After much thought and contemplation and reflection and introspection and all those things, I have decided to shut down my blog. Or not really shut it down, but stop updating. Everything will still be here. For a little while, at least, anyway. The being here, that is. The non-updating is for much longer than a little while. Meaning, most likely forever. Though one never really knows, so I won't say for sure.

God, I wanted this to be more eloquent. But I can't wait any longer for the eloquent words to come. I'm not sure they will ever come.

I have lots of reasons, but kind of the main reason is that I don't feel I can even fully outline the reasons here. This blog has become something I never intended it to be, and it's really no one's fault but my own. I am suffocating here. My hands are tied behind my back. I don't even feel like I can freaking CUSS here, and, well, I cuss a lot. I like to cuss. Those words are an important, often humorous part of our language. And I'm tired of not cussing in the space my voice should be the purest.

Mostly, I'm tired of trying to be someone other than me. I'm learning to fix that in real life, and it has therefore become unsustainable here. Which is a good thing.

As part of my new year's resolution, I will still be writing. Hopefully I'll even be writing about what's actually going on in my life. It's just not going to happen here.

If you want, you can e-mail me, and I can tell you some of the reasons. Or you can e-mail me and tell me something about you, and we can parlay our blog friendship into an e-mail friendship. I like e-mails. I still feel like myself there. And I like you. Even if I don't know you yet. I generally like everyone. Or, if you live in the area, you can e-mail me and we can parlay our blog friendship into a real-life friendship. Those are the best.

So. I guess that's it.

Much love to you all. I will miss you. Very much.

And thanks for reading.

S.

When I get back, I hope to find the courage that I'm always looking for to write about what is actually going on in my life. Maybe 2009 is the year. In fact, I decided just now that it is my new year's resolution. I'm going to make 2009 the year.

I wish every one of my readers a happy Christmahanukwanzaakah. Many blessings for the end of 2008 and the beginning of 2009.

(My desk was decorated for my birthday in this picture, by the way--it doesn't always look like this.)

It is a west-facing window on the 29th floor of a 36-floor building in downtown Dallas. Just before I started my job, my boss convinced the big boss that natural light is absolutely essential for copyeditors to do their job properly, and he took immediate action to move the copyeditors to the one wall of windows in our office. And it really is true--I do need my window to do my job properly. But mostly because if it were taken away from me, my job satisfaction would plummet.

In the summer, the light coming in through the window in the afternoons bakes my feet.

In the winter, I watch the sunset every clear night. Sometimes it is outrageously beautiful. On those evenings I take a picture of it with my MacBook. It always surprises me how quickly the sun disappears under the horizon. There's just a slice of it, still illuminating the world, and then, not two seconds later, there's nothing. Just darkness, and the light of a thousand buildings, cars, and houses.

But today all I see is fog. And it's creeping me out a little.

Chad and I are trying something new in which we share with each other something we found beauty in each day. Yesterday, I told him that I found beauty in watching the fog wisp around outside my window and build up to such an extent that the light coming through my window reminded me of the bright light that occurs the morning after a snowstorm.

But it's been several days since I've seen the sun now, and I'm ready for it to come back. And when it does, it, too, will be a beautiful thing.

You should stop in and say hello.

Then I watch the videos, wince as I hear how terribly flat I am, and say to the dog, "I really wish I could sing." Or play the guitar, for that matter.

It may be the height of narcissism.

I sound as though I'm laboring over every note. And even if I sang the song flawlessly right before pressing "play" (which, honestly, is not likely), that camera staring at me with all the eyes of the people who may potentially view the video makes my voice shake.

I've had stage fright ever since I was very little. For some reason, however, I was always doing solos at my not-so-small Baptist church growing up. Christmas pageants, Summer Week of Choir performances, Children's Choir extravaganzas. My mother encouraged it, and all the congratulations I received after it was over usually made the experience worthwhile. Which is to say that my little girl ego swelled to its current unjust proportions regarding any sort of singing ability I (don't) have.

The most recent performance was for a Vespers service. I was probably fourteen or so, and I wanted to sing the first verse of "All Is Well" because I adored the song so much. However, I spilled Communion grape juice all over my dress just before I was to sing (damn those tiny, plastic individual-serving-of-Christ's-blood evangelical church cups). I had been sitting in the front row prepared to take the stage at my cue, but, in retrospect, a better preparation would've been to NOT TAKE COMMUNION. I suppose that sort of thing couldn't've been predicted, though. I ran to the bathroom and tried to clean myself up as best I could, then I got to the stage just as the song was starting, and, out of breath and completely mortified, I struggled through.

I haven't performed publicly since.

But the drive is still somewhere inside of me. My shaking voice isn't so charming anymore now that I'm a grown-up and all, and my vocal chords feel underdeveloped. I can carry a tune (barely) but not much else. But I love music, and even if I never sing for anyone ever again, I will keep singing for myself. And I'll keep making those videos in the meantime in the vain hope that my voice manages to magically iron itself out.

I was letting him outside before going to bed. Since it was so freaking cold, I opted to stand in the doorway while Rufus ran down the back stairs and to the yard to do his business. When I do this, I usually watch the slice of pavement that leads to the driveway to make sure that he doesn't decide to go running away, but last night I guess my mind was otherwise occupied. And rarely does Rufus not stay in the yard. Lately, since the temperature has dropped, he runs out, does his thing, and runs back as soon as he can. He gets rather cold, being such a skinny shorthaired doggie. Oftentimes in the morning I'll sit with him on the couch, his shivering body pressed against me, both of us under a warm red blanket.

But after about five minutes I got fed up with how long he was taking and decided to go get him. I went inside to put some shoes and a coat on and creaked down the stairs to tell Ru to get his ass back inside. When I got to the yard, however, he wasn't there. It was completely silent. I ran back inside to get the big flashlight, and shined it in all the corners of the yard, down the driveway, and down the street in front of our house. When I didn't see him is when I really began to get scared. I started out calling, "Rufus, Rufus," and my volume increased as the situation grew more dire. By the time I ran back inside to wake Chad, I was frantically yelling "RUFUS RUFUS RUFUS RUFUS," which, I'm pretty sure, woke up the entire street.

Chad had gone to bed earlier with a migraine. I threw open the bedroom door and yelled something about how I lost Rufus. Chad jumped out of bed not fully understanding me and asked what was going on. All I could say was "He doesn't have his collar! His collar isn't on!" Though I'm sure if you ask Chad, he'll tell you that what actually came out was something more like "Rufus Lost Collar Can't Find Argh Smash." I picked up my car keys, gave Chad the big flashlight, and ran out of the house. Once I got in my car, I rolled down the windows, switched on my headlights, and began looking for a noiseless dog who happens to be the exact color of night.

My first thought was to drive the route Rufus and I take to the dog park down the street. Rufus actually has a fairly impressive sense of direction and has more than once notified my distracted ass when it was time to turn. I circled the block yelling "RUFUS, RUFUS" out of my driver's side window. One street away, a dark dog came trotting toward me. I stopped the car in the middle of the street and got out, but it was a black dog with white markings. "You're not my dog," I actually said aloud to this animal, and got back in the car, still yelling "RUFUS RUFUS RUFUS." I thought about how I wouldn't sleep until I found him, even if it took days. I thought he might've gotten hit by a car, which is one of my biggest fears. I began making plans for how I would cope with the loss of Rufus. I thought about how my life is becoming a bit too much like a bad country song. I thought about how I don't know how on earth I'll get through the next few months without that stupid dog.

I knew he couldn't've gotten more than a street away, since he's not really much of a runner, though God knows that dog will follow his nose anywhere. He is also adept at selective hearing, a talent, I'm sure, he learned from his father. I circled back to our street and helplessly parked the car in front of our house at a strange angle that probably doesn't really count as parking, hoping to see Chad sitting on the front stoop with Rufus. But neither was there. So I simply got out of the car and stood in front of the house. I'd stopped yelling.

And just then, Rufus came running down the sidewalk, directly towards me. He stood close to me and shivered while I hugged him like crazy, holding on to his neck. After a minute or so, Chad walked towards us from the opposite direction, flashlight in hand, and all I could do was look up at him and say, "I found him."

But, really, it would've been much closer to the truth to say that Rufus found me.

This morning Chad posted a picture on Facebook of the whole ordeal.

And I gotta say, the resemblance is striking (except, of course, I was looking for a dog to love, not to make a coat out of).

I looked up at him, smiled broadly, and said, "Thank you." He smiled back and walked away.

And I'm not writing this to brag or because it's true, since for all I know this fellow says the same thing to every woman he sees, but because those five seconds made me smile more broadly than I've smiled in a long time. Months, probably. And even if I know I shouldn't procure such happiness from a statement about my physical appearance, I don't care, because, damn, it made me happy. And I really, really needed to be happy.

Yesterday a bunch of us had our yearly screening of Love Actually, and a big theme of the movie seems to be that Christmas is the time for telling the truth. But not the painful, I-hate-you truth. The innocent, God-honest truth that has the capability to make someone exquisitely happy and that one may normally withhold because of shyness or expectations or, I don't know, social boundaries.

But I encourage everyone this holiday season to tell the truth. You don't know how desperately the person you're telling it to needs it.

Maybe this Christmas will mean something more
Maybe this year
Love will appear
Deeper than ever before
And maybe forgiveness will ask us to call
Someone we've loved
Someone we've lost
For reasons we can't quite recall
Maybe this Christmas
--Ron Sexsmith

I realized that my preoccupation with my future husband at the age of 13 was less about wanting a fairy tale or to get married and was more about simply wanting to know the future. My future.

A large part of that was curiosity about what my new last name would be. My sister always used to tell me that I'd marry a man with the last name Flowers. I dated a guy once with the last name Green. Both of those would've been clever. But I ended up Spring Weaver, and I quite like it. Especially since it means I get to hear people sing me "Dream Weaver" the rest of my life. A remarkable number of people I know seem to have perfect pitch.

Now that the present is the future and I've got nearly double the amount of years on 13-year-old Spring, I see that it's not quite what I imagined.

But I don't think either of us, 13-year-old Spring or 25-year-old Spring, is really too disappointed. Because, good or bad, I know that I am truly living.

Way to prove that prayer doesn't do a damn thing.

Love,
Spring

---

Dear Gap:

I don't understand why you feel the need to stitch tags on to your scarves in a way that makes them impossible to remove without completely destroying the scarf.

Love,
Spring

---

Dear Dallas:

You are not supposed to get this cold. That was the deal when I decided to move here three and a half years ago.

Love,
Spring

---

Dear Adulthood:

I hate you.

Love,
Spring

---

Dear God:

In need of some help here.

Love,
Spring

---

Dear Economy:

Please turn around before I, too, get laid off.

Love,
Spring

---

Dear All Companies:

Advertising is especially important in a down economy. Consider TracyLocke. We are awesome.

Love,
Spring

---

Dear Rufus,

Thank you for all the cuddles. Don't you think it's time to get over the separation anxiety, though?

Love,
Spring

---

Dear Body,

We are running low on serotonin. Send reinforcements.

Love,
Spring

---

Dear God:

Seriously. Help.

Love,
Spring

Just trying to figure out what to do next. A blog hiatus might be in order, but hopefully not. I don't know yet. Posting may be spotty in the meantime.

One day very soon I will explain. A lot of things will make sense one day very soon. Or, in the very least, you'll understand why they don't make any sense.

He asked me if I was having an allergic reaction, or if I was finally going crazy. We decided it was definitely the latter.

A few hours later, when walking to lunch, I realized that my throat hurt. I felt my neck. And that's when I finally got it. MY TONSILS ARE THE SIZE OF HOCKEY PUCKS. It wasn't my tongue getting in the way of my throat, it was my throat getting in the way of my tongue. Specifically, I haven't forgotten how to swallow, I've just lost the ability.

I suppose swelling this big is often accompanied by searing throat pain, but the really weird thing is that the pain is just an afterthought. I blame the acid reflux. A sore throat is no longer cause for any sort of concern. Outrageously engorged tonsils, on the other hand.

God, I hope it's not mono.

Anyway. I'm off to the doctor. My ears are hurting now too, and I'm feeling slightly feverish. Happy Thanksgiving to me.

Then, at the last minute, I found a box of purple Pilot G2 pens in my desk.

Pilot G2 pens are the only pens I will write with, a holdover from my college notetaking days, and purple is the copyediting color that we use for ads in order to distinguish our marks from, say, the project manager's marks. However, they are $25/dozen, and we're at the point financially where we're having to defend before an actual board every single work-related purchase we want to make. My boss had to fight hard to get some white-out pens a few weeks ago. This week I was on my last sacred purple Pilot G2 pen, thinking I'd have to settle for (the horror!) plain ol' BIC rollerballs. I was trying (and failing) to come to terms with it. My right hand was cramping at just the thought of it.

But then I found a whole box, right here in my middle desk drawer. I don't even know where they came from. Maybe they were there all along. Maybe one of the bosses felt bad that we're at the point where we're having to go without our preferred pens and sneaked it in. Whatever the case, a whole box was suddenly there, and I don't recall it being there before, and no one could explain why it was there. So that's what I am thankful for. That I found a whole box of purple Pilot G2 pens in my desk.

I called it a Thanksgiving miracle. Because, to me, it is.

And if a box of purple Pilot G2 pens can turn up in my desk unexplained, who knows what else is possible.

"Please, God, don't let me throw up."

The really weird thing is that it always works.

Either that, or those Pepto-Bismol chews.

I always wanted to protest. Especially after seeing Across the Universe last year. My generation, for whatever reason, really sucks at getting things done, which is largely why this crappy, mismanaged, unfounded war has gone on for so long. No one seems to care. No one seems to want to educate themselves. And, most of all, no one seems to care that the media has made it so difficult for us to educate ourselves. And that is disgraceful to me.

However, contrary to the rest of my generation, I, for one, am getting better and better at righteous indignation as I get older, and I've been looking for an opportunity to use it somewhere. I was able to practice on the election a bit, throughout the various shenanigans of Clinton(s) and McCain, but then my side won. Ironically, an issue that is dear to my heart, gay rights (which is a child of my largest pet issue, the separation of church and state), had a simultaneous big loss on November 4th, with the passing of Proposition (H)8.

Thus, a protest was born.

And, finally, I was able to make "protests" a tag on my blog, which is how I mark my milestones these days. One thing that is not at all contrary to my generation. In fact, as we approached the protest, which took place at Dallas City Hall as part of a simultaneous, nationwide protest at city halls everywhere, I overheard one guy telling another guy that he was really just there for the blog fodder. I thought about my own desire to protest that was spawned by Across the Universe. And I'd planned all along to blog about this. My generation is becoming one big group of people who live by imitating art. But, hell, whatever it takes, right?

We mostly just stood around in a glom of rainbows and clever signs. Ry turned to me and said, "I thought there'd be more yelling and maybe some stomping around." There was a stage and a microphone that really did not want to work and some righteous speeches that I could catch every other sentence of. A little chanting of "Yes we can."

A group of Christians showed up. They had a megaphone that was much louder than our own malfunctioning sound system. But I think they were rotating as they spoke, or something, because I wasn't really able to make anything out, apart from the occasional "judgment" and "perversion." And I was actually listening, even though everyone agreed that we shouldn't give them any of our attention. I decided that if protesting is the coolest thing ever, protesting a protest must be the lamest thing ever. I also thought about how, ten years ago, I might've been on their side. I might've been the sullen girl bearing the cross. But now I feel as though the cross I'm bearing on this side of the barricades is the one I should be bearing.

It started at 12:30. Around 2:30, they told us, hey, thanks for coming, now go home and blog already.

Which, to gays and gay lovers alike, meant "now it's time to pose for pictures and find out where the after-party is."