Methodic_Madness's Xanga

Undotted I's

Mon, 12 Oct 2009 02:03:04 GMT

This is one of those nights where I want to be in someone else’s’ head rather than my own.
When I want to be all sorts of things n this world, yet still be the world to somebody.
When I want kisses and hot cocoa and unfaltering smiles.
My world is so vibrant and scattered that, once in a while on a night like tonight, I envy the person with the “cookie cutter” life who goes about with a sort of mundane expectancy, but, all in all, they are pretty happy with the way things have turned out.
My world at present is a string of undotted “I’s” and uncrossed “t’s” until “xyz” and the end has come and I’m left wondering what happened in the in between and if I did everything A-OK.

Calm down.
Patience.
Trust.
Relax.

These four I need to learn. For now I’ll sleep and have a valiant go at things tomorrow.

Tuesday, September 22, 2009

Tue, 22 Sep 2009 16:25:40 GMT

¬I wish Kevin didn’t die. He was one of my favorites. One of my deep regrets in life is not going to see him one last time. He asked me to. He wanted to see me one last time before he died, but I told him I would probably be busy. Who does that? Who says they are busy to a dying mans’ wish?
I said it out of fear. I hated seeing him that way. You could barely hear his strained words over the constant rumbling in his chest. He couldn’t’ even use the bathroom without assistance and his while room in the hospital smelled like pee and antiseptic and death. It smelled like death, and there was my friend Kevin in the midst of it all.
I had only known Kevin for 4 months, but it still hit me hard to see him on his death bed. I met him when I was volunteering at the nursing home in Sydney. I walked in to make my visits, and there was Kevin on his breathing machine, his lighter and cigarettes waiting impatiently to be used in his other hand. The walls were gray from smoke while drawing and art supplies were scattered around the room. He got off his breathing machine, lit a cigarette, and we began to talk.
Kevin, who described himself as a Rasputin look-alike, was from New Zealand. He had chronic emphysema and lung cancer from a lifetime of smoking and decided to come to the nursing home because he was scared to die alone.
He was rarely alone throughout his life , after a stint of traveling around New Zealand, he bought a ramshackle house in Sydney and opened it to others. It was always the type of people who were “down on their luck but with good hearts.” He would tell me, “Some people just need a second chance, Kate.”
Kevin was also an artist. Pens and ink were his weapon of choice, but his work could be seen in various children’s books and pub walls in the greater Sydney-area.
“Kate, it’s a damn shame they are banning smoking in pubs. A damn shame. Pubs are about community; where you can come in, have a few drinks, and not be judged. Being forced outside to smoke ruins that a bit.”
Kevin, whos work was brilliant but little-known, was never one for attention and publicity. However, in all his life, he had never had a gallery show of his artwork. He had never been celebrated for his creativity and love of community. In the next month or so of meeting him, some friends of his put together an art show in his honor. At 62 years old, everyone knew Kevin was very sick and that this would probably be his first and last exhibit.
So, one rainy day, I took the bus across Sydney to Rose Street where the old wood doors of the Duck and Swan Hotel (where Kevin frequented) stood wide open. He was surrounded by friends, both old and new, and was obviously weak, but his eyes shown with such happiness I could see them as soon as I walked in.
“Kate! Kate!” he garbled/yelled as I approached him.
He linked his arm through mine and began introducing me to his friends, even the newspaper reporter that was standing there.
Who was I? I was the young, American girl who would make weekly visits to Kevin at the nursing home to talk about politics, religion, rugby, art, travel, and pub culture with him. Who was I? No one of consequence yet treated like an old friend and special guest at his art gallery opening.
That is certainly one thing I learned from Kevin. Everyone is of consequence and important. Everyone deserves a second glance and second chance.
I went to see him 5 days before I left the country. He was in the hospital, probably for the last time. It pained me to see him this way.
“Kate,” he spoke between the wheezing and coughing, “laying here in this hospital bed really makes me think about what will happen after I die. It’s an unavoidable thought, really.”
This was a well-visited topic of conversation between us. He went into another coughing fit. He pressed the button for the nurse and she came in, did something to his IV, and left.
“There is no way of knowing, Kate. I envy your faith and how you are so sure of things.”
“But Kevin,” I said, “you can be certain too. We’ve talked about it.”
“No. I haven’t been sure all my life and it won’t happen now. I suppose I’ll just find out when I get there.”
And those were some of the last words he said to me.
I gave him a goodbye hug, carefully, as he had become so fragile since we had first met.
The breathing machine hissed, we said a few, awkward words of goodbye. Words that wanted to say so much more, but had the power to do very little.
It was difficult.
I left the hospital weeping.
I left my friend Kevin in there alone, in the antiseptic/urine smell. In the smell of death.
Who does that? Who am I to do that?

Post-Grad insights and plans

Tue, 16 Dec 2008 19:15:32 GMT

“There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under heaven…a time to plant and a time to uproot”
~ Ecclesiastes 3:1,2

     Here I go, uprooting again. I graduated from college yesterday. It’s as if a culmination of 4.5 years came down to Monday, December 15th, 2008 at the 2pm Commencement Ceremony.
     “Do you have any regrets?” Yes, a few, but nothing I haven’t learned from.
     “Was it all worth it?” A very heartfelt “Yes, it was” in response to that question.
     It seems as if my life is all about planting and uprooting. I have come to terms with the fact that I don’t have any choice in the matter. I have tried to guard my heart and slide under the radar of each new place I find myself. The less people I get to know, the less people I have to say bye to when I leave, right? It was about three years ago that God told me, “Why are you holding yourself back? It’s not your heart to protect.”
     So, since then, I throw my heart into everything and everyone I encounter. Even at the age of 22, I can already tell that my heart is well-worn and a bit battered, but it is cared for and spoken for by Someone who could do a much better job with it than I ever could. And I’m OK with that.
     Gardner-Webb is no exception. I came here 2 years ago knowing no one and expecting to just make it through my 3rd college with only a few friends. Ha.
     Two years later, I find myself graduating college with many wonderful, close, and, I daresay, lifelong friends. I embraced this small town life for all it was worth and I am all the better for it.
     So, yesterday I graduated and today I am dusting off my travelers shoes and embarking again on my next big adventure. I find it strange that I can live in such ignorance of the future; knowing that I have practically nothing (except maybe a college degree and a camera), yet I still have everything yet to come for me. So, I will continue to give in to my wanderlust and will continue to plant and uproot. If home is where the heart is, then mine is scattered everywhere.

    As to what these next few weeks/months/years hold for me, some plans are set in stone and some are still wet cement. Ok. All of these are wet cement. I can’t say for certain what I am doing past August 2009, so don’t hold me to these or anything. Here is my rough draft life for the next year and a half:

1.)    Graduate college. (check)
2.)    Move home to Georgia, live with the parents, get a job, and save up money.
3.)    May-August 2009: move to Aliquippa, Pennsylvania and work with an inner city organization by teaching kids photography
4.)    August 2009 -ish – August 2010-ish : move to France and teach English for a year or just travel Europe and Asia, living with friends, working on my photography and writing, and seeing what’s going on with the rest of the world first hand.

     So, there they are. My “plans.” No, I don’t have a boyfriend I plan on marrying. No, I don’t have any intention of settling down anywhere soon. No, I don’t have any idea what I’m doing. That’s all I have so far, so please don’t ask about anything more me unless you have a bit of wisdom and insight to provide yourself.
    I love my life and I wouldn’t have it any other way. And you. Yes, you… the one reading this… I’m glad you’re part of my life too. I suppose that’s all for now. I’m currently sitting in my half-empty house in North Carolina and I need to finishing packing so I can start living in my next destination. Peace.

~ Kate

“The journey is the destination.”
- Dan Eldon

Rocking chairs and Waterfalls

Fri, 26 Sep 2008 05:00:40 GMT

written on 8/28/08 in a handmade journal from India with a fish head on it with a smudgy black ink gel pen:

I feel as if, because it's my last semester in college, that I am holding on to my memories too early and too much. It's as if I am living in a state of premature sentiment.

It's like the excitement of college and the thrill of the unknown future have faded in me. Perhaps faded isn't the word. It's more like... seasoned and aged. It's different. I feel it.

It is as if I can remove myself from where I am in life and be able to say, "your seasons are changing. You are in a transition process. Your chapter is ending and a new one is about to begin. It is the same sort of waterfall feeling I got right before I graduated from highschool.

I am in a small boat about to go over a waterfall. However, the waterfall represents change and going over it isn't necessarily a bad thing. It is big, and unknown, and scary, and it will swallow me up... but it isn't necessarily a bad thing.

I'm not sure when I came to the realization that this life of mine is bigger than me. People traipse through life searching for their purpose until they die. I feel as if often times they spend all of their time searching that they forget to actually live.

That's the thing with me, Kate Gazaway. I fully recognize that my life is brief and seemingly insignificant in the grand scheme of the universe, but the fact that I am HERE in this time living life the best I know how is all I am supposed to do. I am not searching for my purpose because I find it every day.

I have had people tell me that they want to have my life, but I wonder why. It isn't as if my life is extra-ordinary to anyone else's, but perhaps my approach and perspective are different.

There was a point in my life that was steeped in the frantic search for meaning and purpose, and this was all under the guise of Christianity and spirituality. Not to say I wasn't a Christian at this time, but instead of the peaceful anticipation of an unknown but fulfilling future like I have now, at that time in my life I was a flurry of uncertainty.

"Pray now that God will bring your future spouse to you. Pray now that God will reveal your future job, school, occupation, destination, etc to you. Figure out what you want to do with your life. Figure out how you can best serve God in the future. Future future future."

And thus was my problem. I was so future minded that I didn't fully absorb and appreciate the time of life I was in. It's the age-old story of wanting to be a grown up as a child, an established adult as a teenager, a seasoned career professional as a college student, married when single, a child when old, and then death. '

No way. Not for me. I am happy...right here at this time in my life. I may be going over this waterfall of unknown changes soon, but right now I am sitting in a creaky old rocking chair in the boat, enjoying the view before I go over.

I don't want to ever look back on my life and say, "Oh. What was I don't then? I was very busying with some thing or another. I don't remember. "

I ALWAYS want to remember and I ALWAYS want to make the day, the week, the month, the year count. God always told his people to remember remember remember what happened to them (both good and bad) and what He did for them.

I always want to remember. That is why my life is so amazing. That is why I can smile without faking it, from my heart. That is why life ravishes my senses and thrills me through and through. That is why I can love and that is why I am in love. Why I can be satisfied in any circumstances and why I have peace.

If God sees fit to use me then I am the happiest pawn of them all.

I am Kate Gazaway. I am 22.5 years old. I am single. I am a photographer. I am a friend. I am passionate. And I am damn happy to be here.

The Trucker Wave

Fri, 22 Aug 2008 13:01:11 GMT

At first I thought it was a muscle spasm, but then I realized it was directed at me. It was a faint but unmistakable wave of the hand as I passed by. This wasn’t just any ol’ Miss America wave or even the small town country wave you would expect from this part of North Carolina. Oh no. It was much more than that. It was a wave, I quickly came to find out, known as “The Trucker Wave.”

Because I had to move back up to North Carolina from my home in Georgia, I used my Dad’s huge Chevy something-or-other pickup truck to tote my collegiate necessities around. It is a huge truck, with room enough in the cab to fit 8 people and a huge engine that rumbles like Southern thunder. Not to mention the huge gas tank which consumes unethical amounts of gasoline merely by starting the beast up. I have this Chevy Monster for a week until I can get my sleek, Kate-style Pontiac Vibe back.

The house I am living in while in North Carolina is a nice house out in the country. Giving people directions to my house is easy, “Drive until you reach the airport in the cow pasture, take a right at the Flying Pig barbecue, and it’ll be a few miles through the fields after that.”

It’s funny to me to think that a mere 2 weeks ago I was living my life in the city of Los Angeles. Now, I find myself back here in Boiling Springs, North Carolina. Both cities I can appreciate for their diversity and unique personalities, but they are by no means the same. I daresay I am experiencing a sort of culture shock being back here in the South.

This brings me to the Trucker Wave. While my truck would be reproached for it’s menacing size and glared at with disdain by environmentalists in Los Angles, here in Boiling Springs, I have observed, it is looked at with a sort of respect and admiration. Perhaps it is the National Rifle Association sticker or the Cherokee Rose Sporting Resort license plate on it, but it’s probably just the fact it’s a big-a** Chevy truck.

As a sign of this respect I (well, not me… the truck) have received an increasing amount of Trucker Waves as I drive through the town. It is inevitable. Old men trimming their lawns in the morning, construction workers, blue-collar men walking down Main Street, other men in ungodly sized trucks passing me on the road… all have flashed me the Trucker Wave. This is a secret club phenomenon that has never happened to me before. It’s almost better that being in drama club.

I called my dad to tell him about this strange, new experience I was having because of his truck.

“Dad! People throw down the Trucker Wave when I pass them on the street! It’s incredible!”

“Oh... the Trucker Wave,” he said, his voice grave, “I was going to wait until you were older to tell you about the Trucker Wave.”

These past few years of my life have been full of changes and the wonderful process of me discovering how to live my life to the fullest. I feel that I have done more in my short 22 years than many people have done in a lifetime. I have traveled, met all sorts of interesting and influential people, and experienced things that most humans only dream about. However, all of these things pale in comparison to the unity and camaraderie I have found within the warm embrace of the Trucker Wave.

Throw it down. Chevy country style.

Jazz

Wed, 06 Aug 2008 07:10:17 GMT

Jazz.

Oh, Jazz.

Jazz is like sex. Or, what I think sex would be like, as I haven't had done it yet.

Jazz is what rocked the youth culture of 1920's America and started a musical and social revolution.

Jazz is impassioned and wild and all consuming. It makes me wish I was capable of MORE feeling and MORE emotion than my frail human body can handle.

Jazz makes me hear in colors and see in emotions.

*************

I just got back from The Green Door club in Hollywood where Tuesday night is Jazz night. There, in this beautiful club, I sat enraptured on a plush cushion, unaware of all the outrageously perfect-looking Hollywood types as I watched this scruffy group of black guys rock their instruments. The saxophone player was a dark chocolate shade of African and all you could see of him was his white eyes which would roll back when he played. The bass player couldn't stand still. The piano player couldn't stop smiling. The drummer's hands were flying so fast they could barely be seen amidst the glorious syncopation.

The music was unreal.

It was magical.

It was.... jazz.

Catcher in the Rye: bringing Hollywood together

Wed, 04 Jun 2008 02:40:01 GMT

So, I came to Los Angeles not knowing what to expect.

It’s practically a miracle that I’m here in the first place.

I’ve decided that LA is the best place to read a classic novel in public. Well, perhaps New York is better, but the people of Los Angeles are more apt to strike up a conversation about it.

My book of choice is The Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger. I think it has been on every human’s summer reading list except mine. I think it’s because I’ve gone to Christian schools all my life and the book was off the list because it has a fair bit of profanity in it. I decided to read it here in LA and improve the quality and culture of my life.

Down the street from my North Hollywood apartment is a unique café called Aroma. There is a fair bit of outdoor seating along with cute, European style tables on the sidewalk out front. Inside towards the back of the café is a bookstore. The owner of the bookstore is very picky and protective of her books and only chooses the best covers or the most exclusive prints. It is at this bookstore/café that I chose to buy Catcher in the Rye.

When I asked for Catcher in the Rye the book woman was ecstatic. She found the copy and carefully withdrew it from the shelf. We chatted about the book as I was paying for it and she told me all about Holden Caulfield and her observations of the book.

Suddenly, she leaned in close and whispered, “I want to show you something. Look at what I found outside the Discovery Store in Hollywood today.” She slowly pulled a tattered piece of paper from somewhere and slid it across the counter to me. It was actually an old, yellowed photo of a baby with bright eyes and a simple looking dress. It was probably taken in the early 1900’s. The woman said she found it in the garbage bin outside the store.

“This is what happens when people don’t have any family. Their memories either end up in flea markets or the trash. But not this baby. This memory isn’t going to the trash because I rescued it.”

I handed the photo back to her as if I were handing her a priceless Faberge egg. She smiled with a distant and dreamy look as she looked at the baby photo before placing my copy of Catcher in the Rye in a bag. The book has a striking red cover with a drawing of a horse and New York City on it. I started reading it all curled up on a sofa at a different coffee shop down the street. I had read about three pages of the book when two LA style old men commented on it.

My famous-novel-in-public theory was proven correct.

I told them how it was never on my summer reading list and I’m making up for that this summer. They told me how much they loved it, though they couldn’t really remember what it was about anymore.

That’s another theory I have. People will talk all day about the books they read, but so many times they have no idea what they’re talking about. I won’t lie, I do it too. So many books I’ve read I only remember what I liked or didn’t like about it, not the characters or the story.

Not so with this book. I think I’ll remember Holden Caulfield for a long, long time. He reminds me so much of my little brother, Marcus: quick witted, full of profanity, and always able to describe the most minute details in semi-eloquent prose.

Anyway, I was still curled up on this sofa in a Hollywood coffee shop talking with two old men about my book. It was a good conversation and it was a good thing they couldn’t remember much about the book because one of my least favorite things in the world is when people spoil then endings for me. I abhor it when people ruin my endings. I figure if the author wanted to spoil his own ending, he would write it sooner in the book. Therefore, no one but the author (or director in the case of movies) should be able to spoil an ending.

The second time I read Catcher in the Rye in public is now. I’m currently back at Aroma Café and I had a dinner of roasted goat cheese and walnut salad with an iced mocha to drink. I sat alone during dinner and I continuously got those, “Awww, how sad. She’s eating dinner alone. She must be single and lonely” type of looks from happy dining couples. You know the looks I’m talking about. I didn’t care though because I was content with my toasted goat cheese, a sure cure for lonely hearts.

After I finished eating, I pulled out my book and started reading. I already proved my theory correct so I wasn’t “reading on the job” or anything, just for the sheer pleasure of observing Holden Caulfield and his New York fiasco.

An older man with a Hawaiian shirt and a black Americano coffee sat down at the table next to me.

“Oh no,” I thought, “This guy is trouble.”

I could read him like a book as I was reading my book. Within 5 minutes he had taken a sip or 12 of his coffee, then turned to me and asked if I was reading about politics.

“No, sir.” I replied.

“Not politics?” said he, “But it’s J.D. Salinger.”

“Um…no. Right now the character is ice skating in the park.”

“Oh. I bought a business book for 50% off the other day. I sent it to my cousin in northern California.”

And thus the conversation transpired. We discussed business, cell phone plans, and the difficulty of the elderly in learning to use computers. I got a phone call and he made his departure.

Theory proved, once again.

His table was immediately taken by an obese woman in a leopard print blouse. She was struggling to open her designer Los Angeles bottle of water. I watched her for a bit and she had barely broken the designer Los Angeles silver seal on the lid when I decided to come to her aid. I asked if she was having the pickle jar syndrome. You know, when you get an impossible jar of kosher dills and go through extreme measures to open it until you give up and find a man with competent pickle jar opening skills.

This designer water was a piece of cake to open though. She explained how she had arthritis and could barely do the simplest tasks. I felt sorry for her. Pickle jars must be a nightmare.

Now the sun is setting and I have to go. People are looking at me like I don’t deserve the table I’m sitting at because I don’t have food. They’re probably right. I’ve finished my coffee already anyway, so I should go.

This is Kate Gazaway in Los Angeles, signing out.

Buried in Elephant Poo

Fri, 16 May 2008 04:18:32 GMT

These past few months have been months of extremes.

While frolicking in a field in Puerto Rico, I tore my ACL and meniscus in my knee and I had to have surgery. Therefore, I had two weeks of school work and tests to make up when I finally made it back to school while I was on pain meds and crutches. Because of my injury, I wasn't able to work (as a paid photographer for the school), so I lost my job. My Grandmother died 4 days after I got back to school, so I had to fly back home for the funeral of someone I loved very dearly. The same day she died, the boy I deeply liked decided we shouldn’t date, so we ended it. My dad told me that I can't go back to school after the next semester because of financial reasons, so I had to figure out how I can graduate or drop out of that college. None of the teachers would work with me to graduate, so I was pretty out of sorts trying to figure it all out. This all happened from March 8-31.

I didn't blame God or anything, but I felt like I was suffocating under the tidal wave of all that was happening. I drew a stick figure comic of an elephant burying me in a pile of its poop, and that was probably a more accurate representation of how I felt.

I don't remember if I did anything, but I eventually came to terms with what was going on and said, "God, it has absolutely been proven to me that I can't do life on my own. I've tried to take over for You and I've tried to hide my weaknesses and shortcomings from others. I suck."

The whole time, deep down, it was like God was whispering "Yeah? And I still love you."

Normally, I feel as though I can skip and march confidently through life. Yet now, it was as if I was crawling on my knees (oh wait. I had surgery on my knee. So really, it was like I had the crutches kicked out from me then pushed to my knees), and finally someone came along, tied a string around my pinky finger, then dragged me face down through life. I mean, really, it was like I was having a mini-Job month. I was crushed physically, emotionally, spiritually, and mentally.

I think it was after I acknowledged my lack of...everything... that God decided to shout "Kate, I still love you."

I wouldn't believe it if all of this hadn't of happened to me, but during this whole time, I had peace in my soul. Deep down, illogical peace.

I could sense that April would be a different month for me.

My knee progressively got better so I had more mobility and I was able to start doing things for myself again (like, carrying my coffee from the counter to the table without assistance). I still didn't have a job, but I was OK financially and I was eventually able to do some fun photography projects again (check out my flickr site if you want to see). I remained friends with my almost-lover guy and he has helped me through a lot of this. Somehow, all of my classes worked out because of a few helpful teachers so I can actually graduate in December.

As for an internship, my uncle knew someone who knew someone and now I have an internship with a photography agency in Hollywood, California. My friend is road tripping out there with me over a 4 day period so I can have my car out there. Tonight, I just got off the phone with another friend who asked me to be her room mate for the summer in an unbelievable apartment in north Hollywood that's within my price range.

I couldn't have planned everything out better myself. I wonder what the heck I doubted God for. I mean, I feel so entirely undeserving of all that's happened to me recently.

So, do I think I would still praise God even if none of the crap-times had happened to me?

Yes. Yes I do. I mean, it took the crap times to prove that to myself, didn't it?

Do I think all of these astounding changes in my life are a "reward" for being faithful in the crap-times?

Possibly. I feel so grateful and awestruck. I don't think it's right for me to question whether I performed some sort of cosmic positive action which caused God to shower me with blessings. It's certainly not by my own merit that these things happened. As far as Christianity goes, I'm horrible at it, but I can admit that and keep going.

I think God did all of this just because He wanted to. I just hope I don't screw up this opportunity like I normally do.

"God, who has called you into fellowship with his Son Jesus Christ our Lord, is faithful." (I Corinthians 1:9)

So, here I am now. I come before God and humanity broken down, but not destroyed; emptied so that I can be filled up again, and in the process pour myself out for others.

As my friend Heidi told me tonight, "Christ didn't come so that we could just survive. He came so we could have abundant life."

And that's what I intend to do.

Living abundantly from a broken body,

Kate

Sassy Italian Smile Beams

Mon, 31 Mar 2008 05:08:25 GMT

I learned the art of Smile Beams from my sassy Italian grandmother.

When I got the phone call early Thursday morning telling me she had died, I began to weep uncontrollably right there in the coffee shop.

I suppose it was expected. Of her illustrious 86 years, the last 5 or so were spent in a nursing home. However, a death that ends with a final sigh can impact others like a train wreck.

And a wreck I was. I tried to make it through the rest of my classes that day by acting like nothing was wrong. If I forced myself to smile and not think about the devastation and loss I felt, I was fine. However, doing this caused me to split myself in two-- a veritable Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde of suppressed emotions.

The next 24 hours went by like a blur. More classes, more people to not cry in front of, the last-minute plane flight to Georgia, and stumbling in to hug my grieving mother.

Now, in her last few years, my Grandma Stella gradually lost her basic functions, most noticeably, her ability to speak. However, when I would go to visit her, she would look straight at me with her sparkling brown Italian eyes, raise her hyper-active eyebrows, and a subtle smile would dance across her face.

The moment of recognition is a powerful thing. It connects people and identifies us with each other. My mom would tell me whenever I “talked” to my grandmother on the phone, her eyes would light up and sometimes she would give a little smile.

It was actually in her final years that she passed along the art of Smile Beams. I learned that Smile Beams don’t actually come from the mouth; they emanate from the eyes. It is her eyes that would light up in joy, in recognition, and in excitement. In fact, in all my years, I have never seen such fierce Smile Beams as the ones that came from my sassy Italian grandmother.

That is how I remember her. The last time I saw her before she died, I had gone to visit her in the nursing home before my knee surgery. She shot me some of those Smile Beams as I bent down to kiss her forehead right before I left her for the last time.

When I saw her next, she was laying in a coffin across the room of some floral-explosion funeral home. I could see her Italian nose peeking above the open casket and she looked peaceful like she was sleeping.

Yet, I just couldn’t bring myself to go see her. I stood across the room as everyone else filed through, but I just couldn’t do it. I knew that this time, her eyes wouldn’t flutter open and she wouldn’t smile at me. Out of all the hardships that have been dumped into my life lately, this was the worst one. I will never get to see her smile again.

It is tough to find joy in such difficult situations. Yet, the funeral that day was beautiful. It truly was a celebration of my grandma’s life. My Uncle Jeff (her youngest son) spoke during the memorial service about three words that most accurately described her: courage, humor, and love. He told so many stories in which these traits were evident. I already knew she possessed these qualities, but I also learned so many things about her that I never knew before. I think in a different life and different circumstances, my grandma and I would have been best friends. I know I’ll always remember her for these things.

My uncle and I were the last to leave the gravesite. We both touched the coffin before they lowered it into the ground. Sometimes the most heartfelt goodbyes come in the simplest of gestures. He told me I possessed so many qualities my grandma had and now, more than ever, I realize what an enormous compliment this was.

So, she’s gone. I’m still here and I’m finding it more difficult than normal to smile, but I’m still smiling. Hopefully, I’ll be able to perfect the art of her sassy Italian Smile Beams. I think she wouldn’t have it any other way.

They Owe Me... something

Thu, 27 Mar 2008 06:08:00 GMT

The question was asked, “What do you look for in a significant other?”

One girl raised her hand and said, “A guy who doesn’t live like the world owes him something.”

Ever since I heard that, it got me thinking. Do I live as if the world owes me something?

I was in drama and acting for seven years growing up. I can be a very good actress at times. Perhaps the stage has shrouded parts of my reality in that I can easily fool the world (and all the world’s a stage…) into thinking I am something I am not; things like being kind, compassionate, humble, gentle, and patient (Colossians 3:12).

From that one girl’s statement, I deduced that, all to often, I live as if the world owes me something.

This selfish state of mind has seemed to flare up recently, particularly with my injured knee. (If you don’t know the story, I tore my ACL and meniscus while frolicking in a field in Puerto Rico, I had surgery, I’ll survive).

Being on crutches has opened up a whole new world of handicappeddom that my regular walking legs take for granted. Stairs, for instance, bring tears to my eyes every time I encounter them. Relentless doors swing shut so quickly and attempt to pummel me to the ground. Socks or stray power cords on the floor can be lethal. Truly, it’s a terrifying world with 1.5 crutch legs.

Because simple things have become so difficult for me, the easiest thing to do is to hobble into a self-centered “woe is me” sort of attitude. Which I do. A lot. I just smile so people don’t ask me about it.

However, this has caused me to think as if the world owes me something. I’m on crutches, therefore my needs come before yours. My knee exploded, give me attention. Things are more difficult for me than they are for you, pity me.

Crippling thoughts like these limp through my head as I struggle to open doors and climb stairs. I was thinking today that, even when I was “healthy”, I still encountered thoughts like these. As if I am gracing the world by my presence therefore I take precedence.

Terrible. I am building myself up on a foundation of weakness and pity.

I could go on about what I’ve learned about selfishness since my “accident” and also what about how humbling it is to allow others to serve you, but I won’t. I am encouraged by the numerous times the Apostle Paul talks in Corinthians about of all the ways he was qualified to boast, yet he chose to boast about his weakness because in that is where Christ’s strength was most evident. Oh, that paradoxical phenomenon which roars throughout Christianity!

The world owes me nothing.

I can’t do this on my own. I can’t live in my castle of self-pity.

I drank Tazo “Awake” tea around 10pm. The tea is staying true to its name and it’s nearly 3am. I am going to end this early morning rant with a quote from a movie I saw recently called Martian Child:

“But right now, you and me here, put together entirely of atoms, sitting on this round rock with a core of liquid iron, held down by this force that seems to trouble you, called gravity, all the while spinning around the sun at 67,000 miles an hour and whizzing through the Milkyway at 600,000 miles an hour in a universe that very well may be chasing its own tail at the speed of light; And amidst all this frantic activity, fully cognizant of our own imminent demise - which is our own pretty way of saying we all know we're gonna die - We reach out to one another. Sometimes for the sake of entity, sometimes for reasons you're not old enough to understand yet, but a lot of the time we just reach out and expect nothing in return. Isn't that strange? Isn't that weird? Isn't that weird enough? The heck do ya need to be from Mars for?”