Showing posts with label Sigh. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Sigh. Show all posts
3.30.2010
Blog Makeover at 3:00 am
It's 3:00 am and I can't sleep. I wasn't tired when I turned out the light at 11:45 and I was wide awake during an hour long spontaneous pillow talk with my bed friend. I guess I drifted off for a half hour but then woke up with a dead arm. So now I've been sitting at the computer for an hour wondering if I should attempt sleep again or if I should continue redesigning my blog (an entertaining way to spend the wee hours, I must say). In any case, I felt the need to inform you that I might be making some aesthetic changes around here. We'll see what strikes my fancy the next time I'm up at 3:00 am.
2.24.2010
1.23.2010
This is the dating game that won't ever end.
I didn't date many people before I met Jonathan. There was a guy in high school who turned out to be gay. There was a short-lived thing in college that was really more of a friendship. Besides a few random dinners and movies, the most serious relationship I had was with my now husband. And after we met, it was only a few months before we knew we'd get married.
Me and houses? Not so much.
In August, my husband and I began a wonderful relationship with a lender. We contacted our realtor in September. We set up an online profile and eagerly checked the listings everyday for a perfect match. We thought there was a possibility we'd meet "the one" by the November deadline tax-credit, so we enthusiastically set out into the ocean of young first-time homebuyers. There had to be a smallish fish in the sea that needed just our touch of TLC.
After a few months of retro kitchens, walls of wood panelling, a couple of french doors, and one scary profanity-ridden foreclosure, we thought: maybe a more realistic aim is to plan on meeting ours in the new year. Maybe we could still meet the extended April tax credit?
And that's when we found out who we were competing against.
THE INVESTORS.
Voluptuous, wealthy investors. Heavily endowed investors. Investors who decided to take advantage of vulnerable real estate instead of aiming their assets at the feeble stock market. Investors who could swing a hammer and make a few extra bucks with house makeovers. As I write, they're multiplying, parading their scantily clad loans--without shame I tell you!--in front of our houses and strategically forming brothels of house flippers.
They have cash and every asset we don't have.
Well, almost every asset.
They're missing one key ingredient:
love. (Sigh.)
We have an unlimited supply of love to pour into the one house that's out there--somewhere out there I tell you!--waiting patiently for us to meet and fall in love and spend every last penny we have on its maintenance and improvement. If only we could get married by April.
Some people are lucky with guys. Some people are lucky with jobs. Some people are lucky with houses.
But I live in California.
Me and houses? Not so much.
In August, my husband and I began a wonderful relationship with a lender. We contacted our realtor in September. We set up an online profile and eagerly checked the listings everyday for a perfect match. We thought there was a possibility we'd meet "the one" by the November deadline tax-credit, so we enthusiastically set out into the ocean of young first-time homebuyers. There had to be a smallish fish in the sea that needed just our touch of TLC.
After a few months of retro kitchens, walls of wood panelling, a couple of french doors, and one scary profanity-ridden foreclosure, we thought: maybe a more realistic aim is to plan on meeting ours in the new year. Maybe we could still meet the extended April tax credit?
And that's when we found out who we were competing against.
THE INVESTORS.
Voluptuous, wealthy investors. Heavily endowed investors. Investors who decided to take advantage of vulnerable real estate instead of aiming their assets at the feeble stock market. Investors who could swing a hammer and make a few extra bucks with house makeovers. As I write, they're multiplying, parading their scantily clad loans--without shame I tell you!--in front of our houses and strategically forming brothels of house flippers.
They have cash and every asset we don't have.
Well, almost every asset.
They're missing one key ingredient:
love. (Sigh.)
We have an unlimited supply of love to pour into the one house that's out there--somewhere out there I tell you!--waiting patiently for us to meet and fall in love and spend every last penny we have on its maintenance and improvement. If only we could get married by April.
Some people are lucky with guys. Some people are lucky with jobs. Some people are lucky with houses.
But I live in California.
1.10.2010
The Big Security Guy in the Sky
I was the nerdy one. I spent my high school and elementary school days stressing over both menial and major assignments, perfecting every last detail from the name at the top of the page to the alignment of bullet points. If I made a mistake on a piece of notebook paper in the first few lines, I'd throw it out and start a new one, just because crossed out words made the page look messy.
My perfectionism, combined with my fear of authority, landed me the accidental role of teacher's pet, which ruined my life. No one asked me if I wanted to be the teacher's pet. No one wants to be the teacher's pet. But someone somewhere decided that all teachers should prey on their favorite student, and so at some point some teacher appreciated my maddening inability to break the rules and made an example of me to the class that used to like me. And the cycle continued every year.
Social suicide. I am a victim.
To this day I still cannot break rules. I don't like to talk in the middle of a church service and I don't like to speed (more than 5 miles over) and I don't like to take carry-ons that don't fit in the airline's designated sizer-upper even though they accept baggage a lot bigger than that and even if they don't, you can check it for free at the ramp.
So you can imagine how the following situation almost had me running for solitary confinement.
Jonathan and I had friends stay with us in London over the summer in 2008. On the first day they visited, Jonathan informed me that Anne Hathaway and the actor who goes by "The Rock" (does anyone know his real name?) would be at the Apple store (where Jonathan worked) that afternoon. Jonathan was working that day. My friends and I got there late, so as we walked into the crowd--which was small considering there were two famous actors speaking--I took my camera out of the bag so I'd be prepared when we found a good angle. Just as I pulled the camera out of its case, I noticed a significant sign placed in front of the crowd. On it were written two significant words:
NO PICTURES
I immediately began to put my camera away. By immediately, I mean I really couldn't put it away fast enough for my liking... and as it turned out, for somebody else's liking, either. Someone else had noticed my camera. The big scary Apple security guys. They immediately headed in my direction. They were the biggest meanest men I've ever seen. The crowd started whispering and pointing. With palms sweating and voice trembling, I tried to explain that I had seen the sign after I had pulled out my camera, and had put it away immediately afterwards, but apparently they don't teach forgiveness at Security Guy School. They told me I would have to be escorted out.
At that moment, some of Jonathan's friends noticed the crowd disturbance. They nudged him and told him someone was getting in trouble for taking pictures. They all craned their necks and laughed until Jonathan said in disbelief, "That's my wife!" He was just as surprised as I was that I was getting in trouble for something--and something big enough for security guys.
Thankfully Jonathan vouched for me and I didn't have to leave the store. I got to listen to the actors respond in the question and answer session. For all of the trouble, I wasn't all that impressed. But at least my name was cleared and the red in my face eventually faded.
I could litter this blog with stories like that--stories that explain who I was and who I'm growing to be. I'm at a point in my life where I'm beginning to remember them and to analyze them for their deeper implications. For example, this story says interesting things about the way I see God. I've begun to realize recently that I like to follow rules in my faith life just as much as in other parts of my life. I've had to ask myself a difficult question:
Do I really love God, or do I obey because he's the big security guy in the sky?
I don't know the answer yet. But I'm thankful that Jesus has already vouched for me.
My perfectionism, combined with my fear of authority, landed me the accidental role of teacher's pet, which ruined my life. No one asked me if I wanted to be the teacher's pet. No one wants to be the teacher's pet. But someone somewhere decided that all teachers should prey on their favorite student, and so at some point some teacher appreciated my maddening inability to break the rules and made an example of me to the class that used to like me. And the cycle continued every year.
Social suicide. I am a victim.
To this day I still cannot break rules. I don't like to talk in the middle of a church service and I don't like to speed (more than 5 miles over) and I don't like to take carry-ons that don't fit in the airline's designated sizer-upper even though they accept baggage a lot bigger than that and even if they don't, you can check it for free at the ramp.
So you can imagine how the following situation almost had me running for solitary confinement.
Jonathan and I had friends stay with us in London over the summer in 2008. On the first day they visited, Jonathan informed me that Anne Hathaway and the actor who goes by "The Rock" (does anyone know his real name?) would be at the Apple store (where Jonathan worked) that afternoon. Jonathan was working that day. My friends and I got there late, so as we walked into the crowd--which was small considering there were two famous actors speaking--I took my camera out of the bag so I'd be prepared when we found a good angle. Just as I pulled the camera out of its case, I noticed a significant sign placed in front of the crowd. On it were written two significant words:
NO PICTURES
I immediately began to put my camera away. By immediately, I mean I really couldn't put it away fast enough for my liking... and as it turned out, for somebody else's liking, either. Someone else had noticed my camera. The big scary Apple security guys. They immediately headed in my direction. They were the biggest meanest men I've ever seen. The crowd started whispering and pointing. With palms sweating and voice trembling, I tried to explain that I had seen the sign after I had pulled out my camera, and had put it away immediately afterwards, but apparently they don't teach forgiveness at Security Guy School. They told me I would have to be escorted out.
At that moment, some of Jonathan's friends noticed the crowd disturbance. They nudged him and told him someone was getting in trouble for taking pictures. They all craned their necks and laughed until Jonathan said in disbelief, "That's my wife!" He was just as surprised as I was that I was getting in trouble for something--and something big enough for security guys.
Thankfully Jonathan vouched for me and I didn't have to leave the store. I got to listen to the actors respond in the question and answer session. For all of the trouble, I wasn't all that impressed. But at least my name was cleared and the red in my face eventually faded.
I could litter this blog with stories like that--stories that explain who I was and who I'm growing to be. I'm at a point in my life where I'm beginning to remember them and to analyze them for their deeper implications. For example, this story says interesting things about the way I see God. I've begun to realize recently that I like to follow rules in my faith life just as much as in other parts of my life. I've had to ask myself a difficult question:
Do I really love God, or do I obey because he's the big security guy in the sky?
I don't know the answer yet. But I'm thankful that Jesus has already vouched for me.
8.03.2009
When you decide to make a banana cake...
... your husband will become sick the same night and not be able to eat it. (Especially because the last time you enjoyed banana cake together was at your wedding and you didn't even get to take home the top tier and eat it a year later because the drummer was shoving it in his goofy grin on his way out of the reception.)
When you've finally recovered from a three month sprain and can run, you will slice the other foot with a steak knife and be reduced to limping again.
These are important life lessons--the talk of bedside tucktime with parents, and visits to the wise old woman on the hill.
"What could they possibly teach me?", you ask.
I will tell you what they can teach you, because they have taught me this:
EAT YOUR CAKE.
Limp to the store, buy fresh saltines to replace the stale, boil a chicken for homemade soup (you hear the fat cures respiratory ailments), bandage your wound, and head to the guestroom for another solitary night of fever-less sleep until your husband recovers.
But before bed, when the trees outside are whispering and the baby next door is crying and the man outside is plucking dissonant guitar strings, eat your cake. Savor it. And imagine that moment four years ago when you smeared it all over your new husband's face (or, at least tried).
Then all the illnesses and fluke injuries from the past few months will melt away like the gooey maple frosting dripping from your nose. And you will be thankful.
*****
Dear Huzzy, here's to sickness and health. I'll be happy to take whatever comes next as long as I have you!
When you've finally recovered from a three month sprain and can run, you will slice the other foot with a steak knife and be reduced to limping again.
These are important life lessons--the talk of bedside tucktime with parents, and visits to the wise old woman on the hill.
"What could they possibly teach me?", you ask.
I will tell you what they can teach you, because they have taught me this:
EAT YOUR CAKE.
Limp to the store, buy fresh saltines to replace the stale, boil a chicken for homemade soup (you hear the fat cures respiratory ailments), bandage your wound, and head to the guestroom for another solitary night of fever-less sleep until your husband recovers.
But before bed, when the trees outside are whispering and the baby next door is crying and the man outside is plucking dissonant guitar strings, eat your cake. Savor it. And imagine that moment four years ago when you smeared it all over your new husband's face (or, at least tried).
Then all the illnesses and fluke injuries from the past few months will melt away like the gooey maple frosting dripping from your nose. And you will be thankful.
*****
Dear Huzzy, here's to sickness and health. I'll be happy to take whatever comes next as long as I have you!
3.13.2009
A Series of Unfortunate Medical Mishaps
I don't usually like to recount stories of illness, but after this week...
March 1, Midnight: After a few weeks of weird chest pain, light-headedness and dizziness, the chest pain gets bad and I think I'm having a heart attack. Jonathan takes me to the ER where, after five hours, I'm semi-diagnosed with Pleurisy (lung membrane inflammation) and given a prescription for pain meds.
March 1, afternoon: After a church lunch of hot dogs and potato salad (I'm regretting it even now) I get painful stomach cramps and wonder if it's food poisoning or related to Pleurisy. It gets worse and I lay in bed the next two days.
March 2: Jonathan's down with a bad cold.
March 3: The doctor tells me I need to have an ultrasound, take more pain meds, and get my two infected ingrown toenails removed at a podiatrist's (one on each side of my left big toe).
March 4: Jonathan gets bit by a dog and the owner runs away.
March 6: Ingrown toenail surgery for me, and Jonathan sees a doctor about the bite who tells him to go to a clinic and get a vaccine. After five hours in the waiting room, the nurse at the clinic tells him our doctor overreacted and that she won't give him a shot because she doesn't know how his body will react.
March 7: I come down with a cold and a plugged up earache and almost lose my voice while leading worship on Sunday a.m.
March 9: Ultrasound (later I get good results)
March 12: On my second run since the toenail surgery, I roll my ankle on a curb and it swells to the size of a tennis ball. My first job interview is scheduled just a few hours later. Thankfully some nearby roofers support/carry me to my door since I don't have the gate opener that would allow us to drive to my door. Now I'm on crutches and unable to drive to a possible new job. *sigh*
To say that Jonathan golfing today and me traveling to St. Louis for a girl's weekend on the 19th makes me slightly nervous would be flirting with understatement. Pray for us.
March 1, Midnight: After a few weeks of weird chest pain, light-headedness and dizziness, the chest pain gets bad and I think I'm having a heart attack. Jonathan takes me to the ER where, after five hours, I'm semi-diagnosed with Pleurisy (lung membrane inflammation) and given a prescription for pain meds.
March 1, afternoon: After a church lunch of hot dogs and potato salad (I'm regretting it even now) I get painful stomach cramps and wonder if it's food poisoning or related to Pleurisy. It gets worse and I lay in bed the next two days.
March 2: Jonathan's down with a bad cold.
March 3: The doctor tells me I need to have an ultrasound, take more pain meds, and get my two infected ingrown toenails removed at a podiatrist's (one on each side of my left big toe).
March 4: Jonathan gets bit by a dog and the owner runs away.
March 6: Ingrown toenail surgery for me, and Jonathan sees a doctor about the bite who tells him to go to a clinic and get a vaccine. After five hours in the waiting room, the nurse at the clinic tells him our doctor overreacted and that she won't give him a shot because she doesn't know how his body will react.
March 7: I come down with a cold and a plugged up earache and almost lose my voice while leading worship on Sunday a.m.
March 9: Ultrasound (later I get good results)
March 12: On my second run since the toenail surgery, I roll my ankle on a curb and it swells to the size of a tennis ball. My first job interview is scheduled just a few hours later. Thankfully some nearby roofers support/carry me to my door since I don't have the gate opener that would allow us to drive to my door. Now I'm on crutches and unable to drive to a possible new job. *sigh*
To say that Jonathan golfing today and me traveling to St. Louis for a girl's weekend on the 19th makes me slightly nervous would be flirting with understatement. Pray for us.
3.06.2009
Notice to all Dog Owners
In the event that you, the rightful owner, take your dog for a walk, and your dog should:
a. be attached to some member of you, the rightful owner, by a leash, or
b. be roaming freely within eyesight or earhear of you, the rightful owner, and
c. bite an innocent passerby,
then you, the rightful owner, should at least have the courtesy to:
a. apologize
b. discipline the dog
c. inquire about the seriousness of the wound on the passerby.
If steps a, b and c are not undertaken by the rightful owner, ill will can be legally issued from the injured passerby onto both the dog and the rightful owner. In the extreme event that the rightful owner and his or her dog runs away from the injured passerby and does not inform the injured passerby of the dog's vaccination history, the dog is entitled to a drop kick from the injured passerby with no protestations or complaints from the rightful owner.*
*Each hour that the injured passerby spends in the ER for a rabies vaccination results in either a drop kick** or the discipline of the injured passerbyer's choice.
**of the dog or the rightful owner
a. be attached to some member of you, the rightful owner, by a leash, or
b. be roaming freely within eyesight or earhear of you, the rightful owner, and
c. bite an innocent passerby,
then you, the rightful owner, should at least have the courtesy to:
a. apologize
b. discipline the dog
c. inquire about the seriousness of the wound on the passerby.
If steps a, b and c are not undertaken by the rightful owner, ill will can be legally issued from the injured passerby onto both the dog and the rightful owner. In the extreme event that the rightful owner and his or her dog runs away from the injured passerby and does not inform the injured passerby of the dog's vaccination history, the dog is entitled to a drop kick from the injured passerby with no protestations or complaints from the rightful owner.*
*Each hour that the injured passerby spends in the ER for a rabies vaccination results in either a drop kick** or the discipline of the injured passerbyer's choice.
**of the dog or the rightful owner
2.04.2009
Why you should read Fantasy
I recently read this product description for a book I want to read by Luci Shaw called The Crime of Living Cautiously:
"Unexpectedly, the moment of opportunity comes to us--the prospect of entering a reality larger than we'd guess. A spacious option opens up before us, an urgent demand that seems to call for special enterprise, life-threatening perils or summons to action. Suddenly we realize that such a chance might never come again. What do you do when faced with such a moment? Do you sometimes get frozen into a state of inaction? Do you wonder if you are wasting the talents God has given you? Or if you enjoy adventure, do you struggle over whether a risk is just a reckless attempt to feed your own needs or a true calling from God?"
The last sentence is what gets me. It's what's been getting to me for the past year and a half as I've struggled to understand my motives in life. London was amazing. Spectacular. Exciting. Challenging. A learning and growing experience for my career, marriage, faith and independence. But by the end of it I was exhausted--ironically not from the growing pains or constant running from here to there, but from my inaction. From my couch potato state of mind. I had spent the entire year consuming, fattening myself up on the luxury of adventure and investing in experiences that would enrich me.
I've had a lot more time to think about my life these past few months, and Shaw's question strikes a deep chord in me. Are my ambitions just selfish needs, or can they be used to better lives? Why do I pursue what I pursue? What's at the heart of my desires? Is more of my time focused on how I can be served, or how I can serve love to a broken world?
It's always been a difficult balance for me, especially financially. I don't know when enough is enough. I never feel like I am generous enough with my time or money or talents. But it's made worse by our "me me me!" culture, and I wonder how much of it has invaded my psyche. We've got a crazy thing called the 'Prosperity Gospel' being preached by people who apparently read the same Bible that I do. (Interpretation is a funny thing...) We've got books in Christian bookstores written about how God wants us to pursue our wildest desires. What does that really mean, wild desires? I'm going to be really honest here and say that I'd have to dig down pretty deep to find even an inkling of what I could call a "wild desire" that wasn't selfish at the core.
I'm not much of a fantasy buff but I have read Harry Potter and The Chronicles of Narnia and part of the Hobbit. And I've watched the Lord of the Rings films and a few other fantasies. Of all the waking moments in my life, it's when I'm involved in these stories that life becomes more real than it ever does in the daylight. I involve myself with the characters, their adventurous life and death struggles and their passionate love affairs, and I place myself in their majestic, tangible world, and I think to myself: this--this is what my life would look like if I drew back the thin screen between the spiritual and physical worlds. I wouldn't recognize my own life. It would be more piercingly colorful and staggeringly horrid and achingly beautiful than I could ever imagine.
If the only thing that divided this world and the next was a wardrobe, or a screen, or death, would I have the guts to go through?
"Unexpectedly, the moment of opportunity comes to us--the prospect of entering a reality larger than we'd guess. A spacious option opens up before us, an urgent demand that seems to call for special enterprise, life-threatening perils or summons to action. Suddenly we realize that such a chance might never come again. What do you do when faced with such a moment? Do you sometimes get frozen into a state of inaction? Do you wonder if you are wasting the talents God has given you? Or if you enjoy adventure, do you struggle over whether a risk is just a reckless attempt to feed your own needs or a true calling from God?"
The last sentence is what gets me. It's what's been getting to me for the past year and a half as I've struggled to understand my motives in life. London was amazing. Spectacular. Exciting. Challenging. A learning and growing experience for my career, marriage, faith and independence. But by the end of it I was exhausted--ironically not from the growing pains or constant running from here to there, but from my inaction. From my couch potato state of mind. I had spent the entire year consuming, fattening myself up on the luxury of adventure and investing in experiences that would enrich me.
I've had a lot more time to think about my life these past few months, and Shaw's question strikes a deep chord in me. Are my ambitions just selfish needs, or can they be used to better lives? Why do I pursue what I pursue? What's at the heart of my desires? Is more of my time focused on how I can be served, or how I can serve love to a broken world?
It's always been a difficult balance for me, especially financially. I don't know when enough is enough. I never feel like I am generous enough with my time or money or talents. But it's made worse by our "me me me!" culture, and I wonder how much of it has invaded my psyche. We've got a crazy thing called the 'Prosperity Gospel' being preached by people who apparently read the same Bible that I do. (Interpretation is a funny thing...) We've got books in Christian bookstores written about how God wants us to pursue our wildest desires. What does that really mean, wild desires? I'm going to be really honest here and say that I'd have to dig down pretty deep to find even an inkling of what I could call a "wild desire" that wasn't selfish at the core.
I'm not much of a fantasy buff but I have read Harry Potter and The Chronicles of Narnia and part of the Hobbit. And I've watched the Lord of the Rings films and a few other fantasies. Of all the waking moments in my life, it's when I'm involved in these stories that life becomes more real than it ever does in the daylight. I involve myself with the characters, their adventurous life and death struggles and their passionate love affairs, and I place myself in their majestic, tangible world, and I think to myself: this--this is what my life would look like if I drew back the thin screen between the spiritual and physical worlds. I wouldn't recognize my own life. It would be more piercingly colorful and staggeringly horrid and achingly beautiful than I could ever imagine.
If the only thing that divided this world and the next was a wardrobe, or a screen, or death, would I have the guts to go through?
12.15.2008
The Man With the Can
Sauntering out of Staples and trying to juggle bag and handbag and newly bought goods. Ready to cross the street. Pause. Tilt head, rotate ear toward the increasing sound of guttural yelling and pavement pounding closer, closer, closer--
just missed by a running dashing baggy man dodging people and store columns and carts and gripping a large white can. Open-mouthed and wide-eyed he races forward fast forward eyes straining--
just missed by two men racing forward fast forward flash of white, Navy white-- the bell man who said: "Feed my can! Feed my can!" now blazing by, in Spanish screaming: "Give me can! Give me can!" hopeless, fighting, mad.
A crowd gathers, rallies.
Two teens run to catch up with the mess.
A clerk from Staples runs out to help.
We watch and wait.
A sour taste on our tongues, for the man who steals small coins, for the man who steals from Christmas, for the man who steals from troops.
Jingle Bells cracking from the speakers.
just missed by a running dashing baggy man dodging people and store columns and carts and gripping a large white can. Open-mouthed and wide-eyed he races forward fast forward eyes straining--
just missed by two men racing forward fast forward flash of white, Navy white-- the bell man who said: "Feed my can! Feed my can!" now blazing by, in Spanish screaming: "Give me can! Give me can!" hopeless, fighting, mad.
A crowd gathers, rallies.
Two teens run to catch up with the mess.
A clerk from Staples runs out to help.
We watch and wait.
A sour taste on our tongues, for the man who steals small coins, for the man who steals from Christmas, for the man who steals from troops.
Jingle Bells cracking from the speakers.
12.11.2008
Maturity Takes a Beating
The townhouse complex we live in only has a limited amounted of parking. Jonathan parks his car in the garage and I park mine in one of two spaces closest to where we live. This is how it went down a few days ago:
Driving into our car park, I noticed that a truck had parked in my spot. Because the owner wasn't around, I pulled into an open spot across from mine, opened my door halfway and heard:
"I hope you don't plan on staying there long." I opened my door wider and saw an older woman sticking her head out of her door, scowling at me. "That's my husband's space."
"I'm sorry, but someone parked in my space, too. That's it over there." I pointed to the spot behind me.
"Well I've lived here for fifteen years and you better go find the person who parked there and tell them to move. Because you're parked in my husband's space and he's getting back in a little while."
I almost laughed, imagining myself knocking on every door in the complex and asking for the truck owner who had parked in my spot. Instead I just got peeved. It really wasn't a big deal, I knew, but she was making it one. Who immediately yells at strangers/quasi-neighbors for something so minor? I asserted, a little too loudly, "I'm leaving in a little bit, but we can switch places if you want," hoping she would see that I was the more mature one and that she was the overreacting one. I noticed the driver of the car was wisely making herself inconspicuous and staying out of the brawl.
"No." She glared at me and repeated herself menacingly. "But he'll be home in a little while."
"I'll switch places with you, I really will."
"It's fine."
We both got out of our cars, shutting the doors a little too hard. She wandered to the end of the parking lot, her back turned to me, waiting for her friend/daughter/someone to gather her things. And I stormed to my apartment. I unpacked my groceries and wondered how many years I had digressed in five minutes of cat fighting. This is what happens when I settle myself into a new "big kids" life and start calling myself an adult.
Driving into our car park, I noticed that a truck had parked in my spot. Because the owner wasn't around, I pulled into an open spot across from mine, opened my door halfway and heard:
"I hope you don't plan on staying there long." I opened my door wider and saw an older woman sticking her head out of her door, scowling at me. "That's my husband's space."
"I'm sorry, but someone parked in my space, too. That's it over there." I pointed to the spot behind me.
"Well I've lived here for fifteen years and you better go find the person who parked there and tell them to move. Because you're parked in my husband's space and he's getting back in a little while."
I almost laughed, imagining myself knocking on every door in the complex and asking for the truck owner who had parked in my spot. Instead I just got peeved. It really wasn't a big deal, I knew, but she was making it one. Who immediately yells at strangers/quasi-neighbors for something so minor? I asserted, a little too loudly, "I'm leaving in a little bit, but we can switch places if you want," hoping she would see that I was the more mature one and that she was the overreacting one. I noticed the driver of the car was wisely making herself inconspicuous and staying out of the brawl.
"No." She glared at me and repeated herself menacingly. "But he'll be home in a little while."
"I'll switch places with you, I really will."
"It's fine."
We both got out of our cars, shutting the doors a little too hard. She wandered to the end of the parking lot, her back turned to me, waiting for her friend/daughter/someone to gather her things. And I stormed to my apartment. I unpacked my groceries and wondered how many years I had digressed in five minutes of cat fighting. This is what happens when I settle myself into a new "big kids" life and start calling myself an adult.
12.02.2008
Teachable
Jonathan loves the movie Miracle. He played hockey most of his childhood and teenage life, so there is an obvious connection to a movie about an Olympic hockey team. But it's more than that. As he was reminding me today, there's an interesting scene towards the beginning when the hockey coach shows up to tryouts to pick his team. After only fifteen minutes, the coach announces that he's already got the guys he wants. People are shocked. One coach reminds him that some of the prospective players haven't even showed up. But the coach is convinced he has his team. Why? Fifteen minutes was all he needed to see how teachable each player would be, and how they would work together as a team.
I always knew it was important to be a learner. But now, more than ever, I'm realizing how much more important it is that someone be willingly teachable, flexible, and pliable, rather than naturally gifted. Of course both are preferred, but here's the thing: even if a child has the potential to be an amazing basketball player, even if he has the natural gifts, he still needs someone to tell him how to shoot a basketball correctly. Or, let's say a basketball team has been playing with each other for three years, beginning their freshman year and working their way up to senior varsity team. A new coach comes on the scene. Partly because he's new and partly because he just has different ideas of how things are done, he starts introducing new drills, plays and techniques. Now, if the team isn't willing to accept his new ideas as good and implement them, if they aren't willing to give up ownership, they won't go very far. Some of them will probably listen to the coach and come of them won't. It'll be difficult to communicate. If they're not willing to learn, it'll be like trying to shoot a ball into a brick wall. Not only does it not go in a hoop and score a point, but it bounces right back atcha for a bruiser face. Not so much fun.
And sometimes that's how I feel.
I always knew it was important to be a learner. But now, more than ever, I'm realizing how much more important it is that someone be willingly teachable, flexible, and pliable, rather than naturally gifted. Of course both are preferred, but here's the thing: even if a child has the potential to be an amazing basketball player, even if he has the natural gifts, he still needs someone to tell him how to shoot a basketball correctly. Or, let's say a basketball team has been playing with each other for three years, beginning their freshman year and working their way up to senior varsity team. A new coach comes on the scene. Partly because he's new and partly because he just has different ideas of how things are done, he starts introducing new drills, plays and techniques. Now, if the team isn't willing to accept his new ideas as good and implement them, if they aren't willing to give up ownership, they won't go very far. Some of them will probably listen to the coach and come of them won't. It'll be difficult to communicate. If they're not willing to learn, it'll be like trying to shoot a ball into a brick wall. Not only does it not go in a hoop and score a point, but it bounces right back atcha for a bruiser face. Not so much fun.
And sometimes that's how I feel.
11.15.2008
Fear Number 2
I'm still amazed by the divisiveness of the election. People who normally profess the same beliefs, hopes, wonders and fears, people who would, in most cases, agree especially about the fundamental truths of their faith and their relationship with Christ, have taken up (and still reside) on opposite sides of enemy lines. And it confuses me for one reason: when Jesus came, he did not come to establish a political kingdom. He was not concerned with the Roman occupation, as Philip Yancey says in his book, The Jesus I Never Knew. This is a whole world apart from God’s Kingdom. I think too many Christians are placing their hope in the non-existent saving powers of government, believing that legislation equals redemption. It doesn't. It never will. It was never Jesus' goal while he was on earth. So why the fear of God's judgement on the country, when all we have control over is his judgement on ourselves individually?
But on the other side of fear is apathy and disrespect. There are people who are too spiritually motivated to care about our present and physical world. We saw the repercussions of this thought trend in the early twentieth century, when a generation decided they didn’t care about the poor, the hurting, because the “social gospel,” as they hatefully termed it, endangered the true Gospel message (it did in extreme cases, but that's another story). Today some people are still choosing this stance, especially when it comes to respecting and caring for our world. It’ll all pass away anyway, right? Why should we make the effort to recycle? To conserve energy? To provide food and shelter and healing for people? But to think this way is crazy. It would be like not going to the doctor when you’re sick because you know you’ll die eventually anyway. There are people out there who can't even begin to care about their spiritual wellness (or in fact, care about it more than we know because it's all they have) until their physical needs are met.
Too many of us are driven by unnecessary fear. In other words, we fear something that's out of our hands. I will not spend my life in California worrying that my stuff will get stolen. First of all, it's just stuff. Second of all, to use a still too underrated phrase: worrying doesn't solve anything. It's true. And this is true for our country as well.
But on the other side of fear is apathy and disrespect. There are people who are too spiritually motivated to care about our present and physical world. We saw the repercussions of this thought trend in the early twentieth century, when a generation decided they didn’t care about the poor, the hurting, because the “social gospel,” as they hatefully termed it, endangered the true Gospel message (it did in extreme cases, but that's another story). Today some people are still choosing this stance, especially when it comes to respecting and caring for our world. It’ll all pass away anyway, right? Why should we make the effort to recycle? To conserve energy? To provide food and shelter and healing for people? But to think this way is crazy. It would be like not going to the doctor when you’re sick because you know you’ll die eventually anyway. There are people out there who can't even begin to care about their spiritual wellness (or in fact, care about it more than we know because it's all they have) until their physical needs are met.
Too many of us are driven by unnecessary fear. In other words, we fear something that's out of our hands. I will not spend my life in California worrying that my stuff will get stolen. First of all, it's just stuff. Second of all, to use a still too underrated phrase: worrying doesn't solve anything. It's true. And this is true for our country as well.
Fear Number 1
It's Saturday morning and I should be picture hanging or desk organising. But I have a full cup of coffee to drink and the sun is shining just so on our dining room carpet, somehow reminding me of all the blog topics accumulating on my brain (and the fact that I've been wanting to write at all, full stop). Two have to do with unnecessary fear, one has to do with the theft stories I hear daily.
For those of you who don't know the central valley area well, let me just tell you that for the first time in my life we're getting renter's insurance. I'm taking my CD player out of my car every time I go into the grocery story. This is all a bit unexpected (although I had heard about the crime rate before we arrived--thankfully not violent crime, but still theft) but it doesn't help when I try to rationalize my fear away while in conversation with a local, expecting them to do the same, only to have them validate my fear by telling me more stories about their mother who lives in a nice neighbourhood near church who has had four break-ins in the last week. Then I turn on the news and hear about the nice church-going people in Stockton whose cars are being robbed while they're in the services and it all just makes me wonder how I'm going to set up a life here. We should not have to live in fear of our computers being taken every time we leave the house!
Not to deter people from visiting, of course--we do live in a gated community which helps a lot, and the people who lived here before us were never robbed, and they lived here three and a half years...
For those of you who don't know the central valley area well, let me just tell you that for the first time in my life we're getting renter's insurance. I'm taking my CD player out of my car every time I go into the grocery story. This is all a bit unexpected (although I had heard about the crime rate before we arrived--thankfully not violent crime, but still theft) but it doesn't help when I try to rationalize my fear away while in conversation with a local, expecting them to do the same, only to have them validate my fear by telling me more stories about their mother who lives in a nice neighbourhood near church who has had four break-ins in the last week. Then I turn on the news and hear about the nice church-going people in Stockton whose cars are being robbed while they're in the services and it all just makes me wonder how I'm going to set up a life here. We should not have to live in fear of our computers being taken every time we leave the house!
Not to deter people from visiting, of course--we do live in a gated community which helps a lot, and the people who lived here before us were never robbed, and they lived here three and a half years...
7.29.2008
A Short Commercial Break
I have a major in Theology. It's not something I tell everyone I meet--often I'll just tell them that I majored in English so as to avoid explaining that I haven't found a practical use for it yet and might not ever, but I wanted to do it just for the heckuvit. I was interested. Why not? (And maybe it had something to do with the fact that I had taken courses towards a Director of Christian Education certification and didn't want them to go to complete waste...)
But recently the theology topics make me tired. I've been reading a novel that's on the bestseller list, and in it a man encounters God in a slightly unconventional way--or rather, the God he meets is 'unconventional' as compared to our typical assumptions. I know I'm only in the first few pages, but eventually I had to set it down in favor of recreational blog scanning, despite what everyone has told me about the book's redemptive story. It's not that I have a problem with it like some people do (some people call it new age-ish and name a laundry list of other theological problems) but for me, as a reader and a writer, theological dialogue with no action gets to be overwhelming after awhile.
At first I felt guilty feeling like this. I thought maybe it's because I've left the building, so to speak. I admit I haven't been attending church on a regular basis this summer. I've left the so-called "Christian nation" if there is one. And I've been hanging out with a lot of people who are not self-professed Christians. But it's not that I'm tired of God--I think it's more that I'm just tired of talking and conversing and thinking and hemming and hawing about 'topics' and 'subjects' and 'doctrine' and things related to God, like he's a book or a philosophy to digest.
The only thing i can compare it to is a workday spent sitting in an office chair versus a day of hard, sweaty, manual labor.
But recently the theology topics make me tired. I've been reading a novel that's on the bestseller list, and in it a man encounters God in a slightly unconventional way--or rather, the God he meets is 'unconventional' as compared to our typical assumptions. I know I'm only in the first few pages, but eventually I had to set it down in favor of recreational blog scanning, despite what everyone has told me about the book's redemptive story. It's not that I have a problem with it like some people do (some people call it new age-ish and name a laundry list of other theological problems) but for me, as a reader and a writer, theological dialogue with no action gets to be overwhelming after awhile.
At first I felt guilty feeling like this. I thought maybe it's because I've left the building, so to speak. I admit I haven't been attending church on a regular basis this summer. I've left the so-called "Christian nation" if there is one. And I've been hanging out with a lot of people who are not self-professed Christians. But it's not that I'm tired of God--I think it's more that I'm just tired of talking and conversing and thinking and hemming and hawing about 'topics' and 'subjects' and 'doctrine' and things related to God, like he's a book or a philosophy to digest.
The only thing i can compare it to is a workday spent sitting in an office chair versus a day of hard, sweaty, manual labor.
6.17.2008
And So It Goes
The title of a song I sang in high school choir. Don't remember the writer but it popped into my head as I thought about the changes coming up this year. Well, that and the fact that Jonathan's sitting next to me playing his guitar and singing about watching the tides roll by...and for the record, our apartment does not have a view of the Thames.
I didn't think we'd be returning to the States until at least a year had passed. But after a whirlwind interview process, we found out just a few days ago that Jonathan and I are being flown out to Lodi, CA June 25th-29th. Considering the timing, it's unfortunate that the church isn't located in St. Louis or we could also make it to my friend Becky's wedding (and actually meet her fiance for the first time, which would be nice). But the wedding and the miles between California and our family are seemingly the only downsides to the deal. Jonathan and I are already impressed with the church's attitude towards mission, community, service, worship, and team-based ministry.
We've already been to Lodi since we have friends that live (and lived) there. It's located in the central valley of Northern Cal about 45 minutes from Sacramento and an hour and a half to San Francisco. Our beloved Lake Tahoe is only 2 hours away, fabulous friends in Reno are 3 hours away, Napa is an hour, Yosemite is just up the State, and now we don't have to lament the fact that we didn't manage to fit in a trek on the Pacific Coast Highway when we lived in Reno.
But of course, now that "the end" of our adventure in London is in sight, I have inbetweeny discomfort--the kind of discomfort that Harry Potter feels when he uses the Floo Network and has his head in a fireplace in Hogwarts and the rest of him in the fireplace at the Weasley's. Or the weird squeezy space transportation that squishes Meg into A Wrinkle in Time.
Here? or There? I feel like I just started acclimating (hence my appropriate use of adjectives ending in "y" in the above paragraph, a cutesy British linguistic habit--i.e. squeezy honey, chewy chews, etc.) Most of the time I like it here and I don't want to leave. I love traveling. I love theatre. I love live music. I love English culture. I love my job. But then there are those times when I go out late at night and have to walk to a bus and deal with drunk, swearing Aussie's throwing food wrappers at me for an hour. . . That's when I want to be able to go back to stay out as late as I want and drive myself home, not rely on public transport. But then again, will I be able to afford to drive when I finally go back to the U.S. of A.'s current economic tragedy?
Here? or There? Eventually I'll be ready. But until then, I still have three months to savor Londony.
I didn't think we'd be returning to the States until at least a year had passed. But after a whirlwind interview process, we found out just a few days ago that Jonathan and I are being flown out to Lodi, CA June 25th-29th. Considering the timing, it's unfortunate that the church isn't located in St. Louis or we could also make it to my friend Becky's wedding (and actually meet her fiance for the first time, which would be nice). But the wedding and the miles between California and our family are seemingly the only downsides to the deal. Jonathan and I are already impressed with the church's attitude towards mission, community, service, worship, and team-based ministry.
We've already been to Lodi since we have friends that live (and lived) there. It's located in the central valley of Northern Cal about 45 minutes from Sacramento and an hour and a half to San Francisco. Our beloved Lake Tahoe is only 2 hours away, fabulous friends in Reno are 3 hours away, Napa is an hour, Yosemite is just up the State, and now we don't have to lament the fact that we didn't manage to fit in a trek on the Pacific Coast Highway when we lived in Reno.
But of course, now that "the end" of our adventure in London is in sight, I have inbetweeny discomfort--the kind of discomfort that Harry Potter feels when he uses the Floo Network and has his head in a fireplace in Hogwarts and the rest of him in the fireplace at the Weasley's. Or the weird squeezy space transportation that squishes Meg into A Wrinkle in Time.
Here? or There? I feel like I just started acclimating (hence my appropriate use of adjectives ending in "y" in the above paragraph, a cutesy British linguistic habit--i.e. squeezy honey, chewy chews, etc.) Most of the time I like it here and I don't want to leave. I love traveling. I love theatre. I love live music. I love English culture. I love my job. But then there are those times when I go out late at night and have to walk to a bus and deal with drunk, swearing Aussie's throwing food wrappers at me for an hour. . . That's when I want to be able to go back to stay out as late as I want and drive myself home, not rely on public transport. But then again, will I be able to afford to drive when I finally go back to the U.S. of A.'s current economic tragedy?
Here? or There? Eventually I'll be ready. But until then, I still have three months to savor Londony.
6.13.2008
Peeve
3 separate mornings this week I poured a glass of cranberry juice in the morning and drank it with breakfast, went to brush my teeth, and while the mint was still fresh on my tongue, i looked on the table and saw an inch of juice left in my glass. 3 separate times. What can this mean?
4.24.2008
The Meanest Monster
Finally I just get tired. Tired of regret, tired of guilt, tired of rehashing the same old unforgivable situations over and over in my head. And it mostly happens when I'm trying to sleep, thinking that all that thinking has to put me to sleep eventually-- but instead it riles me up into a tightly bound bunch of frayed wires, my eyes sparking dangerously close to the outlet next to my bed. One of these days my anxiety will electrocute me, an ironic twist of humor that would complement my first electrocution experience which was caused by the furthest thing from anxiety: a five year-old's imagination. I was confident as the housewife of a magnificent hotel bathroom, and I took it upon myself to "open the door" for my cousin by falling for one of the oldest tricks in the book--keys in the outlet. (Hence my firm belief in the use of outlet covers.) I can still remember the neon blue, bony arms that jumped out of the outlet at me, wrapping themselves around my stomach and squeezing the air out of me. I managed to scream and my parents came running. They put me in therapy because I walked all the way around a room in order to avoid walking next to an outlet, and I drew pictures of the outlet monster to get over my fear.
That's the long way around, but maybe it explains the suffocation I feel from regret. I just haven't quite figured out the therapy this time. Do I try to move on and forget, as I've done for most of my life? Do I write about it, hide the file away and never look at it again, or print it off and burn it? Or do I speak to the people I've hurt, attempting expired apologies?
I've never been adept with confrontation, but marriage has taught me to deal with frustration instead of shoving it into a closet like I used to do. I've always heard that with a spouse, the one thing you must never do is "let the sun go down on your anger." It's probably the most quoted Biblical advice I've ever come across. But frankly, I wish it was used for other relationships just as much as for marriage, because if I had learned it a long time ago, maybe I wouldn't be suffering another night of insomnia.
That's the long way around, but maybe it explains the suffocation I feel from regret. I just haven't quite figured out the therapy this time. Do I try to move on and forget, as I've done for most of my life? Do I write about it, hide the file away and never look at it again, or print it off and burn it? Or do I speak to the people I've hurt, attempting expired apologies?
I've never been adept with confrontation, but marriage has taught me to deal with frustration instead of shoving it into a closet like I used to do. I've always heard that with a spouse, the one thing you must never do is "let the sun go down on your anger." It's probably the most quoted Biblical advice I've ever come across. But frankly, I wish it was used for other relationships just as much as for marriage, because if I had learned it a long time ago, maybe I wouldn't be suffering another night of insomnia.
4.01.2008
Check Out War
I have nothing against bagging my own groceries. Really. But why is it that I seem to be the only Londoner who notices the sudden fast forwarding of time when it's my turn with the checker?
This is how it goes. I prepare for battle: I choose a checkout line, line up my items on the conveyor belt, unfold my cloth bags and place them in an easily accessible position. I pull out my money and nectar card so they're ready for the draw, push back my hair, lean forward in action pose and take a deep breath. I peer at the customer ahead of me and watch her every move: she bags her groceries. She pays the cashier calmly, completely unruffled. I'm almost tricked into believing that maybe it was just in my head last time? That maybe I'll be okay? No! I can't lose my edge. I shake my head and watch her pick up her grocery bags and then I'm off! The seemingly short distance between the queue and the bagging area takes longer than I thought. Luckily I've jumped out of my reverie into action, only to notice that I'm already behind, so I've got to make up for it with my deft agility. The cashier flings my groceries one by one across the scanner (my eggs!) and rams them into my carefully set up bags. I hurry to set the poor things up again and get in my rhythm but as I do I notice with dismay that the checker is sabotaging my efforts to strategically manage the weight distribution of the groceries in the bags. After all the pains I went through--putting all the heaviest items first so they could go first and be in the bottom of the bags, that clever little b is reaching farther up the belt and picking up the lightest items to scan first. My plans are going awry. More items sneak past my grasp and sweat pours from my face and I'm feeling the pressure. Her pile is growing smaller and mine is exploding out of control. Any moment she'll be finished before I'm halfway through and she'll tell me how much I owe. My survival instincts take over. I throw the eggs sidewise by the soup cans, drop the milk under the bread and somehow squeeze the grapes between the chicken and the toilet paper. As I pick up the peppers an impatient voice cuts through the clatter and tells me the amount I owe, as if I've forgotten that I have to pay. I grind my teeth and hold back my suddenly unquenchable desire to open the bag of flour and douse her, and instead juggle with the money and card. I manage to hand the cash to her and then hurry to bag a few groceries before she gives me change, but I've only had time to put the lettuce in. There's still an armful of items to pack when she hands me my money and I have holes in my hands so the coins fall everywhere.
I'm red in the face, twitchy and blazing saddles mad when I hear a barely audible sarcastic cough (I swear I heard a sarcastic tone). She doesn't have to say it. Her marching gorilla body, her territorial odor and her polite "excuse me" signal-- they loom in my periphery and they say it all: I need to leave the bagging premises or else. OR ELSE WHAT? I want to cackle. I want to laugh an evil laugh and make them think they made me crazy and that now they'll have to deal with a crazy woman throwing tomatoes and smashing eggs and causing a ruckus in the bagging premises.
But I don't. Instead I walk away and think that If Sainsbury's was the only thing I knew of the world, I'd swear it was conspiring against me.
This is how it goes. I prepare for battle: I choose a checkout line, line up my items on the conveyor belt, unfold my cloth bags and place them in an easily accessible position. I pull out my money and nectar card so they're ready for the draw, push back my hair, lean forward in action pose and take a deep breath. I peer at the customer ahead of me and watch her every move: she bags her groceries. She pays the cashier calmly, completely unruffled. I'm almost tricked into believing that maybe it was just in my head last time? That maybe I'll be okay? No! I can't lose my edge. I shake my head and watch her pick up her grocery bags and then I'm off! The seemingly short distance between the queue and the bagging area takes longer than I thought. Luckily I've jumped out of my reverie into action, only to notice that I'm already behind, so I've got to make up for it with my deft agility. The cashier flings my groceries one by one across the scanner (my eggs!) and rams them into my carefully set up bags. I hurry to set the poor things up again and get in my rhythm but as I do I notice with dismay that the checker is sabotaging my efforts to strategically manage the weight distribution of the groceries in the bags. After all the pains I went through--putting all the heaviest items first so they could go first and be in the bottom of the bags, that clever little b is reaching farther up the belt and picking up the lightest items to scan first. My plans are going awry. More items sneak past my grasp and sweat pours from my face and I'm feeling the pressure. Her pile is growing smaller and mine is exploding out of control. Any moment she'll be finished before I'm halfway through and she'll tell me how much I owe. My survival instincts take over. I throw the eggs sidewise by the soup cans, drop the milk under the bread and somehow squeeze the grapes between the chicken and the toilet paper. As I pick up the peppers an impatient voice cuts through the clatter and tells me the amount I owe, as if I've forgotten that I have to pay. I grind my teeth and hold back my suddenly unquenchable desire to open the bag of flour and douse her, and instead juggle with the money and card. I manage to hand the cash to her and then hurry to bag a few groceries before she gives me change, but I've only had time to put the lettuce in. There's still an armful of items to pack when she hands me my money and I have holes in my hands so the coins fall everywhere.
I'm red in the face, twitchy and blazing saddles mad when I hear a barely audible sarcastic cough (I swear I heard a sarcastic tone). She doesn't have to say it. Her marching gorilla body, her territorial odor and her polite "excuse me" signal-- they loom in my periphery and they say it all: I need to leave the bagging premises or else. OR ELSE WHAT? I want to cackle. I want to laugh an evil laugh and make them think they made me crazy and that now they'll have to deal with a crazy woman throwing tomatoes and smashing eggs and causing a ruckus in the bagging premises.
But I don't. Instead I walk away and think that If Sainsbury's was the only thing I knew of the world, I'd swear it was conspiring against me.
3.17.2008
Just a Little Thing
Can a conversation be a blister? I had one last week that's been festering pus in my brain and I can't get rid of it, except maybe if I blog about it.
Basically: The friend I conversed with (we'll call him "Mr. Man") related the account of his recent journey to a far away island. He went to visit a friend. His friend, he said, is very energized and "spiritual": he played Mr. Man tape after tape of the YOU CAN BE SUCCESSFUL! motivational speech. Mr. Man said he was impressed with the ambitiousness of his friend, a friend that believes you can reap abundance if you just set your mind to it. Mr. Man said he most appreciated that his friend didn't believe in any of that "little self-sacrifice stuff."
Little self-sacrifice?
I'm 25 years old. I acknowledge my young and inexperienced outlook on life, and I rely on the wisdom of my elders. But Mr. Man is a quarter of a century older than me, and if I understood him correctly (and I hope not) he seems to have missed out on the FUNDAMENTAL premise of life. Does he realize that he would not be where he is today without the self-sacrifice of the people who have entered his life? We could begin with his mother, who sacrificed her own comfort and independence to give birth to him; we could mention his father who worked to feed and cloth and shelter him. We could talk about his friends who celebrate birthdays with him, colleagues who stay late to help him finish projects, children who smother him with hugs and hours of joy, a wife who gave up a career to be a lover and mother, and a God who, unable to stand the thought of being eternally separated from him, gave his son's life for him.
If all of humanity could open their eyes, look past their pursuit of greedy pleasure and see the vitality of life that streams from self-sacrifice, we wouldn't see discomfort. We wouldn't lose the race. We would get a glimpse of the incarnated ideal we once had, the sensuous garden that haunts our dreams no matter how many thousands of years separate us from it.
We would see that to lose our life is to save it.
Basically: The friend I conversed with (we'll call him "Mr. Man") related the account of his recent journey to a far away island. He went to visit a friend. His friend, he said, is very energized and "spiritual": he played Mr. Man tape after tape of the YOU CAN BE SUCCESSFUL! motivational speech. Mr. Man said he was impressed with the ambitiousness of his friend, a friend that believes you can reap abundance if you just set your mind to it. Mr. Man said he most appreciated that his friend didn't believe in any of that "little self-sacrifice stuff."
Little self-sacrifice?
I'm 25 years old. I acknowledge my young and inexperienced outlook on life, and I rely on the wisdom of my elders. But Mr. Man is a quarter of a century older than me, and if I understood him correctly (and I hope not) he seems to have missed out on the FUNDAMENTAL premise of life. Does he realize that he would not be where he is today without the self-sacrifice of the people who have entered his life? We could begin with his mother, who sacrificed her own comfort and independence to give birth to him; we could mention his father who worked to feed and cloth and shelter him. We could talk about his friends who celebrate birthdays with him, colleagues who stay late to help him finish projects, children who smother him with hugs and hours of joy, a wife who gave up a career to be a lover and mother, and a God who, unable to stand the thought of being eternally separated from him, gave his son's life for him.
If all of humanity could open their eyes, look past their pursuit of greedy pleasure and see the vitality of life that streams from self-sacrifice, we wouldn't see discomfort. We wouldn't lose the race. We would get a glimpse of the incarnated ideal we once had, the sensuous garden that haunts our dreams no matter how many thousands of years separate us from it.
We would see that to lose our life is to save it.
3.12.2008
The Bag Lady
Or shall I call her the Shawl Lady? That's how you'll know her. Stroll through the cobblestoned streets in Mayfair near the Park Lane Hotel, and pass the one-of-a-kind Polish Mexican Bistro (take a good look because you won't see too many of these in your lifetime). Walk through the doorway of the King's Arm pub, follow the carpeted stairs and slide your hand up the smooth wooden banister. At the top, turn left. See the cozy booth in the corner? Under the lamplight? The one with the bench that aligns crookedly with the wall? Don't be deceived, my friend... it's not as friendly as it looks. That's where you will sit when you encounter. . . (queue scary music: *dun dun dun!*) . . . the Shawl Lady! (queue *screams*)
On a dark and stormy night, my American friends and I enjoyed a Sunday night pint and couldn't be bothered by the goings-on among other guests.I didn't think much of her. I half-noticed her and an older man sitting at a table for two across from the cozy bench. But one of our friends noticed the Shawl Lady's frequent walks by our table.
When the last call bell had rung and it was time to go, we gathered our things and prepared to exit the pub. That's when we noticed that a small white purse was missing from our possession. After using our critical thinking skills, we deduced that the Shawl Lady was the only person who passed by our table, the only person who had access to the purse that my friend, who was sitting on the end of the table, had slung over the back of the chair. The Shawl Lady's shawl happened to be the perfect size for hiding little white purses.
Let this be a lesson to those who dream big dreams full of London travels. Do not forsake your purse on the tube, on the pavement, in a restaurant or in a pub--keep your bag close to you and caress it, love it, protect it. And above all, watch out for the Shawl Lady.
On a dark and stormy night, my American friends and I enjoyed a Sunday night pint and couldn't be bothered by the goings-on among other guests.I didn't think much of her. I half-noticed her and an older man sitting at a table for two across from the cozy bench. But one of our friends noticed the Shawl Lady's frequent walks by our table.
When the last call bell had rung and it was time to go, we gathered our things and prepared to exit the pub. That's when we noticed that a small white purse was missing from our possession. After using our critical thinking skills, we deduced that the Shawl Lady was the only person who passed by our table, the only person who had access to the purse that my friend, who was sitting on the end of the table, had slung over the back of the chair. The Shawl Lady's shawl happened to be the perfect size for hiding little white purses.
Let this be a lesson to those who dream big dreams full of London travels. Do not forsake your purse on the tube, on the pavement, in a restaurant or in a pub--keep your bag close to you and caress it, love it, protect it. And above all, watch out for the Shawl Lady.
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