it's weird how i'm a complex human person

A friend of mine just posted a long, rambly quote on Facebook about not pursuing any romantic relationships until she finds full satisfaction in God. You see a lot of similar quotes when you and/or many of your friends are young evangelical Christians. Hell, i've even said similar things, and back in high school i broke up with one guy and rejected another because i felt like romantic considerations were distracting me from God.

You also see a lot of almost empowering secular quotes about not pursuing a man until you've found full satisfaction in yourself. You know, graduate from college, get a good career going, pay off some debts, buy some fabulous shoes, pick up a hobby. No one else can love you until you love yourself, after all, and men will like you better if they have to chase you and compete for you with your job and friends and dog or whatever, because of their cavemen genes. Or something. I stopped reading Cosmo a few years ago because of shit like that.

I realized over the past year that a lot of the things i have always taken for granted are not guaranteed. I also realized that i had never really thought about whether or not i personally wanted these things; i just knew that they were good things for some people and assumed they would come to me. Things like marriage and kids, for example. I had always more or less assumed that i would be married by the time i was 25. And then i was dating this amazing man, and we were so in love, and things were going well, and i thought i would marry him some day.

Over the summer, John and i talked about exactly that. We'd talked about marriage before, about how we had some things to work out in our individual lives before we could start making those kinds of plans, and how if/when we did get engaged, it wouldn't be till we were both done with grad school. But during this conversation, John told me he wasn't sure he ever wanted to marry anyone. And then as i thought about it more, i realized that John's grad school schedule meant that, assuming we did get engaged, i couldn't possibly expect to have a ring on my finger until i was 26 or 27. I thought about my options for a few minutes. Do i wait it out with John and see if he wants to get married some day? Do i stay with him even if we never get married? If we do, will i be able to marry him while i'm still young enough to have kids? Do i break up with him and start looking for someone who's a little closer to being ready to settle down? If so, can i get over him, find someone new, and wrangle him to the altar before i hit my quarter century? Where did i get this magic 25, anyway? Wait, do i even want kids?

And then i realized that i simply did not give a single fuck.

Getting married is no longer a goal of mine. If it happens, great, if not, oh well. I do want to do my best to love well those who come into my path. I do want to know that i never abandoned a promising relationship before doing everything i could to make it work. But if i'm on my deathbed, looking at my cats and my post-graduate degrees and my written works (published and unpublished), reflecting on years of hard and satisfying work, surrounded by nieces and nephews and friends, i'm pretty sure i won't be saying, "Damn. If only i had gotten married."

I pursue a relationship with God because i love Him, and because everything in my life seems better when things are good with Him. I pursue other things in my life (school, work, shoes) because i like them and they make me happy. I don't pursue them so i can cross things off of my pre-wedding check-list.

And here's the crux of the whole thing: My relationship with God is pretty solid right now. It could be better, but we'll never get to a point where there's no more room for improvement, because that's not how relationships work. And my personal life is heading in a good direction, and i'm working hard to keep it on that track: working nights and weekends so i can (FINALLY!) finish grad school, getting a new roommate, painting my apartment, and even trying to do a little writing here and there.

Yet two months ago, John and i broke up. I'm not dating anyone else right now, and i'm not looking for anyone else. Mostly because i'm still getting over him, and a little bit because i'm hoping we might still have a future. But big picture? I'm not dating anyone right now because i'm not dating anyone right now. It's not because God is trying to teach me a lesson or because He hasn't brought the right person to me yet. It's not because my many impressive accomplishments intimidate men, or because they see my cat pictures and knitting needles and decide i'm too much of a loser to activate their (bullshit) caveman genetic drive to pursue me. I'm not dating anyone right now because i'm not dating anyone right now.

Life is bigger than bumper stickers or Facebook statuses. It is far more beautiful and complex than Cosmo articles or the imaginary goals we think we're supposed to have. It doesn't mesh all that well with timelines and schedules. And it looks very, very different to each and every person who has it.

If you feel like you need to work out some shit with God before you date anyone, great. Go do that. If you feel like you need to get your career on track before you date anyone, great. Go do that. Me, i'm working hard and having adventures. Sometimes i'm alone, sometimes i'm with friends, and for two years i had a steady partner. Maybe one day i will again. But in the meantime, i'm not trying to get my life lined up so i'll be ready for love when it finds me. I'm trying to get my life lined up because that makes it easier for me to have adventures.

Life is the thing. Don't have a great life so that some guy will want to be a part of it. Have a great life so that YOU can have a great life.

blocked

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.

one for the history books

First Wendy Davis, then DOMA, and now Prop 8. This is a good day to be an American.

1. I know it's become almost trendy recently to hate on denominations, to say that we shouldn't put up divisions between one another and that we are all one body in Christ, and i agree to an extent. But then i read things like this and think, "Differentiated instruction is a good thing." I still think we need to do things together, so that we can be reminded that "other" does not equal "wrong" or "lesser" or otherwise bad, but i don't think it's a bad thing to say, "I like contemplative prayer and long services with lots of space for meditation and quiet, and you like praying in tongues and energetic services with dancing and shouting and call-and-response, and it's okay for us to worship separately." Of course, most denominations aren't divided this way, but wouldn't it be cool if they were? Wouldn't it be great if we made room for differences without building fences and alienating?

"All my life, I've just assumed that everyone else had maps of the year in their head that may/may not be similar to mine. It never occurred to me that something so basic as how one sees the calendar year could vary so much in between people. Within a few seconds this morning, my entire world shifted and grew larger.

Perhaps part of the issue of continuing disagreement in human life and, more narrowly, the church isn't necessarily chalked up to the theodicy explanation of "brokenness" and "sin," but to the simple fact that some people literally see the world differently. People literally experience God in different ways."

2. This was SO interesting to read. I love how Rachel always allows for so many voices, and so many points of view. It's so refreshing to see a bunch of smart, thoughtful people tackle a problem (especially such a sticky [no pun intended] issue as masturbation), and to see that all of them have come to different perspectives and still love and respect one another.

3. If you don't spend a lot of time in churchy circles, you're probably not familiar with conversations about "biblical inerrancy", and can therefore ignore this link. But if you do, this post may help you clarify some of your thoughts.

"You see, it's ok to believe that Noah's ark was filled with all the animals on earth when you're 5 years old, and then change your mind when you realize the physical impossibility of that when you're an adult, but still have faith in that story. Why? Because the truth of Noah's ark is not found in zoological arrangements. It's found in the message of a God who watches over and cares for His creation even in the midst of a storm."

4. Okay, when i read this, i kind of felt like someone had been reading my diary and posting it on the internet. Except that i don't really keep a diary anymore; it's pretty much been replaced by this blog. But still. This is so much of what i've been thinking and feeling about God in the past few years.

"Scripture references and sound logic are dangerous when the God they paint is a monster.

Words about God are heavy. Don't sling them about carelessly."

5. I don't just read about theology and feminism, FYI. I also read hysterically funny essays about home taxidermy.

"In order to fully explain what went wrong, in stages, I would have to look up the thesaurus entry for 'inexpertly' and then deploy every word listed and that would getting boring, so let's just say: I did some crimes.
. . .
You watch how their legs fit together, how their wings don't go like how you made them go like when you got all excited while stuffing that duck. One day you might notice one of them dead on the grass. In real life . . . (We could pretend this is hypothetical but obviously that would be lying.)
. . .
I wanted to explain but I was too embarrassed. I used words like "time sensitive delivery" and "awkward" and "no really". I envisioned a pair of mouldering squirrels in a bloated parcel in the Post Office depot with my name on them. Literally with my name on them. I further envisioned myself marching back to the Post Office with the unopened package and returning to sender. 'DEAR P STAINES,' began the letter in my head. 'UMM.'"

6. I am neither gay nor Mormon but this still made me tear up big time.

"I told her that some people are taught that [being gay is] wrong and don't want to believe differently. And that this parade was to celebrate the fact that being gay is no more a mark of one's character than being straight. She nodded and then asked, "Is there going to be candy?"

7. Oh God. I had so many of these conversations with my parents. In fact, over Christmas, i had them again. I am twenty-three years old and my parents still feel like they can and should comment on my size. (NB: Let me just say that my parents are awesome and affirming in many ways, but fat shaming is so deeply ingrained into the collective consciousness that even awesome people don't think twice about saying, "You've gotten bigger and should get smaller again. Let me give you some tips.")

8. It sucks, but sometimes we are just stuck with our feelings for a while. That's just kind of how it works.

theme: err on the side of caution?

1. I recently told my boyfriend that i wanted to be an English teacher to stop people from making shitty "art" that incorrectly references Romeo and Juliet. Two prime examples are Twilight and Taylor Swift. Bella, who we know is super smart and sensitive because she reads lots of depressing literature and compares her life to it, is particularly fond of Wuthering Heights and Romeo and Juliet references. Because apparently, neither she nor Stephenie Meyer noticed that in WH, the main characters are two spectacularly shitty people who make each other and everyone else they encounter bitter and miserable. And they don't end up together. And in R&J, the two main characters impulsively get married, and then impulsively kill themselves (seriously, Romeo, if you had waited like thirty seconds, you would have lived happily ever after!). You can't exactly call it a great love story, not if you're paying attention. In Taylor Swift's song "Love Story", she outlines a story that is superficially similar to R&J (and also throws in a confusing Scarlet Letter allusion), and the whole point of the song is that her dad didn't like her boyfriend so they were just like Romeo and Juliet and then Romeo proposes and her dad is cool with it and they live happily ever after.
So for everyone whose English teacher did a crappy job teaching this play, let me clear something up: if your relationship reminds you of Romeo and Juliet, THAT IS A RED FLAG. GET OUT NOW.
This post from Cliff Pervocracy underlines that point, although from a slightly different angle. Teenagers in love make terrible decisions, and a parent who tries to stop those decisions is not a bad person. Ignore Twilight. Ignore Taylor Swift. Romeo and Juliet are not good role models. Teenagers of the world, frustrated affection will not actually kill you. Impulsivity might.

2. I've posted a few times about how i'm in this awesome relationship and it's really confusing, because i've never dated someone for this long before and we're not engaged now and won't be any time soon, so i have no idea how to just keep being someone's girlfriend. I'm not struggling to patch holes in a failing relationship, i'm not flushed with new love, i'm not desperately seeking an excuse to break up. I'm deeply in long-term love in a strong relationship and i don't know what the hell to do about it. I know how to get into relationships and i know how to leave them, but the basic daily maintenance of relationships is hard and new and confusing. I'm glad i'm not the only one who feels that way.

3. This is a 

• graphic novel
• written by a woman
• about food
• that includes recipes.

So basically, it was designed with me in mind.

4. In the last election, we spent a lot of time talking about rape, because some legitimate medical doctors who specialize in women's reproductive health and some legitimate lawyers who specialize in rape cases explained to us all that there are different kinds of rape, and that one of them can never result in pregnancy, so we need to stop using that excuse to justify abortions. Oh wait, actually, what happened was a bunch of idiot politicians accused women of making false rape claims and also demonstrated a profound misunderstanding of how biology works.
In the aftermath, i had a conversation with a well-meaning friend who pointed out that women do sometimes falsely accuse men of rape, and it really sucks for the men. Back then, i was less educated about rape culture than i am now, but i did know that a woman who cries rape, whether true or not, will be blamed and doubted and questioned and ridiculed, and a man accused of rape, whether true or not, will be defended. I said then that i'd rather live in a world where women feel comfortable reporting rape, even if that means that men are sometimes falsely accused, than in a world where women who really have been raped are afraid to come forward because they think no one will believe them, even if that means that no man is ever falsely accused. Or, as Cliff puts it, "I'd rather live in a world where a hundred false accusers are told 'I believe you, I care about you, and I'll stand up for you,' than where one rape survivor is told 'gosh, this story has two sides and I really need to consider him innocent until proven guilty.'"

5. "Maybe I'm a fatalist, but I think that if someone wants to cheat on me, they'll cheat. If they don't want to cheat on me, they can go to a skinny-dipping-and-soapy-Twister party with thirty-eight beautiful single women and not cheat. But trying to keep them from cheating by having weird rules (other than "don't cheat on me") about who they can associate with -- that falls somewhere between creepy and downright abusive in my book."

6. I love this outline of consent culture, especially the conclusion, where Cliff draws a parallel between different types of consent violation. Now, i absolutely DO NOT want to suggest, or to imply that Cliff has suggested, that someone making you dance or go to a bar or give them a hug or whatever is the same as being raped. I do want to affirm, as Cliff points out, that we can't arbitrarily decide that "no" counts in some circumstances and not in others. It's not okay to force sex on someone who says no. It's also not okay to force alcohol on someone who says no. It's not okay to force a hug on someone who says no. It's not okay to force socialization on someone who says no. And it IS okay to say no to anything that you're not totally enthusiastic about.

7. I will definitely be keeping this in mind when it's time to talk to my own kids about sex.

8. Even if all you read is the title of this post, it makes a great point. Because here's the thing: if someone calls you racist, they are either right or wrong. Right? Either you are being racist or you are not. If they are wrong, you probably won't get anywhere by arguing with them. They are confused, or over-sensitive, or they misunderstood something, or whatever. You can apologize, and you can ask what was offensive in your statement, and hopefully the ensuing conversation will clear up their misunderstanding. And if not, oh well. But if they honestly think you are being racist, even if they are wrong, you arguing with them is unlikely to change their mind. And if they are right, if you are being racist, arguing with them will definitely not help your case. Instead, you can apologize and ask what was offensive in your statement, and hopefully the ensuing conversation will clear up your misunderstanding. Oh hey, look at how the recommended plan of action is the same in either instance!
I can't speak for anyone else, but i know that i personally will occasionally surprise myself with a racist thought or feeling. I'm not, like, actively racist; i don't burn crosses or wear a white sheet or petition for re-segregation or anything like that, but i do occasionally discover an underlying assumption that i wasn't even aware of. It's helpful to have these things pointed out to me, because that's how i learn that they exist and can start working to eliminate them.
It doesn't feel good to realize that you are racist. It doesn't feel good to have someone of a different race point out that you are racist against them. But i'm guessing that it probably doesn't feel that great to be non-white and to live in a white-dominant culture where most people you meet will be a little bit racist toward you at least once. I'm guessing it doesn't feel great to live in a culture where everything you are is Other and everything you're not is normal. I'm guessing it doesn't feel great to see institutionalized racism all around you, so deeply ingrained into everyday life that a lot of people don't even notice it. And i'm guessing it doesn't feel great to gently point out some of these racist things and have people get all upset and tell you that you're wrong and you need to be less sensitive. As above with the false rape accusations thing, i'd rather have an overly sensitive non-white person tell me every day that something i did or said was racist, even if they are wrong, than to have even one thing that i say or do or thing cause pain to someone else.

Also, i've repeatedly said here that the person accusing you of racism might be wrong or overly sensitive, but the chances of that being true are pretty slim. If you say something about Black (or Asian, or Hispanic, etc.) people and a Black (or Asian, or Hispanic, etc.) person tells you that it is a racist thing to say, they are almost definitely correct. And even if the thoughts and feelings underlying your statement were truly not racist, it's pretty clear that you didn't express yourself clearly, so aren't you glad to learn that your words are unclear and to have a chance to clarify your statements?

Proverbs 19-31, Ecclesiastes 1-12, Song of Solomon 1-8, Isaiah 1-4

Proverbs 20:5
Counsel in the heart of man is like deep water,
But a man of understanding will draw it out.

This is such a beautiful image. I think even if i weren't a Christian, i'd love the Bible for its brilliant metaphors.

Proverbs 25:17
Seldom set foot in your neighbor's house,
Lest he become weary of you and hate you.

As an introvert, i may have just found my life verse.

Ecclesiastes 11:3-8
If the clouds are full of rain,
They empty themselves upon the earth;
And if a tree falls to the south or the north,
In the place where the tree falls, there it shall lie.
He who observes the wind will not sow,
And he who regards the clouds will not reap.

As you do not know what is the way of the wind,
Or how the bones grow in the womb of her who is with child,
So you do not know the works of God who makes all things.
In the morning sow your seed,
And in the evening do not withhold your hand;
For you do not know which will prosper,
Either this or that,
Or whether both alike will be good.

Truly the light is sweet,
And it is pleasant for the eyes to behold the sun;
But if a man lives many years
And rejoices in them all,
Yet let him remember the days of darkness,
For they will be many.
All that is coming is vanity.

The word in Ecclesiastes, translated here as "vanity", has been translated into a different word or phrase in pretty much every version of the Bible that exists. Some get closer than others, but none really hit the target. But i think this whole passage here does a pretty good job of explaining the concept: Things happen as they happen. The world keeps turning. There are cycles and patterns to life. Do your best with what you have and know that nothing lasts.

I'd also love to forcibly tattoo this passage on the chest of anyone who comments on tragedies, especially natural disasters, by suggesting that they were "God's wrath" for the sins of those affected. If the clouds are full of rain,/They empty themselves upon the earth. That's just how it works. We don't know the way of the wind or the works of God, so we sow our seeds. Life goes on.

Emily Angelou? Maya Dickinson? Emilya Dickelou? Mayily Angeson?

A few nights ago, my boyfriend and i were getting ready for bed, and he asked me to tell him a story. He does that from time to time, and it never goes well; i'm not good at spontaneous story-telling, and anyway i mostly write non-narrative poems, so it's completely out of my wheelhouse. So i always ask him what kind of story he wants, and he always says, "I don't know; you're the writer," and then i tell him that i don't do that kind of writing, and then he whines, and then i snuggle him to sleep.

But the most recent time, when i asked him what kind of story he wanted, he said, "One that would make a lot of money."
I laughed. "If i had a story that would make a lot of money, don't you think i would have sold it by now?"
"No, because you write poetry," he countered.

Ignoring the irony embodied in his own words, i had a flashback to senior year. In our senior seminar class, we had an assignment designed to make us seriously consider our career prospects as English majors. (Hint: they are not bright.) Those of us on the Creative Writing track had to research the market, look at publishing houses and magazines and journals and calls for submissions and find out what was profitable, what our demographic was, what our chances were for success. There were four graduating English seniors that year: two Literary Analysis, one Creative Writing (fiction), and one Creative Writing (poetry). The fiction writer was writing a Christian teen romance novel which will almost certainly sell. I thought it was okay: fluffy beach fiction with structurally sound but stylistically flat writing. But that hasn't gotten in anyone else's way, so she has a good shot. Anyway, when it was my turn to talk about success in the poetry field, the professor called in some other experts.

So we sat there, me and Beach Fiction and the two Literary Analysts, and Benji and McCann (published poets, both), and KP, and we talked about what it means to be a successful poet.
"Emily Dickinson never published anything in her life," McCann pointed out.
"And Maya Angelou made a million dollars last year because she sold out to work for Hallmark," Benji added.

Then there was a debate about Maya Angelou, and whether her more popular, money-making poetry was as good as her earlier work, and whether any of it was as good as Emily Dickinson's work, and whether either of them would be read in another fifty or a hundred years, and does success as a poet mean that you get published and are famous in your own time, or that you're still read after your death, or both? Or what if you never get the recognition you deserve, but you're still talented and you feel good about your body of work? What does it mean to be a successful poet?

I've been looking at submission calls again lately and getting depressed. It's hard and scary and heartbreaking and awkward and forward to just send people your poems and ask to get them published. And what's the upside? You get published and then you have to start sending things out again? You get a ten dollar check and a free magazine and you can't tell anyone about it because the poem they picked is the one where you yell at your mom or the one about the time you had to buy Plan B? You get published and then some other random publication actually asks you for work and then you have to find something that's polished and ready to go? And then you've published all of your stuff and then you have to write more? And what if you only had ten good poems in you and then you've sent them all out and then you're faced with the inevitable truth that you suck, that that part of your life is over, that you'll spend the rest of your life showing visitors the laminated magazine page with your poem on it and serving people coffee? You send out a submission packet and promptly die of embarrassment and anxiety?

Still, my workshop requires me to turn things in every week for review. And when i'm applying for English teacher jobs, it looks good if i have some publishing credits on my résumé. And knowing is better than not knowing. And even ten bucks is better than nothing. And who knows? Maybe i'll be some kind of Maya Angelou/Emily Dickinson crossover: an introverted white lady who doesn't title her poems and makes some money off of them while she's still alive. Okay, so i guess that's less of a Maya Angelou/Emily Dickinson crossover and more of a Profitable Emily Dickinson, but whatever.

Martha Sabbath

Sometimes i take a Martha Sabbath.

Usually i'm Mary. I like to worship in community. I like to hear other ideas, other voices. I like my thoughts and feelings to be confirmed, and i like my thoughts and feelings to be challenged. I like to sing, to pray, to listen. I know that these things are important, and i feel that i need them.

But sometimes i'm Martha.

Sometimes, when i wake up on a Sunday morning, i just don't feel like going to church. Sometimes, the thought of putting on clothes and doing something with my hair and driving all the way to church and talking to people (talking to people! so many people! why do you talk to me?! leave me alone! i'm trying to worship and you're totally harshing my mellow!) is completely overwhelming. Sometimes, it feels like more of a chore than a joyful and necessary and longed-for part of spiritual life.

Yes, i know that we have to do these things. In a relationship, sometimes you have to do things you wouldn't otherwise be inclined to do. You have to go to a concert for a band you don't care for, because your significant other loves them and you want to be with that person when they are so happy. You have to go to family Thanksgiving so that your relatives can find out how you're doing and comment on your life. You have to get up early to make lunches for your kids before school. You have to go to church and talk to people and sing and sit still and pray. The practice of these things does build a bond (and i could lecture on the psychology of that, but i won't) between you and the object(s) of your affection. When it comes to spiritual disciplines, the bond is multifaceted: between you and God, between you and your pastor, between you and the other people on the worship team or in your Sunday school class or the other greeters or what have you. You are a part of their spiritual lives too, and it is your Christian duty to be there for the sake of their worship, just as it is their duty to be there for you. It builds community and love, it assists in spiritual growth, it fosters connection and learning and worship. Going to the same church every week is a good thing.

You know what's also a good thing? Sleeping in. Spending the day in PJs. Taking time to clean the kitchen for your roommates, or to cook lunch for your houseguests, or to shave your legs for your boyfriend, or to organize your desk for yourself.

Sometimes, you need to worship Jesus by caring for yourself and for others. Sometimes, you need to worship Jesus by bleaching the shelves in the fridge, or reorganizing the Tupperware, or sleeping for just one more hour.

Sometimes worship is the blending of voices raised to the Lord. Sometimes worship is snuggling with a cat and then washing a sinkful of dishes.

Mary worship is the norm, and that's as it should be. But never be afraid to take a Martha Sabbath.

tattooed ladies

My workshop group is writing a collaborative short story collection, a frame narrative about a circus, and purgatory, and atonement, and best intentions. So we've all been researching and writing about sideshow freaks and circus performers, and it's been fascinating.

One of my favorite things so far has been researching tattooed ladies. We had talked initially about the tattooed man, but i pointed out that the societal implications of tattoos (especially of full-body tattoos the display of which supported your livelihood) were different for men and women. I wanted us to include both.

I learned that some of the earliest examples of tattoos were actually found on women. Experts believe that the tattoos were meant to protect them during pregnancy and childbirth.

Historically, of course, women have been the property of men. During the Victorian era, as tattoos were becoming more popular, some women tattooed themselves as a way of marking their autonomy. They got to alter their own appearances, their own bodies, forever. It was a way of reclaiming their own skin. Prostitutes were some of the most commonly tattooed women, including one French prostitute who tattooed herself with the names of her lovers and favorite clients.

One of my favorite tattooed ladies was Anna Mae Burlingston Gibbons (Miss Artoria), who worked as a tattooed lady for over fifty years. Most of her tattoos were of religious or patriotic significance, and her husband was her artist. He was a tattooed man working in a carnival, and they decided to supplement their income by tattooing her as well. She worked to support her family, using her own body to do so.

Tattoos are still a way for women to take ownership of their bodies. Julia Gnuse, featured in the Guinness Book of World Records, wanted to reclaim her body from disease. I've said before that tattoos are the scars you choose, the story you decide to tell about yourself. My own tattoos are prime examples of that.

I had a professor who liked to say that we are homo narrans -- story-telling people. What defines us as human beings is the narrative impulse. The stories we tell matter. The stories we tell about ourselves matter.

I have a friend who was raped. On her hip, just above her mons pubis, she has a tattoo of a broken heart that has been patched up and repaired. She took the story of something terrible that happened to her -- being raped -- and turned it into a story of triumph and growth and perseverance. My brother and members of his unit got tattoos to memorialize their dead and wounded brothers. The tattoo that has been most popular on my blog is a tattoo about me owning my choices, whether good or bad, and owning my body.

Tattooed ladies kick ass. Tattooed ladies own themselves. Tattooed ladies are unafraid of public condemnation. Even sorority sisters with tattoos of dolphins and mistranslated Chinese characters are spending money and inflicting pain to say, "This skin is mine. This body is mine. I belong to me, forever."

on a northbound train

On Monday morning, the boyfriend and i took a train to Delaware to see our friend. We spent a few days in the hospital with him, and with his parents, other friends, doctors, nurses, and random visitors.

On Wednesday, i took the rental car down to Maryland to have dinner with my dad and brother. Dad's birthday was Tuesday (49; a perfect square), and on Tuesday Adam got a new leg. He will soon begin training with a handbike in preparation for the Boston marathon in April. I brought him the Christmas presents i'd forgotten in December, and he returned a book i'd loaned (Sandman, Preludes and Nocturnes). We ate Memphis barbecue surrounded by Elvis paraphernalia and black-and-white posters of old jazz and blues musicians. Adam and i split the bill; it was Dad's birthday after all, or nearly. We talked about Adam's new therapist, and some of the things they were working through, and the line between art and entertainment, and why the Ravens are the best football team in the world (because they're named in honor of Edgar Allen Poe, duh), and my dad's younger brother and his life troubles, and the varying deliciousness of different sauces on the table, and where we would eat when Adam came to Boston for the marathon. On the way back to the hotel, i got lost and drove in circles for a while.

I came into the room and learned that my boyfriend's grandfather had just died. We spent a sober evening packing and making arrangements for the morning return trip.

This morning, we drove back to the train station, returned the rental car, took turns watching the luggage while the other person used the bathroom, and then waited for our train. We're headed back to Boston now, and the boyfriend would like you to know that he has kissed me three times so far since getting on the train. We're tired and quiet and glad to be going home, and glad that we have mobile devices that allow us to read and blog and watch The West Wing. And glad that we found seats together, where we can share our chicken sandwiches and sometimes kiss.

It's been a fairly stressful and depressing week, but fortunately i have Sandman and my iPad and Boyfriend kisses and i'm headed home. And so it goes.

I just finished reading "Signal to Noise", another Gaiman comic. This one he wrote with Dave McKean. McKean's artistic style is generally pretty hit-or-miss for me; he does that mixed-media thing where you have oil paintings and antique objects and scraps of newspaper and whatnot all mixed together in layered images. Sometimes they are beautiful and creepy and perfect, and sometimes they feel (to me, anyway) forced and contrived. But "Signal to Noise" is perfect. Anyone who doubts that comics contain "real" art, anyone who likes the idea of graphic novels but is turned off by the cartoony images and superheroes, anyone who doesn't really like to read but likes stories, and particularly anyone facing loss, should read "Signal to Noise". Briefly, it's the story of a man facing his personal apocalypse. And that's the whole thesis of the work, really, is that there is no one apocalypse for everyone. The main character is a filmmaker who is dying of cancer as he works on his last script. He's writing a movie about a small European village in the year 999, facing the coming millennium and certain that the world will end. Throughout the course of the story, the disjointed images and words tell us that everyone has their own apocalypse, that the world is ending all the time for someone or another, that we all have to face our own end some time.

Reading this story, experiencing this art, as i sat in a hospital room and planned a trip to see my own broken family, i had to keep taking breaks. I couldn't digest the whole story in one sitting. I had to give it time to happen to me. I haven't found many things that could overwhelm me so completely, and i found this one at exactly the right time.

I don't really have a point in all of this. I just needed to write some things down. If you're looking for a take-away, however, i can give you this: i should be back to a more normal posting schedule soon. Read "Signal to Noise". Barbecue is delicious. My boyfriend is a good kisser.