This is why. This, is why

Thanksgiving prayer: Thank you God for this world and your love. Thank you for this life and the ability to dream and love and laugh and cry. Thank you for the Sun and stars. Thank you for every person who has come before me and will come after me. Thank you for music and art. Help me to continue to listen for your guidance. Thank you for your animals, trees and water. For the food we eat, the clothes on our backs and the roofs over our heads. For community. Thank you for the Mystery within the Mystery. The light within the light. The darkness within the darkness. May we remain in awe and wonder, in your balance and presence forever and ever. In peace and gratitude.
Amen.
Mason.

To Ms. Leons.

There you are again.
Sinking sulkily in your bed with the basin tray next to your brows.
The blinds are raised, and the dusty, stained heater chirps forth it's air.
The paint-chipped walls, the blown out bulbs, the ole 1960's finest toilet bowl.
They await in standstill, those that inoculated me with grace over and over and over again.

The room presented it's finest findings! You got the crown! as it's prize treasure.
I could have sworn you were Sophie, but in person and non-wagging form.
With the widening of your eyes I was greeted with the sign. Yes, I saw the sign.

The sign. That weird, inexpressibly esoteric sign. Familiarly esoteric, though.

And I had not forgotten you, nor your smelly vomit.

And to be socially adept and polite, I anticipated my mindful inquiries with "How have you been? How are you feeling? What's been going on in your life lately?"
But I don't want to ask those questions. I don't want to talk. I don't even like talking, really.

I wanted to tell you that I've watched you Monday and Tuesday, and then Wednesday through Friday. Every time I came into the room, you've tried to raise your neck up a little farther to see more past my big head. Your bodily function odor held it's own up in this joint. Even so, your flatulence became my normal background music and secretly, I jammed to the beat.

And you lie there. And lie there. There. There. There in that bed. And you tell me how you've been married four times, how your daughter is gay and now in your life, you think. Day in and day out. Lying there. Thinking.

And you try to nutshell yourself to me. Signifying marriage, fetus' sexuality, and your current practices. But I didn't come for the nutshell, I came for the nut. I like you, the nut.

And I fill your cup full of pills and you smile, indicating, "Wow, I'm excited you're young and have life to live and I know you." That's what you tell me, all the time.

And now I do want to talk. I do want to ask you some questions. How do you do it? How do you take me as a big bally munch of gooeyness, thrown into the swirly lands of depravity and redemption, insanity and complete lucidness meeting up for lunch, and onward to a land where I feel a wound healed without any skin? I beg of you, why?

And so, as the swanky heater cranked itself through the wall, so too the heavens raged on chanting, knowing that their light could no longer be concealed.

The Buck of the buck.

Last night I had a dream I was "buck" at Buckhorn. And. it. was. awesome. I dreamed I was running with Hank and Frieda past the kitchen, past the sun-drying laundry being blown by the wind and into the meadow. I ran through the wild-flowered meadow and past the confluence and headed up to the ridge. By this time my dream became even better because I dreamed that the dogs weren't with me anymore but that I was now a dog running up on the ridge. (Yea, of course I was a mutt/lab mix...goes without question people). I got up to the ridge just in time before the sun was setting and I laid down in the grass. Then in my dream I started having a dream while I was a dog. I heard a British woman's voice that sang me a song, or a poem of sorts. Her voice began out way too high-pitched and opera-like, which made me want to strangle my dog ears. But then softly and gently I heard her singing words all too familiar. It was a poem I had written there quite a time ago. I had been obsessing over Emily Dickinson's style-meter and her proper and beautifully ornate English words. Her style made me tingle inside, mmmm mmmm. Her words were full of poignancy and like beloved Flannery's stories, I never knew what would come of it in the end.

Oh beautiful blades of grass
How you sway to and fro,
And to sways you
You seldom hither to know

But yet your graceful movement
Does much to catch the eye
And if you did so alone,
I'm afraid I would rather pass on by

And alas as a chorus of dancers--
As waves of elegance collide
So do I, join you, in this perpetuating
mystery, well disclosed, well disguised.


And then I woke up. It was so nice to revisit Buckhorn. It was so nice to hear me try to be like Emily Dickinson. And it is always nice to receive that little nugget of peace that God whips out onto ya. Just because it was a dream was it not real? Things outside of this world happen to us all the time. And they are completely and perfectly real and unreal all at the same time.

Wanting Change So Badly, Quality Road Humps on How to Get There.

Change. BIG word, many meanings. And if anything transparently obvious has occurred since the last election in 2008, the people have utilized the constitutional right to speech. I do get this edge of tingly excitement inside me when i think of my generation implementing it's own genre of "populist movements." Major pump fist, America. And by this I'm not just referring to the Occupy Wall Street movement, but also the Tea Party movement that initiated itself in early 2009. Also, the hundreds of thousands of protesters who made their voice known against policy changes of Governor Scott Walker in Wisconsin, who cut thousands of public government workers' pensions and benefits as a means for appropriate state growth.

When you stop and look at so much of the kind of activism that has been triggered, the Tea Party and the like, as a result of Obama's efforts - TARP, the stimulus package, and now the health care reform - there is a lot of sense this government is changing.

And if we even look more globally, we see the beginnings of the Egyptian democratic movement unfolding, leading continued democratic trends in the Libyan ruling class against Gaddafi and now into Saudi Arabia. And interestingly so, how articles published by the very wealthy ruling families of these countries confirm the need for meaningful and significant social and political changes in Arab nations.

Well I'll be damned. "Change" becomes the number one trendy word of the era. And fun to spice up, occasionally, like, "No, no, we want EPIC change!" or "REAL change is happening."

To me, this appears absolutely mind-blowing. It's fascinating, truly. And I think we can all relate significantly to this feeling-- partisan feelings aside. When we feel wronged, we respond. Some of that takes action differently... some people feel it strongly and adamantly enough that emotions shoot through the roof and they act in the first way that makes sense and can commonly make their subjective proclamation reflect adequately.

And I always laugh when I am with my ladies, we're looking pretty spiced up walking down the street, and men honk or yell out the windows at our raging, unbelievable hotness. And I always laugh and ask, "Why in the world do they do that?" And sometimes when I ask guys why they do that, they don't know. They just do it because they feel like doing it to get our attention. I keep telling my friends I can't wait for one day when some hawt stud does that to me and I take off after him in his vehicle and say, "You sure did capture my heart with that sexy, sexy honk." It could happen.

Strange. But it doesn't hit far from home, right? Something moves us and we respond. Protesting has become a key element of our response, and we have seen it hit all over the place.

I think deep down, we are disappointed. Deeply, deeply disappointed in a system that albeit known to us, has failed. Failed us in our dreams. Failed us in our hopes. Failed us in attempting to be human together as a nation. And even though I make fun of the word change, I really think it's a word to translate our deepest urges to try another way, to repent, to let go our greed and consumerism and remember what makes us who we are at the deepest level. We're the United States of America, significantly founded on premises so extreme-- that our roots we're to supposedly propel us towards greatness.

And I am in favor of change-- to our economical policies and our relinquishment of lobbying bureaucracies to determine what our country cares about. We want to remind others, as well as ourselves, what we care about. And by looking at "them," I am also look at me. Little ole betty. I want to act against the injustices that corrupt, the daily inequalities that forgo human rights and ignite despair in the lives of the helpless and powerless, and I yearn to give to aid the well-being of us, together.

I have to admit--- my life is pretty chaotic. I used to be super disciplined and super all-knowing (duh) but then life kept bitch slapping me all the time that my brain would fill with lots of thoughts all the time (and sometimes really awesome magical thoughts) and presumably making the realization that I didn't know anything (such a shame). It would be so much better if I was married and had 2 and half kids and lived somewhere mightily awesome with a really fat chunky dog because then I could attribute my chaos to that. But I'm not married. I DON'T EVEN HAVE A DOG. Just a killer great stuffed elephant named Hermie (who comes alive at night). Sometimes I need a vacation from myself. But I'm with myself day by day, and sometimes--even for just moments--I can set aside my chaotic brain and act in small ways towards the just and goodness of our people and land.

So, what I am getting at is that practical action initiated into our day-to-day awesome lives is where the most effective, and potentially feasibly, collective change can occur. And by God, we can do this.

BUT HOW?

Here are my ideas:

1. Curb that appetite, homegirl. The fact of the matter is not that we will not consume as American people, but on WHAT will we consume. Will we buy those jeans that are made by cute children laboring from poor working environments while we rage in super trendiness in American style? Which matters? And honestly, when we take the time to care about our choices and the rippling effect of our choices, it takes effort. SERIOUS effort. And that is when we decide between what we care about and laziness/comfort. Most of the time we buy to boost our self-esteem and remake some sort of value to our "value." Look good, dangit, but do some good while lookin it. And the whole "localvore" is not for raging liberal hippies. It's caring about the community around you and supporting them through intentional economic endeavors. (Though I do admit that the raging liberal hippies have stunned me with some awesome ideas before)

2."I'm a lover, not a fighter," once said Michael Jackson. And I'm pretty sure that today the saying to lead the way of change would be, "I'm a giver, not a taker." And that essence, truly I think we know we are alive when we give, and especially to those who are in legitimate need. Though I'm a Pinterest junkie and junk junkie connoisseur, I truly don't want to live a narrow-minded life that forgets my neighbor and hesitates to see past my own interests. You are your brother's keeper, and that is s gift beyond compare. Who are the marginalized in your community-- who are just as hungry for love and acceptance and care as you are?

3. Discipline in the Financial Realm. It speaks for itself. And I am not saying much because me and Dave Ramsey need to spend a little more time together.

4. Make it, bake it, CREATE it! Surely most of us feel stifled in our creative process a lot of the time, but you can be renewed in that by returning make to the basics. Again, this take effort. I am attempting to learn how to knit (I have fat fingers so it's been a process) and also learning how to relish certain ingredients to whip up a convenient and healthy meal anytime. I first encourage you to hit up trying to grow your own food! There is such a beautiful thing about eating things in which you've witnessed the process of it's growth (This is not a statement to encourage you to eat your cat). Use your farmer's markets-- farmers really are the coolest people I know. Not a lie. Go to junkyards, check it at goodwill, find treasures that are considered "junk." All matter of perspective, people.

5. Broaden your civic engagement. Find volunteer opportunities that vary in accordance with groups of people where you can learn how things are run and voice inequalities that may exist in different lines of policy. We think we know, but really we don't know much because we don't get involved with those that make decisions and are geared toward tomorrow's future. Read your local history. Let's learn where we've been to see where we can go.

6. Brainstorm continuous ideas for change right where you are.

7. Live simply in content. Get over yourself and your expectations. Today is the best thing that's ever happened to you.

I think our influence on how we incorporate change is more contagious than we realize. I suck at these things a lot-- knowing the small yet heavy power they have in the small movement of things is incredible and sometimes overwhelming. But when we sow into the things of true life and goodness, we will surely bring a change in ourselves, and the mighty change in us as a people.

“When asked if I am pessimistic or optimistic about the future, my answer is always the same: If you look at the science about what is happening on earth and aren’t pessimistic, you don’t understand data. But if you meet the people who are working to restore this earth and the lives of the poor, and you aren’t optimistic, you haven’t got a pulse. What I see everywhere in the world are ordinary people willing to confront despair, power, and incalculable odds in order to restore some semblance of grace, justice, and beauty to this world.” ― Paul Hawken

Here, finally here, again.

She's here. FINALLY. I couldn't leave here without embracing her wide-eyed scheme of colors and fancies that make my heart want to explode. Autumn has come once again and there is no where in this entire world I'd rather be than here in Appalachia-- in these mountains with these mountain folk. Life is incredible. Love is incredible. And the way in which God is... even sweeter.







Having moments of nostalgia-- where all my homey feelings and moments of sweetest pleasure burst to the surface. I feel like ghosts of close family and friends are all around me. Seeing what I see, feeling what I feel. It's the journey we take on together in the most willing pursuits. And our family only grows bigger with new strangers every day.

About a month ago I got to attend a sort of seminar called School for Conversion.. eh, but not really a school of sorts. My friends here laughed at me going to such a thing to learn how to create a "community." They think one day I will have a host of communes filled with sick old people and hippies. And I say, I'm okay with that. :) Anyways, the weekend SFC blew me out of the waters. I was fueled by the passion, by the willingness to not just rage out against a broken system, but to be the forerunners of hope in a broken system. I was inspired and encouraged in the deepest ways. The vision at the School for Conversion is to work toward beloved communities where people unlearn social divisions through experimentation in a way of life with God that makes surprising friendships possible. I remember not being so much a fan of the title of the weekend, "School for Conversion." I had asked the director why he called it that-- mostly because I strongly refuted that word-- "conversion." But Jonathan, in his remarkable humility and understanding in the evangelical realm, stated, "It's not this one-time conversion as most hold onto that the title references. Though, in many eyes, that one time event is very meaningful. But rather this sort of conversion refers to a sort of continuous conversion. Continuing to turn towards God, to turn and remember, to fall in love over and over and over again. Forever turning. Forever converting." We are cyclic beings, seasonally changing. Seasonally turning. And that's what I experience with the trees, with this color, with this expansive realm of what God only knows. I convert without even realizing it at times. And sometimes I want to say damnit because I want to still be a rebellious little girl. But what happens when your heart has been sold, long gone into the family of things?

As my absolute favorite favorite Mary Oliver writes,

"I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?"

Well, what will it be? You know what it is nudging at your soul. GO. FOR. IT. And don't look back.

The Tiger.

Proverbs, parables, stories. I read these sometimes, displace myself…. And dream my way to bettyland.

Kudos to a dear friend who gave me this one particular parable and commentary by Buechner that is incessantly unwavering in beauty and metaphor. So overwhelming that I couldn’t help but share—

Sri Ramakrishna, the great Hindu saint of the nineteenth century, told a parable regarding a grass-eating tiger:

“Once a tigress attacked a herd of goats. A hunter saw her from a distance and killed her.

The tigress was pregnant and gave birth to a cub as she expired. The cub began to grow in the company of the goats. At first it was nursed by the she-goats, and later on, as it grew bigger, it began to eat grass like the goats. Gradually the cub became a big tiger; but still it loved and ate grass. When attacked by other animals, it would run away, like the goats. One day a fierce-looking tiger attacked the herd. It was amazed to see a tiger in the herd eating grass and running away with the goats at its approach. It left the goats and caught hold of the grass-eating tiger, which he began to nervously bleat and continued nibbling at the grass.

But the fierce tiger dragged it to the water and said: 'Now look at your face in the water. You see, you have the face of a tiger; it is exactly like mine.' The tiger refused to recognize the similar reflections. Next the fierce tiger pressed a piece of meat into the grass eating tiger's mouth. At first the grass-eating tiger refused to eat the meat. Then it got the taste of the meat and relished it. Finally as he ate and ate, the truth gradually became clear to him. As he forcefully dug his muscular claws into the ground, the young beast raised his head as he unleashed an exultant roar that trembled the Earth and flooded the jungle with awe.”

That was the shortened version. So there seems to be this idea that all the religions in the world recognize the simple basic understanding that humans in how they exist now are not what they were created or even evolved to be. The tiger is not really a goat at all—he is actually a tiger--- but perceives himself as a goat. Just like the tiger, maybe the image we were to reflect never was clear, or invariably distorted. Maybe here we get insight into the tiger’s problem and so it may be: the human condition problem. If the tiger who thinks he is a goat could convert himself into an actual goat, everything could be fine. But I mean come on, what do we do with ourselves when we find out we’re really another type of species other than we thought? Besides piss our pants in disbelief? IF we even find this out? We may even realize that we are tigers but just keep a nibblin’ the grass because we don’t know what the hell else to do, or how the hell to start to living like as a tiger. We eat the grass. We bleat well. But by God, Heaven knows we feel the roar inside our bones. But some say, “Oh just accept what you know!” because maybe this was what was to happen and that goathood is all we are supposed to know. And maybe this is true and right but sometimes still the deep cries out from the deep…

Others rage “Might as well get living as a goat! Enjoy it, try new grasses, drink crazy kinds of water. Get cute little luxuries to make you feel warm and tingly and nice.” But maybe the ache, the intuition of the waking up and life within as yourself, as a tiger, remains.

And then our stomachs really begin to ache because we know. God, we know! We have seen the Tiger—the terrible roaring mighty fella who people call Jesus—this explosion of a man, this explosion of Life itself into actual life. We can only glance up for a fleeting moment from our grazing to see what a real human being looks like. And if we aren’t terribly paralyzed or pissing our pants in rolling amounts of fear, then the rippling painful tide of contrast becomes inevitably clear.

Speechless. “Oh shit,” we think. “If this is what it means to be human, then what am I? If this is what it is to be alive, am I even living?” The thought lingers--that terrible quality of full life that resonates from that magnificent being—--what will it do to us?

We could all just feel miserable and sub-par and be grumpy groany goats and feel like the way of that Tiger is ultimately the way of despair.

But the beauty of this Tiger, of this Christ, of the many thousand names that all just try to convey so messily and beautifully is this: that this man has power to give. To give life to the half-alive. To give tigerhood back to the tigers. “To them I will give a white stone with a new name written on the stone”—and this new name is the life, the self, that in our moments of truth we as humans yearn, above all else perhaps, to find. What he gives us is ourselves. What he tells us is our names and who we really are—our brother’s keeper, God’s children. And he offers us food and drink to warm our blood and make us drunk with the mystery and joy of it all.

--Buechner (though semi-edited with curse words and questions by yours truly, :D betty)

When Harry Met Sally--SCRATCH..When Betty Remet Larry

It's late Thursday afternoon. Right after I woke up, it came to me. I needed some action. I'm talkin' some mighty wrist action. (Mind out of the gutter here, people). Wrist action = overly excessive waving and greeting by me, betty, yours truly. What do you think of when you think 5:30 p.m.? Time to start fixin some grub, catch the daily news, lil nappy nap nap..or something of the sorts??? You know what I think? I get all tingly inside and gooey feeling with a fist pumped scream, "IT's GERI TIME." Time to get to the street. Time to embrace my sweet street geris.

Now there are all kinds of geris out there...hospital geris, rehab geri babies, my singing dementia geris at the home, yoga geris, AND the infamous street geris. Best part about living in Fayetteville is that I can run to the top of the mountain from my apt, watch the sunset on the gorge overlooking the New River, AND bypass the 1950s and 40s housing on my way there. MEANING...who's outside relaxing in rocking chairs after a sweet homestyle meal of baked beans and cornbread fixins' and lawd knows, a pot roast at about 5:30 p.m.? And Lord, you'd think there was some sort of silent bell ringer, or internal clock, the way everyone congregates out of their houses at 5:30 p.m. It's the inherent "in" social programming still taking place after 70 years of ringing I suppose. (If it's 5:35 p.m, get back in your house!) We rock it on time, here, ladiesss.

So, one night on my run and delight of saying and waving howdy to the regulars... I noticed down the street a bit a new neighbor I had not previously encountered before. The screen door was partially opened with a wil lil being making his way out on the wheelchair. Cute, petite, a hawtie for sure, without a doubt. A strange, impartial hair line that was a cause for observing. Then, a shaking of his left hand to re- position the big fat chunky watch and I just about fell over. It was Larry. "LARRRRRRRRY!" I screamed. Oh my goodness, it was Larry, and he was wheeling himself out!

Now let me explain a little background about Larry: Larry and I go way back. Like 4th floor way back. In the dead honking middle of winter. (Name has been changed for HIPPAA regulations). Larry had been admitted to the hospital with severe SOB due to a collapsed lung, had a chest tube inserted to maintain oxygenation, and also had a bad case of severe crankiness (via my diagnosis), and acute renal failure. He was very, very sick...his body was taking a turn to either compensate at the cellular level or wipe out completely and not recover. Larry was in his mid-80s, had been a coal miner for over 55 years, and apparently, reigned as a King Rufio in the nursing home as he had his gang of misfits regularly surround him. Now as a nurse and depending on your level of stress during a particular shift, sometimes you can only handle so much crankiness. Larry was a raspy little thing and a wild man. He was king of raspy whining, "Nurrrrse. Water, water." Even when I was in the room, he'd yell, "nuurrrrrse!!!!!! nurrrrrse!!!!!!" He droned out the rrrrr for dramatic effects, he'd squint one eye open like a hidden pirate to see if I noticed him and when I saw him, he'd close his eye quickly and pretend as if he never tried to open it. Every five minutes, "Nurrrrrrrrse!!!!! I'm'a hurtin' nurse," he'd say. "Well Harry I gave you your large dose of pain medication already and am giving it to you every hour." Right back in my face, he'd scream, "MORPHINE NURRRRRRRRRRRSE." I thought I was developing a twitch, I wasn't gonna make it. Nerves were being shot. He was a master knot tie-r, contorting and tying his foley into odd shapes that you'd think he was trying to be one of those balloon animal shaper people. "Larry, please stop throwing your legs into the air and flashing those walking by." His reply, "NURRRRRRRRRSE." One day after I had had him for 3 days as a patient, and my nerves were tied shut after being in his room incessantly hearing nurrrrrrse more than I could mentally and physically handle, he said as I was about to go, "NUrrrrrrrrrrrrrse. I gotcha nurse. I GOTCHA." He squinted his little eye and half smirked in a delightful amused state of mind, loving this moment in all that it contained. He had won. And so, I replied, "High five, Larry. You just kicked my tail these past few days." A deep, fierce chuckle rang loud from that bed, shaking the grounds into the nurses' station. Larry had made me his bitch, and he had won.

So there he was again. Seeing him from a distance, watching him look out and still not see me was mind-blowing. Finally I ran right up to the porch to greet him in both secrecy and excitement.

"LArrrrry!!!!!!" I shouted.

He was silent for a moment, as I thought he wouldn't know me or forgot who I was. The man across from me grinned without his dentures, gums beety and red, eyes both open, squinty and gleaming.

"NUrrrrrrrrrrrrrrse."

For as much as I hated that sound, there was a special ring in his tone. A sound of remembrance, a sound of friendship, a sound of another chance to embrace life. And a sound that he had still owned me, and he still loved every ounce of it.

Ahhl Hail.

STEVE EARLE: KING OF THE WEST, the only real west according to downright West Virginians. Really, though, a classic as such should not be bypassed by any means. Forget your oldies, forget the kiddie soul train you thought was slammin', grab a damn beer, and rock it home to EARLE, baby.

Stumbled upon.

Today I was attempting a sincere day of focused productivity. Life in rural Appalachia is somewhat on a different wavelength-- time is slow, nights often are quiet, small town bustling occurs at lunchtime around the local U.S. post office. I live near the town courthouse where the sheriff and the cops and city lawyers congregate in the building with heads stooped to the ground at 9 a.m. and then dismiss themselves with eyes and heads a wablin' around 4 p.m. Even Ben Franklin, the arts and crafts store deemed to stay alive by the community despite it's adversary- the grandose Walmart- sparkles with people throughout the day. People know each other by name..."Judy! Didn't I just see you in here just yesterday?" The definition of a regular. They don't go to shop, they go to be welcomed. I particularly cater to it's fabric section, where i slowly gravitate so each different store worker can reel me into the world of quilt-making. I can't sew great, I just secretly want to hear them speak about their passion, their roots, their love of quilting. Sorta like finding the spark to the fire, and then sharing in its flames. The few eclectic restaurants that exist come alive around 11 a.m, when the older, post-retiree coal miners and wives decide which cafe will subside their hunger for midday. The young, progressive workers at the restaurants take frequent smoke breaks. Always in groups-- they stare at me as i walk by, i return their kindness with a way-overtly widened smile. I know names, but nothing past the friendly hellos. We are fashionable, well-acquainted regular greeters. Nothing in common but our daily passing-bys. The outdoor enthusiasts with kayaks and rock climbing gear nestle their way to the Outdoor store, adjacent to the courthouse. They,too, are regulars. The one stop light to which the town revolves is a people-watching magnet of a haven. People praying, hoping they land on red light so for a moment, they can see the world unravel itself.

Have you ever seen such a thing unfold?

“I come into the peace of wild things who do not tax their lives with forethought of grief... For a time I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.” -Wendell Berry

Wendell Berry is just another common man with some enriched revolutionary sort of heart and mind. He is known as a notable leader of the agrarian movement, detailing how the recovery of agrarian principles is a form of redemption to us and a fresh breath of cultural renewal and well-being. I got into him real good while out at Buckhorn, but I feel like my understanding of everything he stood for had no face to it. Finally about a month ago, I got to go with the ma and pops out to Oregon in an attempt to let them see what I saw, feel what I felt, breathe the air that I felt released me into the family of things. I ended up getting super enriched by their wisdom, and especially their willingness and earnestness to relate with me in this stage, era, whatever of my life. My mom got to tell me about her liberal arts program her first year of college-- a program- which only 35 years later, she had managed to still have ALL her books from that program. One of her monumental books was "Let US Now Praise Famous Men." It's a book written in the late 30s about three tenant families who worked farms in Alabama. It reminisced the daily tasks, ordinary duties to which these men gave of their energy and time on the land of the deep south. Some of the speculation and observation was dull, with somewhat pointless rambling-- but I think that was maybe a subconscious intention. Not a make the book, "interesting" or overtly philosophically and ornately beautiful sounding, because it's not. It's rough. It's raw. It's their lives. But this is where a book is a book. The pictures of these famous man are paper, bound together that sit there on the shelf. Their lives are not perceivable by mere perception. Who really are these men? Is that education? To read, read, read. This is the call to me and the rest of my generation-- with public causes of the environment, technology and human rights--- to put down our damn books, and see the lives of the people around us. Let our movement be the culmination of all the past movements. Not just as Berry puts it, a "public" cause, but let it penetrate deeply, let it encompass in our private lives, daily life. We know the familiar voice-- to go deep, we just have to be willing to tread the land that brings us there.

My friend Mollie is one of the most fun, clever, nonsensically magical genius artists I've ever known. SHE IS ALMOST THERE WITH LYNDA BARRY. Which, dear God, if you have not experienced the work and writings and super remarkable ride of Lynda Barry, you have not lived. Mollie is a Wisconsin-ite (derr) and she grew up on a farm with Amish neighbors. She calls this "The Evolution of Man". INKKKK. I inked myself... (If you get this, genius..ness is calling your name). LOVE LOVE LOVE

amen, and amen.

Just take a look at this brilliant creation and ingenuity. It's called the Neo Nurture Incubator.



Every year, 4 million babies worldwide never live to their 1-month birthday. Healthcare specialists believe that 1.8 million babies could be saved if they could be kept sufficiently warm. Kangaroo care would alleviate this mother-to-child problem, but the problem exists that more than half a million mothers die from child-rearing complications and many more unable to provide consistent care. Regular incubators roll in an average pricetag of $30,000. Utilizing a surplus resource, old car parts, reliable incubators can be made cheap and designed geniuosly. Get this: Headlights provide heat; a dashboard fan circulates air; a door-chime and signal light system is recreated into an alarm system that alerts users when troubleshooting or haywire details get awry. Funny, as we're going goo goo for gadgets all over the place, we may have a repurposed purpose for remembering that we're here to stay for a while,.

i love that word: design. It's different than create. Sometimes creating things becomes this inert doing, unexpected, something where you supply the resources, and your inner parts craft their doings. "To design" sounds like this lifetime of intentional creations that make a daring journey out of uncertain parts. It's an elongated source of making it up, improvising, and being willing to follow the path that leads... moment by moment. Well i'm gonna take this moment and go work on my bird feeders-- made out of sticks and old tea cups... well sorta. Today, bird feeders. Who knows? Tomorrow, a flying saucer powered by solar energy that detects other earths in other universes. Life is exciting in this way. Gracias my BFF, UNCERTAINTY.

To smell or not to smell.

Being back with the old homies for a little bit this past weekend gave me warm fuzzy feelings and reminded me of the fun eclectic grooves of our college-age generation. One hilarious friend said that if we didn't all become alcoholics or universalists after we graduated we wouldn't know what to do with ourselves. I laughed-- especially seeing it befitting as we sat around and drank and laughed how life is straight up damn crazy out there in them real life woods.

Here are some findings:

1. Coffee. Beer. Coffee AND beer in a coffee shop. This is pivotal. We got the whole coffee shop persona, atmosphere that we're all like....Yeahhhh...I sit and drink coffee, write and draw. Get the creative urges flowin', converse a bit, really check out who's all at the coffee shop, give em a little Whats up nod, and ride the wave from there. Yeah, yeah, Find the wave and ride it. I nodded at the folks there, why not? If the coffee gets you too bubblin, then you got a beer that chills ya out. Genius or what?

2. Look cool, but not too cool. Edgy always, never predictable. "Try hard to not try." Love it.

3. Still true at any age... Boys are always boys. Girls are always girls. We all grow. just differently. THANK GOD.

Allison and I were on the way home and and we stopped by a gas station to grab an ice cold milk to accompany our journey. I was actually behind a fella our age in the line who was edgy, pulling the whole suave, cool thing going on. He smelled different, so i sided to the right and sort of leaned to his right shoulder to try and get a better whiff. Oddly enough, he sensed my presence, turned around in a bit of angst as if I was trying to stab him. He gave "the look". Psshhh, i thought. Why would you wear a fragrance if your didn't want people to smell it? Why would I wear a blue shirt and not want people to see that my shirt is blue? My sense of smell is extraordinary anyways. Am I suppose to consider myself a creeper from that? Nope. He wore the scent for people to smell him, so when he was aware that people were smelling him, he was offended. Maybe he has other issues but this is what this translates to me: He puts the fragrance on to make him smell good, but doesn't really think he smells good or else he wouldn't mind people smelling him. Burnnnnnn. Oh, the lessons of life.

What to do when you don't know what to do.

I just turned 24—another year and I can’t help but wonder, really? With everything going on in the world, with nature and it catastrophes, political regimes shifting and plummeting, it's easy to get fuzzy-eyed and confused. So every year at my birthday I try to make a concrete list of dreams, ambitions, goals for that year of life. 24 this year to attempt, to put out there on the line. This helps me see where the heck I’m at and intentionally reminds myself that my moments make up my days and my days make up my life. And life, I hear it’s a pretty stella thang these days…. So other than providing a KILLER list this year—I hope to make a true dedication nevertheless. And they're not really profound, life-altering attempts. They're simple, small (often sometimes stupid) small things. But if small things don't matter, what's all the fuss about atoms and quantum physics jargon? I mean isn't it through these microscopic small particles that flaunt the idea of parallel universes existing through them?

I just finished up a truly mesmerizing piece of narrative art, The God of Small Things by Arundhati Roy. Roy intertwines that if the human heart’s nature is extreme brutality, then it is also of extreme love. It is a story told in the simple, every day thoughts of children and their observation of adults’ conflicted emotional and tyrannizing lives. She is inspiring in her words, actions, HER LIFE. She puts words to what speaks my heart’s desire for this year, maybe all years—in what shines beauty and truth into every single day:

“To love. To be loved. To never forget my own insignificance. To never get used to the unspeakable violence and the vulgar disparity of life around me. To seek joy in the saddest places. To pursue beauty to its lair. To never simplify what is complicated or complicate what is simple. To respect strength, never power. Above all, to watch. To try and understand. To never look away. And never, never, to forget."

You know love must be love when it comes trickling in the rains, daintily soft, but always, always flooding the river.

The world needs to know the truth. If you are a nurse, WANT to be a nurse or all the like, brace yourself. Your wits, your sanity, it's all out there-- pending, swinging out on a limb awaiting for it to be snatched by some swooping eagle that then soars to the end of the Earth to give it to some dainty kid on the beach. Not so cool.

So if I was a recruiter for nursing, this would be my honest draw-in: "What do you want in life? Do you want a rewarding and satisfying job to make all the difference in a person's life? Do you want to care for people in a way that's life-changing, life-giving? Well, what the HELL are you thinking getting yourself into nursing? GIRL, please." I would then show them the poster in the break room of the patient and nurse holding hands with the slogan--"Nursing: Where hearts and hands meet." I would next hold up a poster that is a TRUE depiction of real life nursing: A nurse held up against a wall with a fork in hand about to attack while the patient just sits on his/her bed smashing the call light over and over and over again. The slogan would read: "Nursing: Where saving lives really becomes questionable."

The irony of IV pumps exists in that when they beep, or malfunction, they do so in an attempt to make a hell of a choir out of their sounds. They must pre-arrange who is alto, soprano, etc. I find it even more lovely when I am in the room with a patient, fixing the pump and he decides to ring the call light again to let then know it's still beeping. I want to prize him with a badge of honor, thank him, I will now willingly admit myself to the Psych ward. These sort of days are when mimosas are the sweetest things on Earth.

I mean is it too much to say I imagine myself out in the meadow with 50 IV pumps, all of them singing, DINGING the hell along, and I hear the cued rap music, "Let's GO (let's Go)....If you wanna you can get it, let me know (let me know). I'm about to break this thing up. LET'S GO..." Next I pretend to be in that scene of Office Space with Michael and Peter where they beat the fax machine with the baseball bat.... playing Fight Club until the little piss pumps can pump and ding forever no more.

So how's that a depiction of real-life nursing? The irony is ever-so incredibly tormenting in that, i still want to do this. You realize that you have to give them yourself along with the lack of patience and the anger. You learn to shake your head, scream in the break room as you fling yourself from wall to wall and somehow, love them like your own family. (And anyone could be your family here in West Virginia). Because really, they are my family. I'm just like them, they're just like me, and here we are, truckin' our own little puny selves mightily along.

Conscience was once the chamber of justice.

This is what my own two eyes bellied themselves into this morning: "His demise should be welcomed by all who believe in peace and human dignity," said Obama. "Tonight we can say to all those who lost loved ones to al-Qaeda terror, 'Justice has been done.'" Bush called the operation a "momentous achievement" that "marks a victory for America, for people who seek peace around the world, and for all those who lost loved ones on September 11, 2001."

My own contorted gut trembled, twisted and terrifyingly, after attempting to process the words of the forerunners of our political system.

I must question the validity of a just system that promotes murdering of murderers, despoiling the innocent by taking loot as we then parade in our prowess around in our own means of power-- regulating lands, continuing to keep the Southern Hemisphere in debt and impoverished to pay for our Northern ways of life expenditures. Half of our every tax dollar in the past 10 years has been secured to militarism defense-- all the while people have no access to equitable health care and our schools crumble in education.

We only killed 5 million people in the last 10 years, but we got the one! Yep, justice has been done. Why, America, why? You are stealing from our hungry children, wasting the ideas created from education and inevitably vanishing hope for future generations. You are staining the very sense of any sort of humanity.

We are destroying ourselves as a mean to protect ourselves.

The exploitation, the in cognizant ignorance. I am afraid your unjustifiable means of justice are rotting my soul. And I will be dead soon, rotted, and all those who feed on the ideas that at the core, life is sacred.

We must reclaim our lives America. No one is going to do this thing for us.

Ventilation, baby.

MMMM...world. Air. Spring. Sun. THEY'RE BACK. I don't think they ever went away, I just had vacated to another universe in my mind for awhile--and that universe was not all that great--- almost felt like the whole Being John Malvovich thing for awhile, but then again not really. Anyways-- I'm here and now that I'm back on the farm, EVERYBODY'S back. The rain, the birds, the geraniums are erupting, and I am at the edge of my seat waiting for the Japanese eggplant and the Kohl robi to shoot their bodies upright and glisten mightily. They are teaching me so much skill in how to posture oneself towards the sun, how to grow courageously, rooted, and to be confident. Sometimes I even imagine that all of them-- even the cosmos flowers, the broccoli florets and even Maze and Blaze the goats-- that the plants would uproot themselves and dance over to me with the goats and bunnies and chickens-- we'd all dance to Donovan Frankenreiter's "Free" and then roll down the mountain together. Welcome to Betty's imaginative world of life.

Speaking of Betty, I have had major bladder issues since referring to myself as Betty here in Appalachia. Is it a mind trick, body? I mean just because I name you BETTY doesn't mean you get to act like a old timey fart. Please, God, I don't want to wear Depends at the age of 23.

Spring also blows in a different sort of aroma in the whole hospital environment. I have had a couple of patients anticipating death pass away these first few weeks of spring, and it's such a different sort of graceful peace that tunes the room. I remember one sweet older woman who had passed through a grueling grips to breathe with continuous retractions and gasping with a 40% Venti mask on. From course chest expansions to a slow, teetering sort of calmness, her life seemed to have dissipated from within her own skin. Her body lied in an aching stillness as blazing sun rays peaked themselves through the windows, kindling light towards her form. It was re-illuminating each of her features-- as if the sun was tracing her being once again to her frame. The wind howled against the walls-- blown to shatter. The family, friends stared, hoping to see. And they must have looked for what might have been forever. Looking, looking. But we all knew. We just knew we didn't know. It's one of those seeing moments when they found jewels in the mud, stars in the sun, and sweetness in the salt water. The woman reminded me of my own grandma--- as she waded out her days in my room back in Georgia. Her personality dripping from her own sweat, speaking more than words. She was done chasing anything down, and the life force was freeing up inside her. The link between living and being dead thinner, and thinner until in her face and body and mere movement, you recognize finely the beauty of having come through.

Most of my good friends here are dead authors, just waiting for me, and actually all of us, to take their words to rewrite something out for a new generation. But one of my most special friends my grandma had told me about--- she used to speak at the university in Atlanta on her thoughts of life and how to live. Here is one of my most prized poems, as I remember it recently with these patients in these early days of spring. It's called "When Death Comes."

When death comes
like the hungry bear in autumn;
when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse

to buy me, and snaps the purse shut;
when death comes like the measle-pox;

when death comes
like an iceberg between the shoulder blades,

I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering:
what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?

And therefore I look upon everything
as a brotherhood and a sisterhood,
and I look upon time as no more than an idea
and I consider eternity as another possibility,

and I think of each life as a flower, as common
as a field daisy, and as singular,

and each name a comfortable music in the mouth,
tending, as all music does, toward silence,

and each body a lion of courage, and something
precious to the earth.

When it's over, I want to say: all my life
I was a bride married to amazement.
I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.

When it's over, I don't want to wonder
if I have made of my life something particular, and real.
I don't want to find myself sighing and frightened,
or full of argument.

I don't want to end up simply having visited this world.

Moment of Confession: I am a Junkie.

"Where there is ruin, there is hope for a treasure." -Rumi

Alright, I have officially come out. I'm an addict of the junkyard. I love old people, and I love trash. Not trash that is actually garbage trash, but rather old junk that just needs a little creative kick for it's sparkle and glitter and glam to shine back. This includes furniture and old sticks, trees branches, preserved dried flowers. I don't know how but these treasures somehow find me. I put myself out there, and WHAM-- they hit me. If you are a lover of the rustic/natural/vintage/thrift store/flea marketing, I encourage you to take a gander and totally steal these ideas. Reuse what's already been beautifully created. Restoration is a most glorious sight to behold. Beware though, finding treasures means you are always up for a wild adventure when it seizes you.

Here are some ideas:




These two are pictures of a found ladder made bookshelf, old sticks in the woods, and a futon and dried eucalyptus given to me by my farm friends. Seriously cheap, seriously fun.

Next:






On the left is a an old rusted stool turned nightstand. On the right are old crates found outside the bakery/antique store. Great storage. Working on sewing fabric to cover clothes soon enough.





Mmm...if you are a lover of flowers like me, let your souls soar for a taste of these. Drying flowers is super easy. Watch this video to see how ridiculously simple the process actually is: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IxVvjgI2YWw





And the mirror: $4 at Goodwill.













Other ideas....







Here is a window with no wind found next to a random shut-down building. How to find a beautiful cottage quilt? The Geris seriously have quilts coming out their ears-- I have never seen so many in my life. The collage on the right is an easy way to hang those posters without the frame. I just put fabric behind the poster, added some random weeds and then an old wooden frame on the other side with dried lavender on a slice of wood. Dried lavender is like light to a room. It brings the aesthetic as well as the fragrance. Sheer delight.

And last but not least....my treasure of all treasures:



Something I have never understood in my life is how we have to have a pretty white porcelain tank take up so much room for our human bodily waste to tunnel itself through. It's strange for my brain to probe. So, because flushing every time you void wastes 2.2 gallons of water when already 1/3 of the world doesn't have access to clean water, it doesn't quite make sense why we kind of make this thing of a weird sort of porcelain golden calf thing. So, in response, I have laid out old Spanish moss around and on top of it to try and recreate it's natural "appeal." It's no whole in the dirt-- but trust me, you will piss in pure peace of mind. :D

"Buy, buy, says the sign in the shop window; Why, why, says the junk in the yard."
---Paul McCartney

Press on in the world of junk dear friends! And may your imagination and creativity soar as you give and care for others amidst the process.

Observatory. Perspective.

When I got here to the big WV, i had lots of interesting ideas rolling inside of me to try out, to infuse, to dare. If there is anything in this sweet world of activities I love, it is fierce competition--I don't care if it is Irish rugby or a sweet chokeslam by the Undertaker at the infamous Wrestlemania. Either way, there is something that is unleashed within when solid competition results in some ephemeral sort of victory. It simply awakens us (hence validated by the popularity of something called....ESPN, is it?) Anyways, I had a couple of choices: 1.) Join a wimpy league of sorts of older post-primal multi-gender wannabe athletes who would rather reflect on their times of physical vitality than actually push themselves to something of value. No thanks. 2.) Attempt to coach. Spread the fierceness and hunger to the little ones and let the holy rage leave them drooling through their vastly young, youthful nights.

Here I am three months later after a basketball season with 9 and 10 year old boys left aghast, quite stunned. Fierce can hardly convey what when on. First, the boys laughed at the sight of their coach, being that a sophisticated and quite amiable young woman would dare to usher them into the long-awaited hoop dreams of intense basketball elite-hood. I didn't think they could handle this. I infrequently screamed, "Get hungry boys!" Well those little rascals understood that dis here Wo-man was gonna work their little tails and have so much fun they'd pass out with pure delight. To sum it all up briefly and nonetheless perceivable, we ended the season with our biggest success as this: The boys understood the difference between offense and defense. This was huge-- though it was not all the fierce intense insanity I'd hoped for, and though it was exhausting, it was finally attained. We ended the season shooting on the right basketball hoop. And, they came to understand and respect the feisty wit of a woman in the realm of sports. It was like, Boom-shakalaka, boys.

So to celebrate our crazy wild, intense season...I loaded the boys up for a run to Cicis--the place of many bathroom runs and the sketchiest (if even real) pizza ingredients known to man---we played with the claw machines and i whooped tail on ice hockey. I wanted to ask them if we could hang out after season and play, but, I, uh, knew I couldn't. I just knew our time of insane competition had come to an end. Fun at the heart of it, but done. They just showed up, played with their hearts, smiled just to hold a basketball, and life was simple.

On my way home I started to get really carried away by feeling this awry sort of sorrow for them. That soon enough they'll reach adolescence-- they'll start feeling more accepted by society for trying harder at intellectualism and their sports and impressing the ladies; they'll begin the neurotic tendencies of trying hard to be good, to be happy, to try whatever it takes to be at home in their own reckless, wild souls. I even look back as I tried so hard-- as a person, as a Christian. Tried to think great thoughts, tried to reconstruct long words and tried to give big hearty advice with great wisdom. But the truth is, everyone, somewhere, somehow-- 8 years old or 98 years old have come to grips with the shattering love of life, love of God at some point. The rest of our crazy, unwinded trails take off to somehow convert that loaded mystery that encountered us into words, lots of words, then the studying of those words and blah, blah, blah, blah. And then so we try to put this love thing into our lives. We try and try and try. We say, "Hey you, love, I'm trying to put you in my life here. Woulda just do that for a second?" Over and over, trying and trying. We think with our minds to try and understand our minds. We try to control ourselves with ourselves. We pray, honestly from our hearts, but end up just trying to listen to ourselves pray prayerful words. We push words to love, but our own wretchedness loves the splendor of the way our love looks rather than love itself. We try, and we suck at trying. Where is it in us where we become like the children again, to respond to life and love as unthinkingly and unknowingly possible without a mere wince of the eye? Maybe, yes, it is good to "know", but maybe not to know in the sense of understanding. Even as I'm writing this I feel this ache of slander that's been torn out. Noooo!! Seek, try to understand hence your "Faith may dwindle"!! That's what's been shoved in my brain into the afar abyss--- But this is how it is with truth. It keeps shocking us.

Shock. Then another. Then another. Until I'll I wanna do is escape that heinous rhythm that makes me feel powerless and nothing, but entirely loved, entirely at home, and somehow, impossibly possible.

"Great things are done when mountains and men meet."

These mamas of mountains meet my literal mama and dad. My favorite thing in the world is to bring people here, let the silliness of life surface and then "mountainize" them! The effect of mountainizing the "commoners" (aka non-present living Appalachians) is always, always worthwhile. It's this sense of feeling their physical bodies working with the mountain, the gaping closeness of the wild wind, they can sense the expanse of height, but can't yet see it. They get nervous, unsure of what to anticipate, then they ramble, ramble ramble, asking questions then SHABAM-- they're there. They've arrived to the summit. Then we're all so fiercely pumped to feel like we're on top of the world, letting the wildness of life have its way through us that we skip and frolick around like giddy little goats excited to be alive, excited to see, simply excited. Surprisingly, this is exactly how it occurred with my favorite people in the world-- mis padres. I find that the moment when your parents stop being the ones who gratify all your wants and needs, and you can see them as people, individuals with wild pursuits, outlandish stories, and the very hearts that out poured love and more love into that kindred soul of yours, you have just swallowed a big chunk of wisdom and received your first pair of big girl panties. You know life is a crazy type of beautiful when you, along with the ma and pops, can scurry around like 5 yr olds in a sweet love that reminisces of when you actually were 5 years old. Playing is this rush of love, this rush of goodness. It's the things like saying "Shut up" or randomly tackling a loved one that says "Hey, I like you." It is this insane comfort of knowing that they know you, you know them, and that's enough. Nothing more, nothing less. When I see them again, I remember all their weaknesses and follies, and yet their hard work and their sacrifices shine as brightly as the rays of light radiate. But it's almost in their absence I capture them fully, while in their presence I further along our celebration of being together. Here I am, this physical, grown manifestation of their shared story, their shared mystery communicated in living form to the rest of the world. And this love takes root in me, inexhaustible, always there, resonating warmth, reminding me and the world I see of this special beauty.

On the other hand, here are some current mind thoughts. It's the baby goals in life that make all the difference anyways.

1st goal: inside life ALWAYS reflected outwardly. This means: When betty here is feeling messy and disorganized (which is always), the outside must reflect her accurately. This right here may be the reason why I have made few friends thus far (except the jolly ole geris), BUT my hope is to be authentic and open, receptive to people. You can't pretend to look pretty, make up and the like are no fool. This has been encouraging thus far, and I have never felt more free doing else wise.

2nd goal: Time is all a metaphor. Not a fan of clocks-- I feel like they are a routine outlet sort of "fun sucker" that makes your life have to be "orderly" and god forbid "on time." I am a professional, don't get me wrong, but time is not my God. Adventure contradicts the sheer constituents that time has to offer. When unsure, go for the wild-- the sun dial you made in third grade. (If you need one, I can make them-- $10 dollars a pop too pricey?)

3rd goal: Remember what a day means. Sometimes, when I have a couple of days off, and none of my 3 friends are off either (Eh, I may have a total of 4 new friends), I always try for one day to do nothing...not even sleeping. But in doing nothing, I'm always doing something. These are some of my most fun. I always thought when I wasn't doing something, I was missing out on life, not "learning." Untrue. A true learner somehow awakens in a moment and feels like a cornea transplant and a pair of new lens were applied within-- this explosion of vision, of understanding, illuminates what went undiscovered prior to awakening. The world opens up like a big giant snow globe where fragmented pieces start attracting their way towards each other to form the big picture. Or a little picture to later on create the big picture.

Even though I don't know why I'm here in West Virginia, I feel like I've already received a transfusion of it's blood. We've developed this sort of relationship, kinship of sorts. It's roots have nestled their hinges down to my roots, my own evolution not far fetched at all from the rippling spirit that exists here. My DNA double helix is taking an inclining to deese har Appalachian chromosomes. I see it, changing me, and I like it...a lawt. To the mountains and beyond!

I like it spicy, not ICY.

“In the depth of winter I finally learned that there within me--and there within all of us-- lay an invincible summer.” -Albert Camus

Well, I can't say I feel any better coming in after running outside my apartment, kicking the snow, grabbing the ice and breaking it, cursing at the downfall of sleet and ice and everything else that makes the body shiver to the bone. It's got me. Those damn winter blues have driven me to madness (and most certainly not for the last time). I thought about flinging random snowballs as cars passed by, but thought that may be a little too extreme for the moment. Winter drags on and on and on, makes the soul bitter, like DEATH that pervades the exterior somehow takes over the interior, too. I'm angry at you, Winter. Winter brings out his rawness that may have eclipsed past all those "learning, growing, and harvesting" seasons. My own heart has witnessed the most terrifying things just in this past week. The unexpected deaths of patients, children, and the raging, terrifying effects of sexual abuse of an infant. The cruelty of this harsh world seeps into reality, revealing its hidden heartache. Death comes without an itinerary, no need to explain-- just bruise, bruise, bruise the inner heart, again and again. The only friends of compassion to give are my own pitiful tears. I drive home from work crying with Neil Young's "A Heart of Gold" on repeat. Even the baker down the street saw my puffy face and scorched red eyes, and offered a meager solace, "It all gets us sometimes, honey. Keep it trucking." This of course, brought the river of tears back as I shook my head and tried to conceal my weakness as I thought, Basketcase betty--back in town. Death came knocking without their consent. No sense to make of it. Nothing else to offer. Nothing else to give. Only in the fragile, heart-wrenching depravity of death, can a mere glimpse of grace, of life, be found. I hate it, and yet am reawakened amidst it all at the same time. Chesterton, who wrote The Man Who Was Thursday, speaks words that somehow makes sense to my soul. He writes about Syme (the main character), who explains his thoughts on the man who was Sunday and eventually comes to say, "Bad is so bad, that we cannot think good an accident; good is so good, that we feel certain evil could be explained." I know exactly what he means.