One of the things i like least about Catholicism is confession. The veil in the Temple was torn at the hour of Jesus' death! We no longer have to appeal to any other person for access to God! For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present not the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth nor anything else in all Creation will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord! I don't like the idea of being compelled to tell my sin to anyone but Jesus, to have anyone but the Holy Spirit tell me how to make amends for what i've done. I don't like being told that someone else has more clout with God than i do. And my shriveled little feminist heart is REALLY pissed that confession must be to a priest, who is necessarily male.
One of the things i like best about Catholicism is confession. We are to live in community with one another, to hold each other accountable, to rejoice and mourn together. It's important to show each other our wounds, our scars, our vulnerabilities, our imperfections. It's important to struggle together, to lift one another up. I love the acknowledgement that no one is so holy that they have nothing to confess (except maybe the Pope. I'm not really sure how that works out.). Everyone has someone to confess to, and something to confess, and you should go regularly, because you're going to fuck up regularly. If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and purify us from all unrighteousness. Confession requires a level of self-awareness of our flaws that does not come naturally, and that must be practiced and learned. Confession teaches that self-awareness, as well as humility and contrition.
Lately, i've been confessing a lot. Mostly i've been confessing my fear. I'm afraid that i won't find a part-time job to carry me through student teaching. I'm afraid that i won't find a full-time job when i'm done student teaching and that i'll be skating through life by the skin of my teeth forever. I'm afraid that there will be some huge emergency (i'll get cancer, my car will explode, my apartment will burn down), and i'll be unable to work for a while/unable to get to work and student teaching/homeless, and will have to wipe out my entire savings account just to survive, which will then prevent me from finishing my student teaching and then i'll be back to square one, trying to finish this damned degree and become a teacher and start the new chapter of my life.
I wish i could tell you that this confession comes from a desire for a more holy and transparent life and all that other stuff i was talking about above, but that's simply not true. It's mostly because i am too desperately afraid to hide it any longer. I can't keep pretending that i'm blindly optimistic about the future. I can't keep smiling when i talk about leaving my steady, dependable job that pays my bills. I can't hold back the floodgates any longer.
I'm also confessing out of a tiny, slim hope that one of these times, when i'm telling someone about how badly i need a job, they will say, "My best friend was telling me about an opening in her company that sounds exactly like what you described! She owns the company, so she can hire anyone she wants, and she trusts me, so she'll hire anyone I tell her to, and you're awesome, so I'll tell her to hire you!" And then i'll be editing magazine articles online on my own schedule, or cleaning someone's house, or sorting mail, or flipping burgers, or spreading manure, or telemarketing, and bringing home $250/week, and getting through this scary, uncertain chapter.
But mostly it's fear. It's a clinging, clawing black parasite of fear and anxiety that climbs into my body and squeezes my heart and ties my stomach in knots and keeps me awake all night in terror and nausea and anxiety. It whispers in my ear that i will be homeless; that i will have to work as a stripper; that i will have to move back in with my mother; that i will never be able to leave my current job; that i will ruin my credit; that i will die at forty-seven as a cashier at 7-11, coughing nicotine tar out of my lungs and telling hobos and drunk teenagers about how i was going to be a teacher and a poet; that my boyfriend will tire of my anxiety and depression and will leave me to pursue his own happiness; or that worst of all i will do it, i will make it through and get my job and student teach and then get a real teaching job and i'll be living my dreams and i will hate the reality, it will be even worse than the terror i live in now and all of the worry, all of the stress and anxiety and work and hardship, it will all have been for naught.
And so i confess. I tell my friends that i have not been sleeping at night. I tell my co-workers that i don't really have a plan, and that it's freaking me out. I tell my parents that i'm stalling. I tell my boyfriend that i've been sending out applications since January and have only had one interview and that it didn't go anywhere, and i'm starting to lose hope. And when it's late at night and i can't sleep, and the parasite is all twisted up inside of me, i whisper to God that i am afraid, i am so afraid.
And God reminds me that He has called me to this, and that He does not call without a purpose. He reminds me to trust in Him, that when i graduated and had no direction, He provided a full-time job making more money than i could ever have hoped for, a job in the same building as my classes and within walking distance of my apartment, He provided that apartment and a generous lender so i could pay my deposit, He provided roommates who could move in exactly as the old ones moved out, He provided friends to buy me dinner when i couldn't afford to feed myself and an almost free car when i needed transportation, He provided cash when i needed a bus ticket to see my brother before his deployment, He gave me a window between classes so i could see my brother when he was hospitalized, He has provided second and third and fourth jobs and paid internships and cheap chocolate flavored wine and teacher friends to learn from and a support system at home and at work that i can confess to, not a sparrow falls that He doesn't see it, and though i stumble i will not fall down, because His hand is upon me.
And He reminds me that even if things don't work out the way i thought they would, even if my fate is to live out my worst fears (though probably not the stripper one; that's unrealistic. I'm a terrible dancer.), even if i never do the things i want to do, He has called me to try, and He does not call without a purpose. If my fate is to be a cashier at a 7-11, and if i have to get a masters degree in education to get there, it's because that's what God wants, and He will be there with me. I will find Him wherever i am, because He goes before me to lead the way.
Bless me, Father, for i have sinned. It has been far too long since my last confession. I have let my heart be ruled by fear. I have failed to trust in You. I have forgotten Your promises. I have believed that fate and luck were more powerful than Your will. I have held my fear close to my heart, closer than Your word, closer than my friends, closer than my memories of what You've done for me before, closer than You. I have pretended to be self-sufficient. I have pretended to be certain. I have not cast my cares on You. I have not taken Your yoke upon me. I have worried about tomorrow. I have believed that no one could help me, not even You. I have believed that You would let me fail. I have doubted Your purpose. I have doubted my calling. I have doubted Your perfect love. I have forgotten the sparrows. I have been afraid, so afraid.
For these and all the sins of my past life, I am truly sorry.
Showing posts with label small things. Show all posts
Showing posts with label small things. Show all posts
Tuesday, July 2, 2013
Wednesday, June 12, 2013
Grrrr. Arrrrgh.
Guys. Let's talk about avocados for a minute.
Now, i am not one to turn up my nose at a perfectly ripe avocado. It is, after all, perfectly ripe. It is tender and buttery and rich and you half expect it to melt in your mouth. I like perfectly ripe avocados mashed into guacamole, or sliced on top of burgers, or simply dipped into sea salt and eaten alone. I even like avocado ice cream. Savory, sweet, or naked, a perfectly ripe avocado is pretty irresistible.
But sometimes, what i really want is a slightly under-ripe avocado. (DO NOT eat an over-ripe avocado. They taste like over-ripe bananas. Bad idea.) Slightly under-ripe avocados remind you they are, in fact, a fruit. They are tender yet firm, like a peach, and so sweet and mild in flavor. You can taste the richness ahead, but it's still soft and delicate.
Let's talk about how to eat that slightly under-ripe avocado. And let's do so while ignoring the mess on my bed. (Except for Volume Two of Buffy: Season Eight. Yeah, that's a yellow sale sticker you see on Faith's perfectly tousled hair. Six bucks, whatwhat?! Shout out to New England Comics!)
What you see here is a masterpiece of a meal. I bought this five-grain blend at Marshalls (quinoa, brown rice, red lentils, two other things, who cares), and cooked it slow and gentle, risotto-style, and then melted in some Parmesan. I did that a few days ago and had leftovers in the fridge, so a healthy serving of cold grains were the first thing in my bowl. Next was falafel. You can just see the yellow grittiness of it, above the blurry rainbow grains and below the brilliant scarlet mess of gazpacho. Yes, gazpacho. Homemade. Garlicky and vinegary and chock full of veggies. (Actually, side note: SO MANY of the things that i usually think of as vegetables are really fruits. Like avocados. And tomatoes. And peppers. So this dinner is really fruit soup with fruit slices and fruit patties and grain.)
So. Yes. Gazpacho. I've made this every summer for the past three years. My recipe is based on one from the "Quick and Easy Seven Dollar Meals" cookbook, but it's a little different every time i make it. I'm pretty happy with this batch, though. I'm especially happy with the way that it melts into the falafel and the grains and the whole thing makes a heavy, intensely flavorful stew. Thick enough to eat with a fork, and all sloppy and healthy and colorful, and topped off with those sweet, firm, buttery avocados.
Eat while watching Buffy: Season Three. And then follow immediately with an entire pint of Ben and Jerry's Coffee Heath Bar Crunch ice cream.
Wednesday, June 5, 2013
standards
There are a couple of quick meals that i eat at least once a week. For example, when i stay at my boyfriend's house (three or four nights a week), i pack a breakfast for the morning. It has to be something ready to eat so i don't have to do any cooking, and it has to be in one container so i don't have to carry too much back and forth. Enter: yogurt!
I start with a layer of frozen fruit. From a bag. Stop judging me. I use fresh when it's in season, and i roasted some fresh peaches recently (omg, peach pie for breakfast. sooooo gooooood). Anyway, this is mixed fruit: strawberries, raspberries, blueberries, and mango.
And then i drench them in raw honey. This was a Himalayan acacia honey.
And then there's that blanket of Greek yogurt. I like the Cabot Creek full fat kind: heavy, creamy, and smooth. One bite and you'll never buy fruit-on-the-bottom again.
On Mondays, i eat vegetarian. And obviously, i still need protein. And flavor. And a filling meal.
So i throw some kale or spinach into a skillet with tomatoes, garlic powder, and butter or olive oil, cover it, and let it steam and saute until it's all tender and flavorful.
Oh hey, leftover waffle with melty Brie. I see you there.
Veggies layered on bread and cheese. More melting happens.
And then some poached eggs and pepper. And then eating. Lots of eating.
Dinners are a lot more variable, because i have more time and have spent all day thinking about what i want to eat. And working, obviously. But these two meals show up pretty frequently during the week.
Stay tuned for more food!
I start with a layer of frozen fruit. From a bag. Stop judging me. I use fresh when it's in season, and i roasted some fresh peaches recently (omg, peach pie for breakfast. sooooo gooooood). Anyway, this is mixed fruit: strawberries, raspberries, blueberries, and mango.
And then i drench them in raw honey. This was a Himalayan acacia honey.
And then there's that blanket of Greek yogurt. I like the Cabot Creek full fat kind: heavy, creamy, and smooth. One bite and you'll never buy fruit-on-the-bottom again.
On Mondays, i eat vegetarian. And obviously, i still need protein. And flavor. And a filling meal.
So i throw some kale or spinach into a skillet with tomatoes, garlic powder, and butter or olive oil, cover it, and let it steam and saute until it's all tender and flavorful.
Oh hey, leftover waffle with melty Brie. I see you there.
Dinners are a lot more variable, because i have more time and have spent all day thinking about what i want to eat. And working, obviously. But these two meals show up pretty frequently during the week.
Stay tuned for more food!
Tuesday, April 16, 2013
Boston Marathon 2013
You know what's weird? It's weird when you're in Boston, where you've been dozens of times in the last six years, and you've just watched your little brother cross the finish line on a handcycle, and you and your cousin and her boyfriend are finishing up lunch, and then your boyfriend calls to see if you're okay.
"Yeah, i'm fine. Why?"
"There was an explosion close to where you are. A couple of explosions. Stay away from the trains."
And then it's weird when the trains are all shut down and you can't get back home. It's weird when you're looking at news pictures of devastation and destruction in exactly the spot where you were just two hours before, and you think, "Thank God all the amputees got out of there before the explosions triggered their PTSD," and then your mom is texting you, saying, "Get a cab. I'll pay for it." but you can't find a cab, so you take the Silver Line to the airport. And then it's weird when you realize that the airport is probably a horrifically unsafe place to be, but so is the place where you were, and anyway what choice do you have? Walk the eight miles to your apartment? It's weird when you get to the airport and take the Blue Line to Beachmont, and then your cousin's grandmother picks you up, and then you and the grandparents and Agelseb and her boyfriend all stay in Revere over night. It's weird when you're seeing the devastation of your own city on the news. It's weird when you wake up the next morning to a text from your dad saying that the FBI searched an apartment in Revere because they got a lead on the person behind the terrorist attack. It's weird when your brain puts two and two together and you realize that you were just two blocks away from a terrorist attack as it was happening. It's weird when you have to call your boss to say that you can't come in, because the of the explosions.
It's weird. For a long time, it's not terrifying or upsetting or sad or anything like that. It's weird, and it's stressful, and it's annoying, and it's uncomfortable, and it's inconvenient. It's weird to drain your cell phone battery calling people to tell them that you are alive and to make sure that they are. It's weird.
Today, i have a major event at work that i'm sort of co-running. Actually, i'm kind of running the whole thing. So it's weird to get back home at 8:45 in the morning, change your clothes, and run straight to campus to start setting up slide shows and posters and making frantic phone calls. It's weird and anxiety-producing and super stressful. It's weird to look at the gorgeous LBD and pearls you had picked out for today, so that you would be appropriately polished and professional when you are running a major campus event, and then reach for an old t-shirt, jeans, and your rattiest sneakers, because you haven't even showered yet and you forgot to change your underwear and you'll be running around for the next eight and a half hours so why bother? It's weird to spend the day eating trail mix because you're too nauseous to eat real food and you don't want to pass out. It's weird to see your Facebook news feed filled with information about this thing that almost happened to you. It's weird to sit quietly in the back of the auditorium while someone lectures about using GPS signals to predict earthquakes and totally ignore the lecture to read Dorothy Parker, because it's Dorothy Parker and you love her and all you want to do is read and relax, and then you remember that you almost got blown up yesterday and you just keep breathing.
I've been hit with tiny waves of realization from time to time. Mostly, i've been weirded out. Yesterday, i was mostly stressed about normal tiny annoyances ("The Red Line isn't running! Check the Orange Line. Oh, they're only going to Forest Hills. Where the fuck is Forest Hills? Whatever, it's the wrong direction. Can we get a cab? I haven't seen any cabs in hours. Wait, does this bus go to the airport? Agh, i have to pee!"). Last night and this morning, i was anxious to the point of nausea and insomnia because of this huge event today and all of the things i still needed to do for it. Every now and then, i get sad or scared or anxious about the attack, but mostly i've been wrapped up in other things. Mostly, it's just been weird.
And it's going to be weird next year, when the marathon comes around again and everyone gets nervous. It's going to be weird in fifteen or twenty years when my kids learn about this in school and their teachers give them an assignment to interview their parents and i tell them how close i was, i pull up a map to show them where i watched the race (right next to the finish line) and the P. F. Chang's where i was during the actual explosions. It's going to be weird when we find out who was behind this and watch the bloodthirst take over.
It's going to be a weird time for all of us, for a very long time. But life is weird, and wine is good. Give lots of love to your friends and family. Pray, or meditate, or think happy thoughts, or do whatever it is you do in times like this. Keep eating and drinking, even if you're nauseous and/or distracted, because the last thing your loved ones need right now is for you to pass out from dehydration or malnutrition (says the girl who has yet to eat an actual meal today). Sleep. Take a shower. Give someone a back rub. Snuggle. Watch a happy movie (i like Bringing Up Baby). Sleep and eat and love some more. Things are always going to be weird, so just keep breathing and you'll get through.
"Yeah, i'm fine. Why?"
"There was an explosion close to where you are. A couple of explosions. Stay away from the trains."
And then it's weird when the trains are all shut down and you can't get back home. It's weird when you're looking at news pictures of devastation and destruction in exactly the spot where you were just two hours before, and you think, "Thank God all the amputees got out of there before the explosions triggered their PTSD," and then your mom is texting you, saying, "Get a cab. I'll pay for it." but you can't find a cab, so you take the Silver Line to the airport. And then it's weird when you realize that the airport is probably a horrifically unsafe place to be, but so is the place where you were, and anyway what choice do you have? Walk the eight miles to your apartment? It's weird when you get to the airport and take the Blue Line to Beachmont, and then your cousin's grandmother picks you up, and then you and the grandparents and Agelseb and her boyfriend all stay in Revere over night. It's weird when you're seeing the devastation of your own city on the news. It's weird when you wake up the next morning to a text from your dad saying that the FBI searched an apartment in Revere because they got a lead on the person behind the terrorist attack. It's weird when your brain puts two and two together and you realize that you were just two blocks away from a terrorist attack as it was happening. It's weird when you have to call your boss to say that you can't come in, because the of the explosions.
It's weird. For a long time, it's not terrifying or upsetting or sad or anything like that. It's weird, and it's stressful, and it's annoying, and it's uncomfortable, and it's inconvenient. It's weird to drain your cell phone battery calling people to tell them that you are alive and to make sure that they are. It's weird.
Today, i have a major event at work that i'm sort of co-running. Actually, i'm kind of running the whole thing. So it's weird to get back home at 8:45 in the morning, change your clothes, and run straight to campus to start setting up slide shows and posters and making frantic phone calls. It's weird and anxiety-producing and super stressful. It's weird to look at the gorgeous LBD and pearls you had picked out for today, so that you would be appropriately polished and professional when you are running a major campus event, and then reach for an old t-shirt, jeans, and your rattiest sneakers, because you haven't even showered yet and you forgot to change your underwear and you'll be running around for the next eight and a half hours so why bother? It's weird to spend the day eating trail mix because you're too nauseous to eat real food and you don't want to pass out. It's weird to see your Facebook news feed filled with information about this thing that almost happened to you. It's weird to sit quietly in the back of the auditorium while someone lectures about using GPS signals to predict earthquakes and totally ignore the lecture to read Dorothy Parker, because it's Dorothy Parker and you love her and all you want to do is read and relax, and then you remember that you almost got blown up yesterday and you just keep breathing.
I've been hit with tiny waves of realization from time to time. Mostly, i've been weirded out. Yesterday, i was mostly stressed about normal tiny annoyances ("The Red Line isn't running! Check the Orange Line. Oh, they're only going to Forest Hills. Where the fuck is Forest Hills? Whatever, it's the wrong direction. Can we get a cab? I haven't seen any cabs in hours. Wait, does this bus go to the airport? Agh, i have to pee!"). Last night and this morning, i was anxious to the point of nausea and insomnia because of this huge event today and all of the things i still needed to do for it. Every now and then, i get sad or scared or anxious about the attack, but mostly i've been wrapped up in other things. Mostly, it's just been weird.
And it's going to be weird next year, when the marathon comes around again and everyone gets nervous. It's going to be weird in fifteen or twenty years when my kids learn about this in school and their teachers give them an assignment to interview their parents and i tell them how close i was, i pull up a map to show them where i watched the race (right next to the finish line) and the P. F. Chang's where i was during the actual explosions. It's going to be weird when we find out who was behind this and watch the bloodthirst take over.
It's going to be a weird time for all of us, for a very long time. But life is weird, and wine is good. Give lots of love to your friends and family. Pray, or meditate, or think happy thoughts, or do whatever it is you do in times like this. Keep eating and drinking, even if you're nauseous and/or distracted, because the last thing your loved ones need right now is for you to pass out from dehydration or malnutrition (says the girl who has yet to eat an actual meal today). Sleep. Take a shower. Give someone a back rub. Snuggle. Watch a happy movie (i like Bringing Up Baby). Sleep and eat and love some more. Things are always going to be weird, so just keep breathing and you'll get through.
Wednesday, April 3, 2013
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.
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.
Wednesday, February 13, 2013
metaphor
In the morning, i drink coffee: hot, dark, and bold. Boiling water blasts through grounds, streaming dark and heavy into a glass pot, into a ceramic mug. Brown sugar in the bottom, cream swirling through, chaos moves to uniformity and order. Not for me the flavored non-dairy additions. Not for me the chemical sweeteners. Give me dark beans, slightly burnt, ground rough and percolated. This is how i start the day.
In the afternoon, i drink tea: warm, light, and mild. Leaves sit in hot water, gently releasing floral notes and antioxidants. Golden honey melts into liquid, flavors blending like a three-part harmony: green tea, hibiscus flowers, raw honey. You have to give the tea time to steep. You have to give the honey time to melt. You have to sip gently, like wine, and savor the complex layers in the cup. Take a pause, take a breath, take a sip.
In the afternoon, i drink tea: warm, light, and mild. Leaves sit in hot water, gently releasing floral notes and antioxidants. Golden honey melts into liquid, flavors blending like a three-part harmony: green tea, hibiscus flowers, raw honey. You have to give the tea time to steep. You have to give the honey time to melt. You have to sip gently, like wine, and savor the complex layers in the cup. Take a pause, take a breath, take a sip.
Thursday, January 10, 2013
Reason #17 Why I Should Live With My Boyfriend
He's been sick lately, and i've had things to take care of in my own apartment, so i haven't been able to take care of him every day.
Wednesday, June 27, 2012
snails
I usually see two or three. Sometimes, a careless person will step on one, and i'll see the shell fragments and slime squished on the edge of a stair.
 |
| Fifty snails. Or seven. Math is not my strong suit. |
I only see this kind: the little mustard-y yellow-brown with the black racing stripe. I've never seen any other ones. They never stay for more than a few hours. I go home for lunch somewhere around 1 or 2 pm, and i leave work for the day at 5. When i'm there for lunch, there are snails. When i'm home from work, there are none.
Snails are cute, sure. And they're slow-moving, and their shells are pretty and fun to decorate with, and they are delicious. Yes, i've eaten snails. Twice. Once in France, and once in Spain. In Spain, they prepare them very simply, steamed or boiled with seasonings, and you just suck them out of the shell. They are very tiny, and the method of cooking usually leaves their heads poking out of the shells, their tiny faces frozen in a series of silent screams. Spanish snails are pretty upsetting to eat. French snails, on the other hand, are baked or roasted in a thing like a muffin tin, each snail in its own little compartment, and they are neatly tucked into their shells and covered in butter and herbs. You eat them with a fork, and you never have to see their faces. This way is much better.
I have to confess, however, that i fibbed a little when i said that snails are delicious. The truth is that, much like octopus, snails don't have much flavor beyond what they're cooked with. This is another reason to prefer the French method: they mostly taste like melted butter and herbs.
But these little guys are not for eating. I just like to watch them enjoy the sunshine.
Monday, June 25, 2012
rain
I've written before about my history with thunderstorms, how the pounding raindrops and crashing thunder are something of a lullaby. I haven't written before that the first time i made out with a boy was in a thunderstorm, when the power went out and we were left in total darkness. I also haven't written that on days like this, my mother used to love to make a big pot of tea and put on an old movie, something with Jimmy Stewart or one of the Hepburns. We're a distant cousin of Katharine, you know.
I still like to put on something black-and-white when it rains, though these days my tea likely as not has a shot of whiskey in it. To ward off the flu, of course. I like to put on slubby old clothes and snuggle with John and watch the old stories over again. There's nothing like Cary Grant on a rainy day. There's nothing like Cary Grant any day. Maybe George Clooney.
It looks like it may rain all day today, and i'm stuck at work. I'll be sneaking peeks of Sandman, of course; i recently got the fourth and fifth volumes and have ordered the sixth and seventh. I'll work hard: emails, voicemails, transcripts, and letters. Two of our office assistants are on vacation, so i'm handling their workloads. Maybe at lunch i'll watch an episode of Mad Men, the next best thing to a black-and-white film. After work, i'll put on slubby old clothes and wash a load of laundry and drink some tea. My black and white cat will nap on my bed while Breakfast at Tiffany's or Philadelphia Story plays in the background. I might even take a nap today.
I wish i had a porch with a swing and a grandmother on it. I wish i could call out "rainy day" from work, but they don't have a code for that in the accrued hours. Days like this will be so much fun for teaching.
Days like this almost make me wish i was fifteen again (except that no one in their right minds would ever want to go back to that age). I want to have no responsibilities, to be able to wear pajamas all day and spend the morning in bed with a stack of novels. I want to eat two bowls of cereal for breakfast and spend the afternoon snacking on fruit that someone else paid for while Audrey Hepburn wafts across the screen in some glamorous, tiny gown. I want my biggest annoyance to be that my cat has fallen asleep half on my arm and half on my open book.
But when i was fifteen, i didn't have a cat. I didn't even know about Sandman then. And most of the movies in the house belonged to my parents. I would have been watching in the living room, in the midst of a swirl of chaos, instead of in my cozy, still room.
Growing up isn't really moving forward. It's more like moving sideways, or at least diagonally. Some things are better, some things are worse. Mostly, things are just different. We trade some responsibilities for others. We trade some freedoms for others. When i was fifteen, i didn't have to pay bills, but i couldn't put whiskey in my tea.
I still like to put on something black-and-white when it rains, though these days my tea likely as not has a shot of whiskey in it. To ward off the flu, of course. I like to put on slubby old clothes and snuggle with John and watch the old stories over again. There's nothing like Cary Grant on a rainy day. There's nothing like Cary Grant any day. Maybe George Clooney.
It looks like it may rain all day today, and i'm stuck at work. I'll be sneaking peeks of Sandman, of course; i recently got the fourth and fifth volumes and have ordered the sixth and seventh. I'll work hard: emails, voicemails, transcripts, and letters. Two of our office assistants are on vacation, so i'm handling their workloads. Maybe at lunch i'll watch an episode of Mad Men, the next best thing to a black-and-white film. After work, i'll put on slubby old clothes and wash a load of laundry and drink some tea. My black and white cat will nap on my bed while Breakfast at Tiffany's or Philadelphia Story plays in the background. I might even take a nap today.
I wish i had a porch with a swing and a grandmother on it. I wish i could call out "rainy day" from work, but they don't have a code for that in the accrued hours. Days like this will be so much fun for teaching.
Days like this almost make me wish i was fifteen again (except that no one in their right minds would ever want to go back to that age). I want to have no responsibilities, to be able to wear pajamas all day and spend the morning in bed with a stack of novels. I want to eat two bowls of cereal for breakfast and spend the afternoon snacking on fruit that someone else paid for while Audrey Hepburn wafts across the screen in some glamorous, tiny gown. I want my biggest annoyance to be that my cat has fallen asleep half on my arm and half on my open book.
But when i was fifteen, i didn't have a cat. I didn't even know about Sandman then. And most of the movies in the house belonged to my parents. I would have been watching in the living room, in the midst of a swirl of chaos, instead of in my cozy, still room.
Growing up isn't really moving forward. It's more like moving sideways, or at least diagonally. Some things are better, some things are worse. Mostly, things are just different. We trade some responsibilities for others. We trade some freedoms for others. When i was fifteen, i didn't have to pay bills, but i couldn't put whiskey in my tea.
Wednesday, April 4, 2012
first church of haagen-dazs
I'm not very good at being a Christian. I'm not very good at trusting, waiting, hoping. I'm snarky and rude and often judgmental and proud. I have fallen out of the habit of daily Bible readings. I lose myself in anger and frustration. I don't have a Scripture reference or sermon illustration to answer every question.
I was raised in faith. My family attended church three or four times a week and visited church members every day. We were homeschooled. My best friends were youth group members. We prayed over every meal. Until i got to college, i hardly owned any secular music. I wore a purity ring and had vowed to abstain from sex until i was married.
I don't evangelize. Not in the grocery store, not at work, not at home. Of my four siblings, i am the only one who still identifies as "Christian". The other three all call themselves agnostics. I pray for them, not that they would be convicted of their sin and led to the truth, but that Jesus would find them wherever they are and under whatever name makes most sense to them.
We've been through a lot in the last year as a family. And we've all had our own individual struggles. There have been times when i have felt that i only existed as God's afterthought, as a last-minute effort to correct an oversight. There have been moments when i doubted that God was paying any attention to me at all. There was one night where i was convinced that God did not exist at all.
I don't know why the wicked prosper and the good do not. I don't know why God doesn't tip the scales from time to time, why big miracles don't seem to happen any more, why babies die and my dad keeps getting fired and people starve to death while we throw away our uneaten French fries and hot fudge sundaes and cancer and AIDS exist and there is hatred and bigotry and ignorance and anger and fear and doubt.
I don't know what denomination, if any, i want to belong to. Sometimes, i don't know if i want to call myself a Christian anymore.
I am beset with doubt and instead of praying or talking to my pastor i am blogging quietly at my desk.
But this i do know:
Every time a major catastrophe touches me or my family, everything from dumping Casey to my mom's wedding to my brother's injury, there is a sale on Haagen-Dazs ice cream four days before.
Every time i need peace, strength, hope, and comfort, i am able to stock up on ice cream well beforehand. I like to think of it as God's way of wrapping His arms around me and saying, "Here. Have some ice cream. I love you."
I haven't yet put together a personal theology, nor have i found a more formal one with which to align myself. I may not have read the Bible in a while but i can confidently state that ice cream is not mentioned anywhere from Genesis to Revelations. Maybe in the Apocrypha somewhere, but i doubt it.
Here is what i do know: God is love. We are to love one another. Ice cream is good.
I was raised in faith. My family attended church three or four times a week and visited church members every day. We were homeschooled. My best friends were youth group members. We prayed over every meal. Until i got to college, i hardly owned any secular music. I wore a purity ring and had vowed to abstain from sex until i was married.
I don't evangelize. Not in the grocery store, not at work, not at home. Of my four siblings, i am the only one who still identifies as "Christian". The other three all call themselves agnostics. I pray for them, not that they would be convicted of their sin and led to the truth, but that Jesus would find them wherever they are and under whatever name makes most sense to them.
We've been through a lot in the last year as a family. And we've all had our own individual struggles. There have been times when i have felt that i only existed as God's afterthought, as a last-minute effort to correct an oversight. There have been moments when i doubted that God was paying any attention to me at all. There was one night where i was convinced that God did not exist at all.
I don't know why the wicked prosper and the good do not. I don't know why God doesn't tip the scales from time to time, why big miracles don't seem to happen any more, why babies die and my dad keeps getting fired and people starve to death while we throw away our uneaten French fries and hot fudge sundaes and cancer and AIDS exist and there is hatred and bigotry and ignorance and anger and fear and doubt.
I don't know what denomination, if any, i want to belong to. Sometimes, i don't know if i want to call myself a Christian anymore.
I am beset with doubt and instead of praying or talking to my pastor i am blogging quietly at my desk.
But this i do know:
Every time a major catastrophe touches me or my family, everything from dumping Casey to my mom's wedding to my brother's injury, there is a sale on Haagen-Dazs ice cream four days before.
Every time i need peace, strength, hope, and comfort, i am able to stock up on ice cream well beforehand. I like to think of it as God's way of wrapping His arms around me and saying, "Here. Have some ice cream. I love you."
I haven't yet put together a personal theology, nor have i found a more formal one with which to align myself. I may not have read the Bible in a while but i can confidently state that ice cream is not mentioned anywhere from Genesis to Revelations. Maybe in the Apocrypha somewhere, but i doubt it.
Here is what i do know: God is love. We are to love one another. Ice cream is good.
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
occasional vegetarian
This year, as once before in high school, i have decided to give up eating meat for Lent.
In some ways, it's almost too easy a decision to "count" as a Lenten sacrifice. In others, it is unimaginably difficult and complicated.
I eat meat nearly every day, because that's how you put together a meal: meat, grains (like rice or pasta), and vegetables. Except that, while you do need iron and protein every day, you don't need to get it from meat. You could serve pita bread with hummus and carrot sticks and still have a balanced meal, and with much less of the fat and salt that tend to accompany meat.
Cows are meant to eat grass. They are left all day to graze on grassy meadows. But when it's time for a real meal and not just all-day snacking, they are often fed grain instead of hay. This is because grain makes cows fatter faster, and people like their beef plump and juicy.
It takes about fifteen pounds of grain to make one pound of beef. That's fifteen pounds of grain that could have fed a starving child instead of clogging my arteries and padding my hips and draining my wallet. Because cows are left to graze all day anyway, and hay is pretty cheap. Grain, on the other hand, has to be bought, and that makes the beef more expensive. We are paying more money to die faster and let children around the world starve just because we like our burgers extra juicy.
I like chicken okay. I like roast pork and ribs sometimes, but i don't eat them very often. I'm not a big fan of turkey, ham, or roast pork. I love sea food, and the thought of bacon, steak, and burgers makes my mouth water.
But i eat chicken nearly every day, because it is a cheap and easy way to provide the meat that i somehow feel i am supposed to have.
If science could come up with meatless bacon, steak, and burgers that are as good as the real thing, i'd switch to vegetarianism in a heartbeat and never look back. But somehow, even turkey burgers are not quite the same thing. And i almost never eat these meats, because they are expensive and harder to cook than chicken, and because i know that chicken is healthier.
For the next forty days, i will be deliberately planning meatless meals. I will endeavor to get my daily allowance of protein and iron from other sources, and since i only eat red meat and bacon about three times a month, i won't miss them too much.
After Easter, who knows? I'll be glad to sink my teeth into a fat, juicy, steak: pink and tender in the middle, seared in olive oil, rosemary, and sea salt. But i doubt that i'll eat bacon or red meat any more often after Easter than i do now. And chicken is just something i buy to "finish" my meal. Why not plan meals more deliberately to exclude meat? Why not alternate between really delicious meats that i actually want to eat and no meat at all? Doesn't that seem more sensible?
In some ways, it's almost too easy a decision to "count" as a Lenten sacrifice. In others, it is unimaginably difficult and complicated.
I eat meat nearly every day, because that's how you put together a meal: meat, grains (like rice or pasta), and vegetables. Except that, while you do need iron and protein every day, you don't need to get it from meat. You could serve pita bread with hummus and carrot sticks and still have a balanced meal, and with much less of the fat and salt that tend to accompany meat.
Cows are meant to eat grass. They are left all day to graze on grassy meadows. But when it's time for a real meal and not just all-day snacking, they are often fed grain instead of hay. This is because grain makes cows fatter faster, and people like their beef plump and juicy.
It takes about fifteen pounds of grain to make one pound of beef. That's fifteen pounds of grain that could have fed a starving child instead of clogging my arteries and padding my hips and draining my wallet. Because cows are left to graze all day anyway, and hay is pretty cheap. Grain, on the other hand, has to be bought, and that makes the beef more expensive. We are paying more money to die faster and let children around the world starve just because we like our burgers extra juicy.
I like chicken okay. I like roast pork and ribs sometimes, but i don't eat them very often. I'm not a big fan of turkey, ham, or roast pork. I love sea food, and the thought of bacon, steak, and burgers makes my mouth water.
But i eat chicken nearly every day, because it is a cheap and easy way to provide the meat that i somehow feel i am supposed to have.
If science could come up with meatless bacon, steak, and burgers that are as good as the real thing, i'd switch to vegetarianism in a heartbeat and never look back. But somehow, even turkey burgers are not quite the same thing. And i almost never eat these meats, because they are expensive and harder to cook than chicken, and because i know that chicken is healthier.
For the next forty days, i will be deliberately planning meatless meals. I will endeavor to get my daily allowance of protein and iron from other sources, and since i only eat red meat and bacon about three times a month, i won't miss them too much.
After Easter, who knows? I'll be glad to sink my teeth into a fat, juicy, steak: pink and tender in the middle, seared in olive oil, rosemary, and sea salt. But i doubt that i'll eat bacon or red meat any more often after Easter than i do now. And chicken is just something i buy to "finish" my meal. Why not plan meals more deliberately to exclude meat? Why not alternate between really delicious meats that i actually want to eat and no meat at all? Doesn't that seem more sensible?
timshel
Today i visited my gas station attendant friend, Hamid. Ever since the first time i had to put gas in my car in Quincy, i have gone to Hamid, because he is awesome and because i believe in loyalty.
Hamid always asks me how i am doing. The last time i was there, he also asked about my life in general, what i was doing. I told him i was in school and working, and that i was very busy. Hamid's English is good, but not great, and the conversation was had as we leaned across my passenger window, so we didn't get into a lot of detail about goals and dreams and personal histories. But he knows that i am there for gas every other week, unless i've had to run a lot of errands and visit him a week early. And he told me that i would be a beautiful teacher of English.
Today, he asked again how i was doing.
"I'm good. Busy."
"With work, and school? You are full time?"
"Yes, full time work and school. I am very busy."
"Oh, it must be very hard for you. You are doing okay?"
"Yes, i am doing okay. It is good to be busy."
He smiles. "And you are alone? You have someone to help you, to cook for you?"
Are you hitting on me, Hamid? i wonder. But all i say is, "I cook for myself." I say it with a smile.
"Ah. And your family?"
"They are far away. They are in another state, about eight hours away."
"Ah. It must be very hard. Or easy? You are happy, or no?"
"I have friends here, so i am happy."
"It is good. Good to have friends."
"Yes."
We are both smiling, because that is more than words.
"You have a good week. I see you later?"
"Yes. You too!"
As i pull away and head for the grocery store, Mumford and Sons is the soundtrack to my inner monologue.
Cold is the water
It freezes your already cold mind
Already cold, cold mind
It is hard. I am very busy, and i am so tired, so tired. My family is far away, a mixed blessing. My friends are near, also a mixed blessing. Sometimes i get stuck in my own head. I've been feeling pretty stuck lately.
And you have your choices
And these are what make man great
His ladder to the stars
I am so lucky to be where i am. This is everything i wanted and more than i ever dreamed of, and it should be hard. If it were easy, it would hardly be worth having. The work is what will enable me to be what i should be, what i could be.
But you are not alone in this
You are not alone in this
As brothers we will stand and we'll hold your hand
Hold your hand
I am not alone. I have Hamid, for one. And Benji, Emily, Larissa, John, and so many others. Hand-holding is powerful, whether it is actual fingers clasping or a smile shared over a half-opened passenger side window.
You are not alone in this
You are not alone in this
Hamid always asks me how i am doing. The last time i was there, he also asked about my life in general, what i was doing. I told him i was in school and working, and that i was very busy. Hamid's English is good, but not great, and the conversation was had as we leaned across my passenger window, so we didn't get into a lot of detail about goals and dreams and personal histories. But he knows that i am there for gas every other week, unless i've had to run a lot of errands and visit him a week early. And he told me that i would be a beautiful teacher of English.
Today, he asked again how i was doing.
"I'm good. Busy."
"With work, and school? You are full time?"
"Yes, full time work and school. I am very busy."
"Oh, it must be very hard for you. You are doing okay?"
"Yes, i am doing okay. It is good to be busy."
He smiles. "And you are alone? You have someone to help you, to cook for you?"
Are you hitting on me, Hamid? i wonder. But all i say is, "I cook for myself." I say it with a smile.
"Ah. And your family?"
"They are far away. They are in another state, about eight hours away."
"Ah. It must be very hard. Or easy? You are happy, or no?"
"I have friends here, so i am happy."
"It is good. Good to have friends."
"Yes."
We are both smiling, because that is more than words.
"You have a good week. I see you later?"
"Yes. You too!"
As i pull away and head for the grocery store, Mumford and Sons is the soundtrack to my inner monologue.
Cold is the water
It freezes your already cold mind
Already cold, cold mind
It is hard. I am very busy, and i am so tired, so tired. My family is far away, a mixed blessing. My friends are near, also a mixed blessing. Sometimes i get stuck in my own head. I've been feeling pretty stuck lately.
And you have your choices
And these are what make man great
His ladder to the stars
I am so lucky to be where i am. This is everything i wanted and more than i ever dreamed of, and it should be hard. If it were easy, it would hardly be worth having. The work is what will enable me to be what i should be, what i could be.
But you are not alone in this
You are not alone in this
As brothers we will stand and we'll hold your hand
Hold your hand
I am not alone. I have Hamid, for one. And Benji, Emily, Larissa, John, and so many others. Hand-holding is powerful, whether it is actual fingers clasping or a smile shared over a half-opened passenger side window.
You are not alone in this
You are not alone in this
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
Shut Up.
So i was reading one of the blogs i follow (can't remember which one), and there was a picture of teeny tiny baby turtles next to a strawberry, to show scale. Those turtles were even smaller than the one pictured below, and were so cute that i did a Google image search for baby turtles, because i was in need of something to brighten my day. And because i was at work, so what else would i be doing? And all of that was a really long preamble to the happiest turtle in the world:
Now, if my dad ever reads this, i'm sure he will tell me (again) that i am anthropomorphisizing; that i have no way of telling, based solely on this photo, how the turtle feels; that it may have been photoshopped, anyway.
And i will tell him (again) that just because his mouth is naturally shaped like that doesn't mean he's not happy.
Look at him. He's munching away on a strawberry three times the size of his head, and he is just so damn happy. When was the last time that anything made you that happy? Let alone something as basic as fresh fruit?
In the current fervor over the 99% and the Occupy Movement, we've all gotten our perspectives a little bent. Even most of the 99% in this country have it a thousand times better than most of the rest of the world. Middle-class Americans who don't happen to be billionaires have been dealt a shabby hand. But they are better off than middle-class people of many other nationalities. Even the legitimately poor and needy in this country (of whom there are certainly many) have access to supports and programs unavailable to the poor in many other parts of the world.
Stop whining about your lack of swimming pools and private jets and thank God that you even know that those things exist. Stop bitching about the price of bottled water and drink the tap water that most of the world can't trust not to kill them. Eat a damn strawberry and think about this turtle and know that, while things could certainly be better, they could just as easily be worse. You are lucky to be part of the 99% in this country. Don't ever forget that.
Monday, January 2, 2012
Small Miracles
This week, i bought my first car. It was my dad's old one. John and I drove it up from Maryland to his parents' house in Massachusetts. We refueled in New Jersey, and then forgot to stop again. I then drove from John's house to my apartment. The fuel light came on a few miles from home. But since it was nearly midnight, i just went to bed.
The next day, i wanted to go get gas and groceries. That was unintentionally alliterative. Anyway, my car was parked on a hill and wouldn't start.
I called my dad. While he was trying to advise me, one of my neighbors approached my car. I had no idea who he was. He offered me help. When he couldn't start the car either, he and his wife gave me a ride to the gas station.
Jack and Lena offered me advice about living and driving in Quincy as we drove back and forth. After buying the gas, Jack put it in the car and tried to start it. The one gallon wasn't enough, so he took me back for another one.
This is the really awesome part. Jack is Arabic. All three of the gas stations near my apartment are owned by Arabs. The owner was willing to put gas in an unapproved container, something that carries a hefty fine if you are caught. But the guy did it without blinking an eye, because Jack asked him to.
When the car was finally running again, i went back to the has station and filled my tank. The total came to $27.49. I gave the guy thirty. He tried to give me change. I had to convince him to keep the tip. It wasn't nearly enough, but it was all the cash I had.
Sometimes people surprise you. Anyway, i have learned my lesson about refueling before bed, parking on hills, and letting people help me. My new year's resolution? Don't run out of gas again. And go the extra mile to help those in need. You know, pay it forward.
Happy 2012, everyone.
The next day, i wanted to go get gas and groceries. That was unintentionally alliterative. Anyway, my car was parked on a hill and wouldn't start.
I called my dad. While he was trying to advise me, one of my neighbors approached my car. I had no idea who he was. He offered me help. When he couldn't start the car either, he and his wife gave me a ride to the gas station.
Jack and Lena offered me advice about living and driving in Quincy as we drove back and forth. After buying the gas, Jack put it in the car and tried to start it. The one gallon wasn't enough, so he took me back for another one.
This is the really awesome part. Jack is Arabic. All three of the gas stations near my apartment are owned by Arabs. The owner was willing to put gas in an unapproved container, something that carries a hefty fine if you are caught. But the guy did it without blinking an eye, because Jack asked him to.
When the car was finally running again, i went back to the has station and filled my tank. The total came to $27.49. I gave the guy thirty. He tried to give me change. I had to convince him to keep the tip. It wasn't nearly enough, but it was all the cash I had.
Sometimes people surprise you. Anyway, i have learned my lesson about refueling before bed, parking on hills, and letting people help me. My new year's resolution? Don't run out of gas again. And go the extra mile to help those in need. You know, pay it forward.
Happy 2012, everyone.
Friday, October 7, 2011
anxiety
I have generalized anxiety disorder. I have never been formally diagnosed by a mental health professional, but i know enough about myself and GAD to see it, and others who have been diagnosed with GAD have confirmed my suspicions. Plus i took an online test, so, yeah.
This means that i live most days with what i like to call a "functional level of anxiety". I'm almost never totally calm and happy and relaxed, but it doesn't really get in the way of my life. Which is why i've never bothered to be officially diagnosed, or to go on any kind of medication.
See, i really feel like no one should ever take any kind of medicine at all for any reason unless their issue is preventing them from living a normal life. Why would you put chemicals into your body and brain if you don't have to? Is your cholesterol at a life-threatening level? Go ahead and get a prescription. Does your bipolar disorder prevent you from even going to therapy? Get a prescription.
But people have a tendency to go for a quick fix. "I feel sad today and have for a few days now, so I'll pop some antidepressants until I feel better." Why not M'N'Ms? They taste better and you can chew them. And they won't alter the chemistry of your brain until you become dependent on medication to get out of bed in the morning.
Prescription drugs, particularly psychiatric medications, change the very structures of your brain. If you don't need them when you start taking them, you will create a need for them. This is why i get pissed off when people put their six-year-old children on Ritalin. Their brains aren't even finished being formed, and you're giving them something that could alter those brains forever. Guess what? The long-term effects of ADHD medications are unknown.Some kids grow out of their ADD/ADHD. Some don't. And some of the ones who don't honestly need a medication in order to get through the day.
And that's okay.
If you are unable to get through the day without help, please get help. There is no shame in admitting that you can't do everything on your own. And this is coming from a girl who won't even ask for a ride to the grocery store, and will instead walk a mile each way in the snow and ice, carrying heavy grocery bags on the way back (and that is in no way an exaggeration). If you need help, get it.
Anyway, my anxiety rarely interferes with my life in any way. Occasionally, i'll have a mini-anxiety attack. For 30-90 seconds, i'll be on the verge of tears for no real reason. But i can focus and power through and be okay. Sometimes i'll have to step away from my desk for a minute and find a quiet corner where i can breathe deeply and put my head down. But these attacks are infrequent, coming perhaps once a month. They in no way affect my ability to live my life.
But this week, i had three major anxiety attacks in five hours.
My functional level of anxiety comes with a range. Some days, i am more relaxed. Some days, i am more stressed. But even in the midst of my mini-attacks, i tend to stay within this range. I'll be right at the top of it, but i'm in it.
Tuesday, i was at the top of my range. Maybe slightly above. I was tense and anxious, but pretty much okay.
Wednesday, my anxiety spiked to a level i can't remember hitting since high school. It climbed steadily all day, peaking right before my class. I walked into the classroom, put my things on a desk, and walked out again. I found a quiet corner and cried for a few minutes. I was trying to breathe, trying to figure out whether or not i could even go to class. Finally, i decided that since i'd have to go back eventually, if only to get my stuff, i should try to sit through class. I decided to stay until i couldn't. I remained tense, shaky, and disoriented.
I made it through the class and started walking home. Another attack came. This time, instead of crying, i found myself struggling to draw breath. I was shaking and choking. I'm not sure how i made it all the way home. All i know is that, just when my house came into view, i remembered that i had recently found an ice cream sale and stocked up. (Side note: over the last year and a half, there has been an ice cream sale every time i have encountered personal pain. I feel like it's God's way of saying, "Here. I love you. Have some ice cream. It will be okay.") I laughed a little, remembering those many weeks and months of clinging desperately to hope and Haagen-Dazs, and went into the house.
A little while later, my roommates and i were chatting in the kitchen, and i started to feel another attack coming on. I tried to focus and power through, but one of my roommates noticed me staring intently at nothing (actually, i was staring intently at her left boob, but i wasn't aware of that), and asked if i was okay. My concentration broken, i began shaking violently and sobbing. It was like every muscle in my body was so tense that it was vibrating. This went on for a few minutes, and then it went away.
Here's the thing: Tuesday, i was at the top of my range. Wednesday, for no reason i can figure out, i went off the chart. Thursday, i was back to the middle of my range, maybe even slightly below.
I've had stress in my life the past week or so, but no more than i have in years past. College is stressful, and i have definitely broken down once or twice. But i was always able to pinpoint a reason, which means it was a normal breakdown and not an anxiety attack. There was nothing i could think of that could have triggered what happened. Maybe it was just a collection of little things that hit at a time when my brain chemistry was off. I don't know.
The point is, this week was the first time that i ever thought about trying a prescription. These attacks came out of nowhere. And while afterwards i was fine, i have no guarantee that tomorrow i won't be a basketcase again. I don't know what happened or how to predict it. I don't know what to expect tomorrow.
This means that i live most days with what i like to call a "functional level of anxiety". I'm almost never totally calm and happy and relaxed, but it doesn't really get in the way of my life. Which is why i've never bothered to be officially diagnosed, or to go on any kind of medication.
See, i really feel like no one should ever take any kind of medicine at all for any reason unless their issue is preventing them from living a normal life. Why would you put chemicals into your body and brain if you don't have to? Is your cholesterol at a life-threatening level? Go ahead and get a prescription. Does your bipolar disorder prevent you from even going to therapy? Get a prescription.
But people have a tendency to go for a quick fix. "I feel sad today and have for a few days now, so I'll pop some antidepressants until I feel better." Why not M'N'Ms? They taste better and you can chew them. And they won't alter the chemistry of your brain until you become dependent on medication to get out of bed in the morning.
Prescription drugs, particularly psychiatric medications, change the very structures of your brain. If you don't need them when you start taking them, you will create a need for them. This is why i get pissed off when people put their six-year-old children on Ritalin. Their brains aren't even finished being formed, and you're giving them something that could alter those brains forever. Guess what? The long-term effects of ADHD medications are unknown.Some kids grow out of their ADD/ADHD. Some don't. And some of the ones who don't honestly need a medication in order to get through the day.
And that's okay.
If you are unable to get through the day without help, please get help. There is no shame in admitting that you can't do everything on your own. And this is coming from a girl who won't even ask for a ride to the grocery store, and will instead walk a mile each way in the snow and ice, carrying heavy grocery bags on the way back (and that is in no way an exaggeration). If you need help, get it.
Anyway, my anxiety rarely interferes with my life in any way. Occasionally, i'll have a mini-anxiety attack. For 30-90 seconds, i'll be on the verge of tears for no real reason. But i can focus and power through and be okay. Sometimes i'll have to step away from my desk for a minute and find a quiet corner where i can breathe deeply and put my head down. But these attacks are infrequent, coming perhaps once a month. They in no way affect my ability to live my life.
But this week, i had three major anxiety attacks in five hours.
My functional level of anxiety comes with a range. Some days, i am more relaxed. Some days, i am more stressed. But even in the midst of my mini-attacks, i tend to stay within this range. I'll be right at the top of it, but i'm in it.
Tuesday, i was at the top of my range. Maybe slightly above. I was tense and anxious, but pretty much okay.
Wednesday, my anxiety spiked to a level i can't remember hitting since high school. It climbed steadily all day, peaking right before my class. I walked into the classroom, put my things on a desk, and walked out again. I found a quiet corner and cried for a few minutes. I was trying to breathe, trying to figure out whether or not i could even go to class. Finally, i decided that since i'd have to go back eventually, if only to get my stuff, i should try to sit through class. I decided to stay until i couldn't. I remained tense, shaky, and disoriented.
I made it through the class and started walking home. Another attack came. This time, instead of crying, i found myself struggling to draw breath. I was shaking and choking. I'm not sure how i made it all the way home. All i know is that, just when my house came into view, i remembered that i had recently found an ice cream sale and stocked up. (Side note: over the last year and a half, there has been an ice cream sale every time i have encountered personal pain. I feel like it's God's way of saying, "Here. I love you. Have some ice cream. It will be okay.") I laughed a little, remembering those many weeks and months of clinging desperately to hope and Haagen-Dazs, and went into the house.
A little while later, my roommates and i were chatting in the kitchen, and i started to feel another attack coming on. I tried to focus and power through, but one of my roommates noticed me staring intently at nothing (actually, i was staring intently at her left boob, but i wasn't aware of that), and asked if i was okay. My concentration broken, i began shaking violently and sobbing. It was like every muscle in my body was so tense that it was vibrating. This went on for a few minutes, and then it went away.
Here's the thing: Tuesday, i was at the top of my range. Wednesday, for no reason i can figure out, i went off the chart. Thursday, i was back to the middle of my range, maybe even slightly below.
I've had stress in my life the past week or so, but no more than i have in years past. College is stressful, and i have definitely broken down once or twice. But i was always able to pinpoint a reason, which means it was a normal breakdown and not an anxiety attack. There was nothing i could think of that could have triggered what happened. Maybe it was just a collection of little things that hit at a time when my brain chemistry was off. I don't know.
The point is, this week was the first time that i ever thought about trying a prescription. These attacks came out of nowhere. And while afterwards i was fine, i have no guarantee that tomorrow i won't be a basketcase again. I don't know what happened or how to predict it. I don't know what to expect tomorrow.
Monday, July 18, 2011
the old house
From the age of four to the age of thirteen, i lived in a new house, built in a new development. It used to be farmland, and our property still bordered a soybean field. When we moved in, we were the only house in the development. By the time we moved out, there were four or five distinct neighborhoods and no more empty lots.
I had my own room. When we moved in, my brother was two and my mom was pregnant with one of my sisters. I lived in a tiny room downstairs while the upstairs was being finished. In the nine years we lived there, both of my sisters were born, and Aunt Sis moved in. It was the first place that my whole family all lived in together. My sisters shared an upstairs room, and i had another upstairs room to myself.
Nostalgia has a way of making everything rose-colored. The house was not great. It was not very pretty, the upkeep was expensive, we had occasional problems with mice and spiders, the openness of our surroundings left us vulnerable to some very damaging storms (including tornadoes and wind storms), and we lived outside of the delivery zone of all of the restaurants.
But it was home.
What i remember most about that house was its seemingly endless capacity. There were only four of us when we moved in, but the house often sheltered up to ten people at a time, and seven of us lived there full-time. I had cousins who were homeschooled with us and therefore practically lived with us, we had several exchange students, and of course there was Aunt Sis. Whenever we had a need, the house met it. When Aunt Sis moved in, we added on a garage with an apartment over it for her. When we got our first exchange student, he took my room and i moved into an alcove in my sisters' room, which was curtained off into a tiny but servicable space that belonged just to me. When we began homeschooling, we fixed up one part of the basement into a school room, complete with a huge dry erase board and lots of bookshelves. When my dad decided to start his own business, another part of the basement was set aside for his office. Yet another basement space became my brother's bedroom a few years later. And there was still space in the basement for storage, laundry, and a play-space under the stairs.
There was a secret room in my closet, under the eaves. There were apple trees whose fruit was always bitter, though whether this was due to the youth of the trees or the impatience of the harvesters (my siblings and i) was never satisfactorily determined. There were blueberry trees whose fruit was always sweet and plentiful. There was a swingset, a pool, and a plastic playhouse that we happily deconstructed and rebuilt into several exciting new configurations over the years.
I've lived in houses that i liked better, but none with quite the same magical ability to expand to meet our needs. I've lived in houses with better memories, but none with more nostalgia. I've lived in houses where more significant life changes took place, but none with untarnished memories of my whole family together. We moved to a new house a few years before the divorce took place. That old house is the first and last one where we all lived together.
One day, i will have a new home. My husband and i will argue over paint samples, and will hang new light fixtures, and will mow our lawn. We'll install a doggy door, and fix up rooms for our kids, and decide where to put the swimming pool and the swingset. But there is a part of me that will always know that my home is in the old house. I can only hope that my future home will have half the welcomingness of that one, will have half the willingness to expand. I can only hope that my future children will know that there is at least one place in the world that is limited only by their imaginations.
I had my own room. When we moved in, my brother was two and my mom was pregnant with one of my sisters. I lived in a tiny room downstairs while the upstairs was being finished. In the nine years we lived there, both of my sisters were born, and Aunt Sis moved in. It was the first place that my whole family all lived in together. My sisters shared an upstairs room, and i had another upstairs room to myself.
Nostalgia has a way of making everything rose-colored. The house was not great. It was not very pretty, the upkeep was expensive, we had occasional problems with mice and spiders, the openness of our surroundings left us vulnerable to some very damaging storms (including tornadoes and wind storms), and we lived outside of the delivery zone of all of the restaurants.
But it was home.
What i remember most about that house was its seemingly endless capacity. There were only four of us when we moved in, but the house often sheltered up to ten people at a time, and seven of us lived there full-time. I had cousins who were homeschooled with us and therefore practically lived with us, we had several exchange students, and of course there was Aunt Sis. Whenever we had a need, the house met it. When Aunt Sis moved in, we added on a garage with an apartment over it for her. When we got our first exchange student, he took my room and i moved into an alcove in my sisters' room, which was curtained off into a tiny but servicable space that belonged just to me. When we began homeschooling, we fixed up one part of the basement into a school room, complete with a huge dry erase board and lots of bookshelves. When my dad decided to start his own business, another part of the basement was set aside for his office. Yet another basement space became my brother's bedroom a few years later. And there was still space in the basement for storage, laundry, and a play-space under the stairs.
There was a secret room in my closet, under the eaves. There were apple trees whose fruit was always bitter, though whether this was due to the youth of the trees or the impatience of the harvesters (my siblings and i) was never satisfactorily determined. There were blueberry trees whose fruit was always sweet and plentiful. There was a swingset, a pool, and a plastic playhouse that we happily deconstructed and rebuilt into several exciting new configurations over the years.
I've lived in houses that i liked better, but none with quite the same magical ability to expand to meet our needs. I've lived in houses with better memories, but none with more nostalgia. I've lived in houses where more significant life changes took place, but none with untarnished memories of my whole family together. We moved to a new house a few years before the divorce took place. That old house is the first and last one where we all lived together.
One day, i will have a new home. My husband and i will argue over paint samples, and will hang new light fixtures, and will mow our lawn. We'll install a doggy door, and fix up rooms for our kids, and decide where to put the swimming pool and the swingset. But there is a part of me that will always know that my home is in the old house. I can only hope that my future home will have half the welcomingness of that one, will have half the willingness to expand. I can only hope that my future children will know that there is at least one place in the world that is limited only by their imaginations.
Thursday, June 9, 2011
In Defense of Facebook Status Updates
I wrote a post a while back about considering shorter forms of literature, such as numbered fiction and even text messages (people publish collections of letters as biographical material; why not collections of text messages?) In it, i briefly mentioned six-word memoirs
, a form of literary expression that is catching on more and more all the time. I'd like now to talk a little bit more about memoirs and how we all write them every day.
Here is the difference between a biography and a collection of memoirs: They are both like a river, but they are traveled differently. When you are writing (or reading) a biography, you start at the source of the river and travel along it to the end. You move at the same pace as the water, and look at everything that presents itself to your notice. If a stone juts out of the water, you look at it. If an historical event such as a war intrudes itself upon your life, you make mention of it. You look at the banks of the river as you pass them, much as you orient the biography in a particular time and place. Context is vital. You don't often bother with going very deep into the water, because you are more interested in charting the flow from beginning to end and making sure that everything stays in order.
A collection of memoirs is like the river teeth, the hard, twisted knots of trees that lodge themselves in the river and collect things. When writing (or reading) a memoir, you don't travel the whole length of the river from beginning to end. You find one river tooth, one significant moment or memory, and delve into the deepest depths of it. You consider each droplet of water in that one space. You look at the fish, the algae, the pebbles, the mud. You look at the tiny bubbles in the water. You look at outside things that have collected within that moment, whether or not they are strictly related to what is happening (raindrops against the window, the scent of fresh-ground coffee being brewed, the scratchy feel of the cushion at your back, etc). You're not as concerned with orienting that moment within a particular time or place as you are with orienting it within a particular set of sensations and impressions. Context is important, but not necessary. Each moment, each memoir, each river tooth, is complete unto itself. You collect these moments into whatever order feels most meaningful to you, and you don't worry about connecting them. They're all in the same river.
With all this in mind, therefore, i would like to introduce my favorite form of memoir: the Facebook status update. While it is true that the FB status is often used for things like song lyrics, more often than not it is actually a tiny memoir. Here is a sampling of statuses on my newsfeed at this moment:
*Nicole: I wish I could get rich by smashing pots and cutting grass clumps.
*Emma: misses friends near and abroad.
*Kelly: Seriously wishing I could find my wallet ugh
*Kim: Another wicked scorcha here today!
*Ben: is bowing at the alter of e. e. cummings right now.
*Steve:
*names changed
, a form of literary expression that is catching on more and more all the time. I'd like now to talk a little bit more about memoirs and how we all write them every day.Here is the difference between a biography and a collection of memoirs: They are both like a river, but they are traveled differently. When you are writing (or reading) a biography, you start at the source of the river and travel along it to the end. You move at the same pace as the water, and look at everything that presents itself to your notice. If a stone juts out of the water, you look at it. If an historical event such as a war intrudes itself upon your life, you make mention of it. You look at the banks of the river as you pass them, much as you orient the biography in a particular time and place. Context is vital. You don't often bother with going very deep into the water, because you are more interested in charting the flow from beginning to end and making sure that everything stays in order.
A collection of memoirs is like the river teeth, the hard, twisted knots of trees that lodge themselves in the river and collect things. When writing (or reading) a memoir, you don't travel the whole length of the river from beginning to end. You find one river tooth, one significant moment or memory, and delve into the deepest depths of it. You consider each droplet of water in that one space. You look at the fish, the algae, the pebbles, the mud. You look at the tiny bubbles in the water. You look at outside things that have collected within that moment, whether or not they are strictly related to what is happening (raindrops against the window, the scent of fresh-ground coffee being brewed, the scratchy feel of the cushion at your back, etc). You're not as concerned with orienting that moment within a particular time or place as you are with orienting it within a particular set of sensations and impressions. Context is important, but not necessary. Each moment, each memoir, each river tooth, is complete unto itself. You collect these moments into whatever order feels most meaningful to you, and you don't worry about connecting them. They're all in the same river.
With all this in mind, therefore, i would like to introduce my favorite form of memoir: the Facebook status update. While it is true that the FB status is often used for things like song lyrics, more often than not it is actually a tiny memoir. Here is a sampling of statuses on my newsfeed at this moment:
*Nicole: I wish I could get rich by smashing pots and cutting grass clumps.
*Emma: misses friends near and abroad.
*Kelly: Seriously wishing I could find my wallet ugh
*Kim: Another wicked scorcha here today!
*Ben: is bowing at the alter of e. e. cummings right now.
*Steve:
*names changed
Thursday, May 12, 2011
Back to Basics
Due to a string of poor relationship decisions, my romance barometer is shot all to hell. I no longer have good standards for appropriate male behavior. If a guy can muster up the energy and interest to text me to cancel a date to 7-11 instead of just standing me up, i am blown away by his consideration and effort. (Okay, that's an exaggeration. But not by much.)
Consequently, when "John" entered my life, i was not at all certain how to handle him. He actually goes out of his way to see me. And by "out of his way", i mean, "He was two minutes away from my house, he knew i was home, and he didn't have anywhere to be immediately, so he stopped by to say hello." Now, to give him full credit, i didn't know he was in the area, so it was a surprise. But the more i reflected on it later, the more i realized that that's just the foundational, basic standard of behavior. That's what you do. When your lady friend is two minutes away from where you are doing nothing at all, you stop by.
He does other things too, like buying me tissues and soup when i am sick, making my bed after he leaves in the morning (i leave earlier than he does), and checking in with me periodically throughout the day. Again, nothing special. I'm trying very hard not to rate him higher than he deserves for performing basic social interactions correctly.
But though i may be vastly overrating how awesome he is, i can't help but feel that he performs these functions in special, above-par ways. For example, not only did he make my bed, he left notes in it. This note, left on top of the pillows, refers to an inside joke. Trust me, it's cute.
The next note, i found under the covers on his side of the bed when i went to bed.
See? It's things like this that make me think he's extra special. Sure, he's mostly just doing the foundational stuff, but he does it because he knows that it's the basic, foundational stuff, and he doesn't expect any extra recognition for it. He does the basic stuff in special ways, he does the special stuff in extraordinary ways, and he does it all in a very matter-of-fact way. Because that's what you do.
Plus he's super hot.
Consequently, when "John" entered my life, i was not at all certain how to handle him. He actually goes out of his way to see me. And by "out of his way", i mean, "He was two minutes away from my house, he knew i was home, and he didn't have anywhere to be immediately, so he stopped by to say hello." Now, to give him full credit, i didn't know he was in the area, so it was a surprise. But the more i reflected on it later, the more i realized that that's just the foundational, basic standard of behavior. That's what you do. When your lady friend is two minutes away from where you are doing nothing at all, you stop by.
He does other things too, like buying me tissues and soup when i am sick, making my bed after he leaves in the morning (i leave earlier than he does), and checking in with me periodically throughout the day. Again, nothing special. I'm trying very hard not to rate him higher than he deserves for performing basic social interactions correctly.
But though i may be vastly overrating how awesome he is, i can't help but feel that he performs these functions in special, above-par ways. For example, not only did he make my bed, he left notes in it. This note, left on top of the pillows, refers to an inside joke. Trust me, it's cute.
The next note, i found under the covers on his side of the bed when i went to bed.
See? It's things like this that make me think he's extra special. Sure, he's mostly just doing the foundational stuff, but he does it because he knows that it's the basic, foundational stuff, and he doesn't expect any extra recognition for it. He does the basic stuff in special ways, he does the special stuff in extraordinary ways, and he does it all in a very matter-of-fact way. Because that's what you do.
Plus he's super hot.
Saturday, May 7, 2011
Graduation Eve
Tomorrow is my college graduation. Actually, the clock just rolled over to midnight, so today is my graduation.
The point is, woah.
I wanted to write something beautiful and profound, but i am tired and stressed and the whole thing hasn't quite sunk in yet. So i'm just going to post my school song.
Alma Mater
In New England stands a college,
Near blue Quincy Bay,
ENC our Alma Mater
Glorious for aye.
Laud her merits, sing her praises,
Let our song ring free.
Hail to thee, our Alma Mater.
Hail, O ENC.
Graceful branches lifted heavenward,
Suncrowned 'fore our view,
Stand the elms upon our campus,
Reaching to the blue.
Shady walks beneath the foliage,
Flow'ring beauty rare;
Blessed by nature, how we love thee,
Alma Mater fair.
Clear her vision, high her purpose,
Lo, she stands serene;
And her faith is sure, undaunted,
Eastern Nazarene.
We will prove our strong devotion,
Loyal we will be;
True to God and Alma Mater,
True to ENC.
-- E. S. Mann and William Summerscales
The point is, woah.
I wanted to write something beautiful and profound, but i am tired and stressed and the whole thing hasn't quite sunk in yet. So i'm just going to post my school song.
Alma Mater
In New England stands a college,
Near blue Quincy Bay,
ENC our Alma Mater
Glorious for aye.
Laud her merits, sing her praises,
Let our song ring free.
Hail to thee, our Alma Mater.
Hail, O ENC.
Graceful branches lifted heavenward,
Suncrowned 'fore our view,
Stand the elms upon our campus,
Reaching to the blue.
Shady walks beneath the foliage,
Flow'ring beauty rare;
Blessed by nature, how we love thee,
Alma Mater fair.
Clear her vision, high her purpose,
Lo, she stands serene;
And her faith is sure, undaunted,
Eastern Nazarene.
We will prove our strong devotion,
Loyal we will be;
True to God and Alma Mater,
True to ENC.
-- E. S. Mann and William Summerscales
Thursday, April 28, 2011
pearls of wisdom 1
In all my world travels, in all my cultural experiences, in my four years living in Boston and studying psychology, in all my self-exploration, reading, and observations, i have learned two things about human nature.
The first is this: Wherever you go, whoever you meet, whatever you do, everyone in the world is exactly the same. People are just people, and no one is any different from anyone else. We all have the same framework, the same foundation. We all start from the same place, and we are all created not only equal, but identical. Everyone is the same.
The second is this: Wherever you go, whoever you meet, whatever you do, no one in the world is anything like anyone else. People come in a staggering variety of personalities and characters, and none of them are the least little bit like any other person. We all have totally different frameworks, different foundations. No one starts from the same place, and we are all created both fundamentally inequal to one another and totally different. Everyone is an individual.
Both of these things are absolute, bedrock truth.
The first is this: Wherever you go, whoever you meet, whatever you do, everyone in the world is exactly the same. People are just people, and no one is any different from anyone else. We all have the same framework, the same foundation. We all start from the same place, and we are all created not only equal, but identical. Everyone is the same.
The second is this: Wherever you go, whoever you meet, whatever you do, no one in the world is anything like anyone else. People come in a staggering variety of personalities and characters, and none of them are the least little bit like any other person. We all have totally different frameworks, different foundations. No one starts from the same place, and we are all created both fundamentally inequal to one another and totally different. Everyone is an individual.
Both of these things are absolute, bedrock truth.
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