What can I say? My English life is stellar. I've been reading a lot, researching a lot, seeing the sights, drinking loads of tea and just enjoying myself.
Many a pet has made an appearance in my life including two dogs belonging to Tiff and Rob (Stella and Bailey), four cats, two chinchillas, and two guinea pigs (all belonging to my supervisor Jenny and her husband Trevor). The cats are Lily, Amy, Beau, and Poppy. Amy and Beau have taken a particular liking to me in their own ways. When I return to Jenny and Trevor's house, I often find one or the other on my bed, purring away. I sit down next to them to read and they stretch out for a tummy rub or do that stretch their legs by clawing my pants thing. Anyway, all these little people (pets are people too) have really made my English Life much richer. And made reading Foucault or Freud instead of sleeping less painful.
I spend a lot of time on trains, which you've probably gathered. I am constantly traveling between High Wycombe, London, and Cambridge (as well as a few other sites). I feel like I have train travel on lock down and have been enjoying that time to read and write. In fact, the reason I have been so long silent is that I have been busy writing other things, which I promise to tell you about soon, but not until I am 100% ready. Ok, or like 80% and then get too excited to wait the last twenty. Yeah. That's probably what will happen.
Anyway, things are grand here. I've made it a point to spend a few days doing touristy things in both London and Cambridge. The biggest surprise was how much I loved the Tate Modern (I'll write more on that soon) and the biggest let down has been realizing that Winchester Cathedral is not located in London. No, in fact, it's in Winchester. This would explain why I could not figure out which tube station to get off the Victoria Line at. Seriously, wow. It's been a long time since I've felt that foolish.
Well, I better be off to actually living that life I keep referring to.
Missing you all!
Friday, August 5, 2011
Sunday, July 17, 2011
Halfway there...
So, I'm about halfway through my internship and well over halfway through my summer. I feel like all the things I wrote on my summer wish list are starting to seem more daunting to complete. One of my biggest hopes for the summer has been that I will create a routine for writing. I'd like to get to where I write every day for an hour or so. The tough thing is that at the moment I feel I need to devote my time to reading (part of which is research for my internship and part of which is philosophy that I'm reading for a class) before I do my own writing. I think there will always be that excuse, though. There will always be more books to read and more research to complete.
Sometimes I think that needing to read allows me to put off writing. I have spent a lot of this last year gaining confidence about my writing and think that I've really worked to hone my skills. Blogging has been one of the ways that I have experimented with tone, storytelling, and whatnot. Yet still I feel that part of me desperately fears writing.
It's strange that I'm feeling a bit vulnerable about my writing at the moment, but I think it is because I recently shared some of my work with a friend to get feedback. He was very encouraging and made some helpful comments, but somehow I felt laid bare by the process. Knowing that writing is something I really want to do means that I know I will regularly be sharing my "work" with others. I think my reticence about starting a regular writing routine is based in this fact. I think part of me is afraid that my work will not be well received or that perhaps I am not a very good writer.
Writing is the one thing I've been doing as long as I can remember. And, the more I write, the more I learn. I feel that each day I am finding my own voice and feeling more confident, but sometimes that comes in the form of feeling a little lost, a little concerned, and a little hesitant. I have to remind myself though that being fearless does not mean being without fear. The possibility of failure or rejection is real. To me, being fearless means facing my worst fears.
So, here we go. I am going to spend the next year crafting my writing skills, developing a portfolio, and looking for jobs that will allow me to write. The cat's out of the bag. I'm going to try my hand at writing. Come failure or success, I will know that I tried to do the thing I loved. And, in the end, I think I can come to terms with the costs.
I've spent a lot of my time on the train daydreaming about a quaint life. I keep seeing myself sitting at a window with my computer, writing while drinking a cup of coffee. My dear Ace curls up at my feet and I reach down to pet him. I lean back in my chair, sigh and feel content. A life of writing. I think I could get used to that.
Sometimes I think that needing to read allows me to put off writing. I have spent a lot of this last year gaining confidence about my writing and think that I've really worked to hone my skills. Blogging has been one of the ways that I have experimented with tone, storytelling, and whatnot. Yet still I feel that part of me desperately fears writing.
It's strange that I'm feeling a bit vulnerable about my writing at the moment, but I think it is because I recently shared some of my work with a friend to get feedback. He was very encouraging and made some helpful comments, but somehow I felt laid bare by the process. Knowing that writing is something I really want to do means that I know I will regularly be sharing my "work" with others. I think my reticence about starting a regular writing routine is based in this fact. I think part of me is afraid that my work will not be well received or that perhaps I am not a very good writer.
Writing is the one thing I've been doing as long as I can remember. And, the more I write, the more I learn. I feel that each day I am finding my own voice and feeling more confident, but sometimes that comes in the form of feeling a little lost, a little concerned, and a little hesitant. I have to remind myself though that being fearless does not mean being without fear. The possibility of failure or rejection is real. To me, being fearless means facing my worst fears.
So, here we go. I am going to spend the next year crafting my writing skills, developing a portfolio, and looking for jobs that will allow me to write. The cat's out of the bag. I'm going to try my hand at writing. Come failure or success, I will know that I tried to do the thing I loved. And, in the end, I think I can come to terms with the costs.
I've spent a lot of my time on the train daydreaming about a quaint life. I keep seeing myself sitting at a window with my computer, writing while drinking a cup of coffee. My dear Ace curls up at my feet and I reach down to pet him. I lean back in my chair, sigh and feel content. A life of writing. I think I could get used to that.
Sunday, July 10, 2011
So, I was wondering...
If you know me at all, you know that I incessantly ask questions. It might be about the flora flying by as we drive down the road and whether or not it is specific to this region. It might be about you personally or about your thoughts on love, power, or the Spanish Inquisition. The deluge of questioning I offer can sometimes be annoying to those around me. I understand why. In fact, as a child in school I can remember being told to allow someone else to ask a question. I can also remember being told to let someone else answer a question, but that's a thought for another time.
It doesn't take much to pique my interest and when I'm in a foreign country, my curiosity is at full throttle. I want to know if a princess can become queen even if she's a commoner. I want to know why the parliament and the government are considered to be two different things. I want to know what's so special about a crumpet. I want to know how to make tea the way Brits do. So, I ask questions. Tons. And, somehow my sister Tiffany and the supervisor for my internship, Jenny, are withstanding the barrage. The nice thing is that I'm a quick learner, so as I get into a groove my questions become more refined, though probably not less in number.
Even sitting alone on a train staring out the window, I find myself wondering what it is that makes someone want to become an conductor/engineer. Suddenly, I'll snap back to reality and realize I've been following that train (ahem) of thought for the last thirty minutes and nearly missed my stop. I really only need a moment of wondering to find myself wandering in a world of questions.
I love to think. I love people. And, I love, love to figure things out. There's something about this time here that is allowing me to do all these things in a gratifying way. It's like I can think a little clearer since I know I'm only here for a set period of time. And, in that clarity, I have time for adventure.
It doesn't take much to pique my interest and when I'm in a foreign country, my curiosity is at full throttle. I want to know if a princess can become queen even if she's a commoner. I want to know why the parliament and the government are considered to be two different things. I want to know what's so special about a crumpet. I want to know how to make tea the way Brits do. So, I ask questions. Tons. And, somehow my sister Tiffany and the supervisor for my internship, Jenny, are withstanding the barrage. The nice thing is that I'm a quick learner, so as I get into a groove my questions become more refined, though probably not less in number.
Even sitting alone on a train staring out the window, I find myself wondering what it is that makes someone want to become an conductor/engineer. Suddenly, I'll snap back to reality and realize I've been following that train (ahem) of thought for the last thirty minutes and nearly missed my stop. I really only need a moment of wondering to find myself wandering in a world of questions.
I love to think. I love people. And, I love, love to figure things out. There's something about this time here that is allowing me to do all these things in a gratifying way. It's like I can think a little clearer since I know I'm only here for a set period of time. And, in that clarity, I have time for adventure.
Monday, July 4, 2011
Walking on the wild...er, left side
There are many wonderful things about being in the UK: delicious tea, train rides, gorgeous accents, kind people, the list goes on. However, there is one thing I can't get over. Every time I am walking down the street or through a frenetic tube station (imagine the T with an English accent and a sense of punctuality) I run into people. I mean physically, awkwardly, nearly head on. Immediately after the collision, I mumble a sorry and am usually met with a sweet accent saying, "No worries."
It's not that I'm still a country bumpkin (though I am). No. I've learned how to blend in a little better than that since living in Boston. I've gotten pretty good at navigating crowded places. I've even managed to fine tune my subway etiquette, knowing when to call for a stop, how long to wait before boarding, etc. It's not my etiquette that's messing me up. Indeed not. It's that I cannot for the life of me remember to pass on the left (my left, their right). I've gotten to the point where I almost remember which way to look when crossing the street, and I walk to the correct side of the car, but walking? I'm an utter mess. The strange part is this comical fumbling reminds me that I am a foreigner, that I don't belong here. I am not bothered by this fact, though. It's not that the reminder resounds in the voices of angry villagers threatened by an intruder, but instead a gentle nudge, a soft reminder that this place is not, cannot be, my forever home.
I'm not sure what to make of this feeling yet. I've been thinking a great deal about what I should write. Yet the words just seem to not want to come at all. Or rather, they want to flood forward, denying any form or function. Who am I to demand order? So, I leave you with this to ponder on: As I sat in the train making my way back to London from Cambridge, I was struck by the fields of bright, red poppies. The flowers demanded my attention and my admiration, as if they were a thousand six year olds in fine red dresses playing at tea time. How can such a lovely thought filled with images unfamiliar to myself not bring into clarity the foreignness of this place and the places that remain foreign within me?
It's not that I'm still a country bumpkin (though I am). No. I've learned how to blend in a little better than that since living in Boston. I've gotten pretty good at navigating crowded places. I've even managed to fine tune my subway etiquette, knowing when to call for a stop, how long to wait before boarding, etc. It's not my etiquette that's messing me up. Indeed not. It's that I cannot for the life of me remember to pass on the left (my left, their right). I've gotten to the point where I almost remember which way to look when crossing the street, and I walk to the correct side of the car, but walking? I'm an utter mess. The strange part is this comical fumbling reminds me that I am a foreigner, that I don't belong here. I am not bothered by this fact, though. It's not that the reminder resounds in the voices of angry villagers threatened by an intruder, but instead a gentle nudge, a soft reminder that this place is not, cannot be, my forever home.
I'm not sure what to make of this feeling yet. I've been thinking a great deal about what I should write. Yet the words just seem to not want to come at all. Or rather, they want to flood forward, denying any form or function. Who am I to demand order? So, I leave you with this to ponder on: As I sat in the train making my way back to London from Cambridge, I was struck by the fields of bright, red poppies. The flowers demanded my attention and my admiration, as if they were a thousand six year olds in fine red dresses playing at tea time. How can such a lovely thought filled with images unfamiliar to myself not bring into clarity the foreignness of this place and the places that remain foreign within me?
Friday, June 24, 2011
Riding Solo
I stuffed myself, my carry-on, and my “personal item” (which certainly stretched the meaning of the term) into a bathroom stall. Once I made it past the door, I realized I actually couldn’t turn around. My bags pressed tight against my body and I realized that unless I had magically learned to pee standing up, I was facing the wrong direction. Determined not to be bested by this airport bathroom, I dropped one shoulder, slid my carry-on down my arm, and turned quickly. Yeah. I’m pretty sure I would make an awesome ninja. As I hung my personal item (a giant bag that I use for farmer’s markets and as a very large purse) on a hook, I smiled to myself.
I squeezed out of the stall and fumbled toward the sink. Washing my hands, I glanced at the women who were unencumbered with luggage. Some were accompanied by friends, partners, or sisters who held their bags just inside the bathroom. On my way out, I spotted the other accomplices—husbands and fathers, arms crossed leaning against piles of luggage. Instead of feeling jealous of their companions, I felt relieved to be alone. Solo travel means for me constant adventure from mundane challenges (like my bathroom dance) to time on trains to think and write.
As I sit on the train en route to Cambridge for the first day of my internship, I can’t help but feel that I love this. Some part of my heart misses my friends and family and I can barely stand to be away from Ace (though some puppy companions here have eased the pain). But that aching doesn’t change the fact that I am already happy here. I know that doesn’t mean I always will be or that this is a permanent move I should make. I’m aware that there will be days where this is no longer fun and that if this were my “forever” it would likely become tedious and mundane.
For now, though, I am enjoying this ride alone on a train in England. The countryside is unfolding as we leave London and I can’t help but feel happy. Maybe one day I will get to share this place with one of you or someone special, but for now it’s mine and I don’t mind keeping it that way.
Saturday, June 18, 2011
No place is a good place.
The sun beat down, reflecting off two thousand bicycle helmets. After seven days filled with rain warnings, clouds, and fog, I tried to relish in the warmth. My legs ached and my skin was sticky with sunblock. Somehow, though, this was heaven. My little sister Melissa on my left, my aunt and uncle behind me, thousands of riders, roadies and supporters surrounding all of us--I felt like I belonged there. My heart swelled with pride. I had ridden 545 miles of hills, flats, coastline, city streets, and highway in seven days. I had fallen down and gotten back up. I had been helped with flats and encouraged to get back on the bike even when every cell in my body begged for a break.
Everything melted away in that moment and what remained were my tears. I cried from exhaustion. I cried in remembrance of those we've lost to AIDS. I cried because I knew how lucky I was to ride alongside my uncle. I cried because my family and friends were there to watch me. I cried because my grandfather was not. I cried because I had accomplished something amazing. And, I cried because my utopia was fading.
Six days later and I am still searching for the right words to describe the AIDS/Lifecycle ride. It was only seven days, but it felt like longer. It felt almost like a lifetime, not only because it was challenging, but also because it was its own little world. I could tell you a minute account of each day and what we ate, where we stopped, who I met and what was most memorable from that day, but from climbing hills to coasting on flats, you still would not see the big picture.
This was a place where when I didn't know if I could ride any longer because my legs felt like they would fall off, I could hear the echoes of "Ow," "Oh God," and "We can do it!" reverberating through camp. I've never felt so encouraged in my life. I kept thinking that I just had to keep going, but the truly astonishing thing was that I didn't. I could "sag" at any moment and a bus would take me the rest of the way to camp. Everyday I had a good excuse to. My bike slipped its chain. I felt dehydrated. My Achilles tendons were inflamed. And everyday, I met those challenges. I took my bike to get fixed. I drank an extra bottle of water and forced myself to drink even more on the road. A wonderful Sports Medicine staff member wrapped my feet and gave me tips for stretching. The resources were there for me and I rose to meet each day.
While the ride certainly meant a great deal to me for what I accomplished, it meant (and means) even more for the fact that it was ultimately not about me. I felt that for once, I was doing something truly unselfish. I've been around the world and am on my way to finishing my second degree, but for a few months of training and fundraising and one week of heaven, it was not about me. So, when I found myself grumpy or tired or asking my uncle too many questions, I was able to take a step back and breathe. It simply wasn't about me. This was about fighting back against this pandemic. This was about encouraging all those living with HIV/AIDS and preventing the spread of the infection. I am a better person for having completed the ride, but it is good to know that that's not why I did it. I got on the bike for one reason: love. I love my uncle and I committed to being there with him. I stayed on the bike for so many more: pride, fun, joy, mourning, faith, and the Utopian community that evolved before my eyes.
When I studied Greek in college, my professor once explained the term utopia. "Topos means place, but the u is tricky. It could be the u for eu, which means good. Or it could be the u for ou--no place." Now, Greek was certainly not my strong suit. In fact, I often reflect on that course as the single worst decision I made in undergrad. But I'd like to argue that utopia can be a place that is at once good and non-existent, or even good because it is in some sense non-existent. For me, the ride was utopia because it was a temporary place, both from day to day (since camp constantly moved down the coast) and in the sense that as I sit here in San Francisco, I cannot locate "the ride." I cannot go there. I cannot send a letter to someone there. For utopia to exist for even a moment, it must necessarily be in a state of disappearing, slipping away from and evading the constraints of our world.
The ride lives now in photos, memories and the thirteen million dollars we raised to end AIDS.
It lives in us now, hopefully bringing to our lives the strength that comes from knowing we can face the challenges that come our way, the commitment to ending this pandemic, and the faith that together we can make this world a better place. A place free of AIDS--a place where our temporary utopia can be a place of celebration. Until then, I can't help but believe that "no place" is good place. A very good place indeed.
Everything melted away in that moment and what remained were my tears. I cried from exhaustion. I cried in remembrance of those we've lost to AIDS. I cried because I knew how lucky I was to ride alongside my uncle. I cried because my family and friends were there to watch me. I cried because my grandfather was not. I cried because I had accomplished something amazing. And, I cried because my utopia was fading.
Six days later and I am still searching for the right words to describe the AIDS/Lifecycle ride. It was only seven days, but it felt like longer. It felt almost like a lifetime, not only because it was challenging, but also because it was its own little world. I could tell you a minute account of each day and what we ate, where we stopped, who I met and what was most memorable from that day, but from climbing hills to coasting on flats, you still would not see the big picture.
This was a place where when I didn't know if I could ride any longer because my legs felt like they would fall off, I could hear the echoes of "Ow," "Oh God," and "We can do it!" reverberating through camp. I've never felt so encouraged in my life. I kept thinking that I just had to keep going, but the truly astonishing thing was that I didn't. I could "sag" at any moment and a bus would take me the rest of the way to camp. Everyday I had a good excuse to. My bike slipped its chain. I felt dehydrated. My Achilles tendons were inflamed. And everyday, I met those challenges. I took my bike to get fixed. I drank an extra bottle of water and forced myself to drink even more on the road. A wonderful Sports Medicine staff member wrapped my feet and gave me tips for stretching. The resources were there for me and I rose to meet each day.
While the ride certainly meant a great deal to me for what I accomplished, it meant (and means) even more for the fact that it was ultimately not about me. I felt that for once, I was doing something truly unselfish. I've been around the world and am on my way to finishing my second degree, but for a few months of training and fundraising and one week of heaven, it was not about me. So, when I found myself grumpy or tired or asking my uncle too many questions, I was able to take a step back and breathe. It simply wasn't about me. This was about fighting back against this pandemic. This was about encouraging all those living with HIV/AIDS and preventing the spread of the infection. I am a better person for having completed the ride, but it is good to know that that's not why I did it. I got on the bike for one reason: love. I love my uncle and I committed to being there with him. I stayed on the bike for so many more: pride, fun, joy, mourning, faith, and the Utopian community that evolved before my eyes.
When I studied Greek in college, my professor once explained the term utopia. "Topos means place, but the u is tricky. It could be the u for eu, which means good. Or it could be the u for ou--no place." Now, Greek was certainly not my strong suit. In fact, I often reflect on that course as the single worst decision I made in undergrad. But I'd like to argue that utopia can be a place that is at once good and non-existent, or even good because it is in some sense non-existent. For me, the ride was utopia because it was a temporary place, both from day to day (since camp constantly moved down the coast) and in the sense that as I sit here in San Francisco, I cannot locate "the ride." I cannot go there. I cannot send a letter to someone there. For utopia to exist for even a moment, it must necessarily be in a state of disappearing, slipping away from and evading the constraints of our world.
The ride lives now in photos, memories and the thirteen million dollars we raised to end AIDS.
It lives in us now, hopefully bringing to our lives the strength that comes from knowing we can face the challenges that come our way, the commitment to ending this pandemic, and the faith that together we can make this world a better place. A place free of AIDS--a place where our temporary utopia can be a place of celebration. Until then, I can't help but believe that "no place" is good place. A very good place indeed.
 |
| At the top of the evil twins (two tall hills we climbed) and halfway to LA! |
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Butterflies
So, I'm officially nervous. In five days, I start my 545 mile bike ride through California. And, today, I am sick. I've been feeling not-so-good since Sunday. Maybe it's the nerves. Maybe it's still that the school year just ended (relatively speaking). Or maybe I'm just sick. Whatever it is, it's really not helping with the nerves.
But, if I've learned one thing in my life it's that freaking out never helps. So, I'm letting the upset tummy and lethargy serve as a guide to rest, to store up strength, to prepare for the big ride. It won't be easy. I know that. But, I've trained all I possibly could and now this is mine to face. I'll be there with 2500 other riders who have worked hard and raised money relentlessly for months, but it will only be my internal store of strength and belief in myself that will carry me through that week and those miles. Well, and my assortment of Lara Bars.
So, I have some butterflies making a bit of a racket in my tummy. I would be concerned if they weren't! I've always fed off of nervous energy, seeing the tensing muscles and fluttering mind as a sign of my own cache of energy, ready to burst forth. As the days pass, I'm sure I'll get more and more nervous, building more and more energy. Hopefully, right when I need it, it will propel me into action. But, for now, the lethargy is holding me (and my energy) captive in my best friend's apartment in Denver. With hours of netflix and my big, fluffy dog. I can't help but see that this life is good.
Wish me luck. And, if you haven't donated to my participation yet, throw a few bones my way. Donate here.
But, if I've learned one thing in my life it's that freaking out never helps. So, I'm letting the upset tummy and lethargy serve as a guide to rest, to store up strength, to prepare for the big ride. It won't be easy. I know that. But, I've trained all I possibly could and now this is mine to face. I'll be there with 2500 other riders who have worked hard and raised money relentlessly for months, but it will only be my internal store of strength and belief in myself that will carry me through that week and those miles. Well, and my assortment of Lara Bars.
So, I have some butterflies making a bit of a racket in my tummy. I would be concerned if they weren't! I've always fed off of nervous energy, seeing the tensing muscles and fluttering mind as a sign of my own cache of energy, ready to burst forth. As the days pass, I'm sure I'll get more and more nervous, building more and more energy. Hopefully, right when I need it, it will propel me into action. But, for now, the lethargy is holding me (and my energy) captive in my best friend's apartment in Denver. With hours of netflix and my big, fluffy dog. I can't help but see that this life is good.
Wish me luck. And, if you haven't donated to my participation yet, throw a few bones my way. Donate here.
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
Fighting Demons
I've been watching an inordinate amount of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Well, and Angel, the spin-off. As a child, I never watched the show. We didn't have television when I was a wee one and I think that perhaps it might have been a little too over my head, though I have a great number of friends who are my age and watched the show when it came out.
Watching the show fifteen years after it came out, I cannot believe how much I love it. A tiny blonde girl kicking serious demonic tail. She whines a lot, broods about, and continually pushes people away. And, I love her. I am compelled to defend Buffy when I talk to friends about the show and for someone who really hates television about high school (I did not really love it when I was there, so not a huge fan of re-living it), I cannot stop watching. I don't want to.
Buffy has special powers. She is special. Her gift and her duty is to fight vampires and evil, but it also means she has to fight evil. There are times where she tries to change her calling, or to avoid fighting, but she is always called back. Sometimes her friends and family need her protection and sometimes evil comes to her doorstep. There are innumerable waves of demons she must face. But, even the worst evil that is outside of her cannot compare to what she fights inside.
She has to come to terms with her gifts and responsibility while continuing to develop as a person. She must learn to rely on the people around her. She must learn to love and trust her family and her friends. She must learn that what is inside her, her own strength, is the only thing that will carry her through the darkest nights and battles. She cannot do it alone, yet she must learn to harness her own inner strength. The demons inside her remind me of St. Teresa's book The Interior Castle, where the scariest thing one must face lies within.
Maybe it is no coincidence or surprise that at this time in my life where I am trying to understand my own self and my calling in life that I have stumbled upon Buffy and her interior struggle. I am busy fighting my own demons both within and without. Coming to terms with what gifts I might have, what my connection to my friends and family means, and what my "call" might look like (Good lord...I've been in Divinity School for entirely too long)--all this seems to be reflected in the story of Buffy and her friends.
But as for me, why be mysterious? Why not come clean to my loyal audience? Well, suspense is what brings the fun to life (and makes someone compulsively watch television). I guess you'll just have to tune in again soon to know what I'm thinking and what form it takes. For once, I'm taking time arrange my hand, holding my cards close to my chest until the moment is right. But, I promise, eventually the time will come when I have to be all in. But until then, my chips and my time are precious and I won't go wasting either on anything but a full house.
Watching the show fifteen years after it came out, I cannot believe how much I love it. A tiny blonde girl kicking serious demonic tail. She whines a lot, broods about, and continually pushes people away. And, I love her. I am compelled to defend Buffy when I talk to friends about the show and for someone who really hates television about high school (I did not really love it when I was there, so not a huge fan of re-living it), I cannot stop watching. I don't want to.
Buffy has special powers. She is special. Her gift and her duty is to fight vampires and evil, but it also means she has to fight evil. There are times where she tries to change her calling, or to avoid fighting, but she is always called back. Sometimes her friends and family need her protection and sometimes evil comes to her doorstep. There are innumerable waves of demons she must face. But, even the worst evil that is outside of her cannot compare to what she fights inside.
She has to come to terms with her gifts and responsibility while continuing to develop as a person. She must learn to rely on the people around her. She must learn to love and trust her family and her friends. She must learn that what is inside her, her own strength, is the only thing that will carry her through the darkest nights and battles. She cannot do it alone, yet she must learn to harness her own inner strength. The demons inside her remind me of St. Teresa's book The Interior Castle, where the scariest thing one must face lies within.
Maybe it is no coincidence or surprise that at this time in my life where I am trying to understand my own self and my calling in life that I have stumbled upon Buffy and her interior struggle. I am busy fighting my own demons both within and without. Coming to terms with what gifts I might have, what my connection to my friends and family means, and what my "call" might look like (Good lord...I've been in Divinity School for entirely too long)--all this seems to be reflected in the story of Buffy and her friends.
But as for me, why be mysterious? Why not come clean to my loyal audience? Well, suspense is what brings the fun to life (and makes someone compulsively watch television). I guess you'll just have to tune in again soon to know what I'm thinking and what form it takes. For once, I'm taking time arrange my hand, holding my cards close to my chest until the moment is right. But, I promise, eventually the time will come when I have to be all in. But until then, my chips and my time are precious and I won't go wasting either on anything but a full house.
Saturday, May 14, 2011
Mist
I've always believed that there are certain days I feel older. They are not frequent, but they are real. For the first time in my life, such a day has fallen on my birthday. I am 25 today. A quarter of a century lived. A half of a graduate degree finished. A whole life lived daily. An expansive heart, ready for adventure.
For the last three years on my birthday, I have gotten up early to watch the sun rise. In Colorado, it was on top of the chapel, facing Pike's Peak. The sun would come into sight and Colorado would be reborn, washed in light. This morning was much different. I rose at the appropriate hour, walked to the top of the hill behind my house and climbed the tower. From that vantage point, I have spent many nights looking out over the cities of Somerville, Cambridge, and Boston. This morning, though, all were obscured.
A thick mist has settled here. I could see no further than the stoplight by my house clearly and could only make out buildings a block further than that. Even as the sun rose higher, the mist diffused the light, keeping the world a dull gray. At first, I was saddened, wondering if I would even actually get to see the sun rise. I wondered if this is how the future looks right now, blurry and uncertain, obscured by humidity and broken light. Then more mist rolled in. I watched the clouds of moisture press into the rest of the mist. I had thought there were no way for it to become mistier, but it had. In that excess, I began to see the mist not as obstructing my view, but instead as comprising my view.
As I walked home from my sun rise celebration, I remembered that mist was part of what I loved most about Ireland. I loved the way it made the most mundane activities mystical and made belief in faeries not just possible, but requisite. Seeing the mist again through this memory, I glanced once more upon the metaphor for my future. Yes, it's unclear, but not in a despairing way. The sun is rising, infusing water and fire to light up the very air. Life is not hidden, but instead omnipresent. Taking mist as the object of my gaze, I begin to see that the future is not some scary place out there, but instead a time and space as close to me as the curtains of water droplets welcoming me into the second quarter century of my life.
For the last three years on my birthday, I have gotten up early to watch the sun rise. In Colorado, it was on top of the chapel, facing Pike's Peak. The sun would come into sight and Colorado would be reborn, washed in light. This morning was much different. I rose at the appropriate hour, walked to the top of the hill behind my house and climbed the tower. From that vantage point, I have spent many nights looking out over the cities of Somerville, Cambridge, and Boston. This morning, though, all were obscured.
A thick mist has settled here. I could see no further than the stoplight by my house clearly and could only make out buildings a block further than that. Even as the sun rose higher, the mist diffused the light, keeping the world a dull gray. At first, I was saddened, wondering if I would even actually get to see the sun rise. I wondered if this is how the future looks right now, blurry and uncertain, obscured by humidity and broken light. Then more mist rolled in. I watched the clouds of moisture press into the rest of the mist. I had thought there were no way for it to become mistier, but it had. In that excess, I began to see the mist not as obstructing my view, but instead as comprising my view.
As I walked home from my sun rise celebration, I remembered that mist was part of what I loved most about Ireland. I loved the way it made the most mundane activities mystical and made belief in faeries not just possible, but requisite. Seeing the mist again through this memory, I glanced once more upon the metaphor for my future. Yes, it's unclear, but not in a despairing way. The sun is rising, infusing water and fire to light up the very air. Life is not hidden, but instead omnipresent. Taking mist as the object of my gaze, I begin to see that the future is not some scary place out there, but instead a time and space as close to me as the curtains of water droplets welcoming me into the second quarter century of my life.
Sunday, May 1, 2011
Miles of Appreciation
Yesterday as I left my house to go for a ride, I slipped a chain. Somehow my chain had gotten beneath the little rubber piece that is supposed to keep the chain from getting that low. Ridiculous. I figured this out about a block from my house, so I pulled over and tried to see if I could just yank the chain through. Anyone with any finesse in this world should be appalled at my tactics, but I grew up with a lot of brawn and little patience. For the most part, I don't live from that place anymore, but when I feel without direction, boom. I'm right back at ten-year-old, red in the face with anger, fighting back tears Sierra, trying to force the chain through. Luckily I remembered that I am (almost) 25 and not ten any longer, so I took a deep breath and assessed the situation.
I had a few options. I could push the bike back home and wait for my roommate. I could turn the bike upside down and fiddle with the chain until it would surely squeeze through. And, finally, I could unscrew my water bottle cage, unscrew the little plastic part, and gently pull the chain through. After considering the first option at length, I decided that I needed to figure out how to fix my bike on my own sometime. Mike was not going on the 545-mile bike ride in June, for instance. Fifteen minutes after trying option two again, I turned to option three. I pulled the multi-use tool out of my bike bag and thought to myself, Good lord. I have no idea what any of these do.
I looked down at my hands black with grease and decided to try a few out. As I maneuvered each tool against the screws and bolts on my bike, I finally found the proper tool for each part. A neighbor walked by as I was kneeling and examining the issue, bike parts scattered on the sidewalk. I kept my head down and kept tinkering. Wiping my brow damp with sweat, I thought of my father, Paul Martin Fleenor. My dad has been a mechanic and a farrier my whole life. He has always, always lived by the sweat of his brow, something I have never had to do. I paused for a moment, staring at my greasy hands and remembering all the rags he had when I was a child. I distinctly remember wondering why one person would need so many rags and why my dad didn't do a better job washing his hands.
I fixed my bike quickly, did a little celebratory dance, and decided I would stop home to wash my hands before heading for an easy ride. I scrubbed my hands over and over. I used a dish cloth. I used paper towels. I used cold water. I used hot water. I used hand soap. I used dish soap. The grease would come off a little more each time, but my finger nails were still stained. For the first time in my life, I understood why my father's hands were blackened. For the first time in my life, I had fixed something using mechanical ingenuity. For the first time in my life, I think I truly began to appreciate how hard my father worked. My back ached from the half an hour bent over a bicycle. His back aches today from the half a century bent over machines. My heart swelled with gratitude.
Today as I rode, I carried that gratitude with me. I spent many of the miles thinking about my family, including my grandfather and my uncle. I smiled thinking about how proud my grandfather would be. I laughed picturing myself clumsily coming to a stop behind my uncle in a short month. As I sat at a little Italian restaurant in Leominster, MA, thoughts of everyone who got me to this point flooded to me. I mustered all my strength so as not to break down into sobs in the middle of the early bird special.
My gratitude was not just for the support to be on this ride, but also for the support to be who I am today. Without my entire family, all my friends, my mentors, my allies, my enemies, my coworkers, my teachers, my students, and even strangers who wave when I pass them on the road, where would I be?
So, thank you. Thank you to everyone who reads this little blog. Thank you to everyone who doesn't. Thank you to everyone who had a hand in raising me. Thank you to everyone who helped me raise hell. Thank you to everyone who broke my heart and to everyone who helped me mend it back. And, thank you, Pops, for believing in me.
I had a few options. I could push the bike back home and wait for my roommate. I could turn the bike upside down and fiddle with the chain until it would surely squeeze through. And, finally, I could unscrew my water bottle cage, unscrew the little plastic part, and gently pull the chain through. After considering the first option at length, I decided that I needed to figure out how to fix my bike on my own sometime. Mike was not going on the 545-mile bike ride in June, for instance. Fifteen minutes after trying option two again, I turned to option three. I pulled the multi-use tool out of my bike bag and thought to myself, Good lord. I have no idea what any of these do.
I looked down at my hands black with grease and decided to try a few out. As I maneuvered each tool against the screws and bolts on my bike, I finally found the proper tool for each part. A neighbor walked by as I was kneeling and examining the issue, bike parts scattered on the sidewalk. I kept my head down and kept tinkering. Wiping my brow damp with sweat, I thought of my father, Paul Martin Fleenor. My dad has been a mechanic and a farrier my whole life. He has always, always lived by the sweat of his brow, something I have never had to do. I paused for a moment, staring at my greasy hands and remembering all the rags he had when I was a child. I distinctly remember wondering why one person would need so many rags and why my dad didn't do a better job washing his hands.
I fixed my bike quickly, did a little celebratory dance, and decided I would stop home to wash my hands before heading for an easy ride. I scrubbed my hands over and over. I used a dish cloth. I used paper towels. I used cold water. I used hot water. I used hand soap. I used dish soap. The grease would come off a little more each time, but my finger nails were still stained. For the first time in my life, I understood why my father's hands were blackened. For the first time in my life, I had fixed something using mechanical ingenuity. For the first time in my life, I think I truly began to appreciate how hard my father worked. My back ached from the half an hour bent over a bicycle. His back aches today from the half a century bent over machines. My heart swelled with gratitude.
Today as I rode, I carried that gratitude with me. I spent many of the miles thinking about my family, including my grandfather and my uncle. I smiled thinking about how proud my grandfather would be. I laughed picturing myself clumsily coming to a stop behind my uncle in a short month. As I sat at a little Italian restaurant in Leominster, MA, thoughts of everyone who got me to this point flooded to me. I mustered all my strength so as not to break down into sobs in the middle of the early bird special.
My gratitude was not just for the support to be on this ride, but also for the support to be who I am today. Without my entire family, all my friends, my mentors, my allies, my enemies, my coworkers, my teachers, my students, and even strangers who wave when I pass them on the road, where would I be?
So, thank you. Thank you to everyone who reads this little blog. Thank you to everyone who doesn't. Thank you to everyone who had a hand in raising me. Thank you to everyone who helped me raise hell. Thank you to everyone who broke my heart and to everyone who helped me mend it back. And, thank you, Pops, for believing in me.
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