I have a friend; her name is Helen.
She's very nice and not bad smellin'.
It's e'er so clear that she's no felon,
Or if she is, she's not tellin'.
But come to think, she mentioned sellin'
Her nice 'n humble family dwellin'.
So casual-like...was it oversellin'?
Perhaps it was really parallelin'
Her need to flee but be compellin' -
Convince me that she's not rebellin'
And hopin' I won't go a-yellin'
And let her leave just like Magellan
(Is that right? I'm not good at spellin'.)
Now I'm thinkin' things in my melon.
My goodness how my head is swellin'
With news like this 'bout a ne'er-do-wellin'...
To think I'd almost gone a-fellin'
And let her ruse keep on propellin'.
Bet she's really terr'ble smellin'.
Wonder, should I go tattle-tellin'?
But these nerves of mine, there is no quellin'
About my so-called-friend named Helen
Who must truly be a nasty felon...
Pro'lly 'scaped prison by repellin'
Down its walls like a nutty hellion.
Oh my, this is awful compellin'.
Better lock my door 'fore she rings my bell 'n
I get caught by the fiendish Helen.
...and people say I'm paranoid...
Tuesday 15 March 2011
Tuesday 22 February 2011
James Bond, the Queen and My Mama
I love my mama. She is one of the funniest people I know, not because she cracks jokes, but because she's spunky and what you see is definitely what you get.
In the great year of 2004, my parents went on one of their annual vacations to some exotic place abroad. This particular trip included a stop in Edinburgh, Scotland. When they got to their hotel on a chilly morning in October, the receptionist told them that there was going to be a parade of sorts and they needed to go and watch, as the Scottish Parliament was officially moving from one building to another. They scurried off and found a place to wait amongst the others waiting to see the show. While waiting, they had a nice conversation with a very friendly policeman whom they struggled to understand. Finally, the moment arrived. My parents watched this historic moment, as the Members of Scottish Parliament made their way from the old parliament building to the new one. The MSPs were dressed in their finest kilts and then, there he was. James Bond. And my mother, being who she is, was overcome with excitement and yelled out "Sean! Sean!" in her best giddy school girl voice. Upon hearing his name, Sean Connery, all decked out in his Scottish best, turned to my mother and gave her a thumbs-up.
Minutes later, the queen rolled by in her car. She did not look at my mother, presumably because she heard her call out for Sean, who, as we all know, is a Scottish nationalist that believes Scotland should be free of stuffy English royalty.
Ah, but our tale doesn't end there. This now brings us to 2011. About a month ago, my husband and I decided to go out for a drive. We went to Braemar, a small and not terribly interesting town, on to a ski spot, just to see what a ski resort looks like in the Highlands of Scotland and then turned back toward home, with the intent of stopping at Balmoral Castle. Balmoral Castle is the Queen of England's vacation home. Purchased by Queen Victoria in the mid-nineteenth century, it has been used by the British Royal Family ever since. While I did know that the Queen is currently residing there for her usual winter vacation, I thought I'd read that we could at least walk on the grounds. Unfortunately, the gates remained firmly shut - at least for us, though I did see a car or two coming in and out.
After all is said and done, I can only assume that the Queen knows who I am and is holding a grudge because my sweet and spunky mama called after James Bond and not her and therefore refused to let me see her fancy house. And I think that's rather petty of her. Don't you?
In the great year of 2004, my parents went on one of their annual vacations to some exotic place abroad. This particular trip included a stop in Edinburgh, Scotland. When they got to their hotel on a chilly morning in October, the receptionist told them that there was going to be a parade of sorts and they needed to go and watch, as the Scottish Parliament was officially moving from one building to another. They scurried off and found a place to wait amongst the others waiting to see the show. While waiting, they had a nice conversation with a very friendly policeman whom they struggled to understand. Finally, the moment arrived. My parents watched this historic moment, as the Members of Scottish Parliament made their way from the old parliament building to the new one. The MSPs were dressed in their finest kilts and then, there he was. James Bond. And my mother, being who she is, was overcome with excitement and yelled out "Sean! Sean!" in her best giddy school girl voice. Upon hearing his name, Sean Connery, all decked out in his Scottish best, turned to my mother and gave her a thumbs-up.
Minutes later, the queen rolled by in her car. She did not look at my mother, presumably because she heard her call out for Sean, who, as we all know, is a Scottish nationalist that believes Scotland should be free of stuffy English royalty.
Ah, but our tale doesn't end there. This now brings us to 2011. About a month ago, my husband and I decided to go out for a drive. We went to Braemar, a small and not terribly interesting town, on to a ski spot, just to see what a ski resort looks like in the Highlands of Scotland and then turned back toward home, with the intent of stopping at Balmoral Castle. Balmoral Castle is the Queen of England's vacation home. Purchased by Queen Victoria in the mid-nineteenth century, it has been used by the British Royal Family ever since. While I did know that the Queen is currently residing there for her usual winter vacation, I thought I'd read that we could at least walk on the grounds. Unfortunately, the gates remained firmly shut - at least for us, though I did see a car or two coming in and out.
After all is said and done, I can only assume that the Queen knows who I am and is holding a grudge because my sweet and spunky mama called after James Bond and not her and therefore refused to let me see her fancy house. And I think that's rather petty of her. Don't you?
Sunday 6 February 2011
Courage
I have spent much of my life being afraid. I have always been different, and while I wasn't an outcast, I never knew how to belong to a group. I remember as a young teenager I would start journals time after time during school breaks with lists of all the things I was going to change about myself, from my laugh to my clothes. I shake my head as I type this. It seems so very long ago. And yet I still distinctly remember the sting of believing that God made me wrong, that I had an inherent flaw that I could not escape.
For my first twenty-five years or so I had few people in my life who saw me as something special. I was not one of them. It wasn't until my late twenties, starting my life anew, that I came to appreciate those things about me that stood me apart from others. I worked hard to overcome my insecurities and look at myself for who I really am. What I saw was a woman who had no idea how to be an adult. I was (am?) a bit neurotic and too sensitive and made plenty of mistakes. I also saw that I was beautiful and those things that make me different are actually now my favorite things about myself. And while I didn't know how to be an adult on my own, I knew I could get there - that I could one day become the amazing woman God created me to be.
When I was 29, I met a man unlike anyone I'd ever known before. He became my best friend. I married him. I followed him far far away. Our journey began in Oklahoma City, Oklahoma. We then travelled to his home country of France. After three years there, we moved to Scotland, where we have been for almost a year.
I have spent much of my life being afraid. In France I was afraid of just about everything. I spoke no French and was deeply intimidated. The courage I fought so hard to find in Oklahoma seemed to leave me. I was an alien in a foreign land. I was afraid of roundabouts, which were everywhere. I was afraid of going to the butcher. Being a perfectionist, I had no interest in fumbling about in a language that sounded to me like nasal gibberish. I was very very afraid of what people would think of me. How silly. Still, it was real to me and it hindered what I could do.
So. I practiced roundabouts. We lived in the small town Abbeville (prounced ab-ville or sometimes ab-uh-ville) in the north of France, where, with knuckles whitened from gripping the steering wheel too tightly, I would drive on and off one of the small roundabouts near our home. It took a few months, but I went to the butcher. He laughed at me once. I was trying to ask what cut of lamb to use for a cous cous and the old man who I'd thought was nice went into the back and talked about me, which I could see. The men he spoke to looked to find me. I met their eyes directly and shook my head; they lowered theirs. I was embarrassed, but I went back. Eventually, we all became friends. My French was never perfect, but to my relief, I realized that it didn't have to be.
While adjusting to my new surroundings my husband and I suffered great loss. I thought the sadness might overtake me. Quite frankly, it very nearly did. But I didn't let it. It was a careful and conscious choice. One foot in front of the other, I overcame the sadness. The loss has become a part of me, but I choose to focus on what I gained. I experienced great love. I gained insight. Though for a time I struggled to see where God was during my greatest need, I slowly began to see He'd never left.
When I prayed, I heard no answer. I started to wonder what the point of praying was. Then a knock at my door came, literally. Some of the neighborhood children brought me flowers for no reason. We chatted. They came back twice more with more flowers (that were really just weeds). We had a picnic in the front lawn with chocolate cake and milk. I gained a friend. She was ten years old. When I left France, she gave me a note and her favorite necklace. God does not always answer our prayers with thunder and miracles. Sometimes, He sends us little rosy-cheeked angels bearing flower-weeds.
Now, after all that, I'm not afraid anymore, at least not like I used to be. I still have a lot of growing to do. One thing God has reminded me of again and again is: "to whom much is given, much is required." To this, I will respond with a great quote from Mother Teresa: "I know God won't give me more than I can handle; I just wish He didn't trust me so much!" I say this with a smile. Life abroad is wonderful and amazing and I have seen and experienced things I once thought I'd only ever read about in books. It is also often difficult and sometimes lonely. Still. I am, among all women, most richly blessed.
I have found that courage doesn't necessarily mean forging ahead without fear. Sometimes, true courage is carrying on in spite of it.
For my first twenty-five years or so I had few people in my life who saw me as something special. I was not one of them. It wasn't until my late twenties, starting my life anew, that I came to appreciate those things about me that stood me apart from others. I worked hard to overcome my insecurities and look at myself for who I really am. What I saw was a woman who had no idea how to be an adult. I was (am?) a bit neurotic and too sensitive and made plenty of mistakes. I also saw that I was beautiful and those things that make me different are actually now my favorite things about myself. And while I didn't know how to be an adult on my own, I knew I could get there - that I could one day become the amazing woman God created me to be.
When I was 29, I met a man unlike anyone I'd ever known before. He became my best friend. I married him. I followed him far far away. Our journey began in Oklahoma City, Oklahoma. We then travelled to his home country of France. After three years there, we moved to Scotland, where we have been for almost a year.
I have spent much of my life being afraid. In France I was afraid of just about everything. I spoke no French and was deeply intimidated. The courage I fought so hard to find in Oklahoma seemed to leave me. I was an alien in a foreign land. I was afraid of roundabouts, which were everywhere. I was afraid of going to the butcher. Being a perfectionist, I had no interest in fumbling about in a language that sounded to me like nasal gibberish. I was very very afraid of what people would think of me. How silly. Still, it was real to me and it hindered what I could do.
So. I practiced roundabouts. We lived in the small town Abbeville (prounced ab-ville or sometimes ab-uh-ville) in the north of France, where, with knuckles whitened from gripping the steering wheel too tightly, I would drive on and off one of the small roundabouts near our home. It took a few months, but I went to the butcher. He laughed at me once. I was trying to ask what cut of lamb to use for a cous cous and the old man who I'd thought was nice went into the back and talked about me, which I could see. The men he spoke to looked to find me. I met their eyes directly and shook my head; they lowered theirs. I was embarrassed, but I went back. Eventually, we all became friends. My French was never perfect, but to my relief, I realized that it didn't have to be.
While adjusting to my new surroundings my husband and I suffered great loss. I thought the sadness might overtake me. Quite frankly, it very nearly did. But I didn't let it. It was a careful and conscious choice. One foot in front of the other, I overcame the sadness. The loss has become a part of me, but I choose to focus on what I gained. I experienced great love. I gained insight. Though for a time I struggled to see where God was during my greatest need, I slowly began to see He'd never left.
When I prayed, I heard no answer. I started to wonder what the point of praying was. Then a knock at my door came, literally. Some of the neighborhood children brought me flowers for no reason. We chatted. They came back twice more with more flowers (that were really just weeds). We had a picnic in the front lawn with chocolate cake and milk. I gained a friend. She was ten years old. When I left France, she gave me a note and her favorite necklace. God does not always answer our prayers with thunder and miracles. Sometimes, He sends us little rosy-cheeked angels bearing flower-weeds.
Now, after all that, I'm not afraid anymore, at least not like I used to be. I still have a lot of growing to do. One thing God has reminded me of again and again is: "to whom much is given, much is required." To this, I will respond with a great quote from Mother Teresa: "I know God won't give me more than I can handle; I just wish He didn't trust me so much!" I say this with a smile. Life abroad is wonderful and amazing and I have seen and experienced things I once thought I'd only ever read about in books. It is also often difficult and sometimes lonely. Still. I am, among all women, most richly blessed.
I have found that courage doesn't necessarily mean forging ahead without fear. Sometimes, true courage is carrying on in spite of it.
Wednesday 5 January 2011
Sunny, Scotland and the Dreaded Drecht
It is the start of another year. It's time to take a deep breath, exhale slowly and take a moment to appreciate our blessings of last year and the blank slate that this new year offers. Ah yes, that's the stuff.
I was born and raised in Oklahoma City, Oklahoma located in the middle of the United States of America. It really is a great state, for many reasons, one of which is the weather. In Oklahoma, there are all four seasons. In the summer it's hot. In the winter, it's cold. The foliage along the state's eastern border offers a picturesque drive during autumn. And then there is the new life that bursts forth in the spring...along with the occasional tornado that comes sweeping, or tearing, down the plains. (For those who are not used to the sky coming down after them, tornadoes can seem like a big deal - and there certainly are some that are. However, for us seasoned tornado valley veterans, there are very few tornadoes that we think requires more than a shrug and a call to the insurance agent.)
Six years ago I met a Frenchman. And from that moment on, my life has taken a very different path from that on which this girl from Oklahoma began.
After over three years in France, I have been living in Scotland for eight months. Scotland is beautiful, unlike anything I've ever seen before. We live near the Highlands and with the onset of winter, you can see the snow capped mountains in the distance as you drive over the rolling hills. In the spring, the fields are covered in purple heather. And the flocks of sheep, in which there is always one that is black, dot the hillsides. On a bright clear day, the landscape with its stone fences and deep lush green, is so lovely that you simply cannot help but be in a good mood... On a clear day.
In Oklahoma, it is sunny probably eighty percent of the time. I've even seen rainy days where the sun still shone bright. Now I live in Scotland where the sun shines possibly twenty percent of the time. It is gray here. A lot. It also rains almost all the time. So far, I do not think that I've seen one whole week without it.
This is my first winter here. So far, we have had two major snow fronts come through, leaving an accumulated total of over twenty inches and fifteen inches respectively and shoveled mountains of snow up to your waist. I don't mind the snow. My car handles the icy roads surprisingly well and I love looking out the dining room windows at my very own winter wonderland.
After about two weeks of weather in which the temperature soared to above freezing, the snow is all but gone now. The white days have been replaced by gray skies and cold drizzle. The Scottish have a word to describe this weather. Drecht. It is apparently pronounced something like "dreecht", with a germanesque throaty "cht" at the end, like when you are sick and have to cough something up. Frankly, I think this word describes the weather perfectly. It is depressing and cold and gray. As I am so far north on the planet now, the daylight hours only last from about 8:45am until 3:30pm. Drecht. I, for one, feel that this word must be said with a bit of a sour facial expression, with one of the corners of your mouth turned up a bit in disgust. Try it. Drecht. Yup. That's about right.
And so, such are my days now. Almost no sun, just a few hours of brightened gray skies, cold, drizzle and dirty streets. Drecht. But even as I sit here and type my long-winded complaint, the sky has turned blue and I can see the sun shining. Gone away is the sulky attitude as I think of the snow capped mountains and the one black sheep and remember, once again, how really lucky I am to be here.
I was born and raised in Oklahoma City, Oklahoma located in the middle of the United States of America. It really is a great state, for many reasons, one of which is the weather. In Oklahoma, there are all four seasons. In the summer it's hot. In the winter, it's cold. The foliage along the state's eastern border offers a picturesque drive during autumn. And then there is the new life that bursts forth in the spring...along with the occasional tornado that comes sweeping, or tearing, down the plains. (For those who are not used to the sky coming down after them, tornadoes can seem like a big deal - and there certainly are some that are. However, for us seasoned tornado valley veterans, there are very few tornadoes that we think requires more than a shrug and a call to the insurance agent.)
Six years ago I met a Frenchman. And from that moment on, my life has taken a very different path from that on which this girl from Oklahoma began.
After over three years in France, I have been living in Scotland for eight months. Scotland is beautiful, unlike anything I've ever seen before. We live near the Highlands and with the onset of winter, you can see the snow capped mountains in the distance as you drive over the rolling hills. In the spring, the fields are covered in purple heather. And the flocks of sheep, in which there is always one that is black, dot the hillsides. On a bright clear day, the landscape with its stone fences and deep lush green, is so lovely that you simply cannot help but be in a good mood... On a clear day.
In Oklahoma, it is sunny probably eighty percent of the time. I've even seen rainy days where the sun still shone bright. Now I live in Scotland where the sun shines possibly twenty percent of the time. It is gray here. A lot. It also rains almost all the time. So far, I do not think that I've seen one whole week without it.
This is my first winter here. So far, we have had two major snow fronts come through, leaving an accumulated total of over twenty inches and fifteen inches respectively and shoveled mountains of snow up to your waist. I don't mind the snow. My car handles the icy roads surprisingly well and I love looking out the dining room windows at my very own winter wonderland.
After about two weeks of weather in which the temperature soared to above freezing, the snow is all but gone now. The white days have been replaced by gray skies and cold drizzle. The Scottish have a word to describe this weather. Drecht. It is apparently pronounced something like "dreecht", with a germanesque throaty "cht" at the end, like when you are sick and have to cough something up. Frankly, I think this word describes the weather perfectly. It is depressing and cold and gray. As I am so far north on the planet now, the daylight hours only last from about 8:45am until 3:30pm. Drecht. I, for one, feel that this word must be said with a bit of a sour facial expression, with one of the corners of your mouth turned up a bit in disgust. Try it. Drecht. Yup. That's about right.
And so, such are my days now. Almost no sun, just a few hours of brightened gray skies, cold, drizzle and dirty streets. Drecht. But even as I sit here and type my long-winded complaint, the sky has turned blue and I can see the sun shining. Gone away is the sulky attitude as I think of the snow capped mountains and the one black sheep and remember, once again, how really lucky I am to be here.
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