Half A Penny's Worth

2010-08-06T08:35:00.000-07:00

http://loandbetold.wordpress.com/

Seven

2010-02-24T10:37:00.000-08:00

It was far too early. For me, anyway. I'm hardly ever awake at that hour but I wanted that moment. I needed it. Where night meets day and dawn breaks with a delicate promise of sunlit, peach-colored hope.

I also didn't want to run into anyone.

I wanted space to mourn in silence. Peace to reminisce in solitude. I never was one for socializing, especially not at cemeteries.

I trudged through the dew-soaked grass with my orange hood up and a box of Kleenex under my arm. I sat down, impervious to the damp quickly seeping into my jeans. The moisture wetting my face was palpable though. I stared off into the distance as if to avoid making eye contact and having to offer the first word.

It was getting lighter.

Hi...

Starting is always the hardest part.

The tears were falling faster and soon with them a stream of words.

I miss you. I...I'm sorry I almost forgot. It took me a whole hour after I woke up yesterday to remember what day it was. For what it's worth, February 23rd is still the worst day of the year every year. That never changes. I couldn't remember if you liked sunflowers. They were the closest to orange I could find. Not that we ever talked about flowers. We were too busy fording rivers and warding off dysentery and adventuring our way to Oregon. Oh, and giving our families outrageous names worthy of the wild, wild west. And raiding our moms' secret cabinet stashes for after-school snacks. Some secret, huh? You were the best at wheedling change for vending machine sodas. Haha. Remember that time you told such a good joke even you yourself shot Sunkist out your nose?

I basked in the warmth of pleasant memories before they shortly faded into regrets.

Like the time I threw a 13-year-old tantrum because I didn't want to go your birthday party at the bowling alley because R would be there and she had an obnoxiously big mouth but my mom was making me go or else.

Some things never change. Parties just aren't my scene. And mother always knows.

Or sitting on cold hospital linoleum trying to imagine what you looked like with your entire chest split open and all your insides out for the world to see. Trying to picture which tube the nurse clamped wrong causing blood to suddenly spew everywhere...

The sun then peeked out, spreading a fuzzy blanket over my shoulders like a soft cashmere throw.

Thanks for the holding the rain this year. That would have been too much.

Stillness and nostalgia and presence lingered in the air. I sat for just a moment longer before easing my body into an upright position. I could hear a leaf blower start up not far off, the honk of a horn as the normal day took its place at the head of the line. The fragility of morning had broken and it was off to life as usual. Or something. I needed a shower.

It's been real, hermano. Hasta la próxima.

Poem About Morning - William Meredith

2010-01-21T08:36:00.000-08:00

Whether it's sunny or not, it's sure
To be enormously complex—
Trees or streets outdoors, indoors whoever you share,
And yourself, thirsty, hungry, washing,
An attitude towards sex.
No wonder half of you wants to stay
With your head dark and wishing
Rather than take it all on again:
Weren't you duped yesterday?
Things are not orderly here, no matter what they say.

But the clock goes off, if you have a dog
It wags, if you get up now you'll be less
Late. Life is some kind of loathsome hag
Who is forever threatening to turn beautiful.
Now she gives you a quick toothpaste kiss
And puts a glass of cold cranberry juice,
Like a big fake garnet, in your hand.
Cranberry juice! You're lucky, on the whole,
But there is a great deal about it you don't understand.

Not Taken Far Enough

2009-11-23T22:43:00.000-08:00

In the movie Taken, a retired Secret Service agent played by Liam Neeson encounters and handily overcomes inordinate obstacles to rescue his seventeen-year-old daughter kidnapped by Albanian human traffickers while on vacation in Paris. The lurid portrayal of the prostitution ring run by the Albanians and the vengeful torture exacted by Neeson's character are graphically illustrative. Quite frankly, I hated it.

But the regard of disgust and indignation in which I hold the film does not stem solely from its vividness. Rather, it is its raw reality that has me riled up. It was so real. If someone is sufficiently psychotic to invent these types of story lines and situations as mere entertainment, one would think there have to be many more individuals visionary enough to flesh out such schemes in real life. Isn't that usually the debate about violent video games anytime an adolescent killer shocks society with a school shooting? Semi-digression.

I know this situation began as reality first rather than originating as a blockbuster plot. Human trafficking is a very prescient issue forefronting today's worldwide injustices along with global poverty and inequality, etc. etc. So what makes me really angry is that the people who are so aware of these harsh realities consciously choose to invest millions of dollars and hours of their time to make fictional, dramatized accounts for the exclusive purpose of entertaining the American public.

America has come to prioritize and justify, and even glorify, paying already wealthy actors to take part in Hollywood corporations' money-bilking exploits instead of heeding the devastating knowledge and investing those plentiful resources and efforts to find solutions to combat the injustice.

Some argue that in many ways, advocacy is significantly more advantageous than one solitary ring bust or the rescue of a few fortunate victims however high-profile it results to be. I do not necesarily disagree with this claim (but a life saved is a life saved), but do denounce the majority of what Hollywood produces as advocacy. Even documentaries these days are dubious. Taken definitely does not qualify as an effort of information rather I see it is a facade for pure exploitation--Hollywood using this particular issue as a form of "shock and awe" entertainment. It was an intense action flick not meant to charm or romance or humor audiences but rather jolt them just enough to satiate their appetites but suspiciously not so much as to shake them into taking action, because let's face it, that just isn't comfortable and discomfort doesn't sell.

The movie didn't sell anyway (well, relatively. Its box office revenue was still $144,924,285--for a crappy movie!). It received terrible reviews and many viewers (of the few who saw the film) were dissatisfied. But of course, the dissatisfaction stemmed largely because the acting was deemed sub par and the ending anticlimactic, not because its very premises are morally wrong. I'd like to hope that most viewers' instincts cried dirty but chances are, most audiences left with a manifold lasting impression of the lacking resolution and the daughter's appallingly selfish behavior.

Women being brutally kidnapped, drugged, sold, and shamefully displayed for prostitution. Sure, it screams against moral code and common sense and hopefully is disturbing, but I'm betting after the requisite two hours, most went back to their comfortable lives, untouched by those harsh realities. True advocacy is educating people and providing them with information that most importantly, stirs them into productive action. This movie does nothing of the sort. Granted, that likely was not ever the intent of the producers.

But why not?

Mojito.

2009-10-16T00:08:00.000-07:00

The apartment was trashed. Per usual. Disease-infused blue cushions were strewn about the ironically named living room, seeing as it was hardly ever livable. The dining table with its hideous vinyl yellow-orange tablecloth was filthy with sticky beers stains and other remains from the previous night's questionable activities. Shirtless white trash American boys milled about carelessly trailing ashes from their hand-rolled cigs of hash. Mulleted French disc jockeys came and went. Shrieking German could be heard from a room off the hallway. I casually took a few swigs of vodka alternated with sips of Fanta Limon, and then we were off.

The grafittied alleys echoed as the group tromped toward el estacio de sants, empty sound ricocheting off cobblestone and sheet metal. The metro station was no less eery. Dark. Deserted. Dank. Desperate.

The next few hours followed like a drunken stupor as our ragtag group wandered from city limit to city limit, club to club. Rejected at one for R's proletariat Converses. Bounced out of the other for being all around declasse. Scorned of entry at the next due to the dazed Dutchman, unfortunately ours, loping wildly about in a wasted frenzy. Our haggard bundle of grumbling frustrations finally stumbled on a building pulsing with a hypnotizing techno salsa beat. Giant black pillars of bouncers allowed us entrance with payment.

Thick smoke tinged by black light clouded the air, if you could even call it that. Rounds and rounds of salt, tequila, and lime cycled until everything was a hazy, heady mess. Sickened by the grinding chaos that presumed dance and the hard evidence being recorded in excess (I hope those photos burn in hell), I fought my way to the edge of the room. The fruits of my retreat: a stained cushion much like the ones we called furniture back at the flat. Dubious but I took it. I watched the group pair off. Two by two they backed into a corner up against the wall, sauntered to the bar for another round, descended on the leggy blonde Swedes.

I sat alone and tried to picture the world, the life I left behind. Sunshine yellow air, sandy beaches, a surfer boy. Buried in a throbbing crowd of inebriation six thousand miles away, I clung to the fading image of crashing waves and perfect sunsets. Suffocated by resurfaced memories and abandoned by the distracted group, I stumbled outside, choking on the crisp night air.

Four thirty am. No cell phone. No money. No working metro. No bus station nearby. No clue where in the city I had ended up. No idea how to get home.

I stood on that dim street corner attempting to make the most use of the light slivers from a solitary street lamp ten feet away. A shiver slid up my spine as a breeze rustled my silky shirt and lonesome stragglers stumbled lustily by, thinking everything of my unfortunately coincidental happenstance. A car sped by honking and catcalling as I hesitated on the sidewalk. Finally, a taxi slowed enough to notice my frantic wave. Carrer Bonaventura Polles porfa. He had no idea where the hell that was. After five long minutes of searching on a wrinkled map with no sign of recognition, I sighed resignedly. Just take me to the train station. I was anxious for the night to end.

The familiar hub loomed outside, and I hastily handed the driver the few crumpled bills and probably too many coins I had pulled earlier from a rando ATM a few blocks of wandering from the club. Still two miles to go before home. I lurked past abandoned construction sites, brushed past the grafitti faces and tin shed doors once more. This time the only echoes were that of my footsteps. I wound my keys around my finger, my eyes cautiously darting around, ready to strike if attacked. Made a right, made a right, took a left. Fumbled with a stubborn lock, wrestled a metal gate. Exhaustion crept up a slippery flight of stairs, and then finally, relief at long last crumpled onto the mold-encased bed.

Ode to Oregon

2009-09-10T22:59:00.000-07:00

We were driving along the coast, heading back to campus after our first date (well, pseudo-date since neither of us would admit it was one until much later), and I specifically recall the conversation in which we shared our dreams for the future. I wanted to book it to Latin America as soon as possible and work with street children. B was looking to go into investment banking and live in Oregon. I remember thinking, We have a problem...

I could never live in Oregon. Ew.

Dear Oregon,

My deepest apologies. I rescind those hastily made judgments of long ago. This is me eating my words.

Time and life, they change things. This past weekend, pretty much all that ran through my head was, "I would love to live here." Perhaps it was the lush shades of deep green everywhere that surrounded me in a perpetual canopy of serene tranquility. Or the rocky caves that bring you right under a sparkling waterfall. Or the rain and moody climate that become almost romantic when you spend most of your waking days in a scorching inland city of brown and dust. Or maybe it is the fresh nigiri the size of my cell phone that melts divinely on my tongue just long enough to savor yet leave me craving more. Or the warmth of strangers who smile and send jolly greetings simply because I passed them on the street. Or the enigma of a chic city downtown that somehow manages to remain relaxed and unhurried. Or Powell's palace of a bookstore and its delightful 8oz. cappuccinos. Or a basketball team and free chalupas every time they win at the Rose Garden.

I confess your eighty-seven feet of snow this past winter and I are still working out our differences. Winding up an icy road while holding our breaths for fear that the slightest exhalation will send us veering into on-coming traffic is not quite how I picture an ideal death, but I suppose snowball fights, frozen skate parks, and snuggles under a warm blanket when the weather outside is frightful are otherwise worth it.

And I will concede, you make some really delicious doughnuts and to be honest, that's about all the convincing I need. Until we meet again.

Warmest Regards,
Lo

Quente.

2009-08-27T20:17:00.000-07:00

It is 8:06pm, and I'm wearing thin plaid pajama boxers and zero sleeves. My window is wide open, the fan is set on the highest, most violent setting, and yet here am I, generously glazed in a salty film, soaking through all the layers I have not. The photographs that normally march in ordered lines on my wall curl and peel haphazardly off their blighted blue background. The really unlucky ones lie in a defeated, mangled heap. My plastic green cup of water fresh from the fridge has instantly boiled to lukewarm. The box of chocolate treats I quietly snuck upstairs has morphed into one huge rectangular pool of liquid brown. My bangs and baby hairs cling frantically to my damp forehead. My cheek tickles as a rogue drop escapes, winding a rivulet. My red-framed glasses slide down the slippery bridge of my freckled nose every too many seconds. Pushing them back into position is an effort more futile than shoveling snow in a blizzard. Snow. Ah, lovely, lovely snow...

It's hot.

Chris Tomlin was on to something.

2009-08-20T21:51:00.000-07:00

Loneliness is a strange thing. On Friday nights and all day Saturdays, I despise it with a passion as I lie listlessly on my bed having exhausted every activity that could possibly make the legs of time reluctantly put one foot in front of the other. I become desperately repulsed with claustrophobia of too much space and too much of my own glaring solitary presence. But then when I find myself in the overwhelming, puzzling midst of a crowd, every nerve and instinct in my body retracts, consciously choosing, frantically clinging, to loneliness. In my extreme introversion, I revert to an isolation that is to a point flat out rude. I bluntly reject advances, notices, the very things I so recklessly crave when I am trapped at home and all the world out carousing and caressing their company.

What gives. It's been a rough and tumble of a month, and God has been teaching me a paradoxical number on self-sufficiency and dependency, humbling my infatuation with attention. Well, sort of. I simultaneously lust after it and am repulsed by it, tangled in a weary web of discontent. It is an empty feeling. But dramatics aside, I am conscious that this is God drawing me, the reluctant, prideful child, to Him because He knows what I really need. To rest in His presence when I am on my own, to bask in His unconditional love when I'm drowning in the hoi polloi, and above all, to realize that Jesus is who I need and He is more than enough.

More than enough.

When everything falls away, He is still standing there, waiting, ready to overwhelm me with all my heart cries out for. It is a stark reminder of the finite limits of humanity. Everyone will fail or fall short at some point, as I myself have surely proven to the world. But Jesus--He is perfection, He is the wholeness of extroversion, the satisfaction of introversion, and He is constant. His love is steady and it does not flicker in the face of disgust or desire or moral quagmire. He is truly everything my heart needs, and more than ever, I am learning that He is more than enough.

Coffee headaches, earthquakes, friendship breaks.

2009-08-08T17:00:00.000-07:00

It's peculiar how some things in life can be simultaneously all of a sudden and a long time coming.

I'm tired today. I want my face buried deep in a familiar shoulder, my hand secure in another, a graze across the temple, and quiet reassuring murmurs that somehow everything will be alright.

I write...

2009-08-04T22:37:00.000-07:00

entirely too much of my mind on paper. But I find there are very few activities in life that bring me closer to living mine abundantly than doing just that.

The Real Banana Republic

2009-07-19T23:45:00.000-07:00

On the morning of June 29, the president of Honduras, Manuel Zelaya, was abruptly rousted out of bed by soldiers who had rushed the presidential palace, and was put on a plane headed to Costa Rica. This effectively put into motion what the world immediately deemed a military coup and unanimously condemned as a threat to democracy. But while the world and institutions like the Organization of American States seem rather eager to jump to conclusions about the illegality of the deposition of Zelaya, let's back up and take a look at the tensions that led to such an ultimatum.

Previously, Zelaya had attempted to push a referendum seeking to amend the Constitution's limit of a single four-year presidential term. A revision would most pointedly allow Zelaya to extend his own presidential stay for an additional four more years. Given Honduras' past history of military coups and dictatorships, the Constitutional clause providing for the single term is understandably stringent. Furthermore, Zelaya has stirred signficant concern over the years for his dangerously chummy relationship with Venezuela's Hugo Chavez, who himself has campaigned to transform Venezuelan society along severely socialist lines and in 2007 publicly sought to change Venezuela's Constitution to allow for his lifetime presidential reelection. Chavez has been in power since 1998.

Additionally, Zelaya has done a rather sub-par job as the Honduran Chief of State, and quite frankly, sub-par is a diplomatic term for mind-bogglingly inadequate. His campaign platform included promises to crack down on gang violence, which has instead surged under his mismanagement. He has implemented measures like doubling the minimum wage; his means of demonstrating care for the poor, though in reality, such economic "aid" effectively increased unemployment to unaffordable rates in one of Latin America's poorest countries. His general lack of education, culture, and common sense have inspired consistent conduct considered embarrassing on international grounds and most critically, on the home front. I think it is safe to say that the majority of Hondurans who understand the implications of Zelaya's ignorance and lacking abilities oppose him and rightfully so.

Returning back to Zelaya's bid for revision, the Honduran Supreme Court rejected the referendum on the grounds of unconstitutionality, and Congress consequently followed suit shortly thereafter. Clearly unhappy with the results and further indignant at the army's refusal to help organize a vote, Zelaya fired armed forces commander General Romeo Vasquez. The Supreme Court quickly reinstated the General after determining the firing to be illegal. The tensions continued to escalate until the army physically removed Zelaya from office, an act which was actually ordered by the Supreme Court. After Congress formally removed Zelaya from the presidency, it named congressional leader Roberto Micheletti as the replacement for the deposed president.

The flurry of media attention has garnered Zelaya the irony of broad-scoping international support thanks to the premises of 'democracy,' including Honduras' revoked membership by the OAS and unanimous condemnation by the UN. Curiously, the United States has shown a very measured reaction, offering words against the 'coup' but stopping short of any particularly strong actions. The U.S. has notably not withdrawn its ambassador unlike the EU and countries belonging to ALBA.

On July 5, Zelaya attempted unsuccessfully to return to Honduras, all the while, stirring dramatic demonstrations throughout the capital and hypocritically quoting the unconstitutionality of his exile. His efforts were foiled as the army blocked off the runway in Tegucigalpa. The new government (really, the same government aside from the difference of Micheletti as president as the Supreme Court and Congress have remained unaltered; this is also where arguments against labeling the movement a coup may stem), in its isolation, has stood firm, vowing to arrest Zelaya for the illegality of his actions.

The situation to date is at a standstill with the opposing parties of the conflict respectively resolute in their convictions. Costa Rica president and Nobel Peace Prize winner Ricardo Arias has been named the mediator for peace talks. The first round of discussion failed as the deadlocked camps refused to budge. Micheletti holds to his promise that should Zelaya return, he will be arrested and punished for his actions. Zelaya, meanwhile, says he will accept nothing less than his complete reinstatement. In this second round of talks, signs of movement are emerging, slight as they may be. Arias is urging both sides to agree to a seven-point compromise that includes reinstating Zelaya as president and general amnesty for political offenses. Per New York Times, "although Mr. Aria's plan would restore Mr. Zelaya, it would also sharply curtail his powers and focus much of the country's political energy on an early presidential election [originally set for November]."

Pragmatically speaking, there is no easy solution to the complicated situation. Rarely does a simple coverall exist. As much I am loathe to think of Zelaya back in Honduras as acting president, his reinstatement seems the most realistic course of action at this point. With the unequivocal support of the international world behind Zelaya, Honduras is spiraling into continual isolation. Isolation can have deadly effects.

Regardless of the quibbles between the de facto government and Zelaya, and all other qualifying politics, ultimately, it is the poor who suffer. The Obama administration alone has cut $16.5 million in military aid since the coup and is threatening to cut $180 million more in development aid. In a country where 70% of the population lives in poverty, the people of Honduras need all the aid they can get. To qualify for aid, a degree of stability is required. The necessity of a stable, internationally-recognized and supported government is essential for the survival of this small country. It looks to be that Zelaya coming back, if anything very temporarily, is the best solution for the time being. From there, we look forward to see what the upcoming presidential elections produce and what the new president bodes for Honduras' future.

My hopes are that qualifying political prowess will be honed, priorities realigned, and greater awareness of the intricacies of government will be spread throughout Honduras. May the political elite be cognizant of those who suffer as a result of their actions and may the general public be equally educated on the palpable difficulties of addressing multi-faceted conflict complications. Politics and real life leave no welcome place for naivete. The current situation wreaking havoc in Honduras is just another stark reminder of such reality.

What's the big [i]deal?

2009-04-16T22:55:00.000-07:00

Journaling is a big deal.

I admit, I stooped and settled for an imitation Moleskine for my last journal, but the differences were subtle enough to overlook (temporarily anyway, because I immediately reverted back to the real thing the minute I filled up the faux wannabe). I have a specific pack of pens that roll smoothly across the lines and those are the only instruments that can be used for journaling (and are not to be used for any other purpose). My best handwriting is indubitable, and I afford myself very little forgiveness for typos and grammatical no no's, so scratch out's are avoided as much as possible (the ugliness mars the page, duh). When I write, I must be seated comfortably, isolated from louder-than-a-coffeeshop-hum distractions, and obviously I have to feel just so--ready to battle all and any thoughts jumbling about in my head with the sword of articulation.

I find my obsessive compulsive journaling approaches to be unfortunately analogous to my prayer life. Too many times, I have this [subconscious] misconception that I have to be in a state free of sin and generous in Christian rhetoric, be entrenched in some sort of holy environment, and in the right mood. So I wait for prayer until that moment finds me.

And wait and wait and wa...of course that never happens! The fulfillment of those parameters is rare at best and entirely imaginary at normal. When do or will I ever have it all together? Considering I passed out and had to be taken to the ER in an ambulance because I forgot to breathe, I am going to go with NEVER.

God has been refreshing me with freedom in the throne of grace as of late. I am relearning that prayer is not always this dignified benediction that stringently follows the ACTS-determined order and my presence is not expected in the form of perfection. Rather, prayer is a rambling conversation to the heavens when business is slow at the coffee cart, a sentence of resignation to God the second I feel bitterness and paranoia seeping into my bloodstream, the surrender of heartbreak weighing on my shoulders over a particularly emotional case at the law firm, a song of praise for His wisdom, a giddy outburst of thanks for a delicious meal, a humbled sigh over a reassuring kiss on the temple.

I don't want to blaspheme against the holiness of going before God. It is a big deal. A bigger deal than Moleskines or juicy pens or little ol' me will ever be. But in the biggest deal in history, Jesus came so that prayer could be a big deal...but not a big deal.

It is a slow process of transformation for my stubborn inclinations, but I think that if I can overcome even my tendencies to instinctively order crayons and markers in ROY G BIV color order and eat all my chips smallest to biggest and never allow my pillows to be even slightly uncased, I can catch on to prayer as just dialogue, simple and true, with an ever graceful God.

On a breakfast burrito-induced fiasco

2009-04-02T19:59:00.000-07:00

I'm a graduating senior in my spring quarter, and I got kicked out of class for the first time in my entire life today.

I was sitting quietly at my desk, taking meticulous notes, when 15 minutes into class, I got one of my infamous stomachaches. Never a good sign. I tried to ignore it but before I could scribble another word, it morphed into one of those explosive threats. I realized I had far too long a day ahead of me to risk anything, therefore I HAD get to the nearest bathroom NOW. I got up, attempting to be as discreet as possible, only to have my professor call me out.

"And where do you think you're going?"

"Um, I'm sorry, Professor, but I really need to use the restroom."

"Well, I don't appreciate interruptions. You can take your bag with you and expect not to return to my class today. For future reference, I expect you to use the restroom on your own time."

[Mind you, this is the same professor who made me sit front and center on the first day of the quarter because I arrived at exactly 9:30AM and he had already started. Sigh.]

I grabbed my bag and left with the entire class staring at me. At that point, all I could focus on was making it to the bathroom. I dashed in with the nastiest stomachache ever only to discover too late that my stall had no toilet paper.

At least there were toilet seat covers.

The February Curse

2009-02-25T15:52:00.000-08:00

I think for Lent, I'd like to give up crying. And also resentment, bitterness, paranoia, and cynicism. If only that were like fasting meat or chocolate; difficult but not entirely unreasonable. Really though, I wouldn't mind seeing the watery eyes and sobfests go, because chances are they were brought on by the stirring of Lo the Angry Monster of the Deep to life. (My sincerest apologies to all who have fallen victim to the wrath of this incorrigible creature.)

Unfortunately, there seems to be a mutual agreement of hatred between February and me. Every year when this time rolls around, everything settled suddenly jumps up and scrambles around like a desperate game of musical chairs, except rarely is there anything pleasantly entertaining or melodic about this chaos.

I generally don't support declarations of strong emotions because that usually turns blogs into self-deprecating pity parties of writers fishing for sympathy and attention. I do not wish to fall into the aforementioned category, but...I am having a rather turbulent month. There I said it. I wish I could attribute things to PMS, meaning all will come to pass in due time (read: give it about a week), but that period (no pun intended) has come and gone and I'm still feeling as psychotic as ever.

Thanks to a situation that continues to eat at the core of my being, I am a bomb set off by every little thing--emails, sleepovers, platonic arm caresses, the entire race of girls. Then I get caught up hating myself for the ugliness it creates inside. The weakness of the flesh overtakes now and again. Visions of friends' deaths and suicides of long ago haunt me. My aunt is having brain surgery for a recurrent tumor in a week. And in the day-to-day, I can hardly get a moment's rest between four classes, two jobs, and a looming, imminent graduation.

February is the James month. Not simply because this is when memories of both James', my friend who died of congenital heart failure and the acquaintance from freshman Bible Study who committed suicide, plague me like a swarm of pesky gnats as the sixth anniversary of the former passes. But also because James 1:2-4 necessarily becomes my go-to. "Consider it pure joy, my brothers, when you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith develops perseverance. Perseverance must finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything."

God, I've learned that I can't learn grace and love on my own. I've tried and am failing miserably. I need You to break the chains of a curse that this year means stubbornness of heart, holding onto resentment, and defaulting to paranoia.

I guess this is where curse becomes blessing, when it pulls me back to the Cross.

And it kicks so hard, it breaks your bones.
Cuts so deep, it hits your soul.
Tears your skin and makes your blood flow.
It's better that you know that love is hard.

[Things to work on: titling]

2009-02-20T20:11:00.000-08:00

We had a house dinner last night, and much of the conversation centered around the fast approaching departure of my beloved third roommate J. Listening to her detail the murky uncertainty most newly minted graduates face, the arduous process of job hunting in an economically unfacilitating year, and the implications of moving back home, I was terrorized by the realization that that will be me in just few months.

Oh dear.

These days when I do chance upon rare moments of free brain space, my thoughts are generally occupied with endeavors to figure out the future. 'What in the world am I going to do with my life?' begs the million dollar question. I know this much: I don't know much.

I've managed to narrow down my list of interests I realistically envision myself pursuing, as well as my list of projected cities I think would prove stimulating and most importantly, survivable. It has essentially come down to an epic battle between law school vs. journalism school. Pros and cons lists galore ensue. The margins of my notebooks, journal, and scattered 3x5 cards are littered with scribbles of random revelations, advantages and disadvantages, and probabilities of plausibility.

I won't lie. I like the idea of law school. I like the practicality of law school. I like the prestige of law school. But I don't know if I can really hack law school. Whenever I entertain the thought of three years of academic rigor of nightmarish proportions, I wonder if I possess the intellectual and disciplinary capabilities required of the hell that law school purports. I don't think I'm smart enough and I am far too skilled at procrastinating, so aspirations of law school could just be mistaken projections of what I wish I was good at. Not to mention, the inevitable incurring of outrageous loan debt is intimidating enough in its own right.

So then there's journalism. My brief stint as an editor and columnist with the Jaguar Times in high school was fun enough, and the blog I kept about my year abroad raked in some decent reviews. Besides, I journal like a fiend and most of the time, I actually think in blog entries. (Don't judge me.) But I sputter when I'm forced to write against my will and especially things about which I don't care the slightest. Nonetheless, I think I could enjoy and sniff out a niche somewhere in the world of print media.

The problem is, I am essentially starting at ground zero with both law and journalism-related ventures. Looking back at the last four years, my curriculum, internships, and directed passions garner me little experience and credibility with regards to either of my considerations. I am desperately trying not to dwell on wishing I could do college all over again, this time with the single-minded notion of what one thing I was going to pursue and then doggedly centering everything around that vision.

My coping mechanisms are limited to making extravagant and entirely unrealistic globe trekking plans on a regular basis and hinging my hopes on a miracle that I will end up like Dancing Matt. Or vegging on the couch, losing myself in episodes of Scrubs, pretending as if I am already entrenched in mid-life. Or simply not coping and just straight up FREAKING OUT, which really, is just as terrible a solution as consuming an entire 99c box of peppermint Joe Joe's in one sitting. (Or so I think. I have not resorted to this...yet.)

J seemed pretty content last night. Maybe inside she's scared to death too, but I love that she held her head up maturely. She exuded dignity rather than grudging resignation. Her thoughts and emotions were raw and real, but watching her take the pill of incertitude with a heaping does of faith and a glass half full of optimism convicted volumes to me. I guess I could try that too.

But I'm keeping that box of Joe Joe's handy. Just in case.

"Who ARE you?!"

2009-02-12T16:04:00.000-08:00

she asked me. "You are nothing like the L I met two years ago."

I feel like a train wreck these days. I would just like to sleep for a very long time and wake up to find life simple again.

"Do you have a pencil I can borrow?"

2009-01-20T21:42:00.001-08:00

asked the guy sitting behind me in my linguistics class today. Being the ever obliging kindhearted soul that I am, I promptly reached into my bag, grabbed a pen, and...handed him a tampon.

You Make It Real For Me

2009-01-17T10:38:00.000-08:00

I laughed and thought she was nuts when we were listening to a boyband pop hit from the 90s and J said, "This used to be my favorite song. I would sing it to Jesus all the time." Now I just find James Morrison frighteningly spot on when I do the same.

There's so much craziness surrounding me
There's so much going on, it gets hard to breathe
When all my faith has gone, You bring it back to me
You make it real for me

When I'm not sure of my priorities
When I've lost sight of where I'm meant to be
Like holy water washing over me
You make it real for me

And I'm running to You
For You are the only one who's seen me
That's why I've been missing You lately
Cause You make it real for me

When my head is strong and my heart is weak
I'm full of arrogance and uncertainty
When I can't find the words, You teach me heart to speak
You make it real for me

When everybody's talking in words I don't understand
You've got to be the only one who knows just who I am
You're shining in the distance, I hope I can make it through
Cause the only place that I want to be is right back home with You

I guess there's so much more I have to learn
But if You're here with me, I know which way to turn
You always give me somewhere, somewhere I can run
You make it real for me

30 pages of papers to write? Bring on the blogs, baby.

2008-12-10T13:05:00.000-08:00

I'm making such great headway on my paper here on the sixth floor of Geisel. I staked out my corner of sequestration, fittingly picked out some more books on breakout violence, suppressed nearly uncontrollable giggles for about twenty minutes over G's email delineating the perils of running out of toilet paper, opened the blank Word document that will become my 15-page masterpiece on the armed conflict in Colombia, and then promptly took a one hour nap. I was woken up, drooling and still drowsy, by the screamo blaring from the headphones of some dude next to me and since then have gone through my entire blogroll of To Read's...twice. Upon such completion, I figured it only appropriate that I now write a dribble of my own.

These days, I feel like I have been missing Spain quite a bit. Although to be honest, I don't know if it's so much that I miss Spain or that I just want to be somewhere else (or if it's that I suck at school and thus am only longing for Europe's faux academia).

Some evenings, visions of the street night lights in Rome, Venice, and Paris just will not leave me. Some mornings, the sunrise in Malta is the only way to begin the day. Some days, it's Portugal that I desperately miss. Other weekends, it's Switzerland. Then there are weeks when I simply cannot stop lusting after the unknown and dreaming of all the countries and cities and sites I have never been. Brazil, Cuba, Haiti, India, Turkey, Egypt, Greece...and you know it's bad when even Asia starts creeping in too. I suppose it doesn't help either that I read the New York Times Travel section more often than I check my email (note to reader: when I start checking more than Facebook, that is when you stage an intervention).

Oh, the drab life of being stricken with severe wanderlust and stuck in San Diego (I know, I know, I live a life of such utter hardship). My primary symptom of itching to move on every five months into any given geographical venture has me ants-in-my-pants ready for the next adventure.

But of course, I've come to realize that the restlessness is tempered by just wanting to travel the world with the right people. Lone rangering in the Lands of Fantastic doesn't quite allow the full development of the anticipated amazing. I remember going places last year and wishing for so and so and he and she to be there to experience and take in that particular everything with me.

So I suppose after all that what San Diego lacks in novelty, it makes up in company. While I'm here facing the 'mundane;' being forced to be a good student (and failing...), being forced to be serious about growing up, and being forced to remain somewhat stationary for the present, I revel in the joy and close proximity of relationships more blessed than any could ever hope for.

In the midst of reminiscing and pining away to be anywhere but here, I ultimately came to conclude that regardless of my current geographic location and its debatable merits of excitement, I really am thankful for those here in sunny Southern California.

...but really, traveling, anyone?

Me llamo Lorenita Leticia.

2008-11-28T16:14:00.000-08:00

I have not stopped eating since I got home Wednesday night. And I don't mean crappy junk food snacking. I have been up to some serious gourmet gastronomic consumption. Such are the glorious perks of coming from a family in the food business. (And yet how did I still end up a cooking dud? Eh, I digress.)

So far, I have been devouring my mom's hand-fried carnitas tacos with tomatillo sauce, platano frito con crema, pupusas with the requisite pickled vegetables, fried yuca with jalapeno sauce made from scratch, tortilla soup with the freshest fixings, pan con frijol, grilled carne asada tri-tip, chismol, pina y mango, espresso with condensed milk...oh yeah, and I paused for one small Thanksgiving luncheon of typical white American food (plus white rice, of which I naturally did not partake). You can imagine the lackluster response put forth by my tastebuds to the latter meal.

Why in the world would God pretend to make me Asian? And then stick me in the United States? Meh.

Really now, I'm too dark and chub to be true Chinese, mathematics have always eluded me to the most embarrassing degree, I'm clearly not going to be a doctor or engineer, and my Chinese is crap compared to my Spanish (okay, okay, my Chinese is crap, bar none). I have never set foot in Asia, I don't glow when I drink, I have eyelid creases and a nose bridge, and I'm even simultaneously writing a paper on guerrilla groups in Colombia and Peru right now (30 pages of papers due? Bring on the blogs, baby!). My family also consists of the strangest mix of culture ever.

Wahhhh. Latin America, OPEN SESAME.
Porfa. Porque você é onde quero estar...

Today I Miss Spain.

2008-11-26T22:17:00.000-08:00

This morning the sky was clear blue despite the forceful rainstorm that flurried La Jolla last night. The air was crisp, my favorite purple scarf was snuggled around my neck, and I was fresh off a full night of sleep. All was well with the world. Thanksgiving break tantalized me as I strode across the deserted campus with two classes still on the day's docket (apparently, everyone else had already headstarted their vacation ::shakes fist::). Ahh, long weekends. I miss those. In Spain we had long weekends, oh, about every other day.

Woah. Spain.

As James Morrison came crooning on my iPod, the replay of familiar melodies that were on continuous play all last year swung open the floodgates of Barcelona memories. A strange pang stuck my stomach with a prod of unfamiliar nostalgia. I've been reveling in the Land of Heaven for about four months now without hint of Spanish longing. Spain was a crazy, very full year. A good chapter in life that I mostly look fondly on, but one that has closed and given way to whatever I'm currently entrenched in now (which, don't get me wrong, is proving equally full and memorable). But right now, I'm taking a break from the present. While I realize S is about the only person for whom the following will tener sentido, here is my amble down memory lane...

Being here, a million miles from Spanish life removed, I find that all the grievances that plagued us become significantly understated and even laughable.

Living in a dim, lightless room for six whole months. The horror that was Miggity Migs and Chinca. The physically painful awkwardness of sitting near Patty at any given time. Long lonely friendless days at la Autonoma. Laia's bratty but expert manipulative skills. Aggressive creepers galore and the damn phrase "Hola, guapa." My first night at Catwalk. Starving to the point of eating crusty baguettes off a dirty kitchen floor. A migraine and the epitome of a bad "date." Getting kicked off at the end every bus line. Stewing about horse stampedes and missed flights. Rotting shower curtains, broken washing machines, and faulty front door handles. Condis employees and terrible customer service in general. My laptop being out of commission for a torturous eternity. Malodorous armpits touching my face on too many sweltering summer metro rides. Siesta business hours. Cooking with the brownish-yellow spatula and hacking at canned goods with a potholder-wrapped cleaver. Dow Jones, Club Mojito, and the week of trashy white American boys. The eery Ramblas "artists." Catalan pride. Accordion Sundays and repetitively redundant repetoires. Sitting at my desk missing B and aching to be home on a regular basis. Jamon.

And then the memories that were already succulent retrospective fodder become even more sweet.

Early Saturday mornings of fresh croissants and lounging on the blue couch. Walking down Carrer de Sants by myself late late at night. Changing from the metro to the train at Diagonal to get to school. Staking out in the hallways of la Autonoma to secretly smile at letters and care packages in between classes. Chocolate banana milkshakes at Clandestina, passionfruit tea at Bliss, cappuccinos at White Cafe. Huddling under an umbrella to watch the lightshow at Monjuic in the pouring rain. Traversing Born and spontaneously wandering into the caipirinha and popcorn bar. Crowded sweaty smokiness of Harlem, salsa, and a live Cuban band. Walking briskly through the chum park to get to work every morning. Assailing Jon and Nico's receipt log with the broomball picture. Kitchen nook chuckles. Admiring every variation of alstroemerias on Las Ramblas. 1 euro fresh fruit smoothies from the Boqueria after school on humid days. Dangling my legs over the jetty at the end of Barceloneta. Downing overpriced Fanta de Naranja at the chiringuito in Sitges. Getting candy chucked at us by a passing parade on Kelby's birthday. The drunken madness that was New Year's. Ceaseless stupid laughing and visions of trucks on the beach during La Merce. Snooping around the Frenchies' room and bolting the hell out when Jort came home. Suppressing giggle fits while Skyping Si during strictly solemn moments. Chupito bar with Ellie and speaking Chinese all the way home. Reflecting at Port Vell. The singing Brazilians at Patagonia gelato. The glee of discovering Jamboree for the first time. Our BFF's at the neighborhood falafel joint. The joy of Parc Ciutadella in the springtime. The white rag that stuck out of David's couch one night at celula. Journaling the shit out of Barce every. single. day.

Mm, that was fun. Oh, life...I could go on forever, pero suficiente por mientras. Adeu.

2008-10-12T23:50:00.000-07:00

Text messaging is quickly making its way to #1 on my Things I Freaking Hate list.

Muerto completo de mi alma

2008-10-07T21:45:00.000-07:00

Okay. So I'm being way dramatic. Channeling the more simplistic emotions of M, I am so sad.

No but seriously.

Mi piercing de ceja, despite the lacking longevity of its run as my one overt token to badass-dom (or so I liked to think), has officially become obsolete. Infection-induced efforts to take the ring out for cleaning led to a disturbing explosion in my eyebrow and immediate closure of the piercing in a matter of minutes very much to my dismay.

Call me superficial, but I feel like half of me just died. Funny how I absolutely loathe solely being associated as B's girlfriend, but wrap my identity up in a minute metal curve and I couldn't be happier. In between gouging out the remainder of my ocular region while reading the worst book in the world (Just and Unjust Wars by Walzer; don't do it, people, you will surely die!), I've been soberly contemplating the meaning of life and other such deep profundities in the wake of my eyebrow piercing's tragic demise.

Who am I [left to be]?! What am I doing with my life?! How will I ever move on?! Where do I go from here?!

Well. At least I still have my good looks and biting wit, right? Just kidding.

Now is about the time when a weekend jetset to Portugal would be nice. Maybe then all the pondering would bring to fruition... some quaint word fruit baskets nicely wrapped in gauzy rhetorical eloquence. I have the urgings to draw out myriad lines of thought these days, but alas, natural written cohesiveness eludes me. The constipation may actually kill me before does the heartache of my recent loss.

Spelling it out, inspiration (or lack thereof) is my excuse for dearthly updating as of late. My freshly induced season of mourning may put things off even further. But stay tuned because clearly, my life is so scintillating and the events so monumental, you can't help but rivet yourself to the seat and bite your nails in anxious anticipation of my next installment. I know.

Good [read: bad] day to you.

Ugggghhhhhhhhhh cont.

2008-09-15T23:42:00.000-07:00

If I could assail the proverbial source with an entire postman's truck (and more) of hate mail right now, I'd so be spending the rest of the night writing passionate, angry letters, irrespective of the fact that I have to wake up early for an interview tomorrow. The problem is I just don't know who I'd send it to. Hugo Chavez for ruining lives? Manuel Zelaya for being an incapable idiot? Hurricane Mitch for undoing 50 years of progress way back in 1998 and causing a continued landslide of regression? The desperate for whom dirty money is just arguably money? Injustice for...existing?

I admit part of me is just really bitter because my family is beginning to cut painstaking ties out of sheer necessity. Logistical preparations for the next two years have begun to make family history nothing more than history and cherished memories of good times past. Because of the imminent end of an era, I was determined to max out. Alas, messy politics intervene and override again to my extreme dismay. No December trip it is. Boohoo. It's not even summer 2010 and much of me is dying already.

But another, hopefully not so whiny, part of me is upset because, well, how does one go about fixing shit like this? Where do you even begin to hope for change much less think about how to take action? As of August, Honduras has joined the ranks of countries like Venezuela, Bolivia, Dominica, Nicaragua, and Cuba (!!! and those are not positive exclamation marks) as an officially recognized member of ALBA (Bolivarian Alternative for the Americas), an alliance of leftist Latin American leaders with socialist tendencies. Honduran President Manuel Zelaya says a lack of international support to tackle chronic poverty forced him to seek such aid.

It's unfair that some countries are stuck in a rut of perpetual poverty, economic woes, political quagmire, and severe inequality among many other tragic problems that all combine to create a cyclical, inescapable mess of a situation. (Especially one in which it is generally the poor who suffer most direly.) How does someone like me with heartfelt ties and little influential power, or really anyone for that matter, change a seemingly hopeless downward spiral of a nation that always had it coming?

Sending remittances comfortably from America to areas or organizations it appears to be needed, working with street children one at a time, or even reforming entire orphanages despite the best intentions will not change the plight and direction of the country. Not to be a Pessimistic Patty, but sometimes simply statically standing by and watching numbly seems unfortunately not just the only option but the most effective (and this is applicable to too many other situations all over the world).

Argghhhh.

Ugggghhhhhhhhhh.

2008-09-14T09:30:00.000-07:00

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HrpEeblEx0A

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xzAKdVu-KyI

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6edugoBGMss

Freaking politics. Mourning Honduras...sad face.

On being kind of old...

2008-09-08T13:22:00.000-07:00

"So there I was my senior year in college, still feeling like I had no clue what I'd be doing after I graduated. [...] And the more I read the Scriptures, the more uncertain I became about my plans for the future, or even of the wisdom of making plans in the first place, since God seems to be in the business of messing them up. It didn't help that I was majoring in sociology, the study of human behavior. (How much more vague can you get, and what do you do with that degree?) And folks were asking me what I was going to do when I graduated from college. People always want to define you by what you do. I started saying, 'I'm not too concerned with what I am going to do. I am more interested in who I am becoming. I want to be a lover of God and people.'"

Shane Claiborne wrote this is in his book The Irresistible Revolution: Living as an Ordinary Radical, but I feel like I could have written just that in my journal over the last months.

Oh wait. I have.

As the ominous senior year approaches, the questions inquiring what I'm going to do with my life thereafter have been raining down like sucker punches in a schoolyard scuffle. I've taken to barely holding my ground by ambiguously throwing out maybe working in DC mutter mutter maybe grad school but ehh mutter mutter maybe teaching English somewhere for a bit mutter mutter. Mutter mutter. Mutter mutter. All this to say, heck, I have no effing idea. As disappointing and impractical as that may be to my parents (and a lot of other folks and sometimes even me), I really just don't know.

There are certainly some things I am interested in, some things I feel God has given me a heart for, and some things I definitely don't ever wish to pursue, but pulling them altogether into a life-lasting "occupation" of sorts is one thing that still eludes me. I have attempted many a time to somewhat organize my thoughts in written manner with the hopes that when I read back through them, a cohesive answer will magically appear on the page. And every single time, the only thing of which I am more and more sure is the same sentiment Claiborne expresses in the above paragraph. Hum. Así que, vamos a ver, ¿eh?

On another note, it's uncanny in how many ways I identify with Claiborne as I read through his book. In fact, many times what he writes, I have written the same thought processes, questions, insecurities, indignations, etc. in my own journal. Weird.

I'm sure there will be more entries to come as we see how the book finishes out. I hope it gets messy...

Silly. Sillee. Seelly. Ceilie. C-li.

2008-08-31T16:24:00.000-07:00

I am usually a strong anti-chain letter note thing proponent. That is, unless it's the week a 10-page paper on Brazilian colonial slavery is due. Thanks, B...

Directions: Once you’ve been tagged, you have to write a note with 16 random things, facts, habits, or goals about you.

1-I lost my first tooth sitting in Troy Aiken's cubby in the locker room of the Dallas Cowboys.

2-In kindergarten, I wanted to be a paleontologist because I was obsessed with dinosaurs. In first grade, my life calling changed to baker. For a long while after, I entertained the thought of art school, then briefly (very, very briefly) considered majoring in biology and pursuing medicine, y ahora...quien sabe but that I don't want to live comfortably. Hopefully Latin America, street children, and grassroots will also be somewhere in the mix.

3-I am sure that someday I WILL visit every country in Latin America though, especially/including Cuba.

4-My top five favorite movies (I believe these say a lot about me): 1) Motorcycle Diaries. 2) Solo Dios Sabe. 3) City of God. 4) The Science of Sleep. 5) Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.

5-Thanks to Spain, I now get headaches when I don't drink coffee. C'est terrible.

6-On that note, the perfect afternoon: cafe con leche, a plush sofa, and some Hemingway or Fitzgerald.

7-Hammock lounging in summertime sunshine is a close second.

8-I strongly dislike drying dishes, can't stand bad table etiquette, and hate when people boss me around the kitchen while I'm cooking.

9-Sophomore year of high school, I made it my new life mission to learn how to play drums. Then drums became cool and trendy and everyone else at church jumped on the bandwagon shortly thereafter. That was the end of that goal and so began the epoch of the acoustic guitar.

10-I suck at talking. I cannot for the life of me figure it out, but verbal articulation evades me to the most frustrating degree. But writing...let's just say, I've amassed 13 journals in my lifetime and am currently working on my fourteenth. It's a little embarrassing...

11-I got my ears pierced when I was about five months old. If you look closely, you'll see the holes are uneven because I, being the feisty soul that I have always been, did an antsy jig or something and moved at the last minute.

12-Obsessive teeth brushing is a compulsive [dis]order of mine. And Burt's Bees chapsticking.

13-I'm even more competitive than B. I am entirely not above leaping over kitchen countertops and things of other such ruthless nature for the sake of victory. After all, what matters in the end is winning...right?

14-My favorite character in Dirty Dancing: Havana Nights is actually not Javi (Diego Luna), but the Cuban singer in La Rosa Negra. With her dark buttermilk skin, the headband that perfectly holds back her hair (I wish I could work headbands like that), sweet dance moves, and job singing in a freaking Cuban club is who I'd not-so-secretly like to be in another life. Dang being Asian.

15-One summer, I memorized the entire book of James for 50 bucks to go towards a Mexico missions trip. Sadly, I can only parrot out a few verses here and there now...

16-Ever since I got all four wisdom teeth pulled one horrible March and was bedridden, wavering in and out of consciousness from searing pain, and vomiting blood for the entirety of the week, I have come to take spring breaks very seriously. Let us play!

...I also consider "playing" to be something that is, really, irrespective of vacations, holidays, and freetime, so hang out any time, all the time we shall. :) Yarrr. Llamame.

Home sweet sweet effing HOME.

2008-07-28T20:44:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow is the two week mark since I re-touched ground in the Land of Heaven. Essentially, I have this to say:

I have the best life. And the best friends. Ever.

July 15th turned out to be infinitely more grand than I spent months imagining it would be. The second the plane wheels thudded on the LAX runway, there was no sign of a disappearing act for the nutty grin that had plastered itself on my face. I'm sure the airport maintenance lady thought I was completely off my rocker when I excitedly asked her where the nearest bathroom was and practically sprint-skipped in the direction she pointed. The next thing I knew, familiar chums were popping out from under towels in the back seats of Mrs. Olson's beast of a car chattering nonstop nonsense and before I could even catch my breath, old times slipped in as if I had never left.

I'm figuring out slowly that Spain wasn't just a figment of my oft unruly mental capacities after all, but I could swear I've been in America for at least months now so much has happened. Glorious Trifecta reunions. Rampageous elephants and magical 21's. BBQs with domestically advanced best friends I never would have guessed I'd have. Precious hours with the one person I love most in this world and soaking in the sheer joy that is seeing Grams. Delightfully delicious dinner parties and more food than my poor stomach knows what to do with. And finally, temporary release from twelve months of being strapped into an emotional roller coaster more dippy and loopy than any expert Magic Mountain engineer could dream up.

Oh, but it's so good to be back.

And so it is. Life goes easy on me…mmm, well, most of the time.

2008-07-03T11:02:00.000-07:00

I daresay some of my most emo moments here in Spain have been in the El Prat Aeropuerto. For all the depressing goodbyes I have had to bid there as well as all the times I have returned from trips knowing no one in that anxious crowd standing outside the terminal was waiting for me (haha). But my time is coming soon enough when I will at long last be able to say adios and good riddance to the overkilled airport.

July 15^th is actually approaching rather quickly, but ironically enough, I have been feeling increasingly torn regarding my imminent return. There are moments when I can hardly stand the seeming centuries that remain. The thought of finally physically being in the same place as where my heart is brings me to states of bursting impatience. The impending joys of particular reunions, of familiar foods, of the comfort of merely being home are nearly unfathomable but oh-so-enticing.

And then there is the requisite flipside. Occasionally, I find myself trapped in a pocket of panic for as much excitement is promised in the coming days, much uncertainty looms closely behind. While S is leaving many of her secrets here in Barcelona, I am returning home to face mine. No more running away to the other side of the world or hiding behind the “invisible” status façade.

I still cannot rightly outline the expectations I held coming into this year, but after a full-blown twelve months, I will say it was nothing like I expected at all. There were so many hits and misses, moments of desperation and triumph alike, and thanks to alllll the shit that went down, quite a bit of morphing. Who am I these days, you ask? Who can say? Certainly not the girl who left the Land of Heaven one year ago. Ask me to detail in what ways exactly I've been transformed and whether it has been positive change, and try as I might, I will have no words for you. But I do know though that while one stage ostensibly comes to a close, no matter the changes undergone, the journey continues…

When $100 Feeds 100 Mouths

2008-06-07T11:15:00.000-07:00

So Barack Obama won the nomination and Hillary Clinton officially acknowledged her defeat.

The most prominent thought in my mind is this: money.

Was that really our country's best way to spend those hundreds of millions of dollars? A bid for a position of power (one that is no doubt globally potent in its own right). But when they push for elimination of poverty, etc., what about all the money spent to get to the inevitable point where only one continues on. I admit I have no solution for the discrepancy this poses, if there even is a realistically plausible one, but...shit. How many more people could have lived?

Where Did My Baby Go?

2008-06-06T14:18:00.000-07:00

Lost passion has come up in quite a few conversations as of late. It's just that I have been feeling so apathetic to everything these days. Things that used to get me so excited about life have hardly served to conjure any emotion or feeling. What issues I coddled as my own passionate points of pursuit have evasively eluded me.

It seems that the more educated (hah, take that with a grain of salt) I become and the more I learn, the more hopeless the global situation seems to get and the more insignificant my role as a potential world changer becomes. I'm taking or have taken quite a few honestly fascinating classes on Latin America this year...am I just becoming desensitized? Reading the news has become a chore I avoid, and merely thinking about street children a nagging obligation. An inconvenient one for which I feel have no time at that.

A myriad more of questions swirl around as I navigate this seeming crux. Is God using this to lead me in another direction, or am I just being stubborn and not putting in the effort? What was I doing before that I am doing differently now? Have I become stoic and even more cold hearted and just plain unemotional?

Whereas before I thought I was so sure about the things I wanted to pursue, so much presently dangles in the air strung by uncertainty. I suppose I do still have time, but now that the point at which I'm expected to figure out what I want to do with my life is fast approaching, I am more unsure than ever and it's starting to freak me out. Where oh where has my passion gone?

As I perused through some old journals, I came across a snippet of a conversation B and I had last summer before he left for Malawi. Here is something he said that really resonated with me and is just so appropriate on all levels these days:

"It's analogous to relationships since everything is relational, us and God, us and our passions. But it's easiest to see in romantic relationships. It's all good within the first few months. Then people either take things too fast and make mistakes/get burnt out...or get bored and bail...or do the hard thing and work it through. Same thing with passions in life and our relationship with God; same three possibilities. It always seems more rewarding to start something new. But it's far more outwardly beneficial to work through the troubles and establish a relationship with your passions that is concrete and can be a foundation to build something upon. Heck, you can even see the problem in baseball. Rookie pitchers and hitters are great until scouts figure out the initial weaknesses. Then it's up to the player to overcome the issues, or get sent back to the minors."

When R&K came to visit, we talked about things we hope for in life, things we want to do, burdens God has "blessed" us with. It was exciting to see God place such different things on our hearts yet have them fit so intricately together in the grand scheme of things like global change. Old passions re-stirred in my heart like buried embers, unseen but still warm after all, and for the first time in a long time, I got excited again about life and social justice and active obedience and pushing for movement in the KOG. I glanced through old, bookmarked websites of street children ministries all over the world, read through some past xanga entries (1 / 2 / 3), watched some video documentaries, and it was still work, but I felt my heart melting a little bit... Oh to feel again.

B later ended the conversation with one of my favorite lines ever:

Personally, I hope I have my heart broken to pieces.

I can only pray for the same.

When The Shoe Fits

2008-05-28T23:44:00.000-07:00

So R&K, they came and left. And, well, it was great.

I love how natural our friendship is. Honestly, I rarely see them and we hardly ever talk. Emails are sporadic and even when my computer was functioning, Skype conversations were at best occasional. Even when I finally found them at the airport, it was this nonchalant, "Oh hey. Cool. You're here," and then we picked up from where we never left off.

It was so refreshing to finally be around people who get me. I guess I had forgotten what that felt like. B asked me, "How do you feel life differs when people get you?" Well, I suppose when you process life aloud to them, if they didn't already somehow know it all, at the very least they know where you're coming from and they get why you think and feel the way you do. It's just...inherent. And then there's the glorious "no shame" dimension devoid of embarrassment and in which absolutely free are you from fear of judgment. Who the hell cares when you know they love you no matter what, right?

So many forgotten little personality nuances came rushing back to me both in increments of small whispers and strong gusts of winds alike. Things you have come to love about someone, learned to love, struggled to love; facets that range from those you want to shout to the world to those you feel the urge to defend. I don't know. To me, that's part of 'getting it.' Loving that stuff and letting people love your stuff unashamedly. Therein lies the beauty of friendships just meant to be.

Wah. I can't wait to go home.

"We always thought you were mature and down-to-earth but apparently, not in everything."

2008-05-19T03:55:00.000-07:00

Hm. Imperfection. Novel concept.

She Had It Comin'

2008-05-18T02:18:00.000-07:00

I need to get back to Christ. I've been so obsessed lately about how much I've changed this year and the new "me" I've become that I suddenly think I can manage on my own. I've been so focused on being semi-rebellious for once in my life, a little euro-crazy, trying to separate myself from my former goody goody church girl self, that these days, God and the role He plays in my life is nearly a hinderance. What the heck? Where would I even be without Him? Clearly, the state of most things in my life right now is a plain example of the emptiness and fruitlessness of a pursuit of life devoid of God.

I have changed a lot this year though, and while I've made my mistakes, I daresay, most of it has been for the better. Nonetheless, where I am currently is not where I want to be at all. The mental, physical, emotional, spiritual state of things at the moment shows me that God still has so much farther to take me. I want freedom from the chains of complacency that hold me from experiencing the even greater or better yet, the absolute very best.

I have 69 days left. That's over two months. I know God can (and will) rock so much more in that time. I hate getting to the point of things where all I have left is to ask Him to break my heart because every other time I have done so, man, has He brought it. The end product is always beautiful, satisfying, fulfilling. Naturally. But the process is so painful. I'm no masochist arrogantly praying to hurt, but I know that often times I don't truly learn until God burns and scrapes and cuts and breaks.

Even now, I want to continue to write verbose sentences to avoid saying what I really need to. In my finite human mind, I only see the immediate struggle and heartache with no patience and wisdom of the ultimate good to sustain me. And though I know I will falter (and badly so) and will need to humbly remind myself again and again...I trust God.

So, God, *takes a deep breath* break my heart.

I don't want to remain in this disgusting state. I want freedom to live, to love, to worship. In a genuine, honoring, and steadfast manner. Break my heart, begin me anew, and refine me to the point of 'perfection.' (06/05/2008)

And so it begins...

Ode To Beginnings

2008-05-17T10:44:00.000-07:00

Mmmm. Early mornings (well, as "early" as you can get being a 20-year-old living in Barcelona, Spain) with no particularly pressing agenda or commitments and the small bubble that is my life quiet and still just peacefully mine. As close as this flat has come to a notion of home, I can't wait to spend these hours in California. I can already taste the skies cloudy at dawn, sharp salt air, soft hooded sweatshirts, the Pacific Ocean breaking on the shore...

This morning I spent the first few hours visiting an old, familiar but unknown world. Reconnection (via the most unromantic means of Facebook), even in a most static way, has brought my worlds of past and present into a collision of surreality.

Besides TL, BC (BJ now, I suppose) was the girl I wanted to be and maybe still do. I have these strangely distinct hallway memories of my first youth retreat, of the occasional conversations in various CEC locales, of desiring to embody that same beauty, that same depth of faith. To this day, I still remember what the cover of her journal looked like...

Perusing through her xanga entries spanning the last four years, so many thoughts are stirred within me. The ability to write well--to exude eloquence and beauty and novelty of thought through the means of written--continues to be something that powerfully captures my respect. I've been going back and forth about starting a new blog for awhile now, but hadn't been able to conjure up a good enough rationale or justification. Don't think I have even now.

Too fine is the line between knowingly sharing with the public what is real and genuine in my life and consciously writing to please. I know the minute I discover the demographics of my audience, my writing is immediately affected, intentional or not. In most cases, I believe the true beauty and value in heart-inspired thoughts lie in their original, raw state, unadulterated by the vulnerabilities of openly sharing. Why are the ramblings of my personal journal not sufficient? Is it the secret (or not so secret?) desire for validation and affirmation? Or simply the search for a means of revealing dimensions of life I'd otherwise be incapable of sharing?

As I continue to work through these debates and no doubt post-then-delete entries, here goes nothing...about half a penny's worth of thoughts.