A Good Thing

Does anybody else remember Martha Stewart's tv show, and the short segment called "A Good Thing"?  The basic purpose of that three minutes was to highlight a cool gadget or repurpose something in a new and exciting way, and it always seemed so exciting.  The idea that something small can make a big difference in our everyday lives without requiring a huge shift in routine or ideals was (and is) an attractive concept.

Today I'm wondering why I resist the good things in my life.  Specifically, why I just refuse to employ the small, relatively non-wave-making habits that I know would make my life better.  Like why I never do my chiropractor-assigned stretches, and yet wonder why my body hurts.  Like why I feel flabby and gross, but insist on snacking like I'm a bear and it's October.  Or a jr. high boy at a youth group Super Bowl party.  You pick the metaphor that works for you.  In some respect, I think I get it.  On one level, it seems better to be a little self-sabotauging and then know, at least in part, why I'm not happy, than to do everything within my control and then possibly still be unhappy.  These bad habits protect me from the possible unfairness of life.  But sometimes they also make me unnecessarily miserable.  And that, my friends, is not "a good thing."

Ode to the Shredder

O you who make complex things simple
by transforming myriad pieces of sensitive information into one medium-
     (information I am not reading, by the way)
O you who make simple things complex
by transforming whole, intact pages into millions of little pieces of confetti-
     (confetti I must now pick up off my friend's basement floor)
You, whose pictorial warnings include
not shredding more than five sheets at a time,
avoiding putting your hand near the blades,
and also being cautious with your tie-
     (that last diagram took me a minute to work out)
Why, o why, do you overheat every three minutes, requiring me to stop, unplug you, and empty the confetti into a garbage bag?  Is there some sort of shredder union I should know about?  Should I give up completely and just watch the tv show I'm currently trying to view in chunks between the three minutes in which you actually function?

Simplicity is apparently underrated.  Shredders are not.

Contentment...in Motion...?

Today was bright and sunny, both in Portland, where I began my day, and in Spokane, where I ended it (although there was a significant temperature difference between locales).  I needed that sunshine.  As winter starts to fade and spring struggles to make an entrance each year, I notice just how much I depend on the change of the seasons to propel me forward.

Things have felt a little crazy the last few weeks.  I accepted a promotion at the job I currently have, applied and interviewed for a job I'm pretty sure I'm not going to get, and am just now deciding not to apply for another internship I was potentially interested in.  People keep saying that it must be exciting, this season of life where just about anything is possible.  Yes, I always want to snap angrily back at them, anything is possible, and it all (seemingly) rests on my decisions!  No pressure or anything.  

{Side note:  I usually refrain from actually giving that response to anyone I don't know all that well.  It does come across a little harsh usually, and it's not their fault they touched a sore spot.}

Anyways.  So there's been all this potential energy hanging about (to use a physics reference), and it felt like today was a day of changing that potential into kinetic energy.  To be completely honest, my life isn't all that more settled than it was yesterday at this time.  But I feel different about all of it, and that's enough.  I feel like I am in motion, moving forward rather than being stuck in a swirling eddy of ambiguity and indecision.

I've been slowly realizing that what I thought was a season of punishment for letting myself get burnt out has actually been a gift.  Working at Starbucks full time is not what I envisioned myself doing at this age, but it turns out that working at Starbucks allows me to do other things that are important to me- like visiting family and friends, having more coffee dates in a week than meals at home, babysitting my favorite kiddos, and being involved at church.  These things are some of the holiest things I get to do, and taking a career-track job or starting a two-year, time and labor-intensive internship would change these things, and probably not for the better.  Maybe tomorrow when I'm getting up at 3:45 (AM!) to go to work I'll be feeling differently about my job, but for now, I'm feeling contentment.  And yet, motion.  What an odd combination.  Sounds kind of upside-down, Kingdom of God-ish to me.  Funny how He keeps sneaking things like that past me.

Glimpses

There are times in my life that make me feel as though I am watching myself live my life from the outside.  Usually these are moments when I do very stupid and embarrassing things, but, occasionally, this experience occurs while doing something very ordinary and yet a wee bit unexpected.  Like last night, for example.

To celebrate my friend's upcoming wedding, we had a girls' night out, and the first (and well, only) stop was a lovely establishment in my very own hometown that advertises itself as a country bar, dance hall, and saloon.  The objective was line dancing, but when we arrived the lesson in progress was a partner dance that is perhaps called the cha-cha, or maybe the traveling cha-cha.  Six of the seven of us threw ourselves into the lesson with gusto, and I can now say that I'm an almost-accomplished male lead.  Anyways, after the lesson, they turned on the music, and the evening was off.  In between brief moments when we were brave enough to go dance, we stood huddled at one end of the hall, chatting and drinking.  Mostly, though, I was watching.  Here we were, just three minutes from my parents' house in the heart of suburbia, and in any given direction all I could see was cowboy hats and boots.  Where were all of these people during the day?  I lived here for 18 years, and I don't ever remember us having a large cowboy sub-population.  Maybe it's an underground community.

Anyways.  I was also watching the dancing.  There were couples around our age, and there were couples headed for 60 or 70, and everything in between.  Some couples were comprised of two equally beautiful people, who were dancing for the joy of creating art, and maybe a little bit for the joy of showing off.  Some couples were sweetly enjoying time spent close to one another, well-practiced steps leading them in a dance that had long served them.  Still others were bravely trying out their "sea" legs, watching their feet while other couples flew past them.  I loved watching them all.  Dance is an art form that has long held my interest, and one of the things I regret in life is not having spent more time taking dance classes and making room in my life for this particular outlet for self-expression.

One couple in particular caught my eye.  The man who had been the dance instructor's partner during the lesson was leading a petite blond wearing an adorable little black dress and heels in a passionate and artful journey that captured the attention of our little corner of the room.  The interesting thing to me about partner dancing is that even if you're performing, you don't really notice the audience.  To create great art, your sole focus must be the person in front of you.  Their partnership captured my imagination, and sparked the question of what was possible when you knew how to lead and follow and collaborate that well with someone, on the dance floor or off.

The other two individuals that left an impact on me did so because of their joy and independence.  One woman in her late 20's or early 30's participated in each line dance with so much enthusiasm that it was impossible to watch her without smiling.  She knew exactly what she was doing, and led by example.  The other individual was a gentleman probably in his 40's, rocking his blue jeans, a striped shirt, and a modestly-sized cowboy hat.  He looked to be of Hispanic descent, and with the upmost courtesy he traveled the room searching for partner after partner.  One of the girls in our group who dance a lot and knows much more than the rest of us danced with him on several occasions, and it looked like they were having fun.  He was there to dance, and invited others to join him in that experience in such a way that they too were able to experience the joy of movement.

Ok, sorry.  I know you're waiting for me to connect this to the out-of-body experience bit I wrote about at the beginning.  Here it is:  I know that my dad grew up in Eastern Washington, and that he was quite a good dancer back in the day.  What if I grown up with this sub-culture?  What if I was that 20-something over by the bar, being asked to dance by the blond cowboy in the light brown boots?  What if I knew what the heck it meant when someone said, "Oh yeah, this song goes is a Horseshoe," not to mention could actually dance a Horseshoe?  The beauty of this season of my life is that I get to try a million and two different things, all the time.  It's like trying on different lives, different futures.  Last night, I saw a glimpse of my life as a country-music-loving-PBR-drinking-cowgirl.  Two weeks ago I saw a glimpse of myself as a community-theatre-supporting-artsy-to-a-t-stage manager.  Last summer I tried on European traveler, and in other glimpses I've seen diva, homemaker, professional assistant, and a whole host of other things.  This season of life isn't about sitting in my room, thinking until my brain bursts, and then magically arriving at the conclusion of who and what I want to be when I grow up.  This season is about, as Ms. Frizzle of Magic School Bus fame would say, taking chances, making mistakes, and getting messy.  I'm being smart, and I'm avoiding any longterm damage to both my body and my heart, but on days when I'm feeling particularly brave, I'm loving that right now I'm learning by experience.  These glimpses are gifts in a season of ambiguity and fuzzy vision, and while I doubt I'll ever line dance regularly, I'll probably always want to splurge on a pair of cowboy boots.  Oh the possibilities.

Double Duty

Today, I overslept.  And I'm 6 minutes away from leaving the house for a day of bridesmaid-y activities- jewelry making, and bridal showers, and bachelorette parties (the last of which I've heard may include line dancing.  Bring it on.).  As I lay in bed this morning, snoozing my alarm, I was thinking about how today I would write about light and darkness, and why I love waking up after the sunrise so much these days.  Instead, it turns out, I will write about love and marriage.  As I writing a card to go with the gift I forgot to wrap until this morning, I realized that this would need to be my thoughtful moment for the day.

Hey you!
You're getting married.  It's funny how when we were younger, the bigger deal seemed to be the event itself, and not everything that a wedding is a sign and symbol of.  Now, I'm not only in awe of the fact that you're planning a party for 300 people, but also that you have made the choice to love this one man for the rest of your life.  The party we'll throw a month from today is simply the sign of a decision you and Dan made months ago, and really, of a decision you'll make every day for the rest of your life.  Keep up the good (and hard) work, and enjoy this day of laughter and anticipation.  Love you.

Images: Coconut

The little girl walked through the grocery store, one hand always tightly clenching the side of the cart as her mother pushed it up and down the aisles.  What a wonderful place, thought the little girl.  Not only were the possibilities seemingly limitless, but they were also very well organized, and even at her young age she had a deep appreciation for all things sorted.   Color, shape, size, or number- it didn't matter how, simply that they were, in fact, sorted.

The other bit of magic brought by a trip to the grocery store was the grocery list itself.  The hand not clenching the cart gripped a ratty piece of paper, from the phone stand in the kitchen, and a pen, dug out of the bottom of her mother's purse.  Each time an item was chosen, the girl relinquished her hold on the cart just long enough to cross the item off the list.  Again, despite her young age, she knew the addiction of accomplishment, and sought it at every turn.

Grocery shopping seemed to the little girl the epitome of all things grown up.  She watched her mother as she made decision after decision, choosing between brands and judging produce as if she were at the county fair, and not simply the super market.  In time, the girl would also learn to make these decisions, and the magic would disappear as she realized that very few people actually knew what they were doing and everyone else was simply putting on a show, but for now the simple act of choosing mundane things like bananas and canned soup was awe-inspiring.

The best part of the trip was still to come.  As they approached the checkout stand, the little girl quickly scanned the boxes of candy, liking nearly everything she saw but looking for one thing in particular.  A split-second later she found it and, picking it up, tentatively handed it to her mother.  Her mother smiled, and added it to the cart, unable to resist her favorite candy and the opportunity to share a moment with her daughter.

Safely buckled into the car, with groceries piled around, the little girl ripped open the candy's packaging and found, as always, the two pieces of chocolate filled with coconut nestled in their cupcake paper lining.  She handed one to her mother, and ate the other, managing to smudge only a little chocolate on her fingers and face.  The short trip home was filled with contented smiles and the sweet scent of coconut.

Why I'm Not a Good Listener

"A lot of thoughts come up here, night and day, but there's no post office- Now there are some things we all know but we don't take'm out and look at'm very often.  We know that something is eternal.  And it ain't houses and it ain't names, and it ain't earth, and it ain't even the stars- everybody knows in their bones that something is eternal, and that something has to do with human beings.  All the greatest people ever lived have been telling us that for five thousand years and yet you'd be surprised how people are always letting go of that fact.  There's something way down deep that's eternal about every human being."

-Stage Manager, Thornton Wilder's Our Town

I am in the midst of a long love affair with words.  I began reading when I was very little, and have spent thousands upon thousands of hours in the company of authors and the people and places they make come to life through their words.  In college, I began to realize that I not only loved printed words, but spoken words as well.  And sung words, for that matter. My deep love of worship music and choral music was not only connected to the musical sounds produced, but the texts that connected the sounds with meaning.  For the first time in my life, I stopped following along in my Bible during the reading of a sermon text, and just listened.  Memorizing song texts for recitals and concerts became something of a treat rather than a chore, and through long rehearsals and concert tours, I learned that as I spent time with different texts, they became a part of who I am. Reading something once results in decent comprehension for me.  Speaking something myself can almost cement something in my memory (which is why my parents received so many mini-lectures on global history and Spanish when I was in high school).  Have something read to me, time and time again, is life-transforming.  This is why the liturgy at Colbert Presbyterian gives me the chills.  Why I want to cry when I heard the words "The gifts of God for us, the people of God."  Why I cherish the time Jerry Sittser spent reading us The Horse and His Boy and The Silver Chair at Tall Timber, and why I keep listening to the Focus on the Family Radio Theatre productions of all the stories in the Chronicles of Narnia.  This is why I look for opportunities to steep myself in the words of the people around me.

As I reflect on this run of Our Town, I find myself thinking that I'm so thankful to have had the opportunity to really live with the text- to get inside Wilder's head and try to understand the words I heard over and over again throughout the last six weeks.  I'm finding little bits of life in these words.  These words are showing up in bits of my life.  At some point this week, I found myself missing the feeling of creating meaning, and started looking for something new to lose myself in.  Something that would offer life.  Oh wait. There's an option readily available. And in fact, it's something that has been prescribed for the very thing I am seeking.  This feels cheesy to me, and I'm not sure why, but as Thornton Wilder wrote for Emily to say, "I have to tell the truth and shame the devil," so I'll just toss out the idea that maybe I should be creating meaning with texts in the Bible.  Just a thought.  If time and energy given to something man-made has had this effect in my life, imagine the possibilities with something God-breathed?  This is one of those things that "all the greatest people ever lived have been telling us that for five thousand years" and it turns out, that I'm just not that great of a listener.

"As always, when I do something that people have been doing for thousands of years, like reading the Bible or fasting or set prayer times, at first I think I've stumbled upon something very significant, and that I should try to tell a lot of people about this new, wonderful thing.  And then just a second later, I realize that there's nothing new about it, and that the reason people have been doing it for thousands of years is because it matters, because it does something inside of the people who do it.  It's not a new practice or the next big idea.  it's an enduring way of living that has been shaping and reshaping people for years.  When I fasted and prayed on a set rhythm, I felt like I was part of something old and durable.  I felt humble, one more set of footprints on a dusty well-worn path, discovering something new that's not new at all, and I was thankful."

-Shauna Niequist, Bittersweet

Images: At The (Noisy) Table

Last night, I went to the Fat Tuesday service at St. Mark's Lutheran Church here in Spokane.  Each year, they use a jazz liturgy written by a congregation member (and professor at Whitworth) for the season of Epiphany, and this service marks the end of that season with a festive time of worship AND an awesome dessert buffet after.  This is the third year I've attended this service, and as I was seated in the very back row (inconvenient for the most of the service, but strategic in terms of who gets to the dessert tables first), I got to watch just about everyone take communion before it was our turn to stand and shuffle forward through the line to the front of the sanctuary.  What I was struck by last night was what a joyful, messy, noisy family we are.  People are chatting with each other as they wait their turn, catching up with people and talking about how wonderful the music is that night (all the while talking over that very music).  Hugs are exchanged, backs are patted.  Kids are jabbering, old people are talking loudly.  The language generally used by the Church in describing communion is that of "coming to the table," the image being that of Christ setting the table of the Last Supper for his disciples, and Him continuing to set the table for us now, with his very own body and blood as the bread and wine.  Following this metaphor and my experiences in various churches, some families sit down at the table very solemnly, trying by sheer concentration to add significance to something seemingly comprised of everyday elements.  Others come to the table a little bit bored, missing the other-ness of this tradition.  Still others are a bit skimpy in their portions- offering you just a tiny bit of food and eye-dropper sized portion of drink.  I have been to one church where the family sits down to a table of plenty, and we are encouraged to eat up because God's grace does not run out.  Last night, the image was of a family coming to the table full of life and energy and gratitude, a messy mix of the sacred and the ordinary.  Often just before serving communion, many worship service leaders say "The gifts of God, for us, the people of God."  Undoubtably, the gifts they are referring to are the bread and the wine, but last night I was reminded that the family- quirky, strange, and noisy people that they are- the family is part of the gift as well.

Can I skip Lent?

Much to my surprise, Lent started today.  The last six or so weeks have been busy with rehearsals and performances of "Our Town," a delightful and thought-provoking play written by Thornton Wilder in the 1930s.  As we were cleaning up the spaces at the church this weekend, my friend Ann (and the show's director) reminded us that we needed to do an especially good job of cleaning and resetting things so that people from St. Mark's could get ready for this week's Fat Tuesday and Ash Wednesday services.  When did that happen?  Last time I checked, it was late January, 2012.  Turns out that it is now late February, 2012, and that today marks the beginning of that interesting season of the church calendar known as Lent.

But first, a few words about the history of our town.  I mean, Lent.  Sorry- lines from the show just keep creeping into everything I say or write.  In my life, I didn't know about Lent until college.  I had Catholic friends growing up who showed up to school with funny smudges on their faces some Wednesday morning in February, and there was always discussion about what delicious treat people were going to deny themselves, but beyond some external motivation for practicing self-control, I didn't understand it at all.  In college, I learned that Lent is a season of preparation for Easter, much like Advent is a season of preparation for Christmas.  We deny ourselves as we remember the sacrifice of Christ.  I also learned that often in the early church, Lent was the season for the "new members" class, and Easter was the one time during the course of that year that new members would be received into the life of the church.  We study and pray as we prepare to join the family of God.  This year, I'm learning that Lent is the place where grace meets effort, where we work out our faith with fear and trembling even as God works within us.

Nearly every year previous to this one, I've refused to give something up for Lent, mainly because I never think about it until Ash Wednesday, and I'd hate to have my sacrifice be something quickly thought up just to fit in with my crowd (oh, and, you know, I have a perpetual self-discipline deficiency in my life).  In college, I met people who took things up for Lent, which seemed like a good idea to me, so I've tried that a time or two.  This year, I find myself in need of something, and as I read books and listen to music and talk with friends and strangers, I find that what I need is life.  What I want is newness, joy, lightness, passion.  That doesn't seem like too ridiculous of a quest.  In fact, that's what Christianity seems to be about on the surface, right?  What I want is Easter- resurrection, rebirth, renewal.

What I don't want is Lent.  I don't want to examine the ways in which my life is broken, to discern my faults and failures.  I don't want to submit myself to the rule of God and the will of others, to practice disciplines even when I don't feel like it.  What I don't want is, in fact, that which has to come before space can be created for new life: death.

This year, I'd like to give up Lent for Lent.  But something tells me that even as every bit of me longs for life, every bit of me must first submit itself to death.  There are no short cuts.  Life that I can drum up for myself is not life at all- just more shadows and poorly crafted attempts at the real thing.  Life summoned out of death, now that's something God can work with.