albertine

Two posts in one day? Could it be true?

Yes. But only because my last post was long and I didn't want this second, and completely unrelated, post to get lost in the madness (madness. haha. get it, my last blog was on my fear of being seen as crazy... madness... get it? umm....).

Here's a song I've fallen in love with lately. It's by Brooke Fraser, off her CD Albertine, which is the only Christian CD by a female artist I think I have ever bought, and I seriously do not regret my purchase. I could write things about a few of her songs, but this one touches something in me. She wrote it about Rwanda, but her thoughts are so very similar to how I think of West Virginia, and how I know people think about Indonesia, or Ukraine, or India. 

Enough talking, here's the song:

"Albertine"

I am sitting still.

I think of Angelique

Her mother's voice over me

And the bullets in the wall where it fell silent.

And on a thousandth hill, I think of Albertine

There in her eyes what I don't see with my own

Rwanda

Now that I have seen, I am responsible

Faith without deeds is dead

Now that I have held you in my own arms, I cannot let go till you are

I am on a plan across a distant sea

But I carry you with me

and the dust on, the dust on, the dust on my feet

Rwanda

I will tell the world

I will tell them where I've been

I will keep my word

I will tell them, Albertine

unfair, I tell you!

I think of things every day that inspire me to think, "Well, that would make a great blog". Of course I forget them by the time I am sitting in front of my computer at the end of the day, so you never get to experience whatever words of humor and inspiration I have come up with. So just know that somewhere within me is lots of deep wisdom aching to come out... I just tend to forget exactly what that wisdom is.

So here's something that was bothering me the other day. (Isn't that the easy way to start blogs? By ranting about something so ridiculous that no human would ever sit and give you their listening energy to actually hear? Anyway.) So I have just begun the process of applying for grad schools, and part of the application essay is to talk about times when you have struggled with oppression or overcome adversity. I feel like I've faced my share of challenges in my life, as most people have. Problem is, my "adversity" didn't come in the form of someone telling me that I couldn't do something, or growing up significantly lacking in some key element, or having a disease, or struggling with racial or ethnic identity. My struggle has been entirely internal-- and as I've come to find over the past few years, internal struggles, however controlled or in the past they may be, only raise a red flag of "CRAZY!" in many people's minds.

This pisses me off.

The sad truth of the matter is that there is still a HUGE stigma about "mental illness" and all of its relatives. Just because I spent a large part of my childhood struggling with anxiety in a very serious way does not mean that I am incapable of excelling at a job or academic program. Anyone who knows me can testify to my ability to function in society with intelligence, passion, thoughtfulness, and reponsibility. Yet if I mention my past challenges with anxiety, will the nameless entities reviewing my grad school application become concerned about my mental stability and ability to succeed in a stressful environment?

Of course it would be much easier and safer to leave the whole subject out entirely. But they don't understand-- my struggle with such things in my childhood and teenage years helped make me who I am. It is because I understand how difficult and scary it can be to go through something like that and not know where to turn for help that I want to become a social worker. I learned perseverance, my own strength, the kindness of others. I learned how to challenge what I thought were my limitations. I learned to appreciate the issues that other people face. Wouldn't all these things make me a better social worker? But I fear they won't be able to see past the bright red Crazy flag flying all over my application...

Argh. It isn't like the anxiety was my fault. Yet people see "mental illnesses" as a flaw in someone's character, unlike how physical illnesses are viewed. I guess I'll just have to lose my job, sell all my belongings, walk barefoot across Washington and then write about my time spent in nature with nothing but physical pain to keep me company, just to prove that I'll be a good social worker.

graham cracker mornings

Whenever my phone rings and wakes me from whatever sleep I have managed to obtain in my frigid bedroom, it always takes me a few minutes to convince myself that it is, in fact, a phone call and NOT my alarm and therefore, I should answer it. So once I got that fact straightened out this morning, I heard the voice of one of my coworkers tell me that I needed to go into work and cover for her since her car wouldn't start. I yawned in the early morning darkness-- I swear I could see my breath, by the way-- and told her it would be no problem. Then I hung up the phone and contemplated my new reality of going in to work much earlier than anticipated. And get this... I was EXCITED.

What's not to like about a job where I can stumble in wearing pajamas, if I need to, and eat breakfast while I'm there? Where I get to say "Good Morning!" to kids who I have come to really love and care about? Where I can spend an hour getting beat at Mancala and playing a never-ending game of War, and it's my job? Seriously. If I have ever had a job that I don't mind spending extra unplanned hours at, this is it. As I said goodbye to the kids as they left this morning, adding the "See you after school!" tag (since I will), I felt very mother-ish. It is kind of an interesting responsibility to be the last one a kid sees before they go to school and the first one they see when they are done. It is a realm normally inhabited by parents, and I feel like it fits in a sort of "off" way-- like a jacket with shoulder pads, or something. But I like it, and I like these kids. And no matter how many hours I am NOT getting between my two jobs and how much economic logic dictates I should try to find one FULL time job that provides a more reliable income... I'm not leaving. Not yet. 

So to all of you with your office jobs and nice paychecks and business casual attire, I say this: Have fun with your swivelly desk chairs, and your computer monitors, and your coffee breaks. I'm happy spending my days sitting at a table covered in marker, eating graham crackers while I lose yet another game of Mancala to a nine-year-old.

back again

It's been a while since I have posted anything in here. I often think about posting something, but then the pressure to write something good hits me, and I am afraid that there is no way I can make my day to day activities and thoughts as interesting as everyone else seems to. I mean, I was an English major, right? I should be able to churn out an interesting blog entry every once in a while. Every other SPU English Department alum seems to. Well, anyway. This blog is about my life, not theirs. 

So I'm getting married. About, uh.... 62 years too early, according to the estimation I swore by until a little over a year ago. Sometimes this makes me feel old, like when I talk about cooking in "my kitchen" and look at couches at Crate and Barrel. And sometimes, this makes me feel young, especially when I meet with potential vendors and become acutely aware of how much I resemble a preteen. But both ways, getting married is equally terrifying and amazingly exciting. No one ever talks about how scary being in love is. You've been given something incredible and you can't imagine your life ever being without it again, and suddenly, you've got something to lose. The stakes are higher. But at the same time, it's great. Okay... I'm starting to ramble. My point: being in love is scary but only because of how much the person means to you. Alright.

So now things like centerpieces and wedding dresses and favors have entered my life. I have watched enough episodes of Bridezillas to know what not to do, and I think I have a good enough attitude about it being just one day that I won't go all crazy. Still, the wedding industy is a large and tempting monster. Sometimes it looks friendly, but then I back up a little bit and see teeth and saliva and realize I am staring straight down its throat-- and that it has really bad breath. So then I run. So I think I'm okay. 

This is my life now: stalking wedding blogs instead of facebook, watching past seasons of Lost, checking out world music from the library to expose my kids at work to other cultures, and driving from Ballard to Burien. Life is different now than I expected it to be. Not such a bad thing, I think.

hello, my name is

I have underestimated the power of being known. 

I never understood how deeply significant it can be to have someone know my name, or what I order at a certain restaurant, or how I am feeling when I make that face or have that tone of voice or say that certain thing. Being known is a weighty thing, no matter what level it is on. It has the power to validate my existence, reveal the depth of a relationship, exemplify someone's care for me. It makes me feel worthwhile. It makes me feel human.

When I started working at a small cafe/shipping center, I didn't have a clue how much having "regulars" would mean to me. I love that I have customers who come in every day, know my name, and take the time to share a little bit of their lives with me. They know when I normally work; I know their habits and how they like things just so. There is something inherently amazing about having someone recognize who you are and know that you are going to take care of them like you have in the past. It seems a small thing, but even that one thing--someone knowing my name--is incredible. 

I also love that the baristas at work now know what I drink, and how I like my mochas with a little more chocolate and my Italian sodas with less half and half. And then there is how Ryan knows what I order at restaurants we always go to, or Mykell saves the sandwiches she knows that I like at the cafe, or Chris knows what music I'll like. Little things, I know, but they add up to someone paying attention to who I am and what I do every day-- and that means something.

In the past two years I have learned more about relationships than I ever thought possible. I have learned the power of having someone know you for who you are, and how important it is to seek to know others as well. I've begun to learn what it means to truly care about someone, and how much that grows with the more you come to know about that person. I've found people who know me on a deeper level than anyone ever has-- people who know what I need when I am stressed out and people who know how to tell when I am really excited (okay, actually just one person on that one) and people who know my deepest hopes for life. And more than anything, I've felt the grace and love offered to me by those people. They have showed me that it is okay to be who I am.

What is my point in all of this? We cannot forget the power of knowing another person. Even calling someone by name affirms their very existence and worth. In West Virginia, many of the people we worked with were more touched that people remembered that they existed than by the free construction done on their homes. We all want to feel like people see us. We all want to be human. 

And to be honest, even after being with Ryan for a year, it still does something to me when I hear him say my name.

fish and chips, flowers, and clearance sales.

Yesterday was a wonderful day.

Sun-- real, warm sun, not the winter sun that shines but is still cold. 

Shorts and flip-flips for the first time in Seattle this year. 

Hugs.

Driving with windows rolled down.

Sunglasses.

Fish and chips and the pier. (with no fried bread!)

Pike Place.

Beautiful flowers from Pike Place.

Holding hands to shove through crowds.

Attempts to find my favorite kind of tulip I saw at the Tulip Festival.

Carkeek.

Relaxing in the sun and not getting hit by the remote control airplane.

REI clearance sale and new hiking gear.

Not having to sit in the train car at the Spaghetti Factory.

A boy who eats the pistachio out of the spumoni ice cream (because I don't like it) and gives me the rest.

Getting to be with my favorite person.

Not wishing for one second I was in Maui with my roommates :) .

dry

I've been feeling more like a shell lately than a person. My days are blank, just dates on a calendar with hours I am busy and not much else. I am an outline that can't seem to get filled in. I find myself searching every aspect of my life for the hole that has drained the life out of my days, but I can't seem to find it. I push and pull at events and activities and people, trying to squeeze a few more drops of meaning from them, meaning that I know is there but just cannot reach. It eludes me at every turn. And when I do find it, it is not enough. I am not full.

Sitting on my bed in the quietness of the evening, hearing only the faint sounds of leftover rain finally finding its way from the leaves to the ground, I could do nothing but stare. Nothing felt satisfying. I am so numb that even sleep is not appealing, since even temporary unconsciousness cannot refill what I have lost somewhere. Eyes wandering around my room, they stopped a moment on my copy of Eugene Peterson's "The Message".

It has been a long time since I opened this book. In college, frustrated with the way that the modern church seems to find it necessary to dumb down the Bible to reach the mass market, I chose to prefer the translations that didn't make Bible passages so cut-and-dried. Yet once upon a time I bought this book for a reason. Sometimes wading through the language of the Bible obscures the simple truths that lie in its passages, and occasionally I need a reminder of what is at the core of this Story I am a part of. Tonight was such a night.

Flipping through Psalms, I landed on The Message translation of Psalm 42:

"A white-tailed deer drinks

from the creek;

I want to drink God,

deep draughts of God.

I'm thirsty for God-alive."

a few verses later, it continues:

"These are the things I go over and over, 

emptying out the pockets of my life.

I was always at the head of the worshiping crowd,

right out in front, 

leading them all,

eager to arrive and worship,

shouting praises, singing thanksgiving--

celebrating, all of us, God's feast!

Why are you down in the dumps, dear soul?

Why are you crying the blues?

Fix my eyes on God--

soon I'll be praising again.

He puts a smile on my face.

He's my God.

When my soul is in the dumps, I rehearse

everything I know of you,

From Jordan depths to Hermon heights,

including Mount Mizar.

Chaos calls to chaos,

to the tune of your whitewater rapids.

Your breaking surf, your thundering breakers

crash and crush me.

Then God promises to love me all day, 

sing songs all through the night!

My life is God's prayer."

How long has it been since I "fixed my eyes on God?" I have certainly spent the last few weeks (or even, to be honest, every moment since graduation) fixing my eyes on everything but God. I have tried to find meaning and identity in jobs, in grades, in relationships, in the future. Everything but my Father who has promised to love me unconditionally and never let me go. As my friend Andrew once told me, God won't let me fall off the map. Perhaps my restlessness, my yearning for something, is my soul telling me that it needs to be fed by the One and only, and until I learn to seek that, I truly will never find satisfaction. It isn't emptiness that I am feeling. 

It is thirst.

I want to drink God, deep draughts of God.

I'm thirsty for God-alive.

God of peace, of love, of truth, fill me where I have become empty. Pour your life into my soul so that I may feel alive, so that your love runs in my veins and your truth resounds in my mind. Fill me so full that I have no choice but to burst from the sheer abundance of life. Teach me what it means for my life to be Your prayer.