'Quantum of Solace', last year - I'm not a huge cinema person, but for explosion-movies it helps to have the surround sound and utter silence and blackness surrounding....

What really hit me in both movies was the level of trust in crazy, life-or-death, worlds. In 'Quantum of Solace', it was 'M' letting Bond have free reign to go his missions solo, against all common sense, no matter the consequences. "He's my agent!" In 'Terminator Salvation' it was the resistance everywhere standing down against orders because they trusted John Connor. Without trust, Bond and Connor would have been on their own, flamed out, and then probably died. But they took that extra step to stay connected with others and that made the difference.

I tend to connect when it suits me, when I have time, when I think it's worth it. A certain level of trust floats around, but not nearly what it could be. If it came down to life or death, and it was my voice over the cell phone or shortwave radio- would others listen?

Surreal, random, happy day... and one of the best here yet. Connected much?

Incorrect sunny weather. Lolcats. Outspoken Aussies.

Personal tour by a white monk.

Confused waitress who didn't know whether to speak to us in English or Slavic.

Freshly painted room, but no glitter.

Heart-sharing with a friend, no, two friends, one online and one here with me.

New piercing, a long-promised birthday treat with a friend.

Tons of coffee. Tikka masala. Gerbils. A tram that went the wrong route.

Random parade... random concert... random speed-walking race... random military/redcross/greenpeace recruitment event.

Skyped. Chatted. Sang. Texted. Threw pennies in a fountain.

Electric sunset, blood and hugs, wishes.


Deep content.

Haven't blogged anything in a while... started a new notebook two weeks ago when life got particularly frustrating, and have written in that. Everything from laughing at adventures with friends to copying half-chapters of Lamentations - "I will lay my head in the dust- there may yet be hope." Lots to catch up on, particularly hope.

I've been missing directness, missing authority. I don't do well with vagueness. Got told by my boss that 'if there are any lingering ideas of rootlessness, put them to rest." Which I needed. And life has gotten better this last week, in ironic ways.

Have had some really good talks and hang-out times with my roommates and friends... on the heels of some fairly heated arguments.

Time's ticking down to vacation and volleyball with some old favourite teammates... and realised I'm not in love with volleyball anymore.

More work assignments just as my hardrive crashed and burned. (Now fixed, and I only have to make up three months worth of unfinished video in one month, thanks.)

Have been volunteering at an international preschool (adorable kids that I can talk to in four different languages) and at a Canadian school for VBS preparation. Either way, I come home with paint stained arms and a huge grin.

God... has been good. Very demanding this last month, showing me just how much I don't let Him into my everyday life. Just how much I've been 'waiting on the next best thing' and not caring enough about life and people *now*. And my friends have helped put concrete nudges (and/or scoldings) to His point that I don't trust enough. So I'm working on that.

I have *seen* my residency card at the bureau... the people say I need one more piece of documentation. I kinda think I already filled it out. Twice. Months ago. But at least I know it does exist in a physical state and after five months of deliberate non-committal to anything, I soon won't have any excuse left. Unless work-travel, that shining star which pretty much lured me into this job, actually starts happening... in which case I may not have to commit to anything here after all. "Oh, sorry, I can't get too involved, I'll be out of country that week. Maybe the next three too. I'll drop by and hug you, lend a hand, when I have the time."

Oh, language. Almost forgot that, as excited as I was about it this week. Apparently, between time length here, the month of intensive class, and deciding I liked it enough to start thinking/singing/talking in it... I've finally gotten the hang of it. No where near fluent, or even half fluent. But I can half-listen to a conversation on a tram and understand most of it. I can ask the lady at the supermarket how she is, and follow the answer. Pick out a mistranslation on subtitling of "Amazing Grace" with the college kids. And I want to take the B1 exam in it before I leave in a year and a half.

Crazy to think I'm already a quarter through my contract. So much more I could have done, could have been. Have honestly wasted so much. For shame, I know. But somehow a lot of the non-committing has worked its way into a foundation (which I've never been good at, by the way) and that leaves me really ready to take on the rest of the time. I normally am gone- or about to leave- a place by the six month mark, and can tell myself, "Hey, not too long now. Just another few weeks." Instead, I'm faced with choices I've never had. Quit, or choose to work through the storms while knowing there will be more.


So, yeah. That's me, this May. Un-cryptic enough for you? Be proud- I've been saying more of what I think lately. But I do have a quote to end on.


'I'm not ready.'
"I'm not either. I never will be....
I'm not going to get it right.
I'll never have it together.
But I'm willing to fail with you.
I'm willing to mess up again and again.
To do it wrong and torque you off.
... I've never kept a relationship long enough to for someone to see I'm a screw-up. I left them wishing for what they saw, left them believing the myth....

I want to be real with you."

- 'Unforgotten', Heitzmann

Houston - we are a go.

Residency is accomplished. Now what am I supposed to do?

Realised what my problem is- lack of distance.

To be a good journalist, I think, you have to maintain a certain distance from the subject.
You have to be able to present the people with a relative amount of outside or overhead perspective. And you have to be able to show the events in a way that relates to the viewers/listeners.

The best kind of journalist, then, is someone who is both an insider and an outsider. An insider to the extent of understanding at least a little of what's going on; an outsider to the extent of relaying the story to other outsiders so they can understand it too. An insider has more understanding, but more responsibility to stay and contribute smoothly. An outsider has carte blanche freedom to ask questions, to be awkward, to come and go as needed.

And while this job - on paper - needed exactly the kind of insider/outsider I am - in person - in real life so far there has not been enough *distance*. Which seems a little counterintuitive, since common logic says a person should move to their place of assignment and settle in. I actually think I might have done better, job-wise, if I had never settled in. I no longer have the edge of 'newness' all around me, and, possibly more dangerous, have no sense of urgency for most of my assignments. A time deadline is knowing today will soon be gone. But a *space* deadline is knowing that *here* will soon be gone. Multitasking is simple. Multi-spacing is not, or not until teleportation is invented.

I'm dependent on events and scheduling for the unconscious moments of life that I can translate back to others. And in the everyday life that I'm slipping into, it's way easier to watch the fireworks on tv than to hunt them down with my own camera. Besides, they'll be there next holiday, right? So will these people, along with the seasons. Once I'm anchored, I can always capture them later. I am getting so comfortable here that it is hard to tell the city's stories. I am getting so close to the people that it is hard to tell their stories.

Because stories wait somewhere between the first handshakes and the last hugs.

"We travellers are in very hard circumstances. If we say nothing but what has been said before us, we are dull and have observed nothing. If we tell anything new, we are laughed at as fabulous and romantic."
- Lady Mary Wortley Montagu

cliche


hi, i'm lost, confused, and blinded
standing two steps from your door
but i stop to ask directions
like everyone who's gone before

i'm a cliche
you invite me in
anyway

i'm too short to see the street signs
i'm too tall too see the curb
until i trip all over
everything that i deserve

then i ask why you're not at eye-level
but i'd push you away if you were
i want to know why you're not here at my side
when i look for you round the next curve

i'm a cliche
you invite me in
anyway

one of these times i'll get it right
i'll learn to bring you the questions first
before i work them out myself
and bask in all the sunrise burst
of what i didn't need to know at all...

and one part just hit too close to home, as it were.

"Do not be afraid, Abram,
I am your shield,
your very great reward."

how awesome of a conversation-beginner is that? God comes to you and says, "you have no home, you've been wandering for decades, and you just survived a war. do not be afraid. I'm protecting you. I will be worth it all for you, what you've been working through is not meaningless."

and what does Abram do? exactly what I do, over and over. exactly what i think and what i *say*, over and over.

"O Lord God, what can you give me since...."

nice way to start a reply. with yourself, right? 'since' becomes the issue, not God or His promises. in Abram's case, it's his lack of children that's stressing him. so they have a whole conversation on that issue, and God promises him heirs, and (finally) "Abram believed the Lord, and He counted it to him as righteousness." dot dot dot.

point being, God promised Abram protection and, more than that, Himself. "I am your reward". trophy at a tournament, princess in the tower, acceptance to ivy league schools or promotion in the military. "I am your reward." who gets God as a prize?

and, more frustrating, why is Abram- why am i- so dense about saying, "never mind about that- WHAT CAN YOU GIVE ME, SINCE..." ???

Today this is my country.

Maybe it has been for a while... maybe it will be more mine later.

But today, through the sunshine, the blizzard, hours exploring, and unpacking bags at the end, it was mine.

Got chased by tractors. Barked at by dogs. Waved at by farmers during kilometres of back road biking and gulping in the beauty and freedom and SPACE. Avoided riding through the puddles (mostly) and came home so tired, but oh so content. New favourite place to escape to, as much as I'm fond of our city.

Hills, real hills- did you grow up in them? Did you ever forget the comfort of not seeing more than a few bends ahead, and then suddenly a whole valley dropping at your feet? Did you round a bend to be surprised by a wayside crucifix with small candles still burning? I spoke out loud before I thought about it- "He's not *dead*! He's not dead anymore, y'all, He's *alive*!" Do you think Jesus objects to tiny quiet places in a northern countryside, to small quiet corners where He's remembered with devotion and delicate purple flowered vines? I think He'd like it. But remember why we remember Him! "Why do you look for Him among the dead? He is not here, HE IS ALIVE!" as the angel said on Easter.

Life, she decided, was settling into a comfortable soundtrack.

The days each had their own arrangement of music, varying from morning to afternoon and sometimes from hour to hour, between the classical orderliness of meetings, easygoing R&B and jazz for working at home, and random outbreaks of hiphop or rock during city adventures.

She had thought- oh so mistakenly- that sometime after her arrival in the country life would settle into a pattern. But there was no rhythm to these days whatsoever. The only solidity at all was that (generally) she and her roommates were asleep between 3 and 7 am. Thanks to the invention of laptops, she could do her work at any hour and at any location (top picks? 11pm while away babysitting, 9am next to the kitchen radiator, and 4pm at the coffeeshop.) Meals were eaten whenever and wherever hunger struck (top picks? a 5pm gyro while riding a bike home, 3am cold cornbread with a book, an orange on the way to volleyball, and noon-ish espressos and crepes on a weekend.)

Food, though, had maintained the magic of community in a shifting life. Some mornings, after long weeks or late nights, the only words spoken were, "Do you want coffee?" Some evenings, "Do you want soup?" was an innocent beginning to hours of hanging out. Inviting friends over for meals - and the subsequent preparation and cleanup - made the often-empty apartment suddenly feel like a home.

The only thing was, she learned... not to expect more than there was. To be content with the serendipity of hot coffee, the occasional hug, and spontaneous adventure offers. And to adopt the motto she found inscribed on an old building - "faber est suae quisque fortunae," Latin for "each man is the maker of his own fortune"....

"Revelation" - Third Day

My life has led me down the road that’s so uncertain
And now I am left alone and I am broken,
Tryin’ to find my way, tryin’ to find the faith that’s gone

This time, I know that you are holding all the answers
I’m tired of losing hope and taking chances,
On roads that never seem,
To be the ones that bring me home

Give me a revelation,
Show me what to do
Cause I’ve been tryin’ to find my way,
I haven’t got a clue
Tell me should I stay here,
Or do I need to move
Give me a revelation
I’ve got nothing without You
I’ve got nothing without You

My life has led me down this path that’s ever winding
Through every twist and turn I’m always finding,
That I am lost again (I am lost again)
Tell me when this road will ever end

I don’t know where I can turn
Tell me when will I learn
Won’t You show me where I need to go
Oh oh
Let me follow Your lead,
I know that it’s the only way that I can get back home

Give me a revelation,
Show me what to do
Cause I’ve been trying to find my way,
I haven’t got a clue
Tell me should I stay here,
Or do I need to move
Give me a revelation
I’ve got nothing without You
I’ve got nothing without You

I have cried three times since I've been here, all in the last thirty days. Normally I can go for months, so I'm going to blame on circumstances. Or lack of. For example, I made it through saying dear goodbyes back in the States without melting down, ditto for a month of intense language school here (in a totally random, slavic language, fyi). Hard but surviveable.

However, when I was told I couldn't have a video camera till later, if at all, I lost it. Cried my eyes out for half an hour, then survived into my sixth or seventh week and was rewarded with a love of a camera. Two, three weeks of happiness... and then my grandfather passed away. That, at least, is a good excuse to cry, mourning the loss of someone who was had such a loving impact on life.

And tonight, I lost it again. But this time, it was not in the privacy of my room, and not for family or work reasons. Out on the evening street, snow falling and mixing with the tears, walking the last bit home so I wouldn't climb on the tram all red-eyed. Or maybe just so they wouldn't think I was drunk, since I was definitely crying and definitely *laughing* out loud.

I found volleyball. Right up the road.

You probably don't want all the details, and unless you're one of a rare few, you likely think that, if a camera's a bad excuse to cry, volleyball's a worse one. But there were guys playing- good ones- and they invited me to come back next week and play. There are womens' volleyball and basketball teams too, but I'm not sure if they're college or club.

Point being, there is nothing on earth like telling God you'll trust Him for friendships and activities in a new culture, working with what you're given, and then suddenly having Him drop something like this in your lap. Amazingness. Even if it does involve tears.

3/2/08

This is home. Ergo, I'm gone.
Up before you, out the door
You left unlocked once more - it sees
A new adventure every day
And anyway, I have my keys

I wipe m feet and come in quiet
Not for me your friendly riot
People grouping, hula hooping
I'll be back some time, no hurry
Out again or in, don't worry.

This my home turf you've adopted
I pick up right where I dropped it
Fancy that- I'm fancy free
Staying here where there you see
Much delighted, less surprised
I'm home
I hope you've realised....

Walking home one day this week, I was thinking about some story I read when I was 11 or 12. A friend accuses an artist of being cold-blooded, throws out the statement, "If someone you loved died, the first thing you'd do would be start sculpting." She doesn't reply. A month or so later, one of her close friends- maybe boyfriend- dies. "I'm sorry," she whispers, and starts sculpting....

So I'm thinking about this story, realising that I'd probably do the same thing. Start looking at old photos, at videos, writing poetry and memories down. My grandfather's been in poor health for a long while, but we've had some last great memories this past year and a half in the States, between my old home in west europe and my new-as-of-january home in east europe.

Really God-timing, because I just got a call from my mom- today he went home, to Heaven. And I know he walked (or flew, or whatever spirits do) up to God with the hugest smile on his face and said, "I have fought the good fight, I have finished the course, I have kept the faith!!!" And God said, "Well, done, good and faithful servant, enter into your Master's joy."

I've never known anyone as consistently faithful. I've met some awesome guys on fire for God, and that was definitely an attraction for me, because I've seen firsthand what it looks like to grow old in that. To share Jesus with total strangers, whether it's a friendly conversation or just a kind word. To interupt and accidentally (or on purpose!) annoy your wife while she's cooking Thanksgiving dinner for sixty three relatives- and then humbly apologise before she can even say anything. To still love that wife enough to pull her aside for a kiss or brag on her after fifty years of marriage. To have time to tease and talk seriously with each grandkid, no matter if they're 22 or 1. To wave your kids off on the plane for overseas, time and time again. To travel overseas to see those kids and your grandkids, and not complain about traveling expenses or annoyances but be honestly excited for them. To help as you can in the community, write letters to the governors and president about political issues you feel strongly about. To be a patriot, and believe in your country, and yet study issues and act in them.

And there's so much more my grandfather was. And I'm not there with my family- all of it- to *celebrate* his life and what we've gained from knowing him, but he knows I loved him, and he was proud of me for coming overseas on my own path. Which is the better for having seen him walk his.

So what do you do when you roll over in bed on a beautiful sunny morning, look out the window on your adopted city, and the first thought that drifts through the glass is, "This is too big for me. What am I *doing* here?"

And what's a wee bit unnerving is that this is happening to me more frequently (not the sunshine, mind you, the question). I hoped that longer I was here and the more I got to know my city, the more ready I'd be to answer that. Because I know I'm here for a reason. It just happens to be Father-sized, and while it's abstractly comforting to know it's not about me, a lot more faith is required. A whole lot. *Reckless faith.* I've started writing that on my wrist (without the period, b/c there are rarely periods after faith) to remind me what's going on. Or at least what should be going on.

I have my job, and I love it, but in some puzzling way it's giving me more questions than it's answering. The more I have permission to bounce in my fun bubble of warm apartment, hilarious roommates, video editing on my computer, and friends at gym and fellowship... the more I look out my window and say, "Today's not going to be enough if I stay in that safety."

Ever heard the song "I AM" by Ginny Owens? "How can I understand/This thing You're gonna do?"/"That's not your problem," God replied/"There's a bigger picture/ And you don't have to change the world /I'm your creator, I am working out my plan
And through you, I will show them ... I AM"

And I think faith is just going to have to be enough, even on sunny days.

Both promised imperfect neighbors. Both boasted emphatic leadership, zealous disciples, and hearty opposition. It wasn't a question of faith or no faith. It was a decision to put his faith in God or man."

- "Echoes", Heitzmann