First Year's Stones and Waffles

Marriage year one is in the books. There were so many firsts for me in our love story, but they were mostly seconds for Julius. Of course, every experience is different, but it feels really nice to say that our first anniversary was the first wedding anniversary he's ever had as well.

Our first year, I suppose, was very straight-forward. And, in others, not so straightforward. There's no "normal", though, so I guess we were normal.

We kicked it off with a honeymoon at Galveston beach, which is quiet and quirky and perfect for us. Then a week with my family at the lake.

It felt like I left almost as soon as we got home, however. Texas scooped me up for five straight weeks. In the moment, I really like travel season. Months before I start in with the anxiety and dread. Luckily, last year this manifested in packing up meals to freeze. By the time I left, he had a meal for each and every meal that I'd miss. Needless to say, the freezer was packed. Meanwhile, Julius played tennis, went to work, hung out with his friends, and went to graduate classes. I couldn't help but feel he had more fun than I did.

We had our struggles. Like me coming back from travel season to find the dishes not done for 5 weeks and a stench of a bachelor in every room. This was not aided by the old individualistic patterns that had allowed themselves to reinstate in us during our 5 weeks apart.

It took a while, but we got back into a groove. Meals started reappearing with consistency, the floors and bathrooms, dishes, were cleaned, laundry was washed and folded, roles began to establish in terms of who does what.

Winter sunk in, and with it, the darkness. It's hard to go play and do when the world closes in around you even before you leave the office. We learned hard lessons about togetherness and friendships. How, when your work and class schedules dominate your time, sometimes you have to sacrifice additional fun things with non-spouse friends because, well, you haven't seen your spouse in days.

We learned about grace and immediate honesty, how that generally bodes better than eventual honesty. We learned about unlearning.

Family was new again, as well. His who had been used to him living with them now had to share and relinquish. Mine who is used to me showing up often had to anticipate me less and for shorter periods of time. I experienced what only-child holidays are like, and he learned to cope with what I'm sure felt like repeat scenes from My Big Fat Greek Wedding.

We discovered that we get along best if I drive. He also learned the importance of packing snacks. Always.

Probably hardest was finding the balance between roommate and romance. He was used to coming home and disappearing away to be by himself for hours. I was used to coming home to a happy house of introvert women I loved with all my heart. Even if I was alone in my room, best friends were right outside. Marriage changed both those things. Julius had to learn to communicate with another person when he got home--and that coming home is an essential part of that equation. Meanwhile, I was alone. How does a reclusive introvert with an open office layout day job make friends and engage with others when she leaves work if she comes home to an empty house? How do you not attack your husband with love and a desperate need to connect when he arrives home exhausted and uninterested in connection? Where do those needs find balance?

At the end of the year, two very strong-willed, hot-tempered people found ways to compromise, to learn, and to love one another. We threw stones, we made waffles, we figured it out.

Struggles to Human

Let's talk plainly about social anxiety.

Personally, I find it frustrating.
Yes, also debilitating at times, but frustrating.

For me, I gt so angry with social anxiety because social anxiety feels selfish to me.
There's an event, usually very casual, that's designed to be fun and easy and you, because you just can't handle it and just can't help it, make it about you.

At the same time, I recognize that it isn't something that I can think myself out of, though I have indeed tried.

There have been some methods of coping that I have learned and have imparted to other of my socially anxious friends. Things such as going to check out that restaurant/school/baseball field/shopping mall before you have to go there with a friend or date.
Things like searching on the internet for a campus map if you're visiting a university friend or a museum or a hospital.
Knowing the name of the person you're dropping by to see: "Hi! I'm here to drop off materials for Angie Smith".
Doing anything to get acclimated to the new surrounding.

For me, a lot of my social anxiety is over-stimulation.
I can handle brand new location if I'm with someone I'm very comfortable with.
Or, I can handle a brand new person if I'm in a location I'm comfortable in.
I can even handle brand new location with brand new people so long as I have one solid person I know.

It's when everything is new, everything is unstructured, everyone is new that my ears drown and I can't hear what anyone is saying to me and I can't differentiate shapes and shadows and my heart starts racing and my nails start sinking into my palms and I have missed that gap in time where I can recover and cope and have disappeared into the dark place where I need to run away and cry and find solitude and silence.

It's embarrassing. It's selfish. And yet, at the same time, it isn't intentional even a bit, which is a key aspect of selfishness I think. More than anything, we'd like to feel like we were a part of the wallpaper, able to observe without the pressure of engagement. Able to exist without being noticed too much but still kind of noticed. Noticed enough.

It's a struggle I sometimes feel I've learned to manage.
And it's a struggle that still knocks me completely flat and bepuddled when it isn't on my radar to prepare for.

Waking Up is Hard to Do

Done wrong, mornings are the worst.

Have you ever deliberately thought about about mornings through an anthropological lens? 

Who wakes up early? Who wakes up at 2pm? 

Of those who do either, what do their lives look like? 

And of those, which are choosing to rise and which and forced? 

I often joke about how much I dislike greeting the day. 

A large part of that is because I know how lovely mornings can be. 

My senior year, I would wake up, go work out for half an hour, come back and sit on my balcony, eat breakfast and journal/do my devo. 

Then I would get ready for class and leave. On time. 

More importantly than anything else, NO ONE WOULD TALK TO ME. No one else was awake either in my house. I was alone. 

It was the most beautiful beautiful beautiful part of every day and I looked forward to it each morning. 

For that hour and a half or so, I had flawless, unadulterated silence. I could start my morning fresh and lovely. 

It was important to me. 

Doesn't matter what time I wake up, someone in my house is already awake and interacting with me, verbally or nonverbally. I cannot handle it. So I stay asleep an extra hour and a half, wake up sleepy, and barely make it on work each day. 

But I love my job. 

Other people I know dread mornings for very different reasons. 

When I waitressed, I knew so many who worked the night shift, stayed up all night drinking and smoking pot (and doing lots of other nighttime activities), waking up at 2 in the afternoon, showering, and making it to their 3:30 shift. 

Because why would they wake up? Wake up to hangovers and empty time and too many thoughts of, "What am I doing with my life?" The people I knew couldn't wake up early because they didn't want to think. What they live is not a life. It's a pattern. It's a schedule. And they don't even make the schedule themselves. 

When I lived alone, I never greeted the morning. My eyes opened to text every few hours of the 24, but there wasn't a conscious decision to get up, get out, get going. 

I've known many others like that as well. Early nights and late mornings. Because we don't want to be awake at all. We don't want to exist. And we can't stay to a schedule. Not ours nor anyone else's. 

Then the early risers.

The at-home moms, the at-work moms, the working fathers, the multiple job workers, the interns, both sexes of the unmarrieds. Driven, determined, potentially robotic, but steely and resolute nonetheless. 

Their actions are measured and backed by a goal: I will pay my rent, I will buy 10,000 diapers, I will get that promotion, I will take care of my family, I will get this recommendation, I will fill I will build I will win. 

What's ironic about the life of the sleepers and the life of the sleepless is that it is often driven by the same thing. 

Very often, on both poles, is the desire not to think. To work, to exist, to make what's needed to survive (or thrive), but not to really live. 

I'm sure there's balance out there, and I'm sure there are those who fall outside the categories of observations I've noted here, but I find that without careful measurement and very conscious efforts of spending time alone to unknot my thoughts with myself and the Lord (especially at the start of the day), I lean and fall into the pattern of doing life and avoiding active participation in it. 

Write What You Live What You Know

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

I'm a Writer.

Morbid Introspect is the encyclopedic definition.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Record all of it.
Remember all of it.

One Step Closer

I like word searches.
I don't know why; there's no particular skill set needed to complete them (aside from basic literacy..but not really even that), but I find I have a knack for the thing.

Well, writing research papers, for me, is just like a really long (way more literate, hopefully) word search.
The word search is even in it.

Now, you've endured reading my complaints about that all-inclusive poetic list of every.single.notation of weather-related terms in Derek Mahon's poetry and also my long and instructive post about my theories about the most effective way to write a research paper.

Today, I actually completed one.
(and everybody said "AMEN!")

5 days, 1,000 words per day, and here we are, folks. Alive and well.

And, thank goodness, it turned out that that personal file of meteorological facts came so so much in handy.

I'm a little neurotic about writing papers.
And everything.

There has to be a method to it.
It doesn't have to be my method, but it has to be a method.
Preferably a my method...

It may be an ISTJ thing. 

a. I make a Quotes Page
b. (particular to this paper) I had my weather notes
c. "The Draft"
d. a clean, unsaved, new document which acts as the "under construction" page.
e. Later, there is a "final" page.

Nothing is to be written on the actual drafts page. I try sometimes. Then my mind just gets cluttered and overwhelmed with how much crap is going on.

Section at a time.

I write a section, pulling all the quotes I think I may want from my quotes page, as well as their citations, and write my paragraph(s). When that's done, I take both the paragraphs and the citation and insert it into the draft. Only there is it formatted.

Delete draft page.

Make new draft page (important for some weird reason).
Piece by piece, I work my word search.

By the end, I have a beautifully color-coded Works Cited page, a single-spaced (double is overwhelming) draft, and my name at the top.

Wait a week (so I can catch errors more easily).

Copy and paste all of that into a new document, put it in a weird font (so I can catch errors more easily), read it aloud to somebody (so I can catch errors more easily), edit the heck out of it, making sure everything is correctly punctuated and referenced, change my Works Cited page to black, change all of it to double spacing, and SAVE.

Submit.

I'm currently in the waiting phase, but my 5,000 words are carved and crafted and waiting to be cleaned.
This is such a good feeling.

One more 3,000 word paper.
One 3,000 word bibliography (which weirdly and wonderfully counts as a paper).

Then I get to fly home.

Hallelujah!!!

Forgotten Principles: Taking Care of the Introvert Within

I ride the line hard between introvert and extrovert.

I adore time spent in PLAYPLAYPLAY with friends and family and strangers alike, but if I don't get time to myself, all my nuts and bolts start trailing behind me in a hellblaze, and I usually end up crying somewhere public. (Same goes for Undersocialized Jamie).

In high school this need was only partially satisfied, but I didn't fully recognize either my needs or the fact that there was a way that could satisfy them.

Every day, I'd arrive home somewhere around 3:30ish, putz about the house, maybe make a snack (apple, yogurt, almonds) or go for a short bike ride with my best friend Haley.

Then, promptly at 4, I'd plop down in the gameroom, turn on ABC family, and watch Gilmore Girls for an hour in a sort of coma. During this hour, any attempt at interaction with me would prove to be both futile and hostile.

If I got this time, I was more likely to behave as a human being for the remainder of the evening and next day.

In college, after a year or so crash-coursing how to take care of myself well, I realized that I could be hardcore social and academic if I disappeared every Saturday.

It wasn't enough to hide out in my room because you could hear straight through the walls and I lived with a few hundred other girls, so peace wasn't even feasible. No way.

So, every Saturday, I packed a full bag of homework and drove to Arsagas (now Onyx Coffee Lab) on the border between Tontitown and Springdale with Bess, my car and only acceptable Saturday companion.

Despite the fact that coffee shops have other people in them, I didn't know those people, so it counts as introvert time. Not the most preferred option, but delicious in comparison to the alternative.

For the next 8 or so hours (however long I could go until my stomach growled so loudly it alarmed other people), I would study by myself, drinking coffee (I'm so slow at coffee drinking that it usually lasted my stay), and just enjoying not being around "my people,"

Then, satisfied, I would drive home to hang out with my friends.

Every Saturday.

Maybe it was because I didn't get enough sociality to consider my Saturday outing important, but I have not deliberately spent time by myself for a very long time, until today.

Introvert Friday has consisted of laundry, kitchen cleaning, sheets changing, vacuuming, email answering, extracurricular reading, content developing, cooking, and now blogging. In short, it has been productive and fulfilling.

It is not my belief that I could do this every day, but when I don't make that time a priority, I also lose my ability and stamina and desire to even try the rest of the week.

It's different than Sabbath. It's like anti-Sabbath obligatory selfishness. It's a big beautiful chunk of unstructured structure with thick homework icing on the top. YUM. The nerdy introvert life is so good.

And Then You

I was an inverted human bell curve the last week my Kanukukers were here. No, that's not an "I've gained the weight of a potato-bred sheep" joke, it's a math metaphor. They're rare. Soak it in.

High: Emily and Eli ditched their plans to spend their final Saturday going ice skating to come along with me instead and meet up with Adam in City Centre.

They didn't know him, and they could have no reason for wanting to meet him, aside from doing so because he is one of my best friends.

We three took the bus and strolled about for a while looking for him, finding on our way an extremely sketchy alley leading to one of my favourite Belfast book stores Chapman & Keats.

We found him at the loopdeydoop (his description) statue and, from there, proceeded to West for lunch.

West is a sandwich shop, so here mentioned because it possessed a very rare quality for a sandwich shop: They ran out of bread. ...what? They literally closed the shop up for the day after we walked in because of this. Only in Belfast...

Then home to play some games and music and back out that evening for Maggie Mays (a local spot for students, complete with delicious milk shakes).

*Local note: Here, a milk shake is exactly what it sounds like. Milk, shaken with a flavour of your choice. Not ice cream.

Maggie Mays was probably the most fun part, as we went about the circle asking each other questions such as, "What colour would you want a cow?" and "If you could name a street, what would it be?"

I met Em and Eli one month ago. One month friends don't meet and spend the entire day with home friends, at least not in my experience. And if they do, they're awkward about it in one way or another.

They made it feel so natural and easy, much like they made my own transition. They made an effort to like my friend just because they like me. It was meaningful and yet unconsciously so, I'm sure, to them.

The low followed, maybe because of the deepening in my sentiment and attachment to them through this. It didn't seem fair, getting them then having to let them go again. And, true to form, I started to shove them out, glibly making comments about them leaving forever and giving them "the timeline."

The timeline is a principle I developed last year to try to make my friend Heather cry. I'm not evil, she just cries unnaturally easily and it's funny. It was a bonding thing.

1. Separation.
2. A few skype dates, multiple texts, and a phone call on the occasion.
3. Turns to Facebook messages.
4. Turns to the occasional Facebook message.
5. Turns to writing on their Facebook wall on their birthday.
6. Turns to seeing their name pop up on their birthday, not recognizing their name (maybe they've gotten married), and deleting their friendship.

It's actually a pretty accurate timeline, but it also isn't fair, as pointed out by Eli.

I'd spent the evening in my room by myself and had also decided not to attend the next day's trip to Whitehead Lighthouse, and we got in a fight about it because I was being selfish in distancing myself to deaden the separation pain.

I ended up going, and it was an absolute blast of a day.

The wind was shove-you-into-the-rocks-below insane, so Emily and I tried to fly, naturally. The walk around by the lighthouse was rocky and salty with ocean spray with caves along the path where pirates used to smuggle salt and butter, and a trip to Carrickfergus Castle followed, where the three of us played a friendly game of Dragons and Ladders.

*Local note: Salt used to be placed in the centre of formal rooms at parties as a symbol of wealth. The more salt you had, the more soldiers you would be able to feed during the winter because salt preserves meat. No salt, no wealth, no protection. Thus, pirates.

That night, we walked all around our neighbourhood collecting ingredients then going back home and baking S'Mores cookies and Nutella Peanut Butter cookies. YUM.

I would have missed all of that had he not caught me enacting my normal "kill the relationship before it kills you" plan. I guess I can be pretty cynical (I prefer the term realistic) about that kind of stuff.

But then I think about Kira and Tyler.

We three met the same day seven years ago in June for two weeks of the Nehemiah program at NewLifeRanch.

And now, seven years later, Kira and I are still best friends, and Tyler and Kira are getting married...in June. :)

There's a solid chance Eli, Em, and I could all fall apart soon, but it's not only not fair for me to act out of that mentality, it's not true.

Sometimes, realism just isn't realistic. Humans happen. Freak accident friendship happens. There isn't an airtight timeline. Man, thank God for that. And thank God for people put in my life to remind me of that.

Deep, Pockets That Is

I think I'm wearing boy jeans. I've no actual evidence to support this theory, but I snatched them from the students' give away clothes pile (Jeans and I struggle, so I'm always on the prowl for a fit) and they have pockets large enough to actually hold something in them. Given that all girl jeans have unreasonably small pockets (both front and back and count your lucky charms if the fronts aren't faux), logic stands that they must be male.

I am okay with this fact.

If you're tracking with me, you'll also recognise that a donation pile means I've once again been abandoned. Enormous piles of laundry surround me currently, as I sit at the top of the staircase to write this, and I've got two full months to ready the house for my group of fifty coming in May. This house sleeps 38. I've got some creative rearranging ahead of me.

This past month has been so wonderful (if you've read my few wee posts, you'll already know that. If you haven't, well then, do so as I'm not going to reiterate myself and bore the others).

I've learned just how on the line between introvert and extrovert I am.

Literally have had less than a couple evenings/afternoons by myself and haven't had a hermit breakdown, but I also find myself rather relieved that they're gone.

I've loved them and will miss them dreadfully soon, but my body and type Aness are a bit exhausted and confused at the way I've been treating them.

It's time to rearrange my sleep schedule into normal hours again, start doing my homework thoroughly, and just overall rebecome more productive.

However, I have a couple of things to say in slight defence of how I've lived this past month.

First, I came to Queen's not because I was particularly interested in school (which I was) but because I was interested in Northern Ireland as a place. I fell in love with this country, so I found a program to suit me. Not the other way around.

Therefore, if there was ever an opportunity to explore NI presented to me, of course I chose that (and rightly so!) over secluding myself in the house.

Second, they were only here for a month.

Therefore, it was good and right for me to maximise my time with actual human beings, the likes of which I will not get to be with again until May (at least not in my house).

Third, I have never ever been the type to demonstrate in my life organisation the fact that I value people more than tasks.

It's one of the defining qualities that drew me into NI in the first place, that they do that.

And yet, it goes so much against basically everything I stand for, as I think I've mentioned in a previous post (whichI will link here if I remember what it is).

I just don't. I get things done and THEN will spend time with you.

Not this time.

I think that's important.

Obviously it's not something sustainable for me to do--as it had a direct hit on my actual studies and work--but for a short while, I can not think of anything which would have been more healthy.

So thank you, Jesus.

He is just so good. I never would have even begun to fathom or ask for the beauty and restoration this past month has been for me.

And, because I was so shoddy at posting my adventures throughout the month, keep watch for some tardy write-ups and pictures of them.

Snapshots Sans Snapshots

Family Christmas: 

Joey, Cristin, and their two not-so-wee ones Harrison and Gianna finally, finally made it back to Tulsa from their new home in Georgia to spend a few days. 

Therefore, family Christmas!! That means, tons of children (and Jacob) running about crazy, just so excited to have some cousin time. We ex-kid table-ers were pretty excited about it, too. :) 

I've never been a huge fan of children. They're loud, they have altogether too much energy, they're easy to step on, and they're sticky. HOWEVER, nieces and nephews seem to slip right on past that rule. 

There are few sounds more precious than hearing my nieces or nephew (Sam can't talk yet) yell "Aunt Jamie!", or any form of that. 

And I get the great honor and privilege of filling their heads with complete nonsense. I love them. Even if I don't necessarily spend tons of time with them in town, just knowing that they are near is comforting. When I leave, I always hurt to know that there are whole tracts of their lives I will miss. Shoot, Harrison and Gianna are giants compared to when I saw them last. 

But then we're all back together, and all is well. 

Trifecta Christmas:  

I guess we're officially adults now because no selfies were taken whatsoever.

On the other hand, we did put together a puzzle made from one of our particularly favorite selfies thanks to Hayhay.

The evening was spent as it darn well should. Food, friendship, and ice cream on the kitchen floor. 

We're rather simple in our fun-having with one another, but I think that's how it should be. We don't require diversion to be totally satisfied in the presence of each other. We may require Rocky Road and the occasional cocktail, but those are just perks. 

I'm always pleasantly surprised and thankful at the way our friendship has flexed, adjusted, and grown over the past five years. We've made it through breakdowns, boyfriends, cross-country and cross-cultural moves, and all sorts of in-betweens. 

None of us really understand how or why we work together, but we appreciate the fact that we do. We make for a good team, the three of us (and occasionally the lovely Kira).  

"I'm Just a Girl Who Can't SayNo": 

I personally struggle with boundaries. I say yes to just about everything, so long as it isn't destructive or dangerous. Or a practical joke, because those suckers just escalate, and ain't no way I want to be in that cross-fire. You're on your own. 

If I don't have a really, really good reason (or a superior good reason to their good reason) I can't help but say yes because I know if I were in the other person's position, I would want them to say yes to me. 

That's how I ended up judging a high school debate tournament yesterday, yet again. 

Don't get me wrong at all! I love debate. It’s like fencing: calculated, classy, and intelligent.

I've judged tournaments every year since I graduated, upon request. It's interesting, I learn things, and it gives me an opportunity to provide constructive feedback. 

However, with only a few days left in the country, I wasn't exactly thrilled to be asked. 

Nevertheless, I came. 

THIS TIME, though, I set boundaries! I said I'd stay till 8. I did. Then, when they handed me new judging ballots (for a round to which I had not agreed), I said no politely and went on my merry way to watch Snow White with my niece and nephew. 

Then, (I was on a roll, I tell ya), I said no to suggested Saturday social plans. I didn't have alternative plans, I just didn't want to go. And that is what I said, nicely.

SmallTalking and Gnashing of Teeth

End of semester banquet for the students was this evening.

It was a truly lovely event held at the Ramada. Everyone cleaned up purdy for an evening of commemoration of a wonderful semester together.

The top photo is of the staff, the one on the bottom left here is with Chuck. He kept me laughing and hugged throughout the semester. I'd come out of my room from several hours straight of studying and at the point of weep-laughing, and he'd look at me and just open his arms. A few weeks ago he told me that everytime he sees me, he knows there's always a 40% chance that I need snuggles. Goofy guy. His "friend" has a good catch in him.

The second photo there is with Erynn  Lasse. At the first of semester, every time she'd walk in the room, I'd think to myself, "Oh my good Lord, that girl is tall." Turns out, she always thought the same thing about me. It took us until mid semester to realize we are exactly the same height. Her heels in this picture are higher than mine. Let me tell ya, it is really, really nice to have a tall friend.

Seating was arranged. I was positioned between four trustees and four best friends.

The trustees closest to me were one an old man with severe hearing loss and an old woman who was so soft-spoken I couldn't hear a single word she said.

Now, you may not know this, but when I fill out resumes, "small talk" is not something I add to my strengths section. It's so bad that my roommate sophomore year literally gave me small talk lessons each evening before she'd let me go to sleep. Laugh, please. It's funny, but it was invaluable.

Mostly tonight, I concentrated on looking pleasant and smile when spoken to (because I couldn't hear anything anyone was saying to me over the din).

The sweet couple really wanted to talk to me. Impossible.

My favorite moment with him was when he told me about his son. He'd talked about him for a while, so I asked various questions, leading to:

"So, how old is your son?"
*man outlines '78' on the table and says* "that many is how old I am"
"Oh. Okay. Wow. How old is your son?"
"Oh! The titanic district opened only about a year and a half ago."

At that point, I gave up and answered with feigned revelation about a year and a half ago being the anniversary of the ship sinking.

The whole evening, I channeled Lauren Ware, smiled, nodded, and tried to bury the completely panicked  introvert inside me trying to escape to the nearest corner.

I am fairly convinced there is a special ring in hell requiring an eternity of alcohol-less/tranquilizer-less pleasant small talk.

It made for great story telling and big laughs later on with the students. Awkward small talk in the moment could not be more painful, but oh my goodness, save up several stories and pull them out of your pocket for the perfect ice breakers later on in life.

Love is Not a Feeling

I'm a really big fan of Myers-Briggs personality types. It's actually one of my hobbies to watch people and try to guess their letters.

I am an ISTJ. A sensing, thinking, judging, introvert. It suits me pretty well. Famous ISTJs include a whole host of military leaders such as George Washington, Dwight D. Eisenhower, and Stonewall Jackson. If you're not picking up on this, I'm not exactly a gushy gushy feeler. I'm logical.

Feelings are important, but feelings (and feelers) are also often mislead and driven by their emotions.

Love is not a feeling. Love is a decision.

Sometimes, it can be both, and that is really lovely, but being dependent upon some will of the wisp emotionalism to decide important relationships in your life is not okay.

I bring this up to (once again) talk about the Lord.

He and I are taking life one single day at a time right now, and to be honest, I'm having a pretty difficult time here in NI. Learning a lot, not mourning my losses, but just ready to go home and feel like I fit and belong somewhere.

I've written about that a lot, the concept of "home." I don't know where mine is. The home of my childhood will always be my point of reference, but my friends have moved on from there; Arkansas was my college home, so it's already altered from what it was when I was there; Here is home in location and home in practice.

For me, give us this day, our daily bread is give me an exact measure of fortitude to stand up under this day.

If my love for God were feeling-based, we would be on the outs right now.
But it's not.
It's an accumulation of decisions: chosen actions, chosen thoughts, chosen views of his character. I trust him.

I trust that being here is exactly the right place for me and all the consequences of being here what I need to be drawn closer to him.

At the same time, the moments he gives me a break from this taffy-pull growth are delicious.

Last evening, sort of by accident, we had living room snuggle/worship time.

For I don't even know how long (a couple hours at least), one of the guys played the guitar and we worshiped together. The room was dark-ish, the fake fire glowing, and we were all set at ease to spend time individually, communally with God.

It reminded me of NLR Unplugged nights back when I worked at camp. Friday nights, we would pack into the chapel, light candles all over and a fire (even though it was 1000 degrees), and sing together. There is something powerful and awesome about cutting out the electric (lights and instruments) and lifting up your praise together with fellow believers.

For me, there were no chills of holiness nor a feeling of staunch resistance. There were no ping-ponging thoughts or self-consciousness about my singing. No feelings of any kind. For some, this would be discouraging. Not for me.

Still. 

For those two hours or so, I wasn't wrangling my own psyche into the straight and narrow path. I just got to sit on dry ground and sing while the Lord held back the walls of the Red Sea of my mind. And I realize I've mixed some metaphors there, but I'm also okay with that.

I want to go home. That is my feeling. If I followed my feelings, I would be on the next plane to Tulsa.
I am a follower of Jesus. That is my action and decision and statement of devotion. That is love.

Oot

Though I will freely admit my hermit ways, I do occasionally mix with the outside world in a social manner. This week, I did so not one, not two, but three different evenings. Not entirely of my own volition, but it's really not the thought that counts...

Uno:
Mondays are community group nights! Shelby and I have missed the past few due to lack of transit, but we made sure to get there this week. Wes (the leader) had told us to bring our fun hats and be ready to party. Uhm. Yes. I am always about fun hats. Get it from my Grandma Ruthie. :) (Family joke. Slash, family reality).

There were no actual fun hats involved this time, but there was a good deal of this:

Everyone but we two Americans had heard of this game. What you do is start out with an empty cereal box. Put it in the middle of the room and, without anything but your feet touching the ground, pick it up with your mouth.

After each "round", the box is cut down further until only a wee flat square on the floor remains. It's such good fun. Even the elderly lady in our group joined in. More flexi than you'd expect. Although the tongue waggling down from her mouth toward the box is something my mind won't be able to erase.

The whole thing was hilarious. Then came a nice friendly game of mafia.

I'd say the evening was fun hat title appropriate. A good community laugh is always an excellent way to render people more comfortable with one another.

Dos:
Evening two was the Storehouse Fashion Show held at Cafe Vaudeville which, by the by, is gorgeous.

The fashion show was high fashion vs. pre-loved clothing, as one of the branches of Storehouse is a clothing bank, the goal of which is not only to clothe people but to clothe them in things they can feel confident in, things they'll like. 

To that end, I can see how that could seem vain or "not quite in the realm of outreach" But to me it makes sense. Rich or poor, you want to feel as though what you wear reflects who ya are, not who somebody else defines ya as or what you're forced to be defined as because of your position in life. I dunno. Judge for yourself. 

Shelby, Abbi, and I met up at the bar with two of our Belfast best friends, Lynsey and Lauren. Absolutely love them. Shelby compares them to squirrels. In a good way. They're quite energetic and talk enormously quickly, especially to one another. We can almost never understand them. It's a time one wishes for subtitles. 

They're a blast to be around, though, despite our need for a translator (who, when she's around is Kiera). It's been a pleasure to have them adopt us into their lives.

Tres:
I done geared up and snazzed up in a right adult (pronounced "ah-dull-t" for you non okies) fashion to attend a postgrad party at Queen's.

Everything from my earrings, dress, heels, and jacket was styled entirely by somebody who isn't me; namely, my mother. It deserves recognition, really. When I left for college, she started reading 'InStyle" fashion magazines. I come home and she's all chatty about Katie Holmes and knows what's hott and what's not and what's on the fashion horizon.

It was all very disorienting, but has been beneficial in the alteration of my street urchin style ways. Guaranteed if you compliment me on something cute I'm wearing, I'll respond with "mom-buy."

Enough about my fashion-forward mother, though. Let's talk about social gatherings.

Dante had a lot of things pretty dead on, I think. But a chunk of his Inferno must have gone missing pre-publication. There's just no other explanation for the utter lack of a social gathering hell ring.

There are few things worse than walking into a crowded room and seeing no one you know.
Conversely, there are few things more relieving than encountering said event then hearing your own name called out.

Helloooooo Patti! Out of the whopping seven of my classmates, only two of us showed.
Patti and I found a nice wee place and chatted over psychoanalyzation and social theory for the better part of an hour. It was actually very nice to get to know her outside of class. Especially because (drumroll please) she'll be joining my class of one! Upping our attendance by half. Thank God.

Did that change the fact that I was 20 minutes late and left an hour early? No. But it made the 45 minutes of attendance quite tolerable, if not enjoyable, indeed.

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. :)

Yes Man.

Yes Woman to be precise.

My new plan is to say yes where I normally would say no. Okay, so last night's saying yes to the museum poetry discussion then backing out last minute was kind of antithetical to this plan, but today, while I was cheerily organizing the library bookshelves (my current project), Elaine asked if I'd like to join her to Lisburn.

"No thanks."

Then, despite my desire to not put on outing-acceptable clothing, I went. It was very good for me, I think. I spent a bit of time with Elaine, got out of Belfast in something other than a bus, and it was out of my comfort zone.

In Lisburn, I walked about the shopping area then found the words "Castle Gardens" on a sign-post heading up the road. Those are two words I like.

 Lisburn

 Garden and sunken gate

Why yes, sunken gate, I will enter you! 

It was approaching the time when I needed to head back to meet Elaine, but there is always time for a bakery...

I'm not all sure what was in this, but my best guess is lemon-caramel cupcake with chocolate drizzle and caramel popcorn topping. It was both odd and delectable, a sweet end to my outing. 

What I Know.

The first thing many writing teachers will tell aspiring (or not aspiring) writing students is to write about what they know. This has meant different things to me at different times. If I would have been asked to do so (and I was) last summer or any of the summers before, I would have written about lifeguarding.
or being a student.
or a publishing intern.
or an aunt.
or a daughter.
or sister.
or dog-mom.
Currently, though, "what I know" is mexican food and being human.

I waitress at an extremely popular mexican restaurant in the town I grew up in. As an introvert, I was actually more anxious at the idea of working this job than I am about moving countries in September. However, by the Grace of God and the need of money, I have overcome that for the most part.

The best part of waitressing is that there are no wholly bad days. There are bad tables and bad interactions, but one good tip or one kind family can honestly make everything better. I have had every extreme of people from black to white to indian to christian to very nonchristian to creepy old men to darling old ladies and couples.

This serves as my preface, and it comes with no sour cream or guacamole on the side, unless, of course, you'd like to add some for an upcharge of 2.29.

5/16/12-Irish Adventures: Lessons in Silence

We went into the city in silence yesterday. silence as in we weren’t allowed to talk. at all. for four hours. I’m an introvert, so this wasn’t that hard for me at all. I really enjoyed the time that I got to spend just thinking and reading and journaling and watching the people here.

and there’s something that I noticed.

It wasn’t weird. The culture actually encourages this lifestyle. The Irish weren’t at all what I expected: loud. They are passionate people, but speak when they need to. They don’t just run their mouths like we Americans do. They think with depth and clarity and come out on the other side with something intelligent to say. And with what lovely accents do they say it. 

I don’t really want to leave at all. Not because I’m one of those people that freaks out in love with what is different. I actually am usually strongly opposed to what is different. I don’t want to leave because I make sense here. My personality type is actually normal and understandable. There are other people who think like me. And it is not hard for me to understand now why so many writers escape to here. They can hear themselves and they can hear the silence. You can’t hear silence where I’m from. It’s a lovely place, but it never stops. I think it may be because we’re all afraid of what we’ll hear when we do.