"Again to the sisters I say that you will be as highly respected, you will be considered as being as much in the line of duty, your efforts will be as acceptable to the Lord and to the Church whether you go on a mission or do not go on a mission" ~ President Gordon B. Hinkley, October 1997 Conference Priesthood Session.
Brother Bott played the recording of that talk to the class today. This is the lesson I have been waiting for, so I am glad that I made it to class, however late. I sat on the floor in the back of the stadium classroom in the law building listening with baited breath. Ladies and gentlemen, the prophet of God said this, in full accord with the apostles. It is scripture.
But not for me, I said. It's not true for me. I am still required to go, obligated to go. My heart kept rebelling against the amnesty. Finally my heart cried out, scripture! And I accepted it. Instantly my heart calmed, my mind elevated and the Spirit almost patted my hand as if to say, there thatta girl. It's all I've been trying to tell you.
So I have entered into a new phase of not-knowing in my life. For the last month I have not wanted to go on a mission. I don't know the reasoning. Perhaps because I made it a chore. But that does not mean that I don't want to go. It's just that I've always said I would go, and so I've kept saying it. That, however, is not a good reason to do anything. Feeling it my duty, a recent development, directed my path toward it, but the duty is not mine. The experience would be amazing, but, as Brother Bott said, "You will not do anything while wearing that black name tag that you will not do as a wife and mother; you will reactivate, teach, prepare for baptism, serve, etc. And there are sacred experiences you cannot have as a missionary that you are allowed as a wife."
So now I must make up my mind. I will make it up for me, with the Lord's help, but whatever the decision at whatever time, I have my Heavenly Father's blessing on it. And that's good to know.
Wednesday, February 22, 2006
Monday, February 13, 2006
over the moon
Where are you going?
To the moon?
Can I come?
I don't know. What's in it for me?
What do you want?
There's no getting out of it that easy. Where's your resume? You've got to sell the product.
Ummm, what will you be doing on the moon?
Conquering. Likely.
Well, I'm great at conquering!
What else?
For a week now, Tarythe has been earning her passage to the moon. When she finishes a quote for me or brings me glasses of milk she gives a smug look and says, "That is why you're taking me to the moon!" I admit, her salesmanship was pretty impressive, but last night she finally convinced me.
I was chatting on-line, and if you can't guess with whom, I will think you a simpleton. But occasionally I needed help, and mole hills become mountains when it comes to impressing a boy.
Tarythe, make me witty!
She told me something to say, or else just affirmed that what I already said was perfect. That's why you're taking me to the moon.
At the end of the conversation, an hour later, he finally signed off-line at one in the morning. He had to be up in four hours' time. Tell me I'm being unwise, he said. I laughed aloud, so help me, and then I turned to Tarythe. Alright, I said, you're coming to the moon with me.
To the moon?
Can I come?
I don't know. What's in it for me?
What do you want?
There's no getting out of it that easy. Where's your resume? You've got to sell the product.
Ummm, what will you be doing on the moon?
Conquering. Likely.
Well, I'm great at conquering!
What else?
For a week now, Tarythe has been earning her passage to the moon. When she finishes a quote for me or brings me glasses of milk she gives a smug look and says, "That is why you're taking me to the moon!" I admit, her salesmanship was pretty impressive, but last night she finally convinced me.
I was chatting on-line, and if you can't guess with whom, I will think you a simpleton. But occasionally I needed help, and mole hills become mountains when it comes to impressing a boy.
Tarythe, make me witty!
She told me something to say, or else just affirmed that what I already said was perfect. That's why you're taking me to the moon.
At the end of the conversation, an hour later, he finally signed off-line at one in the morning. He had to be up in four hours' time. Tell me I'm being unwise, he said. I laughed aloud, so help me, and then I turned to Tarythe. Alright, I said, you're coming to the moon with me.
Sunday, February 12, 2006
Saturday, February 11, 2006
dances
I waited only long enough for her to get her clothes on. Then I clung to her like a child. She petted my head. I started crying, just like I had cried the night before in the middle of the crowd.
Please, I whispered. Please don't ask me again to go to a dance with you.
She promised.
It's not that I don't like dancing. I love it. I like to go dancing, especially if I have a guaranteed partner. Country dancing, swing dancing, latin dancing. But not YSA dances. I hate crowds, I hate flashing lights, and I hate hiphop music. Dances demand all my energy, and if I don't have energy they suck my life force. I was disappointed by the night already, so a stressful environment put me over the edge. Cassidy felt responsible for me and tried to make my night better, which was beyond her powers. I just needed to get home and sleep. Maybe I'll do better at the dance tonight with Emilie.
Please, I whispered. Please don't ask me again to go to a dance with you.
She promised.
It's not that I don't like dancing. I love it. I like to go dancing, especially if I have a guaranteed partner. Country dancing, swing dancing, latin dancing. But not YSA dances. I hate crowds, I hate flashing lights, and I hate hiphop music. Dances demand all my energy, and if I don't have energy they suck my life force. I was disappointed by the night already, so a stressful environment put me over the edge. Cassidy felt responsible for me and tried to make my night better, which was beyond her powers. I just needed to get home and sleep. Maybe I'll do better at the dance tonight with Emilie.
Monday, February 06, 2006
pictures forthcoming
My mom’s face hasn’t changed in thirty years. I know this from the photographs. A few months ago my dad gave me a collection of all the things he had that reminded him of Mom. It took him two and a half years after the divorce to part with their wedding announcement. I have it. I have it in one of those gallon-sized zip-lock bags along with many other pictures of her. There are two that I love.
The first shows her when she was about my age. Like I said, she has the same face. My mother’s beauty, then and now, comes from that face--timeless, both old and young. She has no expression either happy or sad dancing on her face. She is merely quiet. Whoever took the picture must have known my mother well; she didn’t even look up from her book when the shot was snapped. Her hair is long and dark and parted straight down the middle. She is leaning back ungainly and slouching on the couch so her hair flows around her shoulders and the thick knit sweater she wears. Her knees do not sit lady-like, but lean against the armrest with her feet on the table-top. She wears wool slacks, and in the seventies, this wasn’t usual. Of course, my mother never was very dainty, despite her inherent femininity. She always wore the pants in the family. The ring on her left hand should tell me something about the time frame, but I don’t know for a fact that it was my father to whom she was engaged at that time. Like I said, she was beautiful. I think it was dad though. I like that he had the kind of intimacy with her that allowed him to take that picture.
But what I like best about the photograph is that it looks exactly like one taken of me. I look more like my dad, really, but there’s a shot of me, lounging in an armchair with my legs over one side and a book in my lap. My hair is dark and I used to part it in the middle. I too wore that same expression of serenity. I have loved this picture ever since I first saw it. I once asked my mom if I may have it, but despite her search she never produced it. When my dad gave me the pictures, I first cried, and then was glad. This picture ties me to my mother.
The second picture of that bunch that I particularly liked was one taken a few years later. My mom is wearing a heinously hideous one-piece pantsuit that resembles the couches made in that same era. She is standing next to an aluminum Christmas tree that is so bedecked in tinsel that it appears as though silver has vomited over it. It’s beautiful in its own cheap way. What’s prettier, however, is my mother. Even in that pantsuit. She is standing with her hands on her hips, a stance that says, “why not”, poking laughter at her own happiness--for she is happy. I have never seen such an unadulterated smile on her face in all the years I can remember. Her eyes are mischievous. It is my parents’ first Christmas together and my mom would have been about six weeks into her first pregnancy. This shot captures that “glow” that people speak of.
The class project which sparked this entry asked us to point out what might be missing from the photographs we looked at. I have discovered what is missing from the serene shot of a girl enjoying her book and the excited air of a newly wed: time. She didn’t bear that look for long. My mom is never at peace, a constant type-A personality. Go, go, go. If I were to compare a picture of her now, to say what is missing would be harder. She isn’t as poor as she was then; she is more educated, and has seen and done more. What would be absent is that look of excited expectation, from the second picture, and that look of unbreakable peace from the first. Time makes us wiser but it takes with it our innocence. Thankfully, we have pictures in order to remember that these things did exist, even if a long time ago.
The first shows her when she was about my age. Like I said, she has the same face. My mother’s beauty, then and now, comes from that face--timeless, both old and young. She has no expression either happy or sad dancing on her face. She is merely quiet. Whoever took the picture must have known my mother well; she didn’t even look up from her book when the shot was snapped. Her hair is long and dark and parted straight down the middle. She is leaning back ungainly and slouching on the couch so her hair flows around her shoulders and the thick knit sweater she wears. Her knees do not sit lady-like, but lean against the armrest with her feet on the table-top. She wears wool slacks, and in the seventies, this wasn’t usual. Of course, my mother never was very dainty, despite her inherent femininity. She always wore the pants in the family. The ring on her left hand should tell me something about the time frame, but I don’t know for a fact that it was my father to whom she was engaged at that time. Like I said, she was beautiful. I think it was dad though. I like that he had the kind of intimacy with her that allowed him to take that picture.
But what I like best about the photograph is that it looks exactly like one taken of me. I look more like my dad, really, but there’s a shot of me, lounging in an armchair with my legs over one side and a book in my lap. My hair is dark and I used to part it in the middle. I too wore that same expression of serenity. I have loved this picture ever since I first saw it. I once asked my mom if I may have it, but despite her search she never produced it. When my dad gave me the pictures, I first cried, and then was glad. This picture ties me to my mother.
The second picture of that bunch that I particularly liked was one taken a few years later. My mom is wearing a heinously hideous one-piece pantsuit that resembles the couches made in that same era. She is standing next to an aluminum Christmas tree that is so bedecked in tinsel that it appears as though silver has vomited over it. It’s beautiful in its own cheap way. What’s prettier, however, is my mother. Even in that pantsuit. She is standing with her hands on her hips, a stance that says, “why not”, poking laughter at her own happiness--for she is happy. I have never seen such an unadulterated smile on her face in all the years I can remember. Her eyes are mischievous. It is my parents’ first Christmas together and my mom would have been about six weeks into her first pregnancy. This shot captures that “glow” that people speak of.
The class project which sparked this entry asked us to point out what might be missing from the photographs we looked at. I have discovered what is missing from the serene shot of a girl enjoying her book and the excited air of a newly wed: time. She didn’t bear that look for long. My mom is never at peace, a constant type-A personality. Go, go, go. If I were to compare a picture of her now, to say what is missing would be harder. She isn’t as poor as she was then; she is more educated, and has seen and done more. What would be absent is that look of excited expectation, from the second picture, and that look of unbreakable peace from the first. Time makes us wiser but it takes with it our innocence. Thankfully, we have pictures in order to remember that these things did exist, even if a long time ago.
Sunday, February 05, 2006
crushing me
I decided at the beginning of this semester that I am ready to date. Even above that--I am ready to actually put work into a relationship. So I made this decision and then boldly stood up to look around, and I was cruelly disappointed to see no one running to my side, hoping to be candidate for my affections. The one boy on whom I have my eye isn't making any bold moves to claim me; he is standing stock-still without even so much as a deer-in-the-headlight look in my direction. Occasionally I think he casts a sideways glance, but I can't seem to catch him at it.
But maybe, despite my aggravations, this is for the best. Truthfully, were he to bound to my doorstep and assault me with vigorous and amorous attentions, I would flee with all my strength. The best way to win my trust is to be my friend, to just be there. But why does he have to go and actually be just my friend?
I check my email like a crazy person. And even when I do get an email it is sparse, and no matter how many times I reread it looking for hidden meanings I find none. His blog (which he gave me permission to read; and no I will not return the favor-naturally) doesn't ever mention anything concrete. It is merely a witty column-esque commentary on everything but what I want to know--which is this: does he notice me, and, if so, in what manner?
Help! I'm not cut out for liking someone.
But maybe, despite my aggravations, this is for the best. Truthfully, were he to bound to my doorstep and assault me with vigorous and amorous attentions, I would flee with all my strength. The best way to win my trust is to be my friend, to just be there. But why does he have to go and actually be just my friend?
I check my email like a crazy person. And even when I do get an email it is sparse, and no matter how many times I reread it looking for hidden meanings I find none. His blog (which he gave me permission to read; and no I will not return the favor-naturally) doesn't ever mention anything concrete. It is merely a witty column-esque commentary on everything but what I want to know--which is this: does he notice me, and, if so, in what manner?
Help! I'm not cut out for liking someone.
Monday, January 30, 2006
sisters three
it's one, two, three, and four
bodies all in a line
unbeknownst any more
which limbs are yours or mine
our tears blend like pigments
the laughter mixes too
our fears become figments
while each plan becomes true
our hair a fair spectrum
backgrounds just as diverse
our friendship's a poem
and we each write a verse
we're one, two, three and four
you mean the world to me
my home needs nothing more
than these, my sisters three
Thanks, you guys, for holding my hand as I fell asleep. I love you.
bodies all in a line
unbeknownst any more
which limbs are yours or mine
our tears blend like pigments
the laughter mixes too
our fears become figments
while each plan becomes true
our hair a fair spectrum
backgrounds just as diverse
our friendship's a poem
and we each write a verse
we're one, two, three and four
you mean the world to me
my home needs nothing more
than these, my sisters three
Thanks, you guys, for holding my hand as I fell asleep. I love you.
Sunday, January 29, 2006
my hope
I did not use to have a favorite prophet. And then I read the story of the saving of Alma the Younger. The angel appears to him and said, "Behold, the Lord hath heard the prayers of his people, and also the prayers of his servant, Alma, who is thy father; for he has prayed with much faith concerning thee that thou mightest be brought to the knowledge of the truth; therefore, for this purpose have I come to convince thee of the power and authority of God, that the prayers of his servants might be answered according to their faith." And now I love Alma with a loyal devotion; not Alma the Younger, but Alma who is his father--he who prayed and anguished over the salvation of his family, hoping that his favor with the Lord may be passed in the form of blessings to another.
And my favorite scripture is 3Nephi 18:32.
If you know me, you know why.
And my favorite scripture is 3Nephi 18:32.
If you know me, you know why.
Wednesday, January 25, 2006
on the top of the world
Work has become the place where I am most myself. Part of it is because I am confident. I am a dang fine worker and my supervisors and coworkers know it. I am not assigned a station in the dishroom. I am the rescuer, running from disaster to disaster and making it right. But there is something else that lifts my head and gives me the confidence to smile at the charmingly cute grill worker who walks through every day between the hours of seven and nine. It's the music.
I do not enjoy the music of my roommates, for the most part. I used to think I liked all music, but now I know that I despise hip-hop. And while I like many songs of the country variety, what I really love are the hits of the sixties and seventies. Joyce has made comments to me about how dad gave us our music tastes, and it's true. However appealing Dashboard Confessional is at times, there is never a moment when I don't want to hear Simon and Garfunkel. But alas, I do not own a single CD of any of the music that I love. And that is why I need work.
The radio station is named something totally stupid, cozy 104.1 maybe, but it is followed by "all the hits of the sixties and seventies". Why, it's like discovering my soul mate!--as actually I have when I see who in the dishroom or of those walking through are singing along. Turns out, both boys to whom I give "the look" know the words to Beach Boys, Carpenters, Beatles and a few others. Good boys, Lloyd. I find myself singing along to every song. Every single flippin' one. I even know The Lover's Concerto (sung by the Supremes), not to mention that it is a "cover" of Minuet in G. I know the words to Margaritaville, including the profanity. No, Nora, I didn't omit it, even on BYU campus.
Another great part of my dishroom experience every night is that the clanging and banging of dishes is too loud for my singing to be heard, so I feel free to belt it at the top of my lungs. If I also dance from the silverware station to the dishwasher, then that's my own concern.
I can't wait for work on Thursday. Maybe they'll play some more CCR!
I do not enjoy the music of my roommates, for the most part. I used to think I liked all music, but now I know that I despise hip-hop. And while I like many songs of the country variety, what I really love are the hits of the sixties and seventies. Joyce has made comments to me about how dad gave us our music tastes, and it's true. However appealing Dashboard Confessional is at times, there is never a moment when I don't want to hear Simon and Garfunkel. But alas, I do not own a single CD of any of the music that I love. And that is why I need work.
The radio station is named something totally stupid, cozy 104.1 maybe, but it is followed by "all the hits of the sixties and seventies". Why, it's like discovering my soul mate!--as actually I have when I see who in the dishroom or of those walking through are singing along. Turns out, both boys to whom I give "the look" know the words to Beach Boys, Carpenters, Beatles and a few others. Good boys, Lloyd. I find myself singing along to every song. Every single flippin' one. I even know The Lover's Concerto (sung by the Supremes), not to mention that it is a "cover" of Minuet in G. I know the words to Margaritaville, including the profanity. No, Nora, I didn't omit it, even on BYU campus.
Another great part of my dishroom experience every night is that the clanging and banging of dishes is too loud for my singing to be heard, so I feel free to belt it at the top of my lungs. If I also dance from the silverware station to the dishwasher, then that's my own concern.
I can't wait for work on Thursday. Maybe they'll play some more CCR!
Monday, January 23, 2006
frustration
I did it. I wrote the entry you have all been waiting for. It was articulate, slightly funny and at times touching, and it was most certainly uplifting as I exposed for you all my immediate goals. And then the damn computer deleted it. You will have to wait another two weeks, I guess, because right now I am not in the mood.
Saturday, January 07, 2006
self
How many children have been accosted with the thoughtless remark, why can't you be like your sister? (brother works too, just less often.) Parents have no idea how cutting that simple sentence is. It tears apart a child's identity, creating self-doubt and abnegation. That is where we grow stereotypes, from those told to be someone else. Since when has self not been good enough?
I have always fought against anything false in my self. I do not wear makeup because I do not want someone's entire view of me to be someone hiding herself. Once I am familiar with a person, I let my inner princess show, because then I am confident that my bad hair days and cosmetic-free self are already well known. I am a sweetheart--really quite a generous and genuine person--but only those who know me in and out notice that. I am nice to other people, but I do not fake a smile. I am not the Caitie type who is naturally sweet and glowing. I don't want to leave that impression on those I meet. I hate the idea that they will be disappointed eventually.
But really, in the end, it isn't for anyone else. That would be just as false. I do it for me. If I can't love myself, then who can? "To love one's self is the beginning of a life long romance." I have been laughed at because of how seriously I take a careless criticism. I don't mind. I know that I spend a conscious effort to understand and improve myself. It has never reached the stage of fanaticism or sycophancy because mostly, after self-evaluation, I decide it is better to love myself than to change.
Like most girls, I am not one hundred percent in love with my physical appearance. But I will not be in a battle with my body for my entire life. So, it comes down to a simple choice, to love it or change it. For those things that are life-long or at least long term it is healthier to love them, while those day-to-day annoyances will be fought. I can fix a bad hair day, wrestling with the strands, but a bad hair-cut I will accept and adapt into the image I hold of myself. My hair style may change with the weather, but my hair color--including those four streaks of gray--will not be touched. I try to fix my posture for the sake of my spine, but my facial expressions are meant to please only myself. I only bought nice clothes when I decided it made me feel better, as opposed to caring how I appeared to others. I wear make up when I want to feel like a princess, but I will not do it when I want to impress someone. Maybe it's pure vanity: that I am good enough without all the borrowed feathers. If so, vanity is my favorite attribute.
Ridiculously, my feelings were hurt the other night when a friend made a suggestion, which--to me--sounded like, why can't you be like Emilie? Anyone out there who knows me knows my fondness for Emilie. If I weren't myself I should like to be her, but I am not. I am myself and ought to be loved for that. I am shy, despite my brashness, and I do not like strangers for the mere fact that I don't already know them. I sit out at dances, even though I could, conceivably, make a bold move and ask a guy to dance. Or, even walk the floor looking demure and attract one to me. The thing is, I don't want to, and I don't see how that is a flaw. I enjoyed my time, and hopefully I did not detract from anyone else's pleasure. I felt giddy for Emilie as she was admired by the many boys, smiling at the rightness of the night. Until, suddenly, I was wrong. My way was not the correct way. The comment wasn't meant to criticize; it was supposed to be encouraging. We've discussed this and understand the fact that we had misunderstood.
But as I do most character analyses, I took this to heart and contemplated it. I came to this conclusion: I am not like everyone else, but I love myself. It is not as much fun to deal with grays as it is black and white, laughed a friend, play-attacking me. Perhaps this is true, but it makes me miss Bryan who, when faced with such a choice, spotlighted the white, instead. Why can't you be more like you?
I have always fought against anything false in my self. I do not wear makeup because I do not want someone's entire view of me to be someone hiding herself. Once I am familiar with a person, I let my inner princess show, because then I am confident that my bad hair days and cosmetic-free self are already well known. I am a sweetheart--really quite a generous and genuine person--but only those who know me in and out notice that. I am nice to other people, but I do not fake a smile. I am not the Caitie type who is naturally sweet and glowing. I don't want to leave that impression on those I meet. I hate the idea that they will be disappointed eventually.
But really, in the end, it isn't for anyone else. That would be just as false. I do it for me. If I can't love myself, then who can? "To love one's self is the beginning of a life long romance." I have been laughed at because of how seriously I take a careless criticism. I don't mind. I know that I spend a conscious effort to understand and improve myself. It has never reached the stage of fanaticism or sycophancy because mostly, after self-evaluation, I decide it is better to love myself than to change.
Like most girls, I am not one hundred percent in love with my physical appearance. But I will not be in a battle with my body for my entire life. So, it comes down to a simple choice, to love it or change it. For those things that are life-long or at least long term it is healthier to love them, while those day-to-day annoyances will be fought. I can fix a bad hair day, wrestling with the strands, but a bad hair-cut I will accept and adapt into the image I hold of myself. My hair style may change with the weather, but my hair color--including those four streaks of gray--will not be touched. I try to fix my posture for the sake of my spine, but my facial expressions are meant to please only myself. I only bought nice clothes when I decided it made me feel better, as opposed to caring how I appeared to others. I wear make up when I want to feel like a princess, but I will not do it when I want to impress someone. Maybe it's pure vanity: that I am good enough without all the borrowed feathers. If so, vanity is my favorite attribute.
Ridiculously, my feelings were hurt the other night when a friend made a suggestion, which--to me--sounded like, why can't you be like Emilie? Anyone out there who knows me knows my fondness for Emilie. If I weren't myself I should like to be her, but I am not. I am myself and ought to be loved for that. I am shy, despite my brashness, and I do not like strangers for the mere fact that I don't already know them. I sit out at dances, even though I could, conceivably, make a bold move and ask a guy to dance. Or, even walk the floor looking demure and attract one to me. The thing is, I don't want to, and I don't see how that is a flaw. I enjoyed my time, and hopefully I did not detract from anyone else's pleasure. I felt giddy for Emilie as she was admired by the many boys, smiling at the rightness of the night. Until, suddenly, I was wrong. My way was not the correct way. The comment wasn't meant to criticize; it was supposed to be encouraging. We've discussed this and understand the fact that we had misunderstood.
But as I do most character analyses, I took this to heart and contemplated it. I came to this conclusion: I am not like everyone else, but I love myself. It is not as much fun to deal with grays as it is black and white, laughed a friend, play-attacking me. Perhaps this is true, but it makes me miss Bryan who, when faced with such a choice, spotlighted the white, instead. Why can't you be more like you?
Sunday, January 01, 2006
stepping out
I sat myself on the couch at about five thirty yesterday evening preparing to read a book. I wore anything but my usual jeans and sweatshirt, and my hair had the look of a soon-to-be-partier. Indeed, I had spent a good deal of time blowing-dry, pinning and curling my hair until it looked the fright that girls call elegant. I had no plans to go out, and my dates were the brothers Karamazov. I found, however, that I couldn't concentrate on Zosima when my hair begged to be taken out.
I immediately texted Emilie. Should I go to Danny's party? She had told me to the day before. However, I was not invited and had none of the information necessary to gate-crash. She never texted back. Instead the land-line rang. Hi, my name is Danny Nelson. We met once before... Wow, Emmers, quick work. With advice from Caitie I changed my outfit and casualized my hair by straightening it in a high ponytail. I even wore mascara.
And then I walked out my door and up to the door of a complete stranger, and into a room where I didn't know a single person. I was brave --and yes a little awkward at first-- but soon I was chatting with perfect strangers about movies, books, and French history. I feigned coolness when Death Cab for Cutie began to play. Joyce gave me their CD just a week ago, and I have learned that if I want to act popular I need to mimic anything Joyce. It worked. I talked to Danny for maybe a total of five minutes, but that didn't stop me from having a good time.
I left about one o'clock and headed home in a state of pride. Although Emilie was disappointed that my evening didn't end in a date invitation, I felt no regrets. I, Audrey, had been successfully social. Dates can wait. What a way to start off the New Year!
I immediately texted Emilie. Should I go to Danny's party? She had told me to the day before. However, I was not invited and had none of the information necessary to gate-crash. She never texted back. Instead the land-line rang. Hi, my name is Danny Nelson. We met once before... Wow, Emmers, quick work. With advice from Caitie I changed my outfit and casualized my hair by straightening it in a high ponytail. I even wore mascara.
And then I walked out my door and up to the door of a complete stranger, and into a room where I didn't know a single person. I was brave --and yes a little awkward at first-- but soon I was chatting with perfect strangers about movies, books, and French history. I feigned coolness when Death Cab for Cutie began to play. Joyce gave me their CD just a week ago, and I have learned that if I want to act popular I need to mimic anything Joyce. It worked. I talked to Danny for maybe a total of five minutes, but that didn't stop me from having a good time.
I left about one o'clock and headed home in a state of pride. Although Emilie was disappointed that my evening didn't end in a date invitation, I felt no regrets. I, Audrey, had been successfully social. Dates can wait. What a way to start off the New Year!
Wednesday, December 28, 2005
warning: do not read unless...
I think every TV show and every movie ever made has featured at least one scenario like this one; a letter/diary/note that was thoughtlessly or harmlessly written is read by the subject and a misunderstanding/understanding occurs. At any rate, it is a fiasco at least, a disaster at worst. Some things are meant never to be read. Others, ought to be topped with a warning sign--Caution, do not read unless you are a capable and intelligent human being. I guess those are the same thing. Or maybe, better yet, Caution, do not WRITE unless you are prepared for sitcom-like consequences.I have had my share of situations resulting from a rather loose tongue and a free keyboard. Some have been comical, but not all. Perhaps I should learn to be more guarded, except that I don't mind taking the consequences, not for being honest. Others must bear the results that come from reading. Allow me to be more specific.
There was the Jon fiasco. That situation was just annoying. I understand that it hurt him when he read less than flattering things about himself on the site of an ex-girlfriend. But would he have been pained had he not read? No. Ignorance is bliss, so I've been told. Instead of going about his business, he made life more difficult for many people, trying to fight against the harshness he had read. It seemed a never-ending cycle as long as he frequented my blog. With each perusal the words became more severe. When he finally swore never to read it again, anger subsided to be replaced by cool indifference.
Situation number two: Jessica*'s Vivianne Leigh impersonation. In that case I will not try for a second to deny how in the wrong I was in our fight. But, I do not think that venting my feelings--no matter how childish they were--on my own blog is grounds for condemnation. All that I posted--and subsequently deleted--was said to her face before hand and later. Her pain, I am guessing, stemmed from the fact that I committed my sentiments to words, published before the eyes of many. I learned a lesson: When I publish negative feelings about anyone, I will provide them with an alias. The lesson she ought to have learned: do not expect stories of flowers, puppies and rainbows while in a fight.
The lesson that all should internalize: do not read unless prepared for the truth, good or bad. But when you do commit to reading, make sure to read the whole thing...I hate misunderstanding more than negative revelations, unless of course the confusion results in comedy.
I have just such an example. Ted's mom--and I really am sorry to her for this--believes me to be in love with her son. Over Thanksgiving Ted decided to do some archive reading on my blog, resurrecting the words I penned back in July. His reading it is embarrassing enough, with his full understanding of the background of each sentiment. What resulted from his trip into mylife is that his mom had the link to my blog on her computer's history. She does not understand my near-obsessive love of my friends, so when she read the archives, she became
alarmed. Ted was interrogated, and I defamed. We both got a great laugh about it, but I'm not sure that Mrs. Long even now is convinced of the truth of the friendship.Ah, well, "what do we live for but to make sport for our neighbors and laugh at them in our turn?"
* name changed to protect myself from repercussions.
Tuesday, December 27, 2005
weeping may endure
There is a reason why I sleep with my lamp on. The light is necessary to ward off suffocation. The dark, at times, becomes oppressive, and pain threatens to stop my breath. A light, like a beacon for help, calms me and makes me feel like I am not alone. I use a night light when I am lonely. Of the past eight days I have slept in a lighted room for four. The remaining time I spent away, and the days so revived my heart that I didn't need a lamp. I'll write more on that later. For now, I need to discuss pain.
Last Tuesday night I saw, for the first time, my father cry. He discovered that my mother is living with Bob. He asked me. Yes, I told him. It's true. He handed me my Christmas present--which, incidentally, is what my mom gave him. Fitting, I suppose, as she gave her present from him to Joyce--and started weeping. Then he drove off. Unable to breathe, I walked up the stairs and hid in the shadows. I couldn't go back inside, because only Julie was waiting there. Luckily, I had my cell phone. I tried to call Emilie, but she was on the road. I tried to call Ted, but no one answered. I fell back against the brick and slid to the floor, concentrating on stilling my sobs. The subsequent high-jinks of the night chased away the threat of breaking, but still I slept with the lamp on for the second time in a row.
Sunday night, Christmas, I cannot explain the reason. I think I left the lamp on in protest against the day ending. In all reality the time had been perfect, if also tiring. Perhaps I fell asleep before I could turn the light off.
But Monday was fraught with disappointment. I do not deal well with disappointment. That is something profound to learn about me. I am gracious when let down, but I will not forget the lesson. Two years ago I learned not to spend Christmas Day with anyone who does not love the holiday. Now I will add to it. I will not celebrate Christmas on any day with someone who does not love the holiday.
Also on that day I got to hear the poisonous remarks by both parents regarding the other. They now hate each other. Their war is a competition to see who can be the most indifferent. A cold war, as someone remarked. Mom called while I was playing a game with my brother and dad. I answered it with my dad's commentary in the background. Tell her how much fun I'm having. If only that had been the worst remark of the night. You have to find me a wife, Audrey. It's up to you. No, I protested. That is not my job. Find yourself your own damn wife. I'm only kidding, of course. I just should have done better the first time. I wanted to cry, that's my mother you speak of so derisively. Did he make it better with his retraction, if I hadn't married her, I wouldn't have you? No. I hated him for wanting to erase those twenty-seven years, for wishing my life, my family away.
I half-heartedly opened up to Ted about it when we went to Walmart. But, midnight was approaching and I didn't want to be burdensome and demanding, so I fought against the battering ram at my heart. When he lay on my sofa looking at me, I knew that if he didn't talk I would break, and breaking wasn't an option at 11:50 pm. So we spoke trivially, and he left.
And when I checked my email to find a distraction from my emotions, I found something. And it was certainly distracting. Kevin has a girl friend. My organs, previously melted in anguish, instantly solidified into molten lead. Kevin is not supposed to have a girl friend. He's not supposed to get over me. I'm not supposed to mean that little to him. I know, cognitively, that it's right he move on, that he moved on eight months ago; but I rather wished to go on believing that I mean something to him. I did not respond to the email, and instead meandered to bed.
The lamp remained on, this time on more active duty than guard. Nuora, light-giver, in full battle array. The war I fought was to keep the sobs from breaking my throat, and to keep myself from crawling into bed with Cassidy for comfort. Every time my chin started the tell-tale shaking, and my eyes stung with tears, I forced a breath into my lungs. I shivered with the exertion, using compulsion to bring relaxation. I fell asleep two hours after crawling into bed. I learned a lot about myself in that time. I learned that I can take a lot of pain and internalize it, neutralizing it slowly until it loses its toxicity.
I learned something else too.
I learned that despite the pain of the night prior, the morning is healing. That is how I know I am not depressed. I am just sad, and the hurt that comes from very definite events ambushes me in the dark alley-way of bed-time; but in daylight the shadows hold no threats, and I can continue on with my life in my usual happy manner. I can even reply to the email and tease with ridiculous follow-up questions that, come night, I will not want to know the answers to.
Pain came again tonight, but not for me. I had to observe and attempt to share. My protests against accepting a broken heart were met with the cynicism of self-preservation. Life is pain, highness; anyone who says differently is selling something. Or the less popular, because never said before tonight, life hurts, but it's good to have a dose of reality every once in a while. There will always be pain, wounds I wish I could understand, bear or heal. This evening proved that. Tonight, I know I will sleep with the light on, but it will be with the hope that my lamp could cast its rays to a distant room. Sleep well.
Weeping may endure for a night but joy cometh in the morning.
Last Tuesday night I saw, for the first time, my father cry. He discovered that my mother is living with Bob. He asked me. Yes, I told him. It's true. He handed me my Christmas present--which, incidentally, is what my mom gave him. Fitting, I suppose, as she gave her present from him to Joyce--and started weeping. Then he drove off. Unable to breathe, I walked up the stairs and hid in the shadows. I couldn't go back inside, because only Julie was waiting there. Luckily, I had my cell phone. I tried to call Emilie, but she was on the road. I tried to call Ted, but no one answered. I fell back against the brick and slid to the floor, concentrating on stilling my sobs. The subsequent high-jinks of the night chased away the threat of breaking, but still I slept with the lamp on for the second time in a row.
Sunday night, Christmas, I cannot explain the reason. I think I left the lamp on in protest against the day ending. In all reality the time had been perfect, if also tiring. Perhaps I fell asleep before I could turn the light off.
But Monday was fraught with disappointment. I do not deal well with disappointment. That is something profound to learn about me. I am gracious when let down, but I will not forget the lesson. Two years ago I learned not to spend Christmas Day with anyone who does not love the holiday. Now I will add to it. I will not celebrate Christmas on any day with someone who does not love the holiday.
Also on that day I got to hear the poisonous remarks by both parents regarding the other. They now hate each other. Their war is a competition to see who can be the most indifferent. A cold war, as someone remarked. Mom called while I was playing a game with my brother and dad. I answered it with my dad's commentary in the background. Tell her how much fun I'm having. If only that had been the worst remark of the night. You have to find me a wife, Audrey. It's up to you. No, I protested. That is not my job. Find yourself your own damn wife. I'm only kidding, of course. I just should have done better the first time. I wanted to cry, that's my mother you speak of so derisively. Did he make it better with his retraction, if I hadn't married her, I wouldn't have you? No. I hated him for wanting to erase those twenty-seven years, for wishing my life, my family away.
I half-heartedly opened up to Ted about it when we went to Walmart. But, midnight was approaching and I didn't want to be burdensome and demanding, so I fought against the battering ram at my heart. When he lay on my sofa looking at me, I knew that if he didn't talk I would break, and breaking wasn't an option at 11:50 pm. So we spoke trivially, and he left.
And when I checked my email to find a distraction from my emotions, I found something. And it was certainly distracting. Kevin has a girl friend. My organs, previously melted in anguish, instantly solidified into molten lead. Kevin is not supposed to have a girl friend. He's not supposed to get over me. I'm not supposed to mean that little to him. I know, cognitively, that it's right he move on, that he moved on eight months ago; but I rather wished to go on believing that I mean something to him. I did not respond to the email, and instead meandered to bed.
The lamp remained on, this time on more active duty than guard. Nuora, light-giver, in full battle array. The war I fought was to keep the sobs from breaking my throat, and to keep myself from crawling into bed with Cassidy for comfort. Every time my chin started the tell-tale shaking, and my eyes stung with tears, I forced a breath into my lungs. I shivered with the exertion, using compulsion to bring relaxation. I fell asleep two hours after crawling into bed. I learned a lot about myself in that time. I learned that I can take a lot of pain and internalize it, neutralizing it slowly until it loses its toxicity.
I learned something else too.
I learned that despite the pain of the night prior, the morning is healing. That is how I know I am not depressed. I am just sad, and the hurt that comes from very definite events ambushes me in the dark alley-way of bed-time; but in daylight the shadows hold no threats, and I can continue on with my life in my usual happy manner. I can even reply to the email and tease with ridiculous follow-up questions that, come night, I will not want to know the answers to.
Pain came again tonight, but not for me. I had to observe and attempt to share. My protests against accepting a broken heart were met with the cynicism of self-preservation. Life is pain, highness; anyone who says differently is selling something. Or the less popular, because never said before tonight, life hurts, but it's good to have a dose of reality every once in a while. There will always be pain, wounds I wish I could understand, bear or heal. This evening proved that. Tonight, I know I will sleep with the light on, but it will be with the hope that my lamp could cast its rays to a distant room. Sleep well.
Weeping may endure for a night but joy cometh in the morning.
Wednesday, December 21, 2005
dreaming
I had nightmares again last night. I woke up smiling, snuggling deep under my covers and squeezing Raphael with fondness. You know those dreams where you suddenly realize at the end of a semester that you've been enrolled in a class that you've never been to, and now you have to take the final? I hate those dreams. But last night's was just a little different: I was on stage. For most people that would make the situation worse. Not for me. I had the lead role, and the day before the performance I remembered that I hadn't been to a single rehearsal. Everyone knew what they were doing, while I read off of someone's torn apart script. Annoying disasters occurred, and I kept appearing places I didn't want to be and having to get back to the stage. Yet, despite it all, I woke up with the thrill I always feel just before a performance.
Oh, how I miss theater.
I've been talking nonstop about the stage ever since Ted and I discovered it in the JFSB. There is a small theater there that he and I explored in the dark on Sunday. He found a piano and immediately started playing. I stood in the middle of the stage, automatically putting back my shoulders and raising my head. Lovingly I stroked the curtains as I ambled around the stage, playing imagination games with myself in my mind. I sighed as we reentered the lighted world of Real.
It's been five years since I quit drama. My one relapse was my senior year in high school when I wrote, directed and acted in the ward roadshow. The night Ted and I talked about good advice not taken I brought up how Nora, sage that she is, told me to stick it out in drama no matter how terrible the high school theater teachers became. I didn't listen. At the time I blamed it on a new teacher who treated me like the underclassmen that I was. Now I know that I couldn't have been happy acting during those years no matter who directed me. That was the time when I shut off my emotions, finding daily life a bit too difficult to feel deeply. And, to be Great on stage, one has to feel deeply. I quit because suddenly I found the emotional vulnerability a bit too much like standing naked before a panel of judges.
Now, however, I think I would jump on the stage and pirouette before them, letting the world see all the things I fear about life, just for the chance to enter that world again; the chance to experience opening night, to see the eyes watching me and then feeling them disappear as I become the part I play; the chance to feel the rush and jolt of being part of a world I create for the audience, as they and I fuse into one entity; the chance to bond with fellow actors as I explore the script and all the possibilities it holds. For that, I would give a lot.
Oh, how I miss theater.
I've been talking nonstop about the stage ever since Ted and I discovered it in the JFSB. There is a small theater there that he and I explored in the dark on Sunday. He found a piano and immediately started playing. I stood in the middle of the stage, automatically putting back my shoulders and raising my head. Lovingly I stroked the curtains as I ambled around the stage, playing imagination games with myself in my mind. I sighed as we reentered the lighted world of Real.
It's been five years since I quit drama. My one relapse was my senior year in high school when I wrote, directed and acted in the ward roadshow. The night Ted and I talked about good advice not taken I brought up how Nora, sage that she is, told me to stick it out in drama no matter how terrible the high school theater teachers became. I didn't listen. At the time I blamed it on a new teacher who treated me like the underclassmen that I was. Now I know that I couldn't have been happy acting during those years no matter who directed me. That was the time when I shut off my emotions, finding daily life a bit too difficult to feel deeply. And, to be Great on stage, one has to feel deeply. I quit because suddenly I found the emotional vulnerability a bit too much like standing naked before a panel of judges.
Now, however, I think I would jump on the stage and pirouette before them, letting the world see all the things I fear about life, just for the chance to enter that world again; the chance to experience opening night, to see the eyes watching me and then feeling them disappear as I become the part I play; the chance to feel the rush and jolt of being part of a world I create for the audience, as they and I fuse into one entity; the chance to bond with fellow actors as I explore the script and all the possibilities it holds. For that, I would give a lot.
Tuesday, December 20, 2005
the morning after
This morning I reread the blog I composed last night, and I shake my head to myself. You stayed up late to write that? It is mostly the last paragraph that annoys me. She sits there at the end of my thoughtful, albeit rambling, prose laughing at me. I cannot delete the stupid reference to a poor rendition of A Christmas Carol. The fact that it is there says a lot about me. It says that I will mock my own emotions, especially pain. It says that if I try to do anything great, even by way of a personal thesis, I will trip myself up, because I am too afraid that if I take myself seriously, no one else will. So I laugh first.
But I was in pain last night. Sometimes, when things hurt, it is easy to feel through them. It is a clean pain from an overt wound. Sometimes, the pain is better denied. Sometimes when it is too hard to feel one kind of hurt, feeling another makes it better. I understand why people inflict physical wounds on themselves. I did not do that. Instead, I systematically and unemotionally demolished my heart. A sledgehammer in one hand, a pickaxe in another, I swung left then right without passion or prejudice at the deep places where I feel pain. Mostly, to me, that last paragraph says the things I didn't say, can't say--not on this blog at any rate--about the topic I brought up. I know, now you're all curious. Ask, and I'll probably tell you.
At any rate, I cried myself to sleep, but not until nearly two in the morning. I couldn't bring myself to call anyone, and I prayed only for a minute before I shook my head at my own ridiculousness and crawled into bed. I didn't want to burden anyone with an abstract pain. I slept with the light on. The glow protected my dreams, like a sentinel, like a guardian angel perched on my dresser, cramped but unable to move for all the clutter he would knock to the floor. He was rather unshaven, his trench coat was wrinkled, and his overly-large wings bent at odd angles as they tried to make themselves unobtrusive. I felt glad of his presence, but this morning he was gone. Likely he had a Christmas to save, like Gideon or Clarence.
This morning it was righteous anger that got me up and out of the house. It was also righteous anger that got me back home within the hour. So, now that I don't have a job, I'm feeling great. I think I'll go back to sleep.
But I was in pain last night. Sometimes, when things hurt, it is easy to feel through them. It is a clean pain from an overt wound. Sometimes, the pain is better denied. Sometimes when it is too hard to feel one kind of hurt, feeling another makes it better. I understand why people inflict physical wounds on themselves. I did not do that. Instead, I systematically and unemotionally demolished my heart. A sledgehammer in one hand, a pickaxe in another, I swung left then right without passion or prejudice at the deep places where I feel pain. Mostly, to me, that last paragraph says the things I didn't say, can't say--not on this blog at any rate--about the topic I brought up. I know, now you're all curious. Ask, and I'll probably tell you.
At any rate, I cried myself to sleep, but not until nearly two in the morning. I couldn't bring myself to call anyone, and I prayed only for a minute before I shook my head at my own ridiculousness and crawled into bed. I didn't want to burden anyone with an abstract pain. I slept with the light on. The glow protected my dreams, like a sentinel, like a guardian angel perched on my dresser, cramped but unable to move for all the clutter he would knock to the floor. He was rather unshaven, his trench coat was wrinkled, and his overly-large wings bent at odd angles as they tried to make themselves unobtrusive. I felt glad of his presence, but this morning he was gone. Likely he had a Christmas to save, like Gideon or Clarence.
This morning it was righteous anger that got me up and out of the house. It was also righteous anger that got me back home within the hour. So, now that I don't have a job, I'm feeling great. I think I'll go back to sleep.
Monday, December 19, 2005
perfect love and all the rest
Everyone needs a Reason and a Way.
There is One Reason, and He has given us a Way. I am the light and the life of the world. Life. The Reason to work, to endure, to try and succeed. He opened to our imaginations a veritable cornucopia of rewards. He told us the Plan, the Reward, and how we were going to get there. He is the Way. Light. We follow where he leads, and where he leads is to life. We cannot blaze our own path, we cannot make it alone. But with him all things are possible.
He is the Light and the Life.
He is life. Life mirrors him, copies his perfection in minute replicas all over the universe. C. S. Lewis said that, "miracles are a retelling in small letters of the very same story which is written across the whole world in letters too large for some of us to see." Seasons change; spring eradicates winter. Dawn burns away night. A birth and death of all things, in a simple and perfect design, His design.
Art imitates life, just as life imitates its creator. The archetypes of the hero, the protector, the king, all point to him. We knew in LOTR that Gandalf couldn't really be dead, because he died for his friends, and we all know how the story progresses from there. Same with Aslan. Believe me, dad, you don't have to read the Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe to know the story. You've heard it every day of your life. And I don't mean since you were born. Even Ayn Rand, vociferous atheist, wrote her greatest novel about a perfect man who redeems those who have been abused by evil -eventually suffering phyiscal torture. He saves them from their own follies after they worked for those who enslaved them by sanctioning the evil that destroys them. Oh, Ayn, I shake my head at your determined denial of truth.
But I get off topic.
Where I mean to go with this is here: We search so desperately-albeit unconsciously- for anything in this life that will remind us of The Life. Is it surprising, therefore, that when we fall in love, the emotion mirrors the Greatest Love? We seek a Reason and a Way.
We want to be inspired. All of us earnestly seek someone who will give us a reason to rise above whatever in our life is bringing us down, ourselves most importantly. Not someone to say to us, you're okay as you are, but someone to say, I know that you have it in you to be amazing. For that person, you want to be amazing. You are willing to work to possess her (him, in my case, but its much more romantic the other way). She is worth every effort, every pain, to hold for one moment that glowing white fruit of perfection. She is the Reason. So gearing ourselves up for the enormous challenge, we suddenly find that she is also the Way. How being our best possible selves is suddenly so easy and freeing...why it's all a tribute to her. The inspiration that gives us the desire also unconsciously gives us the ability. That is the romantic love that all artists, philosophers, housewives and schoolboys aspire to. You've heard the song. You know which one I mean.
Isn't it amazing! The very act of falling in love is a testimony of our belief in a greater good. To love someone with one's whole soul is a sacred gift to the Father and the Son, an acceptance of their gift.
The reason I thought of this is not because of the conversation I had with Ted tonight, though my sentiments mirror his in many respects. I came upon this idea while watching a drama on TNT. Wanted. Now, ask me, how did a television show about police guys who hunt down wanted criminals make you think about the sanctity of romantic love? Because the criminal had Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. I wish I could relate the entire show to you. It inspired me. But the relevant part has been related in full. The mad bomber was a PTSD victim of Desert Storm. It made me think of Dad.
Sometimes I think my dad is so weak, unable to do the simplest things for himself, unable to be a grownup in many ways. I feel burdened, thinking that it is my duty to take care of him. And yet, he has never starved, nor frozen to death. He is perfectly able to take care of himself. So why do I feel that he is not alive? My father is not happy. He chooses to live in the past, in the years he was surrounded by war, death, hatred and pain, rather than to live in the present. Why would anyone choose such a life? Why does he not let himself be happy? It's a simple choice. One that I've tried to make for him, so many times. But I cannot make my father happy. I do not think that even he has that ability anymore. But he used to.
PTSD is a catchword in our family, among we children anyway. A hiss and a byword. Like the phrase, "so damned depressed", it has ceased to mean anything important or real. I forget sometimes that people who have it are legitimately sick, and I use the word sick in its worst connotation. These bastards are sick! And, yeah, sometimes Dad veers that way, but for the most part, even he doesn't think of his mental unhealth as relevant. Dad is skitzophrenic. My dad is insane. And yet, it's not a big deal to us. Why? Because he has always been insane, since before we were born, but it never got in the way before. It was always there, unnamed, but he never let it bother him. My dad, my weak dad, never let his wife of twenty-seven years know that he saw his dead friends from Vietnam. How did he find that strength? Because of her.
I learned the meaning of the word romance from watching my father. Because of him, I can never marry a man who does not treat me like a princess. My mother once lectured him for the money he spent buying her flowers, as flowers die. So, whenever my father got the urge to splurge on a bouquet, he instead bought a single silk rose. In her bathroom, my mother had an immortal collection of ILOVEYOUs and JUSTBECAUSEs arrayed in all colors imaginable. Incidentally, I learned the meaning of disappointed from my mother.
In my mom, my dad found all the inspiration he could ever want for life. His wild past that we joke about with him did not influence our lives negatively, because the man we met was gentle-even when he yelled- protective and living a life within the lines. I'm not counting the Pepsi he drank behind mom's back. She was his Reason for fighting all the demons and dark things that lived in his mind. And she was his Way to do it. Heaven knows they did not have a perfect marriage even at the best of times. They probably ought never to have been married, but I may not ever meet a man who still means it for All Eternity when Time has turned her back on him.
Maybe that is why my dad could not believe in God anymore, and why the Son became fiction in his mind. Dad could not believe in Reason and Way. He had lost love. My parents' marriage really hit the rocks at the same time they left the church. The cause and effect is one eternal return. But I do know that my dad's mental weaknesses caught up to him when he gave up on her. That is why he chooses to live in the war; because to live in a life that doesn't have her is traumatic.
I wish I could do something more than observe it.
For my sanity, I must end on a note of inspiration. Perhaps I may speculate on my future prospects of romantic love. I may bear testimony of the Great Love. Girlishly, I may hope to be the Reason and Way for someone some day. But all of a sudden, I am afraid of messing up those sentiments and paths. So I will end, with a Tiny Tim thought for all: May you find love in your lives that make you a better person every day. May you find a Reason and Way, and the Light and the Life.
God bless us every one. (<--must use very bad cockney accent)
There is One Reason, and He has given us a Way. I am the light and the life of the world. Life. The Reason to work, to endure, to try and succeed. He opened to our imaginations a veritable cornucopia of rewards. He told us the Plan, the Reward, and how we were going to get there. He is the Way. Light. We follow where he leads, and where he leads is to life. We cannot blaze our own path, we cannot make it alone. But with him all things are possible.
He is the Light and the Life.
He is life. Life mirrors him, copies his perfection in minute replicas all over the universe. C. S. Lewis said that, "miracles are a retelling in small letters of the very same story which is written across the whole world in letters too large for some of us to see." Seasons change; spring eradicates winter. Dawn burns away night. A birth and death of all things, in a simple and perfect design, His design.
Art imitates life, just as life imitates its creator. The archetypes of the hero, the protector, the king, all point to him. We knew in LOTR that Gandalf couldn't really be dead, because he died for his friends, and we all know how the story progresses from there. Same with Aslan. Believe me, dad, you don't have to read the Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe to know the story. You've heard it every day of your life. And I don't mean since you were born. Even Ayn Rand, vociferous atheist, wrote her greatest novel about a perfect man who redeems those who have been abused by evil -eventually suffering phyiscal torture. He saves them from their own follies after they worked for those who enslaved them by sanctioning the evil that destroys them. Oh, Ayn, I shake my head at your determined denial of truth.
But I get off topic.
Where I mean to go with this is here: We search so desperately-albeit unconsciously- for anything in this life that will remind us of The Life. Is it surprising, therefore, that when we fall in love, the emotion mirrors the Greatest Love? We seek a Reason and a Way.
We want to be inspired. All of us earnestly seek someone who will give us a reason to rise above whatever in our life is bringing us down, ourselves most importantly. Not someone to say to us, you're okay as you are, but someone to say, I know that you have it in you to be amazing. For that person, you want to be amazing. You are willing to work to possess her (him, in my case, but its much more romantic the other way). She is worth every effort, every pain, to hold for one moment that glowing white fruit of perfection. She is the Reason. So gearing ourselves up for the enormous challenge, we suddenly find that she is also the Way. How being our best possible selves is suddenly so easy and freeing...why it's all a tribute to her. The inspiration that gives us the desire also unconsciously gives us the ability. That is the romantic love that all artists, philosophers, housewives and schoolboys aspire to. You've heard the song. You know which one I mean.
Isn't it amazing! The very act of falling in love is a testimony of our belief in a greater good. To love someone with one's whole soul is a sacred gift to the Father and the Son, an acceptance of their gift.
The reason I thought of this is not because of the conversation I had with Ted tonight, though my sentiments mirror his in many respects. I came upon this idea while watching a drama on TNT. Wanted. Now, ask me, how did a television show about police guys who hunt down wanted criminals make you think about the sanctity of romantic love? Because the criminal had Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. I wish I could relate the entire show to you. It inspired me. But the relevant part has been related in full. The mad bomber was a PTSD victim of Desert Storm. It made me think of Dad.
Sometimes I think my dad is so weak, unable to do the simplest things for himself, unable to be a grownup in many ways. I feel burdened, thinking that it is my duty to take care of him. And yet, he has never starved, nor frozen to death. He is perfectly able to take care of himself. So why do I feel that he is not alive? My father is not happy. He chooses to live in the past, in the years he was surrounded by war, death, hatred and pain, rather than to live in the present. Why would anyone choose such a life? Why does he not let himself be happy? It's a simple choice. One that I've tried to make for him, so many times. But I cannot make my father happy. I do not think that even he has that ability anymore. But he used to.
PTSD is a catchword in our family, among we children anyway. A hiss and a byword. Like the phrase, "so damned depressed", it has ceased to mean anything important or real. I forget sometimes that people who have it are legitimately sick, and I use the word sick in its worst connotation. These bastards are sick! And, yeah, sometimes Dad veers that way, but for the most part, even he doesn't think of his mental unhealth as relevant. Dad is skitzophrenic. My dad is insane. And yet, it's not a big deal to us. Why? Because he has always been insane, since before we were born, but it never got in the way before. It was always there, unnamed, but he never let it bother him. My dad, my weak dad, never let his wife of twenty-seven years know that he saw his dead friends from Vietnam. How did he find that strength? Because of her.
I learned the meaning of the word romance from watching my father. Because of him, I can never marry a man who does not treat me like a princess. My mother once lectured him for the money he spent buying her flowers, as flowers die. So, whenever my father got the urge to splurge on a bouquet, he instead bought a single silk rose. In her bathroom, my mother had an immortal collection of ILOVEYOUs and JUSTBECAUSEs arrayed in all colors imaginable. Incidentally, I learned the meaning of disappointed from my mother.
In my mom, my dad found all the inspiration he could ever want for life. His wild past that we joke about with him did not influence our lives negatively, because the man we met was gentle-even when he yelled- protective and living a life within the lines. I'm not counting the Pepsi he drank behind mom's back. She was his Reason for fighting all the demons and dark things that lived in his mind. And she was his Way to do it. Heaven knows they did not have a perfect marriage even at the best of times. They probably ought never to have been married, but I may not ever meet a man who still means it for All Eternity when Time has turned her back on him.
Maybe that is why my dad could not believe in God anymore, and why the Son became fiction in his mind. Dad could not believe in Reason and Way. He had lost love. My parents' marriage really hit the rocks at the same time they left the church. The cause and effect is one eternal return. But I do know that my dad's mental weaknesses caught up to him when he gave up on her. That is why he chooses to live in the war; because to live in a life that doesn't have her is traumatic.
I wish I could do something more than observe it.
For my sanity, I must end on a note of inspiration. Perhaps I may speculate on my future prospects of romantic love. I may bear testimony of the Great Love. Girlishly, I may hope to be the Reason and Way for someone some day. But all of a sudden, I am afraid of messing up those sentiments and paths. So I will end, with a Tiny Tim thought for all: May you find love in your lives that make you a better person every day. May you find a Reason and Way, and the Light and the Life.
God bless us every one. (<--must use very bad cockney accent)
Saturday, December 17, 2005
confidence
I do not like an audience. Sincerity becomes diffused between many participants in a conversation. Ted tried asking me about something today and, despite a desire to confide on my part, I did not answer. Not well, anyway. The reason is that Tarythe was present. It is not that I would not have told those things to her, but that I could not do it with more than one person at a time. The same is true if I play the role of a listener. I don't feel a connection to the speaker because I am trying to connect to the other listeners as well. My attention falters. At least, I feel that the speaker thinks my attention falters. Any conversation I hold with other people present feels like role-playing, a performance with the energy and wit and timing of a script. It doesn't seem real to me. I cannot make eye-contact. I am honest in word but not in spirit. Any other arrangement besides one-on-one just doesn't cut it for me when I want confidence.
Yet, when I lack confidence, a group of supporting friends helps to heighten my courage. Meeting new people, for instance, is a task I daren't undertake alone. When I am in a group of people who I know love me despite my follies, then I feel empowered to win over a new friend. It is at those times that I truly believe-a different thing than knowing-that I am a person anyone would like for a friend. So both settings are imperative for me, groups and intimacy. They are good for different reasons: one for the energy and wit and timing that make me feel beautiful and fun; the other for truth and honesty, another way of making me feel beautiful and appreciated.
A note to Ted: When you read this looking for a selfish confidence boost, hear this: I do not think that all you do is ridicule. I am not afraid that you will mock me. I trust you. You are a good friend. No buts about it.
Yet, when I lack confidence, a group of supporting friends helps to heighten my courage. Meeting new people, for instance, is a task I daren't undertake alone. When I am in a group of people who I know love me despite my follies, then I feel empowered to win over a new friend. It is at those times that I truly believe-a different thing than knowing-that I am a person anyone would like for a friend. So both settings are imperative for me, groups and intimacy. They are good for different reasons: one for the energy and wit and timing that make me feel beautiful and fun; the other for truth and honesty, another way of making me feel beautiful and appreciated.
A note to Ted: When you read this looking for a selfish confidence boost, hear this: I do not think that all you do is ridicule. I am not afraid that you will mock me. I trust you. You are a good friend. No buts about it.
Friday, December 16, 2005
me-mail
I once told Emilie that I learn things about myself through observations not of my emotions but of my actions. Then I find a pattern and trace it back to its cause.
Recently I did this with my obsession toward checking email. I noticed that it is not random chance as to when I sit by the computer clicking refresh on my inbox, nor do I run to the laptop every time I get home. The pattern is this: I check my email when I am exceptionally emotional. I may be very happy, sad, lonely, giddy, romantic, proud, or any number of other emotions. I check my email because when I feel anything that strongly I know in some deep place in my mind that someone somewhere has to be reaching out yearning to be a part of that sense. It is a faith I cling to despite evidence to the contrary.
It is faith that who I am in my most raw form must appeal to someone, and that I need to share it with that person. I am glad to discover this about myself. Especially after last night. Last night I confided to Emilie that I am afraid that when someone really gets to know me then they will stop loving me. Now I know that my soul is really more optimistic than that. My fear of abandonment or inadequacy, or whatever it is, is really a surmountable barrier. I respond very quickly and easily to encouragement, and discouragement alike. If one is enthusiastic about any aspect of my character, I am inclined to show more. It's progressive. And it is not because I dislike my innermost self, but rather that I so love my innermost self that I would reveal it to none other than those who would also love it.
Is it weird to associate that with checking email? Perhaps there is no logical connection. But the relationship, strange though it may be, is that when I feel truly myself, I get on line to see who out there is ready to celebrate it with me.
Recently I did this with my obsession toward checking email. I noticed that it is not random chance as to when I sit by the computer clicking refresh on my inbox, nor do I run to the laptop every time I get home. The pattern is this: I check my email when I am exceptionally emotional. I may be very happy, sad, lonely, giddy, romantic, proud, or any number of other emotions. I check my email because when I feel anything that strongly I know in some deep place in my mind that someone somewhere has to be reaching out yearning to be a part of that sense. It is a faith I cling to despite evidence to the contrary.
It is faith that who I am in my most raw form must appeal to someone, and that I need to share it with that person. I am glad to discover this about myself. Especially after last night. Last night I confided to Emilie that I am afraid that when someone really gets to know me then they will stop loving me. Now I know that my soul is really more optimistic than that. My fear of abandonment or inadequacy, or whatever it is, is really a surmountable barrier. I respond very quickly and easily to encouragement, and discouragement alike. If one is enthusiastic about any aspect of my character, I am inclined to show more. It's progressive. And it is not because I dislike my innermost self, but rather that I so love my innermost self that I would reveal it to none other than those who would also love it.
Is it weird to associate that with checking email? Perhaps there is no logical connection. But the relationship, strange though it may be, is that when I feel truly myself, I get on line to see who out there is ready to celebrate it with me.
opposition in all things
Of course, the day after the perfect week ends, I get a cold. Not just any cold, one of those deep-chest colds where breathing seems an impossible task and you wish the knife in your throat would cut deeper and just get it over with. I had the day off, so I spent it sleeping. I called in sick to work today and again used my time productively, by laying in near coma hour after hour. I find that if I focus on my every breath, I can avoid coughing, and if I stay silent my throat had nothing of which to complain...as long as I don't swallow. So really everything is a-ok. I'm a little hungry and loopy from Dayquil, but besides those effects, I have been enjoying a new Zen-like state. Perhaps I'll reach enlightenment tonight. Or perhaps I'll call in sick again tomorrow.
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