I heard some song lyrics in the car today--I have no idea what the song was (even the genre--I listen to the mixed station that plays everything from country to metal), or who the singer was. I couldn't even sing you the chorus, because I came in at the end of the song.
But what I heard, stuck. If you know who this is or what the song is, please tell me!
The lyrics I remember (it was a few hours ago, sorry!):
"You don't have to feel safe to feel unafraid."
There was also something about lions make you brave & giants give you faith (which is really cool too), but those words smacked me across the face & grabbed me in a hug that hasn't let go yet.
You don't have to feel safe
To feel unafraid.
Just think on that for a moment, let that one sink in.
Look at the difference:
Safe.
Unafraid.
The first is where we go to rest, to breathe, to let the world slip by while we recuperate from the battle & lick our wounds.
But the second--that's where we live.
It's where we sing, dance, laugh, and love--all from that deep place in the gut that life itself flows from.
It's where we wrestle with God, as Jacob did, and where we are blessed.
It's where we fight, and strive, and glory.
God did not call us to be safe.
But He did tell us not to fear.
To be bold.
Please don't misunderstand me--I think the Church should be one of the safest places in this world. It should be the safest place short of Heaven that any human soul finds. The Church should be a place of comfort, solace, joy, peace--a place where the wounded can come to have the love of Christ manifest in His people binding their wounds and salving their hearts.
I know that it's not.
That knowing drives me mad with sorrow, and it drives me to make myself into that safe haven for other people.
But I want to be a safe place. That doesn't mean I want safety for myself.
Love is not safe.
But it is good.
To love others is to be unafraid in stepping outside the safety that keeps us from hurt--to reach out to those that are hurting and expose myself to their pain.
So yeah, you don't have to be safe to be unafraid.
I like that song.
Friday, October 18, 2013
Thursday, October 3, 2013
Musicals
I'm directing a musical.
It's a children's Christmas musical at the church that I attend--and the kids I work with are wonderful, and the story is amazing. And it's got me thinking about a lot of things, and remembering a lot of things, and wondering...
How did this happen?
No really, I'm not a musical person.
I didn't think so, at least.
But, while thinking back, I realized...
Maybe I am.
Why not?
Sure. :)
The first musical I distinctly remember being a part of was called something like "Candy Cane Lane"... I think. I was 7 or 8, and my family lived on a little military base in New Mexico. It was the kids' Christmas musical of the Protestant Chapel, and our director was a lady we all called Miz Teresa (with no H!).
That dear lady is what I think of whenever I hear the term "fierce".
Don't misunderstand me--I loved her to pieces, and I know all the other kids did too! And she loved us--fiercely. She did everything with so much vim & vigour that she just tickled all of us, she awed us with her passion and joy. I think that might have been part of her secret, she out-ran all of us, and what kid doesn't respect that?
I distinctly remember one story Miz Teresa told us that still fills me with respect and awe to this day. We were all of us feeling especially flighty and rowdy that day, and she felt that she needed to instill some good-old-fashioned fear of the Lord into us. So she got us all set down for a stern talking-to.
She told us the story of the Old Testament priests, and the temple, and how the Israelites worshiped at this temple. She told us about how the Temple was divided into three sections: the outer court, the Holy Place, and the Holy of Holies--or the Most Holy Place. She then broke this down for us.
The Outer Court, she told us, was the place that the Gentiles--non-Israelites--were allowed. That was as far as they could go, but they could worship from there. In our modern-day churches, this might be compared to our foyer, where we all have a good time and laugh and fellowship (she liked that word). The Outer Court was kind of like that for the Israelites--where they could buy and sell, and mingle and fellowship.
The Holy Place though, that was for worship. That was special--like our Sanctuary. (Here she gazed over her glasses at us sternly.) The Israelites only let those who were lawfully clean into the Holy Place.
And the Holiest of Holies? That was where the Ark of the Covenant was kept. (I don't know if I even knew what that was at the time, but her reverence when she spoke of it impressed me.) That was where God lived with His people, before Jesus came to the earth, and His presence was filled with power.
The Holiest of Holies was filled with so much power that the High Priest was the only person who went into it, and even then he only did once a year to pray for the nation. Even so, they tied a rope and a bell around his ankle, just in case he wasn't right with God & being in His presence killed him!
Then she compared the Holiest of Holies to the portion of the Sanctuary where the chaplain preached from.
In retrospect, I realize that it might be questioned whether that was the best story to share with a group of children, and I'm sure my memory has skewed the presentation in some way (it usually does), but boy howdy did she get her point across! I never acted without reverence around the pulpit again.
It is worth noting, that Miz Teresa managed to get the point across without making me afraid. I was never afraid that God would strike me dead if I acted out in church. Why would he? The only people He did that to were the hypocrites who were arrogant enough to intentionally enter His presence without recognizing His authority and power. The people who not just didn't love Him, but who rejected Him & were trying to lead others astray. I wasn't afraid because of what Miz Teresa told us, but I had a lot more respect for God and those places set aside for us to meet with Him. Even now, I feel a sense of awe and quiet whenever I enter a church's sanctuary, especially ones that resemble that church in New Mexico.
And no, my enthusiasm for the show was not dampened. I still volunteered for as much stage time as I could! I was originally cast as the chocolate drop (I was not excited about wearing brown) with no lines, but I managed to wriggle my way into being a bubble-blower, a dancer, and when one of my friends got a case of stage fright for her solo I stepped up and said I would sing with her--just so she wouldn't be scared, of course! ;) I wasn't scared, I stood up there with her and belted that duet out with pure delight at being center-stage.
I might have been weirdly attention-hungry, for such a painfully shy little kid.
It's a children's Christmas musical at the church that I attend--and the kids I work with are wonderful, and the story is amazing. And it's got me thinking about a lot of things, and remembering a lot of things, and wondering...
How did this happen?
No really, I'm not a musical person.
I didn't think so, at least.
But, while thinking back, I realized...
Maybe I am.
Why not?
Sure. :)
The first musical I distinctly remember being a part of was called something like "Candy Cane Lane"... I think. I was 7 or 8, and my family lived on a little military base in New Mexico. It was the kids' Christmas musical of the Protestant Chapel, and our director was a lady we all called Miz Teresa (with no H!).
That dear lady is what I think of whenever I hear the term "fierce".
Don't misunderstand me--I loved her to pieces, and I know all the other kids did too! And she loved us--fiercely. She did everything with so much vim & vigour that she just tickled all of us, she awed us with her passion and joy. I think that might have been part of her secret, she out-ran all of us, and what kid doesn't respect that?
I distinctly remember one story Miz Teresa told us that still fills me with respect and awe to this day. We were all of us feeling especially flighty and rowdy that day, and she felt that she needed to instill some good-old-fashioned fear of the Lord into us. So she got us all set down for a stern talking-to.
She told us the story of the Old Testament priests, and the temple, and how the Israelites worshiped at this temple. She told us about how the Temple was divided into three sections: the outer court, the Holy Place, and the Holy of Holies--or the Most Holy Place. She then broke this down for us.
The Outer Court, she told us, was the place that the Gentiles--non-Israelites--were allowed. That was as far as they could go, but they could worship from there. In our modern-day churches, this might be compared to our foyer, where we all have a good time and laugh and fellowship (she liked that word). The Outer Court was kind of like that for the Israelites--where they could buy and sell, and mingle and fellowship.
The Holy Place though, that was for worship. That was special--like our Sanctuary. (Here she gazed over her glasses at us sternly.) The Israelites only let those who were lawfully clean into the Holy Place.
And the Holiest of Holies? That was where the Ark of the Covenant was kept. (I don't know if I even knew what that was at the time, but her reverence when she spoke of it impressed me.) That was where God lived with His people, before Jesus came to the earth, and His presence was filled with power.
The Holiest of Holies was filled with so much power that the High Priest was the only person who went into it, and even then he only did once a year to pray for the nation. Even so, they tied a rope and a bell around his ankle, just in case he wasn't right with God & being in His presence killed him!
Then she compared the Holiest of Holies to the portion of the Sanctuary where the chaplain preached from.
In retrospect, I realize that it might be questioned whether that was the best story to share with a group of children, and I'm sure my memory has skewed the presentation in some way (it usually does), but boy howdy did she get her point across! I never acted without reverence around the pulpit again.
It is worth noting, that Miz Teresa managed to get the point across without making me afraid. I was never afraid that God would strike me dead if I acted out in church. Why would he? The only people He did that to were the hypocrites who were arrogant enough to intentionally enter His presence without recognizing His authority and power. The people who not just didn't love Him, but who rejected Him & were trying to lead others astray. I wasn't afraid because of what Miz Teresa told us, but I had a lot more respect for God and those places set aside for us to meet with Him. Even now, I feel a sense of awe and quiet whenever I enter a church's sanctuary, especially ones that resemble that church in New Mexico.
And no, my enthusiasm for the show was not dampened. I still volunteered for as much stage time as I could! I was originally cast as the chocolate drop (I was not excited about wearing brown) with no lines, but I managed to wriggle my way into being a bubble-blower, a dancer, and when one of my friends got a case of stage fright for her solo I stepped up and said I would sing with her--just so she wouldn't be scared, of course! ;) I wasn't scared, I stood up there with her and belted that duet out with pure delight at being center-stage.
I might have been weirdly attention-hungry, for such a painfully shy little kid.
Wednesday, September 25, 2013
It's important to remember
I haven't really written a lot lately.
There's a lot that I haven't done lately.
I haven't written.
I haven't ...
Well that got depressing real fast. I may like lists, but I think I'll stay away from that one for now.
Funny, how playing "I have never" is so much fun around friends. But by myself it's just kind of pathetic. Like a deflated balloon caught in a tree.
ANYway...
It's important to remember why I write, and I have forgotten for a while. But that post I mentioned jolted something back into place in my mind, and I think it's coming back.
The passion.
The fury.
The drive.
The joy...
Because that's why I write. All those trite little cliches that writers try not to use, they're kind of true.
Writing is my Anti-Drug... well, my Anti-Depressant would be more accurate, I guess, since I've never done illegal drugs...
I write because it's how I worship.
Writing is how I pray.
Writing is how I think thoughts that make sense,
And how I keep the darkness at bay.
Writing brings order to a chaotic spirit,
And it brings reason to the illogical nonsense that tries to pull me under.
Writing is how I show love.
It's how I unveil my heart.
Writing makes me vulnerable, and in my vulnerability I see how strong I am.
Writing is how I commune with the great thinkers of this time, times past, and times to come.
Writing keeps me sane,
Well, it at least leads me dancing to the kind of crazy that creates instead of destroying.
Writing is like breathing.
Those times when it is most difficult to accomplish are when it is the most important.
Like my heartbeat,
It keeps things flowing so smoothly that I don't even notice it until it becomes irregular.
How I've missed this!
This joining together of words,
This flow of one thought to the next--
The Symbols and the Power.
With this writing I do...
What?
Anything.
Everything?
What glorious potential!
I am halved when I miss out on this part of my very self.
Not writing is worse than neglecting a hobby or a gift,
It is self-mutilation.
Strong words, I know.
But maybe that's why I can't seem to leave my poor thumb alone.
Maybe that's why my prayers have been so difficult to speak.
Not writing, it's depriving myself of the very tool I need.
It's like trying to paint a portrait with my forehead, instead of the set of artist's brushes I could use.
It's a self-lobotomy, depriving myself of this medium, this vehicle for thought.
All those times in my past that I've felt alone in the dark--
They were times I wasn't writing.
Is it a symptom, or a cause?
Does it matter? Of course, but perhaps not as much as I think.
If gritting my teeth and smiling can make me feel happy,
Perhaps pushing through the blank page and writing can make me feel creative.
What are feelings for, after all.
I'm feeling more productive already.
Writing is more than how I think,
It's how I process my feelings.
Without writing, I allow myself to become a slave to my emotions.
Writing is how I and my emotions become reconciled, and we work together to create joy.
Isn't that what writing should be?
Creation.
Delight.
Joy.
There's a lot that I haven't done lately.
I haven't written.
I haven't ...
Well that got depressing real fast. I may like lists, but I think I'll stay away from that one for now.
Funny, how playing "I have never" is so much fun around friends. But by myself it's just kind of pathetic. Like a deflated balloon caught in a tree.
ANYway...
It's important to remember why I write, and I have forgotten for a while. But that post I mentioned jolted something back into place in my mind, and I think it's coming back.
The passion.
The fury.
The drive.
The joy...
Because that's why I write. All those trite little cliches that writers try not to use, they're kind of true.
Writing is my Anti-Drug... well, my Anti-Depressant would be more accurate, I guess, since I've never done illegal drugs...
I write because it's how I worship.
Writing is how I pray.
Writing is how I think thoughts that make sense,
And how I keep the darkness at bay.
Writing brings order to a chaotic spirit,
And it brings reason to the illogical nonsense that tries to pull me under.
Writing is how I show love.
It's how I unveil my heart.
Writing makes me vulnerable, and in my vulnerability I see how strong I am.
Writing is how I commune with the great thinkers of this time, times past, and times to come.
Writing keeps me sane,
Well, it at least leads me dancing to the kind of crazy that creates instead of destroying.
Writing is like breathing.
Those times when it is most difficult to accomplish are when it is the most important.
Like my heartbeat,
It keeps things flowing so smoothly that I don't even notice it until it becomes irregular.
How I've missed this!
This joining together of words,
This flow of one thought to the next--
The Symbols and the Power.
With this writing I do...
What?
Anything.
Everything?
What glorious potential!
I am halved when I miss out on this part of my very self.
Not writing is worse than neglecting a hobby or a gift,
It is self-mutilation.
Strong words, I know.
But maybe that's why I can't seem to leave my poor thumb alone.
Maybe that's why my prayers have been so difficult to speak.
Not writing, it's depriving myself of the very tool I need.
It's like trying to paint a portrait with my forehead, instead of the set of artist's brushes I could use.
It's a self-lobotomy, depriving myself of this medium, this vehicle for thought.
All those times in my past that I've felt alone in the dark--
They were times I wasn't writing.
Is it a symptom, or a cause?
Does it matter? Of course, but perhaps not as much as I think.
If gritting my teeth and smiling can make me feel happy,
Perhaps pushing through the blank page and writing can make me feel creative.
What are feelings for, after all.
I'm feeling more productive already.
Writing is more than how I think,
It's how I process my feelings.
Without writing, I allow myself to become a slave to my emotions.
Writing is how I and my emotions become reconciled, and we work together to create joy.
Isn't that what writing should be?
Creation.
Delight.
Joy.
Read titles too...
As promised from my last post...
If you want to write, you must first read.
But don't be picky. Read everything.
And I mean, everything.
Read the excellent literature your English teacher told you to.
Read the "fluff" your teacher sniffed at.
Read the poetry, of every kind and variety you can lay your hands on.
Read blank verse, and try to understand all of it. If you can't understand it, feel it.
Read children's books, and take time to look at the pictures.
Read coffee-table books.
Read the graffiti in the bathroom stalls and in the underpass on your way to work. And wonder what it meant to the person who put it there.
Read post-it notes, and grocery lists, and business cards, and imagine the people behind them.
Read warning labels, and ingredient labels, and instruction labels, and those labels on the inside of clothes that dig into your side and make you wonder if this will fit after you dry it.
Read the bottom of your shoe.
Read bill-boards, and advertisements, and instruction manuals.
Read catalogs, bills, envelopes, and magazines. What will become of them, when they are discarded? What will they become?
Read calendars, planners, and itineraries, but don't let them rule you.
Read magazines, ads included.
Read autobiographies, and biographies--take to heart the difference between how people saw themselves and how other people saw them. Then decide how that knowledge should shape you.
Read the Bible, preferably in several translations. And the Qur'an, the Apocrypha, Kitab-i-Aqdas, Tipaka, The Book of Mormon, and every other text used throughout humanity's history to guide their actions and thoughts. Read them with open eyes, heart, and mind, knowing that an essential part of the Human Condition is the pursuit of Truth.
Read foreign languages, even if you're not sure of what they mean.
Read newspapers--online, in print, and satirical.
Read blogs you agree with--and blogs you disagree with.
Read fiction--sci-fi, fantasy, historical, and every other kind as well.
Read textbooks.
Read scripts, playbills, Shakespeare, and acting manuals.
Read the dictionary.
Read the encyclopedia.
Stuff as much information into your mind as you think you can possibly hold, about everything around you. Become passionate about knowledge--hunger after it, be voracious! The written word holds so much power--and it's all around us.
If you want to write, the best way to learn how do to that well is to read.
If you want to write, you must first read.
But don't be picky. Read everything.
And I mean, everything.
Read the excellent literature your English teacher told you to.
Read the "fluff" your teacher sniffed at.
Read the poetry, of every kind and variety you can lay your hands on.
Read blank verse, and try to understand all of it. If you can't understand it, feel it.
Read children's books, and take time to look at the pictures.
Read coffee-table books.
Read the graffiti in the bathroom stalls and in the underpass on your way to work. And wonder what it meant to the person who put it there.
Read post-it notes, and grocery lists, and business cards, and imagine the people behind them.
Read warning labels, and ingredient labels, and instruction labels, and those labels on the inside of clothes that dig into your side and make you wonder if this will fit after you dry it.
Read the bottom of your shoe.
Read bill-boards, and advertisements, and instruction manuals.
Read catalogs, bills, envelopes, and magazines. What will become of them, when they are discarded? What will they become?
Read calendars, planners, and itineraries, but don't let them rule you.
Read magazines, ads included.
Read autobiographies, and biographies--take to heart the difference between how people saw themselves and how other people saw them. Then decide how that knowledge should shape you.
Read the Bible, preferably in several translations. And the Qur'an, the Apocrypha, Kitab-i-Aqdas, Tipaka, The Book of Mormon, and every other text used throughout humanity's history to guide their actions and thoughts. Read them with open eyes, heart, and mind, knowing that an essential part of the Human Condition is the pursuit of Truth.
Read foreign languages, even if you're not sure of what they mean.
Read newspapers--online, in print, and satirical.
Read blogs you agree with--and blogs you disagree with.
Read fiction--sci-fi, fantasy, historical, and every other kind as well.
Read textbooks.
Read scripts, playbills, Shakespeare, and acting manuals.
Read the dictionary.
Read the encyclopedia.
Stuff as much information into your mind as you think you can possibly hold, about everything around you. Become passionate about knowledge--hunger after it, be voracious! The written word holds so much power--and it's all around us.
If you want to write, the best way to learn how do to that well is to read.
Are you ready?
I love reading.
No, wrong word. I don't love reading. I read. I read like I breathe, like I eat. Reading satisfies an innate hunger--it is an automatic function that almost cannot be helped. My eyes see words and my mind automatically processes them and attempts to discern their meaning.
One of the things I read today was this. And it was beautiful, and inspiring, and reminded me of several such things I've read before, and made me want to do similar posts.
I just wanted to forewarn you about what may be coming... It won't all be about writing... but, well...
Let's just say, I accidentally asked for a mocha with 3 shots of espresso this morning--I had no idea they usually put 2 in them already!! I just walked up to the counter feeling like the walking dead I stayed up too late last night to watch (see what I did there? it's a show...), and now I feel a little more jittery than anticipated...
Hence the stream-of-I-forgot-how-to-spell-that-word... what was I talking about?
Hey, new blogpost ideas! Yay!!!
;)
No, wrong word. I don't love reading. I read. I read like I breathe, like I eat. Reading satisfies an innate hunger--it is an automatic function that almost cannot be helped. My eyes see words and my mind automatically processes them and attempts to discern their meaning.
One of the things I read today was this. And it was beautiful, and inspiring, and reminded me of several such things I've read before, and made me want to do similar posts.
I just wanted to forewarn you about what may be coming... It won't all be about writing... but, well...
Let's just say, I accidentally asked for a mocha with 3 shots of espresso this morning--I had no idea they usually put 2 in them already!! I just walked up to the counter feeling like the walking dead I stayed up too late last night to watch (see what I did there? it's a show...), and now I feel a little more jittery than anticipated...
Hence the stream-of-I-forgot-how-to-spell-that-word... what was I talking about?
Hey, new blogpost ideas! Yay!!!
;)
Thursday, August 1, 2013
Priorities
I've never made a bucket list. I wonder, why is that?
I think I've never had the time before. Also, the deadline of "before I kick the bucket" seems so... ambiguous. What if I get flattened by a falling safe tomorrow? Whoops, guess I should've gotten on that list sooner... Conversely, what if I do everything on my list before I turn 30, but live till I'm 96 (long-lived females runs in the family, it could happen)--Will I forever be making & completing lists like that?
Not that that would be a bad thing...
But I think it's high time I start a bucket list.
Recently a pair of my friends, the Ks, came to visit. I haven't seen them in 3 years, and they had never met Husband, so we all had a delightful time catching up. In our wanderings around the place we live, we stumbled upon this wall:
take Batman, and he dies in the past.
Yes, it will be inspired by what I found at an actual graveyard. No, I'm not telling you where the above pictures were taken. :P
2. Own a car like this one:
3. Drink coffee at 100 different coffee-shops around the world--starting at this one:
It looks like I could love it.
4. Find out the story behind this graffiti:
5. Make some epic, story-filled graffiti that no one wants to take down because it's bona-fide art--like the one above. :)
6. Take more pictures. A lot more.
7. Find a theatre family before I've lived here for a year.
8. Forgive her--legitimately, so I don't wince every time I see her picture/name.
9. Read the second book in that Ken Follet series (I like historical fiction, who knew?!)
10. Finish a notebook in the next year.
11. Write a full-length play--and get it performed.
12. Start a theatre company.
13. Audition for Steppenwolf.
14. Get an MFA.
15. And a Ph.D. (can you even get one of those in theatre? ... I think I will. If no one has yet, then it's high time someone does!)
16. Visit all of the continents... except maybe that really all-over cold one...We can not go there, I'm okay with that.
17. Beat all the Assassin's Creed games...
18. Adopt a shelter dog.
19. Be happily married--for the rest of forever.
20. Get some chocolate in this office!!!
21. Love my job, passionately.
22. Love my church, fervently.
23. Write & publish a book of poetry (that's going to take the rest of my life...).
24. Become a great friend.
25. Become the kind of person that writes thank-you cards out of pure gratitude, and not out of guilt or obligation or societal pressures (I'll do it because I want to, not because you told me to--it does have a place after all!!). Yes there's a story from my childhood behind this one, but I'll have to tell you some other time--alas!
I think that's a good place to end for now. Was this a cheap trick to unload some pictures onto my blog? Maybe. But that's for me to know. ;)
Watch out for falling water--that stuff can wear through rocks!!
I think I've never had the time before. Also, the deadline of "before I kick the bucket" seems so... ambiguous. What if I get flattened by a falling safe tomorrow? Whoops, guess I should've gotten on that list sooner... Conversely, what if I do everything on my list before I turn 30, but live till I'm 96 (long-lived females runs in the family, it could happen)--Will I forever be making & completing lists like that?
Not that that would be a bad thing...
But I think it's high time I start a bucket list.
Recently a pair of my friends, the Ks, came to visit. I haven't seen them in 3 years, and they had never met Husband, so we all had a delightful time catching up. In our wanderings around the place we live, we stumbled upon this wall:
The idea was to write what you want to do before you die. What would your answer be?
I wanted to come up with something profound, deep, clever, and funny all at the same time. I think my contribution was a lame sort of cop-out like "Speak the Truth". (Because I've been lying this whole time & truth is a novelty for me...??? Yeah, uh... )
But the truth is, there's a lot I want to do.
So here, thanks to my passion for Lists that are Easy to Check Things Off Of, is a portion of my newly-inspired Bucket List (do be sub-divided later). I reserve the right to add any number of things later, but this is here for now. I will try to remember to add updates as to how I'm doing later. (These are in no particular order, please keep in mind.)
1. Write a Doctor Who/Batman fanfic about how the Weeping Angels
take Batman, and he dies in the past.
Yes, it will be inspired by what I found at an actual graveyard. No, I'm not telling you where the above pictures were taken. :P
2. Own a car like this one:
3. Drink coffee at 100 different coffee-shops around the world--starting at this one:
4. Find out the story behind this graffiti:
5. Make some epic, story-filled graffiti that no one wants to take down because it's bona-fide art--like the one above. :)
6. Take more pictures. A lot more.
7. Find a theatre family before I've lived here for a year.
8. Forgive her--legitimately, so I don't wince every time I see her picture/name.
9. Read the second book in that Ken Follet series (I like historical fiction, who knew?!)
10. Finish a notebook in the next year.
11. Write a full-length play--and get it performed.
12. Start a theatre company.
13. Audition for Steppenwolf.
14. Get an MFA.
15. And a Ph.D. (can you even get one of those in theatre? ... I think I will. If no one has yet, then it's high time someone does!)
16. Visit all of the continents... except maybe that really all-over cold one...We can not go there, I'm okay with that.
17. Beat all the Assassin's Creed games...
18. Adopt a shelter dog.
19. Be happily married--for the rest of forever.
20. Get some chocolate in this office!!!
21. Love my job, passionately.
22. Love my church, fervently.
23. Write & publish a book of poetry (that's going to take the rest of my life...).
24. Become a great friend.
25. Become the kind of person that writes thank-you cards out of pure gratitude, and not out of guilt or obligation or societal pressures (I'll do it because I want to, not because you told me to--it does have a place after all!!). Yes there's a story from my childhood behind this one, but I'll have to tell you some other time--alas!
I think that's a good place to end for now. Was this a cheap trick to unload some pictures onto my blog? Maybe. But that's for me to know. ;)
Watch out for falling water--that stuff can wear through rocks!!
Monday, July 1, 2013
Identity Crisis
Who am I?
I find it interesting the number of times this question is a key plot point in many of my favorite stories. Who am I? Who are you? The significance of this query is huge and profound.
I have been watching the new Doctor Who series with Husband for a while now, and in the last one we saw the Doctor found out who River Song is. At least, he found out a part of who she is. He discovered her parentage--and this discovery was of particular importance to everyone involved. In an act of foreshadowing earlier in the episode River Song told Rory that "tonight [the Doctor] will find out who I am."
But... really? All he discovers is who her parents are. He already knew who she would marry eventually...sort of... and this discovery shed no light on why she was imprisoned (that discovery doesn't happen until later). Did he really discover who River Song was? Is her parentage really that important? Some people go through their whole lives not knowing whose womb they vacated--but this does not necessarily define their identity.
So what does?
In Alice in Wonderland this question of identity is posed by a caterpillar blowing smoke rings... and it's answer seems to be of the utmost importance, judging by his insistence. He asks "Who are YOU?" a few times, and is very unsatisfied with Alice's answers. Perhaps because she does not know herself. She states that "... I know who I WAS when I got up this morning, but I think I must have been changed several times since then." The caterpillar demands an explanation, and Alice tells him that she has changed size several times since that morning.
Again... really? She was confused about her identity because her height was in flux? Apparently. Perhaps that is why the caterpillar was so short with her (every pun in the world intended...). If Alice's identity was based on such a changeable factor, perhaps a change of worldview was in order after all...
In the movie, V for Vendetta a snippet of dialogue goes as follows:
I find it interesting the number of times this question is a key plot point in many of my favorite stories. Who am I? Who are you? The significance of this query is huge and profound.
I have been watching the new Doctor Who series with Husband for a while now, and in the last one we saw the Doctor found out who River Song is. At least, he found out a part of who she is. He discovered her parentage--and this discovery was of particular importance to everyone involved. In an act of foreshadowing earlier in the episode River Song told Rory that "tonight [the Doctor] will find out who I am."
But... really? All he discovers is who her parents are. He already knew who she would marry eventually...sort of... and this discovery shed no light on why she was imprisoned (that discovery doesn't happen until later). Did he really discover who River Song was? Is her parentage really that important? Some people go through their whole lives not knowing whose womb they vacated--but this does not necessarily define their identity.
So what does?
In Alice in Wonderland this question of identity is posed by a caterpillar blowing smoke rings... and it's answer seems to be of the utmost importance, judging by his insistence. He asks "Who are YOU?" a few times, and is very unsatisfied with Alice's answers. Perhaps because she does not know herself. She states that "... I know who I WAS when I got up this morning, but I think I must have been changed several times since then." The caterpillar demands an explanation, and Alice tells him that she has changed size several times since that morning.
Again... really? She was confused about her identity because her height was in flux? Apparently. Perhaps that is why the caterpillar was so short with her (every pun in the world intended...). If Alice's identity was based on such a changeable factor, perhaps a change of worldview was in order after all...
In the movie, V for Vendetta a snippet of dialogue goes as follows:
Evey Hammond: Who...who are you?
V: Who? Who is but the form following the function of what. And what I am, is a man in a mask.
Evey Hammond: I can see that.
V: Of course you can. I'm not questioning your powers of observation, I'm merely remarking on the paradox of asking a masked man who he is.
A paradox because, naturally, the masked man is attempting to conceal who he is. What is it that the mask covers up though? Is that all we are--or is it that the man under the mask wishes to feel freer to show who he is, unrestrained by the tail told by his face?
What determines a person's identity?
What determines my identity?
Who am I?
We humans have been asking this question from the very beginning. Plagued by doubt, fear, suspicion, and lies we are continually asking ourselves and others: who am I?
In The Neverending Story, Bastian loses all of his memories of the world he was born in. These memories are the price he pays for the wishes he is granted in Fantastica. For every wish fulfilled, a memory lost--until he is left with no memories of his own with which to get back home. He couldn't even remember his name. With no memories, the question became again: who am I?
I am no longer the same person I was in high school (thank goodness!), college, or even the same as I was in Minneapolis. While my parentage is still the same, my height has changed, my masks have changed, my memories have changed, even my name has changed.
But that's not the question. So I am not the person I was--that's known. Who am I now?
What defines me?
In looking at myself with that ever-critical eye, I am not who I want to be.
I am not the friend I want to be.
I do not follow Christ as passionately as I would like to.
I am not the daughter I would be.
I am not the sister/aunt/wife/granddaughter/niece (just once I would like to spell that word correctly on the first try) I would like to be.
I am not the sister/aunt/wife/granddaughter/niece (just once I would like to spell that word correctly on the first try) I would like to be.
I do not produce as much art as I would like to--of any kind.
I am discontent. And that's not good. Of late, I have taken on the extremely bad habit of measuring myself by what is lacking, instead of seeing what is there & where I could go.
"Limitations are the catalyst for creativity" said one of my dearest mentors. I have not been living this like I used to.
"What I do today is important because I am exchanging a day of my life for it" said one of my best friends.
"For most people, it's not what they are that holds them back. It's what they think they are not." ~John Maxwell
Oh God, my God, Author of the Multi-Verse, Singer of songs and Painter of the skies--I do not love you as I should and I am ashamed. Teach me again what it means to Love--never stop teaching me! My heart is shriveled up and dying for want of You and Your Love. Show me again those lessons I have forgotten. Sear them into the new heart you have given me and let me never forget again. I am a wretched and withered husk. Fill me and make me clean. Help me to Love You and Your people, even as You have loved me.
My identity is in You. Apart from You, I am not.
Now the new question: who are You?
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