be them yellow, black, or white

This morning, I went to Jerusalem Baptist Church to hear one of my student's drum for the band. He warned me that I might be the only white person there. When he said that, it didn't bother me at all; I've played for black churches plenty of times, been the only American in a roomful of friends on many occasions, and don't draw racial boundaries in my social life.

Two men directing the flow of parking-lot traffic. They waved me onwards, smiling, but looking kind of confused. Several people were also pleasant but confused as I made my way up the walk to the front doors. I was sure they were thinking, "does she know if she's in the right place?" or something.

Thus far in life, my denominational heritage hails from Roman Catholicism to Southern Baptist to everything in between. I am thankful for the theological diversity and challenges brought to me by being exposed to different outlooks on the Christian faith, but I am most thankful that my childhood church was so racially diverse. We had white families, black families, Taiwanese families, Hispanic families, and many mixed families. Growing up, I never assumed that congregational compositions would look any differently from my own.

I've seen, in some predominantly white and predominantly black churches, the slight discomfort that shrouds parishoners when someone different enters the sanctuary. A few years ago, I even witnessed an usher asking a man of a different color if this was the church he intended to attend that morning. Maybe that man thought his question was innocent, but it sounded appalling to my eavesdropping ears. I understand that we all have our own preferred styles of worship (contemporary, silent meditation, traditional, loud, etc) but shouldn't a sanctuary designed for prayer and worship of a mighty God equally embrace all of His children?

I was so glad that Timothy's church did. I saw him as soon as I stepped through the doors. I was able to meet his entire family, including aunts and a great-grandmother. A few other students were there, too, and it was fantastic. Everyone was so pleasant, welcoming, inviting. They all wanted to know why I was there, and I told them I came to hear Timothy on the drums, since he's been braggin' on himself all year long (he was, in fact, quite impressive--he was so right on with every rhythm and realy inventive with certain fills).

It was an amazing experience for me to partake in worship with my students, and even more, to be led in worship by one. The service was so beautiful to me: the preaching was heartfelt, the congregation was warm, and even though I'd never met those people or entered that buildling before, it was so familiar to me. I am absolutely certain that such familiarity can only come from the presence of God's spirit and His people's heart for worship.

homer beam

Listening to: HBO's Deadwood in the background--not my fave of all the HBO series-but yeah.
Thinking about: how I need to quit procrastinating grading.
Excited: that I am becoming a smarter shopper. (I always make great purchases,friends, but now I just make them more infrequently and of less quantity)!
Also excited that: I bought a little plant tonight--two years ago I was a mass plant murderer, but have since repented and I love this little guy!

Once or twice a year, I get a craving for my native Long Island: the Sound, the beaches, the Italian familes and pastries, a decent bagel, Macy's, Bloomie's, Lord and Taylor, high school friends, and the city. It's been years since I could claim New York as my residence; nonetheless, it remains a part of my definition of home. Lately, I like to go home to visit my folks, my brothers, and my mountains in Bedford, Virginia. Four years ago, I didn't want to even hear about anything related to Bedford or Virginia; now it's "home."

A day on Long Island reminds me of why I loved it and why I left, and driving back to Richmond from my weekends in Bedford makes me miss my mother more than ever.

It also makes me want to kidnap my puppy.

Granted, Homer Beam (after "Simpson" and "Jim"; named by the great James Frazer) isn't really a puppy any more--he'll be 3 in the fall. Our family never kept pets before Homer--James somehow connived my parents into thinking that having Homer would be good for them, becoming empty-nesters and all.

Indeed, Homer's been great for my parents; he's like their fourth child. Literally. This dog has a high-budget indoor wicker dog-house, gets fed leftover lasagna, steak, and pumpkin bread, and gets a present every time Mom goes to Wal-mart. Homer has special "sleeping music" (I can't believe I'm sharing this information with the world) and listens to "Frank and friends" on the local a.m. station on Sunday afternoons. My mom even puts on the Christian stations for him on weekday mornings so he "has church." Can you believe this?

I absolutely love my parents, and they're definitely entertaining, amusing characters, but is this normal?

Sigh....so yes, I miss my puppy. I must confess to spoiling him in my own ways, too. I'm like a five year-old child when he begs for food at the end of meal and I toss him scraps...he's not supposed to get up on the furniture but I designated him a spot on the hassack....he's not allowed upstairs but I always sneak him up there....

Before I moved to Richmond, I stopped in this wacky store on Main Street called "The Prissy Parrot." After browsing a bit, I spotted him. Bernie: a stuffed dog that was too adorable for words. I have never bought a stuffed animal for myself, and I haven't even really dealt with one since I turned, oh, about 20 or so. Bernie, however, was irresistable. I decided he was my Homer substitute for Richmond.

Every Sunday, I skim the pet section in the classifieds. I'm always tempted to call and visit one of the puppies, you know, to see if I could take him home, but I can't. Never mind that I'm out of the house constantly and it's too small a space to be fair to a dog--I can't bear the thought of cheating on Homer.

**excuse the Hallmark gaggy factor of this essay. I'm a little off this weekend. Just ready for the summer to get here already!!!**

worthless tuesday and dating Leroy

Listening: to some horn player on NPR
Thinking: about getting off me arse and going to the Y
Excited: about making music this weekend-and today is Shakespeare's assumed birthday and documented, um, er, death-day. (That sounds incredibly morbid. Let's just say he entered and left this world on April 23rd, many years apart. My students were equally appalled and fascinated). The weekend means time off from deep thought. At least according to me and just for today...onto fluff of a musical nature. Do not read unless you are prepared to think little and go along with it:

I

True or false: switching instruments is never a good idea.
Ask Flores, "the sexy Mexi" or Josh of Aunt Hoo Fung fame. You don't have to go too far to consult James Frazer about this poor idea. When it comes to playing music, I should either stick with what I know or committ enough to get better at something else, or both.

The only time an instrument switch has ever been effective: WORTHLESS TUESDAY. You know it people: the infamous Carson-Newman band of many members, none of whom played their own horn. I, in fact, was the bassist on several hits, including "Santeria." We did fun covers and made up songs as we went long and recorded this genius process. I am still waiting (!) for Aaron Jones to send me these live recordings; there are many and I have only 2 CDs. Forgive me for using this entry as a shameless plea and advert (haha, how British) for someone to get on the phone with Bones. Also consider this a shameless advert for a summer reunion and now MAK can join us since she's picked up ye olde mandolin.

II
So, I have this keyboard. His name is Leroy, because he is big and full of soul. (And I don't know a single white guy named Leroy). Leroy and I have been together for four years now. I remember the day I met him: Daddy and I went to Sam Ash, former mecca of music stores, whom I still prefer over Guitar Center. For several months, I was checking Leroy out. I'd go into the keyboard section, try out a Roland or two, and eventually work my way over to the beautiful Yamahas in the corner. Leroy had everything I wanted: a true piano sound, not too many crazy buttons, and a real weighted feel in the keys. Perfect. Charlie (that's my dad) made sure I could pick Leroy up and carry him around in his case--you can't always assume someone's going to be around to help you with equipment. Leroy came home that day.

Of course, this was back during a time when I had plenty of musician friends and we were making music on a daily (or nightly) basis. Leroy got a lot of action. He never stayed in one place for very long, until I came here. (Here meaning Short Pump, which is the very newest and poshest section of the West End, for you non-Virginians...wait, I'M a non-Virginian).

I am guilty of ignoring Leroy these days. He's been camping out in my car for two weeks and hasn't gotten any play in the same amount of time. I've been busy but that doesn't mean I haven't been thinking about him. My dad has warned me plenty that leaving him out in the car is a bad idea: someone else may come along and take him away or his circuits could deteriorate in the damp weather and he could bail. I've neglected him, and just hope he stays faithful to me and doesn't leave. Moral of the story: treat your Leroy well.

author's note: this story is neither symbolic nor metaphorical of any assumed topic; it is merely the author's weak and cheezy attempt to personify her keyboard (no crack was involved). I warned you not to get too deep.

tarnished, hidden, and buried.

Listening to : Travis (the band)
Thinking about: things that are bothering me
Excited about: the existence and proximity of a weekend

Jamiroquai: "I guess I'm just an educated fool."
The Counting Crows: "Believe in me, cause I don't believe in anything, and I want to be someone who believes."

I have plenty of theology, some strong beliefs about Christ, and I even go as far as to call myself a Christian, although I sometimes hesitate to use that term since folks like Jerry Falwell have sullied the name in certain parts of Virginia (where I live, obviously). It has taken me all of my years until this very day to truly comprehend that no matter what you think about living in this world and the potential thereafter, it's of no use unless you live as you believe. What you believe about any given topic dictates your approach; alas, too many people use beliefs to prescribe themselves a code of conduct. However strict or lenient, it remains a code.

The two philosophies by which I abide are based on the love of Christ: experience it to its fullness, love him equally as well, then share that love with others. I so strongly believe in these ideas; they help compose my foundation! But how can I even claim these are my truths when I neglect to experience that same love? I neglect by failing to simply trust, hope, and believe. I sometimes allow doubt, comparisons, opinions, and standards of the world to tarnish my trust, hide my hope, and bury my ability to believe. Thankfully, grace exists and sends us reminders lest we forget.

peace sign

Listening to: Ben Harper--and now he's over so it's back to my main man, John Legend :) LOVE him.
Thinking about: how it feels to be slightly sunburned and have a fan blowing on your skin--like summertime
Excited about: 36 class days left until summer....

I find the idea of peace fascinating. Your entire perception and approach to the world around you and the life you live alters in such a magical way when you experience peace. Call it a state of mind or a gift of God (interdependent?) but a tranquil and easy-going spirit relieve the difficulty of the day.

For months I felt unsettled but came into a season of peace. It seems that when we try too hard to keep our hands in everything, we wear ourselves out and ultimately succumb to the peace that would have guided and guarded us the whole time. I might soon find myself unsettled again in terms of home, career, et cetera. Shouldn't I be scared, worried, ready to draw out a blueprint for Plan C? Wouldn't a wise woman make logical decisions to advance professionally and progress personally?

I imagine that the truly wise woman, by taking a knowing glance at her own heart, mutes the voices of modern reason and listens to the calm, still spirit within herself that beckons her to patience, trust, and enjoyment of each step along the way.

invitation

Anthony makes these lists all the time on his blog; I know someone in Minnesota who keeps all kinds of crazy lists on his computer. "Real Simple" magazine did an entire story on list-making. I, myself, am a hard-core list-maker, although I usually prefer to write them in a very inky pen or else a nice pencil on soft pads of paper....because those were important details I felt like sharing...? Every New Year's Night, I concoct a list of goals for my year. Note that these are not resolutions, since promises can be broken easily. Goals, though, provide a direction, give you hope, because you can still mess up and get yourself together enough again to achieve whatever it is that you have hoped to achieve. It is my religion for that night of each year.

Since I just posted about 'dreams,' I thought it would be appropo to share some of these tangible dreams with you (because I believe that they are, indeed, tangible):

go whitewater kayaking one day
see Mount Everest
live in a place above a store in an old part of town
live in a quiet house on a pond/lake/river
own a canoe
sell everything and move to Italy (or maybe just put it in storage for a while)
be a buyer for Ann Taylor Loft
single-handlely change the face of U.S. education by becoming the Secretary of Education
teach creative writing full-time
do missions work/ESL overseas
write for magazines
become a real poet (not like the fake faker I am today)
tango like a mofo
own a kickin' coffeehouse
lead the band at a very smoky sort of jazz/blues lounge/club (but it won't really be smoky)
have a torrid love affair with a hot Australian (for the accent, you know)
or just find that best-friend-sort-of-person-who-you-happen-to-fall-in-love-with kinda deal. In a Meg Ryan movie kinda way.

Aren't they lovely?

foolishness and cliches abounding

So every now and again, I assign my students an essay where they have to discuss their goals, their plans, etc. I had them write to me about "a dream that they have" last week. The proscrastinator that I am, I finally read these journal entries this morning. They dream, and they dream big.

I have always dreamed of getting married (we're still waiting on this one). Before I got to college, I dreamed of going to college. Before then, I dreamed of a huge social life. Before then, I dreamed of being an accomplished musician, either when I banged out tunes to a pretend Grammy audience in my living room or singing Debbie Gibson songs into a brush and dancing in my mirror. And in between these, I dreamed of walking into a book store and seeing my name on the shelves.

A few years ago, I was a college graduate without any real sense of direction for a career. It's not that I was a drifter-sort, or even unmotivated. Quite the opposite-there were just too many possibilities, and unfortunately most of them required a great amount of committment, even in the beginning. I dabbled with law and decided to enter teaching instead,seemed so much better for me. I mean, whoever goes to a lawyer for a postive reason, really. So, I was consumed with the idea of finding a career, a profession. Perhaps I equated my defintion of self with one's job? (very likely). I also allowed myself to believe that once you find something that you love, that's it.

Last year, I felt so driven to get out of bed and unlock the classroom and make a difference. Make a difference, make a difference, heal the world and make it a better place (mj, how ironic)--this was my theme for the year and even now. I can't imagine a better platform for reaching out and building rapports with kids and MAKING a difference in the world than in the very classroom in which I teach. So why have I been so unhappy this year? Well, I do laugh every day, I do love my students with my entire heart and mind, and I do see that what I do can plant more seeds than pollen spreads--but something is different......

Aha! Aside from living alone in a new city and feeling overwhelmingly displaced, I've nearly succumbed to something that I've made a mission to avoid: mediocrity, specifically in terms of lifestyle.

"Climbing the ladder," "building my resume," and "job security" are all ideas I almost adopted (and probably did, for a short while) this past year. I think I almost lost my imagination from growing so familiar with a yuppie life. How foolish for a twenty-five year old young woman without a committment in the world. "Everything happens for a reason." Trite and true--it's my very same students from this wretched professional year that have taught me how to dream again.