Me, the Moon, the Moose, and God

Driving home from work the other night, I felt the moon watching me. I looked at him trying to figure out what was on his mind. And then I think he winked at me because I caught his eye just as it squinted closed. It was barely a yellow slit in the sky, but there was recognition in it. He knew I was looking. Did he know that that night I needed a witness to my existence? One who cared I was on my way home? It was a peculiar moment. The kind that leaves goose bumps on your flesh and makes you feel like there must be more out there than you really think. I smiled and thanked God for the moment but half wished it could last longer. Just me, the moon and my moose* taking in the magnificent view before us.

But of course a moment is only a moment and cannot last longer than a moment. It passed. And of course it wasn't really the moon winking or blinking at me. The thought of this was sobering and my exhilaration quickly melted into despondency as I wished that the moon had indeed been watching me. And then I realized that even better than the moon, it was God Himself from His very heaven with His eyes upon me, watching my existence, thoughtful and caring, letting me know that I am not alone in this world. I do have an audience, an audience of One who sees me as I truly am - a princess with crown on head and royalty running through my veins. I am the daughter of a King - THE KING - and it is for His pleasure alone that I am able to roam, even if at times alone. That aloneness affords me precious and priceless opportunities to realize and experience His loving participation in my life. It blesses me with the freedom to go with haste wherever He chooses. It reminds me that if I could only have one, it is best that I have only Him as my one because He always has been and always will be the only One who is always present for me. What a blissful revelation.

So it was the moon winking at me. God knew it would stop me in my tracks, much like the burning bush caught Moses' attention so long ago. He knew that He had my interest and could speak what He would. He knew that I would listen and hear it true and clear. He knew I would accept it as a gift from His heart to mine. Just me, the moon, the moose* and God. What a glorious moment.

*my Oldsmobile

My Garden

I love my garden. It's happy and green, and it makes me feel happy and green. Because it thrives I believe my thumb must be green. More likely I grow plants that are hard to kill - though if any porch could kill them, it would be mine. During the summer months, it can reach a sweltering 100+ degrees on a hot day. All the heat from the surrounding rooftops seems to gather on my porch. It sure is hot. Each day I have to give all my little friends long drinks. I give them water, I give them food. I clip their dead flowers and branches. I cut back wild shoots of green that grow longer than they should. I pick their flowers. I smell my roses and then prick my fingers on their thorns. I prune them and talk to them. Many a happy hour is spent bent over working for their growth. Their progress brings me great joy when they flourish and a feeling of sadness if they die. These plants are my friends. They rustle and sing in the wind. They invite hummingbirds and butterflies to visit my porch. They provide cheer on dreary days. They give me the opportunity to keep them alive - to be disciplined to care for them. They are beautiful green reminders that life is not all concrete and metal. Sometimes I need that reminder. Oh how I love my garden.

On Snowflakes

"Under the microscope, I found that snowflakes were miracles of beauty; and it seemed a shame that this beauty should not be seen and appreciated by others. Every crystal was a masterpiece of design and no one design was ever repeated. When a snowflake melted, that design was forever lost. Just that much beauty was gone, without leaving any record behind." Wilson Bentley, Photographer, 1925.

I have loved snowflakes ever since growing up in Michigan where for several months of the year they whirl and swirl, dancing to the wind, sometimes floating up before making it to the ground, their descent hindered by the currents of the air they grace. For each kind of storm, a different kind of flake. Dainty, dreamy, delicately drifting, taking its time. Fluffy and weightless. Heavy and wet, more like clumps than individual flakes. Granular and icy, dry and powdery. The "whitening shower" as James Thomson described it. There is no end to their design and detail.

I have felt a special kinship to these crystal beauties as I have watched them, enchanted by their exquisite, delightful dances. I have heard them when they have tranquilly touched white forest floors blanketed by their own powder. I have felt their sting, their crisp chill upon my face when "the ways deep and the weather sharp" (T S Eliot). I have stood outside letting them fall on face and arms and hair until my teeth chattered, my hat was painted white, and the cold had penetrated to my shaking bones. I have watched with the glee of a child exclaiming how this one or that one was the biggest ever - so big that we could see the delicate details as it fluttered by. We used to set out wax paper to catch them, studying their intricacies until we breathed too closely and they melted. Great was our loss when that happened. Oh the joyful hours spent in pursuit of snowflakes. Even now I am enchanted and find immense happiness when I am home "when the icicles hang by the wall" (Shakespeare) and I can follow the furious flurries with my eyes.

Can it be that I am like a snowflake, without a duplicate, without a double? Without a doubt there is no other exactly like me. I have been designed and created by One who specializes in unique masterpieces, One who has blown into me a breath of life that no other can live, and One who has rejoiced over the breathtaking beauty of what He has made in me. I am priceless, unmistakably irreplaceable. Much like the loss of a snowflake when it melts is the loss of me when my life flame flickers out or is extinguished. The same Creator who made each individual snowflake has made me with His hands and with His heart. And though this world may not remember that I offered it anything, He has recorded my coming and going. Even more importantly, He has written my name in His book of life and my spirit will never melt as the ice of a snow crystal will. There will be no shame in the loss because my soul will live forever, a flurry of love for my Father.

Yes I am a snowflake. Take notice that I am specially sculpted. Take joy in the glorious genius of the Creator who knew where to cut to make my miraculous, glistening design. Take pleasure in the pattern that was penned for one purpose. His glory. And then remember that this is you too. You are a snowflake of infinite value, flitting here, swirling there, a blasting blizzard, falling furiously at times, a serene story, simply shining in the light of the sun by day or secretly sparkling in the glow of the moon by night. Without a doubt, whether you like it or not, you are like no other. A snowflake for His glory. Amen.

If I Were An Artist

If I were an artist, I would paint pictures of tall trees, their leaves dancing in the breeze, green and silver, changing colors in the late afternoon sun. I would paint silhouettes of stark black trees, black against the background of a grey sky, barren of leaves and color. I would paint snowflakes falling thick and white on black paper so each individual crystal could be seen. I would paint wistful memories and hopeful dreams all the while listening to Chopin's Nocturnes. My brush would bring life to a bare sheet of paper. It would dance in a myriad of colors and shapes. It would leave a story in it's wake of life - not mine but of some other's in a far away place. If only I were an artist.

Oh but I am an artist. I may not paint with brushes. I may not use watercolors or oils. Instead I use words, drawn with ink to tell my stories. Color still splashes on my page only I spread with vocabulary, rich yet subtle, bold yet sly. Rather than paint a picture with shapes and colors so you can make your own story, I paint the story with words so you can create your own picture. One kind of artist is no less an artist than another. I am an artist.

My Mom

I love my mom. She's beautiful inside and out. She's one of the smartest people I know. And she's blonde! Imagine that. It is a very rare occassion when she isn't optimistic and cheerful. If ever I need wisdom, she's full of it. And at times she's just "full of it"! Did I mention that she's fun? We have such a great time playing together. Whether it's making snow angels, shopping, baking, eating (donuts!! 2 not 1), watching movies or playing scrabble, we really enjoy each other's company...a lot. Not only is she my mom, but she's also my friend. One of my best friends. I can tell her anything. I am thankful for my mom. She makes me feel special and loved. And I hope I make her feel the same way.

Of Hummingbirds

There are few things I like so well as Hummingbirds. They are the most exquisite little creatures. So delicate and sweet yet faster than a speeding bullet (I'm not sure if they had a race with Superman, who would win!) I am blessed with a home that has 2 balconies - one on each side. And since my place is so small, they are right across from each other with about 6 feet between. One day I was sitting on my rocking chair talking on the phone to my niece Snow when all of a sudden, a beautiful little hummingbird came and levitated (as only they can) between the 2 doors. He looked at me. I looked at him. He looked at me some more. I whispered very excitedly to Snow that a hummingbird was in my apartment and maybe he came for tea. And then he kept going right out the other door. It was amazing. I felt like he had indeed come for tea but found me otherwise occupied. I wait now for him to return - hopefully not in vain.

Since then I received a hummingbird feeder to put on my porch. Now the hummingbirds come every day to suck the sweet nectar and check out what I am up to. I know they have taken to me just as I have taken to them. I can hear them coming - their wings sound like the bubble noise of a little submarine. They fight with each other on who gets to drink first. They come closer in if they're brave. Not too long ago I planted a flower (it's the same flower as in the picture) in a pot in front of my kitchen window that attracts these little wonders. In the mornings they come and stare at me through the glass. They probably wonder what I am having for breakfast. I talk to them. They chatter back. I know they have important things to say!

My favorite though is when they perch on top of the feeder. There is a red bendable thing that is supposed to be used for hanging. However, I have no place to hang it so set the feeder on my railings. Sometimes early in the morning, just as the sun shows his face, there is a little bird perched on the top - looking in the glass of the sliding door. I can see his outline and then as the sun comes up more, I can see the brilliant green of his head. I take a deep breath (in awe and wonder) and try to move very slowly so as not to make any noise lest he should fly away. I am delighted these mornings. I feel that God has visited me and bestowed upon me a gift of great value. He has reminded me that there is great joy in what He has created.

Amelia Otherwhere Reporting for Duty

You may now congratulate me - I am an official CERT member. What is CERT? I'm glad you have asked. It is Community Emergency Response Team. Basically it's trained volunteer help during crisis. The past 3 days have been spent in a little room at the TeWinkle Middle School in Costa Mesa learning about what I can do as a CERT member in the event of a disaster. This could include earthquakes, fires, terrorist attacks just to name a few. We learned about triaging. It's a french word that means "to sort" and was started during WWI to sort out the different levels of injuries in order to help them know who needed care first. There are the M's - minor injuries who can walk out and don't require much assistance. Next is the D for Delayed. They are injured but aren't going to die. After that is the I for Immediate. They are the ones who are breathing faster than 30 respiration's per minute, take longer than 2 seconds for the circulation in the fingers to reappear and/or are mentally unstable. These are the victims who are treated first. And then there are the DEAD. So the plan is to put a piece of tape on their chests with the letter of their need. Good to know. The next time I come across somebody with a piece of tape on their chest marked with a D, I will know they are not going to die immediately. It's a great system really. We learned how to do a full assessment on victims, how to move them properly, how to splint them using all sorts of creative tools. I can perform CPR, RPM and follow the ICS. I can partake in Light Search and Rescue. I can record everything that happens on my handy dandy notebook to be given to the Incident Commander. I could go on for hours if I were to write all I learned - or tried to learn in such a short amount of time.

My brain is full. In fact, I think it's bulging with information. I'm afraid to take my bandanna off for fear everything will fall out once it's gone. I know it's holding everything in right now. Unfortunately I think to make room for all this new information, the old stuff seems to have been deleted. There were some wonderful ideas in my brain, but now they're gone. I got nothing. Nothing. No wit. No charm. No jokes. Nothing funny to say. I can't even think of any snarky comments to make. That in itself has put me in a bad mood. I'm sure when I am trying to sleep tonight, it will all come flooding back and I will be awake for hours composing in my head. That's what I have been doing lately. Composing great works in my head at night. Too bad I'm too lazy to get up, turn my computer on, and type it out. If I did, there might truly be some greatness on this blog. Instead, here I am sitting at my desk wishing I had something of consequence to say.

I need a hair cut. It's just that time again. Why does it cost so much? That's what I wonder. Then again doing my hair is pretty cheap compared to a lot of my friends. I have it cut only 2-3 times a year. I don't dye it. I don't highlight it. Nothing fancy. However, I am the most critical person out there. If my hair isn't done perfectly, I am a mess. Several years ago I thought it would be fun to grow my hair out and then donate it to Locks of Love for kids with cancer for wigs. Ya - great idea right up until the time I was supposed to do it. Pretty much I talked myself out of it until one of my friends reminded me of what I had said. And since I had told people that's what I was doing, I figured I would be breaking my word if I didn't do it. Additionally, I felt very convicted that here I have this beautiful blonde curly hair that so many people pay lots and lots of money to have, and I am not willing to share with kids who have lost theirs to disease. Oh, yes, that was quite a conviction. So I had it cut. The lady did a terrible job. I don't even know what happened. And then she cut only 81/2-inches when they needed 10-inches. It was pretty devastating for me. Luckily God used a really bad haircut to do the most drastic soul restoration ever in my life. Isn't He funny?! He used it to open my eyes to some painful areas of my life and allowed me the awesome privilege of letting Him work in those places to bring about healing. Let's just say it was completely worth it. I'm still nervous about bad hair cuts, but luckily hair grows back so I'm not the same wreck I used to be. And it's a great story to share - all from a bad haircut. It's a very long story so if you're interested in hearing it, you'll have to ask me. I don't think I will write about it in here...at least not today.

Tomorrow I am taking the day off. I fully intend on sleeping in - like that will ever happen. More likely I will wake up at 5 or 6am and won't be able to go back to sleep. Wow, that's really pessimistic. I think I get pessimistic when I get tired. Or when I don't get what I want. Or when past experience calls for it. I will be hopeful though and plan for the best.

Are you about finished with my blog yet? Tired of reading the dull and mundane details of the life of Amelia Otherwhere. At the moment, I'd like to be otherwhere - like in Sweden or Italy or Ireland. Those are some great Otherwhere's. I'd like to wish upon a star tonight that I win the lotto and can take a trip across the big ocean to visit my friend Cece. That's what I want to do. So maybe instead I'll pray. I hear GOD is a lot more powerful than the star He created. Probably the star isn't going to get me anywhere. And even if the prayer doesn't get me to Sweden, I know God will hear my prayer and provide abundantly beyond what I can ask or even think to ask to His glory. That's what it's all about. His glory.

So I will close now and praise the One who created all and knows exactly what each of us needs and will provide it in the best way. That's something to think on. He knows. He provides. He is pleased to meet our needs. That makes me feel loved and secure. That's what I needed tonight. To feel loved and secure. And I do. Thank you God. I feel Your pleasure.

(P.S.way, I didn't get my apple fritter. There's always tomorrow...)

STUCK, Stuck, stuck!

I am stuck. Stuck, stuck, stuck. I am sitting in the Auto Care Express waiting for new brakes to be put on my car. I am stuck on a hard chair. Every 30 seconds or so I have to move from one cheek to the other so my leg doesn't hurt and my toes don't go numb. I am stuck here since I waited so long to have my car looked at. Not too smart says the voice in my head. Not too wise if you don't want to end up dead. My car, my faithful grandma car has been squeaking, squeaking, squeaking - worse than any angry mouse. Still I put off the inevitable until it became absolutely necessary to have it looked at. What made me come in now? Well, it was squeaking so loudly that people from other cars would look at me in awe and wonder. I don't think it was a good sort of awe and wonder. More like - "What the heck is wrong with your car, Lady?!" I don't like to be noticed - unless of course it's because I did something remarkable and wonderful or because I am drop-dead gorgeous (doesn't that kind of defeat the purpose to have others drop dead?). So this morning I brought it in thinking I was going to quickly drop it off, get a ride back to work and spend the day in the land of wedding scheduling. Alas no, I was told to wait while they checked out my faithful grandma car. It's the brakes. They're down to 5%. It would be bad to have them go out and run into one the fancy Porsche's or BMW's that inhabit Newport Beach. I don't think they would look at me in awe and wonder. They would probably want to crack me on the head with a stick. That would be bad - very bad. So I am stuck, stuck, stuck, waiting for new brake pads to be put on. And I sit here stressing a bit that I am supposed to be at work but I am not and what will happen - will the place fall apart without me? Will brides go postal because I can't help them schedule their special day? Oh, stuck, stuck, stuck.

I am deliciously stuck, stuck, stuck - now with the time to blog, blog, blog... (PS - if you type a word enough times, it starts looking very wrong!)

One Just Isn't Enough

When I went to bed last night, my mind kept wandering back to my blog. I kept saying it's name over and over in my head "Amelia Otherwhere and Other Such Nonsense", "Amelia Otherwhere and Other Such Nonsense". You've got to admit - It has a nice ring to it. Try saying it a few times and see if you don't think it as wonderful as I do. I sat for a good 20 minutes trying to come up with a name to rival both of my sister's blog names. Today April told me she was jealous of how cute mine is. Don't be jealous April. I was jealous of your blog in the same way. I mean, you have the greatest pictures. And your stories - I don't have a husband to be whitewashed by, but it sure sounds like fun! Yes, I was jealous too. But now I have my own. And I like it. A lot. It's me. Just like my red apartment. I open up my page and get all excited to see my picture and read my title. Just like that I have become addicted to a spot that will more than likely give away my secrets. Oh well. It will be worth it if I have a sense of fulfillment in my writing once again.

So a deep thought for the day:

When getting a donut, do you buy one, two, or three? And which do you choose? My mom loves donuts. I think she has instilled this love of donuts in her children. It's safe to say we all could have a serious donut problem if we weren't self-controlled or worried about looking like a donut. My mom would let us get 2 donuts when we were little. How can you just get one when there are two such scrumptious, mouthwatering masterpieces calling you from behind the finger printed window of the case. I bet there were nose marks and foggy areas from kids breathing hard as they tried to pick out which donut they got to eat. The kids in my family probably left quite a few marks on the glass of the Green's Bakery donut case. Ok, so back to the real story - donuts! This isn't about fog and nose marks on glass. So we used to get 2 donuts. One's not enough and three are too many. I have found in my adulthood that I struggle with just getting one donut. Is this something I can blame on my mom? At this age I suppose I should take the blame myself. I'm a big girl. I don't have to buy any donuts. Clearly, I don't have to eat them.

If food could be categorized into good and evil - donuts would definitely fall into the evil category. "Why?", you ask. Well, first, it's chock full of wheat and dairy. They are big no-no's for me. And then there is the sugar factor. I'm not supposed to have that either. Not to mention the fried in oil issue - probably which is hydrogenated or partially hydrogenated (you can pronounce that word any way you want!). Evil. Supremely evil. Right. I forgot to mention fat. One of my ballerina friends told me many years ago (yes, it has scarred me for life) that if you eat bread, you look like bread. I have transferred that to "if you eat donuts, you look like donuts". Although, maybe looking like an apple fritter isn't such a bad thing. Yum. Apple Fritters.

How did I get started on donuts? Oh yeah. I've had a craving now for 2 full days. It's not going away. Driving home last night, I past 3 donut shops. THREE!!! Thank goodness I was talking with April. She talked me off the ledge. I didn't jump off and get my donuts. This morning I wanted to go straight to the donut shop. I was close, but I didn't. Unfortunately the craving hasn't gone away. I still want a donut. Bad. Actually, I want two. Sometimes cravings don't go away until you satisfy them. I mean, do I really want to spend the next week at least eating everything else I can find just so I don't eat a donut. It would probably be better just to get the donut or donuts and be done with it. What do you think? I wonder what my mom's advice would be. Hmmm I wonder if she would last with a donut craving for 3 days. That's what I love about her...or just one of the many things...she doesn't stress about eating things she's not supposed to eat. I guess she doesn't really have food allergies, but still, she truly enjoys with no guilt. Oh that I were more like her (imagine I exhale wistfully).

Of all the wonderful, tasty, tempting donuts, which do I pick? Not too much thought goes into that one - obviously an apple fritter is my first choice. And the second - well, that's pretty easy too. An old fashioned glazed. If I'm really being ____(I can't think of the word and in classic books you often come to spots where there is a line like that for a missing work so I figure I too can do that on my blog), I choose the maple glazed old fashioned rather than the plain glazed.

All this talk of donuts has done nothing to remove my donut craving! Tomorrow morning, I just might drive to Huntington Beach to a donut shop I was told about yesterday. The guy said they are known for their apple fritters. We'll see. Maybe I will. Maybe I won't. I will tell you this much: if you see me and I look like an apple fritter, you will know what happened...

A word to the wise: it would be safer for you to not mention it if I do look like a donut.

My Name is Amelia, and I'm a Blogger

How did I get talked into having my own blog? It's one more thing to try to keep up when I have a hard enough time keeping up with everything else. Well, ok, maybe I talked myself into it. I read my sister's blog. I read my sister-in-law's blog. I read my nephew and niece's blogs. EVERYBODY has a blog but me (ok, maybe not everybody). And their blogs are so great. I want to have a great blog. I want to be a part of what they are doing. It's that part of me that doesn't want to be left behind. Maybe I'll have something to say. Maybe I won't. Maybe I'll be deep. Maybe I won't. Maybe it will be another thing I don't keep up. No matter because this is my space. It's my otherwhere to put my thoughts and other such nonsense.