NPM 2016: Day 11 {You & You & You & Me}

This is one of my favorite poems from the last several years. Just an FYI.

You & You & You & Me
August 24, 2015

The fondest memory collected
whistled among blades of grass
and whispered to shooting stars,
it sailed along slanted pulse-points
and swooned under the moon,
and from a life of savored moments,
this one so
solitary and fragmented
goes on uncaptured,
except in these words.

Thanksketching: Day 17

I am thankful for

friendship, 

for snark and sarcasm

and sweet memories.

[Thank you for being a friend.]

Thanksketching: Day 6

I am thankful for

coffee

in cups

with friends

old and new.

The Exceptional Uncaptured Moment

When there are difficult things weighing you down, suffering and struggles that take your attention, it's easy to focus on the wrongness of "everything." I remember, in every era of depression, someone asking me what was wrong and my response being quite honestly, "Everything." And it sounded dramatic, and people called me dramatic, but there are those experiences where everything truly seems wrong. And then, after some conversation, you can pinpoint that one thing, that untranslatable exception to the everything else, that singular flaw in your life that somehow feels worse and somehow "more wrong" than everything else.

In turn, there are good times in life when everything does not seem wrong. Everything isn't wonderful or overwhelmingly happy. But it's good. It's alright, it's pleasant. These are the times, I believe, that finding "joy in the Lord" is most accessible, because that sort of joy is often quiet and contented. It doesn't require wealth or impressive photography or acknowledgement from the world. It just is. And even in those times, there are also the exceptions--the untranslatable thing that rises above everything else, the singular fragment of bliss that surpasses all the "good" and the "alright", the thing that is "more good" than everything else.

I have experienced both of these times in abundance. I have experienced these exceptions. And since I spent my last post talking about the mundane frustrations of a gajillion doctor's appointments, today we're going to go in a positive direction.

A few weeks ago I went on "vacation" to Wisconsin. We went with a friend to see another friend (and her parents.) It's a short drive up there, just about three hours, and the country is simple and comforting. Lots of corn. Lots of fields. Lots of cornfields.

We even took pictures in the cornfields.

We also made meals together, and drank coffee and tea together.

We went to High Cliff Park and had adventures on the rocks.

We made mountains of food and had friends come over from near and far for a Friday-night barbecue. We sat around a fire pit drinking gin and tonics, munching on overzealously-prepared s'mores, laughing about life and laughing at each other.

It was, in every sense of the word, good. It was a good vacation.

But there are exceptions. And a part of me wants to mention the bad exceptions, because they happened, and they're small but important. Like when I got really dizzy for about an hour and had to lay down, and ended up taking a nap with Emily.

However, the "good" exception, that exceptional moment of goodness is where my heart really wants to be.

We were outside. It was nighttime. The stars were out.

It's a moment so exceptionally good, so overflowing with all the wonderful things that come from friendship and love, that I cannot even describe it here. It is so near to my heart that I cannot even find words worthy of giving.

It is the exception to all exceptions.

And that, my friends, is where God lives.

In those exceptional moments that tip the scales. He is there when things are exceptionally bad and there when things are exceptionally good. While the joy of the Lord is contentedness, quietness, and peace in the midst of the mundane, it can also exist in flashes of brilliance or despairing shadows.

These are the moments I don't write down. Sometimes I'm simply incapable of words. So much of our lives are captured in photographs and shared with immediacy as if they didn't happen unless someone else is aware.

But not every good thing has to impress others in order to be good, and certainly not to be exceptional. They are such exceptional moments that they deserve to exist only without tangible proof.

They go on uncaptured, except in our memories.

Recess

While tutoring a ten-year-old today I came across the word 'recess.' He had two long lists of words to study, and this was one of them. I varied the studying methods--a definition there, a spelling here, a sentence for each one. I asked him what recess was and he said, "When you get to play!" I agreed, then reminded him it could also just mean a break.

It immediately brought me back to my own ten-year-old self, and all the recesses I was forced to endure. As an adult I am more aware of the rest of the word--it offers us a break from real life, a respite from the day-to-day or the overwhelming. It could mean we take a long bath or go for a walk or snuggle with a fluffy dog. Maybe it means hot cups of coffee with friends or watching hours of Netflix or going swimming.

As a child, it was strictly for playing outside. I grew up in Washington state, and our school took recess very seriously. We had one mid-morning and another right after lunch, and it had to be raining (not drizzling, which is more common) in order for recess to be held inside.

I loved indoor recess, but not for the reasons you might think. I actually loved playing outside. At home, I would spend hours playing in the woods, climbing trees and riding my bike down a dangerously steep hill. I had scraped knees and slivers and weird tan lines on my legs from hours spent rollerblading. Being outside in my own domain was a thrill and a joy.

But being outside on a playground where some unknown "Recess Duty" would admonish me if I didn't have a ball in my hand or wasn't swinging on the monkey bars was more like a punishment. I was also extremely shy, extremely terrified of strangers and confrontation, and so the prospect of being approached by the Recess Duty because I wasn't "playing" scared me to death.

I wanted to be inside reading--which is, of course, why I loved rainy days and indoor recess. I loved curling up with a book in my classroom's library, or coloring vast landscapes at my desk until the bell rang again. There is something depressing about the fact that 'play' used to only mean running, jumping, or climbing. I hate that the other kinds of play, the kinds I was so connected to as a kid, were somehow considered lazy or less beneficial.

As I went on a sort of emotional adventure last weekend, this weekend I'll be taking another break from the real world--a recess, you might say. It's time for another road trip, for sure. In recent weeks I have been overwhelmed by doctors and recovering and bad news, and the turmoil of knowing it's all going to get more painful and overwhelming before any of it gets better. Starting next week I have my first post-op appointment, so before all of it begins...

I'm taking a recess. I'm going to play. I'm going to be with friends. We'll watch movies, drink tea, maybe even read books or draw pictures. I'm going to take a break and play in the way that most benefits me. I don't even care if it's raining.

Say Something

The old saying goes, "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all."

Maybe this phrase satisfies the hearts of children and helps them think before they speak. Maybe it allows the most sarcastic and cynical adults to function among the moronic masses without losing their jobs or getting slapped. Maybe it reminds us that some situations call for patience and tactful words instead of brutal honesty.

Realistically, however, this simplistic phrase does not accurately reflect how the modern world works--for two reasons.

1. The word "nice" is absolutely meaningless. I usually say, "That's so nice!" when I literally have no positive feelings about something and I can't appropriately express myself. Like many expressions it has come to mean the opposite of its original. For example, two dudes are skateboarding and one scrapes his knee. He shows his bloody knee to his friend and the friend says, "Oooh, nice." Nice really does mean nothing, and it's almost inexcusable to use it in formal speech. When I was teaching middle school I reminded my students on a daily basis that "nice" should be removed from their vocabulary and replaced with... pretty much anything else in the "nice" spectrum. Nice is boring, nice is insincere, nice is hovering above the surface of an ocean of excellent synonyms.

2. If we took this phrase literally and only ever said nice things, the world as we know it would fizzle and disappear. Stories would never be told and a million lessons would go unlearned, no one would sing the blues in a beautiful baritone, and people would walk around with diseases because it's certainly not nice to say, "I'm sorry, sir, but you have The Bubonic Plague." Furthermore, marriage proposals are not "nice"--powerful, moving, but not nice. Pregnancy announcements, likewise, are not nice. Asking for a raise or you'll quit, telling the news of a relative's death, warning the country that the British are coming, or correcting a student's paper and writing 'F' at the top are all very not-nice things.

The reason I mention this is because in today's society everything you say in social networking circles or public domains can be criticized and crushed for the most insignificant reasons. Our friends, on the other hand, never say anything critical to us on these platforms simply because they want to show us support. (Siblings are not part of this equation.) We say nice (meaningless) things to our friends and rip apart strangers. It really should be the opposite.

We should say the not-nice things to our friends. To our families. We should give them words full of meaning and power, words to uplift them and encourage them grow. We should share thoughts that bring us closer together instead of keeping us at a comfortable distance. Our nice words--the ones that are polite, appropriate, and meaningless--save them for strangers.

There are so many words we use and things we say that are not nice but they are necessary. They sustain us! A life based on "nice" may be pleasant but it will be empty of meaning. And a life without meaning is no life. A nice life is detrimental to life. 

I don't want a nice life. I want an incredible one.

Thirty Thanks, Day 27: Thanksgiving

I will be brief, for there are friends to be loved, conversations to be had, memories to be made. Today I am thankful for Thanksgiving--for the opportunity we are given to make our gratitude intentional. We are given a day and a space to be thankful for every blessing, to surround ourselves with love and thankfulness. For every good and perfect gift comes from God. I am thankful, today, to be in the presence of loved ones. There is a warm fire, an unending supply of coffee, beautiful snow on the ground outside, and a delicious meal in progress.

Thanks...

Thirty Thanks, Day 26: Roadtrips

The movies will make you believe that roadtrips are always catalytic and full of growth, like a coming-of-age novella. They'll convince you that every pit stop can be transformative, every bump in the road a metaphor for life. Movies will also show you that at least one person is always miserable, and at least one person is oblivious to the other's misery.

But the truth is that sometimes roadtrips are just another part of life. Sometimes they're really meaningful. Sometimes they're full of angst. Sometimes you're asleep the whole way. I'm thankful for them, regardless of the outcome or the journey. 

Roadtrips have always just been a normal part of my life. They were often methods of travel--moving to Washington from Montana, visiting Montana, visiting family in Oregon at least once a year. And when I was little, they symbolized uninterrupted time with my a sketch pad or a Mrs. Piggle Wiggle book. As I grew I began to use the time to listen to my portable CD player, alone in the backseat. Even if we didn't stop anywhere exciting on the way to our destination, even if I was bored out of my mind because we got stuck in a traffic jam, I still enjoyed the journey.

Now that I'm an adult, my roadtrips are more meaningful, and transformative... but only because I made the decision to take them myself. Not quite a month after I got married, we roadtripped across America so I could get back to school. And last year some friends and I took a roadtrip to Missouri for a wedding. Today I'm roadtripping up to Wisconsin for Thanksgiving.

But they're not meaningful because of the location. Or the occasion. Or the duration.

They're meaningful because of the memories made with the people you care about most.

I'm thankful for roadtrips, because sometimes they do allow you to grow. And even if you don't grow into a "better" person or a "new" person sometimes you just grow closer to your friends, or yourself, or to God. I'm thankful for the opportunity to see new places and experience new things, to find adventure and inspiration. I'm thankful for a semi-reliable car. I'm thankful for the company of good friends, today and every day.

Thanks, roadtrips. You're incredible.

Thirty Thanks, Day 11 - Day 18: All These Things In Between

An entire week has passed since I made the time to blog. I mentioned, I think, that November was my busiest month. I wasn't lying. Perhaps this is why it's important to stop and be thankful for things amid all the chaos and bewildering activity. I would attempt to go back to each day I've missed, thinking of something that happened on those days that I can be thankful for. But it's been a long week, and then a long weekend, and so these smell in-between things are going to be arbitrarily chosen.

Day 11: I am thankful that my apartment is fairly clean right now, and that (for the winter, at least) the spiders have stopped invading.

Day 12: I am thankful for winter clothes, and for the excitement I experience when I take them out of storage and put away the summer dresses.

Day 13: I am thankful for stores that are closed on Sundays, even if it inconveniences me.

Day 14: I am thankful for friends who come to visit me in Illinois, because it makes me feel grown up and worth hanging out with.

Day 15: I am thankful for Chicago and all its wonders.

Day 16: I am more thankful for Seattle, because it's my favorite city, even if its wonders are more familiar and less mysterious.

Day 17: I am thankful for stores that haven't put up their Christmas decor yet.

Day 18: I am thankful for peppermint flavored things, and the abundance of them during this absolutely delightful season.

And now I'm all caught up. I promise to try to get on top of everything again tomorrow. I may even write some posts in advance because Thanksgiving is coming soon and I will be even more occupied and busy.

Thanks, all-these-things-in-between. You're incredible... and your brevity is convenient.

Thirty Thanks, Day 7: The Story (Part 1)

Long ago there was a blackbird whose wife was stolen by an Indian ruler. Blackbird made put on his armor and made himself a drum and traveled toward the palace to get back his wife. On his way he met some ants, some cats, some sticks, and a river. They had all been wronged by this evil ruler too, and so they climbed inside Blackbird's ear. They made their way to the palace, overcame every obstacle put in their way, and rescued Blackbird's wife.

This is my favorite childhood story. It's adorable, but that's not why I'm thankful.

Last year I made a blog post that was thankful for simply all books, or at least my favorite books. But this year I want to express more about the foundation of that feeling. I did not reach adulthood and suddenly become a book-lover. No, my love for such things was built over many years. Today I want to say that I am thankful for children's stories. 

The story mentioned above is an old Indian folktale, called Rum Pum Pum. It's one of my favorite books from my childhood, but also one of my favorite books EVER. It's not because there are talking animals--I couldn't care less about talking animals. In fact, I'd rather do without them all together. And it's not because it's a "hipster" book that no one knows about, or a "folktale" and therefore more moralistic and meaningful that more popular children's books. I love it because of its phenomenal story that resonates with reality.

Our protagonist has suffered a great loss. Rather than give up hope, he finds his strength and starts a journey. There are many adventures to be had and friends to find along the way. He is victorious not by his own strength, but by the unity formed between them all.

In real life, we suffer great losses. We feel compelled, sometimes, to lose hope. But we don't. We hold on. We fight. There is a fight to win, a battle to begin. And there are others who have suffered their own losses, others who have their own tragedies and sorrows and they will fight with us! Many things in this life we must do alone, but a victory--vindication!--is something to be shared.

This is true of Rum Pum Pum, of Little House on the Prairie and The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe and The Little Engine that Could. There is a fight, there are friends, and a grand finale. This is also true of the stories my father told me when I was little. They were about Princess Goldenhair (ahem) and her brothers (ahem) and some evil goblins. These were stories about fighting for justice and friendship and being brave.

I am thankful for the stories of my childhood, for the lessons they allowed me to learn. I am thankful for the deep love for books they ingrained in my soul. I am thankful for the connections I was able to make within each story, how every character taught me something about real life. I am thankful for the good guys and the bad guys and the illustrations and even the talking animals. I am thankful for the way books can be friends themselves, and for the way they can heal and comfort and inspire.

Thanks, stories. You're incredible.

Thirty Thanks, Day 6: Those Friends

I have not always had wonderful friends. I have not always had the pleasure of knowing friends who would lay down their own life for mine, or give me their time and energy freely, or listen sincerely, or want only good for me. I have had them, my whole life, but never before so many at once.

This is partially caused by the hormonal chaos of high school. A friend today, a rival tomorrow. But it's also because I have high expectations for my friends. 

My parents always attempted to convince me that if only I lowered my expectations, I wouldn't end up so hurt or disappointed by my friendships. However, I didn't agree then, and I don't agree now. My expectations were not ridiculous. I was resolved to be a good friend, and wanted the same in return. 

A good friend, by my understanding, should never reject you, even temporarily. That is, they shouldn't end a friendship based on temporary emotions. A good friend also never rejects you based on the presence of "other" friends. A good friend is honest about their feelings--if they're angry, they should say so, even if it causes conflict within the friendship. A good friend listens, even if they don't "agree" with what's being said. (Unless, of course, they're listening to someone admit to murder or something horrible--then they should stop listening, and call the cops.) A good friend doesn't give unwanted advice. A good friend doesn't stop being your friend simply because they have a boyfriend/girlfriend. A good friend should want to spend time with you, even if it's inconvenient. A good friend should want to talk with you, even if you have a bad day and aren't very pleasant to be around. 

I say all of this because my experience was often the opposite, particularly in high school, and even more specifically when I was depressed. It seemed the more depressed I became, the less my friends wanted to spend time with me, or talk to me, or even acknowledge me. I often felt that my depression was inconvenient for them, and when I went to them for comfort (or just company!) they came across as irritated that I was "still depressed."

In a strange way, I was thankful for those friends. And there were other good friends that I could depend on, but I always hoped I would be able to depend on all the people who claimed to be my friend, and not just one or two. They all had their methods of supporting me, and I can give them all grace because we were teenagers. But they don't hold a candle to the friends I have now. 

I am so thankful for my friends. I am thankful for their  laughter and their smiles, how they not only brighten my days but allow me to brighten theirs. I am thankful for their genuine enjoyment of our friendship, and their sincere desire to spend time with me and talk with me. I am thankful for their support when I am in sorrow or joy. I am thankful for their acceptance. I am thankful that we belong together. I am thankful for the conversations we share and the endless amounts of coffee consumed in each others' presence. I am thankful for the ATLA marathons and the Star Wars parties and the snowball fights and the photos and the roadtrips and the weddings. I am thankful for their strength. I am thankful for the patience they have with me, for the comfort they offer to me, for the words shouted or whispered or sung. I am infinitely thankful for the abundant blessing of each and every friendship.

Thanks, friends. You're incredible. 

My Wildest Expectations

Not quite a year ago I blogged about my 25th birthday. It took me a whole week to write about it, because I was that exhausted. I am likely more exhausted this year but I cannot possibly contain my joy any longer.

I will start with this: Last night, in the final hours of my birthday, I lay in bed with a Kindle full of new books from my parents. Out in the living room sat two more books, gifts from my husband and a good friend, and an old sensation filled me. The joy of books. The joy of expectation, that there are words to be tasted and characters to be discovered and places to explore within the pages (tangible or digital). I only managed to read a few pages, because I was too tired to keep my eyes open.

The truth is that I am just now, on Thursday, coming off of a long "birthday weekend." This is a strange term for me to use. When I hear it, I envision girls (really women, who act like girls) wearing revealing clothing, traveling somewhere idiotic like Las Vegas and spending a lot of money on alcohol. Or maybe "birthday weekend" means camping on the beach and taking lots of Instagram photos. Either way, I think of people who want nothing more than to impress the world with their recreational activities. 

For me, my birthday weekend meant the company of friends. It was not impressive, but it was beautiful. 

Emily, one of my best and dearest friends came down on Friday, and helped us prepare for the "big" party on Saturday. She would stay the entire weekend. We bought party food and supplies, went to numerous thrift stores, and spent long hours coloring with crayons in the living room. On Saturday I had a total of 10 people in the apartment (12 if you count me and my husband, 13 if you count the dog who was locked in the bedroom.) We ate tacos and drank cider and played Apples to Apples. Sunday morning the hubby made bacon and eggs for everyone (another friend had been too tired to drive home the night before). That afternoon Joey, Emily and I took some gorgeous photos at a forest preserve. On Monday Emily and I did some craft store shopping, an old tradition of ours, before she went back home. 

It was the most "me" I had been in a very long time. There was an abundance of laughter and reminiscing. We talked about books and past loves and new loves. We walked in the pouring rain and cuddled with my dog and imagined that it would never end. Because that's friendship. 

By Wednesday morning, my actual birthday, I had finally recovered from the stimulating weekend. I love my friends, and in general I love people. But they also tire me out. I spent two whole days resting and doing nothing. I worked 6 hours on Tuesday and it was torturous because my body was still exhausted, my heart still sad that my Emily had gone home. And so on Wednesday I tired myself out again with a fancy dinner and bowling. 

This is the weariness I expect from all this activity. I am not surprised. Each night, as we stayed up later and later, I anticipated the coming migraine and fatigue which are testament to my socializing. But it was beautiful. I expected it to be beautiful because I trusted that we could make it so.