A poem inspired by a sweet friend with help from a rhyming dictionary....
Philadelphia, Philadelphia how I love you.
Every corner my mind must attend to
with your Brotherly love and diversified crew
which I will attempt to break down for you...
The goal of the artists to make a break through
with their beautiful paintings of purplish blue.
No category too large for them to dig into
including meat shaped like states or garbage art debut.
Then we have the businessmen and their economic point of view,
Their eyes on the prize of their financial accrue.
The ways of the privileged they are thoroughly used to
Let us pray that the Spirit will make them anew.
And of course are our neighbors, a most beautiful motley crew
composed of many colors, languages, and tattoos.
With children with children and racial taboos
the least of their worries is rent overdue.
And Monday through Friday preschoolers cries I subdue
with developing minds and motor skills all askew.
I have already mastered the tying of the shoe
and avoid like the plague the ominous stomach flu.
But there seems to be missing something very true.
Perhaps it's the mountains or Appalachian dew?
Perhaps it's a friend I miss talking to!
No it's actually quite simple, the answer is YOU!
Sincerely, your boo.
Sunday, December 11, 2011
Wednesday, December 7, 2011
The Beast
Believe it or not, my cat teaches me a lot about the forgiveness of God.
For some reason, my parents allowed me to get a kitten my senior year of high school, perhaps overlooking the fact that I was soon to enter college. Little did they realize that the cat I chose on that rainy afternoon would actually become their cat; living in their home, sleeping on their furniture, and peeing in their corners. And I can honestly confess I have no idea where it all went wrong. With the cat, and her anger, and her abrasive hissing, and the truly terrifying cat-growl (I'm pretty sure she's fluent in Parseltongue).
You see, I chose her out of all the batch because she seemed the most playful and approached me with great boldness. Great temperament, right? And maybe it was the constant holding and squeezing that did her in or maybe the traumatic transition to another home or a genetic mutation but whatever it was, she is now a beast of an animal. We like to call her Pyro Kitty because one day my mother was being the motherly figure she is, cleaning the house, preparing dinner, when she noticed a funny smell in the air. It was none other than the sulfurey smell of smoke drifting through the house. She appropriately sped from room to room until she found Lola (a travesty of a name for such a demon) sitting on the corner of a bed (cough, my bed) calmy watching as the lamp she knocked over burned into the linens. Fortunately, we still have a house and fortunately, I was not sleeping in my bed.
Ok, so now you must have an idea of this Lola and the household infamy she seems to pride herself on. But the worst part about Lola is not her laser beam eyes or her self-righteous trot. No, the worst part is that she refuses to be loved. By me. By my parents. By anyone. I swear, if you even think about petting her she hisses. I walk through the door after months of separation from her and she sits. And watches me indifferently and then.... hisses. I look at her, she hisses. I approach her, she hisses and turns. I pretend to cry over her coldness (or am I pretending?) and she struts away with only her ugly cat-backside for me to look at, insult to injury. So why do we still house this scroungy cat? Why do I continue to yearn for her affection and approval? It's really quite simple.
I just can't help but to love her. Because I cared for her and watched her grow from kittenhood to the awkward teen phase (I hear it's even worse than middle school) to cat. And sometimes I think to myself "This must be why and how God loves us". Because in all her beastly ways we, the mastered homosapiens, are far worse than this pyro puff ball. I literally can't help but have warm feelings for Lola when I think of her. And even though I've painted a harsh picture of Lola, she's actually kind of cute sometimes. And sometimes she lets me hold her and touch her fur and kiss her ears. And sometimes, early in the morning, she lays on the stairs, belly side up, and waits for me to play with her.
But of course, she WILL return to her only method of communication, that is hissing and growling. And for some reason, I will still love her. And as I sit here in the dark folds of Philadelphia I pray God will help me, in the same way, forgive others with this love.
Because it's all so simple; He has done the same for me.
Purrrrr, La Loba
For some reason, my parents allowed me to get a kitten my senior year of high school, perhaps overlooking the fact that I was soon to enter college. Little did they realize that the cat I chose on that rainy afternoon would actually become their cat; living in their home, sleeping on their furniture, and peeing in their corners. And I can honestly confess I have no idea where it all went wrong. With the cat, and her anger, and her abrasive hissing, and the truly terrifying cat-growl (I'm pretty sure she's fluent in Parseltongue).
You see, I chose her out of all the batch because she seemed the most playful and approached me with great boldness. Great temperament, right? And maybe it was the constant holding and squeezing that did her in or maybe the traumatic transition to another home or a genetic mutation but whatever it was, she is now a beast of an animal. We like to call her Pyro Kitty because one day my mother was being the motherly figure she is, cleaning the house, preparing dinner, when she noticed a funny smell in the air. It was none other than the sulfurey smell of smoke drifting through the house. She appropriately sped from room to room until she found Lola (a travesty of a name for such a demon) sitting on the corner of a bed (cough, my bed) calmy watching as the lamp she knocked over burned into the linens. Fortunately, we still have a house and fortunately, I was not sleeping in my bed.
Ok, so now you must have an idea of this Lola and the household infamy she seems to pride herself on. But the worst part about Lola is not her laser beam eyes or her self-righteous trot. No, the worst part is that she refuses to be loved. By me. By my parents. By anyone. I swear, if you even think about petting her she hisses. I walk through the door after months of separation from her and she sits. And watches me indifferently and then.... hisses. I look at her, she hisses. I approach her, she hisses and turns. I pretend to cry over her coldness (or am I pretending?) and she struts away with only her ugly cat-backside for me to look at, insult to injury. So why do we still house this scroungy cat? Why do I continue to yearn for her affection and approval? It's really quite simple.
I just can't help but to love her. Because I cared for her and watched her grow from kittenhood to the awkward teen phase (I hear it's even worse than middle school) to cat. And sometimes I think to myself "This must be why and how God loves us". Because in all her beastly ways we, the mastered homosapiens, are far worse than this pyro puff ball. I literally can't help but have warm feelings for Lola when I think of her. And even though I've painted a harsh picture of Lola, she's actually kind of cute sometimes. And sometimes she lets me hold her and touch her fur and kiss her ears. And sometimes, early in the morning, she lays on the stairs, belly side up, and waits for me to play with her.
But of course, she WILL return to her only method of communication, that is hissing and growling. And for some reason, I will still love her. And as I sit here in the dark folds of Philadelphia I pray God will help me, in the same way, forgive others with this love.
Because it's all so simple; He has done the same for me.
Purrrrr, La Loba
Believe it or not, this whole Birthday hat scheme was not my idea,
nor did I facilitate it. But I am so glad it happened.
Friday, November 11, 2011
Watermelons and Wombs
A little more than one year ago, I watched as a baby boy was brought into the world. Amid the bustling of midwives, the dimly lit room, and the groans of mother-to-be, a new human entered what we call home. His delicate lungs, which were filled with fluid for nine months, must suddenly learn to exchange Oxygen for Carbon Dioxide. And within minutes his body naturally begins absorbing the cloudy lung fluid into his blood stream, allowing the first breath of cold air to pierce his insides and all this for no other reason than it was created to do so. The tiny heart which once produced slow, consistent and rythmic beats must now brurst into action as it desperately attempts to pump this oxygen throughout the body. And what follows is possibly one of the most memorable of moments: the first cry. Many say it is the natural consequence of the traumatic process of birth (as a child, someone once told me giving birth is like trying to squeeze a watermelon through something the size of a lemon and the mental image has never left me) but I prefer to think of this noisy entrance as a declaration of life, the announcement of being. And although I have never experienced this personally, I suppose it to be the most majestical and enthralling sound a mother may ever hear.
And now he is one-year-old and walking, and babbling, and watching, and questioning, and attempting to figure out this big place.
And isn't this all ridiculous? Isn't this taking it a little too far? With the whole beginning-as-two-gametes-then-coming-into-the-world-as-a-watermelon-built-of-billions-of-cells thing? And thank God that we don't acutally come from oversized birds, wrapped up like some frozen burrito ready for the microwave. And thank God that we don't simply "pop" into existance like some fairy-tale creature or that our cells don't all choose to become one large spleen or kidney but somehow know exactly what they need to be without communicating with the others. And thank GOD for button noses and play-doh toes and doll-like finger nails. Thank God. For He is intricately creative and infinitely surprising.
La Loba
And now he is one-year-old and walking, and babbling, and watching, and questioning, and attempting to figure out this big place.
And isn't this all ridiculous? Isn't this taking it a little too far? With the whole beginning-as-two-gametes-then-coming-into-the-world-as-a-watermelon-built-of-billions-of-cells thing? And thank God that we don't acutally come from oversized birds, wrapped up like some frozen burrito ready for the microwave. And thank God that we don't simply "pop" into existance like some fairy-tale creature or that our cells don't all choose to become one large spleen or kidney but somehow know exactly what they need to be without communicating with the others. And thank GOD for button noses and play-doh toes and doll-like finger nails. Thank God. For He is intricately creative and infinitely surprising.
La Loba
This is Leo.
Sunday, November 6, 2011
Mashed Taters
For lunch today I am having a black bean/tomato soup/potsticker concoction because for possibly the first time ever I am consciously acting to successfully finance my money (aka don't get to $0 in my bank account) and in order to avoid the next grocery run you must approach food creatively. But I am not writing today to bring awareness to my diet. No, today I am simply writing to openly declare before the cyber world the sweetness of my former week.
This past week was deep good. Not good like nothing-went-wrong but good like the-Spirit-moved-in-me. Last week at church someone mentioned that God's Spirit moves as it wills despite our advances or demands. And for what felt like the hundredth time I silently prayed "Do this in me! Choose me!". And for whatever reason, this time.... I was aware of it.
And so this week I ate mashed potatoes.
You know that feeling of hunger that comes not from your tummy but your very own Spirit? It is a hunger well known to each of us, rarely spoken about and terribly hard to satisfy. Sometimes we train ourselves numb but if we are afforded enough grace we become aware of it. And like some raucous juvenile sneaking into a church tower to ring the big bell so also does our soul resound in emptiness. It is not necessarily the desolate expanse within us that terrifies but more so the startling reality that we, you, I are depthful. We are capable of deep depth.
Deep Depth.
And sometimes I feel starving, ravenous for spirit food. And sometimes I feel oblivious to these needs. And sometimes, if I am careful to pay attention, I come across a delightfully romantic table set for two. I wish I could say I've tasted spirit steak but no I have not yet. But this week, it was like eating really buttery, hot, semi-chunky mashed potatoes. I was full from moment to moment and thankful because of it. And I ate when friends invited me into their brokenness and I ate when I watched little boys attempt to break dance and I ate when I realized I am horrible at honoring my father and mother. And I ate when the four year old leaned his head against my arm and I ate when I silently prayed the Jesus prayer:
"Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner."
And one day far away from now, we will feast together. Complete with the most savory of meats, the most exotic wines, delicacies beyond our knowledge and a bottomless supply of those little fruit tarts that are so dang good. When He comes to take us home we will finally be satisfied.
Jesus, give us today our daily bread.
La Loba
This past week was deep good. Not good like nothing-went-wrong but good like the-Spirit-moved-in-me. Last week at church someone mentioned that God's Spirit moves as it wills despite our advances or demands. And for what felt like the hundredth time I silently prayed "Do this in me! Choose me!". And for whatever reason, this time.... I was aware of it.
And so this week I ate mashed potatoes.
You know that feeling of hunger that comes not from your tummy but your very own Spirit? It is a hunger well known to each of us, rarely spoken about and terribly hard to satisfy. Sometimes we train ourselves numb but if we are afforded enough grace we become aware of it. And like some raucous juvenile sneaking into a church tower to ring the big bell so also does our soul resound in emptiness. It is not necessarily the desolate expanse within us that terrifies but more so the startling reality that we, you, I are depthful. We are capable of deep depth.
Deep Depth.
And sometimes I feel starving, ravenous for spirit food. And sometimes I feel oblivious to these needs. And sometimes, if I am careful to pay attention, I come across a delightfully romantic table set for two. I wish I could say I've tasted spirit steak but no I have not yet. But this week, it was like eating really buttery, hot, semi-chunky mashed potatoes. I was full from moment to moment and thankful because of it. And I ate when friends invited me into their brokenness and I ate when I watched little boys attempt to break dance and I ate when I realized I am horrible at honoring my father and mother. And I ate when the four year old leaned his head against my arm and I ate when I silently prayed the Jesus prayer:
"Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner."
And one day far away from now, we will feast together. Complete with the most savory of meats, the most exotic wines, delicacies beyond our knowledge and a bottomless supply of those little fruit tarts that are so dang good. When He comes to take us home we will finally be satisfied.
Jesus, give us today our daily bread.
La Loba
Thursday, October 27, 2011
The Market
If you've never been to your local farmer's market you should check it out! Here's what you may be missing... Pictures from Harrisonburg Farmer's Market...
Mennonites make the best donuts.
Sunday, October 23, 2011
Treat Yo' Self
Today is my birthday.
Today is my Monster Day.....
I have a friend who told me about a friend who has a friend and this friend's mother (you're following me right?) allowed him to have one special day a year, appropriately deemed "Monster Day", in which he could do whatever he wanted outside of harming himself or others. To a small child this special day represented the most magical, extravagant, exhilarating 24 hours a young boy could ever behold within the realms of reality. At the flick of a switch and a far too easy pscyhological shift this boy would become the monster he yearned to be every other 364 days a year. He could eat WHATEVER he wanted anytime of day, jump on his preferred choice of furniture, paint his face, wear mismatching clothes, scare the animals, and deny his vegetables.... always with a victorious conclusion. I suppose his mother assumed that her beloved son deserved, no required, a certain amount of allotted time to express his inner animal in all it's glorious force in the hopes of taming, for the rest of the year, what seemed to be a most barbaric youth. And you know what? I think she may be the most brilliant woman I have ever heard of.
Once a year, every twenty-third day of October, I become the reckless child I never was but always ached to be. You see, the real child Jenna was quiet, compliant, and often scared. And I have one thing to say to her.
"Poo Poo".
For behold, now is the time to reckon her with the real force she would become! On this day, if I want to leave the water running while I wash my face.... I will. If I want to deny my personal dental hygeine.... I will. Today, if I want to eat my breakfast without utensils.... in a public restaurant... I will. If I want to hog the conversation, well, I just might do that. And if I want to listen to "99 Red Balloons" on repeat for 30 mintues... well by golly, I most likely will. And you know what? If I want to lock both sets of my car keys in my vehicle in Newport News, VA then I will! And if I want to pay someone $45 dollars to unlock my car so I can get in then I.... WILL. I will deny dinner, eat only birthday cake, then eat more cake at 11 pm STRAIGHT FROM THE CAKE WITHOUT CUTTING A SEPARATE PIECE FOR MYSELF! (And let's be honest, I'll probably eat it for breakfast tomorrow morning). And folks, if I want to throw a pillow at my mom's head while she's asleep in hopes of scaring her into consciousness then gosh darn it, I will.
Because sometimes we take ourselves to seriously. And I've realized that one day I won't be able to do these things when I turn 87 years old. I won't be able to hold my cat like a baby (more of a daily routine), or hide behind bushes to scare my dad (I'm noticing an unhealthy pattern...) or even eat the delicious, famous chocolate cake my mother makes for me every year without fail. So go ahead and do that thing you think about doing but quickly dismiss because you happen to be 43 years old. Because if you don't then you might miss out on your own Monster Day.
So here's to you Max and every other wild thing.
Love, La Loba
Today is my Monster Day.....
I have a friend who told me about a friend who has a friend and this friend's mother (you're following me right?) allowed him to have one special day a year, appropriately deemed "Monster Day", in which he could do whatever he wanted outside of harming himself or others. To a small child this special day represented the most magical, extravagant, exhilarating 24 hours a young boy could ever behold within the realms of reality. At the flick of a switch and a far too easy pscyhological shift this boy would become the monster he yearned to be every other 364 days a year. He could eat WHATEVER he wanted anytime of day, jump on his preferred choice of furniture, paint his face, wear mismatching clothes, scare the animals, and deny his vegetables.... always with a victorious conclusion. I suppose his mother assumed that her beloved son deserved, no required, a certain amount of allotted time to express his inner animal in all it's glorious force in the hopes of taming, for the rest of the year, what seemed to be a most barbaric youth. And you know what? I think she may be the most brilliant woman I have ever heard of.
Once a year, every twenty-third day of October, I become the reckless child I never was but always ached to be. You see, the real child Jenna was quiet, compliant, and often scared. And I have one thing to say to her.
"Poo Poo".
For behold, now is the time to reckon her with the real force she would become! On this day, if I want to leave the water running while I wash my face.... I will. If I want to deny my personal dental hygeine.... I will. Today, if I want to eat my breakfast without utensils.... in a public restaurant... I will. If I want to hog the conversation, well, I just might do that. And if I want to listen to "99 Red Balloons" on repeat for 30 mintues... well by golly, I most likely will. And you know what? If I want to lock both sets of my car keys in my vehicle in Newport News, VA then I will! And if I want to pay someone $45 dollars to unlock my car so I can get in then I.... WILL. I will deny dinner, eat only birthday cake, then eat more cake at 11 pm STRAIGHT FROM THE CAKE WITHOUT CUTTING A SEPARATE PIECE FOR MYSELF! (And let's be honest, I'll probably eat it for breakfast tomorrow morning). And folks, if I want to throw a pillow at my mom's head while she's asleep in hopes of scaring her into consciousness then gosh darn it, I will.
Because sometimes we take ourselves to seriously. And I've realized that one day I won't be able to do these things when I turn 87 years old. I won't be able to hold my cat like a baby (more of a daily routine), or hide behind bushes to scare my dad (I'm noticing an unhealthy pattern...) or even eat the delicious, famous chocolate cake my mother makes for me every year without fail. So go ahead and do that thing you think about doing but quickly dismiss because you happen to be 43 years old. Because if you don't then you might miss out on your own Monster Day.
So here's to you Max and every other wild thing.
Love, La Loba
Friday, October 7, 2011
South Philly
Have you ever been to South Philly? It’s a small patch of land about 8 miles in diameter (I just made that up) with a phenomenal personality that may just charm the pants off of ya. This is where I’ve been residing/mooching for the past 3 weeks and therefore can now confidently claim to have a semi-familiar relationship with this 8 mile piece of holy land (again, I have no idea if this is true).
First of all, we have the ITALIAN MARKET which should more appropriately be renamed A-KIND-OF-SKETCHY-STREET-FILLED-WITH-NON-ENGLISH-SPEAKING-FRIENDS-THAT’S-A-LITTLE-UNHYGENIC-BUT-MOSTLY-PLEASURABLE. This is known across Philly as the cheapest place you can buy produce. I’m talkin $1 dollar for 2 avocados kind of cheap which I try not to question. Then we have the famous Philly cheese steak zone on 9th and Passyunk (pronounced Pash-yunc) where two competing restaurants literally stand face-to-face a block across from each other vying for your money and lifetime loyalty. I personally prefer another beef/liquid cheese sandwich distributor in north Philly but don’t tell Vinny, I hear he is associated with a handful of mysterious sauerkraut poisonings.
But what most people think of when the word “south philly” comes up in conversation is the large population of American-Italians whose families have been here since the beginning of this city’s origin. Upon first glance, they just look like regular 60-70 year-old men simply standing on the corner of the block, enjoying each other’s company. But if you actually begin to pay attention to them you notice some very unique characteristics that confirm their placement within this demographic. First we have the New Jersey accent. I have NO idea why it’s new Jersey-ish instead of an Italian accent. “Johhhnny! Where ya been? We’ve been lookin all over for yas.” Then you notice the dress: leather jackets, slightly unbottoned faux silk button-ups, slicked back white hair and white sneakers. I have no idea why they’re not at work or at home but everyday they show up in little coffee houses and sit around with each others (sorry, I couldn’t help myself) and do one of two things 1) remain in silence, occasionally sipping their black coffee 2) Holler at their friend driving by whom then stops in the middle of the road and with window rolled down they converse in their very un-italian accents while traffic annoyingly honks away. After a few awkward transactions with my new favorite group of people I realized that if they refer to you as “Honey”, “Sweets”, “Girl”, or “Gypsy” (my personal favorite) there is a 92% chance their intentions are truly platonic and actually mean to flatter you. So now, when my next door neighbor calls me Gypsy and then tells me how he has slashed the tires of those whom dare to park in his handicapped spot that took him ten years to get and then immediately transitions into a spiel about providing anything I could ever need (tools, sugar, a helping hand) I genuinely smile at his hospitable heart and yell “Nevaaaa!” after he accuses me of having a horn under my ponytail.
These are the small things that give Philly it’s ever appealing charm.
Lova La Loba
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