Trashy Thoughts

Why is it my most profound thoughts come to me just as I start to fall asleep?  While I drift off to slumber these inspiring ideas drift off someplace else.  Maybe they travel to the place where socks lost in the dryer and teaspoons that disappear in the dishwasher go to nest.

Why is it my most provocative writing ideas come when all I have at hand are a leaky pen and a mere scrap of paper?  Either the words are too smeared to decipher later or the scraps wind up tossed in the trash.

Maybe it's because these ideas were not as profound as I thought.  Or maybe they were too profound; maybe they would cause me to be too proud.  Losing these thoughts is God's way of keeping me humble; reining in my ego and keeping my reliance on Him closely tethered.

Whatever His reasons, I trust that the words that do survive carry on for a reason; reasons to which I'm not always privy.  Maybe they'll encourage someone.  Maybe they'll make someone laugh (With me not AT me, please).  Maybe the reason is as simple as keeping my head from exploding from the buildup of too many ideas. 

Bizarro Barb

A few months ago, curious about my web presence, I Googled myself.  There were many references to Barbara Best.  Most were something like Santa Barbara Best Vacation or Barbara's Best Cheesecake, etc.  However, one hit really hit home.  It was another Barb Best - a REAL live person, with my name, with her own blog and everything.  I now follow her on Twitter and we are Facebook friends.

Reading her Blog and getting to know her, I'm reminded of the Bizarro Superman comic book.  Or for a more recent reference, the "Bizarro Jerry" episode of Seinfeld.

The other Barb Best appears to be opposite me, from a parallel universe.  From her pictures, she appears to be short; I'm tall.  She's blond; I'm brunette.  She lives on the West Coast; I live on the East Coast.  She won the 2010 Erma Bombeck Global Humor Award; I think I could be a finalist in the Erma Bombeck Housekeeping Award.

It's confused me quite often when I see a Tweet or Facebook Post by the other Barb Best.  My first reaction is that someone must have hacked my account and posted as me.  I wonder if she has the same reaction.  I wonder if my friends think I've suddenly become funnier or her friends think she's having a dry spell.  She hasn't unfriended me, yet so I must not be detrimental to her career.

Recently I saw from her Twitter feed that the other Barb Best is going to be at Lucy Fest in Jamestown, NY.  I work in Jamestown, NY!  I immediately messaged her when I saw this and we plan on meeting; I'm looking forward to this unique experience.  I have only one concern.  Which one of us is Bizarro?

Heal My Lonely Heart

There are millions of lonely people in the world,
Studies show this true.
I wish there were one less around;
Correction, I wish for two.
I pray my loneliness be healed
By His giving me to you.

My Sixth Sense

While out running with my dog, Dora this evening, I was struck by how all my senses were engaged during our jaunt.  I was enjoying the view of the beautiful sunset, the salty sweat dripping from my top lip onto my tongue.  A light rain began to fall and I felt the refreshing droplets tickle my face, the fresh clean scent filling my nostrils.  I was listening to some jazz music while enjoying the gentle shower when I realized what band I was listening to - Weather Report.  During my spurt of giggles I realized I have a highly developed sixth sense - a sense of humor!

A Jackson Pollock Painting-Repost

Reposting this from 2011 'cause it's one of my favorites.  And it's still pretty accurate description of me.

I'm not a fan of Jackson Pollock's art. It's way too out there for me. But I was thinking about myself, my personality, my likes/dislikes, my history, what I read, what I listen to, what I think about. And I realized, I am a Jackson Pollock painting. I'm a mishmash of colors thrown together, with no discernible rhyme or reason. A drop of green here, a streak of blue there, dabbles of pink and red and purple and white.

I like jazz music, rock music, bluegrass, Celtic, some country. I own some bagpipe cd's, for crying out loud.

I read murder mysteries, urban noir, biographies, history, current events, contemporary thought, health and wellness. I read newspapers, books, magazines, blogs, cereal boxes and nutritional labels.

I dress conservatively, casually, modern, old-fashioned. I'm just as at home in jeans and sweatshirts as I am in business suits, as I am in khakis and blazers. I'm LL Bean, Evan Picone, WalMart, and Salvation Army Thrift Store.

My home is decorated in Traditional, Country, Cottage, Mission, Victorian, Romance, Contemporary.

I have an educated slang casual city country vocabulary.

I drink wine, Diet Coke, tap water, spring water, flavored water, black tea, white tea, green tea, herb tea, iced tea, Long Island Iced Tea and the occasional cappuccino. That's really as far as I've delved in to the coffee world.

I like a clean house; I like a messy house.

I like to ride my bike, walk, hike; I am a couch potato.

I feel happy, sad, angry, encouraged, fearful, confident, excited, disgusted - sometimes all at the same time.

Many biographers and art historians speculate that Pollock suffered bipolar disease, which would explain the mania exhibited in his art. Some might look at the canvas that is my life and wonder about the Artist that created me, as well.

No one understands what was going through Pollock's mind as he dripped and tossed paint on canvas. No one knows what fueled the thoughts and feelings he was trying to display, what emotions he was trying to free from deep within his soul.

I don't really understand what the Artist who created me was/is trying to accomplish. His Word, His Autobiography says we all were fearfully and wonderfully made (Ps 139:14) in His image (Gen 1:27). However, His art is not from bipolar disease. He is not manic. God is quite deliberate in how He proceeds.

One need only look at the history of creation in Genesis to see how carefully He made the earth and all that is within it. For six straight days, He created a new item, one thing leading to another. There was nothing random about it. He separated land and water before He made plants. He created plants before He created the animals that would eventually feed on those plants.

As I feel happy, sad, angry, encouraged, fearful, confident, excited, disgusted (sometimes all at the same time), contemplating the "why's?" of my life, I have to step back and see the Artist at work, trusting there is a masterpiece being made that is still in process. He's dripping points of sad blue on to streaks of boring beige next to lines of hot red through pools of peaceful yellow and green, with some splashes of fun pink and purple tossed in for humor and good measure.

There will be a day when the canvas that is me will be in His heavenly gallery. Jesus and I will be viewing the completed work and I'll understand why that big black drip fell on to that fuschia experience and that it hadn't ruined but enhanced my life. I need to have faith that the omniscient, omnipotent Artist will complete the good work He began in me (Phil 1:6). Until that time, I need to watch the Artist wield His brushes, trusting that He has complete and total control. There is nothing random about His paintings.

War Wounds

The wounds of loneliness
Bleed tears of grief.
Scar tissue covers the wound
But constricts the heart.

Spin Doctor

Intense.
Emotional.
Passionate.

Who can look beyond the intensity;
Through the emotionality
Recognize and appreciate the passion?