Two points for Him!

When I was younger, summer days at my house meant doing “productive”, educational things: reading vocabulary-building books, piano practice, a few pages of journaling each day.  As much as I whined about “never having time to relax”, I’m thankful now that my mother was as adamant as she was about these things…because years later, I’m a logophile and a songwriter, and it’s largely because my mum planted those seeds and was wonderfully stubborn about watering them.

Since my brother started school, summer days mean teaching him to do the same “productive”, educational things.  Thankfully, he loves to read.  And since I’ve only been home a few days, piano lessons will have to wait until I find and go through the books I started with.  However, the discipline required to sit still long enough to write a full page eludes him.  He’s not crazy about writing.

As much as I’ve always adored this little boy, I used to have a short fuse with him, especially when I didn’t understand him.  Case in point: I love to write.  Writing is a large part of how I understand my world.  How could anyone not love to write?  How could my perfect brother not love to write?  (And the real questions, lurking beneath it all: how could my brother not be perfect?  Am I doing something wrong?)

Over the past few months, one close friend has been setting me a wonderful example of how to care for small children, especially when they try her patience and threaten to wear her out.  This lesson was never one that I consciously watched for, but I realized that I’d absorbed it when I got home a few days ago and suddenly had an unreal amount of patience with my brother.  I’m quicker to gently admonish than I am to raise my voice.  I give more encouragement than ultimatums.  My brain has finally seemed to understand that he’s eight – that he’s going to fidget at the table and need more encouragement than I may think is necessary and push the onions aside, because that’s the way eight-year-olds are.  Most importantly, my heart has wrapped itself around the fact that he’s not perfect, and it’s wrong of me to expect such a thing.  Come to think of it, his sister is just as imperfect, and that’s because only God is perfect, and neither of us comes anywhere near that standard.  This is all Him – more specifically, “a gift by His grace through the redemption which is in Christ Jesus” (v. 24).  He planted the seed (my friend and her example), He gave me an increased measure of patience, and He is showing me how He works in my life.  He’s using so many tools to teach me about His grace, and it’s awesome!

I’m reminded now of something I prayed for just two weeks ago: that I would learn to love my brother “right now, to love him more, to love him exactly as [God] loves him”, and a continual prayer: that God would answer me in ways that I can see and understand.  Two points for Him ;)

So the Olympics are on...

...and I'm thinking about everything but the Olympics.  I'm thinking about how:

• I'm afraid to pray, but am trying to remember that my sin is not news to Him, so I shouldn't be afraid.  After all, He did command me not to fear my storms.
• Mum, realizing that I'm actually done with research on Friday, asked if I wanted her to come up earlier than Sunday...and I, not wanting to miss church, said, "No, Sunday's just fine."
• I'm tired of people and tired of crying and tired of myself and tired of missing the one friendship I can't have right now.
• home is going to be more of the same.

Do I have to?  Father, I need to stop being afraid of You.  Come near, please, and help me to pray.  I want You back.

Issues of learning and abortion

[It's nice that I'm being allowed the liberty of creative (i.e. non-academic) writing, especially in a LIM class.  After all, I'm all about journaling.]

As draining as it is to spend such long hours in the classroom, I am so thankful that I'm getting to take this seminar.  After all, I'm not in college to spend my time in passivity, learning by rote and memorizing information that may or may not matter to me after I've graduated.  I'm here, rather, to absorb information about issues that will be relevant to my career path.  I'm here to accrue knowledge and refine my personal convictions.  I'm here to be an active participant in my own growth, as well as a good steward of my education.  And although this class is more tiring than I ever expected, it's giving me all of the above, and in abundance.  So, I'm grateful.

On a more personal note, I’m beginning to notice that this class is teaching me something that’s decidedly not academic.  To put it simply, it involves a classmate of mine who is…ah, why sugarcoat things?  She’s obnoxious.  Now, I hate to cast (unwarranted) aspersions on another person’s character, so I’m going to try to shoot for objectivity here.  (I may or may not succeed… but this particular classmate is a woman I’ve only known for a few days, after all, so let me at least try to be fair without sacrificing honesty.)

My context for these comments is that I haven’t taken classes with adults very often during my three years at Union.  On the contrary, I’m used to being around undergraduates, to being immersed in the undergraduate “atmosphere”.  Specifically, I’m used to hands raised, and to the implicit understanding that a professor deserves a certain respect from his/her students.  My observations of this particular classmate over the past few days reveal her to be a complete departure from all of the above.  She speaks out of turn appallingly often, and apparently thinks it respectful (to both her peers and her teachers) to carry on side conversations while class is in session.  She responds to professors more audibly and frequently than is decorous – and here, I’m not talking about the responses to professors’ direct addresses.  The adage that comes to mind is “speak only when you’re spoken to”…I mean, by all means, laugh at a joke, but no one needs to hear how you feel about the professor’s every other assertion – especially when you’re not adding anything of substance to the discussion.  That’s just inappropriate!  What’s more is that her conduct hinders the education of those who are trying to pay attention and take advantage of the wonderful opportunities (i.e. lecturers) in this class.

This woman has me convinced that she thinks she’s the only one in the room; such a selfish attitude, coupled with her pushy demeanor, does nothing to inspire my respect for her as a peer.  It is, rather, a huge turn-off, and I would be grossly understating things if I were to that she irritates me.  However, in a roundabout sort of way, she is proving to be instructive.  (I’m searching for a silver lining here because frankly, unless I do, I’m afraid that I won’t be able to tolerate being around her for the rest of the week.)  The first lesson that comes to mind is an old admonition my mother used to give me: “If you have nothing nice to say, there’s no need to say anything at all.”  It’s been taking considerable and constant self-discipline to not ask this classmate to rein herself in (if for no other reason but my sanity)…and, on occasion, to kindly stay quiet.  This exercise in self-restraint is not without its benefits; I know that in the future, it will behoove me to control my reactions, especially among my elders.  The line between being a doormat and exercising social prudence is a fine one, but an important one that this classmate is helping me to toe.  As my mother also often points out, there are all kinds of people in this world, and the least that each of them can do for you is teach you a greater awareness of yourself.  This woman is teaching me about the kind of classmate I don’t want to be, which is just as important a definition as is the kind of classmate I do want to be.   At best, this is a counterintuitive conclusion, but it’s a valuable one nonetheless.

On to matters of class material, then…this morning, as Dr. M spoke at length about [philosopher] Gregory, he often spoke of the value Gregory placed on candor in the physician-patient relationship.  As I understand it, candor is honesty of expression – and in medicine, implies a transparency with the patient regarding all aspects of his care.  For example, a respect for candor dictates that a physician must refrain from managing a problem that is too much for him to handle, instead opting to seek a consultation with the appropriate professional.  Perhaps this speaks to my relatively sparse history education, but I am continually surprised by how applicable many of Gregory’s assertions are in the contemporary context.  The value of knowing one’s own limits by no means expired with Gregory.

The other subject which especially interested me today was the discussions on abortion, particularly because this issue bothered me personally for years in the context of my father’s job as an OB/GYN.  It seems that a personal context always lends an extra dimension to this issue, which is already frustratingly controversial.  I’ve been asking my dad for years about how he can perform abortions (albeit infrequently) and still maintain a clear conscience.  His reply is always that one shouldn’t use religious beliefs as a basis for professional decisions.  Perhaps that’s a way to avoid the issue; I don’t like this method, though because my faith plays a prominent role in defining my self-conduct, both personally and professionally.  I do understand the value in “keeping work at work” and so on, and I am aware of Gregory’s position on the issue (that when professional and personal interests conflict, the professional interest should prevail).  But at this point in my life, at least, I feel compelled to seek consistency between my faith and my career.

During the winter break of my sophomore year, I had an observership on the labor and delivery/maternity floors of a hospital in the Bronx.  I remember spending time in an ambulatory clinic where abortions (both D&Cs and D&Es) were performed.  It was that experience that gave me my first experience with what the issue of abortion looks like in real life.  The D&Cs were somehow easier to watch, perhaps because they are performed before the pregnancy really looks much like a fetus; everything is blood and scraps of tissues, and it’s less obvious to a bystander that all of that would have become a baby…someone’s baby.  The first D&E that I observed, however, made me nauseous…I remember seeing the surgeon extricate a small, slippery arm, a foot, a head, and thinking, it’s like seeing parts of a doll, the kind of doll I played with as a young girl.  It was essentially a dismembered fetus, and that was upsetting.  It seemed to me then (although I didn’t use this terminology, per se) that this was a baby, and it had the right to live…it had moral standing.  Did the first fetus have it, too?  I think so…but the problem here is that it just never got a chance to survive to the point where it would have looked like a doll, too.

Having actually seen the procedure, it’s hard for me not to think of abortion – at any stage of fetal development – as wrong.  How will my faith figure into my professional conduct, if at all?  Here is the current stance of the Episcopal Diocese of New York on abortion:

“The Diocese supports freedom of choice in abortion...Convention in 1974 (reaffirmed in 1986) endorsed the decision of the U.S. Supreme Court ‘allowing women to exercise their own conscience in the matter of abortions.’[1]

I think need to do more research to see what the Church of England and the Bible say about abortion before I draw any conclusions…

What will I do when my professional obligation to my patient hangs in the balance (i.e. when the mother’s health is at risk)?  I’m not sure yet.  I can’t see myself ever performing elective abortions, but perhaps I could justify performing therapeutic abortions on the grounds of responsible patient care.

---

[1] “Positions on Social Issues.”  Episcopal Diocese of New York: Abortion, Needs of the Poor, Aging.  23 July 2012.  http://www.dioceseny.org/pages/319-abortion-needs-of-the-poor-aging. 

How much thinking is too much thinking?

My mother dispenses perfectly good advice.  At the risk of sounding biased (which I obviously am), I deem her much better than the average guide.  I just wish it were easier for me to accept that guidance.  Obviously, my idiosyncratic mental blocks frustrate her; they frustrate me just as much!  For as much as they make me slow down mentally and actively consider the merits of her suggestions, they're also irritatingly paralytic.  What it comes down to is the issue of how much thinking is too much thinking.

The mind is an exquisitely-designed device; its complexity lies far beyond our comprehension, and I often take that for granted.  But sometimes, situations like the one I encountered this morning remind me that thought can be as complicated as that...or as simple as choosing between the English muffin or the bagel.   (Side note: I always choose the English muffin.  It's those easy choices that give me some hope.)

Do I believe in luck?

I don't believe in luck.  Show me empirical evidence for luck, a rational argument for its existence, and I'll think about it.  I have a friend who calls luck "God-coincidences", and as much as I admire her faith (as well as her skillful command of language), my lack of faith makes it impossible for me to perceive a "God-coincidence", much less experience one.

There's one slight problem with this belief (or perhaps it's a disbelief.  Or just a lack of belief.  But disbelief and lack of belief are both beliefs in themselves.  Hello, Tim Keller!)  The day I took the SAT, I wore a particular sweatshirt which I had bought at Disney World the previous spring.  I chose to wear it that day because it was satisfyingly roomy, exceptionally warm, and had a lovely huge hood inside which I could hide, lest I be distracted by other test-takers.  I ended up with a perfect score on the exam.  I don't say this to boast; I say this to make a point.  I'm no smarter than the next person.  I work hard, which is a rational explanation for my success that Saturday morning in March.  But there was always a nagging voice that insisted the sweatshirt had something to do with it...and there was always a part of me that believed that voice.

Go ahead and call me a hypocrite, if it makes you feel better about this.  I prefer to think of myself as a human being grappling with a conflict.  Case in point: I had an exam this morning which I knew would be difficult.  I expected it.  So by 7:30 am, I was mentally prepared, knowing that I would leave the exam feeling like the wind had been knocked out of me.  But before I left my room, I made sure to grab my Disney sweatshirt...because the way I saw it, a little luck couldn't hurt.

I did it.

I did it.  Whoa.

I could start to write about this in one of two ways: I could say that I'm proud of myself, or I could describe the pride.  It just so happens that I started with the latter, and this gave me pause as I considered the negative connotation of "pride" as opposed to the positive one of "being proud of myself".  It is socially acceptable for a girl to be proud of herself for running her first race, or for walking calmly past the dessert without eyeing the pie, or for doing well on an exam.  Pride, however, stinks of arrogance, of unwarranted haughtiness.  How can two words that are so closely related be so fundamentally different?

It is with some circumspect reservation, then, that I confess to having some pride in myself today.  I ran a 5K (3.1 miles) in 30 minutes and 28 seconds.  Apart from the time being a personal best (I usually finish in anywhere from 32 to 36 minutes), today was special because it represents, quite simply, an accomplishment.  I didn't have to set an hour aside daily for the past six weeks so I could train.  There were plenty of excuses I could have made for myself, including but not limited to needing sleep, needing time to work, and needing time in general.  For the record, it's not as if I was looking for a hobby because I have free time.

So I could have run it cold.  I could have stopped to walk.  I could have been a no-show.  I did none of those things.  I made a commitment to myself that I would stick to my training schedule, no matter what, and spend the entire race running.  No matter what.

That isn't to say that it was easy.  It was 10 am on an October morning in upstate New York, which meant that five minutes in, I was flexing the fingers of the hand not holding my iPod in an effort to ward away the stiffness that threatened it.  And there were two hills.  I hadn't prepared for hills, and when I saw them, I groaned inwardly.  There were times when I felt that I was moving more vertically than horizontally.  Like I was on a pogo stick.  Not pleasant.  But I set short-term goals: the next lamppost, the next mailbox, the next bush over there...and then I was gazing downward and smiling as I let gravity help me for the next minute or so.  Apart from these obstacles, it was just me and old Britney Spears tunes in my ear.  I won't lie; I was only a staunch Britney devotee until her life went downhill, but the beats from her newer material are stellar in terms of establishing breathing rhythms.

There were also better spots during the half-hour.  There were times when I stopped checking my iPod to see how long I had been going.  I actually zoned out a few times.  I forgot that the plastic dog tag twist-tied to my shoelaces was slapping my foot in time with Britney.  I stopped checking out the fifty-somethings running five-minute milers.  I slipped into a single-minded, dissociative focus.  Prior to today, I've only experienced this while writing songs or studying.  In this state, I felt simple delight at the briskness of the morning, the tingly adrenaline rush, the strength of my muscles (biology...actin...myosin...yum.)  It was suddenly calm upstairs.

As I approached the 3-mile marker, I resolved that I would sprint to the finish line.  A strong finish.  Almost done.  It would be a shame if you didn't go all-out; you'd definitely regret it later.  I felt like a machine, with all of my moving parts sliding back and forth smoothly and without complaint.  I smiled slightly as I blew across the finish line, wanting to fling my arms skyward but entirely too self-conscious to do such a thing.  Instead, I settled for a leisurely, satisfying victory lap around the parking lot at Hudson Valley Community College.  And then, I found myself smiling (with pride in myself) at strangers and scenery alike as I munched on an apple cinammon Nutra-Grain bar and made my way home.

Today is...vague.

There are ideas, fragments of possible melodies and snatches of lyrics circling my head, but so far, I haven't been able to pin down anything.  Today is a cloudy, messy, disorganized description of yesterday.  (Cue: mental image of a centrifuge, spinning the dense, important bits down so I can sift through the wreckage.  Nerdy moments happen.)

On another note, how can whining/complaining feel so satisfying and so utterly useless at the same time?  Cognitive dissonance: 1.  Me: 0.

That's all, I suppose.  A muddled head doesn't make for a lot of clear, focused writing.  Actually, it often results in rambling, which I prefer to avoid whenever I can.  Rambling, after all, is almost as detestable as whining.

The kind of noise that has jagged edges to it

I wish I could absorb all of her pain, box it away, and cram it into a distant corner of myself.  That's just how family works, I suppose.  It is neither rational nor logical, and so it bewilders me.  I cannot rationalize this desire to internalize her suffering, to make it mine so she might feel some relief in its absence.  This is pure emotion, and I would like to describe it as a mere flood of hormones or neurotransmitters, but that picture does not feel complete.  There's something more to this emotion; it abuses the senses, strains the nerves so they begin to fray and threaten to unravel very soon...not yet, but soon.  For now, I am teetering, albeit quite precariously, on this thread-thin tightrope.  Don't I have enough to deal with, without needing to understand this irrational, unconditional, intangible...love?

Apparently not.  Once again, I've ended up with noise in my head, but not the smooth, homogeneous, ambient, snow-on-the-television-screen noise that has a very potent ability to lull me to sleep.  This is not the kind of noise that nudges worries and anxieties to the outskirts of one's consciousness as it soothes and comforts in its emptiness.  No, this noise ricochets violently inside my skull, a series of lightning bolts darting about in an angry frenzy.  This noise definitely has jagged edges to it.  And it's impossible to avoid getting snagged on these edges.  Indeed, at this very moment, I'm hanging from one by the back of my collar.  I try to move as little as possible, lest I crash to the ground far below, but I do manage to glance around myself as best I can.  There is no foothold in sight; with each ragged breath, I flail, trying to grasp at something substantial, but there is only air.

I have never been good at getting rid of this jagged species of noise.  Usually, I find a way to tire myself out until the fatigue is too strong for me to think about anything else.  And the rest which follows is often enough, then, to help me to forget until the next trigger.  But tonight is a calm night outside...which makes for a tumultuous night inside.

Opposite sides of the planet

My baby's on the other side of the planet.

I remember feeling this same dull ache in late July, when he left a few days before I could.  And among my half-written posts waiting to be molded into full compositions, I just came across something I drafted that day while I was working at my summer internship:

He left.  I've been left...left with memories of smiles and high-pitched chatter, swathes of camouflage fabric, a jug of clownishly purple detergent, and Big Ben nagging me from outside my remarkably large window.  Go away, Ben; you're no substitute.  Although my baby's certainly old enough to understand what a plane is and how it works, he's not ready.  (Or perhaps I'm not ready.)

I'm so proud of his cognitive development, in only a way that an overly protective big sister can be.  What a mama hen I've turned out to be.  He knows that today he had to wake up early and that he couldn't fuss - not that he fusses that often anymore.  But even so, he knows that today was no day to fuss because his mother was running around frantically trying to tie up all kinds of loose ends before they could leave.  (I should note that this is actually how my mother exists, even in the absence of an impending flight.)  And he knew that after he buckled his seat belt, things would soon start to rumble all around and his ears would twinge after a few thousand feet.  But all the same, I hope he wasn't scared.  I hope someone thought to unwrap a piece of candy for him so it might hurt a little less.

This can't be good, that I can't deal with being apart from him for three days.  I could always go find some candy so it might hurt a little less, I suppose...but I suspect that sugarcoated remedies lose their potency after the age of...say, six.

It's a month later, and this same ache has returned, although it is dampened somewhat by the constant stress of entertaining a guest in this house all alone.  I've never done this before, so it seems that I learn a new lesson every few hours.  For example, I usually don't do the dishes this often, as there are usually others around here who share the responsibility.  But I've been toting a bottle of moisturizer around all day because after the first round of dishes this morning, I extracted my hands from the sink and cringed.  I'm not used to my palms feeling so...sandpaper-y.

I did thank the kitchen staff at West (the first-years' dining hall at Union) every time I dropped off my plates this past year...but the past two days have given those rushed "Thank you"s a whole new meaning.  I'm a little ashamed of myself, honestly.  I just hope they all have enough moisturizer.

My baby's on the other side of the planet.  There's no changing that.  But at multiple points since I got home, I've caught myself fantasizing about practicing his times tables with him, or reading together, or taking him outside to ride his new bike in the cul-de-sac, or just talking to him.  That would be enough.  In some incomprehensible way, he takes care of me.  His smile is a balm for these tired hands, his hug a rejuvenator for this tired soul.  I can't wait until he comes bursting through the door, even if he notices his long-lost toys before he notices his sister.  To see him would be enough.