Bookworm

I’ve spent the majority of my vacation thus far buried in one book or another. It brings back the memories of when I was in junior high and I would be practically nonexistent in the world of family functions. My nose was buried in any book I could get ahold of, lost in another reality. Sure, it provoked teasing from my cousins, but that didn’t really matter to me. Who needs cousins when you have good books?

My taste in books has dramatically changed, however, since the times when  I was called “Icky Vicky” (affectionately, I’m sure) by my cousins. I used to only be interested in books that had “good morals, a good message, and perhaps a Mr. Darcy.” I rarely strayed from my prescribed formula for novels. And they HAD to have a happy ending. It wasn’t up for debate. I would flip ahead to the last page, make sure my two favorite characters appeared, and then continued to read, confident that everything would turn out just fine. It’s gotta have the H.E.A endings..(happily ever after, for all you NON-cool people).

Recently, this is not the case. I’ve been learning about “good” books, lately. What constitutes a “good” book? A good story?

We, as humans, are essentially story-tellers. I believe that. We find meaning in the stories that we tell, as well as the stories that we hear–those stories with which we resonate. The ones that we read and say, “That’s like me!” I love to write, and I make sense of my life when I write. But I also make sense of my life when I read what others write. That author might not be going through the same exact situation that I am in, but we all live the human experience, right? We all experience brokenness, pain, heartache, redemption, joy,  and reconciliation in some form or another and in different amounts. And when I read, I can appreciate someone else’s story. Someone else’s journey through those things that shape us.

Now I read books that are real. Books that are true. I still read fiction, but I read fiction that is reflective of the dialetical pulls that we experience-internally and externally. Books that reflect the pain in life, in a truthful way. Books that reflect the beauty in life.

I no longer flip to the back page of books to see how it ends. I relish the uncertainty. I take that journey with the characters. They don’t know the endings to their stories, yet, so why should I? And perhaps, by going through the story, the process, along with them, I will learn something about myself.

The Christmas Shelf

My world is changing.
I’m rearranging.
Does that mean Christmas changes, too?

Candy canes don’t taste the same as they used to. After the initial peppermint taste, they are just too sweet and too sticky. The sugary residue rests in the grooves of your molars, and each time you close your mouth, you have to pry it open again until all of the candy cane remnants dissolve.

The first time I went to Mexico, I was rearranging and reorganizing a closet with a few of my friends, and there was one shelf that we designated as the Christmas shelf. The garland, lights, and ornaments that had no other home were placed on this shelf, perhaps to be found around the holiday season, or perhaps to simply collect dust until the closet is once again reorganized. The leader of our service-learning trip offered a few of us the challenge to write/blog about “The Christmas Shelf.” For no particular reason, other than the fact that it made a nice title, perhaps. At the time, I had nothing to write about. I must have started half a dozen blog entries all entited “The Christmas Shelf.” But all I could come up with was some mediocre narration of the meaning of Christmas.

Fast forward to 18 months and a whole lot of life experience later…

My attitude about this Christmas can only be characterized as “bah, humbug.” Christmas music sounds like noise (I do recognize the irony in using one of said Christmas songs to illustrate my point), and decorating will more than likely seem a tedious chore. The entire idea of Christmas (in the commercial sense) seems like nonsense, and even going through the traditional motions of putting up lights, decorating trees, and gift-wrapping makes my soul ache.

You might say, “but Christmas is a season of joy, a time to remember Jesus’ birth.” And I would agree. I will celebrate the arrival of the one who came to bring reconciliation to our broken world. But I will attempt to celebrate that every day. But December 25th will not be a “happy” day for me.

Everything in my life is being rearranged. My definitions of family, home, tradition–they have crumbled–strings of stale popcorn disintegrating in my hands. Some items are placed neatly on a shelf–a “to be continued” shelf, on pause for the time being. Other items are thrown haphazardly on the top shelf, with no intention of being retrieved any time soon–strands of garland ridden with cobwebs and the smell of last year’s holiday-scented candles. The Christmas shelf–The items that no longer have significance–or at least the significance is too painful to remember. Along with the other radically changing values in my life, so change my views on Christmas.

So, in answer to the eternal question–does that mean Christmas changes, too?

Our fake, pre-lit tree might say otherwise, but yes…yes, I believe it does.

a rant inspired by your facebook status and meetings with philosophers

Diversions, distractions.

Play with your toys so as not to think about your own mortality.

Our culture is obsessed with diversions. In fact, our entire economic system is based on the fact that people want to buy more stuff, more frivolous, trivial stuff to keep them occupied. AND if people don’t go and buy more stuff, our economy will collapse. Completely. Talk about a recession!

An excuse to be materialistic?

I must buy that purse, that pair of boots, that iPhone, that plasma screen tv. If I don’t, the world as we know it will end.

The world as they know it will end.

How many other nations are dependent on OUR materialism. It’s grotesque. Utterly and completely grotesque. Sickening. Depressing.

We are creating this reality. It is perpetuated by our constant need to consume. And it appears that we can do absolutely nothing about it.

Of course, I can boycott American Eagle or Coca-Cola, but if everyone in the US decided to follow suit, then we would be screwed, so to speak.

Perhaps it wouldn’t be the worst thing…everyone back at square one. Then perhaps we could rethink our capitalist system? But something gives me the impression that even if we had to start all over, we would still choose the same thing, because after all, how can we live without our iPhone?

We would be bored. There would be silence. We would need to think about our spiritual condition. About the human condition. And we would be forced to look at what our consumerism does to people. We would be forced to deal with our own destructive tendencies. Our own sad, sad state. Our own death.

Diversion, distraction.

Keep playing.

the dandelion garden

I was enthralled with my garden for about a week. When I say “my garden,” I mean the small patch of dirt, approximately the size of a large textbook fringed with dandelions, that Michelle and I dug behind the shed. We went out every day with our small spade and hand rake to dig up and rotate the soil, with grandiose dreams of a vegetable garden, a flower garden, a fruit garden? We could use the watermelon seeds from yesterday’s family picnic to make a watermelon garden! (Never mind that the size of our dirt patch would only permit about half of a watermelon.) But that’s all it ever was, a dream of a garden. Because just as quickly as we came up with the idea, we abandoned it for a far greater scheme. Our dirt patch became just a tiny discolored square in our otherwise green yard.

Next project: a tree house.

Scratch that. Too expensive.

An igloo! We could use the plastic rectangular box to create the ice blocks. All we have to do is pack it with snow, pour water over it, wait until morning, and then repeat 3897 more times!

We did manage to complete one half of an igloo foundation. Success!

I wanted to scrapbook. I went to the craft store with my mom and bought stickers, paper, and prettily colored pens so that I, like her, could immortalize my memories.

I finished 4 pages.

I’ve started many scrapbooks over the years: one from junior high and high school (4 pages done, 16 left to go, at least), one for my Dominican Republic trip in 2005 (someday I will finish that), one for my trip to Mexico (that is also on my to-do list), one for my second trip to Mexico (this is at the end of my to-do list), a scrapbook for a friend (I’ve got a whole year to finish that).

I have a short attention span. I am constantly thinking of things that I would love to do, things I would love to create, but before I have time to finalize that idea, another more appealing idea sweeps it aside.

We are created to create, I believe. So I cannot help but feel discouraged that I never wrote that novel with Nicole, or that I never even started that painting that I sketched out.

So what do I do with that somewhat suppressed creativity? If we are created in God’s image, and God is the Creator, then we are, in essence, creative beings.

So why do I not feel creative? I feel distracted and unoriginal.

OH…epiphony! Just now, actually. As I was trying to figure out how to end this blog and make it have some point, some wonderfully profound point, I thought about creating. What do I create? How can I relate this to my faith and not seem like a Debbie Downer. Well, I create every day, right? We create meaning (thank you, Marcia and Coordinated Management of Meaning), we create conversations, relationships, blogs, papers, sentences, words, concepts, ideas.

Create, create, create.

Perhaps my attempts at tree-houses, igloos, and gardens were just a desperate stab at trying to understand this idea of creation. I think I just hit a piece of it. The tip of the iceberg, so to speak. I think I’m understanding it a teensy bit more now…a more complex understanding of what it means to be made in God’s image, and what it means to create.

the smell of innocence mixed with chihuahua cheese

The smell of tortillas fills my nostrils as I run through the kitchen on my way out the back door. Run towards the climbing tree. The wind catches my hair, and I turn to see the rest of my cousins swiftly overtaking me. (I am always the slowest).

I can only get about halfway up the tree. Everyone else gets so much higher, but where I am is just fine. It is an accomplishment.

Let’s go fishing in the woods, in the creek. A stick. A hook. An earthworm that we dug up from the soft spring earth. I hike through the tall grass onto the trail that is so familiar. Mike running along beside us, in front of us, behind us. (She disappears sometimes in the woods, but she always reappears when we hear the cowbell.) Walking along the trail, our fishing “rod” has transformed into a hiking stick. Watch out for the barbed wire that runs across the path, right before the hunting tower and the “No Trespassing” sign.

We spend hours at the creek: making dams, catching minnows and crawfish, watching the water stream around the green beer can that is sitting at the bottom. Isn’t it funny how there is always an unopened beer can at the bottom of the  shallow creek every time we go? (We never seemed to noticed the Uncle Julius brought it with him.) Is that the cowbell? It’s hard to hear, but it’s getting late. The sun is setting. Time to head back.

Wet jeans folded up from muddy tennis shoes. It’s always colder walking back. I think that shadow is a bear, and what is that sound? Twigs cracking? At the edge of the clearing, the house is in sight. We run full speed, through the tall grass, around the pine tree, through the yard (Mike is already curled up next to the house, sleeping), up the crumbling stairs (don’t touch the rusty handrail), and into the house, the door bangs shut behind us.

The smell of tortillas and beans fills my nostrils.

Remember when we were kids? Remember when we didn’t use the word “hate?”

Do you remember when we never heard our mother use it? Do you remember when we wouldn’t even dream about using it when we talked about our family?  Remember when we didn’t know what it felt like? Remember when it wasn’t true?

Sometimes I don’t remember.
But sometimes I smell tortillas…

it has poem-like qualities

I want to love.
I want to love people the way that Jesus loves people.
But I also love to hate.
I hate to hate, but I must love it, since I so frequently use the word, doing nothing to change it.

I hate to love, and love to hate.
But I also hate to hate and love to love.
I am a contradiction.

Hate is easier.
It requires no effort.
My soul is black, black, black.
Darkness obscures the mirror of your face.
“We are the same,” it will say.
Murderer, murderer.

 

Hate is easier.
I do not have to face my own sin.

Why I am not a rock nor an island…

These are things that are true:

-Lately I have become increasingly anti-social.

-I have been listening to Simon & Garfunkel recently on a whim.

Ive built walls,
A fortress deep and mighty,
That none may penetrate.
I have no need of friendship; friendship causes pain.
Its laughter and its loving I disdain.
I am a rock,
I am an island.

It’s safer to be an island. People don’t hurt you. People don’t let you down. There is no chance of someone not meeting your expectations if you don’t have any expectations for them in the first place. I’ve  been pushing people away from me. I’ve been irritated with the laughter…with happy people, in general. I’m starting to realize the danger in that. I’ve cut ties with many people, some purposefully, some unintentionally.

However, just when you think that you’ve cut off all ties, someone runs across the landbridge and stops you from burning the last remaining bridge.

Let’s go get coffee and talk.

The “let’s go get coffee and talk” conversation usually involves a lot of emotions, a lot of pain, a lot of processing, and a lot of healing.

Even if it were possible to be an island. To be a rock. Would I even want that? Do I want to be numb? And alone?

No.

We thrive on relationships. Sometimes I forget how much I need social interaction when I can only see my own pain.

A rock may not feel pain, and an island may never cry, but they also don’t feel love. Pain and crying are a part of life, I suppose. If I never felt sad, how would I know about happiness?

Yes, people have failed me. But people have also loved me. Without the failure, I couldn’t appreciate the beauty of successful relationships.

Thank you to my dear friends who will not allow me to be a rock or an island. I love you.

as promised.

Remember when you were younger and you had to give a speech? You were most likely encouraged to do one of the following three things to combat your unwarranted nervousness:

1) Look right above the heads of the audience at one spot on the wall.

2) Hold a stone of a paper clip or something that you can squeeze while you are in front of everyone.

3) Picture the audience in their underwear.

Whoa. Now let’s back up for just a minute. When did it become acceptable to tell children to picture people almost naked? Isn’t that what most teenagers battle (or not) in their mind–picturing the opposite sex naked? And here we are telling those innocent youngsters in elementary school to picture both men and women in their tighty-whities? boxers? black, lacy lingerie? Ah, mystery solved. No wonder we live in a sex-crazed culture…it all started in the classroom. tsk tsk.

my morbid obsession with macabre metaphors

We are all bleeding.

Although, in contrast to what Leona Lewis claims, we are not always bleeding love. We walk around in our zombie-like state, not even sensing the blood dripping on the floor. Numb.

The wound was just superficial, you know? Just a flesh wound. There was no way of knowing that it actually went a lot deeper. That it hit major organs. That the small pocketknife that made the cut was actually a machete. That it is still stuck in your body, stabbing, twisting, destroying. It’s too bad you can’t feel it right now. Because when the feeling finally does return to our cold body, it’ll hurt like hell.

writing is easier on rainy days.

The pale little man appears every couple of minutes, bent slightly from the burden of his job. Every day he is on the same corner. Today it is raining. It is not raining every day, but today it is. He is quickly, hurriedly walking. “Hurry, hurry,” he says, ” you only have a few more seconds.” Then gone. He disappears.

You are halted by an angry hand. “You can’t walk now!” it screeches, ” Stop walking! Go back!”

Push and pull.

Come and go.

The contradictions that characterize our life: coming and going, waxing and waning. Forever moving, then halting. Take 3 steps back, move 2 steps forward. Pushed and pulled at the same time from the same direction.

We can’t walk now with the hand in our face, but we can stand on the corner and look at the other side and wait. We will get there soon. We will not always be standing on this cloudly corner. The pale little man appears soon.