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25Nov

Yelrple

I’m often convinced that I am simply a giant tangle of neuroses that occasionally manages to make sense in a confusing, modern-art way. I mean, some days my mismatched tendencies work together to create a good conversation or a delicious meal or a general sense of well-being or maybe a really ingenious new expletive. Some days, I start to think I might be cut out for life as a human after all. Some days, yellow and purple really do go together. Alas, today was not one of those days.

My brain woke up especially snarled, and despite magical music* and the sexy gleam of my new computer**, I couldn’t seem to fashion the day into anything but a mess. It probably (definitely) didn’t help that a slightly feverish 2-year-old clung to me for several hours sobbing “I SAD!” But still, there was naptime — the catnip of harried mothers — and rather than roll around in my freedom outputting creativity and/or snuffling deliriously, I… uh, sat. I poked a little bit at the snarl in my head which only made it worse. I thought all sorts of greenish-gray thoughts about the nature of my brain, its unwillingness to cooperate, and the black hole of nothingness which was to be my future. I had caffeine. It didn’t help.

I’m gathering that there’s nothing to be done with a clashing muddle of neuroses other than to stop looking at it,**** so I’m hereby turning my attention to lovelier things.

Like magical music and sexy new computers,
and a barrage of snotty, slightly-feverish kisses at bedtime,
and colorwonderful paintings ready to be hung,
and glitter-plum nail polish,
and Pocket Coffee,
and the promise of naptime again tomorrow,
and a hopeful future despite the frequent mess of me.*****


* $5 Mp3 album sale at Amazon this week, if anyone’s interested!
** Which was proudly paid for with my ESL earnings!***
*** Okay, so my earnings only covered half of it, but I desperately needed a new computer, the store was having a fantastic sale, and I’m sure my husband will give me a good interest rate, right? Oh, it thrills my soul to have a working laptop again, and the 8+ hour battery charge turns my heart into fluttery Jell-O.
**** Of course I couldn’t figure this out until a quarter ’til 11 at night.
***** And footnotes, which are just plain fun.

18Nov

Cherry Tree Creed

I’ve hinted on here before about my rather extreme religious upbringing, but I’m hesitant to say much more about it. One part of me goes a little giddy at Anne Lamott’s quote, “If my family didn’t want me to write about them, they should’ve behaved better.” Yes, yes, yes! I cheer, until it comes to actually putting the ragged parts of my story into words and I inevitably whisper No. I can’t tell whom exactly my people-pleasing brain is trying to protect, but it balks when my honesty tries to reach back more than a decade. Some details are too ugly for the light of day.

Nevertheless, the way I was raised is relevant to who I am today. Painfully relevant. After all, the frequent religious apologetics classes and brainwashing camps were my introduction to doubting God’s existence. The behavior I saw in the churches and cults our family was involved with taught me about the tight-lipped smiling delusion so many people define as Christianity.  The forced hours of Old Testament reading every week took me beyond disbelief in God into the dark territory of hatred. You get the idea, at least in part.

I  spent most of my life under such a heavy religious terror that my sense of logic had to be locked up along with my emotions and honesty. The most redeeming thing that could have happened was when I gave up caring and let my doubts and anger tumble out of hiding. Depression helped, oddly enough. I already felt so low that keeping up my pretense of believing God no longer mattered. Deal with it, I told him. I may have tried punching him a time or two as well.

I see now that it had to be completely destroyed, that old belief system with its blackened stone walls and bloody gouge marks.  I had to lose enough hope to operate the wrecking ball myself. And slowly—slowly enough to be revolutionary in the we-could-die-and-face-judgment-any-minute mindset I had been taught—a new belief system is being reconstructed in my heart. It has floor-to-ceiling windows and an indoor cherry tree, and I suspect it will be some kind of spa once it is finished. There are no longer any shadowy nooks for shame, eternal damnation, party politics, or generational curses to hang out in.

A friend lent me The Shack to read a couple of months ago (the amount of time I’ve spent “forgetting” to return it makes me think I should probably just buy my own copy already). Reading it felt very much like having my rib cage pried open and all of my struggles with God exposed to the operating room lights… and then gently re-formed into such an expansive hope that my body has trouble accommodating it. Between the fresh perspective offered in that book (I can’t tell you how much I love that God reveals herself as an African-American woman) and the radical kindness of Jesus’s words, many of my questions are finally finding their perfect fit in answers — ones that don’t traumatize me or require me to suspend logic or darken my soul atmosphere. I don’t have everything figured out yet—for instance, I’m still searching for an explanation for the contradictory, violent God depicted in the Old Testament—but I am so relieved to finally have a creed that lets my heart breathe deep:

(I refer to God with female pronouns because in that way I  can comprehend her differentness from the patriarchal judge of my childhood.)

I believe that:

The Bible…
is a picture of who God is and what a relationship with her is like,
not a comprehensive encyclopedia for all the facets of existence,
and not a textbook,
and not a list of rules
(as if we could follow the rules anyway).

Free will…
means God values humans enough to give us the freedom of choice
and limits herself by not overriding those choices,
even the bad ones
(which hurt her too),
but always providing opportunities even through the bad choices
for us to clearly see her love.

God…
does not instigate tragedy, only works through and beyond it
as the life-force of the universe,
the energy, the concept of light, the goodness,
merciful enough to do away with justice
because she is love
(and not gender specific ☺).

Jesus…
is God in human form,
not a human with divine superpowers but human-human,
with emotions and needs and frustrations,
whose life flowed from his relationship with God
(who neither orchestrated his death nor abandoned him,
only worked incredible good through it).

The Holy Spirit…
is their divine presence—undiluted love—
landscaping the beautiful mess of our hearts,
the piercing loveliness we feel during a certain song
or a beautiful day or moments of profound peace,
always here and never finished.

Prayer…
is simply the ongoing dialogue
as the four of us live together,
acknowledging that the unseen is real
and that relationship is all that truly matters,
and that God cares…
which could probably be called faith.

Life on earth…
is a process that won’t culminate until all is made new,
blessedly temporary
(which I know when I agonize over the too-few hours each day),
but  a good time for the element of choice to get worked out—
a messy and necessary step for a God who respects us
and who continues to participate in our stories
outside the bounds of time and breath.

Then heaven…
will be all this as it was meant to be
without the violation of a single free will,
every heart finally connected to God’s,
finally capable of channeling her extravagant love
and enjoying complete creativity and fulfillment along with her,
seeing the beautiful face of our planet unscarred—
life on earth, redeemed.

And I…
am not a convert or a heretic
or a warrior or a one-size-fits-all
or a guest of honor on the doorman’s list
or a project to be finished
but one member of a completely unique relationship with the Divine
who values me enough not to impose rules or limitations
and promises  a never-ending process
toward fullest life,
beautiful change accomplished hand-in-hand,
and a love I am just beginning to absorb.

17Nov

The Pursuit of Cobwebs

Last Friday, I scheduled my day to the minute in a desperate attempt to manage the ever-growing piles of more on my task list. I got the laundry sorted and washed and hung and folded—75 minutes total. I unpacked the suitcases from a week of overnight trips—35 minutes. I schlepped armloads of misplaced toys to the girls’ room, picture books back on shelves, plastic pineapples back in the pink bin—20 minutes. I cooked lunch—20. I washed the windows—30. I prepared side dishes for the next day’s Thanksgiving bash—90. I replied to an important e-mail—25. I transcribed piano chords in preparation for Sunday’s stage fright—50. I cleaned the kitchen, twice—25 and 15. I took care of the girls as practically as possible since every moment counted, and I kept my hands occupied with busy work during my hour of “down time” with Dan. I did not enjoy a single damn minute of that day. (I’m sure my family didn’t either.)

The weekend was too busy for me to process more than the immediate needs of each moment, but this Monday has been an empty four-lane highway on which I find myself… lost. No idea how to enjoy myself now that I have a little leeway. It feels like I have an eating disorder when it comes to time management… starving myself for relaxation and then binging on it, restlessly, resenting myself equally both ways. Of one thing I am sure: This is no way to live.

Not being able to marinate in my daughters’ scrumptious smallness because the house is cluttered? Not venturing more than a longing glance into the glorious, leafy backyard because my inbox needs taming? Denying myself the satisfaction of sitting down to write until my fingers feel like foreign languages because guests are slotted into our weekly calendar? Obeying the whims of the mundane and losing sight of beauty, of fun? No, no, no, this is no way to live.

And yet… I have no protocol in place for reigning in a full schedule. After all, like I frequently grumble to my husband on gorgeous Saturday mornings, someone has to do the dishes. Now that our lives have taken a turn for the normal—stuff to do, places to go, people to see—my inner perfectionist is stretched just as thin as my inner hermit. I can’t manage it all, and I suck at the pursuit of happiness; my priorities always seem to end up in favor of the tasks I enjoy the least. (Why does this happen, I ask?) It seems responsible, I guess, to dust cobwebs from dark corners when I really want to be painting with the girls.

But continual productive grumpiness is availing me nothing, and really… Responsibility is simply no way to live.

6Nov

Tomato Tomahto

One needs quality time to feel loved;
the other needs snuggles and kisses times a gajillion.

One gobbles up the green and leafy;
the other is part T-rex.

One shrinks back shyly when company stops by;
the other races to give out hugs.

One is potty trained;
the other is… not.

One plays happily by herself for hours;
the other needs social interaction like air.

One knows what she likes and sticks with it;
the other likes to try what’s new.

One has a tan all summer long;
the other blushes under SPF 750.

One prefers the color pink;
the other prefers orange and lellow and green and lurple and red and blue… and pink.

One wants to know the hows and whys;
the other wants to make everyone laugh.

One has inherited my bookworm tendencies;
the other shares my chapstick habit.

One is a sweet-hearted, bright-eyed, laughing, singing, twirling, glittering fairy princess at heart;
the other is too.

4Nov

NaI’llHaveToCheckTheCalendarMo

My autumn fantasies have never strayed far from the pencil aisle. As soon as I knew how to put graphite and imagination together, I was writing books… even if they were only a frothy whip of princess lore and Southern Baptist morals (“Thou shalt not smoke”) scribbled on handfuls of printer paper. At the start of each semester throughout high school and college, I read syllabi like campaign promises. (A portfolio of deadline-inspired masterpieces by spring! New skills learned! World peace!) Since graduating, I’ve consistently imagined fall mornings spent at my desk with orange leaves filtering sunlight onto the pages of my half-written memoir.

And now, another November is here—NaBloNoPoWriWhateverMo—and it feels like every other linguistically-gifted person on the planet is publishing daily blog entries and composing chapbooks and penning novels. After getting home at 10:30 last night from piano practice, I washed the days’ worth of dishes and pictured entire chains of American coffee shops swirling with warm cinnamon and the happy clacking of laptop keys. The thought landed in my sternum like a well-aimed punch.

I want to be there too, at the little table in the corner with headphones of my own artsy music drowning out the artsy music on the stereo, a tall gingerbread mocha within reach, my muse at the next table leaning over to whisper brilliant sentences every time I get stuck. I would even be delighted with a few uninterrupted hours each day at my own desk, inspiration venturing out of its hole to see what all the quiet’s about. I cannot quell this longing to write—maybe not for a living, but for a life, yes. However, this autumn seems to have conspired with its last five predecessors to keep me away from blank pages and novelty espresso beverages, and I’m questioning once again if “author” will ever come after my name. The [grossly pessimistic] idea that this dream may never have a fighting chance is a pillow of porcupine quills when I lay down at night.

The glitch in all my moping is this: I’ve been too busy to write because I’m actually starting to have some semblance of a life. A checking the calendar, leaving the house, having actual social interactions kind of life that takes an embarrassing amount out of me by the end of the day. I am forever making mistakes in Italian and having to talk myself off mental ledges mid-sentence (my inner perfectionist can be pretty dramatic), and it takes real effort to stop comparing my clothes and figure to those of my supermodel friends. Plus, simply being around people zaps my energy rather than recharging it. I’ve been ready for bed at 9:30 for weeks now. See? Embarrassing.

 

But as embarrassing and challenging and draining as this Having A Life is, it feels good. Or if not good, exactly, then a step in goodness’s direction… a few more inches up the muddy, rewarding path to relationships. So this won’t be the November I write my Great American Novel, but I am stocking up on real-life inspiration for future stories. And while my pillow may be lined with porcupine quills, I’ve been sleeping beautifully.


Why yes, I did begin every sentence of that last paragraph with a conjunction. Watch free will triumph over the English degree!

27Oct

Superlatives

Busy:
Not losing my mind in the sadistic onslaught of toddler teething.

Likewise busy:
Not losing my mind in the time-sucking vortex of potty training (the messy stage, oy).

Busier:
Hand-sewing floofy princess skirts from yards of pink tulle because 1) in no universe will I pay €80 for a pre-made costume, 2) we don’t have a sewing machine, and 3) two certain princesses deserve to look every bit as floofy and pink as cotton candy come Halloween.

Busiest:
Mastering 672 songs this week so I can fill in as church pianist next Sunday. (Hint: It’s not possible. Do you think the congregation will very much mind me throwing up between chord changes?)

~~~

Angry:
About someone else’s poor financial choices resulting in a month-late paycheck for us.

Angrier:
Toward the parents standing calmly in the center of the playground, smoking cigarettes and watching their children kick mine.

Angriest:
At the relative who posted a gloating Twitter update while driving through an active school zone. (This, like drunk driving, makes me see red. The lives of little children are not as valuable as making sure the Internet knows you’re… uh, cool? Macho? An asshole extraordinaire?)

~~~

Bright:
The galaxy of electric whirligigs blazing and swirling in the Luna Park below our house.

Brighter:
The sun rising clear and oh-so-jaunty over Mount Subasio, sneaking two fresh-faced girls with her into our room every morning before the alarm clock has a chance to wake up.

Brightest:
Plans for a holiday season bursting with music, food, and dearly-awaited guests. Oh, and snowboarding! And gift exchanges! And a wee trip to Venice! Cinnamon-sprinkled wonderfulness awaits.

~~~

Dusty:
My writing abilities.

Dustier:
My writing motivation.

Dustiest:
The top of the bedroom dresser. Yeesh!

~~~

Lovely:
Rosemary, peppermint, daisies and more daisies… my balcony friends welcomed in from the cold and brightening every room of the house.

Lovelier:
Friendships beginning to bloom from a batch of terrifying social undertakings. (I still have to pop a few Tums and re-read this every time I leave the house, but the value of new relationships is beginning to offset the appeal of staying a hermit.)

Loveliest:

Orange makes us happy

19Oct

To My Favorite Autumn Shirts

I didn’t know it would come to this. While I lovingly ironed and hung you on my limited-edition* tangerine hangers, I imagined all the wonderful days we would share together this autumn. You three are as much a part of my favorite season as roasting pumpkins and glowing candles; you embody the crisp, gold-tinted days that make me most glad to be alive. I just want you to understand that I had nothing to do with this October going rogue, summer to winter in one blustery afternoon. I even filed a complaint, but Management never got back to me. It looks like the cold is here to stay. So hang tight, my darlings. Get some beauty sleep and hold the faith; I’ll see you next fall.


*Not really limited-edition, except when the nearest Wal-Mart is 4,000 miles away.

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