Prodigal Poet: An Ecclectic Offering on God, Shakespeare, and the Beatles

The Christmas season is my very favorite time of year -- the lights, the lush garlands and trees, the great food, and more cheerful people. I love everything about it and could probably live in a Christmas environment for the majority of the year, especially if there is snow. I know most people enjoy snow on Christmas, but I enjoy it ALL the time. I can never get enough of it, perhaps with the exception of driving to the UP of Michigan in a blizzard in the dark. There is something about the preparation and anticipation of this season that comforts me and makes me feel incredibly joyful, forgetting some of my usual stress and worry. It is the waiting for Christmas that I enjoy, much more than I do the actual day. Once the actual day arrives I start to feel the blues tapping on my door, fully settling in with a bowl of popcorn and their feet on the coffee table the next day. For some reason, this year, I am feeling the blues arrogantly inching toward my doorstep a little earl

"Well, there’s a war on Christmas, it’s under attack But this year America’s taking it back." These are some lyrics from one of my most favorite shows in the whole world: Stephen Colbert's Christmas special from 2008, titled "The Greatest Gift of All." If you're not familiar with Stephen Colbert and his daily comedy show on Comedy Central, he does a fake news show, a la "Daily Show" and does so in his manufactured Bill O'Reilley-esque, pseudo-conservative persona. He plays a character in which he satirizes the conservative media. In my opinion, he is one of the funniest people around. And one of the smartest. The lyrics above ring incredibly true for me. Not true in the sense that there is actually a war on Christmas. But true in that some people really seem to believe that liberals are out to destroy Christmas, and in turn, Christianity. Now, I can't deny that there probably are some crazy, extreme left-wingers that would indeed love

Billy Joel's song "New York State of Mind" is running through my head at the moment . . . because Kevin and I will soon be departing for NYC this coming Monday, to visit his family and take in some magical Manhattan moments. Each trip is practically a lifetime of experiences in a very brief span. I can see why people love the city. They most assuredly have the most interesting and strange happenings. It certainly leaves a mark on you, for better or for worse. I personally could never live there, as much as I enjoy visiting. I am a small town girl (gratuitous Journey song plug) and have lived in them my whole life until the time we got married. I was born in Rochester, Minnesota (which is no small place) but only lived there for a year before we moved to Indiana, with the start of Dad's ministry career. So from year 1 until year 25 I had grown accustomed to the slow-paced sway and quiet style of the small town. I loved it. I still do. I'm a quiet person g

I'm taking a break . . . I'm supposed to be writing some portions of an e-book that I am writing for a client, about her experiences going through cancer and her process of healing. I've been working on it this afternoon and have made some good progress, but I keep feeling this well of emotions creeping up on me, feeling like a surging, swirling tempest, ready to pour out. I know then, that it is time to write . . . and not write for someone else, or write something logical, sensible, or rehearsed. It is time to write with pure freedom and raw emotion. Even though I may not have had this feeling much for a few years, I remember it all too well. I've been listening to the soundtrack to "A Beauitful Mind." It is one of two of my favorite albums to listen to while I work. The other is the soundtrack to "Amistad." There is something about each of them that not only lulls me into a calm, focused state of being, but that also quakes awake my creativ

I can hardly believe that four years ago today, I was up at around 5:30am, running on the fumes of four hours sleep, slightly late for my hair appointment, tired, nervous, excited, wondering if I was going to have enough stamina for the day, wondering if I would look okay in my dress, wondering if I would be a good wife. Four years ago was our wedding day. I am amazed at how right people were when they told me as a child and a teenager that time flies by the older you get. It seems as though each year picks up a little more speed, leaving me with breathless wonder if it'll be bursting with the pace of a cheetah by the time I'm in my golden years. So it is important to pause, take a breath (really letting it permeate through my body, slowly releasing it), and remember all of the moments that meant something -- big or small. Today I am remembering one of those "big" moments -- the kind of moment that is so integral to the entirety of my life, but that seems so surre

I was out taking a walk earlier this evening with our dog, Desmond -- our nightly ritual poop-patrol stroll. It had been lightly raining most of the evening and during our walk I could feel it gently descending upon my ponytail and trenchcoat. I noticed the same thing that I always notice when I am outside after it has been raining: worms. Oodles of worms were scattered across the sidewalks -- shimmying over cement to find new resting places after having had their previous ones flooded. I once wrote a poem that was inspired by this, titled "Earth Drowning." The prologue I wrote for it was this: "Worm corpses scatter across sidewalks / Like tenets evicted from earth-carved homes." This phenomenon always saddens me. I have always, since I was very young, had an unusual infatuation with worms. I used to go worm-hunting at least once a week, turning over rocks in our backyard, especially near the garden, searching for my squishy, slimey treasures, with the hopes

One of our weekly rituals occurs on Wednesday evening . . . Kevin and I snuggle up to watch "Ghosthunters" -- about two Roto-Rooting plumbers by day, turned paranormal experts by night. I'm really rather obsessed with anything relating to ghosts. I can't get enough of ghost specials such as on Discovery or Travel Channel. It appears as though Jason and Grant (the co-founders of TAPS - The Atlantic Paranormal Society) also have their rituals. Almost every week they split the hour into two separate ghost-busting visits. And as they drive away from the client meeting of the first location they bump fists and Jason says, "On to the next." This always amuses us . . . I'm not completely sure why. The other repetition that I've noticed lately happens while they are taken on the tour of the location that they are about to investigate. The client relays various stories to TAPS of the types of paranormal experiences that have happened in that particul

Cover me in sweet surprise Free of regimen and raw election With soft protection From light From heat From hollow wind I am tired I am worn Sometimes we need the darkness

Kevin and I finally watched yesterday a movie that we'd been wanting to see for ages now . . . "Lars and the Real Girl." Any time a more quirky, independent movie comes out, you can bet we'll want to see it. We love movies that are quirky, darker, and unique (yes, and even downright weird). And not just for the sake of being different, but because those are the types of movies that we relate to more -- the types of movies that more accurately reflect who the two of us are as human beings. Neither of us fit terribly well into the mainstream. We're like the two random trout that swim upstream, in a school easing down. I have always felt like an outsider, sometimes, even in my own family. I have never really felt like I fully belonged anywhere. I have a close family; I have friends; I have acquaintences. But in every group that I find myself, I feel as though there is some part of me that is hidden. I think that part of the reason for this is because I

Sometimes it comes quietly. Sometimes it arrives violently. Sometimes it is met with shock and surprise; sometimes with long-held expectation. It is the culmination of life's every moment, every matter. It is feared; it is loathed, and occasionally, welcomed. Whatever it is, I don't think that it is the end. I don't mean to sound macabre, but death has been on my mind lately. It's not a subject I tend to spend hours upon hours thinking about. But my mind does naturally wander into the dark and dusty labyrinth of all things existential now and then. It's only human. With life, comes death. How can one avoid thoughts of it completely? While I certainly don't think it's healthy to dwell on the topic of death, I also do not think it healthy to never confront it either. It's one of those vastly complex subjects that has physical, spiritual, and philosophical importance. Death is different to everyone, on some level. For some, death is merely the

I have been on a lot of family vacations while growing up. Most of them were trips to Minnesota to see my mom's family or to Ohio to see my dad's family. But now and then we would travel elsewhere to New England, Tennessee, or Michigan. We never went to Disney World, or California, or Mount Rushmore. We never really did do the "grand adventure" type vacations. But that never bothered me too much, because what we did do, we made the most of it. There have been many insanely wonderful times throughout those trips. Most of them would probably be mundane, in fact boring, to people outside of our family. But for some reason, those subtle, simple (trivial you might say) memories are my favorite. Usually they are moments of complete and utter silliness. If you don't know my family, then you don't know just how very silly we all are, especially when we are together. There is a certain ease when we are all together . . . the way in which a child easily fits i