twilight in my backyard

The storm clouds are fluffy and creamy smooth, and caress Pikes Peak like a dollop of whipped topping on chocolate ice cream. The silver sky is entwined with a slim band of fading, golden light, and the festive crickets can't quite drown out the buzz of electricity surging through the wires that crisscross with the tree branches overhead.

I'm told that's dangerous, but the squirrels don't seem to mind. In face, they consider it their private ropes course. And they probably need the exercise, if the way they eat my waffles is any indicator. At least they're whole grain, flaxseed waffles loaded with essential omega fatty acids. I think they taste like crap, but the squirrels eat them right out of my hand. Good for them -- after all, why should they have to scrape and scramble for their winter stores with dull, dry fur? Let them have their nuts and waffles and shiny, healthy coats, too! Waffles and a personalized agility course in the canopy of trees... yeah, these spoiled squirrels no longer scamper -- they strut.

This alley cat is strutting, too. At least he thinks he is. He also thinks he's intimidating me by staring me down with his beady yellow eyes while he crosses my yard. Poor, stupid beast -- he thinks I should be afraid. But in fact, I throw a rock in his direction and he thinks it's a toy to pounce on and chase, and now he's trapped it and doesn't know why it's not putting up a fight. I think I'll name him Dunce. That's right, Dunce. It's a rock. Just keep walking, 'cause there's more toys where that one came from.

The neighborhood children have brought their toys into the parking lot next door, but I can't quite tell what game they're trying to play. Wait a minute... that sounds like... Hide & Seek... with bicycles??? I'm confused. It's been a long time since I've played Hide & Seek, but I don't remember it being a mechanized game. This kid who's counting must be good, 'cause it looks like the others are heading to Denver to hide.

A sudden brightness -- sunset transforms the languid silver sky into blueberry punch with floating scoops of orange sherbet. The darkest hour may be just before the dawn, but for this twilight moment it's working the other way around. And it's only a moment... a heightened experience that won't last.

The crickets grow louder, the squirrels run faster, the children laugh harder, and I am compelled to linger out here, my thoughts not wanting to surrender to all that awaits within... my dreams reminding me of all that's incomplete within. Outside feels less lonely, more hopeful somehow. Without the confines of walls and a roof, I am not alone.

miyagi moments

One of my favorite movie scenes comes from that iconic blockbuster from my childhood, The Karate Kid. Young Daniel has been bullied incessantly since arriving as the new kid in town, but when the kindly maintenance man from his apartment complex, Mr. Miyagi, comes to his rescue in very dramatic fashion during one such fight, Daniel thinks he's found his savior -- someone who can teach him karate, so that he can fight his own fights from now on. Mr. Miyagi agrees to teach him, but on one condition -- no questions.

The "training" that ensues involves washing cars, painting fences and houses, sanding floors, and any number of odd chores. Time and again Daniel shows up for "karate lessons," and ends up spending his days as Miyagi's slave labor. Finally frustrated and broken down, physically exhausted and sore and unable to move, Daniel has had enough. He tells Mr. Miyagi exactly what he thinks of him, his "training," and his promise to teach him karate. In disgust, Daniel starts to walk away.

But then the moment comes...

With a terse shout, Mr. Miyagi summons Daniel to return and demonstrate the "chores" he's learned. Daniel flippantly waves his arms around in the seemingly pointless gestures, but Mr. Miyagi grabs his hands and begins to show him what he's truly learned... and then launches a sudden barrage of kicks, punches, twists and jabs, all of which Daniel is able to successfully block for the first time in his life.

With a subtle "hmph," Mr. Miyagi then bows. "Come back tomorrow," he says, and then goes into the house, leaving a speechless Daniel to absorb all that he didn't know he'd been learning all this while. By the end of the film, Mr. Miyagi's unconventional teaching methods have transformed Daniel into a conquering hero.

God uses these "Miyagi moments" in my life so many times -- such is my life today, in fact -- and I'm sure that if you were to look back through yours, you'd see them there, too. The times we asked for help and thought He didn't answer, and so we get angry and feel let down -- but when the attack comes, we find we can survive and defend it with a strength we didn't know He'd been developing in us all along. And slowly we come to appreciate and even admire God's unconventional teaching methods.

Like James wrote, "Consider it pure joy, my brothers, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith develops perseverance."

Mr. Miyagi couldn't have said it better.

roommates

I used to be a good judge of character, a good judge of people, but my recent negative experiences with having roommates in my home is making me question myself and my gut instinct...

Then again, perhaps the real questioning of myself came when I didn't listen to that instinct in the first place. Instead of trusting my gut and letting it guide me in waiting for and ultimately selecting not only a roommate, but a friend, I listened to the demands of my bank account, and went with the sure-money gals. The results have been uniformly disastrous.

The bright side is that, in a few short days, I will once again have a peaceful home. The dark side is the scary one full of trust and total dependence on God to provide all my needs.

That's the real problem with looking for roommates. I've been looking to them to be the source of my provision, relying on their rent and utility checks to provide all my needs. No wonder things have been so awful -- God was simply letting me have my own way.

Lord, I'm ready to trust You! I don't want to do this my way anymore. Here are the keys... I'm moving over into the passenger's seat...

sage advice

"Take it from me," my boss announced as he walked into the office carrying a small but beautiful bouquet of peachy-pink roses, "don't buy flowers when there are 40-mile-an-hour winds outside."

Apparently, half of my Secretaries Day bouquet is blowing down to New Mexico now...

here comes the rain again

It's Friday and my boss is out of town, so I'm watching the delicious rainfall outside and not really thinking about much at all. Suddenly, the sultry voice of Annie Lennox is singing in my head, "Here comes the rain again, falling on my head like a memory," and before I know it, I'm no longer in Colorado Springs watching a rainy April day from my office window... it's now the late summer of 1996 and I'm soaking up another glorious Cambridge sunset from my favorite rooftop perch at St. Catharine's College, a cold Coke in one hand and a rather dishy, smooth-talking British lad holding the other...

I love that about music, how transporting and transcendent it is. What is it about the combination of seemingly insignificant words and sustained, harmonized pitch with often-predictable chord progression that just locks onto your memory like a pit bull and never lets go? I've always been a musician and a music lover, and perhaps not everyone is as emotionally impacted by songs as I am. But if we dig deep enough into the memories, I'll bet we could all come up with a soundtrack for the motion picture of our lives. Here's just a sampling of mine:

Mist Covered Mountains, Shotts & Dykehead Caledonia Pipe Band -- getting ready for church on Sunday mornings

You and Me Against the World, Helen Reddy -- mom and me

Every Time You Go Away, Paul Young -- the 1985 cross-country family road trip in a Buick Century

You Give Love a Bad Name, Bon Jovi -- riding bus # 814 to school every day in Tennessee, driven by Miss Polly Houton

This Means War, Petra -- election night vandalism my junior year of high school

Dogs of War, Pink Floyd -- the first video I ever saw on MTV

Right Here, Right Now, Jesus Jones -- my sister's and my car accident near Buckeye, AZ

Boys of Summer, Don Henley -- dancing on the Renfrew Ferry in Glasgow with Stewart "Blockers" Mackay (still the best-looking kilt-wearer I've ever known)

And of course, the Eurythmics and my summer in England...

The list could go on and on. Do I remember these songs because these were significant events in my life? Or do I remember these events because the music associated with them had an impact on me? Hmm... the perfect dichotomy to let simmer on a mental-backburner day such as today...

supreme court gets it right

I am so overwhelmed this morning by the news from Washington, DC -- the Supreme Court has upheld the Partial-Birth Abortion Ban passed by Congress and signed into law by President Bush in 2003.

After years of tyrannical lower-court judges trying to legislate from their benches in striking down this law because they're in the pockets of Planned Parenthood, the ACLU and other such atrocious organizations, the Supreme Court had the final word this morning. The right word. Namely, that this procedure is discpicable and inhumane and absolutely unnecessary.

I will spare you the horror of reading about the details of this procedure here, but I encourage all of you to read the Supreme Court's decision for yourselves, and tell me if you've ever read a better description of premeditated murder.

I am so thankful for the intelligent men appointed to our nation's highest court who had the wisdom to stand up today for common sense, morality, and the sanctity of human life. The battle is not over, but it is a tremendous step forward. The naysayers can yelp as much as they want about "established precedent of the Court," but that is really just the ignorant assumption that the Court can never be wrong, that once it makes a decision it must stick with it forever. If that were the case, then slaves would still be considered as property, not people (Dred Scott v. Sanford, 1857), and segregation would still be legal (Plessy v. Ferguson, 1896). But just as these decisions were reversed by later Courts, I pray that our current Supreme Court members will have the courage to overturn the most vile, dispicable mistake their predecessors ever made... Roe v. Wade.

go ahead, wildcat fans...

I thought it was time. I thought we were due. I really did. After all, it's the 10-year anniversary of our NCAA title (gulp... that means it's the 10-year anniversary of my college graduation!), so for the first time I completed an NCAA tournament bracket, and I picked my alma mater to go all the way.

Yes, I can't deny it... I picked Arizona to win it all.

Of course, if I was a true basketball fan, I would have known the team better. But other than Lute Olsen, I didn't know the team at all... heck, I couldn't even name a single player on the '97 championship team (I'll guess someone was named Stodemyre... or maybe Bibby?), let alone this year. And yet I still call myself a fan... after all, I still have the "W-I-L-D CATS" song on cassette from the team's first Final Four trip in '88, and I can name all of those starters (anyone remember Matt Muehlebach? I have his autograph! And Sean Elliot autographed my basketball... I wonder how much that could get on eBay these days... anyway...). So even though I never bought one single piece of college "go team!" paraphernalia while I attended the UofA, I thought I was entitled to declare myself a fan this year. I mean, I even saved a '97 NCAA Tournament Coca-Cola can featuring our winning score against the Kentucky Wildcats! Surely I wouldn't jinx the team by declaring myself a fan this late in the game, right?

I even bought a cubicle-wall basketball hoop for my desk featuring the Wildcats logo, and faced the derision of many more-basketball-knowledgeable coworkers who've walked past my desk and tried to make a shot in my hoop (at least I sit within dunking range...).

But alas, my bracket is now completely shot, because Arizona lost in the first round this weekend. Figures. I put the jinx on them. I have that affect on teams, I guess...

At least now I can stop pretending I'm a basketball fan and focus all my energies on a real sport... BASEBALL! Speaking of which, it's time to tune in to the D'Backs spring training game today (thank the Lord for MLB.TV).

So go ahead, all you real Arizona fans... blame me. I can take it.

thoughts i thunk on thinking

I think I'm not thinking as much as I used to think. I think I don't have time to think anymore. I wish I had time to think. Not the kind of shallow thinking that simply wastes time during an otherwise uneventful day... but the intentional thinking that requires time to pause and ponder and perceive new thoughts I didn't know I hadn't thunk before. I used to think such thoughts so thoughtfully and thoroughly -- I used to ask big questions of myself, and think long thoughts in response. More than the proverbial "Deep Thoughts" of SNL or Animaniacs fame, these were thoughts on life and love, significance and sacrifice, power and prestige, fun and folly, mirth and meaning, simplicity and solace.... But I think I don't think those thoughts anymore, that I haven't truly thunk those thoughts for a long time. Has the progression of time robbed me of my time to think? Do I just not make the time? What thought possessed me to want to think? I think I want to plumb the depths of my thoughts once again. I think I need to remember how to think...

deming

I stayed the night in Deming, NM on Wednesday. Deming is in the middle of nowhere. Deming is such a small town that it uses several of its precious few billboards to advertise its annual duck races. That's right -- DUCK RACES. Now before you start daydreaming about mallards in jockey stripes and dastardly off-pond-betting scandals, stay with me here.

Deming has three exits on the I-10 corridor of western New Mexico. And it's quite evident that, in addition to the droves of people who undoubtedly plan thei rannual family vacations around the duck meets, the Deming town council decided to make the most of its three exits by taking advantage of saavy roadtrip consumers... like me. Therefore, the cheapest gas is at Exit 81. But all of the food is at Exit 82. And of the several dozen hotels the town offers (a night at the Tumbling Tumbleweed or the Stolen Stagecoach, anyone?), the cheapest are at Exit 85. I realized this evil sightseeing plot (or it would be, if there were anything to see in Deming other than a blue water tower), while driving home from Tucson yesterday and being forced to get off at every single exit in this nowhere-land town. And no matter what exit I used, I could not escape the duck billboards reminding me to come back fro the races.

I then spent the next seven hours in the car wishing I'd stopped in Las Cruces or Socorro instead, and wondering just what kind of kickback the ducks are getting in this plot... 'cause evidently there's something decorous about Deming that I'm too dumb to notice...

an awkward encounter

It's strange sometimes, the little moments and awkward encounters that God sends our way to remind us of all that we have to be thankful for...

I went to Wal-Mart Monday night with a short list of things I needed to get -- one of them was new insoles for my tennis shoes. My beloved Nike cross-trainers have begun to show their age lately: long walks and thorough workouts are making my feet hurt because the soles of my shoes are almost completely worn through and without traction, and they just don't have the structure and support for side-to-side movement that they used to. But just as I cried when I drove away from my old Jeep for the last time, or when I chopped my unruly hair short for the first time in 20 years, I dread the separation anxiety that I know will come from parting with this comfy pair of old, reliable shoes. So I thought some good Dr. Scholl's might buy my Nikes some extra life support.

But as I stood in the footcare aisle at Wal-Mart, thinking all these morose thoughts about my dying shoes and trying to judge which insoles would make my feet stop hurting, a wheelchair came around the corner into my aisle, and in it was a young man with no legs. The irony of the moment absolutely flustered me -- there I was griping about my old shoes and sore feet, and there he was, perhaps wishing that he could feel the soreness of his feet once again.

I didn't buy any insoles. I couldn't, not in a moment like that. I just smiled and walked away empty-handed, completing my errands around the store and thanking God for my sore feet.

give my nose a pair of nikes!

I did a lot of running my pre-police academy days, but now I leave it all up to my nose. It's a good runner. It runs every day. Sometimes several times a day. I have always hated running, but my nose is apparently high on the endorphins it gets from all this running. I'm trying to walk gracefully through my workday, but the furious pace my nose sets makes it difficult to keep up with the Kleenex. You can only greet so many coworkers with that glistening snot moustache on your upper lip before something drastic must be done.

I'm calling Nike. This could be revolutionary -- just imagine! An aerodynamic, swoosh-designed device to help noses run more efficiently with less strain, some Jordan-endorsed way to maximize my nose's workout with minimal effort. Sturdy enough for long workouts, stylish enough for late evenings.

Nike Facial Tissue. Just blow it.

down time

I have had the most luxurious down time the past few weeks... an idyllic lack of busy-ness that will soon be over.

I spent Christmas week in Arizona with my family, watching LOTR with my dad, shopping with my mom, riding bikes with my nieces and nephew, having long conversations over really good food with my best friends, and never once setting a morning alarm.

I had a quarrelsome roommate move out of my house, taking all of the tension and turmoil out with her. And for a few brief weeks I've had the house to myself. Oh, the quiet and solitude -- just what I needed! Long days at the office dissolve into relaxation as I curl up in my favorite armchair and watch classic movies while I crochet a new afghan or scour the pages of a riveting new novel or biography. My house is once again a home... and I have been blessed with three new roommates who couldn't agree with me more about the importance of this principle. Our home is our sanctuary, a haven of peace and rest with an open door of hospitality and welcome.

And while my days at the office have been long, the pace of New Year's work has been leisurely, as everyone is slowly trickling in from their vacations.

While some may think all this relaxation and solitude is boring, I've learned to appreciate down time in all its shapes and forms, to let it thoroughly recharge my batteries before the pandemonium is unleashed... which won't be long now!

Happy New Year to one and all... and Happy Down Time, too!