The Miscarriage Club

It was an ordinary Thursday. We got up. Made breakfast. Zach headed out to help a friend move. I was headed to Costco, but I was so tired and my breakfast wasn’t sitting right with me. I texted Zach and told him breakfast had made me sick. I sat on the couch for a bit. We were headed out of town the next day, and I thought, well, it’s been a bit, maybe I’ll just see. See what the weekend had in store. So I did it. For the first time since September, I peed on a stick. I couldn’t believe it. Before the timer was even up, there it was. That beautiful blue plus sign we had been waiting for these past eleven months. There it was. The answer to the question that had been silently gnawing at both our souls, “Is it going to just be us?” There it was. Zach texted back and asked why breakfast had made me sick. With shaking hands, I sent him a picture of the pregnancy test. “Um??!!!?” “Yep!” I called him. He was sitting on the floor sipping a ginger ale shaking. We couldn’t believe it. It was happening. The thing that we both have wanted so badly all our lives. The beginning of that journey was here. The next three weeks passed so incredibly slowly. It was like time was weighed down by our excitement, our anxiety, and our complete inability to think of baby names we agree on. We made a baby shopping list. We contemplated which room we would change to accommodate our new arrival. We did all the things you do. We even told people. We couldn’t help it. No matter what happened, people were going to find out. Why not share in the happiness? I wasn’t too bothered by pregnancy. I was tired. I could smell everything. The only complaint I had was that I don’t like food enough to be this hungry all the time. But all in all, I had it easy. So the day came for the first ultrasound. As we walked from the car, Zach said, “I’m a little scared.” Me too. But I reassured him that we didn’t have any reason to think anything was wrong. I laid on the exam room table. Answered the tech’s questions as she squirted jelly on my belly. “I’m not getting a good enough look. Do you mind using the restroom?” I skirted to the restroom with a sheet around my waist. Returned to the table. “Did you empty your bladder? See here, that’s it, it’s still pretty full.” My heart started pounding as she moved around my uterus. “I don’t think you are as far along as you think you are?” “Um…yes, I am. “ “Have you had any blood work to confirm this?” “Yes. What’s wrong?” “I’m going to get our physician to look at this.” We waited. Hoping against hope that the tech was as bad at her job as she was at communication. The physician came in, examined me and said, “Yes, see this is just a clump of cells. It’s not a viable pregnancy.” There it was. In two insensitive sentences, she had shattered my heart. We cried. Held each other. Made apologies for what was neither one of our faults. Gathered ourselves and walked over to my doctors office. She said she was so sorry. Said I didn’t do anything wrong. Said we were all so excited about this. And then she told me they would do a d&c and test the “tissue”. Ten minutes before it had been a baby. And now it was…tissue. I walked around in a haze for the next several days. For the first time in my life, I felt like a stranger in my own body. My brain knew that there was no heartbeat, no baby, but my body was still acting like there was. It was the moist bizarre biological betrayal. Never felt like my brain was in an earthly shell until the day my body became a tomb. We left town. Went to Holiday World with our nieces. We cried. We told people what was going on. Zach said that he felt like he had been tricked. Like feeling foolish was his brain’s first reaction to the loss. And we tried to be positive. It is so common. 25% of all pregnancies end in miscarriage. Not 25% of women, of pregnancies. We DID get pregnant. That was all good. But statistics did nothing for me. I don’t care how many people this happens to or how many people go on to have healthy babies. This was our baby. I was ready for THIS baby. And if you have known me at all at any point in my life, you would know the deep devastation this is to me. A few days later, we headed to the hospital. As I waited for the procedure, the nurse said to me, “I’m so sorry this is happening to you. It has happened to my wife and I more than once. It is so hard, but you are going to be alright.” Tears just streamed down my face. Next thing I knew, it was all over. I was being taken back to my recovery room. It was all over. We could go home and grieve and move on. Two days later, my doctor called with the pathology report. “It was a molar pregnancy. We will need you to come in every week for a while and have your blood tested. It is recommended that you don’t get pregnant for a year. If things go faster, we will revisit that.” ARE YOU KIDDING ME!!!! A molar pregnancy. There are two types. One is where there is an egg with no genetic information that is fertilized. The other is when two sperm fertilize the same egg. Either way, it never becomes an embryo, but it still grows. And it can even become cancerous. 1 out of every 1,500 women has a molar pregnancy. Most people have never heard of such a thing. The problem is that you still have hcg (the pregnancy hormone) racing through your blood. You have to wait for it to flush itself out. Your body thinks it is still pregnant. As long as there is the presence of hcg, there is a chance the tissue is still there and still growing. As though the loss was not punishing enough. It was a baby. No, it was tissue. No, it actually was a tumor. A tumor. I fell in love with a tumor. It tricked me. It took up residence inside of me. It grew. And worst of all, it wouldn’t leave me in peace. This story isn’t over. It isn’t over for a while. It changes our timeline. It limits our chances. And it gives credence to the fear that we might never hold a baby of our own. It’s a funny thing having a miscarriage. You sort of join a club. A club that you had no idea had so many members you already knew. Most people don’t tell you they are pregnant for exactly this reason. So they don’t have to go back and tell you their hopes were dashed. Nobody really talks about it. And when they do, it’s not for very long. Your loss is a little undermined, but I’m not even sure why. Because everyone I have ever known, feels this deeply. Anyone that talks about it, talks about it with palpable sadness. My dad said that he never planned our lives. He was just happy we were a part of his. But once you lose a child, you realize that you aren’t just invested in what you can see, and feel, and know. You are immediately invested in their future. Their future that just became inextricably woven into your future. And that love. The love of a parent, it never leaves you. Even if you were only a parent for a few weeks. Once you are in the miscarriage club, you start to hear other people’s stories. You start to share in their grief. You see tears in their eyes for you, for them, for all of us. And you don’t feel so alone. I’m glad we told people. I really am. Telling the story of woe can get a little exhausting. But people shared in our happiness. We got to be excited with friends and family. And they all had an investment in our family. They had the same investment in our grief. They had been on the journey with us. And they grieved with us. What more could you want than people to laugh when you laugh and weep when you weep? Grief is exacting. It is cruel. It has no time limit, and arbitrary triggers. We don’t want to be the “sad” people. We don’t want to have to recover. We don’t want to have loved and lost. And we really don’t want people to look at us like…that. We are just bad at grief. And we are especially bad at miscarriages. I loved the baby we lost. Tumor or not. I loved it. I’m devastated that it never was. And I fear, I truly and deeply fear that I will never know the redemption of a happy and healthy baby. I fear that hope was sucked out of me. But I know a few things now that I didn’t know before. I know that I married a man that doubles and triples his efforts to love and be close to me in hard times, no matter how much he is hurting too. I know that I have the support and love and empathy of an extensive circle of women and men that have experienced this loss. And I know that I am loved by so many far and near that offer deep and heartfelt sympathies. That makes me a very, very blessed person. That knowledge gives me the strength to walk through this with as much grace and dignity as I can muster. So I will wipe the tears away, open my heart to hope, and find greater compassion. I am not alone. People join our club everyday. And they all need us to listen to their stories with tears in our eyes.

It's Been a Long Cold Lonely Winter

After living in Tennessee for 6 months, I had to have a blood test. It was discovered that my Vitamin D level was less than optimal. Surprise, surprise leaving Southern California affected my Vitamin D level. It also turned my long blond hair to brown. When speaking with the doctor he said one of the reasons for our population having lower levels is that we are a little obsessed with showering. Sunshine on our skin needs some time to absorb into our system. We wash it off before it has a chance to soak into our skin and lose the value of standing in the sun. It’s also the best antiseptic for germs. In a world of known’s and unknowns, the magic of sunlight resting on our skin and being absorbed kindled a sense of wonder that I often forget. At least, I forget to renew it.

I have had several conversations with friends and family lately regarding the uncertainty of my life. I have wrestled out in the open. But I am not sure that I have wrestled in the light long enough for the germs to be eliminated. And certainly not enough for the sun drenched wisdom to soak into my soul. A friend sent me a quote the other day by Henri Nouwen. “Self-rejection is the greatest enemy of the spiritual life because it contradicts the sacred voice that calls us the "Beloved".” Self-rejection is a particularly insidious quality we all posses. I think we all surrender to it more often than we realize. And I think that surrender comes on the heels of other rejection. Friends, parents, lovers, employers, teachers, and strangers reject us or call us less than, and we reject ourselves. We absorb the rejection and let it addle our brain and heart. It is in that rejection of ourselves that we reject the one who made us. And no matter how much sunshine might be there, we take a shower to wash off the stink and don’t metabolize the light.

I have been offered countless encouragements that have not been platitudes. No “fake it until you make it”, “Happiness is an attitude”, “ Smile. It improves the value of your face”. No, no. I have heard sincere and loving encouragements. Ones that are acutely suited for my heart and spirit. I am learning to be a little more determined to let them shine a bright light on my worries, fears, and pervasive thoughts of my own inadequacies and failures. And I am learning to be a little more determined to let those words soak into my system and metabolize. My hair won’t turn back to blond, but maybe my heart will.

When I don’t sit my ass down in the sunlight, I can’t get any. When I don’t absorb it, I cannot reflect it. When I don’t reflect it, I leave others to wallow in their own rejection. And then I have failed in my endeavor to be and do what I want to be and do. Sun, sun, sun here it comes.

Unwritten, Yet Known

Part of my Lent this year is writing more about my contemplation. Trying to work it out with words and not just thoughts. Maybe my thoughts will have a fighting chance of making it to deeds if they are processed. So…there will be some more meanderings into the inner workings of my brain this month.

I saw a bumper sticker yesterday that said, “I came here with nothing and I have most of it left.” It’s funny. It’s clever. It made me laugh. It reminded me of a song a dear friend of mine wrote. It is my favorite of his songs. It is simple, beautiful, and profound. Always making me a little uncomfortable, but inspired. These are the lyrics:

I have nothing.
And this is beautiful to me.
Came here naked, screaming, and penniless
We cannot take the money with
When we go.
So baby, let go.

I am no one.
And this is beautiful to me.
Came here nameless, no one of consequence
With only so much innocence
And then it’s gone.
So baby, hold on.

My friend is an exceptional songwriter. He has a rapier wit, an astounding capacity for empathy, and an extraordinary mind. The first time I met him, I thought he was a bit odd. The second time I met him, I was convinced he was odd. I think he became friends with me because I listened to him. He has a unique way of communicating. And by unique, I mean that the meter of his conversation is usually adagio. He doesn’t really work in allegro. Most people get lost in the pauses and miss the melody. But one time, in one place, I remembered what he said and it made me think and I talked about it with many people for the next week. After I told him he made me think, our friendship began. I think his speech is interrupted with pauses because he is deliberate with his words. And don’t think I am not completely envious of that quality. He takes the time to let his poetry work itself out before revealing it. Or he is just odd. No one knows for sure. The perils of being an introvert in an expressionist’ body. But his process comes with pacing and many, many head bobs. This paragraph is not necessarily germane to the rest of the blog post. More of a “Hey, I said nice and funny things about you. So I hope you don’t mind that I published your lyrics on the interwebs without paying into ASCAP” kind of thing. He might and this entry will promptly be deleted.

The thing I love about this song is it’s juxtaposing of two conflicting ideas. Two choices that if held in tension with one another and exercised simultaneously either make you a contortionist, an over thinker, or potentially indecisive. Since I am usually two out of the three anyway and probably capable of the third, this song makes a whole lot of sense to me. I love contradictory ideas in theory. In practice, I find that my usually complex mind becomes very simple and demanding of simplicity.

I have been trying to wrap my head around a particularly contradictory concept for years. Often, it idles as my default song. The song I don’t notice is on repeat in the background. It has from time to time cloaked itself in counterpoint to whatever song is playing. But it is eventually unmasked and I return to the quest of trying to sort it out.

The concept is this: My future is unwritten, yet known. I have a great deal of difficulty reconciling that things are known yet unwritten. If my future is unwritten, then I have quite a few options. But if my choices are known, then there is an ideal or most beneficial one to choose. If it is known, why isn’t it ordained? And if it is not ordained, how is it known? And if it is known and I don’t choose it was it actually the ideal? This whole theological chicken and the egg thing makes me go cross-eyed most of the time.

I can’t believe that my future is unwritten and unknown. That would be to believe there is not a loving and gracious creator that is involved in my life. And I have seen too much and know too much to play that game.

I equally can’t believe that it is written and known. That would be to believe that this loving creator made me to be an automaton. I believe that I have the will, the choice, and the power to choose my own life in a manner that is unencumbered by some sort of predestination. I am not a passenger on the train of my life. I am the train. I am the track. I am the engineer. Toot! Toot!

I am working in concert with my creator. I am neither rogue nor slave.

By the same token, others around me are empowered with the same. And their choices influence and impact my course, my decisions, my life. And this confounds me and frustrates the bejankins out of me. Because I want to believe there is some sort of simplicity of doing the right thing and choosing the right course and things just work out. I want to live in a universe where I ask in faith what to do, do it, and something lovely is created. More often than not I feel like I came here with nothing and have most of it left. Like everything I try to build is a house of cards that just collapses. And if it all collapses, I must not have been the house I was supposed to build. Faulty logic, but real emotion.

I have a really hard time wrapping my head around all this. I mean a REALLY hard time. I struggle with the choices I have made. I feel foolish for the ones that have led to nothing. I struggle with the choices others have made. I feel foolish for hoping they were going to make different ones. And most of all, I struggle with the crushing sense that I am inadequate to make the right choices, choose the right road, and come out the other side in tact. And I struggle with the fact that there is no “right” road at all. There is only choosing how you walk. And my obsession with finding the right road has dramatically affected my gait. The questions just lead to more questions. And the answers lead to more questions. I’m hoping that the questions just keep leading to an answer I can understand.

These two conflicting notions of unwritten yet known are bound to live in harmony with one another somewhere. I am trying to learn how to let go and hold on at the same time so maybe I will get there.

You are Ugly

When I was a little girl, maybe 5 or 6, I would stare into the mirror until my face looked different to me. I would stare and see every crevice, the one or two freckles I had, and the shape of every feature, the color of my hair and how it lay. I would stare and stare and stare until I would say this to myself: “You are ugly”. No one ever told me that. In fact, I was told the opposite. I was surrounded by loving and affirming people that proactively worked to build my self-esteem. And to be fair, I was pretty cute. But this is the conclusion that I came to staring at my face. I was ugly. It was a time in my development that I was wrestling to distinguish between pretty and ugly, beautiful and grotesque, lovely and awful. For some unknown reason I couldn’t see anything that I recognized as beauty in my own face. And since I couldn’t see beauty the only conclusion to draw was that it was ugly.

It is the second day of Lent. I am a big fan of Lent. I love that there is a season that is dedicated to reflection and soul searching in order to discover our own humanity. To see how intractable we are in our own habits and behaviors whenever we try to make the slightest bit of sacrifice. It is in seeing our depravity and selfishness that we are given the opportunity to humble ourselves, recognize our flaws, and embrace the grace given to us to be at peace with God, at peace with others, and at peace with ourselves. In the liturgical calendar, there is Advent (the proclamation of the birth of our savior), Christmas (the birth of our savior), Epiphany (the public demonstration that he is indeed our savior), the ordinary weeks (where we do just about nothing), and then comes Lent. This is the time to fast in some form or fashion to see ourselves for who we are so that we can fully understand and embrace the wonder of his sacrifice and celebrate Easter with fervor and joy. Hopefully, Lent is a season of transformation that allows us to understand his suffering and learn better how to share in it. We need this time to fully understand that he died for us when we were still sinners. We need this time to see that we are indeed still sinners. We need this time to come to terms with what an enormous pain in the ass we all are. “Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the Kingdom of heaven”. It is only in the recognition of ourselves that we can fully embrace the mercy and grace given to us freely.

But it is not enough for us to simply embrace this for ourselves within our own hearts and minds. In the Jewish tradition of the New Year, God writes the next year of someone’s life into the Book of Life on Rosh Hashanah, the actual New Year. But before Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement with God comes the Day of Atonement with others. They cannot ask forgiveness of God until they ask forgiveness of others. Matthew touches on this theme when Jesus says “ Therefore if you bring your gift to the altar, and there remember that your brother has something against you, leave your gift there before the altar, and go your way. First be reconciled to your brother, and then come and offer your gift.” It wasn’t enough simply to ask forgiveness of those you know you have failed; you must go to those you know have an issue with you. Before you even come to the temple in an act of worship, you must be reconciled to each other. Before you can be reconciled to God, you must be reconciled to each other. Richard Foster says in a book about spiritual disciplines “Disciplines are best exercised in our daily activities. If they are to have any transforming effect, the effect must be found in the ordinary junctures of human life: in our relationships with our husband or wife, our brothers and sisters, our friends and neighbors.”
It is important to be introspective. It is important to take time to be alone with our thoughts, consider who we are and how we act, and allow ourselves to be disappointed in what we discover. But we must be careful not to let solitude become isolation. No good comes from keeping only one’s own counsel. We must work out our salvation with fear and trembling and let others see us shake. We are limited in our capacity to recognize our own faults just as we are limited in our ability to recognize our own beauty. We cannot make peace with God without making peace with others. We cannot be at peace with ourselves without allowing others to see and reflect what is ugly and what is beautiful in us. Ultimately, the healing we seek is intertwined. Peace with ourselves, peace with others, peace with God. They all lead to and from one another.

I’m not a theologian. I’m not trying to be. I’m not as learned in all of these things as I would like to be. But I know this: I love Lent. I love the concept. I love the practice. I love the ideal. I love what it is meant to produce. I love it. Love it. Love it. I love it until it comes and I fast from something. I love it until I spend deliberate time reflecting. I love it until it comes, I fast, I reflect, and stare in the mirror and all I have to say is “You are ugly”. Then, I just wish it were Christmas again.

Crafts and Glasses

I have an astigmatism that went undiagnosed until I was 11. A wrinkle in my cornea that made music notes blur together, tennis balls completely move in my peripheral, and made reading an insufferable chore. My mom, who taught me to read, was pretty convinced that I was just impatient. I would assume that if a word started with a “th” that is was “There” or “Then” when it could be something completely different. My eyes had just caught the start of the word and moved on down the sentence. She was always telling me to go back, slow down, and read it again. My brain was doing its best to compensate for my jumping eyes based on context of the rest of the sentence. I have glasses now so my eyes hold still most of the time.

My mother was right to suspect me of being impatient. Doing just about everything quickly has been my way for quite some time. When we were little, our school was work at your own pace. And I had a pretty fast pace. Such a fast pace that when I finished my work early, my teacher would give me crafts to do. I hate crafts. Always have. I reached my limit of making potholders out of Popsicle sticks by November. I asked for a watch for my seventh birthday. And although I was not very good at telling time, I would do a page of work, wait five minutes, and do another page. Thus ending my craft time torture. My teacher told me that patience is a virtue. I think that phrase is just a stall tactic for the slow. And when I find the person that coined that phrase, I will punch him in the face. Patience is a pain in the ass.

I recently had one of the most ridiculous break-up of my life. Four and a half hours to settle our two-month relationship. When it was all said and done, nothing was actually done, just said. And talk is pretty cheap. It's the actions of love that make the world go round. While in the relationship, I was consistently confronted with my own nonsense. Particularly, with my impatience. I did try not to let my past relationships color this one. I gave a valiant effort. Most of the time, I was terribly unsuccessful. Assuming I knew what this sentence was because I have read a few other books. Thank God that I have great friends and a great family that would tell me to go back, slow down, and read it again. It was easy for my mind to jump past the issues at hand and draw conclusions based on my well-honed skills of hopelessness. Polished and not so pretty, I fight them daily.

I think what makes patience difficult for me is the same thing that makes hope difficult. There are no guarantees on the other side of those journeys. There is however, certainty in failing to attempt. A life of simply existing, never being fully lived. But what also makes it challenging is the lack of results from past attempts. There are only so many times that you can suck it up, dust yourself off, and say, “Nothing ventured, nothing gained.” At some point, it becomes far too easy to say, “Nothing ventured, nothing ventured.” And if there is a shred of futility in an action, you bet your grandma I can find it. And usually blow it entirely out of proportion.

I have often heard the proverb quoted, “Hope differed makes the heart grow sick.” Usually when people are justifying the reasons they are no longer trying. And it is true. Not seeing anything come or at least not seeing enough come from your efforts is disheartening at best and soul sucking at worst. And it can cause you to either be a pessimist or an existimist. New word. Someone who is not assuming the worst, but rather assumes nothing. A life, who’s routine is its substance. An outlook that has an inevitable end in implosion. I don’t just look at the world or others with suspicion or assumption of their failure. I look at myself that way. And their failure inevitably emotionally registers as something fundamentally lacking in me. Because if I was worth it, they would behave differently. If I was better or more or substantial enough, my circumstances would reflect it and more things would go my way. Which is absolute bullshit. And drawing such hard lines in some sort of cause and effect manner is adolescent. The world is much more complicated than that. And people are even more complicated.

So…what’s the point? Good question. This is a super rambly post. I guess the point is that no one bothers to quote the rest of that verse. “Hope differed makes the heart grow sick, but a longing fulfilled is a tree of life.” I think I need to keep believing that I will find that tree of life. Hell, I should just make one. I think I need to put my watch away and make some damn crafts. Do some things I would rather not do to make the world around me a little more colorful. And when I am sure I know the end of the story, I should put on my glasses, slow down, and read the sentence again. I may never find the virtue in patience, but I know the disdain of hopelessness. And that’s no fun for anyone.

Lazy Man's Metaphor

Being one that has a particular attraction to precision in communication, I have a sort of obsession with metaphors, similes, colloquialism, and idioms. Idioms are funny. I tend to use idioms and then think, “Where did that come from?” And thanks to the Internet, I don’t have to go long wondering. I think they perplex me because we often use them without much consideration for what the words actually mean when strung together. I had a stint where I made sport of mixing up my idioms. Idiom madlibs, if you will. They didn’t seem to make any less sense in the mash up. My idiom experiment was more for my own amusement than anything else. And it made my sister laugh which was a bonus. But I must admit that I see them as a lazy man’s metaphor. There is not much precision in hijacking a phrase that you have no idea of the original origin. They just sum up what you are trying to say because you have confidence that those around you understand the connotation of the phrase. Regardless of whether or not the phrase makes a lick of sense. Like that right there. “Lick of sense”. Where the hell did that come from and what does it actually mean. A literal lick? Actually, yes. Turns out that since you can only get a small portion from a lick that word can actually be used to mean a small portion. So instead of saying, “A small portion of sense” we can say “lick of sense”. Poetic license, I suppose.

I have had one idiom in particular on my mind lately. “Benefit of the doubt”. I like this one. A lot. I use it frequently, which is probably why I started thinking about what it actually means. I also like it because I am the type of person that gives the benefit of the doubt more than I should. Sometimes when it is well established that you don’t deserve it. I’m like a credit card rather than an ATM.

First, I had to establish whether this was a true idiom or a colloquialism. Turns out that colloquialisms are regional idioms. Who knew? Then I had to sort out the etymology of the phrase. Unless the idiom has an actual context, you really just get a definition. Like “get a grip” is from the movie business. A grip is an underling. I think the lowest on the food chain on a set. When you needed something, you would get a grip to go a fetch it. It has evolved to mean you need to get your emotions under control in a given situation. Not sure how that evolution took place, but that is the magic of idioms. Anyway, Google was my friend in providing a definition. Essentially, in a situation where there is any doubt, the benefactor makes an assumption that the beneficiary should be trusted. “A favorable judgment granted in the absence of full evidence.” Now, this has me fascinated.

By this definition, we give the benefit of the doubt all the time. And honestly, without even thinking about it. I trust that when I turn on my faucet the water will not be poisonous. I trust that when I drive down the street all the other drivers are not going to intentionally run into me. I trust the cook at a restaurant has not spit in my food. We trust in all kinds of situations without ever gathering information before or after. Or at least, we collect minimal information. We function in life with an understood sense of trust in the goodness or at least the courtesy of others without hesitation. But in interpersonal situations, we can be withholding bastards. Waiting for proof before we trust. Letting past situations dictate how we react in the present. Some of that seems like wisdom and some of it seems rather silly. I think that when we are truly aware of what we want to happen or what we need and know there is risk we won’t get it, we then see the doubt. And we can let that doubt be fueled by all sorts of things to grow into a sabotaging monster. When a child desperately wants the approval of their parent, when a friend needs acceptance, when a lover needs assurance, when the thing we want becomes crucial to our sense of self worth, that is when we understand profoundly the power another has to impact us. And doubt with all impartiality finally shows up on our radar.

I wonder what would happen if we extended the same trust in situations that really matter to us. I mean, surviving a car ride to the store should be one of those, but we can’t really get to know all the drivers on the road. What if we trusted in a new friend, old friends, siblings, parents, etc. with the same blind assumption of their goodness? I understand that past wounds shape us and help us to draw appropriate boundaries. They give us much needed warnings. But I also know I sometimes hide behind the boundaries, behind the wounds, behind the assumption that was has been is all that will ever be like a sad song on repeat. I guess what I am hoping to achieve in my own life is exercising wisdom but not at the cost of being open to wonder and possibility. Not like an idiot that funnels my energy into pipe dreams. But one that loves like I have never been hurt. Trusts like I have never been betrayed. Gives the benefit of the doubt when the doubt is screaming its head off. And someone that smiles like a kid that has just seen a firefly for the first time.

Oh idioms. I really do think you are a lazy man’s metaphor. But you do make me think.

Get Your Lent On

Today is Ash Wednesday and the beginning of Lent. Growing up in evangelical America, we never celebrated Lent. However, I went to an Episcopal school for eight years. Some liturgical practices were bound to rub off on me. I never really understood why all the crosses at school were covered in purple cloth. Or why all the “Allelujah”’s were omitted in the mass. I really didn’t understand why our chaplain didn’t allow my friends and I to give up chapel for Lent. With some degree of honesty, we did believe that skipping chapel would bring us closer to God. Lent was quite somber and mysterious. And it seemed that a season meant to prepare you for Easter was super depressing. I understand that identifying with the passion of Jesus should be on the sobering side. But I still don’t understand why it has to be such a drag.

Most of the people I knew that did practice Lent would treat it a bit like a New Year’s resolution. They would give up a vice or habit. They were rarely things that actually made room in their life for greater meditation or times of prayer. Like giving up soda for 40 days really draws you into the heart of God. I suppose it could if you were crazy addicted (like me). On the whole, their understanding of why they were giving something up for God seemed to miss the point.

I’m not entirely sure of the origin of Lent. It seemed to be practiced in some form or fashion before being formalized in the Council of Nicea. It was always meant to be a time of penance and preparation leading up to Easter. A time with increased prayer, introspection, and focus on the sacrifice that Jesus made. The theory being that if we give ourselves more time for deliberate focus, we better identify with his suffering and hopefully our little Grinch hearts will grow a few sizes. There are folks that fast completely for the 40 days. Some skip a few meals a day. And many, many others give something up for God. I think that any sacrifice or change to our routine should give us pause. We are creatures of habit and routine. Disrupt that and we all have an autistic fit of one size or another. I suppose that there is nothing too trivial to give up for Lent. What is trivial to some is a crutch to another. As long as what you choose, actually brings you to a place of repentance, an honest look at the state of your heart, and leads you into a more sacrificial and loving life, you are on the right track. It is not enough for us to be contrite. Our repentance must transcend our own sense of forgiveness and affect the way we treat others. We give mercy because we are desperately in need of it. We love, because we are loved. I think a portion of Lent should be spent contemplating that we are loved and have received mercy for our own sake. Because we all need to know that we are loved and valued, accepted and cherished, just because we are. But if we stop there and we don’t let it change our behaviors, then we are really selfish and need to start Lent over until we get it.

I have only been really playing the Lent game the last few years. Most years I don’t prepare for Lent and it catches me off guard. It is amusing that you have to prepare to prepare. I have given up cursing before, and if you know me you know that is a legit sacrifice. Last year, I gave up complaining. That was scary. Quite a revealing time for me. This year, I have been stumped. I am sure that I have a routine, but I am not really sure how distracting it is or isn’t. I still feel like a jumbly bumbly bag of nerves out of place here. My level of activity actually needs to increase not decrease.

So this year, I have decided not to give something up for Lent, but rather to add on. I think that by creating a little more structure in my life, I will quickly see what I actually spend my time doing. To add on three activities that actually make me consider the sacrifice of Jesus and what it actually means to me and for me, seems like a good choice this year. I don’t want to forget why I have decided to celebrate Lent. As somebody on some website said Lent is a time “to repent of sin, to renew our faith and to prepare to celebrate joyfully the mysteries of our salvation.”

If you are so inclined, I wish you a happy Lent with the appropriate amount of crying here and there. And if you are not inclined, then I wish you a happy Wednesday, sinner.

Padews Away

I feel the time has come to explain the title of this blog and the reasons I chose it. When I was a little girl, I hated sleeping alone. I still do. A primary reason for getting a dog was so that he would sleep in my bed. I particularly liked to sleep with my parents. Luckily for me, they did not subscribe to the parenting that believed children should always sleep in their own beds.

When I was a toddler, we lived in a green house on Howard Drive. We lived there until I was 4. This is the first house I remember. And I have very fond memories of it. Mostly, I think, because it preceded a time when I would be introduced to the harsh realities of the world at a young age. Not long after we lived in this house, my aunt was murdered, a man in our church turned out to be molesting children, and I started going to school with children who didn’t think being a Christian was cool. These are the types of things can steal a bit of that childhood innocence. On Howard Drive, I would fall asleep in the hallway just so I could hear my parent’s voices. I would eat caramel apples while watching “Sha Na Na”. My mom would fill up the sink with soapy water and let me pretend to do dishes. I would try in vain to be the traffic cop for my brother and sister on their big wheels. (They never obeyed my commands). I would wake up early on Saturday mornings and beg them to teach me how to play Yatzee. I never knew they didn’t know how to play either. I remember rooting for Jimmy Carter to win the election because he had blond hair. Life was simple. I was a kid.

I was not the most skilled communicator as a toddler. I said “lestricity” instead of “electricity”. And I called pillows “padews”. In the mornings that I woke up in my parents bed after my father had his shower, my dad and I would play a game. It was called “Padews Away”. My dad would hold a pillow up over my face and say “Padews Away” and then drop the pillow on me. I would hold my breath while the pillow was above me and then squeal in laughter when it dropped. This memory comes with the smell of the room. A mixture of a down pillow, shower steam, and Pierre Cardin cologne. It is one of my favorite memories. One of those games that were uniquely my dad’s and mine. As a third kid, you cherish those things that are just yours and not shared with siblings.

As I started this blog on the precipice of a major life change, I was very deliberate in naming it. I wanted to recapture for my own soul that childlike wonder. The wonder that never feared my needs would not be met. The wonder that saw all things as good and safe. The wonder that can believe through trial and struggle. The wonder that should develop in adulthood to know that good things come to those that wait. Even if you feel like you have been waiting a very long time.

So, to my slow start in Nashville and the questions of why I am actually here, I hold my breath in anticipation. And wait for the laughter on the other side of the padews away.

Amanda Hugandkiss

I was at work the other night bagging groceries. My true calling. I never thought myself to be particularly spatially gifted. However comma I kick ass at bagging groceries. You have to aim high. Dream big. As Justin Bieber has taught us, never say never. I never knew that it would be possible that I could bag groceries with such ease and precision. It is kind of like in Sherlock Holmes when he sees how he will defeat his opponent before he fights him. That’s how I am with groceries. Mad skills. Mad, mad skills.

Anyway, I was bagging groceries when one of my coworkers who is a bit on the flirtatious side said “So what’s it gonna take? Dinner? Movie? Flowers?” I couldn’t figure out what he was talking about. Then he mentioned the approach of Valentine’s Day. I then realized that this was his feeble attempt at asking me out. He told me I could think about it and get back to him. Really? It sounded a bit like “What is it going to take to sleep with you?” type of question. Much more than dinner and a movie. Even throwing in flowers won’t cut it. The phrase “too much car for you” comes to mind. Me being the car, of course.

It made me think about all the terrible lines that I have heard over the years. And I have heard some doozies. Once, I was cleaning floorboards at Starbucks and a customer came in and asked “How much will it cost me to get you on your knees?” I responded with “Does calling a woman a whore usually work for you?” I also had a guy order a super sweet, lukewarm beverage. He said, “I like my coffee like me women. Really sweet and not that hot. You seem sweet.” Really, dude. You just told me that I am not that hot. There was the lovely man that followed me home from the park when I was living down by USC. He kept telling me that he had a hot tub and “I like white girls. For real.” I think it was all the English he knew. For real. I know that a man asked my sister “Has anyone ever told you that you have beautiful eyes?” She responded with “yes”. Sadly, she was not being snarky. She didn’t realize he was hitting on her. Bless her.

There is also a very long list of idiotic things men have said to be on the cusp, during, and after our relationship. But it would take a book to catalogue those. Not a long book. More like a coffee table book. “The 10 Stupidest Things Men Say to Women” kind of book.

I’ve also had some really good lines. There was a boy in Scotland that I saw three times in one day. I was walking back to the flat where we were staying when I heard running on the cobble stone streets. The boy was running after me. Rad. Doubled over and panting he said, “I just ran all that way. Please tell me you live here.” It was epic. Cutest thing. There was an Irishman who once told me he wanted to kiss my face off. I liked that one too. My favorite has to be when I was cuddling with a boy. He had his hand…well…on my ass. My fully clothed ass, let’s be clear. He kind of laughed for a second. I asked why and he said, “Well, one of the first things that attracted me to you was your intelligence. Love how smart you are. And I can’t explain why, but it’s such a turn on to have my hand on the ass of a smart girl” Perfect. Loved it.



I actually feel some compassion for men. It is hard to approach women. On the one hand, we want to be respected and seen as an intelligent, independent person, but we also want to know you think we are a hot piece of ass. It is hard to strike that balance. And I feel for guys when they try and fail. Then again, men can pee standing up and generally fall asleep anywhere. So my compassion is rather superficial.

I guess the point of this entry is rather obvious. I’m bored and lonely. And I need a man to hug and kiss. That would be lovely.

Should Old Acquaintance Be Forgot?

I’ve never really been much of a New Year’s kind of girl. When I do go out to celebrate, the results are generally disastrous and serve as fodder for my stories of my rotten luck. But I do love the closing scene in “When Harry Met Sally” when Harry starts questioning the lyrics to “Auld Lang Syne”. I can’t hear the song and not think of that scene. They same is true whenever I hear the phrase, “Waiter, there is too much pepper on my paprikash.” To be fair, I am usually the one saying that one and “But baby fish mouth is sweeping the nation”. Great writing should be quoted often regardless of its relevance.

I have been thinking about all my friends this holiday season. Wondering if I am a loon for forging out on my own with little to no safety net. I have been discovering the profound instability of friendships I thought I had here. And I have been thinking, as I usually do around my birthday, of all the men that have drifted in and out of my life. What I never realized is that the poem from which this song derives its lyrics actually is asking a rhetorical question. Should old acquaintance be forgot and never brought to mind? I guess it depends on the acquaintance.

Before I left LA, I had coffee with an ex-boyfriend. It was benign enough. He managed to make one remark as we were leaving that tweaked my little brain for a week or so. I was recalling the conversation to a friend and she said, “When you go to Nashville, do me a favor and don’t unpack him. Leave him in California.” These were wise words. For me, the believer that I can make anything work, it is difficult to look at anyone or any situation and walk away feeling that I did all I could. That it would never be any different than it is. As I have gotten older, I have become more accustomed to leaving well enough alone. My heart, my trust, my loyalty are easily won. But I am both too young and too old for them to be easily kept.

I have been feeling quite self-absorbed these last few months. Consumed with trying not to feel as unsettled as I actually am. And I know that as I settle, it will be easy to forget those that I love. Or at least forget to keep them an active part of my heart and mind. I think that is the point of the poem. Reminding us not to forget those who have shaped us, loved us, cried with us, laughed with us, etc. As we grow and change and walk down new roads and face new adventures, we must guard against the real danger of forgetting who shared our path. For good and for bad.

I had a chat with the Captain of my store today. (The equivalent of a general manager just keeping with the nautical theme) He was talking about mistakes. Making them, learning from them, and not fearing chastisement for having made them in the first place. He said something that was so lovely; I wanted to write it down. Now I fear that I will not quote it accurately. He said:

We must start each day excited about the adventure of making our next magnificent mistakes while being vigilant not to repeat our old ones.

So that is how I would like to start this New Year on this silly little blog. I want to wish you all blessings and joy in this coming year. And I hope that you look excitedly forward to your next grand mistakes. Remember those that have made you who you are. Don’t unpack the ones that mess with your head. Keep your heart soft. And determine now that this time next year, you will either being crying tears of joy or sorrow as you look back on 2011. Otherwise, you just might have wasted your time.

Merry Christma, drama rod.

For the first time in 17 years, Nashville has had snow on Christmas. I think it is my arrival. They are just so happy to have me they have blanketed the city in snow. It’s just a theory, but I’m going with it.

I was not with my family this Christmas which was like a kind of torture for us all. We are a Christmas family. Hard core. We rival the Griswald’s. It is hard to describe if you have never experienced a Stokes’ Family Christmas. Suffice it to say, we are rad. Even though we were apart, I felt their love surrounding me all day. I love and miss them all terribly. My nephew told my brother “I like all my presents. I just don’t want to talk about it.” Comedy. I was invited to a new friend’s house for dinner. I very comfortably ate all of their delicious food. It is lovely to feel welcome with strangers. The ice on the way home was not as awesome.

Last night, I was doing a little laundry. There was a super cute guy in the laundry room who had misplaced his laundry card. (Card operated machines rather than coin). He asked me if I had some money on my card. Not enough for both of us. So he loaded some cash onto my card. When I returned to put my clothes in the dryer, he was not there. So I left him my card and a little note telling him when finished to return the card to my apartment. Smooth, right? He dropped by. We chatted for a moment. He lingered and eventually departed when I wished him a Merry Christmas. I went back to get my dry laundry and he was there folding his. Yes! I remained true to my drama rod self. Here is how the conversation went:

“So why are you doing laundry on Christmas’ Eve?”
“I hate to break it to you, buddy, but you are doing laundry on Christmas’ Eve. I just moved here from LA. No family and friends so why not laundry? You?”
“Similar story. I moved here from New York.”
“The city?”
“Yeah, Queens.”
“How does someone from Queens end up in Nashville?”
“Well…my soon to be ex wife found out she was pregnant and is from here.”
(L.E. panicked and thinking “Seriously?”)
“But I am glad I moved here cause I like it.”
“Well, that’s good. Merry Christmas again.”

Classic. The story had such potential until there was baby mamma drama.

My birthday is in two days. And year after year, I suffer some type of disappointment that casts a shadow over my birthday. I can catalogue them. It is uncanny. This year was no different and I am not referring to the super cute laundry room guy. But this year unlike any other, I am resolute to be defiant. I will not let this dampen my spirits. I have been brave. And not everything is going to plan yet, but when does it? I shall not be damp!

So to everyone that reads this nonsensical blog, and I know and love you all, Merry Christmas and Happy Birthday! I hope that you have been filled with love and peace today. And I hope that the blessings of your life far outweigh any of your sorrows.

We Are All Just Guessing

Well, I survived my first snow/ice driving in Nashville. It was…daunting. My poor brother had to endure me absolutely losing my crackers as I was stuck in the driveway of my apartment complex. There was no way I was getting in. My engine would soar, make a weird noise and smell, and I would move incrementally. There were some good Samaritans out and they came to my aid. I was in a state. Fit to be tied, if you will. For now, the ice has melted and all will be well until Wednesday night when another storm rolls through.

I had a conversation with a friend Saturday night that has been cooking my noodle a bit. And since I have spent almost the entire day in my apartment, I have had some time to mull it over. It would take a while to recap the conversation. And frankly, I would like to preserve the dignity of my friend by not blasting the contents on the interwebs. Suffice it to say, there were many questions raised regarding the providence and involvement of God in our lives and what all that looks like. As I listened and nodded, understanding the questions more poignantly than I would care to, I expressed the thoughts that have been swimming around in my brain for the last few months. First a little background.

The notion that God has a set plans for my life unraveled a while ago for me. I have never been what my brother calls toothpaste Christian: one that asks for the Almighty’s guidance on every decision including “Aquafresh or Colgate?” As though God gives a rat’s ass which toothpaste I use. However, I was a firm believer in tapping into or suddenly discovering God’s path for me. And my weirdo dreams that come true never discredited the notion. I didn’t sweat the small stuff. In my mid twenties when nothing was going according to any discernable plan, I started to even question the idea that there was any grand purpose or plan. And if there was, I was not terribly convinced that my hopes and dreams made the cut. I had a pastor once tell me he was going to pray that I get a husband. I told him, “Well, that is sweet, but I am not sure that me getting laid is high on his list of priorities.” He smiled at me and said he would pray nevertheless because it was high on his list. I appreciated the sentiment. I made an agreement with myself to be at peace if there was never be a husband and family for me, but that I would never stop looking, hoping, and asking for one. Even in my doubt and substantial discouragement, I still searched for “my path”. Asking God to speak to me, to guide me, to show me what I was meant to do. And if there was no “meant to”, maybe just point me in the direction of what I would enjoy more than what I had already been doing. Oddly enough, he eventually answered. And now I live in Nashville and work at American Eagle. And I am crossing my fingers that I will survive school and like being a nurse. But I do wonder if it is all just a new tablecloth over the rickety old table that has been and is still just me.

I told my friend that I had been wondering how much it would change my theology or my approach to seeking God’s purpose and guidance if there were no heaven. I know this is Evangelical heresy and I am sure I will commit it again before the post is finished. But we spend a lot of time in Christianity focused on doing everything here for a payoff there. Or not doing things, for that matter. And I wonder if we put so much pressure on hearing and doing what God wants because we fear we would be living our lives for ourselves if we did otherwise. But that approach can be paralytic to both our souls and our actions. Meaning, we can stay in a place of inaction waiting to hear before we do. And if we don’t hear, we don’t do. When if we had just done, we might have heard in the doing. Or maybe not. But at least we would be living. Jesus said that he only did what he saw the Father doing. But our only evidence of what the father was doing, was what Jesus was doing. So…how do we figure out what the father is doing? Shouldn’t we just look and see what Jesus did and go from there? Is there a super personalized plan for all of us? Or are we just supposed to do our best with what we have and what we know? He said to store up treasures in heaven. But did he mean that literally? I mean, do I have a credit account in heaven? Or was he speaking figuratively? Was he asking us to devote our lives to the things that matter, to kingdom values, to love, to charity, to generosity, to sacrifice, to being a blessing? What if there was no heaven? Then wouldn’t the point be to live the most Christian life that I can within the confines of my talents and abilities and, frankly, doing the things that I enjoy? Not engaging in behavior because we fear it is a sin, but because we know the damage it does to us and to others. I’m not advocating Christianity as merely a well-developed piece of moral regulations. There has to be room for surprise and mysticism. And we have to be open to that. But I just wonder if we should spend the majority of our time trying to leave every place we are better than when we found it. If God wants to interrupt us, well, he is God. I am sure he can manage it.

I told my friend that the best I can do now is try and do something that has some meaning. He said, “Meaning to you.” Well, yes. If I am striving to apply the values of Jesus’ life to mine, then I feel like most anything I would do will have some meaning. But I would prefer it to have meaning to me too. I’m not saying we all have to dedicate ourselves to humanitarian work. I think there is a reason we are given talents and passions. And I don’t think charity or sacrificial work is the only way to live out a Christian life. There is beauty and importance in art, music, literature, social justice, laughter, love, doing things for the sheer pleasure of it, etc. Hell, there is value in plumbing. I guess my question would be that if I lived my life that way - not excluding God from consultation or guidance, but not dependent on it for movement – would I finish my life a little more satisfied? Feeling like it mattered I was here. That I fulfilled the task that was given to me to do unto the least of these. I’ll tell you this much, I wouldn’t have wasted so much stinking time petrified to move for fear that I wouldn't make the right choice. Or even more time when I was hopeless, believing that there was no plan and no meaning. I would just do. Find who I am, and decide what it means to live out the Gospel in all of my decisions.

Life is short. And as much as Biblical literalism and the notion of the inerrancy of Scripture are comforting, it can be really debilitating and silly. At the end of the day, I think we are all just guessing. So here is my best guess: God is love and light, so I am going to try and be love and light more of the time than not. And try to find things that make me happy in the process.

The DMV and Other Such Nonsense

I had to wait a little while to detox from my day at the DMV before writing about it. I arrived, stood on line, took my number, and then waited almost four hours for an appointment that took ten minutes. It had to be the most inefficient system I have seen in a while. I sat in the waiting room listening to a woman scream that she has never done crack, casually reading my Economist. I almost finished the magazine. If you have ever picked up an Economist, you will know how much time they take to read. Not really a browsing little mag. I was sitting next to some people that were there to sort out a ticket and get their license back. They had both been caught driving without insurance. They bellyached and bitched about the state “nickel and diming you”. I restrained myself, but I wanted to say, “You assholes are driving around without insurance. You deserve every fine and inconvenience you are experiencing.” But I smiled, and placidly returned to my reading. I was astonished that if you have to have insurance to drive, why was I not asked to produce it before getting my license or registering my car. I mean, that’s just logical. Once I had my license, I had to then drive to the county clerk’s office to register my car. For realz? You can’t do both at the Department of Motor Vehicles??? Stupid. They have a blanket cost of $90 dollars to register your vehicle. They didn’t seem to care that the truck is 12 years old. When you live in states that don’t have income tax, people tend to brag about it with wide-eyed enthusiasm. But whether they take it from your check or not, they get their taxes. At least when it is deducted, you don’t quite notice it the same way as when you are paying 10% tax on your soda. Nevertheless, I am licensed and registered and that is good.

I started a part-time job at American Eagle to try and generate a little cash flow in the interim. The training was laughably anemic. I’m pretty sure they taught me to smile, but I can’t be positive. My first shift was on the dreaded black Friday. I was a little nervous because I really detest being unprepared. However, it was crazy boring. I really just stood there, said “All these hoodies are $19.77 and with the 20% discount in the store, that makes them $16.” and then refolded all the disturbed clothes over and over and over and over and over and over again. One of the managers approached me on Saturday to tell me he really thought I could be a top associate. “You have a good head on your shoulders. You’re smart. And you have managed a retail store. I don’t know what your plans are, but there is room to grow here.” It was really quite sweet. And he is a super cool guy so far. But I couldn’t help but laugh wildly on the inside and blast it on Facebook. I mean, honestly, retail management…um…no. I am finding my 19 year old coworkers to be a bit icy, but I didn’t really get the job to make friends. And after cleaning the store today, let me caution all of you from wearing clothes from a store without washing them first. Trust me. I have also recognized a slight ethical dilemma in working here. The major push is sales, obviously. But the tactics to try and get people to buy more than they intend sort of rubs me the wrong way. Without knowing whether or not they can afford it, it makes me really uncomfortable. Because 20% off is nice, but it makes you spend more than maybe you should. And I feel sleazy shoving products in their hands. So I really just avoid that admonishment altogether.

It is nice to have something to do, even if it makes me want to bash my brains in and involves listening to Katy Perry and that stupid “Teenage Dream” song twice an hour. Not that Weezer’s “We Wish You a Merry Christmas” is much better. Activity helps to keep all things in a bit of perspective. Or serves as a distraction, which is just as good.

I am thankful that I got a job. Thankful that I was able to spend Thanksgiving with a friend. Thankful that I am here even if I still don't know why.

Blues Can Make You Feel So Good

Tuesday night, I was invited to a blues showcase at the Bluebird Café. I figured if it wasn’t good, it would at least be fodder for the blog. As my father says, “Good blues can make you feel so good.” There were three acts in this round. Dave Perkins (friend of my new friend), some other guy, and a couple whose band name is Blue Mother Tupelo.

Now, the guy who seemed to have organized the evening, ironic that I can’t remember his name, he sang mostly about food. I have deemed him to be bubblegum blues. He also shook his head in order to produce vibrato. That one stumps me. How do you not develop natural vibrato? Or why don’t you go see an ENT when your vocal cords no longer meet? Anyway, he was enjoyable in a pop blues kind of way. He told a story about a mentor of his named Coot Wilfred. Now, Coot was married to a woman called Susta Baby. She got this name by being the youngest girl in her family. When she went to college, she went by her given name. But when she married Coot she went back to Susta Baby because she didn’t want to be Winifred Wilfred. I turned to my friend and said, “Honestly, are these real words?” Classic southern story.

Dave Perkins was an interesting cat. He is apparently getting his PHD in religion. His music had blatant theological overtones. Which if you have listened to very much blues, if they have a theological bent, it is usually quite simple. But Dave’s music had well developed, conflicted, at times even doubting theological assertions. His was a very intellectual blues. Fantastic, to be sure. Remarkably talented guy. He had some of the smoothest and measured guitar licks I have ever heard. Although he is a bit out of my age range, he is still super cool looking. One of those folks with fashion sense that never expires. He ended his set playing a Robert Johnson tune that the entire group joined. It was…well…not sure I know the right word for it. “Marvelous” will have to do.

Then there was Blue Mother Tupelo. Oh my goodness. We all can appreciate the difference between talented people and those that have the cosmic “it” factor. These two have “it” and then some. The wife of the team sounded like Patty Griffin on steroids. She had that earthy, node-ridden quality to her voice. Her lines just flowed and danced through each song. She doesn’t have a very full or even sonorous voice. It was like coloratura husky. And when she played the tambourine, she looked like a boxer warming up for a fight. Every part of her body was moving and contracting as this 5 foot nothing pixie added percussion to the mix. Her husband was crazy good. He swapped back and forth between his acoustic and a steel string guitar. And when they sang together, they didn’t have harmonies that lived symbiotically. It was as if they were both singing their own melodies that just met up now and then. I was so enraptured with these two that I passed her a note in the middle of the show. It said, “You guys are rad. Best act I have seen in Nashville.” She thought it was so sweet she put it in her shirt “next to my heart.” I talked with both of them after the show like a bumbling fan. Couldn’t find an articulate word in my brain. I was so captured and lifted and mesmerized. I went home and bought one of their records on iTunes. And the best thing happened. I listened to it, loved it, and thought, “This doesn’t come close to the live show.” So much better than having a record that you love and then being profoundly disappointed by the performer live. If you have any interest in Americana/Blues, you need to add Blue Mother Tupelo to your catalogue.

Loneliness Blows

When I was younger, I used to write a lot of poetry. A lot. In fact, I wrote a new poem on the back of every Algebra test in 8th grade. My teacher loved them. She was a math teacher, so I am not sure she had any poetic expertise. I wrote mostly about the boys I liked. And the boys I didn’t like. Occasionally, I wrote on more serious matters like when my uncle died. At 15, I abruptly abandoned poetry. In the name of artistic prowess, I felt that the poetry was becoming a type of therapy. It was not written for its own sake. And I’ll be damned if I was going to be another teenager in black clothes writing about the grim world of my preternatural adolescent experience. Truth be told, I should have kept at it. I needed the outlet and the therapy. But my desire to never be a stereotype kept me from poetry and trendy haircuts I would be ashamed of later in life. Such concern for how the older me would judge the younger me.

I don’t think I have ever outgrown it. I never want to be somebody’s slogan. Always, always, always meaning what I say, wearing my feelings on my face, discontent with disingenuous conversation, and craving deep and cosmic connection. If you have read any previous entries on this blog, you could easily surmise that I am critical and opinionated. And in good faith, I am. I would hope that my critical eye is an effort to always find truth and beauty. However, I confess that a good portion comes from superiority. And I hate that. I hate that separation. I hate the distance it puts between me and whatever I have just observed.

If you could boil my basic theology into one word, it would be “inclusion”. Maybe “subsuming” because I like the sound of that word. I believe with all of my heart that God desires and works to include us in his heart, love, will, and work. And we are to do the same with Him and with others. And anything that begins to separate or distance us from others, from Him, and especially ourselves does more damage than we can know. There is fear in isolation. There is calamity that overcomes the human spirit in isolation. And there is a profound lack of perspective that creeps in and settles in our minds.

I also think that our most basic theologies have a great deal to do with our underlying pathologies. I have never been completely the odd man out. I have always been a part of the circle without ever really being a part of the circle. Just separate enough to be discouraged. And just a part of everything to feel paranoid and dramatic. It is has proven difficult to assimilate and also maintain my fierce devotion to being my own person. I know that I crave inclusion and it greatly influences my view of everything, especially God.

All that to say, and that was a lot to say to get to a very narrow point, loneliness blows. This is the toughest portion of the move. The time when you are no longer part of the place you came from, but not yet a part of the place you are.

I watched a lovely movie the other night where a character prayed this prayer.

“Dear God,

All I can do is stammer to You.
I can do nothing but hold out my heart to You.
You created us in Your likeness.
Our hearts are uneasy
until they find peace in You.

Amen”

That about sums it up.

I Miss the Arclight

I have been to two movies since moving to Nashville. And I have gone to two different theaters. I have become painfully aware of how much the ambiance of the actual theater contributes to the overall experience of the movie. And how much the crappy ambiance can detract from it. I like to sit close to the screen in movie theaters for two reasons; most people sit in the middle or the back surrounding me with empty chairs in the front greatly reducing the chance that I am sitting next to a chatterbox or candy wrapping handicapped individual, and I like to be enveloped in the film. I like to sit so close that I forget I am at the movies. But when the theater sucks, it doesn’t matter how close I am to the screen. If that cloth collage of Charlie Chaplin is in my peripheral vision, it is all over. Who even likes those? So lame.

The first theater I went to was decorated in a lovely purple and green combo, complete with green neon lights running the length of the walls and ceiling. I felt like I was in “Tron” or 1991. I went down the stairs and into a hallway leading to my theater and was accosted with the most revolting smell. It was like a combo of popcorn butter, sweat, decades of foot traffic, and grime. Honestly, I would have preferred to step into a classroom with 25 fifth graders that just had PE. That is how bad it smelled. The theater itself barely shook off the hallway odor. I think I must have just started to ignore it. It greatly inhibited my emersion into “RED”. I went to this theater because it was in the cool part of town. Not really cool like “hip” but cool like “this is where the money is”. And it is completely surrounded by a remolded mall.

After that debacle, I decided that I would risk the theater closer to home. I mean, could it be worse? At least it was built in the last decade. Not much better. The smell wasn’t quite as repugnant. However, the projector was color challenged. Frequently throughout the film the color would be off and it registered most notably on the actor’s faces. They all looked like they had jaundice. Imagine Justin Timberlake with jaundice. Nobody needs to see that. BUT I DID! It really disrupts my experience when anything reminds me that I am in fact, watching a movie. I mean I know I am watching a movie. But when I get distracted by “Is that a really bad make-up artist making them all yellow?” instead of just thinking, “Wow. Armie Hammer turned out way hotter than I would have expected when he was 13”. (I used to go to church with him), well, that is lame.

All that to say, I miss the Arclight and its like-minded affiliates. I even miss the Laemmle theaters.

The Consolation of Winter

I was really angry with myself yesterday for a few reasons. The chief reason being that I completely missed the ending of daylight savings. I look forward to this time of year like most people look forward to Christmas. It isn’t that I don’t like daylight. I am a fan of the sun. Not that much of a fan since I have a delicate complexion and very sensitive eyes. But I don’t begrudge him his time to shine. The reason I love daylight savings is because of the glorious extra hour of sleep. It isn’t just the extra hour. It is the anticipation. It is knowing all day that I get to set my clock one hour earlier. It makes me giddy. It makes me feel all warm and cuddly. I almost always stay up an extra hour or two completely defeating the purpose. But when I wake up the next morning, it feels lovely. This year, in my state of funemployment, I tend lose track of the date and normal cycle of life. Completely missed the daylight savings. I had one alarm go off and then thinking I had slept in until 10, my phone alarm went off alerting me that it was in fact 9 am. I was confused for a moment. And then it occurred to me. I had missed my favorite holiday. It was just an ordinary Saturday night. Broke my heart a little.

Last night as I was falling asleep, taking stock of my day worrying about tomorrow, I interrupted my personal scolding to realize why I enjoy colder weather. Not arctic cold, just crispy cold. I had added a blanket underneath my comforter. Under the weight of my jersey sheets, blanket, and down comforter, I was gloriously replete. When I woke up in the night to use the bathroom (a nightly curse), I snuggled back into my den of hibernation. I sleep better with heavy blankets. I don’t know why. Maybe it is where I register on the autism scale. But the blankets, the weight, the cavern of warmth, this is my consolation. So I missed my favorite day of the year and my silly excitement over the time change. I had weight to comfort me as I slept.

E-I-E-I-Oh No

Well, I am in Music City. So it is only fitting that I go hear music often. I need to find some venues that are not country oriented. The formulaic nature of country songwriting gets on my nerves. I would say the songs are riddled with play on words, but I don’t think that is it. They are more like a turn of phrase that sounds clever but is quite insubstantial. Tonight, I heard “One step closer to nowhere at all.” and “E-I-E-I-OOOO” a song about the lessons you learn living on a farm. I guess. There was a woman who by her third song I had trouble not laughing. In fact, I failed. I chuckled often. She kept jerking her face away from the microphone to spare it the overload. The irony of course was that she neither had a big enough voice to necessitate such a gesture nor was she singing loudly. She also had a machine gun vibrato that made me cringe. There was the odd family sitting a few tables away. If I didn’t know he was a fictional character, I would swear the son was Lenny from “Of Mice and Men”. He walked with a glazed crazed look on his face without moving his arms. There was also a man in a wheelchair that did not use the wheels to move the chair but rather his feet. Why do you need a wheelchair if you have the use of your legs? Very odd, indeed. Then came the third set of musicians. Holy night. There was this girl that has no business being in Nashville. Her voice alone much less her brilliantly quirky music belongs in a different market. Her name was Katie something and she was magnificent. Her voice was half Rachel Yamagata and half Billy Holiday. Intoxicating, really. The kind of work that makes me think I completely wasted my youth. And I am sure my brother will agree with that last sentence.

Cans of Beer

I went to the famous Bluebird Café last night to hear songwriter’s in a round. The Bluebird is interesting. It is this tiny little café in a strip mall with little to no parking. It sits across from an uber suburban mall not unlike The Grove. And yet, it is crazy famous. There were three songwriters. Two women and a married couple. They chit chat between songs and tell stories. The married couple was awesome. They call themselves “Carolina Sings”. I recommend exploring their music. One of the women had a lovely voice and her music was pretty good. Interesting lyrics, but not really any hooks to her songs. I don’t really remember a single song. Kind of like seeing a musical that you remember liking, but don’t walk away humming the music. The other artist was…well, I didn’t care for her. They are embarking on a tour today. The Bluebird was their first night. The café has a $7 minimum purchase of food and/or beverage. I thought a salad sounded lovely. But I forgot were I was. Iceberg lettuce is NOT a reasonable form of lettuce in a house salad. It has its place. Sandwiches, garnish, or even mixed in with darker greens, I suppose. But it was the only lettuce in the bowl. Felt like I was eating damp, crisp cardboard. I need to learn that lesson quickly. Good salads must be made at home. Then there were the cans of beer. None that I ordered, of course. But they were everywhere. Everybody had beer in a can. What self-respecting bar serves beer in a can? You drink canned beer at a frat party, or intertubing, or on your front lawn. You do not drink it in a bar. They should be ashamed of themselves. At one point, Ben of Carolina Sings was introducing the next song. He said it was inspired in reaction to the horrible movie “2012”. I never saw it so I can’t comment. But he showed his age and ignorance when saying that in an epic film like that the casting should be more thoughtful. “John Cusack? Who is that? He has “Serendipity” to his name and that is about it. They should have gotten Denzel.” I’m sorry, what? Serendipity? Are you serious? Have you ever heard of “Better of Dead”, “Say Anything”, “Gross Point Blank.”? Hell, I would put “Must Love Dogs” higher up on the list of credentials than “Serendipity”. I was a bit horrified. The other part that was quite a shift for me was the number of Christian centric songs. Really threw me when someone played a song she wrote for her Old Testament History class in college. When you go to hear music in LA, there is the occasional Christian song that makes an appearance. Usually, it is performed by a new arrival to the city. Geez, I got a terrible review for singing a spiritual a capella at a show. You can still find it with a simple Google search. It was a warning of what not to do. The reviewer failed to mention that the room went ape shit for the song, and it only bothered him. I figured if U2 can sing “40”, Cream can sing “Presence of the Lord”, and Phish can sing “Amazing Grace”, I was pretty safe at a dinky bar on Sunset. But I digress. One of the girls didn’t understand the reference of one of the songs. The other girl said, “Well, Amy, if you ever bothered to pick up a Bible you would know.” And the room erupted in an “Ooh”. Wow. I am in the South. When a “not reading your Bible” quip can provoke such a reaction from the crowd.

All in all, I dug it. The caliber of voices goes dramatically up in the Music City. Reminds me of Austin. LA for being the seat of the record labels really doesn’t provide a plethora of high quality singers. It is usually a find.

Mega Grace

I went to a church service last night with a friend. It’s a mid-week service of a Southern Baptist church aimed primarily for the 18 to 35 age range. There is a smattering of folks on either side of that bracket that attend. I met a woman whose family is from Southern California. She said, “I hear you moved here from LA. What part? Were you really from LA? Because a lot of people say they are from LA and don’t live anywhere near the city proper.” I didn’t know what her definition of “LA proper” was. I felt immediately on the spot to give the right answer. What if my answer was Arcadia? Was I then less from Southern California than her? She who lives in Nashville. We talked about Venice for a while. My friend mentioned that the only time he had been to Venice was during a Hemp festival (didn’t know they had such a thing). He said, “Not exactly the experience I was expecting.” I told him he had the quintessential Venice experience.

I’m not one for mega churches. I am a bit agoraphobic. Can’t really deal with crowds unless I am on the stage in front of them. The last vestiges of the performer in me. I also tend to feel like I am not having a meaningful exchange. The large number of people usually corresponds with less intimacy. Not always, of course, but often enough to make the experience feel generic. This service was fitted with all the usual accommodations for appeal to a younger crowd. Dark room, cool stage lights, bitchin tight band, modern graphics behind the lyrics, etc. It was pleasant enough. The musicians were amazing. The songs were…well…they were fine. There was one lyric that really stumped me. “If grace were an ocean, we’re all sinking.” Hmm…can one drown in grace? Is that really the best metaphor? I empathize with the songwriter. Sometimes you are too close to the song to see that there is just one couplet that needs ten more minutes of thought. I get annoyed with bad metaphors in songs. “Nothing compares to your embrace”. Baloney. God never gave you a hug. And metaphorically, it is odd.

This church was all about grace. Most of the songs featured it as a central theme. The prayer before the sermon was all about grace. The sermon was not about grace. It was about friendship. Although I am still struggling to figure out what the point of the sermon was, it was well delivered. It was just unclear what the take away was. How was I challenged to be a better, godly person? And can I become better or godly without grace?

I’m not sure how I feel about the liberal use of the word or concept of grace. I don’t go to this church. I don’t know their understanding or definition of the concept. And you can’t judge a place or their beliefs after one viewing. But it got me thinking. In general, I wonder about the repetitive use of the word grace. The statements that say, “It’s all about grace” or “I am nothing without grace”. Really, I have trouble with any statement that removes the person from the equation and makes everything either because of or about the divine’s interaction. Seems that the common Protestant definition of grace is the power given to us to see Godly characteristics developed in our lives. I think that concept can get warped into something little more than taking an aspirin. I have a headache, I take an aspirin and my headache goes away. Compared to, I am a bastard, I ask for grace, and I am not a bastard anymore. Not through my merits, of course. It was all God. Nonsense. Even with supernatural assistance, I still have to make the choice and take the steps to not be a bastard anymore. I have to see the behaviors reflect a deficiency in my character. And I have to take measures to see my heart changed not just my behavior modified. My objection to the prolific and common use of any theological concept is that it can often lead to violating the blessed and sacredness of free will. If we do nothing on our own, if nothing is our choice, if we are not partners in this faith journey, then we are puppets. I struggle sometimes to see how to maintain my own identity while walking with God. I have felt that venturing down the road of being a Christ follower meant that I was no longer a participant. Or at least, my participation meant the eradication of my humanity. I don’t think that God wants to eradicate our humanity, but rather our sin. We are to be sanctified, but does that mean we are no longer ourselves? By obeying his commandments, do I loose all sense of self? Is that what he wants?

The worship song that ended the service had a line or two that I can’t recall exactly, but stated that the love of Jesus was all that we needed and all we ever wanted. It was put in the first person. I stopped singing when it got to that line. It isn’t enough for me. It isn’t all I ever want. And I am not sure that it is all he wants me to want. Be willing to forsake all for? Yes. But is forsaking all an obligatory part of accepting or receiving this love? My brilliant sister once said, “The scripture says that ‘Man shall not live by bread alone’. That doesn’t mean we only subsist on the words that proceed from the mouth of God. There is still bread that we require. And it is ok to want and need bread”. He didn’t create us to subsist on his love alone. And I can’t sing that line even if it is hyperbole. It isn’t honest. If it isn’t everything to me, does that mean that I love this world too much? I honestly don’t know. In any case, the service made me think. Even if it was in reaction to it, thinking is always a good thing.