The Great Reversal

Mary comes to a place of complete wonder.

Her eyes, her spirit; all are facing him wholly.
No tone of despair, doubt, or regret  linger in her voice.

She sees only blessings and thus finds herself in a perpetual cycle humility,
which only causes her to see more clearly.

She is content, ecstatic even, again and again in awe of him.
And not as a means to an end. This is the end: his glory.

In a place of incredible inconvenience to the point of persecution,
Mary can only write praises of his goodness and faithfulness to her.

And she begins to see her life as part of the great promise he showered on his chosen people
hundreds of years before and of which he will only continue to fulfill,
piece by piece, until the whole puzzle has been fully completed.

Give us eyes,
Give us hearts,
Give us words like these.

Luke 1:46-54

Hi

Dear Friends,

It's been a while, yes? I'm sorry for my absence but it was necessary for a time as blogging had become some sort of obligatory pattern that was beginning to make writing a kind of chore. And then there are seasons in life when I begin to write whole stories in my mind while waiting for the bus or biking to work and there is part of me that needs to share these treasures with others. Sometimes I feel like I may even stop the next person who happens to pass as I burst with thoughts and words upon words, this ever pulsing river of self-expression welling up inside of me.

But good news. In this long lapse of time, I've finally begun to appreciate contemporary dance. have you ever seen one of those performances where you walk out saying "What the hell was that about?" I've had plenty of those moments in college as humanity classes required students to observe and analyze such theatrical debuts but... they always left me a little annoyed, as if a deep, meaningful message was being kept just out of my reach and only the performers had the inside scoop.

But I think I'm starting to get it. There's an odd sense of release when doing something that isn't. supposed. to make. sense. Perhaps this is the easy way out, as centuries of artists have dedicated years weaving detailed themes together just right so as to create an everlasting masterpiece (Go Les Mis). Or perhaps this genre of seemingly "no-meaning" art is a response to our overly stimulated, highly stressful, ever analytic culture where we spend 99% of our brain power just trying to make sense of life. Perhaps that's why the club scene has been so successful; we just want to be in an environment where we can be utterly ridiculous without providing any explanation. Perhaps that's why sometimes we just want to roll on the ground until we're out of breath or bark back to that annoying dog down the street.

What I'm trying to say is.................... dasiodasnjkdbnhkljklnmk.mk.asjdbnjas.

Just kidding. What I'm trying to say is.... it's about the process! Yes, I think I'm really starting to get it.

Operation Rescue Lox

Good news friends,

Three out of four of the Lawrence street tenants (the fourth shall remain unidentified) have decided that it is time to rescue Lox. We're still forming our plans but fear not animal lovers, justice will be served. Or at the least, Lox will get to go on a walk.

Operation Rescue Lox (ORL) has officially begun....

Details to follow.

Welcome to Lawrence Street

I would like to introduce you to Lawrence Street.

Located in North Philadelphia, this prime real estate is home to 1 day care, a community garden, a women's shelter, a catholic worker house, a thrift store, and a park; all within a quarter mile of street. It is still hard for me to believe that this diverse and mature community is now my home. And in order for me to correctly portray the grandeur of such a place, I've included a detailed collage of pictures in order to fully bring this vivacious community to life.

Top 18 Reasons to live on Lawrence Street

#18. We Appreciate Puns

#17. We protect Historically Significant Architecture

Trailer lot across the street from our home.

Abandoned Warehouse (1 of 2)

#16. We are Responsible Drivers

Notice the orange tap and makeshift bumper

#15. We are Proactive in Ensuring our Safety

#14. We respect the Deceased

#13. We enjoy Outdoor Activities

Rock climbing house! Also falls under #6

#12. We practice Healthy Eating

#11. We are Generous with our Possessions

 Free pair of socks!

Meeting the needs of pirates, one leg at a time.

#10. We are Animal Friendly!

Happy city horse loves asphalt.

 Saddest dog in the world, previously blogged.

Dead rat in our backyard.

#9. We are Sensitive to the Needs of Others

I don't know about you but when summer comes around my grass allergies 

flare up like a dead rats belly. So in order to avoid further 

discomfort, we've decided to take out real grass and

 replace with this almost-real synthetic version. 

And those pesky squirrels! Who can live with 'em! 

Always stealing my nuts and livin in my trees! 

So we voted and went ahead and had them all 

replaced with this definitely not creepy version .....

#8. We are Interested in Proper Hygiene


                                     And will enforce by any means necessary...

What you are about to see is known as a "Pee Bottle". 

It's primarily an urban tradition where, after libations, one then empties oneself 

back into the bottle. Warning: only for men and bold women.

Oh sorry, I thought you said you wanted a closer view.

#7. We are Politically Active

#6. We are Resourceful and Creative

 A fire hydrant AND a trashcan.

What was once a plastic bag is now a man-made nest for endangered birds.

Notice our appreciation for art with the Norman Rockwell picture.

A shopping cart turned into a tiny prison for cats and gnomes.

#5. We are Concerned for the Well Being of Our Children

and encourage only family friendly tagging.

#4. We are Culturally Sensitive

Notice the many holidays celebrated throughout the year...

#3. We practice Environmental Sustainability

 This is a stump if you're unsure.

 My house's garden plot getting ready for spring with winter rye!

Our compost/dead rats last destination.

#2. We are Religiously Tolerant

 Virgin Mary one. Can you spy number 2? Let's take a closer looksy....

.

 There she is! Virgin Mary two.

 Ostracized Virgin Mary three 

(did she really think she could get away with snuggling with Santa?)

 Virgin Mary three and four.

 Virgin Mary six, bonus points for Moses in background.

My personal favorite, Virgin Mary with Tiara.

#1. We Care For Each Other

Love, La Loba

What Has Man Come To?

Dear Readers,

You may have remembered my 9 day blogging commitment and guess what? Today is day 7. I have 2 more posts to make after this (and there may or may not be a surprise finale) and to be honest, it's been rather difficult but a great practice for daily discipline. So today, on my Sabbath, I am going to list my top six (I tried to do ten but couldn't think of enough) favorite youtube videos and let them do the talkin.

6. Sneezes are scary
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FzRH3iTQPrk

5. Slow motion makes everything more interesting
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=90VyvOhPmA0

4. What Jesus isn't but oh so funny...
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VX-opnLXZLg&feature=related

3. I Love dogs in every form, but especially when they talk
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qXo3NFqkaRM

2. Best Dancer I've ever seen
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tzI7ji2DStQ

Drum roll please.... And my favorite, Youtube video... of all time IS....
Baby Trashes Bar in las Palmas
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cds7lSHawAw

What am I forgetting??

LOX: the Saddest Story You May Ever Hear

In Philadelphia, all the homes are tightly packed together like sardines in a tin can and therefore our backyards (if it can even be called one) form tetris-like shapes as they meet. And whether we choose it or not, one gets a very personal perspective into the backyard life of the surrounding neighbors. Now, not a lot goes on in Philly backyards, mostly because they are tiny squares of concrete but there are the few who boldly buy patio furniture in hopes of utilizing this honestly useless space. We've decided to use our concrete block as a potted plant garden (currently in deep hibernation) and a small dining area complete with an old wooden table, a fire pit and even christmas lights. But there is something else very special about our backyard that has caused every resident in this home serious emotional discomfort. And his name is LOX.

LOX (as in "locks") is some kind of Boxer mutt probably around the age of 2 or 3 and is an avid jumper. He will eat anything, carries a loud bark, and smells pretty bad. And the only thing separating us from him is a ten foot long chain link fence held up by old bricks. And friends, I can honestly say he is one of the most pathetic things I have ever laid eyes upon. His already cramped space is filled with old wooden posts, rotting outdoor furniture and now that it is winter, ice. He sleeps in a corner where an old piece of tarp has fortunately fallen and if he is lucky, the sun will warm his back as he sleeps. Sometimes we throw over old sandwhiches or scraps of food and when I'm feeling really compassionate I try to scratch his smelly snout through the tiny holes of the fence. And when I do so he tries to lick me in a chaotic rampage and I know he is happy for the moment because his tail wags back and forth. And then I go in and watch him watch us through the three windows facing his side of the backyard (really? we only have 3 windows on either side of our house and they all have to face this poor creature??). We talk to him when we take the trash out and he vivaciously leaps back and forth barking at the foreignness of another living creature. And many days I'll come home and there he is, waiting on his side of the fence waiting to watch us pass one of the windows which I am assuming is his only form of entertainment. One time a leaf blew into his yard and he leapt on it with furious inspection and I imagine him thinking "And what issss this curious object? It is crunchy and smells like dirt. Where could it possibly have come from?" For there are no trees in LOX's box.

Last week, I decided to do something about it. I couldn't watch him suffer in the cold any longer. I had an old feather down comforter that I had put outside to dry months ago and forgot about, leaving it to the rain and dirt. So I boldly grabbed the large blanket, pulled a frozen bucket of water over to stand on, and tried to lay/throw the blanket into the small covered space he had in the corner. Surely this would keep him warm! But before the blanket had the chance to let gravity pull it into place LOX had it in his clamped jaws. Stupid dog, let go! Can't you see I'm trying to help you. I frantically whispered to him "Lox, stop it. Stop it. Let go." and as I attempted to pull the blanket into it's proper space through the chain link fence with two fingers I realized I would not win this battle. I watched before my eyes as my little friend ripped, teared and destroyed his only form of warmth outside of the sun. I ran back into the house, through the house, and outside to our next door neighbors door. There were feathers flying on the front street. Knock, knock, knock. "Hi. I think your dog has my blanket. Yeah, I threw it over... the fence... to dry... and LOX... yeahhhh. I'm Sorry!" She said it was no problem and we ended the awkward conversation there. I returned home and from the safety of the upstairs window I watched as LOX tore the material into tiny shreds, tiny little feathers floated through the surrounding backyards. I could hear the lady next door yelling at LOX "Bad Dog! Bad Dog!" He stops for a moment and stares at the window where the mystery voice is coming from, feathers plastered all over his face, his tongue licking up the feathers around his mouth.

And LOX is happy! He is literally in dog heaven as he forgets his current pain and does what he was created to do: ripp things apart. And I am laughing from the upstairs bathroom window and it is snowing feathers. And I keep thinking how I sure do hope dogs go to heaven because LOX will surely appreciate everything there more so because of his current enslavement. And we are like LOX, persevering in this dreary world, waiting for the Kingdom of God to make all perfect again. So don't fret my little canine friend, one day all will be well.

La Loba

This is LOX.

Robert Frost Had it Right

I had an incredible English teacher my junior year of high school who revealed to me the secret worlds of Emily Dickinson, Ralph Waldo Emerson, and Hemingway to name just a few. What was once a literary mystery became real, almost palpable as I imagined Gatsby's Extravagant outdoor parties and sympathized for Edna's suffocated life in The Awakening. I can't even tell you what classes I took the last semester of my senior year of college but I will always remember that Edgar Allen Poe at one time considered using a Parrot as the main figure of his infamous poem "The Raven". And now it is winter. And I think of Robert Frost. Not only because of his creative name, but mostly because of his winter poem called "Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening" which also has been rooted in my mind due to this same teacher.

Last winter was physically and emotionally disgusting for me. Before last winter, I wasn't aware that when feet are not given the opportunity to air out semi-regularly that the skin between your toes will actually begin to shed. You see, I was continually wearing layers of tights, socks, and slippers. I remember the moment I discovered my rotting feet. I was disgusted and intrigued. My body is literally decomposing because of this horrid weather. All of life seemed gray as if the Earth and it's possessions had no choice but to mirror the skies above. Nothing could satisfy me. There were not enough blankets, the hottest shower could not be hot enough, and I began to despise the inevitable puffs of smoke which my mouth was sure to emit. Spring became a vague myth that I could barely recall and warmth, an always out of reach dream. And I'm not quite sure when this happened but one day I realized this reaction is a choice. I have the option of choosing how I want to emotionally react to this very physical sensation. And I chose to become bitter, both in flesh and heart. So when fall came around this year I made my choice.

I decided to EMBRACE winter this year.

And it's not easy but I can confidently say that this is the most joyfilled, positive winter I can recall as an adult. Ok, so it may have to do a little with the fact that winter thus far has been extremely mild in Philadelphia compared to what it normally is. But I think also, it has to do with my choice. Basically, the rut of this ideaology is based in this one thought: If God created Spring, Summer, and Fall to reflect his Glory then surely Winter is no different. Surely, we can all agree that God does seem a little harder to find in nature during this frigid season but He is surely just as present. Have I really been blind these past 23 winters? Believing God is hibernating along with the furry creatures and trees? But this new mentality has a lot going against it and it takes practice and much intentionality.

The weather in Philadelphia today could be described in two words: scary wind. It awoke me before dawn as it slapped my broken window against the inner pane, demanding my acknowledgement. "Go away!" was my response. Then later I rushed to the bank, moving my little booty feet as fast as they could take me. From inside the cafe I watched, horrified, as people passed by wearing face masks with only their eyes visible. As I headed home from the coffee shop (if you haven't realized yet, I spend a good amount of time in cafes) my body reacted as it normally does under such circumstance; quick movements and tense everything. And about halfway home I remembered. So I slowed my almost-jog to that of a calm-ganter. I relaxed my shoulders which had somehow lifted to ear hieght. I rolled my head around a few times and let my hair free to dance with the sharp movement of the wind. And so I walked the rest of the way home. First I became aware of the difference between the numb-cold of mittened hands and the jagged-cold my face was experiencing. The portion of my legs not being covered by boot or coat stung as if they had been repeatedly slapped and my ears almost burned in pain. But my neck, my neck was so warm! Nestled in three wrap-around layers of wool scarf it actually began to get too hot! And the occasional burst of cold air that somehow penetrated the many layers was welcomed. My nose started to run and I wondered at the homeostasis taking place within me that I didn't even have to initiate! And although I by no means was able to warm myself any further by thus thinking, I did manage to almost enjoy my chilly walk home much as I imagine Robert Frost may have felt when he wrote this poem....

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

La Loba

The Sad Life of a Professional Crafter

Ok, so we're all aware of the "economic state" of The States, the hardships of the time, the struggle for financial security which has more than consumed America's newspaper headlines for years now. If America was a metaphorical baseball team we'd be down and out in the realms of financial prosperity, or so they say. If we were a sandwhich, we'd be the Po'Boy. If we were a board game, we'd be LIFE except America would have the dumpy blue station wagon with 8 kids, all in debt. Comparitively speaking of course. But not too long ago life seemed perfect! College was a time for making new friends and going to ice cream socials, making inside jokes about Indians, not to mention lots of "free" and delicious D-Hall food. The economic crisis seemed far from me if even real. Well, turns out those lunches weren't as free as I thought and apparently you actually have to pay back those annoying internet E-forms I filled out yearly called "loans". So here I am, thrust into the world like one of those ugly baby birds with patches of feathers and bulgy eyes, desperately trying to fly before it plummets to it's death, comparitively speaking of course. And well, I'm making it. Perhaps a little more like a flopping fish than a soaring Eagle but I'm gettin somewhere at least. But I'm not here to add to the already exorbitant number of complaints concerning the difficulty of making money. No, I'm here to complain about how crazy difficult it is to get a real job...

Background info: majored in psychology, minored in Substance Abuse Intervention, and professionally hung out with high school kids throughout college. So in other words, unless you need someone to give you advice on how to stop biting your nails using positive reinforcement methods, or you need to recognize the difference between meth and cocaine (which I honestly can't remember), or your angtsy teenage daughter needs someone to talk to about how awesome the Hunger Games series is, then I've got nothing for ya. And I'm not quite sure where in my post-high-school-graduate-mind I thought it would be useful to get a degree in extremely general human behavior patterns but there it is. This is what I have to offer the professional world. What could be more beneficial to our society than such attributes? Apparently alot because as I search for jobs I am finding that NO ONE is looking for a professional friend. They want efficiency driven, technologically capable, communication superheros who are also willing to do administrative work on the side. Microsoft Outlook, why do you seem so darn important! And what are youuuuuuu!?? And is "spreadsheet" a general term? Or specific to the type of paper it's printed on? These are the questions I find myself repeatedly asking myself as I look through job descriptions. So instead of feeling extremely unqualified to be an adult, I decided to write out my own perfect job, adapted to my personal strengths...

Professional Friend
JOB RESPONSIBILITIES/SPECIFIC DUTIES:
-Work is heavily focused on making Vegan Chocolate Chip Cookies for others, can provide hours of entertainment for toddlers by speaking in an English accent and pretending to fall asleep.... then Wake Up!... Then fall asleep... Then Wake up!... Professional friend is willing to spend hours making tiny replicas of already tiny things and must be proficient in reading children's stories with enthusiasm (and different voices when necessary). Will ensure that kitchen stays tidy and clean while also organizing book stacks from biggest to smallest size and category. Can quickly and proficiently wrap any gift with old newspaper and can make a delicious homemade cake at the drop of a hat. Can maintain extended faux animal conversations between animals that meet on the street. Able to think of creative titles for new businesses, songs, or books and can play the oboe at a mediocre level. Has an odd infatuation with pug dogs, bull dogs and squirrels. And last but not least, is able to make others laugh with your over-the-top boisterous laugh that you have no control over. If you meet the above requirements please send your resume (don't worry about a Cover letter, no one likes those anyway) to perfectjob@gmail.com In fact, don't even send a resume, just call me.

Love, La Loba

Highway Horror: When Wheelchairs Go Bad

Biking in Philadelphia is kind of like that game "Frogger" where you try to cross a road without being crushed by the wheels of a car... except in real life. We all know that vehicles can get out of control from time to time but never in my life have I experienced driving as I have in Philadelphia. Because cities are basically huge blocks of concrete with thousands of people huddled together within very small perimeters, it makes sense that the parking system would also lack in space. So what was once possibly a very tight two lane road has now become a one way road 7 feet wide between two rows of parked cars. What is considered 'regulatory' driving standards in most places becomes a preference of choice for others. For example, stop signs become "just-slow-down-a-little" signs, blinkers are simply trivial decorations, and red means go.... duh. But not even the most surprising of traffic violations and transportational slap in the faces could prepare me for what I now have come to understand as a regular traffic expectancy...

Imagine this: you're driving down Girard Street, chattin it up with your buddy in the passenger seat, semi-obeying the light signals and stop signs, listeing to Keisha and then BOOM- COMING STRAIGHT AT YOU, IN THE SAME LANE, IS AN OLD MAN IN AN ELECTRONIC WHEELCHAIR. What was supposed to be a pleasant afternoon ride to Dunkin Donuts has now become the most terrifying game of chicken ever experienced by man. You have about 4 seconds to swerve away before you most definitely nick the old man's chair, catapulting him onto further oncoming traffic, a sure death if he even survived the initial blow. Fortunately, no one was in the lane next to you and if they were, well, they got out of the way too. You look back in your rearview mirror unsure if you just imagined it all. But no, there he is, puttin' along at a whopping 10 miles an hour while you watch further traffic almost kill him... again and again.

And the best part of this whole scenario is that the person in question seems as if they are about to fall asleep, head bent over, are your eyes even open? "No 40 mph SUV gonna make me blink!" But the question is WHHHHYYYYYY. Why do you feel the need to risk your life daily and quite possibly destroy the only form of transportation you have (maybe those should be reversed?)??? The only reason we could guess is that the sidewalks... are.... bumpy? Perhaps the road, in it's black tar levelness allures them to risk it all for the comfort of a smooth ride. You see, the trees of Philly, confined by large amounts of concrete, have decided to rebel by causing their powerful roots to break apart large chunks of sidewalk making it almost impossible to walk down let alone scooter. So here we have it, the only semi-plausible answer. Besides, I heard Obama thinks wheelchairs will be the next up and coming hybrid of choice.

La Loba

How. Dare. You.

The subway here in Philadelphia is truly a box full of chocolates. You never know what you're going to get and sometimes it turns out to be really old, cheap chocolate that fell on the ground. And sometimes you get that regular looking chocolate that turns out to be AWESOME, filled with nuggetty goodness or coconut delight (my personal favorite). It really all depends on how you want to look at it and how hungry you are.

I was on my way to work today, silently watching the battered homes pass by while on my bright blue seat, and to my not so much surprise an old haggered woman entered through the "do not pass through passenger car" sign and began approaching each indivdual for spare change. She was about 5'4", with dark skin leathered by continual winter beating, adorned with a beanie, layers of clothing and a coat far too large for her small frame. Fortunately, I had chosen a seat in the back and was given a good 30 seconds before she would be by my side, her humble words in my ears. My first decision was harder than it should be: do I ignore or acknowledge? About 75% of those who happened to find themselves in this same subway car on this relatively warm December day chose the former option. The rest fell into one of two categories, 1) acknowledge and apologize for not being able to give her money (whether they actually had money to give was another topic in itself) or 2) acknowledge and give her money. I grew frantic, options and words whilring in my mind. God, what would you do!? What would you do!? I tried to still my mind to listen but she was already a few rows from me and the inevitable interaction was about to ensue. Fortunately a week prior, I had already made decision number 1- I want to always acknowledge every human who asks me a question. It's really the only humane conclusion. Now onto decision number 2- give her money?

You're probably thinking to yourself "Just give her a few bucks! It's not that big of a deal." Well, I don't know if it can be that simple. Now, I know all of us middle classians have worried about where that money is going. Is it really going to that sandwhich for lunch you speak of? And are you really 4 1/2 months pregnant? And are you sure you have PTSD from serving in the Iraq war? My guess is that most of us assume those few dollars will eventually make their way into the hands of a drug dealer or the ABC store down the street. And surely I don't want to be the one supporting such behavior, especially with the money I worked so hard to earn! And all of these thoughts run through my mind within 30 seconds. And with all these assumptions, doubts, and judgements I am no closer to understanding what God would do.

So I do what I normally do in uncomfortable situations. I compromise. I stretch the line so that I can still get what I want and am also able to give to this person in order to save my conscience. This is where the ugly Jenna comes in. So she asks for spare change? I have spare change. She is at my side now, the same line repeating from her lips: "Any spare change? Any spare change?" Well, YES! I am glad to say that I do indeed have some spare change I can give you! I open my wallet, dig out the 67 cents of coins in my possesion and hold them out to her in my palm. She looks from my hand- to me- to my wallet, which is still open, disgracing me with the presence of dollar bills that I am obviously witholding. And the most startling thing happens. The lady waves her hand in disgust and walks away leaving me with my 67 cents, which now seems to be literally burning into my hand and conscience. My emotional response, to further my disgrace, is a deep, inner anger rooted in self-righteousness. The phrase "beggars can't be choosers" comes to my mind and I think to myself "How. Dare. You." How dare you put me in an emotionally and morally uncomfortable situation and then deny what I, out of the goodness of my heart, choose to offer??? I calm myself and continue to process this 10 second interaction that has seemed to upset me so. I come back to that darned question, "What would he do??"

A few weeks ago I attended someone's 33rd birthday in which each guest was asked ahead of time to create and prepare a 5-10 minute puppet show (stage and lighting provided of course). And there was one older gentleman who made simple hand puppets out of dish rags and string. These inglorious puppets walked through his life struggles and his most recent conclusion based on an interation he had with a beggar. His conclusion to all his hardships, sin, and displeasure? We are to love. I think of this now as I sit on the subway. I am almost to my stop. Why hadn't I thought of it sooner? I guess, God would have..... loved this human. And I was and am to do the same. Jesus often showed his love in interest. He was interested in your story and held many conversations with the least. This answer was more than I had bargained for. It would be easier to have just given her ALL my money. But to care for a stranger? And a smelly one at that?

Dear Lord, give us willing hearts.

Love, La Loba

The Perils of Being a National Symbol of Freedom

My dad is disappointed in me. He considers it outrageous to have lived in Philadelphia for 3 months now and still I have not visited THE liberty bell (to further my shame, it is free of charge). So naturally, being the eager-to-please daughter I am, I decided to buy him his own mini liberty bell for Christmas so that he could visit it everyday if he wanted (added bonus: it's functional). Perhaps it would only burden his mind to know that I have actually semi-visited the infamous Liberty Bell on 5th & Independence. You see, the bell is enclosed within a beautiful building, a glass building in which you can view it from the outside. The first time I just happened to realize I was passing it while perusing the many downtown coffee shops. But the second time, I intentionally visited it!.... From the outside.
Here is the story of how it all came to be and the interesting events that followed....

The day before New Years a dear friend from college let me know that she was going to be in town (in city?) for the upcoming festivities and could she visit? Before I knew it my little one was in my arms, chatting away in an English accent (our favorite past time). What to do? Well, we had limited time available before we were to report to our official happy hour/$1 taco restaurant so we chose to take a walk and see where we ended up. And, you guessed it, we found ourselves standing behind the wrought iron fence admiring the Liberty Bell (minded, they seemed to have turned the cracked section inwards so you HAVE to go inside to see it). So we stood there, imagining the destruction. Who broke it? How did it come to be about? After about 3 minutes we felt satisfied and turned our attention to the busy street beyond us and the many tourists.
Oddly enough, I noticed again the odd looking figures in black who always stood at the corners of this street. I wondered aloud and we decided to go ask one of them why there were always positioned so. We confidently approached the large man, recognizing his golden badge, and realized they were guards. Guards? For what? Surely, our city does not pay men to stand outside of a large mass of (broken) metal?

(Emily and I approaching closest security guard. I look first at what I assume is a police badge but actually says "security officer").
"Hi, can I ask you a question?"
He says: "Sure."
I say: "Why are there security guards always standing on this corner?"
He answers my question with a question, which at the time I did not seem to appreciate.
"What happened on 9/11?" *with sass
I pretend that I don't know and remain silent because it feels like a rhetorical question.
Emily, being the faithful student she is, squeaks out a response...
"Um, the twin towers were destroyed?"
He says: "And who destroyed them".
Oh golly, not another one.
Emily says: "Um, terrorists?"
He says: "YES. And where are we right now?"
Enough with the question answers! I think.
Both of us: "The Liberty Bell."
He says: "Do you know what that building is over there?"
(He points to what looks like a fancy, historic building)
I say: "I don't know."
(look of shock on officer)
He responds:
"The Constitution was signed in that building! And we have to make sure that no bomber comes around here expecting to blow up these monuments. That's my job. Because once they're gone, they're gone."
I sneakily look him up and down.
He doesn't necessarily look ready and able to pounce on a suspect.
He continues:
"Imagine someone walks by with a big bag of explosives and throws it in the window. We gotta be ready!"
First thought: He is very passionate about his job.
Second thought: Even if that were to happen, how would he stop it?
I speak my mind aloud.
He answers: "You gotta prevent it by looking for suspects!"
I ask:  "And what kind of profile are you looking for?"
Apparently, this was the right question to ask because for the next 5 minutes he speaks of what kind of human could potentially be a terrorist.
The storm:
"Any old shmuck could be a terrorist. Someone whose depressed or just broke up with their girlfriend and they decide to do something crazy. Or, ya know, a man comes up to you and asks you to carry in a large bag and he'll give you a million dollars. Would you do it? Well, most people would do it. Where you both from? See how easy it was to get that information from you? Or say you just met a muslim friend and they go out to dinner with you and they eat pork. Well, they're probably just trying to throw you off. Or take you two for example. You could be distractin me while someone else puts bombs in the back. It could be anyone, anyone."
Ok, he's got a point, I think, but I'm especially confused about the pork comment.
I move onto my next question: "So do you like working outside?"
He says: "I like protecting our country."
I say: "You must get pretty cold in these Philly winters then."
"Nope, nope not at all. Look at this coat. It's a big coat. And what's this?"
(He pulls out what looks like a mini remote control).
And again, pre-doctor Emily responds "It's a control for heating." Show off.
I laugh inside. Ok, that's just plain awesome.
"It keeps me warm ALL day and night. And look at these boots. We call 'em our Mickey Mouse boots because they look like his shoes." (He pulls up his pant leg a few inches so we can get a better view and indeed, they are the biggest, clunkiest, black boots I have ever seen in my life).


But unfortunately, Emily and I did not have Mickey Mouse boots and had to depart early from our "heated" discussion. Ok, so this wasn't the best story ever. I'll admit that. But tonight, I will rest assured that the liberty bell is safe and sound and that tomorrow it will still be around if I choose to actually visit it. And look at me, I still have 12 minutes before day two....

La Loba

Confession Zone:

I have done a HORRIBLE job at keeping my blog updated.

I suppose the beautiful thing about blogs is that there is no "real" obligation to remain consistent in postings yet I can't help to feel that I have let my biggest fans down in a very very small way (aka my mom and Nichole Ehlers).

SO, last week, while riding on the subway, I took out my little purple notebook that I carry around to record odd pieces of information, and wrote down a list of all the blogs I have thought about writing but haven't yet. Over the next 9 days I am commiting to blogging daily one topic at a time. Here is a little taste of what you have to look forward to...

"The Perils of Being a National Symbol of Freedom"
-a conversation with a Liberty Bell security guard

"How.  Dare.  You."
-When charity and greed collide

"Subways are Smelly Sometimes"
-an everyday experience on Philadelphia public transportation

"Robert Frost had it Right"
-Bring on the cocoa and marshmallows

"LOX: The Saddest Story You'll Ever Hear"
-animal lovers read with discretion

"TIMBERLAND BOOTS"
-The time I visited a breakdancing event

"The Sad Life of a Professional Crafter"
-a full disclosure of self-pity while looking for jobs

"Highway Horror: When wheelchairs Go Bad"

"What Has Man Come To?"
-Man's addiction to youtube

If this doesn't peak your interest to join me on this semi-literary, metaphorical adventure than I don't know what will.

I look forward to sharing life with you, La Loba

Philadelphia

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.

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

          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.



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

This is Leo.

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

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.



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

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 9^th 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

Betsy Parallel Parks

Today I sit in one of the hundreds of little coffee shops you can find in Phildaelphia. There is Hebrew music playing aloud and hebrew writing on the walls. I like it here. It reminds me of my days in Israel and how I wish I had more time in this Holy Land. I am sipping on what may be the best Vanilla Chai Latte I have ever tasted. Earlier today I explored "Old City", walking along the cobbled streets and admiring the many art galleries and far too expensive boutiques. As the name implies, this area was the first settled area of Philadelphia and therefore contains dozens of historical sites.

When I was little my parents would take my brother and I to "historical sites" where the highlight of my day became getting ice cream at the tourist stop. But now something has changed within me. No, ice cream still is and probably forever will be the highlight of any day for me. You see somewhere along the lines of maturity I have begun to enjoy and appreciate history. After a free tour of the first Philadelphia Fire House I sauntered over to the Betsy Ross House. For those of you unfamiliar with this historical woman, she sewed the first American Flag which was destroyed during the Revolutionary War. But did you know that she supported herself through upholstery work? Yep, just one of the many women who were able to financially provide for themselves when their husband, or lack of, could not. She married a man who died while imprisoned in England, then moved in with an elderly woman and began her work revamping old furniture. She married again years later and had two daughters. You can even visit her and her husbands grave for FREE! As I stood in front of the large stone memorial I imagined Betsy standing before me, a tiny woman with a cute bonnet and a bold heart made strong by grief and sorrow. I bet this Betsy could offer me great wisdom about living in a broken world along with many helpful sewing tips.

But in the end, no matter how much I admired this woman, I refused to pay $4 dollars to walk through her old quarters. Instead I imagined what I'm sure I would see based on the good ol' Bryant days of visiting such sites. A little rickety bed, a petite desk where she wrote many an impassioned letter, and a bathroom far too small for even a teeny human. I felt satisfied with my vicarious visit and left the old, vined building to continue it's romantic life, where many families can bring their restless little girls to admire it's ancient bricks.

And I still have to visit the Liberty Bell!!! Phew.

Here are some other things I have learned about Philly:
-Sleeve tattoos are really popular here.
-I have never seen so many pug dogs in one place in my life.
-You will be fined $300 dollars if you do not clean up your dog's poo.
-Finding parking is the most frustrating and traumatic experience.
-It's not cool to wear regular helmets while biking, only skater ones.
-Parallel parking is an art form
-Coffee is incredibly expensive
And last but not least, lock your car doors.

Love, La Loba