look up! look up, child, and put away the silliness.

you are loved and everything is alright.

it’s true.

look up.

see the snowflakes glittering down.

see the beauty there and not the gray slush underfoot.

you can choose.

Intentionality and Unitasking

This morning in the shower, I squeezed out some conditioner into my hand and then looked down, surprised to find about four times the amount I actually needed. I realized I was completely absent. My shower routine was taking place without me being at all present in it; my mind was wandering off into many different directions, and in my absentmindedness, I squeezed the conditioner bottle too hard and for too.

I was reminded of this article which I had read about two years ago. In it, the author writes about his struggle to unitask rather than multitask, his reasons for making this change, and the benefits and difficulties he experiences along the way.

And then I remembered how important this had been to me. It was important, I believed, to be intentional about every action. To be present. To unitask rather than multitask. And I still do believe these things are important, but my actions don’t reflect that anymore. There are a lot of different factors that have fed into this gradual change in my behavior and the change from a stringent believer and adherent to unitasking to a believer yet nonadherent was slow, slippery, and almost indiscernible…until I found myself squirting globs of product all over the place.

I’ve read article upon article about the benefits of focusing on one thing, person, or task at a time. I’ve read about the attention problems that multitasking can foster. And yet on my resume, I take pride in being able to honestly say that, yes, I can multitask, and baby, I can do it well. I’m quick. I’m efficient. I can switch back and forth from a phone call to an email to a project like a crazed fly all over rotten fruit. And that’s what I feel like afterward—like I’ve feasted on rotten fruit. My mind will be whirring, my stomach will feel acidic, and my eyes will be glazed. But I still tote this ability of mine around and flash it in front of people, asking them to please, please notice this and utilize me. Mainly so I can make more money. So I can? What? Buy more books that I won’t have the time or attention-span to read? So I can buy a car that has more gadgets in it so I have more to do while I’m driving to and from my multitasking, ulcer causing job?

I’m being a little extreme. But really, I ask myself, why do I feel this sense of worthlessness if I don’t accomplish much during a day? Why do I feel less than if I don’t want to multitask and would rather, yes, just write this blog right now without also switching back and forth to different news stories, checking my email, drinking tea, eating an apple and responding to text messages.

There was a day (actually, there were days), back some months, where I would do one thing at a time. I would get less accomplished during my day, but the things and people I had invested in were more likely to flourish and remain in my mind. When I showered, I was intentional about that. I tried to not let my mind wander. When I was walking to class, I would focus on my steps and my muscles moving throughout my body. In class, I would take notes to remain engaged with the material, rather than daydreaming, as I did for about half of this past semester.

The thing that makes me feel wretched about all of this (well, there are several things, but here is one that seems to be a theme in my life as of late) is that I can speak about the good in being present and in being intentional and in taking time to do things rather than adhering to the western time dictum to rush and accomplish and above all, be busy. I can talk about those things and I understand them. But I don’t practice them. I rush from thing to thing, mainly because I feel I won’t have time to get to the next good thing. But I would rather view what is in front of me as the good thing, because that is what I have. I rush to pack my lunch so I can go to watch a movie with friends. But packing my lunch is important. It’s one of those rhythms in which I need to be invested; it’s an act of caring for myself and of caring for my environment. Watching that movie with my friends is important, but I know I’ll be more present if I’m not rushing.

Anyways. The point is—I miss unitasking. I don’t enjoy feeling rushed. And I really don’t enjoy knowing that the rushed feeling comes from within me. Thus the resolution to be made from the recognition is something along the lines of once again becoming aware of my attention and my mind and where those things are directed. That’s a good first step—to become more aware, and then change generally will come from that awareness.

(Also, A.J. Jacobs is a great writer [he wrote the article referenced above]. You should check out some more of his stuff.)

People have been asking me how I feel about graduating. I’ve been telling them that sometimes I’m really excited to graduate and am looking forward to having completed this part of my education. And then I tell them that sometimes I cry. Because I’m scared. And I don’t know what I’m going to do with myself, my god, what am I going to do?

This week, the last week of classes, has been rough. I think I’ve cried every day, for some reason or another. And that makes me really tired. Physically, I am tired. Emotionally, I am drained. My nerves feel like they’ve been scraped, back and forth, with a rusty knife, shredding them into little sinews of despair. I’m tired of crying and of panicking and of feeling anxious and dreadful and melancholic and slightly suicidal.

Sometimes it’s helpful to take a step back and think about the possibility that I might be overreacting, just slightly. Or, more accurately, sometimes it helps when others tell me I might be overreacting and obsessing and that things are actually going to be just fine. I listen to these people, and I calm down a bit. And as soon as they leave the room I’m once again staring blankly at the wall as my mind races through my coming demise that is inevitably bound to occur about two and a half months after graduating. Perhaps my body will still be alive, but I will be a wretched, wretched being, void of anything meaningful, alone in my apartment, afraid to leave and see the sun for fear it might blind me.

Overreacting? Possibly. Probably. Most likely, yes.

Sometimes I have moments like the one I’m having right now. I can see I’ve been overreacting. I can see I’ve been a bit overdramatic. A little ridiculous, sometimes. Maybe. And, thank god, I can actually look a few days ahead and feel okay, even slightly hopeful and optimistic. I am able to think about the good things that can happen and that most likely will happen. I can see the positive aspects of having graduated and of having a good job and of being independent. And I can also recognize that this is a change, and change is not by definition a comfortable, easy thing. I can accept that. I actually feel like I can embrace that.

“Continuing on”—I think I like that better than “graduating.” It is more continuous, more organic. It doesn’t shelve this section of my life and put it away. Continuing on says simply that I will continue on. The good things will not end, though they might change in nature. But just because they are different doesn’t mean they are no less good than what I have been experiencing.

remembering

At work, we’re doing this thing where we’re all turning in one of our favorite Christmas memories. I don’t know the reasoning behind this. Maybe we’re going to play some kind of a game with all our memories, like guessing which one belongs to which person. Or maybe they’re all going to be posted on a wall somewhere, kind of like a good-memory-montage.  Regardless of the reasoning, this slip of paper has been sitting on my desk for about two weeks now, blank.

It’s not that I don’t have good Christmas memories. I do. There really isn’t anything that stands out, though, as spectacular or overtly special or specifically horrible. There are annual things that happen. There are celebrations with family and friends. There are gifts. There is a spiritual component. There is food. It’s a good time. We decorate, we sing. We make merry. But nothing stands out. I don’t have anything to write for this little work time activity.

And then, as I was thinking about this lack of specific memory, I realized that I lack specific memories for most things. Which isn’t true, but it is. I have a fantastic and slightly creepy memory for detail. But memories of holidays and birthdays and yearly events don’t readily come to mind. I sit and stare open-mouthed, trying to remember what I did for my sixteenth birthday, who was at my graduation party, what I like about Thanksgiving, what I used to dress up as for Halloween. My face contorts as I try to remember these things that most other people seem to be able to recall quickly and joyfully.

It’s more of a challenge for me. One that I enjoy, really. What is something good about Christmas time in my life? What did I use to do during the summers as a child? What was my bedroom like? What did Jeremiah and I used to do for our parents’ birthdays? What did I do with my friends in elementary, middle, high school? And as I ask these questions, slowly small images begin to appear in my head, just in the corner of my mind, and as I think more the image gets larger and larger until I receive a full memory (as true as I can believe it to be).

Like, cookie day at my Grandma’s house, and how the only thing I really did was eat dough.

Making a collage of some of my favorite knick-knacks on a piece of construction paper for mother’s day one year (like, a dime, and a feather, and cat stickers and some mismatched pieces of ribbon and twine).

My 101 Dalmatian blanket that had two sides to it-one where the puppies were all playing in a field of green and the other where they were snuggled together resting. Every day I would switch this blanket so that when I was sleeping, the active side was facing up and when I was awake the sleepy side was facing up. My reasoning was a little flawed, but it went a little like this: when I was sleeping, I didn’t want to sleep up against the active side, because that might make me not rest as well. And I wanted to give both sides of the blanket equal attention. Flaws: I wasn’t in the bed when I was being active, thus I didn’t get to experience that active side. In fact, what if I was being active and sat on my bed? I would then be sitting on the resting side, thus making myself sleepy. Also–sheets. There was a sheet in between me and my blanket. And, if I was lying in bed and looked down toward my feet, I would see the active pups and would thus be energized. However, I know this probably wouldn’t have happened because I almost always slept with my head completely covered by my blankets, so I just looked like a lump under the covers.

But then I have to stop. If I don’t my head gets overwhelmed and I find it hard to step out of the remembering place and then the rest of my day will feel funny, like I’m not really existing there but am only in the place where my memory currently rests. That usually will make me pretty uncommunicative, which is kind of awkward for everyone, especially if they ask me what I’m thinking about and I say, “Dalmatians” (one time when I was seven or eight, my Grandma asked me what I was thinking about, and I said “pandas.” The conversation ended there).

Anyways, all of this to say, I’ll think of something to write on this little slip of paper. I have faith in that.

commitment and routines

things i like about life:

1. reading a book. not just the time spent actually reading those pages, but how the act of reading changes my perspective on the rest of the day. if i am invested in a book, i find my days are more peaceful. i think reading gives me a filter for my thoughts and help them to be more continuous and less disjointed.

2. being underneath lots of blankets.

3. watching criminal minds with at nighttime with nick and hearing him make continuous references to dead bodies during the day.

4. my literature classes.

5. the weather, the colorful leaves, the scent of fall.

6. being able to go to work everyday.

7. email conversations with friends.

8. trips to visit friends and to go to weddings.

9. learning more about writing and the ups and downs of that act; gaining understanding about things i have experienced for years.

10. cocoa krispies for breakfast.

 

sometimes people ask me what has been going on in my life and my response is “work, school, relationships. you know, nothing too exciting, just the normal every-day life stuff.” and that’s true. my life does consist of those routines and every-day actions that everyone else experiences, as well. but i think i tend to overlook all the neat little things i experience throughout my days, even if they’re not huge things, like – I lost my left index finger today! (that didn’t actually happen, and i don’t know if i would classify that as “neat.”)

these little things, like making my lunch for the next day, making my bed in the morning, doing laundry, washing dishes, throwing away a piece of trash-these are all good acts. these are the things i have to do everyday in order to show respect to myself and to my environment, and i am learning to take joy in those little things.

i think what has been on my mind lately has been this feeling of routine and settling, in a way. i’m in school; i’m working. i’m planning on staying in canton for a while still, though i don’t know what exactly i will be doing during my days for the next few years. but there are these underlying acts to the day that set up the rhythm of life that i will have. and when i handle those things responsibly, i feel like the other things will slide into their places, as well, and become part of my rhythm.

these repetitive acts can seem mundane. and sometimes the things i enjoy most in my life are those mundane things. that i can do them is a sign of health, i believe. that i can see them as worth my time helps give me perspective on not rushing through my days. i think my view of my life is changing from the short- to long-term. and i don’t particularly think i had a really short-term view of life before. but in certain ways, it is becoming more long-term. like, i can see now that committing myself to a particular place and community and job and to certain relationships is actually something i would like to do. whereas before, i viewed those commitment steps as something that would happen several years down the road, after i “experienced” a bit more.

sometimes thoughts of commitment, whether that be to a place or a person, to buying a house or getting a dog or stepping into a career, make me really nervous. i would rather maintain a bit of freedom. i don’t want to be tied down, quite yet. but now, i’m beginning to see those things not as concepts of being tied-down but rather as choices that i can freely make. just as everyday i will continue to brush my teeth and shower and eat breakfast and dust my desk, there are other, larger concepts that will be foundational parts of my life. and as my perspective changes to view them as blessings and healthy commitments and good choices rather than things that will trap me or make me feel stuck, i can feel myself begin to breath a little easier. my step is a little lighter. i can begin to joyfully think of those choices and of my daily tasks, rather than dreading them and the sameness they can represent. and i can see the variations in the samenesses, too, which also gives me hope.

a better resurrection

by Christina Georgina Rossetti

I have no wit, no words, no tears;

My heart within me like a stone

Is numbed too much for hopes or fears;

Look right, look left, I dwell alone;

I lift mine eyes, but dimmed with grief

No everlasting hills I see;

My life is in the falling leaf:

Oh Jesus, quicken me.

My life is like a faded leaf,

My harvest dwindled to a husk;

Truly my life is void and brief

And tedious in the barren dusk;

My life is like a frozen thing,

No bud not greenness can I see:

Yet rise it shall–the sap of Spring;

Oh Jesus, rise in me.

My life is like a broken bowl,

A broken bowl that cannon hold

One drop of water for my soul

Or cordial in the searching cold;

Cast in the fire the perished thing,

Melt and remould it, till it be

A royal cup for Him my King:

Oh Jesus, drink of me.

if i listened to my coffee cup

sleep under the stars / get a greener thumb / savor every sip / marshmallows have no nutritional value, and that’s ok / step 1: rake leaves, step 2: jump!  / you’ll only be your current age once / only look back if it makes you smile / be the ruler of your own life / dare to adventure / be the first to enter and the last to leave the dance floor / indulge in chocolate therapy / plant lots of trees / learn to say thank you in ten languages / spend time with your kids, tomorrow they’re a day older / give your change to charity / have a favorite charity / spin the globe then pack your bags / pour yourself a cup full of karma / be the first to apologize / sing out loud / don’t wait for new year’s to make a resolution / donate blood-you have plenty / dance in the rain / lighten up / get your hands dirty

life is short. stay awake for it.

thank you, arabica. or maybe not.

I like summer this year. Last year, I did not. Last year felt like there was sadness bleeding through each month, getting sticky from the heat, making everything stained and uncomfortable. This year, the heat feels like it is warming up parts of my mind and soul and body that have been dormant for months and months. Last year, I hated getting into my grandma’s car with her and my mom, my body sticking to the leather seats, as we drove endless hours to endless doctors appointments. This year, when I get into my car, I sit in the heat for a few extra seconds than is needed and I feel my body begin to sweat. I feel my being encompassed by heat. I revel in it, the ability to feel, the choice I’ve made to not hate it.

I’ve started running, and the past month has been filled with these runs in the middle of the afternoon, sometimes during the most humid part of the day. Sometimes this is intentional. I want to feel my body pushing and my muscles straining, and I want my body to produce that mass amount of sweat. I want to feel my body doing something, and I want to feel it extremely. Last summer, I wanted to escape all feeling. I was trying to get through the months as quickly and painlessly as possible. Looking back at it now, I think I was aware that things were changing and that the months to come were going to uncomfortable ones. I kind of feel like I was running through a tunnel that was collapsing close behind me, little pieces of rock and debris something falling forward to the area where my feet were. And once I made it to the end of the tunnel and turned around, everything was broken down. I couldn’t make my way back through; my face and body were covered in the dust of the deterioration.

And this is somewhat redundant. “Everything has changed;” yes, it has; of course, we know. “There is no going back;” well, no there isn’t a return to what once was.

But the thing is, there is a forward. And that’s okay. It was a tunnel I was in. And it broke down, but now there are places that are open and full of fresh air. It was a tunnel, and it needed to be traversed, and it needed to be demolished. I think I was living in it for a long time, and the lack of fresh air and sun was unhealthy. My pallor was sickly and there was a severe lack of essential life-giving elements.

So the tunnel collapsed, and that is painful. But it is alright.

They say that with grieving, there are different stages. But the order in which these stages are approached is different for each individual. Acceptance is one of these stages. I think that there is a constant moving back and forth along the lines of grieving and recognition, of sadness and joy, of denial and acceptance. I can look at my experiences a year ago and my experiences today and from the time in between, and I can see a level of acceptance.

It’s small. But it’s there. Today, at least. I accept the heat, and I choose to be in it.

the break-down of the car

As I was driving through downtown on my way to church, I began to panic and nervously laugh, watching the lights on my dashboard come on one-by-one. First, the battery light. Then the anti-lock light, the airbag light, the windshield washing fluid light, and so on. My air conditioning stopped working. As I pulled into my church parking lot and tried to put up my windows, I listened to the mechanisms whirring and watched the windows creep up, slowly, so slowly; I didn’t think they were going to make it all the way.

            After church, when I tried to start my car, it unsurprisingly didn’t start.

            My mom came and we took out some jumper cable from her trunk, opened both of our hoods, and stood there staring at the black and red clamps and at these black masses of technology that make our speedy transportation possible. I opened my driver’s manual and found the section on jumpstarting a car. I had seen it done before; I’ve even had it explained to me. But it was hot. And I was feeling pretty lethargic and hateful towards my little silver car. My mom felt daunted by the large yellow warning section in the manual, stating the danger that was involved with jump starting a car. Ah, so a tow truck? Yes. Yes, please. Let’s call a tow truck.

            I began to put the cables back into her trunk as a man from my church drove by and asked if we needed some help. I was ready to say no, watch him drive away, and sit waiting for the tow truck to come and pull my car away. But my mom, oh my mother, she announced that yes, we do need help. We don’t know how to jumpstart a car. And in my mind all the thoughts about women being unable to solve car problems, of women not being able to change a tire or the oil, about women not knowing what to do when their car has broken down and they are stranded started to roll through my mind.

            As he stepped out of his car I stepped back into my mind and went on a little tirade about being independent and not needing this man’s help. I talked to myself about needing to learn how to jumpstart a car. I told myself that this was ridiculous; I do know how, I could do it myself.

            He helped jumpstart my car.

            I still ended up needing a tow truck. But not for a mile or so down the road, just enough distance to put me in the middle of a busy intersection during Sunday rush-hour traffic. The lights on my dashboard were once again lit. My gauges were flipping and flopping back and forth. And then at a stop light, my car died. The hazard lights wouldn’t work, so I sat in the middle of traffic as cars honked at me and I shrugged at them. 

Sorry. But my car is dead. I don’t know what you want me to do. I can’t push it off the road myself. 

And honestly, that possibility didn’t even cross my mind. I just thought,

 shoot, I have a bar left on my cell phone and it’s going to die soon. There is a homeless man headed my way. There is too much traffic for me to even get out of my car. If it rains I can’t put my windows up; that might make things musty. It’s really hot. 

            Over comes the homeless man and from across the street come two other men, one of them approaching the car saying, What’s the problem, love? I look at him and consider saying something such as,

 Well, I got tired and decided to take a break, so I stopped my car in the middle of traffic.

 Instead, I told him, My battery died.

            He and the two other men pushed my car as I steered it into the parking lot of a nearby coffee shop, which, by the way, is a good place to have to wait an hour for a tow truck.

            After my car was safely in a parking spot and the two men had crossed back to wherever they had come from and the homeless man had resumed his spot at the corner of the intersection, I cried. Not for long. Not because I was hurt. Not because I was sad. Mainly, they were tears of frustration.

            And then I realized some things. I was provided for. And I was taken care of in a tangible way. Sometimes I recognize in myself this bitterness when I can perceive myself being taken care of but in a way different than how I would ideally want it.

            I drove home that night, in my little silver car, with a new battery and a new alternator. I was safe. I was taken care of, regardless of my naïve thoughts of how that should look, of what would be best. 

Sometimes I don’t want to need people, but I do. And then my mind circles around and I realize how grateful I am that I do need people and that I am community with others and that people are around who help to take care of me and that there are those whom I help to take care of, as well.

The Nature of a Painting Sponge

I used a new sponge tonight on one of my painting projects. I squirted bright yellow and blue-green and sky-blue hues onto it, smeared them around on the sponge with my fingers, pushed down a bit, squeezed the sponge, and set to covering the canvas in splotchy batches of color.

After this initial base-layer process, I cleaned out my sponge. When I first took it out of its red-hatched bag, it was tan. All around it’s loppy-egg-shaped form, it was tan. However, I permanently changed its color through my use of it. Through the paints I put on its surface, through my pushing and prodding, through the friction I placed between itself and that canvas, I altered its color.

As I cleaned it, at first my hands became covered in a thick layer of green. Each subsequent squeeze of the sponge under the flowing water produced a thicker layer of green on my hands. Eventually, however, the thickness began to thin, and the green pouring out from under my hands became lighter in shade. After several minutes, the water that escaped the sponge flowed clear, but the sponge itself was still tinged green. Patches are still tan, but mostly that sponge’s color has altered.

I know when I add new colors to that sponge, it will retain some of those colors as well. And I know that there is the possibility of some alteration of colors because of the preexisting color change the sponge has undergone.

The sponge retains many things. Not only colors and tinges, but memories of canvases past. Maybe a chunk ends up falling out because of over-use. It’s possible.

The nature of the sponge is the nature of you, if you think about it. Because you’ve been tinged. You’ve had things added and taken away, and there is no way to escape the consequences of those experiences. There is no way to not retain, no matter how hard you try to maintain that perfect tan.