Just drivin' along part 1 (leaving the house)

Welcome to your tour of Noël's morning drive to work. I wish you could all accompany me in person (no, really!) but try to imagine yourself here.
I have several reasons for writing this post:
1. I hear several empathetic condolences from friends and family about my 1 hour drive to work. Trust me, when you're done reading you will wish you could drive my commute just for fun (and people do!).
2. Because there are days when I just can't stand it! I think it's a waste of time, torturous, and so incredibly boring (I need to remind myself that it's the moments and the little things).
3. To remember
4. I'm obsessive about writing; I love the task, challenge, and assignment of making an hour in the car entertaining, enjoyable, and vivid to the senses as you read.

"8:30am," I groan. Not again! There is never enough time. I steal a glance at a grimy skillet with baked on egg. The warm pilot flames on my ancient stove send bountiful wafts of charred egg and gooey, overcooked spray pam to hover over the stove. Patrick's soggy, crusted bowl of morning oatmeal now 3 hours cold is still on the table with a runaway clump and it's skid mark down the side of the bowl and splooched onto my table. I make a face. Ick!
A glance over my shoulder into the bathroom confirms that the curling iron is still too hot to put into the cabinet, shaving cream globs have evaporated teal scum onto the side of the sink, and dirty underwear are piled in the corner on top of my sweatshirt, sweatpants, and a wet molding towel. I roll my eyes and step over two pairs of yesterday's shoes, my bookbag, and our makeshift brown grocery bag trash can that I just noticed sprung a leak from hot, fresh coffee grounds. Great! "I gotta go." Shaking my head and calling myself every word for failure I flick the light off, grab my pink coffee cup, computer bag, coat, keys, and scarf balancing these as I head for the door now 5 minutes late. Huff. And the stubborn 1920's door won't lock. I jiggle, jab, twist, pull, lift, and shimmy the key in the lock. 5 minutes later it works. 10 minutes too late I've left my front steps.
I like walking to my car because I always feel professional. My heels click twice with each pace, muffled by a hazey, white morning dew that clings to everything. My computer bag zippers clink merrily, the only sound besides my steady clip-clipping, and if I chance to see one of my many neighbors I greet this equally professional individual with a happy smile, and an occasional goodmorning, but that is on the very rare occasion that we (two Californians) chance to look at each other, and if, we dare to maintain eye contact for longer than a millisecond, which invites an exchange of words. We think we do a pretty good job in Long Beach of being neighborly, so I greet them verbally about once a month.
After I cordially acknowledge the neighbors it's time to juggle the contents wrapped around me, strapped around me, held in my hand, and sliding from beneath my arm while not spilling, dropping, spewing, or dampening a thing. Oh, and hope that you parked on Belmont rather than 2nd st. or you will be doing all of this with a 2 second time limit before the next car zips past you, and your open door, and your circus act of professional items with a jeering honk. Yes, hope that you're parked on Belmont st. The car door finally opened (always a miracle or magic act) you can place nicely, or throw things onto the passenger seat depending on the time frame (if you left late or you have less than a second before a car is due in the space where you are standing). In some instances you will even toss yourself in and slam the door just barely in time, then take a moment to compose yourself and remove the bottom flaps of your trench coat from underneath you so that you can move again. Don't try to straighten and drive. You will swerve into too many lanes and still have found that your arms are bound to some ranges of motion. A sleeve is tucked somewhere and your skirt is mysteriously in your wasteband.
Straightened.
Now, should I reverse of move forward? Can I make it if I just go for it? Are there any cars coming? The rear view mirror shows a car parallel parked on my bumper, but the side mirror makes it look like I've got a few feet. When I turn around it confounds me even more because all I can see is a windshield. Who knows how far away it is from the front of their car for goodness sake?! I'm brave. I go forward, the slightest little inch. A car is coming 20 ft. back. I wait. I don't want to hit a car that's going 25 and wouldn't be able to see me in time to slow down. Another car, on the other side of the road. But, what if I pull out and can't swing my wheel back sharp enough. I could collide head on. Better wait. Finally (now 8:45) it's clear. I can't see a single car either in front of or behind me. This is my break. I go. A few inches at fist, a foot, oh! 2 ft. and I'm out, cruising 25 mph past Belmont Heights mansions, California classics. Palm trees rise from manicured grass every 5 feet creating a frame, and they complement the 1920's architecture, 30 year old Camillea bushes, and wild green Parakeets that squack and chitter over a fine breakfast of palm seeds and beads of morning dew. I've gone 10 feet, and it's been 30 seconds.
Do you think you can stick with me for an hour?

I know I posted this picture already...is that against blogging rules? But I thought it was appropriate. It isn't me driving, but funny if it had been. This is looking out of my front window onto Belmont (the good street). The bird can be seen between the palm trees. And the sky is brown because it was the first day the fires were really bad.

I’ll have to post this later tonight, but I’m enjoying a moderate workload today. Only 4 students have come in so far, and I’ve had time to create at least 3 new pages in my book.
The students are working on an essay prompt for the book Julius Cesar about vices and virtues. I realize how ethical English classes can be, and I love discussing the implication of poor ethics with teenagers.
I’m shocked how few of them consider vices and virtues to be applicable, modern terms. They think that humans do not have implicitly negative or positive intentions, but that it comes down to each isolated choice whether or not we will make an ethically correct decision…and there are many, many acceptable justifications for poor ethical choices.
It seems that in modern times the “right” and “wrong” list was as long as Santa’s naughty and nice list. However, I’m observing that it is taboo in our postmodern 2000’s to label something right or wrong. There is always a qualification, an exception, and each assertion demands a clear explanation.
Perhaps we as a society have over-corrected our prejudice and discrimination so that it is now judgmental, intolerant, and discriminatory to label something as “wrong” that might possibly interfere with a person’s right to think or choose for themselves.
As a Christian it is so important to seek God’s truth and declare it in opposition to society’s tolerance, because I know that our God is loving, but he is intolerant of sin. In a way, the trend of tolerance is going to make him seem like the enemy because he established the ethical guidelines that require Christians to be discriminatory.
I will admit that I am having to fight not to fall into this social pressure. On my ballot when I had to vote FOR proposition 22 I had to pause, read, and re-read, then pray because the socially sensitive part of me didn’t want to hurt the individuals that this law would pain or break apart. I wanted to believe in their good intentions and provide them with acceptance and a way to be happy. I was even wondering what Jesus would do…I mean, he hung out with the prostitutes and tax collectors, but he never condoned their actions, and I think that he challenged them to turn from their sin. In the specific instance of gay/lesbian individuals however, I have met some of the kindest, most encouraging individuals and I want to justify their lifestyle with the idea that all men sin, this just happens to be their area, their vice. And sometimes I don’t want to think that they have to change their preference of homosexual attraction because they’re perfectly happy and usually it is a result of a very painful, confusing childhood, and I’m happy that they’re so happy now (even though it seems extremely different, and confused to me). This is an area of submission to the truth. I stand against gay/lesbian orientation simply because “the bible tells me so.” God has set a definitive ruling against this, and so I resist the postmodern justification, questioning, and reasoning, and just believe that truth comes from God and from the bible, and this is true.
It may be easy once reading my example of homosexuality, which is not the focus of this post, to miss what I’m really thinking…that now, more than ever is a time for Christians to know the truth of God and hold it close to our hearts because God doesn’t appear to like compromising his goodness and holiness. But I struggle in a postmodern world not to see God’s laws as contradictory to his love.
What truth do you need to submit to or stand for? Do you agree that God calls us to discriminate? Is it not ironic that God’s truth seems (in the world’s eyes) to oppose love and acceptance in some cases?

Mmmmm. I'm sipping a cappuccino and I've discovered that I love/hate that bitter richness in the back of your throat after you've taken a sip of espresso.
Good morning, it's Monday.
On Mondays I try to organize everything for the week. I clean my house top to bottom so that it is spotless and fresh, I try to plan meals for the week and make a grocery list, I do laundry, bake bread (haha), and spend a lot of time reprimanding myself (for not writing my book). The last point is the one that perplexes me as I'm sitting here with my coffee, at 8:19am. The day is so new, and I know that my potential for progress on my book is almost 100% greater than my actual progress will be and that stirs so much anxiety in my that I feel frozen.
Allow me to explain.
I grew up wanting to be a writer, I believe from the time I was old enough to say "I want to be ____ when I grow up." Of course I tried to write my life story, a fictional account of best friends, the tragedy of a girl who moved from place to place...all before I was 9. And shortly after my 11th birthday gave up this dream, scoffing at my inability to realize that hardly anyone is a published writer.
In high school I regained my enthusiasm for writing as a coping mechanism that came out in the form of letters to God, commentary on the social pressures that young women face, and I would go only so far as to say, "someone SHOULD write a book about these things," but at 14 I had acquired too much insecurity to think I could or would ever be that someone. I continued to look for books at the Christian bookstore to help me through difficult times, confusing circumstances, and provide pure romantic ideals. However, I always left the teen section with a sigh and meandered over to theology where I would pick up a new Tozer devotional, or the accounts of a martyred missionary, the love lorn sacrifices of Elizabeth Elliot, and others. These became my Christian mentors, and let me tell you they did nothing but point to God and consequently I spent evenings after work, before my 4 hours worth of AP homework, reading about the faith of such strong men and women, then journaling letters and prayers to God that were relevant to me and my life as a teenager. In those moments I did not realize that I was collecting notes and commentary for a calling that was stirred 3 years later.
At 19 I was nearly finished with college, home for the summer, and a part of the junior high school youth group at my parent's church. Let's settle one thing (and I will explain my strong conviction)...I HATE youth groups! I found youth groups to be the most effective breeding ground for closed-minded, routine, exclusive, and spiritually dead teens. God is a correct answer to a study question, he's something that we sing about in dimly lit, emotional worship times, he's the reason that we close out the people who raise questions against him, and he is the reason that we completely tackle those who do not believe with a message of salvation and hope. I was asked to resign from the leadership team in high school because I asked if we could discontinue all of the hype and spend time focusing on God, his power, majesty, might, and our submission to Him. They said I was disrupting the unity of the vision for our group. So...at 19 I went along with what they wanted. I followed the questions outlined for our group study times, I ignored the girls lolluping about on the floor, I ignored them doodling hearts and initials in the margins, and I ignored their sighs and whines and whispers about completely unrelated topics. I ignored it until my spirit rebelled and that evening I turned the lights off and told the girls to listen. I told them that during the week they would need to focus on God being there with them, inside of them, loving them, encouraging them, empowering them, asking things of them, and the next week...
I cannot believe how alive these girls were, spilling with stories of a personal, powerful, relevant, holy, God. I think I knew then that I needed to write.
I saw that I would create a young woman whose life would progress ordinarily, and that she would be a model of a young woman, who is attentive to God, who struggles and backslides, and surrenders, and lives whole heartedly to honor God. She would be the girls who read about her, she would be their best friend, she would be their spiritual mentor and the girl that they want to reach out to. I named her Savannah. She's 14 years old, petite, with thick hair the color of pale sunshine, light blue eyes, a sprinkle of freckles, and excessive amounts of joy and introspection that create a most unique dry humor that sends the people around her into bouts of laughter or she perplexes them to fascination. Her father's business and both parent's international background have made her a muli-lingual, international boarding school girl who begins the book as the new kid in Newport Mesa California. It's her first experience with public school, youth group, and...sumer camp. With an accent that turns heads, a sweetness that earns best friends, a sarcasm that keeps the boys guessing, and a mind and heart that seek God fervently, she's one of the most special people you could ever hope to meet. The problem is...I'm currently the only one who knows her, and Patrick, and my mom. I've kept them on the edge of their seats, but as for the rest of the girls out there...she's unknown.
NOW, why does this bother me? Because I KNOW that I need to write this story. I know that it is what I am called to do for the time being. I know that God has gifted me, inspired me, equipped me, and told me to write this book, and the problem is that I don't want to be a published writer. I love to write my stories, but I don't want to HAVE to write them. I want to laugh, create, discover, and do all of this for a hobby, but I have this nagging guilt that that isn't enough. BUT then my head thinks it's extremely proud to think that I could write a book and impose myself on others, and then my spirit counters that it isn't myself, but God who is reflected and inspiring these stories. I tell myself to sit and write but a thousand darts fly at me telling me it isn't good, or it's a waste of time, or it's pride, or ... I've heard it all.
So, it's Monday. I'm blessed to have a part time job. I'm blessed with 2 days a week at home (dare I say to write?). But I cannot bring myself to sit down and write. I try, but I cannot shut off the opposing thoughts inside of me. So, should I really not be doing this, or should I be trying even harder. I cannot discern what it true.
I'll try again today, but I feel defeated before I have even given it a chance.
Anyway, I didn't have a desk for writing. I of course had seen my dream desk at Pottery Barn and told myself that if I could have that desk then surely I would write. Um, this isn't funny.
I saw the exact $3,000 desk and $200 chair on craigslist for $150.00 total. Here it is.





I said that I would need a place that is bright and comfortable to write, here's my livingroom:




I'm out of excuses.
Happy Monday.