According to the What to Expect When You're Expecting app, I have 22 weeks and four days left until Mr. or Ms. Baby arrives. The baby's about the size of a turnip and is possibly doing a somersault as I write. Even though I can't feel the baby moving yet, it's crazy to know that it is moving.
Here's something to shock you: lately, I've talked a lot with people about pregnancy and raising kids. This isn't another blog about how rude people are or how we should treat pregnant women. Really, I haven't heard anyone be rude or suggest stupid things. It's been a pretty easy ride and, for that, I'm grateful. Sure, there were the three weeks of constant sadness and full-on grumpies, the month of not pooping without the aid of an entire army of prunes and Fiber One bars, and the high school-level acne. What else? No odd cravings, no sickness, little dizziness...I can't complain.
In general, I feel pregnant. My belly has a sweet bump and a box of clothes is stored in my closet, awaiting the day when I can hopefully wear them again without looking like a potato stuffed into a finger puppet. Yeah, I guess the weight worries me if I'm perfectly honest. I think about it too much. After losing a bunch of weight after college and working hard to keep it off, gaining a pound a week definitely stretches one's comfort level.
Besides, when else can I justify cherry pie in the morning? Or buying a huge Costco box of Goldfish and Bagel Bites? Hey, the Bagel Bites have calcium and baby needs calcium. Really, I'm still eating healthy, but it's super fun to give into random things I usually don't.
Otherwise, I really don't feel any different yet. I believe the doctors that there's a baby inside me. That would be a mean and very impressive trick. The baby just doesn't seem real. We have a room set aside as the baby room and it's painted green. That's about it so far. Right now, the room is still housing an assortment of random stuff until we get this house arranged. I don't think baby will like being changed on a pile of Stephen King books, so I should get around to that whole nesting thing.
Anyways, I've gotten a lot of questions about how I'm doing and I appreciate everyone who cares so much. Just thought I'd write a little update, saying I'm doing well even and enjoying the imminent need for a larger bra. Now that the sad grumpies of the first trimester are gone, I feel like myself. We'll find out if the baby is a mister or a miss in three weeks. Maybe then the baby will seem like an actual person that will one day hate naps.
Saturday, October 25, 2014
Friday, July 25, 2014
Why I'm Not Cute
It doesn't happen a whole lot, but occasionally I'll be talking with someone and I mention something that labels me as "conservative" or "traditional." Ironic, since I feel like I'm super open-minded even if I do have convictions. I've never shied away from an open, calm discussion even if I super disagree with the other person.
Just getting married in my mid-20s got some surprising comments from co-workers at the time.
"But you're still so young."
"You seem independent. I'm just surprised."
Or best yet, "Are you pregnant?"
Nope. Just met a man that's awesome and that I want to spend my life with. Scratch that....an eternity with. Seriously, I may start a petition in heaven if marriage isn't a thing and I have to stalk Ryan just to be around him.
But that's a small example of what I'm getting at. Perhaps a better one is when I had a late-night girl talk with someone in college and was about to explain why I wanted to wait to have sex until I was married. The girl I was with was also raised in the "conservative, Christian" household, but only saw abstinence as unnecessary pleasure-deprivation and the result of too many centuries of repressed female sexuality.
Granted, I understood those points and agree to a certain point that sexuality is not appreciated enough in the church. And that women are held to different standards than men when it comes to sex.
Although, the frustrating part was that, instead of listening to my reasons, my friend said, "Oh, you're cute. I wish I was innocent like you."
Knowing my friend, this was a compliment, but it irked me. As in, I was pissed. Years later, and several times called "cute" or "innocent" when about to explain why I choose to be more "conservative" (if there really must be a label) I realize more why it rubs me the wrong way.
First, there's nothing "cute" about it. "Cute" implies that I'm some kind of naive little kitten that lives in a fairy world separate from reality, skating on rainbows and living on cotton candy...when, in fact, I'm fully aware of reality. It's not that I ignore the world, but I reject a lot of nonsense that it offers. Such as, the misconception that The Notebook is a good movie.
Second, I'm not innocent. Far from it. Am I a good person? Sure, I guess, since I try to be, but in the deepest part of my heart, I know the evil and cruelty that lurks in the dark places.
Another friend of mine once said, "You're the only person in the world that could feel bad for a serial killer." Pretty much, because there are very few times when I can't at least attempt getting inside another person's head to understand their side of the story. One of those rare cases is Walter White. Granted, he's not real, but still...I hate that guy.
Anyway, all that's to say that I totally understand why people disagree with what I think is right, but it's not fair to smile and label someone as "cute" or "old-fashioned" when they have really good, specific, logical reasons for living life in certain ways. There's nothing cute about seeing pornography as a crippling distortion of true sexual intimacy, or waiting to sleep with someone until marriage because I believe it's the ultimate physical expression of love and being with multiple partners creates a lot of physical and emotional risks. There's nothing cute about disliking the "torture porn" entertainment industry because, well, it's awful. I shouldn't have to explain why, but if you really care to hear all my reasons, please ask because I'll rant about it forever.
In conclusion, feel free to call me cute if I wear an adorable dress or host a Fancy Brunch party. I'm totally cool with that.
Just getting married in my mid-20s got some surprising comments from co-workers at the time.
"But you're still so young."
"You seem independent. I'm just surprised."
Or best yet, "Are you pregnant?"
Nope. Just met a man that's awesome and that I want to spend my life with. Scratch that....an eternity with. Seriously, I may start a petition in heaven if marriage isn't a thing and I have to stalk Ryan just to be around him.
But that's a small example of what I'm getting at. Perhaps a better one is when I had a late-night girl talk with someone in college and was about to explain why I wanted to wait to have sex until I was married. The girl I was with was also raised in the "conservative, Christian" household, but only saw abstinence as unnecessary pleasure-deprivation and the result of too many centuries of repressed female sexuality.
Granted, I understood those points and agree to a certain point that sexuality is not appreciated enough in the church. And that women are held to different standards than men when it comes to sex.
Although, the frustrating part was that, instead of listening to my reasons, my friend said, "Oh, you're cute. I wish I was innocent like you."
Knowing my friend, this was a compliment, but it irked me. As in, I was pissed. Years later, and several times called "cute" or "innocent" when about to explain why I choose to be more "conservative" (if there really must be a label) I realize more why it rubs me the wrong way.
First, there's nothing "cute" about it. "Cute" implies that I'm some kind of naive little kitten that lives in a fairy world separate from reality, skating on rainbows and living on cotton candy...when, in fact, I'm fully aware of reality. It's not that I ignore the world, but I reject a lot of nonsense that it offers. Such as, the misconception that The Notebook is a good movie.
Second, I'm not innocent. Far from it. Am I a good person? Sure, I guess, since I try to be, but in the deepest part of my heart, I know the evil and cruelty that lurks in the dark places.
Another friend of mine once said, "You're the only person in the world that could feel bad for a serial killer." Pretty much, because there are very few times when I can't at least attempt getting inside another person's head to understand their side of the story. One of those rare cases is Walter White. Granted, he's not real, but still...I hate that guy.
Anyway, all that's to say that I totally understand why people disagree with what I think is right, but it's not fair to smile and label someone as "cute" or "old-fashioned" when they have really good, specific, logical reasons for living life in certain ways. There's nothing cute about seeing pornography as a crippling distortion of true sexual intimacy, or waiting to sleep with someone until marriage because I believe it's the ultimate physical expression of love and being with multiple partners creates a lot of physical and emotional risks. There's nothing cute about disliking the "torture porn" entertainment industry because, well, it's awful. I shouldn't have to explain why, but if you really care to hear all my reasons, please ask because I'll rant about it forever.
In conclusion, feel free to call me cute if I wear an adorable dress or host a Fancy Brunch party. I'm totally cool with that.
Monday, March 10, 2014
Why Heaven Freaks Me Out
The idea of heaven is a great one...joy and love for all of eternity. No more pain, crying, sorrow, bills....
However, heaven has always freaked me out. As a kid, I pictured heaven as an endless, glaringly white room full of shelves of toys. Toys are great, right? How would that picture freak someone out? Well, because I figured I would get bored with the toys eventually and wonder what I would do for the rest of eternity. Hell seemed much worse with all its fire and pitchforks, but this white room wasn't where I wanted to spend an eternity.
It was common knowledge at my private school that people wouldn't know each other in the same way once they got to heaven, which meant my mom would be some strange lady wandering a golden street while my sister sang in a choir in some white, nameless void on the other side of heaven. Maybe there would even be angel guards keeping people from seeing their families and friends in case they got any funny ideas about kindling past relationships.
And where did all that WHITE come from? There wasn't a sun, of course. Why would heaven need a sun? For that matter, why would heaven even need toys?
So there went the only fun part of heaven. No, there wouldn't be toys because God wanted endless praise and that means singing, singing, and more singing. Now, I enjoy singing, but could I really "sing of Your love forever"? I always lie when I sing that song. If the lyric was, "I could sing of Your love for exactly two hours and then I really need a break," then I would be all in.
Twenty-some years later, I'm older and wiser, but heaven still freaks me out. I don't care anymore if there are toys in heaven, but now my desires center on my husband. I am not okay with us not being married in heaven. Not only does it terrify me to be without Ryan if he dies before me, but for death to be the END of our love? How could that be possible in heaven? If I have my same heart and mind in heaven, then all I can picture is wandering streets for eternity, looking for him. And if I find him, is he going to be working on some diamond-encrusted mansion, saying, "Oh, sorry, but this is my new life. These mansions won't encrust with diamonds by themselves. Guess we had a good life together, but that doesn't matter now"?
Obviously, I don't actually think this is true of heaven, but the images of heaven are the opposite of glorious to me.
Many years ago, I went to a funeral where the pastor spoke of heaven in a way completely different from the visions of gold, singing, and mansions I pictured growing up. The woman who died was a gardener and an amazing cook. The pastor said he believed she was watering flowers and cooking as he spoke. He saw heaven as a place of ACTION, a place where people held onto the gifts and passions they had in this life.
Very rarely do I have epiphanies, and this was no exception, but that idea of heaven being a perfected earth slowly seeped into me. That's my true desire for heaven, to live in a perfect reality with God and other people. I don't want to float around with angels or sing worship songs all day. I want to act in plays, write novels, travel, practice piano, learn the violin, do crosswords, eat blueberries, and finally learn Spanish.
I had a dream about three years ago. Normally, my dreams involve something awkward or inconvenient. At least a few times a year I scream in my sleep. But this was a rarely happy dream.
There was this beach with bright sand and glittering water. A city of castles was on an island a few miles from the beach and it was the most gorgeous sight. This was clearly paradise. There was someone next to me and I asked them if there was a place with snow and mountains.
They said, "Yes, but it takes forever to get there. It's thousands and thousands of miles away, and it literally takes forever."
Crying, I lamented that there was only this one location in paradise I could reach. It was beautiful, but I mourned that I never would see snow again and worried I would get sick of this place despite its glittering water and castle island.
The person was surprised at my crying and said, "Why are you crying? That's why we HAVE an eternity."
That is literally the happiest dream I've ever had, seeing heaven as a place where I can journey and grow, a place that isn't stagnant.
If some angel wants to belt out hymns in my ear, I guess that's fine (especially if I can get earplugs), but when I think of heaven as a place of action with God and a place where I still have my identity, it actually makes me want to go there.
However, heaven has always freaked me out. As a kid, I pictured heaven as an endless, glaringly white room full of shelves of toys. Toys are great, right? How would that picture freak someone out? Well, because I figured I would get bored with the toys eventually and wonder what I would do for the rest of eternity. Hell seemed much worse with all its fire and pitchforks, but this white room wasn't where I wanted to spend an eternity.
It was common knowledge at my private school that people wouldn't know each other in the same way once they got to heaven, which meant my mom would be some strange lady wandering a golden street while my sister sang in a choir in some white, nameless void on the other side of heaven. Maybe there would even be angel guards keeping people from seeing their families and friends in case they got any funny ideas about kindling past relationships.
And where did all that WHITE come from? There wasn't a sun, of course. Why would heaven need a sun? For that matter, why would heaven even need toys?
So there went the only fun part of heaven. No, there wouldn't be toys because God wanted endless praise and that means singing, singing, and more singing. Now, I enjoy singing, but could I really "sing of Your love forever"? I always lie when I sing that song. If the lyric was, "I could sing of Your love for exactly two hours and then I really need a break," then I would be all in.
Twenty-some years later, I'm older and wiser, but heaven still freaks me out. I don't care anymore if there are toys in heaven, but now my desires center on my husband. I am not okay with us not being married in heaven. Not only does it terrify me to be without Ryan if he dies before me, but for death to be the END of our love? How could that be possible in heaven? If I have my same heart and mind in heaven, then all I can picture is wandering streets for eternity, looking for him. And if I find him, is he going to be working on some diamond-encrusted mansion, saying, "Oh, sorry, but this is my new life. These mansions won't encrust with diamonds by themselves. Guess we had a good life together, but that doesn't matter now"?
Obviously, I don't actually think this is true of heaven, but the images of heaven are the opposite of glorious to me.
Many years ago, I went to a funeral where the pastor spoke of heaven in a way completely different from the visions of gold, singing, and mansions I pictured growing up. The woman who died was a gardener and an amazing cook. The pastor said he believed she was watering flowers and cooking as he spoke. He saw heaven as a place of ACTION, a place where people held onto the gifts and passions they had in this life.
Very rarely do I have epiphanies, and this was no exception, but that idea of heaven being a perfected earth slowly seeped into me. That's my true desire for heaven, to live in a perfect reality with God and other people. I don't want to float around with angels or sing worship songs all day. I want to act in plays, write novels, travel, practice piano, learn the violin, do crosswords, eat blueberries, and finally learn Spanish.
I had a dream about three years ago. Normally, my dreams involve something awkward or inconvenient. At least a few times a year I scream in my sleep. But this was a rarely happy dream.
There was this beach with bright sand and glittering water. A city of castles was on an island a few miles from the beach and it was the most gorgeous sight. This was clearly paradise. There was someone next to me and I asked them if there was a place with snow and mountains.
They said, "Yes, but it takes forever to get there. It's thousands and thousands of miles away, and it literally takes forever."
Crying, I lamented that there was only this one location in paradise I could reach. It was beautiful, but I mourned that I never would see snow again and worried I would get sick of this place despite its glittering water and castle island.
The person was surprised at my crying and said, "Why are you crying? That's why we HAVE an eternity."
That is literally the happiest dream I've ever had, seeing heaven as a place where I can journey and grow, a place that isn't stagnant.
If some angel wants to belt out hymns in my ear, I guess that's fine (especially if I can get earplugs), but when I think of heaven as a place of action with God and a place where I still have my identity, it actually makes me want to go there.
Monday, February 17, 2014
Banishing the Writer Demon
My unemployment streak is now two months old, not to mention the months of working maybe 15 hours a week since I wasn't teaching in case we moved before the fall semester ended. This has easily been the hardest part of moving...the free time. Technically, I'm employed by Educate Online where I'll be a higher education composition instructor, tutoring through an online classroom. The hiring process is now in week three and there's no guarantee of hours once I'm trained. I'm thankful, though, to at least having something coming soon job-wise.
This seems like the perfect time to complete beautiful writing projects, using my imagination to weave tapestries of words and dreams. I could set up at different coffee shops each day, writing for hours on end, sharing stories that bring hope and life and compassion to all sharing the human condition. Maybe I would sip at a cup of hot tea, staring thoughtfully at passersby through a window, soaking in the new ideas streaming through my mind.
It's such a lovely idea, and one I feel so strongly that I should pursue with all these hours of time to myself. But actually doing it is the hard part. I'm at 43,000 words on my current book, which may sound impressive and I guess I should give myself enough credit to say that this is a good amount of work, but being that I started writing in November, I keep beating myself up for not being done already. Once I'm writing, ideas come and it's a lovely feeling when I've crammed out a few thousand words. The writer's anxiety is just intense, though, before actually sitting down and doing it.
The story I'm writing about the first trip I went on with mom and Kristin is a good one. When I thought of writing it last summer, I knew it was the "next project." Once I started writing it, I also knew it was good and even now I like how it's turning out. So why does this hesitation and fear to write keep me from progressing that word count? I waste so much time sleeping, watching YouTube, and dawdling (such a great word) around the apartment, which is fine if I could balance that with doing what I know I should be doing.
Really, I need to stop beating myself up. Whether I write enough or not, or whether anyone works on what they know they should, punishing for each failure just blocks future attempts.
So, thanks for those who have been so encouraging with reading what I've published or posted so far and giving me props for the writing itself. It's especially great how some of you have given specific feedback or even helpful criticism. Parts of this book are just hard to write because of the dormant emotions that they bring out. While it can be painful to remember what certain things felt like, like the lonely, hollow feeling during Christmas when I would see so many "complete" families opening presents and feeling like we were outsiders looking in, these emotions prove that I'm writing something real that needs to be told.
If you've read this far, thanks! I was getting the computer out to work on the book and immediately ran into the "writer demon" that said, "You're really going to try this again? Just pull up another YouTube clip of people with crazy addictions. That's much easier and you can't fail at watching a video. Writing on the other hand..." So I wrote this post and already I feel better. Boo to you, writer demon!
This seems like the perfect time to complete beautiful writing projects, using my imagination to weave tapestries of words and dreams. I could set up at different coffee shops each day, writing for hours on end, sharing stories that bring hope and life and compassion to all sharing the human condition. Maybe I would sip at a cup of hot tea, staring thoughtfully at passersby through a window, soaking in the new ideas streaming through my mind.
It's such a lovely idea, and one I feel so strongly that I should pursue with all these hours of time to myself. But actually doing it is the hard part. I'm at 43,000 words on my current book, which may sound impressive and I guess I should give myself enough credit to say that this is a good amount of work, but being that I started writing in November, I keep beating myself up for not being done already. Once I'm writing, ideas come and it's a lovely feeling when I've crammed out a few thousand words. The writer's anxiety is just intense, though, before actually sitting down and doing it.
The story I'm writing about the first trip I went on with mom and Kristin is a good one. When I thought of writing it last summer, I knew it was the "next project." Once I started writing it, I also knew it was good and even now I like how it's turning out. So why does this hesitation and fear to write keep me from progressing that word count? I waste so much time sleeping, watching YouTube, and dawdling (such a great word) around the apartment, which is fine if I could balance that with doing what I know I should be doing.
Really, I need to stop beating myself up. Whether I write enough or not, or whether anyone works on what they know they should, punishing for each failure just blocks future attempts.
So, thanks for those who have been so encouraging with reading what I've published or posted so far and giving me props for the writing itself. It's especially great how some of you have given specific feedback or even helpful criticism. Parts of this book are just hard to write because of the dormant emotions that they bring out. While it can be painful to remember what certain things felt like, like the lonely, hollow feeling during Christmas when I would see so many "complete" families opening presents and feeling like we were outsiders looking in, these emotions prove that I'm writing something real that needs to be told.
If you've read this far, thanks! I was getting the computer out to work on the book and immediately ran into the "writer demon" that said, "You're really going to try this again? Just pull up another YouTube clip of people with crazy addictions. That's much easier and you can't fail at watching a video. Writing on the other hand..." So I wrote this post and already I feel better. Boo to you, writer demon!
Wednesday, January 29, 2014
It's a Snow Day!
It's a veritable death storm of snow down here in the South! At least, you'd think so since it took Ryan TWO HOURS to get home from work last night, normally a half hour drive. Coming from Indiana where everyone's home is now an igloo, this genuinely cracks me up - not the part where Ryan is stuck in traffic because of ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY accidents in Greenville alone, but the part where his training session is cancelled for today because of the lightest sprinkling of snow. Granted, the roads had some ice and southern folk are apparently allergic to it, so immediately veer off into a ditch. Ok, not funny since some people actually did end up in one.
The snow is nice, though. It's a minuscule sampling of true Midwest snow, but it's snow nonetheless. As tonight marks exactly one month since I laid in my mom's bed, crying because early the next morning Ryan and I would drive 600 miles away from the only homeland I've known, the snow is a fun reminder of "home." The days often feel stagnant, but when I look over the last four weeks, I'm amazed how much has transpired...visiting half a dozen churches; trying an improv class and LOVING it; doing two weeks of Yoga and not loving it per se, but finding it a good diversion; auditioning for two shows; unpacking all our stuff and having our apartment actually look/feel like a home; finding a job with online tutoring; joining a gym; and not to mention all the smaller day-to-day chores like getting new drivers' licenses, figuring out where one curvy road intersects with another curvy road, etc.
While Ryan and I are still looking at churches, I have really enjoyed the few times we've gone to Seacoast and will be going with a friend to a women's conference near Charleston tomorrow and Friday. Normally, a "women's conference" wouldn't sound super exciting, but I'm really looking forward to it, especially when I found out that one of the speakers is from the Greenville Seacoast church.
So, a month into our big move and I haven't freaked out at all. Sure, there are moments of sadness, but never once has the thought "We shouldn't have done this" appeared. The gym we joined has already helped my moments of existential quandary where I lament, "Where is my purpose? What should I DO here?" Because if I get my butt to a morning fitness class where a ripped she-devil grunts at me to sweat more than I care to, it becomes so much easier to be productive the rest of the day.
The tutoring job will be a good 10-24 hours a week, but I really want to find my value outside of getting paid for something. Granted, I just like to work and contribute to something, but I never want to feel less of a person just because I have a lot of time. There's always, always, always something to do. For example, making cheesecake. Or making it to Malachi in the Old Testament (after only three years, I'm almost done!). Or going to the gym where they have free coffee, which tastes gross but it's FREE. Another plus with this wonderful gym is that they have INCLUDED CHILDCARE. I don't have kids, of course, but as a natural worrier, I'm already trying to foresee that crazy lifestyle and the knowledge that I can toss them at some licensed childcare workers and take a half hour shower seriously makes me more excited about being a mom.
Ew, weird. One day I'll be a MOM. I've made it to most of the other "earned" titles...girlfriend, wife, aunt, sister-in-law, daughter-in-law, etc....but mom has to be the craziest one of all. While being a mom freaks me out, when I see these little toddlers running towards their parents with bobbing heads and outstretched arms, I WANT THAT. Suddenly, I even want the crying and whining and poopy butts and total lack of physical balance. Yeah, ok, I should be a mom.
The snow is nice, though. It's a minuscule sampling of true Midwest snow, but it's snow nonetheless. As tonight marks exactly one month since I laid in my mom's bed, crying because early the next morning Ryan and I would drive 600 miles away from the only homeland I've known, the snow is a fun reminder of "home." The days often feel stagnant, but when I look over the last four weeks, I'm amazed how much has transpired...visiting half a dozen churches; trying an improv class and LOVING it; doing two weeks of Yoga and not loving it per se, but finding it a good diversion; auditioning for two shows; unpacking all our stuff and having our apartment actually look/feel like a home; finding a job with online tutoring; joining a gym; and not to mention all the smaller day-to-day chores like getting new drivers' licenses, figuring out where one curvy road intersects with another curvy road, etc.
While Ryan and I are still looking at churches, I have really enjoyed the few times we've gone to Seacoast and will be going with a friend to a women's conference near Charleston tomorrow and Friday. Normally, a "women's conference" wouldn't sound super exciting, but I'm really looking forward to it, especially when I found out that one of the speakers is from the Greenville Seacoast church.
So, a month into our big move and I haven't freaked out at all. Sure, there are moments of sadness, but never once has the thought "We shouldn't have done this" appeared. The gym we joined has already helped my moments of existential quandary where I lament, "Where is my purpose? What should I DO here?" Because if I get my butt to a morning fitness class where a ripped she-devil grunts at me to sweat more than I care to, it becomes so much easier to be productive the rest of the day.
The tutoring job will be a good 10-24 hours a week, but I really want to find my value outside of getting paid for something. Granted, I just like to work and contribute to something, but I never want to feel less of a person just because I have a lot of time. There's always, always, always something to do. For example, making cheesecake. Or making it to Malachi in the Old Testament (after only three years, I'm almost done!). Or going to the gym where they have free coffee, which tastes gross but it's FREE. Another plus with this wonderful gym is that they have INCLUDED CHILDCARE. I don't have kids, of course, but as a natural worrier, I'm already trying to foresee that crazy lifestyle and the knowledge that I can toss them at some licensed childcare workers and take a half hour shower seriously makes me more excited about being a mom.
Ew, weird. One day I'll be a MOM. I've made it to most of the other "earned" titles...girlfriend, wife, aunt, sister-in-law, daughter-in-law, etc....but mom has to be the craziest one of all. While being a mom freaks me out, when I see these little toddlers running towards their parents with bobbing heads and outstretched arms, I WANT THAT. Suddenly, I even want the crying and whining and poopy butts and total lack of physical balance. Yeah, ok, I should be a mom.
Thursday, January 23, 2014
Church SWAT Teams
Today marks three weeks since we drove through the Midwest avalanche to set up home in Greenville. Life seems much less chaotic now, with the furniture arranged, the books on shelves, Mulder and Scully upon their own shelf to guard us from paranormal deviance, and very few boxes left in sight. Truly, I'm thankful for everything since moving here, including the welcoming people we've met so far.
Speaking of which, people down South have got us Northerners beat in the "church visitor" department. Holy crap, it's intense, but awesome. There's like a SWAT team at every place we've visited; you can practically see the guns of friendship drawn, ready to unleash streams of welcoming bullets at anyone with a new face. At one church that met at a YMCA, a person saw us walk through the door and literally said, "You're new! This way!" and proceeded to guide us through the halls to the greeting area with tea and coffee (staples for any visitor SWAT team).
One church, however, had an actual coffee bar, with five Keurigs in a row and a type of barista. The rest of the foyer looked like a French salon with bright colors of red, white, and orange. The SWAT team took our information on iPads and handed us free coffee passes. One church had a SWAT team of one, with a few recruiters throughout the evening. We'd stopped by a church's weekly community meal and I immediately spotted the SWAT leader, the pastor's wife who introduced us to several others.
Desperate for something to do in the morning during the week, last week I swung by a Methodist church downtown that serves free coffee and donuts. So, I drove by and there's four guys in the cold (here, 25 degrees is next to trekking the Yukon), waving at joggers and passing cars. That was probably my favorite way I've seen a church bringing in people because it seemed to WORK. A lot of the visitors were members already, but I saw a few other new people stop by to grab coffee and talk with the, of course, super friendly people throwing donuts at whoever looked their way.
Please don't think I'm making fun of these places...well, okay, I am a little, but really I just find this variety of openness fascinating. Especially because it's not the kind of fake "Oh, you just moved here? Cool, cool..." as the speaker slowly sinks into their previous conversation with another church veteran. The SWAT teams have been as sincere as seems possible. Last night was probably the most natural SWAT team , as we stopped by a small group at Seacoast that's in its beginning stages, so a bunch of other newer people were there. Not to mention some really funny people that seem to be looking for actual relationships with others, which is exactly what I want.
And it was the first place where a SWAT expert just avoided the small talk and said, "Hey, so you just moved here three weeks ago? We should hang out, the four of us. Yeah, here's my number." Several others seemed open to just getting to know each other, too, even just to go to a movie or grab a stack of pancakes.
Isn't that how making friends should be, after all? One of my favorite "friendship beginnings" was with Jacqueline, one of my best friends for life. At least, I remember being in third grade when we were in the bathroom and had the following conversation:
"Hey, you're Heather, right?"
"Yeah, and you're Jacqueline?"
"Uh-huh, but I just go by Jacque. You wanna be friends?"
"Sure!"
Or something like that. And that's one thing that shouldn't change, whether you're nine or 27...being able to be like, "Hey, you're cool. Let's be friends." Because, really, if the other person's weirded out enough to be all, "Dude, I'd rather have a combined total of 90 minutes of small talk before committing to something like that," they're probably not a kindred spirit.
Personally, I much prefer this SWAT team method I've seen. It can be overwhelming, even when you begin recycling the same introductions from place to place, but it's nice to know that you're seen.
Speaking of which, people down South have got us Northerners beat in the "church visitor" department. Holy crap, it's intense, but awesome. There's like a SWAT team at every place we've visited; you can practically see the guns of friendship drawn, ready to unleash streams of welcoming bullets at anyone with a new face. At one church that met at a YMCA, a person saw us walk through the door and literally said, "You're new! This way!" and proceeded to guide us through the halls to the greeting area with tea and coffee (staples for any visitor SWAT team).
One church, however, had an actual coffee bar, with five Keurigs in a row and a type of barista. The rest of the foyer looked like a French salon with bright colors of red, white, and orange. The SWAT team took our information on iPads and handed us free coffee passes. One church had a SWAT team of one, with a few recruiters throughout the evening. We'd stopped by a church's weekly community meal and I immediately spotted the SWAT leader, the pastor's wife who introduced us to several others.
Desperate for something to do in the morning during the week, last week I swung by a Methodist church downtown that serves free coffee and donuts. So, I drove by and there's four guys in the cold (here, 25 degrees is next to trekking the Yukon), waving at joggers and passing cars. That was probably my favorite way I've seen a church bringing in people because it seemed to WORK. A lot of the visitors were members already, but I saw a few other new people stop by to grab coffee and talk with the, of course, super friendly people throwing donuts at whoever looked their way.
Please don't think I'm making fun of these places...well, okay, I am a little, but really I just find this variety of openness fascinating. Especially because it's not the kind of fake "Oh, you just moved here? Cool, cool..." as the speaker slowly sinks into their previous conversation with another church veteran. The SWAT teams have been as sincere as seems possible. Last night was probably the most natural SWAT team , as we stopped by a small group at Seacoast that's in its beginning stages, so a bunch of other newer people were there. Not to mention some really funny people that seem to be looking for actual relationships with others, which is exactly what I want.
And it was the first place where a SWAT expert just avoided the small talk and said, "Hey, so you just moved here three weeks ago? We should hang out, the four of us. Yeah, here's my number." Several others seemed open to just getting to know each other, too, even just to go to a movie or grab a stack of pancakes.
Isn't that how making friends should be, after all? One of my favorite "friendship beginnings" was with Jacqueline, one of my best friends for life. At least, I remember being in third grade when we were in the bathroom and had the following conversation:
"Hey, you're Heather, right?"
"Yeah, and you're Jacqueline?"
"Uh-huh, but I just go by Jacque. You wanna be friends?"
"Sure!"
Or something like that. And that's one thing that shouldn't change, whether you're nine or 27...being able to be like, "Hey, you're cool. Let's be friends." Because, really, if the other person's weirded out enough to be all, "Dude, I'd rather have a combined total of 90 minutes of small talk before committing to something like that," they're probably not a kindred spirit.
Personally, I much prefer this SWAT team method I've seen. It can be overwhelming, even when you begin recycling the same introductions from place to place, but it's nice to know that you're seen.
Tuesday, January 14, 2014
Improvising Life
I realize that many people would love not to be working and to have hours and hours of free time, but this doesn't bode well for me. It's also true that I'm blessed to have a husband that has more than enough work and that we can live off his job. Really, I'm blessed in almost every way possible.
Sure, free time is a blessing...but indefinite free time? That freaks me out because instead of being productive, I spend most of my time beating myself out of laziness. People who don't want to work must picture swaying in hammocks with smoothies and happy thoughts running amok. Granted, I could hang up a hammock on our balcony and blend myself a smoothie, but then all I would do is think, "Wish someone was here to enjoy this, too. Meh, this is boring, I'll just fall asleep." And if I can't fall asleep because I just slept another 9-hour night, I'd mull over the fact that I'm "doing anything."
Maybe this is good for me, not working for awhile. I've always had either school or work to connect me to whatever I deem "productive." So why not be jobless for awhile? There IS stuff to do, if I just do it instead of think about doing it. "I should write...I should go outside and run this errand...I should take out the recycling." Not of it's hard, but when I have a whole day to fill it becomes a battle to be productive because my head just says, "Yeah, you could go to the 8 a.m. yoga class, but why not wait for the 10 a.m.? Or, better yet, why not the noon one? It's not like you have to be out early."
All this negative self-talk aside, I do give myself props for making it to yoga at all. It's not the most fun thing ever, being that they heat the room up to 97 degrees and I watch my sweat literally fall onto the mat. All that sweating and awkward poses and chatter about "breathing into your core" makes the cool-down all the sweeter, with a cold scented washcloth over my face and the lights dimmed. Today I had the hippiest thought ever cross my mind as I was lying on my side, face turned into the mat, and thanked the earth for "housing me." No worries - I'm not going to start praying to Mother Earth or wear ankle-length skirts made out of sun-dried leaves, but it was a fun thought just for how spacey it was.
Yoga must be a wonderful break for people who are super busy and just need quiet time to make inhuman postures. For those of us, though, surrounded by silence and open time, it's ironically a chance to get some movement and society going in our days. Wandering around Trader Joe's is another good time-waster. I seriously love that place, although Costco is surprisingly stocked with lots of "no preservative" options. That, and if you go at the right time of the day, you can get a decent meal at Costco for all their samples...just yesterday, I got half a Cliff bar, three taste cups of Sambazon smoothie mixes, part of a waffle (RANDOM), a piece of sausage, and a bunch of lime-something chips.
The hardest part of being unemployed and far from the home I know is just not knowing the answer to, "What is my point?" I know I'm not worthless, but I can't exactly say what my worth is. When I first went to Ireland for a semester, I was a sophomore in college and it was the first time I ever realized, "I don't have to be who I've always been...here, I not defined by anything from my past." For several years up to that semester, I hung pictures and posters EVERYwhere in my room because that was partly my way of identifying myself. I still hung up a lot in Ireland, but it seemed like a mere formality then.
It feels somewhat similar here. Is it really important that I hold onto all I was and had back home or can I just let that go and do whatever is fitting in this setting? Improv is really helpful in this area (thanks to all the other members that have made it easy to jump in and contribute whatever fragments of ideas I have for a scene). Last night was my second improv class and it helps remind me of how much better I can be at letting go of preconceived notions of what I want something to be. We played this game where you tell a story with another person, one word at a time, going back and forth until it's done. So when I first said "Eeyore" to start a story called "The Saddest Day," I pictured a story about Eeyore's decision to stop being sad and travel the world instead. Then, in true improv fashion, the story decided it wanted to be about dead rainbows and Piglet crying.
In case I'm not analytic enough here, this whole improv process is huge for real life. How many times do we try to force a situation into the tight box of our imagination? How great would it be if we accepted what we have and instead of trying to change it, we simply contribute to it? For example, instead of looking at my unemployment and sweeping myself away with a flurry of panic and job applications, I accept that I probably won't teach this semester and find other ways to be productive. So, I accept that I'm not working and continue following random pursuits like improv, or yoga, or wandering Trader Joe's, or writing, or reading, or looking up small groups.
While it will still take time to feel connected in this city, I think we've already done a lot of work towards meeting people and getting involved. I expect too much too soon and often feel melancholy when I think how we don't have friends here that we can just call up and be like, "Hey, we're getting frozen yogurt. Come with us" or, "We're doing a marathon of X-Files. Get your butt over here" or, "Girls night! Bring a pillow." And what do I expect after being here less than two weeks? That we'll have swarms of people banging on our door to hang out? That would just be weird and terrifying.
So, instead of trying to force my life, just accept what you have and improvise.
Sure, free time is a blessing...but indefinite free time? That freaks me out because instead of being productive, I spend most of my time beating myself out of laziness. People who don't want to work must picture swaying in hammocks with smoothies and happy thoughts running amok. Granted, I could hang up a hammock on our balcony and blend myself a smoothie, but then all I would do is think, "Wish someone was here to enjoy this, too. Meh, this is boring, I'll just fall asleep." And if I can't fall asleep because I just slept another 9-hour night, I'd mull over the fact that I'm "doing anything."
Maybe this is good for me, not working for awhile. I've always had either school or work to connect me to whatever I deem "productive." So why not be jobless for awhile? There IS stuff to do, if I just do it instead of think about doing it. "I should write...I should go outside and run this errand...I should take out the recycling." Not of it's hard, but when I have a whole day to fill it becomes a battle to be productive because my head just says, "Yeah, you could go to the 8 a.m. yoga class, but why not wait for the 10 a.m.? Or, better yet, why not the noon one? It's not like you have to be out early."
All this negative self-talk aside, I do give myself props for making it to yoga at all. It's not the most fun thing ever, being that they heat the room up to 97 degrees and I watch my sweat literally fall onto the mat. All that sweating and awkward poses and chatter about "breathing into your core" makes the cool-down all the sweeter, with a cold scented washcloth over my face and the lights dimmed. Today I had the hippiest thought ever cross my mind as I was lying on my side, face turned into the mat, and thanked the earth for "housing me." No worries - I'm not going to start praying to Mother Earth or wear ankle-length skirts made out of sun-dried leaves, but it was a fun thought just for how spacey it was.
Yoga must be a wonderful break for people who are super busy and just need quiet time to make inhuman postures. For those of us, though, surrounded by silence and open time, it's ironically a chance to get some movement and society going in our days. Wandering around Trader Joe's is another good time-waster. I seriously love that place, although Costco is surprisingly stocked with lots of "no preservative" options. That, and if you go at the right time of the day, you can get a decent meal at Costco for all their samples...just yesterday, I got half a Cliff bar, three taste cups of Sambazon smoothie mixes, part of a waffle (RANDOM), a piece of sausage, and a bunch of lime-something chips.
The hardest part of being unemployed and far from the home I know is just not knowing the answer to, "What is my point?" I know I'm not worthless, but I can't exactly say what my worth is. When I first went to Ireland for a semester, I was a sophomore in college and it was the first time I ever realized, "I don't have to be who I've always been...here, I not defined by anything from my past." For several years up to that semester, I hung pictures and posters EVERYwhere in my room because that was partly my way of identifying myself. I still hung up a lot in Ireland, but it seemed like a mere formality then.
It feels somewhat similar here. Is it really important that I hold onto all I was and had back home or can I just let that go and do whatever is fitting in this setting? Improv is really helpful in this area (thanks to all the other members that have made it easy to jump in and contribute whatever fragments of ideas I have for a scene). Last night was my second improv class and it helps remind me of how much better I can be at letting go of preconceived notions of what I want something to be. We played this game where you tell a story with another person, one word at a time, going back and forth until it's done. So when I first said "Eeyore" to start a story called "The Saddest Day," I pictured a story about Eeyore's decision to stop being sad and travel the world instead. Then, in true improv fashion, the story decided it wanted to be about dead rainbows and Piglet crying.
In case I'm not analytic enough here, this whole improv process is huge for real life. How many times do we try to force a situation into the tight box of our imagination? How great would it be if we accepted what we have and instead of trying to change it, we simply contribute to it? For example, instead of looking at my unemployment and sweeping myself away with a flurry of panic and job applications, I accept that I probably won't teach this semester and find other ways to be productive. So, I accept that I'm not working and continue following random pursuits like improv, or yoga, or wandering Trader Joe's, or writing, or reading, or looking up small groups.
While it will still take time to feel connected in this city, I think we've already done a lot of work towards meeting people and getting involved. I expect too much too soon and often feel melancholy when I think how we don't have friends here that we can just call up and be like, "Hey, we're getting frozen yogurt. Come with us" or, "We're doing a marathon of X-Files. Get your butt over here" or, "Girls night! Bring a pillow." And what do I expect after being here less than two weeks? That we'll have swarms of people banging on our door to hang out? That would just be weird and terrifying.
So, instead of trying to force my life, just accept what you have and improvise.
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