Does anyone remember a certain post of mine from '08 on the dialectical swing of the universe? Here. It's not a very good post--I just reread it--but it was interesting to me, because the concept is still very much on my mind. Things throughout history swing back and forth--action reaction--tick tock, tick tock.
But lately, I have been seeing how this applies to me, personally--to the workings inside my lil' head.
I work, earnestly, to tell the truth--not only to everyone else, but to myself. And that can be hard, if not nearly impossible. To tell the truth, you have to know what the truth is. I've noticed my thoughts about myself swing between two opposite extremes. In a nutshell: yes, I'm awesome, and no, I'm not. Some days I'm incredibly unique, hyperactive, brightly shining and off my rocker--other days I'm dull, scared, plain, sunk so firmly into normal that I barely have a pulse.
Those are both lies.
I think I've got a handle on it, now. Whenever I'm thinking something so extreme about myself--it's a lie. The truth is somewhere in the middle--perhaps not so easy to polarize and define, but blended. Perhaps a little bit of a paradox, now and then. Not high or low, but midrange. Not hot or cold, but fair. I'm a little bit of a lot of things. An alloy. Stronger than any one pure metal.
The more I can realize that--the more truth I can tell myself--the more balanced I become. More honest. More me. None of this wild swinging from one mutually exclusive extreme to the other.
Maybe that's how everyone's mind works. I don't know. Maybe it's a little bit of the devil--he seems fond of encouraging extreme swings. I'm so thinking C.S. Lewis right now, and his statement about the "opposite and equal errors" people make about the devil. Either way, the thoughts are mine. And I'm giving them the boot.
What thoughts about yourself are rattling around inside your little head? Have you ever taken a look at the contradictions? Stop. Think. Reject the lies.
Showing posts with label soap box. Show all posts
Showing posts with label soap box. Show all posts
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Friday, December 4, 2009
control versus apathy
You know what the world tells me? We’re supposed to live believing that you can control your life, that bad things eventually happen to bad people, and good things eventually happen to good people—and that if you work hard, if you smile at the right people, if you invest wisely, then things will go pretty much your way. You’ll persevere and climb the mountain. You’ll find that soul mate. You’ll land in that wonderfully fulfilling job. You are so entitled. You're worth it.
But life has a nasty way of knocking those houses of cards over. Bad things happen to good people. Senseless acts of violence occur every day. Kids kill kids. People abuse spouses, children, coworkers, the elderly…you name it, someone’s hurting someone. Including themselves. Every ninety minutes, someone commits suicide in America. Natural disasters and accidents and diseases are everywhere. Why?
There is no why, not the way we understand it. Life is out of control. People cannot control one single thing. Not even the words out of our mouths. Even our breathing occurs without our volition. Thinking you can really control your life makes about as much sense as trying to sail the ocean in a paper boat.
Well, since we can’t control anything, what’s the point? Why should we do anything? Why should we care? Why should we act? Things will never change. Just sit this one out. No matter how hard you fight, or prepare, or save, it can all be knocked away in a moment. No matter how many people you try to help, there will always be a million more suffering. No, thank you. Opt out. Choose not to choose. Step away from the cruel coldness of life. And cover your insecurity and fear with snarky criticism. Get sarcastic.
If not control, choose apathy. One or the other. Those are your only two options. That’s what I hear in both ears, every day.
Bull.
That is a false dichotomy, a sinful lie that has been spread so thick we can barely breathe without inhaling it. And so many of use relax into its embrace. Brilliant young adults coast through life, making selfish choices.
And let me say, that makes me want to kick and scream and swear, and wish that it were possible to beat people into right thinking. But you know what—there’s a better answer than my stick of justice.
When we ask why, when we seek either control or its inverse, apathy, we miss the point. We’re asking the wrong questions. Complete understanding and control are not ours. They are God’s.
In the book of John, chapter 1, it speaks of the light (Jesus) shining in the darkness. And the darkness, depending on your translation “could not understand it,” or “could not overcome it.” When we want to fully understand God, when we want to absolutely know how and why—that is when God would no longer be God. A god that can fit so neatly into my pocket is no kind of Creator or Savior. A god that I can comprehend and therefore conquer is not God.
Book of Job. Love it. Because when God shows up, he doesn’t answer Job’s “why” questions. He doesn’t justify the tragedies that occurred. He doesn’t give a reason. He just says, “You’re asking the wrong questions, Job. You’re focusing on the wrong stuff. I am God. ME. Consider my majesty and redirect your thinking.” And Job says, “I see now—I’m so wrong. You’re so right.” And he praises, through the pain.
Job grieves. Job suffers. Job has crappy friends. Job gets shafted. Job endures with no foreseeable benefits. God does not dismiss that, nor does he provide a pat answer.
“Redirect your thinking, Job. Focus on me. Don't miss the point. Grieve, but grieve in my embrace. Struggle, but know that there is a reality so far beyond your struggles that expecting me to swoop down like a fairy godmother is ridiculous.” (Ok, so that's not really a direct quote from the Bible. Picky, picky.)
Bad things don’t diminish God’s transforming power. He is sovereign. Whatever this crazy world throws at you, he can and will use it for good. Sometimes a good so great you cannot even recognize it from your limited perspective. An ant standing in front of a mature oak tree doesn’t see a tree—he sees a limitless wall. And so it is with us, and life, and all the crap we’re stepping in.
You know what—crap is crap—and it is also fertilizer, over time. It stinks, but let nature work it, and it will help you grow.
Does a plant know it’s growing? Maybe. Maybe not, until it bears fruit.
I am out of control. I will grieve and I will hurt and I will wonder why. And I repudiate apathy and it’s cause—fear. I repudiate helplessness. Sitting still is for sissies. God built me for purpose, for action.
And yet—my life is not a sum of what I do. What I do is the effect, not the cause. My life is who I am while I’m doing it. What is true, what is real, is my relationship with God, wherever I am, whatever happens to me.
God does not call us to sit on our keisters and let life go by. Opposite! God calls us to strive, to work—to run the race, as Paul puts it. There’s no arriving. And that thought should bring not fear, but joy. I cannot control the path. I don’t have to control the path. I am released from that burden. My path will be smooth, rocky, hilly, muddy…
And always an adventure.
Run. Breathe. Don’t quit. Turn a deaf ear to the world’s crappy logic. And please, please, for the love of God, look beyond the why.
But life has a nasty way of knocking those houses of cards over. Bad things happen to good people. Senseless acts of violence occur every day. Kids kill kids. People abuse spouses, children, coworkers, the elderly…you name it, someone’s hurting someone. Including themselves. Every ninety minutes, someone commits suicide in America. Natural disasters and accidents and diseases are everywhere. Why?
There is no why, not the way we understand it. Life is out of control. People cannot control one single thing. Not even the words out of our mouths. Even our breathing occurs without our volition. Thinking you can really control your life makes about as much sense as trying to sail the ocean in a paper boat.
Well, since we can’t control anything, what’s the point? Why should we do anything? Why should we care? Why should we act? Things will never change. Just sit this one out. No matter how hard you fight, or prepare, or save, it can all be knocked away in a moment. No matter how many people you try to help, there will always be a million more suffering. No, thank you. Opt out. Choose not to choose. Step away from the cruel coldness of life. And cover your insecurity and fear with snarky criticism. Get sarcastic.
If not control, choose apathy. One or the other. Those are your only two options. That’s what I hear in both ears, every day.
Bull.
That is a false dichotomy, a sinful lie that has been spread so thick we can barely breathe without inhaling it. And so many of use relax into its embrace. Brilliant young adults coast through life, making selfish choices.
And let me say, that makes me want to kick and scream and swear, and wish that it were possible to beat people into right thinking. But you know what—there’s a better answer than my stick of justice.
When we ask why, when we seek either control or its inverse, apathy, we miss the point. We’re asking the wrong questions. Complete understanding and control are not ours. They are God’s.
In the book of John, chapter 1, it speaks of the light (Jesus) shining in the darkness. And the darkness, depending on your translation “could not understand it,” or “could not overcome it.” When we want to fully understand God, when we want to absolutely know how and why—that is when God would no longer be God. A god that can fit so neatly into my pocket is no kind of Creator or Savior. A god that I can comprehend and therefore conquer is not God.
Book of Job. Love it. Because when God shows up, he doesn’t answer Job’s “why” questions. He doesn’t justify the tragedies that occurred. He doesn’t give a reason. He just says, “You’re asking the wrong questions, Job. You’re focusing on the wrong stuff. I am God. ME. Consider my majesty and redirect your thinking.” And Job says, “I see now—I’m so wrong. You’re so right.” And he praises, through the pain.
Job grieves. Job suffers. Job has crappy friends. Job gets shafted. Job endures with no foreseeable benefits. God does not dismiss that, nor does he provide a pat answer.
“Redirect your thinking, Job. Focus on me. Don't miss the point. Grieve, but grieve in my embrace. Struggle, but know that there is a reality so far beyond your struggles that expecting me to swoop down like a fairy godmother is ridiculous.” (Ok, so that's not really a direct quote from the Bible. Picky, picky.)
Bad things don’t diminish God’s transforming power. He is sovereign. Whatever this crazy world throws at you, he can and will use it for good. Sometimes a good so great you cannot even recognize it from your limited perspective. An ant standing in front of a mature oak tree doesn’t see a tree—he sees a limitless wall. And so it is with us, and life, and all the crap we’re stepping in.
You know what—crap is crap—and it is also fertilizer, over time. It stinks, but let nature work it, and it will help you grow.
Does a plant know it’s growing? Maybe. Maybe not, until it bears fruit.
I am out of control. I will grieve and I will hurt and I will wonder why. And I repudiate apathy and it’s cause—fear. I repudiate helplessness. Sitting still is for sissies. God built me for purpose, for action.
And yet—my life is not a sum of what I do. What I do is the effect, not the cause. My life is who I am while I’m doing it. What is true, what is real, is my relationship with God, wherever I am, whatever happens to me.
God does not call us to sit on our keisters and let life go by. Opposite! God calls us to strive, to work—to run the race, as Paul puts it. There’s no arriving. And that thought should bring not fear, but joy. I cannot control the path. I don’t have to control the path. I am released from that burden. My path will be smooth, rocky, hilly, muddy…
And always an adventure.
Run. Breathe. Don’t quit. Turn a deaf ear to the world’s crappy logic. And please, please, for the love of God, look beyond the why.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
the ten-year
1999. Party like it’s. Yeah. Uh. Uh.
It’s probably no surprise to anyone who knows me, but I’ve never been cool. I don’t have “it,” whatever “it” is. The ability to be hip and outta sight is somehow not part of my DNA. I’m not, thank God, quite as socially awkward as I was when I was seventeen, but I’ll never be quite on. Perhaps because 80 percent the time I don’t care if I am or not. There is the occasional stab of longing to fit in better, but in general I’d much rather relax into simply being me and not get my knickers in a twist about meeting other people’s expectations or fitting neatly into a category. I don’t know how, for one thing—and I think the energy it would require to learn was lost down that same drain as that elusive period in junior high when every girl is supposed to learn how to put on makeup and do their hair. I’ll never get that back, either. Drat.
But life goes on. And I still believe that I would have missed out on a significant number of good things if I spent the time worrying about what my hair looked like. For example—every time I drive with the windows down. Glorious. But I digress.
As the years began to trickle by, I always said I had no massive expectations for my ten-year reunion. But deep down, I did. I still do. It’s tiny, but it’s there—that ridiculous but hard-to-kill hope that somehow, magically, I will enter that room filled with people who knew me when my cheeks were round with baby fat and I will be transformed into coolness.
This is not Truth, and I know it. But the thought persists. Fortunately, I have other thoughts, too, and I use them to do battle with the expectations of this culture and Hollywood. I do not always win outright, but I will never surrender. I am magnificent. I am lovely. I am cherished. I have been carefully crafted by a loving hand. I am not screwed up. Repeat. I am not screwed up.
And my value is not dependent upon the works of my own hands, but upon the price Jesus was willing to pay to set me free from sin. All the prom queens and clique princesses in the world can’t put a dent in that.
The truth is, we grow neither better or worse as we age, but simply more ourselves. I wish I could remember where I read that, because it’s groovy. And I think it’s right on the money. When I stand in front of my classmates, I won’t be better, or more interesting, or more worthy of attention and popularity and hoopla—I’ll just be more me. That’s it. Plain and simple. Take it or leave it. There’s only one opinion that ultimately matters to me—and it surely doesn’t come from the BCHS class of 99.
Now all I need to do is remember that. And smile.
It’s probably no surprise to anyone who knows me, but I’ve never been cool. I don’t have “it,” whatever “it” is. The ability to be hip and outta sight is somehow not part of my DNA. I’m not, thank God, quite as socially awkward as I was when I was seventeen, but I’ll never be quite on. Perhaps because 80 percent the time I don’t care if I am or not. There is the occasional stab of longing to fit in better, but in general I’d much rather relax into simply being me and not get my knickers in a twist about meeting other people’s expectations or fitting neatly into a category. I don’t know how, for one thing—and I think the energy it would require to learn was lost down that same drain as that elusive period in junior high when every girl is supposed to learn how to put on makeup and do their hair. I’ll never get that back, either. Drat.
But life goes on. And I still believe that I would have missed out on a significant number of good things if I spent the time worrying about what my hair looked like. For example—every time I drive with the windows down. Glorious. But I digress.
As the years began to trickle by, I always said I had no massive expectations for my ten-year reunion. But deep down, I did. I still do. It’s tiny, but it’s there—that ridiculous but hard-to-kill hope that somehow, magically, I will enter that room filled with people who knew me when my cheeks were round with baby fat and I will be transformed into coolness.
This is not Truth, and I know it. But the thought persists. Fortunately, I have other thoughts, too, and I use them to do battle with the expectations of this culture and Hollywood. I do not always win outright, but I will never surrender. I am magnificent. I am lovely. I am cherished. I have been carefully crafted by a loving hand. I am not screwed up. Repeat. I am not screwed up.
And my value is not dependent upon the works of my own hands, but upon the price Jesus was willing to pay to set me free from sin. All the prom queens and clique princesses in the world can’t put a dent in that.
The truth is, we grow neither better or worse as we age, but simply more ourselves. I wish I could remember where I read that, because it’s groovy. And I think it’s right on the money. When I stand in front of my classmates, I won’t be better, or more interesting, or more worthy of attention and popularity and hoopla—I’ll just be more me. That’s it. Plain and simple. Take it or leave it. There’s only one opinion that ultimately matters to me—and it surely doesn’t come from the BCHS class of 99.
Now all I need to do is remember that. And smile.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
ho hum
I made the mistake of looking at the newspaper during my lunch break. Looks like it's another day for economic death and dismemberment. Doom! Doom! Apocalypse! I hate it. Everyone knows they shouldn't panic, because that might start a bigger panic and then we'll all panic and then boom! Great Depression II. But in this day and age, even thinking about talking about the possibility of panic seems to be enough to start one. Talk about self-fulfilling prophecy. How is it possible that America got so stupid with its money?
I think it's because we're a bunch of greedy monkeys. We want to have our cake and eat it too. My solution: don't spend money you don't have. Too simple? Maybe. But just because something is simple doesn't mean it's not the solution. I doubt my idea will be popular, though. It'll mean sacrificing our false sense of affluence.
Sigh.
On the plus side, there was also a little article announcing Starbucks' launch of its new hot chocolate, a "signature blend" of four different kinds of cocoa. The world can't be in that bad of shape, then, can it?
I think it's because we're a bunch of greedy monkeys. We want to have our cake and eat it too. My solution: don't spend money you don't have. Too simple? Maybe. But just because something is simple doesn't mean it's not the solution. I doubt my idea will be popular, though. It'll mean sacrificing our false sense of affluence.
Sigh.
On the plus side, there was also a little article announcing Starbucks' launch of its new hot chocolate, a "signature blend" of four different kinds of cocoa. The world can't be in that bad of shape, then, can it?
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
friend-type things
I'm elbow-deep in work today, but need to take a moment to mull over some naggling thoughts concerning my social life...
I'm not particularly gifted at the whole friendship thing, so I need to take a poll, here. Ok, here's the question: how many times can you initiate an "activity" with a friend or acquaintance without receiving any reciprocal invites? In other words: should you continually keep initiating? Some of us are better than others with things like brainstorming and planning and whatnot, but still. Still!
If the "offender" is a good friend, the clearest path is simply to smack them (lovingly) on the head and say "hey, what's the deal?" But what if it's someone you're not entirely secure with? What if the friendship's still incubating? What if you're not sure the person wants to be your friend at all? Do you simply keep asking, figuring that they will say no if they don't like you?
Or do you pave the way with an open-ended thing, like "if you ever want to ______, just let me know" and figure if they never get back to you it was intentional? Or do you just let them float around in that "gray area" of your relationship corral forever, tormenting you on the odd occasion that they pop into the forefront of your social radar?
I'm finding this particularly troubling today because there are occasionally specific things I like to do that not many of my "good" friends enjoy. Now, I'll do plenty of things alone, if necessary. The beach. Church. Shopping. Moving heavy furniture. Movie theaters, even. But there are some things that just can't be enjoyed solo. So what's a girl to do? Keep nagging for company? I can do that. I'm a good nagger. But...
But it'd sure be nice for my company to be sought, every once in a while. What to do, what to do.
I'm not particularly gifted at the whole friendship thing, so I need to take a poll, here. Ok, here's the question: how many times can you initiate an "activity" with a friend or acquaintance without receiving any reciprocal invites? In other words: should you continually keep initiating? Some of us are better than others with things like brainstorming and planning and whatnot, but still. Still!
If the "offender" is a good friend, the clearest path is simply to smack them (lovingly) on the head and say "hey, what's the deal?" But what if it's someone you're not entirely secure with? What if the friendship's still incubating? What if you're not sure the person wants to be your friend at all? Do you simply keep asking, figuring that they will say no if they don't like you?
Or do you pave the way with an open-ended thing, like "if you ever want to ______, just let me know" and figure if they never get back to you it was intentional? Or do you just let them float around in that "gray area" of your relationship corral forever, tormenting you on the odd occasion that they pop into the forefront of your social radar?
I'm finding this particularly troubling today because there are occasionally specific things I like to do that not many of my "good" friends enjoy. Now, I'll do plenty of things alone, if necessary. The beach. Church. Shopping. Moving heavy furniture. Movie theaters, even. But there are some things that just can't be enjoyed solo. So what's a girl to do? Keep nagging for company? I can do that. I'm a good nagger. But...
But it'd sure be nice for my company to be sought, every once in a while. What to do, what to do.
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
Monday, July 21, 2008
the fine art of keeping your clothes on
I don’t really have much of a problem with this. In fact, the only time I choose not to practice this art is when I’m home, especially when it’s so freaking hot outside. But at home, I’m safe from the eyes of everyone but the deer. And nosy turkeys.
However, more and more each day I realize that there are many men and women who do not seem to be able to stay clothed. Just look at all those guys walking down the street with their pants falling off! I doubt their ability to dodge if a car came careening around the corner and up over the curb. Nope—they’d just be plastered to the bumper, baggy pants and all. Or perhaps sans pants—perhaps the force of the blow would dislodge them from their precarious perch.
And don’t even get me started on the women. Maybe they are all just really, really poor laundresses, and they keep shrinking everything. And I do mean everything. That’s one of the only downsides of going to the beach—having to watch all the girls in ill-fitting suits walk by. Didn’t their mamas ever pull them aside and teach them how to dress their bodies appropriately? Sigh. I guess that’s a rhetorical question.
Still, it’s obvious that these teens are trying to look sexy—don’t they realize that they just look awful? Another rhetorical question.
However, no matter how bad teen girls are, the wounds to my eyes are always worse when the beach culprit is an adult. The stupidity and lack of thoughtfulness inherent in teenagers gives them a little bit of slack. but grownups have no such excuse. Come on, ladies! Just because you can wear a mini-kini doesn’t mean you should. And look at what you’re teaching your daughters!
Sigh again. These thoughts are nothing new. I’ve said this before—and heard other artfully-clad adults say the same. I guess our voices aren’t loud enough. Maybe it’s finally time for me to grab a roll of duct tape and let my actions speak louder than words. But I don’t want to get arrested for assaulting a minor.
So, what made me think of this now, as I sit in a conservative office atmosphere? Well, I was actually thinking about my weekend. Yesterday was warm and sunny and very humid, and I was washing my car and weeding my flowers in pretty much no shirt at all. Remember—none of my neighbors can see me. (I just had to make sure I sprayed on more bug spray, with all that extra skin.)
The weather and lack of clothing reminded me of the far-gone late summer days of my youth, when we’d have basketball practice in a boiling hot gymnasium. I’ll never forget—it still needles me—we’d be sweating gallons and would toss our T-shirts to the side. Most of the time, we still had practice jerseys on; the light mesh was much more bearable than drenched cotton. So, there we were, 16- and 17-year-old butch girls, absolutely not-sexy in our knee-length shorts and high-impact sports bras, running suicides and other drills. Someone’s mother comes by, sees us, and complains to the athletic director. And we are mandated not to take off our shirts.
Meanwhile, out in the much cooler—and more public—hallways, the cheer squad is practicing in their little spandex shorts. They aren’t sweating much. Neither are they wearing shirts. Do they get yelled at? Nope.
But I’m not bitter. Oh, not at all. Nor do I think that the attitudes and actions of adults are impacting our children in harmful ways. Oh, no.
However, more and more each day I realize that there are many men and women who do not seem to be able to stay clothed. Just look at all those guys walking down the street with their pants falling off! I doubt their ability to dodge if a car came careening around the corner and up over the curb. Nope—they’d just be plastered to the bumper, baggy pants and all. Or perhaps sans pants—perhaps the force of the blow would dislodge them from their precarious perch.
And don’t even get me started on the women. Maybe they are all just really, really poor laundresses, and they keep shrinking everything. And I do mean everything. That’s one of the only downsides of going to the beach—having to watch all the girls in ill-fitting suits walk by. Didn’t their mamas ever pull them aside and teach them how to dress their bodies appropriately? Sigh. I guess that’s a rhetorical question.
Still, it’s obvious that these teens are trying to look sexy—don’t they realize that they just look awful? Another rhetorical question.
However, no matter how bad teen girls are, the wounds to my eyes are always worse when the beach culprit is an adult. The stupidity and lack of thoughtfulness inherent in teenagers gives them a little bit of slack. but grownups have no such excuse. Come on, ladies! Just because you can wear a mini-kini doesn’t mean you should. And look at what you’re teaching your daughters!
Sigh again. These thoughts are nothing new. I’ve said this before—and heard other artfully-clad adults say the same. I guess our voices aren’t loud enough. Maybe it’s finally time for me to grab a roll of duct tape and let my actions speak louder than words. But I don’t want to get arrested for assaulting a minor.
So, what made me think of this now, as I sit in a conservative office atmosphere? Well, I was actually thinking about my weekend. Yesterday was warm and sunny and very humid, and I was washing my car and weeding my flowers in pretty much no shirt at all. Remember—none of my neighbors can see me. (I just had to make sure I sprayed on more bug spray, with all that extra skin.)
The weather and lack of clothing reminded me of the far-gone late summer days of my youth, when we’d have basketball practice in a boiling hot gymnasium. I’ll never forget—it still needles me—we’d be sweating gallons and would toss our T-shirts to the side. Most of the time, we still had practice jerseys on; the light mesh was much more bearable than drenched cotton. So, there we were, 16- and 17-year-old butch girls, absolutely not-sexy in our knee-length shorts and high-impact sports bras, running suicides and other drills. Someone’s mother comes by, sees us, and complains to the athletic director. And we are mandated not to take off our shirts.
Meanwhile, out in the much cooler—and more public—hallways, the cheer squad is practicing in their little spandex shorts. They aren’t sweating much. Neither are they wearing shirts. Do they get yelled at? Nope.
But I’m not bitter. Oh, not at all. Nor do I think that the attitudes and actions of adults are impacting our children in harmful ways. Oh, no.
Thursday, May 22, 2008
"closet" pet peeves
1. Hoods that cannot actually be worn
2. Faux trouser pockets
3. T-shirts so thin you have to buy two
4. Nylons
2. Faux trouser pockets
3. T-shirts so thin you have to buy two
4. Nylons
Friday, May 2, 2008
today's deep thoughts
There's nothing wrong with a bit of ordinary--as long as it does not become a god.
Along the same vein, rebelling for the sake of rebelling is just as senseless as conforming for the sake of conforming.
Eating a sweet and juicy orange, however, should be accomplished with zeal no matter how messy the process becomes.
Along the same vein, rebelling for the sake of rebelling is just as senseless as conforming for the sake of conforming.
Eating a sweet and juicy orange, however, should be accomplished with zeal no matter how messy the process becomes.
Thursday, February 28, 2008
a decaffeinated update
Well, I am happy to say that I am quiet firmly beyond the physical symptoms of caffeine withdrawal. It is a humbling, scary experience to realize the pull something as “normal” as coffee has on your life. I would not like to tangle with a more difficult addiction. This one, a mild habit of only four or five years’ depth, was quite enough. That may sound wimpy, but I don’t mind. It’s true. Four days of sludge-like headache (exedrin has caffeine too) was quite enough.
So, will I go back to drinking coffee after Lent? Probably. I’m already getting very tired of decaffeinated tea. My goal, however, is to significantly decrease the amount of caffeine I drink. To be honest, I will probably go back to drinking regular coffee soon. I will strive for half-caf, though. I adore dark roast, and the only way to get dark roast half-caf is to blend it yourself. Somewhat more trouble than usual, but not beyond me, I should hope.
Three weeks and three days until Easter. I might just have a big ol’ bar of dark chocolate for breakfast, chased with espresso. Mmmm. I want. Yes, the physical symptoms are gone…now only the psychological ones remain. And here we come to the true meaning of Lenten sacrifice: the humbling of human desires before the coming of the Christ. May I crave God more than coffee, and look to Easter with anticipation stronger than is warranted by any food.
So, will I go back to drinking coffee after Lent? Probably. I’m already getting very tired of decaffeinated tea. My goal, however, is to significantly decrease the amount of caffeine I drink. To be honest, I will probably go back to drinking regular coffee soon. I will strive for half-caf, though. I adore dark roast, and the only way to get dark roast half-caf is to blend it yourself. Somewhat more trouble than usual, but not beyond me, I should hope.
Three weeks and three days until Easter. I might just have a big ol’ bar of dark chocolate for breakfast, chased with espresso. Mmmm. I want. Yes, the physical symptoms are gone…now only the psychological ones remain. And here we come to the true meaning of Lenten sacrifice: the humbling of human desires before the coming of the Christ. May I crave God more than coffee, and look to Easter with anticipation stronger than is warranted by any food.
Monday, February 25, 2008
On understanding God
Well, I’m somewhat glad I don’t. At least that’s how I feel most of the time. If God were small enough to be encompassed by my frail human understanding, then he’s not much of a God. I don’t want a God I can fold up and put in my wallet, convenient as that may seem sometimes. What’s the point of dedicating your entire life to something the size of a handkerchief? No thanks. If something is too easy, it’s not worth it. Give me a God so big and wild that I can barely understand even the parts of him I can see—not to mention the bits hiding around the bend. I have a knowledge of God deeper than understanding. I know that he is the ultimate Good. He loves me with unwavering fervor and I am his child, bought and paid for by the blood of Jesus. Compared to that, a little lack of comprehension is peanuts.
This may sound quite simplistic. Well, I don’t care. And I do still have those days when I wonder what’s going on. I wonder where God is, and what he’s doing. I wonder why I don’t feel more connected to him at times. I do wish I understood at least a little more. And that’s ok--God wants his children to continually seek him. We are build to continually grow and expand out understanding. It’s for our own good and his glory.
And when I do have low moments, that’s usually about the time that I get in the car to go to work--and am smacked in the face with a beautiful sunrise. I don’t need to understand what makes a sunrise tick to realize that it is beautiful and awe inspiring.
This may sound quite simplistic. Well, I don’t care. And I do still have those days when I wonder what’s going on. I wonder where God is, and what he’s doing. I wonder why I don’t feel more connected to him at times. I do wish I understood at least a little more. And that’s ok--God wants his children to continually seek him. We are build to continually grow and expand out understanding. It’s for our own good and his glory.
And when I do have low moments, that’s usually about the time that I get in the car to go to work--and am smacked in the face with a beautiful sunrise. I don’t need to understand what makes a sunrise tick to realize that it is beautiful and awe inspiring.
Thursday, January 10, 2008
the dialectical swing of the universe
First formally introduced to this concept as a sophomore in college...in a class held in the basement of a chapel...at 8:30 in the morning...with a very intelligent, very monotonous lecturer...YAWN...I felt an instant connection, a sympathetic vibration of truth. "Ah!" said I, trying to keep my note-writing legible, "this is Truth." And I still think so.
Throughout recorded history, mankind has swung back and forth, from one extreme to another, like a pendulum. Of course, being a three-dimensional world, this is a three-dimensional pendulum. Every swing and back-swing goes in a slightly different direction--forward, sideways, back a little toward Jupiter. As this was a literature class, I first connected the concept to major literary and societal movements: Enlightenment to Romanticism to the Age of Reason. (Don't question me too closely--much of that knowledge has faded from my conscious brain.)
Once I'd absorbed this concept, and gotten a happy mark on that particular written exam, I waited for the idea to fade away...but it hasn't. Another place to see evidence of this swing can be found in the Old Testament--the book of Judges, for example. Check out those Israelites, yo! They praise and worship God, they fall away from God, disaster strikes and a hero is sent, they come back to God...they fall away from God...they come back to God...tick-tock, tick-tock.
The American political scene: tick-tock, tick-tock.
This could be very depressing but for the relentlessly optimistic idea I hold that each time we swing, each time we hit a new extreme and then run from it, we learn a little something. We're not just repeating history verbatim.
I don't know why I think of this now, except I've just had a moment of self-witness: I personally do this too. From one end to the other, swing swing swing. It sounds depressing, but it's not--if you can recognize that ol' pendulum swing. "If I just ride this out a bit," I say. "I'll balance." Voila!
Well, life and history are not quite that simple. I know. But I hold out for the learning of a little something-something. A little more awareness. A little more balance. And a little less of taking our extreme self-moments so seriously.
Now, if I could only stop my brain of thinking of "swings" and get back to business. But they flood my mind. Dance styles. Fashion. The Middle East. The popularity of espresso. Tick-tock, tick-tock. Ahh. Balance.
Throughout recorded history, mankind has swung back and forth, from one extreme to another, like a pendulum. Of course, being a three-dimensional world, this is a three-dimensional pendulum. Every swing and back-swing goes in a slightly different direction--forward, sideways, back a little toward Jupiter. As this was a literature class, I first connected the concept to major literary and societal movements: Enlightenment to Romanticism to the Age of Reason. (Don't question me too closely--much of that knowledge has faded from my conscious brain.)
Once I'd absorbed this concept, and gotten a happy mark on that particular written exam, I waited for the idea to fade away...but it hasn't. Another place to see evidence of this swing can be found in the Old Testament--the book of Judges, for example. Check out those Israelites, yo! They praise and worship God, they fall away from God, disaster strikes and a hero is sent, they come back to God...they fall away from God...they come back to God...tick-tock, tick-tock.
The American political scene: tick-tock, tick-tock.
This could be very depressing but for the relentlessly optimistic idea I hold that each time we swing, each time we hit a new extreme and then run from it, we learn a little something. We're not just repeating history verbatim.
I don't know why I think of this now, except I've just had a moment of self-witness: I personally do this too. From one end to the other, swing swing swing. It sounds depressing, but it's not--if you can recognize that ol' pendulum swing. "If I just ride this out a bit," I say. "I'll balance." Voila!
Well, life and history are not quite that simple. I know. But I hold out for the learning of a little something-something. A little more awareness. A little more balance. And a little less of taking our extreme self-moments so seriously.
Now, if I could only stop my brain of thinking of "swings" and get back to business. But they flood my mind. Dance styles. Fashion. The Middle East. The popularity of espresso. Tick-tock, tick-tock. Ahh. Balance.
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
let the stuffing begin
I, personally, have no problem with eating as much as is humanly possible on Thanksgiving. Without feeling guilty. Especially since I'm cooking. Well, baking. I've made a strawberry swirl cheesecake and will make an apple pie tonight. Tomorrow I am just a humble kitchen lieutenant. Clearly, not partaking of the fruit of my labors would be a crime.
If it would make me feel fat and guilty, then I shouldn't do it, right? That is not a happy conclusion. I want to avoid that conclusion. Therefore, I have two choices: I don't eat as much, or I don't feel bad about it.
I'm going with option two: embrace my choice! Yes, I will revel in the food.
Feel the freedom! Eat the turkey! Overload the digestive system! Woohoo!
If it would make me feel fat and guilty, then I shouldn't do it, right? That is not a happy conclusion. I want to avoid that conclusion. Therefore, I have two choices: I don't eat as much, or I don't feel bad about it.
I'm going with option two: embrace my choice! Yes, I will revel in the food.
Feel the freedom! Eat the turkey! Overload the digestive system! Woohoo!
Friday, November 2, 2007
guy-friends and boy-friends
I could use a few good men. Don’t mistake me; I’m not greedy—one or two would be just fine, I don’t need a whole platoon.
But I’d take one if you're offering…
Anyway, what on earth prompted this declaration? Lonely singleness rearing its maudlin head? No, not really. I ride the highs and lows of being single just like anyone else, but today equanimity dominates my thoughts of my love life (or lack thereof). Which is good for you—I’m not quite so pleasant to be around on the days I go around singing "I am a Rock, I am an Island" with Art and Paul. But I digress.
I’d like a few more man-friends in my repertoire. I have a few wonderful fellas, but most of them are married and so are not always available for the services I require. Case in point: I can ask a married man to come over and help me cut firewood, but I cannot ask him to be my date to a wedding—even if there’s going to be a kickin’ band that we would both enjoy. It just ain’t right, Myrtle.
There are a lot of varied opinions concerning the true feasibility of coed friendships. Some say that it can never work, that sexual attraction and romance will always interfere. Others believe that coed friendships are completely natural and are possible even after marriage. I’ve read that being "best friends" with a member of the opposite sex is a recipe for disaster unless you marry him. Then I turn to another book, and lo! A woman has a healthy, fulfilling, twenty-years-and-counting friendship with a man who, at some point, married another woman with no adverse effects.
Well, here’s what I think: I like to hike and climb and fish and play tackle football. And I’m very tired of going stag to weddings and swing dances and beach parties. I want to be able to ask a guy to accompany me without him automatically thinking I have romantic intentions. I want to be able to knock a guy down and land on him without him assuming I’m being flirtatious.
I fancy that I never presume a guy has romantic intentions toward me unless he explicitly conveys them. (That may be asking too much, but I am the queen of social oblivion and must occasionally be whapped the head to realize that something’s going on. This has its pros and cons—but that’s a story for another day.) And this is a trust issue. I trust that the guys I hang out with realize that I am counting on them to be honest with me. This can work very well.
Case in point: coed head and back massages may seem to be an automatic no-no. However if, as my case was, the gentleman and I had complete understanding of the platonic nature of our relationship, and if the setting is appropriately public, there is no problem. Nothing de-stresses like a good head massage. Would I ask a married man for one? Of course not—unless we were in the presence of his wife and formed a three-person massage train. Mmm. Arrrr. And if I broached the idea of a coed massage with a guy friend who was not comfortable with that—well, I sure hope he’d tell me, before I started purring! It’d save us both a lot of grief.
Would I have a coed sleepover? Umm…yes, in certain conditions. Three adults (and a large dog) in a small tent? Absolutely. If it were just one guy and me? No. I’m not stupidly ignorant of temptation.
I love outdoor activities, and oftentimes I have a hard time finding girl friends with the same interests. Would I spend an entire afternoon and evening in a secluded location, fishing, with a guy engaged to one of my best friends—who was out of town at the time? Yep. Did that. Would I do it with someone with whom the relationship was not absolutely and clearly platonically defined? No way.
Looking back on the fishing thing, I realized that outside appearances may have seemed a little odd—especially considering that we didn’t catch much the first day, and went out again for several hours the next morning. Alone. But outside appearances mean little to me when those inside the situation—me, him, my girl friend—know exactly what is happening and why. And in this case, we all got to eat some fresh fish.
Of course, this carefree approach to coed friendship is not perfect. I’m a fairly physical person; I enjoy roughhousing more than most of my girl friends, and I am occasionally not aware that my coed physicality is interpreted as inappropriate or even annoying. I’ve made mistakes in the past, and feelings have been hurt, but I think having guys to hang out with is worth the risk. And there are risks in any relationship—coed or not.
And to be fair to myself—I don’t limit my physical contact to the guys. And I don’t smack my guy friends on the bum, either, as per the occasionally-revived antics left over from college dorm days. I’m a little nuts, but I’m not that stupid. Most of the time.
But I’d take one if you're offering…
Anyway, what on earth prompted this declaration? Lonely singleness rearing its maudlin head? No, not really. I ride the highs and lows of being single just like anyone else, but today equanimity dominates my thoughts of my love life (or lack thereof). Which is good for you—I’m not quite so pleasant to be around on the days I go around singing "I am a Rock, I am an Island" with Art and Paul. But I digress.
I’d like a few more man-friends in my repertoire. I have a few wonderful fellas, but most of them are married and so are not always available for the services I require. Case in point: I can ask a married man to come over and help me cut firewood, but I cannot ask him to be my date to a wedding—even if there’s going to be a kickin’ band that we would both enjoy. It just ain’t right, Myrtle.
There are a lot of varied opinions concerning the true feasibility of coed friendships. Some say that it can never work, that sexual attraction and romance will always interfere. Others believe that coed friendships are completely natural and are possible even after marriage. I’ve read that being "best friends" with a member of the opposite sex is a recipe for disaster unless you marry him. Then I turn to another book, and lo! A woman has a healthy, fulfilling, twenty-years-and-counting friendship with a man who, at some point, married another woman with no adverse effects.
Well, here’s what I think: I like to hike and climb and fish and play tackle football. And I’m very tired of going stag to weddings and swing dances and beach parties. I want to be able to ask a guy to accompany me without him automatically thinking I have romantic intentions. I want to be able to knock a guy down and land on him without him assuming I’m being flirtatious.
I fancy that I never presume a guy has romantic intentions toward me unless he explicitly conveys them. (That may be asking too much, but I am the queen of social oblivion and must occasionally be whapped the head to realize that something’s going on. This has its pros and cons—but that’s a story for another day.) And this is a trust issue. I trust that the guys I hang out with realize that I am counting on them to be honest with me. This can work very well.
Case in point: coed head and back massages may seem to be an automatic no-no. However if, as my case was, the gentleman and I had complete understanding of the platonic nature of our relationship, and if the setting is appropriately public, there is no problem. Nothing de-stresses like a good head massage. Would I ask a married man for one? Of course not—unless we were in the presence of his wife and formed a three-person massage train. Mmm. Arrrr. And if I broached the idea of a coed massage with a guy friend who was not comfortable with that—well, I sure hope he’d tell me, before I started purring! It’d save us both a lot of grief.
Would I have a coed sleepover? Umm…yes, in certain conditions. Three adults (and a large dog) in a small tent? Absolutely. If it were just one guy and me? No. I’m not stupidly ignorant of temptation.
I love outdoor activities, and oftentimes I have a hard time finding girl friends with the same interests. Would I spend an entire afternoon and evening in a secluded location, fishing, with a guy engaged to one of my best friends—who was out of town at the time? Yep. Did that. Would I do it with someone with whom the relationship was not absolutely and clearly platonically defined? No way.
Looking back on the fishing thing, I realized that outside appearances may have seemed a little odd—especially considering that we didn’t catch much the first day, and went out again for several hours the next morning. Alone. But outside appearances mean little to me when those inside the situation—me, him, my girl friend—know exactly what is happening and why. And in this case, we all got to eat some fresh fish.
Of course, this carefree approach to coed friendship is not perfect. I’m a fairly physical person; I enjoy roughhousing more than most of my girl friends, and I am occasionally not aware that my coed physicality is interpreted as inappropriate or even annoying. I’ve made mistakes in the past, and feelings have been hurt, but I think having guys to hang out with is worth the risk. And there are risks in any relationship—coed or not.
And to be fair to myself—I don’t limit my physical contact to the guys. And I don’t smack my guy friends on the bum, either, as per the occasionally-revived antics left over from college dorm days. I’m a little nuts, but I’m not that stupid. Most of the time.
Friday, October 12, 2007
bumper stickers
I'm not much of a fan of bumper stickers, really. They aren't very nice to the car, they usually look trashy, and half the time they are either just plain stupid, gag-reflex sentimental, downright offensive, or illegible.
If I did have a bumper sticker though, what would it say? Well, it is election season. How about "Didn't vote? Don't complain." Yes. I like that. Or how about what my father used to say: "Speed Kills." That's pretty good too. Simple.
I could get clever or witty, but what I have to say to other drivers usually isn't that funny. That would have to be stickers like "are you really that important?" or "no one else wants to hear your music." I doubt those would sell well in the bumper sticker market. I guess I'll have to just keep muttering them under my breath. Or yelling--if my windows are shut.
If I did have a bumper sticker though, what would it say? Well, it is election season. How about "Didn't vote? Don't complain." Yes. I like that. Or how about what my father used to say: "Speed Kills." That's pretty good too. Simple.
I could get clever or witty, but what I have to say to other drivers usually isn't that funny. That would have to be stickers like "are you really that important?" or "no one else wants to hear your music." I doubt those would sell well in the bumper sticker market. I guess I'll have to just keep muttering them under my breath. Or yelling--if my windows are shut.
Thursday, October 4, 2007
attention
Attention! Attention! Everywhere I look, there is someone who wants attention—someone getting too much attention—someone who needs attention—someone scared to death of attention—someone not paying attention. When did this concept of "attention" become such a big deal? Probably about the same time we figured out what high self-esteem was, but don’t quote me on that.
I have rather a love-hate relationship with attention, myself. I do not like to be ignored, to feel as though no one would care if I were absent. Nor do I like to be in the spotlight. I certainly don’t need or want all the attention. I do not expand in attention like a flower in the sun. Quite the opposite. I may be witty and bouncy and having fun, but the instant I feel all eyes on me, I start to shrink back. Words get hard to find. No matter how hyper I get, I’m still an introvert at heart.
I suppose I’m pretty normal in my need for a balanced amount of attention. If I were going to get all philosophical, I’d say that most things in life can be framed by the perspective of "a balanced amount of attention." Paying too much attention to work, or not enough attention…bad trouble. Paying too much attention or not enough to your personal hygiene…bad trouble.
I have rather a love-hate relationship with attention, myself. I do not like to be ignored, to feel as though no one would care if I were absent. Nor do I like to be in the spotlight. I certainly don’t need or want all the attention. I do not expand in attention like a flower in the sun. Quite the opposite. I may be witty and bouncy and having fun, but the instant I feel all eyes on me, I start to shrink back. Words get hard to find. No matter how hyper I get, I’m still an introvert at heart.
I suppose I’m pretty normal in my need for a balanced amount of attention. If I were going to get all philosophical, I’d say that most things in life can be framed by the perspective of "a balanced amount of attention." Paying too much attention to work, or not enough attention…bad trouble. Paying too much attention or not enough to your personal hygiene…bad trouble.
Thursday, September 6, 2007
Power tools
You would think, with the nice, long holiday weekend, I would have made time to post once or twice. But no, sir. It was Labor Day, and I was laboring! Outside! We’ve had fabulous weather here on the western edge of the big mitten, and I’ve been taking advantage of it as much as possible. I wanted to catch up on some yard work, and get going on cutting wood for the fireplace.
Which brings me to the absolute highlight of the holiday: on Monday, I graduated from my friend John’s chainsaw "school" and was granted a long-time loan of a fabulous Stihl 020T arborist’s chainsaw. And chaps. Safety orange Kevlar chaps.
Even new shoes can hardly compare to the joys of chainsaw independence. No longer do I have to call in a favor and/or wait until a manly friend can drop by and cut up some of the dead timber I’ve dragged from the woods. Nope. I can do it myself. And, I may add, with great attention to safety and proper chainsaw etiquette. Chainsaws are dangerous tools. I know, I know. Geez! I’m a girl, after all. I’m not about to ram around holding the running saw over my head while talking on my Nextel and trying to muscle through a giant branch in a thunderstorm. Alone. While eating a tuna sandwich. And wearing no shirt or shoes.
I leave that sort of irresponsible power tool behavior to the guys. (Note: I do differentiate between "guys" and "men." Posting on this topic will follow.) It is my belief that, contrary to popular opinion, women in general are actually better power tool operators than guys. There are exceptions, of course, but I’m talking in generalities here, so don’t get your knickers in a twist. Let me expound.
Let’s start with defining what makes a "good" power tool operator: 1) safe operating, 2) safe operating, and 3) safe operating. A good operator will always stay within the tool’s intended limits, for safety reasons and because it just makes sense. You don’t cut dovetails with a table saw. You shouldn’t reach up one-handed with a chainsaw and try to cut branches with the tip of the bar. I think guys expect the tool to work for them in the manner they desire. It’s the "get a bigger hammer" mentality. If they just stretch a little further and push the envelope just enough…they will either cut more wood than their older brother did, or they’ll swing the blade around and bury it in their leg.
Women, on the other hand, understand the value of finesse, and are more apt to retain a healthy fear of the tool and work with the tool according to the tool’s rules. Women will use guards and follow safety precautions, perhaps in part because they are less inclined to solely depend upon their own physical strength. Also, I think that women tend to underestimate their own strength, while men will overestimate. Women are less likely to try to chainsaw once they reach physical fatigue—which is when most chainsaw accidents occur. Guys just don’t seem to know when to quit. True, by pushing themselves they often accomplish more, but is it really worth the risk?
Perhaps guys just don’t know they’ve reached an unsafe physical state. It’s been my experience that women are more in tune with their bodies. We know when we’re dehydrated—so we put the saw down and get some water. Right away. When we’re in the woods, we don’t try for "just one more" when it’s really too dark to see. When my wrist starts to shake, I know it’s time to put the saw down.
Women may also be a little less "mechanically inclined," which makes us think through tool use with less haste and more caution. I don’t count on my instincts when operating machinery. Before I put the tractor in gear, I want to know what every lever and button and pedal does. I want to get used to driving the mower in "turtle" speed before I push the speed to "rabbit."
Perhaps that makes me a bit of a pansy. Overcautious. Scaredy-cat. Take your pick.
Threatening my manhood, however, won’t get me to try to take my twelve-inch-bar chainsaw through a thirty-inch oak tree trunk half-buried in muck. Sorry.
Which brings me to the absolute highlight of the holiday: on Monday, I graduated from my friend John’s chainsaw "school" and was granted a long-time loan of a fabulous Stihl 020T arborist’s chainsaw. And chaps. Safety orange Kevlar chaps.
Even new shoes can hardly compare to the joys of chainsaw independence. No longer do I have to call in a favor and/or wait until a manly friend can drop by and cut up some of the dead timber I’ve dragged from the woods. Nope. I can do it myself. And, I may add, with great attention to safety and proper chainsaw etiquette. Chainsaws are dangerous tools. I know, I know. Geez! I’m a girl, after all. I’m not about to ram around holding the running saw over my head while talking on my Nextel and trying to muscle through a giant branch in a thunderstorm. Alone. While eating a tuna sandwich. And wearing no shirt or shoes.
I leave that sort of irresponsible power tool behavior to the guys. (Note: I do differentiate between "guys" and "men." Posting on this topic will follow.) It is my belief that, contrary to popular opinion, women in general are actually better power tool operators than guys. There are exceptions, of course, but I’m talking in generalities here, so don’t get your knickers in a twist. Let me expound.
Let’s start with defining what makes a "good" power tool operator: 1) safe operating, 2) safe operating, and 3) safe operating. A good operator will always stay within the tool’s intended limits, for safety reasons and because it just makes sense. You don’t cut dovetails with a table saw. You shouldn’t reach up one-handed with a chainsaw and try to cut branches with the tip of the bar. I think guys expect the tool to work for them in the manner they desire. It’s the "get a bigger hammer" mentality. If they just stretch a little further and push the envelope just enough…they will either cut more wood than their older brother did, or they’ll swing the blade around and bury it in their leg.
Women, on the other hand, understand the value of finesse, and are more apt to retain a healthy fear of the tool and work with the tool according to the tool’s rules. Women will use guards and follow safety precautions, perhaps in part because they are less inclined to solely depend upon their own physical strength. Also, I think that women tend to underestimate their own strength, while men will overestimate. Women are less likely to try to chainsaw once they reach physical fatigue—which is when most chainsaw accidents occur. Guys just don’t seem to know when to quit. True, by pushing themselves they often accomplish more, but is it really worth the risk?
Perhaps guys just don’t know they’ve reached an unsafe physical state. It’s been my experience that women are more in tune with their bodies. We know when we’re dehydrated—so we put the saw down and get some water. Right away. When we’re in the woods, we don’t try for "just one more" when it’s really too dark to see. When my wrist starts to shake, I know it’s time to put the saw down.
Women may also be a little less "mechanically inclined," which makes us think through tool use with less haste and more caution. I don’t count on my instincts when operating machinery. Before I put the tractor in gear, I want to know what every lever and button and pedal does. I want to get used to driving the mower in "turtle" speed before I push the speed to "rabbit."
Perhaps that makes me a bit of a pansy. Overcautious. Scaredy-cat. Take your pick.
Threatening my manhood, however, won’t get me to try to take my twelve-inch-bar chainsaw through a thirty-inch oak tree trunk half-buried in muck. Sorry.
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