“No man is an island unto himself… we’re like a chain of islands… all trying to live in solitude, but not succeeding.”
They left early Friday morning. I heard them leaving, though I wasn’t quite awake yet. Then I woke again and heard them coming back. They must have forgotten something. Then they were gone and all was quiet and still and I was alone. I thought it would be nice, relaxing. And so I tried to make it be. I got up, made breakfast, had coffee, sat in silence. I tried to force it the rest of the day. I went to work, came home and had dinner alone. Relaxing, I thought, this should be relaxing. So I drew a hot bath, grabbed a cold beer and turned on some melodramatic music. This should be sufficiently relaxing, I thought. But my shoulders remained tense and my mind only tired. I resolved to a movie I couldn’t finish and a half eaten bag of Oreo cookies. An early bed time was in store.
I woke up several hours later to what I thought were people wandering into my house but turned out to be a sudden rain storm that had taken over the town. It was sunny when I fell asleep. How odd. I listened to the rain beat on my window for a bit, then fell back to sleep.
The morning brought a tad more energy than the day before but with a sort of sad resolve to being alone. I set about my day attending to business, school work, laundry, the odd ins and outs of existing. I ran a few lousy errands, pumped the music loudly, then decided it was much too loud and turned it down. I cleaned. I checked the mail. I made dinner. I sampled a variety pack of chocolate until my stomach began to hurt. Flipping the channels on the TV made me question life. What am I doing?
I had the “What are you passions? Dreams? Ambitions? And where have they gone?” conversation with myself. I determined to diet and exercise and loose weight, starting tomorrow. Then I sat back down in front of the TV with my variety pack of chocolates and watched the BET awards that had been TiVo’d. It felt awkward. Then I felt awkward for feeling awkward and that got me thinking about all sorts of things and I found myself sitting down in front of the computer writing this, thinking, “I’m going to post this on my blog and all the world will know I’m crazy.”
Yes, yes they will. And now they do.
Saturday, July 11, 2009
Monday, May 25, 2009
From the Outside
“I tried the whole church thing with an old girlfriend of mine. I went for a while but couldn’t really stand the people, I mean, all these people who showed up to church acting one way, then I see them during the week acting completely different. I can’t stand being around that. But, you know, I’ve read parts of the Bible, trying to wrap my head around the whole idea. I just kind of appreciate all religions really. It’s just not for me though.”
“I pretty much grew up in the church.” It was all I could muster after he threw the hypocrisy dagger. I really don’t have an argument for that one.
“Yeah, that usually seems to be the case.” Ouch. Truth hurts.
After that, we just kind of sat back and stared at the ocean in silence for a while. He had valid points and questions and experiences that I couldn’t argue with. He saw my entire upbringing inside the church walls from the outside and for exactly what it was; white washed and disappointing. And I’m just another church going chick who still goes to church because that’s what she grew up doing.
Shrug.
I appreciate my lifetime of church experience and having parents who paved the gospel road for me is absolutely incalculable. I wouldn’t trade it for anything. It comes with its own unique set of battles to fight through, which I find myself constantly stumbling through and probably will for the rest of my life.
But sometimes I wish I could stand on the outside and look in. That is the perspective the church at large desperately needs to understand anyway.
I have, from infancy, known the intimate workings and interconnectedness of the Christian church. The good, the bad, the down right ugly; I have seen it all. I have been filled with hope and wonder and awe by this body, the bride of Christ. I have been hurt and disappointed and severely disillusioned by the very same hand.
It has left wounds that have healed calloused, that don’t allow for me to stand in defense when someone slanders the church, but instead I sit in silence because I know she is a broken body with many faults. And I too am in dislike and disgust of her many imperfections.
It is a strange thing to begin to love something so broken, so imperfect, something so much like myself. I have navigated to that perspective, the one from the outside looking in, and I see a beautiful mess. I see how God, in all his perfection, can look down on his misguided and disheveled bride, sigh and smile, gently guiding her along as he picks up the pieces.
The church is something I have hated and loved, battled for and against, ran from and longed for. It is difficult to decipher between God and the church when you grow up in the center of the chaos. It is so much easier when you can see clearly the difference, from which compassion will then grow.
This world is full of fragile, imperfect, broken, faulted human beings. Some of us have found the insane love and wildly undeserved mercy of a God who would do anything to reconcile himself to us. Some of us have not yet experienced that relationship. There in lies the only difference between the two. See, though we have Christ, we are still broken and imperfect. And so it is no wonder, no question, no surprise that a body made up of lackluster parts can be a hypocritical, chaotic mess.
It is when we think of ourselves as better, as somehow less messed up or faulted, that we begin to be something God never intended his bride to be. We become unattractive, repelling even.
But when we can step outside and see what we look like from that perspective; a bed head, smeared make-up, dirty clothed bride; we see ourselves for who we really are and truly understand the incredible love of God, who desires us desperately despite our ragged selves. Then, and only then, can we look from the inside outward and see that the world around us is no different, just that they too desperately need to experience the love that we so undeservedly receive over and over and over again.
And so I sat in silence, staring at the ocean, without rebuttal to his comments. I figured arguing was a useless effort. I choose instead to speak through my life and let him see for himself what it looks like for a church going hypocrite like me to be loved by a fiercely passionate God.
“I pretty much grew up in the church.” It was all I could muster after he threw the hypocrisy dagger. I really don’t have an argument for that one.
“Yeah, that usually seems to be the case.” Ouch. Truth hurts.
After that, we just kind of sat back and stared at the ocean in silence for a while. He had valid points and questions and experiences that I couldn’t argue with. He saw my entire upbringing inside the church walls from the outside and for exactly what it was; white washed and disappointing. And I’m just another church going chick who still goes to church because that’s what she grew up doing.
Shrug.
I appreciate my lifetime of church experience and having parents who paved the gospel road for me is absolutely incalculable. I wouldn’t trade it for anything. It comes with its own unique set of battles to fight through, which I find myself constantly stumbling through and probably will for the rest of my life.
But sometimes I wish I could stand on the outside and look in. That is the perspective the church at large desperately needs to understand anyway.
I have, from infancy, known the intimate workings and interconnectedness of the Christian church. The good, the bad, the down right ugly; I have seen it all. I have been filled with hope and wonder and awe by this body, the bride of Christ. I have been hurt and disappointed and severely disillusioned by the very same hand.
It has left wounds that have healed calloused, that don’t allow for me to stand in defense when someone slanders the church, but instead I sit in silence because I know she is a broken body with many faults. And I too am in dislike and disgust of her many imperfections.
It is a strange thing to begin to love something so broken, so imperfect, something so much like myself. I have navigated to that perspective, the one from the outside looking in, and I see a beautiful mess. I see how God, in all his perfection, can look down on his misguided and disheveled bride, sigh and smile, gently guiding her along as he picks up the pieces.
The church is something I have hated and loved, battled for and against, ran from and longed for. It is difficult to decipher between God and the church when you grow up in the center of the chaos. It is so much easier when you can see clearly the difference, from which compassion will then grow.
This world is full of fragile, imperfect, broken, faulted human beings. Some of us have found the insane love and wildly undeserved mercy of a God who would do anything to reconcile himself to us. Some of us have not yet experienced that relationship. There in lies the only difference between the two. See, though we have Christ, we are still broken and imperfect. And so it is no wonder, no question, no surprise that a body made up of lackluster parts can be a hypocritical, chaotic mess.
It is when we think of ourselves as better, as somehow less messed up or faulted, that we begin to be something God never intended his bride to be. We become unattractive, repelling even.
But when we can step outside and see what we look like from that perspective; a bed head, smeared make-up, dirty clothed bride; we see ourselves for who we really are and truly understand the incredible love of God, who desires us desperately despite our ragged selves. Then, and only then, can we look from the inside outward and see that the world around us is no different, just that they too desperately need to experience the love that we so undeservedly receive over and over and over again.
And so I sat in silence, staring at the ocean, without rebuttal to his comments. I figured arguing was a useless effort. I choose instead to speak through my life and let him see for himself what it looks like for a church going hypocrite like me to be loved by a fiercely passionate God.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Random Thoughts and Ponderings… Installment #1.
It’s ironic and completely subconscious that Starbucks is the most (and only) California thing about Flo-Town, Orgs. And I now work at Stars.
I get really motivated at night. I think up all these things that I should do and really want to do. But by the time I get motivated to do them, it’s way too late. So I think “I am SO doing that tomorrow”. Then I wake up and am totally NOT motivated. So I don’t do it. Then night comes and I’m like “OMG! I didn’t do that but I’m SOOOO gonna do it now.” But I don’t, because again, it’s too late. So I think I’ll def do it tomorrow… and on and on it goes.
My newly authorized litmus test for guys I date is “is he willing to move to Los Angeles, Cali?” and “would I actually want to take him back to Cali with me?” Second question is key.
I make myself laugh…. Pretty much all the time. If you can make me laugh, you’re in.
I don’t really know what “you’re in” means. I think it just means that we’re cool. Which is basically like saying that we’re friends and I think you are neat.
Did I mention that I make myself laugh?
I have a very eclectic taste in music. I can listen to rap, hip-hop, R&B, rock, pop, country, and so on. The only music I can’t stand is heavy metal, with a few rare exceptions, and pretty much all 80’s music. So 80’s heavy metal is out of the question all together. I’d rather die a slow and painfully excruciating death than listen to that crap. And that is due, in most part, to a few misfortunate relationships gone terribly wrong.
I am constantly amazed that my life has any impact on people whatsoever.
I have all these subconscious anxiety traits that, when looked at holistically, kind of concern me, which actually makes the whole issue worse. Like, I constantly catch myself holding my breath and tensing my shoulder and neck muscles… for no apparent reason. I have to remind myself to breath. I also clench my jaw and grit my teeth. Oh, and I bite my lower lip all the time.
Sometimes I hate that certain songs are forever tied to very specific memories. There are the few that stop me in my tracks to this day and my heart drops every time. I hate it.
When I was little, living in the central valley of California, I would dream of living in So Cal on the beach. It was like one of those dreams you think will never come true but you think about it every now and again anyway. Then I ended up moving there when I was sixteen. I thrived in Los Angeles. I became who I am in that great city. I had to move away to realize just how deeply I was defined by the culture of So Cal. I cherish every moment of it, good and bad.
I don’t sleep very well in Orgs. I don’t know why but I stay up all night and still wake up at the same time every morning. I stay in bed unless I have to get up for something… but I’m awake nonetheless. It’s weird and I don’t like it.
There is an angry lady who comes to Starbucks almost every day and tells me that I am a “fool for moving here”. Really, she doesn’t need to convince me that leaving So Cal for Flo-Town is like a monumental mistake, using standard, human logic. I finally had a heart to heart with her and said that although it’s lame in comparison, I’m glad that I left LA and that I’m here now. Although I won’t stay forever, and can’t wait to return to LA, it was the best move I could ever have made. I’m good friends with the angry lady now.
Remember how I said that I get motivated at night? That is one thing I miss from LA more than anything – you can do anything at any time. So when I get motivated to go jogging and it’s like 11pm, I can go down to the Strand and jog with all the other late night, beach side joggers. But not in Orgs, no way. I’d get mauled by bears or something. So I put off that motivation until morning, at which point I am no longer motivated, so I don’t jog, at all. And I become another Oregon fat abs.
Did I just say “another Oregon fat abs”? I tend to be highly offensive. That’s another little tid bit about me.
I am also laughing out loud at myself right now. I have a marred sense of humor and make jokes mostly just to amuse myself. It works for me. Oh, and for the life of me, I can’t figure out how to correctly spell the word “marred”. If you can help me out, I’d appreciate that.
I can’t spell. Seriously, I suck at it. And I used to hate when I was little and I would ask someone how to spell something and they respond with “look it up”. Seriously? How am I supposed to look up a word that I can’t spell? I didn’t ask you for a definition, I asked for the spelling !!!
If I could only do one thing for the rest of my life, I would choose laughing. I love to laugh more than anything else in the world.
I get really motivated at night. I think up all these things that I should do and really want to do. But by the time I get motivated to do them, it’s way too late. So I think “I am SO doing that tomorrow”. Then I wake up and am totally NOT motivated. So I don’t do it. Then night comes and I’m like “OMG! I didn’t do that but I’m SOOOO gonna do it now.” But I don’t, because again, it’s too late. So I think I’ll def do it tomorrow… and on and on it goes.
My newly authorized litmus test for guys I date is “is he willing to move to Los Angeles, Cali?” and “would I actually want to take him back to Cali with me?” Second question is key.
I make myself laugh…. Pretty much all the time. If you can make me laugh, you’re in.
I don’t really know what “you’re in” means. I think it just means that we’re cool. Which is basically like saying that we’re friends and I think you are neat.
Did I mention that I make myself laugh?
I have a very eclectic taste in music. I can listen to rap, hip-hop, R&B, rock, pop, country, and so on. The only music I can’t stand is heavy metal, with a few rare exceptions, and pretty much all 80’s music. So 80’s heavy metal is out of the question all together. I’d rather die a slow and painfully excruciating death than listen to that crap. And that is due, in most part, to a few misfortunate relationships gone terribly wrong.
I am constantly amazed that my life has any impact on people whatsoever.
I have all these subconscious anxiety traits that, when looked at holistically, kind of concern me, which actually makes the whole issue worse. Like, I constantly catch myself holding my breath and tensing my shoulder and neck muscles… for no apparent reason. I have to remind myself to breath. I also clench my jaw and grit my teeth. Oh, and I bite my lower lip all the time.
Sometimes I hate that certain songs are forever tied to very specific memories. There are the few that stop me in my tracks to this day and my heart drops every time. I hate it.
When I was little, living in the central valley of California, I would dream of living in So Cal on the beach. It was like one of those dreams you think will never come true but you think about it every now and again anyway. Then I ended up moving there when I was sixteen. I thrived in Los Angeles. I became who I am in that great city. I had to move away to realize just how deeply I was defined by the culture of So Cal. I cherish every moment of it, good and bad.
I don’t sleep very well in Orgs. I don’t know why but I stay up all night and still wake up at the same time every morning. I stay in bed unless I have to get up for something… but I’m awake nonetheless. It’s weird and I don’t like it.
There is an angry lady who comes to Starbucks almost every day and tells me that I am a “fool for moving here”. Really, she doesn’t need to convince me that leaving So Cal for Flo-Town is like a monumental mistake, using standard, human logic. I finally had a heart to heart with her and said that although it’s lame in comparison, I’m glad that I left LA and that I’m here now. Although I won’t stay forever, and can’t wait to return to LA, it was the best move I could ever have made. I’m good friends with the angry lady now.
Remember how I said that I get motivated at night? That is one thing I miss from LA more than anything – you can do anything at any time. So when I get motivated to go jogging and it’s like 11pm, I can go down to the Strand and jog with all the other late night, beach side joggers. But not in Orgs, no way. I’d get mauled by bears or something. So I put off that motivation until morning, at which point I am no longer motivated, so I don’t jog, at all. And I become another Oregon fat abs.
Did I just say “another Oregon fat abs”? I tend to be highly offensive. That’s another little tid bit about me.
I am also laughing out loud at myself right now. I have a marred sense of humor and make jokes mostly just to amuse myself. It works for me. Oh, and for the life of me, I can’t figure out how to correctly spell the word “marred”. If you can help me out, I’d appreciate that.
I can’t spell. Seriously, I suck at it. And I used to hate when I was little and I would ask someone how to spell something and they respond with “look it up”. Seriously? How am I supposed to look up a word that I can’t spell? I didn’t ask you for a definition, I asked for the spelling !!!
If I could only do one thing for the rest of my life, I would choose laughing. I love to laugh more than anything else in the world.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Like Seeing For the First Time, Again.
So I’m sitting in the back of the coffee shop, where I have been banned to the high bar top table with incredibly uncomfortable wooden stools because that is apparently where the loner internet users like myself have been segregated to.
At very least, it’s a great view over looking the Siuslaw river and Flo-Town bridge.
I’m doing very important things on my computer, like checking Facebook and Twitter and tracking the NBA playoff schedules, when I hear this incredibly annoying siren.
What the hell is that? I look up and see half the bridge opened up into the air.
Holy crap! There goes a boat, sailing under the raised bridge. I have never seen that in real life before. Awesome.
I tried to contain my excitement but all of the sudden I felt like my friend’s little four year old son who loves bridges and boats and talks a mile a minute about stuff like that. For a moment I had that childlike excitement of seeing something so incredible you just can’t control yourself.
What’s better is that I totally imagined cars flying off the open end of the bridge like a giant ramp and sailing through the sky, over the river and onto the hill.
I laughed out loud as I watched the boat disappear and the bridge ramp close. Cars start driving across and everything goes back to normal.
I wish for moments like that all the time, just to get me through the day. At some point, everything becomes routine and normal and unimpressive. Life gets dull and boring and I get restless, bitter and completely calloused to everyone else’s excitement.
But in moments like these I am reminded that there is so much more to life. So much more.
At very least, it’s a great view over looking the Siuslaw river and Flo-Town bridge.
I’m doing very important things on my computer, like checking Facebook and Twitter and tracking the NBA playoff schedules, when I hear this incredibly annoying siren.
What the hell is that? I look up and see half the bridge opened up into the air.
Holy crap! There goes a boat, sailing under the raised bridge. I have never seen that in real life before. Awesome.
I tried to contain my excitement but all of the sudden I felt like my friend’s little four year old son who loves bridges and boats and talks a mile a minute about stuff like that. For a moment I had that childlike excitement of seeing something so incredible you just can’t control yourself.
What’s better is that I totally imagined cars flying off the open end of the bridge like a giant ramp and sailing through the sky, over the river and onto the hill.
I laughed out loud as I watched the boat disappear and the bridge ramp close. Cars start driving across and everything goes back to normal.
I wish for moments like that all the time, just to get me through the day. At some point, everything becomes routine and normal and unimpressive. Life gets dull and boring and I get restless, bitter and completely calloused to everyone else’s excitement.
But in moments like these I am reminded that there is so much more to life. So much more.
Monday, April 20, 2009
Conversation with Myself
I think I need a change.
Really? Because you haven’t had enough change lately?
Oh yeah. I guess I have.
What’s wrong with you?
I don’t know. I get so bored so often. Like right now I’m already bored with this post. I’m gonna go find something else to do.
Peace.
Really? Because you haven’t had enough change lately?
Oh yeah. I guess I have.
What’s wrong with you?
I don’t know. I get so bored so often. Like right now I’m already bored with this post. I’m gonna go find something else to do.
Peace.
Wednesday, April 08, 2009
Recollections of a Blind Man's Past
(Something I pulled out of my archives from Sept. 07)
Does anyone in our churches care about the people who are floundering? And why is our solution to their hurting always another program? Titus seems to think that the solution is for the older to come along side the younger; to teach them, to show them what it looks like to grow up in the Lord; to demonstrate the way of journeying through life in righteousness. He does not explain how to structure a mentoring program nor does he lay out a twelve step process.
We, on the other hand, see a few young guys wandering through life, making poor choices, hurting themselves and their lonely single mothers, and what is our response? We say things like, “Let’s do things for single mothers, let’s build up a mentoring program for young boys, let’s structure a process through which these boys can become Godly men.” And we all stand, applaud and shout amen.
But those programs never happen. The single mothers remain alone to fret over their lost and misguided young sons, continuing their destructive lifestyles, all the while thinking they are making a life for themselves. I suppose they are making a life for themselves, but it is not a life that I would, by any means, wish on anyone.
Why do these great and mighty initiatives never happen? Because they are just that, great and mighty. They are elaborate programs built with the assumption that they will wipe out the problem all at once. After making an initial effort, we find that the problem still remains. Or worse, we never make the initial effort because we simply do not have the man power to put together a program of that caliber.
I believe that Titus would say our efforts, although well intentioned, are utterly useless. There is no program that can replace loneliness, no church activity that can stand in the void an absent father has created in a child’s heart. It is the simple yet indescribably significant relationship of one to another that can make a difference. Mother Theresa once said that in this life we can not do great things, only small things with great love. She was one person who understood the teachings of Titus; that it is you and I who make the difference through our love. No program can provide that.
If there aren’t people, individuals, who are willing to step up and take the initiative, to enter into the lives of those they see hurting, lost and wandering, then there simply aren’t people who genuinely care. No one has caught the vision of Christ’s love, no one who has been compelled by God’s never ending heart of compassion.
Does anyone in our churches care about the people who are floundering? And why is our solution to their hurting always another program? Titus seems to think that the solution is for the older to come along side the younger; to teach them, to show them what it looks like to grow up in the Lord; to demonstrate the way of journeying through life in righteousness. He does not explain how to structure a mentoring program nor does he lay out a twelve step process.
We, on the other hand, see a few young guys wandering through life, making poor choices, hurting themselves and their lonely single mothers, and what is our response? We say things like, “Let’s do things for single mothers, let’s build up a mentoring program for young boys, let’s structure a process through which these boys can become Godly men.” And we all stand, applaud and shout amen.
But those programs never happen. The single mothers remain alone to fret over their lost and misguided young sons, continuing their destructive lifestyles, all the while thinking they are making a life for themselves. I suppose they are making a life for themselves, but it is not a life that I would, by any means, wish on anyone.
Why do these great and mighty initiatives never happen? Because they are just that, great and mighty. They are elaborate programs built with the assumption that they will wipe out the problem all at once. After making an initial effort, we find that the problem still remains. Or worse, we never make the initial effort because we simply do not have the man power to put together a program of that caliber.
I believe that Titus would say our efforts, although well intentioned, are utterly useless. There is no program that can replace loneliness, no church activity that can stand in the void an absent father has created in a child’s heart. It is the simple yet indescribably significant relationship of one to another that can make a difference. Mother Theresa once said that in this life we can not do great things, only small things with great love. She was one person who understood the teachings of Titus; that it is you and I who make the difference through our love. No program can provide that.
If there aren’t people, individuals, who are willing to step up and take the initiative, to enter into the lives of those they see hurting, lost and wandering, then there simply aren’t people who genuinely care. No one has caught the vision of Christ’s love, no one who has been compelled by God’s never ending heart of compassion.
Just Sit Down and Look Around
FreeWrite 040709: “Just Sit Down & Look Around”
I usually do this at a coffee shop or somewhere where there are people, movement, something to observe. This time I am alone in my room and everything I see is stale, stagnant, lifeless. I hear the steady hum of the heater and the on again off again swishing of the washing machine in the next room. A few heavy steps of someone walking up stairs, the cracking sound of the house settling. It is far more dull and lonely in a place like this.
It amazes me though how this can, at times, drive me mad and at others be a total sanctuary. The quietness, the stillness, sometimes seems a breath of fresh air while other times it’s all together suffocating.
I find myself stuck a great deal these days. Like right now I am stuck, thinking way too much about what I’m going to write, which is really counterproductive to the whole “free write” exercise. I get caught in my thoughts and begin to censor myself before I even begin. I wonder how often my life reflects that.
I was so much more passionate when I was younger. I literally had paper and pen with me at every moment because I believed that inspiration could strike at any time and I wanted to be ready. I would scribble down random thoughts and observations and ideas, then write about them later. It wasn’t a hobby, it was just who I was. I couldn’t not do it. To not write it down was like holding my breath; eventually I had to let it out or I’d die.
Shakespeare was my hero. I could sit and read Shakespeare for hours. Sometimes I see his books sitting on my shelf and smile, remembering the times I used to get caught up in the plays. I think, every now and again, that I should read it just for fun. But I never do.
I love books. I love art. I love music. I have all these passions and talents that just go by the wayside and every so often I think about it with a sad, that’s-such-a-shame kind of feeling, as if remembering the loss of someone great.
I look around my room and see all these things that, maybe subconsciously, I have set up to remind myself of who I am and what I love. There are books everywhere of every kind that remind me of my love of learning, reading, writing, my love of story. The acoustic guitar that rushes up memories of a more passionate time, one in which I was inundated with all things music; notes, chords, theory, rhythms. It’s not my guitar; it belongs to an old friend, one of the best I have ever had. He gave me a book about freelance writing. It sits among all the other books but I pull it down every once in a while. Strewn about the room are various literary magazines, some I hope to write for some day. On one shelf sits all my movies and CDs with my Dave Matthews Band CD cover prominently displayed in the middle. Now that is an artist.
Of course there is also the Fresno mug to remind me that my roots are in the central valley of California, the silver pale of sea shells to remind me that my heart is still in the south bay of southern California, and a barrage of photo albums telling the story of all the people who have played a part in my life.
One would think that amongst all these things I would never loose sight of who I am, what I’m passionate about and where I long to be. I get side tracked though, every day it seems. I momentarily forget where I have been, why I am here now and where I am headed. And so I sit back down for a second and look around. Suddenly this suffocating stillness turns to a renewing breath of fresh air and I remember everything with a greater clarity and sense of hope and appreciation.
I usually do this at a coffee shop or somewhere where there are people, movement, something to observe. This time I am alone in my room and everything I see is stale, stagnant, lifeless. I hear the steady hum of the heater and the on again off again swishing of the washing machine in the next room. A few heavy steps of someone walking up stairs, the cracking sound of the house settling. It is far more dull and lonely in a place like this.
It amazes me though how this can, at times, drive me mad and at others be a total sanctuary. The quietness, the stillness, sometimes seems a breath of fresh air while other times it’s all together suffocating.
I find myself stuck a great deal these days. Like right now I am stuck, thinking way too much about what I’m going to write, which is really counterproductive to the whole “free write” exercise. I get caught in my thoughts and begin to censor myself before I even begin. I wonder how often my life reflects that.
I was so much more passionate when I was younger. I literally had paper and pen with me at every moment because I believed that inspiration could strike at any time and I wanted to be ready. I would scribble down random thoughts and observations and ideas, then write about them later. It wasn’t a hobby, it was just who I was. I couldn’t not do it. To not write it down was like holding my breath; eventually I had to let it out or I’d die.
Shakespeare was my hero. I could sit and read Shakespeare for hours. Sometimes I see his books sitting on my shelf and smile, remembering the times I used to get caught up in the plays. I think, every now and again, that I should read it just for fun. But I never do.
I love books. I love art. I love music. I have all these passions and talents that just go by the wayside and every so often I think about it with a sad, that’s-such-a-shame kind of feeling, as if remembering the loss of someone great.
I look around my room and see all these things that, maybe subconsciously, I have set up to remind myself of who I am and what I love. There are books everywhere of every kind that remind me of my love of learning, reading, writing, my love of story. The acoustic guitar that rushes up memories of a more passionate time, one in which I was inundated with all things music; notes, chords, theory, rhythms. It’s not my guitar; it belongs to an old friend, one of the best I have ever had. He gave me a book about freelance writing. It sits among all the other books but I pull it down every once in a while. Strewn about the room are various literary magazines, some I hope to write for some day. On one shelf sits all my movies and CDs with my Dave Matthews Band CD cover prominently displayed in the middle. Now that is an artist.
Of course there is also the Fresno mug to remind me that my roots are in the central valley of California, the silver pale of sea shells to remind me that my heart is still in the south bay of southern California, and a barrage of photo albums telling the story of all the people who have played a part in my life.
One would think that amongst all these things I would never loose sight of who I am, what I’m passionate about and where I long to be. I get side tracked though, every day it seems. I momentarily forget where I have been, why I am here now and where I am headed. And so I sit back down for a second and look around. Suddenly this suffocating stillness turns to a renewing breath of fresh air and I remember everything with a greater clarity and sense of hope and appreciation.
Thursday, April 02, 2009
She’s So California
I had never kayaked before. I had never flown before. I had never been to the Oregon coast before. I decided to do it all in one weekend. Turns out, it was all amazing.
I watched the sun come up from inside the LAX terminal, wondering what exactly I had gotten myself into. I boarded my flight and watched life as I knew it shrink down into a miniature existence and then vanish. It was all I could do but listen to the shallowed air flow steadily in and out of my lungs, concentrated and slow, mostly in effort not to panic and demand we turn back.
It is amazing how emotion can take over the human brain and memories become a total blur. Somewhere between boarding that plane and reaching my destination, I landed and re-boarded and rechecked and landed again. It was a whirlwind.
I hit the ground running in a town where geese on the runway hold up flights and I get into a stranger’s car (sorry mom). We met up with about six other strangers, loaded up our kayaks and hit the lake. It was a gorgeous day, perfect weather and calm waters winding around the hills.
As we spread out across the lake I could still hear a couple guys behind me having a conversation… about me.
“So how do you think she likes it so far?”
“I think she’s having fun… but I don’t know, she might be too much of a city girl.”
I chime in, “Hey I can hear you!”
They are a funny bunch here, I thought to myself as I smiled and drifted with the current.
It was a long flight home at the end of that weekend. Change was coming quickly and I had a decision to make. Do I stay? Do I go? Do I refuse to budge, hold tightly to what I know and risk drowning under the rapid currents of change? Do I have what it takes to embrace this moment and move forward towards something new?
As I landed back home in LAX, I felt strangely out of place, realizing that I had one foot in and one foot out. Eventually I put both feet out in front of me, picked up my packed bags and drove away.
Now I’m in this sleepy little town without a trace of anything I had before. I can’t be picky anymore about which Target to go to, there is only one to choose from and it’s an all day affair to shop there, driving down the winding, one lane mountain road for an hour each way.
I haven’t washed my car since moving here almost three months ago because there doesn’t seem to be a full service car wash within thirty minutes of my home. I suppose they expect me to do it myself. And you can forget jogging alone at night. I used to love a late night jog along the Manhattan Beach strand in California. Somehow the dark, tree lined streets of Oregon aren’t as conducive to my single lifestyle.
One thing I have yet to abandon though are my sandals. Rain, hail, wind and the occasional snow flurry have yet to deter my toes from hiding. They are brave warriors. Quite possibly the biggest adjustment has been that everything closes early. As a matter of fact, the coffee shop I am sitting in right now will close at 5pm today. Life is definitely different here.
I can’t say where exactly I will go from here. I have stepped into a whole new era of my life and am taking it all in. It’s a breath of fresh air, literally. My eyes are opened to so much more than before and though my heart is held in the grasp of California, my journey is taking me elsewhere for the time being. And I’m loving it.
I watched the sun come up from inside the LAX terminal, wondering what exactly I had gotten myself into. I boarded my flight and watched life as I knew it shrink down into a miniature existence and then vanish. It was all I could do but listen to the shallowed air flow steadily in and out of my lungs, concentrated and slow, mostly in effort not to panic and demand we turn back.
It is amazing how emotion can take over the human brain and memories become a total blur. Somewhere between boarding that plane and reaching my destination, I landed and re-boarded and rechecked and landed again. It was a whirlwind.
I hit the ground running in a town where geese on the runway hold up flights and I get into a stranger’s car (sorry mom). We met up with about six other strangers, loaded up our kayaks and hit the lake. It was a gorgeous day, perfect weather and calm waters winding around the hills.
As we spread out across the lake I could still hear a couple guys behind me having a conversation… about me.
“So how do you think she likes it so far?”
“I think she’s having fun… but I don’t know, she might be too much of a city girl.”
I chime in, “Hey I can hear you!”
They are a funny bunch here, I thought to myself as I smiled and drifted with the current.
It was a long flight home at the end of that weekend. Change was coming quickly and I had a decision to make. Do I stay? Do I go? Do I refuse to budge, hold tightly to what I know and risk drowning under the rapid currents of change? Do I have what it takes to embrace this moment and move forward towards something new?
As I landed back home in LAX, I felt strangely out of place, realizing that I had one foot in and one foot out. Eventually I put both feet out in front of me, picked up my packed bags and drove away.
Now I’m in this sleepy little town without a trace of anything I had before. I can’t be picky anymore about which Target to go to, there is only one to choose from and it’s an all day affair to shop there, driving down the winding, one lane mountain road for an hour each way.
I haven’t washed my car since moving here almost three months ago because there doesn’t seem to be a full service car wash within thirty minutes of my home. I suppose they expect me to do it myself. And you can forget jogging alone at night. I used to love a late night jog along the Manhattan Beach strand in California. Somehow the dark, tree lined streets of Oregon aren’t as conducive to my single lifestyle.
One thing I have yet to abandon though are my sandals. Rain, hail, wind and the occasional snow flurry have yet to deter my toes from hiding. They are brave warriors. Quite possibly the biggest adjustment has been that everything closes early. As a matter of fact, the coffee shop I am sitting in right now will close at 5pm today. Life is definitely different here.
I can’t say where exactly I will go from here. I have stepped into a whole new era of my life and am taking it all in. It’s a breath of fresh air, literally. My eyes are opened to so much more than before and though my heart is held in the grasp of California, my journey is taking me elsewhere for the time being. And I’m loving it.
Lingering Moments
There is something about a perfect stranger looking you dead in the eye and telling you that they believe in your dream that they believe in you.
There are moments when words come from the least expected source and strike me to the very core of my being. Usually these moments are brief and fleeting. Their influence, though, lingers forever in that place we all go to when we begin to doubt.
It was an entirely random night on the streets of Portland, Oregon, and he was nobody to me. I don’t know anything about him but that he moved there to follow his dream, to pursue his passion. And from one dream chase to another, he says “I believe in you.” It was the most genuine experience I had found so far, because he honestly believed. He believed in the pursuit of dreams, in following a passion, in belief itself.
Chances are, I will never see him again. But our paths crossed for a moment and that encounter will stay with me forever.
There are moments when words come from the least expected source and strike me to the very core of my being. Usually these moments are brief and fleeting. Their influence, though, lingers forever in that place we all go to when we begin to doubt.
It was an entirely random night on the streets of Portland, Oregon, and he was nobody to me. I don’t know anything about him but that he moved there to follow his dream, to pursue his passion. And from one dream chase to another, he says “I believe in you.” It was the most genuine experience I had found so far, because he honestly believed. He believed in the pursuit of dreams, in following a passion, in belief itself.
Chances are, I will never see him again. But our paths crossed for a moment and that encounter will stay with me forever.
Hanging Up
He was gorgeous and way out of my league. We had been watching each other since he walked through the door. He finally sat down at the table right across from me. There it was, my opportunity to say hi or just smile, something, anything.
He looked up from his coffee and smiled. Our eyes met and I… I quickly looked back down at my computer and never looked up again. My inner dialogue went something like, “Oh my god! Oh my god! He’s looking at me! Oh my god!”
I couldn’t even manage to talk to myself very well, let alone this guy. Eventually he got up and walked out. And all I could think was that I hope he comes here again.
As fate would have it, he did.
I found myself sitting at the exact same table two days later when he walked in. He sat down facing me, again. I smiled first, he said hello and that was it.
This time my inner dialogue was bit more extensive, “What is wrong with me? How do I manage to wreck a perfectly good opportunity? Nice move, Amy, nice.”
I never saw him again but he has haunted me ever since; a constant reminder of my tragically stunted and underdeveloped sense of romantic relationships.
I do it all the time though; a guy walks through the door and I remain confident until he’s within five feet of my heart. Then I freak out and run like hell. Some day I’ll hang up my running shoes. Some day.
He looked up from his coffee and smiled. Our eyes met and I… I quickly looked back down at my computer and never looked up again. My inner dialogue went something like, “Oh my god! Oh my god! He’s looking at me! Oh my god!”
I couldn’t even manage to talk to myself very well, let alone this guy. Eventually he got up and walked out. And all I could think was that I hope he comes here again.
As fate would have it, he did.
I found myself sitting at the exact same table two days later when he walked in. He sat down facing me, again. I smiled first, he said hello and that was it.
This time my inner dialogue was bit more extensive, “What is wrong with me? How do I manage to wreck a perfectly good opportunity? Nice move, Amy, nice.”
I never saw him again but he has haunted me ever since; a constant reminder of my tragically stunted and underdeveloped sense of romantic relationships.
I do it all the time though; a guy walks through the door and I remain confident until he’s within five feet of my heart. Then I freak out and run like hell. Some day I’ll hang up my running shoes. Some day.
Thursday, March 05, 2009
How to Make Men Disappear
One cool thing about moving out of state and meeting all new people is never running into an ex.
Every girl knows that moment, the one when you’re walking along in life like the world is all sun shine and rainbows, then you catch a glimpse of Mr. Heartbreaker and time comes to a dramatic halt, screeching record sounds and everything. Your heart skips a beat and your mind breaks out in a total panic while screaming at you to stay calm, keep smiling, don’t let him see you panic!
You grin and bare it, holding your breath as every awkward second ticks by at an even more awkwardly slow pace. He finally walks away, leaving you there in a melted, shaking puddle of emotional distress.
Not only do you avoid these torturous moments by not running into him, but no one has any idea who he his. No one knows who you did or didn’t date, how serious or not so serious it might have been, they don’t know the whole dramatic story line of your dating life.
You know all the dating fiascos that make you shudder with embarrassment? The ones that make you wonder what in the world you were thinking? The ones that make you want to disappear when he’s suddenly brought up in random conversation?
No one knows about any of that. Mr. Heartbreaker turns into Mr. Non-existent.
It’s phenomenal.
Every girl knows that moment, the one when you’re walking along in life like the world is all sun shine and rainbows, then you catch a glimpse of Mr. Heartbreaker and time comes to a dramatic halt, screeching record sounds and everything. Your heart skips a beat and your mind breaks out in a total panic while screaming at you to stay calm, keep smiling, don’t let him see you panic!
You grin and bare it, holding your breath as every awkward second ticks by at an even more awkwardly slow pace. He finally walks away, leaving you there in a melted, shaking puddle of emotional distress.
Not only do you avoid these torturous moments by not running into him, but no one has any idea who he his. No one knows who you did or didn’t date, how serious or not so serious it might have been, they don’t know the whole dramatic story line of your dating life.
You know all the dating fiascos that make you shudder with embarrassment? The ones that make you wonder what in the world you were thinking? The ones that make you want to disappear when he’s suddenly brought up in random conversation?
No one knows about any of that. Mr. Heartbreaker turns into Mr. Non-existent.
It’s phenomenal.
Wednesday, March 04, 2009
It's Manly to Cry
“It’s manly to cry.”
It came from a cute old lady sitting around a coffee shop table full of feisty old couples. They were discussing some totally irrelevant movie when her statement caught my attention.
Ironically enough, I was discussing this exact issue with a guy friend of mine last night.
“Why do women say they want a man who cries? No they don’t!” He argued that no woman actually wants to see a man cry.
It got me wondering, do we really want to see men cry? Do we want the sensitively, in-tune with his emotions, touchy feely kind of guy?
Personally, I just want to know that a man has the capability to tap into that part of his soul. I don’t actually want him to, I just want to know he’s capable of it in case of emergency or something.
I watched a good, tear jerking chick flick with a girlfriend of mine yesterday. I have seen the movie a million times and I cry during the same scene every time. I love watching it with my girlfriends and sharing the teary moments of emotional torment over a love story.
I told my friend that I don’t really want to have that in common with a man. Then I thought, wait, do I?
Because, let’s face it, if I had watched that movie with any of my guy friends and I looked over during that scene and caught a tear rolling down his cheek, I would probably ask him to marry me.
Then the next day when we’re hanging with the guys and they find out he cried at a chick flick or that he was even watching a chick flick, he would quickly become the center of every joke imaginable. And that, quite honestly, is not attractive. Nobody wants that guy.
So maybe we want a man who is secretly sensitive, someone who can cry when he’s alone with me and then go out and play football with the guys like nothing happened. Then I’d secretly tell all my girlfriends to make them jealous, like, “Hey girls, see that super hot quarterback out there? Yeah, we watched ‘PS I Love You’ last night… and he cried!”
Of course one of those girls is inevitably dating one of the other guys on the field and she would go home and tell him that my man was crying over a chick flick and it would all be over.
Maybe Hilary Swank was right in ‘PS I Love You’ … we women have absolutely no idea what we want.
It came from a cute old lady sitting around a coffee shop table full of feisty old couples. They were discussing some totally irrelevant movie when her statement caught my attention.
Ironically enough, I was discussing this exact issue with a guy friend of mine last night.
“Why do women say they want a man who cries? No they don’t!” He argued that no woman actually wants to see a man cry.
It got me wondering, do we really want to see men cry? Do we want the sensitively, in-tune with his emotions, touchy feely kind of guy?
Personally, I just want to know that a man has the capability to tap into that part of his soul. I don’t actually want him to, I just want to know he’s capable of it in case of emergency or something.
I watched a good, tear jerking chick flick with a girlfriend of mine yesterday. I have seen the movie a million times and I cry during the same scene every time. I love watching it with my girlfriends and sharing the teary moments of emotional torment over a love story.
I told my friend that I don’t really want to have that in common with a man. Then I thought, wait, do I?
Because, let’s face it, if I had watched that movie with any of my guy friends and I looked over during that scene and caught a tear rolling down his cheek, I would probably ask him to marry me.
Then the next day when we’re hanging with the guys and they find out he cried at a chick flick or that he was even watching a chick flick, he would quickly become the center of every joke imaginable. And that, quite honestly, is not attractive. Nobody wants that guy.
So maybe we want a man who is secretly sensitive, someone who can cry when he’s alone with me and then go out and play football with the guys like nothing happened. Then I’d secretly tell all my girlfriends to make them jealous, like, “Hey girls, see that super hot quarterback out there? Yeah, we watched ‘PS I Love You’ last night… and he cried!”
Of course one of those girls is inevitably dating one of the other guys on the field and she would go home and tell him that my man was crying over a chick flick and it would all be over.
Maybe Hilary Swank was right in ‘PS I Love You’ … we women have absolutely no idea what we want.
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Post Valentine’s Day Hang Over
“Hey… so… I was wondering… if you want to… um… do anything for… uh… Valentine’s Day?” I’m so nervous. My hands are clammy. My heart is pounding. I hold my breath and bite my lower lip as I wait for his response.
“Why? I don’t get Valentine’s Day. It’s a bunch of hype and no one really knows what it’s all about anyway, like where it came from and stuff.”
“Right. Okay, yeah, that’s cool.” My eyes are darting from one object to the next. My mind is racing. Did that just happen? Seriously? Why am I with this guy again?
Girls, girls, girls. We sacrifice so much to hold on to so little.
It seems we have always been this way though. In my quest to really understand what Valentine’s Day is all about, I found some disturbingly humorous information.
Apparently it all began in Pagan Rome when February 14 was a holiday honoring Juno, the Queen of the gods and patroness of marriage. On this day, the names of girls would be written on scraps of paper and put into a jar, which guys would then draw from.
The couples would be paired together for the duration of something called the Lupercalia festival, which began the following day, February 15.
The Lupercalia festival supposedly began with an animal sacrifice; the men would slaughter a goat, then take the bloody skin and run through the streets whipping women with it.
The punch line? The women actually LIKED it because it was supposed to increase their fertility in the upcoming year.
Who knows how much of that is really true. Don’t believe everything you read on the internet, kids. But given the behavior of most women, self included, these fables don’t sound too far fetched.
Don’t be discouraged, women. We have come a long way since Lupercalia. We have gone from bloody goat skin to things like cards, candy, and flowers. And we are taken on romantic dates to candle light dinners and chick flicks.
Whoever caused that shift in celebration is a very rich man. I mean seriously, the card industry would fold without Valentine’s Day. One word – Hallmark. We’d all be SOL if we had to write our own love messages on a piece of paper, fold it in half and stick it in an envelope… right?
Then there is the film industry. “Confessions of a Shopaholic” and “Two Lovers” have strategically scheduled their debut for February 13.
The biggest culprit? Definitely the floral industry. A red carnation that would sell for a dollar on a good day is suddenly ten dollars extra.
Somewhere in our celebration of love and romance, the bandit Lust crept onto the scene. He’s a sneaky one.
I found him on the corner of Artesia and Inglewood Boulevard one bereaved Valentine’s Day. Whatever sweet innocence I had left at the age of 18 regarding love and commitment and romance was definitely tarnished for life on that corner at J’s Flowers.
It was my first job out of high school and I had high hopes. After all, my favorite movie was “Bed of Roses”. A flower shop was exactly where I was going to find true love.
We spent weeks gearing up for Valentine’s Day so I was eager to help him when he walked in and looked lost in a sea of pre-made arrangements. His golden wedding band was gorgeous. He must be a real romantic. My heart stirred as I approached.
“Can I help you with anything, sir?”
“Um, yeah… I’m not really sure what to get here.”
I pointed out a few of the really nice arrangements, highlighting the red tones, which were of course very romantic.
“You know what, just pick one out that you think she’d really like.” He seemed a little rushed.
I picked up one of my favorites – red and pink roses with just the right amount of baby’s breath interspersed, “Your wife will love this one!”
Almost with a chuckle he says, “Oh these aren’t for my wife.”
Being the hopeless romantic that I am, I automatically thought they must be for his mother or maybe his sister. Those dreams were halted when I read the note affixed to the arrangement.
“Wow. That’s some love note, sir.” Was all I could stutter out as I watched him fill out the delivery address and toss the receipt into the trash can.
“Thank you.” And he walked out of the shop with my romantic ideals stuck to the gum under his shoe.
What does a girl do with that? I have spent years since then asking myself that very question. Through all the relationships, dating mishaps, car wreck blind dates and the broken hearts, wounded pride and fractured dreams… through it all I have lost hope, found hope and lost it again. It’s a roller coaster ride I can never escape.
So when it comes down to it, what have I learned? What is the trick? What do I do?
I wait. I wait with hopeful expectation of the best. Which is ironic because I’m not known for my optimism on most days. Something within me is deeply affected though when my heart gets involved. That inner sense of drowning I usually dwell in disappears and a part of me becomes miss little ray of sunshine. Even now I think it’s pathetic. But still there’s a part of me that hears the little girl who just wants everyone to be happy. Happy and in love. And that part of me deeply believes there is a little bit of hope inside of everyone.
“Why? I don’t get Valentine’s Day. It’s a bunch of hype and no one really knows what it’s all about anyway, like where it came from and stuff.”
“Right. Okay, yeah, that’s cool.” My eyes are darting from one object to the next. My mind is racing. Did that just happen? Seriously? Why am I with this guy again?
Girls, girls, girls. We sacrifice so much to hold on to so little.
It seems we have always been this way though. In my quest to really understand what Valentine’s Day is all about, I found some disturbingly humorous information.
Apparently it all began in Pagan Rome when February 14 was a holiday honoring Juno, the Queen of the gods and patroness of marriage. On this day, the names of girls would be written on scraps of paper and put into a jar, which guys would then draw from.
The couples would be paired together for the duration of something called the Lupercalia festival, which began the following day, February 15.
The Lupercalia festival supposedly began with an animal sacrifice; the men would slaughter a goat, then take the bloody skin and run through the streets whipping women with it.
The punch line? The women actually LIKED it because it was supposed to increase their fertility in the upcoming year.
Who knows how much of that is really true. Don’t believe everything you read on the internet, kids. But given the behavior of most women, self included, these fables don’t sound too far fetched.
Don’t be discouraged, women. We have come a long way since Lupercalia. We have gone from bloody goat skin to things like cards, candy, and flowers. And we are taken on romantic dates to candle light dinners and chick flicks.
Whoever caused that shift in celebration is a very rich man. I mean seriously, the card industry would fold without Valentine’s Day. One word – Hallmark. We’d all be SOL if we had to write our own love messages on a piece of paper, fold it in half and stick it in an envelope… right?
Then there is the film industry. “Confessions of a Shopaholic” and “Two Lovers” have strategically scheduled their debut for February 13.
The biggest culprit? Definitely the floral industry. A red carnation that would sell for a dollar on a good day is suddenly ten dollars extra.
Somewhere in our celebration of love and romance, the bandit Lust crept onto the scene. He’s a sneaky one.
I found him on the corner of Artesia and Inglewood Boulevard one bereaved Valentine’s Day. Whatever sweet innocence I had left at the age of 18 regarding love and commitment and romance was definitely tarnished for life on that corner at J’s Flowers.
It was my first job out of high school and I had high hopes. After all, my favorite movie was “Bed of Roses”. A flower shop was exactly where I was going to find true love.
We spent weeks gearing up for Valentine’s Day so I was eager to help him when he walked in and looked lost in a sea of pre-made arrangements. His golden wedding band was gorgeous. He must be a real romantic. My heart stirred as I approached.
“Can I help you with anything, sir?”
“Um, yeah… I’m not really sure what to get here.”
I pointed out a few of the really nice arrangements, highlighting the red tones, which were of course very romantic.
“You know what, just pick one out that you think she’d really like.” He seemed a little rushed.
I picked up one of my favorites – red and pink roses with just the right amount of baby’s breath interspersed, “Your wife will love this one!”
Almost with a chuckle he says, “Oh these aren’t for my wife.”
Being the hopeless romantic that I am, I automatically thought they must be for his mother or maybe his sister. Those dreams were halted when I read the note affixed to the arrangement.
“Wow. That’s some love note, sir.” Was all I could stutter out as I watched him fill out the delivery address and toss the receipt into the trash can.
“Thank you.” And he walked out of the shop with my romantic ideals stuck to the gum under his shoe.
What does a girl do with that? I have spent years since then asking myself that very question. Through all the relationships, dating mishaps, car wreck blind dates and the broken hearts, wounded pride and fractured dreams… through it all I have lost hope, found hope and lost it again. It’s a roller coaster ride I can never escape.
So when it comes down to it, what have I learned? What is the trick? What do I do?
I wait. I wait with hopeful expectation of the best. Which is ironic because I’m not known for my optimism on most days. Something within me is deeply affected though when my heart gets involved. That inner sense of drowning I usually dwell in disappears and a part of me becomes miss little ray of sunshine. Even now I think it’s pathetic. But still there’s a part of me that hears the little girl who just wants everyone to be happy. Happy and in love. And that part of me deeply believes there is a little bit of hope inside of everyone.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
How To Keep A Man
I looked up the word “insecure” in the online Merriam-Webster dictionary and positioned right between the word “insecure” and the definition thereof, was a sponsored link that read “Insecurity – Learn how to keep a man with these 11 great steps!”
They really didn’t need to define it any further. I don’t know why they wasted space trying to write out an actual definition after that ad.
What is wrong with this world? That was the Merriam-Webster online dictionary. It wasn’t like some random, no name online freakasoid trying to build his own dictionary.
If you ever wonder what is wrong with all the female pop stars gone bad, just open your eyes and look around. I have heard far too many people ask ‘what happened to her, she started off so sweet and innocent’. Then they get accused of ‘selling out’.
What do you except from someone born out of this society? It happens every day to us normal girls. I can only imagine how much more pressure is added when celebrity becomes a factor.
Women are constantly told that to truly mean something, they need to have a man. A man brings security. A man makes you valuable. A man makes you more of a woman. You are less of a woman without a man. And the world knows it and is watching.
I mean, what are we supposed to do when our daddies weren’t there for us and we live in a society that tells us we need to drop twenty pounds and push up our boobs in order to get a little attention?
You argue ‘No, no that’s not true’ and yet I have a lifetime of experience that tells me otherwise. I can get more attention in a mini skirt and lip stick than holding a Bible and singing ‘Jesus Loves Me’.
You say ‘Oh but that’s not the kind of attention you really want.’
Of course not. No one wants that kind of attention. But when it’s the only attention you can get because there are far too little good guys giving good attention, you take what you can get.
If you think its sad then you should do something about it. Stupid boys.
And don’t get me started on the “Happily Ever After” endings. Its total bullshit but we are fed that crap every day of our lives. It’s a pathetic fallacy really.
That’s why I appreciated the movie “He’s Just Not That Into You”. Everyone’s happily ever after ending was different. Yes, for some it was the typical wedding that leads to a lifelong loving marriage. But for some it was simply moving forward, becoming something brilliant, growing, developing. Happily ever after doesn’t always have to end in a marriage vow.
I am a single, 27 year old female and do you know what the number one question I get all the time is? It’s not about what career I am working towards or what I like to do in my spare time or what I’m doing in school. It is always about getting married.
My favorite line is when they ask me if I want to get married. Like, because I’m 27 and still single I must not want to. It’s a logical assumption given this society’s standards.
So I excuse their good-hearted ignorance, swallow my aching heart, and explain that yes, I would love to get married but at this point in time the opportunity has not presented itself in acceptable circumstances. Which basically means that I would much rather focus on my own goals and ambitions than settle for any man I have met thus far.
I know that sounds all strong and girl-power-ish, but make no mistake it is not what I had envisioned for my life at this point. It has been a long, disappointing journey.
But I am learning somehow to enjoy the small things along the way and to live in each moment as I become who I am. I can appreciate my experiences for what they have brought out in me, for what they have changed in me, and for the lessons they have taught me.
I can appreciate now the stories my life tells, the way they allow me to be more sympathetic to other’s trials and pains, the way I can offer inspiration in other’s times of darkness. It offers them hope. It offers me hope.
And for the fact that I can glance over an ad like “Insecurities – Learn how to keep a man with these 11 great steps” and laugh at how ridiculous it is, I am grateful.
They really didn’t need to define it any further. I don’t know why they wasted space trying to write out an actual definition after that ad.
What is wrong with this world? That was the Merriam-Webster online dictionary. It wasn’t like some random, no name online freakasoid trying to build his own dictionary.
If you ever wonder what is wrong with all the female pop stars gone bad, just open your eyes and look around. I have heard far too many people ask ‘what happened to her, she started off so sweet and innocent’. Then they get accused of ‘selling out’.
What do you except from someone born out of this society? It happens every day to us normal girls. I can only imagine how much more pressure is added when celebrity becomes a factor.
Women are constantly told that to truly mean something, they need to have a man. A man brings security. A man makes you valuable. A man makes you more of a woman. You are less of a woman without a man. And the world knows it and is watching.
I mean, what are we supposed to do when our daddies weren’t there for us and we live in a society that tells us we need to drop twenty pounds and push up our boobs in order to get a little attention?
You argue ‘No, no that’s not true’ and yet I have a lifetime of experience that tells me otherwise. I can get more attention in a mini skirt and lip stick than holding a Bible and singing ‘Jesus Loves Me’.
You say ‘Oh but that’s not the kind of attention you really want.’
Of course not. No one wants that kind of attention. But when it’s the only attention you can get because there are far too little good guys giving good attention, you take what you can get.
If you think its sad then you should do something about it. Stupid boys.
And don’t get me started on the “Happily Ever After” endings. Its total bullshit but we are fed that crap every day of our lives. It’s a pathetic fallacy really.
That’s why I appreciated the movie “He’s Just Not That Into You”. Everyone’s happily ever after ending was different. Yes, for some it was the typical wedding that leads to a lifelong loving marriage. But for some it was simply moving forward, becoming something brilliant, growing, developing. Happily ever after doesn’t always have to end in a marriage vow.
I am a single, 27 year old female and do you know what the number one question I get all the time is? It’s not about what career I am working towards or what I like to do in my spare time or what I’m doing in school. It is always about getting married.
My favorite line is when they ask me if I want to get married. Like, because I’m 27 and still single I must not want to. It’s a logical assumption given this society’s standards.
So I excuse their good-hearted ignorance, swallow my aching heart, and explain that yes, I would love to get married but at this point in time the opportunity has not presented itself in acceptable circumstances. Which basically means that I would much rather focus on my own goals and ambitions than settle for any man I have met thus far.
I know that sounds all strong and girl-power-ish, but make no mistake it is not what I had envisioned for my life at this point. It has been a long, disappointing journey.
But I am learning somehow to enjoy the small things along the way and to live in each moment as I become who I am. I can appreciate my experiences for what they have brought out in me, for what they have changed in me, and for the lessons they have taught me.
I can appreciate now the stories my life tells, the way they allow me to be more sympathetic to other’s trials and pains, the way I can offer inspiration in other’s times of darkness. It offers them hope. It offers me hope.
And for the fact that I can glance over an ad like “Insecurities – Learn how to keep a man with these 11 great steps” and laugh at how ridiculous it is, I am grateful.
Friday, February 06, 2009
It’s Not This Guy
It all started at my friends birthday dinner. She and her husband were talking to another couple friend of theirs, whom I had just met at the dinner. All of the sudden my friend looks at the other couple and says, “You know who would be perfect for her?!”
As if a light bulb went off over all of their heads simultaneously they all looked right at me and the questions began to fire, “How old are you? Do you like sports? What do you do for fun? Do you like….”
I sat there with a deer in the headlights look trying to figure out how this birthday dinner turned into an interview. By the end of the night I had agreed, wildly against my better judgment, to go out with my married friends and their younger brother, my soon to be blind date.
Now, first dates in and of themselves are pretty stressful. Add to that the fact that you will be meeting this person for the very first time on this very first date, and a girl’s prep time becomes seriously intense. What do I wear? I want to look cute but not too nice, like I put effort in but wasn’t trying too hard. Is it better to go a little over the top or stay casual as if to say “this really isn’t a big deal, I do this all the time.” Not that you want him to think you go out ALL the time, if you catch what I’m saying.
At any rate, the point is the amount of pressure that comes with a blind date is the exact reason I have always sworn them off. I am still not sure at what point that changed, but somehow I decided blind dates were the cool thing to do. Chinese food and bowling sounds relatively non-threatening, and it was a group date, so I could easily rationalize that this wasn’t a date, really, per say.
At the Chinese food restaurant he introduces himself first, offering a handshake.
Nice; I like the assertiveness. Good move with the handshake. I don’t like the awkward stranger hug.
We sit down and of course we are strategically seated right next to each other with the other two couples around the table. There is an awkward silence. Uh-oh… I pretend to read the menu while viciously trying to think of something to say and wondering why he’s not saying anything either. I really prefer a man who can carry conversation without my prompting. Hhhmmm…
To kill the silence his older brother jumps in with this line, “Hey Amy, you know Jason was so nervous about tonight that he showered twice and changed three times.”
Right. Because that’s not awkward.
After the light hearted taunting by his big brother, Jason finally gets up the nerve to talk to me. It was more of a forced interview than a conversation though. I swear he must have written out talking points before we got there.
My favorite part was when he asked me what my major is and I said “Communications”. He pauses, looks at me funny and as if he doesn’t believe me and repeats it back as a question, “Communications?”
I’m a little confused at his confusion, “Uh, yeah.”
He needs more clarification, “Communications? Really? With an S at the end?”
His attitude caused a sudden shift in my demeanor and I knew right then I should leave, just run for the door immediately.
“Yes. Communications with an S. Why?”
“Well I also got my degree in Communication, from Long Beach State and…” The next fifteen minutes was him blabbing on and on about his greater than all else college education at a university where communication with an S and communication without an S are worlds apart in difference. He thoroughly explained that difference and questioned how my pithy little school could offer a degree in communications when it sounds like, by my lacking description, that it should be communication without the S.
He rounds off his novel rant with, “So really, it’s Communications, huh?”
I swallowed and bit my tongue, though I could feel the slicing sarcasm about to spew all over the table. If nothing else, I was extremely proud of the amount of self control I was able to exercise that evening.
And with that we moved on to the bowling alley where things continued in similar fashion.
Simple conversation was not really this guy’s forte so we delve into things like spirituality, doctrine, and philosophy, in between bowling turns that is. This guy doesn’t even know my last name yet and he’s asking me questions about Calvinism and the Reformation. Who does that?
And just to prove how incredibly off my game this guy has thrown me, I get up to bowl, swing the ball back and promptly let is slip out of my grasp. It plunks onto the floor and rolls back… right to his feet.
He graciously picks it up for me, “I think you lost something.”
Really? I have been holding back an entire fire range of sarcasm all night and this guy gets the first shot? No thank you.
I have to admit, my embarrassment in that moment halted me from saying anything at all. I just smiled, took the ball and threw a strike.
Let’s call that a night! I hurried out of there as fast as I could, not allowing for any kind of “Let’s do this again, can I have your number?” kind of crap.
So, it turns out he wasn’t Mr. Right, not the man of my dreams or my knight in shining armor. Turns out he was nothing of the sort. Not even close.
I saw him one other time after that night. It was at our friend’s poker night. There is truly nothing more awkward than to try and casually give out the “I’m just not that into you” vibe. I handled it though, with all the class and charm a sarcastic, single young lady in LA can have.
Sometimes I look back on that experience and wonder what in the world it was there for. Would I be the same for having not gone on that date? Did it form or fashion me in some way that I’m not yet aware of? It did give me a funny story to tell and something to write about, which at this point in my life is pretty much the best thing he could have given me.
They say the best thing you can do is to keep putting yourself out there. If it keeps giving me good material to write about, I suppose I will do just that.
As if a light bulb went off over all of their heads simultaneously they all looked right at me and the questions began to fire, “How old are you? Do you like sports? What do you do for fun? Do you like….”
I sat there with a deer in the headlights look trying to figure out how this birthday dinner turned into an interview. By the end of the night I had agreed, wildly against my better judgment, to go out with my married friends and their younger brother, my soon to be blind date.
Now, first dates in and of themselves are pretty stressful. Add to that the fact that you will be meeting this person for the very first time on this very first date, and a girl’s prep time becomes seriously intense. What do I wear? I want to look cute but not too nice, like I put effort in but wasn’t trying too hard. Is it better to go a little over the top or stay casual as if to say “this really isn’t a big deal, I do this all the time.” Not that you want him to think you go out ALL the time, if you catch what I’m saying.
At any rate, the point is the amount of pressure that comes with a blind date is the exact reason I have always sworn them off. I am still not sure at what point that changed, but somehow I decided blind dates were the cool thing to do. Chinese food and bowling sounds relatively non-threatening, and it was a group date, so I could easily rationalize that this wasn’t a date, really, per say.
At the Chinese food restaurant he introduces himself first, offering a handshake.
Nice; I like the assertiveness. Good move with the handshake. I don’t like the awkward stranger hug.
We sit down and of course we are strategically seated right next to each other with the other two couples around the table. There is an awkward silence. Uh-oh… I pretend to read the menu while viciously trying to think of something to say and wondering why he’s not saying anything either. I really prefer a man who can carry conversation without my prompting. Hhhmmm…
To kill the silence his older brother jumps in with this line, “Hey Amy, you know Jason was so nervous about tonight that he showered twice and changed three times.”
Right. Because that’s not awkward.
After the light hearted taunting by his big brother, Jason finally gets up the nerve to talk to me. It was more of a forced interview than a conversation though. I swear he must have written out talking points before we got there.
My favorite part was when he asked me what my major is and I said “Communications”. He pauses, looks at me funny and as if he doesn’t believe me and repeats it back as a question, “Communications?”
I’m a little confused at his confusion, “Uh, yeah.”
He needs more clarification, “Communications? Really? With an S at the end?”
His attitude caused a sudden shift in my demeanor and I knew right then I should leave, just run for the door immediately.
“Yes. Communications with an S. Why?”
“Well I also got my degree in Communication, from Long Beach State and…” The next fifteen minutes was him blabbing on and on about his greater than all else college education at a university where communication with an S and communication without an S are worlds apart in difference. He thoroughly explained that difference and questioned how my pithy little school could offer a degree in communications when it sounds like, by my lacking description, that it should be communication without the S.
He rounds off his novel rant with, “So really, it’s Communications, huh?”
I swallowed and bit my tongue, though I could feel the slicing sarcasm about to spew all over the table. If nothing else, I was extremely proud of the amount of self control I was able to exercise that evening.
And with that we moved on to the bowling alley where things continued in similar fashion.
Simple conversation was not really this guy’s forte so we delve into things like spirituality, doctrine, and philosophy, in between bowling turns that is. This guy doesn’t even know my last name yet and he’s asking me questions about Calvinism and the Reformation. Who does that?
And just to prove how incredibly off my game this guy has thrown me, I get up to bowl, swing the ball back and promptly let is slip out of my grasp. It plunks onto the floor and rolls back… right to his feet.
He graciously picks it up for me, “I think you lost something.”
Really? I have been holding back an entire fire range of sarcasm all night and this guy gets the first shot? No thank you.
I have to admit, my embarrassment in that moment halted me from saying anything at all. I just smiled, took the ball and threw a strike.
Let’s call that a night! I hurried out of there as fast as I could, not allowing for any kind of “Let’s do this again, can I have your number?” kind of crap.
So, it turns out he wasn’t Mr. Right, not the man of my dreams or my knight in shining armor. Turns out he was nothing of the sort. Not even close.
I saw him one other time after that night. It was at our friend’s poker night. There is truly nothing more awkward than to try and casually give out the “I’m just not that into you” vibe. I handled it though, with all the class and charm a sarcastic, single young lady in LA can have.
Sometimes I look back on that experience and wonder what in the world it was there for. Would I be the same for having not gone on that date? Did it form or fashion me in some way that I’m not yet aware of? It did give me a funny story to tell and something to write about, which at this point in my life is pretty much the best thing he could have given me.
They say the best thing you can do is to keep putting yourself out there. If it keeps giving me good material to write about, I suppose I will do just that.
Wednesday, February 04, 2009
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Sports Talk: Battle Royale
My heart is spread all over the west coast these days. In my recent move from So Cal to Oregon, I’ve been informed that a choice must be made- to cheer for Oregon or OSU.
As a long time USC fan, my heart still resides in So Cal. Apparently though, in college football, I can keep one hand on my home team as long as I reach out with the other hand and take up residence in either Oregon or OSU.
I was a bit worried when getting the “you must choose” lecture because although I am long time fan of USC, my “home” team will always hold a special place in my heart as Fresno State. As it turns out, I can cheer on teams from multiple divisions, so I’m in the clear on that one.
I have a reassuring one year window to make my decision between Oregon and OSU. So I thought I would give it the consideration it is due. After all, college football is a huge part of my existence. I can’t just make a flippant call and move on with life.
Team Match Up…
University: University of Oregon (O)
Location: Eugene, Oregon
Colors: Green and Yellow
Mascot: Ducks
University: Oregon State University (OSU)
Location: Portland, Oregon
Colors: Orange and Black
Mascot: Beavers
The 2008 Pac-10…
In the 2008 Pac-10 standings, Oregon was 7-2 in conference and 10-3 overall. They lost to Boise St., USC, and Cal. OSU was also 7-2 in conference but 9-4 overall. They lost to Stanford, Penn St., Utah and Oregon.
Now, my natural instincts say “OSU lost to Oregon, so I should probably go with the big green O.” No one wants to be a loser.
But something else in the ’08 analysis caught my attention; OSU beat USC (8-1 conference, 12-1 overall). USC’s only loss in the Pac-10 was to OSU. I don’t know if you caught those stats, but USC was 12-1. That “1” stands for OSU, my friends. Any team that can duke it out with the number one team in the Pac-10 and win, automatically catches my eye… and maybe, just maybe, my heart.
On another note, both Oregon teams beat UCLA. That fact is just about as relevant as UCLA is to the Pac-10, so I’ll throw that bit of information out and call it a wash.
2009 Schedule Analysis…
Oregon plays the major California teams at home (USC and Cal), while OSU plays the same teams on the road. USC is scheduled to play Oregon and OSU back to back; OSU will play in LA on October 24 and Oregon will play at home on October 31.
Clearly Oregon has the benefit of playing the big dog teams on their home grounds. Will it help? Well, last season they played both USC and Cal on the road and lost. Maybe they’ll turn it around this season.
It will be tougher, no doubt, for OSU to play USC and Cal on the road this season. They scored those wins at home in 08. I guess we will find out just how much benefit comes from the home court advantage.
Other Pending Factors…
There is the obvious factor of proximity. I live closer to Eugene than I do to Portland. If I wanted to go for a local team, the Ducks would be it.
I would be a liar if I said that color doesn’t matter. Orange and Black or Green and Yellow? Maybe I should try on each jersey and see which is more complimentary. Too much? Hey, I don’t take this issue lightly. I’ll be wearing these colors for the rest of my life. I don’t want to be cheering for a losing team and be wearing hideous colors.
Of course I have to ask… Beavers or Ducks? Both pretty much make me want to run in the opposite direction while laughing hysterically.
The Question Remains…
While I might have already begun leaning in a particular direction, I am open to any valuable information one might desire to share with me that might shed light on which team should win my newly Oregonian heart.
As a long time USC fan, my heart still resides in So Cal. Apparently though, in college football, I can keep one hand on my home team as long as I reach out with the other hand and take up residence in either Oregon or OSU.
I was a bit worried when getting the “you must choose” lecture because although I am long time fan of USC, my “home” team will always hold a special place in my heart as Fresno State. As it turns out, I can cheer on teams from multiple divisions, so I’m in the clear on that one.
I have a reassuring one year window to make my decision between Oregon and OSU. So I thought I would give it the consideration it is due. After all, college football is a huge part of my existence. I can’t just make a flippant call and move on with life.
Team Match Up…
University: University of Oregon (O)
Location: Eugene, Oregon
Colors: Green and Yellow
Mascot: Ducks
University: Oregon State University (OSU)
Location: Portland, Oregon
Colors: Orange and Black
Mascot: Beavers
The 2008 Pac-10…
In the 2008 Pac-10 standings, Oregon was 7-2 in conference and 10-3 overall. They lost to Boise St., USC, and Cal. OSU was also 7-2 in conference but 9-4 overall. They lost to Stanford, Penn St., Utah and Oregon.
Now, my natural instincts say “OSU lost to Oregon, so I should probably go with the big green O.” No one wants to be a loser.
But something else in the ’08 analysis caught my attention; OSU beat USC (8-1 conference, 12-1 overall). USC’s only loss in the Pac-10 was to OSU. I don’t know if you caught those stats, but USC was 12-1. That “1” stands for OSU, my friends. Any team that can duke it out with the number one team in the Pac-10 and win, automatically catches my eye… and maybe, just maybe, my heart.
On another note, both Oregon teams beat UCLA. That fact is just about as relevant as UCLA is to the Pac-10, so I’ll throw that bit of information out and call it a wash.
2009 Schedule Analysis…
Oregon plays the major California teams at home (USC and Cal), while OSU plays the same teams on the road. USC is scheduled to play Oregon and OSU back to back; OSU will play in LA on October 24 and Oregon will play at home on October 31.
Clearly Oregon has the benefit of playing the big dog teams on their home grounds. Will it help? Well, last season they played both USC and Cal on the road and lost. Maybe they’ll turn it around this season.
It will be tougher, no doubt, for OSU to play USC and Cal on the road this season. They scored those wins at home in 08. I guess we will find out just how much benefit comes from the home court advantage.
Other Pending Factors…
There is the obvious factor of proximity. I live closer to Eugene than I do to Portland. If I wanted to go for a local team, the Ducks would be it.
I would be a liar if I said that color doesn’t matter. Orange and Black or Green and Yellow? Maybe I should try on each jersey and see which is more complimentary. Too much? Hey, I don’t take this issue lightly. I’ll be wearing these colors for the rest of my life. I don’t want to be cheering for a losing team and be wearing hideous colors.
Of course I have to ask… Beavers or Ducks? Both pretty much make me want to run in the opposite direction while laughing hysterically.
The Question Remains…
While I might have already begun leaning in a particular direction, I am open to any valuable information one might desire to share with me that might shed light on which team should win my newly Oregonian heart.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
The Greater Epic of Life
I wasn’t very impressed with the light house. The one they say is the most photographed light house on the central Oregon coast. Yeah, that one. I wasn’t impressed.
I was much more into the creepy path that led up the side of the hill to the light house and the gorgeous rocky beach below. I was even more into the segment of the river that runs into the ocean. I actually found the Tsunami warning sign at the base of the hill to be of greater amusement.
The whole thing was really quite anti-climactic; walking along the beach, then up the little hillside path over looking the ocean, and finally up to the top where a rather unspectacular, dingy-white light house stood plainly next to an old, dirty outhouse.
Maybe it was all the hype that killed it for me.
I find that happens quite often. I get caught up in the whirlwind of hype that creates a buzz I get high on. It’s a total rush getting there. And then I’m there, and it’s not. The excitement, the rush, the high; it’s not there at all.
It’s like the most amazingly gorgeous guy I spend hours prepping for, only to get to the first date and find him scarcely half way attractive and completely unsociable. The long awaited day off that ends up being filled with boredom and laziness. Spending years slaving over a bachelor degree that I am positive will land me the killer job, just to end up bagging groceries at the local Safeway.
(Okay, that hasn’t happened yet but I am already anticipating the great rise and fall. Optimism pumps through my veins.)
Giving it more thought, I am noticing that I enjoy the smaller things, the less than fantastic moments, the journey leading to… more than the arrival itself. I wonder what it would be like if I could get rid of the arrivals altogether. What if life was just a continuous anticipation of something great?
Maybe that is why people stay in school forever. They get one degree after another after another because they know that as soon as that degree is put in the fancy frame and hung up on the wall, the drive is gone. The motivation to get somewhere better, to become something more, to work just a little harder is gone. Sometimes arrival sucks the exhilaration right out of a person.
I am struck, amidst this thought, by a line recently penned by Donald Miller in which he refers to life as a great epic and talks about God creating us as characters in this great epic. I have studied the art of story telling for the greater part of my life, albeit a youthful one yet. And I am awed that all these arrivals, the happy endings, the fantastic conclusions, the unexpected twists at the end of the book could not be and are in fact built upon the details of the plot, the journey, the moments in between the beginning and the end.
Marked by mere moments – tragic moments, missed moments, defining moments, refining moments – is the plot of a great epic. At some point the epic ends, life ends, you and I will end. But the moments, as a collective legend, will remain. It is a story marred by all that was you.
So take hold of the anticipation, join in the hype that carries you into the next moment, relish in that which leads up to… and never hope to finally arrive. Today is crafting another defining narrative and weaving us into the greater epic of life.
I was much more into the creepy path that led up the side of the hill to the light house and the gorgeous rocky beach below. I was even more into the segment of the river that runs into the ocean. I actually found the Tsunami warning sign at the base of the hill to be of greater amusement.
The whole thing was really quite anti-climactic; walking along the beach, then up the little hillside path over looking the ocean, and finally up to the top where a rather unspectacular, dingy-white light house stood plainly next to an old, dirty outhouse.
Maybe it was all the hype that killed it for me.
I find that happens quite often. I get caught up in the whirlwind of hype that creates a buzz I get high on. It’s a total rush getting there. And then I’m there, and it’s not. The excitement, the rush, the high; it’s not there at all.
It’s like the most amazingly gorgeous guy I spend hours prepping for, only to get to the first date and find him scarcely half way attractive and completely unsociable. The long awaited day off that ends up being filled with boredom and laziness. Spending years slaving over a bachelor degree that I am positive will land me the killer job, just to end up bagging groceries at the local Safeway.
(Okay, that hasn’t happened yet but I am already anticipating the great rise and fall. Optimism pumps through my veins.)
Giving it more thought, I am noticing that I enjoy the smaller things, the less than fantastic moments, the journey leading to… more than the arrival itself. I wonder what it would be like if I could get rid of the arrivals altogether. What if life was just a continuous anticipation of something great?
Maybe that is why people stay in school forever. They get one degree after another after another because they know that as soon as that degree is put in the fancy frame and hung up on the wall, the drive is gone. The motivation to get somewhere better, to become something more, to work just a little harder is gone. Sometimes arrival sucks the exhilaration right out of a person.
I am struck, amidst this thought, by a line recently penned by Donald Miller in which he refers to life as a great epic and talks about God creating us as characters in this great epic. I have studied the art of story telling for the greater part of my life, albeit a youthful one yet. And I am awed that all these arrivals, the happy endings, the fantastic conclusions, the unexpected twists at the end of the book could not be and are in fact built upon the details of the plot, the journey, the moments in between the beginning and the end.
Marked by mere moments – tragic moments, missed moments, defining moments, refining moments – is the plot of a great epic. At some point the epic ends, life ends, you and I will end. But the moments, as a collective legend, will remain. It is a story marred by all that was you.
So take hold of the anticipation, join in the hype that carries you into the next moment, relish in that which leads up to… and never hope to finally arrive. Today is crafting another defining narrative and weaving us into the greater epic of life.
Monday, January 19, 2009
The Parrot Story
WD Writing Prompt: A man buys a parrot, and is horrified when he discovers the only thing it can say is, “If you ever tell anyone what you saw, I’ll kill you.” (500 word max)
The Parrot Story
“Hey Billy, bet you can’t catch me!” Aurther Miller, the tallest fifth grader you’ve ever seen, taunted me every day at recess while the others egged him on.
“Yeah Billy, go get him!”
“What’s wrong, Billy? Afraid you can’t catch him?”
Their laughter pierced my ears. I could feel the redness rising in my face as I watched Aurther stick his tongue out at me and turn to run away. I balled up my fists and with all the gusto my little midget legs could muster I ran after him.
Legs pumping, forehead sweating, chest pounding… I was sure my knees would give out any second. Aurther turned a corner but when I got there he was gone. I collapsed against the brick wall of room 303, home of the meanest math teacher on the planet. Gasping for air, I slid to the ground and rested my head against the coolness of the building.
As my eyes closed I could hear the faint sound two voices. It sounded almost like whispers. I opened my eyes and peeked around the corner. There, in the locker room, sat Aurther Miller and Sandy McCullen… kissing!
I gasped just a little too loud and Aurther came flying around the corner, “There you are, you little twerp! I’m gonna get you!”
I picked myself up off the ground and ran right out of the Ethen Elementary School front gates and all the way home.
I came barreling through the front door of my house. My father jumped up in shock and I, equally shocked that he was already home, came to a screeching halt at his feet.
“What’s going on, Billy?” My father looked worried.
“Oh, nothing. I just tripped on my way in the door. That’s all.” I knew that if Aurther ever found out that I had told anyone what I saw, I would be sorry.
“Billy, your mother and I got you something special today! We went down to that pet store where Mrs. Miller works. You know, your friend Aurther’s mother. Well, your mother and I think you are old enough now and we got you that parrot you always wanted!”
My father pulled a sheet off the cage. There stood the most beautiful, green parrot I have ever seen. It was the parrot that once belonged to Aurther himself. Oh if he knew I had this, it would be the end of me.
I grabbed the cage and rushed upstairs. I could barely fit the cage through my bedroom door. I sat the cage on my dresser. I figured I would name it Aurther; seemed appropriate.
For a moment, I just stared at it as it looked around the room and then finally at me. It squinted a little bit, let out a funny noise as if to clear its throat. Then it uttered the last words I would ever hear, “If you ever tell anyone what you saw, I’ll kill you.”
The Parrot Story
“Hey Billy, bet you can’t catch me!” Aurther Miller, the tallest fifth grader you’ve ever seen, taunted me every day at recess while the others egged him on.
“Yeah Billy, go get him!”
“What’s wrong, Billy? Afraid you can’t catch him?”
Their laughter pierced my ears. I could feel the redness rising in my face as I watched Aurther stick his tongue out at me and turn to run away. I balled up my fists and with all the gusto my little midget legs could muster I ran after him.
Legs pumping, forehead sweating, chest pounding… I was sure my knees would give out any second. Aurther turned a corner but when I got there he was gone. I collapsed against the brick wall of room 303, home of the meanest math teacher on the planet. Gasping for air, I slid to the ground and rested my head against the coolness of the building.
As my eyes closed I could hear the faint sound two voices. It sounded almost like whispers. I opened my eyes and peeked around the corner. There, in the locker room, sat Aurther Miller and Sandy McCullen… kissing!
I gasped just a little too loud and Aurther came flying around the corner, “There you are, you little twerp! I’m gonna get you!”
I picked myself up off the ground and ran right out of the Ethen Elementary School front gates and all the way home.
I came barreling through the front door of my house. My father jumped up in shock and I, equally shocked that he was already home, came to a screeching halt at his feet.
“What’s going on, Billy?” My father looked worried.
“Oh, nothing. I just tripped on my way in the door. That’s all.” I knew that if Aurther ever found out that I had told anyone what I saw, I would be sorry.
“Billy, your mother and I got you something special today! We went down to that pet store where Mrs. Miller works. You know, your friend Aurther’s mother. Well, your mother and I think you are old enough now and we got you that parrot you always wanted!”
My father pulled a sheet off the cage. There stood the most beautiful, green parrot I have ever seen. It was the parrot that once belonged to Aurther himself. Oh if he knew I had this, it would be the end of me.
I grabbed the cage and rushed upstairs. I could barely fit the cage through my bedroom door. I sat the cage on my dresser. I figured I would name it Aurther; seemed appropriate.
For a moment, I just stared at it as it looked around the room and then finally at me. It squinted a little bit, let out a funny noise as if to clear its throat. Then it uttered the last words I would ever hear, “If you ever tell anyone what you saw, I’ll kill you.”
Rough Around the Edges
I’m sitting on the back patio of a coffee shop, overlooking the Siuslaw river in Oregon. It’s like I’m on vacation but I end up here every day. I suppose it is time to come to terms with the reality that I live here.
Six months ago I wasn’t even sure I was going to make this move. Now I’m here and am finding it to be a very surreal existence. Am I here? Really? Seriously? My response is a surprisingly casual shrug of the shoulders. Looking around at all that is now my life, I smile.
My mixed emotions and feelings of absolute weirdness about being in a new place seemingly so far from what was once normal and familiar is nothing new. I have been in this place before. This barrage of excitement and fear and anxiety and happiness and the sheer thrill of the new. I find myself recalling all the changes I have been through; some by choice, some not.
It was quite a journey getting here. Not just the two day drive but the mental and emotional beating I put myself through over the past six months. All the petty things I thought I wanted had to be stripped away so I could clearly see the things my heart has always drawn me to in life. Being backed into a corner and forcing myself to find my own priorities and stand on them firmly through all the questioning and spot light accusations really made me learn what it is to be me.
One thing about me though, is that I always try to be somebody else. I always try to be the person everyone else wants me to be. And I have been fighting with that person for years. Beating myself up every day is exhausting. So maybe my critics think it’s extreme and random and unnecessary to have picked up and moved to a whole other state. But driving away from California, I drove away from that person – the one who is constantly seeking to please you.
And I learned another valuable lesson about the very nature of my existence. Where I live does not define me. The friends I have or do not have, does not define me. Even my family does not define me. At the end of the day, I have to make the choice alone. I define me.
I know all you super spiritual yahoos are screaming, “No! No! God defines you! He is the ultimate creator….. blah, blah, blah. Amen.” Yeah, I get it. God created me uniquely, in His image to be a wonderful blessing to those around me, to reflect the wondrous glory of all that is holy. I’ll throw you that bone.
But in reality, in the harsh struggle of learning and understanding and experiencing and becoming… in that reality, I have to come to terms with my own being and my own ability to make decision and my own responsibility for those decisions I make.
And I am finding that to finally be a pretty cool process. So here’s to all that I miss, all that I now have, and all that is to come. Cheers.
Six months ago I wasn’t even sure I was going to make this move. Now I’m here and am finding it to be a very surreal existence. Am I here? Really? Seriously? My response is a surprisingly casual shrug of the shoulders. Looking around at all that is now my life, I smile.
My mixed emotions and feelings of absolute weirdness about being in a new place seemingly so far from what was once normal and familiar is nothing new. I have been in this place before. This barrage of excitement and fear and anxiety and happiness and the sheer thrill of the new. I find myself recalling all the changes I have been through; some by choice, some not.
It was quite a journey getting here. Not just the two day drive but the mental and emotional beating I put myself through over the past six months. All the petty things I thought I wanted had to be stripped away so I could clearly see the things my heart has always drawn me to in life. Being backed into a corner and forcing myself to find my own priorities and stand on them firmly through all the questioning and spot light accusations really made me learn what it is to be me.
One thing about me though, is that I always try to be somebody else. I always try to be the person everyone else wants me to be. And I have been fighting with that person for years. Beating myself up every day is exhausting. So maybe my critics think it’s extreme and random and unnecessary to have picked up and moved to a whole other state. But driving away from California, I drove away from that person – the one who is constantly seeking to please you.
And I learned another valuable lesson about the very nature of my existence. Where I live does not define me. The friends I have or do not have, does not define me. Even my family does not define me. At the end of the day, I have to make the choice alone. I define me.
I know all you super spiritual yahoos are screaming, “No! No! God defines you! He is the ultimate creator….. blah, blah, blah. Amen.” Yeah, I get it. God created me uniquely, in His image to be a wonderful blessing to those around me, to reflect the wondrous glory of all that is holy. I’ll throw you that bone.
But in reality, in the harsh struggle of learning and understanding and experiencing and becoming… in that reality, I have to come to terms with my own being and my own ability to make decision and my own responsibility for those decisions I make.
And I am finding that to finally be a pretty cool process. So here’s to all that I miss, all that I now have, and all that is to come. Cheers.
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