* not with ink

While on the subway to yesterday's soccer game, I realized something distressing; I had forgotten my socks. Socks that would fit over shinpads and into cleats. All socks. Any socks. You cannot play soccer barefoot when others are wearing cleats. Even casual games of barefoot soccer run the risk of broken toes . I cannot wear shinpads and cleats without socks: blister city!! What to do? I was running late. My team does not have extraneous women. Going home would essentially mean missing the game... The bus stop I get off at is across the street from Marshall's. So I bought a pair of men's socks at Marshall's. Striped socks that pulled up over my shin pads although they weren't made for this type of wear. Socks whose purple heels sat above my heel, at the back of my ankle. Unethical socks , most likely. I feel sad about this, as I've been enjoying the challenge to put my money where my mouth is and only purchase ethically made or used clothing. I don&#

Sometimes on a Saturday morning, my to-do list looks like this: edit photos for S&J send photos to Sally blog: books, photos email: Ryan, Lisa, Jay fix: dresser, necklace craigslist: camera accessories, glassware buy: GROCERIES, shoes And my schedule looks like this: noon - Ruth's w/ bikes 3pm - Erika for coffee 7pm - Claire & (other) Ruth? I am trying to sort out how to make it all fit, when I realize I don't want to do any of those things at this precise moment. So I boil water and grab some Earl Grey and the last of the raspberries I picked from our overgrown bush this morning, and I take up the book I put down last night when my eyes couldn't stay open, and I curl up on the couch, and trust that I will do the needful eventually, and that this little time of quiet is valuable and necessary and allowed .

Earlier this summer, a new friend asked me in an email if/when I first started questioning my faith. This is my response, edited slightly for clarity. I wanted to share it because it is honest but risky, and I want to be honest. I also want to ask you all the same question I ask her at the end... What about you? What's your story? I think my questioning started in high school, when I was 14 or 15. I had a lot of self-loathing; most of it came from the gap between how others perceived me (the good Christian girl) and who I felt I was (someone who didn't understand if or how my faith worked outside of church walls...) I didn't admit most of my questions and fears for years, and at the time I definitely accepted teachings that I don't anymore. The more I've seen and interacted with real life, picked up pieces of philosophy, and come to understand the methodology behind historical criticism, the more I've re-examined my beliefs. Having a friend who loves Jesus

Thoughts on the subway to my new summer job: I wonder if the office environment will be half as good as I've heard. And if the work will be twice as boring (or maybe only half). There is a gelato place nearby. I may become a regular. Maybe I will bike to work. I could totally bike to work. Next week. If it doesn't rain. What do I do with an hour long lunch break? Other than visit the gelato place, of course. Should I have left earlier? Maybe data entry will be how I finally get into podcasts. Or techno music. I like that tattoo.

Inebriate of Air - am I - And Debauchee of Dew - Reeling - thro endless summer days - From inns of Molten Blue ... Oh Sacrament of summer days, Oh Last Communion in the Haze - Permit a child to join. Thy sacred emblems to partake - Thy consecrated bread to take And thine immortal wine!

I'm on a bit of a poetry binge this week, and Monday afternoon found me lying on the luxurious shag rug of a friend's tiny apartment, re-reading some of my favourite poets (ee cummings, William Carlos Williams, Czeslaw Milosz). It is an adventure to re-open a collection and wonder what will pop out, knowing something you've read before will strike you afresh, or you will be reminded of a particularly moving line that you had somehow forgotten. Like this piece from Milosz, which floors me. Every. damn.* time. The first time I read it, I lay in a park with a friend (this same friend who offered me her rug as my reading burrow) and demanded that I share it with her. I spoke it carefully, and then, into the post-reading silence, I slammed the book shut, and dropped it as loudly as I could onto the grass. "I'm never reading anything again," I declared, "What else is there to say?" Esse I looked at that face, dumbfounded. The lights of métro st