Someday, I will learn not to dislike people before I get to know them. I just finished reading “Gone with the Wind.” I’ve always had a comfortable dislike relationship with Scarlett O’Hara. She’s a selfish, hard, cruel, workaholic, man-eater. Her word means nothing, there is not promise she won’t make or break, and she treats her nearest and dearest like dirt. Oh, and she dislikes her own children. Not I wonderful sort of person. And, after reading the book, she really is all of the above. But, I’m beginning to see another side of her. She’s got energy and a strength. She is utterly loyal to the few people she does actually love. She is a protector, willing to give aid and shelter to people she hates through thick and thin. Unfortunately, these are the traits that destroy her. Her strength walls her away and makes it impossible for her to feel or find love. Here desire to protect and defend makes her ignore her family and her children as she fights to provide for their physical needs, her utter love and devotion to the few means that she will waste her life loving another woman’s husband and neglecting all three of hers.
She’s a woman who managed to make all the wrong decisions at all the wrong times. And her virtues, without the benefit or consolation of religion, became only ropes to strangle her. It’s a terrifying read—to see how little good “virtue” actually does. I am not sure how the Stoics did it, but virtue without an external guide means nothing and can make nothing, and a person forgets it at their peril.
Friday, August 26, 2011
Saturday, August 6, 2011
Tangents
I’m having a birthday…and birthdays have this unfortunate tendency of making me look back at the last year and wonder things like, “what really have I done with my life?” Am I supposed to be here? Where else would I have been if I’d taken different roads?
Lessee…
If I’d followed plan one, I’d be evangelical, married, and probably have two or three children, Lord willing.
Plan two. I’d have finished my Associates degree, and gone on to get a degree in nursing. Probably living somewhere in the environs of D.C. Probably living alone somewhere in D.C.
As for Plan three, I would have stayed a government major, and be more than halfway through law school at the moment. Not sure if I’d be happy or not. I’d be working, probably still some stripe of evangelical, and probably alone.
Plan four? I’d be halfway to my Ph.D. in Medieval Literature. I’d be High Anglican or Catholic. I would be working frenetically hard, I would be busily burying any real world experience I’d ever had.
Can’t say I miss plan five. I would still be working for Smyrna, living out of the cottage. Trying to make life work, and generally wondering where I was going and what I was doing.
Plan six was just about as nebulous. Be a vet’s assistant, make good money, start working on an online degree in something.
And now the numbers are stacking up. Plan sever, work at Hobby Lobby until I got a teacher’s certificate, and then take a job in a high risk, under-funded and overloaded school system. Hard path, decent plan, but it would have been working long hours in a difficult arena for a “Something.”
I miss Plan eight. I want it back someday. Go to community college for the pre-reqs in psychology, and then start a distance learning program at some University or other, Wheaton or Liberty, for a degree in Christian counseling. It didn’t work out. But it sounded good. It would be an incredible amount of work for a tentative gain, and that is about it. Sometimes I worry that I am happy with so little.
Plan nine? Possibly the most hare-brained of them all, but I haven’t given it up yet, so, it is not technically part of the “dispensed past plans” list. Join the Army, pay off debt, work like I’ve never worked before. Study, fight, study, work, live quietly, keep my head down, and hope to get out in five years with a minimum of new scars and a debt free lease on life. I regret the motivation, but not so much that the plan is unappealing.
Not so bad where I am now. Hobby Lobby, no plan, crafts, doing things at church, keeping busy doing almost nothing of any quantifiable worth or long-term significance. At least I set the bar low for next year.
Lessee…
If I’d followed plan one, I’d be evangelical, married, and probably have two or three children, Lord willing.
Plan two. I’d have finished my Associates degree, and gone on to get a degree in nursing. Probably living somewhere in the environs of D.C. Probably living alone somewhere in D.C.
As for Plan three, I would have stayed a government major, and be more than halfway through law school at the moment. Not sure if I’d be happy or not. I’d be working, probably still some stripe of evangelical, and probably alone.
Plan four? I’d be halfway to my Ph.D. in Medieval Literature. I’d be High Anglican or Catholic. I would be working frenetically hard, I would be busily burying any real world experience I’d ever had.
Can’t say I miss plan five. I would still be working for Smyrna, living out of the cottage. Trying to make life work, and generally wondering where I was going and what I was doing.
Plan six was just about as nebulous. Be a vet’s assistant, make good money, start working on an online degree in something.
And now the numbers are stacking up. Plan sever, work at Hobby Lobby until I got a teacher’s certificate, and then take a job in a high risk, under-funded and overloaded school system. Hard path, decent plan, but it would have been working long hours in a difficult arena for a “Something.”
I miss Plan eight. I want it back someday. Go to community college for the pre-reqs in psychology, and then start a distance learning program at some University or other, Wheaton or Liberty, for a degree in Christian counseling. It didn’t work out. But it sounded good. It would be an incredible amount of work for a tentative gain, and that is about it. Sometimes I worry that I am happy with so little.
Plan nine? Possibly the most hare-brained of them all, but I haven’t given it up yet, so, it is not technically part of the “dispensed past plans” list. Join the Army, pay off debt, work like I’ve never worked before. Study, fight, study, work, live quietly, keep my head down, and hope to get out in five years with a minimum of new scars and a debt free lease on life. I regret the motivation, but not so much that the plan is unappealing.
Not so bad where I am now. Hobby Lobby, no plan, crafts, doing things at church, keeping busy doing almost nothing of any quantifiable worth or long-term significance. At least I set the bar low for next year.
Thursday, July 28, 2011
It was so good...
I have been trying, since my thirteenth year, to pray. Sometimes it has gone well, sometimes not. But always my ability or nonability to pray has been directly related to my everyday life and to my knowledge of myself. When I begin to experience my difficulty in prayer, it is usually because I am refusing to let go of my present understanding of who I am and preventing a new understanding from emerging.
For example, if I have clung to some ideal picture of who I should be and have denied another part of myself that is struggling to be born, then I am inauthentic; and the God I have been praying to is no longer real, because he was fashioned from that idealizing part of me that is now dying. As my former self dies, so does the inadequate god who is fashioned out of the need to have a divinity who conforms to whom the self thinks it should be.
However, when I let go and let myself grow and emerge by embracing all sides of myself, God is again accessible, because the true God is he who loves and affirms and redeems who I really am and not just who I would like to be. In otherwords, the acecptance of the truthe about myself opens the way to the truth about God, and both truths are one at the prayerful center of the person.
True prayer demands honesty with myself, for it is only the real "I" who can talk with God. And I do not mean to imply here that only the integrated self can pray, but simply that honesty with myself enables me to pray correctly. If, for example, I need to be "worthy" or "perfect" or "holy" before I can pray, then I will probably not pray at all, or if I do, it will be a pseudo, self-satisfied self talking to itself rather than with God. We commune with God as we honestly are and not as we would like to be.
The idealized self is always dying in prayer, because it cannot bear the truth. And if we let it die and pray from who we are becoming, then our image of God changes as we understand more clearly who we are.
And our prayer changes accordingly. It may move from the adoration of the all-good God to bitter complaining and bickering with an unjust God who is letting me suffer or who is abandoning me for some reason. If I experience God as betraying me but say instead how wonderful and good he is, then I am praying a lie. God will only be who he is objectively if, while trying and wanting to believe that, I pray to him as I am experiencing him subjectively, for the good God redeems and corrects my honestly expressed but false understanding of who he is.
I believe this sincere wrestling with God is what Francis experienced during that torturous year in the cave at the beginning of his conversion and at other times through his life, culmination in the fifty days of darkness that preceded his singing of The Canticle of Brother Sun. He felt abandoned and betrayed by God; and because he let himself pray what he truly felt, God showed him that He is faithful to who He is and to His promises, even though at the time we might experience Him otherwise.
Because Francis was honest enough to acknowledge his doubt and despair and God's infidelity, as he experienced it, the true God at the center of his heart again rose to the surface of his consciousness to affirm the truth of Francis' perception: God had abandoned him, that he might once again give back to God the privilege of being God, independent of Francis, outside his control.
Whatever God deigns to give us of himself is pure gift and not something we earn or deserve by becoming that "perfect" person we think we should be. We are who we are, and any perfection, or completion, in us is the work of God responding freely to our honest prayer that he change in us what we previously thought we could change by ourselves.
Who we become in God is then his work and not our own success in conforming to some ideal. The self we become in true prayer is seldom the self we envisioned, but it is a new and marvelous self that God fashions out of the gradual redeeming of the false self we now acknowledge as the work of our own misguided idealism. We then know God in what he has done in us to enable us to discover our true face. And in that face only do we see the reflection of God as he really is."
For example, if I have clung to some ideal picture of who I should be and have denied another part of myself that is struggling to be born, then I am inauthentic; and the God I have been praying to is no longer real, because he was fashioned from that idealizing part of me that is now dying. As my former self dies, so does the inadequate god who is fashioned out of the need to have a divinity who conforms to whom the self thinks it should be.
However, when I let go and let myself grow and emerge by embracing all sides of myself, God is again accessible, because the true God is he who loves and affirms and redeems who I really am and not just who I would like to be. In otherwords, the acecptance of the truthe about myself opens the way to the truth about God, and both truths are one at the prayerful center of the person.
True prayer demands honesty with myself, for it is only the real "I" who can talk with God. And I do not mean to imply here that only the integrated self can pray, but simply that honesty with myself enables me to pray correctly. If, for example, I need to be "worthy" or "perfect" or "holy" before I can pray, then I will probably not pray at all, or if I do, it will be a pseudo, self-satisfied self talking to itself rather than with God. We commune with God as we honestly are and not as we would like to be.
The idealized self is always dying in prayer, because it cannot bear the truth. And if we let it die and pray from who we are becoming, then our image of God changes as we understand more clearly who we are.
And our prayer changes accordingly. It may move from the adoration of the all-good God to bitter complaining and bickering with an unjust God who is letting me suffer or who is abandoning me for some reason. If I experience God as betraying me but say instead how wonderful and good he is, then I am praying a lie. God will only be who he is objectively if, while trying and wanting to believe that, I pray to him as I am experiencing him subjectively, for the good God redeems and corrects my honestly expressed but false understanding of who he is.
I believe this sincere wrestling with God is what Francis experienced during that torturous year in the cave at the beginning of his conversion and at other times through his life, culmination in the fifty days of darkness that preceded his singing of The Canticle of Brother Sun. He felt abandoned and betrayed by God; and because he let himself pray what he truly felt, God showed him that He is faithful to who He is and to His promises, even though at the time we might experience Him otherwise.
Because Francis was honest enough to acknowledge his doubt and despair and God's infidelity, as he experienced it, the true God at the center of his heart again rose to the surface of his consciousness to affirm the truth of Francis' perception: God had abandoned him, that he might once again give back to God the privilege of being God, independent of Francis, outside his control.
Whatever God deigns to give us of himself is pure gift and not something we earn or deserve by becoming that "perfect" person we think we should be. We are who we are, and any perfection, or completion, in us is the work of God responding freely to our honest prayer that he change in us what we previously thought we could change by ourselves.
Who we become in God is then his work and not our own success in conforming to some ideal. The self we become in true prayer is seldom the self we envisioned, but it is a new and marvelous self that God fashions out of the gradual redeeming of the false self we now acknowledge as the work of our own misguided idealism. We then know God in what he has done in us to enable us to discover our true face. And in that face only do we see the reflection of God as he really is."
Sunday, July 10, 2011
Sleepless in the South
There really ought to be rules about this. Like, your reason is handicapped, your inhibitions are down, your faculties are impaired, and you definitely should not be allowed anywhere near a communication source of any sort. So, all that being said, the non-functioning, non-rational part of my brain says, “Meh! You’re totally sleepless and exhausted, so why not write a blog post!”
You know, cures for sleeplessness are sort of like cures for every other common ailment. They range from the disgusting to the absurd, to the boringly and quietly practical:
• Drink a glass of warm milk. This is only appealing if you are seriously pregnant, and not really then.
• Count sheep. My record is 1749….I had all sorts of psychedelic sheep but I never got a lick of sleep out of it.
• Write letters. I tried that once….my unfortunate correspondent wrote me back, “Um, how late at night did you write this? Did you know your handwriting gets illegible after a while?”
• Relax. Have you ever tried to consciously relax? Normally it makes me tense, but maybe that’s just me. It also tends to make every random thought that ever occurred to me all month decide to prance through my brain all at once and get tangled with each other. It’s a little weird to have your brain leap from “can I get away with bright yellow, bumblebee, pillowcases?” to “How come every time I have an insurance crises I can never get a human being on the phone?” Mostly it leads to very weird visions of local insurance agents harassing the local bee population for documents proving their estimated flight time for month or risking de-winging.
• Deep breathing. Last night I tried that as a cure for sleeplessness, I passed out from an overindulgence in oxygen. For the record, passing out and falling asleep are not the same thing. They are about as related as Loki and Thor.
• Take a walk. Walking is good…problem…my average walking speed is 3.5 mph, and once the heart gets pumping, sleep tends to run away.
• Drink a lot of vodka. It would probably work, but see point about passing out being fundamentally different than falling asleep.
• Get sleep meds. Never tried em’, probably should at some point. But, I just have an issue with forcibly inducing a natural reaction.
• Get totally exhausted. This is a terrible method, but unfortunately the one that tends to work best for me. Go sleepless, and in a night or two without good sleep, your body will be so tired out that you will eventually sleep.
• Do some simple, repetitive exercise. Knitting yourself to sleep! Good plan. Except, I don’t want to rip it all out the next day when I see what happens when I knit half asleep.
Okay, so the moral of the story is, if I get sleepless, I’m pretty much stuck. So all y’all get stuck with a blog post at 4 A.M. about nothing in particular.
You know, cures for sleeplessness are sort of like cures for every other common ailment. They range from the disgusting to the absurd, to the boringly and quietly practical:
• Drink a glass of warm milk. This is only appealing if you are seriously pregnant, and not really then.
• Count sheep. My record is 1749….I had all sorts of psychedelic sheep but I never got a lick of sleep out of it.
• Write letters. I tried that once….my unfortunate correspondent wrote me back, “Um, how late at night did you write this? Did you know your handwriting gets illegible after a while?”
• Relax. Have you ever tried to consciously relax? Normally it makes me tense, but maybe that’s just me. It also tends to make every random thought that ever occurred to me all month decide to prance through my brain all at once and get tangled with each other. It’s a little weird to have your brain leap from “can I get away with bright yellow, bumblebee, pillowcases?” to “How come every time I have an insurance crises I can never get a human being on the phone?” Mostly it leads to very weird visions of local insurance agents harassing the local bee population for documents proving their estimated flight time for month or risking de-winging.
• Deep breathing. Last night I tried that as a cure for sleeplessness, I passed out from an overindulgence in oxygen. For the record, passing out and falling asleep are not the same thing. They are about as related as Loki and Thor.
• Take a walk. Walking is good…problem…my average walking speed is 3.5 mph, and once the heart gets pumping, sleep tends to run away.
• Drink a lot of vodka. It would probably work, but see point about passing out being fundamentally different than falling asleep.
• Get sleep meds. Never tried em’, probably should at some point. But, I just have an issue with forcibly inducing a natural reaction.
• Get totally exhausted. This is a terrible method, but unfortunately the one that tends to work best for me. Go sleepless, and in a night or two without good sleep, your body will be so tired out that you will eventually sleep.
• Do some simple, repetitive exercise. Knitting yourself to sleep! Good plan. Except, I don’t want to rip it all out the next day when I see what happens when I knit half asleep.
Okay, so the moral of the story is, if I get sleepless, I’m pretty much stuck. So all y’all get stuck with a blog post at 4 A.M. about nothing in particular.
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
Washed and Waiting
I just finished reading an excellent book. That is not especially shocking, what is surprising, is that the book is not several hundred years old. The book was published last year, it was written by a young man in his twenties, and it is going to sound incredibly controversial even though it isn’t.
The book is called Washed and Waiting and it is written by a young man named Wesley Hill. He is a homosexual divinity student who believes and affirms the biblical concept of marriage—one man with one woman, with no room for homosexual practice. So, being solely attracted to young man, he sees but one route for him…to continually resist temptation, and to live a completely celibate life.
He claims, and I believe him that there are a great many people in the conservative Christian church today who continually struggle with gay and lesbian desires, but affirm solely the biblical view of marriage. This book is written as an encouragement both to them and to the church at large in how to help them.
But, I found that the book has a wider application for heterosexuals as well. Or maybe it was just me. The book addresses everyone who is called to celibacy. That includes men and women who are heterosexual but have no yet found a spouse. That struck me is how very real he is about the depth and breadth of the burden of celibacy. It is not just abstaining from sex, though that can feel almost impossible some day in our sex-soaked and obsessed culture, it is the lose of the small intimacies, the lose of a person to build a home with, the constant reminders that you are missing out on the highest example of God’s love manifested in community. He is very real, and accurate about the loneliness, the struggle, and the despair. If you’ve ever struggled with your singleness, you need to read this book.
Another thing I appreciated about this book is his profound understanding of the theology of brokenness. It may seem odd that brokenness is consoling, but in showing the flaws, the beauty of redemption can become even more clear.
In all, this book is very simply and very powerfully written and provides a much-needed perspective on a set of very complicated issues. Y’all should read it.
The book is called Washed and Waiting and it is written by a young man named Wesley Hill. He is a homosexual divinity student who believes and affirms the biblical concept of marriage—one man with one woman, with no room for homosexual practice. So, being solely attracted to young man, he sees but one route for him…to continually resist temptation, and to live a completely celibate life.
He claims, and I believe him that there are a great many people in the conservative Christian church today who continually struggle with gay and lesbian desires, but affirm solely the biblical view of marriage. This book is written as an encouragement both to them and to the church at large in how to help them.
But, I found that the book has a wider application for heterosexuals as well. Or maybe it was just me. The book addresses everyone who is called to celibacy. That includes men and women who are heterosexual but have no yet found a spouse. That struck me is how very real he is about the depth and breadth of the burden of celibacy. It is not just abstaining from sex, though that can feel almost impossible some day in our sex-soaked and obsessed culture, it is the lose of the small intimacies, the lose of a person to build a home with, the constant reminders that you are missing out on the highest example of God’s love manifested in community. He is very real, and accurate about the loneliness, the struggle, and the despair. If you’ve ever struggled with your singleness, you need to read this book.
Another thing I appreciated about this book is his profound understanding of the theology of brokenness. It may seem odd that brokenness is consoling, but in showing the flaws, the beauty of redemption can become even more clear.
In all, this book is very simply and very powerfully written and provides a much-needed perspective on a set of very complicated issues. Y’all should read it.
Friday, June 24, 2011
SUMMER!!!!
Summer! That time of year when I do exactly what I do the other 250 odd days of the year—except, you do it when it is hot, sticky, and everyone else is talking about how many exciting things they are doing.
On the plus side, Oh Joy! Oh Bliss! Oh Happiness! My new car, his name is Whimsey, has Air Conditioning!! It is very sweet and considerate of him and I appreciate it more every single day.
On another even better note, summer brings esteemed and beloved visitors to my section of the South. Brunhilda will be coming to visit me around August. Buahaha…Now I just need to find a cute pub to take her adventuring to.
And Really…I live in the Beach Capital of the South….this year I really really need to make it to a beach at some point this summer.
On the plus side, Oh Joy! Oh Bliss! Oh Happiness! My new car, his name is Whimsey, has Air Conditioning!! It is very sweet and considerate of him and I appreciate it more every single day.
On another even better note, summer brings esteemed and beloved visitors to my section of the South. Brunhilda will be coming to visit me around August. Buahaha…Now I just need to find a cute pub to take her adventuring to.
And Really…I live in the Beach Capital of the South….this year I really really need to make it to a beach at some point this summer.
Saturday, June 18, 2011
Hope and Money
Money is a dreadfully important thing.
I remember being broke after college, and every time I couldn’t afford groceries, or I froze in my house while I couldn’t pay for heat, or I put my car repairs on my credit card because I didn’t have any money for dire necessity repairs, I told myself, “It won’t be like this for long.”
You know….”Someday” will happen. I will get a better paying job. I will pay off one or two of my loans and I will have a little more leeway. Nothing will go disastrously wrong for another 6 months and I will get some savings. I will get a successful part-time job that won’t work me too hard. Someday I will have some fiscal security.
Then, nothing goes wrong and everything goes wrong. You realize that no matter how hard you work, your job will still be dead-end. Cost of living will go up faster than any possible raises. If you have an old car, it will break faster than your ability to pay for repairs, if you have a new car, the payments slowly bleed you dry. You have to go to the doctor. You have to go to the dentist and he finds $7000 dollars worth of repairs. You need glasses. You need to buy a good pair of running shoes. Utilities go up. Groceries go up. The payments for your loans go up and you realize at the minimum payments that the term is 30 years. You realize that you can’t afford to pay for education to get a better paying job. Job market tightens up and part-time jobs are more demanding and more rare than you had previously imagined.
God still provides. You have food and shelter and clothes, but you very carefully watch your money as it slowly spirals deeper and deeper and for the life of you you can’t imagine what you can use to possibly cut costs.
Now, naturally the answer to the question is “trust God.” God will solve the huge, financial, maelstrom in some way at some time. If you consult the American dream (or curse) than it will tell you if you work hard enough you will find a way and break through. But then, I can do math, and I read Grapes of Wrath. Those people had endless amounts of work, drive, and hope, and they never came to a homeplace. And the math tells me I will never make it out of debt without a significant change in pay.
Hope is a chancy thing. On the plus side, God promised to provide for me, but then, he only promised to provide your necessities. That he has done, even abundantly, but I write the checks every month, and I feel the weight of debt and lack of scope for vocational growth more and more every month. And I ask myself, what am I hoping for? I didn’t sign on for an easy ride when I became a Christian. And debt is an easier burden than martyrdom. But, debt is a loooooooooong burden. What do you pray for when you bereft on a sea of not so imminent yet always present financial issues? What do you cultivate hope in when you are perpetually broke with no way to go forward that you can see no matter how hard you work, or how many avenues you explore?
That may have been a very disorganized and not very enlightening post.
I remember being broke after college, and every time I couldn’t afford groceries, or I froze in my house while I couldn’t pay for heat, or I put my car repairs on my credit card because I didn’t have any money for dire necessity repairs, I told myself, “It won’t be like this for long.”
You know….”Someday” will happen. I will get a better paying job. I will pay off one or two of my loans and I will have a little more leeway. Nothing will go disastrously wrong for another 6 months and I will get some savings. I will get a successful part-time job that won’t work me too hard. Someday I will have some fiscal security.
Then, nothing goes wrong and everything goes wrong. You realize that no matter how hard you work, your job will still be dead-end. Cost of living will go up faster than any possible raises. If you have an old car, it will break faster than your ability to pay for repairs, if you have a new car, the payments slowly bleed you dry. You have to go to the doctor. You have to go to the dentist and he finds $7000 dollars worth of repairs. You need glasses. You need to buy a good pair of running shoes. Utilities go up. Groceries go up. The payments for your loans go up and you realize at the minimum payments that the term is 30 years. You realize that you can’t afford to pay for education to get a better paying job. Job market tightens up and part-time jobs are more demanding and more rare than you had previously imagined.
God still provides. You have food and shelter and clothes, but you very carefully watch your money as it slowly spirals deeper and deeper and for the life of you you can’t imagine what you can use to possibly cut costs.
Now, naturally the answer to the question is “trust God.” God will solve the huge, financial, maelstrom in some way at some time. If you consult the American dream (or curse) than it will tell you if you work hard enough you will find a way and break through. But then, I can do math, and I read Grapes of Wrath. Those people had endless amounts of work, drive, and hope, and they never came to a homeplace. And the math tells me I will never make it out of debt without a significant change in pay.
Hope is a chancy thing. On the plus side, God promised to provide for me, but then, he only promised to provide your necessities. That he has done, even abundantly, but I write the checks every month, and I feel the weight of debt and lack of scope for vocational growth more and more every month. And I ask myself, what am I hoping for? I didn’t sign on for an easy ride when I became a Christian. And debt is an easier burden than martyrdom. But, debt is a loooooooooong burden. What do you pray for when you bereft on a sea of not so imminent yet always present financial issues? What do you cultivate hope in when you are perpetually broke with no way to go forward that you can see no matter how hard you work, or how many avenues you explore?
That may have been a very disorganized and not very enlightening post.
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
Theological Fun
It occurs to me that so far, this blog has covered pretty much the gym and books. Oh well, that is pretty much life at the moment. I’ve been going to the gym 6 times a week for the last three weeks, and today was the first day that I really and truly did not want to go. The day had started at seven unloading a semi-trailer, and I had spent the next ten hours unloading, pricing, and putting up my order, while serving endless demanding customers. It was a long day. Weight lifting was not something that particularly appealed.
But then it occurred to me. This time three years ago, I was never sure if I would be able to walk 30 yards without help let alone run for 45 minutes. Don’t get me wrong, I am incredibly grateful for all those men and women who helped me walk, carried my bags, packed me up and sent me home, helped edit my papers when I was completely brain dead, and brought me meals, but I am even more grateful for whatever God has done in the last few years so that now, I am able to work a 10 hour day and then go lift a ridiculous amount of weights.
I’m not often convicted my reading C.S. Lewis. Interested, expanded, and invigorated yes, but not convicted. But the other day I was reading The Problem of Pain and something stood out to me. Lewis says that most people think of life as a long walk to get to a place where there is no suffering, where life is easy, comfortable, and peaceful. But Lewis says that life is not like this. God, in his mercy does not, in general, give us a place where life is comfortable and peaceful—if it was, we would have no need of him. We would never grow. We would never catch a glimpse of what he does want for us. He brings us suffering because we are his children, and as proper children, he has a great interest in bettering us whether we like it or not. But, Lewis says, God, in his mercy does not give us ease. But God, in his mercy, does sprinkle a hard path with an enormous amount of….I realize this is not a theological word, but fun. He gives us incidence of fun, exuberance, delight. He doesn’t need to give us these glorious respites, but he delights to. It is only up to us to recognize and revel in these gifts. Reading this, I realized that I keep forgetting to spot the good. There is a lot of work. There is a lot of stress. There is even a lot of pain and sorrow. But God is doing a lot to send me friends, laughter, joy, and hope, and I am too often blind to it. But, in an attempt to tie these two topics together…the ability to work, and to work out, is a gift of God that I much too often forget to revel in, yet it is a constant and potent gift.
But then it occurred to me. This time three years ago, I was never sure if I would be able to walk 30 yards without help let alone run for 45 minutes. Don’t get me wrong, I am incredibly grateful for all those men and women who helped me walk, carried my bags, packed me up and sent me home, helped edit my papers when I was completely brain dead, and brought me meals, but I am even more grateful for whatever God has done in the last few years so that now, I am able to work a 10 hour day and then go lift a ridiculous amount of weights.
I’m not often convicted my reading C.S. Lewis. Interested, expanded, and invigorated yes, but not convicted. But the other day I was reading The Problem of Pain and something stood out to me. Lewis says that most people think of life as a long walk to get to a place where there is no suffering, where life is easy, comfortable, and peaceful. But Lewis says that life is not like this. God, in his mercy does not, in general, give us a place where life is comfortable and peaceful—if it was, we would have no need of him. We would never grow. We would never catch a glimpse of what he does want for us. He brings us suffering because we are his children, and as proper children, he has a great interest in bettering us whether we like it or not. But, Lewis says, God, in his mercy does not give us ease. But God, in his mercy, does sprinkle a hard path with an enormous amount of….I realize this is not a theological word, but fun. He gives us incidence of fun, exuberance, delight. He doesn’t need to give us these glorious respites, but he delights to. It is only up to us to recognize and revel in these gifts. Reading this, I realized that I keep forgetting to spot the good. There is a lot of work. There is a lot of stress. There is even a lot of pain and sorrow. But God is doing a lot to send me friends, laughter, joy, and hope, and I am too often blind to it. But, in an attempt to tie these two topics together…the ability to work, and to work out, is a gift of God that I much too often forget to revel in, yet it is a constant and potent gift.
Sunday, June 12, 2011
Kingship
Kingship
In these last few weeks, I’ve read both the Epic of Gilgamesh and Beowulf. It is interesting to read these two works back to back. They have several similarities. Both are quite old, both cover the lives and values of epic heroes, and both deal with issues ranging from martial heroes to life, death, and the hereafter.
Yet, the two approach things very differently. For one thing, Gilgamesh’s view of his people is only really covered in the first part of the epic. He mostly views his people as a means of pleasure: free sex, the right of life and death, taxes, and an endless audience to show off his amazing prowess martial prowess. Beowulf shows a very different approach to power. For one thing, the story opens with Beowulf crossing the wine-dark sea to risk his life fighting for a neighboring kingdom. The story ends with him going out to do battle with a dragon that he knows will kill him to defend his people. Gilgamesh views his people as a source of power, Beowulf sees his people as an entity that he is responsible to protect. Beowulf goes to power when he is young to win glory, and when he is old to defend and protect. Gilgamesh roisters and wastes his youth tormenting his people, and when he is old he goes to battle a dragon just to prove how amazing he is.
Another difference is the manifestations of friendship. Enkido is everything to Gilgamesh. When Enkido dies, Gilgamesh goes crazy for days, and finally storms the home of the gods to find a way to put off his own demise. It is interesting to note that he never asks for Enkido to return, he just doesn’t want to die himself. Though Beowulf himself has no truly intimate friends, he does repeatedly express his love both of his men, his fellow kings, and his people. When they die, he offers gifts, songs, and aid to the survivors. Yet, when they die, Beowulf has a sense of acceptance. The key appears to be that in Gilgamesh’s world, when the dead are gone, they are gone. Death is the end. Only the special, or exceptionally cheeky get made deities and therefore have eternal life. To Beowulf, there is an after life. All his men have the option of going to heaven, so when they die, or when he dies, there is heaven to look forward to. So, he need not fear death, or grieve wildly the deaths of those he loves. He mourns them, but there is no despair in death.
Finally, Gilgamesh ends in despair. He lives, he loves, he defeats the dragon, he encounters the gods, and he loses it all. He realizes that he is dust, the world will end in dust, and there is nothing left to live for. Beowulf ends with the death of the hero, but he ends with hope. He lives, he loves, he saves his people, he meets God, and he knows that as he ends, he will attain heaven—perfect peace and life.
If you conflate the two stories, they seem to cover a lot of the same subject matter, and could be mistaken for dealing with similar subjects, however, the two cover the same territory, yet end at polar opposites. They two stories stand as prime examples of how an essential belief can completely change the entire scope of a life.
In these last few weeks, I’ve read both the Epic of Gilgamesh and Beowulf. It is interesting to read these two works back to back. They have several similarities. Both are quite old, both cover the lives and values of epic heroes, and both deal with issues ranging from martial heroes to life, death, and the hereafter.
Yet, the two approach things very differently. For one thing, Gilgamesh’s view of his people is only really covered in the first part of the epic. He mostly views his people as a means of pleasure: free sex, the right of life and death, taxes, and an endless audience to show off his amazing prowess martial prowess. Beowulf shows a very different approach to power. For one thing, the story opens with Beowulf crossing the wine-dark sea to risk his life fighting for a neighboring kingdom. The story ends with him going out to do battle with a dragon that he knows will kill him to defend his people. Gilgamesh views his people as a source of power, Beowulf sees his people as an entity that he is responsible to protect. Beowulf goes to power when he is young to win glory, and when he is old to defend and protect. Gilgamesh roisters and wastes his youth tormenting his people, and when he is old he goes to battle a dragon just to prove how amazing he is.
Another difference is the manifestations of friendship. Enkido is everything to Gilgamesh. When Enkido dies, Gilgamesh goes crazy for days, and finally storms the home of the gods to find a way to put off his own demise. It is interesting to note that he never asks for Enkido to return, he just doesn’t want to die himself. Though Beowulf himself has no truly intimate friends, he does repeatedly express his love both of his men, his fellow kings, and his people. When they die, he offers gifts, songs, and aid to the survivors. Yet, when they die, Beowulf has a sense of acceptance. The key appears to be that in Gilgamesh’s world, when the dead are gone, they are gone. Death is the end. Only the special, or exceptionally cheeky get made deities and therefore have eternal life. To Beowulf, there is an after life. All his men have the option of going to heaven, so when they die, or when he dies, there is heaven to look forward to. So, he need not fear death, or grieve wildly the deaths of those he loves. He mourns them, but there is no despair in death.
Finally, Gilgamesh ends in despair. He lives, he loves, he defeats the dragon, he encounters the gods, and he loses it all. He realizes that he is dust, the world will end in dust, and there is nothing left to live for. Beowulf ends with the death of the hero, but he ends with hope. He lives, he loves, he saves his people, he meets God, and he knows that as he ends, he will attain heaven—perfect peace and life.
If you conflate the two stories, they seem to cover a lot of the same subject matter, and could be mistaken for dealing with similar subjects, however, the two cover the same territory, yet end at polar opposites. They two stories stand as prime examples of how an essential belief can completely change the entire scope of a life.
Friday, June 10, 2011
Gyms, Jack of All Trades, and Existential Happiness
My priest is an odd duck. He will probably end up on this blog a few times, so, we shall call him Tom.
Fr. Tom…is sort of the Dr. Aikman of blue collar work. He has done almost every form of construction known to mankind. He can build a chicken coop in less than four hours, make a knife from scratch the old fashioned way (complete with anvil), he can construct a stained glass window, and wire any sort of building. I think the list of things he can’t do is a lot shorter than the list of things he can. Yeah, if you sense awe and amazement in that last sentence, I pretty much am.
Anyhow, somehow or other I ended up joining his gym. And he has the most robust form of encouragement I’ve ever encountered. The kind that watches you sweat through your three sets of fifteen reps on the hellacious machine, then looks at you and tells you, “do another five, and another round on all of them, you aren’t exhausted enough yet.” And lo and behold, you go and do them, and quite aside from being utterly dead, you feel exhilarated and empowered. At the end of the day, you aren’t sure if you are being tortured or made better, but, the two look so much alike, who can really tell?
Anyhow, by some odd interchange of cause and effect, I am becoming just a bit of a gym freak, and I’ve made an interesting sort of discovery. Mind does take precedence over matter. I’m not a runner. I haven’t run more than twenty minutes at a go since I was fourteen. And that twenty minutes of running is usually punctuated by many bewailings of severely pained ankles, knees, and lungs.
So, I was contemplating that as long as I was going to a gym, and more specifically, whatever gym Fr. Tom happened to be at, that the treadmill was going to be an increasingly time-consuming part of my life—and the knowledge did not thrill me. After trying pretty much everything—music, books on tape, tv, and conversation to take my mind off of sore legs, I had a brilliant idea. I discovered that while reading a book on a treadmill is next to impossible, reading a kindle on a treadmill is fairly easy. So, one investment in a kindle, and an hour downloading free books later, I am sweating on a treadmill while re-reading De Tocqueville.
Upshot, while listening to music, I can run for 22 minutes. While reading, I can go 45.
Fr. Tom…is sort of the Dr. Aikman of blue collar work. He has done almost every form of construction known to mankind. He can build a chicken coop in less than four hours, make a knife from scratch the old fashioned way (complete with anvil), he can construct a stained glass window, and wire any sort of building. I think the list of things he can’t do is a lot shorter than the list of things he can. Yeah, if you sense awe and amazement in that last sentence, I pretty much am.
Anyhow, somehow or other I ended up joining his gym. And he has the most robust form of encouragement I’ve ever encountered. The kind that watches you sweat through your three sets of fifteen reps on the hellacious machine, then looks at you and tells you, “do another five, and another round on all of them, you aren’t exhausted enough yet.” And lo and behold, you go and do them, and quite aside from being utterly dead, you feel exhilarated and empowered. At the end of the day, you aren’t sure if you are being tortured or made better, but, the two look so much alike, who can really tell?
Anyhow, by some odd interchange of cause and effect, I am becoming just a bit of a gym freak, and I’ve made an interesting sort of discovery. Mind does take precedence over matter. I’m not a runner. I haven’t run more than twenty minutes at a go since I was fourteen. And that twenty minutes of running is usually punctuated by many bewailings of severely pained ankles, knees, and lungs.
So, I was contemplating that as long as I was going to a gym, and more specifically, whatever gym Fr. Tom happened to be at, that the treadmill was going to be an increasingly time-consuming part of my life—and the knowledge did not thrill me. After trying pretty much everything—music, books on tape, tv, and conversation to take my mind off of sore legs, I had a brilliant idea. I discovered that while reading a book on a treadmill is next to impossible, reading a kindle on a treadmill is fairly easy. So, one investment in a kindle, and an hour downloading free books later, I am sweating on a treadmill while re-reading De Tocqueville.
Upshot, while listening to music, I can run for 22 minutes. While reading, I can go 45.
Friday, June 3, 2011
The Epic of Gilgamesh--A Haphazard Review
To deal with my Bibliothetic panic of a week ago, I got serious. I suppose Serious should be underlined and capitalized, but why do that when you can emphasize it with a completely extraneous sentence instead? So, to be properly serious, I wrote a booklist that is 8 pages long and could probably provide a trio of frenetic readers in solitary confinement enough material to keep them busy for the rest of their lives. But hey, why do things by halves?
Now, I wrote a list, this, for me, counts as organized. I really don’t care what order the abundance comes at me. So, I started roughly 3600 years ago with “The Epic of Gilgamesh.”
Gilgamesh is not for kids. Neither is this slightly academic meandering for that matter.
Gilgamesh is an epic about the Chaldean King Arthur. He is a giant of a man—strong, powerful, ruler of the world, a tormenter of young men, the man who has the right to sleep with young brides before their consummation with their husbands, and a tyrant who the entire realm wishes dead. So, the people pray for deliverance….and the gods send them…another version of Gilgamsh, named Enkido. Now, Enkido, is a complete savage, and runs with the antelope like Mowgli. He needs to be tamed, so Gilgamesh sends a temple prostitute to seduce him, and bring him to humanity by granting him the gift and enlightenment of sex. Voila, it works, Enkido becomes a real man, comes to the city, and becomes the true friend of Gilgamesh. The true grow in heroics, strength, honor, they even act like human beings to their subjects. Together they go on fantastic adventures, slay great, slavering beasties, and rule the world. But then, Enkido dies, and Gilgamesh departs on days of fasting, wandering, and mourning before he goes to the gods and demands to be told how to defeat death. They tell him, no one gets immortality—unless you are extra special, like the man that through chicanery survived the Great Deluge. Then, they send him on an impossible quest, which he almost succeeds in, before he fails, and realizes, that, no matter what, no matter how strong, all men, even he, will die, and one should just accept their fate.
This is, obviously, the short version of the Cliff Notes version, but a couple of things stood out to me in this poem. First, sex is a major part of this story. Sex is the means by which Enkido is brought to manhood, civilization, and enlightenment. The author of the forward made a great to-do about how this shows how the Chaldean’s properly understood sex as opposed to those Prudish Christians who don’t understand its powers of freedom and maturity. That, is a whole different conversation which I will enthusiastically start later, but, I do have to wonder, if sex is what makes us civilized and most fully human, does that leave virgins as half a person until consummation? I am also slightly worried by the fact that sex in the Epic has absolutely nothing to do with romance: artistry, craftsmanship, pleasure, spiritual enlightenment, and alienation are all important elements, but the woman you sleep with is a tool—one you can curse to the worst hell and bless with many lovers in the same breath.
Another thing that stood out is the elusiveness of eternity. And, I think as Christians I might take this for granted. For better or for worse, I will live for eternity. To the Chaldean, everyone is going to die, and be dust. The only exceptions are the gods. They live forever. There is no heave, and no hell, only nothingness, and deity. Nihilism is the state religion—no wonder you eat, sleep with anyone and anything you wish, and try to die in such a way that people will remember you.
The last thing that stood out was the cruelty of the gods. God destroyed the earth with a great flood, and it is hard to know why He allowed this to happen, but he did if for a pre-established purpose. The Epic also has a great flood, but in its version, 5 gods collude to cause the flood, but two recant as soon as they see the devastation, and wish they had never allowed it. The others say, essentially, “well, mankind wasn’t that valuable anyway, it all comes to dust in the end, so who cares?” They then reward the “Noah” figure with godhood, and what he is being rewarded for remains slightly obscure.
The story has a lot to offer. It does stray from the simple “me hero, me right” formula of your average hero tale. It grapples with the meaning of life, the hope of immortality, the love of friends, the importance of sex, and the value of true courage. However, in the end, it still remains a stunning example of just how glad I should be that I am a Christian.
Now, I wrote a list, this, for me, counts as organized. I really don’t care what order the abundance comes at me. So, I started roughly 3600 years ago with “The Epic of Gilgamesh.”
Gilgamesh is not for kids. Neither is this slightly academic meandering for that matter.
Gilgamesh is an epic about the Chaldean King Arthur. He is a giant of a man—strong, powerful, ruler of the world, a tormenter of young men, the man who has the right to sleep with young brides before their consummation with their husbands, and a tyrant who the entire realm wishes dead. So, the people pray for deliverance….and the gods send them…another version of Gilgamsh, named Enkido. Now, Enkido, is a complete savage, and runs with the antelope like Mowgli. He needs to be tamed, so Gilgamesh sends a temple prostitute to seduce him, and bring him to humanity by granting him the gift and enlightenment of sex. Voila, it works, Enkido becomes a real man, comes to the city, and becomes the true friend of Gilgamesh. The true grow in heroics, strength, honor, they even act like human beings to their subjects. Together they go on fantastic adventures, slay great, slavering beasties, and rule the world. But then, Enkido dies, and Gilgamesh departs on days of fasting, wandering, and mourning before he goes to the gods and demands to be told how to defeat death. They tell him, no one gets immortality—unless you are extra special, like the man that through chicanery survived the Great Deluge. Then, they send him on an impossible quest, which he almost succeeds in, before he fails, and realizes, that, no matter what, no matter how strong, all men, even he, will die, and one should just accept their fate.
This is, obviously, the short version of the Cliff Notes version, but a couple of things stood out to me in this poem. First, sex is a major part of this story. Sex is the means by which Enkido is brought to manhood, civilization, and enlightenment. The author of the forward made a great to-do about how this shows how the Chaldean’s properly understood sex as opposed to those Prudish Christians who don’t understand its powers of freedom and maturity. That, is a whole different conversation which I will enthusiastically start later, but, I do have to wonder, if sex is what makes us civilized and most fully human, does that leave virgins as half a person until consummation? I am also slightly worried by the fact that sex in the Epic has absolutely nothing to do with romance: artistry, craftsmanship, pleasure, spiritual enlightenment, and alienation are all important elements, but the woman you sleep with is a tool—one you can curse to the worst hell and bless with many lovers in the same breath.
Another thing that stood out is the elusiveness of eternity. And, I think as Christians I might take this for granted. For better or for worse, I will live for eternity. To the Chaldean, everyone is going to die, and be dust. The only exceptions are the gods. They live forever. There is no heave, and no hell, only nothingness, and deity. Nihilism is the state religion—no wonder you eat, sleep with anyone and anything you wish, and try to die in such a way that people will remember you.
The last thing that stood out was the cruelty of the gods. God destroyed the earth with a great flood, and it is hard to know why He allowed this to happen, but he did if for a pre-established purpose. The Epic also has a great flood, but in its version, 5 gods collude to cause the flood, but two recant as soon as they see the devastation, and wish they had never allowed it. The others say, essentially, “well, mankind wasn’t that valuable anyway, it all comes to dust in the end, so who cares?” They then reward the “Noah” figure with godhood, and what he is being rewarded for remains slightly obscure.
The story has a lot to offer. It does stray from the simple “me hero, me right” formula of your average hero tale. It grapples with the meaning of life, the hope of immortality, the love of friends, the importance of sex, and the value of true courage. However, in the end, it still remains a stunning example of just how glad I should be that I am a Christian.
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
Retail as Life Skills Training
I read gtags. And on these gtags I see all the fabulous things that my various classmates are doing: getting jobs, getting married, having babies, attaining J.D.’s, Masters, and Ph.Ds. And I work retail—which, I admit, does a somewhat decent job of paying the bills—which, I also admit, is important, but it really doesn’t feel like I am getting anywhere. So, I am on a continuing mission to figure out what, in fact, retail is good for. And, in my position as career-minded, feminist homebody, I have found a use for it. Retail is great preparation for being a mother.
Let’s think about it. In retail, you always have 8 projects going at once. You never have a chance to finish any one job. You are constantly being interrupted. You are running all the time. You are always dealing with people in various levels of crankiness, hurry, preoccupation, and just plain angst. You have to deal with the demands of 5 or 6 customers at once, plus a manager, plus whatever projects you aren’t dealing with at the moment. You are perpetually doing the same jobs over, and over, and over again. You rarely feel pretty or in control. Holidays, and days of rest mean that your work load goes up. And, finally, somehow, you have to remain pleasant, professional, and competent throughout.
With all of this going on, if you can do all this, you can do anything.
Let’s think about it. In retail, you always have 8 projects going at once. You never have a chance to finish any one job. You are constantly being interrupted. You are running all the time. You are always dealing with people in various levels of crankiness, hurry, preoccupation, and just plain angst. You have to deal with the demands of 5 or 6 customers at once, plus a manager, plus whatever projects you aren’t dealing with at the moment. You are perpetually doing the same jobs over, and over, and over again. You rarely feel pretty or in control. Holidays, and days of rest mean that your work load goes up. And, finally, somehow, you have to remain pleasant, professional, and competent throughout.
With all of this going on, if you can do all this, you can do anything.
Monday, May 30, 2011
Walking Adventures
So, I’ve always been a bit of a walker. No distance is too far, no weather condition is too intimidating, that I, in my infinite wisdom, cannot summarily dismiss as irrelevant and sally forth.
This blithe disregard for reality has, from time to time, gotten me into trouble. Like the time I was 4 miles away from my house, and found a 65 pound, cast-iron, 1940’s sewing machine. I was 12, and I had to have it. So, I bought it, and perforce, had to drag it all the way home. In my defense, it served me faithfully for years.
Another time, I was fifteen, and I got hit with a craving. I needed watermelon. It was 110 degrees out, the grocery store was 5 miles away, down the steepest, longest, most nightmarish hill in town, the humidity was unspeakable, but, this was a craving fit to make pregnant women look tame. I had to have my watermelon. I left, I nearly passed out from heat prostration on the way up the hill, I found out my next trip home that the staff had been taking bets on whether I would make it, and I enjoyed every bite of my twenty pound watermelon.
Now that we’ve covered wacky distances…I don’t think I will mention the time that I went for a multi-mile hike in a sleet storm. Twice. Or, the time I went for a walk in 35 degree weather and got hypothermia. Or the time that I randomly decided to go for a walk at three in the morning in a sleet storm.
So yeah, its kind of sad, but I’m a city girl who can make perambulation a near-death experience.
So, when you think about it, my going on an eleven mile hike through a swamp by myself is downright sane. It was a little long, but it was a lovely hike. I trekked through ankle deep muck, through an origami maze of tree roots, through tangled vines fit to make Indiana Jones wince, and enough low-growing foliage to keep a gross of weedwackers busy for a month. I also spotted three owls, one hawk, a red-headed duck, 15 salamanders, 15 dozen snakes, and 15 million mosquitoes.
I can’t wait to go back.
And to finish my day….I helped build a chicken coop. I have such a varied life.
This blithe disregard for reality has, from time to time, gotten me into trouble. Like the time I was 4 miles away from my house, and found a 65 pound, cast-iron, 1940’s sewing machine. I was 12, and I had to have it. So, I bought it, and perforce, had to drag it all the way home. In my defense, it served me faithfully for years.
Another time, I was fifteen, and I got hit with a craving. I needed watermelon. It was 110 degrees out, the grocery store was 5 miles away, down the steepest, longest, most nightmarish hill in town, the humidity was unspeakable, but, this was a craving fit to make pregnant women look tame. I had to have my watermelon. I left, I nearly passed out from heat prostration on the way up the hill, I found out my next trip home that the staff had been taking bets on whether I would make it, and I enjoyed every bite of my twenty pound watermelon.
Now that we’ve covered wacky distances…I don’t think I will mention the time that I went for a multi-mile hike in a sleet storm. Twice. Or, the time I went for a walk in 35 degree weather and got hypothermia. Or the time that I randomly decided to go for a walk at three in the morning in a sleet storm.
So yeah, its kind of sad, but I’m a city girl who can make perambulation a near-death experience.
So, when you think about it, my going on an eleven mile hike through a swamp by myself is downright sane. It was a little long, but it was a lovely hike. I trekked through ankle deep muck, through an origami maze of tree roots, through tangled vines fit to make Indiana Jones wince, and enough low-growing foliage to keep a gross of weedwackers busy for a month. I also spotted three owls, one hawk, a red-headed duck, 15 salamanders, 15 dozen snakes, and 15 million mosquitoes.
I can’t wait to go back.
And to finish my day….I helped build a chicken coop. I have such a varied life.
Sunday, May 29, 2011
Break Up Music
I admit it.
I am a romantic.
Really. Deep under the layers of well-congealed cynicism there is an edge that just looooooves to go warm and fuzzy at the drop of a hat. Yes, I sing Taylor Swift in the shower.
Okay, now on that note, I have another confession.
One of my favorite genres of music of all time are…..break-songs.
Yes, you read me right, break-up songs. Is it the rage? The anger? The frustrated sexuality? The not so deeply hidden desire all women have to whack a man, especially their man, with a two-by-four on occasion? Is it the heady combination of betrayal and self-righteousness, sorrow, and fury? The joy of communal, massive, emotionalism?
Now, one may say that it is a problem to indulge in these emotions—especially any traumatized men reading this post. But, I would beg to differ. First, as long as their have been music and poetry, the two have been used to express universal problems and emotions—and like it or hate it, as long as their has been love, there have been those hurt, abused, abandoned, and betrayed by it. Second, people are emotional creatures, women especially experience this phenomena, and men especially suffer from it. In that case, men should thank God for break up-music. Break-up songs allow people, especially women, to vent both their feelings and frustrations without taking eggs to a man’s car, or a baseball bat to his head. I will never take a combat knife to my ex’s car, but oh man ya betcha will I sing along to “Before He Cheats.” Third, once you find a relationship worth keeping, break-up music reminds you exactly why it is a good thing and why it is worth a lot to keep it in good health and wellness.
On that note, “Look it Up” is one of my new favorite songs.
I am a romantic.
Really. Deep under the layers of well-congealed cynicism there is an edge that just looooooves to go warm and fuzzy at the drop of a hat. Yes, I sing Taylor Swift in the shower.
Okay, now on that note, I have another confession.
One of my favorite genres of music of all time are…..break-songs.
Yes, you read me right, break-up songs. Is it the rage? The anger? The frustrated sexuality? The not so deeply hidden desire all women have to whack a man, especially their man, with a two-by-four on occasion? Is it the heady combination of betrayal and self-righteousness, sorrow, and fury? The joy of communal, massive, emotionalism?
Now, one may say that it is a problem to indulge in these emotions—especially any traumatized men reading this post. But, I would beg to differ. First, as long as their have been music and poetry, the two have been used to express universal problems and emotions—and like it or hate it, as long as their has been love, there have been those hurt, abused, abandoned, and betrayed by it. Second, people are emotional creatures, women especially experience this phenomena, and men especially suffer from it. In that case, men should thank God for break up-music. Break-up songs allow people, especially women, to vent both their feelings and frustrations without taking eggs to a man’s car, or a baseball bat to his head. I will never take a combat knife to my ex’s car, but oh man ya betcha will I sing along to “Before He Cheats.” Third, once you find a relationship worth keeping, break-up music reminds you exactly why it is a good thing and why it is worth a lot to keep it in good health and wellness.
On that note, “Look it Up” is one of my new favorite songs.
Friday, May 27, 2011
Bibliothetic Panic
I discovered a new phobia today. I walked into the library, headed straight for the dvd section, and experienced a moment of panic. I had a list of three movies I wanted to watch, but I could not, for the life of me, remember the title of a single book or author that I really wanted to read.
When I realized this, several thoughts went through my head:
“My brain is dying.”
“$60,000 for my education utterly wasted.”
Where did my examined life go?
“When did my delight suddenly become work?”
“Darn it, I thought you didn’t become this static until after babies!”
“When did I go from theorizing about my life to actually just living it?”
“Did retail do this to me or did I just devolve on my own?”
And then me being me, I try to justify myself….
“I’ve been busy”
“I’ve been stressed”
“Who needs Tolstoy anyhow?”
And, my justifications are a miserable failure. Because, gosh darn it, reading is valuable, knowledge it valuable, and reading great books just does good things to your soul. Moreover, I will never be able to write a book worth a darn if I keep limiting my diet to fluff.
So yes, I have lapsed from the true faith, but I’m back! Now I just need to figure out where in my never-ending list to begin……
When I realized this, several thoughts went through my head:
“My brain is dying.”
“$60,000 for my education utterly wasted.”
Where did my examined life go?
“When did my delight suddenly become work?”
“Darn it, I thought you didn’t become this static until after babies!”
“When did I go from theorizing about my life to actually just living it?”
“Did retail do this to me or did I just devolve on my own?”
And then me being me, I try to justify myself….
“I’ve been busy”
“I’ve been stressed”
“Who needs Tolstoy anyhow?”
And, my justifications are a miserable failure. Because, gosh darn it, reading is valuable, knowledge it valuable, and reading great books just does good things to your soul. Moreover, I will never be able to write a book worth a darn if I keep limiting my diet to fluff.
So yes, I have lapsed from the true faith, but I’m back! Now I just need to figure out where in my never-ending list to begin……
Sunday, May 22, 2011
Somewhere Over the Rainbow
Like Dorothy, I sometimes feel like I have traveled halfway around the world only to come...home. Granted, I have not yet realized what "home" is, but I begin to suspect that whatever it is takes some sitting still and just living to attain it.
There is not much to report. I made a bid to get funding to get a Masters in Clinical Counseling. It was unsuccessful, but in considering the attempt I learned some useful things about me, and the world, and now, I am simply waiting. Waiting, living, and mastering the art of daily life.
As a first post in two years, this one is a poor start, but as an apology for my brevity, I will leave you with one of my favorite Hopkins poems.
Patience, hard thing! the hard thing but to pray,
But bid for, Patience is! Patience who asks
Wants war, wants wounds; weary his times, his tasks;
To do without, take tosses, and obey.
Rare patience roots in these, and, these away,
Nowhere. Natural heart’s ivy, Patience masks
Our ruins of wrecked past purpose. There she basks
Purple eyes and seas of liquid leaves all day.
We hear our hearts grate on themselves: it kills
To bruise them dearer. Yet the rebellious wills
Of us we do bid God bend to him even so.
And where is he who more and more distils
Delicious kindness?—He is patient. Patience fills
His crisp combs, and that comes those ways we know.
There is not much to report. I made a bid to get funding to get a Masters in Clinical Counseling. It was unsuccessful, but in considering the attempt I learned some useful things about me, and the world, and now, I am simply waiting. Waiting, living, and mastering the art of daily life.
As a first post in two years, this one is a poor start, but as an apology for my brevity, I will leave you with one of my favorite Hopkins poems.
Patience, hard thing! the hard thing but to pray,
But bid for, Patience is! Patience who asks
Wants war, wants wounds; weary his times, his tasks;
To do without, take tosses, and obey.
Rare patience roots in these, and, these away,
Nowhere. Natural heart’s ivy, Patience masks
Our ruins of wrecked past purpose. There she basks
Purple eyes and seas of liquid leaves all day.
We hear our hearts grate on themselves: it kills
To bruise them dearer. Yet the rebellious wills
Of us we do bid God bend to him even so.
And where is he who more and more distils
Delicious kindness?—He is patient. Patience fills
His crisp combs, and that comes those ways we know.
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