Liz's Spot






About Me

O satisfy us in

the morning with

Your lovingkindness,

That we may sing

for joy and be glad

all our days.

Psalm 90:14


Wednesday, November 16, 2011

Bucket List Addition

Justin just informed me that it is a personal (bucket list) goal of his to meet Earl Grey.

Wednesday, December 01, 2010

This is for you, Justin

It's tumultuous outside. I'm tumultuous inside.

For one thing, somebody was grouchy with me for a little-elaborated upon reason before going to bed without so much as saying goodnight. Presumably his extreme tiredness contributed to this sad situation.

For another thing. [Begin private thoughts which I am sharing but for which I do not wish to be judged] My mind lives in one world and I live in another. In my mind's world, I know exactly what's for supper tonight and every other night in the next month that we'll be home. In the world I really live in, I forgot slash didn't have time to bring myself to make a decision about what to thaw (if there is anything worthwhile in the freezer) for supper tomorrow night, so I've opted for something for which you don't need to thaw anything--homemade pizza. Highly desirable meal but nevertheless a cop-out. That irritates me.

In my mind's world, I wake up, accomplish household tasks, accomplish errands, improve my mind and spirit, and have time to play a game of Scrabble with my grandmother, in a timely way, most days of the week. In the world I really live in, only about two or three things out of that list seem to happen most days each week. Or something like that. It's hit or miss. You get the point.

In my mind's world, I have clean surfaces almost everywhere in my home and deal with things that cause clutter quickly. In the world I really live in, I can't seem to get enough order to be able to make decisions about any individual piece of clutter. So as you might imagine, my laptop is snuggled amid the piles of clutter that make up my office.

I hate living this way. I hate how every thing that requires decisions in my life has turned into a pile. My inbox, my desk, my office, sometimes even the closet (though it's not in piles--it's hanging). I have a huge closet. I have a pretty big house considering we are three. Space is not the problem.

I hate admitting this to the world at large (though the world at large does not read my blog, so I'm safe), but writing it down, or typing it, which is faster, helps me feel better at least in that I've expressed it. It is amazing how essential it is, for me, to deal with things by expressing them. If I don't express, I effectually die. I don't even need a listener--a journal is just fine.

Anyway. I have been accomplishing things, just not enough, and often not "the right" things. I need discipline. I hate it, but I need it. I also want to be brutal to my clutter. I hate how it has me "backed into a corner"--not literally, but figuratively (and sometimes literally, but so what).

And I also don't understand why I am a night person. Being a night person means you cannot be a day person. I need to be a day person. Yet I think the most clearly at night. So here I am, typing, and I will be more tired for it tomorrow. Why is that? I want to tackle projects right now... but I know there won't be time to get enough done, so I'm afraid to.

Okay, thanks for listening. Maybe I'll attempt a tiny project anyway. So there.

Thursday, November 25, 2010

On This Thanksgiving Day

We can all be thankful because Liz's blog has been resurrected by her amazing husband!

Thursday, March 26, 2009


Wow, that helped.

I feel a little better.

Anger's kind of like flatulence (oh good, there, I can laugh at myself a little...).

Actually, let's just go ahead and seal the coffin:

Anger is like flatulence. Anger builds until you may feel like you're about to explode... then you feel a little better after some of it's been released... and nobody wants to be around when you let it go. :-/ But usually everything improves after it dissipates. I guess that's where the two diverge... it is possible to do permanent damage with anger, and everything may not be better when it dissipates, if you aren't careful.

Well, good. Back to work. Did I mention I work nights? Nevermind.

[I suppose in this way I could avoid the technicality of "letting the sun go down on my anger"--sort of. If you don't go to bed, you can't close the day on it... sort of.]


I am thoroughly angry. Enraged, in moments. It isn't good for me, and I'm even somewhat angry that I'm angry. It's like a defeat in itself. I think there is steam coming out of my ears. That might be funny except that I am actually angry.


Why can't it be easier to do what's right? Why can't I just decide to "feel" the right way and then feel the right way?

I may look nice on the outside, but in some deep down important things, I am very stubborn. And I like it. Kind of. Actually it's like a weight around my ankle, reminding me of doom, but I am yet stubborn. It's like I recently read in a book--"my will hadn't been broken yet." What will it take with me? Will I knock my head against the wall for the rest of my life? How does one submit one's will? My will is doing everything in its power to never submit! I can't even catch it, it's running the other way so fast.

So my anger has me simmering, and yet I'm not happy I'm angry. I don't want to be angry because there is a good reason for what's being done. I basically trust the person I'm angry at, though obviously I am still angry--go figure. In theory I basically fully trust this person. Good thing it's proving so effective in moderating my emotions. Yeah right.

If I knew what submission was, I might try it right now...

Monday, February 16, 2009

A Tribute to Max, and other reflections

I have been drinking lots of water all afternoon and evening--it's been making me go to the bathroom, but my eyes still are dry and they burn, and I have those little crusts of salt on my eyelashes from crying.

I still can't fully believe it, but my kitty friend of over 14 years has died. I can't believe I won't pick him up again or hear his throaty purr greeting or fall asleep holding him anymore. I can't believe it.

Last night Dad held and loved up on him and then put him outside. Apparently about 10 or 15 minutes later, according to the neighbor, he was hit by a car that ran a stop sign and was going too fast to stop when they saw him. Max didn't hang out in the road a lot, and I'm not sure why he suddenly felt worried enough to run back toward our yard, but I wish he hadn't tried to make it back just then--he would probably be fine and be here beside me on the bed.

I am basically thankful for the way he died. I was always afraid he would get sick, as many cats do, and need lots of care and still be miserable. I'm thrilled that he bolted out the door happy as could be after a nice long time in Daddy's lap last night. But I am so sad I didn't get to love up on him one more time myself, or hold him as he died, or tell him how much we all miss him and will miss him.

Max would be proud of the stir he created this afternoon--he brought someone in from out of town, in his honor a friend brought flowers by, and he disrupted the entire day and was the topic of loving, constant conversation.

However, in terms of effectiveness, none of these feelings make it any farther than our reminiscing conversations in the hall or my tears soaking another tissue or the ache in my heart that seems to have arms. My heart's arms keep reaching out for a different conclusion to the day, or a whiskered face at the door, or a fuzzy warm body with sharp claws at the ends. But the heart-arms come up empty and I know where Max is--he's at the bottom of a lovingly dug, perfectly sized hole out back in front of his favorite hedge. Now how can that be fair, to come up empty, when I know where he is?

I grieve over losing my fuzzy friend, and my nose is raw from the wiping. Yet, as my tears keep making a mess in front of me, I'm humbled and thankful. Because today, before I ever knew my cat had died, I talked to a man who lost his wife two years and two months ago. His eyes looked like he had been crying recently and was emotionally worn--I guessed it might have had something to do with Valentine's Day being yesterday.

I ache for my cat, but he's okay, even though he's dead. He had a good life and was loved, and he didn't hurt very long as he died. This man's wife was sick for 8 years, she died of the cancer, and losing your mate is a very different, all-encompassing thing. Continuing my conversation with this man by email turned my grief for my cat into grief for him and other people who have lost someone.

After completing that email, I got on facebook, and I saw something else that fit on this circle. I saw pictures that celebrate life. I saw a young man--I knew him first as a tiny boy--holding a tiny new one of his nieces. There was no nervousness in the way he held her. He has held many babies, I am sure. This family loves life so much that there are babies and children everywhere and others always on the way.

These different glimpses from the day remind me of the Jack Johnson song that says "One goes out, one comes in . . . You know that I would now, if only I could. . . " The song talks about how Jack gets a call from a friend who's been given two weeks to live--he would give his friend more time if he could. Then the song goes on to talk about a baby being born--"Papa cried, baby cried, said 'Your tears are like mine.' " One goes out, one comes in. I don't think my cat Max counts in this case, but Shan does and these little babies do. And I still miss Max.

It seems so trite and typical to say that this makes me look at my life differently. But how true it is. When I get home I want to love on our kitty Shadow, since when she's gone she'll really be gone. I want to go home and cherish every day with my husband, because someday he may get cancer, or I might, and I don't want to lose a minute that I have with him. I want to treasure each new little life, because it's precious. I need to treasure the lives of the people around me who aren't so new. One goes out, one comes in. This is life. I don't want to have any more regrets when I lose a friend or a family member than I had when I learned I'd lost my cat.

Saturday, March 01, 2008


Hi guys.

I don't have much to say. It would make my posts much more alluring if I proclaimed confidently that I had something of import to say. Well.... I could probably come up with something. Perhaps even valid observations.

The fact is, however, I'm tired, and I don't feel like thinking. Except perhaps in the very small capacity required to come up with fun words to use in sentences.

Today was a victorious day in several capacities, one of the foremost being cleaning up the trash heap that disguised my desk. Very good. I'm thrilled about it.

And I'd like to write here (if nowhere else) about writing or some other such thing, but my heart is tired and I need to rest. It's Sunday tomorrow too and I want to have it ready for church.

Okay, well, this only is only surpassed by a few other posts in its lack of profundity, but the act of posting itself has been profound... and as I said, I'm tired.

Love ya k bye.

Saturday, February 16, 2008


My garden, with its silence and pulses of fragrance that come and go on the airy undulations, affects me like sweet music. --Alexander Smith

airy undulations??

Tuesday, January 29, 2008


Hi. I have nothing to write about, but I feel like I'm going to explode if I don't express something in some way. I really don't have anything to say.

I finally have some free time, but I can't decide what to do with it. I should have a quiet time, but I really don't want to. I don't know exactly why. I would really prefer to just relax and do something fun, but it feels like there's too much I should be doing. Actually, I would probably benefit from doing something fun. I would like to maybe try my new watercolors (a good set! :) or play piano. I've already played some, but I don't think I'll play much more tonight. Maybe I'd need to be alone to feel more free to play that way. I'd like to do something with my hands, but I don't really want to bother my mind. It's tired and I don't feel like doing anything very industrious. (I just feel like I should.) Also, I have tons of people I should write, but I feel overwhelmed at the prospect. Like I said, my mind is tired. Even writing poetry would be nice. But I'll probably sit here wondering what to do until all my time is gone. :-(

Well, I gotta go. I need to try to actually do something.... :-\