By many accounts, people of Haiti have cried out to Jesus, even praising God for blessings in this tragedy. Blessings like still being alive.
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This is a cute freaking dog. And I don’t even like animals.

Kona was only a few months old when this picture was taken after her first bath at our house. She’s 7 months old now, and cute in a different way. The way that makes me shower her with praise and high-pitched puppy talk when she plops down on her doggy bed and plays with a toy. When she’s not scratching at the floor to get a ball under the couch, or jumping up in a fit of unbridled energy to play, or barking at me in her jabber — vehemently chastising me for trying to sit down and relax. That’s when she’s cute.

I wore my lumber jack shirt twice in one week, to work. It’s red, flannel, plaid, comfy and surprisingly stylish with pearl snaps. I can wear this to work, because this is how they decorate the office: Animal carcasses line the walls like floorboards would at a normal place.

My attire has changed considerably since I started working, and I’m looking forward to what lies ahead. At my first job out of college, I coveted my coworker’s snappy pantsuits. They were clearly expensive, not a mere attempt at professionalism. Pinstripes, polished shoes … so this is what it’s like to be an adult.

Then at my next job, I spoke in traditional churches in the Bible belt often. My pantsuit wouldn’t quite cut it — as I learned. Not only did I need to be dressed up, but it was preferred that women wore skirts or dresses. I bought my “Republican suit” at Brooks Brothers and wore it proudly to Laura Bush’s church. At least, I told my parents that was her church when she wasn’t in D.C., but I never saw her there. The suit is very Sarah Palin, but I didn’t know it then (circa 2007).

And here we are today, where I wear jeans nearly every day. And I look dressed up compared to the bighorn sheep and birds, with signs that say, “Please do not touch.” No need to worry. … I usually avoid dead, stuffed animals, not touch them.

My last day of work here is Friday. Soon I will be working from home as a freelance writer. Hello, sweat pants and slippers! Goodbye, taxidermy.

Shhh! Don’t tell me. I haven’t seen the finale of The Biggest Loser yet. Week after week, I enjoy the workouts (last chance workout!), cringe at the product placements, fast forward through the yapping and weigh-in suspense, and tear up during the heartfelt stories and pounds shed. With 13.4 million viewers, this show has struck a chord.

That chord sounds to me like a lot of hurting people whom the church has failed.
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Well, the weather outside is … freaking freezing. There was a solid layer of ice on all surfaces. Even though the roads are plowed, I don’t trust the streets. Yesterday there were two cars who had spun out and were facing the wrong way on the highway.
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It would have been a nice day for a run, if I hadn’t had a dog attached to me.
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In my head

Thank God I wore spandex and not cotton, so my sweat won’t be as visible. That’s what I get for doing a spin class before yoga — a whole lotta sweat. Nothing worse than someone behind me staring at a sweaty rump. I’m not down dog with that.

Thank God for working out. And endorphins. And water. And stretching.

And my yoga mat has dog hair on it. How embarrassing. Time to size up the rest of the class. I definitely fit in better than the girl with soccer shorts and her socks still on. But the yogi in bamboo pants next to her can probably tell I’m an imposter. Can probably smell my non-organic, full-dairy latte out of the disposable cup from earlier.

Is that a big Buddha at the front of the room? And we’re all facing it? What are those beads for? And the incense?

Ahh, yoga. So relaxing. I’m so hip and cultured right now. My quads are tight. My butt is feeling the burn. I hope my arms don’t tremble uncontrollably and reveal how weak I am. Time to engage my core.

Did she say third eye? Heart center? What the hell is a lower chakra?

Her voice is so soothing. She wants me to invite air in and welcome new breaths. What a fluffy way to tell us to breathe.
Connect with the divine? Feel an inner calm and know that my true nature is loving and good? Experience union with the universe? Blah, blah, blah. Just release us from the plank pose before my arms melt.

Jesus is what connects us with the Divine. Not yoga. I’m a sinner, and without Jesus there’s nothing good in me. God created the universe, but the universe isn’t God.

I can go to yoga classes and not believe what the instructor says. My practice can just be physical and not spiritual. It’s good to experience other people’s beliefs and learn about their faith.

Yoga means “union” and was created to unite people with their divine consciousness, their transcendent selves. That’s not rooted in Truth. I can’t separate the foundation of yoga from the physical practice. I can’t make yoga mean something different to me — it’s not all relative.

What kind of Christian would I be if I warded off yoga because I didn’t agree with parts of it? A close-minded, judgmental one. Plus, I already paid for six weeks of classes. I can decide to not do yoga after that.

What’s next? A little Buddha for our house? Meditation instead of prayer to connect with the universe instead of God? It’s a slippery slope.

My faith in and relationship with Christ should be strong enough to stand against conflicting beliefs. If a little yoga affects my Christianity, that’s a problem with my faith, not yoga.

Why would I invite something into my life that conflicts with what the Spirit is telling me?

Shut up. This is dead pose. Time to wipe all thoughts from my mind. Then a namaste, a bow, and time to go.

Dead pose. Interesting. You do realize you’re bowing to an idol? Buddha. Literally.

My car battery died more than a month ago. We replaced it, but whenever that happens in my car, the radio/CD player doesn’t work. Something about protecting me from car theft. However, I don’t have the time or mental stamina to fix it. That would require finding a number for a dealership that’s not already in my phone, entering those numbers one by one to make the call, explaining my problem and following directions to fix it.

So, my car rides are silent. It’s a meaningful time of reflection, prayer and meditation. It’s become routine; I now depend on that time. For example, every day when I hop in the car at lunchtime to go home, this is what plays in my head, without fail:

[youtube]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s8MDNFaGfT4[/youtube]

Not my brightest day, the other day. I baked a chocolate bundt cake to take to dinner with friends. To cool it, I put the bundt pan upside down over a wine bottle. And the cake plopped out, crumbling on the stove in millions of little pieces. This is not the first time I’ve done this. And I even described the cake as “plopping” when I documented it last time, four and a half years ago.

Then I took Kona for a walk in the snow. I let her off the leash in the park, threw a tennis ball for her to fetch, and the ball disappeared into the 12 inches of snow. Oopsies. She doesn’t do well knowing objects could be in her mouth but aren’t in her mouth.

She does love the snow, though.
[youtube]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9nau7-fEc8Q[/youtube]

We’re back from Spain! I loved the music on the streets. To avoid looking like a total tourist or having to pay every street musician, I sneakily and inconspicuously got shots on my little camera. So excuse the quality, but enjoy the entertainment (the band in Granada was my favorite, and I regret not buying their CD for 10 Euros!)
[youtube]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Jq2bbZYonxY[/youtube]