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
Sunday, November 6, 2011
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
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
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
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
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
Maggie Poo Poo
Let me tell you about my dog. Maggie is her name and Beaglins' her game. She was the runt of the group and because of this she is slightly smaller than the average Beagle. She is getting old now and has grey hair forming over what once was a sharp brown, black, and white face. Her ears are soft like velvet and I like to rub them in my hands like some sort of exotic material. When she was just a puppy I noticed that on the left side of her hind leg white fur outlines what seems to be a goose. And unfortunately, like many dogs, she likes to eat poo. Hence the nickname Maggie "Poo Poo". Hopefully she hasn't made the connection between what seems to be an endearing call of affection and the shameful undertone it implies.
Ever since I can remember I have always felt pulled towards these four legged creatures that seem to me so human. Every dog I meet seems to have some quirky dislike or fetish or uniqueness that makes it more Homo Sapien than bumbling beast. I suppose there must be some deep truth to that famous phrase "Man's best friend." Either dogs can truly feel emotion similar to that of a human or we are seriously offending all mankind. But what makes them truly unique creatures is that unlike humans they don't try to mask their personality or immediate reactions. If a bulldog is unhappy it has no problem letting you know. When a furry pup is excited to see you it is delighted to pee on your carpet in order to get his point across.
Maggie is, or has become, everything I do not want to be. Don't get me wrong, I love her more than a lifetime supply of free ice cream but sometimes I can't help but despise her behaviors. Let me explain. Maggie spends most of her day sleeping on our couch and if you happen to be taking up space then she has no problem walking all over you as if she were some kind of Chihuahua. Ok, so maybe this has more to do with her masters' incapability to train her than anything but even when it's a beautiful day outside and every other creature of the forest is frolicking about Maggie can only stand to be outside ten minutes at a time or else she self implodes. Everytime I let her outside I yell at her "Be FREE like a dog!" in hopes of reminding her of that dirty-dogginess I know lays deep in her core. And yet the most pitiful of all her pitifulness is revealed during a thunder storm. Simply mention the word "thunder" and Maggie flies under the nearest covering. Even with her master's arms around her and a blanket sheilding her eyes from the flashes of lightening nothing seems to bring any relief to her baseball sized brain. Her deep tremors cause her to breathe heavily as if she had just run dog-sled style carrying a lifetime supply of ice cream across the Prime Meridian. I feel so sad for her during these moments so I whisper comforting words in her velvet ear reminding her that the thunder can't hurt her and that it will soon be over. But this never seems to have the same effect as it did on me as a frightened child (although maybe it's because she's a dog and can't understand English) and soon she jumps off my lap and with head down runs, alas, under my parents' bed where we can never reach her under the black abyss of such a shelter. So we go on living our lives and eventually she crawls out, dust bunnies stuck to her nose, tired from the throes of seizure her body felt were necessary to survive such a natural disaster as a thunderstorm.
I'm not sure why I get so darn frustrated with her when she acts like this. Perhaps it's the merciless Beagle trainer within me rearing its ugly head. Perhaps it's my impatient self. Or perhaps it's because the pitiful creature I see in her is something I fear for myself. Sometimes I whisper a prayer like this: "Sweet Jesus, please do not let me become like this Beagle. Amen."
And yet in the end, she is the snuggliest, cutest ball of fur on this side of town. Sometimes when I cry she meanders over to lick my face knowing that not all is right and offers me what she can. So who am I to judge this sweet, smelly creature? Jesus, have mercy on my dog-judging heart.
Pictures of goose butt soon to be posted.
La Loba
PS I'm driving to Philadelphia tomorrow.
Ever since I can remember I have always felt pulled towards these four legged creatures that seem to me so human. Every dog I meet seems to have some quirky dislike or fetish or uniqueness that makes it more Homo Sapien than bumbling beast. I suppose there must be some deep truth to that famous phrase "Man's best friend." Either dogs can truly feel emotion similar to that of a human or we are seriously offending all mankind. But what makes them truly unique creatures is that unlike humans they don't try to mask their personality or immediate reactions. If a bulldog is unhappy it has no problem letting you know. When a furry pup is excited to see you it is delighted to pee on your carpet in order to get his point across.
Maggie is, or has become, everything I do not want to be. Don't get me wrong, I love her more than a lifetime supply of free ice cream but sometimes I can't help but despise her behaviors. Let me explain. Maggie spends most of her day sleeping on our couch and if you happen to be taking up space then she has no problem walking all over you as if she were some kind of Chihuahua. Ok, so maybe this has more to do with her masters' incapability to train her than anything but even when it's a beautiful day outside and every other creature of the forest is frolicking about Maggie can only stand to be outside ten minutes at a time or else she self implodes. Everytime I let her outside I yell at her "Be FREE like a dog!" in hopes of reminding her of that dirty-dogginess I know lays deep in her core. And yet the most pitiful of all her pitifulness is revealed during a thunder storm. Simply mention the word "thunder" and Maggie flies under the nearest covering. Even with her master's arms around her and a blanket sheilding her eyes from the flashes of lightening nothing seems to bring any relief to her baseball sized brain. Her deep tremors cause her to breathe heavily as if she had just run dog-sled style carrying a lifetime supply of ice cream across the Prime Meridian. I feel so sad for her during these moments so I whisper comforting words in her velvet ear reminding her that the thunder can't hurt her and that it will soon be over. But this never seems to have the same effect as it did on me as a frightened child (although maybe it's because she's a dog and can't understand English) and soon she jumps off my lap and with head down runs, alas, under my parents' bed where we can never reach her under the black abyss of such a shelter. So we go on living our lives and eventually she crawls out, dust bunnies stuck to her nose, tired from the throes of seizure her body felt were necessary to survive such a natural disaster as a thunderstorm.
I'm not sure why I get so darn frustrated with her when she acts like this. Perhaps it's the merciless Beagle trainer within me rearing its ugly head. Perhaps it's my impatient self. Or perhaps it's because the pitiful creature I see in her is something I fear for myself. Sometimes I whisper a prayer like this: "Sweet Jesus, please do not let me become like this Beagle. Amen."
And yet in the end, she is the snuggliest, cutest ball of fur on this side of town. Sometimes when I cry she meanders over to lick my face knowing that not all is right and offers me what she can. So who am I to judge this sweet, smelly creature? Jesus, have mercy on my dog-judging heart.
Pictures of goose butt soon to be posted.
La Loba
PS I'm driving to Philadelphia tomorrow.
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
From the Horses Mouth
At a certain point this summer I realized I had to start recording the ridiculous things I was hearing so I began a small journal for doing just that. So here are the funniest things I heard this summer while working with rich teenage girls:
"I've met Nick Lache like ten times. My dad golfs with him."
Me: "Have any of you ever been to a third world country?"
Camper: "Yeah! We stayed at an awesome hotel in Costa Rica."
While sitting on a boulder in a lake: "Where are we getting our water from?"
Camper: "I love going to our lake with my family. We hike our mountain and then at the top we pick fresh blueberries."
Me: "You mean you hike the mountain where your lake house is?"
Camper: "No it's my mountain."
Me: "Oh so you call it your mountain because it's close to the lake."
Camper: "No we own the lake and the mountain."
Me: "Oh."
"If you close your eyes and imagine you're in a movie theater then these banana chips taste like popcorn."
Funny thing is they did.
While rubbing what was supposed to be Gold Bond on her feet: "This powder feels and smells funny."
Me: "Yep, that's because it's powdered hummus."
Me: "Guys, this plant smells like candy!"
Camper: "Really? ... Ew, Jenna you farted."
Me: Hours of laughter
Camper: "This apple chip looks like a cat butt."
Me: "Dang it. You're right."
Instructors: "We're taking showers outside this week!"
Camper(s): hysterical crying
Camper: "What are intestinal worms?"
Me: "Well, it's a parasite normally transmitted when we accidentally ingest traces of feces. They start as eggs and then when they get to our intestines they make home and can grow to be four inches long. Then you poop them out."
Camper: silence
Love,
la Loba
"I've met Nick Lache like ten times. My dad golfs with him."
Me: "Have any of you ever been to a third world country?"
Camper: "Yeah! We stayed at an awesome hotel in Costa Rica."
While sitting on a boulder in a lake: "Where are we getting our water from?"
Camper: "I love going to our lake with my family. We hike our mountain and then at the top we pick fresh blueberries."
Me: "You mean you hike the mountain where your lake house is?"
Camper: "No it's my mountain."
Me: "Oh so you call it your mountain because it's close to the lake."
Camper: "No we own the lake and the mountain."
Me: "Oh."
"If you close your eyes and imagine you're in a movie theater then these banana chips taste like popcorn."
Funny thing is they did.
While rubbing what was supposed to be Gold Bond on her feet: "This powder feels and smells funny."
Me: "Yep, that's because it's powdered hummus."
Me: "Guys, this plant smells like candy!"
Camper: "Really? ... Ew, Jenna you farted."
Me: Hours of laughter
Camper: "This apple chip looks like a cat butt."
Me: "Dang it. You're right."
Instructors: "We're taking showers outside this week!"
Camper(s): hysterical crying
Camper: "What are intestinal worms?"
Me: "Well, it's a parasite normally transmitted when we accidentally ingest traces of feces. They start as eggs and then when they get to our intestines they make home and can grow to be four inches long. Then you poop them out."
Camper: silence
Love,
la Loba
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