"Nero fastened the guilt...on a class hated for their abominations, called Christians by the populace. Christus, from whom the name had its origin, suffered the extreme penalty...at the hands of one of our procurators, Pontius Pilatus, and a most mischievous superstition, thus checked for the moment, again broke out not only in Judea, the first source of the evil, but even in Rome..."
--Tacitus, The Annals
The other day, I found a turtle. I was leaving one of my dance classes, hum de dum, as I always do, when I saw something on the ground. It was so pretty, I thought it must be some kind of jewelry, when I realized that what it looked like was a turtle shell. This realization was shortly followed by the realization that the reason it looked like a turtle shell was that it was a turtle shell. I picked it up and looked at it, and lo and behold, there was someone inside looking back at me. I was dumbfounded. Who finds a turtle on the sidewalk, the day after a spring snowstorm? This is a turtle, a TURTLE for crying out loud! How did it get here? I looked around dumbly, like someone was going to come running up shouting, "Has anyone seen a turtle, I dropped a turtle!" Or like I would see someone walking away with a turtle cage, the door swinging conspicuously open. No such luck. A few folks meandered by, all minding their own business and not so much looking for any lost turtles. I did the only thing I could think of to do. I took him home in a styrofoam cup that I happened to have in my car, and then he spent a few days living in a very large vase.
He is very small, maybe not even half the size of my palm. I read that it is illegal to sell turtle eggs or baby turtles, and I have a hard time imagining a wild turtle hatching out and climbing from the nearest pond, probably a mile away, onto a college campus. The only thing I could think of is that maybe someone decided that they didn't want him, and left him there. But I found him, and I want to keep him. A few days after he came to live with me, my friends Nikki and Mark gifted me with an aquarium, a filter, and a floating rock that he can climb up on and bask. I bought a heater for the water in his aquarium right away, because I think the house is uncomfortably cold for a turtle during the day. I also bought two little live plants, but now I am struggling to get them to stay where I plant them in the gravel of the tank. Keeping turtles is expensive, even when the turtle is free.
His name is Charlie and I already love him very much.
Spent some time today in the employees only break room at a fine hotel at lunchtime. One plastic folding table and a few chairs for all the people that hotel must employ? And yet it was full, but not crowded. We found the last two seats and I had to situate mine in front of the little sink and hope no one needed to get there before I was done gulping down cauliflower curry (only 1/2 an hour for lunch). Directly behind me at the table, a young woman with long, blonde, straightened hair sat completely absorbed by her cell phone, looking like she was trying to escape from everybody (Angry Birds?). A young black man, who we had seen earlier in the lobby emptying the garbage cans, sat across from her, rhythmically bobbing his head to whatever music was coming from his headphones. Across from me, in the awkward extra seating, sat two Burmese women, one of whom had been microwaving a container of rice-and-something when we had come which she immediately took out of the microwave as soon as she saw that we wanted to use it too. I hope it got hot enough. A younger woman sat next to her, eating some kind of salad out of two stacked styrofoam bowls with an un-styrofoam-bowl-like wavy rim. I wondered if she had microwaved something in them at some point that caused them to warp like that (shudder to think of what's probably being leached out of those bowls now). Occasionally, they would say something to each other in a language I didn't understand (Karin?), but quietly. Everyone in the little break nook seemed to have a fear of being overheard, and the place was subdued, a room full of strangers, and me.
St. Patrick's Day is a favorite holiday of mine. Mostly it has to do with my deep Irish roots, and, more recently, my fondness for drinking whiskey. This year, we went out to the Blackthorn Pub (such a name!) in South Buffalo, which is traditionally where Irish immigrants would settle, and remains the most Irish part of town to this day. We had some beer and some dinner (corned beef and cabbage for me!) and there was an "Irish" band, who mixed traditional folk songs with "Dream, Dream, Dream" and some crazy song about how the unicorn didn't make it onto the ark and that's why it was extinct now. However, they DID play "Whiskey in the Jar," kind of an unofficial Irish national anthem and I, for one, sang along loudly. I think there may have been some folks who joined me, too. That fulfills a lifelong dream: singing "Whiskey in the Jar" while drinking Irish beer in an Irish pub on St. Patrick's Day. Beauty.
After dinner, we stopped for random desserts (since, in searching "traditional Irish desserts" Mark found things that were made of apples and barley and sounded gross) at Wegman's on our way home to watch The Quiet Man (another St. Patrick's Day tradition) and eat chocolate cheesecake, and drink whiskey and Bailey's. It probably wasn't a good idea to stay up so late on a Thursday night, but it was a grand evening. Let's not forget the reminiscing about our early memories of hearing about "The Troubles" and giving Mark heaps of guff for being British and therefore unable to sympathize with oppressed people and also very likely to get beat up at said pub on said day.
Yesterday was the parade, which was strange because I don't think we've ever had the St. Patrick's Day parade after St. Patrick's Day before. But Buffalo came out in fine style, there were no less than nine folks dressed up as St. Pat himself, along with probably 5 floats of local step dancing schools (which Nikki insisted, as she does every year, that we need to take up). Also, the unions marched, as they always do. We cheer enthusiastically every year for the unions (clever remarks such as, "Yeah, elevator operators! Just say no to stairs!") because they seem to appreciate it most, waving and cheering back at us, unlike the staid firefighters and the fleets of the Ancient Order of Hiberians who always march so stoically, regardless of our vim. Oh well. Also, we decided that next year, as the parade's most vociferous supporters, we need to be in the parade. Really, how hard can it be? Just join the Daughters of Erin society and buy one of those funny white tuxedo jackets and sashes and boom, you're in. Clearly, failure to achieve this goal will mean failure in our life heretofore.
Another year, another enacting of cherished traditions under our belt. I love celebrating with Nikki and Mark (what would St. Patrick's Day be without heckling Mark?!?) but sometimes I wish we had more folks to celebrate with. Maybe we should have tried recruiting some of the Daughters of Erin...ladies??
Another favorite morning moment: When I stumble out of bed on my non-dancing mornings earlier than I want to, and grope my way downstairs, very first thing, to light the stove to boil water for my coffee. The kitchen is grey-dark, and after the moments of waiting, and clicking, the blue flame bursts into being underneath the kettle, the gas cloud having grown big enough for those first seconds to make it just a little bit scary. I love that.
For the record, I am not a morning person. Never have been, and it looks like I may never be. Except, when I started my new job, I also started having to wake up at 7(!) in the morning on MWF. That's all well enough, except that TR, I have dance classes that don't start till 10:00. If this were an earlier period of my life, I would absolutely sleep until the last possible minute, roll out of bed, throw on the leotard, grab a portable breakfast and head out the door. But, at this mature new phase of my life, this is no longer the case. I don't want to drastically mess with my sleeping schedule by getting up early some days and sleeping in others. So, I get up on my class days at (almost) the same time as I usually get up for work (hey, I'm new at this).
As for what ensues, well, I have come to find it quite lovely. I roll out of bed, make a civilized sort of breakfast (the kind you eat sitting down, with some kind of table in front of you), tie up some lose ends, make phone calls to other early risers, or maybe just cruise around the internet for a while, and then, when it's time, I get on my dance gear and go. Today, because of the whole Lent thing, I decided not to even look at the computer and just ate my breakfast, concentrating on the deliciousness of the food I was eating and listened to the birds sing. Who am I?
Oh, I know. I'm her:
I don't even want to tell you how much of an infatuation I've always secretly had with this commercial. I think when it started airing, I was just starting to figure out how much I loved dance, and to me this looked like the most idyllic life ever conceived of. Waking up. Sipping Folgers coffee (which just goes to show you how advertising messes with your head because I think Folgers is undrinkable and even good coffee makes me nauseous when I drink it before going to jump around for four hours). The morning light streams in the window. A deep "Welcome Life!" stretch, a few dance steps in the kitchen and then off to a fulfilling day at the studio. Perfection.
I've got to say it...dance class mornings for me are a little like that (until the whole arrive at the studio and execute all steps perfectly with a triumphant smile on your face thing. That, not so much.). I'm not joking, did you hear me before? I was sipping a chai latte and listening to the birds sing! Birds! All I'm saying is, how often do we get to live out something that even resembles a childhood fantasy? To me, this is awesome.
At this point in my life, I feel full of frustration. There are sources too numerous to mention, but one of the smallest on them is this blog. The tone is never right! It never feels like me! No matter how much I tell myself I will not feel pressured by the Watchers, I still do! Aaaarg!
But, it is Lent. And, as everyone knows, I love Lent. This year, I have decided to give up watching TV. It may shock you to know that, in spite of not having cable here in the house, I manage to watch more than a fair amount of TV between the graces of Hulu and my Netflix subscription. There are numerous reasons why I chose that this year, which I will maybe illuminate in future postings. But, for now, all you need to know that not being able to watch TV is driving me a little crazy. And, for those of you not keeping score on your liturgical calendars, Lent started on...Wednesday. I am honestly wondering how I will stick it out for 40(!) days(!) of this, but one thing I would like to do is blog more. SOME people think I have grown lax in this space (because I have) and may be on the verge of abandoning it (which I am not, I think). But I'm not doing it for SOME people. I feel like if I hung out here long enough, I could work the bugs out. I could jump the hurdles. I could catch the flying fish (I made that one up). But, I want blogging to be fun again. Maybe it will fail and I will abandon you forever and go back to journaling in private. Maybe it will be AWESOME! But, we'll give it the old college try.
Also, I want to move. I hate blogger. I want a WordPress blog. I'll get started on that. You wait here, I'll come pick you up when I'm done.
Although, to be fair, for a terrible weekend it was pretty great. I went out for dinner with friends, took pictures at the Botanical Gardens, finally got around to watching The Triplets of Belleville, made Roasted Vegetable Baklava and Sour Cherry Slab Pie. But, Friday pretty much shot down any chance I had of really, fully enjoying these things.
On Friday, I went at my normal time to my normal place to practice my normal dancing. But, I was kind of extra-fluttery excited because I got a new digital camera for Christmas, and I was going to figure out a way to record myself dancing, something I have been trying to do for months. The little studio where I go to practice has this convenient, high ledge running around two sides of the room, perfect for resting a digital camera on at a height and angle that actually takes in most of the room. Begin recording project. Of course, I can't help but watch everything I record as soon as I finish it. And, like a storm cloud on the horizon, a slow build begins. The first video is okay, not great, but not too bad. I am able to admire the clothes I picked out to practice in, some of my movements look neat. The next two videos are songs that I've been working on forever, and not in a "this is my opus and it has all been building to this point" kind of way. More in a "I was done with this piece months ago, but had no way of getting a record of it and so didn't feel free to let it go, so just kept working it until it was overworked, and terrible, and god I just need to get this down so it can go somewhere to die!" kind of way. Yep.
And, watching these two videos, the stormclouds raced up to cover the sun, the sky turned black and angry, and a tornado ripped out of the sky and tore through all of my self-conceptions, hope, and generally every good feeling I've ever had about anything. These videos were terrible, because I was terrible in them. My movements were repetitive, boring, and uninspired. My technique was sloppy or non-existent. Nothing translated to the tape the way I felt it in my body. It was embarrassing, watching this little video that no one but myself had ever seen, I felt deeply embarrassed. Embarrassed that I had thought for even one micro-moment I could dance. Embarrassed that I had such high expectations for myself and then achieved so low. Embarrassed by my lack of originality, of form, of thoughtful, good work.
To back up a little, I have been encouraged by a couple of people in the last year to start thinking about grad school for dance, and I had been. I had started researching choreographers, reading articles about dance companies, not as potential career options, but to be knowledgeable in my field, to be familiar with and inspired by inspiring work. In short, I was starting to take myself seriously, and these little videos showed me what a joke that was. I had been looking at enrolling in another semester's worth of dance classes, and I didn't even feel like I could carry on with that. There was nothing to do but quit everything and walk around the rest of my life with a bag on my head to hide my shame.
I forced myself to keep dancing that afternoon, because I knew if I didn't intervene, I would probably never want to dance ever again. I did the only thing I know how to do and danced out the disappointment. The rest of the weekend, in spite of the fun things I was doing, it was hard not to walk around with my head hung low, feel sorry for myself, sorry to be myself, feeling like a failure.
Never mind the fact that I had injured both my wrist and my tailbone, which made me a more cautious mover and prevented me from doing any floor work. Never mind that I have always had trouble performing in front of even one or two people, and the camera was just another eye that I would have to get used to performing in front of. Never mind that I knew I was no longer happy with this work and just looking to get it out of the way so I could move on to something else. Never mind that a camera is just a picture, not the absolute expression of all hidden realities, and like any picture WILL be interpreted by the viewer, who is more than a little biased about her own expectations and filters when looking at herself. Nope, none of these mitigating factors can make a lick of difference, I am a complete and utter failure, doomed to roam the earth in infamy for the rest of my days. (Perhaps you can tell, I tend to be somewhat dramatic when upset.)
Then, in the midst of the weeping and gnashing of teeth, I have to wonder, where did all this come from? Who set the expectation that I would suddenly be able to land a triple pirouette, or soar through the air on every leap? I can't do those things yet, and I don't have to. And where did I get permission to treat myself so unkindly? I often wonder why I think it's okay to talk to myself in tones or with language I wouldn't even use with someone I didn't like very much, let alone someone I cared about and wanted to see succeed. I made a resolution to advocate for myself as an artist, and apparently some times that will mean advocating for myself with myself, as I tend to be my own harshest critic. I have to remember why I do this in the first place. I don't dance to be a great dancer, to get applause or critical acclaim. I dance because I have to dance, I have to keep dancing, I have to tell my stories. And someday I hope to be able to use this art to help other people. Good technique is important, but I'm always trying to be better, not necessarily the best.
And then there's the art perspective. How many times have I wanted to tear my hair out when a piece of writing was not going well? How many times have I ridden the rollercoaster between elation and despair in the editing process? How many times have I wailed that everything I've ever done is crap and there's nothing left to do but curl up in a ball and die? How many times have I discarded work because it just wasn't working out? Over the years, I have developed a very thick skin as a writer, but because the dancing life is much newer, I feel very fragile, and the slightest tremor feels like the whole structure is going to collapse. Also, it has been helpful to remember that everyone has been artistically down in the dumps at some points, and there's really not much to do besides slog through it. Although it seems like a distant memory, I know I've had days where breakthroughs were exploding across my sky like fireworks, and I felt like everything I did was beautiful and I couldn't take a wrong step, which means that I'll inevitably have days where every song seems uninspiring, and my feet barely seem to leave the floor.
So what can I do? I have to go back, I have to keep dancing and unfortunately, I have to keep taping myself until I'm no longer afraid of it (bleh!), until I can perform at 110% of capacity no matter who's watching. I have to keep going, because in the artistic life, (aside from the occasional detour of flopping down right where you are, flailing on the floor and whining for a while) there is no way but forward.
Wow, September to January. That's like...five months. That's almost half a year. So. I don't know who I might be talking to out there because everyone who probably ever read this has probably abandoned this creaky ghost town of a blog, but that's okay. I have been writing still, just not here. And this space, unfortunately for all you ninjas, has always been for me. And that is why I came back here today, to talk some things over with myself. You can listen in, if you feel so inclined.
The time has come again for the making of New Year's Resolutions, a favorite past time of mine, mostly because I love reflection and analysis, and goal-setting too. I think I did pretty okay with last year's resolutions, except for that last one. I realized that I have no problem laughing at myself when I actually can see the humor in whatever it is I did, but when I am legitimately embarrassed, that all goes out the window and I cannot find within me a speck of humor, anywhere. Oh well. I guess that one stays on the docket for a little while longer. But, 2011 is a fresh new year and calls for new resolutions, so here goes:
1. Spend more time on my creative work. The end of this year, as you would know if I had been showing up here, has been rough. My last job ended in October, and I have been job hunting ever since, in spite of having an evening job as a ballroom dance instructor that pays almost nothing, and tends to lead to a great deal of drama and frustration. Since that time, I have felt drained from worrying about money and how I'll pay the bills, to job searching, cover letter writing, and all the exhausting roller coaster emotions that go into that endeavor, and then investing my time in the boards of which I am a member, the few patchy times I have been able to get some work, and doing adult things like laundry and dishes and making sure the house doesn't get gross. So, in spite of the fact that I'm only working part time and should have more free time than anybody and no right to complain, I feel stretched too thin, exhausted, and demotivated.
It is hard to spend a day sending out resumes, looking for job opportunities, go to work at night and come home and feel like doing anything creative. Most times, I take refuge in TV. I love TV and in spite of the fact that I don't think there's anything inherently wrong with watching television, I think I tend to use it as an escape, a way to check out from thinking, from worry and stress. It is extremely, extremely difficult to feel energized and motivated enough to pick up my guitar or my journal, or watch and analyze a video of some choreographer's work when all I want to do is tune in to 30 Rock and zone out. Unfortunately, I don't expect to ever support myself on my artistic work alone, so it will always have to be added to whatever else I'm doing. I have to train myself to engage even when I'm feeling grumpy over some drama at the studio or dejected because potential employers haven't been calling. Sure I feel tired and uninspired, but at the end of the day, aren't those just excuses that will keep me from moving forward in my work?
My hypothesis, which I am trying to test here, is that doing the artistic work, engaging my brain and emotions, will actually help me to feel more refreshed and ready to deal with the rest of life than hiding away for a while. This may be completely false, and I think I will have to be gracious with myself as I try to navigate how this will work, but I want to give it a try.
2. Have faith in myself as an artist. Whoa nelly. This is gonna be tough. I've had some opportunities to share different facets of my work this past year and one of the pieces of feedback I get consistently is that I approach sharing my work apologetically, rather than confidently. One of the things that I find most difficult in the artistic life is that you have to be the one who believes in you and in your work more than anybody else. I think with dance in particular, I am plagued by questions of where all this is going, why am I even doing it, how good can I possibly expect myself to get given my late start, will anybody ever take me seriously, etc, etc. It feels like everything I work for and want is a million, billion miles away and some days it stops me dead in my tracks and I feel like I can't go on. But the reason that I dance is not so I can join a famous company one day or have the applause of thousands. I dance because I have to dance and I couldn't stop even if I wanted to. The same goes for my writing, I have to tell these stories. And I love my work, I love it so much, but I have to love it even more, and I have to learn how to love it in front of other people, to not be afraid to let them know how much I care. Because the only person that's going to advocate for me and my work is me.
3.Read the Bible. Okay, let's be honest. I already have read the Bible. All of it. But it's been quite a while and I know that there were vast portions that I read with almost no comprehension. I would really like to read the Bible with a book or commentary that will help illumine what I'm reading, the way that I used to in college. I want to start with the Old Testament, since that's what I have the least comprehension of and background in. I am pretty sure that it is worth investing some time to try to understand this book and its stories.
Oh, and the word I am manifesting for this year is abundance. I feel like last year's adventures in honesty was almost too successful, as I now feel almost incapable of hiding my feelings. But, I remind myself, this is probably a good thing, at least in most cases. It's funny, I feel like I didn't put forth herculean efforts to reform myself in the honesty project, but just by putting it out there and asking for it, it came to me. Thanks, God.
When I say abundance, I don't just mean material plenty, although a little of that would be awfully nice right about now. I mean feeling secure in the enough-ness that I have everything I need, or I will be given everything I need, and more than. Abundance of time, abundance of inspiration, abundance of friends, abundance of faith, abundance of hope and courage, abundance of love. Amen.
Things have just been crazy here for the longest. I have been dancing, working, and trying to find work, and in between trying to figure out where my life is going and where it is supposed to go and what I'm supposed to do next and what I'm supposed to be when I grow up and what if I don't go in the right direction and how am I supposed to figure this out when I'm so busy, busy, busy all the time? And nothing is coming clear, and hasn't for a while. I've noted on here several times my feelings of restlessness, of wanting to know why I'm doing the things that I'm doing and figure out what I love and what my life's work should be, and there is no clarity. But, I am realizing, I can't make space right now for that clarity to emerge. It's like I'm running around and running around and every so often I run past my Life and I grab her by the shoulders and start shaking at her and screaming in her face, "What do you want from me, what should I do, what are the next steps, where is all this headed, why am I doing it, what's going to happen, tell me, tell me, tell me!!!!!!" And then before she can even process the terrifying experience, I'm off and running again, angry now that I'm not getting the information.
Unfortunately, I can't slow down, not right now. The things that I am doing are all essential, and there's nothing that I can drop from my schedule to make more space. But, I figure, while things are this way, the least I can do is let Life rest in her little corner, drink a cup of tea and breathe so that she has some time to sort things out, and come back when I have a little more time to have a proper conversation. And, with that realization, that surrender of control and willingness to just do what has to be done right now and not worry and obsess over the future (I think of it as "fretting," because I love that word. I am a first-class fretter) with the acknowledgement that I just don't know right now and probably won't for a while, there is a quiet space that I can be in and get my work done. I think that faith in God allows us to believe that everything is not going to spin out of control if we turn our back for a second or decide to take a nap. I was listening to a wonderful podcast by my "adopted-uncle-even-though-we've-never-met-and-he-doesn't-know-I-exist," Tim Keller, and the gist of it was, "People are always asking me 'How can I know the will of God for my life?' and I always tell them: submit your life to him, and make a decision." Okay. It's all in his box now, not mine.
And I think, as far as the future goes, I want to do less fretting, and more daydreaming. Daydreaming is great because the way that I normally attack these kinds of things is with a spreadsheet, with columns for interests and columns for things that seem financially viable and point values for everything, and there's lots of really hard math involved and after doing that for a while, your soul gets crushed to a powder. But daydreaming...ah, daydreaming allows for ambiguity, allows for the possibility that you might accomplish more than you know is possible right now, allows for the flexibility that your life might have multiple destinations instead of just one, and allows for the possibility that, instead of ending up terribly, your life might just meander somewhere great, all on it's own, without your white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel.
Today is unfolding as just that kind of day. Kind of rainy and cold, but inside and dry now, cup of coffee in hand, candles lit, and deep breathing.
Oh, and btw, I did not get here on my own. I was a raving, whinging lunatic last night. Many thanks to K. for listening to me whine (for hours! hours! incomprehensibly!) and talking me down. We came back to that quote from Anne Lamott's Traveling Mercies, "...when a lot of things start going wrong all at once, it is to protect something big and lovely that is trying to get itself born--and that this something needs for you to be distracted so that it can be born as perfectly as possible." Okay then, Big and Lovely, hands off the wheel. You can come out now.
Well. So, that happened. Looks like it's basically been two months since I posted. Sorry about that. I've been, well, that thing that everybody is when they start neglecting their blogs for other stuff (busy, I mean busy). What's the news. Well, I was on a hefty two week long vacation for a while, hitting Mont Tremblant, Montreal, Buffalo and Pittsburgh with the fam (and the extended fam, an unusual addition to our adventures). Then no sooner did that end than I whisked away for a long weekend in Boston to visit friend-types, then back to Buffalo for a crash course in grant-writing, which will hopefully prove useful in the very near future, and some time with with WNY Young Writers' Studio, which is already proving very useful and was awesome, and I would love to elaborate, but I just don't have the time! And, that was pretty much the month of August. I would love to tell you what the heck happened in the month of July, but honestly, it's hard to remember. It was a long time ago. I think I did a lot of traveling. Let's go with that.
Other than that, well, I feel like I've been in a bit of a funk lately. I think it has a lot to do with all the crazy changes that are happening around here. Two of my good friends have moved away, as I previously mentioned, and I think I definitely feel the loss. I'm looking at the end of my current job, which despite some occasional complaints, I have loved, and looking around for something new, which may or may not be as fun or fulfilling or may not materialize at all. Let's face it, in this economy, a job should never be assumed. I'm starting another year of dance classes, even more intensely (ballet and modern! have I lost my mind?) without having any clear idea of why I'm doing this, or where it's going. Then there's the inevitable slide of summer into fall, which I can feel happening around me, and I'm not ready. I'm just not. Summer went so quickly, and sad as it is, I feel like there were many ways in which I was too busy to enjoy it.
So, this may seem like a non-sequitur, but it makes perfect sense to me: I want to do a better job of writing down my life. I feel like attentiveness is key to appreciation and appreciation is key to happiness. I would like to do a better job of appreciating what is going on around me in the day to day, and appreciate my unique voice and perspective. That's all I'm going to say right now. Let's see how this unfolds.
Here is today: my first dance class of the semester, sweat and a sore back and that old familiar feeling of being completed overwhelmed and completely determined at the same time. Also, helping a friend move, geographically, closer. I'll bring my peach pie and i-Home to enjoy while we unpack.
I don't know what I want to be when I grow up. And it's seriously bumming me out. This is troubling because I am already so grown up, and getting moreso every day! Do I lack ambition? Am I aimless? Am I one of those people? Oh dear.
photo courtesy of here. not actually a picture of the place i am talking about...
So, there I was. Well, if you don't know why I was there, read the post before the last one. If you don't know where I was, the answer was...another anonymous church. I don't want to be traced. They advertised a "Single Adults Ministry" that met on Thursday nights. It sounded interesting, so I decided to check it out. Let's start by saying that this church was out in the middle of East Bumblyberg, by which I mean the sticks, the boonies, the middle of the proverbial Nowhere. It took a solid half hour of driving from my house to make it out there, not a point in its favor. But once I saw the place, I understood why. They needed the room. A sprawling sea of asphalt surrounded a building as large as...time out for a second. I have no spatial reasoning skills. I could not even slightly guess at the actual square footage of this thing. And, in metaphorical terms, I tend to exaggerate (It was as large as four football fields, end to end!). I cannot give you a comparable estimate. Suffice it to say, it was a very, very, very large church. That large church you have in your mind now? No, bigger.
So, I pulled into the enormous parking lot, and drove a good 40 seconds before I was on the side of the church where all the other cars were parked, which I presumed to be the entrance. I saw a number of older adult women as I pulled through the lot, maybe 40 or 50, heading for the church, giving me funny looks. I assumed they had an aversion to Patsy Cline, who was crooning through my speakers at the time, and decided not to hold it against them and move on. I parked, walked in, successfully maneuvered away from the welcome table, made my way through the inevitable in-church Starbucks doppelganger, and walked into the doors of the worship space.
Right off the bat, MORE ROUND TABLES! Okay, timeout again for a second here. I realize that you want to be hip, emergent, and "build community." But I am a first time guest, I am your Holy Grail, your Golden Haired Woman, your Maltese Falcon. I am who you're trying to build community with. And let me tell you, I am deeply turned off by round tables. This is a CHURCH! I want to sit in a ROW, a PEW, or some other in-straight-lines configuration that doesn't launch me into the most uncomfortable part of the experience (making-eye-contact-and-small-talk) right off the bat. PLEASE!
Ahem. Moving on. I walk in the door and there is the inevitable Hillsong worship, projected on the inevitable dizzying powerpoint projecter, with the inevitable gotee-ed pastor and...What image does "single adults ministry" of a large, suburban church conjure up for you? Go ahead. Ponder a moment. Let me tell you what struck mine eye as soon as I walked through the door. ALL OLD PEOPLE! Like, there was one person in the entire room that was under the age of 40, and he was running the sound board. This was just so far from my wildest imaginings of what I would face. This was the whole point of me moving away from my much enjoyed Lutheran church. Have we already talked about how I have nothing against old people, I just have a surfeit of them in my life at the moment and no new friends my own age! And then, to come to the "Single Adults Ministry" and find that, you know, I don't feel I was misled. These were probably single adults. I just couldn't believe that, in the whole group, which I spent time surveying from the back of the room, I couldn't find a single other person in their 20s. Am I the only 20 something in Buffalo, for crying out loud!!!!
And, then I left. Yes, that's right, did not stay for the rest of the worship time, did not stay for the message, just turned around, visited the ladies room as a diversion, and then left through a different set of doors than the ones I came in (there were many). It was, to be sure, a great defeat. Although, I have said consolingly to myself, I don't know that I could have ever seriously considered a church with such a large parking lot. I have currently retired to lick my wounds for a while and look for new leads on young churches. A couple are forthcoming. We'll see what happens next in The Church Chronicles!!! (Bum bum baaaaaaah!! Echoey voice, animated graphic of two giant stone doors slamming shut, with THE CHURCH CHRONICLES engraved on the outside. This is my tv show. Didn't you know that?)
I have been restless lately. Not lately as in this afternoon, but lately as in, well, at least a week or so. But it's strong. Suddenly I have this overwhelming desire to change everything. To move out of this house. To move out of this city. To move to a different city, or maybe to the country. To live in a cabin in the woods, away from everyone. To live in an urban commune with everything held in common. To get a dog. To get a new wardrobe. To get new friends. To get a new job. Not just a new client, but a completely new line of work. To change the season. To get a kiddie pool for the backyard. To play in the sprinkler. To go on a long, long drive, and not look back.
I feel like I used to know where my life was heading, what I wanted to be when I grew up. Now I feel like I'm just getting jobs because they sound like fun to me, but I don't really have any idea where this is all heading. Maybe that is the thing. I feel like in all this muddled desire for change, there is something that really does need to happen or to change, or something is about to happen, maybe without me doing anything. But I could not, for the life of me, say which of these things it is.
I decided recently that I need more friends. Now, maybe this sounds like some latent desire that everyone probably has or is at least open to, but for me this represents a significant sea change. After graduating from college, I had a lot of friends that dispersed, and of course I missed them, but for the most part, I was content because it took so much time staying in touch with everyone through phone calls, facebook, cards, and e-mails, that my schedule felt full. But then, I was living in Houston and making no friends there and it hit me, one night, that you can have friends that you love all over the globe, but if you have no one to go see a movie with, it's no good.
Flash forward to Buffalo, where friends abound! to the point that I am again not in the market, and am, in fact, making friends against my will. But, for the most part, these are tango friends, work friends, theatre friends, or coffee date friends. They are glorious, remarkable human beings, and I feel delighted to have the opportunity to get to know them, but. They are all older than me, and busy with careers and weddings and familys and not the kind of folks you can call up out of the blue on a Saturday night. Combine that with the fact that some of my own friends, my bedrock buds, the people that I would call up on a Saturday night and drink with and dance with and most certainly take to the movies, are moving away from Buffalo. It's surprising what even a small reduction does to your sense of community. You go from feeling established with an embarrassment of riches to feeling shaky, unstable, and wondering.
The thing that one finds in post-college life, or at least that I've found, is that you don't just stumble upon interesting, intelligent, engaging people under every rock. There used to be so many of them! Where did they go!?! Rather than spend thousands of dollars on a grad school education that I don't really want, I've decided to turn to another social hub: churches. Yes, I go to a Lutheran church, which I am actually quite fond of, but there are no, and I mean NO young people there. There are probably less than 10 people who regularly attend church and are under the age of 35. So, I'm...gulp...church shopping. I hate it, but what's a girl to do? All of a sudden I have a very different set of criteria for what I am looking for in a church, and it's a short list, sadly enough. I think it's worth it to make a switch. I think it is.
I started a couple weeks ago by investigating a church which...shall remain nameless. Suffice it to say, it's the urban outreach of a very large, suburban church, held in what looks like the shell of an old, unhip church that probably ran out of money and went under a while ago. I walked in on Sunday morning and was stopped just inside the door by someone asking me, "Are you new?" I admitted, with hesitation, that I was, and was taken over to the new people table, where I was informed that, "if I filled out a visitor's card, I would get to take home my choice of book and a prize." Feeling like I was playing a carnival game instead of attending church, I reluctantly put down my contact information and was given the choice of blah blah blah, by Max Lucado, something or other Every Man's Battle, blah Book Cover Showing Woman With Arms Flung Wide in Field. Realizing that I cared very little about my choice, I just grabbed a book and my charming little giftbag and moved on.
I was ushered to a seat at one of the church's many round, cafeteria style tables, where people were sitting in groups. At my table was an older couple, an older woman holding somebody else's baby, and a woman who looked like she was in her mid-thirties, alone. I had missed what was probably the bulk of the worship and we seemed to be in the midst of announcements? The pastor told us, "We know that God doesn't sleep, but, if he did, what would be the last thing he thinks about before going to be? Also, when he wakes up, although we know from the Scripture that he doesn't wake up because he doesn't sleep, but if he did, what would be the first thing he would think about when he woke up? Discuss it right now, at your tables." What followed was a very awkward 40 seconds where we looked around at each other nervously until the pastor interrupted and said, "Now what were your answers, shout them out," which was responded to with cries of "Love," "Us," and "Salvation."
"Those are all good answers," the pastor said. He went on, but I drifted away, lost in trying to figure out what was going on (was this the sermon? why was the worship band just standing around and waiting?) The next group activity we were asked to do was for us all to share a "win" from the week, some thing that we had done that was uniquely great because we were Christian. "I got a hug from a woman because I tied her shoe for her when her hands were full," said the woman with the borrowed baby. We talked about this and about the school that she worked at and how many days left till summer break for another thirty seconds till the pastor interrupted again. Then we were all supposed to pray together, outloud, at our tables. I felt uncomfortable.
After that, they played what must have been the final song in their worship set. It was something someone at the church had written, I think, I had never heard it before. It made full use of the stage full of electric guitars and drums. The stage itself looked like what would be the set if they turned Les Mis into a rock opera. There were two makeshift altars on either side of the church, festooned with candles. One said "Love" and the other said "Home," both in old, rusty letters. The powerpoint slide backgrounds were animated. I had a hard time focusing.
After the song, we all settled in for the sermon. It was purportedly about singleness, but instead the majority of the time was spent talking about how to date God's way. Not too much physical contact right up front. Don't start talking about "the m word" (marriage) too soon. Guard your heart. Etc. When the sermon was over and we said the final prayer, I slipped out the back.
The upside? There were tons of young people.
Is this what it's come to? That in order to go to a church with other twenty-somethings they have to be, candle-lighting, incense smoking, song-writing, take-communion-anytime-you-feel-led, emergent flaky people? That is a soap box I could speak from for days, but I won't. Suffice it to say, I don't know that I would go back there. It felt so uncomfortable on so many different levels. I...feel defeated. But! I can't give up after just one church! So, stay tuned for the ongoing adventures of...The Church Chronicles!
OMG. Okay, I'm all about the blogging without obligation thing, to a certain point, but I don't think that point extends to over a month of non-posting. Does it help if I say I've been busy? May was mostly devoted to a benefit I helped plan ("The Art of Womanhood" to benefit The Priscilla Project, a really wonderful charity that helps pregnant refugee women) and then after that, a really big tango weekend towards the end of the month. The weekend included, in addition to the usual milongas and workshops, a performance that was at the theatre that I work at, so I was doubly involved in that, and ended up helping out with the show in a very hands on way. As in, climbing up and down into the sound booth (which is, in fact, just on scaffolding up behind the seats, so when I say climb, I really do mean climb) and running the follow-spot, which clanged down into a lower setting in its stand during the show, making a big noise and scaring the crap out of me. That was an epic evening to be sure. And then, gone for two weeks in Houston for the high-school graduation of the little sis, and you heard me right, that was two weeks, two full weeks of absence and a very, very busy time that was as well.
And now back in Buffalo, trying to catch up on...everything. Work, life, friends, cleaning, the whole nine yards. No rest for the weary. So, for the past month, I guess that has meant that my poor little blog has been left in the dust. But, never fear, intrepid readers. I hope to post sufficiently in the next few months, despite the incredible obstacles standing in my path. But I am planning some interesting stuff. Now that the guitar challenge is officially over (with mixed results) I am planning to do the same thing with a 30 day writing challenge, and the blog should hopefully reap some of the fruits of that labor. There is also a little side project I am working on this summer which could yield some very interesting posts indeed...
But, holy cow! It's basically summer! It's all happening so quickly! But this is so completely my favorite time in Buffalo (except for maybe spring or fall) and I am so glad it has arrived. I have been pulling out all my cute summer clothes, buying a pitcher for the gallons of iced tea I hope to have always on hand, planning strawberry shortcakes aplenty, eyeing the backyard for the next phase of renovation, enjoying my first street fair of the year and generally feeling awhirl with the change of seasons. I have a feeling it's going to be really, really good. Hang in there, my faithful intrepids. There's good stuff to come.
So, where's that spring list, how's it coming? Mmmm...well. I feel like the funny thing about this project is that I started it in the fall, and I have, for some reason, tons of associations of what ought to be done in the fall. But other seasons, not so much. I'm not complaining, it's been a fun project and it helps me to have more fun, explore more. I just want you to realize, these lists don't come from thin air. So, for spring, I have plant the garden (check-ish), spring cleaning (oh yeah, total check, so worth it), celebrate amazing birthday (check check check) flying kites (not checked) and...? One of the things that makes it tough is that the weather in Buffalo spring is so unpredictable, so there are just days that feel like summer and days that feel like winter and not much in between. One of the things that has been amazing, though, is all the flowers. Oh my goodness. This city explodes into bloom in the spring. There are flowering trees everywhere, and everyone plants tulips and crocus and daffodils (including yours truly) and there are even huge banks of daffodils on either side of the 33. It's so gorgeous. Now, if it would just warm up... What about you? Any spring must-dos or must-sees?
So, actual point of this post. Just for fun, I made a little list of people I'd love to sit down with for a cup of joe and pick their brains a little bit. Maybe they will read this blog and we can make it happen...
1. Jon Stewart--Yes, of The Daily Show. He is very interesting to me because he's very funny, but he doesn't have to make himself ridiculous like Colbert does (although he will if the occasion calls for it). He meets people where they're at and he has one of the most powerful voices in American politics today. Being funny makes you powerful. Proof positive. If we did have coffee, I would ask him what he would actually do in public office. Because he'll never run. Pundits don't ever want to be the insects under glass, they want to be the ones poking them and making jokes.
2. Tina Fey--This is actually the lady who started the list. We have so much in common! Okay, I actually might identify with her 30 Rock character, Liz Lemon, than with the great lady herself. But, come on, you can't come up with that stuff without some deep personal pain, probably from middle school (I am not projecting!) I would want to ask her what it's like being a funny lady in a man's world. And, how much she is or was like Liz Lemon.
3. Barack Obama--Yes, I know he's the president! I know he can't sit down and have coffee with me! But neither can Tina! Why should I be limited by reality? Okay, I DO NOT want this to become a political blog, but I was an Obama support way back in 2008 when he was running and it has been interesting to watch his presidency, as being politically involved has made me feel more engaged than I ever have with other presidents. I would like to ask him about a few things that I don't think have been going so well and see why he made the choices he did and whether I might think differently if I had more information. Plus, he seems like a very interesting person and I think we'd have a great time. I hope he brings Michelle, she's doing such good things with the kids and the gardens and what not.
4. Tim Keller--he is the pastor of Redeemer Presbyterian church in NYC and, since I figure that even if I did go to that church, it's probably so big by now that we'd never have time to sit and chat, I better make a point to schedule coffee now. I first discovered Tim while at L'Abri, and I enjoy listening to his sermons so much. I love that he addresses the concerns of contemporary people, but he doesn't try to be "hip" by talking nonsense or watering down his theology. He's actually pretty darn conservative, but he explains things in a way that are so convincing. And the way that he talks about Jesus makes him sound like a person I've never heard of before, even though I've been a church-goer for pretty much my entire life. If you're curious, you can listen to his stuff here.
5. Molly Wizenberg--She is the author of my favorite food blog, Orangette, a wonderful writer and she collaborates on a hilarious series of podcasts called "Spilled Milk." We have lots in common. We could have swoony conversations about goat cheese, rhubarb, and Paris. We would probably be best friends. Just give us a chance, Molly.
That's all I have for you today, my ducklings. Who are your coffee buddies, real and fantastical? This...just makes me want iced coffee.
Here we are, a rainy Sunday afternoon, after making a big pot of cassoulet and plenty of almond biscotti to get me through the week (did you know I sometimes think about turning this into a food blog? But I don't relish the thought of taking all those pictures. Get it? Relish? Anyway...). The view from out my window is supernaturally green, like, shimmering, wet, green green. Unbelievable, Emerald Isle, spring green. And it has been all about the spring this weekend. We bought seeds on Friday for our future garden. So much potentiality and excitement in seeds, it makes me want to sing! And then Saturday we were engaged in massive, epic, earth-shaking spring cleaning. The kind where you don't just wipe down the kitchen counters, you clean out the fridge and all the old, weird food from your cabinets, and scrub off the greasy cabinet above the stove, and dust everything in the living room and clean up above the lintels of the doors. The house is so clean. It's...amazing. I wish it could be like this forever.
Not much headway on putting together a spring list, and actually, as I reflect, I'm not very happy with my achievements on the winter list either. I still haven't been to the Albright-Knox to actually see the gallery, although I was there for a splendid milonga a few weeks ago. I still, after two winters in Buffalo, have yet to spend some time sledding, although I did make it to the Powder Keg Festival downtown and wander through the ice maze. (Which, is actually nothing like sledding, but they had sledding down an exit ramp, which is why I thought of it. Unfortunately, the exit ramp sledding was not successful...). And I still haven't made it to an open jazz session at the Colored Musicians' Club and I STILL, and most disappointingly, haven't been to one of the Cajun Zydeco Partees! Sometimes I am surprised to find that, even with all my independence of spirit and embrace of the single lifestyle, there are still places that I don't feel comfortable going to alone. But that's a topic for another post...
On the other hand, I did spend time at the Botanical Gardens, I did enjoy a snowy romp or two, I did immerse myself in baking, especially breads, which was a delight, I continued to nurture my artsy, craftsy side, there was at least one delightful evening of Apples to Apples, and I made serious headway on another little side project which I will hopefully reveal the results of in a few weeks (if you think it's a baby you're 1. wrong and 2. have a seriously misguided understanding of biology.).
But, all list-making aside, I did want to pause for a few moments to clue you in on something that's been stewing and brewing in my brain in regards to this whole guitar thing. I realize that I've mentioned a number of times that I now own a guitar (her name is Lucille) and am trying to practice the guitar and be disciplined about so doing, but there is a whole philosophical underpinning to this endeavor. (Of course there is, this is me we're talking about). I feel like everyone should at least attempt a musical instrument in their lifetime, and I actually have before, round about the grade school years when all the cool kids were doing it. I made a half-hearted attempt on the cello, had to miss a few lessons for what I'm sure were legitimate reasons, fell behind in the class and couldn't catch up again and gave it up. It should be mentioned that I have no natural musical ability to speak of. I floundered when attempting to play the recorder, for heaven's sake (remember those? in case not, they were really, really easy to play). Somewhere along the line, I think you can see that it becomes something more than, "Everybody should probably do this."
Okay, at the risk of sounding arrogant, I have to admit that a lot of what I've done in my life has come easily to me. This is mostly because for the first 22 years, my life centered around academia, and that is an area at which I could naturally excel, even without necessarily trying very hard. Music is different. Music is tough. Music makes me feel dumb. I have noticed that if I don't practice, even for a week, I feel like I've lapsed so far in terms of the time it takes me to remember where my fingers are supposed to go and get them there. I get frustrated at being so slow. Practicing isn't fun. I would avoid it if I could. And don't even talk about music theory. That stuff is so far over my head...it's tough. That's all I'm trying to get across here.
But I believe that it is fundamentally good for me to do something that is so difficult for me. I need to learn how to stick with something through the tedium, through the boring exercise of moving back and forth between the A and D chords that I can't get away with not doing. I can't fake my way through it, I can't talk my way out of it, if I don't put in the work, I won't get any better. Imagine that. Hence all the talk of the need for discipline, and how I'm discovering that I don't have any. But I wasn't joking about that 30 day challenge. We are a week in, and although I did skip one day (for very legitimate reasons, but remember, in Guitar Challenge, there are no legitimate reasons!) I did practice every other day. I think good things are happening. They might not be. They might not happen for a long, long time. But that's okay. I'm gonna stick with it. For as long as it takes...
S.
P.S.--I love Castle. That does not relate in even the remotest way to anything I've just told you. But you should know. Because if you don't love it too, I probably think you're a bad person. FYI.
I took this picture. I have no idea where or what it is...
Can we just talk about something for a sec? Somewhere along the line, I created this impression of myself as a disciplined person. Actually, I think I've thought of myself this way for quite some time. I always turned in my homework on time. The assigned readings got completed. I usually managed to keep my living space from falling into a state of total disarray. Also, my dancing. I used to go twice a week for at least an hour to the parish hall of Westminster Presbyterian. Then I started taking a very intense dance class and would go every week. The thing is, I go every week. Rain or shine or snow or hail or sleepiness or Friday afternoon torpor not withstanding. I simply allow myself no other option. The one exception is if I'm feeling really sick. But otherwise, when I'm sitting in the big comfy red chair and feeling like I'd rather just take a nap, I say to myself, "Shannon, what day is it?" "Friday." "And where should you be?" "Dancing. But I don't wanna!" "Are you sick?" "No." "Is your leg broken?" "No." "Then get up and go!" And that's all there is to it. There is only one option. I have come to see all that as incidental. It's one thing to be very disciplined about one big commitment every week. It's quite another thing to be disciplined about something that ought to be happening every day. I am speaking specifically of writing and this whole guitar enterprise. These are things that I should be committed to doing in at least 15 minute increments every single day. Who can't find 15 minutes in a day, even a busy day? The problem is partially that I sometimes save these things till the evenings, which are in many ways the busiest times of the day for me. But I work from home, for crying out loud! Can I not fit in 15 minutes of guitar practice on my lunch hour? I absolutely could, but I wait till the end of the day, till I'm tired and feeling like Oh, I worked so hard today, I shouldn't have to do something else I don't want to do. Then I spend the evening watching episodes of 30 Rock on Netflix. A wonderful show, but I could take 15 minutes out of the evening for the guitar without causing undue stress. That's the thing that gets me. My reasons for NOT doing it are so stupid. Grrr...
So I've decided to go with the 30 day challenge method. You know how they say it takes 30 days to form a habit. Well, I'm going to try to commit to 30 days of practicing the guitar for 15 minutes every day. I know, the writing needs work too, but I feel like trying to take on both at the same time is overly ambitious, so here we are. I'll let you know how it goes. I'm saying that I'm starting today, because I've already practiced, so that's one down, 29 to go...
Are you tired of the poems yet? Well, too bad, because you're getting more. I have this strong inclination to keep posting old work throughout Lent, I'm not sure where it's headed, but that's what I aim to do. In trying to "write more," I've discovered all these obstacles to trying to write post college-life. First of all, no deadlines. If I have as long as I need to do my work, why do it now? Second, I seem to have forgotten how to find inspiration, write poetically, revise, or do anything good, ever. I had a couple of false starts, as well as some playing around with old work that was supposed to go somewhere, but it all seems to have fallen out of the old brainpan. Sometimes I even manage to scrape together an idea, but when I go to put it on the page, it doesn't sound like a poem. I would say that I've just lost the touch, but one of my favorite pieces that I've ever written was written post-college. Which brings me to the greatest stumbling block: work ethic. I bet if I sat down every day, even for as little as half an hour, ye olde skills would start coming back to me. But, that hasn't been happening. Sometimes I wish my schedule wasn't so erratic. But, I have to remember, I've come a long way already. Six months ago, I thought the Craft was stone-cold dead and I would never be a writer again. Silly me. You can't kill your art. You can only cryogenically freeze it so that it falls into a very deep sleep and it takes tons and tons of work to figure out who you are enough to wake it up again. That's all. Piece of cake...?
This week's installment of "old-poetry-meant-to-inspire-me-with-my-former-skill" is from my senior capstone project. It's a little darker, but it feels appropriate.
Finding the Geraniums, Gone
With the winter coming on, I guess they felt they had to do it. But now the green mounds, the neat plots of geraniums are decimated. Each plant has left a crater in the world of wood chips, a conspicuous absence of flower and form.
And I wonder, who did this? who decided that unnatural yanking, prying palms and fingers should do the work a jealous frost had set aside for himself
It must have been a dirty job. I think they struggled, as they were torn from the ground. I can tell, because around each pothole there is a strewing of dark flannel leaves, the bright drops shed from blood red petals like a scattering of hens’ feathers, in a butcher’s yard.
Because isn't that what you want on a Friday afternoon, when the world is nearing spring? When I was a senior in college, I did a capstone project around the theme of object poems (don't ask me why that, I'm just sitting here trying to remember, and I can't for the life of me). I did a whole series on the theme of wooden spoons. I do have a strange sort of fascination with them. This poem is really odd. I really had forgotten all about it till I was going through my stuff. But I love the progression of it. You'll see...(oh, it's a prose poem. Don't be thrown off by the lack of line breaks.)
a lifetime in spoons
Should I tell you how from my infancy I have wanted a wooden spoon, how I tossed aside rattles and binkies in inarticulate rage, waiting for someone to recognize what I really needed?
In toddlerhood, my first steps were goaded on by the promised prize of a wooden spoon, but when I finally crossed the room, they had quick-switched it out for a baby doll, as if I would never know I had been cheated.
I have been a difficult adolescent, engaged in shouting matches with my mother about whether I could wear my dangly spoon earrings to church, whether my first boyfriend could bring me a box of spoons for our date, each hardwood nestled in its little paper cup. Madly criticizing her drawer full of other spoons, stainless steel, cheap nylon and sad plastic; melting in the pot, turning yellow and cracking, ruined by age until I passionately wept at the sight.
Someday, though, I will grow old enough to acquire a house and a fence and a kitchen of my own, to get all I’ve ever wanted. Then I will fill that kitchen as I please, stacking heavy ceramic bowls and lighting archaic candles in the evening, hanging the walls with spoon prints, and mounting my favorites on plaques like hunting trophies. When my parents finally come to dinner, squawking about my lack of taste, I will serve them soup, forego the silver, and set the table with wooden spoons.
This is Charlie.
