I still haven't officially quit my job, and I am scared to, because the economy is so bad. But, I told my principal I would give her my "final answer" by tomorrow. Here goes:
Pros and Cons of saying a teacher
Pros: Conquering my demons about leadership, mastering the skill of classroom management, seeing myself really figure teaching out, refusing to quit until I have seen real growth in myself and my students. I am stressed out no matter what I do, and running from my problems doesn't help. I like my principal and vice principal. I will have my teaching license, maybe my own classroom, and possibly some more technology--so I will have a lot more to work with. I will know the curriculum I am teaching. I know not to do after school tutoring, and I know to plan on lunch tutoring--or detention. If I managed to teach for 5 years I could get a bunch of money in loan repayment programs. I am familiar with the population, the set-up at school, and the various expectations I will have on me.
Cons: I may lose my mind. I may be more stressed out than I already am. EVERY SINGLE SPECIAL EDUCATION TEACHER AT MY SCHOOL IS ON EITHER ANTI-ANXIETY OR ANTI-DEPRESSION MEDICATION. Next year will feel like starting over again anyway--I will be teaching with new teachers, the schedule will be totally different, and except for Sarah Pendlen and Sharon Pendleton, I dont have the desire to get to know any of the other teachers better. I can't stand feeling like I am always behind--that there is far more work to be done than will ever get done. I will continue to teach to students who do not want to learn. I will continue to fight all day long. I am most seventh graders arch-enemy.
Pros and Cons of going to school full time:
Pros: I will finish my course work in one year. I will be able to start my internship the following year (which I would have to quit teaching to do anyway). I will get a way better price per credit hour. My degree is currently costing $510 a credit hour. I have about 40 credit hours to go, so thats 20,000. If I went full-time, I would only have to pay $415 a credit hour, which is 16600...thats a big difference. Plus, I could make getting scholarship money and grant money my job. Also, I would have to get creative on money-making. I would try and make money writing, grant writing, scholarship application writing, math tutoring, etc. I have my teaching certificate at the end of this year--teaching longer won't make me any more marketable.
Cons: I didn't get that much money in substidized loans. That is scary to me. Loans are scary for me. Especially when I don't have a clue of how to pay them off. I only got approved for $8,000 in substidized loans, and the rest I would have to take out with unsubstidized loans and other types of loans...yikes!!! I know if I just go to school, I will lose my footing in reality, I will start getting all theoretical (on the other hand, I would be counseling clients, etc in my practicum next semester, so I guess thats not totally true.)
Well thats all I can think of for now.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
3rd step
This is the first time I have had the emotional energy and time to write down my thoughts since leaving for the AA retreat I went to in Estes Park. I went with my friend Puck we will call him, because he seems like contemporary to Puck in Midsummer Night's dream. He has bad hearing from too much rock concerts, so he tilts his head and has a crooked smile when he listens to you. The location was beautiful, and I stayed in a room with just Brian, which was lovely, because I really did not want to meet people. Since the fellow retreatees were not food addicts, the whole lodge was stocked with junkfood. The weekend would be stressful enough, and having loads of free deliciously bad for me food would not be easy--I told myself I didn't have to be abstinent until after the weekend...
The lady running the retreat saved my friend's life one time--he had been sober and clean for 10 years but was suffering from a severe bout of depression and was suicidal. Retreat Leader, who would remind you of a sandpiper on crack if you met her, dragged Puck back to "the fellowship".
On the way up Puck told me all about his experiences in the "fellowship". He was part of this group called "The Happy Way" who learned their particular method of interpretation of the Big Book from a group called "The Golden Slippers" in Canada. I was drifting in and out of consciousness on the 2 hour drive up to the edge of Rocky Mountain National Park--it had been the first time I had sat down in DAYS. But I had sunglasses on, so I told myself Puck couldn't tell if I was sleeping or not.
The two retretees I was most fascinated with at first were two young, cute girls who came up with the retreat leader. Shorty was a wife of an evidently rich guy and they lived in Vail Valley. Originally from Louisiana, she had this magnetic southern charm. She wore a J Crew jacket and a black diamond horseshoe neclace, and loves dogs. Her rich husband helped her get into the treatment center for women which Retreat Leader worked at. Model Girl was about 20 and looked like a model. Slender and tall, with pixy cut hair and headband, actually looked good in her black stretch pants, patent leather riding boots, bellhop jacket, a silk tie, an expensive-looking Russian wool overcoat, a faux fir hat from the Armani Exchange.
The retretee I talked the most with was Lawyer-guy. Lawyer-guy just got back from 30days of treatment at Hazleton--which cost $30,000. Its the same place Erick Clapton got cleaned up at. He was a lawyer for the National Association of Counsel for Children. His monthly bills are $20,000. He is going to congress in a week to put forth a program that is a little like "Doctors Without Borders but for lawyers. He was once voted National Lawyer of the Year.
On the other hand Saint Trash looked homeless. His bottom jaw was set out farther than his top teeth, and he spoke with a lisp. He was about 75 lbs overweight, and his skin was weathered from a lot of hard living. Everything Saint Trash said was language of the heart. I cringed when he spoke, because I expected whatever he said to be gibberish. However, it was apparent by the end that he was the most wise person there. Once he said, "I have been restored to sanity, but I have symptoms of schizophrenia--go figure." A fiesty old lady, who offered to be my food sponser, was a salty great grandma of 76 years, who said when we were talking about the 6th step (We were entirely ready to have God remove all of our defects of character) "My character defects will all be gone about five minutes after I am in the morgue." A red-faced, white-haired hippie from Boulder, ran over himself with his own truck, and punched out a fireplace before he found grace and surrender. One day his friend asked if he would like to take the third step (turning our will and lives over to the care of God). He said a prayer with his friend--then nothing happened. And everything happened.
I left red-hot mad at God. The reason was because I worked hard all week editing my one-minute movie for my application of my island reef job. It took forever, and I had to get the computer teacher at my school to help me which I didn't want to do because technically I shouldn't have been using instruction time and school equipment to make a movie for another job. I spent all Friday trying to upload it onto the contest site, but it wouldn't go through!! I tried all day, but the file was too big, and because it was close to the deadline, everyone was trying to upload their movies. I thought God should have stepped in to help. I couldn't try all weekend because I was leaving for the retreat. I called my mom, who would do anything for me, and she stayed up all night long resending and resending it while I was at the AA retreat--it never went through. The computer teacher half-heartedly agreed to try the next day. Before I left for the retreat, I loaded up the application and left it, hoping that even if it took a really long time, it would still eventually go through.
Well, anyway I was mad, mad, mad at God. I even swore at God. A lot. I was still mad even when I was at the retreat, because I just didn't think God was being very supportive. On Saturday, for instance, I tried to go on a very long run. I got stuck in the snow, and really steep rocks, and hit my head on a tree branch, and was in general being harassed by nature. I was also very uncomfortable being the only not-alcoholic in a room of alcohalics. I had to introduce myself as a "holic", explaining that I was especially addicted to "self." I told everyone not to come up and be all touchy feely becuase I would feel stupid--I was there to look at my own addictions and hoped to find out where I fit into the 12-step picture.
The first step is powerlessness over our addictions. Our lives had become unmanageable. That is definitely true about me. I am completely out of control in eating, I feel like either Nurse Rachet or Chairmen Mao at work, either coldy intimidating or getting all dictator-y on kids all day long. In addition, I feel like I want to die on the way to and from school.
The second step is coming to believe that a power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity. Sure, I believe that.
The third step--this is where am stuck. "Made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of God as we understand him." Its wierd, I am not even that big of a fan of my life, I wonder why its so hard to give it up. Partly, I doubt God's goodness. Sure I have been blessed with a lot of things. But when I am stuck not wanting to exist, then all that nice stuff seems to me like putting delicious chocolate coating on shit. I am sorry if reading this makes all the people who love me feel bad. Maybe I just have a chemical imbalance in my brain. Maybe, if I promise to work at positive thoughts, I will suddenly stop being able to go here. But its where I am.
Humility seemed to be the general theme of the weekend for me. I spent the most time with Marv. Despite his increadibly sucessful work life, he was broken, and needy, and eager to learn from the veterans. Francis floored us with his wisdom. I was suprised to see Regan, who was clearly more stylish than any of us, open up and share her vulnerability.
I talked to Fiesty Old Lady about what it would look like to become part of Food Addicts Anonymous. Three meals a day, completely regulated, no white flour or sugar, 3 different hour-and-a-half meetings a week, then checking in with a sponser daily. WHAT! I felt like crying. That is way too big of a time commitment! Fiesty said stop worrying about it, just take the first step of calling her. She gave me her number. Retreat Leader found me and talked about therapy. Even after she had been sober for 15 years, she was a depressed, anxious wreck who wanted to die all the time. Maybe I need meds? Maybe.
I have a lot to process still. But, I am going to Food Addicts Anonymous to see what its like...I am not excited about joining 12 step, but I at least need to see it. I know that part of what works at 12-step groups is the humility of it all. A bunch of random people are all brought together by what they are the most ashamed, broken, and helpless about. Part of what works is the whole "rule of life" that 12-steps offers. It is a rythm of continually surrendering, confessing, repenting, serving, persevering. I need some sort of rule that keeps me doing inventory, and repairing wrongs, as well as surrendering and serving. I will say that something that is creapy is that "the God of your own understanding" to some people is fairies and spirit guides. That sounds like the Devil. Also, people quote the Big Book like its Holy. And they take it LITERALLY. If on page 56 it says "we took our book off the shelves..." then people will literally put their Big Book on the shelf (not the kitchen counter, not their desk, a SHELF), so they can take their book off the shelf. What?
Next, I have an appointment with a different therapist than I have been to before on tuesday. I don't have a good feel for where to look for support. Do I need a therapist? Do I have enought people in my life that can hold me accountable to something? Is a therapist just going to give me more insight--which is simply not my main problem? Do I need drugs? I hope it is not a waste of time and money to go talk to her.
Regardless, I think I need to take some (all?) of the twelve steps--like renewed surrender to God, working through resentments, making amends (mabye? I am prone to feeling like I need to make amends already..maybe I go overboard?) In addtion, there are some things I think I should do every day--pray, read my bible, run or lift weights, eat a certain way (make eating more cerimonial?). I do not have a practice of regular meditation, fasting, confession, retreat. I don't know what I am supposed to do with Sabbath. I think I need a time budget. (And a money budget for that matter). On the other hand, I tend to schedule way more in day than is humanly possible; I have no room for the new-the spontaneous. I can feel like a big, dumb, ox just trudging along to the next thing...with no awareness, openness to my desires, to the new, etc.
I want to commit to a rule--if not 12-step, a personal rule, long enough to make a difference, but deciding after a while to reexamine it at a certain time. My pastor John said "frame it up" and he would help keep me accountable. This is one thing he said that I liked:
yoJ--
I'll pray for you today. Christ loves you as much right now as he ever will! This is about coming up w a plan that would let that love flower so that J loves J properly!
mercy
hks
The lady running the retreat saved my friend's life one time--he had been sober and clean for 10 years but was suffering from a severe bout of depression and was suicidal. Retreat Leader, who would remind you of a sandpiper on crack if you met her, dragged Puck back to "the fellowship".
On the way up Puck told me all about his experiences in the "fellowship". He was part of this group called "The Happy Way" who learned their particular method of interpretation of the Big Book from a group called "The Golden Slippers" in Canada. I was drifting in and out of consciousness on the 2 hour drive up to the edge of Rocky Mountain National Park--it had been the first time I had sat down in DAYS. But I had sunglasses on, so I told myself Puck couldn't tell if I was sleeping or not.
The two retretees I was most fascinated with at first were two young, cute girls who came up with the retreat leader. Shorty was a wife of an evidently rich guy and they lived in Vail Valley. Originally from Louisiana, she had this magnetic southern charm. She wore a J Crew jacket and a black diamond horseshoe neclace, and loves dogs. Her rich husband helped her get into the treatment center for women which Retreat Leader worked at. Model Girl was about 20 and looked like a model. Slender and tall, with pixy cut hair and headband, actually looked good in her black stretch pants, patent leather riding boots, bellhop jacket, a silk tie, an expensive-looking Russian wool overcoat, a faux fir hat from the Armani Exchange.
The retretee I talked the most with was Lawyer-guy. Lawyer-guy just got back from 30days of treatment at Hazleton--which cost $30,000. Its the same place Erick Clapton got cleaned up at. He was a lawyer for the National Association of Counsel for Children. His monthly bills are $20,000. He is going to congress in a week to put forth a program that is a little like "Doctors Without Borders but for lawyers. He was once voted National Lawyer of the Year.
On the other hand Saint Trash looked homeless. His bottom jaw was set out farther than his top teeth, and he spoke with a lisp. He was about 75 lbs overweight, and his skin was weathered from a lot of hard living. Everything Saint Trash said was language of the heart. I cringed when he spoke, because I expected whatever he said to be gibberish. However, it was apparent by the end that he was the most wise person there. Once he said, "I have been restored to sanity, but I have symptoms of schizophrenia--go figure." A fiesty old lady, who offered to be my food sponser, was a salty great grandma of 76 years, who said when we were talking about the 6th step (We were entirely ready to have God remove all of our defects of character) "My character defects will all be gone about five minutes after I am in the morgue." A red-faced, white-haired hippie from Boulder, ran over himself with his own truck, and punched out a fireplace before he found grace and surrender. One day his friend asked if he would like to take the third step (turning our will and lives over to the care of God). He said a prayer with his friend--then nothing happened. And everything happened.
I left red-hot mad at God. The reason was because I worked hard all week editing my one-minute movie for my application of my island reef job. It took forever, and I had to get the computer teacher at my school to help me which I didn't want to do because technically I shouldn't have been using instruction time and school equipment to make a movie for another job. I spent all Friday trying to upload it onto the contest site, but it wouldn't go through!! I tried all day, but the file was too big, and because it was close to the deadline, everyone was trying to upload their movies. I thought God should have stepped in to help. I couldn't try all weekend because I was leaving for the retreat. I called my mom, who would do anything for me, and she stayed up all night long resending and resending it while I was at the AA retreat--it never went through. The computer teacher half-heartedly agreed to try the next day. Before I left for the retreat, I loaded up the application and left it, hoping that even if it took a really long time, it would still eventually go through.
Well, anyway I was mad, mad, mad at God. I even swore at God. A lot. I was still mad even when I was at the retreat, because I just didn't think God was being very supportive. On Saturday, for instance, I tried to go on a very long run. I got stuck in the snow, and really steep rocks, and hit my head on a tree branch, and was in general being harassed by nature. I was also very uncomfortable being the only not-alcoholic in a room of alcohalics. I had to introduce myself as a "holic", explaining that I was especially addicted to "self." I told everyone not to come up and be all touchy feely becuase I would feel stupid--I was there to look at my own addictions and hoped to find out where I fit into the 12-step picture.
The first step is powerlessness over our addictions. Our lives had become unmanageable. That is definitely true about me. I am completely out of control in eating, I feel like either Nurse Rachet or Chairmen Mao at work, either coldy intimidating or getting all dictator-y on kids all day long. In addition, I feel like I want to die on the way to and from school.
The second step is coming to believe that a power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity. Sure, I believe that.
The third step--this is where am stuck. "Made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of God as we understand him." Its wierd, I am not even that big of a fan of my life, I wonder why its so hard to give it up. Partly, I doubt God's goodness. Sure I have been blessed with a lot of things. But when I am stuck not wanting to exist, then all that nice stuff seems to me like putting delicious chocolate coating on shit. I am sorry if reading this makes all the people who love me feel bad. Maybe I just have a chemical imbalance in my brain. Maybe, if I promise to work at positive thoughts, I will suddenly stop being able to go here. But its where I am.
Humility seemed to be the general theme of the weekend for me. I spent the most time with Marv. Despite his increadibly sucessful work life, he was broken, and needy, and eager to learn from the veterans. Francis floored us with his wisdom. I was suprised to see Regan, who was clearly more stylish than any of us, open up and share her vulnerability.
I talked to Fiesty Old Lady about what it would look like to become part of Food Addicts Anonymous. Three meals a day, completely regulated, no white flour or sugar, 3 different hour-and-a-half meetings a week, then checking in with a sponser daily. WHAT! I felt like crying. That is way too big of a time commitment! Fiesty said stop worrying about it, just take the first step of calling her. She gave me her number. Retreat Leader found me and talked about therapy. Even after she had been sober for 15 years, she was a depressed, anxious wreck who wanted to die all the time. Maybe I need meds? Maybe.
I have a lot to process still. But, I am going to Food Addicts Anonymous to see what its like...I am not excited about joining 12 step, but I at least need to see it. I know that part of what works at 12-step groups is the humility of it all. A bunch of random people are all brought together by what they are the most ashamed, broken, and helpless about. Part of what works is the whole "rule of life" that 12-steps offers. It is a rythm of continually surrendering, confessing, repenting, serving, persevering. I need some sort of rule that keeps me doing inventory, and repairing wrongs, as well as surrendering and serving. I will say that something that is creapy is that "the God of your own understanding" to some people is fairies and spirit guides. That sounds like the Devil. Also, people quote the Big Book like its Holy. And they take it LITERALLY. If on page 56 it says "we took our book off the shelves..." then people will literally put their Big Book on the shelf (not the kitchen counter, not their desk, a SHELF), so they can take their book off the shelf. What?
Next, I have an appointment with a different therapist than I have been to before on tuesday. I don't have a good feel for where to look for support. Do I need a therapist? Do I have enought people in my life that can hold me accountable to something? Is a therapist just going to give me more insight--which is simply not my main problem? Do I need drugs? I hope it is not a waste of time and money to go talk to her.
Regardless, I think I need to take some (all?) of the twelve steps--like renewed surrender to God, working through resentments, making amends (mabye? I am prone to feeling like I need to make amends already..maybe I go overboard?) In addtion, there are some things I think I should do every day--pray, read my bible, run or lift weights, eat a certain way (make eating more cerimonial?). I do not have a practice of regular meditation, fasting, confession, retreat. I don't know what I am supposed to do with Sabbath. I think I need a time budget. (And a money budget for that matter). On the other hand, I tend to schedule way more in day than is humanly possible; I have no room for the new-the spontaneous. I can feel like a big, dumb, ox just trudging along to the next thing...with no awareness, openness to my desires, to the new, etc.
I want to commit to a rule--if not 12-step, a personal rule, long enough to make a difference, but deciding after a while to reexamine it at a certain time. My pastor John said "frame it up" and he would help keep me accountable. This is one thing he said that I liked:
yoJ--
I'll pray for you today. Christ loves you as much right now as he ever will! This is about coming up w a plan that would let that love flower so that J loves J properly!
mercy
hks
Thursday, February 19, 2009
ANXIETY!!!
I check facebook at least 3 times a day, my yahoo acount 5 times, gmail 4 times, my outlook work account 7 times. I have approximately 14 candy episodes daily. From the moment I wake up until I go to sleep I am going as fast as I can, in circles. The to-do pile is stacked up in the corners of my brain like my dirty laundry, and the thousands of miscilanious paperwork on my bedroom floor (homoework from students, grad school papers, research, junk mail, old writings, four or five new calenders, binders full of self-help material and math, taxes, FAFSA, grant-writing information.) I don't read the Bible enough, and I rarely pray. I schedule time with important people only in time perscribed slots. I have no room for new.
I can't stop thinking about the fact that I sent my video for the island reef job in the wrong format, that I have to preach in 3 weeks and I am not ready, that my spring break plans are not ironed out, that I am abandoning the kids at Henry World School because I am so easily overwhelmed. I just walked to Walgreens, bought $4 worth of candy, and scarfed it down. I worry about my sister, Africa, my gut. I wish I were more mellow, skinnier, peaceful, focused, spontaneous, decisive, powerful, fun. I frown/whine/gossip/complain/spew out negativity too much. I don't trust God/Jesus/Holy Spirit, and I swear a lot. I believe everyone is wrong but me.
Tomorrow I am going on an AA retreat. As soon as I get back, I planned to have people over for dinner. Next week the grind continues with one week until CSAPs. I have to schedule a financial planning session with Amy, but I am not ready to stop comfort spending. I have to write a grant for the teaching job I now know I don't want anymore. I lost my keys for my office at work, and I always steal chocolate from the principals desk. (And I steal Farley's Fruit Snacks from the cupboards in the staff room, even though I know they are for poor kids who can't get breakfast).
I exploited my 9th period class to make a video a job application for another job. I secretly hate some of my students. I talk about existentialism as if I understand it, partly because I know no one else does. I want to be a counselor mostly because I don't want to be a teacher (just like I wanted to be a Marine just because I didn't want to be in the Navy.)
I feel contrived, and patched up. I have this zit I keep on picking. I am the "stinky kid" at seminary. I throw fits whenever everything isn't perfect. I am forcing myself to eat this bad soup I made.
God, RESCUE ME!
I can't stop thinking about the fact that I sent my video for the island reef job in the wrong format, that I have to preach in 3 weeks and I am not ready, that my spring break plans are not ironed out, that I am abandoning the kids at Henry World School because I am so easily overwhelmed. I just walked to Walgreens, bought $4 worth of candy, and scarfed it down. I worry about my sister, Africa, my gut. I wish I were more mellow, skinnier, peaceful, focused, spontaneous, decisive, powerful, fun. I frown/whine/gossip/complain/spew out negativity too much. I don't trust God/Jesus/Holy Spirit, and I swear a lot. I believe everyone is wrong but me.
Tomorrow I am going on an AA retreat. As soon as I get back, I planned to have people over for dinner. Next week the grind continues with one week until CSAPs. I have to schedule a financial planning session with Amy, but I am not ready to stop comfort spending. I have to write a grant for the teaching job I now know I don't want anymore. I lost my keys for my office at work, and I always steal chocolate from the principals desk. (And I steal Farley's Fruit Snacks from the cupboards in the staff room, even though I know they are for poor kids who can't get breakfast).
I exploited my 9th period class to make a video a job application for another job. I secretly hate some of my students. I talk about existentialism as if I understand it, partly because I know no one else does. I want to be a counselor mostly because I don't want to be a teacher (just like I wanted to be a Marine just because I didn't want to be in the Navy.)
I feel contrived, and patched up. I have this zit I keep on picking. I am the "stinky kid" at seminary. I throw fits whenever everything isn't perfect. I am forcing myself to eat this bad soup I made.
God, RESCUE ME!
Monday, February 16, 2009
Drunk Jesus
Lee called me at 10:00 tonight. He had gone downtown with Marcus drinking. He took the 28b bus home. In his wallet, he had $1,800 from winning money playing poker on the internet. Lee sat next to a mexican man with three fingers on his right hand. Three-finger had Edward James Almos style skin, slicked back hair, was about 42 years old, looked like he had lived a lot of hard life. Lee and him had seen each other on the bus before. Lee and Three-finger saw a fat black woman with corn rows and her two kids. The family was crazy but not crack head-crazy. Just single mom, working all day to support her latch-key kids crazy. Lee asked his three-fingered friend to to pass the lady $100. Three-finger was floored. For the next 70 blocks (both Lee and Three-finger missed their stops as the bus went all the way to the end of the route and back again) Three-finger and Lee found people who looked deserving of $100. First a hispanic lady then a random old lady. Between Downtown Denver, out to Kipling and Back to Yates, 18 people got $100 bills. All women, about half of them had kids. Three-finger never asked for money. Part of the reason Lee was giving the money away was he was drunk. Second, he is generous. Last, he wanted to see how long it would take for Three-finger to ask for the money. Three-finger never asked--he was thrilled to be giving the money away to others. Lee asked Three-finger if he would be his witness--in case God or Jesus wanted to know what Lee was up to. Three-finger said that he would be Lee's witness forever. The bus driver wouldn't stop asking, "Are you really giving him real money?"
Lee said it was the best moment of his life. He feels dumb about it too. He knows his motives were not completely pure. Also, Lee just gave away $1800 and has no extra cash. Lee thinks three-fingers might have been Jesus. Lee feels enlightened.
In Lee's words, "Hopefully half of the $100 bill ladies are doing the right thing...I go on odds...hopefully half of them are buying their kids McDonalds, school supplies, and Elmo Dolls. The other half are probably buying crack or throwing it away because they didn't believe that they were 'real zippered-up hundies...'"
Lee called because he wanted another witness. And because he was shocked. And because he was afraid he would feel bitter in the morning. And to brag. And "inspire me to keep on the path I am going on." He knows God sees him. Lee says God looks down and says, "Damn, thats a Balsy mothafucka."
The 28b from Pierce to Applewood and back again witnessed a gritty miracle tonight.
Lee said it was the best moment of his life. He feels dumb about it too. He knows his motives were not completely pure. Also, Lee just gave away $1800 and has no extra cash. Lee thinks three-fingers might have been Jesus. Lee feels enlightened.
In Lee's words, "Hopefully half of the $100 bill ladies are doing the right thing...I go on odds...hopefully half of them are buying their kids McDonalds, school supplies, and Elmo Dolls. The other half are probably buying crack or throwing it away because they didn't believe that they were 'real zippered-up hundies...'"
Lee called because he wanted another witness. And because he was shocked. And because he was afraid he would feel bitter in the morning. And to brag. And "inspire me to keep on the path I am going on." He knows God sees him. Lee says God looks down and says, "Damn, thats a Balsy mothafucka."
The 28b from Pierce to Applewood and back again witnessed a gritty miracle tonight.
Saturday, February 14, 2009
The Jimmy Funeral
I had a Jimmy funeral in October. I really think its taken root. The only semi-psycho thing I have done surrounding Jimmy is try to see his girlfriend's picture on facebook without friending him. And I only did it once. And now its Valentine's day and I can almost not see Jimmy anymore in my imagination. (Insert "Most of the Time" by Bob Dylan). I reread my funeral document. I decided to post it with a hearty AMEN.
Jimmy,
I have to say goodbye to you.
We have been friends since November of 2001. Though our relationship has officially never been more than that, it felt like we always had an unusual chemistry. At first I thought it was just me. From the moment I first saw you until now, you have always been the hottest person I have ever known in real-life. I have oscillated between maintaining a cynical distance and melting in middle-school like obsession. I was mortified when I got caught drawing you, or when I found out that you read part of my journal talking to God about how I couldn’t stop thinking about you. I loved it that we had a strange alliance. I stuck up for you if anyone said you were dumb, and you stuck up for me if people said I was weird. You also tried to convince me I wasn’t fat. One time you asked me to dinner. I had plans already. I honored my commitment, but I was so torn up about it that I was a total ass in front of a nice guy that took me out, because I wanted so badly to be with you (so I got drunk on red wine). I am embarrassed, looking back that I gave you a hand-written invitation to a salmon dinner cooked on my George Forman grill in the dorms, or that I made you a valentine, or that I tried to pay one night we were all out at dinner and you said “why” and I yelled out, “Because you’re beautiful!” I hated it that you ranked me lower than Gifford and Tilleli in our squad rankings, and that you laughed at my anger and hurt over it. I loved that you called me a scrapper after I beat that girl in pugel sticks. When you asked me to run once, I went, even though I just got back from a five mile run!! I did better than you at most things at TBS, which bothered you. But once I shot you (and you were on my team) in a field exercise and you treated me with contempt and disgust. I felt bad about that. You also did not like listening to me when I was in charge. You wouldn’t do what I said, even though it would have been good for me. It made me feel weird when you noticed what I was wearing, or commented on me wearing makeup—like you could always touch a place of vulnerability with me. I think I could do the same with you…like when I would tease you for being a wimp about the cold. You were a jerk when Angela came to meet you…you knew she was sizing you up and you refused to perform. I thought you were a brat for that but I guess I liked it. Shellylynne met you to—I remember you were nice to her. I remember meeting your parents; my parents were there too on "Jane Wayne" day. I acted more familiar with you than I really was, just to be a brat. My dad was kind of obsessed with your dad…because he was so “mafia boss.” At graduation, my mom and sister saw you for the first time. They thought you were ok, but didn’t seem to be as mesmerized as me.
I am surprised we kept in touch. At first we were really busy. I went to war almost right away and got in trouble and all that. You were IOC, and then in San Diego just waiting to go to war. You went to a Ben Harper concert with me and Ang in San Diego. You were late—and I didn’t specify which side of the stadium to meet on. So I spent some frantic time running from one end of the stadium to the other. Somehow you found me in a construction lot (because you knew I would be there…I have no idea how you can predict me when I can’t predict myself). You caught me climbing a 12 foot tall chain link fence in a dress. I stood just hairs-lengths away from you all concert and didn’t touch you. It was weird and scary and magnetic and blissful. At the end, you gave me a big hug. I said I had gotten into some trouble. The way you reacted I knew you already knew. I thought it was kind you chose not to mention it, that you didn’t need the details. You gave me the benefit of the doubt. Then I realized you never paid me for the concert tickets. It usually felt like I was putting in too much.
I set you up with Melissa one time. I guess I hoped I would get over you, and I proved to myself I was by setting you up with my best friend. You were in to it but she wasn’t. I guess I was secretly glad…because it humbled you? Or maybe because I knew I was in love with you.
I went to visit you on a layover for a day before you went to war. It was scary, but I played it real cool. You picked me up off the airport light rail and we drove to your best friend’s house. I teased you in front of your friends and you liked it (because it was flattering) and your friends thought I was funny. I don’t think they could tell I was scared. You did rude things…like went on a run with me and didn’t stay with me, and did your own thing instead of being a good host. (Slept in, rented a movie I had already seen, showed me a few parts of Chicago but did what you felt like for the most part.) While I felt smugly satisfied with myself for being such a good friend and not being into you, being in your presence always made me nervous. When I left, you gave me a big hug and told me you were glad I came.
Some things you said have been really incongruent for me. You have told me “You’re the only one I can talk to.” “I love you but you are too virtuous for me” and “I love you but I wish you were my sister, maybe you can date my brother and become my sister in law.”. You told me once in a sarcastic tone, “I don’t know how to handle mom when she crys.” Then, when I take the comment lightly because of your emotionally detached delivery, you become upset that I am not giving you good counsel, and taking you seriously.
Every time you went to war I was convinced you were going to die and not go to heaven. I sent you two ridiculously elaborate care packages, along with many over-the-top small ones. Hidden underneath a Chicago Cubs snow globe was a brown paper package marked with a scull and crossbones just in case you were on the brink of death. It was my spiritual treatise. It was the best explanation I had…everything from my beach ball analogy to “The Grand Inquisitor” by Dostoyevsky, to my “self help book of the moment” How People Grow by Cloud and Townsend. I was mortified by the fact that you didn’t die and I had to live in a world where I sent you the best I had and would never be able to take it back. You and I never really talked about it, even though I tried. You just said something like your faith was private.
When I spent that time at the monastery, I had a lot of dreams about you. I was specifically trying to discern whether or not I should be single or married…catholic or protestant…a wife with kids, a writer, etc. I was afraid to ask God for anything, just in case he didn’t give it to me. But when someone called me on that, and told me to take a risk and ask, I asked for clarity about you. I talked to a nun about you. She called me out on my dishonesty to myself…Why had I set you up with Melissa? Why had I acted like I thought of you only as a friend? Why have I not expressed my love?
I composed the best poem of my life—not the best because it was so amazingly literary, but because to this day it conveys my summer dreams, the images I hold of you, the parts of God you represent, the tensions in our relationship, the inner work I do as the result of our interactions. The word pictures that sum you up to me are Fire red, Irish, Spartan warrior, predator ( keep me dangling) prey (hiding, running puffing peacock feathers) carrying guilt, inner child, mother’s worries. Our harsh desert friendship, your lumberjack arms holding me, how scary it is to think of being in them. You took a long time to respond…you told me you appreciated it but you wanted to talk to me in person. When you finally called (a month later) you did so late at night, the day before you left for war. You told me a long story about how you and your dad told each other you loved each other for the first time a week ago, and then you told me you loved me but I was to virtuous for you.
While you were at war, I thought about showing you just how not-virtuous I was. But I decided that would be nuts and really unhealthy. I did send you a Bob Dylan montague, which was way toned down from its original draft, which included the song lyrics to “I want You” and “Sometimes I’m in the Mood”.
Then I dated Lee. In some ways it was like dating you. I did care about Lee, and in some ways it was like dating a redeemed version of you…because he loved me enough to be gentle and kind and accommodating. But I worried I was settling for a lesser version of you…one that would never be your brilliance. You were coming back from war that summer. What if being with Lee destroyed my one chance to be with you? Even if Lee and I would have lasted past February, I was not willing to jeopardize that chance.
Last year, I tried to hint around that you should come to Ireland with me. You would be out of the USMC, you were going there anyway at some point. But it was clear you had your own agenda. Next, you said you would come out and ski with me that winter (your first winter out of the USMC and mine at Montbello) I really needed you then . Montbello was so hard, it was a terrible experience getting involved with Gregory, and I just wanted your love and attention. You didn’t come out. I didn’t know at the time, but you had started dating “Shiera”.
I had a pretty buddy-like stage with you for a while. I remember having that nun conversation with you, trying to convince you to find a spiritual director, because you were going through hard times. You came at the end of July. I was willing to drop everything to see you , but you were in Vail at a wedding with your girlfriend (which you weren’t honest about) and didn’t make time for me. I was hurt. We didn’t talk for a while. I went to Mexico, you checked in with me when I was done. You said you had been reading some of the blogs. That’s cool I guess. You tiptoed back into talking to me, because you were afraid of my wrath after I told you what a bad friend you were for not seeing me.
You need to know that every time you call, it sends me on tilt. You called in August, while I was on my “tour de marriage”, after an email conversation. First, you sent me that Outward Bound email where you ambiguously invited me on an adventure, then one where you admit that you want to talk but don’t want to face my wrath. I sent you and inviting email to talk to me about your woes. You call, we talk for a while, I become determined to get closure once and for all. I send you my ultimatum (commit by October or bust). We talk a few times since then…all great conversations…You are going through hard times. The thing with your girlfriend is rough…your cousin overdosed and died, you feel unfocused, you feel overall depressed and dealing with PTSD. While I am not glad you are hurting, I am glad to be needed.
Then the drunk call mid-September. It’s two in the morning. I answer the phone because I have always made myself available to you. You tell me you love me but you want me as a sister. You ask me a whole lot of things about my sexuality…I think you are trying to resolve something in your mind. You think of me as asexual, so you think you could never be in a relationship with me. You don’t come out and say it but this is where it’s going. You tell me you and “Shiera” will be out the last week of September, and could we hang out? I have a crazy week of self improvement/ destruction projects and you don’t even call. A riculously expensive facial, a diet of vegetables and chocolate, a shopping spree for slutty hiking clothes, a new haircut, a clean house and you don't call. On the one hand, I am happy. I am fealing fat and hate myself…it wouldn’t be good if you saw me like this. On the other and I just wanted to see you…
However it gave me an excuse to finally say goodbye. Here is my email.
Hey,
It bothers me you didn't call to get together this weekend.
Our interactions aren't good for me. They send me into this wierd state of manic self destruction/self improvement/self loathing. I don't understand it, but I don't want it in my life. Its like a bad trip. (I haven't done drugs, so I haven't had a bad trip but this is what I imagine they feel like.)
So, I know you said when you were drunk you would do anything for me; Here is what I want: don't talk to me anymore. I know you have good intentions, I know you mean the best. I don't want you to even write me back and say so. I believe you. I believe in you, I want all the best in life for you. Its just that having any sort of relationship is just no good for me.
It seems like you are thinking about and working on some cool things. I pray for God's peace and mercy on your travels.
See ya in Heaven? We will have eternity to catch up I'd imagine.
Find a good nun friend with better boundaries to take my place would ya?
Jaim
I had a dream about you a few nights after I sent this:
You and I are doing some trip to this incredibly dangerous tropical place. I am trying to play it cool but inside I am boiling with desire. We talk a little, you start fooling around a little…its unclear whether we will be sexually intimate or not. I am very shy sexually around you. “Holy Fear”. It feels good to just be with you. Scary too. I feel nervous. I can’t eat, all my focus is on you. I have to go for a minute to attend to some family business. I end up with mom grandma aunty and Dinah. Aunty has brought Dinah a big basket of chocolate, with this huge cadburry bunny egg. I tell them my sister Jodi will be furious when she finds out, they say she won’t know but I know Dinah will tell them somehow.
I wake up and realize that part of the loss of you is the fear that I may not ever want anything as much as I want you. Each day I have half-heartly tried not to have a candy binge and every day I have given in since I "gave up" you. I know eating healthy was largely motivated by a "you chance". Now that I don't have that, weight loss becomes less immediately needed. Gluttony is bad, God and Jesus are good, but the ambivalence around food is there in a big way without my motivation of “get skinny and fabulous quick in case I see you”.
The thing is, most of my life I live in deep ambivalence...about just about everything including God. Yet I have experienced dangerous, scary desire for you. Sometimes Candy too. God? Nope. Jesus...nope. A job? A dream? Nope. I can throw myself into something, but I always know in the back of my mind that I am talking myself into it, and the spell won't last. Something that haunts me across the span of my life was when Matthew Guiles, when I asked him to sum me up in a sentence, said "You don't know what you want.".
I have tried plenty of times to want the right thing...It simply doesn't work, in my perspective, to force desire. I guess that is my biggest fear "losing you". That I will no longer feal singular desire for something, someone--not God or anything. Food slips in so easily. Maybe it is about who I need to become. How do I want to be more like you? You are down to earth, practical, beautiful, in-the-moment, instinctive, healthy in your view of yourself, unrigid, and intense in a more present, in-the-now way than me. How is Jesus like you? I can’t answer that yet…maybe with you out of the picture, that one will make more sense.
What do you want from me? Emotional support, a projection of your Anima, a real-life “Mother Mary,” someone to do your emotional work, someone to worship you?
Jimmy, ultimately you are not there for me. I can’t call you for help or support. When I have reached out, you haven’t been there. Why did you tell me he how much you love me and I am one of your best friends, but then you continually stand me up? Why do you tell me you sorry for using me as a confessor and that you would do anything for me, but the one thing I ask for—to see you—you do not give me? I wanted the chance to see you. I want to be over you or I want you to see me a different way. You didn’t give me that chance. I decided to lean into the advice of people who care about me more than you do. As John put it, “DON'T SPEND FUN TIME WITH MEN YOU ARE IN LOVE WITH WHEN THEY'RE INVOLVED W OTHER LOVERS!!
I take away your power to grant or withhold my sense of well-being. I release you to live a life in God’s mercy and peace. I release my fascination with you. I can no longer accept your version of friendship in my life. I can no longer agree to continue to experience the abuse of your inconsistency and unavailability. I have decided to look other places for an advocate and protector. I will miss you but I know that I will see you in heaven if we both end up there.
God knows I gave you the best I had to offer of His love. I have nothing else for you.
Goodbye, Jaimie
Jimmy,
I have to say goodbye to you.
We have been friends since November of 2001. Though our relationship has officially never been more than that, it felt like we always had an unusual chemistry. At first I thought it was just me. From the moment I first saw you until now, you have always been the hottest person I have ever known in real-life. I have oscillated between maintaining a cynical distance and melting in middle-school like obsession. I was mortified when I got caught drawing you, or when I found out that you read part of my journal talking to God about how I couldn’t stop thinking about you. I loved it that we had a strange alliance. I stuck up for you if anyone said you were dumb, and you stuck up for me if people said I was weird. You also tried to convince me I wasn’t fat. One time you asked me to dinner. I had plans already. I honored my commitment, but I was so torn up about it that I was a total ass in front of a nice guy that took me out, because I wanted so badly to be with you (so I got drunk on red wine). I am embarrassed, looking back that I gave you a hand-written invitation to a salmon dinner cooked on my George Forman grill in the dorms, or that I made you a valentine, or that I tried to pay one night we were all out at dinner and you said “why” and I yelled out, “Because you’re beautiful!” I hated it that you ranked me lower than Gifford and Tilleli in our squad rankings, and that you laughed at my anger and hurt over it. I loved that you called me a scrapper after I beat that girl in pugel sticks. When you asked me to run once, I went, even though I just got back from a five mile run!! I did better than you at most things at TBS, which bothered you. But once I shot you (and you were on my team) in a field exercise and you treated me with contempt and disgust. I felt bad about that. You also did not like listening to me when I was in charge. You wouldn’t do what I said, even though it would have been good for me. It made me feel weird when you noticed what I was wearing, or commented on me wearing makeup—like you could always touch a place of vulnerability with me. I think I could do the same with you…like when I would tease you for being a wimp about the cold. You were a jerk when Angela came to meet you…you knew she was sizing you up and you refused to perform. I thought you were a brat for that but I guess I liked it. Shellylynne met you to—I remember you were nice to her. I remember meeting your parents; my parents were there too on "Jane Wayne" day. I acted more familiar with you than I really was, just to be a brat. My dad was kind of obsessed with your dad…because he was so “mafia boss.” At graduation, my mom and sister saw you for the first time. They thought you were ok, but didn’t seem to be as mesmerized as me.
I am surprised we kept in touch. At first we were really busy. I went to war almost right away and got in trouble and all that. You were IOC, and then in San Diego just waiting to go to war. You went to a Ben Harper concert with me and Ang in San Diego. You were late—and I didn’t specify which side of the stadium to meet on. So I spent some frantic time running from one end of the stadium to the other. Somehow you found me in a construction lot (because you knew I would be there…I have no idea how you can predict me when I can’t predict myself). You caught me climbing a 12 foot tall chain link fence in a dress. I stood just hairs-lengths away from you all concert and didn’t touch you. It was weird and scary and magnetic and blissful. At the end, you gave me a big hug. I said I had gotten into some trouble. The way you reacted I knew you already knew. I thought it was kind you chose not to mention it, that you didn’t need the details. You gave me the benefit of the doubt. Then I realized you never paid me for the concert tickets. It usually felt like I was putting in too much.
I set you up with Melissa one time. I guess I hoped I would get over you, and I proved to myself I was by setting you up with my best friend. You were in to it but she wasn’t. I guess I was secretly glad…because it humbled you? Or maybe because I knew I was in love with you.
I went to visit you on a layover for a day before you went to war. It was scary, but I played it real cool. You picked me up off the airport light rail and we drove to your best friend’s house. I teased you in front of your friends and you liked it (because it was flattering) and your friends thought I was funny. I don’t think they could tell I was scared. You did rude things…like went on a run with me and didn’t stay with me, and did your own thing instead of being a good host. (Slept in, rented a movie I had already seen, showed me a few parts of Chicago but did what you felt like for the most part.) While I felt smugly satisfied with myself for being such a good friend and not being into you, being in your presence always made me nervous. When I left, you gave me a big hug and told me you were glad I came.
Some things you said have been really incongruent for me. You have told me “You’re the only one I can talk to.” “I love you but you are too virtuous for me” and “I love you but I wish you were my sister, maybe you can date my brother and become my sister in law.”. You told me once in a sarcastic tone, “I don’t know how to handle mom when she crys.” Then, when I take the comment lightly because of your emotionally detached delivery, you become upset that I am not giving you good counsel, and taking you seriously.
Every time you went to war I was convinced you were going to die and not go to heaven. I sent you two ridiculously elaborate care packages, along with many over-the-top small ones. Hidden underneath a Chicago Cubs snow globe was a brown paper package marked with a scull and crossbones just in case you were on the brink of death. It was my spiritual treatise. It was the best explanation I had…everything from my beach ball analogy to “The Grand Inquisitor” by Dostoyevsky, to my “self help book of the moment” How People Grow by Cloud and Townsend. I was mortified by the fact that you didn’t die and I had to live in a world where I sent you the best I had and would never be able to take it back. You and I never really talked about it, even though I tried. You just said something like your faith was private.
When I spent that time at the monastery, I had a lot of dreams about you. I was specifically trying to discern whether or not I should be single or married…catholic or protestant…a wife with kids, a writer, etc. I was afraid to ask God for anything, just in case he didn’t give it to me. But when someone called me on that, and told me to take a risk and ask, I asked for clarity about you. I talked to a nun about you. She called me out on my dishonesty to myself…Why had I set you up with Melissa? Why had I acted like I thought of you only as a friend? Why have I not expressed my love?
I composed the best poem of my life—not the best because it was so amazingly literary, but because to this day it conveys my summer dreams, the images I hold of you, the parts of God you represent, the tensions in our relationship, the inner work I do as the result of our interactions. The word pictures that sum you up to me are Fire red, Irish, Spartan warrior, predator ( keep me dangling) prey (hiding, running puffing peacock feathers) carrying guilt, inner child, mother’s worries. Our harsh desert friendship, your lumberjack arms holding me, how scary it is to think of being in them. You took a long time to respond…you told me you appreciated it but you wanted to talk to me in person. When you finally called (a month later) you did so late at night, the day before you left for war. You told me a long story about how you and your dad told each other you loved each other for the first time a week ago, and then you told me you loved me but I was to virtuous for you.
While you were at war, I thought about showing you just how not-virtuous I was. But I decided that would be nuts and really unhealthy. I did send you a Bob Dylan montague, which was way toned down from its original draft, which included the song lyrics to “I want You” and “Sometimes I’m in the Mood”.
Then I dated Lee. In some ways it was like dating you. I did care about Lee, and in some ways it was like dating a redeemed version of you…because he loved me enough to be gentle and kind and accommodating. But I worried I was settling for a lesser version of you…one that would never be your brilliance. You were coming back from war that summer. What if being with Lee destroyed my one chance to be with you? Even if Lee and I would have lasted past February, I was not willing to jeopardize that chance.
Last year, I tried to hint around that you should come to Ireland with me. You would be out of the USMC, you were going there anyway at some point. But it was clear you had your own agenda. Next, you said you would come out and ski with me that winter (your first winter out of the USMC and mine at Montbello) I really needed you then . Montbello was so hard, it was a terrible experience getting involved with Gregory, and I just wanted your love and attention. You didn’t come out. I didn’t know at the time, but you had started dating “Shiera”.
I had a pretty buddy-like stage with you for a while. I remember having that nun conversation with you, trying to convince you to find a spiritual director, because you were going through hard times. You came at the end of July. I was willing to drop everything to see you , but you were in Vail at a wedding with your girlfriend (which you weren’t honest about) and didn’t make time for me. I was hurt. We didn’t talk for a while. I went to Mexico, you checked in with me when I was done. You said you had been reading some of the blogs. That’s cool I guess. You tiptoed back into talking to me, because you were afraid of my wrath after I told you what a bad friend you were for not seeing me.
You need to know that every time you call, it sends me on tilt. You called in August, while I was on my “tour de marriage”, after an email conversation. First, you sent me that Outward Bound email where you ambiguously invited me on an adventure, then one where you admit that you want to talk but don’t want to face my wrath. I sent you and inviting email to talk to me about your woes. You call, we talk for a while, I become determined to get closure once and for all. I send you my ultimatum (commit by October or bust). We talk a few times since then…all great conversations…You are going through hard times. The thing with your girlfriend is rough…your cousin overdosed and died, you feel unfocused, you feel overall depressed and dealing with PTSD. While I am not glad you are hurting, I am glad to be needed.
Then the drunk call mid-September. It’s two in the morning. I answer the phone because I have always made myself available to you. You tell me you love me but you want me as a sister. You ask me a whole lot of things about my sexuality…I think you are trying to resolve something in your mind. You think of me as asexual, so you think you could never be in a relationship with me. You don’t come out and say it but this is where it’s going. You tell me you and “Shiera” will be out the last week of September, and could we hang out? I have a crazy week of self improvement/ destruction projects and you don’t even call. A riculously expensive facial, a diet of vegetables and chocolate, a shopping spree for slutty hiking clothes, a new haircut, a clean house and you don't call. On the one hand, I am happy. I am fealing fat and hate myself…it wouldn’t be good if you saw me like this. On the other and I just wanted to see you…
However it gave me an excuse to finally say goodbye. Here is my email.
Hey,
It bothers me you didn't call to get together this weekend.
Our interactions aren't good for me. They send me into this wierd state of manic self destruction/self improvement/self loathing. I don't understand it, but I don't want it in my life. Its like a bad trip. (I haven't done drugs, so I haven't had a bad trip but this is what I imagine they feel like.)
So, I know you said when you were drunk you would do anything for me; Here is what I want: don't talk to me anymore. I know you have good intentions, I know you mean the best. I don't want you to even write me back and say so. I believe you. I believe in you, I want all the best in life for you. Its just that having any sort of relationship is just no good for me.
It seems like you are thinking about and working on some cool things. I pray for God's peace and mercy on your travels.
See ya in Heaven? We will have eternity to catch up I'd imagine.
Find a good nun friend with better boundaries to take my place would ya?
Jaim
I had a dream about you a few nights after I sent this:
You and I are doing some trip to this incredibly dangerous tropical place. I am trying to play it cool but inside I am boiling with desire. We talk a little, you start fooling around a little…its unclear whether we will be sexually intimate or not. I am very shy sexually around you. “Holy Fear”. It feels good to just be with you. Scary too. I feel nervous. I can’t eat, all my focus is on you. I have to go for a minute to attend to some family business. I end up with mom grandma aunty and Dinah. Aunty has brought Dinah a big basket of chocolate, with this huge cadburry bunny egg. I tell them my sister Jodi will be furious when she finds out, they say she won’t know but I know Dinah will tell them somehow.
I wake up and realize that part of the loss of you is the fear that I may not ever want anything as much as I want you. Each day I have half-heartly tried not to have a candy binge and every day I have given in since I "gave up" you. I know eating healthy was largely motivated by a "you chance". Now that I don't have that, weight loss becomes less immediately needed. Gluttony is bad, God and Jesus are good, but the ambivalence around food is there in a big way without my motivation of “get skinny and fabulous quick in case I see you”.
The thing is, most of my life I live in deep ambivalence...about just about everything including God. Yet I have experienced dangerous, scary desire for you. Sometimes Candy too. God? Nope. Jesus...nope. A job? A dream? Nope. I can throw myself into something, but I always know in the back of my mind that I am talking myself into it, and the spell won't last. Something that haunts me across the span of my life was when Matthew Guiles, when I asked him to sum me up in a sentence, said "You don't know what you want.".
I have tried plenty of times to want the right thing...It simply doesn't work, in my perspective, to force desire. I guess that is my biggest fear "losing you". That I will no longer feal singular desire for something, someone--not God or anything. Food slips in so easily. Maybe it is about who I need to become. How do I want to be more like you? You are down to earth, practical, beautiful, in-the-moment, instinctive, healthy in your view of yourself, unrigid, and intense in a more present, in-the-now way than me. How is Jesus like you? I can’t answer that yet…maybe with you out of the picture, that one will make more sense.
What do you want from me? Emotional support, a projection of your Anima, a real-life “Mother Mary,” someone to do your emotional work, someone to worship you?
Jimmy, ultimately you are not there for me. I can’t call you for help or support. When I have reached out, you haven’t been there. Why did you tell me he how much you love me and I am one of your best friends, but then you continually stand me up? Why do you tell me you sorry for using me as a confessor and that you would do anything for me, but the one thing I ask for—to see you—you do not give me? I wanted the chance to see you. I want to be over you or I want you to see me a different way. You didn’t give me that chance. I decided to lean into the advice of people who care about me more than you do. As John put it, “DON'T SPEND FUN TIME WITH MEN YOU ARE IN LOVE WITH WHEN THEY'RE INVOLVED W OTHER LOVERS!!
I take away your power to grant or withhold my sense of well-being. I release you to live a life in God’s mercy and peace. I release my fascination with you. I can no longer accept your version of friendship in my life. I can no longer agree to continue to experience the abuse of your inconsistency and unavailability. I have decided to look other places for an advocate and protector. I will miss you but I know that I will see you in heaven if we both end up there.
God knows I gave you the best I had to offer of His love. I have nothing else for you.
Goodbye, Jaimie
Today I kind of went snowshoeing.
Hooray its valentines day! A day for celebrating romance!! I have never had a real valentine so it doesn't conjure up feelings of depression and lonliness unless other people start telling me they feel sorry for me, and then I start to feel sorry for myself...but only because self-pity comes so easy for me. Lee was the only guy I ever dated and we broke up in the beginning of February, so I just missed all the build-up, which was fine, because neither of us knew what to do anyway.
I am not sure I am missing much. I am not a flowers girl. And Chocolate? Like my grandma said tonight, "chocolate tastes just as good alone." I can affirm that statement. Dressing up and going to a fancy party or restaurant would be less awesome on valentine's day then other days, because it would be crowded and there would be a lot of pathetic couples feigning complete devotion, which I know wouldn't be the case for most of the couples, but I would still look around and feel insecure. (How come I don't feel complete, utter, wholehearted devotion?) Teddy Bears? Please. A poem? Maybe, but I don't need it on Valentine's day.
My couple friends have a really great Valentine's tradition. Every year, for Valentine's day and their anniversary, they plan a romantic getaway. One year she is in charge of Valentine's day and he is in charge of the anniversary, and the next year they switch. It takes the wierd cultural pressure off to round up some random gift, creates a yearly rythm of alone time together, balances creativity and spontenaity with responsible planning, and helps them justify budgeting and spending money on each other.
I avoided Valentines day blues by going on a snowshoeing trip with my friend Brian. I was cold, his feet hurt, so we really didn't last that long. But after driving up and back, and getting out for a couple of hours, we spent the majority of the day catching up. Brian likes to talk about sexuality, relationships, 12-step wisdom, and psychology. I like to ask people a lot of questions and talk about my catastrophic struggles, my theories, my crack-pot philosophies. Somehow hanging out with each other works. We drove up to Berthod pass. There were a ton of hot single guys back country snowboarding. They were probably all pot-heads so I didn't feel like meeting them. But its a nice reminder that there are men I am attracted to out there. Its easy to forget that in my little world of 7th graders, teachers, and homeless church people. I guess they might not have been single, they could have been getting some guy time in before they had to bring their teddy bears and flowers and opera tickets over to their girlfriends.
I was cooolllllddddd, because I wore some thin snow pants, an undershirt and a shell. That is usually all I need for snowshoeing but we were going slow and stopping a lot. We probably only went 1.5 miles, and sat down to eat snacks. I was too cold to sit down, but luckily Brian brought some hand warmers which I am still wearing because I am still cold. I can't say I made any broad-sweeping paradigm shifts, but I like the way Brian does the 12-step (Alchohalics Anonymous) program and I want to try it again.
I am not an alcohalic or a drug addict. I am sort of a food addict, but I am not grosely overweight and I just don't fit the typical profile of a regular at "Overeater's Anonymous." In some ways I don't fit because overeating is simply not my primary addiction. I am addicted to negativity, to self pity, and to anxiety. Food is just a side effect of these crazy addictions. I always thought it was just the external environment bringing this out of me. I mean, I have made myself do a lot of stressful, overwhelming things. As a kid I was stressed because I was too sensitive and felt compassion overload for the suffering of the world. I was also unpopular, and desperate to understand why. I was stressed in high school because I was a straight-A student, three sport athelete, constantly worried about what I wanted to do when I grew up, and how to get college paid for. Then I went to the Naval Academy where we took 21 credit hours a semester in addition to military commitments, sports, mandatory leadership lectures, and summer training. In the USMC, I was the complete antithesis of a natural. I do not thrive in structure, hate being in charge, find rules bothersome, don't do well being bossed around, have no attention to detail etc. I thought when I finally got out of the military I would be less stressed, feel less depressed, find myself in a pity-induced-chocolate-coma less. I moved to Denver, started grad school, and worked part-time as a bike messenger. Still too stressed. So I cut back to half time at school, half time as a bike messenger. (Still stressed!) Then no school, bike messenger. (stressed.) I quit that and became a teacher on an alternative licensure. I had to take 30 credit hours while teaching full time (out of my mind!!). This year, I am teaching, getting the loose ends tied up for my teaching certificate, and going to grad school (I eat at least a chocolate bar a day.) My mom suggested that maybe the problem wasn't my job ("Jaimie, you were stressed as a bike messenger!") So my chocolate problem is real, but my biggest problem is this negative doom I constantly feel. Brian reassured me that all addicts brains are stuck in this negativity. They are prone to addiction simply because their brains see only bad. The devil, this creature that seeks to rob, kill and destroy, only has to influence us to dwell in certain disaster, and we will eventually destroy ourselves. Brian says that every addict has a primary addiction to "self."
So I decided to go on an AA retreat next weekend. It might be a little scary, because I really don't want to meet a whole lot of new people, and I am hoping that I can just chill out by myself, or Brian, and not talk talk talk to random people I really don't want to be in relationship with. Plus 12-step is kind of a religion, and there are some real fundamentalists. However, I need to do something, because food is getting out of control. After all, I joined the "Biggest Loser" club at school and I am training for a marathon--I shouldnt be gaining weight!!
I gave Brian the money for the retreat, and then he asks, "How are you getting up there?" Well, I assumed with him!! He said he would find me a ride (ahh, scary, random time with someone I don't want to be with!) Owell, it still feels like the right thing to do.
I am not sure I am missing much. I am not a flowers girl. And Chocolate? Like my grandma said tonight, "chocolate tastes just as good alone." I can affirm that statement. Dressing up and going to a fancy party or restaurant would be less awesome on valentine's day then other days, because it would be crowded and there would be a lot of pathetic couples feigning complete devotion, which I know wouldn't be the case for most of the couples, but I would still look around and feel insecure. (How come I don't feel complete, utter, wholehearted devotion?) Teddy Bears? Please. A poem? Maybe, but I don't need it on Valentine's day.
My couple friends have a really great Valentine's tradition. Every year, for Valentine's day and their anniversary, they plan a romantic getaway. One year she is in charge of Valentine's day and he is in charge of the anniversary, and the next year they switch. It takes the wierd cultural pressure off to round up some random gift, creates a yearly rythm of alone time together, balances creativity and spontenaity with responsible planning, and helps them justify budgeting and spending money on each other.
I avoided Valentines day blues by going on a snowshoeing trip with my friend Brian. I was cold, his feet hurt, so we really didn't last that long. But after driving up and back, and getting out for a couple of hours, we spent the majority of the day catching up. Brian likes to talk about sexuality, relationships, 12-step wisdom, and psychology. I like to ask people a lot of questions and talk about my catastrophic struggles, my theories, my crack-pot philosophies. Somehow hanging out with each other works. We drove up to Berthod pass. There were a ton of hot single guys back country snowboarding. They were probably all pot-heads so I didn't feel like meeting them. But its a nice reminder that there are men I am attracted to out there. Its easy to forget that in my little world of 7th graders, teachers, and homeless church people. I guess they might not have been single, they could have been getting some guy time in before they had to bring their teddy bears and flowers and opera tickets over to their girlfriends.
I was cooolllllddddd, because I wore some thin snow pants, an undershirt and a shell. That is usually all I need for snowshoeing but we were going slow and stopping a lot. We probably only went 1.5 miles, and sat down to eat snacks. I was too cold to sit down, but luckily Brian brought some hand warmers which I am still wearing because I am still cold. I can't say I made any broad-sweeping paradigm shifts, but I like the way Brian does the 12-step (Alchohalics Anonymous) program and I want to try it again.
I am not an alcohalic or a drug addict. I am sort of a food addict, but I am not grosely overweight and I just don't fit the typical profile of a regular at "Overeater's Anonymous." In some ways I don't fit because overeating is simply not my primary addiction. I am addicted to negativity, to self pity, and to anxiety. Food is just a side effect of these crazy addictions. I always thought it was just the external environment bringing this out of me. I mean, I have made myself do a lot of stressful, overwhelming things. As a kid I was stressed because I was too sensitive and felt compassion overload for the suffering of the world. I was also unpopular, and desperate to understand why. I was stressed in high school because I was a straight-A student, three sport athelete, constantly worried about what I wanted to do when I grew up, and how to get college paid for. Then I went to the Naval Academy where we took 21 credit hours a semester in addition to military commitments, sports, mandatory leadership lectures, and summer training. In the USMC, I was the complete antithesis of a natural. I do not thrive in structure, hate being in charge, find rules bothersome, don't do well being bossed around, have no attention to detail etc. I thought when I finally got out of the military I would be less stressed, feel less depressed, find myself in a pity-induced-chocolate-coma less. I moved to Denver, started grad school, and worked part-time as a bike messenger. Still too stressed. So I cut back to half time at school, half time as a bike messenger. (Still stressed!) Then no school, bike messenger. (stressed.) I quit that and became a teacher on an alternative licensure. I had to take 30 credit hours while teaching full time (out of my mind!!). This year, I am teaching, getting the loose ends tied up for my teaching certificate, and going to grad school (I eat at least a chocolate bar a day.) My mom suggested that maybe the problem wasn't my job ("Jaimie, you were stressed as a bike messenger!") So my chocolate problem is real, but my biggest problem is this negative doom I constantly feel. Brian reassured me that all addicts brains are stuck in this negativity. They are prone to addiction simply because their brains see only bad. The devil, this creature that seeks to rob, kill and destroy, only has to influence us to dwell in certain disaster, and we will eventually destroy ourselves. Brian says that every addict has a primary addiction to "self."
So I decided to go on an AA retreat next weekend. It might be a little scary, because I really don't want to meet a whole lot of new people, and I am hoping that I can just chill out by myself, or Brian, and not talk talk talk to random people I really don't want to be in relationship with. Plus 12-step is kind of a religion, and there are some real fundamentalists. However, I need to do something, because food is getting out of control. After all, I joined the "Biggest Loser" club at school and I am training for a marathon--I shouldnt be gaining weight!!
I gave Brian the money for the retreat, and then he asks, "How are you getting up there?" Well, I assumed with him!! He said he would find me a ride (ahh, scary, random time with someone I don't want to be with!) Owell, it still feels like the right thing to do.
Life turn.
I just finished with a 10 day writing class. It was great--except that one more thing on top of teaching made things pretty stressfull. I realized that I was done teaching.
Pros for staying: job security, working on weaknesses, practicing patience, facing existential despair, fighting my leadership demons. Supporting bosses I believe in.
Cons for staying: I might lose my mind, gain 20 lbs (my coping mechanism is CHOCOLATE!) feel tremendous guilt for intimidating kids to do math all day, mounting frustration at trying to teach math all day to a group of kids who don't want to learn it.
Pros for leaving: I can finish my counseling degree, find a rythm of life that works better (less structure, more creativity) write more, control my exposure to crappy carbs, (there are Farley's fruit snacks and chocolate pastries in the office, doughnuts, bagels, and candy in the faculty room at all times.) learn to grant write, help kids in a way that appeals to me more (counseling--walking alongside-- instead of teaching--fighting).
Cons for leaving: $ crunch!
I am a spender and I have never really budgeted!! So its time to start on a new adventure of keeping track of what I spend.
Pros for staying: job security, working on weaknesses, practicing patience, facing existential despair, fighting my leadership demons. Supporting bosses I believe in.
Cons for staying: I might lose my mind, gain 20 lbs (my coping mechanism is CHOCOLATE!) feel tremendous guilt for intimidating kids to do math all day, mounting frustration at trying to teach math all day to a group of kids who don't want to learn it.
Pros for leaving: I can finish my counseling degree, find a rythm of life that works better (less structure, more creativity) write more, control my exposure to crappy carbs, (there are Farley's fruit snacks and chocolate pastries in the office, doughnuts, bagels, and candy in the faculty room at all times.) learn to grant write, help kids in a way that appeals to me more (counseling--walking alongside-- instead of teaching--fighting).
Cons for leaving: $ crunch!
I am a spender and I have never really budgeted!! So its time to start on a new adventure of keeping track of what I spend.
Monday, February 9, 2009
My 1 Minute Movie Script
Script for Island Reef Job Audition
The quick fix for my stuckness is somehow getting picked for a job taking care of a resort on the Great Barrier Reef. EVERYONE knows about the job. It was in associated press and featured on Goodmorning America. They have already had so many visitors and applicants that the site temporarily shut down. In order to throw my name in the hat, I am putting together a one minute video, to be filmed next week. I hope to convey a good rapport with my students, well-developed communication skills, a background of adventure and success, and a sense of humor.
The film begins as I start teaching class. Students are quiet and behaved. Five different students have cue cards presenting qualities Ms. Lusk has that would make her the best candidate. A student director controls the pace as well as the level noise. It is important that chaos builds progressively, and climaxes at the right point, without drowning out my voice. I anticipate 3-4 outtakes. The biggest foreseeable problems are. 1) It will be loud—since I am filming in 9th period, and the walls are those fake accordion partitions, I anticipate teachers wanting to bust in and make sure things are ok. To avoid this I would have to tell them vaguely what I am doing, which might not be a good idea because 2) it’s probably illegal to take instructional time for my own personal ticket out of teaching. 3) Unless I come up with something better my friend Sara is filming the project. She has never filmed before. It will be frustrating if it doesn’t turn out.
Me: Students please get out your homework. The question you were asked to answer last night was this, “Why do think Miss Lusk is the perfect candidate for the Island Reef Job”.
All Hands go up.
Me: Amanda.
Amanda: “Miss Lusk is perfect for the island reef job because she is the best teacher and communicator in the whole world.”
Me: Good Good…who else? Eveline.
Eveline: “Miss Lusk the perfect face for your international promotional because she is already an internationally recognized adventurer: Miss Lusk was the Bike Messenger World Champion in 2007 in Dublin Ireland.”
Me: Jorge?
Jorge: Ms Lusk would definitely succeed at ANY job you gave her at Hamilton Island. After graduation from the US Naval Academy, Miss Lusk Led Marines during the war in Iraq, She has lived with natives in Papua New Guinea and Africa, she has traveled all of Europe, Rode her bike 3600 miles across the US, and 1800 miles across Mexico. She teaches 7th graders math. There is nothing she can’t do!
I turn my back to the students and begin talking directly to the camera. Over the next 30 seconds, the chaos slowly but steadily increases.
Me: (in a positive and enthusiastic tone) Great. I am thrilled to have the opportunity apply for the island reef Job. I am the perfect candidate. First, I am a communicator. In addition to teaching 150 7th graders math, I regularly preach at my Church, maintain a daily personal blog, and facebook correspondence, and I am currently seeking publication for a few writing projects.
Stage Directions: Students start talking, noise starts getting louder and louder. Students are making and throwing paper airplanes…objects are flying. Brent Lee and Phong are on the tables.
Me: (turning to class--in an edgy but calm voice). Hey Brent Lee, Phong, wanna do me a favor and get of the tables? Yeah, be a buddy and get off the tables.
I am outside as much as possible. I surf, run, bike, swim, and aspire to scuba dive. I will receive SCUBA qualifications before July 1. I long to see the coral polyps, landlords of the reef, housing schools of fish, carpet sharks, and stinging anemones with clownfish darting in and out—the shipwrecks, the lion fish and puffer fish.
More students are on the tables. Chaos is escalating, but the noise still is not out of control.
Me: (turning to class--in pleading, louder voice) Hey guys I mean it lets get off the tables
(back to camera..my voice is to enthusiastic positive camera voice) I would love to take a daily run around Hamilton Island, to learn the intricacies of scuba diving from my new friends, to find a lone break and surf until I want to drop from exhaustion, to eat fish every day. I have lived near the beach the majority of my life. I am in the elements as much as possible. I was on a sailboat crew that sailed up the East coast of the United States. My family and I frequently camped along the Oregon coast. On beaches of North Carolina I helped guide sea turtles into the sea, and I surfed by pelicans who dived for food just feet from me!
The room has reached a level of chaos. Students are laughing, half the kids are dancing on the tables, papers are flying.
(turning to class--fury) If you don’t get off the tables in 2 minutes I am going to shove this overhead pen into orifices you didn’t know you had.
(back to camera—in exaggerated attempt to compose myself) It is my dream to write every day. To find a life where the end of each day opens up into a carefree evening where I can be alone to process my thoughts, to convey my dreams, to express my joys, share my adventures.
The climax of Chaos.
(Turning to class, expressing violence and rage, camera begins to zoom out, I am furiously putting kids in their place) GET OFF THE FREEKING Tables!! OFF THE Tables! Quit pulling her hair, Tim! Billy, put the garbage back in the basket!
Advice to myself.
Watch and Wait. In contrast, take some initiative! Don’t stay stuck in a frustrating situation!
Caffiene late at night gets you over the hump of unproductivity when you sit down, exhausted and try to accomplish something. Its also perfect for a restless night and another day of sleep-deprivation-induced insanity.
Find something you are good at! Stay with something until you are good at it!
Ask as many people as you can about what you should do at this critical juncture of your life, even as you avoid the act of creating space for the divine—the only source of influence that ultimately matters .
Stop eating carbs, it’s only going to make you more stressed. Stop trying to stop eating carbs; your life is too stressful to eliminate one of your primary sources of comfort, and you are creating more stress by trying.
Continue complaining at work—it helps to get it out—as long as you can develop a taste for smug annoyance from everyone you complain to—after all, ‘teaching is not for the faint at heart,’ they tell you.
Chocolate helps. Helps you start overindulging in everything.
Jimmy? You did the right thing telling him you didn’t want to talk to him anymore. But if you were talking….
It’s not like you live in Aushwitz, or you are starving in Ethiopa; suck it up! Then again, martyrs and stoics are seem a little crazy.
You can find a school that allows you to feel more successful. However you will get paid less, have worse bosses, and will have another first year.
Luke? Well, it’s good you didn’t go to his wedding. But maybe you missed out.
It’s good to have a home. Stability is good for your soul. But if you stay somewhere too long , you will turn into an imaginationless old spinster who missed the purpose of her life.
If you continue to be overweight, you will not be attractive. Or, you will not be attractive until you decide you are not overweight. Or until you lose the weight you won’t be interested in trying with men. Or until you lose the weight you will be too insecure to accept a man’s advances. Or maybe neither attractive or unattractive or overweight or not overweight really matters.
It’s really great that you are so happy single! Of course, you are only happy because you don’t know what you are missing!
You don’t have to make a decision right away. Unless it’s possible to miss your life just like you miss the bus.
You should be grateful you have a job! But if your job makes you want to light yourself on fire, than get a new one!
God is there, behind the scenes, slowly clearing a path through the wasteland for you. Then again, since you haven’t asked, don’t ever pray, can’t stand fasting, and swear at Him a lot, he probably left.
You are dying inside…take care of yourself before it’s too late! Then you will live the rest of your life having never really found your limits and experienced surrender and an understanding of the basic anxiety that all of us face when stripped of our ability to do it on our own…the kind of “dark night of the soul” that finally leads to unity with the Divine.
If you go to another school next year you will have to start over. Conversly, if you stay at the school, they are making so many changes you will be starting over if you stay too!
You should be a writer! Even though you have no real experience, no clue how to enter that world, and you already know others who are far more experienced who are failing at writing full-time!
Quit your job and start grant writing! But what about the poor, the hungry, the unpopular, the grieving!
Your sister is mentally ill—you should go easy on her. Yet if you don’t tell her where your limits are, you will help to create an even bigger monster!
When you go home and see your parents, it’s good to relax, enjoy their hospitality, and let go of your rules. Can you do that without eating 5 lbs of candy a day at their house?
If you get married, you should marry for love. But don’t marry a guy who isn’t rich enough to pay for kids…do you want two jobs?
Tomorrow after spending 14 hours solid with kids, you should do your writing assignment, pack quickly so you can spend the night at your friends house so you can spend the last precious moments you can with a dying woman, read 30 pages in your school counseling textbook, cook the salmon that is sitting in your fridge, finish your counseling philosophy paper, put away your laundry, finish up a few grants, study your “lines”, and call your sister.
You should stop eating bagels and kid’s snacks in the faculty room at work. But why pass up free food?
You are gaining ground! You are staying at work less and less. You are getting use to it. On the other hand, it could be like that old experiment—if you throw a frog in lukewarm water, they don’t even notice the heat is slowly going up until they boil to death. Good luck keeping your sanity.
You love snowboarding! The fresh air, the tree runs! Aside from the constant reminder that you are a of a small minority of rich white people who throw away money on frivolous entertainment while the rest of the world walks three days for water and barely sustains themselves and their 10 kids on a diet of rice and fish guts.
Oh to lay aside Comparing and Judgmental Mind!
Thursday, February 5, 2009
St. James Urban
The sign outside says, “Welcome to St. James Church—Not your mothers church. If you don’t like church, come to our church; if you don’t like churches who say ‘If you don’t like church, come to our church,’ come to our church”. We still have cheep garland hung in the rafters, left over from Christmas. We straggle in sometime between 9 and 11 every Sunday morning, some more consistently than others. A cheep pot of coffee is brewed, available only to those who arrive before 10. The nativity scene from Big Lots hangs around the altar…complete with a plastic dragon from the other nativity story in Revelation 12. Cut out of the plaster on the wall behind the pupit is an exposed brick cross. Inside the cutout cross perches a painted wooden cross from Guatamala, with hands reaching up towards the sun. Pieces of stained-glass are glued on the windows, forming shape of the sun with streams of color coming out of it. On top of the stained glass, someone has overlayed a frosted sticker of Jesus. The altar is a foreshadowing of the sermon to come. A stick with a vice grip on it, communion, pictures of the worlds dictators with horns and beards scribbled on them safety goggles, a candle in between two pieces of reflective glass. The candle is repeated thousands of times in the glass reflections. Rembrant’s the Prodical Son is to the left, along with an easel with a big pad of paper—for announcements and the occasional drawing or group discussion topic.
We take turns preaching, leading worship. Everyone gets their own customized birthday song if they want it. We are all in different phases of grief about how bad the singing is. Both our collective voice, and one particularly loud, always off-key soprano voice. Pastor Hicks plays the drums…a perfect accompaniment to the chaos. Brian the guitarist can play the guitar and the keyboard at the same time, and fancies himself a 4th generation medicine man. During corporate prayer he walks around and lays hands on people, sometimes mumbling weird stuff. I like it, even though it’s odd and creepy. Lee won’t come back. He said he would rather have no friends than fifty friends and Brian in his life. Charlie, JJ, Steve, or sometimes Michael sleep through the whole service on the ratty blue couch on the far wall. Charlie snores.
Songs come from a compilation of church favorites, or 70s Young Life song books, or old Presbyterian hymnals. I like it when we sing Bob Dylan, “Just a Closer Walk with Thee” (Cool Hand Luke Style), and “Come thou Fount of Every Blessing”—I hate it when we sing “the Rose”, a churchy adaptation of “From a Distance,” and “Shut de Door, Keep out de Devil” (in this horrible Jamaican accent). I do not like singing—but I think "sucking it up" is worship (though it doesn't hurt to miss a few songs....). Faith skipped the singing a few weeks ago and started us off with different stations to tell our story at. One station was writing, one was art, one was talking. Then we had another set of stations. Scripture reading, prayer and giving. She thought everyone would spend time talking—since people are always talking during church! But the art station was the most popular.
Chaos is always present, but kept in check. Homeless, mentally ill friends wander in and out, and dogs are welcome—one time a dog peed on the pastor when he was preaching. Brian sometimes brings his Buddhist singing bowls to set the tone for worship. Occasonally, people use the attached bathroom and make weird sounds in there. However, unrelated or judgemental rants are cut off. People don’t spoke in tongues, fall down by the power of the Holy Spirit, go into convulsions, or start prophesying. Soliciting of money, showers, or favors during the service are not welcome. John says if you say something bad about sex you have to say three nice things.
There is usually money left over every month and we alternate on who gets to decide where it goes. One month it was my turn—Saint James Urban became the first church ever to sponsor a bike messenger event, complete with all you can drink Flying Dog Ale and Pabst Blue Ribbon.
We are into doing inner work. Most of the regulars have gone to lots of therapy. At least half are 12-steppers. One of the more classy ladies is in a Jungian dream group. Pastor Hicks has made nearly everyone take the enneagram and Myers-Briggs. There are a few therapists. Often worship leaders, preachers, prayers admit their brokenness, their neediness. At lunch we hash out all the problems in the world.
We are activists. Mike started an Africa Prayer Club. Katherine and Kevin attend a weekly racial reconciliation group. John writes letters to senators and the Secretary of State. Sara works for the Homeless Coalition. Amy teaches financial responsibility to the poor and hopes to help Africans with micro lending. Faith saves the world from pollution. I help poor kids learn math (I don’t like it but I am contributing!) Sid is a middle school vice principal, his wife is a nurse. Randy is a writer for FEMA. Charlie employs homeless men to sort out his belongings and help him with his next scheme.
The whole church came out to help me paint my townhouse. I get a lot of prayers from them.
Most people have been involved—either as clients or shift directors—with Network Coffee House, the homeless coffeehouse on the first floor, right below the “sanctuary”. It’s a living room for homeless to drink coffee, take showers, do laundry, and argue. Open nearly every night, and two days a week, the place attracts the “lifers”. The Denver Dialogue emerged among the regulars downstairs—it’s a paper for homeless to share anecdotes, critique free meals, let fellow street dwellers in on the “top of the town” the 5280 doesn’t cover—the top medical clinics for homeless, day shelters, dumpsters, homeless veterinary services. It also serves as a rant for the maltreatment and disrespect of homeless everywhere.
Some yearly traditions are: decorating the church for Christmas, midnight Christmas service with afterparty, really bad caroling around Capitol Hill through half-way houses and apartments of 20-somethings, Dia De Los Muertas, the Network Staff pizza party, the SJU retreat. Sara shows movies to the Network regulars on a projector every first Saturday. If we have a 5th Sunday in a month, we don’t have singing and preaching. We do something else like talk about the “house within” or have a potluck.
I preach every other month. Each time I do, everyone tells me they loved it—even if I mostly just cried, or revealed how sorry I feel for myself for not having my way all the time! We loiter afterwords. People split off and have lunch together. I try to keep my Sunday afternoons free.
Saint James Urban is home to me.
We take turns preaching, leading worship. Everyone gets their own customized birthday song if they want it. We are all in different phases of grief about how bad the singing is. Both our collective voice, and one particularly loud, always off-key soprano voice. Pastor Hicks plays the drums…a perfect accompaniment to the chaos. Brian the guitarist can play the guitar and the keyboard at the same time, and fancies himself a 4th generation medicine man. During corporate prayer he walks around and lays hands on people, sometimes mumbling weird stuff. I like it, even though it’s odd and creepy. Lee won’t come back. He said he would rather have no friends than fifty friends and Brian in his life. Charlie, JJ, Steve, or sometimes Michael sleep through the whole service on the ratty blue couch on the far wall. Charlie snores.
Songs come from a compilation of church favorites, or 70s Young Life song books, or old Presbyterian hymnals. I like it when we sing Bob Dylan, “Just a Closer Walk with Thee” (Cool Hand Luke Style), and “Come thou Fount of Every Blessing”—I hate it when we sing “the Rose”, a churchy adaptation of “From a Distance,” and “Shut de Door, Keep out de Devil” (in this horrible Jamaican accent). I do not like singing—but I think "sucking it up" is worship (though it doesn't hurt to miss a few songs....). Faith skipped the singing a few weeks ago and started us off with different stations to tell our story at. One station was writing, one was art, one was talking. Then we had another set of stations. Scripture reading, prayer and giving. She thought everyone would spend time talking—since people are always talking during church! But the art station was the most popular.
Chaos is always present, but kept in check. Homeless, mentally ill friends wander in and out, and dogs are welcome—one time a dog peed on the pastor when he was preaching. Brian sometimes brings his Buddhist singing bowls to set the tone for worship. Occasonally, people use the attached bathroom and make weird sounds in there. However, unrelated or judgemental rants are cut off. People don’t spoke in tongues, fall down by the power of the Holy Spirit, go into convulsions, or start prophesying. Soliciting of money, showers, or favors during the service are not welcome. John says if you say something bad about sex you have to say three nice things.
There is usually money left over every month and we alternate on who gets to decide where it goes. One month it was my turn—Saint James Urban became the first church ever to sponsor a bike messenger event, complete with all you can drink Flying Dog Ale and Pabst Blue Ribbon.
We are into doing inner work. Most of the regulars have gone to lots of therapy. At least half are 12-steppers. One of the more classy ladies is in a Jungian dream group. Pastor Hicks has made nearly everyone take the enneagram and Myers-Briggs. There are a few therapists. Often worship leaders, preachers, prayers admit their brokenness, their neediness. At lunch we hash out all the problems in the world.
We are activists. Mike started an Africa Prayer Club. Katherine and Kevin attend a weekly racial reconciliation group. John writes letters to senators and the Secretary of State. Sara works for the Homeless Coalition. Amy teaches financial responsibility to the poor and hopes to help Africans with micro lending. Faith saves the world from pollution. I help poor kids learn math (I don’t like it but I am contributing!) Sid is a middle school vice principal, his wife is a nurse. Randy is a writer for FEMA. Charlie employs homeless men to sort out his belongings and help him with his next scheme.
The whole church came out to help me paint my townhouse. I get a lot of prayers from them.
Most people have been involved—either as clients or shift directors—with Network Coffee House, the homeless coffeehouse on the first floor, right below the “sanctuary”. It’s a living room for homeless to drink coffee, take showers, do laundry, and argue. Open nearly every night, and two days a week, the place attracts the “lifers”. The Denver Dialogue emerged among the regulars downstairs—it’s a paper for homeless to share anecdotes, critique free meals, let fellow street dwellers in on the “top of the town” the 5280 doesn’t cover—the top medical clinics for homeless, day shelters, dumpsters, homeless veterinary services. It also serves as a rant for the maltreatment and disrespect of homeless everywhere.
Some yearly traditions are: decorating the church for Christmas, midnight Christmas service with afterparty, really bad caroling around Capitol Hill through half-way houses and apartments of 20-somethings, Dia De Los Muertas, the Network Staff pizza party, the SJU retreat. Sara shows movies to the Network regulars on a projector every first Saturday. If we have a 5th Sunday in a month, we don’t have singing and preaching. We do something else like talk about the “house within” or have a potluck.
I preach every other month. Each time I do, everyone tells me they loved it—even if I mostly just cried, or revealed how sorry I feel for myself for not having my way all the time! We loiter afterwords. People split off and have lunch together. I try to keep my Sunday afternoons free.
Saint James Urban is home to me.
Monday, February 2, 2009
In One Minute
The most important decisions I have made happened in a minute. In a minute I decided to go to the Naval Academy (mostly to avoid filling out more than one college application). In a minute, I decided to go into the USMC (to avoid paying back my college education trapped on a ship in the Navy). In a minute I decided to go to Africa for the summer (avoiding the nausea of boredom), to Papua New Guinea for the summer (avoiding suburbia). In a minute I decided to move to Colorado and attend Denver Seminary (avoiding the rain, and the admission that I had no plan). In a minute I decided to quit messengering and become a teacher at Montbello (avoiding the heartbreak of realizing that I was not going to mobilize the messenger community into global takeover). In a minute I decided to get rid of my car, to buy a $7,000 bike (to avoid renewing my expired tags, driving around doing pointless errands, visiting people I would rather not see, climbing 14ers alone in the winter, just because I had a car). In a minute I bought a house (to avoid financial irresponsibility). While many would see my life as a series of random successes, I know that the course my life has taken has been driven completely by the impulse to JUMP! I am not running to anything. I am running from boredom, despair, stagnation, complacency, normalcy. I am running from laziness and passivity. I am running from nothingness-- from a black pit of hopelessness--off a cliff of unknowing, hoping that I land in friendly waters.
I had one of those course-altering minutes today. Last week I decided to take a personal day, and I put in a request for this Wednesday. I didn’t realize at the time that this Wednesday is conference night for students who have been recommended for retention. I felt guilty about missing it, but I have some legitimate business I have to take care of, as well as a graduate course in the evening. I decided to call the homes of all of my students who are currently recommended for retention and let them know that I will not be present on Wednesday, and that they can call or come see me any time to talk about their child. One parent I called, Uriah’s grandma, started grilling me. “Why is he flunking your course?” “Well, grandma, because he does not take tests, do class work, or turn in homework.” “I don’t understand—you don’t make him?” “Well grandma, I can’t make anyone do anything. I can punish him, I can make sure he understands expectations, I can give him a pencil and paper, I can sit him down and go over the work, but I can’t make him write his name on the top of the paper, read the problem, copy the notes off the board, calculate the difference.” “Why don’t you keep him after school?” “Well grandma, because I already have 15 students a night who are below grade level and WANT help, and I barely get to all of them.” “Why don’t you keep him at lunch?” “Once again, Grandma, I have a girls math club that meets to discuss homework questions. I do have Uriah once every morning for 30 minutes. During this 30 minutes, Uriah has a chance to ask questions ,redo tests, work on homework, and study.” “Well it doesn’t seem like you are doing your job.” In that minute I realized I did not want teach here again. I won’t do this again. I am working harder than I can sanely work. Despite this I am getting nowhere. I am bailing water out of a sinking ship! So in my one minute, I am on a boat to China, taking a job at a resort beach in Australia, starting a new career as a grant writer, moving to Uganda, trekking out into the Utah Desert with juvenile delinquents.
But this time I have to it differently. My dad used to say, “Do something, even if its wrong!” I think this is good advice for slugs or people who need to be cattle prodded. But not for me. Its easy to do something else, even if it’s wrong. But I have no idea what is right! Before I jump I am going to do some research. I am going to
do my best to look before jumping.
So I got an appointment with a career counselor. I started a writing class. I am getting some blood work done (maybe I have cancer or diabetes and that is why life seems so impossible!) I wrote a grant writing company about prospective jobs. I wrote my friend about outdoor school programs. I am going to therapy. I am going to bed early. I am reading a book called, I Want to do Something Else, but I am not Sure What it is. I am putting an application in to be a caretaker at an island resort in Australia (see http://www.islandreefjob.com/ ) . I am taking an “Introduction to School Counseling” course. I am talking to an older friend with a similar personality to mine about her path (she teaches but at an alternative school). I called my pastor and asked for some possible leads on jobs. Maybe I will start making more time to pray. Here is a start: Lord Come.
It has worked for most of my life to just jump. When I say “worked” I mean that I could muster up sufficient energy, courage, and delusional hope to believe that my salvation would be found in jumping. I don’t think I can close my eyes and jump off the cliff anymore. Maybe I haven’t ever jumped into a pit of alligators, but the water has been cold, dirty, stagnant. At the same time I am not staying on this cliff of restless wanderlust, “what ifs,” want-to-light-myself-on-fire Mondays. It’s not like I hate my job. I just hate the idea of settling for it for the next 20 years of my life, only to be burnt out, overweight, numb to my ambitions, compromised, and void of any creativity and passion.
I am off to read, I Want to do Something Else, but I am not sure What It Is.
I had one of those course-altering minutes today. Last week I decided to take a personal day, and I put in a request for this Wednesday. I didn’t realize at the time that this Wednesday is conference night for students who have been recommended for retention. I felt guilty about missing it, but I have some legitimate business I have to take care of, as well as a graduate course in the evening. I decided to call the homes of all of my students who are currently recommended for retention and let them know that I will not be present on Wednesday, and that they can call or come see me any time to talk about their child. One parent I called, Uriah’s grandma, started grilling me. “Why is he flunking your course?” “Well, grandma, because he does not take tests, do class work, or turn in homework.” “I don’t understand—you don’t make him?” “Well grandma, I can’t make anyone do anything. I can punish him, I can make sure he understands expectations, I can give him a pencil and paper, I can sit him down and go over the work, but I can’t make him write his name on the top of the paper, read the problem, copy the notes off the board, calculate the difference.” “Why don’t you keep him after school?” “Well grandma, because I already have 15 students a night who are below grade level and WANT help, and I barely get to all of them.” “Why don’t you keep him at lunch?” “Once again, Grandma, I have a girls math club that meets to discuss homework questions. I do have Uriah once every morning for 30 minutes. During this 30 minutes, Uriah has a chance to ask questions ,redo tests, work on homework, and study.” “Well it doesn’t seem like you are doing your job.” In that minute I realized I did not want teach here again. I won’t do this again. I am working harder than I can sanely work. Despite this I am getting nowhere. I am bailing water out of a sinking ship! So in my one minute, I am on a boat to China, taking a job at a resort beach in Australia, starting a new career as a grant writer, moving to Uganda, trekking out into the Utah Desert with juvenile delinquents.
But this time I have to it differently. My dad used to say, “Do something, even if its wrong!” I think this is good advice for slugs or people who need to be cattle prodded. But not for me. Its easy to do something else, even if it’s wrong. But I have no idea what is right! Before I jump I am going to do some research. I am going to
do my best to look before jumping.So I got an appointment with a career counselor. I started a writing class. I am getting some blood work done (maybe I have cancer or diabetes and that is why life seems so impossible!) I wrote a grant writing company about prospective jobs. I wrote my friend about outdoor school programs. I am going to therapy. I am going to bed early. I am reading a book called, I Want to do Something Else, but I am not Sure What it is. I am putting an application in to be a caretaker at an island resort in Australia (see http://www.islandreefjob.com/ ) . I am taking an “Introduction to School Counseling” course. I am talking to an older friend with a similar personality to mine about her path (she teaches but at an alternative school). I called my pastor and asked for some possible leads on jobs. Maybe I will start making more time to pray. Here is a start: Lord Come.
It has worked for most of my life to just jump. When I say “worked” I mean that I could muster up sufficient energy, courage, and delusional hope to believe that my salvation would be found in jumping. I don’t think I can close my eyes and jump off the cliff anymore. Maybe I haven’t ever jumped into a pit of alligators, but the water has been cold, dirty, stagnant. At the same time I am not staying on this cliff of restless wanderlust, “what ifs,” want-to-light-myself-on-fire Mondays. It’s not like I hate my job. I just hate the idea of settling for it for the next 20 years of my life, only to be burnt out, overweight, numb to my ambitions, compromised, and void of any creativity and passion.
I am off to read, I Want to do Something Else, but I am not sure What It Is.
Sunday, February 1, 2009
Answer to a prayer I forgot about
I met Al Wainwright on a trip to Israel with the Jewish Midshipman Club during my Junior year at the Naval Academy. I was immediately interested in him. He exuded iconic glory. It was like meeting James Dean or Bob Dylan in real life—getting to go on vacation with one of them even! I subconsciously began to orient myself around Al. He was wild and mean. Too-cool-for-non-fabulous-people mean. I knew about him already. At the Naval Academy, most kids are “smart”. Al was a genius. While even smart kids struggled through organic chemistry, he slept through most of it, smugly answered the teacher’s question whenever he or she was brave enough to attempt to confront him, and while he was not sleeping in class, he wrote poetry or read Camus. He finished the course work at the Naval Academy in three years and got into a special program to finish his Chemistry masters at University of Maryland in 1 year our senior year.
We had two weeks in Israel—enough to see just about the whole thing. It’s not very big you know! We spent the morning at the Dead Sea, and hiked up to the ruins of some old society that lived up there that was pretty important. We traveled around by bus with this vehemently nationalistic Jewish tour guide named Ravi (is that the right word—nationalistic—for a guy who thinks half the people living in his country should not exist?) Ravi ranted any time we were in a Palistinian neighborhood “see their dirty streets! See all their kids! They don’t obey the traffic lights, they don’t mow their lawns.” In Israel, the Jews eat at McDonalds and drink Coke, while Palistinians eat at Pizza Hut and drink Pepsi. They don’t even cross fast food preference lines…
We went to Tel Aviv and visited the Israeli version of the Naval Academy, went to the factory where they make smart bombs (and sell them to the US). We stayed in a Kabbutz, and saw where Mary gave birth to Jesus (supposedly—it has a big old church on top of it now…) We went to the Golan Heights and learned about the Yom Kippur war. We visited the Lebanon border, with triple chain linked fences, and guards with AK-47s. Through everything I oriented myself around Al. It wasn’t a crush though. It was more like Tom Waits was on the bus with me—I had an opportunity to hang out with a star.
When we got to Jerusalem, the first two days we spent traveling the old walls of the city, discussing the layers that were present in David’s time—you know, focusing on the Jewish part of the story. We put our own prayers in the Wailing Wall, and stood in reverence watching the faithful pilgrims lament. I got up early with Al a few mornings and ran through the streets of the old city at dawn. I cannot say I had a more memorable run. The light reflecting on gold domes, no one in the streets despite the fact that the people live on top of each other. Smells of Fresh Bread and earth. It was cool to be with Al. Someone fabulous thinking I am fabulous enough to go on a run with--intoxicating.
The last two days we were in Jerusalem, the Jewish midshipmen did their own thing, and this Franciscan Priest, the Pope's news correspondent in Jerusalem, took us around to all the Christian sights—like the last supper and one of the possible sites for the Garden of Gesthemanie etc. The priest held mass and confession for us. Al spent 2 hrs in there!! I wished I could have been a fly on the wall! The priest was fabulous himself. Him and his Gucci shoes. All he could keep from his other life was his shoes…ha.
Senior year, Al got kicked out because he told a therapist he was seeing that he did cocaine. The therapist let someone know, which broke confidentiality, and Al got out of his commitment to serve (or pay back money) on a technicality. University of Maryland kept him on to finish his Masters and last I had heard he was in Columbia getting a Doctorate Degree in chemistry.
I owe Al thanks for exposure to Thomas Merton, Ben Harper, Camus, and perhaps the idea of existentialism. When I knew he was going to get kicked out, I wrote him my best thesis on love, salvation, Jesus, God, redemption etc. I gave it to him along with my best arsenal of self-help books, Jesus books, and the Grand Inquisitor from Dostoyevsky. (I remember that with chagrin—I was a bit more of a saleswoman back then) I prayed fervently for probably a year that something would take root—because the potential was there for him to do such great or horrible things.
Over the years I have thought about Al a little—not much. Once I saw an old buddy of his at a Naval Academy football game (no I was not watching the game—I was there with Luke—another story). I got Al's number and called him up. We talked briefly. I told him I would be in NYC, and maybe we could meet up. We never did.
Well, last week I got on facebook. He immediately friended me. I thought that was pretty weird, because he is not an initator. Briefly…here is our conversation:
Al: i've been a constant failure and have hurt everyone that ever loved me. currently in boston. no idea where i'll be in a year..
Jaimie: I am sorry. You are a genius who is not very plugged in with the source of all love...thats bound to be destructive. I would like to be in touch if you want to be. I believe you were created for something fabulous--but you won’t ever realize it if you can’t let love in....you get the love that you allow.
Have you ever been really close to someone you weren't sleeping with? I have another friend who says the same thing, but the only people he has ever "let in" he was also sleeping with, and then they broke up usually because he cheated on her or wanted to break up for some other reason, so he carries all this guilt around for breaking the hearts of all the women who've ever loved him. I think he should try and get close to someone he is not sleeping with...like a spiritual director or nun or God or something...someone with better boundaries. Maybe that is not your story....I havent talked to you in a very long time.
Al: no. thats pretty much exactly my story.after i left graduate school i spent a week at new melleray outside dubuque, iowa. attended all of the hours of the liturgy.. read psalms and thomas merton during the day. its funny how much i looked forward to vespers every day. maybe i'll go back this year.. they were very nice to me..i know its been a long time. i'm glad we are talking again though
We had two weeks in Israel—enough to see just about the whole thing. It’s not very big you know! We spent the morning at the Dead Sea, and hiked up to the ruins of some old society that lived up there that was pretty important. We traveled around by bus with this vehemently nationalistic Jewish tour guide named Ravi (is that the right word—nationalistic—for a guy who thinks half the people living in his country should not exist?) Ravi ranted any time we were in a Palistinian neighborhood “see their dirty streets! See all their kids! They don’t obey the traffic lights, they don’t mow their lawns.” In Israel, the Jews eat at McDonalds and drink Coke, while Palistinians eat at Pizza Hut and drink Pepsi. They don’t even cross fast food preference lines…
We went to Tel Aviv and visited the Israeli version of the Naval Academy, went to the factory where they make smart bombs (and sell them to the US). We stayed in a Kabbutz, and saw where Mary gave birth to Jesus (supposedly—it has a big old church on top of it now…) We went to the Golan Heights and learned about the Yom Kippur war. We visited the Lebanon border, with triple chain linked fences, and guards with AK-47s. Through everything I oriented myself around Al. It wasn’t a crush though. It was more like Tom Waits was on the bus with me—I had an opportunity to hang out with a star.
When we got to Jerusalem, the first two days we spent traveling the old walls of the city, discussing the layers that were present in David’s time—you know, focusing on the Jewish part of the story. We put our own prayers in the Wailing Wall, and stood in reverence watching the faithful pilgrims lament. I got up early with Al a few mornings and ran through the streets of the old city at dawn. I cannot say I had a more memorable run. The light reflecting on gold domes, no one in the streets despite the fact that the people live on top of each other. Smells of Fresh Bread and earth. It was cool to be with Al. Someone fabulous thinking I am fabulous enough to go on a run with--intoxicating.
The last two days we were in Jerusalem, the Jewish midshipmen did their own thing, and this Franciscan Priest, the Pope's news correspondent in Jerusalem, took us around to all the Christian sights—like the last supper and one of the possible sites for the Garden of Gesthemanie etc. The priest held mass and confession for us. Al spent 2 hrs in there!! I wished I could have been a fly on the wall! The priest was fabulous himself. Him and his Gucci shoes. All he could keep from his other life was his shoes…ha.
Senior year, Al got kicked out because he told a therapist he was seeing that he did cocaine. The therapist let someone know, which broke confidentiality, and Al got out of his commitment to serve (or pay back money) on a technicality. University of Maryland kept him on to finish his Masters and last I had heard he was in Columbia getting a Doctorate Degree in chemistry.
I owe Al thanks for exposure to Thomas Merton, Ben Harper, Camus, and perhaps the idea of existentialism. When I knew he was going to get kicked out, I wrote him my best thesis on love, salvation, Jesus, God, redemption etc. I gave it to him along with my best arsenal of self-help books, Jesus books, and the Grand Inquisitor from Dostoyevsky. (I remember that with chagrin—I was a bit more of a saleswoman back then) I prayed fervently for probably a year that something would take root—because the potential was there for him to do such great or horrible things.
Over the years I have thought about Al a little—not much. Once I saw an old buddy of his at a Naval Academy football game (no I was not watching the game—I was there with Luke—another story). I got Al's number and called him up. We talked briefly. I told him I would be in NYC, and maybe we could meet up. We never did.
Well, last week I got on facebook. He immediately friended me. I thought that was pretty weird, because he is not an initator. Briefly…here is our conversation:
Al: i've been a constant failure and have hurt everyone that ever loved me. currently in boston. no idea where i'll be in a year..
Jaimie: I am sorry. You are a genius who is not very plugged in with the source of all love...thats bound to be destructive. I would like to be in touch if you want to be. I believe you were created for something fabulous--but you won’t ever realize it if you can’t let love in....you get the love that you allow.
Have you ever been really close to someone you weren't sleeping with? I have another friend who says the same thing, but the only people he has ever "let in" he was also sleeping with, and then they broke up usually because he cheated on her or wanted to break up for some other reason, so he carries all this guilt around for breaking the hearts of all the women who've ever loved him. I think he should try and get close to someone he is not sleeping with...like a spiritual director or nun or God or something...someone with better boundaries. Maybe that is not your story....I havent talked to you in a very long time.
Al: no. thats pretty much exactly my story.after i left graduate school i spent a week at new melleray outside dubuque, iowa. attended all of the hours of the liturgy.. read psalms and thomas merton during the day. its funny how much i looked forward to vespers every day. maybe i'll go back this year.. they were very nice to me..i know its been a long time. i'm glad we are talking again though
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