When I had a salaried job, blogging was my creative outlet. I’d see a coworker in star-spangled glory, and I couldn’t wait to sneak open a tab to blog about it behind the scenes of what I was actually getting paid to do.
But now, I get paid to write. Ideally. And most of my work is ghostwritten, so I don’t have anything to post as my writing clips. And blogging seems like work.
So I’ve taken to painting as my creative outlet. This is different than the last paintings I posted, because those were a combination of a print and oil paint. Now I’m talking straight oil paint.
I don’t know the difference between monet and manet, and I haven’t taken an art class past sixth grade specials. Also, I’m pretty horrible at it. It’s an exercise in humility, because the cycle is inevitable: I get excited about a particular painting, I sit down to start, half-way through it looks really bad but I persevere, I finish and it looks even worse, I come back to it and try to fix it, I run out of ideas and sign my name. A few days later, I try again with a fresh canvas. You could also call it an exercise in failure, which is a good thing.
I had fruits of the spirit in mind when I painted these, hoping they would make good Christmas presents. I’ve decided they’re a better fit for my Fruit of the Loom series, which is more like, well, undies. These are important pieces, because they’re my first and I’m learning a lot, but they’re not something you really want to look at. I’ll add to the numbers and soon this series will be a few layers deep.
When I left my house wearing jeggings the other day, I should have known it would be a kooky day. Jeggings are the lowest form of leggings: fake denim material that clings to your body like saran wrap to frosted muffin tops. Way too many unattractive things about that sentence. Yet there’s something freeing about jeggings; you can do yoga in them or wear them on casual Friday. They say, “I take risks. I’m bold. I’m confident. I’m versatile.”
My jeggings day was spent like this: after writing for a few hours, I visited a bookstore, had a hair appointment and hung out at my brother’s house. I came home with a permanent hot pink hair extension for breast cancer awareness. My mind was churning with interior decorating ideas I gleaned from books at the bookstore (see newly gussied up walls below). I also had a hole in my jeggings because, though versatile, they didn’t hold up during a game of Crack the Egg on my brother’s trampoline.
But the jeggings worked their magic while they lasted. I took risks, embraced my youthfulness and didn’t care about being presentable or professional. I have the pink streak to prove it. I also have these paintings, which I recently finished:
These paintings are based off of photos my husband took last year on our trip to Spain. I did a little digital hocus pocus in PhotoShop, printed them on canvas and painted with oil paints on top of them. And now I have another way to procrastinate creative outlet when I have writer’s block!
(Sorry RSS readers; I didn’t realize my lightbox pictures got messed up and the post looked so hideous if not seen directly from my site. I’m on it for next time …)
The end of summer is upon us. We had friends over for dinner to enjoy the last of our summer nights before it gets too cold. Click on the picture to see more.
I hate game shows. (Except The Biggest Loser) … I can’t stand the suspense of a clock ticking down seconds, with an HD close-up shot of a contestant’s sweaty forehead; or a singer/dancer/comedian showcasing his talent (or lack thereof) for critics to scoff or fans to swoon; or a winner and a loser, not a bunch of people applauded for just trying. … There is too much potential for failure, for vulnerability, for messing up.
I thought this merely indicated my preference for scripted, planned drama on shows like Friday Night Lights or The Hills. But my husband pointed out that it’s in fact an unhealthy view I have of life: that everyone should excel at everything they do, or else not even try. I blame it on my membership in the Millennial generation.
A controversial study reported on by the Los Angeles Times suggests that Generation Y-ers (or Millennials) are so overly self-confident that they’re narcissistic. This attitude – widely recognized in teenagers to 20-somethings – breeds discontentment and a constant need for praise and “patting on the head,” in the workplace, according to a Reuters article.
Beginning back in preschool with gold stars for accomplishments and now constant self-promotion on Facebook and Twitter, we are used to being recognized. In reality, meaningful recognition is so rare that it doesn’t motivate, it’s more like a cherry on top. But since childhood, many of us have found the recognition we receive defines us, and the process of learning, working or performing that led to the recognition loses its meaning.
When everyone in the class is forced to hand out a Valentine to everyone else, a natural opportunity to experience rejection is thwarted. When everyone receives a blue ribbon at field day, the reality that some people are better runners than others is hidden. And when memorizing facts earns an A — which contributes to a 4.0 and leads to a Valedictorian title — those facts are lost, replaced by a sense of accomplishment as fleeting as Brutus’ loyalty. Or would it be Mark Antony’s? I forget.
Anyway, I can relate. My day is brightened when the barista compliments my nails, and a downward slope on a Google Analytics pageview graph leaves me wallowing in self-doubt and reaching for my high school yearbooks, when people told me I was 2 cute 2 b 4gotten. I need approval from others.
But now that I see the error of my ways, I can turn from it:
Step 1: Stop seeking to please others and instead focusing on loving people around me in action and in truth.
Step 2: I will not only stop hiding from failure, but I’ll embrace it. I’ll intentionally start projects or pursue ideas that are outside of my comfort zone, because learning from mistakes will shape my character. Weakness is the new strength.
Step 3: I’ll redefine what success means. My capital gains will be comprised of a wealth of knowledge, friendship and faith. My portfolio will be the little folder on my desk that holds all of my scribbled down goals, encouraging notes and Bible verses. Climbing the corporate ladder will be me using the step stool to hang pictures and diplomas in our home office. And my paycheck will be made out in unicorns.
OK, I guess there’s some good that comes from striving to succeed, and there’s a practical need for being good at what you do. But what’s the balance?
Here’s a logo I designed. Contact me if you want one too!
By now, if you consider yourself a resident of cyberspace, you’ve probably seen Double Rainbow. There are auto-tuned songs about it and even a CNN article about why it’s so huge. I have an opinion too.
This weekend, the hubbs and I were in the mountains for a wedding. I’m coming off of a few pensive weeks, and with the addition of a long mountain drive and a few glasses of wine, I was overwhelmed with emotion. …
My heart hurts for a death that seems unfair, brutal and dark. I can’t explain why God didn’t comfort someone in pain or why another person’s way of comforting herself is slowly killing her. My shaky grasp of hope starts to slip as I think about people around me with terminal diseases, breaking marriages and hidden addictions.
When their solutions are to dig deep into themselves
or the universe
or their jobs
or their mistress
to find a cure
or a distraction
or an idol
or a quicker death,
I don’t see a God who can save and redeem. I see myself in their pain and their coping. I don’t suffer very well. I grapple for them, with them, praying to God for answers to the darkness while secretly thanking Him that they’re not really my questions. From my distance, I can say that God is good and he is always love, and I can keep my disbelief to myself.
So this is where I was this weekend, sifting through pain and my perceptions and my emotions, and pondering how Christ is the answer for someone who doesn’t believe in him. And then there was a double rainbow. And people joined me and the hubbs to “ooh” and “ahh.” All of us floundering people — some knowing and believing God, others not — gathered to take pictures and video of the sight.
And God spoke to us, even if we didn’t all understand what he said. He promised us something. He told us he loves us. He reminded us how mighty he is. He reminded us of something that was already written on our hearts. Click to hear for yourself.
And that explains Double Rainbow. We hurt and our solutions are all folly, but God still speaks to us. His promises remain. And we love to, need to, hear it.
An article I wrote about eating disorders is here.
There has been some amazing discussion in the comments section. Do you think that God can fully heal anybody from an addiction? Have you been hurt by Christians who act pious and better than you? Do you think treatment for eating disorders needs to come from professionals and not faith?
Check out the conversation and add to it at the bottom of the post here. Thanks for reading!
I have struggled with anxiety. It used to rear its ugly head in the oddest places, at a checkout counter in the mall, in a nice restaurant, on top of a mountain. But without fail, I would get anxious on planes. Take off, landing and any hiccup in the air would send my heart rate into overdrive, and I would try to get used to the idea of the plane careening onto a deserted island where I would live out my last days searching for someone named Jacob, which was always the best-case scenario. Now? I’ve come a long way.
In the past year, my husband and I have done a lot of traveling. I also saw a counselor. My exposure to turbulence and time spent talking through my issues has been invaluable. This weekend, as we traveled to a wedding in Phoenix, I gazed out the window happily, imagining what it would be like to reach out and grab a handful of cloud, letting it dissolve on my tongue like cotton candy. When we hit some major bumps, I delighted in children giggling and shrieking in joy — totally oblivious to some of the adults around them who shooosh-ed them through gritted teeth, no doubt preparing for their own doom.
My husband, who barely noticed the roller coaster of a plane ride, nor the kids laughing, nor my anxiety-less breakthrough, was too busy mimicking the flight attendant who sounded like Sean Connery. With head phones on, the hubbs loudly repeated what came over the speakers and slipped into an SNL act that brings to mind Burt Reynolds playing Jeopardy. Then he leaned over me to point out mountains, rivers and reservoirs out the window as if he were looking at a big map with labels and scales and topography. I followed his finger, but geography eludes me, and all I could picture was the Aerosmith video when they write words on the corn field with the tractor.
I was going to embed the video — which I practically memorized back in my middle school years — but now in my old age, I find it wildly inappropriate. Liv Tyler in a strip club, paralleling her dad’s performance? Shoplifting? Creepy man outside of a gas station? Yikes. You get a screen shot of the last scene instead.
Anyway, my journey through anxiety and into peace has been a blessing. While panic disorders are relatively common, they can make you feel crazy. But there’s hope. I’m proof.
“Love is the voice under all silences, the hope which has no opposite in fear; the strength so strong mere force is feebleness: the truth more first than sun, more last than star …”
e.e. cummings
Here’s the front of a card I created to celebrate 25 years of marriage:
A short story
“What’s that? Speak up!” He squints his eyes and leans over, craning his ear.
I mutter, “Catch up and pick Olson Mayo.”
He levels his eyes on me. Wipes the back of his hand across his mouth, turns his back and reaches for a bottle.
(earlier)
I don’t mind the explosions as much as I used to. Last year, right after I got the training wheels off my bike, I tasted the freedom of the big kids. I pedaled my way to the end of our street, turned the corner and kept going. Places only two wheels could take me, past the confines of training wheel territory. But the first explosion, followed by several more, ignited a fear in me that pumped those pedals faster than I’d ever gone – before or since. Once I arrived home, I threw my bike down and covered my ears.
A lot can happen in a year. I grew up fast.
Now the big bangs and blasts don’t take me off guard. I expect them. I’m ready for them. I join with everyone else, jumping at the noise but pointing in awe:
“Four at once!”
“It’s changing colors!”
“Time for the finale!”
During the fireworks, we always eat our picnic dinner on our brown blanket, the one with the nubs. It reminds me of sitting on sand at the beach, except it’s just an ugly blanket.
My mouth starts watering in anticipation for Mom’s potato salad, cold lemonade poured from the thermos and a piece of fried chicken, pulled from the KFC bucket with grease spotting the Colonel’s head. I always peal the crunchy skin off first and mix it in with the potato salad. Mom then makes a face but can’t argue with my reasoning: “It’s all going to the same place!”
But now as Mom reaches into the picnic bags, she pulls out peanut butter sandwiches and carrots. Carrots. Is this some kind of joke? Is Dad going to break down and laugh, reaching for a hidden bucket of fried morsels behind his back?
No. Mom and Dad take big, sticky bites out of their sandwiches and look to me to join them.
“Where’s the Fourth of July food? The chicken? The lemonade? I don’t want carrots!” I shout.
Mom tilts her head in a way that means, “Too bad. Get used to it.” Dad shrugs.
I dig my hands into my pockets and pull out lint, two dollar bills, and a warm piece of bubble gum. I look to the hotdog vendor, stand up, and announce my intentions.
“I’m getting a hotdog then. By myself.”
Clutching the money, I get in line. My hands start to sweat, the lint lodging in between my fingers. I’ve never ordered and paid for anything by myself. I watch the people in front of me, memorizing how they step up, name the condiments they want, hand over two dollars, and step to the side to wait.
“Ketchup and pickles and mayo. Ketchup and pickles and mayo. Ketchup and pickles and mayo.” I repeat to myself as I get closer to the man hunched over the grill.
He looks at me. “What’ll you have?”
“Ummm … ” I look down and unfold the dollar bills, wiping the lint on my legs. I take a deep breath and glance up.
One of the biggest challenges — and rewards — of consulting is working with clients. I’ve had great experiences so far, save for a few. One prospective client told me he was a “raging narcissist” during our first conversation, when he refused to pronounce my name correctly. My current client has her own quirks. I don’t have any reservations writing about her; I have a feeling she’s too dense to read my blog.
Our relationship started out great. She’d come meet with me in the mornings, full of energy and excitement, every day without fail. Then I started noticing that she hit an afternoon slump and it was literally hard to peel her off her seat. She is embarrassingly grumpy when she’s hungry — and that’s saying a lot if I have a problem with it. There’s been more than a few times when I’ve had to tell my hubbs, “You’re going to have a crazy wife on your hands if we don’t eat soon.”
When our work started, she was lovable and fun. Now she’s just plain weird. Yesterday I found her sprawled out in my bathtub during her afternoon slump. Of course, my husband is to blame for that one. He gave her treats to get her in there about six months ago, and the positive reinforcement worked.
For another justification of why two professionals would dress up their dog — accomplishing a remarkably scholarly, sophisticated look — click here.
When I went to college, I packed up my zippy blue Neon with purple decor for my dorm room. My mom and I drove 1,000 miles to Waco, Texas, and I watched Saved By the Bell in the hotel room the morning of move-in, about to embark on the biggest transition of my life. My mom cried when we pulled up to the dorm and she saw the balloons marking Move-in Day. I rolled my eyes, discreetly batting away my own tears.
Before we left our house, my mom used a black Sharpie to identify all of my items — from my laptop to my underwear — with my last name. For a girl just trying to blend in, a huge hand-written label doesn’t help.
Also, it doesn’t help if you call up your two “potluck” (aka unknown) roommates during the summer and ask them their thoughts on our room rules, like when we should go to sleep every night. In my defense, someone advised me that it was best to lay out the ground rules early on, so there wasn’t conflict later. I wish someone else had told me that I could wait until at least the first week of school to clinch my dorky status.
Nevertheless, advice from those with experience and camaraderie with those in the same boat is so comforting in the transition to college. That’s why I’m excited to be blogging for my newest client, University Parent. Check out the latest blog post here.
What do you think parents need to know? Appropriate Sharpie etiquette, perhaps?
I’m a words of affirmation kind of gal. Store-bought greeting cards with nary more than your signature added tell me that you took all of 20 seconds and $3.99 to think of me. But a scribbled note on a napkin, a typo-rich top ten list of memories we share or a text that makes me turn on my phone just to read it again … those are the words that hold meaning.
I create personal cards, poems or letters, capturing a piece of your thoughts that you want to share with others. If you have an anniversary coming up, a birthday to celebrate or a grief to mourn, I can help you put your emotions into words. Here’s a birthday invitation I created for a first birthday party:
(front of card)
(inside card)
My services include card design, printing and mailing, or I can provide you with a .pdf of a card, or just the words. This electronic version of this invitation costs $50. For other examples of work like this, click here. Please contact me for more information.
I wrote about alcoholism and brokenness, and it’s here.
So, a bite from the apple was the fall of man. And now a bitten apple (arguably) rules our lives, connecting us to each other and all our vital information. Even if you’re a PC, like this guy.
This can’t be good. I’m just saying.
Picture from http://aintitcool.com
Admittedly, I rarely want to be in my husband’s head. If we feel a raindrop while sitting out on our patio, my mind will say it’s going to start sprinkling, which will remind me of sprinkles on the book cover of A Million Little Pieces, 
which will remind me of the creepy song I recently learned with the line “Liars go to hell,” which is based off a verse in Revelation 21, which will remind me of RUE 21 and some awesome embroidered hippy jeans I bought there at the height of my high school career. My husband, on the other hand, would have noticed the raindrop and then hunkered down to think about Doppler radar and waves and movement and such. Give me my train of thought over his any day.
But give me his at night while he’s dreaming. This stuff is gold. Here’s the latest:
Jack Black is Satan, gallivanting around the world and reeking havoc, as he does. But, as we all know, he’s wily and deceptive, and he has disguised himself as Michael Cera, with one of those masks that you put on your face and it morphs into a skin-tight new face. Think Scooby Doo, but in real life. It’s hard to get around the different body types here, and the believability that Jack Black is Michael Cera, but I’m not one to contribute to body image issues, so let’s leave that out. Anyway, Jack Black, i.e. Satan, i.e. Michael Cera, is gallivanting around the world and reeking havoc, as he does. Sound hopeless? Don’t worry, it’s not.
Picture from http://michaelceratheblog.files.wordpress.com.
Cut to God, hiding behind a mountain. What? Yes, a wood cut-out mountain complete with studio lighting. God is about to punk Satan. What? Yes, he’s snickering to himself and anticipating the inevitable, epic prank of Jack, Michael, Lucifer. What have you. Love it.
Unfortunately, the punk’d episode doesn’t come to fruition. The dream ends in anticipation of the punkage. Mayhap we’ll have to wait for the second coming to see the end.
If you have a problem with the parallels between God and Ashton Kutcher in this dream, or find the casting for Jack Black offensive, or theologically disagree with a God who crouches behind a cut-out mountain, don’t judge me. But you can judge my husband.
Here’s a cool video my husband shot of fire dancers in the Philippines:
Fire Dancing on the beach in the Philippines from Nick Lamb on Vimeo.
Click on the following thumbnails to see the Malatapay market in the Philippines.
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The hubbs (pictured) and I had a few surprises, coming from a dry, colder climate to the Philippines. Here are a few tips that would have helped us, had we known sooner:
1. Drink water like it’s going out of style! You drink the water in and you sweat it out, and that is the cycle of life on a tropical island. I’m drinking approximately 150 ounces of water each day, not counting any other beverages.
2. Hide your water bottle in an air-tight place, or else your husband may have a crazy wife on his hands when she looks down at the water bottle she’s been suckling on for the past three days and sees black, crawly ants all in and around it. Sick!
3. Drink more water. The ice cubes in your glass of beer don’t count. And on that note …
4. Pour your bottle of beer into a glass, because the rims of bottles are rusty from the humidity, and that’s not a pleasant taste.
5. If you find yourself going to a hospital in the Philippines, bring your own toilet paper and soap. They don’t have them there. For reals.
6. Even if you lather your whole body with sunscreen multiple times, wear a rash guard and a hat, you still have to put sunscreen on your face. Poor husband. He forgot 
That’s all for now. I’m off for a mani/pedi. Ahh, the island life.
Mango daiquiri? Yes, please. Make that two!
We flew from Denver to Salt Lake City to Tokyo to Manila to Dumaguete, a small island, on Friday. Total travel time = 34 hours. Since we arrived, we’ve gone scuba diving (our first time!) at a worldclass location, oohed and ahhhed at dolphins swimming around our boat, played on a sandbar, been to the emergency room (I’m OK now!) and had chunks of pork fly at us at the local market.
There will be plenty more pictures and stories to come. Still up: the bachelorette party tonight; a Filipino buffet feast, complete with 15 men in drag (which is not part of the Filipino theme, I should add); snorkeling; a sunset wedding; a night in Manila and another long commute home.