Ever since the election last night there has been this sound in my head. What is that sound? I watched last night as John McCain graciously accepted his loss to Barack Obama, and though I don’t think McCain is the perfect candidate and though we were prepared for his loss, it struck me afresh what a great President we are losing.
And then I watched as Obama stood in front of hundreds of thousands of people and accepted his election. As the cameras panned across the audience of starry-eyed youths, proud black voters and Oprah clinging to the man in front of her and swaying to the music in her head, my emotions were stirred. I decided at that moment to rejoice with our nation in our first black president. I soaked in the stories from grown black men with tears in their eyes saying they never believed it would actually happen, and the story of the 106 year old lady who lived through segregation to see a day when a black man is the leader of our country…and she was able to vote for him. I rejoiced last night, but still the sound in my head remained. What is that sound? I never doubted whether a black man could be a great president, not the way I have doubted whether a woman could be a great president. It warmed my heart to see what seemed to be the entire nation in united celebration over an Obama victory. But I can’t help but wonder if in their blind pursuit of a historic moment, they missed what he was saying all along. Have the stars in their eyes kept them from seeing that he stands for things that America has long fought against, and in fact, they themselves find abhorrent?
When I listen to Obama, I too want to fall behind him. He has often been compared to a preacher, but then again he seems to disdain all things related to the church and Christianity… which I can honestly relate to, though unlike him I am unwaveringly pro life, among other things. So I like to think of him more like the leader of a service organization. I think Barack Obama would be great as the head of Red Cross, The Salvation Army, or the Peace Corp. He has great ideas on helping people, and a true heart of charity…something anyone would want in a president. But when you start infusing these ideas into the government, that’s when things get a little screwy.
The desire to end world poverty and hunger is shared unanimously by everyone across the globe except a small percentage of narcissistic a**holes. Wouldn’t it be great, as Obama says, to take the left-overs of those with too much and hand it to those without enough? If there is enough wealth for the whole world to be satisfied, why would we put up with poverty? But what happens when my government wants to give to something it deems as a charity, but I don’t agree. I want to extend charity on my children’s college fund, or on the local women’s shelter. But I don’t have that right anymore. The money I earned is not mine to spend. Those in charge…the elect know how to spend my money better. We elect people to make our decisions for us, right? Maybe I’m scraping by and barely able to make ends meet with two jobs and it dawns on me…I can quit my jobs and let the government take care of me. Ambition out the window…I am staying home all day. Workers aren’t working, the bosses are having to cough up the money they earned working eighty hour weeks and long nights to support people who just don’t put in any effort. Read economic crisis. Wealth stops being created…poverty grows on a larger scale than before.
Spreading the wealth around has never been an American ideal. In America, you work hard, knowing that hard work pays and its there for anyone. In America, we are free to compete with each other because competition creates better and more efficient products and in turn creates more jobs and a better economy and a better life for all who are a part of it. In America, we choose our churches of any faith and within that church we organize to end the poverty around us…because most (not all) faiths have a dogma of charity. But that is our freedom, just as it is our freedom to be narcissistic a**holes who never give a dime to anyone but ourselves. And you know what? That’s fair.
Again the sound…like a giant vacuum. This morning the sound became clear. That’s the sound of many of the freedoms I have long taken for granted being sucked away. My world yesterday was a lot more free than my world today. My small business is in more jeopardy today than it was yesterday. When I saw John McCain walk off the stage last night, a war hero, a dedicated and proven American to the core, and a highly experienced politician, defeated…I could not help but think “Oh God, what have we done?” But pushing all that aside and facing the fears that lay ahead of me I will pause and be thankful for our new black president. I still have a twinkle of hope in my eye because I know he is a good man.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Sunday, September 14, 2008
The Montage
Just got home from the ranch. Home smells sweet and feels a lot let stuffy than it did when I left. I was only gone for three days and yet I feel like everything is different somehow. I have a slightly new perspective on life and a desire to set some goals for myself.
Life has been a bit foggy lately. I still don’t know how to sort through the stuff going on in my head. Like a montage in a movie. You know, the brief period in the story when the key song in the soundtrack turns up and you watch the main character doing an assortment of things in different clothes or in different seasons to show the passing of time. Like in Notting Hill when Hugh Grant is going through the market to “Ain’t no sunshine when she’s gone.” There are no concrete details of their life, but you get the general idea that time is passing.
I guess I’m going through a montage phase. Not a gloomy montage like the one in Notting Hill, though. And not necessarily a happy cheery one, like in 13 going on 30 when she walks through the park eating ice cream and generally enjoying her adulthood to “A Good Day.” I would just be working at the shop selling coffee, enjoying my job and talking to people, sitting on patios with friends, laying by a pool, walking by the lake. And in the mean time, nothing really is going on in my head that I can make any sense of. I’m just sort of floating into this new phase of life. Maybe I’m learning the new rhythm of my life and I have to check out for a while before any of it will make any sense. It’s all so different but it’s becoming my new normal.
What would my montage song be? Maybe “Dazed and Confused” by Led Zeppelin, or “You’ve got a Friend” by James Taylor, but probably “Everything Has Changed” by Lucinda Williams…though its probably a little more somber than I actually feel.
So I’ve returned from two different trips. One was a quick trip with the girls to wide open land, a star filled sky, and an audible silence. The other was the trip my mind took about a month ago to the Land of Fog. Life is fresh again. And it’s starting to make some sense. I can’t let these times pass me by…they’re all way too precious.
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
The Conversation
I know I need to have this conversation, so I’m going to have it. C.S. Lewis says that if you want things to change, you pretend like they already have and pretty soon they will. Or something like that. This conversation will be an attempt at being someone I’m not…or haven’t been until now in hopes that I will become that person someday. But when I really think about it, I’m not so sure I even want to be that person…or I guess I just don’t know what it looks like on me.
So maybe this is like the dressing room, I’m going to try on this attribute and see how I like it on me.
Things always look better on the mannequin.
In China, the best and worst part of my two years there was my team. We called it the team but we played so many roles in each other’s lives. Family…making cakes for birthdays, sitting at a long table together at Thanksgiving, opening presents together at Christmas, tucking kids in bed, family dinners. Co-workers…taking tasks and splitting them up, working together toward goals, long meetings, hashing through strategic methods and vision casting. Classmates…sitting for hours on end being compared to each other by brutal teachers…”No, that’s wrong. Listen to Zack..he says it right. He is a better student.” Church friends…the nine of us huddled together in a living room singing lightly to the guitar and listening to a recording of our home pastor on someone’s laptop. Roommates…sharing bathrooms, taking turns getting water down the hall, paying electricity bills, who gets the TV, who needs to just talk in the middle of the night. And friends…watching movies together, going to dinner, traveling, riding bikes. Just nine of us…for two years.
We knew each other pretty well.
Each year we had a review done…just like a normal job. It was called the 360 because it was supposed to evaluate everything about you. The worst part of it was that the people doing the evaluation really knew me and everything about me.
The word that kept popping up on my review that kind of encompassed the majority of my issues was “vulnerability.” Apparently I had none.
I’ve spent a long time since then trying to figure out what that really means and what it looks like. I mean, I’m pretty open…not a closed off person. I know how to bond with people and be a friend. What’s the difference between being open and being vulnerable?
I assume it has something to do with pride, which I have been aware of for a while. Not wanting people to know I have problems. Phrasing what I’m going through in ways that make people believe I have it all under control…that I don’t need help. If I let someone know that I have hopes and dreams, that I have desires…and they aren’t met, I will be pitied. I refuse to be pitied.
But as I’ve thought about it more and more, I think it has a lot more to do with insecurities than pride. Feeling that people won’t accept me if they know I have problems…so I guess insecurities hinge on trust. I have to get to a place where I trust people enough to let them into my problems. To think highly enough of others to believe that they won’t run away or reject me….or annoy me.
The unvulnerable person builds up walls around different parts of them, so they can never be fully known. And the one thing they really want…to be liked and accepted…becomes impossible because the opportunity hasn’t been given. No one can accept something they aren’t given. They isolate themselves without even knowing it. Enter loneliness, fear, more insecurities, higher walls.
The vulnerable person is fully known. They let others into their hopes and dreams…then they have someone there when those dreams fall apart and someone there to celebrate when they are met. When one person rejects a side of who they are, they have a whole slew of others right by them who know them and love them anyway.
We cannot possibly build self-esteem on our own. Self-esteem doesn’t have much to do with self, I don’t think. We derive it from others, and more importantly from what we give to others. And the giver is never pitied.
For many, this is probably Relationships 101, but for me this is revolutionary. I feel like I’m getting it down more in my friendships…letting them in and reaping the benefits of closer friendships built on truth. The kind of rock solid friends that will stand the test of time. But I have so much to learn when it comes to relationship with…well…guys. This is where we catch back up to the conversation I need to have. I guess I just don’t trust them as much…which could be part of the whole “guarding my heart” mentality. But what’s so different about that and building up walls? I guess we’re supposed to be so wary of guys because they’re all out to get our virginity. What’s wrong with being open and honest…and there are some guys I really want to have a true, rock solid friendship with. The conversation that I need to have puts me in a very vulnerable position with a guy friend of mine. And I am stepping out of who I am naturally inclined to be in the hopes that I will come out with a great friend and not just a good one. Potentially it could just be very awkward, though. Dressing rooms are always awkward.
In the end, if I can have the confidence to say I’m open to risking rejection for the gain of intimacy…then that will be some real growth. For now, I just need to get through this conversation.
So maybe this is like the dressing room, I’m going to try on this attribute and see how I like it on me.
Things always look better on the mannequin.
In China, the best and worst part of my two years there was my team. We called it the team but we played so many roles in each other’s lives. Family…making cakes for birthdays, sitting at a long table together at Thanksgiving, opening presents together at Christmas, tucking kids in bed, family dinners. Co-workers…taking tasks and splitting them up, working together toward goals, long meetings, hashing through strategic methods and vision casting. Classmates…sitting for hours on end being compared to each other by brutal teachers…”No, that’s wrong. Listen to Zack..he says it right. He is a better student.” Church friends…the nine of us huddled together in a living room singing lightly to the guitar and listening to a recording of our home pastor on someone’s laptop. Roommates…sharing bathrooms, taking turns getting water down the hall, paying electricity bills, who gets the TV, who needs to just talk in the middle of the night. And friends…watching movies together, going to dinner, traveling, riding bikes. Just nine of us…for two years.
We knew each other pretty well.
Each year we had a review done…just like a normal job. It was called the 360 because it was supposed to evaluate everything about you. The worst part of it was that the people doing the evaluation really knew me and everything about me.
The word that kept popping up on my review that kind of encompassed the majority of my issues was “vulnerability.” Apparently I had none.
I’ve spent a long time since then trying to figure out what that really means and what it looks like. I mean, I’m pretty open…not a closed off person. I know how to bond with people and be a friend. What’s the difference between being open and being vulnerable?
I assume it has something to do with pride, which I have been aware of for a while. Not wanting people to know I have problems. Phrasing what I’m going through in ways that make people believe I have it all under control…that I don’t need help. If I let someone know that I have hopes and dreams, that I have desires…and they aren’t met, I will be pitied. I refuse to be pitied.
But as I’ve thought about it more and more, I think it has a lot more to do with insecurities than pride. Feeling that people won’t accept me if they know I have problems…so I guess insecurities hinge on trust. I have to get to a place where I trust people enough to let them into my problems. To think highly enough of others to believe that they won’t run away or reject me….or annoy me.
The unvulnerable person builds up walls around different parts of them, so they can never be fully known. And the one thing they really want…to be liked and accepted…becomes impossible because the opportunity hasn’t been given. No one can accept something they aren’t given. They isolate themselves without even knowing it. Enter loneliness, fear, more insecurities, higher walls.
The vulnerable person is fully known. They let others into their hopes and dreams…then they have someone there when those dreams fall apart and someone there to celebrate when they are met. When one person rejects a side of who they are, they have a whole slew of others right by them who know them and love them anyway.
We cannot possibly build self-esteem on our own. Self-esteem doesn’t have much to do with self, I don’t think. We derive it from others, and more importantly from what we give to others. And the giver is never pitied.
For many, this is probably Relationships 101, but for me this is revolutionary. I feel like I’m getting it down more in my friendships…letting them in and reaping the benefits of closer friendships built on truth. The kind of rock solid friends that will stand the test of time. But I have so much to learn when it comes to relationship with…well…guys. This is where we catch back up to the conversation I need to have. I guess I just don’t trust them as much…which could be part of the whole “guarding my heart” mentality. But what’s so different about that and building up walls? I guess we’re supposed to be so wary of guys because they’re all out to get our virginity. What’s wrong with being open and honest…and there are some guys I really want to have a true, rock solid friendship with. The conversation that I need to have puts me in a very vulnerable position with a guy friend of mine. And I am stepping out of who I am naturally inclined to be in the hopes that I will come out with a great friend and not just a good one. Potentially it could just be very awkward, though. Dressing rooms are always awkward.
In the end, if I can have the confidence to say I’m open to risking rejection for the gain of intimacy…then that will be some real growth. For now, I just need to get through this conversation.
Saturday, June 28, 2008
Balance
“When will I ever find balance in my life again?” That’s what I found myself saying the other day to a friend. I said it tongue in cheek in reference to the fact that I haven’t done yoga in over a month, but after it came out I realized it was a legitimate concern. I’m rolling into about the thirtieth day in a row to work and I’m trying to rest well…knowing that its not going to end for a while. I’m starting to understand more why God created the earth with a 6:1, work:rest cycle. There is a rhythm to life that we need to embrace. Our bodies are limited…we can’t physically go for more than a few days without sleep or food. We can only run so far, jump so high, lift so much weight, cry so many tears….before it just stops.
But it’s the immortal things that God put in us that intrigue me more…the seemingly limitless things that awe me. I have a pretty clear understanding of my boundaries, but it’s the spiritual well that never runs dry, the ever-expanding room in our brains for knowledge, the way our bodies grow and change to accept new circumstances that are the real mystery. Like the man I heard about recently who never really worked out in his life and decided at fifty to run marathons with his handicapped son. He started at a mile and worked his way up and now consistently runs these things pushing and carrying his son. Yes, he was limited…and still is…but the spirit in him pushed that physical boundary consistently enough that the physical gave and shifted and conformed. But it’s the spirit that was stronger.
And I guess our brains are the size of our fists and weigh however much that kid in Jerry McGuire said, but they retain years of memories…smells, tastes, lyrics to songs that you didn’t know were in there until you hear it ten years later at a wedding or on the radio. But each day you add a million new things to that database that the smallest trigger could cause you to recall…and its grey and mushy. What?!
And the craziest part to me is what Jesus said to the woman at the well about his living water that never runs dry. He said “The water that I will give him will become in him a spring of water welling up to eternal life.” So in us, beyond the flesh, beyond the muscles and tendons, in the deep dark middle of our very humanness, is a source…what I believe to be life itself. Sometimes I think I choke it up with the crud I allow to live there, or I bend it like a hose when I allow everything to tense up with worries. But we have this ability to let it flow over all those things. We don’t have to get dried up and crusty…and we don’t have to portion it out as if it were limited. Oh, that I could give full vent to that living water.
So, while I know that the 6:1, work:rest cycle is by design and in rhythm with creation, I do think that he’s given us an inner balance. An unending source of refreshment that we can choose to tap into. A way to live in constant balance…to find rest in work…to give while taking…a laughter in the raw realities of life. Ahh…divine humanness…the canvas you give us…thank you Lord.
But it’s the immortal things that God put in us that intrigue me more…the seemingly limitless things that awe me. I have a pretty clear understanding of my boundaries, but it’s the spiritual well that never runs dry, the ever-expanding room in our brains for knowledge, the way our bodies grow and change to accept new circumstances that are the real mystery. Like the man I heard about recently who never really worked out in his life and decided at fifty to run marathons with his handicapped son. He started at a mile and worked his way up and now consistently runs these things pushing and carrying his son. Yes, he was limited…and still is…but the spirit in him pushed that physical boundary consistently enough that the physical gave and shifted and conformed. But it’s the spirit that was stronger.
And I guess our brains are the size of our fists and weigh however much that kid in Jerry McGuire said, but they retain years of memories…smells, tastes, lyrics to songs that you didn’t know were in there until you hear it ten years later at a wedding or on the radio. But each day you add a million new things to that database that the smallest trigger could cause you to recall…and its grey and mushy. What?!
And the craziest part to me is what Jesus said to the woman at the well about his living water that never runs dry. He said “The water that I will give him will become in him a spring of water welling up to eternal life.” So in us, beyond the flesh, beyond the muscles and tendons, in the deep dark middle of our very humanness, is a source…what I believe to be life itself. Sometimes I think I choke it up with the crud I allow to live there, or I bend it like a hose when I allow everything to tense up with worries. But we have this ability to let it flow over all those things. We don’t have to get dried up and crusty…and we don’t have to portion it out as if it were limited. Oh, that I could give full vent to that living water.
So, while I know that the 6:1, work:rest cycle is by design and in rhythm with creation, I do think that he’s given us an inner balance. An unending source of refreshment that we can choose to tap into. A way to live in constant balance…to find rest in work…to give while taking…a laughter in the raw realities of life. Ahh…divine humanness…the canvas you give us…thank you Lord.
Sunday, May 11, 2008
Color
The front room is Firefly, the back is Rio Rancho. Most of what you see when you walk in is Sweet Vibrations…bright green. I can’t get these colors out of my head. I can’t stop imagining the next few days in fast forward…setting my lens on the workers while they finish tiling the walls, painting the trim and finishing the wood floors. The bathroom appliances are coming in and the furniture is arranged in each room to accommodate the space. Each piece of equipment is falling into place as we put curtains and blinds on the windows. The sound system and security system are being installed as we receive our small appliances, mops, brooms, soap dispensers. Then it comes…our first shipment of coffee. Then the real chaos begins.
I love rain…it comes to wash the world clean, it gives us a break from all the things we do outside and makes us stay in a little more. It calms my soul to hear it falling outside. And the slow rolling thunder reminds me that there is something so much bigger out there than I am. That I am not, in fact, in control.
The other night I was driving home in the rain and I pulled up to a stoplight next to a gas station. The fluorescent light shone through my window casting shadows of falling drops on my arm. I stared at the drops falling one by one down my arm and felt a sadness in my soul. As if those drops were the tears that I couldn’t cry. Not about anything in particular, maybe just the passing of time. I often mourn over time…it dies so quickly and I never appreciate it when its present. I mourn over the past…friendships that have faded because of marriage or location or just growing in different directions…things that have happened when I didn’t do anything or didn’t do enough or really went overboard…relationships that didn’t work out…or even just the good times that are irretrievable. I also mourn over the future, strange as it may be. That I know its going to look a lot like my past. That every decision I make is a hundred decisions I won’t make. Like reading a choose your own adventure and not reading all the endings. That I don’t know it and can’t control it, and the more people I love are the more people I will eventually lose. There is so much more pain left out there for me to feel and I have no idea how I will respond.
These times of introspection are good and sobering but heaven forbid I let them frighten me or subdue me. There is so much fear in life, worries that can stifle us. I choose to plow forward. I only have one life, my life. And if I am going to choose my own adventure I want to choose the one with the greatest danger, which is usually the one with the greatest reward. And take heart that I am not the one in control.
So I’ll spend the next few days watching things change, dreaming in full color, and moving right ahead. Knowing that things won’t happen just as I planned and I’m going to mess up big time along the way. There will be hurt and pain and sweat but I will be living life and not hiding in fear of it.
Monday, April 14, 2008
Flying
I drove up to the High School on the first day of my senior year in my white Camero, found a parking spot, leaned around to the back seat to grab my bag and started walking toward the front door of the familiar school. I didn’t have to go to first period that semester, so I was the only one walking in the parking lot. The warm summer morning air blew across my face, waking me up from my stupor and allowing my first thought of the day. “I can’t believe I’m still in High School,” I said to myself in a self-pitying and self-righteous exclamation of sentiment. I was surely too old…well, too mature…to have to be doing this.
That year I enrolled in a class called Independent Studies. It was only available to seniors who had gone through the Challenge curriculum at our school. Challenge is basically a class for students that teachers see are gifted and instead of putting them in regular or AP English classes, they put them in these classes to explore their creativity. My challenge classes consisted of either the highly intellectual student or one of those really strange kids that draw ligers on their trapper keepers and fluently learn the language of the elves. I was put into the program in second grade, before I cared about popularity and the negative impact being smart would have on my reputation. By the time I was in High School, I enjoyed the class because we could draw pictures for our final exams instead of taking multiple-choice tests, but I didn’t feel like I fit in with the rest of the class. And to my shame today, I didn’t take the time to know many of the other students.
The goal of the Independent Studies class was to have the students work on a project for the entire year, setting goals along the way, keeping a portfolio, and preparing a presentation at the end of the year. The idea was to reach for some high achievement, put a lot of work into it and see that big things can happen when you work hard for it. I wanted to take it because there was no class to attend. I only had to check in with the teacher once a week to update her on what I was doing and turn in my time sheets. Also, it gave me an excuse to try for something that I’ve always wanted to do…fly an airplane. Being eighteen, I had no idea what I was getting into. I had been to driver’s ed, but I knew this would be different.
In hindsight, the idea went over amazingly well with my parents. My dad got his pilot’s license in the 70’s and we were kindred spirits’, so I took it for granted that he would want me to have the same experience. He took me to the flight school and enrolled me in the training program. I had to sit in Ground School every night for a few weeks. No big deal, I was missing High School for this. The flight training was what I really loved, though.
I would go to school until noon then head out to the airport. My flight instructor’s name was Troy. Troy was just out of college and had been a pitcher for his college baseball team…not a bad looking young man for a girl to take flying lessons from. The very first lesson Troy walked me through the pre-flight checklist. We went over the entire outside of the plane then got in our seats. Before I started the engine he told me to yell out the window, “Clear Prop!” to inform any passersby that the propeller was about to start spinning. I looked around the empty area and gave him that look most teenaged girls have that says, “You expect me to do what?” “There’s obviously no one there to warn.” I informed him. “I know, it doesn’t matter, you have to say it…and say it loud.” I tried to alleviate every bit of embarrassment that was seeping up in me about yelling something out the window to absolutely no one. I slowly opened the window, sucked in air and yelled out “Clear Plop!” “That’ll do.” Troy said smiling as my face turned beet red… half with embarrassment and half with anger that he made me do that.
Troy would sit in the co-pilot’s seat while I worked on maneuvers and stalls, takeoffs and landings…brave man. I remember the first time I landed the plane on my own, it wasn’t until the plane was on the ground that Troy turned to me and said…”That was all you…I didn’t touch a thing.” A great and scary moment. Then was the day he informed me that I was ready for my solo. I wasn’t too afraid, I had been doing touch and go’s on my own for a while now and I was confident I didn’t need Troy there anymore. But when he got out of the plane and shut the door behind him, I felt more alone than I ever remember feeling before. It was just me and a humming two-seater Cessna…757WP.
“McKinney tower, 757 Whiskey Pop, request taxi to runway 3-6.” I said into my headset.
“757 Whiskey Pop free to taxi to runway 3-6.”
I had my clearance. All I had to do was chug along to the runway like I had done so many times before. My head was a fog as I pulled onto the taxiway. Who do I think I am trying to do this on my own? I felt like was ten years old, wearing a giant headset, barely able to see over the dash. My childhood was flashing before my eyes. Then my thoughts were interrupted…
“7 Whiskey Pop, that’s runway 3-6 not 1-8”
Turns out I was heading for the opposite end of the runway. I can imagine those men in that tower laughing as they watched the little plane turn completely around and head for the opposite end of the runway… the way masculine men do when they don’t think girls should be doing the things they do. And who knows what poor Troy was thinking. In some way, I guess it was what I needed to give me the gumption to prove them wrong. I took off…soaring through the sky on my own. It was just me, 757WP and two thousand feet of air. I landed the plane just fine as Troy came bounding out of the tower to congratulate me.
I went on to get my Private License that summer. I flew solo to Oklahoma once, jumping out of the plane at a sleepy little airport where three old men sat with jaws dropped as I asked them to gas her up. I don’t fly anymore, except for the occasional flight with my dad. Its turned into an expensive hobby and nothing more. Maybe one day it will fit into my life again in some way that Providence designed from the beginning. I sure hope so. Until then, I will cherish the hours I spent in the clouds.
That year I enrolled in a class called Independent Studies. It was only available to seniors who had gone through the Challenge curriculum at our school. Challenge is basically a class for students that teachers see are gifted and instead of putting them in regular or AP English classes, they put them in these classes to explore their creativity. My challenge classes consisted of either the highly intellectual student or one of those really strange kids that draw ligers on their trapper keepers and fluently learn the language of the elves. I was put into the program in second grade, before I cared about popularity and the negative impact being smart would have on my reputation. By the time I was in High School, I enjoyed the class because we could draw pictures for our final exams instead of taking multiple-choice tests, but I didn’t feel like I fit in with the rest of the class. And to my shame today, I didn’t take the time to know many of the other students.
The goal of the Independent Studies class was to have the students work on a project for the entire year, setting goals along the way, keeping a portfolio, and preparing a presentation at the end of the year. The idea was to reach for some high achievement, put a lot of work into it and see that big things can happen when you work hard for it. I wanted to take it because there was no class to attend. I only had to check in with the teacher once a week to update her on what I was doing and turn in my time sheets. Also, it gave me an excuse to try for something that I’ve always wanted to do…fly an airplane. Being eighteen, I had no idea what I was getting into. I had been to driver’s ed, but I knew this would be different.
In hindsight, the idea went over amazingly well with my parents. My dad got his pilot’s license in the 70’s and we were kindred spirits’, so I took it for granted that he would want me to have the same experience. He took me to the flight school and enrolled me in the training program. I had to sit in Ground School every night for a few weeks. No big deal, I was missing High School for this. The flight training was what I really loved, though.
I would go to school until noon then head out to the airport. My flight instructor’s name was Troy. Troy was just out of college and had been a pitcher for his college baseball team…not a bad looking young man for a girl to take flying lessons from. The very first lesson Troy walked me through the pre-flight checklist. We went over the entire outside of the plane then got in our seats. Before I started the engine he told me to yell out the window, “Clear Prop!” to inform any passersby that the propeller was about to start spinning. I looked around the empty area and gave him that look most teenaged girls have that says, “You expect me to do what?” “There’s obviously no one there to warn.” I informed him. “I know, it doesn’t matter, you have to say it…and say it loud.” I tried to alleviate every bit of embarrassment that was seeping up in me about yelling something out the window to absolutely no one. I slowly opened the window, sucked in air and yelled out “Clear Plop!” “That’ll do.” Troy said smiling as my face turned beet red… half with embarrassment and half with anger that he made me do that.
Troy would sit in the co-pilot’s seat while I worked on maneuvers and stalls, takeoffs and landings…brave man. I remember the first time I landed the plane on my own, it wasn’t until the plane was on the ground that Troy turned to me and said…”That was all you…I didn’t touch a thing.” A great and scary moment. Then was the day he informed me that I was ready for my solo. I wasn’t too afraid, I had been doing touch and go’s on my own for a while now and I was confident I didn’t need Troy there anymore. But when he got out of the plane and shut the door behind him, I felt more alone than I ever remember feeling before. It was just me and a humming two-seater Cessna…757WP.
“McKinney tower, 757 Whiskey Pop, request taxi to runway 3-6.” I said into my headset.
“757 Whiskey Pop free to taxi to runway 3-6.”
I had my clearance. All I had to do was chug along to the runway like I had done so many times before. My head was a fog as I pulled onto the taxiway. Who do I think I am trying to do this on my own? I felt like was ten years old, wearing a giant headset, barely able to see over the dash. My childhood was flashing before my eyes. Then my thoughts were interrupted…
“7 Whiskey Pop, that’s runway 3-6 not 1-8”
Turns out I was heading for the opposite end of the runway. I can imagine those men in that tower laughing as they watched the little plane turn completely around and head for the opposite end of the runway… the way masculine men do when they don’t think girls should be doing the things they do. And who knows what poor Troy was thinking. In some way, I guess it was what I needed to give me the gumption to prove them wrong. I took off…soaring through the sky on my own. It was just me, 757WP and two thousand feet of air. I landed the plane just fine as Troy came bounding out of the tower to congratulate me.
I went on to get my Private License that summer. I flew solo to Oklahoma once, jumping out of the plane at a sleepy little airport where three old men sat with jaws dropped as I asked them to gas her up. I don’t fly anymore, except for the occasional flight with my dad. Its turned into an expensive hobby and nothing more. Maybe one day it will fit into my life again in some way that Providence designed from the beginning. I sure hope so. Until then, I will cherish the hours I spent in the clouds.
Monday, March 31, 2008
Crooked Tree
My best friend and I are starting a business. That’s what Crooked Tree is. I started this blog thinking it would be a record of the ins and outs, ups and downs and general excitement of opening a coffee shop. Surprised even myself that I haven’t mentioned it until now. Current life is never as poetic as the past or the future. But don’t get me wrong, just because its not poetic doesn’t mean I’m complaining about where I am right now. Its just hard for me to write about without getting caught up in technical details about POS systems, the size of under counter fridges, and requirements for grease traps.
This time last year I was putting in my two months notice at the bank. My dreams of the coffee shop were still in the “let’s explore the idea so at least we can say we tried” phase. In between the projects my boss was dumping on me before I left, I was inadvertently searching the internet for commercial property for rent in the area and using our spreadsheets to plug in numbers that might or might not be typical sales figures for the average independent coffee shop. But it was still a pipedream. I was also looking into alternative certification programs for teaching high school students. You know, cast the net far but bring a snack along just in case.
Here I am a year later with both feet in this thing. I am never confident about anything. I can’t even be certain I’ve picked the right restaurant for dinner, the entire way there I’m looking around to make sure I didn’t rule out any options that might have been better. I won’t go into what that says about me and relationships. But I am sure about the coffee shop. Along the way we have run into so many delays and headaches and issues and difficult people and more delays, but never once have I doubted whether I should do this. I feel grounded in the reality of it all. I don’t think any of it is going to be easy. But I genuinely want to do it. I am so excited about the ways it is going to stretch me and keep me growing, the potential the place has… ways to contribute to the community and be a part of efforts going on all over the world.
Of all the hiccups so far the delays have bothered me more than anything. Whenever I talk to anyone about starting a coffee place, the first thing they ask is when it is going to open. In October I would have responded December. In December I would have responded March. Now that its March, its obvious it won’t happen until June at the earliest. I hate telling people something that is not true. Even though these are not intentional lies…there is this unbelievably strong fear in me of being unreliable. I’d almost rather be anything but unreliable.
I also hate these delays because my life is a case study on learning patience. Its kind of a cruel joke to build into someone this innate inability to wait on anything and then constantly give her situation after situation that requires enduring patience. I guess its discipline, like training a dog to race by making an electronic rabbit that runs one step faster. Just when I think I can’t wait anymore or I will burst, someone informs me it will be two more weeks. I go to my jar of oil to find that sure enough there is an adequate amount for today.
So here we are. Starting April with plans for construction, picking out equipment, furniture, food, logos, countertops, bathroom tile…oh yeah, and coffee. We have the house where it will be. Its sitting there empty and waiting. I go there sometimes just to look around again and envision what it will be like. Also, I think, so that it will sink in that this is really happening. The whole thing just seems too big for little me. But just when I’m starting to feel daunted, I get this feeling in my gut. I recognized the feeling the other day and tried to name it…then it came to me…one word…ambition. Its been a while since I have felt it, nothing was really worth it to me. And I look at the old house and sense that it is feeling it too. It was built in 1920 and has lived many lives already. Because it is in the Historic District, it will be preserved. Its pretty old to be starting something new, but I think its ready. I know I am.
Monday, February 11, 2008
The Road
I live my life teetering on the brink of being proud that I’m more emotionally put together than almost anyone I know and being a complete mess, stupefied that I still can’t figure life out. The last week or so the mess side of me must have eaten a few too many twinkies because I’ve stayed there a lot longer than normal.
Spent the weekend with my “accountability group” talking about our life stories and the road maps that led us to where we are now. I put “accountability group” in quotes because most of us in the group are uncomfortable with that title. It sounds too Joshua Harris or Elizabeth Elliot to be an acceptable title for us. We just eat dinner together once a week and drink wine while we talk about things we want to change about our life but don’t have the courage to do on our own.
I love it. Its real community, you know. Like just people living life side by side and letting each other into the raw realities of who we are. I love it, that is, until the day comes. Then I get annoyed. Why do we have to do this every week? Why do we have to cook, can’t we just get take out? I don’t have anything new to share…the same thing every week and nothing ever changes. All five of us feel the same way. But we all show up every week. One of us cooks and we all sit at the table laughing and telling stories about the week. Then one by one we get into each of us…some sharing more, some less…but we know each other’s weaknesses, the things we dwell on, the thought traps we get into. And I love it again.
This weekend, though, I delved into my past. What growing up was like for me, where my insecurities began, relationships made and lost, high school, college, London, China. I love talking about myself and remembering things, so I thought this would be a breeze. But it was strange as I took all my broken up memories, the pieces of myself that seemed to be so many different people rather than one person, and pushed a needle through them and strung them up together in a line. The pouring out of all those times and places, ebbing and flowing, rhythmically and in meter making up the whole of who I am has been swimming through my mind and haunting my dreams.
I spent at least the first half of my life believing we were all essentially the same and everything was black and white. I’m so thankful to discover the opposite, but confused by it nonetheless. We are individuals with different personalities, tastes and dreams. Life is organic. So I can’t make a combination of decisions and get a certain result. Not studying + early drug use + sexual promiscuity = suicidal overweight trailer trash. Physical exercise + purity + social involvement = gorgeous husband and stable family. Results vary as you input different variables, but they are consistent and predictable. But its starting to feel more like a slot machine and I put my two cents in, pulled the lever and I’m waiting while it spins and spins. The first one seemed to have stopped and I’m staring at it in wonder while I wait for what in the world the next two will uncover.
I know we are accountable for much of what we get out of this life. I still believe in absolute truth and that there is a purpose and reason for everything. I attribute much of the good things in my life to good choices I made and blame myself for many of the consequences I’ve had to experience. But life is looking more organic than I ever imagined. It feels so right to embrace that, and so freeing to know that I am not so in charge of my life. But I’m left wondering…what in the world is next for me?
Spent the weekend with my “accountability group” talking about our life stories and the road maps that led us to where we are now. I put “accountability group” in quotes because most of us in the group are uncomfortable with that title. It sounds too Joshua Harris or Elizabeth Elliot to be an acceptable title for us. We just eat dinner together once a week and drink wine while we talk about things we want to change about our life but don’t have the courage to do on our own.
I love it. Its real community, you know. Like just people living life side by side and letting each other into the raw realities of who we are. I love it, that is, until the day comes. Then I get annoyed. Why do we have to do this every week? Why do we have to cook, can’t we just get take out? I don’t have anything new to share…the same thing every week and nothing ever changes. All five of us feel the same way. But we all show up every week. One of us cooks and we all sit at the table laughing and telling stories about the week. Then one by one we get into each of us…some sharing more, some less…but we know each other’s weaknesses, the things we dwell on, the thought traps we get into. And I love it again.
This weekend, though, I delved into my past. What growing up was like for me, where my insecurities began, relationships made and lost, high school, college, London, China. I love talking about myself and remembering things, so I thought this would be a breeze. But it was strange as I took all my broken up memories, the pieces of myself that seemed to be so many different people rather than one person, and pushed a needle through them and strung them up together in a line. The pouring out of all those times and places, ebbing and flowing, rhythmically and in meter making up the whole of who I am has been swimming through my mind and haunting my dreams.
I spent at least the first half of my life believing we were all essentially the same and everything was black and white. I’m so thankful to discover the opposite, but confused by it nonetheless. We are individuals with different personalities, tastes and dreams. Life is organic. So I can’t make a combination of decisions and get a certain result. Not studying + early drug use + sexual promiscuity = suicidal overweight trailer trash. Physical exercise + purity + social involvement = gorgeous husband and stable family. Results vary as you input different variables, but they are consistent and predictable. But its starting to feel more like a slot machine and I put my two cents in, pulled the lever and I’m waiting while it spins and spins. The first one seemed to have stopped and I’m staring at it in wonder while I wait for what in the world the next two will uncover.
I know we are accountable for much of what we get out of this life. I still believe in absolute truth and that there is a purpose and reason for everything. I attribute much of the good things in my life to good choices I made and blame myself for many of the consequences I’ve had to experience. But life is looking more organic than I ever imagined. It feels so right to embrace that, and so freeing to know that I am not so in charge of my life. But I’m left wondering…what in the world is next for me?
Friday, January 18, 2008
The Brink
There are no hills where I live. The good thing about it is that if you get out to the country you can see for miles and miles. I don’t live in the country so I can’t see much from where I am. Sometimes I go visit the hill country and I wonder how in the world those hills aren’t called mountains…they look so huge to me.
On my way home from work there is a part of the road where you curve out of a neighborhood and a scene opens up because there is a slight slope. The view on top of the slope allows you to see almost the entire lake with the city skyline in the background. It occurred to me one day that the view is to the west. I go to a parking lot there sometimes now just to watch the sunset.
I pulled up into this parking lot the other day and I was a bit perturbed that there were other cars there doing the same thing. I’m glad that people are taking time out of their day to watch God paint something new moment by moment instead of watching the nightly news or Seinfeld reruns, but they were in my peripherals. Something in me wants to go to the edge…get as high as I can and right on the edge…nothing to the right or left just beauty and majesty as far as I can see. It makes me feel like Elizabeth Bennett. I didn’t get to experience that the other day but I was surprised at how much I could feel that desire burning inside me.
I’ve never been one to fear heights. It exhilarates me to be at the peak or the top of something. Two of my favorite places as a child were on this cliff at the lake where they put a giant cross and this tower on top of a hill on Papa’s ranch. I would go up there by myself on holidays and sing and pray that nobody below could hear me sing. Its probably why I learned to fly, but I realized that having a giant piece of metal surrounding me takes away from the effect I was looking for.
There were small mountains (probably hills) surrounding the lake in the city where I lived in China. One day some friends showed me the trail to the top. We walked up there and climbed onto a giant rock that jutted out from it. You could stand up there and see the whole lake with all its islands and little pagodas sticking up everywhere and a giant city surrounding the entire thing. So mystic and eastern. The smog swept over the lake in wisps of fog…just for effect.
I knew I had to come back by myself early in the morning and watch the sunrise. So, a few weeks later, I hopped on my bike at 4:30 in the morning racing the sun and hoping I could make it to the top of the mountain in time to see it peak through. Unlike driving, when you are trying to get somewhere quickly on your bike you inevitably get the Wizard of Oz wicked witch song in your head. I locked up my bike and set up the trail. I was surprised how many others were there. Mostly pretty old people… I might even say elderly. As my legs ached I wondered how in the world these old people could do this all the time. But more importantly…why? I got to my rock and sat down on the edge with my walkman and journal. Soon after an old man hopped onto the rock with me…in his underwear. (different culture…you get used to it) I was frustrated with the distraction, but it soon became more distracting as he started stretching and flailing his arms. Then it came..a giant, bellowing yell. He began to yell from his gut out into the openness. More than an ahhhh…it was an ohhhh hohhhh…if you can imagine. He would take a stance, a deep breath and just let it go. It occurred to me as I looked out at the tree-covered mountains to my right and left that there were people all over yelling. What were they yelling at? How did I not know that this goes on? How can people be so weird and different? Why do I want to join them so badly?
Since I was a missionary at the time, I imagined they were crying out for a savior. Like they woke up to an aching body, feeling every bit of their humanness, pushed it to its brink…beat it up to prove that it wouldn’t get the better of them…that there is something inside that is stronger. And when they get to the point that only creation is limiting them to go any further, they suck in the air and cry out to God. “Why?!” “Is this it?!” “Why does it hurt so bad?!” “Do you even care?!” “Save me!”
I wish I was the kind of person who could stand up at that moment and yell like I wanted to. I had some things I wanted to yell at the Lord. But I didn’t. I sat there in my three square feet of American culture listening to Shane and Shane and writing in my journal. I went back a few weeks later with some friends so that we could yell together. We took turns yelling while videotaping it on our digital cameras. Needless to say, the authenticity and emotion were sucked right out of it. I thank God that I have a culture that I can identify with and feel at home in, but sometimes it makes me a little nauseous when I get a glimpse of it from the outside.
I’m on the brink of something big in my life right now. Maybe that’s why I feel like running and running and climbing to the edge and screaming out. I want to physically express what I’m feeling inside. We ache for the brink, that’s why we keep pushing ourselves to do things. When we get what we’re looking for, its never satisfying, but we are all deluded into believing that there’s something else that will satisfy. Its on the brink that we have all our hope stored up. We think its only the beginning of something even better but what if it doesn’t get any better than the brink? As fatalistic and negative as that sounds, I believe its true, but I believe at the core of it is the fact that we were made for something so much more than this world or this body could give us. We get to the brink and we taste it, we hope for it, it resounds with our souls, but the product is worldly and limited. The thought that death is the consummation of all our soul desires makes it feel a lot less scary and though I am on the brink of something so exciting in my life, it helps me to honestly sing along with my fellow believers, “Come, Lord Jesus, Come.”
On my way home from work there is a part of the road where you curve out of a neighborhood and a scene opens up because there is a slight slope. The view on top of the slope allows you to see almost the entire lake with the city skyline in the background. It occurred to me one day that the view is to the west. I go to a parking lot there sometimes now just to watch the sunset.
I pulled up into this parking lot the other day and I was a bit perturbed that there were other cars there doing the same thing. I’m glad that people are taking time out of their day to watch God paint something new moment by moment instead of watching the nightly news or Seinfeld reruns, but they were in my peripherals. Something in me wants to go to the edge…get as high as I can and right on the edge…nothing to the right or left just beauty and majesty as far as I can see. It makes me feel like Elizabeth Bennett. I didn’t get to experience that the other day but I was surprised at how much I could feel that desire burning inside me.
I’ve never been one to fear heights. It exhilarates me to be at the peak or the top of something. Two of my favorite places as a child were on this cliff at the lake where they put a giant cross and this tower on top of a hill on Papa’s ranch. I would go up there by myself on holidays and sing and pray that nobody below could hear me sing. Its probably why I learned to fly, but I realized that having a giant piece of metal surrounding me takes away from the effect I was looking for.
There were small mountains (probably hills) surrounding the lake in the city where I lived in China. One day some friends showed me the trail to the top. We walked up there and climbed onto a giant rock that jutted out from it. You could stand up there and see the whole lake with all its islands and little pagodas sticking up everywhere and a giant city surrounding the entire thing. So mystic and eastern. The smog swept over the lake in wisps of fog…just for effect.
I knew I had to come back by myself early in the morning and watch the sunrise. So, a few weeks later, I hopped on my bike at 4:30 in the morning racing the sun and hoping I could make it to the top of the mountain in time to see it peak through. Unlike driving, when you are trying to get somewhere quickly on your bike you inevitably get the Wizard of Oz wicked witch song in your head. I locked up my bike and set up the trail. I was surprised how many others were there. Mostly pretty old people… I might even say elderly. As my legs ached I wondered how in the world these old people could do this all the time. But more importantly…why? I got to my rock and sat down on the edge with my walkman and journal. Soon after an old man hopped onto the rock with me…in his underwear. (different culture…you get used to it) I was frustrated with the distraction, but it soon became more distracting as he started stretching and flailing his arms. Then it came..a giant, bellowing yell. He began to yell from his gut out into the openness. More than an ahhhh…it was an ohhhh hohhhh…if you can imagine. He would take a stance, a deep breath and just let it go. It occurred to me as I looked out at the tree-covered mountains to my right and left that there were people all over yelling. What were they yelling at? How did I not know that this goes on? How can people be so weird and different? Why do I want to join them so badly?
Since I was a missionary at the time, I imagined they were crying out for a savior. Like they woke up to an aching body, feeling every bit of their humanness, pushed it to its brink…beat it up to prove that it wouldn’t get the better of them…that there is something inside that is stronger. And when they get to the point that only creation is limiting them to go any further, they suck in the air and cry out to God. “Why?!” “Is this it?!” “Why does it hurt so bad?!” “Do you even care?!” “Save me!”
I wish I was the kind of person who could stand up at that moment and yell like I wanted to. I had some things I wanted to yell at the Lord. But I didn’t. I sat there in my three square feet of American culture listening to Shane and Shane and writing in my journal. I went back a few weeks later with some friends so that we could yell together. We took turns yelling while videotaping it on our digital cameras. Needless to say, the authenticity and emotion were sucked right out of it. I thank God that I have a culture that I can identify with and feel at home in, but sometimes it makes me a little nauseous when I get a glimpse of it from the outside.
I’m on the brink of something big in my life right now. Maybe that’s why I feel like running and running and climbing to the edge and screaming out. I want to physically express what I’m feeling inside. We ache for the brink, that’s why we keep pushing ourselves to do things. When we get what we’re looking for, its never satisfying, but we are all deluded into believing that there’s something else that will satisfy. Its on the brink that we have all our hope stored up. We think its only the beginning of something even better but what if it doesn’t get any better than the brink? As fatalistic and negative as that sounds, I believe its true, but I believe at the core of it is the fact that we were made for something so much more than this world or this body could give us. We get to the brink and we taste it, we hope for it, it resounds with our souls, but the product is worldly and limited. The thought that death is the consummation of all our soul desires makes it feel a lot less scary and though I am on the brink of something so exciting in my life, it helps me to honestly sing along with my fellow believers, “Come, Lord Jesus, Come.”
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