Go easy. Be filled with light. Shine.

To live with eyes open

2011-12-04T20:00:00.000-08:00

For the record, in case I don't say it enough, I am quite happy and content right now, this very moment.

With my husband of one and a half years

in our studio apartment

no animals

no babies

waking up and going to my good job every day

coming home to use my still new kitchen gadgets

sleeping in on Saturdays and making waffles together

and walking home from jazz mass on Sunday nights.

It's not so bad, you know?

I Ask Percy How I Should Live My Life

2011-11-19T10:37:00.000-08:00

Love, love, love, says Percy.

And hurry as fast as you can

along the shining beach, or the rubble, or the dust.

Then, go to sleep.

Give up your body heat, your beating heart.

Then, trust.

(Mary Oliver)

Already as heavy as can be

2011-11-06T18:59:00.000-08:00

I am working on my personal statement for a grad school application right now and I have Pandora going in the background. I had created the perfect folksy Christmas music channel but of course one thumbs-up led to another and I began to fall down the rabbit hole of Glee songs and then Death Cab for Cutie and before you know it, Christmas has faded out of my playlist. Like a message from the heavens to stop thinking about it! But I can't stop thinking about it! Because I went to Target today and I walked around with a fake tree in my cart for about thirty minutes and then I put it back and I couldn't figure out why a simple Christmas purchase felt so monumental. And then I got the rest of my goodies from Target and rode the subway home and pouted about maybe not being in Camarillo for Christmas.

Because that's what's really going on, you know. I just want to come "home" for Christmas, even though this feels like home in so, so many ways. There are a few essential elements to Christmas and I will tell you now: a stocking handmade by Jeanette, the Miracle on 34th Street (1994) soundtrack, staying up late to make cinnamon rolls on Christmas Eve, putting the kittens in stockings and Santa hats and whatever else they can fit into, and family. Mainly family. It's becoming clear that they won't all make it out here and I just can't imagine it without them (/you!). But the truth is that Andrew is my family now and I think I could survive if he really does want to just celebrate Christmas alone together in New York. Really. But I would be missing a lot.

Back to the whole Pandora thing, my current favorite song came on and, like it always does, stopped me in my tracks. Waitin' for a Superman by Iron & Wine does it to me every time. I sometimes worry about the fact that my music taste remains somewhat emo/downright depressing even though I am well past that phase of my life, but I guess as long as I pepper in some Ke$ha here and there, I'm doing okay.

As if by a series of clicks on a streaming radio station, I have ended up somewhere completely other than where I intended to go. Oh well. Back to the real writing!

They're calling it Snowtober

2011-10-29T16:23:00.000-07:00

Hello! It seems like my habit lately has been to update this little thing approximately once a month, but something must have been off last month. Because now it has been two months and everything has changed! Again! Also, I think every entry I've written since living in New York has mentioned seasons, the cyclical nature of life, weather, long/short days, etc. I wish I could say that this entry will buck the trend, but you know what? No.

The last time I wrote anything, it was the peak of summer. We had just moved, Arielle had come to visit (yay!), I had three whole weeks off work, and my jeans were packed away tidily in the closet. That's really a thing, the whole rotating your wardrobe based on the season! Who knew? So, anyway, that was two months ago. Today it snowed.

And, yeah, I know, it's almost the end of October and it's been snowing other places all month long. Yes, it will get back up to the high 50's this week so it's not like we've plunged into the depths of winter just yet. But there's something just so different about life in a place where it snows and almost everything you do is altered for a few months. If I remember correctly, it all felt pretty magical last year. Today I was thrilled to wake up to see snowflakes falling on the trees out our window, but the thrill was gone as soon as I had to walk through three inches of slush to cross the street.

It's the second year of everything and I'm trying to keep the magic alive. We've been married for sixteen months, which is probably only an okay way of measuring time when referring to a baby. So, scratch that, we've been married for somewhere between a year and two years, which is the same amount of time I've been a New Yorker and roughly the amount of time I've been at my job. Now we're past our first snow together, our first apartment, our first anniversary, our first time getting ripped off by a cabbie in Queens, first (/second/third/fourth) gas leak in our old apartment, our first Thanksgiving, and all the other things that used to get me all starry-eyed. Not to mention that I've lived through my first blizzard, first hurricane, first full year at this job, and the list goes on. So now the goal of this year is to let the familiarity do what it's supposed to do: provide comfort and a sense of belonging in a place that is somewhere in between a strange city and a hometown, all while realizing that next year is probably going to look very different.

In next month's issue: the worst haircut I've ever gotten, where we are spending the holidays, down-low vegetarianism, and probably some complaining about the weather!

A slipper by the fireplace

2011-08-25T09:02:00.000-07:00

We are living in a new place and I get to see so much out my window now. Riverside Church, where MLK delivered a famous speech. Grant's Tomb, resting place of a president who fought for a pretty worthy cause. Not to mention the seminary we live in, where Dietrich Bonhoeffer and some other neat people have studied.

Andrew made me coffee this morning and he always makes it a little too weak, the same way my dad does. (There is a difference between a tablespoon and a heaping tablespoon, you know.) But he also remembered to make just enough to fill my San Francisco mug to the brim, so that counts for something.

Hurricane Irene is making her way up the east coast and I'm not sure if I need to stock up on canned goods or what.

My brother is getting married and that means I will have a sister! Not that I have any lack of great women in my life or anything, but I've kind of always wanted a sister and now I will have one (-in-law). The way I learn about most things I'm unfamiliar with is by watching reality television, and I'm hoping we'll be more Jacqueline and Caroline than Melissa and Teresa.

In case I have not told you personally, I have begun the countdown to when we can officially own a dog. Andrew is down with getting a dog as it will appease my need to nurture something small and cuddly at a point when we're still not quite ready for a human. This year we live on a hypoallergenic floor but by next summer we should be living somewhere where a baby puppy will be welcome. Currently taking suggestions for city-friendly dog breeds.

Also, if your apartment didn't come with a bathtub stopper but the stopper from the kitchen sink fit perfectly, would it be weird to use it for the bath? Just curious. A friend wants to know.

Crickets wander murmuring

2011-07-20T22:00:00.000-07:00

We went to California. It was ages ago already, before Oscar was born and Goose was named and pitchers of sangria rested on the windowsill, but really it was not that long ago. This trip back was the first time I have felt almost incapacitating nostalgia for the life I had there. Sure, I always miss the people and I occasionally miss others odds and ends- church, In N Out, filling a whole car with groceries- but overall I am fine without most of it. Summer in California, though? There is really nothing better. We sat on the porch every day, ate avocados and strawberries from their county of origin, spent a long afternoon at a secluded beach, played Monopoly like only a family can.

I had to remind myself repeatedly that our amazing vacation was just that: a vacation. I lived in California for quite a while and it wasn't all beach blanket bingo and daiquiris. There was a lot of commuting, working, more commuting, flat tires, fighting for a parking space at the gym, boredom, etc. And those nice family members we hung out with for four days straight? Some of them go to work now and then. So maybe we're doing it right: keeping our visits infrequent enough that we still get the royal treatment when we do come out.

Besides, when we arrived back in New York on the Fourth of July, we picked up fresh food from a neighborhood deli and walked with friends down to Riverside Park. We spread out blankets and leaned up against trees and watched fireflies flickering. Andrew and I discussed the fact that Independence Day is the only holiday we have celebrated together for the past four years, which is completely random and not necessarily a reflection of our unwavering patriotism, but still. We talked about the Fourths we have had so far: San Francisco, Santa Barbara, and now two in New York. We looked out across the water together and Andrew squeezed my arm whenever my favorite type of firework would appear (the golden fairy dust ones, for the record) and I realized how much I want to see a few more Fourths from that same place.

We'll grow old together

2011-06-13T20:14:00.000-07:00

It's okay to pre-date something as long as I don't write anything about my feelings, right? Because goodness knows what I was like a month ago. But we went to Connecticut!

Rainy pic on the drawbridge in Mystic

Pros: features my beautiful Anthro skirt. Cons: regrettable purse, attention-stealing umbrella, rain hair.

We got room service breakfast and watched The Goonies and Karate Kid on TV. It was a very special morning indeed.

New London, CT

I think I'll use this as a headshot when I become a realtor.

He's curious.

The place felt like poetry.

While sitting at a stoplight, we noticed this little guy sitting on a tiny patch of grass. Exotic wildlife!

It was a very good year

2011-06-12T05:46:00.000-07:00

We still have our fun...oh, we had it once

2011-05-15T08:13:00.000-07:00

Have I told you that we're moving? We are. In August. Andrew got a position as a student life assistant which includes room and board on campus. So the good news is that we'll have a tiny bit more cash (well, Sallie Mae and our savings account will). The bad news is that we have to go through the hassle of moving in August. And again next August. By the end of 2012, we will have lived in four apartments in two and a half years.

I am excited to be living in community again and to have neighbors who care to know my name and to be only a mile away from my job. But there is a small part of me that thinks, Ugh, really, we have to keep moving? When did I become the person who moves every year? As this thought popped into my mind the other day, I remembered the words that came to me when I was in Africa, the only words I ever believe I've received directly from God. You will not have a life of stillness, but I will give you peace. Call it a self-fulfilling prophecy but these words have become the truth of my mid-twenties. More of a nomad than ever before, I find myself more content with life than I thought possible.

So, with that, I give you the photos of our apartment. Long overdue and not spectacularly dazzling. This has been our home for most of our first year of marriage and even if I never acted on my good intentions to spruce it up, I want to remember where we started out.

Spice rack: made by my grandpa after I complained that I could not find a wall-mounted rack anywhere. Kitchen cart: Bekväm from Ikea. Everything else pictured: wedding presents!

What's that? I should have straightened the lampshade before taking a picture of our bedroom?

This couch, the Varnamo from Ikea, was discontinued and I'm pretty sure it's because they call it brown and it is more of an eggplant color in real life. Oh, well. It's comfy and we got it really cheap.

The red building is actually part of an Adventist church right behind our apartment. I'll miss hearing hymns sung to organ music on Saturday mornings.

Another amazing kitchen purchase, this one from Target.

You, tiny and only closet, I will miss least of all. Good riddance.

How to set off all your alarms

2011-04-10T20:07:00.000-07:00

Marriage has taught me a lot about myself. You know, some things about patience, my attitude, compromising, but most importantly: I talk in my sleep. Well, talk is not exactly the right word. Argue? Explain? So far it's been mostly frustrated discussions of applied behavior analysis with my really patient husband. Most often I argue until I am just awake enough to realize that it is neither the time nor the place for the conversation I'm attempting to have. The full reality of what has happened doesn't hit me until I wake the next morning with the vague feeling that I owe Andrew an apology.

I just think it's amazing that I went twenty-four years without knowing that I am actually a somniloquist. Did this behavior just start or have I been doing it all along? How many sleepovers did I mumble through? Were my roommates privy to confessions I don't remember? I never realized quite how vulnerable I am in my sleep or what a tall order it would be to ask someone to share a bed with me for the rest of our lives.

You've got to get up every morning...

2011-04-05T19:00:00.000-07:00

All night I've been thinking about that scene in Friends with Money (one of my favorite movies, in case you're wondering) where Frances McDormand summarizes her depression by saying that it's just not worth it to wash her hair since it will only get dirty again. It's one of those quotes that pops into my head whenever I find myself wondering what day it is and how many more till the weekend and how many weeks until the next big thing and how many big things until no more big things. Hearing someone say out loud what I sometimes think internally is all it takes to yank me back to the reality that life is pretty good, even when it is repetitive and mundane.

It's not that I'm bored with life, really, it's just that I don't know what I will do after this and I don't know if I need to know. I found out that the classes I was going to take at Hunter are much more expensive than I thought and therefore I will not be taking any classes this summer or, more realistically, until after Andrew is done with school. And the fact is that unless I do an MSW program, I will likely need to do some pre-requisites at an undergrad school, which is fine. But I just want to get started, want to feel like I'm moving toward something. And if that something doesn't involve ABA/special education, then what the heck will be the point of 4+ years in this field? But do I keep doing something just because it's what I've been doing?

So the goals for the next year are: learn what my strengths really are, pay attention to doors opening/closing, and figure out what I'm going to do with the rest of my life. Or maybe just the first two.

Not what it seems

2011-04-03T21:05:00.000-07:00

One of the aspects of Catholicism that has been particularly odd for me to integrate into my spiritual life is the sacrament of confession/penance/reconciliation. I prefer the term reconciliation, so we'll stick with that from here on out. My first experience with the rite of reconciliation was last May, right before I officially joined the Catholic church. There was no talking through a screen, no kneeling, no Hail Mary or Our Father prescription to cure me of my sins. I sat in a chair and had a conversation with a very warm and gentle priest. I talked about the things I struggle with and he told me to pray for the people affected by my sin. He said to pick one person specifically, which I have done, and the truth is that my relationship with that person has been slowly but surely repaired in the last year.

So why did I wait eleven months before going to reconciliation again? I'm not sure.

This Saturday I waited in line at Saint Patrick's Cathedral for forty minutes before I finally got to enter the confessional. Once again, I found a kind man, someone who wasn't so much interested in formality or ritual as he was in helping a fellow traveler along the path. After I confided in him the things I regret doing recently, he noted that all my struggles seem to stem from a lack of charity. So, he said, my penance was to read John 21:15-17. I probably winced a bit when he said the word "penance." So Catholic. So works-based. Ugh.

But I went home and read it and realized that it is the passage where Jesus keeps asking Peter if he loves him. Yes! Yes! He loves you, Jesus, he keeps telling you! Then feed my lambs. Tend my sheep. Feed my sheep. Three times, just in case you didn't get it. You agree that you love God? Then love God's people. Care for God's people. Cherish God's people.

This is a reminder I needed, one I wouldn't have gotten if I hadn't gone to reconciliation on Saturday. I also wouldn't have heard the beautiful, freeing words the priest uttered as I left the room: "God has forgiven you." It was not the priest doing the forgiving, it wasn't me earning it with some rote recitation, it wasn't a shame-filled confession like the media likes to portray. It was a five-minute conversation that gave me encouragement I am still digesting. I think I could get used to this.

He took my shoulders and he shook my face

2011-02-22T07:58:00.000-08:00

It is currently eighteen degrees and I am not necessarily mad about it, but it was sixty-five degrees on Friday, so I am at the very least a bit confused. I am learning that the arrival of spring is not so simple as a rodent seeing his shadow and announcing the change of the season. It is push and pull, snow melting and snow falling, windows cracked open and radiators twisted on.

Spring seems so present and possible right now as each day grows longer by two minutes, a difference noticeable only after weeks of walking up the front steps at the same time. In my dizzy anticipation of unending summer evenings, I sometimes forget that I am a grown-up now, that I no longer get two months to run barefoot up and down the street with saltwater scented hair and a bag full of insects.

But there are other consolations these days, those I dreamed of when I was small and others I could not have imagined until the moment they entered my life. A husband who has already walked with me through the same park through bone-chilling snow and skin-melting humidity. An apartment with the crookedest floors and loudest neighbors I've ever known. A job working with the five cutest students east of the Mississippi.

When I was a child, it was possible to love the present moment fiercely and wildly while simultaneously looking ahead to the next season, next birthday, next trip to Disneyland. Already/not yet. So I thank God for the glory and the mystery that is already visible and I give thanks, too, for the things I am still awaiting.

{Mushaboom, mushaboom}

2011-01-26T20:18:00.000-08:00

Everyone says that a watched pot never boils, but I am convinced that staying up all night will result in my school having a snow day tomorrow. Either that or I'll just be exhausted and have to endure a full work day. I've experienced both scenarios already in my first winter as a New Yorker.

The fact of the matter is that the wind whipping snow against my window is a comforting sound, one I hope I get to listen to all day long tomorrow while drinking hot tea and reading. The sound of snow plows roaring down Broadway, however, is not so pleasing right now. I think we could all use a day off, right?

I am a breathing time machine

2011-01-09T16:03:00.000-08:00

My husband is turning twenty-six tomorrow. He informs me that this marks his entry into his late twenties, though I am convinced that something-six is still in the mid-range of any decade. No matter. He's growing up!

We bought a couch this weekend, finally. After seven months without one, we have a comfortable place to sit and rest and lean. Standing in front of Aisle 16, Bin 32 at Ikea, we asked each other the questions that would determine the fate of the Värnamo.

"How long are we hoping this couch will last?" I ask.

"As long as we live in the apartment. How long will that be?"

"Until we start having kids?"

Well, the point is, we have a couch.

So broken in

2010-11-17T20:02:00.000-08:00

Some days I just miss everyone and everything. A lot.

What will happen in the morning

2010-11-06T21:00:00.000-07:00

The wispy breath of winter has been blowing in the city and there are so many things to buy this season, like a warm coat and classy boots. So when I impulsively bought a pair of jeans two weeks ago, I was perhaps not thinking like a reasonable person on a budget who has more important items to purchase. I guess it served me right that they didn't fit me once I re-tried them on at home.

As I returned the pants today, I found myself internally lamenting our financial situation. Part of me really wishes I had the extra cash to fill my wardrobe with every single item in Banana Republic's winter catalog, but this is no more than a pipe dream. I never regret marrying young or even the fact that I don't have an advanced degree (read: higher salary) yet. I'm just generally annoyed about how expensive life is and that Harlem is not a place where money trees seem to grow.

Anyway, as I walked home up Amsterdam just as the sun started to retreat, everything in the world suddenly seemed to be so right. I don't know whether it was the crisp fall air or the discovery of yet another hidden community garden down the street from our house, but somewhere between 125th and 149th, it hit me. Life, although sometimes hard and imperfect, is so good. I lack nothing.

And all night, every simple moment has been the yes and the amen to this fact. Splitting a bottle of cheap wine at our secondhand table, discussing how we still haven't bought a couch. Listening to Nick Drake and Jose Gonzalez in the dark while he grades papers in the next room. Knowing he means it when he comes in just to say, "I'm so glad I married you."

So what, Mr. Poopypants?

2010-10-26T19:40:00.000-07:00

I have always loved what Anne Lamott said about shitty first drafts, so I gave myself the time and space to just write whatever wanted to be written. October fifth. October seventh. October twenty-third. Blah, blah, and blah. Verbal diarrhea. Self-indulgent nonsense, slipping around with no particular end or beginning. Writing for the sake of release is all good and well. But what happens if the stuff never shapes up?

I don't usually like to edit things because I tend to trust my instincts. But maybe my instincts are telling me not to give it all away on a blog these days.

Maybe.

That's definitely enough poo talk for one entry, though.

The cold can kill us before fumes

2010-10-07T21:46:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I miss the life I didn't end up living. When the conditions are just right, I sit back and wonder about the many forks in my many roads and what if, what if, what if.

All the ages I've ever been

2010-10-05T19:09:00.000-07:00

Maybe because I had it good as a kid, so safe and warm with two good parents and a lovable brother and a faithful dog and a series of decent cats and that weird group of best friends, but not a lot blindsided me when I was young. At times I would revise my history to make the events seem more dramatic, but the truth is that my high school experience was all too typical. I struggled and rebelled, but did so within some incredibly reasonable boundaries.

As I've grown older, the highs are higher and the lows are lower. There is so much good news: marriages, babies, graduate school, grown-ups jobs, peace for people who have been restless for years. But the bad news is so much worse than it used to be: broken marriages, aging family members, miscarriages, the big c, going broke, lost faith.

I don't really know what to make of it, actually. I don't know if my theology will change more and more as life gets better/worse. I don't know why my life has been so good, why I was born into the top whatever percent of the top whatever percent. I've heard the statistic a hundred times but I can't seem to remember it. Maybe my brain rejects it because it is too ridiculous that in terms of economics, health, family, and friends, I have been so blessed. It makes no sense, and as times goes on, I see more and more that it is bound not to last forever.

To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield

2010-09-11T21:04:00.000-07:00

I have wondered for a while now what it would be like to be in this city on this day. Would it feel different? Would everyone slow down and wave flags and remember the people they'd lost? If you see something, say something. It's in every subway station and on every ice cream cart in New York. I get the sense that people live each day with their eyes wide open, vigilant lest they have to relive the horror and the loss that descended upon them at 466 miles per hour almost a decade ago.

It was around noon when I left to go uptown today. Hamilton Heights was as alive as ever, not a hint of mourning or slowing. Kids still running up and down the sidewalk, reggaetón music blasting out of storefronts, men whistling across the street. On the subway, too, people conducted themselves as normal. People still got mad when a schedule change meant the train skipped their stop. No extra patience on this particular day.

In line at Target in the Bronx, I heard a woman behind me talking on her cell phone.

"I went down there. It was fine, kind of the same as it always is...Yeah, he was there. He was bawling his eyes out...I know, but I just wanted to shake him and tell him to get over it. He's been gone nine years, you know? Nine years is a long time. He was crying like he'd just lost him yesterday."

Sometimes it still surprises me that in the most densely populated US city, there is still room for so much difference. Some people need to cry all day, some people pay their respects and go about the rest of their day, some people have much bigger worries right now. Some people weren't even born on that day, so why shouldn't they play tag and nibble fruit on a stick and jump over garbage bags as their abuelo sweeps the front step?

Today's been a career day

2010-08-03T20:38:00.000-07:00

I know that I grow and change and get closer to becoming a new creation every day of my life, but I think I've been a little more aware of it lately. I am a wife now. A renter of an apartment in New York. An employee at the job I've been dreaming of for a year. A daily subway rider. A two-bag maximum grocery buyer. A long-distance friend to some of the people I love the most. A parishioner at a church where I know two people. A pen pal. A lady with two last names. A daughter living 3,000 miles from her parents. A sister learning how grown-up siblings communicate. I am a lot of new things, but I think I'm still, maybe even more than ever, myself.

When I grow up...

2010-02-28T21:17:00.000-08:00

Is there such a job as one where you wear glasses and messy hair and a fuzzy fleece and you just sit and sip Element lattes and listen to Iron & Wine and bump into old friends and use your favorite kind of pen to jot down notes in an overcrowded notebook?

Because I would like that job.

The only constant is

2010-01-31T00:32:00.000-08:00

When I got home tonight, I found Bama's heating pad sitting on my bed. I think it was part of some sort of trade and she got a new one out of the deal. At first I just guessed that it was hers. After a second, some strange instinct took hold of me and I leaned in to sniff the felt exterior of the heating pad. Lubriderm lotion and old paperback books. Not just a grandma scent; my grandma's scent.

And it's not that I'm not grateful for the heat-- it really soothes my back like nothing else. But maybe I'm not ready to start receiving her hand-me-downs, okay?

Is it ever really over?

2010-01-26T23:54:00.001-08:00

Am I done blogging? I don't know. I flip and flop, back and forth. Sometimes I write things straight out of my proverbial dream journal and other times I just report the facts. I'm not always inspired, definitely rarely inspiring. But I don't know if I could ever just stop.

Life is good. I am healthy, I am learning, and I am blessed. Is it okay to be simultaneously excited about the future and dreading the loss it will bring? I can't wait to start life with my male best friend, but I'm going to miss some people and places more than I can articulate. Sure, I act tough, but not so far below the surface, I am shaking at the thought of being 2,839 miles away from the friends who have lived through years and years of life with me.

But I guess things have a way of working themselves out even when I'm skeptical. I never thought I'd be watching Lost and reading Harry Potter, but it seems that people can change. Whatever that means.

There is need of only one thing

2009-11-27T19:08:00.000-08:00

How much do I need? This isn't a hypothetical question, so if you have any thoughts, please let me know. My internet research turned up all sorts of different theories on how much clothing a person should have, how many trinkets and nonsense should fill up one's dwelling space, but there is no internet consensus. Not even close.

Mission: Simplification is ongoing and I am sometimes distressed that there isn't a guideline, some sort of target to shoot for. What do I need? Less than what I have. But how much less?

Just a small town girl

2009-10-23T21:44:00.001-07:00

You know, it's a funny world. All night long I've been thinking to myself, "I am lonely. I am just so lonely." Not necessarily in a sad way, more matter-of-factly, I think. I am in one of those limbo phases during which I'm not really looking for new friends in this place but I don't know what I'd do if I lost any more of the ones I have. The ones I have are really good.

All that to say, I decided to escape to a coffee shop to be alone and yet be out in the world. And I hadn't been here for ten minutes when Anna and Ashlee walked in. Familiar faces, a few minutes of conversation, and things don't seem quite so bad. We didn't even sit together or anything; I turned back to my laptop and they carried on a conversation at the next table. There's just something about knowing that there are still plenty of people here who will smile, ask how I'm doing, and sincerely want to hear the answer.

Departures & arrivals

2009-10-16T21:58:00.000-07:00

On Tuesday, August 25, I dropped Andrew off at LAX at 4:50 in the morning. It was dark and too warm for that hour of the morning. Everything felt a little off. I said goodbye and I knew I had to trust that a lot of unknown things would turn out just fine.

Sometimes I have a hard time believing that God knows what to do. I think the wheels are going to fall off this thing we call life and that nothing will make it better. I worry at night about what impossibly bad thing is just around the corner. It's the fear of the unknown.

But here's what I have found, time and time again. The lesson I need to stop forgetting: the unknown that terrifies me so much? It usually ends up being okay. I can worry about driving in cars and catching diseases and being attacked in my empty home in the suburbs. I can stress out about riding a flying hunk of metal through the sky, but at the end of the day, I find myself somewhere good and safe. Somewhere better than I could have pictured. And that is what I must remember. That, somehow, whether I can fathom it or not, everything ends up okay. Not just here and now, but always.

Remember who you are

2009-09-26T21:25:00.000-07:00

Some days it is easier said than done.

Other days the truth of who I am comes rushing in, comforting and terrifying in its scope.

Losing keys

2009-09-12T22:17:00.000-07:00

Maybe, since we're made in the image of Someone better, maybe that's why we're so mysterious to each other. I've always thought it was sin, that snaky and ugly thing, that causes us to wrap ourselves in the skin of our other-selves. Our potential for evil, I figured, has to be the reason we are so capable of rendering ourselves unknowable. But what if this is not a reflection of our fallenness but of our connection to our Creator? Maybe then I should rejoice that I am layers and layers away from understanding myself or anyone else.

Yes, but I must also continue the endless pursuit.

Going vs. leaving

2009-08-25T09:23:00.001-07:00

At least I know where you're going. Big brick buildings lined up along the Hudson. Full libraries with words you need to read, thoughts you must absorb. Every kind of person: petite, pear-shaped, freckled, Hispanic, transgender. Everybody wants you there. And I know for certain that you're ready.

But no one knows what to say about her. Carried in their arms down a long white hallway. Cold metal table, sharp ends meeting her old skin. Everybody murmuring in low voices, same faces all around the room. And heads hang low, and how do we know that she is ready?

One hundred seventy-three

2009-08-18T01:10:00.000-07:00

Minus the hours you will be sleeping (72)
Minus the hours I will be working (12)
Minus the total hours one of us will be showering or pooping (3)

Okay, so maybe eighty-six hours, and that's being generous. Eighty-six hours left before you move 2,839 miles away.

But who's counting?

When I was a child

2009-07-30T23:30:00.000-07:00

When I don't say anything for a long while, it turns out there is so much to say that I can't think of a starting place.

How about the fact that God is good? I don't get it, I writhe in bed in agony over the mystery of it all, but I know this is true. There is order. There is peace. There are answered prayers. Something happens when I wake up and immediately say, "I believe; help my unbelief." Everything just works. I make it through the day, and then I rest. And when the morning light comes streaming in, I get up and do it again.

On another note, the heart is a funny thing. I thought today that my heart longs for a lot of things, too many to enumerate here, and that most of them are the wrong things. But then I remembered what someone said about sin being a legitimate desire being met in illegitimate ways. I want the right things: to be known, to be forgiven, to be loved. I just want to find those things in the wrong places.

Teach me to see the right thing in the right place. Teach me to give out the real thing.

From life's first cry...

2009-06-21T22:21:00.000-07:00

God gave us a spirit not of fear but of power and love and self-control.
2 Timothy 1:7

We are the statues and there is a rumour going round the shop that some of us are some day going to come to life.
C.S. Lewis

When I Am Among The Trees

2009-05-27T22:40:00.000-07:00

When I am among the trees,
especially the willows and the honey locust,
equally the beech, the oaks and the pines,
they give off such hints of gladness,
I would almost say that they save me, and daily.

I am so distant from the hope of myself,
in which I have goodness, and discernment,
and never hurry through the world
but walk slowly, and bow often.

Around me the trees stir in their leaves
and call out, "Stay awhile."
The light flows from their branches.

And they call again, "It's simple," they say,
"and you too have come
into the world to do this, to go easy, to be filled
with light, and to shine."

(Mary Oliver)

Can/Cannot

2009-05-21T22:57:00.000-07:00

I cannot love Christ as part of an apologetic proof. I cannot love him as a mathematical probability or the result of philosophical pandering. I cannot love him as a theorem, a piece of a flow chart, a concrete piece of a concrete puzzle.

I can love him as a Poem, something lyrical and rhythmic, uncorralled and unstoppable in his beauty. I can love him as a Whisper, the silence after all the earthquakes and thunders that assures me that there is something more than nothing out there. I can love him as Edith, the Ugandan girl who dubbed me Mirembe without knowing that this had been my lifelong one-word prayer.

When I try to break it down and figure out the how and the why and the science and the likelihood and the nuances, I am confounded. Perhaps this is because Christ is to be understood as a part of the whole. Whole trinity, whole church, whole world, whole plan. The whole thriving, pounding, rushing, humming universe. The mystery continues. And, like it or not, we're here to love the mystery.

One year in fourteen words

2009-05-04T14:46:00.000-07:00

In the order of occurrence:

Transition, change, adventure, relief, conflict, fear, prayer, doubt, silence, refreshment, comfort, excitement, gratitude, curiosity.

No alarms and no surprises

2009-05-04T12:13:00.000-07:00

So I got engaged. Sometimes I don't put the really important things in life into my blog, because really? Is this the place for that? Oh, it is? I'm not sure sometimes. I need a mission statement for this blog or something. There's no telling where it's going.

Andrew & I got engaged on March 28th, which I will remember only because it is Sally's birthday. And maybe also because it is the day I got engaged. My friends have all kindly informed me that Andrew tells the story much better than I ever could, so I won't go into it too much. It was beautiful, perfect for us, and I am so happy to be spending the rest of my life with this dude.

To tell the truth, my relationship is pretty much the only thing that is certain and set in stone at this point. I'm not sure where I'll be in the fall- New York or Camarillo? I'm not sure what step to take next in this whole job thing. I got turned down for insurance so I am extremely paranoid about contracting some strange disease while I apply for a different policy. I'm not sure what my colors for my wedding will be. Oh, the dilemmas.

I found out that I have some weird eye focusing problem so I need glasses. My previously 20/20 vision is shot, basically. This just reminds me that this body of mine is not necessarily made to last forever. Humbling.

I think that's all.

Still true, still true, still half-true

2009-04-26T21:34:00.000-07:00

ENFPs have a tendency to overextend themselves in both their physical and emotional commitments. Their proclivity to procrastinate and to overlook details complicates their circumstances. ENFPs often move on to new ventures without completing those they have already started. Their charming personalities can show signs of irritability and over-sensitivity when their desires to please different people come into conflict. During times of stress, ENFPs feel alienated. They then engage in deceptions that serve to obscure what is occurring within themselves.

The ENFP finds symbolic meanings behind the immediate circumstances. These meanings are construed as foreboding problems when ENFPs are under stress. Having a pervasive feeling of losing control over their own independent identities, ENFPs will feel virtually split apart by intruding circumstances. They will be "besides themselves" and "just not all there" — as if something, or someone, has taken away the essence of who they are. Not feeling like themselves, the ENFP will become subject to their own feelings of shame for being a phony, a fake or an impostor. If stress continues to grow, they may attribute malevolent schemes to others in order to explain away their fears.

http://www.wsc.edu/advising_services/career_planning/exploration/personality_careers/enfp/

Scratch that and reverse it

2009-03-30T22:32:00.000-07:00

Things are happening!

The one thing that stays mine

2009-03-25T23:58:00.001-07:00

I told you I wasn't mad, and I meant it. I'm not mad. I just don't know where to go from here.

And I don't know what to say, in general. Someone asked me today what was new with me and I drew an absolute blank. Nothing? Nothing!

I'm planning my next step, thinking about moving far away and transitioning into grownup life, and that's all I have on my mind right now. Next, next, next. What's happening now?

I don't even know. And I don't know what to think about it, either.

All the glory that the Lord has made (and the complications I could do without)

2009-02-23T01:00:00.000-08:00

We were driving home in the mid-afternoon, or maybe the early evening. Sometime when sunlight was still possible but not exactly there. And I'm honestly not sure whether we were still north of Paso Robles or already somewhere in San Luis Obispo. Everything was just so confusable, so I guess it makes sense that when I looked down at our interlocked hands, I couldn't tell which hand was mine and which hand was his. Just eight fingers and two thumbs all tangled together, blending together and reminding me of the end of that beautiful Neruda poem: where I does not exist, nor you, so close that your hand on my chest is my hand, so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.

Someday, at least. For now, we are slowly growing into those days, taking tiny steps until we get to make the big leap. We've got a lot of traveling to do, though, and I'm thinking I've got to do something about my man-hands before anyone wants to take a close-up picture of them.

Wouldn't it be nice if we were older...?

2009-02-18T23:19:00.000-08:00

Have I mentioned to you that this phase of life feels like a second adolescence? Oh, my friends, let me tell you of the trials and tribulations that have come to revisit my ten-years-older self.

Exhibit A: The Moodiness. I feel like a raging ball of feelings at all times for no particular reason. Let's be honest. I've been living in my parents' house for eight months straight, I interact socially with no more than six people a week, and I work with the coolest darn kids in the world. It's not like I have anything to have so many feelings about.

Furthermore, I have that teenagey urge to fly the coop on the spur of the moment, but I also realize that this is the most stable place I could possibly be right now. Later in life, I will wonder why I didn't spend more time living rent-free with my super-supportive mom and dad. Or perhaps I will be sitting in this apple green room at age forty-four, wondering where I went wrong and why I never left. The conflict! And, yet, no conflict. I have no real plans to leave.

And let's not forget the overwhelming sense that everything in the universe has aligned to keep me apart from the one I love. Give me a break. So we live sixty miles apart. So I work on Saturdays. We see each other twice a week. Deal with it, Hardgrave. But these are the thoughts that crop up in my little mind.

Everyone mocks adolescence as nothing more than a painful rite of passage, rife with exaggerated drama and unwarranted feelings. I don't know, though. I'm beginning to suspect that a lot of this will come up again and again. That's not to say that I don't think I've changed or grown since seventh grade, but I think we all deal with the same crap over and over. So I'm going to keep opening up my little teenage heart and praying that somehow more Divinity and less anxiety will take up residence there.

I try to stay awake and remember my name

2008-12-11T23:07:00.000-08:00

The things that frighten or madden me, unconfessed, eventually make a wreck out of me. But it seems whenever I admit that I am anxious or hateful or otherwise messy, these things lose their power over me. Sometimes they are the smallest, silliest things.

Did you know that I don't like making phone calls? The whole process makes me nervous. A lot can go wrong. I don't make a great first impression. My Valley Girl voice will probably never fade away. I throw in one "like" too many. And I'm, like, totally too casual. Except for the times I err on the side of caution and come off like a stilted Stepford Wife.

Anyway, I am all tied up in knots over my company's holiday party. It will be short, it will be painless, and it will almost certainly not be the social disaster I am bracing myself for. So why can't I just relax? I'm new to this whole professional adult* world, so it might take awhile for me to get the hang of it.

*When I say "professional adult," is it clear that I am not indicating any sort of involvement in a tawdry lifestyle? Maybe I should fix that. Edit myself some more. I hate to be misunderstood. Communicating can be such a difficult thing. Probably shouldn't go to this party. My foot will be in my mouth within ten minutes.

A good year

2008-12-04T23:35:00.000-08:00

I don't even care that I have a lazy eye in this picture. That's how much I love this guy.

And, with that, I promise to stop posting blogs about romantic love at least for a little while. It's just that I'm living a really fantastic life and I'm doing my best to be grateful for every second of it.

We're just ordinary people

2008-10-23T22:54:00.000-07:00

I was standing in the feminine hygiene aisle at Vons tonight looking up at the vast array of pastel-wrapped products. If you know anything about me, you know that I am a proud user of the Diva Cup, but certain times call for a different kind of assistance in this department. Anyway. The point is that a male employee of Vons approached me and asked the inevitable question:

"Are you finding everything alright here, miss?"

And I would be lying to you if I said that I did not, at least for a brief moment, contemplate requesting this poor man's help in finding the very best product to meet my specific feminine needs. I didn't do it, but I come so dangerously close to that kind of thing all the time. I think I need some sort of shock collar that will zap me whenever I'm about to make a social faux pas.

How to give and take

2008-10-14T23:48:00.000-07:00

I am learning to live in new ways and it feels really great.

I am a new woman, every single day. Sometimes when I wake up in the morning, I forget to remember that I am just a little bit different, a little bit more whole, a little bit more healed.

I like making barely discernable progress. I like learning just a little bit here and there. I've never been very good with the big lessons, but I am managing to pick up pieces of wisdom from quiet corners and small steps.

Thank you for your patience. You, too.

Day after day, but anyway

2008-09-16T23:09:00.000-07:00

For some people, love means never having to say you're sorry. I think I read that in a card or something. I guess everyone has a different opinion of what love is and what it looks like, and that's probably a good thing. Different people need different things.

To me, love means healing. Love is when someone sees the most painful wound in your heart and they scramble to put their fingers over that deep, dark hole to plug it up. And every now and then, even though that person loves you better than anybody else, they accidentally let a finger slip off and things get messy again. Sometimes it's not even their fault. Sometimes the wound is just so deep that it starts to ache unexpectedly.

And then love becomes even bigger. The messier things get, the more you allow that person to look at the wound, the quicker they are to help with the healing. I don't think I ever imagined that someone would know me this well, and I certainly never imagined that anyone would love me this well. It's a really great gift.

Pardon me, your epidermis is showing, sir

2008-09-09T23:33:00.000-07:00

Will somebody please look at this?

I'm a white person. I don't hate white people. But it makes me sad that kids in India and Mexico are still getting the message that lighter skin is better. Good work, Disney.

Oh, and while we're at it, there's always this.

Okay, I'm done.

Everybody's working for the weekend

2008-09-07T23:48:00.001-07:00

marriedtothesea.com

Staring up at an inverted compass

2008-08-18T23:42:00.000-07:00

I used to blog differently. I used to write accounts of almost everything I did. I talked about exactly what happened on a Friday night, exactly how I was feeling about my "friends" at the time, exactly why my life was so difficult and my parents were so oppressive. I'd give details about the boys I liked. I wrote about everything.

I'm maybe a little more grown-up, but I think there's something almost a little sad about leaving out so much detail. It's been a detailed year, and I left a lot of things up to the imagination. But the problem is that I would tell the story differently now than I would have told it as it happened. Nine months ago, I was anxiously awaiting an email from Teach for America. When it finally came, it said that I hadn't made it to the third round of the application process. One minute it was my plan, the next minute it was not happening. Just the other day, I realized that I had forgotten even applying to the program.

So I'm trying to use this phenomenon to help me put my current frustration in perspective. Half the things I'm worried about right now will be forgotten in a year. Can I learn to let myself be comforted by that, or do I need to sit around trying to figure out what I'll still be worried about when I'm 23?

Peace like a river. That's all I'm after.

All of you who are weary

2008-08-16T00:28:00.000-07:00

I am not poetic. I am not mysterious. I am not complex. I am not extraordinary.

I am living the ordinary life, working a part-time job and living in my parents' house and spending 90% of my free time with my family. It's okay. Maybe it's more than okay. I like it.

I read in a book that the curse of the ENFP (my Myers-Briggs type) is to live life asking, "Who am I?" I guess that's all I do these days. Am I a daughter who loves her mom and dad very much? Am I a fiercely independent woman who is ready to live on her own? Am I an irresponsible college grad with no ambition? Am I a happy-go-lucky dreamer who's one day away from the opportunity of a lifetime? Am I settling down? Am I just getting started? I don't know.

Am I a self-absorbed child of the Millennial Generation who will blog about this topic for the next ten years? Probably.

PS That plant died. So don't worry about any more growth metaphors.

It shall not return empty

2008-07-14T10:53:00.000-07:00

Remember when I planted those little seeds in that little red cup? I brought them home and set them on the front porch, along with all the other fancy plants flowing out of ornate pots. Mine had sprouted but the two shoots remained two inches long, apparently not interested in growing and joining the vines around them.

I went to Europe and forgot about that little cup. I stayed in an apartment in Caen where a woman hung dried orange peels in every corner. Mallory and I shared a bottle on wine on the green grass below the glowing Eiffel Tower. I sunbathed topless on the French Riviera. In Verona, Mallory's relatives took us to get the best pizza we've ever eaten. I wandered the streets of Venice with Andrew for one incredible day. I hiked through the vineyard-laden hills between Corniglia and Vernazza. I gorged myself on Tuscan cuisine in Florence. I brought delight to my inner history nerd as I explored ancient Roman ruins. I stood slack-jawed as we walked through the Tate Modern in London.

About a week after I arrived home, I sat on one of the dusty chairs on the front porch next to Andrew. As if suddenly remembering that a friend had been sitting on the outside of a circle, I turned to examine my little cup of green sprouts. They're no longer just green sprouts, though. There is now a single long, slender vine twisting its way up and out of the cup. On the very end, a tiny purple bud has begun to flower. Whether I'm paying attention or not, everything is growing around here.

...But nothing ever happens

2008-05-22T23:25:00.001-07:00

Well, I am filling my time with this and that. I guess it is a good thing. Maybe I could tell you all the things I have been doing, but I prefer to show you. So here you go.

In other news, I will be leaving for Europe on Monday. It is no secret that airplanes and I do not get along, so if anyone has any suggestions as to how I might help myself calm down, I would be quite appreciative. I'm thinking I might seek out some sort of natural remedy. I might need smelling salts, too.

Oh, I am such a restless, anxious creature. Peace seems far away sometimes. Everything is so frightening and real and possible. The only good thing about anxiety is that it drives me to prayer. Maybe this is what it means to live in fear and trembling.

Maybe my heart is just exhausted from missing Andrew. This could be the case.

Like a bird alone on a roof

2008-05-05T01:45:00.000-07:00

For months I joked about the fact that I had signed my life away until 5 pm on May 4th and that I had no idea what would come after that.

Well, it's May 5th.

All I've ever seen or heard, or haven't seen or heard

2008-04-29T00:56:00.000-07:00

These days I am not too happy with the human suit I am parading around in. Mostly the extra parts, like the new belly that is sprouting and keeping my jeans from fitting comfortably, and also the expanding thighs that swish against each other when they are set free in a skirt. I don't remember asking for these things, but I certainly haven't fought them off this year.

I used to think that my dissatisfaction with my body came from my fear of never being loved. Somewhere along the line, I got the idea that I had to look sexygood all the time if I wanted any man to be attracted to me. Well, guess what? Somebody fell in love with me in this state. He pats my thighs and holds onto my tummy and says, "This. This is what I am attracted to. Your face and your body and all of you." And he means it!

So then whose opinion am I worried about?

And the complications I could do without

2008-04-04T12:13:00.001-07:00

I usually use some portion of scripture as the title for an entry, but Sufjan Stevens is the next-best thing.

This has been a difficult week. I am not in a phase of life where it seems terribly appropriate to use my blog as a personal diary or a venting space, nor do I feel an overwhelming need to vent at this time. I do, however, want to be honest and say that I am in the middle of learning some deeply valuable lessons. Selfishness has gotten the best of me, yet again, and I am doing the dirty work of trying to wrestle it away.

Introspection is a good thing. Silence is necessary. And sometimes, in the midst of chaos, an incomprehensible peace sneaks in, settles things down, gives a weary heart permission to rest.

To meet the Lord in the air

2008-04-01T16:17:00.000-07:00

Last night I couldn't sleep because I was thinking about death. Sometimes the terror of the unknown grips me in a way I don't understand.

Today I came across this, and it helped a little bit, in a strange way. So I'm going to keep on living.

The birds of the air come and make nests in its branches

2008-03-07T09:53:00.000-08:00

I planted a couple of seeds in a plastic cup last week. Just threw them in there with a few fistfuls of potting mix. I watered it immediately, probably more than I should have, and then I set in on my windowsill.

Danny told me the other day that it would probably not grow. I wondered if he was right. Maybe I had watered it too much all at once? Maybe I should have put it in the other window? Maybe I hadn't even planted healthy seeds to begin with? After a few days of finding no signs of life in my little cup of dirt, I felt pretty hopeless.

Then, all at once, two little sprouts showed up. One day there was nothing, and the next day there was something. David Crowder explains this nicely: A certain sign of grace is this: from broken earth flowers come up, pushing through the dirt.

Have this mind among yourselves

2008-02-22T12:25:00.000-08:00

Without warning, I found myself with an aching stomach and a spinning head after dinner tonight. As it became clear that I needed to go rest, Andrew walked with me to my room and helped me settle into bed. He turned on my heater, brought one of my favorite movies from his room, tucked me in, and kissed me on the forehead as he left. He even promised to come back in a few hours to check on me.

Sure enough, he came back later and perched on the edge of my bed. He asked again if I needed anything, and again I told him no. Instead of leaving, he stayed and patiently sat with me. At the end of the night, he tried to give just one thought to me, and I would not listen. He cared for me and helped me all night, and I could not thoughtfully engage with him on the one part of his day he chose to share. I could not and would not do it, and it ruined the whole night.

I would like to learn how to love.

He sends rain on the righteous and the unrighteous

2008-01-27T21:39:00.000-08:00

He sat there with two leather-bound books on his lap. The red one was open, maybe half-way read, and little scribbles covered the pages. In his right hand, he held a blue plastic ruler and a number two pencil. His eyes pored over the book, searching up and down for some certain detail.

At last he found it. He let out a loud chuckle, without reservation. A smile crept over his face and he set the ruler carefully on the bottom of the page, drawing a line under the words that had worked their magic. A satisfied nod. One more thoughtful smirk. And then he turned the page.

For a moment, I forgot that I knew him only by his creepy photo on that warning poster.

Of how much more value are you than the birds!

2008-01-17T16:58:00.000-08:00

Yesterday I walked with my brother along the shore. The cool foamy water washed over our toes, then folded back into itself and retreated back to the vastness of the whole sea. As we walked, we came upon a young father and two small boys. A wounded seagull flailed in the water near where they stood.

The three of them began winding up strips of seaweed into a net of sorts, trying to save the struggling thing. As the young boys watched with somber faces, the father gently pulled the bird to a patch of dry sand, turning it so that it could rest on its side. He took great care of this, such a lowly creature, and his children took notice.

His commandments are not burdensome

2008-01-09T01:02:00.000-08:00

There are days when my heart seems too small. I cannot fit everyone in who would like to be there. When I talk to myself on these days, I ask why I do not love with the love of Christ. I wonder why I place limits on love.

I still don't know why.

I do know that every now and then a few hundred fissures and invisible wounds come together to form a perfect crack, and eventually my heart breaks enough to let some more people crawl in.

Unless you turn and become like children

2007-12-31T00:04:00.000-08:00

Today the pastor said that rote prayers are no good. No point, he said, in saying the same thing over and over again. He compared the recitation of holy words to a child's constant questioning: "Are we there yet? Are we there yet?" The pastor said grown-ups shouldn't ask the same question over and over again.

But isn't that what we are made to do, after all? Are we not children, trusting in our faithful Parent and asking time and again, "Are we there yet? Are we?" Like little ones with stubby legs kicking against the seat in front of us, we fuss and question and fall asleep, and then suddenly we find that we have arrived. One constant question carries us through the journey.

And ransom captive Israel

2007-12-18T00:11:00.000-08:00

Last night, we sat around tables and ate sugar cookies while the church choir reminded us that the long-awaited Christ had been born. While Kathy sang Silent Night in her raspy, soulful voice, a small boy ran up and down the aisles. By the third verse, he had begun to screech at the top of his lungs.

It was not the screech of a child in pain, nor an indication of any sort of fear. It was simply the cry of a small boy who wanted to tell the rest of the room, "I am here!"

And this is the Church, really. A woman stands up, offering her talents to the people around her. A boy cries out, desperate to remind them that he has something to offer, too. We all just want to sing, screech, growl, hum. We want to be heard for our individual sounds, but mostly we just want to be a part of the song.