Christmas

What is Christmas about? If you'd asked me as a child, you'd have gotten a very mashed up response verging on the incoherent side. If I am being honest, it didn't mean much. It surprises me how little. Maybe I feel a pang of sorrow too.

Part of the void between feeling any meaning and the actual event is explained by my upbringing, I suppose. My confusion doesn't particularly lie in my home, but in church. I was taught, sometimes quite adamantly how Christmas did not have to do with Christ's birth. That lesson was in our dialogue around December and sometimes said from a pulpit or from behind a podium.

So Christians were teaching Christians about the invalid nature of the holiday. But other Christians were making a fuss. Pageants, lights, and songs. And a Catholic mass: censers, candles, choirs, Latin...what was that about? Sometimes church marquise would say "Jesus is the Reason for the Season." The rhyme made it seem valid, but I knew the truth. My church did none of those things. We might have poinsettias if there had been a December funeral that year. But there were no further adornments. We knew Jesus was born, and who He was, but it certainly didn't happen in December or on the 25th. We might sing a Christmas-y song or two, a sermon might incorporate a wrapped present if it were an object lesson, but not much more.
The pageants, the lights, the presents, the songs, were a part of my life, but divorced from the splendor of Christ. They were at school, or driving through a neighborhood, or watching It's a Wonderful Life.

As an adult I realized how strange that void was. It was three years ago. I had a boyfriend, and I was beginning to see the side of Christmas I never experienced. Anticipation of Christ's coming. It wasn't until I was on the phone with him during the break that I realized how little I thought of the season; it meant presents and trees and family togetherness. To him it was more: Advent, lit candles, reading from scripture each night with his parents.
It opened my world to that other side. Opened, but I didn't go inside.

I faked it. The closest I got to putting Christ in Christmas was reading The Gift of the Magi aloud to him. I recognized it as a glimpse at the gospel, of love, but not fully grown.

It wasn't till later, till last year, that it all started to make sense. Christ, Christmas, the coming, and my acceptance of it. The desire and need for a Savior, not just a 'Jewish' humanistic girl with a penchant for literature, but an as-is, thank you Jesus for your grace, Christian.
At long last Christmas has substance. Songs make sense. The desire to be at a Christmas eve service is true, not a facade. So the date is wrong, no matter, we have a reason to celebrate. I have a reason to sing.

phone calls

It has been my experience that any phone call that begins with the question: "why did you call me" inevitably goes poorly.
Likewise, phone calls that sum up with "was there something else you wanted to say" have achieved some new form of stand-offish-ness.
When both coincide, though, it must mean there is certainly something broken on the line.

Single Schnucks

There is this store in town called Schnucks that I frequent. It's a little more costly than Aldi and a little less than Whole Foods, and more than Target, so I go there occassionally.
Each Schnucks has it's own demographic that it "caters" to. I am most used to the Jewish Schnucks in Clayton, which has kosher foods. But more recently since moving into the city, I go to Scary Schnucks, which isn't really scary at all if it's light out. The way they cater to their clientele is to sell food past it's expiration date. Boo economic prejudice.
Today, I went to the middle of the road Single Schnucks, which got it's name by being so close to Washington University's campus. Now, it's not exactly true that you find a date by walking in, I never have, expecially since I have noticed the students are looking younger and younger. But today I fell in love.
I normally fall in love easily, an empathetic, sympathetic, heart warmed humanistic love of someone's turn of phrase or the way they wear a scarf. The mosaic of people in this world astound me.
But today in line, I was getting the fixings for Rotel dip because I don't want to eat another casserole in November, and yet I have 2 Thanksgiving dinners to down. And before me was a girl getting a ton of food, and behind me was some man-ish person, no big deal. But he had a basket, which is a good sign, and no list (written by a girl), which is better, and the first thing I always check is the left hand, and it was bare. Then it happened. My soda fell on the floor. I stared at it for a second longer than I needed to and he said "I'll look the other way and you can put it back." Ethically this is wrong, so I didn't, but it was exciting. He was a man with a dangerous side and most importantly, the talking barrier had been breached.
I told him to put his basket up on the roller thing, invited more than ordered, and then noticed the contents of his basket. 6-7 jars of spices, a pie plate, condensed milk other stuff. Obviously this guy is cooking something, so I asked if he had ever cooked before (um look at the spices, there was enough for a spice rack).

Him: Oh those are on sale, and I'm making pies this year.
Me: (thinking) Oh! Pies! I like that. He is also making eye contact. Brown chicken brown cow.
Me (aloud): What kinds?
Him: 2 pumpkin and one cherry
Me: (thinking) Gross
Him: I think pumpkin is gross...
Me: Because it is!
Him: Thank you. (eye contact)
Me: (thinking) Eek! No thank you love of my life. We're only in 3rd gear of banter, but you might be able to shift up to a snarky 4th. I possibly want to finish your sentences forever.
Him: but it's expected to have pumpkin.
Me: I guess so. (so conventional)

And the conversation waned as I paid and wished him luck and walked away. And even though I had gotten over the fact that he looked like a typical Aryan Nazi youth (parted blond hair does conjure the thought), I still thought he should at least facebook friend me.

Oh pie man who got away, look me in the eye and be sarcastic again, won't you?

some notes come back

There are some things from the past that are beautiful. And they were. But with time that beauty can break. And if you come across the remnant again the beauty and the memory of it's wholeness remains. It's so easy to see and yet jagged with flaws. And even if the parts are still there, it is never the same. Likely some pieces are missing and you are left with the beauty that was and the sharp edge that is now.

The World is Round

Sleeping to dream. Sometimes I sleep to dream since there seems to be no other way to lay aside inhibitions and truly understand what I am feeling. But in dreams my brain processes, cryptically but well, life.
Last night I had a painting dream. It seemed like a Renaissance scene, rich in color and activity. At the focal point were 3 women in wedding dresses sitting on thrones looking out over a room of other women. On the highest throne was seated my best friend from grade school. To the left was her baby who had just learned to roll over, and did so then grinned up at me. They both shared the same striking blue eyes. Then I looked up from the rug and rolling babe and saw a co-worker announcing how she could buy a house. She had bundled her full ride scholarship to the mortgage using a HIPPA form (not everything makes sense in dreams). So her house payments came directly out of her supplemented income. And she was pursuing her 3rd grad degree and said this discretely as she repositioned her pearls.
Why such a dream?
Minus the opulence, this is life. No one quite prepares you well for friendship. To be a true friend, you understand that you must be loyal. When things are hard and friends need support I know my role and am able to comfort, listen, distract, easily. What people don't tell you when you talk about having friends and investing in them is how to rejoice with them well. I guess it's assumed that that should be the easy part. Rejoicing when they get engaged. When they announce they are pregnant. When they buy a house.
It's easy to run to them in sincerety and hug them. And then jump litterally for joy. It's easy when you're in the air of the first jump. But then you land. And then comes the pang. Is it gravity? And you've landed in different places with the thought "I'm not you." But you're not done jumping because this is a big deal. One jump isn't enough. We're landing in different spots again and again out of rhythm.
Jealousy gets in the way? I hope I would not shy away from that word, jealously. But given the choice I wouldn't take their joy from them. But it's much easier to take joy when you share the new stage together when you jump in unison.

the keys are alright , or ... lost things

There is a fine line between being fine and only appearing so. It's difficult to distinguish from the outside and often from within. Even if you are analytical. Even if you are self-reflective. Even and especially if you are me.

For me, determining a state of okay-ness, relies on a finite number of soft signs. Obviously to wonder if there is mental clarity indicates that there is some, actually that there's a lot...but? But not so fast.

If I am distracted, since I am normally focused in a disorderly way, that is a sign. The extension of this sign is a key, or a set of them. "Do you know where your keys are?" This question could be synonymous with "are you alright?" Lately keys and their location seem to give the best insight to if I am or am not through and through functioning well emotionally, physically, etc. If say, I lock my keys in my car, it wasn't as simple as locking keys in a car. There was another reason. Not a blaming sort of reason, but a state of being reason with catalysts and multifactoral roots. I was too much in my mind and not enough in the world of objects.

If say 2 weeks ago when I again misplaced my keys for 20 minutes and searched for them in my car in the rain with a headlamp, wondering "how did I do this again?" Answer: You are clearly distracted. Distracted to the point of having the keys in my pocket the entire time. Distracted to the point of leaving the keys in my front door all night 5 days later. Distracted enough to not be thinking about tangibles about matter.

Where are my keys? Next to the door where they belong. In the ashtray that I use for keeping keys. Not in the door. Not in a pocket. Not in a trunk. Not in purse number 5. So I know yes, I am focused once again.

a doorbell rings

A doorbell ring should be a hopeful sound, and yet it often is not. At least not the unanticipated surprise doorbell that rings out early in the morning. Instead it is a cue: be steady, an unknown situation awaits.

Again the doorbell rang this morning. And again I felt the surge of "I wonder who?" and placed a name in the unspoken answer. A good name. A welcome name.
Again I was wrong. I should have been steady and steeled.

Why is it so difficult to do what is right when it is right, but only for yourself? Why is doing the right thing toward myself not enough?
Why should there be another extrinsic reason to buttress my resolve, be it for humanity, or another person, or nature? And why, when no is hard enough, does it often need to come when there are so few braces?

The doorbell rang. I scooped my purse, already had on my coat. I needed to be across town at LabCorp in 15 minutes. I opened the door looking down, expecting maybe a note or bag, or something. That happens frequently enough that I've trained my eyes downward first. But no.

"I brought you breakfast. Do you have a minute to talk?" I take the bag. Why did I take it?
"I uh... I was just headed out." This is true. I lock the door. It verifies my statement. I'm leaving.
"Just a minute. Won't you listen?" He sits.
You've got me, everyone deserves an audience, don't they? What level of unlove is there that I can't listen? Listening won't change my mind. We sit. I clamp all of me together. I am as small as possible. Literally. If I don't move maybe I'm invisible.
The rational and a plan tumbles out.
Why am I sitting here? Why am I listening? I don't want this. I can't listen to you and to me. They are dissonant.
I stand.
"I need to go." Blocked.
I get stepped in front of.
"I need to go." Move to the side.
"But you didn't hear everything." Stopped again.
"I need to go. I need to go pee in a cup." What?!? I never thought I'd say that aloud. If this was on t.v I'd laugh. I'm not laughing. I need to laugh.
"But wait."
That didn't work. Child-like logic never works.
"I'm not lying. I need to go." I start flapping my hands. What do I do with my hands? Flapping? I need to change directions, he's in my way.
"Wait. Please Andrea" I break away.
"Can I walk you to your car? I'm not done yet. You haven't heard it all. You aren't listening."
I am. I was. I shouldn't. Well, you're next to me walking, and I doubt you'll stop, so fine.
"Can I give you a hug?"
"No. No. I have to go." Don't touch me.

I was fasting so, no food or coffee was in me. I was sad, so tears were already close by. I am alone, so there were no distractions or supports at hand. I had an appointment, but that didn't stop me listening and being late.

A lot of listening. A lot of trembling. A lot of trying to leave and being cut off. A lot of steps to my car. A lot of no from a hollow voice.
But not a lot of strength.

fearfully and wonderfully

My mom told me once, and I didn't like it, that what you are made to do, you just do. You don't think about it, it comes out of you and can't be stopped. Now I do take issue with the last bit, that it can't be stopped. Just about anything can be lost, forgotten, or suppressed. That wasn't a very illuminating bit of advice when I came again to her asking what I should do in life. Read: job. Should I become a journalist? No matter that I hadn't written a thing. No matter that I didn't daily sit down and journal. I guess I believed in the think method*, only applying it to words, not to music.

You can't stop what you're made to do... The complicating factor here was, I was seeking a way to make money and this wisdom didn't directly translate to a pay check. Not that I was looking for much money, necessarily, but I wanted a path.
Since you can't help but ________ you should pursue _________ in school and do ______with it. A life-sized MadLib game. (As a side note, I never learned grammar till college, so MadLibs have never been fun. I didn't know what a preposition was. Isn't that strange for an English major to not know till Junior year what a preposition is?)

So I ended college. Didn't know what to do. Liked to read. Cannot edit to save my life. My options seemed limited. But I got into grad school, did well, and then got a job. And it's here that things got broken.

It's here I learned some of what I was made to do and it was suppressed. I am a writer of sorts. I wrote letters growing up, and collected daily doings writing them to my cousins. And it was fun and funny. How can someone go to the grocery store and not be on an adventure?

So, I started a blog. Had one really before going to Nebraska, but continued it.
Until it was found out by someone at school. And I was told to take it down. And apologize for my words. Words that were gracious and true and not poorly reflecting anything except maybe my vocabulary. I cannot understand still what happened to me in those 9 months. But all of the "you do what you are" shrank away. The more I was the more I was ostracized.

I stopped writing. I stopped laughing. I stopped talking. I stopped eating. I could not do the right thing without criticism and I was a shell inside and a blank screen to reflect incorrect images onto. It's strange what you believe when you are told who you are for long enough when you are alone.
Lazy. Inept. Hurtful. Stupid.
You'd believe it. Don't tell me you wouldn't.

It's taken years to undo. No, not undo. Label. Untangle. And like a chain, it's crimped in a way that won't hang the same again. It is so easy to relearn those lies, to get retangled to only see the snags. God sheltered me in those times. In such small ways. I was empty but was protected.

I am what I do. And since I stopped doing absolutely everything that was not necessary for waking hours: feed, bathe, exercise,laundry, sleep, what I do now has been basic.

It's similar I guess to the sensation of a phantom limb. I haven't had a phantom limb, but I have slept on my arm and had it go so numb I was surprised it ever had feeling again.

Now, nearly 5 years later, I am becoming aware of who I was. Feeling a tug, or a pressure, an itch or a tingle.

Start to write.
Start to read.
Start to be.
Laugh.
Talk.
Test the waters.
You are safe.

*The Music Man, watch it

Fight or Flight

Fight or flight. Cleverly similar words with such appropriately different meanings. I believe everyone experiences the fight of flight response to situations all of the time. But I don't hear much about the after effects of this adrenal response or specifically about the mental reaction that must follow. To me it doesn't seem like a simple chemical reaction at all, nor do most of my fight of flight occurrences happen in the wild when bodily harm is truly on the line. Rather, it is as simple or complex as a social interaction or inaction

Lately, I've been put in or happened upon quite a few situations where I did not know how to respond. There seems to be a gulf between my first response in how I want to react (run, be silent, have harsh words) and what I do, which tends to be polite or understanding and is certainly not indicative of the thoughts within. When what I want to do, to avoid being hurtful, is run or hide, or both.

Of course I haven't hid. I shouldn't say of course, because I have spent many minutes escaping into bathroom stalls in my adulthood just to get away. It's why my first book, if I were ever to write one, would be titled: Hiding in Bathrooms. (It's always good to have a title on hand in case a book presents itself.) But I've stopped hiding, I suppose since I have hid I never developed the, how to stay put response well.

I grew up criticizing those girls who in a moment of stress or make-believe drama would circle up her posse and go gossip in a corner about whatever it was. Someone wearing the same shirt or some verbal exchange and its meaning. I never understood this need exactly nor approved since it seemed to create more havoc than good.
But I am gaining understanding and have the urge now.

When I am in one of these social, I need to get away moments, I long for someone else far enough removed, but intuitive and close enough to me to see and understand what is unfolding. The proximics, the syntax, the tone, the vocabulary, the non-verbals. How the surface is not all of the story and that I need a swift exit. I need to go and talk of "shoes and ships and sailing wax" to laugh, because laughter will shed light return it to where it needs to be.

All of those cards seemed to be in place today. I was with my faithful, observant, and best friend of a brother at church. And yet when I needed to cut out due to an uncomfortable situation, we didn't. I got the opportunity to be an adult but not run, but desired to not linger. Instead, we were 30 minutes later, still socializing, him in some unknown location, and not answering his phone. And certainly not taking hints even when I asked directly for us to please leave. But by the time we did it seemed too late. My thoughts and feelings were strewn about in such a way that I couldn't catch them, fold them up nicely, or put them back away.

And once removed, once the need to fight or flee is gone, what then? The trigger is gone, but the feelings aren't. Where do they go? They don't have receptors like adrenaline and get absorbed back into the body or mind. Where should they go?

Do something each day that scares you, Lent 2011

It is my understanding that during Lent a person is to give up something reminding them of their devotion to God. Last year, I attempted to give up soda. I only ended up cutting back, but still the exercise was somewhat fruitful.

This year, a week into the Lent season, I'd like to observe it in a different way.
I am taking creative license, and believe I can since I am protestant and the entire Lent idea is still quite foreign.

This year, I would like to challenge my sense of comfort. Comfort comes in all shapes and sizes. It can be coffee, curling up with my security blanket (true), staying silent. So recognizing that comfort is comforting and therefore often easier and pleasanter, I will try to activily do something that scares me daily.
I'm not talking sky diving scare or hitch hike with a stranger scare (since I have already done that). But make a conscious decision to challenge my comforts each day be it something that will be fun and I simply don't want to put myself out there or something that won't be enjoyable in the least.
I will try to update the list daily so as to be conscious of what I'm about and that it will hopefully make me grateful to have comforts but more grateful that I have a Comforter, Author, and Protector.

I am starting now, but can remember things I have done in the last week that were challenging to do.



March 15: Participate in focus group. Mend a relationship. Take a spinning class.
March 14: Ask for help at help desk in airport.
March 13: Eat things I can't pronounce at an Asian Market.
March 12: Fly to New England area. See a friend. Explore new things.
March 11: Write performance eval. Use strong "I statements" and explain my strengths.
March 10: Directly ask boss about my job next year and my position.
Ash Wednesday: state an idea in department meeting and defend its relevancy.

south of towers and east of kings

Home. After the last post of looking for a new living situation one appeared.
And so now I am in a new apartment, with new furniture, and new roommates, and a new part of the city. It is a good fit. Much like Dundee in Omaha: close enough to busy streets to hear them buzz and people laugh but removed enough to feel tucked in.
During the looking process I realized looking for a home is much like looking for a friend. A good friend. And I entered each space asking: can I laugh here? can I rest here? can I cry here? Much the same with finding the people who matter, the people you invest in and feel safe with. Not that other people don't matter. Certainly there is a significance to each person, but there is resonance with some that just doesn't exist in others. Tangent.
My home has had its inaugural moments after the boxes were in place and the bed was sheeted. First breakfast and coffee. First stubbed toe. First load of laundry. First walk around the block. First run around the park. First cooking attempt. First cry. First time remembering address. First bill finding me. First neighbor encounter.
And finally after a month of consistently sleeping (lightly sensing a geographic change in head position, facing east no longer south) in the same new spot, it feels like home. It took tramping around the blocks a few times. Finding the grocery store, the nearest Walgreens, the Wendy's. Staying put one Saturday. Falling to sleep to distant music from a bar and waking to the birds. Seeing the same faces at the library and the post office.
Yes. Home is where you live.

red flags include home envy

I don't think of myself as an envious person. I don't think I covet other people's things. Thoughts like I want your _____ (husband, baby, car, sweater set, or salad spinner) don't pop into my head. There are a few instances where I might covet, but this is typically in a restaurant while I am walking by plates of food, and the thought, "I want that" is not really harmful because I fully realize I can have it. And I typically do.
But today I have discovered another instance. Housing. As soon as I located a great neighborhood I started looking beyond my means. Here's the one bedroom studio in my range, oh but look at that old brick bungalow with the glass doorknobs. Or even when trying to stay on task, with the craigslist items do I stray and call the unknown leaser hoping for a surprise. This is just how Anne Shirley in Anne of the Island found her dream living situation. But I am not Anne, there have been no fortuitous surprises, the surprise is that mostly apartments are not priced for me, but rather for someone needing a 3 bedroom home with hardwood floors, granite counter tops, stainless steel appliances, and a central vac.
David Sedaris wrote something about home envy and Ann Frank's house. "[O]pen the curtains and the first words that come to mind are not "I still believe all people are really good at heart" but "who do I have to knock off in order to get this apartment?" I'm not quite there, but I did feel pangs of why isn't my budget bigger?

Also, while being confronted and grappling with my envious side, I am gathering a list of red flags while hunting that mean: don't do it.
These include:
Seeing water damage in the bedroom and being told that will be cleaned up soon. When the reason for looking for a new situation is...water damage.

Calling a landlord at 10:45 am and hearing
Him: (GROOOOAN) Hello?
Me: Hello, I am standing outside of your rental and I was wondering how many bedrooms it had and the price?
Him: Ummmm Can you call me back after one? uhhhhhh
Me: Oh. Um. I guess so.

An owner returns your call with information, and then the conversation stalls.
Me: I would like to set up a time to look at the apartment. Are you available tomorrow?
Her: I am, but it would have to be after 10am, I'm retired and I live in the building, so I take awhile to get up.
Me: Would 10:30 be far enough after 10am for you?
Her: How about you call me tomorrow and we can set up a time.
Me: Oh....okay.

After being asked about safety in the neighborhood, it took a informative turn.
Well, I think it's pretty safe. Most of the crime is just with the cars on the street. Smash and grabs. Especially Chrysler. Apparently they are easy to break into. It's there turn now. A while back it was GM's turn, and Fords, and now Chrysler. But as far as crimes against individuals....About 70% of the tenants are women and we haven't had any personal attacks. Assailants following them or being inside the apartments. Of course there is probably some domestic abuse going on, but that would be under the radar and I don't know about those. It must happen though. It is everywhere.

But all these make it necessary for a day 3 tomorrow.

newsies tip

New York Times magazine writers:
When writing, keep references more relevant. On more than one occasion you have referenced Peyton Place. I didn't understand the allusion and therefore the point was lost. Now I know it was a TV show that aired in the 60s, because I first asked my parents (who either scoffed at my ignorance or balked at my youth)and then looked it up myself.
Since Nick at Night show sitcoms from the 90s, I suggest keeping things from this decade to present as references to help promote a generation of new dedicated readers.
Since Peyton Place seems to have been an apartment complex where many people lived and shared secrets, more modern day allusions could be: Jersey Shore, Gossip Girl, The Hills, Keeping up with the Kardashians, and even Hannah Montana.
Not that readers should know what your talking about if you cite these shows, but they will.

turn of the odometer

I
I am not a car person. I frequently confuse makes and models of cars. I understand nothing of engines. I can drive a stick shift. Also on occasion, when no one is there to see, I can parallel park. And so I would consider my ignorance about cars unacceptable.
Typically, when I was in college and grad school, I would find multiple summer jobs. The criterion for said job was simple: something that was of interest to me and that it wasn't Taco Bell (because I wanted to continue eating there).
So for one summer I applied at Valvoline Instant Oil Change. I thought I would be hired, learn about cars, be able to change my own oil, save money on oil changes in the future, and live a rich and full life as a girl with a grease monkey past. They never called. I might have applied more than once but I don't remember if I did.
All that to say, when I go to get my oil changed, I take notice.

II
This week I went to my Lube place. Rodney is still there, but he didn't help me this time. It was Paul. I've never met Paul before. And my new car hasn't been there, so we exchanged introductions: me with Paul, Paul with my car, my car with Jiffy Lube, etc.
And very quickly Paul asked what sort of oil I wanted, wanted some particulars on the car engine(which I did not know), and then read off my oil choices.
I was looking at him and the screen not knowing where to look. I like to look at people when they speak to me, but he was avoiding my eyes, so I turned to the screen.
Then Paul inverted the numbers he was reading to me. Switched the second and the first and got the third correct. Then he corrected himself. He seemed a little flustered.

So I said, "Oh I do that too. A lot." It was true. I don't just say things like that.

He labeled himself as severely dyslexic at this point. I took it as fact, though oddly placed in the conversation. I okayed the new oil, told Paul where I was headed, and went back outside to read on the sidewalk.

I waited awhile. My car was done quickly enough and driven out of the building, but neither Rodney or Paul was in a position to check me out. I stood reading at the counter to remind them I was still there. In the course of paying Paul started talking again. This time about a screw in the bottom of one of the waiting room chairs.

"I'm dyslexic and OCD" he said, "run your card through the machine when the screen goes blue." Here was a new fact put forward and not asking for comment.

"Oh." I said.

"Yeah. That screw is driving me crazy. It gets caught on the mop each night. And I have to mop every night. I have to have everything clean. Here and at home."

He then asked Rodney to take out the screw because it was bothering him.

"Well, it's sticking out because there is a missing pad there," I said.
Because it was missing. It was the only chair missing a part. Paul told me it had arrived missing the piece, and still was missing the piece, so he asked Rodney get a screw driver to fix it. And by fix it, he meant take said screw out and call it fixed. He continued to talk about the screw and the orderliness he needed to keep as he had me sign the bill.

III
Far be it from me to say the screw didn't bother Paul. Nor would I say he doesn't have OCD tendencies or have dyslexia. As he stated, he had both.

But really?

The chairs at Jiffy Lube have been there for about a year, if not longer. I know because I noticed how cushy and pleathery they were on my first visit. It was warm and the backs of my legs had gotten stuck to them. And from what I understand of OCD and it's many expressions, being bothered by a screw day after day as it catches on a mop (as I'm sure it did) doesn't fall into that category. To quote Dan J. Stein, OCD is "characterized by intrusive thoughts or images (obsessions) which increase anxiety and by repetitive or ritualistic actions (compulsions) which decrease anxiety." (The Lancet volume 360 Aug. 2002, Seminar). Paul probably would have removed the screw promptly had he had OCD. I would think he'd have done it himself to ease the anxiety.

I looked up a full description after coming home because it made me wonder about our (Paul's, my, mankind's) tendency to label ourselves with maladies and syndromes. How we bill ourselves and make ourselves known to others.

Certainly over-medication is occurring today. But also we as a people are becoming more medically savvy and, I am beginning to believe, we are over-labeling ourselves and others in medical terms.

Can't finish a thought? Flippantly explain that you have ADD. Feel compelled to do things? Obviously it's OCD.

How often do I write off a behavior using a medical term, when I am under qualified and uninformed? And how does that shape my thoughts and actions? Is it a cop-out, blaming nature and not owning responsibility for my actions and tendencies, when that could just be what it is, and not a disordered thought process.

OCD, ADD, PDD. These are not passive things. They can be crippling. And I'm certainly not calling out Paul on this issue after I rack up another 3,000 miles. But he brought it to mind. Like the protruding screw that bothered him, his matter-of-fact labels for himself, stuck out, drew my attention, and kept it.

now, we see but a blurred image in a mirror

There is a certain peace that comes from being still. Not physically still necessarily, that is hard on the tale-bone and normally ends in a nap, but mental stillness.

It took awhile to discover my quiet thoughts were missing and had been slowly replaced with desires to be out, see things worthy of telling others about, sharing surface level knowledge of many individuals without investing time in truly sustainable relationships.

As Travis says in "Sing" I was "going to hurry."

This is more of a deep seated contentment issue, the ability to have stillness of heart. The ability to dwell on what IS instead of what is NOT. To claim and label things as good because that is absolutely what they are.

Certainly there are many different factors to my hurry. But I find myself more susceptible to an accelerated pace when I set up a standard as attainable when in fact it is not. When I let the speed of technology dictate the pace and believe I can keep up.

I was not made for newsfeed speed, or twitter, or texts, or really for a cell phone. Nor was I built with a mindset to seamlessly, healthily incorporate these changes into my thoughts, into my day. Integrating them is a struggle.

On my computer the best parts of acquaintances lives are before my eyes. Parties, courtships, marriages, babies. All instantaneous. Separated from the process that led to these events they spill from my computer screen to my eyes. These events are Athena-like springing fully formed, picture perfect and creating a direct comparison of what is happening on my side of the screen: laundry, dishes, lesson plans, a bowl of cereal, a neglected book.

Being at my core competitive, I then raise a higher standard for myself. There are no action steps. There is no process. It should (whatever that goal is) be attained. Now. I saw so-and-so do it 30 seconds ago on my computer, so I can too. I must.

It leads to intrinsic pressure. The false belief that desires can be fulfilled instantaneously. This is in no way peaceful.

Space. Time. Process. I had lost sight of their value and my need for them.
To build these back in I need to take longer. Cook from scratch. Look up a word in a dictionary. Walk to a destination. Hand-write a note. Hold onto a thought, forget it, and remember it later. And these tiny changes might end up teaching me greater things. How to be patient with my mind. How to savor a book. How to enjoy a breeze. How to reflect on a day and retell a dream.

mollusk

I've been thinking about pearls lately. Timely since it's the birthstone of June. It's not a gemstone at all, but I prefer it to a kidney or gallstone...
It's curious to me that mollusks are able to make pearls. A functional way to take care of discomfort, covering the irritant again and again until it is smooth. A marriage of functionality and beauty.
All I seem to make in response to discomfort are callouses, both physical and emotional. Scuffs against my feet; wrenching of a heart. Sure adversity should produce wisdom and perspective later, but do I culture a pearl? Would an oyster be able (if it were a more complex organism) be able to articulate the level of strife it took to produce such a symmetrical iridescent thing? Is the process too far removed from my trivialities to compare? Do I stop the process short?
The image of the pearl is used a few times in the New Testament: the pearl of great price (Matt 13:45)and casting your pearls before swine (Matt 7:6) come to mind. They always are prized, sought after, and protected. My callouses I try to slough, soften, or moisturize, not cherish, not culture, not promote. Do I prevent a pearl being produced, or does the natural metaphor not transcend species?
More questions than substance at present...

a dove

The vision of a bird- heart has recently crystallized in my mind this past week. A vision of the heart being a dove, specifically, the dove sent out of Noah's ark (Genesis 8:6). I'm not sure what became of the raven who was sent out previous to the dove, but that might be more tangential and complicate making any metaphorical conclusions. True to the story the bird was sent several times. Once returning right away, not finding a resting place, then a second bearing evidence of the journey, and then the third, never returning. It found it's resting place. The place that felt right.
I had always thought of a bird symbolizing "flighty" behavior. Certainly not a symbol of steady and systematic search for what would be right. But now, seeing it as a series of heart felt searches or journeys, it has become my explanation to myself about myself. Finding a resting place, it is an accurate portrayal of how I have thought the heart seeks out a home. When the place was found, it stays. Not longing for before.

mind the gap

Today marks my third MRI. To those who have not been inside an MRI be glad. It by no means is horrible. But the posturing is not those of comfort.

Having your feet velcroed together and other parts sometimes attached to this plank is strange. Then you're issued into a coffin-like tube after having your ears covered with headphones. The technician asks if there is a radio station you'd like to listen to, and even if you don't want one, they encourage it.

Essentially all of your senses are cued up and simultaneously masked: sight,there is a plastic dome around you brushing your arms and three inches from your nose; hearing, the radio songs attempt to drown out the beeps and zaps that are some sort of energy trained at you to form images; touch, nothing can keep you from noticing when the body vibrating ka-chunking begins and last 30 minutes or so.

And though all of that seems less than wonderful, the most oppressive thing in my experience is looking around the waiting room. Here are sick people. Here are people who are hurt. Here are people seeking answers.
It's awkward in the waiting room. I don't know where to look because I've automatically started an me/them perspective of the whole thing. I'm there, so I am one of them, but I've been able to categorize myself differently.

The first waiting room was awkward. But like Dante's inferno there are levels that get progressively worse.

After being divested of your clothes and phones, and money, and anything made of metal you dawn a sheet and get to sit in the second waiting room.
Now, I feel this was an unhelpful set up, but the secondary waiting room had 1 magazine 3 half-smocked women and a fully dressed husband waiting for his wife to get done.

It was like an Arthur Miller play. The proximity, lack of diversion, and finally the husband (fully clothed, male, and not abiding the social rules of the situation)tipped the balance and we started talking. I shouldn't say we; I didn't talk. I listened, stared longingly at a ripped up Vogue magazine which was out of reach, clutched my sheet closed, and almost left.

Because here was confirmation of mortality and hurt. The common denominator was pain. And here I am dealing with pain. But not pancreatic cancer. And not crumbling bones. And not colon cancer. And not Alzheimer's.

So really the tube was a welcome escape because it put a space between me and them.

just a little off of the conversation

Why is it that if someone is cutting your hair you feel required to talk to them? Or they feel they need to talk to you. Is it the proximity?
Perhaps I'm overly taciturn when it comes to this, but I don't particularly want to talk about my life in detail when someone is washing, drying, twirling, cutting, spraying, or curling my hair. To me the two activities are highly unrelated and often forced.
One way to mitigate the awkward conversations is to pick a transient place: a salon in a mall, barber college, or a beauty supply store, which is what I typically do. But as I sat in Beauty Brands today, as quiet as I liked, I wondered if really what I should be doing is declaring a salon mine and developing a relationship with a stylist.
Not just a "so how are the kids" rapport. The kind of relationship where you talk so much you disregard that your hair has looked "okay" or even close to bad for years. The sort of regard you have for them causes you to not only pay for a mediocre look but tip for it as well. And you walk around like that until the next time. Or you get a trim somewhere else and feel it is an infidelity.
I'm still undecided.

yes sir, 3 bags full

Question:
Can you hand wash a wool sweater?

Answer:
Yes. But not if you intend it to fit you afterward.