haiku

Dark June sky--
behind the fading fireworks
one star

i'd swim across lake michigan

My route home from work takes me along a two-lane country highway and along some backroads -- Boss-Man introduced me to it last fall, and I started taking it, not because of its expediency (it's only faster by a minute or two), but because of its remoteness. I have watched, over the past nine months, the fields slowly switch out their wardrobes from autumn to winter to spring and to summer. Half of the commute is through cultivated fields rimmed with forest; half is through partial forests themselves.

I have fallen wildly, irrationally in love with the irrigators. When I first moved to the Midwest, I thought they were the ugliest things I had ever had the misfortune to witness -- huge, spindly, ungainly-looking pipe systems on wheels stretching across the fields. But they sit there all year, patient like the land, silent and still in winter, and now in the dry June active and almost alert. The other day the late afternoon was bright, hot, hazy; the sun pressed down on the whole spread-out world, which looks much bigger out here, under a bigger sky; the clouds piled up white overhead, the trees and fields were jewel-green, and the irrigators dotting the fields as far as the eye could see shot stop-motion fountains of pure white against the blue-and-green backdrop. For a few minutes, driving down the highway that cut through the fields, I was almost too happy to breathe.

Yesterday evening as I drove home and danced in the car to Josh Ritter (there are those artists whose voices you love with your body as well as your heart and mind and soul, and he's one of those for me), I turned down the road onto one of the forested lanes. As I waited for traffic, pulled out and picked up speed and gloried in the "pied beauty" all around me, I realized that I have become a woman perfectly adapted to her environment. I fit into it, and it fits into me.

It's taken me a long time to fall in love with the land. For a couple of years it was painfully difficult; I missed the hills. It was like that Hallmark sequel to Sarah, Plain and Tall -- I couldn't write my name on the land. I resented everything about Indiana, about the Midwest. I didn't like the culture, didn't like the people.

But now I love it, more than I detested it before -- love it with the passion of someone who has chosen her home. Pennsylvania will always be the Home State, and have beauties that no other place can share, and the fact that I was born there will always count for something far deeper than words or any other selected alliance. But I have chosen the Midwest, and that counts for something too.

I realized yesterday that, although I've never stooped down and written my name on the land, it's written its name on me.

So here I am. And, God willing, here I stay.

the double curse

Well, it looks like the migraines are connected to my menstrual cycle.

Mad props to Mom for figuring this out first -- I tend not to pay attention to these things. But last time it came on the tail end of my cycle, like an evil Superman riding the backlash of Haley's Comet, and that was just a few weeks ago. Now I've finished up another monthly and "it's baaaaaack!"

Like it's not painful and inconvenient enough having the red visitor anyway. (One of my college friends, obviously a guy, once said, "I don't get why you girls always complain about cramps. You'd think if it happens once a month you'd get used to it." I looked at him and said, "Hey idiot. If you slam your hand in a door once a month, it still hurts.") I call it The Silent Curse. The one God put between the lines in Chapter 3 of Genesis. The unspoken one. "I will greatly increase your pains in childbearing [and everything connected with fertility]..."

And the thing about migraines is that any kind of change in body chemistry -- ANY -- can trigger one. Chronic migraine sufferers have to be careful about their diets, their sleep schedules, their emotional states. Getting up an hour earlier can mean a few days of lying in a darkened room (makes Daylight Savings Time a bitch). Late night out drinking? Dumb. Skipping meds? Stupid. Getting ridiculously stressed out? Beware.

Unfortunately there's not much a girl can do about being a twenty-something fertile woman, and Here Come the Headaches. But thankfully, due to modern medicine, there are ways to get around even that. Looks like I'm going back on The Pill. I don't want to. I prefer the Natural State. And I really don't want to mess with the hormones and scale it back to only three or four cycles a year. But if it staves off a monthly migraine, I'll take it.

I put in a call to the doc's office this morning, and I'm waiting for a callback.

Le sigh. It would be nice if I knew what started all this. I've always been a headachey kind of person, but it was never anything that a couple of Ibuprofen wouldn't handle. Now I'm on so many meds I have trouble remembering to take them all, and none of that started until December. But hey; it happens, and you roll with it. I have a fabulous doctor and great insurance, and very understanding bosses who love me to pieces, so I'm well taken care of. And maybe one day the migraines will be gone for good. In the meantime, God is faithful, and I'll keep on keeping on. Even if I have to wear sunglasses indoors for a few days.

you're never too old

They flushed out the hydrants outside the office this morning, and Boss-Lady let me dash outside, kick off my shoes, hike up my skirt, and run around in the water in the street splashing up a storm. The people driving by were laughing at me.

Sometimes it's good to be five years old again, just for a few minutes. Plus it's been gods-bloody-awful hot here, and walking back into the air-conditioned office with wet feet felt divine.

a sarah and a john

There's something about relaxing with old friends.

John came up from New Jersey this weekend, and we spent it as old friends will -- a crazy Friday night, followed by a Saturday and Sunday of nothing but lounging around, eating, sleeping, watching TV, shooting the breeze about everything under the sun (love the mixed metaphors? I do). Simon was ecstatic to have Mommy home most of the weekend, and lay around and purred, and all in all it was lovely and peaceful and fun. I was even motivated to cook -- my favorite Greek meatballs (full of rice, parsely, and orange zest) in a tomato-onion-beef-broth sauce. Delish.

So now it's back to the work week, but I have a week's vacation coming up after this one, and I'm excited to lie around and relax, spend all day sitting on the porch if I want, spend all day on a beach blanket if I want, catch up on some writing, mess around on the guitar, hang out with Meg and Phillip, rest in any way I choose. It's been a long eight months on the job (and I'm coming up on my year's anniversary -- the longest I will have ever held a job -- hooray!), and I'm looking forward to the break, so that I can come back to it refreshed.

But nothing beats old friends. John and I were the inseparable duo our senior year at Grove City, and some patterns are pleasant in the repeat. (We were arm-in-arm everywhere in college, racing off to Sheetz for a Shmuffin at ridiculous hours, or correcting snowman anatomy in the dead of night howling our heads off, or misbehaving in any way we could get away with, which wasn't hard since we knew all the security guards, passing notes and making shocking comments in class, raising the eyebrows and mouth corners of our professors.) Mutual affection goes a long way. And it was nice to have someone to bid good morning to as I padded out into the hall on my way to the kitchen to make coffee.

So he left this morning, but neither one of us believes in sad goodbyes, so it was a quick hug and a bright bye-bye! and then off to work for me, and off across the interminable expanse of Ohio for him. He's heading to Pittsburg, and I'm jealous. Marvelous city. Best city. But I love my South Bend, and I'm in love with my life, and church was phenomenal yesterday-- about slowing down, and savoring life, and letting the good things catch up with you, letting the still small voice speak, and not being addicted to the speed, the pace we usually set for ourselves. I, like any good American, plunge myself in the rush -- it's distracting. But it's summer, it's lazy and hot, and it's a good time to take my foot off the accelerator and peel back a few layers and learn to float in the shallows, and not race for the rapids.

Slow down, girl, as Like Summer says.

So it was a beautifully slow weekend, good for the soul, and I'm glad my John was here to share it with me.

Daily Poem

I wrote this at the end of June in 2005, but it was missing something. So I pulled it out a week or so ago, and broke it into sections based around the monastic daily prayer cycle. I think it works.

Daily Poem

I. Invitatory

Charge our stiff backs with power
to roll into the morning.

II. Matins/Lauds

As we squint over the rims of our coffee
let our eyes see blessing in the quivers
of the leaves outside the window,
dappling the table with spatters
of the sun that rose too soon for our taste.

III. Terce

Let us want nothing more than
the feel of your presence under
our dry palms as we check our e-mail,
the light slide of the Spirit
like a finger along our jaws
directing our heads to turn
and putting love into our hands
so that we smile and tell people hello
and give our spare quarters
so others can use the vending machines.

IV. Sext

As we walk out to the parking lot
listing chores, call us to lift our eyes
to trace the boiling summer clouds
shaped like clay in your hands.

Put a song between our teeth and our tongues
like bread from the beaks of ravens
that we may taste praise
not of our making in our own mouths.

V. None

Teach us to feel above the twisting
in our intestines when our coworkers
call us “you people,” when our families
forget to phone, when the feral yellow cat
kicks over the tomato plants for the twentieth time,

for we know we have said “you people,”
we have refrained from words of comfort,
and we have kicked gravel at strays.

VI. Vespers

Let us take the stones we so readily gather
into our hands, and use them to line gardens.

Let us step upon the ruins of old orchard walls
and breathe moss in the air of the evening.

VII. Compline

For we know, O Lord, that today is a jar
of dark moving water
and the pattern of light on the surface
will run red over the backs of our knuckles
when we draw forth wine under your watching.

Teach us, then, as we drag ourselves
under covers and muffle the bedside light,
to close our eyes with clear vision.

Teach us to sink beneath our relief
at another day’s end, to stretch
toward your hands and to open our mouths.

Teach us to cry out, Amen.

the boy in the bar

I heard this story from a friend of mine.

Keith grew up in the same small town that I did. Unlike me, his family had lived there for generations. North East has its old time families stretching back to 1700s, when the community first began, and those families have divided themselves evenly between the gentry and the scrabblers. Keith's family belonged to the long-established North East poor.

They lived in a run-down gray cement-block house next to the ruins of the old woolen mill, covered with ivy, that had once supplied thousands of blankets to the Union troops during the Civil War. The back yard was full of clotheslines and abandoned pieces of broken machinery and flung bicycles and toys. It had an air of carelessness about it. We passed by the house often on our way to the beach.

I didn't know Keith much until youth group -- he was a few years a head of me in school. His younger brother was in my grade, and always getting detentions. We didn't have classes together. He didn't come to youth group often, but Keith did. He was a new Christian, tall, earnest, a little awkward. He didn't come from a good home. His favorite song was Psalm 51. I avoided him when I could -- he was always a little too intensely interested in me, and some of the things he said were inappropriate, but looking back I don't think he knew it. He was always trying to do, and to be, better.

His driving ambition was to be a cop. A few years after I graduated high school, I found out through the grapevine that he'd achieved the first part of his goal, and entered the local police academy. I could imagine his pride. I got to see his pride a couple of times, on my visits home. He loved to talk to me in church. He had that same wide smile full of crooked teeth, same buzzed haircut, same air of excitement, same earnestness, same hard handshake. He was always asking my dad questions about police work.

I learned, just a couple of months ago, what drove him. Late one night, when he was a very small child, his alcoholic parents took him and his little brother to the bar with them. While they were there, someone noticed a five-year-old and a toddler at the bar and called the police. When the cops arrived, Keith said he was terrified. He was confused; he had no idea what was going on, or even what was wrong; just that there was trouble, and he was in it, and he thought he had done something wrong. Everyone was angry and upset.

But one of the cops, a huge man, stooped down to him and explained to him what was happening, and told him that it wasn't his fault, and that it was going to be okay. Standing there in the dark of the bar, surrounded by drunken grown-ups and policemen and cigarette smoke, Keith suddenly felt secure, and safe. He knew he wasn't in trouble. He knew that there were good people in the world. This cop, who was here to bust his parents, somehow made everything all right.

That moment changed this little boy's life. Keith said from then on, he wanted to be a cop himself, so that he could do the same thing. Make the scared and vulnerable of that small town feel safer. That moment made all the difference in the world to this kid. Instead of growing up to follow his family pattern and become a deadbeat alcoholic, he decided to make something of himself. He decided to go to school. He decided to go to church. He still has his problems, but like the best of us, he's still trying, still plugging away.

That cop was my dad. When I heard this story, I started crying. I'm proud of my father for a lot of reasons, but I don't think I've ever been as proud of him as I was in that moment. I've been to the bars in North East; I know what they're like. I can imagine the atmosphere, and the child's fear, and my father bending down to a scared little boy and putting a hand on his shoulder and calming him with just a couple of words. My dad's had a lot of rough stuff to deal with through his job, most of it thankless and joyless, but he's maintained a heart for the small and the helpless. And I understood, finally, why Keith was always following us around in my growing up years. And I never knew. And neither, I think, did my dad.

I love how God takes the small moments, and makes them great. I love how he puts us in the right place, at just exactly the right time. I love how nothing is wasted, and I love how always, wherever you turn, there is love. Channeled, flowing, and unceasing. And I love that that night, twenty-odd years ago, the conduit of that love was my father.

Happy Father's Day, Daddy. I'm glad you're mine.

Lucy

Last Thursday I went with Meg to pick Phillip up from his dad's place so we could go out for Chinese. We got a grand tour of the house. The house features two dogs, a cross-eyed cat, and several large tropical birds. The newest, and current favorite, of the house is a huge blue macaw named Lucy.

Phillip was scratching Lucy's head, and, animal-lover that I am, I went up to join him in the activity.

Lucy took a chunk out of my finger.

So I followed Meg, with my finger pouring blood from a parrot's dirty beak, into the bathroom. As I poured Listerine over the wound, since we couldn't find any peroxide, I remarked, "I don't love Lucy."

Later, just before we left, I went into the aviary to look at one of the other birds, and to demonstrate my lack of ill will. Lucy followed me, sat on the edge of her cage, and kept reaching out to bite at me, all the while saying, "Hello." I tried pretty-talking to her, but she just kept trying to bite. I had to get between her and the table, a very narrow space, to return to the kitchen. Pretty talk was ineffective.

I thought to myself, Screw you, parrot, and walked right up to her and stood over her. I made myself as tall as possible. I towered over her. I leaned in threateningly. I hissed. I glowered. I spread my arms out a little. I turned myself into a Really Big Bird.

Lucy got the message. She shrank down, stopped streching out her wings, and eyed me cautiously. I stared her down for awhile, and then proceeded back to the kitchen. Meg wanted to know if I'd won the pissing contest. I smiled and told her yes.

Meg told me later that she wouldn't have been at all surprised, when Lucy bit me, to have seen me reach out and snap her neck in two.

I must admit it was tempting. I'm going to have a nice ugly scar on my forefinger...right over one of my favorite scars, from the time I was cutting the metal ring off a glass bottle to make a decoration for my room, and the knife slipped. I liked that scar. It was graceful, elegant. Now it's going to be buried under a parrot scar.

But the parrot scar is cool. I got it from a parrot. I had to cut off a flap of skin when I got home -- it was a really nasty cut, and bird beaks are dirty -- and it's healing up, and will probably look awesome, in its own way.

But still. I don't love Lucy. The bird had no facial expressions at all, beyond that weird alien malevolence that tropical birds seem to bear. Give me finches, cardinals, robins, and chickadees any day. Hawks and owls are awesome too. But leave the macaws in New Zealand or wherever the hell they're from. Maybe they're happier on white sand.

sometimes i amaze myself

Like when I go to pour a glass of water from my Brita pitcher, and the lid falls into the litterbox.

the daily grind

I just found the end of a pretzel I'd been looking for this morning. In a rage of hunger I was chowing down on pretzel roddy goodness when Boss-Man came up to the front office needing copies of something made, so I hastily swallowed pretzel powder and threw the rest of the pretzel somewhere on the desk and pretended I wasn't eating anything on the job. (Not that he cares. He eyed me with the stern glare of a sumo wrestling coach this morning and demanded to know if I'm eating, and informed me that he wants me to gain thirty pounds. I'm not turning into Elephant Girl to suit you, I retorted.) But still, unprofessional. "How bay I hep oo?" "Waw ovvice. Coudoo hold pweeze?" So I lost the rest of my snack, but there it is, next to the typewriter. Now, however, it has become by definition "gross" and must be thrown away.

Things at work are vastly improving thanks to the magical appearance of COMPETENT PART TIME HELP. It's like -- it's like -- springtime in spring. (And if you don't know what a miracle that is, come visit me in northern Indiana/southwest Michigan in April.) It's the unexpected bliss of things happening when and how they're supposed to. I didn't know such a wonder could be.

And, better yet, I'm getting this amazing little gem called MY OWN OFFICE. Yes, my own office. Four walls. A door (sort of. The door is upstairs somewhere). The big copier. My favorite typewriter. Drawers. Shelves. Cupboards. My Own Space. A place to work. The receptionist will answer the bulk of the phone calls, deal with walk-in clients, and the intake of new clients.

And I will be able to do my actual job. Drawing up documents. Organizing files. Keeping an eagle eye on deadlines. Learning more about law to be a better right hand to the Boss-Man.

I actually look forward to going to work these last couple of weeks. For a while it was horrible with the old incompetent help, and then it was stressful with no help at all, and then it was the letdown and fallout from not having to be stressed anymore, and now it's evening out. The new gal is fantastic and really enjoyable, fun to talk to, and fits right in. On top of being competent, smart and efficient.

Vast sigh of relief.

I need another pretzel.

My Five-Hour Dog

Friday morning I went downstairs to drink my coffee on the porch, have devotions, and journal, according to my usual summer custom. The new neighbor's kitten had left a couple of kitten droppings on the porch, so I stuck my head in the door to grab the broom, and when I turned around, a large, powerfully built dog was coming up the steps to greet me, ropy tail wagging madly, tongue lolling in joy.

"Well, hi there!" I said as I bent down to her. She immediately covered my face in kisses and panted eagerly and anxiously. I looked her over. She had a collar, but no tags, and the collar had the remnants of a broken chain snapped off at one end. She waggled all over while I ran my hands over her short, shiny coat to see if she were too skinny; she wasn't, but looked a little hungry, and more than a little thirsty, so I went back upstairs to grab a loaf of moldy bread I hadn't gotten around to throwing out, a plate of cottage cheese, and a bowl of water.

She followed me up the stairs like she belonged there. She whined and scratched at the door when I shut it on her. She followed me back downstairs and ate some of the cottage cheese and drank a lot of the water, and when I sat back down to continue my morning routine, she sacked herself out at my feet and went to sleep.

I petted her while I read, watched her breathing slow down and even out, and thought. Occasionally her paws would flex as she stretched and sighed. She slept with her hind legs crossed in an adorably dainty manner that contrasted with the sprawling abandon of her front paws.

She was a pit bull.

When the next-door neighbor took his dog out to the car for a vet appointment, my new friend shot off the porch and was on the street meeting Shannon before you could blink. I ran over to pull her away, but she wasn't being vicious, just sniffy. Dan, the neighbor, confirmed my pit bull suspicions. The dog (I called her Bella -- she really was a beautiful animal) and I returned to the porch. She went back to sleep. A squirrel came up to the remnants of the bread not six feet from her nose and she just watched it idly. I looked at the sores on her side and didn't know what to do.

The temptation to keep her was overwhelming. Never mind the landlord's objection to dogs. Never mind that my apartment is too small, let alone my income. Never mind any of it. When I went inside to shower, I let her follow me up and into the apartment. Simon was not happy. I never heard a louder hiss come out of that cat in my life. Bella just wanted to play; he just wanted to hide. I pulled her away from him and shut her out of the bedroom where he was holed up under the bed. I showered. I got ready for work. She followed me all over the house, happy to be doing whatever I was doing. I thought. I called Animal Control and reported her found, and learned that if I kept her for a week and nobody claimed her, she was mine. I also found out that pit bulls can't be adopted out once an officer comes to pick them up.

I took Simon to work and left her at home in the apartment all morning. (Yes, I know. I am insane. I allowed a strange pit bull the run of my apartment. Even my crazy neighbor thinks I'm crazy.) I did some pit bull research online, and learned to my regret that pit bulls are highly energetic and require (as the fake Professor Moody from HP4 would say) CONSTANT VIGILANCE with other animals, as they can't be trusted not to fight, even though they are sweet and even-tempered with people. And I could never do that to Simon. Kitty comes first.

So I called Animal Control again and asked them to meet me at my apartment at half-past noon. They said it was highly unlikely they'd be able to, in case they had to respond to an emergency; but when I pulled into the driveway, they were just arriving.

So they took Bella away. I would have named her Lyddie, if I'd kept her. But she was someone's pet -- probably not ill-treated, if she was so sweet. And she didn't destroy any of my stuff. Not any of it. It looks like the only thing she did all morning was take a long nap on my couch.

Oh yes, and pee on my floor. Four times. Evidently not a housebroken dog. So I spent my Friday night glamorously scrubbing baking soda and vinegar into the hallway carpets, and handwashing all my rugs in the tub (and understanding anew how much washing machines have revolutionized modern life). But that was a small price to pay, I think, for inviting a stray into my house, and for having gotten to meet such a lovely dog.

Simon has settled down. I was afraid he'd begin to abandon his litterbox in favor of remarking his territory, but I underestimated his good kitty manners, and all is well.

I hope that the good girl gets her owners back, if they deserve her. I hope she doesn't get put to sleep. It was wonderful to have her, if only for five hours, and even if my carpet is still drying out from all the stain and odor treatment. She was fantastic.

Ciao, Bella.

"These Mashed Potatoes are So Creamy"

I had the privilege of serving this recipe to a couple of friends last night, and judging by the rate at which they disappeared (the potatoes, not the friends -- I'm not running a cannibal camp or a Cooking House of Horrors here), I thought I ought to share.

Ingredients:
3-5 lbs. Idaho baking potatoes
1/4 c. milk
1 stick butter
1 package Philadelphia cream cheese
plenty of salt and freshly ground black pepper, to taste

Directions:
1. Wash and peel the potatoes and cut them into eighths. Place in large saucepan and just cover with water. Sprinkle with salt. Bring to a boil, turn down the heat to medium, and cook, uncovered, until soft (20-35 minutes).
2. Drain. If you're a cheater like me and have a Kitchenaid, place the potatoes in the mixing bowl. If you're a psycho antique shopper like me and happen to have an antique potato masher (those things are THE CURE for lumpy potatoes), use it to mash up the potatoes until thrillingly smooth. If you're a normal person, use a fork. It won't get out all the lumps, but it will be close enough.
3. Add a splash of milk, half a stick of butter, and the entire package of Philadelphia cream cheese to the potatoes. Put the mixing bowl in the stand mixer and use the whisk-like mixer head. Set the mixer on speed 3. (Or, if you're not a cheater like me, use a hand mixer.) Once all the ingredients are blended, add the rest of the butter, and begin to add the salt and pepper.
4. Adjust the seasoning and add more milk as desired.

The result? A dish worth dialoguing about in Hollywood. Perfectly reheatable. So creamy.

undesperate houseperson

Since getting my Dyson from my wonderful parents when they came to visit, my housekeeping has been revolutionized. Suddenly it's fun to vaccuum, and the broom is facing indefinite retirement. The bare floors are cleaner than they've been in a long time, and my back doesn't ache afterward with bending over the dustpan. Sweet.

Well, one is never satisfied with merely one kind of convenience, so this week I broke down and bought a Swiffer WetJet. Anything to make the mopping of the kitchen, entryway, and bathroom floors easier. I put it together just now and mopped -- and what a cinch. Delight! Joy! Time savers and efficiency untold!

It also eases that part of my mind that has always been unquiet about dumping Lysol water down the tub. I know there are earth friendly cleaners out there, but I've never found them to be terribly effective. The Swiffer-ma-bobber sponge pad thingie absorbs all the liquid and the dirt, and you just dispose of it when you're done. (Yes, I know, it's still waste, but it's not toxic liquid waste that could easily seep through the century-old piping systems of my historic neighborhood into the surrounding soil.) My mind is more at ease.

And my house is cleaner quicker, and the floors drier faster! Huzzah!

question

Why do dead jade leaves glitter?

A quick search on the trusty favorites, Google and Ask.com, revealed nothing but bad poetry and cheesy short stories.

What mineral is in them that makes them all sparkly when they're dead?

in the land of the living

I woke up this morning with the vestiges of a migraine still wrapped around my head. I'd been popping Imitrex like candy all week, to no effect; so yesterday I called my wonderful, fabulous, amazing doctor, closed the office early (with Boss-Man's permission), and went to get shots from one of the nurses. (I hate getting shots in the arse, by the way. I turn into this puddly fully-grown baby.) Then, to my shock and wonder and gratitude, the nurse said the doctor wanted to know if I wanted him to write me a scrip for steroids, since he remembered that those had worked against the Killer Migraine of December. When I first went to his office in January, I was told he hated prescribing steroids and wouldn't do it. Of course I said that would be wonderful, and a minute later she came back with the magic slip of paper.

I had just enough time to drop the scrip off at the pharmacy on my way home from getting the shots before the extreme drowsiness of the drugs set in, and then Meg later came and drove me back to pick up the 'roids. I started taking them this morning, and I think they're going to work. God bless my wonderful doctor, God bless Meg (no offense, Meg), and God bless God.

The AL came this morning to pick up his rent check, so I was able to follow up on the midnight phone call of the other night, and he has already spoken with the neighbors. When he left I sat on the porch drinking coffee and enjoying the perfect morning. South Bend in summer is quite a thing. My porch is on the side of the house and faces the long and narrow yard, and not the street, so I get a lovely view of the trees and the other houses, and it's incredibly peaceful. Everything is green and gold in the sunlight, and quiet.

It got me thinking about blessings. I love the house I live in, love the neighborhood, even, today, love the landlord, who noticed all the weight I've lost and was worried about me and recommended his church's food bank if I ever find myself unable to afford anything but cereal again. The new neighbors who moved into Kevin's old apartment seem like they're going to work out and be fairly quiet themselves (at least so far; I'm, as Mom put it, "cautiously optimistic"), and it's more wonderful than I realized not to have Pslightly Psycho Kevin lurking just behind his door to spring out and talk to me whenever I just want a private cup of coffee and some time to journal and read the Bible, or to bristle with resentment when I have a friend over (he was very propertarian and it was irritating and weird).

I have a guitar, for absurdly cheap, many, many months before I expected one. I have a cat who responded to his medication in ways I hadn't dared to hope. I have a bank account with money in it again. I have a job that is mostly satisfying, working for people I love, and who love me. I have Meg and Phillip, without whom I wouldn't have made it through last summer -- without whom, in fact, I wouldn't have stayed in the Midwest at all -- and who have become, not just family, but anchors of solidarity, good times (and "good" in its deepest send, not just "fun," although that's there in abundance too), trust, and affection. I have red coffee cups to drink from in the mornings. I have my parents and my sister, who, though far away, are always with me, and whose love I can count on at all times -- we've walked through fire together, and God has burned away a lot of dross over the years, and forged us more closely together, and it's been incredible to experience and to witness. I have Leigh Ann, the one person who is so much like me it's one of my greatest blessings, because I know I'm understood, and whose laugh is infectious. I have a church that preaches the Word truthfully and passionately, that looks to the needs of the community. I have a comfortable bed. I have medications that help me face and overcome depression and headaches, and I have the Holy Spirit to bolster my courage on the days when they don't work as well and I have to power through.

In short, I have a full, rich life, and I'm thankful for it. It's a little life -- I don't have swarms of people that I'm always spending time with, and in fact, most of the time, especially in summer, when the grad students are gone, the only people I see from week to week are the bosses and Meg and Phillip. But I keep in touch with the people I love who are farther away, and I write, and it's a good life. As God sees fit to expand it, so much the better: so much more to be thankful for.

Meg said yesterday, and I think she's right, that whatever I do whenever I find out what it is I'm supposed to be doing, it's going to be writing. I can't stop writing. I can't not write. As soon as I finish this post, I'm going out on the porch for my second cup of coffee, in a red mug, and some journalling.

A long time ago, just coming out of one of the deepest periods of despair I'd undergone, when I realized for the first time, in a personal and visceral, and not just intellectual, way, that God was good, and that truly "all things work for the good of those who love him, who are called according to his purpose," this became one of my life's Psalms:

I love the LORD, for he heard my voice;
he heard my cry for mercy.
Because he turned his ear to me,
I will call on him as long as I live.

The cords of death entangled me,
the anguish of the grave came upon me;
I was overcome by trouble and sorrow.
Then I called on the name of the LORD:
"O LORD, save me!"

The LORD is gracious and righteous;
our God is full of compassion.
The LORD protects the simplehearted;
when I was in great need, he saved me.

Be at rest once more, O my soul,
for the LORD has been good to you.

For you, O LORD, have delivered my soul from death,
my eyes from tears,
my feet from stumbling,
that I may walk before the LORD
in the land of the living.
I believed; therefore I said,
"I am greatly afflicted."
And in my dismay I said,
"All men are liars."

How can I repay the LORD
for all his goodness to me?
I will lift up the cup of salvation
and call on the name of the LORD.
I will fulfill my vows to the LORD
in the presence of all his people.

Precious in the sight of the LORD
is the death of his saints.
O LORD, truly I am your servant;
I am your servant, the son of your maidservant;
you have freed me from my chains.

I will sacrifice a thank offering to you
and call on the name of the LORD.
I will fulfill my vows to the LORD
in the presence of all his people,
in the courts of the house of the LORD --
in your midst, O Jerusalem.

Praise the LORD.

~Psalm 116

the door at the base of the stairs

My neighbors have developed this distasteful habit of leaving the bottom door unlocked whenever they go anywhere.

Backtrack. Begin again. The saga is a little more involved than last night's incident.

The two second floor apartments in my house share an entryway on the side porch. So we have one common key for the bottom door, and our own keys for our apartments. This bottom door is old and kind of crummy, but it's still a barrier, particularly because it's noisy and you have warning when anyone comes and goes. I've had problems with its lock before...like the time it fell out, and I had to call the AL to come and screw it back in. But it's got a couple of interesting latching features -- the one where if you push it one way from the inside, a person on the outside can't unlock it, even with a key; and the one where if you push it the other way from the inside, it stays unlocked.

My neighbors like that feature.

They tend to forget their keys. Two months ago they forgot them so often that they became masters at jimmying the lock to their upstairs apartment door. I would watch them through the peephole and thank all my nurturing as a paranoid cop's daughter that I had made the AL install a deadbolt on my door when I moved in (I've been told that my door, with all its locks and chains, resembles that of a New York apartment). They borrowed my kitchen knives on a couple of occasions when their hairpins or whatever didn't do the trick. And when that failed, they invented their own backdoor, thanks to the broken-down basement door.

Side-story. Two and a half months ago, someone (we all think it was the neighbor's boyfriend, whom I've never found personally threatening, but who has beaten the living crap out of the neighbor on occasion) broke down the basement door. Why? We don't know. Nothing valuable was taken from the basement. The only things stolen over the course of two months were garden tools and my beer. Oh yes, my beer. And of course the AL took his sweet time fixing the damn door. I finally called and chewed him out because

Loop-around. They couldn't get back into their apartment one night, so they went into the basement and brought up a ladder. They leaned the ladder against the roof and climbed in through a window. They then proceeded to leave the ladder up at all times, giving them and anyone else who wanted direct access to my own bedroom window. I, of course, freaked. I tersely told the AL what was happening (he said that they said they were using the ladder to "clean their windows" -- "No, they're using it for a back door when they forget their keys," I snapped), had Kevin lock the ladder in his apartment, and arranged with the AL to rent the basement all to myself for a ridiculously cheap price so that nobody else could be down there. He finally padlocked the door. I am the princess.

Fast forward. The neighbors have still been leaving the bottom door unlocked. Annoying, but not too frightening, so I called the AL and asked him to talk to them about it, which he said he'd do "if he remembered," meaning he almost certainly forgot as soon as he hung up the phone. I've privately fumed about it a little, but figuring it wasn't too big a deal, I just clicked the latch back to the lock position whenever I noticed it was unlocked, and went about my business.

Begin story. Last night at 11:45 p.m. as I was getting ready for bed, I heard someone start to pound on the bottom door. Since it wasn't accompanied by the boyfriend shouting to be let in, I knew it probably wasn't the neighbors, and they seldom have visitors. (I really do get along with them, by the way. These spurts of weird drama are few and far between, and most of the time I enjoy having them around. They're entertaining and generally good-natured.) The pounding went on for a few minutes while I waited tensely in the bathroom.

And then...I heard the bottom door open. And someone (two someones) came up the stairs. I slipped to the peephole to see -- yes -- the back of an unfamiliar man's head in my stairwell.

Disbelieving is an apt word for how I felt at that moment. This shady guy just walked right up the stairs to the neighbor's door. Just walked right. up. the stairs. No one has EVER done that in the two years I've lived there. They knocked on her door for a minute, then left. At that point, I was feeling that my space had been violated. I was feeling a little frightened. I waited till I heard the car pull out of the driveway, then I grabbed my Maglite, the really big one that could break someone's skull, and with rising ire and the question How did they get in? Did they break the door down? Or...? beating time with the blood in my head, I shut off the stair light (damn the neighbors for always leaving the stairwell lights on at night, are they retarded, don't they know that anyone outside can see anyone inside when the lights are on?), tiptoed down the stairs and examined the lock. Unlatched. [Insert. Profanities. Here.]

So then I was...furious is a good word. I sat down on the porch and pulled out my phone. I was angry with my neighbors for leaving the fricking door unlocked whenever they go anywhere. I was angry with the AL for being lazy and uncaring. I was angry with those strange creepy men for just walking up into my territory without a by-your-leave. Then -- isn't this stupid? -- I flipped open my phone and hesitated about calling the AL. I actually hesitated about waking him up at close to midnight. Then my brain kicked itself and said What? So I called, and the aftermath of terror gave my voice an extremely short edge as I informed him of what had happened, that the situation was unacceptable, requested him to please speak with the neighbors about leaving the door locked at. all. times, and that if it did happen again I would call the police.

Then I waited up until the neighbors came home and told them that the door had to stay locked whenever they left, because of the two strangers who had just walked up the stairwell. They took it pretty well; they usually do. And I'm a nice person who is generally pretty easy to get along with. So I don't anticipate problems with it in the future.

But sometimes I get so irate with my landlord that I think my head is going to explode.

Oh yes, and the headaches are back.

End story.