On Thinking about Things and Moving and Inspired by the Thoughts of Thoreau...

"Not long since I was present at the auction of a deacon's effects, for his life had not been ineffectual:--'the evil that men do lives after them.'--As usual, a great proportion was trumpery which had begun to accumulate in his father's day. Among the rest was a dried tapeworm. And now, after lying half a century in his garret and other dust holes, these things were not burned; instead of a bonfire, or purifying destruction of them, there was an auction, or increasing of them. The neighbors eagerly collected to view them, bought them all, and carefully transported them to their garrets and dust holes, to lie there till their estates are settled, when they will start again. When a man dies he kicks the dust."--Henry David Thoreau, Walden ("Economy," 54)

Well-spoken. But what now?

Some might argue that I am young and that it is not too late.

Young? How?

Do you not know that I bear the ancient genes of frugal New Englanders in every digital hair and attached earlobe of my body, that I carry the generations-old, thrifty, conscientious whispers of "you might just need that later... better hang on to it," in my already well-entrenched cogitation pathways, that a book by one of my favorite essayists sits in the room next to my own, titled String to Short to Be Saved, and tells the story of a box with just such a label found in one of Thoreau's "dust hole" type attics... with just such hapless string particles inside?

I have never liked yard sales all that much, but that does not make me any more of a hope case. I simply cannot bring myself to go that public and especially anytime the word "rummage" appears on signs I feel the guilty need to bolt around the nearest corner. But you have not seen me furtively creeping along the wall out of my dormitory room to the unofficially titled "free tables" in the upstairs lobbies, nose twitching, beady eyes darting, ready to sidle nonchalantly past with only a glance if the door should open, ready to run back to my nest, rat-tail trailing behind me, if suspicion should arise, but eager to just see what's on that table. It might be something useful.

I do wonder what dried tapeworms I have collecting dust in the crannies of my room... But I fear a greater problem. What about the carefully dessicated giraffes that will crumple even the loaded bumper of my toy truck?

And I will dismiss the first solution that comes to mind as impossible: Perhaps those giraffes would be happier staying with my parents in Vermont. No! Even there the frequent rain would cause their exponential and hydrated growth into complete giants, not merely dried ones.

Toting Expansions

My veterinarian sister left for her New Zealand job on Thursday, all of her worldly possessions crammed and weighed and prayed into six oddly-bulging bundles--bike box, ski bag, ginormous hockey satchel, suitcase, backpack, duffle. We helped her haul her pile through check-in, and then watched her from behind the thick layer of security glass in Burlington, VT as she removed her shoes and took her laptop out of the well-loved backpack and flashed us a final grin. If the ashcloud over Chile lets her, she will fly with her relatively small mound from Los Angeles to far across the gray sea on the morrow.

Now I look out the window at the little white Toyota she left behind. I don't think that I could fit my entire life into six bundles anymore--let alone into either (or both!) of the two tiny Geos that have each taken their bows out of my life in the past several weeks. That's why I have Sammy, sturdy yet as ever, and minus only my sister's beloved collection of bumper stickers stating such enlightening tidbits as "Coffee: It Makes You Poop." (That one in particular seemed especially loyal to my sister with it's tenacious glue, but the determined teacher in me prevailed.)

In three weeks or so Sammy will help me move out to U-per land as he has faithfully served my sister for ten years--New Hampshire to Michigan to Vermont to Colorado--this time with a bed set in the back and a signature pair of green crocs on the dash. In southwestern Michigan we will add to our entourage a calico named Amie--who adopted me--and such cumbersome delights as a cello and an oboe and "several" unfortunately-shaped boxes. We'll buy the dishsoap once we reach Sam Campbell land--that is, if they use such things up there.

Yet again I long for the sleek-shelled simplicity of being a turtle.

Another One of Those Things...

In my child's mind I used to think that Geo Metros were the ugliest cars, rolling around as they did with their silly bubbled bodies and impish pointed noses. And besides, everyone else in my family had trucks--practical vehicles good for the growing woodpile and pulling horse-trailers and some semlance of self-esteem...

*Proud Geo owner, 2007-2011

My father is a teacher. He is a good one, and I used to "know" that I was not. As a college freshman, studying English was as close to education as you were going to get me. Okay, if I had to, I would add secondary education as a minor... and maybe Teaching English as a Second Language would be surviveable... but never, ever ask me to teach the little ones!

*Excited beginning teacher, 2011-

Serving in a foreign mission field? That was for those who had a passion for it! And that did not include me. Wasn't there enough work to do in the home country?

*Student missionary, spring 2010

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Colporteuring. For years I've hid behind a flimsy excuse of shyness and awkwardness and a lack of the ability to be pushy, the claim of wanting to witness in a less shocking manner, and if all else failed, the stubborn laugh and the "I just don't do that." It seems I might have learned from previous experiences that such locked and barricaded rooms in our mental hallways are the delightful challenge of the Master Lock-picker...

After merely a three days of personal experience, I could tell you about the Surabian, non-Christian man with olive skin and dark curly hair whose eyes were magnetized to the cover of the Great Controversy. "I am fascinated by this title," he told me, his fingers reaching out for the book.

I could show you the two highschool girls I almost walked away from, their young eyes sparkling over the healthful cookbook and Man of Peace, an adaptation of Desire of Ages.

I could have you listen to the retired theology professor from Michigan State University, politely disagreeing with the divinity and second coming of Christ, with the books I carried, with the faith and beliefs I held. I could have you hear his wife scold him into giving me a donation, and see him give an amount such that I could press a book into his hand. "Please sir, I want you to have this."

I could share with you an inner peace and joy I've found only when allowing God to break down my barriers and work through my inexperience, prejudice, and weakness to show His mighty power and glory.