"Can I give this lady some free guac?"

I wasn’t a picky kid when I was younger, but there was one thing I couldn’t stand. Avocados. Oh, the texture. The smooshy green pieces slid down your throat. There wasn’t anything that I couldn’t eat, but avocados… they made me gag. Really gag.

We have a policy in our family that no matter what it is, no matter how much you hate it, you have to eat a tiny bit every time it’s served. So I did. I’d quickly search my salad, or whatever it was, pick out one nice gooy piece, and with glass in hand quickly swallow it.

I’m not sure when it happened. Or how it did. But I like avocados now, and like is a weak word. Actually I love avocados now. And it wasn’t something that slowly happened, it was a sudden occurrence. Now I can’t get enough of them. It’s sort of sad, because living in Minnesota means that they are expensive, not very plentiful and mushy by the time you get to them (or they get to you).

When I went to visit my friend in the Bahamas and, get this, she has an avocado tree in her back yard! We literally ate them for breakfast , lunch and supper. And any time we were hungry. Lots of salt and pepper. Creole seasoning. On their own. Mmmmm, delicious. Nice and firm, just picked and perfectly ripe, and huge. I’d never seen such big ones. We brought them to the island, and they were even better there. So I ate my fill for ten days, and now I dream about them.

Oh and then there’s guacamole... I used the think it was smooshy* and not worth ruining your chip for. Not anymore. Blend up that gorgeous green stuff, add some lime juice and salt, crush some garlic and pull out the chips. Especially Chipotle’s guac, it’s smooth and creamy, with cilantro and salsa. Add a burrito and it’s heaven. Plus, bring your mom along. Because she’s amazing at getting free stuff.

[This was a lot harder than I thought it was going to be... sorry guys! hahah, I think I'll stick to letting Jennette assign us stuff. I *do* want to try something like this again... maybe something a little less specific...]

Boxes: A Short Story

“She turned the business card over in her hands, feeling the smoothness with her fingers. She contemplated the story it might tell, but for some reason her mind couldn’t go anywhere other than a romantic meeting of the guy and a girl.

“What is wrong with my brain?” she wondered. Sometimes she felt her mind was stuck on one track, and even though she hadn’t placed it there, she couldn’t get it off.

Stories. That was what she thought about. Always thought about stories. But lately her stories were limited to love stories. She loved adventure, but she had no plots without guy plus girl. “Oh boy, I feel like a hopeless romantic.”

And this writing was making things no better. She sighed and laid down her pen.”

Smiling she turned the page. Sitting back on her heels, she pulled the box full of journals closer. Reading them was amusing, to say the least. “I was such a hopeless dork!” She kept turning the pages. This one was from 2006, and so much had changed since then.

She resumed her reading, losing herself in her thoughts from long ago. Struggles with her life and her work that seemed so large then, but in hindsight appeared almost laughable. Entry after entry made mountains out of molehills, but she survived, and what was happening in the present made all the scraps worth it.

Some of the entries made a few tears trickle* out, while others made her laugh. “Oh I wish I had known what would happen after that,” she sighed. 

Then of course there were the multiple entries like the above one. “Geeze, girl, what was your problem. It’s not the only thing in life, and boy am I glad I’ve figured that all out now.” She rolled her eyes at the old her, and all her “heart problems” and “boy issues”.

“Whatever made me think that about him?” “Wow, that was stupid.” “girly, it’s not that big of a deal. You’ll get over it.”

She closed the journal, and stacked it back in the box, replacing the cover and carrying it to the storage closet. She shut the door and smiled at how mature she felt after reading her old problems. In her pocket her phone started vibrating. Looking down her heart jumped, breathing deep she tried to calm it.

“Hello? Oh hey!” Thump.

*yes Jennette... they trickled. 

Love Hurts

There's been a lot on my mind lately. Questions that aren't always answered, thoughts floating around, answers coming slowly out of the fog. A 13 year-old friend of a friend that died in a car accident. A dream that made me re-visit the memories of a family friend's newborn baby going to heaven too soon. Feeling God's overwhelming love. Seeing tragedy in the world, in Japan. Hearing my Aunt's story of two babies saved outside the Planned Parenthood this morning. God's love will conquer. Lord, make beauty out of these ashes.


These are the thoughts that came out of my fingers tonight. I hope they make sense.


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What is our heart? When we’re happy we say our heart is full. When something bad happens, we say our heart hurts. When we get hurt by someone, we say its broken.

Can we break our heart? Part of me is inclined to think when we use that, we really just have mental issues. If we magically had a switch, that turned off our brain or our thought process, would we still end up with pieces? If we convinced ourselves that nothing was really the matter, would our heart still hurt?

Solomon told us to “Keep our heart with all diligence, for out of it are the issues of life.” Is he really telling us to guard our mind? Our thoughts? Our feelings? 

The same word used for heart here was commonly used for the feelings. The Strong’s Concordance also describes it as the inner man, mind, will, heart, understanding. The inner part, or the midst of things. I’d say he’s talking about our mind here.

But, I think there’s a part of us, our feelings, our inner part, that’s disconnected from our minds. Sometimes my heart does ache, sometimes even when my mind can’t make sense of things, it hurts.

Honestly, I think broken “hearts” are a part of life. This earth isn’t perfect, and bad things happen. If we are attempting to love imperfect people with a perfect un-ending love, we’re bound to end up with pieces.

God want's our hearts, and we can’t be afraid of being broken. Do you think Jesus’ heart was all in one beautiful piece while He was hanging on the cross for Love?

It hurts to love someone. Jesus knows. I’m not sure any of us could hurt more than He did and has, and does. Sometimes that love breaks us, sometimes it hurts us, sometimes it aches. Sometimes we wonder why? Why does it have to be this way? It’s not fair.

But it’s worth it. It’s the only way. The alternative is a whole heart, but an empty one. You can’t fill something that that doesn’t have an opening. Love is the only way our world, our hearts, our minds can be healed. Love is the only way, even if it hurts.

“For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.” {Romans 8:38-39}

Like a Mustard Seed

I need more faith. Not because more faith would make more things happen in my life, mainly because more faith would make life easier.

I tend to worry, and wonder and complain, instead of resting, and trusting while being content. It’s funny how faith is more for us, and not for God. The strength of our faith doesn’t affect the outcome, remember all we have to have is a mustard seed, and that’s not much at all. I remember one time at church Mr. Gillson said, “The outcome of a situation doesn’t rest in how much faith you have, but it rests in how reliable the source of your faith is.”

If I decide to step onto a thin sheet of ice, despite how much I believe that the ice will hold me… it probably won’t. But if I choose to step out, trusting in God, He will always hold me.

Our God never fails us, no matter how much faith we have.

He replied, "If you have faith as small as a mustard seed, you can say to this mulberry tree, 'Be uprooted and planted in the sea,' and it will obey you. {Luke 17:6}

The Dreaded Poetry

A cloudy day, a comfy hoody, business books, and image back-ups. Coffee and pumpkin bars with cream cheese frosting. Comfortably achy muscles from yesterday’s workout, conversations with friends, and that little nagging thought in the back of your brain, “mmm, you’d better not put off that poetry too long”.

Such is my day. And it’s a good one, except for the poetry part.

Syllables. I’m not sure if I should admit how hard a time I have with these. I know, I was homeschooled. Wait, thought is only one syllable???

Why did I agree to this? Where is writing poetry going to get me? Maybe I’ll do the response instead. Yeah, that’s a brilliant idea.

I guess if I could write poetry like that I would.

Other thoughts fly through my head: “bring Sarah a business card. Remind the parents sign up starts today. Shoot pictures for tomorrow’s LDPS. Finish the wedding contract. Oh and write something for Red Ink.”

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Black marks on a page

Brings fascinating emotion

And takes me somewhere

Obscure story of

Pain trial triumph hope love

Runs through cluttered thoughts

An adventure of

Living life finding knowledge

Slowly taking shape

Sentences forming

Writing words and syllables

Worlds come into view

People places ideas

My book filling fast with dreams

Final page happy thoughts

Flipping pages cover closed

Peaceful content not for long

More thoughts more marks come.

Grammer and Smarts - My Niagara Response

I wish I could write like Mark Twain. Although he uses enormous words, quite a few you don’t understand and plenty you’ve never heard, he keeps you entertained even if you are a slight bit confused. I laugh at things I’m not sure I understand, and he has my favorite kind of sarcastic humor. The things he said to the supposed Indians, and his last paragraph on his fatal injuries, made me love the essay.

He inspires me to go read the dictionary to expand my vocabulary, and not just the encyclopedias [yes, true story. I used to read through the encyclopedias when I was young]. It makes me want to be smarter, so I can write smarter. He also inspires me to be more humorous in my writing. I aspire to make my readers laugh and relate while reading my writings. 

I miss this quality of writing. In this era of facebooking and texting and emailing, nothing sounds even close to his Niagra ramblings.

“Wht up w u? im gnna b @ concrt”

“hey brb in 2 sec”

“idk wht 2 think”

Although I might be slightly confused, I’m definitely not entertained at the same time. Half the time I pick up a kids book to read to my siblings I wonder what pre-schooler wrote this one. Or when I read someone’s comment on facebook, and I have to go over it three times to understand what they are saying due to lack of punctuation and misspelt words, I have to think, are we really that dumb? Or are we that lazy?

[If I was a conspiracy theorist, I might wonder if it’s a plot to dumb us down, so we don’t realize a few people are planning on taking over the world, but I’m not. Or maybe I am. There are more ridiculous thoughts. ]

I could now get started on about people’s punctuation and grammar, oh and their lack of capitalization [that one really gets me, really guys? It’s that much harder to write “I” instead of “i”?], but the real reason we started this was to like improve our righting so I should proly stop here for i expose my lack of smartness.  ;)

Sports Writing: Softball

{This was fun for me, because I really like sports. I like watching them, playing them, writing about them. Well most of them... I really don't enjoy golf, for multiple reasons that you probably shouldn't ask about, [God must know that, I just got assigned both girls and boys golf for this season. haha] and I *can't* play soccer. I was going to write about football, and the super cool athletes [tongue in cheek here] that have egos bigger than their shoulder pads, but I decided to write about something that was closer to home for me. I'm not sure it'll be much fun for someone who doesn't/hasn't played, but it was fun writing it :) }

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I miss softball. I've played some form of baseball/softball since I was about three (it's very much the family sport) but playing competitively was different.

There was something about putting on the uniform that made you assume your “game face”. Something about knowing that you were prepared as much as you could be, and realizing that you were going to have to try your hardest. There was something about knowing your body could actually do these things. Putting on the uniform pumped yourself up mentally, while you warmed up physically.

Softball is a very mental game. When you get up to the plate, and even in the on deck circle, you start to zone in. By the time the pitcher starts to wind-up it’s like you are the only two on the field. Occasionally, mainly because it was so familiar, I could hear my dad’s voice when I stepped up to the plate, but after that there was nothing besides the battle between you and the pitcher.

Yeah, it takes skill to hit the ball, and more to hit it well, but it also takes concentration and mental toughness. I know. You can smash every ball in the cage, but have a batting average of .000. It was a challenge against myself, and a battle in my mind every time I was at the plate.

When you hit the ball you can hear again, even though all your focus is getting to the next base. There’s nothing quite like the feeling of the ball hitting your sweet spot, and you could know without looking that it was a solid hit. * Then you’re on base, the play is over and the next batter at the plate. I loved base running; pushing your limits, playing with the catcher’s mind, sprinting hard, stealing bases, sliding, taking out the catcher while scoring, it was all a blast.

I played both catcher and short stop, two awfully different positions. When I caught, I loved having every aspect of the game in your mind as you crouched behind the plate, eyes on each runner, knowing the count, remembering each batter’s weaknesses. I loved being the leader on the field. Catching was a challenge, and the feeling of playing a good game was immensely satisfying.

Short was completely different but as much of a challenge. I loved not having the responsibility of a bag, but having to know the next play, and exactly where you were going with the ball; fielding fast moving ground balls, and whipping them over to first. I loved being part of a play at second, or turning on a pop-up; being the mouth on in the infield, or covering a base on a bunt. I loved the relationship with the second baseman and deep throws from in the hole.  

In either position, I can remember the feeling of a hard pitch or a screaming line drive in your pocket. The sting of your palm as you closed your glove on the ball and brought your other hand over it. I remember the adrenaline of a play, and the smug feeling of one well done.  

Capping it off were the feelings after a game; exhausted and full of dirt, you might have some bruises or a raspberry from sliding, and your muscles would be aching [and since I couldn’t separate them from softball, your quads would be killing you], but if you knew you’d done your best and left it all on the field, they were all pretty good feelings, even your quads. 

* (There's also nothing quite like the feeling of hitting the ball off your handle, and the vibrating in your palms, and the stress of trying to out run it. But this is about the things I actually miss) 

The Lake

There’s something about Lake Superior that draws me, much like the ocean. It makes me imagine stories of ships and sailors, of ship wrecks and people living along the lake. It makes me stand and think of the God that created it, and how huge He really is.

Visiting during the warmer weather we watch ships coming and going; some large Great Lakes ships, some smaller ones for the ocean. Some are leaving full of iron ore, low in the water, others are coming in empty, riding high.

This weekend I visited the lake with friends, and at this time things are covered in ice. The ice chunks had blown up against the mountain of ice along the shore, created by the breaking waves all winter. Large blocks floated and rolled with the waves, while the smaller ones piled up on each other. The wind was blowing the breaking ice out of the harbor and through the canal. The walls of the lighthouse on the pier were covered with strange designs of ice and the stairs were lost under the ice.  Sheets of it covered the walls of the canal.

During the night the wind blew the ice slabs out and all that was left was the mountain created by the waves. Far out you could vaguely see them on the horizon, along with a thin film of ice that had formed in places. Instead of big rolling waves, like the day before, the water was choppy.

Even though it’s much, much smaller than the ocean, you can’t tell when you’re standing at the shore. It makes you feel small, and insignificant, and makes you think wild thoughts.  Nothing controls the lake, except for the shoreline. And occasionally that’s not enough to governor it.

It’s wild, but at the same time soothing. It’s both predictable, with the waves coming in one after another, and unpredictable, like when it storms. It’s always cold, the temperature changes just 3 degrees over the season, and I think that adds the wild feeling. I sit in awe of the wild and awesome side of the God I serve.

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{Ug. Why won't conclusions write themselves?? I feel like this was a pretty abrupt ending.. but I couldn't figure out how to finish it better... suggestions??}

Mmmmmmm

I want to write... but I just got home from a weekend in Duluth, and four hours of lovely swimming lessons [bites tongue] and ended up editing pictures instead.

But I'm really excited about writing something cool about sports this week! And the funny thing... this is my week off from writing about it for the paper :) haha [I know.. it was my idea]

I also wanted to say that everyone's writing has really motivated me to make mine better. And I just realized that we're half over........ sad day.

Brain Coral and Sand dollars

There are too many parts of my last trip, which was to the Bahamas, to write about, so I’m just going to write about one of the my favorite parts. ;)

I went to the Bahamas to visit my friend Susan, who married a Bahamian. Yes, a Minnesotan married a Bahamian. Anyways, because we stayed with his family the whole time, for the first five/six days we didn’t do typical “tourist stuff”. Those days, for me, were the best part of the trip, although that could be because my sister and brother were there too….

We went camping on another island, Rose, for three days. Really roughed it, and it was a blast, long nights, lizards, no toilets and all! 

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We were on a boat, skipping over calm water. The wind whipped my hair and I could taste the salt spray from the bright blue water. The sun shone, and in places the water appeared darker. We didn’t talk much on the short ride out from the island to the reef.

Brett killed the engine and we drifted a short ways while Susan pulled out the rope and threw over the anchor. I helped her feed the rope until it hit bottom. Everyone passed around masks and snorkels, found flippers that fit and talked all the while.

The sun glinted off the edge of the boat as I peered into the reef. Although eager to get in the gorgeous water, I didn’t want to be the first one in out here in the unknown. Hey, there could be sharks... Eventually everyone had gear, and one by one we sat on the side of the boat, sliding into the water backwards.

The cool water closed around me, as did the silence. Suddenly I felt alone. I looked around for the others, and started kicking. The reef was both intriguing and beautiful, and a little bit eerie. I could vaguely hear noises of people kicking their flipper clad feet, and the sound of my own breathing through the snorkel tube.

 I smiled at Ange, the best I could while still holding my teeth around my snorkel, and waved. Both of us popped our heads above the surface and pulled the snorkels out.

“Did you see this?”

“Look at that!”

“Woah, did you see that piece of coral?”

“This fish!”

The coral was gorgeous, and way more intricate than I had imagined. Brain coral, that looked like a maze carved out of rock, and pretty purple sea leaves covered the bottom of the ocean, interspersed with fire coral, that Brett told us we’d better not touch. Brightly colored fish swam in schools all around us.

Amy popped up to the surface and pointed to a large brain coral. “Woah! Did you see that thing down there… someone has been down there carving!” Needless to say, she still hasn’t lived that one down.

Sucking in a big breath I dove down towards the edge of the reef and the deeper water, getting a close up look. I ran out of air and pushed myself up towards the surface, blowing hard to get the water out of the snorkel. Amy and I posed for an underwater picture.

Back under the water Brett waved us over, pointing out a weird fish that looked almost like a sea cucumber swimming upright. Above water he explained it was a relative of a sea horse called a pipe fish.  I think we had a million and two questions for him, “What’s this? What’s that?” and “How does the coral survive? What kind of fish is that?” and the all-important one, “What sharks do you have here?”

Brett had two spears and shooters, but none of us tried. Being used to Minnesota I was a little scared that if I did end up miraculously spearing something it would be something out of season. Apparently everything is fair game in the Bahamas. We watched him spear a blue jack and a crawfish, both of which we ended up eating for dinner. 

Pretty soon we started to tire out, and headed back to the boat. I sat soaking up the warm sun, enjoying how your muscles feel after a good swim.

“Derek, what did you find?” Kara says with her camera running.

“A butt! And Dory.”

“Ahh! He touched the butt!”

Mark pulled the crawfish out of a bucket by its long antenna and wiggled it in front of Kara. “Ahhhh!!  Get that away from me! That’s not on Nemo!”

After warming up we moved to a shallow, sandy part of the ocean. Four of us got back in the water to drag behind the boat, and look for sand dollars and conch shells (fyi, it’s really pronounced conk). I grabbed the yellow rope and held on next to Susan. The water rushed over my body as I gazed at the rippled sand.

Things didn’t go so well, although we found a lot of sand dollars we only found one conch, and it was just the shell. Every time Brett would get the boat moving one of us would see something and drop off, and then we’d have to start all over again. When the boat got moving faster, I would have a hard time keeping my mouth around my snorkel and it would fill up with water. I would come up choking, desperately trying to fix it without letting go. It didn’t work.

Finally, after too many times starting and stopping, starting and stopping, and a bucket full of sand dollars, Brett told us, “NO MORE sand dollars OR sunshine shells. You can eat conch… you can’t eat sand dollars.” (We ended up going hungry that night. Well actually, we ended up eating hot dogs instead.)

Susan was heartbroken over all those sunshine shells she was passing over. “I kept seeing gorgeous ones… and I couldn’t get them!”

Eventually we all ended up shivering and back in the boat, watching Brett kite surf. And laughing at Susan’s driving.  We drove back to the island for a long, cold, windy night. Haha, but that’s another rad story…..

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This was fairly hard... but I made it, even if it took me two days. Oh, and did I say sometimes I have a problem with rambling? 

I'm crabby

I'm crabby, and I don't want to write anything. period.

I read the Niagara Falls thing, and enjoyed it... but didn't think I had time to write a response. I tried starting two different travel stories... and didn't finish either.

My room is a mess, I'm tired from swimming laps, and even though I don't have "the fluffs" running around... I think a fog has rolled in, and I'm not sure what to do about it. I'm pretty sure I had some little thing that I was inspired by and could have written a paragraph on... but I don't remember it now. [go figure]

So. I quit. And I'm going to go eat a Fox Mint and read a fiction book. Good solution? I think so. ;)

Oh, actually.... if anyone has any suggestions for good reads.... send them my way!

Teaching the Teacher

It’s interesting how much teaching someone else can teach you.

Twice a week I teach 6 classes of swimming lessons. In 28 hours I teach for 8, and 12 classes. Sometimes it’s a really long haul, and other weeks it goes really fast (although a lot of it depends on the temperature of the pool). I’ve taught kids from the age of 3 to 17, a blind student, a downs syndrome girl and a couple of other special needs kids.

Besides the obvious, like learning to communicate clearly, and adapt to each of the kids learning styles, I’ve been taught so many things.

Finn and Ryhs taught me that I need to keep some order, and that some kids appreciate it. Devin and Kasia have taught me not to work people too hard. Sam taught me that every once and a while I need to relax and talk about How to Train Your Dragon, and that life isn’t all about vision.

Jake and Sara (and their mom) taught me how to deal with paranoid and nervous people, and give them strength, but push them forward at the same time. Regann has taught me that some people can be distracted from their stubbornness with a little creativity. Macy and Christopher taught me that some kids need the law laid down, and in a not so gentle way. Alicia (and quite a few of the other kids) taught me patience, and that some things just take time.

But I think, one of the biggest things I’ve learned, is to cut kids some slack. I’m not a very compassionate person, my friends and my little siblings can attest to that. My favorite saying is, “Just suck it up and deal with it.” Or to my two year old little bro, “You’re okay, be a man!”

Although it’s a truth that sometimes needs to be said, there are also a lot of times where someone needs a bit of compassion. Like little Kamryn last night, who didn’t want to put her mouth in for the ring. Yes, I know she can do it, and yes, sometimes she’s a little stubborn, but maybe she’s scared, maybe it’s hard for her. She is only three after all.

And…. It’s something God gives us. So…. It’s something we need to be able to pass on at the right times.

 “The LORD is gracious and compassionate, slow to anger and rich in love” {Psalm 145:8}

“Though He brings grief, He will show compassion, so great is his unfailing love”

 {Lamentations 3:32}

It’s been hard to find the line, the line between pushing the kids so they learn and giving them some slack and mercy. But it’s something that I want to learn, because I love these kids. And I’m not using that word lightly. I’m really sad when some of them go, sometimes even the challenging ones [not always though], and I’m happy that some of them stay with me. I’m surprised, but I shouldn’t be, because I really think it’s just the love God is showing me coming through.

So although four hours in the pool a night gets long and cold, and I’ve actually found myself staring at the clock, praying for God to get me through, He’s used this for a lot of things in my life. And for that I’m very grateful, even if I do smell like chlorine….

Why aren't we?

"“There are so many bad things that we see down here, and we ask God why He doesn't change them... I can't help but wonder if He's asking us the same thing..." [To Save A Life]

I, just like everybody else, have wondered why there is so much pain, suffering and hurt here on earth. At one point, I kind of came to the conclusion that we'll never fully understand, that there are some things that we won't be able to comprehend.

Although there are things that we might not understand, in a way, that conclusion made me a little apathetic. Yes, there are some things that we can't change, like my friends dad who has a brain tumor, and that I don't understand, but not understanding shouldn't make me dispirited or unconcerned. It wasn't as if I “could care less, but yet deep down I figured there are some things that wouldn't change.

Last night I watched this movie, [To Save A Life] for the second time, and that quote stood out to me. Really, why aren't we doing? Instead we're just asking, someone else to do something. * Don't the scriptures promise that we can do all things with Christ? [Philippians 4:13]  But yet we, the Christians in America, as a whole, have become completely passive, when we should be the movers! As Shane Claiborne wrote, “Where are the true Christians? We are surrounded by passive believers and unbelieving activists." [The Irresistible Revolution]

Yes, there are some things we can't change, but there are just as many or more, we could change. Sometimes it takes a lot of effort. And sometimes, it doesn't take much. Sometimes little things go a long way.

I think we're asking the wrong question, instead maybe it should be what am I doing to change this world? To change my world? To change my neighbor's world?

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*I'm not saying we shouldn't ask God for things, or we shouldn't pray, that's not the point here.

Both a great movie and a great book, I highly recommend both!

Living Like Weasels - A response

[This was a really hard assignment for me. I'm not sure why, because I actually enjoyed reading it. But I wrote a story originally, and then thought it was weird, and not what I wanted to say, so I ended up with some thoughts. I'm not even sure they make any sense, but since I didn't really write anything last night, I'll just go ahead and post this. Feel free to rip it to pieces, 'cause I'm not attached. At all.]
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What would it be like if we lived by our senses and not by our brains? What would it be like if we noticed everything, but remembered nothing? What would it be like if we lived in necessity instead of in choice?

I think if we lived by our senses it would be both simple and chaotic. A weasel lives by his senses, his sense of survival, his sense of hunger, his sense of self. If we thought only of our senses, or lived only by them, everything would depend on our individual sense of survival. It would be an evolutionary world. We would live by reaction, seeing something and reacting in the way that would serve us best. We wouldn’t have friendships, but we wouldn’t have worries.

If we noticed everything and remembered nothing life would be full, but empty. We’d notice everyday things, we’d be full of the gorgeous little details in life, but it wouldn’t make us richer. We’d notice, but it wouldn’t fill our lives. What’s the use of noticing if it doesn’t make us safer, or happier, or more knowledgeable? A weasel notices everything in order to survive, but yet he doesn’t appreciate everything.

Of all the options, the most appealing to me is living by necessity instead of by choice. A weasel lives only by what is necessary, by only what he needs to survive. There’s no worry, but there’s no joy. Life would be simple and free of stress, but there wouldn't be joy. There wouldn’t be happiness in life. Is a weasel happy? Is it happy just because it is living, and its life makes it happy?

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Response to Annie Dillard's Living like Weasels

Summer

[I have a bad case of spring fever right now, which is not good considering the fact that the high today was 3. yeah. Anyway, this little.. {not sure what to call it} story (?) was my attempting at capturing the feels of a summer day. And boy I can't wait for one. haha]
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The sun was just coming over the hill, shining through the window, as she crawled out of bed. She threw up her hair and slipped into her favorite yellow skirt. Putting flip-flops on her feet, she grabbed her bible and a cup of coffee and in the quiet stillness of the morning sat on the porch.

She curled her legs under her skirt as she sat, drinking in the cool morning air and the fresh smells of growing things. Her arms had slight goosebumps on them, and she hugged herself.  She thought about things, about life, and about her God. After a half hour of quiet time, she went back into the busy house, where the family was loud, getting ready for the day.

Hoisting up the laundry basket full of wet clothes, she lugged it out to the clothes line. The morning sun shone over the roof of the house and in her eyes as she hung the clothes. She shook them out, pinned one side and then the other, and moved to the next piece of laundry. She hung the last piece and stacked the baskets next to the pole.

Later that day she played Frisbee with her friends, meeting them at the park. She kicked off her flip-flops and felt the grass fit between her toes. She pumped her arms, and moved her legs as fast as they would carry her, reaching for the Frisbee someone threw. They played until they couldn’t play any longer. No one cared who won, they just played for the rush. At the end of the night she had grass stains on her knees, dirt on her hands, and spent legs. She’d laughed a ton, smiled a lot and run until her chest hurt.

They sat around on the grass, exhausted and happy, talking as the night got cooler. She grabbed her hoody from the car, pulling it over her head and leaving the hood up. She stood leaning on the open car door, talking a little longer to a friend, soaking in the night.  

Soon she was home, ready to plop into bed in the dark. Her skin felt smooth against the cool sheets, and her head light against the pillow. The windows were open, there was a cool breeze against her face and she could hear the frogs chirping in the pond as she fell asleep. 

Home

I lay in my bed this morning, stretched out under my down duvet, warm in spite of it being winter and pleasantly wore out from teaching swimming lessons last night. I began thinking of the day, and remembered it was the first day of the month.

March 1^st. Oh no. What did I get myself into? Alright, I thought, this was my idea after all. I figured that I’d do an assignment today, just to get them over with. First one… nope, too much work for a Tuesday. Second one… um, too hard. Never mind. I’m just going to scribble today.

On second thought, my brain isn’t inspired, so maybe I’ll go back to that assignment list.

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I don’t consider myself a “home body” but yet, I really love my home. Driving down the long dirt road, coming home from work at night, I’m pretty eager to get home. Sometimes too eager, like the night that I backed over the snowbank, but that’s kind of a different story.

Despite the fact that our house is rarely still, much less quiet, it’s still a peaceful place to be. After a tough night, I can’t wait to get home. I might just flop in a chair and listen to stories of everyone’s day. I might join a couple of my siblings in the “big boys room” and watch a movie, but regardless it’s usually a perfect end to the day.

Home is where there is always someone to talk to, someone to play catch with, someone to cry on, someone to rant to. Home is where we talk about everything; our day, our struggles, our triumphs, our God. Home is where I learn, where I’ve grown.

In the physical it’s a farm, with chickens and goats, cows and rabbits. A farm that gave me muscles and a hard work ethic. A place where there is always new life, and a place where we learned about death. It’s a place where I learned to do stuff that I don’t like, and where I learned to love life.

It’s on a dirt road in the sticks of central Minnesota, where we walk half a mile to get our mail, and I run the hills. It’s a red house in a valley that’s always 5 degrees colder than the rest of Motley.

Home means lots of action and noise, craziness and good food. It means lots of haybales and trees and paths to find quiet time with God. It means a game of baseball or Frisbee. It means working out with my brothers, or watching them play Ping-Pong or practicing their pitching. But most of all it means love.

And that’s what draws me home at the end of a day, the love. And that’s why I’ll always come home.

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[To be completely honest I sat here and stared at this, not sure if I like it, or if it's good enough, or if it's the style I wanted, and then I realized that I was wasting time being scared. Scared of being the first person of the *whole* project to post. So I'm going to get over it, post this... and go make chocolate cupcakes instead of obsessing about this.]