This week on social media has been rough, amen?
Like everyone else, I've been overflowing with thoughts and feelings. I've had a bajillion ideas for posts or status updates that were rejected one by one because I wouldn't be adding anything new, or because I didn't think I could express myself without being too sassy.
But inspiration just struck me in the shower, as it is wont to do, and the result is this quick quiz as to how you should feel about yourself post-election.
In the week following the election of Donald J. Trump to the post of President of the United States, have you...
1. Interacted with a Democrat and a Republican? Better yet, have you interacted with someone who rejects clear-cut categories and wants justice for all?
2. Helped another human do something, or given a gift? Were you helped? Did you receive a gift?
3. Cleaned up after yourself in a public space or in your home?
4. Given serious consideration to the current and future state of the nation of America, with particular attention as to how you might improve this state?
5. Avoided insulting or criticizing someone who kind of seemed like they would deserve it? Avoided insulting or criticizing someone who totally didn't deserve it?
6. Shared anything with someone else? (an evening, ideas, a drink, a hope, a pew)
7. Did something (or avoided doing something) for yourself instead of for the approval of others?
8. Read a book, internet article, or blog post? (demonstrating a willingness to hear someone else's views, and yes, this one counts)
9. Tried to comfort yourself or someone else who was sad or confused?
10. Kept trying to be a good citizen/person, in spite of poor role models?
Scoring guide: if you answered "yes" to one or more of the questions, you win. Turns out, no one can take away your ability to act like a decent person. (Thank goodness!) Suggested followup: get offline for a while and treat yo'self to some real, live living.
Tuesday 15 November 2016
Thursday 29 September 2016
Deepwater Horizon
I woke up at 4:44 in the morning feeling like there was a dementor in the room, my heart racing. I chose to blame the prior night's movie outing; I had gone to see Deepwater Horizon, about the massive 2010 oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico. It was a much more violent movie than I'm used to watching. The outcome of the story is fixed in history, so I'm not sure whether this post can contain spoilers.
Even though this film depicted a living nightmare, a huge inferno, pain, suffering, blood, shattering glass, creepy flickering lighting, men being tossed around like rag dolls, its grounding in true events kept it from being a horror movie. Fortunately for me, most of the gore was implied rather than shown. I only had to cover my eyes once. Glass was involved. Last week or so a minuscule sliver of glass sliced into my palm and I was shocked at how painful it was. Fast-forward to the movie: I couldn't even imagine what the naked character covered in glass shards from head to toe was going through, as he dug embedded glass out of his foot, and I didn't want to see it (I could still hear during this part, and I heard a lot of gasping).
Also, I would expect a horror movie to have little to offer in the way of purpose or a takeaway. But after seeing Deepwater Horizon, I texted my former safety supervisor at an old job and called it the ultimate safety movie. ("If people push back about following rules, show them this.") The explosion and deaths happened because safety wasn't being treated with the appropriate gravity and legitimate, measurable red flags were ignored. People often cut corners with no apparent consequences, but this movie depicted a sickening illustration of what consequences could look like. We don't do safety testing or obey best practices for funsies. We do because it matters. Watching this movie made me want to go obey some laws. It made my friend want to go buy an electric car. I would guess that her reaction is more typical.
By the way, I bet bp is just thrilled that this movie is coming out. A bp official is basically the villain of the movie. He is the personification of greed, causing the deaths of eleven people by his singular focus on hitting profit targets. I kept picturing his face during the horrific parts and thinking, "greed caused this hell." Though he is the inciting villain, he clearly did not want the rig to blow and eventually detonate. Yet "oil" isn't a super satisfying villain. It's just doing what oil does. Denial and negligence were the problem, the variable. In light of what I saw in the movie, I found it really stressful and sad that the bp workers were released of their 2010 charges of manslaughter. Their misplaced priorities caused eleven needless deaths (and all that brings for those left behind) plus untold pain, suffering, and fear for the survivors and their families. Wikipedia contains further damning details that the movie alludes to about how there had been a pattern of using "band-aids and gum" to fix real problems that needed a full fix. Wikipedia states, "according to a number of rig workers, it was understood that workers could get fired for raising safety concerns that might delay drilling." This pun is in poor taste, but... sounds like they got fired anyway! And also, what the hell, bp?
Lastly, I appreciated that the movie was able to take the topic "safety testing on an oil rig" and make it entertaining. They did a decent job of conveying the needed information without making me fall asleep. There was one moment I felt confused, but they must have recovered nicely because when it was all over, I could no longer remember what I didn't understand. And even had I understood none of what they were talking about, the interpersonal dynamics were plain--a seasoned expert finds that his gut instinct of dread is (ambiguously) supported by the numbers, but a greedy business rep is behind schedule, motivated by money, wants to impress his own supervisor, and has enough authority to override the objections. In short, the struggle between intuition/honesty and a fixation on a specific outcome. Generally, as in this movie specifically, I believe you should let go of a need for a preset outcome and deal with matters as they are instead of how you'd like them to be (which is a form of denial). After all, lives may hang in this balance.
Even though this film depicted a living nightmare, a huge inferno, pain, suffering, blood, shattering glass, creepy flickering lighting, men being tossed around like rag dolls, its grounding in true events kept it from being a horror movie. Fortunately for me, most of the gore was implied rather than shown. I only had to cover my eyes once. Glass was involved. Last week or so a minuscule sliver of glass sliced into my palm and I was shocked at how painful it was. Fast-forward to the movie: I couldn't even imagine what the naked character covered in glass shards from head to toe was going through, as he dug embedded glass out of his foot, and I didn't want to see it (I could still hear during this part, and I heard a lot of gasping).
Also, I would expect a horror movie to have little to offer in the way of purpose or a takeaway. But after seeing Deepwater Horizon, I texted my former safety supervisor at an old job and called it the ultimate safety movie. ("If people push back about following rules, show them this.") The explosion and deaths happened because safety wasn't being treated with the appropriate gravity and legitimate, measurable red flags were ignored. People often cut corners with no apparent consequences, but this movie depicted a sickening illustration of what consequences could look like. We don't do safety testing or obey best practices for funsies. We do because it matters. Watching this movie made me want to go obey some laws. It made my friend want to go buy an electric car. I would guess that her reaction is more typical.
By the way, I bet bp is just thrilled that this movie is coming out. A bp official is basically the villain of the movie. He is the personification of greed, causing the deaths of eleven people by his singular focus on hitting profit targets. I kept picturing his face during the horrific parts and thinking, "greed caused this hell." Though he is the inciting villain, he clearly did not want the rig to blow and eventually detonate. Yet "oil" isn't a super satisfying villain. It's just doing what oil does. Denial and negligence were the problem, the variable. In light of what I saw in the movie, I found it really stressful and sad that the bp workers were released of their 2010 charges of manslaughter. Their misplaced priorities caused eleven needless deaths (and all that brings for those left behind) plus untold pain, suffering, and fear for the survivors and their families. Wikipedia contains further damning details that the movie alludes to about how there had been a pattern of using "band-aids and gum" to fix real problems that needed a full fix. Wikipedia states, "according to a number of rig workers, it was understood that workers could get fired for raising safety concerns that might delay drilling." This pun is in poor taste, but... sounds like they got fired anyway! And also, what the hell, bp?
Lastly, I appreciated that the movie was able to take the topic "safety testing on an oil rig" and make it entertaining. They did a decent job of conveying the needed information without making me fall asleep. There was one moment I felt confused, but they must have recovered nicely because when it was all over, I could no longer remember what I didn't understand. And even had I understood none of what they were talking about, the interpersonal dynamics were plain--a seasoned expert finds that his gut instinct of dread is (ambiguously) supported by the numbers, but a greedy business rep is behind schedule, motivated by money, wants to impress his own supervisor, and has enough authority to override the objections. In short, the struggle between intuition/honesty and a fixation on a specific outcome. Generally, as in this movie specifically, I believe you should let go of a need for a preset outcome and deal with matters as they are instead of how you'd like them to be (which is a form of denial). After all, lives may hang in this balance.
Thursday 25 August 2016
When a Story Fails
I tend to really enjoy teen fiction, especially when it's set in dystopian worlds. I enjoy the directness of the analogies, how the very setup of the setting reveals the problems. The protagonist lives in a society that is rigidly controlled, usually but not always in North America far in the future. At some point between now and then, the powers that be decided they knew what was best for everyone and forcibly implemented--and now forcibly maintain--the structure they think best for society. Usually this involves segregating people or some kind of caste system. But the protagonist, though not always from the start, can see that the price paid for enforcing the structure (such as required pill-taking to make people docile, strict laws or curfews, slavery, lying and deception, etc.) is not worth it. The protagonist becomes the special one (or one of the special ones) who join the resistance (which is always already in progress, and often includes their parents) and find a way to break down the society. I've just summed up 90% or more of the genre.
I love how pure and sweet it is when authors harp on how wonderful it is to have a family or at least loved ones, to be near open flame even though it might burn you, to enjoy the natural world, to listen to whatever music you want and earn a living the way you choose all while risking the possibility you might fall in love and make a few decisions based on your hormones. To be happy and sad, sometimes both at the same time, and make your own choices even though that means the world will contain cracks in its beauty, crime, and actual crack (the drug). I find that each and every one of these books in its own way champions free will and asserts that without it, life is senseless and unreal. They can't help but link love and free will, because these two are nothing if not soul sisters. I see Christianity busting out at the seams, even if the story itself never mentions Jesus or faith. The truths of human nature as revealed in the Bible cannot be denied in such a nakedly direct view of the world as this genre presents, even when they explicitly pick on religion (I say, go ahead you guys, not even Jesus defends empty ritual; in fact, He condemns it). It's basically the opposite of an obscure postmodern story about nothing, in which layers of meaning are shrouded in mystery and pretty senseless words and nothing quite ever happens.
Though they all follow a similar basic premise, there's a wide range in storytelling quality. I find myself intrigued at this vast range. Arrogant as it sounds, it sometimes comforts me. While reading the lower end of that spectrum I think, "if this could get published, maybe I have a shot at a book someday."
Today I read most of a teen dystopian fiction book that was pretty terrible. I'm not entirely sure why I finished it, actually. Perhaps as a form of procrastination, or simply because it was going quickly and I could add it to my list of books I've read in 2016. I don't want to be Cruel (that's your only hint about the book's title) so I won't reveal specifics. I doubt you've heard of it.
Now that we're anonymous, why was it so terrible? What sets it apart from (below) other stories? For starters, it was message-driven rather than plot- or character- driven. And the message was unclear. The world they wove (that's another clue, actually) was extremely complex, yet barely explained. It reminded me of the idea, "if you could walk through walls, why wouldn't you fall through the floor and never stop falling?" In this book in particular, if an all-powerful group of people were able to manipulate time and space, why would anything ever go wrong at all? What is even the point of life? Seriously... none was ever given. I didn't understand why anyone in this universe bothered to want anything, nor did I see them wanting anything besides for their relatives not to die. What an awful and colorless existence. Plus, unrealistic. In real life, you want all kinds of things. For people to like you, new headphones, to be a better cook, to have a meaningful life. This book: none of that.
In the same vein, the book had a conspicuous lack of character motivation. A motive for controlling others (which was, like, the primary function of this world) was never named, except in passing. In this genre, "safety" is given as the number one reason for rigid governmental control. I think today's book briefly mentioned that concept, but never in a specific way or with a specific example. A teacher kills a town of people to prove some kind of point or lesson, without explaining what that lesson was. I mean, the lesson was, "obey, or people will get hurt," but no explanation for why or how they'd be hurt if the teacher hadn't killed them for the student's disobedience. The overall lack of motives for all the characters' behavior made for a tiresome and disjointed narrative.
In these books, the villains tend to be one-dimensional. It's always an exception to the author's credit when they have some humanizing backstory. Typically, none of them see any issue with wiping people's memories or minds and making them walking zombies with no personality. Warning: this reveals some deep roots of my nerdiness... there's an Animorphs book in which they run tests on humans to try to remove their free will. Though it appears the researchers succeed (I think Cassie doubts all along), eventually one of the scientists admits that a human without free will is nothing at all, a paradox, an impossibility, comatose. All they really did was get some people to pretend they didn't have free will to appease whoever commissioned the research. This struck me as intellectually honest in a way that the offending teen fiction books are not. To me it's a plot hole that memory removal would even be possible. I suppose for the sake of story I'm willing to permit the idea of slight memory modification, though I think that would be pretty damaging to a person in manifold unpredictable ways. But wiping someone entirely and making them blank? No way. How would such a person make decisions like which shirt to put on or when to eat? Memory defines us. We're influenced a million different ways by subtleties of past experience we may not even be aware of. There would not be enough structure in a memory-free brain to put a sentence together. What is language if not remembering how the letters are pronounced and what they mean when they're put together? (By the way, I think language is absolutely amazing... we remember hundreds of thousands of words, not to mention the countless ways they can be arranged, and we start doing this even as children!) No, I don't think forcibly taking someone's free will from their mind is a possibility, though it could possibly be done by tricking them into neglecting to use that power.
I suppose that's enough critique of this book for now. I respect that this author pursued her (is that considered another clue?) dream of being an author, and that she worked the system enough to publish a series (shoot, another clue). I don't want to tear her down, which is why I'm leaving her out of this. But having said all that, this book was the opposite of compelling. It's okay, she chose an incredibly ambitious premise, perhaps too ambitious for even a master storyteller. There's truly something to be said for simplicity. Good thing, because it means our lives can matter tremendously even as we live out a course of ordinary days.
I love how pure and sweet it is when authors harp on how wonderful it is to have a family or at least loved ones, to be near open flame even though it might burn you, to enjoy the natural world, to listen to whatever music you want and earn a living the way you choose all while risking the possibility you might fall in love and make a few decisions based on your hormones. To be happy and sad, sometimes both at the same time, and make your own choices even though that means the world will contain cracks in its beauty, crime, and actual crack (the drug). I find that each and every one of these books in its own way champions free will and asserts that without it, life is senseless and unreal. They can't help but link love and free will, because these two are nothing if not soul sisters. I see Christianity busting out at the seams, even if the story itself never mentions Jesus or faith. The truths of human nature as revealed in the Bible cannot be denied in such a nakedly direct view of the world as this genre presents, even when they explicitly pick on religion (I say, go ahead you guys, not even Jesus defends empty ritual; in fact, He condemns it). It's basically the opposite of an obscure postmodern story about nothing, in which layers of meaning are shrouded in mystery and pretty senseless words and nothing quite ever happens.
Though they all follow a similar basic premise, there's a wide range in storytelling quality. I find myself intrigued at this vast range. Arrogant as it sounds, it sometimes comforts me. While reading the lower end of that spectrum I think, "if this could get published, maybe I have a shot at a book someday."
Today I read most of a teen dystopian fiction book that was pretty terrible. I'm not entirely sure why I finished it, actually. Perhaps as a form of procrastination, or simply because it was going quickly and I could add it to my list of books I've read in 2016. I don't want to be Cruel (that's your only hint about the book's title) so I won't reveal specifics. I doubt you've heard of it.
Now that we're anonymous, why was it so terrible? What sets it apart from (below) other stories? For starters, it was message-driven rather than plot- or character- driven. And the message was unclear. The world they wove (that's another clue, actually) was extremely complex, yet barely explained. It reminded me of the idea, "if you could walk through walls, why wouldn't you fall through the floor and never stop falling?" In this book in particular, if an all-powerful group of people were able to manipulate time and space, why would anything ever go wrong at all? What is even the point of life? Seriously... none was ever given. I didn't understand why anyone in this universe bothered to want anything, nor did I see them wanting anything besides for their relatives not to die. What an awful and colorless existence. Plus, unrealistic. In real life, you want all kinds of things. For people to like you, new headphones, to be a better cook, to have a meaningful life. This book: none of that.
In the same vein, the book had a conspicuous lack of character motivation. A motive for controlling others (which was, like, the primary function of this world) was never named, except in passing. In this genre, "safety" is given as the number one reason for rigid governmental control. I think today's book briefly mentioned that concept, but never in a specific way or with a specific example. A teacher kills a town of people to prove some kind of point or lesson, without explaining what that lesson was. I mean, the lesson was, "obey, or people will get hurt," but no explanation for why or how they'd be hurt if the teacher hadn't killed them for the student's disobedience. The overall lack of motives for all the characters' behavior made for a tiresome and disjointed narrative.
In these books, the villains tend to be one-dimensional. It's always an exception to the author's credit when they have some humanizing backstory. Typically, none of them see any issue with wiping people's memories or minds and making them walking zombies with no personality. Warning: this reveals some deep roots of my nerdiness... there's an Animorphs book in which they run tests on humans to try to remove their free will. Though it appears the researchers succeed (I think Cassie doubts all along), eventually one of the scientists admits that a human without free will is nothing at all, a paradox, an impossibility, comatose. All they really did was get some people to pretend they didn't have free will to appease whoever commissioned the research. This struck me as intellectually honest in a way that the offending teen fiction books are not. To me it's a plot hole that memory removal would even be possible. I suppose for the sake of story I'm willing to permit the idea of slight memory modification, though I think that would be pretty damaging to a person in manifold unpredictable ways. But wiping someone entirely and making them blank? No way. How would such a person make decisions like which shirt to put on or when to eat? Memory defines us. We're influenced a million different ways by subtleties of past experience we may not even be aware of. There would not be enough structure in a memory-free brain to put a sentence together. What is language if not remembering how the letters are pronounced and what they mean when they're put together? (By the way, I think language is absolutely amazing... we remember hundreds of thousands of words, not to mention the countless ways they can be arranged, and we start doing this even as children!) No, I don't think forcibly taking someone's free will from their mind is a possibility, though it could possibly be done by tricking them into neglecting to use that power.
I suppose that's enough critique of this book for now. I respect that this author pursued her (is that considered another clue?) dream of being an author, and that she worked the system enough to publish a series (shoot, another clue). I don't want to tear her down, which is why I'm leaving her out of this. But having said all that, this book was the opposite of compelling. It's okay, she chose an incredibly ambitious premise, perhaps too ambitious for even a master storyteller. There's truly something to be said for simplicity. Good thing, because it means our lives can matter tremendously even as we live out a course of ordinary days.
Thursday 18 August 2016
Don't put Happiness on Hold
I'm rereading my new favorite book series (at least until I reread Harry Potter, probably) and it's just as much fun as the first time through. I rushed my first reading, I think because I wanted to see what was going to happen with the (very understated but awesome) love story. I admit that mattered more to me than the other huge happenings that affected more characters and defined the main plotline. Not that that says a lot about me or anything.
My second readthrough is also amazing, but it's different. I'm struck by plenty of foreshadowing and details I missed the first time through. Things I didn't think mattered at all became super important in light of the eventual conclusion. There were clues sprinkled all throughout the books that I didn't have the proper perspective or patience to pick up on before. I was too distracted by pressing ahead to see how things would turn out.
Knowing the ending doesn't make me appreciate the story less; it gives me hope for the hard times. When something terrible happens, I can tell myself, "it's all gonna be okay." I can enjoy the time I have with the characters, knowing some of them die. I can appreciate the richness of a friendship before betrayal enters the picture. I know good wins, even when all seems to be lost.
I liken my first readthrough to my natural (fleshly, in Christianese) inclination to live quickly and impatiently rush through boredom to juicier things; in other words, how I've lived most of my life. In this mindset, waiting to get what I want seems a mistake: something to be endured, not enjoyed. My second readthrough more resembles living with a redeemed mind and eternity in view. This unhurried state is relatively new to me and feels a million times better.
Though many of my hopes for my life have yet to materialize, I've realized I don't have to wait to be thankful, and I don't have to get upset when the road seems to turn the opposite direction. It's as simple as imagining how I hope to feel when my dreams come true and allowing myself to feel that right now, no strings attached. Why should I put my excitement on hold? It could be years... time wasted or dissipated into other emotions besides gratitude, excitement and joy. I see no reason to wait. If my dreams do not come to pass, then I've at least lived several extra years with positive emotion. And this isn't just wishful thinking or fantasy; as a child of God, called according to His purposes, I know for sure something good is coming for me.
I think this is what Paul meant when he wrote that "we boast in the hope of the glory of God. Not only so, but we also glory in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope. And hope does not put us to shame," (Romans 5:2b-5a) I think boredom or waiting can be considered a form of suffering, but we can still be totally okay with them, knowing what's coming. And I think the last verse means we won't regret hope or be embarrassed we hoped, both because God's promises are true and Jesus is actually coming back and because hoping is an honorable and positive thing, whether or not life turns out the way we expected it to.
As a sidebar, I also find that trusting my path is headed for good releases me from feeling envious of my friends (most of the time!). I can honestly celebrate with those who celebrate, seeing each success story as proof that success keeps coming for us all one by one, rather than thinking there's a success pie that's shrinking as it's served up and if I don't get my slice soon I'll starve.
In my head I've been calling this mindset "preemptive gratitude," though "faith" and "trust" would both work well. The Bible calls it hope a few times. Romans 8:24b-25 says that "hope that is seen is no hope at all. Who hopes for what they already have? But if we hope for what we do not yet have, we wait for it patiently." Hope is good (duh), but it's not possible to hope for what we have. Earthly life is our one chance to love God by trusting Him and believing in His promises even though we can't yet see the outcome. When our earthly lives are through, our faith (our hope) will be turned to sight. Living in a world that's still broken provides our only chance at hope. And by the way, what is more majestic: a light shining in broad daylight or a light that shines in darkness?
Christ-followers know good wins in the end. This is why celebration and dancing and feasting are all appropriate even in this world full of crime and hate and poverty, why we say of God, "You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies." (Psalm 23:5a) This verse closely relates to enjoying and savoring my book because I know for sure that the very real and dangerous threats from the enemy won't derail the ultimate mission. Joy isn't insensitive or thoughtless; it's acknowledging a deeper truth. We're all free to ease up on the breakneck pace and enter fully into our lives, secure in a good ending. We can delight in each twist and turn of the story without rushing or despairing. We can celebrate the happy ending right now and let it inform all our choices until it gets here. We don't have to wait to be glad it all turns out well: we can celebrate that truth today, in whatever city and life station we presently find ourselves.
"Let us hold unswervingly to the hope we profess, for he who promised is faithful." (Hebrews 10:23) Let's enjoy the benefits of hope now, despite obstacles, because we can, and because the author of the story of humanity and the world is trustworthy and has promised us a good ending.
My second readthrough is also amazing, but it's different. I'm struck by plenty of foreshadowing and details I missed the first time through. Things I didn't think mattered at all became super important in light of the eventual conclusion. There were clues sprinkled all throughout the books that I didn't have the proper perspective or patience to pick up on before. I was too distracted by pressing ahead to see how things would turn out.
Knowing the ending doesn't make me appreciate the story less; it gives me hope for the hard times. When something terrible happens, I can tell myself, "it's all gonna be okay." I can enjoy the time I have with the characters, knowing some of them die. I can appreciate the richness of a friendship before betrayal enters the picture. I know good wins, even when all seems to be lost.
I liken my first readthrough to my natural (fleshly, in Christianese) inclination to live quickly and impatiently rush through boredom to juicier things; in other words, how I've lived most of my life. In this mindset, waiting to get what I want seems a mistake: something to be endured, not enjoyed. My second readthrough more resembles living with a redeemed mind and eternity in view. This unhurried state is relatively new to me and feels a million times better.
Though many of my hopes for my life have yet to materialize, I've realized I don't have to wait to be thankful, and I don't have to get upset when the road seems to turn the opposite direction. It's as simple as imagining how I hope to feel when my dreams come true and allowing myself to feel that right now, no strings attached. Why should I put my excitement on hold? It could be years... time wasted or dissipated into other emotions besides gratitude, excitement and joy. I see no reason to wait. If my dreams do not come to pass, then I've at least lived several extra years with positive emotion. And this isn't just wishful thinking or fantasy; as a child of God, called according to His purposes, I know for sure something good is coming for me.
I think this is what Paul meant when he wrote that "we boast in the hope of the glory of God. Not only so, but we also glory in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope. And hope does not put us to shame," (Romans 5:2b-5a) I think boredom or waiting can be considered a form of suffering, but we can still be totally okay with them, knowing what's coming. And I think the last verse means we won't regret hope or be embarrassed we hoped, both because God's promises are true and Jesus is actually coming back and because hoping is an honorable and positive thing, whether or not life turns out the way we expected it to.
As a sidebar, I also find that trusting my path is headed for good releases me from feeling envious of my friends (most of the time!). I can honestly celebrate with those who celebrate, seeing each success story as proof that success keeps coming for us all one by one, rather than thinking there's a success pie that's shrinking as it's served up and if I don't get my slice soon I'll starve.
Christ-followers know good wins in the end. This is why celebration and dancing and feasting are all appropriate even in this world full of crime and hate and poverty, why we say of God, "You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies." (Psalm 23:5a) This verse closely relates to enjoying and savoring my book because I know for sure that the very real and dangerous threats from the enemy won't derail the ultimate mission. Joy isn't insensitive or thoughtless; it's acknowledging a deeper truth. We're all free to ease up on the breakneck pace and enter fully into our lives, secure in a good ending. We can delight in each twist and turn of the story without rushing or despairing. We can celebrate the happy ending right now and let it inform all our choices until it gets here. We don't have to wait to be glad it all turns out well: we can celebrate that truth today, in whatever city and life station we presently find ourselves.
Friday 12 August 2016
When I Can't Escape Myself
Yesterday I met two friends at a coffee shop. I woke up late, so I was a bit late for our meeting and brought some food with me. During the course of our conversation, my friends both commented on my salt shaker from home. One asked where I bought my banana chips and sun butter and how expensive they were and wanted to try some. I was surprised that physical reality was filtering into our exchange (which was mostly abstract topics: emotions, life circumstances, God at work). I'd subconsciously expected the food to be outside the realm of discussion. When it wasn't, it reminded me that when I brought myself to the table, I was bringing more than a mind. I brought a body carrying a bag of snacks.* Maybe I'd forgotten because when I'm speaking, I look at my friend's face and I don't see me anywhere.
I'm surprised when I influence others because I am my influence, and from the inside looking out I don't see how it comes across. I am my biases, so I forget to factor my biases into my analyses. The overintellectual part of my mind forgets to be rooted in reality. Maybe I have a gnostic urge to rise "above," as though there's anything inherently preferable about the immaterial. But I can't disown my body; it's me. My mind can't be present in a room my body's not. Even Skype requires eyes and/or ears. Without my brain's actual gray matter, I couldn't carry the electricity that forms the intangible thoughts I prefer to identify with. It's kind of a mystery that I am not just a happy ghost, nor merely bone and meat, but inseparably all of the above and more.
For better or for worse, with people the medium is part of the message. On a simple level like, "if your relationships are garbage I'm not going to take advice from you," but also in a deeper and less logical sense. I've always wanted my personal information kept private and away from my opinions or stances. Maybe I get it from my somewhat paranoid father. Something that kept me from blogging for years was the understanding that people would know I had written it. I wished the work could stand or fall on its own merit, leaving me out of it entirely. Yet whenever I visited someone else's blog, one of my first clicks was the "about me" page. Maybe because I like hearing peoples' stories. It's unsatisfying to not know who you're talking to, or listening to. Like talking to a robot, which is completely different than talking to an actual person, even if the words used are similar.
Why did I want to keep myself private? I guess I wanted to avoid being prejudged. I know I can't control how others see me (much as I've always wished I could), but it seemed it would help if I could at least speak for myself before assumptions had been formed. I wished my intent to come across, like anyone would. Yet a person's intentions and inner self are always filtered through the material world, and something is usually lost in translation. Just as an artist's vision may be compromised on its path into the world, my intentions don't always translate into action. I'm prone to mistakes and even when I do my best, there's weather and accidents and other people to affect outcomes. There's something so vulnerable about putting yourself out there to be evaluated by others, perhaps dismissed before you even have a chance to prove yourself. But we all have to do it. A person can't opt out of being misunderstood. There's no healthy or reasonable way to hide yourself well enough. The good news is that you can learn to cut slack for misunderstandings, both yours and others. It's called grace, and so far it's much better than going into eternal hiding.
---
*Isn't that what we're all looking for in a friend or significant other? ;)
I'm surprised when I influence others because I am my influence, and from the inside looking out I don't see how it comes across. I am my biases, so I forget to factor my biases into my analyses. The overintellectual part of my mind forgets to be rooted in reality. Maybe I have a gnostic urge to rise "above," as though there's anything inherently preferable about the immaterial. But I can't disown my body; it's me. My mind can't be present in a room my body's not. Even Skype requires eyes and/or ears. Without my brain's actual gray matter, I couldn't carry the electricity that forms the intangible thoughts I prefer to identify with. It's kind of a mystery that I am not just a happy ghost, nor merely bone and meat, but inseparably all of the above and more.
For better or for worse, with people the medium is part of the message. On a simple level like, "if your relationships are garbage I'm not going to take advice from you," but also in a deeper and less logical sense. I've always wanted my personal information kept private and away from my opinions or stances. Maybe I get it from my somewhat paranoid father. Something that kept me from blogging for years was the understanding that people would know I had written it. I wished the work could stand or fall on its own merit, leaving me out of it entirely. Yet whenever I visited someone else's blog, one of my first clicks was the "about me" page. Maybe because I like hearing peoples' stories. It's unsatisfying to not know who you're talking to, or listening to. Like talking to a robot, which is completely different than talking to an actual person, even if the words used are similar.
Why did I want to keep myself private? I guess I wanted to avoid being prejudged. I know I can't control how others see me (much as I've always wished I could), but it seemed it would help if I could at least speak for myself before assumptions had been formed. I wished my intent to come across, like anyone would. Yet a person's intentions and inner self are always filtered through the material world, and something is usually lost in translation. Just as an artist's vision may be compromised on its path into the world, my intentions don't always translate into action. I'm prone to mistakes and even when I do my best, there's weather and accidents and other people to affect outcomes. There's something so vulnerable about putting yourself out there to be evaluated by others, perhaps dismissed before you even have a chance to prove yourself. But we all have to do it. A person can't opt out of being misunderstood. There's no healthy or reasonable way to hide yourself well enough. The good news is that you can learn to cut slack for misunderstandings, both yours and others. It's called grace, and so far it's much better than going into eternal hiding.
---
*Isn't that what we're all looking for in a friend or significant other? ;)
Tuesday 9 August 2016
Finding Happiness Where You Least Expect It
I'm reading a book called Stumbling on Happiness by Daniel Gilbert. I love it when a body of scientific evidence confirms what I've experienced. In Gilbert's ideas, I also find help in wholeheartedly following Christ. Super brief summary of the book: we are terrible at predicting what will make us happy. People are very confident in their predictions, but usually dead wrong.
For example, people tend to think riches will make them happier. Yet often lottery winners report being no happier in the long run for their winnings, or sometimes being less happy, because the presence of the money has created social tension for them. Here are a few notable quotes from rich folks (found in a different book):
"The care of $200 million is enough to kill anyone. There is no pleasure in it." - W.H. Vanderbilt
"I am the most miserable man on earth." - J.J. Astor*
"I have made millions, but they have brought me no happiness." - John D. Rockefeller
"Millionaires seldom smile." - Andrew Carnegie
"I was happier when doing a mechanic's job." - Henry Ford
Gilbert lays out several reasons we're bad at accurately predicting our feelings. I'll focus on two: our tendency to 1) leave out plenty of important and relevant information while 2) supplying lots of speculation as fact without realizing we're doing it.
My mother used to say, "if you're not happy without it, you won't be happy with it." She was referring to the fact that buying a new laptop (to use an example from my high school days) or whatever doesn't change one's day-to-day life's happiness in the long run. She was right, but why? Gilbert explains that when I was imagining myself using the computer before I got it, I only saw myself sitting at it and messaging my friends all night. I completely left out the part about how I would still have the same basic attitude toward life, still have to go to school, do homework, and deal with all the other hassles of life. Basically I left out 90% of the factors that would determine my happiness, even in a world in which I had my very own laptop. But I had conjured up such a vivid mental image that I didn't think to realize anything was missing. The image-conjuring was fine; the fact that I expected the image to become reality, not so much.
In his book, Gilbert uses an example in which he invites the reader something like, "imagine you're going to have a spaghetti dinner tomorrow night." He points out you probably did not imagine an uncooked box of pasta sitting on the counter, but likely embellished with a plate beneath, sauce to top it and maybe even side dishes and your dining companions. But none of that embellishment is contained or necessarily implied in the term "spaghetti dinner." He said all the extra information is our "brain's best guess," and when asked, we tend to feel pretty confident in our embellishments, and those guesses are usually way off base. I immediately thought of how sometimes God's leading is just one word, or a phrase, and our brains do the magic of filling in the gap and then we're shocked when things didn't turn out at all how we'd expected. We may even feel duped, but God never overpromises and underdelivers. We'd do well to check our expectations against what He actually said.
One reason our brains are skilled at filling in gaps: each of our eyes has a blind spot where the optic nerve connects in the back. Instead of just having a gaping hole or two in our field of vision, the brain does that trick Photoshop can do and pulls info from the surrounding area to create a smooth, if partly false, view for our eyes. I think this is also how improv comedy is possible, both as a performer and an audience member. We don't go into panic mode when we're given so little to work with; we just let our brains do what they are great at: make tons of stuff up and fill in the gaps.
Another faith application: to those who don't know God well, He can seem like a monster for allowing bad things to happen to good people, because commonly accepted wisdom is that going through bad things will make you unhappy. But, unexpectedly, weathering trauma can actually make someone happier in the long run and many find they would not trade our bad experiences if they could. These quotes:
"I am so much better off physically, financially, mentally, and in almost every other way."
"It was a glorious experience."
"I didn't appreciate others nearly as much as I do now."
were spoken by three people who were, respectively, forced to resign from their job in disgrace, imprisoned unjustly for 37 years, and paralyzed from the neck down. Gilbert writes that this type of response is relatively common. Wait, what? And those millionaires were unhappy? If these things can be true, then we have all the more reason to trust a sovereign God who works all things together for good, even things that feel bad or were so not in our life plan. These things being true, we find our circumstances are no excuse not to joyfully worship Him. Maybe He really does have our best interests at heart, even if we aren't getting all our wishes fulfilled. Maybe He's setting us up for greater happiness and joy than we could imagine or plan for on our own.
---
*I had to look this guy up. According to Wikipedia, he was the richest man aboard the Titanic and died with a net worth of $87 million, which would be $2.13 billion by today's standards.
For example, people tend to think riches will make them happier. Yet often lottery winners report being no happier in the long run for their winnings, or sometimes being less happy, because the presence of the money has created social tension for them. Here are a few notable quotes from rich folks (found in a different book):
"The care of $200 million is enough to kill anyone. There is no pleasure in it." - W.H. Vanderbilt
"I am the most miserable man on earth." - J.J. Astor*
"I have made millions, but they have brought me no happiness." - John D. Rockefeller
"Millionaires seldom smile." - Andrew Carnegie
"I was happier when doing a mechanic's job." - Henry Ford
Gilbert lays out several reasons we're bad at accurately predicting our feelings. I'll focus on two: our tendency to 1) leave out plenty of important and relevant information while 2) supplying lots of speculation as fact without realizing we're doing it.
My mother used to say, "if you're not happy without it, you won't be happy with it." She was referring to the fact that buying a new laptop (to use an example from my high school days) or whatever doesn't change one's day-to-day life's happiness in the long run. She was right, but why? Gilbert explains that when I was imagining myself using the computer before I got it, I only saw myself sitting at it and messaging my friends all night. I completely left out the part about how I would still have the same basic attitude toward life, still have to go to school, do homework, and deal with all the other hassles of life. Basically I left out 90% of the factors that would determine my happiness, even in a world in which I had my very own laptop. But I had conjured up such a vivid mental image that I didn't think to realize anything was missing. The image-conjuring was fine; the fact that I expected the image to become reality, not so much.
In his book, Gilbert uses an example in which he invites the reader something like, "imagine you're going to have a spaghetti dinner tomorrow night." He points out you probably did not imagine an uncooked box of pasta sitting on the counter, but likely embellished with a plate beneath, sauce to top it and maybe even side dishes and your dining companions. But none of that embellishment is contained or necessarily implied in the term "spaghetti dinner." He said all the extra information is our "brain's best guess," and when asked, we tend to feel pretty confident in our embellishments, and those guesses are usually way off base. I immediately thought of how sometimes God's leading is just one word, or a phrase, and our brains do the magic of filling in the gap and then we're shocked when things didn't turn out at all how we'd expected. We may even feel duped, but God never overpromises and underdelivers. We'd do well to check our expectations against what He actually said.
One reason our brains are skilled at filling in gaps: each of our eyes has a blind spot where the optic nerve connects in the back. Instead of just having a gaping hole or two in our field of vision, the brain does that trick Photoshop can do and pulls info from the surrounding area to create a smooth, if partly false, view for our eyes. I think this is also how improv comedy is possible, both as a performer and an audience member. We don't go into panic mode when we're given so little to work with; we just let our brains do what they are great at: make tons of stuff up and fill in the gaps.
Another faith application: to those who don't know God well, He can seem like a monster for allowing bad things to happen to good people, because commonly accepted wisdom is that going through bad things will make you unhappy. But, unexpectedly, weathering trauma can actually make someone happier in the long run and many find they would not trade our bad experiences if they could. These quotes:
"I am so much better off physically, financially, mentally, and in almost every other way."
"It was a glorious experience."
"I didn't appreciate others nearly as much as I do now."
were spoken by three people who were, respectively, forced to resign from their job in disgrace, imprisoned unjustly for 37 years, and paralyzed from the neck down. Gilbert writes that this type of response is relatively common. Wait, what? And those millionaires were unhappy? If these things can be true, then we have all the more reason to trust a sovereign God who works all things together for good, even things that feel bad or were so not in our life plan. These things being true, we find our circumstances are no excuse not to joyfully worship Him. Maybe He really does have our best interests at heart, even if we aren't getting all our wishes fulfilled. Maybe He's setting us up for greater happiness and joy than we could imagine or plan for on our own.
---
*I had to look this guy up. According to Wikipedia, he was the richest man aboard the Titanic and died with a net worth of $87 million, which would be $2.13 billion by today's standards.
Wednesday 3 August 2016
Style.
My body was not made to wear the clothes I always liked best. As a teenager, I wanted a curve-free, blank-canvas body so the designs on my T-shirts could be unwarped by the human beneath. I liked the idea of strapless or backless dresses, but I could never get comfortable in them. I have a painful memory of a shiny, strapless red dress, not at all suited for my 16-year-old self, and how I spent the entirety of a sophomore dance constantly adjusting it and fighting with my boyfriend. I suspect being more grounded and accepting of reality would have spared me both problems.
My teenage clothing choices were not a pure translation of what I wanted to look like; my desires were diluted by the limitations of the physical world. I thought was a blank slate, and my tastes were my own, but now I know I wasn't and they weren't. In America today, curveless women are a minority. The media, the water I didn't realize I was swimming in, portrayed a tiny slice of the population as average and set me up with unconscious starting beliefs before my own slowly forming opinions even entered the picture.
Little did I realize this paralleled a more central part of my life. Just as I believed there was one best way to dress, and everyone should aspire to it--in so doing, I unconsciously promoted the agenda of the fashion powers that be--I believed there was one best way to live. Looking back now, I don't even know what I thought was right, but I had a mile-long list of wrong choices, and a bad reaction when people saw things differently. In my mind existed a universal standard against which it was inevitable and appropriate for everyone to be measured. Deviations were acceptable to a certain degree, based on extenuating factors. There was a proper way to dress and to live, and in both cases, the way was generic and moderate. Resembling others without mimicking them exactly was the highest virtue, and emotions were to be always tame, even apologetic as necessary, unless beauty or some other virtue could "make up" for the transgression of deviating too far or being "too intense." My life has made so much more sense as I've become more permissive, perhaps because a concept like right or wrong is so dependent on the eye of the beholder.
I don't think I see what others see when they look at me. I'm taken aback by compliments and comments on my clothing that surprise me or with which I outright disagree. I've seen other people wearing an item that's not half-bad on its own but that surely doesn't fit them the way they'd like it to or maybe the way they envision in their head. I'm sure I've been that person without my knowledge. It seems inevitable, though, given that the best outfits always seem to live right on the line between fantastic and disgusting. Many times I've stared and tried to figure out which effect I thought had been achieved (by myself or someone else). It's a strange feeling. How could opposites be so close together? Clothes can look good or even great in classic style. But a truly amazing outfit always takes a risk. It's like hitting a high note: you have to project to have a chance of getting it right. Your success or failure will be heard loudly, but there's no playing it safe if you want to knock it out of the park. I believe confidence can cover a multitude of fashion "sins". If you love what you're wearing and you wear it like you mean it, others are likely to imitate you, mistaking the clothing for the source of your self-assurance. This confidence is where all trends begin as well; someone has to wear it first, before knowing if it will catch on more generally. Some trends never do.
It's because of trends that clothing is not as interchangeable as money, and a natural predilection to save may be unhelpful. Some clothing cannot be saved. I once bought a fitted black formal vest for myself with a gift card I'd been saving. It was in style, and I absolutely loved it. I considered it too special to wear all the time, so when all was said and done I'd only worn it once before it was no longer on-trend enough to wear. If I could go back, I'd wear and enjoy it all the time.
My teenage clothing choices were not a pure translation of what I wanted to look like; my desires were diluted by the limitations of the physical world. I thought was a blank slate, and my tastes were my own, but now I know I wasn't and they weren't. In America today, curveless women are a minority. The media, the water I didn't realize I was swimming in, portrayed a tiny slice of the population as average and set me up with unconscious starting beliefs before my own slowly forming opinions even entered the picture.
Little did I realize this paralleled a more central part of my life. Just as I believed there was one best way to dress, and everyone should aspire to it--in so doing, I unconsciously promoted the agenda of the fashion powers that be--I believed there was one best way to live. Looking back now, I don't even know what I thought was right, but I had a mile-long list of wrong choices, and a bad reaction when people saw things differently. In my mind existed a universal standard against which it was inevitable and appropriate for everyone to be measured. Deviations were acceptable to a certain degree, based on extenuating factors. There was a proper way to dress and to live, and in both cases, the way was generic and moderate. Resembling others without mimicking them exactly was the highest virtue, and emotions were to be always tame, even apologetic as necessary, unless beauty or some other virtue could "make up" for the transgression of deviating too far or being "too intense." My life has made so much more sense as I've become more permissive, perhaps because a concept like right or wrong is so dependent on the eye of the beholder.
I don't think I see what others see when they look at me. I'm taken aback by compliments and comments on my clothing that surprise me or with which I outright disagree. I've seen other people wearing an item that's not half-bad on its own but that surely doesn't fit them the way they'd like it to or maybe the way they envision in their head. I'm sure I've been that person without my knowledge. It seems inevitable, though, given that the best outfits always seem to live right on the line between fantastic and disgusting. Many times I've stared and tried to figure out which effect I thought had been achieved (by myself or someone else). It's a strange feeling. How could opposites be so close together? Clothes can look good or even great in classic style. But a truly amazing outfit always takes a risk. It's like hitting a high note: you have to project to have a chance of getting it right. Your success or failure will be heard loudly, but there's no playing it safe if you want to knock it out of the park. I believe confidence can cover a multitude of fashion "sins". If you love what you're wearing and you wear it like you mean it, others are likely to imitate you, mistaking the clothing for the source of your self-assurance. This confidence is where all trends begin as well; someone has to wear it first, before knowing if it will catch on more generally. Some trends never do.
It's because of trends that clothing is not as interchangeable as money, and a natural predilection to save may be unhelpful. Some clothing cannot be saved. I once bought a fitted black formal vest for myself with a gift card I'd been saving. It was in style, and I absolutely loved it. I considered it too special to wear all the time, so when all was said and done I'd only worn it once before it was no longer on-trend enough to wear. If I could go back, I'd wear and enjoy it all the time.
Saturday 30 July 2016
To those with no birthday
Yesterday I woke up before my alarm, sleepy until I remembered it was a special day. Then I felt overwhelmed in God's presence, who waits for me, for each of His children to wake up each morning so He can shower us with love. "I'm glad you were born," He impressed upon my heart in the quietness of a brand new day, before anyone else knew I was awake.
Lying still, I pictured all my littlest birthdays, before I knew Him, while He waited years for me to be told His story and learn to trust Him on purpose, instead of instinctively. He was with me at Chuck E. Cheese in California and Chimpy's in Illinois, present the first time I tasted cake and the times I was old enough to blow out candles. When I ran around with my friends and the soles of our socks got all dirty at Discovery Zone. I didn't know Him, didn't care that He was there, but He loved me and waited patiently until I did.
"Today is my birthday," I thought, and suddenly realized countless children in America never experience even one birthday, not even the one that starts the clock, because their mothers deemed a day of death would be better.
A birthday is a special thing. On the best birthdays, you're reminded that it matters that you were born. That someone, or many someones, are glad you were. That their lives, the world itself, would be different without you. That you are worthy of celebration, of smiles, hugs, cards, gifts, of being looked at and wished well. And of course worthy of being alive. Of course. Shouldn't that go without saying?
One birthday when you're old enough, you understand that years ago, your own mother, probably terrified and excited, removed shoes and clothes and entrusted herself to people she may not have known well, letting them hold her soft bare feet aloft, as she was brave and strong for you. Your birthday her birth day. Whether she's been with you ever since or you had only tumbleweeds where you needed a mama's love, she will always be your mother. Her gift can't be returned to the store.
I wish everyone would rest assured of this: much as your mother and father may love you, you've an even more direct parent. In the kingdom of God, no one is grandfathered in. Your earthly parents couldn't design you, neither assembling nor predicting eye color, hair color, height, talent, intelligence, personality. God designed you and pulled you into the world using your parents' raw material. God as the agent, you were a sacred gift entrusted to them. You have never been the property of another person. If ever they treated you that way, they were wrong to. From the moment of your conception, your body began where your mother's ended; after all, you are half your father, too. You lived inside her, yet with borders.
Please know, if you don't already, that you're wanted through and through. You belong here. You can become whole, free, and perfectly loved, with or without the consent or knowledge of your parents, whether they're here or gone. They never defined you fully. I speak from a mixture of listening, experience, and hope. I speak because I once needed this assurance. I give it on God's authority.
To all the little ones waiting in a warm place, impossibly fragile, skin too thin to touch, whose very presence is wordless hope and trust, a held breath waiting to be broken: I see you. Please forgive me for being too afraid to do much about it for too much of my life. To those who will never be sung to, or wished a happy birthday, or gently kissed on the scalp, or even smiled at: we remember you though you're all but invisible and we will never stop praying and fighting for your birthdays.
Lying still, I pictured all my littlest birthdays, before I knew Him, while He waited years for me to be told His story and learn to trust Him on purpose, instead of instinctively. He was with me at Chuck E. Cheese in California and Chimpy's in Illinois, present the first time I tasted cake and the times I was old enough to blow out candles. When I ran around with my friends and the soles of our socks got all dirty at Discovery Zone. I didn't know Him, didn't care that He was there, but He loved me and waited patiently until I did.
"Today is my birthday," I thought, and suddenly realized countless children in America never experience even one birthday, not even the one that starts the clock, because their mothers deemed a day of death would be better.
A birthday is a special thing. On the best birthdays, you're reminded that it matters that you were born. That someone, or many someones, are glad you were. That their lives, the world itself, would be different without you. That you are worthy of celebration, of smiles, hugs, cards, gifts, of being looked at and wished well. And of course worthy of being alive. Of course. Shouldn't that go without saying?
One birthday when you're old enough, you understand that years ago, your own mother, probably terrified and excited, removed shoes and clothes and entrusted herself to people she may not have known well, letting them hold her soft bare feet aloft, as she was brave and strong for you. Your birthday her birth day. Whether she's been with you ever since or you had only tumbleweeds where you needed a mama's love, she will always be your mother. Her gift can't be returned to the store.
I wish everyone would rest assured of this: much as your mother and father may love you, you've an even more direct parent. In the kingdom of God, no one is grandfathered in. Your earthly parents couldn't design you, neither assembling nor predicting eye color, hair color, height, talent, intelligence, personality. God designed you and pulled you into the world using your parents' raw material. God as the agent, you were a sacred gift entrusted to them. You have never been the property of another person. If ever they treated you that way, they were wrong to. From the moment of your conception, your body began where your mother's ended; after all, you are half your father, too. You lived inside her, yet with borders.
Please know, if you don't already, that you're wanted through and through. You belong here. You can become whole, free, and perfectly loved, with or without the consent or knowledge of your parents, whether they're here or gone. They never defined you fully. I speak from a mixture of listening, experience, and hope. I speak because I once needed this assurance. I give it on God's authority.
To all the little ones waiting in a warm place, impossibly fragile, skin too thin to touch, whose very presence is wordless hope and trust, a held breath waiting to be broken: I see you. Please forgive me for being too afraid to do much about it for too much of my life. To those who will never be sung to, or wished a happy birthday, or gently kissed on the scalp, or even smiled at: we remember you though you're all but invisible and we will never stop praying and fighting for your birthdays.
Wednesday 27 July 2016
A Wasted Day
Today was a wasted day. Not only did I not write a blog post, but also instead of having either an enjoyable or a productive day, I spent most of the day awkwardly, a little miserably, avoiding writing by clicking around political articles regarding the upcoming Presidential election and the Clintons' home life in their White House days. Today was a failed mission. A small mission, the fate of which leaves no lives hanging in the balance: post to the blog. Nevertheless, I missed the mark.
Then again, late in the day, when the sun started slanting yellowly in through my west-facing bathroom window, I did what I sometimes do: I held my life up to the parallel universes. Who else could I have become by now? I've read plenty of personal anecdotes about the mundaneness that young motherhood can bring. There are many days in which simply making it to the evening alive and standing, with an uninjured child, is a triumph worthy of a parade or at least a hearty round of applause and a head massage. I have some former classmates my own age who are in that phase now. Maybe some of them had such a day today. This train of thought took me to a few years ago, when I was serving at a ministry in New Hampshire. Often, evening would come and I would have spent the entire day dusting and mopping, except for meals and some prayer. I would have given anything for more free days, more breaks, less toilet-scrubbing. Older and wiser people in the ministry said my discontentment resembled that of a mom; important tasks were thankless and repetitive and payoff was not instant.
Still in my thoughts, I washed dishes in the kitchen and decided I wouldn't recommend my day to anyone, but there's infinite grace to move past it now that it's over. Isn't every mistake like that? I'll get yet another chance to do better--I've had so many chances--and one of these days maybe I'll even catch on. Maybe I can learn to extend grace to myself. To repeat to myself, "you're only human," and to mean it, not as a compliment or an insult, but a statement of fact and a sanity-preserver. Humans sometimes panic about nothing, or waste time, or feel things that don't make sense, or act against their own self-interest. I'm human.
This morning I prayed. However small the measure, these are things I did today: texted, Skyped, made plans, journaled, read Anna Karenina, read a less-illustrious-but-as-entertaining teen fiction book, cooked, ate delicious food, learned about the 270 electoral votes (again. I used to know this stuff when I was younger), had kind thoughts toward my mother. I washed dishes and in so doing brought order to my small world. (I did not sweep the floor, and it needs it after my cooking). It wasn't my favorite day. When I come close to dying and reflect on my life, it won't be remembered. But I'm glad I participated in a small way in important things: praying, Bible study, contemplative thought, gratitude, human interaction. My day isn't even over. There's still time for me to grocery shop, as I had wanted to. Thank goodness stores stay open so late. I'm about to go out to dinner with a few people, and maybe that will be fun or meaningful. And, hey, look at that! I posted to my blog after all!
Then again, late in the day, when the sun started slanting yellowly in through my west-facing bathroom window, I did what I sometimes do: I held my life up to the parallel universes. Who else could I have become by now? I've read plenty of personal anecdotes about the mundaneness that young motherhood can bring. There are many days in which simply making it to the evening alive and standing, with an uninjured child, is a triumph worthy of a parade or at least a hearty round of applause and a head massage. I have some former classmates my own age who are in that phase now. Maybe some of them had such a day today. This train of thought took me to a few years ago, when I was serving at a ministry in New Hampshire. Often, evening would come and I would have spent the entire day dusting and mopping, except for meals and some prayer. I would have given anything for more free days, more breaks, less toilet-scrubbing. Older and wiser people in the ministry said my discontentment resembled that of a mom; important tasks were thankless and repetitive and payoff was not instant.
Still in my thoughts, I washed dishes in the kitchen and decided I wouldn't recommend my day to anyone, but there's infinite grace to move past it now that it's over. Isn't every mistake like that? I'll get yet another chance to do better--I've had so many chances--and one of these days maybe I'll even catch on. Maybe I can learn to extend grace to myself. To repeat to myself, "you're only human," and to mean it, not as a compliment or an insult, but a statement of fact and a sanity-preserver. Humans sometimes panic about nothing, or waste time, or feel things that don't make sense, or act against their own self-interest. I'm human.
This morning I prayed. However small the measure, these are things I did today: texted, Skyped, made plans, journaled, read Anna Karenina, read a less-illustrious-but-as-entertaining teen fiction book, cooked, ate delicious food, learned about the 270 electoral votes (again. I used to know this stuff when I was younger), had kind thoughts toward my mother. I washed dishes and in so doing brought order to my small world. (I did not sweep the floor, and it needs it after my cooking). It wasn't my favorite day. When I come close to dying and reflect on my life, it won't be remembered. But I'm glad I participated in a small way in important things: praying, Bible study, contemplative thought, gratitude, human interaction. My day isn't even over. There's still time for me to grocery shop, as I had wanted to. Thank goodness stores stay open so late. I'm about to go out to dinner with a few people, and maybe that will be fun or meaningful. And, hey, look at that! I posted to my blog after all!
Sunday 24 July 2016
Life with no Air Conditioning
Yesterday it was too hot to think straight. I couldn't get any writing done, so I finally drove to a library. Hot as my apartment is, I still resist leaving it. The prospect of walking anywhere is miserable, especially with my computer. I don't even have a real backpack, just a promotional drawstring one that says Butterbraid on it, a product I do not endorse on principle, and its strings bite into both shoulders, just not quite as badly as a tote bag that rests all its weight on one side. By the time I reach any destination by walking, I'm sure to be disgusting. Taking my car is no better. It's essentially a metal box with windows that let in sunlight but do not let heat escape. It's been baking all day, so opening it feels like opening a large oven. Sitting inside it creates an instant second skin of sweat that is there to stay until showered off. I try to avoid this moment at all costs. I tell myself that I am better off staying put in my un-air-conditioned apartment all day, when the reality is that car travel would be a short time of discomfort followed by potentially hours of comfort, and I'll need a shower no matter what. I'd successfully resisted writing at a library for a week, but since I had to go out anyway, there would be no avoiding the car moment. Soon enough I was uncomfortably cold at the library, sharing a wooden table with a woman who had been waiting hours for her car to be repaired, and I was grateful for it.
When I got home again, I walked down the three flights of stairs with my bagged frozen compost, too hot to be disgusted that I pressed it against my back and sides to feel its cold. Then, once it was safely in the forest, it was back up the stairs again carrying empty, uselessly warm containers. Next, I walked the few mostly shade-devoid blocks to dump my recycling. My sunglasses slid awkwardly down my nose whenever I wasn't pushing them up, which was most of the time. Worst of all, while I was innocently carrying the recycling in both hands, not imagining I'd need to defend myself, a fly kept landing on my legs and doing something itchy. Even after I'd stopped walking to investigate and slapped him away twice, he bit me hard enough to draw blood. I was so mad. Why do flies like that exist? What makes them think they have the right to bite me? I ran away a little bit, cans clattering, so he wouldn't follow me, and took a detour back home. I was finally done after one more little jaunt down the street in the other direction, to the nearby mailbox. To say I was hot at the end of all this would be quite the understatement. It was hot-car moment times a thousand. I splashed my face repeatedly with the coldest water I could get from my bathroom faucet (coldness rating: kind of cold). No drying off--in the summer, every towel feels as though a (sadistic) personal assistant dryer-heated it, just the way I wish they'd all feel in the winter. Just as I caught sight of myself in the hallway mirror, a faded black tear of mascara dripped down my face, leaving a long trail that looked like a badass vein.
Summer is animalistic. I'm more aware of my body--feel more bodily disgust as my skin crawls at a soccer game or picnic, feel more bodily relief (however brief) when I take a cool shower. I feel like prey, desperately seeking relief from the environment that's slowly become hostile around me over the course of weeks. My faceless, omnipresent predator. In winter, one can add clothes and blankets, as many as needed, against the elements, and both are very human to possess and use. In summer, there's a firm limit to what a person can remove. I can't peel away my skin, or rather, if I did it would not make me feel cooler.
In the most extreme temperatures of the season, I forget how unpleasant it felt at the other end of the year. It's hard to imagine snow was everywhere and my room was so cold I had trouble falling asleep because the heater was broken. Main takeaway from my half-summer without air conditioning: I can't wait to move again!
When I got home again, I walked down the three flights of stairs with my bagged frozen compost, too hot to be disgusted that I pressed it against my back and sides to feel its cold. Then, once it was safely in the forest, it was back up the stairs again carrying empty, uselessly warm containers. Next, I walked the few mostly shade-devoid blocks to dump my recycling. My sunglasses slid awkwardly down my nose whenever I wasn't pushing them up, which was most of the time. Worst of all, while I was innocently carrying the recycling in both hands, not imagining I'd need to defend myself, a fly kept landing on my legs and doing something itchy. Even after I'd stopped walking to investigate and slapped him away twice, he bit me hard enough to draw blood. I was so mad. Why do flies like that exist? What makes them think they have the right to bite me? I ran away a little bit, cans clattering, so he wouldn't follow me, and took a detour back home. I was finally done after one more little jaunt down the street in the other direction, to the nearby mailbox. To say I was hot at the end of all this would be quite the understatement. It was hot-car moment times a thousand. I splashed my face repeatedly with the coldest water I could get from my bathroom faucet (coldness rating: kind of cold). No drying off--in the summer, every towel feels as though a (sadistic) personal assistant dryer-heated it, just the way I wish they'd all feel in the winter. Just as I caught sight of myself in the hallway mirror, a faded black tear of mascara dripped down my face, leaving a long trail that looked like a badass vein.
Summer is animalistic. I'm more aware of my body--feel more bodily disgust as my skin crawls at a soccer game or picnic, feel more bodily relief (however brief) when I take a cool shower. I feel like prey, desperately seeking relief from the environment that's slowly become hostile around me over the course of weeks. My faceless, omnipresent predator. In winter, one can add clothes and blankets, as many as needed, against the elements, and both are very human to possess and use. In summer, there's a firm limit to what a person can remove. I can't peel away my skin, or rather, if I did it would not make me feel cooler.
In the most extreme temperatures of the season, I forget how unpleasant it felt at the other end of the year. It's hard to imagine snow was everywhere and my room was so cold I had trouble falling asleep because the heater was broken. Main takeaway from my half-summer without air conditioning: I can't wait to move again!
Wednesday 20 July 2016
Why I didn't "go to church" for two years
I don't have a problem with church, but I kind of have a problem with the word referring mainly to a building or a specific congregation instead of the eternal body of Christ, composed of each and every person who has trusted Him for salvation. Having said this, I often slip into the common usage myself, for clarity's sake. A lot of pain and confusion and needless guilt have come from a sloppy usage of "church." I haven't found a passage in the Bible that says you have to gather at 10 am on Sunday morning and that's church. I have seen passages about keeping the Sabbath and verses about believers gathering together and breaking bread, but it's such a stretch to imply these are an inviolable basis for the present Christian culture of Sunday morning services.
I believe that inside of each person is a little sensor that detects whether one's present situation is healthy/life-giving or not. I want to think this is the Holy Spirit's voice, but in light of what I'm about to say, I'm not completely sure. The sensor can somewhat get off-kilter and need re-calibrating (I've lived through that) but it exists to be heeded, and I tend to think pressing on despite its warnings is not a part of God's will for a person's life. For a longish season, whenever I entered a church, this sensor would sound its alarm. In my trinity of body, soul, spirit, there was a dissonance, the polar opposite of "this resonates with me," the silent scream of ringing false.
For what it's worth, I sporadically attended services at five different churches over a span of a few years, sometimes alone, sometimes with friends. There were nice moments, even deeply meaningful moments, sprinkled throughout. I enjoy dressing up. But sometimes during church services I would hear a gentle voice telling me, "you don't have to do this." I realized very plainly that the only reason I was attending church was because I knew people would look at me differently if I stopped attending. And the opinions of others are not always a great reason to do or avoid doing. I got honest. I have integrity, and I didn't want to be doing something for such a fake reason, even if the "something" in question was weekly church attendance.
I was never "out of the church." I never stopped being a member of the body of Christ. I couldn't have helped it if I wanted to; that's my deepest identity, beyond career or location or relationships or even appearance. It's more like family than a membership. This card can't be revoked. I still met with believers all the time: prayed with them, encouraged them, dined with them. For me to say I didn't go to church, while in some sense accurate, was a shorthand that didn't convey the reality of my life as a believer.
I wouldn't have an answer for someone who asks why you "have to" go to church. Oh wait, thought of one: "you don't have to." A friend quoted to me, "church is to be enjoyed, not endured." Do what you want and what you are led to do, always letting your service and devotion to God be a guide. If going to church helps you serve Him and others, please go. If it's an outward sign of an inward commitment, a physical prayer when your lips can't find the words you want, please attend. If it has the opposite effect, if it's awkward and self-conscious and pretentious and you find yourself silently judging others as well as yourself, if you feel heavy when you walk in the door and lighter when you leave: if you can feel in your soul sensor that it's not where you belong, please don't allow yourself to be burdened by this. Don't feel that your presence or absence at that particular gathering at that particular time is going to make or break your own or your neighbor's trajectory. It's okay to not go.
I don't know how to reconcile this with the "rulebook" of some Christian traditions. I do believe God put that little sensor inside of each person to protect us, and part of living a full and healthy human life is learning to honor it, to resist caving indiscriminately to the demands of the world and people around us, however pious they may seem. It's okay, actually it's preferable, to be honest about your motives, and not to seek to please anyone but God, even if others doubt you. At the end of the day, in those words attributed to Mother Teresa, "it was never between you and them anyway."
I believe that inside of each person is a little sensor that detects whether one's present situation is healthy/life-giving or not. I want to think this is the Holy Spirit's voice, but in light of what I'm about to say, I'm not completely sure. The sensor can somewhat get off-kilter and need re-calibrating (I've lived through that) but it exists to be heeded, and I tend to think pressing on despite its warnings is not a part of God's will for a person's life. For a longish season, whenever I entered a church, this sensor would sound its alarm. In my trinity of body, soul, spirit, there was a dissonance, the polar opposite of "this resonates with me," the silent scream of ringing false.
For what it's worth, I sporadically attended services at five different churches over a span of a few years, sometimes alone, sometimes with friends. There were nice moments, even deeply meaningful moments, sprinkled throughout. I enjoy dressing up. But sometimes during church services I would hear a gentle voice telling me, "you don't have to do this." I realized very plainly that the only reason I was attending church was because I knew people would look at me differently if I stopped attending. And the opinions of others are not always a great reason to do or avoid doing. I got honest. I have integrity, and I didn't want to be doing something for such a fake reason, even if the "something" in question was weekly church attendance.
I was never "out of the church." I never stopped being a member of the body of Christ. I couldn't have helped it if I wanted to; that's my deepest identity, beyond career or location or relationships or even appearance. It's more like family than a membership. This card can't be revoked. I still met with believers all the time: prayed with them, encouraged them, dined with them. For me to say I didn't go to church, while in some sense accurate, was a shorthand that didn't convey the reality of my life as a believer.
I wouldn't have an answer for someone who asks why you "have to" go to church. Oh wait, thought of one: "you don't have to." A friend quoted to me, "church is to be enjoyed, not endured." Do what you want and what you are led to do, always letting your service and devotion to God be a guide. If going to church helps you serve Him and others, please go. If it's an outward sign of an inward commitment, a physical prayer when your lips can't find the words you want, please attend. If it has the opposite effect, if it's awkward and self-conscious and pretentious and you find yourself silently judging others as well as yourself, if you feel heavy when you walk in the door and lighter when you leave: if you can feel in your soul sensor that it's not where you belong, please don't allow yourself to be burdened by this. Don't feel that your presence or absence at that particular gathering at that particular time is going to make or break your own or your neighbor's trajectory. It's okay to not go.
I don't know how to reconcile this with the "rulebook" of some Christian traditions. I do believe God put that little sensor inside of each person to protect us, and part of living a full and healthy human life is learning to honor it, to resist caving indiscriminately to the demands of the world and people around us, however pious they may seem. It's okay, actually it's preferable, to be honest about your motives, and not to seek to please anyone but God, even if others doubt you. At the end of the day, in those words attributed to Mother Teresa, "it was never between you and them anyway."
Sunday 17 July 2016
Audience
For most of college, I judged my actions by the opinions of a group of "cool girls" from high school. Let me clarify. I judged by my perception of the opinions of these girls. Never mind that I didn't know them well, that I hadn't seen them since high school. That some of them were kind of thoughtless or mean to me. That they weren't even the "coolest" group (as though that would make it better). Now, I see what nonsense this is. Then, I unconsciously, if uncomfortably, accepted it. I didn't necessarily alter any of my behaviors to "impress them," but I mentally judged myself, based on my perception of their hypothetical perceptions. And "they" were not kind. Why did I do this?
It's similar to the super mean voice in my head that sometimes pops in for an insult or a few as I write. It asks sarcastic questions, finds fault with what I say, takes me the wrong way, rushes to criticize. I find myself believing this voice channels the thoughts of certain readers, but is that so?
I've no evidence that anyone is judging me that harshly, or ever has. True, I have no idea who my blog audience is. I don't know whether any readers find great fault with my words. I can see some numbers on the back end, such as what countries the readers are from and what browsers they use, but Google doesn't track or analyze reader perspectives. Those who have reacted have all been extremely respectful and sometimes also complimentary or in agreement. Apparently haters ain't gonna hate, at least not at the level of disclosure I've reached so far.
I always imagine I'm writing to someone who will instantly know their own views on a matter and whether they agree with me or not, though the same can't always be said of me as a reader. In fact, my writing could be helping to shape those views, just as reading has shaped my own.
I don't know what kind of love people will have received by the time I interact with them. I forget I address a tribe of people in process, who've been wounded in unique ways, who have word-associations I never dreamed of. Some time I'll reach someone I haven't spoken to in years and may not have much in common with who was bored one night and clicked through, someone who never entered my mind as a potential reader, who the post isn't "for," but of course it's for them, too.
On a larger scale than this blog, I have a perception of "other people" or "most people" that is surely false. My imagination shows me a faceless tide of opposition because reality is much too complicated. My mind does its best but isn't big enough to give everyone a face or begin to grasp where everyone is coming from. How would I know what most people think? I sometimes claim to, and I could be right, but I don't really know. Self-selection plays a part. Passionate voices speak loudest, and may mask a "silent majority" (no political connotations intended). I am certain the media don't represent the views of the populace anywhere close to proportionally.
My friends are not a representative slice of Americans. I'm not friends with any open Trump supporters. I don't even think I know any personally (no one's voiced such support to me). I do know some Republicans, but none that admit to supporting him. Yet there must be tons! Enough to make him a Presidential candidate. My point is that I can't use my observations to extrapolate the rest of reality, though it's instinctual to do so.
I imagine the world is against me when perhaps no one is.
I have an impression that my life has an audience. I'm certain everyone's does. But it must be a less hostile one than I imagine. I'm a stranger to almost everyone I've ever seen. The eyes that watch me more closely do so, I would suppose, out of love.
It's similar to the super mean voice in my head that sometimes pops in for an insult or a few as I write. It asks sarcastic questions, finds fault with what I say, takes me the wrong way, rushes to criticize. I find myself believing this voice channels the thoughts of certain readers, but is that so?
I've no evidence that anyone is judging me that harshly, or ever has. True, I have no idea who my blog audience is. I don't know whether any readers find great fault with my words. I can see some numbers on the back end, such as what countries the readers are from and what browsers they use, but Google doesn't track or analyze reader perspectives. Those who have reacted have all been extremely respectful and sometimes also complimentary or in agreement. Apparently haters ain't gonna hate, at least not at the level of disclosure I've reached so far.
I always imagine I'm writing to someone who will instantly know their own views on a matter and whether they agree with me or not, though the same can't always be said of me as a reader. In fact, my writing could be helping to shape those views, just as reading has shaped my own.
I don't know what kind of love people will have received by the time I interact with them. I forget I address a tribe of people in process, who've been wounded in unique ways, who have word-associations I never dreamed of. Some time I'll reach someone I haven't spoken to in years and may not have much in common with who was bored one night and clicked through, someone who never entered my mind as a potential reader, who the post isn't "for," but of course it's for them, too.
On a larger scale than this blog, I have a perception of "other people" or "most people" that is surely false. My imagination shows me a faceless tide of opposition because reality is much too complicated. My mind does its best but isn't big enough to give everyone a face or begin to grasp where everyone is coming from. How would I know what most people think? I sometimes claim to, and I could be right, but I don't really know. Self-selection plays a part. Passionate voices speak loudest, and may mask a "silent majority" (no political connotations intended). I am certain the media don't represent the views of the populace anywhere close to proportionally.
My friends are not a representative slice of Americans. I'm not friends with any open Trump supporters. I don't even think I know any personally (no one's voiced such support to me). I do know some Republicans, but none that admit to supporting him. Yet there must be tons! Enough to make him a Presidential candidate. My point is that I can't use my observations to extrapolate the rest of reality, though it's instinctual to do so.
I imagine the world is against me when perhaps no one is.
I have an impression that my life has an audience. I'm certain everyone's does. But it must be a less hostile one than I imagine. I'm a stranger to almost everyone I've ever seen. The eyes that watch me more closely do so, I would suppose, out of love.
Wednesday 13 July 2016
The delicious world of Ramen-free living
I was washing dishes today when it hit me that I have no plans to ever eat Top Ramen again.
I could have gotten sad about this; I suppose it's a sad thought, but I decided to try to see the bright side. I thought about all the times I got overwhelmed as a child because my little brain was overloaded with all the things there are to think about. I'd just sit and stress: "There isn't even enough time to think about everything, much less do everything!" How I've repeatedly had to fight down the panic that I wasn't where I belonged in life, because the possibilities feel endless and I can ever only be one place at once. I read yesterday that self-motivated learners discover this equation through the proliferation of free online tutorials: anytime + anywhere = never.
I guess what I'm saying is having unlimited options has never kept me happy or effective. It's actually caused me a fair amount of misery over the years. So when I find a closed door, though my first instinct is to rail and pout, maybe a more accurate response should be relief. So I can't eat Ramen. There are literally thousands of other things I can eat, delicious things that won't give me a stomachache or headache. In this, my suffocatingly endless meal choices have slimmed by one, the weight of constant choice lifted by a small but measurable amount.
"Each time a door closes, the rest of the world opens up. All we need to do is stop pounding on the door that just closed, turn around--which puts the door behind us--and welcome the largeness of life that now lies open to our souls. The door that closed kept us from entering a room, but what now lies before us is the rest of reality." - Let Your Life Speak by Parker J. Palmer (I can't overstate how much I enjoyed and found meaning in this book)
Reality--and the world of real food--is large enough that placing limits, even substantial ones, will not render it stupid and boring. There are still plenty of choices I can make. Eating (more or less) Paleo has given me more than it has taken away, though from the outside looking in it sounds impossible or perhaps somewhat masochistic (at least that's how it originally sounded to me). "How can you enjoy life without cupcakes?" It's as easy as enjoying life without stomachaches, daily afternoon exhaustion, aggressive cravings.
I may eat Ramen again, and I may not. But life is too large and wonderful to spend much mental energy here, apart from a flash of gratitude that I have food to eat daily, and the privilege of making choices about what I eat. Now if only I could find the silver lining in my current limitation of having no home air conditioning, a much more pressing matter of today.
I could have gotten sad about this; I suppose it's a sad thought, but I decided to try to see the bright side. I thought about all the times I got overwhelmed as a child because my little brain was overloaded with all the things there are to think about. I'd just sit and stress: "There isn't even enough time to think about everything, much less do everything!" How I've repeatedly had to fight down the panic that I wasn't where I belonged in life, because the possibilities feel endless and I can ever only be one place at once. I read yesterday that self-motivated learners discover this equation through the proliferation of free online tutorials: anytime + anywhere = never.
I guess what I'm saying is having unlimited options has never kept me happy or effective. It's actually caused me a fair amount of misery over the years. So when I find a closed door, though my first instinct is to rail and pout, maybe a more accurate response should be relief. So I can't eat Ramen. There are literally thousands of other things I can eat, delicious things that won't give me a stomachache or headache. In this, my suffocatingly endless meal choices have slimmed by one, the weight of constant choice lifted by a small but measurable amount.
"Each time a door closes, the rest of the world opens up. All we need to do is stop pounding on the door that just closed, turn around--which puts the door behind us--and welcome the largeness of life that now lies open to our souls. The door that closed kept us from entering a room, but what now lies before us is the rest of reality." - Let Your Life Speak by Parker J. Palmer (I can't overstate how much I enjoyed and found meaning in this book)
Reality--and the world of real food--is large enough that placing limits, even substantial ones, will not render it stupid and boring. There are still plenty of choices I can make. Eating (more or less) Paleo has given me more than it has taken away, though from the outside looking in it sounds impossible or perhaps somewhat masochistic (at least that's how it originally sounded to me). "How can you enjoy life without cupcakes?" It's as easy as enjoying life without stomachaches, daily afternoon exhaustion, aggressive cravings.
I may eat Ramen again, and I may not. But life is too large and wonderful to spend much mental energy here, apart from a flash of gratitude that I have food to eat daily, and the privilege of making choices about what I eat. Now if only I could find the silver lining in my current limitation of having no home air conditioning, a much more pressing matter of today.
Monday 11 July 2016
Americanah and Book Sex
I read Americanah on a recommendation. I wouldn't have known to pick it up, with its brown-bag cover and an author whose name I didn't recognize. It can be difficult to choose a novel from its cover. The jacket summary of a non-fiction book gives a fairly clear idea of what's within. Less so with a fiction book. What a novel is about doesn't necessarily indicate much about the experience of reading it.
Part of the reason I'm drawn to teen fiction is the absence of graphic sexuality; Americanah is not a teen book. To me, exploring sexuality on a deeper level than abstraction seems an intimate act, not something to be shared with an author I've never met and characters who aren't even real. Sometimes sex advances the plot, but detail usually isn't needed. The same goes for violence. In both cases, and whenever content doesn't seem to serve plot, it seems like selling out. Some other motive than art or storytelling has taken over. I read novels anyway, but I don't think it benefits me or my life to add these sexual vignettes to it. The sensation is jarring, like you're patting a beautiful, silky bearskin rug and suddenly your hand comes across a fleshy wart. The joy screeches to a halt and you wish you could scrub away the feeling, like you touched something private without wanting to and you can't take it back. It lingers in your head like the imagined wart germs linger on your fingers even later on after your hands are clean. You can't wash away the feeling with soap, and that's what you would be rid of. Only forgetting cures. I wonder why it was included, what I was supposed to gain from it.
Americanah's jacket promised a story of reunited lovers. Most of the novel was backstory, narrative threads from the past and present are woven together. Beautifully written, relevant backstory, but memories nevertheless. The main character reflects on her time at east coast Ivy league school, her old boyfriends, and her adaptations from Nigeria to America and back again. She writes a blog, and we get to read some of the posts. The lovers didn't reunite until the very last chapters of the book. It's an intelligent book, and it doesn't have a fast-paced plot. The adventure unfolds in an everyday manner. Characters deal with money problems, work and school, family, relationships and marriages. Someone with an action bent would be less likely to appreciate the book.
Americanah reminded me of Free Food for Millionaires. The immigration-to-America angle, the tale of a woman of color, finding a place in a world split into old and new, America and elsewhere, mixing languages, customs, foods, East Coast Ivy League schools. Parents who just don't get it because their world was too different and they come from a different generation. Casual sex and infidelity, sometimes implied and sometimes depicted. The writing is confident, direct, spare, un-self-conscious.
Americanah's prose earns the description "lyrical." It's fascinating to read of America through another's eyes. Things we don't notice. What bothers Ifemelu as her own particular person as opposed to what bothers her as a Nigerian. Women in both cultures dissemble, but Ifemelu is blunt and open about her desires. It brings to light issues of race and culture from a perspective I'd never have, yet in my language. The world seems hostile. I remember again that my American passport brings unconscious and unimaginable privilege.
The book paints a bleak view of male-female relationships. Ifemelu's world includes a lot of trading sex for money, both directly and in more nuanced and socially acceptable ways.
Like a Russian novel, the names pose a problem. I wonder how these books would be different for me if they used names I could recognize for the characters. I wonder what nuances have been lost in my confusion and inability to determine a characters's gender by their name. This isn't a complaint, obviously, just an observation.
I heartily recommend it, with a caveat about its occasional sexual content, if you appreciate good writing for its own sake. I don't recommend it if you said of The Great Gatsby, "nothing happens."
I heartily recommend it, with a caveat about its occasional sexual content, if you appreciate good writing for its own sake. I don't recommend it if you said of The Great Gatsby, "nothing happens."
Thursday 7 July 2016
Fed Up
I wish the movie Fed Up could somehow be required viewing for Americans. It's refreshing to see an expose rather than a cover-up, news that's true and helpful rather than politically motivated or crafted to boost numbers. I've compiled and paraphrased the most shocking parts of the movie below, for your convenience.
My life and health dramatically improved when I no stopped thinking of sugary junk food as food, and began to rightly see it as an attractively-packaged, socially sanctioned poison. The form of cocaine that's allowed to be left in piles on the breakroom table at work. Dr. Robert Lustig, University of California professor of Pediatrics, clarifies: "Sugar is a poison. A chronic (not acute), dose-dependent (because it matters how much you have and there is a safe threshold) hepato- (liver) toxin."A chronic, dose-dependent, hepatotoxin. That we give to our children and each other as a reward for good behavior. The cocaine comparison is reasonable, except that it might give sugar too much credit. A Princeton University study tested 43 cocaine-addicted laboratory rats, giving them the choice between cocaine or sugar water over 15 days. 40 of the 43 rats chose the sugar. Turns out sugar is eight times more addictive than cocaine. Simple willpower doesn't go far for most people in curbing that kind of craving, and yet willpower is what we recommend to each other for healthier choices, and what overweight people are sometimes accused of lacking.
80% of the 600,000 food items sold in American supermarkets have added sugar. On nutrition facts labels, sugar doesn't have that "% daily value" next to it. If it did, people might realize that a single can of Coke has 104% of the daily recommended sugar intake for men and 156% of the daily recommended intake for women. I got these stats from Coke's website, kind of. They only provided the grams; I did the math. So if you have one Coke in a day, that means even if you have no other dessert or added sugars of any kind during any meal or snack all day, you'll still be above the "healthy" threshold for sugar, a limit which has already been manipulated to be higher than the World Health Organizations's original findings (more on that in a second). And that's just an obvious one. Added sugar is everywhere, even bread and peanut butter. Yogurt and granola, often perceived as healthy choices, have a ton as well.
In January 2004, the U.S. extorted the WHO to the tune of 406 million dollars to keep them from publishing a document about how truly terrible sugar is for your health. This came about as a direct result of the food industry's money and influence in American politics. They strong-armed the WHO into formally recommending a higher daily amount of sugar than their findings revealed is healthy.
Sugar and high fructose corn syrup have an identical effect on the body. I used to think that HFCS was worse for you, but apparently from the body's perspective they're almost identical. And artificial sweeteners cause hormonal imbalance because their taste makes the body expect sugar and prepare for it, but then it's not delivered.
To burn off the calories in one Coke, a child would have to bike for an hour and fifteen minutes. This is just one reason that "exercise more, eat less," is not a helpful recommendation for weight loss. That's the saddest part of this movie, watching children who wish they were not overweight follow the only advice they've heard (heard from their doctors) and fail miserably. They are fighting a losing battle with all their strength, climbing a ladder that's leaning against the wrong wall.
After the American Academy of Family Physicians partnered with Coca-Cola in return for research money, 20 of the physicians publicly resigned, understanding the total incongruity of the partnership. Think we can trust the "studies" that come out of that environment? Soft drink companies fund a lot of medical research, for obvious and avaricious reasons.
In 2006, 80% of American high schools operated under exclusive contracts with soda companies. As the movie put it, "it's a deal with the devil, and the students are the ones losing out." The newest school eating guidelines, revised under Obama, count french fries or a piece of pizza as a serving of vegetables. How is pizza a vegetable? Something to do with tomato paste. This is a classic example of missing the forest for the trees. It takes a willful suspension of reality to conclude that a slice of pizza is equivalent to a serving of vegetables, and it's sick that greedy adults and the U.S. President are willing to claim this, at great risk to America's children. Is it any surprise there's a massive public health crisis when stuff like this is happening?
Michelle Obama started out her time as a First Lady by starting to crack down on this exact issue: processed foods and the food industry in general. It was bold, it was overdue, and it was set to make a big difference to millions of Americans. Her "Let's Move!" campaign was named to indicate the urgency of the matter. (It wasn't named with exercise in mind). The big food lobby met with her and convinced her to pretend like exercising more is going to help with childhood obesity. Maybe she even believes that, but it's just not true (obviously... the facts haven't supported this), and it's an unethical sleight of hand to get everyone to look the wrong way instead of squarely at the food industry to demand an actual fix. The "Let's Move!" name was neatly twisted to refer to exercise.
It's a culturally-embedded myth (planted by--guess who--food advertisers) that eating fast food is cheaper for families. While no one denies that fast food is, well, faster, I can attest to the fact that there's no way its cheaper. I save up to 80% on food costs by cooking and eating at home. Fed Up shows a comparison of a price for a healthy, grocery-store bought meal for 4 and then a fast food meal for 4. The grocery-bought was about half the price. It may be difficult to eat well in America for many reasons, but price, at least as compared to eating out, is not one of them.
It may take a while for the positive changes to kick in, but someday we may treat sugar, soda, and highly processed foods the way we currently treat tobacco... not illegal, but not allowed to be marketed to kids by celebrities, not found at kids' eye level in every single checkout lane no matter the store, and certainly not sold and served to kids at school via an exclusive contract. If these changes and others like them take place, we stand to save billions or trillions of dollars on health care, a numerical indicator of the vastly improved lives many Americans would lead.
My life and health dramatically improved when I no stopped thinking of sugary junk food as food, and began to rightly see it as an attractively-packaged, socially sanctioned poison. The form of cocaine that's allowed to be left in piles on the breakroom table at work. Dr. Robert Lustig, University of California professor of Pediatrics, clarifies: "Sugar is a poison. A chronic (not acute), dose-dependent (because it matters how much you have and there is a safe threshold) hepato- (liver) toxin."A chronic, dose-dependent, hepatotoxin. That we give to our children and each other as a reward for good behavior. The cocaine comparison is reasonable, except that it might give sugar too much credit. A Princeton University study tested 43 cocaine-addicted laboratory rats, giving them the choice between cocaine or sugar water over 15 days. 40 of the 43 rats chose the sugar. Turns out sugar is eight times more addictive than cocaine. Simple willpower doesn't go far for most people in curbing that kind of craving, and yet willpower is what we recommend to each other for healthier choices, and what overweight people are sometimes accused of lacking.
80% of the 600,000 food items sold in American supermarkets have added sugar. On nutrition facts labels, sugar doesn't have that "% daily value" next to it. If it did, people might realize that a single can of Coke has 104% of the daily recommended sugar intake for men and 156% of the daily recommended intake for women. I got these stats from Coke's website, kind of. They only provided the grams; I did the math. So if you have one Coke in a day, that means even if you have no other dessert or added sugars of any kind during any meal or snack all day, you'll still be above the "healthy" threshold for sugar, a limit which has already been manipulated to be higher than the World Health Organizations's original findings (more on that in a second). And that's just an obvious one. Added sugar is everywhere, even bread and peanut butter. Yogurt and granola, often perceived as healthy choices, have a ton as well.
In January 2004, the U.S. extorted the WHO to the tune of 406 million dollars to keep them from publishing a document about how truly terrible sugar is for your health. This came about as a direct result of the food industry's money and influence in American politics. They strong-armed the WHO into formally recommending a higher daily amount of sugar than their findings revealed is healthy.
Sugar and high fructose corn syrup have an identical effect on the body. I used to think that HFCS was worse for you, but apparently from the body's perspective they're almost identical. And artificial sweeteners cause hormonal imbalance because their taste makes the body expect sugar and prepare for it, but then it's not delivered.
After the American Academy of Family Physicians partnered with Coca-Cola in return for research money, 20 of the physicians publicly resigned, understanding the total incongruity of the partnership. Think we can trust the "studies" that come out of that environment? Soft drink companies fund a lot of medical research, for obvious and avaricious reasons.
In 2006, 80% of American high schools operated under exclusive contracts with soda companies. As the movie put it, "it's a deal with the devil, and the students are the ones losing out." The newest school eating guidelines, revised under Obama, count french fries or a piece of pizza as a serving of vegetables. How is pizza a vegetable? Something to do with tomato paste. This is a classic example of missing the forest for the trees. It takes a willful suspension of reality to conclude that a slice of pizza is equivalent to a serving of vegetables, and it's sick that greedy adults and the U.S. President are willing to claim this, at great risk to America's children. Is it any surprise there's a massive public health crisis when stuff like this is happening?
Michelle Obama started out her time as a First Lady by starting to crack down on this exact issue: processed foods and the food industry in general. It was bold, it was overdue, and it was set to make a big difference to millions of Americans. Her "Let's Move!" campaign was named to indicate the urgency of the matter. (It wasn't named with exercise in mind). The big food lobby met with her and convinced her to pretend like exercising more is going to help with childhood obesity. Maybe she even believes that, but it's just not true (obviously... the facts haven't supported this), and it's an unethical sleight of hand to get everyone to look the wrong way instead of squarely at the food industry to demand an actual fix. The "Let's Move!" name was neatly twisted to refer to exercise.
It's a culturally-embedded myth (planted by--guess who--food advertisers) that eating fast food is cheaper for families. While no one denies that fast food is, well, faster, I can attest to the fact that there's no way its cheaper. I save up to 80% on food costs by cooking and eating at home. Fed Up shows a comparison of a price for a healthy, grocery-store bought meal for 4 and then a fast food meal for 4. The grocery-bought was about half the price. It may be difficult to eat well in America for many reasons, but price, at least as compared to eating out, is not one of them.
It may take a while for the positive changes to kick in, but someday we may treat sugar, soda, and highly processed foods the way we currently treat tobacco... not illegal, but not allowed to be marketed to kids by celebrities, not found at kids' eye level in every single checkout lane no matter the store, and certainly not sold and served to kids at school via an exclusive contract. If these changes and others like them take place, we stand to save billions or trillions of dollars on health care, a numerical indicator of the vastly improved lives many Americans would lead.
Sunday 3 July 2016
Why I might not be a Christian
Peace. Liberty. Justice.
I imagine these words would make good priorities for a country. But any motto of this format should be able to be replaced with "People. People. People." If a human is crushed or pushed aside in the pursuit of a principle or ideal, no matter how noble, the cost has become too high. That's why in the land of "life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness," (even though we don't live up to defending all those things) there are nevertheless restrictions on behaviors like murder and rape and unsafe driving.
The rest of this post could make it sound like I think principles are a most terrible evil. I have some harsh words about them. I thought of Jesus' words in Luke 14:26: "If anyone comes to me and does not hate father and mother, wife and children, brothers and sisters--yes, even their own life--such a person cannot be my disciple." We don't take this to mean literal hate. It's interpreted to mean, "you rightly love these people who are close to you, but even that incredibly close love you have for them should be so much less than your love for me that it seems like hate in comparison." Similarly, if I sound like I hate principles, it's not that they are inherently awful, it’s only because they should be such a lower priority than loving humans where they're at.
"Principles are what people have instead of God. To be a Christian means among other things to be willing if necessary to sacrifice even your highest principles for God's or your neighbor's sake the way a Christian pacifist must be willing to pick up a baseball bat if there's no other way to stop a man from savagely beating a child. Jesus didn't forgive his executioners on principle but because in some unimaginable way he was able to love them." - Frederick Buechner
I agree. Many people have principles instead of God, but I believe it’s most damaging when the principles are “Christian,” because that hinders access to the gospel message. It’s like a vaccine: if someone gets a small, unpleasant dose of something mislabeled as Christianity, they may recoil in disgust and reject the real thing for decades, misinformed about what they’re avoiding.
This week I asked someone to define what they think Christianity means and they said it's a belief system. I get why someone would say this. It sounds right. Heck, it's on Wikipedia. I checked and I think the Wikipedia definition of Christianity as a belief system is wrong. Or maybe it isn't, and I'm just not a Christian. The Bible doesn't use the word "Christian." The Bible mentions believers and disciples and friends of Jesus. The Biblical call of God is not primarily to mentally agree with concepts. It’s to live relying on God, to have a living, present-tense relationship with Jesus, the Christ. Maybe it’s a semantics thing. Before the 16th century, the word “believe” meant to rely on something. After that time, the word referred to mental assent, the definition it’s retained to this day. If you aren’t a big history buff, I remind you that the Bible contains multiple exhortations to believe and was written before the 16th century.
I call myself a Christian, and it's not primarily because I mentally check off certain boxes next to phrases like, "believes that Jesus was the son of God" (though I do check off that box, with a strike through "was," with "is" scribbled above it). It’s because I know Christ is my friend, even though my political views often differ from others who call themselves Christians. I guess I use the word as a shorthand. It can easily be misinterpreted, but I know of no better. It’s like when I say I eat “Paleo.” I don’t love all the baggage and potential misinformation that comes with the term, but I don’t always have 20 minutes to qualify whenever I share this about my life choices.
A few weeks ago I read Lecrae's autobiography, Unashamed. He ends it with a great section about Christianity and art. He writes, "There is no such thing as Christian rap and secular rap. Only people can become Christians. Music can't accept Jesus into its heart." Values can't accept Jesus into their hearts. I think again of the non-violent believer mentioned earlier who may have to grab a baseball bat and jump into the fray if a vulnerable little human is at stake. Shakespeare said, "there is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so." Close: not human thinking, but divine leading, would make it so. And yes, I believe there are bad acts Jesus would never call someone to do. But the vast majority of human life exists in a grayer area, as the Bible illustrates.
I know of an organization that recently changed its vision statement from "Christ-centered" to "Christian values." With this change, I no longer think the word "ministry" applies to their work. I understand "ministry" to mean a group of people doing the work of God, serving Him by following His guidance to serve people. Not spreading a value system. You don’t even have to be a Christian to promote “Christian values.” Jesus didn't die to save values. Jesus doesn't love and cherish values and desire to see values reach their fullest potential. We don't need Jesus’ help if the task is promoting our values. People of all religions already try to impose their values on others, and that's not working out so hot. Never has.
Claiming to be a Christian, but never taking crazy risks in faith or seeking God’s help, is functional atheism, regardless of how many so-called Christian values you espouse. Christianity, being a Christ-follower, is having a relationship with God in which you grow in joy and hope and strength, all while blessing others, spreading love and truth, and reconciling the world to God. Principles, morality, and values can be really good and can help along this path, but as Buechner points out, you must be willing to drop them if circumstance calls for it. If Christianity is only a system of law codes, it's no different than any other religion or government. The world doesn’t need another system. Christianity is about relationship. What sets it apart is that our God is alive and at work in the world today, and He listens to and talks to us all the time.
Unlike proponents of squeaky-clean, buttoned-up, no-dancing-cards-movies-or-drinking "Christian living," the people who follow Jesus look real crazy. When the Holy Spirit first came to the Christ-followers, there was "a sound like the blowing of a violent wind... all of them were filled with the Holy Spirit and began to speak in other tongues as the Spirit enabled them... Amazed and perplexed, they asked one another, 'What does this mean?' Some, however, made fun of them and said, 'They have had too much wine.'" (Acts 2:2a, 4, 12-13) I love that Peter stands up to address the gathered crowd, which includes Jews and others in Jerusalem, and says, "These people are not drunk, as you suppose. It's only nine in the morning!" (Acts 2:15). Do you think that getting extremely drunk, or even appearing to, at 9 am in public is a "Christian" thing to do? I would say not, I would say most churches, pastors, judgers would advise against it, claim it's "not of the Lord." But it's obviously something a Christ-follower would and does do if circumstances warrant it. The Bible is full of such examples. Jesus himself was accused of not being religious enough, and was not liked (an understatement) by religious leaders of His day.
My blog is called "Sailing by the Stars" because you cannot determine a course across the ocean without making necessary adjustments from time to time. Once your life experience has surpassed the dry land of naïve certainty, a lot of forces blow your ship in different directions. You have to look up to heaven for what to do, react to the situation around you at each moment as it is, not as it used to be or as you wish it were. A map isn’t enough in those moments. A plan can’t account for all contingencies.
No map? No plan? How do you read the stars? Pray. Ask, "Jesus, does this path honor you? How can I best follow you?" Then listen. Don't forget you asked a question (I do this too often) and look for an answer. He may or may not reply in the next 5 seconds, because He's a person, not a computer, but He won't hide the answer either, if you really care to know it. The Bible is full of stories and advice that can help you figure it out, but every situation is different. That's part of why the resurrection was so important. If Jesus were dead today, He wouldn't have offered us more than we could come up with on our own. The Holy Spirit’s guidance is more like a GPS than a map, but instead of a detached robot voice, He speaks in the encouraging voice of a loving friend, partner, companion, parent... the Bible mixes metaphors to illustrate the depth of His love for you.
Jesus did say He came not to abolish the law, but to fulfill it. He wasn't wholly rejecting values put forth in the Old Testament. Again, values are not inherently bad. But those laws were clearly insufficient if He had to come in person to complete them. “In person”: did you catch that?
I imagine these words would make good priorities for a country. But any motto of this format should be able to be replaced with "People. People. People." If a human is crushed or pushed aside in the pursuit of a principle or ideal, no matter how noble, the cost has become too high. That's why in the land of "life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness," (even though we don't live up to defending all those things) there are nevertheless restrictions on behaviors like murder and rape and unsafe driving.
The rest of this post could make it sound like I think principles are a most terrible evil. I have some harsh words about them. I thought of Jesus' words in Luke 14:26: "If anyone comes to me and does not hate father and mother, wife and children, brothers and sisters--yes, even their own life--such a person cannot be my disciple." We don't take this to mean literal hate. It's interpreted to mean, "you rightly love these people who are close to you, but even that incredibly close love you have for them should be so much less than your love for me that it seems like hate in comparison." Similarly, if I sound like I hate principles, it's not that they are inherently awful, it’s only because they should be such a lower priority than loving humans where they're at.
"Principles are what people have instead of God. To be a Christian means among other things to be willing if necessary to sacrifice even your highest principles for God's or your neighbor's sake the way a Christian pacifist must be willing to pick up a baseball bat if there's no other way to stop a man from savagely beating a child. Jesus didn't forgive his executioners on principle but because in some unimaginable way he was able to love them." - Frederick Buechner
I agree. Many people have principles instead of God, but I believe it’s most damaging when the principles are “Christian,” because that hinders access to the gospel message. It’s like a vaccine: if someone gets a small, unpleasant dose of something mislabeled as Christianity, they may recoil in disgust and reject the real thing for decades, misinformed about what they’re avoiding.
This week I asked someone to define what they think Christianity means and they said it's a belief system. I get why someone would say this. It sounds right. Heck, it's on Wikipedia. I checked and I think the Wikipedia definition of Christianity as a belief system is wrong. Or maybe it isn't, and I'm just not a Christian. The Bible doesn't use the word "Christian." The Bible mentions believers and disciples and friends of Jesus. The Biblical call of God is not primarily to mentally agree with concepts. It’s to live relying on God, to have a living, present-tense relationship with Jesus, the Christ. Maybe it’s a semantics thing. Before the 16th century, the word “believe” meant to rely on something. After that time, the word referred to mental assent, the definition it’s retained to this day. If you aren’t a big history buff, I remind you that the Bible contains multiple exhortations to believe and was written before the 16th century.
I call myself a Christian, and it's not primarily because I mentally check off certain boxes next to phrases like, "believes that Jesus was the son of God" (though I do check off that box, with a strike through "was," with "is" scribbled above it). It’s because I know Christ is my friend, even though my political views often differ from others who call themselves Christians. I guess I use the word as a shorthand. It can easily be misinterpreted, but I know of no better. It’s like when I say I eat “Paleo.” I don’t love all the baggage and potential misinformation that comes with the term, but I don’t always have 20 minutes to qualify whenever I share this about my life choices.
A few weeks ago I read Lecrae's autobiography, Unashamed. He ends it with a great section about Christianity and art. He writes, "There is no such thing as Christian rap and secular rap. Only people can become Christians. Music can't accept Jesus into its heart." Values can't accept Jesus into their hearts. I think again of the non-violent believer mentioned earlier who may have to grab a baseball bat and jump into the fray if a vulnerable little human is at stake. Shakespeare said, "there is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so." Close: not human thinking, but divine leading, would make it so. And yes, I believe there are bad acts Jesus would never call someone to do. But the vast majority of human life exists in a grayer area, as the Bible illustrates.
I know of an organization that recently changed its vision statement from "Christ-centered" to "Christian values." With this change, I no longer think the word "ministry" applies to their work. I understand "ministry" to mean a group of people doing the work of God, serving Him by following His guidance to serve people. Not spreading a value system. You don’t even have to be a Christian to promote “Christian values.” Jesus didn't die to save values. Jesus doesn't love and cherish values and desire to see values reach their fullest potential. We don't need Jesus’ help if the task is promoting our values. People of all religions already try to impose their values on others, and that's not working out so hot. Never has.
Claiming to be a Christian, but never taking crazy risks in faith or seeking God’s help, is functional atheism, regardless of how many so-called Christian values you espouse. Christianity, being a Christ-follower, is having a relationship with God in which you grow in joy and hope and strength, all while blessing others, spreading love and truth, and reconciling the world to God. Principles, morality, and values can be really good and can help along this path, but as Buechner points out, you must be willing to drop them if circumstance calls for it. If Christianity is only a system of law codes, it's no different than any other religion or government. The world doesn’t need another system. Christianity is about relationship. What sets it apart is that our God is alive and at work in the world today, and He listens to and talks to us all the time.
Unlike proponents of squeaky-clean, buttoned-up, no-dancing-cards-movies-or-drinking "Christian living," the people who follow Jesus look real crazy. When the Holy Spirit first came to the Christ-followers, there was "a sound like the blowing of a violent wind... all of them were filled with the Holy Spirit and began to speak in other tongues as the Spirit enabled them... Amazed and perplexed, they asked one another, 'What does this mean?' Some, however, made fun of them and said, 'They have had too much wine.'" (Acts 2:2a, 4, 12-13) I love that Peter stands up to address the gathered crowd, which includes Jews and others in Jerusalem, and says, "These people are not drunk, as you suppose. It's only nine in the morning!" (Acts 2:15). Do you think that getting extremely drunk, or even appearing to, at 9 am in public is a "Christian" thing to do? I would say not, I would say most churches, pastors, judgers would advise against it, claim it's "not of the Lord." But it's obviously something a Christ-follower would and does do if circumstances warrant it. The Bible is full of such examples. Jesus himself was accused of not being religious enough, and was not liked (an understatement) by religious leaders of His day.
My blog is called "Sailing by the Stars" because you cannot determine a course across the ocean without making necessary adjustments from time to time. Once your life experience has surpassed the dry land of naïve certainty, a lot of forces blow your ship in different directions. You have to look up to heaven for what to do, react to the situation around you at each moment as it is, not as it used to be or as you wish it were. A map isn’t enough in those moments. A plan can’t account for all contingencies.
No map? No plan? How do you read the stars? Pray. Ask, "Jesus, does this path honor you? How can I best follow you?" Then listen. Don't forget you asked a question (I do this too often) and look for an answer. He may or may not reply in the next 5 seconds, because He's a person, not a computer, but He won't hide the answer either, if you really care to know it. The Bible is full of stories and advice that can help you figure it out, but every situation is different. That's part of why the resurrection was so important. If Jesus were dead today, He wouldn't have offered us more than we could come up with on our own. The Holy Spirit’s guidance is more like a GPS than a map, but instead of a detached robot voice, He speaks in the encouraging voice of a loving friend, partner, companion, parent... the Bible mixes metaphors to illustrate the depth of His love for you.
Jesus did say He came not to abolish the law, but to fulfill it. He wasn't wholly rejecting values put forth in the Old Testament. Again, values are not inherently bad. But those laws were clearly insufficient if He had to come in person to complete them. “In person”: did you catch that?
Sunday 26 June 2016
On Saying No
"Wounds from a friend can be trusted, but an enemy multiplies kisses." - Proverbs 27:6
"Whoever says to the wicked, 'You are in the right,' will be cursed by peoples, abhorred by nations, but those who rebuke the wicked will have delight, and a good blessing will come upon them. Whoever gives an honest answer kisses the lips." - Proverbs 24:24-26
My summary: speaking up for the truth is better and more loving than staying silent or lying to spare someone's feelings. I remind myself because a few nights ago I delivered some honest and direct feedback to a near-stranger (I'll call her M) about her behavior. For this post, I mingle all the following kinds of things: speaking up for the truth, boundary-setting, criticism, saying, "no" to a request, and honestly saying, "here's how your behavior (negatively) affected me."
I know what it feels like to have someone level with you when you're not used to it. It hurts. It can feel embarrassing and/or make you angry. (I certainly think that turned out to be the case for M. She also told me I had been rude.) Yet I'm glad to have pushed (or to have been pushed) through by being spoken to honestly, because it's made my life more productive and more pleasant. There's freedom and safety when people are respectfully straight-up with you. In my younger and more insecure days, I feared corrective criticism, thinking it meant a loss of love. Turns out the opposite is true. Where criticism is offered in love, it is safe to keep risking failure and become your best self, which is the business of living. When someone thinks you can do better, you're motivated to improve. I may not have been close to M, but my response was a blend of love for both of us: making sure her irritating behavior didn't continue around me (caring for myself) and letting her know how she was being received (seeking the best for her). I won't go into much more detail, but my intentions were all good. I knew there was a risk she'd be hurt, but my desire was to help her, not to harm her, and given the available information, I thought the potential benefit outweighed the risk. I acted knowing that in the course of my life I once hated negative feedback and later felt grateful for it.
Times I've set a boundary or said no to someone despite temptation to say what they wanted to hear created a short time of pain followed by an endless time of relief. Times I said what the other person wanted to hear when it wasn't true or didn't reflect what I wanted created a moment of relief followed by an extended time of feeling trapped in a worsening problem. In retrospect, it's extremely easy to see the better choice, yet in the moment it's still tempting to tell a white lie. But lying to spare feelings creates a second problem. The original one, serious enough you lied, hasn't disappeared, and now that you've lied, you'll either die without having come clean or face the music at some point and have to deal with it in an exaggerated form.
This article pointed me to some romantically-inspired statistics that support this idea. Dr. Hannah Fry of University College London delved into the "mathematics of love," and was surprised to find that, "couples who have a ‘low negativity threshold’ – or in other words complain about things that annoy them readily... are less likely to trouble the divorce courts. Dr. Fry said: ‘I thought that a high threshold of negativity, where you let things go on and let your partner 'be themselves', would be more successful. But the exact opposite is true. The couples who end up doing best have a really low negativity threshold. When things bother them they speak up immediately and don’t let small things spill out of control.’"
She learned about the negativity threshold from the work of Dr. John Gottman, a marriage and family therapist who has conducted extensive research. This particular study lasted for years. "Looking at the negativity threshold helped the researchers predict which couples would get divorced with an impressive 90 per cent accuracy. The researchers compared 'repairing' problems in a marriage to treating a small scratch early, which is better for your health than dealing with it when it has become badly infected."
TV show characters lie to spare feelings every couple of minutes (at least on the shows I watch)! This is probably because such behavior inevitably creates tension and drama, which advances a plot, but in real life it's not funny to have massive relational and professional problems, so I try to use them as cautionary tales instead of models.
The "bring it up when it's small" approach has been effective for me when I manage to use it. I tell myself, "if they're mad, they'll get over it, and if they don't, they might not be in a place to have a healthy relationship right now: good to know." M chose to end contact with me, and when she did I literally said "hallelujah" aloud (don't worry, it was over text, so she didn't hear me). In other words, that outcome was a gain, not a loss. The good options were change or parting ways. Change seemed unlikely but possible. The only negative outcome would be no change and no parting of the ways. Other recent "no"s have protected me from a pushy Facebook friendship and from giving time and money to a cause I couldn't support. These little situations were awkward, but now register as small blips in my memory. I doubt if I'd caved and said "yes" I'd feel the same now.
In case my celebration of saying no sounds negative, I want to emphasize that the reason for saying no is to serve the big yeses in life: yes to living authentically, yes to healthy relationships, yes to free time and rest, yes to self-esteem and self-trust. You can't get to these yeses without some serious no action!
"Whoever says to the wicked, 'You are in the right,' will be cursed by peoples, abhorred by nations, but those who rebuke the wicked will have delight, and a good blessing will come upon them. Whoever gives an honest answer kisses the lips." - Proverbs 24:24-26
My summary: speaking up for the truth is better and more loving than staying silent or lying to spare someone's feelings. I remind myself because a few nights ago I delivered some honest and direct feedback to a near-stranger (I'll call her M) about her behavior. For this post, I mingle all the following kinds of things: speaking up for the truth, boundary-setting, criticism, saying, "no" to a request, and honestly saying, "here's how your behavior (negatively) affected me."
I know what it feels like to have someone level with you when you're not used to it. It hurts. It can feel embarrassing and/or make you angry. (I certainly think that turned out to be the case for M. She also told me I had been rude.) Yet I'm glad to have pushed (or to have been pushed) through by being spoken to honestly, because it's made my life more productive and more pleasant. There's freedom and safety when people are respectfully straight-up with you. In my younger and more insecure days, I feared corrective criticism, thinking it meant a loss of love. Turns out the opposite is true. Where criticism is offered in love, it is safe to keep risking failure and become your best self, which is the business of living. When someone thinks you can do better, you're motivated to improve. I may not have been close to M, but my response was a blend of love for both of us: making sure her irritating behavior didn't continue around me (caring for myself) and letting her know how she was being received (seeking the best for her). I won't go into much more detail, but my intentions were all good. I knew there was a risk she'd be hurt, but my desire was to help her, not to harm her, and given the available information, I thought the potential benefit outweighed the risk. I acted knowing that in the course of my life I once hated negative feedback and later felt grateful for it.
Times I've set a boundary or said no to someone despite temptation to say what they wanted to hear created a short time of pain followed by an endless time of relief. Times I said what the other person wanted to hear when it wasn't true or didn't reflect what I wanted created a moment of relief followed by an extended time of feeling trapped in a worsening problem. In retrospect, it's extremely easy to see the better choice, yet in the moment it's still tempting to tell a white lie. But lying to spare feelings creates a second problem. The original one, serious enough you lied, hasn't disappeared, and now that you've lied, you'll either die without having come clean or face the music at some point and have to deal with it in an exaggerated form.
This article pointed me to some romantically-inspired statistics that support this idea. Dr. Hannah Fry of University College London delved into the "mathematics of love," and was surprised to find that, "couples who have a ‘low negativity threshold’ – or in other words complain about things that annoy them readily... are less likely to trouble the divorce courts. Dr. Fry said: ‘I thought that a high threshold of negativity, where you let things go on and let your partner 'be themselves', would be more successful. But the exact opposite is true. The couples who end up doing best have a really low negativity threshold. When things bother them they speak up immediately and don’t let small things spill out of control.’"
She learned about the negativity threshold from the work of Dr. John Gottman, a marriage and family therapist who has conducted extensive research. This particular study lasted for years. "Looking at the negativity threshold helped the researchers predict which couples would get divorced with an impressive 90 per cent accuracy. The researchers compared 'repairing' problems in a marriage to treating a small scratch early, which is better for your health than dealing with it when it has become badly infected."
TV show characters lie to spare feelings every couple of minutes (at least on the shows I watch)! This is probably because such behavior inevitably creates tension and drama, which advances a plot, but in real life it's not funny to have massive relational and professional problems, so I try to use them as cautionary tales instead of models.
The "bring it up when it's small" approach has been effective for me when I manage to use it. I tell myself, "if they're mad, they'll get over it, and if they don't, they might not be in a place to have a healthy relationship right now: good to know." M chose to end contact with me, and when she did I literally said "hallelujah" aloud (don't worry, it was over text, so she didn't hear me). In other words, that outcome was a gain, not a loss. The good options were change or parting ways. Change seemed unlikely but possible. The only negative outcome would be no change and no parting of the ways. Other recent "no"s have protected me from a pushy Facebook friendship and from giving time and money to a cause I couldn't support. These little situations were awkward, but now register as small blips in my memory. I doubt if I'd caved and said "yes" I'd feel the same now.
In case my celebration of saying no sounds negative, I want to emphasize that the reason for saying no is to serve the big yeses in life: yes to living authentically, yes to healthy relationships, yes to free time and rest, yes to self-esteem and self-trust. You can't get to these yeses without some serious no action!
Tuesday 21 June 2016
Ways to Know People
Strange that I can tell which one of my parents is coming up the stairs just by the pattern of footfalls, but they still remain so unknown to me in other ways.
This weekend we three were sitting around my smallish white Ikea table after breakfast. I'd made them some fake Larabars, which I brought out on a tray. My father complained that they were yellow and only tasted one at my insistence. "What flavor is this?" he demanded before taking a bite.
"Try to guess," I replied. "It's something familiar." I thought he liked carrot cake, but I didn't have any specific memory to validate this.
"You're telling me I am familiar with whatever makes these yellow?"
"First of all, they're orange, and second of all, yes."
"He won't be able to guess without more clues," put in my mother.
"Why not?" I asked.
"It's not in his personality."
I had no idea how to connect those dots, but trusted to the accumulated wisdom of their marriage and offered the giveaway clue as he took his second bite. After identifying the flavor, he casually said he didn't like quizzes about food. Clearly, my mom had known that. I didn't know how she knew, or how I didn't know it, since I love to orchestrate moments of discovery and must have asked him to guess other foods before.
I'm not sure how to delineate the different realms of knowing another person, with their unclear borders, but I'm sure that one of them can only be reached in the presence of love. Love as a willingness to put yourself aside and see the other person as they are, not as what you are. I have been arrested in my ability to know a specific family member by a lack of love for them. They're older than me and I think they should know how to treat people better. While the "should" thoughts are present, I'm distracted and miss out on clearly seeing what's already there.
There's physical, everyday knowing of coworkers, teammates, family members, whether you feel you love them or not. It's why I could match the backs of the legs of my cross-country teammates with their faces and somehow knew what everyone's feet looked like on my soccer teams. It allows us to distinguish the voice of each person we know, even when we know so many people.
It takes wisdom to balance a person's self-revelation with your observations. It isn't always true that no one knows you better than you know yourself. Perhaps on balance that is the case, but humans have an incredible capacity for denial (I know this intimately from both sides) or ignorance and have a funhouse-warped view of themselves unless others weigh in honestly. Someone wisely observed that there are things a stranger spots about you in 30 seconds that you could go your whole life not realizing about yourself.
So self-revelation is not the whole picture, but there is a pocket of emotional and inner truth that can only be accessed and shared with the world by its possessor. This means our ability to know another is in some way limited by that person's level of self-awareness. I have known multiple people who could not be connected with on a deeper emotional level than they accessed "on their own time." These were shallow relationships despite plenty of the other forms of knowing. No matter what strategies you employ, no matter how vulnerable you make yourself, connecting (by definition, mutual) can only be as deep as the shallowest or most inhibited person involved.
Lastly, Real People. This is a difficult concept to articulate. Over the years, some friends have reacted to my lengthy explanation with recognition, though they hadn't had words for it. One such friend lived in the same small community as I. We stayed up late one night listing and discussing people and found we had almost complete overlap (though she was more charitable than I) as to who the Real People around us were. I concluded that Real People was a real thing.
What are Real People? I offer these general guidelines:
1. Real People are able to understand how others might feel, and incorporate this into their speech and action. Usually a person who will speak at length about themself without posing any questions to you is not a Real Person.
2. They don't hold you at arm's length. They don't necessarily divulge every detail of their lives, or even much at all in terms of personal plans or information, but they are willing to admit to being happy or sad or hungry and they let you be things too, without automatically trying to talk you out of it.
3. Real People seem more alive and present than other people. They don't automatically try to edit their emotions out of a situation; they understand that emotions are the situation. Would "emotionally intelligent" be interchangeable with "Real"? I think not. A therapist, during a session with a client, would not be a Real Person except in flickers. Counseling is too arm's-length and one-sided, even if the counselor is healthy and emotionally intelligent. Also, I've known and heard of people who could identify emotion in others but not experience it themselves, and that is not how Real People act.
4. The shortest definition I can give is that Real People get it. Understanding this definition is a litmus test of sorts. If despite hearing the descriptions listed above, a lengthy definition of "it" is needed, that can indicate the person might not get it. Perhaps a trait of Real People is comprehending the concept of Real People. This is the least sure guideline on the list, because language use differs from person to person. I've known some Real People from other countries with varying levels of English ability. However, a person's way of using language often reveals if they're a Real Person or not. I can't articulate how--this is one of those aspects that's hardest to explain, so it didn't get its own bullet point. Anyway, if someone's grasp of English is weaker, it can take longer to discover that they're Real, since they may talk like they're not.
A world without Real People would be suffocating and depressing on the level of--and I don't say this lightly--inducing suicidal thoughts. In my childhood, Real People were rare, Real adults almost nonexistent from my vantage, but I was lucky to find some in the form of peers, and they gave me hope that I wasn't alone in the world. I've since become more lenient. I haven't thought about Real People in a while; I no longer divide the world so starkly. I acknowledge the meanness inherent in this term, and of course all people deserve always to be treated as people. Yet not everyone is able or willing to engage authentically with the world and with others. And those who hold back their authentic engagement, I think, can't be truly known.
This weekend we three were sitting around my smallish white Ikea table after breakfast. I'd made them some fake Larabars, which I brought out on a tray. My father complained that they were yellow and only tasted one at my insistence. "What flavor is this?" he demanded before taking a bite.
"Try to guess," I replied. "It's something familiar." I thought he liked carrot cake, but I didn't have any specific memory to validate this.
"You're telling me I am familiar with whatever makes these yellow?"
"First of all, they're orange, and second of all, yes."
"He won't be able to guess without more clues," put in my mother.
"Why not?" I asked.
"It's not in his personality."
I had no idea how to connect those dots, but trusted to the accumulated wisdom of their marriage and offered the giveaway clue as he took his second bite. After identifying the flavor, he casually said he didn't like quizzes about food. Clearly, my mom had known that. I didn't know how she knew, or how I didn't know it, since I love to orchestrate moments of discovery and must have asked him to guess other foods before.
I'm not sure how to delineate the different realms of knowing another person, with their unclear borders, but I'm sure that one of them can only be reached in the presence of love. Love as a willingness to put yourself aside and see the other person as they are, not as what you are. I have been arrested in my ability to know a specific family member by a lack of love for them. They're older than me and I think they should know how to treat people better. While the "should" thoughts are present, I'm distracted and miss out on clearly seeing what's already there.
There's physical, everyday knowing of coworkers, teammates, family members, whether you feel you love them or not. It's why I could match the backs of the legs of my cross-country teammates with their faces and somehow knew what everyone's feet looked like on my soccer teams. It allows us to distinguish the voice of each person we know, even when we know so many people.
It takes wisdom to balance a person's self-revelation with your observations. It isn't always true that no one knows you better than you know yourself. Perhaps on balance that is the case, but humans have an incredible capacity for denial (I know this intimately from both sides) or ignorance and have a funhouse-warped view of themselves unless others weigh in honestly. Someone wisely observed that there are things a stranger spots about you in 30 seconds that you could go your whole life not realizing about yourself.
So self-revelation is not the whole picture, but there is a pocket of emotional and inner truth that can only be accessed and shared with the world by its possessor. This means our ability to know another is in some way limited by that person's level of self-awareness. I have known multiple people who could not be connected with on a deeper emotional level than they accessed "on their own time." These were shallow relationships despite plenty of the other forms of knowing. No matter what strategies you employ, no matter how vulnerable you make yourself, connecting (by definition, mutual) can only be as deep as the shallowest or most inhibited person involved.
Lastly, Real People. This is a difficult concept to articulate. Over the years, some friends have reacted to my lengthy explanation with recognition, though they hadn't had words for it. One such friend lived in the same small community as I. We stayed up late one night listing and discussing people and found we had almost complete overlap (though she was more charitable than I) as to who the Real People around us were. I concluded that Real People was a real thing.
What are Real People? I offer these general guidelines:
1. Real People are able to understand how others might feel, and incorporate this into their speech and action. Usually a person who will speak at length about themself without posing any questions to you is not a Real Person.
2. They don't hold you at arm's length. They don't necessarily divulge every detail of their lives, or even much at all in terms of personal plans or information, but they are willing to admit to being happy or sad or hungry and they let you be things too, without automatically trying to talk you out of it.
3. Real People seem more alive and present than other people. They don't automatically try to edit their emotions out of a situation; they understand that emotions are the situation. Would "emotionally intelligent" be interchangeable with "Real"? I think not. A therapist, during a session with a client, would not be a Real Person except in flickers. Counseling is too arm's-length and one-sided, even if the counselor is healthy and emotionally intelligent. Also, I've known and heard of people who could identify emotion in others but not experience it themselves, and that is not how Real People act.
4. The shortest definition I can give is that Real People get it. Understanding this definition is a litmus test of sorts. If despite hearing the descriptions listed above, a lengthy definition of "it" is needed, that can indicate the person might not get it. Perhaps a trait of Real People is comprehending the concept of Real People. This is the least sure guideline on the list, because language use differs from person to person. I've known some Real People from other countries with varying levels of English ability. However, a person's way of using language often reveals if they're a Real Person or not. I can't articulate how--this is one of those aspects that's hardest to explain, so it didn't get its own bullet point. Anyway, if someone's grasp of English is weaker, it can take longer to discover that they're Real, since they may talk like they're not.
A world without Real People would be suffocating and depressing on the level of--and I don't say this lightly--inducing suicidal thoughts. In my childhood, Real People were rare, Real adults almost nonexistent from my vantage, but I was lucky to find some in the form of peers, and they gave me hope that I wasn't alone in the world. I've since become more lenient. I haven't thought about Real People in a while; I no longer divide the world so starkly. I acknowledge the meanness inherent in this term, and of course all people deserve always to be treated as people. Yet not everyone is able or willing to engage authentically with the world and with others. And those who hold back their authentic engagement, I think, can't be truly known.
Tuesday 14 June 2016
The Zootopian Agenda
Zootopia was fun and funny and entertaining. I recommend it, with a caution that there are some parts that would be super scary for little kids (like, scarier than Ursula getting huge in The Little Mermaid; about on par with that Jekyll and Hyde thing in The Pagemaster--not quite that bad but getting there).
Having said all that, I have to comment on its agenda. The film had a very clear one: that biology is immaterial (excuse the pun) when it comes to living the life you want and achieving your dreams. Spoiler alert: they had a rookie 2-pound bunny consistently outperform experienced 2,000-14,000-pound animals like rhinos, elephants, and cape buffalo in the field of law enforcement. While it is of course not impossible that a bunny could do that, the movie goes beyond "it happened one time and it was special" to emphasizing that it should be this way for all at all times, and biology is nothing but an old-fashioned state of mind that, if abolished, would usher in utopia. Wait, like, what? Do these moviemakers inhabit the physical world like the rest of us?
Because it was a movie, they were able to carefully craft the narrative such that the bunny's job never required her to do something she physically couldn't do; her brain won every battle for her. For instance, she hops off the backs of her classmates in police school to scale a wall she couldn't otherwise have any hope of surmounting. This impresses everyone (the teacher) rather than makes them ask, "What if the test had required her to climb the wall alone? Do ten police officers usually handle the same situation at the same time?"
I accept that movies are often unrealistic. It's damn hard to craft a believable story in a compressed space. Real life is way more boring, so you have to skip lots of parts in a story, which can make it seem "too easy." You have to partially shave off the inconvenient bits of reality to make your point. But this movie's flouting of reality is vast and noteworthy.
Judy the bunny had a lot to offer the police squad, but that doesn't mean that she was equal in every way to all the stronger animals, with no differences, as the movie implied. We all have different strengths and weaknesses (yes, often based on biology), so working as a team we can achieve a lot more. In this case, the police force needed brute strength as well as passion and smarts.
Biology is a real thing. It matters, sometimes on a small scale and sometimes on a large one. It's wonderful to tell children to pursue their dreams, even if they seem far-fetched. But rising above one's circumstances or biology is different than denying or ignoring one's circumstances/biology. Zootopia does the latter, and that's why I'm concerned.
A tragic example of what happens when we tell children they can be and do whatever they want unconditionally, no questions asked, is the story of Jessica Dubroff. She's the 7-year-old whose parents never taught her the word "no." She had 35 hours of flight training when, upon the suggestion of her father, she decided to become the youngest person to fly across the North American continent. Great emphasis was placed by both her parents on the fact that she chose this for herself. Here's a mention of her biology from Time Magazine: the "Federal Aviation Administration... permitted a 4-ft. 2-in., 55-lb. seven-year-old whose feet did not reach the rudder pedals to fly an airplane across the country." Tragically, Jessica didn't reach her goal. She died in a crash that also claimed the lives of her father and her flight instructor. Famously, her mother said she had no regrets, emphasizing her daughter's freedom of choice as an American. Time's take: "Many wondered whether the freedom to pursue personal identity had been pushed too far."
Asserting that biology is a real thing feels oddly risky in our day and age. Then again, maybe it felt that way in 1996 as well (the year of Jessica's flight) and I was not old enough to know it. It reminds me of the Emperor's New Clothes story. It involves a lot of group pretending to arrive at and stay at the conclusion that the physical world doesn't matter, is nothing but an inconvenience on the road to human self-realization. As it relates to Jessica: "The hype of the whole enterprise, in retrospect, seems reckless. Let us tick off the deceptions that everyone involved pretended were true: the trip was Jessica's idea; she was doing it for the joy of flying; she was truly piloting the plane; it was safe; she wasn't scared. For the most part, the public played along with this game, for it is easier not to question the received platitudes." I won't go into the full list of topics these sentences could apply to. I'll simply say that ideologies like the one blatantly promoted in Zootopia push us to pretend certain things are true. It's still easier (and more politically correct) not to question them. May we as adults encourage the children in our lives to participate in reality as it is, even when our aim is to rise above where it finds us now. Even if that means a conversation on the way home from Zootopia.
Having said all that, I have to comment on its agenda. The film had a very clear one: that biology is immaterial (excuse the pun) when it comes to living the life you want and achieving your dreams. Spoiler alert: they had a rookie 2-pound bunny consistently outperform experienced 2,000-14,000-pound animals like rhinos, elephants, and cape buffalo in the field of law enforcement. While it is of course not impossible that a bunny could do that, the movie goes beyond "it happened one time and it was special" to emphasizing that it should be this way for all at all times, and biology is nothing but an old-fashioned state of mind that, if abolished, would usher in utopia. Wait, like, what? Do these moviemakers inhabit the physical world like the rest of us?
Because it was a movie, they were able to carefully craft the narrative such that the bunny's job never required her to do something she physically couldn't do; her brain won every battle for her. For instance, she hops off the backs of her classmates in police school to scale a wall she couldn't otherwise have any hope of surmounting. This impresses everyone (the teacher) rather than makes them ask, "What if the test had required her to climb the wall alone? Do ten police officers usually handle the same situation at the same time?"
I accept that movies are often unrealistic. It's damn hard to craft a believable story in a compressed space. Real life is way more boring, so you have to skip lots of parts in a story, which can make it seem "too easy." You have to partially shave off the inconvenient bits of reality to make your point. But this movie's flouting of reality is vast and noteworthy.
Judy the bunny had a lot to offer the police squad, but that doesn't mean that she was equal in every way to all the stronger animals, with no differences, as the movie implied. We all have different strengths and weaknesses (yes, often based on biology), so working as a team we can achieve a lot more. In this case, the police force needed brute strength as well as passion and smarts.
Biology is a real thing. It matters, sometimes on a small scale and sometimes on a large one. It's wonderful to tell children to pursue their dreams, even if they seem far-fetched. But rising above one's circumstances or biology is different than denying or ignoring one's circumstances/biology. Zootopia does the latter, and that's why I'm concerned.
A tragic example of what happens when we tell children they can be and do whatever they want unconditionally, no questions asked, is the story of Jessica Dubroff. She's the 7-year-old whose parents never taught her the word "no." She had 35 hours of flight training when, upon the suggestion of her father, she decided to become the youngest person to fly across the North American continent. Great emphasis was placed by both her parents on the fact that she chose this for herself. Here's a mention of her biology from Time Magazine: the "Federal Aviation Administration... permitted a 4-ft. 2-in., 55-lb. seven-year-old whose feet did not reach the rudder pedals to fly an airplane across the country." Tragically, Jessica didn't reach her goal. She died in a crash that also claimed the lives of her father and her flight instructor. Famously, her mother said she had no regrets, emphasizing her daughter's freedom of choice as an American. Time's take: "Many wondered whether the freedom to pursue personal identity had been pushed too far."
Saturday 11 June 2016
Writing with your Path
"I'm a little pencil in the hand of a writing God, who is sending a love letter to the world." - Mother Teresa
I'm not sure how to attribute this cartoon; I've seen it a few places:
The bottom one looks like a recording of a heartbeat. In comparison, the top one looks like the flatline that means death. The top image is boring. The bottom reminds me of the ups and downs of handwriting. Something with personality. A path much more interesting to write, read, and live.
Applied to a sheet of paper to write a story, a pencil might wonder, "why all the back and forth?" not realizing that that is how letters are formed. It would probably feel very jerky and awkward: "Do you even know what you're doing, writer? Why am I being bumped around so much? Can we make this any smoother?" Even in the smoothest cursive, a writer must cross t's and dot i's. Maybe letters are the repeated rituals of our days. Sipping water. Checking a phone. Driving to work. Walking from room to room. Cooking. Eating. Laundry. More cooking. It takes a lot of repeated occurrences of these to make a life, to make a story. It wouldn't be a very long or interesting story if no letter could be reused.
Maybe that left edge of the paper is our fresh start every morning. We are progressing, even when all the early mornings begin to blend and feel the same. Even when we seem to stand still or go backwards, it's always a new starting point; regression isn't possible. Jerky movements are par for the course, not a sign of trouble. Sudden, uncomfortable detours are exactly where they belong, making t's and i's, f's and j's. Life wouldn't make sense without them.
Are we more like pens than pencils? Our actions are indelible. Either way, there's a limit to how much we will write with our lives. Whether by ink or wood, the remainder of our lives shrinks daily, little by little. We are dulled by regular life until something painful occurs that sharpens us once again to press into the paper more. Either way, the writing instrument can't be aware of the full story on its own. It's bumped and jostled around, moving too fast to get a clear picture of its surroundings. A higher perspective is needed to see that something is coming together, even if we're only able to fathom our paragraph in a book too large to comprehend.
I'm not sure how to attribute this cartoon; I've seen it a few places:
The bottom one looks like a recording of a heartbeat. In comparison, the top one looks like the flatline that means death. The top image is boring. The bottom reminds me of the ups and downs of handwriting. Something with personality. A path much more interesting to write, read, and live.
Applied to a sheet of paper to write a story, a pencil might wonder, "why all the back and forth?" not realizing that that is how letters are formed. It would probably feel very jerky and awkward: "Do you even know what you're doing, writer? Why am I being bumped around so much? Can we make this any smoother?" Even in the smoothest cursive, a writer must cross t's and dot i's. Maybe letters are the repeated rituals of our days. Sipping water. Checking a phone. Driving to work. Walking from room to room. Cooking. Eating. Laundry. More cooking. It takes a lot of repeated occurrences of these to make a life, to make a story. It wouldn't be a very long or interesting story if no letter could be reused.
Maybe that left edge of the paper is our fresh start every morning. We are progressing, even when all the early mornings begin to blend and feel the same. Even when we seem to stand still or go backwards, it's always a new starting point; regression isn't possible. Jerky movements are par for the course, not a sign of trouble. Sudden, uncomfortable detours are exactly where they belong, making t's and i's, f's and j's. Life wouldn't make sense without them.
Are we more like pens than pencils? Our actions are indelible. Either way, there's a limit to how much we will write with our lives. Whether by ink or wood, the remainder of our lives shrinks daily, little by little. We are dulled by regular life until something painful occurs that sharpens us once again to press into the paper more. Either way, the writing instrument can't be aware of the full story on its own. It's bumped and jostled around, moving too fast to get a clear picture of its surroundings. A higher perspective is needed to see that something is coming together, even if we're only able to fathom our paragraph in a book too large to comprehend.
Tuesday 7 June 2016
Bench.
Maybe it's all the teen dystopian fiction I've been reading lately, but I'm overwhelmed with gratitude for the present ordinariness. To simply sit in this ten-bench park, free and alive, unhunted, fearlessly showing my unfamous face in public. Exchanging smiles with a cool-looking guy with dyed gray hair over tight gray pants and a gray sweater. Being ignored by an Asian girl with a tough, disengaged face. I project my own memories onto her expression, decide she's in a hurry and perhaps feeling too fragile to risk a smile or warmth going unreturned, so she doesn't even bother with a glance.
A man walks his red bike past me in a whiff of cigarette scent. How do his black jeans stay on? I don't see a belt. They gather around his thighs. Above them I see defined cheeks clad in green fabric festooned with shamrocks. He and his friend respond to a shout-out from the two men who have been talking in the park since before I arrived: Red Basketball Shorts and "I'm Kind of a Big Deal." Irish or his pal, I can't tell which, can't stop to talk because he is going to get a job application, despite the open skepticism of IKBD as to his destination.
I'm not as grateful as I want to be for this life I get to live. I should be daily kissing my dirty floors in thanks that I no longer scrub toilets three-plus times a week. Back when cleaning was my job, my more-than-full-time job, I think I thought I'd be thankful every day to have moved on. Maybe I was, for a week or two.
Red Basketball Shorts and "I'm Kind of a Big Deal" (that's what his black shirt says in red letters) raise their voices, interrupting my thoughts. They're complaining incredulously about some bitch, some situation having to do with coffee or creamer or both.
The Asian girl from earlier walks back from the way she came. I now notice that her hair is long, red and blonde. She wears neat jorts and a khaki backpack nearly the size of her torso.
"I saw her titties once," I don't dare turn my head as I flick my eyes to try to tell who said this. How I wish I could hear them better! Whose titties?
Bees are... pollinating... the clovers in the grass to my left, though whatever's happening down there looks too personal for this park. There's a normal-looking fuzzy yellow one and a littler red guy that almost looks more like a wasp. A teenage bee? A preteen bee in his awkward phase?
RBS and IKBD have turned on rap music and changed their topic of conversation to Jeffrey Dahmer. The louder one of them says, "fuck that," a few times. Fuck what?, I think. Right away, as if he heard me: "Fuck you, bitch." The one with the titties? I chance another glance from behind my sunglasses. I notice that RBS wears royal blue Nike socks over his red-laced black shoes.
A man in a green Subway T-shirt walks by them carrying a bag of food. His pants are black, drooping, his butt fully exposed. Red shiny shorts. Maybe he's glad to be off work. I imagine him stepping into the parking lot at the end of his shift, tugging them down, breathing a sigh of relief and comfort. I don't suppose they let him assemble and serve sandwiches in that condition, but what do I know?
Many people have exercised past me with varying degrees of speed and athletic style. They run because they want to and not because they are being chased, or have to get somewhere quickly.
I peek back at the conversing men. IKBD wears ripped and faded jeans with holes in the knees. He drinks from a can that's mostly covered by a brown paper bag. RBS has on a black backpack and a light baseball cap. He smokes a cigarette. The bench beside them holds another backpack and two more beverages.
As I left my apartment to come here, I thought, "thank God." For what, I didn't have specifically in mind. The fine, fair weather, I suppose. "Thank God." The glorious sunlight. "Thank God." Like a compulsion, the anti-anxiety, the feeling of anxiety disappearing step by step: "Thank God thank God thank God."
Suddenly I find RBS and IKBD have mobilized without my noticing. They make it a quarter of a way around the circle that is the park, now both wearing backpacks. They stop and talk some more. IKBD makes what appears to be an obscene hand gesture, then moves his body in a way that's familiar to me from the days I used to play the Sims. I've never seen a human do this. A full-body side-to-side waggle ending with a hip bump to the side. Continuing forward, he throws his can bag into the trash and the two take off down the sidewalk together.
Now I'm alone at the park, and the sound of the wind is not better than their profanity-laced indecipherable chatter. I didn't have an agenda for my park-time that they could ruin. They enhanced it, really. My objective was to be here, and I am. Just me and the countless cars streaming by. The joggers.
This one's a marathoner unless he stole that Flying Pig shirt. He checks his watch, as I haven't seen any others do. He means business, I invent. He has a bald spot and probably a busy life, some pre-teen-ish kids and a wife. He runs the park's circle and goes back the way he came, as also no one has before him. He doesn't have hours to kill on this, so he's honed his route for maximum efficiency. Tuesdays are quick jaunt runs. He's the anti-me. No one's waiting for me at home. I could've jogged today but actively opted not to so I wouldn't have to wash my hair. My shorts, my athleticism, are hiding under a pretty dress instead of out for all to see.
My secret Spandex protect me from this black metal bench. It's warm enough, but visibly unwashed. Cast by DuMor. Inc. Is that a pun? What else do they make besides benches?
On my way home I pass two mulberry bushes. My rapture at the first one is kind of short-lived as I don't see many ripe berries. The second one is busting with them, and I don't hesitate. For the past two years I have waited too long, figuring they'd be around all summer. Now I realize the window is short. The fingers on my free hand are purple before I remember the keys at the bottom of my off-white tote bag. I walk back the last block with both hands palms up, fingers curled: one full of berries, one just stained. A man calls to me from his van, "Mulberries?" I pause a quick second before replying, "Yeah!" with a smile. I think about the low profile I keep with strange men. Then I realize that is the only word anyone's spoken to me in person all day.
A man walks his red bike past me in a whiff of cigarette scent. How do his black jeans stay on? I don't see a belt. They gather around his thighs. Above them I see defined cheeks clad in green fabric festooned with shamrocks. He and his friend respond to a shout-out from the two men who have been talking in the park since before I arrived: Red Basketball Shorts and "I'm Kind of a Big Deal." Irish or his pal, I can't tell which, can't stop to talk because he is going to get a job application, despite the open skepticism of IKBD as to his destination.
I'm not as grateful as I want to be for this life I get to live. I should be daily kissing my dirty floors in thanks that I no longer scrub toilets three-plus times a week. Back when cleaning was my job, my more-than-full-time job, I think I thought I'd be thankful every day to have moved on. Maybe I was, for a week or two.
Red Basketball Shorts and "I'm Kind of a Big Deal" (that's what his black shirt says in red letters) raise their voices, interrupting my thoughts. They're complaining incredulously about some bitch, some situation having to do with coffee or creamer or both.
The Asian girl from earlier walks back from the way she came. I now notice that her hair is long, red and blonde. She wears neat jorts and a khaki backpack nearly the size of her torso.
"I saw her titties once," I don't dare turn my head as I flick my eyes to try to tell who said this. How I wish I could hear them better! Whose titties?
Bees are... pollinating... the clovers in the grass to my left, though whatever's happening down there looks too personal for this park. There's a normal-looking fuzzy yellow one and a littler red guy that almost looks more like a wasp. A teenage bee? A preteen bee in his awkward phase?
RBS and IKBD have turned on rap music and changed their topic of conversation to Jeffrey Dahmer. The louder one of them says, "fuck that," a few times. Fuck what?, I think. Right away, as if he heard me: "Fuck you, bitch." The one with the titties? I chance another glance from behind my sunglasses. I notice that RBS wears royal blue Nike socks over his red-laced black shoes.
A man in a green Subway T-shirt walks by them carrying a bag of food. His pants are black, drooping, his butt fully exposed. Red shiny shorts. Maybe he's glad to be off work. I imagine him stepping into the parking lot at the end of his shift, tugging them down, breathing a sigh of relief and comfort. I don't suppose they let him assemble and serve sandwiches in that condition, but what do I know?
Many people have exercised past me with varying degrees of speed and athletic style. They run because they want to and not because they are being chased, or have to get somewhere quickly.
I peek back at the conversing men. IKBD wears ripped and faded jeans with holes in the knees. He drinks from a can that's mostly covered by a brown paper bag. RBS has on a black backpack and a light baseball cap. He smokes a cigarette. The bench beside them holds another backpack and two more beverages.
As I left my apartment to come here, I thought, "thank God." For what, I didn't have specifically in mind. The fine, fair weather, I suppose. "Thank God." The glorious sunlight. "Thank God." Like a compulsion, the anti-anxiety, the feeling of anxiety disappearing step by step: "Thank God thank God thank God."
Suddenly I find RBS and IKBD have mobilized without my noticing. They make it a quarter of a way around the circle that is the park, now both wearing backpacks. They stop and talk some more. IKBD makes what appears to be an obscene hand gesture, then moves his body in a way that's familiar to me from the days I used to play the Sims. I've never seen a human do this. A full-body side-to-side waggle ending with a hip bump to the side. Continuing forward, he throws his can bag into the trash and the two take off down the sidewalk together.
Now I'm alone at the park, and the sound of the wind is not better than their profanity-laced indecipherable chatter. I didn't have an agenda for my park-time that they could ruin. They enhanced it, really. My objective was to be here, and I am. Just me and the countless cars streaming by. The joggers.
This one's a marathoner unless he stole that Flying Pig shirt. He checks his watch, as I haven't seen any others do. He means business, I invent. He has a bald spot and probably a busy life, some pre-teen-ish kids and a wife. He runs the park's circle and goes back the way he came, as also no one has before him. He doesn't have hours to kill on this, so he's honed his route for maximum efficiency. Tuesdays are quick jaunt runs. He's the anti-me. No one's waiting for me at home. I could've jogged today but actively opted not to so I wouldn't have to wash my hair. My shorts, my athleticism, are hiding under a pretty dress instead of out for all to see.
My secret Spandex protect me from this black metal bench. It's warm enough, but visibly unwashed. Cast by DuMor. Inc. Is that a pun? What else do they make besides benches?
On my way home I pass two mulberry bushes. My rapture at the first one is kind of short-lived as I don't see many ripe berries. The second one is busting with them, and I don't hesitate. For the past two years I have waited too long, figuring they'd be around all summer. Now I realize the window is short. The fingers on my free hand are purple before I remember the keys at the bottom of my off-white tote bag. I walk back the last block with both hands palms up, fingers curled: one full of berries, one just stained. A man calls to me from his van, "Mulberries?" I pause a quick second before replying, "Yeah!" with a smile. I think about the low profile I keep with strange men. Then I realize that is the only word anyone's spoken to me in person all day.
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