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.
Sunday, June 24, 2007
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.)
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