Full Circle

It's hard for me not to think about the fact that soon I'll be heading home-- back to the place where this journey began eight months ago.  When I left Delaware, I had no idea where the winds would take me, nor did I know how long the journey was to last.  I went to Europe, the Middle East (Asia), and Africa.  I visited Germany, Holland, Czech, Austria, United Arab Emirates, Oman, and South Africa.  It's been an amazing time!

On May 10th, I'll board a plane, and seventeen hours later, I will touch down in New York City's JFK airport.  My journey will not be over once I land, as I'll have to board a "Chinatown Bus" and trek another three hours to Delaware (such are the pains of a gal trying to save a buck.  Flying into Philadelphia would have been so much easier, but just not as cheap).


The question I keep getting from friends and acquaintances alike it, "Are you excited to be going home?"  My initial response is no.  I am not homesick, nor do I do not miss the United States.  I'm having too grand of an adventure to want to go home.  Additionally, going home for me means returning to my parent's house in the suburbs (since I'm homeless), where I lack transportation (I don't have a car), have very few friends (they all moved away eons ago), and no prospects at work (not much modeling going on in Delaware!).  It's not much to look forward to.


But, my answer needs to be a little more nuanced than that.  You see, my very best friend in the world also happens to live with my parents (my twin sis, Erin).  I adore my parents, and there was a time in my life where they probably thought they'd never see me go (As a child, I once famously declared, "When I grow up, I'm going to marry Mom and Daddy, so I can live with them forever!").  I miss my sewing machine, and my dressform, and the myriad of projects I have sitting at home waiting for me to complete.  I miss shopping for vintage clothes, and the little shop I set up on Etsy to sell some of my finds.  I miss my violin.  I miss the promise of potential friendships that have never been permitted to develop due to my lengthy absences (such as with Randy and Becca and Heidi and others).  I look forward to using a desktop computer again, with a large monitor, and with a scanner and printer attached.  I look forward to seeing my closet full of clothes that will appear as new to me (Can you imagine?  I've been wearing the same few clothes for almost eight months?  I've lived out of a suitcase with three pairs of shoes, two pairs of jeans, and a handful of dresses.)  I hear Netflix calling my name, and I can't wait for my mom's southern cooking and sweet tea.  And I miss late afternoon naps on my parent's couch with three of my best friends curled up next to me (as pictured above.  A fourth, Lillie, isn't pictured, as she tends to be Miss Independent, but she's welcome to join the slumber party as well!). Finally, I'm looking forward to quality time spent with a precocious and sometimes bratty niece who is very dear to my heart.


Am I excited to be going home?  I guess I am.  But I'm sure gonna miss it here!


XOXO,

A Tale of Two Volcanoes

I suppose depending upon where you live, this volcano thing has completely affected your life, or maybe it hasn't at all.  I imagine for my family in Delaware, it doesn't have much impact, but here in Dubai (yes, I've bid adieu to Africa and returned to the Middle East) there are over 11,000 crew that fly with Emirates Airlines.  In addition to that, 80% of the people who live in Dubai are ex-pats, which means they're not from here.  I know quite a few people who have been affected by this whole thing.

The Scream by Edvard Munch, 

But while most people are complaining, I found this great article at the New York Times about a volcano in Java that changed the world in 1883.  Simon Winchester writes, "Where Iceland has caused shock, Java resulted in awe. And where Eyjafjalla’s ashes seem to have cost millions in lost business, Krakatoa’s dust left the world not just a remarkable legacy of unforgettable art but also spurred a vital discovery in atmospheric science."

Winchester continues:

The skies in the fall of 1883 became weirdly changed. The moon turned blue, or sometimes green. Firefighters in New York and elsewhere thought they saw distant fires, caused by clouds of boiling dust. The vivid ash-tinged sunsets, and the post-sunset horizon rainbows of purple and passion fruit and salmon-red, were said to be the most memorable.

Painters in particular did their best to capture what they saw. An obscure Londoner named William Ascroft, astonished by the nightly light show along the Thames, turned out a watercolor every 10 minutes, night after night, working like a human camera. More than 500 Krakatoa paintings survive him. “Blood afterglow,” he jotted down on one canvas, noting the magic done by refractive crystals of dust; “Amber afterglow,” on another.

Grander artists, like Frederic Church of the Hudson River School, were spurred to action too. In December, four months after the Javanese blast, Church hurried up from Olana, his Moorish castle near Poughkeepsie, to Lake Ontario, and one perfect evening caught the vivid crepuscular purples over the ice on Chaumont Bay, knowing full well — as science already did — that it was a volcano 10,000 miles away that had painted the sky for him.

And one even more famous painting speaks of Krakatoa as well: recent research suggests that Edvard Munch a decade later painted “The Scream” while remembering a night in Oslo that had been much affected by the volcanic dust. Indeed, the climatic records show that the swirling orange skies behind the terror-stricken face match perfectly those recorded that winter in southern Norway.

How cool is that?  But wait, there's more.  "It left a lasting effect on science as well.

The heavier dust from Krakatoa slowly fell to earth, coating ships and cities thousands of miles away. But the micron-sized particles from the volcano’s mouth did not fall back at all. Instead, they were carried ever upward, and ended up floating around the world for years, on streams of globe-girdling winds that were not then even known to exist. 

Weather-watchers, carefully noting just when certain skies in certain cities were inflamed and colored by the passing high-altitude dust clouds, produced a map showing just how these wind currents moved around the world. The first name they used for the phenomenon was the “equatorial smoke stream.” Today it is, of course, the jet stream — a discovery that remains perhaps the most important legacy of Krakatoa.

I'm curious to see how this volcano will effect things on the global scale, but in the meanwhile, I'm looking forward to the sunsets.  And, I'm reminded that God is in control.

XOXO,


 

#1Random: How to Escape from Quicksand

I am a Googler.  I'm not sure if that is a word, but for my purposes it means "one who Googles."  I really love having knowledge at my fingertips, and any time I have a question, I research it on the internet.  If I see someone reading a book I've never heard of, I Google it.  And if I hear someone quoting a "fact" that doesn't make any logical sense to me (i.e., drinking hot beverages will cool you down, or chewing gum stays in your stomach for seven years), I just look it up to satisfy myself on the true answer.

Do you remember the scene in "The Princess Bride" where Buttercup steps into the "snow sand" and Wesley has to jump in and rescue her?  She disappears immediately in the quicksand, and Wesley dives in after her.  That, and many other movies, depict quicksand as a pit where one quickly sinks to the bottom, suffocating in the sand.


Well, according to this article at National Geographic, the most a person would sink, even while struggling, is to about waist deep.  The danger lies not in suffocation, but in getting stuck, so that when the tide comes in, you could drown.


So, how does one escape if stuck in quicksand?   Do not have someone pull you; the researchers suggest that if friends tried to pull you out, they'd only succeed in pulling you "into two pieces if [they] try hard to pull [you] out."  Instead, he continues, "The way to do it is to wriggle your legs around. This creates a space between the legs and the quicksand through which water can flow down to dilate [loosen] the sand.  You can get out using this technique, if you do it slowly and progressively."


Now you know. And if you don't believe me, you can Google it.




XOXO,


BTW, for those non-Americans out there who have not seen this film, you really should.  It is an American classic that children of my generation (Gen X or the Millennial Generation-- I think straddle both), were weened on.

His Wounds Have Paid My Ransom

How deep the Father's love for us

How vast beyond all measure

That He would give His only Son

To make a wretch His treasure

How great the pain of searing loss

The Father turns His face away

As wounds which mar the chosen One

Bring many sons to glory

Behold the Man upon a cross

My guilt upon His shoulders

Ashamed, I hear my mocking voice

Call out among the scoffers

It was my sin that held Him there

Until it was accomplished

His dying breath has brought me life

I know that it is finished

I will not boast in anything

No gifts, no powr's, no wisdom

But I will boast in Jesus Christ

His death and resurrection

Why should I gain from His reward?

I cannot give an answer

But this I know with all my heart

His wounds have paid my ransom

I Love These!

Designed by my supremely talented friends, Charl and Donna.  

If you're in Cape Town, VOX City Church is a new church community starting up in the City Bowl of Cape Town.  You can visit their website here for more information.

Please note: Friday's service has changed locations to Baran's Restaurant in Green Market Square. 

Best.Pickup.Ever

I went out on Tuesday night to go to Dizzy's in Camps Bay the other night for karaoke night.  As my roommates and I waited in line to get past the bouncer, we both automatically put our hands out to be stamped.

Upon closer inspection, this is what I saw:

This guy did NOT work for the club.  I got my hand stamped by the real bouncer a few minutes later.

Awesome.  Guys, he get major points for being creative.  And for being funny.

That said, still not going to call him.  But maybe you should-- here's his number!

XOXO,

Thaw by Fiona Robyn

Ruth's diary is the new novel by Fiona Robyn, called Thaw. She has decided to blog the novel in its entirety over the next few months, so you can read it for free.

Ruth's first entry is below, and you can continue reading tomorrow here.

*

These hands are ninety-three years old. They belong to Charlotte Marie Bradley Miller. She was so frail that her grand-daughter had to carry her onto the set to take this photo. It’s a close-up. Her emaciated arms emerge from the top corners of the photo and the background is black, maybe velvet, as if we’re being protected from seeing the strings. One wrist rests on the other, and her fingers hang loose, close together, a pair of folded wings. And you can see her insides.

The bones of her knuckles bulge out of the skin, which sags like plastic that has melted in the sun and is dripping off her, wrinkling and folding. Her veins look as though they’re stuck to the outside of her hands. They’re a colour that’s difficult to describe: blue, but also silver, green; her blood runs through them, close to the surface. The book says she died shortly after they took this picture. Did she even get to see it? Maybe it was the last beautiful thing she left in the world.

I’m trying to decide whether or not I want to carry on living. I’m giving myself three months of this journal to decide. You might think that sounds melodramatic, but I don’t think I’m alone in wondering whether it’s all worth it. I’ve seen the look in people’s eyes. Stiff suits travelling to work, morning after morning, on the cramped and humid tube. Tarted-up girls and gangs of boys reeking of aftershave, reeling on the pavements on a Friday night, trying to mop up the dreariness of their week with one desperate, fake-happy night. I’ve heard the weary grief in my dad’s voice.

So where do I start with all this? What do you want to know about me? I’m Ruth White, thirty-two years old, going on a hundred. I live alone with no boyfriend and no cat in a tiny flat in central London. In fact, I had a non-relationship with a man at work, Dan, for seven years. I’m sitting in my bedroom-cum-living room right now, looking up every so often at the thin rain slanting across a flat grey sky. I work in a city hospital lab as a microbiologist. My dad is an accountant and lives with his sensible second wife Julie, in a sensible second home. Mother finished dying when I was fourteen, three years after her first diagnosis. What else? What else is there?

Charlotte Marie Bradley Miller. I looked at her hands for twelve minutes. It was odd describing what I was seeing in words. Usually the picture just sits inside my head and I swish it around like tasting wine. I have huge books all over my flat — books you have to take in both hands to lift. I’ve had the photo habit for years. Mother bought me my first book, black and white landscapes by Ansel Adams. When she got really ill, I used to take it to bed with me and look at it for hours, concentrating on the huge trees, the still water, the never-ending skies. I suppose it helped me think about something other than what was happening. I learned to focus on one photo at a time rather than flicking from scene to scene in search of something to hold me. If I concentrate, then everything stands still. Although I use them to escape the world, I also think they bring me closer to it. I’ve still got that book. When I take it out, I handle the pages as though they might flake into dust.

Mother used to write a journal. When I was small, I sat by her bed in the early mornings on a hard chair and looked at her face as her pen spat out sentences in short bursts. I imagined what she might have been writing about — princesses dressed in star-patterned silk, talking horses, adventures with pirates. More likely she was writing about what she was going to cook for dinner and how irritating Dad’s snoring was.

I’ve always wanted to write my own journal, and this is my chance. Maybe my last chance. The idea is that every night for three months, I’ll take one of these heavy sheets of pure white paper, rough under my fingertips, and fill it up on both sides. If my suicide note is nearly a hundred pages long, then no-one can accuse me of not thinking it through. No-one can say, ‘It makes no sense; she was a polite, cheerful girl, had everything to live for,’ before adding that I did keep myself to myself. It’ll all be here. I’m using a silver fountain pen with purple ink. A bit flamboyant for me, I know. I need these idiosyncratic rituals; they hold things in place. Like the way I make tea, squeezing the tea-bag three times, the exact amount of milk, seven stirs. My writing is small and neat; I’m striping the paper. I’m near the bottom of the page now. Only ninety-one more days to go before I’m allowed to make my decision. That’s it for today. It’s begun.

Continue reading here.

One Crown Worth it All

Ruth Benedict, one of the first women to attain recognition as a major social scientist, wrote in her journal in 1912:

To me it seems a very terrible thing to be a woman.  There is one crown which perhaps is worth it all-- a great love, a quiet home, and children.   We all know that is all that is worthwhile, and we must peg away, showing off our wares in the market if we have money, or manufacturing careers for ourselves if we haven't.  We have not the motive to prepare ourselves for a 'lifework' of teaching, of social work-- we know that we would lay it down with hallelujah in the height of our success, to make a home for the right man.  And all the time in the background of our consciousness rings the warning that perhaps the right man will never come.  A great love is given to very few.  Perhaps this makeshift time-filler of a job is our lifework after all.

I'm feeling melancholy today.  My "career" feels like such a waste of time-- I am constantly worried about where my money is coming from.  I contemplate quitting and finding something else to do, but the same problem arises-- what is my life's work?  What can I do that seems worthwhile?  Like Benedict, I think the cry of my heart has been to be a helpmeet (Genesis 2:18) and a mom (like my mom and her mom before her-- two women who have utterly inspired me).  I don't think a man should be my end goal-- that is reserved for following Christ, but I can't help but think: isn't this what we (women) were created for?


It's not the lack of a man that distresses me at the moment, just the feeling that what I am doing in my life serves no purpose.  How wonderful it must be to have felt what it means to be called to something!  I have been told that here are people who love what they do, and moreover, get paid to do it.  I'm not complaining about what I do, but it would be nice to get to paid for it as well.


(The above quote comes from the book I am currently re-reading, Let Me Be a Woman by Elisabeth Elliot.  I highly recommend it to you ladies.  I think I discovered it in college, and it remains one of my favorites to this day.)


XOXO,






My apologies to all the men I just freaked out.