This week, I have found myself caught in a difficult place I have found myself so many times before.
To families I work with, I have often called myself a "nontraditional Christian". Perhaps that's prideful, perhaps it's a cop-out so that I avoid judgment, but I'm really not 100% sure of my motivation. A professor in college once called my personality "slippery". I didn't like that, but he's not wrong. I avoid, as much as possible, any and all definition, even though there's nothing more satisfying than feeling known.
I am a question asker. I am a person who needs to know "why". I am a fighter and a seeker, and that can come off wrong. Many times, people have judged that as not being a faithful Christian because they see it as a sign of doubt or disbelief. In my mind, I see it as a sign of faithfulness, of belief. Why fight for something you don't believe in? No, you fight for that you do believe in.
Throughout my life as well, I have been in puddles of "perfect" people while at the same time having a knack for collecting broken people. Maybe I love the broken because I know that we are all broken. Everyone is broken. Everybody has their fissures and canyons in their life. That's why we need Jesus. But there's something beautiful about broken people's inability to hide theirs. You can see Jesus better when you can't hide where he's working, or wants to be working.
Perfect people, people with rock solid testimonies and veneers, bother me. They bother me at some level because I distrust them and their stories. God is good; yes, all the time. But he is also working all the time. In true community, you share. If we are supposed to be in true community spiritually, then why are we not sharing? Why are we judging instead? I posit that we judge out of our own insecurity, out of our fear that we ourselves are seen as being imperfect. Because maybe we won't be respected anymore or get that job at that Christian foundation or be thought of as a "struggler."
Because we have seen how those labels have power and have seen their impact on lives, as people start to believe what they are called. We're responsible for our own development, but it is hard not to feel the sear of the rejections and the names.
My broken collective has all gone different directions. Some have become their labels, some have overcome their labels. All grow, just in different ways.
Have you ever sat down to "judge" someone's faith walk for one reason or another? Walk that line with prayer and petition. Just because one person has chosen to be vulnerable and share where they honestly stand does not mean that they are necessarily more or less "solid" than the person who stands in front of you and says that they're rock solid in Jesus. No man knows another's soul. No one has "arrived" in their spirituality or their walk with Christ. One man's plateau or peak period may be during another's valley. Give them six months. The man you thought couldn't be shaken might have proven himself weak and the "weak" man may still be standing strong.
We are called to love, to lead back to Christ, to be diligent and prayerful and gracious. We correct when we need to correct, but we should always start with love and with God.
I am a person with the propensity for very strongly worded opinions, This is something I am challenged about daily and something I try daily to be more wise about. However, with regards to this topic, I know that I speak truly when I say that above all other subjects, this one should be treated with more gentleness, wisdom, diligence, and prayer than any others before words come out of our mouths.
Paul writes, "may your love abound more and more in knowledge and depth of insight so that you maybe able to discern", "approve what is excellent" "and may be sincere and blameless for the day of Christ--filled with the fruit of righteousness that comes through Jesus Christ".
The first definition that comes up for "sincerity" is "without pretense." Without our masks.
When I read this verse, I hear, "If you are following God with your whole heart, then he will cast aside all human-coated thoughts, leaving behind only what is true and good and holy."
Follow God, listen to his voice while turning yours off, and speak out with a voice that is not your own, one not coated all over with your pride, your position, your particular brand of sinful.
Showing posts with label courage. Show all posts
Showing posts with label courage. Show all posts
Thursday, March 22, 2018
Tuesday, November 29, 2016
The Orange Ceiling
It's been three weeks since the election results, and I still can't come to grips with what has happened.
I woke up on November 9th feeling lost and grieved. Texts from friends across the world flooded my phone with fear and empathy and horror. Oh God, what have we done?
In my office and in my family, I hear people talk of his policies. That's how they justified casting their vote for the Grabber. At best, I hear the phrase, "lesser of two evils." At worst, I hear actual praise of him. My heart is grieved to its very core that this is who we've become.
They say it's not about who they are as a person; it's about what they will do in policy.
In my job, I am known as the "face" of the university.
I dress, walk, talk, and make myself think as such. No matter where I go, no matter what I do--especially when I am on the job--I am conscious of that responsibility.
I may be the best at my job, the most thorough and practically compassionate, but if my words and behavior are ugly, then that is what people see and what people will believe the university I stand for is.
In the same way, the principle is true across the globe. They see him first. They hear him first. My God, follow the man on Twitter if you don't understand my point. We are being led by a hissy-fit of a man.
My Hispanic minority friends are afraid.
My LGBTQ minority friends are afraid.
My foreign friends are afraid.
My female friends are afraid.
Just before the election, I was in a Walmart and was sexually harassed. These guys just followed me through the whole store cat-calling and making comments and laughing to themselves because they saw how clearly uncomfortable they were making me.
When I got back in the car, I had myself a long, angry rant. Right now, we have a president who has made decisions I do not always agree with, but I know, at the end of the day, he is a good man who promotes kindness and mutual respect.
The man who is now our president elect has been caught on camera bragging about how he can do whatever he wants to women because he is a powerful man.
Any God-fearing man who can imagine himself explaining what "grabbing [a woman] by the pu**y" to their young daughter means when she asks and can still put himself behind that man is a disgrace.
Adults should know better. They may use a truly awful man to justify their choices, but kids don't know any better. The leaders of our country help shape who they become. We now have chosen a model for behavior that communicates to them that sexual misconduct and disrespect is normal and acceptable in society, just as long as you're in the power seat.
We have a Republican house and senate. They hate Hillary enough that they would have curbed anything nutty. Now, though, we have an absolute whack-job in the hot seat of the same party. A man who got grounded from his Twitter account in the final days of the election because he was making a fool of himself is now in charge of the nuclear codes.
I hope to God I am wrong. I hope his unbelievably horrendous behavior is beaten out of him as the reality of this new position sinks in. Until then, we pray, we seek peace, we choose not to completely lose it in political conversations with our families, and we hope tomorrow will be different.
I woke up on November 9th feeling lost and grieved. Texts from friends across the world flooded my phone with fear and empathy and horror. Oh God, what have we done?
In my office and in my family, I hear people talk of his policies. That's how they justified casting their vote for the Grabber. At best, I hear the phrase, "lesser of two evils." At worst, I hear actual praise of him. My heart is grieved to its very core that this is who we've become.
They say it's not about who they are as a person; it's about what they will do in policy.
In my job, I am known as the "face" of the university.
I dress, walk, talk, and make myself think as such. No matter where I go, no matter what I do--especially when I am on the job--I am conscious of that responsibility.
I may be the best at my job, the most thorough and practically compassionate, but if my words and behavior are ugly, then that is what people see and what people will believe the university I stand for is.
In the same way, the principle is true across the globe. They see him first. They hear him first. My God, follow the man on Twitter if you don't understand my point. We are being led by a hissy-fit of a man.
My Hispanic minority friends are afraid.
My LGBTQ minority friends are afraid.
My foreign friends are afraid.
My female friends are afraid.
Just before the election, I was in a Walmart and was sexually harassed. These guys just followed me through the whole store cat-calling and making comments and laughing to themselves because they saw how clearly uncomfortable they were making me.
When I got back in the car, I had myself a long, angry rant. Right now, we have a president who has made decisions I do not always agree with, but I know, at the end of the day, he is a good man who promotes kindness and mutual respect.
The man who is now our president elect has been caught on camera bragging about how he can do whatever he wants to women because he is a powerful man.
Any God-fearing man who can imagine himself explaining what "grabbing [a woman] by the pu**y" to their young daughter means when she asks and can still put himself behind that man is a disgrace.
Adults should know better. They may use a truly awful man to justify their choices, but kids don't know any better. The leaders of our country help shape who they become. We now have chosen a model for behavior that communicates to them that sexual misconduct and disrespect is normal and acceptable in society, just as long as you're in the power seat.
We have a Republican house and senate. They hate Hillary enough that they would have curbed anything nutty. Now, though, we have an absolute whack-job in the hot seat of the same party. A man who got grounded from his Twitter account in the final days of the election because he was making a fool of himself is now in charge of the nuclear codes.
I hope to God I am wrong. I hope his unbelievably horrendous behavior is beaten out of him as the reality of this new position sinks in. Until then, we pray, we seek peace, we choose not to completely lose it in political conversations with our families, and we hope tomorrow will be different.
Tuesday, July 26, 2016
It's Her Turn: Why I Support Hillary Clinton
I am historically non-political.
Honestly, I'm not even registered to vote. Though I will be soon.
This isn't because I don't care; it's because first, I'm Oklahoman, so my vote was basically a burner. Second, because I've never been educated enough on the people or the issues to vote.
And, though I am a very strong personality, Until I entered the work force, I had never considered myself a feminist.
I like gender roles, I think women probably are the, for lack of a better term, the "weaker" sex.
I don't really even like most women.
As this election season has progressed, though, it's become more and more difficult for me to contain my feelings.
This morning, after watching Michelle Obama's speech at the Democrat National Convention, I find myself needing an outlet.
At this point, it is pointless to continue to whine about who is running. Your feelings do not matter. What's done is done. Your choice now is to choose out of those two.
Yeah, vote third party and feel good about yourself, but recognize that your vote for a non mainstream candidate means nothing and helps nothing. Sure, it's your way to boycott without actually boycotting, but one of these two candidates will be president. Do you have no moral decency to not at least try to choose? Have some semblance of participation into our future?
Here is why I am voting for Hillary Clinton.
Do not read this as an apologetic for Hillary. Read this as a decision between Trump and Hillary.
Let's call a spade a spade: Obama was elected because he is black.
I have heard many a misogynist claim that it would be unfair to vote for Hillary because she is a woman.
But it is the same thing, friends. Same thing.
My non politically correct feelings have been that given the choices, it's Hillary's turn.
She was FLOTUS, she tried 8 years ago, and she has continued to be fiercely active in order to make any sort of movement as a woman in our political system.
If any woman is running or should win, it should be Hillary. She's the one who has taken the brunt of the criticism for being who she is. The same people who criticized her lack of femininity are the ones now criticizing her for being a woman.
Personally, while I see sexism as being second to racism, I can still see the way that breaking a couple hundred year streak of male-dominated society could start truly changing things for us.
Maybe I wasn't more feminist before because I didn't totally believe there was a reason to be.
However, after working in the professional world for just a few short years, I have already seen how blatant sexism is in the professional world.
The way I dress, the way I talk, the way I express myself, it's all under scrutiny. There is just something essentially wrong with being us. When a man is strong, he is seen as strong. When a woman is strong, she is called everything but that.
We mother children, we are active in the workforce, we are active in our churches and socio-political circles, we pretend everything is completely fine when we lose a couple pints of blood each month.
And we have to do it all in heels.
I have never felt so apologetic for being who I am than during this period of my life. It isn't even my workplace that's at issue, don't misunderstand. It's the whole structure of society that has been designed to make women into pseudo-masculine robots or to oversexualized bimbos.
I was a waitress a few years ago. Sometimes I would get bored. Delivering fajitas can only be so intellectually stimulating. So, I started doing social experiments.
The one that has stayed with me is the one I started after a few weeks of waitressing.
Until this time, I looked like myself. Hair pinned, light makeup, clean.
I recorded my tips from the first three weeks.
Then, I added heavy eye-makeup, bright red lips, a lot of volume in my short hair, and used a higher voice.
From day one of the experiment, I consistently made 20-35 percent or more in tips per day/week.
The same principle hasn't stopped. When I play into my feminine side even now, I am more apt to being liked. It's when I open my mouth, stand up for what I believe, and am unwavering in my convictions that I am seen as a major threat and a bully, when I fully believe that the same words from a man would not be met with such a response.
I am tired of women losing just because we are women.
I am tired of successful women succeeding through sacrifice of who they are.
Yes, there is probably a better candidate out there, there's no arguing that.
However, there isn't a stronger physical manifestation of the diligent fight for women's rights than Hillary. She has clawed her way to where she is.
She has horrible taste in attire.
She's not exactly delicate.
She's an actual criminal.
However, given such a choice between candidates, why would I not choose a woman just to choose a woman?
Trump is clearly a horrendous choice. Sexist, racist, thoroughly narcissistic. A lover of hate. A man who enjoys seeing the world burn with chaos just to see it burn. A man who perpetuates the ideas of pathetic, weak, bimbo women (from his comments about Heidi Klum to his moronic trophy wife to the maddening, sickening situation that is Freedom Kids).
Hillary, though she has some shades in her past, actually cares. Actually tries. Actually takes this seriously. Actually thinks men and women are created equally.
Why would I not vote for her in such a circumstance?
Why would I not jump at the chance to smash the glass ceiling stifling women in America?
I want to be able to tell my future daughters that they can be anything they strive for. And, I want when I say it to be able to hold up an example of that, rather than a backdrop of complete patriarchy.
It's time for a woman to win.
Honestly, I'm not even registered to vote. Though I will be soon.
This isn't because I don't care; it's because first, I'm Oklahoman, so my vote was basically a burner. Second, because I've never been educated enough on the people or the issues to vote.
And, though I am a very strong personality, Until I entered the work force, I had never considered myself a feminist.
I like gender roles, I think women probably are the, for lack of a better term, the "weaker" sex.
I don't really even like most women.
As this election season has progressed, though, it's become more and more difficult for me to contain my feelings.
This morning, after watching Michelle Obama's speech at the Democrat National Convention, I find myself needing an outlet.
At this point, it is pointless to continue to whine about who is running. Your feelings do not matter. What's done is done. Your choice now is to choose out of those two.
Yeah, vote third party and feel good about yourself, but recognize that your vote for a non mainstream candidate means nothing and helps nothing. Sure, it's your way to boycott without actually boycotting, but one of these two candidates will be president. Do you have no moral decency to not at least try to choose? Have some semblance of participation into our future?
Here is why I am voting for Hillary Clinton.
Do not read this as an apologetic for Hillary. Read this as a decision between Trump and Hillary.
Let's call a spade a spade: Obama was elected because he is black.
I have heard many a misogynist claim that it would be unfair to vote for Hillary because she is a woman.
But it is the same thing, friends. Same thing.
My non politically correct feelings have been that given the choices, it's Hillary's turn.
She was FLOTUS, she tried 8 years ago, and she has continued to be fiercely active in order to make any sort of movement as a woman in our political system.
If any woman is running or should win, it should be Hillary. She's the one who has taken the brunt of the criticism for being who she is. The same people who criticized her lack of femininity are the ones now criticizing her for being a woman.
Personally, while I see sexism as being second to racism, I can still see the way that breaking a couple hundred year streak of male-dominated society could start truly changing things for us.
Maybe I wasn't more feminist before because I didn't totally believe there was a reason to be.
However, after working in the professional world for just a few short years, I have already seen how blatant sexism is in the professional world.
The way I dress, the way I talk, the way I express myself, it's all under scrutiny. There is just something essentially wrong with being us. When a man is strong, he is seen as strong. When a woman is strong, she is called everything but that.
We mother children, we are active in the workforce, we are active in our churches and socio-political circles, we pretend everything is completely fine when we lose a couple pints of blood each month.
And we have to do it all in heels.
I have never felt so apologetic for being who I am than during this period of my life. It isn't even my workplace that's at issue, don't misunderstand. It's the whole structure of society that has been designed to make women into pseudo-masculine robots or to oversexualized bimbos.
I was a waitress a few years ago. Sometimes I would get bored. Delivering fajitas can only be so intellectually stimulating. So, I started doing social experiments.
The one that has stayed with me is the one I started after a few weeks of waitressing.
Until this time, I looked like myself. Hair pinned, light makeup, clean.
I recorded my tips from the first three weeks.
Then, I added heavy eye-makeup, bright red lips, a lot of volume in my short hair, and used a higher voice.
From day one of the experiment, I consistently made 20-35 percent or more in tips per day/week.
The same principle hasn't stopped. When I play into my feminine side even now, I am more apt to being liked. It's when I open my mouth, stand up for what I believe, and am unwavering in my convictions that I am seen as a major threat and a bully, when I fully believe that the same words from a man would not be met with such a response.
I am tired of women losing just because we are women.
I am tired of successful women succeeding through sacrifice of who they are.
Yes, there is probably a better candidate out there, there's no arguing that.
However, there isn't a stronger physical manifestation of the diligent fight for women's rights than Hillary. She has clawed her way to where she is.
She has horrible taste in attire.
She's not exactly delicate.
She's an actual criminal.
However, given such a choice between candidates, why would I not choose a woman just to choose a woman?
Trump is clearly a horrendous choice. Sexist, racist, thoroughly narcissistic. A lover of hate. A man who enjoys seeing the world burn with chaos just to see it burn. A man who perpetuates the ideas of pathetic, weak, bimbo women (from his comments about Heidi Klum to his moronic trophy wife to the maddening, sickening situation that is Freedom Kids).
Hillary, though she has some shades in her past, actually cares. Actually tries. Actually takes this seriously. Actually thinks men and women are created equally.
Why would I not vote for her in such a circumstance?
Why would I not jump at the chance to smash the glass ceiling stifling women in America?
I want to be able to tell my future daughters that they can be anything they strive for. And, I want when I say it to be able to hold up an example of that, rather than a backdrop of complete patriarchy.
It's time for a woman to win.
Wednesday, December 16, 2015
Into the Fold
I cried at work today.
We were doing our morning devotions, and today, we decided to do a devotional thought over "O Come O Come Emmanuel", which happens to be my favorite Christmas song.
It also happens to correlate with my favorite Bible verse, which had been weighing on me heavily for the past week or so. This is what I shared and what brought me to big tears of remembrance and of thankfulness and humility.
It re-appeared in my heart last Thursday. I was sitting there beside my boyfriend, our mothers, and our fathers, in the Candlelight service at my university.
As I sat there, I marveled at how far removed and redeemed both our families (and us) had been in the past two years. In the past two years, both our parents had been at places where they thought they had lost their children to darkness forever.
We had thought the same about ourselves.
And in the past two years, we have been restored to joy, to God, and to our families. Granted, more work is yet to be done, but God is so good.
My heart felt full to burst, and the words of Psalm 126 pushed their way into my thoughts:
That's the verse I shared this morning after we sang.
I reflected on my own "return from Babylon" two years ago tomorrow.
I was broken. I was ugly. I was beyond all reckoning.
And my parents opened their arms up and loved me. My aunt, my uncle, my cousin, my grandmother. They loved me and took me as I was: broken. ugly. lost.
And yet, and yet!! the Lord has done great things for me.
Though Decembers cause me to get way too deep in my head and heart and ache with the past woundedness, I know too of the deep joy of restoration to hope and light and life.
The Lord has done great things for us, and we are filled with joy.
We were doing our morning devotions, and today, we decided to do a devotional thought over "O Come O Come Emmanuel", which happens to be my favorite Christmas song.
It also happens to correlate with my favorite Bible verse, which had been weighing on me heavily for the past week or so. This is what I shared and what brought me to big tears of remembrance and of thankfulness and humility.
It re-appeared in my heart last Thursday. I was sitting there beside my boyfriend, our mothers, and our fathers, in the Candlelight service at my university.
As I sat there, I marveled at how far removed and redeemed both our families (and us) had been in the past two years. In the past two years, both our parents had been at places where they thought they had lost their children to darkness forever.
We had thought the same about ourselves.
And in the past two years, we have been restored to joy, to God, and to our families. Granted, more work is yet to be done, but God is so good.
My heart felt full to burst, and the words of Psalm 126 pushed their way into my thoughts:
When the people returned to Jerusalem from captivity in Babylon, they became as those who dreamed. Their hearts were filled with laughter; their tongues with shouts of praise. The people of Earth said to them, "The Lord has done great things for you." Indeed, the Lord has done great things for us, and we are filled with joy.
That's the verse I shared this morning after we sang.
I reflected on my own "return from Babylon" two years ago tomorrow.
I was broken. I was ugly. I was beyond all reckoning.
And my parents opened their arms up and loved me. My aunt, my uncle, my cousin, my grandmother. They loved me and took me as I was: broken. ugly. lost.
And yet, and yet!! the Lord has done great things for me.
Though Decembers cause me to get way too deep in my head and heart and ache with the past woundedness, I know too of the deep joy of restoration to hope and light and life.
The Lord has done great things for us, and we are filled with joy.
Tuesday, November 10, 2015
Prozac Nation: A Confession of Allegiance
Today, I am starting anti-depressants.
It's a decision I have made willingly but have a history of staunchly refusing for the majority of my life.
No, I'm not depressed, but episodes of depression, headaches, nausea, and a whole host of other symptoms have added up to a long, frustrating history with chronic anxiety.
Whether it's social anxiety or the anxiety disorder I've been struggling to conceal since I was a child, anxiety has dominated most every conversation and interaction and self-reflection I've ever had.
I have long feared making this decision because I feared the consequences of what would happen if I were to go off of the medication. Would I be plunged into an even deeper pit than before I started them?
I think I was also scared of feeling "normal."
I've never felt normal.
My happiest moments in life have all been tinged with anxiety. Happiness in itself scares me. I've always worried that if I'm happy, it just means that unhappiness is about to catapult itself toward me in the subsequent moments.
I've gone to counseling, I've joined support groups, I have an accountability partner from group I don't even know the last name of, I've coped, I've exercised, I've gotten fidget tools, I've taken homeopathic helpers, I've prayed. It. Doesn't. Help. Not long-term, at least.
There's a weird mentality about being Christian that if I am a good enough Christian, if I pray hard enough, if I am prayed over, then this will subside. There's a mentality that this is spiritual warfare, not serotonin.
The truth is, this doesn't have anything to do with my faith:
I love God.
I lack the necessary amounts of serotonin receptors.
It is as uncomplicated as that.
I've never wanted to start them in the midst of a major depressive episode because that would be admitting defeat. If there's one thing anyone knows about me, it's that I'm tenacious. I'm insanely tenacious. If I can fix it, I will fix it.
Another frustration in friends and family pushing pills is that they don't deal with my anxiety. They may deal with the effects of my anxiety, but they have no idea what my disorder feels like. They just want me to chill the heck out.
You aren't taking pills! You don't know!!! Don't sell me on something you know nothing of other than researching them.
A year ago, I joined a support group. It's all online, just enough to troll through responses and whatnot. Through that, I met Lubs. She and I are similar ages, struggle with the same thing at the same level of severity, and get on really well. I never went back to the forums after that; we communicate, commiserate, and collaborate.
Her symptoms temporarily subsided around 6 months or so ago, and we lost touch.
Last week, she reappeared and we started our talks again. She had tried all that I had as well and finally had given in to trying medication for her anxiety.
For me, now, the timing is perfect. I'm still striving against my anxiety, but I'm not debilitated. I have a friend who is starting this process with the same struggles I do. I have camaraderie and I have sensibility. No one is pressuring me. It's finally my choice.
Shocker, I'm worried.
What is life without anxiety? Or rather, what is life with chemical stabilization?
I guess I'll find out.
It's a decision I have made willingly but have a history of staunchly refusing for the majority of my life.
No, I'm not depressed, but episodes of depression, headaches, nausea, and a whole host of other symptoms have added up to a long, frustrating history with chronic anxiety.
Whether it's social anxiety or the anxiety disorder I've been struggling to conceal since I was a child, anxiety has dominated most every conversation and interaction and self-reflection I've ever had.
I have long feared making this decision because I feared the consequences of what would happen if I were to go off of the medication. Would I be plunged into an even deeper pit than before I started them?
I think I was also scared of feeling "normal."
I've never felt normal.
My happiest moments in life have all been tinged with anxiety. Happiness in itself scares me. I've always worried that if I'm happy, it just means that unhappiness is about to catapult itself toward me in the subsequent moments.
I've gone to counseling, I've joined support groups, I have an accountability partner from group I don't even know the last name of, I've coped, I've exercised, I've gotten fidget tools, I've taken homeopathic helpers, I've prayed. It. Doesn't. Help. Not long-term, at least.
There's a weird mentality about being Christian that if I am a good enough Christian, if I pray hard enough, if I am prayed over, then this will subside. There's a mentality that this is spiritual warfare, not serotonin.
The truth is, this doesn't have anything to do with my faith:
I love God.
I lack the necessary amounts of serotonin receptors.
It is as uncomplicated as that.
I've never wanted to start them in the midst of a major depressive episode because that would be admitting defeat. If there's one thing anyone knows about me, it's that I'm tenacious. I'm insanely tenacious. If I can fix it, I will fix it.
Another frustration in friends and family pushing pills is that they don't deal with my anxiety. They may deal with the effects of my anxiety, but they have no idea what my disorder feels like. They just want me to chill the heck out.
You aren't taking pills! You don't know!!! Don't sell me on something you know nothing of other than researching them.
A year ago, I joined a support group. It's all online, just enough to troll through responses and whatnot. Through that, I met Lubs. She and I are similar ages, struggle with the same thing at the same level of severity, and get on really well. I never went back to the forums after that; we communicate, commiserate, and collaborate.
Her symptoms temporarily subsided around 6 months or so ago, and we lost touch.
Last week, she reappeared and we started our talks again. She had tried all that I had as well and finally had given in to trying medication for her anxiety.
For me, now, the timing is perfect. I'm still striving against my anxiety, but I'm not debilitated. I have a friend who is starting this process with the same struggles I do. I have camaraderie and I have sensibility. No one is pressuring me. It's finally my choice.
Shocker, I'm worried.
What is life without anxiety? Or rather, what is life with chemical stabilization?
I guess I'll find out.
Wednesday, May 13, 2015
Forge New Roads
Last week, though, I decided it was time to move my long
legs to the outdoors.
I left from my office, which connects to both the
graveyard and the trail that goes around JBU and Siloam.
It's the same path Noah and I used to circle and circle
and circle for 1-6 hours at a time, the same path my sophomore roommate used to
make me run every morning from January to March of 2012.
I hated every second of that run. It was so much harder
than running on the track! I was out of breath, desperate, and saying more
obscenities than my mother would approve of. And it was supposed to have been
an easy run schedule that day. As I ran, my head circled with memories of mornings and
late nights and I knew how the trail would turn and twist and could
anticipate each predictable frustration.
The run schedule for today was more arduous than last
week's, but I found myself energized and capable of doing it without wanting to
give up.
Change: I think that's what it takes, sometimes, to find
new motivation. Kind of like the saying, "if you always do what you've
always done you'll always get what you've always gotten".
I find myself frustrated by people who won't change any
of their habits but constantly complain about the outcomes of those habits.
You're overweight but you won't run.
You're broke but you won't give up your iPhone or monthly
manicure.
You're friendless but you won't go out to meet new
people.
One of my vices was pointed out last year at this time by
a professor I very much admire. When hearing me complain about a recent
romantic annoyance, he looked at me and said, "Odom, you're attracted to
the wrong people."
What.
But he was right. All my relationships or flings or
trysts followed the same trajectory because each person I had shown interest in
was basically the same as the last. And I had wondered when they ended why they
did.
And that's when he brought me (yes brought me) Julius.
I couldn't have made a list of things I deeply needed in
a person because I didn't know until I re-met him. And piece by piece, it became clear that his innate facets fit into mine.
Never would I have chosen a path with him, I had my
chance freshman year when we had met the first time.
My road run with him,
though, is an easy burden. There's always something new to challenge us and
inclines are a thing, but at the end of the day, I'm not exhausted. I feel
good. I feel ready for tomorrow.
So whether it's a person, place, or thing, if you've come
to a path where the rock always melts just before you reach the summit or the water always drains just as your lips reach its rim, try something new.
Tuesday, May 12, 2015
I've Got Bins
This past weekend was absolutely a thrill. My housemate Liz is moving to Oregon at the end of the month, so my moving gift to her (really, it was a thinly veiled gift to myself) was helping her go through all of her belongings in every room and dividing them into keep, trash, and sell piles.
It felt like I was living out my dream of being a member of the "Clean Sweep" team. The most wrongly cancelled program ever. It was like crack for the OCD. I loved it.
You take a room (or two) jack crammed full of clutter from all the years and transform spaces. *chills*
It took us probably around 18-20 hours to get it all done, and we still have some more to price and organize for Saturday's garage sale.
Purging.
Like me, Liz is very sentimental. Her purge involved going through not just her bedroom and crap boxes but the large bins in the garage, the place where memories hide.
Notes, tiny gifts, trinkets, pieces of clothes that don't really fit anymore.
Paper, stuffed bears, keychains, that kind of ugly sweater. If you found it in someone else's closet, you'd want to toss it immediately. None of them are valuable in and of themselves.
Because it doesn't have much to do with the object.
It's the adventure you were on with your family when you found the keychain, the dark place you were in when you received the note, the love that gave you the bear, the sweater that you and your best friend discovered in a thrift store.
We miss the person/place/era. It's a memento from a pin in time that you won't be able to get back to.
Weekends are no longer meant for best friend slumber parties.
Summers are no longer meant for extended family vacations with just your immediate family. You probably don't all fit in the van the same way (babies, wives, husbands).
Hidden presents in your locker from that cute boy you've got a crush on don't happen anymore.
There's just not a reason for ironically ugly matching sweater sets.
We miss our pasts, and when we keep all the crap from them, it's like our way of keeping them just a little bit alive.
The thing is, they're not alive. They keep your present from living and fill your garage with piles of useless, heavy bins.
Throw it away, recycle it, bag it up and take it to Goodwill.
Still too fresh? That's okay. Just be judicious in how much you allow yourself to keep.
"But maybe I'll use this paperwork in the future!!!"
How long have you had it? Have you used it in that time? No? Recycle.
"But I love all the memorabilia I kept from that vacation!!"
Cool. Stick in a jar and make it decor for your home. It can't stay in a box.
You don't have to throw away everything that means something to you, but learn to emotionally distance yourself and let yourself move on. Make practical what you can, take pictures of sweet notes or paste them on to the back of a picture of that friend, make a quilt of old t-shirts, give a cousin/friend the clothes you like best.
Repeat the purge every spring--don't wait for the next moving process (you'll be super overwhelmed)
It's time to let go.
It felt like I was living out my dream of being a member of the "Clean Sweep" team. The most wrongly cancelled program ever. It was like crack for the OCD. I loved it.
You take a room (or two) jack crammed full of clutter from all the years and transform spaces. *chills*
It took us probably around 18-20 hours to get it all done, and we still have some more to price and organize for Saturday's garage sale.
Purging.
Like me, Liz is very sentimental. Her purge involved going through not just her bedroom and crap boxes but the large bins in the garage, the place where memories hide.
Notes, tiny gifts, trinkets, pieces of clothes that don't really fit anymore.
Paper, stuffed bears, keychains, that kind of ugly sweater. If you found it in someone else's closet, you'd want to toss it immediately. None of them are valuable in and of themselves.
Because it doesn't have much to do with the object.
It's the adventure you were on with your family when you found the keychain, the dark place you were in when you received the note, the love that gave you the bear, the sweater that you and your best friend discovered in a thrift store.
We miss the person/place/era. It's a memento from a pin in time that you won't be able to get back to.
Weekends are no longer meant for best friend slumber parties.
Summers are no longer meant for extended family vacations with just your immediate family. You probably don't all fit in the van the same way (babies, wives, husbands).
Hidden presents in your locker from that cute boy you've got a crush on don't happen anymore.
There's just not a reason for ironically ugly matching sweater sets.
We miss our pasts, and when we keep all the crap from them, it's like our way of keeping them just a little bit alive.
The thing is, they're not alive. They keep your present from living and fill your garage with piles of useless, heavy bins.
Throw it away, recycle it, bag it up and take it to Goodwill.
Still too fresh? That's okay. Just be judicious in how much you allow yourself to keep.
"But maybe I'll use this paperwork in the future!!!"
How long have you had it? Have you used it in that time? No? Recycle.
"But I love all the memorabilia I kept from that vacation!!"
Cool. Stick in a jar and make it decor for your home. It can't stay in a box.
You don't have to throw away everything that means something to you, but learn to emotionally distance yourself and let yourself move on. Make practical what you can, take pictures of sweet notes or paste them on to the back of a picture of that friend, make a quilt of old t-shirts, give a cousin/friend the clothes you like best.
Repeat the purge every spring--don't wait for the next moving process (you'll be super overwhelmed)
It's time to let go.
Friday, May 8, 2015
Advice for Aspiring Writers
It's rather ironic that I'm writing this considering that I haven't written creatively in two years now. Nevertheless,
1.) Spend some time each day reading. Read everything. Read non-fiction, fiction, newspapers, smut magazines (People is my favorite), poetry, prose, essays, philosophy, theology, modern, classic, contemporary. Broaden your scope as widely as you can. Inspiration comes from collaboration.
2.) Find a writing friend. My best guy friend for a very long time was named Peter. He is bursting with passion and ideas and words and talking to him is like plugging in to to a supercharger. Every time we would meet up for coffee, I would leave buzzing with residual energy, ready to write volumes of work. Actually, it was after he took me to Panera for my birthday that Woodsy was born. It's my favorite thing I've written, a short novel for a class. Bounce ideas off your friend, exchange pieces with one another for critique and accountability. Friends help you build and keep momentum.
3.) Schedule. Each and every day, whether it's in a notebook or a computer, write. Every day. Preferably during the same time slot every day but at least half an hour every single day. Journal, write a vignette of someone, copy down a conversation you overheard, paint a word picture, music and restaurant and coffee shop reviews, something.
4.) Stay away from screens. Speaking from experience, screens suck out your brain, soul, and creative energy. If you have to be glued to a screen for work, write in a journal for a change of pace.
5.) Get out. Leave your house. Leave the office. Go sit in the lawn and garden section or Walmart, go sit in a coffee shop, go to a local art fair, go to a local flea market, go people watch! Talk to strangers, non-stalkerly watch and listen to strangers, volunteer at nursing homes and talk to old people, babysit, go to museums and make up stories about the people in different paintings or the people who painted them, take a foreign language class at the community college, take a pottery class, go to a wine/painting session (Pinot's Palate is fun). Go, do, collect stories.
6.) If you're a recent college graduate especially, get a job straight out of college that has absolutely nothing to do with your english degree and don't take any crap for it. Work as a dental assistant, waitress, night guard at a museum, do something that will force you to build experience outside of the pages of a book. Collect stories. Make up stories. Re-vision stories you have lived.
7.) "Write shitty first drafts" (in the words of my college writing professor). Don't worry if what you're writing is worth a Pulitzer prize. It's not. Accept it and have fun creating without self-consciousness. You can revise and redesign later.
8.) Write everything. Write poems and prose and non-fiction essays and fiction chapters and short stories and children's stories. Write about the construction and maintenance of garage doors, about the men who maintenance them, about the families of the men who maintenance them, about the hopes and dreams of the kids in the families of the men who maintenance garage doors, about the adventures of imaginary friends in the hopes and dreams of the kids in the families of the men who maintenance garage doors, about the glitter pony unicorn pets of the imaginary friends in the hopes and dreams of the kids in the families of the men who maintenance garage doors.
If you run out of creative juices, remind yourself that you are a creative person because you were creatively made. It's in your genes, in your very DNA. Sometimes it just needs be a little teased out into the open again.
I guess that's where I am, in the phase of telling myself, "I have written, I can write, I will write again."
1.) Spend some time each day reading. Read everything. Read non-fiction, fiction, newspapers, smut magazines (People is my favorite), poetry, prose, essays, philosophy, theology, modern, classic, contemporary. Broaden your scope as widely as you can. Inspiration comes from collaboration.
2.) Find a writing friend. My best guy friend for a very long time was named Peter. He is bursting with passion and ideas and words and talking to him is like plugging in to to a supercharger. Every time we would meet up for coffee, I would leave buzzing with residual energy, ready to write volumes of work. Actually, it was after he took me to Panera for my birthday that Woodsy was born. It's my favorite thing I've written, a short novel for a class. Bounce ideas off your friend, exchange pieces with one another for critique and accountability. Friends help you build and keep momentum.
3.) Schedule. Each and every day, whether it's in a notebook or a computer, write. Every day. Preferably during the same time slot every day but at least half an hour every single day. Journal, write a vignette of someone, copy down a conversation you overheard, paint a word picture, music and restaurant and coffee shop reviews, something.
4.) Stay away from screens. Speaking from experience, screens suck out your brain, soul, and creative energy. If you have to be glued to a screen for work, write in a journal for a change of pace.
5.) Get out. Leave your house. Leave the office. Go sit in the lawn and garden section or Walmart, go sit in a coffee shop, go to a local art fair, go to a local flea market, go people watch! Talk to strangers, non-stalkerly watch and listen to strangers, volunteer at nursing homes and talk to old people, babysit, go to museums and make up stories about the people in different paintings or the people who painted them, take a foreign language class at the community college, take a pottery class, go to a wine/painting session (Pinot's Palate is fun). Go, do, collect stories.
6.) If you're a recent college graduate especially, get a job straight out of college that has absolutely nothing to do with your english degree and don't take any crap for it. Work as a dental assistant, waitress, night guard at a museum, do something that will force you to build experience outside of the pages of a book. Collect stories. Make up stories. Re-vision stories you have lived.
7.) "Write shitty first drafts" (in the words of my college writing professor). Don't worry if what you're writing is worth a Pulitzer prize. It's not. Accept it and have fun creating without self-consciousness. You can revise and redesign later.
8.) Write everything. Write poems and prose and non-fiction essays and fiction chapters and short stories and children's stories. Write about the construction and maintenance of garage doors, about the men who maintenance them, about the families of the men who maintenance them, about the hopes and dreams of the kids in the families of the men who maintenance garage doors, about the adventures of imaginary friends in the hopes and dreams of the kids in the families of the men who maintenance garage doors, about the glitter pony unicorn pets of the imaginary friends in the hopes and dreams of the kids in the families of the men who maintenance garage doors.
If you run out of creative juices, remind yourself that you are a creative person because you were creatively made. It's in your genes, in your very DNA. Sometimes it just needs be a little teased out into the open again.
I guess that's where I am, in the phase of telling myself, "I have written, I can write, I will write again."
Wednesday, January 22, 2014
Ghosts of High Schools Past
Today I went and guest spoke in an apologetics class full of high school seniors. Specifically high school seniors at my own alma mater Metro.
Did I prepare anything? No. The way I figured, I don't really have anything particularly insightful to share, so if the Lord had the audacity to stick me in a classroom full of preppy 18 and 19 year olds then he also has the audacity to stick an hour's worth of words in my mouth.
I can't say that the power of the Lord filled the room and all spoke in tongues, but I can say I had their attention by the end of my talk.
We went through several subjects, like my belief in the power of ordinariness, but they also wanted to talk about authenticity and relationship building. It was that particular answer that shocked them.
I brought into the conversation my aforementioned idea of failure vs. not yet able to succeed in relation to building deep relationships. Some people in high school (myself included) straight up aren't in a place where they are ready to or know themselves enough to make deep friendships or conversation.
And that's okay.
Then, they said that one of the main reasons why they would shy away from "big talks" is that other people might think they're weird, to which I replied, "high school doesn't matter." (you gotta make sweeping statements to snap out snobby snoozers).
But really, my point was (and don't worry. I expounded the point with them as well) that they're seniors. That means, they've got four and a half months left with people that they will probably never have significant interaction with again.
That means, it doesn't freakin' matter if they think you're weird and honestly, in the future, they will look back at your boldness and security in self and be not only impressed but a little wistful that they hadn't started living their lives earlier.
Joining Winter Guard (the most socially unacceptable move I made in high school hands down) was the first step I ever made in embracing my weirdness, flaunting it even. In a blue spandex onesie. I joined without knowing anybody, got made fun of by everybody, and I still look back and see that it was the most fun I had in school and am still thrilled I did it.
So I told them, they have a question to ask themselves: Deep down, do I really want (am I ready to) to live for me or do I really want to live for God?
If the answer is truly "me," then keep on walking down that journey of selfishness and shallowness. You wouldn't be able to hear God even if he tried to talk to you.
BUT, if the answer is "God," then those social things will stop mattering. He honors the requests of those who really do want to learn how to love him better and live out of their true selves. It takes work. And pain. And isn't socially acceptable or fun at times, but it's satisfying.
You can be good on your own. Good at activities, good at social-ness, good at life, really. But you can't be great. And it won't satisfy.
I left them with that option. They can either continue conforming to the social strata that they've set for themselves, or they can start living and creating and having fun fearlessly being themselves now.
Did I prepare anything? No. The way I figured, I don't really have anything particularly insightful to share, so if the Lord had the audacity to stick me in a classroom full of preppy 18 and 19 year olds then he also has the audacity to stick an hour's worth of words in my mouth.
I can't say that the power of the Lord filled the room and all spoke in tongues, but I can say I had their attention by the end of my talk.
We went through several subjects, like my belief in the power of ordinariness, but they also wanted to talk about authenticity and relationship building. It was that particular answer that shocked them.
I brought into the conversation my aforementioned idea of failure vs. not yet able to succeed in relation to building deep relationships. Some people in high school (myself included) straight up aren't in a place where they are ready to or know themselves enough to make deep friendships or conversation.
And that's okay.
Then, they said that one of the main reasons why they would shy away from "big talks" is that other people might think they're weird, to which I replied, "high school doesn't matter." (you gotta make sweeping statements to snap out snobby snoozers).
But really, my point was (and don't worry. I expounded the point with them as well) that they're seniors. That means, they've got four and a half months left with people that they will probably never have significant interaction with again.
That means, it doesn't freakin' matter if they think you're weird and honestly, in the future, they will look back at your boldness and security in self and be not only impressed but a little wistful that they hadn't started living their lives earlier.
Joining Winter Guard (the most socially unacceptable move I made in high school hands down) was the first step I ever made in embracing my weirdness, flaunting it even. In a blue spandex onesie. I joined without knowing anybody, got made fun of by everybody, and I still look back and see that it was the most fun I had in school and am still thrilled I did it.
So I told them, they have a question to ask themselves: Deep down, do I really want (am I ready to) to live for me or do I really want to live for God?
If the answer is truly "me," then keep on walking down that journey of selfishness and shallowness. You wouldn't be able to hear God even if he tried to talk to you.
BUT, if the answer is "God," then those social things will stop mattering. He honors the requests of those who really do want to learn how to love him better and live out of their true selves. It takes work. And pain. And isn't socially acceptable or fun at times, but it's satisfying.
You can be good on your own. Good at activities, good at social-ness, good at life, really. But you can't be great. And it won't satisfy.
I left them with that option. They can either continue conforming to the social strata that they've set for themselves, or they can start living and creating and having fun fearlessly being themselves now.
Thursday, September 26, 2013
First Impressions
Raise your hand if you knew that was Jane Austen's original title for Pride & Prejudice.
Put your hands down, fools, nobody can see you.
*wee rant: Naturally loud people. The kind that want to talk-loudly and about the minutiae of the day's to dos--from the moment they wake up until they fall asleep, slam--accidentally or not--13 doors in the span of a half hour, and just make general noise noise noise all the live long day. I don't get that.*
Yesterday: Continuing on my postgraduate week of events (I attended book club monday and cupcake decorating tuesday), I went to a culture vulture breakfast yesterday morning. I met back up with a girl named Fiona, who looks like she's related to the Weasleys and that is just so cool, and we bonded with a man named Mark.
Together, after I spent a bit of time trying to understand the bowl of cocoa looking coffee powder Fiona tried to convince me was coffee if mixed with water. No. Anyway, the three of us talked over educational differences between our two countries as well as relational culture versus task-oriented culture, and, of course, alcohol, Christianity, and Chicago.
The afternoon, I spent with Oscar Wilde (whose short stories are absolutely wonderful, by the way) and a book entitled The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry (for book club).
Next up on the agenda was an event I signed up for mid-summer, actually: Pride and Prejudice the musical. It was a hoot! Mr. Collins made me laugh out loud on more than one occasion and, I suppose because they were short-casted, the characters of Mary, Lady Catherine, and Anne were all doubles with the men who played Mr. Wickham and Mr. Bennett. Hysterical.
It was at this play that I met Emma and Tom. Emma is a Chinese Brit, named for Emma, knits My Little Pony and Pokemon characters (seriously talented in a bizarre way), has no problem throwing away books, and grabs the hair buns of strangers.
Tom doesn't dream, refuses to kill spiders, and has some very strong views about bees and their keeping--a subject matter which has oddly come up a lot recently.
Afterward, because I'd missed my bus and Elaine had graciously decided to come fetch me, I found myself walking back to Queen's from the theatre. On my way there, I was joined by three toga'd, drunk, sophomores. They kept asking me to join them to their party and just didn't understand when I told them I must disappoint. Though I never leave the house without a toga, I had been caught unawares and was thus togaless.
We got on charmingly until they asked after my gun-handling views. Apparently, pro-gun okies are not popular here. First impressions, eh?
And that only an inconsequential first impression. If they left that encounter thinking I was a gun-slinging cowgirl, that's okay with me. It's the first impressions that matter that concern me.
I am often told I have a dreadful first impression. I'm either too over-eager to be friends that I quite forget myself and don't track what I'm saying and come across as almost panicked for affection or I come across as stand-offish and painfully shy or some find me a terrible flirt (an alternative version of #1).
It doesn't bother me much that people generally remain wary of me until encounter 3 (where I'm told I become quite loveable). The problem is that sometimes I come across people who choose never to see past impression one.
With them, it doesn't matter how long they know me, in how many capacities, or referenced to positively by other people, they will always see panicked and frazzled and unreliable.
If I'm dating your ex, if I smack my gum, if I punched your grandmother in the face, please, dislike me. I'll be okay with it. The area I truly struggle in is when you dislike who you think I am and judge me because of it. There's no way for me to fix it. The Lord and I are working through a particular wrinkle in that area.
It is a humbling process as well as one which looks as though it will be very, very long in the making. What I'm learning is that I cannot work to try to make others see me for who I am. Rather, I have to live and follow after God, seeking his approval alone, and not think about it. Not ignoring them or be rude (which wouldn't happen if I'm truly following God) but not trying to change their minds.
I have to let go of that relationship and allow God to define my reputation. Not me.
So if I walk by a door and hear ungracious chatter about me, ok. If I am chastised unjusty, ok. And if it never gets better and the most that's ever managed is mutual toleration, ok. However, I believe that God is greater than alpha personalities, and if Darcy and Elizabeth could work through their first impressions of one another, surely it'll all turn right. :)
Put your hands down, fools, nobody can see you.
*wee rant: Naturally loud people. The kind that want to talk-loudly and about the minutiae of the day's to dos--from the moment they wake up until they fall asleep, slam--accidentally or not--13 doors in the span of a half hour, and just make general noise noise noise all the live long day. I don't get that.*
Yesterday: Continuing on my postgraduate week of events (I attended book club monday and cupcake decorating tuesday), I went to a culture vulture breakfast yesterday morning. I met back up with a girl named Fiona, who looks like she's related to the Weasleys and that is just so cool, and we bonded with a man named Mark.
Together, after I spent a bit of time trying to understand the bowl of cocoa looking coffee powder Fiona tried to convince me was coffee if mixed with water. No. Anyway, the three of us talked over educational differences between our two countries as well as relational culture versus task-oriented culture, and, of course, alcohol, Christianity, and Chicago.
The afternoon, I spent with Oscar Wilde (whose short stories are absolutely wonderful, by the way) and a book entitled The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry (for book club).
Next up on the agenda was an event I signed up for mid-summer, actually: Pride and Prejudice the musical. It was a hoot! Mr. Collins made me laugh out loud on more than one occasion and, I suppose because they were short-casted, the characters of Mary, Lady Catherine, and Anne were all doubles with the men who played Mr. Wickham and Mr. Bennett. Hysterical.
It was at this play that I met Emma and Tom. Emma is a Chinese Brit, named for Emma, knits My Little Pony and Pokemon characters (seriously talented in a bizarre way), has no problem throwing away books, and grabs the hair buns of strangers.
Tom doesn't dream, refuses to kill spiders, and has some very strong views about bees and their keeping--a subject matter which has oddly come up a lot recently.
Afterward, because I'd missed my bus and Elaine had graciously decided to come fetch me, I found myself walking back to Queen's from the theatre. On my way there, I was joined by three toga'd, drunk, sophomores. They kept asking me to join them to their party and just didn't understand when I told them I must disappoint. Though I never leave the house without a toga, I had been caught unawares and was thus togaless.
We got on charmingly until they asked after my gun-handling views. Apparently, pro-gun okies are not popular here. First impressions, eh?
And that only an inconsequential first impression. If they left that encounter thinking I was a gun-slinging cowgirl, that's okay with me. It's the first impressions that matter that concern me.
I am often told I have a dreadful first impression. I'm either too over-eager to be friends that I quite forget myself and don't track what I'm saying and come across as almost panicked for affection or I come across as stand-offish and painfully shy or some find me a terrible flirt (an alternative version of #1).
It doesn't bother me much that people generally remain wary of me until encounter 3 (where I'm told I become quite loveable). The problem is that sometimes I come across people who choose never to see past impression one.
With them, it doesn't matter how long they know me, in how many capacities, or referenced to positively by other people, they will always see panicked and frazzled and unreliable.
If I'm dating your ex, if I smack my gum, if I punched your grandmother in the face, please, dislike me. I'll be okay with it. The area I truly struggle in is when you dislike who you think I am and judge me because of it. There's no way for me to fix it. The Lord and I are working through a particular wrinkle in that area.
It is a humbling process as well as one which looks as though it will be very, very long in the making. What I'm learning is that I cannot work to try to make others see me for who I am. Rather, I have to live and follow after God, seeking his approval alone, and not think about it. Not ignoring them or be rude (which wouldn't happen if I'm truly following God) but not trying to change their minds.
I have to let go of that relationship and allow God to define my reputation. Not me.
So if I walk by a door and hear ungracious chatter about me, ok. If I am chastised unjusty, ok. And if it never gets better and the most that's ever managed is mutual toleration, ok. However, I believe that God is greater than alpha personalities, and if Darcy and Elizabeth could work through their first impressions of one another, surely it'll all turn right. :)
Monday, September 23, 2013
Tallyho for Tollymore!
Sum up from Friday:
- Made friends with two guys from Malta, two Swedes named Attila (yes, like the hun) and Sanna
- Went to a "ceila", which is a very lively Irish folk dance...thing.
- Other technically "Jamie trying to become a legal student" nonsense.
Now for Sunday! Sunday, instead of going to my normal church, I went with the students to Ballynahich Baptist. It was a lovely church, followed by, of course, tea. Then, a few ladies of the church had prepared lunch for us, so we supped together on--get prepared all you who ask me constantly about the Irish food--rice and curry chicken! hahaha. You actually thought I was going to say something Irish like roasted lamb intestine or something.
There were potatoes, though, don't get me wrong. When in cooking doubt, eat potatoes and wash 'em down with tea.
We washed it down with tea but also with some lovely desserts like this:
I still have no idea what it was. There's some spun sugar Styrofoam type thing in the middle and a different for the crust and some kind of honeyed comb but not honeycomb and whipped cream. Not. A. Clue. But it was good!
After lunch, we headed on toward Tolleymore Forest, the location used as the basis for C.S. Lewis' Narnia as well as JRR Tolkein's backdrop for the LOTR series.
The last time I was in this lovely forest a year ago, I somehow ended up in a restricted section about a half mile away from the forest (and non-restricted zone) on someone's farm, turning around when I saw the "Trespassers will be shot" sign. What? How? Very good questions. Thank you for asking them. Moving on!
Maybe it's the forest and maybe it's me (and maybe it's Maybeline *cue Relient K) but I have some issues with farms and lostness. It happened again. I found some very lovely bridges, though, as well as this rock...thing. Both of which I never would have seen (no picture of the cool forbidden bridge).
It reads:
STOP
Look around and Praise the Name of Him
Who Made It All
When I was in the leadership program at New Life Ranch and we would go on hikes, they would always tell us, "Look up!" And we'd look up and see the way the light played with the different hues in the green and yellow leaves, but we never would have seen them if we hadn't been reminded. Instead, we would have been so focused on the ground right below and in front of us (and all the roots we were trying to avoid tripping on) that we would have kept on trudging with the beauty above unappreciated.
I didn't see this stone. A girl I was with, Abbi, saw it. I passed straight by staring at the path, totally focused on trying to figure out way out of the forest. I didn't stop; I didn't look up.
I'm always trying to find my way out, to seek out solutions, to stay on top of things, to maintain consciousness (again, cue Relient K) that I often get so completely enwrapped in my own head that I don't look around and see the beauty of God nor praise his name for it all. If I would, I'd probably get lost in far fewer forests, for I'd see the signposts just outside my lane of vision.
Thursday, September 19, 2013
The State of State
Day two of orientation. I was both on time and had a second miraculous experience with the buses, both there and back.
Not much of note today, save meeting Cecilia from Italy, Sanna from Sweden, Miriam from Germany, and Daniel from Bellavore. Or something like that. Poor Daniel. When he told me where he was from, I asked him if that was a country or a city. Somewhere crammed up there with Russia and Poland. I shall have to look it up.
Post orientation session and verification that I am, in fact, legal to study in this country, I went on a book hunt. I only have one of my classes' lists, but it is quite lengthy. Thanks to Joris, I knew of a few book shops near school. Two of them were lucky for me, though I deferred the purchases for store two for a different day.
At OxFam books, I found three sort of versions of the books I need. I say sort of because they're not exactly what I need but they suit my purposes. For example, rather than the complete anthology of Oscar Wilde's short stories, I found the complete anthology of Oscar Wilde's works. Yes? Yes.
When I was checking out, the bookman noticed my wee notebook with book list written-in, asked if I were in a rush, then scampered off downstairs to the basement to check to see if any of them were there. Then, when they weren't, he pulled out a giant map of Belfast and traced directions (by way of landmark not north/south/east/west) to two shops he thought could be of use to me.
I am constantly shocked at the kindness of strangers.
Post hunt, I went about in the botanical gardens for a bit.
The green house contraption is full of cacti and hot plants. If you were not aware, I've a particular soft spot for cacti.
Most of today, though, I was homesick. I'm having a lovely time, don't get me wrong. It just so happens that even if your life at home is dull and drives you insane, when you leave it and someone asks you, "Where you from? What's it like?", you get into all the hot wee details about it--how your best friend lives within walking distance and has a cow pasture for a backyard and how you can hear the still-in-use oil rigs going if you go for a walk in quiet hours of the day and how the weather just before and just after a tornado is full and electric and tinges the world with green and how you can switch from country to small town to city within fifteen minutes and how you spent every summer as a mermaid in your backyard pool--and you remember why you loved it in the first place.
It's home. It may not be my home right now or even in the next few years, and it certainly did not give me that feeling of place and true belonging when I was there this summer, despite the presence of my wonderful family. But in my heart, always, there is Oklahoma.
Not much of note today, save meeting Cecilia from Italy, Sanna from Sweden, Miriam from Germany, and Daniel from Bellavore. Or something like that. Poor Daniel. When he told me where he was from, I asked him if that was a country or a city. Somewhere crammed up there with Russia and Poland. I shall have to look it up.
Post orientation session and verification that I am, in fact, legal to study in this country, I went on a book hunt. I only have one of my classes' lists, but it is quite lengthy. Thanks to Joris, I knew of a few book shops near school. Two of them were lucky for me, though I deferred the purchases for store two for a different day.
At OxFam books, I found three sort of versions of the books I need. I say sort of because they're not exactly what I need but they suit my purposes. For example, rather than the complete anthology of Oscar Wilde's short stories, I found the complete anthology of Oscar Wilde's works. Yes? Yes.
When I was checking out, the bookman noticed my wee notebook with book list written-in, asked if I were in a rush, then scampered off downstairs to the basement to check to see if any of them were there. Then, when they weren't, he pulled out a giant map of Belfast and traced directions (by way of landmark not north/south/east/west) to two shops he thought could be of use to me.
I am constantly shocked at the kindness of strangers.
Post hunt, I went about in the botanical gardens for a bit.
Most of today, though, I was homesick. I'm having a lovely time, don't get me wrong. It just so happens that even if your life at home is dull and drives you insane, when you leave it and someone asks you, "Where you from? What's it like?", you get into all the hot wee details about it--how your best friend lives within walking distance and has a cow pasture for a backyard and how you can hear the still-in-use oil rigs going if you go for a walk in quiet hours of the day and how the weather just before and just after a tornado is full and electric and tinges the world with green and how you can switch from country to small town to city within fifteen minutes and how you spent every summer as a mermaid in your backyard pool--and you remember why you loved it in the first place.
It's home. It may not be my home right now or even in the next few years, and it certainly did not give me that feeling of place and true belonging when I was there this summer, despite the presence of my wonderful family. But in my heart, always, there is Oklahoma.
Wednesday, September 18, 2013
The Wonderful Fun-derful No Bad Very Good Day
Today's self-motto was: Be courageous! Be bold! Be darling, be daring, make friends.
And, because it truly was a wonderful, fun-derful no bad very good day, I'm going to give you a wee play-by-play. No worries. It'll be sharp and, hopefully, less than boring.
And, because it truly was a wonderful, fun-derful no bad very good day, I'm going to give you a wee play-by-play. No worries. It'll be sharp and, hopefully, less than boring.
- I woke up in time for breakfast, ate chocolate o's, and did not kill any single one of the chirpy morning talkers. Really there was just one, but she's alive, folks!
- Made it out to the bus stop at exactly the right time and got out at the correct bus stop.
(Who would have ever thought I would be the one at international orientation?) - Met:
- Chelsea: Tulsan. (We're talking Oklahoman. What are the odds?!) Rides my bus, has lived here for 2 years due to her mom's job transfer, and is a first year.
- Ryan: Texan. (I know. Weird. My first two meets are home turf). Here for a semester studying abroad for law. A third year student. Tall. Very.
- Next came dumb American moment number 1: finding the correct line to stand in. In the end, I ended up in limbo and a very pretty, nice pregnant lady found my instruction letter for me.
- [insert welcome intro here]
- Got shuffled to a new building for registration talk. Dumb American moment number 2: I was in the wrong building. Luckily, a very nice South Korean (of dentist studies) took the fall for the six or so of us who were in the wrong room and did not raise our hands when the room was asked, "Is there any of yoos who think you're gettin' a full degree here at Queen's? Well then, you're not in the right place." Had it not been for him, I would have stayed and been very attentive to things that absolutely did not pertain to me but that my pride wouldn't let me leave. :)
- Lunch break. I went to a cafe called Sinnamon. THE RUMORS WERE TRUE: THEY HAD PUMPKIN SPICE LATTES THERE. Good. Moment. Had a lemon slice to attend my latte. It was like a dense, textured lemon pound cake with a thick layer of frost topped with I think coconut shavings. YUM.
- Couldn't get the wifi to work, so I asked a guy with his phone out what magic he used to connect. Of course he was the owner...nice guy! And got on the internet. WOO
- Met:
- An NI architect. Loves the rain, hates phone lingo.
- Library tour.
- THEY HAVE MAGICAL BOOKSHELVES. Bout 20 shelves all squished together, so you can't see the books at all. So, you press a button on either side of the open shelves and another button on the shelf you want open. Then PRESTO they slide closed and slide open. What.
- My immediate first thoughts on bookshelves:
- Easy way to hide a body. (Okay Jamie. Maaaaybe you should ease up on the crime shows...)
- Really cruel way to bully. (Hey kid, betcha can't fit in that empty shelf there! Bully closes shelf as soon as kid demonstrates ability)
- The best hiding spot in hide and seek. (Would require partner. Preferably a new friend still trying to make you like them and not a best friend. A best friend would close you in and leave you. I know. *Re: Broken-footed Hayhay deserted in a grocery cart in Walmart
- Met:
- Joris. From Amsterdam, Holland. Originates from Volu, Holand. Studying Urban planning. Wears neon socks. I spent the most time with him based on his promise of knowing a street of bookshops. He did. :)
- Again, reached the bus stop at exactly the right time and got off, for the first time, ladies and gents, at the correct bus stop! (and the crowd goes wild!)
The end. Love Jamie.
Friday, August 9, 2013
NAKED
Crazy Grandma Ruth loves telling stories. It's like her crack.
One of her favorite stories to tell on us (I say us because honest, I don't have any idea which one of us it's even about anymore) is about the day that (let's just say me, shall we?) I took off all my clothes and took off through the house and yard and street naked, naked, naked, shouting to the clouds, "I'M NAKED AND I LOOOOOOOVE IT!"
Ruthie giggles till she cries when she tells that story.
I am also a storyteller.
At this point, I have written two non-published books. One in creative nonfiction and one in fiction, though the fiction novella is much unedited.
The creative nonfiction book would make sense as to why it would be extraordinarily vulnerable to share. It's my life, for goodness' sake! And I know what you're thinking, "Aren't you a little young to be writing an autobiography?" It's not an autobiography. It's creative nonfiction. Very different. It's a compilation of stories, stylized, and chosen due to similarity in theme.
Fiction, though, you'd think would be just fiiiiiiiine to share.
You are wrong.
Whether or not they mean to, writers embed themselves within the characters of their stories. Struggles and conflicts and desires that they may not even be willing to admit to themselves come out quite clearly in the struggles, conflicts, and hidden desires of their characters.
It's when the story reaches its resolution that the author often has a gasping, "oh no! This is me!" moment.
That's one reason narrative therapy is getting so popular these days. Projecting your thoughts and feelings onto someone else and working through them is a lot easier and more objective than continuing to stare at the back of your mindscape forever.
That's where the fear for me is and, I'm sure, where it is for other writers.
When we share our work, we are letting you see a most raw part of ourselves. We get naked with you.
That's terrifying.
One of her favorite stories to tell on us (I say us because honest, I don't have any idea which one of us it's even about anymore) is about the day that (let's just say me, shall we?) I took off all my clothes and took off through the house and yard and street naked, naked, naked, shouting to the clouds, "I'M NAKED AND I LOOOOOOOVE IT!"
Ruthie giggles till she cries when she tells that story.
I am also a storyteller.
At this point, I have written two non-published books. One in creative nonfiction and one in fiction, though the fiction novella is much unedited.
The creative nonfiction book would make sense as to why it would be extraordinarily vulnerable to share. It's my life, for goodness' sake! And I know what you're thinking, "Aren't you a little young to be writing an autobiography?" It's not an autobiography. It's creative nonfiction. Very different. It's a compilation of stories, stylized, and chosen due to similarity in theme.
Fiction, though, you'd think would be just fiiiiiiiine to share.
You are wrong.
Whether or not they mean to, writers embed themselves within the characters of their stories. Struggles and conflicts and desires that they may not even be willing to admit to themselves come out quite clearly in the struggles, conflicts, and hidden desires of their characters.
It's when the story reaches its resolution that the author often has a gasping, "oh no! This is me!" moment.
That's one reason narrative therapy is getting so popular these days. Projecting your thoughts and feelings onto someone else and working through them is a lot easier and more objective than continuing to stare at the back of your mindscape forever.
That's where the fear for me is and, I'm sure, where it is for other writers.
When we share our work, we are letting you see a most raw part of ourselves. We get naked with you.
That's terrifying.
Thursday, August 1, 2013
Manna Munchies and Jericho Crunchies
I'm a big Jill Briscoe fan.
She's a Christian evangelist who happened to visit my alma mater while I attended.
She's jam-packed with sass and a love for Jesus without being obnoxious. She's what I would call an advocate for practical Christianity.
By that, I mean to say that the things she speaks of have direct application in everyday life.
While she was at JBU, she spoke of daily walking around Jericho.
The Israelites were instructed by God to walk around the Walls of Jericho once each morning. Once.
Now, Jericho was a big 'ole city, and Israel was a pretty shabby looking bunch by the time they'd reached the outer boundaries of this formidable, infuriating obstacle.
I can just imagine the Israelites finally crawling out of their endlessness in the desert, high-fiving each other, seeing Jericho, stopping, and saying, "You're shitting me, right?"
Do we not do the same thing?
I finally crawl out of what seems like an endless struggle or semester or conflict, give myself a pat on the back, then look forward and see what? WHAT?! Another. Right there stretched out in the middle of my life road, just smirking at me like my brother when he's denying he stole my cell phone.
In those instances, we have a tendency to curse, cry, and crack. That's right: give up.
Instead, God told the Israelites (and us) to proceed onward with courage and faith! He who brought you to this place will be faithful to take care of you!
The Israelites could have a. not listened, b. attacked at will, or c. walked around that dang wall once each day.
Jill calls us to do the same thing. Rather than giving up or letting our anxiety mentally pace around our minds all day, we must walk around our wall once each morning, present our worry to God, then live and leave the stress of our problem there until the next morning.
Yesterday, I read her book Here I am Lord...Send Somebody Else! and she discussed the idea of--we're staying with the Israelites for this post--picking up our daily manna, our daily provision from the Lord.
Practical application: spend time with the Lord first thing each morning, collecting enough soul food to sustain you for the day. Not the week. The day. Tomorrow has enough worries of its own.
He is faithful. He will provide for you new nourishment every single day. We just have to leave our tent and pick it up. We could even walk around our Wall of Jericho while we're at it.
The point is, we are not just laying something down, we're also picking something up. Like how in yoga you breathe out the bad energy and breathe in the good energy, we stamp down our anxiety and pick up our manna. Every day.
And Jericho? Didn't you hear? It fell. Not one stone was left atop another.
And Jericho? Didn't you hear? It fell. Not one stone was left atop another.
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