a small midwinter rant

The choices I make—am I timid, lazy, or shrewd? Why is it that so often my behavior could fit any one of those categories? You’d think I would always know which I was being—but it’s just not so. I have an itchy feeling that it’s not usually the last—at least not nearly as often as I hope it is. Shrewd is just fine, but whatever I’m about, I sure don’t want to be lazy and scared.


How can I change this? The easy way out is to assume that all I need is some grand, all-consuming goal. Some mountain to climb, some passion to pursue. Then I could have a yardstick with which to measure myself. And isn’t that what we all crave? Solid proof that we’re on it, that we haven’t missed the bus?

But I have a sneaking suspicion that life isn’t all about what I do. It’s who I am while I’m doing it. Maybe I’ve said that before, I don’t know. If so, it’s worth saying again. It doesn’t really matter if I’m an editor or a skydiver or a shopkeeper. It doesn’t really matter if I’m married or single or the mother of six. There is no bus to catch. Who I am is deeper than that. Who I am is not what I do—or don’t do. I cannot find fulfillment in simple action. Action is the effect, not the cause.

Alas! Life would make so much more sense if I could live it that way—if I could dial in to my one concrete thing, like a surfer catching the ultimate wave just right and riding on home. But it’s not. I’m young(ish) and quite regularly dumb but I at least know that. Life is not that shallow.

But I’m not about to take that as a reason to sit back on my can and just focus on being. (Perhaps with some chanting and a candle?) No way. Such an inward, selfish focus is equally no good.

There is no excuse for not rolling up your sleeves and digging into this crazy beautiful paradoxical wonderful odd thing called life. We were built to do. But—pardon the sentence construction—doing is what we do, not who we are.

So who am I?

And does it matter if I know? Some days I really really think so, and some days…I do not. No one ever truly figures themselves out, no matter how much we navel-gaze. I don’t think we can. We’re not supposed to. We are the creature, not the creator.

And that, bottom line, is who I am. I am a child of God. I’m his crazy beautiful paradoxical wonderful odd daughter. Everything else is peripheral. He tells me not to worry so much about whether I’m timid or lazy or shrewd. If I listen to him, I’ll be just fine. More than fine. I’ve come to the conclusion that I can probably do fine all on my own.

But I don’t want fine. I want freakin’ awesome. And that is not to be found in the messages the world tries to sell me. I could be rich and skinny and madly in love and still—in ashes.

Is that my whole point, here? Maybe. If I must have a point, that’s as good as any.

a poetry study

A.
How to get
to this place how
to get
here
you are
slow
dancing with me
I rest
my head
your fingers
ghost along
the bare
nape of my neck

B.
How to get to this place?
How to get here?
You are slow.
Dancing with me, I rest.
My head!
Your fingers!
Ghost along, the bare nape of my neck.

C.
How to?
Get to this place.
How to get?
Here you are, slow dancing
with me.
I rest my head.
Your fingers ghost along
the bare nape of my neck.

D.
How to get to this place, how to get here. How to get here, you. Here you are, slow dancing with me. Dancing with me—I rest. I rest my head, your fingers ghost along. Your fingers ghost along the bare nape of my neck.

polar opposites

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.

most awkward scenarios ever, part II

The company Christmas party. Yes, it’s just about that time of year again.
Office Christmas parties can be rough, even if you work with decent folks. There’s just endless opportunities for awkwardness. Example: bringing a date. Do you? Don’t you? All of the married folk will bring their spouses. Who wants to be number seven at an eight-seat table? Awkward. But so is bringing a random date to fill that eighth seat. More awkward. There is bound to be a bit of inquisition, especially since he is not a committed significant other. The best solutions I’ve come up with thus far are to a) bring my mom, or b) join forces with other single gals at the office and claim our own table.

But what if we went for a third option? What if we took the awkwardness up a few more notches? Instead of a regular date with an acquaintance—how about a blind date? Oh boy. Nothing says “doomed to fail” like a blind date at an office party.

Even better—how about all of the single girls in the office all bring a blind date? Now we’re talking pain. All of us could writhe in agony together.

But we’re not quite done—there’s one more bit of awkward joy we could add: each girl brings a buddy of hers as a blind date for one of her coworkers. We could draw names, like Secret Santa.

And the awkward bus has arrived.

So next time you’re at a company Christmas fling, single ladies—remember it could be worse. Much, much worse.

most awkward scenarios ever, part I

Sometimes it’s good to give yourself a little perspective—realize that whatever happened (or didn’t happen) isn’t, perhaps, quite as bad as you thought. Take a step back. Reduce the level of self-induced drama.

One of the most enjoyable ways to do that, in my opinion, is to imagine how horribly it could have gone.

Example: you spill half a glass of red wine on yourself at a party. Sad. But it could have been worse. You could have spilled your glass on another woman (perhaps your boss or pastor), and while floundering to help her clean up, you trip on the shag rug, accidentally grope her, and catch yourself on the wobbly end table—which has candles on it. The candles fall, and the alcohol-infused rug bursts into flame. You put it out, but burn your writing hand. You will now spend at least the next two weeks in awkward, pain-filled misery.

See, spilling some wine on yourself wasn’t so bad, after all, was it?

just another Saturday

This Saturday, my dad came over to help me limb the giant tree in my backyard. Not only is it just a bit too shady in the summer, it was also threatening my power lines and my garage. Here's a couple pics after we'd made our mess. The big branch on the driveway side is the most obvious difference, but the difficult part was on the power line side--we had to take the branches down a tiny piece at a time, mostly with a pole saw, trying to drop the branches neithr on our heads or onto the power lines. Good times. And...here's a couple pics after cleaning it all up. Happy sigh. Doesn't it look great? And I may even have enough firewood for half of next winter already.

living room

With the advent of a functional fireplace and new curtains came a distinct need to rearrange furniture. Take a peek!

Ah, the warm glow of a fire. Tasty. Yes, my brown chair is missing. It's been relocated to the bedroom--where Clifford is enjoying it pretty much 24/7.

Who can tell what's different about this wall? Ok, there's more than one thing different. It's called fire. But technically, I've only hung one more thing on the wall...

And, of course, the awesome vintage suitcase set I got for my birthday. Too good to store in a closet somewhere.