7 or 8

We moved. It was my 7th or 8th time in four years. I must say, I did well. 

It was sort of a last minute thing. Found a really good deal on a bigger space, two blocks from the studio. So now we live in Myrtle Tree Apartments, right above old town, with neighbors, a laundry room, and enough space to cook a three-course meal if we wanted to.

We have so much space, so it seems to us. Space on the walls, space on the floor, space enough to park our bikes inside. Which, makes my heart skip a beat. Simply delightful, parking your bike inside.

We only have one chair for the dining room table. And it’s a chair I attemted to “shaby chic” five years ago. Having survived numerous occasions of , “where’s the step stool? oh, out in the garage? I’ll just use this chair right here,” and “hey, it’s a party! someone stand on the chair and dance!” it’s on its last leg. We’re having Janice over tomorrow night and I’m thinking will just sit on the floor. The table itself is an antique, and antiques can stand alone so I don’t feel bad for having an impaired table with no chairs.

It was better and worse moving with someone. Better in the sense that with just one look someone could say, “yes, this sucks.” Worse because it sucked for two people and those two people had to go to bed that night tired and grouchy.

But then later we were able to laugh, and laughing is the best medicine. My husband makes me laugh, and it delights me to no end- laughing, and knowing that we’ll get through the undersirable tasks of life with a sense of humor. 

So here we are; one chair, two bicycles, our bodies strewn on the carpet in empty space, laughing at how a dead rat fell out of the refrigerator we got for free.

get myself outside

When despair for the world grows in me, and I wake in the night at the least sound in fear of what my life or what my children’s lives might be– I go a lie down by where the wood drake rests in the beauty of the water, and the great heron feeds. I come into the peace of wild things who do not tax their lives with forethought or grief. I come into the presence of still water. And I feel above me the day-blind stars waiting for their light. For a time I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

- (the great) Wendell Berry

I read this poem nearly every Friday, usually after work with the lights off, alone in my classroom, panting from the end of another long week.

I crave the peace of wild things.

I’ve studied myself to know that when I am really stressed, or tired or just in need of rest, I day dream; envisioning myself on a solitary hike on a clear day.

…and that’s usually all it takes to make me new again.

Song of response

I just wrote a very very bleak blog and erased the whole thing.

It stemmed from a two hour documentary I watched this morning, “Inside 9/11″ by the National Geographic channel. I cried through the whole thing; tears even well up now. Not that I am a huge Patriot or anything close, but I do harbor a bleeding heart for people, humanity and the little hells we experience on Earth.

In college, I used to come home from class on a regular basis, lock myself in my room, stare up at the popcorn ceiling of our apartment, and sob. Heaving, heavy, hard, loud sobs. It was my way of dealing with classes like Family Violence, Gender Inequalities and Addictions. I really felt the weight of the world then, taking it upon me like I was the world’s agent: responsible, commissioned and irreplaceable.

When I had self-talked my way out of the dark grave I’d lowered my surrendered corps into, telling myself it wasn’t only me who’d signed up for healing the world, that I had a lifetime to make a dent in the mess, I’d choose a Rosie Thomas album, push play and stare some more– this time out my window overlooking the street. Hours would pass, gazing blankly at the motions of everyday life. The latter part of this ritual, the looking-out-into-the-street part somehow restored my hope, strengthened my commitment to humanity. I don’t know why, I’m sure I could take a few guesses.

So cheers to today and to regressing back to what works. A little Rosie for you.

 

 

My hero, Germany.

There was this German girl we met on our rafting tour. She was smiling at me the moment I got on the bus. Five-thirty AM and this bright shiny smile. She was sitting next to an Argentenian (boyfriend I assumed) with a pierced lip and a Che braclet around the arm he let drape in the aisle way. They were adorable. Travelers. I was jealous. We sat in the seat in front of them and I wondered what other countries they were touring on this trip.

I was still envying her as the rafting guide stood at the front of the bus giving his little shpeel about not putting sun block on your forhead. She was obviously into meeting new people, because she asked my name the first break in the conversation. She reminded me of Heather, my best friend in India, and then I really wished I was a free agent- traveling around; rafting just a blip on the long list of adventures.

Her and her boyfriend laughed a lot. Histerical laughs that said they had inside jokes. Jokes from all their travels, no doubt. After we’d pushed through twenty sets of rapids and came to a calm in the water, the guide asked if we’d like to jump out of the boat and swim. They jumped out first- almost before it was suggested- and began trying to drown each other. They looked like a couple of bear cubs, play fighting to draw blood. They seemed to think everything was so funny. They didn’t use the break to reapply sunscreen. They didn’t care.

So this girl also had the beginning of a zit (one of those nightmare underground kind, building a hellish mound right on the middle, most elevated part of the cheek). When we started out it was bluish and purple and looked a bit painful. It was hard not to check it out, get a really good look.  After we’d been water logged for six hours, all prune fingered, the zit had taken on a whole new existance. It was filled with water which turned it an unsightly white color.

When people have big problems like that on their face it is good practice not to say anything about it, because

what can they do???

Nothing, except sit stranded with a boyfriend on a raft full of honeymooners, feeling like a freak.

But, awkwardly enough (maybe it was the revolutionary Che bracelet that lead to a rush of empowerment?) her boyfriend pointed it out. Literally pointed: “It’s all black and blue and white now!” In the silence of the jungle the statement was deafening. Even our non English speaking rafters knew what boyfriend was saying.

She touched her face lightly.

“Yea, crazy!” Germany replied, laughing.

And then on to the next thing, now giggling  and hitting each other with paddles.

She was my hero. I got back and wrote about her bravery in my journal. Where do you get that kind of confidence? The “yea, crazy!” kind that says, I don’t even want to spend five seconds thinking about a variable that will threaten my good time.

Now that I am married

I’m in one of those phases where I am thinking, “what use is writing your thoughts and posting them on the internet?” Maybe I am realizing it’s for times like these? When you’ve exhausted every listening ear, or you think perhaps the listening ears out there won’t understand (like the whole internet will then?). Whatever.

 

Here are the comments people (co-workers, neighbors, parents of my students) have been making:

• welcome to the club!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!![wide grin]
• getting any sleep?!
• [referring to married life (like it's a life of it's own)] “It’s a different world, isn’t it!??”[more wide grin]
• have you figured out which side of the bed you sleep on?
• have you made any really good recipes lately?  to which I usually respond, “no, why do you ask?”
• you are going to love the first year…. [grin] and then, you know, it’s all down hill after that [hahahah, knee slap]
• you guys getting all settled?
• working out a routine yet?

….the list goes on.

Basically, the questions are either very personal, or sexist. And because I am an undercover feminist at work, bombs detinate silently in my head each time the later type occur. And then I remind myself, “it’s OK, they don’t know.”

But then … yea, “they” don’t “know,” true. But who is to assume I get off work, frantically make dinner and clean the house?

Trust me, no sympathy needed here.

In fact, I’ve enjoyed this first month. Charles is more mommy that I am. More apt to pick up crap from the floor. Maybe it doesn’t matter, but we switch sides of the bed, we don’t steak a claim. Usually we eat snacks for dinner; fruit, toast and honey, roasted chicken. We get plenty of sleep. Except for last night when I was waking up every 30 minutes to throw up (I think it was regular flu, sad you have to deliniate between N1N2 and “regular”, whatever regular is, that’s what I think it was). Adjusting? Not really anything to adjust (I’m probably naiive about this one). I think Charles has made the biggest adjustment, because I stole his car. I ride the car to work, he rides his bike. The only reason I am OK with this is because it was an expensive new road bike. So I consider it a trade. A different world? Not really. It’s the same world. We still wreck our cars, have to go to work and get the flu, just….. we do it together. If that makes it a different world, then OK.

I like being married. It fits nicely. Things are changing, but so far I am the same person I was before the ceremony, just more of the same. It’s hard to describe and now I am going back to wondering why I have a blog in the first place if none of it makes any sense at all or if I sound like a weird freak downer person.

My thoughts.

I hate this. I have nothing to write, because lately (and I can’t stand admitting it) mylife has been consumed with….. wedding. 

Let me just tell. you.

I was not created to be a bride. Girlfriend? best on the block. Fiance? you betcha. Wife? definitely gonna try very hard. Mom? I’m starting to think so. Pretty OK I’d imagine. But, bride? That hat looks terrible on me. Like a derby hat with a big red plume sticking out the side on a hippie chic girl who bites her nails and doesn’t comb her hair. It’s terrible. It’s awkward. You want to turn your head.

This is why: (I’ve been examining my insufficient nature in this area) I DON’T CARE. I don’t care about “colors” or save-the-dates or shades of white. I think it is all rediculous. As a woman I am offended at the marketed wedding. I look through bridal magazines and my palms sweat. Suddenly four years of solociology and gender studies comes flooding back and my lense tells me “poison!” And I’ve asked myself many times if I am overreacting. Sometimes I believe I am. Most times, I come to the conclusion that it’s a crazy jacked up world out there based on fear culture, hegemony, profit and appearance.

Me? Negative?

That’s the thing- this experience, although it may sound very ”anti” has been entirely liberating for me. Wholly positive because I’ve been affirmed – deep in the spirit of who I am- in ways indescribable. Because, I have said

No.

And it has meant the difference between my sanity and details… the difference between comfortable and grouchy. I’ve said “no” to things people don’t even think you can say no to. And my friends… it’s felt so good.

I’ve resisted the wedding process, but I have grown. I have grown into a more confident woman, one who knows what she wants and is not timid and will (kindly) say no. One who knows what freedom is and how to get it. The secret is simple:

Less, not more. Do what you can and love what you’ve done.

 

Be kind to yourself.

I know your long walks in the woods.

I’ve witnessed the way the spirit moves him.
I’ve seen his body sway to favorite music.
I’ve felt on his bare neck his pulse race as he stands beneath mountains.
I’ve known him to be speechless in love.
This is how I know I am his,

because what stirs his heart,
stirs mine.

Maybe you’ve done this too?

I get embarrassed of myself when I’m very angry.

I am learning, now, that just as joy is born, so is every other emotion. In it’s time, in it’s time, Solomon says. There is a season under Heaven. And I try my damndest to remember that, but sometimes I can see now way out of the emotions entangling me.

Yesterday I paced around my one-bedroom studio apartment. Angry as hell and trying to rid myself of the feelings fueling me. Allthewhile completely humiliating my calmer side. I hate to be enraged. It makes me feel animal. That’s how I tend to write people off, before anger gets the better of me….. not to imply that such a defense is healthy. In fact, this habit is very sad. And I’ve thought about this habit many times, and repented for it many times,

so yesterday, when the trigger went off, a total attack, a stab in the back- I decided to fume. No distractors- I didn’t even slip out the door for a body-beating run. I just paced, and paced and paced. I could feel my cheeks redden, my palms sweat, my eyes shift and scan nothing.

And the anger turned into more anger so I thought my head was going to pop. I felt even stupider for a bit- like a crying baby in a crib that cannot consol itself. But I stuck to it- and, had someone entered through the door at that moment, I would have bit their head off.

Eventually came decline. Slowly the blood faded from my cheeks, I began to breath normally. Rational thought slowly infused anger’s negative cavity. I sat down on the couch. I stared at the wall for a long time. When I took my eyes away, I was no longer victim, but a person with choices, making choices. I felt tired, not angry, sad, not hopeless, empowered, not out of control.

Jesus, help me to embrace emotion and not be ashamed of it’s unbecoming realities. Let me experience day to day feelings in a way that adds to my character. Help me not to run away, but to stay put in the silence of your free and open space- the healing spot where I am washed in Grace.

Do it like you

These to me are life’s major ear marks.

Being born. Obviously, but who remembers enough of that to reflect and comment?

Spending the night away from home, without mom and dad.

Getting your driver’s liscence. The ability to provide transportation for oneself is huge. Making the decision to opt for public transportation, mature. Physical movement is life change.

Your first job. Despensible spending money = power. I was one of those needlessly puffed up teenagers with a part time job at Longs Drugs and a closet full of new clothes. I thought I’d died and gone to Heaven… perhaps not fully realizing the truth in that I’d spend the rest of my life working, and that later on, year after year, the money would find new ways to trickle out until a closet full of new clothes would become as foriegn as the Yen.  

Going to college. Full time slumber parties, food feasts, mind feasts… feasting on non-sleep and deprivation of all sorts. When I graduated from college and finally went to the dentist, they discovered 7 cavaties. That’s how much fun I had. Looking back, I remember one of the goals I had was to make it to my 7 AMers at least thirty minutes late. It was the best I could do. I could only make it on time if I had pulled an all-nighter the night before. And, compared to my roommate Heather, I was never very good at those. One year I took so many units compounded with the biggest break up of my life that I developed a thick layer of psoriasis all over my body. College is life altering.

And then graduate school? But should that be separate? For some. I know for me I have never been so busy. And it represents this black whole of a two year span where I remember very little. Amnesia? Perhaps. It was a dustdevil of teaching, which we all know is a 50 hour + all consuming positon, observation and  night class twice, sometimes three times a week. I would spend 4 nights a week studying and doing lame-o projects in my living room… which left me one night to go out and get icecream or something, maybe see a movie if it didn’t start too late.

And then, meeting the “love of my life”… conveniently we started dating right after I finished school.  But that was the only convenient thing about it at first. Oh how I resisted! And didn’t resist at all! And went back and forth, back and forth. Charles and I fought nearly every day the first 6 months we knew each other. I fought with him like no one before. I am not a yell-fighter, but I yelled at him once, or twice. And… I don’t know why. Just lots of tension I supose. But when we decided to get together, come out of hiding, be boy & girl and love each other, all the animosity melted and we were fine. Finer than fine.

So fine we got engaged. And here I am now on a break up at science camp typing away in a toasty lodge out of the snow. I am thinking all this is to say that nothing is the way they describe, no matter who “they” are. And when you reach your crest- the time when you are about to enter a new ear mark stage- the built up hopes and dreams of others, the failed expectations and dashed years of loved ones, will rise up like the winds before a hurricane and all the advice of generations will be heavy upon you. They will say,

this is what I did.

Which means, this is what you should do.

Take their advice, accept it light and easy like the yolk of a friend.

But then skip happily away. Go do it your way. Your way. Is the way of generations. It is your legacy. Look back what has passed and smile because you thought it through, you stiched it together with your own determination and creativity. Smile because it was made yours, by ease in decision, by peace of mind, by knowing only God can catch you when you fall, can shed light when you’ve made a wrong turn. No one else. He will be your net.

So, counterculturalism & counterthewaythingsaredone, I embrace you. I will wear my heart on my sleeve. I will wear used clothing. I will cry when I feel sad. I will have a small, small wedding in the grass and it will be me.