Introverted Sundays ~ an unintentional dispensation on worship and emotions

One of my internet friends has been tackling the phrase 'worship experience' lately along with probing the idea that worship is something we "feel" or an environment we can create on Sunday mornings.



As a person with a more reserved personality, this topic resonates with me and while I never feel that I have the answers, I am learning to join the conversation.



My churched background has afforded many opportunities to feel pressure from the platform or my gathering of friends to 'perform' worship in a way that is more visible and animated than my comfort level.



I have prayed beside people offering their prayers in tongues unknown.

I have been told that my faith was only genuine if I was willing to pick up a snake. (There were no snakes present in the Kroger where this conversation occurred, thankfully - but it was a real conversation)

I have scoffed at fog machines and cameramen running across the stage to get the next shot.

I have scoffed at three piece suits and kicked up sawdust.

I have heard seminary students be offered a little cash incentive to whoop and holler, to loosen up and help set the tone of a 'Baptistcostal' service.

I have felt the strain of an extended alter call when the desired emotional response was not forthcoming.

I have had a pastor fix his gaze on me specifically and say "Everyone raise your hands" when I was the only one in the room not raising my hands.



This has led to a strange sort of resistance anytime there's an audible directive from a worship leader or song lyric to "...just lift my hands toward Heaven and praise the Lord..."



If I was going to (which I probably wasn't) now there's no question that I won't be able to because you told me to... it's too much like *Simon Says now and not enough like genuine expression.



I start thinking about those Pharisee guys who prayed to be heard and contorted their faces as visual evidence of their spirituality. I think about closets and how that's where we're told to do our praying. I lean back into my personality type - one who brings a book to a football game. There's very little I get worked up about in the first place, my feelings are anchored to a concrete post of reasonableness and decorum.



And yet, when I see a withered old hand lifted to Heaven in the midst of a song, I find it beautiful and moving (internally- because, as I have established, I'm a stick in the proverbial mud)



I have heard an old woman's hallelujah and been encouraged that if the Lord was faithful to her, I can also trust Him.



I've been learning some stuff recently, here's some of it:



Worship can involve an emotional response from me. It rarely evokes a visible response.



Sometimes this response is present on Sunday morning, during the set time we sing and pray. Other times, it is Monday in my car or on the shower floor, and sounds more like questions or despair.



Many times, everything feels flat and doesn't seem to touch me at all.

I'm finding the consistent factor in that scenario is often me.



Did I go to bed at a decent hour on Saturday night? Do I have coffee gut? Am I actively participating or going through the motions? Are there issues I'm refusing to surrender to God? Did I greet a lot of people on my way in? Wouldn't I rather just go hide in the nursery or take a nap in the puppet booth this morning?  (the answer to this one is almost always yes)



When the answer is yes, I might as well be watching The Rockafire Explosion. ( Confession: sometimes, my visible response in church is to smirk at the thought of our musicians dressed up as The Rockafire Explosion.)



I remember as a kid trying to see the circuitry under the drummer dog's sleeve. I remember one time the power went out and the animatronic band froze mid-song. I remember ascribing feelings and emotions to these robots based on what they had been programmed to sing and say. Even as a kid, it was easy for me to lose the forest for close observation of each tree.



Some Sunday mornings,  it's the same. I'm looking at all the shoes on stage or everyone's facial expressions. Who fought on their way here this morning? Why does everyone seem to raise their hands on the same note - did they rehearse that part, too? The music becomes secondary, a backdrop for robot observation.

But... I am also finding that, if I was in the trenches with my brothers and sisters this week... if I see this one who has been waking up under the wet blanket of anxiety all week with his hands aloft in as much a plea as decree that God is good, or a tear steal across my sister's cheek because of that thing she's been walking through.. I have found that I can actually feel that.



I can be confounded by an abundance of animation in one's worship style, but I am struck by the beauty of the contrast of it, too.



 Like watching a foreign film with subtitles; it is not my native tongue, but I am able to understand, especially the more of life I share in with my animated brothers and sisters.



Even when it comes from a struggle, I am finding that there can be an air of celebration when we purpose to lift our hearts as one, whether we lift our hands or not.



We aren't alone. We are here together, hopeful, grateful and unashamed.



Relationship is an essential key to feeling like a participant instead of an observer.

This is true in most things.



On Mother's Day, I was in church without some of my children. Their absence was more noticeable on this particular holiday and my situation is no secret.



 I'm not sure this Sunday was my first awareness  that everyone knowing my story was an act of public nakedness, but it was one day that I recall the vulnerability being heightened. Last year, I was given one of those little congregational awards for having the most children in attendance with me at church on Mother's Day. This year, I've been accused of being such a terrible mom that some of my children have stopped speaking to me. It's a story line I've been walking out in front of others, whether I wanted to or not.



And on that day, I felt a deeper sympathy and empathy for those who no longer have their mom. What I found was there were almost as many at church that day without their mom or with a strained relationship with their mom as those who were on their way to brunch with Mom.



Last year, I probably walked past just as many hurting people on my way to claim that prize without a thought at all about Mothers' Day for the motherless. Now, I see.



On Father's Day, when the importance of a godly dad was emphasized  and the plight of too many single moms proved bleak in the shared statistics, one friend, realizing that I may be hearing a more discouraging message than my well-married counterparts, texted me a compliment about being a good parent (yes, during the service - we're modern like that).

It was encouraging that I wasn't lost in the shuffle of that Sunday's theme. Someone was mindful of me and wanted to lift my countenance.



Getting to know those I experience worship with and allowing myself to be known by them, too has deepened the experience for me.



Having others come alongside me, draping their own garments over what has been laid bare, has stripped a layer of my life-long reserve.



I still get distracted by moving lights or something on-screen. I still get kind of scoffy at "setting an environment", but as I am getting to know my brothers and sisters who help with that, I understand better that they are bringing what they have to the table on Sunday mornings. They are sharing their time and talents. They are giving their best, at the very least, I can give grace.



I could get caught up in motivations- sometimes, being honest, I still do. There have been worship leaders in my life who wanted to go to Nashville and it showed (and no big surprise, they went to Nashville). That used to bug me a lot more than it does now, but I've had enough time to see that these aren't really issues. They are choices.



If I have chosen to worship with a group whose leader wants a recording label, I can wish him all the success that Amy Grant or Mercy Me has known, and for God's glory.



I may decide his skinny jeans and trending hair is too distracting to continue to meet together starting next week, but in this moment, even as he's doing something showy, I must choose to focus on why I am here, too. If I don't, I am as guilty as Mr. Nashville of putting on a show, only it is a smaller, more secretive show. Honestly, his show is at least entertaining, mine is just pathetic.



 Do I want the lens turned on me? Have I ever appreciated being judged as 'not worshipping' because my hands are in my pockets or my body language always naturally returns to a comforting and constricting arm cross? I must leave hearts to the one who can see them and focus instead on the boundless grace I've been given.



If you need me, I'll just be in the puppet booth, digging this log out of my eye.



This is not to say there's no place for making sure motives are right and worship is the true object of our gathering and activity,  but this is not a scathing discernment blog. It is more so a challenge to self to practice one of the first rules in critical thinking: start with the benefit of the doubt, ascribe no ill intent without cause. 

*~*

I am still the girl who gravitates to an outlying corner. I prefer holding up walls to hands. I will always be me, I bet. But I have had some expansion of my thinking on the subject in recent days.



I recently shared that I had finally embraced my "Type 9" diagnosis. One of the cautions for the nine personality types is to  "Remember you have a body as well as a soul"



Perhaps my movement level is affected by forgetting that I've been given a body as well as a soul - or some level of shame over my body that is also to blame for my complete lack of dancing ability.



I'm not sure. But what got me to thinking about it originally was not the personality test. It was David Bowie's video for Black Star.



In that video, the dancers' bodies move in an unearthly way. It is almost disturbing. The movements are coupled with imagery that goes on to push the whole thing over the line into 'actually disturbing'.



I'm sure that 'unease' was part of Bowie's artistic goal. His inclusion of a mock crucifixion, for whatever other statement being made, created a link in my mind between bodily movement and spiritual themes.



It made me think of all the stories I'd heard about spiritual forces seeking to invade the human realm and footage of supposed supernatural "possessions" I had seen featuring human bodies moving in unnatural ways, but always with little control or direction.



I thought of the demoniac in the Bible, unable to stay clothed and bent on self harm.



I considered 'worship' may be the genuine article being counterfeited by dark entities. My thinking was turned to rocks and trees crying out...to the dancing, undignified King David and to that notoriously long list of instruments in Psalms which we are told to use in praise.



Then, this song came along and directed my thinking some more...

If the stars were made to worship so will I

If the mountains bow in reverence so will I

If the oceans roar Your greatness so will I

For if everything exists to lift You high so will I

If the wind goes where You send it so will I

If the rocks cry out in silence so will I

 ~*~

I've been given a body as well as a soul, and I have full autonomy.

I have hands that clap and raise and can offer comfort to others.

My voice can raise a hallelujah or whisper out a desperate plea.

I am not a special edition human, devoid of tears - I have them; sometimes from sorrow, but at other times, gratitude and joy.



I can allow my body to reflect what my soul is navigating. In doing so, I may just encourage someone else looking on "If God has been faithful to her, I can trust Him also"

I remember a recent moment when something felt different as we sang together 

 "...this is how I fight my battles..."

The lady singing that day shared that she hadn't really wanted to sing the song, even as more and more people suggested she should sing it. She had, quite frankly, been wondering where God even was these days. She shared some of her story and the reasons she had been struggling with questions too big for any of us to answer. And then, she sang the song in an act of obedience and faith. 

Before the song ended, I thought some of our group might actually take to the streets, ready to fight every injustice we came across. 

We do have a large number of military and retired military families, so there is always the risk of marching, but I believe the palpability came from singing through the hurt and in our singing with her. 

"It may look like we're surrounded, but we're surrounded by You..." 

Like the exchange of oxygen with trees, she was reminding us of truth and, in an instant echo, truth was exhaled back into her own lungs... 

As I looked around the room that day, I realized that I was singing for all their sakes as much as for mine. I love them. I want them to be okay. I want to see God move on their behalf. You wouldn't have known it to look at me, but I felt something. Surely it was emotion. 

And surely it was worship.

*~*

The last thing I'll share about is a personal paradigm shift: allowing what I'm singing to be personal. 

I learned a long time ago that remembering my own pit and living with gratitude for my rescue was spiritually transformational. 

In one congregation, we sang "How Deep The Father's Love For Us" almost every week. I remember my attention settling on the line "...ashamed I hear my mocking voice, cry out among the scoffers"  (which is the purpose of that line- to implicate us) 

Letting that line be about me has been transformational, indeed. 

Remembering the pit from whence I was lifted is good, but I've been finding that falling into a fresh pit and needing new rescue is also an effective method for converting my worship into high definition. 

I've been walking through a season of suffering and loss. 

I've been accused and left exposed. 

I've needed the services of a human advocate. 

I've had case stated to a judge. 

I've had my physical and financial needs met.

I've been shown mercy. And grace. 

I've been met in the road by my dad - who came running from a long way off. 

I have been given a robe and ring and there's to be a big party.

These things have come to life. They have given me a physical glimpse of spiritual concepts. I've experienced being defended, being in need and being provided for.  I've seen new things about a father's love and experienced anew the deep, gulping relief found in being forgiven...again and again. 

I think my little legalistic heart needed to go into an actual legal setting to appreciate grace all the more.  

So, whether we are singing "...your love defends me..." "...you're a good, good father..." or any one of the many songs about the goodness we've received, I've got newfound appreciation for the words that are coming out of my mouth. They have been defined as I am being refined. 

I'm still the girl quietly wringing my hands behind my back, but like a wooden puppet becoming human, I can't lie: I felt my heart leap at the wonder of it all.  

"...If You gladly chose surrender so will I"

The First Meeting of the Freewheeling Widows' Society

Friday night and we are out to eat, two widows proper and me, widowed by the death of a girlish dream.



Our waitress leads us to a four top, one empty chair for the phantoms we bring.



We three share genes and a bloodline, but have different ideas about dressing a biscuit.



My aunt asks for apple butter, my cousin requests honey from a bear and I opt for maple's syrup.



The phantoms are silent. No one asks what they would have liked.



My aunt, alone the longest and of a quiet nature,  is content to share our company.



My cousin, twice widowed yet too young to retire, is - unbeknownst to our waitress - a former five star general in the order of Cracker Barrels.



I feel the need to create content, to lift countenances; we are not begged by little voices to please, pretty please, play checkers.



The phantoms clear their throats and I push the peg game meant for one in front of their empty chair.



"I wonder if they have blueberry muffins tonight?" my cousin asks aloud

"Oooh, mmm!" my aunt replies.



They've been here before, done this a time or two.

But now we are three. And tonight, we are all free.



Freewheelers... like three, but free.



When our Rising Star appears beside the table, our general in disguise requests three blueberry muffins, sliced and thrown onto the grill.

Most people don't know you can do that.



I object. I've already had a syrupy biscuit and a corn muffin is promised with my meal.

Too much bread, daily.



"Trust us, you want one." they agree



We linger, not over coffee, for our cadet is struggling to learn the juggle.



Sometimes, as we chat,  a phantom gets a nod, for our lives and theirs used to be one.



We box up the abundance, including three blueberry muffins, sliced and grilled through the middle.

"That will be just the thing with your coffee in the morning" the experienced widows tell me.



A curl of smoke rises from my cousin's porch rocker to the Gospel music playing overhead.

My aunt rocks on steady, watching the clouds change color, as the sun sets behind the Lowes across the street.

They have chosen rockers on either side of an old church pew.



"Are you guys saying I need to go to church?"

I sit on the pew with my leftovers and a bag of general store goods.



"If the shoe fits!" laughs the rocker to my left.

And it is accidentally, instantly funny, for I've invited them to church with me countless times.

But on Sundays,  I sit alone.



We each take home a miniature toy that represents childhood joy,

reminders that we've come far and do not walk alone.



The phantoms let us open our own car door, withholding their good night kisses.

We, busy making plans for next time, gladly fail to notice.



~*~



I scrawl this out over rapidly cooling coffee, the crumbs of a grilled blueberry muffin sinking into silt at the bottom of my mug.



They were right, it was delicious, and just the thing to start a Saturday morning in a house devoid of children. They have more than muffins to teach me, I know.



I'm looking forward to our next Freewheeling Adventure, I hear Fuddruckers might be involved.



Meanwhile, I'm happy and content.

Alone, but not lonely.

In my quiet house, 'where no one now is sleeping...'

Quintessentially

Dear Ryan,



Rarely do I feel the word 'quintessential' applies - especially in regards to myself.

But you have transposed me into the notes of a song, quintessentially.



Thank you.



When I was first diagnosed (ha.) as a nine, I didn't think I could be sure of my own results.

"Who am I to say, what any of this means..." indeed.



I tested a few more times over the past few years, ever and always a nine. But, for some reason I kept my results close, replying to the few people I allowed to know "I tested as a nine" in case maybe later my actual number came to light.  I never shared the visual caricature that captures the key 9 attributes publicly, because... what if there was something I wasn't remembering, something I wasn't letting myself be honest about? What if eventually I would admit that I have always been a five?

As I type this now, being a nine stands out to me from every line.



You helped me "see myself through someone else's eyes."

You have helped me to recognize me.



You've given the gift of translation to all us bleary-eyed nines by standing in the open, naming our parts as you point to your own.



I thank you for allowing the vulnerability it took to make nine ring true.

I am still learning to allow the free pour of myself.

I appreciate your leading by example.



~*~



A few weeks ago, before Nine released,  I started an unpublished draft for and about a friend who recently encouraged me to get back to writing.



Someone else wanted to hurt me and told me point-blank  "You are not a good writer."

My friend, noticing my absence, asked me why I was sleeping.

He let me describe the hurtful encounter then took me around the back of those cruel words and pointed out their shoddy construction.

The healing of that wound simply couldn't come from me.

I needed to see it- and myself - from outside of myself.



And so, I write again. I free-pour me onto the page, sometimes cringing at my own voice, but not allowing 'bad' to be the only valid perspective.



An excerpt from that as of yet unpublished draft:

Rolling cloud brings no doom
Quenching rain floods my room  

Unfiltered truth, bold and wise
Mirrored glass
Me, through his eyes

'Write your moments, trade them in
To speak the truth is not a sin.' 

Writing, for me, is an attempt to see, and to sound-out-loud my search for the unifying thread.



I feel if I can just lift my perspective to that of Narrator, not only can I tell which domino is going to fall, I can tell you the back story of all the dominoes and help us make sense together why that particular domino needed to fall for everything to work together for good.



Though it is futile, as echoed in the writings of my soul-author Thornton Wilder,  I want to both intertwine a silver lining and untangle the question "Why?"

(see: 'The Bridge of San Luis Rey')



~*~

This is a good place to say I love the way you make music; you are certainly one of my soul-musicians. The structures you build lyrics on are thoughtful, zooming out and back in again, the words and music echo the way we walk both through this big world and on top of little tiny ones.



With planets floating above and the complexity of anthills beneath, your music is trimmed in meaning. It echoes a larger story, still being told.



I first realized this when I heard you talk with Mike Foster. You described the project you were about to adventure forth on and shared One with us. You described realizing that you couldn't schedule times of creativity... it was more like the wringing of a sponge.



With an internal "YES! Exactly." I began to listen to your voice.

I am glad there is a you, and that someone handed you a microphone.



I do not feel I have listened completely to your songs until I have heard their blueprints, and fingerprints, too. I like music with meaning. I like music I am invited to understand.



When I thought of writing this, I thought I'd offer back to you what you give to us each song, a line by line dissection of my gratitude. Alas, I have broken my own rules and quoted some lines out of order  already.



And as I proceeded to go line-by-line, I was completely and utterly a nine.

I had to tend other people's things before I was mentally free to do this thing so close to me.

I got up from this draft a half a dozen times.

I fed the dog.

I fed the cat.

I decided I had better finish my laundry.

I stalled.

I went to bed because I was too tired to think

I made coffee.

I went looking for a quote and re-read old blog archives

I fought the urge to doze

I typed a line

I deleted three

I listened to the podcast again and again



And by the time I was ready to finalize this reaching out to you, I no longer felt so much needed to be said.

I believe that's why -one of the reasons why-  we can be slow to pull a trigger . . . to let the chaff blow away before we bind the wheat.



I find this annoyingly true even as I stand in the market trying to pick an ice cream flavor.

So many of them are good.

Which one do I want - and why?

Let's start with the ones I don't want.



Process of elimination, I fancy myself a detective.



But you said as much using dominoes.



See, it felt redundant to speak it back to you.



And yet, you like me, often desire to see yourself spoken back.

Even from a stranger.

Maybe especially a stranger and a nine.

And you deserve every glimpse that assures you are valued and your craft is truly good.



The term 'Hopeful yeses' resonated with me.

As did the concept of misunderstood empathy.



When I took the EQ, I was surprised that my score wasn't higher. I had believed myself to be empathetic, when often times I was merely observant, perceiving or sympathetic.



And you led my thoughts to this: We avoid conflict but we also cannot take a compliment.

Are they not two sides of the same coin?



Saying aloud "I do like it" or "I don't agree" is to imprint ourselves upon another person.

It is to ask them to carry us along the next mile.

We are wearied from striking a balance of energies other people may not mind expending.



One of the worst truths I've had to face is that sometimes, people will just not like me for no apparent reason and there's nothing to I can do to change it.

Sometimes, also, for the same reasons they will lie.



And because I hate that, I try to like everybody -  even the people I don't really all that much like.

See?

And it causes me to greater treasure authenticity, to be that which I want to see in this world- even if it is uncomfortable to be.



"I check my vital signs" ~ literally, I do. My blood is sluggishly slow , my blood pressure sometimes alarmingly low. And my blood type is O- , the type that  becomes all the other blood types and thus saves other people's lives.



Yet O- can only receive life saving support from another O- soul.



"Choked up" ~ I viscerally hate to cry. It is not unlike nausea to me. I may know it is surfacing, I may know it is inevitable but I will try to stifle it, to keep my tears at bay. And when I spring a leak, please let it be dark or let me be alone. Tears weigh a ton and since they are mine, I must bear them alone.



Sometimes, it is embarrassing to be human.



"I've been less than half myself, for more than half my life"  & "Show me what to do to restart this heart of mine" & "How do I forgive myself for losing so much time?" ~ This year, I am going through a divorce.

We were married twenty years.

I was 18 when I said 'I do"

This line resonated because, unwittingly,  I committed to making up half of another person's being before my whole self had ever truly developed.



Now I am finding out who she would have been; who she wants to be.



I've wrestled all year with this notion that I wasted twenty years.

I couldn't hold myself accountable for waste for I believed I needed every moment of those two decades to be certain of the shot I must fire.



And yet I also thought I was probably just being stubborn about mourning so much lost time.



I've learned the answer isn't always either/or.

More often it is yes and also.



The domino was always going to fall, either way, indeed.



Now here I am further down the road, almost out of gas.

There was a rest station ten miles back, why do I have to press onward til my tire is completely flat?



Being in the body- what an informative line of thought... maybe that's why I don't realize I am cold or hungry or thirsty until I've long since been. Last month, I was covered in poison ivy and had a worse than typical outbreak because it took me so long to realize I had come in contact with it in the first place.



I could bore you all day with tales where it took me too long to realize that all the rules of gravity (and life and my third grade classroom) apply to me as well. Not that I felt above the rules, but so humbled beneath learning them all.



Ending on an inhale ~ beautiful and significant. I relate to that too.

I've got a blank page in front of me now,  and a lot of work to do.



That this was your longest podcast to date was also so fitting. We want to be clear, don't we?  Express ourselves carefully and clearly- so that others may see, might understand and not take any unnecessary chaff from our humble attempts at being. We can be plodding in that thorough endeavor.



I, too share a deep fondness for certain aspects of Disney/Pixar, also animation and childlike wonder. It's really indescribable so instead of trying, I leave you with the DMV run by a bunch of nines (though I would likely argue my spirit animal is more likely a Koala)



The laughter at the end is worth the wait.

And that's pretty fitting, I think.

Thank you for all that you are and sing and do.

I am glad we are humans together in this big, beautiful story.



You add meaning to my chapters.

I hope your own hold stories of fulfillment and redemption all the way through.



Quintessentially Yours,

Another Nine

hazards

Sometimes they're on land, too.

little mysteries

One day, you might drive past a busted bag of flour on a busy street downtown.

You're just gonna have to press on knowing the backstory will never belong to you.

It is almost enough to have seen it with your own eyes.

Almost.

Tell yourself you can build a new story upon its head...someday.

 And get on with your life.

Clam Creek Fishing Pier ~ Jekyll Island, GA

The old fishing pier at Clam Creek on Jekyll Island is one of the tacks in my personal map.

You know, one of those places on the planet where a soul can just exhale.

An album exists:www.flickr.com/gp126152547@NO2/782f61

EPCOT

There's just something special about Walt Disney's Experimental Prototype Community Of Tomorrow. It is my favorite park for several reasons, and it seems to me one of the most fitting monuments to the man behind Mickey Mouse.

At its inception, Walt said of EPCOT:

 "EPCOT will be an experimental prototype community of tomorrow that will take its cue from the new ideas and new technologies that are now emerging from the creative centers of American industry. It will be a community of tomorrow that will never be completed, but will always be introducing and testing and demonstrating new materials and systems. And EPCOT will always be a showcase to the world for the ingenuity and imagination of American free enterprise."

Ingenuity. Imagination. America. 

I think that's all of it in a nutshell. 

Walking through the park makes me nostalgic. Not only for past visits and childhood adventures, but also for the strong broth of a certain philosophy, spooned to me steadily from the time I could sit up, and mixed in my bottles before that. 

The basic recipe includes (but is not limited to):

• Whimsy


• Curiosity


• Music


• Creativity


• Exploration


• Fun


• Can-Do


• Optimism


• Service


• Kindness


• Wonder


• Learning


• Talking Animals


• Hats & Props & Seersucker Pants

Simmer over the gentle warmth of a heart aglow. Serve generously and without discrimination.



 Long before there was a search engine and megladon corporation, my siblings and I were privy to the fact that googol is a number- one with one hundred zeros. The loud thumping in our attic was not a fan but tiny little Indians holding a pow-wow. We lived in a world of honker birds and sing-a-longs. We were entrusted with glue sticks and spangles, given complete creative control over the construction paper pile. Life was punny and word play was encouraged. Pennies were wishes for personal computers. Stale bread became duck food. We made sleds from box tops; thrust ourselves down hills without any snow. We enjoyed a balanced diet of wisecracks and wisdom. We knew..still know..the joys of ice cream.



 Has she jumped track? Perhaps. I do tend to do that sometimes.



 The point is that there are good things in life, dreams do come true, we should reach for the stars and never give up.



In the theme park of Positive Mindset, the only admission fee is choosing to walk in.



I'm not saying that every day was Disney growing up, but it was close enough, in hindsight. I am saying that we were given a map to that silver-lined place called joyfulness, for which I'm grateful.

When I walk thru EPCOT, I feel hopeful. I see technology and new ways that we, as people, are working for the good of mankind; we have not ceased thinking, inventing, and trying to one-up ourselves. We are seeing needs and filling them, we are striving to improve upon our last best invention. We come up with some pretty nifty stuff.



 At Epcot, we're encouraged to push the buttons, try it out, think up some big thinks of our own. I see Walt when I'm there...or at least what I understand to be his thumbprint.  And I see that, despite the bleak headlines, all is not lost in this world... there's plenty to look forward to, much to anticipate.

 At EPCOT, I feel inspired, too.

 "Jesus loves the little children, all the children of the small, small world after all"

There are many nationalities in the World Showcase, represented by more than airplane runway lights (long story)... all just steps away from each other - close enough to exchange a smile, try a pastry and appreciate the diversity of our world, without a trip through airport security.  Each of the worlds within the showcase are all so distinct, even those that have been influenced by other countries or cultures. There are different ways of saying things, different ways of seeing things.  So much to explore.  I love it.

We read "Around The World In 80 Days" this school year...and we are currently reading "Innocents Abroad", so it was a pleasure  and a bit of a living lesson to walk (and take boats) 'around the world' in less than 8 hours with the BigKids.

They also have a pretty good example of a geodesic form in one part of the park...if you know where to find it ;)

I  feel relaxed at EPCOT.  Walking around with my small-business-owner-always-at-work-even-when-he's-not husband and our eclectic cast of characters, I know that I can enjoy the day's park visit because of the work he's been doing. Because of the work he will return to in short order. I am reminded that he does all that work for us, for family moments like these and for all the others where we simply have a roof over our heads and enough food to fill each belly. I feel cared for and thankful for all of it..for all of them. For him.

Yes, we must eat by the sweat of our brow, but there is time for sculpted flower gardens too.



Time for exchanging pleasantries and learning something(s) new.



 All of these pleasures are available inside the parks, but on the outside, too.

 Especially outside. 

Every single day.

 The parks are just a reminder to stop and notice every now and again. 

When the Discovery Channel came out with the Boomdeyadah campaign years ago, we adopted it as a sort of school anthem.

 "I love the whole world, and all its sights and sounds..."

It's our home/school philosophy.

It's our life philosophy.

And Epcot provides a wonderful scale model. 

(It's a small, small world- ha.)

Not to mention, it's a lot less crowded than Magic Kingdom most days.

(the slideshow also includes hotel and other trip pics due to shortage of time to sift & sort- disregard red eye and double takes...if you can )

"We keep moving forward, opening new doors, and doing new things, because we're curious and curiosity keeps leading us down new paths." ~ Walt Disney

Lunch & Learning on Lazaretto

Lazaretto Creek is one of my favorite spots [so far,  life is young yet...oh,  but not as young as she used to be] 

Whether we're headed towards the ocean or away from her,  I enjoy crossing over the scenic spot: boats of all sorts to one side,  lonesome Cockspur Light on the other.

I enjoy spending time down near the docks even more.

Yesterday's lunch found us creekside @ CoCo's finishing arithmetic [1 Million ÷ 25] over sandwiches featuring melted cheese (there were other ingredients but it is only ever the cheese that matters) and counting our fingers to the rhythm of the music from many decades and genres .

That's all really. 

Just a nickel for the Nice Day jar. 

Thanks for listening.

Bonus Nickel: I learned more about lazarettos than I previously knew when getting ready to frilly up this post with links.

Double Bonus Nickels [dime?]: I learned more about Lazaretto Creek's unique history, too. And as is often the case, learning backstory plunged me deeper in love.

Triple Nickels: Discovered this song along the way. While I have not been a regular Jack White listener, connecting the rather obscure term to any correlating music is just the sort of thing I'm prone to do.  I would probably like this song on that basis alone but I also like the foundation described in this All Songs Considered interview for compiling this song's album [of the same name] in which a bunch of random journal scraps became music.

I guess the song's not ALL that terrible either.

I rather like this line: " When I say nothing,  I say everything. "

Sunday Best

The real problem with a hard-hitting, right-on-the-money-Sunday-morning-sermon is my propensity to quote parts of it against my fellow man (and myself) for the rest of the week.

 I don't think that's how they're supposed to work.

Leave Space For Grace, Kelly. 

(Ah yes...I've heard she was quite the dancer.) 

BrainBender: Togglers

Problem is posed in first 5 minutes. Give yourself 24 Hrs to solve, then watch the second half to check your solution (or find relief). 



Taking the "Truth-Teller Amongst Togglers Dilemma" to bed with me-- find the truth-teller in only two questions:

Manuscripts After Midnight

Now I'd like to paint... maybe after a brief nap...

Intro To JavaScript: Drawing & Animation

I am learning new things. Thank you, Khan Academy. 

Project: Shooting star

From THAT:

  

ASSIGNMENT

1. Decide what side of the canvas you want the star to start from, the top, bottom, left or right, and position your star there.


2. Decide what direction you want the star to move in. Change the variables inside draw so that the star moves the way you wanted.


3. Add another star or other shape, and animate it going in a different direction.


4. Bonus: Change the star into a different shape, or have it shoot out of a cannon.


5. Bonus: Add a backdrop, like a starry night or skyscrapers.

To THIS:

*REFRESH MAY BE REQUIRED TO VIEW ANIMATION, I HAVEN'T LEARNED LOOPING QUITE YET*

The Lady In My Tree

Our FaceBook friend Mitch often posts poetic pictures of  the "Old Lady" tree near his home. And, it is a beautiful, old lady tree.

See?

Mr. Mitch is an interesting fellow and I often want to do and be and think and see in step with him. 

So, imagine my delight when I discovered  that we have an Old Lady Tree too...

See? 

Okay, so she's a bit of a hag. 

I surely wouldn't eat any apples from this tree. Mainly because it isn't an apple tree, but also because 'she' looks like the witch from Snow White, whose specialty was the Drowsy Apple. 

See? 

I have friends standing by - ready to call the right folks and administer the right meds for me if the lady in my tree turns out to be from another Disney franchise: 

If I hear it speak, I am to repeat:"A tree may speak to me, but only metaphorically." 

(...and so help me, if you ever find me running around in a buckskin dress...talking to the trees... wrap me up in my loooong sleeve pajamas please...) 

YULEE

David Levy Yulee was the the first Jewish member of the United States Senate. He was a sharp business man, serving as president of several companies. While living in Fernandina with his family, David Yulee founded the Florida Railroad Company and became known as the Father of Florida Railroads.

 Yulee served as a member of the Confederate Congress where his passionate speeches in support of Confederate causes  gained him another nickname: "Florida Fire Eater" .  These passions also gained him a 9 month imprisonment @ Fort Pulaski. 

He was granted pardon and has since been named a "Great Floridian" 

THE NCHE NICHE

I recently joined a local band of rowdy homeschooling mommas. Okay, so we aren't really rowdy. We're all rather reserved actually... unless you hit our hot topic or favorite curriculum  buttons... then we may have opinions to share... or mildly suggest. But, rowdy or no, we are banded together birds o' feather

(who like to maintain our autonomous natures, thank you kindly.)

 The important thing is we are 'banded together' - something I had let go of for awhile

 (Sometimes my 'autonomous' overflows and I forget that I'm not an island adrift nor The Lone Ranger.)

It is nice to be back in community with like-minded yet completely unique folks again.

It has been a little while since we were last plugged in with a group. 

{Here's one time. This was another.} 

Between my overflowing autonomy and busy, bustling every day life, it just didn't seem like we had the time. But alas, as is usually the case-some of the best things are things we MAKE TIME  for. 

Like French Pressed coffee and homemade Croissants. 

Worth every second. 

This group is one of those things, and we are looking forward to making time for our new NCHE family . 

After the first few meet ups, I was so anxious to get to hobknobbing with our new found friends, I created a Facebook group so that we could congregate and well... hobknob. 

(Hobknobbing is a top secret homeschooling thing...for initiates only) 

I can show you the group, but I cannot let you in unless you are a NCHE initiate...because we're hobknobbing in there. And we like our privacy. 

(If you are a local homeschooling family in need of a group you can join HERE. Then come over to Facebook, perform the *secret door knock and we will teach you hobknobbing.)

Having the constant presence of the group via Facebook should also help me to interrupt much less at Mrs. Janie's house. But I best not make any big promises... I think of so many things that need to be shared when I get around real life people... and homeschooling folks at that! I'm just not sure I can keep it all to myself--even if I try. 

Aside from the happy proof of socialization that yammering on about our wonderful new group provides, I'm also making this entry to save a sample of the group's 'interim logo'. I couldn't find one on our website, so I created a quick one for the time being.

Because,  you know.... I tend  to logo the people I love ;) 

Well, I really should be going now. These lessons won't plan themselves... oh! and it looks like there's a new message in the Facebook group.

(Ha!- not really...but I'm sure the struggle to balance priorities is 'only a day away')

((HaHA! As if I have ANY idea how to balance priorities...I really like to sound as if I have it all together, don't I?))

Come on back another day, when we will talk about Mrs. Janie and The Matriarchs, a very important alpha-flock of homeschooling birds who teach us how to keep our wits & feathers as we tend our modest nests and  nudge our fledglings along.

*There is no secret knock, we just check the member roster

Merge

I recently finished merging all of the old blogs that I could find (and that I still remember the passwords for). This after a period of ducking into my shell... I can be very 'turtle-like', I know. Sometimes I'm okay with all the world seeing all the warts, other times I try to disappear for all I'm worth.

As I merged the blogs, I enjoyed reading the old entries. Many memories and  moments were brought back to mind- some of it good and some of it slightly embarrassing... I have been too many versions of me.



One Two Three...Count the Me's ... SeventySix...NinetyNine...One Thousand



I have a terrible memory. If there isn't a picture or journal entry about it, it never happened or at least, not that I can recall.



 Reading back over small, conversational details in some of the older entries had a shrinking effect. My eleven year old was suddenly four again, trying to fly like Peter Pan.  Years disappeared and in their place the taste of sweet sadness, for the kids they have been, for getting to be there with them but not getting to stay forever.



They won't, you know.



Stay forever.



Steadily they've been moving forward to Time's too fast two step- growing feathers, stretching wings... getting ready more each day to soar away.



As I have been digging through the bones of yesteryear (humming Randy Travis, no lie) through the many versions of me, I realize that I won't either.



Stay this "me" forever.



And I reckon that's a comforting thing, overall. 

As challenging as it can be to read back through my really bad writing and naïveté without hitting 'unpublish'- I believe it is a small attemp by me, to live authentically. 

I recently said to a friend- after a lengthy email- thanks for letting me 'write' and I know I didn't mean, I think I write cleverly but rather, I appreciate the space to 'think' through some things and try to assign them words. 

Most of my recent blogging has become a bit scrapbook-ish...a lot of show and tell. The older blogging was more 'writing', however badly - in that thinking space kind of way. 

Pawn Shop Priorities

St. Marys, GA 

Elizabeth Smart's Story

I recently picked up Elizabeth Smart's book at a local thrift store. 

It terrified me. As in, check all the closets, lock all the doors, "What was that noise?!" terrified me. 

It was not unlike watching a Criminal Minds episode... too late at night... and home all alone. 

I finished the book shortly before bedtime and so, I slept with flashlight and pepper spray nearby and I set up noise traps at RyeBird's windows.

She usually eventually ends up in 'the big bed' with us, but for the 45 minutes where she actually slept in her own bed, it was extra peace of mind. I did not sleep in  MY own bed. I just lay there, hyper-vigilant.  

~*~

 Sometimes, it is nice to pretend that the world isn't as sick and twisted as it really is, but stories like this deny that charade. The world is broken...very, very badly in some places. 

The month prior to this, I had picked up Jaycee Duggard's story at a different thrift store. Also scary. So I am now convinced that we are all surrounded by crazy, scary villains... and we probably really are. 

I think the premeditation element was the scariest to read about. I have never thought of crimes of this nature carried out on a whim, but neither have I considered the great lengths one may go to target a victim, either.



I am guilty of making myself a sitting duck in the name of Good Samaritan-ship and, if it is possible, I also experienced retro-active fear for the times I could have been killed or endangered my family. And there was definitely retro-active gratitude & humility. 

I am more appreciative now of the various forms of self defense I have at my disposal and more determined than ever to remember to bring those methods along with me when I am out and about... and probably also when I am sound asleep, too. 

~*~

Scary as the books were, both also spoke strongly to the incredible, indomitable human spirit.

We have an amazing ability to heal and rebuild after bad things have happened...even really bad things.

 I was surprised by the sometimes wry and  humorous note that Elizabeth was able to take as she described her captor and time in captivity. I admire her spirit. And... it felt strange, but there were moments a small  laugh suddenly escaped my lips as I read along. 

In the book, Elizabeth's mom takes her aside shortly after her rescue and gives her some advice for the days to come. Perhaps it was because I've been rattled a bit by these abduction stories and needed something to hold on to or maybe I recognized quickly the simple but powerful truth in her words, for whatever reason, Mrs. Smart's words have stayed with me and continue to resonate.

 I will share that passage momentarily, but I see a bunny trail and I'm going to hop a few steps in its direction . 

Bunny Trail: 

Coming out of high school,one of my listed interests @ the colleges I previewed was Counseling. 

Sometimes I said I wanted to study Psychology. I wanted to listen to people for a living and be able to help them. I wanted to be Frasier. I wanted a patient like Bill Murray in "What About Bob". 

 Amongst other interests and leanings in the professional world, "counseling" has remained a constant on my list-as opposed to "Clown" which fell off way, way back somewhere, and "Artist" which is too sporadic and lacking in ability to make anything higher than the Hobby List. 

Though the interest and - I like to believe- a heart for counseling -- has  persisted, there have also been mental hurdles and hesitancy that I have known was there but haven't necessarily been able to articulate well . 

One of those hurdles has been this mentality: How can I possibly help someone who has been through something worse than I've ever imagined, much less experienced. What right do I have to speak into their life? What difference would it really make? 

If you marvel that I can doubt my ability to adequately counsel imaginary future counseling patients... well, stick around. That's all I can say. 

My Head Knowledge: Of course it's better to admit that you don't have all the answers, to sit quietly and hold a friend's hand than to talk too much or offer empty sentiments- or worse say the wrong, wrong thing in an old-fashioned-well-meant-road-to-hell-paving-event. 

My True Self Expectation: Save Everyone!Fix Everything!...and FAST!!!. 

~*~

I recently read a book about death and dying {On Death and Dying by Elizabeth Kubler Ross} that tossed a little more kindling on my counseling desires. It gave me some direction about the sort of counseling I might would like to see myself involved in someday... but that's another post entirely. By contrast, Smart's book- or more specifically, Smart's mom-  provided a practical model for speaking into the life of someone who has more scars than me. 

This is what she said:

 "Before it gets too crazy, I need to tell you something. This is important. Elizabeth, what this man has done is terrible. There aren't any words strong enough to describe how wicked and evil he is! He has taken nine months of your life that you will never get back again. But the best punishment you could ever give him is to be happy. To move forward with your life. To do exactly what you want. Because, yes, this will probably go to trial and some kind of sentencing will be given to him and that wicked woman. But even if that is true, you may never feel like justice has been served or that true restitution has been made. But you don't need to worry about that. At the end of the day, God is our ultimate judge. He will make up to you every pain and loss that you have suffered. And if it turns out that these wicked people are not punished here on Earth, it doesn't matter. His punishments are just. You don't ever have to worry. You don't ever have to think about them again. You be happy, Elizabeth. Just be happy. If you go and feel sorry for yourself, or if you dwell on what has happened, if you hold on to your pain, that is allowing him to steal more of your life away. So don't do that! Don't you let him! There is no way he deserves that. Not one more second of your life. You keep every second for yourself. You keep them and be happy. God will take care of the rest." (pg 285-286)

Not only did I find the thoughts behind these words extremely wise, but also very applicable to walking through any given life. Even my own, say.  And while I know there's a large chasm between speaking these words to a hurting heart and being heard I saw in this example the importance and the impact of simply being willing to speak them. I hope to be as brave and insightful, as loving and true to the hearts that inhabit my life.