That bread will rise...

Not my bag. Not my dough. Very similar though.



'What the goo is that?!'

On Monday, day three, I received a bag.
A bag of what?...
...A bag of goo.

In the lobby of my building, a dear friend gave me this bag, of what we jokingly called, the bag lactated of grossness.

Then I found out, that it is Amish bread.
Amish Cinnamon Rolls to be exact.
Apparently, they are friendship rolls.
Like a circle of friends, never-ending bond of goodness.

Cool. Deal.

Problem.
...I can't bake.

I mean, I bake, but it's usually out of frustration and then I hand out my baked goods as a way to continue to relieve stress and, hopefully, bring some sort of sweetness into their lives. I've never baked just to bake for love. So...this might turn out very badly. Luckily, there are instructions.
I am now on Day five...which is still just mushing the bag two to three times a day.
Tomorrow...tomorrow is the big day. On day six, I am allowed to pour in the flour, the milk, and the sugar...then i put it back away. For the next three days after that, I am allowed to have fun by mushing it again two to three times a day. (There is a lot of manhandling this bread-maybe this will be a stress reliever of sorts). Day 10...Day 10 is the last BIG day. I actually get to bake it. I am able to pour the last of the ingredients in and bake it.

I can't wait to see how THAT turns out.
I can tell you this...I am not keeping it...Oh no sirrrrre. It's going away, far, far, away...Well, I have decided that since this bread was given to me, out of love, I am going to take care of it (much like a high school baby egg project), bake it, put some love into it...and take it to the people who took care of me my whole life.
My mama and my papa.

Comparing myself to this bread-which is something you never really think you'll hear yourself say-I found a lot of amazing things. My parents raised me. They were handed this 'bag of goo' (I know how bizarre that sounds) that would someday be bread-and then, when I was almost ready to be on my own, I was politely shoved, mushed, out of the door to college, where I would continue to grow and have ingredients added to me.

...The thing is...without love-the baking would never happen. The whole process would not even commence without the love. The selfless act of love giving... The love would never really fully grow into the wonderful and sweet cinn-a-mon bread without a community, without that giving, without the sweet abounding effort of love that pours into it with many many many other fruitful ingredients which help it to rise.
Boy. I tell you what-I love food.


Day ten.
Can't wait.

Just Smile...

Spring is just around the corner.
I have this innate ability to smell seasons.


I stopped today...



...and the breeze blew a little breeze under my little nose, and, I smelt it...

spring.


On another note.
I love Nina Simone.
She does a Beatles cover: Here comes the Sun.
That song reminds me of my dear friend Madeline Peyroux...




Do you know what is wonderful on a winter/almostbeginningofspring night...


Gouda. Chocolate. Strawberries. Coffee. Friends.

Funny Valentine

I have a glass of wine.
I like wine.
Wine used to be such a common and beautiful thing.
Now it's beer. Well...ok, maybe that's overkill. Wine is still beautiful and yatty yatty yatty, but it's not as 'high class' as it used to be. Now, for more consumption, you can buy it bulk...in a box...and still have money left over for pizza or a bag of Cheez-Its. WOOOOW. High Class.
I feel refined when I have wine. Even now, sitting in my sweatpants, slippers and hair tosseled up into something that resembles a bun, I feel distinguished and intelligent. 'You know, my lovely Perstephanie, I believe that the French Renaissance, too, had been a comparatively unreasonable phenomenon. The Italians had led the French in all spheres of the arts, letters, manners, and humanism.' 'Yes but, Frederick daaarling, although Catherine de Médicis had been the consort of one and the mother of three other Valois kings—exerting a powerful influence on French art and cooking—the Italian presence in Paris had not had the civilizing impact that a mother might have hoped for...'
I don't ever want to be that refined. But still...

I had wine yesterday as well. For a celebration. Valentine's day. The day of 'love'. Yesterday, on Valentines Day, a friend stated "Why do we celebrate the profitable industry of cards instead of the historic St. Valentines Day Massacre?' ... I did not respond. Though, after some 'serious' thinking, I decided...'Why do we celebrate the silly little things with silly little acts, but yet, we have lost so much of the true richness of the simple things in life that have been replaced with following the 'norms' of society? In the past, our ancestors...wait, too far back...our families, did such wonderful things, that have now since been lost. My dear friend Rachel made a very good point tonight during a, quite random, discussion that: as generations and cultures change, some things will be lost. This is true. Though, it very much makes my heart sad.

Classic.

I feel that tradition can be 'popped up' into our culture now and still be absolutely beautiful.



Script.
Cursive handwriting. This beautiful art, I feel is almost extinct, if not already.
It is not taught it schools and is not cherished enough as an art form. I try to write in cursive, just because it's more efficient to write notes...but it is a sloppy mixture of printscriptcrap.

Paper.
Not but two days ago the question was raised 'how long before education systems everywhere move to 100% technology oriented and paper will no longer be in use'.
Personally, I don't feel it will ever happen, but, there are a large handful of people who do think that this is not but a hop, skip, and a jump away from being true.

Singing.
I sang a lot yesterday.
Which, for myself, a few years ago was not uncommon to be done in public. I have made the conscious realization that I do not sing outloud by myself anymore-which shocks the beautiful people that I grew up around, but...it's just a change that I did not realize had seriously happened until yesterday. I feel, it was all the love in the air that made me burst into song.

...It felt good.
It felt really good.
I'm still very self conscious of singing in public.
I used to do it all the time.
I used to feel no shame about it.
I used to be involved and had purpose to sing often.
It used to be a well known fact that I did sing frequently, and well.
But...something clicked one day and I all of a sudden took a step back and thought 'i just don't want to...'
So...I didn't. As strange and bizarre as it was to me...I just kind of-well-stopped.
It wasn't until yesterday that I realized how drowned I almost felt.
This is silly...and I know this...but it's true.

The point: once upon a time, as an act of love and purpose, men and women used to sing outloud in public all of the time. It was not uncommon for a simple walk with a 'beau' to end with a serenade, or a community picnic to have chime in's of hymns or songs of the season.

Little traditions are being lost and it breaks my heart.
I realize that things change, motion happens, and it's usually-supposedly-for the better of everyone, even that thing we call 'society'.
Though this is true and I acknowledge it...I still don't like it.
Moving on, things are lost-it happens.
Moving on, the things that we loose...we don't really realize how much they affect our lives until they are lost.
My hope is that the things that important to us now, once we move on, we don't forget them. We don't forget how meaningful they are to us. My hope is that the important things that are in our lives will continue to be used and accessed as often and frequently as we permit them to be.

'The best way to spread good cheer, is singing loud for all to hear'.
sorry. it is fitting.

It seems you've found me.

Standing in my urban-worn thrift store find looking boots stirring cheap limp spaghetti in an oh so comfortable round about motion, images and a sense of hope surfaces every part of my mind. Amelie's soundtrack of 'hopeful' childlike piano and ochordian carousel themes skip around my ears and I can't help but have a strong urge to leave. Just pack up my bags and let my 'vintage' boots take me where they please.

...Where would I go?
Paris? Prague? Barcelona?

Though of all the most beautiful and inspirational places on this earth my heart longs for somewhere magical. Somewhere that the sky never touches the earth and the night never seems to have a beginning. This winding road stretches off to meet these two, but I still don't know, where it goes. This is where I belong.

If all of the most magical and mysterious places were to be explored...would there be any left? This 'can of worms' topic is not something I will discuss now-because the answer is a big fat 'no'. But, what is the 'click' of traveling? ...It's as if traveling is a drug that has forever been embedded in your skin after you've already ventured somewhere inspirational and your heart and your mind long for more of this...I want that. It's as though my psyche has already been pre-programmed somehow to have the urge to travel, but my physical self and the life restraints that have been all too present for so long have made it seem impossible to explore the depths of this grand earth.

It's a winding road and I still don't know where it goes.

How long will this replica spaghetti of comfort continue in this fashion and how long until Amelie's music transitions into live strums and key changes from the vendors laying their hearts on the notes for all to hear? How long for the sky to show how it never touches the earth and the night never seems to have a beginning? How long before this winding road which stretches off to meet these two, carries my homebody boots and I off...and how long before these homebody boots of mine click, click, click three times for the all too nostalgic 'no place like home'? 'If there's one thing that I know, it is that two shades of hope. One in that enlightens the soul and the other is more like a hangman's rope-well it's true, you may reap what you sew, but not that the despair is the all time boat...hope deals the hardest blow. And the girl that holds the hand, of a somewhat distance man-though she did everything she can, still this heart sets sail for a distance land, and she wonders sometimes if He knows, how she feels like a trampled rose-hope deals the hardest blow...' but I still don't know, where it goes. This winding road, this never ending sky, these boots full of miles and mystery-This is where I belong.


.homebird.
.the homebird sings.

godatus buddies.

Games usually always have some sort of a follower and then a leader-well at least with games in our early childhood this is true. Children learn first by imitation...

Question: Who is the leader?
If you are in a group, sitting in a circle, and one person begins to make a rhythm with their body and the rest follow in suite...then, someone were to walk in-would they be able to tell who the leader was, and who the followers were? If the leader changed the pattern, would the guest then be able to tell who the leader was, and who the followers were? I played a game today where this exact situation happened. The object of the game was to not allow the person, 'detective', discover who the leader was. With many shady faces and thrown glances to swerve the 'detective' to someone who was not the leader-it was very difficult for the 'detectives' to figure out exactly who the leader was. Actually, it was a really fun game. Really fun. As fun as it was, it was so extremely difficult for me to follow the exact pattern if I was not looking at the leader. My patterns would always be a little off and not exactly as the leaders if I were to look at someone else and copy what they were doing. The copy will never be as the same as the original. Never.

I thought 'How silly-It would be so much simpler if I could just look at the leader the whole time and do what he was doing, following his lead'...then I thought..."How silly-It would be so much simpler if I would just look at the leader the whole time and follow His lead...' Games free people to become more open and even sometimes, free themselves to act as their true self. It's a state of comfort. Barriers are down, walls are lowered, and minds are fully focused on the task at hand.

---


One of my students this summer was raised with Baltic as his native language and very little English-he also had a severe case of a.d.d. Each day we would go to the park, and each day he would be the last of forty in the back of the line. For about a week, I thought: 'ahhh, seriously-hurry up, lets go, you're taking forever, it's so hot. Stop becoming sidetracked with the things on the sidewalk, you can play later, you can look later, you can talk later, you can do everything later...'

Then I decided, 'dude, he's six-chill'.
Obviously.
So, I decided to play a game with him. I finally decided that him, taking his time was fun. So I would walk with him so he would not stray from the rest of the group and would not cross the street without a buddy so he would not become a victim to an accident. 'Godatus'.
Godatus is the baltic word for 'quickly'. A simple game, but it was something that he could understand. I would run a little bit ahead of him, and he would stare at me in amazement as if 'what are you doing...please don't leave me...' I would smile and say 'godatus, godatus, godatus!' Beaming like a ray of sunshine, this wonderful six year old would dash up to me with arms outstretched ready to embrace me in full force. This would repeat until we reached our destination.



God knows our deepest desires, and He knows how we tick.
Though, for all of us, He is a leader, a Father, a friend, a 'buddy' if you will; a crosswalk buddy of sorts...playing that 'come on, you can do it, come embrace me and I'll take you a little further' game. It might not even be 'quickly' either, and at times it might be a struggle; a language barrier at times. At other times, it might be 'too hot in the summer sun' and for you, it might take every ounce of strength to want to follow, but possibly stray a bit...but I guarantee, He is there with outstretched arms every minute of everyday.
...I post this, in hopes that as a community we can help assemble that steady beat; without wandering eyes, without thrown glances, but with a strong a firm fervor of movement. In a way, to free barriers, to lower walls and all with the simple objective that we learned as lessons through games as children...would, quite simply be...to follow.

baltic: godatus
.god.at.us.

...don't quite understand the validity...

If you eat shredded cheese as opposed to sliced cheese, it cuts down on your chance of heart disease.

Thank you K-Love for this glorious health fact of the day.

My Umbrelled Insucruisties

Everyone has their silly little quarks. I've decided to make a short list of my irrational fears.

1)The metal gap in bridges. When driving over bridges, no matter the size or height...my gut plummets to the ground.

2)Spit. More so-hearing people chew, like I hate to hear the food in their mouths or hear people breath when the eat. I can't handle it. Freaks me out. Say what you will.

3)Having a bed in the center of a room. Did it once. Never again.

4)Sleeping with headphones on. My fear: I'll wake up with them wrapped around my neck.

5)The 14th and Anderson intersection.

5)Garbage disposals. I'm scared that there will always be someone to grab me and pull me in when I turn it on.

6)Biting into fastfood/restaurant chicken and it actually turns out to be someones finger.

7)The Truman Show is my life.

8)Bathtubs-like taking a bath. Thank you 'It', 'The Ring' and 'Thirteen Ghosts'.

9)Leaving houses with the windows open/unlocked/shades not drawn.

10)People who have long hair, wear trench coats, and walk with a limp/awkward skip in their step.

.checks and balances.

"let it always known that I was who I am..."


There are times in life where we are broadsided with the unexpected. This time last year I was indeed, quite literally, broadsided. T-boned. Just a part of life, it happens, you fix it and move on.

Tonight, I listened to an interview. An interview of a beautiful women with a beautiful life who is absolutely so sure of life. A well-versed women who's comfort has been unwillingly broken; a women who was broadsided not once-but twice. Two misfortunes of a ridiculously large magnitude that have now reshaped her life in more ways that I'm sure she could have ever imagined. However...through it all, you could hear it, you could hear it in her voice-past her words, past her stories, past her pain, and even past her misfortunes...joy. So genuinely spoken with every breath...joy. Through it all, through all the dirt, grit, and what she thought was torture, she could still salvage the pure joy of, what she calls, a blessed life which she has been so graciously given. Beyond that...she gives it back three fold in every possible way she can-even before her life was turned upside down. No complaints. Just...giving.

I have not cried in a long time. A long time.
Tonight that changed-out of joy.
The astonishment that overcame me was unexpected to hear the strength of this women tell how her tragically a beautifully blissful life had taken a turn, one right after another, and then to hear her boldly and honestly speak the words: '...I have no complaints...'


...
...
...


"...I have no complaints..."

change of winds.

...I have always wanted to take my birthday off of facebook for a few days...and then put it back on-but not as my real birth date, as a different date. Is that wrong? Is my sense of humor sick and twisted and possibly not funny at all...?

Yesterday as I was leaving my classroom, I walked down into the lobby and there was a dude juggling...then, I kid you not, I walked outside...there was a man on a unicycle.
...We live in a circus. We live in a circus whether or not there are people physically juggling or riding unicycles around you. This was just physical evidence to hlep make this realization clear for me yesterday afternoon. I am apart of this crazy fun circus. It's exciting.

ps.
I want to be a bird for Halloween
A bird or Amelia Earhart
She wears a scarf.

Postcards.

Junk.
I suppose the motto is 'one person's trash, another person's treasure'...that is it...isn't it?


I have been in the process of cleaning and simplifying my room/closet/life over the past week in hopes that I can rid extra stress and just shed the old, the extra that is not necessary...My closet is clean, organization has overwhelmed my room, the bed is made, and the four wheel piece of metal that I drive is full of boxes that are to venture the two hour trip home for later inspection. Yet, I still have so much that I just cannot seem to part with-Things that make me happy, items that hold memory-value, letters and cards of simple notes that mean so much, clothes that upon view will trigger a burst of laughter brought on by memories from the not so long ago...I have scrubbed down to the bare minimum and packed beyond the brim. For others, it might not be good enough, 'They are just things'-I don't care, and I mean that in the nicest way possible. I know that they are just 'things' which have but little importance. If my house burned tomorrow, I would be sad, but I would live. There are better things in life...There are things in life that you can rid which will bring peace and that will not be missed...however, there are also things that are more than just memories, more than a smile of remembrance. Things that hold more meaning and value than just 'treasure' or 'nostalgic junk'...I feel that in someway, it's almost a healthy sort of comfort to look and reminisce each day over certain things, physical or not...Those I will try my best to keep present in my life and not locked away in a piece of cardboard, at least not by me.
History, memories, the ability to learn from the past-so important.
The things in my life, I would hope that my children and family could someday rummage through and find it fascinating what our lives were like.
Again though...they're just things and I realize that-but this is just a hope.

Cleaning, '1.an act or instance of making clean: Give the house a good cleaning. 2.Slang. an overwhelming or complete defeat, financial loss, or failure: Our team took a cleaning in yesterday's game. 3.Informal. killing (def. 3).'

Though this is a straightforward definition, I found that there were better examples more suited for this ambiguous word:
'Free from dirt, stain, or impurities; unsoiled-free from addiction-Not infected-Producing relatively little radioactive fallout or contamination: a clean nuclear bomb-Not ornate or intricate-Sharply defined; clear-cut-Morally pure; virtuous: led a clean life-Having no marks of discredit or offense-Free from foreign matter-more efficient engine...'

This might be going out on a limb here...but I don't feel that we will ever be so clean and pure that we will 100% fit under this definition...but we sure can scrub, we sure can box away, we sure can organize, we sure can free up space for better things, and we sure can find the truly important things in our lives that mean more to us than anything-and never let them go. Those...those are the treasures.