Ash Wednesday, a few weeks later

Because I do not hope to turn
Because I do not hope
Because I do not hope to turn again
TS Eliot, Ash Wednesday

The one day of the year that I go to church without fail is Ash Wednesday. My attachment to religion comes and goes-at times I find a grasping semblance of the faith of my younger years, occasionally I find myself in fervent disbelief, mostly I settle for not thinking very hard about it and following the basics of Jesus's life: love everyone, as hard as you can, even your enemies, especially those who need it. I rarely go to church anymore-in part due to being a busy graduate student, in part because of lack of interest. I find rituals to be important, and am glad I grew up in the church (this is helped by the fact that it was a boring midwestern lutheran church-not a holy roller praise Jesus Jesuscamp church). But I haven't felt much behind them in a while, and so I've drifted away.

As a kid, I hated Ash Wednesday. I liked very little about church, and that was by far my least favorite service. I hated the darkness, the somberness, the quiet admonition to remember that we dust. I had an allergic reaction to whatever ashes they used and would be left with a bright red smudged cross on my head. Somewhere along the line of growing up, though, I got attached to the service. Every year, I go and get a cross of ashes on my forehead, a celebration and reminder of mortality. Everyone dies. Maybe we live again, in some way. Probably we don't. On any given day I have serious doubts about the existence of God or a higher power, but I have faith in the carbon cycle. From dust we are made, to dust we shall return. That gives me some semblance of comfort, something true, something solid.

Dude, no.

My downstairs neighbor is a strange young man. He doesn't appear to have a "job" per se, but his occupation consists of smoking pot and taking pills. And playing music, really, really, really loud. Me pounding on his door and telling him to turn it the fuck down is pretty much a daily occurence. It gets old, but it is an outlet for my never ending rage. His music choices amuse and annoy me-a lot of rap, a lot of heavy metal I don't recognize, once he played AC/DC's back in black six times in a row.
Today, the music was slower and I listened carefully and could make out the words to...You oughtta Know. That's right, dude was playing Jagged Little Pill, by Alanis.

So this happened...

today's accomplishment: being simultaneously hit on and evangelized by a random creeper decked out in Roll Tide Gear in the elevator.
Creeper: where did you get such a pretty smile you sweet little thing?
Me: um...what?***
Creeper:I bet you know where you got it...*wink*
Me: excuse me?
Creeper: It's from upstairs. Way upstairs. Jesus Christ will make you smile every day for the rest of your life. You just remember that. *another wink*



I cannot wait to move to not-alabama.


***I was proud of myself for restraining my inner feminist from explaining that I was not really even smiling, not that pretty, really not sweet, 9/10s of a doctor, not little, and a woman not a thing.

Today...

...Was freaking gorgeous. This northern ice princess will never get used to sitting outside in February without being bundled up nice and cozy. Really, I will never get used to willingly going outside in February.

In honor of our (temporary) spring, I made a delicious salad...cucumbers, lettuce, pistachios, cherry-balsamic glazed chicken, and blue cheese. I got lots of veggies at the grocery store this week, my goal is to improve this week's diet over last week's by eating fewer meals consisting entirely of things sold by girl scouts.

Unrelated, but on teevee, some fresh faced american kids are ice-dancing a honky-tonk routine to the Dixie Chicks. I like ice skating, I like america, and I like the Dixie Chicks, but seriously, WTF kind of sport is this?