Star Gazing

About an hour ago (10:30 p.m.), I padded outside in my flip-flops – the black Tevas with the left big toe and right heel worn down to almost-nothing, proving that my whole self is listing to the right like the Tower of Pisa - to join the real night, the outside night.  Stretched prone, with my hands above my head on a hard pier section in the midst of stark stillness and the heavenly dome yawning above, I flashed back to star-watching on similar nights as a child.  Nights when the sky came to earth and entered me; when I fit, like a little human star, in the enormous cosmos. Nights when I belonged, when complete disclosure (skinny-dipping in the lake) beneath the stares of open-eyed stars was acceptable and right.

Now I don’t star gaze much.  Almost never. I stay tucked inside my little house with a refrigerator and bathroom and grown-up company: a computer screen and glass of iced tea. I am much smaller in here, in this predictable, controlled space, which is why I went outside tonight: to revisit my space under the stars.  I am pleased to say it was still there.

Better Error Messages: Haiku Poetry

(Note: I take no credit for this – the author is unknown.)

____________________

In Japan, they have apparently replaced the impersonal and unhelpful Microsoft error messages with Haiku poetry. With their strict construction rules (each poem has only 17 syllables: 5 syllables in the first, 7 in the second, 5 in the third), Haikus are used to communicate timeless messages, often achieving a wistful yearning and powerful insight through extreme brevity.

The Web site you seek Cannot be located, but Countless more exist.

Chaos reigns within. Reflect, repent, and reboot. Order shall return.

Program aborting: Close all that you have worked on. You ask far too much.

Windows NT crashed. I am the Blue Screen of Death. No one hears your screams.

Yesterday it worked. Today it is not working. Windows is like that.

Your file was so big. It might be very useful. But now it is gone.

Stay the patient course. Of little worth is your ire. The network is down.

A crash reduces Your expensive computer To a simple stone.

Three things are certain: Death, taxes and lost data. Guess which has occurred.

You step in the stream, But the water has moved on. This page is not here.

Out of memory. We wish to hold the whole sky, But we never will.

Having been erased, The document you're seeking Must now be retyped.

Serious error. All shortcuts have disappeared. Screen. Mind. Both are blank.

Java News

Drinking excessive amounts of coffee has never been a vice for me.  I’ve battled other food addictions, but have not been plundered and taken over by The Roasted Bean like some people. In fact, java and I have kept our distance for the most part, like strangers who share the same space in public places and even make eye contact, but don’t physically touch or exchange verbal greetings.  Sugar or butter or anything made of grains might be different story.  I easily befriend and sidle up to THOSE. But right now we’re talking about coffee.

When I was a child, my parents’ brewed coffee smelled heavenly and tasted like burned cardboard with a heaping dose of metallic flavoring added.  It originated in their slurp-burping percolator, a slender silver pitcher with a skinny, curved-worm for a spout - “8 O’Clock” brand coffee, or else whatever was on sale at the time.  My mother was amazingly thrifty, and purchased discounted food in bent cans, unlabeled cans, and torn packaging.  Sometimes she brought home a ripped bag of coffee (always ground, I never saw a whole bean until I was an adult) that had been patched with miles of masking tape by some overzealous shelf stocker - wrapped and wrapped and cinched tight like Scarlett O’Hara.  

I thought the coffee from that percolator tasted, for lack of a better word, burned.  Bitter.  Surely the stained, perforated aluminum basket holding the grounds had something to do with it.  Between brewing episodes, if you happened to be the one dumping the grounds, the basket smelled like the coffee tasted.  Scorched and tinny.  Even when clean.

Then there was instant coffee.  The folks used this at the lake cottage sometimes – for convenience, I suppose.  Little crunchy granules.  Stir them in hot water, and voila: mud.  In my opinion, instant coffee was horrible as well.  Even worse than the brewed stuff. 

Not surprisingly, I rarely drank coffee when I got older - but when I did, I watered it down, thinking it to be more tolerable that way.  And black please, don’t complicate things with cream or sugar. I convinced myself I preferred plain weak coffee, and for some odd reason, wasn’t tempted to try higher-class varieties, say, at a coffee house.  First of all, there weren’t any Starbucks businesses around when I was a young adult, and secondly, I wasn’t the kind to meet a friend for coffee anyway.  It would have been too expensive, and I’d inherited my mother’s thrifty ideals. I occasionally ordered a cup of decaf to sip with dessert at a restaurant after dinner, but that was all.  I don’t know why I was so almost totally hands-off except that perhaps a subliminal precautionary gene knew about my addictive predisposition and decided to protect me from another reason to overindulge in something.

But all of this discussion is preliminary, and brings me to the point for today.  Last Christmas I gave my hubby a Keurig coffee maker – one of those snazzy machines that invites you to choose a little cartridge of a particular coffee of your liking, and then brews just one cup in seconds.  A very cool toy.  But again, his toy.  I didn’t suddenly become interested in drinking coffee all the time.

However, this past week I’ve been tempted to try some of the Keurig cups that stock our coffee station.  Why not?  There they are.  Cute little round K-cup cartridges.  Different flavors.  Quick. Enticing.  And the brew method is supposed to be outstandingly awesome. The first time I heard a review for Keurig coffee, the individual said, “That’s the best cup of coffee I’ve ever had.”

Discovery #1: I very much enjoy both light- or dark-roasted coffees when iced and served with a touch of stevia.

Discovery #2: I particularly enjoy the darkest of the dark roasted varieties (shocking news for this weak coffee drinker) when piping hot and served with a touch of stevia.

Discobery #3: Both of the above are beyond amazing with a shot of crème de cocoa added.

So all-of-a-sudden, I’ve gone coffee crazy, and yet overindulgence will not be a problem as long as cream isn’t in the house.  Add cream to #3 and I could be enslaved forever.

Deeper and Higher

Every now and then a glimpse of grandeur jumps out and stuns me – a mysterious but tangible reality in another person, a surpassing greatness that is not earned but bestowed. Such was the case at Jean Watson’s concert tonight.

You can see and hear my friend, Jean, here: http://www.jeanwatson.com/fr_home.cfm\\

Like all of us, Jean knows what it means to suffer, but pain is not her greatest reality.  “Life is hard - but SO good!” she said tonight.  “There’s no place to go in God's perfect love other than deeper and higher.”

While living a quiet life in a small village, Jean become internationally acclaimed in just a few years.  Her producer in Nashville lauds her unique talent and style, and her music has made the charts in England.  Recently she was invited to host a regular radio program in Ireland. 

But recognition isn’t what it’s about. “I was just doing my thing, playing my violin, and God showed up and made all this happen.”  She gives the glory to Him.

I should clarify, however, that “her thing” is not really her thing.  As her life journey continues, she submits herself over and over to be used by Him.  Looking back, there are Almighty footprints where she has walked.  Looking ahead, the path is clear: deeper and higher.

Deeper, and higher,

And wider, and fuller,

Immeasurable love,

Transforming and free.

Deeper, and higher,

And wider, and fuller,

Thy mercies unending,

Our praise goes to Thee.

Peelers

“My shoes – they’re still wet inside,” I whined.

“Why?”

“I walked after the rain yesterday.  And the soles are, you know, peeling. So water seeped inside.  I thought they’d dry out overnight, but they didn’t.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why are the soles peeling?”

“Because.  They just are.”

“They’re old.”

“Not THAT old.  Just worn."  I paused.  "They're peelers”

“You’re very hard on shoes.”

“Yes, I am.  I always have been.”

“If these are shot, then go buy new ones.”

“That’s just it.  I don’t want to be spending money on new shoes all the time.”

“So you wear ones with peeling soles that get wet inside.”

“Yes.”

There wasn’t much else to add at this point.

“You’re very hard on shoes,” he repeated, not knowing what else to say.

“I am.  I work hard and play hard.  My fingernails are always wearing down, too. I’m just hard on myself,” I nodded with a grin.

“Your shoes prove it.”

“Yes, they do.”

“Like a badge.”

“Of honor.”

“Of hard walking.”

“Of hard something.” 

“Of a hard-core, hard-headed… ”

“Oh stop it!”

That was the end of a pointless and yet confirming conversation that verified what I already knew: I’m hard on shoes.  Really, really hard on shoes.  I go through a decent quality pair twice as fast as another person wearing the same brand.  I don’t know why this is so.  It just is.

Rain Down

Watery-pebbles

Pelting

Dimpling

Raindrops

Free-falling

Dapple-drilling

Dibble-drops

Loving

Quenching

Earth

Guzzling

Glutting

Sufficiency

Providing

Running Over

Grace

Restoring

Redeeming

Living Water

Re-creating

Saving

Barbecue Sauce (and Other Things)

While wandering through Stress City today (a “local” grocery store 20+ minutes away – not its real name, of course) I found myself frozen in the middle of the condiment aisle, blocking oncoming cart traffic.

Nothing on my list necessitated my even BEING in that aisle, and yet there I was, right in front of a very LARGE barbecue sauce display. I wasn’t secretly craving barbecued ribs; I didn’t WANT to buy barbecue sauce. I just stood there, staring.

Six rows, ten feet long, of very red bottles stared back at me. Shiny, saliva-inducing bottles of once-upon-a-time-tomatoes cooked to certain death and beyond, and then spiked with high fructose corn syrup (which predisposes diabetes) and MSG (which induces neurological toxicity).  Who knows what other additives lurked within some of those permeable plastic bottles with shelf lives of YEARS that would mock the longevity of anything in the produce section, tomatoes included. 

I stared back with a parting glare that said “no.”  The barbecue sauce would not win.  It would not allow errant taste buds to overrun my rational mind.  I knew better.  This stuff was hazardous.

Entering the next aisle skeptically, I wondered: is THIS what grocery shopping is supposed to be?  A war zone between overindulged, addicted tastes (the American dream gone culinary) and the logical mind guarding physical wellbeing?  Worse, how many people don’t even know how bad all this stuff really IS for us, particularly over the long haul?

Pushing my cart along with a glazed expression that denied eye contact with AN ENTIRE AISLE OF PRICEY PROCESSED CEREAL (especially the sugar-sweetened stuff is deadly, just ask any cell in your body), I wondered how much food in Stress City is really not food at all, but tasty ingestible material that won’t kill us (at least not immediately) but fills us up so we think we’re well-fed?  Over time, especially the last decade, I’ve come to think the answer could be appalling: most.

There are no warning signs anywhere in Stress City, which is a shame.  Cigarettes are clearly labeled with a warning sign, why not food?  Everything but that tiny display of organic produce could apply (there is no organic meat in this store).  “WARNING:  The surgeon general has determined tampered-with food to be hazardous to your health.”

Or if we wanted to be more specific, the shrink-wrapped, sectioned carcasses of chicken, pork and beef could be labeled, “hormone-laden, antibiotic-infused – known to create chemical imbalances” and specific meats could also read, “nitrite and nitrate contaminated – known to cause cancer.” Fresh vegetables could say, “pesticide-ridden, genetically modified, wax-coated, irradiated, chemically fertilized, picked green and ripened in gas chambers – distorted and known to distort when ingested.” Milk product disclaimers, even when condensed, could become a mini-tutorial: “pasteurized, homogenized dairy items encourage acidity in the human body which predisposes inflammation which in turn predisposes chronic disease; they are mucous-producing, cause arterial clogging, their calcium is not readily absorbable, and hormones fed to dairy herds induce early puberty.” And all of this is just the tip of the iceberg.

IF this is true (you ask the question with a stern look and squinty, doubtful eyes), why is it allowed?  Because, dear friends and gentle people, it’s not about the quality of our food being nutritionally superior.  It’s about MONEY.

Which brings me back to barbecue sauce and adulterated food in general.  Liking it, craving it, and then becoming addicted to it, is good for big business.  Food manufacturers do what they must to make sure we love it. Hating it is better for me in just about every sense.  Sadly, I do both, with sometimes more, and sometimes less, focus on better (if not optimal) choices. Just look at yesterday's blog.  See what I mean?