Ponderings...

an update

2009-12-18T21:18:00.002-06:00

I have completed my first semester of graduate school.

I am no closer to knowing what I want to do with my life than I was five months ago. However, I can now narrate the first 5000 years of Christian history, pronounce the names of prominent Hindu thinkers, and give a positive feminist reading of the second creation story.

Whoot.

A Word of Advice

2009-11-06T21:31:00.002-06:00

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.

...a thousand times more stunning

2009-10-23T10:02:00.004-05:00

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.

Reflection on an A-

2009-10-18T20:20:00.006-05:00

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.

Welcoming October

2009-10-01T16:38:00.001-05:00

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.

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

2009-07-29T20:39:00.005-05:00

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.

Thanks, Garth

2009-06-10T19:21:00.007-05:00

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.

Subject + Predicate + Infinity

2009-06-08T19:47:00.003-05:00

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?

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

2009-06-03T20:26:00.007-05:00

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.

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

2009-05-11T19:45:00.010-05:00

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.

Sproutings

2009-04-29T19:43:00.008-05:00

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.

A Full-Time April Fool

2009-04-01T20:13:00.003-05:00

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.

Eulogy for a Squirrel

2009-03-23T19:31:00.004-05:00

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.

A Sweet Returning

2009-02-25T19:28:00.004-06:00

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.

A Summer Time Poem

2009-02-19T21:32:00.002-06:00

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

Better than Earthquakes

2009-02-16T20:13:00.005-06:00

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.

Three Shades of Boredom

2009-02-13T21:37:00.003-06:00

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.

Women's Lib, step one

2009-02-06T20:51:00.003-06:00

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.

The Absent Minded Professor

2009-01-21T18:32:00.004-06:00

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.

Homesick

2009-01-14T20:30:00.004-06:00

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.

Good Tidings

2009-01-07T20:30:00.002-06:00

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.

A Chance to Breathe

2009-01-04T19:27:00.005-06:00

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.

Confessions of the Socially Awkward

2008-12-18T21:37:00.003-06:00

I would so love to be one of those people who can walk into a crowded room, smile, speak intelligently (or at least endearingly), and leave a generally good impression. You know them--the little bursts of light and sound that everyone loves. They can keep a conversation in the air like it's a feather, while the rest of us have bricks falling on our heads.

I tend to walk into a social gathering half-hidden behind my husband, wearing a look usually seen only on the faces of terrified animals with large eyes, and I generally find that I have absolutely nothing to say to anyone, even if they are speaking to me and waiting for me to return some form of communication. My brain is screaming, "Speak! Say something...anything. Open your mouth!" but all I can do is smile and look nervous. Hopefully this comes across as shyness and not mild mental retardation.

I can stand up and give a speech, in front of hundreds if necessary, but put me in a room full of strangers--or even worse, acquaintances, and I will shrivel up and die within five minutes.

I am undoubtedly, perhaps incurably, socially awkward. My family always thought I was aloof, maybe a little snobbish. For a while during my college years I believed I could pass myself off as mysterious, but now I must face the truth: I belong in a cabin in the woods. I am the next Emily Dickinson, only without the poetic genius.

I should begin the blueprints for my hermitage immediately.

:)

Complicity and Convenience

2008-12-12T21:26:00.005-06:00

"You have just dined, and however scrupulously the slaughterhouse is concealed in the graceful distance of miles, there is complicity."
--Ralph Waldo Emerson

I think I've always been a vegetarian at heart. Growing up, I wouldn't eat meat unless it was de-boned, fried, and virtually unrecognizable as animal flesh. One of my high school friend's parents would always tease me when I was over for dinner by assuring me that there were no bones in whatever meal we were about to consume: salad, pasta, chocolate cake. There has always been something unsettling to me about eating an animal, a being that breathes, moves, feels, and--yes--loves. It seemed to ago against my very nature, my own being.

I didn't become a vegetarian because I wanted to be healthier, though I certainly am now, but because my conscience could not bear the weight of so many innocent lives. I began to wake up in the night with dreams of animal slaughter, and finally decided to follow a truth I'd felt (often only subconsciously) for most of my life: that animals were not meant for my consumption, that they were not created to serve my appetite, that they were meant to be free beings, not slaves.

I have never been evangelistic about my vegetarianism. I have not handed out pamphlets, worn T-shirts, or preached in front of Burger King. I have not tried to convince anyone that they are going to hell for eating animals. But often when others find out that I am a vegetarian, they immediately put up their guard and begin to defend themselves, to express their opinions about animals in really obnoxious ways. I sometimes wonder if there is not a tiny speck of conscience that tells them they may be wrong, a speck of self-doubt. There must be.

If we eat meat, eggs, or dairy products, wear leather, fur, or wool, the truth is that we are complicit in a great deal of cruelty. I am guilty of much of it. (I too sport my wool jacket and love my cheesy lasagna.) Factory farming is a greedy, cruel, disgusting business that robs of animals of dignity and a natural existence. If you picture your beef coming from happy cows on a family farm, you are mistaken. Factory farm animals are brutalized, live their entire lives in spaces so small they cannot even turn around, and are often fully conscious when their feathers are boiled off, their hide is skinned, parts of their bodies are lopped off. I am a vegetarian because I cannot bear the thought of being complicit in the torture and horrible death of innocent animals.

I think it is a tragedy to never question these things because it may be inconvenient to you. You may have to start buying cage-free eggs or organic milk, or buying organic meat--God forbid. You may not be able to scarf down a Big Mac quite so blithely. We are happy to think that we are nice to animals, that we would never torture and murder them, but we are as complicit in their deaths as the slaughterhouse workers, as the greedy business owners and factory farmers.

Gandhi said that "the greatness of a nation and its moral progress can be judged by the way its animals are treated." Abraham Lincoln expressed similar sentiments. If this is the case, America is probably the most depraved country in the world. We consume most of the world's resources, and it has been said that the grain we feed to our farm animals would be sufficient to end world hunger. This may be an oversimplification, but there is truth there. Is a steak really worth so much pollution and waste and suffering? I can't imagine so.

I am still considering my own complicity in the suffering of God's creatures. I regret my new wool coat; I want to give up any non-organic dairy products. I want to be more careful about the cosmetic and cleaning products I buy, know exactly what's in my vitamins...I want to care enough to do all I can to alleviate the sufferings of others, to be inconvenienced for the sake of mercy. Jesus wasn't a vegetarian, but I bet if he lived in today's horror land of factory farming he would be.

Fire Drill Thrill

2008-12-11T21:37:00.006-06:00

It is Thursday. This has been a gray, rainy, boring week. I have sat at my desk with my little desk lamp, falling asleep into endless pages of questions like "O my love is like a red, red rose is an example of what literary device?," with only the occasional quip from my sarcastic co-workers, a siren wailing in the street, or an argument over whether nouns preceding gerunds need to be made possessive to resurrect me from hideous and unrelenting boredom. 4:30 should be a joyful acclamation of freedom, but then I have the ungodly traffic of 21st Avenue to contend with.

The most exciting thing happened today, though: we had a fire drill, which required our entire floor to empty out into the rainy cold street, huddling under umbrellas, a dentist's office awning, or just letting the rain soak through. It was delightful. Seriously, my department is so boring that this was the highlight of our month. I actually felt a little giddy.

I thought back to a few months ago, when I was a preschool teacher herding my classroom of 3 year olds outside for our first fire drill. Of course, one kid was barefoot, another was wearing rubber boots from the dramatic play center, and the classroom princess slipped and sullied her bright yellow dress. We made it to our safe place, though, and they all looked up at me with their big, worried eyes. I was very grateful that the fire wasn't real.

Today I might not have minded. The warmth might melt the ice off my windshield.

Winter in Nashville as a standardized test editor is killing my soul.

Home

2008-12-05T15:57:00.005-06:00

I sometimes forget how much truth there is in fiction. Or how much there can be. Today I stayed home from work (sick) and finished up Marilynne Robinson's newest novel, Home. Throughout the book I kept thinking how it couldn't come close to Gilead, her Pulitzer prize winner; I love that book so much, as almost everyone who has read it does. It is gorgeously written, so full of poignant, unbelievably beautiful moments and stunning writing. It is the most delightful book I have ever read. So I was prepared to be disappointed by Home.

I wasn't at all. It was a completely different experience than Gilead, a much more painful one, but moving and wonderful in its own way. I wept through the last ten pages as if weeping for my own life--that's how real the characters were, how believable and lovable. But they were also universal, all of us, people I know. I understood my own father and brother better than I ever have before by reading this book; in 325 pages I learned more about them than I probably ever could in a face to face conversation. In a fictional story set in a fictional place I found truth about my own family, the people I love. Isn't that amazing? This is why we read fiction; this is why we return again and again to the written word, to stories, to stories real enough to break our hearts and make us weep for ourselves, for our families, for all people. This is literature at its best...making us more human.

So yes, add Gilead and Home to your reading list.

Just Another Mundane Moment

2008-11-30T19:33:00.004-06:00

I locked my keys in my car today, and, of course, I don't have a spare. (Getting a spare made has been on the mental to-do list for about two years now.) I was at church and we had all just said our final "Thanks be to God" when I realized that I had left my keys in my purse, which was tucked safely under the seat of my car. Thanks be to God. We had to call a locksmith and stand outside in the breezy cold to wait for him and then shell out 60 bucks for the ordeal. Normally in such a scenario I would cry, panic, and have a melt down, but today I actually thought it was kind of funny. I just thought, "Hey, my first time calling a locksmith."

If only I could handle every setback in life so graciously. I seem to think that life is supposed to be very smooth and uneventful, and that things like car trouble and broken bones shouldn't happen to me. I'm always so shocked when they do, and so distraught. But I'm learning that setbacks and hard times are just part of living, part of being a human being. Usually they pass and we don't think too much about them later on, but in the moment the smallest difficulty can seem so overwhelming. Really though, as I look back at all the catastrophes of my short life I see that God was always working things out for me, helping me, making a useful lesson or at least a funny story out of all those events. Often, difficulties in my life seem to be opportunities to see goodness and mercy in others: The time my car broke down in the middle of nowhere and a family picked me up and took me to their house, where I played with their kids and talked to their cows and ate dinner with them until my family could come to my rescue. The time I couldn't raise enough money for a mission trip and someone wrote me a thousand dollar check. There have been tears that led to friendships, confessed sins that led to trust and solidarity, miscommunication that led to understanding. Life's greatest disappointments have generally formed my character, made me more compassionate, doused my pride with the cold water of reality, shaped my spirituality, and led me deeper inside myself, helping me to find my true self.

So perhaps "Thanks be to God" isn't just empty sarcasm, but a wry prayer for grace to trust that God is good and that every moment of our lives matters--even the mundane one, the irksome one, the painful one. If Christ is in us, then every circumstance is an opportunity for Christ to teach us, or at least to embrace us, to share with us, to remain with us, to love us.

Is it Spring Yet?

2008-11-21T20:33:00.008-06:00

I have wanted very much for autumn to stay, but, alas, winter is swiftly approaching. The glorious fall colors are fading fast and the bare shivery tree limbs are taking their place. And it's getting dark at 4.30pm, which is almost unbearable to me. If I had one wish right now it would be to skip winter. I mean, just skip right over it into springtime. Glorious spring.

Then again, I didn't even really know what spring was until I had my first real winter in Oxford. I spent almost 4 months trudging several miles a day through rain, snow, and cold, so when spring showed up I really knew it was there. One day I was walking through the park on my way to the library when I suddenly noticed yellow...flowers! It was like an epiphany: "Oh, so this is spring. I see." It was so life-giving to watch the trees begin to blossom, the flowers to bloom, the heavy coats to disappear. Ah, spring. It was like that scene from The Chronicles of Narnia in which Aslan brings the winter-cursed Narnia back to life: like God's breath had melted all the snow and brought flowers straight up from the earth in a whole palette of brilliant colors. Magnificent. I certainly left England on a happy note.

So Winter. Here it comes. Cold, dark, windshield-iced winter. But after winter has its frosty stay, the earth will wake up again, the flowers will put on their tutus and prance in the sunshine, the world will be bright and beautiful and eager once more.

And so will my little Floridian heart.

Reflections on Confirmation

2008-11-17T17:14:00.005-06:00

John and I were confirmed yesterday. We're officially Episcopalian. It's funny--even just four years ago I wouldn't have imagined myself in a denominational church, much less the Episcopal Church. But we change, life changes us, and so it is. I have certainly found a home there, a stabilizing connection. I find it hard to believe how whole I feel these days.

The confirmation ceremony was not quite as daunting as I'd imagined; I had been a bit nervous about the bishop and his hat. Even though I appreciate high church and have no problem with the ceremonial garments, that hat just gets to me. But I saw a kind and smiling face underneath the hat, which I think I've decided I like after all, if only for its amusing qualities.

John and I attended a month-long Inquirers' Course prior to being received. Throughout the whole class I thought that Father Rick was referring to all of us who were to be confirmed as "contrabands" and secretly wondered what the meaning of this strange term might be. I didn't realize until yesterday morning when I looked at the order of service that Rick had actually been saying "confirmands." I'm glad I didn't ask why I was illegal.

So I've been thinking about the process of confirmation, what it means to be received into a body of people. I think I've always thought of church in social terms, as a family, which it is; but it is also, somehow, mystically Christ's own body. Every time we celebrate Holy Eucharist we are reminded of this: that Christ is present with us in our own bodies, and in those we share communion with. We who are many are one because we all share one bread, one cup.

I don't know why, but these words of Mary Oliver come to me now:

Of course I have always known you
are present in the clouds, and the
black oak I especially adore, and the
wings of birds. But you are present
too in the body, listening to the body,
teaching it to live, instead of all
that touching, with disembodied joy.

My reception into the Episcopal Church was an event and a commitment, but more than that it is a reminder to me of my life that is hidden with Christ, where God is; of my true self; of Christ dwelling in me, loving me, teaching me, and helping me to live a life that is truly reconciled to God and aligned with the core message of the gospel.

Because they were 2 for a dollar/ I steal sandwich ideas from overpriced shops so I don't have to spend money there anymore

2008-11-09T18:36:00.003-06:00

Have you ever SEEN the inside of a pomegranate?

Weird. And fabulous. I'm quite smitten actually.

Also, need a new sandwich idea? Bored with your carnivorous ways? Try this:

7 grain or flaxseed bread (or any fancy stuff)
Mango chutney
Gouda cheese
Avocado
Alfalfa sprouts
lettuce (if you've got room left)

And this is why vegetarians should run the country.

:)

All Saints' Day

2008-11-02T13:50:00.002-06:00

Yesterday was All Saints' Day, which we celebrated today at St. David's. I wish everyone would celebrate this lovely feast day instead of Halloween, which gives me the heebie-jeebies. I enjoyed the lectionary readings, the new altar linen, and the sermon that included a shout-out to that fabulous Julian of Norwich. (I love the Episcopal Church.) Plus, we bought some Pan de Muerto (Bread of the Dead), which was quite tasty. I also learned that my patron saint is St. Vincent of Saragossa, a Spanish deacon and martyr who was tortured to death on account of his fearless, fiery manner when he spoke on behalf of his bishop who had a speech impediment. They had been dragged to prison during a time of persecution; the bishop was exiled and Vincent was sentenced to death. I thought that this was quite appropriate for my patron saint. According to Catholic lore, his body was thrown to the vultures, but a raven guarded it; next, they had it thrown into the ocean, but it washed up on shore and was properly buried by a pious widow.

The Episcopal church doesn't believe in praying to saints, but they do like to honor and remember them, which I think is a good thing for the church to be doing. After all, isn't the Universal church inclusive of those who sleep, who live, and who are not yet born? It is comforting for me to think of my life linked with so many others--"we who are many are one body because we all share one bread, one cup." So many lives connected throughout time and eternity, all children of God, members of Christ's body, and members of one another. It makes me glad to be a Christian. It also compels me to make my life worthwhile, to use the gifts God has given me, to live out the gospel that has become so dear to me.

youth, innocence, and naïveté

2008-10-29T20:00:00.001-05:00

Spending my teenage years surrounded by a warm church family that really believed in young people and valued their contributions to the church, society, and the world, I never thought less of myself for being young and idealistic, for being trusting and perhaps a bit too naive. In youth group we were taught that we could make a difference in others' lives, that we could "change the world." We were all about it, too: mission trips, outreaches, rallies. The older people in the faith always invited us to be a part of the "grown up" life of the church. I remember being asked to speak at ladies' meetings, preach at events, lead important groups. I felt very affirmed in my youthfulness; I believed that it was a beautiful and worthwhile time in my life.

Then I went to a Christian college where it was pretty much the same. I was rarely doubted or made to feel inferior, never condescended to because of my idealism or innocence. I just thought that innocence--voluntary innocence, I mean, the innocence that you choose even though you know how ugly the world can be--would be respected and appreciated.

And then I joined the real world. I have never in my life felt so young. When my new co-workers found out my age, they actually laughed. They make sure I know that I am a cute little girl. I get to hear about their breakups and divorces, their failed dreams, their bitter disregard for any possibility of kindness. And I feel how young I am, how trusting and sincere. And how little value the world sees in those qualities.

I'm not an oblivious little angel--I mean, I'm a little theologically and politically liberal; people don't apologize when they swear in front of me anymore (for which I'm very grateful); I'm not blind to how horrible life can be--but I do still think of myself as very innocent, and I don't see anything wrong with it. I don't trust the government; I'm scared to leave my apartment at night; I give all strange men the "I'm a bitch--don't even look at me" vibe whenever necessary. But I still trust people; I still believe that there are things like goodness and mercy, hospitality, community, honesty, integrity.

I was crushed this week when I had a traumatic dentist visit. I unthinkingly expected the dentist to do her job and to treat me like a human being; she did neither. I wasn't really as horrified by the gigantic hole she left in my tooth as by her uncaring and thoughtless conduct towards me. I complained about it to someone I work with and was told, "You're young. You're naive." And she's right. I was horrified by this experience because I deeply believe that people in the medical profession should care about their patients more than their pay checks.

Mostly though, I realize this difference between myself and others when it comes to love. I married a kind, thoughtful, gentle man who adores me. I believe in love; I believe in marriage forever; I believe that it is possible to share your life with one person as long as you live. I've also only been married for 6 months. I don't share these opinions at work because I know what I'll hear: "You're young. You're naive. Just give it a few years."

So often, the young ones are the wise ones. The ones who know how to live. If being a woman of the world means being bitter and burned-out, you can forget it. I'll take childlike innocence any day. I wrote an essay about my summer camp kids for a writing class last semester, which I think sums this whole discussion up nicely. Here's a little piece of it:

They teach me to live a freer, closer, kinder life—closer to the small things, more aware of the vast expanse of being; they show me how to care about rocks and leaves and spider webs; to be curious; to be struck with awe at the world. They remind me of the great wonder that is a human soul, remind me with their fragile, tremulous personalities that life is precious, beautiful, and a gift, even when it’s difficult. I no longer look back at my own childhood with nostalgia, mourning the loss of my innocence; in these children I’ve found a second innocence, a holy wonder I can only call grace. I find myself talking to flowers and stars, greeting the moon each night, finding joy in ladybugs and lizards and tales of dragons, in the feel of sunshine on my skin, the touch of another person’s hand, the sight of water pooled in droplets on the grass and trees after rain… My summer camp kids have helped me to see and to love these things, and to live as they do—simply, sweetly, with eyes like a little child’s.

There is a writer who talks about the second innocence--Annie Dillard? I can't remember. It's a chosen innocence, not even one you're born with. It's a choice to keep yourself unsullied; to live outside of the greed and the selfishness and the bitterness that make up most adults' lives. It doesn't mean you don't see the world's pain, its destructive sin, the possibility that it will chew you up and spit you out. You see that, but you choose to live inside of a greater truth. You choose grace, mercy, kindness, a life in the spirit. You choose to hope, to trust, and to love.

Perhaps innocence is wisdom after all.

Tuesday Blues

2008-10-28T21:08:00.004-05:00

There are some things in life that are so utterly lonesome.

Tonight, driving home after working a little late, I found myself (as usual) in an endlessly long line of traffic, watching the light go green to yellow to red five times before my car made it to the intersection. The sun was going down and the sky was pale yellow; everyone's headlights were glaring. Everyone looked bored out of their minds and irritable, in their plush cars and SUVs. Everyone was inching along, cutting each other off, honking--but mostly just sitting and waiting and wanting to get home. It seemed like there were a thousand of us, even just at that one intersection, but it still felt so lonely, so empty, so cold.

Another Tuesday in Nashville.

Please spell the words on my tombstone correctly.

2008-10-26T14:21:00.004-05:00

Today I actually corrected a cereal box. I mean, I took out the blue ink pen and wrote in a comma and a hyphen and crossed out a period. I wish this neurotic demand for correct grammar and punctuation would cross over into clean-house-neurosis. I am happy to report, however, that following my latest confession I actually cleaned my house--and very nicely and sweetly asked John to mop. :)

While we're on the subject of punctuation and grammar, however, I just feel the need to get a few pet peeves off my chest (because I know that you are all as excited about correct usage as I am):

1. The use of its and it's--I know this is a tricky concept for people and that even the most educated make this mistake, but it really gets to me. It's translates to "it is" (as in "Boy, it's annoying when people use it's wrong) and its is used to show possession (The naked tree misses its leaves). There is no such thing as its'.

2. Unnecessary apostrophes--Everyone has seen the signs: Photo's taken here. Bananas' on sale today. This is probably my biggest pet peeve. I want to scream when I see these signs; I want to go up to their creators and demand an explanation for those apostrophes. Why are they there? What purpose do they serve? Ahhh!

3. The gradual disappearance of punctuation from the English language-- I realize that things have to change. Once upon a time, all nouns were capitalized instead of only proper, and everyday words like "today" were hyphenated (to-day)--and I think we will all agree that our evolution away from such practices brought good and necessary changes. However, why don't people use commas like they used to? And what's happened to the good old semi-colon, anyway? And let's not even talk about the fate of the hyphen...

Okay, that's probably enough complaining for one day. Thanks so much for indulging my fantasy that other people actually care to hear my grammar grievances. God will surely bless you.

Much of this is due to my own pent-up rage against illiteracy, but I've also been reading the fabulous book Eats, Shoots, and Leaves: The Zero Tolerance Approach to Punctuation by Lynne Truss, which has surely only served to exacerbate my punctuation perfection issues. She's much worse of a punctuation nazi than I am, although I must say I wish she used more commas. She seems to be a follower of the fewer -commas- the- better rule. Alas.

I would like to end with a nicely-written sentence about writing, which I like for the semi-colons and the colon and dislike for for the unnecessary comma splice and sexist language. But, hey, who am I to judge the quote-worthy?

"It is necessary to write, if the days are not to slip emptily by. How else, indeed, to clap the net over the butterfly of the moment? For the moment passes, it is forgotten; the mood is gone; life itself is gone. That is where the writer scores over his fellows: he catches the changes of his mind on the hop." ~Vita Sackville West

Domestic Confessions

2008-10-17T21:39:00.002-05:00

I am a terrible housekeeper.

I have not mopped the floor since John's parents visited last, which I think was a few months ago.

The only thing I can stay on top of is laundry, and that's only because I like to fold towels.

Our apartment is decorated much more poorly than a guy's college dorm room, and there is a mountain bike in our kitchen.

There are bags of plastic recycling piling up in the living room which I've been planning to cart to the recycling place for months.

Upon opening, I immediately stick every bill, letter, card, or flyer into an overstuffed basket on the kitchen table. John regularly fishes out receipts and other important bits of information.

Everything is dusty.

I'm supposed to be doing the dishes right now, but they are "soaking."

I didn't realize how bad things were until John and I were discussing my interest in getting a rabbit from the Nashville Bunny Rescue. The conversation went something like this:
"Are you going to clean out its cage?"--John.
"Of course I will!"--me.
"We can't even keep our apartment clean."--John.
"Oh."--me.

Bunnies might have to wait.

I really don't know how this happened. In college I was a neat freak: I made my bed every day, alphabetized the poetry section of my bookshelf, color-coordinated my closet. My roommate was a clutter bug and nearly made me crazy with clothes on the floor, papers scattered everywhere, dishes left in the sink.

Alas, the tables have turned. At least I'm enough of a feminist to know that this doesn't reflect upon my intrinsic worth as a human being. And I never forget to water our bamboo.

Still, God help us.

Ramblings on Writers and Writing

2008-10-12T14:57:00.006-05:00

Yesterday, John and I took the bus to downtown Nashville for the 15th annual Southern Festival of Books, a gathering for writers, publishers, book sellers, and book lovers. There were tents set up with books on sale, chances to meet the authors, different organizations for writers, etc. There were also book talks, special speakers, and book signings. Unfortunately, John and I failed to locate a program until we were leaving to catch our bus, so we missed all the good speakers, including Sherman Alexie, which was a real shame. However, I did talk John into a watermelon snowcone and a children's book reading by the author of The Knot Fairy, The Sock Fairy, and other fairy tales. Poor John was, of course, bored out of his mind, but I thought the reading was delightful.

One thing I noticed at the festival was how ordinary the writers we met were. I'm not sure what I was expecting...Jaques Derrida? Edgar Allen Poe? They were just very ordinary people who wanted to share their books with the world (and get paid for it). One very elderly woman told me all about her children's book Too Tall Alice, walking me through the whole idea and plot with so much tenderness for her dear little book. I felt like a jerk to put it back on the table and move on. She really loved that book.

I guess I'm writing this to say to all of you secretly and publicly aspiring writers: go for it! Write your books and poems and stories and blogs. Perhaps the ordinariness of life has a bigger part to play in writing well than I've realized. Perhaps being ordinary is what actually makes us good writers. I think that what makes ordinary writers exceptional is the ability to find the holy in the every day, to find beauty and meaning in laundry and dishes and stinky diapers, in the schedules and setbacks and monotony of things, in ordinary life. My very best college professor, Dr. Cotton, always says that he likes good writers better than great writers, which mostly I think means that he likes the writers who are ordinary people, not the geniuses. He likes the Mary Olivers, the Lucille Cliftons, the Raymond Carvers. Good writers are those who capture life as it is, who tell the truth about things in a beautiful way, who make us see the world as if for the first time.

I think I've been afraid to write because I fear that I won't be Virginia Woolf; I won't be Mary Oliver; I won't write the Pulitzer Prize winning piece of literary greatness. What if my writing turns out to be a Wal-mart clearance shelf book? (Shudder.) I guess that's the risk you have to take when you're writing; the risk that you won't be as good as you thought or hoped; that your book will be ignored or criticized; that no literary magazine in the entire world will want to publish your work, much less pay you for it.

Josh Ritter has a song with a line that says, "God, have mercy on the man who sings to be adored." I think that's true for writers too. You can't write for publication, for hope of being the next Denise Levertov. You have to write for the love of it, for the need of it. For the same reasons that you pray and work and live.

Braniac

2008-10-10T21:16:00.004-05:00

My seven year old nephew called tonight to ask me how many words are in the English language and how long it would take a person to write all of them. And he really, sincerely expected me to know the answers.

It's nice to have someone think you're that smart. :)

"Mankind"

2008-10-06T19:08:00.003-05:00

Did anyone else notice that Sarah Palin kept saying "mankind" during her debate with Joe Biden the other night? I had a stack of freshly laundered, rolled-up socks at hand and I chunked one at the television screen every time she said it. (I had to clean up my living room after the debate.)

I mean, she's a woman running for vice-president. She, of all people, should know better. The archaic language was worse than the winking.

I don't know which I hate worse: getting a letter addressed to "Mr. and Mrs. John Orzechowski" or hearing a well-educated person refer to the collective human society as mankind.

Read a grammar & usage handbook, for God's sake.

Life in Nashville.

2008-10-01T20:13:00.001-05:00

I haven't been writing much lately. I have been working and reading the non-fiction of some very good women writers and enjoying being a newly wed. Most recently I have been spending eight hours a day reading, answer reviewing, and critiquing the Language Arts portions of standardized tests. It's my new job. I like it better than trying to keep 11 three-year olds under control or writing articles for a cheesy fundamentalist website. I don't come home with funny kid stories or paint on my shoes anymore, but now I can at least stay awake until 9.30pm. I get to find other people's mistakes, which I am very good at; my boss put a hanging plant over my desk that bears an uncanny resemblance to my hair; and I get to tell people that I work for the Discovery Channel, even though I don't actually.

Plus, it's fall now and I'm not in Florida, so that means I get to wear my fashionless brown cardigan that my college roommate said makes me look like a librarian.

Life is good.