It's going to be a LONG week.

Just a warning upfront, because it's not looking good, folks.

Not only do I have class during the day, but I've also got board reviews in the evening this week, so my posts will probably be few and far between (though I do intend to continue my story about the Black Market of Information. You'll just have to practice some patience in the meantime).

DO NOT BE FOOLED.

This temporary lack of posting is not a sign of weakness. I will not allow myself to fall into the pattern of so many of my blogging colleagues who begin with zeal and fervor but give up by the third week. Believe me, my obsession will not be squelched so easily. My resolve will not crumble with the first wave of real-life craziness. 

But...this week may demand every ounce of creativity I possess just to keep me sane. 

Pray for me, friends. I'm afraid that this week is a harbinger of doom for me this month. 

And while you're praying, pray for Haiti. Pray for the Middle East. Pray for Nigeria and Ghana and South Africa and The Sudan. Pray for those whose lives have been scarred by the disaster and violence of the past few weeks. And pray for those of our friends who are striving to bring restoration and shalom in these places of hurt and sorrow. 

May we all seek to do the same in the place we find ourselves, the place God has called us to be.

Dear Leapfrog Lady,

I drive between Grand Rapids, MI and Chicago at least once a month. Barring inclement weather, the trip usually takes no longer than three hours, and I like to cruise. That means I set the cruise control about 5mph over the posted speed limit and go. 

Leapfrog Lady, you manage to thwart this plan every stinking time. 

I recognize you immediately, you in your silver minivan, wearing that expression of absent hostility. As I am forced to pass you in the right lane (because you're doing a pitiful 65mph in the left), I get that familiar sinking feeling. It's gonna be a long ride. 

It's mere moments before I see you again, this time via my rear-view mirror. There you are, riding my bumper like it's your full-time job. Naturally, I move over to the right, allowing you to pass. Great. 

Of course, it is only a matter of time before my cruise-controlled speed brings us together again, for you have abandoned your previous pace and are now trolling along, once again, in front of me. 

Leapfrog Lady, I'm becoming annoyed. 

This time, I pass you on the left, maintaining my consistent speed like a good motorist. As I do so, I glance thru your window. I'll be darned if you're not smirking. 

I grip the steering wheel and clench my teeth, grinding them in frustration. Soon you're riding my bumper again, and this time I'm not feeling so nice. I'm in the right lane, for Pete's sake! Why are you 2 feet behind me? So, I tap my brakes, hoping that you'll get the hint. Instead, you cramp me more. 

I curse under my breath. (Sorry, Grandma, but it's true)

Stifling my intense fear of police officers, I put the pedal to the metal, hoping to lose you for good. Soon it appears that this strategy, though risky, is successful! I can feel the stress melting from my shoulders. I take a deep breath and relax, looking forward to smooth sailing ahead. 

And then, just when I've convinced myself that you're gone, I catch a glimpse of silver out of the corner of my eye. There you are, Leapfrog Lady, chillin' in my blind spot. 

The saga continues...

Just a clarification...

It was brought to my attention by one of my faithful readers (har-har) that my previous post may be misconstrued. 

The Black Market of Information is not about cheating. It's about competition.

Most of the material being passed around is irrelevant at best, due to the fact that it's been passed down from 1998. If useful, it was written by a previous student tutor or even made up by students in our class. There is nothing shady going on here, at least not that I've seen. I'm enough of a prude to report it to the administration if I ever found out anyone was actually cheating. 

The Black Market of Information simply prevents some people from obtaining this helpful information, so that only the most dedicated, chosen few achieve the highest grades. People around here are gluttons for knowledge, I might even say addicted to it, and hence, the Black Market of Information. 

More on that in my next post...

Venturing into the Academic Black Market

When I first started Chiropractic school, I was rather naïve. In my previous scholastic experience, if the professors expected us to know something, they would tell us so. If we were to look up information on our own, they would tell us this as well. The exams, quite logically, consisted of the aforementioned material; that which we had learned in class or researched per instruction. I assumed the same would be true in graduate school, but boy was I wrong. 

Turns out, there is an ENORMOUS Black Market for information at my school (and many others, as I'm now discovering). 

It began already in my first term. I was innocently studying for a midterm in the library when a classmate slouched up to my table. Politely, I removed my headphones and looked up with a smile, for I didn't know this particular fellow very well and wanted to appear friendly. My cheery expression faded into one of confusion as he glanced around, as sly, suspicious look on his face.

"Hey, do you know the answer to question #47?" the boy asked, leaning in to speak softly.

"What do you mean? What question #47?" I whispered, reflexively leaning away in response to the invasion of my personal space. I glanced at the papers in his hand, and he immediately shoved them into a folder. 

"Oh, never mind. It's not important." he said with a nervous chuckle, his voice now a little too loud. "Good luck studying!" I blinked, and he was gone. 

Later, I would learn that this fellow had already become a dealer in the Black Market of Information, and had mistaken me for a comrade. Not only did it explain his erratic, fidgeting behavior, but also the compulsion I'd felt to take a shower right after our interaction. This guy was in deep. Living the life. Wheelin' and dealin' his stacks of old test questions and photocopied review sheets, not to mention Bill's Notes (Oh, Bill, where would we be without you?!?). For all I knew, he was selling body parts from the cadaver lab, on the side. 

As I grew more experienced (read: jaded) in the ways of Chiropractic school, I learned to take advantage of this Black Market. Of course, I was never the firsthand recipient of said wares, but every once in awhile a few previously-used test questions would float into my hands, or my inbox, compliments of someone a bit closer to one of the dealers. To maintain some shred of honor, I still studied all of my notes prior to an exam, glancing over the "practice problems" as a self-test of my knowledge. 

It wasn't until recently that I myself delved into the Black Market of Information...

(to be continued)

The Gypsy Life

I've moved four times in the past sixteen months (which is not even a year and a half, for those of you who are arithmetically-challenged like me), and am staring down the barrel at another move in April. That's a lot. My material belongings are currently strewn about the Chicagoland area, or stored away in Grand Rapids, MI. My temporary domain: a spare bedroom (in the home of a wonderful, generous, amazing family) whose previous occupant was a 20-year old boy. 

For a moment, just imagine the decor. I'll give you a hint: the ceiling is painted with clouds, and small glow-in-the-dark stars are affixed to the dark spots with poster putty. With my glasses off, laying on my back in bed, I can almost imagine I'm camping out in the Canadian Rockies. Awesome. 

Every place I've lived has been a little bit different, and each of them had their perks. To be perfectly honest, when the time came, I was happy to leave each residence. And when I reached my new dwelling and got settled, I was quite happy there.

That said, I must emphatically declare that I HATE MOVING.

Yeah, there is the hassle of packing and unpacking, of cleaning and re-cleaning, of loading and unloading. But on a deeper level, moving really gets to me.

Pondering the etiology of my distaste for moving has been a continuation of the saga I like to call; "The Kate Project: a process of self-discovery." Thru the circumstance of interest, a.k.a. my constant state of dwelling-flux, I have learned that I'm a bit of a homebody. I like my space. I need to be able to identify my place in the world, not only in the theoretical sense, but in the empirical sense. I LOVE HOME.

There are endless psychological, spiritual and theological implications in this realization, but what comes immediately to my mind is a oft-quoted verse from John 14:1-2:

"Do not let your hearts be troubled. Trust in God; trust also in me. In my Father's house are many rooms...I am going there to prepare a place for you."

What comfort those words hold. And even if, for a time, I lead this "Gypsy Life," I can rest assured that there is One who waits to bring me home. Home to a place that doesn't leak in the spring, or freeze in the winter. A place where my roommate never yells at me for leaving dishes in the sink. A place where I will never get kicked out. :)

A place like that might just be worth the move. 

Why, you ask? Why?

I feel that I owe an explanation:

This blog is an experiment of sorts. 

I will be the first to admit that there is nothing all that special about my life. I am not on an epic journey in a foreign country, or skilled in something exotic (like sword-swallowing or bird-calling). I have nothing to advertise, no awesome cause to support, no cute crafts to sell.

BUT, I do have my fair share of awkward moments, and some pretty crazy stuff happens to me…that’s got to be worth something, right? Not to mention, sometimes I have thoughts. Real, unadulterated thoughts.

Thus, I decided to start blogging about these things and see what happens. Maybe someone else will find inspiration, joy, or at the very least hilarity in the musings of an ordinary person like me