I Make a Truce With You, Valentine's Day

Loathe would be the most correct verbal form of my hatred for Valentine's Day.

It's consumerist, materialistic, and puts enormous amounts of pressure on everyone involved.
---What does she expect? What does her best friend expect? What if she does something for me but I don't do enough for her? What if her best friend's boyfriend does something crazy romantic and I didn't come up to par? What if there's a glitter cannon mixup and chocolate syrup comes gushing out instead and she's wearing her new dress and it gets all ruined and she starts to cry and there's mascara everywhere and oh my gosh we're out in public and she's gonna hate me forever and won't even let me scoop up some of the chocolate off her arm with a pretzel?!?!

You get my point.

And, even if a girl (such as myself) truly is not a fan of large romantic gestures, nobody will believe her because it'll seem like a cover-up for her actually really, really wanting a romantic gesture. What.

V-Day has also historically been for me a day of bad news. There was a space of about four years there where something legitimately tragic happened on Valentine's Day.

So, I've held a grudge against it. In my mind, not unwarranted.

This was even to the extent that I cancelled Valentine's Day last year. Cancelled it. As in, I didn't even see my now ex on the day.

I've had a lot of time for reflection since I moved to NI in September (by that I mean that I have thought through everything on God's green Earth for lack of something better to do with my ungodly amounts of free and alone time). During that time, VDay and I have had an all-out.

It's amazing to me how many of life's decisions and revisions are driven by a deep deep rooting in fear.

For this day, there's a fear of not measuring up to expectations, of having expectations and being disappointed, of being vulnerable enough to let yourself be loved in unnecessary ways. It's what I talked about once in my definition of intimacy. 

Intimacy as that moment of tension, that point at which you're dancing on the edge and could either fall to your death or jump to a higher ledge.

When I realized at what depth my hatred really did stem from terror and how much I was denying myself as well as other people an opportunity for relational growth, I owed VDay some reconsideration and an apology.

Still not a fan of the gross spectacle it has become, nor am I cozy with being fussed over in almost any capacity, but I recognize that there is some intrinsic value in its existence, if not solely its history.

For that reason, Valentine's Day, you are safe from my slander and cancellation tenancies.  We can now be friends. 

Troubles You Can't Unsee (Movie Style)

This week, I've been given a reprieve from reading, especially nice considering I had to read three novels for class on Monday and I'm enjoying being around people too much to actually want to do my homework.

(What? You, Jamie? Valuing human beings over homework? Who have you become?)

Yes. It's true. My world has gone quite mad in the past couple weeks. I'm welcoming it along.

If you've been following along with my unending reading list but never had any intention of actually reading what I'm reading, maybe then you'll be interested in the movie list that I've endured (yes, endured) for my next class.

*Odd Man Out (1947)(Available on YouTube): Love story, mob story, escape story, tragedy. Predating The Troubles but postdating Irish conflict (does anything really predate Irish conflict? I mean other than the Jews, they take the scone for struggling people groups).
*Nothing Personal (1995): The "other side" of the story. The Troubles mob heads friends? Childhood mates torn apart by religion and faced with betrayal via murder? Confusion as to what is true and what is not. Unchilding.
*Hunger (2008): Not for the faint of heart. I had to watch this one in two parts, actually. Wept. It does a really powerful job of showing both sides. Not the Catholics and Protestants but the political prisoners (both C and P) against "the man." A determinedly quiet movie, but even more moving because of that. No clatter to distract from fully absorbing just what Hell is happening.
*Five Minutes of Heaven (2009): Not to be confused with 7 Minutes of Heaven. Story of violent juxtaposition of reconciliation and the desire to heal violence with more violence.
*A Belfast Story (2013): Can't yet comment. Haven't watched it yet.

Something you'll notice in both Irish (not solely Northern Irish) literature and film and art is the prevalence of women named Cathleen or Cathleen Ni Houlihan. She is representative of Ireland. Her treatment and person (take note of who is persecuting, to whom she shows kindness, what she is wearing, and her age) demonstrate the speaker's view of Ireland.
There are two Cathleens spread between those five (maybe three Cathleens. Haven't seen that fifth one yet) movies.

Can't tell you about either of them or I'll ruin the endings. Meet 'em yourselves.

It's funny. War movies (yes, The Troubles was a period of wretched civil war) don't usually mess with me all that much. I mean, I'm kind of a wimp (but is wimp really the right term there? Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that I have a healthy, nonsociopathic response) when it comes to physically harming others, but my water works stay pretty well turned-off. I'm not playing with you. I found myself writhing in horror at some of the stuff those movies presented for my full visceral reaction.

Maybe it's the fact that I live here in Belfast. I know those streets, been on them even, go to Bible study in an East Belfast neighborhood identical to those involved.  I've read more than my fair share of Belfast literature, thinking, and politics. I've heard these people's stories and hearts. I know this city. I love this city.

And some of the stuff of The Troubles are still going on here.

So when I watch movies about it, really raw, cram-some-dirt-in-that-capped-knee movies, they get me.
It's not popcultural trash. Not fictional. Not some kind of entertainment conjured up for your sick pleasure. This was--and is--life.

Small Miracles, Big Difference

It was yet another cheery day in Belfast (can you believe it?!) two evenings ago (and today, but we're not chatting about today, are we?), and I was aboard bus 8A headed home.

When we arrived at my home sweet Trossachs Avenue, I dismounted the bus, began my dander toward the Manor, and stuck my hand into my trench pocket to retrieve my Vera, on which I have caribeenered my housekeys and in which is my life, basically, thumb drives and all.

But.

No Vera.

What.

Wait...what.

No.

Nonononononononononononono.

Gotta be in the backpack.

Search through the backpack.

Bus driving off.

Jamie running.

Throwing backpack into bushes as she runs faster.

Cursing her ugly and ineffective running and getting honked at from behind.

Seeing my struggle, some kind school girls informed me that the bus would come back round if I'd wait on the other side of the road. Or, it would be there at the turning at Erinvale if I ran quickly.

It was then that Jim pulled up beside me (source of honking. No, I did not know Jim).

"Miss! You dropped your bag back there!"
"Didn't drop it. Threw it. Chasing bus."
*insert explanation.
Jim then insisted I let him help me on my quest, showing me proof of identification by way of work badge and a prescription with his name on it.
Now, looking back, I don't know why knowing his name would have possibly made him any more credible a person to me, but he sure thought it did, so I followed suit and after a, "yah...don't take this wrong, I really appreciate your stopping, but I don't know you..." I eventually got in and let him drive me down the road.

The bus was indeed sitting at the turn, I hopped aboard, retrieved my lost item (praise God from whom all blessings flow) and prepared myself for the walk back up, but Jim was there, drove me, saw that I got my bag back, and left me there, "good deed for the day accomplished."

Now, I see where that could have gone horribly awry, and I have no intention of jumping into every strange man's car I see (though this would be the third time...please don't panic, ma), the Irish are indeed a people who help me restore my faith in humanity.

Truly, I would never ever ever have done the same thing in The States (wouldna been in a bus in the states either), but things are just different here. That probably doesn't make a whole lot of sense and explaining it would be a big to-do, but you're just going to have to trust me.

The Irish may be a house divided and occasionally violent, but they are people of great hospitality and a pretty shockingly genuine care for their fellow people.

It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Home

*photo cred to Eli Zuspan

Yesterday was magical.

I joined the Kanukuk group that's currently residing here to Carrick-a-Rede rope bridge, Giant's Causeway, and Dunluce Castle.

The thing is, I've gone to all three of those places more than once. The first time scooped my heart out and guaranteed I'd do anything to move here. The second time, I felt nothing beautiful. The loveliness of my surroundings oddly made me feel all the more alone and disconnected.

This time was different. I experienced those beautiful places with. Thanks to Kira's book (once more! Seriously. Those 4,000 questions are rocking my social sphere), I made a few friends on the twisty bus ride over to the North Coast, and they didn't forget I existed when we exited the bus.

I spent the whole of the day getting to know and becoming known. I wasn't being tolerated. I was being liked. Better yet, I was being myself. There wasn't any intense social anxiety making me weird or overquiet or overloud. Just me. I can honestly say I haven't felt that...normal since I moved here.

"Ordinary" is underrated. What many people consider an average day, I now consider a miracle. It's not something to give me that "Oh, the poor dear!" look for. More, I mention it to tell you all, I shall tell you all to be thankful for the everyday joys. They may burn slowly but they burn bright.

*Causeway photo cred to Emily Orf

*Dunluce photo cred to Eli Zuspan

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? 

This Could Be the Start of Something New

Everything and nothing is happening here in Belfast.

In terms of nothing, I can't exactly say that anything really that drastic has altered.

There's a new group staying in the house, yes, but other than that, it's the same city, my same church, and I'm in the same home. 

But, at the same time, everything has changed and, perhaps, that's because I have. 

I can't tell you how free I feel. 

Perhaps it's because some of my major relational ties I felt last semester have been cut and I now feel able to be fully present just where I am. 

However, it potentially is something else entirely, something much deeper. 

3-2-1 let go. Let’s go!

The trip over went a million times more smoothly than in September. 

On the first plane, I made buddies with the flight attendant and we chatted for nearly an hour about the crazy snow in Atlanta (sorry for that 14 hour drive home Joey, but it has really helped fodder social interactions for me this past week) and working in the service industry. 

Then, in the Dulles airport, I continued on my terminally happy journey of making airport friends. 

Airport and coffeeshop friends are the best to make because you only have to generate small talk for an hour or less. It's the perfect practice, though Kira's book of 4,000 questions did make it home with me just in case. 

Trucked-on through my very long layover (and flight delay) with content developing, bubble blowing, puzzle doing, and even a wee nap. 

My favorite part on the plane back was that I was mistaken for Irish twice. Unconsciously, I seem to have adopted a slight lilt to my speech, especially when I'm talking to someone with a strong one.

On that note, I must have passed the test for looking local, too, because the tour vendors near city hall left me well alone today for the first time. HaHA. 

It's good to be back in Belfast. 

Yes, it is nearly three and already dark and yes, it is unapologetically rainy and yes, my room smells like bad memories. 

But there was sun this morning a bit, I've got on warm socks and waterproof shoes (though the hair I forgot to pin into submission before hitting the wind), and there's always Febreeze to alter the stench of past anxieties. 

My circumstances last semester suffocated me into such venomous, claustrophobic state that I had come to believe I hated Belfast, but coming back into it now, how could I ever have believed that? Sure, I could stay bitter with Belfast, but that wouldn't get me anywhere positive and I am definitely here for another four plus months, so I am prepped to be pleased. 

You know, with how little I actually did venture out of my home last semester, Belfast and I really do have the opportunity to start over almost completely with one another.

There's a happy bustle in the wet streets, rich history and culture, and "genuoinley" lovely people.

Time to fall in love again, NI. I believe we can make it now. We'll be rocking till the sungoes down.