Whole30 - Day 20

   I've made it two-thirds of the way!!  

   Whole30 is hard, but it's a good thing to do.  That first week was the worst.  After that, things eased up a bit.  My clothes are fitting me better, I've lost weight, and my skin looks great.  It's amazing how your body responds when you only put healthy things into it.  

   Which makes me kind of--almost--regretful that this is almost over.  Whole30 is not sustainable.  It wouldn't be good for me long-term.  I'm grateful for that, of course.  There is just no way in the world that I'd agree to live this way.

   And since I'm being honest, this week I haven't been able to stop thinking about all the things that I want to eat.  I miss eating out.  I miss ice cream and lemonade.  I miss wine and margaritas.  My roomie and I have promised ourselves frozen margaritas after June 16th.  

   I have June the 17th specially marked on my calendars; it's going to be a happy day, but I can't go crazy.  I have no desire to undo everything I've worked so hard for.  Roomie says we're changing from 100% healthy to 80% healthy and 20% unhealthy.  Right now that percentage sounds lovely.   

   There's really not a lot to say.  I've come so far, I'm not going to cheat now.  And I am going to stick it out for thirty days.  No caving or partying or compromising on Day 28. 

   One thing is bothering me, though.  I can walk by all the things in the store that I want without giving them a second glance.  I've found that I can watch other people eating cookies and brownies in front of me...and behold, I do not die.  

   It's almost like I always had the ability to say no all along.  But maybe it's only because I know that I can't have those things.  I'm trying to remind myself that there's no difference anywhere.  I didn't sign a contract in blood.  I could buy a bottle of wine if I wanted to and have an occasional glass.  I really could.  Nothing outside my will is stopping me.  But...this time, I have a real reason to say no.  That is, I have judged something else to be more important than indulging myself.  Before I didn't really have a compelling argument against the simple, "But I want this, and now!"  

   I have a reason to say no.  And because I'm practically chomping at the bit to be rid of it, that scares me.  For all my weakness...I don't really want to go back to that again.  

   Rules bring safety, but they are shackles.  I don't want to live by some strict code, but I don't want to be enslaved to gluttony, either.  They both bind me.  Not being able to say no makes me a slave to my every whim.  Being dependent on rules makes me turn down a single square of chocolate.

   Gosh...freedom is hard.  It's scary.  Right now...I'm not sure I like it.  I mean, I know me!  I don't like saying no to things I want.  How long will I be able to maintain the heavy responsibility of freedom for myself?  

   I know all about watching other folks have what I want.  I've had to do a lot of that in my life.  I'm sure we all have, but that doesn't make it any easier to bear.  

   I used to live by the philosophy that if I wanted something, run the other way as fast as you can, because it's probably bad for you.  And if you try to fight for it, you'll only get yourself in trouble.  Whether it was something as small as chocolate, or making eye-contact with a handsome stranger, run!  Trying to appeal only brings a lecture about the vices.  And drawing attention to it could diminish the freedoms you already have.  

   It has always baffled me how young people are so prone to rebel.  How do you rebel when you have no freedom to choose in the first place?  How do you fight for more freedom when you never had any freedom in the first place?  

   This bent in my character toward gluttony has infested my entire life, rarely if ever checked in any way.  I liked it that way.  It was some small compensation, some amount of reward for myself for running away from the things I wanted.  There was seldom any other reward, that's for sure.  

   
   Nobody will choose me.  I am unchosen, undesired, unpursued.  And how will anyone ever find me?  Tucked away in my job, lost in the crowd, living my life in this safe, comfy bubble...or should I say "cage"?  I'll stop at Barnes and Noble, and I'll buy whatever I like.  I deserve it.  

   I know I'm full, but I want some chocolate tonight as I watch this movie.  I can't go on adventures like these characters...but at least I can be comfortable as I live vicariously through them.  

   Every night I crawl into an empty bed, and wake up alone.  There's no change on the horizon, no hope of a happily ever after for me.  I'll...I'll stop at Starbucks and get myself a sugary drink in the morning.  I'll feel better.  

   How is this kid getting engaged?  I used to babysit her.  She looks so grown-up in her lace and pearls.  How'd she catch such a handsome guy?  

   Oh...she's having a baby!  How...wonderful for her...Isn't that just...just... 

    Ah.  She's found herself a man.  Well...good for her!  Yeah.  

   What am I doing wrong?  

   What's wrong with me? 

   I'm tired of getting my hopes up.  Nothing ever happens.  I don't even want to try anymore. 

   I know I don't need this milkshake.  But...why even try?  No one's going to notice me anyway.  If I'm going to be on the shelf...why not just say yes to one thing I can give myself?   



   Yes...I know how it feels to be denied what I truly want.  So why deny myself yet one more thing?  There's no reason to.  What would it possibly change, anyway?  

   Having a challenge gives me a reason at least.  The thought of not having a reason again is terrifying.

   However...I can't just let those weeds grow in my heart, choking out my ability to learn self-control.  When it gets to be this invasive, my heart resembles the soil in the parable that grew thorns along with the seeds.  The worries of the world, enslaving me to my desires.  It's grown unchecked for a long time...but that doesn't give me an excuse to ignore it. 

   We don't talk enough about the thorny soil.  I'm beginning to think that most of the Church's problems in America today are because of those worries and troublesome things that we think are indispensable.  Just something as seemingly stupid as a problem with saying no to food.  At least, we call it fancy names like that.  But it's just another broken cistern we use to slake our thirst.  Only an invasive thorny vine that's smothering our fruit and breaking down our walls, little by little.  

   At the end of the day...it's an affair of my heart.  Jesus isn't enough for me.  He doesn't care.  He's forgotten me.  So I might as well indulge.  Because I don't like it, but I have no power to change anything, or even to appeal.  

   I see all this is going on inside me.  It's frightening.  

   I want this Whole30 thing to be done.  But...I don't want to go back to where I was!  Where do you go from there?    That's the question on my mind tonight.         

      

~Cadenza   

Whole 30 - Day 3

   "Well, we've gone and done it, young fellah-my-lad." 

                                                                            ---"The Lost World", by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle   


   If I'd had weeks and weeks to dread--I mean, prepare--for a Whole 30 challenge, I would have been tempted to make a whole "journey," out of it.  But I did not, and I think it's better this way.  Occasional posts, you know, to keep myself accountable.  I knew I'd be less inclined to cheat on this diet if I knew I'd be writing about it.  As appealing as daily posts about this seems, I don't think I will.  Quite frankly, I'm not certain I'll have the mental or emotional energy. 

   For those of you who may not know, "Whole 30" is a diet for 30 days.  "Whole," and non-processed food, for 30 straight days.  A challenge.  

   No grains, no dairy, no sugar or sweetener of ANY kind, (no, not even honey!), no legumes, no processed foods or preservatives, and no regular butter.  It's a diet heavy on proteins, fruits and vegetables.  Not a sustainable lifestyle diet, but more like a "reset," button for your body.  

   I've resisted diets and "challenges," of this nature for oh, all of my life.  So what convinced me to do this?  Was it a snap decision?  Well, yes and no.

   No in the sense that it was *my* decision.  I was not coerced or bribed.  I thought about it for a day or two before I jumped in.  But yes because that's remarkably quick decision-making for someone like me for a challenge like this!  It was one of those things where I knew thinking about it wouldn't help...you just have to jump.  

   I'm (for once) going to try my best not to slip into Story-Mode here.  I'd get too preachy, and then I'd get super annoyed at myself and then where would we be?  But I will explain. 

   Last Friday I was going to lunch for my usual scrumptious feast.  On the way to my car, it dawned on me that I didn't actually want it.  What I wanted was something with multiple textures and ingredients; something with layers of flavor and subtlety.  Like...like cashew chicken for example.  Or curry chicken, or a matar paneer.  Unfortunately when you have a lunch break of 30 minutes, you simply can't manage to get food like that on a regular day.  So I feast on fast food; which I love.

  As I feasted a short while later, I realized I didn't like the way I felt right this minute.  Scarfing down this delicious--if a tad monotonous--meal.  My hands were all greasy; I had a pile of smeared napkins in my lap.  Gross...

  Gross was how I felt for the entire afternoon and evening, too.  I thought grease was seeping from my pores.  I was sticky, restless, over-full, and yet I could tell I'd be hungry again shortly.  And the thought came to me, "Why do I do this?  Seriously, why?  I'm not sure I like this as much as I think I do!"  

   It was that evening or the next day when my roommate told me she was planning to do Whole 30 starting on Monday, and asked me if I wanted to join her.  It was one of those moments in life when you *don't* want to, and yet you feel so wretched the way you are that your mind just kind of goes, "You know what....why not?"  

   So I told her I would. 

   We spent all of Saturday planning, buying groceries, purging the house, and pre-cooking next week's lunches.  I found myself getting excited.  I was throwing away things I wasn't going to need, and hiding certain things from myself.  

   With me, I just can't seem to force myself to make small healthy choices.  I could have a salad for lunch, of course.  But I could also get a hot meal from Chick-fil-A, and it's very, very hard to argue with that!  Maybe I just need some big huge commitment to--I'm not sure, reset my body?  Get cravings under control?  Feel better?  Look better?  Maybe!  The sky is the limit! 

   So now I'm on day 3, and I won't lie to you.  This sucks.  At this point I'm glad I didn't write some inspired happy hopeful preachy garbage on Sunday when I was still stuffing my face with all the delicacies as a very fond month-long farewell.  I would not be able to stomach it now.  

   The first day was horrible.  I enthusiastically ate my good food, and there was plenty of it, I must say!  I wasn't starving myself on tiny portions of rabbit food.  This was chicken and sweet potatoes and broccoli.  And fruit and nuts for snacks.  I had plenty of food.  But I wanted chocolate.  I caught my brain going, "Okay, now it's time for chocolate!" at every available opportunity.  Then I had to remind myself, "Nope, no chocolate."  And my brain would go, "All right, maybe a little bit later then." 

  All afternoon it kept getting worse.  And instead of dialogue in my head, it changed to this overall feeling of restlessness.  And *worry*.  It was like how you feel when you know you've forgotten something important and can't remember what it is.  It was a craving in the worst sense, manifesting itself in physical symptoms and needling and nagging me to death. 

  Eating grapes that afternoon was my saving grace.  Thank you God for grapes!!  

  The next morning and this I've woken up feeling hollow.  That's really the best way to describe it.  Empty inside.  This unsettled, uneasy, dreading sort of emptiness inside.  

   Although...that's not new.  I wake up feeling that way most of the time, and it's only gotten worse as all this social-distancing has been taking its toll.  I guess this time what makes it so much worse is that now my body feels weird.  

   I call it "hollow," but it's also a mixed-up kind of feeling.  I'm not sure how to properly describe it.  I feel that everything is different, and not in a happy way.  My body still feels gross, even though I've eaten only healthy things for three days.  I still feel like grease is seeping out of my pores.  I'm bloated, too.  I'm still all broken out.  I feel oddly over-full, ravenously hungry, or uninterested in food in turns.  

  This is truly awful.  From what I've read, this stage will probably only get worse for the next 10-15 days.  

   Hoo-boy.  What have I gotten myself into?    
       


~Cadenza
 

Top 10 Drinks

   Today I'm going to write about something different.  This social distancing over the COVID-19 virus has given me a lot more time on my hands.  I decided that today I didn't want to spend it all on my phone.  Writing is constructive, and just all-around better for me.  

   So today I'm going to tell you my (current) top ten favorite drinks.  Lezzgo! 

   Number 10- Red Moscato.

   I believe the first time I tried wine, it came from a box.  It tasted a terrible hybrid of cough medicine and rubbing alcohol.  It latched onto the skin inside of my mouth and tried to dissolve it.  It was sour and bitter, both sensations turned up to ten.  It took several minutes to get my face back into its proper shape again.  So I was wary when my roommate asked me to try a glass of sweet dessert wine.  
  
   I was pleasantly surprised.  It was how I'd always imagined wine should taste!  I sipped it slowly, savoring it.  Halfway through the glass, I felt little zings running in my blood.  My body's muscles began to relax; I began to melt into my chair.  My breaths were deep and slow, and my mind went all quiet and serene.  When I eventually curled up in my bed that night, my sleep was deep and refreshing. 

   Red wine is a treat.  It's a nice way to finish a long or trying day.  Heck, it's just a nice finish to any day.  I make sure to keep it a treat, and I never have more than two glasses.  Even that's a bit much. One glass usually does it.  

   Number 9- Lime Margarita! 

   I never thought I would like the taste of tequila, but it turns out I do!  My roommate got me into margaritas.  One happy hour she was kind enough to let me taste hers so I could decide if I wanted to order one of my own.  

   There's just something about it--that lime taste--it's sharp and sweet and refreshing all at once!  I like them frozen rather than over ice.  It's become my (alcoholic) drink of choice.  It makes me think of oceans and summertime, and it kind of makes me long to take a road trip to a pretty beach.  Which is kind of remarkable, since I'm not much of a beach person.  I'm a mountains-girl all the way...and yet...yeah, this winter I was cherishing hopes of a trip to a beach some weekend.  I don't think this is going to be my year for that, but oh well.  Some other time, I guess.  

   Number 8- Grape Juice!

   Some kids grow up drinking a lot of juice (real or syrup).  With me and my siblings, juice was an enormous treat.  Grape juice never lasted long in our house.  But at one point, my dad started buying grape juice, and he let us have half a glass for special occasions like a family game night.  He showed us how to "cut it" with water, so we could make it last longer.  I was instantly a fan because it let me have a full glass to savor.  Yes, the flavor wasn't as sharp, but at least I had grape juice!  

   I remember one night we were attempting to play "Clue," together for a family game night.  My parents let us break out the grape juice and fixed us popcorn.  The game was very difficult to learn, but the experience was fun.  The next time we played Clue, I found myself craving grape juice, and so it became a little tradition.  I still associate the "Whodunnit," mystery game with the flavor of grape juice.  

   I don't often win at Clue, but I love playing it.  It was a very long process learning how, but it was worth it.  Atmosphere is important to me in that game.  Some minor-key slow jazz playing, grape juice, the smell of popcorn in the air, the pencils, the furtive scribbling...Hey, anyone up for a game of Clue?!  Oh, right.  Social distancing.  Never mind.

   There's something else that I associate grape juice with that's far more important.  I grew up in a church, and I was saved as a young child, so I've taken the Lord's Supper for the majority of my life.  

  The Lord's Supper is a solemn, yet wonderful ordinance.  It's not about the cracker and the juice, of course.  Those are merely emblems that we use to remind us of Christ's death and resurrection.  He, God come in the flesh, allowed his body to be broken and handed over to be the sacrifice to pay sinners' ransom.  He allowed His blood--both human, and yet sinless--to be spilled for us in a horrifying and torturous death.  We take communion once a month at our church.  We remember.  We thank Him.  We center our minds on Christ once more.  It's a wonderful spiritual discipline.  

   Grape juice always reminds me of that, even when I pour myself a glass and take the first sip from it.  It's sharp and earthy, sweet, but with a tang.  It tastes like forgiveness; a reminder that my conscience has been cleansed.  It is sorrow mingled with joy, love mingled with tears.  Celebratory fruit, yet the color of blood.  An acknowledgement of the bitterness of sin, but the promise that one day I will be summoned to the Marriage Supper of the Lamb of God.  Welcomed because He bore my penalty.

   Such a mundane drink, and yet what a holy and joyful purpose it serves!  

   The next few I'll be able to move through more quickly.  

   Number 7- Coca-Cola!  

   What can I say?  I'm an all-American girl.  I love Coca-Cola!  And I'm from the South, so if you tell me you want "a coke," I assume you mean the drink Coca-Cola.  

   Coke is what I grew up drinking for celebratory occasions; it's very much a Saturday kind of drink.  For parties, Family Roller Skating Nights, or the after-party of a basketball game.  Or for taco or pizza nights!  My mother always let us have caffeine-free Coke when she fixed us tacos or whenever Daddy ordered pizza for us.  (And caffeine-free Coke, by the way, is actually amazing.  When you're as sensitive to caffeine as I am, that's a massive blessing.)  

   My mother has a love for Coke Icees.  Back when I was in high school, I'd have my violin lessons at 1pm on Wednesdays.  Then afterward she and I would do all the grocery shopping for the week.  She and I would get large Coke Icees together, it was kind of our thing.  We would sing in the car together and talk about all kinds of things.  Those were happy times.  The taste of a Coke from a vending machine brings back those memories.  

   Number 6-  Dr. Pepper!  

   I'm sorry...but I'm afraid I love Dr. Pepper even more than Coca-Cola.  I don't know what it is, but gosh, it's delicious.  At my first job I was shown a break room stocked with cans upon cans of all kinds of soft drinks...including piles of Dr. Pepper.  

   I could hear a heavenly choir singing "Ahhhhh-AAAHHHHHH!" in my mind as I was made to understand that we could partake of these untold riches as often as we pleased.  It was bounty and generosity beyond my wildest dreams.  

   So I did.  It was a marvelous freedom, and I delighted in it.  

   Yeah.  There were days when I had to continuously chug Dr. Pepper just to keep myself from passing out right there at my desk.  You know, from lack of sleep catching up to me from the last...ten nights or so.  I didn't go to college, but from what I've been told, that bears some resemblance to the "college experience." 

   And of course, because I had no self-control, when I worked at Chick-fil-A, I was drinking ungodly amounts of caffeine six days a week.  A few years ago I had a terrible migraine from caffeine withdrawal, and it really put things into perspective.  I don't want to be dependent on caffeine!  I don't want to rely on it in order to be awake and functioning in the morning.  Or to be a decent person.  I'm not sure when it became socially acceptable to be rude to people if you haven't had your coffee fix yet, but it sounds just like any other addiction to me.  You've all seen the cutesy slogans on coffee mugs and t-shirts:  "I can't be polite to you until I've drunk my coffee--don't you dare speak to me before I'm done!"   

   Yeah, more like, you're just a selfish person with an addiction. 

   At any rate, I had to go off caffeine cold turkey, and it's once again a treat for special occasions.  Thanks a lot, former self.  

   Number 5- Tea!!  

   My (very old) self-description on the side of this blog says that I'm a tea-snob.  That's still true.  What's also true is that I have kind of burned out on sweet tea lately.  But then, that could be because most sweet tea is caffeinated, and I can no longer drink it often.  

   I like chamomile or peppermint tea in the evenings for a calming, soothing drink, but my favorites are the loose-leaf black teas.  The English blends, or the Indian chai.  Which I can't have often.  (*sigh*) 

   Number 4-  Lemonade!  

   I'm sorry to put this above tea, but lemonade isn't caffeinated, and so it's something that I've been enjoying more recently.  

   When I say lemonade, I of course mean real lemons and water and sugar.  Not powdered stuff.  I have nothing against Country Time except, well, that it isn't the real deal.  

   Real lemonade is like drinking sunshine.  On hot days, it's refreshing.  So sour, so sweet, so cool.  I crave it on rainy days, too.  When I drink it on a rainy day, I feel as if I've got a cupful of drinkable sunshine.  

   Sometimes I like to slice up strawberries to put in it.  Delectable.  But no ice!  Don't want to dilute that marvelous taste, now, do we?  Just serve it chilled--NO ICE! 

   And now we reach the top three...

   Number 3-  Milkshakes/Floats.  

   Yep.  Number three.  It absolutely refused to be lower.  Milkshakes are one of the best things in the culinary world to have ever been invented, as far as I'm concerned.

   See, here's the thing.  As much as I love dessert, there's a surprising number of them that I really don't care for.  

   For instance, I never have been much of a pie person.  There are pies that I enjoy, but I don't ever get a "hankerin' " for a slice.  Cobblers and fruit pies I can take or leave.  When people serve me pie after dinner, I'll take a slice and eat it to be polite.  I can taste that it's sweet.  I can sort of appreciate it for what it is.  But the sad truth is that after one bite, I just don't really want any more.  

   Cakes I'm a bit more inclined to, especially if it's homemade.  (Or chocolate!)  But store-bought birthday cakes smeared with piles of sugary frosting or coated with fondant--yuck.  Weddings, parties, I can usually do without the cake.  (Except yours, sis!  Your cakes from scratch are divine, and I love them!) 

   Pastries are very British, but they're overrated.  Cookies are nice, especially if they're hot out of the oven.  Hmm, if I'm honest, cookies are pretty safe.  I'm not as picky when it comes to cookies.  

   But brownies, ice cream, and chocolate are my JAM.  My taste in desserts is obviously pretty low-brow.  Custards, crumbles, tarts, tiramisu, lemon bars, trifles, baked puddings, creme brulee, cheesecake--meh.  How about an enormous cup of blended ice cream with chocolate or toppings in it?  YES!!  I know it's bit child-like, but what can I say?  They're simply the best. 

   I'm including floats in this, because they're practically the same thing.  Root beer, coke, or Dr. Pepper floats, they're all marvelous.  A case could even be made for my beloved caramel frappuccinos to fit in this category, because they're basically ice cream with coffee flavoring in them.  I don't pretend to be a coffee drinker, you know.  

   Number 2- Water.

   I know, I know.  This probably should be number one because of how good it is for you.  Well, that, and because if it wasn't for water, we couldn't drink at all!  

   I just can't realize how thirsty I am until I start drinking water throughout the day.  Sadly, dehydration contributes to most of the headaches I have.  

   One summer some friends and I took a Saturday to canoe down a river.  We didn't bring enough water with us.  Nobody wanted to lug all the water bottles around, I guess.  We had one or two bottles apiece for our sack lunch, but we were halfway down the river before we realized our mistake.  It was a hot day, and the sun beat down on us as we glided along.  Soon our shoulders were getting sore, and I at least could feel a painful sunburn forming. 

   The bus ride back to our cars had no air-conditioning, and even then it took us a while to drive to a restaurant.  Exhausted, sunburned, ravenous, sore, and dehydrated, we tumbled into a tiny little Daisy Queen and ordered water the moment we entered.  I requested mine without ice, and it arrived at our table just as I got back from washing my hands.  I took it from the girl's hand and exclaimed "Glory Hallelujah!" with the utmost sincerity before I was gulping it shamelessly.  She gave me a weird look, but I could not have cared less.  I always bring plenty of water bottles on float trips now, and I even reapply sunscreen.  (Oh my gosh, I'm an adult...!) 

   There's another story I want to tell.  A few years ago, my brother and I were in Oxford, England for a week-long conference.  One of the afternoons when the conference let out, one of my brother's professors offered to show us some of the C.S. Lewis and Tolkien sights in the city.  Eagerly we agreed, and the little group set out together.  

   Now, let me just say, this was a spontaneous thing.  I was wearing a dress and wedges and a very tiny purse.  Also, I don't believe our dear professor had any deliberate plans before setting out.  Not that it mattered.  We knew nobody could give us a better tour of Oxford than him, and neither of us would have missed it, even if we'd known what was going to happen.

   He showed us many wonderful places that afternoon, several of them obscure or out-of-the-way.  There was even a sunken lane--Cuckoo Lane--which was a path that C.S. Lewis habitually walked.  It was narrow and walled, with trees arching over at the top.  It was quiet, shady, and altogether delightful.  I genuinely mean no offense to our dear professor, who is one of the kindest, most charming, and courtly people I have ever met.  But!  His tour took up the entire afternoon, and I walked all over that city in my clunky white wedges.

   Now--you never think of England as uncomfortably hot, right?  You always see it portrayed as misty or rainy, or wintry, don't you?  But it was July when we were there, and it was a very hot, stuffy kind of day.  We were outside and on our feet for hours, and since we were walking through residential areas or college grounds, there really was nowhere to sit, and nowhere to get a drink or a snack.

   I was having a good time with the group, and of course I was delighted to see the sights.  But I was uncomfortably dressed and sweating profusely and getting very tired and footsore hours before it was time to think about dinner.  What I most remember is how very thirsty I was.  My mouth went pretty dry a few hours in, so I tried to keep my mouth closed.  Hour after hour went by, and all at once I noticed that my tongue was sticking to the roof of my mouth!  That frightened me.  With an effort I unstuck it, and it gave way with a nasty sensation.  In vain I bit my tongue and the sides of my mouth, which is a singer's trick to stimulate salivation in a dry mouth.  There was no response at all.  When I nervously ran my tongue around the inside of my mouth, it stuck to my teeth as well.  My entire mouth was completely dry.  There wasn't a thing I could do about it.  

   I confess that afternoon is all a blur in my mind.  After I made my disconcerting discovery, we were out there for a good two hours longer.  My brother and I had raging headaches, and I was getting dizzy.  We walked and walked, until I got into that state of mind where I was beginning to think it would never actually end.  But somehow we found ourselves back "in civilization," again: streets, cars, buildings, shops, and--Oh, thank the Lord!--a grocery store!!  A real, actual grocery store with automatic doors and a breeze of real air-conditioning flowing out of it!  

   My brother asked the professor to stop for a moment, and he and I and a young lady we'd made friends with all staggered in with our last remaining energy.  My memory seems to be almost tunnel vision at that point.  I was scanning the shelves for a water bottle--I had no interest in anything else at that moment.  I was too hot to even feel how hungry I was.  I snatched up the biggest water bottle I saw, and--oh, why not?--a bottle of Dr. Pepper, too.  My brother bought two water bottles and bottle of juice.  Neither of us cared what it cost.  We hurled ourselves to the check out and fumbled with our cash.  Next thing I knew I was wrenching off the cap and pouring water down my throat.  

   I've been reliably told that there is a condition that some people are born with called "Synthesia."  It means, "a condition in which one type of stimulation evokes the sensation of another, as when the hearing of a sound produces the visualization of color."  I'm pretty sure I don't have this condition, but for that moment in my life I thought I did.  

   The very instant that cold water flooded my parched mouth, my whole mind exploded with music.  I mean, it was loud, crashing, harmonious chords that overrode all thought in my brain.  No, I didn't hear it with my ears.  I suspect the relief--that's too weak a word--the deliverance and joy that my body felt translated itself in my mind as music.  That's the best way I can describe it.

   Immediately I understood a whole handful of Scriptures about water far better than I ever had before.  

   "Like cold water to a weary soul, so is good news from a far country." (Prov. 25:25)   

   "Ho! Every one who thirsts, come to the waters!" (Isa. 55:1) 
 
   "...Jesus stood up and cried out, saying, 'If anyone is thirsty, let him come to Me and drink.' "  (John 7:37) 


   And finally!  Number 1!  My very favorite drink of all--

   Number 1-Milk.  

   Seems like a bit of a letdown, huh?  All that rich Biblical imagery for grape juice and water, and my very favorite drink of all is milk.  Well, there's plenty of Biblical imagery for milk as well, but I'll get to that in a minute. 

   I mentioned before that juice was a treat for us growing up.  We drank milk instead, three meals a day, and I loved it.  Nobody ever talks about how great it is to drink milk, unless they're referring to soy milk.  Or rice milk.  Or cashew milk.  Or pretty much any kind of milk except for cow's milk.  I suspect most people think it's babyish to talk about drinking a glass of milk.  Either that or most people just don't like milk; but it can't be that.  I mean, have you seen how upset people get when there's no milk for their cereal?  Geez!  

   Milk is my absolute favorite thing to drink because it pairs with practically everything.  

   Breakfast food, eggs, bacon, cereal (naturally), toast with jam, waffles, pancakes, muffins, you name it.  Milk goes splendidly with all of them.  It mystifies me how people seem to prefer orange juice with their breakfast food.  A bite of pancakes and syrup, then a swig of orange juice on top?  Blech!  Milk is far better.  

   The creaminess of milk compliments all breakfast foods, be they sweet, light, or hearty.  And then I think that its creaminess also compliments the savory of "dinner," meals.  Call me crazy, but it just works!  And of course milk pairs well with most desserts (especially the desserts I'm partial to.)  

   I meant to spend a lot of time describing how well they pair, but now that I think of it, either you get it or you don't.  There's no use attempting to account for taste, I suppose.  I just happen to think milk goes wonderfully with most things.  It's a nice thing to reach for if you want something to drink that isn't water.  It's a little more filling than water, much pleasanter than water (unless you've been staggering in the summer heat for hours with a dry tongue!), and it works with any snack or dessert.  (The only exception I can think of would be sour candy, or something like that.)  

   When I can't sleep at night, a delightful thing to do is to slip into the kitchen and heat up a mug of milk, then stir in a spoonful of honey.  Yeah, yeah, I know it's not the healthiest thing to do, and in my defense, I don't do that very often.  But then, I don't usually have trouble sleeping, either. 

   Drinking warm milk is an almost instant sedative for me.  Something about it is so soothing that after a few sips I feel my knotted muscles begin to relax.  Halfway through the mug and my eyelids are beginning to droop...and then sleep is stealing over me, warm and familiar and comforting, like an old friend.  

   I've often thought how nice it would be to have a child come to me, frightened by a nightmare, and to take them to the kitchen to make mugs of warm milk and honey for us both.  Then we'd sit talking quietly over them, discussing their dream.  I'd comfort them with reality and with truth.  And I'd watch in amusement as their eyelids start to droop and their little tousled head begin to nod...and then it'd be off to bed again, tucking them in with a sleepy hug and a kiss.  

   Just a little fantasy of mine.  I'm sure the reality wouldn't be nearly that quiet or tidy.  But I can dream.  

   Anyway, milk has rich symbolism in the Bible, too.  Milk is for nourishment, comfort, and even luxury.  The pure milk of the Word for those new in the faith, leading to the solid food for the spiritually hungry and growing believers.  

   Milk and honey were the promises God made for His people.  He promised to lead them to a good land that was bountiful and lovely.  Again from Isaiah 55, He calls out that he who has no money may come "buy and eat!" of the riches of God's undeserved favor.  Wine, for celebration.  Water for refreshment, and milk for comfort and sustaining.  

   But all this talk of warm milk has made me sleepy, and it is high time I went to bed.  Everyone stay safe, wash your hands, take precautions.  Be good citizens and go along with the whole social distancing for your own good.  Be responsible and show the government we can take care of ourselves.  Reach out to those around you via technology, and don't forget to read God's Word and listen to sermons and worship at home as best you can.  

   That's all for tonight, folks!


~Cadenza
 

Of Tigers

   And now for a long-overdue post about Tigers!  

   Why did I name this blog "Of Tigers and Tea?"  I actually started this blog when I was about to go on a six-month mission trip to India.  Both tigers and tea are native to India, and both carry a lot of symbolic meaning to me.  I thought that those two alliterated nouns gave the idea of exotic adventure side-by-side with an idea of homeliness and comfort.

   In an earlier post I wrote in detail about how much I love tea, and all it symbolizes for me.  So what about tigers?  

   Tigers are the biggest cats in the world; even larger than lions.  Lions have prides, but tigers are more solitary and territorial.  

   While I am undoubtedly more of a dog person when it comes to pets, it cannot be denied that I share a lot in common with cats in my personality and mannerisms.  For one thing, I am very territorial.  Ask anyone who's ever lived with me.  There's always a spot that I claim for my own, and if anyone lounges on it without my permission I get annoyed.  I have to have a space for privacy and my own sanity.  I like to spend most of my free time in that space. I don't do a lot of hanging around in public areas.  Be careful hunting me up in my chosen habitat.  I'm really good at hiding, though I don't have the gorgeous camouflage a tiger has.  And don't startle me, whatever you do.  I do NOT take kindly to it.  Keep those dang cucumbers in the fridge where they belong!!

   Secondly, I love comfort and cleanliness.  I like to feel clean, and I like a clean environment.  I love wearing and lying on and reclining in soft things.  I love to eat yummy things, and I can be rather picky about what I want.  I like to be pampered; and though I may seem aloof at first, if I take a liking to someone, I want lots of attention from them.  Even if--and especially if I won't ask for it, I'm afraid.  

   Also, I really like my sleep...unfortunately that passionate desire for it usually manifests itself the instant my alarm goes off every morning.  I have to go through all five stages of grief before I even get up!

   1)  Bargaining:  *Hitting the snooze button.*  
   2)  Anger:  *seething outrage*
   3)  Denial: *Lying resolutely motionless, pretending that there will be no consequences.*
   4)  Depression: *Existential crisis, questioning my life's choices.* 
   5)  Acceptance: "If I don't get up, I *will* be late for work."  


   You get the point.  I've always had an affinity for tigers.  They're so beautiful and fierce and lovable all at once.  Their snarl is enough to make the heart stand still, and yet they're also giant cats that love to snuggle and tussle and play.  

   I grew up watching the Disney's, "The Jungle Book."  (The animated one, the last one Walt himself ever worked on.)  As you may know, the villain is a tiger, named Shere Khan.  As a child, I was very frightened of him in the scenes where his teeth and claws are bared.  Yet I was strangely enamored of him in the other scenes.  His grace, his elegance, and above all, that shrewd, cunning, charming voice of his (played by George Sanders)!  When he hits that low note at the end of "That's What Friends Are For," I'm lost in admiration every time.  

   So much for a villain tiger.  Now I'm going to tell you about two very special friends of mine who are tigers.  

   The first is my buddy Purr, who is pictured in the cover photo of this blog.  Purr is a Ty "Pillow Pal," that I purchased from a Tipton Hurst well over twenty years ago.  My sister and I had saved up our money for a long time, and our mother brought us to Tipton Hurst, where we knew there was an enormous selection of Pillow Pals.  

   When my sister and I marched into the store, we found cubby holes reaching to the ceiling which were stuffed with seemingly every available Pillow Pal. I was scanning them eagerly for "Waves," the killer whale.  I can't remember why I was so fixated on the whale, but I remember I was set on it.  My sister and I had saved up money for months and we were finally here!  I could barely contain my excitement.

   A "Waves," Pillow Pals did not immediately appear to view.  But all at once my gaze was arrested by a cubby-hole right at my eye level that was stuffed with soft orange tigers.  I can still remember the silent ecstasy I felt in that moment; how my heart melted at the sight of those pretty tigers.  

   I stretched out my hands to touch them.  Oh, how soft they were!  How cuddly and sweet and appealing they were!  But then I frowned.  I'd been looking forward to getting Waves the killer whale for so long.  What if I regretted not getting him when I'd had the chance?  

   At length I saw the killer whales, stacked on a shelf far above my head.  There could be no doubt; my heart belonged wholly to the tigers.  I felt sure I would not regret it.  

   I searched all the tigers' faces, looking for just the right one.  That one.  There he was.  This one was mine now.  I gently pulled him out of the stack and instantly gave him a hug.  I checked the tag to see what his name was. 

   Purr.  His name was Purr.  Yes.  That suited him exactly.  

   I couldn't have been prouder when I paid for him with my very own eleven dollars.  And from that day to this, Purr has been a dear friend to me.  He was my trusty sidekick for all my adventures.  He was fierce enough to protect me from the monsters at night, but was the gentlest companion.  He was kind-hearted, always helping the smaller Beanie Babies out of trouble, (self-inflicted or not!)  He was a loyal companion.  Many secrets I shared with him, many times he helped me reason through knotty problems.  He went with me on more than his fair share of trips, including all of my mission trips.  Every day when I come into my room he's always waiting for me on my bed with his paws crossed under his chin.  

   And last, but certainly not least, I must tell of another dear tiger-friend.  And that is Hobbes, from Bill Waterson's comic strip "Calvin and Hobbes."  

   My father owned "The Essential Calvin and Hobbes."  Sometimes, for a treat, he'd let my brother borrow it, and he'd read it to me.  We'd sit for hours on end poring over its pages.  My brother was reading "Calvin and Hobbes," to me before I could read at all.  I loved to study each panel and drink in the stories.  My brother had to explain every punch line to me, but he didn't mind.  

   I wish I could explain the profound effect that "Calvin and Hobbes," had on me as a child.  It inspired me on so many levels.  For one thing, the situations were hilarious and relatable to me as a child.  It was a world I shared with my brother, and many a spin-off adventure we made of our own within that world.  

   As I said, I was hearing Calvin and Hobbes before I could read a word myself.  I can still remember the thrill I felt when I first realized I could pick out a few of the smaller words in the panels.  It motivated me even more to learn to read.  I learned all kinds of long and descriptive words through it.  My developing sense of humor was shaped by the dry, shrewd, honest humor of the precocious six-year-old and his tiger friend.  

   It wasn't long before I could read alongside my brother.  We would take turns reading for the different characters.  It was good exercise for expression, and it helped me learn to read quickly.  I didn't want to slow down the story!  Of course, I was already learning that from reading over my brother's shoulder in the car.  He read very quickly indeed, and if I wanted to understand what was happening, I had to make sure I reached the end of the page about the same time he did!  

   Calvin and Hobbes were like real friends to me.  Any fangirl today will tell you of the heartbreak she feels when she remembers that the people she is devoted to are not real.  I felt that heartache keenly as a child when I was forced to remember that Calvin and Hobbes didn't actually exist outside those books...or outside my or my brother's mind.  
   
   Still, for all that, they will always have special places in my heart.  

   So, there you have it.  Tigers and tea.  Adventure and home, danger and comfort, sadness and joy combined.  

   Such is the world inside my head.  


~Cadenza     

Choir Nerd

   Once I saw a brain teaser that said, "Am I a nerd because I like Star Wars, or do I like Star Wars because I'm a nerd?"  I think the answer is more complicated than that.  Liking any particular thing does not make you a nerd.  To be a nerd means you're passionate about something, and you express that passion in a particular *way.* 

   Here's an example.  I have a friend who is a positive nerd for one particular football team.  At any given time, he can name players and coaches, (past or present,) with something about their backgrounds and/or previous experience, their strengths, their weaknesses, where they are playing/coaching now and what happened to make them transfer.  He knows history-making moments for the team and which year each happened, including the situations surrounding them!  He knows all the game mechanics of football, all sorts of strategies, all the rules, all the penalties, and all the stats (previous or current year!)  The man is a walking encyclopedia of information on this team.  It never fails to astonish me.  

   Even though it's football, (which is not generally something we associate with "nerdiness,") he's a nerd *about* it.  All of the the ins and outs and obscure trivia about his team interest him.  All of it is important to him.  People tend to think of nerds as people interested in certain things, (comics, fantasy, sci-fi, video games, etc.) but someone can be a nerd about, say, nutrition, or fashion, or language, or cars, or the flying mechanics of birds of prey.  Anything that makes your eyes light up when someone asks you about it.  Anything that you're crazy about that affects every part of your personality.  Being a nerd is, to put it simply, allowing yourself to like something that you find compelling, and the willingness to continually learn more about it and participate in it if/when you can.  

   There are quite a few things I am a nerd about, but none, I think, are as close to my heart as my love for choir.  I am a choir nerd.  

   I've been singing ever since I could talk.  I don't remember a time before I loved to sing.  It was just always in my nature to express my thoughts and emotions with singing.  Thankfully, my parents encouraged it, though I know there were days when they wanted to tear their hair out because I would never shut up.  

   I always have been an "auditory learner." I memorize things quickly if I can hear them chanted or sung.  Whether it was songs, movies, or sections of Scripture, if I could hear them fairly frequently I could remember them with surprising accuracy.  My continuous quoting got on my parents' nerves all the time, I fear.  But they stuck it out.   

   Both my parents are singers, so they were teaching me proper singing techniques from my tender years.  

   "When you sing, you stand up straight, you don't want to be leaning up against anything."  

   "Take a deep breath, and sing all the way to here before you take the next breath."  

   "Can you sing this note?  What about this one?  No, no, don't squeak it out.  Deep breath, full voice, project!"  

   My parents taught us hymns and encouraged us to learn songs and to memorize Scripture.  They played good quality music when they drove us places.  I memorized all the lyrics in "The Sound of Music," before I was ten years old.  Along with...ahem...various and sundry other forms of media.   

   I was in my church's children's choirs for as far back as I can remember.  In children's choir, the directors taught us to breathe using our lungs' full capacity.  They taught us to stand still, with our arms down by our sides when we sang.  We learned to watch the conductor's every movement for cues.  They gave prizes to children who learned hymns.  We learned how to sing loudly and softly, and how to transition from one to the other.  They taught us that when you sing, your vowels are pronounced differently from the way you normally say them in conversation.  For example, to sing, "What child is this who laid to rest, on Mary's lap is sleeping," you would pronounce it in your song more like: 

   "Whot chald is this who laid to rest on Mah-ry's la-ahp is sli-ee-ping?" 

  Tall vowels, a bit British-sounding.  A's become Ah's.  E's are loose and open, not spread side-to-side the way we speak them.  With I's, you really only sing the first part of the sound, and you don't bite the "ee" sound down on them the way we do when we speak them; (at least not until the very last second to enunciate the following consonant.)  It would sound more like "Ah," than "Eye."  O's are very round and open and soft, not closed off at the lips.  U's are delicate, more like the way a queen might say, "You, boy!" and not the way we say the word "ewe," (or "Yew.")  My illustration, by the way, not any of my conductors'!

   The reason all the vowels have to be so tall is because when you sing, you can only sustain notes on vowel sounds, not consonants!  (If you just tried to sing one or two consonants, know that I'm smiling at you.)  Thus, you sing the vowels for as long as possible, and you squish the consonants in between vowels.  However, it's vital for the consonants to be crisp and sharp, otherwise how will the audience be able to understand the words?  

   Of course, all these lessons were only reinforcing what I'd already learned at home.  My parents sang that way, and so did the artists in the music they had us listen to.  So naturally, I imitated those techniques when I sang. 

   Also, my parents had each of their children take three years of piano lessons.  We all learned to read music, along with all the signs and terms, and the basics of music theory.  When I look back on my childhood, it seems like a strangely unified education in music.  After I quit piano, I studied the violin until I graduated high school.  I could write a whole different post about all my experiences in orchestras; my private lessons, church orchestra, and the youth orchestra program in the state.  All three were very different, yet they each brought their own unique pleasure and quality of enjoyment, each completing what the others lacked.  

   I loved my time as an instrumentalist, but voice is really where my heart is.  My voice is inextricably bound up in my personality; a vital part of all my strengths.

   I was born with the desire to express and to describe.  When I was little, I could never stop talking because I wanted to share the things I saw in my mind's eye.  That desire still burns relentlessly within me.  I love to tell stories, I yearn to show people things they've never thought of before.  What's more, I thirst to hear other people's stories, and all the things they have to say.  The more I listen, the more I can learn, and think on.  Everything I hear I gather into my soul, and I explore them, play with them, stretch them, turn them, relate to them, puzzle over them.  Every concept connects to everything else, and the more I learn, the more I understand about life.  The more I think on what others say, the more I can understand people.  And the more I understand people, the better equipped I am to offer pieces of the puzzle to them that they might be missing.  To see the look of dawning comprehension on someone's face is an exquisite pleasure.  When something finally clicks for them, when something finally makes sense...and to know that I was able to give them that?  There's nothing quite like it.  

   I use my voice for diplomacy and for peace-making.  When I know what someone wants, I know how to help them.  When I get to reconcile two parties and help them to get on the same page, my stomach flutters with this thrill that tells me I'm doing what I'm meant to do.

   I use my voice to sing because I cannot hold it in.  I've often felt that when the Lord was "knitting me together in my mother's womb," He imbued Music into my soul, into the very core of my being.  It will not be silenced.  

   It has always seemed to me that there is music playing in me.  Not the kind of music you can hear, or even always *think*.  It's just...there.  Perhaps it's because, to me, emotions are synonymous with music.  They do say music is the language of the soul.  It's very hard to explain this kind of thing.  Maybe I can say it like this: my feelings naturally translate into music.  And when I feel things strongly, my voice begins to hum or sing, and the emotions come out as music.     

   In my darkest hours, the themes are minor-keyed and treacherous.  In my bitterness, they are a cacophony of discord.  In my resentments, they twist and writhe, howl and rage.  In my fear, they are ascending and descending minor arpeggios.  When I (day)dream, the themes are expansive and ethereal.  In my laughter, they swoop and trill like songbirds.  In my sadness, they are deep-toned and groaning.  When I'm wistful, they are ballads with broken chords.  When I grieve, they wail in weeping phrases.  When I'm happy, they swing or march.  In my delight, they waltz.  And in my Joy, they can be almost anything.  But never silence.  Never, never silence.  I wonder if this is what King David meant when he wrote of his "songs" to the Lord; the cries of his heart, his "songs in the night."  

   "I sing, for I cannot be silent, His love is theme of my song," the hymn-writer says.

   "All my life was wrecked by sin and strife
   Discord filled my heart with pain
   Jesus swept across the broken strings
   Stirred the slumb'ring chords again.

   Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, sweetest name I know
   Fills my every longing
   Keeps me singing as I go."  

   
   When I sang in children's choirs, the music seemed to engulf me and sweep me into another world.  I used to get so frustrated at the songs chosen for us.  I'd hear the introduction, and it would be so delicate and yearning that I would be practically squirming with anticipation to learn it, to take it into my mind to treasure forever.  But when it came to the actual melodies, they were simple and narrow.  Quite tiresome if sung by themselves.  The accompaniment was what made it lovely.  There would be no harmonies, or precious few of them.  The simplicity of it ground on my nerves.  

   My parents had us sit in the next room during their choir rehearsals.  I eagerly drank in every anthem they learned.  I had them memorized by the time they sang them in church.  I ached to partake of those subtleties.  Such an abundance of words and themes was a veritable feast to my soul.

   I was eleven when I aged out of the children's choirs.  I wasn't in a choir again until I was fourteen.  Just three years, I suppose, but how horribly long those three years were!  Also, a LOT happened to me emotionally within those three years!  It makes it seem like an age.  

   My parents brought me to join the choir at our new church when I was fourteen.  My voice had faded from lack of use.  I have always been a soprano, but I couldn't even hit the E at the top space of the treble clef!  Yeah.  I remember feeling dismayed, but also, inexplicably, strangely gratified.  I could tell I was going to be challenged.  This was going to be the real deal, actual anthems for adult voices!  And I was going to learn them, I had no doubt about that.

   When I sang with the choir, I felt like I was on holy ground.  My beauty-loving soul thirstily drank it all in.  The beauty of the melodies enraptured me.  We were given CDs with recordings of the anthems to help us learn them.  I listened to them on my boom box, and I put them on my MP3 player and devoured them every day and everywhere I could.  When we got up to sing them Sunday mornings, I had each memorized completely.  I held my folder and turned the pages mechanically, but I didn't need to look down at them.  

   There's just something about singing truth in such beautiful songs that does something to me.  Again, I don't know how to explain it.  My mind, my emotions, even my body responds in elation when I hear or sing them.  It just makes me so happy.  Even singing lament anthems or somber ones.  There's this joy that wells up inside me, and I feel like it must be brimming over, shining out of me.  When I'm singing, I know just who I am.  I'm not afraid.  I feel at peace, at rest, deep down inside.

   I don't get stage fright when I'm going to sing.  I mean, if I'm singing a solo or something, sure, I'll be a little nervous.  My knees will shake a little, my palms may get sweaty, my voice might wobble a bit at the start.  But once the music really gets going, the nerves drop away.  I *know* what I'm doing.  I'm prepared.  And I absolutely love performing.  I know that sounds prideful, perhaps, but it is the truth.  I get to communicate something important to so many people.  I get to use my voice to make pleasing music for them!  Voice is the one thing I know I do well enough that I don't have to doubt myself.  When I perform, I want people to forget their sympathetic nervousness for me, and just enjoy the beauty of the song, and the truth it conveys.  

   Music is just one of the many ways God calls people and gets their attention.  If God uses my voice in song to draw souls closer to Himself, I have not lived in vain.  When I sing, I know that I'm doing what I was created to do.  I'm just where I need to be.  I like feeling that way.  

   Now, I've noticed choirs with adult musicians usually are made up of chill folks.  I'm sure professional singers tend to be rather snooty, or divas, that kind of thing.  But in our choir, nobody has delusions about themselves.  We're all there because we love to sing, and we all love the Lord that we praise when we sing.  I think I've been very lucky with conductors all my life.  All of them, especially the music pastors, have had excellent senses of humor, and the choir always responds in kind.  

   I can still remember how astonished I was as an over-serious teenager hearing grown adults cutting up and cracking jokes in rehearsals.  I hadn't known adults could be so fun to be around.  One of the reasons I had been so adverse to growing up was because I had come to the conclusion that adults had to be serious and stuffy all the time.  And one reason I had become so over-serious was because I had grown resigned to that idea.  Each rehearsal lit a little flame deep within me, fanned the tiniest flicker of hope that maybe life wouldn't always be so...monotonous.  So grey, so dull.  That maybe if grown adults could kick back and laugh easily sometimes and still be respected, then maybe I could too.  These adults were young at heart and--and happy.  So...what if I could be that way, too?

  The sadness and resignation that had become the fundamental truths of my personality at last began to give way.  It was like a ray of light that found me in a prison cell; coaxing me out into the sun.  Getting to feel happy again was like rediscovering colors, or recovering your sense of taste after a long sickness.  It was marvelous to laugh again, to really feel like laughing, and to occasionally be made helpless by it.  

   Music, laughter, and most of all Truth came flooding into me, wrenching open the windows that I had long kept nailed shut, sweeping away the cobwebs in my brain, purging my fears that lay in cluttered piles, washing and scrubbing and rinsing the grime off everything, refurnishing, reorganizing, redecorating everything with cheery new thoughts, and lighting lamps and hanging them up everywhere.  Shadows were banished.  Like boggarts, my mind's troubles and insecurities fled and dissipated before laughter. 

   Singing still cleanses my soul to this day.  When my heart goes sour, some good music helps to put it back in tune.  If I'm lost in a labyrinth of motives and worries, singing songs full of truth shows me the way out. 

   When I get to sing for people, it's like I get to show them the way out, too.  It's a pleasure greater than any fame or stardom the world can offer.  That's why I'm a choir nerd.  I hate it when choir ends for the summer, and I'm always itching for it to start again in August.  

   As the Autumn weather approaches (little by little!) I associate its beauty with the new songs I will learn when choir begins again.  I gladly hammer out the difficult passages on the piano until they feel natural to me.  I get to taste Christmas as we rehearse the music for our December concert.  Fall and Christmas are deeply linked in my mind.  I can't really experience one without the other.  

   A few weeks ago I was looking for a Christmas anthem for my family to perform this Christmas Eve.  I eagerly opened the first file drawer, and thrilled to my fingertips as I saw all the old sheet music.  To me it felt like browsing through tomes of ancient magical lore.  (Think Gandalf elbow-deep in scrolls and parchments in the library of Gondor here!)  Old anthems were like dear friends, hailing me with scores of happy memories.  I went on browsing gleefully through every drawer, hunting a particular song.  I do believe I would have made a delightful study for a manga-artist in that moment: standing on my tiptoes to peer into file drawers nearly as tall as me, my nose close to the label tabs, my hands busy and rummaging, my hair falling around my delighted face.  

   Long rehearsals are my glory.  It doesn't matter how long a rehearsal is scheduled, you cannot daunt me with it.  I saw a meme of a nerdy-looking kid with glasses that said, "Has a three-hour rehearsal---thinks it will be fun," and I just laughed.  Story of my life.  I do find it fun.  Fun, refreshing, invigorating, even outright energizing.  

   In the New Heavens and the New Earth, I'll be able to sing as much as I could desire.  We're children of a singing God, after all.  He sings, so we should too.  

   But until then, this is my prayer:

   "I love you, Lord
   And I lift my voice to worship You.
   Oh my soul, rejoice!
   Take joy, my King in what you hear!
   May it be a sweet, sweet sound in your ear!" 


~Cadenza                 

Walking A Tightrope

   On my birthday, I went to an outdoor theater showing "The Greatest Showman."  I'd never seen it before.  

   It was quite the experience.  Circuses have never exactly been my cup of tea, but I found myself enjoying it.  I was swept along into the story, and I found it refreshing.  

   It was refreshing, for instance, to see a family portrayed that way.  The wife and children who adore their husband and father and who support him and believe in him.  It was nice to see a "dreamer" father portrayed better than the "shiftless," dad who does the dreaming while his wife ends up doing most of the work.  I don't know anything about the man Barnum actually was; I imagine the truth is nastier than the movie.  

   However, in this case it doesn't matter as much to me.  What mattered is the makers of the movie took the trouble to show a healthy, beautiful family, led by a father, supported and followed by his wife and children.  

   You see at least three types of love portrayed across the story line.  The glamorous Miss Jenny Lind, drawn by Barnum's charm and dreams, might be one. 

   "You set off a dream in me..." she sings, "Will you share this with me?"

   " 'Cause darling, without you
   All the shine of a thousand spotlights,
   All the stars we steal from the night sky
   Will never be enough
   Never be enough
   Towers of gold are still too little,
   These hands could hold the world, but it'll
   Never be enough
   Never be enough 
   For me."  


   I was glad that in the movie, Barnum stands firm against temptation.  I was bracing myself for him to fall, but he did not.  Though tempted, he rejects her and immediately takes himself away from her.  I liked seeing that portrayed on screen.  

   (And you better believe I love that song, by the way!)  

   
   I had heard (and memorized) the song, "Rewrite the Stars," before I saw the movie.  I absolutely love it...but I've heard its message many, many times before.  Yes, we write our own destiny, we are given the freedom to choose our own actions and the consequences that come with them.  There's something archetypal about the Masculine attempting to pursue and win the Feminine.  To bring her out of her past, to lead her into a better future, to pledge and to convince her of the depth of his love.  When she takes to the air he follows her, joining her in her element in a dance of strength, elegance, and passion. 

   I love the triumph in their voices as they sing:

   "Nothing can keep us apart!
   'Cause you are the one I was meant to find!
   It's up to you
   And it's up to me
   No one can say what we get to be!
   Why don't we rewrite the stars
   Changing the world to be ours?" 


   But the scene that moved me the most was a different song: "Tightrope."  

   This is Charity's song.  Her husband is far away, and we see her tucking her little girls in for the night.  She's drawing the curtains and preparing for another night alone.  

   In stories we often see the discontented wife.  We see her embittered, snapping, or at best, falling apart, at her wit's end.  In this song, we see something that is not often portrayed, let alone glamorized as it deserves to be.  This is the song of the patient, faithful wife.  She does not resent her husband's dreams, she revels in them.  She misses him, but is not angry at being at home while her husband is away.  Instead, she looks well to her household.  

   She sings:

   "Some people long for a life that is simple and planned
   Tied with a ribbon
   Some people won't sail the sea 'cause they're safer on land
   To follow what's written
   But I'd follow you to the great unknown
   Off to a world we call our own.

   Mountains and valleys and all that will come in between
   Desert and ocean
   You pull me in and together we're lost in a dream
   Always in motion
   So I risk it all just to be with you
   And I risk it all for this life we choose.  

   Hand in my hand 
   And you promised to never let go
   We're walking a tightrope
   High in the sky
   We can see the whole world down below
   We're walking a tightrope
   Never sure, will you catch me if I should fall?
   Well, it's all an adventure
   That comes with a breathtaking view
   Walking a tightrope
   With you."  


   She knows how fragile all this is.  Her husband is risking money he doesn't have for this success.  So many things could happen that would cause it all to tumble down.  And she knows he's out there working closely with the alluring Jenny Lind.  She knows the risk, but she's trusting him all the same.  She loves him.  

   I love the image in the song.  Walking a tightrope with a partner.  There's no net beneath them.  If one of them strays, they both plunge into ruin.  Marriage is a promise to never let go, whatever happens.  

   It would be giddy joy if it weren't for the sobering danger and intense concentration not to fall.  And it would be paralyzing fear if it weren't for the thrill of being up so high alone with your best friend and love of your life.

   It's worth all the danger to be there with him.  It's worth all the risk to have this, her husband, her little ones, this life together.  

   If you ask me what true love looks like, I would say it would look like her, spinning and dancing in the moonlight, waiting for him, trusting him to come home to her.  Still dreaming and nurturing and hopeful.  Embracing the adventure of it all, risking her heart for love.  

   Is there anything more beautifully Feminine in this world?  

   It's these little moments that go unsung.  Bravery that is not seen, or lauded, or even always rewarded.  This is the romance of life.  Love mingled with sorrow, hope mixed with fear.  To understand the terms and the risk, and to choose to still dance within it.  Every once in a while, it's nice to see a moment like that put on the screen.  

   I am, and always have been a dreamer, an incurable romantic.  People today foolishly think that means I'm blind to the world around me.  No, I see it.  I see it all.  My dreams do not blind me to the truth, they are reflections of the Truth; the Promises by which I live.  I do my little duties each day, and I tuck myself into a lonely bed every night.  And I wake up and I do it again.  I don't know what will happen.  I don't know if I'll get to be loved, or get to have children of my own to nurture.  

   I'm waiting, and I don't know if I'll be rewarded the way I hope to be.  But I can't give up.  I won't fall away, because this is what is right.  My allegiance is to a greater King, and I gave my heart to Him long ago.  I don't get to know what will happen.  I have to carry this cross of uncertainty, pain, and fear.  This loneliness is mine to bear, and I will stand up under it.  

   I'm not really alone, I know that.  His Spirit lives in me, and He sees me.  That's the reassurance that the incurable romantics of the world don't have.  I too, am alone in the night, wondering what will happen.  And even though I know He's with me, I still have to feel lonely.  One can live their life doing everything possible to shout down that persistent loneliness.  I embrace it.  I choose to trust that Jesus Christ has ransomed me and adopted me as His daughter.  He means to come back for me one of these days.  I'll see His face and I'll marvel that I ever doubted Him.  

   It'll all come right in the end.  My story isn't over.  

   
   "Hand in my hand, and You promised to never let go.
   I'm walking a tightrope...
   Well, it's all an adventure that comes with a breathtaking view--
   Walking a tightrope
   With You."      

  
~Cadenza