The Death of a Good Intention

As I survey the present state of my room, it looks something like a place where well-intentioned hobbies go to die. Or perhaps not die. Maybe more like reside indefinitely. On one side of the room, in front of the heavily loaded bookshelf, the black hard case housing the beautiful guitar stands. I got it for Christmas, at first intending to teach myself. And I did, a few chords at least, from the master chord sheet my mother had the wisdom to purchase in addition to the instrument. Last week we had an informal worship session around our backyard firepit. One of the high school boys, whom I know well, wished aloud that he had brought his guitar. I offered mine. His face lit up as he asked me if I was sure. I went upstairs to get it, knowing it deserved to be played by someone, even if it wasn’t me. At Christmas, he had tuned it for me, and had kept remarking about its sound quality. He took it in his hands, and I heard for the first time what my Takemine could sound like under worthier skill than I possessed. It sang like butter, smooth and tonal, and for an instant my conviction to learn burnt brightly again. That was a week ago. I haven’t touched it since.

At the other end of my room, leaning vertically against the wall endcap, stands my newly acquired snowboard. Our two-year resident, Hannah, moved out yesterday, and instead of forcing the snowboard into her tiny car just so that she could donate it, she asked if I wanted it. I have been meaning, for the past five winters, to hit the slopes, and release my inner Shawn White. I haven’t gone even once. I was busy; rentals were too much; who would teach me. But now that I have mine own board, miraculously the perfect size (thank heavens Hannah is the same height as me), and boots, which she will drop off as soon she unpacks them, I really am hoping to go with my cousins sometime this winter. Until then, the snowboard will make like the guitar, perpetually in a corner of hope and unreleased potential.

These are not the only examples of my lack of self-discipline. My desk holds more empty notebooks than full ones, pretty books with neatly lined pages in which I meant to record “the great secrets of my life,” as Cecily would say, but never quite got around to keeping the lovely schedules I had worked out. The short stack of Japanese fiction on top of the giant stack of theology books reminds me that I meant to have read them all by now, in my self-imposed “preparation for Japan” regime (in my defense on that point, I have eaten much sushi since I have been home…which is perhaps just another failure in that budget which I fully intended to keep but didn’t). The dumbbells buried under a mountain of clothes on my chair remind me that I meant to lift them every day, get in shape, exercise, as do the athletic sneakers strewn among the Converse, flats, and kitten heels on my floor.

So like I said, the place where the passion for hobbies ignites and then is extinguished. Maybe someday I will learn the guitar. Go snowboarding. Keep the budget. Master Japanese culture. Or maybe I won’t. But I always meant to. But do you really get kudos for trying?

Controversy, Pt. 1

I was struck again today by how much my opinions about things, especially social issues, do not fit into the norm of my social (aka, Christian) sphere. Although my personal morals may be classified as “conservative” (like, I’m not having sex or doing drugs or stealing iPods), I have always had trouble pushing these morals on others, or holding them up to my standards of behavior. I cannot wholeheartedly support banning gay marriage. I cannot believe that some books should be censored. I cannot be upset at “provocative” art. I cannot understand why I am allowed to choose the leaders of my country, but not purchase a glass of wine. I want things as unregulated as possible (as far as it does not cross into the illegal, and, yes, I realize laws are innately restricting…I’m not denying a bit of hypocrisy in my stance, but there is hypocrisy in any side of this issue), especially in the realms of art and the choices that I am legally allowed to make. I cannot support the idea that my freedoms and options should be limited to protect (frankly) stupid people from themselves.
In the Christian culture of today, as I have found it, we are much too ready to label something as offensive, merely because it does not fall into our narrow view of what is acceptable. But, honestly, just because we do not agree with something does not inherently eliminate its right to exist. No one forces you to watch a sex scene in a movie, or smoke a cigar, or get a tattoo, or any of those things in the “grey” areas of Christian boundaries. Who are we to tell the world that, since we disagree with something, NO ONE else can do it, or see it, or use it, or whatever. And to quote the character of David in the movie Sabrina, what the hell makes us think we have the right?
Now, I am not asserting that this view is perfect. No view is. Feel free to disagree. Tell me why you do. But, honestly, this all comes down to choices. We all make them, everyday of our lives. I just don’t want some anonymous other making mine for me. They gave me legal adulthood. That doesn’t mean they get to treat me like a child.

Life's Only Constant Is Change

I would love to lie and say that I am totally fine with change. That I welcome it, in fact. Same-old-same-old has never been my thing.
Yeah, that's hilarious.
Because I'm not a liar, and because I would like to think that I possess a more than fair perception of myself, I know I am not always okay with change. Especially when I cannot find, try as I might, any redeeming value in the change. If I can recognize it as beneficial in some way, then, sure, I can be as accepting of it as the average person, perhaps even more so. But in some cases, when change, no matter which way it goes, brings nothing positive that I can identify, I am not so fine. I will cling to normality for as long as possible, hoping that by sheer will power alone I can make things stay my way. Obviously (can't life just see?), things are better the way they are.
Change hurts. Always. Sometimes the pain is good and results in glowing outcomes that we would miss if we denied the rotation. However, sometimes it is plainly not for the better, and that is when it is hardest to deal.
I am the type that deals with shit. I occasionally have this phase when I keep saying I cannot handle anymore, but everyone, including myself, knows that I will handle it, because I always handle it, because that is what I do. I suppose we just all have to figure out how to handle what we are supposed to handle. Isn't that just life?

My Apologies, But...I'm Just a Human...

Sometimes I think we assume that our own person is the most complicated creature on the planet. This is understandable, because we can only see inside our own head. Everyone else, therefore, is much simpler, since they appear to us to be simpler, without all the inner workings that we have access to inside ourselves. I’m still determining whether I like things this way or not.
I have friends, God bless them, who seem to assume that I know what is going on in their heads, and I want to scream at them, “HEY! I cannot read your mind…you need to TELL me!” Maybe it is a compliment that they believe me to be psychic, but on my end it is just frustrating. Neither of us is telepathic. Please use human speech. I cannot read your mind by looking in your eyes. Not that simple.
God planned things this way. Forced communication. I am reminded of an older Anberlin song which states, "we need medication for this miscommunication." How true. If I really was telepathic, I would want the ability as well to turn it off at times, to temper its use (see? I would not even be satisfied to be able to read minds! That would just not be good enough, selfish human that I am…I always want more). Sometimes I have to wonder if all these communication blunders, failures, misuses, are worth it. It would, of course, be easier to screw it all and become this generation’s permanent Thoreau. But this question, however, is tied inextricably to the bigger question: are people worth it? At times I would question this as well. But deep down I know, and have always known, the answer to be yes, of course, they are. Perhaps it’s just my job to figure out who is worth it, and to make myself worth it for them as well.

Please Define 'Home.'

Home is where the heart is, or so they say.
I have been back for about a week and half now, and have spent very little of that time not driving, meeting with someone, unpacking, or sleeping. With my parents having been in San Diego this past week, all driving responsibility has fallen on me. Not that I mind, but being up at school and therefore deprived of personal means of transportation, it has seemed something of an overload to be required by another to drive every morning, and then for personal reasons, to drive in the afternoons/evenings as well. Especially since I cannot seem to be left alone with that beloved car for very long before something blows up. It's kinda a problem.
As far as meeting with my people here, many of them I have not seen since Christmas or spring breaks, for these coffees and lunches and adventures are either with people that I love too much to not see extremely often, or people that I have not seen in quite awhile, and therefore catch-up is extremely necessary. I love both kinds. Being away for eight months has pruned the list of must-see friends. And (if I do say so myself) the list is about as perfect and to my liking as I could have hoped for.
Unpacking. The bane of my existence. The floor of my room has been overtaken by a massive pile of coats and blankets, unnecessary for the summer, but they have to go somewhere. My papers and notebooks I have barely touched, and everything seems to have expanded in size since the last time I tried to pack it away. Another problem. And my innate tendency towards "forgetting" to clean it up means that it might be next fall when I go back to school that I see my carpeted floor again.
And finally, sleeping. I still feel as though I am still catching up on the hours that have been missed in the past eight months. Eleven 0'clock seems about as late as I can make it without stimulation or necessity of some kind to stay awake. I feel very lame; after all, college kids should be able to party all night, right? Or not. My life is craving the routine of having classes to attend, and I am more than beginning to feel this lack with an intense acuity for something I did not think I would miss (at least not this soon): a schedule.
On a lighter, more exciting note, I found out Monday that I was accepted into the study abroad program at Oxford for next spring! So much excitement at the very idea of finally being able to live for four months in Europe...my romantic side is screaming and crying with glee, and my logical half is reveling in the academic intensity that will accompany the joy. Both halves are beyond happy.

9 days left...

If I had to use one word to categorize the last week of my life, I would use restless. It was as if there was this giant to-do list in my head, with all things fitting under one of three major categories: tattoo; Oxford; finals. I have since checked off the first item on that list. Yesterday morning I got my ‘agape’ tattoo on my left wrist. Now, I cannot stop staring at my white wrist, marked with five black characters. My wrist has looked the same for the past nineteen years, and then I had the audacity to introduce a foreign entity that will be there forever. I love it beyond reason, and I cannot help falling in love with how beautiful it is.
This week, my buzz word would have to be nostalgic. It is starting to hit me how much I will miss living in the lounge of Crowder 600 with the girls who make this whole college thing worthwhile. My roommate sang in chapel this morning, so before hand I went up and gave her a big hug. My other roommate has been gone since yesterday afternoon, and I am missing her. On any given day, I will make time to catch up with my girls, even if it has only been four hours since I last saw them. And then, during the summer, I will resign all of this for Portland and a job and home life. I don’t know how I will adjust. I have absolute freedom here. I arranged to get a tattoo all by myself. I have been dealing with paperwork and phone calls and ligistical nightmares for the past year all by myself. I have next year all set all by myself. And then, for the next three months, I will give these freedoms up to live at home. Not that home is repressive or anything, it just isn’t college. Nothing is quite like college.
This past year has been fantastic, and it has taken me so much deeper into my quest towards self-awareness than I would have expected. It has fostered my INTJ personality like none other. And it has given me Crowder 600. I cannot help but sit in awe of how God could have orchestrated this floor, simply because He knew we all needed each other. He gave me these girls, and I forever in debt to Him for that (and everything else He has given me here). Thank heaven for agape.

21 days left...

Alexa has a paper chain of alternating green, yellow, and red links across her wall. Everyday she pulls off another one. The remaining links add up to how many days of school we have left (assuming last finals on Wednesday). Something like Christmas.
This is a bittersweet kind of countdown. Everyday means I am closer to no more papers, no more assignments, no more cafeteria food, and no more paying for laundry. This also, however, means closer to no more roommates, no more lounge parties, no more floor events, no more 24/7 socializing. Over the past two semesters, the girls on the floor and I have become closer than I would have thought possible, more like sisters, less like forced companions. My summer will be branded a different kind of 'boring.' I will miss my two roomies; I will miss my 600 girls. But at the same time, I always have next semester to look forward to, and I suppose I will get to test the theory of 'absence makes the heart grow fonder...'

April Fools

First day of April should not equal waking up to snowflakes falling from the sky. Nor should it entail looking at the clock only to discover that New Testament starts in eight minutes. Nor should it involve scuffling around in the dark, searching for the black, NU sweatshirt and non-skinny jeans. Nor should it contain the coldest morning I have felt in awhile. None of these things should go together on what should be a spring day. But, alas, on this particular April Fools in Kirkland, all of these things happened to me.
At least there wasn't chapel today.
Debate is now over for the year, my weekend unexpectedly cleared up (for better or for worse), and I am wondering how in the world to manipulate light in travel photography. It's not like I can direct it into a certain space when the picture includes everything. I still have not seen the Fremont Troll, despite my most valiant efforts. On the plus side, Elizabeth Constance and I discovered the sweetest park in Fremont. Bikers and runners traversed the paved path, while random patches of daffodils sprung up beside the parallel mud one. I could hear the coach of the University of Washington's dragonboat racing team talking into a megaphone from the river. But no Troll.
I suppose life can be viewed from either the positive or the negative. Whether something was done, or something was not done. I did not find the Troll. I did discover a park. I did not feel well. I did have a lovely dinner. I did not realize the difference. I did make the change.

A Random Quandary

*is life just a series of 'WTF?' moments?*

Several weeks ago, I typed this statement into my phone and texted it to Twitter, the ultimate site of musings, updates, and stalking. Since then, I have become more and more convinced that the answer to this inquiry is, indeed, yes. The things I remember from my day are not the normal things, the things that are supposed to happen on that day, but are instead the unexpected, the unusual, the things I could not foresee, which often leave me wondering that acronym. I am still determining whether I like life this way or not.

On the one hand, these moments are often hilarious, entertaining, or out of the blue, and they tend to color my day a pleasing shade of memorable. On the other hand, these moments are just as often frustrating, infuriating, or embarrassing, moments which I most definitely could have lived without and been just fine. But can I really have one without the other?

Perhaps this realization is just as justified as any other to be answered with 'WTF.'

Ash Wednesday, and subsequent Lent

Today is Ash Wednesday. I was researching Lent yesterday, since it was Mardi Gras, and discovered that traditionally, Ash Wednesday is spent fasting, and Lent is spent giving up meat, butter, and eggs, on all days except one, and taking only one meal a day during the week. These practices interested me, so I, along with my roommates and some of the other girls on my floor, am also giving up something for Lent. I have been fasting all of today (three cups of juice since lunch to ensure that I didn't pass out), and have resolved to give up sweets and sugar in general for the course of the Lent season (I am also saving money by not buying any coffee fancier than an Americano). Mardi Gras was spent in style, free food hopping from IHOP with a free short stack of pancakes, to two free tacos at Jack in the Box immediately afterwards. I have never acknowledged Lent before, and I am looking forward to sacrificing something for the sake of not only tradition, but also for the sake of the betterment of myself.

The Architecture of My World

I occasionally feel as though my heart is something of a tale of two cities, a dichotomy split between the sister cities of the Pacific Northwest, Portland and Seattle. Yesterday, in order to fulfill this week's photography assignment of "architecture," I traveled to the heart of downtown Seattle to visit the infamous public library. I have been wanting to go there since...well, since I found out it existed, and I was far from disappointed. The chill, blue lower level, surrounded by walls of steel diamonds climbed to the floor of red and stairs, which led up to the lime green escalator, topped off by the modern level of computers and the records of Seattle's history. I believe only libraries can combine modern architecture with the antiquity of books and still come off as paradise.

One thing I love about my photography assignments is how they force me to look at one specific aspect of an idea, and then explore and push it until it forms into something I never would have otherwise seen, like viewing a building from underneath or a still life from the other side. While in the library, I wanted a shot up the stairs, so I squished my body against the wall and directed the camera up. In the Seattle Room, I wanted the image of the triangles on top of the other triangles, so I laid flat on my stomach on the floor, ignoring my dislike of dust and feet for the sake of my vision. Sometimes these things do not pay off; sometimes they do. But I think I learn more from the experience of trying them than from the satisfaction of a photograph that actually worked that time.

This concept does not remain in the lens of my camera. I force it to fit into the rest of my life as well. I notice the small beauties in the engineering of a chair, I note that the hanging artwork in the Rose Hill Starbucks has been switched out, I appreciate how flowers have been arranged. I think that everything becomes more beautiful when viewed not just as a whole, but for the details that make up that whole. Nothing exists apart from its details. It is just our job to find them.

Those People...

I am definitely one of them. Those coffee shop rats who have the look, the vibe, who know the setting and how to act there. Does it get any more quintessential then the red scarf, gray jacket, the Americano, the round table by the windows, the light snow/rain mix coating the asphalt, creative writing homework, and The Decemberists? I think not. I am definitely one of them.

I am definitely one of them. I didn't plan any of this; this is just the way I came, what I am, where I fit. Those people never have to work for 'it'; it's just the way they are. Just like the way I am. I am definitely one of them.

Joy in the Form of Mocha...and All the Other Things...

Today was a beautiful day. It was the first time in a long time that the sun was actually visible and not accompanied by freezing temperatures, and everyone seemed to realize that they either got their fill of vitamin D today, or they would have to wait for who knows how long. I also felt better today after a weekend of doing basically nothing but sleeping (intermissioned with a two-movie excursion into The Matrix), and then sleeping some more.
Liz and I walked into downtown Kirkland today to drop off some checks (hey, I like vitamin D too...even though Michelle is convinced I am a vampire), and decided to hit up the Starbucks in Parkplace, because, not only was it the closest to our local, but it definitely has the best coffee of all the Starbucks' in the area. Another friend of mine was working, and he kindly and surreptitiously gave us the coffee for free. Oh the love of iced triple white chocolate mochas (it was sunny, after all, and warranted the first iced coffee of the new year). It was a beverage of dreams, and made me instantly and exponentially happy, in part counteracting the sadness I received from the temporary closing of the library (a great travesty to an English major).
As I sipped my drink of happiness, I was thinking about the little things that happen everyday that make me happy. Someone says they like my outfit, I spend time with the girls on my floor, I get an excellent coffee, sleeping in, no homework, I discover there is still ice cream in my fridge, I find $5 in my pocket, I have mail, dinner is actually good, my favorite pen is in my bag. And then I realized how each of this things has an antithesis that makes me equally unhappy. I don't like to categorize myself as superficial, but it really is the little things that happen all day that build up into that day, at its close, being labeled as either 'good' or 'bad,' and I tried to determine how much of that is fate, and how much is a choice. Obviously, not everything is supposed to make me happy all time (I would probably be a little concerned about my own mental state if they did), but overall I think I can decide whether or not today is a good day, despite the circumstances that try and dictate to me what I should pick. I was never one for being told what to believe, much less by a set of inanimate circumstances. I have more gumption than that.

A Short Note on the Human Condition

*a wonderful fact to reflect upon, that every human creature is constituted to be that profound secret and mystery to every other*


I just finished A Tale of Two Cities. In addition to needing to have it done by Friday, it was a fantastic work, and I read zealously for long chunks of time until my mind reached its Dickens saturation point, and no more high language and loaded symbolism could be stowed within my head. This novel has weaseled its way into my list of favorite books ever, not merely because it is, on the whole, brilliant, but more because each line, each sentence, exists as an individual statement of truth and beauty. Take the above quote, from chapter 3 of Book the First. It has often amazed me how much I am disconnected from the people I pass every day, how many times a day I ask 'how are you?' and how many times I do not really care what the answer is. But perhaps that is half the beauty of being human, that the true state of a person cannot be candidly known. What kind of world would we live in if everything I ever thought was open and public to anyone who cared to inquire about it. We might learn to live with this after awhile, to not exist in a permanent state of hatred for each other and our profoundly intolerant thoughts for everyone else, but on the whole I think it is better not to know, to view the situation as Dickens does, as wonderful. Ultimately, we were not meant to be open books, no matter how many novels we read.

The Stop-Action of Life

It was thus far been an interesting excursion into the assignment of "people in context." That is this week's photography assignment: to photograph people in context. As I am holding up the camera to people who are not smiling at it, who are occasionally unaware of its presence, who do not see through the lens as I do, I am noticing the nuances of people's daily lives, as well as how much cannot be captured by a camera. We were at Starbucks for a couple hours earlier today, and, as I continually snapped pictures of my companions playing cards, I also took note, and even a few surreptitious photos, of other beings in the coffee shop. There was a foreign man standing board straight, holding newspapers, in front of the 'Italian Roast' sign on the wall, but before I could take the picture, he moved forward in line, and the image was gone. Same with Liz as we played a card game. There were numerous expressions that passed over her face that I was unable to photograph before they were gone. This sense of continually missing the "perfect" picture is frustrating, but at the same time, forces me to think about life, not as a one long, continuous film that passes in a constant stream, but as a series of individual and detailed moments, all of which need to treasured as they are, and, if possible, captured.

Hometown

Every time I go home, I make it a point to spend quality time with my beloved Portland. This place forces me to consider how much where we live influences who we are, since I believe myself to be a native Portlander, but am unsure whether I was born that way, or whether the city shaped me to be its own. The homeless in the more real parts of town, the crowds outside the shady bars, the hairdresser wearing fishnets and covered in tattoos are all as much 'Portland' as the businesspeople in their suits, carrying expensive briefcases and coffee, and the hip thirty-somethings in small groups of three or four crowding out the upscale restaurants and cafes. Did these people adopt the city as their own, or are they the Aborigines, who have always been this way? It is easy to tell who does not belong to the city; they are ones with large umbrellas, inadequate clothing, and guide books. I pride myself on not even owning an umbrella, much less ever using one. I don't own the guide books, and I know how to layer in order to stay warm against the almost omnipresent raindrops.
Which leads me to the question of adaptation.
Although P-town is my hometown, I now reside near Seattle, and have made it a goal this semester to come to know Seattle like I know Portland, to gain knowledge of all the cool shops and restaurants around the city. Last night my two roommates and I went down to the U District (the area of Seattle surrounding the University of Washington) for some used clothes shopping. We hit up Buffalo Exchange and Recycled Fashion, and I finally found a pair of boots that I have been looking for. We are planning on going again for some more second-hand finds, maybe trying one of the many Asian food places along University Way. Seattle is indeed a beautiful city. Kitty-corner to one of the shops, jutting out above the under-construction warehouses, was a black, cathedral-style tower, with the light shining on it just so against the black sky, making it one of the most striking and beautiful scenes I have encountered here. I am looking forward to many such scenes in my future.