Las Vegas: A Little of Everything

When I stepped away from social media it was Ash Wednesday and we were in Las Vegas.

I’m not going to lie. It was weird entering Lent while in the middle of Sin City. I wanted church bells, quiet countryside, or a mountain glade, but we were surrounded by flashing lights, an orchestra of bells and whistles from gambling machines, and the smell of marijuana (which, btw, was everywhere).

Oh, and we also had Donny Osmond. And the Cirque Du Soleil show “O”.

Donny Osmond was a last-minute decision: we were walking through Harrah’s, saw the ticket desk, inquired about same day tickets, and one hour later we were listening to him sing “Puppy Love.” For a spur-of-the-minute decision it was one of our best because the show was so incredibly entertaining. We were all smiles when we exited the theater later that evening.

On our last day we visited Red Rock Canyon. It was incredibly cold and windy so we decided to drive the loop, stopping along the way for short hikes or scenic overlooks. We saw more petroglyphs and again, standing in front of cave drawings from over 2000 years ago put me in a contemplative frame of mind. And ponder my place in the world.

That night we ate in Paris and then walked across the street to the Bellagio. On the way to the Cirque du Soleil Theater we passed several exclusive, high-end shops. At one point I stopped in front of Tiffany’s and said (rather hopefully), “Yes?” and Joe said (very emphatically), “No.”  

Huh.

Anyway, if you have ever been to a Cirque du Soleil show then you know what a magical experience it is. We left the theater trailing magic and fairy dust. Outside we listened to the music at the Bellagio Fountains. Then we turned a corner and …

saw someone vomiting into a gutter.

That's Las Vegas. A little of everything. 

Masters Bounty: Tiramisu and Vodka Spritzers

 Well, it’s been a while. I had thought that when I decided to give up social media for Lent it would inspire me to write in other areas, but this is what happened: I did not write at all. More on that later …

We also had a spring break that wasn't. Again, more on that later ...

In the meantime, I resume the annual tradition of reporting what our Masters guests left us. This year, we had a player (top 30 in world ranking) rent our home, so I felt a little more pressure to deliver. It also inspired me to finish projects, most notably a gallery wall in our dining room. The Sunday before we left Joe hung TWENTY-FOUR paintings/pictures in the dining room and study. He was a little grumpy about it.

Then this morning it was my turn to be grumpy. Because of a scheduling conflict, the housekeeper we hired for the week was not available to do the final cleaning so … everything I did before leaving home I had to do AGAIN once we got into our house. I cleaned for six hours.

Anyway, what did our Masters guests leave us?  When we first walked in there was a nice surprise waiting for us on the kitchen counter: a jar filled with magnolia blossoms, an autographed golf hat, three autographed golf balls, a golf pencil from Augusta National, and a personal note.

But wait, there's more: five bottles of wine, a case of Topo-Chico mineral water, Vodka Spritzers, a case of Vodka Sodas, gourmet popcorn, frozen pizzas, a pimento cheese sandwich from The Augusta National, fifteen bags of beef jerky, a sealed container of pimento cheese, a tray of frozen cheesy bread, Pillsbury Lucky Charms sugar cookies (to be baked), organic salsa, and an entire pan of Tiramisu from The Olive Garden. Joe even found an Easter egg in the backyard because they (evidently) had an Easter egg hunt for their small children.

We also have a FULL trashcan.

Anyway, it is good to be back. I will sign off now and go enjoy a Vodka Spritzer and a slice of Tiramisu. They go together, right?

The second (and last) day of our vacation.

More on that later.

Whatever am I Going to Do?

Next week I am accompanying Joe on a work trip to Las Vegas and this is what I am wondering: whatever am I going to do to keep myself occupied?

Perhaps I can do this …

or maybe this ...

or even this!

STOP IT. 

I am kidding about the last one. It is a Las Vegas joke! A joke I tell you!

Sheesh. 

But if you have any suggestions (other than the obvious), let me know!

Speak to Me Sunday: The Garden of Answered Prayer

One of the hardest things in life is watching someone experience such a difficult challenge that good intentions of a dinner, a phone call, or a note seem insignificant in comparison to the desert they are facing. Even prayer somehow feels woefully inadequate. 

Recently, during a recent Bible Study, we talked about this very topic of answered and unanswered prayer. As we shared our stories and read the reflection on how unanswered prayer can be a testament to our faith, I was reminded of the following quote from the musical, Hamilton: “A legacy is planting seeds in a garden you don’t get to see.” While this quote refers to the legacy Alexander Hamilton wanted to leave our young country, I realized that replacing the word ‘legacy’ with ‘prayer’ reminds us how every prayer is a seed, planted with faith and watered with hope, while we wait to see what it grows into.

But just as there are many answers to prayer and many ways for that seed to develop. It can blossom the way you envisioned, or bloom into something entirely different, or take root in ways you never thought possible. The key is remembering that the seed always turns into something, whether we get to see it or not.

There is so much we don’t understand about prayer, but if we acknowledge that God’s ways are not our ways, but are infinitely more imaginative and always perfect, then we also need to remember there is no such thing as unanswered prayer.

We may not always see the fruits of our prayer seeds, but we are still standing in a garden.  

Two Seconds

I am listening to one of my very favorite songs, A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square. It is hauntingly nostalgic and brings with it a memory that lasted all of two seconds.  

It was a Sunday evening and I was listening to the song on repeat while I folded laundry. All of a sudden, Timothy poked his head around the laundry room door. 

"What are you listening to?" he asked.

So I told him the name of the song and explained how it was popular during WWII because it evoked feelings of separation and longing for a happier time.

"Dance with me?" I asked hopefully.

Poof! He disappeared. But then he reappeared almost immediately and stood in the doorway.

"Come on," I said. "Two seconds. Come dance with your mom."

So he came in, and as the nightingale sang in Berkeley Square we danced in the laundry room. Just two turns because then--Poof!--he disappeared once again.

But it is those two seconds that I am remembering today.

One of my favorite versions of the song is by Tori Amos.

But this one by Michael Buble is a close second. 

What I am NOT getting for my birthday

Hello! I am here to provide a public service announcement: Today is World Nutella Day.

I am also here to tell you that Nutella solves a lot of problems. Once, after a particular trying day dealing with a toddler and his two brothers, I closed myself in the pantry with a jar of Nutella and a spoon. A few minutes later, I emerged a new person.

I mean, a spoonful of Nutella will have you wondering, “Whoa. Where did all my problems go?”

Okay. A slight exaggeration. But I am allowed to indulge in hyperbole because today is also my birthday which we are NOT celebrating until later this month when we fly to Las Vegas where, I am told, I can pick out my birthday present.

What do I want? Tickets to see Adele in concert.

What am I not getting? Tickets to see Adele in concert.

Not only are all her concerts sold out, but any available tickets are astronomically expensive. The most expensive ticket I ever purchased was to see Hamilton at the Kennedy Center in Washington DC. Just prior to purchasing those tickets I came across this Google image.

To put things in perspective, I would have to sell more than one body part to go see Adele.

Again with the hyperbole!

So no to Adele, but yes to a Cirque du Soleil show.

And because life is a circus, I looked up famous events that happened on this day in history. This is what I found: on 5 February AD 62, an earthquake struck the towns of Pompeii and Herculaneum. Historians believe this was the precursor to the eruption of Mount Vesuvius which destroyed both towns a few years later.

I am all shook up. (See what I did there? Las Vegas … Elvis … )

Yikes. Reminds me that in 2017 there was a Hurricane Maria. But that happened in September, so not birthday related at all.

For someone who is one year older and wiser (is wisdom a given, or only for some?) this post is a little all over the place (you think?) with body organs for sale and earthquakes and hurricanes. 

But HELLO? 

Nutella.

Back to where I started, which is a good way to end.

Grateful for the Intangible

Every morning I wake up with ideas: to do this, make that, write a poem, finish the project. For me, creativity blossoms in the early morning light, which often propels me out of bed so I can make good on some of those ideas. 

It's a good way to start the day, and this morning was no different. But this time, instead of taking the ideas and running with them, I held them gently while I was suffused with an overwhelming sense gratitude for these intangible gifts that God gives us: the ideas, thoughts, feelings, wishes, and dreams. 

What precious gifts they are. 

thoughts

sometimes i have a thought

plucked out of the air

thin and wispy

which poof! disappears

where does it go,

this thought that was but no longer is?

sometimes i have a thought

a cloud-like puff which drifts

to my hands, my legs, my heart,

the words I speak –

propelling me to

create, help, console, dream.

sometimes a cloud thought

is dark, thunder-like
sunless

raining seeds of paralysis –

self-doubt, insecurity,

unworthiness, fear.

today i had a thought

i need a thought-weatherman

to herald clouds –  

the wispy, puffy, or thunderous

because sometimes

I cannot tell them apart.

*from the files of very bad poetry by bia