On the Eve of Thirty

So a decade has come and gone, or nearly. The decade of making. I remember turning twenty and the odd panic, the surreal realness of adulthood settling in. That was worse, I think. I didn’t know then what I know now: that the panic was both an over and an under-reaction. It’s been far sweeter and far more terrifying than I imagined, and what I know now is I will say the same on the eve of forty.

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Why I Like the Smell of Snot

As you all know, Erin fills the virtual space of Act IV with many thoughtful meditations on intentional living. She refuses to allow the days to roll by without trying to wring the humor, awe, and spiritual satisfaction out of the mundane and marvelous moments alike. So, when she asked me to write a guest post for Blog Wars 2013, I wanted to write something worthy of that striving. I too am a firm believer that every moment, every scene is filled to bursting with meaning just waiting to be extracted and experienced.

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Talkin’ ’bout the Weather

Tonight I’m going to attempt something difficult for me: small talk. Usually, I fairly suck at asking such common questions as, “What’s your name?” and “Where are you from?” and “What do you do?” Now, you wanna talk about Jesus? You got it. Books, philosophy, food, or politics? Sure thing. Discuss the Great Schism? I’m your girl. Just don’t get your feelings hurt when I don’t ask you how your drive here was.

As you can imagine, this has added incredible difficulty to my life. Wedding receptions and Christian women’s gatherings (which make up like 90% of my life I think) turn into exhausting ordeals where I try my darndest to talk about nothing. I’ve figured out, though, that I have an ace in my pocket. As it turns out, the very smallest of topics is something I love talking about: the weather.

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Home

In the last two weeks I’ve looked on a few of the world’s most incredible views: I’ve gazed up at the magnificent Duomo in Florence, and down on lakes from an Alpine summit, and over fields of bright yellow French flowers I don’t know the name of. But looking up from this screen now, my eyes meet my favorite view, where outside my bedroom window the leaves of my tree have reached their fullest green. And even though my fortnight of whirlwind travel was the stuff of dreams, I can’t help but be a little sad I missed the last blossoms of Kentucky spring.

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Plot

Each morning on my 5-minute commute, I get caught behind a truck that waters the flower baskets hanging from every telephone pole on the town’s main roads. Rumor has it, taking care of those flowers is a full-time, city-paid job. This is small town living, where my tax dollars go toward plant care instead of food for the drug dogs. Isn’t that fantastic?

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