Perspective

This is me and my Thanksgiving Pecan Pie. I did well- besides the totally fake crust. I made Chris take a picture of me because I was so proud. And on my first try too! Yay.

So, there are things I'd love to say today, but I will refrain because this is the Internet and if you Google "Stefani Chambers" this site is the first thing that comes up. I try to be "good" and refrain. To not tell it all- I try to journal and write and vent to my friends, but sometimes--- there are stories I'd love to tell you but I just can't.

I was reading another blog today and she commented on why we actually write and why (we think) people want to actually read what we write. She says - so much more eloquently than I ever could:
It seems for me that writing forces me to respond to my life instead of merely letting it wash over me. I wonder sometimes what makes people want to read my writing. Is it a form of voyeurism? Curiosity? The need to connect to another human without making a commitment?

I wonder about this alot. Like, oh, whenever I am writing or not writing or people ask me about something they read, or someone they read about in my blog. For instance, one of the elders at my church reads my blog. He's read about my dad, and my self-indulgence and my not wanting children, and the time I peed in the woods. I mean seriously, why do I have this desire to write about any/ everything that I think any/ everyone can probably relate to?

Today, on my way to the train I thought about this when I saw a yellow plastic shopping bag hanging from a bare tree filled with rain water. It hung there like some sort of water balloon just waiting to splat someone. When I see peculiar things. When I experience peculiar things, I think, "I should write about this."

Like the fifteen-year-old-looking girl I pass on most mornings when I leave my apartment. No lie. It's an odd thing in the city to pass the same stranger more than once. But on most days I pass this brunette, long-legged, girl in glasses. And every day, she's eating Reese's Peanut Butter Cups. The second, even the third time I found it so odd. But today, as we walked past each other in front of the guy selling Christmas trees, I knew she had probably never even realized that we crossed paths every single day. I only recognize her as the Reese's girl. What a well-balanced breakfast, a little protein, a little fat. Or the guy selling Texas Pecans right off the subway stop. He sounded Texan. He looked Texan. His cardboard boxes stacked on his card table said, "Texas Pecans." I squinted as I rushed passed to see if I could see what city they were from, but I couldn't.

I write about strangers, about people I'm getting to know better and people I already know well.

One of those I'm getting to know better is this lady who started attending our church sometime late last Spring. She joined the choir this fall. I now know her name. I know her British accent and I've prayed with her. I know she comes to choir just to have somewhere to go, to have a community to be involved in and that's fine. She is a travel/ entertainment/ food critic type writer. Wednesday we discussed restaurants and the expensive private school her daughter attends. (Seriously, I had no idea!) We talked writing and how she had met Jack Canfield and after our ten minutes of sharing I seriously wanted to go to brunch with her. Yes, she is broken and has problems and hurts, but don't we all. Even if her problems are obvious and apparent and not secret sins, she is no less one of God's creations than I am.

When we left rehearsal Wednesday night her face was streaked with mascara and her hands black, appearing soot covered, and damp from snot. I hugged her and told her I'd see her Sunday morning. Oh, but for the grace of God go I.