A trusting heart

Intense grief is borne of intense love.  And I’m supposed to be trying to move forward, but I’ve loved too intensely to feel like I can make any such progress on my own.  Hell, I don’t want to move forward.  Thank goodness for friends who plant seeds like “you need to move on” – I wonder, often, if that’s God.

Jesus asked so often: “What do you want Me to do for you?”  He wants to know what I want…and this is a small comfort.  He cares about what I want – even, perhaps, if it is different from what I need.  He cares.  And maybe, just maybe, this is an avenue to trusting Him.  As much as I long for this friendship back, for everything to go back to the way it was, I long perhaps more for a trusting heart.  So I go to bed tonight with Ps 37^4-5 on my mind: “Delight yourself in the Lord; and He will give you the desires of your heart.  Commit your way to the Lord, trust also in him, and He will do it.”

3 gifts musical

3 gifts musical (I chose 4, because it made sense: "You are My All in All,", "He Knows My Name", each new song (and a beloved music teacher who encouraged me to write them).

This brings me to the 225th of 1000 gifts.  This past May, I found this blog written by a woman named Ann Voskamp, who's written a book called One Thousand Gifts.  Ironically, my first response to reading about her passion for living with gratitude was not to buy and read her book.  Of course, I will do that at some point, but for now, I'm content to take her challenge: in one year, to count one thousand blessings in my life.  It's a humbling daily goal, because I find that I'm quicker to see the things going wrong in my life than I am to see the things that are going right.  I'm quicker to blame and petition God because of what I don't have than I am to thank Him for what He's already given.  Living mindfully, I gather, involves not only recognizing where you've erred and need forgiveness (whether from people or from God), but also recognizing where life is beautiful and satisfying.

Voskamp publishes a "JoyDare" on her blog each month (here's the one for July), which is a calendar that gives a different "theme" of blessings to look for in each day.  Today, I had to come up with three gifts that had to do with music.  Only three? I thought.  I could write about my guitar and its story...and how I've been blessed with a voice to sing...about how I sing everywhere from the grocery store to the bathroom.  Do I think about lyrics?  Songs?  My own songs?  The situations surrounding particular songs?  People I've written about?  Situations I've written about?  The person a particular song reminds me of?  Oh, the possibilities.  I limited myself to the four gifts above and, as I've already noted, was humbled to realize that I have too many gifts related to music to count, or to fit into one post on Facebook (which is where I'm keeping track of the gifts, in hopes that I will spur some of my friends to take on this challenge, too).

I feel like I'll be able to talk to people more concretely and articulately about this whole experience once I've actually read the book in question.  I suppose a trip to half.com is in order...

Internal processing

I'm an internal processor, which means that I'm hardly ever as articulate in conversation as I am in writing.  I can put on my professional, talking-to-adults hat and read like I'm thirty, but when it comes to the conversations that bring out five-year-old me, I actually have to prepare.  I need to think about what I'm going to say and anticipate potential reactions.  Is this a weakness?  Is it dishonest?  I used to think so, but these days, I've been growing into an acceptance of this being the way I operate.  The people who really matter in my life accept it, so why shouldn't I?


Ps. 56 is on my mind today, particularly v. 3: "When I am afraid, I will put my trust in you".  I've been saying this to myself all day long...trying to internalize it, hold it, believe it.  I woke with puffy eyes and a throbbing head that reminded me of how last night racked me, wrecked me...and a few random passersby, including the kindly woman at the campus center near the coffee, have told me that I look "really tired" today.  (I wish I knew her name - names are so important.)  You bet I'm tired...but it's not your fault that you've only gotten part of the answer right.  There are only a few people, after all, who can recognize this look as the she-cried-all-night look.  The important people know...and one of those important people is gone, gone, gone.  So, no, I don't want to be cheery with the other two students in my lab, or play with fruit flies, or move, or talk to anyone except those important people.  What I want to do is sleep off this headache in the arms of the people who matter.  I should be running to God, because when I am afraid, I ought to put my trust in Him.  I wonder how long it will be before I'm brave enough to be honest with Him and pray.

Oddly enough, I'm learning something in this: that trusting Him might involve being patient with more than just my circumstances.  It seems to involve being patient with myself, too.

What I want in a husband

This is not a matrimonial profile in any sense of the term; it is simply a record of...what I want.

• He should be willing to to walk with me on whatever journeys I choose to take.  Brownie points if he initiates new journeys, or if he gives me the courage to begin the journeys that I've always been too fearful to begin.
• He should love and respect my family.  And where/when he falls short (because I am a realist and I know that it will happen), he should want to work to create those bonds or repair the damage.
• He should have the honesty and humility of a child.  This means simultaneously being sensitive to my needs (holding my hand and offering a shoulder when necessary) and being driven to help me grow through him (doling out constructive criticism and offering tough love when necessary).  And just as I will be open to suggestion and growth through him, he should be open to suggestion and growth through me.
• He should love me.  Future Husband, this is the requirement on which all of the others rest.  If you love me, everything else will naturally follow.  As the creator of this list, I promise you that.  But you should be aware that loving me doesn't just mean romance, although that is definitely a crucial part of the deal.  It means that you see the same me, whether I'm wearing my wedding dress or my nightgown.  It means that you want me, whether it feels like the most natural thing in the world or like everything is tumbling down around us.  It means that the thought of hurting me will hurt you...so you will not be able to dream of hurting me.  On the contrary, just to reiterate: you will love me.

P.S. I did not include the obvious qualities that any girl with half a mind for practical foresight would include (financial stability, wanting children, being musical, faithfulness, virginity, and wanting to watch "Grey's Anatomy" with me) because this post is more about emotional requirements.  But Future Husband, know this: those practical requirements are just that - requirements.  They are not optional.  Especially the last one.

Questions about friendship

When I studied psychology in high school, I learned about the concept that the more you share with another person, the closer to you that person tends to feel.  This sat quite well with me at first.  After all, it makes sense that bonds like friendship and romantic relationships can only be strengthened by the sharing of information.  It made intuitive sense to me, yes...until my teacher stated that this closeness is artificial.  How, then, I wondered, is it possible for anyone to have a real relationship?  If there is no such thing as true closeness, then how can anyone have a friendship, a romantic relationship, or any kind of bond, for that matter?

In retrospect, I think my teacher neglected to specify (or perhaps my class notes were not as complete as they should have been) that this closeness is artificial only if the information-sharing is one-sided.  That is, it seems more reasonable to me that both parties must share freely and openly with each other in order to cultivate a genuine closeness that could be labeled as a relationship.  Whew, I sigh to myself now.  Thank goodness; it's possible for real relationships to exist, after all.

Or is it?  For what is friendship, really?  Can it be defined by such information-sharing, and if so, to what extent?

I have been grappling with such questions for years.  As a high school student, I never felt any particular urgency to search for their answers since back then, I had no friends (in school).  At best, I had a few acquaintances.  I knew plenty of people, but I did not - in fact, I refused to - consider any of them friends.  Why?  A large part of it was that my high school environment was too much of an academic and social pressure cooker for me to feel like I could make any real friends.  Perhaps my expectations were too high, but then, I have never considered a half-baked friendship built on competition worth cultivating.  In addition, I always reasoned that we were all going to go our separate ways after graduation anyway, so why bother?  Lastly, for particular personal reasons, I had absolutely no intention of preserving any ties with my high school and anyone I associated with it.  In a nutshell, that's why I can say I had no friends in high school without fearing that I might sound whiny or pitiful.

Given all of this, it is understandable that when I began at Union last year, I was ready.  I nursed a fierce hunger for a fresh start.  I craved a new beginning with new faces and, hopefully, new friendships.  I was cautious, but open to any potential friends who might present themselves to me as, together, we explored our new lives as college students.  And present themselves they did, thank goodness.  But this welcome development also meant that with each passing day, each new friend, each flourishing friendship, I only grew more eager to explore my world and my mind so that I might answer the above questions for myself.

How much information-sharing has to happen, and what kind of information has to be shared, so that one can label a relationship a friendship?  Is this information-sharing the only major factor which contributes to the creation and development of a friendship?  And if all you have in the end is family, why bother with friendship in the first place?

A last thought: in his novel Life of the Beloved, Henri J.M. Nouwen writes of friendship and brokenness as part of a letter to his dear friend:

"...our brokenness reveals something about who we are.  Our sufferings and pains...touch us in our uniqueness and our most intimate individuality.  The way I am broken tells you something unique about me.  The way you are broken tells me something unique about you.  That is the reason for my feeling very privileged when you freely share some of your deep pain with me, and that is why it is an expression of my trust in you when I disclose to you something of my vulnerable side" (87).

This relationship between Nouwen and his friend, as described in the book, is exceptionally strong.  In light of this, I wonder: do the strongest of friendships originate from two people sharing more of their "sufferings and pains" with each other, or is it more fortifying to share moments of joy?  I suspect that the answer is "both", but then I wonder which is more useful in cultivating the strongest possible relationship.

(Any and all thoughts, opinions, stories, experiences, discussions, and so on - about any of these questions - are welcome!)

Snatches of peace

With a heavy heart, he hammers away at the keyboard until the veins in his hands are blue-green in the glow of the LED.  His hair is mussed.  His sweatshirt probably needs washing.  A half-eaten oatmeal raisin cookie lies at the bottom of a bowl beside him, forgotten.  It has been too long since something tasted sweet.

This time, he managed to catch the lethargy.  This time.  It had been circling the periphery of his consciousness, closing in like so many vultures, and so he hurried to wind his words around a trellis of half-baked thoughts.  The words were meant to clear the fog, to organize his story into a beginning, a middle, and an end.  But as always, all they do is give him a soundproof room, an escape.  A tear splatters on his right thumbnail.  No one notices.  No one hears.  No one wakes.  A moment of frustration, a moment of peace.  He is used to this room, this cop-out.  It is a comfortable alternative to reflection.  He understands this, smiles wryly at the simplicity of it all.  It is far easier to lounge in this room than it is to make sense of the world.  He will risk all of the frustration life may hurl at him, just for those snatches of peace.

Sometimes, however, the light scrambles through the gaps in the trellis.  Brilliant jets bend down, down, down, gently, gracefully, to his temples.  They warm him.  They stroke his hair like his mother used to so he would fall asleep, even when these monsters were around.

Exhaling softly, he opens his eyes.  He studies his nail, and wipes it clean against his left sleeve.  He crosses and uncrosses his legs, noting with a sigh that his joints complain.  Although he feels old, his body has a long way to go.  As he pads upstairs to bed, his mother hears him.  She is still awake and yes, she hears him.  But he will never know.  Her mind drifts to a memory of his reassuring smile.  She wearily pulls the covers closer to her chin on this frosty night.  Perhaps he will remember how to smile in the morning.

The KBH.

Sister: I haven't seen her for ten weeks, so naturally, most of our conversation over the past few days has revolved around whether we snore (each sister maintains that she sounds quite ladylike at night while the other sounds like a freight train) and who's more up-to-date with the latest slang (she insists that the word "failure" is so out as of, like, months ago.)

Brother: I can't get enough of him.  As usual.  Has his six-year-old brain been shocked by the ten weeks' worth of love that has been spilling out over a matter of days?

A model in the making.  He put this outfit together all by himself...from our dad's closet.

He invented a new acronym to add to the archives today: KBH.  A KBH describes the act of charging into another person, head-on, and flinging one's arms and legs around them as tightly as possible.  Ladies and gentlemen, the Koala Bear Hug.

Parents: As we settled into these old, forgotten roles, the foundation grew a few cracks.  I am slowly learning to fill them in with measured conversation and heartfelt music.  I am slowly learning to allow the balance to shift, because I am home.  There was a time when I would marvel bitterly at how quickly a pleasant day could turn sour and terse.  I am slowly learning to notice that with some patience, the converse can happen as well.

P.S. I wonder whether it is possible to upload my songs to this blog.

Fatigue, Facebook, and fro-yo

It's a sleepy morning, and the sky is the muddled color of yesterday's slush.  The muted paisley fabric on this armchair is in desperate need of re-upholstery, but I hope that it goes unnoticed until I leave for the term so that for now, I may sink into the comfort of the worn cloth, the frayed loops of thread arching out from the patterns.

From my vantage point among these bookshelves stuffed with every title from Sarah from Alaska to People of the Whale, I peer through hallowed windows at students warily clutching gloves as they plod from class to class in snow boots that were fished out of closets a day too late.  The stray leaves that haven't yet been neatly blown away from the footpaths have stubbornly plastered themselves to the ground.

Inside the library, there is a similar atmosphere of fatigue which differs from that of the outside only in its source.  Strain your way through the two sets of unnaturally heavy double doors, and when the inevitable, obnoxious draft blasts your face, you will understand.  There is a tangible shift from the feverish nervousness of looming deadlines and fingers blurring as they fly across keyboards to the sluggish, resigned calm of students who know finals are coming, and coming quickly.

The countdowns have begun.  So many Facebook statuses read, "one paper, two lab practicals, three finals, then HOME", or some variation of the same.  I much prefer smaller goals, if only for the more frequent rushes of gratification.  I work towards the next hour, the next night, the next assignment, tomorrow if I feel particularly daring.  But if I were to conform for a moment, I would post the following:

"one lab practical, one research paper, two concert reports, two exams, then SLEEP AND BEN & JERRY'S FRO-YO FOR A WEEK."

Does it count...

...as heartbreak if you never had a chance?

Maybe I shouldn't be writing right now, because I don't think a blog shouldn't be an "emotional throw-up bin" (courtesy of http://meanderingspark.blogspot.com/2010/01/why-blog.html).  I'm fairly confident that this post is going to turn into just that, if I'm not careful.  Perhaps I'll be able to think clearly and write something coherent after I've had time to process...although right now, of course, the idea of processing seems almost laughable.  Apparently, shock does not a coherent writer make, so off I go.  I may or may not return to this post, but whatever the case, I leave with this:

It counts.  There's no rationale, no logic, no justification behind this (which, strangely, only bothers me faintly at present).  There's only a feeling.  And the feeling says that it absolutely counts.

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.

Welcome to Week 8.

At 10 am on a Tuesday, I'm usually just waking up; it's my sleeping-in day.  Today, however, was anomalous in that I was up and running by 7 am.  And for the first time this term, I find myself in the campus center before common lunch hour.  There are students who had early classes trudging in for late breakfasts (I'm trying not to judge or envy that waif devouring her cheese-drenched croissant), fools clutching Nerf guns peering suspiciously around corners (regression, much?), and a frat guy a few tables away whose open binder and furrowed brow create an illusion of studiousness as he studiously roams Facebook (welcome to Week 8.)

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.

Across hill and vale and moor

I want to run.

I want to run a 5K...and a 10K, and a half-marathon, and the big shebang herself.  I think I ought to start with the 5K, though.  No sense in going backwards.

I should note that I haven't the faintest idea about how to train.  I don't know how my body will react to running on a road rather than on a conveyor belt.  I don't know how I even became this endorphin junkie.  I dreaded "The Mile".  I, like many former asthmatics and painfully insecure middle- and high-schoolers, avoided that terrible day like the plague.

To me, the non-athlete, the gym teachers always seemed a touch vindictive that day.  Each stood blandly, unforgiving stopwatch in hand, at each quarter, calling out times and hiding judgments behind deceivingly encouraging teacher-eyes.  I always began strongly, bounding along in the front half of the pack.  I would feel a stab of hope when I reached the first teacher in under two minutes.  Eight minutes isn't bad.  But I always finished at nine or ten minutes, and embarrassingly red-faced at that.  My only consolation was that I wasn't...last.  Even now, I shudder at the thought.  How shameful.  It was partly the terror of being last that propelled me around the track and, the instant it was all over, as far away from gym class as possible.  (I much preferred English.)

And these days, I run not one mile, but several at a time.  Unthinkable.  I don't always go about it in the healthiest way - I do feel things pop, lock, complain, and burn every now and then - but still.  How did I ever manage, I wondered this evening (after my date with the conveyor belt, of course), to make it from non-athlete to almost-addict?

I learned not to underestimate myself, at least in this respect.  I learned not to take my muscles for granted, powerful actin and myosin and adenosine triphosphate and everything in between.  (Yes, I am a devotee of biology, and if you know me, you know that.  You also know that I never apologize for this love.)

But I digress.

I learned to bathe in wind.  I learned to dig into the road and propel myself forward with every stride.  And now, I have my own special time, something I create for myself at will.  It is my time, only mine.  And during this time, I am strong, lean, in control.  I can do anything, because my legs will carry me across hill and vale and Secret-Garden moor.  (I always did like that word, "moor".  It sounds dreary at first glance, but if you think about it, a moor is a vast area of empty land - the perfect place where sullen, sickly Mary could have learned the joys of a good run.)

Vanilla ice cream

He must really want the ice cream.

I mean, seriously.  He must really want it, because he's turning the charm way, way up.   Remember when sugar was all it took to make you happy (and much too hyper before bedtime, I might add)?  Between vanilla ice cream and summer vacation, I don't think the little one even remembers what a bedtime is.  But he's so happy that I understand why my parents are humoring him and not shepherding him upstairs.

This is the age of ice cream, for sure.

This is the age of charming smiles and innocent honesty.  What I wouldn't give to keep him here, so he never has to make a mistake.  He would be saved!  He would never know the blunt sting of that moment...that instant when you know that you messed up.  He would never know the sharp but persistent compulsion to fold in on yourself in case you get to vanish for a little while.  He would never know the ache of deferring the tears...downright rejecting them so you can rationally deal with the fallout and contain the damage.  He would never know the sudden fear, the rapid heartbeat (a physical confirmation that this is very much real and happening now, now, now).

Why should a child who only wants dessert ever have to find out that people lie and manipulate?  Why let him find out that there are countless shades of gray between marching him upstairs right this minute and giving in, just for today?  Why can't I just absorb everything, anything that could ever threaten his happiness?  Why taint him?

After all, he's perfectly content with his vanilla ice cream.

I'm awake.

As irrational as I can be, even I know that four hours past midnight is not a decent time of day (night?) to be belting.  And so, I restrain myself.  I am resigned to the fact that I will wake up everyone upstairs if I start.  But let it be known that I found a challenging song and I would so like to try it out.  I'm almost tempted to run down to the basement...but I might be heard anyway since this house is so conveniently pindrop-silent.

All of the normal people here are currently flitting through dreamscapes and enjoying those good ol' rapid eye movements.  I, on the other hand, am traipsing through frustration.  The only eye movement that I'm experiencing is blinking.  My point is that I am wide awake and broadcasting this fact to whoever happens to be reading.

I can't wait for it to be...eight o'clock?  Is that a better time?  I'd better wait until nine.  Ugh.  I can't hunt for YouTube covers for five more hours.  I've been doing that for the last two, and I don't think there are five more hours of covers even available on the Internet.

I'm not looking forward to tomorrow (today, really.)  Perhaps that's why I'm awake.  My nervousness went and hunted down my sleepiness, trampled it to music-less bits.

This quiet isn't absolute.

This quiet isn't absolute.

The soft snoring in the next room sends puddle-ripples through the air, around the corners of the walls.  I consider the familiar view.  In the summer months, I would sneak out in the early morning, greet the treetops as I lay on the swing, and try to pigeonhole the swarming colors in the east.  But when the mornings grew cold, I compromised and sat before the windows in this room, straining vainly for the same experience.  Of course, my eyes saw colors, but it was never the same.  It couldn't be the same, not while I was in this insulated house with the snoring next door.

This quiet isn't absolute.

The house is creaky.  It complains, although no one has spoken for a few hours, at least.  No one runs about asking if he may please have an Oreo because he's been really, really good today.  No one sings with gay abandon from the shower upstairs, thinking the water will muffle the sound enough.  No one bounds down the carpeted stairs, eager to root around in the fridge for munchies.  Still, the house whines about the fire and brimstone beneath its foundation.

This quiet isn't absolute.

Oh, my baby, I didn't mean it.  I didn't mean to lash.  (It's such an ugly word, so reminiscent of a whip.  But you'll learn that when you read some Melville and learn about how awful people can really be.)  All you need to know for today is that sometimes, big kids do things they don't mean, say things they want to take back as soon as you've heard them.  I was wrong on all counts, love, and you're so good at following the rules.  Of course you can have an Oreo...but don't tell Mum this time.  I don't think she'd be too happy if she knew I gave you one before dinner.  Our secret.  And remember, secrets are only okay if I say they're okay.  Normally, you shouldn't keep secrets.  Sometimes, a secret can hurt worse than the truth.

This quiet isn't absolute.

In fact, there is no quiet.  There is only crashing silence, crippling loudness as the quiet screeches, metal scraping against metal.  I'm told I should get some rest.  I guess it takes something special to be able to sleep through a trainwreck.

What happens without fact?

What happens when you can't rely on fact?  Fact is comfortable.  Fact is comforting.  You fall back on fact when all else fails, so what's the back-up plan?  Where do you turn when Logic slips out the back door when we're not watching, leaving us with its divorcees Ambiguity and Indecision?  What happens then?

I'll tell you what happens.

Holes appear, gaping holes in the ground, and you burrow down, down, dark, damp dirt and the moles can smell your desperation to find a magical clearing of trees while you're under the surface.  And it starts to rain.  Not a stabbing, cold rain, but sheets of water that slice through the air, collide with the ground above you, below you, around you.  And the soil is saturated so you're swimming in mud, quicksand, and despite what everyone tells you about relaxing so you can escape it you can't relax because the trains are coming and they're coming quickly.

You'd better find fact to bring you back to solid ground.  Go watch TV, or rewrite a song, or touch his cheek so you know something is real.  Anchor yourself to the ground.  Breathe.  You know what might happen if you don't.