I Am

I like stories. And today, I read about a story that really jolted something awake inside of me. In the early 20th century, The Times in London posed a question: "What is wrong with our world?" Many of the great writers of the time period were invited to compose an essay on the topic, and one wrote a letter in response. "Dear Sirs, I am. Sincerely yours, G.K. Chesterton."

Wow. Even though this story takes up all of 3 lines, it sparked a flurry of thoughts in my head (yes, someone has definitely had their coffee this morning). First, I had to marvel that this question of "What's wrong with our world?" has been asked for centuries, and probably even longer than that. Still, our society in general doesn't seem to have an answer for it. We tend to blame the world's faults on the economy, the media, the government, the celebrities, the drug users, our ex-lovers, our family, the prostitutes, the unemployed, the poor, the rich, the teachers, the scientists, Wall Street, the Christians, the Muslims, the atheists, the gays, the politicians, the young people, and the old people...but who actually stops to think, "Maybe it's me." Who actually has an ego strong enough to consider the possibility that maybe, just maybe, we are creating our own problems? Who is brave enough to point the finger back at themselves? Judging by the state of our world, clearly not enough of us.

It is so much easier to blame others, especially those who we don't know personally. That is so much easier than entertaining the dark, terrifying, powerful  thought that each person can make a difference. Now that I'm in my twenties, I think I'm starting to lose that youthful glow that comes from thinking that "one person can change the world." That young idea has transformed into my belief that maybe one person can't change the entire world, but one person can be an instrument of peace to the people around them. After all, that is our world. There are ripple effects, and we often don't know how we affect others. Humanity is incredibly connected in this wonderful net of solidarity (thank you, 10th grade religion teacher for that word; it's one of my favorites).

Today, I'm challenging myself to take responsibility. I'll ask myself the hard questions of what role I play in this crazy world, and I hope you'll do the same.

Sacred Night

The day is done,
And the storm rolls in.
Resurrection is on the horizon,
Like a long lost friend.

Outside, the sky darkens,
Deepening into endless abyss.
The distant heavens tinker with
My wonder-hungry imagination.

A desert landscape in the sky, perhaps?
The sun is aching to retire
Into sleep, but the dark
Clouds continuously pull back the curtains.

The air is heavy with
Late spring humidity and
The smell of honeysuckle.
Sweet, tempting, lethargic.

Disobedient raindrops tickle my toes.
Lightning is both fleeting and sweeping,
Electrifying the earth with its long fingers.
Thunder shudders throughout my veins.

And above our red door,
A purple martin abides.
He keeps watch with me: waiting
On this enchanted night.





Apparently, this is what my camera thinks lightning looks like.

A Return to Childhood

I'm so incredibly lucky to have a job where I work with children. Seriously. Every child I meet seems to be more precious than the last, and their warm hugs just absolutely make my life so sweet. To be fair, I do have an imperative, immediate need to change my shirt after work most days... (Be creative; if you can imagine it, it's probably been wiped on my shirt at some point. I know, I know - ewwwwww) Still, children are such creators of true joy. Maybe it's because they're so honest, or maybe it's because they're so full of questions. Maybe it's because when I try to think back to my own early childhood, I find myself unable to sort out the memories. Family drama over the past few years has made it hard to filter out what I know now, and what I simply felt and experienced then. Intuitively, I know that my childhood was filled with happiness - long walks to the park, feeding ducks with my aunt, and lazy afternoons forcing my brother to play Barbies (sorry, Mattiekins!). Sometimes, I forget to remember all that happiness. Watching my students play today reminded me of just a few of the wonderful parts of childhood that I'd forgotten to remember.

Best parts of childhood I didn't realize I would miss:
1. Finger painting: Seriously, how did I just rediscover the amazingness of finger painting?? Mixing colors together into limitless swirls, feeling the paint just soak into your fingers. Pure bliss.
2. Naps: Now, I know that I certainly took these for granted when I was a kid. I was the kid who perpetually popped up from my nap spot to check and see if my mom was watching or if she was asleep yet. Inevitably, she knew that I wasn't sleeping, so she'd tell me to put my head back down .This would last for maybe 30 seconds, and then the cycle would repeat. These days, naps seem so comforting, but like a distant possibility in a heavily scheduled day.    
3. Animal crackers: No judging. There are few snacks more delicious than animal crackers - except cupcakes, of course!
4. Puzzles: I seem to recall that I hated puzzles when I was a kid. I think I wasn't very patient (anyone suprised by that?), and I got frustrated too easily - I just wanted to see what picture it made! Now, I think they're pretty fun stress relief!
5. Viewing hand washing as part of playtime: How many adults do you know of that think hand washing is delightful? Clearly, most adults try to finish up washing hands as quickly as possible and find any reason to skip a trip to the sink. And children? My pre-k kids are absolutely enamored with the idea of running to the sink any chance they get to wash their hands, and they want to wash their hands not just once, but two or three times. Precious.

There you have it, friends. Go out, and find a way to remember your childhood today!

Obsessed with Fun

Today, I'm feeling pensive. Maybe it's because it's the beginning of Holy Week, or maybe it's because I had two cups of coffee. It could be that I have too much time on my hands these days. I suppose the reason doesn't matter, but I find myself asking those troublesome questions that I spoke of in a blog post about a week ago.

Today, I'm wondering about our culture's questionable preoccupation with FUN. It's everywhere you look. Turn on the TV, and you'll see an ad about a beer that will supposedly help you have more fun than all the other beers you could drink. Drive down the highway, and you'll see billboards advertising travel agencies promising a fun getaway trip. Companies seem to be engaging in an endless search to find ways to make work fun for employees, instituting countless new programs to disguise the fact that work is being done in the workplace. Go to the car dealership, and you can watch a fun tv show while you wait for an oil change. (Don't even get me started talking about the idea that too many people can't sit still for an hour without watching television... That's another story for another time.)

Fun seems to be a priority. I know people who forego buying health insurance because they don't want to give up going out to movies or their daily cup of overpriced coffee. Many are constantly in search of a church that is fun and makes them feel warm and fuzzy inside. There are others who don't send their children to an adequate school because then, they might not have money for a fun summer vacation at the beach. Some children can barely find the motivation to learn because they'd rather be playing a fun videogame. Still others let their houses collect dust and their yards go unmaintained because housework and yardwork simply aren't fun.

I find myself fascinated by this, what I view as our culture's obsession with having fun. I wonder, where did this come from? Has this preoccupation always been so prevalent, or did a recent cultural shift play a role? How did we get to a point where we feel entitled not just to have basic human rights, but to live in a world that is fun as well? This viewpoint probably isn't popular with most people, but that's not my goal here. Now, I'm not arguing that life can't be fun or that fun is a terrible, evil sin. I'm just wondering, why do we feel entitled to have fun? When did we begin to think that hard work is something to be avoided? Fun has become an expectation that colors our daily living.

Perhaps this just wasn't the way that I was raised, or at least, it's not the way I've come to view the world. Personally, I expect that life is going to be hard work. I expect that I'm going to work to the best of my ability, and if fun happens to enter the picture, then that's fantastic! I'll soak up the fun when it happens to spontaneously enter my life, but I honestly don't think I seek out this fun. I prefer to be pleasantly surprised by it. Maybe that makes me boring, and maybe that labels me a borderline workaholic. You know what? I'm ok with that. That's who I am.

A Tribute to Love

Tonight, one of my professors (who pronounces himself "crazy" and urges us not to try to change that), invited his wife to join our class. He encouraged us to ask her any questions about him that we were just dying to know the answers to, and she proved to be a captivating storyteller. In my opinion, I think there are few things more precious than a couple who's been married for many years and still loves each other with a burning passion.

As I watched the two of them interact, I realized that true love does, in fact, exist. This runs contrary to the heartbreaking stories that invade so many of our lives. I'll admit, I can be pretty skeptical of lasting love, and it's taken me a long time to learn to hope. Every once in a while, I meet couples that absolutely boggle my mind. I still can't quite comprehend what it's like to be married to someone for 50 years, to intimately  know all of their faults and their merits, and to love them more with each day that comes to a close. I think that love must be the most beautiful gift life has to offer, and maybe the most elusive, too. So many people spend so much of their lives searching for someone with whom they can connect. Some people find that love and give it up for whatever reason, and some people seek without finding. And some lucky few find that deep, treasured love and don't let go. Smart choice.

This husband and wife had so many stories to share from their 54 years of marriage. I was struck by how playful they were, and how they seemed to just be wrapped in each other's goodness. They seemed to shine when they talked about how spectactular their mate was, and it almost brought tears to my eyes. In my own family, it's tough for me to find examples of people who seem truly happy in their marriages. Maybe that's why I can so appreciate those couples that are truly better for being together. At times, it's easier to believe that "true" love doesn't exist, because that kind of love implies vulnerability, intimacy, and commitment. That can be terrifying. But tonight, I realized (again) that all those fears are worth setting aside, just to have someone look at you the way that my professor and his wife look at each other. What a tribute to love.

Our homework, as usually dictated by this professor, is simple: "Go love yourself and everyone that gets in your way." I think I'll get started now...

The Origin of Musings

Hello, all! Spring is truly upon us, so I hope you're enjoying the season and taking your allergy medicines. Today, I had a friend request a topic for me to write about. Usually, I don't like doing what others tell me (that originated in an obstinate childhood, I'm sure), but I rather liked the topic he suggested. Something about the question sparked this immediate need for my fingers to touch the keyboard and start writing. My style of writing is almost compulsive, at times. I'll be doing something, and a thought will hide in the fringes of my brain, slowly coming into focus. As I allow myself to think about it more, I can literally almost feel an aching yearning in my fingers to write it out. Sometimes, I indulge this need immediately, and sometimes, I make myself practice waiting. It sounds a bit ascetic, but I challenge myself to hold these wavering thoughts in my mind, savoring them until they're ripe for writing.

Today's topic: what inspires my musings. The short answer is that just about everything life's made of  inspires me. Now, we all know that I'm not exactly a "short, get to the point" kind of writer; perhaps that shortness is something I reserve for my physical height :) Knowing that, you can deduce that I'm probably going to give a longer answer than you asked for, and that, my friends, is correct.

Giving some more thought to the issue, I think at the core, it's questions that inspire me to give in to my musings. Ever since I can remember, I've always had an active imagination, although the realistic part of my self usually keeps me from unveiling that to most people. In my head, there's an endless scroll of questions. These questions are always sparked by everyday things. Life is ordinary, no matter how hard we try to make it extraordinary.

Often, these questions draw from my unabashed love affair with nature. I see a bird, and I wonder what it would be like to fly and feel the wind between the feathers on my wings. I wonder what trees would say if they could talk and what it feels like when raindrops hit their leaves. I wonder what it would be like to spend an entire day laying in the grass and listening to the sway of the weeds. I wonder how fast sunshine streams through the clouds. I wonder what it feels like to be a ripple in the water.

As much as I love nature, I adore people. Simply and truly, and not always. People fascinate me. People don't make sense, and yet, they can be so predictable. And when we can't predict each other's movements, there's such beauty in that chaos. I find myself wondering about the history of just about everyone I meet. How did they get to look like they do today, and what darkness have they experienced? What makes people react so differently to similar circumstances? What do people dream for themselves? How do people know they are loved? These questions are endless, and I'll spend the rest of my life wondering them.

Photographs are my latest source of inspiration, I believe. I love photos because they often lack context. What we see is only what the photographer captures through the lens. We're given a frame to look through, and the rest, we decide for ourselves. What else is out there?

I rejoice in questions. My thoughts are constantly racing, and that feels peaceful to me. Questions make me feel alive. I've long since given up in trying to answer all the questions. As Earl Grey Stevens said, "Confidence, like art, never comes from having all the answers; it comes from being open to all the questions."