Beauty Breaks Free

I stood there crying at the polling place. It was 6:07 a.m. And as usual, I looked bedraggled: clean wet hair, no longer dripping; sun screened face, gleaming makeup free; glasses, shielding my tears.

You might think welling up befits a woman--weeping may be because I am a woman witnessing a woman's name on a ballot for president. That is my gender. That is the backdrop; I can't dismiss it. But that isn't what caught my throat.

Beauty draws out my tears.

And what about beauty this year? Where is it? Where has it been? Here. All along.

Beside, in front, and behind me were neighbors. I recognized very few. I'm new. I wouldn't even say I have roots yet. But they knew each other. Back slaps, good mornings, asking personal questions of each other. Here were humans. I found them. It was so strange to see a face not illumined by a blue light. Strangely beautiful to see eyes looking into eyes. This was beauty.

Then I saw a Beauty.

A woman held herself two steps from the bottom of the staircase. She was in her 80s maybe 90s dressed, not like me. Cherry red tam and matching coat, crisp pants that broke at the shoe, as they should. Her cane may as well have been a scepter. Regal. Erect. A queen, gripping the banister.

A woman offered her a chair and another waved it away and said, "She prefers to stand."

She prefers to stand.

This woman, her age, her gorgeous skin tone said she knew a time when she could not vote, when laws prevented it. Have you been full-hand slapped? Had the tears knocked onto your face? This was a slap of a thought. That was reality. And here she was resplendent.

My feet walked down each of the piano key stairs. My community surrounded me. Each of us there, at the core of it, for the same reason: to make something because we can.

We vote to say we are human. To say we are here. To say life matters. To say others matter. To say we have free will. And then to prove it.

That moment. That coming together was transcendent. A chorus. Holy. It was a sight to behold. Even though my eyes bleared it.

I don't know what will happen next. How it will unfold. But you can't snatch humanity out of a heart. You can't shrink down what a person is, who they are, how they live. No matter what the votes say and the power it grants. And if they try? Well...

I prefer to stand.

Words Escape Me

Well hello there. I've been breaking the first rule of blogging lately, which is blog.
That was profound. Maybe you should write this down:

Rule #1 of blogging: Blog.


I haven't been writing lately because of my other rules: be positive, don't complain, work through your feelings first before telling others. Truth is things have been downright exhausting, hard, and sad lately.

To keep all of my rules, I'm not going to go into it as yet. Just know that 2.5 weeks ago I intended to write a plucky piece about other things you can make when life gives you lemons. And I wanted to make this phrase viral:

When life gives you lemons, make lemon curd. 

Curd is such a gross word; it fits.

Here were the pictures for the positive post that I didn't write. This picture symbolized the things going wrong:

make lemon curd

This one represented controlling the "lemons" and making them into something useful and pretty:

bunt those lemons!

Shortly after taking this I almost keeled over because I was taking them on my back porch and overheated. I fled to Target to use WiFi, drink water, and get Advil. (I couldn't go inside my apartment because...it was filled with an asphalt smell. So much lemon curd to be made!)


At any rate, things have been difficult, and one thing I know and learned was after a lot of stress a person's higher level thinking skills (including creativity) plummets. It's simple brain chemistry. My brain was/is trying to help me survive.

I can fight. I can take flight, but unfortunately, I couldn't write. The thoughts were too visceral too raw, more meaningless onomatopoeias than words. It felt so unlike me that I wondered if I had brain damage. I asked friends if I seemed somehow altered, dumber, to test me, to be honest. But really it was my brain on cortisol over far too many days.

I think I see a glimmer after today of finding words again, which is a relief because I need to write to earn my keep.

For me, health and writing are linked, and they come only with quiet, peace, stillness and being alone. Are you that way?

I sat in silence for hours and hours driving. Hours and hours at home all alone. Hours in silent exercise in nature and another hour getting a massage. And I can hear myself writing now in my head.

So today I learned:

Until I am composed, I can't compose. 

We Are So Fragile

Maybe you have to know darkness before you can appreciate the light. 

Madeline L'Engle

Sunday was like any other. I was running late and to my car, 1/2 my makeup on the other 1/2 in my bag as I locked the front door and turned to dash down the stairs. That's as far as I got. The back window of my car was bashed in. I took one look, said "Oh" and pivoted to go back inside.

This was dangerous -- not the circumstance itself. I knew it would be costly and cumbersome and rain was on the way. Those weren't the dangers. Those were the facts. My danger was emotional, knowing that one random act of violence could set off a chain reaction in how I see the world. How I would respond. How it would strike my thoughts and could shatter my emotions. This isn't the first window I've had busted out, so I knew. The first time I convinced myself it indicated a coming lifetime of navigating the world and it's problems alone, unsupported, and vulnerable. It was damaging train of thought triggered by broken glass. Since it happened again, what would follow?

That past reaction let me knew I needed to proceed with caution. This isolated act of destruction could destroy something far greater, if I'd let it. I started the mental list and the calls: police, insurance, glass repair, car dealership. I studied the weather and reached out to a few friends.

Then I started to catalog and collect things of the day the good things. I knew the stress and heightened sensitivity would allow me to remember vividly, so I tried to shore myself up attending them rather than my feelings.

I remember things like:
The black cat chasing robins in the lawn;
The cashier's "I'm New" badge;
A bird that pooped on my hand (Ok, who wouldn't remember that?)
That my neighbor drank chilled white wine on her porch;
Someone left a frying pan on top of the dumpster.

Those were just things, but good happened too.

My friend drove his car around a marathon to help me buy groceries.

The sun came out.

All of the neighbors clucked their tongues and shook their heads.

Passers by looked at the scene in a horrified way, revealing what I think to be true, that this is not normal to do or to see.

Just when I thought it was impossible, I got those blasted UMSL parking stickers off the window after all. (P.S. UMSL, I still want my money back.)

In addition to the good things I observed, I learned a few things I maybe wouldn't have. And for me there's something inherently thrilling about learning things.

Things I learned: 

1.) Bricks can't be dusted for fingerprints because they are too porous. (I don't believe this, but that's what the dispatcher told me.)

2.) The police department when filing a report takes down (seemingly) irrelevant information like birth date, marital status and ethnicity before they ask you what's wrong. I get it! I'm single in my 30s and white, okay? It hurt my feelings.

3.) I like motive. I want to know the motives behind people's actions. The thrill of destruction was too foreign  a reason for me in this case.  Instead I decided the person had a vengeful dislike for Ernest Hemingway. Therefore, I learned I shouldn't have 3 Hemingway novels in my car at any one time, since it evokes an irrational brick wielding wrath.

4.) I'm sensitive. (See number 2.) I didn't learn this, just confirmed it for the zillionth time.

5.) I want to reason with people and set some ground rules. So you're going to destroy my car, okay. Please do it in a somewhat controlled and considerate way and heed these:

• If you're going to throw a brick in a car window, then don't do it on a Saturday night. Every repair place is closed on Sunday.

• If you're going to throw a brick in a car window, then don't do it in April. There's so much rain to contend with and it will be a mess.

• If you're going to throw a brick in a car window, then make sure they have a garage.

6.) My neighbor gives good hugs. She unhesitatingly took me into my arms and said, "This is such a violation." Then she let me use her garage until I got everything fixed up.


7.) The support of others makes a world of difference.

STL Heart Card
julie.johnson11007@gmail.com

Thank you to everyone who helped me. You reacted with protective compassion when I needed shielding.

Chain of Hearts

"I know you're sad. I'm so so sorry."
These were the words my mother said to me the moment stepped into her home after I'd finished my drive from St. Louis city to Illinois the morning of Tuesday, November 26th.

After a night of unrest and protesting in my neighborhood, I decided to leave early for Thanksgiving. "Leaving early for Thanksgiving" was the rationale I applied, but it did not help me lessen the feeling I'd relinquished something dearly loved without any opposition. It didn't undo the label I earned and given myself, coward.

The words would not come then; they barely come now.

If my heart were to break, I would not be surprised to find a rusted box of tangled chains within. I can feel them: heavy, tarnished and cold chafing together inside me. I can taste the bitter metal in my mouth, I can feel the corrosion on my fingers. These are the chains, twisted into a grotesque Gordian knot, that I wish I could undo. Let me name them:

This one is fear.

This one is anger.

This one is shame.

This one is helplessness.

This one is love.

This one is hope.


This chain is fear.
This is the fear that drove me to Illinois. Not the fear of white. Not the fear of black. Not the fear of law, enforced or broken. I feared the fear of what one fear-filled person can do. Then another. Then another. For fear grows like a disease and anyone can catch it.


This chain is anger.
Searching #Ferguson on Twitter to see if I was safe or not in my home, I saw cold, bald, distilled hatred. Hatred I had never seen before. My stomach lurched. Like a reflex, I suppose it tried to purge the poison I'd read. But it was too late. No retching can unsee the wretched hatred I beheld there.

This chain is shame.
How can a man or woman hate another? How can any one race hate another? How was I so blind? How could I so naively trust that others see what I do--the image of the Almighty? How can I ask someone to trust my fair skin if there's is different? How can I ask that now?

This chain is helplessness.
Lord just--
Lord, just--
Just--
My prayers, so charred and brittle, they break off and fall silent for the Spirit to interpret.

This chain is love.
I cannot fix what I do not feel. I cannot find what I do not see. I love. Help me to love more. Help me to love honestly and boldly. Help me to learn of Your perfect love and teach it and learn it again when I forget. I am so forgetful.

This chain is hope.
These are the magic words my dearly loved student taught me to say.

Her: I'm sorry Miss Martin.
Me: It's ok.
Her: I'm sorry Miss Martin.
Me: I heard you sweetie. It's ok.
Her: (Starting to weep) I said I'm sorry Miss Martin.
Me: Hey...shhhh. It's okay...I'm not angry...I...I forgive you.
Her: Okay. 

It took me far too long to learn to extend this forever forgiveness.

Me: I'm sorry.
Her: It's okay Miss Martin. I still forgive you.

I still forgive you.
I still forgive you.
I still forgive you.

The words of our children. The words of our Savior. The words that He will speak to un-knot the
chains of my heart and then beat them into crown.

Come Lord Jesus and heal our world. Heal my city. It groans for you.

A Weighty Matter

Do you think about math often?
I bet you do.  Let me prove it.

Yesterday I held up an archaic bathroom scale in my class.
I asked my students, do you know what this is?

They did, and then I kicked it up a notch.

What does this thing do?

And my beautiful student gave me her best answer.

It tells you what number you're standing on.  

Oh to be 100% right and 100% wrong all at once.


It's not who you are.
It's not what you aren't.
It isn't that you are too much or too little in this world to be loved.

It's the number that you're standing on.

Frankly, I needed someone to tell me.  And then tell me again.

So if you are staring down at this thing that is telling you about your heart, and being, and loveliness (and if you are a person, you have let this happen), then
Let me tell you and tell you again: it's what number you're standing on
and you can't be defined by one number.

Dish It Out and Take It like a Person not Cookie Monster

A wise person once said:

When someone does something well, or beautiful, or kind, tell them. It costs you nothing. There are too many people walking around not knowing the differences they are making. That silence costs them a lot.

That wise person was me on Facebook, the best place to wax eloquent.  

It was a flash of insight that I had in December.  I was seeing hard-working people strive and succeed in so many areas of life but hearing so little by way of praise.  I can count myself in that group as well, but I was surprised at how often I said nothing.  I was aching for some positive comments for myself, and saw how unmet that need was, but all the while I wasn't meeting it for others.  I wasn't praising them for the everyday things.
I was and am part of the problem.

As an attempt to rectify that, I am trying to seize moments to slide in tiny and big praises for others.  There are probably studies that show that this is a good practice for my health in the long run, but that's not why.  Like identifying gratitude and thanking others, noticing their greatness and accomplishments and skills and calling them out just feels good.  

Well, let me back up.  It doesn't always feels good.  At first it just feels misplaced.  After work is over, I remember and reflect on all of the times I missed saying "good job," so there has certainly been an uptick in co-worker text praise in the evenings.  Similarly my words can be
jarring.  Let's take into account that sometimes I start talking while in mid-thought, which means we might both be caught off guard by the words that do come out of me.   
But even knowing my timing can be a bit off, so can the words themselves.  For instance, it probably wasn't a good idea to tell the Business Manager that I loved her new cropped haircut and that it made her skin look dewy.  Dewy.  I said this in an email.  Certainly it had an unrehearsed quality to it and was meant as a way to convey something heart-felt, but learn from me; strike all moisture words from praise.  

Finally, depending on who it is, it can take some courage and gearing up to say, 
"Woah ___(work superior/ complete stranger/ frenemy), you handled that _______(whatever it was) really well.  I was impressed."  
But no matter the amount of courage or discomfort involved in speaking up, come out they must because to quote myself "silence costs... a lot." 

Prepare yourself; There is also the moment post-compliment that you and your audience need to lean into.
This is the hard pause.  They can do many things on the receiving end, but one thing I know is that taking a compliment is an uncomfortable thing to do. 

It's so strange.  People want compliments.  They crave them.  And then once one is given the impulse is to knock it away, crumble it up, or volley another right back. 
The mental picture I have is of cookie monster.  
Cookie monster wants cookies and then in his voraciousness to possess them never gets a single crumb in his mouth- all are marred in the process.

I'm going to coin this phrase: He totally cookie monstered that compliment. 

That's right, this is a weighty enough topic to reference Sesame Street and I turned monster into a verb.    

Take this as an example (it happened yesterday).
My friend has been wearing her power color all week.  It's pink.  It means she needs to drill down to get through the week.  It means I need to pay more attention to her.  
At the end of the work day I pointed out something she was wearing and said I liked it.

And then there was the moment; she cookie monstered it. 

"Well, they're really old and it's falling apart right here," she said. 

Then came the moment we each didn't expect.

"NO!"


I shouted at her.  We both jumped.

"No!  You say 'thank you.'  Try again!  I like your shoes."

"Thank you."

Then we both felt weird and didn't look at each other.  

It's challenging to know I am right in principle but that I both yelled and spoke condescendingly to a close friend in an attempt to build her up.  Maybe by "challenging" I mean I imploded my primary objective.  I tried. 

I do know that complimenting small things is just as important as recognizing those over the top, million hours put into it deeds.  And that compliments about things I do (think, say, create) hold more weight and meaning than one about appearance.  

In fact I have several compliments rattling around in my head from this week.
And when I review them, and I find myself doing that often too, it makes me feel how I do in that second moment that comes after being praised.  It feels comforting and reassuring. 

"You are a really good hugger." -dear friend and co-worker

"I just want you to know when you went out into the gym floor you looked like someone who really cares about her students." -dear friend and co-worker

"That outfit is cute!"  -eccentric [possibly fashion forward??] guy walking down the street 

"Wow your hair is soft."  -stylist (genuine shock in her voice)  

"I don't get to see a lot of long healthy hair like that." -colorist

"This meal was a labor of love."  -a dinner guest

"This food is really good." -Mom 

"You are too funny Miss M." -my student 

"You are a good teacher Miss M." -my student

I have to confess I am trying to collect and store up compliments.  In February, after I noticed this void of articulating compliments, I was complimented on some work I had done. It took almost all of my face-energy (if there is such a thing) to not cry.  
It fell on me forcibly because it was something I had not heard in perhaps 6 months from anyone anywhere.  And when you (or at least I) do not hear praise for that long you begin to assume the worst about what you are doing and how well you are doing it.  You begin to doubt.  And that doubt can grow up into insecurity and become your shadow.  Insecurity is not a haunt you want around.  
So.  I'm shoring up, savoring, and rehearsing them again now and preparing for low times. 
And I am striving to point out the good I want people to see in themselves, so they don't have to wonder and doubt.

Why am I Still Single? The Answer.

Why are you still single?
A bold question if ever there was one.

You would be surprised how very many times I have been asked this.  I believed and assumed (until writing this) that the question was born from a person's deep courage that (unfortunately) overflowed into words. But since finishing writing this post (on paper), I have circled back and concluded that maybe it isn't a surplus of courage but a deficit of tact.
Whatever attribute that is present or absent when asking something so personal, my response is fairly standard.  I reel.
I can't manage to say, "Oh that's private" or "How dare you."   Instead, I typically am so taken aback and startled that I generally give an honest, though halting, answer, not because my audience deserves to know, but because the only thing that comes to the surface is the truth.
But, if I weren't taken aback this is the sort of real-life moment I could relate as my answer.

Why?
Because I am a grown woman who leaves work after a hard day to go buy a chocolate chip cookie and coffee.  But I can't simply buy a cookie and coffee.  Life makes it much more complex than a simple money for goods transaction.

While in line, a person managed to sidle up behind me in my blind spot and stand questionably close- so close that his musky cologne wafted over alerting me.  The scent said "There is a man nearby," so I can only assume the cologne was doing it's job announcing an aura of male-ness.
As I stepped  up in line to order a chocolate chip cookie, I caught sight of him in the corner of my eye and it caused me to jump a little. (He was in fact standing that close.  Had he been a ninja, I would be dead.)
And this is how I recovered after jumping.

Me: Oh!  I'm sorry.
I looked at the man and noticed he is very attractive.  This observation typically ends all chances of a coherent conversation.

Me: I smelled you before I saw you there.

Let that sentence that I really said out-loud hover in the air and 
sink in. 

A feeling of horror passed over my body.  Yes, I said what I heard myself say.

Him: (weak smile) Ah ha.

I stepped forward and started to order.

Me to the barista: I'd like a chocolate chip cookie.

I noticed now that the barista is also attractive and realized how juvenile I sounded at this very moment in time.

Me turning to the smelly man: But that's a good thing.  I mean, it's a good smell.

Me turning to the barista: And I'd like a cup of coffee

Barista: What size would you like? 12 oz.... 14 oz?

Me: Of cookie?

Barista: (silence)
Me: Oh.  I'd like a 12 oz coffee and a 16 oz cookie (joking).

I paid.
I apologized to the man behind me a second or third time.
I gave the barista another "help me" and "did that really happen?" look.
Barista said telepathically: Yes, that really did happen. Walk away now.

I and slink away to find a seat.


Yes world, I say whatever comes to mind instead of mindfully flirting.
I eat cookies after work and lick the chocolate from my fingers in public.
I attempt to be complimentary but instead tell men they smell and forget to tack on the oh-so-important word "good" until it is essentially too late.

You may find that adorable.  That's fine.  It is a true representation of my daily life.  I can say my personality and ability to stumble over words when ruffled gives me plenty of reasons to laugh.  It's good that I am able to laugh at myself while keeping my dignity.

But if you are asking me why I am still single, then that, the above story, is now "The Answer."
I'm going to rehearse it so it comes out smoothly.

Thank you so much for taking such a keen interest in my life, but really, stop asking.
The people who need to know why, know already.  And if you have to ask instead of me telling you voluntarily, then you aren't on my emotional life VIP list.

An Adopted Family that Stays Together

I would like to preface this post by saying, I love my family.  My mom, my dad, my brother and I are very close in all senses of that word.  I turn to them in times of trouble and times of joy,
but this post is not about them.

Not everyone has the benefit and blessing that is a close biological family,
and that is a shame.

But I have another family that I'd like to tell you about today.

I have friends that I consider to be family.  We have been there for each other over the years and have survived a lot of joys, sorrows and have remained intact.

When we are all together, I often sit back and pull out of the moment and start trying to figure out how this came to be.  I have no idea how my face looks in these moments, quizzical no doubt.
Especially lately I wonder, even aloud, how did I get these people?

And I mean this not as a criticism to myself or to them.  It's a compliment.
This is an astounding bunch of people.

Such a wide span of knowledge and interests.
So many dreams, aspirations, talents, adventures, and accomplishments.
So many different employers and specialties:
The St. Louis Zoo, Boeing, The Covering House, NISA, the VA Hospital, Wash U, Juniper, etc.

One way that this particular branch of my family tree came to be was at one point in time we all were part of the same Community Group, which is similar to a Bible Study.  A lot of us have gone our different ways, but to keep in touch we've started having Family Dinner every 2 weeks.

It doesn't matter if I am sweaty with no makeup, had a horrible or great day, or am running early or late.  By the time I get to dinner, it doesn't disappear, but I am in a safe place.  It's like declaring sanctuary against the world, which feels so good.  Don't we all long to do that?

This week at the table we discussed All the Things as usual.
From Indian food, to Zoo stories (one of my favorite parts of any dinner), to travel, to the Old Testament linking it to the gospel, the St. Louis Beard and Mustache Club, fermentation, raising chickens, where to get nutritional yeast, and the highlight of our friend's year, since it was her birthday.  It's deeply inspiring to hear how they spend their days and live life.

And as I said before, not everyone is blessed with a wonderful biological family.  And not everyone has the benefit of a vibrant support of an adopted geographic family.
But you can get one.

It took work though, and it takes time.  Now it takes planning, because as much as I love my friends, our interests and schedules are so diverse that we don't bump into each other without mapping it out.  (Or maybe it would intersect for me if I would start indoor rock climbing...but, NO.)

I do know that the first step to getting friends is to have the courage to say, "Hey, we should be friends."
I have had the best relationships sprout from this simple sentence.

And the another tip is to have the presence of mind to notice when you miss them and to reject that.  It seems so simple to say and mean, "Hey, I miss you.  Let's fix that," and then make a time right then to see each other; it takes watchfulness to identify and rectify.

I can share more about how to cultivate and be open to friendships, because it has taken so much time and tries and failures and successes over years and years to better get a handle on what it is to have and be a friend, but I won't do that here now.

Instead, for today, in the middle of Spring Break, I am glad to say:
I have a family of friends in the city I love, and I am ever so grateful.



*It is also extremely important to mention that there are even more family members to speak of outside of this branch that shares meals together.  It's just easier to speak of one group rather than the many individuals I love.

Kill Two Birds with One...Man Cat

Today is Love Your Pet Day, and so I'd like to introduce you to mine.
I've been waiting awhile before saying it outright, but I own a cat.

It's not that I don't love dogs.  I don't believe there are "only two types of people."  I simply don't have the budget to properly love on a dog.  Instead, I have a cat, and I dog sit any chance I can get.

But what is truly on my mind has been the writing process.

A friend of mine recently asked how I decide what to post on this blog and it's associated Facebook page versus my personal Facebook.

I do have some "branding standards" that I won't bore you with, particularly since they are subtle differences. But it can be a challenge generating ideas at times.
So I will be posting semi-regularly what helps me write.

Writing Tip #1

I recommend running ideas past someone you trust.
This brings us full circle.

I have trained my cat to critique my work. He pitches ideas from time to time, but I didn't find his suggestion on a piece about increased smelliness of Iams Purrfect Delights cat food to be compelling enough.  (Though he has a point.  He won't eat it; it stinks to high Heaven, and it is no longer welcome in this apartment.)

But really.  Find someone you trust to share your ideas with and can help you improve.

A Highly Related Tip #2

Also, figure out if you are the type of writer who can stand abrasive let's start from the ground up help or who needs course correction advice.
If you don't know this about  yourself yet, you need to do some digging.  Establishing what your critique tolerance is will only help preserve your friendships/ relationships and help your writing as well.
And, at least in my experience, you can build up to getting more and more truthful appraisals and feedback, if you aren't equip to do so yet.

Could Love Be Brewing? Percolating Coffee and Money Stuff

Let me tell you about my latest coffee date.

I have noticed that my posts on dating or that have titles that hint at dating perk up your interest readers, so...gotcha.  This has nothing to do with my personal life.  (Boundary maintained.) But it shows how I do attend my analytics.  

I won't be telling you a tale of love; I'm going to save you money instead.

One thing I started to try to tune into when cutting down on my gas bill was weaknesses and consumption habits.  It was a form of S.W.O.T. Analysis.  

If I have a consumption habit, it's one for stove top coffee.  That's right, I brew coffee twice a day.  I make it in my vintage mocha pot that I found at an amazing garage sale.  I think it must have been a wedding present because it hadn't been used and had the original papers with it.  It might be worth something, or it was until I used it lovingly 2 times daily, for years.

Are you wondering if I am twitching as I write this?  I'm not.  Though I did make some more coffee to accompany this post.  Yes, my doctor seems a bit concerned. 

Here is a brief timeline of how I brew coffee.  After moving apartments, I got rid of my old Mr. Coffee pot.  It was a joke, only held 3 cups of water, and just wasn't hacking it.  Mr. Coffee and I split up and now he lives in my parents' basement.
I turned my attentions at this point to my mocha pot.   Unfortunately, and likely because of the thickness of the metal, I noticed it took quite awhile to percolate.  I was paying for those therms, so, I switched over to my tea kettle and french press.  Faster, but could be improved upon.

And then, after the gas bill of December '13, I bought an electric kettle.

The box boasted a lot of positive attributes, and I can tell you, it truly does boil water faster.

And to use "faster" appropriately I conducted a very simplistic experiment.

I put 6 cups of water from the tap (which is frigid) in each kettle, turned on their respective energy sources and let them go.

The electric took just 7 minutes to bring to a full boil and blow the fuse in my kitchen!

And the metal kettle took at least 14 minutes (it still wasn't at a rolling boil) and blew no fuses!  

The lesson here?

There are several, but first: have a flashlight and know where you stored it.

Also, know where the circuit breaker box is and make sure it is not painted shut.

The second is like the first, don't use a microwave and electric kettle at the same time in the same outlet.

The third, you save therms if you use an electric kettle. 
I'm not sure how to compare gas units to electric. It likely requires one of those conversions that I never quite mastered in chemistry class.
(Correction: I have not and will not take the time to convert therms to kwh, but I could because I am smart.) 

Simply put in my head, I converted less gas to more dollars.
I still drink enough coffee to concern my physician and sustain my wit past work hours, so I can convert it to wisdom for you.

Happy Brewing! 

P.S. I am coffee dating myself, and it's going great.

With My Whole Heart. For My Whole Heart.

I want to open my closet and see possibilities.
I want to feel contentment.
I want to clothe myself in contentment.
I want to cast burdens off and down.

But when I open my closet door, I realize there are hangers I avoid and corners I avert my eyes from.
This awareness took time to realize and even more to pin words onto it.
Yet deep down, I now know the aversion stem from my "reject" clothes, the clothes I wore when being rejected or rejecting someone.

Fine clothing.
Favorite clothing.
Through no fault of their own now each piece has memories woven into the cloth.
Maybe it's imprinted because in those moments I desired to disappear into the folds, pleats, patterns, and hems. Whatever the reason, there is a remaining hurt that can't be washed or ironed out.

I might even wear the clothes still to prove that a memory can't control me.
But why require such defiance in getting dressed? Why keep such a touchstone?  Why wrap myself in it?

People, people other than myself, must also have this closeted issue.  This un-shared thought and gut response to our breakup clothes.

I've decided to cast off burdens and bless.  Why not give these and donate them to someone with a clean slate for their benefit and for mine?

Because blessing others heals.
Because giving heals.
Because giving freely opens up a world of possibilities, a world where less is more.

I will cast off my burdens to bless.
I give these clothes with my whole heart.
I give these for my whole heart.

Looking for a place to give?

I will be donating here:

image from revivethrift.org

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Opened February 1, 2014
Read about their mission, and donate.

For your whole heart and theirs.