I should really be working on two thirty page research papers, but instead......

Being forced to ponder profound questions in the pursuit of an education made me think of someone's blog my mom once stumbled across.  The person put forth the unanswerable question 'Why did the chicken cross the road?' and then proceeded to answer as she imagined different individuals may have answered.  This was funny, as my boss and I once had a rather long conversation about how different authors would respond.  I had completely forgotten about that conversation until just this morning when, without any connection to what I should have been studying, I suddenly thought about it and realized once again how much I miss the people I worked with.  So, I decided to attempt to answer the unanswerable in the tradition of a few authors.  (I have to 'fess up that the other blogger came up with the first one; but, not being a huge fan of Hemingway myself, I found it too funny not to include....) 

So, Why did the chicken cross the road?


Hemingway: "He didn't. He died. In the rain. Alone."
(my boss and I agree that it was most likely in Spain somewhere)


Dr. Seuss: "The chicken crossed the road to pay a visit to Frog and Toad. 'Put down, put down your heavy load,' said Toad when the chicken had crossed the road. "


Nietzsche: "The chicken did not cross the road because there was no road to cross.  The chicken merely imagined the road.  Therefore all life is pointless."


Thomas Wolfe: "The chicken crossed the road once, but he could never go back home."


Steinbeck: "Because it was the Depression and he was a downtrodden migrant worker.  And he'd recently had trouble with a woman, because all women are evil."  (Has anyone ever noticed that Steinbeck seemed to have hate issues with women?)


C.S. Lewis: "Because it was a challenge and challenges build character."


Dickens: "To show that even a chicken not born into privilege can have great expectations."


Emerson: "To become self-reliant."


Mark Twain: "He didn't really cross the road; he thought about it and that was close enough-he told the truth, mostly, just stretched it a little."


Austen: "The chicken was a female born into a large family without privilege.  Through her own wit the chicken was able to cross the road which divided the chicken classes.  And make an advantageous marriage in the process.  All through her wit and good taste.  The end."


Oscar Wilde: "Because the chicken wasn't really a chicken, he was only pretending to be a chicken when city life bored him.  But since you must be in earnest to successfully fool everyone, and all chickens seem to be crossing the road, then you must cross the road to maintain the guise of being a chicken-even though you secretly think all of the other non-chickens pretending to be chickens are mindless, soulless opportunists."


Tennessee Williams: "Because the chicken felt trapped in a suffocating, pointless existence and it was the only way out he could come up with.  His family was stifling him and he felt unable to meet their expectations.  Unhappiness breeds desperation. (And he got depressed because Stella would never answer him.)"


Shakespeare: "Because being or not being obliterated by a semi answers the question 'To be or not to be.'"

Francis Bacon: "Because although another chicken had described crossing the road, the Chicken knew he could only come to an accurate conclusion about crossing the road by experiencing it himself."

I think I need to make some friends and get out a little more............

"Why do you say it like that, with your nose all scrunched up....'You're French, aren't you?'"

So there's this movie that I love, which I probably shouldn't, but I do, so there....It's called French Kiss starring Meg Ryan and Kevin Kline.  The more I watch it the funnier it gets.  There's this one part where Kevin Kline, playing a frenchman, asks Meg Ryan, who has shown nothing but disgust for him, "Why do you say it like that, with your nose all scrunched up, 'You're French, aren't you?'"  Anyway, that's what this little news clip made me think of.  Plus, I kinda hate the French right now.....or at least the person who failed me on the French translation exam I just had to take.  I'll admit it was kind of a blow.  An expected blow, but a blow nevertheless.  Foreign languages are not my thing.  I wish to goodness they were because I would love nothing more than to be fluent in 15 different languages, but alas the fates have not smiled upon me in that department.  Or, you know.....many others to speak of, but still....Still, it was a blow because the last time I ever failed anything was in seventh grade.  I'll never forget it, I made a 23 on an Algebra test.  (Big surprise there, it was in math.)  However, there was some consolation in the fact that no one in the class passed that test, the person sitting next to me made a seventeen.  I can still remember that experience, the classroom, the way the light slanted in from the back windows and cast a glare on the green chalkboard, the smell of cheap, damp industrial carpeting and the scent of the hog farm at the back of the field adjoining the school grounds, drifting in through the open window on a hot August breeze.  And getting a 23 on a test.  I can't smell a hog farm now without the feeling of anxiety bred by failing a test ressurecting itself.  Okay, maybe not, but to get on with the story....maybe that recent experience of failing the translation exam (a 300 word essay about something to do with the French Revolution.  The only thing I really know about the French Revolution is that a bunch of genetically discontent, downtrodden and presumably inebriated peasants broke into a prison and freed everyone, including some dregs of society....just kidding, I know there's more to it than that, apparently) is one of the reasons why this article was so funny. "There's nothing more discouraging than unappreciated sarcasm....."

"Sarkozy admits French language a hoax after Wikileaks exposé



After yesterday’s Wikileaks revelations, Nicolas Sarkozy has today confirmed that the “French language” is indeed a one thousand year old hoax. The president of France revealed that what purported to be his native tongue was in fact complete gibberish, admitting the French really speak English, except in the presence of the British. This comes as Wikileaks published cables sent by French diplomats to countries such as Spain, China and Russia which were all found to be written in English.

During a speech given in received pronunciation, the French President came clean, stating that it all started off as a joke during William the Conquerer’s invasion to make the aggressors seem a bit more exotic. “What was initially a prank snowballed and after a few years we realised we’d look silly revealing the truth, so we had to keep up the façade,” said the Premier. “In the company of any Brits we would try to make convincingly “French” sounds, a mixture of guttural grunts and rapid-fire syllables.


But as soon as we were on our own we’d all heave a huge sigh of relief and revert to English. We developed a heavy reliance on hand gestures to cover up when we ran out of likely noises, and the shrug was a particular boon if inspiration dried up. In the end we became quite the raconteurs, with an impressive array of supposed vocabulary. So what began as a game for the élites, became a hobby across all levels of society, and it shocked us that the Brits were so naïve as to not see through the charade.”


Sarkozy claims Wikileaks will soon expose a number of other “languages”. “I mean, seriously guys, has anyone ever actually listened to “Arabic”? Je ne sais pas…..”"

Many thanks to my friend Stephen, a linguist in training, who posted this on facebook.  You're awesome, dude.

Leggings are not real clothes and water is not a food group

(Only re-posted for an hour or so, per a request,but I promise to take it back down immediately....I promise I'm not really this hateful........just experiencing culture shock.)
So I am now in the land of the Eternal Sun.  Or, maybe not Eternal Sun, but definitely Land of Malibu Barbie, the Perpetual Cheerleader.  It's like Dante's tenth circle of hell.  I like it here, really, I do, but I'm definitely a fish out of water in some respects.  I have yet to see a girl on campus who has what could legally pass as hips or thighs.  There is an obsession with working out that is a complete enigma to me-I try to be healthy, but I figure if I can make it up two flights of stairs with a fifteen pound book bag without any vital organs rupturing I'm doing alright.  I don't know if anyone actually eats here, but I do know they drink copious amounts of bottled water.  That's a good thing, just kind of.....abnormal.  All things revolve around the arrival of 'beach weather.'  I left to go to the library the other day and saw someone getting out of her car, wrapped in a beach towel, apparently just having come from the tanning bed.  It was 47 degrees outside.  Frankly, coming from someone who couldn't tan in Africa, it just doesn't look natural for someone to have a tan in February.  It looks like an escaped extra from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.  I expect to hear someone break into the refrain "Oompa, loompha, doom-pa-dee-doo..." at any moment.  The concentration on appearance is much stronger here than where I came from.  People dress up to go to Wal-Mart.  I swear I think I saw Tammy Faye in the grocery section the other week. 


The standard uniform on campus seems to be leggings, which if you ask me are nothing more than glorified panty-hose, fuzzy boots and a t-shirt.  If it's cold enough that you need to wear faux-fur lined shoes, knock-off spandex tights aren't exactly going to keep you from suffering from Donner Party Syndrome.  Before I moved in I had my retinas seared by an unfortunate run-in with a pro-leggings-er.  My mom had gone in somewhere while I waited in the car, as she was only going to be a moment.  Sitting in the car I looked around, killing time and listening to the radio.  The parking space next to me was empty but the one next to it was occupied.  The passenger door was open and someone sporting leggings was digging something out of the floorboard.  The leggings were so tight and opaque that I was traumatized by the sight of neon orange underwear.  If I had an identical twin I wouldn't need to know that much about her, much less a complete stranger.  My mom got in the car and asked with some alarm "Why are your eyes bleeding....?!"  Okay, maybe not really, but it was close.


Then there are the surfers.  I have to admit, I've had to eat my words.  I've always poked some fun at surfers and jocks, but then again, no one has really been spared my defensive sarcasm.  It's kind of like one of Oscar Wilde's characters says, "'You would sacrifice anyone for the sake of an epigram.' 'The world goes to the altar of its own accord.'"  Anyway, some of them may be dumb, yes.  Shallow, probably.  But they still look good.  Very good, as a matter of fact.  However, you can tell their mothers no longer dress them.  Take, for instance, the guy who passed by the desk where I was sitting in the library the other day.  Either he had no idea that what he was wearing insulted the senses, or he just hasn't done laundry in a month.  He was sporting a blue, teal and purple plaid oxford shirt and a black and white vertical striped sweater.  His mother would be horrified to see him in public, I dare say.  Then my opinion of surfers was justified when, due to the lovely weather we had on Saturday, my dad and I drove down to the beach for an hour or so.  We parked in the public parking on the side of the street, right in front of a house where two young men with shaggy hair and surfer shorts (I was in jeans, a thermal shirt and a light coat) were sitting in the driveway in indoor rocking chairs with a carved wooden table obviously also meant for indoor use placed before them with a six-pack on it, drinking beer.  It was 1:30 in the afternoon.  We asked if it was alright to park where we had parked and one of them gave us an unsteady thumbs up and replied "'S all good."  We hoped he was right.


Perhaps I've just become lazy, perhaps I've just capitulated, perhaps (most likely) I just know my own limitations.  I know what I can and can't wear-I might strike it lucky and pull off Audrey Hepburn once in a blue moon, but I'm never gonna be able to manage Heidi Klum.  Looking around I often think of that scene in "An American in Paris" when the cool blonde comes out in this gorgeous evening gown and Gene Kelley says, "Wow.  That's quite a dress you're almost wearing.  What keeps it up?"  "Modesty."  If it requires duct tape being applied anywhere except the busted water pipe, it just ain't happening.  Which is why, when I was getting ready to leave and a friend said, "You know, statistics show that most people who go to grad school meet their spouses there" I thought, "Sure thing.  Let me just schedule that cosmetic surgery and personality transplant and we'll be good to go."  Well, if this is what I've got to compete with, I haven't got the chance of an ice-cube in hell.  Is it upsetting?  Occasionally.  But, my consolation is this: when I get this degree and get a job that will get me to Europe, everybody will be just as short and pasty white as me.  Solidarity, my friends.  Solidarity.  Long live Ireland!  Do me a favor and eat a Thin Mint for me, will you?    

'Criminal Minds' and ADD

There is this great show my mom and I got hooked on when a co-worker of mine suggested it.  The title of the series was "Lark Rise to Candleford," and let me just say it was an amazingly, insanely addictively wonderful show.  All of it.  Anyway, my point for telling this is not only to encourage people to watch it because it is great but because of what one of the characters would often say.  When she was getting a new dress she'd say that clothes were her 'one weakness,' or that good food was her 'one weakness.'  Whatever she indulged in at the moment was her one weakness.  Well, one of my weaknesses is another television show, "Criminal Minds."  I could never watch it while I lived at home because I knew it would only feed into my loving mother's occasionally irrational fears about the safety of....well, everyone.  My sister doesn't even like me to mention the title.  Of course, I'm the one who used to get freaked out by the theme song for "Unsolved Mysteries," so I guess I'm really the wimp in the crowd.  Anyway, I love to watch them solve the mystery by observing how (or if) someone puts their pencil back in the desk drawer.  It's kinda like "House" without all the personal drama-I don't like personal drama, just give me the case that needs solving and solve it.  (Also, I've loved me some Thomas Gibson ever since his 'Darma and Greg' and 'Far and Away' days...) 
Whenever we voted on board games when I was a kid I always voted for either 'Clue' or 'Trivial Pursuit.' My sister always voted for 'Monopoly,' but I suck at math and business so it was always a short game.  I've never really given up on that whole thrill of solving the mystery.  When a friend and I went on a photography trip a while back we both got a big kick out of driving past the sign for Quantico.  I suggested we do the whole tourist thing and drive up, jump out of the car and ask the security guard to take a picture of us in front of the sign, but I don't think the FBI would have found it nearly as amusing as us.  If it wasn't for the whole obsessive compulsive homicidal nut job thing you have to deal with on a daily basis I think profiling would be a blast for a career.  Whenever I watch the show I always wonder how the 'team' would profile me (not that I'd ever turn into an obsessive compulsive homicidal nut job, but you know what I mean).  Actually, I'd just love to sit down and tell Thomas Gibson anything he wants to know about me, especially if he was in the period clothing from 'Far and Away.'  So, I decided to try out my own 'Criminal Minds' chops and profile myself.  Here goes:

I have multiple half used, year old bottles of vitamins-shows that the intention to be healthy is there, but the attention span is not; probably exhibits signs of classic ADD behavior

Moved exercise weights to a new apartment, but indentation in the carpet proves they haven't been used since the move-in a month ago-see above

all movies alphabetized-shows signs of control issues....or, can't find anything without some kind of system and doesn't have the patience to look for very long for any particular item; irritation due to presence of ADD characteristics

cds categorized by genre and alphabetized within categories-control freak with ADD issues

two closets of shoes-deep rooted envy for Imelda Marcos, pre-revolution

stacks of unread library books next to bed, on desk, next to couch-good intentions but ADD

book collection centered around classic sarcastic authors such as Austen, Lewis and occasionally Dickens-people skills underdeveloped due to an overdeveloped sense of sarcasm

some classics, such as Milton's 'Paradise Lost' are well creased in the spine a third of the way through-shows multiple attempts to finish, but no success thus far......ADD?

Hmmmm.  I think I might be ADD.  But I have a great shoe collection.

One more- dedicated to my boss who retired on Friday. 

Found this and just couldn't resist

Maybe I was just really tired and in need of a good laugh when I ran across this during the wee hours of the morning, but after a while it's amazing what you can find funny.

Hopefully I'm not really that hateful, but you have to admit they're funny.

Grad School and Heart Failure

Well, I went to visit my family for the first time since starting school.  I have to admit it is an extremely odd feeling to pull into the driveway you left and came back to for twenty-something years and realize you are only there 'visiting.'  It was wonderful to see them, though.  I attended a "Barbie Princess Party" with my niece and went to Lowe's with my nephew and brother-in-law, which may not sound like too much grand excitement but when you have a two-year old of the male persuasion with you it becomes quite the occasion.  I know the employees were relieved to see us leave, as he tried the door on every washer, dryer, freezer, cabinet, refrigerator and sink in the entire store.  He thought he'd hit the mother lode when he discovered the wall displaying the different types of toilet seats you can buy, flipping up every lid and watching it snap closed.  It was kinda like a weird version of that old game "Memory."  The kid needed to be bathed in hand-sanitizer by the time he was done.  On separate occasions both of my parents asked 'how I was eating.'  Translation: am I eating anything besides trail-mix and orange juice.  Before I left they went through the cabinets and fixed up a box of culinary necessaries for me to come back with.  I think I may be the only college student ever to be sent back to school with a mason jar of bacon grease to flavor food when I cook.  No kidding.  You can't make this sort of thing up......I love my parents.

Graduate School--two weeks down and....two years to go?

So, because I'm nearly as horrible at blogging as I am at keeping a journal I have not written for....a month?  Has it really been that long?  In my defense, I've been completely without internet for two weeks.  The other two, who knows where I was then.  Anyway, to catch up:  I now live two and a half hours away from my family (which will be discussed in depth at a later date), at the beach (which will also be discussed, the universe has a sick sense of humor), attending graduate school (I'm apparently certifiable). 

You know, it's funny what you learn about yourself in those first few moments after your parents have moved in the last of the furniture, washed dishes and lined the cabinets to hold your first groceries in your first apartment.  By yourself.  Its kinda freaky.  I was fine, really....until I got my first voicemail from my niece a week after I got here.  "Ummmmm, Aunt Kehye?  I miss you.  I want you to come home."  Right-o, then.  I'll be there in a few.  I always knew I depended on my family; that I had a hard time being apart from them, but I always thought it was in a 'chapstick dependent' sort of way.  I don't know if anyone else has an addiction, but for those of us who do, you understand how much you panic when you realize you don't have it with you.  (At this juncture, it is absolutely forbidden for anyone to make any allusions to Napoleon Dynamite.  On pain of death.  Seriously.)  However, I realized after two weeks, that it is not a 'chapstick' dependent, but more......I don't know.....iron lung? dependency.  Things are going well, really, and I haven't had any extremely emotionally traumatic moments (yet).  But I still miss them.  Even the cat that actually belongs more to the next-door neighbors than us.  The cat who's name I don't even actually know.  Even though we've had her for 14 years, give or take a few.  Hey, if Audrey Hepburn can get by just calling it 'Cat' that's good enough for the rest of us.  To address the beach 'issue.'  Here's the thing with that:  its not that I 'hate' the beach.  The beach just hates me.  Or actually, more specifically, the sun hates me.  I think I've already discussed in a previous post how I single handedly fund aloe plantations in South America and keep some pitiful impoverished set of migrant workers under the dictatorial thumb of some cruel, flaccid-faced plantation baron.  I should really live in a perpetually cloudy country.  Ireland sounds perfect.  But, all that aside, I now live near(er) the beach.  Just to show how cruel the cosmic humor is, the day after I moved in half a dozen people jogged by my apartment.....It was snowing.  I hate 'em all.   So, when I went to Wal-Mart I hit the cookie aisle and discovered that there is a knock-off brand that tastes exactly like Girl Scout Thin Mints.  Order was restored in the universe.  As for graduate school itself:  how exactly far ahead of time does something have to be contemplated before it is considered 'premeditated murder'?  Because I think they are 'premeditating.'  It's like the Army or something.  They're nice until you sign the papers and then they start making you scrub the bathroom floor with a toothbrush.  Actually, everything's going, as my niece always replies when I ask her how anything went, "pret'-good." 

So, I was fortunate enough to spend the Sunday before Christmas attending a Christmas cantata with my family, sitting with my niece and nephew.  It was an enlightening experience, sitting with small children in a crowded chapel on a packed church pew......like while we were sitting there, waiting for the bread and water, and my nephew got his hands (=my mother handed him) a frog hand puppet.  In the (near) dead silence of the most reverent part of the meeting he slips the puppet over his little fist, turned to me and said "RRRRRRiiiiiiibbbbiiitttt!" in a voice akin to that of a sports announcer announcing the third triple play in the first inning of the game.  Yeah, well.....Sounds remarkably similar to this past Halloween, which happened to fall on a Sunday, which also happened to be the day for my niece's children's program at church.  We all showed up, shuffled into the very front pew and waited for the entertainment to begin.  Again, during the quietest moment of the meeting, my nephew stands up on the bench, turns to face the congregation, all of whom are seated behind him, throws his blanket over his head and begins to imitate a particularly vocal ghost.  It went something like this "WWWWHHHHOOOOOO!!!!" (my sister)-"you need to sit down, please......"  "WWWWHHHHHOOOOOO!!!!!!"  My sister, struggling in vain to make contact between rear and upholstery......"NO! 'TOP!" (translated, "No! Stop!")   "WWWWWHHHHHOOOOO!!!!! NO! 'TOP!"  My sister, gathering him gently from the pew and beating a quick retreat.  My nephew, down the length of the aisle "NO! 'TOP!  MAMA! DADDY, DADDY, GRANDADDY!"  (Can you tell who his advocates are?)  Fast forward to this Sunday.....I've got the kid in a choke-hold by the collar of his sweater because it is the only way I can keep him from taking a literal face dive over the back of the pew.  He's got one foot thrown over the back and is resting precariously on the thin wooden trim decorating the top of the bench.  "No! Huhlehahleh! (Which somehow translates in some foreign tongue into my name.....)  Just out of curiosity, I wonder why they make white crayons; it doesn't show up on paper.  Want to know what it does show up on?  Church pews.

You know how they say "Watched water never boils"? I've often wondered if that means that neglected water actually boils faster or if it simply eventually boils, unlike 'watched' water which never boils? It's a valid question, right? Well, apparently, 'un-watched' holidays get here faster than 'watched' holidays.  I think Christmas got here faster than Friday does in the course of a typical week.  We've already had a little snow down here, which is remarkable to say the least and my niece has already found where I hid her stash of presents.  It is officially Christmas.  I've had to parry questions about gifts and divert begging about how much longer the wait will be.  And that was just my parents.
I was on the floor playing with my niece the other day and we were putting the furniture in this dollhouse I used to have when I was her age.  It is supposed to be a log cabin style house with a country store downstairs.  There is a small plastic pot-bellied stove which fits into a corner and I was explaining to her that people used to use that to stay warm.  I showed her where the wood was put into the stove through the tiny door at the front, and where the pipe fit which funneled the smoke through the chimney.  "How did Santa fit down something that little?" Oh. Crap.  "Ummm......" She waited expectantly.  "Ahhhh....."  I could see her doubt in my abilities begin to grow.  "That's a great question.  For your mother."  Hey, at least that meant she was paying attention to my explanation, I suppose.
I'm hoping sincerely she never meets this one little boy who came into the library a few months ago, even if he was as cute as the devil.  I would say he was about four, as it was during school hours and he didn't appear to be quite old enough yet, anyway.  He was dressed to the nines in a little button-up 'man shirt' and khaki pants.  Unlike most kids who just have clothes on, he was 'dressed.'  His mother left him standing at the desk for a moment while she went outside to get the library bag out of the car.  Striking up a conversation as I checked out the books, I asked if he was going to receive a visit from the Easter Bunny.  "Yeah, I guess."  Then he leaned into the desk and looked at me intently.  In a very conspiratorial whisper, and as if attempting to help ease the burden of my ignorance, he said, "But you know, its really just my parents."  I was still laughing when his mother returned and recited to her the information I had just received. I asked if he had put that one together on his own; she replied that as far as they could tell, he had.  "How long do you think....."  "S-A-N-T-A?"  "Yeah."  "This year will probably be the beginning of the end, we think."  Sad, I know.  But it was still funny.  And, truth be told, I liked that kid.  He was logical and level headed without being a know-it-all.  I just hope it is a few more years before my niece meets anyone that pragmatic.
But, as logical and pragmatic as I like for things to be, come this time of year, I'm just as much of a push-over as the next girl.  I get all weepy every time I hear 'Silent Night' or 'Joy to the World.'  Heaven forbid I hear some kid sing 'Away in a Manger,' no matter how off-key it might be.  I love Christmas music; in fact, if no one else is around, I'm 100% okay with playing it in June or July.  So, it is a bit odd to find a 'traditional' carol that I'm not too fond of.  However, for some reason, 'I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day' had never really been one I cared for too much.  I use 'had' because I changed my mind last year.  I caught a re-run of an Christmas program with the Mormon Tabernacle Choir with guest Edward Herrmann.  For some reason, I've just always liked him anyway.  He played a great grandad in the Gilmore Girls.  I've always loved Longfellow's poems, but to be honest, I never really paid much attention to the words of  'I Heard the Bells.'  Then, on this program, I learned the story behind the words, and suddenly the meant something more. 

There are some who argue that because there is pain and suffering in the world, because we endure deprivation, sorrow or loss, there must be no loving Father in Heaven.  It is claimed that those who believe otherwise live in a fool's paradise, using religion as a crutch to avoid reality.  There is nothing more real than pain, anyone can attest to that fact.  Yet, it is as C.S. Lewis once wrote, "...ponder for a moment that the great religions were first preached in a world without chloroform."  That Longfellow, or anyone else for that matter, could live through the experience of mortality and still find joy is a testament that there is hope.  It is not an avoidance of reality, but rather a recognition of  what reality truly is.  Mark Twain once said that a pessimist is just an optimist who never arrived.  That joy can be found in the sound of ringing bells, a joy at nothing more than the mere sound, or the fact that one can hear, that joy can be found in feeling the heartbeat of a small child as you rock him to sleep, that joy can be found in listening to Handel's Messiah or a four-year old sing "Give, Said the Little Stream,"  that joy can be found in dandelions as well as orchids is a proof that there must be a loving Heavenly Father.  I have a hard time believing that joy developed during an evolutionary process.  It does nothing to perpetuate a species or ensure survival.  What other purpose can it serve than to remind us that we are loved?  Those who populate the scriptures from which we teach hope did not teach of a Savior of all mankind from the comforts of well-furnished ancestral halls.  If pain were the only reality, joy would not exist.  That joy can exist in spite of pain, and sometimes because we have experienced pain and yet somehow survived, is neither naive nor idealistic.  It is, in some ways, a rather sobering fact.  Joy is not superficial, nor is it transient.  It is sometimes masked by loss or sorrow, but, unlike pleasure or even simple happiness, it is not lost unless it is relinquished.  That is what is so moving about Longfellow's poem, now.  Not necessarily the words, but the conviction which was found in the pain which became the source of those words.  "God is not dead, nor doth he sleep...."  Merry Christmas, everyone. 

This has nothing to do with anything, but I was just thinking the other day about how everything must be in its proper season.  Not just right time, right place, but right order, right waiting period.  This led to thinking about how this applies to something as small as words; the same words, used differently, in a different context or a different order, have incredibly different meanings.  I mean, saying that your shirts are laundered is a good thing, but saying your money is laundered lands you in prison.  Think about it.....seriously.  So, as hard as it is to be patient, I have to tell myself all the time: not just right time, right place, but right order, right amount of time spent waiting.  Nothing earth-shattering, just difficult to adhere to for the long haul, I suppose.