Writing>Netflix

I've been killing my spirit with Hollywood induced films during the last week or so. My apologies. I retaliate with one of my favorite passages from one of my beloved books, The Four Loves by Clive Staples Lewis.

Those like myself whose imagination far exceeds their obedience are subject to a just penalty; we easily imagine conditions far higher than any we have really reached. If we describe what we have imagined we may make others, and make ourselves, believe that we have really been there. And if I have only imagined it, is it a further delusion that even the imaging has at some moments made all other objects of desire—yes, even peace to have no more fears—look like broken toys and faded flowers? Perhaps. Perhaps for many of us, all experience merely defines, so to speak, the shape of that gap where our love of God ought to be. It is not enough. It is something. If we cannot “practice the presence of God it is something to practice the absence of god….”

My mind wanders and I spend most of my days intrigued by scrapped notes I've jotted down before and after other thoughts that infiltrate my steady concentration. My mind is often distracted by what my mind would rather be distracted with and I can't help but feel guilty at the end of the day. During the process I'm simply in a bliss of dreams, made up of all my favorite colors and people with my favorite conversational topics being conversed about set in scenes only people from Pottery Barn and Anthropologie dream about. I think a lot and Mr. Lewis doesn't help much in that department, but he makes a point or seven nonetheless.

I don't think I'm retaining the experiences that have made me a real life and refined person. Maybe not entirely, but not even to an honest degree. I'd hate to think I'm digging this abyss worthy gap for my life. I'm not sure how to go about reshaping and I have a feeling this will take time. But without the gap, no transition, change and realization can occur--that I can be presently mindful of anyways. So we wait (my thoughts & I/God!).

But here's to toys that work.

High as a kite,

Tracy

LUKE[22:16]WARM

I'm particular and maybe even peculiar in how I like my foods and drinks according to their temperature. Cold pizza frightens me and I get overly upset when my splash of soy fused Americano doesn't burn my tongue because it's requested to be scolding hot. I'm not sure if my taste buds have much life in them but I am still able to taste the distinct flavor of broccoli, so I think we are good on behalf of the latter issue.

I get coffee often, so the temperature of my beverage is a constant issue. My faith on the other hand is not as handy as a paper cup or as locally convenient. Reading Luke, I'm reminded how faith and food are beautifully correspondent to each other, like green on Starbucks--they are near and dear friends. Like the wine to your bread or the Kanye to your low self-esteem; complimentary.

Luke 22:16 provides: ¹⁶For I tell you, I will not eat it again until it finds fulfillment in the kingdom of God."

We took Communion this last Sunday and the tradition has been pretty active presently as both a topic and practice. I enjoy taking it literal. Call it a creative way to meet Him, or an absurd way, both can find me as it's responsive counterpart. I don't take myself too seriously--though a learned practice, but I can't express how much I enjoy the baby sized portions that have been sanctified to ultimately purify. Thus I'm reminded to have lukewarm faith should be something I'm particular and peculiar with. It should be something I refuse to request, feed and fulfill myself with and I should be upset when it doesn't scold my spiritual flesh that has been crafted by the Lord's relentless love, sacrifice.

I don't want to eat or drink until I am able to recognize and live out the Kingdom of God.

My goal?: to read the Word more specifically, to love at the highest degree, to forgive with a fierce humility and to live with the utmost passion, so that even at my most tepid circumstances, I can feel fire through my fingertips. Not because I altered it, but because it has been done by Him, for me.

Old thoughts, same girl.

Looking back at my old journal entries, I consider myself such a BJ* It's funny how much a person can change in one year, one month, one day. I find my emotions are altered so easily from a simple "hi," to a really sapster** song. People have managed to do a toll on my life's coaster but the good part is some have managed to ride with me. But still it's life's happenings that make writing so purposeful and prophetic. It's been neat to see my entries start to progress into a steady rhythm & I found it usually sounds like an ***Arcade Fire song--slow, intriguing, then stress building, then stressful, chaotic, then really happy, and alas calm and peaceful. Then repeat. But I'll take it. So, as I was looking through old writings and stumbled upon an over a year, piece of thought.  I contend to each word wholly. 

Brought to life on January 18, 2008

When new lives are introduced,

And there's no way you can refuse

We’re brave still to say yes,

Because a good can become a best.

So I’ve made my way home

& Acquired the temporary taste of alone,

But perhaps only to reflect--

That pretty things don't have to be done yet.

And if this new chemistry becomes filled with ifs and buts,

I’ll fix it myself & travel all the hours and minutes.

*big joke 

** sad songs that are cool and trendy. 

***check out "Keep The Car Running."

Off to listen to Coldplay or something, 

Tracy

Why Russia is da bomb

A good conversation starter is hands down, claiming you have two adoptive Russian siblings. Consequently, one of my good pals have the glorious blessing to never be in an awkward social setting. My reaction of this news was jealousy, then hatred. Spoken like a true Russian lover. I was curious to what size fur hats they wore and how they sounded when they count off to ten. Regretfully I was informed they have been proudly "red white & blued,' so the only accent present is from their lovingly mocking sister/my pal. But let me tell you, being re-exposed to Russian culture was like finding an old friend, after the Cold War. 

I've come to realize, the Russians contribute a lot. For instance...

• Accents: It's like a threatening/superior version of an English accent which makes it twice the fun. Little did most of my friends know, perfecting the accent takes about half a car ride to Seattle from San Diego. Ve are now known as mahther kuntree dayvuls.
• Babushkas: both a traditional family elder AND a mini russian wooden carved doll in a larger one, in a larger one, in a larger one and in an even larger one--just tickles my natural order of things, fancy. 
• Communism: Creative country name changing can make a difference. If you can dream it you can do it attitude is finally instilled in the world. 
• Biographical Type Cartoon Villains: Bor Bor & Tash forever. Later Rocky & Bullwinkle, we never sided with you because you're a bunch of  thwarting plan killers. 
• Regina Spektor: Red haired and a musical genius. Did you know she grew up in Moscow until about the age of 6. When I first heard her, I felt the distinct cultural glimmer of singing words entirely incorrect in English. Should of known by the way she said "bowwwwwn," (born) and "payyyyaayyyyyyges." (pages)

Truth be told,  history is a tragic old friend and it's time to make new ones. People I've encountered that have been to Russia tend to stick to the same color shade when describing the mother country--grey. This makes me ironically sad AND feel old, worn. I hope to someday visit this treacherous yet intriguing land. Should make up for any future travel lulls I'm certain.

Until then, reconnect, watch some cartoons, listen to some music & fight the good fight.  

Raising my whiskey and letting go of the war, 

T