Mine is a charmed life, largely built around shame. I'm ashamed of the laundry piles and dishes that I'm too lazy to finish in a timely fashion. I'm ashamed of my as of yet unproven ability to land and hold a "real job". I'm ashamed of my discontent in this quiet little Nebraskan town. I'm ashamed of my delight in drinking, with the numb buzzy feeling in my lips and the dissapointed frown on my Alien's face when I'm drinking. And now, more than ever, I'm ashamed of the projects I've left unfinished. There are four costumes, two quilts, one afghan, a squid hat, and a scarf in various states of incompletion laying about my home. My computer contains the skeletons of not one, not two, but three separate novels, with naught but a dozen pages of writing between them.
When you walk the path of the suburban Nebraskan housewife, you find yourself at a crossroads of projects. Pinterest is your planning ground. Facebook is your leaderboard. Competition, albeit generally friendly, abounds if only in my mind. This one cooks three course meals. That one sews historically accurate costumes. The others have started small businesses, plant gardens, do woodworking, publish texts, and (most amazing of all) raise children. When viewed en masse, the Facebook conglomerate puts my small contributions to shame.
Time and again I must remind myself that what I am seeing is just that: a conglomerate. Each of my friends and family members only do a handful of these things. One might have excellent culinary and parenting skills, but wouldn't be able to tell one end of a drop spindle from the other. Some have a vast knowledge of literature and an incredible selection of celebrity connections, but no idea how to keep a tomato alive. The whole is intimidating because it does not truly exist.
I was scanning the social leader board yesterday, when I came across this song lyric:
"I can see I'm blessed if I don't obsess over what I'm not."
This pinned down the feeling of shame for me. I was so preoccupied with what I hadn't done that I was blind to what I could. I can write. I can sew. I can cook, and bake, and crochet. And I can do all those things without complaining about how I can't do those other things as long as I set aside time each day to work on the ones that I'm not vehemently opposed to. Except the laundry. That really needs done regaurdless of how vehemently opposed to it I am.
At the end of the day, I have needy puppy, a malcontent cat, a warm home, a full stomach, and a husband who has promised to provide for me all the days of my life. If I stop obsessing over the things I can't do, it really is a charmed life.
Thursday, November 7, 2013
Thursday, July 4, 2013
Caffine+ Fear = Ambition.
I have been heard saying that caffeine guarantees 80% more work shall be completed. Unfortunately, it is difficult, nay, impossible to choose what work shall be completed. It's like startling a cat. You don't know where the cat is going to go, but it's going to get there, and it's getting there NOW. Possibly with some damage to your living quarters (not unlike a caffeinated Cactus). I'll do laundry, bake, organize receipts, venture out of doors; you never know where you'll find me if I'm left to my own devices on caffeine. But during my career as an English major, a directed beam of productivity was required. Frequently. The tiny people who run my brain set themselves to work and delved into dark magics. From their studies, they found a single mechanism capable of targeting a caffeinated productivity explosion. And that mechanism was Fear.
Fear alone is worthless for completing anything. Somewhere along the line, my biochemistry dropped the "fight or flight ball", and clung to "freeze" as though its life depended upon it. So when a heap of work is thrown at my feet (see: midterms), my body shoots a burst of adrenaline through me just like any red-blooded college kid's immune system should. But instead of tackling the work head on or drinking myself into a stupor (the favored responses of my peers) my default response was this: .
Nothing.
Not writing papers.
Not reading.
Not buying groceries.
Not showering.
(Sorry)
No activity that wasn't strictly necessary for biological survival was performed. This did mean that when my living quarters reached hoarder levels of uncleanliness that I did eventually get up and grab a broom. And when the larder was depleted, I had to run out and buy ramen and Alien food. But aside from these tasks, I would literally shut down. Thinking about the pile of work triggered panic attacks, so I did my best to avoid the subject entirely. Which only fed the beast.
The workload became a living breathing thing. It followed me everywhere. It sucked the fun out of my hobbies, like a happiness leech. It judged my lack of motivation. And whenever I confronted it, it would howl at me, like a deranged wolverine, until I ran to the couch in tears and consumed a full pint of ice cream.
I could fail, I told myself. It's not hard. I've done it before. I could fail and waste all of my parent's time and money. And that fear kept me on the couch until Alien came home. He would remind me that the work-beast was just a pinata wearing a scary mask. If I beat it into small enough pieces, I could burn them individually until the Mexican god of paper mache donkeys showered me with sweets. I may or may not have played with pinatas correctly as a child.
Finally, once I had segregated the workload into teeny bits, I was able to kick the beast once a day until it coughed out a B at the end of the semester. And then I would breathe a sigh of relief, fall asleep, wake up halfway through the next semester, and repeat the cycle.
But Fear and Caffeine... TOGETHER...
Scratch that, it has to be Caffeine, then Fear. Fear amplified by caffeine is something no living being should have to witness. But Caffeine, tempered by Fear, created a lazer of work-ethic, capable of churning out six pages of work a day. Altered levels of Caffeine and Fear were never able to adjust the ultimate number six. That is simply the amount of coherent English sentences I am capable of churning out in twenty-four hours.
And now, something strange has happened.
I have lost access to Fear.
Alien supports both of us on his income. I am blissfully unemployed, allowed to spend my time as I wish. I can crochet, game, sew, do housework, in whatever order I wish, for whatever duration I fancy. Caffeine is still more than capable of ensuring 80% work completed. But without the focus of Fear, I am left goalless.
So until I have a daunting project to avoid, or a T-Rex standing behind me, all beady eyes, granny glasses, and a short threatening ruler, nattering at me to write another blog post, I'm not certain how to ensure continued updates here.
Maybe I'll finally learn how to set goals.
Maybe I'll learn how to write without a muse, like a good author.
And maybe, sadly, this chapter of my book will close.
And maybe I'll go shopping for a T-Rex in granny glasses.
Fear alone is worthless for completing anything. Somewhere along the line, my biochemistry dropped the "fight or flight ball", and clung to "freeze" as though its life depended upon it. So when a heap of work is thrown at my feet (see: midterms), my body shoots a burst of adrenaline through me just like any red-blooded college kid's immune system should. But instead of tackling the work head on or drinking myself into a stupor (the favored responses of my peers) my default response was this: .
Nothing.
Not writing papers.
Not reading.
Not buying groceries.
Not showering.
(Sorry)
No activity that wasn't strictly necessary for biological survival was performed. This did mean that when my living quarters reached hoarder levels of uncleanliness that I did eventually get up and grab a broom. And when the larder was depleted, I had to run out and buy ramen and Alien food. But aside from these tasks, I would literally shut down. Thinking about the pile of work triggered panic attacks, so I did my best to avoid the subject entirely. Which only fed the beast.
The workload became a living breathing thing. It followed me everywhere. It sucked the fun out of my hobbies, like a happiness leech. It judged my lack of motivation. And whenever I confronted it, it would howl at me, like a deranged wolverine, until I ran to the couch in tears and consumed a full pint of ice cream.
I could fail, I told myself. It's not hard. I've done it before. I could fail and waste all of my parent's time and money. And that fear kept me on the couch until Alien came home. He would remind me that the work-beast was just a pinata wearing a scary mask. If I beat it into small enough pieces, I could burn them individually until the Mexican god of paper mache donkeys showered me with sweets. I may or may not have played with pinatas correctly as a child.
Finally, once I had segregated the workload into teeny bits, I was able to kick the beast once a day until it coughed out a B at the end of the semester. And then I would breathe a sigh of relief, fall asleep, wake up halfway through the next semester, and repeat the cycle.
But Fear and Caffeine... TOGETHER...
Scratch that, it has to be Caffeine, then Fear. Fear amplified by caffeine is something no living being should have to witness. But Caffeine, tempered by Fear, created a lazer of work-ethic, capable of churning out six pages of work a day. Altered levels of Caffeine and Fear were never able to adjust the ultimate number six. That is simply the amount of coherent English sentences I am capable of churning out in twenty-four hours.
And now, something strange has happened.
I have lost access to Fear.
Alien supports both of us on his income. I am blissfully unemployed, allowed to spend my time as I wish. I can crochet, game, sew, do housework, in whatever order I wish, for whatever duration I fancy. Caffeine is still more than capable of ensuring 80% work completed. But without the focus of Fear, I am left goalless.
So until I have a daunting project to avoid, or a T-Rex standing behind me, all beady eyes, granny glasses, and a short threatening ruler, nattering at me to write another blog post, I'm not certain how to ensure continued updates here.
Maybe I'll finally learn how to set goals.
Maybe I'll learn how to write without a muse, like a good author.
And maybe, sadly, this chapter of my book will close.
And maybe I'll go shopping for a T-Rex in granny glasses.
Thursday, May 16, 2013
Craft, Creation, and Creativity
If roller coasters could make you feel soul crushing despair,
the fear of ultimate failure, drunkenness, and then reversed gravity,
then my last four weeks have felt like a roller coaster. I went from
being convinced I was failing my classes, to graduation, to moving to a
new town (22,000 people is a bit small for a "city" in my mind). The crunch time of finals week and the void that followed hasn't left much time for crocheting and blogging, but it has allowed me to see myself in several different roles.
First and foremost I have been a wife, in all of the glorious imperfection that such a title entails. I've baked cookies, washed laundry, cleaned dishes, packed, swept, and unpacked. Anything I can do to make Alien's life a little easier has been my number one priority.
Unfortunately my second identity, scholar, has suffered some for the primary role. When you've committed your life to someone (and you don't REALLY want to write those papers anyway) it's very easy to use that person as an excuse to not do other things. When faced with a seven page essay on the role of women in medieval literature or the potential of surprising my husband with homemade goodies... well, we eat a lot of baked goods in this house. Certainly more time is spent in the kitchen then banging out essays.
And then there's a third, almost intangible role that I find myself in. It hides in dusty corners, banished from the lead role of my personality by more pressing things like "responsibilities". But tucked into my daily tasks from my writing to cooking, is my role as an artist.
As many artists can relate, sometimes my creativity gets me in trouble. I sling slang and sarcasm into academic papers. I invent meal ideas that leave Alien with the "It's nice, but I would have really liked a hamburger" face. My creativity is naughty. And since it isn't necessary to pay bills and read textbooks, my artist has gotten pushed into a closet and told to think on her sins.
When I let that aspect of my personality stagnate for too long, I start to feel life become bland. Like your eating a bowl of ice cream that fades from chunky monkey to chocolate. To vanilla. To potato. Suddenly you find yourself looking back and say, "I'm pretty sure I'm living the same life, but I distinctly remember 100% more chocolate covered peanuts. Where did all of my chocolate covered peanuts go? Is that a potato skin in my ice cream?"
If I don't set aside the time to write, to crochet, to create, I find myself living in grey-scale. There is no music, only sound. No feelings, only pressure. Life without creation for me is the definition of going through the motions. Tasks are completed because they need done, not because I desire to complete them, or because I feel a sense of accomplishment once they are finished. But if I have a project to look forward to, whether it's working on my novel, sewing, or crocheting, the colors come back. I gain an immense sense of satisfaction when I can look back and point to the things that I have made will outlast me. They are artifacts of my time and talent, physical proof that my effort has not been wasted.
Going forward I've heard more than a few voices that say "get a job." Some want me to prove my skills to the world. Some think I should make money. Some *raises hand shyly* fear that I would wither away into the sofa, numbly staring into the eyes of the latest kittens to appear on Youtube if I didn't have a boss to tell me not to. And really, I think I should get a job. If nothing else, it will make the bills a little easier as we transition from college to "real life".
Regardless of what lies in the path ahead, I want to start making creation a priority in my life again. Maybe I'll get my chocolate covered peanuts back. Or at least get rid of these potato skins.
First and foremost I have been a wife, in all of the glorious imperfection that such a title entails. I've baked cookies, washed laundry, cleaned dishes, packed, swept, and unpacked. Anything I can do to make Alien's life a little easier has been my number one priority.
Unfortunately my second identity, scholar, has suffered some for the primary role. When you've committed your life to someone (and you don't REALLY want to write those papers anyway) it's very easy to use that person as an excuse to not do other things. When faced with a seven page essay on the role of women in medieval literature or the potential of surprising my husband with homemade goodies... well, we eat a lot of baked goods in this house. Certainly more time is spent in the kitchen then banging out essays.
And then there's a third, almost intangible role that I find myself in. It hides in dusty corners, banished from the lead role of my personality by more pressing things like "responsibilities". But tucked into my daily tasks from my writing to cooking, is my role as an artist.
As many artists can relate, sometimes my creativity gets me in trouble. I sling slang and sarcasm into academic papers. I invent meal ideas that leave Alien with the "It's nice, but I would have really liked a hamburger" face. My creativity is naughty. And since it isn't necessary to pay bills and read textbooks, my artist has gotten pushed into a closet and told to think on her sins.
When I let that aspect of my personality stagnate for too long, I start to feel life become bland. Like your eating a bowl of ice cream that fades from chunky monkey to chocolate. To vanilla. To potato. Suddenly you find yourself looking back and say, "I'm pretty sure I'm living the same life, but I distinctly remember 100% more chocolate covered peanuts. Where did all of my chocolate covered peanuts go? Is that a potato skin in my ice cream?"
If I don't set aside the time to write, to crochet, to create, I find myself living in grey-scale. There is no music, only sound. No feelings, only pressure. Life without creation for me is the definition of going through the motions. Tasks are completed because they need done, not because I desire to complete them, or because I feel a sense of accomplishment once they are finished. But if I have a project to look forward to, whether it's working on my novel, sewing, or crocheting, the colors come back. I gain an immense sense of satisfaction when I can look back and point to the things that I have made will outlast me. They are artifacts of my time and talent, physical proof that my effort has not been wasted.
Going forward I've heard more than a few voices that say "get a job." Some want me to prove my skills to the world. Some think I should make money. Some *raises hand shyly* fear that I would wither away into the sofa, numbly staring into the eyes of the latest kittens to appear on Youtube if I didn't have a boss to tell me not to. And really, I think I should get a job. If nothing else, it will make the bills a little easier as we transition from college to "real life".
Regardless of what lies in the path ahead, I want to start making creation a priority in my life again. Maybe I'll get my chocolate covered peanuts back. Or at least get rid of these potato skins.
Wednesday, December 12, 2012
Horse Camp
I’m
not entirely sure what I was expecting when I signed up to work with
the equestrian crew at a Boyscout camp two summers ago. I had filled my
head with romantic notions of helping young boys overcome their fear of
giant lumbering horses and getting to lead trail rides. I had worked
as a volunteer for two summers, for the most part keeping up with the
paid wranglers. Being on staff just meant I would be on payroll and not
have as much time to see friends in the summer.
I showed up with a sleeping bag, various “necessities”, and ambition. I left with the sleeping bag, some trail dust, and a better view about what was important to me.
First unnecessary necessity: soap. When you work at a summer camp with horses that need fed and groomed daily, “dawn to dusk” takes on a much more visceral meaning. When you wake up at six to feed, turn out the horses from the last trail ride at nine, and it takes an hour for you to wind down, energy becomes a valuable resource. I had never realized how much energy it took to do menial tasks until I found myself trimming fat at the end of the day. Talking took calories. Standing took calories. To that end, showering took calories. So when we headed to the shower house at night, I was faced with a decision: call Alien (then my boyfriend) with the relatively better reception, or actually clean my filthy body? More than once I chose the phone call. Sometimes I would finish the phone call with just enough time to tear off my clothes and throw my stanky self in the tail end of the hot water, put on the same dirty clothes, go home and fall asleep. And when you’re surrounded by pubescent boys all day in the hot sun, ain’t nobody gonna say you smell.
Second unnecessary necessity: cash. I had brought some pocket change with me to spend at the trading post whenever I caught a spare break. Spare breaks never happen at a horse camp. When resting a sore and blistered foot is seen as lollygagging, the dreams of a frozen trading post slushie quickly died. So the cash sat in my wallet, silently crying to be converted into tiny ice crystals and juice. Instead, it (and most of my paycheck) was converted into gasoline every other weekend in order to visit Alien.
Third unnecessary necessity: dignity. As a first year on staff, anything and everything I did had to be taught to me by someone else. This can get particularly frustrating when the Boss (who runs things on paper), Slender (who knows how to run things in actuality) and Alpha (who ran everything in her mind) all ask you to perform the same task differently. I quickly learned to apologize for my every shortcoming, and watch my back before scrubbing the horse tank. Because if you used THAT broom when Alpha was watching? Well, there went ten minutes of your life. Besides performing every task incorrectly, there was the matter that you were forced to live in close quarters (and I do mean close) with the same people for three months out of the year. Dignity becomes an unknown entity as your campmates watch your silly habits.
And finally, an unexpected necessity: Friendship. Without Slender and Red, I wouldn’t have lasted a week out at that camp. Slender acted as my protective big brother, making sure the scouts didn’t steamroll me during merit badge classes, and showing me the ropes of wranglerhood. Red’s bright spirit kept me going through the storms, both literal and emotional, that camp inevitably brings. They both made sure I drank water and find times to give me a break during the hottest part of the day. We traded trail ride shifts when one of us was tired, usually with Slender picking up the slack for both of us. We spent our evenings sharing stories, from the day, from previous camps, and from life in general. Through the shared trials and tribulations, I forged a strong friendship with the pair.
That summer taught me more about “honest work” than I could have ever asked for. I know what it’s like now, when the only option is to keep going. I know what it’s like to be so bone tired that walking and eating become reflexes instead of activities. I’ve learned what joy there is in teaching (and learning from) young children, and in working with horses. It wasn’t always magical, and for what it paid, I can never go back. But that doesn’t mean I’m sorry to have experienced it, and I will continue to urge my colleagues to take similar challenges. It’s amazing to see what happens when you’re pushed to your limits. It’s rarely painless, but it’s always informative.
I showed up with a sleeping bag, various “necessities”, and ambition. I left with the sleeping bag, some trail dust, and a better view about what was important to me.
First unnecessary necessity: soap. When you work at a summer camp with horses that need fed and groomed daily, “dawn to dusk” takes on a much more visceral meaning. When you wake up at six to feed, turn out the horses from the last trail ride at nine, and it takes an hour for you to wind down, energy becomes a valuable resource. I had never realized how much energy it took to do menial tasks until I found myself trimming fat at the end of the day. Talking took calories. Standing took calories. To that end, showering took calories. So when we headed to the shower house at night, I was faced with a decision: call Alien (then my boyfriend) with the relatively better reception, or actually clean my filthy body? More than once I chose the phone call. Sometimes I would finish the phone call with just enough time to tear off my clothes and throw my stanky self in the tail end of the hot water, put on the same dirty clothes, go home and fall asleep. And when you’re surrounded by pubescent boys all day in the hot sun, ain’t nobody gonna say you smell.
Second unnecessary necessity: cash. I had brought some pocket change with me to spend at the trading post whenever I caught a spare break. Spare breaks never happen at a horse camp. When resting a sore and blistered foot is seen as lollygagging, the dreams of a frozen trading post slushie quickly died. So the cash sat in my wallet, silently crying to be converted into tiny ice crystals and juice. Instead, it (and most of my paycheck) was converted into gasoline every other weekend in order to visit Alien.
Third unnecessary necessity: dignity. As a first year on staff, anything and everything I did had to be taught to me by someone else. This can get particularly frustrating when the Boss (who runs things on paper), Slender (who knows how to run things in actuality) and Alpha (who ran everything in her mind) all ask you to perform the same task differently. I quickly learned to apologize for my every shortcoming, and watch my back before scrubbing the horse tank. Because if you used THAT broom when Alpha was watching? Well, there went ten minutes of your life. Besides performing every task incorrectly, there was the matter that you were forced to live in close quarters (and I do mean close) with the same people for three months out of the year. Dignity becomes an unknown entity as your campmates watch your silly habits.
And finally, an unexpected necessity: Friendship. Without Slender and Red, I wouldn’t have lasted a week out at that camp. Slender acted as my protective big brother, making sure the scouts didn’t steamroll me during merit badge classes, and showing me the ropes of wranglerhood. Red’s bright spirit kept me going through the storms, both literal and emotional, that camp inevitably brings. They both made sure I drank water and find times to give me a break during the hottest part of the day. We traded trail ride shifts when one of us was tired, usually with Slender picking up the slack for both of us. We spent our evenings sharing stories, from the day, from previous camps, and from life in general. Through the shared trials and tribulations, I forged a strong friendship with the pair.
That summer taught me more about “honest work” than I could have ever asked for. I know what it’s like now, when the only option is to keep going. I know what it’s like to be so bone tired that walking and eating become reflexes instead of activities. I’ve learned what joy there is in teaching (and learning from) young children, and in working with horses. It wasn’t always magical, and for what it paid, I can never go back. But that doesn’t mean I’m sorry to have experienced it, and I will continue to urge my colleagues to take similar challenges. It’s amazing to see what happens when you’re pushed to your limits. It’s rarely painless, but it’s always informative.
The Importance of Place
Alien
has this nasty habit of playing his games at full volume. And even if
he has headphones on, the excitement of League of Legends often pushes
him to speak over the perceived volume of his surroundings. I groaned.
I was hoping to stay in my pajamas all day, but I had ten more pages to
write (and edit?) before five, and I had slept in til eleven.
Grudgingly, I threw on some real clothes, grabbed Pikachu and my
favorite hoodie, cranked the old Mark VII to life, and headed for my
local Scooters.
I’ve been in and out of coffee shops for the past couple of weeks to write papers. There are several here in my city that serve my purposes, but I find myself drawn constantly to the Scooters. It’s a bit odd, when I think about it really. The Coffee House and The Mill and Crescent Moon are all beautiful places, filled with local charm and fellow students. So why the Scooters? Why do I vote with my time and money for this chain instead of the places so belovedly labeled as “local”?
Part of it has to do with the drinks. The Scooter’s flagship store was walking distance from my high school, and it was there that I first learned to suck down caffeinated bean juice. Since the first ever Scooters was in my hometown, I always felt a small piece of pride for choosing them over Starbucks (who to this day I claim makes drinks that are too harsh, too sugary, and over all sub par to my beloved chain). In a sense, every Scooter’s feels like a piece of home to me. A place where I’m safe, and connected to community.
Places have always had a special significance to me. When I dream, I remember settings better than I do characters or plots. When I was given a choice to do my grading conference in my teacher’s office or at a local coffee shop, I sighed with relief and signed up for the coffee shop immediately. I knew that in a relaxed atmosphere, with a random collection of fellow caffeine addicts, that I wouldn’t feel so pressured to perform. There was just something about a professor’s office. No matter how many trinkets and pictures of grandchildren they have, the oppressing, judging weight of their bookshelves, filled with knowledge I didn’t have always feels imposing. I feel like a baby kitten newly adopted, brought home with the promise of a loving family, only to discover the crazy old tomcat they also own. No matter how welcome they claim I am, I know that I’m on their turf.
Visiting places from my childhood have a stronger sense of nostalgia than objects, scents, or sounds from those times. Going back to my elementary school to perform as a show choir in high school was a charming moment for me. It was more than just giving back to my old teachers and inspiring the young dreamers: it was the trading of space. Instead of sitting in the audience, I was performing on those squeaky cork and metal risers. There was a beauty to that role reversal that I’ve never quite been able to explain, but I certainly think the space played an important role.
My mother would probably laugh if she knew how important my room was to me growing up. It always looked like a wreck. There were brief pauses for the carpet to breathe (once at the beginning of school, once at spring cleaning), but otherwise the only way to move was by following the trails that led to the closet, the dresser, and my bed. But my room, every one I’ve had, has been an important place for me. It’s a place that I can quietly be me, without having to speak or prove myself to anyone. A place where I can ignore the world, and meditate on my own writing, reading, and faith.
Perhaps that is why moving into the dorms was so strange to me. As much as I loved Captain Planet (soul roomies for life yo), living with her meant that “my” space became “our” space. I was forced to find other places in which I could find quiet time for my soul. I felt a certain pride in discovering writing in coffee shops. I had never been able to think or act privately in a public place. And yet now, as I sing along with the Christmas music to the annoyance of my fellow patrons, I know that I have honed that skill to perfection.
So Alien, I hope that you are enjoying your game of League of Legends, shouting at your brother and best friend over Ventrillo to stop feeding towers and not calling MIA. In the meantime, I’ll suck down my favorite flavored bean juice, and relish my ability to be at peace with myself in the noise of the anonymity.
I’ve been in and out of coffee shops for the past couple of weeks to write papers. There are several here in my city that serve my purposes, but I find myself drawn constantly to the Scooters. It’s a bit odd, when I think about it really. The Coffee House and The Mill and Crescent Moon are all beautiful places, filled with local charm and fellow students. So why the Scooters? Why do I vote with my time and money for this chain instead of the places so belovedly labeled as “local”?
Part of it has to do with the drinks. The Scooter’s flagship store was walking distance from my high school, and it was there that I first learned to suck down caffeinated bean juice. Since the first ever Scooters was in my hometown, I always felt a small piece of pride for choosing them over Starbucks (who to this day I claim makes drinks that are too harsh, too sugary, and over all sub par to my beloved chain). In a sense, every Scooter’s feels like a piece of home to me. A place where I’m safe, and connected to community.
Places have always had a special significance to me. When I dream, I remember settings better than I do characters or plots. When I was given a choice to do my grading conference in my teacher’s office or at a local coffee shop, I sighed with relief and signed up for the coffee shop immediately. I knew that in a relaxed atmosphere, with a random collection of fellow caffeine addicts, that I wouldn’t feel so pressured to perform. There was just something about a professor’s office. No matter how many trinkets and pictures of grandchildren they have, the oppressing, judging weight of their bookshelves, filled with knowledge I didn’t have always feels imposing. I feel like a baby kitten newly adopted, brought home with the promise of a loving family, only to discover the crazy old tomcat they also own. No matter how welcome they claim I am, I know that I’m on their turf.
Visiting places from my childhood have a stronger sense of nostalgia than objects, scents, or sounds from those times. Going back to my elementary school to perform as a show choir in high school was a charming moment for me. It was more than just giving back to my old teachers and inspiring the young dreamers: it was the trading of space. Instead of sitting in the audience, I was performing on those squeaky cork and metal risers. There was a beauty to that role reversal that I’ve never quite been able to explain, but I certainly think the space played an important role.
My mother would probably laugh if she knew how important my room was to me growing up. It always looked like a wreck. There were brief pauses for the carpet to breathe (once at the beginning of school, once at spring cleaning), but otherwise the only way to move was by following the trails that led to the closet, the dresser, and my bed. But my room, every one I’ve had, has been an important place for me. It’s a place that I can quietly be me, without having to speak or prove myself to anyone. A place where I can ignore the world, and meditate on my own writing, reading, and faith.
Perhaps that is why moving into the dorms was so strange to me. As much as I loved Captain Planet (soul roomies for life yo), living with her meant that “my” space became “our” space. I was forced to find other places in which I could find quiet time for my soul. I felt a certain pride in discovering writing in coffee shops. I had never been able to think or act privately in a public place. And yet now, as I sing along with the Christmas music to the annoyance of my fellow patrons, I know that I have honed that skill to perfection.
So Alien, I hope that you are enjoying your game of League of Legends, shouting at your brother and best friend over Ventrillo to stop feeding towers and not calling MIA. In the meantime, I’ll suck down my favorite flavored bean juice, and relish my ability to be at peace with myself in the noise of the anonymity.
Learn the New, Respect the Old
At
thanksgiving this year, somewhere between turkey and pie, I had a
chance to listen to the stories of my elders. My Granny had been newly
introduced to someone’s great uncle, and the two of them began sharing
stories about what it was like to grow up in the fifties. I had already
heard Granny’s stories about how she would sew everything her family
wore, but the gentleman she was speaking to proved to have a wealth of
new stories. He told us about the cave they used as a cellar half a
mile away from home, and how they stored watermelons in oatmeal to keep
them fresh as the day they were picked all winter long.
I listened with rapture as the two of them spoke. No doubt some of the others were bored out of their minds, licking their already clean plates and starting hunting parties in search of dessert. Some of them grumbled about the “back in the day” discussion. Some of them ignored it entirely. But I remained at the table to listen to these two old people talk, learning tidbits of wisdom from their previous years.
Ninety percent of what I leaned will never be useful. I can hardly fit a watermelon in my fridge, let alone store a barrel of oats to pack it in. But these pieces of knowledge, if not shared with a younger generation, will die out. Perhaps later a scientist will discover the chemical compound Rolledoatium and write vast scientific essays about its uses in preserving fruits with high water content. Perhaps they won't. And it would certainly be easier to remember these facts than attempt to discover them all on our own.
There’s an amazing danger of losing these old anecdotes and knowledge to the void of death if we refuse to record them. Gone are the days of Bible times when a priest could recite the Old Testament by memory. But I don’t speak with anguish of “times gone by”: our generation has never developed that recall because we have technology to remember things for us. We don’t remember things because, in reality, we don’t have to anymore. We don’t have to know Jimmy McFlaren’s phone number to contact him, because that information is cradled safely within the millions of megabytes we hold in our pocket. But to a computer, there is only one difference between a phone number, a Facebook status, or a piece of wisdom from a great uncle: a human decided that this was a piece of information worth saving or sharing.
My thanksgiving education wasn’t over yet, though. I was stunned to discover how many members of my supposedly tech savvy family still lived at pre-Windows 7 levels. “XP is running just fine for me, and it has for four or five years now,” said my uncle. “Until I have a program that just refuses to work for me, I don’t see a point in updating.” Somehow, I had assumed that my extended family operated on the same level of technology that I did. Realizing they didn’t further drove the previous point home: if we, the computer literate, do not or will not record the stories of the past in the channels of technology we possess, these stories will be lost to the void. In that sense, it is our duty to seek out the tales and wisdom of those less able than ourselves in order to preserve that knowledge for the future.
I listened with rapture as the two of them spoke. No doubt some of the others were bored out of their minds, licking their already clean plates and starting hunting parties in search of dessert. Some of them grumbled about the “back in the day” discussion. Some of them ignored it entirely. But I remained at the table to listen to these two old people talk, learning tidbits of wisdom from their previous years.
Ninety percent of what I leaned will never be useful. I can hardly fit a watermelon in my fridge, let alone store a barrel of oats to pack it in. But these pieces of knowledge, if not shared with a younger generation, will die out. Perhaps later a scientist will discover the chemical compound Rolledoatium and write vast scientific essays about its uses in preserving fruits with high water content. Perhaps they won't. And it would certainly be easier to remember these facts than attempt to discover them all on our own.
There’s an amazing danger of losing these old anecdotes and knowledge to the void of death if we refuse to record them. Gone are the days of Bible times when a priest could recite the Old Testament by memory. But I don’t speak with anguish of “times gone by”: our generation has never developed that recall because we have technology to remember things for us. We don’t remember things because, in reality, we don’t have to anymore. We don’t have to know Jimmy McFlaren’s phone number to contact him, because that information is cradled safely within the millions of megabytes we hold in our pocket. But to a computer, there is only one difference between a phone number, a Facebook status, or a piece of wisdom from a great uncle: a human decided that this was a piece of information worth saving or sharing.
My thanksgiving education wasn’t over yet, though. I was stunned to discover how many members of my supposedly tech savvy family still lived at pre-Windows 7 levels. “XP is running just fine for me, and it has for four or five years now,” said my uncle. “Until I have a program that just refuses to work for me, I don’t see a point in updating.” Somehow, I had assumed that my extended family operated on the same level of technology that I did. Realizing they didn’t further drove the previous point home: if we, the computer literate, do not or will not record the stories of the past in the channels of technology we possess, these stories will be lost to the void. In that sense, it is our duty to seek out the tales and wisdom of those less able than ourselves in order to preserve that knowledge for the future.
The Power of Words: Religious
“Are you religious?”
I crossed my arms against the cold and frowned in thought. I had stepped outside the party to continue my conversation with a small group of smokers. We had been discussing the writing of one of my classmates. He had crafted a series of poems describing the trials and love life from high school on to present day. Smiling sadly in remembrance, as I recalled what my own high school was like. “If you believed everything you heard through the grapevine, you would think I had lost my virginity in high school. Twice. When in fact,” I bragged, "I remained a virgin until my wedding night.”
The two smokers I was talking with commended me on this, which I found both encouraging and amusing. It’s good to know that abstinence is respected later in life, even as it was socially frowned upon as a teenager. My amusement came from an assumption of their religious beliefs. Chances were at least one of them wasn’t a Christian, and I was somewhat surprised to hear that non-religious people were in some sort of agreement with the sanctity of marriage. My comment had, unwittingly, steered the conversation in another direction.
I don’t know how to respond to “are you religious”. I am a child of God, repented of my sins, and placed my faith in Him to grant me everlasting life. In that sense, as a practitioner of religion, I am “religious”. But to wholeheartedly claim the title without explanation can be dangerous. Hundreds upon thousands of people have committed heinous crimes in the name of the christian Lord. Those who led the crusades and the Spanish Inquisition likely thought of themselves as highly religious people. To accept the label “religious” would subconsciously put me among their ranks. Terrible things happen in the world of organized religion because, no matter what your ranking in the church, humans are fallible.
Greg Stier has perhaps my favorite response to the question. I heard it first when he was speaking at a Dare to Share event in Lincoln, with a stadium packed full of other Christian youth. He told a story of a time when he was doing street evangelism with his youth group at a local mall, and was approached by a scary looking man. Having seen what Greg and his group was doing, he looked Greg up and down and stared him in the eye. “You religious?” Greg shook his head. “No man, I hate religious people.” Surprised to find themselves in agreement, they continued bashing the religious. They both hated how religious people think they’re better than everyone else, and judge people before they know them instead of accepting people for who they are.
Looking back, I realized that the colloquial use of “religious” doesn’t match up with the definition those inside the faith understand it to be. To the secular masses, “religious” does not mean of or pertaining to religion: it means that you see yourself as holier that your fellow man. As a Christian, I’ll be the first to tell you: the vast majority of us hate “religious” people. They feel that being a child of God somehow grants them a special status here on earth, and think that they should be respected at all times and in all places because of it. But that isn’t the teaching of God. In Matthew 23:12, Jesus said, “Whoever exalts himself will be humbled, and whoever humbles himself will be exalted.” (English Standard Version). A true Christian, and someone I would consider religious, would instead live by the words that the apostle Paul says in his letter to the Galatians, where he writes, “the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, self-control; against such things there is no law.” (Galatians 5:22-23, ESV).
It pains me to see and know what things have been and are currently being done in the name of my Lord. It hurts me whenever I hear stories about “Christians” trying to publicly shame people for their sexual orientation, or picketing the funeral of a soldier (Insider Tip: NO Christian acknowledges the Westboro Baptists as a “church”). Of course, to the media, bad news is good news, so these are the stories that non-Christians both hear and remember. But knowing of these atrocities, from the attacks on those unlike them to the haughty looks they give passerby, strengthens my resolve to do good in Christ’s name. It’s a lifetime of work, but, in my eyes, there is no greater thing I could do with my time.
So when you hear the word “religious”, I encourage you to stop and think. Is the speaker referring to something that pertains to religion, or are they attempting (consciously or unconsciously) to tear down the good name of Christ through the embarrassing acts of his followers?
I crossed my arms against the cold and frowned in thought. I had stepped outside the party to continue my conversation with a small group of smokers. We had been discussing the writing of one of my classmates. He had crafted a series of poems describing the trials and love life from high school on to present day. Smiling sadly in remembrance, as I recalled what my own high school was like. “If you believed everything you heard through the grapevine, you would think I had lost my virginity in high school. Twice. When in fact,” I bragged, "I remained a virgin until my wedding night.”
The two smokers I was talking with commended me on this, which I found both encouraging and amusing. It’s good to know that abstinence is respected later in life, even as it was socially frowned upon as a teenager. My amusement came from an assumption of their religious beliefs. Chances were at least one of them wasn’t a Christian, and I was somewhat surprised to hear that non-religious people were in some sort of agreement with the sanctity of marriage. My comment had, unwittingly, steered the conversation in another direction.
I don’t know how to respond to “are you religious”. I am a child of God, repented of my sins, and placed my faith in Him to grant me everlasting life. In that sense, as a practitioner of religion, I am “religious”. But to wholeheartedly claim the title without explanation can be dangerous. Hundreds upon thousands of people have committed heinous crimes in the name of the christian Lord. Those who led the crusades and the Spanish Inquisition likely thought of themselves as highly religious people. To accept the label “religious” would subconsciously put me among their ranks. Terrible things happen in the world of organized religion because, no matter what your ranking in the church, humans are fallible.
Greg Stier has perhaps my favorite response to the question. I heard it first when he was speaking at a Dare to Share event in Lincoln, with a stadium packed full of other Christian youth. He told a story of a time when he was doing street evangelism with his youth group at a local mall, and was approached by a scary looking man. Having seen what Greg and his group was doing, he looked Greg up and down and stared him in the eye. “You religious?” Greg shook his head. “No man, I hate religious people.” Surprised to find themselves in agreement, they continued bashing the religious. They both hated how religious people think they’re better than everyone else, and judge people before they know them instead of accepting people for who they are.
Looking back, I realized that the colloquial use of “religious” doesn’t match up with the definition those inside the faith understand it to be. To the secular masses, “religious” does not mean of or pertaining to religion: it means that you see yourself as holier that your fellow man. As a Christian, I’ll be the first to tell you: the vast majority of us hate “religious” people. They feel that being a child of God somehow grants them a special status here on earth, and think that they should be respected at all times and in all places because of it. But that isn’t the teaching of God. In Matthew 23:12, Jesus said, “Whoever exalts himself will be humbled, and whoever humbles himself will be exalted.” (English Standard Version). A true Christian, and someone I would consider religious, would instead live by the words that the apostle Paul says in his letter to the Galatians, where he writes, “the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, self-control; against such things there is no law.” (Galatians 5:22-23, ESV).
It pains me to see and know what things have been and are currently being done in the name of my Lord. It hurts me whenever I hear stories about “Christians” trying to publicly shame people for their sexual orientation, or picketing the funeral of a soldier (Insider Tip: NO Christian acknowledges the Westboro Baptists as a “church”). Of course, to the media, bad news is good news, so these are the stories that non-Christians both hear and remember. But knowing of these atrocities, from the attacks on those unlike them to the haughty looks they give passerby, strengthens my resolve to do good in Christ’s name. It’s a lifetime of work, but, in my eyes, there is no greater thing I could do with my time.
So when you hear the word “religious”, I encourage you to stop and think. Is the speaker referring to something that pertains to religion, or are they attempting (consciously or unconsciously) to tear down the good name of Christ through the embarrassing acts of his followers?
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