Sundays in Malibu

Weekends are WONderful things. God wasn't kidding around when he established the Sabbath. I've learned my lesson about that the hard way, and let me tell you: take a day off. You need it.

It is becoming a weekly tradition for me lately to spend my Sundays in Malibu, my old stomping grounds. My home church, Malibu Pres, is there, and a handful of my old friends and Pepperdine acquaintances still attend. The worship is great, and the teaching gets me thinking. Plus I get to spend the rest of the day enjoying Malibu without the former pressures of student-responsibility (i.e. Mass Comm Law reading). My friend Amanda has joined me in reading (for pleasure!) at the beach or in a coffee shop and then taking a hike through Solstice Canyon. This trail follows a creek up to the remains of an old house from the 50's that burned down some thirty years ago. It feels like something out of Swiss Family Robinson... Huge palm trees, the stone foundation and fireplace, a shrine to the Virgin Mary all speak of some life that was there before.

Anyway, the rest of the trail winds in a loop up through the hills, opening up a magnificent view of the bluffs sloping down to the ocean. Each time it reminds me of an Eyvind Earle painting, though I admit, Earle's work is often prettier than the thirsty landscape we have right now. If you haven't heard of this amazing artist, check him out here and here. He did the illustrations for the old Disney Sleeping Beauty, and did a lot of paintings of the West Coast Big Sur area. Gorgeous.

I doubt every Sunday will be like this, but it sure is a blessing when one is. :-)

The girls.

The last post was a little heavy, so on a lighter note, allow me to introduce you to my lovely, crazy apartmentmates. From left: me, Claire, Lindsay, Alysha, and Jenn.

We attempted a ladies' night out a while back, got all decked out and headed to a jazz club, but we were one ID short of admission and ended up (after a few other attempts) splitting nachos and margaritas at a Mexican restaurant in Venice. It was festive. But we will try again...

Cha cha cha.

Clearing up the smog

It rained Friday night in Los Angeles. A pretty fierce downfall, actually, and the first precipation in months, as far as I can recall. It seemed an appropriate way to end my week, indeed, perhaps a series of months. Rain. Renewal. Cleansing. Peace.

See, it was a challenging week on a number of levels, stemming from the news that my grandpa passed away back in Nebraska. Even now I think I remain on hyper-drive, not really taking the time to let emotions play out. There's a quote in the book I'm reading (A Prayer for Owen Meany by John Irving): “Rituals are comforting; rituals combat loneliness.” It’s a true little phrase, and I think one could easily substitute the word busyness for rituals. As long as I keep myself busy, I don't have to face the music, but there is a danger in that, and so I thank my thoughtful friends and coworkers who have been listening ears and extended such kindness.

Those who know me can testify that I don't naturally open up about my deeper struggles; this is something I've been working on, and this week has reminded me of the importance of dependence on friends. Internalizing, compartmentalizing--it only lasts so long.

My mind is still quite overflowing with thoughts and topics, far too much to spill onto this blog, so I will save them for future posts. In the meantime, here are hints of posts to come: M.I.A.'s latest album Kala, the new musical Across the Universe, and perhaps a few words on human struggle and my impressions of God's enduring love. Eclectic? Yes. Unexpected? I hope not.

For now, let me close in dedication to my grandpa.

My grandpa's name was John Hatcher Frey. Ever since I can remember, he called me "Whitney-John." I'm not sure why I got this honor (or teasing), since there were nine other grandkids, one of whom's middle name really was "John," but I think, and Mom you can correct me if I'm wrong, that it was because I was quite like him as a kid: stubborn, aggressive, rowdy. And I guess because I accepted the nickname with pride.

I loved my grandpa and I've stored away many memories of his booming voice, his crushing grip when he hugged me, his crisp white shirts, the new-car smell of his vehicles, the cleanliness and organization of his tools and workshed...I remember the way he noisily cleared his throat--there was no mistaking where he was in the house-- and the way his mere presence reminded you to sit up straight and keep your hair out of your eyes. He was a strict one, and mischievous. It's been heartbreaking these past few years so see changes as he approached his final, 87th year...weaker, frail. Grandpa and Grandma moved off the acreage where we'd spent so many holidays waking up to the smells of coffee and bacon, spent the days wandering the go-kart trails and picking apples for apple pie, and running through the house playing "cops and robbers" with the cousins...He'd built up a beautiful place, and a large, wonderful family.

(Here...I am finally having my moment...)

And even though as we kids grew up, we realized (as happens with all kids and their view of adults), that Grandpa wasn't perfect, I still loved him. I love him. And I wish I could have said good-bye. I hope someday I'll be able to ask him so many questions. And I'm so thankful for having him as my grandpa, the only grandpa I ever knew. And now, as I finally have my cry and type this with reckless abandon, unedited and grammatically crazy (still think I should go to law school, Grandpa??), I offer it as a severely inadequate tribute to a man who defies the limitations of a blog.

Here's to you, Grandpa. I miss you.

Love,

Whitney-John

Tears clear my head the way the rain clears the smog from the city...come, Autumn, come, New Season.

LED ZEPPELIN-ROCK AND ROLL

Through the Misty Mountains

I feel compelled to mention the recent news that the legendary band Led Zeppelin is reuniting for a concert this fall. I won’t pretend to be a Led fanatic or expert, especially since my existence wasn’t even a thought at the height of their glory, but their music has become iconic to me as the essence of freedom and adventure. Props here to my sister Hilary, who has always been a step ahead of me with musical discoveries. Back in the days of early DC Talk and Audio Adrenaline, I would pound on her bedroom door to tell her to turn down that rock and roll crap so I could better enjoy the soothing voices of Point of Grace and Crystal Lewis. Not long after I was joining her in packed churches head-banging and dancing to the Supertones and other “hard” Christian music. Later Hilary would lead me to a variety of musical gems, like Damien Rice, Moby, Fatboy Slim, Belle & Sebastian, and a bazillion other quite diverse artists whom I might never have discovered without her (or just much later).

Anyway, Led Zeppelin. Their reunion coincides with the release of a greatest hits album (thought they’d already done that…), which will probably rock fairly hard. As I said, they are, to me, the essence of freedom and adventure. Why? Perfect road trip music through the great outdoors. The moment I hear the opening to “Black Dog”, I’m transported to the passenger seat of my sister’s ’91 silver-bullet Saab, winding through Poudre Canyon to camp in the Rocky Mountains. Windows rolled down. Feet bare. No make-up, no work, no cares-- just the sweet, crisp Colorado air and Robert Plant belting “been a long time since I rock and rolled!”…

Hilary, I miss you, and I want to go camping.

The test begins...now.

"It's a dangerous business, Frodo, going out of your door," he used to say. "You step into the Road, and if you don't keep your feet, there is no knowing where you might be swept off to."

J.R.R. Tolkien

Hello, world. I've started a blog.