It's been a tough few months for writing.
I thought i had an artist for my comic book, but she's realized she's too busy to commit to this project and has gracefully backed out. I'm not mad at her or anything, and i completely understand (and was half-expecting) her refusal, but it's still really disappointing.
My workshop group hasn't met in ages. We kept getting delayed by various things: work commitments, school, migraines, lack of new things to review, weather disasters, holidays, and so on and so forth. I really miss that weekly gathering of creative intellectuals, as well as the motivation of a deadline.
I found a journal of women's environmental poetry that was looking specifically for prose poems, and i was all geared up to send them a submission, when i realized there was a reading fee to do so. Never send out anything you have to pay for; there's no guarantee of publication, and there are plenty of places that are more than happy to reject you for free. Hypothetically.
There's a lot of really emotional stuff happening for me right now, but it's happening right now, so it's hard to write about it clearly.
Since discovering Netflix, i'm much less inclined to sit reading or writing in the evenings, and much more inclined to knit and binge-watch Dr. Who. Which, while good for my knitting projects, is bad for my writing.
But.
Two of my roommates have moved out, and have been replaced by only one person. And it is absolutely worth the $100/month increase in rent to reclaim a little more peace, stability, and room in the house. We are hanging superhero posters in the hallway and organizing a library/bar/office in the corner room. The one with roof access.
I've been living in a nest for two years because i was too afraid to put my things in the house, because of what might happen to them. There also wasn't a lot of room, with four people crammed into a three-bedroom apartment. Now i'm de-cluttering my room and living like a human adult, instead of a magpie. My desk is in the library bar, in front of a window, with elephants and pictures of Boyfriend and Christina Hendricks for inspiration.
I have a shiny new phone that i mostly don't hate. (I've been resisting the smartphone upgrade since the debut of the Blackberry, but there's no escape now. The Samsung Galaxy Stellar, however, isn't terrible. If i have to have a smartphone, i'm glad i got this one.)
I have a nerdy friend who is going with me to the Neil Gaiman reading and signing this weekend. I am going to the Neil Gaiman reading and signing this weekend.
I have another nerdy friend who wants to have a sewing and cooking and drinking date with me soon. I'm really excited at the prospect of getting back into sewing.
I have a sexy, smart, caring, wonderfully weird boyfriend who snuggles me and is patient with me and goes on adventures with me and helped me make sangria last week. (My sangria recipe is amazing, by the way. I'll have to post it some time.) Sometimes i write terribly sappy poems about him and then send them to him through snail mail. Isn't that so cute you want to vomit?
I have, like, six different jars of fancy honey in my kitchen waiting for me to eat them. I also have an ice cream maker. I see honey-sweetened ice cream in my future.
I have Netflix! And tons of yarn! And, currently, not a lot going on in my life! This equals SWEATERS!!! It doesn't get much better than handmade sweaters in New England. (Unless, of course, it's July and they keep posting heat advisories. But i'll be glad of them in the winter, which is probably when they'll be finished, anyway.)
I have an awesome tattoo idea that will, someday, when i have money again (when i die), be an awesome tattoo.
I got fan-ish mail yesterday.
My cat is super cute.
Showing posts with label disappointment. Show all posts
Showing posts with label disappointment. Show all posts
Wednesday, July 10, 2013
Wednesday, July 3, 2013
So i bought an ice cream maker.
I love ice cream a whole lot, but i don't really eat it that often. Buying those tiny Haagen Dazs or Ben and Jerry's pints is delicious, but SO pricey. I could buy a whole gallon of Edy's for the same price, and let's face it, Edy's ice cream is pretty fucking delicious, too.
Honestly, it costs about the same to make my own ice cream (depending on whether i'm making a plain vanilla or something with flavors and chunks and swirls). And it makes about two quarts, which is a nice compromise size-wise. I had to put up some money initially, of course, for the machine, but i think of it as an investment in deliciousness.
I found this recipe for a toasted marshmallow coconut milk ice cream that sounded STUPID tasty. I mean, coconut and toasted marshmallow? And the pictures looked amazing: the meltiest, fluffiest, creamiest ice cream i had ever seen. Absolute perfection.
Here's the problem: something went wrong with the recipe. I don't totally know what; i suspect i didn't freeze the ice cream canister for long enough. I followed the user manual, but the ice cream turned out hard and icy. It tastes great, it's just the wrong texture. Kind of like a toasted marshmallow coconut milk ice pop. Which, you know, still cold and flavorful, which is all i really care about on a hot July afternoon, but it looks like i have some tweaking to do before i have any real ice cream.
In the meantime, i'll be drooling over recipes online.
Honestly, it costs about the same to make my own ice cream (depending on whether i'm making a plain vanilla or something with flavors and chunks and swirls). And it makes about two quarts, which is a nice compromise size-wise. I had to put up some money initially, of course, for the machine, but i think of it as an investment in deliciousness.
I found this recipe for a toasted marshmallow coconut milk ice cream that sounded STUPID tasty. I mean, coconut and toasted marshmallow? And the pictures looked amazing: the meltiest, fluffiest, creamiest ice cream i had ever seen. Absolute perfection.
Here's the problem: something went wrong with the recipe. I don't totally know what; i suspect i didn't freeze the ice cream canister for long enough. I followed the user manual, but the ice cream turned out hard and icy. It tastes great, it's just the wrong texture. Kind of like a toasted marshmallow coconut milk ice pop. Which, you know, still cold and flavorful, which is all i really care about on a hot July afternoon, but it looks like i have some tweaking to do before i have any real ice cream.
In the meantime, i'll be drooling over recipes online.
Friday, June 14, 2013
In the Name of Jesus, part two
Okay so, if i'm being honest? I kind of hated this book. Honestly, i don't even have things i can point to and say, "Here! This is why it is bad! Bad theology! Bad writing! Bad sexism!" or anything like that. It's an extraordinarily mild and inoffensive book. It sort of reminds me of Velveeta: not a lot of flavor, not a lot of substance, and you can't really explain why you hate it (aside from all the chemicals and sodium and whatnot). I don't think this book is wrong. I don't think it's dangerous or offensive. I just think it's really boring.
Two things i will comment on, however. First, the conclusion:
Nouwen has spent this whole book telling us that it is important for ministry to be communal, that we must find ministry partners and let go of the temptation to be relevant or powerful or a rock star. He has also spent a large chunk of the book talking about the huge change in his thinking and attitude when he started living and working with the disabled. And then he concludes with a story about going to a conference where he was supposed to give a talk with another person. The other person that had been assigned to him was Bill, one of the residents of the home for the disabled. When Nouwen was preparing his presentation, he prepared it alone, and he assumed he would be giving it alone. This despite the fact that it was composed largely of ideas and theories and teachings that he had already presented and worked through in the home; in other words, material that Bill was already familiar with. In fact, he was surprised when they got to the conference and Bill joined him on stage with every expectation of being an equal part of the presentation.
Because he hadn't prepared anything for Bill, or asked Bill to prepare anything for himself, or even considered the possibility that Bill might be an active participant in the presentation, Bill's role ended up being this: he helped Nouwen turn the pages of his notes and collect the ones he was done with, and he occasionally threw in interjections like, "I've heard that before!" Afterwards, he took the microphone and told the group that he was glad to be there with them.
Bill was selected by the community to be Nouwen's partner in ministry for this conference. The community clearly thought he had something to offer. Yet Nouwen did not approach this as a group presentation, but as a solo event. And his whole attitude seems to be, "Hey, look how neat it is that Bill found his own special snowflake way to participate!" rather than, "Wow, I'm an idiot. I should have prepared WITH him."
Seems like Nouwen still has some growing to do.
The second thing? The book is a small paperback, just over a hundred pages, with wide margins and a ton of white space. Each new chapter/section starts about halfway down the page, and every few pages there is a blank page with a small illustration and a quote pulled from this very book. It is a very small book, and doesn't really have a whole lot of text in it, is what i am saying.
It is $14.95.
Two things i will comment on, however. First, the conclusion:
Nouwen has spent this whole book telling us that it is important for ministry to be communal, that we must find ministry partners and let go of the temptation to be relevant or powerful or a rock star. He has also spent a large chunk of the book talking about the huge change in his thinking and attitude when he started living and working with the disabled. And then he concludes with a story about going to a conference where he was supposed to give a talk with another person. The other person that had been assigned to him was Bill, one of the residents of the home for the disabled. When Nouwen was preparing his presentation, he prepared it alone, and he assumed he would be giving it alone. This despite the fact that it was composed largely of ideas and theories and teachings that he had already presented and worked through in the home; in other words, material that Bill was already familiar with. In fact, he was surprised when they got to the conference and Bill joined him on stage with every expectation of being an equal part of the presentation.
Because he hadn't prepared anything for Bill, or asked Bill to prepare anything for himself, or even considered the possibility that Bill might be an active participant in the presentation, Bill's role ended up being this: he helped Nouwen turn the pages of his notes and collect the ones he was done with, and he occasionally threw in interjections like, "I've heard that before!" Afterwards, he took the microphone and told the group that he was glad to be there with them.
Bill was selected by the community to be Nouwen's partner in ministry for this conference. The community clearly thought he had something to offer. Yet Nouwen did not approach this as a group presentation, but as a solo event. And his whole attitude seems to be, "Hey, look how neat it is that Bill found his own special snowflake way to participate!" rather than, "Wow, I'm an idiot. I should have prepared WITH him."
Seems like Nouwen still has some growing to do.
The second thing? The book is a small paperback, just over a hundred pages, with wide margins and a ton of white space. Each new chapter/section starts about halfway down the page, and every few pages there is a blank page with a small illustration and a quote pulled from this very book. It is a very small book, and doesn't really have a whole lot of text in it, is what i am saying.
It is $14.95.
Friday, January 25, 2013
Exodus 7-40, Leviticus 1-24
The schedule i set up for my Bible reading (back in May) really has me powering through the Old Testament. Which is fine with me; i've read the books of the Law approximately seven times in their entirety, and i was in a weekly Bible study on Leviticus last semester, so i feel like i don't need to take that much time with it.
Also, i need to be honest: i'm kind of in a dry spell right now, spiritually.
Faith goes through seasons, just like everything else in life (to everything there is a season, a time for every purpose under heaven), but Christians are sometimes made to feel guilt about being in one season or another. I've heard preachers saying that every day should be full of joy, that we should be overflowing with joy in Christ, that we should be so full of the boundless love and grace and mercy that we have received that nothing can bring us down.
I have a friend who suffered from clinical depression and was told to pray more and deepen her faith, and that Christ would fill her with joy.
Because nothing balances the chemicals in my brain like yet another fucking chorus of "Our God Reigns".
This semester, my Bible study is focusing on the non-fuzzy images of God. We're looking at the Jesus who hurled racial slurs at a woman who asked for His help, the Christ who withered a fig tree because it wasn't bearing fruit, at the God who ordered the slaughter of babies, the God who sent lying angels to prophets so that people would die. We're looking at Hagar, who got pile after pile of rancid shit dumped on her, and was ignored by God, except for when He was telling her to go back and take more abuse.
Last week, i went to a writing retreat where Benji talked about how the Church doesn't have sad songs. The Bible has psalms of lament, where we talk about how life sucks and we don't know why God won't rescue us. But in modern Christian contexts, the best we get is "Whatever my lot, Thou hast taught me to say, 'It is well, it is well with my soul." We don't make room for doubt, for sorrow, for anger. We must be happy.
In our Bible study, Benji said that theology should be "a testimony for conversion". In other words, what we say about God should make people want to know Him for themselves. This does NOT mean that you should walk up to strangers in the parking lot of a rest stop in New Jersey, hand them a tract, and tell them that God wants to save them from their sins (this happened to me over Christmas vacation). What it means is, the things you believe about God, the things you know about God, the things you say about God, should be compelling and attractive.
That doesn't necessarily mean that you should tell people that everything with Jesus is sunshine and roses. Even Jesus didn't say that (the Son of Man has no place to lay His head, He came to turn families against each other, people are going to hate you and treat you terribly, etc.) If i asked someone about their religion and they said, "It makes everything happy forever!", i would run away.
Some day, someone you love will die. If it hasn't happened already, it will. My grandmother is dead. My great aunt is dead. One of my friends is dying. My parents will die. My cousins will die. My siblings will die. My spouse, my kids, my co-workers, my pastor, my professors, my favorite musicians, the students i teach. Everyone i know and love will die some day. I will die. And maybe i'll go before some of the people i know and love and won't have to be there when it happens, but that just means that they will have to mourn my death.
People die. It's a part of life. And it is good and right to mourn them. We may be able to draw some comfort by thoughts of them in a happy afterlife, or by knowing that their pain and sickness are ended, but the reality is that they are dead in a box in the ground, rotting away. They will never again laugh with you. They will never again cry with you. They will not see you grow old. You will not see them grow old. My friend who is dying is in his 20s. I will never dance at his wedding, never meet his children, never tease him for his grey hairs. And it is good and right to mourn this.
And there's a whole lot of other shit in life, too. People get sick and injured. Children get raped. People get fired. Hearts get broken. Spouses cheat on one another and lie about it. Houses burn down. Cancer exists. Homelessness exists. Malnutrition, starvation, poverty exist. Do you ever think about how fucked up it is that we have social workers? We have people whose job is to make sure you are taking care of your kids, and to remove them from your care if you are not. They make sure you are going to rehab. They make sure your kids are going to school. They make sure that there is food in the refrigerator and that you are not doing drugs or having sex in front of your toddler. Because there are SO MANY people who cannot take care of their own lives and the lives of their children that we have entire undergraduate, graduate, and postgraduate programs devoted to training other people to take care of them.
There is a whole lot of shit in life, and it is right and good to mourn it. It is right and good to be angry over it. It is right and good to respond with negative emotions to these things. There are only two ways to completely remove yourself from all negative emotional response: heavy doses of psychiatric medication and death. Meds can also dull or remove positive feelings, and death is, well, death. A religion that promises that everything will be sunny all the time always is either lying or deluded, and either way you shouldn't drink any kool-aid they offer you.
I'm still reading my Bible. I'm still praying. I'm still having spiritual conversations with people, still writing about my feelings, still processing. I'm still a Christian. I'm still a doubter. Recently, someone asked me the question i've been fearing: what's the point of religion? Bad things still happen to good people, and there are good people who are not Christians, and even some good people who don't believe in any God at all, so what are you getting out of it?
I told him i didn't know. I don't know why i have faith. I don't know what i'm getting out of this whole religion thing.
This is true and not true. I can't point you to the pile of gold i've amassed because of God's financial blessings on my life. I can't point you to the perfect job He provided for me. My brother may be alive, but he's lost a leg and a year of his life and lots of memories and joy and God may have brought him miraculously out of his injuries but God still allowed him to be injured in the first place. I can't give you a bulleted list of reasons to follow God. I can't show you tangible things that God has done in my life. I believe that i have experienced miracles, but they all come with caveats (my brother's miraculous recovery wouldn't have been necessary if God hadn't let him be blown up in the first place).
But if you're in religion for what you're getting out of it, you're missing the point. I can tell you things that i've "gotten out of" my relationship with my boyfriend, but i'm not with him because he buys me nice presents or takes me out to eat or listens to me complain. I'm not with him because of what i'm "getting out of" the relationship. If that was all i wanted, i'd be dating someone with more money and time to lavish on me.
I'm with my boyfriend because i love him, and he loves me. I'm with God because i love Him, and He loves me.
I'm still mad at Him for a lot of the stuff in the Old and New Testaments. I'm mad at Him because of my brother, and because of the shooting in Connecticut, and because of people who say that God hates fags, and because of poverty and cancer and AIDS, and because i don't have enough money to student teach and buy everything i want from Amazon, and because my parents are divorced and shouldn't have been married in the first place so maybe i shouldn't even be alive, and because Republicans keep trying to take rights away from women and non-whites, and because of earthquakes and tsunamis and war and oppression and starvation and mental illness.
But being in a relationship means experiencing a whole range of shifting emotions, sometimes even many emotions at once. And my God lets me work through that stuff, even when that means i yell at Him or don't represent Him well to others or regard my personal devotional time with Him as a chore.
So i guess what i'm "getting out of" this is a love greater and freer and fuller and more compelling and empowering and gracious and overwhelming and gentle and sweet than any love i have ever known. It's a love that enables me to love better. It's a love that makes me better. It's a love that withstands my anger and weariness and confusion. And i don't know how to say any of that in a way that makes other people want to know God too, but i guess that's something that He and i can work on.
Also, i need to be honest: i'm kind of in a dry spell right now, spiritually.
Faith goes through seasons, just like everything else in life (to everything there is a season, a time for every purpose under heaven), but Christians are sometimes made to feel guilt about being in one season or another. I've heard preachers saying that every day should be full of joy, that we should be overflowing with joy in Christ, that we should be so full of the boundless love and grace and mercy that we have received that nothing can bring us down.
I have a friend who suffered from clinical depression and was told to pray more and deepen her faith, and that Christ would fill her with joy.
Because nothing balances the chemicals in my brain like yet another fucking chorus of "Our God Reigns".
This semester, my Bible study is focusing on the non-fuzzy images of God. We're looking at the Jesus who hurled racial slurs at a woman who asked for His help, the Christ who withered a fig tree because it wasn't bearing fruit, at the God who ordered the slaughter of babies, the God who sent lying angels to prophets so that people would die. We're looking at Hagar, who got pile after pile of rancid shit dumped on her, and was ignored by God, except for when He was telling her to go back and take more abuse.
Last week, i went to a writing retreat where Benji talked about how the Church doesn't have sad songs. The Bible has psalms of lament, where we talk about how life sucks and we don't know why God won't rescue us. But in modern Christian contexts, the best we get is "Whatever my lot, Thou hast taught me to say, 'It is well, it is well with my soul." We don't make room for doubt, for sorrow, for anger. We must be happy.
In our Bible study, Benji said that theology should be "a testimony for conversion". In other words, what we say about God should make people want to know Him for themselves. This does NOT mean that you should walk up to strangers in the parking lot of a rest stop in New Jersey, hand them a tract, and tell them that God wants to save them from their sins (this happened to me over Christmas vacation). What it means is, the things you believe about God, the things you know about God, the things you say about God, should be compelling and attractive.
That doesn't necessarily mean that you should tell people that everything with Jesus is sunshine and roses. Even Jesus didn't say that (the Son of Man has no place to lay His head, He came to turn families against each other, people are going to hate you and treat you terribly, etc.) If i asked someone about their religion and they said, "It makes everything happy forever!", i would run away.
Some day, someone you love will die. If it hasn't happened already, it will. My grandmother is dead. My great aunt is dead. One of my friends is dying. My parents will die. My cousins will die. My siblings will die. My spouse, my kids, my co-workers, my pastor, my professors, my favorite musicians, the students i teach. Everyone i know and love will die some day. I will die. And maybe i'll go before some of the people i know and love and won't have to be there when it happens, but that just means that they will have to mourn my death.
People die. It's a part of life. And it is good and right to mourn them. We may be able to draw some comfort by thoughts of them in a happy afterlife, or by knowing that their pain and sickness are ended, but the reality is that they are dead in a box in the ground, rotting away. They will never again laugh with you. They will never again cry with you. They will not see you grow old. You will not see them grow old. My friend who is dying is in his 20s. I will never dance at his wedding, never meet his children, never tease him for his grey hairs. And it is good and right to mourn this.
And there's a whole lot of other shit in life, too. People get sick and injured. Children get raped. People get fired. Hearts get broken. Spouses cheat on one another and lie about it. Houses burn down. Cancer exists. Homelessness exists. Malnutrition, starvation, poverty exist. Do you ever think about how fucked up it is that we have social workers? We have people whose job is to make sure you are taking care of your kids, and to remove them from your care if you are not. They make sure you are going to rehab. They make sure your kids are going to school. They make sure that there is food in the refrigerator and that you are not doing drugs or having sex in front of your toddler. Because there are SO MANY people who cannot take care of their own lives and the lives of their children that we have entire undergraduate, graduate, and postgraduate programs devoted to training other people to take care of them.
There is a whole lot of shit in life, and it is right and good to mourn it. It is right and good to be angry over it. It is right and good to respond with negative emotions to these things. There are only two ways to completely remove yourself from all negative emotional response: heavy doses of psychiatric medication and death. Meds can also dull or remove positive feelings, and death is, well, death. A religion that promises that everything will be sunny all the time always is either lying or deluded, and either way you shouldn't drink any kool-aid they offer you.
I'm still reading my Bible. I'm still praying. I'm still having spiritual conversations with people, still writing about my feelings, still processing. I'm still a Christian. I'm still a doubter. Recently, someone asked me the question i've been fearing: what's the point of religion? Bad things still happen to good people, and there are good people who are not Christians, and even some good people who don't believe in any God at all, so what are you getting out of it?
I told him i didn't know. I don't know why i have faith. I don't know what i'm getting out of this whole religion thing.
This is true and not true. I can't point you to the pile of gold i've amassed because of God's financial blessings on my life. I can't point you to the perfect job He provided for me. My brother may be alive, but he's lost a leg and a year of his life and lots of memories and joy and God may have brought him miraculously out of his injuries but God still allowed him to be injured in the first place. I can't give you a bulleted list of reasons to follow God. I can't show you tangible things that God has done in my life. I believe that i have experienced miracles, but they all come with caveats (my brother's miraculous recovery wouldn't have been necessary if God hadn't let him be blown up in the first place).
But if you're in religion for what you're getting out of it, you're missing the point. I can tell you things that i've "gotten out of" my relationship with my boyfriend, but i'm not with him because he buys me nice presents or takes me out to eat or listens to me complain. I'm not with him because of what i'm "getting out of" the relationship. If that was all i wanted, i'd be dating someone with more money and time to lavish on me.
I'm with my boyfriend because i love him, and he loves me. I'm with God because i love Him, and He loves me.
I'm still mad at Him for a lot of the stuff in the Old and New Testaments. I'm mad at Him because of my brother, and because of the shooting in Connecticut, and because of people who say that God hates fags, and because of poverty and cancer and AIDS, and because i don't have enough money to student teach and buy everything i want from Amazon, and because my parents are divorced and shouldn't have been married in the first place so maybe i shouldn't even be alive, and because Republicans keep trying to take rights away from women and non-whites, and because of earthquakes and tsunamis and war and oppression and starvation and mental illness.
But being in a relationship means experiencing a whole range of shifting emotions, sometimes even many emotions at once. And my God lets me work through that stuff, even when that means i yell at Him or don't represent Him well to others or regard my personal devotional time with Him as a chore.
So i guess what i'm "getting out of" this is a love greater and freer and fuller and more compelling and empowering and gracious and overwhelming and gentle and sweet than any love i have ever known. It's a love that enables me to love better. It's a love that makes me better. It's a love that withstands my anger and weariness and confusion. And i don't know how to say any of that in a way that makes other people want to know God too, but i guess that's something that He and i can work on.
Wednesday, October 10, 2012
I meant i wanted to make out with Daniel Radcliffe and put hexes on people.
I know i've said that i wish Harry Potter was real. I know i've talked about the profound effect it had on my childhood, my teenhood, and my young adulthood. I know some part of me still believes that if i lean on the barrier between platforms 9 and 10 at King's Cross Station, i'll fall through to platform 9 3/4 just in time to board the scarlet train to Hogwarts.
Fortunately, the universe has decided to grant my request and bring elements of Harry Potter's world into my own. Unfortunately, it's only bringing the parts that suck.
Fifteen years ago, when my parents were building a new house, we went to visit the construction site. And you know those yellow and black garden spiders? The ones that usually grow to about the size of a half-dollar?
Fortunately, the universe has decided to grant my request and bring elements of Harry Potter's world into my own. Unfortunately, it's only bringing the parts that suck.
Fifteen years ago, when my parents were building a new house, we went to visit the construction site. And you know those yellow and black garden spiders? The ones that usually grow to about the size of a half-dollar?
 |
| These fuckers. |
They're already on the large size for American spiders, but as it turns out, most spiders don't really have a maximum size. They just grow until they die. And most of the time, a bird (one of God's angels in disguise) or a right-thinking human (led by the Holy Spirit) will smash the spider into jelly as soon as it's large enough to be visible. Because they are the descendants of Satan, and allowing them to survive is the Original Sin.
But some spiders manage to escape the just wrath of the Lord, and they grow to truly terrifying sizes. The yellow garden spider on the side of our half-finished house was not the size of a half-dollar. It was not the size of my hand. It was not the size of a basketball player's hand. It was the size of a dinner plate.
In Maryland. In a residential area. There was a spider the size of a dinner plate. Alive. Not in a museum or lab. Naturally and out in the open. That is not only sinful, it is un-American.
Another family might have made some calls to National Geographic or the Guinness Book of World Records and made themselves some cash. But with my mother hyperventilating in the passenger seat of the van, my dad had no choice but to find a brick and smash the shit out of that motherfucker.
That was in 1994. In 2003, we moved to a new house about eight miles from the first one. This one was not surrounded by soybean fields and despair. This one was surrounded by 3.25 acres of trees and bushes and poison oak and stones and a creek and neighbors. And yellow garden spiders. We never saw any plate-sized ones, but these averaged 4 or 5 inches long, and they would build huge webs on the sides of the house and garage, so there would be anywhere between 4 and 10 of them clustered together on a given day, creating a barrier of nightmares around our home.
That's not all. When we first moved in and were storing things in the basement, we found a six foot snake skin. Which means that at some point, our house in Maryland was also home to a six-foot snake. A year or so later, my mom noticed that the birds outside were making an unusual racket. When she looked at the birdhouse outside of our kitchen window, she saw two huge black snakes twining themselves around the birdhouse, slithering in and out. We're guessing they were eating the eggs. And possibly the birds.
And last night, my dad sent me a picture of a baby snake. In his toilet. Because apparently, his bathroom is the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets.
When i said i wanted to live in Harry Potter's world, i did not mean that i wanted to hang out with Aragog and Nagini.
Wednesday, April 18, 2012
a little less hope
Have you ever met one of those couples that, when you look at them, you think, "That's it. That's the real thing."? Every time you see them together, you have a little more hope in relationships. You know that love is real, and that love lasts.
Have you ever seen that couple ripped apart by infidelity and lies?
My star couple fell in love in a matter of weeks. They spent every minute together. They were best friends. I lived with her two summers in a row. One of those summers was right before her wedding in August.
I went to their wedding. They were the first couple that John and i went on a double date with. I saw them at events, helped her plan an elaborate birthday party for him, watched their life together grow for nearly three years.
Then the truth was revealed: during their engagement, he had cheated on her twice. Scared and disoriented by the speed at which their relationship was progressing, he panicked and did something terrible.
He had also been addicted to prescription pain killers and pornography for nearly their entire relationship. While she knew that he had had these struggles in the past, he had assured her that it was all over. Five months after they started dating, it all started again. He even stole pills from members of her family.
They're in counseling, but they don't know yet where they will end up. She wants to leave, but she feels that the right thing to do is to give it one last try.
Last night, she got very drunk, made out with a stranger, and ended up in the ER. Her husband met us there and drove us home. She asked him to put her rings back on her hand. It may mean nothing, or it may mean everything. A bond like theirs can withstand a lot. But it has taken a pretty heavy blow. Even if they survive this, we all know now that things like this can happen. Grief like this can come to any of us. Love is not all you need.
I still have hope in them, in love. It's just a little bit less.
They're in counseling, but they don't know yet where they will end up. She wants to leave, but she feels that the right thing to do is to give it one last try.
Last night, she got very drunk, made out with a stranger, and ended up in the ER. Her husband met us there and drove us home. She asked him to put her rings back on her hand. It may mean nothing, or it may mean everything. A bond like theirs can withstand a lot. But it has taken a pretty heavy blow. Even if they survive this, we all know now that things like this can happen. Grief like this can come to any of us. Love is not all you need.
I still have hope in them, in love. It's just a little bit less.
Monday, February 13, 2012
Ghosts of Boyfriends Past: Casey
I don't like thinking too much about "Casey", but it's good to get it out.
In my sophomore year of college, i was recovering from my first love. I was finally starting to move on, when along came Casey. He was a senior, and had spent the last semester studying at Oxford.
Initially, he was interested in my friend Emily, but after she rejected him he took an interest in me. I had always had a thing for him, despite my gut feeling that he was an asshole. Our relationship progressed slowly; it was April, and he was graduating in May. Plus there was the awkwardness of Emily to deal with. We were all three uncomfortable with the situation, and each of us was jealous of the others for one reason or another. It was messy.
In late April/early May, Casey and i were making out almost every day, though the words "relationship" and "boyfriend/girlfriend" had yet to be spoken, except in jest. He told me that he loved me, and that he wanted to marry me and raise children with me and settle down with me, but he would not call me his girlfriend. I was hopelessly besotted and was certain that everything would work out in time.
After graduation, his plan was to have his parents pay his rent and other expenses while he figured out what he wanted to do with his life. Shockingly, they objected to this plan, and brought him back with them to Texas. I was devastated by the separation, but he assured me that all would be well.
And for a time, it was. We talked constantly on Facebook, AIM, and text. I downloaded Skype and bought a webcam; he promised that he'd get around to it. We talked about his dreams, goals, desires, trying to figure out his calling in life. But as the summer went on, things got more and more strained. I was living on campus and had no friends nearby. He was living at home and likewise alone. We were both slipping into a depression, but while i clung to him as my source of light and comfort, he pushed me away. He wanted to wallow in his misery.
Toward the end of July, he was in a wedding in Massachusetts. He came up for a long weekend, and he got a hotel room. For the first time in my life, i shared a bed with a lover. Yet despite our closeness, we still lacked intimacy. There was a wall between us, and i didn't know how to get rid of it. Things came to a head on his last night. We had had a fight, and i was crying silently in the corner of the bed. I would have left, but it was dark and well after midnight and nearly a mile to walk back to campus. He noticed my trembling, and suddenly his arms were around me and he was whispering in my ear. He apologized for his distance and coldness, and begged my forgiveness. He promised that things would get better soon, that he would snap out of it and figure out his life, that he would move back to New England and we would be together.
That was the night that i almost had sex.
I was nineteen, naked, and saying yes, but Casey couldn't follow through. I later concluded (perhaps falsely; i'm not sure) that it was because he loved me. He told me that night that he knew i wanted to wait, that he didn't want to ruin my future, that he didn't want to ruin our future. So he abstained, and we slept together in only the most literal sense.
Over the next few weeks, our communication grew steadily more sporadic. From August to February, he did not speak to me at all. I wrote him letters almost daily, and saved them in a bundle to send to him one day.
At last, he contacted me again. We started to talk, and i sent him my letters. Our relationship took off to new heights. He had pulled out of his depression and was determined to find a job -- any job -- and save up to move back to me. He would go through Hell to be at my side, my love would sustain him through any trial, and together we would have a wonderful life.
But he couldn't follow through. His depression and self-doubt continued to hound him, and prevented him from supporting me. Understand this: i believed then and still do now that Casey loved me as completely as he was able to. I just don't believe that he was capable of very much love. He couldn't support me in my endeavors if he was not personally interested in them. It wasn't enough to love me. He couldn't ask about my day, he couldn't ask about my writing, he couldn't ask about my friends, my family, or my faith. I eventually realized that he only loved me in relation to himself. He only loved me because i was pretty and smart and talented and i loved him. He could see this wonderful creature who was interested in him and feel better about himself. Beyond that, i had no value to him. He didn't care about any intricacies of my personality and character that were not directly involved with his ego. He just wanted brainy arm candy, and if i had hobbies outside of him, that was fine. But he had no desire to be involved with any parts of my life that didn't intersect with his.
Finally, i ended it. My heart had been so broken and bruised that i had nothing left to give him. He begged for a second chance, but i was reluctant to give it. We continued to talk every day, but i was growing tired of his neediness and his shallow interest in me. Finally, after the whole Theo thing, i knew i had to tell him what i had done. Not because he was my boyfriend and i had been unfaithful, but because he wanted to be my boyfriend and i thought he was entitled to know the truth. I also had a presentiment that he would want nothing further to do with me when he found out what i'd done.
I was right. He told me that he wanted nothing further to do with me, that he never wanted to think about me again, and after one very strange email exchange that September, we never spoke again.
In my sophomore year of college, i was recovering from my first love. I was finally starting to move on, when along came Casey. He was a senior, and had spent the last semester studying at Oxford.
Initially, he was interested in my friend Emily, but after she rejected him he took an interest in me. I had always had a thing for him, despite my gut feeling that he was an asshole. Our relationship progressed slowly; it was April, and he was graduating in May. Plus there was the awkwardness of Emily to deal with. We were all three uncomfortable with the situation, and each of us was jealous of the others for one reason or another. It was messy.
In late April/early May, Casey and i were making out almost every day, though the words "relationship" and "boyfriend/girlfriend" had yet to be spoken, except in jest. He told me that he loved me, and that he wanted to marry me and raise children with me and settle down with me, but he would not call me his girlfriend. I was hopelessly besotted and was certain that everything would work out in time.
After graduation, his plan was to have his parents pay his rent and other expenses while he figured out what he wanted to do with his life. Shockingly, they objected to this plan, and brought him back with them to Texas. I was devastated by the separation, but he assured me that all would be well.
And for a time, it was. We talked constantly on Facebook, AIM, and text. I downloaded Skype and bought a webcam; he promised that he'd get around to it. We talked about his dreams, goals, desires, trying to figure out his calling in life. But as the summer went on, things got more and more strained. I was living on campus and had no friends nearby. He was living at home and likewise alone. We were both slipping into a depression, but while i clung to him as my source of light and comfort, he pushed me away. He wanted to wallow in his misery.
Toward the end of July, he was in a wedding in Massachusetts. He came up for a long weekend, and he got a hotel room. For the first time in my life, i shared a bed with a lover. Yet despite our closeness, we still lacked intimacy. There was a wall between us, and i didn't know how to get rid of it. Things came to a head on his last night. We had had a fight, and i was crying silently in the corner of the bed. I would have left, but it was dark and well after midnight and nearly a mile to walk back to campus. He noticed my trembling, and suddenly his arms were around me and he was whispering in my ear. He apologized for his distance and coldness, and begged my forgiveness. He promised that things would get better soon, that he would snap out of it and figure out his life, that he would move back to New England and we would be together.
That was the night that i almost had sex.
I was nineteen, naked, and saying yes, but Casey couldn't follow through. I later concluded (perhaps falsely; i'm not sure) that it was because he loved me. He told me that night that he knew i wanted to wait, that he didn't want to ruin my future, that he didn't want to ruin our future. So he abstained, and we slept together in only the most literal sense.
Over the next few weeks, our communication grew steadily more sporadic. From August to February, he did not speak to me at all. I wrote him letters almost daily, and saved them in a bundle to send to him one day.
At last, he contacted me again. We started to talk, and i sent him my letters. Our relationship took off to new heights. He had pulled out of his depression and was determined to find a job -- any job -- and save up to move back to me. He would go through Hell to be at my side, my love would sustain him through any trial, and together we would have a wonderful life.
But he couldn't follow through. His depression and self-doubt continued to hound him, and prevented him from supporting me. Understand this: i believed then and still do now that Casey loved me as completely as he was able to. I just don't believe that he was capable of very much love. He couldn't support me in my endeavors if he was not personally interested in them. It wasn't enough to love me. He couldn't ask about my day, he couldn't ask about my writing, he couldn't ask about my friends, my family, or my faith. I eventually realized that he only loved me in relation to himself. He only loved me because i was pretty and smart and talented and i loved him. He could see this wonderful creature who was interested in him and feel better about himself. Beyond that, i had no value to him. He didn't care about any intricacies of my personality and character that were not directly involved with his ego. He just wanted brainy arm candy, and if i had hobbies outside of him, that was fine. But he had no desire to be involved with any parts of my life that didn't intersect with his.
Finally, i ended it. My heart had been so broken and bruised that i had nothing left to give him. He begged for a second chance, but i was reluctant to give it. We continued to talk every day, but i was growing tired of his neediness and his shallow interest in me. Finally, after the whole Theo thing, i knew i had to tell him what i had done. Not because he was my boyfriend and i had been unfaithful, but because he wanted to be my boyfriend and i thought he was entitled to know the truth. I also had a presentiment that he would want nothing further to do with me when he found out what i'd done.
I was right. He told me that he wanted nothing further to do with me, that he never wanted to think about me again, and after one very strange email exchange that September, we never spoke again.
Wednesday, February 8, 2012
Ghosts of Boyfriends Past: James
A friend of mine coined a term in college: Freshman Mulligan. For those of you (like me) who are not up on your golf terms, a mulligan is a free do-over. Basically, if you mess up your stroke, you can take it over again and the bad one isn't counted on your score-card.
A freshman mulligan is a relationship in your freshman year of college that is a really terrible idea, but you're a freshman, so you get to date someone else and pretend that the old one never happened.
James is my very messy, complicated, unfortunate, regretful Freshman Mulligan.
The day i moved into my freshman dorm was the day that my parents decided to separate. My first care package from home, in October, contained a letter from my mom. Tucked in between the funny stories from home and the advice about college life were a few lines about her marriage. They were in therapy, but she didn't have much hope for a future.
Obviously, i was not in any condition to get into a serious relationship. So obviously, that was exactly what i did. James was a kid i'd known for two or three years from church events. He was really sweet and gentle, like a teddy bear. I knew that he was safe and loyal and easy, that being with him would be effortless, that i could take shelter in his affection without risking my heart. I liked him, but i knew from the start that this would never be a serious relationship.
There were other issues with our relationship. He was far more conservative than i, and constantly disagreed with me on things like my desire to get a tattoo, or my bellybutton ring. Also, he very much wanted to find a good Christian girl in college, settle down and get married, and be a pastor. I am not cut out to be a traditional pastor's wife, and he wouldn't be anything but a traditional pastor, his facial piercings and Chucks notwithstanding. I was seventeen and hurt and vulnerable and terrified, and didn't want to think about marriage just yet. But even before we started dating, he was thinking about how my first name would sound with his last one. Even before we started dating, he was thinking about the kids we'd have.
We dated for barely four months before i was strong enough to cut it off. He'd known it was coming, but was still bitter and angry and jealous, convinced that i was dating a mutual (flamboyantly gay) friend. He said nasty things behind my back and through text messages, he got very angry whenever he saw me with my gay "boyfriend", and he brooded all over campus for the next three months. And then he started dating a fabulously beautiful blonde athletic genius. They got married two years later.
A friend of mine once asked how James, who was of average intelligence, charm, and looks, had managed to land two of the most attractive girls in our graduating class. I can't speak for his wife, but i can say that while James may have been pretty nondescript and a little annoying, he was nice. And he was safe. And sometimes, that's all you're looking for.
A freshman mulligan is a relationship in your freshman year of college that is a really terrible idea, but you're a freshman, so you get to date someone else and pretend that the old one never happened.
James is my very messy, complicated, unfortunate, regretful Freshman Mulligan.
The day i moved into my freshman dorm was the day that my parents decided to separate. My first care package from home, in October, contained a letter from my mom. Tucked in between the funny stories from home and the advice about college life were a few lines about her marriage. They were in therapy, but she didn't have much hope for a future.
Obviously, i was not in any condition to get into a serious relationship. So obviously, that was exactly what i did. James was a kid i'd known for two or three years from church events. He was really sweet and gentle, like a teddy bear. I knew that he was safe and loyal and easy, that being with him would be effortless, that i could take shelter in his affection without risking my heart. I liked him, but i knew from the start that this would never be a serious relationship.
There were other issues with our relationship. He was far more conservative than i, and constantly disagreed with me on things like my desire to get a tattoo, or my bellybutton ring. Also, he very much wanted to find a good Christian girl in college, settle down and get married, and be a pastor. I am not cut out to be a traditional pastor's wife, and he wouldn't be anything but a traditional pastor, his facial piercings and Chucks notwithstanding. I was seventeen and hurt and vulnerable and terrified, and didn't want to think about marriage just yet. But even before we started dating, he was thinking about how my first name would sound with his last one. Even before we started dating, he was thinking about the kids we'd have.
We dated for barely four months before i was strong enough to cut it off. He'd known it was coming, but was still bitter and angry and jealous, convinced that i was dating a mutual (flamboyantly gay) friend. He said nasty things behind my back and through text messages, he got very angry whenever he saw me with my gay "boyfriend", and he brooded all over campus for the next three months. And then he started dating a fabulously beautiful blonde athletic genius. They got married two years later.
A friend of mine once asked how James, who was of average intelligence, charm, and looks, had managed to land two of the most attractive girls in our graduating class. I can't speak for his wife, but i can say that while James may have been pretty nondescript and a little annoying, he was nice. And he was safe. And sometimes, that's all you're looking for.
Monday, January 9, 2012
first love
I once spent a year of my life in love with someone who called me "buddy". True fact.
"Jacob" was amazing. He was handsome, and kind, and funny. He was in the Army. He was smart, and passionate, and mature. He loved Jesus. He loved his family. He loved burgers. It couldn't have been more perfect.
I started spending time with Jacob after i broke up with "James" in my freshman year. We became friends instantly, and i fell in love with him in a matter of days. Jacob was a very practical, sheltered boy (he had been homeschooled) who didn't want to date while he was in college, as he was afraid girls would distract him. I didn't let that deter my dreams of marrying him, though. I was prepared to wait.
I still think that, if he hadn't transferred to a school in Virginia, we would have gotten together sooner or later. He liked me, he just didn't really know what to do about it. But he transferred, and we kept up a close correspondence for a whole semester. But near Christmas break, we drifted apart. At last, i accepted that it wasn't meant to be, and i let go just in time to make the mistake of giving Casey a chance.
Looking back, i'm glad we never got together. He wouldn't have liked me drinking and swearing, and i wouldn't have liked him being a bad speller and a homophobe. We're great as friends, but for anything more than that, it would have been a disaster.
"Jacob" was amazing. He was handsome, and kind, and funny. He was in the Army. He was smart, and passionate, and mature. He loved Jesus. He loved his family. He loved burgers. It couldn't have been more perfect.
I started spending time with Jacob after i broke up with "James" in my freshman year. We became friends instantly, and i fell in love with him in a matter of days. Jacob was a very practical, sheltered boy (he had been homeschooled) who didn't want to date while he was in college, as he was afraid girls would distract him. I didn't let that deter my dreams of marrying him, though. I was prepared to wait.
I still think that, if he hadn't transferred to a school in Virginia, we would have gotten together sooner or later. He liked me, he just didn't really know what to do about it. But he transferred, and we kept up a close correspondence for a whole semester. But near Christmas break, we drifted apart. At last, i accepted that it wasn't meant to be, and i let go just in time to make the mistake of giving Casey a chance.
Looking back, i'm glad we never got together. He wouldn't have liked me drinking and swearing, and i wouldn't have liked him being a bad speller and a homophobe. We're great as friends, but for anything more than that, it would have been a disaster.
Monday, August 15, 2011
It Is Well With My Soul
This song presented me with my first ever theological issue to wrestle with. I remember singing it in church one evening and thinking about how beautiful it was, and then suddenly becoming profoundly uncomfortable with the lines:
Whatever my lot, Thou hast taught me to say,
It is well, it is well with my soul.
Thou hast taught me? I was confronted with an image of God as an unsympathetic math professor saying, "You will use this every day for the rest of your life. You need to learn how to do it right. Say it: It is well with my soul." I didn't have the education to articulate all of my thoughts correctly, but if i had i would have said that i pictured myself as a dog, and God as Pavlov, teaching me to respond in certain arbitrary ways to His predetermined stimuli.
I asked my mom about it. Since we were still in church, she couldn't address the issue fully, and i was left with my question only half-answered. She said that it was less about God teaching us (forcing us to recite) something, and more about us learning (wilfully submitting). But i was still uncomfortable with a God who, when tragedy struck, would ask us to simply recite a cliche refrain and expect us to be comforted. Merely saying that it is well with my soul does not make it so.
I faced a lot of other theological wrestling matches over my life, and this one fell to the wayside. But it was never really resolved. I read The Problem of Pain
, and while it helped, it did not really answer the question. I heard sermons, i read books, and experience taught me. I eventually figured out that "taught" could mean an experiential lesson, that this was not a stern task-master forcing me to recite a memorized lesson; God had "taught" the lyricist to say that by showing him the beauty and peace that exist even in the darkest moments. God became not a Pavlovian dictator, but an advisor who walked beside me to teach me to see beauty in life.
But this was not enough.
There may be a rose growing in the dungheap, but while it may distract you from the grim reality, it does nothing to correct or even lessen it.
Life is full of dungheaps, and there is no good reason for this. The fact that i have been taught to find hope in darkness does not excuse the existence of the darkness in the first place.
I wish i could say that i had recently had some great revelation on this point. I wish i could share twelve alliterative bullet points, or a promise verse, or a piece of wisdom suitable for bumper stickers and t-shirts. I have none of that.
I can tell you that i have found peace to be a far deeper and less joyful concept than i had previously believed. You can be at peace with a situation and still be pissed as hell about it. You can even be pissed at God about it. Being at peace with a situation doesn't mean that you are happy about it, or even that you are neutral about it. I can't tell you yet what 'peace' does mean. I don't know all of the words to explain it, and i haven't completely figured out how to feel it.
Sometimes, even now, when something happens to me or to a loved one, i hear the little bell ring, and i obediently recite the cliches i have been taught.
I know that peace is something you have to fight for. I've seen the t-shirts: "Bombing for peace is like fucking for virginity". I understand the point, but it's not really right. Peace is not something that just happens. It's not the natural order of things. Everyone is born a virgin, but they are born into a world of conflict and pain. Fucking for virginity will get you nowhere. But you can't have peace without a struggle. This is the shape of things.
I have learned this: there is an extent to which merely repeating a worn out cliche does bring some measure of comfort. They are cliches for a reason. Truth does not become less potent with age or use.
And that's all i've got. It is well with my soul, but my mind is troubled. And i guess i'll have to learn to be okay with that.
Whatever my lot, Thou hast taught me to say,
It is well, it is well with my soul.
Thou hast taught me? I was confronted with an image of God as an unsympathetic math professor saying, "You will use this every day for the rest of your life. You need to learn how to do it right. Say it: It is well with my soul." I didn't have the education to articulate all of my thoughts correctly, but if i had i would have said that i pictured myself as a dog, and God as Pavlov, teaching me to respond in certain arbitrary ways to His predetermined stimuli.
I asked my mom about it. Since we were still in church, she couldn't address the issue fully, and i was left with my question only half-answered. She said that it was less about God teaching us (forcing us to recite) something, and more about us learning (wilfully submitting). But i was still uncomfortable with a God who, when tragedy struck, would ask us to simply recite a cliche refrain and expect us to be comforted. Merely saying that it is well with my soul does not make it so.
I faced a lot of other theological wrestling matches over my life, and this one fell to the wayside. But it was never really resolved. I read The Problem of Pain
, and while it helped, it did not really answer the question. I heard sermons, i read books, and experience taught me. I eventually figured out that "taught" could mean an experiential lesson, that this was not a stern task-master forcing me to recite a memorized lesson; God had "taught" the lyricist to say that by showing him the beauty and peace that exist even in the darkest moments. God became not a Pavlovian dictator, but an advisor who walked beside me to teach me to see beauty in life.But this was not enough.
There may be a rose growing in the dungheap, but while it may distract you from the grim reality, it does nothing to correct or even lessen it.
Life is full of dungheaps, and there is no good reason for this. The fact that i have been taught to find hope in darkness does not excuse the existence of the darkness in the first place.
 |
| magnet in my school store |
I can tell you that i have found peace to be a far deeper and less joyful concept than i had previously believed. You can be at peace with a situation and still be pissed as hell about it. You can even be pissed at God about it. Being at peace with a situation doesn't mean that you are happy about it, or even that you are neutral about it. I can't tell you yet what 'peace' does mean. I don't know all of the words to explain it, and i haven't completely figured out how to feel it.
Sometimes, even now, when something happens to me or to a loved one, i hear the little bell ring, and i obediently recite the cliches i have been taught.
I know that peace is something you have to fight for. I've seen the t-shirts: "Bombing for peace is like fucking for virginity". I understand the point, but it's not really right. Peace is not something that just happens. It's not the natural order of things. Everyone is born a virgin, but they are born into a world of conflict and pain. Fucking for virginity will get you nowhere. But you can't have peace without a struggle. This is the shape of things.
I have learned this: there is an extent to which merely repeating a worn out cliche does bring some measure of comfort. They are cliches for a reason. Truth does not become less potent with age or use.
And that's all i've got. It is well with my soul, but my mind is troubled. And i guess i'll have to learn to be okay with that.
Saturday, July 9, 2011
still waiting for my Hogwarts letter
Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone
was published in 1998. I was eight years old. I was aware of it, being a frequent vistor of libraries and book stores, but it wasn't until i saw one of my older cousins reading it that my interest was really piqued. I was reading a lot of Sherlock Holmes and Shakespeare at the time (this is really true; i have always read at a pretty advanced level, though to be fair i should admit that i was also reading the American Girls books
and a fair amount of Beverly Cleary
), and didn't have time to devote to something if i didn't know i would love it.
I don't think i really started reading it, though, until about 2000. At this point, Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets
was out, so when i had torn through 'Sorcerer's Stone', i didn't even have to wait to start 'Chamber of Secrets'.
Anyway, i was hooked. As a child with an overactive imagination, raised on Winnie the Pooh, Star Wars, and the Chronicles of Narnia (not to mention the Bible, which can out-crazy any epic fantasy narrative), i had a natural love for fantasy and magic stories. And as, you know, a human being, i had a natural love for the underdog.
In the early years, the books came fast and smooth. 2001 saw both the publication of Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban and the release of the film version of Sorcerer's Stone. I went to a midnight showing in the local theater (it was tiny and dirty, but the owners were smart enough to know that this one movie alone would bring in nearly as much cash as every other movie shown that year) with my parents, my three siblings, my great aunt, four or five cousins, five or six aunts and uncles, and a handful of exchange students. Afterwards, my siblings and cousins and i spent hours debating the various features of the film: things we liked, things we didn't like, things that were better than we could ever have hoped for, key elements in the book that had been mercilessly chopped. "They left out the scene where the milkman gives Aunt Petunia the eggs through the window and they're full of letters?! I can't believe they didn't do that part!!!!" Our parents began threatening not to take us to the next movie, so we began conducting our critical reviews in whispers.
Like many others, my parents went through the "Harry Potter is satanic!" scare. We were forbidden to read them. We read them anyway. Once we got my mom to start reading them, she caved. She saw that the "satanic" elements were greatly exaggerated, that the occultism was no worse than what you saw in the average Disney movie, and that the heroes, while flawed, were still magnificent human beings who taught us all many valuable lessons. Also she was hooked.
Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire was published in 2002. The movies came out predictably one year after another. And then the unthinkable happened.
Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix
was not expected to be published until 2004. Although we still had the movies to console us, we had to wait two whole years for the next book. My family are all cinophiles, but we are bibliophiles first, and we all know that the book is almost always better than the movie (Bambi is one notable exception. As terrible as the movie was, the book was unspeakably awful. One of the few books that i simply could not bring myself to finish.)
To make matters worse, it was now 2002, and i was twelve years old. My Hogwarts letter had never arrived.
For the uninitiated, i should explain that Hogwarts students received a letter inviting them to attend Hogwarts to learn magic. This letter generally arrived near the eleventh birthday, as a Hogwarts education began at that tender age. Now, i have a late birthday, so i thought in the back of my mind (where i allow all such irrational fantasies free rein) that perhaps my letter was merely delayed a year. As my twelfth birthday came closer and closer, i even began to indulge in wild fantasies (creeping steadily out of their designated mental corner and into the more ordered and rational parts of my brain) that perhaps American magical academies worked differently than British ones, and maybe i would not start at the American equivalent of Hogwarts until i was twelve. For such a young (and clearly crazy) person, i was startlingly rational and lucid about my fantasies.
I clung to this American-schools-are-different-from-British-ones hope until i was . . . Well, we'll get to that in a minute.
'Order of the Phoenix' was finally on bookshelves, and my family snatched up our copies and spent the next few days trying to tie our shoes, eat our meals, and do our schoolwork while buried in the 870 pages. This endeavor was not wildly successful, but since everyone else in the house was similarly employed no one really noticed or cared. The movies came out regularly enough, with varying levels of faithfulness to the text, and we found further distractions in the release of the Lord of the Rings films.
And then tragedy struck again. The penultimate installment
in the series, Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, would not be released until 2006.
If you think that a sixteen year old high school senior should have other things to occupy her mind, you probably never checked your mailbox with your heart in your throat hoping to see the heavy parchment envelope with the purple seal, and are therefore likely incapable of understanding or appreciating any of this post. How did you make it this far?
Worse yet, the final book, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows,
was not published until the summer of 2009. I was home from my freshman year of college, and i read the last ever Harry Potter book with fear and trembling.
It is now 2011. Thirteen years after the first book was published in the U.S. I have spent more than half my life waiting for the next Harry Potter book or movie. I find it difficult to imagine a world where new Harry Potter books and movies will not be made (though i suppose there is always the desperate hope of a terrible re-make in thirty years or so). I have collected merchandise, i have knitted Gryffindor scarves, and i have even dressed as Hermione for Halloween. I once wrote a letter to J. K. Rowling. My siblings and cousins and i have spent countless hours discussing and debating this world. I have had Harry Potter-themed dreams, including one with a very exciting Voldemort showdown. (I almost got him.)
It was only when the last book was published that it really hit me: i am probably never going to get my Hogwarts letter. Probably.
I've been told (and have even thought) that J. K. Rowling is not a great writer. I don't care. Could the entire series have benefitted immensely from a good editor who was not afraid of a red pen? Undoubtedly. Have i ever contemplated being that editor? Absolutely. But the intricacies of her plotting leave me awed. And whatever else you can say about her and her writing, you can't deny that Harry Potter changed the world. An entire generation grew up at Hogwarts. This was the greatest cultural phenomenon since Star Wars, and i know i am not the only adult in the world who has not quite given up hope on that long-awaited Hogwarts letter.
was published in 1998. I was eight years old. I was aware of it, being a frequent vistor of libraries and book stores, but it wasn't until i saw one of my older cousins reading it that my interest was really piqued. I was reading a lot of Sherlock Holmes and Shakespeare at the time (this is really true; i have always read at a pretty advanced level, though to be fair i should admit that i was also reading the American Girls books and a fair amount of Beverly Cleary), and didn't have time to devote to something if i didn't know i would love it.I don't think i really started reading it, though, until about 2000. At this point, Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets
was out, so when i had torn through 'Sorcerer's Stone', i didn't even have to wait to start 'Chamber of Secrets'.Anyway, i was hooked. As a child with an overactive imagination, raised on Winnie the Pooh, Star Wars, and the Chronicles of Narnia (not to mention the Bible, which can out-crazy any epic fantasy narrative), i had a natural love for fantasy and magic stories. And as, you know, a human being, i had a natural love for the underdog.
In the early years, the books came fast and smooth. 2001 saw both the publication of Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban and the release of the film version of Sorcerer's Stone. I went to a midnight showing in the local theater (it was tiny and dirty, but the owners were smart enough to know that this one movie alone would bring in nearly as much cash as every other movie shown that year) with my parents, my three siblings, my great aunt, four or five cousins, five or six aunts and uncles, and a handful of exchange students. Afterwards, my siblings and cousins and i spent hours debating the various features of the film: things we liked, things we didn't like, things that were better than we could ever have hoped for, key elements in the book that had been mercilessly chopped. "They left out the scene where the milkman gives Aunt Petunia the eggs through the window and they're full of letters?! I can't believe they didn't do that part!!!!" Our parents began threatening not to take us to the next movie, so we began conducting our critical reviews in whispers.
Like many others, my parents went through the "Harry Potter is satanic!" scare. We were forbidden to read them. We read them anyway. Once we got my mom to start reading them, she caved. She saw that the "satanic" elements were greatly exaggerated, that the occultism was no worse than what you saw in the average Disney movie, and that the heroes, while flawed, were still magnificent human beings who taught us all many valuable lessons. Also she was hooked.
Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire was published in 2002. The movies came out predictably one year after another. And then the unthinkable happened.
Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix
was not expected to be published until 2004. Although we still had the movies to console us, we had to wait two whole years for the next book. My family are all cinophiles, but we are bibliophiles first, and we all know that the book is almost always better than the movie (Bambi is one notable exception. As terrible as the movie was, the book was unspeakably awful. One of the few books that i simply could not bring myself to finish.)To make matters worse, it was now 2002, and i was twelve years old. My Hogwarts letter had never arrived.
For the uninitiated, i should explain that Hogwarts students received a letter inviting them to attend Hogwarts to learn magic. This letter generally arrived near the eleventh birthday, as a Hogwarts education began at that tender age. Now, i have a late birthday, so i thought in the back of my mind (where i allow all such irrational fantasies free rein) that perhaps my letter was merely delayed a year. As my twelfth birthday came closer and closer, i even began to indulge in wild fantasies (creeping steadily out of their designated mental corner and into the more ordered and rational parts of my brain) that perhaps American magical academies worked differently than British ones, and maybe i would not start at the American equivalent of Hogwarts until i was twelve. For such a young (and clearly crazy) person, i was startlingly rational and lucid about my fantasies.
I clung to this American-schools-are-different-from-British-ones hope until i was . . . Well, we'll get to that in a minute.
'Order of the Phoenix' was finally on bookshelves, and my family snatched up our copies and spent the next few days trying to tie our shoes, eat our meals, and do our schoolwork while buried in the 870 pages. This endeavor was not wildly successful, but since everyone else in the house was similarly employed no one really noticed or cared. The movies came out regularly enough, with varying levels of faithfulness to the text, and we found further distractions in the release of the Lord of the Rings films.
And then tragedy struck again. The penultimate installment
in the series, Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, would not be released until 2006.If you think that a sixteen year old high school senior should have other things to occupy her mind, you probably never checked your mailbox with your heart in your throat hoping to see the heavy parchment envelope with the purple seal, and are therefore likely incapable of understanding or appreciating any of this post. How did you make it this far?
Worse yet, the final book, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows,
was not published until the summer of 2009. I was home from my freshman year of college, and i read the last ever Harry Potter book with fear and trembling. It is now 2011. Thirteen years after the first book was published in the U.S. I have spent more than half my life waiting for the next Harry Potter book or movie. I find it difficult to imagine a world where new Harry Potter books and movies will not be made (though i suppose there is always the desperate hope of a terrible re-make in thirty years or so). I have collected merchandise, i have knitted Gryffindor scarves, and i have even dressed as Hermione for Halloween. I once wrote a letter to J. K. Rowling. My siblings and cousins and i have spent countless hours discussing and debating this world. I have had Harry Potter-themed dreams, including one with a very exciting Voldemort showdown. (I almost got him.)
It was only when the last book was published that it really hit me: i am probably never going to get my Hogwarts letter. Probably.
I've been told (and have even thought) that J. K. Rowling is not a great writer. I don't care. Could the entire series have benefitted immensely from a good editor who was not afraid of a red pen? Undoubtedly. Have i ever contemplated being that editor? Absolutely. But the intricacies of her plotting leave me awed. And whatever else you can say about her and her writing, you can't deny that Harry Potter changed the world. An entire generation grew up at Hogwarts. This was the greatest cultural phenomenon since Star Wars, and i know i am not the only adult in the world who has not quite given up hope on that long-awaited Hogwarts letter.
Friday, June 3, 2011
graduated?
It's been almost a month since i "walked the plank" (to borrow my grandmother's phrase), and it still hasn't quite hit me that i'm a college graduate.
Occasionally, i'll be struck with a small wave of realization, like when i realize that i will never again have the opportunity to study poetry with Kathleen McCann, or pretend to pay attention in class while really editing a poem and texting Emily, who is sitting next to me, also pretending to pay attention while texting me and reading Failbook. (By the way, for all those out there who are bothered by the use of cell phones in class, you should know that Emily passed her English senior comps with distinction and graduated cum laude, and that i passed my psych comps with distinction, my English comps with a high pass, and graduated magna cum laude.)
But mostly, it feels like nothing has changed. This is due in large part to the fact that very little has actually, concretely changed. For the last two summers in a row, i have worked at my school's admissions office. I am still working there now. The only difference is that now, i commute from my apartment instead of living on campus. Plus i have a slightly flashier title. In the fall, i will be taking classes at the same school where i got my undergraduate degrees. Granted, they will be graduate classes and will meet in the evenings, but i will be in the same buildings where i have always had classes, with some of the same professors and probably some of the same students. And there is an excellent chance that i will still be working in the admissions office.
The thing is, i really don't mind being stuck in the college mindset. Everyone is right when they tell you that your college years will be the best of your life. There is something about taking four years to do nothing but learn that is a totally unique and incredible experience.
After college, you're supposed to be pretty much done (barring any post-graduate degrees). College is a time of experimentation, but once you've switched that tassel, experimentation is over. You know who you are and what you want. You've got you all figured out.
During college, you are encouraged to make mistakes. That's how you learn. If you don't know how to do something, you can try anyway, and learn from trial and error. If you don't know the answer, you can find it. It's okay to ask; you're there to learn. You can randomly switch directions without anyone making any judgements. You can change your major, change your haircut, change your sexual orientation, go vegan, start a new sport, join a club, run for student council, break up with someone, whatever. How are you going to find out what you like unless you try everything?
After college, you are encouraged to use the lessons you have learned to do things right. You've already learned. If you don't know how to do something, why not? Did you skip class that day? Don't even try. You're just going to mess it up. Let someone who is qualified handle it. You're not here to learn, you're here to do, so stop asking questions. Why are you trying to change your life? Are you going through a midlife crisis? Don't you already know who you are and what you like? Come on, you've had over two decades to figure that stuff out. What did you do with all that time?
I wish i could be a permanent college student. I love learning. I'm a huge geek. I had two majors in college (i just used the past tense and it's freaking me out all over again), and would gladly have packed on two or three more plus a handful of minors if i'd had the money. If i could do anything with my life, i'd spend the next twenty years or so collecting multiple degrees from multiple colleges. Think about it: in twenty years, i could attend five four-year colleges. I've already got my psych and English degrees, so i could do journalism and history next. Then maybe religion, with a philosophy minor. Then secondary education (which is what my master's will be in), with maybe a minor in business administration. (Side note: by and large, i think that business degrees are bullshit. But a minor in business administration would allow me to have some legitimacy when i try to take over the administrations of various school systems). I'd want a music degree at some point. And i could finish up with environmental science and government.
But more than my thirst for knowledge and my hunger to distinguish myself (can you tell it's almost lunchtime?), i want to stay within the safe space of college. I like being allowed to experiment. I like being allowed to not know things. I like being allowed to change my mind, to take on a new challenge, to make mistakes. And i really like ramen noodles.
Occasionally, i'll be struck with a small wave of realization, like when i realize that i will never again have the opportunity to study poetry with Kathleen McCann, or pretend to pay attention in class while really editing a poem and texting Emily, who is sitting next to me, also pretending to pay attention while texting me and reading Failbook. (By the way, for all those out there who are bothered by the use of cell phones in class, you should know that Emily passed her English senior comps with distinction and graduated cum laude, and that i passed my psych comps with distinction, my English comps with a high pass, and graduated magna cum laude.)
But mostly, it feels like nothing has changed. This is due in large part to the fact that very little has actually, concretely changed. For the last two summers in a row, i have worked at my school's admissions office. I am still working there now. The only difference is that now, i commute from my apartment instead of living on campus. Plus i have a slightly flashier title. In the fall, i will be taking classes at the same school where i got my undergraduate degrees. Granted, they will be graduate classes and will meet in the evenings, but i will be in the same buildings where i have always had classes, with some of the same professors and probably some of the same students. And there is an excellent chance that i will still be working in the admissions office.
The thing is, i really don't mind being stuck in the college mindset. Everyone is right when they tell you that your college years will be the best of your life. There is something about taking four years to do nothing but learn that is a totally unique and incredible experience.
After college, you're supposed to be pretty much done (barring any post-graduate degrees). College is a time of experimentation, but once you've switched that tassel, experimentation is over. You know who you are and what you want. You've got you all figured out.
During college, you are encouraged to make mistakes. That's how you learn. If you don't know how to do something, you can try anyway, and learn from trial and error. If you don't know the answer, you can find it. It's okay to ask; you're there to learn. You can randomly switch directions without anyone making any judgements. You can change your major, change your haircut, change your sexual orientation, go vegan, start a new sport, join a club, run for student council, break up with someone, whatever. How are you going to find out what you like unless you try everything?
After college, you are encouraged to use the lessons you have learned to do things right. You've already learned. If you don't know how to do something, why not? Did you skip class that day? Don't even try. You're just going to mess it up. Let someone who is qualified handle it. You're not here to learn, you're here to do, so stop asking questions. Why are you trying to change your life? Are you going through a midlife crisis? Don't you already know who you are and what you like? Come on, you've had over two decades to figure that stuff out. What did you do with all that time?
I wish i could be a permanent college student. I love learning. I'm a huge geek. I had two majors in college (i just used the past tense and it's freaking me out all over again), and would gladly have packed on two or three more plus a handful of minors if i'd had the money. If i could do anything with my life, i'd spend the next twenty years or so collecting multiple degrees from multiple colleges. Think about it: in twenty years, i could attend five four-year colleges. I've already got my psych and English degrees, so i could do journalism and history next. Then maybe religion, with a philosophy minor. Then secondary education (which is what my master's will be in), with maybe a minor in business administration. (Side note: by and large, i think that business degrees are bullshit. But a minor in business administration would allow me to have some legitimacy when i try to take over the administrations of various school systems). I'd want a music degree at some point. And i could finish up with environmental science and government.
But more than my thirst for knowledge and my hunger to distinguish myself (can you tell it's almost lunchtime?), i want to stay within the safe space of college. I like being allowed to experiment. I like being allowed to not know things. I like being allowed to change my mind, to take on a new challenge, to make mistakes. And i really like ramen noodles.
Thursday, May 26, 2011
How to Tell I Need a Life #5
I get irrationally angry when people use bad grammar, spelling, or punctuation. You've heard of the Grammar Police? I am the Grammar Gestapo. Especially on the internet. I don't understand why online communications are so very, very bad. Some browsers even have spell-checking and other proofreading tools built in. And if you're ever unsure of something, open a new tab and look it up. IT'S NOT THAT FUCKING HARD!
. . . see what i mean?
. . . see what i mean?
never settle
My new tattoo is about a week old on my skin, and about four years old in my head.
Some time during my freshman year of college, i think around spring break, my mom and i had a conversation about boys. I don't remember anything about this conversation except that it concluded with her saying, "Don't ever settle."
At that time, i was thinking about getting a tattoo, but couldn't decide what i wanted. I would draw doodles (usually birds) or write slogans on my skin with Sharpies (usually on my arms, because they were easiest), trying out colors and sizes and designs, but nothing seemed quite right. I tried a few variations of "never settle", but somehow it didn't quite fit. I eventually settled on the swallow tattoo that was the subject of my last post, and moved on.
I wasn't planning to get another tattoo. I still had some ideas that i liked, but nothing that seemed quite as right as the swallow.
I kept on thinking about the idea of settling, though. I thought about what it meant to settle, and what kinds of situations i had settled in before. I thought about settling romantically, academically, professionally, and spiritually.
I thought about boys i had dated and why, and determined that i would not settle for anything other than what i wanted or deserved ever again. And then i settled. Twice in a row.
I thought about classes and assignments where i should have done better but instead chose to slack off, and determined that i would never again settle for less than what i was capable of. And then i slacked off. In too many classes to mention.
I thought about the job i really wanted and what i would have to do to get it, and determined that i would let nothing get in my way. And then -- well, you can probably guess where this is going.
I spent the first three years of college settling in pretty much every area of my life. I looked for "good enough", instead of holding out for "best". Understand, i'm not trying to disparage the people in my life or the experiences i had or the places i worked. I'm just saying that anything that isn't what you really want is settling, even if it is objectively "better" than your heart's desire. A job that pays a million dollars an hour is settling, if what you really want to do is teach public school. Marrying the world's most perfect man is settling, if you're not really in love with him. Maintaining a perfect 4.0 GPA through college is settling, if you're not passionate about your studies and don't feel that you're getting a full and well-rounded experience.
All of this reflection and determination and settling culminated in the relationship with Casey, where i hung on for over a year because i thought that this was the best thing i could expect. My friend "Ben" argued with me, saying, "Right now, you think you're eating steak. But actually, it's cat food. And you think it's delicious, because you've never had steak before. But one day, you'll have real steak, and you'll be like, 'Why was I eating this shit for so long?'" Eventually, finally, i ended things with Casey, and promptly made the catastrophically bad decision to give my virginity to Theo. More settling. Like i mentioned in the earlier post, i had not had the sex that God wanted for me. I had settled for something less.
My best friend "Sue" and i actually made similar bad decisions on the same night, and talked about it quite a lot over the next few weeks. Although the decisions themselves were similar, the histories leading up to those decisions were very different. However, we were both settling. Sue, knowing nothing of the phrase from my mom that was still bouncing around in the back of my head, said to me, "Let's make a pact. You and i have spent the last three years settling for less than what we want and deserve. Let's make this year different. I think our slogan for 2010-2011 should be 'never settle'."
Of course, i agreed.
A few weeks later, i was reading some cheap celebrity magazine. I don't remember which one, but probably US Weekly. Don't judge. They had a section on tattoo placement, and explained that a rib cage tattoo is extremely painful and extremely significant. Part of the significance comes from the pain; if it is really worth getting, it's worth suffering for. Additionally, because the ribs protect your heart and lungs, a tattoo there is basically sheilding the center of your life force. Every heartbeat and every breath will reinforce the message inked forever on your skin. Plus, it's kind of an intimate area, so if someone is going to be seeing or touching it, it's going to be someone who is very important and special to you. I remember curling my arm instinctively around myself, just below my breasts, and inadvertently flashing back to the last person who had touched me intimately (Theo). I resolved again that the next person to touch me there would not be someone i was settling for.
And another week after that, i was sitting in chapel. I don't remember what the message was, only that it was really speaking to me in a lot of ways. I think it was something about being all that you can be. At one point, what the speaker said was so poignant and appropriate to the moment that Sue texted me (yes, we text in chapel) and said, "Never settle!"
At that moment, i felt God sit next to me and whisper, "That's going to be your next tattoo."
I whispered back, "God, i'm not getting another tattoo. Remember? I only ever wanted this one."
And He looked at me and whispered, "Really? You're going to argue with ME? This is going to be your next tattoo."
And i whispered, "Yeah, but . . . Oh. Yeah. Okay."
It took a few months until i had the ready cash for it, but now i have this tattoo forever. The text was not a font that the guy had. It is my own handwriting. I liked the idea of inscribing those words on my flesh with my own hand (even though technically someone else did the actual inscribing).
This image, these words, this idea, i've been carrying with me for a long time. And now i will carry them with me forever.
Some time during my freshman year of college, i think around spring break, my mom and i had a conversation about boys. I don't remember anything about this conversation except that it concluded with her saying, "Don't ever settle."
At that time, i was thinking about getting a tattoo, but couldn't decide what i wanted. I would draw doodles (usually birds) or write slogans on my skin with Sharpies (usually on my arms, because they were easiest), trying out colors and sizes and designs, but nothing seemed quite right. I tried a few variations of "never settle", but somehow it didn't quite fit. I eventually settled on the swallow tattoo that was the subject of my last post, and moved on.
I wasn't planning to get another tattoo. I still had some ideas that i liked, but nothing that seemed quite as right as the swallow.
I kept on thinking about the idea of settling, though. I thought about what it meant to settle, and what kinds of situations i had settled in before. I thought about settling romantically, academically, professionally, and spiritually.
I thought about boys i had dated and why, and determined that i would not settle for anything other than what i wanted or deserved ever again. And then i settled. Twice in a row.
I thought about classes and assignments where i should have done better but instead chose to slack off, and determined that i would never again settle for less than what i was capable of. And then i slacked off. In too many classes to mention.
I thought about the job i really wanted and what i would have to do to get it, and determined that i would let nothing get in my way. And then -- well, you can probably guess where this is going.
I spent the first three years of college settling in pretty much every area of my life. I looked for "good enough", instead of holding out for "best". Understand, i'm not trying to disparage the people in my life or the experiences i had or the places i worked. I'm just saying that anything that isn't what you really want is settling, even if it is objectively "better" than your heart's desire. A job that pays a million dollars an hour is settling, if what you really want to do is teach public school. Marrying the world's most perfect man is settling, if you're not really in love with him. Maintaining a perfect 4.0 GPA through college is settling, if you're not passionate about your studies and don't feel that you're getting a full and well-rounded experience.
All of this reflection and determination and settling culminated in the relationship with Casey, where i hung on for over a year because i thought that this was the best thing i could expect. My friend "Ben" argued with me, saying, "Right now, you think you're eating steak. But actually, it's cat food. And you think it's delicious, because you've never had steak before. But one day, you'll have real steak, and you'll be like, 'Why was I eating this shit for so long?'" Eventually, finally, i ended things with Casey, and promptly made the catastrophically bad decision to give my virginity to Theo. More settling. Like i mentioned in the earlier post, i had not had the sex that God wanted for me. I had settled for something less.
My best friend "Sue" and i actually made similar bad decisions on the same night, and talked about it quite a lot over the next few weeks. Although the decisions themselves were similar, the histories leading up to those decisions were very different. However, we were both settling. Sue, knowing nothing of the phrase from my mom that was still bouncing around in the back of my head, said to me, "Let's make a pact. You and i have spent the last three years settling for less than what we want and deserve. Let's make this year different. I think our slogan for 2010-2011 should be 'never settle'."
Of course, i agreed.
A few weeks later, i was reading some cheap celebrity magazine. I don't remember which one, but probably US Weekly. Don't judge. They had a section on tattoo placement, and explained that a rib cage tattoo is extremely painful and extremely significant. Part of the significance comes from the pain; if it is really worth getting, it's worth suffering for. Additionally, because the ribs protect your heart and lungs, a tattoo there is basically sheilding the center of your life force. Every heartbeat and every breath will reinforce the message inked forever on your skin. Plus, it's kind of an intimate area, so if someone is going to be seeing or touching it, it's going to be someone who is very important and special to you. I remember curling my arm instinctively around myself, just below my breasts, and inadvertently flashing back to the last person who had touched me intimately (Theo). I resolved again that the next person to touch me there would not be someone i was settling for.
And another week after that, i was sitting in chapel. I don't remember what the message was, only that it was really speaking to me in a lot of ways. I think it was something about being all that you can be. At one point, what the speaker said was so poignant and appropriate to the moment that Sue texted me (yes, we text in chapel) and said, "Never settle!"
At that moment, i felt God sit next to me and whisper, "That's going to be your next tattoo."
I whispered back, "God, i'm not getting another tattoo. Remember? I only ever wanted this one."
And He looked at me and whispered, "Really? You're going to argue with ME? This is going to be your next tattoo."
And i whispered, "Yeah, but . . . Oh. Yeah. Okay."
It took a few months until i had the ready cash for it, but now i have this tattoo forever. The text was not a font that the guy had. It is my own handwriting. I liked the idea of inscribing those words on my flesh with my own hand (even though technically someone else did the actual inscribing).
This image, these words, this idea, i've been carrying with me for a long time. And now i will carry them with me forever.
Saturday, May 21, 2011
My Mom's Wedding
When i told people i was going to Maryland this weekend for my mom's wedding, most people responded with enthusiasm. "Oh, you must be so excited! Your mom is getting married! Are you in the wedding? How long will you be there? That's so wonderful!"
Very few people realized instantly that there might be some awkwardness associated with that. If my mom is getting married, that means that she's not married to my dad. So either he's dead or they're divorced. It is possible that she's marrying my dad, but outside of the Disney Channel, the chances of that are not exactly promising.
And maybe the divorce/death happened years ago and i never even knew my dad, or maybe he was a monster and we're all better off without him. But there is no reason to assume, right off the bat, that my mother's wedding will necessarily be an occasion of unmixed joy.
And it wasn't.
My parents decided to separate the day that i moved into my freshman dorm. By fall semester finals, they had decided to divorce. My dad moved out on New Year's Eve. My mom soon had a new boyfriend. I've never been able to pin down to my satisfaction the exact start date of their relationship. And i'd really rather not.
I haven't spent much time in my mom's house since freshman year. Massachusetts is my home now. Therefore, i really don't know her new husband all that well. And i've been dealing with it okay, but there have been some issues between my mom and i that will probably never be entirely resolved.
But she's still my mom, and when she asked me to be in her wedding, i couldn't say no.
It was a lot harder than i thought it would be. I was okay up until the toasts, and then her maid of honor said that she had never seen my mom so happy before. The maid of honor saw my face and quickly covered by saying that she hadn't known my mom when her kids (my siblings and i) were little, and that she missed out on a lot of that early happiness. But her words unintentionally tapped into a lot of my deepest pain surrounding the divorce.
My parents were not a good match. Individually, they are decent people, but they were not a good couple. They should never have gotten married. It was not a good idea, and it was not God's will.
It's really hard to know that and to not begin to believe that i am not supposed to be here. It takes a lot of faith to know that God can bring good out of even the worst situations. But it takes even more faith to know that and to not feel like i am an afterthought, like God looked at my parents' marriage and said, "Well, shit. What am I going to do with that?"
I spend a lot of time feeling like i don't fit in, feeling like i'm being excluded, feeling like i'm forgettable. It's hard to feel like i might be an afterthought to God, too. I know that i'm not. I know that. But there is a difference between the things that we know and the things that we feel, and sometimes i feel like God's afterthought.
Very few people realized instantly that there might be some awkwardness associated with that. If my mom is getting married, that means that she's not married to my dad. So either he's dead or they're divorced. It is possible that she's marrying my dad, but outside of the Disney Channel, the chances of that are not exactly promising.
And maybe the divorce/death happened years ago and i never even knew my dad, or maybe he was a monster and we're all better off without him. But there is no reason to assume, right off the bat, that my mother's wedding will necessarily be an occasion of unmixed joy.
And it wasn't.
My parents decided to separate the day that i moved into my freshman dorm. By fall semester finals, they had decided to divorce. My dad moved out on New Year's Eve. My mom soon had a new boyfriend. I've never been able to pin down to my satisfaction the exact start date of their relationship. And i'd really rather not.
I haven't spent much time in my mom's house since freshman year. Massachusetts is my home now. Therefore, i really don't know her new husband all that well. And i've been dealing with it okay, but there have been some issues between my mom and i that will probably never be entirely resolved.
But she's still my mom, and when she asked me to be in her wedding, i couldn't say no.
It was a lot harder than i thought it would be. I was okay up until the toasts, and then her maid of honor said that she had never seen my mom so happy before. The maid of honor saw my face and quickly covered by saying that she hadn't known my mom when her kids (my siblings and i) were little, and that she missed out on a lot of that early happiness. But her words unintentionally tapped into a lot of my deepest pain surrounding the divorce.
My parents were not a good match. Individually, they are decent people, but they were not a good couple. They should never have gotten married. It was not a good idea, and it was not God's will.
It's really hard to know that and to not begin to believe that i am not supposed to be here. It takes a lot of faith to know that God can bring good out of even the worst situations. But it takes even more faith to know that and to not feel like i am an afterthought, like God looked at my parents' marriage and said, "Well, shit. What am I going to do with that?"
I spend a lot of time feeling like i don't fit in, feeling like i'm being excluded, feeling like i'm forgettable. It's hard to feel like i might be an afterthought to God, too. I know that i'm not. I know that. But there is a difference between the things that we know and the things that we feel, and sometimes i feel like God's afterthought.
Sunday, April 24, 2011
My Peter Pan Moment
Not the pain of this but the unfairness was what dazed Peter. It made him quite helpless. He could only stare, horrified. Every child is affected thus the first time he is treated unfairly. All he thinks he has a right to when he comes to you to be yours is fairness. After you have been unfair to him he will love you again, but he will never afterwards be quite the same boy. No one ever gets over the first unfairness; no one except Peter. He often met it, but he always forgot it. I suppose that was the real difference between him and all the rest.
-- J. M. Barrie
The above, of course, is a basic definition of a Peter Pan moment: the moment when a child realizes that fairness is not automatic, and that people sometimes behave unfairly to one another for no good reason.
I think i knew, on an intellectual level, that life is not fair. I'd been told that it wasn't, i'd seen small examples of it, but somehow, it never really sank in. Somehow, i really believed that if i behaved fairly and played by the rules, everyone else would eventually come around and behave as they ought.
When i was fourteen, my boyfriend and i were babysitting during a board meeting at the church. The kids were my siblings and the pastor's young daughter, Kelly*. Joe* and i were sitting with Kelly, playing some game. I don't remember what. Kelly did that thing that little kids do, where they pretend to hit you and you pretend that it hurts, and everyone laughs. Kelly hit me, and i flopped over on my back, tongue protruding, gasping, "I'm dead! You killed me!" Kelly was sitting next to my sprawling legs, and Joe was leaning over us, a good 12-18 inches away from me.
Just then, the pastor's wife Mary* came through. Seeing me on the floor with my tongue out, Joe leaning over me, and her daughter laughing, she automatically assumed that we were making out (or worse. I never found out and never want to know what exactly she thought was happening.)
"Guys, do you really think that's appropriate in front of the kids?" she snapped, as she flitted through the room.
I was confused. I honestly did not know what she thought was happening. Sitting up on my elbows (which brought me about 10 inches away from Joe, who had leaned back as i sat up), i looked at him, befuddled. "What was she talking about?" He shrugged.
Mary came back through the room then, and snapped (even more ferociously), "Guys, seriously! You're supposed to be watching the kids!"
That night, my mom asked me what had happened. Apparently, Mary had told her that Joe and i were behaving inappropriately. I explained what happened, and Mom explained why it had looked bad.
"Mom, we really weren't doing anything," I said, shocked and hurt.
"I believe you. But Mary was upset. I think you should call her tomorrow and apologize."
"I didn't do anything. What do I have to apologize for?"
"Well, sometimes you have to apologize for other people feeling uncomfortable, even if you didn't actually do anything wrong," she explained.
It was too late to call that night, so we decided to call her in the morning. I went to bed, still upset, but hopeful for the morning. I was certain that when i called Mary and explained what had happened and apologized for upsetting her, she would understand that she was in the wrong and would apologize to me, and everything would be all right. I still believed that if you just played by the rules for long enough, everyone else would eventually fall into line. I also believed that if you apologized when it wasn't your fault, the other person would be shamed into realizing their own guilt and would immediately apologize.
The next morning, i went to my mom's room and called Mary. My mom, knowing more about the world and Mary than i did, stayed there to support me. When Mary picked up the phone, i said that i was calling to apologize for and explain the events of the previous night. I told her what had happened, explained that it had been perfectly innocent, and apologized for making her uncomfortable.
Mary said, "Oh, honey, it's okay. You know I love you, and I like Joe, and I'm happy that you two are dating. And I trust you, and don't think there's anything inappropriate about your relationship. I just think that some things are inappropriate in front of kids."
We talked for a few more minutes, and it became increasingly obvious to me that Mary not only still thought that something inappropriate had been going on, but also thought that i was apologizing for my actions, and not for her perception of what happened. (I was apologizing for her misunderstanding. Even as a naive fourteen-year-old, i wasn't about to apologize for something that genuinely never happened, especially since i wasn't entirely sure what she thought had happened.)
When i finally hung up the phone, i burst into tears. My mom held me close as i tearfully related the conversation. She said that she'd thought the conversation would probably go pretty much that way, and was sorry that i'd had to go through that.
In that moment, i learned that people, even adults, don't always play fair. I learned that just because you're playing fair doesn't mean that anyone else will. And i learned that you still have to play fair anyway.
See, your behavior will quite often have absolutely no effect on other people. People tend to do what they're going to do, and will gladly ignore any attempt on your part to stick to the rules if you're not going along with what they want to do.
Sometimes, all you can do is your best. All you can do is make sure that your behavior, at least, is above reproach.
That way, when you go to court, it will be clear that the other person is in the wrong.
"The most important thing to remember when it comes to forgiving is that forgiveness doesn’t make the other person right, it makes you free." -- Stormie Omartian
*names changed
-- J. M. Barrie
The above, of course, is a basic definition of a Peter Pan moment: the moment when a child realizes that fairness is not automatic, and that people sometimes behave unfairly to one another for no good reason.
I think i knew, on an intellectual level, that life is not fair. I'd been told that it wasn't, i'd seen small examples of it, but somehow, it never really sank in. Somehow, i really believed that if i behaved fairly and played by the rules, everyone else would eventually come around and behave as they ought.
When i was fourteen, my boyfriend and i were babysitting during a board meeting at the church. The kids were my siblings and the pastor's young daughter, Kelly*. Joe* and i were sitting with Kelly, playing some game. I don't remember what. Kelly did that thing that little kids do, where they pretend to hit you and you pretend that it hurts, and everyone laughs. Kelly hit me, and i flopped over on my back, tongue protruding, gasping, "I'm dead! You killed me!" Kelly was sitting next to my sprawling legs, and Joe was leaning over us, a good 12-18 inches away from me.
Just then, the pastor's wife Mary* came through. Seeing me on the floor with my tongue out, Joe leaning over me, and her daughter laughing, she automatically assumed that we were making out (or worse. I never found out and never want to know what exactly she thought was happening.)
"Guys, do you really think that's appropriate in front of the kids?" she snapped, as she flitted through the room.
I was confused. I honestly did not know what she thought was happening. Sitting up on my elbows (which brought me about 10 inches away from Joe, who had leaned back as i sat up), i looked at him, befuddled. "What was she talking about?" He shrugged.
Mary came back through the room then, and snapped (even more ferociously), "Guys, seriously! You're supposed to be watching the kids!"
That night, my mom asked me what had happened. Apparently, Mary had told her that Joe and i were behaving inappropriately. I explained what happened, and Mom explained why it had looked bad.
"Mom, we really weren't doing anything," I said, shocked and hurt.
"I believe you. But Mary was upset. I think you should call her tomorrow and apologize."
"I didn't do anything. What do I have to apologize for?"
"Well, sometimes you have to apologize for other people feeling uncomfortable, even if you didn't actually do anything wrong," she explained.
It was too late to call that night, so we decided to call her in the morning. I went to bed, still upset, but hopeful for the morning. I was certain that when i called Mary and explained what had happened and apologized for upsetting her, she would understand that she was in the wrong and would apologize to me, and everything would be all right. I still believed that if you just played by the rules for long enough, everyone else would eventually fall into line. I also believed that if you apologized when it wasn't your fault, the other person would be shamed into realizing their own guilt and would immediately apologize.
The next morning, i went to my mom's room and called Mary. My mom, knowing more about the world and Mary than i did, stayed there to support me. When Mary picked up the phone, i said that i was calling to apologize for and explain the events of the previous night. I told her what had happened, explained that it had been perfectly innocent, and apologized for making her uncomfortable.
Mary said, "Oh, honey, it's okay. You know I love you, and I like Joe, and I'm happy that you two are dating. And I trust you, and don't think there's anything inappropriate about your relationship. I just think that some things are inappropriate in front of kids."
We talked for a few more minutes, and it became increasingly obvious to me that Mary not only still thought that something inappropriate had been going on, but also thought that i was apologizing for my actions, and not for her perception of what happened. (I was apologizing for her misunderstanding. Even as a naive fourteen-year-old, i wasn't about to apologize for something that genuinely never happened, especially since i wasn't entirely sure what she thought had happened.)
When i finally hung up the phone, i burst into tears. My mom held me close as i tearfully related the conversation. She said that she'd thought the conversation would probably go pretty much that way, and was sorry that i'd had to go through that.
In that moment, i learned that people, even adults, don't always play fair. I learned that just because you're playing fair doesn't mean that anyone else will. And i learned that you still have to play fair anyway.
See, your behavior will quite often have absolutely no effect on other people. People tend to do what they're going to do, and will gladly ignore any attempt on your part to stick to the rules if you're not going along with what they want to do.
Sometimes, all you can do is your best. All you can do is make sure that your behavior, at least, is above reproach.
That way, when you go to court, it will be clear that the other person is in the wrong.
"The most important thing to remember when it comes to forgiving is that forgiveness doesn’t make the other person right, it makes you free." -- Stormie Omartian
*names changed
Friday, April 1, 2011
Ding Letter
Actually, it wasn't a letter. Just a creamy, almost-yellow card, slightly smaller than your average post card. I got my first ever rejection through email, but i was expecting that one. This was the first rejection that i could hold in my hand, and i had had high hopes for this particular opportunity.
I'm trying to convince myself that all it means is that my poems were not their cup of tea, but it's hard not to read this as "Seriously? You should have saved your postage and our time. What a waste."Last semester, i wrote this poem:
Publishing
I fold up my heart and my soul
and all my hopes and dreams
(including a cover letter and SASE)
and send them off
to find out how much they are worth.
And sometimes
(all too often, in fact),
the answer comes back:
“Nothing.”
Putting aside the fact that the poem sucks, i am trying my damndest to remember that the question should not be, "How much is this worth?" but rather, "How much is this worth to you?"
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