What will they think of next?

Who decided to place the world's largest unmarked speed bumps in the middle of a highway, which, might I add, is in the middle of NOWHERE? The Mexican Government, that's who. I feel like every time I drive through Tijuana, I think, "Now what will these crazy kids think of next?"

Here I am, flying down the road with not a car in sight, because I've just spend two hours driving 10 cars 20 miles to our camp. This is due to the fact that of course the caravan behind me included a camper/trailer combo that could only drive about 2 miles per hour up any sort of incline. And after this little jaunt to our camp, I spend another hour finding homes I couldn't find the day before, when our high tech GPS was playing mind games with me, causing me to sweat profusely and truly doubt my sanity. (It convinced me I'm schizophrenic and/or obsessive compulsive before the day was through.) Either way, I was ready to get home - at least the voices were telling me I was ready to get home.

Suffice it to say, driving 50 miles an hour down the road and not noticing the world's largest speed bump until your flying over it Dukes of Hazard style, CANNOT be good on the work vehicles. However, sitting by yourself, Spanish billboards whizzing by, white knuckles glued to the steering wheel, and an outloud exclamation of "no effing way!" . . . that alone, my friends, is worth the price of admission.

my thoughts exactly

Well, replace Buddha with Jesus.

calm in the storm

last night i was abruptly awoken by the torrential rain beating itself against the street below. i sleepily wondered if my car would get washed down the hill and then drifted back to sleep.

as i left my house for work early that morning, one of my favorite (and rarely played) bruce hornsby songs, mandolin rain, immediately came on the radio. and in an unheard of event of synergy and truman-show-type manipulation, all the lights were green on the way to the freeway. following, my new favorite bedouin soudclash song, when the night feels my song, ensued.

when the (completely non-metaphorical) rainbow arched its back over the i-5 freeway, i sang harmony like i've never sung harmony before, smiling at the realization that there is always a time of release when calm breaks through the storm.

owed to my mother

my recently discovered ability to cry during movies and T.V. drama, my care for people close to me, my love for the city and all things urban, my appetite for good food, my creativity, my stubbornness, my gassy stomach, my desire for sleeping in and taking naps, my drive to do better, my lack of manual transmition knowhow, my ability to listen to people, my late night movie watching, my restaurant savvy, my thin hair and crazy eyebrows, my love for music, my laughter, my silliness, my wanting to be a better me . . .

For all the nights you probably sat up reading Reviving Ophelia, trying to figure out what demon had possessed your teenage daughter, Happy Mother's Day.

Slow Children at Play

Don't get stuck in the hoo-ha

If you have your head buried right up in the middle of a tornado, it's probably next to impossible to notice that everything else around you is actually not being swept up into complete oblivion.

This happens to me on a regular basis. For instance, it may be hard to realize while driving through the communities of Tijuana, Mexico that there is anything beyond debilitating despair; poverty stricken shacks made from garage doors, skeletons of old cars dying off in the streets, and dirt roads that leave you wondering if the local mechanics are actually getting a cut from the government, tell you these people need to be pitied. Their government has left them with nothing, and there is little hope things will get much better in this life time.

In many places it really seems like disaster has blown through and nobody's slowed down life to fix it. The city continues to breathe and pulse with it's own heartbeat, yet you are left wondering if some parts have just gone and died on their own.

This is where my head is so far up the tornado's hoo-ha that even I, working for a ministry who is striving to give families in Mexico a chance for better lives year round, fail to notice the big picture.

And then I meet a family like Lilia and Gil who show me that all it takes is a little perspective to know that God is working in even what appears to be the most futile conditions - and homemade burritos don't hurt either.

I learn through holding hands with their girls and walking up the street that there is a chance for joy amidst poverty - that in our need we can be the happiest we've ever been. And even a couple who has had a history of fighting and a relationship laden with abuse, can come to a place where one is crying tears of gratitude while the other buries his face in his hands in prayer as they speak about how a new home has opened their eyes to true faith.

A group of us sit around the table and laugh about how the potato burritos are causing Gil to speak in tongues when he reveals he can actually speak a little English, and in a moment of clarity, I know there is hope. When I, as the only gringa in the room, attempt to speak Spanish, and some sort of conversation ensues, I know there is hope.

Sometimes it simply takes going to the top of the mountain to peer from above, noticing that in the midst of the storm, God is still here - and burritos don't hurt either.

Is this a biohazard?

We were hoping the "sometimes-hazardous" instant warming chemicals found between the can and the actual chamber that held the coffee, were not actually leaking into the beverage we were about to drink. If something is only sometimes hazardous and there is only a slight chance that there is a microscopic malfunction in the can, are we basically being told our chances of dying from poison is like one in a thousand? . . . so you're saying there's a chance . . .

The coffee wasn't too bad, though it mostly tasted like a coffee flavored lollipop from See's Candies. The aftertaste resembled something like a mixture of fig candles and tree bark, but I couldn't really place it. Either way, if there's only a slight chance of anyone getting IBS, or possible death, we're sure to take advantage of this modern marvel of science at the Amor store this summer.

How much do I charge?

The questions posed now is this: how do you know how much to charge for your work? This is a doubled edged sword as a) I don’t want to undersell something I’ve done, b) I don’t want to overcharge friends, families, and/or strangers for something that just might not be worth what I think it is, and c) who am I to judge how much art is worth, much less my own art?!

However, for myself, affirming words are big, and the following e-mail about the recent auction I was in weighs out any time I might spend worrying about the above.

“Well, there were several people trying to outbid each other for your pictures. I even saw the final bid, “Prayer” went for $188 and “Joyful” went for $168. How does that compare to what you expected? One of our board members was so disappointed to be outbid that I think I will give her my 8x10s or how much would it be for you to blow those up and just mat them? I could then give her exactly the size she wanted but she would have to frame them….Let me know. They looked beautiful!!!!! So stunning in the auction! –Juliana”

Quote o' the Day

"Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful committed citizens can change the world. Indeed, it's the only thing that ever has."
-Margaret mead

Global Night Commute

A couple nights ago I acquired a knot in my upper left shoulder to remind me of the children of Northern Uganda who are forced to leave their homes each night in fear of their lives. I was to walk with 4,000 other San Diegans, and thousands more Americans, to a designated spot where we would sleep on the ground, and gather in solidarity for the night commuting children of Uganda: the Invisible Children. Ironically enough, I left my home that evening with my Subway sandwich, a sleeping bag, extra layers of clothes, my digital camera, a Bible, a journal, and a decent backpack. What we won’t do to be in true solidarity, right?

Doug, Ryan, Christine and I took the trolley to Middletown, were we got off and walked up the steep hill and under the freeway to Balboa Park a few miles away – nothing in comparison to what these children trek every night.

We arrived to see a sight like no other I had seen before: literally thousands of people stretching as far as we could see gathered with sleeping bags and friends in the grass. No bands were drawing them there, no fights were breaking out, no drugs, just people together laughing and talking and writing and creating art and playing their guitars. It was like a modern day Woodstock without all the mud and nakedness and pot.

In what seemed like one of the most peaceful demonstrations I’ve ever witnessed, we sat together and caught up on our passions; why we felt the need to sleep on the hard ground under the stars and what drew us to care about people thousands of miles away in the first place. As we sat under the light of the moon, glowsticks, and at one point, a luminescent hot air balloon-like ball floating above the crowd, many echoed the importance of being involved in not only Africa, but also those hurting right in our back yard. We wrote letters to President Bush, Barbara Boxer and Dianne Feinstein, urging them to get involved with the war in Uganda, and more important, in the inhumane acts being accepted there.

The crazy thing is, we actually believe in this movement. Thousands of people gathered to prove their faith in the fact that we could really do something to make a difference. TO STOP A WAR. Huddled together in our sleeping bags that night with the smell of grass seeping its way into our dreams, I somehow got this non-sensical notion that it just might work.