Happy Holidays!

Friends: it's been a rough year. And a great year. Today, my mind and heart are a little too full for a blog post. I will try to write a reflection before we meet 2013. Until then,

Happy Holidays!

One year and two days

I remember this day last year. It's not a special day, really. Just December fourth. I'm not sure if anything of historic significance ever happened on this day and I'm not aware of any birthdays on this day (I realize people have been born on this day, but no one that I know is coming to mind at the moment). I didn't do anything significant on this day last year. It was just an average grad school Sunday spent studying and writing.

Then something wonderful happened. The person I'd been on a date with two days earlier texted me. He wrote just to say he was near my house (even though I think I was somewhere else) and that he'd thought of me. The conversation evolved and we made plans to go on another date the next day.
After our conversation ended, I remember wishing we were still talking, just the way today when I talked to Jason on my break at work I wished the conversation wouldn't end. I liked talking to this guy. He was funny and suave and surprisingly dorky for how cool he seemed. Something inside me leapt with joy and I wished with everything I had that I wouldn't mess this up.

I'm not much for the beginning of relationships. I don't like the process of slowly revealing oneself. I'm the same way in friendships and even on this blog. I'm not interesting because I'm a mystery. I'm a pretty open book. I knew I liked him (a lot) and that I wanted to skip over the beginning, the how-much-is-too-much-to-share worrying, the concerns about spending too much time together. That much was apparent to me even then.

However, if you'd told me then that we'd have a little apartment in our own little corner of Denver by this point, I'd have said you were crazy. But, somewhere between the butterflies in my stomach of a new relationship and the giant, miserable fight we had last night, I found what I didn't know I was looking for. I found Jason. It's not always fun. It's certainly not always perfect, but our relationship causes me to grow and develop as a person everyday. Sometimes, that's annoying, but most of the time, it's enjoyable. And, it's always a gift.

If I try to figure out exactly when I loved Jason or when we became something solid, a place for me to stand, I don't think I could pinpoint it. So much has happened in the last year and we both have grown and changed so much. It's been amazing. And, kind of awful at points. We've "talked" for so long we both just want to walk away. We've hurt each other by accident and sometimes we've even been mean to one another. Personally, I get it. Jason and I were both single people, on our own path, not really needing anyone else. And, now we do. Despite ourselves, we need each other. Not because we can't live without one another, but because we make each other better.

Let me see if I can explain. You see, there are these times when the bully in me beats up on the little girl in me. When I feel like I'll never be good enough or do enough or get my act together enough. When I feel like my writing is awful and my relationships are a sham. When I feel like I'm just that bad little girl who forgot the simplest task. Trapped in the dark cellar of my own creation, broken down and sad, I can hear a small tap at the door. Sometimes it stays quiet, sometimes it grows louder. It never desists. When I open the door, light floods into the dank room and I'm freed from my own darkness. It takes both of us. As much as Jason has to knock, I have to answer.
Could I do it all alone? Maybe. Would I? I'm not sure. Today, though, 367 days later, I'm just grateful I don't have to.

Survival

This month I wrote 50,083 words for my new novel, In God's Country. That's not counting the reports for work or blog entries or anything else I've worked on. That's just material for my novel. I'm not going to pretend like it isn't a big deal or like it didn't make an already hard month even more stressful. Because it did. I woke up early most mornings and wrote before I went to work and then wrote through my lunch break, barely stepping away from my computer to heat up a tortilla to munch on while clacking away at the keyboard. You might be asking yourself why I did this in the midst of one of the most difficult times in my life. I'd just started a new job. My father just became seriously ill. I'm trying to get my body to a healthy weight through diet and exercise. I had already completed 50,000 words in June. I had every excuse not to try to complete the NanoWrimo challenge this year.

That's exactly why I did it. I had every reason to need more time, to not want to work hard, to need a break, to need more sleep, to feel depressed. I have every reason to say I was going to put my efforts toward getting my first novel, Lilith's Repose, picked up before starting a new manuscript. I had every reason to save NanoWrimo for another year. When I sat down on November fifth with zero words to count toward my ultimate goal, I was tempted to quit. Five days may not seem like much, but by NanoWrimo's standards, I was already over 8,000 words behind. Eight thousand. Despite knowing I would spend the month fighting an uphill battle and knowing that I was always going to be behind, I decided I was going to at least try to hit the 50,000 word mark.

November fifth did not go so well. I wrote 500 words. The words I wrote didn't make much sense and the story wasn't there. Last time I wrote for a NanoWrimo month, I had already completed 30,000 words, which meant I knew where my story was going and I just had to finish it. This month, I had nothing. I had no words, and only a sparse and unclear outline. My main character didn't have a name or much character to speak of and all I had was a list of who died and when. No whys, no reason, no rhyme.

I didn't write again for two days. And, then I wrote 1200 words. Not enough for the day, let alone to catch me up, but it was something. Over the next few weeks, I gained momentum and by the time I left for Fresno to see my family and move my father from Nevada to California (seeing him for the first time in 3 years), I was only 5,000 or so words behind. Pretty good for having started out 8000 behind, right?

Then, I arrived. And, all my best laid plans for waking early and writing before my days started went the way of mice and men. I wrote one hundred words one morning before I broke down in sobs thinking of my own life. I gave up for the duration of the trip and didn't write again until I was on the plane back home. Before I knew it, the last Monday of the month had arrived. I have five days and 25,000 words to write. I sat down and asked myself it was really possible. The answer was plainly, "I do not know." So, I tried. I wrote as much as I could everyday, pushing myself beyond what I thought was possible. By Thursday at noon, I had completed my goal. Somehow.

I sat back on my futon at home and felt...odd. I had done it. I had climbed the insurmountable mountain and I was okay. Wasn't I?

I thought for a while, wondering if I'd done what I set out to. Then I wondered what I'd set out to do. I had wanted to write 50,000 words. The proof was in the pudding, I had a messy, beautiful, full document full of words. But, why had I done it? Just then, I thought of a professor from Harvard, Ron Thiemann. For one of his classes, I had discussed the act of writing as an act of survival, but even more as an act of getting beyond survival. When I presented my short paper to the class, he pressed me. I remember his question vividly: "What does it mean not just to survive, but to thrive?"

I looked at my paper and came up with the best thing I could think of. I don't know exactly what I said in response, but I can remember the feeling. An act of survival is something born of the deep impulse toward life, toward anything but death. An act of thriving, of living, is coming to terms with how one has survived and being willing to get beyond the act of merely surviving. In a sense, it means to get beyond the daily grind, to create.

Yesterday, not three hours after I finished the first half of my second novel, the man who believed in me died. Professor Ron Thiemann encouraged me to write, and when he read my writing, he told me that for me writing was not a choice, not a desire, but a calling, a vocation. Writing was in me, and like any gift, it was meant to be shared. Without him, I would not have made it to this point.
Today, while I sit at the end of a month that really gave me it's worst, I think perhaps I have survived. And, perhaps I have done more. While the storm threw me to and fro, seeking desperately to throw me out of my little boat, I hunkered down, not merely for survival, but to dream dreams. With my chin on my knees and a hood over my head, I weathered the storm. Soaked to the bone and tired, I pushed myself to create stories, to believe in what was inside me. I think Professor Thiemann would be proud of me. At this time when I feel perhaps most downtrodden, most heartbroken, I also feel renewed. Professor Thiemann saw what was inside me, he saw who I am. It's time I saw that, too.

Slowing to gratitude

This month, I am attempting to write 50,000 words for my second novel (you may recall that I did this in June for my first one), which means my words are precious and I'm not so sure I have any to spare (since I also write as part of my new job, which is amazing). I'm hoping you will accept this short reflection as enough between now and December (when I will tell more about my job, my life, and adventures with Ace/Jason).

Last week, I threw out my back. I stepped out of the shower and bent down and bam! I was done for. I tried popping it by twisting. I tried stretching it. I tried icing it. The spot just below my shoulder blade still caused me great pain.

Now, I had started biking to work and with a majorly painful back, that was no longer an option. Jason dropped me off at the office in the mornings, but with his new job, he doesn't get out until after six. So, there arose the question of getting home. I don't live that far from work and I begrudged the fact that I wasn't getting my normal yoga and biking exercise in, so I decided to walk home.

I walked all over in Cambridge/Boston, so I assumed that I would be fine. For the most part, walking didn't aggravate my back and I actually enjoy being dependent upon my own two feet for transit. The first night, I headed out from work, matching the pace of the people around me. Pain shot from my back through my whole body, taking my breath away. I was worried I wouldn't make it. I had walked away from the bus stop and going back to it would be the same distance as making it halfway home. I took a deep breath and moaned, stopping for a moment. I adjusted my bag and began trudging up the hill again at a rapid pace. I made it only a few steps before the pain became so great that I couldn't continue.

From the corner of my eye, I witnessed fifteen people blow past me. I felt embarrassed and wondered how I looked to them. I am healthy looking enough. I am young. I wondered if they might wonder why I couldn't just walk. I must have appeared so out of shape. I started again, but slowed down to the point of a nice stroll. I realized my back didn't hurt (well, not the same way).

I don't like being slow. I don't like not being able to fix problems or find a solution. It frustrated me that I couldn't move more quickly because of one spot in my back, for goodness's sake. I wanted to fix my back and be done with it. But, there was no solution for my back, it just needed time (it still does need some time). I realized then that if I backed off a bit and didn't try to make my body feel 100% immediately, I could actually still function normally for most things, just a bit more slowly. I made my way home some time later and managed not to do anything that require movement from my back for the whole night.

Walking home the next day, I was tempted to rush again, but I slowed my pace and moved steadily toward my street. As I waited for a light that I barely missed (and would have historically run to catch), it dawned on me that slowing down might be exactly what I need right now. It's hard for me, nay nearly impossible for me, to not know what to do about my father's illness. I can't make him better and, honestly, I can't make everyone around him stop hurting. My own lacking has weighed down upon me heavily and like when my back seized up, I just want to rush through it. Get done with the pain and onto the feeling good. But, it turns out, that's not how life works. I don't know if my father will get better. I don't know if he will get worse. We don't have a definite prognosis, so rushing through anything won't make a difference. There's nothing to rush toward. As much as it hurts (both my back and facing my father's potential death and definite suffering), there's nothing I can do but sit with it. Sit with it and work through the pain slowly. It's a kind of surrender I haven't experienced in a long time and to allow myself to be this free, this responsive to what happens around me without an intention of fixing it, is a new kind of adulthood.

When I finally made it home the second day, I slowly climbed the stairs to find my big black dog whipping his chow tail around wildly, greeting me with love. On the counter, a simple note said, "I love you." It was a small victory, a small reward for my own perseverance. As I plopped down in the bed and my back stopped feeling like anything, gratitude washed over my body. I was home.

My father and the election

I've been promising a lot of people that I would update my blog, so here I am. So much has changed since my last blog post and I can't help but laugh. I was so full of anticipation and delight. Well, I had my last day at the job I started in September today and am moving on to a position where I will be able to use my degree and training. It's a real triumph in Sierraland. And, while I'm about as excited as I've ever been to start this new position in two days, I'm not so chipper at the moment. I'm in a great deal of pain and I can't make it stop. My biological father, Paul, is ill. Very ill. He's been in the hospital since Saturday with liver and kidney failure. While the seriousness of his illness is clear, the prognosis and how we will cope with it is dreadfully unclear.

I've been in shock since I found out. Well, since my step-mother, Maggie, called me a week ago and told me he wasn't doing well. We discussed his condition and considered ways of working together to provide my father the care he needs. See, my dad isn't just sick, he's poor. His insurance dropped him when he became ill last October and he and his wife have been struggling to pay for his meds. They can't afford in-home care for him and they can't afford for Maggie not to work. But, her unemployment is running out and she can't find a job close enough to home. They're damned if they do and damned if they don't. When Maggie told me on Saturday that he'd been rushed to the hospital it wasn't just the pain of his being sick that struck me, it was the helplessness of not being able to make things better. As good as my life is, I can't afford to take care of my dad. So, here we are. Lost.

Forgive me if I preach today. Forgive me if I use my own situation and my own pain for political reasons, but I have long believed that the personal is political. We as a country are choosing our leader for the next four years at the polls tomorrow. I hope you will keep my father and his situation in mind when you vote and select someone who believes everyone has the right to quality healthcare, regardless of the their pre-existing condition or the amount of money they have in the bank. I don't care if you're fiscally conservative. I don't. I don't care if you think Obama hasn't done "enough." What I care about is people like my father who deserves to not have to suffer excruciating pain until the end of his life because he's not wealthy. What I care about is people like my friends who deserve to be able to marry their lovers one day, regardless of their gender. What I care about is women everywhere being able to receive affordable check ups and preventative care from Planned Parenthood. What I care about it creating a country of compassion, not one hellbent on ignorance and the consolidation of wealth among the select few.

So, I'm sorry if you find my conclusion offensive, but I'm sick of pretending like who the president is doesn't affect my life. I'm sick of pretending like I'm zen enough not to be terrified. Because I am. I'm afraid that by Wednesday morning, we will have elected a president who is on the wrong side of history.

What's next?

Oddly, it feels like I'm finishing up a lot right now. I've found a job, so the wonder (and terror) around that is mostly over. I finished my first novel, so the constant grind of editing and writing and rewriting is over (for now). I've opened a checking account, exercised the dog, planned out my vacations (and weekends) for the next few months, and gotten settled in my new apartment. Really, what's left?

Well, that's how I feel for about two minutes. And, then I start working on the storyboard for my new novel. Who are the characters? What are they worried about? What happens first? What's next? It's rather exciting. And, I gotta get that "old" novel to some publishers. Luckily, I have a few literary type friends reading it and giving some critique, but I gotta get it on to the professionals. Gotta try to find an agent. And, I have to do my job. What will it be like to get up at 6:30am everyday? Will I be good at it? Which bus should I take? Where will I sit while at work? Will lunch breaks be awkward? What will my everyday look like? What will I do when I don't get to see Jason every thirty seconds? (No, really. This is causing me some stress)

So, as much as it feels like things are ending, only a fool would forget that infamous lyric: "Every new beginning comes from some other beginnings end. Yeah."

That leaves me at one exact point in time: the beginning (which just so happens to be the end).

Joy and Luck

Yikes. So, it's been a while. A long while. Since we last spoke, I packed everything I owned, drove a truck cross-country with Jason and Ace, interviewed for and secured a job, went camping, visited Pagosa, furnished an apartment, got a new driver's license, registered to vote, and so much more. It's really been a whirlwind since August 5 (about 6 weeks ago...again, yikes). I've vacillated between real, tangible fear that I will never find a job and elation at living in this new and engaging city. I've been high and low and in between. Ace and Jason have kept me steady when my own legs feel a bit like jelly and it's really the idea of creating a home and a life that has kept me afloat when the bad days have come.

Lately, though, I've had a distinct feeling that my life is almost too good. My mom, Betty, described a similar suspicion to me. She was standing at Niagara Falls when it hit her. She had honestly never thought she would get to see this natural phenomenon and while standing there with my oldest sister, she thought of when the Psalmist said, "my cup runneth over" (23:5). As soon as she shared this story with me, Goosebumps ran up my legs and tears welled in my eyes. That was it. This was the idea I'd been searching for. You see, even at my most frightened (and I've felt more genuine fear this summer than I have in a long, long time), I couldn't help but feel that everything was okay. And even more, that I was living a charmed existence.

My cup runneth over, simply put. I have a partner who loves me. A dog who is happy and well-behaved. Many of my friends live in my city. I have an amazing apartment. I landed a great job where everyone is excited for me to start on Sept 25. I finished my novel. My parents gave me the car I learned to drive in (and are helping me budget to buy a new-to-me car in a year). What can I complain about? Yeah, things are tight financially. Yeah, Jas and I have some kinks to work out. Yeah, I have to learn how to live my life for myself, but in concert with another human being. Yeah, I think I can do all that.

Thanks for reading. I hope my happiness doesn't come across as bragging. I feel lucky. And, above that, I feel humbled by my own luck. The world can be a harsh and violent place, but today, it's a place I love.



Ace and Jason enjoying a heartfelt reunion after Jason (oh so brazenly) waded out into deep water.

Carbondale, CO

The Heart's Vocation: a reflection on officiating Krista and Joseph's wedding

Yesterday, I officiated the wedding of my friends Krista Pearson (now, Bruckner) and Joseph (still Bruckner). It was a wonderful day, without a cloud in the sky and the ocean unfolding behind us over the bay on Whidbey Island in Washington.
            I've spent months writing and re-writing portions of the ceremony. I've spent hours fretting over whether or not one paragraph or two will be appropriate. I've spent sleepless nights wondering why on earth they chose me, but knowing that I felt totally excited by the opportunity. Basically, I've been a little crazy.
           When I landed in Seattle, I was a little overwhelmed. I'd been in Denver for a little over 24 hours (in which I interviewed for a job) and my flights had been red eyes and pre-dawn take-offs. I hopped in the car with two sisters I'd never met before and we started our two hour (ish) drive to Whidbey. We all chatted and tried to get to know one another and I felt suddenly unprepared. I had spent so much time meditating on marriage and love and being alone with my thoughts that I'd forgotten that I might need to actually talk to people once I arrived. And, for my first night I'd be staying in a house full of bridesmaids and the family of the bride. I took a deep breath, texted my boyfriend that I was afraid I wasn't cut out for this, and sucked it up. I asked myself for more than I thought I could give because it wasn't really about me. It didn't matter that I've been much more reclusive and introverted as of late. I had a job here: I was going to make this ceremony amazing. And, in the process, I was going to put worried fathers' hearts at ease, help busy mothers finish details, listen to stories from some of the most lovely grandparents I'd ever met, and get to know the bridesmaids and groomsmen. In other words, I needed to lock it up.
          I'm so glad I did. This celebration was a joy to take part in. I made friends I hadn't expected to, heard the story of Krista's birth (thanks to Martin), and was able to share my own thoughts and hopes about love with a whole audience who'd gathered to celebrate Krista and Joseph. What a privilege.
          There's not a whole lot left to say, but I figured I'd share my main reflection from the ceremony.

The Heart's Vocation: A Sacred Union

by Sierra E. Fleenor, Wedding Officiant

August 5, 2012

I am awed by the commitment Krista and Joseph are embarking upon today. It has brought a hush over my heart and given me pause. My hope is that you will take a moment to join in this pause with me. And, since they’ve decided to entrust their ceremony to me, I guess you have to.

            Marriage is often remarked upon as a sacred union. For some of us, the term sacred is marked by the divine presence of God. For others, it is a term used to denote an object, or this union, as something not to be taken lightly. Either way, it seems appropriate to reflect on sacredness.

            Sacred, in one sense, means “set apart.” Something that is out of the ordinary in some way, but not necessarily by its nature. Rather by its treatment. It is not the thing itself that makes it sacred, but the recognition of it as set apart. We are responsible, thus, for demarcating the sacred in our own lives.

            Marriage, as many people who live it daily will tell you, is mundane. It is even pedestrian. And, I think in some rights it has to be. People who choose to be married (or fight for the option) have thrown their lot in with another person. And, sometimes, life is boring. It's not all romantic comedies or dramatic inquiries once you get inside a marriage. Sometimes it is simple. Sometimes it is hard. Sometimes it just is.

            If that’s the case, then how is marriage sacred? Why should we view this daily task as something special? Why even have this service? Why don't Krista and Joseph just high five each other and call it a day?

            Because marriage is a vocation. And, what is more sacred than one’s vocation? A vocation is not a job. It is not an occupation. It is a calling. Something you are compelled toward the same way a bee knows how to return to its hive: it’s instinctual. And, if we take seriously the words of Thomas Aquinas, read to us by Derek, we see that this same drive, this basic magnetic pull holds Krista and Joseph together in their cause, as they look to one another and say:

My soul has a purpose, it is

to love;

if I

do not fulfill

my heart’s vocation,

I suffer.

            I am awed today because I should be. The sacred should always awe us, render us silent, give us pause. And, later, it should bring us triumphant joy and dancing.

            What a glorious thing to be in the presence of love. What a glorious thing to be in the presence of so many loves unfolding and opening to the hearts of Krista and Joseph. It is a beauty to behold. If you stop for a moment, you can almost feel the sacredness of this moment and this bond wrapping around each of us, encompassing all of us for this moment in time. Here we are, each made holy in our participation in this sacred act of marriage.

Writing and Failure

Yesterday, I failed. I'd been writing three pages everyday for 30 days. Mostly, I was trying to get things in order for the wedding I'm going to officiate on Saturday, but also, I was getting things out of my head, things I was holding onto that weren't really helpful. And, I completed 30 days. My next goal was 100. Then, I just forgot. I forgot to write. Maybe that doesn't seem like a big deal. Maybe you wouldn't call that failure, but it is. I'm not going to give myself a break and say it's all part of the process or that I can do it again. Yes, those things are true, but I think it's important for me to face failure.

I've failed a lot in my short life. People tend not to believe that when they talk to me about what I have done. I have written a lot. I have completed two degrees. I have worked and paid off loans (and gotten new ones, but no one focuses on that). I have worked through a lot of personal and emotional issues. I have faced my demons. But, sometimes, the demons have won.

I've ruined relationships and run out of money and lied to my parents and turned my back on my friends. I've been selfish and cruel and given up. I've simply forgotten that I had things to do. I've canceled on people and overslept and fallen down stairs and missed feeding my dog (only once). And, yesterday, I forgot to write. It's a simple task. I can usually finish my three pages in nine to twelve minutes. I even told Jason I needed to write at some point.

Instead, I watched television and made meals and caught up with an old friend. It was actually a really wonderful day, so I can't even say that I regret not writing. I also have no intention to punish myself. But, I do think I need to own up to that fact. I need to accept that I disappointed one person: me.

So, what's the lesson? What should I take away from my failure? What do I need to understand about why I failed? Let's see if I can't use all that book learning and critical thinking to draw some conclusions.

First, I think it's important for me to realize why I write. I write because it is my life blood. I write because I am a better person when I spend time putting words on the page, whether I'm writing a story or journaling or blogging or whatever. I write because it's who I am, but it's also a discipline. Something I have to craft into a practice.

Second, I need to accept what writing does to me. The peace of mind it brings is what writing does for me. What it does to me is a whole different thing. Like any attempt at self-improvement (I'm thinking here of meditation or therapy, weight loss or exercise), writing has an effect on me of dredging up my ugly stuff, reviving my demons and setting them loose on me. I fight more with the people I love. I draw away. I feel weak and lost. Like meditation, though, I find that if I stick with it, I can reach the other side. I can withstand the barrage of self-doubt and self-hatred. I can complete the task at hand and still be part of a loving community. Writing makes me sane, but it can also drive me crazy.

Third, I have to face the consequences of writing. It slows me down. I am less productive on a grand scale because writing takes a lot of energy when it is done well, and it takes time (more time than that actually spent facing the screen) to write. I've also found that writing as much as I do has actually made me less capable at speaking off the cuff. I'm not quite as quick-witted as I once was.

Finally, I need to remember to be grateful for this capacity. Talent is a gift. Art is a discipline. I owe it to myself to discipline my talent into something worthy of sharing with others if I want to continue to call myself a writer. And, this is why not writing one day is a failure. Because that's what I've decided it means to be disciplined. Maybe I'll never make it. Maybe I'll never be a daily writer for a long period of time, but that's the goal. And, you have a goal so that you have something to work toward.

So, maybe you think I'm being hard on myself. And, maybe I am, but I think failure provides the unique opportunity to look around and say, "Well, how exactly did I get here? And where would I like to be?"

Maybe this isn't my happiest post. I guess lately none of them have been. But, I feel comforted by my own shortcomings and I enjoy trying to make myself a better, a more complete, person. Now, off to finish what I've started. My novel needs editing.

On meaning: Aurora and Life

Of course, I've been thinking about Aurora a lot. And, I hate to meditate on something so violent and senseless, but it seems only fair to pause and remember those who were lost in some way or another. I don't really know what I'm supposed to say right now, but I do want to acknowledge their lives. Death tears lives apart, always. But, senseless violence taken out on people in one of their most vulnerable states? That is, indeed, without meaning.

Unlike many columnists or friends on facebook or Batman enthusiasts or criminal psychologists, I refuse to seek meaning in events like what unfolded in Theater Nine in Aurora. There is no meaning. That is the true result of taking a life. Maybe I've studied philosophy too long or not long enough, or perhaps I'm just a child, but I don't want to make meaning of death. I want to recognize it for it's life altering and shattering meaninglessness.

I am devastated by what happened in Aurora. Every time someone asks me if I know anyone who was hurt, I say no. Inevitably, that answer is met with a moment of thanksgiving on the part of the other person. And, I feel shame. I didn't know anyone from Theater Nine. I'm not from Aurora (though my biological mother lives there and some of my friends from college come from that area). But, I hate that the lack of loss on my part means I should feel relieved. I don't. Lives are lost everyday from coast to coast and around the world. Some people are lucky and die of old age. Others are struck down by disease and violence. Others take their own lives. I'm sorry, but for me there is no great comfort in this. There is no light at the end of the tunnel. This is death. And it's pointless. To pretend otherwise is to risk legitimizing too many evils.

I know this is pessimistic. I know this is not a side of me you are used to reading. It's not one I'm used to sharing, really. But, the flip side of the meaninglessness of death is the great meaning of life. Suddenly, our everyday is cast in a brilliant light of thanksgiving. We are lucky, you and I. We are lucky to read and to love and to fight and to make meaning(s) every moment of every day, even when we just want to watch a movie and forget about our own ability to think. Even then, we make meaning of what we see. We are encouraged by powerful protagonists and we can't help but feel for certain villains. We are empathetic despite ourselves. And, that my friends, is the beauty of life.

Now, if you will excuse me, I'm going to go kiss my boyfriend and thank the sun that I'm awake and full of life today.

For a great read on how we counter meaninglessness with meaning, here's an article by Senator Michael Johnston: http://blogs.denverpost.com/opinion/2012/07/20/face-hate-displayed-aurora-theater-shootings-love/21847/

When did we stop being able to talk? On Tosh, Communication, and the Public Sphere

Last night, I found myself surrounded by a few of my newer (read: boyfriend's) friends, one of whom is a comedian and one of whom teaches special education and is hilarious. I hadn't really been keeping up with the Daniel Tosh stuff (I tried to find a summary of the story, but it’s all opinion pieces and I just can’t bear to read one more), but had been compelled to read a few articles when I was sent a quote from a dear friend. Out of curiosity, with a keen awareness of how potentially volatile this conversation could become, I asked what they thought of the situation. I expected them to side with Tosh and other comedians and they did. What really threw me was when our conversation quickly devolved into people interrupting one another and getting frustrated and losing the whole point of the topic to defensive non-communicative tactics.

            At one point, I felt my own temper boil over and found myself sneering, "Fine, I'm not talking now. Why don't you say something here in this silence?" I hated that I'd said that and I hated that I'd said it to a new friend.

            I love conversation. It's the thing I do. It's my go-to. I love people and I love ideas and all I want to do is mull those over with people, but lately, I've found myself at a loss for words and frustrated because I feel totally unheard. It wasn't just this scenario, a week earlier in a basement on Cape Cod, I found myself in a heated discussion of whether or not people can change. I felt ideas solidify in my mind, but as soon as I expressed them, I heard them fall flat. The person on the other side tore my argument to shreds in a sound, personal, and unrelenting argument. Sure, I might be having a hard time expressing myself, but I really don't think that's it. I can't help but wonder what happened to conversation as an art and how that might be connected to the decay of the public sphere.

            My friend and classmate Kenny Wiley recently found himself in a communication stalemate in Harvard Yard. He tells the story so much better than I ever could, but the point is that Kenny challenged what the people said. He did what every good organizer, preacher, social educator, student, professor, communicator, therapist, (the list goes on) would do: he reacted to what they said and offered a critique. His counterparts (if one could even call them that since they refused to engage in critical discussion of their assumptions) told him to "lighten up, and 'learn to take a joke.' Wow. My years of education and advocacy send me down rage alley, but my humanity makes me think, Okay, fine. They said something dumb. I say dumb things all the time. But, that they couldn't reflect upon it? That they couldn't for a second question how hurtful, even racist, something they said was inexcusable.

            The three examples above have really lead me to question what has happened in our public discourse. I mean, didn't we used to have conversations? Hard ones? I remember as a kid the Monica Lewinksy case or the OJ Simpson trial. Everyone talked about it. Everyone. And they disagreed, but no one in my family (a group of serious hotheads) ever thought anyone was an idiot for thinking one side or the other. Well, maybe they did. I was pretty young at the time (Full disclosure: I thought OJ was innocent. I now question that belief). And, maybe these are terrible examples. Maybe the public sphere died a long time ago, but I want it back.

            Frankly, I'm over mud-slinging. I'm sick of posting a funny MadTV image on facebook that compares Mitt Romney to Mr. Burnes just to be replied to with blind hatred for Barack Obama. I'm sick of having to point out logical fallacies on both sides of a given debate and being silenced. I'm sick of being told that by critiquing Daniel Tosh I am infringing upon his freedom of speech.

            And this brings me back to the question that have been plaguing me this morning: when did we stop being able to talk? When did you stop listening to me and I stopped listening to you and instead we spent time when we weren't talking buttressing our defenses? Why do I end up viewed as the feminist who clearly is against free speech when it's exercised by a straight white male? Why are my ideas supposedly easy to decipher before I've even said anything? Why do my friends, people I count as truly close to me, assume that I've already made up my mind? And, why do I find myself not listening to anything they say when someone advocates for the rape joke? Most importantly, why do all these things lead to an inability to even discuss the matter at hand?

            I miss getting to have a conversation that is really a conversation, one in which the people I am with and I explore a topic, trying to turn over every edge of the debate, wondering what corners we might have missed. I miss being self-critical and being willing to question my own impulses, arguments, and beliefs. I really, really miss having other people "see my point." I haven't heard that phrase in years.

            And, you know, the funniest thing is how undecided I am about the whole Daniel Tosh thing. I think what he said was dumb and just not a very good joke, and I think if he told the audience that they should rape the woman then he crossed a serious line. But, I also kind of think Daniel Tosh is really, really just not funny. So, I don't totally care. I fancy myself a lover of comedy, having practiced with and later trained peer-improv troupes for years. I've made rape jokes and thought that other students' reactions were over-blown. I've argued that "no thing is sacrosanct." Do I regret that? I don't know. Maybe. But, how I feel about that is nothing compared to how frustrated I feel by the fact that we can't even talk about it.

            In Lindy West's acerbic (and hilarious) article, she states:

"...a comedy club is not some sacred space. It's a guy with a microphone standing on a stage that's only one foot above the ground. And the flip-side of that awesome microphone power you have—wow, you can seriously say whatever you want!—is that audiences get to react to your words however we want. The defensive refrains currently echoing around the internet are, "You just don't get it—comedians need freedom. That's how comedy gets made. If you don't want to be offended, then stay out of comedy clubs." (Search for "comedians," "freedom," "offended," and "comedy clubs" on Twitter if you don't believe me.) You're exactly right. That is how comedy gets made. So CONSIDER THIS YOUR F**KING FEEDBACK. Ninety percent of your rape material is not working, and you can tell it's not working because your audience is telling you that they hate those jokes. This is the feedback you asked for.

If people don't want to be offended, they shouldn't go to comedy clubs? Maybe. But if you don't want people to react to your jokes, you shouldn't get on stage and tell your jokes to people."

I can’t help but agree. Maybe I wouldn’t say it that way and maybe I’m less clear on the issues than she is, but I do agree. Public discourse is about providing that feedback. It’s Kenny telling those kids they’re being inappropriate. It’s the feminists telling Daniel Tosh he went too far. It’s pundits critiquing Obama. Or Romney. Or healthcare. Or patriotism. The point is that the public sphere should be about discussion—heartfelt, respectful discussion where something is on the line, where people are willing to listen to others and examine their own beliefs.

            I just want to talk again. I want to talk about things I care about and I want to listen to what people have to say. I want to discuss rape jokes, but I want to do so fairly, understanding that for so many women (and men) rape is not an objective scenario to be discussed, but something they have survived. I want to talk about race because damn, I have so much to learn, but I care about learning. I want to talk about politics because I care about civil rights and I still care about Republicans. I just want to talk because it makes me a better person to have a conversation rather than to sit in a room and make my mind up about things.

            I talk about things because I don't know what exactly I think. I talk about things because I'm confused and I'm sad and for goodness's sake, shouldn't someone be talking about it? I talk about things because I want to understand others and if we all begin a conversation by saying we agree, then haven't we made the most fatal mistake: agreeing based on a assumption that we're assuming the same thing? I talk about things because I think too many people have been silenced. And, I'm sorry if this pisses off other feminists or if it pisses off men, but I think that everyone has a right to be at the table, but critically so. I do not think because you are a comedian you have the right to defend Tosh without thinking about the real harm his words could have had. I do not think because you are a feminist you have the right to say that men "just don't get it." Rape is real. It is horrific. But, at some point, we have to talk about it, listening to what others have to say. We have to reclaim the public sphere because we need it.

            So, how do we do that? I have no idea on a grand scale. But, for myself, I know that I need to start with shutting up. Even if it makes my eyes twitch, I need to sit there and listen to someone’s argument, someone’s emotions, someone’s feelings (no matter how well or poorly informed I feel they are) before I say a damn word. I also need to be unafraid to take some room to share my opinion, not because I am sure but because I think I’m needed in the public sphere, too.

            And, I’m sorry, but I don’t count writing something crazy on someone’s facebook posts about Obama is having a conversation. The internet and facebook have granted us complete and utter lack of accountability and that’s not the kind of conversation I’m talking about. The kind I think we need is a lot less entertaining, a lot more engaging, a lot more exhausting, and potentially a lot more productive. If you can show me holes in my thought and I can show you details you missed in your argument, think about our potential for real understanding. THAT excites me. I don’t care about Daniel Tosh. I don’t care about pundits or theorists. I care about you and me and how I remember it used to be: having real conversations that didn’t end with everyone feeling so unheard and interrupted and marginalized that we couldn’t even look at each other.

            So, next time you see me and we broach a big topic, remind me of what I said. Tell me to let you finish and listen to what I have to say once I start. In short, let’s talk.

Let's take a moment to review that play...

I couldn't remember the last time I had written a blog post, so I was trying to give an account for the last few months. Forgive me for over-explaining. Also, this one is a doozy, so feel free to skip around month by month.

All I can do to account for my lack of writing, dear friends, is apologize and perhaps offer an explanation. First off, let me give a truly good apology.

I am sorry. Not just sorry in a sense of I regret this, but I am sorry in that I cannot share everyday with each of you. I am sorry that I can't show you with my hands the beauty of my life. I'm sorry you don't get to see Ace every morning as he rejoices in another day. I'm sorry you haven't met Jason who has made my life blossom in ways I've never imagined. I'm sorry I can't show you my book (yet) and the wonderful things unfolding in my interior life. I'm sorry I can't hold your hand when things are hard and you are hurting. I'm sorry I can't tell you all the stories I hold in my heart and my head.

Now, an explanation. Simply put: I've been busy. I've been busy writing other things, playing with friends and my love and my pup. I've been busy building a life from all the foundation materials you all and my life have equipped me with.

Concretely, though, let me give you a run down of what I've been up to.

In November, Ace turned six and we embraced the fading of another year together. I also started writing a creative piece for a final project for one of my classes without knowing quite where it was headed. I continued work on the documentary I had started work on and wrote a performance art piece.

In December, I performed my multimedia piece at Arts@29 Garden, an experimental space at Harvard University. It was my first (and perhaps) flirtation with performance art and I was lucky to enlist a couple talented people to join me. I also finished 115 pages of that creative piece, which I titled Lilith's Repose, and wrapped shooting for the documentary called Staking Our Ground. December was also the month I met Jason, who very quickly became a game changer for me. I spent my holiday break with my sister Allison and missed the rest of my family very, very much.

January 9, 2012 marks the single most important day of my life thus far. My niece, Morgan Sophia Howard was born and I began the long process of understanding what it means to be more than a selfish individual. I also continued to enjoy my long break, spending most of my time working at the cafe and writing a one-act play, A Divine Comedy: a semi-musical of theological proportions. In my free time, I found myself ever closer with Jason, spending more time seeing the wonders of Boston and getting to know his friends and family. We became a "we" mid-January and the crazy adventure we've been on continued.

My niece!!

February brought with it a trip to Colorado to meet my niece, spend time with my family, and see old friends. That month also marked the 35th anniversary of my parents, Betty and Dorman Diller. With that anniversary they showed me what it means to love someone and how much just staying committed makes something real.

March brought spring break, but it also brought the premier of the musical, the editing of the documentary, and further poetic creations. Easter found me in Jason's house with his parents, Paul and Kathy, and his brothers, Brian and Casey, (and the lovely, lovely Emma, Brian's girlfriend). I was included into a wonderful yearly tradition of the Barth-Knight family in which they run lilies (or other signs of spring) to their neighbors' houses, dressed as spring animals. Of course, I was the ever-famous Easter Macaw. Jason and I also decided in this month that we would start looking to move to Colorado after we graduated.

I danced into April blissfully, which brought with it both my first trip to Cape Cod and Sandy Shoals, the Barth-Knight home on the sea in Brewster, MA and our first fight. We resolved it with loving kindness and listening and I knew I would be lucky to love Jason as long as we could both manage to treat each other with such kindness. I also finished my one-act play for my play writing class and was lucky to watch seven talented people perform a reading for my class and my teacher (not to mention two of my biggest fans, Jason and Angel). This month also brought the premier of my documentary (which will hopefully be available online soon)

I'm not sure I remember May, but I can tell you some of the things that happened:

• I finished my last graduate classes
• I turned 26
• Jason graduated from his Master's program with a degree in education
• I graduated from Harvard Divinity School with my Master in Theological Studies
• My uncle, sister Ashleigh, and grandmother came for a five day visit over graduation
• My parents, Betty and Dorman, and sister Allison came for a few days over graduation and the following weekend



My uncle and I at graduation!

• Jason and I moved to Lexington where we currently reside with his parents
• A poem of mine was selected to be included an anthology of biblical poetry
• I helped coordinate Theological Revue, an annual roasting of HDS by its own students
• As a graduation present, Jason took me to my first Red Sox game (even though I was on crutches from falling mid-moving)

A photo Jason took of me on his front porch

June arrived without my permission, speeding me through my early summer. Most of the month was spent writing (more below) and applying to jobs in Denver. It also brought with it an extended weekend in Maine, learning to fly fish and playing games with Jason, his parents Paul and Kathy, his brothers Casey and Brian, and the ever lovely Emma. I caught 20 fish and was promoted to "no longer a beginner" at fly fishing by Maine Fishing Guide Tom, who took Jason and I to a special spot to wade into the water and catch a dozen or so fish. The experience was delightful as I'd only ever done spin casting and found fly fishing to be a much more technical and engaging endeavor. I also had the great pleasure of watching my dear friend from college Meghann marry her lovely husband Joe. It was a wonderful time to celebrate love and catch up with another dear friend Chelsea and meet her hilarious and fun boyfriend, Matt. Jason and I received many a compliment on our rug-cutting. On the writing front, I wrote 50,000+ words in June, completing the first draft of my novel (which is what the creative piece Lilith's Repose turned into). It was a true feat which found me typing as quickly as possible minutes before we had to run to the wedding.

July is more or less in full swing and has already involved the meeting of Jason's extended family (on both sides!) for a family gathering in Brewster. I met Paul's parents, all of Paul's siblings, their kids, and one lovely kid's kid. I also spent a good deal of time with Kathy's mother and sister, both of whom I had had the distinct pleasure of meeting before. My days at Brewster passed too quickly, filled with sunshine (only one sunburn!), lots of quality beach and arts time with my new friends Sasha, who turns 10 next week, Ayden, an eight year old, and Lily, who is two and a half. The week also included: bonfires, Duck, Duck, Goose, s'mores, bocce (and more bocce), family photos, delicious meals, drinks on the deck, drinks on the beach, fireworks, the Brewster Coffee Shop, Risk, THE BOAT!!, dancing when everyone else is playing bocce, eating waaaay too much, ice cream at Kate's! and pretending to read when really I was sunbathing with an open book. Last night, we returned from Cape Cod to our lovely residence in Lexington, where we hosted a bunch of our friends for a barbecue and other festivities. Today has brought rest and now time to work, work, work. We are both completing applications, job searching, and trying not to go too crazy. It's a scary time to be without a job and looking for some way to make money/support a life/our dog. Jason is also working to complete a little remaining graduate work and I'm working on the materials for a wedding I will be officiating for my friends Krista and Joseph in early August. My other hopes for July are to edit my book, finish the manuscript for a childrens' book that Emma and I have been discussing for ages, edit my play (and submit it to a contest), and write a few submissions for other magazines and books.

We will be leaving to go to Denver for about a week in a few days, so that Jason can interview and we can look for an apartment. Upon our return, we will begin packing, have a yard sale, rent a pod (for shipping all our stuff out), and begin our drive. I fly to Seattle for the wedding I am officiating on August 2 from Denver, and so we have a deadline by which we'd like to be in Denver (and I'll have to be in Denver).

August will hopefully bring with it not only our friends' wedding, but starting new jobs and settling into a new place. We're both nervous and excited and hopeful and trying to remember we're on the same team. It's hard to keep a level head when so much is in flux. It's hard to remember who is rooting for you and who isn't. It's hard to trust in what hasn't quite materialized yet.

A little story!

Jason and I were both freaking out a little bit the other day. We were in Brewster still and had gone on a car ride to clear our minds. We sat in the parked (but still running car), hesitant to go back inside and face the world/the family. He had had a job interview that day and wasn't sure about what the outcome might be (something that had happened to me two weeks earlier) and I was just becoming exhausted by the job search (I've applied for so much and only gotten one phone interview). We looked at each other with eyes full of tears and fear and I said, "You know, it's really scary, but we're only 25 and 26. And, we have each other and we know what we really want to do. That seems like a lot to me."

            Jason smiled and my heart melted the way it only melts for him. "We're pretty lucky."

            Still a bit shaky, we went back into the house. That night, I heard Jason share with his aunt how happy he was and how he believed we were going to be okay because "We know what we want to do with our lives and who we want to spend them with. Now we just gotta find jobs."

            It's scary to be unemployed. It's scary to move to a new place. It's scary to be so young and also suddenly kind of old. But, for the first time, I'm scared with someone who wants to be scared with me. Don't get me wrong. I'm lucky. I've always had friends and family who support me through everything and will do anything for me. And, I know that in a heartbeat Chloe, or Katie, or Tasia, or Lavinia, or Jason F., or Adam, or Amy, or my parents, or my sisters, or my uncle, or my grandma, or...any of you probably would take me into your homes and hold me and help me figure things out, but it's different to have someone cast their lot with you. It's different for Jason and I to be gambling on the same thing. And, it's exciting. Who knows if it will blow up in our faces or if we'll fight (I'm sure we will) or if we'll hate Denver or if we'll love it? I don't. But, I'm excited to try and there's no one else I'd rather try with. Oh, and Ace will be there, so it'll definitely be fun.

As Things Unravel...

I'm finding myself in need of time alone or, rather, more accurately, time away from HDS.

That's not to say that I don't value the education I'm receiving or that I don't see HDS as a place where I have grown an incredible amount as an adult. However, it seems that my point of transition is now, rather than in May.

I find it strange that this realization has coincided with a few rather unpleasant interactions with peers and colleagues. Part of me feels like this is what happens when a break is occurring. We cling to that which is most actively slipping through our fingers. I have less to give and so it seems it renders exposed the needs of those I am no longer as available to help. This reactionary grasping has a two-fold effect of making my stepping away from HDS easier (through anger) and somehow more profoundly confusing (through sadness).

I've never really been clear on why people seem to get so angry at me sometimes, but right now it feels like a comforting sort of growing pain. I am becoming the woman who has always been part of me (yet never realized) and that requires some painful repositioning of friendships and commitments. HDS is no longer my life, but instead, my graduate school. As part of that affirmation, I'm finding myself drawn to other people and other spaces. It might seem that this change is a result of my blossoming relationship, but really, I think my relationship is indicative of this necessary shift taking place within me. I'm less dependent upon the support and structure of HDS and through this independence, I am able to say a deep and full thank you and also to step away. Funny how it feels oddly reminiscent to the way I felt at CC when I was finally leaving.

I guess goodbye is coming early for me this time 'round. Now, let's just hope I can stay focused enough to finish my classes and all my other projects and still have fun.

Valentine's Day

So, I sort of failed at my winter break to do list. Didn't write a single post. And, honestly, I'm very proud of myself for that. I needed that space to breathe and really dig into my reading for my thesis. I have only now found a chunk of time to write as I sit on the floor of the building where I was taught to understand Kant's reason, found my own voice as a woman, and formed some of the most important relationships in my life. Here is the echoing halls of Armstrong, I have a moment to reflect while I wait for my sister to pick me up and drive me home to my family.

Smack dab in the middle of the first month of the new semester, I chose to leave for 10 days. In all honesty, I didn't get much of a winter break and I was going a little nuts my first few weeks back at school. I had a hard time concentrating, I kept feeling panicked, and only the firm embrace of my darling could really get me to sit still. Also, I got sick twice in about a month. I needed a break.

As soon as I landed in the Rocky Mountain West, I felt relief wash over my body. Ah. That crisp, thin mountain air filled my inadequate lungs and I felt calm infuse my every cell. The next five days (including today) were a mixture of meditation with my old group, wine and laughter with old friends, yoga taught by my dear friend Kari Kwinn, revisiting my college haunts, and remembering how different it felt to be here when I was younger. I am still the same Sierra. My hair is still red, my heart still beats to the same rhythm of Rocky Mountain love, I still study religion. Yet, I am not the same. I am an adult now. My friends and mentors can hear it in the way I speak and it seems more true than ever when I look at seniors in college and laugh to myself about youth. Suddenly, it is I who is not so young.

This Valentine's Day will be significantly distinct from any I've experienced thus far. I will hold my niece. I will celebrate my parents 35th wedding anniversary. And, I will share this (somewhat ridiculous) holiday with someone special, even if from afar. This is the Sierra who lives and breathes in this body.

So far, I like growing up.