A tougher skin. Is this an asset of the maturing process, or what emerges from its casualties? Is a lack of tough skin a liability, or a rare thing to be protected and preserved?
Someone who lacks toughness, as in, such as a teacher or parent who won't be firm in disciplining children, ought to make one gag. That kind of un-toughness is not an indication of character or the matured disposition of the heart.
Someone who is too sensitive to life's blows, who is blown off course by the winds of disappointment or change, ought to use that time as a lesson in resilience. One who has gone through tragedy, however, and comes out without a jaded, hardened heart: this is a good thing.
Having a porous skin is something to aim for. A skin that selectively permits some level of chaos and hardship without melting down and losing one's own reserve of strength, like a cell phone too quickly drained of battery, but also a skin that remains sensitive to wrong and hurt in a way that exhibits the capacity for compassion, the ability to feel and empathize with others' pain. How can one remain compassionate if the skin is tough to the point that it excuses injustice or a lesser-version of how God intended it to be, in a kind of resigned acceptance?
No, a porous skin that remains sensitive to injustice, and refuses to give up that first dream for an inpenetrable faith, hope, and love, a skin that can exhibit both mercy and passion because it knows its own resilient reserves of love and strength: that is the aim.
Sunday, October 28, 2012
Monday, October 22, 2012
Countdowns
75 days until my first marathon
53 days till end of semester (maybe it woulda been better not to have counted...)
35 days till Sufjan, live
29 days till Minnesota
17 days till C. visits
4 days till Homecoming
53 days till end of semester (maybe it woulda been better not to have counted...)
35 days till Sufjan, live
29 days till Minnesota
17 days till C. visits
4 days till Homecoming
Saturday, October 20, 2012
Films That Made Me Think
I've seen two good movies of late:
Margaret. This movie examines the complex ways we as humans deal with guilt. The inner need for atonement -- for wrongs to be made right, for justice to prevail -- is dealt with in a not-so-simple way by this teenage girl who is partly responsible for someone being killed by a bus. While I don't think her approach to making things right makes her seem any more innocent to me, I can understand the difficulty she has in doing anything to correct for such an extreme accident. This is where grace comes in: when our errors are too large for us to find any way to remedy them. A very thought-provoking movie without resolution.
Moonrise Kingdom: Explores the dilemmas of adolescence: the realization of parents' imperfections, and the rough feeling of their discipline and partial non-acceptance of their teens; as well as advanced themes of orphanhood, exclusion from peer groups, the urge to become an adult, and teens' inadequate ability to deal with conflict in ways that don't worsen the problem.Unlike Margaret, which is no doubt plot- and script-centered, this movie, typical of Wes Anderson, relies on the visual (cinomatographic elements) to deliver the message. Reminds me a bit of Jumangi's magical realism.
Margaret. This movie examines the complex ways we as humans deal with guilt. The inner need for atonement -- for wrongs to be made right, for justice to prevail -- is dealt with in a not-so-simple way by this teenage girl who is partly responsible for someone being killed by a bus. While I don't think her approach to making things right makes her seem any more innocent to me, I can understand the difficulty she has in doing anything to correct for such an extreme accident. This is where grace comes in: when our errors are too large for us to find any way to remedy them. A very thought-provoking movie without resolution.Moonrise Kingdom: Explores the dilemmas of adolescence: the realization of parents' imperfections, and the rough feeling of their discipline and partial non-acceptance of their teens; as well as advanced themes of orphanhood, exclusion from peer groups, the urge to become an adult, and teens' inadequate ability to deal with conflict in ways that don't worsen the problem.Unlike Margaret, which is no doubt plot- and script-centered, this movie, typical of Wes Anderson, relies on the visual (cinomatographic elements) to deliver the message. Reminds me a bit of Jumangi's magical realism.Good Things, Part II
This past week held some great moments.
Wednesday morning, I was pulling my bike from the crammed bike rack at the business school, something like pulling a comb through really tangled hair. People just pile their bikes on top of each other like a girl who likes jewelry but doesn't care enough to sort her necklaces into anything but a box. Anyway, so I got my bike free. As the front tire hit the pavement as I prepared to mount it, the tire made a weird thunk sound. I thought, That's weird, it doesn't usually sound this way, does it? The rubber sounded like it was filled with sand. Oh, well, I thought, and got on it to ride away. A business student, complete in his suit, walked up to me and pointed out that the metal lever piece in the center of the tire had been loosened and needed to be pressed back in. He said, "You would have died." And I said, "Thank you--there's your good deed for the year!" PHEW.
Wednesday night, I was taking a break from my list of 6 to-do's for school the next day by getting a bubble tea (of course). At the intersection of N Decatur and Clairmont, all the electricity went off for about 4 seconds. It was quite a sight to see, a pitch black nothingness in place of the commercial excess. All the store signs, traffic lights, street lights, everything but the cars' headlights and tailights, were wiped out. It was like watching stars disappear from the sky. Up ahead on N Decatur, some Catepillar trucks were doing some kind of construction, so I am sure that's why the outage happened (they hit a power line). But when it all came back up, it was like watching a vending machine light up and display its appealing contents. The color and signage all rushed back in. The return of the graphics!
Thursday afternoon, I had lunch with one of my faculty advisors. I can't believe that actually happened. She asked me about my background, my life, my dreams. It's nice to have someone care about those things that are rarely verbalized. I was honest in my answers, but definitely felt like I had to muscle it up so it sounded like a bigger deal. But really, my desires in life are pretty simple. Knowing where I want to be after this degree helps me to do it. A clear vision for myself makes each week doable...really. God willing, this will be my last year of coursework!!!!
Wednesday morning, I was pulling my bike from the crammed bike rack at the business school, something like pulling a comb through really tangled hair. People just pile their bikes on top of each other like a girl who likes jewelry but doesn't care enough to sort her necklaces into anything but a box. Anyway, so I got my bike free. As the front tire hit the pavement as I prepared to mount it, the tire made a weird thunk sound. I thought, That's weird, it doesn't usually sound this way, does it? The rubber sounded like it was filled with sand. Oh, well, I thought, and got on it to ride away. A business student, complete in his suit, walked up to me and pointed out that the metal lever piece in the center of the tire had been loosened and needed to be pressed back in. He said, "You would have died." And I said, "Thank you--there's your good deed for the year!" PHEW.
Wednesday night, I was taking a break from my list of 6 to-do's for school the next day by getting a bubble tea (of course). At the intersection of N Decatur and Clairmont, all the electricity went off for about 4 seconds. It was quite a sight to see, a pitch black nothingness in place of the commercial excess. All the store signs, traffic lights, street lights, everything but the cars' headlights and tailights, were wiped out. It was like watching stars disappear from the sky. Up ahead on N Decatur, some Catepillar trucks were doing some kind of construction, so I am sure that's why the outage happened (they hit a power line). But when it all came back up, it was like watching a vending machine light up and display its appealing contents. The color and signage all rushed back in. The return of the graphics!
Thursday afternoon, I had lunch with one of my faculty advisors. I can't believe that actually happened. She asked me about my background, my life, my dreams. It's nice to have someone care about those things that are rarely verbalized. I was honest in my answers, but definitely felt like I had to muscle it up so it sounded like a bigger deal. But really, my desires in life are pretty simple. Knowing where I want to be after this degree helps me to do it. A clear vision for myself makes each week doable...really. God willing, this will be my last year of coursework!!!!
Wednesday, October 10, 2012
Visualizing
For this post, I am going to turn to another mode of expression that I have hardly used since 8th grade: drawing. Writing is my strong suit, but it cannot accomplish what came into my imagination as I ran on Monday morning. This requires a picture.
It's a visual representation of Isaiah 64:8: And yet, O LORD, You are our Father. We are the clay, and you are the potter. We are all formed by Your hand. Our decisions are His hands cutting off the sin and weights; His hands, the grace to smooth us out after the operation, and of course, whilst operating on us, He fills us with fruit and His own Spirit.
It's a visual representation of Isaiah 64:8: And yet, O LORD, You are our Father. We are the clay, and you are the potter. We are all formed by Your hand. Our decisions are His hands cutting off the sin and weights; His hands, the grace to smooth us out after the operation, and of course, whilst operating on us, He fills us with fruit and His own Spirit.
Good things
Yesterday and today were full of good things, besides tears!
1.) While doing fieldwork at a local school, a teacher (I did not know) turned to me and simply said, "You're going to impact communities. You are going to touch children's lives. Don't let anything hinder you or stop you." She made me feel pretty special, and I didn't have to prove myself or anything...
2.) Bubble tea. Enough said. Motivator of the month... I have filled up 9 of 10 spaces on my get-on-free punchcard.
3.) The sympathetic and awesome professor I RA for.
4.) The sympathetic and awesome bosses I have at both PT jobs at Emory, B & D.
5.) Really, really awesome advisor I have, who has taught me the method that made my second year paper shine and bedazzle.
6.) Satisfaction derived from my job editing fellowship apps...It reminds me how writing is my thang!
7.) A community of supporting, loving friends who commented on my post of my picture of Dad and me on Facebook today, from all parts of life: elementary school friends, County softball team friends (who were familiar with my dad's face!), high school teachers, college friends who were there when the whole grieving process took place for me, recent friends who knew me post-passing. Amazing, God. You are amazing.
8.) An "A" on my Race & Ethnicity paper that I slaaaaved over! A vast improvement from that first paper, phew.
1.) While doing fieldwork at a local school, a teacher (I did not know) turned to me and simply said, "You're going to impact communities. You are going to touch children's lives. Don't let anything hinder you or stop you." She made me feel pretty special, and I didn't have to prove myself or anything...
2.) Bubble tea. Enough said. Motivator of the month... I have filled up 9 of 10 spaces on my get-on-free punchcard.
3.) The sympathetic and awesome professor I RA for.
4.) The sympathetic and awesome bosses I have at both PT jobs at Emory, B & D.
5.) Really, really awesome advisor I have, who has taught me the method that made my second year paper shine and bedazzle.
6.) Satisfaction derived from my job editing fellowship apps...It reminds me how writing is my thang!
7.) A community of supporting, loving friends who commented on my post of my picture of Dad and me on Facebook today, from all parts of life: elementary school friends, County softball team friends (who were familiar with my dad's face!), high school teachers, college friends who were there when the whole grieving process took place for me, recent friends who knew me post-passing. Amazing, God. You are amazing.
8.) An "A" on my Race & Ethnicity paper that I slaaaaved over! A vast improvement from that first paper, phew.
Sunday, October 7, 2012
Octobers
That October, I laid down a lot. I listened to the same 18-track playlist A. made me, over and over and over and over again. I wrote a lot. I felt free to just sit and be quiet and stare down or out, without producing a lot of speech or thoughts. No one would hassle me or ask what's wrong, because they sure knew. I took refuge in the den-like basement guest bedroom at Aunt D's house. I took comfort in her familiarity with my father, both of us having grown up with him (her a generation ago with him as a child, of course, and I, just then, with Dad as an adult).
What was so obviously wrong? My Dad. He died 5 years ago this coming Wednesday.
That October I was stunned into silence and tears, wrenched by the tragic circumstances of my Dad's sudden death, and the sudden turn for my life circumstances that it would mean. That first October, I thought a lot, since I wasn't reading or talking or doing any of the normal college student things. I left school the day after I found out about his death-- in fact, he must have died on a Wednesday, because it was on the night of IV small group in C's suite in EC, and I called her last minute to tell her I couldn't make it. She asked could they all come to me, and I said no. I only called A. and wanted her to come to me right away. Sometimes only one friend will do to rise to the tall task at hand. I remember C., I., and G. coming to comfort me too. But I am so thankful A. took me to her suite, and got me out of mine, where I got that dreadful news. Where only 5 days before, Dad and I had a long heart-to-heart on the phone about (among other things) why Northwestern wouldn't be so bad for me for grad school (even then I knew I wanted a PhD in Sociology...and in that conversation, Dad pretty much accepted that with grace, and let go of his pre-med plans and hopes for me) -- even though Dad always believed U. Chicago was a better school. I did not talk to him again after that. He didn't pick up any of my calls. He was in the process of a very stressful event and didn't want me to know about it.
I remember Andrew calling me and telling me Dad had died. I was just stupified. I repeated over and over, "How? How do you know?" I remember trying to get online for some stupid reason. Probably to g-chat C. or A. and tell them. I couldn't get the Internet to work so I ran down to the first story of the Wallach Dorm, crazed and blurry eyed with tears, dizzy too, to the computers by the entrance. I guess by then I got my wits about me and called C. and A. I waited for A. to come get me in my room. It was horrible. What followed was a night of crying, awake, as friend after friend came to A.'s dorm room to visit and pray with me.
That October, I laid in the dark a lot. I replayed last moments with Dad, imagined him in his last moments, remembered distant, fond memories of us, wrote him letters, wrote him a eulogy, helped move out of our house (now that was a family endeavor to get that done in three days), was alongside my Aunt D. through the funeral arrangements, and then, after two weeks, decided wholeheartedly that returning to Columbia would be best. So I resumed classes. But I was able to lie low and I didn't care about grades anymore. Nothing but just meeting basic requirements for classes and mourning were my full time occupations. And I started reading the Bible too, an it started to mean a lot more to me.
That first October, a year after he died, I was in the thick of my first year teaching in Jackson. I was stressed, overwhelmed, and still getting nightmares about issuing student detentions, probably. I booked an airline ticket to Denver to visit Dad's gravestone that first anniversary of his death. I went to Arvada with A. We were listening to Spice Girls' "Mama, I love you, mama I care" upon driving into the cemetery. Strange, I know. I told A. to think of "Papa" being in place of "mama" for the song. I may have even voiced over to facilitate that. I can be very weird sometimes.
About the cemetery: I think I've only been back one other time, which was Christmas of either that or the following year. The gravestone looked good. I am glad we got the same inscription on it as Grandpa's has: "In God's Loving Care." Also, I am not sure if I did this, but I think I ate a sausage McMuffin for breakfast that morning to commemorate the ritual Dad and I had started, whenever I came home on breaks from college, we'd go have a McMuffin. Gah-lee, Lord, could dad have been any more perfect and loving? Not to get too Put-him-on-a-Pedestal or Rose-Colored glasses in my recollections, but it's true. There's not much that makes me feel more loved and comfortable and happy to this day than a man making me or taking me to breakfast. And not any man, either-- only one who I know loves me like Dad loved me.
By that first October, differences between me and my brother were mostly resolved. We were pretty close again. Which was a relief. We were at different points in the grieving process, though, I think. He did publish a really moving blog about Dad that year, which made me thankful as ever to have a sibling. I no longer cried daily about Dad, which is a good thing. I think he'd like what I was doing if he were alive to see me -- except the fact that I wasn't in Denver, of course!
That second October, I was a second year teacher. I was really into the sport of tennis by then, and coaching softball part time. I was in the second year of my Master's program at OM, and was kind of getting into it. I really felt at ease at work by now, because the spring semester of my first year teaching had gone well. Social stressors that I'd had, God had helped me work through by that October. I would say I was pretty darn free and growing like a weed, not physically, but spiritually. Maybe that is a really horrible metaphor to depict positive spiritual growth, haha. But really, I think that was kind of a hey-day for me: suffering and trials were lower, and I was enjoying the fruits of life! God was easing up on me and I enjoyed it. And I knew by then without question how good He is, and that He really did love me. I knew that with the help of a few very crucial Christian girlfriends. I had started going to C's bible study, and that group became my primary group, after my other close friends, S, J, and E, all moved out of Jackson. I'm in touch with them to this day--wow, God, you are SO GOOD! I didn't go to CO to visit, but I think I did the McMuffin ritual.
That third October, I was a third-year teacher (by now that was not a stressor for me hardly at all- amazing!) and had started dating T. We were exclusive by then. I told him the significance of the day and we "observed" it, kind of. He asked questions about Dad and we talked about memories and the day of him dying and how my life had changed since that day. I felt like Dad was with me, smiling on my life (well, most of it, haha...I'm sure he'd be worried about the dating development. But I'd probably keep sharing details with him to a minimum at this point in the game). That October, 2010, I felt at ease. I felt God taking supremely good care of me. I felt the love of a man again, solid, sturdy love, a love that combined friendship, a desire to know me and all my history and details deeply, and spiritual compatibility. Then and now, I still regard this relationship as a gift of epic proportions.
That fourth October, I was a first-year PhD student in a new city. I was eager to see T. on fall break. But the day marking Dad's death itself I hardly remember. I do remember feeling as I looked at the two pictures of Dad and me near by bed, that Dad would be pleased with where I am in life. And that keeps me going.
This fifth October, I plan to remember him again. Don't know if I'll have enough time to get a McMuffin, but perhaps I should make a point of it. I scanned in a stellar photo of him and me after a varsity softball game at DCHS in 2005 when I was a senior. The fact that God gave me Dad is confirmation that God has already done enough in my life to fuel me until I die. My dad gave me everything: a love for reading, a love for education, knowledge of how to write and how to interact with superiors and peers alike, the ability to cope with stress, the ability to celebrate on Fridays and relax as a way to push hard when times are more demanding. He took care of me when I was sick, encouraged me when I doubted, wanted to hear my voice and help at any opportunity, and he disciplined me in the way I should go. Thank you, Dad.
What was so obviously wrong? My Dad. He died 5 years ago this coming Wednesday.
That October I was stunned into silence and tears, wrenched by the tragic circumstances of my Dad's sudden death, and the sudden turn for my life circumstances that it would mean. That first October, I thought a lot, since I wasn't reading or talking or doing any of the normal college student things. I left school the day after I found out about his death-- in fact, he must have died on a Wednesday, because it was on the night of IV small group in C's suite in EC, and I called her last minute to tell her I couldn't make it. She asked could they all come to me, and I said no. I only called A. and wanted her to come to me right away. Sometimes only one friend will do to rise to the tall task at hand. I remember C., I., and G. coming to comfort me too. But I am so thankful A. took me to her suite, and got me out of mine, where I got that dreadful news. Where only 5 days before, Dad and I had a long heart-to-heart on the phone about (among other things) why Northwestern wouldn't be so bad for me for grad school (even then I knew I wanted a PhD in Sociology...and in that conversation, Dad pretty much accepted that with grace, and let go of his pre-med plans and hopes for me) -- even though Dad always believed U. Chicago was a better school. I did not talk to him again after that. He didn't pick up any of my calls. He was in the process of a very stressful event and didn't want me to know about it.
I remember Andrew calling me and telling me Dad had died. I was just stupified. I repeated over and over, "How? How do you know?" I remember trying to get online for some stupid reason. Probably to g-chat C. or A. and tell them. I couldn't get the Internet to work so I ran down to the first story of the Wallach Dorm, crazed and blurry eyed with tears, dizzy too, to the computers by the entrance. I guess by then I got my wits about me and called C. and A. I waited for A. to come get me in my room. It was horrible. What followed was a night of crying, awake, as friend after friend came to A.'s dorm room to visit and pray with me.
That October, I laid in the dark a lot. I replayed last moments with Dad, imagined him in his last moments, remembered distant, fond memories of us, wrote him letters, wrote him a eulogy, helped move out of our house (now that was a family endeavor to get that done in three days), was alongside my Aunt D. through the funeral arrangements, and then, after two weeks, decided wholeheartedly that returning to Columbia would be best. So I resumed classes. But I was able to lie low and I didn't care about grades anymore. Nothing but just meeting basic requirements for classes and mourning were my full time occupations. And I started reading the Bible too, an it started to mean a lot more to me.
That first October, a year after he died, I was in the thick of my first year teaching in Jackson. I was stressed, overwhelmed, and still getting nightmares about issuing student detentions, probably. I booked an airline ticket to Denver to visit Dad's gravestone that first anniversary of his death. I went to Arvada with A. We were listening to Spice Girls' "Mama, I love you, mama I care" upon driving into the cemetery. Strange, I know. I told A. to think of "Papa" being in place of "mama" for the song. I may have even voiced over to facilitate that. I can be very weird sometimes.
About the cemetery: I think I've only been back one other time, which was Christmas of either that or the following year. The gravestone looked good. I am glad we got the same inscription on it as Grandpa's has: "In God's Loving Care." Also, I am not sure if I did this, but I think I ate a sausage McMuffin for breakfast that morning to commemorate the ritual Dad and I had started, whenever I came home on breaks from college, we'd go have a McMuffin. Gah-lee, Lord, could dad have been any more perfect and loving? Not to get too Put-him-on-a-Pedestal or Rose-Colored glasses in my recollections, but it's true. There's not much that makes me feel more loved and comfortable and happy to this day than a man making me or taking me to breakfast. And not any man, either-- only one who I know loves me like Dad loved me.
By that first October, differences between me and my brother were mostly resolved. We were pretty close again. Which was a relief. We were at different points in the grieving process, though, I think. He did publish a really moving blog about Dad that year, which made me thankful as ever to have a sibling. I no longer cried daily about Dad, which is a good thing. I think he'd like what I was doing if he were alive to see me -- except the fact that I wasn't in Denver, of course!
That second October, I was a second year teacher. I was really into the sport of tennis by then, and coaching softball part time. I was in the second year of my Master's program at OM, and was kind of getting into it. I really felt at ease at work by now, because the spring semester of my first year teaching had gone well. Social stressors that I'd had, God had helped me work through by that October. I would say I was pretty darn free and growing like a weed, not physically, but spiritually. Maybe that is a really horrible metaphor to depict positive spiritual growth, haha. But really, I think that was kind of a hey-day for me: suffering and trials were lower, and I was enjoying the fruits of life! God was easing up on me and I enjoyed it. And I knew by then without question how good He is, and that He really did love me. I knew that with the help of a few very crucial Christian girlfriends. I had started going to C's bible study, and that group became my primary group, after my other close friends, S, J, and E, all moved out of Jackson. I'm in touch with them to this day--wow, God, you are SO GOOD! I didn't go to CO to visit, but I think I did the McMuffin ritual.
That third October, I was a third-year teacher (by now that was not a stressor for me hardly at all- amazing!) and had started dating T. We were exclusive by then. I told him the significance of the day and we "observed" it, kind of. He asked questions about Dad and we talked about memories and the day of him dying and how my life had changed since that day. I felt like Dad was with me, smiling on my life (well, most of it, haha...I'm sure he'd be worried about the dating development. But I'd probably keep sharing details with him to a minimum at this point in the game). That October, 2010, I felt at ease. I felt God taking supremely good care of me. I felt the love of a man again, solid, sturdy love, a love that combined friendship, a desire to know me and all my history and details deeply, and spiritual compatibility. Then and now, I still regard this relationship as a gift of epic proportions.
That fourth October, I was a first-year PhD student in a new city. I was eager to see T. on fall break. But the day marking Dad's death itself I hardly remember. I do remember feeling as I looked at the two pictures of Dad and me near by bed, that Dad would be pleased with where I am in life. And that keeps me going.
This fifth October, I plan to remember him again. Don't know if I'll have enough time to get a McMuffin, but perhaps I should make a point of it. I scanned in a stellar photo of him and me after a varsity softball game at DCHS in 2005 when I was a senior. The fact that God gave me Dad is confirmation that God has already done enough in my life to fuel me until I die. My dad gave me everything: a love for reading, a love for education, knowledge of how to write and how to interact with superiors and peers alike, the ability to cope with stress, the ability to celebrate on Fridays and relax as a way to push hard when times are more demanding. He took care of me when I was sick, encouraged me when I doubted, wanted to hear my voice and help at any opportunity, and he disciplined me in the way I should go. Thank you, Dad.
Wednesday, October 3, 2012
Interruptors
I discovered today (again? had I forgotten?) that I am an interruptor. I caught myself doing it over lunch with two friends, and 'fessed up to it, and one of the friends verified that it was true, I do sometimes interrupt. So it's noticeable. (crap!)
It's nice to have engaging conversations that bring this about, anyway. It's a good indication of an interesting relationship or information flow.
But...here's a challenge to myself to listen more, and not plan on what I'll say next before the person even finishes her thought! And to all you audience members out there who I've interrupted: know I love you dearly and care about your thoughts. And if you tell me to stop interrupting I won't be offended. Promise.
It's nice to have engaging conversations that bring this about, anyway. It's a good indication of an interesting relationship or information flow.
But...here's a challenge to myself to listen more, and not plan on what I'll say next before the person even finishes her thought! And to all you audience members out there who I've interrupted: know I love you dearly and care about your thoughts. And if you tell me to stop interrupting I won't be offended. Promise.
Add this to your flowery metaphor box
The administrative assistant in my department is kind and with-it.
When I went into her office to inquire about my locker number and TA office number changing, we ended up talking about how when you move, you have to grow yourself where you're planted. It was advice her mother gave her 20 years ago, after she'd gotten married, moved to ATL for the first time, had a daughter, and kept running home to another state 3-4 hours away every weekend. Eventually, her Mom (or was it Grandmother?) said to her: "You need to grow where you're planted." Which means not running back to your old life because it is comfortable there, and you know you're loved there.
It reminds me of these verses, close to mind and heart lately:
Forget the former things; do not dwell on the past.
See I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up! Do you not perceive it?
I am making a way in the wilderness and streams in the wasteland.
-- Isaiah 43: 18-19
When I went into her office to inquire about my locker number and TA office number changing, we ended up talking about how when you move, you have to grow yourself where you're planted. It was advice her mother gave her 20 years ago, after she'd gotten married, moved to ATL for the first time, had a daughter, and kept running home to another state 3-4 hours away every weekend. Eventually, her Mom (or was it Grandmother?) said to her: "You need to grow where you're planted." Which means not running back to your old life because it is comfortable there, and you know you're loved there.
It reminds me of these verses, close to mind and heart lately:
Forget the former things; do not dwell on the past.
See I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up! Do you not perceive it?
I am making a way in the wilderness and streams in the wasteland.
-- Isaiah 43: 18-19
A Laugh on My Morning Commute
Zooming down a road within Emory's campus at 8:45 this morning, I saw a sight that made me smile and even chuckle. It involved a tiny Emory go-cart looking vehicle that approached me as I approached it. It's boxy with a roof but no doors, and it literally looks like a white shoebox on wheels. It's narrow just like those economical mini-cars you see on the road sometimes, where technically there is room for a driver and a passenger...but barely. Well, there were two brawny men packed into this car. They were black, tall, with some serious arm and shoulder muscles. They were, as T says, "swoll." Unabashedly swoll. It was a funny sight to see two buff, tough men cozied up side by side, shoulders touching, barely fitting, not due to wide bodies in general, just due to their wide shoulders! And their straight faces, too.
Monday, October 1, 2012
Beans of a Bean Bag
I recently wrote a theory paper for my race and ethnicity class. It's been a 3-day project, which is rare for me (for it to take so long). But, it's done! God told me to put it in His hands this morning, and He'd take care of it. That He did, so faithfully. I was at my wit's end during parts of that process!
Well, in my last stage of writing, I decided to change up the "scenery" a bit. It was 8 p.m. when I started writing. I'd just come home from the Manic Monday dinner out with the soc. grad students (fun, so glad I went). I decided I wanted to be cozy in bed. I grabbed a lap desk I acquired in 2008 upon moving to Mississippi (garage sale? previous tenant leftovers? I can't remember now.) A lap desk is something you can put in your lap to work that functions as a portable desk; it's a bean bag on the bottom, to lie comfortably on your thighs, and a hard plastic surface on the other side.
Well, this lap desk is defective. The beans -- little white Styrofoam spheres -- spill out everywhere. They're in my yellow bed sheets now like sand on a bathroom floor.
Like thoughts of the one you love.
You don't know where they're spilling from, or when you'll stop finding them in the next wrinkle of fabric. Ever-present...tiny...pervasive.
Well, in my last stage of writing, I decided to change up the "scenery" a bit. It was 8 p.m. when I started writing. I'd just come home from the Manic Monday dinner out with the soc. grad students (fun, so glad I went). I decided I wanted to be cozy in bed. I grabbed a lap desk I acquired in 2008 upon moving to Mississippi (garage sale? previous tenant leftovers? I can't remember now.) A lap desk is something you can put in your lap to work that functions as a portable desk; it's a bean bag on the bottom, to lie comfortably on your thighs, and a hard plastic surface on the other side.
Well, this lap desk is defective. The beans -- little white Styrofoam spheres -- spill out everywhere. They're in my yellow bed sheets now like sand on a bathroom floor.
Like thoughts of the one you love.
You don't know where they're spilling from, or when you'll stop finding them in the next wrinkle of fabric. Ever-present...tiny...pervasive.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)