Pretty catchy title, huh? I just realized that I didn't specify which one of the kittens in the pictures is Trinket. Trinket is the black and white tuxedo kitty, and Gizmo is the zebra-striped brown tabby.
Gizmo got groomed for the first time yesterday. She has experienced baths before, and had her claws clipped before, but yesterday is the first time in her whole life to get combed. I was informed that I was mean and wretched by my poor pitiful kitty while I removed the knots from her extra-fluffy plume of a tail.
Trinket, however, is doing quite well. She has learned how to give kisses (I lean down, she sniffs my face, we touch noses and I make the kissy sound with my lips, and no, I don't actually kiss her- gross!). She likes to sit from an imperious height (the back of the couch) and observe the goings-on of the house. Occasionally she gets so involved in whats going on at the moment that she slides from her lazy reclining position, does a flip as she falls, and proceeds to land on some weird part of her body.
So, that's pretty much it for now. Just thought that you guys would enjoy a little update on the furries.
Oh yeah, I have dogs too. Two of them. Today David and I went on a walk and left Sadie at home. Poor puppy. Sometimes she knocks on the door in the afternoons and in the evening when David gets home to make sure that we remember she exists and needs food (I'm exaggerating, by the way, but she really does knock on the door. You could have just spent one hundred sixty three and a half hours straight playing with her and still, thirty minutes later, there it is again. The demanding "bang. Bang. BANG!" I digress.)
David just discovered that Trinket knows how to open doors. If a door isn't latched in this house you had better be prepared for a friendly little furry intruder to arrive within minutes, announcing herself with a self-satisfied purr, and an open, wide-eyed look of triumph, joy, and curiosity, as if to say, "Hello! I'm Here! I take it I was invited since I managed to bulldoze the door down. Pet me! I'm the Baby, gotta love me!" She's a very sturdy little cat. She can handle any door in the house.
David is cleaning the litter box right now and said that he thinks that the cats crap twice their weight every day. Then he asked if I thought tigers cover their poop too. Trinket doesn't. Guess she's not a tiger.
Sunday, March 26, 2006
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
Petty Indulgences
I think everyone in the world needs a pet. Whether dog or cat, depending upon a person's tolerance of devotion and adoration, all people need the experience of complete, open, unconditional regard.
Let me take a minute to tell you about my Trinket. She and I did not bond too well at very first. At first my feelings for her were slightly polluted by my past crumpet-who soaked-up-all-my-excess-time-and-attention-and-squeals-of-she's-so-cute-look-at-the-kitty-show-me-the-kittyness (otherwise known as Gizmo), who wasn't shy about voicing and displaying her opinion that the new kitten should curl up, wither, and die.
But, now that that's all over, Trinket has become the delight of housewifely existence. She's not a graceful being by any stretch of the imagination, managing to disprove the theory that cats always land on their feet at every given opportunity, but all is forgiven when laughing at her spastic displays of playfulness when she joyously manages to find one of my ponytail holders on the floor, and also when I'm being clumsily "wooled to death" (as my oldest sister used to say about my crawling on and off and on her lap in effort to cuddle and find a comfy spot at once) when Trinket is in one of her moods of complete and utter love and adoration. It's just impossible to get mad at an adolescent cat who's wanting to love on you so much that you have to reach for her wreckless little fluffy body to keep her from tumbling to the ground. And reach for her to move her off the keyboard because she wants you to pay attention to her and not the computer. Her rattly purr that makes the walls vibrate when I pet her makes me melt.
And sometimes Gizmo still wants her to curl up and die.
Saturday, January 28, 2006
The Silent One Speaks
News Update: I have a new cat!!! About a month and a half ago, my husband took me kitten shopping for an early Christmas present, and I got a black and white tuxedo kitten. We named her Trinket, mostly because it fits her perfectly, but also because it goes well with our other kitty, Gizmo. Now, up until purchase of new kitten, Gizmo was a very very quiet cat. Her silent behavior, however, was replaced upon meeting with hisses, snarls, and gutteral moans. Trinket, much to the dismay and puzzlement of Gizmo, is a very vocal kitten. She mews frequently and has even accomplished the art of hum-mewing with her mouth closed. So, once Gizmo got over the initial shock of a small, furry, noisy entity dwelling in her castle, they began the bargaining phase. This entailed a daily meeting of furry minds and wills on either side of the bathroom door, directly following Gizmo's release from her nighttime prison (the office). My husband and I have different translations of their little exchanges. What actually happened went like this:
Gizmo: (trilling) Prrrow?
Trinket: Meh meh meh meh meh meh meh meeeeeeehhhhh!!!!
Gizmo: Prrrow, prrow row?
Trinket: Meh meh meh meh mehmehmehmehmehmehmehmeh mehmehmehmehmeh mmmeeeeeeeeehhhhh!!!!!!!!
Gizmo: silence with laid back ears
Trinket: Meh! Meh! Mmmeeeeeeeeeeeehhhhhhhh!
David's translation:
Gizmo: Still there?
Trinket: Yes Yes Yes Yeeeeeessssss!!!!
Gizmo: Ok, this is how it goes- you come out, and I eat you for lunch.
Trinket: Don't eat me don't eat me don't eat me don't eat me!!!!!
Gizmo: Still listening to groveling
Trinket: Don't eat me don't eat me don't eat DDDOOONN'TT EEEEEAAAAAT MEEEEE!
My translation:
Gizmo: Friends?
Trinket: Friends, friends, I promise, friends friends!!!!!
Gizmo: Friends?
Trinket: (louder) FRIENDS, FRIENDS, I PROMISE, FRIEEEENNNDSS!
(Door opens a crack and furries spot each other)
Gizmo: NOT FRIENDS!! NOT FRIENDS!!!
So, there ya go. After the initial period of socialization, which took about 3 weeks, they have become the best of friends. They cuddle, they lick, they play, and when Trinket does something dumb to get herself into trouble, Gizmo watches then looks at us vindictively (after the Trinket is chased away from her misdeeds) as if to say, I told you that kitten was trouble, but no one ever listens to me, do they?
Ah, so on to present events. The Gizmo, who used to never say anything, now slinks around the house, occasionally doling out a bite to the ankle or Trinket's neck and moaning at times as if she's having gastrointestinal convulsions. The most intriguing of Gizmo's new sounds is when David is sitting on the commode, at which point she walks halfway down the hall, sits down, stares at him and gives one, high-pitched "Meow!" and then looks at him expectantly as if she expects him to do something interesting. Maybe she is saying "Close the door, you're polluting the air!"
I'll probably think of more things to talk about later.
Gizmo: (trilling) Prrrow?
Trinket: Meh meh meh meh meh meh meh meeeeeeehhhhh!!!!
Gizmo: Prrrow, prrow row?
Trinket: Meh meh meh meh mehmehmehmehmehmehmehmeh mehmehmehmehmeh mmmeeeeeeeeehhhhh!!!!!!!!
Gizmo: silence with laid back ears
Trinket: Meh! Meh! Mmmeeeeeeeeeeeehhhhhhhh!
David's translation:
Gizmo: Still there?
Trinket: Yes Yes Yes Yeeeeeessssss!!!!
Gizmo: Ok, this is how it goes- you come out, and I eat you for lunch.
Trinket: Don't eat me don't eat me don't eat me don't eat me!!!!!
Gizmo: Still listening to groveling
Trinket: Don't eat me don't eat me don't eat DDDOOONN'TT EEEEEAAAAAT MEEEEE!
My translation:
Gizmo: Friends?
Trinket: Friends, friends, I promise, friends friends!!!!!
Gizmo: Friends?
Trinket: (louder) FRIENDS, FRIENDS, I PROMISE, FRIEEEENNNDSS!
(Door opens a crack and furries spot each other)
Gizmo: NOT FRIENDS!! NOT FRIENDS!!!
So, there ya go. After the initial period of socialization, which took about 3 weeks, they have become the best of friends. They cuddle, they lick, they play, and when Trinket does something dumb to get herself into trouble, Gizmo watches then looks at us vindictively (after the Trinket is chased away from her misdeeds) as if to say, I told you that kitten was trouble, but no one ever listens to me, do they?
Ah, so on to present events. The Gizmo, who used to never say anything, now slinks around the house, occasionally doling out a bite to the ankle or Trinket's neck and moaning at times as if she's having gastrointestinal convulsions. The most intriguing of Gizmo's new sounds is when David is sitting on the commode, at which point she walks halfway down the hall, sits down, stares at him and gives one, high-pitched "Meow!" and then looks at him expectantly as if she expects him to do something interesting. Maybe she is saying "Close the door, you're polluting the air!"
I'll probably think of more things to talk about later.
Friday, November 04, 2005
Bush Babies and Me
Ok, guys, time for a new post. Recently a friend compared me to a bush baby. I didn't have any clue what that was, for starters, and what he meant by calling me one. I was tempted to just tell him to take a flying leap, but I decided instead to find out what one was, and come up with the ways I was like one. Then I typed a paper. The resulting paper amused me so much that I decided to let everyone else enjoy it too. Enjoy!
Bush babies are nocturnal animals native to the African bush. They are small nocturnal creatures which live in small to large groups- smaller when feeding, and larger when sleeping. When they are sleeping they often stay in groups as large as 20. They sleep in small, enclosed spaces like tree trunks, all cuddled together. For such a small animal, weighing no more than ten ounces as an adult, they have a very large territory- up to 20 acres per group that sleeps together…. Amazing how only twenty little ten-ounce animals think they need 20 acres! That's an acre for each little nocturnal, fuzzy body. What cheek! Bush babies not only need an oddly large amount of space, but they are also one of the most peculiar looking animals in the African terrain. They have large, round, glassy-looking eyes, and enormous ears. They have the unique ability to leap great distances along the treetops, giving them the illusion of flying. Sort of like a flying squirrel with bigger vocal cords. Speaking of vocal cords, it's this particular body part the gave the little tyke its name. When a bush baby thinks that something is invading its territory, it gives a yell that sounds similar to the yell of a small, excited child. Want to catch one? It's not hard; just buy yourself some liquor (palm wine specifically) and you're good to go! You don't have to buy much- the little sots are cheap drunks. At least that's how the African bushmen catch them when they are in need of a funny-looking little pet. Bush babies survive on an omnivorous diet of bugs, caterpillars, lizards, dung beetles, flowers, pollen, honey, seeds, fruit, and the sap from acacia and albizzia trees. Because they are nocturnal animals, they sleep all day, and then awake for their nightly gorging sessions at dusk. Whenever they are foraging for food, they go in groups that consist of a male, a pregnant female, and the female's offspring from a previous litter. They have very fast reflexes (at least when they aren't doped up from a bushman with a keg), and catch their prey by pouncing on them. Their use as pets used to be much more widespread until 1940, when there was a particular heinous outbreak of yellow fever. At that point, bush babies were mercilessly hunted, due to their participation in the plague of sickness. You see, bush babies are somewhat like the idea of an alien life-form which peacefully cohabits with deadly gas; they carry the virus for yellow fever in their cute little bodies with no risk to their personal health. Problems ensue when mosquitoes bite them and pass on the virus to the next thing they bite, which in many cases are humans. Once they invented a vaccine for the virus, though, bush babies were once again flung into the process of alcohol abuse and captivity. Bush babies are amazing animals, and have incredible senses of hearing and night vision. A bush baby can hear a cricket’s legs walking on dead leaves from over 15 feet above in a tree. Obviously, these little guys don't miss a thing. Still needing more of a mental image of one of these little guys? Please refer to the recent animated film "Madagascar"- the little guys singing the "Move It" song with gusto are lemurs, which are very similar to bush babies. They are from the same group of primates, the main differences being that bush babies are smaller, nocturnal, and have a slightly different diet. Bush babies are nocturnal due to competition with larger primates who delight in daytime activity. Evidently, in a poo-flinging contest, the guys with the most crap win.
Ok, so now the question arises: In what ways do I resemble a bush baby? Well, first of all, the obvious- I'm a cheap drunk, I love leaping through the air with catlike agility at high altitudes, and foraging with my mate and children for food in the undergrowth of the African jungle while pregnant. The more subtle comparisons, however are a little harder to nail. The more overt ways I resemble a bush baby is that in my family of origin, I was more of a watcher than a fighter. If the big monkeys were out throwin' poop clods twice my size, I would be on the side lines hiding, sleeping, or shrieking like an excited child. In my environment I was more an observer than anything else. The only time I came out of my shell was after the other primates went to sleep for the night (or left, or went away, or after I moved out of the environment). My orb-like eyes and oversized ears picked up everything; nothing escaped my notice. The fight in me only came out when there was an unsuspecting victim- like a smaller monkey or a big monkey feeling emotionally strung out and defenseless. Once I had spotted my victim from twenty feet away, I would stalk and pounce with lightning speed and deftly deliver my small, sharp death bites of criticism to the neck before they knew what was happening. My quarry was completely caught off balance due to my overly apt observations and skill at flinging the glaring truth about themselves into their faces with stunning accuracy at times when I didn't think they would swipe back. Sometimes I was wrong, and they would fight back, but soon they would grow bored with their warfare against a pipsqueak and I would live to fight smarter another day; there was never surrender under any circumstances.
So, there you go. Me and the bush baby. Twins I tell you, separated at birth.
Bush babies are nocturnal animals native to the African bush. They are small nocturnal creatures which live in small to large groups- smaller when feeding, and larger when sleeping. When they are sleeping they often stay in groups as large as 20. They sleep in small, enclosed spaces like tree trunks, all cuddled together. For such a small animal, weighing no more than ten ounces as an adult, they have a very large territory- up to 20 acres per group that sleeps together…. Amazing how only twenty little ten-ounce animals think they need 20 acres! That's an acre for each little nocturnal, fuzzy body. What cheek! Bush babies not only need an oddly large amount of space, but they are also one of the most peculiar looking animals in the African terrain. They have large, round, glassy-looking eyes, and enormous ears. They have the unique ability to leap great distances along the treetops, giving them the illusion of flying. Sort of like a flying squirrel with bigger vocal cords. Speaking of vocal cords, it's this particular body part the gave the little tyke its name. When a bush baby thinks that something is invading its territory, it gives a yell that sounds similar to the yell of a small, excited child. Want to catch one? It's not hard; just buy yourself some liquor (palm wine specifically) and you're good to go! You don't have to buy much- the little sots are cheap drunks. At least that's how the African bushmen catch them when they are in need of a funny-looking little pet. Bush babies survive on an omnivorous diet of bugs, caterpillars, lizards, dung beetles, flowers, pollen, honey, seeds, fruit, and the sap from acacia and albizzia trees. Because they are nocturnal animals, they sleep all day, and then awake for their nightly gorging sessions at dusk. Whenever they are foraging for food, they go in groups that consist of a male, a pregnant female, and the female's offspring from a previous litter. They have very fast reflexes (at least when they aren't doped up from a bushman with a keg), and catch their prey by pouncing on them. Their use as pets used to be much more widespread until 1940, when there was a particular heinous outbreak of yellow fever. At that point, bush babies were mercilessly hunted, due to their participation in the plague of sickness. You see, bush babies are somewhat like the idea of an alien life-form which peacefully cohabits with deadly gas; they carry the virus for yellow fever in their cute little bodies with no risk to their personal health. Problems ensue when mosquitoes bite them and pass on the virus to the next thing they bite, which in many cases are humans. Once they invented a vaccine for the virus, though, bush babies were once again flung into the process of alcohol abuse and captivity. Bush babies are amazing animals, and have incredible senses of hearing and night vision. A bush baby can hear a cricket’s legs walking on dead leaves from over 15 feet above in a tree. Obviously, these little guys don't miss a thing. Still needing more of a mental image of one of these little guys? Please refer to the recent animated film "Madagascar"- the little guys singing the "Move It" song with gusto are lemurs, which are very similar to bush babies. They are from the same group of primates, the main differences being that bush babies are smaller, nocturnal, and have a slightly different diet. Bush babies are nocturnal due to competition with larger primates who delight in daytime activity. Evidently, in a poo-flinging contest, the guys with the most crap win.
Ok, so now the question arises: In what ways do I resemble a bush baby? Well, first of all, the obvious- I'm a cheap drunk, I love leaping through the air with catlike agility at high altitudes, and foraging with my mate and children for food in the undergrowth of the African jungle while pregnant. The more subtle comparisons, however are a little harder to nail. The more overt ways I resemble a bush baby is that in my family of origin, I was more of a watcher than a fighter. If the big monkeys were out throwin' poop clods twice my size, I would be on the side lines hiding, sleeping, or shrieking like an excited child. In my environment I was more an observer than anything else. The only time I came out of my shell was after the other primates went to sleep for the night (or left, or went away, or after I moved out of the environment). My orb-like eyes and oversized ears picked up everything; nothing escaped my notice. The fight in me only came out when there was an unsuspecting victim- like a smaller monkey or a big monkey feeling emotionally strung out and defenseless. Once I had spotted my victim from twenty feet away, I would stalk and pounce with lightning speed and deftly deliver my small, sharp death bites of criticism to the neck before they knew what was happening. My quarry was completely caught off balance due to my overly apt observations and skill at flinging the glaring truth about themselves into their faces with stunning accuracy at times when I didn't think they would swipe back. Sometimes I was wrong, and they would fight back, but soon they would grow bored with their warfare against a pipsqueak and I would live to fight smarter another day; there was never surrender under any circumstances.
So, there you go. Me and the bush baby. Twins I tell you, separated at birth.
Tuesday, October 25, 2005
The Zen of Crawling
Well, folks, it's been awhile since I have felt inspired enough to write. Just as easily as my life complicated itself, it has uncomplicated itself these last couple of weeks. So, that all said, my life now consists of housework, romance novels, and making sure my little brown furry tornado, more commonly known as Gizmo, doesn't wreak havoc whilst she shadows me around the house.
However, today my routine has changed. Today I came over to my brother's house to help my mom with my adorable 5 month old neice, Shayce (pronounced Shay-see). She is the cutest baby ever! Her most recent accomplishment is holding her bottle for herself. And I'll be darned if she doesn't look absolutely pleased with herself when she does. She's even taken to plucking the bottle in and out of her mouth just to show that bottle who's boss.
She's also working on figuring out how to get her knees beneath herself and her arms in the right spot so she can start crawling. She works so hard at it, and babbles the whole time. The only thing is, her babbling sounds more like growling than anything else. As my mom puts it, "She the growlin'est baby I ever did see!" The most amusing thing about watching Shayce play on the floor is the fact that any time she accomplishes anything new, she gets a look of absolute shock on her face. She was floored when, at the pinnacle of her growling frustration, she managed to wedge one knee beneath herself and lift her abdomen off the ground with a heartfelt "Yayayayah!" This was soon followed by her body thumping back down to the ground and a millisecond of stunned silence from the hyperverbal baby. And then resumed the ooching, grunting, flailing, growling frustration of baby, broken intermittently by a screaming diatribe directed at one of her floppy, fuzzy playthings.
I think Shayce would agree that the few seconds of baby buttum elevated off the floor was worth it.
However, today my routine has changed. Today I came over to my brother's house to help my mom with my adorable 5 month old neice, Shayce (pronounced Shay-see). She is the cutest baby ever! Her most recent accomplishment is holding her bottle for herself. And I'll be darned if she doesn't look absolutely pleased with herself when she does. She's even taken to plucking the bottle in and out of her mouth just to show that bottle who's boss.
She's also working on figuring out how to get her knees beneath herself and her arms in the right spot so she can start crawling. She works so hard at it, and babbles the whole time. The only thing is, her babbling sounds more like growling than anything else. As my mom puts it, "She the growlin'est baby I ever did see!" The most amusing thing about watching Shayce play on the floor is the fact that any time she accomplishes anything new, she gets a look of absolute shock on her face. She was floored when, at the pinnacle of her growling frustration, she managed to wedge one knee beneath herself and lift her abdomen off the ground with a heartfelt "Yayayayah!" This was soon followed by her body thumping back down to the ground and a millisecond of stunned silence from the hyperverbal baby. And then resumed the ooching, grunting, flailing, growling frustration of baby, broken intermittently by a screaming diatribe directed at one of her floppy, fuzzy playthings.
I think Shayce would agree that the few seconds of baby buttum elevated off the floor was worth it.
Thursday, September 01, 2005
Hail to the Moody Chief
Oh, kitten.
This phrase has been bandied around quite frequently in my house for the last two months. For some reason, she has gotten a mixed up sense of the hierarchy of the household. Whenever I was toying with the idea of getting a cat, the warm, cuddly vision of a lazy fluffy furrball lounging in my lap, sleeping all day popped to mind. Oh how untrue that has turned out. For some reason, the image of my mind's eye has chosen to derail and speed turbulently southward as opposed to coming to fruition, as I so wished. My house is now filled with the pitter-patter of little feet, which sound more like sassy, overfed thuds every day. Occasionally a little furry tornado whizzes through my bedroom, twirls around in playful abandon, then darts under the bed, only to pop out only now and then with all her suppressed rage and bite a towel or some other unsuspecting stationary object. She used to have a preference for my husbands feet, but after long, persistent, hard-headed experimentation with getting in a juicy bite on a big toe, followed by feeling herself rocket through the air and land across the room, she has decided that it's better to go for objects that don't object.
Well, speaking of husbands, mine is waiting to return to our little domestic hideaway, and the reproachful miaow that will be waiting for us on the other side of the front door.
This phrase has been bandied around quite frequently in my house for the last two months. For some reason, she has gotten a mixed up sense of the hierarchy of the household. Whenever I was toying with the idea of getting a cat, the warm, cuddly vision of a lazy fluffy furrball lounging in my lap, sleeping all day popped to mind. Oh how untrue that has turned out. For some reason, the image of my mind's eye has chosen to derail and speed turbulently southward as opposed to coming to fruition, as I so wished. My house is now filled with the pitter-patter of little feet, which sound more like sassy, overfed thuds every day. Occasionally a little furry tornado whizzes through my bedroom, twirls around in playful abandon, then darts under the bed, only to pop out only now and then with all her suppressed rage and bite a towel or some other unsuspecting stationary object. She used to have a preference for my husbands feet, but after long, persistent, hard-headed experimentation with getting in a juicy bite on a big toe, followed by feeling herself rocket through the air and land across the room, she has decided that it's better to go for objects that don't object.
Well, speaking of husbands, mine is waiting to return to our little domestic hideaway, and the reproachful miaow that will be waiting for us on the other side of the front door.
Tuesday, August 30, 2005
The Furry Takeover
Well, well, well! Guess who's back? If you said "Cris! Hooray! Cris is back" then yes, you are correct!
Well, it's been awhile since I've caught my faithful readers up on the important goings-on of my little world, so I have decided to tentatively peek my head out of my little shell and enlighten those who are curious as to what I've been up to.
The last eight months have been incredibly delightful, joyful, and hectic. There are now four new additions to my little family, which was once made up of, well let's see... myself. As of August 6, 2005, I now have a husband. I have also chosen to complicate my life even further by attaining not one, not two, but three pets- two dogs and a cat. I got to name them all, too! Mwa ha ha ha! The cat is named Gizmo, and she is an adorable little 6 month old brown tabby longhaired kitten. The first dog I got was Sadie- a 9-month-old German Shepherd mix with soulful brown eyes and a bigger grin than any dog has a right to have. Our last little pet is a 4 month old rat terrier named Buster. I hate to say it, but he's a little bit of a momma's boy.
Thus, the title. My life has been literally taken over by furry objects- animals and a husband. I think the last one might just be the furriest. I never knew settling down would be so much fun!
Well, it's been awhile since I've caught my faithful readers up on the important goings-on of my little world, so I have decided to tentatively peek my head out of my little shell and enlighten those who are curious as to what I've been up to.
The last eight months have been incredibly delightful, joyful, and hectic. There are now four new additions to my little family, which was once made up of, well let's see... myself. As of August 6, 2005, I now have a husband. I have also chosen to complicate my life even further by attaining not one, not two, but three pets- two dogs and a cat. I got to name them all, too! Mwa ha ha ha! The cat is named Gizmo, and she is an adorable little 6 month old brown tabby longhaired kitten. The first dog I got was Sadie- a 9-month-old German Shepherd mix with soulful brown eyes and a bigger grin than any dog has a right to have. Our last little pet is a 4 month old rat terrier named Buster. I hate to say it, but he's a little bit of a momma's boy.
Thus, the title. My life has been literally taken over by furry objects- animals and a husband. I think the last one might just be the furriest. I never knew settling down would be so much fun!
Monday, January 24, 2005
In Whose Image?
Well, I have been wanting to write something new on here for a while now, but for the longest time I couldn't think of anything to write about. I guess I was waiting for another stroke of comic genius, since I love hearing my sister laugh whenever she reads my new posts. But the waiting is finally over. I have decided to break down and write something new despite my lack of creativity in making this funny.
A lot has been happening in my life these past few weeks. Everything was rocking along quite merrily, and I have been having a blast enjoying my life and looking forward to the future. However, I never could have predicted what has happened in the last few weeks.
In the last year or so I have been training myself to look for the joy in life no matter what was happening. I feel that I am in complete control of how I choose to interpret situations, therefore, I can decide whether or not I am happy. I do not believe that happiness is an accident of good circumstances like I used to. I used to think, "Man, I can't wait for my life to get good so I can be happy for once!" I've learned that it doesn't work that way. I can not only learn to be content in all circumstances, but I can teach myself to have a good time as well!
So anyway, life is good. And, more importantly, there's another person in it now. I am finally dating someone, which is the thing I couldn't have predicted, and which has thrown my happy little world into somewhat of a tailspin. Although, as he would say, "it's all been worth it".
But, aside from all that, there is a particular issue which has intrigued my train of thought recently, and which led to this particular article on my blog.
When I was little, I used to dream of being a world explorer/ detective, and loved the idea that another person's life depended on my power to save them. At other times, I would pretend that I was a superhero or some kind of mutant that had special powers, so I could use them for good and affect the outcome of the world, so to speak. All of this led to the question- why do humans seek power? What is it in our wiring that makes us crave the ability to control our environment and oftentimes the environments of others?
It all goes back to the question of who made us. The plain and simple truth is that we were all made according to a divine blueprint, according to the original, who is a supremely powerful being. We are drawn to horoscopes and future-telling mechanisms because we were made according to one who knows everything. We have the instinct to care what happens to each other because we were made after someone who cares very much about what will ultimately happen to every single breath of human life.
So, I said all that to say: Humans are very powerful creatures. We all innately possess a portion of the power of our maker, since he is basically defined by it. However, the crux of the matter is how we choose to use the power that we possess. We are capable of great amounts of good, great amounts of evil, or a great amount of wasted space; and this is all determined by the choices we make.
First, there are the people who abuse, misdirect, and misuse their power. These are the ones who commit heinous crimes and cause misery to others. These are the murderers and terrorists.
Second, there are those who are the ultimate in ineffectiveness. They are aware of their power through their concern for world issues and for their family, yet they have built up enough resistance through mental obstacles and hurdles that they are incapable of taking action. All they do is talk, worry, and wring their hands, and it just so turns out that talk is cheap. They waste their energy and ability, and ultimately become resentful and angry because they realize their abuse of the talents they were given. That's the trap of negative thinking- positive results require positive action.
Finally, there are the ones who learn to be stewards of their potential, by fulfilling it and making use of it, and teaching others to do the same. These are the mentors, the role models, the super heroes, the best friends and the happiest people. It's funny how people with the best self-esteem are the ones who have done the most with their lives, and yet only consider it a humble fulfillment of duty.
I want to strive to not only be a thinker, observer, learner, and teacher, but also a doer- a role model, mentor, and a superhero. An effective person with goals to reach for, and happiness and love to live for and inspire in others. And, if I can say at the end of my life that I have done that, then it will only be a humble fulfillment of my duty.
A lot has been happening in my life these past few weeks. Everything was rocking along quite merrily, and I have been having a blast enjoying my life and looking forward to the future. However, I never could have predicted what has happened in the last few weeks.
In the last year or so I have been training myself to look for the joy in life no matter what was happening. I feel that I am in complete control of how I choose to interpret situations, therefore, I can decide whether or not I am happy. I do not believe that happiness is an accident of good circumstances like I used to. I used to think, "Man, I can't wait for my life to get good so I can be happy for once!" I've learned that it doesn't work that way. I can not only learn to be content in all circumstances, but I can teach myself to have a good time as well!
So anyway, life is good. And, more importantly, there's another person in it now. I am finally dating someone, which is the thing I couldn't have predicted, and which has thrown my happy little world into somewhat of a tailspin. Although, as he would say, "it's all been worth it".
But, aside from all that, there is a particular issue which has intrigued my train of thought recently, and which led to this particular article on my blog.
When I was little, I used to dream of being a world explorer/ detective, and loved the idea that another person's life depended on my power to save them. At other times, I would pretend that I was a superhero or some kind of mutant that had special powers, so I could use them for good and affect the outcome of the world, so to speak. All of this led to the question- why do humans seek power? What is it in our wiring that makes us crave the ability to control our environment and oftentimes the environments of others?
It all goes back to the question of who made us. The plain and simple truth is that we were all made according to a divine blueprint, according to the original, who is a supremely powerful being. We are drawn to horoscopes and future-telling mechanisms because we were made according to one who knows everything. We have the instinct to care what happens to each other because we were made after someone who cares very much about what will ultimately happen to every single breath of human life.
So, I said all that to say: Humans are very powerful creatures. We all innately possess a portion of the power of our maker, since he is basically defined by it. However, the crux of the matter is how we choose to use the power that we possess. We are capable of great amounts of good, great amounts of evil, or a great amount of wasted space; and this is all determined by the choices we make.
First, there are the people who abuse, misdirect, and misuse their power. These are the ones who commit heinous crimes and cause misery to others. These are the murderers and terrorists.
Second, there are those who are the ultimate in ineffectiveness. They are aware of their power through their concern for world issues and for their family, yet they have built up enough resistance through mental obstacles and hurdles that they are incapable of taking action. All they do is talk, worry, and wring their hands, and it just so turns out that talk is cheap. They waste their energy and ability, and ultimately become resentful and angry because they realize their abuse of the talents they were given. That's the trap of negative thinking- positive results require positive action.
Finally, there are the ones who learn to be stewards of their potential, by fulfilling it and making use of it, and teaching others to do the same. These are the mentors, the role models, the super heroes, the best friends and the happiest people. It's funny how people with the best self-esteem are the ones who have done the most with their lives, and yet only consider it a humble fulfillment of duty.
I want to strive to not only be a thinker, observer, learner, and teacher, but also a doer- a role model, mentor, and a superhero. An effective person with goals to reach for, and happiness and love to live for and inspire in others. And, if I can say at the end of my life that I have done that, then it will only be a humble fulfillment of my duty.
Wednesday, August 25, 2004
The Whirling Dervish
Well, I guess it's time for a new update on my blog. Thank you for your prayers on my behalf- I'm sure they helped since the dance instructor for my Jazz class only let out one uncontrollable guffaw during our first lesson yesterday. I know it was me he was looking at. You see, despite the fact that it was the first time the class met, we commenced dancing. In our first class, we not only learned to walk forward, backward, and in a circle (I liked those parts- they were easy), but we also began more complicated steps such stepping and sliding, stepping and spinning, and (my favorite, and evidently my teacher's favorite to watch) walking while vigorously shaking the hips. After his demonstration of the last move, I'm sure the look of panic creeping onto my face was quite comical, and well-founded after attempting the hip-shaking and finding out that I just don't move like that.
As I told my sister after class was over, I have been iridescently white my entire life, and nothing has changed or will change anytime soon. My attempts to walk with some 'tude were reminiscent of the rusty tinman. My step and slide looked like a brotha with a gimp leg. Snapping was a definite no because it distracted me too much from the task of keeping up with which leg was my right leg and which leg was my left. White men's jumping skills are often called into question, but there's no question about the fact that this white girl really can't dance.
My ballet class, however, is going along quite swimmingly. We move slowly, and that is very very good. I love going to ballet, because I get to feel like a princess- all the movements are amazingly regal. I have never been a tomboy, so feelings of royalty are second nature for me. When I was little, I was the kid who always wanted to wear a dress and would "borrow" my brother's action figures so they could have the opportunity to come to my tea party, which I knew that they were dying to do after being locked up in that glass cabinet for so long. The pain that was inflicted when he found out where his figures went to is still unmatched. It was worth it though....
Another thought that has been niggling at the back of my mind recently stems from a technique instruction in my photography book. When discussing the proper way to focus a camera lens, it says, "Focus on the object of interest...." What an appealing thought. Life would be so much simpler if we all consciously set goals and priorities, then kept our life centered on the prize until it was achieved. All too often we are distracted from our greatest potential by frivolities and superficial hang-ups. I have decided that from now on my life will be focused on my goals, and the choices I make will be propelled by my priorities and principles.
So there.
As I told my sister after class was over, I have been iridescently white my entire life, and nothing has changed or will change anytime soon. My attempts to walk with some 'tude were reminiscent of the rusty tinman. My step and slide looked like a brotha with a gimp leg. Snapping was a definite no because it distracted me too much from the task of keeping up with which leg was my right leg and which leg was my left. White men's jumping skills are often called into question, but there's no question about the fact that this white girl really can't dance.
My ballet class, however, is going along quite swimmingly. We move slowly, and that is very very good. I love going to ballet, because I get to feel like a princess- all the movements are amazingly regal. I have never been a tomboy, so feelings of royalty are second nature for me. When I was little, I was the kid who always wanted to wear a dress and would "borrow" my brother's action figures so they could have the opportunity to come to my tea party, which I knew that they were dying to do after being locked up in that glass cabinet for so long. The pain that was inflicted when he found out where his figures went to is still unmatched. It was worth it though....
Another thought that has been niggling at the back of my mind recently stems from a technique instruction in my photography book. When discussing the proper way to focus a camera lens, it says, "Focus on the object of interest...." What an appealing thought. Life would be so much simpler if we all consciously set goals and priorities, then kept our life centered on the prize until it was achieved. All too often we are distracted from our greatest potential by frivolities and superficial hang-ups. I have decided that from now on my life will be focused on my goals, and the choices I make will be propelled by my priorities and principles.
So there.
Friday, August 13, 2004
Through the eyes of a Child
How many of us have ever been in a situation where within seconds you have been completely disarmed by the honesty of the child you are with? Recently, I was employed as a Children's ministry intern at a church, and there were many times when this happened to me. But I can recall one story told by a parent that stands out above the rest.
At my church there was a young boy, Jack, who was about 3 years old. Imagine the most charming, adorable, blue- eyed baby boy possible, and you now have the image of Jack. I have never met any other child as sweet and trusting as Jack is. Don't get me wrong, he's not perfect. But he does hold the gift of making your heart melt.
A couple of weeks ago, it came time for the yearly shots. Yes, we all know them. The time of the year when normal children manage to stir up every ounce of strength and adrenaline that they possess and manage to fend off and outsquirm up to half a dozen nurses in fear of the horrid prick of the needle. The things we go through in the name of health.... And if squirming, fighting, pinching, kicking, biting, and licking doesn't work, then they use their ultimate tool given to them by God at way too young of an age- the scream that would even bring a banshee to tears.
Well, for Jack, there was none of the above described hoo-rah. Instead, his experience was quite the opposite. On the way to the clinic, he was a chipper, excited little fellow, chatting with his mom about whatever crossed his happy little mind- cars, birds, trees, Spider Man, quantum theory, etc. Once they got there and made it into the doctor's office, Jack made himself at home on the examination table, making easy conversation with the nurse in the manner of a true politician, with full confidence and bright-eyed trust. The nurse, of course, chatted along with Jack as she prepared the ominous syringe for his chubby little leg. After about five minutes, she was ready to give him the shot, and Jack was still happily jawing away about new toys or what have you. The nurse made a passing comment about how calm her unsuspecting little victim was, then proceeded to stick him with the needle after a mumbled warning about him feeling a slight prick.
Jack's face went from a look of happy, complete trust, to a look of shocked betrayal. This expression was quickly followed by narrowed eyes of suspicion and angry silence toward the nurse, who had finished the injection and was unsuccessfully trying to re-establish their friendship. Jack was finally persuaded by his mother to take a bright red sucker for being so "brave", but on their way out, as the nurse waved good-bye, he gave her one last vindictive look and said to his mother with an accusing tone and pointing finger, "Mommy, that's the lady who SHOT me!"
If we could only recapture the trust inherent in childhood, the world would be our oyster. Imagine the last time you were completely honest with someone. Remember the power that gave you? Honesty is honestly disarming.
At my church there was a young boy, Jack, who was about 3 years old. Imagine the most charming, adorable, blue- eyed baby boy possible, and you now have the image of Jack. I have never met any other child as sweet and trusting as Jack is. Don't get me wrong, he's not perfect. But he does hold the gift of making your heart melt.
A couple of weeks ago, it came time for the yearly shots. Yes, we all know them. The time of the year when normal children manage to stir up every ounce of strength and adrenaline that they possess and manage to fend off and outsquirm up to half a dozen nurses in fear of the horrid prick of the needle. The things we go through in the name of health.... And if squirming, fighting, pinching, kicking, biting, and licking doesn't work, then they use their ultimate tool given to them by God at way too young of an age- the scream that would even bring a banshee to tears.
Well, for Jack, there was none of the above described hoo-rah. Instead, his experience was quite the opposite. On the way to the clinic, he was a chipper, excited little fellow, chatting with his mom about whatever crossed his happy little mind- cars, birds, trees, Spider Man, quantum theory, etc. Once they got there and made it into the doctor's office, Jack made himself at home on the examination table, making easy conversation with the nurse in the manner of a true politician, with full confidence and bright-eyed trust. The nurse, of course, chatted along with Jack as she prepared the ominous syringe for his chubby little leg. After about five minutes, she was ready to give him the shot, and Jack was still happily jawing away about new toys or what have you. The nurse made a passing comment about how calm her unsuspecting little victim was, then proceeded to stick him with the needle after a mumbled warning about him feeling a slight prick.
Jack's face went from a look of happy, complete trust, to a look of shocked betrayal. This expression was quickly followed by narrowed eyes of suspicion and angry silence toward the nurse, who had finished the injection and was unsuccessfully trying to re-establish their friendship. Jack was finally persuaded by his mother to take a bright red sucker for being so "brave", but on their way out, as the nurse waved good-bye, he gave her one last vindictive look and said to his mother with an accusing tone and pointing finger, "Mommy, that's the lady who SHOT me!"
If we could only recapture the trust inherent in childhood, the world would be our oyster. Imagine the last time you were completely honest with someone. Remember the power that gave you? Honesty is honestly disarming.
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