the tree with the lights in it

I live for this, too:

"When the doctor took her bandages off and led her into the garden, the girl who was no longer blind saw 'the tree with the lights in it.'  It was for this tree I searched through the peach orchards of summer, in the forests of fall and down winter and spring for years.  Then one day I was walking along Tinker Creek thinking of nothing at all and I saw the tree with the lights in it.  I saw the backyard cedar where the mourning doves roost charged and transfigured, each cell buzzing with flame.  I stood on the grass with the lights in it, grass that was wholly fire, utterly focused and utterly dreamed.  It was less like seeing than like being for the first time seen, knocked breathless by a powerful glance.  The lights of the fire abated, but I'm still spending the power.  Gradually the lights went out in the cedar, the colors died, the cells unflamed and disappeared.  I was still ringing.  I had my whole life been a bell, and never knew it until at that moment I was lifted and struck.  I have since only rarely seen the tree with the lights in it.  The vision comes and goes, mostly goes, but I live for it, for the moment when the mountains open and a new light roars in spate through the crack, and the mountains slam." 

-Annie Dillard, Pilgrim at Tinker Creek (1974). 

travel-related haiku

on Turbulence:

Turbulence is like

a roller coaster, except

higher and no brakes

Jiggling around

Ears popping and a headache

Plane rides are no fun

The pilot now speaks

Choppy wind is upon us

Rain clouds down below

on The final step toward home:

Charlotte is a place

within North Carolina

that I've never been

I will go there now

but only see the airport

a brief vacation

Boarding a plane home

I am Tallahassee bound

Ugh! Work tomorrow

mucinexDM

Last night, I was coughing a lot, as I am getting over a cold. I took some MucinexDM in the hopes that it would tackle both the mucus problem and the coughing problem.

The first thing I noticed was that I couldn't sleep at all. My body was tired, but I couldn't settle down. I fell asleep for a few minutes or hours at a time, then awoke again to restlessness. At around 5 in the morning, I awoke to my quickening heart beat. I lept out of bed and ran to get some Gatorade, but then felt nauseous and collapsed on the floor. My limbs were numb and my heart wouldn't stop accelerating. I told Daniel I needed to go to the hospital, but he recognized the beginning of a panic attack and told me to breathe in and out deeply.

Once my heart rate got under control, the nausea returned. I vomited several times over the next few hours and ended up sleeping on the carpeted floor right next to the bathroom. If I began to think about making calls to get off work, my heart rate would go up and I'd have to make myself breathe in and out.

The nausea and irregular heart rate continued in waves until the medicine wore off at 1:00 this afternoon. I slept for another three hours and was finally able to eat some food.

self portrait

tools: vintage jumper, tea, tripod, and photo editing software.

confrontations (and a guardian angel?)

Today was CRAZY (so crazy that crazy really does need to be capitalized).

It all started when I got to work. My coworker forewarned me that the manager for our department was angry with me and had compiled a long list of my failings and oversights. Before I continue, let me remind you of this post where I explained how hard I am on myself and how much effort it takes for me to even feel content with myself at the end of the day.

So, perfectionist and people pleaser that I am, I could barely stand to hear that someone was talking about me behind my back or operating on the impression that I intentionally cut corners or failed in my position. I was really nervous up until the manager arrived. I hoped the whole thing would just blow over.

Ten minutes into his shift, the altercation began. I admit that the details here are already hazy, as I became quite emotional shortly after the "conversation" began. It started with him thumping his fist two times on the table, then beginning his speech about my wrongdoings. Without thinking, I mimicked his behavior, thumping my fists on the table and telling him that he had just made the same mistake. At that point, things got really, really ugly.

He immediately silenced me with a glare and a shout. This is the point where I started weeping. I told him I had already seen his list and that most of the errors were minor, understandable, or resolved and all were unintentional. I acknowledged that my standards could have been higher, but I couldn't completely back down, as many of the problems could have been resolved without a confrontation had he communicated errors to me as they occurred. Did I overreact? It's almost certain; the forewarning I received over-prepared me for the lecture. But the reason I felt so defeated, so desperately sad, was not because I was "in trouble," but because I was at no point given the benefit of the doubt. It was as if the relationship I built with him over months of working together was thrown out the window, as if I had shown myself to be a lazy, selfish, hypocrite rather than a serious, hardworking, caring individual.

I cried and cried, then cried some more. Then I almost had a weeping-induced panic attack. Then I told myself to get over it; after all, I was still on the clock.

I went to a different department to work, as it was clear that we both needed time away from each other to cool off. Two hours later, the former-hippie-Vietnam-vet-artist I met about a month ago in the art section of the store approached me. He said he had come to visit for some supplies, but also to see how I was doing. We had a wonderful conversation in which he told me that: I have a long time to figure out life and I don't need to worry; I am a wonderful person and I should tell my husband he's lucky; I should let myself stop living with one foot in the past and one in the future and start to be really grateful for each moment; the only thing I can do sometimes is forgive and let go; and he understands that a plight of womanhood is not being taken seriously or being bullied in certain situations because men feel like they have power over me.

Bullwinkle (his name is Steven, but his dad always called him that) saved the day again. The only other day he came to the store was a similarly emotional day for me. He cheered me up then and today by expanding my view to something bigger and greater than my current situation. When I responded positively to his final statement, he suggested I read a book on women archetypes, which he had, conveniently, in his motor home (he had driven it to the store parking lot). When we said goodbye, he promised to come right in with the book.

Then he gave me the book, Women who run with wolves and one of his original pieces!

After I clocked out, I apologized to the manager for my part in the conflict. Bullwinkle had talked me through the raw emotion I felt and helped me realize that I needed to move on, to stop dwelling on the past and take account of the present which was incomparably better than that former event I had been worked up about all afternoon.

I left work with a new hope that things will work themselves out, not just at work but in life.

And that's why I'm (almost) convinced that Bullwinkle is my guardian angel.

feminist anthropology

Beginning to read a year's worth of Godey's Magazine for women from 1896 has set me on a little research tangent. It is at first remarkable simply to read about conceptions of the "new woman," or independently thinking, outward peering woman of the late nineteenth century:

"The new woman of today represents the first great intellectual harvest which has ripened since that seed-sewing long ago. Old prejudices, one after another, have been overgrown, smothered with the ever-strengthening force of woman's intellectual power, until there hardly remains to-day an old original obstacle which has not been overcome; and the development, gathering force as it grows, is destined to uplift the race to heights undreamed of." (p. 23, Godey's Magazine, January, 1896)

But, after looking at the various articles on the modern woman for several minutes, I began to sense a unique authorial voice. I looked at the names of the writers. They were largely men. The articles I've skimmed so far are "The New Woman, Athletically Considered," "The New Woman in Office" (meaning merely to have a job outside the home), and "Music in America: The Women Composers." The first may have been written by a woman, as the author's first name is listed only as "W.," but the others have decidedly male voices - male voices that wonder at the strange and newly discovered talents and strengths of women, so long held captive by their households. It is clear that I have access to a document that presents a very interesting crossroads in women's rights and feminist theory. Women have jobs, but only men record it. Women compose successful pieces, but only men critique them.

The document I have represents the first wave of feminism in the U.S. I find it baffling that women can hold high positions in their communities at this time, but still don't have the right to vote.

I was talking to Daniel this morning about how disappointed I am in myself from day to day. He suggested I pursue independent research of some kind (of course it's a man telling me what to do). He asked me why I think women have historically submitted to patriarchy. My hypothesis from a biological or anthropological standpoint, I suppose, is that all humans have a desire for power and that men are more physically capable of demanding it in the sense that they tend to be stronger, larger, and more physically aggressive than women. I've going to start with a collection of anthropological studies, not all of them specific to gender.

So far on my list are:
The Second Sex, Simone de Beauvoir
Writing Women's Worlds, Lila Abu-Lughod
The Feminine Mystique, Betty Friedan
The Western Illusion of Human Nature, Marshall Sahlins

I'm sure there are tons of others that may be more useful than these, but I want to read a few of the books and writings that were most transformative for the field before I delve into more specific readings.

meaning

I want to live a full and meaningful life. I want it so badly that every moment I'm not doing something meaningful, I'm waging a silent verbal battle against myself for being lazy, incompetent, and unmotivated. Each morning, I wake up and lay in bed thinking about what the day holds. I dread getting up because I know that, as soon as I do, I am fully responsible for how my day turns out. When I finally do get up, I am angry with myself for sleeping in too long. I worry that I won't get the things done I obligated myself to complete. Whether I get everything done or not, I feel like I should have done more.

A girl in my small group told me my problem sounds like the plight of the intellectual, meaning that I'm so driven to pursue intellectually stimulating activities that I can't allow myself to sit still. It's a hidden compliment, but it doesn't really resolve the problem. The fact is that I have always been disappointed in myself; being in school doesn't change that; being out of it certainly hasn't. To live a full and meaningful life I need to start seeing the beauty of spare time, moments of inactivity, and thinking in bed. Don't they contribute to a well-lived life?

I am often rather nostalgic about my freshman and sophomore years of college. I've let go of the romance for the most part because it is not useful to dwell on a hazy and exaggerated narrative of the past. But I do think I was in a stage in my life where I naturally accepted the beauty of just sitting on grass or talking to a friend or writing a poem about what I had for lunch. As I've grown more self-aware, I've turned inward to the point that seeing sun-dappled leaves out of my window can't overshadow the nagging feeling that I'm not good enough.

It does make my heart a little warmer to be able to contribute something higher than fashion to the blogging world as of late. This blog will always be more meaningful to me than someone's water lily. To be honest, I'm about to give up on making the other blog popular or monetarily successful.

an explanation

For those of you who read my fragmented previous post on someone's water lily in puzzlement, I apologize. The college minister at our church lost his parents in a car accident on Friday. His daughter, who is three, was in the car and as a result suffered head trauma and other internal injuries.

My first response was horror, that chaotic wave of confusion and sadness. I spent much of last weekend brooding over both the weight of grief the family must be experiencing and over the fickle nature of life and death. I'm a bit terrified to drive at all, because the accident could not have been predicted or prevented by his parents. It was completely out of their control. And for the first time in a long time, I became afraid of death.

I tend to operate from day to day on the idea that as long as I have long term obligations I will have to live long enough to see them through. But the truth is that death is not respectful of commitments; it does not choose on the basis of merit; it makes no distinctions at all - we personify it so often we've started to think it actually has the ability to rationalize. As I stated in my previous post, we forget that we are not living out predictable narratives. We are not the protagonist in a formulaic tale who, almost by definition, cannot get killed before the falling action. We are people, among a billion, who interact with our environment and with one another on a daily basis - always moving, always at risk.

The only thing I can figure is that the way to move on is to stop asking the irrelevant question, "Why?" and get on with this task of living with no certainty of tomorrow - of living only with the certainty that God is watching if not controlling our motions, that some joy may grow from the ashes of grief.

Please pray for my friend's family and for the full recovery of his daughter.

on Christian feminism

I originally posted this on someone's water lily, but I also wanted to file it here:

Feminism is not about saying, "I don't want to submit." It's about saying, "I take full responsibility for myself as a thinking adult."

Sometimes, oftentimes, it baffles me that the fight for gender equality in the church is still going on. Women are educated, willing to take on leadership roles outside the church, and responsible for themselves. Daniel recently stumbled upon the Baptist Women for Equality blog. I am so happy he found it; it's nice to know women in conservative denominations are taking a stand. It enlightened me to some of the hateful things people are saying. "They've Stolen Jesus! Will you help us find him?" is particularly enraging. In it, John Piper is quoted as saying: "You are just like the homosexual; right desire, wrong gender." I'm not going to get into the church's view on homosexuality in this post, but it hits particularly hard to insult two groups of persecuted people in one sentence by using them against each other.

I know no one who thinks women shouldn't be leaders in the church considers this argument valid, likely because it actually makes sense, but there are a number of things that are considered culturally and historically contextual in the Bible. Examples include polygamy and slavery. Cultural norms change over time. Social relationships grow and develop. Whether you like it or not, you are interpreting the Bible through layers of contexts, conversations, and narratives.

Plus, the New Testament says that under the banner of Christ, societal barriers are disbanded. If all are equal in his eyes, they should be equal in his church's - his body on earth - eyes. Jesus' life, death, and resurrection were transformative. They were meant to bring about positive change. Women have, for centuries, been at the forefront of positive change in the church and elsewhere by sneaking into leadership roles and joining forces. Why are we still arguing about whether women can be leaders when they clearly have the inborn qualities to be movers and shakers, when they clearly already are?

I know more about religious history, comparative religions, and ethics than most pastors who have taught over me. Am I supposed to share it with only other women? Am I not called to share my knowledge with everyone in the church? That's the whole point of a community.

I am a Christian and I am a feminist. Feminism isn't man hating. It isn't anti-femininity. It isn't naive or stubborn or prideful. It is the acknowledgement that I have a voice that should be heard, that I have a brain that should be exercised, that I have responsibilities to call my own, that God made me equal.

Separate but equal is a falsehood. If that were the way God intended it to be, I would have to find a different God.

written on my trip to Chicago

I wrote this in a Catholic cemetery outside Chicago on August 13, 2009 and just discovered it in a journal:

The silenced sleep as
the EL screeches on
its track, carrying the tardy
to Wrigley field.
This cemetery is not a town
it is a cathedral in
purgatory
where the dead grow
old waiting for Heaven -
stained glass enshrines Mary
and her tormented, savior
son. Stone angels bow
at her feet, this queen
of the Catholic deceased
Irish born and Chicago raised.
You strip the dry, northern grass
and hundreds, thousands
a congregation of suited, flowered, good
Catholics crossing
themselves in dirt and darkness
waiting for their promise of infinite light.

tree tops

If I were God, or a giant,
I would, primarily,
brush the palm
of my large right hand
against the bristly brush
of the lizard green
tree tops.

march.

skirt

Fluttering, ballooning, brushing, blooming -
whispering kisses over bare skin
like parched leafy appendages tossed in the wind
or flowering bushes fragrant and looming



I love

shade and light
squinted eyes

kissing.

Two older poems, never before published!

1.

Can I kiss you? You ask.

I’ve been waiting twenty

Years for the question

And four weeks for

Your guts to muster

Some courage

We lean left; less than

5% of the population does

And your lips with

That irresistible freckle

Move, along with two

Sky-colored eyes, toward

My face.

And I wanted it and

I wanted you.

We holds hands like a

Kiss already, restlessly

Intertwining with tickling

Rub of thumbs

I did not quite expect

That softness of

Saliva and skin and

I needed to practice

So we

Tried again

2.

I like breathing in spiced chai

And pondering the photographs

In a national geographic

Published last December

I like sitting next to you on

Andrea’s bed, dorm loveseats, that worn

Leather couch at All Saints,

Diner booths

I like the green of grass splattered

In patchy afternoon sun

That reminds me to

Live, and thrive

I like the delicate softness of your

One-freckled lips as they whisper

Thankfulness and joy in an hour’s

Worth of kisses.

these are my days

(Trying my hand at intentional enjambment)

These are my days

Opening my eyes to yours

Closed. Or to empty space when you’ve

Already gone 

To class, on the bus

Heaving fatigue, checking my phone.

Filing through facts, sifting

Responses, hearing my bright voice

Answer, leaving

Sun glare wind on skin.

Extending my long arm

To the heavy library

Doors, and voicing “hello

How are you” to that man I don’t

Know But speak

With every single day

without fault

Then bluntly and skillfully clacking

Scrap-smudged borrowed keyboards.

Blogging, analyzing, socializing,

Jeapordizing my joy

On a beautiful day,

I sit alone and read

Poetry and leaves

Of grass on the green.

And I leave.

On a bus,

Home to you.

Give me 18.

There may be a few blatant cliches in my poem below. In fact, it reminds me of a Taylor Swift song. However, I have always felt a sort of desperate nostalgia associated with my freshman year of college. Regardless of how many great moments I've had since then, I feel that it will always carry a strange magic.

Give me 18, give me

recklessness and ignorance.

Late nights, bike rides, 

the last summer - 

or the first -

of freedom.

Relationships starting, or

ending

too late. 

Self-assured and unhindered.

New friends, jumping

in fountains and

climbing on roofs.

Breathing deeply, too greedy,

not realizing it'd be gone too soon.

First we live for 21 then

for marriage

and conception.

Why? We push

towards adulthood

then towards middle age.

Full time, no time.

As if the air where

we dwell

is too thin. 

What do we give up to

lead our quiet lives whispering

Entrapment?

Give me 18

Too many friends to hold onto

for long, too many

days awake and

Swimming with bird song, with

A Universe hum.

I was alotted my time

but it's gone.