Definition of the day - Annulus

'Twas a toroidal day
When the wind came to play
And surrounded the hay
In a tornado's way.

While standing, wary,
With my dictionary
I discovered that this
Is an annulus.

But I'd rather have a donut any day.

-->For my inspiration and the correct usage of the abused words, see below.

annulus (noun) A toroidal shape.

-->How enlightening! *Taps dictionary*

to·roi·dal [taw-roid-l, toh-, tawr-oi-dl, tohr-] (adjective) Geometry - of or pertaining to a torus.

-->No, not Taurus... sadly... that would be too easy.

to·roid (tôr'oid', tōr'-) n. [tor(us) + -oid.]
1. Mathematics

1. A surface generated by a closed curve rotating about, but not intersecting or containing, an axis in its own plane.
2. A solid having such a surface.

2. A body having the shape of a toroid.

-->Ooh, annulus also has to do with fairy rings and the ring-shaped remnants of mushroom tops! The things we learn when we pay attention to the "word of the day" generator.

A Holey Vessel

Two old potters set up shops side by side. Because the town was large and the tastes therein varied, they found little reason to battle over clients and cheerfully created and sold earthenware for the use of all. From time to time each would stop by the other's shop and discourse on the quality of clay, the state of their ovens and the temper of the townsfolk.

One day Mel, who claimed even the serviceable should have beauty, finished a masterpiece he'd been contemplating for some time. As he held it up for a final examination Del entered. Seeing Mel's pleased expression, he immediately requested that he be permitted to view this new piece.

Gently rolling the vase into Del's hand, Mel said only, "Be careful, my friend. I have not yet tested its strength."

At first, Del merely turned the vessel, feeling the structure of its shape before looking closely. "It is a vase?"

Mel nodded.

"Its shape is unusual. I can find no consistency of form, no finished texture or regularity. This can't be complete."

Mel simply sighed and began to clear the front window of his best work, placed attractively to lure customers.

Del held the vase up before him. "There are holes in the sides. This will not hold water, and as a result any flowers placed within will soon die! I do not see why you are so impressed with it."

Holding out his hand, Mel requested his vase. "Just wait. You shall see what I meant to do."

"You're placing it in the window! No one could appreciate such a misshapen object. You do the town no credit by offering this wreck to indulge its lowest expectations. No one of worth could value it."

Outside the window, a crowd began to gather.

"Come!" Mel smiled into the skeptical face of his friend. "Let us see what has been accomplished."

In the street, Del studied the vase again. Set alone in the sunlight, its deficiencies were even more apparent. The light seemed to illuminate them, causing the flaws to shine almost as though they were intended to show. What could Mel be thinking to damage his reputation so?

A child pressed close to the window. "Look at the light!"

Others murmered in appreciation. "It captures the sun! How did he do it?"

Del allowed the crowd to push him away, watching what must be the most unfounded veneration ever to cross his experience. To his potter's aesthetics, every aspect of the vase was abhorrent. How could these people not see the travesty? Mel could have his sycophants. Frowning, Del returned to his shop.

Mel grinned as the faces around him relaxed into peaceful and contemplative expressions. Looking at his work, he sighed. The irregular shape drew light in as intended, reflecting it through the special glaze he had concocted and carefully applied. Through the odd openings, one could see a blaze within, as if the Northern Lights had been captured for all to see.

"It is good," he whispered to himself. "While flowers may not bloom in this vase, it displays light. That, to me, is more beautiful and less transitory. I am content."

---

1Co 1:27-29 But God has chosen the foolish things of the world to confound the wise; and God has chosen the weak things of the world to confound the things which are mighty; and God has chosen the base things of the world, and things which are despised, and things which are not, in order to bring to nothing things that are; so that no flesh should glory in His presence.

The Gardener

This started out being a private rant to God about the way He manages things, but in the end He turned me to praise His grace. Seeing as how He used the process of this poem to comfort me, I hope it will, in turn, comfort you also.

I had a garden in a quiet wood
A little plot, all my own.
All around me, as I understood,
There were gardens
Where lush fruit had grown.
So when the Gardener came to me
And offered me a tiny seed
We planted it
And watered it
And hovered close beside.
As it grew I stumbled back,
Horrified...
Thorns!
They were large, welt-causing,
Sharp!
Stabbing out, unpausing.
And this is what the Gardener gave to me.

Sobbing, bleeding on the ground
I tried so to uproot it.
Yet tenacious roots sunk deep around
And I just couldn't do it.
And I asked the Gardener what to do
And he said,
"Just tend it as I tended you.
You had thorns!
They were sharp, unyielding.
You were vile!
And you hurt my feelings.
Everything about you was so bad!
But I cleansed you with
All the blood I had."
Then I saw the gaping wounds,
Recognized the gift he'd given
How he'd held me through his pain
And had sacrificed his living
To redeem
What he knew that he could grow.
And now I know
Why he has me tend
This seed that he sowed.
Now I bleed,
But my blood came from him.
He gave for me.
Now I give it for him.
How could I stint when my life pours from his own?
Perhaps another rose
Is growing now within this mass of thorns.

To Grandma

I came hoping to find you still here, holding up the structure of my life with your existance and your prayers, your value so subtly felt that at times I thought it less than I now find it to be.

Your eyes are so sweet. You know me and that comfort wraps me with warmth. I am glad you still smile; that, when you are able, your wit still makes us all laugh as we stand around your bedside and wish this wasn't so hard. Only knowing we will see you again, that Grandpa awaits you in eternity makes it possible to look at you with hope.

Every day amidst the phone calls and family chatter it becomes more apparent how special you are. I'm glad to be your grandchild and to have known you so long, even as I wish I'd given you more time. It's a priviledge to have the godly inheritance you offered first to Mother, then to me. Thank you for all those prayers.

Now we pray for you as you wait for your reward. I look at all of us gathered here and see the truths you value multiplied. We know you carefully stored your treasures in heaven, for even here we can see them piled high over there. I know God has used you to His glory, for I have glorified God because of you. May your testimony continue to draw others to Christ as it has done for so long.

I love you.

Karen

Debate-ture

My friend do not exacerbate
The tensions of a long debate
By self-uplifting utterance
Or near unfounded evidence.

Be firm. Be meek. And, like a fox,
With forethought place your speaking box.
Choose ground that's firm
And let them learn

That you know what you're talking about.
If you do, you will not need to shout.

'Twas the song of the soul

(A rambling and obvious allegory.)

Carl heard it first on the long, lonely night after his world fell in. A soft hint of music wafting on the wind--too soft to truly have notes--its thrum and rhythm brushed over him as he lay there wondering where it had come from and whether it would leave him alone, again.

Over the following weeks, the song seemed to follow him through his depression, catching him up and thrilling him with brief moments of hope despite his bleak circumstances. Gradually he found himself searching for the source.

Music hid behind every thought. Concerts, band practices, the lone musician on the corner--he stopped for them all. Often he'd drop everything to follow an advertisement or seek out a new venue and ask each musician about the mysterious song, until one day he finally found someone with an answer.

"If you're looking for the ethereal tune, you'll find it at the Music College." The musician swaggered to the edge of the stage and grinned. "I found it there, and I've been improving it ever since."

Carl's first glimpse of the college soothed him. It's soaring architecture announced confidence to the world. Here he would find the tune that had called him out of his life. Within, the low murmer of voices calmed him, especially when he realised people were comfortable breaking out in song at any moment.

After a brief consult with the leaders, Carl was given an instrument and a class schedule. "This is the place for you, " they intoned. "You will find what you seek. Spend time listening to the masters and the tune will grow strong within you."

Yet in his moments of quiet the tone remained as elusive as ever. It was far easier to drown it out with the incredible songs filling the air of the college. It seemed everyone sang a different tune, yet all were impressive. Many even harmonized with the tune at times though some were fast and loud, others slow and solemn.

Carl concluded this must be the best he would find, for if his tune could not be found in the greatest teaching or the most dedicated students, then there could be no hope of finding it. He proceeded onward, always seeking to play the tune whose tendrils wrapped him about with wistful hope. Eventually the teachers and fellow-musicians came to call him a master.

One day after a taxing solo, Carl was walking to his flat when he heard a small child clearly humming the mysterious song. Eagerly he questioned the boy, who sent him down the street to a tumble-down porch where an old man rocked slowly, watching the world go by.

"Where did you find that song, sir?" Carl examined the man, wondering how this relic of a bygone age could help.

"Ah, this is the song of the heavens." Leaning forward, the man gestured toward a rickety porch swing. "You have probably heard it spoken of with derision."

Carl glanced at the music pages lying open at the old man's side. "It's a child's tune?" His head dropped and he longed to sink through the floor. After all this time it was just a fool's search.

"Oh, no!" In a soft, quavering voice the man told of the universal song, the music holding the worlds together. "Even a child may sing it, but you have to recognize its value before you can carry the tune. Only by listening and following will you learn the song, but here's the music, son."

Bearing the crinkled pages gently in his hands, Carl thanked the old man and hurried on his way. Even as he clutched the pages closer, he listened to the song and recognized it for what it truly was. Opening his mouth, he sang along, slowly, softly, eagerly listening for each new note; and the chorus swelled around him carrying him along with the music of the ages.

Irony

While the fish longs for the sky and dreams of wind and air,
The bird looks down upon the sea and wishes to swim there.

Galumphing Thespian

A thespian went galumphing
Along a frosty road,
And encountered a snowman
With a startling orange nose.
Posing at the roadside,
This thespian surveyed
And offered mocking comments
Before going on his way.
Hence this galumphing thespian
Had nought to say, but this:
Galumph in tread but not in word,
For snowmen do not miss.

Today's Adventures of Prince Fuzz and Sporty

Sporty explored his cage, burrowing for his latest seed stash and thinking about where he could find a few more. A sudden rattle startled him for a moment, but it was a familiar sound and he had grown used to it since moving in with the loud children and their parents.

Prince Fuzz scurried by on his way to check out the sound. Sporty sniffed. Prince was such a suck-up, always climbing into hands and getting extra seeds.

Prince's claws pinged against the cage bars. "Hey, look! The door is open!"

Sporty looked around--not a human in sight. "This is our chance!"

Together they charged out the door...and fell.

"Oof!" Prince dusted his whiskers. "That was quite a drop!"

Sporty was already running, reveling in freedom. He charged across the floor to examine a massive pile of fabric. Ugh, human sweat! Not a good smelling place to start a stash, perhaps elsewhere.

Prince followed behind. "Where are we going to find food?"

"You? I don't know. Me? I'm gonna hunt and stash, and no following me, wimp." A large wooden structure loomed ahead. "Oho! I think I've found my new cave. Check out the cool obstacle course! It's perfect, noone will find me here."

Sporty wove between assorted truck parts and multiple cars to dive under the edge of the dresser. "Perfect!" he muttered. "It's even got cardboard in it for me to tear into a nest." He listened as Prince scurried away, then started to explore.

Prince Fuzz skittered across the rug, sniffing at the random toys. "Where will I find food? Why cant' I smell water?" Climbing over a wrinkled rug with strips of black and square blocks on a green background, he came to a wood barrier. He followed the edge and came around the corner to a dusty, hamster-sized hall, where he curled up to bemoan his fate.

A clatter woke Prince from his doze.

"Ok, get the cars up!" said the familiar voice of the female parent. "Girls, put away the toys in your room. I want the floor clean so we don't step on one by accident."

The clatter of toy cars crashing together filled the room.

"Do you have all the parts to this still?" The parent seemed distracted by cleaning.

Prince sighed, should he go out and find them so they could put him in his cage? But the clatter was rather loud. Perhaps he should wait for a less dangerous sounding time.

Sporty crouched at the back of his cave, watching his obstacle course of cars get pushed away like they were nothing. The grand rug protecting the entrance took a little more work, but Sporty's heart raced as his entire cave raised up to release the rug in one massive tug. Huge faces, the boy's and the youngest girl's, appeared at his grand entrance.

"I see a hamster!" The piercing shriek made him shudder. "Me too! He's under the dresser!"

Sporty crouched beneath his cardboard, hoping they wouldn't capture him again. A pile of seeds appeared just in front of his cave and his stomach suddenly rumbled. Food! He dashed out, knowing the big ones weren't as quick as him, but huge hands came down around him.

An opening! He rushed forward and made it through. Where to go? There were no longer as many object to hide behind. He ran through a brighter space, then saw it, a dark wall with many breaks in which to hide and hanging fabric to keep out the light, but the hand came down in front of him just at the last minute. Frantic, he dashed left, then right, but found himself wrapped in the massive hands.

"Open the cage!"

Sporty pressed his head into the opening by the thumbs and tried a rush down the arm. They couldn't take his freedom so easily!

"Whoops! He's fast! Hurry!"

Sporty found himself dumped back into the cage, where he burrowed into familiar cover to huddle, seething with resentment. A shower of seeds made him reconsider just a little as he filled his cheek pouches and hurried to his favorite stash.

After the chaos of Sporty's pursuit faded, Prince tucked his nose back into his tummy, wishing he'd brought a snack along on his great escape. A rush of air accompanied a sudden blinding light in Prince's hall. He looked up. The entire ceiling had vanished. Amazed, he stared up into the face of the woman. She reached down with both hands, appearing so large that he ran, just a little, at the suddenness of it. But at her touch, he stood still and let her lift him, knowing that seeds would soon come. When she set him into the great seed treasury to take what he would, he stuffed his cheeks till they bulged.

"Good," she said, lifting him. "Now into the cage and get a good rest."

Prince hurried past Sporty to stash his seeds. "Did they let you into the treasury too?" He mumbled around his mouthful.

Sporty just sniffed and curled up in his nest. "I got seeds."

And thus the great hamster escape ended and the peaceful existance of Sporty and Prince Fuzz continues on.

Today and Every Day

Am I content to grip so tightly to my joy?
Do I have enough to hold me through the future?
Am I ready, yet, to share?
Can I hoard what I have there?
Do not take it from me, oh Lord.

I am bound by my desires!
I am trapped by my own fire!
And I so want to be free, but I can't see the way.

Set me free! Let me loose from all my fear.
Set me free! Yet I'm afraid what I hold dear will be gone.
I'll be...

Alone!

Are You enough for me?
Can I trust You will be?
I hold on to what I have--I want to follow...
But I have so much to lose.
I grip tight to myself--
Yet I want to glorify Your name.

I can't let loose the things that bring me joy
And I'm afraid You think
I want them more than You.
Perhaps I do...

I am bound by my desires!
I am trapped by my own fire!
I so want to be free, and I can see the way.

Will I trust when I let go
That I'll have far more than I know?
Will I choose to let You manage my pain?
Will I choose to trust You wholly today?
Can You help me?

Find a way--let go of all
And find Your joy before I fall.
I must choose to trust Your Word and take Your hand.
You have promised a greater, brighter land.

Who knew! I didn't realize.
How could I see that all my treasures were like crumbs!
You set a banquet before me!
You encourage and restore me!
My greatest desire is to follow in Your way
And it's You who gives the strength for each new day!

All I lost and all I gained
Are mostly just the same
But that fear that clenched my heart is washed away.
I can trust that when I trust You each day
You take my fear and give me Your grace.

You are my strength and my shield.
All I have belongs to You.
You are my energy and map.
You're my direction and my source.
You, oh Lord, are the glory people see
When I release my way--focus on You.

I am freed from my desires!
I am no longer my own fire!
I am free, and I can show you the way.
Then you, too, can glorify Him every day.

Pondering

How amazing that God has not given up on me, though I confess to having given up on His plans from time to time. All the pain, the rough adventure of life, has done its work. I see now the invisible sediment blended into my soul. Brought up by the heat, it obscures the good that may be beneath it. And I thought I was so good.

I wait, now, to see what comes next. Surely, He will remove this mess...yet I fear the dross must be burnt away--selfishness, pride, lack of dedication. I do not yet see God clearly enough to fear Him wisely. It will come. He does not give up on His own.

I long for the pure service He desires from me even as I consciously walk other paths. How false, how unrepentant I seem, even to myself. Is it any wonder I frustrate those closest to me? It seems I am unable to redeem myself of these faults despite painful exterior motivation and my own inner desire to "do it right." I really don't know what will bring me to the point of change, considering the amount of pressure I've gone through already with seemingly little result.

Only One is capable of taking this weak willingness and creating active submission. If I knew how, I'd do it myself...but that might be against the whole point of the process.

How strange to have a God who simply does not allow anything to get in the way of growing my character. No matter how crushed or burnt I am, it seems that it is the worst of me that always gets damaged. I'm rather glad to lose those parts, though I wish the process were faster. There's a lot of myself to come to the end of, and each time I think the last strands have been ripped from my fingers, I find more self to cling to. God is very patient.

If ever I shine,
Or gleam and glitter,
The light that you see
Has a Source far greater
Than I.
I'm ripped from the soil
And ground from the rock
Purged by great burning
And, at great price, bought
By Him.
I'm forming, not formed,
But the imprint is there
Of a greater shape,
A character more fair,
Christ.

Today's Poem

The kids have had colds, so I missed the service today because their noses still run green. (Eww! I know.) But I went to Sunday school because I wanted my friends' gifts to get to them on time. S mentioned that there are many to whom Christmas isn't a blessing, but an agony, and suggested we pray for them. Hopefully this will make a good reminder.

Lord, You know the hearts that sorrow.
You capture every tear they cry.
You wrap them in Your arms
Shielding them from harm
And help them as they struggle to try.

Lord, You bring a bright tomorrow.
Please show them how to see the light.
Guide from alongside
Each moment they decide
Their path through the battles they fight.

A poem...

A friend introduced me to this poem after I complained of the effects of waiting. It conclusively encapsulates my feelings on the matter.

Emily Dickinson -LoveVI

If you were coming in the fall,
I ’d brush the summer by
With half a smile and half a spurn,
As housewives do a fly.

If I could see you in a year,
I ’d wind the months in balls,
And put them each in separate drawers,
Until their time befalls.

If only centuries delayed,
I ’d count them on my hand,
Subtracting till my fingers dropped
Into Van Diemen’s land.

If certain, when this life was out,
That yours and mine should be,
I ’d toss it yonder like a rind,
And taste eternity.

But now, all ignorant of the length
Of time’s uncertain wing,
It goads me, like the goblin bee,
That will not state its sting.

littoral

I have rarely been to the strand of the beach
caught between times where the waters reach,
collecting littoral shells, touched by gentle breeze
and bathed in the sound of the rushing seas.

Emolument

What would I do for emolument?

I would sing!
I would dance!
I would fly!

Oh, for the joy of emolument.
Would I work for it?
No, not I!

(This poem in no way expresses the true views of yours truly. In fact, this is in honor of the hen's friends. It seems appropriate, somehow.)

Glabrous

Ok, so this my new entertainment of the week... It's educational, so live with it. *grin*

Glabrous. I'd love an opportunity to use this word in speech! It's fun to say.

A poem.

Upon the gleaming pointed chin
There lay no downy hair
In fact, the very top of him
Was just as smooth and fair
Of glabrous
On his head, you see,
He is the epitome.

Archeology of my closet

Beneath the box of painting clothes
We very rarely wear
Under all the fallen kids clothes
I'd forgotten were back there
Behind the stacks of laundry
And below the shelf of junk
Lie untold treasures, maybe
A theory I might debunk
For as I dig yet further
In attempt to find the end
I'm finding very little
That I want to pack again

A strange week... in all.

*yawn* I've really got to write here more, but tonight I'm tired. I think I'll go to bed!

I dislike medicine. I can't stand taking pills! I've remembered all week... it's been forever. I have two more days of the strong medicine, then I'll just be on the other stuff. Only two a day sounds wonderful at this point. (Don't tell anyone I said that!)

Vile stuff of powdered white, compressed
Meant to aid, yet I'm not so impressed
Each swallowed down with grim determination
Though small, I view with trepidation
Those little tabs and long to be set free
From each dose, though aided well by tea
I grit my teeth and look for indications
Of side effects. Pills have their limitations

Ah, look! I had something to say after all! *grin*
And, goodnight!

Old Poetry (and a love of learning... um.. yeah, love)

Pulling out old highschool writings is a little like hunting for fossils. You can search around, turning over rocks and find many interesting things, but the treasured fossils are harder to find. Take, for instance, this little poem, written (I'm sure) out of the depths of my desire to learn new things.

Strange

Mine eyes they droop
This class a troop
Of numbers marching by.
Mine brains are dead
Algebra stands ahead
Learning how to fly!
I sit and think
What if I blink?
Will it all disappear?
I'm going to try
Or else I'll cry
Algebra isn't dear.
Mine heart does jump
With joy does thump
The bell is ringing! Hear?

Or this

Class

Oh what a bore
I start to snore
I dream about the world.
Oh, what? A test?
I'll do my best
My energy to this hurled.
Then, I'm bored again.

Oh, this is sooo funny! I was imaginative, anyway.

Math-Hound

Math is something strong and proud
It does make a lot of sound
I will shout it out so loud
Math to me is just a hound!
I'm the fox, a-hiding, running
Math is chasing everywhere
I am in my burrow shiv'ring
As the hound sniffs 'round out there
The teacher penetrates the safety
Of the hide-place in my mind
At the breakthrough I do chafe, the
Hound has brought the hunters by!

Or, just plain strangeness. Here's an acrostic. What was I thinking? I certainly didn't know a specific person that fit this, though I'm sure they're out there.

Super Strange

Strange? I never thought him that way
Until the day he stood on his head.
Perhaps he didn't mean it to say
Everything that meant something to him was funny.
Relax? He wouldn't, he was a clown.

Sadly, he never realised
That what he enjoyed wasn't all of life.
Rage was his only escape from
Acting what he thought was himself.
Never realizing someone loved him; that
God was reaching out...
Eternally dead now, he never found life.

Perhaps morbid is a better term for that one. Anyhow, there were some jewels amid the strange stuff I unearthed. I'm going to polish a few and see what happens.

Here's another of the not-treasured, but still interesting acrostics.

Flown

Flying high above the
Land is a bird.
Over and away it goes, it's silver
Wings glittering
Not looking down on the world whose gravity it scorns.

And with that, I'll leave this post alone. *laugh* One of these days I'll torment you all with a few more.