I forgive myself for having a messy room more often than a clean one.
I forgive myself for being weirdly obsessive about punctuation.
I forgive myself for not yet having developed a conscientious habit of tracking the money I spend.
I forgive myself for looking younger than I am.
I forgive myself for not being over it yet.
I forgive myself for sometimes breaking the rules that I should follow, and for following rules that some think I should break.
I forgive myself for not having played guitar in a long time, and for not having written a new song in an even longer time.
I forgive myself for not planning trips the way other people plan trips.
I forgive myself for being scared to try unfamiliar technology.
I forgive myself for constantly steering conversations towards deep issues, and for having trouble maintaining lighter ones.
I forgive myself for being one of those people who talks a lot in discussions.
I forgive myself for being bad with RSVP'ing, and remembering names, and keeping track of birthdays, and keeping track of any kind of a calendar at all.
I forgive myself for not being a girl who likes watching sports in her free time.
I forgive myself for getting scared sometimes.
I forgive myself for writing the letter, even though I still feel bad about it.
I forgive myself for not being married yet.
I forgive myself for wanting to be married some day, and for wanting to be a mom.
I forgive myself for trying something out and realizing that it might not work.
I forgive myself for having good days and hard days.
I forgive myself because I know I am forgiven, and because I know I am deeply, emphatically, passionately loved for being just as I am.
And I forgive myself because it means I am free and can try again.
Jun 28, 2010
Jun 25, 2010
A Rant which concerns an entirely innocuous yet still exasperating aspect of modern living
There is a unique aspect of modern day living that entirely befuddles me.
That is:
Automatic bathroom technology.
This is the most confounding part: I have never, not once in my 26-and-almost-a-half years, been in a bathroom where the flusher, the faucet, the soap, AND the towels were all automatized.
Why is this perplexing? I will explain.
In theory-- this is my theory; this is also the theory that I assume was employed by building project heads considering the automatization of their bathrooms-- automatic bathroom technology is meant to guard against GERMS. If there are no hands turning the faucet on, see, if there are no manual flushers requiring a germy stomp with a foot, if there are no germy fingers soiling the soap dispenser with their pre-cleaned, post-bathroomed stickiness, if there is no touching whatsoever of the bathroom apparatuses-- well then, we ushered into a new, Utopian-type era of germ-free living. NO TOUCHING MEANS NO GERM PROCREATION.
We must stop the germs from having babies, see.
But now you see why I am befuddled by the lack of a COMPREHENSIVE AUTOMATIZED SYSTEM OF BATHROOM TECHNOLOGY. Sure, maybe the toilet flushes by itself, maybe the faucet spurts on after an awkward torso undulation, maybe the soap spits out foam all by its lonesome, but you will not get out of this modern-day bathroom without using your GERMY HANDS to get the paper towels.
There is always a weak link, a germy weak link. Always.
The other thing that drives me crazy about automatic bathroom technology is that it typically refuses to acknowledge my existence. As I stand in front of the sink, trying to assert an imposing figure, I am rebuffed with a silent faucet. I wave my hands in pitiful desperation... and am rejected. The faucet-- if you will follow my ever-anthropomorphic thinking-- deigns not. "I see no small blond woman. I acknowledge no frenetic hand-waving."
Or at least it doesn't, until I've sufficiently humiliated myself by performing jazzercise in the 2'x3' area in front of the bathroom stalls. This is our new rain-dance. Instead of dancing on open plains like our (not mine, but some one's) Native American ancestors, to the tune of dignified drum beats and in the shadow of a crackling ceremonial fire, we convulse and shake and gesticulate in front of a porcelain deity, just to get some frickin' hand soap.
I miss the days of germ-filled manual living. Give me germs, or give me ready-faucet-acknowledgment.
That's all.
That is:
Automatic bathroom technology.
This is the most confounding part: I have never, not once in my 26-and-almost-a-half years, been in a bathroom where the flusher, the faucet, the soap, AND the towels were all automatized.
Why is this perplexing? I will explain.
In theory-- this is my theory; this is also the theory that I assume was employed by building project heads considering the automatization of their bathrooms-- automatic bathroom technology is meant to guard against GERMS. If there are no hands turning the faucet on, see, if there are no manual flushers requiring a germy stomp with a foot, if there are no germy fingers soiling the soap dispenser with their pre-cleaned, post-bathroomed stickiness, if there is no touching whatsoever of the bathroom apparatuses-- well then, we ushered into a new, Utopian-type era of germ-free living. NO TOUCHING MEANS NO GERM PROCREATION.
We must stop the germs from having babies, see.
But now you see why I am befuddled by the lack of a COMPREHENSIVE AUTOMATIZED SYSTEM OF BATHROOM TECHNOLOGY. Sure, maybe the toilet flushes by itself, maybe the faucet spurts on after an awkward torso undulation, maybe the soap spits out foam all by its lonesome, but you will not get out of this modern-day bathroom without using your GERMY HANDS to get the paper towels.
There is always a weak link, a germy weak link. Always.
The other thing that drives me crazy about automatic bathroom technology is that it typically refuses to acknowledge my existence. As I stand in front of the sink, trying to assert an imposing figure, I am rebuffed with a silent faucet. I wave my hands in pitiful desperation... and am rejected. The faucet-- if you will follow my ever-anthropomorphic thinking-- deigns not. "I see no small blond woman. I acknowledge no frenetic hand-waving."
Or at least it doesn't, until I've sufficiently humiliated myself by performing jazzercise in the 2'x3' area in front of the bathroom stalls. This is our new rain-dance. Instead of dancing on open plains like our (not mine, but some one's) Native American ancestors, to the tune of dignified drum beats and in the shadow of a crackling ceremonial fire, we convulse and shake and gesticulate in front of a porcelain deity, just to get some frickin' hand soap.
I miss the days of germ-filled manual living. Give me germs, or give me ready-faucet-acknowledgment.
That's all.
Jun 23, 2010
Jubilant
This was the word that popped into my head as I walked back home from Greenlake today, beach towel in hand: jubilant.
I feel jubilant right now.
AND I LOVE SUMMER VACATION.
I love sleeping in. I love reading for fun. I love getting to wear whatever I want and not having to worry if it looks too young or if it might look somehow too alluring to a teenage boy. I love staying up until 1AM on a Tuesday night and not needing to worry about the consequences of doing so. I love getting together with friends on a weekday. I love weather that's warm enough to accommodate a 10PM dock sit. I even love being single again-- didn't think THAT sentiment would arrive for a while, but lo and behold-- I love getting to, once again, be a young, flirty 20-something.
Jubilant, of course, comes from the word "jubilee." I've always enjoyed the word "jubilee." I remember, when I lived down in Malibu doing college ministry at Pepperdine, I started working my way through the "One Year Bible." On my birthday, I decided to treat myself to beach-Bible-read, so I drove down to the beach, skipped along Zuma, found an vacant adirondack chair, dug my feet in the warm sand, and happily started reading out loud to myself, doing lots of different voices. The Old Testament entry that happened to correspond with my birthday discussed the Year of the Jubilee-- the year in which all slaves become free, all land is returned to its original owner, the land is given a year of "rest," and people basically celebrate freedom and provision. Every time I read the word "jubilee" I crowed it: "jubileeeee!" I cracked myself up, reading the Old Testament to myself there on the beach. "Jubilee" is just the happiest sounding word.
In fact, if I ever marry someone who harbors any hippy leanings whatsoever, I think I'm going to try to convince him that we should name our first daughter, "Jubilee Grace."
I just love the concept, you know? That idea of declaring FREEDOM for all-- "Jubilee" is like a decisive, celebratory, universally agreed-upon reset button.
And you know what friends? I have so long been in need of freedom. And I don't mean freedom from people, or freedom from some sort of authority figure-- I mean I've needed freedom from myself, and the shackles I've clad around my soul in the name of fear, and insecurity, and pessimism. For so long, I've submitted to those demon voices-- in the midst of towering waves of troubling life circumstances, I've clung to fear as though it were a life preserver, instead of climbing into the waiting ship called Trust. I've needed freedom.
And-- I'm starting to get FREE!
It's a wide open field, it's a long white beach, it's wildflowers tossed in the breeze, it's the confidence that things will be all right, no matter what-- it's forgiveness, it's that reset button, it's allowing myself to be imperfect, and allowing others to be imperfect because they feel pain too-- it's compassion instead of anger, it's empathy instead of judgment, it's bare feet, it's a crinkled nose, it's letting go, it's a buoyant lifting off and lifting up and looking towards heaven.
It's a summer for the soul.
I feel jubilant today.
Wheeeee!
I feel jubilant right now.
AND I LOVE SUMMER VACATION.
I love sleeping in. I love reading for fun. I love getting to wear whatever I want and not having to worry if it looks too young or if it might look somehow too alluring to a teenage boy. I love staying up until 1AM on a Tuesday night and not needing to worry about the consequences of doing so. I love getting together with friends on a weekday. I love weather that's warm enough to accommodate a 10PM dock sit. I even love being single again-- didn't think THAT sentiment would arrive for a while, but lo and behold-- I love getting to, once again, be a young, flirty 20-something.
Jubilant, of course, comes from the word "jubilee." I've always enjoyed the word "jubilee." I remember, when I lived down in Malibu doing college ministry at Pepperdine, I started working my way through the "One Year Bible." On my birthday, I decided to treat myself to beach-Bible-read, so I drove down to the beach, skipped along Zuma, found an vacant adirondack chair, dug my feet in the warm sand, and happily started reading out loud to myself, doing lots of different voices. The Old Testament entry that happened to correspond with my birthday discussed the Year of the Jubilee-- the year in which all slaves become free, all land is returned to its original owner, the land is given a year of "rest," and people basically celebrate freedom and provision. Every time I read the word "jubilee" I crowed it: "jubileeeee!" I cracked myself up, reading the Old Testament to myself there on the beach. "Jubilee" is just the happiest sounding word.
In fact, if I ever marry someone who harbors any hippy leanings whatsoever, I think I'm going to try to convince him that we should name our first daughter, "Jubilee Grace."
I just love the concept, you know? That idea of declaring FREEDOM for all-- "Jubilee" is like a decisive, celebratory, universally agreed-upon reset button.
And you know what friends? I have so long been in need of freedom. And I don't mean freedom from people, or freedom from some sort of authority figure-- I mean I've needed freedom from myself, and the shackles I've clad around my soul in the name of fear, and insecurity, and pessimism. For so long, I've submitted to those demon voices-- in the midst of towering waves of troubling life circumstances, I've clung to fear as though it were a life preserver, instead of climbing into the waiting ship called Trust. I've needed freedom.
And-- I'm starting to get FREE!
It's a wide open field, it's a long white beach, it's wildflowers tossed in the breeze, it's the confidence that things will be all right, no matter what-- it's forgiveness, it's that reset button, it's allowing myself to be imperfect, and allowing others to be imperfect because they feel pain too-- it's compassion instead of anger, it's empathy instead of judgment, it's bare feet, it's a crinkled nose, it's letting go, it's a buoyant lifting off and lifting up and looking towards heaven.
It's a summer for the soul.
I feel jubilant today.
Wheeeee!
May 21, 2010
SHAAAARE!
I am about to tell you two stories I have been told by my parents, describing the typical antics demonstrated by this little someone:
In others words, me, at age 2.
First:
When I was a toddler, my parents taught my older brother, Shane, and I about sharing our toys. I picked up on one important aspect of this concept, but didn't, apparently, get the "spirit" of the idea. Mom and Dad would often find me grabbing a toy from my brother, trying to pull it away from him and yelling out, "SHAAARE!!!"
Second:
Mom and Dad took Shane and 2-year-old Greta to a farm once, to visit my Dad's cousin out in Eastern Washington. One of the cows on the farm had recently calved, and Dad's cousin took us to where the baby calf was nibbling grass by itself. The mother cow had temporarily left the calf alone, so we all walked down the grassy hill to view it up close. However, as soon as we got close, the mother cow barreled up from out of nowhere. Shane had enough sense to bolt back up to the truck. Somehow, Mom and Dad neglected to grab their two-year-old--- probably because I was too busy marching up to the giant bovine to order her, "Go away, you big mama cow."
Lately, I've noticed aspects of my two-year-old self emerging, especially as I attempt to accept current workings of God in my life. If we picture God as Shane, myself as the afore-pictured-towhead, and something I want as a shiny toy, then the first scenario is fairly applicable. I try to grab the toy from God, and insist that He SHAAAARE. That's what sharing means, right? God gives me what I want, and it's mine.
...Or not.
Comparing God to a heifer may not be the most respectful second analogy, but we could read into that too. Instead of acknowledging my environment and retreating to the proverbial truck, I find myself marching up to a much larger being than myself and saucily ordering it with a lisp to "Go Away."
The goal right now: to work on letting go of the toys I want to keep for myself. To recognize my frailty as a young, female, human being and accept the Bigness of the One who is a fiercely protective parent. As Annie pointed out, I have more than enough; I don't need to seize any toys that God hasn't currently put in my play-pen. And furthermore, I don't need to tell God to go away, because who am I to tell off a giant cow??
No disrespect Jesus. You understand.
In others words, me, at age 2.
First:
When I was a toddler, my parents taught my older brother, Shane, and I about sharing our toys. I picked up on one important aspect of this concept, but didn't, apparently, get the "spirit" of the idea. Mom and Dad would often find me grabbing a toy from my brother, trying to pull it away from him and yelling out, "SHAAARE!!!"
Second:
Mom and Dad took Shane and 2-year-old Greta to a farm once, to visit my Dad's cousin out in Eastern Washington. One of the cows on the farm had recently calved, and Dad's cousin took us to where the baby calf was nibbling grass by itself. The mother cow had temporarily left the calf alone, so we all walked down the grassy hill to view it up close. However, as soon as we got close, the mother cow barreled up from out of nowhere. Shane had enough sense to bolt back up to the truck. Somehow, Mom and Dad neglected to grab their two-year-old--- probably because I was too busy marching up to the giant bovine to order her, "Go away, you big mama cow."
Lately, I've noticed aspects of my two-year-old self emerging, especially as I attempt to accept current workings of God in my life. If we picture God as Shane, myself as the afore-pictured-towhead, and something I want as a shiny toy, then the first scenario is fairly applicable. I try to grab the toy from God, and insist that He SHAAAARE. That's what sharing means, right? God gives me what I want, and it's mine.
...Or not.
Comparing God to a heifer may not be the most respectful second analogy, but we could read into that too. Instead of acknowledging my environment and retreating to the proverbial truck, I find myself marching up to a much larger being than myself and saucily ordering it with a lisp to "Go Away."
The goal right now: to work on letting go of the toys I want to keep for myself. To recognize my frailty as a young, female, human being and accept the Bigness of the One who is a fiercely protective parent. As Annie pointed out, I have more than enough; I don't need to seize any toys that God hasn't currently put in my play-pen. And furthermore, I don't need to tell God to go away, because who am I to tell off a giant cow??
No disrespect Jesus. You understand.
May 13, 2010
Desert Places
The other day, I was giving my seniors a lecture on common symbols found in literature. One of the ones I hit on was "desert."
"Connotations for desert?" I asked them. "What do we think of when we think 'desert'?"
They chirped up dutifully. "Barren." "Devoid of life." "Death." "HOT." "Yeah, like HELL." "Lonely."
"Absolutely," I said. "You are so brilliant." Then I filled them in on the alternate symbolism of a desert that I'd discovered when researching my lecture.
"Deserts are also common places for spiritual awakenings," I said. "Like... In the Bible, the book of Hosea is all about being stripped down and taken into the desert, away from all the distractions, where there's ONLY God. Disney's a fan-- Simba has his big soul-searching moment with Mufasa-in-the-clouds when he's in the desert... Jesus went into the desert to fast for 40 days... John the Baptist was in the desert. In the Indian epic The Ramayana, the hero, Rama, goes into the desert to train and do all his ascetic practices... You see it all over the place."
Which is odd, right? Why would we associate a barren landscape, something devoid of life, something associated with death, and hell, and loneliness-- with awakening?
We can nod and stroke our chins at the notion. It's an old cliche, I guess-- go through struggles, learn, come out wiser and stronger. So why is it that, when we're IN the desert places, we always forget about the awakening part and become so overwhelmed with how HARD it is?
Me, I can't tell if I'm in the desert right now, the rain-soaked valley attempting to flower into spring-time, or if I'm on a mountain pathway of switchbacks-- super difficult to climb, and difficult to see ahead any fair distance, but promising a great view in a few more hundred feet.
Sometimes I feel like I'm crawling through a desert just to hunt that dancing mirage. Can't for the life of me tell if it's something I made up in my head, or if it's really that real, and that beautiful. Do I slog out the desperate crawl towards it? Or do I turn away and try to find a more promising help, even if there's nothing of that description nearby? This is the fear: I will use up my last bits of strength to seek out the mirage, only to die with a gasp when it dissolves into the shimmering heat. But if I turn away, and it DOES exist... well then I'm just killing myself for the sake of pessimism.
This is all very obscure, I know. I tend to lapse into that.
What I DO know is this: throughout this long, difficult, EMOTIONAL year, there have been many moments when I have collapsed in a heap on the desert sand of my bedroom, and panted out a cry for help. And in that desert place, when there is NOTHING else, when I am spent of every last reserve I've got... God has shown up.
I remember one morning crying under the covers. "I can't do this. Please. I can't go out and live right now."
And I got a picture of being perched on top of a wave, rolling, rolling, rolling forward. Watch me carry you through today.
And then I was carried through.
When there is nothing, He is everything.
What's really hard, I suppose, is when you're in the desert place, and there IS no apparent comforting voice or cooling wave to respond to your cries. I don't really know why God gets us to those places, where we're so entirely bereft of comfort, companionship, or personal strength-- when even He seems to have deserted us.
Maybe God is the oasis-mirage in those moments. Does He exist? Is He worth crawling towards? Or is He something we've been fabricating in our heads? That swimming vision ahead is our only hope-- but it's so tempting to just write Him off altogether. I will grapple with the sand I can feel and curse the hope that beckons me. There is nothing of comfort here. I am alone.
We choose, one way or the other, I guess. According to the Encyclopedia of Symbolism, the ideal outcome of finding oneself in a desert place would be a greater spiritual awakening. We are brought to the desert to cleanse, to clarify, to re-evaluate, to hone, to be tested, and to triumph-- emerging out of the golden dunes as ultimately a wiser, stronger, more centered being. The other choice is to give in to the barren death-- to dig our own graves in the sand before the mirage can disappoint us.
One thing is sure though-- well... I think it is anyway. The desert requires many slow, labored steps to escape. Whatever epiphanies or trials happen on the way-- the goal is to get out. And it's hard getting there. Feet get sore, skin is burnt, throat is parched, and you have to step, step, step. Where is comfort? Where is love? Step, step, step. How long God? Have you forgotten me? Step, step, step.
For those of you in the desert places-- for me squinting at my own personal mirage-- let's keep walking, yes?
There's something to be found in getting through it.
May 12, 2010
"Life Mission Statements," as penned by my Seniors
Some of my favorites:
My mission in life is to live a life of JOY-- not a joy that is circumstantial, but a joy that is founded on my relationship with Christ. I desire that this joy will leak into every area of my life-- in friendships, in love, in working, and in the midst of difficult circumstances. I want joy to be a lifestyle-- a way that I live and a way that people recognize me.
I want to live something worth writing about, and better yet, worth reading.
DO WHAT YOU LOVE AND NEVER FALL PREY TO OTHER PEOPLE'S WORDS OF DISCOURAGEMENT.
My life's purpose is to do exactly what is not expected of me and has never been done before, because I know without a shadow of a doubt that God's plan for my life has nothing to do with what the rest of the world wants me to be.
- To laugh and smile until I have disgusting face wrinkles.
- To read like Belle or my grandpa.
- To love the ignored/bullied (since I used to know how they feel.)
- To be loyal... like a well trained dog.
- To travel like nobody's business.
Be yourself. You can't be yourself if you don't know, understand, and accept yourself first. Stop caring how people perceive you. Be honest and open. Relax, stop worrying about the worst thing that could happen. Develop and express your individuality. Have productive days. Believe in who you are. Follow your own style.
Throughout my life I plan on being unique rather than follow what other people do. I also plan on having fun as well as influencing people in a positive way.
To live a life that, "rather than [seeking] money, than love, than fame, [seeks] truth." (Henry David Thoreau) To live for Christ alone and the truth He proclaims is the mission. May it be successful.
Continue to have joy and wonder like a child.
I want to live my life not for myself, but for God and others. A life of self-gratification means nothing... I want to be a friend that builds people up and makes them feel better.
To love like a puppy.
My life statement is to live life the way you wanna live it and live it to the fullest. There are so many times in life that people hold back what they really wanna do because they are afraid. You should never let anyone or anything get in your way.
- Never shut my brain down; always look for new things to learn.
- Chase after a life well-lived, not a "good life."
- Place others before myself. In everything.
Some that I don't really agree with, but that got a raised eyebrow and, at times, a grin:
Violence should always be your last resort. If it isn't, then you aren't using enough of it.
Give a man a fish, feed him for a day; take his fish away and tell him he's lucky to be alive, and he'll figure out a way to catch a fish for you to take tomorrow.
To have abbs like the girl from "Step Up 2"-- HIDDEN ABBS! [sic]
There is a verse in the Bible that says, whatever you do, do to your best ability. I would take that mentality one step further and say: whatever you do, do it better than everyone else.
Don't take anything seriously, it's just a waste of time. BE REAL!
Curious? Here's mine:
- To spread goodness and cheer like Santa Claus
- To fight for justice like Wonder Woman
- To adventure like Magellan
- To think like Solomon
- To love like Juliet
But if I had to boil it down to one simple sentence (as I've asked my Seniors to do...) it would be:
To see as He sees,
To love as He loves.
What about you?
My mission in life is to live a life of JOY-- not a joy that is circumstantial, but a joy that is founded on my relationship with Christ. I desire that this joy will leak into every area of my life-- in friendships, in love, in working, and in the midst of difficult circumstances. I want joy to be a lifestyle-- a way that I live and a way that people recognize me.
I want to live something worth writing about, and better yet, worth reading.
DO WHAT YOU LOVE AND NEVER FALL PREY TO OTHER PEOPLE'S WORDS OF DISCOURAGEMENT.
My life's purpose is to do exactly what is not expected of me and has never been done before, because I know without a shadow of a doubt that God's plan for my life has nothing to do with what the rest of the world wants me to be.
- To laugh and smile until I have disgusting face wrinkles.
- To read like Belle or my grandpa.
- To love the ignored/bullied (since I used to know how they feel.)
- To be loyal... like a well trained dog.
- To travel like nobody's business.
Be yourself. You can't be yourself if you don't know, understand, and accept yourself first. Stop caring how people perceive you. Be honest and open. Relax, stop worrying about the worst thing that could happen. Develop and express your individuality. Have productive days. Believe in who you are. Follow your own style.
Throughout my life I plan on being unique rather than follow what other people do. I also plan on having fun as well as influencing people in a positive way.
To live a life that, "rather than [seeking] money, than love, than fame, [seeks] truth." (Henry David Thoreau) To live for Christ alone and the truth He proclaims is the mission. May it be successful.
Continue to have joy and wonder like a child.
I want to live my life not for myself, but for God and others. A life of self-gratification means nothing... I want to be a friend that builds people up and makes them feel better.
To love like a puppy.
My life statement is to live life the way you wanna live it and live it to the fullest. There are so many times in life that people hold back what they really wanna do because they are afraid. You should never let anyone or anything get in your way.
- Never shut my brain down; always look for new things to learn.
- Chase after a life well-lived, not a "good life."
- Place others before myself. In everything.
Some that I don't really agree with, but that got a raised eyebrow and, at times, a grin:
Violence should always be your last resort. If it isn't, then you aren't using enough of it.
Give a man a fish, feed him for a day; take his fish away and tell him he's lucky to be alive, and he'll figure out a way to catch a fish for you to take tomorrow.
To have abbs like the girl from "Step Up 2"-- HIDDEN ABBS! [sic]
There is a verse in the Bible that says, whatever you do, do to your best ability. I would take that mentality one step further and say: whatever you do, do it better than everyone else.
Don't take anything seriously, it's just a waste of time. BE REAL!
Curious? Here's mine:
- To spread goodness and cheer like Santa Claus
- To fight for justice like Wonder Woman
- To adventure like Magellan
- To think like Solomon
- To love like Juliet
But if I had to boil it down to one simple sentence (as I've asked my Seniors to do...) it would be:
To see as He sees,
To love as He loves.
What about you?
Apr 20, 2010
Legacy
My students have been in Tale of Two Cities for a while now, Charles Dickens's epic historical novel about the French Revolution. My seniors started the book in January and finished before March; my AP kids have now been reading it for the past several weeks.
At one point, the seniors were researching the book's background, and came across a Dickens biography. They read about his father and reported back that he was a debtor, a father to ten children, a well-meaning man who ended up serving months in a debtor's prison and asking his children to work in factories. The biography described him, in a word, as "feckless"-- not fit to assume responsibility.
For whatever reason, that left a big impression on me. This is a man who tried and... failed. His whole life-- those nights of striving, and crying, and praying, and soul-searching, and talking with his wife, and watching his children's hungry eyes-- only to be summed up in some supposedly objective history book as... "feckless."
The historians dismiss an entire life in a word: feckless.
At what point, I wondered, does a life become classified as a failed one?
It's really been grating at me. I think of legacies all the time now. Looking just at the novel, for instance-- the novel's hero is a man named Sydney Carton who, for most of the book, is, indeed, "feckless." He is a brilliant drunk-- a man who has squandered all his potential in the bottom of his ale can, and alienated himself from people that would love him. However, in the end, he emerges as a hero. In one glorious moment, Carton switches places with a man who has been condemned to execution at the guillotine-- a man whom he bears an almost identical appearance to-- a man who is, in fact, the husband of the woman Carton himself loves. He sacrifices himself, his own misspent life, so that the woman he loves can live a happy life with his romantic rival.
Heroic-- it is a heroic legacy. A feckless life, followed by a glorious last moment... And his life is, ultimately, deemed a success.
His rival, Charles Darnay, spends most of the book as a noble, moral, responsible gentleman-- a loving husband and father, and a diligent provider. Yet Darnay makes one stupid mistake that gets him imprisoned, sentenced, and ultimately puts his entire family at risk as the chaos of the French revolution rage around them. And it is a passive Darnay that Carton sneaks to greet in a prison cell, a passive Darnay that Carton drugs with a sleep agent, a passive Darnay that is carried out by a bribed jailer, a passive Darnay that escapes the consequences of his mistake, to be remembered-- whether he asked to escape his sentence or not-- as the coward. A noble life, interrupted with a miserable mistake... And his life is, ultimately, deemed a disappointment.
I think about it when looking at non-fiction as well. Today, I read the biography of Samuel Taylor Coleridge-- the brilliant poet who wrote "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner." His life was a tragic one. He was bullied as a child, plagued with depression and loneliness, ended up getting addicted to laudanum, was estranged from his wife... Didn't make it through the University, didn't make it in the military... He was deeply unhappy and summed up his own life in an epitaph that partly reads, "O lift one thought in prayer for S.T.C./ That he, who many a year with toil of breath,/ Found Death in Life, may here find Life in Death." Death in life-- his own words describing his experience in looking back at the span of his years.
Yet we read his poems and exclaim over his great "success."
You know what's weird? Instead of feeling concerned about how I'LL be remembered, in light of all these morbid considerations, I'm more concerned with how people I care about will be remembered.
I see people trying, so hard. I see people praying, and people hoping, and people's hopes falling through. And it kills me to think of any one of these lives being classified as "feckless" because of unlucky efforts. Kills me, to think of a life being considered a disappointment because of one STUPID mistake.
I think of people like the Apostle Paul or Dietrich Bonhoeffer who had ROUGH life circumstances, but who found a way to triumph over the situational mire, and continued to inspire others and experience joy themselves. They are remembered as heroes.
Is it in my power then, to keep a stiff upper lip in the face of difficult circumstances and go down in the books as a "good one"? Or will my chance life happenings prove my life to be a sad one, a disappointing one, a life that never really got going-- even though I TRIED to be good? How many triumphs do I need, to tip the scales in my favor? How many mistakes can I afford without upsetting the balance?
What will people say when they look at my expired life? What will the conclusion be, after all the flowery eulogies have been forgotten?
I remember a woman telling me once, "You'll be okay. You know what? You're just that type of person. You'll do well, whatever you decide to do with your life. You'll do well." I find myself thinking similar thoughts about some of my students. Whatever they decide to do-- they'll do well. They'll live well. They're just THAT sort of person.
But what about the others?
I want a magic stamp, a holy wand, some sovereign STICKER that I can plant on people's foreheads that will guarantee their lives be remembered as GOOD ones. I want to honor the people that I see trying. I want to tell them, "I KNOW you will have a happy story, because-- see?! The sticker! So just don't even worry!"
But I can't guarantee any of that. And the only One that can... seems so frustratingly elusive sometimes.
I don't have a glib resolution to offer at the end of these thoughts. Sometimes, after writing all my ideas out, I come up with a hopeful final thought. But nothing has arrived tonight.
Oh God, please bless them. Please let them be remembered well.
At one point, the seniors were researching the book's background, and came across a Dickens biography. They read about his father and reported back that he was a debtor, a father to ten children, a well-meaning man who ended up serving months in a debtor's prison and asking his children to work in factories. The biography described him, in a word, as "feckless"-- not fit to assume responsibility.
For whatever reason, that left a big impression on me. This is a man who tried and... failed. His whole life-- those nights of striving, and crying, and praying, and soul-searching, and talking with his wife, and watching his children's hungry eyes-- only to be summed up in some supposedly objective history book as... "feckless."
The historians dismiss an entire life in a word: feckless.
At what point, I wondered, does a life become classified as a failed one?
It's really been grating at me. I think of legacies all the time now. Looking just at the novel, for instance-- the novel's hero is a man named Sydney Carton who, for most of the book, is, indeed, "feckless." He is a brilliant drunk-- a man who has squandered all his potential in the bottom of his ale can, and alienated himself from people that would love him. However, in the end, he emerges as a hero. In one glorious moment, Carton switches places with a man who has been condemned to execution at the guillotine-- a man whom he bears an almost identical appearance to-- a man who is, in fact, the husband of the woman Carton himself loves. He sacrifices himself, his own misspent life, so that the woman he loves can live a happy life with his romantic rival.
Heroic-- it is a heroic legacy. A feckless life, followed by a glorious last moment... And his life is, ultimately, deemed a success.
His rival, Charles Darnay, spends most of the book as a noble, moral, responsible gentleman-- a loving husband and father, and a diligent provider. Yet Darnay makes one stupid mistake that gets him imprisoned, sentenced, and ultimately puts his entire family at risk as the chaos of the French revolution rage around them. And it is a passive Darnay that Carton sneaks to greet in a prison cell, a passive Darnay that Carton drugs with a sleep agent, a passive Darnay that is carried out by a bribed jailer, a passive Darnay that escapes the consequences of his mistake, to be remembered-- whether he asked to escape his sentence or not-- as the coward. A noble life, interrupted with a miserable mistake... And his life is, ultimately, deemed a disappointment.
I think about it when looking at non-fiction as well. Today, I read the biography of Samuel Taylor Coleridge-- the brilliant poet who wrote "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner." His life was a tragic one. He was bullied as a child, plagued with depression and loneliness, ended up getting addicted to laudanum, was estranged from his wife... Didn't make it through the University, didn't make it in the military... He was deeply unhappy and summed up his own life in an epitaph that partly reads, "O lift one thought in prayer for S.T.C./ That he, who many a year with toil of breath,/ Found Death in Life, may here find Life in Death." Death in life-- his own words describing his experience in looking back at the span of his years.
Yet we read his poems and exclaim over his great "success."
You know what's weird? Instead of feeling concerned about how I'LL be remembered, in light of all these morbid considerations, I'm more concerned with how people I care about will be remembered.
I see people trying, so hard. I see people praying, and people hoping, and people's hopes falling through. And it kills me to think of any one of these lives being classified as "feckless" because of unlucky efforts. Kills me, to think of a life being considered a disappointment because of one STUPID mistake.
I think of people like the Apostle Paul or Dietrich Bonhoeffer who had ROUGH life circumstances, but who found a way to triumph over the situational mire, and continued to inspire others and experience joy themselves. They are remembered as heroes.
Is it in my power then, to keep a stiff upper lip in the face of difficult circumstances and go down in the books as a "good one"? Or will my chance life happenings prove my life to be a sad one, a disappointing one, a life that never really got going-- even though I TRIED to be good? How many triumphs do I need, to tip the scales in my favor? How many mistakes can I afford without upsetting the balance?
What will people say when they look at my expired life? What will the conclusion be, after all the flowery eulogies have been forgotten?
I remember a woman telling me once, "You'll be okay. You know what? You're just that type of person. You'll do well, whatever you decide to do with your life. You'll do well." I find myself thinking similar thoughts about some of my students. Whatever they decide to do-- they'll do well. They'll live well. They're just THAT sort of person.
But what about the others?
I want a magic stamp, a holy wand, some sovereign STICKER that I can plant on people's foreheads that will guarantee their lives be remembered as GOOD ones. I want to honor the people that I see trying. I want to tell them, "I KNOW you will have a happy story, because-- see?! The sticker! So just don't even worry!"
But I can't guarantee any of that. And the only One that can... seems so frustratingly elusive sometimes.
I don't have a glib resolution to offer at the end of these thoughts. Sometimes, after writing all my ideas out, I come up with a hopeful final thought. But nothing has arrived tonight.
Oh God, please bless them. Please let them be remembered well.
Mar 24, 2010
The Mess
"Miss Weisman, what's your opinion? Do you think students here are actually authentic?"
"I think... you all are in a state of becoming. I think you're still figuring out who you are, and what you believe in. I think we're all in a state of becoming. I look at myself-- and I'm someone that knows herself pretty well, I feel like I've had a handle on 'me' since high-school-- but I am still figuring things out. I have a LOT to figure out. When you're a teenager, you're going through SO much growth-- you're recognizing for the first time that your opinions might differ from your parents, you're figuring out what you believe in, who you want to be... I think people who are honest about where they're at with all that are recognized as authentic. But I'm not sure anyone can have a permanent handle on who they are-- because we're always changing."
You know when the wound is open, and the surgeon is working with his scalpel and his retractor?
You know when a cook is in the middle of her creation, and the incredients are spread out all over the counter, and the eggs are cracked and the flour is spilled?
You know when you first get out of the shower, and you're wet and dripping?
You know when a baby is born, and is still connected, and is not yet washed, and is wailing in the biting air?
It's messy.
It's all messy.
It's becoming-- and it's messy.
Today, I am forgiving myself for not having yet become. I feel messy today. But I hope that indicates a heart in progress.
"I think... you all are in a state of becoming. I think you're still figuring out who you are, and what you believe in. I think we're all in a state of becoming. I look at myself-- and I'm someone that knows herself pretty well, I feel like I've had a handle on 'me' since high-school-- but I am still figuring things out. I have a LOT to figure out. When you're a teenager, you're going through SO much growth-- you're recognizing for the first time that your opinions might differ from your parents, you're figuring out what you believe in, who you want to be... I think people who are honest about where they're at with all that are recognized as authentic. But I'm not sure anyone can have a permanent handle on who they are-- because we're always changing."
You know when the wound is open, and the surgeon is working with his scalpel and his retractor?
You know when a cook is in the middle of her creation, and the incredients are spread out all over the counter, and the eggs are cracked and the flour is spilled?
You know when you first get out of the shower, and you're wet and dripping?
You know when a baby is born, and is still connected, and is not yet washed, and is wailing in the biting air?
It's messy.
It's all messy.
It's becoming-- and it's messy.
Today, I am forgiving myself for not having yet become. I feel messy today. But I hope that indicates a heart in progress.
Mar 15, 2010
Remembering
I just had a very Mondayish-Monday. Kids in 6th period didn't have their drafts. 7th period sophomores ticked me off. I remembered that I had forgotten to do something-- many things. I have three different organizations to call that will put me on hold for decades before helping me with my problems. I have too much to do and too little time. I am ready for Spring Break. Spring Break is three weeks away.
It's amazing to me-- in these 26 years-- how little I actually remember. I remember the truly good things, and the truly horrific things. Days like this though-- they slip away. It's one more wave onto my desert island that is as forgettable as the next. It's one more leaf off a tree that will be ground into the soil. It's one more cherry blossom off in the breeze.
This day doesn't last. Literally, or figuratively. I will forget essentially everything about this mundane Monday. And that, in this case, is a good thing.
I will remember playing princesses with Heidi in our front yard.
I will remember climbing trees with Shane.
I will remember waiting backstage at the Spokane Opera House, waiting to dance on as Clara in the Alberta Ballet's Nutcracker as a 5th grader.
I will remember walking through the halls of my Arts School High-School when it was still under construction.
I will remember the day I heard the terrible words.
I will remember my first kiss.
I will remember being ricocheted onstage as "Ariel" in The Tempest.
I will remember Mike calling me to exult over us both getting our first leads in I Hate Hamlet.
I will remember singing quietly to myself to calm my nerves when waiting to come on stage as "Madge" in Picnic.
I will remember the first time I said, "I love you."
I will remember dancing with Tony in West Side Story and getting thrown so high.
I will remember weeping over my first lost love.
I will remember talking with Fernanda during rush at Gamma Phi.
I will remember a tragic dinner in my short yellow dress.
I will remember playing guitar for the first time in public, and singing with a voice that shook like fear.
I will remember playing guitar in Covent Garden, and singing with a voice that lifted like joy.
I will remember the sunrise I saw when leaving London.
I will remember the campsite in Rome.
I will remember catching the bouquet at Shane's wedding.
I will remember laundry in Malawi, and ants floating in the laundry tub.
I will remember Tikambe falling asleep in my lap.
I will remember Clayton swinging from my back.
I will remember the sand-dollar walk on the beach in Malibu.
I will remember falling for him, and falling for him, and falling for him.
And I will remember the slow extrications.
I will remember emails with Annie.
I will remember the dinner after Heidi's graduation, and the canyon that opened up beneath us.
I will remember frolicking in meadows on "Heidi's Alp" in Switzerland.
I will remember running into the damn sign.
I will remember the words on the screen at the internet cafe in Cinque Terre.
I will remember the angels.
I will remember the monster duck in Chantilly.
I will remember the snowy walk, and the scaffolded house, and the view, and the goodbye.
I will remember the horrible realization that I had somehow forgotten to do four huge grad school assignments that were already past due.
I will remember Grandpa's balcony.
I will remember watching Heidi come down the aisle.
I will remember swimming in the lake with Max at 1am on a stifling summer night.
I will remember the phone call from Stephanie, and hearing that she wanted to hire me to teach at her school.
I will remember meeting him.
I will remember hanging art in my classroom.
I will remember the first time we said, "I love you."
I will remember that horrible day when Natalie said she didn't think the class was adequately preparing her, and I will remember the birthday card from the sophomores, when they all wrote how much they loved me.
I will remember the best.
And I will remember the worst.
And today is neither; and today, I will forget. And I'm thankful for forgetting.
I want room for what matters.
It's amazing to me-- in these 26 years-- how little I actually remember. I remember the truly good things, and the truly horrific things. Days like this though-- they slip away. It's one more wave onto my desert island that is as forgettable as the next. It's one more leaf off a tree that will be ground into the soil. It's one more cherry blossom off in the breeze.
This day doesn't last. Literally, or figuratively. I will forget essentially everything about this mundane Monday. And that, in this case, is a good thing.
I will remember playing princesses with Heidi in our front yard.
I will remember climbing trees with Shane.
I will remember waiting backstage at the Spokane Opera House, waiting to dance on as Clara in the Alberta Ballet's Nutcracker as a 5th grader.
I will remember walking through the halls of my Arts School High-School when it was still under construction.
I will remember the day I heard the terrible words.
I will remember my first kiss.
I will remember being ricocheted onstage as "Ariel" in The Tempest.
I will remember Mike calling me to exult over us both getting our first leads in I Hate Hamlet.
I will remember singing quietly to myself to calm my nerves when waiting to come on stage as "Madge" in Picnic.
I will remember the first time I said, "I love you."
I will remember dancing with Tony in West Side Story and getting thrown so high.
I will remember weeping over my first lost love.
I will remember talking with Fernanda during rush at Gamma Phi.
I will remember a tragic dinner in my short yellow dress.
I will remember playing guitar for the first time in public, and singing with a voice that shook like fear.
I will remember playing guitar in Covent Garden, and singing with a voice that lifted like joy.
I will remember the sunrise I saw when leaving London.
I will remember the campsite in Rome.
I will remember catching the bouquet at Shane's wedding.
I will remember laundry in Malawi, and ants floating in the laundry tub.
I will remember Tikambe falling asleep in my lap.
I will remember Clayton swinging from my back.
I will remember the sand-dollar walk on the beach in Malibu.
I will remember falling for him, and falling for him, and falling for him.
And I will remember the slow extrications.
I will remember emails with Annie.
I will remember the dinner after Heidi's graduation, and the canyon that opened up beneath us.
I will remember frolicking in meadows on "Heidi's Alp" in Switzerland.
I will remember running into the damn sign.
I will remember the words on the screen at the internet cafe in Cinque Terre.
I will remember the angels.
I will remember the monster duck in Chantilly.
I will remember the snowy walk, and the scaffolded house, and the view, and the goodbye.
I will remember the horrible realization that I had somehow forgotten to do four huge grad school assignments that were already past due.
I will remember Grandpa's balcony.
I will remember watching Heidi come down the aisle.
I will remember swimming in the lake with Max at 1am on a stifling summer night.
I will remember the phone call from Stephanie, and hearing that she wanted to hire me to teach at her school.
I will remember meeting him.
I will remember hanging art in my classroom.
I will remember the first time we said, "I love you."
I will remember that horrible day when Natalie said she didn't think the class was adequately preparing her, and I will remember the birthday card from the sophomores, when they all wrote how much they loved me.
I will remember the best.
And I will remember the worst.
And today is neither; and today, I will forget. And I'm thankful for forgetting.
I want room for what matters.
Mar 12, 2010
This Week
Sunday was like being inside a shipwreck. All sense of up or down was lost; it was just tumbling through dark, it was blindness through sea, it was being carried by a force much larger than myself. It was drowning, it was being tossed, it was being battered, it was being knocked unconscious and letting my tired body just be carried. It was brutal. It was exhausting.
Monday was waking up on the shore: confused, bruised, tired, but awake. I looked around me and saw pieces everywhere, but they were still. The sand was white. The ocean was calm. I was sitting under quiet sunshine. I gingerly picked myself up and tried to move. I could walk. Not well; but I could walk beside the pieces. I could look out at the ocean.
Tuesday was angry. The island fought against me. The skies quarreled and thundered. The waves were obstinate and proud. I kicked a tree until my foot ached, and then I dug a hole to hide underneath it and cried. I held onto the tree and cried.
Wednesday was the worst. I tried to get up and move around the island; I tried to pick up some of the pieces and make neat piles, but the task was overwhelming. I tried to make friends with the birds and the monkeys, but the biggest damn monkey threw a coconut at me. I raged at this despicable island, and missed my broken ship, and threw coconuts into empty space, and cried, and cried, and cried.
Thursday was a gentle sunrise. Woke up lying on the soft sand. Heard tender words in the lavender waves. I got up, and stood straight, and lifted my chin. I faced the horizon with square shoulders, and breathed deep. The birds were quiet. The monkeys behaved. I moved with sure feet, and I was confident, and I laughed.
Friday is today.
And Saturday is tomorrow.
And Sunday is the day after that.
I will survive this ship-wreck. I will win over this island. I will examine the broken pieces and I will name each one. I will get stronger and I will invent a new song to sing to this quiet, debris-strewn beach. The waves will roll over the sand and this all will become cleaner, and this all will become softer, and this all will be alright.
Monday was waking up on the shore: confused, bruised, tired, but awake. I looked around me and saw pieces everywhere, but they were still. The sand was white. The ocean was calm. I was sitting under quiet sunshine. I gingerly picked myself up and tried to move. I could walk. Not well; but I could walk beside the pieces. I could look out at the ocean.
Tuesday was angry. The island fought against me. The skies quarreled and thundered. The waves were obstinate and proud. I kicked a tree until my foot ached, and then I dug a hole to hide underneath it and cried. I held onto the tree and cried.
Wednesday was the worst. I tried to get up and move around the island; I tried to pick up some of the pieces and make neat piles, but the task was overwhelming. I tried to make friends with the birds and the monkeys, but the biggest damn monkey threw a coconut at me. I raged at this despicable island, and missed my broken ship, and threw coconuts into empty space, and cried, and cried, and cried.
Thursday was a gentle sunrise. Woke up lying on the soft sand. Heard tender words in the lavender waves. I got up, and stood straight, and lifted my chin. I faced the horizon with square shoulders, and breathed deep. The birds were quiet. The monkeys behaved. I moved with sure feet, and I was confident, and I laughed.
Friday is today.
And Saturday is tomorrow.
And Sunday is the day after that.
I will survive this ship-wreck. I will win over this island. I will examine the broken pieces and I will name each one. I will get stronger and I will invent a new song to sing to this quiet, debris-strewn beach. The waves will roll over the sand and this all will become cleaner, and this all will become softer, and this all will be alright.
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