Friday, November 6, 2009

A Word of Advice

Don't have cell phone conversations in public restroom stalls. It's rude and ridiculous and just plain weird.

Yesterday I had the lovely privilege of overhearing a woman who works in another suite in my office building do just this. But she wasn't talking to her mother, her girlfriend, or her great aunt. She was interviewing a potential employee. I could hear papers rustling, and she kept saying, "I'm not in front of my computer right now."

I was so tempted to go into every stall and flush every toilet repeatedly. I somehow quelled this urge and left the bathroom shaking my head. But seriously, people. Is anyone really so important that she can't get off the phone for 5 minutes in a public restroom? Is anyone's life so cluttered and insane that she has to go potty and have professional conversations at the same time?

Ponder ye these things.

Friday, October 23, 2009

...a thousand times more stunning

Sometimes I think I love poetry too much to study it formally.

To dissect and investigate it to death, to impose upon it, to presume, to say that it is this or that, that it means X, that it doesn't mean Y. To have a handle on it. To have an opinion about it.

I'm afraid it might lose its charm for me then, its mystery, its ungraspable loveliness. That's a bit how I feel about theology--it is ridiculous to say what God is, when we are really only guessing, throwing our theories about like pebbles into a lake. What impertinence. What insane arrogance.

How much wiser is it to let the beautiful words of a poem wash over you like the sweetest, clearest waves of a benevolent ocean, to admire it as you would the sunlight in a meadow as it weaves rays of pure gold into the grass. How much better to allow God to be mystery, beautiful as a poem and a thousand times more stunning. If we really saw God at all, I suspect that we would speak much, much less.

Sunday, October 18, 2009

Reflection on an A-

I was not one of those kids who try with all their might to hide their report cards from their parents and invent all kinds of strange tales about the grades they make. I didn't bother showing my parents my report card half the time because I always got the same response and it didn't really motivate me much: "Good job." I made good grades because I wanted to, because I could, and because it was a natural byproduct of a love of learning. Talk about intrinsic motivation--I had it. Yet grades could still get me really upset, really worried. I almost dropped a class in college because I thought I was going to get a B. (I didn't.) I've always been used to making A's on everything because I've always tried really hard to succeed (well, except on math, but math doesn't even count for me.)

I think my undergraduate professors graded me too easily because I got my first graded paper back in graduate school last week and was disappointed...by an A-. Seriously. That A- told me I needed a reality check and made me pause to rethink the things I value, the things our society values. I worked really hard on that paper and I enjoyed writing it. I revised it at least three times. I felt pretty happy with the finished product. My TA liked it, too. But she also found things that were wrong with it. Things I probably need to work on. I'm going to need to revisit some of the claims I made in that paper, rethink them, and revise. And isn't this learning process infinitely more important than the grade she marked on my paper? Absolutely.

I still do well in school because I want to--I'd better want to or those loans are all for naught. But those grades mean a little more to me now than ever. They are proof that I'm smart, that I'm capable. They decide if and where I get to pursue a PhD. But I still don't want to get too excited about those grades, or too distraught by them. I don't want to lose sight of the reason I'm in school: because I love to learn, because I grow as a person when I read and think and write and talk through new concepts. Because I think that education is a powerful force for good.

Our society has lost sight of this goal. Everything is about grades and test scores. These things have a place in education, but we have given them too much power, too much time. We have let them speak a little too loudly about our self-worth and the worth of others. They have become instruments of domination, and they do violence to our children.

My classmates are just as worried about their grades as I am. I was nearly stampeded trying to reclaim my test paper in class a few days ago. We all had that sickening feeling in our stomachs as we walked down the hallway towards the stack of doom. It was the first major exam of the semester and it would tell us whether we were wasting our time and money on this degree.

So grades matter. But learning matters more. I want to remember that for the next two years as I work towards the completion of my Master's degree. Perhaps I can learn to practice the Hindu concept of action without attachment--devoting my acts as worship of God, without attachment to the fruits of those acts. Okay, so that's not going to happen, but maybe something a little like it: I will study for the love of it, read for the love of it, and write for the love of it. The grades might worry me, but I will not love them.

Thursday, October 1, 2009

Welcoming October

I allowed all of August and September to slip by in silence. I didn't write a single blog, and I only wrote a few short journal entries. Honestly, I haven't had much time to think about myself, about where I am and what I'm doing. I've only had time to act. To catch the bus, to go to class, to drive to work, to sit at my desk and work, to read, to write papers, to make dinner, to wash dishes, to make appointments, to cancel appointments--to do and act and get done.

Today I told a new friend that all the weeks were going "zoom zoom zoom" (with race car hand motions). She thought it was funny, and maybe it is, but it's also kind of sad. I feel like life is rushing past me and I'm just caught in its wake. So today, even though I took the day off work to study for the most terrifying test of my life, I am writing a blog to welcome October.

A few weeks ago I had the unbelievable privilege of attending a reading by my favorite poet, Mary Oliver. Her words are the some of the most beautiful I've ever read, and I hold them very close to my heart. Hearing them from her mouth was like heaven--like being caught up in this beautiful transcendence. She read a poem I like, one whose ending is always a challenge to me:

Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?

I have no idea what career I want to pursue or where I want to be in ten years, but I do know a few things that I want to do with my life. I stole a few moments of silence last week to write them down. I think they are true and authentic for me, and perhaps matter even more than what I get a PhD in or what job I do.

First, I looked around my simple, not quite shabby little apartment and felt very content. I realized that I want, always, wherever I end up, to live very simply. I don't want my life to become cluttered with things or the love of things. I want the old chairs, the faded colors, the quaint and quiet charm of simplicity. Anything else would be too much.

I also want to leave space for quiet and attention in my life. I don't want to go very long without reading poetry, praying my rosary, staring out the window at a funny little bird or a tree swaying in the wind. I want to sit in silence, to let beautiful words wash over me, to take walks and admire this astonishing world in which I find God in every leaf and quivering dew drop. I want to live a life of loving attention.

These two are all I know so far. I don't know if I want to be a feminist theologian or a crazy writer or a social activist, or all three. And I'm okay with not knowing. I am more concerned with who I am in the mundane, quotidian moments of life and what I do with the quiet spaces of my heart than in being important or successful. If I can live my life simply and with a sense of presence, then I think perhaps I've done something worthwhile, and maybe even admirable, with my own wild and precious life.

Wednesday, July 29, 2009

Heads, I accept; Tails, I flee for the hills

I really hate making decisions. Big ones, small ones, short ones, tall ones. I hate them all. It takes me months to find shoes, years to buy furniture. I'm lucky if I can decide what to make for dinner. But I have recently had a very huge decision thrust into my face and given a mere two days to resolve it.

I'm not going to lie: I flipped a coin, tried that old point blindly to a spot in the Bible trick--I even tried typing "Erica should..." into Google search. I realize that all of these are incredibly pathetic, but, hey, I was desperate. I agonized over the decision, talked it over with friends and family, prayed for some semblance of peace, changed my mind constantly. And then I realized something so huge: I didn't need God to give me a sign or tell me what to do. The decision was my own and God would be with me whatever I decided. I think that when I was younger, I wanted God to tell me what to do so badly because I was too afraid to make my own decisions. I hid a lack of moral courage and a refusal to take responsibility for my own actions under a pious desire to "do God's will."

So today I decided. I made the best possible decision that I thought I could. I may regret this decision somewhere down the road, but I did my best. And I feel peace about it, maybe a little excitement, too. And I know that God will be with me, helping me, just as God would have if I'd chosen a different path. I think this is what God's will is really about--not a single act, not a direction chosen, but choosing to trust in goodness and love, to have faith in benevolence.

Wednesday, June 10, 2009

Thanks, Garth

I am much more afraid of things than I would like to be.

Cats, for instance.

Sometimes squirrels, if they look especially twitchy.

Most other human beings.

I don't like this about myself. I want to be one of those confident, nonchalant people who walks like she's bullet proof. I would like to not have a panic attack every time a dog barks at me; I would like to not suspect that all of my neighbors are rapists and axe murderers. I really would. And I would like to not have to cede ground to stray cats every time they cross my path.

I know where this fear comes from. And I know that although it is overblown it is not unfounded. There are, after all, some really screwed up people out there (and some really mean cats), and I'm not exactly an impossible target. Still, I want to be able to take a walk in my extremely safe neighborhood and smile at the people who pass by without looking over my shoulder and wondering if I've already seen that blue van drive by once or questioning the motives of the guy with the limp walking thirty feet behind me.

Today I took a walk and coached myself to look at the birds and the trees, to think about all the beautiful things around me, to take note of the basketball hoops and wading pools and rose gardens. To think about the good. And I was doing very well until a bug flew into my eye and I was immediately after accosted by a large young man with long brown hair, a black T-shirt, and a face full of acne, who wanted to know my name and shake my hand. I hesitated, sized him up: He was a lot larger than me and he had big hands. I gave my name but decided to forgo the shake; he said that he was Randall and then asked abruptly who my favorite country music star is. I realized then that he was harmless and tried to come up with a country music singer even though I don't listen to that stuff. But before I could answer, he shouted excitedly that he loves Garth Brooks, that Garth Brooks is the greatest country music star ever. I laughed and said that yes, Garth Brooks is a pretty cool guy. Then Randall walked off down the road talking to himself about Garth in a loud voice and swinging a plastic bag. I went the other way, rubbing the bug out of my eye and laughing that I was scared to shake that guy's hand.

I didn't feel afraid the rest of the way home. Well, except for when I passed my neighbor who looks a little like Freddy Krueger.

Monday, June 8, 2009

Subject + Predicate + Infinity

I have always wanted to be a great writer.

When I was a kid I wrote stories and my parents read them, assuring me in excited tones that I was going to be a famous author, that they would buy my best-selling novels and that I would take care of them in their old age. I always won the writing competitions at school and wrote A+ papers all the way through college. I haven't published a damn thing (and honestly haven't even tried), yet my father still asks me, now a 23-year old test editor with an English degree, when I am going to publish a book so he can retire. I always laugh and say, "Dad, it doesn't really work that way."

I have always fantasized about life as a writer, just me at my desk pumping out literary brilliance, perhaps in a cabin in the woods somewhere or in a condo overlooking the beach. Publishing novels, poems, creative nonfiction. I've also dreamed of being a passionate, crazy journalist telling all the smug middle-class Americans about the injustices and triumphs going on all over the world, waking them up from their contented self-seclusion. Traveling, writing, protesting, fighting for the good. I am smiling as I write this because it sounds so beautiful and worthwhile and noble, and the job I'm really doing--answer reviewing and editing Language Arts tests all day--seems more harmful to the world than helpful. I'm also smiling because I'm geographically illiterate and terrified of airports, so my journalist career would be quite a stretch for me.

Still, when I'm really honest with myself about who I am and what I want, I always come back to the same simple declarative sentence: I want to be a writer. It's the only thing I've ever thought that I was good at, the only thing I've ever felt at home in. Writing has always been my space, the place that makes sense for me. I feel so alive when I write, so real. I am disgusted with myself for having neglected something that I love so very much, for shrugging my shoulders and saying that I'm too tired of reading after work, too tired of looking at a computer screen, too tired to do anything that matters to me. Too tired to live?

I know what it means to put a sentence together: subject plus predicate plus infinity. The writer writes worlds into existence.

How could I not want to be a great writer?

Wednesday, June 3, 2009

Because I'm tired of ranting in my head...

Gay marriage. We've been talking about it at work lately, all of us agreed: Is this seriously still an issue? It's as backwards as Jim Crow laws or the need to fight for the 19th Amendment. Are human beings seriously still being denied the right to marry, make families, share the privileges and joys and (as my more bitter co-workers suggest) miseries of marriage because they want to share them with a member of their own sex? Really?

I know that in writing this I risk alienating my more conservative friends, and that is certainly not my intention. I am just absolutely dumbfounded that gay and lesbian persons do not have the full rights that I hold in the United States, a country that is supposedly founded on freedom and tolerance. This is my big, loud "Huh?"

Admittedly, only a few years ago I was on the fence about the issue. I decided to write about the legalization of gay marriage for my ethics class, but I was undecided, unsure of what I really thought about it. I ended up writing against it only because it was easier and I knew that was what the professor wanted to hear. But the arguments I used, even if they did win me a 98, were ridiculous. Gay people shouldn't be allowed to marry because they can't reproduce? Neither can the infertile or the elderly--but no one is stopping them. And what about people who don't even want children? Should they be banned from marrying?

How is granting people who genuinely love one another the right to marry going to damage my marriage, make my marriage any less special? It isn't. And the next argument is that if we let gay people marry, what's next? People wanting to marry their dogs? I won't even validate that illogical, heartless argument with a response.

I realize that I am ranting and oversimplifying the opposing arguments, but I'm just so fed up with it all. I know that some people view homosexuality as sinful and against their religious beliefs--and they have every right to do so--but how many other "sinful activities" are religious people working to ban? I haven't seen them trying to deny marriage to heterosexuals who have sex before marriage. Why should my religious beliefs determine someone else's happiness? It's disgusting.

I don't think this is just a religious issue, or even just a legal issue. It's a basic human rights issue. A ban on homosexual marriage is, simply, inhumane. So that's it: I am praying for same-sex marriage to be legalized in all 50 states.

Monday, May 11, 2009

"What do you tell a woman with two black eyes?

Nothing. You've already told her twice."

This was the ignorant joke told by a co-worker of mine at which I did not laugh, or even crack a smile.--I stared, pointedly. This, of course, prompted him to go on and on about how he wasn't a woman-abuser and his wife was the person in charge in his house, and he was just joking around for irony's sake, etc. etc. etc.

When he finished this long-winded attempt at an apology, I asked, "Would you tell a racist joke? It's the same thing." It is incredible to me how intelligent, morally concerned people can make jokes about subjects that are unquestionably not funny. I know it's because people don't realize how powerful language is--how it shapes our culture, our attitudes, our beliefs. Our entire existence is framed in language; whether we realize it or not, language constitutes our world as we know it. It is a more effective tool of oppression than any gun or tank or fist.

Someone very close and dear to me was recently abused by her child's father--I couldn't laugh at that, so I surely can't laugh at a joke about beating a woman. I tried to explain to my coworker that telling jokes about abusing women is aiding the oppression and violence that women experience every day around the world. A joke like this perpetuates the idea that it is okay to abuse women, that the abuse women undergo isn't as disgusting and horrific as other crimes--genocide, torture, child molesting...who could laugh at those?

Yet why laugh at the idea of a woman being struck by a fist? Where is the humor in that? Unfortunately, men are not the only guilty ones in the oppression of women, in their abuse and degradation. Women, too, are guilty.

I cringe when I hear women use words like bitch or pussy in reference to themselves or others--not because the language is vulgar, but because I know that it is language like that that makes woman a second-class citizen. To call a man a pussy is to calm him weak, cowardly, womanly. Less than. Women have often been as eager to align themselves with patriarchal culture as the men have wanted them to be--either by making themselves the doormat of men or by trying to become as much like men as possible. Today a woman tried to convince me that men have a more difficult time in life than women these days, that they have been "castrated" by the theft of the breadwinner role, relegated to an uncertain role of manhood. I wanted to scream at her, "Finally, the oppressive system is being broken down, the emperor removed from his tyrannical throne, and you would rebuild it, you would put him back to the place of god, and woman to the place of his slave?" It is absolutely enraging.

True, women have won significant gains in education and in many professions; we have all the same legal rights as men; we can be ministers in many churches, work in any field we choose; decide whether we want to marry or not, have children or not. But I cannot walk down the street alone by myself without feeling the need to look behind my shoulder, to keep a sharp eye out. I have to check my backseat before getting into my car after pumping gas. If I had a daughter I would live in terror at the thought of her molestation, her rape. So are the sexes equal? No. The poet and feminist critic Adrienne Rich said famously, "I am a feminist because I feel endangered, psychically and physically, by this society and because I believe that the women's movement is saying that we have come to an edge of history when men - insofar as they are embodiments of the patriarchal idea - have become dangerous to children and other living things, themselves included."

After I pulled out the best of my literary and feminist theory thought for the education of my ignorant co-worker, he (to his credit) responded with a sincere, "I've never thought about that before. I never realized it was that way." And my heart was glad. Surely my education has not gone to waste, my passions are not for naught; you really can change the world, even with a head full of literary theory.

Wednesday, April 29, 2009

Sproutings


You know the $1 aisle in Target, full of generally useless but occasionally surprisingly cool things? Well, John and I bought a tiny little basil growing kit from the dollar aisle, brought it home, and started our tiny sprout pot over the weekend. And to my amazement and delight, it is actually growing! The tender little green sprouts quickly appeared and are growing fast, pushing their brave little heads up and up toward the sunlight. This tiny miracle has placed more genuine, child-like wonderment in my heart than I can possibly explain. (And I already have the amazement capacity of a five-year-old.)

Spring hit Nashville a few weeks ago in dazzling parades of blossoming trees and flowers: bright white, then pink, then purple, pear trees and dogwoods, tulips, tulips, and more tulips; and already spring is expanding into summer lushness--everything has turned green and sprawled out to reclaim all that barren space that winter stole. It is striking to watch it happen--life just appearing as if from no where and taking up all the space that we'll give it. I can't get over how green everything is after that long, dead winter.

As if in parallel, I am finally beginning to open up to Nashville, perhaps even to like it. Sometimes I don't even mind the traffic.

Wednesday, April 1, 2009

A Full-Time April Fool

In lieu of April Fool's Day...A Tribute

I spent the majority of my college years sharing a room with a prankster. I am gullible, absent minded, and slow to learn my lessons. You can imagine how much fun she had with me. My personal favorite (and obviously hers since she pulled it on me numerous times): the elevator prank. We lived on the third floor, and on our lazy days we would take the elevator up. Stephanie would swiftly engage me in conversation, distracting my attention while she pressed the 2nd floor button. The elevator stopped at the 2nd floor, I got out (still talking), and Steph closed the door and continued up to the 3rd floor while laughing her head off. I continued up the stairs shaking my head. I think she even pulled this prank twice in one day.

There were also fake roaches in my bed, the anger management book she gave me for Christmas, a creepy China doll that would appear next to me in bed, my underwear thrown at me in the shower, being locked out of the dorm room, phone calls in foreign accents....and so, so many more.

Oh, the good old days. Today I only got pranked by gmail.

Monday, March 23, 2009

Eulogy for a Squirrel

I ran over a squirrel with my car today. I cried all the way to work and then came home this afternoon and cried over it some more. This may seem a bit over the top to some people, but I feel absolutely terrible. For a vegetarian to find herself immediately responsible for the death of an animal...it is horrifying. All day I thought of the bump under my wheel and the little life that ended with it. Animals are just as alive as we are after all, if not more so--they want to play and eat and sleep and mate and sing and love and bask in the magnificence of spring every bit as much as we do. And that little squirrel won't get to anymore.

Death still seems so unnatural to me--I can't help but feel that we should all live forever, that everything should live for ever: trees, flowers, squirrels, husbands, children, grandmothers. That no one should ever die--no one should ever be separated. No one should ever have the sweetness of living taken away.

I suppose that in this world death is often a mercy, but I struggle to see any beauty in it. I suppose that in death the soul is unfettered, the spirit free--but heaven seems so foreign to me and I love this world so much. I love living in this world, despite its uglinesses, its tragedies. I love its blue skies, its grey skies, its falls and springs and summers, its lakes and rivers and oceans, its trees, snails, grasshoppers, manatees, fireflies, and lady bugs. It is a beautiful place and I'm grateful to belong to it.

I guess the only thing I could love more than life in this world is the God who made it. That we leave earth and return to God...it is the only consolation for so great a loss.

Wednesday, February 25, 2009

A Sweet Returning

Today, of course, is Ash Wednesday, the beginning of Lent. We have just returned from church with its softly-lit and quiet nave, solemn recitations, and liturgy for the day we are bid to remember that we are dust and to dust we shall return. I still have the ash cross on my forehead and the words of our Old Testament reading ringing in my ears: return to the Lord. These are actually the same words that I have been consciously and unconsciously saying to myself for days now: return to the Lord.

It started a few nights ago as I was saying my rosary: this sense of returning just came over me. A sweet returning. A re-focusing of my attention, a drawing inward and towards. A return to myself and to God, both of whom I have been terribly distant from without even fully realizing it.

So Lent. This is my second time observing it, and my first time doing it with any real intentionality or expectation. This time I really want to prepare myself for the miracle of Easter and what it means for us. Lent is solemn, a time to take stock of one's life, to pare down, to pray and repent--but it is rooted in joy, the joy of the Christ's resurrection, the joy of our own resurrection.

This is a prayer I say a lot and the one that is foremost in my heart during this season of prayer, fasting, and preparation: Come, Lord Jesus. Draw us to yourself. Come, Lord Jesus. Draw all things to yourself.

Thursday, February 19, 2009

A Summer Time Poem

I've just found this poem that I wrote in October and never looked at again (which is what happens to most of my poems). It's just a rough, unedited flow of thoughts, but it made me smile to remember its inspiration. (Charlotte, you should remember it well, too, since you shared in it.)It's one of my best Nashville memories.


Cheekwood Deer

In the summer woods,
Our eyes feasting on
The deep green, the
Glowing leaves,
The rotting logs,
The flitting birds,
The tiny purple flowers
Strewn at our feet
We stopped short, held our breath,
Motionless and staring:
Five young brown newly-antlered
Bearers of quiet
Watching us calmly
Only feet away

They didn't bother to get up;
They are used to the sight of us--
Gangly awkward things
But we are full of wonder:
Transfixed by
The supple bodies
The deep sweet eyes
The sculpted, ivory headdresses
The regal indifference

***

I pull myself away,
Reluctant, the light is
Dimming now--to the water
Garden to watch the day end;
I look back once,

But they have followed us to the water,
Where we sit watching the
Sunset melt into the floating leaves
We count, our breath catching
With each addition:
One, two, four, five!
Sweet, prancing, light bodies
Floating across the field,
Do their hooves touch the ground?
They are like memories

They pause one last moment--their silhouettes
Against the summer skyline
My heart a well of
Gratitude--

I am still dipping into
The sweetness

Monday, February 16, 2009

Better than Earthquakes

I said in my last blog that I was hoping for a jolt, perhaps in the metaphorical form of an earthquake or some other natural disaster. Something to wake me up, send me hurtling back into the present moment with a heart that's actually beating. I am still halfway hoping for this, but I suspect that my resurrection will not happen this away. There will be no angel, no rolling away of the stone, no cracks in the earth, no trumpets, lightning bolts, or Wizard of Oz tornadoes.

There will only be rich, quiet moments that come at unexpected times and sweet, unobtrusive blessings from unexpected places. Really, I don't need some grand sweeping glorious proclamation to wake up, to feel, to live. Today was a wonderful day for me, largely because I didn't have to go to work, but more than that because I did simple, necessary tasks and enjoyed them. I had my car's oil changed, did a little shopping, folded laundry, washed dishes. I found saucers that match our dinner plates perfectly--for $1 at Salvation Army, at that. I bought and filled a fruit basket. I watered the plants. I lost my wedding ring and found it in the washing machine.

It was a quiet, simple, happy day.

Friday, February 13, 2009

Three Shades of Boredom

Tonight I've been thinking about this Annie Dillard quote that has graced my blog profile for quite some time now: "How we spend our days is, of course, how we spend our lives." And I am so unimpressed with how I've been spending my days, and, consequently, my life. Dragging myself out of bed in the morning to a job I don't love, yearning for lunchtime, then for quitting time, and dragging myself through traffic back to my little apartment where I collapse to watch the trivial sillinesses of television, maybe wash a few dishes, read a few pages of a book I'm too tired to fully appreciate, and then collapse into bed. Repeat on Tuesday.

Sitting in traffic on the way home today I thought, "Is this it? Seriously? Is this what we are all going to do with our lives for the rest of our lives?"

Like never ever before, I live for the weekend. For a chance to relax, to enjoy breakfast, to go for a walk, to do laundry, to feel like a human being again. The work week makes me feel like some exhausted robot, but on Saturday I become a little bird who is free to flit here and there, to sing a song, to love the flowers. Of course, Monday wastes no time in returning; it is as certain as Death.

Still, I can't blame my job or the traffic or the never-ending dishes piling up. These are the details, the frame work, but not the center. It is the center that matters--and my center is comatose. I remember times in life when I was so passionate--preaching the gospel, writing poetry, falling in love, learning--times I felt a fire in my bones, as Jeremiah said. These days I'm lucky to get a spark.

Perhaps the monotony of ordinary time--nothing to mourn, no special reason to celebrate--is the most dangerous. We are lulled to sleep by the cyclical, repetitive hum of living. We lose track; we forget; we set the cruise control and drift on through. God, for a jolt, a push, an earthquake.

Friday, February 6, 2009

Women's Lib, step one

All right, all you burgeoning feminists: this one's for you! I have, quite unexpectedly, found the answer to a woman's independence and self-sufficiency. I'm just surprised that Virginia Woolf didn't think of it. Before a high-paying salary, a sense of yourself, and freedom from the demands of patriarchal family life, you only need one thing...

I don't know what its real name is, but I call it the jar gripper opener thingy. You know, the round textured rubber kitchen wonder that enables you to open pickle jars like the Hulk. Yeah, that's what you need, girls. Never again will you need a man to remove the seemingly-cemented jelly jar lid or get that terrible cap off your beer. You can be a free woman. In fact, I opened a window with a broken latch with my own jar gripper opener thingy just the other day. It's a marvel, indeed.

One step at a time, ladies, one step at time. My wrench-wielding, oil-changing, furniture-moving mother would be so proud.

Wednesday, January 21, 2009

The Absent Minded Professor

Well, I'm not a professor, but I am absent minded. I am the girl who left her car running for 3 hours with the doors locked in an elementary school parking lot without realizing it, who once had a sweater burned to cinders on a gas heater while warming it up on a cold winter morning. I am, to put it euphemistically, not blessed with my fair share of common sense and practicality.

Today I pulled a classic Erica the Airhead move: I put my FedEx envelope containing very important, time sensitive materials into the UPS drop box. Fabulous. My only solution: a little note taped to the UPS box that began, "Dear UPS,..."

Just another day in my life.

Wednesday, January 14, 2009

Homesick

I am homesick again. I have been living in Nashville for 8 months now, and I am still begging to be rescued. (The high tomorrow is 23 degrees, and the low is 6, so I am very expectantly, desperately awaiting rescue at present.)

It's funny how you spend so much time thinking about getting away from your hometown, the life everyone you know is so caught up in. You feel bliss when you finally do, feel as though you've triumphed, escaped, made something of yourself--and then one day you look back and feel a great loss someplace deep inside you.

I mean, I know that I couldn't live in Lake City again; what would I do there? I never hated it, really--I didn't complain much about the small town life, wish to live somewhere more exciting. I was content with the open fields and pine trees. But I knew I'd have to get away someday to become something, to do something that was worthwhile to me. It just couldn't happen there.

So here I am in Nashville, putting that English degree to good use, learning to be an adult, grinding through the work week. And I would like nothing better than to be in Florida again, a happy barefoot child with unkempt hair. I miss the beautiful open sky and the sunshine and living in flip flops year round. I miss my family--laughing with my sister, playing with my nephew and niece, watching my mom live her bright, wild, astonishing life. But I know that nostalgia has impaired my judgment; my very memory is tainted with the sentimentality that grows with distance. I call home now and can hear all the voices I love, the voices that drove me crazy just a few years ago, laughing and crying and chatting in the background. I can tell how full their arms are with the weight of their lives, with the fullness, the round, exasperating heaviness of life. I don't belong there any more than I belong here, but I love them better than ever now. I recognize the deep, beautiful place they've found in me, that place that's nestled in with Florida sunsets and forests and cold springs. I can't live there, but I can't live too far away either, if that makes sense.

So I miss home. I miss knowing people, being known. I miss the friendship and the community. But even as I miss it I know that I exaggerate it only because I am so isolated here, that if I were to return I would return to disappointment and to frustration. I would probably be just as lonely there as I am here. We always do think that life, full life, is somewhere else, don't we? No, it is here: in the present moment. It's just not always what we would like it to be. Contentment is so hard, even when you have a thousand reasons for it.

I read a quote once, somewhere, that said loneliness is just a homesickness for God. Maybe that's true. It just follows you wherever you go, no matter how happy, how blessed, how loved. There is always that longing for immortality, for completion, for the divine embrace that makes you forget everything you've ever lived for, everything you've ever loved.

Wednesday, January 7, 2009

Good Tidings

While John and I were in Florida for Christmas we found a little white dog sitting at the end of the road with a long orange extension cord tied around her neck, the cut wires frayed around her little face. She wagged her tail a bit and cowered as we drew near--clearly a mistreated creature. It was so sad and heart wrenching for me to see that cord around her neck and to know that she'd probably been tied up in someone's yard that way for months--mostly because it's always terrible to see an animal abused, but also because it pains me to think of the quality of life a person who would abuse an animal must have--what depravity. What soullessness. It makes the world feel so desolate and cruel. I called the animal shelter and watched the dog until they arrived, watched them put her into the truck, frightened and unwilling, but hopefully saved. It was an ugly spot on my vacation, not to mention an ugly spot on humanity.

However, today, much to my surprise, I received a call from the animal shelter in Florida to let me know that the little white dog was adopted! That was a happy message, indeed. A rescued life. I hope that she is receiving the sweetness and gentleness and love she deserves and that she heals quickly from the memory of abuse. And I also pray for her abuser, angry as his actions make me, that he too would know what it is to be loved and to grace the world with kindness.

Sunday, January 4, 2009

A Chance to Breathe

I have been pretty uninspired lately. I have been meaning to write a blog, but haven't felt that I had anything actually worth writing about. Even my journal entries have been especially boring.

At the brink of 2009 I could only think how I wasn't quite ready for another year to begin. I know it's not really any great colossal change--just the next day arriving, really. But I always feel sentimental at the close of a year, as if I am shutting a door I won't ever open again and rushing off into some new adventure. 2008 was a full, full year for me: I graduated, got married, moved to Nashville, started a new job, then another, became Episcopalian, joined a new church. It was a beautiful, happy year. It was bursting with love and sweetness, newness, joy and adventure. (Joy and adventure are what Dr. Cotton wished John and me at our wedding, and we have certainly had our fair share of both.) It was a difficult year, too. I cried a lot. I missed Florida and my family and being a student. I still do. But I have so loved being married--waking up next to someone who loves me unbelievably well, having tea, going for walks, grocery shopping, decorating, cooking, watching the books stack up in corners, folding laundry, listening to music, just being together. It has been a beautiful 8 months we've shared, and I am so grateful.

I guess 2008 was so full that I felt I needed more time to take it all in before setting off on another year's journey--I am still realizing my life as it is now. My current job is monotonous and predictable enough to allow me to finally settle down after 8 months of tumultuous change, which I am learning to be grateful for. There is little drama involved, so I can finally breathe after these many months of constant change and adjustment. There has been a lull, I suppose--thus my lack of inspiration. I have been given a quiet space to reflect and recognize this new world composed around me so unexpectedly.

Finally, I have a chance to breathe and be present to life as it is now--its routines, dishes in the sink, 6:30 alarm clock wake-up calls, clutter and cleaning, sweet smiles, glorious weekends, unwelcome Mondays, dirty laundry, traffic, dinner-making, hand-holding, and teeth-brushing. Just normal life: nothing much worth writing about, maybe--or maybe the only thing I should be writing about.