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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.