sometimes the best things are:

Sometimes the best things are:

Singing at the top of your lungs as you drive down the interstate with the window down, be it Taylor Swift, The Civil Wars, Elton John, or whatever.

Sitting on your front porch as the light goes out of another autumn evening. 

Cracking open the spine of a new book on aforementioned porch. All the possibility.

A mason jar of sweet, sweet Southern tea.

The smell of burning charcoal from a neighbor's grill.

Discovering the power of words all over again, how they can make your heart full when written beautifully, with meaning. 

Not thinking, "What about tomorrow?"

A perfectly browned grilled cheese. And make it Muenster cheese. 

And finally, the sound of the train as you lie in bed to sleep, drifting, drifting, drif-

...and away.

only in Texas is 80 degrees considered a "cool breeze"

I walked barefoot on our sidewalk at 10 p.m. The air blew cool, that first whisper of fall, but the concrete still felt warm to my feet. 

People have been outdoors all day, like bears emerging from some sort of reverse hibernation: hiding in their air-conditioned homes til today, to feel the sun now that it's no longer sweltering, baking them like potatoes.  Instead its heat mixes with a beautiful cool breeze, promising the coming fall.

Only in Texas is 80 degrees considered a "cool breeze."


They rode their bikes today and smoothed out blankets in their backyards or on the Square, smiling, bewildered even, at their good fortune. "Is this weather for real?" Wondering when it will be snatched away. They wore jeans and scarves and cardigans because they just...can't...wait. I know I can't wait: for layered clothing, tall boots, wool gloves, draped scarves, Mexican Hot Chocolate, and sitting on your porch without sweating. What glorious days lie ahead! I always feel like fall holds the most possibility, especially the possibility for change. Summer shouts freedom, but fall speaks metamorphosis.    

Me, Chelsea & Danielle: the Ponder house roommates

I too stretched out on a quilt in my backyard today, chatting with my roommates, listening to the sound of our neighbors BBQing (okay, smelling). And later I sat on our front porch swing, pen and paper in hand, waiting for the coming glory of fall to inspire my writing...until I got distracted.


Do you ever find yourself drinking your favorite beverage (mine being sweet tea) and then, as you tip the glass up, you see a teensy-tiny bug clinging to the inside of your glass? Okay, great (just play along). This became my predicament, but instead of scraping said bug out, I kept my glass tipped at an angle and kept drinking, never letting my tea touch the bug. Sure, this could be attributed to sheer laziness, but then I thought, how many other people would even notice the bug? 


I've been thinking a lot about perspective lately, as evidenced by my last post. How many people would have blindly swallowed that bug along with their tea, never even knowing it existed?


When I'm writing I often just want to write down tiny observations around me, weird little things like the bug or the cracks between the boards of our porch or the shapes of plant leaves or the distant sound of the train on its tracks. Little things that others either don't notice or don't find significant enough to commit to memory. Is this what makes a writer? Are these really the life observations I want to share? What do I want to say, and what do train whistles and porch cracks have to do with it?


What am I trying to say?  


I guess it would be...notice when you hear a train. Notice what concrete feels like against your feet. Notice the cool air and how a change of season makes you feel and bugs and leaf shapes and cracks in the wood. React. Be someone who notices and marvels at even the littlest happening, someone who feels deeply and consistently.


And then decide whether you want to get that bug out of your glass or not. No judgment if you don't.


   

thoughts on a train

Yesterday I fell asleep on the train from Dallas to Denton. The majority of my day had been spent in traveling: by bus, train, and a horrifyingly expensive cab. Needless to say, by the time I got on the train for my return trip to Denton, I was worn down.

The day turned into a series of stressors – one after another after another. I ended up stranded in downtown Dallas, with no idea how to get to where I needed to be. I’m sure I looked very lost and helpless in my tribal-print skirt, standing on the sidewalk of the West End transfer station. Enough to attract the attention of shady men who told me things like “I can show you how to make some money out here.” Dubious, sir. I paid an outrageous cab fee just to get the heck outta Dodge.

I sat in my scratchy train seat, tired, dehydrated, smelling of big city exhaust. The trip cost me more money than I’d dreamed possible, and I had missed getting to my job. I felt quite miserable. I put in my earphones and promptly nodded off to Fleet Foxes “Mykonos.”

When I woke up the light coming in through my window was dim; the sun was setting. I felt more tired than before, and I thought again about how many things went wrong in my day. But, looking out the window behind me, I saw the most beautiful play of colors and light in the sky from the sunset. Just pure magic.

Some people don’t even notice when the sun sets. It happens every day; they become used to it. Their eyes sweep across the sky blankly, discerning nothing. Some people see a sunset, see the pinkspurplesredsoranges, and they think of the chemicals and pollutions scattering light and creating the colors. Nothing too magical there.  

And then there are the others, and they see...well, they see something different. Each time is special, unique: a calling card. Never do the pinks and the purples mix exactly alike with the blue. The light never filters through the clouds quite the same way.  

In that moment, I was glad to know that my perspective stayed the same. Even though my day had been a tiresome, frustrating mess, I could still see.

work happy

The happiest work I think my mom ever did was when she had a job delivering flowers at a wholesale florist.


Now, some people might think arranging daisies all day is boring work, but my mom loves flowers and gardening and all that snazz. They delivered all over the place, not just Texarkana, but not many people worked there and the bosses were cool. I came with my mom to work many a Saturday and in the summer during my middle school years. Like my mom, I enjoyed being there too.


At first I just kinda hung around my mom's work area, reading or writing or watching cartoons. I was eleven and shy and had braces and barely talked to anyone. But soon I became a little office elf, doing odd jobs here and there. I bagged ice and took it into the walk-in cooler to put in the flower buckets, keeping them fresh. I rolled newspaper for the delivery boxes til my hands were stained with print. Once, my mom's boss even paid me twenty bucks just to sweep the warehouse floor. It was thrilling. 


Even better was going on deliveries with my mom, hopping in the ole van with all the back seats ripped out, stacks and stacks of big flower boxes to take to local florists. I remember all the storeowners as being older women named Ruth or Ida who would give me fresh, whole-shell pecans and convince my mom to buy me a Beanie Baby. When we were done with deliveries and headed back to the warehouse, mom would let me have a leftover chrysanthemum, my favorite at the time. I liked to pull the mesh net off the head of the flower and watch the bloom explode open. Then we'd grab lunch, me getting a milkshake that I would later leave to milk and ooze in the hot, unattended van.


I don't know why this particular memory popped into my head last night. Maybe because my graduation is looming like the Iron Giant, and I don't know what career I'll love like my mom loves flowers. Mom hasn't worked at that florist in a long time, and I've seen the difference between a job she loves and a job she dreads going to. She definitely didn't rake in major cash delivering baby's breath* and roses, but it made her happy. And I'd rather work happy than work rich. Work at something that God has gifted me with, that creates a passion and, dare I say, a difference. I know He'll show me...even if it's not today.




*I always called it baby's butt...those flowers did not smell good, contrary to the nose of whoever named them.

poem: bones

*This is an unfinished poem I wrote a couple of years ago...when I was still figuring things out. Forgive the melodrama.

Bones spread from flesh to the earth
But I'd rather my bones be held
In a state of suspension
Perhaps in a mausoleum
Or even farther up
Floating to the heavens
And then to The heaven
And God will grab my bones
Claim them
"These are my bones."
My ribs could be a harp
For the angels to strum,
My pelvis maybe a tambourine,
That would be ok for me.
I could be your music, God
Play me for the world
Get use from those bones, God
'Cause I gotta say
I didn't use them well enough
In my now lost days.
Those bones might as well have been
The dust from which they formed
For all the good I did with them,
So
Can they be redeemed?

fiction: the lake

     *This is a short fiction I did for creative writing class earlier this semester. I decided I want to start sharing my fiction/non-fiction/writing exercises/occasional poems sometimes, just to get it out there. Time to be more vulnerable.   

     They were just now in July, and Patrick felt like there hadn’t been a breeze since April. Nights like these, without even wind shifting the tree leaves…they felt like forever, like dawn could never stretch its fingers far enough to catch them.
     “Come on,” Adam whispered somewhere in front of him, too dark to see. A flick of a lighter, and Patrick saw Adam’s half-turned grin, further ahead of him than he’d thought. “You’re gettin’ behind.”
     The lake looked different at night, wilder, the black water hiding fish, tossed beer bottles, and maybe even monsters. A dirty lake, sure, with cigarette butts hidden in the sand, but it was still their lake, their domain. From the trailer park it was only possible to get there by walking, through the little woods behind the park, down the Converse-worn grass path. The boys knew they were getting close when the grass started to give way to sand, and they could hear the water, barely slapping up against the shore.
     Adam stopped right in front of the water; for a second, Patrick thought he meant to walk right into the lake. But instead he just looked at the water, flicking that lighter, then pulled a Newport pack from his pocket and shook out one of its occupants. The stillness of the air made the summer heat even less bearable, and Patrick felt his cuts more fiercely from scraping by trees in the woods. His sweat made them sting. He regretted wearing his heavy JNCO jeans and the dark Blink-182 shirt. But Adam had said he was going to wear his JNCOs because they were the only pants with big enough pockets for his Newports and the firecrackers. Like always, Patrick followed Adam; Adam was thirteen, a year older than him, and he deferred to him in almost every situation. The summer Patrick was nine one of the trailers in the park where they lived was torn down, and the two boys liked to play in the leftover wreckage. Patrick stepped barefoot on a board with a long nail sticking out. Tears squeezed out his eyes in equal proportion to the blood from his foot, and Adam ran off to get help, or so Patrick thought. Instead he returned with a piece of plain, white, Sunbeam bread and slapped it on his friend’s foot. “Fights the infection so you won’t have to cut it off,” he’d said. From then on Patrick held Adam’s knowledge, whether right or wrong, in a kind of wonder and elevated sense.
     Without a word of warning, Adam pulled a pack of Black Cats out of his jeans and lit the whole thing, throwing it on the ground by Patrick’s feet as they went off RAT-TAT-TAT-TAT. Patrick knew they’d come down there to set off fireworks, but the shock of the noise in all that quiet made him jump away. “Jeez, watch out!” he said. It came out more nervous than he’d hoped, and with his senses spiked he smelled a sick wave of dead fish coming from nearby.
     Adam just laughed, the small glow from his cigarette and the glint of his teeth visible. “Here, let’s set off these bottle rockets.” He tossed Patrick three or four along with another lighter. Patrick hesitated, pinching the fuse, thumbing the cheap green lighter until its little metal spur made his skin raw. He watched Adam hold one in his hand, light the fuse, and vault it in the air towards the lake. The bottle rocket suspended in air, and for a moment Patrick thought it would just putter out and land in the water. But of course, Adam’s timed it perfectly, and the rocket suddenly zipped up in a trail of sparks, popping rather quietly. Patrick grinned. He lit one of his own rockets and watched the fire racing up the fuse. “Throw it, man!” Adam laughed, drawing him out of that easy trance between a boy and a flame. Patrick hurriedly tossed it with much less skill than Adam, and the rocket barely left his hand before taking off and popping.
     Now they were on a roll, throwing bottle rockets one after another, over the lake then towards the trees, straight up to the stars. Patrick laughed; July 4th had passed with no fireworks thanks to the city burn ban, but Adam bought some anyway. He whispered plans to for their own fun to Patrick and lifted extra rockets when the firework stand man wasn’t looking. Patrick felt uneasy when Adam stole stuff, but his mom knew and didn’t seem to care. Well, she sighed and said, “Adam, why do you want to make my life harder?” in that slow, tired voice, but she only feebly attempted punishment. Adam said she didn’t do anything to him because she usually worked late at night at 7-11, and when she was home she didn’t want to deal with it she just wanted to cry cry cry about his stupid dad who left like four years ago and she couldn’t move on. Adam always said these things like he didn’t care, but Patrick’s dad said every boy wants their father, even Adam.
     Patrick ran down the lake shore, throwing his firework to the side, and then collapsed on the compact sand, out of breath, out of rockets. Adam, several yards away, yelled, “Watch this one!” and Patrick saw the fuse sparks and the arc of his arm as he pulled back. The rocket didn’t go up, but rather straight, and then downward into a mess of dirty weeds and tall grass growing along the shore.
     Fire exploded. The dead, dry grass caught like gasoline, the lack of rain in a month being the very reason the burn ban was put in place. Patrick jerked up, spraying sand. Adam stood with his back to him, watching the fire catch and spread along the grass and toward the woods. Patrick ran up, panicked, looking for a bottle, a kid’s sand bucket, anything he might use to scoop up water for the fire. But there was nothing. The helplessness of the situation, even with a lake right by their feet, made Patrick scream. “Why did you do that?!”
     Even in his panic, Patrick felt aware of his choice of words, the underlying accusation, but he knew them to be true. Adam watched the fire, fascinated, his cheeks turning red from the heat. He turned his head to Patrick, now beside him, and Patrick saw the fire reflected in his eyes, orange and red and consuming.
     “I made a lake of fire,” Adam grinned.
     Patrick had cried in front of Adam more times than he wanted to admit, but this was the first time he didn’t care. “This is our lake, this is our place!” he choked out, but Adam looked at the trees, the fire climbing up the trunks. Frustrated, hurt, Patrick ran for the trees the fire hadn’t caught, racing back to the trailer park to get help, to find God-knows-what.

denton life: zera's

I've been bouncing the idea for a series of posts in my head awhile now, and I wanted to write about things related to where I currently live, Denton. And the most natural way to show my Denton love is to write about the places in the city that I adore. There are many such places where I spend my time and also manage to evoke what Denton is: The Square, Recycled Books, The Village Church (all possibilities for upcoming posts), but for my very first in the series: Zera's.  


Zera means "seed" in Hebrew

Beautiful furniture, made to feel like home



Zera's (pronounced ZEER-uh) is only one of Denton's many phenomenal coffeeshops, but there's something a little extra special about this particular shop. It's run by a non-profit Christian men's ministry that helps guys reclaim their life from serious problems like drug abuse, addiction, etc. The atmosphere is so peaceful and relaxing; they always play worship music, and I find myself humming Hillsong under my breath as I study. They have a dizzying number of drinks to choose from: many many coffees, smoothies, teas, Italian cream sodas, Coke floats. I want to try everything eventually, but I'm struggling to stray from my beloved Mexican Hot Chocolate.      

The Mexican Hot Chocolate was the first purchase I made at Zera's. I've been forced to buy it every time I go to Zera's since that first taste. I described it to my roommates as "gloriousness in a mug", and I dare say it's no exaggeration. I don't know if I'll ever be able to drink regular ole hot chocolate. I've crossed over. 



My lunch today:
delicious Mexican hot chocolate + sandwich

When you buy Mexican Hot Chocolate, be sure to smell it before drinking. It sets you up for the whole rest of the experience. Warm, cozy cinnamon hits your nose, and you are instantly transported to cold nights, wool scarves, and general winter holiday goodness. Then you actually taste the cinnamon, milk, and rich chocolate, and the drink owns you. Gone. Drink it while it's very hot. Hold that plain white mug in your hands and let it warm you. Mexican hot chocolate is a happy drink, so don't enjoy if you want to be dark and moody and rage against the world.

Tuesday night my roomie Asilyn and I went to Zera's to chill and study, me taking one of the bigger tables to spread all my books and junk on, and she nestling into a huge, insanely comfortable plaid armchair woth her laptop. For some reason we couldn't help but talk and laugh every minute or so about completely ridiculous things, but no one shot us death glares over their macchiato mugs. Even the guy working, who had taken a break and sat reading his Bible a few tables away, didn't feel bothered by our giggling. In fact, he even helped me find the bathroom light switch minutes later, which shows just how nice and helpful the guys are who work at Zera's. I stood in the dark in that bathroom for a good two minutes, groping the walls for the switch, and then I reluctantly came out and announced, "Am I crazy? Because I couldn't find the light in there. At all." I had already been bumping into furniture and spinning in circles to find trash cans, so he must have really caught on to my spatial awareness disability* by then. Luckily he laughed (in amusement? disbelief? pity?) and showed me the one inch of space on the wall I had missed, lending a little more light to my world.     

Invisible light switches aside, I plan on spending many more days and nights curled up at Zera's reading or studying at one of the tables or writing. It's great for writing, as I discovered this afternoon. I still feel like it's slightly more hidden away than some of Denton's other coffeeshops, which I love, but I don't mind sharing the love for Zera's. My friend Kelly told me about it months ago, and then I finally went and got all starry-eyed. I only wish it was warm enough at night to enjoy the adorable outside area with its lights and tables and greenery. Hey, maybe I'll just suck it up and put on some mittens and take my Mexican Hot Chocolate out there anyway. And if you want to join me, that would be quite all right, Denton.  



*Absolutely not a real disability, to my knowledge. But it should be.

**All pictures (except of my lunch) are not from me, rather Zera's Facebook at Zera's Coffee Company