Not up to anything much, just pondering the meaning of life

I have to blog this one out. (To those of you brave enough to read on, I do apologize. The following is most likely going to be messy. And long.)

I think I need to call someone to talk this one out, but I have no one to call. Husband is working. Have to talk with him later. Mom is working. Again, later. Friends, well, I don't have any friends to talk about this kind of stuff with.

Today I am struggling with the meaning of life. And what money has to do with it.

Last night was a party. A great party for a great friend. It was in a beautiful, upper-middle class home. The attendees, alas, were also beautiful, upper-middle class people. It was a fairly shallow gathering. Small quantities of alcohol. BBQ-style food.

I also have other friends. Friends who are lower middle class. Touching on the definition of poor. They, of course, think I am rich. (I am not. I assure you.) I cannot figure out what makes these groups so different.

Is it money? Is it mentality? Education? Religion?

What makes one person poor and another rich?

What bothers me is how uncomfortable I am in the second friends' home. Is this just a result of my mentality? My upbringing? Or is there really something inherently different?

Both groups have single moms. Both groups have children. One group owns their home, another rents an apartment. Both wear decently nice clothes. (In fact I wouldn't be surprised if they both shopped at Target at times.) Both are rude at times and then generous at others. Both are insecure. Neither are more friendly than the other.

So what makes them different? Is it just the amount in their bank accounts?

I don't think so.

So which group would I rather be in? How then would I like to live?

When I think about the upper-middle class I think of security. Not financial. Not physical. Emotional. Money isolates. I won't need anybody else and I will be in control of my own life. Think about Escalades. They are big, self-sufficient, popular and impressive. They take up two parking spaces so no one damages their exterior. The people in the driver's seat always wear sunglasses. And if eyes are windows to the soul, they keep theirs locked and hidden from view. And this is attractive. Desirable. A worthy goal.

But is it really? Is this the meaning of life? To be hidden and locked away from view? Admired externally and removed internally?

Yes, I think so.

Life is messy. Uncomfortable. Painful. Ridiculous. Impossible. Frustrating. Uncontrollable.

Unless you're driving an Escalade.

Do Escalade drivers need less help than others? No. Are their relationships better? Not necessarily. (In fact, divorce may be more common in this group than most others.) Do their children love them more and respect them better? I don't think so.

Do they watch television less? Eat better? Okay, maybe. But again, not necessarily.

So what is so undesirable about poverty?

The mess. The vulnerability.

I don't want to sound like a communist here. I fully believe in competition and success. Working hard and earning rewards. And there are many people who drive Escalades simply because of this fact.

But for me, what would be my motivation to drive the Escalade?

Fear.

I don't want to be a mess. I don't want to be vulnerable. I am deathly afraid of failing. I want a sense of control. And pride. And accomplishment. These aren't inherently evil desires. But they do distort the truth.

I am not in control. While I have complete power to get in my car and drive anywhere or work for an education in any degree I choose, the outcome is not guaranteed. I can affect change and make things happen, but this is merely cause and effect. Not control.

I don't want to be poor because when you're poor, your toilet breaks and the landlord won't come to fix it for days. The air conditioning in your car goes out and it may not get fixed before the summer. If you accidentally run into the mailbox, the dent in your car will drive around with you everywhere, to be seen by everyone. This certainly isn't superior to driving around in the shiny SUV with your soul hidden away.

So then what? How then ought I to live?

Work hard. This is good. I can control my attitude and a hard-working one will only make me feel good about myself. If it ends up making riches, I ought to recognize that it isn't because of something special about me. This is humility. Recognize that my life is still hard. Relationships are still work. A day where the money runs out is always possible.

If my hard work only results in enough money to rent an apartment, also recognize that it isn't because of something special about me. This, too, is humility. Recognizing that my life is still hard won't be hard to do, but knowing that a future of wealth may await me would be hard to believe.

Most of us know that the ability to purchase everything we want, while certainly very nice, does not bring contentment. My generation is learning this, believe it or not. The day of Louis XVI, Marie Antoinette, the Industrial Revolution, the Baby Boomers and the 80's and 90's have shown us so. Lives of celebrities today also make this painfully obvious.

But we have believed with all our heart that poverty is bad and wealth is good.

Why?

What about wealth is inherently godly and poverty insufferable? What about me feels better in the upper-middle class house than the apartment downtown? If money doesn't buy happiness, what about it is so desirable?

I can think only that it must be control--or, rather, a sense of control. And I am a control freak. Who is often ruled by fear.

I think I hear the engine of my shiny new Escalade revving outside. Where did I put those over-sized, steel-framed, UV-protected sunglasses???

Breathe deep everyone. Breathe deep.

I do yoga. Yes, I know it's nothing special anymore--you can do yoga at the corner gym these days for crying out loud--but it's been working for centuries for Hindus and it's sure working wonders on my thighs and my breathing.

My yoga teacher is set on teaching us to breathe. I didn't know I needed a lesson in it, though, until I started actually doing it her way. It's not so hard to breathe--you may be aware of this as your involuntary respiratory system forces your lungs in and out, in and out even now as you read this. But when you're in the midst of a tense yoga pose with arms stretching in pretzel-like twists and a bent leg wobbling to hold up against the pressure, my yoga teacher will command, "Breathe!" And I'll realize that I hadn't been. In fact, as soon as I try to inhale and exhale, I can't.

I hate to ruin the suspense, but I'm not dying or anything. I am breathing, just not in yogi breath. Yogi breath is deep and purposeful. It commands attention and control.

I rock yogi breath when I'm lying down or bringing my hands to heart-center. But when I'm in the midst of the pretzel twist suspiciously aware of my knee's threat to break off and run back to the good old days of watching tv from the couch, I do not breathe so easily.

I forced a deep inhale, though, the other day. It took all the strength I had, but I slowly and intently filled my lungs with oxygen and then pursed my lips and maintained a steady exhale.

You know what? My pose got stronger. My knee committed to sticking with me for a few more hours at least and my arms steadied themselves. My shoulders lifted up higher and I retained the pose. I felt yoga-ish.

Towards the end of the class, my instructor began work on my psyche. "What has master over you?" She asked. Is it greed? Sex? A desire to please others? Selfishness? She dug deeper and asked us to find what had been lording over us in place of the Lord.

I used my breath and began exploring my inner-being. I searched everywhere for the power that controlled my existence. (I would like to say that as a Christ-follower, Christ is the only ruling force in my life. That would be great, but untrue.)

So as I pondered and examined and sought after the Lord, one word finally and instantly satisfied my quest: fear. Fear is my master. I have been serving it faithfully since childhood and use every bad experience to instill its tenure further. It has been a comfort to me when I couldn't control my circumstances and an excuse when I preferred laziness.

I had hoped that it would be greed or gossip that controlled me--I can get those kinds of problems under control.

But fear isn't so neatly packaged. It's harder to recognize and almost impossible to live without. It has become, for me, like breathing.

I wonder what would happen in my life if, as in my pose, I took what strength I had and focused it on breathing correctly. Sure, I had been breathing all along as I wobbled and wiggled in my pose, but when I stepped outside my circumstances and took control of my breath, I replaced unsteady balancing with sure-footed strength. I replaced my body's mastery over me with my mastery over it.

Breathing deeply felt a little risky. I doubted I could manage it and I never even expected it would strengthen my pose and forever change my practice. In fact, I'm not sure why I even did it.

But my instructor suggested it and she's nice and kind and much better at yoga than me. So I guess I just trusted her and went with it.

"I tell you, my friends, do not be afraid of those who kill the body and after that can do no more. But I will show you whom you should fear: Fear him who, after the killing of the body, has power to throw you into hell. Yes, I tell you, fear him. Are not five sparrows sold for two pennies? Yet not one of them is forgotten by God. " -Jesus

Ornery (Read: just plain nasty!)

If you've ever been in an ornery mood, read on. If you haven't, then don't waste my time, or yours for that matter, and check back some other time.

It's just been one of those days.

I'd like it to blame it on a colleague of mine. Or that girl in yoga. Or my mother. Or all of the above. But really, it's just little ol' me sticking it out through a tough day.

I lost my baby last fall. After victoriously getting pregnant in August, I was devastated to lose it in September. September 28 to be exact.

To back up a bit, I used to believe that the term "babies" fit only spawning insects. I hated the idea of motherhood, children and anything that might detract from a professional life of something very important. As I matured, so did my attitude (thank the Lord).

But I soon tangled that up and began wanting a child so much I would cry myself to sleep.

I am most definitely of the "one extreme or the other" persuasion.

When I lost her, we truly experienced pain and sorrow. We grew tremendously from this, however, and wouldn't change a thing. But now it's March, practically April, and I'm ready for another go.

Alas, I am not the one in charge. And so, I am ornery. Really, I'm just being nasty. I am mad at the woman I work with, mad at the girl who flakes out on yoga, mad at my mom for...well, for a lot, but that's another story. I am mad because I'm not in control.

I look forward to the future. Not assuming tomorrow is promised, but just the chance to look back at this in retrospect and see how the Lord has been faithful through this all. I have no reason to believe otherwise--He has spent my whole life showing up, making greatness, giving purpose, increasing understanding, creating joy.

I am blessed. I can control my attitude.

Derby Hats

I wore my rich-person-hat today. It's really beautiful. It's white, kind of a synthetic straw with a very slight matching bow off to the side and a not-too-wide, not-too-slight brim. My sister calls it my derby hat. I love that title. Only the wealthy own derby hats.

I wore it to church today--after all, it is Easter--and everybody commented. "I love your hat!" "What a great Easter bonnet!" "You look great!" "Of course! An Easter hat!" I really was quite surprised at the responses. But it was fun.

I wore it with a nice dress, nice sandals, simple earrings. My outfit worked. I looked wealthy--or at least as if I was raised wealthy. (Neither are true--which is why I can center an entire post on it.)

As my husband and I drove home from our family's Easter lunch, we both got emotional as we discussed the likelihood of him losing his job. I certainly don't make much money. Quite frankly, we're already tight and now may be out of a job. Things aren't always how they look.

But as we drove home, acknowledging the Lord's power and presence in it all, I knew that it wasn't the hat that made my day. It was my relationship with my husband, reflecting his relationship with the Lord. And when my husband is close to Him, drawing strength and wisdom from Him, abandoning his ways for His--that is a very good relationship.

The fact is, I've wanted a hat from the custom hat-maker in Laguna Beach, CA for over two years now, but we just can't afford it. I suppose we could save up, but that kind of ruins the point. People who own hats like that can buy them at a whim. So I'm waiting for that day.

In the meantime, my grandma (who is wealthy--or at least married wealthy) gave me one of her hats--the one I wore today and the only one I own. She's one of those ladies who could buy such a hat on a whim. But she doesn't. Her relationship with her husband is not so rich, not so blessed. Her husband is set on living life his way--and he does.

Sometimes I want that CA hat so bad I can taste it. But for now I'll just wear the hand-me-down hat from Grandma. She is so generous to give me what she has; if only I could do that for her.

My Husband--Perfect?

My husband wanted me to title this as I did. Because he knows he's not.

(Laugh outloud)

His idea is for me to blog our relationship.

But if he could understand how I feel today, he would probably change his mind.

Turns out, I didn't marry my best friend

I used to love weddings. Then, I had my own.

Ok, that's not entirely true. It's not the wedding; those are nice, lovely parties. It's the marriage I am really talking about.

My husband and I "did everything right," as one friend proclaimed at our rehearsal dinner.

And yet, about a year and a half later, we were separated. I have since learned that most of what lovely, well-intentioned people advise you on your wedding day is gibberish--totally untrue, nothing more than wishful thinking, a lie, merely a funny joke, party conversation.

I started thinking about this today as I was cleaning the house (cleaning is a frightful instigator in my creativity). I clipped a friend's wedding invitation onto our fridge and saw the line "Today I will marry my best friend." Ugh.

To people who have never been married, marriage logic seems to go like this: We love each other, we spend all of our time together. Therefor we should marry so that we never have to say goodbye and can spend our whole life together. (I know this is somewhat accurate; I've thought it myself.)

Other people will often even encourage this line of thinking. Not good.

Heard the line, "just wait 'til the honeymoon's over"? Yeah, that's the one betrotheds ought to heed--it's not a joke.

There's something only very difficult, irritating people will tell you: something you can't describe, can't explain and can hardly observe happens on the honeymoon that changes the both of you forever. And it's not sex.

It's a spiritual exchange where the responsbility for the woman's spirit transfers from her father, to her husband. It's not one of those Bible "should-be's"--it actually happens. And how many new husbands' spirits are healthy, vibrant, connected with the Lord? Their spiritual status suddenly has everything to do with their wife.

Have you ever seen E.T.? Picture the scene toward the end of the movie where Elliot is in class, and E.T. is at Elliot's house drinking a beer. As he continues to drink and then feel sick, Elliot reacts in sync. Even though they are miles apart and physically doing diferent things, their bodies react in unison. It's as if they are one being.

Aahh, welcome to marriage!

Chill

I know I'm intense.

Alright, I don't fully know it, but I am becoming more aware of it. I think it's funny actually. Because, here am I, totally in the moment and yet grounded. Thinking of what I have heard, learned, ought to do, should do, I am rarely "chill," as I have heard people unlike me described.

And yet, what does the perfectionist, literalist think of a description she can't fit?

"Red alert, red alert! We may not have this component covered--Code red, code red! We have detected a malfunction!" (hear: sirens, see: red flashing lights)

Lol!

Oh, yes, so now the intense person will calculate, analyze and formulate a persona that someone might call, "chill." Uh, huh. Good luck!

Ok, actually I can manipulate my identity enough to give an aura of chill to the untrained eye--think perfectionist, people-pleaser. But that's not who I am--more importantly, it's not part of my make-up.

Truth be told, I rarely respect chill people. I enjoy them; they're easy to be around. But I am simply not wired to be motivated by calm; I am motivated by truth, the desire to know ultimate truth and live it out. I am literal, and I am intense. But I do find what I seek.

I am sure I chill out sometimes, though. Like when I'm asleep.

It's late

It's 11:30--er, 31. I want to write. I have something to say...don't I?

Well, it's Saturday night, my husband and I are lounging in bed watching Planet Earth, eating yummies, and all I can think about is how I don't want to go to work Monday morning. Pathetic, I know.

But do you know why I so don't want to work? Not because I hate my job. Not because I hate getting up early Monday morning. I don't want to work because I feel like there are so many other more useful things I could be doing at home.

As it is now, I only have Saturday and Tuesdays free. Tuesday AM begins with Bible study a good thirty minutes away from my house; Saturday begins with yoga also not near home. I grocery shop, visit family, lunch with a friend--all for convenience's sake, since I am already in that part of town. So what ends up happening? I stay up late so that I can get stuff done around the house.

I want to write. I want to be able to cultivate some more freelance work--enough to live off of. I know it's possible. I wonder if that's part of the Lord's plan.

But for now, I'm sleepy. Thank you, Lord, for today. Yesterday is gone, tomorrow is not guaranteed.

Take Your Foot Off the Gas

I promised the Lord I wouldn't speed. Well, He had been prompting me for some time not to speed. Then I got a speeding ticket (almost 50 in a 25 zone...not good). So, now I don't speed.

Do you know what it takes to get to your destination at the time you want to be there? Frenzy. You have to push, shove and careen your way through side streets, freeways and intersections. Other drivers give you dirty looks (and sometimes more). Technically, you risk your life. And the lives of others, both drivers and passengers. You tend to really start to dislike other people when you drive this way; they're in your way.

But then the Lord told me to slow it down. Now I keep it to no more than five miles over the posted speed limit--it's a different world at speed limit pace.

Do you know what it takes to drive at speed limit pace? A physical, purposeful release of your feet off of the gas pedal. And when you obey the speed limit, you can't blame anyone else if you're late.

But here's the "crazy" part: haven't been as late when I follow the speed limit.

Again, it's almost as if God were trying to help me. Hmm...

It is pretty funny, though, now when I am headed to work or an appointment. Even if I am late, I don't speed, but plenty of cars around me drive dyslexically (you know, 52 in a 25 zone). It used to really hurt my pride. "Hey, I can drive as fast as you, too!" Or I'd try to keep them behind me as if to say, "See, you have to follow the speed limit, too!"

But then, I just let it go and became almost humorous to watch people lose their minds and risk their lives over getting in front of the car before them. What shocked me was that almost every time, we would all end up at the same stop light. Sometimes I have to keep from smiling. It's just so funny--here they've risked fines, their cars and their lives and all they got was a spot closer to the traffic light.


What's not funny, though, is when it was me!

The Great Lie of 50/50

I almost titled this blog, "Gayness." Not gayness as in a derogatory term to describe something I don't like, but rather the real issue of homosexuality. Let me make no bones about it: homosexuality is perverse. It is a sin like all sin. And anytime we take a sin, add our pride to it and then add to the word of God to say that it is not a sin, we lead ourselves down a treacherous path.

But here's an interesting twist. The huge marriage movement within the church has affected our thinking enough to pacify homosexuality. What? I wish I was kidding. But this is how deceitful the Deceiver is.

I don't know how it got started, whether in the church or secular psychology, but somehow along the way we have come to the conclusion that marriage is 50/50. There is even a popular marriage series called Love and Respect. The basis is that husbands must love and wives must respect irregardless of how the other behaves. That's what the scripture says, right? Ephesians 5:33.

Here's the problem. Marriage is not a contract deal. It is not a business agreement. It is a union comparable only and solely to Christ's relationship with the church. Now, what about Christ's love for me is 50/50? Let me be blunt. I do nothing for Christ. It wasn't even me who found Him--He found me. By taking marriage and applying mechanical rules to it, we profane a holy sacrament.

There are other problems with this 50/50 idea (e.g., the original Greek writing of Ephesians tells wives to respect husbands as a result of the husband's love for them--not arbitrarily as the church & world would have us believe, the wife wasn't created to love her husband--not as primary role--rather, she was created to help him, a woman is indeed weaker than a man but not according to the thinking of the world--by denying that verse, we only harm our own understanding), but here's a kicker:

If God established marriage to be a 50/50 contractual agreement, then homosexuality is surface-level acceptable. Granted, scripture is clear that marriage is for one wife and one husband, but these are merely semantics.

Hey, if all marriage takes is love and respect than there may very well be a gay or lesbian couple who can fulfill that. Maybe even better than a lot of heterosexual marriages I know.

But this was not, is not God's design.

If we had instead held to God's original plan for marriage that man is need of help and that a wife is uniquely created to help him become Christlike, to point out his need and his struggle, to reveal where he is falling short, then a homosexual couple would have no place.

Had our society held to God's ways, we would not be so easily swayed that two men could as competently fulfill the role of marriage as a man and a woman. It would be nonsense. We would have been able to call it as it is: a lie, a degrading passion, unnatural (Romans 1:24-28).

But instead, we secularize this sacrament: it's a 50/50 relationship, dependant on two individuals performing as they ought.

No. It's a holy sacrament dependent wholly and entirely on the work of Christ and the life of a husband. There are no two ways for it to work.

I am afraid that we have twisted God's ways just enough to make it convenient for us. And in so doing, we begin to look more and more like the world: the divorce rate among Christians and non-Christians is exactly parallel.

Let us be very wary of anything that makes us more comfortable.

Caffeine free--all year long

So for those of you who don't know, I have at least seven blogs. Two are real. One contains posts.

Of this, I am actually proud. Because it means I am alive. It means I am a woman with multi-task ability and creativity. It means I am more and more like my mom.

In other words, there are so many facets of my personality it is difficult to summarize them all into one blogspot description: I was home-schooled (Though, I think I will start a new trend: no past tense with home-schooling. Once home-schooled, always home-schooled. Home-schoolers never stop learning. So, I am home-schooled.), follow the Lord's leading in regards to diet (currently it is of a raw persuasion), nurture an amazing marriage due to the strength and attention of my husband (No, really. I am not just saying that.), carry unique political views (Conservatives: let us please stop fighting to keep the words of God on buildings, when it is not even in people's hearts.), hope to adopt and/or foster children (having lost a baby last year, the Lord has quickened our hearts to the needs of the children already born but without attentive parents), raise two Golden Retrievers (Roxy is 3 and Depot is 9 mos), maintain that my sisters have more to offer me than any church program, and do not have a television.

I see at least five possible blogs right there.

But right now, it's just Caffeinated. It seems that Caffeinated is just ambiguous enough, at any rate, to ramble and incorporate all aspects of my personality.

In fact, caffeine was a major amalgamation of all of me just last week. It all started when I was startled by the amount of caffeine I had running through my system. Here's the catch: haven't had coffee for at least six months. What I had been doing differently, though, was eating raw--as in only raw fruits, veggies, nuts, etc. All the literature out there confirms that people who eat raw experience a ton more energy.

But this was different. I had been eating this way for a few months. While I certainly did experience a lot more energy, this particular week I felt caffeinated--in a good way. A great way!

I called my husband and shared my feelings with him. We realized that it wasn't my body that was energized; it was my spirit. This particular week, my husband had been so attentive to the Lord, open with his own emotions and aware of my feelings, needs, wants that it literally energized me. "A cheerful heart is good medicine, but a crushed spirit dries up the bones."

There's a problem, here, though. No self-help will work. No trendy or time-tested regime will shake a key. This comes down to the nitty, gritty, impossible work of the Holy Spirit causing my husband to yield to the Lord.

Wow. You have got to get this caffeinated.

Do you see a pattern?

In my mind, I keep a blog. Ha ha ha ha ha! Or, as I should say to accurately represent my generation, LOL!

Really, though, I had been fully convinced that I have a blog. I guess I live more in the etheral future than in reality, huh? Because when I logged on today, I read in black and white that I write approximately once every year. Wow. My English profs. would be so proud. My mother would be so proud. Ugh.

The sad part is that just last February I realized the same thing. I believe I have young person's alzheimers. Ah, strike that. Try instead laziness. It's not a condition. It's a pathetic lifestyle. "The sluggard craves and gets nothing, but the desires of the diligent are fully satisfied."

And so, here ends my annual contribution.

Writing

I felt for the first time today that writing in and of itself does not satisfy. I don't mean in the self-expressive, passionate sense that I dwelled so much on yesterday, but in the realm of reality itself.

I truly believe that I am only satisfied in Christ. The satisfying element of writing to express myself is in how it connects me to the Holy Spirit and in turn to Christ Himself. So to the Spiritually alert Christian all roads may not lead to Rome, but to Christ. In the sense that Paul wrote of the permissible versus the beneficial, I enjoy writing to the extent that it benefits my spirit's intimacy with Christ.

So thank You, Lord, that I do not write in vain.

When I trust the Lord, I find that I am satisfied also to know dissatisfaction; there is some peace that comes with holding ever so loosely to this world. When I am tempted into finding satisfaction (perhaps fulfilment is more accurate) in this world, I sense that I am turning to face the future with Jesus behind me. I glance back at Him with the slightest struggle in my conscience, knowing somewhere inside that this can't be what I was made for. Yet I plug on convinced that I must join the elite who have found worldly success.

Now I think back and remember returning home from Kona, Hawaii where I spent a week with Rory at YWAM before we were married. I journaled like a mad woman, like the artists I described yesterday who had something so deep within that they would burst if it did not reach the surface. I journaled because the Lord was working within me and there was not conversation enough to satisfy. It had to be putting pen to paper, putting vision to actuality.

The Lord was stirring inside me a desire for hanging laundry out to dry on a clothesline--both literally and metaphorically. A clothesline to me represents poverty. He was stirring inside me a contentment with a future of poverty.

But not poverty as in a mercy's poverty who suffers for the Lord. Poverty as in one of my greatest fears. I knew poverty to mean misery as a young girl, and I wanted nothing of the misery I had experienced. In my simple understanding, I believed that wealth would dematerialize misery.

Untrue.

But fear is never based on reality, is it?

By reconciling me to using a clothesline, no, not reconciling, but rather freeing me to use a clothesline, I was able to release my hold on wealth as a means of satisfaction. In fact, wealth became dissatisfying as a means to fulfilment. When I see myself at the clothesline I am face to face with the Lord, not glancing back, but all around me.

If the Lord is now going to show me how dissatisfying it is to write (again not in the expressive sense, but in the career path to success sense), then let the freedom come! I am afraid because I have held tight to the notion that I should be successful and prove much of my education. But then again fear is never based in reality.

Another woman

Well here I am almost a year later and guess what? I am still writing for free.

But I still like writing. And my husband. And my life. In fact, I am learning to like all three of those more and more everyday.

I read (er, scanned) a book today at Barnes & Noble that spoke directly to me. Clearly a prophet, the woman writing the book addressed her work to everyone who wanted to write. It was a how-to manual of sorts that wasn't in the Self-Improvement section though probably should have been. I almost bought it but then second-guessed myself.

Like an English author I studied in college, I wonder about the role of my own writing, knowing that the ultimate work of expression already exists: the Bible. What can be added? What can be left to say?

Nothing. A resounding, cement block of nothing.

Do I then seek to interpret? I don't want to play Holy Spirit, though. I hardly want to teach at all after understanding the standard teachers are held to. If anything, I would enjoy encouraging others. Not as an exhorter, but in my own prophet-highly-influenced-by-an-exhorter-husband-and-mother way. I do like to write.

The author I wrote of earlier believes (like Blake but in a less eccentric way) that creativity comes from within, the Holy Spirit she says. And while I don't think that I am a god at the core, I know that the Holy Spirit as a form of God does live within me.

Not due to any merit or worth of my own, but because I have been forgiven. I have been accepted by God to the degree that he changed everything to adpot me into his already complete family. And I do think that I agree with her when she proclaims that that spiritual creativity is dying to be expressed.

spiritual creativity is dying to be expressed

She used Van Gogh, Bach, and Blake all as examples of artists using their creativity to glorify God. Whether it be by paint, music, or word each artist was awed by creation to the extent that they had to share their experiences. Interestingly, none of the aforementioned artists worked for financial profit. They simply had to let their love out.

She wrote that Van Gogh made no more than a hundred and so dollars in his life. Do you know how he got into painting? He was in seminary writing a letter to his beloved younger brother and was so touched by the scene outside of his window he had to share it with his brother. So he painstakenly drew the scene as accurately as he could at the bottom of the letter. And it was beautiful. Because he had been commissioned? Because he had been touched.

Because he had been commissioned? Because he had been touched

Like the little kids who work their hands and feet to the bone to produce plays for their family and neighbors, artists put more work into their art than any businessman. But they are impassioned to do it and it satisfies something in them so that instead of exhaustion and weariness, they feel encouraged. Even motivated.

She goes on to tell of a violin teacher friend of hers who would teach violin during the day and work tirelessly through the night on her book (she wanted to teach others to play the violin in less time). One day the violinist came over with a cold and when asked if she would like to lie down and take some tea, she scoffed and replied that that was no way to cure a cold.

Apparently the cold had only come upon her because she wasn't writing as furiously and only started to feel better when she went back to writing full force.

This story was used partly to show how our spirits are connected to our body (a connection I fully believe in) and that when the expression of our spirits is in action, our bodies are well. She also addressed the fear and hesitation most people experience in expressing themselves as they age.

when the expression of our spirits is in action, our bodies are well.

She believes it is due to the nature of our schooling and the critical tendencies of other people. Instead of encouraging the school child to continue the thought or pursue the idea further, teachers draw lines and make notes all over papers based on grammatical or other errors. I especially enjoyed this part of the book as she exclaimed, "As if Shakespeare could spell!"

I am so encouraged to know that Shakespeare was not perfect. Not Van Gogh, not Bach, not one of us.

Here I have been so engrossed in staying in touch with my emotions (as the voice of my spirit) to maintain to physical, mental, and spirtiual well-being, and I have been afraid of writing--expressing myself. I have focused on financial profit and market appeal. Ironically, I have found neither!

Here I am. Two weeks from graduating with my very first, very authentic, highly desirable, much sought-after Bachelor of Arts Degree in English, I am writing. For free. What happened? I am rather prone to scanning my tongue across my top lip and clicking my thumb and forefinger together when I am anxious. Today, I would like to pull out my thumb from the rest of my hand, attach pretty pink, purple, and teal tissue paper to it, maybe throw on some glitter, and then glue it to the table out of pure, crazed anxiety. (I find arts and crafts to be dependable stress relievers.) Do you happen to know anyone who pays well for kindly decorated dismembered digits? I just received my degree...where's my job?!