Today I was sitting at my desk, working on a complicated spreadsheet, feeling frustrated by my self-perceived ineptitude, and basically just wrestling with an overall sense of grumpiness. Not my usual attitude (or at least I hope not!). In an attempt to banish my irritated mood, I decided to listen to some music. But nothing seemed right, it was all either too happy, too spirited, too depressing, etc. Nothing fit.
A lightbulb suddenly went off. Christmas music. I could listen to Christmas music. It's a whole six days after Thanksgiving, way past the acceptable Christmas music deadline. And yet there's been no Christmas music for me yet. No tree, no decorating, no . . . nothing.
This is very, very (very!!) unusual for me. I've always been a bit of a Christmas nut. My parents once bought me tons of Christmas lights for my birthday and I was ecstatic to decorate the outside of our house with them. I was always the first to beg to get the decorations out of storage and put them up. I pester my family about being scrooges and putting off getting a tree. I always push the envelope of the Christmas season, wanting it to start a little earlier. To me, Christmas has always been a bit of a magical time . . . the music, the lights, the luminescent ornaments, the scent of the tree, the spirit of giving, the anticipation, the time with family . . . it all added up to my favorite time of year. A time for magic.
But for some reason, this year, I haven't felt it. The wonderment . . . the anticipation . . . the magic. Part of me wonders if I've outgrown it. If, at the advanced age of 29, part of my child-like joy in Christmas has faded to a recognition that it's just another time of year, and a busy/expensive one at that. It made me feel a bit sad, like I'd grown up and grown past my love of Christmas. Goodbye happy-go-lucky, Christmas fanatic, fanciful Dacia . . . Hello grown-up, prosaic, Scroogy Dacia. Well, that just won't do!
So, on went the Christmas music. Two songs in, I started to feel like maybe it wasn't such an impractical decision to put up a tree for 3 weeks. Then I thought it might be fun to take a drive some evening and look at Christmas lights with some peppermint hot chocolate. And, oh, I should really put my Christmas playlist back on my phone so I can listen to the songs I like in the car . . .
And just like that, mood uplifted . . . I suppose there is something rather magical about Christmas after all, isn't there?
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
Sunday, November 20, 2011
Take a walk
This morning I went for a walk, in spite of the fact that it was crazy, bone-chillingly cold outside and I spent the first 10 minutes hacking up a lung breathing in the cold air. But the day was clear and it's getting very close to that time of year when you forget what color the sky should be. As I dragged myself up the icy, mossy hill, I had a whirl of thoughts going through my mind. This is usually part of why I take walks, because from the time I leave to the time I return, whatever I had spinning around in my head has usually centered itself and I feel calm. I know a lot of people exercise to enjoy those endorphins, but I seem to be the odd duck that goes for long walks in an attempt to find a place of peace. But it wasn't always that way.
The walking for me only began about a year and a half ago, and at the time, I was so out of shape that I had to make frequent stops mid-hill, desperately wheezing, searching for air, and certain I was going to die of a heart-attack. But I was determined, always, to make it to the top. There were a lot of days that I almost gave up. I was tired, it was raining, my body hurt, I wanted to go back, I wanted to quit. I don't remember the exact days when the breathing got easier, and the stops became less frequent, but I do remember the day when I realized I'd made it to the top of the hill without stopping once, and that I wasn't breathing hard at all. It was a windy day, I remember this, because the tears that sprang to my eyes at the realization were getting whipped across my face in the wind. It wasn't the proudest moment of my life, but it was very profound. It made me realize that I was truly strong enough to accomplish something, if I made the decision to do it. No one had helped me get up the hill, no one had ordered me to do so, no one was with me at all. Well, maybe not no one.
I remember getting to a place in my life of feeling entirely alone, and then, at the lowest, darkest moment, crying out to God that I had nothing. I can only imagine how He must have felt when He replied "You've always had Me." It's easy to get caught up in what you don't have and forget that you have the greatest gift of all; perfect love.
I believe that God gave me the gift of walking in my life. It may sound a bit silly to say so, but I truly know it's what I needed, and I didn't come up with the idea on my own, that's for sure. Every day, I had just enough energy to force myself to change after work, head out the door, and start the walk. And once you start, it becomes exactly what you need. I would stick my headphones in and head out to the tunes of my favorite Christian artists. I know that seems a bit monotonous to listen to every day, but it was all part of my motivation. And on that day when I finally was able to reach the top without stopping, these were the lyrics I heard, "I lift my eyes unto the hills, where does my help come from? My help comes from the Lord, the Maker of Heaven and Earth". It wasn't an accomplishment of mine alone, God knew I needed a triumph in my life and He helped me to find it.
This morning I reached the top of the hill and stared out at the perfectly clear day, my mind clear and my doubts and worries back where they belong . . . in God's hands.
The walking for me only began about a year and a half ago, and at the time, I was so out of shape that I had to make frequent stops mid-hill, desperately wheezing, searching for air, and certain I was going to die of a heart-attack. But I was determined, always, to make it to the top. There were a lot of days that I almost gave up. I was tired, it was raining, my body hurt, I wanted to go back, I wanted to quit. I don't remember the exact days when the breathing got easier, and the stops became less frequent, but I do remember the day when I realized I'd made it to the top of the hill without stopping once, and that I wasn't breathing hard at all. It was a windy day, I remember this, because the tears that sprang to my eyes at the realization were getting whipped across my face in the wind. It wasn't the proudest moment of my life, but it was very profound. It made me realize that I was truly strong enough to accomplish something, if I made the decision to do it. No one had helped me get up the hill, no one had ordered me to do so, no one was with me at all. Well, maybe not no one.
I remember getting to a place in my life of feeling entirely alone, and then, at the lowest, darkest moment, crying out to God that I had nothing. I can only imagine how He must have felt when He replied "You've always had Me." It's easy to get caught up in what you don't have and forget that you have the greatest gift of all; perfect love.
I believe that God gave me the gift of walking in my life. It may sound a bit silly to say so, but I truly know it's what I needed, and I didn't come up with the idea on my own, that's for sure. Every day, I had just enough energy to force myself to change after work, head out the door, and start the walk. And once you start, it becomes exactly what you need. I would stick my headphones in and head out to the tunes of my favorite Christian artists. I know that seems a bit monotonous to listen to every day, but it was all part of my motivation. And on that day when I finally was able to reach the top without stopping, these were the lyrics I heard, "I lift my eyes unto the hills, where does my help come from? My help comes from the Lord, the Maker of Heaven and Earth". It wasn't an accomplishment of mine alone, God knew I needed a triumph in my life and He helped me to find it.
This morning I reached the top of the hill and stared out at the perfectly clear day, my mind clear and my doubts and worries back where they belong . . . in God's hands.
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
Missing the music
My mom is a piano teacher.
Let me rephrase that. My mom is a phenomenal piano teacher. She works a lot with special needs children. She teaches students that other people can't, and she doesn't have formal training. I think God gifted her with the ability to reach children through music, to work with each individual student to find the way they can learn best. I admire her hugely.
She also taught me, ungrateful wretch that I was! I took lessons from her from 1st grade till a little after I graduated from 8th. It was a fairly frustrating experience for both of us:) My poor mother, after a full day of listening to her students butcher and blunder their way through their lessons, she had to listen to my brother and I practice in the evenings. And poor us, we had to listen to her clap out the rhythm upstairs in the kitchen and yell down at us when we were doing it wrong. It was a frustrating experience for everyone.
Yet somewhere in the midst of all that, I found myself enjoying the music I was playing. Probably right around the time I could sit down and play an actual song. It was . . . relaxing. It helped me release my emotions.
I grew up with the sound of the piano almost continually in the house. It was either horrific (the little beginners), wince-inducing (intermediate), or fun (advanced students). And then there was the music when my mom practiced. I remember snickering when I'd hear her shriek in frustration over a section that wasn't coming together. I remember smiling faintly in the back of my mind when she played a song I particularly liked. But I especially remember her practicing on Sabbath morning as I dreamily woke up. It almost felt like she was welcoming the Sabbath into our home with beautiful music. I still love it when she's playing on Sabbath morning when I visit home, it feels like I've stepped back in time.
I play the piano only rarely nowadays. I don't own a piano and really only get the opportunity when I visit my mom (and her 3 piano's!). But every time my fingertips touch the keys of the piano I learned to play on, I feel transported. My fingers move in a way I can't explain, they pick up the muscle memory without complaint. I'm not particularly good, but there are certain songs I can play with ease that fill me with beauty and memories.
Tonight I'm missing the music. I wish I could sit down at the piano and get lost for awhile. I'm listening to some beautiful music and typing, but it's not quite the same. It's a gift that I'll always appreciate though, the gift of music that my mom gave me.
Let me rephrase that. My mom is a phenomenal piano teacher. She works a lot with special needs children. She teaches students that other people can't, and she doesn't have formal training. I think God gifted her with the ability to reach children through music, to work with each individual student to find the way they can learn best. I admire her hugely.
She also taught me, ungrateful wretch that I was! I took lessons from her from 1st grade till a little after I graduated from 8th. It was a fairly frustrating experience for both of us:) My poor mother, after a full day of listening to her students butcher and blunder their way through their lessons, she had to listen to my brother and I practice in the evenings. And poor us, we had to listen to her clap out the rhythm upstairs in the kitchen and yell down at us when we were doing it wrong. It was a frustrating experience for everyone.
Yet somewhere in the midst of all that, I found myself enjoying the music I was playing. Probably right around the time I could sit down and play an actual song. It was . . . relaxing. It helped me release my emotions.
I grew up with the sound of the piano almost continually in the house. It was either horrific (the little beginners), wince-inducing (intermediate), or fun (advanced students). And then there was the music when my mom practiced. I remember snickering when I'd hear her shriek in frustration over a section that wasn't coming together. I remember smiling faintly in the back of my mind when she played a song I particularly liked. But I especially remember her practicing on Sabbath morning as I dreamily woke up. It almost felt like she was welcoming the Sabbath into our home with beautiful music. I still love it when she's playing on Sabbath morning when I visit home, it feels like I've stepped back in time.
I play the piano only rarely nowadays. I don't own a piano and really only get the opportunity when I visit my mom (and her 3 piano's!). But every time my fingertips touch the keys of the piano I learned to play on, I feel transported. My fingers move in a way I can't explain, they pick up the muscle memory without complaint. I'm not particularly good, but there are certain songs I can play with ease that fill me with beauty and memories.
Tonight I'm missing the music. I wish I could sit down at the piano and get lost for awhile. I'm listening to some beautiful music and typing, but it's not quite the same. It's a gift that I'll always appreciate though, the gift of music that my mom gave me.
Saturday, September 3, 2011
Vacation Blog #1
Confession time: I actually think vacation blogs can be a little dull generally, but I find myself in a writing mood this evening, so I'll try to make this succinct and punchy.
I'm taking my first week long vacation in . . . many, many years. Generally my vacations revolve around holidays, long weekends, and family visits. Technically, this is a holiday weekend/long weekend and I'm with family . . . so what's the difference?
It's a road trip.
Good gravy, I despise road trips.
Maybe despise is a harsh word. Road trips are not on the top of the list of vacations I would choose to do. I don't enjoy spending the majority of my day sitting in a car and watching the world pass me by. Also, I get carsick if I try to read in the car, which seems like a great, cosmic joke if you ask me. So yeah, road trips, not really my cup of tea.
Which is why it's ironic that my first long vacation in many moons is involving a road trip. However, there is a pot of gold at the end of this long rainbow, and it was day one of our trip . . . Ashland.
Last night we got to go see Pirates of Penzance and it was amazing! It was at the Elizabethan Theatre in Ashland, which is their largest and it's an open-roofed structure. It was an epic production, I was blown away. And it was especially wonderful because I didn't think we'd be able to go, I'd checked on tickets and it was sold out. But serendipity in the form of a guy with extra tickets ($80 tickets that he sold for $35) struck and suddenly we had amazing seats on a gorgeous evening. All in all, it put this reluctant road tripper into a very happy mood.
Family fun is all about democracy, which is why I remind myself that this vacation is not all about me, which means that when everyone else wants to stop and look at a museum in a ghost town in the middle of the desert . . . I stop and politely ooh and aah over the glorious fascination of it all. Growing up and considering other people's wants/needs is such hard work;)
House boating is coming up soon . . . more on that later, if the writing mood is still upon me.
I'm taking my first week long vacation in . . . many, many years. Generally my vacations revolve around holidays, long weekends, and family visits. Technically, this is a holiday weekend/long weekend and I'm with family . . . so what's the difference?
It's a road trip.
Good gravy, I despise road trips.
Maybe despise is a harsh word. Road trips are not on the top of the list of vacations I would choose to do. I don't enjoy spending the majority of my day sitting in a car and watching the world pass me by. Also, I get carsick if I try to read in the car, which seems like a great, cosmic joke if you ask me. So yeah, road trips, not really my cup of tea.
Which is why it's ironic that my first long vacation in many moons is involving a road trip. However, there is a pot of gold at the end of this long rainbow, and it was day one of our trip . . . Ashland.
Last night we got to go see Pirates of Penzance and it was amazing! It was at the Elizabethan Theatre in Ashland, which is their largest and it's an open-roofed structure. It was an epic production, I was blown away. And it was especially wonderful because I didn't think we'd be able to go, I'd checked on tickets and it was sold out. But serendipity in the form of a guy with extra tickets ($80 tickets that he sold for $35) struck and suddenly we had amazing seats on a gorgeous evening. All in all, it put this reluctant road tripper into a very happy mood.
Family fun is all about democracy, which is why I remind myself that this vacation is not all about me, which means that when everyone else wants to stop and look at a museum in a ghost town in the middle of the desert . . . I stop and politely ooh and aah over the glorious fascination of it all. Growing up and considering other people's wants/needs is such hard work;)
House boating is coming up soon . . . more on that later, if the writing mood is still upon me.
Monday, August 29, 2011
Read, and read again
Most people who know me well, know at least this one, obvious truth about me: I’m obsessed with reading. It’s not really that I flaunt it (aside from my “I heart my Library” bumper sticker), it’s just that it’s part of who I am, like my brown eyes, the scar on my cheek, and the strange way I laugh at times when I’m not mindful of it. It’s just me.
I can’t remember my life before books. It started off with my mom reading to my brother and I every evening when we were little, graduated into hours and hours spent at the library growing up, and culminated into the present day where I will make emergency runs to Barnes and Noble at 10 pm when I find out a favorite author released a new book. Love makes you do crazy things.
Reading has taught me about other cultures, other places, strange and wonderful people, both real and imaginary, and opened my mind to ideas and concepts I had never considered. Books that I love lead me to even more books, and sometimes I’m saddened by the idea of how many books I will never get to experience . . . which is a little odd, I will admit.
But one of the things I love especially about reading is re-reading. People tell me all the time that they never re-read a book, even if it’s one they really enjoyed, because they’re bored with reading it again. That is a completely foreign concept to me! I have always re-read my books, especially the ones I loved. Every time I do, it’s like visiting a place that I loved, immersing myself in a story that’s both familiar and newly exciting. The words on the pages don’t change, but I have changed since I read it last. Parts of it will resonate with me in a different way than they did the first time. I have read books that I really disliked the first time and put them away for awhile. Then I re-read them a few years later and found that the problem wasn’t the book, the problem was I wasn’t ready to read it yet.
One of my favorite books, by my favorite author, I have read far too many times to count. It’s an old paperback and it’s literally falling apart at the seams. I can remember with clarity the first time I read it and felt like the author was speaking in my own, personal language. Every chapter was a gift and I loved it from beginning to end. I must have been 12 the first time I read it, and 12-year-old Dacia and 28-year-old Dacia are two very different individuals. But when I read it again this weekend, I felt the same joy in my favorite parts, and found a few new things to enjoy that I hadn’t grown into before. Books are a gift in this life, and re-reading them is a gift that grows each time.
“A truly great book should be read in youth, again in maturity and once more in old age, as a fine building should be seen by morning light, at noon and by moonlight.” |
- Robertson Davies |
Sunday, August 21, 2011
Blink and you'll miss it . . .
I have been negligent. A month in between blogs wasn't really the plan when I started this, I'd hoped it would be a weekly thing. Oh intentions, they are such slippery things, aren't they?
Did you know we're nearing the end of August, about to slide into September? Well, I just realized that today, and it came as a big slap in the face. Summer is almost over!! I had plans, things I wanted to accomplish. This summer I was going to:
1. Work more on my book (I'm starting to wonder if it's writer's block or if I'm starting to dread deep-down that it's unadulterated drivel).
2. Develop actual abdominal muscles (These may be an urban legend, I'm unconvinced of their existence)
3. Explore hiking trails in the area (This always sounds like a peaceful thing to do on my own, but then I'm beset by paranoia of ax murderers attacking me while I'm blithely enjoying nature)
4. Attempt to take up jogging again (This time I won't get shin splints, right?)
5. Cultivate my devotional life (MUCH more Jesus in my life would be a very good thing)
6. Invite people over for dinner (I'm allowing laziness to get in the way of a social life)
7. Have a beach day (Is there anything better than a Sabbath at the Oregon Coast?)
8. Explore new areas of Portland (I'm absolutely positive that there are myriad adventures to be had if I can find them:)
9. Clean out my pantry (There are cereal boxes in there from when I first moved in. Two years ago.)
10.Work on my budgeting skills (Numbers are not my friends)
11. Develop a crush (You know, someone I can admire from a distance but never work up the courage to speak to . . . )
12. Plant flowers on my balcony (I am determined to lose my reputation for having a black thumb)
I'll just admit right now, none of the above really ended up happening. I found one new hike, have occasionally remembered to read more in my new devotional book, have had one person over for dinner, and took baby steps toward exploring Portland. In general though, big, huge FAIL on my summer list.
I always think I'm going to have so much time. And then life interferes and re-directs and suddenly it's almost September and you start making a list for autumn.
Did you know we're nearing the end of August, about to slide into September? Well, I just realized that today, and it came as a big slap in the face. Summer is almost over!! I had plans, things I wanted to accomplish. This summer I was going to:
1. Work more on my book (I'm starting to wonder if it's writer's block or if I'm starting to dread deep-down that it's unadulterated drivel).
2. Develop actual abdominal muscles (These may be an urban legend, I'm unconvinced of their existence)
3. Explore hiking trails in the area (This always sounds like a peaceful thing to do on my own, but then I'm beset by paranoia of ax murderers attacking me while I'm blithely enjoying nature)
4. Attempt to take up jogging again (This time I won't get shin splints, right?)
5. Cultivate my devotional life (MUCH more Jesus in my life would be a very good thing)
6. Invite people over for dinner (I'm allowing laziness to get in the way of a social life)
7. Have a beach day (Is there anything better than a Sabbath at the Oregon Coast?)
8. Explore new areas of Portland (I'm absolutely positive that there are myriad adventures to be had if I can find them:)
9. Clean out my pantry (There are cereal boxes in there from when I first moved in. Two years ago.)
10.Work on my budgeting skills (Numbers are not my friends)
11. Develop a crush (You know, someone I can admire from a distance but never work up the courage to speak to . . . )
12. Plant flowers on my balcony (I am determined to lose my reputation for having a black thumb)
I'll just admit right now, none of the above really ended up happening. I found one new hike, have occasionally remembered to read more in my new devotional book, have had one person over for dinner, and took baby steps toward exploring Portland. In general though, big, huge FAIL on my summer list.
I always think I'm going to have so much time. And then life interferes and re-directs and suddenly it's almost September and you start making a list for autumn.
Friday, July 15, 2011
Camp meeting = crazy, fun, CRAZY
Camp meeting means different things to different generations. Little kids love singing at the top of their lungs in their tents, listening to the stories, and gorging themselves at the snackbar. The teenagers are entirely too awesome to be here but have no choice since they're not quite awesome enough to have their own cars. They stand around looking annoyed, but at the same time it's the Adventist social event of the summer, so they can't hide in their parents RV. They're here to see and be seen. People my age have full-time jobs and can barely make it to the evening meetings. And by the time they do, they see someone they know and end up spending the whole time catching up on life since college. Then there is the older generation. Those sweet little older people who show up in their walkers and wheelchairs, fighting for the best seat in the main tent, attempting to get the same spot that they've sat in for the past 50 years. Dwight Nelson is speaking this year and he is an Adventist celebrity. They stand in line to get a picture with him.
I see children running around, laughing and screaming. I see teenagers flirting and sipping on slushies. I see older people wandering around, commenting on all the changes. I see pastors, exhausted, putting their energy into their assignments. I see people sitting on benches praying.
For the past two camp meetings, I've been working for the Oregon Conference. Before that I avoided camp meeting, mostly because camp meeting = people, and I'm not entirely comfortable with large groups. But the past week has been nothing but people, people, people and it's been CRAZY!! There's no way you can have an event with approximately 15,000 people and not deal with a little crazy. But it's also Adventist crazy, which I have a love/hate relationship with. I love my church, but it's hard to love absolutely everyone in my church, especially during camp meeting. The saints complain, whine, ask crazy questions, and pester the life out of the staff here (remind anyone of the children of Israel?), but we are here to serve them, because we want them to see Christ. And if I have an angry reaction when someone comes in to complain about the unfairness of their life, they're not going to see Christ. So surprisingly for me this year, camp meeting is turning into a religious experience. It's teaching me how to be a servant.
I try to remind myself that the pushy lady who keeps coming in, determined to hand out literature, is incredibly loved by the same God who cherishes me. I remind myself that the obnoxious kids who run around screaming throughout the day are beautiful in the sight of God. I remember that each kind, wonderful, frustrating, mean, rude, sweet, friendly, stubborn, joyful person I meet is especially important to God . . . just as I am.
I see children running around, laughing and screaming. I see teenagers flirting and sipping on slushies. I see older people wandering around, commenting on all the changes. I see pastors, exhausted, putting their energy into their assignments. I see people sitting on benches praying.
For the past two camp meetings, I've been working for the Oregon Conference. Before that I avoided camp meeting, mostly because camp meeting = people, and I'm not entirely comfortable with large groups. But the past week has been nothing but people, people, people and it's been CRAZY!! There's no way you can have an event with approximately 15,000 people and not deal with a little crazy. But it's also Adventist crazy, which I have a love/hate relationship with. I love my church, but it's hard to love absolutely everyone in my church, especially during camp meeting. The saints complain, whine, ask crazy questions, and pester the life out of the staff here (remind anyone of the children of Israel?), but we are here to serve them, because we want them to see Christ. And if I have an angry reaction when someone comes in to complain about the unfairness of their life, they're not going to see Christ. So surprisingly for me this year, camp meeting is turning into a religious experience. It's teaching me how to be a servant.
I try to remind myself that the pushy lady who keeps coming in, determined to hand out literature, is incredibly loved by the same God who cherishes me. I remind myself that the obnoxious kids who run around screaming throughout the day are beautiful in the sight of God. I remember that each kind, wonderful, frustrating, mean, rude, sweet, friendly, stubborn, joyful person I meet is especially important to God . . . just as I am.
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