Hallowed Ground

A long time ago I went to New York with my family. My sister and I sat next to each other, and I believe we were on a bus as we made our way into the big city. We came out of the tunnel and as I looked across the coast and the grass, and out at the looming buildings and the bustling technological now, I imagined what this place must have been like when pilgrims roamed the earth and small wooden buildings were first being erected here. Because that really did happen here. I turned and voiced my thoughts to my sister: she had been thinking the same thing.

In Ethics class our professor was telling us about a friend of his who's a history buff. He's a professional in something about war history, and so he was telling us about a time that he went with his friend to see the real Alamo in Texas. He described it as a very small almost insignificant structure. He said it was smack in the middle of a large Texas city, surrounded by sky scrapers and highways. His friend would point out which troops had come from where and which direction, saying things like, "behind that big building right there, that's where the Mexican troops marched from!" I can see him pointing in my mind at a giant dark black skyscraper with a girl in a green skirt and umbrella walking down the sidewalk next to it as taxi's rush by her. And out from around the corner a misty marching band of Mexicans come storming around the corner behind her. They march toward the Alamo with ancient rifles and billowing roars, they float right through the umbrella girl in her heals. That happened. It happened right by the skyscrapers and the concrete and the coffee shops.

We're all so caught up in the world the way it is now that we forget the way it was. We've covered the past with the future and we've made the decision to exist in a world that's history is made up of fairytales and parables floating around in a far away land. We forget that the streets we walk on were once dust, dirt, and manure. We forget that people once farmed and hunted in our backyards. We forget that our playgrounds were once battlegrounds. We sit and tan on the beach and forget that armadas once sailed on that horizon and bombs once exploded in our bays. We forget that the ghost of our history still floats around us everywhere that we go. That the space that we occupy has been occupied before. The places we see as regular and mundane now have a soul and a story and it's exciting to remember that we walk in the footsteps of those written in our history books. If we had knocked down the Alamo, someone could be sitting in an office typing away not realizing that the ground they're inhabiting was once the site of a loving fathers death. How many people do sit in offices, sip their coffee and wait for buses at the same sites where indians slept in tepee's, political parties met in secret, battles were waged, guns were shot, tomahawks were thrown, where babies were born, and lovers had first encounters.

It would be a shame to walk through life just seeing streets with taxi's, strip malls with merchandise, woods with trees, and fields with air. There's a history there. It's exciting to know that I write this in a place where the Kalapuya indians once wandered and hunted and gathered and loved, where Quakers once farmed and preached (and still do), where the original men of the Pacific Academy once studied, and Herbert Hoover once played and roamed as a boy. That happened here.

3/30/11

Tenacity

At the very least, it wasn't raining today. In Oregon that's the equivalent of having a sunshine and sidewalk chalk day. It wasn't fabulous and bright, but the wind felt right, and as I said, it wasn't raining. The air felt refreshing and the summer was wisping into town on it, so I made up my mind to manhandle my bike out of my room and go for a joy ride. 10 minute max. No water, no fancy shmansy gloves or clip ins, just me with my old volleyball shoes and rolled up jeans. I don't normally get on my road bike without all the accessories, but today I threw on my helmet alone, as is the tradition of the young child running down the driveway dragging their Schwinn in tow, and hopped on feeling casual and free. 10 minutes: away!

I crossed through the stop and go of neighborhoods and out onto a busier road, I followed it to the edge of town then rode its edge up to somewhere. By fields, and cows, by make believe cottages and places I didn't know still survived so near to my existence. I smelled the lilacs in my grandmothers backyard and felt the open old freedom of Rhode Island road trips. In my jeans, high school shoes and helmet I kept going and going and going and going. I couldn't turn back. Not until it started to rain on me and the wind picked up.

I hobbled to the gym today, sore from my first run since God only knows how long a couple days before; coerced to go again by a loyal friend. I figured 1 mile would be healthy, but once I got going, the speed went up and I demanded 2 of myself.

* * * * * * * *

I live my life like this. I say, "yah don't worry I'll take it easy" and then I give myself 18 credit semesters. I claim, "I'm only going to go for a short ride" then I'm gone for 3 hours. "I'm going to make sure I take care of myself and make healthy choices for me," I state, then I throw myself into life headlong with wreckless abandonment; war cry and boiling blood to their maximum strength.

It's not because I'm competitive with others, but that I'm competitive with myself. I love the challenge. I love to pour 100% of myself into the passion of the effort and the pain of the accomplishment. I love to work hard. I love to give every last ounce of myself to the challenge, and I revel in the pain and perseverance of the moment. I do this both mentally and physically. Yet mentally I'm learning that my perseverance putters out and my willpower crumbles under extreme forces when I am overwhelmed. Physically I would sooner collapse and stop breathing than not push myself to breaking and then keep going: it's when I get overwhelmed that I thrive.

I am the type of person who loves to commit themselves to immense challenges, and it is not the success and accomplishment of reaching a goal that makes it so fulfilling, but the continual spending of ones self with a steal will and the knowledge that you are the definition of perseverance and determination that makes the pain sadistically satisfying. I cannot go on a one mile run and I cannot go on a ten minute bike ride because I love too much to push and sweat, persevere and work hard, and to give every last ounce of myself to the freedom of never ending tenacity.

3/30/11

Oration

I meet with a student from China once a week so that I can help her with her Western Civilization class. For her class she's required to read over some primary source documents and then write a paper on them based on a question prompt. Every week that we go over her history, themes and ideas from it leak into my posts. Today we talked about Hitler. The document we read was written by a German man who was a Nazi but eventually left the Nazi party and later in life wrote about his experience listening to Hitler give a speech when he was in his early thirties. He talks about how Hitler would start quiet, and then let the speed and strength of his speech build over time. He was like a fanatic, a passionate and expressive patriot who invoked the deepest loyalty to the Fatherland by calling for a revival of German honor and manhood through his ideals. He had a way of leaning into the crowd, feeding on their energy, and implanting his ideas and emotions straight into their souls. They felt as though he was a second Luther: the gospel that he spoke was compelling, good, and truthful. His passions were clear, his convictions pure, and in a time where the German people were looking for a hero to lead them in their love of country, Hitler took the plate and swept them off their feet with his sarcasm, bravery and charisma. His fire and his humility gave off an unforgettable impression.

Hitler had power. It makes me wonder, if his life had been different, and if his ideas really had been pure and in the best interest of his country, people and God, would things have been different? If he had stepped up to the plate and fought for peace and justice, would the people have followed him? My original thought was that no, people followed him because he was easy to follow. His words dripped honey and his actions were concise and beneficial for the Aryans and therefore they followed him with ease. But it's much harder to follow someone who asks you to do good, and in asking you to do good, asks you to sacrifice and cause yourself harm. My original thought was that if he had called them to arms, so to speak, for the cause of peace and equality, his following would not have been so extensive.

I talked to the girls in my house about it and one of them disagreed with me to the extreme. She pointed out people throughout history that were passionate for a cause, a good cause, and how people really had taken up their cross in throws to do what was right. And then Martin Luther King Jr. popped into my head. Here is a speaker that uses his actions and voice inflections much the same way that Hitler had. Here's a man who also stood in front of thousands of thousands of captivated souls hanging on his every word as the truth of God, ready to leap when he said leap, kill if he said kill, and sacrifice when he said sacrifice. But Martin Luther King Jr., with all of his power, compelled the people to walk and to talk and to love and fight through peace.

Human nature is strong, but the powers of oration are stronger. I formerly thought that the masses were more inclined to take the easy route, which would more than likely be the selfish and destructive route, no matter how a leader would try to convince them. But I find that looking back on history, the human race has been more than willing to fight for a good cause if they had a leader irresistible enough in his passion and charisma to do so. People are empathetic and emotional. We are easily caught up in passions and pleading, in truth and temerity. If you can speak with those things, you can manipulate the collective will of the masses. If you can speak well than you have the power, and it doesn't matter what your cause is, it's who you are and what your cause is to the crowd. And once you've sold yourself to the people, and once you've sold them on the purity of your idea, they've sold themselves to you.

The people were sold on Hitler and Martin Luther King Jr.'s philosophies, and it makes me wonder if it was less what they stood for, and more the way they stated it, that influenced the mindset and beliefs of their followers. There is power in the art of oration. Presentation is everything. Charisma is everything. Passion is everything. We lift up the doctors and helpers of society onto a pedestal, but I think there is something to be said for the philosophers and actors who are the masters of words, emotions, and control. Oration is control, presentation is control, and anyone who can master the art of acting, of words and motion, has control.

I just makes me wonder how the world would be different and how history would change if what Hitler stood for was Good; because he certainly had mastered the art of control.

3/29/11

Exercise, exercise, it is good for you! Woo! *insert music note*

Today I went for a run. Last time I went for a run I went 2 miles. My plan today was to just go 1, but instead I went 2 because I was feeling pretty good. Plus last time I had biked 10 miles beforehand and that was probably the reason why I couldn't walk the next day right? Wrong. It has been less than 2 hours since the completion of my 2 mile run, and my legs shake when I go down the stairs.

* * * * * * * *

I definitely struggle with being unhappy. I think two major things that contribute to that are a lack of sleep and a lack of exercise. After getting no sleep for the last two nights I definitely had to struggle to be happy today. After exercising tonight I can definitely tell that it's now much easier for me to be happy. Someone walked by me about a week ago and asked how I was. I did some babbling about needing more sleep and self care and exercise and he looked at me and in a quick and matter of fact way summed up what I needed to be happy: "if you don't get sleep your brain doesn't function right and it's harder to be happy which means you need more self care during your day than normal just to function and get by. When I stop exercising I get super miserable. That's important too. If you keep up with those two things it'll help and when you add being overwhelmed by school work and still needing more self care because you don't have the other things, it's just a disaster. Well bye!" Well. Who needs a counselor when they've got the thirty second play by play of their life and the answers to its questions? All to say, exercise matters. A lot.

3/28/11

MY THOUGHTS ARE THE PINNACLE OF IMPORTANCE

Dear Babe,

Fuck Toni, what are you doing? You're constantly distracted. Distracted by your thoughts. You sit down to do your homework and you think. And you think and you think until hours have passed in your day and you haven't done anything because you're so consumed. You've been pulling out a journal to write down your thoughts during those times. To write them down, put them away, and move on. It's been helpful, but you know you've been horrified by what you've found and you know you're afraid of yourself. You are consumed by what you think about, and just like how you were consumed by your emotions until they were all you wrote about, right now you're consumed by your thoughts and they are all you write about. You are not being honest. You write your blogs and you allude to things and you are as vague as you can possibly be so that you'll know what you're talking about and be able to look back and remember, but no one else will. Why did you do this? To be HONEST. Here's a fact: a quarter of your posts are about your ex-boyfriend. This is about observing who you are, and it's about looking outward. The mission of this project has changed a bit, but is essentially still the same. Stop alluding. Stop being vague. Stop making this your quasi diary. Be blunt. Stop being consumed by your thoughts and stop blogging about them. You're obsessed. There are more important things in life than your emotions, thoughts, and your ex. I love you. Now change.

Remember this? Revised:



There are lessons that you learn every day. There are new things that you realize and new experiences that you have every day. Every day is new. Every day is different. To compile those lessons and build one upon the other over time will help you not only learn about yourself but also help you become more wise and lead you to transform into who you want to be. By reflecting on the lessons that you learn and applying them practically to your own interactions with people and yourself, you will change. Reflect on what you see, hear, feel, taste and smell. Reflect on actions and what they mean. Reflect on your world. You will not change if you only look at yourself. If you think that all that matters are your experiences and your thoughts, you won't advance. You'll stay stuck as the same self absorbed person you are in this moment. Stop thinking that staring in the mirror is going to change you: because it won't. You'll waste away as you stay fascinated, fixated and obsessed with yourself. Look at other people. Look at the world. Let those things affect you and matter to you and then you'll change. Stop blogging about your thoughts: all that you can learn from them is that you hold them to be the most important part of your experiences every day. That's selfish and disgusting.

I know you: the pursuit of truth is what drives your life. You won't find any truth in your these thoughts. I promise. There is no Truth in these. Change in yourself, transformation into a better person, is important but it's not the point. It's not just about discovering who you are and growing as a person. There is a big picture: pursue the big picture and chase after wisdom, truth, and love. You cannot produce fruit on your own: it's only by holding onto the vine that you will produce good fruit. And that'll happen when you're not even thinking about it. So stop looking inward and look outward.

And remember:



So here's my first post. I'm creating this blog on a whim. I've been wanting to do a sort of creative, "self portrait a day" style thing, but haven't ever worked up the umph to actually do it. It's that and I've always wanted to be able to be honest about myself: completely honest with anyone who asks me or wants to know. It's the people who have been completely honest with me about who they are and revealed themselves down to their dirtiest core being, disregarding their shame, that have taught me most about life and brought me the greatest understanding of mercy. I'd go as far as to say that if we really were honestly following the messiah, we would never hold back anything about who we are to others: we don't own our shame. It's not ours to withold: we have no right to be prideful and part of our mission is to display Christ. I think to do that we have to say who we are.

I think I'm getting ahead of myself.

This isn't a diary. It's not necessarily to document the events of my life, but to document an impression of where I've been and who I am. Not a history but hopefully a painting, an idea, a feeling, of me. It's to teach myself how to be honest and observe who I am.

You haven't failed so don't be discouraged. I know you wrote all that last night, and looking back I can honestly tell you, you are giving an impression of yourself. You have been showing who you are though this. You hate this post. It's emotional and about a subject that this whole post is based off of not talking about anymore. You can post whatever you want: even about your emotions and thoughts. But once you have, move on. Do not obsess over one thing for days and days. Now hit publish because as much as you loathe it's existence, this post has to stay because you have to remember the things you hate.

Love,
Baby

3/27/11

Leaving the nest.

I'm comin' home!
(because)
Home is where the heart is
(and)
there's no place like home.
(oh)
Homeward bound: I wish i was!
(what?)
Who says you can't go home?
(fact:)
You can't grow up at home.

*

Since I've moved out of state for college, going home is much different than it used to be. I made the decision to leave, so I brought all this change upon myself. I guess the benefits outweighed the losses at the time. Every time I go home I soak in the familiar: the rooms just where I left them, the grandfather clock still not ticking, the pictures in the hallway, the out of tune piano, the most beautiful backyard I've ever seen still waiting for its baby to come home to play. Sometimes I come home and the wallpaper's gone and there's fresh paint on the walls. Sometimes the furniture's been rearranged. Home will always be home: it'll always be what makes me comfortable and happy and where I feel most comfortable being me, but it'll always be changing, and I'm learning that you can't just fall in love with home as it is one way and leave it at that. You have to be continually getting to know and falling in love with home as it changes. It'll never stay the same as it was when you were its baby. (Though you'll always be its baby.) I want to go home: home the way I remember it way back when. But I know I can't stay anymore, and I know I can only have it in small doses: but I'll soak in those small doses and appreciate them for what they are and learn to love the changes, because the changes are now apart of what home is too. And they're good! Someday I'll go home for good. The changes will be extreme. But until that time that I have a home to go home to for good, I will visit and reminisce because I love what it was, I love what it's becoming, and I don't want to leave it for so long that it changes into something I don't know. And I certainly don't want it to forget me.

A friend of mine played this song the other day. Isn't it just marvelous?

Us college students know we can't come home. We've got growing up to do.

The "poem" in the beginning is a collection of lines from songs and movies and I don't know what, some of which I can't remember the titles to and don't feel like looking up. The only thing's that're mine are the words in parentheses and the last line.

3/26/11

I'm asking you myself: let me come home?

I always leave my hair untouched for long periods of time even though it needs to be cut, and it gets all frizzy because of intense split ends. That is definitely apart of my lifecycle. I finally got it trimmed today. A new cycle begun.

Meanwhile...



I've been singing this, "Home" by Edward Sharpe, for a week straight. Yesterday and today I sang as loud as I could to an empty house. I don't sing in front of people very often. It reminded me that I can still belt loud and free. So I opened up the old garage band, found a piano karaoke version by twinkie57401 on youtube, and recorded myself for kicks and giggles: no one's gonna hear it anyway right? But when I went to post the youtube video for this song, I realized the words were my words. I said them a long time ago to someone, and I don't feel like I can let someone else say them for me. I said them, I'll sing them, and I'll be honest with you myself. In my own words.

The picture is "Split ends can be good" by Rosie Hardy on flickr.

I don't know how I feel about having both of these topics in one. I feel like they're in a face off saying, "this post ain't big enough for the two of us!" Maybe I'll split it into two tomorrow? If both of these things can be in juxtaposition in my day, they can be that way in my blog. That's life.

3/25/11

Dubstep

I really love the dubstep genre of music. It's the kind of music you just want to sweat to. I've been listening to a pandora station of it all day today.


3/24/11

Messy

Embrace the nasty.

Your quality of life increases
when you stop worrying about
coloring inside the lines,
keeping the counter clean,
showering every day,
and worrying what people think
of how you act.

3/23/11

Warning: I Swear

FUCK!



Accept me for what I am. Accept me for the things that I do.
Love me for what I am. Love me for the things that I do.

me.

3/22/11

Rapid Food Consumption

When eating with my mother today she said, "You're eat like you're starving and you haven't eaten in a month! Slow down!" I've heard this my whole life. The moral of this story: I've always eaten ridiculously fast and always will. That is all.

3/21/11

ps

Can I just share with you that I typed the title, and when I looked at what I'd written it said, "Rapid Eye Consumption." I don't if my mom was saying something to me, or the TV was rambling, but I have no idea where that came from. I laughed...but I was disturbed.

The Ocean

The ocean is gargantuan.

Driving along the coast with my mom today, we kept stopping at the look outs. Every single time I would wonder how far it was to the shiny horizon, what time of day it was so far away, and how much water and depth there were between here and there, and I would say, "The ocean is so big." And my mother would say, "We've been to Hawaii a million times and you don't know this by now?!" Well no, sometimes you know things, and then you learn to know things, and everything changes.


We watched the sun set from our hotel room, all the way across the sea. It makes me wonder if thousands of miles from me to the sunset on the water, and another thousand beyond, if someone is watching the sunrise.

3/20/11

I don't know who to give credit for for the photo: it's from Newport, OR where I am though, and I found it on travelpod.com....

Regret

The feeling of regret is one of the most painful feelings. There are things that I regret because without them I would have been happier or the other option would have been better and healthier for me. But what if you think the option you chose is better for someone else?

Do what you love, love what you do.

Do what you want.

I need to start doing what I want.

3/18/11

Addicted: Reprise

I went to a coffee shop with a friend to work on our molecular biology lab reports. We started talking, and we never got around to writing them. I said, "We are made to be in community with other people. At the same time, we shouldn't rely on other people for happiness or to get by: we need to be self-sustaining and independent. How do I balance being independent, but also relying on people in my community? And how do I take care of myself but also help other people in my community at the same time?" The following are the notes I hurriedly typed into my "Background/Basic Research" portion of my lab report as we debated, discussed, made break throughs and agreed. I barely changed them at all: simple grammar changes and pronoun (i think) changes. Most of this is straight from what he said, and anything that sounds wrong is more than likely the few sentences in here that come from me. I thought that I would rewrite this to make a cohesive and thoughtful post, but I like this more.


"There’s a line between supporting and being support when someone doesn’t know how to do it on their own. Sometimes you have to semi-abandon people: push them out of the nest and let them fall. Put them in the deep and let them drown for a bit. You can lift, but you can’t hold someone up. You can be there to help them de-stress: but in groups. If you lean solely on other people for support you will loose your connection with God because you’ve broken that off. If you love someone than you don’t want to teach them unhealthy love and unhealthy relationships. There is no lesser of two evils: the “lesser of two evils” is just plain and simple not right. It’s not about individuality: you can’t be self sustaining or completely rely on someone else. You need to define what a healthy relationship is and not rely on them like a wife or husband. You can show unconditional love but not unconditional sacrifice. Unconditional acceptance and forgiveness, but not sacrifice. Sacrifice is not always love if it’s going to hurt them or keep them from functioning o their own. You need to see what sacrifices you’re accepting from other people and not become selfish. If your love cause someone to become selfish and overly dependent, that’s not love. The sacrifice can be either giving or pulling away, and if you have to pull away and it’s painful, that pain is your sacrifice in love. Showing a junkie love is not giving them more heroine. "


"Heavy In Your Arms" by Florence and the Machine

I have been heavy in people's arms before. I have had people by heavy in mine. I'm starting to think it's okay to not be 100% self-sustaining, but to derive some happiness from your friends and the people around you. As it relates to this, I'm starting to think that yes, I could live my whole life single and be okay with that, but I don't think I want to, and I think it is okay to rely on someone to a certain degree. The question is not: how can I be happy solely on my own? The question is: what does a healthy relationship look like? I hate hurting because the people that make me happy are gone or fail me: I think this may just be something I need to deal with instead of running away from people. It's because I've been so heavy in someone's arms that I believe my happiness should not be derived from other people, because it's not healthy for them or myself. I've swung to the opposite, and still unhealthy extreme.

What does a healthy relationship look like?

3/17/11

Lenten Season

When thinking of things to give up for lent, when you think of something that makes you say, "Absolutely not," you know you've found the right thing.

I want to be able to see a change from last time.

3/16/11

UNrealistic Expectations

When I observe the changes I need to make in my life so that I can be happy and get good grades, I end up with a list 10 feet long. I should go to sleep by 11pm and get up consistently at 7:40am every day. I should be exercising 3 times a week. When I study I need to be taking periodic brakes so I don't get burned out. I need to go somewhere like the library when I study so that I won't get distracted. I need to not just be waiting to study until I have a large block of time, but be studying every subject consistently ever day for short periods of time. I should not be watching TV or be on the computer after 10:30pm because those things stimulate the brain and make it harder to fall asleep. I should be at home by 10:30pm to be winding down to go to sleep. The list goes on and on.

In the perfect world, I would be able to do all of those things. But I am not in the perfect world, and I am not the perfect person: both because of my circumstances and my physiology. Sometimes I have too much work to go to sleep by 11pm. Sometimes I can't force myself awake at 7:40am. Sometimes I need my computer to do my homework before I go to sleep. Sometimes I can't stay at my house to study because it's too loud, sometimes I can't be at the library because it's too quiet. And in the end it's not about me. Sometimes I need to be there for other people and their needs are more important than mine. Sometimes I get so unhappy that I can't function and homework and studying are not options anymore. My mind does not operate correctly all of the time and I get distracted too easily to ever get anything done. Someone once told me, "there is something wrong with you" and it was the most loving and comforting thing I could have heard at a time when I thought that I was just lazy and unmotivated and everyone felt the way that I did.

Sometimes expectations that seem realistic and perfect for problem solving turn out to be very unrealistic in an unrealistic world. Sometimes it's not an option to fix all the dysfunction. Sometimes we need to learn to just get by in a dysfunctional world with a dysfunctional self and hope and pray it's enough.

3/15/11

Cultural Context

Marx was convinced that people were good at the core. He thought that people were very affected by their culture, for both bad and good. The history of past cultures perceptions of women make them out to be soft and dainty, in need of help and special care. This pampering mindset left over from England causes women today to feel as though they are entitled to being helped into cars and over ditches, and not just entitled in all cases, but really causes them to believe they need it. Women believe they need men to help them with physical tasks and even served: "will you get me water?" or "will you plug in my computer?" And what's more, men feel as though they are the stronger race and therefore more capable to do these things for women or even help them. And they are. But they too feel entitled to these actions, and this causes them to feel control over women in these situations and women feel as though they shoul be controlled. Subservience is weaved into our mindset, as well as control.

This dainty leftover view of women affects their personalities. We're raised to value attractive softness and allure in our attitudes. Almost subconsciously we're trained like Geishas to dress alluringly, act seductively, and caudal men's egos as we allow them to be the instruments by which we accomplish tasks both physical and intellectual, through leadership.

Let us bat our eyes and swing our hips like Marie Antoinette, let us swoon over strength, bending and popping and stroking masculine complexes in order to encourage the male chauvinist attitude we've created yet protest. We are as much to blame for the male attitude of our culture as their ignorance.

A mans self-esteem drops when beat in a racing video game by a woman; there is no strength of physicality, just skill. A woman fears the joke, "I would have been insulted to be beat by a man" or "Well I'm a woman of course I won!" though the reverse would be laughed at, accepted, and deep down believed. Because the truth is, most people don't believe woman are capable. And in all honesty, I wouldn't feel comfortable demeaning a man and making a rude joke about him: not because I've been trained to think they are better (though on a small scale this is true) but because I don't feel comfortable demeaning and being rude to any person. Though it seems to be okay to demean and make rude jokes about women without remorse.

My culture tells me I need help. My culture tells me I need the help of a mans hand as I hop over a puddle, that I need squeak whilst daintily hopping. My culture tells me I can't lift that box, and in fact I feel as though I shouldn't even try, but relinquish control: to men. I give men the power, I hand it over to create a patriarchal society that flourishes, knowing that "equality" is central but stuck in this unequal rut.

Central to being a woman is not dainty and perfect beauty in the form of slimming, curve showing clothing, flowery smells and a painted face. Central to being a woman is not asking for help with physical tasks that a woman can do herself, in batting eyes and swinging hips, in squeaking and being afraid. To act like a self-sustaining human being a woman should tackle the tasks she's capable of.

Womanhood is not a set mold that you step into at a certain age. It's discovering what you're good at and what you're talented at and working hard for those things. It's becoming an adult and taking responsibility for your life. It's stepping into adulthood and whatever that means for you. I think a better question than " what does it mean to be a woman" is "what does it mean to be an adult" because the only difference in becoming a man vs becoming a woman essentially is genitalia: both are the terms for male's and females growing up and taking on those roles of responsibility. They are not set: they're what we make of them. I can just as well say that I want to be able to get an education and get a solid job so that I can support a family as any man.

So screw cultural context and what I'm supposed to live up to. I want to become an independent adult. When I do that I'll be a woman.

3/14/11

The painting is Marie-Antoinette, a la rose, 1783. Oil on canvas. By Vigee Le Brun.

Worship

I listened to worship today being led by an older man with a classic 80's rock voice. If worship was stuck in the 80's and that raspy voice led all my worship sessions I feel that the value of my praising experience would increase significantly.


3/13/11

Gross

Why is it that when we smash bugs, or kill animals, we think that the conglomeration of proteins and organs is "gross." When I think of something being gross, I think of someone immature shying away from something they feel is gooey, messy, or icky. Maybe the reason we wince away from the squished bug is not because it's dirty or sticky, but because to see something go from ordered and living to destroyed is unnatural and an abomination. It's not gross, it's mortifying to see something holy, creation, be killed and made into something it was never meant to be. I think that's why we wince.

3/12/11

Peter Pan Syndrome

There's a childlike hope that believes all good will come to pass, a faith that knows everything is possible, a laughter that's pure and uncontrollable, and a hunger for adventure that's contagious. Wendy knew this, and it's why she fell in love with Peter Pan. But like the rest of us, Wendy had to grow up, and when it came down to it, it's what she really wanted. We're all faced with the challenge of learning to take responsibility for our lives and grow up, but we never lose that love for the childlike. It becomes the definition of magic. What's harder than growing up is being grown up, and realizing that you can never have that back. When Wendy encounters Peter again as an adult she is faced with the realization that she'll always love Peter. The cold truth is that she's made herself into something apart from him by she choosing to be an adult: and we all do.

"She let her hands play in the hair of the tragic boy. She was not a little girl heart-broken about him; she was a grown woman smiling at it all, but they were wet eyed smiles.

Then she turned up the light, and Peter saw. He gave a cry of pain; and when the tall beautiful creature stooped to lift him in her arms he drew back sharply."

~J.M. Barrie "Peter Pan"

In choosing to be adults there's a painful understanding that we've chosen to imitate the molds of those who have come before us. Peter Pan is all of the good qualities that Wendy adored, but he's a child: and his selfish, forgetful, irresponsible nature was just as much apart of him. I wonder if it's possible to be an adult and keep the good parts of the childlike nature, and not the bad? So far, I'm not convinced, and I daresay Wendy isn't either.

Originally written 1/14/11

Posted for 3/11/11

Muscle Memory

"He tripped toward her and she reached up to catch his head in her hands. She pulled back before she could touch him, hoping no one had noticed. Shocked, she realized that old habits die hard."

It's fascinating to learn that muscle memory can apply to the mind as well. Long after actions and habits are gone, ideas linger and perspectives don't change. Even emotional responses can be repetitious. Today was not a day that I experienced this aspect

3/10/11.

Clowning Around: Reprise

I am not my body, although I consider us very close friends. Family in a way. Twins maybe. Fraternal twins. She's the means by which I interact with the world. It doesn't matter if I am the most determined person in the world and nothing is wrong, if my body ain't happy, ain't nobody happy. When she says, "I'm done," we're pretty much done. When my body gets exhausted, it doesn't matter if I'm ready to work till Jesus comes back, I shut down. Today I worked as hard as I could on practically no sleep, pushed myself to the limit and I was hell bent and determined to succeed and not give in. I was not sad, but for the first time in my life, my body cried without me. And I pitied her.

I am my body, and she works as hard as she can but there's only so much she can do. When she's not happy, I can't ignore her and I can't be happy either. We're much more connected than I realize, and my success and joy depend on her as much as they depend on my feelings and desires. I think it goes to show that thoughts can only get you so far: during the Enlightenment, the rich middle class came up with all these marvelous ideas about how life for the working class should be, but their ideas didn't work in reality. Before WWI the French and Germans had a very heroic and romantic vision of what war was like: until they experienced it and learned it wasn't as seductive an idea as they thought. I cannot live off of my thoughts and ideas and theories because real life doesn't play out like that.

I think there is something spiritually significant to existing in a physical world with physical limitations. If I had nothing to tie me down and put limits on me, I could do anything. I would be all powerful. As it is, I am not. I'm tied down. And there's a reason for that, and that reason is good. There's something to learn here; from this.

3/9/11

Home Sweet Home

There's something very motivating about being home. And not just being where you live: home has a feeling. I had to go somewhere quiet and different than my house, so I went somewhere old and familiar. There was silence, the ticking of a backwards clock I'd helped win at an arcade, a decorated wall I'd designed, and familiar couch cushions. An old friend took the best care of me I could have asked for: coffee and a bagel, a plugged in computer, all for free. I sat and studied by lamplight and smelled the smells and felt the feeling of ancient history and home. I felt more motivated than I have in a long time. Trials and tribulations become almost enjoyable when your soul is taken care of and you're happy.

3/8/11

Individual Faith

"I see you there hanging on a tree

You bled and then you died and then you rose again for me."

Lots of Christians talk about how American Christianity is too individualistic and has lost its focus on God and community, which is very apparent in Christian music. During chapel for my school I was reading the unfamiliar lyrics on a slide as everyone around me sang, and as these lyrics came up I cringed at the idea that a community of Christians worshiping together would sing about how Christ died for themselves as an individual. As everyone sang that line, I heard a voice change the lyrics to end with "us" and had to smile. I guess me as an individual am appart of a larger community who sees the problem too.

3/7/11

Lepers

I have seen people this last week, and they are all lepers. I have been the definition of a leper, for years and years and years, and by some demented twist of fate, this last week as everyone closest to me has crawled forth bleeding and wailing and chocking, I have held together unswervingly. Jesus in reality, I think, is much stronger than portrayed here. But with Jesus flowing through my veins, what is portrayed here is me. I look around, and I see everyone hurting, and I see myself hurting, and something apart from me has held me together. It's overwhelming to see the lepers, and its comforting at the same time to see that I am not alone as one of them. And often there is no comfort here: no grace from persecutors, no relenting of the pressures, and worst of all, no understanding from others crying out to be healed. In this dysfunctional community I see and I feel something apart, but a part, holding me together, and I believe it's God.

This version of The Lepers scene is from the film "Jesus Christ Superstar." If you go to youtube and search "The Lepers Jesus Christ Superstar," the second option that shows up is from the Egyptian Theater Company and it is my favorite betrayal besides the one I saw live in my hometown.

3/6/11

Eye Contact

One of my favorite quotes: this is what someone said to a good friend of mine after having a staring contest with them: "I feel like we just exchanged parts of our souls!"



I've never been able to hold eye contact with someone for any amount of time. It's always felt too vulnerable and real and honest. For the first time in my life I've learned to look someone in the eyes, and stay that way, and not feel the urge to look away or laugh or make funny faces to break the tension. And I think I know why. It's not just because you're letting someone look at you, and it's not because you're looking at someone else. It's because when you're vulnerably looking into someones eyes, you're looking at yourself. You're faced with the complete and holding reality of who you are; all the awkward, shameful, and uncool truth of ourselves comes out when we're forced to drop the facade. So when we're uncomfortable looking in someones eyes it's because we're uncomfortable looking at ourselves. I must be getting more comfortable looking at myself.

The picture is entitled "staring contest! - Day 164" and is by leila-anne on flickr.

3/5/11

Wish come true.

They walked through the dusty ruins, observing the tall spires and strange writing on the stones. Sandi stood excitedly next to the well and beckoned Sam to come. "Come make a wish!" she coaxed. Only a little reluctantly Sam walked to the well and leaned over to peer inside: there was no water left to wish toward, just a dusty visible bottom. He looked up to give Sandi a doubtful look, but her excited grin left him with no choice but to sigh and go on with the plan. Sandi walked several paces away to give him ample space, claiming that she wasn't supposed to hear the wish, because that would make it less authentic. So Sam leaned over into the well, and feeling more than a little childish whispered what he wished for.

"I wish for adventure." He paused for a moment and waited, holding his breath, and the child in him held him still, expecting something to happen. After a tense moment of silence he looked up at Sandi and shrugged, walking away from the well toward home.

"Hold on," said Sandi walking to the well and leaning on the edge. "Keep walking," she smiled. "You can't hear it." Sam rolled his eyes at her, but obliged. He watched as she strained up onto her toes and leaned forward, her long hair sliding off her shoulders, the ends disappearing behind bricks. It hid her lips as she whispered words he couldn't hear into the well. She paused for a short moment and then hopped back onto her heels and continued merrily his way.

The sun was on the verge of turning the world a slight shade of orange as Sam turned to walk home, expecting the steady presence of Sandi to glide up next to him as it always did. As he turned, a slight breeze brushed his face, then picked up speed to ruffle his hair. Sandi's unsteady voice pierced the silence.

"Sam--" he turned back to see her standing in front of the well. The wind picked up and he watched as she looked down at herself as her body began to drift off in wisps with the wind. She looked up, reached a hand out, and he hurried, reached to take hold of it but it drifted through his. "Sam!" The rest of her flew away in the wind.

Everything was still as Sam's hand hung in mid air. He listened to his name echo off the ruins and mortified had no idea what had happened. It was too fast. The silence and stillness that followed became maddening. He feared going back that no one would remember her; she was so completely gone. It was like she had never existed at all.

* * *

"I have to go, I have to go. Your hair was long when we first met."

* * *

Sam. Do you remember what happens next? Do you remember why?

3/4/11

Don't Make Me Over

3/3/11

Mercy

A university is a business, and the system is built for the businessmen. It doesn't matter that it was supposed to be built for the students to get an education for themselves: the students are the interns and if they don't bring the coffee in time, and just right, there is no mercy.



Photo courtesy of The Burt Show

3/2/11

Under Pressure

"My God! Harold!
"I'm OK, it's alright. I'm fine."
"Harold you're not fine! Look at you, you're severely injured!"

I like to say I'm good under pressure, and in a way it's true. I can think well under pressure: my logic becomes like a beacon. My emotions do not do well under pressure. Leadership and decision making become clear as day, and as I step through logical decisions I can feel a crippling strain in my chest that threatens to shake through my skin. I can't decide if I'm really good under pressure anymore: I'm not sure which side wins out in the end.

Bavarian sugar cookies courtesy of "Stephcookie" on blogspot, and quote courtesy of "Stranger Than Fiction."

3/1/11

Genetics

I have five sisters. My step sister and I are closest because we're closest in age and went through junior high and high school at the same time. I love her like I love the stuffed animals I've slept with since before I was one, like everything a Rhode Island trip entails, like the sunshine. She's family, but it's not a genetic link that we share, it's experiential.

I have one full sister. We're not as close as we used to be; time and distance have done what they do best. We share an atmosphere, and we share genetics. The way we've grown up has never really stressed family ties, but there's something much deeper than the sharing of experiences that keeps us connected: it's a physical similarity and genetic being.

Somehow, the physical is meshed with the soul. I am not normal. Never fear; I'm not convinced any of us are. But some of us are abnormal in the same ways as others, and that connection is a soul connection: a family connection. My struggles against my physical existence are the same as my sisters, and that's got something to do with the soul.

I think what I'm learning is that there are different ways to share your soul. Some of them are inherited in the physical with your family, some of them are breed over time with the sharing not the physical existence but of experiences and struggles, and I think this is how a man shall leave his father and mother and cling to his wife: they share experiences and struggles and there's a sharing of the soul in that, but they share the physical as well, genetics, and that's what solidifies them as family.

2/28/11

Road Trip Day

To be continued. I have to keep going.

2/27/11

******

Today is a road trip day.
It's a gray day
and it's a tired day.
It's the kind of day where you
put your feet on the dash board,
you listen to good music,
~~you have good conversation,
And you eat lots of snack food
~~like cutie oranges
~~and bags of chips.
It's the kind where you drive though
~~wheat fields
~~and farmland
And you daydream a lot
And you stare out the window a lot
And you feel a bit solemn
~~And maybe a small portion sad
But in the end you laugh
And you don't want to get where you're going.

Updated 3/24/11
I'm pretty sure I wrote this before Christmas break. It was a sweatpants and homework on the couch day.

Post for 2/27/11

Atmosphere

I went to Seattle this weekend. That place exudes a feeling. A feeling of ancient vintage home and relaxing wonder. I love the way I feel when I'm there as I soak in their way. But it's just a shell, it's just a book cover that I'm judging, it's just colors and clutter and beauty.


Do I want to live my life surrounding myself with things that give me a certain feeling? There are places that matter in this world, where I can be happy, that won't give me an immediate comfortable and attractive feeling. They're no less worthy of my love and many will in the end make me happier when I dig into them.

I, judge a book by its cover. I judge a building by its architecture, I judge food by its presentation, I judge clothes by their style, I judge by feeling.


People, have an atmosphere. The way they dress, the music they listen to, the books they read, the shows they watch. And you want to be with people that have an atmosphere that makes you comfortable and that you love, but a persons atmosphere is not what makes them worth of staying with. There is something much deeper than that. Be the atmosphere that attracts you, derive that happiness from yourself, and in others, look for something deeper that's worth staying with.




2/26/11

Crying

Last year I was worried there was something wrong with me: I went months and months and months without crying. I wouldn't even cry in front of my best friend.

Before I left for school that year, the night before, a group of my friends came over to my house and my little sister and I spent time with them. They said their goodbyes to me and left. I had emptied my closest out and had piles of clothes on my bed: ancient clothes to give away and ancient clothes I never want to give away. I went to the bathroom and I came out and my sister wasn't there. I walked through the house and looked into my room and there she was sitting on my bed in the midst of all of my clothes, crying. I walked to her and we both cried and she hugged me. I don't cry in front of people. I don't hug people while crying. There's something honest and vulnerable about that that makes we want to slink away and hide. But she hugged me and I hugged her and we cried together and something inside of me was forced to give a bit that day. Then I went to school and refused to cry again.

It's inevitable that when you only have one room to live in, and you only share it with one person, they're going to see the worst and craziest of you. I can't tell you how many times my roommate came home that year, and has come home this year even more times, to find me bawling, or has been in our room when I've both slunk in quietly or burst in in a flurry of tears. All of those times she's listened to my long explanations, often times the same rant over and over, and she's given her wise advice, and she's put her calm hands on my knees, and she's prayed for me. She forced me to give as well as I learned that I could trust and that it's okay to show your weaknesses and be healed.

The day I gave up on my best friend and we cried together, all of my pride and walls I'd put up were forced to melt away. This portion of my life has been one of the most difficult of my life, and I've discovered that when you can't help but cry, you end up not being able to help cry in front of people. I've learned an honesty in this practice. It may be showing a vulnerability and a weakness, but honestly, I am vulnerable and I am weak. I've learned that there's nothing wrong with that and my best friend is still able to look me in the eyes and tell me that my showing my weakness is not a weakness, it's not a personality flaw, it's me. And there's nothing wrong with me.

Sometimes I have to be appreciative of the hardest times in my life, because they've forced me to change. I didn't change myself: those who have seen the core of me and shown me love have made me honest.

2/25/11

Woman

What makes a woman, a woman? I pondered this as I wore my baggy blue pants with my tennis shoes and disheveled hair. That day I didn't feel like a woman. I discussed it with some of the women I live with. I asked them, "what makes you feel like a woman?" We agreed that it was when we looked good, when we felt beautiful, and when we felt confident.

I have a theory: why do women want to feel attractive? Attractive people are more approved and accepted by society: don't debate this with me. It's true. If a cute guy says he's noticed you in class and wants to strike up a conversation he's much more likely to be received as a charmer than the greasy unkempt guy that comes over and can't make eye contact when he talks. It's unfortunate, but true. I think women who want to feel accepted and loved try to look the most appealing and put together: they're looking for support. These are the females we define as "women" in our society. The powerhouse, lookin' good, confident ladies. The ladies that are in need. But what if you're just female? You've got a vagina. Does that make you a women?

The more I've pondered it this last week, the more I think that being a "woman" is a role that you have to step into. My American culture defines it in a very specific way, the way I said above, but there are cultures all over the world with women in loin cloths and dirt and they may not be "beautiful" by my cultures standard, but by God are they women. I think it's a taking on of adulthood and responsibility. Or something. I don't know yet but what I've determined this last week is that it's not what America thinks. It is something that any woman anywhere can have, and it's something she has to step into. It's an inner beauty: though I don't know exactly what that inner beauty entails: sometimes I think I feel it, but I don't understand it enough to describe. It's more than a vagina and less than perfectly manicured eyebrows.

When I think of the way America defines being a woman, I think of all the women I know that can't live up to that expectation, and I feel crushed along with them. I sat down in biology class today and as the professor began to speak, I flipped to the back of my notebook and wrote my thoughts as well as the women near and dear to my heart. This is what we say:

Woman

I hate the hair above my lips
She said to me one day.
I hate the hair inside my nose
The hair above my eyes
I hate the hair upon my legs
The hair upon my thighs
I hate the hair upon my arms
The hair that no one sees
I hate the hair upon my toes
She said to me one day.

I hate the flabs when I lift my arms
She said to me one day.
I hate the flabs beneath my butt
The flabs below my chin
I hate the flabs by my armpits
The flabs above my jeans
I hate the flabs about my thighs
She said to me one day.

I hate the dimples behind my legs
She said to me one day.
I hate the birthmarks and the warts
The moles and the cellulite and the spots
I hate the shape of my knuckles
The discolored scars and calluses and freckles
I hate the circles beneath my eyes
She said to me one day

I hate the way I walk
She said to me one day
I hate the way I smile
The way I talk and laugh
I hate the way I sit
The way I gesture and eat
I hate the way I dance
She said to me one day

She said to me one day:
There is no beauty here.
There is no beauty here.
There is no beauty here.

There is no woman here.

She looked me in the eyes one day
And told me to my face
I hate every inch of you
And she cut me all away
I tried to tell her I love your nose
Your freckles and sunken cheeks
I love every birthmark
And the way you sit and eat
I love your unkempt hair
And your chicken legs
I love your dried out lips
The curves above your jeans
I love your laugh
The things that make you unique
I said to me one day
There is no woman here.
There is no woman here.
There is no woman here.

There is no beauty here.

So I hated every inch of me
And I cut myself away.


I wrote the last line and heard my teacher say, "K, did everybody get that?" I had not in fact gotten any of that class, but I got something. Every line of " I love's" is geared toward a woman I know.

What does it mean to be a woman?

2/24/11