The Concrete Spider Web

If you've never been in Dallas, know that you are missing out on a serious civil engineering masterpiece/disaster center.

Roads on roads on roads.

In a ten mile drive, I can switch highways more than four times and have it take me over an hour to make the drive.

Other times, I can make a 30 mile trip in 30 minutes.

It's a death trap where I spend the majority of my time thinking, "THIS IS WHERE IT ENDS".

I am in Texas this time for a 3 week recruiting trip. Since last Sunday night, I've battled head on the pit of despair through the Dallas streets. Sometimes, it's nice. I have time to process the day and think.

Other times, my hands and heart sweat so badly that I can hardly think.

After a week of that, it was nice to have a break in the form of my husband.

Since I'm gone for so long, my university flew him out to me for the weekend.

Even though part of that was spent recruiting (what a champ!), it was also so nice to be able to chill, watch HGTG and FoodNetwork, and wander the DFW area.

Notable highlights in our shopping ventures were introducing Jay to World Market and Half Price Books.

He was just the cutest exploring all the different cultures and thinking up ways he could recreate all the different wood pieces.
Half Price Books was a perfect storm. Two nerds, together, and inexpensive books and nerd paraphernalia. We ended up with quite the haul.

Then, we grabbed a crepe together at a sweet little cafe called Frogg, and made our way to the airport.

It's not very nice to abandon your husband two months after you get married, but we are making it work. Texting is a beautiful thing.

When I get unstuck from the tangles of traffic, it'll be very nice to go home.

The Tale of Two Flowers

My friend Adam recently asked me to write him a story.
SO, this morning I sat down after two mini college fairs and let myself write.
Without pretense or goal.
And, for the first time in a very long time, I wrote a little.
Here for your mid-Thursday morning's amusement, I present to you, "The Tale of Two Flowers".

Once upon a time, there was a flower.

The flower was neither particularly beautiful nor particularly ugly, just enough of both that it was able to maintain its presence in the garden without being pulled for either reason.

Then, one day, a boot. The boot meant no harm, but harm it caused, and the flower’s stem went snap!

The gardener, working away at his weeding, didn’t notice the flower for some time, but when he did, he was very sad, for he remembered the day he had planted that flower, just as he remembered planting each one of his flowers.

The black tulips he had thought were purple upon purchase of the bulbs.

The rhododendron which had begun to dominate the back corner.

The daffodils.

He looked at the flower, wondering if a stint would sustain its life.

Such a break could not be amended, though.

Then, the gardener had a thought, and he cut the bloom right at its crease, took it into the kitchen and put it in a slender vase.

Hours later, inside the house, a girl awoke to a dark and damp morning: a lonely day needing tea.

She flopped her feet to the floor, found her slippers, grabbed a sweatshirt, and made her way down the hall to the kitchen.

The girl was homesick and heartsick and in need of…

A flower.

Left with its mates in the bed, the little bloom would never have been noticed or loved. But there, in the little green vase on the cold, metal counter in the great big house, in the dark, wet country, it was more beautiful and more wanted than any other petal on the grounds.

A good gardener knows his flowers. 

Hearing Voices

Recently, I became an associate editor for a very small publishing company,  called Kharis.

Someone in my office asked me how I dig my way through manuscripts written by non-writers.

Editing is like music to grammar-y people. In more ways than one.

For me, when I hear music, it's difficult for me to keep track of the actual melody. To do so takes conscious effort. More often, I naturally hear the harmony.

In the same way, when I read a paper or manuscript, I don't hear the content. I hear the grammar. So for me, it isn't a question of agreeing with the information being said, so long as that information is being communicated in the clearest, cleanest way possible.

And, like music, each voice has a different tone.
When you are listening to the radio, you can tell by various clues and the texture of the music whose it is, even if there are no vocals.

The longer you "listen" to any particular writer, the more you know their voice. And, the more you know their voice, the more you "learn" them. You anticipate particular errors or writing patterns, favorite words. When you need to add in a section to provide more clarity, you know the language structure to use in order to graft in the new piece seamlessly.

Like most things, I find that I get re-directed to God when I get into my land of metaphors, as he, too, understands this. He knows my tendencies toward both sin and saintliness. He knows the posture of my language and my heart. And, like any good editor, he knows how to redirect in order to gain the best possible outcome. It's up to the owner of the manuscript, though, to accept the edits.