To Ireland and beyond

Okay, I haven’t gotten this spiritual in my writing–blogging or personal journaling–in a long time. Here it goes…

Two years ago this month, I was in Mexico. I had come out of a horrible school year of difficult classes, a painfully codependent friendship/roommate relationship, and the rough beginnings of getting to know myself and realizing how much I need to refine about my personality and tendencies. Take all the qualities I have now and magnify them by about fifteen and that was me two years ago. Most prominently, I was a control freak. I would act certain ways to try to control my best friend’s feelings about me. I tried to control my environment and the way I thought about the things, people, and ideas that comprised it by judging and assigning a black-and-white “good” or “bad” label to everything. I tried to control my life by concretely determining The Truth. This last endeavor meant asking a lot of questions, and when I didn’t have definite answers, I couldn’t handle it because that meant there were things I didn’t know and couldn’t be sure about, and it was beyond my control.

Then I watched the movie Fight Club. It had a line that really hit me; I wrote it down somewhere but am too lazy to look it up, so it went something like this: “Hitting rock bottom isn’t a weekend retreat. It’s not a goddamn seminar. Quit trying to control everything and just let go.”

And that’s how Fight Club changed my life.

Okay, not entirely. Many factors, including that trip to Mexico, helped me grow substantially. But even though I relaxed more on that trip than I had in months, my discomfort with myself, other people, God, and the world as a whole still made itself evident.

That semester, I had made friends with Chelsea, who was part of my Mexico team. After Mexico, I didn’t see her again until we were in Germany together, exactly one year ago now. At the end of our three weeks together in Germany, she gave me a note I still save. What Chelsea said that stuck out most to me was, “It has been a blessing to see how much you’ve grown in the past year. There’s more peace to be felt around you now since you’ve been finding freedom in un-planning/controlling your life.”

The thought of the word “peace” being used in reference to me literally made me beam with satisfaction. I believe as someone who claims to know God and have at least a slight grasp on a deeper meaning in life, peace is an essential quality. For me, when I am at peace, I can focus. When I’m at peace, I’m levelheaded. When I’m at peace, I can love. I can see the big picture and the positive side of circumstances, I can learn, I can be a better friend, and I enjoy life more. One of the people I admire most is probably the most peaceful person I know. I see her and think, “That’s how I want to be. That’s how I should be.” Not just for my own benefit either, but because I want the ability to embody that for others. Like one prayer I used to read with my Mexico group says, “let us be the peace.”

Somewhere in between May 29 last year, when that note was written, and now, I have lost that sense of peace, both in the way I feel and the way I come across to others. Not only do I miss that, I feel like I’m not pointing others to the perspectives I believe to be true. I was sitting in church this morning listening to a sermon by the pilot who was initially supposed to be flying the Flight 11 plane that crashed into the World Trade Center, and he referred to what he called “someday saints”–people who keep God and spirituality at a distance because they don’t want it to interfere with their lives. I realized how I do that, but because I always feel like I need to fix or sort out something before I can dive into further exploration of my faith. lately, I’ve justified my lack of peace by admitting I have so many unanswered questions, and I need to find answers before I can return to a state of trusting God and trying to accurately reflect him. I found myself sitting in my chair, telling God that I just need to know so I can start living accordingly. I saw that I had come full circle to two years ago, demanding answers, trying to control, and not being content with myself and the world. Then I remembered Fight Club. I remembered Mexico. “Stop trying to control everything and just let go.” “Let us be the peace.”

By living with the attitude I’ve had recently, I’m projecting the idea that you need to know everything to follow God. I’m demonstrating that we must have an answer for every question and not rest until we do. That’s not what I want to say about my beliefs. What I want to display is that faith in God is about restoring life to how it was intended to be, which is life at peace with its creator.

The last two weeks have driven me to insanity like I’ve never quite experienced before. I’ve been an undernourished, dehydrated, exhausted, muddled conglomeration of nerves, emotions, questions, answers, excitement, dread, impatience, anticipation, obligation, and stress. One minute I’m intelligently discoursing about the phenomenal connection between e.e. cummings’ perspective and language, and the next minute I’m making macaroni necklaces or having a meltdown because the woman who cuts my hair moved to freaking Petosky (did I mention her name is also Kailey? It’s like we’re beautician-customer soul mates. For realz.). Or I’m attempting to catch pieces of apple fritter in my mouth as they’re thrown across Starbucks at me. Or I’m saying obnoxious things like “summahtiiime” and “for realz.” Or having yet another meltdown because I had my heart set on something that didn’t work out. It’s been quite a trip. I think the only time in my life that could compare was two and a half years ago when, late one night, I removed one of the detachable legs from my laundry rack in order to use it as a sword to aid my late-night dramatic recitation of Hamlet’s “to be or not to be” speech for a class final. “Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, or to take arms against a sea of troubles and by opposing END THEM!” (as I nearly whacked some of my fellow residence hall occupants with the thrashing of my “sword”.)

Now it certainly doesn’t feel like summer, and seemingly insurmountable tasks still stand between me and the warm, invigorating scent of freedom—linguistics paper, humanities party, tentative meetings and get-togethers, work, more work, even more work, honors convocation speech, cleaning in preparation for Jessie’s visit, returning library books, cleaning because grandparents will want to see my house, parent lunch, honors convocation, cleaning for my own sanity, graduation ceremony, family dinner, did I mention cleaning? church, grocery shopping…but, a week from tomorrow, it’ll all be over and summer will commence.

I’m not a big fan of physical/mental/emotional instability. Sometimes things happen beyond my control. But I think it’s my responsibility to myself, God, and the people around me to be as balanced as possible. And, after I plough my way through this next week like a steamroller, NFL linebacker, or a bull in Pamplona, balance is going to be my goal. So over the past couple weeks I’ve been compiling a list of guidelines that I think will help facilitate that.

1. Get out of my house. I have a tendency to come back after working mornings and just not leave again. Time at home can be wonderful and is something I need, but when it’s not such a valuable commodity I use it unwisely. Hopefully this will lead me to….
2. Spend less time on the computer. It typically ends up being a waste of time/energy. I don’t really need to be gawking in astonishment at how many of my high school classmates are married as I browse through their wedding albums on facebook. Hopefully this will encourage me to…
3. Use time in a beneficial manner. Not necessarily productively. But I’d like to approach everything I do with the question, “Is this positively contributing to my or anyone else’s life?” This leaves room for so much possibility. And one of the possibilities I want to include more of is…
4. Read. I’m shooting for a book a week, the second week of May through the end of August. Yes, that’s a lot, so I definitely won’t be attempting to conquer any significant feats like Anna Karenina or The Rise and Fall of the Roman Empire. Also, given my propensity for reading multiple books at once, it’ll probably be more like “I’m going to read these three books in these three weeks,” that way I can vary them depending on my mood. And in order to keep my mood pretty consistent I want to…
5. Exercise at least four times per week. Self-explanatory. And most of this exercise will be done when I…
6. Get outside. I feel so much more whole when I maintain a fairly regular connection to nature.

So yes. It’ll be a summer journey. I’m excited. I hope/plan to record thoughts and lessons throughout this process. I would absolutely love to have anyone join me for all or any of these, so let me know if you want to! I’m expecting nothing less than amazing.

Have you ever been having a horrible day, then you find yourself around people who make you laugh, and all of a sudden everything improves?

Or have you ever been crying about something, probably to a friend or family member, and something makes you laugh? Then you’re laughing and crying and sniffling and most likely hiccupping by that point and crying was cathartic to begin with but coupled with the laughing it’s like catharsis² and out of nowhere there’s hope in the world once again. If you have never experienced this, you’re missing out and should probably just start life over because there’s no chance you’ll ever have a fulfilling existence.

Humor. Americans thrive off it. I’d say it’s right up there with sex as the top marketing tool in the country. A sense of humor is one of the top qualities people look for in a partner.

When I was fifteen, I began a never-ending-but-always-progressing journey of learning to laugh at myself and take myself less seriously, and at that time, I gained a great appreciation for humor. I figure that I can deal with anything so long as I can still laugh. Earlier today, I was at CVS Pharmacy, where I noticed a book entitled Healing through Humor. And I believe it’s true. Historically, humor has breached social barriers, helped people relate to one another, provided a positive outlet in difficult times, mocked the oppressors, revealed ridiculous or destructive trends, and put social and political issues into a context that is understandable and amusing yet enlightens the magnitude of the subject in fresh way.

I read a book last year called Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close. It’s one of a couple I’ve read lately that doesn’t necessarily have much of a plot. It has one, yes, but beginning point A and ending point B are fairly close together. It’s like going from your house to your neighbor’s house down the street, where in other books you’d go from your house to Oklahoma to Kazakhstan to New Zealand, or at least to another county. It doesn’t move from A to B, either, it more meanders. It takes detours. Enjoys the scenery. Observes fellow travelers. Rests. Makes stops. Then you come to point B and it doesn’t matter much because you’ve almost forgotten you were ever trying to make it there but that’s okay because, as the cliché goes, “it’s more about the journey than the destination.”

I’m a fairly fast driver. Not too fast–I’m terrified of receiving a speeding ticket–but I detest people who go under the speed limit, or go the speed limit in the left lane next to the person in the right lane who is driving at the exact same speed, thereby  irresponsibly and inconsiderately hindering all the normal, sane people from getting anywhere in a remotely reasonable amount of time. Every once in a very long while, though, there’s a special day. In that special day, something strange happens, like there’s a full moon or the planets align or some other absurd astrological occurrence, and I actually appreciate finding myself stuck behind the slowpoke. Usually this happening involves a sunny day, having nowhere I need to be, and good music. At that point, I secretly rejoice at my decelerated pace and take pleasure in the fact that now I can quite possibly make it through my entire current album/playlist.

Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close  was one of those rarely-encountered slow drivers, and part of the pleasure of its meandering journey was its quotes. I reveled excitedly in most of its profound tidbits (though, of course, never as much as in Yann Martel’s brilliance) and researched more of what its author, Jonathan Safran Foer, had to say. One of his ideas particularly struck me: “I used to think that humor was the only way to appreciate how wonderful and terrible the world is, to celebrate how big life is. But now I think the opposite. Humor is a way of shrinking from that wonderful and terrible world.”

At first, I felt angry. How dare he insult the thing that is so important to me, that has played an enormous role in the process of freeing me from perfectionism and the unrealistic expectations of myself and others? But then I thought more about it. How many times, at the end of a rough day, do I watch Gilmore Girls and feel better instead of talking or writing or acting, when feeling better isn’t really what I need? How much is suppressed, repressed, ignored, or dealt with inappropriately in the name of humor? How much could our society grow if we didn’t just “laugh it off,” but dealt with problems, instead?

Obviously, some people need to take themselves and life less seriously, for their own benefit and for the good of everyone they come into contact with. We all know that “laughter is the best medicine.” But what if we substituted some of our laughter with thinking, or asking important questions?

I think humor is abused, and I am part of that. I don’t know where the boundary lies between humor and solemnity or graveness or wonder, but I think I have the responsibility of always watching for it.

I wrote this today as sort of an essay-letter for a friend to accompany the origami crane I will give to her Monday, but much of this is merely reflective and can be directed toward anyone, so I thought I’d share it here.

Did your family ever do that thing, at Thanksgiving, where you separate ten kernels of corn from the pile on your plate and proceed around the table, one person at a time, telling ten things you’re thankful for, each somehow represented by a soft, yellow seed? Mine did. But we never held it as a tradition and only practiced it at the bidding of other Thanksgiving guests.

The sole Thanksgiving tradition my family ever claimed was watching the Lions’ game. Throughout most of the day, the only way my family could care for corn kernels was if they were sporting the jerseys of the starting lineup. Of course, that would exclude one player, but there’s always one that nobody likes, anyway.

Late in the afternoon, once my father had finished his frustrated rebukes of the referees and his enthusiastic cries of “touchdown!” (the latter only if it was a good season for the Lions), he would resume his deaconly demeanor as we gathered ’round the table by requesting that I recite Psalm 100. That’s when, some years, we commenced with the corn counting.

Until I was twelve, I hated it. Ten things? Really? One, family; two, friends; three, food; four, God; five, a house; six, Spanky, the family dog. Do I have to do four more? Mom, can it just be your turn? Thanksgiving when I was twelve was different, though. That year, I wore a red-and-navy striped shirt with striped socks and a cocky sense of confidence to match. My world had become big, and I viewed the corn challenge as a way to shamelessly express my newfound intelligence and understanding of life. That was the same dinner during which I sliced open my finger with one of my neighbor Nancy’s abnormally sharp butter knives and tried to hide it under the table until I realized I was bleeding everywhere.

It has been at least a few years since I have portioned my corn for the purpose of giving an overly-simple pseudo-expression of my gratitude. I prefer not to partake in the practice because I feel that it limits my thankfulness: if I say only ten things I’m thankful for, I only think about those ten things and forget the rest. I try to live always with a spirit of gratitude, but in times I intentionally focus on thankfulness, I like to ponder the details that are so often and easily overlooked. Instead of ten pieces of corn to represent ten things I’m thankful for, I’d rather consider ten things I’m thankful for about corn. Or coffee. Or my ukulele. Or, today, birds.

I am thankful for the voices and language of birds.

I am thankful that birds are beautiful, but also that some look incredibly ridiculous.

I am thankful that birds provide important food for the world.

Without birds, we would lack the blessing and pleasure of The Crane Wife 1 & 2, and 3.

I am thankful birds teach us the importance of sometimes leaving home for significant lengths of time.

I am thankful for the entertainment of my dad’s annual battle with the woodpecker who thinks the side          of our house makes the perfect sound for his mating call.

I am thankful that birds taught humans how to fly, but also, that some birds aren’t meant to fly.

I am thankful that a bird lent its form for my first successful piece of origami.

I’m giving my bird to you for several reasons: because, when I think about birds, I often remember when you asked me, “have you thought about birds today?” Because my origami crane partially stemmed from ideas for your decorating project. Because you inspired my love for The Decemberists. Because you’re someone I’m very thankful for. And because I’m not entirely sure what I’d do with it if I kept it.

I made it using paper brought specially to me from Japan by twelve radiant university women I had the privilege of teaching. I don’t really care what you do with it. Recycle it. Give it to someone else. Feed it to a bonfire. Set it free from a window or down a river. Whatever. It’s yours. What I would like, though, whether you set aside ten corn kernels or not, is that this Thanksgiving you take time to contemplate some of the strange, special, small, or overlooked parts of your life for which you’re thankful. I trust you already do this, but invent a different way. Make up a game about it. Write a poem or song. Draw it in a picture. Do it with other people or by yourself, inside or outside, in a car, or on a boat. Do it like Dr. Seuss. It doesn’t matter; it’s energizing no matter what.

Have a joyful Thanksgiving.

Love.

Anyone who has grown up in church has heard someone, at some point, tell them that “no one ever said following Jesus would be easy.” Millions of “illegal” Christians around the world holding underground church services and being thrown in prison for their religious activities illustrate this very true point. What I wasn’t told in church, though, is that here in America, just as much of our opposition, if not more, comes from the Christian world as from the “non-” or “anti-” Christians. (Sorry for all the “quotes”–it’s the only way I can come up with at the moment to appeal to the stereotypes without overgeneralizing.) For my Creative Nonfiction class, I have an assignment to write what is listed in the syllabus as a Taboo Paper. Do you feel confused as to what that entails? Me too. But I had an idea, so I ran it past my professor.

Last January, I began semi-regularly attending Mars Hill Bible Church, home of Rob Bell and all the controversy he carries. About a month and a half ago, I dove in completely and committed: I now teach fourth grade Sunday School every other week. This meant that, unfortunately, I’d probably have to own up to the fact that I go to this church, which included telling my family. So, after class, I approached my professor with an idea for the assignment.

“You go to Mars Hill, right?” I asked him.

He gave me the deer-in-headlights look, unsure how to respond to my psychotic enthusiasm that inevitably comes after three hours of class on a Tuesday night. “Yes….”

“YES. Good. Me, too. Can I write my taboo paper on Mars Hill? Because…” and I went on to support my case.

“Well, I was thinking no, but just the fact that I felt almost afraid to admit I go there shows that yeah, it is somewhat of a taboo, isn’t it?” he replied, to my satisfaction.

So that’s what I’m doing. I’m writing about the fall into Mars Hill from the Baptist perspective by comparing it to the nine circles of Hell in Dante’s Divine Comedy. It may mock a little, as I don’t know how to write anything serious without either making it sound trite or cloaking it in humor, however inappropriate it may be to the subject matter. But, ultimately, I’ll arrive at a serious conclusion.

So, I’m going to post it on here, one section at a time, as it’ll be far too long for a single blog post. If anyone finds it even remotely entertaining, at least I’ll have accomplished something. And, if anyone can think of a good title for it, let me know.