Looked Over

Maybe it was just my sense of common decency. Or maybe it was simply that he said "we love your work and would love to work with you on this project." Either way, I assumed we'd be working together. I assumed, after he showed me a photo of what they were going for - which I assured that I could offer - that I'd be a part of the going. That within months, my phone would ring or an e-mail would come through and we would collaborate.

But we didn't. And today, it bothers me. It bothers me more than I'm willing to admit anywhere but here, in Facebook chat with my best friend, and in a long rambling conversation with my husband on our couch... pre-emptively, in fact. That I saw this coming, because I - whether I like it or not - am incredibly good at math and logic. That mixed with my intuition is a recipe for figuring-things-out-before-they-come-though-you-hope-they-don't-come-true.

I can't decide, however, what bothers me most. Is it the being looked over? Or how about the who was looked at in my stead? Because like it or not, there is that whole piece of the equation. The part that makes it messier and far more damaging than something like this would necessitate. It could have been worse, as my dear bff so appropriately pointed out. But it also could have been better. It could have been someone that made sense given the... givens.

But those are my givens. My opinions. My expectations. And no one in the world owes me a living up to anything I build for them. It is their lives, their choices, and my art and business are no worse for the wear.

Where Does It Go?

Time. Inspiration. Priorities. Motivation.

I am looking at the date on my last entry here and really cannot recall what has happened in the last forty days that has kept me from writing here. Upon further inspection, the last time I wrote in my paper journal was the twenty-fourth day of September. So, I shift through pages to figure it all out, to give this exact moment I find myself in some context within the last month or so of my life.

Here's what I've gleaned so far...

September 12th

Friday morning. Mindless chatter from the television screen that does nothing but distract... with the final reluctant click of the power button, my world goes quiet. Save for the hum of our ancient refrigerator.

My well-planned week did not go according to plan and I am disappointed. I am disappointed that I spent two whole days waiting for the telephone serviceman to come and when he finally did, he couldn't even set up or line. Oh, the parallels in life.

I'm just waiting. For what? Who knows and it feels so very much like a who cares, at that. ...Not everything we wait for is foolproof. What if, after all this time, I am waiting for the right job and it bombs What if it seems to good to be true and then leaves me hanging in the imbalance of disappointment and devastation. I feel as though I am in the same place I was just four months ago.

When people ask me now what I have done with my time off, I feel as though I falter, trying to prove that I did not waste my life. And I haven't. I know that, but trying to submit evidence becomes rather difficult. Even now, I find I am lacking confidence and am struggling to believe there is any hope for change for me. In my physical health, in my emotional well-being, and in my sense of purpose. I feel helpless.

September 14

Yesterday was so productive and yet I couldn't hold on to any sense of success or happiness as a result. Nothing could really make me feel any better about the insecurities looming in my heart. No amount of yoga, Southern food, good conversation, friends, or even another classic stable - Mexican food, could comfort the frightened and doubting girl inside of me.

It's amazing that I am not who I was four months ago, and yet, because I struggle so much, I assume I am still just the same. Still questioning my worth. Still wondering if anything is left for me. Still wondering why I have been made to wait.

September 15

Another Monday morning and I am at home. But, I guess this is where I am supposed to be or I wouldn't be here. The air is full of refreshing energy - the effect of Ike's winds having blown over this weekend. This is the feeling I have been craving. The chill of fall whispering it's coming arrival in less than a week. It reminds me of so much, not the least of which is our trip out west from which we returned only two weeks ago. It feels so much further than that.

But sitting here, smelling this weak but delicious cup of coffee, drowning out the noise of life around me (the freeways, the jets, the businesses), I am at least able to take comfort in the beautiful memories. And then it doesn't feel that far.

I am thankful for that trip for a number of reasons. It inspired so much and asked so much of me that isn't often required. I like knowing that I am capable. I like believing in my ability to accomplish. And that the backdrop for all of that is a complete awareness of and recognition of God's power that is so graciously given to me.

September 24

I am sitting in my car, windows open, "Viva La Vida" softly playing on the stereo. It's been a day of spreadsheets and work. I have been at Belmont for three days now, working with Amy on debate stuff. It's amazing how focused my mind gets when I'm in office mode. Sure, I haven't written for nine days, only two of work's fault, but still.

I think my biggest struggle when I get busy like this is staying balanced and centered. And with all that's happening right now, it feels like a recipe for disaster. But it's not. Because I know God upholds me, even when I forget to ask Him to because I so desperately need it.

So the theme, I guess, is that I was in a darker place and wrote about it in private. And then, when I got busy, I didn't have time to think about it all. Partially, the fears and insecurities melted away as my responsibility and my experiences at Belmont in my temporary volunteer role increased. And out of that came a million good things. Meanwhile, I wasn't writing about any of it. But at least I can recall...

Out of that time at Belmont came a wife who was finally excited to talk about her day when her husband came home. A deeper friendship with a woman who is both a friend and mentor. More exposure on a campus that is my second home and very much the place I desire to be. Firsthand encounters with the most historical occasion Belmont has ever been a part of. And a short-term job, or what I'd like to call an "assignment."

And this is the stark reality for me. Is that with one new thing being added to the plate, it seems I tend to drop the plate all together as I reach for that one new thing. I let so much go to the back burner. It goes without saying, that I am tired of doing that. So this is the real test, maybe? My trial by a warm heat source and not a fire, just yet?

I am now a part-time student affairs professional, a wife, a friend, and a child/sister/aunt and add to that a hopeful writer and photographer. And I have, all at once, found myself busy doing everything but writing. And the challenge is in continuing to reflect, whether in private or in this arena. Because it's true, it is absolutely a piece of foundation in my life that when lacking, tends to set the whole thing slightly askew.

A Good, Strong Cup

There is nothing quite look a good, strong cup of coffee in the morning. The warmth it adds to the sunshine still coming up over the tree line. The scent, for those who find it scintillating, a pick-me-up before even the very first satisfying sip. The taste of its bitter sweetness, no matter whether graced with honey, sugar, milk, or for the purists, nothing at all. The slight hiccups of percolation and the hypnotizing sound of the swirl of a spoon in the bottom of a porcelain mug. The deep pool of brown in varying shades of richness, reminiscent of its distant countries of origin. It is an experience of all senses.

The more I contemplate over a cup of coffee, the more I associate the ability to think and to dream, almost supernaturally, with the habit itself. Despite the caffeinated stupor I may sometimes experience in later hours following that first cup, I am always grateful for the respite it provides. It brings with it a necessary awareness. I find it easier to breathe, to gain perspective, and to rise above.

This morning, paired with one egg, over easy and two just-perfect pieces of bacon, my cup of coffee has helped me do just that. It has helped me rise to the occasion of meeting with my Maker in the quiet and stillness of a morning alone. It has helped me to think less often of the internet serviceman I’ve been waiting to come for nearly twelve hours, nine of which nearly sabotaged my yesterday. It has inspired me to dig into my creative stores and to practice an art which I so often neglect.

Strangely, in each cup are the echoes of a lifetime of conversations, times of communion, and relationships which add to the fullness of my life. A catalogue of brilliant, timeless memories have with them the mark of this taste, feel, sight, smell, and sound. These echoes remind and restore, causing me to hope for a lifetime of transcendent and full-sensory mornings over cups of coffee to come. And as I nurse the final drops of this morning's good, strong cup of coffee, I am thankful.

The Other Glass Slipper

A lesser known fact about me is that I cut my teeth on Disney movies. Hardly a year when by, and I was escorted by my hip Aunt Margy to the theaters on opening weekend to buy a small popcorn, a small cherry coke, and a ticket to Neverland, Prideland Rock, or Agrabah. It is safe to say, tucked under my belt is a wealth of knowledge regarding movie details - characters, plots, and the oh-so-singable songs. Sing with me, now "I wanna be where the people are... I wanna see, wanna see them dancing...

Considering a long resume of Disney film viewings, I assumed I had most of the movies memorized. The songs most certainly help wit that. This assumption was proved incorrect, however, the last time I watched Cinderella again. I caught an aspect of the plot that never seemed of significance to me.

At a particular point in the story, Cinderella has just escaped from being locked her in room to come present herself to the Grand Duke. Previously, to both his dismay and the dismay of the evil stepmother, the glass slipper failed to fit either of Cinderella's ridiculous stepsisters. Now, this was the young, mistreated girl's chance. Because, of course, her feet were made to fit the slipper. So, as they all settle into the surprise of her entry into the room, the Grand Duke moves to fit the slipper on Cinderella's feet. In a moment of pure hatred, her God-awful stepmother trips the man and the glass slipper falls and shatters in the midst of the crowd. A dream that should have been Cinderella's alone appears, atleast to those viewing, to have slipped away and been utterly destroyed. And here is where I forgot what happens next. Or perhaps, did not see the need to remember the way I do now.

At a moment of sheer ruin, Cinderella reaches behind her apron and pulls out the other matching slipper. She had it all along. It was her's and there was little to argue with that. In fact, it was the one thing left to her after the spell had been broken at midnight, the night of the ball; the dress and even the mice-turned-horse-drawn pumpkin carriage lasted but an evening. But the slipper remained.

I think this part of the story, and the story as a whole, speaks a great deal to the theme of becoming or being beautiful. There exists a beauty given to each of us that may indeed fit a role in this world, whether vocational or relational, but nonetheless lives in us and is innately ours, though we often forget. And this beauty is often expressed or displayed outwardly, hopefully to brighten and inspire the lives of those around us. It is fragile, though. Beauty, at times, seems to fall and crash before our eyes like that very same glass slipper - taken from us in moment of greatest need. Because of our world, our culture, and the hand of the enemy in both, we are left to believe that in a moment of pain, of failure, of fear, or of attack - that it is gone and that all dreams completely destroyed.
But that is just not so. Because nestled somewhere deep, whether in folds of an apron or of our hearts, is the other glass slipper - the beauty that is ours, that fits each of us uniquely, and that inspires dreams that only God can make come true its revealing.

A Touch of Timelessness

Someone once told me, when I was the ripe old age of eight, that the older you get, the quicker time goes by. They should have saved their breath. How could I, in the endless days of my youth, even begin to understand what that meant? Especially when the adage of the time was that time flies when you're having fun and most of the adults I knew didn't appear to be having very much of that. They might as well have told me that I wasn't, in fact, going to live forever. When you're a kid, both facts (because I would certainly now call the first point a fact) are equally unbelievable.

As a child, it seemed nothing ever came fast enough, especially when I was anticipating some particular day or event, such as my birthday or the first day of school. In the same token, the things I most loathed or dreaded took for...ev...er (in the words of one of my favorite childhood movies). Waiting in line at the grocery store with my mom was a drag and don't even get me started about the car trips. We all know what those are like for kids.

Even now, when I find myself inadvertently passing on the wisdom of the ages to the kids I know, I laugh because I see that look in their eyes. In that moment, I know what they're thinking. It's kind of reminiscent to yeah right, Kristine. But I can't blame them, certainly. I know the look so well, not only because I am sure I gave it once myself but because every now and again, I sense that I still believe it.

Sure, I know that time goes by quicker the older you get because perspective changes and life gets busier. We quicken the pace of our lives to the speed set by a wheel in motion - one otherwise known as our world. We, as sanctified adults, join what is so aptly described as the "rat race" of life. And not to say the pursuit is always worthless, because it sometimes isn't. But when we lose our way in the endless chantings of "faster, bigger, better, more, now," I daresay we have lost much more than our way.

The days I most recognize that defiant and unbelieving look that children give at the prospect of getting old and losing time is when I am reminded to slow down and to enjoy moments. This is the art of adulthood, I believe, because here we have this gift of the very same twenty-four hours we were offered as children, and yet we are much more in control and capable of doing with it what we should and making all of it count. Unfortunately, not too many of us have mastered this art.

But I would very much like to. And I think it involves a belief that what counts is not always just doing the things that uphold the standards of our society, like working ourselves into the ground and living in isolation. I think that days filled with other-ness are sometimes the most endless. When we serve, when we commune, and even when we choose the type of solitude that fills, rather than depletes our lives - these moments, I think, are what matter and what add a touch timelessness to the day.

And I don't know about you, but I could use a touch of timelessness.