Public Service Warning!

WANTED CAPTURED!

One gray Netherland Dwarf rabbit.  Dangerous pest!  Sharp teeth!

Verdict:

GUILTY!

1 count of reckless chewing... specifically chewing of the ends of dresses in the closet. 

Booked: March 2nd, 2013 at 7:51 AM. 

BEWARE: Rabbit will pretend to be "burrowing" through hanging clothes in the closet.  Do NOT be fooled.  Rabbit desires fabric to chew.  Untold numbers of items have already been damaged.

SENTENCE: Subject to cage incarceration for approximately 1/2 of the day and stern reprimand by rabbit shepherd.

May I never take for granted...

...my beloved, though imperfect, city.

Arriving upbeat at work today, someone asked why I was particularly chipper.  I said, "I don't know but it might have something to do with listening to James Taylor on the way here."  To which my co-worker remarked, "Oh, is he a preacher or something?"

Just let that sit with you for a while and you will begin to feel what I've been feeling since August.

Yeah... really... just let that sit with you...

Seminary is a weird place.  It doesn't matter where you go, they are all pretty weird.  A bunch of people who hunker down for 3 years to study God are going to turn out a little weird... and not in the Asheville weird sort of way... in a "you are turning more square than a postage stamp" sort of weird.  In a "you can't see the earth for the bark" sort of way.

And... New England is a weird place.  There is a thick busy-ness in the air of Boston suburbia that makes people crazy.  Education and work define you.  Money is the commodity of value.  Being tough is being respected.  Pleasure is something you buy.

I was struck today (after the James Taylor comment) that what I perceived to be pathetic homesickness and general crankiness over being "here" rather than "there" (while that is certainly going on) is due in large part to what we would call "culture shock."  I arrived here 6 months ago with loads of enthusiasm to explore, to befriend, to connect, to adventure - and I'm realizing now that my model for community building and growth was not "working" with the square peg I found myself in. 

So, while I can appreciate the New England coastline, historic towns, beautiful colonial architecture, the academic rigor of the seminary, the challenge of Protestant Scholasticism, the detailed exegesis, I really long for my own culture.  A culture that, apparently, assumes everyone knows who James Taylor is and resonates with why one would feel happy listening to him on the way to work.

This is not a New England or seminary bash... though I'm tempted to label "bad place, good place."  I know that my affection for my culture is not one rooted in some absolute ideal of what makes a place wonderful.  I love it because it has that quality that no other place could reasonably assume... it's home.

May I never take for granted...
friendly smiles of strangers
being called "honey" or "sweetheart" by old ladies at grocery stores
a slower pace of life
people who don't know, ask, or care what degrees you have or what job you do
nuns on large bicycles
neighbors walking goats
folks who are always looking for an opportunity to laugh
men wearing capes
women wearing tutus
heavily tattooed and pierced people who instead of being thugs, would give you the shirt of their back
walking to my friend's house
snow storms = hot cocoa, sledding, and good times with friends
studying and teaching theology as an art, not a science
being with people who love and appreciate beauty
being exposed to good stories
hearing music that actually came from someone's soul
co-loving the creation with other people
embracing the ridiculous
a sense of the wonder of God

... and folks who know and appreciate James Taylor...

Home. 

11 Weeks.

Survived...

The Boston Blizzard.

Someone here mentioned yesterday that this might be my last glimpse of grass until late April.  I looked and said goodbye...

2-3 feet with drifts up to 4 feet.  Insane.  Snow moving horizontally for at least 12 hours.

The fence in this photo is over 4 feet tall.

 This is where I live!  The house, not the snowbank.

 It's sorta difficult to show the immensity of the snow because everything is so white, the depth perception is a little skewed.  But, you get the idea... lots of snow.

I'm glad to have a "one year, when I lived in Boston, we had this blizzard..." story.  But, I could move on with spring now if it were up to me. 

This snow was not snowman quality... I tried to make a snowball and it wouldn't stick together.  But, I did make a snow angel. 

*ALSO, today is the 4th birthday for my new knee.  I remembered that today as I trekked in the snow and felt like Dr. E really pulled through for me.  That graft is holding strong and very glad to be 4 and snow adventuring!

Blizzard.

Well, apparently, rabbits are poor predictors of the weather.

I'm sitting at home waiting for an insane blizzard to arrive.  The Weather Channel (which now decides to name storms) is calling it Nemo... just hope it doesn't change my affection for the fish.

More later.

For what it's worth...

The rabbit saw his shadow...

Now, I don't know what that means but I hope it means that summer is coming tomorrow.

Celebrations!

Rabbit Substitutionary Atonement.

Skip is molting.  Neither one of us is used to calling 20 degrees a heatwave but that's what we're dealing with up here.  Skip decided a few days ago it was time for a new fur coat to beef up the warmth factor.

Now, every time Skip molts, I participate in a theological object lesson.  Today was the day...

I hold Skip and he burrows his head in my elbow.  I grab a warm, damp cloth and start to pull out as much fur as possible.  You see, if Skip keeps grooming his fur while it's molting, well, he'll just get a bad stomach ache and stop eating altogether (molting can be lethal for bunnies).  Bad news.  So, I try to help him along. 

*I realized today that what I really need is a rabbit sized vacuum cleaner so I could use that to sort of slurp up all the fur that is shedding right off his back... but, the noise would throw him over the edge...

During this grooming session, I am miserable and so is Skip.  He doesn't like being messed with and he has no idea that I'm helping him.  I'm miserable because I have loads of bunches of bunny fur ALL over me.  Imagine stopping in the middle of Kansas and holding a gigantic magnet for tumble weeds... except it's bunny fur tumble weeds... but, same concept.

Anyway, bunny fur is the best kind of fur but it does pose problems.  It is so fine and light that it is hard to get off your hands, clothes, face, hair etc.  It just floats in the air... I get bunny fur in my contacts, in my ears, and somehow in my nose and mouth... it just floats up and you just breathe bunny fur clouds... yak. 

15 minutes later, I let Skip down to hop freely and I look at myself.  Now I look like a bunny.  The cleanup will involve much laundry, vacuuming the floor, and re-installing my contacts.  But, then I look at Skip and he seems so genuinely happy to be groomed, hopping around the room.  He doesn't look disheveled anymore and he won't get a stomach ache tonight.

He doesn't thank me (in fact he's still mad at me right now for what he thinks was an uncomfortable nuisance.)  But, I feel deeply satisfied to have acted as a good shepherd to this one bunny.  Things in the world were theologically in tune again.  And, as usual, the moment passed and now I'm doing laundry and breathing bunny fur...

1st Big Snow!

I got out the snow boots this morning!  Great quiet, sticky snow.  Lots and lots of it!  And I still made it to work and school!

Yankees don't think I'm funny...

It's true.  I have tried and tried to put my finger on why Yankees do not seem to understand me. 

Example:
The other day, I was working at the office and a Prof I had never met walked in.

Dr. Such and such: "Hello.  I don't think I've met you before.  I'm Dr. Such and such.  And you are..."
Me: "Oh, my name is Ruth.  It's nice to meet you."
Dr. Such and such: "And, Ruth, what do you do?"

*Aside: Recently, I have been really working on not seeking my identity in what I do or what title I have.  So, when I was asked this question, I was trying hard not to define myself by cultural standards of what makes somebody somebody.  So, this is the background story going on in my head.  Plus, I was feeling punchy.

Me: "Well, let's see... I know how to brush my teeth!"
Dr. Such and such:..............long awkward pause..............

*Aside: At this point, Dr. Such and such is looking at me with that all too familiar "look."  Have you seen it before on people's faces?  It's the look of "is she mentally or socially challenged?" 

Sara (in the office with me): "Ruth is a Master of Theology student working in the Doctor of Ministry office this year.  She is studying Neo-Paganism."
Dr. Such and such: "Oh, that's great.  Well, I'll see you around." *Still not getting it.
Me: "Yes.  Certainly."

And that was that.  I cannot tell you how frequently I walk away from a situation and feel completely misunderstood.  A few possibilities for what is going on here...

1.  Yankees don't understand humor that makes fun of oneself.  They prefer humor that makes fun of others.  This isn't always a bad thing, sometimes their joking is a way of saying, "Hey, you are one of us!"  It's just different.
2.  Yankees have a greater tendency to take themselves pretty seriously.  It's because it's so darn cold.  Trust me, there's a connection.
3.  I'm an Ashevillian.  And, well, we seem weird no matter where we go. 

: )