Discovering Beauty at Four in the Morning

This story is about a deer.

A few weeks ago, I woke up at 4 am (don't ask). I walked out of my apartment and heard a rustling noise.

My first instinct when faced with danger is always to freeze. I realize that this doesn't always bode well for me, because that means in face of danger, I'll be the first one to die. I will not survive the zombie apocalypse. Sigh. Someone always has to take one for the team.

At any rate, I descended down the stairs, and before my foot hit the parking lot pavement, a deer stepped out of the shadows.

She was beautiful.

I watched her, taken in by her deep, fathomless eyes. She stared at me before she turned to the uncertain path ahead of her. Her hoofs clicked musically against the pavement as she galloped across the parking lot to reach the haven of forest in the corner of the apartment complex.

I remained there, for a moment, no longer caring that it was 4 in the morning, but thankful that I was able to encounter that stolen moment of beauty. I pondered on how she got lost and if she will be able to make it back safely. I hoped she will. But I will remember her and the beauty she offered me this morning.

I hope that I have that kind of beauty to offer the world.

And I pray that all of you encounter beautiful moments this week--even at 4 in the morning.

A Rare and Unfiltered Moment

I apologize. I am not typically this flowery (no pun intended, I promise) in language, but I wanted to share this moment before it went away. I hope I don't regret this unfiltered moment.

7:40 AM, Sunday morning. Woodland Park Rose Garden, Seattle.

I saw the sun rise today on my way to the garden and I am breathless as the vibrant sky expands before me. Under the spread of dusky pinks and hazy purples, the world awakens, banishing the dark night sky with the arrival of the sun.

I sit in this Rose Garden and I marvel at its simple beauty found in their delicate flowers. Everywhere, there are cascades of flowers, lending to the air their sweet fragrance. Roses fill the garden with their graceful, delicate beauty; their soft and bright colors of reds and blues, pinks and purples, yellows and oranges. The beauty of this garden can barely be contained in the middle of this dreary city.

I am overwhelmed with this hidden reflection of Eden.

The beauty of creation unfolds before me. Like Eve, I forget my place in it. I am uncertain, unsure. I have hidden what I have to offer for so long that I no longer remember that deep within me is a beauty ready to blossom; this fragile rose in midst of these present weary circumstances.

Do you, O Lord, see me and wonder at the beauty you have created in me?

The Annual Post About Writing for Sports Camp

Last year, I was informed that every time I write for Sports Camp, I come away with the same lesson.

This year's skit was no exception. The only difference is, this is the first skit that my main protagonist didn't struggle with an identity crisis that would be resolved within two acts. But true to form, I over-identified with the script. My deuteragonist, Gracie, was paralyzed by fear of failure and disappointing others.

Poor Gracie.

I understand that the nuances of the script will go unnoticed in the shadow of the superhero, Super Summer, and the crazy (dare I say, silly?) antics of his nemesis and his minions. But I still pray that God will use the Sports Camp Drama team and the script to reach to the children participating in Sport Camp.

Every year, I look forward to this week long event. I don't play sports very well and understand little of how to play organized sports. However, it is a blessing to offer the little creativity I have and share it with a group of extremely talented students. I find a certain joyous fulfillment in writing for the Sport Camp Drama Team and working with these talented kids. They amaze me every year with their acting skills and infectious energy. I am not a funny person, and I am definitely not a comedic writer. I'm the dramatic and broody one. However, in the hands of these students (and some very wonderful adults!), the skits are funny, light-hearted, and entertaining.

Working with them throughout the month reminds me of the great days of rehearsals for both drama club and choir. In high school, I lived for choir and drama rehearsals and performances. I don't sing very well and I can't act, but I often found more joy in the backstage work and the process of learning songs than in the actual performances. And throughout the month of July, I get to rekindle that love for the stage with a group of kids.

This year's Sports Camp Drama Team is exceptional. I'm praying for this team; that God will use them in a mighty way. I hope they see this time together as a blessing as much as I have. We have a long week ahead of us, and I know their hard work will pay off. Whatever happens, I hope they will just have fun. And I pray that God will delight in the joy they have in working together.

If I could write for and work with this drama team every day of my life, I would be a happy girl.

The Un-Abby Adventures in Disneyland

I'm not quite sure what came over me.

I just wanted to leave. To just get on a plane and be somewhere-not-here for a day. My friend from work and I have joked about it for so long, that it just became a thing we said whenever we had this sudden urge to escape.

A few weeks ago, my friend and I had this conversation. We laughed because we knew we didn't mean it. In the end, we knew would never leave. As usual, our logical minds took over. Leaving was never the answer. If we went, it would be the stupidest thing we could ever do--financially and otherwise. We had other obligations that we were loyal to. And so, we recited our lines and arrived at the same conclusion that we always come to: we can't leave.

I'm not sure who said it first, but the subject of Disneyland came up. We justified that we could visit for the day and be back for work the next day. It would be cheaper than escaping to London or Hawaii (my standby choices) and it was actually feasible.

I'm not quite sure what came over me.

If our conversation was a Pinter play, this is where the twist would happen. One of the characters would change the dialogue and suddenly what the two characters had been talking about for two scenes suddenly wasn't what audience originally had thought the play was about.

After the seventh or seventeenth excuse of how actually escaping to Disneyland for a single day was not a good idea, I was convinced that we really needed to go. I told my friend that I was serious about going and that we should go. I offered to go the next day and we recited the usual barrage of excuses.

I'm not quite sure what came over me.

Suddenly, hopping on a plane for a single day trip to Disneyland wasn't something I just said. It was something I had to do. I didn't care how careless and lame it sounded; Disneyland for a day? Why would anyone in her right mind go for a day?

I couldn't provide a reason to justify going. I just wanted to go.

I couldn't explain why escaping was a good idea. I just wanted to go.

I couldn't hide behind my obligations to people and activities that would certainly go one without me. I just wanted to go.

And I wanted to go now.

Granted, in the grand scheme of things, going on a day trip to Disneyland isn't high on the risk taking scale. But it wasn't just about going to Disneyland. It was about just going somewhere with the sole purpose of having fun. It was about doing something more than just talking about what I wanted to do instead of just doing it. It was about doing something unexpected. Illogical. Out of the ordinary.

Un-Abby.

We picked a day. We purchased tickets. We planned how we were going to execute our spontaneous decision to choose something different than the ordinary.

We were going to Disneyland.

And I don’t regret it for a second. I don’t think I ever will. And I hope this is a beginning of many new adventures to come.

I’m not quite sure what came over me. But I hope it happens more often.

Song in My Head

I haven't shared in months. I haven't processed in months. And I have some people telling me that writing helps me process.

Ok. I don't have a lot to offer except for one single song that makes me think of someone that I will miss dearly:

You are my sunshine, my only sunshine.

You make me happy when skies are gray.

You'll never know, Dear, how much I love you.

So please don't take my sunshine away.

Anyone who knows me know that I prefer rain--Singin' In the Rain, anyone? However, this song makes me remember the ray of sunshine that was Lola and never ceases to make me happy.

I miss you so much, dear Lola. I wish I had better words to express how much you mean to me. But all I can come up with is that I'll always remember you singing this song, in your gentle voice and your lovely Filipino accent.

I love you, dearly.

Out of the Office Message

I am out of the office this week. I will not return to work until Monday, December (yipes!) 6th.

Other than catching up on personal e-mails, Facebook messages, and the like, I've realized a few things that I have fallen behind on. I'm not quite halfway through my time away from work, and I've learned so much about myself and the necessity to maintain balance in my life.

Yes, I tend to hide in work. But this time, I actually enjoy my job!

Whenever I have some time to actually take stock of the direction of my life, I realize how much people are infuriated with me. There are some people I have hurt and they are angry that I never say anything. I would be offended if their accusations weren't true.

Yes, I tend not to say anything. I stay quiet, not because I'm removed from the situation, but because I don't know what to say. Here's a lesson on my processes: I am a super sensitive person (that's not new) and very literal (that's also not new). But what that means is, no matter what the intent, if the words are careless, my heart breaks.

And then...I don't say anything.

If the survival modes are fight or flight, I am definitely the latter.

The Bible points out the value of being slow to speak:

Know this, my beloved brothers: let every person, be quick to hear, slow to speak, slow to anger; for the anger of man does not produce the righteousness of God. --James 1:19-20 (ESV)

The problem when applying this verse to my life, I realize I am not slow to speak. I am just slow. I don't speak.

I shouldn't just speak out of anger, or because I feel the need to say something. I believe we should think before we speak. And we should always speak out of love. The Bible is also clear on careless words.

But I almost must remember that people aren't mind readers. There are some people who are waiting for me to say something. Anything at all...as long as it's real.

I have about five days left before I return to work. And I hope that in that time, I will see the value of speaking instead of just seeking comfort in silence. Apparently, this lesson in speaking up for myself has been a decade long struggle.

We'll see how it goes.

A Conversation with Grandpa

Wow. It has been a long while since I've written anything on this blog. I guess I've been quite distracted lately.

Distracted. Busy. Exhausted. Repeat.

Well, today's offering has been brought to you by a family dinner that I had gone to last Saturday. I had arrived earlier than usual, armed with a week's worth of laundry and my book of Beethoven Sonatas. My Everest is actually Lizst's Hungarian Rhapsody No. 2 (think of every Bugs Bunny or Tom and Jerry cartoon that featured a piano duet) but since I am sorely out of classical practice, I brought out my favorite: Beethoven.

This shouldn't be a surprise to anyone who knows me. Who else could speak to my sudden emotional roller coaster and bouts of melancholy other than Beethoven?

At any rate, I was working on the Adagio second movement of Sonata No. 8 when my grandpa took a seat. I became frustrated with a certain part of the piece and I reverted back to the lessons in piano discipline and went over the difficult pieces over and over again. I almost made it through when suddenly my fingers fumbled over a nine note run. Exasperated, I threw my hands in the air and looked at my grandpa with a face that revealed my broken heart.

It was at this moment when this lovely gem of a conversation emerged:

Grandpa: You lost it, huh?

Me: It looks that way.

Grandpa: I've warned you about this.

Me: I know.

Grandpa: You've lost your touch.

Me: I get it.

Grandpa: You're past your prime.

Me: [laughing with him] Really. I get the picture.

Grandpa: I thought you were still playing piano at your church.

Me: [huge sigh.] Not any more.

Grandpa: You see? I've warned you. If you stop playing, you'll lose it.

Me: [suddenly defiant.] I haven't lost it.

Grandpa: It sounds like it to me.

Me: I haven't lost it!

Grandpa: Well, it's either that, or you're old.

Me: Very funny. I am not old.

[we both laugh hysterically at the thought. I start to close my book.]

Grandpa: What are you doing? Keep playing.

Me: You told me that I've lost it.

Grandpa: Get it back.

[Grandpa returns to his New York Times crossword puzzle and I continue perfecting the song.] End scene.

I don't know why, but he is one of the few that can speak to me in a way that won't irrevocably damage my fragile musician ego. I've encountered a few barbs regarding my musicianship lately, but this conversation didn't break my heart like the others. Instead, it spurred me on to try harder.

Oh Grandpa, you always have a special place in my heart.

Sure, the conversation may have sounded harsh, but as punishment, he had to endure two hours of me hammering out the Beethoven piece until it was perfect, so I guess I got the better end of the deal.