A couple of other blogs

I know, I know. I think I am a blog traitor.

Here's the story:

I fell in love with a couple of blogs on wordpress, like this one, and then got curious myself, so I started playing around with creating my own template, font, posts, etc and grew to love it. However, I could not bring myself to abandon this sweet little blog of mine that no one reads. It's like moving on to a new journal, something I love and loathe. It's being unwilling to embrace change on the most micro of all scales.

So, anyway, HERE is what I dubbed "Words of Art."

I like wordplay, okay? So read there, read here. I'll be around.

I also started a blog specifically for my Montpellier trip (also, Wordpress *cowers in shame*) that begins, oh, I don't know, NEXT WEDNESDAY?!?!?!

Not. Real.

...But until then, Happy Holidays from my family to yours!

Christmas Morning in the Bible Belt

I avoid writing when life gets busy, messy, stressful, too much, too little, over-the-top, and a host of other reasons that never seem to matter when I flip through blogs and journals and several months of my life go unrecorded. It's sporadic and irksome, but I usually just let future me deal with those emotions. Future me has a lot to deal with, let me tell you.

Does anyone else do this? Let future them remember to buy scotch tape? Or future them can go for that jog you put off?

Maybe it's just me.

Anyway, this is my way of excusing myself for a large jump from October to 5am Christmas morning. This is a tradition I involuntarily partake in every year. Somehow my internal clock, or maybe the six year old still inside who enjoys Barbie sagas and sassy comebacks, tells me in all caps THAT IT IS CHRISTMAS AND I NEED TO WAKE UP BECAUSE PRESENTS AND SANTA AND STOCKINGS AND CHRISTMAS!!

Quite a wake-up call.

I should have expected this tradition to follow me, even all the way to Houston, Texas. Though, the upside is it has all of the factors for a Madeline writing environment: quiet house, ungodly hour, and I can listen to Fleetwood Mac all I want. Merry Christmas!

Here are some things that are currently real, but I refuse to acknowledge the reality:
-I am going to France. FRANCE. Montpellier, France. To study abroad for 5 months.
-I still don't have my Visa, and neither does Ben.
-My family lives in Texas now?
-Second year senior lap is looking pretty probable
-My best friend is getting married 15 days after I come back from France
-I found my niche, my spot, my love, my passion, myself in Lincoln freaking Nebraska.

I've been submerged in the sub-culture that is Christianity. At times I felt like I was drowning in it, breathing someone else's air, learning someone else's rules.

The best way I can equate all of this to myself is that it's been a quest for God, the real God. The one who loves, who has grace for me, who knocks me down from my very, very high horse. The one who cares for me, not for all of the great stuff I do and all of the bad stuff I abstain from to make the good stuff I do even better.

This wack-job system was not created by God.
God didn't create a system, but he crafted his son, an infant.

We went to a "children's mass" (on accident, really) and it was full of laughing kids, crying babies, squirmy toddlers, breathless parents, and five very giggly Smiths. It was less than focused, but I loved it. If you know me, you know I'm much more apt to spend the afternoon with the elderly than children, I like kids, but I don't melt at the sight of a classroom full of sticky youths. Whoops.

But this Christmas Eve Mass grabbed ahold of my heart and refused to let go. Children dressed up in their Holiday-gear: mini blazers, micro-sized sweaters, petite dresses. I about died. And of course, there was the moment when the priest had the kids sing Happy Birthday to Jesus, which was followed by asking who was born in a house? a hospital? (I got to raise my hand for this one), how about a barn? No one.

Then, suddenly, a squeak from the front yelled out, "JESUS!"

The congregation erupted in laughter, and I couldn't help but feel this is what Jesus would have wanted his birthday party to look like. Yes, I understand that culturally we decided to assign meaning to a day of the year that has nothing to do with a middle eastern man having a birthday cake. I GET IT. I took literary theory, trust me, I know.

But Jesus meets us where we are, and I am here in Texas, and we threw him a birthday party with everything I know He loves: His people, His church, His creation.

I am thankful to be here, I am thankful for this apartment I share with four people who love me no matter how ugly I get, and I think Jesus would have wanted that at his birthday party, too.

Choosing Joy

Thursday Gifts:

Jean Skirts

Nat King Cole

Rocking out to Beyonce with Ben

A full pot of coffee to myself

The promise of a long weekend

Fellowship

Winter clothes brought into the cool air

Letters that aren't really letters

Completed papers

Late night laundry

Facebook threads that are too hilarious to hate

Parodies

The Staves

Scrambled eggs with red pepper flakes

Pea-coats

Decorative lanterns

Homemade sandwiches

Those Places

You know those places? The ones that swallow you up and make you feel snug?

I think you do.

And if you're like me, they are rarely expected and hardly appreciated while you're there.

Turns out no matter how many imaginary homes you decorate with plum bedspreads, personal libraries, trendy shelves, antique lighting, and kitchens stocked with exceptional cookware, it still cannot define where you feel at home.

I struggle with this, with home.

The places my soul finds rest, where it can truly be - that is home to me.

However.

However, I have a lot of ideas, terrible ones in fact, of where I belong. Where I will thrive. Where I will find peace, rest, life, understanding, God.

Okay, okay my ideas are not all terrible, but the thing is, I spend so much energy focusing on what it should look like that I refuse to admit when I fit into a place I did not hand pick myself.

You'd think for the amount of time I spend with myself, talking to myself, thinking to myself, writing about myself, deciding things for myself that I'd know myself a little bit better than I do.

Le Sigh.

I am just thankful that there is a God that is patient with me, and gives me people to show me that patience. I am thankful for a small Nebraska farmplace that has held me as I let go of my previous notions of home, and a man that sees me with more clarity than I see myself.

“It is always the simple things that change our lives. And these things never happen when you are looking for them to happen. Life will reveal answers at the pace life wishes to do so. You feel like running, but life is on a stroll. This is how God does things.” 
― Donald Miller

A-freakin'-men.

Checklists and too many to-do lists

I have spent the past few weeks prepping, browsing, panicking, wondering, writing, meeting, and plain 'ol stressing. Yes, yes I realize studying abroad in another country takes work, coroporation, and a whole lot of beurocracy. It's a lot, and I'll admit it, I'm tangled in the never ending web of paperwork, checklists, applications, and essays describing myself in a way that always induces my gag-reflex.

It's been quite the process, but we've made it.

Both Ben and I received our acceptance from the University of Minnesota this week: commence the madness!!

Fun linguistic side note: Commencer = to begin - in French.

Okay, well, it's fun for the English/French majors and the like. But really, I love catching phrases we've borrowed from those mustache-twirling, cigarette-smoking Frenchies.

Anyway, it's been a busy week, and I need to slow down and make a more life-giving list. One that does not require paperwork, signatures, or signing away every penny I have.

My Bible study is reading One Thousand Gifts, and though the writing is fairly cheesy and difficult to take seriously at times, the notion that we get to choose joy is a wonderful one. I love the idea of an on-going list of things I would not normally consider "gifts" because they become so embedded in my day-to-day.

Here goes.

October gifts:

When all of the documents at work open up on the first try
Phone calls from my favorite person
Walking to the bus stop as leaves fall to the ground
3-D movies with friends
Free popcorn
J. Crew emails
Parallel parking with David's assistance
Morning coffee
Laughing with my coworkers
Unexpected chats with Sunny at the dinner table
Reconnecting with old friends via text
Group messages
Jonagold apples
Mindless TV with the roomies
Red pepper flakes
Long weekend plans
All of my amateur photos of sun spilling into my favorite versions of home:

Fall Playlist: Part Two

Since my first fall playlist post continues to get hits a year after I posted it for reasons past my understanding, I thought I'd post a 2013 version.

Okay, the truth of it is I have this feeling the reason the 2012 post was popular is not because of my stellar writing, nor my brilliant music choices, but because I borrowed several "fall" images from an impromptu google search, which, in turn, directs people to my post when they click on the image....

Eh. Take what you can get.

No matter, I will make another one anyway because compiling playlists is alway more fun than whatever I am supposed to be doing - in this case, it's editing four creative writing pieces for my fiction class. Can you say, "Score?!"

If you can, lovely. I, however, cannot.

So here we are. Songs that annotate the time of year everyone claims as their own. Every filtered picture of an apple tree is a unique creation, every status about changing leaves has never been posted before, every pair of brown, knee-high boots is inspired.

I could go on, but my words might come out more bitter than my dark roast coffee.

Anyway, here goes!

Easy to Love - Ivan & Alyosha
Quiet Houses - Fleet Foxes
Eavesdrop - The Civil Wars
Autumn Leaves - Nat King Cole
Nice Fox - The Rosebuds
The Call (Live London Version) - Regina Spektor
My My Love - Joshua Radin
Reflecting Light - Sam Phillips
Big Bird in a Small Cage - Patrick Watson
Bleecker Street - Simon & Garfukel
Mary - Noah and the Whale
Curs in the Weeds - Horse Feathers
Dead Sea - The Lumineers
Ant Farm - Eels

Aide-toi et le ciel t'aidera (Heaven helps those who help themselves)

She adores the soft vowels and pursing lips. The sweet pastries that flake from buttery baking sheets to the paper they hand it to you in. The melodious way “cwass-ahnt” sounds tumbling out of her mouth. She adores the people: the snobbish ones, the childish ones, the glaring-on-the-metro ones, the fashionable ones, the ones who have no time for anyone, the ones with the sing-song-y southern accents, the smiley ones, the patisserie ones.

She loves the music with wacko lyrics that shout about thumbs and crack and the way their love looks at them across a room full of squares. Their movies are imaginative, and though they also have “comedie romantique” they also have a myriad of films that merge reality with absurd. Shots with a hint of independent film, but then matched with the dialogue of a Blockbuster hit.

Is “Blockbuster” even a term anymore?
Will the new term be a “Netflix hit?”

Their verbs are ridiculous and conjugating verbs in over 8 different variations is the most tedious exercise, but embracing this, to her, denotes true love. Because despite the absurdities posed avec le passé composé, and the attitude “etre” brings with it wherever it goes, she wouldn’t have it any other way. The pretention of the French and their constant disregard for the some rules while staunchly clinging to others is what makes them French. Yes, it’s the nude beaches, the berets, the baguettes, the wine, and, of course, the cheese. Yes, it’s the Eiffel tower, the rich history, the needy street vendors, the cafés, the accordions. 

Yes, it’s the little French maid outfits and garcon aprons. It’s Julia Child and escargot. It’s bike messengers and French kissing. It’s “Merde!” It’s Notre Dame. It’s Musee D’orsay. It’s Monet’s gardens and his Japanese bridges. It’s Marie Antoinette and “Let them eat cake!” It’s fabulous shopping and racy Vogue photo shoots. It’s the Sun King and lavish gardens that starve a nation. It’s an entire valley dedicated to castles. It’s the macaroons, the chausson au pomme and pain au chocolate. 


It’s cwass-ahnt. It’s the Charles de Gaulle, the Gare du Nord, Le Metro. It’s the floral countryside and legendary literature. It’s the cigarettes, the fur, the city lights. It’s the small towns, the neighborhood markets, the fresh produce. It’s the impeccable culinary dishes. It’s the soup with onion, the coq au vin, le crepe. It’s simplicity, it’s glamour. It’s exploration and pop stars that marry the president. It’s the geometric bushes and petite bulldogs. It’s Bastille day, it’s ballet shoes, it’s “vive la France!”

But amidst the stereotypes and love for sweets that melt on the tongue, is grammar and sweaty palms. The trembling the moment it’s your turn to utter “je suis…” It’s boldly speaking with vowels that don’t exist in your own alphabet. There are accents to scribble with an uncertain pen and lots of silent consonants. Hours spent agonizing over “miex” vs “Meilleur” vs “MERDE!”

Intonation, rhythm, understanding, comprehension, analyzation, writing, articulating, linguistic-ing, listening, trying, failing.

Next to a bucket list of adventures including sites to see, countries to live in, memories to be made, sits the lofty goal to master another language. To have the vocabulary and the stamina to relate to an entirely different variety of people who know a thing or two about nasally vowels.  This requires confidence, it requires failure. It requires a willingness to hear your own voice seduce another alphabet, write words never encountered before, Google countries you never thought you’d need to discover.