Peeking Out From My Past--

Oh, hi! Come on in! Don't bonk your head on the doorway--it's a little low. So good to see you!

Tea or coffee? I'll just be a minute... won't you sit by the fire?

Oh, my visitors on the sofa? These are a few old friends of mine--very old friends. A couple of stories--a couple of poems--a couple of songs. And I think a drawing or two. They dropped by for a visit--haven't seen them in a while--and I find I didn't remember them quite accurately. Somehow I thought they were different--but then maybe I've changed.

This is the first--"And the Stars Remained". Why don't you get acquainted while I go find you a drink?

Noel (which just so happens to be part of my name...)

Sit still.
The silence
wants
a word.

...


Christmas.
The lull before the storm.
The time of preparation,
of promises kept
and of hopes lost.
Of all our dreams crashing
around our heads
and our souls coming to life.

Christmas.
The times we'll never have again
but have forever.
The warmth of reconciliation.
The icy distance of self.
The cheer-coated pinpricks.
The awkward "family" hug--
but it's alive
warm-blooded.

Christmas.
Songs--
of hope and of despair.
Of the burden falling off--
and realizing the burden was there.

Christmas.
Make room.
Scoot over.
Move out of the way for the King.

Christmas.
Let go.

Christmas.
Watch.
You'll never see this again.
Ever.
You can't rewind, fast-forward--
this is now.
Life is now.

Where will the Christ-child be this year?

A song of worship.

Hello--

The word seems to reverberate in my head tonight. It's been a while-- 

I'm working on many things to post--which will probably appear soon and very soon--but only this is ready right now. I have music to it--but unfortunately no equipment or experience recording. Eventually something might happen. But I'm not sure anytime soon. I'm still fiddling with the melody anyway.

Until then--if then--enjoy the lyrics. I'd love to hear suggestions as to better rhyme patterns, refinement of the theme... I think it still needs work but I'm not sure where.

...

(Verse 1)
You are my Banner
You I will follow
Wherever You lead me
There I will go

You are my Savior
You I belong to
Though I am sinful
You made me Yours

(Chorus)
I know I'm safe with You--
I know I'm safe with You--

(Verse 2)
You have a strong arm
You hold my weak heart
Whenever my hands fail
You are my strength

You, Lord, are righteous
You, Lord, are holy
Your love is unfailing
Your justice my hope

(Chorus)
I know I'm safe with You--
I know I'm safe  with You--
I know I'm safe with You--
I give my all to You.

(Bridge)
Every prayer You answer me
Every day You meet my needs
Every time I am alone
You are there

I know I'm safe with You.

I know.

I'm safe.

With You.

Salutations

1) Hear: "Hey! How are you?"


2) Part A: Think: "Hello. I appreciate how much originality you put into your greeting--it truly communicates how much you care. I exist through the grace and power of God just as I have before now and just as I always will. 


Really? I'm tired.


It's so nice to see you--your smile makes my heart glad. You remind me that God is bigger than my circumstance. And you don't even try. I'm amazed at how unique and wonderful you are--what God has wrought in you. But what's going on in your life? What are you struggling with? What makes you happy, and what makes you sad? Is there anything God has shown you recently that has totally transformed your perspective?"

2) Part B: Realize that might be awkward.

2) Part C: Say "Oh, I'm good. You?"

There are words for no words...

I wish I had something to say once in a while
that made sense, and you loved me.

I wish my heart could love once in a while.
Could break out of myself, and I see you.

God knows why I have no tears for you
slipping out of my heart, drop--pattering on the carpet

But I hear something blurry,
Your fuzzy pain fills my thoughts--
and I have nothing to say.

I'm sorry.

Help.

Reverence. Fear. These aren't words I normally use towards God. Yet I firmly believe in their importance. Without proper respect and acknowledgment of WHO God is--I gravely misstep in my thoughts toward and conversations with (or are they at?) God.

I want to die having lived a life pleasing to God.

As a culture, and as a generation, we're losing our ideals--the good guys aren't the good guys anymore. The bad guys aren't bad. Evil is not evil--it's a friendly devil, an affectionate death.

God isn't God anymore.

We've copied our stories, images, thoughts, and feelings so many times that they no longer have meaning. We are souls without faces.

What is love, again? Oh, and none of that nonsense, please. The REAL thing. Since all the other REAL things weren't actually real.

We are blind; we have no eyes to see God for who He is and what He requires.

And what is goodness?

Goodness is neither kindness nor righteousness; goodness is speaking in a politically correct manner, having a well-paying job, raising a family, taking a vacation every summer, playing team sports. Goodness is "coopetition"--everyone wins, even though only one gets the gold. It doesn't matter if we don't win; we justify our condition. We don't want to win anymore--doing okay is good enough.

--GOOD ENOUGH. As if there were such a thing--

We are dying. We are weakened. We cannot see it--or maybe we would be healed.

I don't want to sound overemotional. I don't want to glamorize the situation. I am exhausted of living according to what I think is life.

Goodness used to be selflessness: pursuing the good, true, and beautiful, then spending one's life giving it away. Loving the unlovely enough to give them the means to find true beauty.

Goodness used to trust that the missionary pleading for funds was not out to steal your money--but out to heal lives.

Goodness used to remember that God is God.

Remember.
That.
God.
Is.
God.

Not haunting our steps, waiting for us to mess up.
Not lovingly patting us on the head no matter what we do.

He is God: He shows His love to all yet does not let the guilty go unpunished.

...

Who are we now? What have we become? Us who have seen his love and not understood his justice?

...

I long to be a godly woman of purpose and ambition to see God's will done on earth. I have never before felt so lacking in character.

LORD, have mercy on me, a sinner.

And thank you for men like Booker T. Washington.

Sea of Red.

Hello and warm greetings--

I write at precisely 2:13 am from a dorm room in Hope Hall at Biola. I must say (no, but I will say) that I love it here. I feel welcome here. And, somehow, at home again. Especially at Singspiration. Dude (somehow that keeps creeping back into my vocab *glares*), if worship was always like that, I'd never leave. I'd lose my hearing after two months, but I'd never leave.

It would be so awesome if I could stay here.

I'm quiet tonight, wrestling with some hard thoughts. You, my dear eyrie, are probably going to hear them soon.

BUT I am too tired tonight (this morning??) and posting right now would probably not be wise.

So, just an update.

Last week I found that working outside helps me jumpstart my homework.

Tonight I found that college kids + worship team + gym = amazing worship. Humble worship. Joyful worship.

Tonight I also found that one of the showers in Hope Hall doesn't drain... *groan*

I wonder if I should have said "last night" instead of tonight. Oh well :-D

Midnight Madness--so much fun. I am officially hoarse, but I proudly still carry my red pom-pom...

Love and good morning.

The bird.

The Flapping Endeavors of A Jumbled Mind.

Warm greetings to all—

So: Spaghetti Dinner passed remarkably well! We had a fun night, lots of leftovers (spaghetti at least enough for two dinners = YUM), and made a record for ticket-sales.

Onward and upward! I’m not going to apologize, because I like jumbledy posts, but I will warn you at least that I’m leaving this in my “language”—

I’ve found lately (okay, maybe not just lately but more lately) that my life tends to be jumbledy. And I like jumbledy. Problem: I need more order. I need more, consistent quiet time. I need to be still and listen to God—and my crazy haphazard way of finishing homework and chores leaves me just enough time to check all my email and websites but not enough to seriously think about God.

So I’m cutting out Internet for a week.

Starting tomorrow, I will not get on the Internet except for class. I will not check email, I will not go on websites: I will work on getting life in order. I’m going to see (as someone wiser than I once advised) what taking this out of my system does for me.

So before I take the dive, I’m going to celebrate my jumbledyness for what it is—this season in my life for what it’s been.

First. I just got an amazing new piano piece—Chopin’s Prelude in F# minor, Op. 28, No. 8. It moves me—the whirling, passionate 32^nd notes (32^nd notes!!! That’s what I said…) make my heart speed up, cause my breath to catch—

I love the piano.

However, my piano teacher groaned when she first saw it… “You HAD to pick the headache piece!!” But then she heard it and converted.

I love the piano.

Second. After reading through Claviger’s screenplay, I was intrigued… I dug out an old short story that could use some touch-ups, and I think it’ll work just fine to turn into a screenplay. I’m eager to see how it stretches me—what it will require of me—what I will require of it. Keep a lookout for The Second Hatchling.

Third. I realized that I’d forgotten some situations that scarred me a couple years ago. And that forgetting allowed me to heal. I’m very thankful for that, but now that I’ve remembered I don’t want to forget where I’ve been.

Fourth. I wonder, why do we need reasons for everything? Why do we to some degree require order of our lives? Why does knowing a person’s motives change our opinion of their actions—whether their actions are right or wrong? What might it say about our natures?

Fifth. My rabbit came running to meet me yesterday—I was so happy that I jumped, and he ran away!

Sixth. I miss all you dear people most dreadfully. I love reading your blog posts and your emails—you seriously make my day. So thank you.

Seventh. I seemed to have failed, after all, to jumble this up—everything’s numbered! Botheration!

Eighth. My dad and I are looking for books about the history of the church—from apostolic times. Basically, we want to study how the church changed from Jesus’ day to ours—where all the denominations separated, etc. Do you know of any?

Ninth. Is anybody going to the Biola University Day? Anybody? Because there is a slight chance that I can go!

Tenth. As I was walking from the garage to the house tonight, a silver sparkle caught my eyes—the moonlight reflected off of the beautiful blue tiles on my mom’s new brick patio—shimmery, water-like: I stopped and stared. It was simply lovely.

Eleventh. I’m quite sure my mother will ask when I posted this.  Mommy, it is 9:43 PM, and I love you.

Twelfth. I don’t like Halloween. I don’t like scary Halloween movies, or how scary Halloween movies are the only things on TV on Halloween.

However, I love punkin-carving parties.

Thinking back on this, I probably should have made that thirteenth. Whatever…

May you have a sudden unexpected burst of joy and understanding—

The burd.

Enter Robotics, stage left.

The herald of the new robotics season has come: the annual Spaghetti Dinner.

Picture mountains of spaghetti, sauce, salad, and brownies... (ok, maybe an ocean of sauce instead of a mountain)... and last but not least, gallons of fake-but-still-yummy lemonade. Add in six mild-mannered teens to serve food, one not-so-mild-mannered teen who *cough, cough* always seems to get roped into being the emcee, and hundreds of hungry people, as well as booming music, cranky robots, and never enough tables. Oh, and don't forget the not-so-silent auction.

All for $8, ladies and gents.

I'm happy to be back :-D

A Pink Kink In My Think

I think pink
And you think green
I wonder
Did God make us different colors?
Living color?


She turns red
And he is blue
A living rainbow
Made of souls of every hue
Living color?


...


Thinking about light, thinking about color... and how human nature correlates.

Light comes into our eyes in waves--longer waves produce certain colors while shorter waves result in others. Slight differences in frequency--how many times a wave oscillates per second--and wavelength--the length of one oscillation--drastically change the color of the light we see.

Pick a color--any color. I pick green. How many separate shades of green exist? How many types? They all differ, to some degree. But still something about them is the same.

I find certain similarities in humanity. Though all people think in generally the same manner, each individual thinks within his or her own "language"--the unique thought pattern deeply ingrained into each person's nature. "Languages" differ slightly according to different personalities.

I wonder: if we were able to see ourselves in a fresh manner--to see the entity of our being in a new dimension--might we each be distinctly different colors?

I think of louder personalities as orangey-reds, bubbly social butterflies as perky yellows, and quieter spirits as deep, dark blue. No two match exactly, but they may share similarities.

My dad gave me a strange look the other day as I was telling him a funny quip from a friend; apparently I was unconsciously copying this person's facial expressions, tones, and mannerisms quite accurately.

But that's how I relate; how we all must relate. I translate my thoughts to others' "languages"--even in email sometimes. For instance: tend to leave out the subjects of my sentences when talking with Claviger. And, like when I'm talking to like one of my rather like trendy friends, like I add all these like "likes" like into my sentences!!! (Not to mention the triple exclamation points...) Sometimes... I talk... slightly, um. Slower. AndothertimesItalktwentymillionwordsaminute.

It's as if I change the frequency, length, or pattern of my thoughts to match others' thoughts.

Sometimes people tell me just to be myself--to speak my own language. But I beg to differ. How in the world am I supposed to relate to anyone else if I don't speak their language? Not to demean the significance of knowing one's self--but what is the purpose of speech if it does not communicate something? And translating my rather scatterbrained thoughts into the method of someone else's thinking patterns usually benefits my own understanding of what I think.

Somewhat like tuning to the right radio frequency to get rid of the static.

So I wonder; am I losing sight of my own "language"? Am I supposed to, as I seek to understand God's thoughts? Does contact with others shape my "language"? Should or can I let it? What do you think?

Rainsong.

Dip tappity tap
Dip tippity too
Dap tappita lap
Drip tippata do

One-step,
Two-step.
Back,
And forward;
Onward!
Downward!
Pressing forth,
Dive deep!
Sing long--
Live life!
Belong;
Hold tight!
Pray, fight!

For Right
Stand strong.

Tap dappida,
Dee doop
Tap dappida,
Dee dah dee
Tap dappida
Dee doop
Dee dah, dah doop
Dee dah

...

Either one loves Rain or one does not.
Either one treasures the rap-tappity, trap dap dun
or one does not care to.

Either the swirling drops entrance one, gently ease one into a dance,
a song, a rollicking joy!
Only to sigh, breathe,
Heave their heavy skirts onward,
one sighing, left behind...

Or they don't.

Tippity tap.

Fanaticism

Need to find YELLOW PAPER!

I have this amazing teal pen... actually, the label says "Hot Aqua".... and it's my new favorite pen. It's similar to a Sharpie, only it's a BIC, and I've just discovered it looks amazing on yellow paper.

Remember the Wheatstone pen? How it has that rubber grip that says "BIC" and the cap with the clip? It's just like that, only the pen is silver, the rubber grip is aqua, the cap is aqua, and it doesn't say Wheatstone Academy on it :-(

Looks like this:

Except aqua! NOT the blue in the middle... that is normal, plain, everyday blue, NOT aqua.

Actually, that's how I found this pen; I thought it looked like my Wheatstone pen... which is out of ink... and I had a little cash to spend. That always makes me happy... so I bought it! And now I really like writing with it.

I love writing. Can I say it again? I love writing. Just writing random words, in crazy lettering, or in fancy script. Aren't words so amazing? The rhythm, the cadence, the sound... the look on paper... Anyway, writing with my new pen on yellow paper makes my precalc notes instant art--which makes studying very happy :-D

Only problem? My paper supply is running out! I've only just discovered how much I love writing with my "Hot Aqua" pen on yellow paper, and at this time tomorrow I won't be able to! I hate it when this happens...

But no! I have some decent rainbow-y paper that might work... Ooh, how will that look?

...

LORD, thank You for happinesses like fancy pens and precalculus!

Latin... and Labels...

Mea fratres et sorores

—sometimes I love Latin and sometimes I hate it—

anima - soul

avis - bird

benignitas - kindness

fabula - story

fortitudo - bravery
frater - brother

iustitia - justice/righteousness

lacrima - tear

luna - moon

lux - light

mens - mind

musica - music

natura - nature

nox - night

patria - homeland

pax - peace

porta - gate

sapientia - wisdom

silva - forest

spelunca - cave

soror - sister

stella - star

tempestas - storm

umbra - shadow

veritas - truth

via - way

vox - voice

virtus - strength

vita - life

So many beautiful words, beautiful thoughts... for instance, via veritatis means way of truth; vox vitae is voice of life; porta sapientiae—gate of wisdom.  I find it interesting that the English word virtue comes from the word meaning strength.

Words, words, words... We assign so much meaning to them; we try to force the essence of our souls into them... wrestle our puny thoughts into their hugenesses, or vice versa. I wonder which is trickier, big thoughts into little words or little thoughts into big words...

We name everything, label everything—nothing is that doesn't have a name. Even nonexistence has a name. (I wonder, does that mean in some indirect manner that nonexistence exists? HA for the purple unicorns...) People have names, and labels... We have long lists of names and types: some that we assign ourselves and some others assign to us.

My current self-inflicted labels include hypocrite, dreamer, wannabe, awkward, needy, distracted, etc.

(I think my favorite is etc.—which is Latin, I’ll have you remember...)

Why do we label? Does it come out of our nature, after God instructed Adam to name every living creature? Is it just part of how we think?

Does the word hypocrite sound so wrong because of the sounds, or because of the meaning? Does the sound intrinsically ring sour in our ears, or does the meaning alone make the word sound absolutely horrid? Or do both contribute to the word's hideous nature?

Truth—the sound is quiet, gentle, unmistakable.

Beauty—Latin, pulchritudo—

Goodness—

These words strike silence into my soul, reverberate throughout my being. They are small, short snippets of sound—barring the Latin, of course—they have no long, dramatic syllables—but they stick. And they matter much more than any of the others. They remind me of what I long to be:

WHOLE. Tota.

CLEAN. Munda.

PURE. Pura.

LORD GOD, would You transform my sarcastic, biting, pain-filled thoughts to truth, beauty, goodness—transform my mind, my body, my soul into that which is like Yours?

Gratias Tibi ago ob benignatem animorum - I thank you for the kindness of Your soul.

...

I wait for the day
work for the day
yearn for the day
for the coming of the light
and rejoice as it comes;


Standing tall
As the darkness falls.


I will not give in
By the grace of God:
I will remember.

...

The Wheatstone video came a couple of days ago—and wonder of wonders, I tensed up watching it— "What would they think of me now?"

Old doubts have re-inhabited my mind. Disgust. Pain. Depression.

No! They have no authority here; yank their throbbing roots out of your heart...

Oh, how much I want to remember!

Remember being part of a whole—not isolated.
Remember being happy.
Remember being satisfied, yet not complacent.
Remember being surrendered.
Remember being almost...

Almost who I wanted to be.

Looking Out Over the Eyrie

Perhaps...


this

could be

a gentle place

a safe place

for prodigal dreams

to roost.

this

could be

a happy place

for thoughtsome

musings,

happy heartsongs,

sunshine and rain:

tears and towering trees.

The First Hatchling...

Perhaps
I am

too small
to stand

but everyone
can fly.

too young
to start

to use
my hands

but everyone
can try.