A Love Letter to Home and New York (Sorry, I'm cheating on you both)

Most days I sit and I try to write and I think, "Why is nothing brilliant appearing in my oh-so-brilliant brain?" When I get over that self-aggrandizing aggravation and remember that I am but a mere mortal with very few mortal powers, I realize that I'm really just afraid to start.

What do I sometimes do (I say sometimes because most of the time I just stare at the proverbial pen in my hand and then give up and make my way to the fridge) when I "don't know where to start?" I start anyway, even if smells like a heaping pile of crap. So here's a story about people and places I love. I hope I do them justice.

I spent my summer in Manhattan working at a youth theater and I loved it.

There are too many people, the lights are much too bright, and the summer heat is much too hot, leaving very little room for a breeze. Trust me, I had a more than mild mental breakdown about a week and a half in.

But there are also people that are immensely kind and incredibly unique, lights that brighten the world's biggest stage, and heat that... well, the heat is still ridiculous. The joy was in the little things. My students and the people I worked alongside. The people I lived with. It was understanding the transit systems, getting to know the people inside the cathedral and not just staring at the ceilings, and realizing that no sane person actually wants to spend time in Times Square. Carroll Gardens in Brooklyn is a pretty neat place for a night-in and friends who are obsessed with Beyonce make great partners in crime on the Express (party) Train. I can tell you that there are at least two Thai (yum) restaurants on almost any street and that the best place in the city is kitty-corner to the giant monolith that is the main branch- the slightly unkempt and rarely populated Mid-Manhattan Library.

It's been hard to come back. I love my home, my family, and the safety and love I feel when I'm around my friends here. But the opportunities that the city provides were incredibly difficult to leave. I was scared to say goodbye to the people I'd met for fear that I might never get to see them again.

However, I did miss the stars. I feel a little closer to Heaven when I can see the stars, and even standing on the rooftops of Manhattan you can't see them. That was always a little reminder that home would never really lose it's place. I don't think I've changed too much. I still love to read more than I love my own health. I still crave carbs and drink too much wine (is there really such a thing as too much wine?). I continue to worry about my complete and utter lack of academic motivation. I'm still addicted to caffeine, put a ridiculous amount of salt on everything, and I continue to be the worlds worst person ever because I refuse to check my voice mail. In fact, I'm sure my inbox is full right now.

New York in all its glory gave me a greater appreciation for all things unique, new, old, and extraordinary. I learned that I truly love to teach and that I love to perform. The world, it seemed, knew me for who I actually was in that moment. I came to a stronger realization that God is absolutely everywhere and that He'll show up even if I'm convinced that it's impossible. I saw it in the people I lived with, in my family on the East Coast, and in the people with whom I went to church. A bit of the divine consistently showed up in people I met on the streets or in a cab, and in the wonderfully exhausting children I worked with everyday. When I got in the taxi with all of my suitcases at the end of my stay, I cried. The cabbie looked in the rear view mirror and said, "God gave us the life, step by step, you know?"

I am happy to be home. I want to go back to New York and I believe that I will. Most of all I feel incredibly grateful that no matter where I am, I will always have something to miss.

Love,
Me

The Whole Number

Lately I've been reading a lot of Madeleine L'Engle, author of the Newbery Award winning novel A Wrinkle in Time, and many other wonderful books. She wrote about love, family, work, war, relationships, faith, God, and the self. In one of her works of non-fiction, "A Circle of Quiet," she presents one summer of her life in journalistic form. One of the passages I read this morning reads as such:

'The most "whole" people I know are those in whom the gap between the "ontological" [true] self and the daily self is the smallest. The Latin integer means untouched; intact. In mathematics, an integer is a whole number. The people I know who are intact don't have to worry about their integrity; they are incapable of doing anything which would break it.

It's a sad commentary on our world that "integrity" is slowly coming to mean self-centeredness. Most people who worry about their integrity are thinking about it in terms of themselves. It's a great excuse for not doing something you really don't want to do, or are afraid to do: "I can't do that and keep my integrity." Integrity, like humility, is a quality which vanishes the moment we are conscious of it in ourselves. We see it only in others.'

I sat, ashamed at my own illiteracy, looked up at the ceiling and said, "You're going to have to help me with this. I can't figure this one out by myself." We speak a lot of integrity where I come from. We talk of realness and goodness and "geniune-ness." To be truly real, good, and genuine is an admirable goal. So what are we fighting over? Why can't we easily define this admirable goal? And why have we become so obsessed with defining it?

When I sat down to mentally digest this passage, I started out by asking "Well alright, who doesn't have integrity? Is it me? My friends?" I quickly realized that this was not the question I should be asking. If integrity vanishes once we are conscious of it in ourselves, then who in my life does have integrity? I thought about my aunt who fought to stay alive until she could meet her first grandson. Her fight for her life depended not on her belief in her own worth but on her belief in everyone else's. I thought about one of my professors who, knowing full well that I was inept at both the subject matter of the course and at waking up early, still found the time to make sure I passed her class. She didn't let me get away with anything, she just let me be myself while still teaching me the material. Her respect for her students is "ontological."  

I am in no place to decide who doesn't have integrity. "The gap between our 'real' and 'actual' selves is, to some degree, in all of us; no one is completely whole... When we refuse to face this gap in ourselves, we widen it." I am constantly widening my gap. I judge too harshly and love too slowly. I worry about about my actions to the point where I'm more worried about myself than everyone else around me. I constantly question my integrity. This is not to say that I believe we should forgo checking ourselves and keeping each other accountable. Freedom is only truly found within a form. The difference, however, is in what we do first: we can define each other's worth (and our own) based on perceived integrity, or we can love. I guess I choose love. 

I Tip My Hat

He wears a suit coat, a trilby hat, and shiny black shoes. It gives him a rather matured air. He's been here a long while, rarely changing with the times. He walks with the powerful stride of a man who holds many uneasy answers. Sometimes he stays for longer than you'd like, but only because you, his charge, are having a difficult time understanding his presence.
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People are afraid of the word failure. The idea of it scares them so they avoid even using the phrase. But it's not a word to be feared, it just... Is.

I've failed many times. I've failed a class and I've failed to get positions I dearly hoped for. I've failed at making veggie stir fry that even remotely tastes like any kind of vegetable I've ever heard of. Worst of all I continually fail to love as we are called to love. The failure, however, does not define me. Importance, I think, should be placed not on the failure but on the acknowledgment of it's happening. Acknowledging failure, claiming it as your own, and gleaning knowledge helpful for the future conquers our fear. Most of all it conquers bitterness. Forgive others, forgive your failures, and forgive yourself.  

I no longer fear failure, but I do try to respect it. I don't wish for it, but when it does appear I welcome it home.
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He knocks, but it's just a formality. He needs to be there, and he'll stay on the stoop until I answer. Patience is one of his finer virtues. When I open the door I sigh from the exhaustion of trying to keep him out for so long. I smile, mostly because just by opening the door I have managed to give him my weight. I ask Failure inside for dinner and talk with him like an old friend. I ask him questions- why did you come and how did you get here?- and listen quietly as he responds. Sometimes he answers and sometimes he doesn't, but every time I ask his eyes squint softly with a sad kind of smile. He touches me softly on the arm, knowing, I suppose, the emotional effect his presence carries. Before too long, I thank him for the knowledge he has brought to my table and bid him on his way. With a frivolous air but serious tone I say, "I hope I won't be seeing you again soon." He laughs, tips his hat, and replies, "I hope for the same thing." He walks out the door. I move back to the table and sit for a moment. Allowing myself some emotional breathing room, I stare at his chair. I mourn his presence as well as celebrate his parting. Then, finally, I cry from the joy of new found understanding. When my breathing moment ends, I clean up my answers and yet-to-be-answereds. Carrying them in my arms, I store them away for another day and always.

Bedazzled Port-a-Potties and Coffee for the Soul

Life continues to surprise me. Is it possible for coffee to taste better because it came from someone who cared?

Pay it forward.

The woman in line behind me paid for my mocha today.

She did it for no reason other than that I looked a little tired.

Please, pay it forward.

I walked the Susan G Komen Race for the Cure this morning. Four of my friends, three of my family members, and countless others showed up to support the cause. Men decked out in pink, sleepy children running to keep up, dogs in pink sweaters. Ladies who lost a sister making the trek in shirts that read “Hope”.  Warriors in pink. These people didn’t directly gain anything from attending this event; they did it to make an end to something terrible. They decorated port-a-potties (which, by the way, made peeing way more fun). They made something beautiful out of something ugly.

Pay it forward. At the very least, do it for the poor dogs stuffed into sweaters. If they don't need some love, I don't know who does.

I am so grateful to the woman in line behind me and to all my friends who supported me this morning. I am in incredible awe of every single person who walked or ran to find a cure. I hope that I recognize every opportunity afforded to me to change someone else’s day for the better. I hope that in recognizing that opportunity I have the courage to follow through on the idea. I hope I have the guts to try.

I’m almost done with my mocha now, so I’m signin’ off. It tasted better than any coffee I’ve ever had, by the way. Before I go  finish my homework I want to ask you to try something. Tomorrow, (or the next day or the next day or the next) if you’re standing in line behind someone who looks a little tired, just remember, their coffee will taste so much better if it comes from someone who cares.

Irregular Sleep Patterns- Nothing a Shot of Bourbon Can't Fix

Lists. And things I've learned this year. Do with them what you will.
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Words of wisdom from Great Aunt June:

"A shot of bourbon."

"You gave me really good advice before I got married, Aunt June-"
"Don't get married?"

"We're family, if we thought the cake was bad we'd say 'this cake stinks!' It's perfect." 

"I was married to a man who in the end couldn't remember that he was wearing a hat, but we stayed married, and that's the way it should be."

Laugh together. Love forever.
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Places I have slept this year:

Kletz booth
Kletz floor
Floor of my dorm
Mini-futon in my dorm
Love seat in the basement of Phelps
Floor of the main theatre
Studio theatre
The Boat
3rd and 4th floors of the library
Booth in JP's
Table at LJ's
Floor of the admissions office (WINNER)
A pew in Dimnent
A desk in the back of Professor Everts classroom (only once, I swear)
On my friends shoulders and once on someone's lap.

Lend a shoulder, stay up late. Even if it means occasionally enabling irregular sleep schedules.
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Random stuff I've learned from experience and from some pretty amazing people:

Never leave a pumpkin sitting on your desk for more than two weeks.
Sometimes learning is more important than grades.
Spiders can lurk in the most unlikely places. i.e. fluorescent ceiling lights. When you find these spiders, scream your lungs out. It won't fix the problem, but it will make for a really good story later.
Let yourself cry, let yourself be angry, let yourself forgive. Let yourself realize that this process can take awhile. 
There's this short Asian man in boxers and an apron who makes the best doughnuts and conversation.
Eat your body weight in doughnuts with friends, even if it means gaining a couple of pounds. 
Go to the DeGraaf Nature Center and touch the wall of live bees. It won't explode, I promise.
Listen to that random tug that tells you to walk through Lubbers at midnight, you might get lucky and meet someone who knows more than you.
God exists. 

Be thankful. Say "I am thankful" out loud, even if right at that moment it doesn't feel like it. Especially if it doesn't feel like it.
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Onward and Upward.

The Structure of Creativity

Write the paper so that each sentence flows seamlessly with the next but is at once individually beautiful.

But.

Or.

Structure each paragraph with sound, specific arguments, all the time making sure that each sentence, comma and period follows the rules of the game.

Structure and art. Artistic structure? The structure of creativity.

What makes a paper, poem or paragraph “good”? Is it structure or is it beauty? Are the two mutually exclusive in a world where perfection and achievement are defined by a grade? We live in a world where a successful paper is defined by the number of words the paper holds and the number of pages on which it is written. What has become of the idea?

I have read papers that combine words and structure with apparent ease. These papers are gorgeous, their stories stretch across the page, dancing from main point to main point in graceful balletic fashion. I envy these papers, for they seem to have accomplished the impossible- they follow the rules.

MLA

APA

Page Number

Citations

Structure

Structure

STRUCTURE

Structure is necessary to life, right? It is. Without structure, the world would have exploded by now. I mean that life would cease to exist without some form of foundation or rule of law. Thomas Hobbes would agree that any society lacking in structure and stability will eventually crumble. Government and a system of justice are what keep any semblance of “civilized” society in place. We need structure.

But what of art?

What of our

Ridiculous

Obvious

Undeniable

Insatiable

Need to create?

How do we describe Picasso, Galileo, The Feminine Mystique, the kindergarten boy who deems it prudent to draw with the pink crayon and the girl who draws with the blue? How do we describe these men and women who have decided to cut through the middle instead of along the dotted line? I am afraid that we are falling into a rigid pattern, one that focuses so heavily on the old that it forgets to leave room for the new. It is of course possible to fall completely astray, to rely so greatly on rebellion that a sense of right and wrong is no longer apparent. Maybe we can find a medium;  a happy medium where our papers, poems and paragraphs are pleasing in all respects, pleasing to the eyes, ears, mind, heart and soul.

In the end this story is a battle of wills. It is a battle between the heart and the mind, the need to create and the necessity of structure. This story does not follow the rules. It jumps from one idea to the next, desperately grasping for a handhold. It presents a thought, though. It presents a worry. So even though this story does not cite or toe the line, isn’t it worth it?

Bring All of Your Troubles, Come Lay 'Em Down

In my mind, I am a dancer. I watch myself glide in graceful balletic fashion across a floor of varnished wood occupying an empty room. Mirrors line the walls. They reflect not only the movement of the dancer but the will of the journey. The meaning of the passage. Every movement is timed to the beat of the music. Soul train. Sometimes the music plays outwardly, moving in through my ears and claiming my imagination. Occasionally the music is silent, but that doesn't make it any less real.

I don't claim to be a connoisseur of dance. Quite the contrary, picking up a dance routine has never been one of my theatrical strong suits. I'm sure most of the directors I've worked with would be shocked to find that their rhythmically challenged performer draws on dance as a means of escape. But "bring all of your troubles, come lay 'em down," sings the band and, with the help of my imagination, my troubles fly with the movement; pushing, spinning, climbing into something beautiful.

There is something incredibly spiritual (and entirely scary) about giving away our troubles- allowing them to fly away to something that is much more equipped to handle such trials. Giving the frustrations, disappointments and confusion to someone who knows how to turn them into something beautiful. (That's a fragment, consider revising. Suck it, Word Processing).

Bring all your troubles, come lay 'em down. My troubles are heavy, Lord, they weigh upon me like a house, and I cannot shake them without You.