Searching for a Safe Place.

We've had hundreds of earthquakes in last couple of months, four in the last three days that have left me quiet and scared and ready to run.
At the same time, it's a little exhilarating, feeling that uncontrolled (well, controlled by God, but you know what I mean) power, a constant reminder these days that I am not in control of anything in the end.
Last night I felt one rumble and rock my bed, shaking the walls, waking me up at about eleven thirty. I laid still after it stopped thinking, my God, this is scary, waiting for it to start again, not knowing what to do if it did other than run in the next room and grab Ethan. The phone rang, I thought it was Joey but it was my friend Jen. She was a little historical, which isn't saying much because she can be a little hysterical when things are normal, but still she was alarmed. "I've never felt them like that before!" And she is from San Diego.
Joey said it was a 4.9.
All over the news they are getting people ready for a big one, telling us what to put in the emergency kits, who to call, what to do--which has all been a pretty big talk of nothing because I still don't really know what to do besides get outside if I can. I'm kinda living on the edge of my seat here, which is a little silly because my time could come at any point, earthquakes or no earthquakes. It is just that normally I live in a comfy sate of oblivion, thinking that death really never will come to me, and when it hits those around me it is a fluke in the system.
So this has all been good. Every time I feel the earth start to shake, I am reminded of reality, of God and that I am His. There is no safer place to be than that.

Idol Body.

The battle lately has been to not constantly dwell on how large and round my arms feel, like giant sausages.
I posted a couple of months back that I had very randomly and from no effort on my own lost ten pounds. This random weight loss sent me quietly sailing off a cliff into the free fall of anorexic thoughts, of living on the verge of devastating fear.
This scared the crap out of me (I'm over waking up in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat, shaking for fear of what I ate before bed would morph my little body into some grotesque blob), so even though the sick part of me, the sinful part, took lots of satisfying pleasure out of seeing the veins in my arms start to emerge from the skin, the contour of my ribs when I got dressed in the morning, I started eating. A lot.
And over these three months I have safely put back on that ten pounds, so I am back where I started, where I was before the random weight loss for two years. And I was happy as a clam.
But today my arms feel like giant sausages, like long swollen balloons the clowns use to make puppy dogs.
It's absolutely ridiculous.
I talked to my sister and she reminded me the struggle is God's way of saying, "You've replaced me with idol "Skeleton Arms".
So I have been replacing my consuming thoughts, feelings, and devotion to my stupid arms (or attempting to at least) with thoughts of Christ, of others, of eternity.
This "transforming of [my] mind" is working, though the process seems impossibly slow, and the last couple of mornings the first thing I think of is how incredibly large my arms feel, giving the battle a strong first blow.
But seriously, I am not discouraged, or afraid. I have fought these battles before and know all too well Who is fighting for me, Who has already won.

Who Knew?

Who knew it was going to be forty-two degrees while we shot the interview? Who knew we'd be standing in the shade, near the river, feeling the frigid mist of the water hit my skin every time the slightest breeze danced through the air?
Well, obviously I didn't because I chose to wear that mint green TANK TOP. I mean, I betcha you can watch my arm hairs standing on end as I try to ask my questions without my teeth chatting like those wind-up skeleton toys.
Plus, as I have mentioned before, I sweat even more when I am cold, so you can imagine the state I found myself in.
But really, it went fine.
I liked doing it, though I found it impossibly hard to think on my feet and ask my interview-ee questions from her answers, but afterward my co-worker took me to Starbucks and bought me a drink, said I did well (whew!).
And I haven't done a thing since, save re-arrange a few papers on my desk and surf the Internet.

Jitter Bug.

I have my first TV interview in thirty minutes and this is what I am thinking: do I need lotion on my legs? I keep reminding myself I cannot go get another cup of coffee, because I will be shaking like a jitter bug during the interview if I do. I will be nervous and sweating enough as is.
I need to focus focus focus.
I hear Joey's voice, "You will do fine."
But then this morning when I asked him to help me pick out an outfit--black's too dark, too ominous; hot pink is too "I'm-so-cute-and-in-your-face"; I wanted nuetral colors but I had nothing, so I went with a mint green blouse I bought at Saver's--but like I said when I asked him if it was too bright, he just rolled over in bed and mumbled something like, "It looks fine."
So know I am not so sure I trust his fine comments.
And now I am in a very mint green colored blouse, with brown capris, so I feel a little like mint chocolate chip ice cream. Or like an Andes chocolate.
But you know what? The best advice I learned in college for this type of thing was to fake it.
So that is what I am going to do--act like I have been doing this since I was seven, like I did not sweat like a nervous pig on the way to work.
I am sure I will update you all on how it goes.

Watching for the Birds.

The other day Ethan wanted me to come outside with him. I usually say no, I am too cold or I have to do the dishes or some other lame mom excuse but this time I went out. It was sunny and only a tad cold.
I sit down on the step and say, "Brr! That's cold on my bum!" and Ethan walks over and sits down next to me. He sort of rocks, his knees practically at his shoulders. He has this hat on that makes him look like the kid on The Sandlot, you know, the one who can't play baseball and wears that old baseball cap that looks ridiculous? And then he looks up at the sky and says casually, like we do it everyday, "We're watching for the birds."
"We are?"
"Yep. Watching for the birds." He's squinting up under that baseball hat into the big blue sky one could easily got lost in. There's hardly a cloud to anchor you or tell you where you're at. And there are no birds.
But we are sitting there, watching for them, and when they come, we will be ready.

High or Low?

At work--it's been a busy day. I go home in about a half an hour. Joey has been cooking dinners on Tuesdays when I work, but Thursdays he tries to sleep while Ethan is napping, so I will have to come up with something fast.
***sitting in silence for a few moments***
Nothing is really coming to mind. And we had frozen pizza last night so that's out. Oooo, Raviolis. I have raviolis.
But-no Parmesan. Shoot. O'well, garlic oil, salt and pepper will have to do.
Work is fabulous, although stressful because like I told Joey, I have recently turned in a high monitor type person.
A What? you might say.
A high monitor person is a person who is very aware of how s(he) is being perceived. They are popular, successful, people (good qualities) who have problems with intimate relationships because they don't really know who they are (bad quality).
A low monitor person is the opposite--she's the "this-is who-I-am-all-the-time-so-get-used-to-it" type girl. This person can't tell-or doesn't care-if people aren't responding well to them, so they have a couple good friends--not hundreds of acquaintances like a high monitor.
Of course, most of us are in the middle somewhere but like I said, I have recently become more high monitor than low, which makes any social gathering-especially work-stressful because I am 'on' the whole time: smiling to everyone who passes by, checking my pits for wetness, wondering if my pants are wrinkled, wondering if my breath is going to knock over the next person to walk up to my desk.
It's all very stressful. Joey is like this too, only maybe not in these bodily ways. But I always noticed since we've been married that social things, even with family, are not relaxed for him. And now they aren't relaxed for me either.
It's so weird but we can't help it.
Gone are the days when I could cut my own hair and not shower for days and wear old men's pants and rope shoes.
Being high monitor means being prepared, because you can't just get up in the morning and get dressed for work wearing any old thing, it has to be washed and IRONED and rolled with that sticky roller so all the fuzz and cat hair (we don't even own a cat) are removed.
So friends, which are you? High or low?
***six minutes till I can leave and *sigh* relax***

On The Horizon.

Spring is coming, even though the air outside still stings your cheeks. There are buds on the trees, and some, especially a bright yellow bush, have already sprouted.
The sun this morning came through out bedroom window, another reminder that summer is on the verge. I woke up happy to its silver shine.
After kickboxing I went through my closet, bagging up clothes I don't want for a friend who at least acts like she really appreciates them. I ended up giving her more than I maybe should, just because I know it makes her happy, and I remember getting clothes from an older cousin and it being the best thing in the world.
Then I replaced all my sweaters with my tank tops that have spent the winter in a huge Tupperware-like tub with a robin's egg blue lid. There all a bit wrinkly and smell like plastic but a couple days in the open should fix that for the most part. They hang with their bright stripes and flowers bringing spring even to my dark closet.
***
We are going to see another new baby this afternoon, a third for the week with one more coming any day. Life is everywhere, the miracle of a bloom, of a brand new baby's breath.