My life is generally ordered around a somewhat vague but rigid sense of fairness. More than, usually, love or generosity or even practicality, I decide what to do in any given situation using mostly a self-designed barometer of what's fair. Do I want to return this cart to the designated spot? No, but that's what's fair. Is it helpful to beep at the lady who just cut me off in the Target parking lot? No, but she was being unfair. Not all my examples take place in a Target parking lot but you understand what I'm saying.
This is how we relate to each other. Think about the very angriest you get - it's likely it's when you feel something unfair has happened to you.
A few weeks ago I interviewed a man who was shot by the National Guard during a Vietnam War protest at Kent State University in 1970. I was struck by hearing him talk about the emotional realization of what had happened to him - he had more sadness, I think, talking to me about the moment he realized that he could be unjustly shot and no one would get in trouble than he had about actually being shot. And consider the cognitive dissonance here - I'm not blaming him, because I do this too - but here was a kid who'd spent years protesting a war he found to be profoundly unfair. He knew the world wasn't fair. But he still couldn't believe someone would shoot HIM. I get it.
***
For Lent I've been re-reading all four Gospels. It's engrossing, reading them quickly like this, in huge chunks. More than when I try to parse and meditate over tiny passages, this makes Jesus' personality - and maybe something like his style? - emerge more memorably. And I will tell you: there has never been a time for me when pop-culture descriptions of Jesus have seemed more obtuse, oblivious, self-serving and outright wrong.
A familiar passage made my jaw drop again the other day. I'm going to paraphrase it.
Open on: Jesus running into a Syrophoenician woman. (AKA: not Jewish.)
Lady: Jesus! Thank God! My daughter desperately needs you. She's oppressed by a terrible demon.
Jesus: I didn't come to help *your kind.* You're basically a *dog* to me.
Guys. Jesus said this. HE SAID THIS. (Picturing the 2018 headlines now. "WHITE AS SNOW: JESUS IS ACTUALLY SUPER RACIST." "JESUS SPEWS BIGOTED RHETORIC AT INNOCENT WOMAN; FAILS TO RECOGNIZE AND ADEQUATELY APOLOGIZE FOR HIS OWN PRIVILEGE; IS THE ACTUAL WORST")
Jesus wasn't being accurate here - he meant what He said, but he wasn't being accurate. He came to bring the Gospel to everyone - Jew and Greek alike - and watching and hearing the compassion with which he tends to every person he meets makes it clear he deeply loved people regardless of ethnicity (and didn't consider anyone a dog.) But He hadn't taken the step yet to open the gospel to the Gentiles, or even told his disciples yet that that was the plan. (Another thing standing out to me while reading the gospels quickly like this: timing. It is very, very very important to Jesus.)
Back to our scene:
Lady: Ok. I get it. I'm not Jewish. You didn't come for me. Whatever. But I'll take whatever you give me. The leftover crumbs from the food you feed the privileged.
Jesus: wowowowowowowowwwwwwww..... my Father has clearly given you an understanding of what I'm doing here. I can't believe this, it's amazing. Yes, yes, yes yes yes I will absolutely help you.
Can you believe this story?
***
Here's the thing I'm straining to say: for Jesus, the emergency was the gospel. IT WAS AN EMERGENCY. Think about the ways this interaction could've gone - he could've spoken to her gently, healed her daughter and used it all to teach his disciples that "there is no longer Jew nor Greek." In other words, he could've set down his message for a moment and done a great act of racial reconciliation. But he didn't.
It was entirely and wholly unfair that Jesus said this to that woman. She held absolutely no responsibility for not being born a Jew - just as the Jews had no responsibility for the happenstance of their privilege. But instead of wallowing in the injustice of it, the woman - a typical mother, if you ask me - focused instead on her daughter. I don't care if you didn't come for me. It does me no good to pull out my hair or grab a megaphone and cry about how unfair you're being. Whatever. Just help my daughter anyway; I know you can.
Immediately this takes my mind to the passage later, when his disciples think they're going to score some brownie points by waxing poetic over the beautiful temple in Jerusalem. "These great buildings, Jesus! It's so cool that God is your Father." And Jesus says "who cares about these? they'll be torn down in three days. They don't matter."
Jesus came for one thing: the Gospel. Telling people that He was God's son and that the kingdom was here was an emergency to Him. It's clear from the rest of the gospels that He cared about other things - including racial reconciliation and respect for His Father's house. But these were not even close to THE thing. Social justice wasn't his primary mission (are you listening, liberals?) Neither was preserving or promoting institutional acknowledgment of His Father (are you listening, conservatives?) He'd all but ignore these issues completely when it was more important to advance his primary mission.
***
We can't make the world more fair. It's just true. We can't. We've been trying since we started walking upright and we still haven't accomplished it, so learn the lesson. It takes some pretty intense hubris to think we'll get it right now that *we're* here.
So we need to de-throne our first priority of asking "For whom is life most unfair, and how can we help them?" That can't be first for us. We need to push forward with affection for the poor and marginalized because God loves them, and because tending to our brothers and sisters is a holy work called for by Jesus - but we cannot do this because we think we're going to solve it.
We have to believe this for two reasons:
1. So that we do not lose focus on sharing that God's kingdom is being established for the sake of "justice."
2. So that when we do not see justice win, it does not shake our faith.
Jesus didn't really care that much about what was fair and what wasn't. (It would've been fair to just leave us here to die, if you want to go there.) He cared about fairness inasmuch as he cares when we hurt and he hates the exploitation of people and power and privilege - but he does not care about it more than establishing his Kingdom, and calling its workers to understand the seriousness of the task and the the perilousness of relaxing when they think they're doing it right.
If the Jesus you like to believe in is focused primarily with making the unfair fair, you must give him another name.
Tuesday, March 20, 2018
Monday, January 15, 2018
I Never Trust My Feelings/ I Waited for the Remedy
On Saturday I was in a bad mood because the snowstorm cancelled my trip to Phoenix. So Aaron, Naomi and I were on our way to Easton to return some Christmas presents when I turned on Sufjan Stevens, the obvious choice for this most solemn of moments. After a few songs of me thoughtfully going "mmm" and "oh wow" to several of the lyrics while staring thoughtfully into the middle distance, ("Should I tear my eyes out now/ before I see too much?") Aaron suddenly said (with his I'm-In-Charge-Here voice) "ok we're turning this off" and switched to his own playlist. Sufjan can take a good mood and make it bad, so bad moods pretty much go full Requiem-For-a-Dream when he's on. In my (correct) opinion.
Most of the time I have no idea what he's talking about, and it's just the melody and instruments that make me want to curl into a ball. An example: The very first episode of "This is Us" opens on a Sufjan song and - this is not an exaggeration - I literally decided then and there that I would never watch that show. I know what they're up to. It's just emotional manipulation! I don't need that in my life! Anyway - I don't really pay that much attention to his lyrics. But sometimes I catch little things and, to make myself feel better for him, I imagine that he's being so .... incredibly .... pain-stakingly ... self-reflective and pedantic. Like that whatever he's imagining, or whatever terrible meaning he's infusing into his little rememberances are ludicrous. "Lemon yogurt/remember I pulled at your shirt?/I dropped the ashtray on the floor..." like, I imagine someone who remembers this scene in his childhood hearing this song and being like "STFU Sufjan, wasn't that just the time we went to Grandma's house to get some fruit roll-ups and play Mario? Damn dude."
There's a point to this - it's that I think I might do that, and it has taught me a really good lesson. I really shouldn't trust most of my emotions. I respect them, of course. If Sufjan makes me go fetal I can express that freely and let myself get it out, and then probably get a treat later because life is hard and I deserve it. But I'm also getting better (I hope) at not making decisions in that fetal position. That's what I'm trying to say.
I haven't been good at that in the past. You can imagine all the crash diets I've decided to go on in those millions of 10-second intervals during which I've stood on a scale, or the number of times I've read a terrible story in the news and vowed never to leave the house again with Naomi, ever. These are not good decisions.
I never trust my feelings, the old Stevens bard says (then why you keep writing about them, bub?)
And here's the feeling I've been having the most lately: I'm doing this wrong, probably.
"This" being not necessarily Life in General, although yes, sometimes that. But for the purposes of this entry "this" means "being Naomi's Mom," and I've been told by more seasoned mothers that this is pretty much a hallmark of parenting forevermore, but I'm plagued by guilt on a very regular basis.
Now that Naomi is more self-aware, she is becoming more and more interactive. She makes pretend things in her pretend kitchen and tells me about them with pretend words. She points to squirrels out the window and brings me books for me to read to her while she backs up, dump-truck style, into my lap (this is one of my favorite visions of all time.) So I find myself asking, after reading the exact same if-you're-happy-and-you-know-it book 500 times in the same day - how many hours should I spend doing this? Should she play on her own? Can I read my book on the couch while she's sitting here? I know the answer to this is yes, and I do, but while I'm doing it I swear it feels exactly like if we had company over and I just sat there like an asshole with my nose in a book in front of them. Am I the Entertainment?
This existential crisis centers on one really, really wayward belief I'm starting to realize I have: that I'm responsible for bringing Naomi here. My thought proof goes like this:
1. I brought her here.
2. She did not ask to be brought here.
3. Sometimes "here" can be really painful.
4. If she experiences that pain, it's my fault (because 1 and 2.)
5. Therefore, If 1-4, than I should make her as happy and comfortable as possible.
I know how this goes. I know she needs to be independent, and that it's an incredibly useful and important tool for life for her to work out how to be content and imaginative on her own. I know that constantly entertaining her is neither feasible nor good for her. But what I need to know (this is an "I believe, help my unbelief! situation) is that I didn't bring her here. I didn't do anything to deserve her, and I didn't choose her. God gave her to me. This is a hard thing, because the physical, emotional and mental process of bringing her here was so painful and exhausting, and I'd like to take some credit for that (and I do. Some.) But in the broad sense, I really didn't bring her here.
But the rub: if I accept that, that means she's not mine really, and THAT i just won't accept.
I accept, help my... unacceptedness? Unaccceptability?
Peace, friends. If you're happy and you know it, clap your damn hands.
Most of the time I have no idea what he's talking about, and it's just the melody and instruments that make me want to curl into a ball. An example: The very first episode of "This is Us" opens on a Sufjan song and - this is not an exaggeration - I literally decided then and there that I would never watch that show. I know what they're up to. It's just emotional manipulation! I don't need that in my life! Anyway - I don't really pay that much attention to his lyrics. But sometimes I catch little things and, to make myself feel better for him, I imagine that he's being so .... incredibly .... pain-stakingly ... self-reflective and pedantic. Like that whatever he's imagining, or whatever terrible meaning he's infusing into his little rememberances are ludicrous. "Lemon yogurt/remember I pulled at your shirt?/I dropped the ashtray on the floor..." like, I imagine someone who remembers this scene in his childhood hearing this song and being like "STFU Sufjan, wasn't that just the time we went to Grandma's house to get some fruit roll-ups and play Mario? Damn dude."
There's a point to this - it's that I think I might do that, and it has taught me a really good lesson. I really shouldn't trust most of my emotions. I respect them, of course. If Sufjan makes me go fetal I can express that freely and let myself get it out, and then probably get a treat later because life is hard and I deserve it. But I'm also getting better (I hope) at not making decisions in that fetal position. That's what I'm trying to say.
I haven't been good at that in the past. You can imagine all the crash diets I've decided to go on in those millions of 10-second intervals during which I've stood on a scale, or the number of times I've read a terrible story in the news and vowed never to leave the house again with Naomi, ever. These are not good decisions.
I never trust my feelings, the old Stevens bard says (then why you keep writing about them, bub?)
And here's the feeling I've been having the most lately: I'm doing this wrong, probably.
"This" being not necessarily Life in General, although yes, sometimes that. But for the purposes of this entry "this" means "being Naomi's Mom," and I've been told by more seasoned mothers that this is pretty much a hallmark of parenting forevermore, but I'm plagued by guilt on a very regular basis.
Now that Naomi is more self-aware, she is becoming more and more interactive. She makes pretend things in her pretend kitchen and tells me about them with pretend words. She points to squirrels out the window and brings me books for me to read to her while she backs up, dump-truck style, into my lap (this is one of my favorite visions of all time.) So I find myself asking, after reading the exact same if-you're-happy-and-you-know-it book 500 times in the same day - how many hours should I spend doing this? Should she play on her own? Can I read my book on the couch while she's sitting here? I know the answer to this is yes, and I do, but while I'm doing it I swear it feels exactly like if we had company over and I just sat there like an asshole with my nose in a book in front of them. Am I the Entertainment?
This existential crisis centers on one really, really wayward belief I'm starting to realize I have: that I'm responsible for bringing Naomi here. My thought proof goes like this:
1. I brought her here.
2. She did not ask to be brought here.
3. Sometimes "here" can be really painful.
4. If she experiences that pain, it's my fault (because 1 and 2.)
5. Therefore, If 1-4, than I should make her as happy and comfortable as possible.
I know how this goes. I know she needs to be independent, and that it's an incredibly useful and important tool for life for her to work out how to be content and imaginative on her own. I know that constantly entertaining her is neither feasible nor good for her. But what I need to know (this is an "I believe, help my unbelief! situation) is that I didn't bring her here. I didn't do anything to deserve her, and I didn't choose her. God gave her to me. This is a hard thing, because the physical, emotional and mental process of bringing her here was so painful and exhausting, and I'd like to take some credit for that (and I do. Some.) But in the broad sense, I really didn't bring her here.
But the rub: if I accept that, that means she's not mine really, and THAT i just won't accept.
I accept, help my... unacceptedness? Unaccceptability?
Peace, friends. If you're happy and you know it, clap your damn hands.
Monday, September 18, 2017
On Burning the Boats
In the Spring of 2007, Aaron and I had been dating for just a few months. He was so handsome and I was so smitten. One weekend before classes ended for the summer, he came up to my parents' house with me. He got a call letting him know he was being considered for an internship in Cincinnati. In the typical doe-eyed, college-romance way, that felt like 500 light years away (which is outright laughable now after having lived in Arizona.) When he got that call, I decided what I always decide in hard moments: I was going to Suck It Up and Face Reality and Be Strong and Do The Hard Thing. So I looked at him and said - dude, we should break up. Cincinnati is too far away.
What I remember most after that moment is that I went to the kitchen to get a drink of orange juice, and my Mom asked me something innocent like "what's up" and I said something innocent like "not much" but I felt like I couldn't fill up my lungs. It was like walking through sludge. What had just happened? This was terrible! I don't want to get a cup of juice while not dating Aaron. I don't want to make small talk with Mom while not dating Aaron. I don't want to do anything while not dating Aaron! Cincinnati is just a hop and a skip, right? Why did I think it was so far?
I ran back to Aaron and said "nevermind;" and while I assume he was a little alarmed at my neuroses, he said "ok." And we never really talked about it again. (He didn't end up taking that internship - but I got an internship that next fall in Colorado for five months. What star-crossed lovers! We survived. My journal from that period is virtually unreadable, guys.)
I thought about that story again recently because it is exactly what I've done, over this past year and a half, with Jesus.
I don't want to belabor the emotional and theological windstorm Naomi's birth sent me through. I've written about it and thought about it enough. But for the purposes of this story, the practical output of it was - especially in those early months after she came to meet me - that every night I prayed like this:
"God, please keep Naomi safe. Please let her sleep well. Please let her live through the night. Please help me help her."
And, this critical last part:
"God, if you take her from me, I will leave you."
I meant it, and it was important to me to tell Him. I wanted to be honest with Him. I wanted to prepare for the worst. I didn't want to be surprised at how I'd react if it happened. I didn't want to surprise Him, either.
And then, everything was different anyway - my news writing assignments became agonizing. Babies WERE taken from mothers. People hurt babies on purpose; people hurt babies on accident. Babies had cancer, sons and daughters joined the military; everything was agony. Every parent has felt this terrible emotional awakening, I'm pretty sure. (This is why moms can't watch Game of Thrones. That metal-bound torture victim underneath the castle walls is someone's SON, Mr. Martin. Tone it DOWN.) So my prayers, rather slowly, turned into this:
"God, you took those babies. I want to leave you."
And I did. For an afternoon here or an afternoon there, I would pretend I had. I would practice saying in my head "I used to be a Christian." I would guiltily study my hands during worship at church on Sunday, being careful not to sing words I wasn't sure I meant ("whatever my lot, You have taught me to say it is well with my soul.") Those moments never felt right, but I was trying them out. I was putting on the skin of a non-believer; poking my head out of my life to look around. What was it like?
Those moments felt freeing when I was pissed. When I read another terrible news story or heard another struggle from a friend, I felt liberated. Cocky, even. Ha! At least I don't have to explain this away on God's behalf, I thought. But I did notice something a little odd - I still wasn't looking at these situations from the lens of a person who doesn't believe in God. I was using the lens of a person who does; but who just thinks He's terrible. A God I wasn't going to waste my time defending or worshipping - because, frankly, in those moments, I couldn't figure out why I would.
There were some moments and friends that offered me alternatives, mostly in the form of a god that is powerless against bad things, cries when I cry and wouldn't ever really let anything terrible happen. (This perspective always left me sweating, worrying - wouldn't it be worse to have a god who's not in charge than to have one in charge who does inscrutable things sometimes?) Or there's the worldview that pretends everyone is basically good, and anything bad that happens is just, I don't know, a bump on the road to Harmony. (This also left me sweating, because if the people in these local news stories who hurt kids in the way I read about - if they don't burn in hell, constantly reminded of what they did, I don't want to live in that world, either.) But soon I came to a realization:
I would rather reject the real God than accept a fake simulation of Him.
Once I got there, I had a decision to make. Or, I thought I could make. But something else started happening.
As the hormonal haze that marked the beginning of my motherhood has mercifully receded, I've discovered something else about my faith: it's stubborn as hell.
Every time my heart grabs wildly for something to hold on to - whether it's comfort, or the assurance that someone who did something terrible WILL pay - I find Jesus there. When I'm reading with Naomi on my lap and I don't know where to put that joy that feels like it's going to break out of my body, Jesus is there. Every confusing question I find, every time I look hard in the mirror and wonder what kind of life I want to have, Jesus is there. And not just Jesus - I find people in the Scriptures who've asked all the questions I have, or felt the frustrations, or been pissed like I've been pissed, and who've still found a Just and Faithful and Good God. Just like Jesus knows what it is to be human, our forefathers (and mothers) know what it's like to serve an unbelievably frustrating and confusing God from the depths of tragedy and the height of joy. These fathers and mothers of my faith lost their families; they lost their heads and they spent years in prison. They cried and kicked and screamed, and they tried to count it all joy, because they had seen a man rise from the dead and tell them that they could, too.
I can't let Him go. I don't want to get a glass of orange juice without Him, I don't want to make small talk without Him; I sure as hell don't want to raise my daughter without him. I don't think I could if I tried. He is in my bones and blood; in my mind when I'm not quite awake but find myself praying for help, or when I'm frustrated beyond belief and grasping for empathy. He is real, and thank God I have spent years knowing that and growing in my knowledge of that. Because now, when I spend days realizing the cost of it (that I could lose everything - my baby - and still be called to worship the One in Charge) I come to find it's worth it. It has to be, because I don't have a choice.
Pastor Frank said in his sermon a couple weeks ago (goodness help me, I can't stop listening to Redemption podcasts. There is no substitute for a Frank sermon) that "mature faith has burned the boats." (He was quoting another author, so don't give him too much credit.) Mature faith has given up on all other options. It's on the island, with no escape, with enough confidence and holy recklessness to burn the only point of return. There's no going back.
I've burned the boats. Thank God.
What I remember most after that moment is that I went to the kitchen to get a drink of orange juice, and my Mom asked me something innocent like "what's up" and I said something innocent like "not much" but I felt like I couldn't fill up my lungs. It was like walking through sludge. What had just happened? This was terrible! I don't want to get a cup of juice while not dating Aaron. I don't want to make small talk with Mom while not dating Aaron. I don't want to do anything while not dating Aaron! Cincinnati is just a hop and a skip, right? Why did I think it was so far?
I ran back to Aaron and said "nevermind;" and while I assume he was a little alarmed at my neuroses, he said "ok." And we never really talked about it again. (He didn't end up taking that internship - but I got an internship that next fall in Colorado for five months. What star-crossed lovers! We survived. My journal from that period is virtually unreadable, guys.)
I thought about that story again recently because it is exactly what I've done, over this past year and a half, with Jesus.
I don't want to belabor the emotional and theological windstorm Naomi's birth sent me through. I've written about it and thought about it enough. But for the purposes of this story, the practical output of it was - especially in those early months after she came to meet me - that every night I prayed like this:
"God, please keep Naomi safe. Please let her sleep well. Please let her live through the night. Please help me help her."
And, this critical last part:
"God, if you take her from me, I will leave you."
I meant it, and it was important to me to tell Him. I wanted to be honest with Him. I wanted to prepare for the worst. I didn't want to be surprised at how I'd react if it happened. I didn't want to surprise Him, either.
And then, everything was different anyway - my news writing assignments became agonizing. Babies WERE taken from mothers. People hurt babies on purpose; people hurt babies on accident. Babies had cancer, sons and daughters joined the military; everything was agony. Every parent has felt this terrible emotional awakening, I'm pretty sure. (This is why moms can't watch Game of Thrones. That metal-bound torture victim underneath the castle walls is someone's SON, Mr. Martin. Tone it DOWN.) So my prayers, rather slowly, turned into this:
"God, you took those babies. I want to leave you."
And I did. For an afternoon here or an afternoon there, I would pretend I had. I would practice saying in my head "I used to be a Christian." I would guiltily study my hands during worship at church on Sunday, being careful not to sing words I wasn't sure I meant ("whatever my lot, You have taught me to say it is well with my soul.") Those moments never felt right, but I was trying them out. I was putting on the skin of a non-believer; poking my head out of my life to look around. What was it like?
Those moments felt freeing when I was pissed. When I read another terrible news story or heard another struggle from a friend, I felt liberated. Cocky, even. Ha! At least I don't have to explain this away on God's behalf, I thought. But I did notice something a little odd - I still wasn't looking at these situations from the lens of a person who doesn't believe in God. I was using the lens of a person who does; but who just thinks He's terrible. A God I wasn't going to waste my time defending or worshipping - because, frankly, in those moments, I couldn't figure out why I would.
There were some moments and friends that offered me alternatives, mostly in the form of a god that is powerless against bad things, cries when I cry and wouldn't ever really let anything terrible happen. (This perspective always left me sweating, worrying - wouldn't it be worse to have a god who's not in charge than to have one in charge who does inscrutable things sometimes?) Or there's the worldview that pretends everyone is basically good, and anything bad that happens is just, I don't know, a bump on the road to Harmony. (This also left me sweating, because if the people in these local news stories who hurt kids in the way I read about - if they don't burn in hell, constantly reminded of what they did, I don't want to live in that world, either.) But soon I came to a realization:
I would rather reject the real God than accept a fake simulation of Him.
Once I got there, I had a decision to make. Or, I thought I could make. But something else started happening.
As the hormonal haze that marked the beginning of my motherhood has mercifully receded, I've discovered something else about my faith: it's stubborn as hell.
Every time my heart grabs wildly for something to hold on to - whether it's comfort, or the assurance that someone who did something terrible WILL pay - I find Jesus there. When I'm reading with Naomi on my lap and I don't know where to put that joy that feels like it's going to break out of my body, Jesus is there. Every confusing question I find, every time I look hard in the mirror and wonder what kind of life I want to have, Jesus is there. And not just Jesus - I find people in the Scriptures who've asked all the questions I have, or felt the frustrations, or been pissed like I've been pissed, and who've still found a Just and Faithful and Good God. Just like Jesus knows what it is to be human, our forefathers (and mothers) know what it's like to serve an unbelievably frustrating and confusing God from the depths of tragedy and the height of joy. These fathers and mothers of my faith lost their families; they lost their heads and they spent years in prison. They cried and kicked and screamed, and they tried to count it all joy, because they had seen a man rise from the dead and tell them that they could, too.
I can't let Him go. I don't want to get a glass of orange juice without Him, I don't want to make small talk without Him; I sure as hell don't want to raise my daughter without him. I don't think I could if I tried. He is in my bones and blood; in my mind when I'm not quite awake but find myself praying for help, or when I'm frustrated beyond belief and grasping for empathy. He is real, and thank God I have spent years knowing that and growing in my knowledge of that. Because now, when I spend days realizing the cost of it (that I could lose everything - my baby - and still be called to worship the One in Charge) I come to find it's worth it. It has to be, because I don't have a choice.
Pastor Frank said in his sermon a couple weeks ago (goodness help me, I can't stop listening to Redemption podcasts. There is no substitute for a Frank sermon) that "mature faith has burned the boats." (He was quoting another author, so don't give him too much credit.) Mature faith has given up on all other options. It's on the island, with no escape, with enough confidence and holy recklessness to burn the only point of return. There's no going back.
I've burned the boats. Thank God.
Tuesday, June 6, 2017
"Honey, This City Isn't For You."
Last weekend, with great solemnity and ceremony, I relocated my aloe plant from the landing on our stairs to our deck outside. To get some sun, because I'm pretty sure it's dying. (I always kill the ones that are supposed to be low-maintenance. And the needy ones are thriving. This is probably a metaphor about me? Is it?) Anyway, this afternoon I was patting myself on the back for my steely resolve in the face of cruel nature and science, etc.; sacrificing the feng shui of my staircase landing all in the name of abundant aloe life, and then it starting pouring rain. It went from zero to Apocolypse Now: Rainstorm in .5 seconds and I was powerless at my kitchen window. That rain is gonna kill my aloe now. Aloe drowns in the rain.
We live about a mile from downtown Columbus. I can see the skyscrapers from our third-story window, which sits just opposite the Naptime Treadmill 2017 (as we affectionately call it around here, because it is almost exclusively used during naptime). On pretty regular occasions, especially during rush hour when the highways are clogged, I find myself driving through the middle of the city. (Columbus has a really strange number of pizza places. And hot dog places. And grilled cheese places? We have a grease problem.) Anyway, right now on every major city lamppost downtown, there are giant signs heralding the Stonewall Columbus Pride Parade and Festival in a couple weeks. The signs have been up for over a month now. They're city signs, on city lampposts. With a great font.
I see them every time I pass through town, and a couple errands ago I realized I hadn't quite put my finger on how they made me feel. Because I was definitely feeling something, but I didn't know what. The easy answer would be anger. Taking a quick inventory of my college years would lead right to that conclusion. I was an angry little freedom fighter back then - everyone was out to get me and everyone but me was WRONG. But the signs weren't making me angry.
Was it sadness? Melancholy? Tenderness? Fear? Confusion? No. None of these really fit.
It was loneliness.
They make me feel lonely, is the thing. Like my own city doesn't want me. Because I'm not proud of our cultural obsession with sexuality, or the way we reduce people with same-sex attraction to a single identity, or the way we bully people - via Twitter, via legislation, via lawsuits, via church pulpits, via podcasts, via blogs, via books, via boring ol' peer pressure - into accepting, celebrating, and promoting the idea that we're powerless in the face of our sexual desires, that we can be happy as long as we get to do whatever we feel like doing in any given moment, and that marriage isn't a True Immovable Thing but can be whatever we want it to be, and that marriage only exists to make us happy. In fact, I don't like that we do that. I don't think homosexuality is an identity. I don't think it allows people to flourish. I don't think it's good for hearts. I don't think it's the way God sees us. And for that, my city doesn't want me.
(A few weeks ago I met a woman for coffee who does some local freelance writing. I was hoping to pick her brain on the ins and outs of the freelance landscape around here. But when she asked me what Aaron does for a living, and I told her about his nonprofit, this happened:
Her: "Honey, you don't want to write for any Columbus publications."
Me: "What? Yes, I do."
Her: "...it's a very progressive city."
Me: "...ok?"
Her: .....
Me: .....
Me: ... "Do any of the publications cover the news? Because that's what I write, and that's what I read in them. I don't see a lot of opinion pieces... and I'm not qualified to write opinion pieces anyway."
Her: "I just don't think you'd want to write for them.")
Loneliness. (With a dash of injustice, bc: WTF?)
BUT.
I feel strongly that I will really screw this whole thing up if I start to focus on whether, or how, I'm being wronged. That would be fruitless and self-serving and, frankly, boring as hell. What I'm hoping to do is maybe use this to try to understand better the other people who have felt like this. Maybe for a long time.
I'm thinking of African-Americans who were (and in many cases still are) treated as unwelcome in their own cities. At water fountains and schools and restaurants and on certain streets and in certain neighborhoods or jobs or clergy positions or city councils. Or men and women without washboard abs and straight white teeth who don't see anyone who looks remotely like them on any billboard or advertisement anywhere. I guess I've spent most of my life, thanks be to God, feeling pretty represented. Pretty included. And now I'm starting not to feel that way. It's sad, and it makes me feel lonely, but maybe it will make me wiser. And help me remember that suffering - even on this little level - isn't The Thing To Always Be Avoided. And that it arguably doesn't do me too much good to feel perfectly at home in a world where sin is still pouring like Apocolypse Now: Rainstorm.
Because aloe drowns in the rain.
We live about a mile from downtown Columbus. I can see the skyscrapers from our third-story window, which sits just opposite the Naptime Treadmill 2017 (as we affectionately call it around here, because it is almost exclusively used during naptime). On pretty regular occasions, especially during rush hour when the highways are clogged, I find myself driving through the middle of the city. (Columbus has a really strange number of pizza places. And hot dog places. And grilled cheese places? We have a grease problem.) Anyway, right now on every major city lamppost downtown, there are giant signs heralding the Stonewall Columbus Pride Parade and Festival in a couple weeks. The signs have been up for over a month now. They're city signs, on city lampposts. With a great font.
I see them every time I pass through town, and a couple errands ago I realized I hadn't quite put my finger on how they made me feel. Because I was definitely feeling something, but I didn't know what. The easy answer would be anger. Taking a quick inventory of my college years would lead right to that conclusion. I was an angry little freedom fighter back then - everyone was out to get me and everyone but me was WRONG. But the signs weren't making me angry.
Was it sadness? Melancholy? Tenderness? Fear? Confusion? No. None of these really fit.
It was loneliness.
They make me feel lonely, is the thing. Like my own city doesn't want me. Because I'm not proud of our cultural obsession with sexuality, or the way we reduce people with same-sex attraction to a single identity, or the way we bully people - via Twitter, via legislation, via lawsuits, via church pulpits, via podcasts, via blogs, via books, via boring ol' peer pressure - into accepting, celebrating, and promoting the idea that we're powerless in the face of our sexual desires, that we can be happy as long as we get to do whatever we feel like doing in any given moment, and that marriage isn't a True Immovable Thing but can be whatever we want it to be, and that marriage only exists to make us happy. In fact, I don't like that we do that. I don't think homosexuality is an identity. I don't think it allows people to flourish. I don't think it's good for hearts. I don't think it's the way God sees us. And for that, my city doesn't want me.
(A few weeks ago I met a woman for coffee who does some local freelance writing. I was hoping to pick her brain on the ins and outs of the freelance landscape around here. But when she asked me what Aaron does for a living, and I told her about his nonprofit, this happened:
Her: "Honey, you don't want to write for any Columbus publications."
Me: "What? Yes, I do."
Her: "...it's a very progressive city."
Me: "...ok?"
Her: .....
Me: .....
Me: ... "Do any of the publications cover the news? Because that's what I write, and that's what I read in them. I don't see a lot of opinion pieces... and I'm not qualified to write opinion pieces anyway."
Her: "I just don't think you'd want to write for them.")
Loneliness. (With a dash of injustice, bc: WTF?)
BUT.
I feel strongly that I will really screw this whole thing up if I start to focus on whether, or how, I'm being wronged. That would be fruitless and self-serving and, frankly, boring as hell. What I'm hoping to do is maybe use this to try to understand better the other people who have felt like this. Maybe for a long time.
I'm thinking of African-Americans who were (and in many cases still are) treated as unwelcome in their own cities. At water fountains and schools and restaurants and on certain streets and in certain neighborhoods or jobs or clergy positions or city councils. Or men and women without washboard abs and straight white teeth who don't see anyone who looks remotely like them on any billboard or advertisement anywhere. I guess I've spent most of my life, thanks be to God, feeling pretty represented. Pretty included. And now I'm starting not to feel that way. It's sad, and it makes me feel lonely, but maybe it will make me wiser. And help me remember that suffering - even on this little level - isn't The Thing To Always Be Avoided. And that it arguably doesn't do me too much good to feel perfectly at home in a world where sin is still pouring like Apocolypse Now: Rainstorm.
Because aloe drowns in the rain.
Tuesday, May 9, 2017
Swimming Naked
There's a guy in Australia who hosts a nude swim every year. At first I assumed he was a perverted weirdo, but I saw an interview with him and changed my mind. He said he does it to force people to think about their priorities. He said people usually only re-evaluate their perspective when one of the terrible "d's" happens to them - death, disease or divorce - and he wanted to create a positive situation that would yield the same positive results. It sounds crazy, but I actually think it's totally plausible that plunging naked into the freezing Australian ocean surrounded by a whole bunch of other naked weirdos would give me a broader perspective on life and its many challenges. (I could probably argue that the people who sign up for something like that in the first place probably aren't the people who need it, but I don't want to be a downer.)
Anyway I think I have the opposite problem. I think it's from writing the news.
Before I go on, a word to pre-child me and anyone else who has an eyeroll at the ready for the next person who talks about how "becoming a parent changes you":
Becoming a parent changes you.
Like, I don't think it makes you morally superior, or even more wise. You're not a bad person, or weird or selfish, if you don't have kids. You can still experience deep, meaningful and fruitful human emotion. You can still teach others, and have passionate feelings. BUT.
The Maria Baer before Naomi was a different Maria Baer, with shallower fears, less weighty daily concerns and more inward focus. I wasn't worse, but I was different, and less emotionally stretched. My love wasn't as deep and my fear wasn't as wide. I didn't know how to prioritize stressors the way I do now. (An aside: this literally makes me feel like a Completely Amazing Person on a daily basis. Do you know this feeling? My kid is crying, I just spilled coffee on my shirt, someone's knocking at the door and my phone is ringing. What do I do first? Tend to the kid. Then door, then phone, don't worry about shirt. This is a small example but it's hard to quantify how empowering these kids of little stress pop quizzes are.) My point is I am different now and probably slightly more wise. This is not an opinion or a moral judgment, it's just a fact, and it's emotionally mature to accept it without getting defensive (still talking to my pre-child self here) and move on.
A few weeks ago I wrote to my pastor in Phoenix about how guilty I felt for singing "I Surrender All" at church on Ash Wednesday knowing full well that I very much DON'T surrender all, because I don't surrender my daughter. If God pulled an Abraham-and-Isaac thing on me, I don't even have to think about it; I'd say no. I just would. It troubles me to say that, and confuses me because I don't know what it means about my faith necessarily, but I do know it's true.
Anyway my pastor said (among many other things, which were a great help) that when God told Eve that there would be pain in child-bearing after the apple incident, THIS is what He meant. All of this. Not just the contractions the breathing and all that, but the fear, and the desperate and terrible love. I feel like a broken record. (Having a child has changed me and I am still dealing with it).
Writing local news roundups every night has exacerbated this. All these car accidents, tornadoes, mothers arrested for neglecting their babies, heroin overdoses at 21, accidental fatal gunfire, sexual deviance, teachers abusing students, men robbing convenience stores at knifepoint, drunk driving accidents - It's salt on a very fresh, confusing wound that I'm still tip-toeing around, staring at from different angles and trying to parse. What is this fear? Is it real or exaggerated? Is it wisdom or irrational, hormone-induced anxiety? Am I living with a wise, much-sought-after "eternal perspective" ("life is short") or just paralyzing myself with fear and worry ("Oh shit, life is short!")
Pardon my irreverent French, but John Piper is an asshole about this. Remember when he started a Twitter controversy (remember when it was possible to NOT start Twitter controversies?) after the deadly tornado in Missouri by tweeting something about how it was all part of God's plan? He said it much more aggressively than this. Lately I've been reading a book of his called "Don't Waste Your Life." I bought it at a conference and will sheepishly admit I was drawn in by the title. I was secretly hoping it was going to be a nice, comforting little treatise on how accepting the Gospel means you could never possibly waste your life, even if you're a newly staying-at-home mom still trying to figure out how to spend her time. (If I spend the next 15 minutes doing the dishes, will I Regret For The Rest Of My Life that I didn't spend those 15 minutes with my too-rapidly growing baby? Don't they make flowery instagram memes about this? And if I don't do the dishes, won't it annoy me the next time I go into the kitchen, and the time after that, and eventually we won't have any dishes to eat on? How the hell do I make this kind of decision?)
And I guess the Piper book does essentially say that (the Gospel thing, not the dishes thing) but it's just so... mean. I finish each chapter thinking "why are you yelling at me, John Piper?" I'm paraphrasing here but I'm pretty sure there's a paragraph that basically says "if terrible things happen to you, who cares! You shouldn't, because Jesus is eternal."
The odd thing is, in the same season as this fear has been swirling around me, my life has gotten really deliciously small. Like, the kind of life I always wanted. I wake up in the morning slowly. My girl and I eat breakfast. I make coffee, she plays. We sit on the back porch and talk about the weather and the new flowers blooming. Maybe we take a walk to the park. I sit at the piano for a while. We read books. She naps. You get what I'm saying. I'm still reading and writing and seeing other adult friends and cooking fun things and running on the treadmill and everything. But I'm not stressed. I feel really present.
And in all those same moments, I'm also terrified. I realize some folks need to jump naked into the Pacific be reminded of what's important and to find the encouragement to stop spending so much time on frivolous things. My problem is the frivolous things aren't fun anymore because I'm too consumed with the frailty of What's Important.
Sometimes I feel like I can't win. This is why I like reading fiction. (And drinking wine.)
Anyway I think I have the opposite problem. I think it's from writing the news.
Before I go on, a word to pre-child me and anyone else who has an eyeroll at the ready for the next person who talks about how "becoming a parent changes you":
Becoming a parent changes you.
Like, I don't think it makes you morally superior, or even more wise. You're not a bad person, or weird or selfish, if you don't have kids. You can still experience deep, meaningful and fruitful human emotion. You can still teach others, and have passionate feelings. BUT.
The Maria Baer before Naomi was a different Maria Baer, with shallower fears, less weighty daily concerns and more inward focus. I wasn't worse, but I was different, and less emotionally stretched. My love wasn't as deep and my fear wasn't as wide. I didn't know how to prioritize stressors the way I do now. (An aside: this literally makes me feel like a Completely Amazing Person on a daily basis. Do you know this feeling? My kid is crying, I just spilled coffee on my shirt, someone's knocking at the door and my phone is ringing. What do I do first? Tend to the kid. Then door, then phone, don't worry about shirt. This is a small example but it's hard to quantify how empowering these kids of little stress pop quizzes are.) My point is I am different now and probably slightly more wise. This is not an opinion or a moral judgment, it's just a fact, and it's emotionally mature to accept it without getting defensive (still talking to my pre-child self here) and move on.
A few weeks ago I wrote to my pastor in Phoenix about how guilty I felt for singing "I Surrender All" at church on Ash Wednesday knowing full well that I very much DON'T surrender all, because I don't surrender my daughter. If God pulled an Abraham-and-Isaac thing on me, I don't even have to think about it; I'd say no. I just would. It troubles me to say that, and confuses me because I don't know what it means about my faith necessarily, but I do know it's true.
Anyway my pastor said (among many other things, which were a great help) that when God told Eve that there would be pain in child-bearing after the apple incident, THIS is what He meant. All of this. Not just the contractions the breathing and all that, but the fear, and the desperate and terrible love. I feel like a broken record. (Having a child has changed me and I am still dealing with it).
Writing local news roundups every night has exacerbated this. All these car accidents, tornadoes, mothers arrested for neglecting their babies, heroin overdoses at 21, accidental fatal gunfire, sexual deviance, teachers abusing students, men robbing convenience stores at knifepoint, drunk driving accidents - It's salt on a very fresh, confusing wound that I'm still tip-toeing around, staring at from different angles and trying to parse. What is this fear? Is it real or exaggerated? Is it wisdom or irrational, hormone-induced anxiety? Am I living with a wise, much-sought-after "eternal perspective" ("life is short") or just paralyzing myself with fear and worry ("Oh shit, life is short!")
Pardon my irreverent French, but John Piper is an asshole about this. Remember when he started a Twitter controversy (remember when it was possible to NOT start Twitter controversies?) after the deadly tornado in Missouri by tweeting something about how it was all part of God's plan? He said it much more aggressively than this. Lately I've been reading a book of his called "Don't Waste Your Life." I bought it at a conference and will sheepishly admit I was drawn in by the title. I was secretly hoping it was going to be a nice, comforting little treatise on how accepting the Gospel means you could never possibly waste your life, even if you're a newly staying-at-home mom still trying to figure out how to spend her time. (If I spend the next 15 minutes doing the dishes, will I Regret For The Rest Of My Life that I didn't spend those 15 minutes with my too-rapidly growing baby? Don't they make flowery instagram memes about this? And if I don't do the dishes, won't it annoy me the next time I go into the kitchen, and the time after that, and eventually we won't have any dishes to eat on? How the hell do I make this kind of decision?)
And I guess the Piper book does essentially say that (the Gospel thing, not the dishes thing) but it's just so... mean. I finish each chapter thinking "why are you yelling at me, John Piper?" I'm paraphrasing here but I'm pretty sure there's a paragraph that basically says "if terrible things happen to you, who cares! You shouldn't, because Jesus is eternal."
The odd thing is, in the same season as this fear has been swirling around me, my life has gotten really deliciously small. Like, the kind of life I always wanted. I wake up in the morning slowly. My girl and I eat breakfast. I make coffee, she plays. We sit on the back porch and talk about the weather and the new flowers blooming. Maybe we take a walk to the park. I sit at the piano for a while. We read books. She naps. You get what I'm saying. I'm still reading and writing and seeing other adult friends and cooking fun things and running on the treadmill and everything. But I'm not stressed. I feel really present.
And in all those same moments, I'm also terrified. I realize some folks need to jump naked into the Pacific be reminded of what's important and to find the encouragement to stop spending so much time on frivolous things. My problem is the frivolous things aren't fun anymore because I'm too consumed with the frailty of What's Important.
Sometimes I feel like I can't win. This is why I like reading fiction. (And drinking wine.)
Tuesday, October 25, 2016
It's Cramped But We're All OK: October 2016
The setting: an apartment that's too small. The characters: A woman and her dog, mortal enemies by the cruel providence of a cross-country move and an unsold house, that's now been sold but wasn't by the crucial moment of moving, necessitating this in-between "homestead" that was definitely made for one person, or maybe two, but certainly not two and a half, and a dog. The dance: the woman and the canine try to avoid each other but cannot; his fur flying everywhere, into socks and shoes and drains and newly cleaned counters and drawers; his dumb dog butt taking up the entire hallway as she attempts to bring out the laundry basket and doesn't see him below her, causing her to stumble, he screeches, pride wounded, but no wiser about stashing his dumb hairy self a little off to the side next time. Her toe is stubbed; temper rising melodramatically.
It's cramped in here.
My other little creature is slowly learning to talk, and more quickly learning how to manipulate me with her little whimpers and huge blue eyes. She started saying "mama" this past week and I'm absolute toast, all my determination to help her "learn to go to bed on her own" out the window because the second I put her down and her tiny, sing-songy and terribly dramatic little "mama"s start floating down the (too-short) hallway to the (cramped) couch I'm up and back in the bedroom, picking her up for a long rocking sesh. How could I deny the "mama"s?? YOU try.
Our old house sold almost immediately after we got here, and that is such a gift. We've saved so much money and angst. On top of that, we found a dreamy little brick house in the neighborhood to top all neighborhoods (library and giant historic bookstore within walking distance), and there's plenty of room for both woman and beast (and husband and babe) and even more, and we close on said storybook house at the end of this week. Lots to be grateful for, sighs of relief to sigh and hands to high five and gratitude journals to fill (who actually does this?)
Still, it's too cramped in here.
I miss my friends. The ones who would cry tears of joy with me at the "mama"s (and who did, honestly, over the phone, but it's not the same). I miss the ones who make us carnitas at 9 pm, patiently waiting for my evening run to finish and for us to zip over in our pajamas with wet hair and huge appetites and hearts convinced we deserve a weekday night beer (or three) with our Mexican pork. I miss the ones who run into the Church building Sunday morning, faces lighting up when we see each other like it's been more than four days, talking too loud about how we love each others' outfits and how work sucks and isn't this summer way too hot? I miss the ones with the cutest babies who watch the garbage men and love donuts and in fact, shall we stop over to Bosa and pick up a dozen on this lazy Saturday morning?
My days now are somewhat formulaic, and the formula is actually full of ingredients I like: coffee in the morning, an episode of something funny on Hulu while baby bounces in her little playset, then we eat (sweet potatoes are YES, JUST THE WORLD-EXPANDING SNACK WE WERE WAITING FOR), then we read books and play just before our nap while Mom e-mails and writes and reads, and then we cook dinner or go to the park or call desert friends or write sad letters to desert friends. These are all lovely things, but they're lonely too.
Our best friend is off at meetings during the week, driving everywhere and making friends and charming the pants off anyone who looks at him for more than 15 seconds, including your humble correspondent who doesn't get to hug his neck enough these days but loves counting down the hours until she gets to.
It's too cramped in here, both apartment and brain. We miss our friends but love the autumn, and we're so grateful for this apartment because so many mamas and babies and charming men and annoying dogs don't have a place to lay their heads, but we want more space and to be able to find all the cutlery. And now you're up to speed.
It's cramped in here.
My other little creature is slowly learning to talk, and more quickly learning how to manipulate me with her little whimpers and huge blue eyes. She started saying "mama" this past week and I'm absolute toast, all my determination to help her "learn to go to bed on her own" out the window because the second I put her down and her tiny, sing-songy and terribly dramatic little "mama"s start floating down the (too-short) hallway to the (cramped) couch I'm up and back in the bedroom, picking her up for a long rocking sesh. How could I deny the "mama"s?? YOU try.
Our old house sold almost immediately after we got here, and that is such a gift. We've saved so much money and angst. On top of that, we found a dreamy little brick house in the neighborhood to top all neighborhoods (library and giant historic bookstore within walking distance), and there's plenty of room for both woman and beast (and husband and babe) and even more, and we close on said storybook house at the end of this week. Lots to be grateful for, sighs of relief to sigh and hands to high five and gratitude journals to fill (who actually does this?)
Still, it's too cramped in here.
I miss my friends. The ones who would cry tears of joy with me at the "mama"s (and who did, honestly, over the phone, but it's not the same). I miss the ones who make us carnitas at 9 pm, patiently waiting for my evening run to finish and for us to zip over in our pajamas with wet hair and huge appetites and hearts convinced we deserve a weekday night beer (or three) with our Mexican pork. I miss the ones who run into the Church building Sunday morning, faces lighting up when we see each other like it's been more than four days, talking too loud about how we love each others' outfits and how work sucks and isn't this summer way too hot? I miss the ones with the cutest babies who watch the garbage men and love donuts and in fact, shall we stop over to Bosa and pick up a dozen on this lazy Saturday morning?
My days now are somewhat formulaic, and the formula is actually full of ingredients I like: coffee in the morning, an episode of something funny on Hulu while baby bounces in her little playset, then we eat (sweet potatoes are YES, JUST THE WORLD-EXPANDING SNACK WE WERE WAITING FOR), then we read books and play just before our nap while Mom e-mails and writes and reads, and then we cook dinner or go to the park or call desert friends or write sad letters to desert friends. These are all lovely things, but they're lonely too.
Our best friend is off at meetings during the week, driving everywhere and making friends and charming the pants off anyone who looks at him for more than 15 seconds, including your humble correspondent who doesn't get to hug his neck enough these days but loves counting down the hours until she gets to.
It's too cramped in here, both apartment and brain. We miss our friends but love the autumn, and we're so grateful for this apartment because so many mamas and babies and charming men and annoying dogs don't have a place to lay their heads, but we want more space and to be able to find all the cutlery. And now you're up to speed.
Wednesday, August 17, 2016
Going
Baby Baer had a doctor appointment the other day, at a pediatrician's office in the same compound as the hospital where she was born. My room in the maternity ward overlooked a patch of green grass and a bike path that weaves through the campus, and seeing it again sucks the air out of my lungs. It's a good feeling, sort of - a happy memory, certainly - but jarring. I can't believe she started life in that building. Isn't that a strange thing to think about? That she wasn't breathing air and then suddenly she was, and it was inside those four walls? How could it be a real, physical place and not some spiritual fifth dimension?
That's also the hospital where I found myself a few months after moving here, with side-splitting stomach pain that we soon found out was an ulcer. I also went to that hospital for outpatient physical therapy back then. I've visited a crop of fresh new babies belonging to various friends there.
It's weird to get nostalgic about a hospital, but I guess this is where we are.
These last couple of weeks in Phoenix feel like this: I feel like my heels are dragging a valley through the burning asphalt. I feel like if you listen closely enough, you can hear my proverbial breaks squeaking. I don't feel ready to leave. I don't want to leave.
I used to blog all the time about the weather here. It's too monotonous, certainly too hot. I never quite adjusted to it, though I learned to cope and hate the summers a little less. (This one has been a doosey though - carting a gradually heavier carseat and drooly baby everywhere you go in the 115 degree heat is... grumpiness-inducing. No matter how scrumptious said drooly baby is.) And truthfully, I feel a little sheepish having so much emotional trouble leaving. I know the impression I gave my family and friends back home was that I hated it here and was desperately homesick for Ohio. That was true for a long time. But then we steeled our resolve and found a beautiful church and a book-of-Acts community, and by the time Aaron suggested we buy a house I didn't even blink. We made a home here.
Part of this is that I simply hate change, like most humans do. It's really unsettling to be sitting here in my living room, with gray morning light coming through the windows like it does every morning, and Jethro the dog lying on the rug waiting to be let outside, and the air conditioning humming and my clothes in the closet and groceries in the fridge and laundry that needs done and then realizing: in about a week and a half, none of this will be. We'll be in another place.
But part of it is also that I love it here. Our routines, favorite dinner joints, book stores, coffee shops. And the people. Mostly the people. Forever the people.
On Sunday I got a tattoo with three of my closest friends, a little prickly pear cactus with a bloom on top on my left wrist, and not to be dramatic, but let's be dramatic about it for a second: it feels so appropriate, like acknowledging that Phoenix dug itself into my skin, and that I'll wear it forever, along with these people, and the desert, and that it hurt while it happened but it was so worth it, and have I overdone the metaphor? You get what I'm saying. Pain, permanence, beauty.
I really should be packing instead of ruminating, but my talents favor the ruminating and isn't packing what husband's are for? Moving is the worst. Just this moment I came face to face with the reality that I'm about to have to bubble-wrap every single dish in my kitchen cabinets. This is cruel and unusual.
Once in my more dramatic days (clearly I've overcome that vice) I wrote this quote on one of my journals in mult-colored gel pens, as one does: "There is nothing like returning to a place that remains unchanged to find the ways in which you yourself have altered." It's something Nelson Mandela said. I know it's not perfectly representative - Columbus and Ohio have certainly changed, and I'm not returning exactly as I've never lived in that particular city. But I'm a little afraid of what I'll find out about myself when we get there. What if I'm not as adventurous as I always thought I was? What does this move mean about me?
Sometimes things don't mean things about you. Sometimes they just are.
That's also the hospital where I found myself a few months after moving here, with side-splitting stomach pain that we soon found out was an ulcer. I also went to that hospital for outpatient physical therapy back then. I've visited a crop of fresh new babies belonging to various friends there.
It's weird to get nostalgic about a hospital, but I guess this is where we are.
These last couple of weeks in Phoenix feel like this: I feel like my heels are dragging a valley through the burning asphalt. I feel like if you listen closely enough, you can hear my proverbial breaks squeaking. I don't feel ready to leave. I don't want to leave.
I used to blog all the time about the weather here. It's too monotonous, certainly too hot. I never quite adjusted to it, though I learned to cope and hate the summers a little less. (This one has been a doosey though - carting a gradually heavier carseat and drooly baby everywhere you go in the 115 degree heat is... grumpiness-inducing. No matter how scrumptious said drooly baby is.) And truthfully, I feel a little sheepish having so much emotional trouble leaving. I know the impression I gave my family and friends back home was that I hated it here and was desperately homesick for Ohio. That was true for a long time. But then we steeled our resolve and found a beautiful church and a book-of-Acts community, and by the time Aaron suggested we buy a house I didn't even blink. We made a home here.
Part of this is that I simply hate change, like most humans do. It's really unsettling to be sitting here in my living room, with gray morning light coming through the windows like it does every morning, and Jethro the dog lying on the rug waiting to be let outside, and the air conditioning humming and my clothes in the closet and groceries in the fridge and laundry that needs done and then realizing: in about a week and a half, none of this will be. We'll be in another place.
But part of it is also that I love it here. Our routines, favorite dinner joints, book stores, coffee shops. And the people. Mostly the people. Forever the people.
On Sunday I got a tattoo with three of my closest friends, a little prickly pear cactus with a bloom on top on my left wrist, and not to be dramatic, but let's be dramatic about it for a second: it feels so appropriate, like acknowledging that Phoenix dug itself into my skin, and that I'll wear it forever, along with these people, and the desert, and that it hurt while it happened but it was so worth it, and have I overdone the metaphor? You get what I'm saying. Pain, permanence, beauty.
I really should be packing instead of ruminating, but my talents favor the ruminating and isn't packing what husband's are for? Moving is the worst. Just this moment I came face to face with the reality that I'm about to have to bubble-wrap every single dish in my kitchen cabinets. This is cruel and unusual.
Once in my more dramatic days (clearly I've overcome that vice) I wrote this quote on one of my journals in mult-colored gel pens, as one does: "There is nothing like returning to a place that remains unchanged to find the ways in which you yourself have altered." It's something Nelson Mandela said. I know it's not perfectly representative - Columbus and Ohio have certainly changed, and I'm not returning exactly as I've never lived in that particular city. But I'm a little afraid of what I'll find out about myself when we get there. What if I'm not as adventurous as I always thought I was? What does this move mean about me?
Sometimes things don't mean things about you. Sometimes they just are.
Saturday, August 6, 2016
God as Mother
We're about four months into baby Baer's little baby life, and one of the best parts about that is that she finally feels solid. Like a real, chubby, happy little baby who I'm not terrified of anymore. I don't think I realized how scared I was of her at first - they're so LITTLE, and so DEPENDENT, and light as a feather and sleepy and quiet and unable to tell me what they need. At least mine was. Now she's awake, with lots to say, lots of whining, and just now starting to grab at toys and things. She grabs my shirt in the exact same place every time I feed her and we settle in. She likes her elephant rattle. We take naps together. Heaven.
A couple of weeks before I had her, after I had started my maternity leave, I met one of my best friends for coffee at Lux. It was very much a "my-new-life" moment for me; yoga pants and a sweatshirt at 10 am with nothing to do afterwards. I loved it (but also hated it, because of the giant baby pressing on my internal organs, etc. I feel like we've talked about this before.) Anyway, this friend of mine is also a coworker, and she works in the department of our ministry that organizes our overseas missions. She primarily works in Ethiopia and Ukraine.
She was telling me about a community in Ethiopia that - for whatever reason - seems to have a preoccupation with Mary (the Mother of Jesus.) They're not practicing Christians, per se, but they treat Mary almost in an occult way - building shrines, believing she'll do them harm if they speak ill of her, etc. It made me think about my relationship with Mary, which I don't mind telling you has been a little... strained? for a few years now.
I grew up Catholic, named after Mary and always feeling like I had a special relationship with her. Lots of rosaries said, lots of prayers with her and thinking about her and hoping she was watching me especially, and helping me. Eventually my theology on that was challenged, and when I combed the Bible for some answers I started feeling like maybe I misunderstood who she was. I broke up with her, really. For a few years I tried not to think about her at all - pendulum swinging too far the other way and all that - but now I'm at a place where I feel ok accepting that she is special; that she made an incredible sacrifice, is a wonderful and beautiful example, and meant a lot to me in my childhood. I still look up to her. No more rosaries, though.
But my point is that this conversation with my friend got me wondering what it is about Mary that has this Ethiopian community so enraptured, and was it the same thing that held my heart and my attention as a kid? I think it's partly this: that we naturally seek the love of a Mother. And that the picture we have of God as only a masculine Father is incomplete. (If both male and female are made in His image, does He not have both male and female qualities?)
This thought came crashing back into my consciousness one night after feeding baby Baer. (As an aside, I think that's how I can best describe the hormone storm of post-partum life as I've lived it: rushing, unpredictable thoughts. Some good, some beautiful, some sad, some scary, some weird, always unexpected and very quick.) I was looking down at this girl, and my stomach was warm, and I couldn't believe how I felt about her. That I'd never ever felt about anyone like I felt about her, and how it hurt me, in a good way. I wished so much that she would wake up so I could tell her how incredibly much I loved her, and how there is nothing she could do that would make me not love her, and how wide and deep and aggressively I loved her, and I wanted her to understand me. She was dozing off on me, there in my rocking chair, and an old hymn we used to sing at mass came into my head:
"I heard the voice of Jesus say
'Come unto me and rest;
Lay down, o weary one, lay down
Your head upon my breast."
And! Then! I had this thought that made my heart and mind go wild: is this feeling, the way I feel about baby Baer, the way God feels about me? I had never, ever considered that. Never felt it that way. But if He is our Father, and our Mother, then yes, I suppose it is.
I started mulling this over and found more questions than answers - in a very honest moment I wondered, if that's true, where are my sonnets? Where's the poetry, the exclamations of love and beauty over me? Because that's the compulsion I have when I look at my girl - but that's not how the majority of the Bible reads to me. It's a lot of story-telling; some (a lot) of it violent; and letters from apostles giving lessons they've learned. It's much more than that, but it's not the shouting-love-from-the-mountaintops prose I would've written.
Still, I think my understand of Jesus' love for me started to change in the rocking chair, and it's still evolving. If God is my Mother, too, that means a thousand new things and a thousand times more powerful of a love than I pictured before.
A couple of weeks before I had her, after I had started my maternity leave, I met one of my best friends for coffee at Lux. It was very much a "my-new-life" moment for me; yoga pants and a sweatshirt at 10 am with nothing to do afterwards. I loved it (but also hated it, because of the giant baby pressing on my internal organs, etc. I feel like we've talked about this before.) Anyway, this friend of mine is also a coworker, and she works in the department of our ministry that organizes our overseas missions. She primarily works in Ethiopia and Ukraine.
She was telling me about a community in Ethiopia that - for whatever reason - seems to have a preoccupation with Mary (the Mother of Jesus.) They're not practicing Christians, per se, but they treat Mary almost in an occult way - building shrines, believing she'll do them harm if they speak ill of her, etc. It made me think about my relationship with Mary, which I don't mind telling you has been a little... strained? for a few years now.
I grew up Catholic, named after Mary and always feeling like I had a special relationship with her. Lots of rosaries said, lots of prayers with her and thinking about her and hoping she was watching me especially, and helping me. Eventually my theology on that was challenged, and when I combed the Bible for some answers I started feeling like maybe I misunderstood who she was. I broke up with her, really. For a few years I tried not to think about her at all - pendulum swinging too far the other way and all that - but now I'm at a place where I feel ok accepting that she is special; that she made an incredible sacrifice, is a wonderful and beautiful example, and meant a lot to me in my childhood. I still look up to her. No more rosaries, though.
But my point is that this conversation with my friend got me wondering what it is about Mary that has this Ethiopian community so enraptured, and was it the same thing that held my heart and my attention as a kid? I think it's partly this: that we naturally seek the love of a Mother. And that the picture we have of God as only a masculine Father is incomplete. (If both male and female are made in His image, does He not have both male and female qualities?)
This thought came crashing back into my consciousness one night after feeding baby Baer. (As an aside, I think that's how I can best describe the hormone storm of post-partum life as I've lived it: rushing, unpredictable thoughts. Some good, some beautiful, some sad, some scary, some weird, always unexpected and very quick.) I was looking down at this girl, and my stomach was warm, and I couldn't believe how I felt about her. That I'd never ever felt about anyone like I felt about her, and how it hurt me, in a good way. I wished so much that she would wake up so I could tell her how incredibly much I loved her, and how there is nothing she could do that would make me not love her, and how wide and deep and aggressively I loved her, and I wanted her to understand me. She was dozing off on me, there in my rocking chair, and an old hymn we used to sing at mass came into my head:
"I heard the voice of Jesus say
'Come unto me and rest;
Lay down, o weary one, lay down
Your head upon my breast."
And! Then! I had this thought that made my heart and mind go wild: is this feeling, the way I feel about baby Baer, the way God feels about me? I had never, ever considered that. Never felt it that way. But if He is our Father, and our Mother, then yes, I suppose it is.
I started mulling this over and found more questions than answers - in a very honest moment I wondered, if that's true, where are my sonnets? Where's the poetry, the exclamations of love and beauty over me? Because that's the compulsion I have when I look at my girl - but that's not how the majority of the Bible reads to me. It's a lot of story-telling; some (a lot) of it violent; and letters from apostles giving lessons they've learned. It's much more than that, but it's not the shouting-love-from-the-mountaintops prose I would've written.
Still, I think my understand of Jesus' love for me started to change in the rocking chair, and it's still evolving. If God is my Mother, too, that means a thousand new things and a thousand times more powerful of a love than I pictured before.
Friday, May 20, 2016
My Invincibility: A Realization
The subject of this post is: I can do anything. This includes (but is MOST ASSUREDLY NOT LIMITED TO) birthing a baby, which if you'll recall from my last post, was a bit in question.
My perfect little peanut butter daughter came into the world on April 15, about 36 hours or so after writing my last post, which just brings a smile to my now not-pregnant self. I'm super stoked that I didn't turn out to be the one woman in the history of all mankind post-Adam and Eve to remain pregnant until the coming kingdom, but even more stoked that my girl is here and she seems to like life. That is just the best.
Now back to me telling you (and myself) about how I can do anything. This will seem like a rather insignificant story, perhaps. But it isn't! You must believe! Come on this journey with me!
A couple of weeks after she was born we took baby Baer to a fund raiser, featuring a fancy hotel ballroom, plated dinner and a Fox News correspondent, if you can believe it. We were determined to do it. We strapped her to me in her little wrap (kudos to the inventors of this contraption; you, I assume, can also do anything), put on maternity dress pants much to our lingering chagrin (SO MANY WEIRD SHAPES happening to my body right now) and a pair of earrings and hit the town.
Was it a crazy thing to do? Maybe, but please remember that I can do anything, and consequently I can also do anything I want; which in this case was to get out of the house. Presumably baby Baer wanted this too - plus, I could finally stand upright after the delivery. This wasn't going to go to waste. So we went, but about an hour and a half into it we realized the event was going to go longer than expected, and I was faced with a Great and Powerful Dilemma, surely faced by many but unexpected by me up until this point: she needed fed.
If you're one of those gentlemen or ladies who can't handle breastfeeding talk, earmuffs please. I'm not going to lecture you on the harmful American sexualization of breasts and how you need to get over it already, because honestly, I don't much care, and I also respect your decision to look at/read or not look at/read anything involving boobs given your level of comfort/discomfort. This is a blog for another time but to reiterate: I'm not sure I care, and I respect you. So if you're uncomfortable, earmuffs. Or the earmuffs equivalent for reading? Open a new tab and shop for something on Amazon Prime. Then come back in ten minutes.
OK FOR THOSE OF YOU STILL WITH US, I had to feed baby Baer, and for the first few weeks postpartum that shit was PAINFUL. Some ladies will say - it shouldn't be painful at all! Which is very confusing. Others will say yes, it will hurt a little at first, which is also confusing. It turns out that both are true. I assumed the pain I was experiencing was soreness, but after about three weeks when it wasn't improving and in fact was getting worse, I realized my babe and I were doing things wrong. We worked together on it, consulted some friends who also have boobs and babies, and we figured it out. Hallelujah. It still hurt a little bit, and every feeding sounded like high school gym class ("take a deep breath! We can do this!") but eventually the soreness wore off.
At the time of the fancy fund raiser, however, the pain was still VERY MUCH HAPPENING and very real and very anxiety-inducing. So the Great and Powerful Dilemma was indeed great and powerful, because was I going to endure that pain in public? Where could I go to do it? Would the baby be up for it?
I decided to give it a try, with my husband's full endorsement that if it didn't work, we could head home. That would be disappointing, I thought, but maybe necessary.
I found a private family bathroom. You know, one of those ones with just one room. This was a victory, but immediately upon entering I realized the air conditioning didn't ventilate in this one room. An obstacle, sure, but not unsurmountable.
Earmuffs again, boob-a-phobes - I was still at this point unable to feed baby without pretty much taking off all items of clothing from the waste up. This feels very vulnerable to do, but nevertheless, I did it, right in that family bathroom. I washed my hands. I set the baby on the changing table. I got situated. We started our sweet little ritual. OUCH IT FREAKING HURT.
Then, a perfect storm came upon us. It started to get really hot in there. SO HOT. In Arizona, in the spring and summer months most especially, it is absolutely imperative that every room has air conditioning ventilation. Imperative. That's why I'm introducing legislation to make it a capital crime not to (just kidding, but I did find out this week that the state legislature passed a bill saying school students are allowed to eat their own vegetables that they grow in their own gardens, which is vexing, to say the least. Not the vegetables; the fact that this bill needed to be written and then needed to be passed. I digress).
Anyway it started getting really hot. Then, another thing happened - people started knocking on the door to get in. At first it was just a polite knock, then they tried the handle and realized it was locked. Then the knock got a little more aggressive, which told me it was not a new full-bladdered person but instead the same full-bladdered person who had knocked a minute ago, and he/she was getting impatient, and even more full-bladdered, probably. This caused a small amount of stress that soon began growing.
Then, baby started really hurting me. I mean you guys, it HURT.
Suddenly I had a moment of perfect clarity. Total and perfect clarity - unlike any other moment I've had in my life up until this point. I'm not kidding about that - I know this is a small situation - but throughout parenting for five weeks (five total weeks!) I've learned that small situations can be really Big Lessons, and this was one.
I saw my two decisions in front of me, and neither held any particular moral weight, which is a very large accomplishment for me. I could give up trying to feed her, get packed up, leave the sauna family bathroom and let Angry Knocker in, and go home. That would be ok. Or, I could keep trying, let the Knocker battle it out in the regular many-stalled bathroom down the hall, accept that I was going to get a little sweaty, and just keep going. That would be ok too. Everyone would be ok.
I looked at it objectively, decided I didn't really want to get home, that the baby was still getting fed despite the stress, and I kept going. We got a full feeding in. I ran my hands under cold water afterwards and wasn't so hot anymore. The person stopped knocking. We went back to the dinner.
This is the point when I realized I can do anything. And I did! I did do anything. I birthed a little baby girl. I endured a really painful post-birth infection, and lived to talk about it. I fed her in a public restroom when it really hurt and people were mad that I was monopolizing the room. I looked at a situation with more than one option, chose one of those options, and didn't feel guilty about it. I have a feeling that is going to be a big part of motherhood and I'm real, real glad I did it somewhat successfully once. Now the next time a similar situation happens, I'll hopefully be able to do it again, stress-free.
Now I have to ask the question that's plagued me since I started this post about 20 whole minutes ago: is this now a mommy blog???? SAY NO!!!!!!!!!
My perfect little peanut butter daughter came into the world on April 15, about 36 hours or so after writing my last post, which just brings a smile to my now not-pregnant self. I'm super stoked that I didn't turn out to be the one woman in the history of all mankind post-Adam and Eve to remain pregnant until the coming kingdom, but even more stoked that my girl is here and she seems to like life. That is just the best.
Now back to me telling you (and myself) about how I can do anything. This will seem like a rather insignificant story, perhaps. But it isn't! You must believe! Come on this journey with me!
A couple of weeks after she was born we took baby Baer to a fund raiser, featuring a fancy hotel ballroom, plated dinner and a Fox News correspondent, if you can believe it. We were determined to do it. We strapped her to me in her little wrap (kudos to the inventors of this contraption; you, I assume, can also do anything), put on maternity dress pants much to our lingering chagrin (SO MANY WEIRD SHAPES happening to my body right now) and a pair of earrings and hit the town.
Was it a crazy thing to do? Maybe, but please remember that I can do anything, and consequently I can also do anything I want; which in this case was to get out of the house. Presumably baby Baer wanted this too - plus, I could finally stand upright after the delivery. This wasn't going to go to waste. So we went, but about an hour and a half into it we realized the event was going to go longer than expected, and I was faced with a Great and Powerful Dilemma, surely faced by many but unexpected by me up until this point: she needed fed.
If you're one of those gentlemen or ladies who can't handle breastfeeding talk, earmuffs please. I'm not going to lecture you on the harmful American sexualization of breasts and how you need to get over it already, because honestly, I don't much care, and I also respect your decision to look at/read or not look at/read anything involving boobs given your level of comfort/discomfort. This is a blog for another time but to reiterate: I'm not sure I care, and I respect you. So if you're uncomfortable, earmuffs. Or the earmuffs equivalent for reading? Open a new tab and shop for something on Amazon Prime. Then come back in ten minutes.
OK FOR THOSE OF YOU STILL WITH US, I had to feed baby Baer, and for the first few weeks postpartum that shit was PAINFUL. Some ladies will say - it shouldn't be painful at all! Which is very confusing. Others will say yes, it will hurt a little at first, which is also confusing. It turns out that both are true. I assumed the pain I was experiencing was soreness, but after about three weeks when it wasn't improving and in fact was getting worse, I realized my babe and I were doing things wrong. We worked together on it, consulted some friends who also have boobs and babies, and we figured it out. Hallelujah. It still hurt a little bit, and every feeding sounded like high school gym class ("take a deep breath! We can do this!") but eventually the soreness wore off.
At the time of the fancy fund raiser, however, the pain was still VERY MUCH HAPPENING and very real and very anxiety-inducing. So the Great and Powerful Dilemma was indeed great and powerful, because was I going to endure that pain in public? Where could I go to do it? Would the baby be up for it?
I decided to give it a try, with my husband's full endorsement that if it didn't work, we could head home. That would be disappointing, I thought, but maybe necessary.
I found a private family bathroom. You know, one of those ones with just one room. This was a victory, but immediately upon entering I realized the air conditioning didn't ventilate in this one room. An obstacle, sure, but not unsurmountable.
Earmuffs again, boob-a-phobes - I was still at this point unable to feed baby without pretty much taking off all items of clothing from the waste up. This feels very vulnerable to do, but nevertheless, I did it, right in that family bathroom. I washed my hands. I set the baby on the changing table. I got situated. We started our sweet little ritual. OUCH IT FREAKING HURT.
Then, a perfect storm came upon us. It started to get really hot in there. SO HOT. In Arizona, in the spring and summer months most especially, it is absolutely imperative that every room has air conditioning ventilation. Imperative. That's why I'm introducing legislation to make it a capital crime not to (just kidding, but I did find out this week that the state legislature passed a bill saying school students are allowed to eat their own vegetables that they grow in their own gardens, which is vexing, to say the least. Not the vegetables; the fact that this bill needed to be written and then needed to be passed. I digress).
Anyway it started getting really hot. Then, another thing happened - people started knocking on the door to get in. At first it was just a polite knock, then they tried the handle and realized it was locked. Then the knock got a little more aggressive, which told me it was not a new full-bladdered person but instead the same full-bladdered person who had knocked a minute ago, and he/she was getting impatient, and even more full-bladdered, probably. This caused a small amount of stress that soon began growing.
Then, baby started really hurting me. I mean you guys, it HURT.
Suddenly I had a moment of perfect clarity. Total and perfect clarity - unlike any other moment I've had in my life up until this point. I'm not kidding about that - I know this is a small situation - but throughout parenting for five weeks (five total weeks!) I've learned that small situations can be really Big Lessons, and this was one.
I saw my two decisions in front of me, and neither held any particular moral weight, which is a very large accomplishment for me. I could give up trying to feed her, get packed up, leave the sauna family bathroom and let Angry Knocker in, and go home. That would be ok. Or, I could keep trying, let the Knocker battle it out in the regular many-stalled bathroom down the hall, accept that I was going to get a little sweaty, and just keep going. That would be ok too. Everyone would be ok.
I looked at it objectively, decided I didn't really want to get home, that the baby was still getting fed despite the stress, and I kept going. We got a full feeding in. I ran my hands under cold water afterwards and wasn't so hot anymore. The person stopped knocking. We went back to the dinner.
This is the point when I realized I can do anything. And I did! I did do anything. I birthed a little baby girl. I endured a really painful post-birth infection, and lived to talk about it. I fed her in a public restroom when it really hurt and people were mad that I was monopolizing the room. I looked at a situation with more than one option, chose one of those options, and didn't feel guilty about it. I have a feeling that is going to be a big part of motherhood and I'm real, real glad I did it somewhat successfully once. Now the next time a similar situation happens, I'll hopefully be able to do it again, stress-free.
Now I have to ask the question that's plagued me since I started this post about 20 whole minutes ago: is this now a mommy blog???? SAY NO!!!!!!!!!
Wednesday, April 13, 2016
39 Weeks Pregnant
I am a beached whale. With paralysis. A paralyzed beach whale. Who has lost all interest in television. This is a very sad state of affairs.
The happy part is that I know this is all so very temporary, and on the other side of this is a squishy little baby, hopefully with Aaron's eyes, that I get to snuggle. But I am not lying or exaggerating when I say it genuinely feels like that is never going to happen. I just can't imagine it happening. I fully expect to walk into my doctor's appointment tomorrow morning and hear my OB say "wow, we've never seen this, you're just not going to have this baby."
And they'll of course get her out in some way, by some means I'm DESPERATE to avoid (read: c-section) and now I'm thinking about that ridiculous article I read in Cosmopolitan (first mistake) like two weeks ago about women who felt like they had no control over their "birth story" (second mistake), and how that meant they lived the rest of their lives to regret it and statistically were more depressed, or some such. (The irony with shit like that is that Cosmo likes to think they're 'empowering women' by articles like this - the gist was 'maternity wards are evil, rabid tools of the patriarchy' - but really they're just freaking everybody out and pushing they're own agenda, which is genuinely patriarchal, if you ask me, which you didn't.)
I'm not even to my due date yet. 5 days away. 5 days feels like saying "two decades." 5 days of this? Of feeling like my hips are falling out of their sockets, and not being able to eat, or sleep, or keep my attention on old episodes of The Office or the weird English novel I'm reading? How could anyone possibly live through this?
Imagine every night at like, 2 am googling things like "are cold feet a sign of labor" or "are chapped lips a sign of labor" or "has anyone died of insanity while waiting for labor" or "oh god is this labor I hope so but also I hope not because that is terrifying." And then your bed mate is like "you ok babe?" And you're like "never better, just watching Jimmy Fallon's latest lip sync battle."
On Monday I went grocery shopping, which was a huge mistake, because I can't walk (I mentioned the paralysis.) I finished my round of the store and realized I hadn't seen the Panko anywhere, so I had to go back and find it, dammit. Because I was sure as hell not going back out later (paralysis) and I had made it this far, etc. etc. On the very front of the box of Panko it says "JAPANESE-STYLE BREAD CRUMBS." But for whatever godforsaken reason, Basha's does not stock them in the "Asian" food aisle. Can you please explain this to me? They are in the BAKING aisle. That is SOME BULLSHIT. Especially because the baking aisle is like, aisle 2, which meant I had to walk again to the other end of the store (paralysis reminder).
Anyway I brought up the grocery shopping because the last item on my list was a modest bouquet of flowers for myself. Well, technically for my impending daughter, but she's not coming anytime soon at all, so I knew they were really for me. For my kitchen table, because for the love, I need something colorful and distracting. But I forgot the flowers. I got to the register, miraculously only encountering one person who exclaimed "WOW! YOU'VE GOT A BUNDLE OF JOY COMING SOON!" (the "wow" part is always just so kind) and as the cashier started ringing everything up I suddenly remembered the flowers. I didn't go back and get them (flowers are not panko status.) I mourned for a little bit, I don't mind telling you.
But I bring that up because today the doorbell rang - you should really hear our doorbell right now. It's dying, so it sounds like the warped tones of a Tim Burton nightmare sequence. Anyway it rang, and there was a delivery - a bouquet of flowers. From my mother-in-law. How did she know? She didn't, but she sent them anyway, and I love them. That's a nice story to share right now, I thought.
Also regarding the weird guy who brought up my BUNDLE OF JOY in the yogurt section - I finally remembered the other day to try out my joke when it happened, which is to look confused and say "what do you mean, I'm not pregnant." But my error was that I pulled this joke on the lady doing my nails, who did not have a great grasp on the English language. She started it by saying "you have boy or girl?" And I said "What do you mean?" And the look on her face! I thought she was going to vomit. She was like "YOU BABY! YOU BABY!" and I realized this was not going as expected, and that she might call the police, so I said "yes, a girl, a girl! I'm just teasing you!" And she looked horrified, and then said her daughter told her she was pregnant as an April Fool's prank. Mine is not an April Fool's prank, except maybe it is and the joke is on me because, as I mentioned, my daughter is just going to live inside me forever. She just is.
Every time I google something about impending labor or the last couple of weeks of pregnancy, all I find are articles about disgusting bodily activities to watch for and all the things that are GREAT SIGNS but also could still mean your baby is 2345 years away from coming. I haven't yet found any articles about the mental anguish of these weeks, and though I've established the good side of all of this above, like a good Catholic girl, (squishy baby, etc.), I can't access that emotion right now, and I feel horrible and like I am going a little insane. This blog post is my contribution to the world of internet discussion boards about week 39. Here's some SEO to make sure you find it:
39 weeks pregnant going crazy
39 weeks pregnant oh my god someone help me
has anyone ever been pregnant forever
39 weeks pregnant i hate everything and everyone
Signing off now, bye.
The happy part is that I know this is all so very temporary, and on the other side of this is a squishy little baby, hopefully with Aaron's eyes, that I get to snuggle. But I am not lying or exaggerating when I say it genuinely feels like that is never going to happen. I just can't imagine it happening. I fully expect to walk into my doctor's appointment tomorrow morning and hear my OB say "wow, we've never seen this, you're just not going to have this baby."
And they'll of course get her out in some way, by some means I'm DESPERATE to avoid (read: c-section) and now I'm thinking about that ridiculous article I read in Cosmopolitan (first mistake) like two weeks ago about women who felt like they had no control over their "birth story" (second mistake), and how that meant they lived the rest of their lives to regret it and statistically were more depressed, or some such. (The irony with shit like that is that Cosmo likes to think they're 'empowering women' by articles like this - the gist was 'maternity wards are evil, rabid tools of the patriarchy' - but really they're just freaking everybody out and pushing they're own agenda, which is genuinely patriarchal, if you ask me, which you didn't.)
I'm not even to my due date yet. 5 days away. 5 days feels like saying "two decades." 5 days of this? Of feeling like my hips are falling out of their sockets, and not being able to eat, or sleep, or keep my attention on old episodes of The Office or the weird English novel I'm reading? How could anyone possibly live through this?
Imagine every night at like, 2 am googling things like "are cold feet a sign of labor" or "are chapped lips a sign of labor" or "has anyone died of insanity while waiting for labor" or "oh god is this labor I hope so but also I hope not because that is terrifying." And then your bed mate is like "you ok babe?" And you're like "never better, just watching Jimmy Fallon's latest lip sync battle."
On Monday I went grocery shopping, which was a huge mistake, because I can't walk (I mentioned the paralysis.) I finished my round of the store and realized I hadn't seen the Panko anywhere, so I had to go back and find it, dammit. Because I was sure as hell not going back out later (paralysis) and I had made it this far, etc. etc. On the very front of the box of Panko it says "JAPANESE-STYLE BREAD CRUMBS." But for whatever godforsaken reason, Basha's does not stock them in the "Asian" food aisle. Can you please explain this to me? They are in the BAKING aisle. That is SOME BULLSHIT. Especially because the baking aisle is like, aisle 2, which meant I had to walk again to the other end of the store (paralysis reminder).
Anyway I brought up the grocery shopping because the last item on my list was a modest bouquet of flowers for myself. Well, technically for my impending daughter, but she's not coming anytime soon at all, so I knew they were really for me. For my kitchen table, because for the love, I need something colorful and distracting. But I forgot the flowers. I got to the register, miraculously only encountering one person who exclaimed "WOW! YOU'VE GOT A BUNDLE OF JOY COMING SOON!" (the "wow" part is always just so kind) and as the cashier started ringing everything up I suddenly remembered the flowers. I didn't go back and get them (flowers are not panko status.) I mourned for a little bit, I don't mind telling you.
But I bring that up because today the doorbell rang - you should really hear our doorbell right now. It's dying, so it sounds like the warped tones of a Tim Burton nightmare sequence. Anyway it rang, and there was a delivery - a bouquet of flowers. From my mother-in-law. How did she know? She didn't, but she sent them anyway, and I love them. That's a nice story to share right now, I thought.
Also regarding the weird guy who brought up my BUNDLE OF JOY in the yogurt section - I finally remembered the other day to try out my joke when it happened, which is to look confused and say "what do you mean, I'm not pregnant." But my error was that I pulled this joke on the lady doing my nails, who did not have a great grasp on the English language. She started it by saying "you have boy or girl?" And I said "What do you mean?" And the look on her face! I thought she was going to vomit. She was like "YOU BABY! YOU BABY!" and I realized this was not going as expected, and that she might call the police, so I said "yes, a girl, a girl! I'm just teasing you!" And she looked horrified, and then said her daughter told her she was pregnant as an April Fool's prank. Mine is not an April Fool's prank, except maybe it is and the joke is on me because, as I mentioned, my daughter is just going to live inside me forever. She just is.
Every time I google something about impending labor or the last couple of weeks of pregnancy, all I find are articles about disgusting bodily activities to watch for and all the things that are GREAT SIGNS but also could still mean your baby is 2345 years away from coming. I haven't yet found any articles about the mental anguish of these weeks, and though I've established the good side of all of this above, like a good Catholic girl, (squishy baby, etc.), I can't access that emotion right now, and I feel horrible and like I am going a little insane. This blog post is my contribution to the world of internet discussion boards about week 39. Here's some SEO to make sure you find it:
39 weeks pregnant going crazy
39 weeks pregnant oh my god someone help me
has anyone ever been pregnant forever
39 weeks pregnant i hate everything and everyone
Signing off now, bye.
Wednesday, November 18, 2015
They Also Have a Big Twitter Following
I have this one weird quirk where I read this one really crazy, really leftist socialist online magazine every month. It's not always about politics, but it is always very, very strange. I think one reason I read it is it is very interesting, and I am very, very curious. I NEVER could predict the things I find there. But I think the main reason I keep reading it is that I have a small, but deeply rooted suspicion that these people can't possibly be real. They just can't. There's no way people actually live in this world and have come to these conclusions. It's not just the conclusions, either, it's the way they write. I'm convinced as well that several of the sentences don't actually mean anything to anybody - I toyed with the idea for a while that I just wasn't understanding them, and that's still possible - but again my suspicion also remains that the language just literally doesn't mean anything. And everyone's so afraid to admit they don't understand what's being said that they're all nodding, saying "wow, deep." This suspicion isn't COMPLETELY rooted in my pathological narcissism - because I've seen this play out in person before. Mostly in college. Mostly in writing classes. (Sometimes in philosophy class.)
I've literally stopped at a sentence before and read it over and over and over, out loud sometimes, to myself sometimes, trying to make sense of it. I've actually DIAGRAMMED one of their sentences before (find the subject, predicate, object, adverb). Still nothing.
I even think that were I to happen upon these people in a physical reality, and they were like "hey, we're the ones who write that magazine," and they had real faces and teeth and hair, I'd STILL be suspicious. Like, sure, they're real real, but they're just play-acting, right? Like they're all a bunch of Shia Labeoufs? Just method-acting their whole lives away as crazy pretentious assholes? As an art project or something? (I guess if they would be willing to do that then they really ARE crazy pretentious assholes, but at least they don't actually mean what they're writing.)
Anyway I am fully aware that one day (maybe even tomorrow) I will look back on this blog post and read it again and get flummoxed at the way it makes me sound - so close minded - like, it couldn't POSSIBLY be possible that people think different than me. I'm sure that's part of this, because we're all nasty little prideful scoundrels, and I am the chief. But it's more than that in this case. These articles are borderline psychotic. Like, I wouldn't be surprised if I read one month and found them saying something like "the idea that bodies need water to survive is a mechanism of the capitalist patriarchy." They say stuff like that, too; calling people "bodies."
The thing is, though, they're extremely creative. Maybe riding that line between genius and lunacy? Once they did an entire issue based on male genitalia but it wasn't what you'd think; like it wasn't some Cosmopolitan Magazine with pictures and sex tips. It was very metaphorical and esoteric. Still completely nutso, but points for creativity.
It does seem strange that at this point I still haven't disclosed the name of the magazine to you, which I just realized. I actually think I kinda want to keep it to myself. Because it feels like my alternate reality and I don't want to make it real by inviting other people I know into it. Also because the ideas it contains are such GARBAGE on a moral level that I don't really want to be responsible for propagating it.
The world is big.
I've literally stopped at a sentence before and read it over and over and over, out loud sometimes, to myself sometimes, trying to make sense of it. I've actually DIAGRAMMED one of their sentences before (find the subject, predicate, object, adverb). Still nothing.
I even think that were I to happen upon these people in a physical reality, and they were like "hey, we're the ones who write that magazine," and they had real faces and teeth and hair, I'd STILL be suspicious. Like, sure, they're real real, but they're just play-acting, right? Like they're all a bunch of Shia Labeoufs? Just method-acting their whole lives away as crazy pretentious assholes? As an art project or something? (I guess if they would be willing to do that then they really ARE crazy pretentious assholes, but at least they don't actually mean what they're writing.)
Anyway I am fully aware that one day (maybe even tomorrow) I will look back on this blog post and read it again and get flummoxed at the way it makes me sound - so close minded - like, it couldn't POSSIBLY be possible that people think different than me. I'm sure that's part of this, because we're all nasty little prideful scoundrels, and I am the chief. But it's more than that in this case. These articles are borderline psychotic. Like, I wouldn't be surprised if I read one month and found them saying something like "the idea that bodies need water to survive is a mechanism of the capitalist patriarchy." They say stuff like that, too; calling people "bodies."
The thing is, though, they're extremely creative. Maybe riding that line between genius and lunacy? Once they did an entire issue based on male genitalia but it wasn't what you'd think; like it wasn't some Cosmopolitan Magazine with pictures and sex tips. It was very metaphorical and esoteric. Still completely nutso, but points for creativity.
It does seem strange that at this point I still haven't disclosed the name of the magazine to you, which I just realized. I actually think I kinda want to keep it to myself. Because it feels like my alternate reality and I don't want to make it real by inviting other people I know into it. Also because the ideas it contains are such GARBAGE on a moral level that I don't really want to be responsible for propagating it.
The world is big.
Friday, October 23, 2015
10 Ways to Improve your Leadership and the Leadership of Your Leaders: Leadership in the Modern Leader World Full of Leaders Who Lead
I know a couple people who don't like Catholicism. It extends in some cases to their not liking Catholics either. That makes me sad and frustrated. Mostly because this comes from people who place a very high premium on loving other people. Incidentally many Catholics I've met also like to love people.
But that's not what we're here to talk about today. Today I want to talk about leadership. "Leadership" happens to be my least favorite word, topic and concept of all time. That is an exaggeration, I definitely hate at least a couple of things more than leadership - like Futurama, or socks with no partners, or people who won't shut up about coffee, or east coast writers struggling publicly to navigate the hierarchy of societal offenses, which changes every day in both content and severity. That escalated quickly but if you're still with me we're discussing "leadership."
First of all leadership is rarely discussed in the same conversation as women. When it is, it's usually being discussed by women. If it's being discussed by a man, and women are present and are also being addressed, the man is very, very aware and very, very, very proud of himself (and will probably mention this a couple of times). This is annoying, but by far not the most annoying thing about leadership.
Leadership is a bullshit topic. This is something people talk about to avoid talking about concrete things, because it's easier. It's like that kid in my high school who always wrote real flowery poems and shared them with our English class and everyone fawned over them, except I, being a giant bully, always wanted to point out that the poems never actually SAID anything. Anyway - like, let's say you go to the CEO of a company and you say "Sir, you are facing a large budget shortfall. What will you do?" And the CEO thinks for a moment, strokes his beard, tells his female secretary to hold all his calls and wear a nicer dress tomorrow, then it dawns on him: HE NEEDS BETTER LEADERSHIP. And so he spends the next 9 months writing a book about leadership, and what it means to lead from up front and lead from behind and lead from upside down and instill confidence, and then by the time he's done his company has finally gone under! At least his secretary looked nice.
Leadership is also a concept into which anyone can inject almost any meaning, and it will be accepted. You could easily hear two people at the same time say "Leadership means taking charge" and "Leadership means delegating to others" and in both cases their audiences will likely nod, knowingly. Because they're in the leadership club! And they're dudes, presumably.
In addition, leadership gives everyone talking about it a great, great inflation of their ego. After all, if they're talking about leadership, they must be a great leader! No one would talk about leadership if they weren't a leader. And everyone who is listening thinks, I know a person who talks about leadership, and I'm listening! I must be a leader. All of these conclusions really mean, of course: I am smart, but not just smart, I am smart-er, and everyone should listen to me.
This is just what we've always wanted anyway, right? And that's what the bullshit concept of leadership gives us.
My theory is this: just do stuff. Like, accomplish things. Worry about the rest after that, but my guess is you won't have much to worry about.
I just wrote my leadership book!!! That'll be $99 but I'll waive the fee if you organize an international conference around this blog post. International conferences about leadership are just... I can't talk about it, I have heartburn.
Have a great weekend, man leaders! Don't worry about doing anything. You're a leader.
But that's not what we're here to talk about today. Today I want to talk about leadership. "Leadership" happens to be my least favorite word, topic and concept of all time. That is an exaggeration, I definitely hate at least a couple of things more than leadership - like Futurama, or socks with no partners, or people who won't shut up about coffee, or east coast writers struggling publicly to navigate the hierarchy of societal offenses, which changes every day in both content and severity. That escalated quickly but if you're still with me we're discussing "leadership."
First of all leadership is rarely discussed in the same conversation as women. When it is, it's usually being discussed by women. If it's being discussed by a man, and women are present and are also being addressed, the man is very, very aware and very, very, very proud of himself (and will probably mention this a couple of times). This is annoying, but by far not the most annoying thing about leadership.
Leadership is a bullshit topic. This is something people talk about to avoid talking about concrete things, because it's easier. It's like that kid in my high school who always wrote real flowery poems and shared them with our English class and everyone fawned over them, except I, being a giant bully, always wanted to point out that the poems never actually SAID anything. Anyway - like, let's say you go to the CEO of a company and you say "Sir, you are facing a large budget shortfall. What will you do?" And the CEO thinks for a moment, strokes his beard, tells his female secretary to hold all his calls and wear a nicer dress tomorrow, then it dawns on him: HE NEEDS BETTER LEADERSHIP. And so he spends the next 9 months writing a book about leadership, and what it means to lead from up front and lead from behind and lead from upside down and instill confidence, and then by the time he's done his company has finally gone under! At least his secretary looked nice.
Leadership is also a concept into which anyone can inject almost any meaning, and it will be accepted. You could easily hear two people at the same time say "Leadership means taking charge" and "Leadership means delegating to others" and in both cases their audiences will likely nod, knowingly. Because they're in the leadership club! And they're dudes, presumably.
In addition, leadership gives everyone talking about it a great, great inflation of their ego. After all, if they're talking about leadership, they must be a great leader! No one would talk about leadership if they weren't a leader. And everyone who is listening thinks, I know a person who talks about leadership, and I'm listening! I must be a leader. All of these conclusions really mean, of course: I am smart, but not just smart, I am smart-er, and everyone should listen to me.
This is just what we've always wanted anyway, right? And that's what the bullshit concept of leadership gives us.
My theory is this: just do stuff. Like, accomplish things. Worry about the rest after that, but my guess is you won't have much to worry about.
I just wrote my leadership book!!! That'll be $99 but I'll waive the fee if you organize an international conference around this blog post. International conferences about leadership are just... I can't talk about it, I have heartburn.
Have a great weekend, man leaders! Don't worry about doing anything. You're a leader.
Wednesday, October 7, 2015
A Distressing Report on NPR: The Story of Tuesday
Yesterday I was driving to Panera for Second Lunch and was listening to NPR.
(Second Lunch is the lunch that follows First Lunch but comes before First Dinner. Usually it occurs around 2 - 3 pm and though you might be thinking - well Maria, sheesh you must just get very hungry around 2 - 3 pm! - you are actually very wrong. The feeling is less like hunger and more like this: Maria, the very beginnings of hunger feelings are happening to you. They are very faint and hardly noticeable but they are there, and they have an important message: if you do not eat in the next 25 minutes, you will vomit. Powerfully and with little warning. This is what occurs right before Second Lunch. Also Second Breakfast, Second Dinner, and Popsicle Before Bed.)
Anyway on NPR they were interviewing an Australian composer who is a professor at Arizona State. His accent was ridiculous and really kind of infuriating but I'm a woman of the world so I just pretended he was British and got over it. They were interviewing him about this project he's been doing around national parks in the American Southwest where he records sounds. Like he just, sits outside with some presumably astronomically expensive recorder and records the "sounds of the desert." Like sand blowing and, I don't know. Lizards scurrying along my back fence.
The interviewer asked Professor Australia two questions, the answers to which distressed me very much. The first question was: what's your favorite thing that you've heard? When he asked that question I kind of got a little excited. I was hoping to learn something cool. Like that snakes have a secret language (parseltonge) or that cacti make groaning noises if you're quiet enough. But he said - "once I heard a woodpecker drumming." And now I am so, so mad at him and will probably never visit Australia. Was he serious? I distinctly remember trying to study in college with my apartment window open and having to shut it because of all the damn woodpeckers. I didn't even have any fancy recording equipment and I heard them so much I almost started a campus activist club ("Students Against Woodpeckers; no double entendre, we promise".) I can't believe that was his answer; I also can't believe he is a professor and lastly I can't believe that stupid Australian accent is a real thing.
The second question whose answer was very distressing was: What will these recordings be used for, other than simply having great recordings of nature? (I took issue with "great" but again being a woman of the world - have i mentioned this previously? - I let it slide.) Anyway the Great Australian Scientist said - oh, we want to raise awareness about the sounds in nature. I feel so many feelings about this answer. First of all if the awareness he wants to raise is "sounds happen in nature" he will likely not find a large audience compelled by such news, and additionally if the awareness includes an example of woodpeckers woodpecking, people can just saunter on up to University Courtyard apartments in Athens, Ohio and try to do some quiet reading. They'll come, I promise you, and you don't even have to petition the taxpayers for a million dollar grant.
But seriously - someone is paying for this guy to do this thing. To sit there and record "sounds" and then think about the sounds and go on NPR to talk about them. Do you think he got a governmental grant? I bet he totally got a governmental grant. "Raising awareness" should never, ever be the end game of a project. Because it means nothing. But it should especially never be the end game of a project that's called "recording sounds to that people can hear them."
Lastly I feel like I have to confess something in the interest of full disclosure: if these had been whale sounds that he was recording, I would have been on board. Not just "on board" as in "ok with the idea" but literally on board whatever boat he used to go out and find the singing whales because these are WHALE SOUNDS and I'm a red-blooded American woman; not some kind of uninterested monster.
My Second Lunch was a grilled cheese and it was definitely worth all the angst. Thanks for joining me on this journey.
(Second Lunch is the lunch that follows First Lunch but comes before First Dinner. Usually it occurs around 2 - 3 pm and though you might be thinking - well Maria, sheesh you must just get very hungry around 2 - 3 pm! - you are actually very wrong. The feeling is less like hunger and more like this: Maria, the very beginnings of hunger feelings are happening to you. They are very faint and hardly noticeable but they are there, and they have an important message: if you do not eat in the next 25 minutes, you will vomit. Powerfully and with little warning. This is what occurs right before Second Lunch. Also Second Breakfast, Second Dinner, and Popsicle Before Bed.)
Anyway on NPR they were interviewing an Australian composer who is a professor at Arizona State. His accent was ridiculous and really kind of infuriating but I'm a woman of the world so I just pretended he was British and got over it. They were interviewing him about this project he's been doing around national parks in the American Southwest where he records sounds. Like he just, sits outside with some presumably astronomically expensive recorder and records the "sounds of the desert." Like sand blowing and, I don't know. Lizards scurrying along my back fence.
The interviewer asked Professor Australia two questions, the answers to which distressed me very much. The first question was: what's your favorite thing that you've heard? When he asked that question I kind of got a little excited. I was hoping to learn something cool. Like that snakes have a secret language (parseltonge) or that cacti make groaning noises if you're quiet enough. But he said - "once I heard a woodpecker drumming." And now I am so, so mad at him and will probably never visit Australia. Was he serious? I distinctly remember trying to study in college with my apartment window open and having to shut it because of all the damn woodpeckers. I didn't even have any fancy recording equipment and I heard them so much I almost started a campus activist club ("Students Against Woodpeckers; no double entendre, we promise".) I can't believe that was his answer; I also can't believe he is a professor and lastly I can't believe that stupid Australian accent is a real thing.
The second question whose answer was very distressing was: What will these recordings be used for, other than simply having great recordings of nature? (I took issue with "great" but again being a woman of the world - have i mentioned this previously? - I let it slide.) Anyway the Great Australian Scientist said - oh, we want to raise awareness about the sounds in nature. I feel so many feelings about this answer. First of all if the awareness he wants to raise is "sounds happen in nature" he will likely not find a large audience compelled by such news, and additionally if the awareness includes an example of woodpeckers woodpecking, people can just saunter on up to University Courtyard apartments in Athens, Ohio and try to do some quiet reading. They'll come, I promise you, and you don't even have to petition the taxpayers for a million dollar grant.
But seriously - someone is paying for this guy to do this thing. To sit there and record "sounds" and then think about the sounds and go on NPR to talk about them. Do you think he got a governmental grant? I bet he totally got a governmental grant. "Raising awareness" should never, ever be the end game of a project. Because it means nothing. But it should especially never be the end game of a project that's called "recording sounds to that people can hear them."
Lastly I feel like I have to confess something in the interest of full disclosure: if these had been whale sounds that he was recording, I would have been on board. Not just "on board" as in "ok with the idea" but literally on board whatever boat he used to go out and find the singing whales because these are WHALE SOUNDS and I'm a red-blooded American woman; not some kind of uninterested monster.
My Second Lunch was a grilled cheese and it was definitely worth all the angst. Thanks for joining me on this journey.
Tuesday, May 19, 2015
some Very Important Things for you to Read About and Consider
On Saturday it came to my attention that Ted Williams, an old baseball player who once batted .400 or some such, is frozen in Scottsdale. Well, his head. I think his body too, but in a different room. He paid to be frozen after he died so that when medical technology advances enough to revive him (and provide the necessary body transplant, assuredly) he can come back to life (and presumably bat .400 again, but I can't believe he honestly thinks that will still be impressive, I mean let's try .700 and we'll talk.) Aside from the troubling dream this news brought me as well as the existential angst relating to the reordering of my official List of Fears (severed head jumped the line), I've also experienced a sense of bewilderment that Williams would want to come back here (the proverbial Here, as in, Earthly Existence, not Scottsdale; although that's an interesting choice too, but maybe he liked Mexican food and white people?) I'd also be fascinated to hear what he thinks it will be like when our medical technology has advanced that much. I mean, if we can transplant bodies, we can certainly make everyone look better than Ted Williams. He's going to be on the bottom of the food chain, looks-wise; I think we can all agree on that, and for that reason, and that reason alone, I think he's a crazy idiot.
I also realized this past weekend that it is taking me over four months to read one book and I find that very troubling. I'm reading "The Looming Tower" by Lawrence Wright, about the set-up to radical Islam and 9/11, you know just a little light Sunday reading. It's fascinating and sad and an incredible piece of research that makes me sweat just thinking about trying to tackle something like that. I feel like a novel would even be much less daunting, because I get to totally make it up and I don't have to be so careful about using words like "alleged."
I realize I haven't written in a long, long time and according to blog rules I'm supposed to talk about that at length and tell you why, but that sounds real boring to me and I have to go do stuff. I just thought it would be criminal not to share these thoughts, regarding Ted William's head and The Looming Tower, with the world. Bye
I also realized this past weekend that it is taking me over four months to read one book and I find that very troubling. I'm reading "The Looming Tower" by Lawrence Wright, about the set-up to radical Islam and 9/11, you know just a little light Sunday reading. It's fascinating and sad and an incredible piece of research that makes me sweat just thinking about trying to tackle something like that. I feel like a novel would even be much less daunting, because I get to totally make it up and I don't have to be so careful about using words like "alleged."
I realize I haven't written in a long, long time and according to blog rules I'm supposed to talk about that at length and tell you why, but that sounds real boring to me and I have to go do stuff. I just thought it would be criminal not to share these thoughts, regarding Ted William's head and The Looming Tower, with the world. Bye
Monday, February 3, 2014
I Want Good News so I can Eat a Cheeseburger
So I'm still not sure whether this is a wholly Western culture thing, or maybe it's global, or maybe it's just in Ohio, or maybe it's just in my family? but I grew up eating things to celebrate. When there is something to be happy about, there is going to be cake to be happy all up in. And around and through. Cake and pasta? Mozzarella sticks. Also lasagna. And cheese plates. French fries. Those almond crunchy cookie things my cousin Stef makes. If you do not have these things, you are not celebrating properly. (Often these things in themselves become reason to celebrate.)
I'm about a week and a half (sweet gluten-free ravioli it seems so much longer) into an experimental eating regimen I've imposed on myself to see if I can't cure the ol' Forever Stomach Ache of My 20's. Not to be dramatic but it has been the WORST WEEK AND A HALF EVER THAT YOU'VE EVER HEARD OF. Also, my stomach feels amazing and hasn't hurt in like, six days. I know. I can't believe it.
You ego-maniacal psychologists in the audience (?) will look at my new eating regimen (which was not created by me and is not created to lose weight - this is a topic for another day but I want you to know I'm being reasonable and healthy and am consulting people much smarter than me on this) and say, ah yes, so predictable. SO predictable that you would do this now, Maria. Because life feels like it's in a bit of a limbo, and not the good kind with margaritas and all that but the bad kind; where you feel like change is coming but you can't tell what kind, and you're not even sure what kind you're hoping for anymore? And maybe also the kind of limbo where God is like, so... "how's it going down there - sorry I haven't been able to check in lately? I'm busy elsewhere." He of course does not and has never said such things but my heart has inaccurately heard them, and continues to.
So, psychologists, you may be right that this month-long stomach-healing food thing is a coping mechanism for a larger hole of weirdness in my psyche. It is giving me something to think about and focus on when the rest of life is full of brow-furrowing misunderstandings and long-suffering WAITING. So, I fill my time instead with 4 page grocery lists and boring crock pot recipes (my GOD the vegetables.)
People who have done this particular intestine-friendly eating regimen before warn me I will start to experience pregnancy-strength cravings for some of my favorite food about halfway through. So far I've had two food-related dreams, one about Diet Coke (and I'm a Pepsi person, so um wtf) and one about Jimmy John's, which is especially weird because if I could have anything I wanted right now, Jimmy John's wouldn't necessarily be on the top of my list. Although I wouldn't refuse a #9 Italian Club right now. I wouldn't refuse it.
I think more than the food, what I am craving right now is some kind of good news.
-INTERLUDE-
Guilt: "Maria, darling, you can't be serious. You got up this morning and stood on two functioning legs. You drove a car that you own to a job that pays you. You ate food for each meal. Your husband called to say hello and he has a beard. Your dog pretty much lives and breathes for you. Don't EVEN with the "I need some good news."
-END OF INTERLUDE-
I'm sorry, I'm ungrateful, but I want to work through that by still being honest with you and telling you that in addition to a Diet Coke (seriously what is happening) I also want some good news. I am craving a phone call; an email; a Facebook message for goodness' sake with something that would CHANGE things. I'm craving that speeding up of my heart, the flash of heat to my face, the scrambling for my phone to call other people and tell THEM the good news.
And I'm craving the Good News Cheeseburger that will follow. Just you wait.
I know I haven't been around in a while. Well, I wrote something today. Here it is. Do you like it?
I'm about a week and a half (sweet gluten-free ravioli it seems so much longer) into an experimental eating regimen I've imposed on myself to see if I can't cure the ol' Forever Stomach Ache of My 20's. Not to be dramatic but it has been the WORST WEEK AND A HALF EVER THAT YOU'VE EVER HEARD OF. Also, my stomach feels amazing and hasn't hurt in like, six days. I know. I can't believe it.
You ego-maniacal psychologists in the audience (?) will look at my new eating regimen (which was not created by me and is not created to lose weight - this is a topic for another day but I want you to know I'm being reasonable and healthy and am consulting people much smarter than me on this) and say, ah yes, so predictable. SO predictable that you would do this now, Maria. Because life feels like it's in a bit of a limbo, and not the good kind with margaritas and all that but the bad kind; where you feel like change is coming but you can't tell what kind, and you're not even sure what kind you're hoping for anymore? And maybe also the kind of limbo where God is like, so... "how's it going down there - sorry I haven't been able to check in lately? I'm busy elsewhere." He of course does not and has never said such things but my heart has inaccurately heard them, and continues to.
So, psychologists, you may be right that this month-long stomach-healing food thing is a coping mechanism for a larger hole of weirdness in my psyche. It is giving me something to think about and focus on when the rest of life is full of brow-furrowing misunderstandings and long-suffering WAITING. So, I fill my time instead with 4 page grocery lists and boring crock pot recipes (my GOD the vegetables.)
People who have done this particular intestine-friendly eating regimen before warn me I will start to experience pregnancy-strength cravings for some of my favorite food about halfway through. So far I've had two food-related dreams, one about Diet Coke (and I'm a Pepsi person, so um wtf) and one about Jimmy John's, which is especially weird because if I could have anything I wanted right now, Jimmy John's wouldn't necessarily be on the top of my list. Although I wouldn't refuse a #9 Italian Club right now. I wouldn't refuse it.
I think more than the food, what I am craving right now is some kind of good news.
-INTERLUDE-
Guilt: "Maria, darling, you can't be serious. You got up this morning and stood on two functioning legs. You drove a car that you own to a job that pays you. You ate food for each meal. Your husband called to say hello and he has a beard. Your dog pretty much lives and breathes for you. Don't EVEN with the "I need some good news."
-END OF INTERLUDE-
I'm sorry, I'm ungrateful, but I want to work through that by still being honest with you and telling you that in addition to a Diet Coke (seriously what is happening) I also want some good news. I am craving a phone call; an email; a Facebook message for goodness' sake with something that would CHANGE things. I'm craving that speeding up of my heart, the flash of heat to my face, the scrambling for my phone to call other people and tell THEM the good news.
And I'm craving the Good News Cheeseburger that will follow. Just you wait.
I know I haven't been around in a while. Well, I wrote something today. Here it is. Do you like it?
Tuesday, October 22, 2013
My Heart in Israel
So it's day time right now and it actually feels like day time in my body. Kind of. At least I'm not dozing off every 20 minutes and having to spend 5 minutes upon waking up trying to figure out where I am. It is much harder to adjust to coming back from a time-zone change like that (10 hours ahead) than it is going into it. But we're back from Israel.
I still have to pinch myself every morning that we were there. It was incredible, to say the least. It was life-changing. It was different, and uncomfortable, and so painfully beautiful. It was smelly and noisy and stressful and relaxing and I didn't like the food and I loved the people and some things scared me and other things inspired me and the climate was a lot like Phoenix, which my skin was happy about.
My current project is furiously writing down each day's itinerary in my journal. I'm spending my lunch breaks chewing pen caps and going through photos, trying to piece together what we did each day by looking at what I was wearing in each picture. We saw so much. We went all over that beautiful, stubborn country and I loved every single inch and footstep.
I'm planning to share more about the sites we saw and all that we learned in this blog, but what I want to write about right now is a feeling; or a lesson I learned or at least wrestled with while I was there. It turns out being where Jesus lived and walked and taught and wept dredges up some stuff, you know?
Before I go any further, though, I have to give a shout out to Morning Star Tours. If you are ever planning a trip to the Holy Land, USE THEM. And request Shmulik as your guide. He is an absolute ENCYCLOPEDIA on Israel, Jesus, the Old Testament, and British accents. I can't imagine what our trip would've been like without him - each site was absolutely fascinating but we were never sorry to have to get back on the bus because he would have some ridiculous story to tell.
So, being in Jerusalem was really something. It was a culture shock, first and foremost. The food seemed strange, the people were somewhat rude, the shop keepers were aggressive and every structure was drop-dead gorgeous. On our second day, we visited the temple steps that were built during King Herod's Second Temple Period. This Herod is the one that died right around the time Jesus was born, and this is the temple Jesus would have visited. Herod made the steps difficult to navigate - one long step, one narrow, one long, one narrow and etc. - so that people couldn't run down them away from the temple. (This wasn't a holy thing. This was a money thing, I'm guessing.)
And in front of the steps are dozens and dozens of little stone structures (they reminded me of the "famine houses" we saw in the Burren in Ireland) that Shmulik said were the ritual baths, where Jews would have washed themselves before going up to the temple courtyard.
Jesus walked up these very steps, and He likely spent some time teaching on them as well, because that was common back then. I wanted to sleep on them. To eat on them. To spend the whole rest of our trip on them. I wanted to look in every single direction from them and wonder "did he see this?" And I wanted to touch them and take them with me.
But at the same time all I could suddenly hear was Mark 2:17, where Jesus tells the Pharisees that He didn't come for the righteous, but for the sinners; because it's not the healthy who need a doctor.
I have no idea where it came from.
I was not sitting there thinking I am "righteous" or not a sinner. What I was thinking was - I am a boring sinner. I am an ugly sinner but a boring one; I don't cheat people out of money and I'm not a prostitute. I believe in Jesus but I lie and I'm lazy and I manipulate people and I'm proud. But these are boring and not showy and not always noticeable. And suddenly I had this thought - He would've ignored me! If we had been here at the same time, He would've ignored me.
It's like that feeling in school, when maybe you're doing really well in a subject so the teacher gives all her attention to the kids who are struggling, and suddenly you feel left out and sad. And again it's not that I was thinking "I am perfect so I wouldn't have needed him," it's that I was thinking "I already believed in Him, so would He have wasted time on me?" Or, maybe more accurately, "I wonder if He would have liked me enough to spend time with me" and then, answering, "no."
I went around for days ruminating on that, mourning over it, even waking up in the middle of the night in our hotel and crying over it. It broke my heart. To think He would've ignored me. And I started journaling about what I wanted - what did I want? I didn't know. I wanted Him to tell me that He wouldn't've ignored me; that He's not ignoring me now; that I mean something to Him. And then I realized that if He told me those things, I would think less of Him. Who am I that He'd think of me? Do I want a God who would? Could He still be Power and Might then?
As the days went on and we went to more and more places, I wouldn't say I ever came to terms with it, just that it softened to make room for all the other things going on in me - wonder, gratitude, repeat. It was such an unbelievable gift to be there and I felt that, and it made me feel loved even despite.
But when I got home I was talking to my mentor about it and she smiled a little bit and asked me - are you the "healthy?"
Then she brought up the story of the 99 sheep, and the one goes missing, and He goes after it. I said, yes! Perfect example! I'm the 99. The timid, boring ones who are easily hearded and scared to toe the line; never the squeaky wheel. And now I'm feeling hurt that He's ignoring me for the one.
(Now I picture Jesus taking off his glasses, rubbing his eyes, and sighing, because how do I manage to get every single thing wrong?)
"We're all the one," my mentor said. "That's the point."
We're all the sick. Who knew that could be so difficult to figure out? Or that it could make someone so happy?
More to come.
I still have to pinch myself every morning that we were there. It was incredible, to say the least. It was life-changing. It was different, and uncomfortable, and so painfully beautiful. It was smelly and noisy and stressful and relaxing and I didn't like the food and I loved the people and some things scared me and other things inspired me and the climate was a lot like Phoenix, which my skin was happy about.
My current project is furiously writing down each day's itinerary in my journal. I'm spending my lunch breaks chewing pen caps and going through photos, trying to piece together what we did each day by looking at what I was wearing in each picture. We saw so much. We went all over that beautiful, stubborn country and I loved every single inch and footstep.
I'm planning to share more about the sites we saw and all that we learned in this blog, but what I want to write about right now is a feeling; or a lesson I learned or at least wrestled with while I was there. It turns out being where Jesus lived and walked and taught and wept dredges up some stuff, you know?
Before I go any further, though, I have to give a shout out to Morning Star Tours. If you are ever planning a trip to the Holy Land, USE THEM. And request Shmulik as your guide. He is an absolute ENCYCLOPEDIA on Israel, Jesus, the Old Testament, and British accents. I can't imagine what our trip would've been like without him - each site was absolutely fascinating but we were never sorry to have to get back on the bus because he would have some ridiculous story to tell.
So, being in Jerusalem was really something. It was a culture shock, first and foremost. The food seemed strange, the people were somewhat rude, the shop keepers were aggressive and every structure was drop-dead gorgeous. On our second day, we visited the temple steps that were built during King Herod's Second Temple Period. This Herod is the one that died right around the time Jesus was born, and this is the temple Jesus would have visited. Herod made the steps difficult to navigate - one long step, one narrow, one long, one narrow and etc. - so that people couldn't run down them away from the temple. (This wasn't a holy thing. This was a money thing, I'm guessing.)
And in front of the steps are dozens and dozens of little stone structures (they reminded me of the "famine houses" we saw in the Burren in Ireland) that Shmulik said were the ritual baths, where Jews would have washed themselves before going up to the temple courtyard.
Jesus walked up these very steps, and He likely spent some time teaching on them as well, because that was common back then. I wanted to sleep on them. To eat on them. To spend the whole rest of our trip on them. I wanted to look in every single direction from them and wonder "did he see this?" And I wanted to touch them and take them with me.
But at the same time all I could suddenly hear was Mark 2:17, where Jesus tells the Pharisees that He didn't come for the righteous, but for the sinners; because it's not the healthy who need a doctor.
I have no idea where it came from.
I was not sitting there thinking I am "righteous" or not a sinner. What I was thinking was - I am a boring sinner. I am an ugly sinner but a boring one; I don't cheat people out of money and I'm not a prostitute. I believe in Jesus but I lie and I'm lazy and I manipulate people and I'm proud. But these are boring and not showy and not always noticeable. And suddenly I had this thought - He would've ignored me! If we had been here at the same time, He would've ignored me.
It's like that feeling in school, when maybe you're doing really well in a subject so the teacher gives all her attention to the kids who are struggling, and suddenly you feel left out and sad. And again it's not that I was thinking "I am perfect so I wouldn't have needed him," it's that I was thinking "I already believed in Him, so would He have wasted time on me?" Or, maybe more accurately, "I wonder if He would have liked me enough to spend time with me" and then, answering, "no."
I went around for days ruminating on that, mourning over it, even waking up in the middle of the night in our hotel and crying over it. It broke my heart. To think He would've ignored me. And I started journaling about what I wanted - what did I want? I didn't know. I wanted Him to tell me that He wouldn't've ignored me; that He's not ignoring me now; that I mean something to Him. And then I realized that if He told me those things, I would think less of Him. Who am I that He'd think of me? Do I want a God who would? Could He still be Power and Might then?
As the days went on and we went to more and more places, I wouldn't say I ever came to terms with it, just that it softened to make room for all the other things going on in me - wonder, gratitude, repeat. It was such an unbelievable gift to be there and I felt that, and it made me feel loved even despite.
But when I got home I was talking to my mentor about it and she smiled a little bit and asked me - are you the "healthy?"
Then she brought up the story of the 99 sheep, and the one goes missing, and He goes after it. I said, yes! Perfect example! I'm the 99. The timid, boring ones who are easily hearded and scared to toe the line; never the squeaky wheel. And now I'm feeling hurt that He's ignoring me for the one.
(Now I picture Jesus taking off his glasses, rubbing his eyes, and sighing, because how do I manage to get every single thing wrong?)
"We're all the one," my mentor said. "That's the point."
We're all the sick. Who knew that could be so difficult to figure out? Or that it could make someone so happy?
More to come.
Wednesday, September 18, 2013
The "Am I Over-Sharing" Conversation
So, a few things. I haven't written much lately, and there are a few reasons for that.
First is our upcoming trip to Israel in less than two weeks. Currently I'm in the "OH SHIT" stage of the pre-trip emotional roller coaster, where I wake up at 2 am every night to write down something I'm terrified I'll forget to pack ("BUG SPRAY") and I spend all day convincing myself that I don't love Jesus enough to walk where He walked; you know, just your average pre-travel psychosis.
Then there are the freelance assigments I've received this month, on top of my usual nightly writing, and I'm super grateful for that but deadlines are just so suffocating.
Then there is my general waffling about privacy and blogging and what they mean to me and which one I should value more and why I'm wrong after I make that choice.
I've been giving a lot of thought to my online presence and how much of one I want to have. Last week I found this delicious blog called "Wait by Why" and they did a brilliant tongue-in-cheek breakdown of why everyone becomes their worst selves on Facebook, and I gave myself a headache with how furiously I was nodding in agreement.
I look at Facebook every day, but it drives me absolutely bonkers. And every time I consider updating my "status" I find myself in a sweat-inducing existential crisis about why anyone else would or should care about my weekend plans and whether I'm adding or detracting from the goodness in the world and you know, this and that. And every time I read all of YOU people's updates, I find myself getting really disproportionately annoyed. You just can't possibly imagine how little I care about your trip to the nail salon, and I want you to sit there and listen to how little I care, and then I want you to give me back the 5 seconds it took me to read about it!
There is also the case of people who over-like, or over-engage, or over-whatever themselves online. There is an etiquette to social media, which I don't think is unreasonable to say, and some people simply do not follow it. A month or so ago I realized that every. single. time. I posted something on Facebook or Instagram, it was truthfully less than 10 minutes before this same person would either "like" it or comment on it. I don't know this person particularly well, though we are acquaintances. He is a married dude around my age. And so all of that added to the just general weirdness I felt, I suppose.
After a while I decided to block him, and I felt so self-righteous in doing it; convincing myself that this is what Blake Lively must feel like walking down the street and all that. (Adoring fans) But then I had to face facts, that I am the one posting pictures about personal and private moments and "status updates" and what have you - how can I fault someone for engaging with that?
I follow the Eisley girls on Instagram and they are adorable and fun and I love their updates, but it's mostly baby pictures and baby feet and hands and snot and what-have-you - and oh my word, the comments! The other day I saw a photo of one of the babies under which a commenter, who admitted to being a fan and so presumably did not know the girls in person, had written "I love your daughter so much I feel physical pain when I look at her - I can't imagine how YOU feel!" I felt so gross after that that I almost got out of the line at Chipotle. (I didn't though, obvs. Barbacoa.) This stuff is creepy as hell, but are the posters inviting it? Or at least enabling it?
Ultimately I decided that blocking the above referenced dude was still the right thing to do, and I still believe there is an etiquette to the whole thing, (it started to feel like a dude with a crush trying to get my attention, and that is yuck) but it did get my wheels turning about exactly what I want out of being on social media, and I'm not sure I like my honest-to-goodness answers, which are essentially:
1. To look at people I'm jealous of so that I can try to be more like them
2. To try to make other people jealous of me
And honestly, that's about it, and that's ugly.
Now Twitter is a bit different - I follow mostly comedians and reporters, and I get news and laughs from that and that's ok with me. But Facebook and Instagram... I just don't know. I do like staying in touch with friends but most friends are using it less and less if my observations are correct, and I talk to my closest friends via text and email much more than through social media anyway. Blogging is different, I assure you, but I am also giving some thought to how personal I want to be here. We can write about ideas without me having to tell you about my medical history and whether my parents loved me enough as a child, yes? (They did)
What do you think?
First is our upcoming trip to Israel in less than two weeks. Currently I'm in the "OH SHIT" stage of the pre-trip emotional roller coaster, where I wake up at 2 am every night to write down something I'm terrified I'll forget to pack ("BUG SPRAY") and I spend all day convincing myself that I don't love Jesus enough to walk where He walked; you know, just your average pre-travel psychosis.
Then there are the freelance assigments I've received this month, on top of my usual nightly writing, and I'm super grateful for that but deadlines are just so suffocating.
Then there is my general waffling about privacy and blogging and what they mean to me and which one I should value more and why I'm wrong after I make that choice.
I've been giving a lot of thought to my online presence and how much of one I want to have. Last week I found this delicious blog called "Wait by Why" and they did a brilliant tongue-in-cheek breakdown of why everyone becomes their worst selves on Facebook, and I gave myself a headache with how furiously I was nodding in agreement.
I look at Facebook every day, but it drives me absolutely bonkers. And every time I consider updating my "status" I find myself in a sweat-inducing existential crisis about why anyone else would or should care about my weekend plans and whether I'm adding or detracting from the goodness in the world and you know, this and that. And every time I read all of YOU people's updates, I find myself getting really disproportionately annoyed. You just can't possibly imagine how little I care about your trip to the nail salon, and I want you to sit there and listen to how little I care, and then I want you to give me back the 5 seconds it took me to read about it!
There is also the case of people who over-like, or over-engage, or over-whatever themselves online. There is an etiquette to social media, which I don't think is unreasonable to say, and some people simply do not follow it. A month or so ago I realized that every. single. time. I posted something on Facebook or Instagram, it was truthfully less than 10 minutes before this same person would either "like" it or comment on it. I don't know this person particularly well, though we are acquaintances. He is a married dude around my age. And so all of that added to the just general weirdness I felt, I suppose.
After a while I decided to block him, and I felt so self-righteous in doing it; convincing myself that this is what Blake Lively must feel like walking down the street and all that. (Adoring fans) But then I had to face facts, that I am the one posting pictures about personal and private moments and "status updates" and what have you - how can I fault someone for engaging with that?
I follow the Eisley girls on Instagram and they are adorable and fun and I love their updates, but it's mostly baby pictures and baby feet and hands and snot and what-have-you - and oh my word, the comments! The other day I saw a photo of one of the babies under which a commenter, who admitted to being a fan and so presumably did not know the girls in person, had written "I love your daughter so much I feel physical pain when I look at her - I can't imagine how YOU feel!" I felt so gross after that that I almost got out of the line at Chipotle. (I didn't though, obvs. Barbacoa.) This stuff is creepy as hell, but are the posters inviting it? Or at least enabling it?
Ultimately I decided that blocking the above referenced dude was still the right thing to do, and I still believe there is an etiquette to the whole thing, (it started to feel like a dude with a crush trying to get my attention, and that is yuck) but it did get my wheels turning about exactly what I want out of being on social media, and I'm not sure I like my honest-to-goodness answers, which are essentially:
1. To look at people I'm jealous of so that I can try to be more like them
2. To try to make other people jealous of me
And honestly, that's about it, and that's ugly.
Now Twitter is a bit different - I follow mostly comedians and reporters, and I get news and laughs from that and that's ok with me. But Facebook and Instagram... I just don't know. I do like staying in touch with friends but most friends are using it less and less if my observations are correct, and I talk to my closest friends via text and email much more than through social media anyway. Blogging is different, I assure you, but I am also giving some thought to how personal I want to be here. We can write about ideas without me having to tell you about my medical history and whether my parents loved me enough as a child, yes? (They did)
What do you think?
Tuesday, August 27, 2013
Re Miley Cyrus and Moral Judgments
I feel like there's a predictable cycle these days with "news" or semi-news or old news (RIP Neil Armstrong...still) or Breaking Bad spoilers on social media. First, the thing happens and everyone's talking about it. Then, everyone's talking about how everyone's talking about it. Then, everyone's talking about the one or two dumb dumbs who take the 'minority view' to be cool. Then, everyone's talking about how horrible it is that we're talking about it when X is happening over here.
Cue Miley Cyrus.
Last night I was writing the news round-up for Rhode Island and one of the stories I saw mentioned that the town of Warwick is raising money for a memorial to the 100 people who died in the Station Nightclub fire ten years ago. Remember that? When there were too many people inside and they got stuck in the doorway?
I spent the rest of the night clinging to Aaron's neck and trying to dam my mind flood of all the terrible things that happen all the time, and whether or when they will hapen to us and what they will be.
But when I went to bed, all I could see was Miley Cryus. Going to bed after the VMA's. Alone with her thoughts. With what she just did. I immediately sat upright in bed and said to a sleeping Aaron who never heard me - Aaron! Miley Cryus is alone somewhere right now! And that was almost as bad as the Station Nightclub fire in that minute.
I saw the Onion's article yesterday faking CNN Managine Editor Meredith Artley's reasoning for covering Miley's performance (performance?) at the VMA's. I understand why people take issue with its prominence in the headlines, but I do think it's news. Because this is where we are now. This is what we do. No one booed her. No one cut the feed. This is what we do now.
It's kind of unbelievable to me (though predictible) that we're so up in arms about it, though. The collective We usually pride ourselves on being rabidly non-judgmental, don't we? Aren't we the tolerant relativists your grandmother never had?
It's a legit question, this one: can we make moral judgments? About anything?
We certainly have about Miley Cyrus. And cigarettes. And pedophiles. And cheating on your taxes and going to war with Iraq and using your NSA title to snoop on your ex-boyfriend.
But then curiously, several other things are simply out of bounds. We must NOT make moral claims about homosexuality. We must NOT make moral claims about abortion. We must NOT make moral claims about art, or curriculums, or how the government spends its money.
I think we need to do some soul-searching, because I think we all know that we need to make moral judgments, not just about some things but about everything, about our role here in general; and in fact it doesn't matter whether we THINK we should because we do make these judgments every day.
Now, re: Miley:
When I was in kindergarten in Massilon, Ohio my priest's name was Father Kolp and he rode his bike everywhere. He had bright white hair and every year on the feast of the Assumption he prayed from the pulpit for Madonna. Yes, that Madonna. A few years back I finally asked my Mom why he did that (I remember assuming as a kid that all Catholic churches were praying for pop stars that day.) She said for some reason he had some special burden for her. Her mother allegedly named her for the Blessed Mother and she was so lost that it broke his heart, enough to pray for her from the pulpit every year at least.
So let's do that for Miley.
Cue Miley Cyrus.
Last night I was writing the news round-up for Rhode Island and one of the stories I saw mentioned that the town of Warwick is raising money for a memorial to the 100 people who died in the Station Nightclub fire ten years ago. Remember that? When there were too many people inside and they got stuck in the doorway?
I spent the rest of the night clinging to Aaron's neck and trying to dam my mind flood of all the terrible things that happen all the time, and whether or when they will hapen to us and what they will be.
But when I went to bed, all I could see was Miley Cryus. Going to bed after the VMA's. Alone with her thoughts. With what she just did. I immediately sat upright in bed and said to a sleeping Aaron who never heard me - Aaron! Miley Cryus is alone somewhere right now! And that was almost as bad as the Station Nightclub fire in that minute.
I saw the Onion's article yesterday faking CNN Managine Editor Meredith Artley's reasoning for covering Miley's performance (performance?) at the VMA's. I understand why people take issue with its prominence in the headlines, but I do think it's news. Because this is where we are now. This is what we do. No one booed her. No one cut the feed. This is what we do now.
It's kind of unbelievable to me (though predictible) that we're so up in arms about it, though. The collective We usually pride ourselves on being rabidly non-judgmental, don't we? Aren't we the tolerant relativists your grandmother never had?
It's a legit question, this one: can we make moral judgments? About anything?
We certainly have about Miley Cyrus. And cigarettes. And pedophiles. And cheating on your taxes and going to war with Iraq and using your NSA title to snoop on your ex-boyfriend.
But then curiously, several other things are simply out of bounds. We must NOT make moral claims about homosexuality. We must NOT make moral claims about abortion. We must NOT make moral claims about art, or curriculums, or how the government spends its money.
I think we need to do some soul-searching, because I think we all know that we need to make moral judgments, not just about some things but about everything, about our role here in general; and in fact it doesn't matter whether we THINK we should because we do make these judgments every day.
Now, re: Miley:
When I was in kindergarten in Massilon, Ohio my priest's name was Father Kolp and he rode his bike everywhere. He had bright white hair and every year on the feast of the Assumption he prayed from the pulpit for Madonna. Yes, that Madonna. A few years back I finally asked my Mom why he did that (I remember assuming as a kid that all Catholic churches were praying for pop stars that day.) She said for some reason he had some special burden for her. Her mother allegedly named her for the Blessed Mother and she was so lost that it broke his heart, enough to pray for her from the pulpit every year at least.
So let's do that for Miley.
Wednesday, August 21, 2013
Las Vegas in Pictures
I'm in a funk this week and it's just no good. I know what I need and I can't do it, but I can dream about it. What I need is a rainy afternoon in the fall. Nobody needs me to be anywhere. Glazed donut holes. Louisville High School sweatpants and a sweatshirt that's too big for me. Nichole Nordeman's cover of "Time after Time" on repeat.
That's it. I can't have that though, and I am in a funk. In the meantime, I'm going to tell you all about Las Vegas. Last weekend we drove the four hours up to Nevada, a state Aar and I had never been to before, hurrah. My sister Jen and her husband and his brother are there this week for a convention so we went up to see them.
Please to enjoy the picture show.
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| Jen and I at dinner |
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| Garden in the Wynn |
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| New York New York. We rode the roller coaster. |
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| Jen and I, the Wynn pool which was delicious |
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| tulip sculpture - I think at the Palazzo? |
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| A sleepy Aaron Michael and I shopping (and spending way too much money at Anthropologie) at Caesar's Palace, and a tower of delicious cupcakes. I got the Snickerdoodle and oh my. Yes to that. |
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| Rainbow on the way home |
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| Hoover Dam and a storm |
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