Spring

It is warm, and the breeze blows fresh sunshine-smells over my face. I dance across the campus pathway, my first college spring at home in Northest America. I hum a spontaneous melody, so full of newness and joy:
Do you ever feel like singing
Right out loud to the sky above?
Is it the same spring? I am feeling that joy in spring.

It is spring, and the seeds of the past are coming back. Those wishes, fears and hopes that fall from me in actions, thoughts, and sacrifices do not cease to be with my forgetting. With seasons come change. I change every year and every day.

The detritus of a squished population surrounds me. There are scraps of clothing, boards and machinery. Buildings need a coat of paint; the melting snow runs tracks through the grime of the old and peeling surface. Water pools in ruts on the ground, forming long ponds across the passageways. No municipal services are left in Yakutia after the death of communism. Pedestrians, and we are all pedestrians, lay long, thin boards over the seasonal moats. We become brave balancing acrobats to get to school and work. It is up to us to find a way through. Look, what is that flattened thing? The freeze-dried carcass of a cat, fatal participant in the sub-arctic changes of season.
Is it that spring? The warning to build my own path is the same.

But the seasons remain the same. I sing the song I began at the beginning. Its refrain returns in the spring of my step and drops with my footfalls. Beginning and end, life and death—spring brings to life and feeds on death.

In a beautiful mansion donated by a man passed on, different people take turns to stand on their feet and read. Such a collection of interesting noses! They read in their own languages of an empty tomb. It is past midnight, the first time I have heard this kind of service. Christos voskres! Christos Anesti! El Messieh kahm! Christ is risen! He has conquered death by death! Joyful faces tell of a stone rolled away and new life brought from dying. The priest, the leader of the church welcomes me to the pre-dawn table. We eat, and he tells me of his faith, drinking wine. I have never seen a pastor drunk before.
Is it the spring once more? The story is the same.

The melted snow water is being soaked into the wakened tree-roots that make up the Alaskan forest of my memory. Barren branches have waited all winter for the sun-sweet nectar to reach them. Hard buds swell and surge into sticky chartreuse baby-wrinkled leaves. They grow a shocking green, almost painful to the eye when the slanted Northern sun shines right through them. After months of landscape in black and white, eyes must grow accustomed. If I forget to look for just one day, I would think it was an explosion. I do not forget to look. I know it happens quickly, but it is still a progression.
Is it spring again? I feel the expectation.

My will-volition swells with the season. I strain against the hull of old boundaries. Tight-packed growth against well-known walls. I am quivering for my freedom.

Quivering with fear. New life means new death. Chances and risks taken are the straightest path to disappointment. Is not my life now entwined, rooted and fed in the sweat, sorrow and tears of all that came before?

Put another ring around this tree. Either die now or die later. It is spring again, every spring that ever was or will be. I am here to take my place in the season. I am the Resurrection and the Life.

Version 3.2 Copyright © 2001-2005 Six Apart. All Rights Reserved.

this one’s for me

As a kid, nothing seemed out of my reach.

There weren’t any challenges.
Well, there was one. I wanted to be able to run 5 miles. My legs didn’t carry me that far. But I wished they did.

Everything else was not a matter of “Am I able?” but a matter of “Am I allowed?”

So little was allowed. Music was suspect, Movies were suspect. Books were kind of suspect. Education, friends, people I might meet, life goals, all these things were suspect.

They might get in the way of “God’s will for my life.”

God didn’t want me to learn at a secular school. God didn’t want me to watch movies that Jesus wouldn’t watch. God’s will was not for me to saturate myself with “worldly” music or expose myself to the influence of non-christian friends.

Eating, talking on the phone, what clothes i wore and where I visited were all to be weighed in the scale of “What would be the Christian thing to do?”

The christian thing to do seemed to be to always be telling my non-christian friends to become christian.

But, as it happened, I wasn’t supposed to have non-christian friends.

This situation left me with a lot of time on my hands.

I read a lot. I had no guidance, really, so I just galloped after whatever caught my interest. Lots of austen, dickens. The entire shelf labeled “Young Adult” at the library. I discovered I liked those best.

But I had no one to talk to about what I read.

There was no challenge, really.

When I moved to Russia, I knew nothing. NO one expected me to know anything. I learned Russian when I was there, but that was the extent of the challenge.

THe trip was an exercise in gathering impressions.

It wasn’t until I moved back to the states, and got married that I started to really try to challenge myself.

I finally ran 5 miles. It wasn’t that hard. I just kept at it.

Then we moved to California. The bay area.

HERE, at last, the bar was raised.

People knew things. There was a challenge in the air. People my age had jobs, and careers. they had interests and specialties. Intellectual pursuits.

whoa. What the heck is this? I felt incredibly inadequate. My little bits of stuff, my little interests and areas of knowledge were pathetic!

it took me quite a while to rise to the challenge. I felt so frustrated, because I knew that i was capable, I just hadn’t actually DONE any of these things yet.

My self-evaluation left me really lacking. I had to compensate.

I started to. I got some stuff happening. I wasn’t at the top, but I got in the game. I got some self-respect, I got going.

By the time I left, I felt pretty good about myself. I felt like I was making progress. I had something to show.

Now i live in LA.
I feel back at the bottom. Whoa. There is so much going on here. I have so much I want to be doing, want to have DONE already. There is a rushing torrent of creativity going through this town, I want to be swimming in the middle of it.

I am not there yet. The bar just took a big jump.

I want to be part of it. But I don’t want to lose myself, either.

I have to take it slow, but I have some serious ground to cover.

I guess I just have to keep at it. A little every day.

This morning was the season of my discontent

This morning I was cranky.

And for no good reason.

It was the kind of mood where I would think, “I wish I were listening to my favorite CD right now.”

Then I would realize that I already was.

Sometimes I drive myself crazy.

I have a job, and I am pleased that I have a job.

But there are times in any job that are less than pleasant. Times when you are faced on all sides with a Catch 22.

So today, I had a lot of those.

But the thing that took the cake…My Own Personal Point of Pride…Yesterday, a local deity asked me to write some instructions.

I lay aside the fact that to create these instructions is to create and distribute a sharp pointy stick than is meant for poking me.

It had to be done, and I understood why. A global deity needed appeasement, and it took this sharp pointy stick distribution plan.

Fine.

BUT! When I carefully WROTE the instructions, the local deity carefully took the beautiful succinct clear phrases and instructions and made them longer, more confusing and ugly…hoh..

it is one thing to write something badly, and never get around to finishing making the writing better.

I do that practically every day on this blog.

but to take pretty, crafted words and MAKE THEM WORSE ON PURPOSE!

it wounds me.

It wounds me more that I must send them out as if they were my own. It’s like wearing a sign that says “i’m stoopid”

SIGH

HIGH-PUR-BUH-LEE

Hyperbole:
“A figure of speech in which exaggeration is used for emphasis or effect, as in I could sleep for a year or This book weighs a ton.
”

I finally figured out what’s wrong with L.A.

I’ve been here six months, and I’ve been having a little trouble making friends. I have gone out and systematically met with people. I take advantage of the opportunities that are out there.

But somehow, it’s been falling flat. A lot of people don’t really want to get together again, and I’m not that disappointed.

I haven’t really met anyone that I made a connection with.

I went swing dancing a few weeks ago for the first time at a place called the Derby. I was worried about going alone, I thought people wouldn’t be friendly.

I couldn’t have been more wrong! Lots of people were there, lots of nice men asked me to dance. Some people even sat and talked with me.

But I came away feeling a little flat. At the time I was thinking, “L.A. boys are too nice.”

Boy that is not something I would imagine myself thinking. I’m not the “bad boy” type. I really enjoy respectful, intelligent well-dressed men.

Something was wrong.

My brother Chris came to visit me yesterday. He just got back from a world tour of Orthodox monasteries.

I was really worried that our conversation would be really heavy.

I did not want to spend the evening being very serious.

So I made a point of poking fun. There is a hell of a lot that is funny about monasteries, once you stop and look at it.

And my brother has a great sense of humor! There were times when I had him cracking up. And he made me laugh, too.

I woke up this morning, and I figured it out.

NO ONE IN L.A. HAS A SENSE OF HUMOR.

That’s the “too nice” I’ve been running up against.

I love to laugh and make fun of things. The aforementioned “Hyperbole” is one of my favorites…To exaggerate something to show how ridiculous it is..I toss those little hyperboles off all the time.

And I’ve been met with blank stares and nods.

“No! It’s funny! I didn’t mean it literally!”

You can’t explain a joke. Everyone knows that. I couldn’t defend myself.

Things that are bust-my-gut funny are taken totally seriously by everyone I’ve met.

It’s starting to make me feel like a crazy person. Stupid little jokes at work, like “Boy, this coffee is so strong I think it just walked out the room and asked the boss for a promotion” don’t even illicit a groan or an eye-roll.

When you say outrageous things, and laugh uproariously ALONE, you look imbalanced.

But I suppose it’s not a surprise. Being funny is a career in Los Angeles.

Anyone that can crack a half-funny joke is locked in some dungeon somewhere churning out one-liners for That 70s Show or The Simpsons

All we are left with here in the main populace are incredibly earnest and serious peace activists, vegan animal rights people, weight lifters, motivational coaches, yoga instructors and failed actors.

Anyone that wants to laugh has to watch reruns.

Humans are social animals -pt 1

Humans are social animals, so they say.

I am a very social animal, I think. I like having lots of people around me. That’s one of the things I like about California. There are simply more people to be around.

Being a teenager is a time when you are especially concerned with the social aspects of life. Boy, I sure was. I was like a throbbing antenna, aware of every shift in social winds.

When I was forced against my will to be homeschooled, I knew my social status would plummet and never recover. My parents, excited about how great teaching me at home would be, didn’t believe me. “You’ll be fine!” Mom said.

Thus began my four years of jockeying for a position in the tight cliquey circle of teenagers from the small private school I had left. Any position. I had to make sure not to lag too far behind when the group was lining up to file into rows of chairs at events or in church. I felt humliation and self-loathing as I pushed my way forward in the line so that I did not get stuck on the end of the row. You could not hear anything or be included when you were on the end.

Teenagers can smell self-loathing like wolves smell fear. My insecure position did not go unnoticed.

Since my days were long and empty, the catty comments and cold-shouldering doled out by my “friends” were constantly on my mind. Which were intentional? What did they really think of me? How could I win back favor and be respected?

Once, after a few years of this wore on, an occasion arose. We were going in to a church event. I say “we”; in reality, my group of friends were already lined up with a few new people to make things lively. For some reason, I had been left behind the group. I stood at the door of the auditorium and looked at the girls lined up in the pew. They were already sitting down. I was filled with shame at the thought of squeezing in, unwanted, to be tagged on at the end. I would inevitably spend the time looking at the back of some more fashionable shirt as its wearer turned away from me to talk with the rest of group.

I hated feeling this way. I wanted nothing more than to be included. But experience had taught me that I could only expect humiliation.

Suddenly, I was mad! Those girls had no right to treat me this way. I might not be able to be included in the conversation, but as least I could be excluded with dignity:

I COULD SIT ALONE.

The idea was as revolutionary as the apple falling on Newton’s head. Fear and excitement shot through me–my heart was pounding. Did I really dare to be alone? If I sat alone, would the girls then be so relieved to be rid of me that they would forever more exclude me?

But the idea gave me so much more self-respect. I did not have to walk in and take the blows to my feelings. NO! I could be alone.

I marched down the aisle, past the group and sat alone near the front. I felt my back prickle, sure that they were all staring at me. I stayed for the service. I watched everything, finally able to notice what was going on. Once the absorbing distraction of my friends was gone, I realized that a lot of other things were happening.

I felt somewhat exposed, as if I were naked. Like a hermit crab rushing from one discarded shell to a new larger home. At the end of the service, I felt renewed. I learned that there was the option of being alone.

Humans are social animals -pt 2

In November 2000, I had a chance to visit Manhattan. It was for work, and no one else wanted to go. I was thrilled at the chance to spend what amounted to a week in New York City, on the company tab. They put me up in a Madison Avenue hotel, right below Rockefeller Square. While I was there, all the Christmas decorations were put up. The streets were bustling and beautiful.

But I was alone.

I got off the airplane in JFK and made it to the taxi line alone. Me and the cab driver talked as we drove to the hotel, and I checked in alone. My beautiful hotel room was filled with only me.

I found dinner alone, and I walked to the office building where I would be working. The dark streets were lit and the tall mirrored building waited for me.

It’s easy to work fast when you work alone. After I did my day’s work, I went alone through the subways and stopped to hear the street musicians play. I could stay and listen as long as I wanted.

I went alone to the empire state building and looked out at all those millions of light across the sky.

I went to the U.N. just to see. I went to Central park, and bought a knish, and later a hot dog.

I loved Manhattan. The kinetic thought-energy was electrifying. It helped that I knew my time was limited, and I had so much I wanted to see.

But it was very strange to be so alone in this huge mass of people. I wanted to strike up conversations with strangers, just to hear the sounds of my own voice, and to know that I was still there.

People were streaming all around me; passing on sidewalks, sitting on the subway–people seemed to be piled up on one another like iguanas in a pet shop. I breathed the air that millions exhaled, and walked through the space their forms had blocked milliseconds before.

New York is a big city.

REFLECTIONS OF MYSELF

Looking for something else, I stumbled upon a notebook musing from a few years ago:

I like best to see my face reflected in a window at night. The outline is clear, but the details are less distinct. It’s such an accomplished [self-contained] pleasure, admiring my own reflection.

I once asked a man, at the beginning of a new romance, when we were first shyly revealing the traits we found marvelous and fascinating in each other, “Don’t you think I see you differently than you see yourself?”

He considered and replied, “It’s only natural. I know myself better than you do.”

It was so easy for me to admire and cherish him. But he to himself and me to myself–it’s not as easy. We know the blemishes.

When I look into a mirror–a clear flat, distinct and well-lit reflection–my eyes seek our all the imperfections. I put my face right close and examine all the planes and crevices. I wonder what I’m looking for? Don’t I know my face already? I don’t linger over the good features, but I move straight to mottles in my skin, or to my crooked teeth. Are my eyebrows incorrect? And which standard should I choose?

I want to believe I am beautiful. I want it so very badly. Because if I am beautiful, I will be loved. And if I am loved, then I will live in the sunshine and nothing can be wrong.

I don’t undersatnd this trap, a slippery slop to never-fulfillment. What if I am loved, but am not beautiful? What if it rains on me and the ones who love me? It must be a flaw in me. When hard times come, it must be because I am not loved enough. But who could love me enough? I am not beautiful enough for that kind of love.

When I see myself in the night-window reflection, I am less distinct. I don’t have to see the confusing minutia of my appearance. I can be pleased with the outline. I can love myself, forgive the imperfections. I can have what I so crave and not be indebted to someone else.

MIDDLES (excerpt)

I wonder why we like to be safely sad about love songs? the Beatles’ “Yesterday” is supposed to be wildly popular. I played it for the diners, and I thought again about how sad it is.

Perhaps we believe we are more noble if our hearts are broken.

If your heart is broken, it is easier. You know the end of the story. But if you HAVE love, and are happy, it’s much more complicated. You have to keep the love. You have to work on it, and deal with problems or doubt.

Or worse. You have to decide when the love is done, but done in a not-beautiful way.

ending, or beginnings, are so satisfying. But middles…They are not so popular.

creativity

I’ve blogged before about creativity; I consider creative thought and expression to be of high value and usefulness. It is something I want to foster with my life and habits, and to encourage those I know to pursue their own creative endeavors.

I’ve described creativity very loosely, as any type of artistic expression. Drawing, Music, writing, sewing, dance—all these are easily identifiable as creative expression.

But as I thought about it, I realize that those ART categories are not the only way people are creative. I have known a lot of folks who considered their computer programs as a creative expression, and I can agree with them. Computer science, Mathematics, chemistry, and other sciences can be a framework to express creative minds.

In fact, many of these sciences rely on the creativity of their practitioners to directly improve the products and services used every day.

So, maybe creativity is not what I really mean.

If I use a pattern from Butterick, and create a poodle skirt for a Halloween costume, that is being creative. But I didn’t really create anything new.

And if I play a popular song on my piano, I haven’t really created anything new.

Not really. A little bit, I guess. Because I took an old favorite and made it my own. But I didn’t add much.

But if I sat at my piano and wrote a whole new song, that would be quite creative. That would be original.

I think that originality is the highest pursuit of creativity.

It is SO exciting to come upon an original idea. I know that one of the things I love so much about going to school was encountering new ideas. Even when they are not original, they are new to ME.

I never learned to play it cool in the classroom..I am the girl sitting in the front row that raises her hand and makes the point the teacher was just about to make before he can make it.

The teacher is droning …”And so, this leads to the 2nd law of thermodynamics, which says…”

Me: “You mean everything in the universe is tending towards entropy?”

Pause

Teacher: “Why yes, thank you…”

Sometimes, I would connect the dots long before the teacher got to them. I would have figured out what he was about to teach, maybe a week in advance. I would be all excited, thinking I had understood something in a new way that no one had ever seen before.

But then we would get to that part of the chapter, and I would discover that my incredible new theory about the universe was already fully articulated by the ancient Greeks.

It sort of let the air out of the balloon. I was thinking I was brilliant and original, possibly a hidden genius for my great idea! But everyone else in the world already knew it.

What can you do?

I would often go to talk to my teachers about some idea I had, and they would always say, “Have you read this particular book? The author talks about that theory you are discussing.”

It makes me wonder if I have any original ideas at all. Apparently, all the licenses on original thought are sold.

But it also doesn’t take very much originality to go very very far. If one person comes up with a new idea, a TON of people are right there to copy it in a million different ways.

I mean, look at fashion. The fashions always seem to be regurgitations of the previous fashions from a respectful distance in the past.

Some major designer comes out with his or her expensivoso designs, based on older designs by some previous expensivoso. Then those are instantly snapped up by all the knock-off designers who make clothes for Target and Wal-Mart and K-Mart and all the other places.

There maybe have been, like, 5 grams of creativity in the entire fall clothing lines of the entire United States of America. Do you see what I mean? A little creativity goes a long way.

Also, creativity doesn’t usually happen in large amounts. I don’t know why, maybe it just doesn’t work like that. But most original ideas are simply a rearrangement of ideas already lying around.

The printing press, that boost-us-out-of-the-dark-ages device, was really thrown together out of ideas that had been used for the whole darn dark ages anyway.

But it did open people’s minds. Rearranging what has been there all along, and juxtapositioning things that had never been together before is enlightening.

Kind of like the fashion of the 70’s, which we seem to be reliving…free your mind:
Red and Pink CAN go together!
NOW ANYTHING IS POSSIBLE!

Baby steps, my friends…Our minds open slowly.

Very slowly. We don’t move even incrementally towards new ideas. I think it’s more like fractions of increments towards new ideas.

Some though, have minds set to be open. The really creative ones, they have their minds ajar, as it were.

That’s how I would like to be. Always open to new ideas.

At the same time, there is the fear, a real fear…At what point does the mind’s door become unhinged?

It’s well known that genius is close kin to madness.

Daily life rewards routine and patterns. Step outside of the pattern, and people will be bothered by the asymmetry.

But maybe some, maybe just enough, would be delighted.