I think there may be only one or two straggling readers left checking this blog, which I've sadly neglected. Not that I feel very guilty about it; I've been writing other things in other places. For that last reader or two, however, here's a reward - something that has sat in drafts for a long time now, edited every few months as I've thought about it again.
The impetus for this piece was a thought from a professor in one of my last (and most favorite) college classes. He said that everyone had a story they told themselves about how they would fall in love, and we should consider what ours was. A long, wandering journey? A magic lamp? A tragedy? A comedy? I hadn't thought about it like this before, but it came to me quickly what mine was: a battle. In the time since then, this is what my thoughts on my own love story have come to.
The Witch Knight
The castle is well-guarded
as well with spells and sheer will as with stone and vine, the people in the village say
you cannot go inside it
you cannot dwell in there
There is a guard at its door, with fierce armor
and a strong arm
and a sharp wit
and more mysteriously fearsome for that she is a woman too.
The villagers speak warnings to the wanderers
and some are not afraid but wish to see the witch knight with their own eyes.
some she drives off from her tower long before they reach the gate
some she beats or kills with her blade
To others, and few they be, she lifts the faceplate of her helmet, so that they see her true face
and these all flee, every one.
They say it's the eyes.
They say there is no match for that leveling gaze.
A man who is wise enough to seek what he desires determinedly, with skill and focus
but who is also fool enough to risk pain and destruction to get it
that is a rare man indeed.
The witch knight has looked forward and seen the threads of her life spinning out in many directions
maybe he does not come.
maybe he does not exist.
maybe he comes, looks, and leaves.
It does not matter. She has set herself in readiness. That is her part.
In the village the story is already told how it will happen
because the castle must be surrendered
so it must be a powerful man, with archers and bristling knights
overwhelming the walls. Or it must be a sly enchanter, slipping honey words in the witch's ears
until her quicksilver sword is lowered and her eyes dim.
Then he will carry her away, because that is what they want, the girls of the village
to be away, away from there
because a powerful man
because a honey-tongued man
he must surely lead the way to excitement.
But the witch has learned her lessons well.
Her castle is humble and old; powerful men march by it, it is not a worthy prize.
Her walls are plain and overgrown with vines; the vain men turn their heads away.
Her armor is thick and painted black as death; the careful men tremble and shrink.
Her blade is long and carefully sharp; the fools see only the end of it.
The last morning of the witch knight was cool and fair
a calm sun picked at the edges of leaves and stems of grass
and earthy brown songbirds left their nests among the ivy across the castle walls.
The morning was as ready as an empty book laid open
The morning was as new and green as the first breath of Eden
The morning brought him
on a cream-colored charger, quietly through the village.
Alone, and with armor so skillfully oiled and carried
no one woke to sound a warning.
Past the forge
Past the mill
Past the square and the empty market
he rode beyond to the old castle.
The witch knight was waiting for him
in her dark armor with her bright blade already drawn.
He dismounted at her gate
He readied his stance
He drew his own sword
and it began.
In three strokes the witch of the castle knew they were well-matched
and more and more this knowledge grew in her as the two swords darted and flashed between them
He did not fight to beat her
His sword's tip never touched her armor
And betimes he let his defense fail, just slightly, as if to see if she could find the hole.
The witch knight was a woman of no meager learning
she noted every opening
she knew the strike to accompany it
she did not waver to press her advantage
But each time, the stranger knew a counter that freed him.
Disbelief and hope fought each other in the witch knight's heart
but determination to match him steeled her arm
and she twisted away in one foolish step purposefully
She too knew the parry to block the attack that followed.
And they fought on, but differently then, as both knew
It was only a game
It was only a measuring gauge
And it was nearing its end.
The next time the strange knight let his defense falter was the last.
The witch saw it and threw her strength into the thrust of her blade toward him.
What did she see in the corner of her eye then?
The point of the stranger's sword, lowering, submitting.
Astonishment filled the witch's mind at the sight of it
her strike, flying fast, would cut through the man's armor if it were cheaply made
her strike would crush the man's armor if it were not
her strike would kill him if she wished it.
But she did not. Before her blade reached him the strength had left it
the blow glanced off the curve of the stranger's breastplate.
The witch knight paced back and regarded him
with a stance ready for his next attack
but the man threw his sword aside, unheeded in the grass.
He was a fool, then, the woman thought
She sheathed her sword
She raised her faceplate
She gave him the full strength of her powerful gaze.
Her face bespoke walls steeper and firmer than the stone ones they stood before, walls to heart and mind.
It was the beautiful and cold face of one who knew how little beauty mattered.
It was a face that many men had already shied away from.
The strange knight met her gaze, undaunted
and saw glancing across her eyes something of her weariness
something that was tired of ceaseless guarding and the long, lonely wait.
He saw himself.
He lifted off his helmet and returned her winter gaze with the smile of a summer sun
and the light warmed, melted, opened the witch knight's heart.
She pulled her helmet free
unbound her hair and shook it loose
and found her rebellious mouth curving to return a smile shy and new as spring.
With long-practiced fingers the strange knight went to the buckles, stays, and pins of his armor
and the breastplate, buckler, gauntlets, each piece dropped beside the sword in the grass
revealing in parts, arms, hands, chest, legs
A plain man in worn white tunic and hose
only the grace of his movements betraying his strength and self-mastery.
The witch knight too loosed her armor by pieces and let them fall
and when she pulled her feet free from their steel clasps she stood before him
shivering slightly in the unaccustomed lightness of her worn homespun gown.
The villagers would say later the witch had met her match
She and the strange knight met eyes and both burst into dust.
What else would leave their armor so strangely scattered?
But the truth of it was that when the stranger saw her standing in the field before her gate
he saw not a knight
he saw not a witch
he saw her truly a woman.
And with one gentle, approving smile, he toppled the last of that woman's longstanding walls.
She darted forward, leaping nimbly over the fallen armor
She took the lead of his horse in one hand
She took his hand in her other and held it fast
She turned and led him through the wooden gate of the old castle, to a small cottage snug in a garden within
where waited a hearth fire, a hearty stew, and happiness to the end of their days.
Saturday, February 1, 2014
Thursday, July 7, 2011
On Being Fun
Partyin’, partyin’ (Yeah)
Partyin’, partyin’ (Yeah)
Fun, fun, fun, fun
Lookin’ forward to the weekend
Rebecca Black, "Friday"
If you'll bear with me a minute, I've got a wee axe to grind.
I seem to have met a lot of guys who list "fun" as one of the top, if not the top, characteristic they're looking for in a girl. Although I have never managed to extract a definition of "fun" from any of these guys (who probably believe no further definition is needed), observation leads me to believe that "fun" used in this context has many possible meanings, including:
So, my advice to the gents is twofold:
First, figure out what "fun" specifically means to you. Maybe you've outgrown one or two of its connotations and can finally discard them from your dating criteria. Maybe you'll find some good insight into why you date who you do, whether you feel successful at dating or not.
Second, don't expect full-blown "fun" on a first date. And if you get it anyway, hold off and see what she's like on the second date (at least) before you cement her likeness in your romantic psyche, because you definitely haven't seen her completely.
That's all. Thanks for reading.
Partyin’, partyin’ (Yeah)
Fun, fun, fun, fun
Lookin’ forward to the weekend
Rebecca Black, "Friday"
If you'll bear with me a minute, I've got a wee axe to grind.
I seem to have met a lot of guys who list "fun" as one of the top, if not the top, characteristic they're looking for in a girl. Although I have never managed to extract a definition of "fun" from any of these guys (who probably believe no further definition is needed), observation leads me to believe that "fun" used in this context has many possible meanings, including:
- Good at sports.
- Good looking.
- A comedian.
- Willing to make this dating thing really easy for me. ("Hungry? Have some food! Bored on a Saturday night? Come to my game/movie night! Lonely? Let's make out!")
- Giggles at everything I say.
- Instantly comfortable and congenial during a date, no matter what else is going on in her life, how well/poorly the date was planned, or how she actually feels about me. Especially on the first date.
- Shares my interests.
- A constant source for ideas of new, different, and interesting things we could do.
- Makes a connection with me immediately.
- Has accomplished things in her life that are impressive/adventurous/exciting/whatever I think is cool.
- All of the above, all the time.
So, my advice to the gents is twofold:
First, figure out what "fun" specifically means to you. Maybe you've outgrown one or two of its connotations and can finally discard them from your dating criteria. Maybe you'll find some good insight into why you date who you do, whether you feel successful at dating or not.
Second, don't expect full-blown "fun" on a first date. And if you get it anyway, hold off and see what she's like on the second date (at least) before you cement her likeness in your romantic psyche, because you definitely haven't seen her completely.
That's all. Thanks for reading.
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
A Little Star Shining Brightly
The stars are all my friends
Till the nighttime ends
So I know I'm not alone
When I'm here on my own
Isn't that a wonder: when you're alone
You're not alone, not really alone.
Leslie Bricusse (with John Williams), "When You're Alone"
When I'm out walking at night, usually to or from my car, I find myself almost instinctively turning my face up to look at the stars. I look for my favorite constellations of the season—the Big Dipper in summer, Orion in winter. Somehow seeing these brings me comfort, like I have a friend in the night sky, and I feel at home under it.
The Big Dipper, I think, was the first constellation I recognized. It took me years—until I had to teach stargazing to a bunch of thirteen-year-old girls at Girls Camp one summer—to find it. Before that I would pretend I saw it, nodding my head like I was sure which stars everyone was pointing at. A few times I thought maybe those stars were it, but I was afraid that I'd chosen the wrong stars; I wanted to be certain I was seeing the same dipper everyone else saw. It was frustrating after awhile, and I told myself it was stupid to look for one particular dipper when I bet you could find a million of them all over the sky. How rare could that arrangement of stars actually be? Maybe people just picked out their own version of the Big Dipper and pretended like it was the same one for everyone.
Like I said, it wasn't until I had to help a group of younger girls find the Big Dipper that I found it myself. I went out into the middle of the cul-de-sac of my home a few times that summer before camp, trying to find it so I'd be prepared for the stargazing class. I had to learn more about it, which part of the sky it would be in at which time of night, and I enlisted the aid of my dad and my brother, who was interested in astronomy at the time, to patiently point it out by its brightness, orientation, and the stars around it. One night I finally found it on my own. It was wonderful! I finally saw with certainty what all those other people were talking about. The more I looked for it and picked it out, the easier it became to find, until it was so clear, it couldn't have been more obvious if there actually were lines between the stars like in the star charts.
Isn't it interesting how even though the same constellations have existed in the sky for who knows how long and observed by humanity for centuries upon centuries, each person still has to find them on their own? No one can see them for you.
There are a lot of similarities between this and something else that also brings joy and comfort to my life, and that is my faith in God. It's easy to scoff and claim that like stars, people are just picking out proof of God to make sense of a vast nothingness, or that people just see what they want to see. But I've found that the more I've looked for God in my life and the more I learn about His ways, the clearer I see Him. I feel certain that I'm looking to the same beacon that many of my ancestors and other faithful Christians in the world's history have followed, and yet it was not something anyone else could find for me. Like my dad and brother helped me find the Big Dipper, I've had a lot of guidance in my faith from my parents and Church leaders, but in the end none of them could see the evidence of God for me; I found it for myself.
When I tilt my head to look at the night sky, I see the stars I know and feel at home. Maybe this is partly because I also know their Maker, who is grander than the sky and every twinkling galaxy but still just as present and as comforting. He is my Maker too, after all, and the Father of my spirit. Seeking Him has brought more clarity and direction in my life than following any star ever would.
Till the nighttime ends
So I know I'm not alone
When I'm here on my own
Isn't that a wonder: when you're alone
You're not alone, not really alone.
Leslie Bricusse (with John Williams), "When You're Alone"
When I'm out walking at night, usually to or from my car, I find myself almost instinctively turning my face up to look at the stars. I look for my favorite constellations of the season—the Big Dipper in summer, Orion in winter. Somehow seeing these brings me comfort, like I have a friend in the night sky, and I feel at home under it.
The Big Dipper, I think, was the first constellation I recognized. It took me years—until I had to teach stargazing to a bunch of thirteen-year-old girls at Girls Camp one summer—to find it. Before that I would pretend I saw it, nodding my head like I was sure which stars everyone was pointing at. A few times I thought maybe those stars were it, but I was afraid that I'd chosen the wrong stars; I wanted to be certain I was seeing the same dipper everyone else saw. It was frustrating after awhile, and I told myself it was stupid to look for one particular dipper when I bet you could find a million of them all over the sky. How rare could that arrangement of stars actually be? Maybe people just picked out their own version of the Big Dipper and pretended like it was the same one for everyone.
Like I said, it wasn't until I had to help a group of younger girls find the Big Dipper that I found it myself. I went out into the middle of the cul-de-sac of my home a few times that summer before camp, trying to find it so I'd be prepared for the stargazing class. I had to learn more about it, which part of the sky it would be in at which time of night, and I enlisted the aid of my dad and my brother, who was interested in astronomy at the time, to patiently point it out by its brightness, orientation, and the stars around it. One night I finally found it on my own. It was wonderful! I finally saw with certainty what all those other people were talking about. The more I looked for it and picked it out, the easier it became to find, until it was so clear, it couldn't have been more obvious if there actually were lines between the stars like in the star charts.
Isn't it interesting how even though the same constellations have existed in the sky for who knows how long and observed by humanity for centuries upon centuries, each person still has to find them on their own? No one can see them for you.
There are a lot of similarities between this and something else that also brings joy and comfort to my life, and that is my faith in God. It's easy to scoff and claim that like stars, people are just picking out proof of God to make sense of a vast nothingness, or that people just see what they want to see. But I've found that the more I've looked for God in my life and the more I learn about His ways, the clearer I see Him. I feel certain that I'm looking to the same beacon that many of my ancestors and other faithful Christians in the world's history have followed, and yet it was not something anyone else could find for me. Like my dad and brother helped me find the Big Dipper, I've had a lot of guidance in my faith from my parents and Church leaders, but in the end none of them could see the evidence of God for me; I found it for myself.
When I tilt my head to look at the night sky, I see the stars I know and feel at home. Maybe this is partly because I also know their Maker, who is grander than the sky and every twinkling galaxy but still just as present and as comforting. He is my Maker too, after all, and the Father of my spirit. Seeking Him has brought more clarity and direction in my life than following any star ever would.
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Passive-Aggressive Roommate Poetry
I've been a little lacking in the verse department on this blog lately, and it's time to remedy that. I discovered during my roommate years that although some people object to the passive-aggression of leaving notes around the apartment about roommate issues, nobody minds a note in snappy, rhyming verse. So I have a few poems to offer about some common roommate situations I experienced.
I wrote this one years ago and put it in the bathroom by a quickly disappearing commodity:
Afraid I will offend you (slightly):
Alarmed to change the paper nightly.
Can't you just use three or four?
Do soggy bottoms need much more?
Another bathroom one, just for the ladies:
The garbage can is often full
of evidence of monthly needs.
I ask that it, if possible,
be taken out by she who bleeds.
Put on top of a layer of plastic wrap over the sink:
The disposal isn't working
and the kitchen sink won't drain.
Please don't pile your dirty dishes
in our clogged-up sink again.
Never posted, but thought about over and over and over one specific term at school:
Please don't touch the thermostat
because it is apparent that
your parents raised a spoiled brat
who burns up electricity.
It's cold in here. You think I jest?
See me in my winter's best?
It's summertime, and I suggest
you leave the thermostat to me.
This is applicable to my current little, furry roommate:
I was happy to adopt you
and I couldn't love you more,
but I wish you wouldn't opt to
kick your litter 'cross the floor.
Fun, huh? I've got a few more poems left in me to add to these. What would you put down in verse in a note to a roommate?
I wrote this one years ago and put it in the bathroom by a quickly disappearing commodity:
Afraid I will offend you (slightly):
Alarmed to change the paper nightly.
Can't you just use three or four?
Do soggy bottoms need much more?
Another bathroom one, just for the ladies:
The garbage can is often full
of evidence of monthly needs.
I ask that it, if possible,
be taken out by she who bleeds.
Put on top of a layer of plastic wrap over the sink:
The disposal isn't working
and the kitchen sink won't drain.
Please don't pile your dirty dishes
in our clogged-up sink again.
Never posted, but thought about over and over and over one specific term at school:
Please don't touch the thermostat
because it is apparent that
your parents raised a spoiled brat
who burns up electricity.
It's cold in here. You think I jest?
See me in my winter's best?
It's summertime, and I suggest
you leave the thermostat to me.
This is applicable to my current little, furry roommate:
I was happy to adopt you
and I couldn't love you more,
but I wish you wouldn't opt to
kick your litter 'cross the floor.
Fun, huh? I've got a few more poems left in me to add to these. What would you put down in verse in a note to a roommate?
Friday, April 22, 2011
How long has this been going on?
I was reading over my last posts and thinking about all the things that have transpired since my last article.
I lost my little summer kitten to FIP (feline infectious peritonitis). Actually, that happened near the end of October, so technically before I posted my last article, but I was too sad to write a post about it.
In November I went on a cross-country trip with a couple of close friends, ending up in Seattle for a couple days.
A friend I met there in Seattle come down here in December. It was the first time a guy has traveled a long distance just to see me, and although nothing really came of it, it was definitely flattering.
My favorite holiday last year was Second Thanksgiving. We went out of town unexpectedly for the first one, and although it was fun to do something different and see extended family, it was more fun to have a second feast at home, with just us and some close friends. We had it a week before Christmas, but it felt like Thanksgiving all day.
Got my heart broken just after New Year's. Whoopee. Scraped myself back together for the rest of the month with the help of a new friend—and a new kitten!—then managed to have a pretty decent February.
March, birthday-studded, always goes by quickly. With it, though, came some tough lessons about dealing with family and friends, living my religion, and generally battling my own demons.
. . . And suddenly here we are in April. I'm watching life unfurl in the trees and dirt of my little world, and I think I feel much the same as these new leaves: I'm ready to stretch out and welcome in the sunlight. And maybe write a few more articles on my blog. :)
I lost my little summer kitten to FIP (feline infectious peritonitis). Actually, that happened near the end of October, so technically before I posted my last article, but I was too sad to write a post about it.
In November I went on a cross-country trip with a couple of close friends, ending up in Seattle for a couple days.
A friend I met there in Seattle come down here in December. It was the first time a guy has traveled a long distance just to see me, and although nothing really came of it, it was definitely flattering.
My favorite holiday last year was Second Thanksgiving. We went out of town unexpectedly for the first one, and although it was fun to do something different and see extended family, it was more fun to have a second feast at home, with just us and some close friends. We had it a week before Christmas, but it felt like Thanksgiving all day.
Got my heart broken just after New Year's. Whoopee. Scraped myself back together for the rest of the month with the help of a new friend—and a new kitten!—then managed to have a pretty decent February.
March, birthday-studded, always goes by quickly. With it, though, came some tough lessons about dealing with family and friends, living my religion, and generally battling my own demons.
. . . And suddenly here we are in April. I'm watching life unfurl in the trees and dirt of my little world, and I think I feel much the same as these new leaves: I'm ready to stretch out and welcome in the sunlight. And maybe write a few more articles on my blog. :)
Monday, November 15, 2010
On Service
I'll walk with you. I'll talk with you.
That's how I'll show my love for you.
Carol Lynn Pearson, "I'll Walk With You"
I.
If there's one thing that's stuck out to me as I've read the scriptures, listened at church, said my prayers, and watched General Conference, it's that I need to be more service-minded. I have felt the need to focus on that. So I've been praying to know who I should serve, and how, and I've been trying to keep my eyes open for opportunities.
To try and prompt inspiration, I've been doing things like reaching out to people in the ward I don't know as well and going through the ward directory and thinking of each sister, one at a time, and her needs. These are the kinds of things I need to be doing for my calling anyway, and I usually have general ideas and impressions about how these girls are doing. But in spite of how strongly I've felt lately that I should be serving, I didn't feel strongly that any of the people I was looking at needed that service from me. So I decided I needed to pray with more faith and spend more time thinking about it. Meanwhile, I felt guilty about spending more time than usual with my family and a few of my close friends. How could I justify doing things that were so selfishly enjoyable when I was supposed to be out serving others?
And then I had an epiphany.
What if Heavenly Father has already put people in my path that I could specifically help? Maybe I was given these friends and family members partly so that, when they needed help, I would already be there, perfectly positioned to serve them. When I thought about it, I realized that I don't really have to look far afield to find opportunities to serve; there are plenty around me. All I have to do is lift where I stand.
II.
I was on a date in the semi-recent past with a guy who expressed similar feelings about needing to serve people. Our conversation was good, if a little overly cerebral; we spent most of the time on philosophical/religious/political topics. As the date progressed, I started wondering what exactly this guy was looking for in a woman, because although I matched him wit for wit, I didn't sense that it moved him at all. I even wondered whether he really saw me, or whether I was just a sounding board for thoughts he'd held inside all day and wanted to get out.
To be honest, it was precisely his comments on service that started me wondering. He told me he felt an urgency in these promptings to serve people and was trying to figure out how to balance that with his very busy work schedule. He spoke as if he could see people off in the distance, hovering morosely around the edges of his social influence, in need of his help, and he was so passionate in this vision that I felt . . . well, next to invisible. He could see right through me—the not bad-looking and very available girl across the table listening to him, sipping soda, making encouraging comments—to these people with needs. I started wondering what I'd have to do to get him to see me. Swoon dramatically? Have some tragedy befall me so I could cry on his shoulder? Change my speech so I appeared younger and more naive and desperately in need of his advice?
As someone without any obvious needs, I felt like not much of a person, and least of all like an attractive woman. This guy isn't a jerk and certainly didn't intend any unkindness, so I wasn't angry at him at the end of the date when we parted ways; just a little discouraged. How ironic was it that the desire to serve could become a barrier, a blindness to less immediate but deeper needs for love and companionship? I didn't need him to date me to rescue me; I just needed him to be there at the table with me, seeing me. But I guess the bottom line is how can you see something you're not looking for?
That's how I'll show my love for you.
Carol Lynn Pearson, "I'll Walk With You"
I.
If there's one thing that's stuck out to me as I've read the scriptures, listened at church, said my prayers, and watched General Conference, it's that I need to be more service-minded. I have felt the need to focus on that. So I've been praying to know who I should serve, and how, and I've been trying to keep my eyes open for opportunities.
To try and prompt inspiration, I've been doing things like reaching out to people in the ward I don't know as well and going through the ward directory and thinking of each sister, one at a time, and her needs. These are the kinds of things I need to be doing for my calling anyway, and I usually have general ideas and impressions about how these girls are doing. But in spite of how strongly I've felt lately that I should be serving, I didn't feel strongly that any of the people I was looking at needed that service from me. So I decided I needed to pray with more faith and spend more time thinking about it. Meanwhile, I felt guilty about spending more time than usual with my family and a few of my close friends. How could I justify doing things that were so selfishly enjoyable when I was supposed to be out serving others?
And then I had an epiphany.
What if Heavenly Father has already put people in my path that I could specifically help? Maybe I was given these friends and family members partly so that, when they needed help, I would already be there, perfectly positioned to serve them. When I thought about it, I realized that I don't really have to look far afield to find opportunities to serve; there are plenty around me. All I have to do is lift where I stand.
II.
I was on a date in the semi-recent past with a guy who expressed similar feelings about needing to serve people. Our conversation was good, if a little overly cerebral; we spent most of the time on philosophical/religious/political topics. As the date progressed, I started wondering what exactly this guy was looking for in a woman, because although I matched him wit for wit, I didn't sense that it moved him at all. I even wondered whether he really saw me, or whether I was just a sounding board for thoughts he'd held inside all day and wanted to get out.
To be honest, it was precisely his comments on service that started me wondering. He told me he felt an urgency in these promptings to serve people and was trying to figure out how to balance that with his very busy work schedule. He spoke as if he could see people off in the distance, hovering morosely around the edges of his social influence, in need of his help, and he was so passionate in this vision that I felt . . . well, next to invisible. He could see right through me—the not bad-looking and very available girl across the table listening to him, sipping soda, making encouraging comments—to these people with needs. I started wondering what I'd have to do to get him to see me. Swoon dramatically? Have some tragedy befall me so I could cry on his shoulder? Change my speech so I appeared younger and more naive and desperately in need of his advice?
As someone without any obvious needs, I felt like not much of a person, and least of all like an attractive woman. This guy isn't a jerk and certainly didn't intend any unkindness, so I wasn't angry at him at the end of the date when we parted ways; just a little discouraged. How ironic was it that the desire to serve could become a barrier, a blindness to less immediate but deeper needs for love and companionship? I didn't need him to date me to rescue me; I just needed him to be there at the table with me, seeing me. But I guess the bottom line is how can you see something you're not looking for?
Sunday, June 6, 2010
For the perfectionists out there
A few lines of this poem stuck so firmly in my head that a couple weeks ago I decided to memorize the whole thing. Being Mary Hume is one of my greatest fears in life.
ALMOST PERFECT
"Almost perfect . . . but not quite."
Those were the words of Mary Hume
At her seventh birthday party,
Looking 'round the ribboned room.
"This tablecloth is pink not white—
Almost perfect . . . but not quite."
"Almost perfect . . . but not quite."
Those were the words of grown-up Mary
Talking about her handsome beau,
The one she wasn't gonna marry.
"Squeezes me a bit too tight—
Almost perfect . . . but not quite."
"Almost perfect . . . but not quite."
Those were the words of ol' Miss Hume
Teaching in the seventh grade,
Grading papers in the gloom
Late at night up in her room.
"They never cross their t's just right—
Almost perfect . . . but not quite."
Ninety-eight the day she died
Complainin' 'bout the spotless floor.
People shook their heads and sighed,
"Guess that she'll like heaven more."
Up went her soul on feathered wings,
Out the door, up out of sight.
Another voice from heaven came—
"Almost perfect . . . but not quite."
From A Light in the Attic, by Shel Silverstein, Copyright 1981, HarperCollins Publishers, New York.
ALMOST PERFECT
"Almost perfect . . . but not quite."
Those were the words of Mary Hume
At her seventh birthday party,
Looking 'round the ribboned room.
"This tablecloth is pink not white—
Almost perfect . . . but not quite."
"Almost perfect . . . but not quite."
Those were the words of grown-up Mary
Talking about her handsome beau,
The one she wasn't gonna marry.
"Squeezes me a bit too tight—
Almost perfect . . . but not quite."
"Almost perfect . . . but not quite."
Those were the words of ol' Miss Hume
Teaching in the seventh grade,
Grading papers in the gloom
Late at night up in her room.
"They never cross their t's just right—
Almost perfect . . . but not quite."
Ninety-eight the day she died
Complainin' 'bout the spotless floor.
People shook their heads and sighed,
"Guess that she'll like heaven more."
Up went her soul on feathered wings,
Out the door, up out of sight.
Another voice from heaven came—
"Almost perfect . . . but not quite."
From A Light in the Attic, by Shel Silverstein, Copyright 1981, HarperCollins Publishers, New York.
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
I'm in love with a store named Joe
I expect everyone
of my crowd to make fun
of my proud protestations of faith and romance.
And they'll say I'm naive
as a babe to believe
every fable I hear from a person in pants.
Fearlessly, I'll face them and argue their doubts away.
Loudly, I'll sing about flowers in spring.
Flatly, I'll stand on my little flat feet and say,
Love is a grand and a beautiful thing.
Rodgers and Hammerstein, "A Wonderful Guy"
So I went to Trader Joe's for the very first time yesterday evening. I've known about Trader Joe's for a long time, but to be honest I've avoided going there. This is because I suspected it was exactly the kind of place where I could spend way too much money. And if I went once and loved it, I'd have to go again, and again, and again, until gradually it became a habit and part of my budget became devoted to rare and unusual Trader Joe's goodies. Was I ready for that kind of commitment?
Well, I made the leap and I'm never looking back. As soon as I stepped into the store a huge grin spread across my face, and I actually had to stand there for a minute, taking it all in and trying to decide where I wanted to go first. Trader Joe's said to me, "Hello, Sarah. We've been scouring the world for just the kinds of foods you might like—a little quirky, fresh and healthy, but above all, delicious—and put it all in just the kind of store you might like—a store with employees who seem to love their job, cashiers who'll actually talk to you, and hometown grocery touches like handwritten price signs. Our packaging is well-designed and our ads are witty, with a neo-Victorian style similar to this web comic you love. Everyone here likes what you like. Come on in. Welcome home."
I wonder what the store clerks thought of me, wandering slowly down the aisles, sometimes twice to look at everything, smiling dreamily. Crusty, nutty bread! Nuts in the cereal! Plantain chips! Soyaki sauce! Thai and Indian frozen dinners! Fresh pasta and polenta! Miso! Pesto! "Hold back, now," I told myself as I cautiously filled my basket. "Remember the money." But to be honest, I was pleasantly surprised by the prices there, and it's more of a grocery store than the glorified snack emporium I was expecting, so I can make it part of my grocery budget and grocery shopping instead of a supplemental frivolity. And I'll save money when I buy things I'm excited to eat instead of things I think I should eat but let rot in the fridge. Why should I settle for a mealy salisbury steak dinner when I can get paneer tikka masala?
So Trader Joe found the way to my heart. I'm in love.
of my crowd to make fun
of my proud protestations of faith and romance.
And they'll say I'm naive
as a babe to believe
every fable I hear from a person in pants.
Fearlessly, I'll face them and argue their doubts away.
Loudly, I'll sing about flowers in spring.
Flatly, I'll stand on my little flat feet and say,
Love is a grand and a beautiful thing.
Rodgers and Hammerstein, "A Wonderful Guy"
So I went to Trader Joe's for the very first time yesterday evening. I've known about Trader Joe's for a long time, but to be honest I've avoided going there. This is because I suspected it was exactly the kind of place where I could spend way too much money. And if I went once and loved it, I'd have to go again, and again, and again, until gradually it became a habit and part of my budget became devoted to rare and unusual Trader Joe's goodies. Was I ready for that kind of commitment?
Well, I made the leap and I'm never looking back. As soon as I stepped into the store a huge grin spread across my face, and I actually had to stand there for a minute, taking it all in and trying to decide where I wanted to go first. Trader Joe's said to me, "Hello, Sarah. We've been scouring the world for just the kinds of foods you might like—a little quirky, fresh and healthy, but above all, delicious—and put it all in just the kind of store you might like—a store with employees who seem to love their job, cashiers who'll actually talk to you, and hometown grocery touches like handwritten price signs. Our packaging is well-designed and our ads are witty, with a neo-Victorian style similar to this web comic you love. Everyone here likes what you like. Come on in. Welcome home."
I wonder what the store clerks thought of me, wandering slowly down the aisles, sometimes twice to look at everything, smiling dreamily. Crusty, nutty bread! Nuts in the cereal! Plantain chips! Soyaki sauce! Thai and Indian frozen dinners! Fresh pasta and polenta! Miso! Pesto! "Hold back, now," I told myself as I cautiously filled my basket. "Remember the money." But to be honest, I was pleasantly surprised by the prices there, and it's more of a grocery store than the glorified snack emporium I was expecting, so I can make it part of my grocery budget and grocery shopping instead of a supplemental frivolity. And I'll save money when I buy things I'm excited to eat instead of things I think I should eat but let rot in the fridge. Why should I settle for a mealy salisbury steak dinner when I can get paneer tikka masala?
So Trader Joe found the way to my heart. I'm in love.
Thursday, April 8, 2010
If you were an animal, what kind of animal would you be?
I would be a cat. I would blink lazily at you, refusing to play your little game.
I know a few people who just love these kinds of questions. They think asking a bunch of them and having everyone in a group answer is a fantastic way of getting to know people. I disagree. I think it's a fantastic way of starting a chest-beating impressiveness contest. When I'm talking to someone who genuinely wants to get to know me, I shouldn't be thinking about how much higher my score would be if I said "puma" than "platypus."
It's not that the questions are inherently bad, it's just that they're meant to lead into a conversation, not comprise one. I've seen them misused time and time again. A real conversation means you listen to the person's response and then ask them questions based on that response. Why would you be a puma? Did you have a puma growing up? What was its name? How much does puma chow cost? Instead, too many people just wait for the other person to field the question right back at them, and then that conversation is over. Some people are so accustomed to these short, ping-pong-like conversational matches that while the other person is responding to their question, they're thinking of what spiffy, random question to ask next. This puts the value on the question instead of the response, which means no actual communication is taking place.
I think ultimately the cause of this is, as mentioned earlier, our desire to be impressive to the people we're talking to (which is compounded tenfold in a dating situation). But being stuck in your own head thinking, "Hm, should I say this or this? Which would make me more attractive to my date?" is not impressive. Everyone does that. What's impressive is someone who looks at you while you're talking, doesn't interrupt, reacts to what you say, and asks you questions that bid you to continue, elaborate, explain further. Someone who makes you feel like you are fascinating without reducing you to an animal or five words that best describe you or what color your toothbrush is.
Basically, someone who is actually interested in getting to know you.
I know a few people who just love these kinds of questions. They think asking a bunch of them and having everyone in a group answer is a fantastic way of getting to know people. I disagree. I think it's a fantastic way of starting a chest-beating impressiveness contest. When I'm talking to someone who genuinely wants to get to know me, I shouldn't be thinking about how much higher my score would be if I said "puma" than "platypus."
It's not that the questions are inherently bad, it's just that they're meant to lead into a conversation, not comprise one. I've seen them misused time and time again. A real conversation means you listen to the person's response and then ask them questions based on that response. Why would you be a puma? Did you have a puma growing up? What was its name? How much does puma chow cost? Instead, too many people just wait for the other person to field the question right back at them, and then that conversation is over. Some people are so accustomed to these short, ping-pong-like conversational matches that while the other person is responding to their question, they're thinking of what spiffy, random question to ask next. This puts the value on the question instead of the response, which means no actual communication is taking place.
I think ultimately the cause of this is, as mentioned earlier, our desire to be impressive to the people we're talking to (which is compounded tenfold in a dating situation). But being stuck in your own head thinking, "Hm, should I say this or this? Which would make me more attractive to my date?" is not impressive. Everyone does that. What's impressive is someone who looks at you while you're talking, doesn't interrupt, reacts to what you say, and asks you questions that bid you to continue, elaborate, explain further. Someone who makes you feel like you are fascinating without reducing you to an animal or five words that best describe you or what color your toothbrush is.
Basically, someone who is actually interested in getting to know you.
Friday, March 12, 2010
What I've been doing with my free time lately . . .
Hanging out with my favorite pirate, Guybrush Threepwood. It's been a long wait for a new Monkey Island game, but the wait's been worth it, I think, for the improvement of 3-D rendered graphics and a return to the original spunk and spirit. I'm really glad Telltale Games knows how to do a thing right.
On Weddings
And I love you
Yes I do
And if you thought
That I didn't love you
Then you'd be wrong, honey
Because . . .
I really really love you I really really love you
I really really love you I really really love you
Brent and Ryan, best love song ever
A friend of mine is getting married today, and I am so happy for her. I have seen lots of friends get married, and I think this is the happiest and least jealous I've ever felt at a friend's wedding.
I'm not sad, because even though I won't see this friend as much anymore, I feel certain she's not going to cut off all friendships with singles. When she says we'll get together sometime after the wedding, I actually believe her.
I'm not massively irritated, because she was never my roommate, so I never had to deal with having her boyfriend/fiance over all the time. (Though I've had several good engaged-roommate situations.) Also, when she and her almost-husband appeared at social functions together, they were able to talk to other people and never indulged in obnoxiously sappy/physical PDA. They were sensitive to the world existing outside their relationship.
I'm not jealous, because I really feel like she and her fiance deserve the happiness they will find in each other. I think they both have an accurate idea of the dedication involved in a successful marriage, and that they'll be great at it. Watching them gives me hope that the same will be possible for me when it's my turn.
Mostly, though, I think I've just come a long way since the first of my close friends got married. I've witnessed many engaged couples and gone to many weddings (and observed whether friendships continued or ended afterward), and I understand a lot better what the process is like and how stressful it can be for the couple. I've realized that in nursing my own wounds and petty jealousies, I haven't always been the supportive friend I could have been, even to capable brides who never seemed to need my support. I've learned that it's okay to be just perfectly happy for someone else, without a particle of selfishness interfering. Actually, it feels wonderful—liberating, even.
So congratulations, J and J, and my sincerest, best wishes to you both!
Yes I do
And if you thought
That I didn't love you
Then you'd be wrong, honey
Because . . .
I really really love you I really really love you
I really really love you I really really love you
Brent and Ryan, best love song ever
A friend of mine is getting married today, and I am so happy for her. I have seen lots of friends get married, and I think this is the happiest and least jealous I've ever felt at a friend's wedding.
I'm not sad, because even though I won't see this friend as much anymore, I feel certain she's not going to cut off all friendships with singles. When she says we'll get together sometime after the wedding, I actually believe her.
I'm not massively irritated, because she was never my roommate, so I never had to deal with having her boyfriend/fiance over all the time. (Though I've had several good engaged-roommate situations.) Also, when she and her almost-husband appeared at social functions together, they were able to talk to other people and never indulged in obnoxiously sappy/physical PDA. They were sensitive to the world existing outside their relationship.
I'm not jealous, because I really feel like she and her fiance deserve the happiness they will find in each other. I think they both have an accurate idea of the dedication involved in a successful marriage, and that they'll be great at it. Watching them gives me hope that the same will be possible for me when it's my turn.
Mostly, though, I think I've just come a long way since the first of my close friends got married. I've witnessed many engaged couples and gone to many weddings (and observed whether friendships continued or ended afterward), and I understand a lot better what the process is like and how stressful it can be for the couple. I've realized that in nursing my own wounds and petty jealousies, I haven't always been the supportive friend I could have been, even to capable brides who never seemed to need my support. I've learned that it's okay to be just perfectly happy for someone else, without a particle of selfishness interfering. Actually, it feels wonderful—liberating, even.
So congratulations, J and J, and my sincerest, best wishes to you both!
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Gems from Drafts: Valentine's Day Stanza
I'm not a Catholic, St. Val,
but just this once, sir, be a pal
and send me someone kind and smart
to love me with a faithful heart.
So . . . I have a bunch of articles in drafts. Sometimes I start writing an article and get too philosophical or personal and bury myself in a hole, going nowhere, if vigorously so. The next day (or the next week . . . or the next month) I can come back and the thoughts have settled into something cogent that I pour into another article altogether. Meanwhile, the original sits in drafts, and like the packrat I am, I can't delete it. I had the same problem with scrapbooking: when I was done cutting out paper shapes and working out a page, I'd look at the scraps left behind and see graceful little curves or bold points and want to do something with them—nothing special enough for the perfect pages of a scrapbook; just a little fun. After awhile I found that playing with the scraps could be more fun than making a scrapbook.
I still see potential in small, throw-away things. I make miniature books and cootie-catchers out of post-it notes and accordions out of tape. I make little desks and chairs from candy wrappers during long meetings. And yes, if I sit at a table long enough after a meal with my plate in front of me, I'll start arranging the remnants of my food artistically. With a styrofoam cup and some aluminum foil, I can entertain the whole table (or at least earn a "quit being a goofball" swat from my brother).
In the end, I throw away most of these little garbage spectacles, but sometimes I hang onto the best ones. So I figure I'll do something in the same vein with these drafts—pick out the little gems and purge the dross. The stanza above is the best of a few lines I put together around Valentine's Day a year ago. I liked the poem I worked out later much better, but this stanza was snappy enough to keep me from deleting the draft for a year.
Stay posted for more little gems from drafts to come.
but just this once, sir, be a pal
and send me someone kind and smart
to love me with a faithful heart.
So . . . I have a bunch of articles in drafts. Sometimes I start writing an article and get too philosophical or personal and bury myself in a hole, going nowhere, if vigorously so. The next day (or the next week . . . or the next month) I can come back and the thoughts have settled into something cogent that I pour into another article altogether. Meanwhile, the original sits in drafts, and like the packrat I am, I can't delete it. I had the same problem with scrapbooking: when I was done cutting out paper shapes and working out a page, I'd look at the scraps left behind and see graceful little curves or bold points and want to do something with them—nothing special enough for the perfect pages of a scrapbook; just a little fun. After awhile I found that playing with the scraps could be more fun than making a scrapbook.
I still see potential in small, throw-away things. I make miniature books and cootie-catchers out of post-it notes and accordions out of tape. I make little desks and chairs from candy wrappers during long meetings. And yes, if I sit at a table long enough after a meal with my plate in front of me, I'll start arranging the remnants of my food artistically. With a styrofoam cup and some aluminum foil, I can entertain the whole table (or at least earn a "quit being a goofball" swat from my brother).
In the end, I throw away most of these little garbage spectacles, but sometimes I hang onto the best ones. So I figure I'll do something in the same vein with these drafts—pick out the little gems and purge the dross. The stanza above is the best of a few lines I put together around Valentine's Day a year ago. I liked the poem I worked out later much better, but this stanza was snappy enough to keep me from deleting the draft for a year.
Stay posted for more little gems from drafts to come.
Sunday, February 7, 2010
Oh Valentine's Day
I'm the one that writes my own story,
I decide the person I'll be.
What goes in the plot and what does not
Is pretty much up to me.
Carol Lynn Pearson & Lex de Azevedo, "My Story"
Last Valentine's Day I was sitting in a big old van with a bunch of my friends, driving home from a really fun overnight horseback riding/camping excursion. I had spent some time carefully flirting with the guy I really liked, who was now sitting on the same bench with me in the van. "We should all do something tonight," he said. "We've got a ton of food leftover. We could all go to my place or something and watch a movie."
There was a round of non-committal comments about taking showers and maybe meeting later. I added a "Yeah, that would be fun." But nobody really spoke in any affirmatives, and this guy didn't cement it as an actual plan. My hopes of spending more time with him dwindled as the silence in the van lengthened.
When we parked the van and started unloading our stuff into our separate cars, I heard another girl in the group talking to Mr. Noncommittal. "You can still do something, it's not that late. It's Valentine's Day. You don't have to be alone." He didn't reply, and I dawdled purposefully in my unloading, just in case he was trying to decide whether he should invite me over.
He got into his car and drove off.
Today we had our monthly ward potluck, and I was talking to a bunch of people in a group when one of them, a new guy that I've spent a little flirt on, brought up Valentine's Day plans. "It's probably going to be another SAD year for me," he said, chuckling.
"You know, it doesn't have to be," said a girl in our group. "You could actually ask someone on a date."
"Really?" said the guy in mock-shock.
"Yep," said the girl. "It's rare, but it happens."
He made a couple more pretending-to-be-shocked comments, but he didn't stick around much longer after the subject changed.
This Valentine's Day, I'm going to stay home and watch the Olympics.
I decide the person I'll be.
What goes in the plot and what does not
Is pretty much up to me.
Carol Lynn Pearson & Lex de Azevedo, "My Story"
Last Valentine's Day I was sitting in a big old van with a bunch of my friends, driving home from a really fun overnight horseback riding/camping excursion. I had spent some time carefully flirting with the guy I really liked, who was now sitting on the same bench with me in the van. "We should all do something tonight," he said. "We've got a ton of food leftover. We could all go to my place or something and watch a movie."
There was a round of non-committal comments about taking showers and maybe meeting later. I added a "Yeah, that would be fun." But nobody really spoke in any affirmatives, and this guy didn't cement it as an actual plan. My hopes of spending more time with him dwindled as the silence in the van lengthened.
When we parked the van and started unloading our stuff into our separate cars, I heard another girl in the group talking to Mr. Noncommittal. "You can still do something, it's not that late. It's Valentine's Day. You don't have to be alone." He didn't reply, and I dawdled purposefully in my unloading, just in case he was trying to decide whether he should invite me over.
He got into his car and drove off.
Today we had our monthly ward potluck, and I was talking to a bunch of people in a group when one of them, a new guy that I've spent a little flirt on, brought up Valentine's Day plans. "It's probably going to be another SAD year for me," he said, chuckling.
"You know, it doesn't have to be," said a girl in our group. "You could actually ask someone on a date."
"Really?" said the guy in mock-shock.
"Yep," said the girl. "It's rare, but it happens."
He made a couple more pretending-to-be-shocked comments, but he didn't stick around much longer after the subject changed.
This Valentine's Day, I'm going to stay home and watch the Olympics.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
On Getting Over Yourself
Do I attract you?
Do I repulse you with my queasy smile?
Am I too dirty?
Am I too flirty?
Do I like what you like?
I could be wholesome
I could be loathsome
I guess I'm a little bit shy
Why don't you like me?
Why don't you like me without making me try?
Mika, "Grace Kelley"
Sometime in my childhood, the catchphrase "low self-esteem" came to me and stuck. Lo and behold, I had come down with my generation's most popular social disease. Like H1N1, it is really just a new mutation of a very, very old ailment, but this particular strain has a different treatment plan than previous versions. Judged as too insidious for the afflicted one to attempt to fight, Low Self-Esteem becomes the responsibility of teachers, parents, friends, and lots and lots of therapists to cure. These individuals are responsible for making the lifestyle and behavioral changes necessary to keep the sick person's fragile ego at a sustainable level of inflation. Those who have caught Low Self-Esteem, since they are helpless against its ravages, are immediately excused for negative or antisocial behavior that is not acceptable in the healthy.
Somehow, in spite of the rigorous treatment involved, Low Self-Esteem is spreading and continues to be extremely contagious. Child psychologists everywhere are mystified. I struggled with Low Self-Esteem for many years, and to my profound regret I discovered that it was much more like an addiction than a disease. A new name does not mask what this old ailment really is—selfishness and pride, warped into self-pity—nor does the treatment, in excusing the victim, address the problem and cure it.
I wouldn't call myself cured of self-pity, but I've learned a few things that I'd like to share with my fellow sufferers. I'm going to be direct, because I think a splash of water to the face is a more effective wake-up call than a soothing lullabye, but I do sympathize with the real pain involved in the vicious cycle that is self-pity. In order to be rid of it, though, we need to recognize this mind trap for what it is.
Three truths to shake the self-pity out of you:
1. Everyone feels friendless and lonely from time to time. Everyone, no matter how happy or socially accepted they may appear to you.
I have talked to so many people who have expressed feelings of friendlessness, and sometimes even now I'm incredulous at who these words come from. What this means is that this is an extremely common feeling. It's kinda nice to know that you're not the only one who feels this way, isn't it? But it also means that you are not different from anyone else—so you are not entitled to special care or consideration because you feel that way. This leads me to my next point:
2. You can't expect what you're not prepared to offer.
When I was an angsty young teen, we had these monthly church dances, and for at least the first couple years I was old enough to attend, I hated them. I often felt left out of the various cliques, and it hurt when guys didn't ask me to dance for slow songs. I spent a lot of time sitting in a dark corner, sharing pessimistic comments with my best friend or hiding in the bathroom, wiping my eyes with toilet paper, hoping that someone would notice I'd left the dance floor and come find me. It took me a long time to stop thinking of these years as my tragic past and realize how incredibly selfish I'd been.
Sure, I would have loved it if a caring person had sought me out and led me back to the dance over my token protestations, and it would have been very kind of someone to do so. But if I had been included in a group and was having fun dancing, would I have noticed if someone slipped out? Would I have gone to see if they were okay and help them feel better? Not on your life. So I wasn't willing to think about anyone else, but I expected everyone else to think about me, and I was offended when they obviously didn't.
Nowadays, whenever I start feeling that old "left-out" feeling, I ask myself what exactly I'm expecting from the people around me. Are these reasonable expectations? Am I honestly prepared to do the same thing back? If not, I have no right whatsoever to feel offended, because the people around me are no lazier, socially, than I am.
3. Most of the time, you are thinking about you more than anyone else is, because they are likewise mostly thinking about themselves.
We can't really help it, most of the time; it's a natural thing. It takes effort to think about someone else, and most of us are pretty lazy. Look inside yourself and you know it's true for you—believe that other people are like you. One of the perks of really understanding this is that it helps you brush off a multitude of events that would otherwise embarrass you. Think about it. How many times have you done something really embarrassing and looked around like you were sure everyone on the planet saw? Most of the time, people don't, because they're walking around thinking about themselves, not you. It's someone who acts embarrassed and makes a big scene that draws people's attention.
The same applies for things that would otherwise offend you. Most of the time when people make foolish, thoughtless, or tactless comments, they aren't thinking about you, they are thinking about themselves—something that is bothering them, whether it's a person, event, or just their desire to be socially accepted. So really, the comment isn't based on you at all. It becomes pointless and merely a mirror to that person's insecurities, just like your offended reaction would be a mirror to yours. How can what someone says affect you if it has nothing to do with you? People are not on a quest to hurt your feelings. They're on their own quest, just as you are, to live life and find happiness for themselves. They are more like you than you think.
Three ways to move forward and combat depressive feelings:
1. Take responsibility for your feelings and actions.
I think everyone has times when they're too tired, hurt, nervous, or just plain lazy to get out of their own heads to focus on the people around them. If you can motivate yourself to get over these feelings and reach out, that's great. If you can't, you need to at least recognize that so you can make decisions based on your state of mind, not on how you perceive others' actions (reactions, really) towards you. So basically, your responsible choices are as follows: (1) get over yourself and think about others; (2) stay in your own head but at least don't get offended that nobody cozies up to you, because you know it's your problem, not theirs; or (3) remove yourself from the situation, because you're not doing anyone any good. I'm not saying these are all the best decisions, because obviously the first one is optimal, but I think that these are all better options than playing the victim and blaming your actions on others. Recognizing your weaknesses puts you in charge of dealing with them through conscious decisions—and that's empowering.
2. Accept friendship when it's offered and be grateful.
One Sunday at church I noticed that a friend of mine looked rather sad, so I made a mental note to talk to her before the end of church to see if she was alright. She slipped out right after our last meeting ended, but I hurried after her to ask her what was wrong and if there was anything I could do. I gave her a hug when she started getting teary-eyed, and she told me what was bothering her: she had no friends.
Uhhh . . . excuse me? No friends? Who was I? With one statement, my offering of friendship was completely wiped off the board—rejected. Ironically, she refused to accept the very thing her heart desired, and she herself was the callousness she saw in everyone else.
I wasn't offended. I knew that at the heart of it, what she really meant (as most people do who say this), was that things were going badly with one or two particular people. Still, for the sake of those people, she was prepared to reject everyone else. The bottom line is, there are a lot of nice people in the world, and if you've been walking around with "I have no friends" on your lips, you've probably hurt at least one of them. Someone has probably smiled at you or been kind to you—maybe even someone like that under-appreciated woman, your mom—and you didn't give a crap. You should find this person, thank him or her, and try being a friend back.
3. Have faith.
Meaning, have faith that you can be a good, interesting, funny, worthwhile person without constantly thinking about yourself. "You" come naturally; you don't have to think about being you to be you. It's crazy, really, how hard it is for us to believe this, but please try. On top of that, the more time you spend thinking about others instead of yourself, the better person you become. You love other people more, and other people love you. Being your best self is as easy as forgetting about yourself. Believe it.
*
These things took me years to learn at the right times and places in my life, so I don't expect them to sink in for everybody all at once. But perhaps for someone out there, this comes at a time when you're ready to take an honest look at your heart and make a change. It's not too much to ask to be happy in this life, but you've got to look for it in the right places. Look inside yourself for the strength to become the wonderful person you've always wanted to be, to make the changes necessary to get there. Most importantly, let your loving, forgiving Heavenly Father and all the people on this earth who love you be your guides and helps along the way. I'm pulling for you, too!
Do I repulse you with my queasy smile?
Am I too dirty?
Am I too flirty?
Do I like what you like?
I could be wholesome
I could be loathsome
I guess I'm a little bit shy
Why don't you like me?
Why don't you like me without making me try?
Mika, "Grace Kelley"
Sometime in my childhood, the catchphrase "low self-esteem" came to me and stuck. Lo and behold, I had come down with my generation's most popular social disease. Like H1N1, it is really just a new mutation of a very, very old ailment, but this particular strain has a different treatment plan than previous versions. Judged as too insidious for the afflicted one to attempt to fight, Low Self-Esteem becomes the responsibility of teachers, parents, friends, and lots and lots of therapists to cure. These individuals are responsible for making the lifestyle and behavioral changes necessary to keep the sick person's fragile ego at a sustainable level of inflation. Those who have caught Low Self-Esteem, since they are helpless against its ravages, are immediately excused for negative or antisocial behavior that is not acceptable in the healthy.
Somehow, in spite of the rigorous treatment involved, Low Self-Esteem is spreading and continues to be extremely contagious. Child psychologists everywhere are mystified. I struggled with Low Self-Esteem for many years, and to my profound regret I discovered that it was much more like an addiction than a disease. A new name does not mask what this old ailment really is—selfishness and pride, warped into self-pity—nor does the treatment, in excusing the victim, address the problem and cure it.
I wouldn't call myself cured of self-pity, but I've learned a few things that I'd like to share with my fellow sufferers. I'm going to be direct, because I think a splash of water to the face is a more effective wake-up call than a soothing lullabye, but I do sympathize with the real pain involved in the vicious cycle that is self-pity. In order to be rid of it, though, we need to recognize this mind trap for what it is.
Three truths to shake the self-pity out of you:
1. Everyone feels friendless and lonely from time to time. Everyone, no matter how happy or socially accepted they may appear to you.
I have talked to so many people who have expressed feelings of friendlessness, and sometimes even now I'm incredulous at who these words come from. What this means is that this is an extremely common feeling. It's kinda nice to know that you're not the only one who feels this way, isn't it? But it also means that you are not different from anyone else—so you are not entitled to special care or consideration because you feel that way. This leads me to my next point:
2. You can't expect what you're not prepared to offer.
When I was an angsty young teen, we had these monthly church dances, and for at least the first couple years I was old enough to attend, I hated them. I often felt left out of the various cliques, and it hurt when guys didn't ask me to dance for slow songs. I spent a lot of time sitting in a dark corner, sharing pessimistic comments with my best friend or hiding in the bathroom, wiping my eyes with toilet paper, hoping that someone would notice I'd left the dance floor and come find me. It took me a long time to stop thinking of these years as my tragic past and realize how incredibly selfish I'd been.
Sure, I would have loved it if a caring person had sought me out and led me back to the dance over my token protestations, and it would have been very kind of someone to do so. But if I had been included in a group and was having fun dancing, would I have noticed if someone slipped out? Would I have gone to see if they were okay and help them feel better? Not on your life. So I wasn't willing to think about anyone else, but I expected everyone else to think about me, and I was offended when they obviously didn't.
Nowadays, whenever I start feeling that old "left-out" feeling, I ask myself what exactly I'm expecting from the people around me. Are these reasonable expectations? Am I honestly prepared to do the same thing back? If not, I have no right whatsoever to feel offended, because the people around me are no lazier, socially, than I am.
3. Most of the time, you are thinking about you more than anyone else is, because they are likewise mostly thinking about themselves.
We can't really help it, most of the time; it's a natural thing. It takes effort to think about someone else, and most of us are pretty lazy. Look inside yourself and you know it's true for you—believe that other people are like you. One of the perks of really understanding this is that it helps you brush off a multitude of events that would otherwise embarrass you. Think about it. How many times have you done something really embarrassing and looked around like you were sure everyone on the planet saw? Most of the time, people don't, because they're walking around thinking about themselves, not you. It's someone who acts embarrassed and makes a big scene that draws people's attention.
The same applies for things that would otherwise offend you. Most of the time when people make foolish, thoughtless, or tactless comments, they aren't thinking about you, they are thinking about themselves—something that is bothering them, whether it's a person, event, or just their desire to be socially accepted. So really, the comment isn't based on you at all. It becomes pointless and merely a mirror to that person's insecurities, just like your offended reaction would be a mirror to yours. How can what someone says affect you if it has nothing to do with you? People are not on a quest to hurt your feelings. They're on their own quest, just as you are, to live life and find happiness for themselves. They are more like you than you think.
Three ways to move forward and combat depressive feelings:
1. Take responsibility for your feelings and actions.
I think everyone has times when they're too tired, hurt, nervous, or just plain lazy to get out of their own heads to focus on the people around them. If you can motivate yourself to get over these feelings and reach out, that's great. If you can't, you need to at least recognize that so you can make decisions based on your state of mind, not on how you perceive others' actions (reactions, really) towards you. So basically, your responsible choices are as follows: (1) get over yourself and think about others; (2) stay in your own head but at least don't get offended that nobody cozies up to you, because you know it's your problem, not theirs; or (3) remove yourself from the situation, because you're not doing anyone any good. I'm not saying these are all the best decisions, because obviously the first one is optimal, but I think that these are all better options than playing the victim and blaming your actions on others. Recognizing your weaknesses puts you in charge of dealing with them through conscious decisions—and that's empowering.
2. Accept friendship when it's offered and be grateful.
One Sunday at church I noticed that a friend of mine looked rather sad, so I made a mental note to talk to her before the end of church to see if she was alright. She slipped out right after our last meeting ended, but I hurried after her to ask her what was wrong and if there was anything I could do. I gave her a hug when she started getting teary-eyed, and she told me what was bothering her: she had no friends.
Uhhh . . . excuse me? No friends? Who was I? With one statement, my offering of friendship was completely wiped off the board—rejected. Ironically, she refused to accept the very thing her heart desired, and she herself was the callousness she saw in everyone else.
I wasn't offended. I knew that at the heart of it, what she really meant (as most people do who say this), was that things were going badly with one or two particular people. Still, for the sake of those people, she was prepared to reject everyone else. The bottom line is, there are a lot of nice people in the world, and if you've been walking around with "I have no friends" on your lips, you've probably hurt at least one of them. Someone has probably smiled at you or been kind to you—maybe even someone like that under-appreciated woman, your mom—and you didn't give a crap. You should find this person, thank him or her, and try being a friend back.
3. Have faith.
Meaning, have faith that you can be a good, interesting, funny, worthwhile person without constantly thinking about yourself. "You" come naturally; you don't have to think about being you to be you. It's crazy, really, how hard it is for us to believe this, but please try. On top of that, the more time you spend thinking about others instead of yourself, the better person you become. You love other people more, and other people love you. Being your best self is as easy as forgetting about yourself. Believe it.
*
These things took me years to learn at the right times and places in my life, so I don't expect them to sink in for everybody all at once. But perhaps for someone out there, this comes at a time when you're ready to take an honest look at your heart and make a change. It's not too much to ask to be happy in this life, but you've got to look for it in the right places. Look inside yourself for the strength to become the wonderful person you've always wanted to be, to make the changes necessary to get there. Most importantly, let your loving, forgiving Heavenly Father and all the people on this earth who love you be your guides and helps along the way. I'm pulling for you, too!
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Women!
I'm feeling really annoyed with certain members of my sex.
Fortunately, the members of these two groups do not represent a significant number, if any, of my closest girlfriends, so I plan to completely enjoy our Ladies' Night Out tomorrow!
- Women who are freaking out over New Moon the movie, and the Twilight series in general. Ok, I admit I've read all the books. I thought the first one was good, and that the fourth one was decent in the way all the loose ends were tied up. There are reasons why these books are bestsellers; not everyone who's read them is an idiot, ok? But here's the thing. This series is about an obsessive relationship, so it's most appealing to people who have obsessive personalities. I just didn't realize there were so many women like that. I find it really disturbing. I find it particularly disturbing to see women who are supposedly in a healthy marital relationship and should know better obsessing over these books/movies. Obsession is not healthy, ladies. It's not true love. Obsession blinds you to to things like, oh, for example, your lover is a controlling, blood-sucking monster and you're being a jerk to all the people around you because of your attachment to him. Obsession warps your ability to see things clearly, and that is a bad thing. Stop investing yourselves in unhealthy, obsessive fantasies. Stop shelling out money to support a movie industry that already churns out increasingly worse rom-coms. And PLEASE stop the squealing.
- Women at BYU who are freaking out over BYU's recent decision to close the Women's Research Institute. See this article, "BYU students rally to champion women's research" from the Salt Lake Tribune. This quote from Sara Vranes made me laugh:
It is significant, if only in a nominal way, that the only space at BYU explicitly dedicated to disarming the hurtful effects of silencing women will now be, beyond argument, silenced.
First of all, has this person heard of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints? It's really into this charity thing, getting people to recognize their limitless divine worth, and highlighting the importance of each gender in the Plan of Salvation. Every part of the Church, including BYU, is prepared to "disarm the hurtful effects of silencing women"—or any other group that deserves to be heard (which would be any group that believes in peaceful discourse, regardless of differences in belief or opinion). The presence or absence of this institute is irrelevant to the Church's viewpoint towards women, which has always been and will always be one of great care and respect.
My second thought is, it's strange how the people who fight for equal rights seem to be the last ones to realize that winning the fight means being treated like everyone else. You're not special anymore. Whatever hurts and indignities your group has suffered are over with, they're history. You are not entitled to extra money and attention just because of something you were born to. I wonder how long Sara Vranes will feel personally victimized by silencing she has never had to endure. I went to BYU. I never interacted with the WRI and hadn't even heard of it until I read about this, actually. I never felt like BYU, the administration running it, or any person I met there presented any barriers whatsoever to my happiness or success because I was a woman. The fight is won, ladies. If we still want money and attention, why don't we do something that merits it, huh?
Fortunately, the members of these two groups do not represent a significant number, if any, of my closest girlfriends, so I plan to completely enjoy our Ladies' Night Out tomorrow!
Monday, October 26, 2009
When the truth hurts, should it be uttered?
THE TRUTH LIVES!
I tend to think that the truth should be told more often. Things like, people should know if they're dating a jerk; people who lie to you or to themselves should be told to cut it out; people should hear that their inconsiderate, rude behavior is unacceptable; and people should be warned if they're about to make the stupidest decisions of their lives. What stops me? Lots of things:
- I might say it rudely. Usually when I most want to point out truth, I'm feeling very frustrated by the apparent blindness of the person involved. Would it be right to share it, even if I might be angry?
- I might not have the place to tell someone the truth. Either because it would be hypocritical of me or because I'm not really involved as a parent or other authority-type figure. But truth is truth, no matter what the source, right?
- I might not be right. Maybe what I think is true in the situation is not quite true—doesn't take into consideration facts that I'm not aware of or is biased by my own experience. Bias is inevitable, though, and all human perception is limited. Surely that doesn't invalidate all insight.
- They might not be able to handle the truth. Sometimes I get the feeling that a person is not ready to face up to it, like this is just something they'll have to learn sometime later down the road. Then I start worrying about whether there's actually going to be someone standing there, ready to share this truth, once the person is finally ready to hear it. What if nobody's there?
- They are not listening and wouldn't hear truth even if I said it. Yes, there are plenty of folks like this. Sometimes, though, words have a way of weaseling their way into the stubbornest of minds. Case in point, I still remember several things my Mom taught me when I was feeling my moodiest and most rebellious. I scowled at the time, but the words stuck. I thought about them for a long time and had to conclude, if sometimes begrudgingly, that they were true. Who knows what will stick and what won't? Should I deny someone the opportunity to learn and grow?
- The time and place might not be appropriate. It wouldn't be right to embarrass someone—but then again, what if they've just been very rude? What if they're embarrassing themselves already? Wouldn't it be a form of true friendship to point out truth?
This has been my quandary off and on for several months. It's not like I think I'm the receptacle of all truth or anything; I just think that we all see times when we could speak up and point out things, especially things that are patently obvious to the sensible and considerate but to which other people seem to be becoming increasingly blind. When do you speak up? When do you hold your tongue? Obviously it's best to be as loving and good-intentioned as possible, but sometimes truth has to be served without butter or honey. Sometimes truth hurts. How do you decide when to dish it out?
Monday, October 19, 2009
Comfort Movie
And I said, "What about Breakfast at Tiffany's?"
She said, "I think I remember that film,
and as I recall, I think we both kinda liked it."
And I said, "Well, that's one thing we've got."
Deep Blue Something, "Breakfast at Tiffany's"
Something about the slow advance of autumn and winter makes me want to see this movie over and over again. For some reason it strikes all the right chords in me. I guess it's mostly because of Sandra Bullock's character, Lucy; I feel a real kinship with her. Unlike the heroines in most of the rom-coms of the last few years, Lucy is smart, goofy (but not in a stupid or ditzy way), and most importantly, she's genuinely kind and interested in doing the right thing. So I actually care what happens to her. It's not a "real" story, and it's not realistic in every detail, but the characters are real and the feelings are real. So yeah, when I feel dreary or lonely, this is my comfort flick.
Do you have a movie that you watch just to feel comforted or relaxed? Maybe it's music or something else for you instead of a movie. What's your comfort media?
She said, "I think I remember that film,
and as I recall, I think we both kinda liked it."
And I said, "Well, that's one thing we've got."
Deep Blue Something, "Breakfast at Tiffany's"
Something about the slow advance of autumn and winter makes me want to see this movie over and over again. For some reason it strikes all the right chords in me. I guess it's mostly because of Sandra Bullock's character, Lucy; I feel a real kinship with her. Unlike the heroines in most of the rom-coms of the last few years, Lucy is smart, goofy (but not in a stupid or ditzy way), and most importantly, she's genuinely kind and interested in doing the right thing. So I actually care what happens to her. It's not a "real" story, and it's not realistic in every detail, but the characters are real and the feelings are real. So yeah, when I feel dreary or lonely, this is my comfort flick.Do you have a movie that you watch just to feel comforted or relaxed? Maybe it's music or something else for you instead of a movie. What's your comfort media?
Friday, September 25, 2009
The Single Life
I wander through the still of night,
When solitude is everywhere—
Alone beneath the starry light,
And yet I know that God is there.
Theodore E. Curtis, "Come unto Him"
I've recently spent several days helping a friend—a single mother, a year or two younger than me—as she recovered from surgery. This friend's life is very difficult and hectic, even when she's feeling well, and her two-year-old is definitely an independent spirit. I was glad to help out so she could rest, but I was surprised how hard it was for me and how tired I felt afterward.
In the aftermath, I've caught the flu or something. It hasn't been very bad. Actually . . . I'm almost enjoying it. Weird, huh? But I'm really enjoying how, without a pang of guilt, I can pamper myself as much as I want. As I make myself some soup or put on a movie or mix up a pitcher of orange juice, I think, "Isn't it nice that I don't have to drive a kid anywhere or take care of a toddler who needs care no matter how mama feels? Isn't it nice that I work from home anyway, so I can stay in bed all day like this? Isn't it nice that I don't have to take care of anyone else but ME?" Yes, it is nice. It's exceedingly nice.
Nope, I don't have a husband to bring me soup and orange juice, worriedly caress my fevered brow, or other things I sometimes imagine. But I also don't have a husband who has to leave me for work every day anyway, and I don't have to feel guilt or resentment over a husband who doesn't nurse me the way I hoped to be nursed. I don't have roommates to rush to the store and buy medicine if I need it, but I also don't have roommates who make noise at all hours of the night or germophobically quarantine me to my small area of the apartment. It's a comfort to know that I have family and friends nearby to help me if I need it, but it's also nice to be sick without worrying about spreading germs or being in other people's way.
Like anyone else, I'd love it if someone stopped by to see how I was doing or brought me chicken noodle soup, but I've learned that people (including myself) don't really think about what sick people might like until they're sick themselves, so it doesn't bother me when no one does anything special. I'm glad to have the means and the know-how to do for myself. This is what my time in this rather selfish time of life has taught me: everyone is selfish most of the time. Most of the time, everyone is thinking about themselves, their lives, what they're doing or saying. Knowing that makes me glad to be single, because I have a valid excuse for at least some of that selfishness.
So here I am, in my quiet, peaceful place, resting on the couch among blankets and soft pillows, with a movie playing and dinner and water close at hand. Flu or not, life is good.
When solitude is everywhere—
Alone beneath the starry light,
And yet I know that God is there.
Theodore E. Curtis, "Come unto Him"
I've recently spent several days helping a friend—a single mother, a year or two younger than me—as she recovered from surgery. This friend's life is very difficult and hectic, even when she's feeling well, and her two-year-old is definitely an independent spirit. I was glad to help out so she could rest, but I was surprised how hard it was for me and how tired I felt afterward.
In the aftermath, I've caught the flu or something. It hasn't been very bad. Actually . . . I'm almost enjoying it. Weird, huh? But I'm really enjoying how, without a pang of guilt, I can pamper myself as much as I want. As I make myself some soup or put on a movie or mix up a pitcher of orange juice, I think, "Isn't it nice that I don't have to drive a kid anywhere or take care of a toddler who needs care no matter how mama feels? Isn't it nice that I work from home anyway, so I can stay in bed all day like this? Isn't it nice that I don't have to take care of anyone else but ME?" Yes, it is nice. It's exceedingly nice.
Nope, I don't have a husband to bring me soup and orange juice, worriedly caress my fevered brow, or other things I sometimes imagine. But I also don't have a husband who has to leave me for work every day anyway, and I don't have to feel guilt or resentment over a husband who doesn't nurse me the way I hoped to be nursed. I don't have roommates to rush to the store and buy medicine if I need it, but I also don't have roommates who make noise at all hours of the night or germophobically quarantine me to my small area of the apartment. It's a comfort to know that I have family and friends nearby to help me if I need it, but it's also nice to be sick without worrying about spreading germs or being in other people's way.
Like anyone else, I'd love it if someone stopped by to see how I was doing or brought me chicken noodle soup, but I've learned that people (including myself) don't really think about what sick people might like until they're sick themselves, so it doesn't bother me when no one does anything special. I'm glad to have the means and the know-how to do for myself. This is what my time in this rather selfish time of life has taught me: everyone is selfish most of the time. Most of the time, everyone is thinking about themselves, their lives, what they're doing or saying. Knowing that makes me glad to be single, because I have a valid excuse for at least some of that selfishness.
So here I am, in my quiet, peaceful place, resting on the couch among blankets and soft pillows, with a movie playing and dinner and water close at hand. Flu or not, life is good.
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Waiting
I don't know how much of my life I spend waiting for things, but it's probably a shockingly significant amount. I've been waiting for this move to finally be over, to finally be settled in my new place, waiting for movement in a relationship, waiting for a bit of free time to dote on my unearthed dollhouse. And I've been waiting for this stuff to happen so I could write about it.
Well, let's put an end to waiting, shall we?
Yes, I found an apartment here in my hometown, not too far from the family home, and right now about 98% of my stuff resides therein. The rest of it is scattered here and there around the old house, for me to retrieve during future visits. It's proving hard to totally leave this place, mostly because I don't really want to. It turns out I love being close to home. I'm loving it more now that I have my own space to retreat to. I love that I don't have to say long goodbyes to my family anymore; I love knowing I can drop by and see them whenever I've a mind to. I wonder why on earth I put it off as long as I did. Why did I linger so long in Utah? What was I waiting for?
Oddly enough, it was when I went back to Utah on vacation last week that I realized just how settled I've become in New Mexico. I realized that I finally do have my own niche here, which is something I'd hoped for. Thus it was that almost as soon as I got to Utah I wanted nothing more than to go back home and live this wonderful life I've found here. I took pleasure from visits with family and friends, but part of me was just waiting to go home again.
Of course, reality tends to intrude at rose-colored-glasses moments like this. I came home and rediscovered that yes, it's a great life, but there are a few unsettled bits at the moment. To love life, I have to appreciate that there are ups and downs to it. The biggest down right now involves waiting. And waiting. Waiting for someone to decide what he wants and make it a priority, or for my feelings to ebb away and follow a new direction. I'm more patient than I used to be, but I still don't like how helpless I feel waiting for something that's out of my hands.
Why wait? Today I'm going to do. I'm going to smile, get some boxes unpacked, and enjoy dinner with my family. I might have to wait on other things, but I don't have to wait to enjoy life.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Contemplating a Lake Activity
My legs
in the lake
are fine, I can take
the shimmering pale,
the wavery line.
Somehow,
above,
when I stand in my suit,
I'm nothing but pale,
out of shape, and hirsute.
in the lake
are fine, I can take
the shimmering pale,
the wavery line.
Somehow,
above,
when I stand in my suit,
I'm nothing but pale,
out of shape, and hirsute.
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