One day in recent history, a summer intern and I were visiting the botanical gardens at UNC Chapel Hill. An old log cabin that was once the home of playwright, botanical enthusiast, and North Carolina native Paul Green sits on the garden property. It seems a little random, but inside the cabin visitors can read about different plants that were native to the cabin's original location and their various uses, so it has botanical ties.
Soon after entering the cabin, we were joined by a young family with two small children. They sat down on the benches in the cabin and talked as Kate and I read about Persimmon Beer and other interesting uses for local plants.
All of a sudden, Kate and I heard the dad say to his children, "Maybe these two ladies will sing for us."
"Maybe we'll WHAT?" I thought. As soon as they walked in, I was totally prepared to take a family picture for them, but a request to sing was quite unexpected. Dad, however, asked if we knew "Baa Baa Black Sheep," and so, realizing that we couldn't gracefully excuse ourselves, I turned to Kate and said, "Well, ready for a duet?"
Then, standing in the middle of a 19th century cabin that now sits in a botanical garden, four adults broke into "Baa Baa Black Sheep." (To my relief, the parents didn't expect a duet and jumped right into the song...which all four of us sang in pretty perfect unison, I might add.)
When our song ended, the parents explained that the kids had been singing the song all the way to the botanical gardens and had apparently just requested it again (I hadn't heard the kids' request, only the dad's). I laughed and said that I have a 21-month-old nephew and know that you just have to roll with the whimsy of a kid.
As we walked away and I was trying my hardest not to laugh, I reminded myself that I am once again living in the South, where people are more open about sharing certain parts of their lives with friends and strangers alike. At the same time, the random request struck me as odd...which has since been confirmed by other southerners to whom I have told the story.
So, future note to self and all my readers - if a small family requests that you sing them a song, it's strange (though funny), not southern!
21 June 2010
14 June 2010
Video Tour of my NC Apartment
For any interested parties, here's an 8-minute tour of my new space in North Carolina. (Yes, eight minutes...apparently, I love to blab about my living space.) Enjoy!
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10 June 2010
The Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde of Transition
The dust is beginning to settle. Now that I have successfully arrived in North Carolina and begun my new position with TWR's HR department, I find myself looking around and wondering, "How did I get here? Is this really my new reality?"
On some level I'm quite happy to be here, but I'm also sad not to be there. I enjoy telling people about my new little apartment and what the transition has been like thus far, but I also grow sick of talking about it. (It's kind of like when you're at Freshman Orientation at college, and everyone wants to know where you're from and what your intended major is. After a while, you just get tired of talking about it, even though you're thrilled that people are interested.) I want to establish roots, make friends, and be invited out places, but I also just want to go home, curl up in the fetal position, and be alone.
It's almost like I am my own strange case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. My Dr. Jekyll is all smiles, nice-to-meet-you-yes-it's-great-to-be-heres, and thinking that he (she) should start making some social plans and setting up lunches out. My Mr. Hyde, on the other hand, is wildly emotional, anti-social, and full of I-can't-believe-I've-uprooted-my-life-AGAIN self-pity. It's that strange beast of transition, I'm afraid. No matter how many times you deal with it, it just can't be tamed, though it seems to behave for some better than others.
Don't read this and think that I'm cracking up or in the "depths of despair," as Anne Shirley would say. Most of you (probably those of you who have been through a major transition in recent times) will just realize that I'm being honest. There will come a day when Dr. Jekyll will be seen (or felt) more often than Mr. Hyde. It's just that today is not that day. I have hope that "the day" will come sooner rather than later, but in the meantime I'll take one day at a time and live in the fullness of God's grace.
On some level I'm quite happy to be here, but I'm also sad not to be there. I enjoy telling people about my new little apartment and what the transition has been like thus far, but I also grow sick of talking about it. (It's kind of like when you're at Freshman Orientation at college, and everyone wants to know where you're from and what your intended major is. After a while, you just get tired of talking about it, even though you're thrilled that people are interested.) I want to establish roots, make friends, and be invited out places, but I also just want to go home, curl up in the fetal position, and be alone.
It's almost like I am my own strange case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. My Dr. Jekyll is all smiles, nice-to-meet-you-yes-it's-great-to-be-heres, and thinking that he (she) should start making some social plans and setting up lunches out. My Mr. Hyde, on the other hand, is wildly emotional, anti-social, and full of I-can't-believe-I've-uprooted-my-life-AGAIN self-pity. It's that strange beast of transition, I'm afraid. No matter how many times you deal with it, it just can't be tamed, though it seems to behave for some better than others.
Don't read this and think that I'm cracking up or in the "depths of despair," as Anne Shirley would say. Most of you (probably those of you who have been through a major transition in recent times) will just realize that I'm being honest. There will come a day when Dr. Jekyll will be seen (or felt) more often than Mr. Hyde. It's just that today is not that day. I have hope that "the day" will come sooner rather than later, but in the meantime I'll take one day at a time and live in the fullness of God's grace.
27 April 2010
Somewhere, Someone's Life is Normal
During the course of my relatively extensive travels, I have always found it soothing to observe people going about their normal lives. When I am in a foreign country, outside of my normal schedule and perhaps even outside of my comfort zone, I love to see people shopping for groceries, children returning from school, business people going about their daily office routines, and families visiting friends in the evening. While my life, however temporarily, has assumed an element of the unfamiliar (which is simultaneously scary and thrilling and is one of the reasons that I love to travel), I take comfort in the fact that somewhere, someone's life is still functioning normally.
While I myself may not be entirely "normal" (please no comments from the Peanut Gallery), my life is relatively normal, even if I have been living in a foreign country for the past three years. Now that I'm in the process of transitioning from life in Austria to life back in the U.S., life is anything but normal. Crazy, yes. Distracted and disjointed, most definitely. Both exciting and sad, you betcha. But normal? You must be smoking something.
Despite the unsettling process of re-settling, however, I take infinite comfort in knowing that somewhere, someone's life is normal. So the next time you (or I, for that matter!) are feeling a bit dissatisfied with a seemingly boring life, remember that somewhere, someone's glad that your life is functioning normally!
While I myself may not be entirely "normal" (please no comments from the Peanut Gallery), my life is relatively normal, even if I have been living in a foreign country for the past three years. Now that I'm in the process of transitioning from life in Austria to life back in the U.S., life is anything but normal. Crazy, yes. Distracted and disjointed, most definitely. Both exciting and sad, you betcha. But normal? You must be smoking something.
Despite the unsettling process of re-settling, however, I take infinite comfort in knowing that somewhere, someone's life is normal. So the next time you (or I, for that matter!) are feeling a bit dissatisfied with a seemingly boring life, remember that somewhere, someone's glad that your life is functioning normally!
18 April 2010
As Nature Intended
There's this driving school in the town where I work. It's housed in a mint green building and, for reasons known only to the school's designers, their mascot is a cow who stands outside the building with the school's logo painted on her side. I have no idea what cows have to do with driving, but at least Bossy makes a good landmark and conversation piece.
The funny thing about this cow is that it has, within the last year or so, had some pretty significant surgery. It originally had both large horns and udders, which I initially thought was a sign of major gender confusion. Then I started reading The Pioneer Woman and realized the female cows can have both horns and udders. How's a girl from the suburbs supposed to know these things? Sesame Street should address these kinds of issues so that children growing up in the suburbs don't make fools out of themselves as adults due to their lack of bovine knowledge.
In any case, many months ago, during one of our frequent bouts of wind and rain, the Driving School Cow toppled over, dislodging one of her (rather large - I still maintain that the horns were too large for a female cow) horns. There were a few pathetic and asymmetrical months in which the poor cow sported only one horn - and in which the children of the town once again began believing in unicorns.
Then, whether by man's design or the power of the elements, the second horn later disappeared, leaving behind a sedate-looking, hornless cow who continues to serve as the driving school mascot...albeit a mascot who kind of looks like she has brain matter oozing out of holes above her ears. Don't worry, readers with delicate sensibilities, it's not really brain matter - just some sort of foamy adhesive.
And that's no bull.
The funny thing about this cow is that it has, within the last year or so, had some pretty significant surgery. It originally had both large horns and udders, which I initially thought was a sign of major gender confusion. Then I started reading The Pioneer Woman and realized the female cows can have both horns and udders. How's a girl from the suburbs supposed to know these things? Sesame Street should address these kinds of issues so that children growing up in the suburbs don't make fools out of themselves as adults due to their lack of bovine knowledge.
In any case, many months ago, during one of our frequent bouts of wind and rain, the Driving School Cow toppled over, dislodging one of her (rather large - I still maintain that the horns were too large for a female cow) horns. There were a few pathetic and asymmetrical months in which the poor cow sported only one horn - and in which the children of the town once again began believing in unicorns.
Then, whether by man's design or the power of the elements, the second horn later disappeared, leaving behind a sedate-looking, hornless cow who continues to serve as the driving school mascot...albeit a mascot who kind of looks like she has brain matter oozing out of holes above her ears. Don't worry, readers with delicate sensibilities, it's not really brain matter - just some sort of foamy adhesive.
And that's no bull.
04 April 2010
The Mystery of St. Michael's
There are over one hundred churches in the Vienna area, of which I've been to maybe fifteen. One of my favorites of the fifteen I've been to, however, is St. Michael's. It's old and dark, and it has this extraordinarily beautiful altarpiece depicting the archangel Michael and the angels throwing down Satan and his angels, while the eye of God watches over the scene. There's just such a feeling of victory in the altar, and the action and movement that is captured in the sculptured stone is breathtaking.
I love the worshipful atmosphere in St. Michael's, and another favorite aspect was that I always seemed to visit when the choir was practicing. The gentle Gregorian chant and choral music, which seemed to float out of one of the back chambers as if out the mists of a time long past, heightened the feeling of solemn awe that you feel when visiting a beautiful old place of worship.
St. Michael's was always part of my Vienna tour when I had visitors, and I always hoped that the choir would be practicing when I took my visitors inside, and it usually was. Because I am usually in Vienna on the weekends, it made sense that St. Michael's choir would be practicing on a Saturday or Sunday afternoon in one of the church's back rooms.
At least two years passed. Then, during one routine visit, as I was soaking up the atmosphere and reveling in the beautiful sounds of the choir's singing, it suddenly occurred to me how incredibly lucky I was that the choir always seemed to be practicing when I visited. My heart sank a little bit...and then I saw it.
At the foot of one of the statues beside the altar.
A CD player. For over two years, I had been convinced that the hard-working choir of St. Michael's practiced constantly, and that I always lucked out in timing my visit to overlap with their practice time. I was incredibly disappointed - and more than a little sheepish - to discover that the "choir" was really a CD on repeat!
I love the worshipful atmosphere in St. Michael's, and another favorite aspect was that I always seemed to visit when the choir was practicing. The gentle Gregorian chant and choral music, which seemed to float out of one of the back chambers as if out the mists of a time long past, heightened the feeling of solemn awe that you feel when visiting a beautiful old place of worship.
St. Michael's was always part of my Vienna tour when I had visitors, and I always hoped that the choir would be practicing when I took my visitors inside, and it usually was. Because I am usually in Vienna on the weekends, it made sense that St. Michael's choir would be practicing on a Saturday or Sunday afternoon in one of the church's back rooms.
At least two years passed. Then, during one routine visit, as I was soaking up the atmosphere and reveling in the beautiful sounds of the choir's singing, it suddenly occurred to me how incredibly lucky I was that the choir always seemed to be practicing when I visited. My heart sank a little bit...and then I saw it.
At the foot of one of the statues beside the altar.
A CD player. For over two years, I had been convinced that the hard-working choir of St. Michael's practiced constantly, and that I always lucked out in timing my visit to overlap with their practice time. I was incredibly disappointed - and more than a little sheepish - to discover that the "choir" was really a CD on repeat!
16 March 2010
March Comes in Like a Lion...
So, there's that expression that March comes in like a lion and leaves like a lamb. But the pressing question, especially for this year that has been so ridiculously full of snow even as we approach Easter, is what if the lion EATS the lamb? Inquiring minds (and shivering bodies) want to know.
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