Fries Offered to Idols?

I slid into the driver's seat of my stifling car and carelessly tossed my green apron with the ever-so-identifiable embroidered siren onto the seat beside me. I made ready to pull out of the parking lot and opened the bag with my hasty lunch. The breakfast sandwich was halfway to my mouth when I caught someone waving from the car to my right out of the corner of my eye. I immediately rolled down my window and greeted my friend (for the purposes of this post called) Carl with a cheery smile. Some of my coworkers--and I'm sorry to say it--are pretty nasty pieces of work, but there are kind and gentle exceptions. Carl is one of them. He was hired after I was, and so even I--who still qualify as 'new'--taught him some of the ropes. He's tall and thin, has short bleach-blonde hair, always smells good, and wears a gold-colored ring on his left index finger. He squinted over his sunglasses at me as a wispy tendril of smoke rose from the end of the cigarette held loosely between the fingers of his left hand.

"Do you want some fries?"

"Uhh, sure! I'll take some fries." I set my sandwich down on top of my green apron, opened my car door and skirted around the back to meet him at his door.

"There's even some honey mustard in there for you if you like," he said, offering me a warm Wendy's bag.

"Do you just not do fries?" I asked him, curious. Sometimes people do fast food with stipulations, after all. You never know, these days.

"No, I do fries. But when the guy who hands them to you out the drive-thru window also yells 'Faggot!' as you pull away, it's easy to lose your appetite."

The bottom of my stomach hit the baking asphalt beneath me. It didn't matter, in that moment, that it was the asphalt of a Starbucks parking lot--a company that has, since the very beginning, for all of its problems, been very humane to all its workers and a vocal advocate for gay rights. It didn't matter, in that moment, that Carl, as of very recently, now had the freedom and knowledge that, should he fall in love with someone and decide to commit to that person someday, he could, with full rights and recognition. In that moment, another human being in front of me was hurt--had  just been treated like dirt by a complete stranger.

"Oh. Carl. I'm... I'm so sorry. I... that's awful," I stammered uselessly. I didn't know what to say.

"Yeah. Kind of put a downer on my day."

"Yes, I imagine so. Ugh. Why are people AWFUL?"

"Yeah. Really."

"I don't really think I want these either. They're like... tainted." I said, frowning down into the bag I'd just taken and slowly moving back around the back of my car toward my driver's side door. "Well, I hope the rest of your day goes a little better than it has so far."

"Thanks,  have a good afternoon" he said as he closed his car door, his own green, siren-emblazoned apron clutched in his hand.

~~~~~~~~~

Some people are going to think this is a silly post. It is, after all, about a bag of French fries. Dumb, right? But it brought something to mind.

I love French fries. Actually, in these last four months I've eaten the least fast food I've ever eaten (perhaps besides the summer I spent in Europe). But I find it very hard to say no to a thin little cardboard container of deep-fried salty goodness. Just... why do they taste so GOOD, amiright?

But today, as I drove back to Staunton after my encounter with Carl, the situation brought to mind a kind of allegory.

"Now concerning food offered to idols: we know that 'all of us possess knowledge.' This 'knowledge' puffs up, but love builds up. If anyone imagines that he knows something, he does not yet know as he ought to know. But if anyone loves God, he is known by God.

Therefore, as to the eating of food offered to idols, we know that 'an idol has no real existence,' and that 'there is no God but one.' For although there may be so-called gods in heaven or on earth—as indeed there are many 'gods' and many 'lords'— yet for us there is one God, the Father, from whom are all things and for whom we exist, and one Lord, Jesus Christ, through whom are all things and through whom we exist.

However, not all possess this knowledge. But some, through former association with idols, eat food as really offered to an idol, and their conscience, being weak, is defiled. Food will not commend us to God. We are no worse off if we do not eat, and no better off if we do. But take care that this right of yours does not somehow become a stumbling block to the weak. For if anyone sees you who have knowledge eating in an idol’s temple, will he not be encouraged, if his conscience is weak, to eat food offered to idols? And so by your knowledge this weak person is destroyed, the brother for whom Christ died. Thus, sinning against your brothers and wounding their conscience when it is weak, you sin against Christ. Therefore, if food makes my brother stumble, I will never eat meat, lest I make my brother stumble."

Some people are going to think this is a silly post. It is, after all, about a bag of French fries. Dumb, right? 

I have pondered this passage in 1 Corinthians many, many times. In my growing up years I heard dozens of sermons preached on it. But, almost always, I've approached the passage from Paul's viewpoint. "You possess knowledge--you know it's just meat. The fact that it was sacrificed to idols is incidental. If it doesn't bother you and you recognize that those gods are fake gods anyway, what's the harm in eating the meat? But remember that, even though your conscience is clear, someone else's might not be. So if it's going to bother someone, don't eat it." 

I've almost always been on that, "I recognize that it's just meat and my conscience is clear" side. But today... today was different. Today I was the one whose conscience wasn't clear.

I could've eaten those fries. After all, the guy didn't yell "Faggot!" after me as I pulled away from the drive-thru window. And Jiminy Cricket did they smell good. I haven't had fast food fries in months I don't think.

So as I pulled away in my car, I ate a couple. But I didn't feel right inside. I kept imagining Carl's downcast eyes staring at the parking lot pavement. I wondered to myself how many times he's heard that. How many times he's had to deal with people calling him names because of the way he talks or walks or dresses. And even though it was just a stupid carton of fries like any other stupid carton of fries, I threw them away. Maybe that's silly, but I didn't want any part of it. Much like, I'm sure, some of the people Paul's talking about in Corinthians didn't want anything to do with anything that came near idol worship. It was too offensive to them. To each his own.

And Then I Told You Why I'm Taking a Gap Year

I made the announcement online yesterday. It's "Facebook Official," so we all know there's no backing out now.

I haven't written much this year.

I haven't been well.

Part of the subtitle of my blog is "confessions," right? So here's my confession to you: I'm clinically depressed.  And I'm frustrated at myself. Because I feel like I have no right to be depressed. I'm privileged. I'm loved. I'm intelligent. I've got a lot going for me. 

But, this semester, it's gotten to a point where I feel entirely out of control.

I'm not eating well and have lost weight. I am still sleeping, fortunately--it's been my one constant escape. In fact, when the doctors have asked me if I'm having suicidal thoughts, I've told them no, but all I want to do is continually drug myself and sleep. Because when I start sinking into that blissful unconsciousness, I don't have to think. I can let the sleep make my mind a blank, at least for a little while. But, of course, you have to wake up sometime. And it's as painful coming out of unconsciousness as it is blissful sinking into it. 

I've stopped caring about things that used to matter to me. My school work. Organization. Cleanliness. Order. The dishes in a pile in my sink. The 18 page history research paper with the due date that kept looming. Learning my lines for the production I was in. Some days it was all I could do to swing my legs out of that bed and onto the floor.

Perhaps it's not so much that I haven't cared. Because I saw the dishes piling up and the approaching due date for my paper and I whimpered. But I haven't been able to bring myself to do anything. I've been paralyzed.

It's terrifying. Because I'm a rather articulate person who can sit here and write to you all my symptoms and tell you what's wrong and what's not getting done and what I should be doing and even the steps I need to take to get them done but I can't do them. It's distressing and terrifying and disorienting. Because this is so unlike me. The Type A, do-it-all, on-top-of-things, over-achiever. I don't know who this person is anymore. 

And that is why I'm taking a Gap Year.

To go home, rest, get well, get some help, and re-learn how to function.

I want to work a simple job that I don't have to think about after I clock out. Go home and curl up on the couch between my parents when they watch Jeopardy and Wheel of Fortune in the evenings. Be able to go to family get-togethers and cookouts and birthday parties and visit my grandparents on sunny afternoons. Read dozens of books I've always wanted to read and put together puzzles and work on projects around the house. Dig my sewing machine out of its box and learn some new tricks and maybe make a few things. Hang out with friends over coffee and lunches and drinks. Learn how to cook and bake some new things. Wear pretty blue dresses and savor mom's pot roast after church on Sundays. Maybe start writing that novel to be finished someday when I've got just a little more life behind me. Maybe even get a jump-start on the MLitt thesis I hope to turn in, eventually. 

And maybe, just maybe, tackle some of the BIG QUESTIONS. When I feel up to it. But have some breathing room in which to do it. 

And the plan is, in a year, after some rest and regaining some stability, I'll come back and try to give the rest of my Master's degree a shot. 

Someone stronger than me might stick it out and get through it and be a better person for it. But this is me. And I'm small. And, lately, I feel just a little too fragile to get through the day. And I love and miss my family more than even the lump in my throat can testify, most days. What's right for one person isn't right for everyone. And whether or not it's "right," this is my decision. For now. None of us knows where our lives are going. We can only take the steps that we feel are best in this moment. That's the why. I'll be home soon.

After Months of Silence, I Express Frustration with my Mind.

I don't have the time or the energy to even begin writing about the conundrums that have been stretching my brain in a thousand different directions over the last few months. The conclusion I have come to is that no amount of education or preparation could possibly have amply equipped me for life in the real world. I've hardly been able to come up for air since I moved away from home at the end of the summer. First, life as a financially-strapped single grad student slapped me across the face. I went through the traumas of homesickness, questioning my decision to come to grad school, terrible living situations with a difficult roommate, the personal tragedy of having to give up my cat after a particularly nasty bout of fleas, and moving and transitioning to living alone for the first time in my life within the span of the first couple of months. And then, these past couple of months, I've been buffeted and plagued with enormous doubts and fears about God, a crisis of faith, the weight and impact of my choices, and the trajectory and purpose of my life, accompanied with a deep questioning of many things I have always taken for granted to be true. The result of all of it has been a little depression, a lot of anxiety, and no small amount of heartsickness.

Part of it is that, in the words of one of my favorite people in the world, I'm "too smart for my own good." And I think he's probably right. I keep thinking that, if I just had a simple mind, I would be so much more blissfully ignorant of pretty much everything that's caused me headaches and heartaches for the past several months. How nice it would be to be content to live a quiet life lacking the degree of intellectual curiosity I seem to be capable of and prone to. I want to go back to being five. When life and the world were so much simpler. And I felt surrounded by the safety and warmth a loving home provides. But. Alas. My brain and I and our gigantic questions are out here in this enormous, cold world now.

I felt premonitions of it before leaving college. I was scared to graduate. I had found a niche where I belonged and where I mattered. I felt safe. Occasionally challenged, but mostly on my own terms. I remember thinking about venturing outside of that safe, warm "bubble," as we called it, and shivering in preparation. I had no idea how right I'd be.

Part of it must be the cultural climate in which I exist. This article in The Atlantic, I think, is pretty spot on with regard to the cultural shift that's taking place in this country, and I'm feeling it just as acutely as the next person, if not more so. In fact, my life, in many respects, is a microcosm of the larger cultural picture. The metaphor in my head is of clinging desperately to the side of a ship being tossed on a stormy sea.

Here's the thing no one ever told me about venturing outside the bubble of the Christian subculture. You meet people. Wonderful people. You've been told to love them--sure. But there's no recipe for how to love anyone because every single person is different and every interaction you have is different. How do you do life in this world when you're an intellectually minded twenty-something with a deep, bleeding heart who's clinging to the belief that miracles happen and death has died? It's so much harder than I thought it would be.

Tell me, anyone over the age of 65, does your mind ever quiet down? Does it ever find rest?
I defer to Portia in Act I, Scene 2 of Shakespeare's The Merchant of Venice, with one small edit:

"By my troth, Nerissa, my little [mind] is aweary of this great world."

Weight-Sharing; or, A Kendra Soapbox

I don't usually do this. I don't usually like to put myself and my opinions out there for critique. There are a few reasons for this.

A big one is that I am easily persuaded. The minute I put forth an opinion even remotely leaning toward either end of any spectrum, someone responds with a very persuasive argument to the contrary and I think, "Huh. He or she has a great point." There's always something I didn't think of; some point that makes me see something from an angle I've never seen it from before. I'll think I've made up my mind about an issue, then I'll hear a fantastic argument on the opposing side and all my certainty is gone. Maybe this makes me wishy-washy or weak-minded, I don't know. But I've never been very good at holding stubbornly and solidly to one side. Because I start to see things from other people's points of view very easily.

Another reason I don't often like to put forth my opinions is because it very rarely does anything for me.  I'm very non-confrontational. I personally don't enjoy being around people who are constantly lambasting me with their 5,000 very pointed opinions, thank you very much, so I try not to be that person. I don't particularly want to be known for what I'm for or against. I'd rather be known for other characteristics.

But today, I'm going to pull out one of my little soapboxes. Unlock the little black safe at the back of my mind, pull out one of my opinions, and air it in public. [If you look closely you might even see more than one. Shocking.]

Some people know this about me: I LOVE listening to the radio. I always have to find a favorite radio station. Some people also know that I haven't generally been a fan of Christian radio in recent years. Part of that could be DJ-ing for the Christian station at my Christian college + Christian campus culture + Christian chapel 3x/week + Christian church on Sundays = CHRISTIAN CULTURE OVERLOAD PLEASE DEAR GOD LET ME LISTEN TO ANYTHING BUT CHRISTIAN MUSIC WHEN I DON'T HAVE TO. You know me. Always the rebel.

Anyway. I thought I'd found a radio station I liked in town. It was a "top hits, '80s-till-now" kind of station--a little mix of everything from classic rock to current pop hits. But the other day they did this super annoying thing. They started playing non-stop Christmas music. ON NOVEMBER FIRST. I mean, double-yew tee eff. Am I right?

So, just after Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree and right as Amy Grant was launching into Hark the Herald Angels, I switched the station and landed on the Spirit FM station for the Roanoke/Shenandoah Valley area. Despite my afore-stated aversion to Christian stations, I've discovered that when you're no longer in Christian Culture Overload Land, Chris Tomlin and TobyMac are actually very welcome old friends.

So I'm driving into town in the morning. Listening to Spirit FM. And a lady's voice introduces herself as a representative for Proverbs 31 Ministries. I immediately raise an eyebrow, but keep listening. The following isn't word for word, but it's roughly what lady-on-the-radio said:

"My attempts to change my husband thoroughly failed, so I prayed that God would change him. Well, that didn't work either. I was so fed up with things that JJ would do and say! But what I didn't realize is that things I was saying and doing were tearing JJ down and making him insecure as a man. That's when I started praying for God to change me. And it worked! I held my tongue when he said or did things that annoyed me. And I realized I needed to use my words and actions to build JJ up and support him rather than tear him down. [Insert a verse taken entirely out of context and some closing self-satisfied comment about how 'God is making me a better wife every day.']"

I'm sorry, but my skin was crawling. And I do realize that, of any arena, I'm not very entitled to opinions in the "marriage" one as I'm nowhere even remotely close to it, but I have been in a few relationships and so, yes, thank you, I have an opinion.

Aren't relationships [marriages included] supposed to be partnerships? And I realize we're now entering the lovely complementarian-egalitarian debate territory [one of my favorites, Rachel Held Evans, has a few good starting points if you want to dive into that one], but aren't relationships [marriages] based on respecting AND caring for each other? Call me a feminist but so much of the language in that spot struck the exact same nerve as some of those offensive sexist magazine ads.

*SHUDDER*

WUT

Okay. Enough of those. My blood pressure's rising.

And maybe this really is very personal. Maybe it really is "to each his own" here, but I would rather my relationship and eventually my marriage be a partnership. I want more than anything for us to be equals. Not identical. I'm not saying men and women are the same. I'm simply saying that, like an exercise in my stage combat class recently,

[watch this YouTube video if you want to get an idea] 

 

if you don't share the weight equally as you lean in and rely on the pressure you're exerting on one another, one of you is going to lose your balance and hit the ground. It takes effort from both of you to keep each other upright. [This isn't meant to be a perfect metaphor, but it's pretty close.]

I'm not saying that any of the things she mentioned in the spot are bad things. No, they're all good things. They're all things that have to happen in relationships to make them work. But I guess what I want to ask is, can't these two people just communicate? Surely she does things that annoy him too. So can't it be something they do together? Address their insecurities together? Build each other up? Stop tearing each other down? Don't both parties have an equal responsibility here? And I realize that the ad is one-sided because it's supposed to be, I suppose, as it was created by an organization specifically targeting women. I just get very uncomfortable when I start to feel that I'm being told that it's squarely my responsibility... simply because I'm a woman... to make the relationship work. No. Healthy relationships take two sharing the weight equally. And yes, it takes hella good communication and lots of experience to make that happen in practical, real, everyday-life-reality outside of Metaphor and Theory Land. Have I figured it out? Psh. Obviously not. Has anyone? I know some people who are really good at it, but I don't know that anyone has it figured out perfectly, and no two relationships are alike. But for someone to come along beside me and strive for that equal partnership--someone to commit to working toward that with me--I know that's what I want.

Okay. Soapbox pushed back into the corner. Little black safe locked back up. That's enough inflammatory opinions expressed for one evening I think. As you were. 

In the Middle

You know that nightmare we all have about being homeless after we graduate from college? Okay, okay, it's nothing that dire--we all know I have a little penchant for the dramatic. And I'm not really homeless at all. Just... in Limbo. And Limbo seems to be a place for reflection.

The bad news: My possessions are spread out between three different locations, I'm pulling my clothes out of the garbage bags they're stuffed in, and I don't really have a place to call my own at the moment.

The good news (which vastly outweighs the bad): I have a clean bed to sleep in (without washing my sheets every single night), the people I'm staying with have got to be some of the absolute most gracious people on earth, I've regained quite a bit of my sanity (thanks to a lovely clean bed, a bedroom door, and sunlight), I get to see my parents next Saturday, and I have the promise of moving into a brand new apartment in a week.

Watching Molly (my "host mom") keep up with her 6-year-old, 2-year-old, and 8-month-old sons, still manage to keep up with housework, be up at all hours with the crying baby, find time to cook for her husband and kids, and be more than gracious and cheerful in every moment is, frankly, eye-opening and awe-inspiring. I'm noticing things I've never noticed before about being a grown up and being a parent. (Though I'll admit, I am glad not to be in that stage of life at the moment--I feel like I can barely take care of myself and she was a year younger than me when she had her first son.) It's also making me more and more thankful for my parents with every passing moment.

It's all cliches. It's the stuff we mention every year on Mother's Day; stuff I feel like I should know without being told. Sometimes, though, it takes seeing something from a new perspective, or being in a different place to see something from a different angle. I feel like I'm camping out in the middle of their life, but they haven't seemed to miss a beat, and have graciously taken in the poor, stray grad student who can never hope to repay them or thank them enough for their kindness and generosity.

The Grad Student's Guide to Going Batshit Crazy in Just Two Months or Less [Guaranteed!]

So you're a brand new graduate student and you want to know how to go completely, certifiably, 100% batshit crazy in just a matter of weeks? Lucky you! I know just how to get you there. Don't you worry, if you follow these steps, you're guaranteed to be on your way to feeling like a padded cell is exactly where you belong.

Step 1: Move into a sketchy basement apartment in the woods that was never originally designed to be a living space.
Definitely make sure it's very dark and so damp that your parents have to gift you a dehumidifier just so you can breathe when you sleep, that your bedroom has no windows (especially if you love sunshine), and that the bedrooms have no doors. That last part is especially important--no real privacy will get you a long way towards insanity in next to no time. If the apartment has a history of bad mold problems, so much the better!

Step 2: Make sure to move in with a roommate whose concept of "cleanliness" is on the completely opposite end of the spectrum from your own.
This one works best if you lean a little more to the Type A side and move in with a roommate who doesn't regularly clean up after him- or herself. Not only will the house never be as clean as you want it to be, YOU'LL get to do all the cleaning yourself! This is a great tactic to give you a nice big shove towards that elusive precipice of insanity, especially as it precipitates confrontation, which generally drives everyone bonkers.

Step 3: Make sure to get extremely homesick.
Because there's nothing quite like missing your family and friends and the familiarity you just left while you're getting progressively more miserable.

Step 4: Make sure your roommate's cat eats your cat's food.
Not only will it mean your cat isn't getting as much to eat, it'll make your grocery bill go up!

Step 5: Every time you sit down in your graduate classes, make sure you feel like you know absolutely nothing about anything, and least of all about the subject matter you're supposed to be in grad school for.
This one's a no-brainer, comes pretty naturally, and will aggravate your mental-emotional state in no time. Throw in a few typical early 20s existential and career path crises here and there and you're on your way to a guaranteed breakdown!

Step 6: See if you can get your roommate's indoor-outdoor cat to bring home fleas that then infest your indoor-only cat and your apartment.
This one sounds tricky, but if you can get this to happen, it's pretty much a home run with the bases loaded. That dark, damp basement apartment that was barely livable in the first place? It'll now be a horrendous hell-hole you won't be able to stand going home to! Before long, you'll start obsessing over the issue, pouring out obscene amounts of money you can't afford to spend for flea treatments and remedies, having nightmares that you're crawling with tiny blood-sucking parasitic insects, start losing sleep, and completely lose your appetite. If this doesn't make you lose your cool and start losing your mind, I don't know what will!

Step 7: Make sure you feel like you can't focus in class.
This should be pretty easy, given everything that's going on in your personal life, but it'll also help you feel like you're slowly but surely going utterly batty.

Step 8: Make sure your cat gets so mad at you for poking through his fur and locking him in the other room that he starts pooping all over the apartment indiscriminately.
In corners on concrete and stone floors is the best, and bonus points if you come home to find feces scraped up against a wall. This may sound like something fairly easy to deal with, but if you're already on your way too Kookooville, this'll be a surefire way to push you further along!

Step 9: After talking with your roommate and asking him or her to clean up after him- or herself a little better, step on some shattered glass in the kitchen he or she didn't clean up the very next morning.
Not only will you have cuts on your feet, you'll be so ready to get out of your hell-hole you could scream! You're getting close now!

Step 10: Make sure there's a scholars' conference coming up that you're supposed to (and feel utterly under qualified to) present in.
This one by itself probably wouldn't do much for you, but combined with everything else, my friend, prepare to feel like you're spiraling out of control!

Step 11: Clean/Vacuum/Sweep/Comb your cat/Wash your bedding and clothing OBSESSIVELY.
The more paranoid, the better! If it's all you can think about even when you're not in the house, you're headed the right way! And remember what the vet said: it could be up to three whole months before you're actually rid of the little buggers!

Step 12: Wake up to find fleas on your blanket despite your obsessive cleaning.
It's a perfect way to start off your day, especially if you love feeling unsettled and the mildest bit hysterical.

Step 13: Make sure you don't sleep through the night for days on end.
The classic sleep-deprivation tactic. Works like a charm!

If you follow all of these steps, you are GUARANTEED to feel insane in two months or less. If you don't, you must have either a disposition of steel or the long-suffering of a saint and, in that case, you may have to go to even more extreme measures to go full-blown batshit crazy. But if you're right out of undergrad and just moved far away from home for the first time, you should be be certifiably nuts (or well on your way) in just a matter of weeks! Congratulations!

[Disclaimer: If you meet some really great people who offer their help in various capacities, have really wonderful and supportive parents who keep tabs on you through all your various crises, spend copious amounts of time in coffee shops listening to calming music, or find a pretty studio apartment and decide to move out of your current living arrangement, the effects of the crazy could be greatly diminished. For best results, stay in the flea-infested apartment wallowing in your own self-pity as long as possible. And under no circumstances should you write about your experiences in a facetious manner, as this could be therapeutic.]

Life Update... Like a Grown-Up

It's been a bit of a desert over here recently--I haven't posted for a while. I had a pretty busy summer which has turned into a pretty busy fall, so that's (in part) what's kept me from writing. I also haven't had the writing itch anytime recently, which is rather uncharacteristic and a little disconcerting--I'm not exactly sure what to make of it.

My biggest news?

I think I'm a grown-up.

I know! I know! Who knew, right?

I spent the summer after graduation gallivanting across Europe--a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity that I still think fondly of almost every day. Ireland was so beautiful [and so much freaking fun], and my time in England was formative and educational. I learned so much in England--how the trains work, how to survive at a hostel, how to get myself from point A to point B without panicking, how to purchase a SIM card for a cell phone, how to shop for groceries in a European culture, which pubs in Oxford to recommend, and how to be a better researcher at possibly the very best research library in the world.

I had so much fun across the pond, but I discovered something. I was very glad to go home. When I put my head against the headrest on that plane that was going to land in Chicago, Illinois, I can't describe the feeling of relief that washed over me. And when I was relaxing in the car with my parents on the four-hour drive back to our Anne-of-Green-Gables house in Marion, Indiana, I felt calm and at ease in a way I hadn't in months.

For all the transitions I've been through in my life, for as much as I love to travel and see new places, and for as much as I love a grand adventure, I'm kind of a homebody. Again: who knew??

Though it's really not so much the place. It's the people. It's always been that way. There's nothing particularly relieving about Chicago, Illinois or Marion, Indiana. The fact that I knew I would see those places soon only brought me relief because of the people I knew would be there when I arrived. The people in my life--as I've always known--are what matter most to me.

I had a lovely month and a half in Marion. I spent lots of good time with good friends, kept Starbucks and JuJu Berry in business, and even got a few things done. Like. Packing up my life.

And then the day finally came, and I moved.

I now live in a small apartment in the lovely town of Staunton, Virginia, home of the American Shakespeare Center and the Mary Baldwin College Shakespeare and Performance graduate program.

It's not exactly BRAND new. I lived in one of the college dorms for six weeks last summer when I interned for ASC, and I visited again in February when my Shakespeare and Performance class at IWU came for a week during our Spring Break for a week of workshops in what was called a  Little Academe.

I wish I could tell you the transition has been seamless and that it feels like I belong here. But I'm just going to be honest with you. It doesn't, and I can't.

I would say I'm homesick, but I know better. I don't miss Indiana or Marion or even IWU, necessarily. I don't miss places. I miss people. I miss my family. I miss my friends. I miss my professors. And I miss familiarity.

That's not to say I haven't already met some lovely people here. I have. It's just not warm like IWU. I'd really like to find a church where I can be a part of a Christian community again. And I know from experience that it will take time to adjust to this new phase. Thank goodness I have wonderful people in my life who've reassured me and reminded me not to feel like a failure, even if it takes more than a few weeks. It can be a slow process. And I'm learning to be okay with that.

I think I'm normal. I think a lot of people struggle at least a little after college. Not to the same degree, and not everyone in the same way. But it's normal. That's nice to know.

I read this Huffington Post article somebody in my Facebook feed posted this morning, and while I think it's a little simplistic, I think there's also quite a bit of truth in it. So here's the thing: just know that even if it looks like I'm successful because I graduated, spent a summer in Europe, and then started a graduate program in my field, know that I'm not perfect, and that I'm struggling too. Just in different ways. I feel you, grads. I'm there too. Let's hang in there. And because I think I'll always be a little bit of a Pollyanna, I'll find things to be thankful for while I can.

I have a place to live. I had enough money to pay rent for my first month. My parents are wonderful and came to help me settle in, and bought me a brand new dehumidifier so I didn't have to grow gills to sleep in my room. My cat and I are both still alive and healthy (I'm not totally failing at the responsibility thing!) and he likes to snuggle when I'm feeling down. I got a part time job working in the Box Office at a theatre company I admire. My refund check came through. The shower head in my shower is pretty great. I'm slowly regaining feeling in the tip of my left pinky after slamming it in a door a week and a half ago (long, slightly embarrassing story... I'm just thankful the feeling's coming back). After dropping a class, I feel like I can actually cope with life. And so many things could be so much worse.

So there's my Thespian MK life update. Like a grown-up. Who knew?

Goodbyes and "The Little Prince"

Goodbyes suck.

I grew up a missionary kid--I'm no stranger to change. I’ve been through a lot of moves and transitions and said more painful goodbyes than I care to count. Some transitions are harder than others, and during one of the hardest transitions I've ever been through, someone very special introduced me to Antoine de Saint-Exupéry’s The Little Prince. It's a beautiful little children's book that I think would do a lot of grown-up children a lot of good. And it permanently changed how I see goodbyes.

It doesn’t make them any easier, no. I don't think there's anything that can do that. But it helps make the goodbyes perhaps even more precious amidst the pain. Every time I come to a new transition in my life and have to say goodbyes, I bring this back out and read it again. And the transition I'm facing right now is my biggest one since moving back to the States six years ago: I will leave my parents' house as a (hopefully mostly) self-sufficient adult this Sunday to move to the beautiful town of Staunton, Virginia to start my Master's Degree in Shakespeare and Performance.

With the move looming and several hard goodbyes already said, I thought I’d share this today. I highly recommend reading the whole novella for better context if you’ve never read it (it’s short and it’s wonderful and everyone should), but here are my favorite excerpts.

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        But it happened that after walking for a long time through sand, and rocks, and snow, the little prince at last came upon a road. And all roads lead to the abodes of men.

        “Good morning,” he said.

        He was standing before a garden, all a-bloom with roses.

        “Good morning,” said the roses.

        The little prince gazed at them. They all looked like his flower [on his planet].

        “Who are you?” he demanded, thunderstruck.

        “We are roses,” the roses said.

        And he was overcome with sadness. His flower had told him that she was the only one of her kind in all the universe. And here were five thousand of them, all alike, in one single garden!

        “She would be very much annoyed,” he said to himself, “if she should see that… She would cough most dreadfully, and she would pretend that she was dying, to avoid being laughed at. And I should be obliged to pretend that I was nursing her back to life—for if I did not do that, to humble myself also, she would really allow herself to die…”

        Then he went on with his reflections: “I thought that I was rich, with a flower that was unique in all the world; and all I had was a common rose. A common rose, and three volcanoes that come up to my knees—and one of them perhaps extinct forever… That doesn’t make me a very great prince…”

        And he lay down in the grass and cried.

        It was then that the fox appeared.

        “Good morning,” said the fox.

        “Good morning,” the little prince responded politely, although when he turned around he saw nothing.

        “I am right here,” the voice said,” under the apple tree.”

        “Who are you?” asked the little prince, and added, “You are very pretty to look at.”

        “I am a fox,” the fox said.

        “Come and play with me,” proposed the little prince. “I am so unhappy.”

        “I cannot play with you,” the fox said. “I am not tamed.”

        “Ah! Please excuse me,” said the little prince.

        But, after some thought, he added:

        “What does that mean—‘tame’?”

        “You do not live here,” said the fox. “What is it that you are looking for?”

        “I am looking for men,” said the little prince. “What does that mean—‘tame’?”

        “Men,” said the fox. “They have guns, and they hunt. It is very disturbing. They also raise chickens. These are their only interests. Are you looking for chickens?”

        “No,” said the little prince. “I am looking for friends. What does that mean—‘tame’?”

        “It is an act too often neglected,” said the fox. “It means to establish ties.”

        “To establish ties?”

        “Just that,” said the fox. “To me, you are still nothing more than a little boy who is just like a hundred thousand other little boys. And I have no need of you. And you, on your part, have no need of me. To you, I am nothing more than a fox like a hundred thousand other foxes. But if you tame me, then we shall need each other. To me, you will be unique in all the world. To you, I shall be unique in all the world…”

        “I am beginning to understand,” said the little prince. “There is a flower… I think that she has tamed me…”

        “It is possible,” said the fox. “On the Earth one sees all sorts of things.”

        “Oh, but this is not on the Earth!” said the little prince.

        The fox seemed perplexed, and very curious.

        “On another planet?”

        “Yes.”

        “Are there hunters on that planet?”

        “No.”

        “Ah, that is interesting! Are there chickens?”

        “No.”

        “Nothing is perfect,” sighed the fox.

        But he came back to his idea.

        “My life is very monotonous,” he said. “I hunt chickens; men hunt me. All the chickens are just alike, and all the men are just alike. And, in consequence, I am a little bored. But if you tame me, it will be as if the sun came to shine on my life. I shall know the sound of a step that will be different from all the others. Other steps send me hurrying back underneath the ground. Yours will call me, like music, out of my burrow. And then look: you see the grain-fields down yonder? I do not eat bread. Wheat is of no use to me. The wheat fields have nothing to say to me. And that is sad. But you have hair that is the color of gold. Think how wonderful that will be when you have tamed me! The grain, which is also golden, will bring me back the thought of you. And I shall love to listen to the wind in the wheat…”

        The fox gazed at the little prince, for a long time.

        “Please—tame me!” he said.

        “I want to, very much,” the little prince replied. “But I have not much time. I have friends to discover, and a great many things to understand.”

        “One only understands the things that one tames,” said the fox. “Men have no more time to understand anything. They buy things all ready made at the shops. But there is no shop anywhere where one can buy friendship, and so men have no friends any more. If you want a friend, tame me…”

        “What must I do to tame you?” asked the little prince.

        “You must be very patient,” replied the fox. “First you will sit down at a little distance from me—like that—in the grass. I shall look at you out of the corner of my eye, and you will say nothing. Words are the source of misunderstanding. But you will sit a little closer to me, every day…”

        The next day the little prince came back.

        “It would have been better to come back at the same hour,” said the fox. “If, for example, you come at four o’clock in the afternoon, then at three o’clock I shall begin to be happy. I shall feel happier and happier as the hour advances. At four o’clock, I shall already be worrying and jumping about. I shall show you how happy I am! But if you come at just any time, I shall never know at what hour my heart is to be ready to greet you… One must observe the proper rites…”

        “What is a rite?” asked the little prince.

        “Those also are actions too often neglected,” said the fox. “They are what make one day different from other days, one hour from other hours. There is a rite, for example, among my hunters. Every Thursday they dance with the village girls. So Thursday is a wonderful day for me! I can take a walk as far as the vineyards. But if the hunters danced at just any time, every day would be like every other day, and I should never have any vacation at all.”

        So the little prince tamed the fox. And when the hour of his departure drew near—

        “Ah,” said the fox, “I shall cry.”

        “It is your own fault,” said the little prince. “I never wished you any sort of harm; but you wanted me to tame you…”

        “Yes, that is so,” said the fox.

        “But now you are going to cry!” said the little prince.

        “Yes, that is so,” said the fox.

        “Then it has done you no good at all!”

        “It has done me good,” said the fox, “because of the color of the wheat fields.” And then he added:

        “Go and look again at the roses. You will understand now that yours is unique in all the world. Then come back to say goodbye to me, and I will make you a present of a secret.”

        The little prince went away, to look again at the roses.

        “You are not at all like my rose,” he said. “As yet you are nothing. No one has tamed you, and you have tamed no one. You are like my fox when I first knew him. He was only a fox like a hundred thousand other foxes. But I have made him my friend, and now he is unique in all the world.”

        And the roses were very much embarrassed.

        “You are beautiful, but you are empty,” he went on. “One could not die for you. To be sure, an ordinary passerby would think that my rose looked just like you—the rose that belongs to me. But in herself alone she is more important than all the hundreds of you other roses: because it is she that I have watered; because it is she that I have put under the glass globe; because it is she that I have sheltered behind the screen; because it is for her that I have killed the caterpillars (except the two or three that we saved to become butterflies); because it is she that I have listened to, when she grumbled, or boasted, or even sometimes when she said nothing. Because she is MY rose.

        And he went back to meet the fox.

        “Goodbye,” he said.

        “Goodbye,” said the fox. “And now here is my secret, a very simple secret: It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye.”

        “What is essential is invisible to the eye,” the little prince repeated, so that he would be sure to remember.

        “It is the time you have wasted for your rose that makes your rose so important.”

        “It is the time I have wasted for my rose—“ said the little prince, so that he would be sure to remember.

        “Men have forgotten this truth,” said the fox. “But you must not forget it. You become responsible, forever, for what you have tamed. You are responsible for your rose…”

        “I am responsible for my rose,” the little prince repeated, so that he would be sure to remember.

         “And when your sorrow is comforted, you will be content that you have known me. You will always be my friend.”

        One runs the risk of weeping a little, if one lets himself be tamed. 

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If you have tamed me, you know who you are. Thank you for taming me. "It has done me good because of the color of the wheat fields."

Wise Words at Capernwray

This was actually written on Wednesday, May 29. 

           I tried to read this morning, but kept getting distracted. So I hadn’t finished as many pages as I would have liked when I went down for coffee break at 10:40, but I figured maybe a break and a cup of coffee would help clear my head a little. I sat down at a table, drinking my coffee quietly, and a kind, motherly British woman named Nicky—who just came up and hugged me the first day I was at Capernwray because she knew I was new—sat down next to me. She was talking to some other people at the table at first, but eventually I joined in a conversation she was having that was originally about sheep but somehow turned to giraffes in Kenya. A few people left and so, in way of continuing the conversation, I asked her how often she’d been to Kenya. We talked about her ministry trips there for a bit before the conversation turned to how selfish and materialistic we can be as human beings, and how we all might be better, less selfish people if we took six months or a year of service somewhere in the world. The class guilt that I’ve struggled with all my life—growing up in Ecuador, and then even more recently in this past year of playing Rachel Corrie—began to resurface, and I began to think of how privileged and undeserving I feel to be studying for twelve weeks in Europe this summer. I mentioned something to that effect, and then Nicky said something that I needed very much to hear and that I will likely remember for years to come.

            “We’re all trees, you see. And sometimes, as we’re growing, especially in the beginning, we have to do things and have experiences that help us to put down strong roots that branch out before we become truly strong and full-grown. Because a spindly tree with no roots can be knocked over by—a sheep that rubs up against it. But if you take the time and opportunities you have to grow those roots, that’s when you become strong, and nothing can come against you or knock you over. And once you have a strong trunk, then your branches can grow out wide and strong too, giving fruit and providing shelter to others. And we’re all different, you know. Some grow to be the tall trees that take the lightning; some don’t grow very tall but spread their branches out wide; and some will always have to be supported by sticks and wires; but we all serve a purpose. And God knows that.”