On Prayer and Pens

Lately, I've been feeling the crux between who I am and who I could be. 

The could be isn't necessarily a good one. 

I, like all humans, have the propensity for both good and evil. 

Creativity, excitement, book worm-iness vs. numbness, depression, anxiety

Sometimes, I delude myself into thinking that I do not do the good for me because I don't have the time. Time-filled days call my bluff, though. I do not do good because I can't make myself. 

And what's so funny and terrible is that if I would move, the rest of me would follow. If I would move, I would keep moving. It takes practice. 

One good day doesn't mean that the next will be just as productive. But that also doesn't mean to give up. It means to practice, in the smallest of ways, discipline. Be consistent. Be persistent. 

I got a letter today from my friend and now long time penpal Leslie. 

Together we discussed prayer and pens, how difficult prayer can be and how settling and clearing writing can be. 

Several years ago, an author named Lauren Winner came and spoke in chapel at JBU. She was super zany with her big ole butterfly glasses, electrocuted looking hair, and Miss Frizzle clothes. Her content didn't help build a case for her either. The most dynamic moment in my memory is of her holding up an invisible squash as though it were the skull in Hamlet and asking if that squash were prayer. 

That question has quietly gnawed at me for all the years since. 

Was that squash prayer? She had tilled the soil and planted the seed and remembered to water the sprout and weeded the garden and pruned the dead leaves and protected the small plant from bugs and squirrels and then, squash. Was that squash prayer? Well...yeah. 

Does that mean that prayer may be more fluid a concept than we think it is sometimes? 

I think yes. 

The deep breath I take to center myself before a phone call, the conscious mercy shown to a persnickety coworker or friend or student, the serotonin supplement I remember to take, the dishes I put up even though it isn't my turn, the letter I write to a friend, the moments spent reading a book and using my mind, all of that might just be prayer. All of that is pursuing righteousness and godliness. 

And prayer, connection, propels us forward, even if at a glacial pace. 

Leslie ended her letter in a way I found poetic in the most beautiful way, and it works as a "call to action", I believe, in a way I'd like to share (pieces of which are paraphrased). 

I hope life is moving forward for you in the best ways. Writing these letters reminds me that life has substance, structure, and is in need of redemption, though the process of writing in itself presses me to pursue a better ending. And seeing your thoughts reminds me that I am not alone in my inward struggles, that everyone has them; an ever-needed "of course other people live life too" moment is always found when I open your envelopes. 

May we all pursue better endings and good words.

Wish Says, 'Gotta Keep Movin'

My Aunt Joycie used to be integral to the coordination of an event in Tulsa called the Wish Lemons run.

The run was designed to raise money for missions, and it fit Wish well because he himself was an avid runner. On all the cups and t-shirt designs, his mantra, "Gotta Keep Movin'" made you feel like you could actually accomplish something.

Moving isn't running, isn't sprinting, isn't jogging. Moving is determined progress in an intentional direction.

You may be wondering if this is a post about running (it isn't, but I'll get there), since I've mentioned my running progress more than once recently, though I did, in fact, complete a 5K with my coworkers without walking once:

It was on the coast of Florida, and it felt like I was chewing my oxygen.

My stamina is pretty pathetic generally.
It took two months of training with the Couch to 5K app to be able to do it.
Have I run since?
No.
Running is the worst.

More to the point, though, building stamina through slow determination and a time-oriented goal can be really helpful.

If I had been asked to run a 5K in a week's time, I would have been miserable. Miserable miserable miserable. There would have been shin splints, vomit, walking, stopping, and a lot more complaining. Because I hadn't run in multiple years really. At least not with any consistency.

The app started me slow. Lots of walking, with spurts of running, just short enough that they were doable, but just long enough that they winded you.

By the end, I could do it. I did do it.

Reading is something that has been important to be since long before I could actually read. Words, movement of language, poetry, the poetry of communication, the communication of poetic experience. I love it. I have felt more known by books and language than by other people for most of my life. It's interwoven with my identity.

Then it was tidal waved out of my life.

There comes a point of fear when we realize that what we thought was a temporary phase of complacent mediocrity has become a sturdy "normal".

My diet of philosophy, history, historical fiction, modern poetry, creative nonfiction, and science fiction became replaced by pinterest, twitter, and facebook status updates. Neither my eyes nor my attention span could hold on for much longer than 8 or so seconds.

Scroll scroll scroll.
I missed movement, but I couldn't move.
Depression robs you of all you love.
Worse, it  makes you feel as though you weren't robbed but rather have made a choice to abandon.

Perhaps because that's easier than admitting the truth. It's better, you think, to claim you have power, even if in doing so you're communicating that you knowingly want to make the choices that your life is now characterized by.
For me, that's been lethargy, apathy, and mass consumption of the digital world.

Where I had read nearly 60 books in 4 months, the next 4 were only 20, reduced to 8 in the 8-9 months after.
I can't even tell you how many more I started and failed to progress past the first chapter. Didn't even make it through the first chapter, actually.

My pen was just as dusty as my bookshelf. I used to fill pages a day with thoughts and curiosity and updates.

There's not a record of the existence of this past year. I have nothing to say.

Frustration with myself grew.
Grew.
Grew.
Grew.
Grew.
Grew.

Is there a point in frustration that frustration becomes your new identity?
Where your words about your inabilities become who you are?

Yeah.

There is.

I also wasn't being very fair to myself.
The books I was choosing were either far above my "reading level" or so far below that they were children's books that I had already read.
Neither are something to build momentum on.

Then, I don't know, I chose one that looked fun and easy, but it was new and interesting, too.
And I finished it.
In two weeks.

After that, I finished A General Theory of Love, which I had started in October and a bunch more technical. The next day.

Two days after that, I finished a book on the history of JBU, which I had started a year to the day that I had started both the book and my work at JBU.

Then I started a totally new one last Thursday, The Boy in the Striped Pajamas. And finished it yesterday.

That's more consistent reading than I have done in more than a year.
My pen has been more active, too, beginning to fill up the final pages of a tiny journal that's taken me more than a year to fill a quarter of.

It's now been a year since I moved back to The States.
This is the first time in that space or even more than I have begun to feel a return out of the ditches of my dead mindedness and back to me. I'm starting to feel ebbing relief in knowing that the part of me I love most isn't lost for good.

I no longer feel defeated. I feel like moving.

Fantastically Monastic: Praha Part Trois

Remember that library I told you about? The one I found on Pinterest?

Well I went to it!!

Don't you love those times that you dream something up and then actually do it? Deliciously satisfying. So much more satisfying than making a plan and following through with it, even though the two are very parallel concepts.

I don't know. For me, I see the difference in that planning is some sort of construction that you have to or feel compelled to follow through with just because. A dream is an inspiration which compels you by its very irresistible nature to chase.

Plans that change are seen as failures or flaws.
Dreams can morph without any scent of derision.

Plans: Rigid
Dreams: Nebulous

The monastery which housed my beloved library was across the city on top of an impossibly large hill.

We (Sonya and I) and I were there twice, once at the start and once at the end.

The first time was just to explore.  We were actually under the impression that we were heading in the direction of Prague Castle. I'm still under the impression that we never found said castle. That is okay with me. Castles happen.

The monastery has these lovely crumbly, patched-up outer walls, a brewery, a chapel, a library, and the monastery itself.

From the gardens which surround it, though, the most beautiful view of Prague is to be found:

And, if you were willing to get a wee bit lost (somewhat intentionally), you would discover a small playground nestled within the gardens.

Very non-modern. I loved it.

A teeter-totter you stand on made with bent metal and halved tires (Sonya almost threw me off), a slide, and this weird spinny thing with wee bikes you pedal.

While both of those things were fun, my whole objective was that library.
Seriously, it was the only thing on the trip agenda that I suggested we do, and it was also the only thing I very well would have thrown a fit over if we hadn't gone to it. I'm not a priss. I just like books.

We set off on our last evening in Prague for my desired locale.
After a week of being ripped up feet-wise, this was no small feat (ha. feet/feat), and we did get disoriented on the streets and got caught back up in the garden.

But luckily, I found some nice Texans (leave it to me to find the only Texans in Prague) who gave us directions.

Booyah. Library.

You couldn't actually go in the library, so it was strictly a voyeuristic experience, but oh my gosh.

SERIOUSLY?! MOTHER OF BEAUTIFUL

Yes. I teared up. It happened.

At one point in our ten minutes there, a tiny Czech woman yelled at me, but neither Sonya and I have any idea why. And when I turned toward her and asked (facially) what the problem was, she began to chuckle, patted my arm fondly, and began chattering at me in Czech. Then walked off nodding to herself. Okay, babushka. Whateeeeeever you say.

The last thing to see up on that big wee hill there was a chapel. No pictures of it (not allowed), but it was tiny and ornate and had an organ at its heart, which Mozart (I am right about the name this time) played on. Our hostel mom told us about it. I guess sometime during her time in Prague (another ex-pat for the win), she went and played on it. Chills? Yeah.

Some final shots of the outside Monastic buildings.

Library outside

And just like that, I was content.

It's really not hard to make me pleased.

Give me (or let me see) an old book or ice cream (I better be handed that. Don't you tease me), and I'm all kinds of contented.

In Dublin's Fair City (#momweek2014 closing ceremonies)

Dubliners are just not like Belfast folk.
Dublin is not like Belfast.

Each time I go there, I feel as though I hit culture shock as great or greater than when I visit The States.

It's crowded always, as dirty as Belfast is clean, loud, and trying to find an actual Dubliner is pretty near impossible.

However, Jansie was flying back to Oklahoma from Dublin, and it is the capitol of the republic, so we decided to explore. And, despite my wee grudge against its "city"ness, it is pretty good looking.

After some bus struggles (when do I not have bus struggles?), we made it into the city: Jansie with The Book of Kells on her mind, and me with a countdown of 15 minutes to find free wifi in a semi-quiet location.

Off we went!!

My mom understands my hang-up about books. How could she not? She's the one who instilled them into my heart. She read aloud to me hours and hours of fairy tales and Laura Ingalls Wilder and Nancy Drew, not to mention all the books on tape we listened to when painting a room or going on a road trip.

Thus, she loved The Trinity Library and Book of Kells exhibit, or so she said. I was not present for that section of her journey. I was off skyping. But more about that in a few days. :)

Next came a run-in at a local bookshop. It was so darling I wanted to pocket it and take it home. There were so many books I wanted to read!!! And yet, so many that are still on the "to-read" shelf that must be cared-for first.

From there, the hapometers were sinking (4pm and still hadn't eaten. YIKES!), so we sought out sustenance, finding a sweet little place whose name I have entirely forgotten, and it fit our qualifications perfectly: cozy, inexpensive, delicious.

On to the Dublin Castle and gardens and an attempt at the Chester Beatty Library, but it was 5 and closing. Woah. Time really disappeared there.

and a lovely cathedral...

and then...gelatto! They have just the most delicious rum and raisin flavor. This place is the best. However, I can only ever find it when I get lost...similarly to my favorite book shop in Belfast. I think something is wrong with me.
The rest is a blur: a walk to bus 16, a flurry of languages on said bus, a drop off in the pouring rain, and snuggles and Amelie and sleep. Then she was gone.

I love my ma. We're often too different and often too similar and often we struggle against division by a common language, but nobody snuggles or loves or takes care of you quite like your mom can. Nobody's driving skills can make you want to wet yourself quite like your mom's can either, but man. For all our mutual crazy and ability to drive (ha! Drive. Completely unintentional pun.) one another mad at times, I would not trade my mama for anybody.

A Page of Heaven

The last Friday Kanukuk was with us, we all took a day trip down to Dublin.

Those of you who are unaware of the makeup of Ireland, that means we went to an entirely different country. Odd, yes? 

You can tell a Dubliner accent straightaway if you ask them to say the number three. If you hear "tree," then you've got a local. Feel free to shoot them your questions on directions. 

I suggest asking directions for Gino's Gelato. Rich, creamy, and not a bad price. My favorite, which they have since seemed to discontinue, is rum raisin. This past time, I got a side by side of muffin and pistaccio cookie. 

Pistaccio is one of my favorite ice cream flavors, if not my favorite. However, I recently learned that there is not a speck of actual pistaccio in Blue Bell ice cream. It's almond flavoring. But what about the nut pieces, you say? Almonds. It's the ice cream of beautiful lies. 

MOVING ON. 

The day started with a trip to view the Book of Kells in the Trinity Library. 

The book itself is a gorgeous illuminated (fancy word for illustrated) version of the Bible and so old you wonder how it made it's made it so long. It hasn't. Only half the book still exists now. 

The book itself was lovely to look at, but it was the library that made me tingle. 

The Belle in all of you just died a little bit. 

I have nothing further to say on the subject. They say enough for themselves. 

The rest of the day was spent between walking about doing silly things and staying out of trouble, in the National Gallery, and in the Chester Beatty Library. 

The Chester Beatty Library is composed of the collections purchased by Sir Alfred Chester Beatty of the United States, otherwise known as the King of Copper. 

A miner by trade, Sir Alfred made his fortune and bought up others' fortunes of books, eventually donating them all to Dublin, gaining an honorary citizenry during the same time period. 

Without his bibliophilia, this century may not have even had the chance of discovering or seeing some of the oldest print versions of the New Testament and countless other artifacts from the western and eastern worlds alike. 

I love what I do, this reading and studying of mine. 

It may not be of any great or significant importance, but if I were a writer (and I am sometimes), I would like to know that somewhere out there, some person is "wasting their time" experiencing what I penned into life. 

This library, this sort of cemetery for authors, is their living legacy. 

They've died, but every time someone opens up one of their books, their voice is alive and well again in the pages as old as the story. At least these pages. 

You lose that in electronic books, the history of the book itself. 

People like Sir Alfred seem to get that. 

Thank you for giving it back to us. 

Reading in the Rain, Through the Fog

There are all sorts of rains here in NI.

There's the kind that falls even when the sun is shining like the liquid version of sifted powdered sugar: light and sweet. 

Then there's "wet rain" (previously discussed, I think) in which you can't really hide from it no matter how big your umbrella is. It just kind of saturates the air; the tiniest water buds falling in such slow motion as to seem as though they're not moving at all. 

Then there's the kind that actually smells of rain and comes down straight and hard like at home. I've only experienced it once here. 

And then, of course, there's what's been coming down nonstop I hear for the past two months to today. Sideways, holding onto the sides of the wind, coming in just as hard and from what seems like every direction but up. 

Tireless stuff. From inside, it's hard to tell if you're hearing the wind or the rain, the sounds have become so congruous. Either sound is nice, though. 

Inside is me, snuggled into a pile of pillows, with my journal and laptop, an oscillating heater and an oscillating reading list: Oswald Chambers (I'm behind), The Elements of Philosophy (an old textbook I'm reading for fun), Dubliners (James Joyce. Again, for fun), Connecting (A reread by Larry Crabb). 

Cozy, cozy. 

2.5 hours until my first class of the semester starts. 

Many would question the sanity of such thick reading before I get smacked with my semester heap's. 

It makes sense to me, though (which I guess is all that matters). 

You see, I really do love to read. That isn't a surprise to anyone, but what may be is that in the 42 days I was home, I only read one book. One. It was one I'd already read and YA at that. 

I started 9. 

Never seemed able to make it past the first page of any. My mind wouldn't do what I wanted. Didn't do any content developing either. 

My mind, which I've always felt able to bend to my academic will, sat down and fell into an unwakeable sleep. 

A bit before I left, I started writing copious letters to send out to my students of last semester, people I attended the OneThing conference with, and a few other JBUers I appreciated. 

I planned those letters a month before I actually wrote them. It took me that long to make myself do it. 

Those two ideas are connected. I started to judge myself and get frustrated, knowing the degree to which I am capable of accomplishing such feats as note writing and book reading. 

The thing was, though, I was also coping with an extended period of depression. My mind literally wasn't functioning as I had become accustomed to. 

I had to change my outlook on myself, start lowering my expectations and raise my commitment, as Pastor Tom Harrison would say. 

Grace, with myself.

One day, I may read three pages. But that was more than the day before!!! So I celebrate. Or I wrote five notes in a row! So great! Well done! That was more than the zero of yesterday! 

As I explained this process to someone, they asked me the very valid question: "How do you avoid becoming complacent or underachieving?" 

My answer was "Thankfulness." I see where I want to be. I'm not "content," necessarily, with where I am, but I recognize that I am, in fact, here. Therefore, I have to celebrate every step that I take toward becoming who I want to be. 

If I don't achieve as highly today as I did yesterday, very well. I am thankful for what I did happen to accomplish today (comparison is the thief of joy. Let yesterday's victories be yesterday) and hope for at least as wonderful, if not more so, tomorrow, with the knowledge that if I "fail" tomorrow, I am not a failure and it is not a signal for perpetual failure in the days to come. 

My current reading is varied so as to allow me to trick myself. I can only get through 10 pages of Dubliners? Awesome. I can do that and maybe half a chapter of Crabb and one wee article of philosophy. 

By the end, I've accomplished much more than I would have out of just one subject and my mind has gained a little more grid in its goo. 

I needed to practice before put back in the big leagues of grad school, and what better weather to practice in than the glowey green raininess of Ireland? 

and Eamonn wears a blackbird pin

Class today in comparison to class last week could not have been more different. I inadvertently skipped another class (They changed the time. Didn’t know. Should have). However, the class I did attend was really fascinating.

First of all, I did not start spurting tears at random moments throughout the two hours of course discussion. Second, I actually understood the entirety of the discussion. That has never before happened in a class period with Eamonn.

Our discussion today focussed on family structure, construction of identity, genre debate, and mental health. Not only are those my favourite topics to discuss, they also helped me to construct a paper topic, outline it, and jot down the resources I would need to uphold it for my final paper. I’m pretty excited about it. I built a similar argument in a previous class at JBU, so I have a semi-foundation for discussion.

Using the background of Seamus Deane’s “autobiography” Reading in the Dark and the subtexts of Earnest Hemingway’s A Moveable Feast and Henry James’ novella “The Turn of the Screw”, I’m going to prove that Deane’s book is, in fact, not an autobiography but a novel. And, more than that, a gothic novel.

I’m pretty excited.

To now turn to a different book, I’d like to discuss the concept of “common grace”, as defined by Rick Ostrander in Why College Matters to God. Since obviously I don’t have my copy on me here in NornIron, I’ll sum up for you. Common grace is the idea that regardless of something’s goal of being Christian or NonChristian, anything can reveal and draw us closer to the character of God.

I am rather certain that neither my classmate Paddy nor my processor Eamonn is a Christian. Just drawn by class discussion, which often focuses on religion due to the structure of this nation.

However, I was struck, both last Monday and today at the way my professor and my classmate were genuinely concerned for my well-being. Not that non-christians are in any way unfeeling or not able to understand things, I guess I’ve just never had a whole lot of interactions with non-christians.

A Christian would have tried to spiritualize my being upset or tell me that they were praying for me. The two of them, instead, expressed…I don’t know. It was like they felt hurt with me, and they didn’t even know what was wrong. I don’t think I even knew fully what was wrong. They made me feel joined. And both afterward expressed so verbally.

It didn’t end there, though. Today, in continuation from last week, they individually followed up with me and reiterated the fact that academia doesn’t stop short of relations, that they really did want to stand beside me in whatever way I needed them to. I don’t know. It sounds kind of dumb saying it now, I was just taken off-guard by it, I suppose.

Eamonn wears a blackbird pin, representative of Seamus Heaney and representative of Ireland. Literature and stories are his life. I caught myself staring at that pin throughout class and thinking of what it meant in the context of the whole.

I’ve spoken before of Ireland’s struggle for identity and struggle for a voice and struggle to live their own story. Who are they? British? Irish? Northern Irish? And yet, they are all at the same time. All our stories and identities are interlinked.

And we all seek to live a good story.

Donald Miller speaks a lot about living good stories with our lives in A Million Miles in a Thousand Years. If you don’t like the story your life is telling, change it.

However, our stories are not our own. Like I said, we are all interlinked, Christian and nonChristian alike. Eamonn and Paddy expressing genuine interest into my life was them choosing to play a role in my story past their assigned roles as professor and peer.

That’s why it was meaningful to me.

Anyone can play the assigned role. Requirement says very little. Taking up space out of compulsion is empty of character. It takes boldness and compassion to choose engagement and role-redefinition, going outside the expected to further the greater story at hand. Christian or nonChristian, that speaks volumes of the Lord's grace through them.

One Spiritual

Ozzy Chambers has me pretty pinned this week.

Today's devotional ended almost completely underlined or bracketed. It would almost be easier to copy it directly, but I'll just share the tweetables and reflection.

Today's devotional cautions against forgetting God in the shallow places and taking yourself too seriously.

Notable quoteables:

• Trying to convince others of your depth and judging their level of shallowness is a "sure sign that you are a spiritual prig" 
• Shallowness is not a "sign that there are no deeps" 
• You must live the "surface common-sense life in a common sense way" so that we are prepared to handle the times of depth. 
• My favorite: "We are so abominably serious, so desperately interested in our own characters, that we refuse to behave like Christians in the shallow concerns of life." 

I had a teacher my first year of high school who advocated for small talk (surprising in a Bible teacher/Christian). His argument was, though some view shallow or small talking as pointless endeavors and try to make everything so damned serious, you can't truly get to the depths of a person until you have gained their respect and comfortability in the shallow things of life. To do otherwise would be to build a house on sand. 

Not only does this "chicken talk" (as my roommate calls it) show you more about the building blocks of a person, it demonstrates them much about you. 

When I was little (and still now. I am little in many ways), one of the most major things that endear me to those older than me are the people who take my wee concerns seriously. The ones who don't belittle me or tell me things like, "You're so young. This relationship/conflict/internal struggle really isn't that big of a deal in the long run." The people I most respected were and are people like my cousin Kristina or my big brother, who always considered my opinions and struggles to be of worth and treated me as an equal. 

Donald Miller, in his book A Million Miles in a Thousand Years, cautions people against treating others as though they were finite. No person can know the depths of another; only God can. Therefore, we must treat every person as though we believe they are infinite, that they have untold resources of value to offer the world just by existing. 

That's for sure an off-shoot of what O is saying, but I consider them linked. 

Along his point, it is easy to forget God in the moment by moment procedures of life. For me, it is often because I feel silly or don't want to burden or annoy him with my...myself really. In so doing, those little moments build until I have run totally off-track from God and, thus, forget him and my common sense in the depths of life. 

Takeaways: 

• Being "shallow" in conversations does not reflect that the relationship itself is shallow. It leaves room for playfulness and opportunities for growth without the predetermined force of seriousness and "growth." 
• Every moment is important to God. Every decision, conversation, and thought either directs you toward or away from Himself. 
• No one is too small for your time or consideration. 

The Day Research Methods Blew My Mind

Believe me; no one is more surprised than I.

This morning I woke up fully prepared to skip the projected 6 hour session on archives. I've only skipped two classes in my life, though, and I don't think I could have borne the guilt of three.

It was amazing.

Kickoff was about what the archives are all about. Treasure is what they're all about. The archives aren't just boring journals; they're letters and memorabilia and pamphlets and marginalia and all sorts of other random tidbits from authors all across the times. Things people have found hidden in attics and barns and other random locations.

Then were the library presentations. Our library at Queen's, the Armagh library, the Linen Hall library, and the public records office. Histories of how racy and political libraries used to be, the stores of unpublished manuscripts and original publications with authorial annotations, and the sorts of paper scraps that make literary types drool.

Then THEN came testimonials by PhD students.

One of them is doing forensic linguistics, currently conducting research into a particular case of justice miscarriage concerning a suicide note and a guilty looking husband.

Another found a book in a used book store which led her on a journey of discovering a completely silenced author of the mid-1900s. No secondary resources written about her whatsoever, just primary text in the special collections section of Queen's, which led her to find some hidden letters and opened up her project of resurrection. By the end of her presentation, I was in tears. Sure, I can get through the final Harry Potter movie and The Notebook totally dry eyed, but tell me a story of refound literature and I'm all blubs.

We finished with a practical application of research for our particular area of interest and got to converse with a couple professors about our ideas. They gave me some ideas of other places for me to search and thought my projected subject would make for a fascinating study.

The Siren call of the archives had me entranced to such a degree that I actually began to entertain ideas of a PhD, the realities of which I know would not be to my taste, but still I agreed to attend an informational session.


Archives, man. Archives change everything.

Bringing Booty Back

Currently, I am reading for fun.

Please hold your shock or applause. Yes, I will answer the unasked question.

I am reading for fun today not because it is Sabbath (Friday was my Sabbath) but because I am a controlling, legalistic workaholic whose behavioral patterns are relationally and psychologically destructive.

This is something which has recently been presented to me through an uncanny number of sources, resulting in an experience much like Dursleys with a particular letter...

I'm not okay with it. I want to be better. I want to be different. I want so much more than this, not because I'm a selfish brat (which, to be honest, I really have demonstrated myself to be), but because the people who love me deserve better than my half-assed--more like no-assed-attempt at loving them well, and that includes God.

Yeah, it's reading. Small digs, Odom.
But, like Rob Bell would say, as he does in his book Sex God (not the book I'm currently reading but a very insightful look at the connections between sexuality and spirituality), this is really about that. 

It's reading. But it's indicative of the fact that I have, other than this moment, stopped staring at my computer screen and contented myself with the slow process of eating language for breakfast (or brunch or tea time snack or any meal really).

I am doing something "unproductive".
I am delighting in the creation of someone else.
I'm trying--so hard--to change.

Dubstepping

Dubstep: abstract. a ridiculous music craze to which frat boys and people who wish they were frat boys subscribe.

Dub-stepping: literal. stepping into the streets of Dublin with a group of semi-culturally aware people. 

I am of the latter. 

A city built up around the River Liffey for trade and commerce, Dublin is a hub for tradespeople. You may wonder of what nature this trade is. Or you may not wonder at all. Dublin is the birthplace of Guinness Beer. Now, before you go all teetotalling crazy on me, let me reassure you and defend Guinness. 

Before I came to Ireland the first time, I was required to read a book entitled "The Search for God and Guinness." In it, I learned all about the beer's history, how it was created as an actually healthy substitute for other lagers, and how gosh darn well Guinness treated his workers and his workers' families, even today.  In a time of famine and utter poverty, Guinness fought for social justice. And won. It's a pretty insane story, really.

I have a thing for post offices. Sometimes back at home or at school, I would write someone a letter just so I could go to the post office. Don't really know why. Don't have a specific warm childhood memory associated with post offices (except a sweet elementary school field trip involving being given an airplane stamp), I just like them. They're soothing. 

My friends, meet the mother of all post offices. 

 

You may be wondering what those odd little squiggles are where there should be words. We're in Ireland, right? They speak English! Nope. Gaelic is actually the official language of The Republic. Spoken in homes, taught in schools. They've been fighting for ages to make it the only language, but alas, the colonization did its job too well, and English has stuck. 

Of course, because it's me, there had to be some sweet frozen goodness involved in the day. But seriously, look at that. Tell me you would have resisted. I dare you. 

In other news, since we don't have Thanksgiving here, Belfast is already stepping into Christmas.  For me, this means seeking out and listening to every version of "O Come, O Come Emmanuel" and dancing to the NSync Holiday Album like it's 1998. 

Passport to Paris

Last weekend, I acted upon my nearly 22 years of complete, blinding obsession of Paris and France (which until just this summer I desperately tried to hide from my Frenchie boyfriend so he wouldn't think that was the only reason I was with him) and set off for my dreamed-of adventure. 

You know those times when you build something up in your head. And then it happens, and you're left thinking, "Man. That was so much better in my mind." This was not one of those times. 

If we're being straight, Paris fulfilled and exceeded everything I thought it was going to be. You cynics who believe that's just because I was determined to love it may go ahead and think that (it may be true), but either way, sparkles, magic, and wonder. 

Paris: The Highlight Reel

Day one, or, rather, night one, we went to The Louvre. 

"Isn't she louvre-ly? Isn't she wonderful?" 

Sorry. I had a moment. Thank you for bearing with me. This is a picture of the whole group. It's a bit blurry, but it's the only one of all of us. 

The Louvre is enormous! I don't know why it was smaller in my mind, but the sucker went on for days. Seriously, I felt like I was at Hogwarts (Harry Potter reference for you culturally unaware). I'd go up one staircase, turn around, and an entirely different area would be behind me. Minus the staircase. What. How. 

Additionally, that was the night of the first Eiffel Tower sighting. I don't have a picture of it from that night, but no one NO ONE told me it was going to glitter! IT GLITTERS. Not just glows. Glitters. We all know how I feel toward glitter. I can die happy now (don't you dare roll your eyes, Noah). 

Day 2. 

After a trip to our bakery that morning (and everybody said AMEN), our wee group of 7 walked down to the Parc Zoologique down the street. I feel as though its name was a little misleading, but it was a lovely little parc with a pond. 

After, we took the metro down to this market (without getting lost, I might add). It was extensive and had both indoor and outdoor portions. My purchases were all along the line of jasmine pants. Since returning, I have worn real trousers all of once. 

The Eiffel Tower was next. (suppressed screams of reminisced excitement). When we came out of The Metro tunnels and turned the corner, allowing it to come into view, I think my heart fell into my stomach (again, you can make fun of me. I am okay with that). 

First view.

Looking up from the second tier

Looking down. :) (Sorry daddy)

How does this not fill your heart with                                                                       sparkles and love? 

I could really just stop the post here. 

BUT I won't because we haven't even gotten to day 3. 

 Okay, I promise it makes sense why we're kissing a grave. This is the grave of Oscar Wilde in the Père Lachaise Cemetery. Yes, Oscar is actually an Anglo-Irish writer, but, through a series of unfortunate events, he was imprisoned, died, and landed in a Parisian cemetery. For reasons I don't need to go into, Wilde happens to be a sort of patron saint of disappointed love. Therefore, people pilgrimage to his grave and cover it in kisses. This happened so much, though, that chemicals in the lipstick began to corrode the grave. Thus, the screen. We got kicked out of the area just after this picture. Worth it.

Notre Dame just before it began to pour. Disney actually got it pretty dead on. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't humming tunes from the movie while I toured about inside. I took this picture while sitting on the edge of the Seine on a walkway below the street. It's just so beautiful. 

Right over the Seine and just beside the Notre Dame was the lock bridge. This bridge, from start to finish and top to bottom, is covered in locks. Lovers will come, write their names and usually a date on a lock, fasten it--somewhere--and throw the lock into the river. It's very sweet, actually. And also fun to sort through and laugh at the goo (and dumb names) of some couples.

That was my view of Paris. I left out quite a bit and lots of funny stories like how I got chased down the Seine, spoke totally acceptable Frenglish to people on the Metro, restaurants, vendors, and to get directions from people on the street, getting kicked out of playpens in the airport, getting made fun of for my accent on the metro, making friends with strangers, and so many other truly funny and fun memories. 

It was pretty near perfect. Don't get me wrong, I was very ready to come back home and don't feel the need to return anytime soon, but as far as reality vs. childhood fantasies, it hit it home. 

Storehouse Citings

Storehouse:
A huge part of my church is a ministry or, rather, ministry chain, called Storehouse. Everything from food to clothing to debt management to job hunting strategies to Friday church to New Christian small group. Everything. And I'm sure there's stuff in there I don't know about yet either. Either way, the whole network is incredible and it's picking up steam around the city. Where at one point they used to have to call up churches and businesses to try to find partners, they now receive those phone calls.

Well, last night, Shelby and I went to the "family meeting." All the different branches come together at the City Centre Storehouse building to share stories, drink tea, pray, and worship with one another.
It was also an opportunity to listen to Pastor Alan's heart and perspective on the ministry.

A few quoteables/paraphraseables:
"Our ministry is less about the alleviation of poverty and more about the restoration of dignity. I don't want to lead something that's functional. I want to lead something that celebrates others."-Pastor Alan

The team believes in honoring one another. Honoring under the definition of, "treating someone as specially uncommon. Finding their uniqueness and calling it out."

The ministry, while Christian, isn't out to make new Christians. It's not a "pound for a prayer" kind of deal. Instead, they seek ways to build relationships, hoping that in those interactions, those who come will see Jesus in the ministry workers and want in on the secret.

Pastor Alan: "Jesus didn't call us to pray a prayer. He called us to make disciples."
And, shortly after stating that, Alan continued with a thought I've been munching on. He reminded us that even though he's been a Christian for 25 years, he still screws up. But we forgive him. We give him grace. Because being human and being Christian is hard. However, when we see a new Christian back at the bar or back in their respective sin, we're discouraged; we're disappointed.

Why?! "If after 25 years, I'm still not getting it right, how do we expect new Christians to have broken countless years of sin habitudes overnight?"

We can't, is the answer. That doesn't mean we shouldn't try to hold one another accountable, but that does mean, in the words of Tom Harrison--Pastor of Asbury United Methodist--that we should rather "lower our expectations and raise our commitment."

//

Meanwhile, in Research Methods...citations.
No, not the naughty kind that I could get a good story from or have to pay a ticket for. Internal citations and work cited pages.
Today, the English and Languages MAs had a little get together over a heart-warming powerpoint and three hours worth of manual citations. We paired off into groups (have I mentioned lately my sentiments toward the words "break off into groups"?), were given sheets of paper with information, and set free to cite, cite, cite! On foreign keyboards that type "/e" every time you want to have "E" and where the heck are the quotation marks?!
My partner? Could smell my American-ness from a mile off and claimed to be from "Michigan." I honestly thought she was joking and told her so by way of accent evidence (I'm actually getting pretty good at accent naming). I could focus on nothing else until she said the words "Russian boyfriend" about an hour in. Zingo.
They did, however, give us coffee and biscuits. It's hard to hold a grudge against someone handing you a cookie. Or three.

Sometimes lowering my expectations has to extend to my academic life.
I raised my commitment (to WB Yeats and Flann O'Brien) here today:

The McClay Library. Second floor. Shelf PR 8899.O and I are becoming quite close. 

Don't Toss the Frost

Today: book hunt, read, baked goods.

Yesterday's read: The Real Charlotte by Somerville and Ross. I can't say I enjoyed it. Austen and Bronte Victorian sass and humor is one thing. Minus the kicks and giggles? No. But it's over.

Today's read. Well, first, the hunt. I had to actually locate the book I needed. Store one didn't have it. Store two didn't have it. Then, upon finding the author but not the title, I realized that I wasn't altogether certain of the book's true author. This led me to a local coffee shop (wifi access) to look it up. But, phone didn't work. Give up? Nope.

"I'm going to be very audacious and very American right now, sir, but you have a smart phone, and I need an answer."

Strangers and I bond. The author of The Land of Spices is Kate O'Brien, not Flann O'Brien (though Flann is coming up). No Alibis still didn't have the title. Funny thing, though, the library did. Go figure. It's a good read, too. Actually, fun fact, it was banned in Ireland for a time for the line, "She discovered them in the embrace of love." Scandal! It's all about nuns and daddy issues, already perfect for my intended dissertation topic.

For those asking, this is a picture of the English Department:

Home, lunch, read, cleaned a bathroom, read, dinner, read, checked  chores.

NAOMI! She came and picked me up for an evening of baking, tea, roommates, and New Girl. I so enjoy her. On the drive home, chatting over her lack of Christian friends, we discovered a mutual disinterest of alcohol and disgust at its flagrant abuse by many we know and by our cultures as a whole. It's nice to know I have an old lady friend such as myself who enjoys simply being with another person and early bedtimes.

Finally, got home for cupcakes and to prevent the demise via sink of a substantial amount of delicious frosting. That is how I came to be writing this blog with a cupfull of frosting beside me. MMM.

(Kelsey, one of the students, joined me in my rescue mission)

Tomorrow's blog promises stories of the Folk Museum and a night out on the town with two friends I met at the Newcomers' Dinner.