Enough with the emotional roller coasters.

I cried way too many times today.

I’m okay–spiritually I feel much better than I did last week!

“Put not your trust in Reattas and cars of men, in which there is no salvation.”

On Selling My Car

My Reatta has been my pride and joy for the entirety of the two years I’ve had it. Maybe that’s the problem.

I have enough pride. I don’t need any more. I’ll sell my the car, sell my pride, and keep the joy.

Nothing can take away from the joy I had with Frank.

It was my car, my freedom, my independence. Granted, I didn’t pay for most of the expenses involving it, but I had the illusion of self-reliance when I was behind the wheel. I’m not even a particularly good driver (thank you, ADD), but wandering down highway 20 going just a tad over, playing country music…it was delightful. I’m going to miss it.

Sitting way too close to the wheel in that grey leather driver’s seat, so comfortable it feels like a back massage, I still have to stretch a bit to reach the pedals. The radio crackling sometimes since Scott accidentally pulled out the antenna, but somehow rarely during my favorite songs and more often during NPR programs than on the country station. That bit of dirt that never comes out of the change container near the cigarette lighter. A beep whenever I go over 75, that overspeed alarm I set to make sure I don’t accidentally drift up and up til it’s past 90–the acceleration’s that good. Watching the mileage go up and up as I pay more attention to my driving habits. The grey snow, grey road, grey trees with grey ice crystals, grey sky: And yet it’s so bright my transition lenses darkened as if the sun shone. Smooth fields, glorious sun, trees both bare and covered in leaves. Few other cars on the road, on the good days at least. Just me and my Frank, usually with a set of directions I check obsessively. But roadtrips were something I could do on my own, an achievement I was always proud of. I once drove about 15 hours in one weekend! It was an accomplishment.

And as much as I do, it sometimes feels like I have very few accomplishments.

Kyrie Eleison

Lord have mercy. I have to sell my car.

I want to stay at Shimer College next semester, and we don’t have enough money for tuition for the next couple of months. So, my darling Reatta has to go.

It’s a black ‘89 Buick Reatta with grey leather interior and only 144,000 miles–those things can go forever, and it rides like a dream. There’s some cosmetic issues, like the scratch from a lousy tow job, but everything functions.

This car is a dream. It makes my boyfriend’s dad’s Mitsubishi Spyder seem lazy. The leather seats are so comfortable I’d rather sit in them than a La-Z-Boy recliner! It has an LCD touch screen that controls everything, and it even diagnoses itself if there’s ever a problem! The gas mileage’s pretty decent, averaging 24 mpg. And the acceleration…I’m going to miss this car, let’s just put it that way. It’s the smoothest ride ever.

And it kills me to say “it” all the time. I never do. I say “he,” because he’s my first car, my baby, and his name is Frank. My Reatta’s name is Frank, and I absolutely love him, and I don’t know how I’m going to be okay with this but I just have to be.

Shimer is home. Shimer is home. Please, Lord, let me stay. As much as it kills, let Frank sell. Shimer is home.

Bookstore Purchases

When I went to the church bookstore, I had precisely $30 in my wallet: one ten, and one twenty. 

50-knot chotki cost $15.

So of course I felt completely justified in buying something else. An icon, perhaps…? But all of those were at least $6, and usually more, so that wouldn’t do. I will not stiff the church, not even by a dollar. So I looked at books, and saw one I had to have…for $6.

Which meant I had to buy two books. Luckily, I saw this:

It’s Abbess Thaisia’s Letters to a Beginner, once given to all young women considering monasticism. I suppose it’s a funny purchase, considering I’m not likely to end up in a convent, but especially so because I also purchased a small book on how to choose the right helpmate for life. I’ve been thinking about my relationship lately, and my young man’s pretty darned special. But I knew I wanted both books as soon as I saw them. I’ve felt like a spiritual beginner lately, despite more or less growing up in the Church, and I hope regular doses of Abbess Thaisia will help.

The Dog Ate My Prayer Rope

…about a year ago. He also ate my mother’s. For a while I did have a second one from St. John Chrysostom’s in Kenosha, a pretty little 33-knot one with a green bead that fit just perfectly around my wrist, but that went AWOL pretty quickly.

So on Friday I finally bought myself a new one from the church bookstore. It’s so soft! It’s got thick wool knots with just the right amount of give, smooth wooden beads every ten knots, and a fluffy cross tassel at the end. I honestly think it’s perfect.

I remember picking out my very first chotki. I was six and a half, and it was right before we got baptized. I, of course, chose a 50-knot one with see-through pink beads. Mom’s had opaque purple beads (which means I probably picked it out, too) and was significantly longer. Well over a decade later, my prayer rope showed a little wear–but only a little. Mom’s knots were worn smooth and tight, and it was stretched from use. During confession, I noticed Father John’s chotki looked similarly well-used.

I felt different as I bought myself my first adult chotki. At first I was disappointed it isn’t terribly pretty. Now I’ve decided it’s a good thing. I was rather vain about the wristlet chotki–it looked like a bracelet with its deep sea-green bead–which rather defeats the point.

This is my new one:

And this…this is my new blog. I suppose the point of this blog is this: I’m working on wearing my wool knots smooth.

* * *

The story of the first chotki can be found here. 

Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.