Here We Go Again

It's Fantasy Football season again. You might remember that last year I devised a complicated algorithm based on team color and bewildering spelling of names in order to draft my team. I finished in the middle of the pack. I wasn't satisfied with that performance and am determined to do better this year. My fearless teacher/babysitter/football guru/friend Nancy advised me last year. She was incredibly awesome so I hired/begged/threatened her to help me this year too. Following is a transcript of our email exchanges as I attempt to prepare for the draft on Friday night.

I decided that the defining characteristic for my picks this year was going to be good hair. I told Nancy, but I think she ignored me.

{Reader beware - I'm an idiot. Nancy is a saint. My actual emails are word for word. What I was thinking is in italic type.}

Tanya:: So, our fantasy draft is Friday night. This year we are playing head-to-head like the grown up people play! What do I need to keep in mind as I pick players. . .I mean besides good hair, weird last names and uniform color??

Nancy:: Don't worry about a QB until the 4th round. Try to get a RB first round and then second and third rounds another RB and receiver(order doesn't matter) Only draft 1 kicker, wait until the couple last rounds. I would try to get a really good TE in the 5th round.(D. Clark, A Gates, V. Davis, J Finley or V Shiancoe) if people picked them already get a WR and then a TE in the 6th. Defense can be a later round too. Then fill in your bench. Does that help? any other questions? If by chance P Manning, Brees or Rodgers is still available in the 3rd round grab one of them. We have 14 teams so my draft sucked this year. I was the 14th pick which mean I picked 14th, 15th and then not until 42nd and 43rd. My favorite RB's are R Rice, C Johnson Jones Drew and Peterson. I of course did not get any of them. Let me know if you have any more questions.

{Huh?}

{I've never heard of most of those people. . .}

{Do any of them have good hair?}

{All of those initials and things make that paragraph kind of look like a recipe. . .}

{What should we have for supper tonight? Maybe try something new?}

{Come on! Get it together here! She's trying to HELP you! Pay attention!}

Tanya:: Many thanks master teacher! I will try to do u proud!!

{O god. . .Don't panic. You can do this. . .}

Nancy:: Oh I was going to tell you one other thing. I try, the best I can to avoid players from BAD NFL teams. At least in the earlier rounds. Sometimes they come through but most times the other defense knows that he is the best player on the team so they focus on that person. My best example is Steven Jackson He often goes top 10 pick. I would get him later maybe third round but not first. Another is Steve Smith from Carolina, awesome player but doesn't have a great QB to throw to him, so I think he is kind of iffy. Does that make sense? Try not to take a New england RB as they have 3 backs they rotate so you never know who is going to get the carries.

{RB + QB + WR = WTF??}

{NE has three backs. . .doesn't that HURT??}

Tanya:: Oh God. . .my head will explode! How can I find a list of the worst teams?? I need to make a cheat sheet!!

Nancy:: You can look at last years record. Def. bad= St Louis, Tampa, Buffalo, Cleveland. I think will do better this year but still not great= Seattle, Detroit, Chiefs, Raiders. Here are a few players from these bad teams that I would take in the 4th round or later. Calvin Johnson, Javid Best, Jamaal Charles, Dwayne Bowe, Steven Jackson, Justin Forsett. Typically top 10 players but don't have a good QB this year= Larry Fitzgerald and Steve Smith(Carolina) You'll be fine....

{But do any of these dudes have good hair??}

Tanya:: you are too smart for your own good. . .

{And you need to get a life. . .but I'm totally glad you don't have one during football season! And besides that, you read the prattling nonsense posted on this blog every day and you don't tell me to get a life. . .even when someone clearly should. . . And, besides that, where would I be without you when it comes to this craziness??? Clearly, in last place in my league. . .}

So, I made myself a cheat sheet. I crossed off all the ones she said to avoid. I marked each position with the draft rounds she recommended. I made a list of the worst teams and players to avoid. I even took a yellow highlighter to the players I refuse to draft for moral reasons.

Hey, a girl has to draw the line somewhere. I don't care how good their hair is. . .no assholes on my team!

And, Nance, I apologize now. I'm sure it's going to be another long season of babysitting me! You're the BEST!

Neglected Colds Are Dangerous!

{no deep thoughts; no shallow thoughts. . .just kleenex, orange juice and a crappy summer cold. hope to be back soon. anybody got any of this stuff layin' around?? 'cause, ya know, neglected colds are dangerous.}

Self Portrait

{taken in the morning sun against an old barn on County Road 180, Hancock County}

The Distance of Grace

{unnamed memorial • Seneca Memory Gardens • Tiffin, Ohio}

"The Left mocks the Right. The Right knows it's right. Two ugly traits. How far should we go to try to understand each other's point of view? Maybe the distance grace covered on the cross is a clue."

~ Bono, lead singer of U2

Unexpected Kindness

{There is a wonderful, mystical law of nature that says that the three things we crave most in life – happiness, freedom, and peace of mind – are always attained by giving them to someone else. ~ Unknown}

Yesterday my boss did something very kind.

It wasn't costly.

It was thoughtful.

{He took my old guitar, which I had left at work, and secretly replaced the strings and had it tuned. No, I don't play. But I want to learn.}

It communicated that I am appreciated as a person.

It changed my outlook.

Thank you.

Another Vignette From My Life

Setting: The warehouse facility where we clean. I was working in the cafeteria and Ali was preparing to vacuum the front offices. Out of nowhere she comes busting into the cafeteria.

A: T! Come here! Quick!! There's something on the carpet!

Me: (not particularly concerned) What?

A: It's some kind of BUG! And it's BIG!

Me: (accustomed to exaggeration) How big?

A: HUGE!

Me: (thinking this, not daring to say it out loud) Yeah, OK. Whatever.

We went to the front offices and all I saw was a cricket. (thinking to myself - What's the big deal? It's just a cricket.)

Me: It's a cricket. It won't hurt you.

A: I want to do the Buddhist thing and not kill it! I want to take him outside and set him free! Should I grab him by his antennas??

Me: Ummm. Probably not. They might come off and that wouldn't be good.

(She bent over and cupped her hands but I was pretty sure that when she grabbed him that she was going to freak and he was going to go flying. Screaming while doing janitorial work is probably frowned on, so I kept thinking.)

Me: Hey! Go to the cafeteria and get a styrofoam cup. Then you can put it over him and scoop him up and take him out! That will work.

(She went to get a cup and I went back to work.)

A: (talking to herself, or to the cricket, I'm not sure which) I'm gonna save his life! Come on little fella. . .Let's go outside!

(I'm thinking that it would have been a heck of a lot quicker just to kill him and vacuum up the remains, but was secretly kind of glad we hadn't. The next thing I heard was an anguished groan, followed by a terrible, "Oh my God. . .Honey! Come quick!")

When I went back this is what I found –

Yeah, that's his head. . .totally separate from his body. What you can't really see is the yellow goo coming out of the place where his head used to be.

A: (real tears forming in her eyes) I'm sorry little fella! I'm so sorry little guy! I tried to put the cup over you so I could take you outside but I ACCIDENTALLY. CHOPPED. OFF. YOUR. HEAD. . . (tears are falling now)

Me: It's OK honey. It's your intention that matters most. (by now I'm dying, trying not to laugh out loud)

A: Come on little guy. . .now that I've killed you, you might as well go on outside and feed someone else. . .

That did it. I couldn't take it anymore. Between the gusts of laughter I suggested that perhaps she should pray real hard over his still twitching body. Maybe he could still grow another head.

She flounced out carrying the cup with the various disassembled body parts and gave me a look that said perhaps if I didn't shut up I might be the one needing to grow a new head. . .

Late August Morning

{Late August Morning in Ohio}

it's prettier bigger – click it!

I Keep Trying To Quit Too

"For those who care and I understand if you don't: Today I quit being a Christian. I'm out. I remain committed to Christ as always but not to being 'Christian' or to being part of Christianity. It's simply impossible for me to 'belong' to this quarrelsome, hostile, disputatious, and deservedly infamous group. For ten years, I've tried. I've failed. I'm an outsider. My conscience will allow nothing else."

~novelist Anne Rice, from her Facebook page

I've been mulling over her announcement for awhile now, letting it sink in, letting myself contemplate her words and intentions. And all I can say is, "Wow. I get it."

I've been an outsider for more than 30 years. I've tried to quit Christianity on many, many occasions only to be inexplicably drawn back as though there is an invisible cord spinning and twirling, reintroducing me to the Holy again and again. This thread of faith has ensnared me and I just don't know how to unentangle myself, no matter how desperately I try.

And, believe me, I try.

Born the lesbian daughter of a Southern Baptist preacher, I've been trying all my life. I've heard it all, and then some. I've felt the bruises, the paper cuts, the roundhouse punches and the slow crushing contempt of organized religion for me and for my outsider brothers and sisters.

And that's why, when reading about Ms. Rice's decision, I have experienced both elation and devastation. I so deeply understand the frustration that comes with this label called "Christianity" and how so much of who I am as a human being is seen as unfinished or unacceptable through this lens. But, at the same time, I can't help but know in my soul that I am a powerful agent in this mysterious thing called faith and in the perpetuation and change of Christianity's direction and in it's legacy for the future.

Damn it. . . it would be so much easier just to walk away. And God knows I've tried.

Perhaps what continues to bring me back, to bind me to God in community with others, even though it's hard and often seems so exhausting is this little bit of the Gospel of John – "By this all will know that you are my disciples, if you love one another."

That little verse makes Christianity quantifiable. If you are a disciple, then you love. Period. End of story. This little verse gives me all the permission I need to ignore the hate. And it gives me to power to pray for the bigots and those who try to co-opt God for their own moral and political agendas.

I'm slowly coming to believe that word "Christian" is meaningless in and of itself, unless it is found to be in tandem with love. Love that is measurable. Love that is kind. . .

Love that does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails. But where there are prophecies, they will cease; where there are tongues, they will be stilled; where there is knowledge, it will pass away. For we know in part and we prophesy in part, but when perfection comes, the imperfect disappears. When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I put childish ways behind me. Now we see but a poor reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known.

And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.

~ I Corinthians 13:4-13

Why Don't You Spank My Butt?

Ali is famous for making up her own lyrics when she doesn't know the "real" words. Following is a short vignette from my life.

Setting: Early Sunday evening, our living room. We're tired.

Ali is working on a jigsaw puzzle. Preseason football is on TV. I'm laying on the couch with Oliver. I'm not paying much attention to Ali, who is singing (rather loudly) but I'm kind of immune to it after three and half years. She's always singing.

Ali: "Why do you build me up

(build me up)

Buttercup, baby
Just to let me down

(let me down)"

That's all of the song she knows so it's become kind of a general looping background soundtrack to the football game.

Until it suddenly morphs. . .

"Why don't you spank my butt

(spank my butt)

Baby, Buttercup

Spank my butt"

She never missed a beat, never looked up from her puzzle and never gave any indication that she even noticed what she was singing. I let her repeat it two or three times before I couldn't control my laughter any longer. We laughed until our stomachs hurt and Oliver got so annoyed he went upstairs.

There are very few dull moments around here.

Total Randomness

It's Sunday morning and all I have are seriously random thoughts bouncing around in my head.

:: We watched the movie Up last night. It was incredible! I've never seen such a brilliant five minutes as the one where Carl and Ellie meet, marry, have a life together and age, with Ellie eventually dying – all without words and in an animated movie. It was remarkable and I loved the whole thing.

From director Pete Docter:

Basically, the message of the film is that the real adventure of life is the relationship we have with other people, and it's so easy to lose sight of the things we have and the people that are around us until they're gone. More often than not, I don't really realize how lucky I was to have known someone until they're either moved or passed away. So, if you can kind of wake up a little bit and go, "Wow, I've got some really cool stuff around me every day", then that's what the movie's about.

:: We stopped in a beauty supply place yesterday. Ali was looking for some specific product for her hair and I was just wandering around when I saw Triple Lanolin Body Lotion on the shelf. I didn't know they still made the stuff! (I've written about it before. It's what my gramma smelled like and when I get a whiff of it I'm back with her, feeling incredibly loved.)

So yesterday, I'm standing in the aisle sniffing the hand lotion, trying not to cry, when Ali finds me. She understands. After a minute or so, however she must be beginning to worry because she quietly asks, "Are you gonna buy that or just smell it all day??"

I bought it.

:: After a nice long nap yesterday afternoon I spent the rest of the day up-cycling three old t-shirts into a cute little skirt! It was the perfect, rainy afternoon project. Pictures to come this week, when there's actually good light to photograph! In the meantime, did you know. .

• Conventional cotton is the most toxin intensive fiber on earth? It requires a pound of poison to produce the cotton used in just three t-shirts?

• In one year the average American throws away 70 pounds of clothing? More than three-quarters of our discarded clothing goes to landfills to be plowed under.

:: That's all I got today. No deep thoughts. No interesting pictures. Guess I'll go sniff some hand lotion and color my hair. You know – flush a bunch of toxins into the groundwater in the name of vanity and all. . .hey, I'm nothing if not at least a little self aware. . .

Signage

"Society evolves not by shouting each other down, but by the unique capacity of unique, individual human beings to comprehend each other."

~ Lewis Thomas • The Medusa and the Snail

For a long time, years even, I've wanted to take pictures of the messages that churches choose to post outside their doors. Most are trite. Some are ugly. Many are just innocuous and make the institution seem irrelevant to most who might be search for God, or searching for hope. The majority of these messages make me wonder what the church envisions the outcome of their sign might actually be. Or maybe wonder if they even care.

My original idea for the pictures may be flawed, but I've always thought that if I collected enough of them, placing them side-by-side, I could find messages that are completely contradictory – you know, "God Loves You" next to "God Hates Fags" for example.

Now that my camera is my constant companion, it might be the right time to start my little project. Maybe I will even be surprised to find that mainline denominations aren't exactly the religious equivalent of Fox News.

But I'm not holding my breath.

What Were They Thinking?

Since my job moved to Tiffin I've been seeing these small busses all over town. This one was out my window at work yesterday.

Obviously they forgot to run this acronym through the marketing focus group before slapping it all over their busses. Makes me wonder if anyone but me even noticed. . .

scat 3 |skøt| |skat|

noun

droppings, esp. those of carnivorous mammals.

Click here for more hilarious examples of acronyms run amok – and who doesn't need a laugh on a Friday??

Bicentennial Barn

{State Route 224, Hancock County, on the way to Tiffin}

A Visitation

Our caterpillars have skipped town. They are nowhere to be found, even though Ali walks around the garden softly calling, "Here Linus. . .Where are you Simon?" all while looking in the shrubs for their chrysalises. (Of course she named them! I can't believe you had to ask!)

We already knew that just before they began their transformation from caterpillar to butterfly that they might disappear but we were still disappointed on Monday night to come home and find them gone. We looked far and wide, even in the neighbor's shrubbery, but to no avail.

Then yesterday, Ali went to Cedar Point with her family for the day. Mid-afternoon I got this picture sent to my cellphone, followed by a very excited phone call.

"It's Simon! It's Simon!! He landed on my finger while we were standing in line and he stayed there for two or three minutes, tasting my finger!"

I'm a skeptic by nature but this is kind of weird. It's a black swallowtail butterfly. It hung out long enough to have it's picture taken and it chose Ali, of all the people in the park, to hang with. Of course I know it's not the caterpillar from our garden, but who's to say it's not something just a little more special than a simple random encounter?

Certainly not me.

The Nature of Faith

I took a spiritual gifts inventory yesterday and for the first time in my life faith came out as my highest gift. I always have the same three – pastor, teacher and faith – usually in that order. This time they were reversed.

It's interesting.

As I messed around with the camera and Photoshop, trying to make a visual representation of faith, I looked at the crummy photo I was ruining and something in it spoke to me about the nature of faith. Forget the past – it's a blurry mess. Don't worry too much about the future – there's not all that much to see. Just focus intently on today and trust that, as we used to be fond of saying, "God is good?"

All the time.

Wait, Wait! There's More!

As it turns out, our two little caterpillar friends are more interesting than we first thought. After a little reading it turns out that they've got good genes.

This one will go from this awkward, teenage stage::

To this::

{a black swallowtail butterfly • image courtesy of Wikipedia Commons}

The female swallowtail will lay her eggs on plants that are part of the carrot family – including dill, fennel, Queen Anne's Lace and parsley! We read that they're only defense mechanism is a forked gland called an osmeterium. When they think they're in danger, the osmeterium, which looks like a snake's tongue, comes out and releases a foul smell to repel predators.

Not being content with book knowledge alone, we went outside to provoke our little visitors. . .because, you know, that's how we are. . .

Not being sadists, we are now officially leaving them alone to do their business while we just watch and wait. Hopefully there will be more pictures to come, as we become foster black swallowtail mamas!

The Hungry Caterpillar

{making breakfast of my fennel plant • it's ok, i don't know what to do with fennel anyway, and it appears that he does!}

Observations on Photographers

I got myself up and around this morning and was down at the park by 6:30 to watch the morning launch of the Flag City Balloon Fest. I knew it wouldn't going be too crowded at the butt-crack of dawn on a Saturday morning and that there was a possibility of getting some good pictures without too many other people in the way.

By nature, I'm a people watcher. It's one of my favorite pastimes, so rather than get out of my car this morning when I got to the park, I just parked and watched.

The first thing I noticed were the inordinate number of people clutching cameras. And I don't mean little point and shoot numbers either. I'm guessing retail value of the cameras present at Emory Adams Park this morning could fuel the economy of a small, third-world country next quarter. And the photographers clutching those cameras were most certainly an odd, earnest looking bunch of folks. (And I will include myself in this assessment as I did have my camera with me!)

Most of us looked like we had just rolled out of bed. We were wearing clothes that didn't match, as though getting to the park with both eyes open and capable of focusing was more important than just grabbing a random, dirty t-shirt off the bedroom floor at 5:50 or so in the morning. (You can feel free to be amused by the fact that one of the photographer's main concerns in looking at his or her actual photographs is color. . .and how it impacts people's perception of what we are photographing. . .)

I watched one guy who was obviously a newbie at the photography thing and I almost felt sorry for him. He climbed out of his Hummer with a $4,000 camera strapped around his neck. He had a bag full of expensive lenses and at first I thought he must be a professional. But then he betrayed his truly amateur status as a photographer. He reached back into his car, not only for a 64 oz. cup of gas station-mocha-java-latte-blended-caffeine product but also for his very large, very rambunctious dog. . . There's no way in hell that guy is gonna take a good picture of anything, juggling all that stuff. . .

Then there was the very fervent dude with the pants with the million pockets. He was obviously very serious about his hobby. He didn't have coffee. There was no dog pulling on his arms. He had no camera bag. He knew enough to put all his lenses and other paraphernalia in his cargo shorts so he didn't have to mess with a bag that would constantly fall off his shoulders. The problem was, that he was having trouble holding his pants up. Apparently in his Saturday morning stupor, when he found his dirty t-shirt on the floor, he neglected to find his belt. It wasn't slowing him down though. He just kept one elbow pressed real hard at the side of his waist and did a lot of hauling upwards of his drawers. thankfully. . .

There were lots of test-shots being taken, lenses being cleaned, serious-looking tripods being assembled and important looking paparazzo wandering around as everyone wondered when the party was going to start. There were light meters appearing as the most serious photographers began to be concerned about correct exposures.

And apparently no one was noticing how the wind was picking up and how the sky to the west wasn't really getting very light. . . No one except those people who would actually be going up in the air and risking their lives in a hot air balloon.

The disgust was palpable when the event was cancelled, at least among the photographers. The balloon people just looked relieved.

Oh well, at least most of the shutterbugs won't have to change their clothes when they go home and go back to bed. . .

For What It's Worth

"...but Lot's wife, who was behind him, looked back and she became a pillar of salt."

~ Genesis 19:26

For what it's worth,
she says
I only glanced.

But the past –
what is behind us,
is a greasy, black bird that lights on our shoulders,
digging caustic claws into tender flesh,
reminding us of our uncomfortableness with ourselves.

This old crow feeds mostly on the carrion of mistakes.
Regrets that bloat in the sunshine of the present moment
and draw our attention
like flashing lights on the side of the road
as we dash by.

For what it's worth,
she says
I didn't mean to look.

We never mean to be mesmerized
by all the things that are, at the same time,
over and done with
and yet so available,
do we?

In her glance, there was no today. No tomorrow.
Only a single glimpse of yesterday.
Frozen.

It was her undoing.
For whatever it's worth.

Grace

I want to write, eat, think and embody grace,

in the same way an ocean wave gently laps on the shore –
night after night after night.

Graceful even as it fades in its curvaceousness,

slowly becoming that last arch and meander

before sliding backward into the darkness.

But I have no grace on my own.

Let this then, my little offering of words,

like a the smallest ripple on the surface,

be another prayer that baptizes me –

into grace.

Life is A Pencil

Sometimes all that really matters is that life is a pencil and you are attempting to write a good and very colorful story. . .

Down to the Bones

{all that's left are the bones of a mammoth old structure}

The fire at 120 N. Main St., Findlay, left the old Heuerman's Building a total loss. It's been mostly empty since the flood of 2007 and was owned by the Hancock County Flood Mitigation Partnership. No one was injured.

Even a week later, walking around the area, you can smell charred wood in the air.

Come Home, Odie

Saturday night about nine-thirty we heard a young guy walking down our street, whistling and calling for a dog. It was dark and we knew immediately that his dog was missing. We went outside and asked him what had happened and he said his dog had been missing since noon. Having once lost a dog we knew the panic he was feeling.

We hopped in the car and drove around the neighborhood helping neighbors we never met from a few blocks over, look for their dog. We were unsuccessful.

Both Ali and I were kind of heartsick but we were both painfully aware that our heartache was inconsequential compared to theirs. We heard them until midnight, up and down the street quietly calling, "Odie. . .come home Odie."

Sunday morning, barely past daybreak I heard a familiar sound that nearly broke my heart. The same young man, now on his bicycle, pedaling down our street quietly squeezing Odie's favorite squeeky toy, calling to him from wherever he might be hiding. As of now, Odie hasn't come home. I walked all the alleys of Hurd Avenue several times today and Ali rode her bike for miles, looking for a tiny little Daschund named Odie who is seriously, wholly loved.

Come on home, Odie boy. Your family really misses you.

Vulnerability

{in running across this shot yesterday i forgot how much i liked it}

I spent most of yesterday fooling around with pictures. I looked through the flickr archives of images that I've taken – cropping, critiquing and just generally stressing about them. I made three trips across town to Walgreens, ordering 8x10 prints (because they are only 99 cents each this week!) and then found flaws in all of them.

Why all the drama? I'm going to enter some shots in the fair for the first time this year and I don't want to feel like an idiot. It's not that I'm obsessed with winning, although I wouldn't argue with the judges if I did. It's that it feels so vulnerable to put what you hope is your "best" out there and be found wanting.

It's that way every time you choose to reveal something of who you are. I'm just not sure it ever gets any easier.

Loaves and Fishes

Loaves and Fishes

This is not

the age of information.

This is not

the age of information.

Forget the news,

and the radio,

and the blurred screen.

This is the time

of loaves

and fishes.

People are hungry

and one good word is bread

for a thousand.

-- David Whyte

from The House of Belonging

©1996 Many Rivers Press

Connections

{click to make the image bigger!}

I went to a church last Sunday where I felt welcomed. That's a big deal because, you know, I've got my baggage and all. It was relaxed. The band was good. The people were friendly. And, maybe the best part? The coffee was awesome! kidding. . .kidding. . .

The real best part was that it's now Friday morning and I'm still thinking about the sermon. In a nutshell, it was this:

Imagine a wagon wheel. The outside, larger circle is the world. The inside, smaller circle is God. We are the spokes, radiating out. Notice that the closer the spoke gets to God, the closer we become to one another. The closer the spoke gets to the world, the more isolated and alone we become.

Of course, I didn't do the sermon justice. But being a visual person I found the illustration of connection fascinating. . .bordering on obsessive. . . I saw the damn thing everywhere I went. So, of course, I started taking pictures. And, of course, that got me thinking. . .

What if the actual connecting points to God are just as easy to find, if only we are paying attention?

Guess I'll have to go back to church on Sunday and see if that's where this sermon series is headed.

If not, at least I know there will be good coffee. . .

This Works Too!

My favorite smooth, no-fail, full-bodied, best over ice, coffee recipe!

1/4 cup medium roast, medium ground coffee

1 1/2 cups cold water

Put both ingredients in a glass container and allow to rest 12 hours. Strain by pouring through your filter basket into another container twice. Enjoy chilled, over ice. Add milk if necessary.

Enjoy at approximately 2:00 p.m. when the afternoon sleepies hit and you need something to make you feel alive and joyful! It's addictive. . .consider yourself warned!

Views from Maple Grove Cemetery

{angel 1}

{angel 2}

{angel 3}

{close up of angel 2}

{and finally. . . the one that made me laugh out loud. . .at least it wasn't the middle digit!}

Prayer Flowers

For some of my prayer time lately I've been praying using the Divine Hours. Yesterday I decided to use one of the prayerful refrains as a photo challenge. I found the following shot in Liberty Township and thought it fit the theme perfectly. I enjoyed driving, repeating the refrain and searching for a physical representation of my prayer.

The Refrain for the Morning Lessons

Our days are like the grass;* we flourish like a flower of the field.

Psalm 103:15

Making Art

I hesitate to call anything that I do art. For me, there is such baggage associated with that word. I'm taken immediately to 7th grade art class where everyone was busy drawing something original and interesting and I was desperately sweating, blank page in front of me, with a baffled brain devoid of any inspiration. I hopelessly was trying to catch a glimpse of what the person next to me was drawing and it turned out to be a page full of mushrooms with fingerprints turned into little mice.

I shamelessly copied that drawing. Right down to the curly mouse tails and red spots on the mushrooms.

I got a D-. And I came to believe that I couldn't "make art."

I can't draw to save my life and painting is too scary to even contemplate. To me – sewing, knitting, writing, photography and cooking have always fallen under the category of "craft." I can't be an artist – all I can do is play with words, push a camera shutter release or turn yarn into fabric.

But what if my definitions of art and craft need further exploration?

I have traditionally thought of craft as having instructions and art as something that came directly out of one's imagination. If there was a prompt, an inspiration or a challenge to create it must have been a craft because it wasn't something that came "naturally."

Maybe that needs some more thought.

Here's what I'm wrestling with now:

Maybe what distinguishes art from craft is the need to create beauty based on what you are as a human being. If I make a bowl because I need a drink and make a purely functional bowl, that's an example of a craft. If I make a bowl and carve flowers in it with a design and paint it by hand with scene from childhood, that is art.

If I take words and record them without a sense of poetry or image it might be craft. If I wrestle with words until they arrange themselves into a beautiful representation of who I am as a person, all the things I see and feel and a likeness of the world in an exact moment of time, perhaps that is art.

And perhaps what truly differentiates craft from art may be need – the need to express myself, to put images to my experiences and ideas with words. Perhaps that could be a definition of art after all.

How about you? What's your definition of art?

Hardwired for Tears

For most of my life I frustrated my mother to no end. I tried to be a good kid. I was reasonably smart, generally compliant and good natured. I did what I was told with a minimum of complaining and wasn't a fussy, picky child. The thing I could not do that she so desperately needed was to be outwardly demonstrative and emotional. I just didn't come naturally to me.

She took to calling me a cold fish, mostly out of frustration I suppose.

She was right I guess. Perhaps she could have found a better way to express herself about it. . . but time heals most things.

It wasn't that I didn't deeply feel things, it was that I'm much more an intellectual person than I am an emotional one.

You most likely will never find me jumping up and down for joy, even if Ed McMahon comes knocking with that big check. I'm not someone who dances and screams at arena events. Ali kindly gives me a hard time because I don't dance. Heck, it would be a rare thing to find me even raising my hands in worship at a church service. Those physical responses to joy are just not my default outlet.

My instinctive, hardwired response is tears. I can cry in joy or in pain. In laughter and in sorrow. In surprise and in love. You name it, and I can cry over it. And it happened last week, standing on the steps of Bluffton's Town Hall.

One of the first "real" lesbian couples that I ever met were Jo and Lois. I was a freshly minted college graduate and scared to death that people would figure out I was gay. I couldn't figure out what kind of life I was going to have and was feeling weighed down by all the religious baggage I had picked up from the Baptist church.

Jo and Lois were old already. One was a retired teacher and the other was retired from the local bank. I found it almost unfathomable that they had been together nearly 50 years. And that they had spent all of it in this small town and they seemed to be so normal.

I thought that perhaps there was hope after all.

As I got to know them better I was absolutely entranced by their relationship with each other. Jo was outgoing and boisterous. Lois was quiet and smart. Lois was quite a bit older than Jo and I've never forgotten the story of their first meeting.

It was the 1950's and Lois was a teller at the local bank. Jo blew into town, all steam and noise and went to the bank to open an account. For some reason the bank President came out into the lobby to meet Jo and after a few moments quietly leaned in and said, "I think there might be a teller over here who would make you feel more comfortable," and walked her to Lois' window. The rest, as they say, is history. They lived quiet, mainstream lives in a small town with many friends and companions.

The heart of Bluffton is it's people. And the visual heart of Bluffton is the clock tower on the Town Hall. The tower image is the masthead for the local newspaper and the tower is the highest point in town. You can see it from just about anywhere on Main Street. Over the last two years the town hall has undergone a beautiful renovation and renewal. It was well deserved.


So, last week, when I walked up to the new entrance to Town Hall and looked to the left of the doors and saw this my heart skipped a beat.

And then the tears began to flow.

I cried because of the beauty of the act. Because of the courage to dare to be seen. Because of the loss of my friend. Because of the joy of looking up at the clock and seeing the sky. Because of the loneliness I know Jo feels. Because of the laughter they shared. And mostly, because of the testimony of their lives.

And the tears felt perfectly honest, natural and good. Way to go, Jo.