Last night I went to the Avalanche vs. Penguins hockey game and celebrated a Penguin victory (who names their team "Avalanche" and expects to be good? For real?).

Center ice.  

Blue line.  

Cold brews.  

Beards.  

Zamboni. 

 Organ music.  

More beards.  

Shouting.  

Queen.  

Accents.

Even more beards.

Everything about the night was, well, sexy.  Even the fist-fighting that lead to five minutes in the penalty box was exhilarating.  I can't believe it's been three years since I went to a game.

What can I say?  These are the moments I miss my roots.  And smile upon remembering my first, childhood love and kissing him in his hockey pads after he beat our neighboring town rivalry.  Or pretending to be a Mighty Duck with a tennis ball and broom in the driveway on humid, summer afternoons.  Pure nostalgia.

Beloved.

Whenever I read something that "changes my life," I feel responsible to share it with the world.  If you're in need of some revitalization and a reminder of how precious you are, pick up this book.  May these words from Henri J.M. Nouwen's book, Life of the Beloved, encourage your spirit:

"We are the Beloved.  We are intimately loved long before our parents, teachers, spouses, children, and friends loved or wounded us.  That's the truth of our lives.  That's the truth I want you to claim for yourself.  That's the truth spoken by the voice that says, 'You are my Beloved.'  

Listening to that voice with great inner attentiveness, I hear at my center words that say:  'I have called you by name, from the very beginning.  You are mine and I am yours.  You are my Beloved, on you my favor rests.  I have molded you in the depths of the earth and knitted you together in your mother's womb.  I have carved you in the palms of my hands and hidden you in the shadow of my embrace.  I look at you with infinite tenderness and care for you with a care more intimate than that of a mother for her child.  I have counted every hair on your head and guided you at every step.  Wherever you go, I go with you, and wherever you rest, I keep watch.  I will give you food that will satisfy all your hunger and drink that will quench all your thirst.  I will not hide my face from you.  You know me as your won as I know you as my own.  You belong to me.  I am your father, your mother, your brother, your sister, your lover, and your spouse... yes, even your child... wherever you are I will be.  Nothing will ever separate us.  We are one.'

Every time you listen with great attentiveness to the voice that calls you the Beloved, you will discover within yourself a desire to hear that voice longer and more deeply.  It is like discovering a well in the desert.  Once you have touched wet ground, you want to dig deeper... There may be quite a pile of dry sand in our lives, but the One who desires to quench our thirst will help us remove it." 

Just a Tuesday Morning Thought.

Silly boys.
Silly girls.
That's what we all are.

We spin and twirl as kids on merry-go-rounds,
Holding on for life,
clutching to a certainty slipping away with age.

But we let go bravely
for a few, short seconds,
whispering possibilities and promises.

Dusty Wonderland

Denver is a glowing wonderland.  We had several snowfalls this week, and the city looks like something out of a Norman Rockwell painting.

One of my favorite aspects of a Colorado winter is the temperature.  Being from the frozen Midwest, I appreciate the option of going outdoors December through March.  How refreshing even when windy! 

 

When it snows I drive slower and notice the sweetest things.  Check out the sign I saw on the way to church!  I loved it so much, I drove home, grabbed my camera, and returned to get a shot.  This art reminds me of the newer documentary, Exit Through the Gift Shop, although those pieces are more provocative...  Still, so cool!

Check out those mountains.  I picked a great city for relocation.

And a spectacular view of the city with the skyline.

It's Super Bowl Sunday:  I'm hopeful for a Packer victory and prepared with my cheese curds; don't you worry. 

Another new thing in 2011:  reading more poetry.  Especially the books I purchased for my college classes but never finished (waste not, want not?).  Reading poetry inspires poetry.  My final thoughts about the snowy week.

  

Dusting

 (Inspired by evenings like the one pictured above.)

Outside it's dusting.

White's falling around, 

wrapping the earth in soft light.

The streets grow quiet.

The busyness diminishes into a

sweet slowness.

Everything is dusted,

and the city glows.

Tonight's a night for falling in love.

I hear nothing.

Stillness grows in me,

and I feel strength.

You are near,

close and patient-

the change, everything surrounding me.

Recently, one of my dearest friend's grandfather passed away.  I met him once, and he was precious... the kind of person we need more of in this world.  Over incredible waffles we talked about her grandfather's life:  her favorite stories, memories, and things she never knew about him after his death.


She told those cherished grandparent stories that make us yearn for the wisdom and perspective that coincides with age, but something she mentioned that resonated deep inside me was his relationships.  Her grandparents never divorced, and they were faithfully in love with each other until the end.  My grandparents are the same way, and I think it's incredible.  I hope to love someone that deeply and share my life so closely with a man I call my best friend.  It's tough to find love like that anymore, but I believe it's possible with commitment and humility.  Her grandfather was devoted to his friends as well.  His college buddies came to his memorial service and spoke about their friendship that spanned decades.  When she told me this, my heart got melty, and I had one of those great images of us as old, crinkly ladies drinking tea on the porch and laughing about the silliness of our twenties, lessons of our thirties, vacations of our forties and beyond.  And I saw us sipping cocktails on cruises.  And being excited about positive pregnancy test results and adoption approvals instead of haggardly-stressful scares.  And our hypothetical children chasing each other and high-fiving in parks (after abandoning the uterus strike, of course). 


Our lives aren't really about the beginning or the end, even though we prepare for births and memorialize death.  We're really about (or should be about, I think) the middle-the dash on the tombstone-the every day stuff.  I want to be somebody consumed with investing the middle in the things and people I love most.  It's a little odd thinking about death and memory as a 23-year-old, but even so, I hope my life will look something like her grandfather's.  Maybe not the Hawaiian shirts (I don't actually own one of those...) but definitely the love and joy.

And My Uterus Goes On Strike.

Earlier this month I blogged about how thankful I am for my job.  I retract my thankfulness; babies are cute but nasty.  And my uterus is on an official strike; we're shutting down business for years (as if it was ever in business...).  Babies are not popping out of that sucker until my late 20s (at least) or early 30s (most likely) if I have any control over it.  Let's make that an affirmative early 30s.  Currently, I don't have much to worry about in this department, but in case the option rises, I am prepared.

One thing that I need explained is how I lived in dorms for the past four years and got sick, which includes everything from a major cold or flu case to seasonal allergies, less than five times.  I had a few days that I felt worn-down, but these could be attributed to lack of sleep, Starbucks opens, terrible cafeteria food, and reading until 2 AM for my lit classes more than a faulty immune system.  Okay, I work with children-the same two children-for seven months, and I've been sick three times.  THREE TIMES!  This week I've held feverish, snotty, diarrhea-ridden children.  Gross.  Also, Cassidy and I were playing, and she crawled right up to my face and sneezed directly into my contact.  That can't be good for the immunity.  And I refuse to get a flu shot, because, well, I'm just that way.

And the teething!  Can someone please save me?!  I'm caring for two, teething infants, and it is a living hell.  The incessant wining and crying.  I know they can't help it, and the poor things are in pain, but 10 hours of straight crying.  And now Finn's trying to bite me to get relief.  Hello, nanny Ash is not an ice-pop.  Beyond the teething the twins are in a jealousy stage and don't like to share me.  This is problematic considering there are always two twins and one Ash.  And then my laptop was pulled off the table by curious fingers after my mug of pomegranate tea.  All things considered, a day with the twins is enough to send me home to my bottle of red.

Men of the world, you'd better head toward another woman if you want to be a dad soon or see that "perpetual glow" on your woman.  I'm not ready for that kind of commitment.  Oh... and I like to have crust-free hair, thanks.

Sincerely,
Ash

P.S. - As a contradictory caveat, I should add that I am thankful for the nap hours, when I get to read, crochet, and stream TV episodes on the clock.  And for the free food.  And that I can go to work in my ratty jeans and a flannel or sweats.  Those things are positives.  But still... I'm not ready.

Basement Band

When I was a high school sophomore and had few-to-no friends, I tried to start a basement band.  (In Wisconsin it's too cold to play in the garage most months out of the year, so jam bands originate in basements.)  We met at the church youth group, so our music was mostly Jesus-y and consisted of four chords.  The traditional worship stuff.  Yep, we were cool.  We called ourselves "Paradox" and planned to record a demo to send to people and make it big.  We made a logo, too.  And yep, we recorded a song on a Mac.  Oh yeah, and I was the guitarist/vocalist.  Indie rock and roll?  Or not.

(This was my baby... a bright, blue Washburn.  I sold it to my brother to buy a snowboard.)

My neighbor downstairs plays piano and writes his own music.  His songs are about everything and anything, and he favors the minor keys.  He loves to belt lost-love ballads also.  I bet he started in his basement, too.

I write all this today, because I wish I was the neighbor annoying my building with my own songs and boisterously-loud melodies.  My mom was right; I should've stuck with those piano lessons.  And I'm planning, secretly, to steal my grandpa's banjo when I go home this summer... that'll be a trip.