From the Pulpit to the Grave and Back

Why does other people’s ignorance bother me so much? Whether it’s race, gender, poverty or generational differences. It has the ability to get under my skin and set my soul on fire like nothing else.

 

I’ve trudged along for so long under the weight of my own self-righteousness in its many forms. I’m smarter than you, funnier than you, and I would never succumb to the depths you’ve seen. I come from spiritually superior stock, I’ve stood behind the pulpit and addressed the filthy masses.

 

It was heavy though, the weight of all that truth. Perfection was only attainable in the rationalizations I twisted around in my own mind and spewed out with a pointed finger. But when I was no longer able to do that I lost my height, my stature, my position on top of the religious food chain. I began to see the depths I once only spoke of.

 

Strange thing about the darkness though, it wasn’t as scary as I thought it was. It wasn’t as dark as I envisioned. There were tons of people there; people who had come from places like me, people who had been born into it, people who had chosen it. It was strange how equally broken we all were.

 

It was there I learned to love from a place of humility and kindness. It was there I learned compassion and released myself into a place of grace. I heard all the words I had spoken from on high – empty, hallow words – come to life in a way  that changed me somewhere deep inside. It was embarrassing to realize what my words actually meant in light of how I was living. And I could see all the sudden how harsh they seemed to those I was delivering them to.

 

This painfully amazing place, I realize, has not been experienced by everyone. And so when I encounter those who remind me of the person I used to be, it’s difficult not to react. My knee jerk reaction of anger comes billowing up and I want to tell them all I’ve seen and show them how wrong they are. Just as I’m about to unleash the storm brewing inside, I see a mirrored reflection of myself in their eyes and realize it’s all me. I’m still angry at myself for who I was and who I couldn’t be.

 

It is in these moments I have to journey back to that place and remember how equally broken we all are, even those who might not know it yet. It’s in this place that I pause, breathe in deep the grace I’ve come to know so well and exhale in surrender, opening my fists and letting go.

 

Here's to the journey, my friends.

Hey guys! I'm a writer!

I went to listen to a writer give a speech today. He used to be a columnist and has his fair share of published novels. He’s kind of got it going on, as a writer at least.

He said the most common thing he finds in writers at the seminars he does is that they lack confidence. They won’t even call themselves writers until they’ve attained a certain level, published enough work or become known somehow. This is so wrong, he says, because when Joe Shmoe throws a bag of golf clubs over his shoulder, heads out to the course and bats a couple balls around, what do we call him? A golfer. And so, if you write, you are a writer. Call yourself a writer.

Geez, fine, I’ll call myself a writer. Enough with the public humiliation already.

Not ten minutes before that, my co-worker, who was the one to bring me to the meeting, told another lady at our table that I wanted to come today because I’m a writer, too. “Oh wow, you write books?!” she was very excited for me. I, in typical fashion, lowered my glance to my shoes and mumbled something like “yeah well not really, I mean….”

DING! I was literally saved by the bell. The meeting was started by banging on the side of a big gold bell at the front of the room, preceded by forced handshakes and uncomfortable eye contact. There was a slew of strange club traditions that made me feel like I was in Sunday School again, before the infamous writer got up to speak. I had never been to a Kiwanis meeting before, let alone known what Kiwanis was, as was made apparent when the leader asked if there were any guests present today.

The meeting went on and the speaker gave a kind of anti-climactic talk, but the truly great thing was that I knew, instantly, all I was there to hear. Call yourself a writer.

And so on this journey I continue.

 

 

Argyle

I wore my dead grandpa’s socks today. I wear them all the time, actually. I didn’t know him that well. At least, not well enough to still be wearing his socks fourteen years after he died.

I really like the socks. It’s just one pair of socks, actually. They’re gray and black argyle. Thin. Mid-calf high. I wear them with my boots. They’re worn in the big toe. I have my dad’s abnormally big toe. He has his dad’s abnormally big toe. So it makes sense that my grandpa’s socks are worn in the big toe.

The thought of purchasing a new pair of thin, argyle socks to wear with my boots crosses my mind all the time. Every time I wear them, actually. I never do it though. These work just fine. They haven’t fallen apart yet.  

I think about how weird it is that I wear my dead grandpa’s socks so often and I didn’t even know him that well. What would he think if he knew I did this? Is it weird to anyone else that I wear my dead grandpa’s dress socks even after all this time and that they haven’t fallen apart yet and they aren’t even sentimental to me? Are they sentimental to me?

Rhetorical.

I don’t like to answer my own questions. I don’t like it when other people try to answer my own rhetorical questions either. I prefer to just pontificate about things and let it hang there. Let it just sit there like cigarette smoke in the middle of the living room while you’re smoking on the couch. Stare at it. Watch it slowly move around, morphing in shape, fading away.

You really shouldn’t smoke in the house. Or at all, actually. It could kill you. Then I’d be wearing your socks for the next fourteen years. I don’t even like socks. My feet are claustrophobic. But that’s a story for another time.

The end.

Sneak Peak

What keeps you from doing the things you really want to do? Not enough time. Never enough money. Is it fear of failure or maybe even fear of success? Success would change everything. Do you really want to change everything?

I always wanted to open my own coffee shop. I love coffee. I could live in a relaxed vintage coffee shop with big comfy chairs or high top tables for my lap top. I have the vision and the business sense to do it.

But I’m not sure I have the collateral to make it happen. What if I don’t have what it takes financially and no one will lend it to me? I don’t know if I can trust those who say they would support me in the venture. This control freak has trust issues, you know. What if I get into it and decide it’s not really what I want to do?

Even more than a coffee entrepreneur, my hearts dream is to be a writer. I could write books or magazine articles or an online how-to column. I want to write so badly that I don’t even care what the content is.

There’s a deep rooted fear of rejection looming around all my hopes and dreams that I haven’t been able to shake in all my 32 years. How dumb would I look if I told everyone I wanted to be a great published writer and then my first book was a total flop? Or what if I can’t get published in the first place?

“What if” is my most violent advisory.  It is the simple little question that scares me so much, it causes me to forgo the idea entirely, as if it never existed.

What fears are holding you back? What questions are you too afraid to answer? What would it look like if we all just peaked through the fingers covering our eyes and caught a glimpse of what could be?

I kind of want to start peaking. Maybe. Just a little.

Hiking is Just Walking

I am not a hiker. I went camping with friends one time and got pissed at them when they made me walk uphill to a waterfall. “You guys said there was no hiking! Assholes.”

I get now that there was no hiking involved in that trip. It was simply walking uphill with a bit of extra effort and hard breathing. Although I’ve been told that the secret about hiking is that it is, in fact, just walking. And by “I’ve been told”, I mean, “I saw it on Sex and the City”, so basically it’s fact.

I ended up slipping on the rocks and falling on that not-hike. I flailed my arms and reached for whatever I could find on the way down. Which ended up being the tank top of my friend who was walking behind me. If nothing else, we put on a good show.

I have moved to Oregon since that not-hiking waterfall incident and I have had to come to terms with this whole hiking thing. Apparently, it is a little more than just walking. (Come to think of it, I’m pretty sure that “hiking is just walking” statement was made by one of Carrie Bradshaw’s ex-boyfriends who she was visiting in a mental facility. But, I digress.)

Recently, my boyfriend had some friends in town so we took them on a couple of easy trail hikes down to the beach. As we were walking, one of the girls asked if I was a Sex and the City fan. (Is it that obvious?) She said, “Remember that episode when Carrie’s old boyfriend told her the secret to hiking is that it’s actually just walking?” We laughed and chatted about how funny that episode was.

An hour later we’re hiking (not walking) to the top of Cape Perpetua. As I am gasping for air, feeling my face burning twenty shades of red, turning switch back after switch back, wondering where the hell the top of this mountain is, all I could think was “Fuck that guy. Hiking is not walking. It’s not. At all….. and I might die here.”

I didn’t die there. I made it all the way to the top, where gasping for air wasn’t too high a price to pay for the amazing view of the ocean and forest below. My boyfriend even picked few flowers for me along the way. And thankfully, we had parked a car at the top of the hill because crawling my way back down to the bottom of the mountain was not something I wanted anyone to see.

So maybe I am a hiker. Or at very least, I no longer associate hiking with things like jumping out of airplanes or becoming an astronaut. Sometimes it’s the smallest paradigm shift that can make the biggest difference.

 

The Lady in the Hot Pink Pants

I opened the shades before sitting down and I just stood there, mesmerized by all the motion out there. One lady walking down the street was in an odd hurry, probably trying to avoid the neighbor across the street who was standing out in front of her house wearing bright pink pants. How embarrassing.

Frozen in front of the window, I could not stop watching all the people and their busy lives, wondering who they were and where they were going.

Kids were running in and out of the house, the one where the woman in the hot pink pants was standing earlier. What had the kids been doing inside all this time? And why did they choose to come outside now? Someone else just came out of the house, walked to the car and drove away. How many people live in that house? It’s a big house, but I guess not so big with that many people inside.

A young Mexican couple pushing a stroller came walking down the sidewalk. I really just assumed they were young. I couldn’t actually see them that well to guess their age. It didn’t really take much to guess that they were Mexican though. Pretty much everyone in the neighborhood was Mexican. Except me and the lady across the street in the hot pink pants. She’s Asian. I’m not. I’m white, I’m very white.

I should never have even been there, really. I had no business there. But I moved in anyway. The landlords lived right down stairs and they were nice enough. They put up an iron gate at the sidewalk to protect the stairs that lead up to the apartment. Safety first. They even washed the blood off my car the night a gang chased someone down and beat the shit out of him and threw him up against the side of my car. They were very considerate.

That apartment was a breeding ground for the many great discoveries I would make that year. Like Columbus, it was my Santa Maria. I discovered my love for sweet potato fries and my disdain for having roommates who are cuter than me. I discovered who my true friends were, the ones who would board that ship with me and sail into the unknown, searching for something greater.

Standing there in front of that window, I discovered the truth that deep inside me screamed for escape. The simple truth that I had lived all my life watching from the window and I was unsatisfied. I wanted to be out there, to be the one someone else watched and wondered about. To be the one who prompted movement and action in someone else.

I discovered that it was up to me, and only me, to make that move. And I did.   

…(TBT)

 

Mechanics 101

For those of you who may not know, I am not nor have I ever been, a mechanic.

I don’t know why actual mechanics insist on speaking to me as if I am a mechanic myself.

Like the time I took my car in for new breaks and they told me my front passenger side tire needed to be balanced. So I took it to the tire shop and told them. They obviously knew I was not a mechanic and were shocked by my direct request.

“How did you know it was the front passenger side tire that needed to be balanced?”

“Because the guy who sent me here told me what to tell you.”

Idiot. I’m driving a two toned 1992 Toyota Tercell. You think I know jack shit about tire balance?

Then there was the time I took my car in for an oil change and during the awkward post oil change debrief they asked if I was aware of the fact that there was a gas cap on the radiator.

It took me a while to realize that was even a problem.

Thankful for the education, I went to the auto parts shop and asked for a coolant cap. After explaining that, obviously, I needed it for the radiator. They guy said “So you need a radiator cap right?”

Sure. Whatever, dude, just fix it.

"Do you have a four or six cylinder?”

When met with a blank stare he continued, “Let’s go take a look.”

We got to my car and I just stood there, taking a look.

“Do you know where the lever to pop the hood is?”

I just asked for a coolant cap to replace the gas cap that was on my radiator. Do you honestly think I know how to pop the hood?  

Seriously people, I am bringing my vehicle to you for a reason. Would I take myself to the dentist if I could just pull my own molars? I don’t think so. You stick to what you do best, and I’ll stick telling mildly funny stories about it.

An Ordinary Mystery

She sits in front of a dim blue ocean with a very greyish hue, not contrasting much with the overcast sky it meets on the horizon line.

Her eyes are the same color as the placid ocean, deeply mysterious. She looks slightly down and away with a blank stare as if avoiding eye contact.

She is young but not youthful. Her eyes, her face, suggests she has seen more than her living years should. It has aged her soul and you can see it in her face.

Deep set eyes and thick brows that cast a shadow on the high bones of her cheeks. All jagged edges, there is nothing smooth about her except the natural smoothness of her creamy skin.

Her face, it looks like it is made of putty. Like play dough that can be molded and shaped. It looks like someone put their hands on either side of her face and squeezed just hard enough to smash it in ever so slightly. She doesn’t look phased by it or pained by it, like it has become a part of who she is.

She does look fairly ordinary and yet, there is a mystery about her. But maybe that is the point. Her eyes, her face, what’s missing form my view. Maybe we never really see the entirety of another human being. We are all as ordinary and as mysterious as the ocean itself.

We catch glimpses of one another and if we see it often enough it becomes familiar and we think we know them. We think we know ourselves.

I have seen her often and have heard portions of her narrative. But mostly I make assumptions about her character and draw conclusions about the plot. It is much like a choose-your-own-ending novel, except that she is a person, not a book and I am not in control of how her story ends.

Stand before a mirror and describe what you see. Does it tell the whole story? Do you tell the whole story?

Do not be afraid to be more than a mirrored image. In your vulnerability others find courage to strip down and do the same.

 

 

The Tangled Curls We Weave

I have spent my entire life straightening my hair. “What is wrong with me?” I would wonder as I poured over my locks all morning; blow drying, pulling, straightening, tugging. “It just won’t… ugh… GO!” I would yell at it as I pulled it as straight as I could just to have it spring back up in a wild twisted mess.

I just didn’t get it. Why didn’t I look like the others?

The women in my family have incredibly straight hair. They can walk out of the house with wet hair and it would look the same way when they got home and it had dried on its own. If I did that, it would be a frizzy, wild mess that would take a lot of tears and water and tugging to get under control.

I never knew how liberating it could be to embrace my naturally curly hair. As a matter of fact, I was horrified of it. I would catch a glimpse of “those girls” who seemed so wild and care free with a beautifully messy mop of curls and envy everything about them. I could never do that.

And then one day I did. And it turns out there are a ton of people just like me, all trying to do the same thing: be themselves.

There are tutorials, articles, stories, entire online communities devoted to embracing natural curls. It is refreshing to hear other people’s stories and challenges as they are on similar journeys. The world can use more transparency and acceptance in the face of ridiculous “beauty” standards and touched up media images.

And so, on my crazy-frizzy-messy hair days, I chalk it up to honesty and choose to be proud of my wild mop. Releasing myself from the weight of expectation, I just let it go and let it be; a lesson I’m trying to learn in all aspects of my life.

 

The Human Condition Begins in the Kitchen

“Your First Kitchen” – (Writing exercise #3 by Robin Helmly from the book “Now Write”) 

My first kitchen was a traditional L shaped kitchen with an old cream colored linoleum floor that connected the dining room to the living room. The light was long and florescent with a switch at either end that illuminated the dark wood paneled cupboards.

There was one window above the sink facing the backyard, where you could stand and see the rose bushes along the back fence and the metal jungle gym with swings and monkey bars that stood tall in the bright green grass. It would bring me a sense of comfort to see my mom at the kitchen window as I swung my grimy little hands from one monkey bar to another, causing blisters on the underside of my hands or when I’d jump off the swing a little too high, knowing she was just on the other side of that window.

To the left of the sink hung an old phone attached to the wall with a cord long enough to reach all the way to the opposite end of the kitchen. It hung right next to the sliding glass door opening into the back yard. Sometimes for privacy I would take the phone outside and close the cord in the glass door. It would leave a black grease smudge on the cream colored phone cord every time.

The counter under the phone held our junk drawer full of pens, paper, scissors, some old rubber bands and random things that had no other place to be stored. The countertop was piled with phone books and coupons needing to be cut out.

That’s where the cutting board pulled out of the counter; I would stand there and chop vegetables for my mom in the evening, overlooking the living room TV where she watched Oprah and Jeopardy.

The big white frig stood in the middle of the kitchen with the glass cookie jar sitting on top. There were always cookies in it; sometimes homemade, sometimes cheap store bought cookies my mom found on sale or had a coupon for.  The lid had a particular squeak and squeal to it when you opened it, never really letting anyone sneak cookies. Although at one point I had become pretty good at maneuvering the jar just right and coughing at just the right moment to cover the sound to the lid being pulled off. Of course, I could never get the lid back on without giving myself away.

There was a comfort and peace the kitchen seemed to bring. I don’t know if it was because of all rooms, it was the only one in which everything had a place to belong and you knew exactly where everything was all the time. Maybe it was the process of baking cookies or watching a home cooked meal being prepared. Maybe it signified a common ground, the source of why we gathered together as a family.

Thirty two years away from that kitchen, I’m sitting in my own kitchen, reading a book that says, “’That which is most personal is most common,’ … meaning that if there’s any justification for telling personal stories, it’s that every person, every selfish little clod of ailments and grievances – including you, including me – contains within himself the entire human condition.”

What if the entire human condition begins in the kitchen? The soul of your home.

Customer # 293807

She moved here from Montana. If she had known what the weather was like here, she would have never. Well, she probably would have. She has a great college education, not like Yale or Harvard or any of those roll-your-eyes kind of colleges. But it was good and someone told her she should be a lawyer. By the way, she needs help getting her notary license figured out here in this state. It’s so different here. She caught a whiff of my co-workers lunch in the break room next door. She bets it’s chicken noodle soup. She took a course at the local junior college to learn what to plant here in Oregon. Her husband takes at least 35 different medications a day. She doesn’t assume that anyone who is overweight isn’t diabetic. She has notarized all sorts of documents. You know there are so many people out there without beneficiaries listed on their… on their… um… well it escapes her, but they don’t have it and it’s a tragedy. I should get used to seeing all types of oddities coming across my desk here, she says (as if I’m the new one in this situation). She keeps calling me by name, having to read it off my name plate first. She’s going to leave the pen she took off the desk because she’s not really into lime green. She’s had to walk out to her car so many times she has to use the bathroom again. She announced the fact that she was announcing the fact that it’s raining outside and that’s why she has to use the bathroom again. Her son bugged her to wear a jacket today. She had to get it out of storage first. The good ones are so expensive. But at least they won’t know she’s soaking wet because she has this jacket on. She advised that we throw out the paper coffee cup she  used. She’ll use a new one the next time she comes in.

 

She sat there for an hour and talked the whole time while I wrote about her. Please don't tell her.