Sunday Thoughts - Not My Own
This used to be much easier... "Perhaps the only thing that anyone can be absolutely sure of is that he will never be able to prove it either way--with objective, verifiable proof. We can know that in the beginning there was God and not just some cosmic upheaval that brought light out of darkness
only when [emphasis mine] we have experienced him doing the same thing in our lives, our world--bringing light out of our darkness.
To put it another way, unless there is some very real sense in which the Spirit of God moves over the dark and chaotic waters of this age, these deeps of yours and mine; unless God speaks his light- and life-giving word to me, then I do not really care much one way or the other whether he set the whole show spinning
x billions of years ago. Unless I have some real experience of it myself, then even if someone could somehow prove to me objectively and verifiably that it all happened just as Genesis declares, I would be tempted to answer him with the two most devastating words in the English language: so what?"
[...]
"But notice this: that love is not really one of man's
powers. Man cannot achieve love, generate love, wield love, as he does his powers of destruction and creation. When I love someone, it is not something I have achieved, but something that is happening through me, something that is happening to me as well as to him[...] So the power of God stands in violent contrast with the power of man. It is not external like man's power, but internal. By applying external pressure, I can make a person do what I want him to do. This is man's power. But as for making him be what I want him to be, without at the same time destroying his freedom, only love can make this happen. And love makes it happen not coercively, but by creating a situation in which, of our own free will, we want to be what love wants us to be. And because God's love is uncoercive and treasures our freedom--if above all he want sus to love him, then we must be left free not to love him--we are free to resist it, deny it, crucify it finally, which we do again and again. This is our terrible freedom, which love refuses to overpower so that, in this, the greatest of all powers, God's power, is itself powerless."
[...]
"faith here is not so much believing this thing or that thing about God as it is hearing a voice that says, 'Come unto me.' We hear the voice, and then we start to go without really knowing what to believe either about the voice or about ourselves; and yet we go. Faith is standing in the darkness, and a hand is there, and we take it."
-Frederick Buechner,
The Magnificant Defeat
...but I'd rather throw out the old boxes and wrestle for every inch of understanding and hold a hand in the darkness and grow through my doubt. On most days, at least.
Bow-wow-wow yippee-yo yippee-yay
Updates: I have officially heard back from 9/12 of my schools.
I've been accepted at FSU, UF, and UK - all of which are decent programs with unique specialties. Gainesville sounds a little more appealing than Lexington, and it's a much better deal. I'm waitlisted at Emory, but I'd be shocked if that changes. Just being waitlisted is enough for me right now. Every day, I make a different, passionate resolve about the next year of my life. I've been asking everyone, "If you had it to do all over again, would you?" But I don't think that's a fair question. It's like me telling them to actively regret or praise their lives - with a slant towards the former. All of this analysis is starting to bore me into actually making a decision. I just have to trust that all things will turn out for good.
Speaking of trust, (Sorry, I couldn't think of a good transition)...
Two weeks ago, my parents' house was ransacked. The thieves, not realizing that we are the kind of people who trust banks and still have our first color tv, dumped every drawer and overturned every mattress. They took my father's laptop, printer, and over $100 in quarters my brother was collecting. We've lived there for over twenty-five years, and this is the first problem we've had. I suggested that we invest in a security system. My mom got a dog.
My mom blames our lack of canine representation on the recent break-in; our dog just died a couple of months ago. It's not that she was especially fond of Pooch - she just doesn't form emotional attachments to animals. But she did memorialize his death with a wooden cross and a typed eulogy. To cheer her up, I sent her twenty pages of information on dog breeds and pictures, but she "wasn't ready yet." However, the Saturday after our break-in, my parents went to the SPCA and got a new "security system." Dad didn't want anything that could possibly wear a sweater. They brought home a chocolate lab named "Edisto."
At first, my parents were enamored with the pup. My dad took him to work a few times; my mom would walk him in the park that is a twenty minute drive. But his shyness quickly wore off and now my parents have to puppy-proof their lives. With a baby, you have to make adjustments in the house so the baby will be safe. With a puppy, you have to make adjustments so the house won't get ruined. He ate through his bottle of antibiotics and the bed my mom bought him. The world is his chew toy. I can't wait to meet him.
However, the death of Pooch caused my four year-old cousin to ask big questions about death. After giving it some thought, he has decided that he would prefer
not to go to heaven. For one thing, heaven sounds boring. It's too full of pretty stuff. "But South Carolina has the beach and 'quarium", so he has decided he'd just like to stay there. Another day when they were out running errands, he asked his mother if cars go to heaven. When she told him "no", he grumbled, "I wish I was a car."
In our next issue of "Tara's Adventures of Naught," I will discuss my trip to Maryland and my week with Mike. Until then...you stay classy, planet earth.
Mommy Dearest
My weekend of playing mother is officially over.
For the past 56 hours, I have been cook, maid, entertainer, chauffeur, referee, singer, and craft technician for an 8 year old and a 10 year old (with a brief stint as a vegetarian dragon with a British accent and mild lapses into other poor imitations of accents). I’m tired.
With my students, I can anticipate the problems that
could arise and arrange my plan to reduce the chances of failure.
Sisters aren’t so easy – especially when they’re two intelligent and perceptive young ladies. Because I never had a sister, I underestimated the territorialism and the range of catalysts for arguments.
I found myself searching for the logical response to “she’s breathing too close to me.”
Everything is about turns and equality and justice – or there’s screaming.
Actually, it usually starts with screaming and the response to my pointed, logical questions is “becaaaaause [huffy breath]!” I somehow unconsciously block arguments that make no sense to me, such
as the “don’t let her sing on the songs on
my CD,” but this only leads to more screaming and huffy breaths.
I don’t feel like a very good babysitter.
Sometimes, I reply with my own huffy breath.
I sound like the babysitting grinch. When they aren’t fighting, these girls are funny and affectionate and make wonderful observations about the world. They’re also polite and I can tell that their parents have given careful instructions about where and when certain behavior is appropriate. I only have to speak to them once, and they obey and are instantly repentant. When I was afraid they’d hold grudges because of how “mean” I was being, they would surprise me with a nice hug and a nuzzle into my shoulder. They want me to sing to them before they go to bed, and they always give me a good hug and tell me they love me. I always have a good time with them, even if “we” get up at 6:58am on the weekends. I love them for their “cool teen” books and pink cowboy boots and hair that is brushed twice a day. I sometimes forget how young they are.
They’re finally in bed, the guinea pig, cat, dog, and fish are all asleep, and I am about to start spring break 2006 which will consist of working as much as I can the next four days before I fly to Maryland to see my girls and relive what I love so much about them – they feel like home. I checked my email and mailbox constantly the past few days – no new news from Ph.D. programs (aside from my official offer from one school). If I wasn’t me, I would think I was a little crazy about this whole thing. The girls certainly did when we passed by my mailbox four times on Saturday before we finally saw that I was getting nothing.
That’s all I have for now. I now somewhat understand the harried look on a young mother’s face; I understand why she isn’t wooed by the charms of the children that I find to be so interesting. My mom had all three of us by the time she was my age. The cure for the romantic cooing of motherhood is a healthy dose of [temporary] reality. But, of course, it will be different when it’s my children. It will also be somewhere far, far in the future…
(PS- And I already miss them.)
The Waiting Game
(background noise: a slowly ticking clock)
Time for some updates – I’m not sure where we left off. I just spent a week in the cold of Memphis, Tennessee. (My blood keeps getting more stubbornly southern.) I hung out with Mike’s friends (both young and not-young), ate, relaxed, slept, laughed…this is vague, so I’ll give you a few highlights. We went to Graceland with one of Mike’s professors (a writer) and another visiting writer. I took over 100 pictures. If I wasn’t an Elvis fan before I went to Graceland (which I wasn’t), then I definitely am now. I’m a fan of anything kitsch, and it doesn’t get much better than a furry white bed, a turquoise-handled pistol, large porcelain animals, and shag
carpet all over the walls and ceiling. And the jungle room looks like the debris from a laquer and wood plant’s explosion. Graceland is smaller than I thought it would be (and I never knew that Elvis had a twin brother that died at birth.) I’m hooked. It’s not really Elvis – it’s the idea of Elvis. It’s other people’s journeys to their velvet mecca. The pilgrim of our interest was a thin, middle-aged blond dressed in black except the sequin red ELVIS across her chest. She cried on the two minute bus ride to Graceland while I played with my audio-tour-on-a-lanyard (and wondered about the sanitation issues of shared earphones).
But Graceland was just one stop of an event-filled week in Memphis. For pre-Valentine’s Day dinner, we went to the swank (read: $$$) Wally Jo’s. (Honestly, I expected gator taters. And I’m taking this moment to officially swear off all restaurants where a request for ketchup is considered to be rude.) I wore my neglected black dress and the chef brought us samples of other dishes. I have never had croutons like that – warm and slightly crusty on the outside, but filled with something warm and very soft on the inside. It was like a flava-party in my mouth. I’m also a sucker for a meal with any grits-esque concoction. I also ate at Gus’s Famous Fried Chicken – I bought the t-shirt – and at a 1950s beauty shop-turned-restaurant. I like the adventure of new places, new tastes, new people, but having a familiar face in the midst of it all.
Speaking of new people – I officially made my presence known in Memphis through two game nights of Apples to Apples. People, this could be the best game I’ve played in a long time. It’s an argument free-for-all where the worst logic, with the right twist, can still win. It’s the game I was born to play. I left half the deck with Mike, and he has been using it with his students. My students loved it. Right now, it’s in a brown paper sack on my desk for use by other TAs. (I also learned Shanghai Rummy, but my performance does not deserve any mention.) I met many people I’d love to play with if my world wasn’t 500 miles away from Memphis. But my stay in Memphis was good on many levels, and leaving was difficult. (Not only was it hard to leave Mike, but the roads were caked with ice.)
I got home late Sunday night and I hadn’t fully unpacked when it was time for me to get on the road for a weekend in Charleston. I missed my family and friends and I needed to get a few things from home. Even though I was already in Charleston, I was still homesick. My little city is growing to be so big, and I fear I’ve missed some of its best years. My friends have exciting changes that I’m not there to see. I forget how much time has passed.
That was last weekend. This weekend, I’m the babysitter. I’m getting paid to play and make sure no one gets hurt. (and to referee a bit.) These kids are brilliant – so smart, I forget their ages until they’re scared to go to bed, or start an argument over who gets to sing with the Ice Princess soundtrack, or remind me that I need to get their blanky. But I suddenly felt very old tonight when we drove by Waterworks – the sometimes-English-dept. hangout. It was like they were my kids and my responsibility and my independent days were over. Then, I woke up and realized my independence returns at 10pm on Sunday. And we went for ice cream.
But this is all a prelude to the waiting game. I feel like a broken record: “I’m trying to figure out what I want to do with my life.” I want to teach, but I am deeply conflicted about the next step. I also want to a career with some flexibility so some things, such as my independence, can stay the same. Right now, it’s looking like that might involve a cubicle.
I wanted to figure all of this out before I was lured by the light of an acceptance letter. So far, I have two “no”s and one “yes”. (The “no”s are no source of sorrow; I wouldn’t have really believed it if I had been accepted.) And I’m pleasantly shocked at the school where I made the active waiting list. Every day, the mailbox, my inbox, and my phone messages from unknown numbers are always greeted with a little heart flutter. It’s a big decision, but neither option would be a “wrong” decision. I have to relax and keep a constant internal soundtrack of beach-y music.
More later. Until then, the beat goes on…Next weekend, I’m off to Maryland.
And I'm BACK IN THE GAME
Good news: after almost a month of forgetting my password, I finally took five minutes and reset the darn thing. I felt like a million bucks that "the girl next door" noticed and wanted me around. Here's to you, superhero girl next door.
Quick story: The FSU library was packed the other night with students studying for midterms. My feelings of pride for all of these studious youngsters quickly faded when I glanced around the computer area to see everyone updating their blogs or surfing people's profiles on one of many face-space-ster sites.
I glanced over the shoulder of one boy as I walked by - the first sentence of his blog: "My weekend was kick-@$$."
So he's got that going for him. Which is nice.
More about my kick@$$ month later - now that I'm back, back again, shady's back, tell a friend.
