C'est Moi: The Outcast of the Hundred Acre Wood

I wonder sometimes if it is easier to describe myself as I am right now or in terms of who I have been. Then I wonder if there is really ever a difference.
I loved Eeyore as a child. The gloomy, melancholy figure perpetually on the outskirts of the Hundred Acre Wood in-group, Eeyore made me happy because he made me sad. I had a dozen stuffed variations of him, old-gen, new-gen, Christmas, cowboy, etc., hoping subconsciously that if I could love his plush form, maybe he wouldn’t be so sad in ‘real’ life. Because his story was real to me. Such stories are always real.
I know I never really abandoned my perspective on the reality of Eeyore’s plight, because I still have all my stuffed donkeys. I saw then, and I continue to see, too much of the pensive part of myself in his brooding character to outgrow him, since I could never outgrow that aspect of me. Eeyore is made up of the same stuff(ing) I am. I was never ashamed to relate quite personally to a blue-grey donkey with a defective tail who ate thistles and thanked Pooh for noticing him. Sometimes we don’t change. The Eeyore in me doesn’t change. And so, Eeyore and I will always have each other.

Alignment with Truth

I have a tattoo on my wrist. I also have one on my foot. The one on my wrist is the Greek word for divine, unconditional love, the one on my foot a line from an old hymn, asking for the blessing of God. If my self became wholly aligned with Truth, it would be the culmination of these two ideas: the love of God first, and the seeking for and outpouring of God's blessing second.
Before I knew it consciously, before I tattooed it, I was marked with God's love, unending, without reservation, for me. And then I loved Him, and I made that love a permanent black symbol on my arm. Because He first loved me.
Then came my supplication, my asking for blessing from the altar of that Love, my begging to be blessed in a kind of ever-present song of praise. Come Thou fount of every blessing, tune my heart to sing.
When these two concepts clash, there Truth is. When I embrace them together, then am I aligned with Truth, and then does Truth take hold of me. I become wholly devoted.

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.