Do you think that clothes are revealing of a person's soul? I know, I know kind of a random question, but last night as I sat in junior high youth group (the 7th graders are my girls) I couldn't help but wonder what clothes revealed about the person.
H- wore polka dots on her tights and her skirt and her little clutch was a variety of colors. They were spunky just like she is.
A- was wearing her dad's oversize (on her) blue sweatshirt. She took pleasure in swinging the long sleeves and cavorting light-heartedly.
C- had a little pink bow in her hair. It sat demurely on her head, quiet but still noticed.
So are the clothes a shadow of the person? I wouldn’t make any sound conclusions, but a little Sherlock deduction is probably permissible.
-Leilani
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Sick as a Dog
I've been recovering from a damaged esophagus this past week or so. Apparently, it's an unwanted souvenir from Europe (the last few days of the trip were spent throwing up in an Oxford loo and, upon returning, I would still get sick occassionally. And the last time I threw up was the proverbial straw that broke the camels back, severing something vital to wellbeing in my esophagus and sending me down a vortex of throat pain). And let me tell you, it is not fun. I would trade for your common cold, an allergic reaction-even the 24 hr flue. I am not good with pain. Some people are proud of their pain tolerance. I have no problem admitting that mine is a
negative ten.
The most difficult part of it is not being able to eat. So I've maintained my existence on Fortifies, a kind of protein drink for senior citizens (and, by default, I am fighting osteoperosis and memory loss!).
Since there is no joy at mealtimes, I've redirected myself and found purpose and pleasure in shopping (I am still a very effective consumer, damaged esophagus or not).
So far I've purchased:
1. a teal tank top (on sale!)
2. a lace shirt
3. a pair of jeans
4. Glamour magazine (something for my eyes to feast on since my stomach cannot feast on anything)
However, shopping is a temporary fix. As I sat at Starbucks, trying to force myself to drink some tea, I had a bit of a break down.
THIS IS NEVER GOING TO END! I WILL BE LIKE THIS FOREVER! I WILL NEVER BE ABLE TO EAT AGAIN!
But today, for the first time, things seem to be getting better. Thank God for time. It, apparently, can heal anything. Even a damaged esophagus.
Autumn
negative ten.
The most difficult part of it is not being able to eat. So I've maintained my existence on Fortifies, a kind of protein drink for senior citizens (and, by default, I am fighting osteoperosis and memory loss!).
Since there is no joy at mealtimes, I've redirected myself and found purpose and pleasure in shopping (I am still a very effective consumer, damaged esophagus or not).
So far I've purchased:
1. a teal tank top (on sale!)
2. a lace shirt
3. a pair of jeans
4. Glamour magazine (something for my eyes to feast on since my stomach cannot feast on anything)
However, shopping is a temporary fix. As I sat at Starbucks, trying to force myself to drink some tea, I had a bit of a break down.
THIS IS NEVER GOING TO END! I WILL BE LIKE THIS FOREVER! I WILL NEVER BE ABLE TO EAT AGAIN!
But today, for the first time, things seem to be getting better. Thank God for time. It, apparently, can heal anything. Even a damaged esophagus.
Autumn
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
It's About Time I Wrote About Macdonald
Before I went to England I went to the faithful Biola library (I discovered not long ago that one of the dedications in the ground leading up to the Library is to a Leilani. Every time I see it I mildly wonder what type of woman she was and what kind of life she led. It is rather strange..)and I checked out two George Macdonald books. They had been re-packaged as Christian romance novels, but they are far from that...
Let me describe an image inside one of the books (a book picked up later) to give you a picture of what Macdonald does. The image is of three Christians walking in the beautiful outdoors with a woman who does not believe. She, smitten by the beauty and peace of the day, murmers "If God is true, it almost seems as if he is near." And the man replies, "That he himself believes in God, that Rachel (his niece) believes, and that Dorthey (a friend) believes, so of course God is near." And I was struck with the thought that our relationship with Christ brings others near to God, because of His residence in us. And that when reading these books, the fictional characters somehow resonated Christ's love. So that I am wrapped in the all-consuming thought that knowing Christ is the well-spring from which all knowledge of God is found. And I find myself desiring to know Christ more deeply and fully, because He is God.
Macdonald's thoughts are really good. They are soul refreshing. So if you have chance I reccomend The Curate's Awakening. I think you will be blessed.
Let me describe an image inside one of the books (a book picked up later) to give you a picture of what Macdonald does. The image is of three Christians walking in the beautiful outdoors with a woman who does not believe. She, smitten by the beauty and peace of the day, murmers "If God is true, it almost seems as if he is near." And the man replies, "That he himself believes in God, that Rachel (his niece) believes, and that Dorthey (a friend) believes, so of course God is near." And I was struck with the thought that our relationship with Christ brings others near to God, because of His residence in us. And that when reading these books, the fictional characters somehow resonated Christ's love. So that I am wrapped in the all-consuming thought that knowing Christ is the well-spring from which all knowledge of God is found. And I find myself desiring to know Christ more deeply and fully, because He is God.
Macdonald's thoughts are really good. They are soul refreshing. So if you have chance I reccomend The Curate's Awakening. I think you will be blessed.
Monday, March 8, 2010
The Demise of Gus
"Well it's going to be a total loss."Total loss? My little grey car didn't like a total loss. Sure he was definitely limping, but he looked reparable."Yes, all you have to do is sign the papers. You have to let us know if you want to keep it for scrap value."
I walked back over to my car who had been hit as I tried to parallel park. He was my first car. The pink slip was in my name and I knew how he worked and grumbled and got me where I needed to go. When I got him, the owner, a woman in her late twenties, had fondly handed me the keys telling me, "I had a wonderful time in this car. I hope the same for you." He had been her first car as well, and I felt like she was bestowing on me a harbinger of good times. Ironically, the first few weeks after Gus's arrival (I christened him Gus, because of his large tail end... think Cinderella) ended up being some of the most difficult in my life. And yet retrospectively, difficult is not necessarily different than good. Sometimes it is the circumstances that are difficult that provide the most good. So perhaps her words were a foreshadowing of good times only the good was not what I expected. It was much better.
But regardless, Gus was there for it, my little dependable car, with airlocks that allowed me to locate him if I misplaced him in the parking lot. Push the button on my keys and he lights up. And furthermore, he got me back and forth between work and church with complete dependability and he knew the ninety-one freeway, the Biola parking lot and the In-n-out drive through as I am sure no other car can.Last Friday, I went and emptied him out. It was sad, but that is because I identify him with a time in my life, a good time, a hard time, a time that is time to say goodbye to.So Farewell.
-Leilani
I walked back over to my car who had been hit as I tried to parallel park. He was my first car. The pink slip was in my name and I knew how he worked and grumbled and got me where I needed to go. When I got him, the owner, a woman in her late twenties, had fondly handed me the keys telling me, "I had a wonderful time in this car. I hope the same for you." He had been her first car as well, and I felt like she was bestowing on me a harbinger of good times. Ironically, the first few weeks after Gus's arrival (I christened him Gus, because of his large tail end... think Cinderella) ended up being some of the most difficult in my life. And yet retrospectively, difficult is not necessarily different than good. Sometimes it is the circumstances that are difficult that provide the most good. So perhaps her words were a foreshadowing of good times only the good was not what I expected. It was much better.
But regardless, Gus was there for it, my little dependable car, with airlocks that allowed me to locate him if I misplaced him in the parking lot. Push the button on my keys and he lights up. And furthermore, he got me back and forth between work and church with complete dependability and he knew the ninety-one freeway, the Biola parking lot and the In-n-out drive through as I am sure no other car can.Last Friday, I went and emptied him out. It was sad, but that is because I identify him with a time in my life, a good time, a hard time, a time that is time to say goodbye to.So Farewell.
-Leilani
Europe Part One: London
What I love about London:-the chocolate ice cream at the theater. Surrounded by the dark wood chairs lined in gold and in front of a giant stage, you can still get a calorie fix at intermission. And you can eat it. Right there. IN THE THEATER! With the oftentimes starchy British rules and regulations, I was amazed. I mean, even in laid back So Cal you can't eat in the actual theater theater. You have to eat in the lobby. So major points to the Brits for letting you enjoy a two inch container of creamy goodness (even if it costs six bucks).-the tube. At times it can be an assault on your olfactory senses. And at times there is a peculiar, hot wind blowing through the tunnels (I have no idea where this heat comes from...the earth's core? A breeze coming up from hell?). But, for some odd reason, I find the advertisements, liberally dispersed over the walls of the metro, to be a fascinating art exhibit and peak into the British culture. They are racier in variety than what you see here (I remember one ad in which a woman wore nothing but a few carefully placed spoons) and quite a bit more wordier (American advertisers obviously rely more on flashy pictures and key words as opposed to relying on their target market to actually read something).-the flower shops. I'm talking old school flower shops, with beautiful blossoms bursting out of wooden crates, prices scrawled enchantingly on little chalkboards. Come to think of it, I have no idea how they had such gorgeous flowers as it was the middle of winter. Maybe they were imported.-the busyness. People were everywhere, all the time, at all times. And I loved that.What I didn't like (because you can't love everything):-the faucets. One faucet for hot water. One for cold. Which created the following dilemma: do you want to wash your face in scalding hot water or water that's sub zero in temperature?-the cold. IT WAS FREEZING! I would have to steel myself physically and emotionally every time I left the hotel. I was so cold, I probably looked like I was going through withdrawals, I was shaking that hard.-Autumn
Europe Part One: London
Les Miserables
When I was ten, I resolved to learn and belt out "Do you hear the People sing" whenever able. It was about freedom and right overcoming wrong-And I eagerly looked forward to my first viewing of Les Mis when it came to Los Angeles and I prioritized it when I went to London for the first time. Since then, it has become a tradition. If I am in London I watch Les Miserables. And somehow it has never bored me.The themes fascinate me as do the nuanced interpretations in the different productions. This Fantine was dirty and desperate. She played her part like a true woman of the night. The last Fantine was playful. Her downfall was pathetic. This Marius was boyish. His loves scenes were convincing, but his sorrow elicited little response. This Val Jean was the best. He changed the intonations and made the other Val Jeans unmemorable. But regardless,who is performing; justice, mercy, freedom, humanity, redemption and love is shown."Do you hear the people sing lost in the valley of the night/It is the music of the people who are climbing towards the light." What is the light? It is redemption, hope. And one leaves the show convinced that love is redeeming and that men are not perfect, but grace can take a man "no worse than any man," and bring him salvation
St. Paul's Cathedral
The step's to the bell tower are narrow and twisty. The last ascent is particularly "'perilous" as one must brave an iron Victorian staircase where one sees through the rungs. Right before entering the bell tower there is a small hole to look through. Hundreds of feet below, is the Cathedral floor with little ant people and ant furniture. Your stomach collapses in and then expands back out, but when the top is reached, and the crisp air blows away the sweat of the climb, the effort is worth it. All around is London, old London, new London, the Thames, the Eye, the Globe Theater. Slowly, one walks the small circumference. One takes a couple pictures and then begins the descent down, down, where the angelic choir sings filling the whispering gallery and the main chancel. -Leilani
When I was ten, I resolved to learn and belt out "Do you hear the People sing" whenever able. It was about freedom and right overcoming wrong-And I eagerly looked forward to my first viewing of Les Mis when it came to Los Angeles and I prioritized it when I went to London for the first time. Since then, it has become a tradition. If I am in London I watch Les Miserables. And somehow it has never bored me.The themes fascinate me as do the nuanced interpretations in the different productions. This Fantine was dirty and desperate. She played her part like a true woman of the night. The last Fantine was playful. Her downfall was pathetic. This Marius was boyish. His loves scenes were convincing, but his sorrow elicited little response. This Val Jean was the best. He changed the intonations and made the other Val Jeans unmemorable. But regardless,who is performing; justice, mercy, freedom, humanity, redemption and love is shown."Do you hear the people sing lost in the valley of the night/It is the music of the people who are climbing towards the light." What is the light? It is redemption, hope. And one leaves the show convinced that love is redeeming and that men are not perfect, but grace can take a man "no worse than any man," and bring him salvation
St. Paul's Cathedral
The step's to the bell tower are narrow and twisty. The last ascent is particularly "'perilous" as one must brave an iron Victorian staircase where one sees through the rungs. Right before entering the bell tower there is a small hole to look through. Hundreds of feet below, is the Cathedral floor with little ant people and ant furniture. Your stomach collapses in and then expands back out, but when the top is reached, and the crisp air blows away the sweat of the climb, the effort is worth it. All around is London, old London, new London, the Thames, the Eye, the Globe Theater. Slowly, one walks the small circumference. One takes a couple pictures and then begins the descent down, down, where the angelic choir sings filling the whispering gallery and the main chancel. -Leilani
Why I like Silk
One of my favorite movies is 'Silk.'It is shot against an innocent landscape of provincial France. The lush, golden tones betray the dark central theme of the movie: a husband has an affair.The mistress is a Japanese woman (I'm probably even more drawn to the story due to my shared heritage with THE OTHER WOMAN) he meets on a voyage to secure silk worms for his village. Though he loves his wife, he is inextricably drawn to this geisha, and is knitted emotionally to her for the rest of his life. To make matters worse, the wife (played by Keira Knightly-LOVE HER EYEBROWS) unquestioningly loves her tortured husband with silent devotion. Yeah. You really feel bad for her.Japan and France seem to be juxtaposed. Japan is wild, untamed and unpredictable. France is controlled, beautiful, elegant. In a way, the countries seem to be the two women in the husband's life. The geisha is mysterious, elusive, and alluring. His wife, schooled in etiquette and domestics, is gorgeous and contained.There is a snapshot of the geisha that the husband has in his mind, an image he returns to even as he walks along the cobbled streets of France, millions of miles from Japan. It is of the geisha in a river, resting her hand delicately on the surface of the water. The image is enticingly exotic.The most poignant part of the movie is built off of this image. The husband is lying in bed in France and his wife is standing by a basin of water. He is staring into the distance. And he doesn't see. He doesn't see that his wife has gently laid her hand on top of the water, expressing the same exotic, feminine beauty of geisha.I LOVE IT. It's so sad, the missed moment-which is representative of the missed love. The wife had all the bewitchment of the mistress. But the husband didn't see what was right before him. It reminds me of life, how we can pursue things relentlessly without seeing that what is most valuable and most fulfilling may be something we already possesses.SPOILER ALERT! If you haven't seen Silk, stop reading!What is even sadder is that at the end, after the wife has died of illness, the husband sees that image again. Only this time it is the wife in the river. He realizes he has lost all he had ever wanted.
-Autumn
-Autumn
My Latest Ambition
I try to keep it a secret that sometimes I miss writing papers. After all, upon graduation capped and gowned participants congratulate each other with the exultant cry of "no more papers, no more classes, no more school!" Sympathy for those who still want to write is almost non-existent. But I enjoy (most of the time) the process that is paper writing. And I miss it when I am reading a book and a interesting thesis suggests itself and begs further research.Since graduating, I assumed that I would go back to school and study for my masters. But circumstantially and providentially the time for school did not come. Now however (trips always make me reflect), I am compelled to apply to different programs, in different places, along the lines of different passions, and pray that God leads. A change in the seasons of my life seems to be coming and I am excited to see where this God directed wind will blow me.
-Leilani
-Leilani
Dia en Espana
Last night at 3:00 am Autumn announed that she could not fall asleep. "Count sheep" I told her... a couple minutes later she informed me that she had killed them. Which caused me (I don´t know why) to have varying visions of sheep in different sizes alternately shrinking and growing while I attempted to sleep again... Needless to say we are seriously jet lagged and as I type this blog I have a feeling that I won´t want to sleep anytime soon. Okay, well I´ll probably want to sleep tomorrow at 11:00 am when my warm hotel room seems infintely more inviting than any cold Madrid monument.
We had three goals today: breakfast, bus tour, and El Prado (The great art musuem!!). We managed breakfast, barely, so we took a brief (two hour) siesta before our tour of the city. Somehow lost in translation, was the fact that we needed to arrive forty-five minutes before our bus left instead of fifteen. Well, one taxi cab ride later landed us in the square where the bus was to leave, but no bus. Beautiful old buildings, yes. Statues, yes. Bus? NOWHERE TO BE SEEN.
This piazza was beautiful I thought as I scanned the area for possible hints as to the location of our bus. If we have to stay here that could be good. But these internal possiblities didn´t stop me from walking around with great haste to be accosted, in Spanish, by someone sent looking for us. He grabbed the paper saying we were on the tour and with some gesticulating a little Spanish and English he led us away. This works too... and we safely boarded the bus.
The staute in honor of Cervantes was pointed out three times. I suppose when one has a great author one is bound to build statues in his honor and make sure that tourists know this is where the impossible dream was dreamed. I was duely impressed and felt that I should try and take a picture with Don Quixote and Sancho.
We were also shown two chapels in honor of the artist Goya. One of the chapels is a replica and is still currently in use. The original has Goya´s art on the ceiling and his body buried inside. That is, his body minus his head which somehow got lost. I spotted it later bronzed and on display as one of the many stautes in the city.
Our one stop was the Rocky Cola cafe where we were invited to have a free Coke (they must have figured that into the price of the tour). While there, we met three handsome Italian men. Unfortunately, I speak no Italian and they spoke little English... we communicated with smiles and I am under the perception that I told one of them I drove a bus (which I managed to correct) and that I am not a teacher. (He laughed at the thought). I think our cross culteral communication was a sucess however, because they seemed taken with us... and I don´t think it was just our brilliant conversation.
We passed the bull ring. (I took a picture) And drove up the street that in days of old the bull fighters paraded down, which made me think of Hemmingway... the partial English major coming out in me.Finally, they dropped us off in the shopping district which we resolved we must visit the next day.
We did make it to the The Prado, which one could spend YEARS in. I found the historical art quite fascinating. There was one wall to wall painting of the liberal government executing some absolotionists (all the power to one person) on a beach. It was a warning. Don´t rebel against the Spainish government. Another picture depicted Mad Queen Joanna trying to make her husband rise from the dead, and another showed Isabel giving a kiss to her dead lover who she rejected before falling dead over his body. Dramatic, but interesting.
Our final destination for the day is churros and chocolate... I hope the caffine doesn´t effect Autumn. We need to sleep tonight and the sheep didn´t work last night. Adios.
-Leilani
We had three goals today: breakfast, bus tour, and El Prado (The great art musuem!!). We managed breakfast, barely, so we took a brief (two hour) siesta before our tour of the city. Somehow lost in translation, was the fact that we needed to arrive forty-five minutes before our bus left instead of fifteen. Well, one taxi cab ride later landed us in the square where the bus was to leave, but no bus. Beautiful old buildings, yes. Statues, yes. Bus? NOWHERE TO BE SEEN.
This piazza was beautiful I thought as I scanned the area for possible hints as to the location of our bus. If we have to stay here that could be good. But these internal possiblities didn´t stop me from walking around with great haste to be accosted, in Spanish, by someone sent looking for us. He grabbed the paper saying we were on the tour and with some gesticulating a little Spanish and English he led us away. This works too... and we safely boarded the bus.
The staute in honor of Cervantes was pointed out three times. I suppose when one has a great author one is bound to build statues in his honor and make sure that tourists know this is where the impossible dream was dreamed. I was duely impressed and felt that I should try and take a picture with Don Quixote and Sancho.
We were also shown two chapels in honor of the artist Goya. One of the chapels is a replica and is still currently in use. The original has Goya´s art on the ceiling and his body buried inside. That is, his body minus his head which somehow got lost. I spotted it later bronzed and on display as one of the many stautes in the city.
Our one stop was the Rocky Cola cafe where we were invited to have a free Coke (they must have figured that into the price of the tour). While there, we met three handsome Italian men. Unfortunately, I speak no Italian and they spoke little English... we communicated with smiles and I am under the perception that I told one of them I drove a bus (which I managed to correct) and that I am not a teacher. (He laughed at the thought). I think our cross culteral communication was a sucess however, because they seemed taken with us... and I don´t think it was just our brilliant conversation.
We passed the bull ring. (I took a picture) And drove up the street that in days of old the bull fighters paraded down, which made me think of Hemmingway... the partial English major coming out in me.Finally, they dropped us off in the shopping district which we resolved we must visit the next day.
We did make it to the The Prado, which one could spend YEARS in. I found the historical art quite fascinating. There was one wall to wall painting of the liberal government executing some absolotionists (all the power to one person) on a beach. It was a warning. Don´t rebel against the Spainish government. Another picture depicted Mad Queen Joanna trying to make her husband rise from the dead, and another showed Isabel giving a kiss to her dead lover who she rejected before falling dead over his body. Dramatic, but interesting.
Our final destination for the day is churros and chocolate... I hope the caffine doesn´t effect Autumn. We need to sleep tonight and the sheep didn´t work last night. Adios.
-Leilani
Love and Loss
It wasn't the first time I lost my wallet. The first time was earlier last year. I left it in the Biola cafeteria. It resurfaced, minus the cash, and I joyfully reclaimed it. So imagine the difficulty of having to go through the grieving process a second time.It was lost (or maybe stolen!) somewhere on the Metro in Spain in between the stop Atoche and Ducal.It is a horrifying moment when you reach for the one vessel that carries not only your identity (license and school ID) but the means by which you survive (credit card, cash) and thrive (Olive Garden gift card, Hollywood video card) and IT'S NOT THERE. It's like looking down and discovering part of you is missing (like a finger or a liver).I immediately started going through the five stages of grief:1. Shock and Denial: I dug through my purse five times, thinking, no, no, no, no. I realized it was gone. I told myself it was gone. Then I dug through my purse again. Repeated this whole process at least four times.2. Pain and Guilt: Why hadn't I protected my beautiful wallet better? Why hadn't I been more alert? Oh, when would this agony end? When could I love another wallet again? Probably never.3. Anger and Bargaining: I was outraged at the thought that someone could have stolen it ("this is a sorry world we live in!") and outraged that I could have left it somewhere ("what kind of person are you, possibly leaving your life source on the ticket booth?!). And I immediately started thinking up possible trades: "it would have been better if my passport AND my SS card were stolen-just not my wallet. WHY wasn't it Lei's wallet? TAKE LEI'S WALLET, GOSH-TAKE HER WHOLE SUITCASE!! -JUST PASS OVER ME!"4. Loneliness and Reflection: I thought about all the good time I had with that wallet and how beautiful it had been. I thought about how faithfully it had served me over the past four years.5. Acceptance: uh, yeah, I'm still working on this one.What is most sad is that the Juicy Couture wallet was one of my prized possessions. It was stunning-silver, with delicate tucking and an adorable heart on the back. I bought it with one whole check right before I went to Biola freshman year. And I am not lying when I say it brought me pleasure every time I drew it out of my purse.I had stopped keeping a diary just about the time I got the wallet. And in a way, the wallet had become my diary. It held pieces of my past four years, objects that land marked my life: solicitous notes from various guys, ticket stubs, small magazine pictures of things that had caught my fancy, post its from my roommates, and miniature To Do lists. I'd saved a note or two from my boyfriend, who doesn't write love letters. Little inconsequential notes, but ones written in his affectionate way. I am saddest about those.I am now trying to recover and put my life back together, an arduous task involving several hours at the DMV and a few more at the bank, convincing them I am indeed, Autumn S. Brim. And I have another wallet. A turquoise one from Guess. I can't say I've given my heart it though-No, my heart will always belong to my Juicy Couture Wallet. :)
-Autumn
-Autumn
Strange in Spain
I always find those small, strange things that one sees and experiences abroad to be the fabric that makes traveling unique. It´s like freckles on a face or red hair with brown eyes-those unexpected elements that distinguish a person-and distinguish a country as well.So here´s a strange thing I´ve encountered Spain:-Garage Sale? Down the same street as the Prado, I noticed a bunch of people congregating. They weren´t the typical, well dressed and pressed Spanish citizens but rather a rag tail bunch with raggedy headscarves, eye patches (for reals) and scruffy beards. They looked like hobo pirates or a parade of sad, retired circus performers. And each one had spread out wares to sell. They weren´t gypsies who hawk paper flowers or carved knick knacks. And their wares caught my attention. Each person had very few objects for sale. One man had, literally, a bottle of shampoo, a cracked plastic mirror, a cell phone charger, and a toothbrush (opened...used?!). The hoboes moved from display to display, assessing the objects with the same seriousness of a man buying a car, questioning the seller about the various merits and even bringing up package deals. This was a couple streets or so up from some of Spain´s designer stores, where the exact same serious buying was occuring. Commerce, apparently, happens at every level of society.
-Autumn
-Autumn
And We're Off!!
This Thursday my sister and I are boarding an airplane to London, going to Madrid, and then we go to Oxford. Oxford, the university town that captivated my imagination, and made a little American girl grow up. When I left Oxford, after my year abroad, a hither to unknown emotion passed through my chest. And as the bus rolled up and over Headington hill I thought. "This is it. This is what heartbreak must be like. "Granted, real heartbreak is worse, but go to Oxford and maybe you too will feel the magic that is woven into the fabric of the city. It lingers in the universities where scholars dreamed dreams that wrote books and ran nations. It wafts across the Cherwell where students punt while enjoying a much earned rest. And it dips into side alleys where a scarfed bicyclist returns library books. And it resounds in the spires that keep steady watch over the comings and goings of many.One of those was me. And now I get to go back...
In Between Me and Spain
In Between Me and Spain....
On Thursday Lei and I are going to Spain! This is time for great joy, as I love traveling more than anything else. However, there is one thing looming between me and strolling the streets of Madrid: a twelve hour flight. I've gone on these flights (or, to name them more appropriately, in-transit hells) enough to know how they go:you sleep, read, think, make idle chatter with your random seatmates (what's your name? where are you going? I KNOW, the Davinci Code is SO interesting, etc), watch a movie, sleep, read, REPEAT, REPEAT. I refuse to look at the time for what feels like five mini eternities (it's a psychological game-I tell myself if I don't keep track of time, it will just fly by) and finally do, thinking, there has GOT to be only one hour left to discover, DEAR GOD, I STILL HAVE NINE HOURS TO GO! Commence breakdown. I then check the time like a maniac. 12:05. Don't focus on the time! Don't look! Don't-WHY IS IT STILL ONLY 12:05?!!!Of course, I could take a valuable lesson from this-something down the lines of patience is good for the soul, it's the journey that makes the destination worthwhile, etc. And maybe I will. Or maybe I will just try sleeping pills this time :)
On Thursday Lei and I are going to Spain! This is time for great joy, as I love traveling more than anything else. However, there is one thing looming between me and strolling the streets of Madrid: a twelve hour flight. I've gone on these flights (or, to name them more appropriately, in-transit hells) enough to know how they go:you sleep, read, think, make idle chatter with your random seatmates (what's your name? where are you going? I KNOW, the Davinci Code is SO interesting, etc), watch a movie, sleep, read, REPEAT, REPEAT. I refuse to look at the time for what feels like five mini eternities (it's a psychological game-I tell myself if I don't keep track of time, it will just fly by) and finally do, thinking, there has GOT to be only one hour left to discover, DEAR GOD, I STILL HAVE NINE HOURS TO GO! Commence breakdown. I then check the time like a maniac. 12:05. Don't focus on the time! Don't look! Don't-WHY IS IT STILL ONLY 12:05?!!!Of course, I could take a valuable lesson from this-something down the lines of patience is good for the soul, it's the journey that makes the destination worthwhile, etc. And maybe I will. Or maybe I will just try sleeping pills this time :)
Leilani's First Post
Leilani's first post
First Post (a peek at the beginning)
"Let's call it we know everything..." said my sister."What?" I replied. Everything? That was an extensive claim."Ummmm....."We could put a question mark at the end of it," she suggested. Words like humility and meekness processed through my mind."No," I vetoed, "How about something poetic?" She laughed, before nixing my "dramatic" suggesting."What about a year of our lives?" She queried. A year? A year in the lives of two sisters. Yes. That could work. It was broad enough to cover both of our personalities and narrow enough to limit our project with a specific goal. It was a name we could agree on.
State of My life (Or Leilani as of January Twenty-ten)
Currently, my life is made up of many small activities which for the most part I enjoy. I teach four high school classes: Two literature, one history, and one logic class. I also have four Korean fifth graders who I tutor/teach. they try my patience (they like writing stories insulting each other, correcting each others grammar, and doing math problems on their desks) and yet somehow they manage to make me exceptionally fond of them. I also am a leader for the junior high group at my church. If you have never seen a junior high girl try and dance, let me tell you, it is adorable. They dance with all their little might, but they haven't quite learned rhythm yet. And the best part is they don't care what they look like. They just dance.Once I start reflecting on the little bits that make my life, an overflow of small sorrows, joys, and pleasures wants to tumble out. But suffice it to say, I am blessed, abundantly so, and if you chose to read on... well I am sure between my sister and I, we will find plenty to say.
My life in a Year
(So that at the end of this, we can compare notes)
What would I like to be doing one year from now? It is only lately that my vision has turned again to that question, because so much of my life now has been learning to live presently- it has not been a dreaming time like my college years, and yet it doesn't lack dreams. The difference is the dreams have matured and have become mixed with the reality of adult life. It is a unique time. And somehow, I think it is also a brief time...But to look at the mature dream: What do I want to be doing one year from now? The outline is there. It is the lines of dogma, the desire to be a woman of creed. Openly living the words, "I believe in God the Father, I believe in God the Son, and I believe in the transforming work of the Holy Spirit." Yet, the colors have yet to be filled in, the details, the how. So my dream is to color. A year from now I want to know what work I should be doing and how my talents can best be used to serve God.As for the work of this blog, my dream is simple: Write, to the glory of God, for the joy of doing something with Autumn, for the pleasure of telling stories, and because I like words.
First Post (a peek at the beginning)
"Let's call it we know everything..." said my sister."What?" I replied. Everything? That was an extensive claim."Ummmm....."We could put a question mark at the end of it," she suggested. Words like humility and meekness processed through my mind."No," I vetoed, "How about something poetic?" She laughed, before nixing my "dramatic" suggesting."What about a year of our lives?" She queried. A year? A year in the lives of two sisters. Yes. That could work. It was broad enough to cover both of our personalities and narrow enough to limit our project with a specific goal. It was a name we could agree on.
State of My life (Or Leilani as of January Twenty-ten)
Currently, my life is made up of many small activities which for the most part I enjoy. I teach four high school classes: Two literature, one history, and one logic class. I also have four Korean fifth graders who I tutor/teach. they try my patience (they like writing stories insulting each other, correcting each others grammar, and doing math problems on their desks) and yet somehow they manage to make me exceptionally fond of them. I also am a leader for the junior high group at my church. If you have never seen a junior high girl try and dance, let me tell you, it is adorable. They dance with all their little might, but they haven't quite learned rhythm yet. And the best part is they don't care what they look like. They just dance.Once I start reflecting on the little bits that make my life, an overflow of small sorrows, joys, and pleasures wants to tumble out. But suffice it to say, I am blessed, abundantly so, and if you chose to read on... well I am sure between my sister and I, we will find plenty to say.
My life in a Year
(So that at the end of this, we can compare notes)
What would I like to be doing one year from now? It is only lately that my vision has turned again to that question, because so much of my life now has been learning to live presently- it has not been a dreaming time like my college years, and yet it doesn't lack dreams. The difference is the dreams have matured and have become mixed with the reality of adult life. It is a unique time. And somehow, I think it is also a brief time...But to look at the mature dream: What do I want to be doing one year from now? The outline is there. It is the lines of dogma, the desire to be a woman of creed. Openly living the words, "I believe in God the Father, I believe in God the Son, and I believe in the transforming work of the Holy Spirit." Yet, the colors have yet to be filled in, the details, the how. So my dream is to color. A year from now I want to know what work I should be doing and how my talents can best be used to serve God.As for the work of this blog, my dream is simple: Write, to the glory of God, for the joy of doing something with Autumn, for the pleasure of telling stories, and because I like words.
Autumn's first blog post
Autumn's First Blog Post
Welcome to my life for one year.The State of My Life Now:-I currently spend most of my time in a gray Corolla Toyota (his name is the Toymaster) as I make my way from Point A to Point B. Though I don't love my car like some people do, I've learned his little idiosyncrasies, those things that can only be learned from sitting, for miles upon miles, in the driver seat. It's much like getting to know a person-just not as rewarding. But I know the Toymaster pulls to the left, even when I'm holding the wheel straight (tire alignment off?!). I know the Toymaster's exact dimensions and can zip through traffic with military tight precision. I've slept in the Toymaster and cried in the Toymaster (after getting a ticket, due to the Tomaster's inclination for speed). It's funny how an object can be so familiar and feel so comfortable.-I just completed an internship at the Orange County Register where I wrote features and news stories. It was my first true foray in the the journalistic world-and I loved it. I couldn't believe I was getting paid to write-and I couldn't believe people were reading what I was writing.-I just moved out of Biola University for a semester. So yeah. It's all explained in this article. Copy the link:article link: http://www.ocregister.com/articles/school-224941-year-life.htmlMy stuff is still in the backseat of the Toymaster. Whenever I drive anywhere, I look like I'm living out of my car. Which I am. See above note.-I am working at a bridal salon, La Soie Bridal. I've worked there for three years as a wedding gown consultant, servicing engaged, excited women. Its' basically a female only zone. Grooms who come in usually stand awkwardly, bemoaning the drops in their testosterone levels as they survey racks full of lace, taffeta, and silk. It's tremendously fun (when I'm selling stuff). It's tremendously stressful when I am not. The gowns are gorgeous (I've tried on countless numbers of them)- not that David's Bridal polyester stuff. There is one gown that I adore. It has a ball gown skirt with a peplum, a fresh, new take on the silhouette. Lace trickles all over it. It has an edgy, broken tea party, Alice in Wonderland aesthetic to it. I've had bride after bride fall in love with its uniqueness. But none have been gutsy enough to wear it. I'm waiting for that special bride who will. I'll let you know if she comes in the year!!
Welcome to my life for one year.The State of My Life Now:-I currently spend most of my time in a gray Corolla Toyota (his name is the Toymaster) as I make my way from Point A to Point B. Though I don't love my car like some people do, I've learned his little idiosyncrasies, those things that can only be learned from sitting, for miles upon miles, in the driver seat. It's much like getting to know a person-just not as rewarding. But I know the Toymaster pulls to the left, even when I'm holding the wheel straight (tire alignment off?!). I know the Toymaster's exact dimensions and can zip through traffic with military tight precision. I've slept in the Toymaster and cried in the Toymaster (after getting a ticket, due to the Tomaster's inclination for speed). It's funny how an object can be so familiar and feel so comfortable.-I just completed an internship at the Orange County Register where I wrote features and news stories. It was my first true foray in the the journalistic world-and I loved it. I couldn't believe I was getting paid to write-and I couldn't believe people were reading what I was writing.-I just moved out of Biola University for a semester. So yeah. It's all explained in this article. Copy the link:article link: http://www.ocregister.com/articles/school-224941-year-life.htmlMy stuff is still in the backseat of the Toymaster. Whenever I drive anywhere, I look like I'm living out of my car. Which I am. See above note.-I am working at a bridal salon, La Soie Bridal. I've worked there for three years as a wedding gown consultant, servicing engaged, excited women. Its' basically a female only zone. Grooms who come in usually stand awkwardly, bemoaning the drops in their testosterone levels as they survey racks full of lace, taffeta, and silk. It's tremendously fun (when I'm selling stuff). It's tremendously stressful when I am not. The gowns are gorgeous (I've tried on countless numbers of them)- not that David's Bridal polyester stuff. There is one gown that I adore. It has a ball gown skirt with a peplum, a fresh, new take on the silhouette. Lace trickles all over it. It has an edgy, broken tea party, Alice in Wonderland aesthetic to it. I've had bride after bride fall in love with its uniqueness. But none have been gutsy enough to wear it. I'm waiting for that special bride who will. I'll let you know if she comes in the year!!
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