I have nothing to complain about right now, except for the weather.
How ridiculous is that?!
Okay, yes, it's absurd that it will be 73 degrees here on the 25th, but even more overwhelming is the fact that I AM SO BLESSED! God has placed a tight-knit family all around me and given me hilarious and talented friends who exceed my expectations and keep me ecstatic about each new day. Along with them, amidst early goodbyes with cocoa and coffee, a relationship has mended and I am so full of thank you's that I might explode. Wrapping paper and bows are lovely and adorning, but I can't help the cliche when I positively know that anything truly worth being excited about doesn't come tied up with string. There's so much beauty in conversation- often more so when it's not easy. There's love in words that goes missed too often and there's little sparks in phrases said that resonate for a while and end up keeping me much warmer than my black and white houndstooth jacket. So while I'll catch my breath when I see an impressive display of lights, shake the boxes of presents just to preview them and attempt to imitate Mariah Carey every five minutes when she plays on the radio, there's something bigger at work. I don't think those usual cheesy feelings with Christmas this year are going to end after one night. And, if that is the case, please forgive me ahead of time for continuing to play "Winter Wonderland" in January.
There are literally hundreds of songs that I burst with joy to share with people (and especially since it IS the season of giving), I just thought I'd give you one of my absolute favorites--
I don't trust my own words a lot of times, but I'll trust anything when Sam Cooke sings it. And I couldn't say it better myself; Christmas Means Love!
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Frozen fingers, warm hearts
IT SNOWED IN SAN MARCOS, TX LAST NIGHT!
Current Christmas Excitement Level: 300%
Friday, December 5, 2008
The one who paid my debt
How grateful I am that even though I am messy, indecisive and doubt myself completely sometimes, Jesus loves me. And this LOVE, it's not anything small- it's a all-encompassing force that literally drives out fear.
I think for so long I looked for someone else to wrap me up in their arms and tell me it was all going to be okay and that I was safe again, failing to realize that He's been cradling me all along, waiting patiently and eagerly for me to bring my problems to him and rest in these affections. The LOVE my Savior has for me isn't a fairy tale - it's a sacrificing, deep LOVE that runs so deep in my soul that it hurts sometimes. I'm left in awe that he won't leave me but LETS me run after these fleeting human complications that don't really matter. He doesn't force me to LOVE him, He lets me slam doors in his face and flee from his goodness and yet He is always right near me, pleading with me to come back to the better things he has in store for me. Because of this strong feeling of LOVE, He is jealous for me- how bizarre a concept. He envies my best friends; I often talk to them more than I do him tenfold. He wants to hear about my passions because He put them in my heart and He CONSTANTLY blesses me, even in my rebellion. My Jesus puts people in my life who have become like family and gives me a whole array of sounds to arrange into music that moves me in the best way. All of this and countless other things are done in pure LOVE, even when I throw them away and turn away from him. This LOVE is lavished on me and drenches me daily, but there are times where I don't even realize it.
He woke me up again.
I think for so long I looked for someone else to wrap me up in their arms and tell me it was all going to be okay and that I was safe again, failing to realize that He's been cradling me all along, waiting patiently and eagerly for me to bring my problems to him and rest in these affections. The LOVE my Savior has for me isn't a fairy tale - it's a sacrificing, deep LOVE that runs so deep in my soul that it hurts sometimes. I'm left in awe that he won't leave me but LETS me run after these fleeting human complications that don't really matter. He doesn't force me to LOVE him, He lets me slam doors in his face and flee from his goodness and yet He is always right near me, pleading with me to come back to the better things he has in store for me. Because of this strong feeling of LOVE, He is jealous for me- how bizarre a concept. He envies my best friends; I often talk to them more than I do him tenfold. He wants to hear about my passions because He put them in my heart and He CONSTANTLY blesses me, even in my rebellion. My Jesus puts people in my life who have become like family and gives me a whole array of sounds to arrange into music that moves me in the best way. All of this and countless other things are done in pure LOVE, even when I throw them away and turn away from him. This LOVE is lavished on me and drenches me daily, but there are times where I don't even realize it.
He woke me up again.
Monday, December 1, 2008
Oatmeal or Cereal, Highway or Sidestreets
I think I could make it as a baker.
I'm not saying that I'm extremely gifted with sifting flour or that magic happens when you put a rolling pin in my hand, but I seem to find grating Baker's chocolate over a souffle topping extremely rewarding. Everything has to be done just right, though, or you're stuck with an icing that has a strange resemblance to cheap hair gel. Always flour your surface, use only low heat when you're melting a glaze, freeze the bowl and beaters first when you're making whipped cream- yes, it's all tedious but worth it. Hours spent stirring and steaming all fade away when you see the reaction to that first bite and it's better than warm fuzzies from head to toe. Four pies later and I don't mind the baking powder streaks on my t-shirt as long as the mass of Thanksgiving family-that's-not-really-related is deliciously satisfied. All this to say- a perfect pie crust really does send endorphins through my brain. Who knew? Is this normal? Regardless- Paula Deen, please take me under your wing.
Here you go: I think you might like this song. I keep coming back to it lately- whether the repeated listening is good for my health or not, I can't get away from the melody. It's a cover, but I promise it's still at heartwrenching and true as the first time I heard the lyrics; maybe even more so. He's in this grave, but of course, when Jeff's voice hits those high notes, even the rut he's trapped in seems somehow romantic. And just between us, behind the sarcasm I'm really a sucker for the nontraditional almost-not-in-love love song.
I'm not saying that I'm extremely gifted with sifting flour or that magic happens when you put a rolling pin in my hand, but I seem to find grating Baker's chocolate over a souffle topping extremely rewarding. Everything has to be done just right, though, or you're stuck with an icing that has a strange resemblance to cheap hair gel. Always flour your surface, use only low heat when you're melting a glaze, freeze the bowl and beaters first when you're making whipped cream- yes, it's all tedious but worth it. Hours spent stirring and steaming all fade away when you see the reaction to that first bite and it's better than warm fuzzies from head to toe. Four pies later and I don't mind the baking powder streaks on my t-shirt as long as the mass of Thanksgiving family-that's-not-really-related is deliciously satisfied. All this to say- a perfect pie crust really does send endorphins through my brain. Who knew? Is this normal? Regardless- Paula Deen, please take me under your wing.
Here you go: I think you might like this song. I keep coming back to it lately- whether the repeated listening is good for my health or not, I can't get away from the melody. It's a cover, but I promise it's still at heartwrenching and true as the first time I heard the lyrics; maybe even more so. He's in this grave, but of course, when Jeff's voice hits those high notes, even the rut he's trapped in seems somehow romantic. And just between us, behind the sarcasm I'm really a sucker for the nontraditional almost-not-in-love love song.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
College: In Haiku Form
girl wearing ugg boots
please don't judge my black converse
your feet are in sheep
gray-haired lunch lady
lip-synching to 'low rider'
you have made my day
lonely laundry room
she just added too much soap
instant foam party!
nothing else to do
i think it's time for a nap
or maybe ramen
community bath
somebody left their shampoo
um, finders keepers?
please don't judge my black converse
your feet are in sheep
gray-haired lunch lady
lip-synching to 'low rider'
you have made my day
lonely laundry room
she just added too much soap
instant foam party!
nothing else to do
i think it's time for a nap
or maybe ramen
community bath
somebody left their shampoo
um, finders keepers?
Monday, October 27, 2008
Also useful when decorating a necktie
There's something about piano solos that help me look at my life introspectively. Usually everyday I'm skipping around, talking 90 miles a minute, voicing literally any thought that enters my head and repeating lines from last week's Saturday Night Live skits at a volume that makes people in the library shoot me death glares. I ponder my problems at a fast pace; my brain tries to consider every single solution at once and I start writing scripts of conversations in my head that I want to have later that day before I even talk to anyone. Being indecisive, unfortunately, is like second nature and I wear down the buttons on my TV remote and the dial on my radio by changing channel as soon as my moth-like attention span is lost.
I took piano lessons as a child, but like most failed prodigies, practicing just wasn't as important to me as building mud pies or recording my own 7 year-old talk shows on my Little Tykes cassette player. Sure, there were times throughout my teenage life where I'd spend hours pinching and crushing the neck of a guitar relentlessly or get lightheaded from breathing into a harmonica for a few hours, trying to imitate the latest musician that had struck my fancy, but my deepest envy was always for someone who could sit down on a bench and without even seeming to try, press down a few black and white rectangles and create a masterpiece.
All this is to say that, oddly enough, my whole brain seems to slow down as soon as a IV chord on piano enters my eardrum. Maybe it's the rhythm that calms me down or the steady sound of the hammers hitting the strings, but my focus suddenly becomes far more clear than it normally is when I'm talking like I have to get every word out or I might explode. Granted, a baby grand isn't normally thought of as a hip, new sound, but it's the timeless quality that contributes so much to my peace of mind. There's something soothing in feeling like every song on piano is one I've heard some part of before; that really, there's only 88 keys to choose from, and all of them keep ringing in my brain long after they've been played.
There are a lot of reasons why this song makes me close my eyes and block out everything else but the music being made in front of me, but I don't want to bore you with to many words. In short, it has to do with all the feelings buzzing around in my head that won't go away, the cold weather that makes me much too nostalgic, that part where the rhythm is syncopated, a certain November day and the pure amount of love I hold for this man and his music. Not to mention, this is the orchestra version and I think I got a little misty when it got past the three-minute mark. If you really want to know, just tell me. I'll sit down and tell you all the reasons why I can't get over listening to it, with expressive eyebrow raises and accenting hand movements, too. Promise.
Take it away, Mr. Folds:
I took piano lessons as a child, but like most failed prodigies, practicing just wasn't as important to me as building mud pies or recording my own 7 year-old talk shows on my Little Tykes cassette player. Sure, there were times throughout my teenage life where I'd spend hours pinching and crushing the neck of a guitar relentlessly or get lightheaded from breathing into a harmonica for a few hours, trying to imitate the latest musician that had struck my fancy, but my deepest envy was always for someone who could sit down on a bench and without even seeming to try, press down a few black and white rectangles and create a masterpiece.
All this is to say that, oddly enough, my whole brain seems to slow down as soon as a IV chord on piano enters my eardrum. Maybe it's the rhythm that calms me down or the steady sound of the hammers hitting the strings, but my focus suddenly becomes far more clear than it normally is when I'm talking like I have to get every word out or I might explode. Granted, a baby grand isn't normally thought of as a hip, new sound, but it's the timeless quality that contributes so much to my peace of mind. There's something soothing in feeling like every song on piano is one I've heard some part of before; that really, there's only 88 keys to choose from, and all of them keep ringing in my brain long after they've been played.
There are a lot of reasons why this song makes me close my eyes and block out everything else but the music being made in front of me, but I don't want to bore you with to many words. In short, it has to do with all the feelings buzzing around in my head that won't go away, the cold weather that makes me much too nostalgic, that part where the rhythm is syncopated, a certain November day and the pure amount of love I hold for this man and his music. Not to mention, this is the orchestra version and I think I got a little misty when it got past the three-minute mark. If you really want to know, just tell me. I'll sit down and tell you all the reasons why I can't get over listening to it, with expressive eyebrow raises and accenting hand movements, too. Promise.
Take it away, Mr. Folds:
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
The only Boss I listen to
He's 59, and still doing backbends over microphone stands. It doesn't matter what it means to other people or whether it is significant enough to make them pop out of bed in the morning dancing to "Tenth Avenue Freeze Out" but for me it's going to be a big day of jumping to some rhythms through the Quad and smiling like I just found out I won the lottery, because in a way, I have. A few hundred songs and a permanent giddy feeling from one night of a front-row connection a few months ago is more than enough to make me feel rich and want to celebrate a lot longer than these 24 hours.
Happy Birthday, Bruuuuuuce!!
Sunday, September 21, 2008
Never was a cloudy day !
It doesn't matter where we are or who may be around- when "September" starts playing, my mom and I can't help but dance. I know for sure that it's happened in department stores, numerous times in the car and a few weddings here and there, but it is and always will be the song that can make my day instantly better and my feet go crazy. It all started when I was younger; I inherited a great fandom of Earth, Wind & Fire, along with passion for all music, from my mother. She'd always turn up the stereo and dance with me and Kyle daily. We blew out the speakers in our '88 suburban from an afternoon of Hall and Oates. There's plenty of home videos of me using our backyard as a Broadway stage and a certain Kirk Whalum song is the reason my parents named my brother Kyle. Music's always been a big part of our family, from my Dad blaring jazz and Genesis every Sunday morning on our gigantic speaker system downstairs to Mimi playing her big band records so loud that she can't hear the phone ring to the obnoxiously giant subwoofer in Kyle's old blazer that could literally be heard 15 blocks away. This blessing of a family I've been given constantly provides a good soundtrack and for that I'm extremely thankful, but I digress.
The opening of "September" stops me in my tracks. There's the intro that starts out quieter and then it starts snapping and I am suddenly moving in my own conga line. The beat makes my hips swing and I can't stop my mouth from singing the words, "say, do you remember?". About a week ago I got a text message that said, "Just heard September....ba di yah. love, mom" and I grinned for a while after. I find it impossible to be in a bad mood when it's playing, and this theory has been tested numerous times. I swear that Jesus decided to intervene one morning when I heard it playing over the speakers before my 8 o'clock class- the horn part was better than a double shot of espresso at waking me up and I am positive that everyone sitting around me thought I was high as a kite or suffering from a really bad leg twitch. It sounds so cheesy to say that it even helps when I'm crying- but it does! I am forever grateful that Maurice White decided one night to write something miraculous and now almost thirty years later I'm still gettin' to feel the rhythm and place it into my own life's playlist. I can't imagine ever getting sick of Ronnie Law's saxophone solo, although my neighbors might as I’ve discovered it’s the reason the repeat button was invented. I can't put my finger on exactly what it is; I know the sound is infectious and downright funky but the way it changes my mood on dime is still ridiculous. The mystery remains as to why it affects me so much, but "September" is one song I can't avoid and the melody that my mom and I go crazy with, singing harmonies and dancing in Target while my Dad pushes the cart alongside, not thinking it's at all strange that we're taking up an entire aisle clapping and shimmying in unison to the trumpets when the chorus comes. Sometimes you don't need a scholarly musical reason to like a song, you know? "September" shakes me up in the best way. I always want it to last longer than the three minutes and thirty-seven seconds, I’m ecstatic and knocked out by the fact of its existence and should we be near each other when it plays, please give me and my hips some room. Thank you.
Do you remember the 21st night of September?!
The opening of "September" stops me in my tracks. There's the intro that starts out quieter and then it starts snapping and I am suddenly moving in my own conga line. The beat makes my hips swing and I can't stop my mouth from singing the words, "say, do you remember?". About a week ago I got a text message that said, "Just heard September....ba di yah. love, mom" and I grinned for a while after. I find it impossible to be in a bad mood when it's playing, and this theory has been tested numerous times. I swear that Jesus decided to intervene one morning when I heard it playing over the speakers before my 8 o'clock class- the horn part was better than a double shot of espresso at waking me up and I am positive that everyone sitting around me thought I was high as a kite or suffering from a really bad leg twitch. It sounds so cheesy to say that it even helps when I'm crying- but it does! I am forever grateful that Maurice White decided one night to write something miraculous and now almost thirty years later I'm still gettin' to feel the rhythm and place it into my own life's playlist. I can't imagine ever getting sick of Ronnie Law's saxophone solo, although my neighbors might as I’ve discovered it’s the reason the repeat button was invented. I can't put my finger on exactly what it is; I know the sound is infectious and downright funky but the way it changes my mood on dime is still ridiculous. The mystery remains as to why it affects me so much, but "September" is one song I can't avoid and the melody that my mom and I go crazy with, singing harmonies and dancing in Target while my Dad pushes the cart alongside, not thinking it's at all strange that we're taking up an entire aisle clapping and shimmying in unison to the trumpets when the chorus comes. Sometimes you don't need a scholarly musical reason to like a song, you know? "September" shakes me up in the best way. I always want it to last longer than the three minutes and thirty-seven seconds, I’m ecstatic and knocked out by the fact of its existence and should we be near each other when it plays, please give me and my hips some room. Thank you.
Do you remember the 21st night of September?!
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