Which way is up?
I have so much to say that I cannot figure out what to say. Does anyone else ever feel like that? I keep writing stuff and then deleting it and writing something else. I wrote about Rayven, and I wrote about a man, and I wrote about a kiss that did not happen, and I wrote about fear, and I wrote about Latin America, and I wrote about reflection, and I wrote about not knowing who I am---and all of that seems like it doesn't fit together, but it is all wrapped up together in my mind in one big mass of question and concern.
I feel like I am going in a million different directions, but somehow all of that is leading me back to one place. And I'm not sure where that place even is right now. I know that for the first time in ten years I am ready to jump into things that frighten me to no end. I know that the man and the kiss and the little country I feel more and more called to express that readiness. And I know that, somehow, that readiness is leading me into a deeper part of myself--one I have not before known.
Could it be that I am brave? Somewhere deep down in the recesses of my soul could there be a brave woman? You see, I look brave on the outside. I look strong as well. But I am not. I have just done what I needed to do in order to survive. That doesn't make me brave or strong, it only expresses how desperate I truly am. But, the woman that I see emerging in dreams of love and travel and study that only weeks ago did not exist is a woman that is brave. I have never known that woman--at least I do not remember her anymore. But I am glad to meet her now.
I didn't kiss the man, and I don't know what to do about Rayven, and I am nowhere near ready to pack my bags and move to Costa Rica. I am still afraid and I still don't want to push myself to reflect on certain aspects of my life. But I think, despite all of that , I am going to the right place--even if I go a million directions to get there.
I think I like who I am about to become.
Brave
I have just checked Adam's blog. While he has not posted anything in awhile, he has taken it upon himself to label everyone whom he has linked on his blog. I am simply called "brave".
I believe that I will take this as one of the greatest compliments of my life.
If only you knew, dear Adam, how paralyzed by fear I actually am. You have given me great hope this night. Thank you.
Talking to the Air
I am convinced that no one reads this blog at all, and that makes me wonder why I keep writing things to post. I do, afterall, have countless journals which I could be writing in. I do, afterall, do this little drawing of self portraits thing where I keep in touch with how I'm feeling by drawing myself from time to time. I do, afterall, have people that I talk to on a semi-regular basis. And if all else fails, I have a kid that I can rant to about stuff if I really needed to tell someone stuff.
So, why do I keep posting things here? What possible difference could it make? I'm not sure. But I can't think of a good reason not to post, so I guess, for the moment, I will continue.
I got my first Arbonne check today. I actually earned money--or, rather, my downline earned it for me because I have been too busy with intensive courses to get in touch with anyone. I have worked very little the last month, but I still got paid. That is kinda nice. I vow to be more diligent in building my business. Now that it is actually rewarding me, I think I want to work at it all the more.
I also handed something in on time today. Okay...so it was five minutes late, but it was the closest to on time I've been in quite a while. I feel like I am back in the game. Money coming in, papers going out. Things are good. Let us hope they stay that way for a long time.
Spanish and Solitude
The past week two things have been at the forefront of my mind. Spanish and solitude.
I took three years of Spanish classes in highschool. I should know how to say something or read something in Spanish after three years of instruction, right? Wrong. Oh, I can tell you that I have yellow pants or that the dog is fat or that my name is Christy, but I cannot say anything of consequence. And I cannot read anything of consequence--namely, the information about graduate and post-grad programs in Latin America that I am trying to look into. I knew that I would have to study Spanish again before moving to Latin America, but I hadn't thought much about the need for mastery of the language in order to decide where in Latin America I would move.
Solitude comes to mind this week as I read Henri Nouwen in preparation for my intensive class starting on Monday. He talks about the move from loneliness to solitude, and I keep wondering where I am in that process. I am not lonely. That much I am sure of . I can enjoy being alone and being quiet--in fact, I crave it often, but I still don't feel the peace and security that Nouwen expresses as the product of this solitude. Does that mean that I don't have enough of the solitude that I crave? Or does it mean that I am more lonely than I feel I am?
Perhaps the two subjects are more related than I know. Perhaps moving to Latin America without mastering the language will isolate me just enough to bring about the experience of solitude as it ought to be!
Stupidity Sucks
I was doing some research tonight on a few topics for school and for my new business and I came across a couple of blogs where people were ranting about things as though they were the experts on the subject. However, the spelling in both of the blogs was outrageous. What was intended to say "weak" was spelled as "week", "welfare" was spelled "wellfare", and numerous other seemingly simple words were incorrectly spelled. Many of these mistakes would have been easily corrected simply by using the spell check function before posting.
How can people speak as though they know all things when they can't spell words that were learned in the first grade? What makes people think that it is okay to go through life being stupid and pretending to be intelligent? These people were arguing until their fingers fell off about how they knew best, but they couldn't likely spell the word "best"!
I think the certainty with which these people wrote their mistakenly spelled words says something about our society today. We have become so self-centered and so self-indulgent that we actually believe that we could be the expert--despite never finishing high school, despite never studying the topic, despite being incapable of writing a sentence without a mistake of spelling or grammar. We actually think that we are right devoid of any factors that would indicate correctness. We believe that "right" is what we believe. What I think is what is intelligent. What I believe is what is true. All of the standards of reason and provability are gone. It doesn't need to make sense. I just have to have said it or thought it. "Common censce" was another of the mistakes in spelling. The person calling for sense of a common sort couldn't even spell it. What makes them think they have any "common censce"? They don't even know how to use a dictionary.
What is the world coming to?
Please stop arguing if you are stupid. At least learn to spell before you try to make an intelligent argument. What you think is not necessarily what is correct or true. Only the people who understand that fact are the people who are not stupid. Only the people who know they don't know all the answers are truly intelligent. Stop being so self-centered. Listen to people. Learn something. Pretending to know something does not make you look smart. It makes you look even more stupid.
Yup, I was right. Spell check picked out every one of those misspelled words.
Thinker's Block
I have been trying to write today, but nothing comes out the way I hoped. I began to contemplate whether I was suffering from writer's block. I am not. I am suffering thinker's block. Nothing I think of today will develop into a concept that is concrete enough to be written. My brain is all over the place, and nothing within my thought is complete. I have been working on stuff all day, yet I feel completely unproductive.
Hopefully tomorrow my brain will feel better.
Gustavo Gutierrez Once Again Speaks from My Soul
Gustavo Gutierrez,
We Drink from Our Own Wells: "The experience of the solitude of the desert is a profound aspect of the encounter with God. Passage through this desert is a journey of pure faith, with the support and guidance of God only. In solitude the Lord speaks to us tenderly (Hos. 2:14), calls us to fidelity, and consoles us."
Truly this is where I stand. I am, quite literally, in the desert. I am also, metaphorically, in the desert. This is the dark night of my soul. This is my journey of pure faith. I am left out here in the wilderness in order that I might cling to the only one who can save me. And here is where that one calls to me and fashions me in such a way that I become a woman of great integrity and fidelity. And it is here that my wounds are healed and here that healing is recognized and affirmed. The tender moments of my life come to me here in the desert. (And the tender moments wash away all the violence of previous moments.) The words and deeds that heal me come to me in this lonely and desolate place. I wrote in my journal a couple weeks ago that somehow, in the midst of this desert, I was being restored. Gutierrez well expresses what I could not. He expresses the deep significance of the desert. I have known that significance in some way, but he gives me the words with which to understand fully. He speaks what I now experience.
It is a lonely place, this desert. But it restores me. The wilderness is a struggle and a gift. I praise God for bringing me to the desert. It is in this place that I am "becoming" (deep concept that, for me, arose from reading Gilson and Heidegger) and in this place I become whole.
I shall have to remember to thank Gustavo for this moment when I meet him. (Sweet, sweet theological dreams, indeed.) His work has touched my life once again. It is no wonder that I am so drawn to the theology that Gutierrez has written about. This theology reaches me in ways that no other has.
The 007
I thought it fitting to add a photo of my cohort. I complain about seminary a lot through this forum, but that is because I complain about everything through this forum, not because I don't like seminary. This group of people is one reason I LOVE being at Fuller. They have been by my side for the past two years and will be my system of support for a lifetime.
On the left, from front to back, are David Stevens, Andrew Schlecht, Andrew Fleischman, Bill Good, and Steve Iles. On the right, again from front to back, are Kerri Sandusky, Rebecca and Chris Harrison, myself, Vickie Longnecker, and David Hune. The awkward "middle row" holds, front to back, Chad McSwain, Chandra Caraway, and Chris Saxton.
So that is Cohort 2007. They are the iron that sharpens me and the arms that comfort and hold me. They are my family, my church, my friends. The cohort program is a unique and wonderful experience largely because of the people in this picture. Were they less amazing as people, I would definitely have a less amazing seminary experience. As it is, they are extraordinary and so Fuller has been such for me as well. I love them dearly, every one.
His cup runneth over
Today I got an email from Scott Mawhinney. It was one of the most beautiful and love filled expressions that I have received in some time. He has become a man filled to overflowing with love and grace. I wanna be like that--only not the man part.
The funny thing is, I am like that--on the inside. I feel the way Scott speaks. I feel love and compassion and grace and all of that stuff, but I don't let it spill out. I keep it bottled. And I guess that I do this because I believe that people don't want to hear and see the stuff that I feel, but I'm not sure that makes sense in light of how great it feels to read the words that Scott wrote. I write that way in my journal. I speak that way somewhere in the depths of my soul. But, somehow, what comes out of my mouth is rarely something of depth and feeling. I'm not sure why.
I sometimes think that people will believe me to be condescending if I am super loving. But that should only be the case if I am being condescending, which I would not be. I also sometimes think that being expressive leads me into a place of vulnerability. The second thought is probably the one that most scares me. The second thought is the one that keeps me from writing Scott-like emails to the people I care about. The second one is the one that paralyzes me and keeps me from saying "I love you" when I really feel like I should and causes me to force my emotion and care for people down into my chest rather than letting it escape through words or tears--though the tears have a way of coming anyway these days. I am simply afraid to love people. This same fear plagues me still. It has plagued me for years. And it seems that everytime I get close to letting someone behind the wall that something ugly and horrible happens to force the door to the whole of my heart closed once again.
Actually, the last ugly and horrible was really a long time ago, and I guess that is why all this talk of vulnerability and love is coming out now. It has been two years since the "D-word" experience and I have survived it without harm and with the one I held dear still being dear to me. I am on the road of restoration and that is why I am so occupied with loving. I have survived what I thought I would not. My heart was broken by deceipt and lies and angry words and foolish actions, but I survived it. I am coming to terms with the fact that being vulnerable has not destroyed anything except what was not good and right in the first place. A false and manipulative friendship was destroyed--thank God--but all else has been righted and brought into even more redeemed relationship. So there is nothing to fear in speaking my heart as Scott has. There is nothing to fear in being vulnerable with those you care about and for. It is a good thing to have love and grace pour over into people's lives, and I will make an effort to be on the outside what I am on the inside.
About a Boy
"It is good to hear your voice." That is what he said. And I wondered to myself, "does he miss me?" After all the argument and all the apologies and all the challenge and chaos and confusion of the past few years, could he now miss me? Of course he could. And once he stated that it was good to hear my voice, I had to admit that it was good to hear his too. No matter how I wish to avoid the fact, I missed him. For there is some strange energy between us--we are drawn to one another even as we push one another away. Whatever that energy is, it has gotten us through the argument and apology and challenge and chaos and confusion. It has been the driving force that forged this friendship, and it drives us still. I did not consciously desire to hear his voice before yesterday, but I have missed hearing it nonetheless. At times I may despise him, misunderstand him, and become frustrated by him, but I will love him always. He is a dear friend, and I do miss him.
You are precious to me still, Andrew.
