I am at this moment sitting in Tully’s Coffee, which is at a quaint intersection on the top of Queen Anne Hill. In addition to Tully’s, the small intersection is circled by Starbucks, Pete’s Coffee, Café Ladro, and a tea-shop. This is madness. Five coffee/tea shops at one little intersection. Pete’s is actually in its grand opening. Who knew 30 square feet of earth with 4 coffee shops was needing a 5th? Either way, I am very happy, because each of these places makes me uniquely happy.
Tully’s has the fire, Starbucks has good food, Pete’s has the best coffee, Ladro has the most beautiful light fixtures and warm ambience.
I happen to currently own very nicely loaded gift cards to both Tully’s and Starbucks (teachers get gift cards around Christmas time). So, while I just finished an eggnog latte at Tully’s, I had to venture across the intersection to get my lunch at Starbucks (to return to my prime fireside seat at Tully’s).
While I was there, my heart got tugged out, and before I get back to my studies, I have to write about the tug.
One of the Starbuck’s employees (a young woman) was cleaning the glass cases. Another woman was helping her by staying close beside her, holding her up when she began to lose her tentative balance, as the muscles in her legs were weak. The young woman doing the cleaning appeared to be deaf, and it was also fairly clear by her movements that her vision was limited too. She was cleaning the case that housed my lunch, and the other was helping her do her job.
Something about the moment was so beautiful, but it was the kind of beauty that is married to sorrow and breaks my heart.
I feel so convicted in those kinds of moments. I am so terribly caught up in myself and my pursuits; I am so easily discontented when my dreams have not been realized today. And here are others who are just trying to stand; whose courage to work and live into their potential just humbles my ego. If I can say this without sounding like a complete narcissist, sometimes I feel like my abilities and talents become my own curse. I can’t seem to be happy with myself unless I am doing, striving, taking on a broken world and trying to fix it.
And here I am, ordering my lunch, and the courage of this one woman has just asked me to pause and consider again who I am and what I am about and why. I have these lofty ideas to write words that will matter in very large ways, and here this woman's being has spoken more than my words ever could.
Monday, November 26, 2007
Thursday, November 22, 2007
This Just In...
I am about to start a new blog (which does not mean the end of this one!) but I am just needing a place to centralize my thoughts as I work on my book project. My new blog is at faithandgender.blogspot.com.
This new blog will be a place for me to sort through my ideas and invite dialogue on matters of faith, gender, and social justice. I hope to have posts up by this coming weekend.
This new blog will be a place for me to sort through my ideas and invite dialogue on matters of faith, gender, and social justice. I hope to have posts up by this coming weekend.
Monday, November 19, 2007
Time to Place the Order
Tonight, I would like a husband, or maybe just a very committed boyfriend.
The reason I would like such a man is because, once again, it is time to clean out my shower drain.
Cleaning the shower drain is my single most un-favorite domestic duty. I have to get out my special tweezers, send them down the little holes in my drain, so I can pluck out the soapy rat that is clogging things up. It is very, very disgusting, and every time I have to clean out my drain, I think, “Maybe one day there will be a special someone who would do this for me as an act of total love.”
(I, of course, would do very nice things for him, too. Perhaps bake cinnamon rolls in the morning or possibly even do his ironing. I dislike ironing quite intensely, but that seems like a fair trade for cleaning out my soapy-rat-that-used-to-be-my-beautiful-hair, which is now making me take a shower with 6 inches of water at my feet.)
Now, just in case I get misquoted, I don’t want a man just for the purpose of cleaning out my shower drain. There are several others reasons for wanting a man. They include, but are not limited to:
1. Staying up late and reading aloud C.S. Lewis. (Perhaps followed by pillow-talk.)
2. Traveling across Canada by train until we get to P.E.I. (Home of Anne Shirley, of course.)
3. Waltzing in the rain, or the sun or the snow for that matter. Any climate works. Just a man who generally enjoys twirling in the outdoors.
4. This one is not a necessity, but I would also like to request a significant other who knows how to emotionally invest in football games. I want to stay up late on Sunday nights watching the Mike Holmgren Show (or Sports Center if we are rich enough to afford ESPN) while we obsess about the highlight reel.
5. Someone to fly with. I really hate flying, particularly because right now I always fly alone. Since I usually fly Southwest, I can manage my anxiety by picking a seat next to the most peaceful looking people I can find. Because I have an overactive, paranoid imagination, I reason to myself, “If the plane went down, who seems like they would have a calming presence in catastrophe?” Once I find the right person to fly with on a regular basis, I won’t have to go through this mental rigmarole.
Well, I think those are five very good reasons for me to get married. So, for those of you out there (you know who you are) who are supposed to be praying for the Gilbert Blythe of my life, I think my 27th year is a good year to start ordering. ☺
The reason I would like such a man is because, once again, it is time to clean out my shower drain.
Cleaning the shower drain is my single most un-favorite domestic duty. I have to get out my special tweezers, send them down the little holes in my drain, so I can pluck out the soapy rat that is clogging things up. It is very, very disgusting, and every time I have to clean out my drain, I think, “Maybe one day there will be a special someone who would do this for me as an act of total love.”
(I, of course, would do very nice things for him, too. Perhaps bake cinnamon rolls in the morning or possibly even do his ironing. I dislike ironing quite intensely, but that seems like a fair trade for cleaning out my soapy-rat-that-used-to-be-my-beautiful-hair, which is now making me take a shower with 6 inches of water at my feet.)
Now, just in case I get misquoted, I don’t want a man just for the purpose of cleaning out my shower drain. There are several others reasons for wanting a man. They include, but are not limited to:
1. Staying up late and reading aloud C.S. Lewis. (Perhaps followed by pillow-talk.)
2. Traveling across Canada by train until we get to P.E.I. (Home of Anne Shirley, of course.)
3. Waltzing in the rain, or the sun or the snow for that matter. Any climate works. Just a man who generally enjoys twirling in the outdoors.
4. This one is not a necessity, but I would also like to request a significant other who knows how to emotionally invest in football games. I want to stay up late on Sunday nights watching the Mike Holmgren Show (or Sports Center if we are rich enough to afford ESPN) while we obsess about the highlight reel.
5. Someone to fly with. I really hate flying, particularly because right now I always fly alone. Since I usually fly Southwest, I can manage my anxiety by picking a seat next to the most peaceful looking people I can find. Because I have an overactive, paranoid imagination, I reason to myself, “If the plane went down, who seems like they would have a calming presence in catastrophe?” Once I find the right person to fly with on a regular basis, I won’t have to go through this mental rigmarole.
Well, I think those are five very good reasons for me to get married. So, for those of you out there (you know who you are) who are supposed to be praying for the Gilbert Blythe of my life, I think my 27th year is a good year to start ordering. ☺
Thursday, November 8, 2007
Thursday musings....
I am sitting on a velvet body pillow, sprawled on my floor, as I enjoy the warmth of my new electric fireplace (recently purchased from Home Depot). Thursday afternoons are quite possibly my favorite afternoons, but my opinion changes on this depending upon which day you ask me. I feel like all my days have their own endearing personalities. Thursday afternoons are lovely stretches of un-commitment. After teaching in the a.m., my day is a wide-open space to study, write, and get lost in my book of choice….
But then Wednesdays are especially nice, too, because they start at 7am when eight people stream into my house and end at 12 midnight when eight people stream out of my house. Not the same people of course. In the morning, an odd gathering of us have “Bible Fest,” which consists of freshly brewed coffee and 1 hour oral reading of the Old Testament. We have journeyed through Genesis, Exodus, and Leviticus and now we are in the bog of Numbers. Revelation is now only 1400 pages away. You probably won’t believe me, but it is so fun. We do our best to hold most of our comments and gasping until our 1 hour of reading is up, then we have the most fascinating conversations. Last week in Numbers, the Israelites offered God lots of goats; we decided we wanted to give God goats too, so we are planning on buying goats out of the World Vision Holiday catalogue. (This is a side note, but you can buy all kinds of income-producing animals to give to families in need. Check out: http://findarticles.com/p/articles/mi_pwwi/is_200312/ai_mark2935503076).
Let’s see, back to the days of the week (which reminds me of the underwear I had when I was a little girl. Did anyone else sport that underwear series?) To finish up Wednesdays, which post-Bible Fest are primarily spent in class and teaching, I host a weekly tea-time at my house at 9 p.m. My apartment mates bring their own mugs and gather to tell their weekly stories. Last night, I laughed very hard for 2-hours and I think my stomach is still sore.
Fridays are also a highlight, because I join up with my writing group for half the day. We meet at Pete’s Coffee, as we have been doing for about a year now on a weekly basis. Two of us are working on book projects, one of us is a teacher/writer, and the other of us is a teacher/editor/writer/therapist. In fact, last weekend we all escaped to a little condo near the beach on the Olympic Peninsula to feed our creative souls. It was our first Writers’ Retreat together, and I hope for many more.
Ok, this is all you get for now. I want to get back to my book, but perhaps I will report back later to describe the joys of Saturday-Tuesday.
But then Wednesdays are especially nice, too, because they start at 7am when eight people stream into my house and end at 12 midnight when eight people stream out of my house. Not the same people of course. In the morning, an odd gathering of us have “Bible Fest,” which consists of freshly brewed coffee and 1 hour oral reading of the Old Testament. We have journeyed through Genesis, Exodus, and Leviticus and now we are in the bog of Numbers. Revelation is now only 1400 pages away. You probably won’t believe me, but it is so fun. We do our best to hold most of our comments and gasping until our 1 hour of reading is up, then we have the most fascinating conversations. Last week in Numbers, the Israelites offered God lots of goats; we decided we wanted to give God goats too, so we are planning on buying goats out of the World Vision Holiday catalogue. (This is a side note, but you can buy all kinds of income-producing animals to give to families in need. Check out: http://findarticles.com/p/articles/mi_pwwi/is_200312/ai_mark2935503076).
Let’s see, back to the days of the week (which reminds me of the underwear I had when I was a little girl. Did anyone else sport that underwear series?) To finish up Wednesdays, which post-Bible Fest are primarily spent in class and teaching, I host a weekly tea-time at my house at 9 p.m. My apartment mates bring their own mugs and gather to tell their weekly stories. Last night, I laughed very hard for 2-hours and I think my stomach is still sore.
Fridays are also a highlight, because I join up with my writing group for half the day. We meet at Pete’s Coffee, as we have been doing for about a year now on a weekly basis. Two of us are working on book projects, one of us is a teacher/writer, and the other of us is a teacher/editor/writer/therapist. In fact, last weekend we all escaped to a little condo near the beach on the Olympic Peninsula to feed our creative souls. It was our first Writers’ Retreat together, and I hope for many more.
Ok, this is all you get for now. I want to get back to my book, but perhaps I will report back later to describe the joys of Saturday-Tuesday.
Friday, October 19, 2007
Gifts, Hopes, and Fine Men
Tonight I am sitting by my new fireplace and taking in the view of Seattle out my living room window. Really, I am thinking to myself? I get to enjoy this every day? How did I get such a gift?
The leaves are falling off the trees, and my winter view of the Space Needle is here. I love my summer view (where the Needle peeks out from behind the foliage), but I think I am going to enjoy the direct gaze for the next several months. I always sensed its presence, but it is good to be face to face with it, too.
Which brings me to the ruminations of my heart tonight….
I have learned this week, that I have an amazing presence of men in my life. They listen to my voice, value my mind and heart, and are curious about the way I see the world. They challenge me, and let me call them out, too. They share their questions and their hopes; they have the character to share their convictions and their wounds. There is a respect and a mutuality in our way of being together that I have come to take for granted.
But, this week, I came face to face with it, once more, which has caused me to pause and consider the richness of their gifts in my life. I sense tears wanting to accompany my words, because something about the grace of each of you touches me at a deep, visceral level. I would not be able to write what I do or hope for what I do without the community of men that surrounds me. For each of you, I am grateful.
The leaves are falling off the trees, and my winter view of the Space Needle is here. I love my summer view (where the Needle peeks out from behind the foliage), but I think I am going to enjoy the direct gaze for the next several months. I always sensed its presence, but it is good to be face to face with it, too.
Which brings me to the ruminations of my heart tonight….
I have learned this week, that I have an amazing presence of men in my life. They listen to my voice, value my mind and heart, and are curious about the way I see the world. They challenge me, and let me call them out, too. They share their questions and their hopes; they have the character to share their convictions and their wounds. There is a respect and a mutuality in our way of being together that I have come to take for granted.
But, this week, I came face to face with it, once more, which has caused me to pause and consider the richness of their gifts in my life. I sense tears wanting to accompany my words, because something about the grace of each of you touches me at a deep, visceral level. I would not be able to write what I do or hope for what I do without the community of men that surrounds me. For each of you, I am grateful.
Tuesday, October 9, 2007
Urgent West Wing Party
Sunday night my commune called an urgent meeting. We needed late night Chinese food, Mr. Sketch markers, paper scotch taped to the walls, and flow charts to plan our lives. Apparently, Jeremy says that in West Wing they call such urgent meetings (with boxes of Chow Mein late into the night) where people band together to solve global crisis and change the world.
We were all experiencing- sort of a collective conscious moment- that we needed to talk about our passions and life dreams and our daily steps to take them seriously. The meeting ran 4 hours and it was one of the most efficient meetings I have been at. We all came away with assignments, based on our creative brainstorming with one another. I am currently focusing on:
1. My book project and making it happen.
2. Caring for my body better, which means attending to healthy meals and 7-8 hours of sleep at night.
We broke it down into specific steps. For instance, if I am up past midnight, I have to give account for why. If I have a rush of creative energy at 2 am, I can justify being up late writing. If I am tempted to scrub my toilet at 2 am, then I need to be asleep.
We have a meeting on Sunday to check in with our assignments. I will report back.
P.S Just a quick note on my use of "androgyny" in the last posting. I was using it in the Virginia Woolf sense, not the literal sense. I don't think I look too much like a man. If you want to know more about the Virginia Woolf sense, feel free to ask. It makes a good conversation.
We were all experiencing- sort of a collective conscious moment- that we needed to talk about our passions and life dreams and our daily steps to take them seriously. The meeting ran 4 hours and it was one of the most efficient meetings I have been at. We all came away with assignments, based on our creative brainstorming with one another. I am currently focusing on:
1. My book project and making it happen.
2. Caring for my body better, which means attending to healthy meals and 7-8 hours of sleep at night.
We broke it down into specific steps. For instance, if I am up past midnight, I have to give account for why. If I have a rush of creative energy at 2 am, I can justify being up late writing. If I am tempted to scrub my toilet at 2 am, then I need to be asleep.
We have a meeting on Sunday to check in with our assignments. I will report back.
P.S Just a quick note on my use of "androgyny" in the last posting. I was using it in the Virginia Woolf sense, not the literal sense. I don't think I look too much like a man. If you want to know more about the Virginia Woolf sense, feel free to ask. It makes a good conversation.
Thursday, October 4, 2007
Football and High-Tea
I am feeling very inspired to do things that I love to do. I think you should do the same. What if you put 3 activities on your calendar next week that fit in the "I would love to do but I never do them category?"
To kick things off, I am going to a a high school football game tomorrow night, just for the heck of it. Ben, Cabe, and have decided to support Ballard High, a team picked at random. We all have a great deal of excitement going into this game.
Then, I am going to start planning my princess high-tea party, because I just found a great princess dress at the thrift store down the street. Jane runs the store and she picked out all kinds of lovely items for me. This dress is a green, strapless, Jessica McClintock, and it goes well with my elbow-high, ivory lace gloves that I keep stored in my sock drawer for such a time as this.
Between football and high-tea, I think my activities are quite androgenous.
To kick things off, I am going to a a high school football game tomorrow night, just for the heck of it. Ben, Cabe, and have decided to support Ballard High, a team picked at random. We all have a great deal of excitement going into this game.
Then, I am going to start planning my princess high-tea party, because I just found a great princess dress at the thrift store down the street. Jane runs the store and she picked out all kinds of lovely items for me. This dress is a green, strapless, Jessica McClintock, and it goes well with my elbow-high, ivory lace gloves that I keep stored in my sock drawer for such a time as this.
Between football and high-tea, I think my activities are quite androgenous.
Sunday, September 30, 2007
Seasonal Plans
Perhaps I do most things with too much planning, but with that disclaimer, here are my goals for Fall/Winter :
1. Read. Read poetry and the New Yorker and children’s books and old classics and new ones, too. I miss reading. I used to read things besides the DSM IV; it is time to resurrect reading for the pleasures of language and story. I want rainy days and pages of good books, while I cuddle under my afghan and sip tea.
2. Dance. I want to buy one very good pair of dance shoes and make as many excuses as possible to dance as often as possible. I want to swing and salsa and maybe take a modern or hip-hop class.
3. Football. During my Sunday Sabbath, I will be religiously committing to blocking off three hours to watch the Seahawks, complete with unabashed cursing. I also hope to actually start winning in fantasy football, or at least achieve a respectable mediocrity. Finally, I hope to attend one high school football game with my friend Ben. We don’t care who we watch, we just want it to be cold and slightly miserable while we drink that syrupy hot chocolate and hang out on the outskirts of the student section.
4. Walks. I want to hear the little crunch of leaves underfoot and breathe in the crisp, Autumn air. I hope to visit the arboretum and other tree-worthy places to see the leaves in their fiery prime.
5. Scarves and boots and textured tights. I don’t think further comments are needed for this one.
6. Bubble baths on very cold days.
7. This one might be a titch early to speak, but I want to celebrate the holiday season with intention and preparation. This will include getting my first ever Christmas tree, decorating my own apartment, and baking Baklava, in honor of my grandmother.
1. Read. Read poetry and the New Yorker and children’s books and old classics and new ones, too. I miss reading. I used to read things besides the DSM IV; it is time to resurrect reading for the pleasures of language and story. I want rainy days and pages of good books, while I cuddle under my afghan and sip tea.
2. Dance. I want to buy one very good pair of dance shoes and make as many excuses as possible to dance as often as possible. I want to swing and salsa and maybe take a modern or hip-hop class.
3. Football. During my Sunday Sabbath, I will be religiously committing to blocking off three hours to watch the Seahawks, complete with unabashed cursing. I also hope to actually start winning in fantasy football, or at least achieve a respectable mediocrity. Finally, I hope to attend one high school football game with my friend Ben. We don’t care who we watch, we just want it to be cold and slightly miserable while we drink that syrupy hot chocolate and hang out on the outskirts of the student section.
4. Walks. I want to hear the little crunch of leaves underfoot and breathe in the crisp, Autumn air. I hope to visit the arboretum and other tree-worthy places to see the leaves in their fiery prime.
5. Scarves and boots and textured tights. I don’t think further comments are needed for this one.
6. Bubble baths on very cold days.
7. This one might be a titch early to speak, but I want to celebrate the holiday season with intention and preparation. This will include getting my first ever Christmas tree, decorating my own apartment, and baking Baklava, in honor of my grandmother.
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
Incompleted Thoughts
Why do I love and hate the desires of my own heart? Because they surge me towards what I want, at the cost of actually feeling that I am wanting. To live into my heart is to know the piercing of the unknown space between desire and the desired. It is to live into the unconsummated. It is to trust that my dreams will come true somewhere between now and never and maybe. Tonight, dreaming feels excruciating. I try to grip them tightly because I don’t want them to get away, but then I know they wilt for lack of freedom.
I want to embrace life’s unknowns but I have too much of a craving to control. I want results, satisfaction, arrival, or at least incremental steps that tell me I will arrive eventually. And yet, the journey is changing the point of arrival, so that I must surrender the destination even as I step towards it….
It is all rather risky business.
As Anne Shirley once said, and as a dear friend reminded me tonight, life has so much potential thudding, which makes soaring on the wings of anticipation rather hard, I’m afraid.
(Life context for this emotional purge: one teeny little morsel of an email from an editor, probably just a pseudo courtesy prelude email to the real official rejection slip that is coming…which somehow opened up the vast quantities of want I contain within me….)
I want to embrace life’s unknowns but I have too much of a craving to control. I want results, satisfaction, arrival, or at least incremental steps that tell me I will arrive eventually. And yet, the journey is changing the point of arrival, so that I must surrender the destination even as I step towards it….
It is all rather risky business.
As Anne Shirley once said, and as a dear friend reminded me tonight, life has so much potential thudding, which makes soaring on the wings of anticipation rather hard, I’m afraid.
(Life context for this emotional purge: one teeny little morsel of an email from an editor, probably just a pseudo courtesy prelude email to the real official rejection slip that is coming…which somehow opened up the vast quantities of want I contain within me….)
Tuesday, September 4, 2007
Gratitude
Tonight, I am watching lightning over the city and raindrops making patterns on my window. It is lovely– very soothing for my night-before-the-first-day-of-school butterflies. I have had these since I was six and they just don’t go away.
Something about this weekend has felt so exquisite. Part of it was the 13-hour hang out spree with my old friend Andy, including chocolate and banana pancakes for Sunday brunch, writing time, laughing time, chatting time, and time to share our writing project together with a roomful of dear souls. We had a 4pm “happy hour” at my place and read the creative non-fiction narratives we have been working on that explore homosexuality and spirituality. It was just such a vulnerable and beautiful time for many of us– 2.5 hours of reading and amazing feedback and conversation. I was so honored to have a group of people so engaged with our writing, and so pleased to see it generated a shared space to wonder and explore together.
I think I am just feeling a little overwhelmed by the beautiful people in my life and the community I have as I start the school year. Tonight I was listening to Patty Griffin amidst new and old faces and just taking in the moment, which somehow felt very full of possibility and love. I am also a little overwhelmed that I get to live each day with so many things that give joy to me- teaching, writing, studying, commuting almost everywhere on foot, the daily, sweet moments of friendship, a family that is consistent and loving, new people who show up in the most surprising ways.
Something about this weekend has felt so exquisite. Part of it was the 13-hour hang out spree with my old friend Andy, including chocolate and banana pancakes for Sunday brunch, writing time, laughing time, chatting time, and time to share our writing project together with a roomful of dear souls. We had a 4pm “happy hour” at my place and read the creative non-fiction narratives we have been working on that explore homosexuality and spirituality. It was just such a vulnerable and beautiful time for many of us– 2.5 hours of reading and amazing feedback and conversation. I was so honored to have a group of people so engaged with our writing, and so pleased to see it generated a shared space to wonder and explore together.
I think I am just feeling a little overwhelmed by the beautiful people in my life and the community I have as I start the school year. Tonight I was listening to Patty Griffin amidst new and old faces and just taking in the moment, which somehow felt very full of possibility and love. I am also a little overwhelmed that I get to live each day with so many things that give joy to me- teaching, writing, studying, commuting almost everywhere on foot, the daily, sweet moments of friendship, a family that is consistent and loving, new people who show up in the most surprising ways.
Thursday, August 16, 2007
Life's Known Pleasures #114
When I go from lightly goosebumped to sun-baked, all in about 90 glorious seconds,
lounging, dock sprawled
after dunking in the lake
On a sun-soaked August afternoon.
lounging, dock sprawled
after dunking in the lake
On a sun-soaked August afternoon.
Wednesday, August 1, 2007
Lemonade, Mr. Grocery Man, and Grace
A highlight of the day was that my favorite lemonade, Santa Cruz organic, was on sale for 25 cents at QFC. Normally, it is almost $3, which means it is a rare indulgence. But, the sign said 4 for 5 bucks, plus there were coupons for minus a dollar on each one. Because I am bad at math, I thought for a moment that they would actually be paying me to buy the lemonade. Nope, turns out 5/4-1 is not less than 0. Anyways, I still got them for a steal, even if I did not make a profit.
I walked to QFC three times to bring home my large, summer supply of lemonade; with the help of Stacy and Naomi, I brought home 21 jars. The second time I went I dropped one of the bottles and spilled it all over the aisle, which was particularly embarrassing in light of how I was raiding the whole supply. I know that it sounds terribly selfish, but the sale ended at midnight, so at 10 pm I felt totally comfortable clearing out the shelf. I just could not believe I was the only one who seemed to care about this sale.
The other good part of the whole situation was that Mr. Grocery Man finally cracked a smile. I see him almost every other day (the grocery store is just around the corner, so I frequent it) and he hardly looks at me. I try to be my sunshiny self, and I sense I am bothering him, so I have just quieted up. No asking him how his day is, no sharing how excited I am when chicken fryers are 99 cents a pound. But, tonight, Mr. Grocery Man finally smiled the 3rd time he had to ring up my vast quantities.
I now have 21 lovely jars of lemonade under my bed. Please, come over and we shall share a cold glass. My only hope is now that I have in abundance what I consider a delicacy, that I will maintain my deep joy in every sip, and not take it for granted. I should probably make rules about consumption—sort of ration it out so it lasts until Christmas. But, who wants lemonade in December? No, perhaps I ought to just indulge as much as I want. It is difficult to for me to know what to do with abundance.
Which leads me to a conversation I had today with a professor about grace. I realized I like to portion grace out in very small quantities, living my life as perfectly as possible so I do not need the luxurious abundance of it. I ration grace out to myself, not taking too much, though there is a supply much larger than the lemonade under my bed.
I think I ought to indulge my lemonade supply as a little exercise for myself….
I walked to QFC three times to bring home my large, summer supply of lemonade; with the help of Stacy and Naomi, I brought home 21 jars. The second time I went I dropped one of the bottles and spilled it all over the aisle, which was particularly embarrassing in light of how I was raiding the whole supply. I know that it sounds terribly selfish, but the sale ended at midnight, so at 10 pm I felt totally comfortable clearing out the shelf. I just could not believe I was the only one who seemed to care about this sale.
The other good part of the whole situation was that Mr. Grocery Man finally cracked a smile. I see him almost every other day (the grocery store is just around the corner, so I frequent it) and he hardly looks at me. I try to be my sunshiny self, and I sense I am bothering him, so I have just quieted up. No asking him how his day is, no sharing how excited I am when chicken fryers are 99 cents a pound. But, tonight, Mr. Grocery Man finally smiled the 3rd time he had to ring up my vast quantities.
I now have 21 lovely jars of lemonade under my bed. Please, come over and we shall share a cold glass. My only hope is now that I have in abundance what I consider a delicacy, that I will maintain my deep joy in every sip, and not take it for granted. I should probably make rules about consumption—sort of ration it out so it lasts until Christmas. But, who wants lemonade in December? No, perhaps I ought to just indulge as much as I want. It is difficult to for me to know what to do with abundance.
Which leads me to a conversation I had today with a professor about grace. I realized I like to portion grace out in very small quantities, living my life as perfectly as possible so I do not need the luxurious abundance of it. I ration grace out to myself, not taking too much, though there is a supply much larger than the lemonade under my bed.
I think I ought to indulge my lemonade supply as a little exercise for myself….
Friday, July 27, 2007
Tea time, etc.
I have been so negligent at my blogging responsibilities lately, which I am sure is very disappointing to the 4 regular readers (you know who you are…☺.)
So, here is a quick life update. My new apartment is my heart’s delight, just as I expected. I still get a little thrill when I walk in my front door. The space is conducive to writing, brunches, dancing, and tea parties. I just had the loveliest tea party last night: fine china, fresh raspberries, unbelievable chocolate from Belgium, and a lovely Earl Grey.
I usually do not go to bed without knocking on the window of my dear friends Stacy and Jeremy, who live below me. They have their tea around 11:00 pm, and I like to be part of pj time and debriefing the day. It is like living in the dorms again, and I am having a very hard time focusing on my studies. This is quite unlike myself…I don’t know where my type A, studious girl has gone. But she needs to show up sometime soon, as she has 30 pages to write for school before August 10…I am beckoning her back, but she just wants to play.
Let’s see, in other news…my Thursday creative writing sessions at Pete’s (10:30-5:00 or so) are just heavenly. It is like going to work to the best job ever, only I don’t actually make money. I made the decision in June to devote my Thursdays to personal writing projects, and it has been such a wonderful gift to myself. No phone calls, students, or studies on Thursday until after 5.
I don’t usually discuss such things in my blog, but I will say that I am at a complete and utter dating lull. It is only sad because summer is such a nice time to have romantic picnics and longs walks on the beach… but then fall is a much better time to cuddle, so perhaps I will try again when the weather turns. But, the problem is, I realized I don’t actual like dating. (I feel like it is equivalent to filling out job applications. I would like Gilbert Blythe or Mr. Darcy to just show up without that unpleasant and necessary process of mutual evaluations, rejections, etc. )
Ok, I am supposed to be studying, so I better post this message.
So, here is a quick life update. My new apartment is my heart’s delight, just as I expected. I still get a little thrill when I walk in my front door. The space is conducive to writing, brunches, dancing, and tea parties. I just had the loveliest tea party last night: fine china, fresh raspberries, unbelievable chocolate from Belgium, and a lovely Earl Grey.
I usually do not go to bed without knocking on the window of my dear friends Stacy and Jeremy, who live below me. They have their tea around 11:00 pm, and I like to be part of pj time and debriefing the day. It is like living in the dorms again, and I am having a very hard time focusing on my studies. This is quite unlike myself…I don’t know where my type A, studious girl has gone. But she needs to show up sometime soon, as she has 30 pages to write for school before August 10…I am beckoning her back, but she just wants to play.
Let’s see, in other news…my Thursday creative writing sessions at Pete’s (10:30-5:00 or so) are just heavenly. It is like going to work to the best job ever, only I don’t actually make money. I made the decision in June to devote my Thursdays to personal writing projects, and it has been such a wonderful gift to myself. No phone calls, students, or studies on Thursday until after 5.
I don’t usually discuss such things in my blog, but I will say that I am at a complete and utter dating lull. It is only sad because summer is such a nice time to have romantic picnics and longs walks on the beach… but then fall is a much better time to cuddle, so perhaps I will try again when the weather turns. But, the problem is, I realized I don’t actual like dating. (I feel like it is equivalent to filling out job applications. I would like Gilbert Blythe or Mr. Darcy to just show up without that unpleasant and necessary process of mutual evaluations, rejections, etc. )
Ok, I am supposed to be studying, so I better post this message.
Sunday, June 24, 2007
A New Home
This week I feel like I am opening a beautiful gift. I am moving to Queen Anne on Thursday, saying goodbye to my lovely Wallingford, and waiting for a new season of life. Space is always a significant thing to me: my heart is very sensitive to the spot of earth that I inhabit. There is so much about my new home that thrills me: two dear friends from school (Stacy and Jeremy) will be living directly below me; I get to walk to school and I love walking; I get to explore the alleys and views and coffee shops of a new place; I get to enjoy long dreamed of hardwood floors; my apartment is on the 3rd floor so I can sleep a little more soundly and with the nighttime air drafting in from open windows; it is the least expensive apartment I have ever had.
(Now, if you are members of my family and read that last part, you are probably already worried about the quality of place I am renting. This is not unfounded, since 3 years ago I was renting my urban castle that almost made my father cry when he visited me. What I had seen as charming dilapidation, my father saw as a health risk. In fact, when my sisters visited me last weekend and began to ask for me to “talk about my new place” I was sure my father had planted the evaluative questions, so as to make sure that I would not be calling later and complaining about the rodents in my walls and leaking roofs and kitchen cabinets that succumbed randomly to gravity and fell to the floor. Shannon and Heather, please assure Dad that I will be safe and sound in my new home.)
I can’t wait to decorate my new place. I think I am growing a bit in my tastes: there will be fewer tassels and a bit more sophistication. Mind you, I will always enjoy a well–placed tassel. I hope to have lovely plants that soak in the sunlight of my marvelous windows, cozy rugs to lounge on, and nice splashes of merlot, espressos, and rich greens in the color scheme. I also hope to have many people whom I delight in stopping by and eating my food and reading books and sipping coffee and laughing together.
(Now, if you are members of my family and read that last part, you are probably already worried about the quality of place I am renting. This is not unfounded, since 3 years ago I was renting my urban castle that almost made my father cry when he visited me. What I had seen as charming dilapidation, my father saw as a health risk. In fact, when my sisters visited me last weekend and began to ask for me to “talk about my new place” I was sure my father had planted the evaluative questions, so as to make sure that I would not be calling later and complaining about the rodents in my walls and leaking roofs and kitchen cabinets that succumbed randomly to gravity and fell to the floor. Shannon and Heather, please assure Dad that I will be safe and sound in my new home.)
I can’t wait to decorate my new place. I think I am growing a bit in my tastes: there will be fewer tassels and a bit more sophistication. Mind you, I will always enjoy a well–placed tassel. I hope to have lovely plants that soak in the sunlight of my marvelous windows, cozy rugs to lounge on, and nice splashes of merlot, espressos, and rich greens in the color scheme. I also hope to have many people whom I delight in stopping by and eating my food and reading books and sipping coffee and laughing together.
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
Naked No Longer
I have always felt twinges of jealousy for the girl with the dangly earrings. I look from afar at silver hoops and funky beaded things and wish I somehow could pull it off for an evening out on the town. Better yet, are the girls who can pull off the jeans and a t-shirt in casual day ware- accented by the perfect earrings with just the right flair.
But alas, my lobes are always naked. I have gotten my ears pierced twice (at a young age) and my holes have closed twice, as I always seem to fail to follow the proper instructions the piercing parlor hands you on the way out the door. After failing twice, I would not allow myself a 3rd go, so I have been pining for decoration on my ears for quite some time. Since 7th grade, in fact- this was the last time I wore earrings before my second set of holes closed.
.
However in the past year, I have taken up clip-ons, which incidentally you cannot find in the stores these days. Instead, I have been going to antiques stores shopping for your grandma’s earrings, because back in WWII they indeed sported clip-ons. I thought I could revive the clip-on look, sort of pretend it was vintage and cool, but it hasn’t really worked out for me. Your grandmother’s earrings tend to be gold and bulbous, and simply do not achieve the sexy, gypsy look I had in mind. So, I was back to pining and looking from afar, realizing I would not be the girl with the whimsical jewelry hanging from her ears.
The reason I am sharing all this is because my friend Erica brought me back the most beautiful earrings from Bolivia, and I was rather distraught. I intended to put them in my drawer to keep company with the diamond earrings my father gave me for Christmas 2 years ago- which of course have also never been worn. But, then, a funny thing happened. On a whim, I decided to just see…how far would they go in those closed holes? What if I was aggressive? I was picturing swollen, bloody earlobes, but could not resist trying.
And the funny part is, both earrings slid right in my ears without any resistance. I mean I have thought for 13 years that my ears were closed. Why had I been believing all these years that I could not wear earrings? I can’t remember the time I started believing that I could not; it’s just what I have assumed for 13 years.
It’s just very odd, and it made me wonder how many other things in life I have been depriving myself of and pining for because somehow, somewhere, I thought I did not have it.
But alas, my lobes are always naked. I have gotten my ears pierced twice (at a young age) and my holes have closed twice, as I always seem to fail to follow the proper instructions the piercing parlor hands you on the way out the door. After failing twice, I would not allow myself a 3rd go, so I have been pining for decoration on my ears for quite some time. Since 7th grade, in fact- this was the last time I wore earrings before my second set of holes closed.
.
However in the past year, I have taken up clip-ons, which incidentally you cannot find in the stores these days. Instead, I have been going to antiques stores shopping for your grandma’s earrings, because back in WWII they indeed sported clip-ons. I thought I could revive the clip-on look, sort of pretend it was vintage and cool, but it hasn’t really worked out for me. Your grandmother’s earrings tend to be gold and bulbous, and simply do not achieve the sexy, gypsy look I had in mind. So, I was back to pining and looking from afar, realizing I would not be the girl with the whimsical jewelry hanging from her ears.
The reason I am sharing all this is because my friend Erica brought me back the most beautiful earrings from Bolivia, and I was rather distraught. I intended to put them in my drawer to keep company with the diamond earrings my father gave me for Christmas 2 years ago- which of course have also never been worn. But, then, a funny thing happened. On a whim, I decided to just see…how far would they go in those closed holes? What if I was aggressive? I was picturing swollen, bloody earlobes, but could not resist trying.
And the funny part is, both earrings slid right in my ears without any resistance. I mean I have thought for 13 years that my ears were closed. Why had I been believing all these years that I could not wear earrings? I can’t remember the time I started believing that I could not; it’s just what I have assumed for 13 years.
It’s just very odd, and it made me wonder how many other things in life I have been depriving myself of and pining for because somehow, somewhere, I thought I did not have it.
Monday, May 21, 2007
On Books and the Thrill of the Re-Org
I recently pulled all my books from their bookshelves and piled them high on the living room floor. It was the end of the semester and time to organize. For those who know me well, it is not news that organizing is one of my secret delights. I can get lost in it for hours, sorting and pondering and moving objects about in a very small circle of space until they are arranged just so. (A counselor might want to point out the OCD impulses of such a habit; I, on the other hand, consider it a harmless practice for a heart needing to pretend she can arrange the world.)
For this particular re-org, I decided my books would no longer be shelved topically as usual, but would be coordinated by the color of their spine (I must give credit to my friend Nathania for this inspiration). Besides the aesthetic delight of such a new arrangement, I was also starting to feel that my novels needed to mingle with the psychology textbooks; my British literature needed the company of the Russian storytellers; my philosophers needed to parley with the poets; and my Bibles certainly needed everyone.
I sat on my leopard print footstool late into the night and stared at spines, trying to determine the shades of the palette. Disheveled groupings of books began to emerge: tangerines, merlots, sea-foam greens, rugged goldens. It was not always easy, mind you. Some particularly subtle shades stumped me for a while, as I decided what spectrum they would join. Where to put the zesty tomato reds? With the merlots or the tangerines? These were the dilemmas I was facing.
Gradually, spine-by-spine, the new sections of the library were created like a painted canvass. I am thankful for the tangerines because they give needed spunk; the merlots are sort of a mature, regal presence; the blues are few but captivating; and the strong showing of blacks and charcoals seems to ground the piece. But beyond the appeal of lovely colors, it gives me great pleasure that my books have journeyed beyond the narrow confines of a Dewey Decimal style assortment. Sometimes when Locke only talks to Rousseau, he begins to forget that Dostoevsky might have something to contribute to his discussion of freedom. Or when the Gospels are not in dialogue with Siddhartha, something gets lost.
When my books are segregated by mere subject, I suspect they have a bent to be pretentious: holding long-winded conversations with similarly minded books using the same worn out lexicon and assumptions. William James was supposed to have said that some people think they are thinking when really they are just re-arranging their prejudices. It seems one has to be quite intentional to avoid this trap of the narrow-minded pursuit. Hopefully, my books as they mingle will inspire my mind to do likewise.
For this particular re-org, I decided my books would no longer be shelved topically as usual, but would be coordinated by the color of their spine (I must give credit to my friend Nathania for this inspiration). Besides the aesthetic delight of such a new arrangement, I was also starting to feel that my novels needed to mingle with the psychology textbooks; my British literature needed the company of the Russian storytellers; my philosophers needed to parley with the poets; and my Bibles certainly needed everyone.
I sat on my leopard print footstool late into the night and stared at spines, trying to determine the shades of the palette. Disheveled groupings of books began to emerge: tangerines, merlots, sea-foam greens, rugged goldens. It was not always easy, mind you. Some particularly subtle shades stumped me for a while, as I decided what spectrum they would join. Where to put the zesty tomato reds? With the merlots or the tangerines? These were the dilemmas I was facing.
Gradually, spine-by-spine, the new sections of the library were created like a painted canvass. I am thankful for the tangerines because they give needed spunk; the merlots are sort of a mature, regal presence; the blues are few but captivating; and the strong showing of blacks and charcoals seems to ground the piece. But beyond the appeal of lovely colors, it gives me great pleasure that my books have journeyed beyond the narrow confines of a Dewey Decimal style assortment. Sometimes when Locke only talks to Rousseau, he begins to forget that Dostoevsky might have something to contribute to his discussion of freedom. Or when the Gospels are not in dialogue with Siddhartha, something gets lost.
When my books are segregated by mere subject, I suspect they have a bent to be pretentious: holding long-winded conversations with similarly minded books using the same worn out lexicon and assumptions. William James was supposed to have said that some people think they are thinking when really they are just re-arranging their prejudices. It seems one has to be quite intentional to avoid this trap of the narrow-minded pursuit. Hopefully, my books as they mingle will inspire my mind to do likewise.
Wednesday, May 9, 2007
In a nutshell
At the risk of being narcissistic (can a blog by its very nature ever avoid such a fate?), I thought I would just give a little update into what my life is about these days. Here’s a short list of my life projects as the summer unfolds:
Writing: I am still doing nearly as much creative writing as school writing, but I have waned in my gumption to submit work to editors. So, this summer I need to return to risk-taking and start tracking down magazines. I am currently working on 2 pieces that deal with faith and feminism (one should go up soon on BurnsideWritersCollective.com; the other is part of an anthology and seeking a publisher). I am also obsessively revising an article on Christianity and homosexuality, which my dear friend Andy and I are co-authoring.
In my attempts to pretend I am a real writer, I am also taking my “Second Annual Writers’ Weekend” trip up to the San Juan Islands. This year I plan to not go solo, but take my friends Penny and Lisa; the three of us have been meeting every Thursday morning for many months and working on our writing projects side by side.
School: This summer I am taking only 3 classes, which is a nice, moderate load. I am taking an Old Testament class (actually by the same prof I had in college), but I look forward to grappling again with issues of religion, violence, and gender that seem to always emerge in those ancient Mesopotamian texts. In addition, I am taking a class on sexuality, intimacy, and power. Finally, I am attempting independent research for the first time, which will involve researching how literature can be a tool to teach psychology. I hope to conduct a focus group with practicing therapists where I actually teach excerpts from poems and novels and discuss their relevance in the therapeutic realm.
Work: (Or, how I intend to pay my rent): This is still a bit of an interesting question☺. I have a handful of ESL students (from 7-year olds to adults), but I am hoping to market myself more at UW and get connected with graduate students writing interesting dissertations. I have noticed that ever since I quit my “real job” last August and opened my own tutoring business, I have slowly began to regress again in my vocational dreams. It is time to re-evaluate and dream of how I want to shape my business.
Play: Of course, writing and school is also play for me, but beyond that, I hope the summer is filled with: glorious games of beach volleyball; happy hours with friends; visiting my family in Spokane; lounging on the dock at the lake cabin; twirling on and off the dance floor; preparing for my sister’s wedding; Greenlake runs; and personal retreat/prayer days once a month up at Rosary Heights (a beautiful Catholic retreat center right on the water in Edmonds).
There you have it, my life in a nutshell.
Writing: I am still doing nearly as much creative writing as school writing, but I have waned in my gumption to submit work to editors. So, this summer I need to return to risk-taking and start tracking down magazines. I am currently working on 2 pieces that deal with faith and feminism (one should go up soon on BurnsideWritersCollective.com; the other is part of an anthology and seeking a publisher). I am also obsessively revising an article on Christianity and homosexuality, which my dear friend Andy and I are co-authoring.
In my attempts to pretend I am a real writer, I am also taking my “Second Annual Writers’ Weekend” trip up to the San Juan Islands. This year I plan to not go solo, but take my friends Penny and Lisa; the three of us have been meeting every Thursday morning for many months and working on our writing projects side by side.
School: This summer I am taking only 3 classes, which is a nice, moderate load. I am taking an Old Testament class (actually by the same prof I had in college), but I look forward to grappling again with issues of religion, violence, and gender that seem to always emerge in those ancient Mesopotamian texts. In addition, I am taking a class on sexuality, intimacy, and power. Finally, I am attempting independent research for the first time, which will involve researching how literature can be a tool to teach psychology. I hope to conduct a focus group with practicing therapists where I actually teach excerpts from poems and novels and discuss their relevance in the therapeutic realm.
Work: (Or, how I intend to pay my rent): This is still a bit of an interesting question☺. I have a handful of ESL students (from 7-year olds to adults), but I am hoping to market myself more at UW and get connected with graduate students writing interesting dissertations. I have noticed that ever since I quit my “real job” last August and opened my own tutoring business, I have slowly began to regress again in my vocational dreams. It is time to re-evaluate and dream of how I want to shape my business.
Play: Of course, writing and school is also play for me, but beyond that, I hope the summer is filled with: glorious games of beach volleyball; happy hours with friends; visiting my family in Spokane; lounging on the dock at the lake cabin; twirling on and off the dance floor; preparing for my sister’s wedding; Greenlake runs; and personal retreat/prayer days once a month up at Rosary Heights (a beautiful Catholic retreat center right on the water in Edmonds).
There you have it, my life in a nutshell.
Sunday, April 22, 2007
3 A.M.
Last night was our semester ending spring banquet, and in typical Mars Hill style, it drew out all sorts of emotion and introspection. Everything at my school is intense, including festive affairs. However, one thing we do very well is dance, and once I kicked off my shoes and started to flail in my usual free-spirited fashion, the world felt a great deal more fun.
At the end of the night, my dear friends Stacy and Jeremy and I retired to my living room to debrief the affair. We were verging on a sleepover, when our yawns made us retire around 3 am. However, as they left my apartment we were all greeted by a tow truck, its talons wrapped around their innocent Civic who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Denial is one of my favorite defense mechanisms. So when Mr. Tow Truck Driver announced the “245 release fee” it became $24.50 in my head. Fortunately he clarified. As the shock and outrage overcame me, I dashed back into the apartment, emerging with my debit card brandished high. (After all, I am the one who should have realized we had parked in my neighbor’s spot). As Stacy says, I was ready “to save the day,” before the brilliant insight occurred to me. Oh s*@!t, I don’t actually have $250 dollars in my account (my financial prosperity isn’t exactly peaking these days). So at that point, I began a pathetic entreaty to the surprisingly jolly Mr. Tow Trucker Driver, who neither retaliated towards my contempt nor gave in to my plaintive decrees. I tried many different tactics: testing out ranting and raving, humor, and outright desperation. Could you just sort of slip out of here, let the car go, and not charge us the $250? Plll-eea-sse, I begged.
I admit I am a rather proud woman with an aversion to begging, but when I decide to beg I do it wholeheartedly. Pieces of my self-respect splattered all over the sidewalk in the course of appeal.
Finally, we just made friends with Mr. Tow Truck Driver. We took pictures, we laughed, we enjoyed the view of Seattle’s skyline from the parking spot. Stacy and Jeremy came to the rescue so generously with their plastic; we decided to be thankful it wasn’t the $400 it would have been for the tow, and that we were not hunting down an impounded car in the middle of the night.
The moral of this story is that I really like my friends. To share life with people who will laugh with you at 3 a.m. when the ass of their car is in the air because you forgot to mention the details of parking legalities…well, those are precious people.
(And just a little warning to absent minded people like myself…Mr. Tow Truck Driver told us that soon the $400 current fee for towing will almost double in the city of Seattle…getting closer to $700! Outrageous.)
Thursday, March 29, 2007
Celebrated Failures
I am realizing that my prayers don’t seem as charmed as they once did.
For instance, tonight I went to hear Anne Lamott speak and prayed audaciously for my Midas touch encounter. I was needing to convince this ridiculously busy and accomplished women why she should write a review for an upcoming anthology I am part of (more on that project another time). I just knew of the hundreds of people there that I would get the up close encounter.
Turns out I did in fact get the premier up close encounter. I walked in on her in the bathroom- I mean I walked right into her stall. It was a very brief meeting and not terribly opportune for pitching the anthology.
I think my prayers use to be a bit more successful.
Anyways, at the very end of the night I went up to her, apologized for the mishap, talked about the anthology, invited her interest, and got rejected- all in about 7 seconds. My second encounter left me even more sheepish than the first.
But on a redeeming note, tonight I have decided it might be good for me to chronicle all such rejections. Then, over time, I will realize I can indeed survive those moments of feeling really dumb. I am actually going to start a scrapbook to document the time and place and keep the mementos. Any perceived failure/rejection gets to be celebrated. That means rejection slips from editors, dissapointing papers, flopped encounters- all now worthy of documentation in my celebrated chronicles.
For instance, tonight I went to hear Anne Lamott speak and prayed audaciously for my Midas touch encounter. I was needing to convince this ridiculously busy and accomplished women why she should write a review for an upcoming anthology I am part of (more on that project another time). I just knew of the hundreds of people there that I would get the up close encounter.
Turns out I did in fact get the premier up close encounter. I walked in on her in the bathroom- I mean I walked right into her stall. It was a very brief meeting and not terribly opportune for pitching the anthology.
I think my prayers use to be a bit more successful.
Anyways, at the very end of the night I went up to her, apologized for the mishap, talked about the anthology, invited her interest, and got rejected- all in about 7 seconds. My second encounter left me even more sheepish than the first.
But on a redeeming note, tonight I have decided it might be good for me to chronicle all such rejections. Then, over time, I will realize I can indeed survive those moments of feeling really dumb. I am actually going to start a scrapbook to document the time and place and keep the mementos. Any perceived failure/rejection gets to be celebrated. That means rejection slips from editors, dissapointing papers, flopped encounters- all now worthy of documentation in my celebrated chronicles.
Saturday, March 24, 2007
Cherry Trees and D.W. Winnicott
It is spring, which inspires me to do crazy things like start running again. I don’t know that I actually like running, but this season of the year I decide it’s time to remember trees and fresh air and flowers- that real, budding life exists outside textbooks.
There is this one glorious cherry tree I get to run under on Wallingford Avenue. She is dressed up like a bride. I had a lovely cherry tree in my backyard growing up; the sweet scents today make me remember being a little girl and jumping on our big trampoline near the blooming tree, so that blossoms would float down on my head as I somersaulted. Running down Wallingford Ave, life moments 20 years apart seem to intersect.
I keep being visited by that little girl- fresh moments of the past arriving rather unannounced. Such visitations, of course, are the symptom of a mind rather saturated with psychology classes, where I am consistently asked to consider my own "story" and wonder about who I am- and who I was. Where are the links between my present self and how I first experienced the world? This is the question that seems to beckon the visitations. I have seen her alot lately, sort of hovering in the moment. When she is not jumping on trampolines, she is writing children's stories or reading novels or worrying about her grades or waiting to be loved or wondering who she will become. She says hello in unexpected places. I sat in a coffee shop this afternoon, and the dry, technical pages of my textbook succeeded in evoking her. She arrived with salted drops. I am not really a public crier, but there was something so bittersweet. I know her too well. This deep integration of my studies and my introspection leaves me never quite knowing when my brain decides to surrender to my heart and I am emotional in a coffee shop over D.W. Winnicott’s waxing on about "object relations" and “transitional phenomena."
Goodness, perhaps, I should have elected a career in engineering? (But then I would most certainly be crying over my calculus problems.)
There is this one glorious cherry tree I get to run under on Wallingford Avenue. She is dressed up like a bride. I had a lovely cherry tree in my backyard growing up; the sweet scents today make me remember being a little girl and jumping on our big trampoline near the blooming tree, so that blossoms would float down on my head as I somersaulted. Running down Wallingford Ave, life moments 20 years apart seem to intersect.
I keep being visited by that little girl- fresh moments of the past arriving rather unannounced. Such visitations, of course, are the symptom of a mind rather saturated with psychology classes, where I am consistently asked to consider my own "story" and wonder about who I am- and who I was. Where are the links between my present self and how I first experienced the world? This is the question that seems to beckon the visitations. I have seen her alot lately, sort of hovering in the moment. When she is not jumping on trampolines, she is writing children's stories or reading novels or worrying about her grades or waiting to be loved or wondering who she will become. She says hello in unexpected places. I sat in a coffee shop this afternoon, and the dry, technical pages of my textbook succeeded in evoking her. She arrived with salted drops. I am not really a public crier, but there was something so bittersweet. I know her too well. This deep integration of my studies and my introspection leaves me never quite knowing when my brain decides to surrender to my heart and I am emotional in a coffee shop over D.W. Winnicott’s waxing on about "object relations" and “transitional phenomena."
Goodness, perhaps, I should have elected a career in engineering? (But then I would most certainly be crying over my calculus problems.)
Sunday, March 11, 2007
Anne of Green Gables
The past two weekends I have allowed an old childhood splurge: a marathon of watching a passionate, idealistic red-headed girl. I sipped framboise beer (the closest thing we could find to Anne’s raspberry cordial!) and remembered childhood ideals shaped by L.M. Montgomery’s heroine. Here were my realizations:
1. You cannot go through life breaking slates over boys’ heads. However, it seems a small tragedy to go through life without the spunk to ever do so.
2. Decorum in most of our lives gets too much privilege- and honesty not enough.
3. When you are in the depths of despair, feel it with passion, but remember that plum puffs will help.
4. Gilbert Blythe, tragically, is a fictional character.
5. However, this ought not to dash all dreams of rain-drenched gazebos.
6. Read and think and love with vital imagination.
7. When you want to pray, sometimes it is best to leave your words, look up to heaven, and feel the overflow of your own soul.
8. There are Katherine Brooks in your life to love, and Josie Pyes to not take too seriously.
9. You cannot seek your ideals outside of yourself, but you may have to leave Avonlea to discover this.
10. There is a “book of revelation” in everyone’s life- when the love that has abided is seen.
In the midst of studying all my stacks of psychology books, I am pretty sure “Anne” was my heart’s necessary therapy. I walked down 3rd Avenue yesterday a bit more alive to cherry blossoms and raindrops and strangers’ faces and my own brewing soul.
1. You cannot go through life breaking slates over boys’ heads. However, it seems a small tragedy to go through life without the spunk to ever do so.
2. Decorum in most of our lives gets too much privilege- and honesty not enough.
3. When you are in the depths of despair, feel it with passion, but remember that plum puffs will help.
4. Gilbert Blythe, tragically, is a fictional character.
5. However, this ought not to dash all dreams of rain-drenched gazebos.
6. Read and think and love with vital imagination.
7. When you want to pray, sometimes it is best to leave your words, look up to heaven, and feel the overflow of your own soul.
8. There are Katherine Brooks in your life to love, and Josie Pyes to not take too seriously.
9. You cannot seek your ideals outside of yourself, but you may have to leave Avonlea to discover this.
10. There is a “book of revelation” in everyone’s life- when the love that has abided is seen.
In the midst of studying all my stacks of psychology books, I am pretty sure “Anne” was my heart’s necessary therapy. I walked down 3rd Avenue yesterday a bit more alive to cherry blossoms and raindrops and strangers’ faces and my own brewing soul.
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
Napping Epiphanies
My friend Andy likes to remind me that I cannot live life in an epiphany. This is good advice for me, but still rather disappointing every time I hear it. So much of life feels infused with wonder and beauty and divine splashes, that I am not quite sure what to do with the ordinary. Don’t get me wrong... my life cannot boast of much measure of verifiable excitement (she is the girl most likely studying on a Friday night). It’s just the little wonders are usually quite thrilling. I actually get adrenaline rushes reading my textbooks, like my heart dances when my dendrites fire. I eat strawberries like they're ambrosia. My 963rd sighting of Mt. Rainer still feels like a new crush, that captured sort of gaze you feel in your stomach.
I have been told that I have an unusually high pleasure barometer for the simple things. I think I just have a disposition to make love to life.
However, this passion has concerned me as of late. For what happens when I cannot extract the divine out of a moment? When the wonder is much more rare? When the moments of life just roll along, with little to report of ecstatic inspiration?
This is how my heart feels tonight. Like I have much to thrill me, but my heart is curled up taking a nap this month. I wonder if this is just the pathos of mid-winter in a city of grey skies, or whether I am getting to learn…once again…that it is ok not to strive all of life for the epiphanic. Sometimes I need the rest.
I have been told that I have an unusually high pleasure barometer for the simple things. I think I just have a disposition to make love to life.
However, this passion has concerned me as of late. For what happens when I cannot extract the divine out of a moment? When the wonder is much more rare? When the moments of life just roll along, with little to report of ecstatic inspiration?
This is how my heart feels tonight. Like I have much to thrill me, but my heart is curled up taking a nap this month. I wonder if this is just the pathos of mid-winter in a city of grey skies, or whether I am getting to learn…once again…that it is ok not to strive all of life for the epiphanic. Sometimes I need the rest.
Friday, February 16, 2007
A Little Bit of Nonsense
I’ve been serious since I was about 6, so learning to appreciate nonsense is my necessary path of regression. Does anyone else remember not knowing what to do with the sandbox? Kindergarten’s play stations befuddled me. But somewhere in college, I began to remember that life is not just to be studied, but actually can be played. Now as a graduate student, a little bit of nonsense feels like survival.
I have learned in my lessons on playing that it is its own way of being. Playing is to be present in a moment, letting your ego go on vacation. It is to surrender the addiction of productivity. Release the impulse of purpose. Honor the spontaneous. Meander, open to the gifts not found in your pocket planner.
So, to get you started I will present exercises in nonsense. Two disclaimers here: one, I am talking about the non-chemically induced nonsense. Two, I am very much a girl, and these exercises might not be gender neutral. But here’s my top ten list to inspire your own:
1. Twirling. Yes, just like you think. Arms outstretched, get on your tiptoes and spin. This works best in wide-open spaces, like a park. I taught a friend to twirl recently…he was rather resistant I am afraid. At first, just little nervous twirls. He was hesitant to have passerbyers musing on his dradle-like like behavior. (This business of nonsense is impinged with all sorts of social worries). Finally, I coaxed him into a few free revolutions. I think he liked it.
2. Don a fancy hat. Need a say more? I went to an antique store recently, looking for the perfect wide brimmed, Hepburnesque black hat. I found it, complete with a shimmery veil that makes me feel mysterious. I probably tried on 2 dozen hats before I found her, which was a lovely time warp back to the dress up box.
3. Eavesdrop. People spill their souls at coffee shops- catch them in your notebook, verbatim if you can. (The other day I heard some lively grandmothers at Pete’s Coffee talking about some movie star’s abs. They turned to me a little sheepishly, worried about misguiding the younger generation. Then, they told me to go rent the movie.)
4. Skinny-dipping. It’s a bit like returning to the womb. The first time I jumped into a lake naked was in 8th grade, with full moon light and a silly group of girls. I would encourage this activity in the summer months, though for risk-takers, it can be year round. I admit I am a conservative skinny dipper, which means I am not a co-ed skinny deeper. But to each their own.
5. Open up your lungs. Sing very loudly and dramatically. Celene Dion anyone? The Lion King soundtrack is also very good. I know you must make fun of Britney Spears in public, but secretly you want to dance and sing like a grown up musketeer. Improvise from the kitchen drawer for your microphone.
6. Finger painting. Yes, even if you are not an artist. Get out the craft box and create something. Enjoy bold primary colors. Make a mess. Pretend you are Jackson Pollock. Stay with it even if you think it’s terrible. If you need to get serious, than pretend it’s a rorshok.
7. Puddle jumping. Playing in the rain in general is very good for your soul. So don your rain boots (you have them, right?) and jump. Get very wet. Maybe even cartwheel. Remember what is like to enjoy mud. Then come in for hot chocolate.
8. Bake cinnamon rolls. Get out yeast and milk and sugar, and remember how to knead. Spend an afternoon watching bread rise. (I credit this suggestion to Henry David Thoreau, who has a passing line in Walden about watching dough rise. I remember being astounded at the time that anyone had the life allowance for such unproductivity.)
9. Hang out in the children’s section of a local bookstore. Re-read Go Dog Go. Observe little faces. Reclaim the joy of story. Have a party with Amelia Bedelia, Bernstein Bears, Madeline. Clifford and Arthur. Remember Choosing your Own Adventure? Or exploring Where the Wild Things Are. Enjoy nostalgia.
10. Make a top ten list. I love making lists. Make a list about all the things to explore in your city that you haven’t quite gotten to. Or your secret dreams. Or your favorite people and why you love them. Or why life is beautiful. Stay with the process of list-making, even if you start to struggle at #3. Wait for what comes.
I have learned in my lessons on playing that it is its own way of being. Playing is to be present in a moment, letting your ego go on vacation. It is to surrender the addiction of productivity. Release the impulse of purpose. Honor the spontaneous. Meander, open to the gifts not found in your pocket planner.
So, to get you started I will present exercises in nonsense. Two disclaimers here: one, I am talking about the non-chemically induced nonsense. Two, I am very much a girl, and these exercises might not be gender neutral. But here’s my top ten list to inspire your own:
1. Twirling. Yes, just like you think. Arms outstretched, get on your tiptoes and spin. This works best in wide-open spaces, like a park. I taught a friend to twirl recently…he was rather resistant I am afraid. At first, just little nervous twirls. He was hesitant to have passerbyers musing on his dradle-like like behavior. (This business of nonsense is impinged with all sorts of social worries). Finally, I coaxed him into a few free revolutions. I think he liked it.
2. Don a fancy hat. Need a say more? I went to an antique store recently, looking for the perfect wide brimmed, Hepburnesque black hat. I found it, complete with a shimmery veil that makes me feel mysterious. I probably tried on 2 dozen hats before I found her, which was a lovely time warp back to the dress up box.
3. Eavesdrop. People spill their souls at coffee shops- catch them in your notebook, verbatim if you can. (The other day I heard some lively grandmothers at Pete’s Coffee talking about some movie star’s abs. They turned to me a little sheepishly, worried about misguiding the younger generation. Then, they told me to go rent the movie.)
4. Skinny-dipping. It’s a bit like returning to the womb. The first time I jumped into a lake naked was in 8th grade, with full moon light and a silly group of girls. I would encourage this activity in the summer months, though for risk-takers, it can be year round. I admit I am a conservative skinny dipper, which means I am not a co-ed skinny deeper. But to each their own.
5. Open up your lungs. Sing very loudly and dramatically. Celene Dion anyone? The Lion King soundtrack is also very good. I know you must make fun of Britney Spears in public, but secretly you want to dance and sing like a grown up musketeer. Improvise from the kitchen drawer for your microphone.
6. Finger painting. Yes, even if you are not an artist. Get out the craft box and create something. Enjoy bold primary colors. Make a mess. Pretend you are Jackson Pollock. Stay with it even if you think it’s terrible. If you need to get serious, than pretend it’s a rorshok.
7. Puddle jumping. Playing in the rain in general is very good for your soul. So don your rain boots (you have them, right?) and jump. Get very wet. Maybe even cartwheel. Remember what is like to enjoy mud. Then come in for hot chocolate.
8. Bake cinnamon rolls. Get out yeast and milk and sugar, and remember how to knead. Spend an afternoon watching bread rise. (I credit this suggestion to Henry David Thoreau, who has a passing line in Walden about watching dough rise. I remember being astounded at the time that anyone had the life allowance for such unproductivity.)
9. Hang out in the children’s section of a local bookstore. Re-read Go Dog Go. Observe little faces. Reclaim the joy of story. Have a party with Amelia Bedelia, Bernstein Bears, Madeline. Clifford and Arthur. Remember Choosing your Own Adventure? Or exploring Where the Wild Things Are. Enjoy nostalgia.
10. Make a top ten list. I love making lists. Make a list about all the things to explore in your city that you haven’t quite gotten to. Or your secret dreams. Or your favorite people and why you love them. Or why life is beautiful. Stay with the process of list-making, even if you start to struggle at #3. Wait for what comes.
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
A Whim of Desire
There I was, en route on the 26, people watching out of the corner of my eye. I am also meandering the pages of my book, as if to announce my psychological space from fellow commuters. My furtive glances let people know my ambivalent message: Yes, I am noticing you. No, I am not available for significant interaction. Please agree to this necessary truce as we step into the microcosm of public transit.
I am reading Pedagogy of the Oppressed, another book to stir all my passions of social justice. I am reading about revolutions, when I notice two green shoes amble down the aisle.
At this point, my book becomes very intriguing, my gaze even more intent on the page, my peripheral vision suddenly quite acute.
Mr. Green Shoes sits down and takes out his Seattle Times. My furtive glances travel from shoes to retro orange sweater to newsies cap a top his head. I catch a quick profile, before returning to the revolution.
He notices me noticing him. I pretend not to notice. I notice him noticing me. He pretends not to notice. This is a classic bus crush. We go through Wallingford and Fremont and Belltown that way, coyly saying hello. Mr. Green Shoes is immersed in the paper and I am enraptured in my learning, all the while catching quick, intermittent profiles. At one point, Mr. Green Shoes banters with the Grandmother next to him on the bus, endearing her with his boyish charm just loud enough for me to hear. I am a psychology student; I know who he is really flirting with.
We discover we have the same stop. I get up first and make a motion for Mr. Green Shoes that he can go before me. We linger a slight moment, not sure what to do with our departure. To speak or not to speak? Mr. Green Shoes breaks the silence. "After you Madame,” he says with a flair of chivalry. "Thank you," I answer, ready to run out the door now that we have risked verbal expression. This is getting far too serious for me. Dashing off the bus, feet on pavement, I quickly turn in the opposite direction and hear Mr. Green Shoes blurt out, "Have a good day," as one final attempt. I turn around for a brisk moment to express the same notion, before clearly being on my way in the opposite direction. Good by, Mr. Green Shoes, I say to myself. Our short affair is over. But, after a quick ten strides, my curiosity gets the best of me and I pivot to catch another glimpse. He has also dashed off, only to find his curiosity peaking at the precise moment. So we stand there, 40 feet apart, staring at one another. Pretending not to, though our game of pretend is rather hopeless at this point. My senses kick in and I turn around for good. But at the next light, I can’t help it. I turn around to catch one more glimpse at the orange speck in the distance, but lo and behold, Mr. Green Shoes is experiencing the same anxiety of separation. We had both walked our respective blocks still unresolved. So here we are, staring at each other, a hundred feet apart. What do to? Walk towards each other? Be on our merry way? The moment lingers, rather sweetly and awkwardly, as two strangers stare at each other down 3rd Avenue.
So, what did I do Reader? I soaked in the morning sunshine, smiled at life, and slipped around the corner. The charming Mr. Green Shoes was a lovely encounter, but sometimes I like the encounters best that have no denouement.
I am reading Pedagogy of the Oppressed, another book to stir all my passions of social justice. I am reading about revolutions, when I notice two green shoes amble down the aisle.
At this point, my book becomes very intriguing, my gaze even more intent on the page, my peripheral vision suddenly quite acute.
Mr. Green Shoes sits down and takes out his Seattle Times. My furtive glances travel from shoes to retro orange sweater to newsies cap a top his head. I catch a quick profile, before returning to the revolution.
He notices me noticing him. I pretend not to notice. I notice him noticing me. He pretends not to notice. This is a classic bus crush. We go through Wallingford and Fremont and Belltown that way, coyly saying hello. Mr. Green Shoes is immersed in the paper and I am enraptured in my learning, all the while catching quick, intermittent profiles. At one point, Mr. Green Shoes banters with the Grandmother next to him on the bus, endearing her with his boyish charm just loud enough for me to hear. I am a psychology student; I know who he is really flirting with.
We discover we have the same stop. I get up first and make a motion for Mr. Green Shoes that he can go before me. We linger a slight moment, not sure what to do with our departure. To speak or not to speak? Mr. Green Shoes breaks the silence. "After you Madame,” he says with a flair of chivalry. "Thank you," I answer, ready to run out the door now that we have risked verbal expression. This is getting far too serious for me. Dashing off the bus, feet on pavement, I quickly turn in the opposite direction and hear Mr. Green Shoes blurt out, "Have a good day," as one final attempt. I turn around for a brisk moment to express the same notion, before clearly being on my way in the opposite direction. Good by, Mr. Green Shoes, I say to myself. Our short affair is over. But, after a quick ten strides, my curiosity gets the best of me and I pivot to catch another glimpse. He has also dashed off, only to find his curiosity peaking at the precise moment. So we stand there, 40 feet apart, staring at one another. Pretending not to, though our game of pretend is rather hopeless at this point. My senses kick in and I turn around for good. But at the next light, I can’t help it. I turn around to catch one more glimpse at the orange speck in the distance, but lo and behold, Mr. Green Shoes is experiencing the same anxiety of separation. We had both walked our respective blocks still unresolved. So here we are, staring at each other, a hundred feet apart. What do to? Walk towards each other? Be on our merry way? The moment lingers, rather sweetly and awkwardly, as two strangers stare at each other down 3rd Avenue.
So, what did I do Reader? I soaked in the morning sunshine, smiled at life, and slipped around the corner. The charming Mr. Green Shoes was a lovely encounter, but sometimes I like the encounters best that have no denouement.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
