I would give up sleep forever
Just to talk you through this mess
Just to help your eyes to open
Just to see you come to life
Just to spend forever with you
Instead of apart
Thursday, March 31, 2011
Monday, March 28, 2011
I would give up everything for You.
Again and again and again,
Because You gave up everything for me.
As hard as it is to say no,
As miserable as it might make me,
Or as tough as the sacrifice is to make,
I'm making it.
I'm miserable, but I'm making it,
Willingly.
I trust that You'll honor my decision also,
And that Your hand is in this.
Be glorified: be raised to your rightful place,
Be shown in Love and Truth,
Be pointed to and stood by
And chosen.
Ugh.
Again and again and again,
Because You gave up everything for me.
As hard as it is to say no,
As miserable as it might make me,
Or as tough as the sacrifice is to make,
I'm making it.
I'm miserable, but I'm making it,
Willingly.
I trust that You'll honor my decision also,
And that Your hand is in this.
Be glorified: be raised to your rightful place,
Be shown in Love and Truth,
Be pointed to and stood by
And chosen.
Ugh.
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Just For You, Mother
Not another one, I thought to myself as we passed yet another prom dress store. They are clearly distinguishable, prom dress stores. They are overflowing with dresses of intense colour, colours you could never pull off wearing on a regular school day. The reds are intense, and the blues, vibrant. And they layer dresses with ridiculous colour combinations, like primary yellow satin with aqua blue crinoline. Besides the colours, they use fabrics that are particular to this type of store too. Shiny silks and sparkly sequins beckon shoppers from far away. This must appeal to a large number of people, or else they wouldn’t have 7 prom dress stores in one mall. But not me. In fact, every time I pass one of these extravagant stores, my gaze diverts and my feet trot straight past those screaming sequins. Nonetheless, as we approach the store of ridiculous colours, my Mom begs, “Just one more store. It can be our last one. Just think: this could be the place you find the dress!” Feet dragging and only half committed, I follow her into the store.
I run my hands along a rack of dresses, feeling textures silky and scratchy. My eyes search the store, but do not stop to rest on anything. A couple minutes have passed when I decide to find my mother; my subtle way of hinting that I’m ready to leave. She’s staring captivatedly at a dress that hangs above our heads. It’s frilly, and beaded, and is made of this wispy, rough material. And worst of all, it does that ugly layering technique that the store seems to endorse. I furrow my eye brows, “Really?” I ask her.
“Yes. Try it on, just for me. Please?” With impeccable timing, the sales lady strides over to us with a tall pole in her hand.
“Can I get you ladies a dress?” She’s an older lady, with short dark hair. Her clothing is dark and plain, but she wears a bright red lipstick. The expression on her face is lively and eager.
“Yes, my daughter would like to try on this dress, right up here.”
“Sure, what size would you like?”
“Small,” my mother spits out, before I even have time to speak for myself. I trudge to the back of the crowded store, where women and girls are buzzing over the dresses with excitement. The sales lady gives me an encouraging smile before she moves out of the way to let me into the change room.
I stare at myself in the mirror, with my coat on. My posture slumps as I look at my hair that has become a mess from trying on many pieces of clothing. I remember my unshaven legs and let out a deflated grunt. It’s never a good idea to go shopping when you don’t look nice; it colours your outlook on every piece of clothing you try. I’m hot and tired, and I sway as I wait for the motivation to try on this dress I already know I won’t like, to come. I nod at myself in the mirror, let’s get this over with.
Once the dress is on, I brace myself for disappointment. I move to position myself before the mirror, hoping to absorb the brunt of the shock before presenting myself to my mother, the sales lady, and all the other women that are bustling around outside the stall door.
My eye brows lift as I take in my appearance. The dress’ colours are conflicting and it is much fancier than anything I would have picked out myself, but it hugs at the waist and accentuates my collar bones in a flattering way. I fix my hair and straighten my shoulders, then turn to look at the back of the dress. “Hmm.” My lips curl upwards and my foot pops in a picturesque pose.
“Are you ready?” my Mom asks from outside the door.
“Yah, I guess,” I say. I unlock the door and step out of the stall. I am startled to see the dark haired sales lady standing where I expect to see my Mom. She lets out a gasp and her jaw hangs slightly open as she looks me over.
“This looks gorgeous on you!” she says, eyes wide. I wonder if they’re paid to make comments like that, and then I dismiss the thought because the compliments feel better when you tell yourself they mean it. I move in front of the big mirror they have outside the change rooms for a second look. My Mom’s hands are clasped in her lap and her expression is pleased.
“What do you think?” she asks.
“Well, it’s alright. It looks nice, but it’s not really my style,” I say. The sales lady is still watching me, and from behind my shoulder she asks,
“What kind of dress were you looking for?”
“Maybe something white,” I say. I am ready to elaborate, but she has already dropped the dress she was holding and gone in search of the perfect white dress. Before I know it, there are 4, similar white dresses awaiting me in the stall. My apathy from earlier has melted into a flattered, soft attitude. I decide to humour the sales ladies, and my mother, by trying on the numerous dresses they toss over the stall door. They coo and they gasp and they squeal and they cluck. They clamp and they fluff and they pat and they pull. Despite my Mom’s hopes and the sales lady’s effective confidence boosting, I leave the store thoroughly amused and dressless.
Sunday, March 20, 2011
Paintin' Pictures With Words
It's a rainy Sunday afternoon. My grandparents invited my family over for lunch. We gladly accepted, lunch with the grandparents is always nice, and it's been a while since we've seen them. It's best to not let this visits get so sparse, time is finite. They greet us at the door, my Grandpa is in a collared white shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. His skin is wrinkled and cold and dark, but his eyes still have spark, and his laugh is as alive as ever. He grabs my face with both hands and gently kisses my cheek. "My have you grown!" he says, as he kisses my sister. "You have not," he says to me with a chuckle. I may be done growing, but I'm still growing up. My Grandma is wearing a pretty coral apron. She comes out from the kitchen with a pleasant smile and greets us all with warm hugs and kisses. "Just throw your coats on the bed!" she says, flailing an arm towards the bedroom as she returns to the kitchen. This scene is predictable now. The greeting is always almost exactly the same. It doesn't get old though. It's comfortably repetitive.
We joked as we walked down the hallway to their apartment door about what my Grandma would make for lunch. Without hesitation, we all said, "egg noodles." Apparently she made egg noodles a lot when my Dad was a kid because every time we eat them, he says, "these remind me so much of my Mom." Egg noodles are looked down upon by the Italian side of my family, they're just not the real things. I hear glass dishes clanging in the kitchen and smell the meal she is cooking. "I left a note on the oven saying 'Turn off the oven at 1:00' in case you folks beat us to the apartment" she says. "It's almost ready. I'm just letting the meat rest."
"What kind of meat is it?" I ask.
"Well, I'll show you." She lifts up the tin foil and reveals a big piece of meat on a bone. "It's a little fatty, but it should be delicious." The smile never leaves her face, her muscles have practically memorized it.
On the counter is a baked pie. Always pie at Grandma's, never cake. Pie is a 'grandma' food though, isn't it? It looks delicious. My sweet tooth is stronger than my appetite, and I silently wish that I could eat the dessert first.
I walk out into the living room now, where the rest of my family and my Grandpa are sitting. They have this faded, floral carpet that has been there forever. I can imagine the texture of it perfectly, it's ingrained in my mind. I think I even learned to walk on that carpet, holding onto the the same, dark wood coffee table that sits there now. The wallpaper is pink floral, and there is pink glass vases and bowls dispersed around the room. Everything is dust free and strategically placed. There are porcelain swans and tarnished metal bells on all the table spaces, don't ask me why. In a plain class dish are only about 7 chocolate kisses, from Christmas. I take one, I'm starving. My Grandma has a very old electric organ tucked away in a corner. The bench to sit in front of it is covered in books. My Grandpa remarks, "You can tell we're readers, can't you!" with a laugh. I can't help but play the piano. Pianos are like magnets to my fingers. I can't even play well, my sight reading is so slow, but the process of figuring it out: counting up spaces and lines to find the notes in the bass clef, pounding out wrong notes and recounting, is so worth the satisfaction my ears get when my fingers find the right spots to expel harmonious sounds. I try, ungracefully, to play the songs from a hymnal in front of the organ. They recognize the songs once in a while. My Grandma sticks her head out from the kitchen and says, "You know, I learned that song in France. When I hear it now, I only hear the words in French, I can hardly remember it in English." She walks back to the kitchen singing the French lyrics, in her groggy, grumbly yet beautiful singing voice. The line of heredity from my Grandma to my Dad to me is so strong. Our interests fall practically parallel to each other. She's a lovely lady.
Lunch is ready. We sit down to a crowded table of pink plates, lap napkins (my least favourite kind, just get me those papers ones eh) and padded, forest green and laced place mats. My grandparents are at opposing heads of the table. The food is steaming hot. It is nothing intense, no garlic or spice. Everything about it is subdued, plain. There are steamed and buttered carrots, similarly cooked beets, homemade scones, salad and potatoes and meat. Such a classic Sunday lunch. We all wait silently for my Grandma to sit down, which she eventually does with a slump. My Grandpa says a reverent prayer, full of Thees and Thous. I've always been bothered by his old school language when he spoke to God. God understands all languages, and the messages come from your heart rather than your words, and I didn't see the reason for speaking so spiffily, in a way he would not otherwise speak. But I understood it this time. It is a respect thing, a way which he doesn't address any other person. It is the way he learned to pray, and as their relationship has been sustained, so has his communication with Him remained constant. It's kind of beautiful actually. With the closure of a confident "Amen," and the affirmation of it with our repeated, "Amen," we begin. Dishes clang. "Pass it to your right," says my Grandpa. "Be careful, it's hot," says my Grandma. "It all looks so good," my Mother adds. "I'll take the butter, when you get a second," Dad.
My sister and I aren't really the loud type. We'd rather not make a forced compliment to the chef, or make small talk just for the sake of making small talk. We are not adults, and so we pass on that expected responsibility of conversation continuing. We are just there, to be addressed. I don't think we even have much to say towards the topics of my grandparents' lunch table anyways. That's not such a bad thing, that's just life. From across the table though, we speak to each other, through our eyes. We read each other quite accurately. I dropped a piece of lettuce on the floor (I'm not the neatest eater) and I place it nonchalantly beside my plate, on the padded place mat. She looks at me, then at the lettuce, eye brows furrowed in question. "I dropped it," I motion. Her eye brows melt into an expression of humored embarrassment. The conversation is not lively. There isn't much to say, really. There are silent pauses where no one speaks. I wonder if any one else is aware of the pressure to bring up a new subject to talk about, so I raise my eyes and look around the table. My sister stares directly back at me, matching my expression. Surely we both sense the awkwardness of this situation. Small smirks creep across our faces. This happens a handful of times throughout the meal. More than necessary, the comment "This is all so delicious," is made. If it's made by my Father, my Mother will chime in immediately after with a supportive "Mhmm!"
This is how the conversation goes for the rest of the meal. Quiet, sparse, basic.
My Mom helps clear the table for dessert. Although my Grandpa is not yet finished eating. He's never finished eating. Without fail, he is the last one to finish his meal, every time. He claims to chew each, small bite 27 times, as is habit. It's virtually ridiculous, but maybe this helps him stay so healthy. Even with his diabetes, he is more healthy than almost all the 80 year olds I know. His diabetes doesn't allow him to eat much sugar, so the dessert is often sugar free or full of sugar supplements. The rhubarb and strawberry pie that is presented is sending off streams of steam. Finally, my sweet tooth can indulge. Even the ice cream is a a low fat, sugar free treat. Every thing about this meal is somehow short of the intensity I'm used to: the pace, the richness of flavor, the conversation. Somehow though, and my whole family would agree, that there is something really pleasant about sharing in their lifestyle, even for just a lunch. I intend to visit them, in that pink floral apartment again sooner than later.
We joked as we walked down the hallway to their apartment door about what my Grandma would make for lunch. Without hesitation, we all said, "egg noodles." Apparently she made egg noodles a lot when my Dad was a kid because every time we eat them, he says, "these remind me so much of my Mom." Egg noodles are looked down upon by the Italian side of my family, they're just not the real things. I hear glass dishes clanging in the kitchen and smell the meal she is cooking. "I left a note on the oven saying 'Turn off the oven at 1:00' in case you folks beat us to the apartment" she says. "It's almost ready. I'm just letting the meat rest."
"What kind of meat is it?" I ask.
"Well, I'll show you." She lifts up the tin foil and reveals a big piece of meat on a bone. "It's a little fatty, but it should be delicious." The smile never leaves her face, her muscles have practically memorized it.
On the counter is a baked pie. Always pie at Grandma's, never cake. Pie is a 'grandma' food though, isn't it? It looks delicious. My sweet tooth is stronger than my appetite, and I silently wish that I could eat the dessert first.
I walk out into the living room now, where the rest of my family and my Grandpa are sitting. They have this faded, floral carpet that has been there forever. I can imagine the texture of it perfectly, it's ingrained in my mind. I think I even learned to walk on that carpet, holding onto the the same, dark wood coffee table that sits there now. The wallpaper is pink floral, and there is pink glass vases and bowls dispersed around the room. Everything is dust free and strategically placed. There are porcelain swans and tarnished metal bells on all the table spaces, don't ask me why. In a plain class dish are only about 7 chocolate kisses, from Christmas. I take one, I'm starving. My Grandma has a very old electric organ tucked away in a corner. The bench to sit in front of it is covered in books. My Grandpa remarks, "You can tell we're readers, can't you!" with a laugh. I can't help but play the piano. Pianos are like magnets to my fingers. I can't even play well, my sight reading is so slow, but the process of figuring it out: counting up spaces and lines to find the notes in the bass clef, pounding out wrong notes and recounting, is so worth the satisfaction my ears get when my fingers find the right spots to expel harmonious sounds. I try, ungracefully, to play the songs from a hymnal in front of the organ. They recognize the songs once in a while. My Grandma sticks her head out from the kitchen and says, "You know, I learned that song in France. When I hear it now, I only hear the words in French, I can hardly remember it in English." She walks back to the kitchen singing the French lyrics, in her groggy, grumbly yet beautiful singing voice. The line of heredity from my Grandma to my Dad to me is so strong. Our interests fall practically parallel to each other. She's a lovely lady.
Lunch is ready. We sit down to a crowded table of pink plates, lap napkins (my least favourite kind, just get me those papers ones eh) and padded, forest green and laced place mats. My grandparents are at opposing heads of the table. The food is steaming hot. It is nothing intense, no garlic or spice. Everything about it is subdued, plain. There are steamed and buttered carrots, similarly cooked beets, homemade scones, salad and potatoes and meat. Such a classic Sunday lunch. We all wait silently for my Grandma to sit down, which she eventually does with a slump. My Grandpa says a reverent prayer, full of Thees and Thous. I've always been bothered by his old school language when he spoke to God. God understands all languages, and the messages come from your heart rather than your words, and I didn't see the reason for speaking so spiffily, in a way he would not otherwise speak. But I understood it this time. It is a respect thing, a way which he doesn't address any other person. It is the way he learned to pray, and as their relationship has been sustained, so has his communication with Him remained constant. It's kind of beautiful actually. With the closure of a confident "Amen," and the affirmation of it with our repeated, "Amen," we begin. Dishes clang. "Pass it to your right," says my Grandpa. "Be careful, it's hot," says my Grandma. "It all looks so good," my Mother adds. "I'll take the butter, when you get a second," Dad.
My sister and I aren't really the loud type. We'd rather not make a forced compliment to the chef, or make small talk just for the sake of making small talk. We are not adults, and so we pass on that expected responsibility of conversation continuing. We are just there, to be addressed. I don't think we even have much to say towards the topics of my grandparents' lunch table anyways. That's not such a bad thing, that's just life. From across the table though, we speak to each other, through our eyes. We read each other quite accurately. I dropped a piece of lettuce on the floor (I'm not the neatest eater) and I place it nonchalantly beside my plate, on the padded place mat. She looks at me, then at the lettuce, eye brows furrowed in question. "I dropped it," I motion. Her eye brows melt into an expression of humored embarrassment. The conversation is not lively. There isn't much to say, really. There are silent pauses where no one speaks. I wonder if any one else is aware of the pressure to bring up a new subject to talk about, so I raise my eyes and look around the table. My sister stares directly back at me, matching my expression. Surely we both sense the awkwardness of this situation. Small smirks creep across our faces. This happens a handful of times throughout the meal. More than necessary, the comment "This is all so delicious," is made. If it's made by my Father, my Mother will chime in immediately after with a supportive "Mhmm!"
This is how the conversation goes for the rest of the meal. Quiet, sparse, basic.
My Mom helps clear the table for dessert. Although my Grandpa is not yet finished eating. He's never finished eating. Without fail, he is the last one to finish his meal, every time. He claims to chew each, small bite 27 times, as is habit. It's virtually ridiculous, but maybe this helps him stay so healthy. Even with his diabetes, he is more healthy than almost all the 80 year olds I know. His diabetes doesn't allow him to eat much sugar, so the dessert is often sugar free or full of sugar supplements. The rhubarb and strawberry pie that is presented is sending off streams of steam. Finally, my sweet tooth can indulge. Even the ice cream is a a low fat, sugar free treat. Every thing about this meal is somehow short of the intensity I'm used to: the pace, the richness of flavor, the conversation. Somehow though, and my whole family would agree, that there is something really pleasant about sharing in their lifestyle, even for just a lunch. I intend to visit them, in that pink floral apartment again sooner than later.
Friday, March 18, 2011
Sunday, March 13, 2011
Monday, March 7, 2011
It made me look beyond
If the world is our oyster
If we're only young once
If now is the time
Then why settle for ordinary?
Why take the path that everyone else is taking?
Why choose what's expected, secure and predictable
When the world is budding with needs and adventures and opportunities and purpose?
I gotta get outta here
But wherever I end up,
I'm so not choosing normal.
If we're only young once
If now is the time
Then why settle for ordinary?
Why take the path that everyone else is taking?
Why choose what's expected, secure and predictable
When the world is budding with needs and adventures and opportunities and purpose?
I gotta get outta here
But wherever I end up,
I'm so not choosing normal.
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Finally, Time.
Your life is not complete until you have experienced this scene. Allow me to complete your life.
There's this Asian guy who walks his dog past my house every once in a while. His skin is a tanned colour, and he's got these dark brown freckles that speckle his round cheeks. He isn't very tall, and his hair is dark brown, and he wears this navy blue winter jacket with a white reflector stripe. It stumps me every time, but I can't decide whether this guy is 40 or 12 and I'm not exaggerating. Then there's his dog. It's all white and its hair is shaggy but not too long. Its ears are always perky despite the droop from all his fur and it bounces with every step, propelling itself forward.
Are you seeing the humour in this yet? Maybe not.
This guy's eyes are completely emotionless. Emotionless isn't the right word.. They're deep. So deep you can hardly find him in there. Its his expression that is emotionless, now that's the correct word to describe it. There's not even a hint of acknowledgment that a person is approaching him. No nod or smile, no noise. I've never heard him say a word even after the tens of times I've walked past him. But he'll look at you, or through you or past you, or something.
It's just the oddest scene to me! I can barely suppress my laughter every time I see him in the distance, walking his white, bouncing dog. Trudging forward, silent, void, mechanical and yet saying something. He's in there somewhere, I can see it. He's just wrapped in such a humorous parcel.
There's this Asian guy who walks his dog past my house every once in a while. His skin is a tanned colour, and he's got these dark brown freckles that speckle his round cheeks. He isn't very tall, and his hair is dark brown, and he wears this navy blue winter jacket with a white reflector stripe. It stumps me every time, but I can't decide whether this guy is 40 or 12 and I'm not exaggerating. Then there's his dog. It's all white and its hair is shaggy but not too long. Its ears are always perky despite the droop from all his fur and it bounces with every step, propelling itself forward.
Are you seeing the humour in this yet? Maybe not.
This guy's eyes are completely emotionless. Emotionless isn't the right word.. They're deep. So deep you can hardly find him in there. Its his expression that is emotionless, now that's the correct word to describe it. There's not even a hint of acknowledgment that a person is approaching him. No nod or smile, no noise. I've never heard him say a word even after the tens of times I've walked past him. But he'll look at you, or through you or past you, or something.
It's just the oddest scene to me! I can barely suppress my laughter every time I see him in the distance, walking his white, bouncing dog. Trudging forward, silent, void, mechanical and yet saying something. He's in there somewhere, I can see it. He's just wrapped in such a humorous parcel.
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
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