Can you figure this out?

There's twelve of them. No wait! There's thirteen!! Where did the extra person come from?

Click here for the solution.

Against all odds. . .

Ilajna, caveboy and I went to watch Gordon Chambers perform at the BAM last night. As I listened to him, and to Alice Smith, who opened for him, I started to think about people who are so passionate about something that whatever adverse circumstances they face in their quest for that thing seem insignificant. Watching the performers on stage, I was struck by the thought of how difficult it is to make it as a musician or singer or actor--and that those who aspire to such goals need equal doses of passion and perseverance; that they'd rather endure the struggles and hardships inherent in the pursuit of that goal than live life without it.

There are few people in this world with the tenacity to be that passionate--because it involves much risk and heartbreak, and calls for a great deal of strength and sacrifice. And there are even fewer for whom that tenacity endures, and the difficulties along the way don't overwhelm them.

The object of that passion doesn't necessarily have to be a goal like making it as an artist. As I pondered this, the thought kept coming back to me. . .that I used to be that passionate--about my relationship with Christ. And I also realized that I'm not anymore. I thought back to my mid-teens, when I made the conscious decision for the first time to follow Him--and longed for that passion again; when waking up an hour earlier in the morning to pray (when I was already waking up at the crack of dawn) was a joy, because it meant I could spend that time with Him; when I had the ability to see everyone through Christ-tinted lenses; and when nothing mattered as much as being in His presence day and night.

Today, I am anything but that--I mean, I know in my head that I have a relationship with Christ, but my entire existence is dictated by my circumstances. I am constantly in a bad mood (you should see my subway face--and the number of random strangers who tell me to smile as I walk by!), and I certainly am not "joyful always" (I Thess 5:16); I often ignore that twinge of guilt as I badmouth someone. . . and vow that I won't do it again, already knowing that I will; and praying is more of a chore than a joy. And even when I attempt to get back that passion I once had, I already know that any twist I encounter ahead will derail me.

I drew some inspiration from the passion and commitment I imagined last night's performers must have possessed to come this far. And I'm trying to pick myself up once again, and put myself back on course--with a little help from above.

Remembering. . .

Memory is a funny thing, isn't it? I have training all this week at work, and have been struggling to find ways to keep myself gainfully occupied during the longish lunchtimes, as I usually don't take more than a 10-minute break--and, while I have many little things to do, can't do them while I'm at work. So today, on my longer-than-usual lunch break, I decided to take a walk (yes, in all the snow and slush, I decided I needed a jaunt). As I sauntered (waded) along, I found myself passing the library and decided to go in.

I fished around on the shelves for some quick, mindless reading, and soon found myself browing through books by an author whom I had not read, but who I knew wrote novels that fell into that category. I picked up the first book and turned to the synopsis. And I realized the story was familiar. Not just in a remote, vague kind of way either. I clearly remembered reading the book about 15 years ago. I remembered the plot, the main characters, and as I skimmed through the summary, realized that a vivid picture was forming in my mind of the story's very dramatic and surprising ending--even though the synopsis didn't even hint at it.

It was very strange. When I was a teenager, I used to read voraciously, my taste switching frenziedly between suspense paperbacks and hardbound classics. By the time I got to the third book, I'd already forgotten many of the details in the first one. So it was bizarre that I remembered so much about one of the random novels I zipped through during one of my reading marathons. My explanation is this-- the book is very VERY loosely based on Biblical events and prophesies (some would say blasphemously so), so maybe the fact that it is connected to something that is so much a part of my life is what made me remember it?

The thing though, is that there are certain books, events, even dreams, that I. . .we. . . remember clearly, for no apparent reason, while we forget other, seemingly more important details. Why is it that our minds latch on to certain memories, while carelessly, even eagerly, releasing others?

Water off a duck's back? Not so much. . .

Sigh! It's crabbiness galore in Ini-land these days. Things that I'd normally brush off have me seething--a bad choppy haircut (I can pull off a ponytail for a month or two, can't I?), earphones that don't fit in my ear while working out (I've always known that my ears were a earphone-unfriendly shape--why does it bother me now?) a couple of messages that have gone unreturned (that's certainly not new), and just getting on the subway everyday. Teeny tiny things that would normally slip right off my back, that I'd usually not even notice--after all, this is someone who was walking around blissfully unaware of sporting two noticeably-uneven eyebrows for two months--have me up in arms. It might be time for a change of scene . . .

Journalism at its worst?

In my humble opinion, the coverage of the story about Lisa Nowak-- the NASA astronaut who was arrested for allegedly attempting to kidnap and kill a female air force captain who she perceived as a rival for the love of a male NASA astronaut--is journalism at its worst. I finally learned late yesterday how to change the channel of my TV at work (which was set to CNN by my predecessor) and endured no less than 25 separate repetitions of the story throughout the day.

I understand the lure of the words "love triangle" for most human beings, but the level of coverage this story has gotten is nothing short of overkill. One very unhappy, confused, disturbed woman attempted to do something which I'm sure she'll spend the rest of her life regretting. Or perhaps not. But as I watched the story being repeated every half hour on what is supposed to be a serious news channel, I kept shaking my head in disbelief. There are floods in Indonesia, wars in Africa, a House panel inquiry into misuse of Iraq reconstruction funds, and new talks with North Korea about its nuclear program. And the biggest story of the past two days was a female astronaut who flew off the handle.

It is a big story, I don't disagree. But the biggest? Surely not! Or am I missing something?

Where has all my free time gone?

So I've been wondering. . . where on earth has all my spare time gone? My very deadline-oriented new job means that, while the 9 to 6 hours are biz biz bizy, once it hits 6:00, or a little bit later as I wrap up the assignment in progress, I can leave. So what have I been doing with myself? I haven't gone to the gym, I haven't watched much TV, I haven't stayed much past six at work, I haven't hung out much with friends, and I certainly haven't been pursuing my beloved passtime of blog reading:(. But I feel like I'm running around like. . . well, like I did when I was in college. . . when I was YOUNG and had lots of energy! It looks like there's one thing after another that needed to be done YESTERDAY. And I'm chasing my tail trying to catch up with myself.

In a couple of months, chapter six will be over. And then, maybe at the beginning of chapter seven, there'll be time to spare?