“This is what the LORD says— he who made a way through the sea, a path through the mighty waters, “Forget the former things; do not dwell on the past. See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it? I am making a way in the wilderness and streams in the wasteland.” Isaiah 43:16, 18-19
Amazing how one's world can shift in 365 days. Blessed to have breath and life in all of them since none are guaranteed. I am constantly enlightened by the changes that occur naturally and with the flow just by time, effort, and circumstance.
The Beacon Theater in New York City runs its last sound check on audio boards for another epic show while I type these words in front of a roaring North Carolina fire. Then, aflame with a bourbon buzz and ganja stashed in my boots, I swayed in the sounds of Gov't Mule, shoulder to shoulder with faithful jammers who too sought a peak experience, as we sang goodbye to the crazy year and fuzzy memories past.
Tonight, a soothing silence takes center stage. A rhythmic and sometimes painful beating from within takes my attention and affection and makes chasing down the champagne dream an afterthought. Gratefulness reigns supreme. And celebrating the closing of 2012 with a frozen pizza and a hot bubble bath hits me with a surprisingly, fist pumping excitement as I look forward to what and who the new year will bring.
Monday, December 31, 2012
Thursday, December 20, 2012
Feed Me Seymour
"The appetite of laborers works for them; their hunger drives them on." Proverbs 16:26
Trader Joe's Wilmington is open.
1600 Applicants.
89 Team Members Hired.
This is the bleak job landscape of our new town.
Just one surprise you contend with when you leap without looking...
Could be worse I reckon, I could have such depleted funds that the ability to shop at such a grocery store to obtain this startling information would not exist. Thank you Lord for that and frozen veggie dumplings. (Since my desire to have Thai Food delivered in twenty minutes and on a shoestring can't be fulfilled at my new address. Sigh.)
In the last eight months with my voracious appetite as a constant companion, I have been skimming my rolodex of the ghosts of employers past. And it turns out, the last four of them have fed me, and well. An NFL commissary with enough carbohydrates and fats to feed the incorrigible linebackers, 53 others on the roster, coaches, and me. A private school with in house chefs doling out a hot tray lunch (my all time fave), an extensive salad bar, and daily soups. A boutique designer who handed me a pile of Upper West Side Restaurant menus morning, noon, and often late nights with her black AMEX and said "order enough." To Law and Order SVU catering that supplied me with three more than square meals per six days a week.
This perk easily adjusted to does not go unnoticed when I'm staring at an empty cupboard once again.
Now, desperate times calls for desperate measures and I flashback to the early days of New York when my ever binging, constant spending, over botoxing, on and off dieting roommate would throw a half eaten Lombardi's pepperoni pizza in the trash and I'd swoop in and get it before it went to the incinerator. Or when the day old bread basket from a Midtown bakery would make the rounds at Barney's cosmetic counter and every waif turned up her powdered nose, I was glad to stuff Rugelah in my mouth with rapid fire. But I digress down memory lane.
My check card still works, the nest egg remains barely feathered, but I'm getting back into practice for all unseen preparedness. By sweeping the produce and dairy section at Whole Foods, I can get my fill of navel oranges, holiday grapes, and aged Gruyere one ounce cube at a time. By trolling Harris Teeter's deli, baked baguette and Irish butter are plentiful, while the counter crew is always glad to give samples of cold cuts and fried chicken, especially to the pregnant girl who seems to have nowhere else to spend her days...This is living.
I look to the words of a fellow wanderer Jack Dawson when he said, "I figure life's a gift and I don't intend on wasting it. You don't know what hand you're gonna get dealt next. You learn to take life as it comes at you... to make each day count."
Trader Joe's Wilmington is open.
1600 Applicants.
89 Team Members Hired.
This is the bleak job landscape of our new town.
Just one surprise you contend with when you leap without looking...
Could be worse I reckon, I could have such depleted funds that the ability to shop at such a grocery store to obtain this startling information would not exist. Thank you Lord for that and frozen veggie dumplings. (Since my desire to have Thai Food delivered in twenty minutes and on a shoestring can't be fulfilled at my new address. Sigh.)
In the last eight months with my voracious appetite as a constant companion, I have been skimming my rolodex of the ghosts of employers past. And it turns out, the last four of them have fed me, and well. An NFL commissary with enough carbohydrates and fats to feed the incorrigible linebackers, 53 others on the roster, coaches, and me. A private school with in house chefs doling out a hot tray lunch (my all time fave), an extensive salad bar, and daily soups. A boutique designer who handed me a pile of Upper West Side Restaurant menus morning, noon, and often late nights with her black AMEX and said "order enough." To Law and Order SVU catering that supplied me with three more than square meals per six days a week.
This perk easily adjusted to does not go unnoticed when I'm staring at an empty cupboard once again.
Now, desperate times calls for desperate measures and I flashback to the early days of New York when my ever binging, constant spending, over botoxing, on and off dieting roommate would throw a half eaten Lombardi's pepperoni pizza in the trash and I'd swoop in and get it before it went to the incinerator. Or when the day old bread basket from a Midtown bakery would make the rounds at Barney's cosmetic counter and every waif turned up her powdered nose, I was glad to stuff Rugelah in my mouth with rapid fire. But I digress down memory lane.
My check card still works, the nest egg remains barely feathered, but I'm getting back into practice for all unseen preparedness. By sweeping the produce and dairy section at Whole Foods, I can get my fill of navel oranges, holiday grapes, and aged Gruyere one ounce cube at a time. By trolling Harris Teeter's deli, baked baguette and Irish butter are plentiful, while the counter crew is always glad to give samples of cold cuts and fried chicken, especially to the pregnant girl who seems to have nowhere else to spend her days...This is living.
I look to the words of a fellow wanderer Jack Dawson when he said, "I figure life's a gift and I don't intend on wasting it. You don't know what hand you're gonna get dealt next. You learn to take life as it comes at you... to make each day count."
Let's just hope, I don't go down with the ship.
Friday, December 14, 2012
Wednesday, December 12, 2012
*Grateful
If pregnancy were a book, they would cut the last two chapters ~Nora Ephron
Pregnancy is not pretty. In fact, it is a pain in the ass. Literally. Having multiple bleeding balloons on one's butt hole does not translate into the miracle of life. I don't slip on my wool slippers and heave my pulsating pelvic bone to draw a bath at three in the morning and marvel at the joy of being with child. Hanging my head in my hands and weeping because the pressure on my diaphragm is so intense, it has pushed the last tablespoon of peanut butter I ate back into the back of my throat is not a taste to be relished or celebrated. Quite simply, I am not myself. And the worst part about it is, others around you think you are still that able body in control of emotions, bladder, and all life sustaining matters person. This selfish idea results in their needs being unmet and you finding another insensitive appendage in your life you had once mistaken as a relationship. Now, the cheerleaders will chant, "you will forget once you hold that baby." This sentimental adage may be true and I look fondly toward the fast forwarded ten weeks of meeting that glorious creation. But today, I'm living in the present with pillows wedged in every crease and a plea for sleep on my lips, screaming at the members of the labor club who didn't tell us newbies, this is hard.
Pregnancy is not pretty. In fact, it is a pain in the ass. Literally. Having multiple bleeding balloons on one's butt hole does not translate into the miracle of life. I don't slip on my wool slippers and heave my pulsating pelvic bone to draw a bath at three in the morning and marvel at the joy of being with child. Hanging my head in my hands and weeping because the pressure on my diaphragm is so intense, it has pushed the last tablespoon of peanut butter I ate back into the back of my throat is not a taste to be relished or celebrated. Quite simply, I am not myself. And the worst part about it is, others around you think you are still that able body in control of emotions, bladder, and all life sustaining matters person. This selfish idea results in their needs being unmet and you finding another insensitive appendage in your life you had once mistaken as a relationship. Now, the cheerleaders will chant, "you will forget once you hold that baby." This sentimental adage may be true and I look fondly toward the fast forwarded ten weeks of meeting that glorious creation. But today, I'm living in the present with pillows wedged in every crease and a plea for sleep on my lips, screaming at the members of the labor club who didn't tell us newbies, this is hard.
Sunday, December 9, 2012
Points of Interest
"But let all who take refuge in you be glad; let them ever sing for joy. Spread your protection over them, that those who love your name may rejoice in you." Psalm 5:11
Another break in on our street. Apparently, it's just "what happens" this time of year.
The Wilmington Gun and Knife Show can't come quick enough.
One guess as to what I can find under my tree, wrapped with care.
***
Oh Worry.
I confessed to my new Mom's Bible Study that I'm so glad that my resistance to trust in the Lord and His word is not as strong as his relentless pursuit to love and cover me continually.
How deep my Father's love for me. How vast beyond all measure.
That He should send His only Son. And make a wretch His treasure.
These song lyrics are the words I can rest on or give as an answer the next time someone asks me the most asinine question of "Am I ready for the holidays?"
The upside of being back in the South: God and Guns.
Another break in on our street. Apparently, it's just "what happens" this time of year.
The Wilmington Gun and Knife Show can't come quick enough.
One guess as to what I can find under my tree, wrapped with care.
***
Oh Worry.
I confessed to my new Mom's Bible Study that I'm so glad that my resistance to trust in the Lord and His word is not as strong as his relentless pursuit to love and cover me continually.
How deep my Father's love for me. How vast beyond all measure.
That He should send His only Son. And make a wretch His treasure.
These song lyrics are the words I can rest on or give as an answer the next time someone asks me the most asinine question of "Am I ready for the holidays?"
The upside of being back in the South: God and Guns.
Thursday, December 6, 2012
A Vagabond's Heart
"Nevertheless, each person should live as a believer in whatever situation the Lord has assigned to them, just as God has called them." 1 Corinthians 7:17
Making a human should have been enough. As if this possession of the body and mind I once knew doesn't have enough power to throw me into an altered loop and leave me on my heavily weighted hands and knees.
Leaving New York should have been enough. Despite my continuous cursing and whimpering spelled out on the blog, it was the only place I have instantly felt at home and in sync. I miss it. And I walk the familiar streets in my head with a longing of thankfulness and second thoughts.
Quitting my job should have been enough. While I may have stumbled into Shangri La for housewives, I feel useless. For the first time in my adult life, I can't affiliate my character with my daily agenda. A misnomer I admit, but the lack of production and a replenishing bank account is demoralizing, no matter what psychological color you paint it.
I haven't stopped thinking. I've ceased thinking provocatively. My daily musings are kept in check by lack of inspiration and make their way onto a page only when provoked by anger. Anger towards a world that often unfolds the opposite way I'm working.
This resistance makes me restless. And subsequently a recluse.
Making a human should have been enough. As if this possession of the body and mind I once knew doesn't have enough power to throw me into an altered loop and leave me on my heavily weighted hands and knees.
Leaving New York should have been enough. Despite my continuous cursing and whimpering spelled out on the blog, it was the only place I have instantly felt at home and in sync. I miss it. And I walk the familiar streets in my head with a longing of thankfulness and second thoughts.
Quitting my job should have been enough. While I may have stumbled into Shangri La for housewives, I feel useless. For the first time in my adult life, I can't affiliate my character with my daily agenda. A misnomer I admit, but the lack of production and a replenishing bank account is demoralizing, no matter what psychological color you paint it.
I haven't stopped thinking. I've ceased thinking provocatively. My daily musings are kept in check by lack of inspiration and make their way onto a page only when provoked by anger. Anger towards a world that often unfolds the opposite way I'm working.
This resistance makes me restless. And subsequently a recluse.
I'm all for quenching wanderlust, but my knapsack is the heaviest it's ever been and I'm looking to lighten my load.
Is it doubt or change that's the heaviest burden in life?
All my frozen words agree and say it's time to all back all the birds I sent to
Fly behind her castle walls, and I'm weary of the nights I've seen
Inside these empty walls.
Fly behind her castle walls, and I'm weary of the nights I've seen
Inside these empty walls.
~Birds of St. Marks
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