On one of my office computers, my screen saver is a mountain. I needed a change from the previous autumn leaves. So from the generic choices provided to me, I selected this mountain. I'm only in this office a couple of days a week but I'm starting to see more of the photograph that what is really there...
A cold morning with a light breeze. The mountain is dusted with snow and a small cloud lingers at the summit. The moon is still out, bright and reflecting the soon-to-rise sun. Blues and purples soon to transform to greens and yellows. I see myself at a trail head with hiking boots and a backpack. Preparations completed for a journey to the apex.
There is an excitement and anticipation of accomplishing the trek. And the realization that there will also be pain, exhaustion, and doubts. But the only way to the top is to battle up the hill. Somehow I see both the joy of new perspective and the struggle up as essential. I reminisce on past adventures and the success. And the labor. This is a new adventure. Mysterious and beckoning.
Time will tell the duration of the climb. And when I reach the peak, I will look back and have a story to tell. Another scene in my bigger story. Another slice of all of our stories.
...Some days I have to remind myself to get back to work. The mountain will still be there even when I have other tasks. It is another reminder to "embrace beauty, and live life to its fullest" (Kyle Lake). Another year to keep climbing new mountains.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Thursday, December 24, 2009
where is the hero of the story?
For a hero to exist, there must be people for him to rescue.
In another time, a scene was set for a hero to enter into a story. A nation of people who were not strangers to oppression. Oppressed once again by an empire using violence to bring peace. Leaders who took advantage of a people group through greed and murder. This nation cried out for someone to save them. But they were looking for a political leader for that change.
Yet the hero was not born into wealth or advantage. He was born into a messy family into a messy world. While he could boast of royalty in his lineage, he also had murderers and prostitutes, liars, and plenty of brokenness. He did not look like a hero to the people. Yet he had the courage and ability to do what no other person could. And while most of the nation searched for a strong force to overthrow their oppressors, the hero of the story changed the world forever in a much different plot.
Today our world also cries out for a hero. Oppression is everywhere. Lack of food and shelter or disease oppress some. Others are overtaken by debt, taxes, fear, greed and hate. Some are oppressed by stronger people or groups, some are oppressed by their own choices. In a world where father brings more negative than positive images, where new fears are advertised every day, where some days it is a wonder that our world even remains to exist, we are crying out for someone to save us. Our hero is here. And he hears our cries. But sometimes he is lost in the noise. Noise of politics, news, entertainment, technology, religion.
Sometimes our hero is over shadowed by those that look just like him. The imitation heroes really are just as oppressive--preaching hate for those who are different, whitewashing people yet letting them rot in the their hearts. Claiming we have to be perfect for our hero to hear us. When he came not for those who are saved but those who needed saving. Our hero doesn't have a cape or a sidekick. But he does have supernatural powers. But those powers are not what most of us are searching for.
Where the black and white and shades of gray in our world envelop our lives, he is the color that redefines our existence. In a movie, his touch would start a rainbow of colors spreading through lives. The kingdom he brings is in high definition. But for now all we can see are the bits of color that shine through the darkness and drab. His promises are abundance while the heroes we place our trust in can only offer survival.
The hero will keep returning. The stories will repeat. Each time the hero will be missed by most. But the hope remains that "the end" of the story is a large party, where the hero gathers his people to celebrate. And when we look around that table, we'll be surprised by those we celebrate. Just as we're so often surprised by the hero that invited us to the party.
In another time, a scene was set for a hero to enter into a story. A nation of people who were not strangers to oppression. Oppressed once again by an empire using violence to bring peace. Leaders who took advantage of a people group through greed and murder. This nation cried out for someone to save them. But they were looking for a political leader for that change.
Yet the hero was not born into wealth or advantage. He was born into a messy family into a messy world. While he could boast of royalty in his lineage, he also had murderers and prostitutes, liars, and plenty of brokenness. He did not look like a hero to the people. Yet he had the courage and ability to do what no other person could. And while most of the nation searched for a strong force to overthrow their oppressors, the hero of the story changed the world forever in a much different plot.
Today our world also cries out for a hero. Oppression is everywhere. Lack of food and shelter or disease oppress some. Others are overtaken by debt, taxes, fear, greed and hate. Some are oppressed by stronger people or groups, some are oppressed by their own choices. In a world where father brings more negative than positive images, where new fears are advertised every day, where some days it is a wonder that our world even remains to exist, we are crying out for someone to save us. Our hero is here. And he hears our cries. But sometimes he is lost in the noise. Noise of politics, news, entertainment, technology, religion.
Sometimes our hero is over shadowed by those that look just like him. The imitation heroes really are just as oppressive--preaching hate for those who are different, whitewashing people yet letting them rot in the their hearts. Claiming we have to be perfect for our hero to hear us. When he came not for those who are saved but those who needed saving. Our hero doesn't have a cape or a sidekick. But he does have supernatural powers. But those powers are not what most of us are searching for.
Where the black and white and shades of gray in our world envelop our lives, he is the color that redefines our existence. In a movie, his touch would start a rainbow of colors spreading through lives. The kingdom he brings is in high definition. But for now all we can see are the bits of color that shine through the darkness and drab. His promises are abundance while the heroes we place our trust in can only offer survival.
The hero will keep returning. The stories will repeat. Each time the hero will be missed by most. But the hope remains that "the end" of the story is a large party, where the hero gathers his people to celebrate. And when we look around that table, we'll be surprised by those we celebrate. Just as we're so often surprised by the hero that invited us to the party.
Monday, November 30, 2009
thankful
November 2004. Unfortunately it was not just a frightening dream. The experience was real. The first week spent slipping into a personal hell that at the time I had no language to express. Another week in a hospital just trying to fight my way back to the surface. Prescriptions and a vague diagnosis. And Thanksgiving spent driving endless hours to Colorado to move my brother. While I was relieved to be with family, that drive was a constant reminder that I had just failed. I didn't have control. My thoughts were spinning and my hope was fading.
Thanksgiving dinner was spent at Burger King. My parents were worried about my mental status. My parents worried about my brother moving to another state. I was worried about everything. And wanted to crawl in a whole and slip away.
Yet that was my crisis point. The point in my story that led to a choice of how. How would my story would evolve and how would my character change.
November 2009. A dream I wouldn't have imagined but nonetheless magical. This Thanksgiving I look back and see what the results of what I had wanted to be a mere nightmare. What joy I have in my heart to reflect on who I am now because of that crisis point. Not perfect. But good.
Instead of a quiet fast food dinner in the middle of nowhere, I enjoyed two meals Thursday full of laughter and discussions. And a much more enjoyable road trip to Southern California (minus the holiday traffic back to the Bay Area).
One meal shared with family. Which through my own crisis point and other family challenges, the family bonds are strong (and bigger with a sister-in-law). Another with friends--the majority of them very new.
This weekend is another slice-of-life scene. Evidence that my crisis was worth the pain. It brought compassion, openness, and a genuine spirit. It brought in amazing new people who have changed my life for good. It spurred me on a become a person I am proud of and enjoy to be around (and confidence that others also enjoy who I am).
So this year, I am thankful for how my story has changed. The character that I have become. And I dream of what other Thanksgiving's may bring.
Thanksgiving dinner was spent at Burger King. My parents were worried about my mental status. My parents worried about my brother moving to another state. I was worried about everything. And wanted to crawl in a whole and slip away.
Yet that was my crisis point. The point in my story that led to a choice of how. How would my story would evolve and how would my character change.
November 2009. A dream I wouldn't have imagined but nonetheless magical. This Thanksgiving I look back and see what the results of what I had wanted to be a mere nightmare. What joy I have in my heart to reflect on who I am now because of that crisis point. Not perfect. But good.
Instead of a quiet fast food dinner in the middle of nowhere, I enjoyed two meals Thursday full of laughter and discussions. And a much more enjoyable road trip to Southern California (minus the holiday traffic back to the Bay Area).
One meal shared with family. Which through my own crisis point and other family challenges, the family bonds are strong (and bigger with a sister-in-law). Another with friends--the majority of them very new.
This weekend is another slice-of-life scene. Evidence that my crisis was worth the pain. It brought compassion, openness, and a genuine spirit. It brought in amazing new people who have changed my life for good. It spurred me on a become a person I am proud of and enjoy to be around (and confidence that others also enjoy who I am).
So this year, I am thankful for how my story has changed. The character that I have become. And I dream of what other Thanksgiving's may bring.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Box of candid photographs.
In my memory I sit curled up in my favorite reading chair. A blanket wrapped for comfort.
I push play for music that speaks to my soul. I can feel the bass in my chest. Light flickers against walls.
I sort through the pictures. Like in Harry Potter's world, these pictures are not static but move as I hold them. They bring with them sounds, and color and texture of life.
I pick up the first photo. An old theatre. Deep red curtains. The center isle leading to the stage. It was my new experience to have church in a building other than, well, a church. It was a place I only visited a few times when I could catch a ride during my car-less freshman year. There was something different about the voices. The sounds in the theatre. The story that began during autumn years ago.
----
Edges of another photo. A converted supermarket is now a church. Clouds are painted on the front wall bordering the brick wall in the center. Candles line the front stage, wax dripping down the black metal holders into puddles. The young man in front has humor and honesty that catches me off guard. And the music pulls me out of myself. Out of my awkwardness and clumsiness. This became my resting place.
----
The back room is painted in deep blues, golds and burgundy. Couches in a circle. And discussions between peers that make my head and heart spin. Sometimes it's a Sunday morning. A handful or two of college students. Some days it is a Tuesday night and there is the sweet smell of cigars and maybe a pipe. It is here a group is gathered one week after a phone call. It was time for on leader to start a new community and new journey. Time for the torch to be passed on to another. I remember a feeling of sadness for this passing moment. And a comfort in my soul for this community I belonged.
----
A retro Sunday. "New" burst orange pews to accommodate the few hundred college students. In the spirit of celebrating a silly gift of seating, some of us boldly dressed up in old 60's and 70's attire. There was fun here. Laughing. Spirit. Sarcasm at times. Yet there was also awe. Mystery. Beauty. Humility and brokenness.
----
Communion during the last Sunday before I moved home from college. Orange pews still. Tears from my friend Kelly and I before walking up for a torn corner of bread and the small plastic cup of grape juice. It was time for my life to change. Many good moments from the previous few years. And a lot of uncertainty ahead. Distance to separate me from a place that fostered the paradigm shift. One that would leave lasting ripples of change. Distance from a community that always allowed me to be me. The music that enveloped me, was felt in the beat of my heart and soul. With eyes closed, within moments I was transported to another world.
----
Another photo. The last time I saw my pastor Kyle. He spotted Kelly and I during the sermon. A moment of recognition. I remember how much I longed at that time to be back in that room week after week. To a place where I could come to with whatever was on my heart. Close my eyes. Sway. Forget about the outside and remember my connection to something else. We chatted with Kyle after the service for only a few quick moments before visiting another college hangout.
----
This next photo was outside of a house on Halloween weekend. Dressed up in costume with the phone in my hand. To hear the words "Kyle is gone". The world paused if only for seconds.
The dramatic pause of a song that soon would let the tears begin. And a new melody rise.
The cool October air. Inside candy corn and chocolate, decorations and a few early students and parents. But outside is was an enveloping darkness. It's a picture I hid against my chest for a few hours that night before sharing. A picture says a thousand words... This snap shot was a climatic chapter of Kyle's story that had a brief but profound supporting role in my story. And my story there after continues to be colored by this picture.
---
I sort through more photographs. Some are laid out in a time line. My eyes dart back and forth between them. There are others that are out of sequence laying in my lap. The beating the bass is still there. The melody of relationships is present. The harmonies of conversations are the richness and colors. There are shadows and light playing around with the images that are sometimes clear and other times softly blurred with time.
----
So I pull out the most recent photograph. Standing in a pew of a church I have never attended, in a city I don't live, more than a thousand miles from where the first picture in the old theatre was taken. Instead of candles there are lights. And the music louder, more complex. The same band plays. A request from someone in the audience leads to a quick recall of an old song. One that was played often in the beginning of my time with my college church. Moments like these to bring the story full circle. And yet they add a new layer to build on. Some days these photos lay tucked away. But times like these I bring them out on display. They can say more about me and who I am now than I can explain. They frame my present.
I am blessed that I get to share these photographs with others. And look fondly at these moments.
I push play for music that speaks to my soul. I can feel the bass in my chest. Light flickers against walls.
I sort through the pictures. Like in Harry Potter's world, these pictures are not static but move as I hold them. They bring with them sounds, and color and texture of life.
I pick up the first photo. An old theatre. Deep red curtains. The center isle leading to the stage. It was my new experience to have church in a building other than, well, a church. It was a place I only visited a few times when I could catch a ride during my car-less freshman year. There was something different about the voices. The sounds in the theatre. The story that began during autumn years ago.
----
Edges of another photo. A converted supermarket is now a church. Clouds are painted on the front wall bordering the brick wall in the center. Candles line the front stage, wax dripping down the black metal holders into puddles. The young man in front has humor and honesty that catches me off guard. And the music pulls me out of myself. Out of my awkwardness and clumsiness. This became my resting place.
----
The back room is painted in deep blues, golds and burgundy. Couches in a circle. And discussions between peers that make my head and heart spin. Sometimes it's a Sunday morning. A handful or two of college students. Some days it is a Tuesday night and there is the sweet smell of cigars and maybe a pipe. It is here a group is gathered one week after a phone call. It was time for on leader to start a new community and new journey. Time for the torch to be passed on to another. I remember a feeling of sadness for this passing moment. And a comfort in my soul for this community I belonged.
----
A retro Sunday. "New" burst orange pews to accommodate the few hundred college students. In the spirit of celebrating a silly gift of seating, some of us boldly dressed up in old 60's and 70's attire. There was fun here. Laughing. Spirit. Sarcasm at times. Yet there was also awe. Mystery. Beauty. Humility and brokenness.
----
Communion during the last Sunday before I moved home from college. Orange pews still. Tears from my friend Kelly and I before walking up for a torn corner of bread and the small plastic cup of grape juice. It was time for my life to change. Many good moments from the previous few years. And a lot of uncertainty ahead. Distance to separate me from a place that fostered the paradigm shift. One that would leave lasting ripples of change. Distance from a community that always allowed me to be me. The music that enveloped me, was felt in the beat of my heart and soul. With eyes closed, within moments I was transported to another world.
----
Another photo. The last time I saw my pastor Kyle. He spotted Kelly and I during the sermon. A moment of recognition. I remember how much I longed at that time to be back in that room week after week. To a place where I could come to with whatever was on my heart. Close my eyes. Sway. Forget about the outside and remember my connection to something else. We chatted with Kyle after the service for only a few quick moments before visiting another college hangout.
----
This next photo was outside of a house on Halloween weekend. Dressed up in costume with the phone in my hand. To hear the words "Kyle is gone". The world paused if only for seconds.
The dramatic pause of a song that soon would let the tears begin. And a new melody rise.
The cool October air. Inside candy corn and chocolate, decorations and a few early students and parents. But outside is was an enveloping darkness. It's a picture I hid against my chest for a few hours that night before sharing. A picture says a thousand words... This snap shot was a climatic chapter of Kyle's story that had a brief but profound supporting role in my story. And my story there after continues to be colored by this picture.
---
I sort through more photographs. Some are laid out in a time line. My eyes dart back and forth between them. There are others that are out of sequence laying in my lap. The beating the bass is still there. The melody of relationships is present. The harmonies of conversations are the richness and colors. There are shadows and light playing around with the images that are sometimes clear and other times softly blurred with time.
----
So I pull out the most recent photograph. Standing in a pew of a church I have never attended, in a city I don't live, more than a thousand miles from where the first picture in the old theatre was taken. Instead of candles there are lights. And the music louder, more complex. The same band plays. A request from someone in the audience leads to a quick recall of an old song. One that was played often in the beginning of my time with my college church. Moments like these to bring the story full circle. And yet they add a new layer to build on. Some days these photos lay tucked away. But times like these I bring them out on display. They can say more about me and who I am now than I can explain. They frame my present.
I am blessed that I get to share these photographs with others. And look fondly at these moments.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Midnight revelations
Okay it wasn't midnight. Maybe 2:41 am. Or It could have been 4:37 am. It has been different times for the last four nights.
The first night it was a dream about earthquakes and fires. I woke up abruptly and knew it was one of those dreams. Those dreams--the ones that if I did not get up for a drink and go to the bathroom to wake up would continue haunting me all night. I brushed off the dream in the morning figuring it was due to: a) the upcoming 20th anniversary of the '89 Loma Prieta Earthquake b) I had been in San Francisco more frequently in the last month and that always makes me think about earthquakes c) I had started to read a book about the 1906 earthquake and fires that ensued. While irritated that I had broken sleep, I didn't think to much about the dream.
Night two brought on more dreams. Dreams I cannot recall details from but definitely disaster of some sort. Another middle-of-the-night trip to the bathroom and then the kitchen to get a glass of water. It was Saturday night. So again I brushed it off to bad timing and figured I'd make up for the disjointed sleep in an afternoon nap.
Sunday night came. Once again another disturbing dream woke me twice. By the second time I was mumbling a few obseneties. I NEED sleep. I already struggle with getting enough hours. More days that not hoping that the 6 1/2 to 7 hours a night won't cause me to slip back into a nightmarish state in my waking hours. The details were a blur but something told me that these weren't just my normal random dreams.
I mentioned my strange dreams to a friend via email who recommended I write them down and figure out if there was some meaning. I started to blow it off figuring it was just random memories my brain was purging. But eventually I decided if I wanted continuous sleep again I had to figure if there was something there. Yet the details were all blurred. There were people but they were nameless and faceless. I recall a sense of panic and chaos but that was the limit of my recollection.
The fourth night of a waking nightmere sent me once again to the bathroom and the kitchen. This time I took a spoon from the drawer and served myself a tablespoon of peanut butter. Strange dreams in four nights called for a strange response. I crawled back into bed trying to move my legs around my dead-to-the-world-sleeping cat. And there I decided that my dreams were about me losing control. Or the chaos that happens when I pretend to be in control.
It was at some odd hour that this conversation occurred in my head. I think the peanut butter was God's way of keeping me quiet--and limiting the snarky comments that I often put in his mouth.
Me--"Okay God, what are you trying to tell me?!? This is the FOURTH night in a row I woke up from crazy dreams".
God--"Shannon, you have to let go of your control."
Me--"WHAT?"
God--"Your control. All of your dreams about how things go wrong when you try to control something. Or that things can be out of your control completely. I want you to trust me."
Me--"Could you not have told me this when I was awake!?! You know how much I need sleep!"
God--"No. You weren't listening to me. I knew you'd hear me this way. There are too many distractions for you during the day. "
Me--(thinking and bordering a pout)"But what does that look like?"
God--"Trust me and I'll show you".
Think what you will about this little conversation. Believe me I went through quite a few explanations of my craziness before catching the last few hours of shut eye. But the feelings and conversation were real. And the need to respond to this was real.
Limited by my humanity and brokenness, despite all the times I've tried so hard to ignore, deny, curse, and run from faith--I still believe. I still believe in hope, in love. In a God that is bigger than me. In a God who tells me a story that I can see myself living. That those who come before me share my story. The communities I have lived within, moved away from (for whatever reason) or will encounter at some point share in the story. And it's the story of my life that I don't want to just endure and survive but LIVE.
So to God I say:
"Bring it on. Bring on your correction. Bring on your lessons. I'll accept the suffering knowing that it produces character. But also bring the joy. Bring the beauty. Your love.
Forgive me when I go off the deep end like I do at least oh 1000 times per day!
Oh and one more thing--yup. You already know. Let my team's story end in a big silver cup this June. Even if there are more nights that the story is a little messy like it was last night".
The first night it was a dream about earthquakes and fires. I woke up abruptly and knew it was one of those dreams. Those dreams--the ones that if I did not get up for a drink and go to the bathroom to wake up would continue haunting me all night. I brushed off the dream in the morning figuring it was due to: a) the upcoming 20th anniversary of the '89 Loma Prieta Earthquake b) I had been in San Francisco more frequently in the last month and that always makes me think about earthquakes c) I had started to read a book about the 1906 earthquake and fires that ensued. While irritated that I had broken sleep, I didn't think to much about the dream.
Night two brought on more dreams. Dreams I cannot recall details from but definitely disaster of some sort. Another middle-of-the-night trip to the bathroom and then the kitchen to get a glass of water. It was Saturday night. So again I brushed it off to bad timing and figured I'd make up for the disjointed sleep in an afternoon nap.
Sunday night came. Once again another disturbing dream woke me twice. By the second time I was mumbling a few obseneties. I NEED sleep. I already struggle with getting enough hours. More days that not hoping that the 6 1/2 to 7 hours a night won't cause me to slip back into a nightmarish state in my waking hours. The details were a blur but something told me that these weren't just my normal random dreams.
I mentioned my strange dreams to a friend via email who recommended I write them down and figure out if there was some meaning. I started to blow it off figuring it was just random memories my brain was purging. But eventually I decided if I wanted continuous sleep again I had to figure if there was something there. Yet the details were all blurred. There were people but they were nameless and faceless. I recall a sense of panic and chaos but that was the limit of my recollection.
The fourth night of a waking nightmere sent me once again to the bathroom and the kitchen. This time I took a spoon from the drawer and served myself a tablespoon of peanut butter. Strange dreams in four nights called for a strange response. I crawled back into bed trying to move my legs around my dead-to-the-world-sleeping cat. And there I decided that my dreams were about me losing control. Or the chaos that happens when I pretend to be in control.
It was at some odd hour that this conversation occurred in my head. I think the peanut butter was God's way of keeping me quiet--and limiting the snarky comments that I often put in his mouth.
Me--"Okay God, what are you trying to tell me?!? This is the FOURTH night in a row I woke up from crazy dreams".
God--"Shannon, you have to let go of your control."
Me--"WHAT?"
God--"Your control. All of your dreams about how things go wrong when you try to control something. Or that things can be out of your control completely. I want you to trust me."
Me--"Could you not have told me this when I was awake!?! You know how much I need sleep!"
God--"No. You weren't listening to me. I knew you'd hear me this way. There are too many distractions for you during the day. "
Me--(thinking and bordering a pout)"But what does that look like?"
God--"Trust me and I'll show you".
Think what you will about this little conversation. Believe me I went through quite a few explanations of my craziness before catching the last few hours of shut eye. But the feelings and conversation were real. And the need to respond to this was real.
Limited by my humanity and brokenness, despite all the times I've tried so hard to ignore, deny, curse, and run from faith--I still believe. I still believe in hope, in love. In a God that is bigger than me. In a God who tells me a story that I can see myself living. That those who come before me share my story. The communities I have lived within, moved away from (for whatever reason) or will encounter at some point share in the story. And it's the story of my life that I don't want to just endure and survive but LIVE.
So to God I say:
"Bring it on. Bring on your correction. Bring on your lessons. I'll accept the suffering knowing that it produces character. But also bring the joy. Bring the beauty. Your love.
Forgive me when I go off the deep end like I do at least oh 1000 times per day!
Oh and one more thing--yup. You already know. Let my team's story end in a big silver cup this June. Even if there are more nights that the story is a little messy like it was last night".
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Why can't my cat be more responsible?
The advantage of living by yourself: No one will yell at you for the mess you make and leave even if for days...or months. Freedom.
The disadvantage: No one will pick it up. (Especially your spoiled cat who doesn't work for his food, sleeps all day, and complains if the food bowl is empty or he wants attention. Too bad you can't claim him as a dependent on your taxes.) Responsibilty.
I hate to admit that I can be a slob. Its one of those undesired genes--or shall I say habits--I come by honestly from my parents. I have moments where I stay on top of cleaning and picking up. But most days, I walk in the door, throw my purse and what ever else on the living room floor and then continue to leave a trail of items all over my living space. And when that living space is only 650 square feet, that doesn't take much time before it looks like a tornado hit.
The mess I leave embarrasses me. It results often in my condo becoming so messy I don't know where to start, I close my eyes and pretend it doesn't exist. Which leads to having to create paths through the living room from the door to the kicthen or the bedroom to the bathroom (so that I don't trip in the middle of the night). Consequently most of the time I don't invite anyone over to hang out and am more than willing to pretend that my flexibility in meeting them else where or at their residence is selfless--not because the truth is I don't want someone to see my lack of care for my personal space.
Tonight I decided not to turn on the TV when I came in the door. After walking in the door (kicking the cat back in as he tried to sneak by once again!), dropping my purse and some books on a chair, and kicking off my shoes, I stopped to look around. Again with what my mother refers to as a "postage stamp" condo, the survey was quite short. But it revealed that I had one of two choices tonight. I could easily ignore the mess and either read, turn on the TV after all, or climb into bed knowing that the morning would bring more frustration of creatively traveling through the junk and feeling chaotic. Or I could pick up at least some of the mess and enjoy a few moments of peace.
As I chose the responsible adult action, I turned to the sink. Again something I hate to confess, but here and there I don't clean my dishes right away. A few glasses and pieces of silverware were waiting to be put in the dishwasher. One of the cups had some remaining ice tea with a very small amount of mold sitting at the top.
Gross. Really gross.
And then some neurons started to fire in my brain. A new connection hit as I was rinsing my dishes. Placing them in the dishwasher, putting in soap and starting a new cycle.
THIS is what happens in my life when I fail to see those poor choices I often make in how I treat others and myself (and yes, I'll say it even my cat) resulting in chaos. When I claim that I have freedom to do whatever I damn well please just because I can. And then I look around I wonder why things aren't working out. I'm not talking of the accidents or the normal life problems or even the results of others' choices affecting me. I'm realizing how the judgements I pass, the relationships I ignore, and the choices to put my own needs above others are the piles of shoes all over the floor. The laundry that is waiting to be finished and rehung. The closet that has a pile big enough the door will not shut unless I kick the pile higher and deeper.
The mess that occurs when I place doing what I want (which sometimes is good) over what is best. All for the sake of my freedom. Of my right to choose. Sometimes that choice only affects me. My anger at a driver who cuts me off in traffic. I yell and imagine how I would love to ram my SUV right into the back of their bumper and push them off the road. That anger is limited mostly to the confines of the vehicle with a few curse words and visions of revenge. But even those limited moments of expression can lead to a growing anger that can affect an entire day at work or taking focus out of time with family or friends. And if I continue to let it fester, that anger could lead to road rage or just an genearal sense of anger and resentment to anyone who decides to assert their own rights to do what they please. I wish I could say that every time I reacted to a car that cut in front of me needlessly without signals or concern for safety did not bleed into the following moments. But left unchecked, its those piles of papers that build up until a bill is missed or a family member I snap 10 minutes into a drive to celebration dinner because I didn't chose to just allow that car a few extra feet of space.
Sometimes I wait until my place is so messy I can't find things, or my wardrobe is so bare I'm having to do a last minute load of laundry so I have a pair of jeans I can wear. Or maybe someone is coming over and I scramble to make my place presentable enough. Enough that I can say "Forgive me. It's just a little messy" when I'm really thinking "if you only saw the pile I shoved into my closet" or "good thing you didn't show up 10 minutes ago".
How many times have I done this in my life? How often do my words say "I have my issues but I'm doing okay"? What I often mean is "you couldn't stand it if you really knew what bad choices I've made" or "at least my life isn't as messy as that person's".
What choices to assert my freedoms do I hide in the closet pretending no one can see. Waiting to see when that pile becomes so large that it pours out into my bedroom. When I have to keep others out of my life because I don't think they could stand the things I've done.
"No one would love me if they knew/all the things I hide." (Caedmon's Call).
These words hit to the core when I hear them.
And my one relief as I spent a quick fifteen minutes attacking the last of my kitchen and living room (besides knowing that when I woke up and got ready for work that I wasn't in danger of tripping and had clean dishes to eat breakfast)...
...that I didn't have to clean things up by myself. My responsiblity was saying "I was wrong." And there was someone to help change the rest. Someone who could change my heart.
The disadvantage: No one will pick it up. (Especially your spoiled cat who doesn't work for his food, sleeps all day, and complains if the food bowl is empty or he wants attention. Too bad you can't claim him as a dependent on your taxes.) Responsibilty.
I hate to admit that I can be a slob. Its one of those undesired genes--or shall I say habits--I come by honestly from my parents. I have moments where I stay on top of cleaning and picking up. But most days, I walk in the door, throw my purse and what ever else on the living room floor and then continue to leave a trail of items all over my living space. And when that living space is only 650 square feet, that doesn't take much time before it looks like a tornado hit.
The mess I leave embarrasses me. It results often in my condo becoming so messy I don't know where to start, I close my eyes and pretend it doesn't exist. Which leads to having to create paths through the living room from the door to the kicthen or the bedroom to the bathroom (so that I don't trip in the middle of the night). Consequently most of the time I don't invite anyone over to hang out and am more than willing to pretend that my flexibility in meeting them else where or at their residence is selfless--not because the truth is I don't want someone to see my lack of care for my personal space.
Tonight I decided not to turn on the TV when I came in the door. After walking in the door (kicking the cat back in as he tried to sneak by once again!), dropping my purse and some books on a chair, and kicking off my shoes, I stopped to look around. Again with what my mother refers to as a "postage stamp" condo, the survey was quite short. But it revealed that I had one of two choices tonight. I could easily ignore the mess and either read, turn on the TV after all, or climb into bed knowing that the morning would bring more frustration of creatively traveling through the junk and feeling chaotic. Or I could pick up at least some of the mess and enjoy a few moments of peace.
As I chose the responsible adult action, I turned to the sink. Again something I hate to confess, but here and there I don't clean my dishes right away. A few glasses and pieces of silverware were waiting to be put in the dishwasher. One of the cups had some remaining ice tea with a very small amount of mold sitting at the top.
Gross. Really gross.
And then some neurons started to fire in my brain. A new connection hit as I was rinsing my dishes. Placing them in the dishwasher, putting in soap and starting a new cycle.
THIS is what happens in my life when I fail to see those poor choices I often make in how I treat others and myself (and yes, I'll say it even my cat) resulting in chaos. When I claim that I have freedom to do whatever I damn well please just because I can. And then I look around I wonder why things aren't working out. I'm not talking of the accidents or the normal life problems or even the results of others' choices affecting me. I'm realizing how the judgements I pass, the relationships I ignore, and the choices to put my own needs above others are the piles of shoes all over the floor. The laundry that is waiting to be finished and rehung. The closet that has a pile big enough the door will not shut unless I kick the pile higher and deeper.
The mess that occurs when I place doing what I want (which sometimes is good) over what is best. All for the sake of my freedom. Of my right to choose. Sometimes that choice only affects me. My anger at a driver who cuts me off in traffic. I yell and imagine how I would love to ram my SUV right into the back of their bumper and push them off the road. That anger is limited mostly to the confines of the vehicle with a few curse words and visions of revenge. But even those limited moments of expression can lead to a growing anger that can affect an entire day at work or taking focus out of time with family or friends. And if I continue to let it fester, that anger could lead to road rage or just an genearal sense of anger and resentment to anyone who decides to assert their own rights to do what they please. I wish I could say that every time I reacted to a car that cut in front of me needlessly without signals or concern for safety did not bleed into the following moments. But left unchecked, its those piles of papers that build up until a bill is missed or a family member I snap 10 minutes into a drive to celebration dinner because I didn't chose to just allow that car a few extra feet of space.
Sometimes I wait until my place is so messy I can't find things, or my wardrobe is so bare I'm having to do a last minute load of laundry so I have a pair of jeans I can wear. Or maybe someone is coming over and I scramble to make my place presentable enough. Enough that I can say "Forgive me. It's just a little messy" when I'm really thinking "if you only saw the pile I shoved into my closet" or "good thing you didn't show up 10 minutes ago".
How many times have I done this in my life? How often do my words say "I have my issues but I'm doing okay"? What I often mean is "you couldn't stand it if you really knew what bad choices I've made" or "at least my life isn't as messy as that person's".
What choices to assert my freedoms do I hide in the closet pretending no one can see. Waiting to see when that pile becomes so large that it pours out into my bedroom. When I have to keep others out of my life because I don't think they could stand the things I've done.
"No one would love me if they knew/all the things I hide." (Caedmon's Call).
These words hit to the core when I hear them.
And my one relief as I spent a quick fifteen minutes attacking the last of my kitchen and living room (besides knowing that when I woke up and got ready for work that I wasn't in danger of tripping and had clean dishes to eat breakfast)...
...that I didn't have to clean things up by myself. My responsiblity was saying "I was wrong." And there was someone to help change the rest. Someone who could change my heart.
Sunday, August 2, 2009
jaws...
The picture on my shoulder is not who I am. But it expresses a part of me.
A love for an animal that has come to represents a change in me.
A change in how I see God.
How I see Fear.
How I see myself.
It represents grace and danger.
Something to respect and stand in awe.
As I child I feared them. A look in those black eyes would cause me to turn away. Even when behind the glass in an aquarium. When I moved back to San Jose, I discovered a love for hockey. And it so happened that the local team had a mascot I used to fear. Somewhere in learning about off-sides, icing, interference and slashing I started to love the shark as the animal. I continued to learn the rules of a graceful yet often violent game--cheering on a good fight as much as a sweet goal--I also started discovering about the lives of some fish
Fish that have a bad reputation.
Its the balance of how peaceful they can swim and how dangerous they can be when they're doing exactly what they're supposed to do.
And the more that is known about them, the more questions about them arise.
The death they cause brings them their life. The blood is part of what they're supposed to be.
Old and simple yet they're still a mystery.
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