Tag Archives: thought

Life Goals


My Adventure Buddy and I were talking about houses. We’re getting married, so talking about buying a house is a very normal couple thing to do.

But we’re not a normal couple. So we’re talking about buying a Tiny House.

Tiny Houses are growing in popularity among those who are done with huge rent and tons of superfluous stuff. Most of them are fitted with wheels so they can be hauled behind a truck like an RV. There are Tiny House-friendly camping spots where you can stop to hook up your power and water for the night. You basically take your whole house with you.

But they’re real houses. Sinks, ovens, bathrooms with showers, all the comforts of home in one 100 square foot space.

We want to travel. Not just travel, but spread the Gospel as we go. Just because we want to travel doesn’t mean that we don’t want four walls and a roof, either.

There would be a lot we’d have to learn to live without. Air conditioning, for example, which is something of which we are both particularly fond. I am the kind of person who attaches great sentimental value to things–just little harmless things that I’ve had around me for years which I inevitably would have to get rid of. AB travels light and hangs onto very little, so the learning curve would be for me.

So here’s my prayer: that I learn to let go of all the little things that hold me back from following God’s purpose for my life. Even if He decides we never get a tiny house.




1. Nothing goes the way you plan.

2. Set yourself up to be disappointed, and you won’t be.

3. Keep calm.

4. There’s always someone who has it worse than you.

5. Measure out the little things, and they add up to a big thing.

6. It’s okay to speak up for yourself, as long as it’s done with kindness and respect.

7. Sometimes, soup is your best option.

8. Hope for the best. Hope for the best. Hope for the best.

9. Be gentle. You never know what people have been through.

10. Put “me” last.

Who knows


Who knows what it is–

maybe the smell of perfume or flowers (or

maybe the smell of everyone else’s

perfume and flowers);

maybe it’s the resin dust and

the sound of bellyaching tuning

strings or the experimental

twitterings of clarinets (sounding oh

so very modern); maybe it’s the stars

(oh so very old) or us

(oh so very young) and the dance

that musicless sways us.

Who knows what it is.

Interesting Times


There’s an old Chinese curse that says, “May you always live in interesting times.”

Interesting here implies a never-ending trouble. Wars. Famine. Big, scary, and definitely interesting headlines. Interesting stands apart from boring, predictable, and safe–which is what most people would really prefer in their lives.

It’s a good curse, come to think of it.

Today was an interesting time. it wasn’t traumatic or terrifying or even all that busy. but it was interesting. In my case, the interestingness was more of a blessing than a curse. Interesting times give us experiences that teach us things we wouldn’t know otherwise.

I will be grateful for interesting times. 




Some things are easier written down than said,

Which is perhaps the reasoning for bills—

Perhaps the dentist isn’t really cruel,

He simply lacks some basic social skills.


The pink slips of the world can testify

That spoken words cannot cut to the chase

Efficiently as curt, dismissive type

That says what bosses won’t say to your face.


The letter is the champion of the lover

Who, tongue-tied, fears that he will speak amiss

If he should verbalize his heart’s devotion—

So, instead of speaking, writes it to his miss.


It’s easier to pen the words on paper

Than to let them wander free-range in the air

Grazing on the ears of those we cherish—

Especially those with whom we make a pair.


We know full well the power of spoken words

That ring with prophecies we hope are true.

We fear that we will complicate what’s simple

By whispering “I love you” or “I do.”


We fear the words—but words are still our friends.

For, after all, what’s needful will be said.

All in good time—and not a moment sooner—

Will written words by spoken ones be led. 

Daughter Mine


Daughter mine, don’t be afraid.

The night is dark, I know,

But the blackest night will never melt

The whiteness of the snow.


Daughter mine, avoid the dog

That lurks along your way.

Lie with dogs, awake with fleas—

You, too, may end a stray.


Daughter mine, look up, ahead—

The clouds may mask the sun,

But his bright face is shining still;

His day is never done.


Daughter mine, the door is closed

That holds back all your doubt.

The door of hope is opened wide—

Run towards it, daughter—shout!


Daughter mine, remember this

As you face grey unknown:

That I am ever with you.

Daughter mine, you’re not alone. 

Never Enough


Nothing will get you to bed earlier than the thought that you have only two more nights to sleep in your own bed.

Tomorrow begins the annual move from the comforts of home to the quasi-comforts of dorm life. Now that I am equipped with a car with a spacious trunk, I will be driving a load or two of the heavy stuff down to UU, where I will wrestle it up the stairs and into my new home.

Well, maybe the lighter stuff. The suitcase had better wait until Saturday. And the mini fridge. And maybe the textbooks.

I love school. Really. Once I get there. But in the few days before I have to move back in, I start thinking about all the things I’ll miss.  

Sleeping in, for one. Being able to take naps (the dorms are a light sleeper’s nightmare). My parents. Having control of my diet. My parents. Long, quiet evenings sitting in a huge comfy chair drinking tea. My cats. Did I mention my parents?

Then there’s the smell. Home has a smell. It’s a good smell—clean and comforting, like cookie baking day at Christmastime. Dorm smell, on the other hand—not so clean, not so comforting. The smell is a combination of every perfume and body spray ever marketed to women. There’s so much estrogen in the air you could bottle it. Not that you’d want to.

I will also miss having a kitchen. I’ve gotten used to having periodic command of the kitchen this summer, the latest evidence of which is the peach pie sitting on the stovetop at the moment. Cooking in the dorms is probably the closest to wilderness survival this suburban girl will ever come. Improvising with hot pots and kettles and coffee makers and clothing irons is a daily adventure. The things I’ve learned to do without the benefit of a microwave or an oven are mildly impressive. This year I will add a mini-blender to my tiny camp kitchen. For smoothies.

You’d think that a whole summer (not counting my weeks abroad) would be enough time to spend amongst these familiar comforts. Sad thing is, it’s never enough time. There’s never enough time to do the things you love, like being with your parents, petting your cats, or going to bed early.

It’s true, I suppose. Time does fly when you’re having fun.

Absent Minded


He pauses in a moment dearly bought,

Seeming lost, but gazing still behind,

To wonder at the ribbon of a thought

That winds between the fingers of his mind.

In silent contemplation, there he stands

As one who waits the moment to embark.

He feels the puzzle in his steepled hands,

His eyebrows arched into a question mark.

Though all around him bustle in their haste,

He stares inquiringly into the sky.

Alone is he who thinks it not a waste

To seek to solve the great, eternal “Why?”

Yet we observe his contemplative spell

Makes others want to stop and think, as well.



It is almost impossible to return to business as usual after a week-long break.

I feel like an astronaut. I’ve been floating in a restful stratosphere, worlds away from assignments and all the extracurricular madness that clouds and clutters my life, and now I’ve come back to earth. There’s a bit due in this next week. My syllabi said so. Yet I feel as though I need a period of recovery before launching (rather begrudgingly) into my usual schedule. Just like the astronauts have to be kept separate from the world, locked away while people run tests on them to make sure they’re okay to join the world again. I, like an astronaut having returned from a long and thrilling journey, need to be locked away for a while.

Hence why the better part of today was spent in my dorm room, in my pajamas and fuzzy socks, drinking a huge mug of tea. If I’m going to do class reading, I’m going to do it in style.

Every so often on the long necklace-string of days, there’s one gem of a day where taking a slower pace is not only necessary, but possible. There’s plenty to do, but nowhere to go. So you don’t have to go. You only have to do.

And after one, yea several, weeks of doing nothing but going and doing, it’s great to be able to stop. To reflect. To catch up on reading. To contemplate life, the universe, and everything.

And drink tea.


The Contents of the Closet


While focusing on externals is hardly a commendable mindset, it’s valid to argue that clothes communicate. In the same manner that first impressions are rarely forgotten, one’s appearance gives clues about a person’s upbringing, taste, background, or political preferences.

There’s the externals. But what about the internal effects of clothing?

Clothes help or hurt our self-image. Clothes can be therapeutic. Clothes can make us feel beautiful or powerful—whether or not we are.

For example: the classic cozy sweatshirt. There is little to no aesthetic value in a sweatshirt. It is essentially a fleece sack with openings in all the right places for your head and arms and torso. But nothing feels better than a grungy sweatshirt on a cold day when you don’t feel well or you don’t have to go anywhere.

Another example is formal attire. Perhaps girls feel a little more strongly about this than guys, although I have the great pleasure of knowing several men who enjoy dressing to the nines on a regular basis. Pretty dresses make the girls who are wearing them feel pretty. This probably arises from watching too many Disney princess movies growing up or indulging in stories by L.M. Montgomery or Jane Austen (a habit no one in their right minds could condemn.) Any little girl can describe for you the magical feeling that they have suddenly become a princess the moment they put on a pretty dress.

Another item I’ve noticed is mismatched socks, normally in bright neon colors. I see this deliberate mismatching as a sign of quiet, good-humored defiance. There is no law that dictates that we must wear white, matching socks. But several people I know make a point of wearing one yellow sock and one orange sock, even if they cannot be seen, because the thought of not having matching socks makes them happy.

Why? Why do the shells we don like hermit crabs contribute so much to our moods? Maybe this is a uniquely female thing, but I’m sure there are males and females alike who have pondered the same question. It makes no sense. Clothing is clothing—its purposes are warmth and concealment. And yet throughout the long history of mankind, there has always been a theme of “the clothes make the man.”

I have no answers for you. No clever metaphors; no artistic explanations. All I can say is that I’m thankful for God’s gift of creativity to mankind that allows for  the creation of an infinite variety of clothing so that, thank goodness, we can all choose to dress so that we can present ourselves in the best possible way. From hoodies to formals and everything in between.