The warmth of summer is beginning to seem like a distant stranger... ah yes, I see a show of gloved hands in agreement.
What is it that makes summer seem so magical? Even musical.

The night symphony of crickets competing with baritone bullfrogs, the comfortable creak of a hammock swing, and the cascade of freshly squeezed lemonade over stacked cubes of ice...
Not to mention the memories of freedom from school, from studying, from lack of sleep (attributed to projects and papers). The pleasure of 'summer' sleep deprivation is found in the matter of choice over obligation. Spur of the moment coffee runs followed by late night novels or movies are more than valid reasons to lose some shut eye and are still the greatest forms of unwinding from a busy, harried week at work, in my mind at least.

While carefully carrying a steaming cup of chai tea from the downstairs lobby up to our apartment on the third floor, my steps as small as stirring straws, I was reminded forcibly of the movie 'Summer Magic'. For those of you who have not had the good fortune to see this classic film, let me recommend you do. Hayley Mills has the voice of an angel, or cherub at the very least, and speaks every line like that of an impassioned poet. (Warning for all male counterparts, this angelic creature often bursts into the hallelujah chorus mid-sentence...yes, 'Summer Magic' is a musical)
Dancing about the room in one particular scene, she teaches a friend (by song) how to 'walk feminine', while balancing a book on her head. The underlying theme of feminism hints that women are often forced to hide their 'true selves' in order to obtain a husband. But what sort of husband at such a cost?
Speaking now as a woman who has acquired the affections of a life-long partner, I can honestly say the greatest gift you can give is yourself. Your true frazzled, flawed self.

Our society tends to equate femininity with pearls and high heels, which both emanate a form of elegance certainly, and are fine for Breakfast at Tiffany's while wearing a black dress. But what of real life? Many women find their wardrobe consisting more of sweat, scrubs, and sneakers than stilettos.

I find at the end of a long day, my thoughts are directed more toward "running away" than making runway, and it relieves my mind to know that I can "run to" my husband, who loves me regardless of makeup. This past week, I arrived home late one evening from work, and my husband insisted on meeting me just outside my car. (He has been so consistent in escorting me to and from our building, which has helped to reinstate a feeling of safety since the 'shivering sparrow' incident)
As I shut the car door, he asked, "Can I carry anything in for you?"
Turning to face him wearily, I suggested with a small smile, "Me?"
Without another word, he picked me up, carried me across the street, and down the block to our building. Cars stopped and couples pointed at the bundled bodies emanating a raucous laughter with every step. Making dinner that night in the kitchen, I was bundled into my husband's embrace once more as he sang "What a Wonderful World" into my ear. Never mind that he was trying to sound exactly like Louis Armstrong. (=

The point is, I was dancing with my husband while wearing sweat pants and a ponytail, and I couldn't have felt more feminine if you'd placed a red carpet beneath my feet.

I so enjoy movies...
From classical to comedy, musical to mystery.
Whether it be 'Pride and Prejudice' or 'Bridget Jones', I feel these flawed heroes and heroines are friends to me as any in the real world. I watch films again and again without tiring of them because I crave that familiar connection to 'the character' as I do Kettle corn in a darkened theater.

'The Imaginarium of Dr. Parnassus' gives a final glimpse into the life of the late actor Heath Ledger. This budding talent had only just begun to fully bloom when his roots were suddenly ripped clean from this earth. The lingering scent left behind from his powerful role as the Joker in 'Dark Knight' is sweetly disturbing to the senses, but the pungent odor from his character in 'The Imaginarium' is bland at best.

I am an avid fan of imagination. Reality and fantasy are the perfect pair in my opinion, and I strongly object to their separation. My expectations for this film were not exactly high but nor were they hollow. This movie dapples with colorful landscapes of the mind but simultaneously paints an eery portrait of the soul in black and white. The portal into a world of daydreams and nightmares is in the form of an ornate mirror and forces one to reflect on both the delicious and the dangerous of dwelling too long in the imagination. From the angle of an 'audience' member, Ledger's legacy is sadly lacking, and leaves us feeling empty as his character succumbs to both selfish ambition and (*spoiler*) eventually suicide.

As a red haired orphan once said: "The worst of imagining things is that the time comes when you have to stop and that hurts."--Anne of Green Gables

I love our apartment in the heart of the city.

Just a block away from the beautiful building my husband and I call home, the downtown 'market' offers a wide variety of shopping (from bohemian skirts to whimsical beads) and eating, to satisfy any palate. Indian, Mediterranean, and Mexican are just a few, but I'm sorry to say the Mexican in Virginia is cardboard when compared to any Texan la comida. Christmas lights still adorn each lamp post along the city streets, despite the new year's arrival; and in some small way, I find the holiday remnants to be endearing.

So, imagine my surprise when a feeling of fear stole over me this morning, as I traveled the familiar lane to my car. While taking care to avoid patches of ice encrusted intermittently upon the sidewalk, I did not immediately recognize the two boys flanking me on either side. I stopped abruptly in stunned surprise and with rising apprehension, observed not only the two boys just behind me now but the two in front of me as well.
I was surrounded.
Picking up my pace with an averted gaze, I ignored their demeaning forms of address and snide nudgings for a number. When I thought it couldn't get any worse, the boys suddenly blocked my way entirely. Heart beating fast, I prayed for God's protection. In my peripheral sight, a police car was just visible, steadily approaching. The boys scattered but continued to follow me from yards behind until I was safely in my car across the street, and even then, they stood huddled together watching and jeering.

I sat numbly for a moment, as my shaken thoughts slowly thawed. I was reminded of a sparrow I'd seen hopping in the snow, only a few days before. I'd thought warmly, 'how beautiful'.
How delicate and frail.
How... how similar we must seem to our Creator.
How comforting to know that he watches over us and cares for us. 

Today, I was a shivering sparrow who found shelter in the cleft of His coat.
His warmth covers me even now.

Sit with me awhile.
The fire's brilliant light seeps through my eyes and warms my soul in this dead chill of winter. I observe a crackling waltz ...where the flaming skirts twirl in and around the partners of timber, bowing ever so gracefully. My left hand embraces a steaming mug of coffee, and in my right, a pen-that most beautiful instrument. The quill for the modern mind.

As we begin the new year of 2010, which is already brewing with promise by the sheer title, I curl my toes beneath me while simultaneously curling the tendrils of my mind around the idea, I think therefore I am. Such an overused statement is grossly miscalculated. It would be the same as saying, I speak therefore I do. Pronouncing with pride any 'outcome' in life does not guarantee the finished result. 'I am' must be equatable with 'action', if it is to have any lasting impact.  


I'm currently writing a book with my sister, and on this exciting journey, images float steadily along the streams of synapses in my brain, compelling me to scribble as fast as my hand will allow. In light of such an undertaking, the word 'therefore' in the phrase I think therefore I am entails so much! To reach the 'I am' requires passion, persistency, and at the very least, a reliable pen. (=
Still, my soul is restless. I search deeper where the stream's current rages and finally surrender to full immersion. Surrounding me now so heavily, is the Deep.
I meet tangible silence. Utter silence save for a whisper. Whisper of a purpose...Not I but Christ.

To all my dear friends of pointed ears, hairy feet, and short, bearded dispositions: Be renewed, as I have been. This book of magic and love, of betrayal and blood, is the same story found in all those of Earth. Our lives are filled with glimpses of supernatural beauty in unexpected places every single day, whether it be a kind deed unnoticed or forgiveness showered upon one difficult to love. Be filled with the unseen essence of magical mercy and in so doing, allow yourself to be filled with Christ.
And do come again soon for second breakfast.