Fishing in Michigan

Last weekend all four inhabitants of room 123 made a road trip to Michigan. Let me just say that these three young women mean so much to me. This is what kind of people they are: when they recommend a book to me, I know that I need to read it. Their lives inspire me and encourage me. Their words provoke me to laughter and deep thinking. I am so blessed to live with them.

If that wasn’t enough, they also rock at fishing. Here’s some pictures of us plus our hosting roommate’s boyfriend and her little sister (who caught the biggest fish).

What music?

I listen to cynical music
when hurting makes me doubt.
I listen to let it out,
because pressure brings more pain.
What do you listen to
when you feel the same?

I listen to happy music
when there’s no other way to smile
because I haven’t slept in a while
and there’s only so much one can do.
When you feel like that,
what do you listen to?

I listen to wordless music
when I have to be verbose
because mixing words is gross
if you don’t do it right.
What do you listen to
when you must write all night?

I listen to calming music
when I’m about to explode,
my wires can’t handle the load
and I have too much to lose.
When you feel like that,
what music do you choose?

I listen to happy music
when it’s a happy day,
everything’s okay,
and I feel not a fear.
When you feel that good,
what music must you hear?

I listen to cynical music,
when I feel all is right–
so right that I must spite
all of those for whom it’s not.
When you feel just that proud,
what music’s got you caught?

Happy Kitchen


I recently wrote an angry letter about how angry I am that we are required to have very expensive meal plans here. I’ll save the angry for a talk with the dean, and share some happy pictures with you.

First, tuna and cheese empanadas, browned in my rice cooker.

Next we have a pilaf of oatmeal, swollen raisins, apples, cinnamon, honey, and alfalfa sprouts.

I also made some apple sauce from the crab apples by the gym. It’s nice and… tart.

hold it all together.

Cathedrals and catacombs are
nothing like this cinderblock sanctuary
with its sky-like simple ceiling,
though not as blue as some I’ve seen.
My sovereign Lord will hold it all together.

My mind is on my homes and
my heart is with another.
This language is too easy for my tongue.
How can I praise like this?
My sovereign Lord will hold it all together.

Well-rounded, like a puddle spreading
with nothing to contain the hopes I start
excepting space and time
and a desire for shape.
My sovereign Lord will hold it all together.

The smell of autumn drying wind
wets my eyes as I ask:
How will whatever is left be one
once my chaff is weathered away?
My sovereign Lord will hold it all together.

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