Thursday, May 19, 2005
The World's Got Me On A String
My freshman year of college I decided to go skydiving with a group from my dorm. Being that I was already 18, I didn't need parental consent, so I didn't tell my parents until after I had done it, which allowed them to freak out but be happy for my safety. It was actually a rather safe process. We had to go through extensive training. We spent one night watching safety videos and then an entire afternoon practicing on-site before they let us anywhere near the plane.
The kind of skydiving we did was called "static line." Basically, your ripcord is attached to the plane so that, when you're at the end of the static line, your parachute is pulled for you. A large portion of our training involved "what to do if your static line fails to pull the ripcord." Every jumper pack was equipped with a primary and a backup parachute, you know, just in case.
Due to weather conditions, our foursome didn't make it into the air that day and had to come back later, but when we did, there were so few people around we got to go up twice each, if we wanted. And, honestly, who doesn't want to jump out of a plane twice in one day?
Looking back, I can pretty much view the actual act of skydiving in four phases. First of all, you have the anticipation: riding up into the sky, huddled on the back floor of a little plane, waiting your turn. For me, this phase involved a lot of praying. "Dear God, please don't let me die." The second phase is the actual jump: the fear of stepping out into the sky and letting go of the plane. Here, there is actually too much attention being paid to the actual process and being prepared for "plan b" should the static line fail, that little attention is being paid to anything else.
Third, after the anticipation of the jump, the shock of the jump and the relieving jerk of an opening parachute, comes the wait. This is the most peaceful part of the jump, if you're not impatient. I remember sitting up in the air thinking, "wow, the world looks amazing from up here," and "wow, this is taking forever!" You can toggle left or right here, maybe do a little circle or whirly gig, but, especially for a novice such as myself, you just wait and keep your eye on the landing ground.
Finally, fourth and last, comes the landing. After the seemingly endless stint of sitting on top of the world, you have to focus in again and prepare for the quicker-than-you-ever-thought-it-would-come-at-you landing. The closer you get to the ground, the faster it comes at you and if you're good (or lucky), you'll hit the ground running. If you're not, you'll end up like me, on your hands and knees in a mound of muddy snow: twice.
Right now I feel like I'm in the third phase of this particular stage of life. I've been anticipating big things, I've mustered the courage to let go of the plane and I've felt a little tug of assurance at my back, opening to a canopy above. I'm just waiting like a kite on a string, trying to not let my impatience ruin the view and focusing on landing, hoping it doesn't come too quickly or too fiercely.
My freshman year of college I decided to go skydiving with a group from my dorm. Being that I was already 18, I didn't need parental consent, so I didn't tell my parents until after I had done it, which allowed them to freak out but be happy for my safety. It was actually a rather safe process. We had to go through extensive training. We spent one night watching safety videos and then an entire afternoon practicing on-site before they let us anywhere near the plane.
The kind of skydiving we did was called "static line." Basically, your ripcord is attached to the plane so that, when you're at the end of the static line, your parachute is pulled for you. A large portion of our training involved "what to do if your static line fails to pull the ripcord." Every jumper pack was equipped with a primary and a backup parachute, you know, just in case.
Due to weather conditions, our foursome didn't make it into the air that day and had to come back later, but when we did, there were so few people around we got to go up twice each, if we wanted. And, honestly, who doesn't want to jump out of a plane twice in one day?
Looking back, I can pretty much view the actual act of skydiving in four phases. First of all, you have the anticipation: riding up into the sky, huddled on the back floor of a little plane, waiting your turn. For me, this phase involved a lot of praying. "Dear God, please don't let me die." The second phase is the actual jump: the fear of stepping out into the sky and letting go of the plane. Here, there is actually too much attention being paid to the actual process and being prepared for "plan b" should the static line fail, that little attention is being paid to anything else.
Third, after the anticipation of the jump, the shock of the jump and the relieving jerk of an opening parachute, comes the wait. This is the most peaceful part of the jump, if you're not impatient. I remember sitting up in the air thinking, "wow, the world looks amazing from up here," and "wow, this is taking forever!" You can toggle left or right here, maybe do a little circle or whirly gig, but, especially for a novice such as myself, you just wait and keep your eye on the landing ground.
Finally, fourth and last, comes the landing. After the seemingly endless stint of sitting on top of the world, you have to focus in again and prepare for the quicker-than-you-ever-thought-it-would-come-at-you landing. The closer you get to the ground, the faster it comes at you and if you're good (or lucky), you'll hit the ground running. If you're not, you'll end up like me, on your hands and knees in a mound of muddy snow: twice.
Right now I feel like I'm in the third phase of this particular stage of life. I've been anticipating big things, I've mustered the courage to let go of the plane and I've felt a little tug of assurance at my back, opening to a canopy above. I'm just waiting like a kite on a string, trying to not let my impatience ruin the view and focusing on landing, hoping it doesn't come too quickly or too fiercely.
Monday, May 16, 2005
Thrown by the Unthrown
I've been thinking. I know, it's a dangerous activity, but I've engaged in it, nonetheless. I've started wondering what those famous words in John 8, "Let he who is without sin cast the first stone," and "go and sin no more," really meant to the woman caught in adultery. So often these passages are preached as ones of freedom. These words freed the woman from her accusers, freed her from debt, freed her from her sinful life... the only life she may have ever known.
I think these words wrecked her life. It may have been a shamble of a life, but what it was wrecked, nonetheless. I've heard it preached that the adultery was a set-up: how else could all of those godly Pharisees know where to catch such a sinful act? I've also heard that perhaps the woman wanted to get caught. Perhaps she let down her guard. Perhaps she was in such a horrible state that she didn't care who knew anymore.
I've had this feeling. You may scoff but, honestly, if no one sin is graver than another, than I can feel that anxiety, too. And I have. It's a strangling feeling. It's a feeling somewhere beyond lonely. It's isolatory. It's a deadly silence.
Even if she didn't abide by the laws of Moses, she clearly knew them. In such a saturated environment, it would be hard not to. This woman knew where her acts would lead; she knew the consequence. I think she let down her guard because she wanted to be caught. She wanted to be stoned. For her, death was the only way out.
Finally, her day out had come and she was caught. Maybe standing before Jesus wasn't as hard as we all think it might have been. Standing there in her shame. Maybe she was relieved; relieved to finally be released from her suffocating secret. Perhaps she stood there relieved that her hellish life would finally be over. She stood there awaiting the stones.
And then came those words, "Let he who is without sin cast the first stone," and her accusers turned slowly away. Her hopes of release slipped from their reluctant hands as her heart fell with every stoney thud to the earth. And the tears probably streamed faster and harder now, her face turning red with anger towards the man who stole her only way out.
Then Jesus looked up. He met her eyes and her fever cooled, her hands began to tremble in a way they never had before. He confessed he would not condemn her, he would give her freedom. Freedom to return not to the life she's always known, but to something else-- what she did not know. "Go and sin no more," he said.
And with those words, her hollow lifestyle shattered, revealing a tender, new child. The life she had known was over, just as she wanted, but she was not yet released. Now she had to learn everything anew. But something in those eyes both calmed and riled her soul. Just the fact that she finally felt the presence of a soul was enough to stir the butterflies in her stomach. Now she had a new skin, one delicate and pure, yet stronger than any of the surrounding stones.
Her old life was wrecked. Her whole sense of being was wrecked. The only way she could think of to get out of this world was no longer an option. And yet, Christ had given her a new way out, one she could have possibly never imagined: one difficult to comprehend even after the fact.
As a child of God, myself, one who has heard, "go and sin no more," I still have a difficult time accepting the saving power of grace. I still expect stones and lightening bolts, plagues for my misdeeds. I expect penance. I expect to do my part. Grace takes most of that away. God says, "In repentance and rest is your salvation... but you would have none of it." (Isaiah 30:15) Grace wants me to repent and then rest in it's faithfulness.
This sort of revelation wrecks my world. It takes away my control, leaving my mode of operation in a pile of rubble-- a heaping pile of uncast stones.
I've been thinking. I know, it's a dangerous activity, but I've engaged in it, nonetheless. I've started wondering what those famous words in John 8, "Let he who is without sin cast the first stone," and "go and sin no more," really meant to the woman caught in adultery. So often these passages are preached as ones of freedom. These words freed the woman from her accusers, freed her from debt, freed her from her sinful life... the only life she may have ever known.
I think these words wrecked her life. It may have been a shamble of a life, but what it was wrecked, nonetheless. I've heard it preached that the adultery was a set-up: how else could all of those godly Pharisees know where to catch such a sinful act? I've also heard that perhaps the woman wanted to get caught. Perhaps she let down her guard. Perhaps she was in such a horrible state that she didn't care who knew anymore.
I've had this feeling. You may scoff but, honestly, if no one sin is graver than another, than I can feel that anxiety, too. And I have. It's a strangling feeling. It's a feeling somewhere beyond lonely. It's isolatory. It's a deadly silence.
Even if she didn't abide by the laws of Moses, she clearly knew them. In such a saturated environment, it would be hard not to. This woman knew where her acts would lead; she knew the consequence. I think she let down her guard because she wanted to be caught. She wanted to be stoned. For her, death was the only way out.
Finally, her day out had come and she was caught. Maybe standing before Jesus wasn't as hard as we all think it might have been. Standing there in her shame. Maybe she was relieved; relieved to finally be released from her suffocating secret. Perhaps she stood there relieved that her hellish life would finally be over. She stood there awaiting the stones.
And then came those words, "Let he who is without sin cast the first stone," and her accusers turned slowly away. Her hopes of release slipped from their reluctant hands as her heart fell with every stoney thud to the earth. And the tears probably streamed faster and harder now, her face turning red with anger towards the man who stole her only way out.
Then Jesus looked up. He met her eyes and her fever cooled, her hands began to tremble in a way they never had before. He confessed he would not condemn her, he would give her freedom. Freedom to return not to the life she's always known, but to something else-- what she did not know. "Go and sin no more," he said.
And with those words, her hollow lifestyle shattered, revealing a tender, new child. The life she had known was over, just as she wanted, but she was not yet released. Now she had to learn everything anew. But something in those eyes both calmed and riled her soul. Just the fact that she finally felt the presence of a soul was enough to stir the butterflies in her stomach. Now she had a new skin, one delicate and pure, yet stronger than any of the surrounding stones.
Her old life was wrecked. Her whole sense of being was wrecked. The only way she could think of to get out of this world was no longer an option. And yet, Christ had given her a new way out, one she could have possibly never imagined: one difficult to comprehend even after the fact.
As a child of God, myself, one who has heard, "go and sin no more," I still have a difficult time accepting the saving power of grace. I still expect stones and lightening bolts, plagues for my misdeeds. I expect penance. I expect to do my part. Grace takes most of that away. God says, "In repentance and rest is your salvation... but you would have none of it." (Isaiah 30:15) Grace wants me to repent and then rest in it's faithfulness.
This sort of revelation wrecks my world. It takes away my control, leaving my mode of operation in a pile of rubble-- a heaping pile of uncast stones.
Thursday, May 12, 2005
But You Have Such a Youthful Spirit
This past Sunday I had lunch with a new friend. We've known each other for quite some time, but we don't really know much about each other. We've hung out in groups, but this was our first one-on-one. It was nice.
We got to learn more about each other, including ages. Since she just moved to Nashville a short number of months ago, I suppose I assumed she graduated recently. Well, you know what happens when you assume, right? yeah. What's funny, to me at least, is that she thought I was about 21 or 22-- a few years younger than herself, while I am, in actuality, a year her senior.
She was shocked. Was it my wife-beater tank and my cute little skirt? My sparkly self-tanner? (which, for the record, I would prefer to not have sparkles) No, she's seen me in more refined attire and a paler complexion. I mean, she doesn't even know about my snickerings at the President's pronunciation of the word "assume." She just thinks I have a youthful way about me. I'm ok with that.
This test is pretty right on, though. The age I act changes by a year depending on whether I answer that I watch The OC or CSI. So, the question begs to be asked: What Age Do You Act? Holla...
This past Sunday I had lunch with a new friend. We've known each other for quite some time, but we don't really know much about each other. We've hung out in groups, but this was our first one-on-one. It was nice.
We got to learn more about each other, including ages. Since she just moved to Nashville a short number of months ago, I suppose I assumed she graduated recently. Well, you know what happens when you assume, right? yeah. What's funny, to me at least, is that she thought I was about 21 or 22-- a few years younger than herself, while I am, in actuality, a year her senior.
She was shocked. Was it my wife-beater tank and my cute little skirt? My sparkly self-tanner? (which, for the record, I would prefer to not have sparkles) No, she's seen me in more refined attire and a paler complexion. I mean, she doesn't even know about my snickerings at the President's pronunciation of the word "assume." She just thinks I have a youthful way about me. I'm ok with that.
This test is pretty right on, though. The age I act changes by a year depending on whether I answer that I watch The OC or CSI. So, the question begs to be asked: What Age Do You Act? Holla...
You Are 25 Years Old |
25 Under 12: You are a kid at heart. You still have an optimistic life view - and you look at the world with awe. 13-19: You are a teenager at heart. You question authority and are still trying to find your place in this world. 20-29: You are a twentysomething at heart. You feel excited about what's to come... love, work, and new experiences. 30-39: You are a thirtysomething at heart. You've had a taste of success and true love, but you want more! 40+: You are a mature adult. You've been through most of the ups and downs of life already. Now you get to sit back and relax. |
Friday, May 06, 2005
Excuses, Excuses
I do my best, most creative thinking at night. Right before falling sleep, I lay in bed, my mind reeling and twisting around colorful imagery. My brain rattles off deep, intellectual essays expounding upon theological and psychological revelations. Well, perhaps not to you, but they're awfully revealing to me.
Well, they might bring you revelation, if only I posted them for you. You see, the thing is this: my words never seem to flow as well by morning's light. I know, I know, I should write them down at night so that I can then share them with you in the morning. I thought of that last night, but it seemed too much effort at the time. It really is the weirdest thing. It's like my mental word processor shuts down when I fall asleep, without saving the project on which I was working.
I have a lot of great thoughts. Thoughts about waiting. Thoughts about singleness. (those two are actually not connected) Thoughts on emptiness and echoing. Thoughts about how God takes all that away. I was just about to say, "if we let him," but it's not even about letting him, it's about realizing that he can... and has. It's funny how we lock ourselves in imaginary cages like that.
It reminds me of a quote from The Last Battle; Chronicles of Narnia, Book 7, "You see," said Aslan. "They will not let us help them. They have chosen cunning instead of belief. Their prison is only in their own minds, yet they are in that prison; and so afraid of being taken in that they cannot be taken out."
We are all so selfish, prideful and independent that we don't see the beauty of being weak, dependent on someone else's strength-- especially when that someone else is all-powerful. I suppose all of this is to say that I realize my own god-complex more and more with each bedtime, mini-revelation. If only I could carry those lessons through the night.
I do my best, most creative thinking at night. Right before falling sleep, I lay in bed, my mind reeling and twisting around colorful imagery. My brain rattles off deep, intellectual essays expounding upon theological and psychological revelations. Well, perhaps not to you, but they're awfully revealing to me.
Well, they might bring you revelation, if only I posted them for you. You see, the thing is this: my words never seem to flow as well by morning's light. I know, I know, I should write them down at night so that I can then share them with you in the morning. I thought of that last night, but it seemed too much effort at the time. It really is the weirdest thing. It's like my mental word processor shuts down when I fall asleep, without saving the project on which I was working.
I have a lot of great thoughts. Thoughts about waiting. Thoughts about singleness. (those two are actually not connected) Thoughts on emptiness and echoing. Thoughts about how God takes all that away. I was just about to say, "if we let him," but it's not even about letting him, it's about realizing that he can... and has. It's funny how we lock ourselves in imaginary cages like that.
It reminds me of a quote from The Last Battle; Chronicles of Narnia, Book 7, "You see," said Aslan. "They will not let us help them. They have chosen cunning instead of belief. Their prison is only in their own minds, yet they are in that prison; and so afraid of being taken in that they cannot be taken out."
We are all so selfish, prideful and independent that we don't see the beauty of being weak, dependent on someone else's strength-- especially when that someone else is all-powerful. I suppose all of this is to say that I realize my own god-complex more and more with each bedtime, mini-revelation. If only I could carry those lessons through the night.
Monday, May 02, 2005
What I Shouldn't Say
Does anyone know of a good exorcist? I swear I've been inhabited by the demon known as "a-12-year-old-boy's-sense-of-humor," "heh heh, heh heh" for short.
For instance, I was at a friend's house during President Bush's press conference the other night. She was on the phone. Our dear president would say something about the nation's conditions and assets and I would giggle. And did anyone notice how he pronounced "assume?" Just not right.
What's even worse is that during church yesterday our pastor was talking about prayer and faith and the such when he said something about our duty. At this point I tittered and poked my friend whispering, "he said 'doody.'"
I'm really kicking against the goads of aging hard, aren't I?
As a matter of fact, I just wrote "tittered." heh heh heh heh
Does anyone know of a good exorcist? I swear I've been inhabited by the demon known as "a-12-year-old-boy's-sense-of-humor," "heh heh, heh heh" for short.
For instance, I was at a friend's house during President Bush's press conference the other night. She was on the phone. Our dear president would say something about the nation's conditions and assets and I would giggle. And did anyone notice how he pronounced "assume?" Just not right.
What's even worse is that during church yesterday our pastor was talking about prayer and faith and the such when he said something about our duty. At this point I tittered and poked my friend whispering, "he said 'doody.'"
I'm really kicking against the goads of aging hard, aren't I?
As a matter of fact, I just wrote "tittered." heh heh heh heh
Thursday, April 28, 2005
More Secrets Revealed!
Ok friends, one more confession... I have been seriously delinquent in updating my links and in doing so, have kept some amazing people from you. I'm terribly sorry. I think I may have doubled my links section today! Sheesh. That's a lot of peops. Well, I hope you enjoy them as much as I do.
These are mostly people I know from college and they all have wonderful, funny and perhaps wonderfully funny things to say. :-) I have also added my cousin because she rocks and because perhaps if I have a link to her, she'll write more. Perhaps even about her newly announced pregnancy!!! Maybe she'll follow in Dooce's footsteps and recount the process for us. Then again, do we really need to go through that again? ;-)
Ok, ok. There are the links. You see them. Enjoy!
Ok friends, one more confession... I have been seriously delinquent in updating my links and in doing so, have kept some amazing people from you. I'm terribly sorry. I think I may have doubled my links section today! Sheesh. That's a lot of peops. Well, I hope you enjoy them as much as I do.
These are mostly people I know from college and they all have wonderful, funny and perhaps wonderfully funny things to say. :-) I have also added my cousin because she rocks and because perhaps if I have a link to her, she'll write more. Perhaps even about her newly announced pregnancy!!! Maybe she'll follow in Dooce's footsteps and recount the process for us. Then again, do we really need to go through that again? ;-)
Ok, ok. There are the links. You see them. Enjoy!
Wednesday, April 27, 2005
Confession
Stay away from me, I'll be gone soon... It's just so hard to let go once you've grabbed hold. ~from Twenty Three Places by Matt Wertz
I have a confession to make: I shut people out, push people away. Now, I'm not so naive or self-centered as to assume that this confession is mind-boggling or that I am alone in such tactics. I guess I just needed to get it off of my chest: to confess.
Obviously people tend to push away and shut out others whom they might find annoying or crass. However, this is not the offense to which I am confessing. I am speaking of the more heinous, more negligent misdemeanor of closing one's self off from the ones he or she loves. And this, my friends, is a crime I believe more of us than not commit.
It is an offense I hold near and dear. It is a defense mechanism I cherish. After all, isn't life more about self-preservation? Survival of the fittest? Hammy. Perhaps. Unless, of course, you believe in the healing power of community.
You may not know this but you, my friends, have become a community to me. And yet, by not posting or by posting inane trivialities, I have pushed you away, shut you out. It's not that I don't want your advice, your help, your succor. It's just that I don't think you *can* help right now.
All too recently I have learned the draining effects of spilling all to others who are in no position to help. Since I know you are in no position to help, I have simply left my musings to those nearest me. I'm not going through any problem of great consequence, just living life. And those day-to-day decisions can be difficult sometimes.
So, I post randomly and beg you not to forsake me completely, while, at the same time, giving you no real reason not to do just that.
Perhaps this is just another of those misleading posts. One of those pleas to love me even when I'm inaccessible. Or possibly to begin to love me, at all.
In truth, you don't have to love me. I know enough people do. I know God does. And I am learning to even love myself.
In short, you may come or go; do as you please. Just know that I'm out there somewhere, even if not at the keys.
Stay away from me, I'll be gone soon... It's just so hard to let go once you've grabbed hold. ~from Twenty Three Places by Matt Wertz
I have a confession to make: I shut people out, push people away. Now, I'm not so naive or self-centered as to assume that this confession is mind-boggling or that I am alone in such tactics. I guess I just needed to get it off of my chest: to confess.
Obviously people tend to push away and shut out others whom they might find annoying or crass. However, this is not the offense to which I am confessing. I am speaking of the more heinous, more negligent misdemeanor of closing one's self off from the ones he or she loves. And this, my friends, is a crime I believe more of us than not commit.
It is an offense I hold near and dear. It is a defense mechanism I cherish. After all, isn't life more about self-preservation? Survival of the fittest? Hammy. Perhaps. Unless, of course, you believe in the healing power of community.
You may not know this but you, my friends, have become a community to me. And yet, by not posting or by posting inane trivialities, I have pushed you away, shut you out. It's not that I don't want your advice, your help, your succor. It's just that I don't think you *can* help right now.
All too recently I have learned the draining effects of spilling all to others who are in no position to help. Since I know you are in no position to help, I have simply left my musings to those nearest me. I'm not going through any problem of great consequence, just living life. And those day-to-day decisions can be difficult sometimes.
So, I post randomly and beg you not to forsake me completely, while, at the same time, giving you no real reason not to do just that.
Perhaps this is just another of those misleading posts. One of those pleas to love me even when I'm inaccessible. Or possibly to begin to love me, at all.
In truth, you don't have to love me. I know enough people do. I know God does. And I am learning to even love myself.
In short, you may come or go; do as you please. Just know that I'm out there somewhere, even if not at the keys.
Friday, April 22, 2005
The Hardest Thing
What I've learned so far in life is that rejections are not the hardest part: disappointment is.
Whether it's disappointment in one's self, disappointment in someone else or disappointing someone else, the presences of disappointment takes the reins far too often in my life.
My mom would say that she spanked me when I was growing up, but I don't remember that. What I remember most, and remember fearing the most, was disappointment. While most kids feared the phrases, "Bend over" or "Get the paddle," I feared the phrase, "I'm so disappointed in you."
There were times in my life when I knew I did something wrong or had information my parents should know. Usually, I would hide. At least, at first. However, after a few minutes in the dark closet or under the bed, I would feel the threat of impending disappointment. Knowing that I my faults required discipline, I also learned early on that running from the inevitable discipline only increased it's term or severity. I also knew that if I didn't face up to responsibility, my father would be "very disappointed" in me.
So, I squiggled out from under the bed or pushed through the pleats and sleeves to face the music: face my responsibilities.
Lately I have regressed to that little girl who runs for cover when things go awry. I know I have a responsibility to step up to in this life: to live and be joyful. This is probably the greatest responsibility I will ever face and if I don't, the repercussions will surely devastate. I need to face my responsibility and take whatever consequences result from my decisions-- be they good or bad.
Unlike that little girl, however, I am not going to simply sit on my bed and wait for a punishment. I am not going to sit by in fear and trepidation, stiff-lipped and blurry-eyed. I don't have to wait with steely conviction to appease my accuser and confess my errors.
No, this time I won't wait for disappointment to threaten my character before I step up. Because this time I know the accuser has no power over my intercessor. I know impending disappointment is rebuked by grace, rebuffed by mercy. I don't have to fear because I love and am loved. And, if I'm not mistaken, there is no fear in love. Nor is there disappointment or guilt or shame.
There are, however, actions and reactions, causes and effects, consequences and responsibilities.
And that is okay.
What I've learned so far in life is that rejections are not the hardest part: disappointment is.
Whether it's disappointment in one's self, disappointment in someone else or disappointing someone else, the presences of disappointment takes the reins far too often in my life.
My mom would say that she spanked me when I was growing up, but I don't remember that. What I remember most, and remember fearing the most, was disappointment. While most kids feared the phrases, "Bend over" or "Get the paddle," I feared the phrase, "I'm so disappointed in you."
There were times in my life when I knew I did something wrong or had information my parents should know. Usually, I would hide. At least, at first. However, after a few minutes in the dark closet or under the bed, I would feel the threat of impending disappointment. Knowing that I my faults required discipline, I also learned early on that running from the inevitable discipline only increased it's term or severity. I also knew that if I didn't face up to responsibility, my father would be "very disappointed" in me.
So, I squiggled out from under the bed or pushed through the pleats and sleeves to face the music: face my responsibilities.
Lately I have regressed to that little girl who runs for cover when things go awry. I know I have a responsibility to step up to in this life: to live and be joyful. This is probably the greatest responsibility I will ever face and if I don't, the repercussions will surely devastate. I need to face my responsibility and take whatever consequences result from my decisions-- be they good or bad.
Unlike that little girl, however, I am not going to simply sit on my bed and wait for a punishment. I am not going to sit by in fear and trepidation, stiff-lipped and blurry-eyed. I don't have to wait with steely conviction to appease my accuser and confess my errors.
No, this time I won't wait for disappointment to threaten my character before I step up. Because this time I know the accuser has no power over my intercessor. I know impending disappointment is rebuked by grace, rebuffed by mercy. I don't have to fear because I love and am loved. And, if I'm not mistaken, there is no fear in love. Nor is there disappointment or guilt or shame.
There are, however, actions and reactions, causes and effects, consequences and responsibilities.
And that is okay.
Tuesday, April 19, 2005
Dialect
When I tell people I'm from Wisconsin, they generally respond with a few different things. My responses/commentary are in parentheses.
A very nasal, "You mean, Wis-KAHN-sin?" ("Did I say it like that? I didn't think so.")
"So you're a cheesehead?" (or some other equally unoriginal comment about cheese. yeah, Wisconsin makes cheese, get over it.)
"Do you like the Packers?" ("I'm pretty sure I'd be disowned if I didn't.")
"Brrrrr."
"How'd ya git down here?" ("I drove.")
or, my personal favorite:
"You don't sound like you're from Wisconsin." ("Thank you. Thank you very much.")
Conversely, when I visit Wisconsin and tell people I moved to Nashville, I hear the following:
"Do you like country music?" ("I did. Then I moved to Nashville and found better music.")
"What are you doing down there?" (And a bunch of other questions like that.)
"What brought you to Nashville?" (too long to answer here)
and, of course my favorite:
"Do you have an accent, yet?" ("Does it sound like it? Ok, ok, only on certain words.")
I attribute my lack of midwestern or southern accent to music (and perhaps my over all love of the English language and its grammar-- yep, I'm a nerd and I don't care). I grew up singing in choirs and taking voice lessons. You don't really get to have a personal accent when you sing choral music. You take on the accent of the piece. You absorb the accent of the choir; the phonetics of the language in which the piece was written. I've had the priviledge of singing in German, Latin, Italian, Spanish, French, Hebrew and Swahili, to name a few.
I've also had the priviledge of singing in a cappella. I don't think you understand the necessary absence of personal accent until you're trying to get a group of fifteen women to pronounce such phrases as "bwah bwah dop," "bwher neher lerhder der der" and prolonged vowels as one voice. I can't tell you how many hours we spent in rehearsal just matching words, vowels and consonants. But it was worth it.
Therefore, when I took a short accent quiz today (as seen on Perfect Blue Buildings), I wasn't really surprised at the results:
Although I find it "Upper Midwestern" kind of offensive to be lumped in with the Dakotas and the U.P. (you would too if you'd ever heard them)-- at least it's only 10% and I'll attribute that to me saying that I drink from "water fountains" when I'm not having a "soda." I also fault them for not having some sort of West Coast language classification.
So, there are my results. Now how about you? What kind of American English do you speak?
When I tell people I'm from Wisconsin, they generally respond with a few different things. My responses/commentary are in parentheses.
A very nasal, "You mean, Wis-KAHN-sin?" ("Did I say it like that? I didn't think so.")
"So you're a cheesehead?" (or some other equally unoriginal comment about cheese. yeah, Wisconsin makes cheese, get over it.)
"Do you like the Packers?" ("I'm pretty sure I'd be disowned if I didn't.")
"Brrrrr."
"How'd ya git down here?" ("I drove.")
or, my personal favorite:
"You don't sound like you're from Wisconsin." ("Thank you. Thank you very much.")
Conversely, when I visit Wisconsin and tell people I moved to Nashville, I hear the following:
"Do you like country music?" ("I did. Then I moved to Nashville and found better music.")
"What are you doing down there?" (And a bunch of other questions like that.)
"What brought you to Nashville?" (too long to answer here)
and, of course my favorite:
"Do you have an accent, yet?" ("Does it sound like it? Ok, ok, only on certain words.")
I attribute my lack of midwestern or southern accent to music (and perhaps my over all love of the English language and its grammar-- yep, I'm a nerd and I don't care). I grew up singing in choirs and taking voice lessons. You don't really get to have a personal accent when you sing choral music. You take on the accent of the piece. You absorb the accent of the choir; the phonetics of the language in which the piece was written. I've had the priviledge of singing in German, Latin, Italian, Spanish, French, Hebrew and Swahili, to name a few.
I've also had the priviledge of singing in a cappella. I don't think you understand the necessary absence of personal accent until you're trying to get a group of fifteen women to pronounce such phrases as "bwah bwah dop," "bwher neher lerhder der der" and prolonged vowels as one voice. I can't tell you how many hours we spent in rehearsal just matching words, vowels and consonants. But it was worth it.
Therefore, when I took a short accent quiz today (as seen on Perfect Blue Buildings), I wasn't really surprised at the results:
Your Linguistic Profile: |
70% General American English |
10% Dixie |
10% Upper Midwestern |
10% Yankee |
0% Midwestern |
Although I find it "Upper Midwestern" kind of offensive to be lumped in with the Dakotas and the U.P. (you would too if you'd ever heard them)-- at least it's only 10% and I'll attribute that to me saying that I drink from "water fountains" when I'm not having a "soda." I also fault them for not having some sort of West Coast language classification.
So, there are my results. Now how about you? What kind of American English do you speak?
Friday, April 08, 2005
Because I Love You
I had to tell you about Ray Lamontagne's Forever My Friend. For some reason it has struck a chord with me (no pun intended) and I just want to listen to it over and over and over again. It's amazing.
Give it a listen.
I had to tell you about Ray Lamontagne's Forever My Friend. For some reason it has struck a chord with me (no pun intended) and I just want to listen to it over and over and over again. It's amazing.
Give it a listen.
Thursday, April 07, 2005
Once again the world around me struggles to overcome one season with another, birthing a new sense to its scenery and skyline. The comparison of seasons stands stark as the winter-grey sky rumbles and rolls its clouds over the spritely green lawns and flowering branches.
Spring rain bothers me not as it brings the promise of softening the frozen earth and encouraging the emerging buds. The air, itself, eases with the release of spring rains, as though Spring herself laughs at the final tantrums of Winter's reign before he at last subsides before her gentle smile and countenance.
This is the time of year when Demeter might savor and rejoice in the company of her daughter, Persephone, released, if only for a short time, from her Underworld Kingdom. The ground bursts into flower at the passing of her dainty footfall. The air lightens by her very breath. The wind calms himself by weaving ever so delightfully through her tresses.
No, Winter has no power in her presence, though obstinate he might be. Soon he shall succumb to her radiant beauty. Soon her song will leave no blade unfurled, no branch unheralded. Soon Winter shall be denied his tyranny till she at last returns to her husband and master below. Till then, he must quit the earth and bother us no more. Till then, we might think of him no more and in her homage find delight unforeseen in her absence.
Welcome her friends. Welcome Spring's fondness and mercy, at last.
Spring rain bothers me not as it brings the promise of softening the frozen earth and encouraging the emerging buds. The air, itself, eases with the release of spring rains, as though Spring herself laughs at the final tantrums of Winter's reign before he at last subsides before her gentle smile and countenance.
This is the time of year when Demeter might savor and rejoice in the company of her daughter, Persephone, released, if only for a short time, from her Underworld Kingdom. The ground bursts into flower at the passing of her dainty footfall. The air lightens by her very breath. The wind calms himself by weaving ever so delightfully through her tresses.
No, Winter has no power in her presence, though obstinate he might be. Soon he shall succumb to her radiant beauty. Soon her song will leave no blade unfurled, no branch unheralded. Soon Winter shall be denied his tyranny till she at last returns to her husband and master below. Till then, he must quit the earth and bother us no more. Till then, we might think of him no more and in her homage find delight unforeseen in her absence.
Welcome her friends. Welcome Spring's fondness and mercy, at last.
Monday, April 04, 2005
Hello There Stranger
I know it's been awhile. I'm feeling much better and thank you for your well wishes.
I apologize for my absence, and for that matter my lack of substance prior to my absence. It seems, however, that life has been far too real lately to spin imagery for you.
I finally saw "Finding Neverland" recently. I understand J.M. Barrie's desire to retain childhood wonder so much. I fear with each waking day I become less imaginative and more real, if that makes any sense at all. Just as the character Barrie says in the movie: "Young boys should never be sent to bed... they always wake up a day older."
I fear I've seen too many nights sent to bed and too many mornings awoken to a lessening wonder.
I know it's been awhile. I'm feeling much better and thank you for your well wishes.
I apologize for my absence, and for that matter my lack of substance prior to my absence. It seems, however, that life has been far too real lately to spin imagery for you.
I finally saw "Finding Neverland" recently. I understand J.M. Barrie's desire to retain childhood wonder so much. I fear with each waking day I become less imaginative and more real, if that makes any sense at all. Just as the character Barrie says in the movie: "Young boys should never be sent to bed... they always wake up a day older."
I fear I've seen too many nights sent to bed and too many mornings awoken to a lessening wonder.
Wednesday, March 23, 2005
Life as a Pariah
Since it has been a while since I have posted or even been around, perhaps I should explain. I think I have been sick for about a month now. First I had regular old sinus problems, and then the flu attacked me, only to ebb away into sinus problems again. Now, I apparently have strep throat.
I cannot remember the last time I had the flu. Aside from being born with a strep bacterium, I have never had strep throat. Needless to say, I am not really sure how to deal with these things and have spent a lot of time on the phone with my mom and sister in the past few weeks.
My friends have been good. One even brought me popsicles last night. He and my roommates are about the only ones who have not treated me like a leper or social pariah. Honestly, my friends and (especially) my roommates are the ones who should be most afraid of catching whatever ails me! I got some penicillin yesterday and feel better already, but my co-workers look at me like I am Satan reincarnated for coming to work! I am not contagious anymore! Especially since I do not plan on sharing fluids with any of them.
Any way, I still feel bad for being here in case I might give someone else something. So, I guess I should go home. I am far to exhausted to argue or reason with them anyway.
Since it has been a while since I have posted or even been around, perhaps I should explain. I think I have been sick for about a month now. First I had regular old sinus problems, and then the flu attacked me, only to ebb away into sinus problems again. Now, I apparently have strep throat.
I cannot remember the last time I had the flu. Aside from being born with a strep bacterium, I have never had strep throat. Needless to say, I am not really sure how to deal with these things and have spent a lot of time on the phone with my mom and sister in the past few weeks.
My friends have been good. One even brought me popsicles last night. He and my roommates are about the only ones who have not treated me like a leper or social pariah. Honestly, my friends and (especially) my roommates are the ones who should be most afraid of catching whatever ails me! I got some penicillin yesterday and feel better already, but my co-workers look at me like I am Satan reincarnated for coming to work! I am not contagious anymore! Especially since I do not plan on sharing fluids with any of them.
Any way, I still feel bad for being here in case I might give someone else something. So, I guess I should go home. I am far to exhausted to argue or reason with them anyway.
Friday, March 11, 2005
Paradise and The Pit
The street on which I grew up dead ends into a small body of water the owner named "Paradise Pond." The rest of us call it "The Pit."
The Pit was to my childhood what the old abandoned house and creepy cat lady are to more notorious childhood legends. According to neighborhood lore, the owner barred the entrance to automobiles a few decades ago after three drunken teenagers drove themselves down our road, making The Pit their own personal graveyard.
Stories like this one and rumors about drug deals and satanic rituals made The Pit off-limits to us kids, unless I was walking the dogs. Of course, making it off-limits also made it our favorite place to hang out. My friends and I spent many afternoons and weekends exploring The Pit and its surrounding marshland swamp. A few of our favorite hangouts were The Wall, a rusty, abandoned crane and a little fort we made in the nest of some hills.
The Wall was just that; a rugged cement remnant of some long-forsaken building covered with graffiti and over run with trees and weeds. In retrospect, it sort of reminds me of the Graffiti Bridge in Purple Rain. The wall is where the "big kids" hung out and where the drug and satanic action supposedly took place, so it was specifically off-limits. Although it was generally strewn with beer cans and cigarette butts, I have only one memory of seeing a bunch of trashed teens standing around a fire at The Wall and they didn't seem to be offering any sacrifices to me.
The crane wasn't really in The Pit, but in the marshy swampland on its outskirts. Every once in a while we sought out a dry trail through the reeds and spent hours climbing in and around the crane. Others might have seen it as an unsightly wreck or a case of tetanus waiting to happen, but to us, it was our very iron-oxidized fortress of solitude, moat included. Sometimes we would even bring a boom box and a picnic out there to make a day of it.
Our most secluded place, however, was a nest in the crown of a few hills, hidden from the prying eyes of the nearby trail. Here my friends and I would nestle down in the long, dry grass and share our lives. We would twitter about boys and vent about family. We would divulge our personal stories and unfurl our dreams of growing up and getting away.
Lately I dream less frequently of growing up and more frequently of getting away. However, the more I dream of getting away, the more I realize I have no stable place from which to take off. I have no crumbling wall of graffiti, no rusted fortress, no batted nest from which to take flight. The more I dream of getting away, the more I long for a take-off point. Perhaps, while in a state of growth, we dream of leaving the nest, yet in a state of being grown, it is the flight we dream of leaving behind.
The street on which I grew up dead ends into a small body of water the owner named "Paradise Pond." The rest of us call it "The Pit."
The Pit was to my childhood what the old abandoned house and creepy cat lady are to more notorious childhood legends. According to neighborhood lore, the owner barred the entrance to automobiles a few decades ago after three drunken teenagers drove themselves down our road, making The Pit their own personal graveyard.
Stories like this one and rumors about drug deals and satanic rituals made The Pit off-limits to us kids, unless I was walking the dogs. Of course, making it off-limits also made it our favorite place to hang out. My friends and I spent many afternoons and weekends exploring The Pit and its surrounding marshland swamp. A few of our favorite hangouts were The Wall, a rusty, abandoned crane and a little fort we made in the nest of some hills.
The Wall was just that; a rugged cement remnant of some long-forsaken building covered with graffiti and over run with trees and weeds. In retrospect, it sort of reminds me of the Graffiti Bridge in Purple Rain. The wall is where the "big kids" hung out and where the drug and satanic action supposedly took place, so it was specifically off-limits. Although it was generally strewn with beer cans and cigarette butts, I have only one memory of seeing a bunch of trashed teens standing around a fire at The Wall and they didn't seem to be offering any sacrifices to me.
The crane wasn't really in The Pit, but in the marshy swampland on its outskirts. Every once in a while we sought out a dry trail through the reeds and spent hours climbing in and around the crane. Others might have seen it as an unsightly wreck or a case of tetanus waiting to happen, but to us, it was our very iron-oxidized fortress of solitude, moat included. Sometimes we would even bring a boom box and a picnic out there to make a day of it.
Our most secluded place, however, was a nest in the crown of a few hills, hidden from the prying eyes of the nearby trail. Here my friends and I would nestle down in the long, dry grass and share our lives. We would twitter about boys and vent about family. We would divulge our personal stories and unfurl our dreams of growing up and getting away.
Lately I dream less frequently of growing up and more frequently of getting away. However, the more I dream of getting away, the more I realize I have no stable place from which to take off. I have no crumbling wall of graffiti, no rusted fortress, no batted nest from which to take flight. The more I dream of getting away, the more I long for a take-off point. Perhaps, while in a state of growth, we dream of leaving the nest, yet in a state of being grown, it is the flight we dream of leaving behind.
Wednesday, March 09, 2005
Answers
1. Linger~ The Cranberries
2. Trouble~ Shawn Colvin
3. Fast Car~ Tracy Chapman
4. Nobody's Cryin'~ Patty Griffin
5. Poughkepsie~ Over the Rhine
6. On Fire~ Switchfoot
7. Oh My Sweet Carolina~ Ryan Adams
8. Title and Registration~ Death Cab for Cutie
9. Love Songs~ Fleming and John
10. When You Come Back Down~ Nickel Creek
1. Linger~ The Cranberries
2. Trouble~ Shawn Colvin
3. Fast Car~ Tracy Chapman
4. Nobody's Cryin'~ Patty Griffin
5. Poughkepsie~ Over the Rhine
6. On Fire~ Switchfoot
7. Oh My Sweet Carolina~ Ryan Adams
8. Title and Registration~ Death Cab for Cutie
9. Love Songs~ Fleming and John
10. When You Come Back Down~ Nickel Creek
Sunday, March 06, 2005
Lyrics Quiz
So, I've been wanting to do this for a while, but someone said I need some tougher lyrics... so, here are 10. Give me artist and title.
1. "If you, if you could get by, trying not to lie, things wouldn't be so confused."
2. "You don't have to drag me down, I descend."
3. "He says his body's too old for working. His body's too young to look like his."
4. "He jumps in a taxi for the sky. He's off to slay some demon dragon fly."
5. "There are those who know sorrow and those who must borrow and those whose lot in life is sweet."
6. "I'm standing on the edge of everything I've never been before."
7. "All the sweetest winds, they blow across the South."
8. "'Cause behind its door, there's nothing to keep my fingers warm."
9. "Paint me a picture with images blurred, so I can see what I want to see."
10. "I'll be the other hand that always holds the line connecting inbetween your sweet heart and mine."
Go.
So, I've been wanting to do this for a while, but someone said I need some tougher lyrics... so, here are 10. Give me artist and title.
1. "If you, if you could get by, trying not to lie, things wouldn't be so confused."
2. "You don't have to drag me down, I descend."
3. "He says his body's too old for working. His body's too young to look like his."
4. "He jumps in a taxi for the sky. He's off to slay some demon dragon fly."
5. "There are those who know sorrow and those who must borrow and those whose lot in life is sweet."
6. "I'm standing on the edge of everything I've never been before."
7. "All the sweetest winds, they blow across the South."
8. "'Cause behind its door, there's nothing to keep my fingers warm."
9. "Paint me a picture with images blurred, so I can see what I want to see."
10. "I'll be the other hand that always holds the line connecting inbetween your sweet heart and mine."
Go.
Tuesday, March 01, 2005
An Interview from Myles
Suzanne has a new game, called the interview, in which you get asked five questions, which you then have to post both questions and answers to your blog. And so, in an effort to detox from a half hour of the Inquisition and to satisfy Suzanne, the interview...
Here are the official rules of her interview game:
1. If you want to participate, leave a comment below saying "interview me."
2. I will respond by asking you five questions - each person's will be different.
3. You will update your journal/blog with the answers to the questions.
4. You will include this explanation and an offer to interview others in the same post.
5. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions.
6. I will answer reasonable follow up questions if you leave a comment.
1) When given the chance to have veggies or meat, which do you choose? Does your stomach suffer from eating so much meat?
I would choose meat. I like it. yum. No, my stomach doesn't suffer from eating meat. You miss it, don't you little veggie friend? (although I do admit I like a good salad... though I'd probably have it with chicken)
2) When was the last time you passed gas in public and didn't claim it?
hmmm... that's a difficult one. I think I was gassy in Atlanta a few weeks ago, but I think I told my friends. No, I'm not going to tell complete strangers.
3) You're on a desert island with one book. What is it? No, it can't be the Bible.
I'd want an ibook with connection so I could get off the island... MJ had a good one with 1,001 Ways to Survive on a Desert Island but since he picked that I think I might have to be a typical geek and say Lord of the Rings. I know it's marketed in 3 volumes, but it's really all one book.
4) Which comic strip character is dying to get killed off? How do they die?
gah. I only read one comic and I don't want any of them to die! so, um... one of the cavemen in that prehistoric comic gets eaten by a sabertooth tiger... yeah.
5) Fill in the blank: I feel most guilty being alive when I see (blank).
I feel most guilty being alive when I see statistics on how many people die of disease and starvation a week (as many as a tsunami a week) and am throwing away my leftovers or buying a new lipstick.
Suzanne has a new game, called the interview, in which you get asked five questions, which you then have to post both questions and answers to your blog. And so, in an effort to detox from a half hour of the Inquisition and to satisfy Suzanne, the interview...
Here are the official rules of her interview game:
1. If you want to participate, leave a comment below saying "interview me."
2. I will respond by asking you five questions - each person's will be different.
3. You will update your journal/blog with the answers to the questions.
4. You will include this explanation and an offer to interview others in the same post.
5. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions.
6. I will answer reasonable follow up questions if you leave a comment.
1) When given the chance to have veggies or meat, which do you choose? Does your stomach suffer from eating so much meat?
I would choose meat. I like it. yum. No, my stomach doesn't suffer from eating meat. You miss it, don't you little veggie friend? (although I do admit I like a good salad... though I'd probably have it with chicken)
2) When was the last time you passed gas in public and didn't claim it?
hmmm... that's a difficult one. I think I was gassy in Atlanta a few weeks ago, but I think I told my friends. No, I'm not going to tell complete strangers.
3) You're on a desert island with one book. What is it? No, it can't be the Bible.
I'd want an ibook with connection so I could get off the island... MJ had a good one with 1,001 Ways to Survive on a Desert Island but since he picked that I think I might have to be a typical geek and say Lord of the Rings. I know it's marketed in 3 volumes, but it's really all one book.
4) Which comic strip character is dying to get killed off? How do they die?
gah. I only read one comic and I don't want any of them to die! so, um... one of the cavemen in that prehistoric comic gets eaten by a sabertooth tiger... yeah.
5) Fill in the blank: I feel most guilty being alive when I see (blank).
I feel most guilty being alive when I see statistics on how many people die of disease and starvation a week (as many as a tsunami a week) and am throwing away my leftovers or buying a new lipstick.
Monday, February 28, 2005
Lie to Me. I Promise, I'll Believe*
I believe man is born with an inherent need to believe. He thirsts for knowledge before birth. Even in the womb, babies explore their growing bodies; they kick out, they punch, they find their appendages and savor the atmosphere. Once birthed, they have an entire new world to explore and figure out.
At a baby shower this weekend, the mother-to-be explained how babies want to be swaddled for a while at first because they're used to a small, warm environment and, "they feel like their limbs are going to fly off!" How traumatic! If I ever have kids, I will swaddle them so that they don't have to have appendage-flight anxiety. From the beginning a child needs to trust and believe in the parents, needs to believe in the dream that all limbs are safe.
However, without the nurturing assurance of a parent and loved ones, the baby might just believe that all appendages are bound to detach sooner or later. That is, until they don't. You see, if we don't believe in one thing, we will automatically believe in another. We have a need to believe.
Whether you know it or not, you believe in something. You might not believe that your limbs might unhinge at any given time, but that is, in fact a belief that your limbs will stay attached. The absence of believing in one thing is the same as believing in another-- the absence of a belief-system is, in itself, a belief system.
Does any of this make sense?
*Ten points for getting what song this is from. No Google allowed. :-)
I believe man is born with an inherent need to believe. He thirsts for knowledge before birth. Even in the womb, babies explore their growing bodies; they kick out, they punch, they find their appendages and savor the atmosphere. Once birthed, they have an entire new world to explore and figure out.
At a baby shower this weekend, the mother-to-be explained how babies want to be swaddled for a while at first because they're used to a small, warm environment and, "they feel like their limbs are going to fly off!" How traumatic! If I ever have kids, I will swaddle them so that they don't have to have appendage-flight anxiety. From the beginning a child needs to trust and believe in the parents, needs to believe in the dream that all limbs are safe.
However, without the nurturing assurance of a parent and loved ones, the baby might just believe that all appendages are bound to detach sooner or later. That is, until they don't. You see, if we don't believe in one thing, we will automatically believe in another. We have a need to believe.
Whether you know it or not, you believe in something. You might not believe that your limbs might unhinge at any given time, but that is, in fact a belief that your limbs will stay attached. The absence of believing in one thing is the same as believing in another-- the absence of a belief-system is, in itself, a belief system.
Does any of this make sense?
*Ten points for getting what song this is from. No Google allowed. :-)
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