The Crew Cut

To think that in December, I creepily took their pictures during class without their knowledge to post here (please please judge me. I truly was that pathetic and friendless. ha) and now I go on day dates with them.

These here are my fellow members of the Irish Writing Masters program at Queen's University, Belfast: Amy, Amy, Emma, and Jo.

They are ridiculous and crazy and Irish, and I absolutely love them.

Yesterday, we met up for "lunch."

I went home 10 hours later.

We met up at at the front gates to walk over to Madison's together for some food.
Next took us on a walk of picture taking, followed by dropping Jo off at the bus station, a journey through the botanical gardens until it started raining.
Then to the postgrad centre where we collapsed on bean bags and played, "Pass the Bomb."

Pass the Bomb, to me at least, felt juuuuuust a wee bit...ironic? too soon? offensive?

Either way, you played by passing this bomb around and, using prompt cards with word pieces on them, throwing out any word you could think of with those word parts until the bomb "blew".

For instance, if the card said, "duc", you could say: deduce, seduce, reduce, induce. Get it?

For a load of English majors, we were not super good.

But it was very fun.

From there, we went on to go to the cinema together (student night!), stopping off first in Tesco for food to illegally sneak into our bags.

We laughed a lot. Which isn't surprising considering we often laugh together. And separately.

Amy took Emma and me home from there after the walk from the cinema to Queen's.

Much like this year, it was a very long day that felt very short.
I'm going to miss them terribly.

Overlooking Home

To get to my home in Tulsa, you take 71st west until it ends. Literally. No more 71st.

Actually, at the end, you take a left hand turn, but if you don't, you drive up this winding hill and land up at The Oaks country club.

I used to lifeguard up there.

Coming down the opposite description off a late night-shift, you can, for a few moments, see out all across Tulsa.

The blue lights from the Jones airport, the wee lights from "little Jenks," the brighter ones that line 71st and down past that as well.

Something about that sight--much like the sight of rain and stoplights on pavement--I find soothing.

A galaxy of my own. Accessible.

And I'm separated up there on my hill, in my car, but still connected and descending.

For me, judge as you will, it's a bit of a transcendent experience in its own simple way.

Spent "submission evening" with my friend Amy from Uni. We ate pizza, drank contextual beverages, and watched the office, periodically stopping to talk over Jesus and "right now."

The question of the evening was, "Do you feel like yourself right now?"

Yes. And also no.

I felt the most myself in February am the start of March.

Then the closer I've gotten to the end of my time here, the further along and more concrete my "future" became, I sort of started not feeling quite me.

I hear myself saying things I don't really mean and behaving oddly or out of character or inconsistently. And I think that's normal.

If I weren't being a bit odd, I think that would be indicate of a larger problem. It's good that I'm feeling the anxiety of this new and major transition: out of studenthood and into the workforce, out of one county into the next, the old. Shoot, even out of one state and into another.

It's a lot of change.

As she was pulling out of her housing area, I realized we were atop quite a sizeable hill. And from where we perched, set to descend, I could see the lights of Belfast.

I felt home. I felt, for just a strange wee second, calmed and ready and desirous to return and start over.

I'm nervous, at times very frightened, but this is going to be a good thing. God is good. All the time.

Preconception's Pretty Wrong

Aside from my day of editing scheduled for tomorrow (I say "scheduled" but really I mean that's the only day left available to me), I am done with my papers.

Yes, as of two minutes ago, my final paper (an extended and annotated bibliography) was completed.

When I originally started it, I thought that that particular paper would be the easiest of the three to complete. However, I quickly learned that just absolutely was not the case.

It seemed to me the more I researched, the shorter my paper became. At one point 1,000 words, then down to 600, then up to 800, then down to 400 before it steadily began to climb back up.

It was a process of refinement, and a necessary one at that, as most processes of refinement are.

I had in my mind this grandiose concept of what I wanted my dissertation to be and how I wanted to get there. Then, when I started working out the details with Eamonn, it started to look less plausible than I had imagined, especially within my 15,000 word limit.

When the actual research part came around, then, I discovered that only so much was available to me in the area I had chosen to pursue. That's kind of normal for me, as my papers are usually a bit on the "eccentric" side, but you have to have something to work with.

What I've finally structured my dissertation around and outfitted with appropriate research bears resemblance to my original idea but it is also a new creation altogether.

The outline, the subjects, and the primary texts have all changed but one.

However, what I've ended up with is better than what I'd originally mapped out for myself.

And, thanks to the intensity of the research I've had to do, my actual dissertation writing shouldn't be that hefty at all. In fact, I'm not certain that I'll have to do any further research at all, aside from completing a couple books I've started on the matter.

I thought this class was a joke and an annoyance.
I thought this project would be a breeze.

I was wrong on both counts, but I'm also very glad I was. My next step doesn't seem so scary now.

Begrudge Not Joy

There is nowhere more beautiful than Northern Ireland in the sunshine.

The flowers all abloom, the daylong-morning sunshine lightly brushing against your cheeks, gently swishing air. That's how I met her two years ago. It was in that garb that she entranced me, gave me something in which to fall in love.

So I get it, I do, when my groups of Americans come and spend the majority of their time taking selfies and gushing, "OMG I could like totally live here. That's it. Seriously. I'm coming back and living here. No question. OMG."

I was one of those people. Minus the OMGs and the selfie taking (mostly). But I absolutely did say, even then, that I was coming back.

And you know what? I did.

So my disdain for those comments isn't in their frivolity really because I know that it's possible.

Rather, I detest the ignorance. I detest my own ignorance, not that anyone could have really prepared me for here.

The emotions that run through my head:

-annoyance: They meet NI in spring. Not winter when there is no sun. They see her at her very best.
-pre-anger/jealousy: If they do move here, do as I did, and out-do me, succeed where I failed, thrive where I survived, it will rub salt and lemons into my wounds.

Two years ago I was that girl. I came in a wonderful group, bonded with the country and its people alike and, essentially, had a wonderful honeymoon period.

Last semester, was the statistically awful first five years of marriage when the highs are high and the lows are low (that's a joke. There were no highs.) and it takes very nearly everything you've got not to throw down the pot of gold and get a divorce (you'll need that gold for the divorce. Don't throw it too far).

Then, after that, you learn the rhythms of what it means to live with one another peaceably and joyfully. You made it past the culture shock of marriage. You can do this.

I firmly believe that if I were to have stayed another year or two, I would be so okay with it. I may have even had the capacity to thrive. But that wouldn't have been possible without those first few months.

I, unlike past Jamie and present student teams, am not infatuated with Northern Ireland. I am in love with her. Love is a choice, a devoted, daily, obedient, faithful choice.

At the same time, I want those kids to love my adopted country as I love it.

This is a resilient place with its nooks and crannies full of strange and wonderful humans and sheep and cows and green, green grass and wet rain and gale force winds and universities that look like castles. and tea.

The kids to whom I will promote the NI studies trip to will need to hear those things.
About the rest, I honestly just need to bite my tongue.

Because they will come with a group and be dazzled off their toes. They will leave with clovers in their hearts and tea in their veins.

And to the person who will become the next Lord or Lady of the Manor, I can hold no vindictiveness if they assimilate into this country better than I did. Ain't nobody could have predicted what happened to me in any of those insane categories. I learned and grew and am thankful, but it will still be a challenge not to wish upon them pain and throw a childlike tantrum if they get off scot-free (Why me and not them???).

That answer is not important. The Why really doesn't (rather, shouldn't) hold much ground. Ever. I'm not called to know, I'm called to follow.

Again, I find myself in a state of discipline, practicing grace, practicing how to rejoice with others when they rejoice and not just hurt when they hurt.

A Week in Review: Fun for Me and Fun for You

Lots of changes here at Lakeside.
I've got Americans all over the place.

As of last week, my cook had gotten deported, we didn't have food, and I was unsure as to when my three different sets of humans were to arrive.

Now, though, food arrived on my doorstep (Thanks, Tesco!), I was here to receive my people (all of them), and my cook and two supervisors are on their way up from Dublin, all legal and whatnot.

This past week was a blur of fun and activities.

MONDAY:
My MA coursemates and I got together for a wee dinner party before my house filled up. We didn't get any photos together, but fun was had by all.
Amy Finlay brought a delectable asparagus soup, Emma brought lasagna as I've never seen made before, Amy Burnside provided garlic bread and the contextual beverage of the evening, and I made homemade ice cream and chocolate sheet cake.

We wined, we dined, and we watched chick flicks as they submitted to my fiddling with bobby pins and their long locks.

It took 3 blondes (minus me) to get open that bottle. Way to go, Amy! 

Classroom friendships are one thing but actually getting out and bonding is another.

TUESDAY:
Not only were Lauren and I individually tired of being studious, but I also needed to practice some wedding hair tactics and have aid in eating the rest of my cake.

Therefore, she lifted me from the house and we went off in the rain for a cinema night. After the movie, we sat in her car for an hour or so just talking until the windows were fogged from our warm conversation meeting with the cool rain outside.

Back at home, we popped in another movie but didn't watch it. It just gave us some background noise while I worked some magic on her hair. Don't believe me?

WEDNESDAY:
I may or may not have mentioned this before, but the salsa portions in this country are nothing short of pathetic. Just pathetic. One jar is the equivalent to half a serving size in The States. Where I come from, we buy our salsa by the jug.

Naomi feels similarly. She grew up in Ecuador and her family is now in Spain, so salsa is something she knows and loves as well.

Therefore, Craig fetched me Wednesday over to Naomi's house, and we (Naomi) made homemade salsa and watched  Modern Family. Very chill evening, but we were all pretty exhausted. And, the wee gem, sent me home with some. I was a happy girl.

THURSDAY:
Thursday brought me Americans.

FRIDAY:
More Americans arrived, so I spent a good portion of my day chatting with them and making sure they were settled and comfortable.
Then, that night, I went out on the town with my girlies.

However, the Giro d'Italia was on (international bike race being held in NI this year), so Lynsey, Lauren, and I were trapped on the wrong side of the road from Kiera and our pub.

Eventually, we made it over and ate some lovely food before heading over to a pub for drinks and dancing.

I did leave early, unfortunately, but only because the buses were wacked out from the race, and I was nervous to get home. Not about to make that 6 mile night walk alone again. Made some lovely bus stop friends, though, as all bus stop friends are good friends.

SATURDAY:
I didn't originally have Saturday plans, but I wanted them.
So, on a whim, I texted my friend Amy to drop everything and bond with me.

She did.

Came over with pints of ice cream and we chatted over boys and Jesus for about five hours in the library, stopping only when we realized that it was nearly 3am.

I left that conversation liking Jesus a whole lot.
That sounds a bit daft, of course I love Jesus. But liking and loving aren't the same.

I was reminded just how great I think he is. I enjoy knowing him and being around him.

I was nudged into that sentiment by the way God demonstrated, by way of my conversation with Amy, the way that he makes pain practical.

Our experiences, while personally and intrinsically good, are not meant to affect us alone. No, all the rocks which smash into our souls create ripples and waves that effect all those around us, even when we don't realize it.

And the crazy times, the beautiful times, are when you're having a conversation with someone and can see an edge of the bigger picture, how your story and their stories intertwine with one another and speak into one another.

And when we are bold, when we are willing, we get the chance to actively participate in sharing with another what you see, where you've been, and what the Lord has done.

Write What You Live What You Know

Oswald Chambers talks about the dangers of "morbid introspection."
The way that sometimes the sound of the life of the mind can produce clouds of vaporous acid rain.

I'm a Writer.

Morbid Introspect is the encyclopedic definition.

Speaking on Chambers' behalf, I am not under the impression that he's thinking "morbid" as in fantasies involving the death of loved ones, but rather getting so caught up in one's mind that you forget to participate in anything else.

Don't mind my pronoun-antecedent error in that last line.

To a certain extent, I have to disagree with Chambers.

Without writing and without a regular dose of morbid introspection by which I process the world in me and the world around me, I cease to be able to engage with the world around me. Derek Mahon would call it a case of "cloud thoughts."

My gaze gets hazy, and I say and do things that aren't me. Because I'm not thinking, I'm living. I have a lot of friends who are so thoughtless. They GO and ACT and DO and so many people respect and admire them for this, but all it does is make me a little sad.

Yes, for a while I'm jealous of them (as I am also a little jealous of the GOACTDO Jamie when I'm not her), but then I can't help but to think that they go and act and do without really knowing why. And that makes me sad.

Too much in the head kills you but too little in the head causes a build-up...and kills you.

I call for a balance, for the freedom to pro-con list and journal about your feelings and fears but also with a mighty spill-in of risk and spontaneity and glitter.

The ideal is a mix: outrospection with an understanding of why you do what you do.

In that way, you would be able to keep yourself fun and tender-hearted but not so self-absorbed that you become selfish and forgetful of the needs of those around you.

Along a similar line, as a writer, I also know that we have a tendency to record only that which requires meditation.
But when you go back and read later, you may forget all the periods of great fun in-between the "deep" times.

Any writer can ink a sob story all over a page.
It takes great skill and discipline to write well about joy.

Record all of it.
Remember all of it.

F is for Friendship

For the past few Sunday evenings, I’ve attended Newtonbreda Baptist with my friends. And, afterward, gone out for ice cream before landing back in my living room.

Have I mentioned that I am now the sole Lady of the Manor these days? I’ve got to admit: it feels pretty good.

It also feels good to have friends to host.

Last evening, we sat around chatting and, randomly, one of the guys decided it was a good idea to have a circle of testimonies time (while I pinterested one of the girl’s hair).

It was pretty fitting, since the morning message at Vineyard was about the power of sharing stories. On 

Easter, as they did baptisms, each person had a friend read aloud the baptee’s cliffnotes spiritual journey.

I cried pretty steadily through the whole thing. The power and encouragement which comes from hearing of 

God’s good work is more than emotional walls can withstand.

So we went around the circle and shared our spiritual journey with Jesus.

Stories and handwriting are similar.

I’ve got this handwriting analysis book (no memory of where I got it or why I have it) that I used to use to casually analyse the handwriting of my friends. It’s pretty dead on, surprisingly. Or, rather, not surprisingly. Either way.

It’s part of why I miss letters. 70% of communication is non-verbal. Emails and type face just don’t get across the same kinds of things a pen can.

When people tell their story, the way in which they construct it reveals just as much about them as the content. It also demonstrates their level of comfortability with their cohorts and with themselves.

What do they include? Are they jittery when they speak? Eye contact? Tone? Do they even share at all?

For an hour or so, I got to hear the honest hearts of my friends as they told of heartbreaks and inconsistencies and screwups and the desperate knowledge of their need for Jesus. It amazed me yet again of how different we, as humans, all are. And at the same time, how very similarly we fall apart.The circumstances may all be different (or eerily similar), but all people hurt the same. We're pretty fragile things. 

Every day here I all more in love with Jesus and this country and these friendships.

And there’s a part of me that wonders how and why I didn’t have these people 8 months ago when I was so desperate for them. At the same time, I maintain that I would have been incapable of engaging in their friendship. Emotionally unavailable, as someone once told me.

Day by day, I come more alive and my spirit more free. There’s still that voice and my calendar which remind me of the tick tick ticking of my countdown here, but I refuse to live inhibited by the fear of that. I serve a God of anomalies and impossible things. What I have right now is what I thought was an impossible thing. I’m gonna revel in it.

Ain’t that good? Isn’t he just so good?

Striving for Stepford

I caught myself yet again in the beginning phases of self-construction recently.

Now, to some that might not at first seem like a bad thing. Construction is moving forward, moving up, building on.

I guess, for me, that's kind of the thing.

When things start going well, it's easy to start sliding God to the middle, then the back burner. "Thanks for handling that rough patch there, big fella. I've got it from here" sort of thing.

That's how they get you.

In Derek Mahon's poem entitled, "Circe and Sirens", Tiresias the blind prophet speaks to Odysseus about dangers to come, how those dangers will be unlike what he's prepared for.

We're so focussed readying ourselves for battles that we don't notice when the danger slips in through the side door dressed as a soldier.

Following God is putting on pants.
That never changes.

Sometimes I just forget.

And then I wake up with thoughts and concerns and anxieties that really ought not to be any of my thought or concern or anxiety to hold.

In that mindset, I begin to strive again, working to make people like me, respect me, and approve of me.

It's easy to do, is it not?

This slow shielding of ourselves to better our chances at convincing people we're just as glossy as we seem.

The more we do it, the more we're numbed to the memory of why being "good" ain't so good as it seems.

Thankfully, I realized what I was doing a lot more quickly than I usually do. Does that mean my screwing up is actually progress? I'd like to think so. And even if it's not, I choose to believe it is. Because either way, it is my chosen perception and God's direction alone that will alter the trajectory of who I will become.

I'm tired of playing games and being amusing to other people. I don't want any part of being in somebody's life just to amuse them or pass their time.

I'm not going to get huffy or shun others, but I also want to surround myself with people who actually like me, who are willing to engage with me in conflict but who are also just as willing to delight in who I am and where I am, no matter where that place is.

For me, that entails admitting when I do wrong, allowing myself to own up to the responsibility of whatever that is, entering in to that horrible, vulnerable state, and seeing who's still standing there at the end of the day.

The best part in doing that is just how daily it forces me to remember that I need Jesus and that, if any construction is going to be done to my person, it's gonna be him that does it. Not me.