I realized

post-blog-mortem

that my xanga is the only way some of you have of knowing I'm still alive. (Thanks to certain ones of you who were so kind as to point that out . . . Lorraine.)

so

I've recanted, and decided to take up blogging again. If you'd like the address of my NEW and improved non-xanga, please shoot me an email at:

missstated@yahoo.com

Thanks!

Emily

Every time we begin, we wonder how we ever did it before. Each time is a new journey with no maps. There is no security, no assurance that because we moved before, decided before, heard God's voice before, we will do it again. Obstruction, obscurity, emptiness, disorientation, twilight, blackout, an inability to see our way forward, but a feeling that there is a way forward, and that the act of going forward will eventually bring out the conditions for vision.

So here I am, running wildly after beauty with fear at my back. Living in the dumb, awkward way a wounded animal cries out in pain. Facing, instead of life, blank pages, with a blank heart and blind eyes. Thinking every
moment, "This is another moment. Are you ready?"

And on the outside, grabbing at straws to make my life seem legitimate in the eyes of those who're judging it. There are guardians and there are demons, and sometimes it is hard to tell the difference.

I used to think that freedom meant doing whatever you want. It means knowing who you are, what you are supposed to be doing on this earth, and then simply doing it.

Perhaps when Jesus said that to see the kingdom of heaven you must be born again, he meant again, and again, and again, and again.


Today I leave for Georgia for two weeks. The conference I'm attending is on the spiritual roots of disease and pathways to wholeness, and will probably be like nothing I've ever experienced before, though I've been around the Christian block before. Several times.

I'm looking forward to it, fearing it and feeling generally apathetic all at the same time.

Er...maybe just pathetic.

You can pray for me. I almost more stressed out about the plane flights than the conference. I would endure most sorts of pain rather than commercial air flight. Sometimes I think that hell must be an eternal trans-continental flight, and they don't feed you or let you get up, but keep playing Must Love Dogs over and over again with Sweeny Todd occasionally thrown in just to make you throw up and remind you where you are. But I usually only think that when I'm flying or anticipating it.

I'm trying to go into this with an open heart and open eyes. But I haven't been predisposed to either, of late. I'm an armadillo, I ball up when frightened.

"Seek God," I say to myself. "But," says the little fearful me, "how will I seek Him if I don’t know where He is and how will I know Him if I haven’t seen his face and cannot hear His voice?

"What are you doing with your life these days, Emily?"

"Trying to become sane."

I just finished my last undergraduate class.

Ever.

Of all time.

The weary world rejoices!

And in typical form, I finished it off nearly giving my professor a heart attack by telling him I still hadn't made up the last test I missed.

He for one won't miss me, I think.

Professor Kadlecek, on the other hand, keeps thinking of ways to fail me so I have to stick around for another semester. This morning she said if I spelled anything wrong on my final I'd get a zero. Sometimes it isn't fun when the teacher likes you.

Winter ball was canceled because of a blizzard and tomorrow I will be trekking through two feet of snow and ice to make up that test.

Now I must go study my frequently misspelled words.

For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn...