Home

"... where my thoughts escape me,
home --
where my music's playin',
home --
where my love lies waitin' silently for me..."
- Simon & Garfunkel "Homeward Bound"

One week ago, I moved my queen bed into its third apartment since I bought it in August 2003. Here are my long-promised thoughts about that thing called "home."


A friend of mine lives in the same town as all her family, has lived in that town her whole life, and was recently shocked when she thought of Atlanta as home rather than longing for Virginia.
Throughout college, my friends got homesick, missing their native climate, their local snacks, their best friend since the second grade.

The idea of home is different for me.

I went to five schools before graduating high school. My parents moved three times while I was in college. For 14 of my 27 years I had no extended family in the state where I lived.
My grandmother's house in Gainesville, FL has been the most consistent place in my life. When people ask me where I'm from, I say I don't have one of those. With both parents United Methodist ministers, we moved every few years, and each usually had two churches. That's a lot of churches.

I don't say all of that in a "woe is me" fashion. I wouldn't change any of it. Except for the people who were mean to my parents... I'd erase that. (Be nice to your minister!)


Here are a few results of my parsonage-hopping childhood:

I have had to call my parents to get directions to our house. That is a funny thing to do.

On a Sunday morning, I can walk into a United Methodist church and feel at home. I felt more at home in Wesley's City Road Chapel in London or in Epworth UMC at Candler Park here in Atlanta than I would if I were to return to a house I lived in as a child.

Home is a feeling for me, not a location.

I take a lot of pictures, because I'll never see some friends again. And that's okay. But it doesn't mean that I wasn't changed by them or that I don't remember them.

I both love and hate moving. I love going new places and trying new things, getting acclimated to a new environment -- a fresh start. But I hate boxes. I hate carrying my stuff to a truck and driving it somewhere else. I hate regretting that I have held onto certain things, and having to decide which momentos are less significant. If only I were a minimalist...

I am not afraid to go somewhere new. I've lived in small farm towns, state capitols, unincorporated communities, and small cities. I've lived in five states, each of which has a distinct and dynamic personality. If I get somewhere and it sucks, I've learned that it will probably get better, but if not it is just temporary anyway.


I came to Candler for lots of reasons: to gain a deeper grasp on theology in general, to focus on social justice, to live in Atlanta -- a deeply historic yet modern and exciting city...
But mostly I think I came here because I already knew people here. Several of my college friends live in Atlanta, and a couple are associated with Candler. Also, two of my US-2 classmates are here.
I've never started a new phase of my life with a pre-established support system (outside my family).

Regardless of the reasons I came, I am glad I am here.
Candler feels like home.
Atlanta feels like home, at least for now...

Moving

stinks

I am super stoked about the new apt.
But I hate packing.
I will hate unpacking next week.
I have too much crap.
I don't know what to do with it.

I have been packing some each day
but I have so much left.
I knew this would happen.
The sprained ankle didn't help me
overcome my procrastination.

Ugh.

sleep...

i must

i am not a person who can go without it
it turns out

goodnight.

My parents at their Surprise 30th Anniversary Fiesta on Sunday  

To Drive or Not To Drive...

Today I drove

for the first time since the sprain
last Monday.

And, it sucked.

I love driving.
I hate being a passenger.
Probably mostly a control issue
but I do get carsick
which is probably also a control issue.

My ankle/foot is at that point
where it seems silly to use crutches
because it doesn't hurt to walk
but it does hurt 30 minutes later.
And evidently it hurts to drive.


Side note:
my mom rocks
for driving me 4.5 hours to the ATL
for cooking me an awesome dinner
for taking me out to breakfast at the Flying Biscuit
for washing my dishes
(which I haven't been able to do because I can't stand long)
for packing my dishes
and just in general

On the injured list

that's me

I am officially sprained.

The doctor said
just to keep doing what I have been.
You know, R.I.C.E.ing it.
And using my crutches.
Then she had her nurse wrap my ankle
in an ace bandage.

Changing Gears

I have finished my school work.
Now I have summer.

What will she procrastinate now?
Never fear.
I need to move in 3 weeks.
And we all know how that goes.

Well, maybe you don't.
Here's the picture:
I'll pack a box here,
a box there.
Dishes, books, that sort of easy thing.
Then it will be 2 days before I move
and I will have massive amounts of stuff
left to pack.
I will stay up nearly all night
at least once packing.
Because, you see, I really want to organize
as I pack
but that's hard
so I'll put it off.

If you've been around for one of my moves
-- Spider, Sissy, Dave --
you are well aware of this process.
If you get to help me this year
-- John, Dana, Dave --
get ready.
Here it comes.
I'll buy you dinner for the trouble.


And also another thing too:
I think I sprained my ankle today.
I was jumping to catch a frisbee
and you know how your feet are
supposed to land flat on the ground?
Well my right foot didn't.
It hurts a bit.

Russel, angry Dave Scott, Me, Jaycephus, Dana, John at Spring Banquet  

With Dave at Spring Banquet last weekend -- precious, huh? 

Finals

It's the end, folks.
Of the school year, that is.
Only three 3-4 page essays
and one actual final exam
separate me from summer!
Yesterday, I turned in a 5 page paper
plus 2 brochures.

So, why can't I make myself write
my 3 exegetical essays?
Maybe because I still have no real clue
what an exegetical essay looks like.

Thus, today I have packed up
my Christmas dishes and decorations.
(I know, it's May...)
I talked on the phone for an hour and a half.
I went to lunch.
I even took a shower and put on real clothes.

Alas, I have nothing to say.
At least about the exegetical assignments...

Ooh, I do need to do laundry!

The other day, my friend said
that procrastination is a result of perfectionism
because you don't want to start something
if you know it won't be good enough.
I think that is true for me.
If I know it's not going to be as good as I want it to
why put massive amounts of time into it?
Also, I recognize the lack of logic here:
1) it could be better if I put more time into it
2) why not just get it over with?

Anyway.
I'm going to go sit on the couch and stare at the Bible.
I'll be waiting for divine inspiration...

I used to hate pink

the color, not the formerly famous singer.

It was too girly.
I was a tomboy growing up
and climbed trees and ran races in college.
Only after I graduated from GC
and started real jobs
did I gain an appreciation for
the color pink.

It is pretty.
And it looks nice with my skin.
I am wearing a pink shirt today,
in case you wondered.
Rock on.

cooking on the "campfire" the other night 

These crazies are my friends: Michael trying to make out with Dana at dinner... 

Camping?

Tonight
I am going "camping."

When I first heard the idea to camp
I was stoked.
Maybe we'd head out to a state park.
Maybe we'd go to the mountains.

Nope.

The rest of the idea was to camp in town.
In Atlanta.
Not just in ATL,
but in the woods behind my apt. complex.
Fire and all.

So it took me a while,
but I warmed up to the idea.
It'll be funny at least.

Now, we are not even going in the woods.
We're setting up camp,
so to speak,
in the yard behind the conference center
at the back of the apt. complex
(all owned by Emory).
And we're not having a fire.
We are using my grill.

Camping indeed.
Photos to come, I am sure...

Nada

So, my clock radio is set to an oldies station.
I like to hear the Beatles or the Monkees
in the morning.
Makes me get out of bed.
Sometimes.
(The other day,
I figured out that if I scoot down and over
a few inches
and lean toward my dresser
upon which the alarm clock is perched,
I can reach the snooze bar with my big toe.)

This morning,
I did not hear the Beatles
nor the Monkees or Mamas and Papas
or Sam Cooke.
This morning,
I did not hear english.

Evidently,
the world of communication has decided
that oldies are out
and spanish is in.
Turns out that my station
switched to spanish at midnight last night.

I was unaware.
And taken aback
due to being unaware.

I remember some spanish.
Not enough to put it on my resume.
Or, I recently learned,
enough to listen to a radio morning show.

Tallahassee lost its oldies station
less than a year after I moved there, too.
Perhaps it's just me.