Dear Reader:
It's been awhile since I've posted here. And this will actually be my last one. But don't worry! If you kinda, sorta, maybe liked this blog, it is now at a new site: tolosemywaywithwords.wordpress.com
Also, I decided to start a running blog. You can read it at: takeitontherun.wordpress.com
And for a little shameless self-promotion, if you want to read the non-blogging writing I have done, you can find it at lauraroseallen.wordpress.com under the writing page :)
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
Intuition
It was just the three of us, sitting in a corner booth at a chicken finger fast food joint called Cane's. I picked at the two small chicken fingers and fries I ordered (the kid's meal because any more grease and fast food surely would've done me over) and stared up at the Sex and the City photo overhead. This was really only my third time spending time in Columbus and I wasn't sure quite what to think of it yet.
My recent past experiences with Columbus aren't the most memorable. In high school I spent a gloomy weekend there in a tiny church with my church youth group. It was an odd experience, and it didn't help that my friend's car got towed overnight. God may be forgiving but those tow-truck people surely aren't. Then in college, on our way to a race at Penn State, we got into a four-car accident right outside of Columbus. We met the tow truck people again because one car was totaled (she avoided the accident but the semi behind her didn't - it totaled her car and the people inside were honestly lucky to walk away without a scratch). Things started to look up this past December when my boyfriend and I drove out to see a Pens-Blue Jackets game. The game was a blast - my only complaint was that our dining options prior to the game were very limited. Regardless, my feelings toward C-bus have been a little apathetic.
But I still wasn't sure what to make of it. With time to kill I asked if we could take a look at Ohio State's campus. My new friend Yappy was more than happy to show me around.
We drove around the campus - me asking what every building was, Yappy explaining, and my friend Ryan complaining because he is a Michigan fan. We stopped and took a visit inside the student union. It reminded me of Ball State's student center, only a tad bit cooler. As we continued exploring, I realized, based solely on aesthetics, that I really liked Ohio State. I liked the size of the campus. I liked how many people I saw, despite it being summer. I liked the vibe I was getting from it. As we continued driving and I saw their version of a village, it clicked with me: this was the college I had dreamed of my whole life. This was the place, that had I explored more, I would've ended up going to.
It is big and thriving, contrary to the town Ball State sits in. Some may call it Funcie but I usually find nothing fun about it. I confessed to my OSU friends that had I known what Muncie really was like prior to deciding on Ball State, I probably wouldn't have gone. I would picked the rural college town of Miami. Or Ohio State. Or Penn State (if I could have afforded it). Of course it's too late to realize these things now: after this summer I'm officially done with my undergrad.
I don't know why places and locations matter so much to me. But for a minute there in Columbus I felt a little sorry for myself. Sorry that I missed out on a school like Ohio State and a town like Columbus. Sorry that Ball State was not located there. Sorry I hadn't done my research and simply went with my gut.
The good news is though, I did not go with what I found aesthetically pleasing. I did go with my gut. Long before ever seeing Ball State I had a feeling that was the school I was going to end up going to. As far as journalism schools went, it was the only other one I had heard of that wasn't too far from home, and wasn't OU. Call it intuition, but I think I was right.
Although I will never love Muncie, and I will never get to know what it would be like to attend college in a town I actually like, I will never regret my decision to attend Ball State. I wanted to attend college with the intention of learning about how to be a writer. While the learning process has only begun, I would say my time at BSU was a success. Plus, hearing my boss say he would consider me for a position if Cincinnati Magazine was hiring also kind of reconfirms that :)
My loyalty will always lie within a little city in the Hooiser state. But it was fun getting to be a temporary Buckeye.
My recent past experiences with Columbus aren't the most memorable. In high school I spent a gloomy weekend there in a tiny church with my church youth group. It was an odd experience, and it didn't help that my friend's car got towed overnight. God may be forgiving but those tow-truck people surely aren't. Then in college, on our way to a race at Penn State, we got into a four-car accident right outside of Columbus. We met the tow truck people again because one car was totaled (she avoided the accident but the semi behind her didn't - it totaled her car and the people inside were honestly lucky to walk away without a scratch). Things started to look up this past December when my boyfriend and I drove out to see a Pens-Blue Jackets game. The game was a blast - my only complaint was that our dining options prior to the game were very limited. Regardless, my feelings toward C-bus have been a little apathetic.
But I still wasn't sure what to make of it. With time to kill I asked if we could take a look at Ohio State's campus. My new friend Yappy was more than happy to show me around.
We drove around the campus - me asking what every building was, Yappy explaining, and my friend Ryan complaining because he is a Michigan fan. We stopped and took a visit inside the student union. It reminded me of Ball State's student center, only a tad bit cooler. As we continued exploring, I realized, based solely on aesthetics, that I really liked Ohio State. I liked the size of the campus. I liked how many people I saw, despite it being summer. I liked the vibe I was getting from it. As we continued driving and I saw their version of a village, it clicked with me: this was the college I had dreamed of my whole life. This was the place, that had I explored more, I would've ended up going to.
It is big and thriving, contrary to the town Ball State sits in. Some may call it Funcie but I usually find nothing fun about it. I confessed to my OSU friends that had I known what Muncie really was like prior to deciding on Ball State, I probably wouldn't have gone. I would picked the rural college town of Miami. Or Ohio State. Or Penn State (if I could have afforded it). Of course it's too late to realize these things now: after this summer I'm officially done with my undergrad.
I don't know why places and locations matter so much to me. But for a minute there in Columbus I felt a little sorry for myself. Sorry that I missed out on a school like Ohio State and a town like Columbus. Sorry that Ball State was not located there. Sorry I hadn't done my research and simply went with my gut.
The good news is though, I did not go with what I found aesthetically pleasing. I did go with my gut. Long before ever seeing Ball State I had a feeling that was the school I was going to end up going to. As far as journalism schools went, it was the only other one I had heard of that wasn't too far from home, and wasn't OU. Call it intuition, but I think I was right.
Although I will never love Muncie, and I will never get to know what it would be like to attend college in a town I actually like, I will never regret my decision to attend Ball State. I wanted to attend college with the intention of learning about how to be a writer. While the learning process has only begun, I would say my time at BSU was a success. Plus, hearing my boss say he would consider me for a position if Cincinnati Magazine was hiring also kind of reconfirms that :)
My loyalty will always lie within a little city in the Hooiser state. But it was fun getting to be a temporary Buckeye.
Monday, June 27, 2011
Wasting Time
As 9 p.m. rolled around on Saturday, I was somewhere on I-71 heading north. Just me, an extra set of clothes, and a big mom van. Destination? Columbus.
It was one of those few times since graduating high school that I would be seeing people from my graduating class. Aside from my girls, most people I knew from high school I lost contact with. I wasn't "close" friends with a whole lot of people. I mostly kept to the cross-country team and young life. And even there I lost touch with a lot of people. With the exception of the few who I plan to stay friends with for the rest of my life, I was ready for a fresh start the moment I walked across the stage at commencement. That included leaving people behind.
Yet there I was, three years since high school and carving a chunk out of my weekend to see - get this - people I wasn't even really friends with in high school. People I never hung out with and barely talked to. So how on earth, in three years, did I go from "forget Fairfield" to suddenly spending the night with friends I was never friends with? Answer: twitter.
I'm not sure exactly how it happened, but somehow in the past three years three friends all acquired a twitter account; then we all began to follow one another. Then we began to tweet/mention one another. At first it was about random stuff: how will the football game go, what movies do I need to see, and so on. But as time began to continue on I realized a friendship was blooming. We'd joke to each other, or if need be, offer words of encouragement when times weren't so easy. What 12 years of school didn't do, twitter was able to accomplish.
I never thought highly of the whole "online friendship" thing. I guess it reminded me of my younger days when I was a middle schooler and had nothing better to do but to roam the web. I thought AOL chat rooms were cool, until I realized they were a magnet for all of the weirdos in the world. That's a big thing: people can be creepy and the best way to avoid the creepers is to stay far away from them. This means don't find friends via the web. Another part of me always thought it was kind of pathetic. Why do you need to find friends online when you can go out in the real world and find them? I always thought the ones who made friends online were the lonely weirdos just looking for company.
I still kind of feel that way...I guess. It depends. And my situation is unique because I already knew these people. They weren't random strangers. But to be fair, I have met strangers (see, that still sounds bad to me) online and they seem like rather normal people. I think. I hope. Maybe I'll never know.
The point is social media did what I thought it could never do: form genuine relationships. Now I'm not advocating that you should find your best friend or future spouse via the web. And it's certainly true that I am closer to the friends I hang out with more than the ones I simply tweet. But if it hadn't been for twitter, I would have never gone up to Columbus to hang out with the friends I was never friends with. I would've probably never seen a Crew game. And I'm almost certain my weekend would've been ten times more lame.
Ironic thing is I deactivated my facebook and decided to temporarily stop tweeting that Friday night before. I got annoyed with it, and I couldn't help but think to myself "This is stupid. Why do I care about these websites?" Little did I know that I would later realize how useful social media can be.
The moral of the story: Twitter is more than "status updates" as some would say. I realize it is a medium to connect with people I probably would've easily lost touch with, just like the others. So I'm glad I still use my social media outlets and I'm grateful for their existence. Even if they still feel like a complete waste of time.
It was one of those few times since graduating high school that I would be seeing people from my graduating class. Aside from my girls, most people I knew from high school I lost contact with. I wasn't "close" friends with a whole lot of people. I mostly kept to the cross-country team and young life. And even there I lost touch with a lot of people. With the exception of the few who I plan to stay friends with for the rest of my life, I was ready for a fresh start the moment I walked across the stage at commencement. That included leaving people behind.
Yet there I was, three years since high school and carving a chunk out of my weekend to see - get this - people I wasn't even really friends with in high school. People I never hung out with and barely talked to. So how on earth, in three years, did I go from "forget Fairfield" to suddenly spending the night with friends I was never friends with? Answer: twitter.
I'm not sure exactly how it happened, but somehow in the past three years three friends all acquired a twitter account; then we all began to follow one another. Then we began to tweet/mention one another. At first it was about random stuff: how will the football game go, what movies do I need to see, and so on. But as time began to continue on I realized a friendship was blooming. We'd joke to each other, or if need be, offer words of encouragement when times weren't so easy. What 12 years of school didn't do, twitter was able to accomplish.
I never thought highly of the whole "online friendship" thing. I guess it reminded me of my younger days when I was a middle schooler and had nothing better to do but to roam the web. I thought AOL chat rooms were cool, until I realized they were a magnet for all of the weirdos in the world. That's a big thing: people can be creepy and the best way to avoid the creepers is to stay far away from them. This means don't find friends via the web. Another part of me always thought it was kind of pathetic. Why do you need to find friends online when you can go out in the real world and find them? I always thought the ones who made friends online were the lonely weirdos just looking for company.
I still kind of feel that way...I guess. It depends. And my situation is unique because I already knew these people. They weren't random strangers. But to be fair, I have met strangers (see, that still sounds bad to me) online and they seem like rather normal people. I think. I hope. Maybe I'll never know.
The point is social media did what I thought it could never do: form genuine relationships. Now I'm not advocating that you should find your best friend or future spouse via the web. And it's certainly true that I am closer to the friends I hang out with more than the ones I simply tweet. But if it hadn't been for twitter, I would have never gone up to Columbus to hang out with the friends I was never friends with. I would've probably never seen a Crew game. And I'm almost certain my weekend would've been ten times more lame.
Ironic thing is I deactivated my facebook and decided to temporarily stop tweeting that Friday night before. I got annoyed with it, and I couldn't help but think to myself "This is stupid. Why do I care about these websites?" Little did I know that I would later realize how useful social media can be.
The moral of the story: Twitter is more than "status updates" as some would say. I realize it is a medium to connect with people I probably would've easily lost touch with, just like the others. So I'm glad I still use my social media outlets and I'm grateful for their existence. Even if they still feel like a complete waste of time.
Friday, June 24, 2011
Ignoring Yiayia
I met an old friend for ice cream today. I've known her for at least a decade, as she is my pastor's daughter, and over time she became a good friend. In high school she was the girl I would call up when I was having boy troubles. We'd offer one another advice and dreamed of what life could be like with the man we'd call "the one."
Catching up with her today was no different from back then. She told me of the sexy young lad she is teaching English to and I updated her on my relationship. Naturally, she asked about our future, the one thing that remains a big question mark. I told her that with him moving to Milwaukee for grad school, and having to be there for at least 6 years to get his doctorate, Milwaukee is my goal. But then she also went out on a limb and asked a question very few people have asked me: Are you going to live with him?
I've assumed that no one has asked me this question for two reasons: 1) When I tell them "I am planning on moving to Milwaukee to be with my boyfriend" they automatically assume we'd be residing in the same location. 2) They're too afraid to ask or they don't want to know. I have been vague either way. Moving to Milwaukee does not mean I will be living with him. Nor does it mean I won't be. Either way, I could not avoid her straight-forwardness.
So I went with being honest. Yes, I told her. I want to live with him.
Of course, luckily for me, even though she is the pastor's daughter she has a very open mind. She understands my desire to live with him; she also understands my concerns about living with him. Either way, she does not judge me. And in that I was reminded of why she is such a good friend.
Unfortunately, I doubt everyone in my circle of family and friends will feel the same way. Some have been very supportive; specifically those who are wishing to live with their significant other. Some are apathetic, such as my father, who said, "Eh, I don't care. It's your life. Do what you want." And then there are those who are against it. This would be my mother. Although her exact response was "Um, I have mixed feelings about it," (which is code for I don't support this at all), she gave me the same wide-eyed look of shock as the time I accidentally said the F word in front of her (oops).
So in hopes of avoiding all of those against (except for my mother) I decided I would not share with people my exact plans. I would not tell them that I am already planning out how I could help pay for the rent, or that we've discussed who would take care of what household duties, or where we would get the necessary furniture. Nope. The plan was to be vague and avoid all Milwaukee details until I could avoid them no longer.
But today I decided - I don't care.
A friend recently wrote a blog recalling an encounter which when told to in person made me laugh to the point tears welled in my eyes. It was funny because he tells of a moment he is terrified of being judged. And in his blog he quoted my professor who said, "You are always being judged. Always." My friend's take from the matter was that you should be careful about what you say and do, because someone is always judging you.
This is true. And perhaps I should be more aware of the things I say and do. I do care about what people think, especially those who are close to me. Sometimes I care too much. But with this? I don't care at all.
I have several reasons for my desire to live with him. And I could list them, but I won't. Because I don't think I need to justify to anyone my reasons for a personal decision. It's take it or leave it, but telling me you don't agree isn't going to stop me (as my Mom has come to understand).
To some, I am making a bigger deal out of this than I should be. It's not unusual for couples to live together before marriage. Some might say it's smart - you get a test run at marriage and if it doesn't work out, there's no messy divorce to deal with. But I suppose it feels like a big deal to me, because I was not suppose to end up in this situation. I was a good Christian girl who was suppose to stick to her religious beliefs.
But beliefs, and morals, can change.
I guess what I'm afraid of is a "Yiayia" reaction. If you don't know what I'm talking about, watch this: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JmD-wDEeOds&feature=relmfu .While I don't think anyone is going to tell me I am going to hell, I don't think everyone will be supportive.
I am always being judged. And I don't care. If I try to care about what everyone thinks of every decision I make all the time, I will run myself into the ground. I am not perfect. The decisions I make are not perfect. And for all I know, moving in with him could be the greatest mistake of my life. But that's a risk I'm willing to take. Regardless of what anyone thinks.
Catching up with her today was no different from back then. She told me of the sexy young lad she is teaching English to and I updated her on my relationship. Naturally, she asked about our future, the one thing that remains a big question mark. I told her that with him moving to Milwaukee for grad school, and having to be there for at least 6 years to get his doctorate, Milwaukee is my goal. But then she also went out on a limb and asked a question very few people have asked me: Are you going to live with him?
I've assumed that no one has asked me this question for two reasons: 1) When I tell them "I am planning on moving to Milwaukee to be with my boyfriend" they automatically assume we'd be residing in the same location. 2) They're too afraid to ask or they don't want to know. I have been vague either way. Moving to Milwaukee does not mean I will be living with him. Nor does it mean I won't be. Either way, I could not avoid her straight-forwardness.
So I went with being honest. Yes, I told her. I want to live with him.
Of course, luckily for me, even though she is the pastor's daughter she has a very open mind. She understands my desire to live with him; she also understands my concerns about living with him. Either way, she does not judge me. And in that I was reminded of why she is such a good friend.
Unfortunately, I doubt everyone in my circle of family and friends will feel the same way. Some have been very supportive; specifically those who are wishing to live with their significant other. Some are apathetic, such as my father, who said, "Eh, I don't care. It's your life. Do what you want." And then there are those who are against it. This would be my mother. Although her exact response was "Um, I have mixed feelings about it," (which is code for I don't support this at all), she gave me the same wide-eyed look of shock as the time I accidentally said the F word in front of her (oops).
So in hopes of avoiding all of those against (except for my mother) I decided I would not share with people my exact plans. I would not tell them that I am already planning out how I could help pay for the rent, or that we've discussed who would take care of what household duties, or where we would get the necessary furniture. Nope. The plan was to be vague and avoid all Milwaukee details until I could avoid them no longer.
But today I decided - I don't care.
A friend recently wrote a blog recalling an encounter which when told to in person made me laugh to the point tears welled in my eyes. It was funny because he tells of a moment he is terrified of being judged. And in his blog he quoted my professor who said, "You are always being judged. Always." My friend's take from the matter was that you should be careful about what you say and do, because someone is always judging you.
This is true. And perhaps I should be more aware of the things I say and do. I do care about what people think, especially those who are close to me. Sometimes I care too much. But with this? I don't care at all.
I have several reasons for my desire to live with him. And I could list them, but I won't. Because I don't think I need to justify to anyone my reasons for a personal decision. It's take it or leave it, but telling me you don't agree isn't going to stop me (as my Mom has come to understand).
To some, I am making a bigger deal out of this than I should be. It's not unusual for couples to live together before marriage. Some might say it's smart - you get a test run at marriage and if it doesn't work out, there's no messy divorce to deal with. But I suppose it feels like a big deal to me, because I was not suppose to end up in this situation. I was a good Christian girl who was suppose to stick to her religious beliefs.
But beliefs, and morals, can change.
I guess what I'm afraid of is a "Yiayia" reaction. If you don't know what I'm talking about, watch this: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JmD-wDEeOds&feature=relmfu .While I don't think anyone is going to tell me I am going to hell, I don't think everyone will be supportive.
I am always being judged. And I don't care. If I try to care about what everyone thinks of every decision I make all the time, I will run myself into the ground. I am not perfect. The decisions I make are not perfect. And for all I know, moving in with him could be the greatest mistake of my life. But that's a risk I'm willing to take. Regardless of what anyone thinks.
Saturday, June 18, 2011
All I Want
Another typical Saturday night and out of habit/boredom I logged onto my facebook. There in my news feed, in all caps, was a friend's excitement of some news he had just received but couldn't tell. He couldn't tell it, he said, because it wasn't "facebook official" yet. Of course, being "facebook official" usually implies a change in relationship. My guess was that someone got engaged. A text message later, and I learned I was right.
In all previous circumstances I have literally bounced off the walls in joy for my friends. I grin as the girls tell me how he proposed. They show me photos of their wedding gowns and I tell them how beautiful it is. I goggle at their rings, ask them what their song will be, and feel a sincere and genuine sense of happiness for them.
But today, I did not feel that.
Joy did not show up today. Instead, the green-eyed monster made his appearance. The couple I had just learned of getting engaged is younger than me. They have been together for the same amount of time as my boyfriend and I. And they have known each other even less than us. To learn of their engagement, was pathetically a blow to my self-esteem.
Wow, that's really shallow, Laura.
Yes, yes it is. It is shallow, pathetic, and selfish. In a time when I should be happy for them, all I could think about was me. It's wrong. But it's the truth.
I hate admitting it, but learning of so many friends' engagements and marriages is getting old, and it's getting old fast. Don't get me wrong, in most of these cases I am still jubilant for the couple. But as I keep seeing more and more friends walking around with diamond rings on their left ring fingers, a small sense of hopelessness eats at me. Why don't I have a ring on my finger? Why hasn't my boyfriend popped the question? And, even more concerning, why doesn't he even want to think or talk about it?
I got off of facebook and plopped myself on my bed. What is wrong with me? I thought. Why must I compare myself to other couples? Because I am human and when I see friends getting what I want, I can't help but wonder why it's not happening for me.
This has happened before but in all previous situations it was something I could "solve" on my own. Friends get better grades? I'll study more. Friends have cuter outfits? I'll save my money and update my wardrobe. Friends have boyfriends? I'll try to be prettier, funnier, cuter, flirtier, whatever it takes to make boys notice me more.
The boyfriend category was always the hardest.
I was not the girl guys fawned over in high school. I did not wake up at 5 a.m. to do my hair and make-up. I wore sweats and hoodies. Puberty plus genetics were not kind to my skin. I was awkward and shy. And when you have size 0, bleach-blonde cheerleaders running around, it's hard to compete.
But I watched my friends get into relationships. I watched them find dates for homecoming and prom. I felt jealous of them, jealous that they had what I always wanted. And I always wondered what I was doing wrong.
Of course, high school fortunately came to an end and I had much better luck at college. I met the boy who I thought was cute and charming, the one that could make me laugh and give me a shoulder to cry on. From the moment he asked me to be his girlfriend, I've had what I've always wanted.
But want never stops. Being his girlfriend suddenly doesn't seem like enough when I see a younger couple, who have been in their relationship just as long, with plans to tie the knot. At first it was just wanting the wedding. The dress, the "I do's", the cake, the dancing. But now I want what the wedding is all about: marriage. I want the commitment. I want the relationship solidified. I want confirmation that we are both comfortable with what we have and are willing to make it work for the rest of our lives.
Fortunately I am dating someone smarter than me, who isn't as rash about rushing into marriage. Because he admits he is not ready, I know I have no marriage to plan for anytime soon. Which gives me the opportunity to think about whether I am really ready for it or not.
Part of me wonders how much jealousy drives a person to do something. How much of an influence do my friends have over me? Do I really want to get married? Or am I just wanting what my friends have? Am I really prepared to handle a lifetime commitment? Or do I just think trying on wedding dresses, picking out cake flavors, and deciding on a guest list would be fun?
Chances are, I am not ready for marriage. Although I have witnessed 21 years of my parents' marriage, I have no idea what it is really like. I don't know how to handle a budget with another person. I don't know the best way to solve an argument. I don't know what it is like the day you wake up and the butterflies are gone and you no longer have the "rush" you once felt for that person. I don't even know what I would do when that day comes. And I'm guessing these thoughts are only hitting the tip of the iceberg.
I do want to get married. There is no denying that. But wanting it and being ready for it are two very different things. And again, fortunately for me, my boyfriend will not ask me to marry him until he feels we are fully ready for it (I was lucky to find someone so responsible…unlike myself).
So I will fight the green-eyed monster, because I know what he wants is fleeting, whereas marriage should be a lifetime. And I will support my friends who have already made the decision, and hope with all of my heart they are doing it because they are ready. Not because it's what they want.
In all previous circumstances I have literally bounced off the walls in joy for my friends. I grin as the girls tell me how he proposed. They show me photos of their wedding gowns and I tell them how beautiful it is. I goggle at their rings, ask them what their song will be, and feel a sincere and genuine sense of happiness for them.
But today, I did not feel that.
Joy did not show up today. Instead, the green-eyed monster made his appearance. The couple I had just learned of getting engaged is younger than me. They have been together for the same amount of time as my boyfriend and I. And they have known each other even less than us. To learn of their engagement, was pathetically a blow to my self-esteem.
Wow, that's really shallow, Laura.
Yes, yes it is. It is shallow, pathetic, and selfish. In a time when I should be happy for them, all I could think about was me. It's wrong. But it's the truth.
I hate admitting it, but learning of so many friends' engagements and marriages is getting old, and it's getting old fast. Don't get me wrong, in most of these cases I am still jubilant for the couple. But as I keep seeing more and more friends walking around with diamond rings on their left ring fingers, a small sense of hopelessness eats at me. Why don't I have a ring on my finger? Why hasn't my boyfriend popped the question? And, even more concerning, why doesn't he even want to think or talk about it?
I got off of facebook and plopped myself on my bed. What is wrong with me? I thought. Why must I compare myself to other couples? Because I am human and when I see friends getting what I want, I can't help but wonder why it's not happening for me.
This has happened before but in all previous situations it was something I could "solve" on my own. Friends get better grades? I'll study more. Friends have cuter outfits? I'll save my money and update my wardrobe. Friends have boyfriends? I'll try to be prettier, funnier, cuter, flirtier, whatever it takes to make boys notice me more.
The boyfriend category was always the hardest.
I was not the girl guys fawned over in high school. I did not wake up at 5 a.m. to do my hair and make-up. I wore sweats and hoodies. Puberty plus genetics were not kind to my skin. I was awkward and shy. And when you have size 0, bleach-blonde cheerleaders running around, it's hard to compete.
But I watched my friends get into relationships. I watched them find dates for homecoming and prom. I felt jealous of them, jealous that they had what I always wanted. And I always wondered what I was doing wrong.
Of course, high school fortunately came to an end and I had much better luck at college. I met the boy who I thought was cute and charming, the one that could make me laugh and give me a shoulder to cry on. From the moment he asked me to be his girlfriend, I've had what I've always wanted.
But want never stops. Being his girlfriend suddenly doesn't seem like enough when I see a younger couple, who have been in their relationship just as long, with plans to tie the knot. At first it was just wanting the wedding. The dress, the "I do's", the cake, the dancing. But now I want what the wedding is all about: marriage. I want the commitment. I want the relationship solidified. I want confirmation that we are both comfortable with what we have and are willing to make it work for the rest of our lives.
Fortunately I am dating someone smarter than me, who isn't as rash about rushing into marriage. Because he admits he is not ready, I know I have no marriage to plan for anytime soon. Which gives me the opportunity to think about whether I am really ready for it or not.
Part of me wonders how much jealousy drives a person to do something. How much of an influence do my friends have over me? Do I really want to get married? Or am I just wanting what my friends have? Am I really prepared to handle a lifetime commitment? Or do I just think trying on wedding dresses, picking out cake flavors, and deciding on a guest list would be fun?
Chances are, I am not ready for marriage. Although I have witnessed 21 years of my parents' marriage, I have no idea what it is really like. I don't know how to handle a budget with another person. I don't know the best way to solve an argument. I don't know what it is like the day you wake up and the butterflies are gone and you no longer have the "rush" you once felt for that person. I don't even know what I would do when that day comes. And I'm guessing these thoughts are only hitting the tip of the iceberg.
I do want to get married. There is no denying that. But wanting it and being ready for it are two very different things. And again, fortunately for me, my boyfriend will not ask me to marry him until he feels we are fully ready for it (I was lucky to find someone so responsible…unlike myself).
So I will fight the green-eyed monster, because I know what he wants is fleeting, whereas marriage should be a lifetime. And I will support my friends who have already made the decision, and hope with all of my heart they are doing it because they are ready. Not because it's what they want.
Sunday, June 12, 2011
Setting the monster free
***I wrote this blog on the Invictus website (theinvictuswriters.com) and wanted to share here, for those of you who may not know what this invictus thing is all about. I encourage you to check out the website :) ***
I wasn’t expecting the past to find me today. But alas, as I was scrolling through the documents on my dad’s computer to find a file I had just uploaded, something caught my eye. Shown in the preview of a folder titled “Laura” was a photo I thought no longer existed: a photo of me with my coach.
After the whole ordeal that happened with my coach, I attempted to destroy all evidence of him. With the exception of a journal I deleted all files on my computer that contained anything dealing with my coach. Pictures on facebook were promptly taken off. Printed photos were ripped up and tossed into the trash. Running notes he had given me were burned (literally). I threw a necklace he had given to each of us girls after his trip to Florida into Lake Erie. I was angry, and I wanted all items dealing with his memory destroyed.
Despite successfully destroying most of the items, I was still haunted by what happened. There was no trashcan in my head that I could store my memories into, no button to press “delete.” As time went on I thought less and less of it. But it was always there, in the back of my head, an ugly little monster reminding me of happy memories gone sour. And I wasn’t sure how to get rid of it.
But then this project popped up. And when the theme “mentor” was decided on, I knew this was the story I was going to tell. I didn’t know why, and because of that I struggled with it the entire way. I could not figure out why I was telling the story, what the point was behind it. I was afraid that my desire to tell it was only proof that I wasn’t over it, that, as several of my friends put it, I was still dwelling on it. Every time I sat down to write I would only type up a few sentences, ask myself why I was writing this, and then walk away.
Finally over spring break I decided I would write. What I did instead was dump. Staying up until 4 a.m. almost every night I dumped every memory I could remember onto the screen. By the end of the week I had 29 pages of every event that happened in a span of 2 years.
Of course, dumping is not the same as telling a story, and it didn’t take long for Brad to remind me of that. I remember the afternoon I received a tweet from him telling me not to panic. Sure enough in my inbox was his edits to my story, as usual, covered in red. In that e-mail he said, “I think you are lost in the narrative.” And he was right.
We met at Starbucks to talk about it. He told me what he thought the story was about. “Schoolgirl fantasy meets adulthood reality,” he said. Suddenly it clicked. It was such a simple concept and yet it had been eluding me this whole time. That one sentence finally made me realize what my story was all about, and more importantly, why I was telling it.
Writing Ugly Little Monster was not easy. I had to reach into the past and think not only about what he was like, but what I was like. Confessing that I was that girl who thought she could end up with her coach was embarrassing to me. But being able to tell it was proof to me that it was in the past. And, more importantly, it was freeing.
Which is why I surprised to find that when I came across the photo, I did not have the knee-jerk reaction to drag it to the trashcan. Instead I looked at it, and for the first time felt nothing. No feelings of anger or bitterness. No feelings of sadness or missing what I once had. Instead I recognized it for what it was: a moment capturing the happiness between a coach and athlete, both oblivious to the destruction their friendship/relationship would soon face. A moment that is dead.
So I decided to keep it. Because that photo serves as a reminder to the process I went through in telling this story. Telling my story was releasing my past, so that I could move on. And while I hope others can take something away from my story, I told it for myself. In telling my story, I set my ugly little monster free.
I wasn’t expecting the past to find me today. But alas, as I was scrolling through the documents on my dad’s computer to find a file I had just uploaded, something caught my eye. Shown in the preview of a folder titled “Laura” was a photo I thought no longer existed: a photo of me with my coach.
After the whole ordeal that happened with my coach, I attempted to destroy all evidence of him. With the exception of a journal I deleted all files on my computer that contained anything dealing with my coach. Pictures on facebook were promptly taken off. Printed photos were ripped up and tossed into the trash. Running notes he had given me were burned (literally). I threw a necklace he had given to each of us girls after his trip to Florida into Lake Erie. I was angry, and I wanted all items dealing with his memory destroyed.
Despite successfully destroying most of the items, I was still haunted by what happened. There was no trashcan in my head that I could store my memories into, no button to press “delete.” As time went on I thought less and less of it. But it was always there, in the back of my head, an ugly little monster reminding me of happy memories gone sour. And I wasn’t sure how to get rid of it.
But then this project popped up. And when the theme “mentor” was decided on, I knew this was the story I was going to tell. I didn’t know why, and because of that I struggled with it the entire way. I could not figure out why I was telling the story, what the point was behind it. I was afraid that my desire to tell it was only proof that I wasn’t over it, that, as several of my friends put it, I was still dwelling on it. Every time I sat down to write I would only type up a few sentences, ask myself why I was writing this, and then walk away.
Finally over spring break I decided I would write. What I did instead was dump. Staying up until 4 a.m. almost every night I dumped every memory I could remember onto the screen. By the end of the week I had 29 pages of every event that happened in a span of 2 years.
Of course, dumping is not the same as telling a story, and it didn’t take long for Brad to remind me of that. I remember the afternoon I received a tweet from him telling me not to panic. Sure enough in my inbox was his edits to my story, as usual, covered in red. In that e-mail he said, “I think you are lost in the narrative.” And he was right.
We met at Starbucks to talk about it. He told me what he thought the story was about. “Schoolgirl fantasy meets adulthood reality,” he said. Suddenly it clicked. It was such a simple concept and yet it had been eluding me this whole time. That one sentence finally made me realize what my story was all about, and more importantly, why I was telling it.
Writing Ugly Little Monster was not easy. I had to reach into the past and think not only about what he was like, but what I was like. Confessing that I was that girl who thought she could end up with her coach was embarrassing to me. But being able to tell it was proof to me that it was in the past. And, more importantly, it was freeing.
Which is why I surprised to find that when I came across the photo, I did not have the knee-jerk reaction to drag it to the trashcan. Instead I looked at it, and for the first time felt nothing. No feelings of anger or bitterness. No feelings of sadness or missing what I once had. Instead I recognized it for what it was: a moment capturing the happiness between a coach and athlete, both oblivious to the destruction their friendship/relationship would soon face. A moment that is dead.
So I decided to keep it. Because that photo serves as a reminder to the process I went through in telling this story. Telling my story was releasing my past, so that I could move on. And while I hope others can take something away from my story, I told it for myself. In telling my story, I set my ugly little monster free.
Thursday, June 2, 2011
Middletown, USA
The impossible, and I do mean the impossible, happened to me yesterday. As I was sitting in a Mexican restaurant with a former and current intern for lunch, I gazed out the window at the streets of Cincinnati and thought, "I miss Muncie."
You, or I guess in this situation, I, never thought I would see the day I missed Muncie. Miss my friends? Absolutely. Ball State? For sure. But Middletown, America? Nope. Never.
When I first traveled to Muncie it was "hate at first sight." I had no immediate connection to the city or anything that went on there. And the more I explored it, which I did often on runs, the more I realized my disgust for it.
I'm not quite sure what it is about Muncie I despise. There are a lot of things I can point out that I don't like, such as all the potholes, the lack of attractions, the "White" River, the run-down areas and specific spots that I avoid at all costs. Quite frankly Ball State is the only part of Muncie I found pleasing. As I often say to my friends, had I known what Muncie was really like before attending Ball State, I probably would've passed and settled for an education at a different school with a prettier location. I'm glad I didn't, but that's how much I dread Muncie, Indiana.
I suppose I just never felt a real connection with Muncie and for me that's a problem. I have been in a constant search for the perfect place to live for as long as I can remember. I longed for the days my family and I would travel to New York where I could gaze out at Lake Erie and breathe in the fresh air. I'd count down the days to visit my grandparents in Pittsburgh, where we would sled down its infamous hills in the winter and take only a 10 minute drive to see the sights of the Steel City. I feel a deep connection when I am in those two places. I suppose you could say I feel right at home.
I never felt the right at home feeling with Muncie. At least not when I was living there. I loved the afternoons where I would watch Muncie disappear in my rearview as I drove onward to Ohio. When I returned to Muncie, I would quite literally sigh and think to myself, "Well, here I am again." The only thing I look forward to when returning to Muncie was the people - I never looked forward to the actual place.
After my freshman year I hoped that my feelings toward Muncie would change, but they never did. Day after day and month after month I found myself looking forward to the day I would be free from the city. And just a few weeks ago that day came.
I did feel relief leaving Muncie. I felt happy knowing I would never have to live there again unless I so choose. Muncie is officially in my past - and I have no intentions of it being in my future.
But yesterday my relief and happiness subsided. As I sat in that Mexican restaurant, nostalgia hit me. The two interns were not my ball state friends. The food, the same dish I ordered week after week at Puerto Vallarta's, did not taste the same. And as I looked out the window at the streets of Cincinnati, the place I so often associate as my home, I did not feel at home.
I got what I wanted. I am out of Muncie, back in my beloved Cincinnati, with the opportunity of learning more about this writing career I am attempting to take on. It's a shame I miss what I had all along.
I don't regret my feelings toward Muncie. I know I probably would have never fully appreciated it if I stayed in the city. The only thing I wish I could take back is all the time I spent moping and bickering about it, when I could've been appreciating the few things it did have to offer: the irreplaceable memories that have helped shape me into the person I am today. Those are the parts of Muncie I will remember, those are the parts of Muncie I love.
You, or I guess in this situation, I, never thought I would see the day I missed Muncie. Miss my friends? Absolutely. Ball State? For sure. But Middletown, America? Nope. Never.
When I first traveled to Muncie it was "hate at first sight." I had no immediate connection to the city or anything that went on there. And the more I explored it, which I did often on runs, the more I realized my disgust for it.
I'm not quite sure what it is about Muncie I despise. There are a lot of things I can point out that I don't like, such as all the potholes, the lack of attractions, the "White" River, the run-down areas and specific spots that I avoid at all costs. Quite frankly Ball State is the only part of Muncie I found pleasing. As I often say to my friends, had I known what Muncie was really like before attending Ball State, I probably would've passed and settled for an education at a different school with a prettier location. I'm glad I didn't, but that's how much I dread Muncie, Indiana.
I suppose I just never felt a real connection with Muncie and for me that's a problem. I have been in a constant search for the perfect place to live for as long as I can remember. I longed for the days my family and I would travel to New York where I could gaze out at Lake Erie and breathe in the fresh air. I'd count down the days to visit my grandparents in Pittsburgh, where we would sled down its infamous hills in the winter and take only a 10 minute drive to see the sights of the Steel City. I feel a deep connection when I am in those two places. I suppose you could say I feel right at home.
I never felt the right at home feeling with Muncie. At least not when I was living there. I loved the afternoons where I would watch Muncie disappear in my rearview as I drove onward to Ohio. When I returned to Muncie, I would quite literally sigh and think to myself, "Well, here I am again." The only thing I look forward to when returning to Muncie was the people - I never looked forward to the actual place.
After my freshman year I hoped that my feelings toward Muncie would change, but they never did. Day after day and month after month I found myself looking forward to the day I would be free from the city. And just a few weeks ago that day came.
I did feel relief leaving Muncie. I felt happy knowing I would never have to live there again unless I so choose. Muncie is officially in my past - and I have no intentions of it being in my future.
But yesterday my relief and happiness subsided. As I sat in that Mexican restaurant, nostalgia hit me. The two interns were not my ball state friends. The food, the same dish I ordered week after week at Puerto Vallarta's, did not taste the same. And as I looked out the window at the streets of Cincinnati, the place I so often associate as my home, I did not feel at home.
I got what I wanted. I am out of Muncie, back in my beloved Cincinnati, with the opportunity of learning more about this writing career I am attempting to take on. It's a shame I miss what I had all along.
I don't regret my feelings toward Muncie. I know I probably would have never fully appreciated it if I stayed in the city. The only thing I wish I could take back is all the time I spent moping and bickering about it, when I could've been appreciating the few things it did have to offer: the irreplaceable memories that have helped shape me into the person I am today. Those are the parts of Muncie I will remember, those are the parts of Muncie I love.
Saturday, May 28, 2011
The Red Pill
I have a confession to make. Recently I have found that when I am not paying attention, when I am zoned out in my own little world, I catch myself humming and singing to a recent song that should make me blush in shame: Lady Gaga's "Judas."
The first time I heard it I was driving from my hometown to Muncie. When it popped up I almost turned it off. A good Christian follower wouldn't subject his or herself to a song about their Savior's betrayer. Still, the curious, "try to be open-minded" side told me there was no harm in hearing what she had to say. I listened intently to the lyrics, trying to interpret the message she was relaying. It eluded me. After the song ended I sat there behind the wheel thinking, "Huh?"
Of course my confusion about it only meant that I was going to listen to it more. I wanted to figure it out. Which is what I have been trying to do. I listen to the song. I read the lyrics. And last night I watched the music video. I still don't completely know what to make of it. The best interpretation I could come up with is based off the line "Jesus is my virtue, and Judas is the demon I cling to." Perhaps she is saying she cannot stop herself from sinning and giving into the darker side of life.
Still unsatisfied I decided to investigate some more. Somewhere out there in the world had to be some clues as to how Lady Gaga feels about religion and God. Especially after her Alejandro video, in which she dresses as a nun and swallows a rosary.
I watched and read interviews. She says she is religious and that she prays and believes in God and Jesus. I also learned she attended a Catholic school her whole life. That tidbit of information right there made everything click.
I am not out to disrespect Catholic schools or the Catholic Church or anything of that sort. But I have noticed, with my friends who attended Catholic schools, most of them do not have a close relationship or faith in God. In fact, ironically most of them are atheists. I don't know why this is. All I know is that they're impossible to argue with. They have a wealth of knowledge on the Bible and Christianity and have also spent a decent amount of time seriously reflecting on it and the validity of it all. I, on the other hand, know very little about what's written in the Bible and its validity. I actually know very little about my faith and belief. No wonder I get so frustrated with it.
I find this ironic and silly of me. How can I go around preaching something I barely know anything about? It's foolish. Foolish to put my belief and faith into something I haven't devoted any time into learning about. And as I talked about in my last blog, I fear that my lack of knowledge will cause my faith to be misdirected. I don't want to end up like one of Camping's followers, so certain of something I had very little information about.
So I've decided that my ignorance needs to come to an end. I have just spent the past three years receiving an education in journalism – finding the truth has been shoved down my throat. I've been trained to research, ask questions, and to be "objective." Maybe it's time I take some of these tools and use them for my own good.
I don't really know how to go about this. Should I start in Genesis and just go from the beginning to the end? Should I make up a list of questions and concerns and focus on finding those answers? Should I check out some books? And how do I go about finding the other side of the story? Should I go down to the Creation Museum and then go talk to a scientist who specializes in evolution? Should I keep going to church or should I isolate myself from other believers in hopes of finding how I feel about everything?
I haven't even started and I'm already frustrated.
Good news is I don't think there is a right or wrong way of going about this. So my first step is simple. What's the first thing I always do when I'm confused or frustrated? Actually it's run, but the second thing is: write. Writing clarifies my confusion. And since my faith seems to be the most complicated part of my life right now, I figure writing about it is a good place to start. I have a journal and a pen. And I plan on filling it with all of my thoughts, questions, prayers, and discoveries. My journey starts tomorrow.
I started this blog talking about Lady Gaga. There is a reason for that. Because the more I listen to Judas and the more I read about her the more I sympathize for her. Why? Because I think she is confused as well. I don't think she's out to piss people off. Maybe she is, but I would like to think it's a little more innocent than that. I would like to think she is using her music as a venue for expressing her confusion. I'm not saying she is right or that I agree with some of the things she does; I certainly don't condone her actions. All I'm saying is that I think I get it. I think.
Regardless, her song Judas has inspired me to go in search of the answers I've been asking my whole life. It's time to swallow the red pill.
The first time I heard it I was driving from my hometown to Muncie. When it popped up I almost turned it off. A good Christian follower wouldn't subject his or herself to a song about their Savior's betrayer. Still, the curious, "try to be open-minded" side told me there was no harm in hearing what she had to say. I listened intently to the lyrics, trying to interpret the message she was relaying. It eluded me. After the song ended I sat there behind the wheel thinking, "Huh?"
Of course my confusion about it only meant that I was going to listen to it more. I wanted to figure it out. Which is what I have been trying to do. I listen to the song. I read the lyrics. And last night I watched the music video. I still don't completely know what to make of it. The best interpretation I could come up with is based off the line "Jesus is my virtue, and Judas is the demon I cling to." Perhaps she is saying she cannot stop herself from sinning and giving into the darker side of life.
Still unsatisfied I decided to investigate some more. Somewhere out there in the world had to be some clues as to how Lady Gaga feels about religion and God. Especially after her Alejandro video, in which she dresses as a nun and swallows a rosary.
I watched and read interviews. She says she is religious and that she prays and believes in God and Jesus. I also learned she attended a Catholic school her whole life. That tidbit of information right there made everything click.
I am not out to disrespect Catholic schools or the Catholic Church or anything of that sort. But I have noticed, with my friends who attended Catholic schools, most of them do not have a close relationship or faith in God. In fact, ironically most of them are atheists. I don't know why this is. All I know is that they're impossible to argue with. They have a wealth of knowledge on the Bible and Christianity and have also spent a decent amount of time seriously reflecting on it and the validity of it all. I, on the other hand, know very little about what's written in the Bible and its validity. I actually know very little about my faith and belief. No wonder I get so frustrated with it.
I find this ironic and silly of me. How can I go around preaching something I barely know anything about? It's foolish. Foolish to put my belief and faith into something I haven't devoted any time into learning about. And as I talked about in my last blog, I fear that my lack of knowledge will cause my faith to be misdirected. I don't want to end up like one of Camping's followers, so certain of something I had very little information about.
So I've decided that my ignorance needs to come to an end. I have just spent the past three years receiving an education in journalism – finding the truth has been shoved down my throat. I've been trained to research, ask questions, and to be "objective." Maybe it's time I take some of these tools and use them for my own good.
I don't really know how to go about this. Should I start in Genesis and just go from the beginning to the end? Should I make up a list of questions and concerns and focus on finding those answers? Should I check out some books? And how do I go about finding the other side of the story? Should I go down to the Creation Museum and then go talk to a scientist who specializes in evolution? Should I keep going to church or should I isolate myself from other believers in hopes of finding how I feel about everything?
I haven't even started and I'm already frustrated.
Good news is I don't think there is a right or wrong way of going about this. So my first step is simple. What's the first thing I always do when I'm confused or frustrated? Actually it's run, but the second thing is: write. Writing clarifies my confusion. And since my faith seems to be the most complicated part of my life right now, I figure writing about it is a good place to start. I have a journal and a pen. And I plan on filling it with all of my thoughts, questions, prayers, and discoveries. My journey starts tomorrow.
I started this blog talking about Lady Gaga. There is a reason for that. Because the more I listen to Judas and the more I read about her the more I sympathize for her. Why? Because I think she is confused as well. I don't think she's out to piss people off. Maybe she is, but I would like to think it's a little more innocent than that. I would like to think she is using her music as a venue for expressing her confusion. I'm not saying she is right or that I agree with some of the things she does; I certainly don't condone her actions. All I'm saying is that I think I get it. I think.
Regardless, her song Judas has inspired me to go in search of the answers I've been asking my whole life. It's time to swallow the red pill.
Sunday, May 22, 2011
No Good Deed
Twitter was the first to bring me the news. It was on Friday, May 20 when I read a tweet that caught me off guard: the rapture is happening. And it was happening tomorrow at 6 p.m.
Well, today is now Monday, May 23, and so far no earthquakes have happened, no Christians have disappeared, and we all know that the prediction made by Harold Camping of Family Radio was a complete and total failure. The majority of people, including Christians, saw that coming. But there was a small group of people who didn't. And as you can imagine, those people are devastated.
When 6 p.m. EST past and nothing happened, I knew it was safe to say that Camping's predictions were wrong. I immediately opened up my browser and began scouring the web for news articles about the failure of the rapture. I specifically was looking for the reactions of his followers and of Camping. I found an article of a woman saying the time was wrong, and that just because the rapture didn't happen yet didn't mean it wasn't going to happen later that day. But here we are, more than 24 hours later, and still, no rapture.
Initially this has all been amusing to me. I thought (still think) Camping was a little looney, and I laughed when I saw that he had already made a failed prediction back in 1994. I logged online Saturday evening because I wanted to see what these nut cases had to say. I poked my finger and laughed.
My amusement was uncalled for.
Afterward it began sinking in with me that a tragedy had really happened in all of this. This wasn't just some crazy guy out shouting that the world was coming to an end. This was a preacher, who had loyal followers. Followers so loyal that some of them gave up their life savings to put up billboards and advertisements about the day of the second coming. Followers who gave up their lives in order to save others. Followers with good intentions. Followers who are now penniless, being mocked, and have had a decent blow to their faith. And nothing about that is funny.
I'm not sure who is at fault here. It would be easy to blame Camping, and many people are. One person said he thought Camping was an atheist, who used his rapture prediction as a way to draw in donations to his ministry. Perhaps he is an atheist with bad intentions. Personally, I don't think he is. I think he is a Christian, who really felt he had both God and the Bible figured out enough to know what God was going to do next. My guess is he felt God was telling him to figure out the date of the second coming and to share that date with others. His message was a success. His prediction? Not so much.
Part of me does blame Camping. I am not in the position to judge, but considering the fact he already made a prediction and was wrong, you would think he would take that as a hint that perhaps God doesn't want him to figure out the second coming. I'm hoping after this one, he gives up on the crystal ball for good. We'll find out later what he has to say.
The followers are at some fault too. They didn't have to listen to Camping. They didn't have to give up their jobs, money, and time. They had a free choice, and so it would be easy for us to say, "This was your decision. Sorry it didn't work in your favor, but it's not our fault. Good luck." And I'm sure some people out there are thinking that. But I hope you're not one of them.
Whether you're a Christian, Jew, Muslim, atheist, agnostic, witch, whatever, I hope you recognize the tragedy in this. I hope you realize the power that lies in faith and the damage it can produce when it's misdirected.
I am not sad that the rapture didn't happen. I am rather glad Camping was wrong because it is proof that no one can predict the ways of God. But what upsets me is the damage that's been done. It breaks my heart to think that someone out there gave up their life savings to spread the word of something they truly believed was going to happen. It takes a lot of guts and courage to abandon your money and life to try to help others for something you believe in. Having to confess you were wrong and deal with the consequences will not be an easy one, and I am praying these followers will be able to get their lives back in order without the criticism of ignorant people. I am also praying they haven't lost complete faith in God.
Faith is a messy thing. It brings people together. It gives us hope. It makes life worth living. But it's also dangerous. It can lead to the devastation these followers are facing, that Christianity is facing. And the worst part is, we never know whether our faith is being misdirected or not. We just have to have faith that we are right. We have to trust our hearts and hope with all of our might our guts aren't the ones taking us down the wrong path. All we can do is listen to our moral compass and pray it is pointing in the right direction.
I am sad that these followers, and Camping, had so much faith in the second coming and it turned out wrong. Especially when, the followers at least, had good intentions. But no good deed goes unpunished.
Well, today is now Monday, May 23, and so far no earthquakes have happened, no Christians have disappeared, and we all know that the prediction made by Harold Camping of Family Radio was a complete and total failure. The majority of people, including Christians, saw that coming. But there was a small group of people who didn't. And as you can imagine, those people are devastated.
When 6 p.m. EST past and nothing happened, I knew it was safe to say that Camping's predictions were wrong. I immediately opened up my browser and began scouring the web for news articles about the failure of the rapture. I specifically was looking for the reactions of his followers and of Camping. I found an article of a woman saying the time was wrong, and that just because the rapture didn't happen yet didn't mean it wasn't going to happen later that day. But here we are, more than 24 hours later, and still, no rapture.
Initially this has all been amusing to me. I thought (still think) Camping was a little looney, and I laughed when I saw that he had already made a failed prediction back in 1994. I logged online Saturday evening because I wanted to see what these nut cases had to say. I poked my finger and laughed.
My amusement was uncalled for.
Afterward it began sinking in with me that a tragedy had really happened in all of this. This wasn't just some crazy guy out shouting that the world was coming to an end. This was a preacher, who had loyal followers. Followers so loyal that some of them gave up their life savings to put up billboards and advertisements about the day of the second coming. Followers who gave up their lives in order to save others. Followers with good intentions. Followers who are now penniless, being mocked, and have had a decent blow to their faith. And nothing about that is funny.
I'm not sure who is at fault here. It would be easy to blame Camping, and many people are. One person said he thought Camping was an atheist, who used his rapture prediction as a way to draw in donations to his ministry. Perhaps he is an atheist with bad intentions. Personally, I don't think he is. I think he is a Christian, who really felt he had both God and the Bible figured out enough to know what God was going to do next. My guess is he felt God was telling him to figure out the date of the second coming and to share that date with others. His message was a success. His prediction? Not so much.
Part of me does blame Camping. I am not in the position to judge, but considering the fact he already made a prediction and was wrong, you would think he would take that as a hint that perhaps God doesn't want him to figure out the second coming. I'm hoping after this one, he gives up on the crystal ball for good. We'll find out later what he has to say.
The followers are at some fault too. They didn't have to listen to Camping. They didn't have to give up their jobs, money, and time. They had a free choice, and so it would be easy for us to say, "This was your decision. Sorry it didn't work in your favor, but it's not our fault. Good luck." And I'm sure some people out there are thinking that. But I hope you're not one of them.
Whether you're a Christian, Jew, Muslim, atheist, agnostic, witch, whatever, I hope you recognize the tragedy in this. I hope you realize the power that lies in faith and the damage it can produce when it's misdirected.
I am not sad that the rapture didn't happen. I am rather glad Camping was wrong because it is proof that no one can predict the ways of God. But what upsets me is the damage that's been done. It breaks my heart to think that someone out there gave up their life savings to spread the word of something they truly believed was going to happen. It takes a lot of guts and courage to abandon your money and life to try to help others for something you believe in. Having to confess you were wrong and deal with the consequences will not be an easy one, and I am praying these followers will be able to get their lives back in order without the criticism of ignorant people. I am also praying they haven't lost complete faith in God.
Faith is a messy thing. It brings people together. It gives us hope. It makes life worth living. But it's also dangerous. It can lead to the devastation these followers are facing, that Christianity is facing. And the worst part is, we never know whether our faith is being misdirected or not. We just have to have faith that we are right. We have to trust our hearts and hope with all of our might our guts aren't the ones taking us down the wrong path. All we can do is listen to our moral compass and pray it is pointing in the right direction.
I am sad that these followers, and Camping, had so much faith in the second coming and it turned out wrong. Especially when, the followers at least, had good intentions. But no good deed goes unpunished.
Friday, May 20, 2011
The Remedy
It is Thursday night/ Friday morning as I write this. My computer clock tells me it's 1:00 a.m., although I suspect it is still on eastern time and I have moved ever so slightly west into the central time zone. In that case, it is probably just now midnight. Either way, it is long past the time of when I had the intentions of writing.
I could make excuses for my lack of writing. I am at my boyfriend's house in Indiana. My time up until this point has been spent sleeping, petting animals, searching for a cat, bike riding, visiting Milwaukee, cursing at fax machines, making smoothies, watching 3 movies, stuffing my face with my boyfriend's Italian grandma's home-cooking, and passing a total of 13 hours in the car. Listing the random activities I have engaged in makes it seem like I've actually been productive over the past few days. But quite honestly, just sitting here in this queen sized-bed typing while the rest of the house sleeps is the most productive thing I've done.
So here I am. Writing. Not even sure what I want to write about or what I need to say. Which in my case is never good. My blog is driven by my personal experiences, the emotional turmoil of a college girl facing the big questions that seem to determine the rest of her life: Where will I live? Will I find a job? Is it a job that I want? What will my boyfriend and I do? Can we go long-distance? Will I give up my dreams to be with him? Will I give up him for my dreams? Will I be able to have the life I've always dreamed of?
These questions exhaust me. They haunt me. They're my little Caspers, popping up when I'm trying to go about my day and scaring the hell out of me. And I have dealt with them so many times before I don't want to think about them anymore. So I avoid them. And in turn, I avoid writing.
For a while I was thinking I had a slight case of writer's block. I wanted to sit down and write but I couldn't find a topic I felt passionate writing about. And there is plenty I could share. Like being almost officially done with college, or my first impression of Milwaukee, or how I feel about my boyfriend's avoidance on the topic of marriage, or how pumped I am for my internship…you get the picture. But I don't want to deal with those topics. I don't want to sort out the thoughts and feelings for them. I don't want to think about my career or my relationship or my future. And truth be told, I don't think writing about those topics would be much help anyway.
When it comes to my blog, I write for me. I write to sort things out, to see what it is that's running through my mind right before me. My blog acts as a mirror, a reflection of the things that aren't so obvious to me until I take the time to really analyze them. This has always been a useful tool for me. I have little epiphanies when I write my posts. Then I post them, in hopes that someone else might find some use out of them as well. And if they don't, well, I hope they're still at least somewhat entertaining.
But as time has taught me, you can only analyze things so much before you just have to put them to rest. I have contemplated what will happen after this summer numerous times and the result has remained the same: I don't know. I don't know where I will be. I don't know what I'll be doing. I don't know what it will mean for my boyfriend and I. I simply don't know. And I probably won't know until this summer has passed.
Uncertainty frustrates me. But wasting my time worrying about it is even worse. There is no point analyzing how I feel about these things because in the end it might not matter. Only time will tell what my course of action will be. And that time is not now.
But you can certainly bet that when the time is right I will face those questions and hopefully have some answers for them. And when the time comes, I'll be here, writing, questioning, thinking, and over-analyzing away. Until then, I'll shoo those questions away. I have more important things to enjoy than to waste my time with worry.
I could make excuses for my lack of writing. I am at my boyfriend's house in Indiana. My time up until this point has been spent sleeping, petting animals, searching for a cat, bike riding, visiting Milwaukee, cursing at fax machines, making smoothies, watching 3 movies, stuffing my face with my boyfriend's Italian grandma's home-cooking, and passing a total of 13 hours in the car. Listing the random activities I have engaged in makes it seem like I've actually been productive over the past few days. But quite honestly, just sitting here in this queen sized-bed typing while the rest of the house sleeps is the most productive thing I've done.
So here I am. Writing. Not even sure what I want to write about or what I need to say. Which in my case is never good. My blog is driven by my personal experiences, the emotional turmoil of a college girl facing the big questions that seem to determine the rest of her life: Where will I live? Will I find a job? Is it a job that I want? What will my boyfriend and I do? Can we go long-distance? Will I give up my dreams to be with him? Will I give up him for my dreams? Will I be able to have the life I've always dreamed of?
These questions exhaust me. They haunt me. They're my little Caspers, popping up when I'm trying to go about my day and scaring the hell out of me. And I have dealt with them so many times before I don't want to think about them anymore. So I avoid them. And in turn, I avoid writing.
For a while I was thinking I had a slight case of writer's block. I wanted to sit down and write but I couldn't find a topic I felt passionate writing about. And there is plenty I could share. Like being almost officially done with college, or my first impression of Milwaukee, or how I feel about my boyfriend's avoidance on the topic of marriage, or how pumped I am for my internship…you get the picture. But I don't want to deal with those topics. I don't want to sort out the thoughts and feelings for them. I don't want to think about my career or my relationship or my future. And truth be told, I don't think writing about those topics would be much help anyway.
When it comes to my blog, I write for me. I write to sort things out, to see what it is that's running through my mind right before me. My blog acts as a mirror, a reflection of the things that aren't so obvious to me until I take the time to really analyze them. This has always been a useful tool for me. I have little epiphanies when I write my posts. Then I post them, in hopes that someone else might find some use out of them as well. And if they don't, well, I hope they're still at least somewhat entertaining.
But as time has taught me, you can only analyze things so much before you just have to put them to rest. I have contemplated what will happen after this summer numerous times and the result has remained the same: I don't know. I don't know where I will be. I don't know what I'll be doing. I don't know what it will mean for my boyfriend and I. I simply don't know. And I probably won't know until this summer has passed.
Uncertainty frustrates me. But wasting my time worrying about it is even worse. There is no point analyzing how I feel about these things because in the end it might not matter. Only time will tell what my course of action will be. And that time is not now.
But you can certainly bet that when the time is right I will face those questions and hopefully have some answers for them. And when the time comes, I'll be here, writing, questioning, thinking, and over-analyzing away. Until then, I'll shoo those questions away. I have more important things to enjoy than to waste my time with worry.
Monday, May 2, 2011
For the Love of Running: Flying Pig 2011
It was just a little after 10 p.m. on Saturday when I took a glance over everything before going to bed. Bag? Packed. Clothes? Laid out. Breakfast? Decided. Alarm? Set. Legs? Feeling twitchy and ready to run.
I was ready. Ready to take on Cincinnati's Flying Pig Half Marathon in the morning. And as I looked at everything laid out, I realized I was excited. This was the first time in a very long time that I was this prepared for a race. In the past few years I've gotten use to throwing a few items in my gym bag, grabbing my shoes and a banana and heading out the door for a race, without a care in the world as to whether I forgot my watch or how I was feeling that morning. Racing, these past three years, has been a recreational thing to me. I raced simply because I could and it was always something I had done. I did it just to do it.
But on May 1, 2011, at 6:30 a.m., that wasn't the case.
I woke up at 4:30 a.m., confused as to why my alarm was going off. Then it hit me: You have a half-marathon today. I let myself drift off for ten more minutes before I bounced out of bed and started getting ready.
My parents decided to come down to the marathon so they offered to drive. As we rode down the empty highway in the dark hours before sunrise, nerves began to envelope me. I was getting the pre-race jitters. Adrenaline was already beginning to pump through my veins. I realized how badly I wanted to run this thing.
My race started off a bit slow. Due to a bathroom stop I didn't make it to the starting line until after the gun went off. I was in a mix of runners and walkers. The first couple of miles I let the crowd hold me back. I tend to want to take off in the beginning of a race, as I had done the first time I ran the half-marathon back in 2009, and it ends up hurting me in the end. I was determined not to let the same thing happen.
Not even three miles into the race, just as I had crossed into Kentucky a flash of lightning lit up the sky. I looked up at the clouds and thought, "No storm. You are not ruining this race for me." Fortunately there was only more flash of lightning about a mile and half later and that was it.
Miles passed and I felt good. I pushed the pace. I struggled on the hills. I got a stitch cramp around mile seven and had to slow down, steady my breathing, and relax my posture in hopes of getting rid of it. It helped and a mile later I continued pushing on.
It was around mile nine when a little epiphany struck me. It had been raining the whole time and I was soaked. My feet were rubbing against my shoes and I could feel blisters developing. The side stitch kept coming back and fading. I wasn't feeling my absolute best, but in that moment I distinctly remember thinking, "I love this."
The last three miles of the half-marathon are all down hill. I was getting tired. I had passed mile 11 and was desperately searching for mile 12. I never saw it. We ran around a bend and I knew the end was near. Someone in the crowd said there was only a quarter-mile left. I tried kicking, but the stitch came back. I've never had a stitch at the end of the race, but let me tell you, when you get one and you try kicking, it's hard. Really hard. My form was out of whack as I tried to fight through the pain. I made it through the finish line and started to walk it all off.
I was sure I had done better than I did back in 2009. In 2009 I did not train. AT ALL. I showed up on race day and simply ran it. I struggled through the last half of the race and felt like shit at the end. In 2009 I stopped to use the bathroom halfway through the race, which lost me a few seconds. Plus back then I weighed 10 pounds more. Surely, I thought, I did better than then.
I was wrong.
As I saw my official time on the website my elated feelings about the race left me. My time in 2009 was 1:56. My time this year? 2:01. I didn't even break 2 hours.
I was furious. How did this happen? I knew my training wasn't perfect, but I did train. I thought I had a fairly smart race plan. And unlike 2009 I felt good throughout the race.
But numbers don't lie. And my number was not below 1:56. It was five minutes above it, never dipping below a 9 minute pace. I was crushed.
I sulked for a few hours after that. But as I made the two-hour drive back to Muncie I started thinking about it and I realized how ridiculous I was being.
Runners tend to put success in terms of numbers. For a lot of people, like myself, it's the time. Hitting a certain pace or setting a new PR. For others it's about place; where you placed in your age group or in the race. For those who run for the health benefits, it may be a specific weight or waist-size. Everyone seems to have a certain number they're trying to hit.
When I didn't hit my number, I felt like a failure. Those 13.1 miles seemed like a waste. All the enthusiasm I felt over the weekend was gone. I was angry, and all I wanted to do was start training for a new half-marathon so I could redeem myself. I wanted to forget about the Flying Pig 2011.
But on my drive back, I realized my initial reaction was wrong. This weekend was actually a success. And I was letting a number ruin it.
The race was a success for several reasons. It was a success because I enjoyed every painful second of it. It was a success because I remembered what it was like to get so pumped over a race. It was a success because I realized I still do enjoy racing. My reaction to my time was a success; I still care about how I do.
This weekend I found the competitive girl in me I have been searching for since cross-country of 2007. I don't know how or why, but the apathetic runner in me died this weekend. The past three years of not caring about races or training or how I performed seemed to have finally come to an end. I don't regret those three years; I needed them. I needed a break from caring about running - in high school I cared about it too much. I needed to find a love in running that was independent and solely for myself. I needed to rediscover and confirm my love for running. Those three years took care of that.
As for the time? Well, I thought about it and I realized that even though I didn't train in 2009, I was still in better shape. I finished my final track season in 2008 and had been consistently running with my run club in the fall. So even though that spring I barely ran, my body was still lingering in my high school running shape. Three years of inconsistently running threw my shape off.
And now I have motivation. I want to do better. I want to break that 1:56 PR. I want to redeem myself from this past race. It's only the first day after my half-marathon and I am itchy to pick a new race and start training for it. Pushing myself, going outside of my comfort zone, and competing are all calling my name. I can't wait to answer them.
But in the end, I don't run for time. I don't run to beat someone or to prove anything to anyone but myself. I run because I love it. And I am thrilled that my love for racing has returned.
I was ready. Ready to take on Cincinnati's Flying Pig Half Marathon in the morning. And as I looked at everything laid out, I realized I was excited. This was the first time in a very long time that I was this prepared for a race. In the past few years I've gotten use to throwing a few items in my gym bag, grabbing my shoes and a banana and heading out the door for a race, without a care in the world as to whether I forgot my watch or how I was feeling that morning. Racing, these past three years, has been a recreational thing to me. I raced simply because I could and it was always something I had done. I did it just to do it.
But on May 1, 2011, at 6:30 a.m., that wasn't the case.
I woke up at 4:30 a.m., confused as to why my alarm was going off. Then it hit me: You have a half-marathon today. I let myself drift off for ten more minutes before I bounced out of bed and started getting ready.
My parents decided to come down to the marathon so they offered to drive. As we rode down the empty highway in the dark hours before sunrise, nerves began to envelope me. I was getting the pre-race jitters. Adrenaline was already beginning to pump through my veins. I realized how badly I wanted to run this thing.
My race started off a bit slow. Due to a bathroom stop I didn't make it to the starting line until after the gun went off. I was in a mix of runners and walkers. The first couple of miles I let the crowd hold me back. I tend to want to take off in the beginning of a race, as I had done the first time I ran the half-marathon back in 2009, and it ends up hurting me in the end. I was determined not to let the same thing happen.
Not even three miles into the race, just as I had crossed into Kentucky a flash of lightning lit up the sky. I looked up at the clouds and thought, "No storm. You are not ruining this race for me." Fortunately there was only more flash of lightning about a mile and half later and that was it.
Miles passed and I felt good. I pushed the pace. I struggled on the hills. I got a stitch cramp around mile seven and had to slow down, steady my breathing, and relax my posture in hopes of getting rid of it. It helped and a mile later I continued pushing on.
It was around mile nine when a little epiphany struck me. It had been raining the whole time and I was soaked. My feet were rubbing against my shoes and I could feel blisters developing. The side stitch kept coming back and fading. I wasn't feeling my absolute best, but in that moment I distinctly remember thinking, "I love this."
The last three miles of the half-marathon are all down hill. I was getting tired. I had passed mile 11 and was desperately searching for mile 12. I never saw it. We ran around a bend and I knew the end was near. Someone in the crowd said there was only a quarter-mile left. I tried kicking, but the stitch came back. I've never had a stitch at the end of the race, but let me tell you, when you get one and you try kicking, it's hard. Really hard. My form was out of whack as I tried to fight through the pain. I made it through the finish line and started to walk it all off.
I was sure I had done better than I did back in 2009. In 2009 I did not train. AT ALL. I showed up on race day and simply ran it. I struggled through the last half of the race and felt like shit at the end. In 2009 I stopped to use the bathroom halfway through the race, which lost me a few seconds. Plus back then I weighed 10 pounds more. Surely, I thought, I did better than then.
I was wrong.
As I saw my official time on the website my elated feelings about the race left me. My time in 2009 was 1:56. My time this year? 2:01. I didn't even break 2 hours.
I was furious. How did this happen? I knew my training wasn't perfect, but I did train. I thought I had a fairly smart race plan. And unlike 2009 I felt good throughout the race.
But numbers don't lie. And my number was not below 1:56. It was five minutes above it, never dipping below a 9 minute pace. I was crushed.
I sulked for a few hours after that. But as I made the two-hour drive back to Muncie I started thinking about it and I realized how ridiculous I was being.
Runners tend to put success in terms of numbers. For a lot of people, like myself, it's the time. Hitting a certain pace or setting a new PR. For others it's about place; where you placed in your age group or in the race. For those who run for the health benefits, it may be a specific weight or waist-size. Everyone seems to have a certain number they're trying to hit.
When I didn't hit my number, I felt like a failure. Those 13.1 miles seemed like a waste. All the enthusiasm I felt over the weekend was gone. I was angry, and all I wanted to do was start training for a new half-marathon so I could redeem myself. I wanted to forget about the Flying Pig 2011.
But on my drive back, I realized my initial reaction was wrong. This weekend was actually a success. And I was letting a number ruin it.
The race was a success for several reasons. It was a success because I enjoyed every painful second of it. It was a success because I remembered what it was like to get so pumped over a race. It was a success because I realized I still do enjoy racing. My reaction to my time was a success; I still care about how I do.
This weekend I found the competitive girl in me I have been searching for since cross-country of 2007. I don't know how or why, but the apathetic runner in me died this weekend. The past three years of not caring about races or training or how I performed seemed to have finally come to an end. I don't regret those three years; I needed them. I needed a break from caring about running - in high school I cared about it too much. I needed to find a love in running that was independent and solely for myself. I needed to rediscover and confirm my love for running. Those three years took care of that.
As for the time? Well, I thought about it and I realized that even though I didn't train in 2009, I was still in better shape. I finished my final track season in 2008 and had been consistently running with my run club in the fall. So even though that spring I barely ran, my body was still lingering in my high school running shape. Three years of inconsistently running threw my shape off.
And now I have motivation. I want to do better. I want to break that 1:56 PR. I want to redeem myself from this past race. It's only the first day after my half-marathon and I am itchy to pick a new race and start training for it. Pushing myself, going outside of my comfort zone, and competing are all calling my name. I can't wait to answer them.
But in the end, I don't run for time. I don't run to beat someone or to prove anything to anyone but myself. I run because I love it. And I am thrilled that my love for racing has returned.
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Why We Care: The Royal Wedding
This blog is for all the men who ask me, "Why do you care?" in regards to the Royal Wedding, so instead of explaining it over and over I can just refer to them here.
So, why do we (women) care?
It's a good question first off. I can see why my boyfriend and several other guys have asked that question. I know why they give us strange looks when we tell them that we're getting up at 4 a.m. to watch it on television. I understand they think it's ridiculous we keep our noses behind computer screens and scroll through all the wedding details and look at the photos of Kate and William. Guys, trust me, I get it. I know what you're thinking. But if you really want to understand why we care, it starts long before Kate and William ever even met.
About 15 years ago I was six years old, growing up in a red-bricked cape-cod house in the suburbs of Cincinnati. I had a father who was off delivering packages for UPS and a mother who stayed at home to take care of me and my two younger sisters. I had a wild-eyed imagination and like many little girls I had one inspiration to fuel it: Disney.
Disney was the source for all childhood dreams. My sisters and I watched Disney movie after Disney movie. Snow White, Cinderella, Beauty and the Beast, Little Mermaid... you name it, we had it. And we ate it up. We loved the idea of these beautiful women getting swept off their feet by the handsome prince. We dreamed of what it would be like if we were those princesses trapped in the tower, waiting for the day our knight in shining armor would come to rescue us. Men, if you want to know why women care so much about romance and why we want to look like a princess on our wedding day, you can blame Disney.
And that was how most of my childhood was spent. I believed that love was being a damsel in distress and the most perfect guy in the world would come along and save me. A lot of little girls grew up thinking real life could be a fairytale.
Until that fatal day we realized it's not.
I'm not sure when it struck me that my ideas on the matter of love were not realistic. Perhaps it was as early as third grade when I had a crush on a kid in my class and he didn't seem to want anything to do with me. Or eighth grade when I had my first "boyfriend" and we said I love you over AIM (real romantic, right?). Or maybe it was tenth grade when I got up the nerve to ask a guy to homecoming and he told me no. Either way, somewhere along the way I realized love, and men, weren't what I made them out to be.
Now that doesn't mean that love isn't all it's hyped up to be. I still believe it's very possible to live happily-ever-after. It just doesn't come as easily as expected. Men don't ride white stallions, we don't receive invitations to fancy balls, and love at first sight is, in my opinion, a myth. We usually don't get to see our Disney dreams come true.
But tomorrow morning, at 4 a.m. Eastern time, we do.
I doubt Prince William and Kate Middleton's relationship has been anything like a fairytale. In fact it seems rather normal. They met in college, became friends, dated, broke up, dated again, and so on (according to my sources via the internet). But tomorrow we will witness a fairytale. Kate will marry a Prince. And women all over the world will be celebrating it.
So men, don't roll your eyes when you hear us gush about her dress or talk of how handsome Prince William looks. Don't give me a funny look when you hear I'll be setting my alarm at 3:50 a.m. Even if you still don't get it, just understand that this is something we have to do. It's for the little girl we once were, who just wanted to see her fairytale dreams come true.
So, why do we (women) care?
It's a good question first off. I can see why my boyfriend and several other guys have asked that question. I know why they give us strange looks when we tell them that we're getting up at 4 a.m. to watch it on television. I understand they think it's ridiculous we keep our noses behind computer screens and scroll through all the wedding details and look at the photos of Kate and William. Guys, trust me, I get it. I know what you're thinking. But if you really want to understand why we care, it starts long before Kate and William ever even met.
About 15 years ago I was six years old, growing up in a red-bricked cape-cod house in the suburbs of Cincinnati. I had a father who was off delivering packages for UPS and a mother who stayed at home to take care of me and my two younger sisters. I had a wild-eyed imagination and like many little girls I had one inspiration to fuel it: Disney.
Disney was the source for all childhood dreams. My sisters and I watched Disney movie after Disney movie. Snow White, Cinderella, Beauty and the Beast, Little Mermaid... you name it, we had it. And we ate it up. We loved the idea of these beautiful women getting swept off their feet by the handsome prince. We dreamed of what it would be like if we were those princesses trapped in the tower, waiting for the day our knight in shining armor would come to rescue us. Men, if you want to know why women care so much about romance and why we want to look like a princess on our wedding day, you can blame Disney.
And that was how most of my childhood was spent. I believed that love was being a damsel in distress and the most perfect guy in the world would come along and save me. A lot of little girls grew up thinking real life could be a fairytale.
Until that fatal day we realized it's not.
I'm not sure when it struck me that my ideas on the matter of love were not realistic. Perhaps it was as early as third grade when I had a crush on a kid in my class and he didn't seem to want anything to do with me. Or eighth grade when I had my first "boyfriend" and we said I love you over AIM (real romantic, right?). Or maybe it was tenth grade when I got up the nerve to ask a guy to homecoming and he told me no. Either way, somewhere along the way I realized love, and men, weren't what I made them out to be.
Now that doesn't mean that love isn't all it's hyped up to be. I still believe it's very possible to live happily-ever-after. It just doesn't come as easily as expected. Men don't ride white stallions, we don't receive invitations to fancy balls, and love at first sight is, in my opinion, a myth. We usually don't get to see our Disney dreams come true.
But tomorrow morning, at 4 a.m. Eastern time, we do.
I doubt Prince William and Kate Middleton's relationship has been anything like a fairytale. In fact it seems rather normal. They met in college, became friends, dated, broke up, dated again, and so on (according to my sources via the internet). But tomorrow we will witness a fairytale. Kate will marry a Prince. And women all over the world will be celebrating it.
So men, don't roll your eyes when you hear us gush about her dress or talk of how handsome Prince William looks. Don't give me a funny look when you hear I'll be setting my alarm at 3:50 a.m. Even if you still don't get it, just understand that this is something we have to do. It's for the little girl we once were, who just wanted to see her fairytale dreams come true.
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
Time, why you punish me?
Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.
The clock is taunting me.
It's an ugly Tuesday morning and I am sitting at my desk trying to cross more things off my never-ending list of to-dos but I'm having a hard time concentrating. Because just over my shoulder is the robin's egg clock on the wall, going tick...tick...tick...tick...
I think this is one of the few times I've actually noticed that clock and the ticking sound it produces. Normally I am so wrapped up in what I'm doing I barely hear it. It's just background noise I've learned to subconsciously ignore. But here I am, with less than three weeks to go at Ball State, and all I can think about is the tick...tick...tick...
Time, normally my best friend and most precious gift, is turning into my worst enemy, constantly chopping off the seconds of the little time left remaining. I can't stop it. I can't prolong it. There's nothing I can do to fight it. I just have to brace it, and try my best to appreciate the few days, hours, minutes, and seconds left remaining.
Time made itself known to me just the other day when I was walking to my boyfriend's house from the library. As I crossed campus on an unusually warm spring evening I noticed how beautiful campus was. And out of nowhere it occurred to me: this is one of the last times you make this walk from the library to the house. Which in turn led to thoughts of, this is one of the last times you'll be on campus as a student. And before I knew it my face turned red and the tears began falling. I tried to fight them but the more I tried the sadder I felt. Even though I felt sad, I realized my tears weren't necessarily a bad thing. They're simply a testament to the past three years I've had here at Ball State.
I've said this before and I'll say it again. I am one of those people who just doesn't know how to live in the moment. I've been getting better but I still find myself constantly yearning for the future and missing the past. Of course, I've begun to realize I miss the past so much because I was looking forward to the future and didn't appreciate what I was experiencing right then and there. Living in the moment is not something I've ever been able to fully accomplish.
Until now. Because now I realize I am going to miss my university. I am going to miss being a student. I am going to miss my friends, my experiences, everything I've gone through in the past three years. All I can do now is try to desperately hold onto what is left.
This also has turned me into the clingy girlfriend I've never wanted to be. The future, which I once felt so calmly about just a few months ago, has scared the shit out of me again. Because after these three weeks my boyfriend and I will see each other just a few more times before I start my internship and he starts working. And then after that he will be in Milwaukee. And me? I have not a clue where I'll be. All I know is my goal is still New York.
So then what? Let's say things work out as I hope. Let's say I do land a job in New York City. How long will I be there? For the rest of my life? What about my boyfriend? He'll be in Milwaukee for at least six years working for his doctorate. Does that mean that after these next three weeks we'll be long-distance for perhaps six years?
You can see now why I panic.
I shouldn't panic though. Milwaukee, wherever I am, will only be a drive or flight away. After going to England and seeing how easy it is to travel from place to place, I've realized that distance is not something to fear. Distance is not what separates me from the person I love. The only thing that really separates us from one another is time.
When I was in England I was fully aware that it only takes a minimum of two flights and in less than a day I could be reunited with my love. The problem was I could not hop on a flight whenever I wanted. I had to wait. I had to wait six weeks before I returned to my country, and even a few more days afterward before I saw my boyfriend again. Distance was not my enemy. It was time.
And that's what I'm afraid of. That in my future I will be wasting my most precious resource because it will also be my greatest separation. I will wish the seconds to go even faster and then later wish they had slowed down. I will hate time for separating me from my boyfriend and then hate it even more when the time I spend with him flies by, all while appreciating the few seconds I get to spend with him. As of right now, there is no win-win with time.
But now I must return to my homework. I still have two weeks of classes and one week of finals. I still have much to accomplish and much to appreciate. And not nearly enough time.
The clock is taunting me.
It's an ugly Tuesday morning and I am sitting at my desk trying to cross more things off my never-ending list of to-dos but I'm having a hard time concentrating. Because just over my shoulder is the robin's egg clock on the wall, going tick...tick...tick...tick...
I think this is one of the few times I've actually noticed that clock and the ticking sound it produces. Normally I am so wrapped up in what I'm doing I barely hear it. It's just background noise I've learned to subconsciously ignore. But here I am, with less than three weeks to go at Ball State, and all I can think about is the tick...tick...tick...
Time, normally my best friend and most precious gift, is turning into my worst enemy, constantly chopping off the seconds of the little time left remaining. I can't stop it. I can't prolong it. There's nothing I can do to fight it. I just have to brace it, and try my best to appreciate the few days, hours, minutes, and seconds left remaining.
Time made itself known to me just the other day when I was walking to my boyfriend's house from the library. As I crossed campus on an unusually warm spring evening I noticed how beautiful campus was. And out of nowhere it occurred to me: this is one of the last times you make this walk from the library to the house. Which in turn led to thoughts of, this is one of the last times you'll be on campus as a student. And before I knew it my face turned red and the tears began falling. I tried to fight them but the more I tried the sadder I felt. Even though I felt sad, I realized my tears weren't necessarily a bad thing. They're simply a testament to the past three years I've had here at Ball State.
I've said this before and I'll say it again. I am one of those people who just doesn't know how to live in the moment. I've been getting better but I still find myself constantly yearning for the future and missing the past. Of course, I've begun to realize I miss the past so much because I was looking forward to the future and didn't appreciate what I was experiencing right then and there. Living in the moment is not something I've ever been able to fully accomplish.
Until now. Because now I realize I am going to miss my university. I am going to miss being a student. I am going to miss my friends, my experiences, everything I've gone through in the past three years. All I can do now is try to desperately hold onto what is left.
This also has turned me into the clingy girlfriend I've never wanted to be. The future, which I once felt so calmly about just a few months ago, has scared the shit out of me again. Because after these three weeks my boyfriend and I will see each other just a few more times before I start my internship and he starts working. And then after that he will be in Milwaukee. And me? I have not a clue where I'll be. All I know is my goal is still New York.
So then what? Let's say things work out as I hope. Let's say I do land a job in New York City. How long will I be there? For the rest of my life? What about my boyfriend? He'll be in Milwaukee for at least six years working for his doctorate. Does that mean that after these next three weeks we'll be long-distance for perhaps six years?
You can see now why I panic.
I shouldn't panic though. Milwaukee, wherever I am, will only be a drive or flight away. After going to England and seeing how easy it is to travel from place to place, I've realized that distance is not something to fear. Distance is not what separates me from the person I love. The only thing that really separates us from one another is time.
When I was in England I was fully aware that it only takes a minimum of two flights and in less than a day I could be reunited with my love. The problem was I could not hop on a flight whenever I wanted. I had to wait. I had to wait six weeks before I returned to my country, and even a few more days afterward before I saw my boyfriend again. Distance was not my enemy. It was time.
And that's what I'm afraid of. That in my future I will be wasting my most precious resource because it will also be my greatest separation. I will wish the seconds to go even faster and then later wish they had slowed down. I will hate time for separating me from my boyfriend and then hate it even more when the time I spend with him flies by, all while appreciating the few seconds I get to spend with him. As of right now, there is no win-win with time.
But now I must return to my homework. I still have two weeks of classes and one week of finals. I still have much to accomplish and much to appreciate. And not nearly enough time.
Saturday, April 16, 2011
Dreams of my Father
"Do what you love, love what you do."
It's a simple, perhaps cliché, saying but it's one that's been engrained into my mind since I was a child. Over the past 21 years of my life my father has repeated that phrase to me, constantly reminding and encouraging me and my sisters to chase down our dreams. When I set off for college in 2008 my parents knew my dream was to become a writer. Contrary to the negative comments I've heard about aspiring writers, no such words spilled from my parents' mouths. They did not tell me to go for a job that would make more money or one that would guarantee financial security. In fact they were very supportive of my decision to major in journalism. And there was my Dad, always reminding me to "do what you love, love what you do."
On Wednesday, April 13, I finally realized the beauty of those words.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
My father grew up in my hometown, a suburb of Cincinnati. His father was self-employed, the owner and employee of a flooring company. While I don't believe my father ever lived in poverty, money was tight in his household and it must've been through his up-bringing that he learned the power money plays into one's lifestyle. When it was time for him to go to college, he wanted to major in something that would allow him to work at a local paper-producing company. His parents however, encouraged him to major in accounting. My father was good at math, and so accounting was the path he decided to embark on.
By the time he graduated college though, my father was already working as a driver at UPS. The job paid well and offered decent benefits. He knew if he were to quit his job to start a career in accounting he would be backtracking financially. He decided to stick with UPS.
But my father, like his father, ended up taking an interest in the stock market. He bought books and learned the rules of the trade. I remember when I was younger, before cell phones were around, my father purchased this cute little blue beeper, that would send him updates on the stock market. He kept his computer on and would call the house if he needed someone to make an adjustment to something. When I was in my preteens my father paid me to review the stacks of charts he printed out and taught me to search for patterns.
"If this line goes above this mark," he would say, "make a note here." I had no idea what any of it meant, but for the sake of a few bucks I happily obliged to help him out.
It was during high school that my father decided to leave his route and took up working at night at UPS. He wasn't getting paid as much, but he did for two reasons: 1) So he could attend mine and my sister's after-school activities. 2) So he could focus on his dream of playing the market full-time.
His night-shift gig didn't last for too long though. After I went off to college and my younger sister attending the next year, he went back to driving for the financial reasons. He had to, for the sake of his family, put his stock-market dreams on hold.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
It wasn't until my second-year of college did I realize the sacrifices my parents made for me and my sisters. This holds especially true for my Dad. As I've worked harder and harder to try to achieve my dream of being a writer, I've begun to realize what it must be like for my father, who wants so badly to succeed in the stock-market, but cannot take the financial risk to give it a try. Because he goes to work day in and day out, and delivers packages to hundreds of people and businesses, I am here at Ball State with the opportunity to go after my dreams.
The more I thought about it, the more it broke my heart. My father has done so much for the happiness of his family. There are the big financial things, like getting a pool for the backyard and taking us to Disney World. There are the little financial things, like paying for my gas and cell phone when I can't afford it. There is time. The time he took to watch every cross-country and track meet he could possibly attend. Or driving down to EKU to watch my sister's french horn performance. Or going to the high school's play, just to see the set my other sister worked on.
The list goes on. Needless to say, even as I type this, I am getting teary-eyed thinking of all the things my father has done for me, just to make me happy.
All I ever want to do is make him proud. __________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
On Tuesday, April 12, I realized I accomplished my goal.
It was a beautiful sunny day when my father called me. For the most part of conversation was a fairly normal one; we talked about running. He told me how he did in a recent 5k and the new runners he met. I told him my lack of training for a full marathon and how I will be dropping down to the half marathon for the Flying Pig in two weeks.
And then we got onto something else. My story that just got published in Running Times magazine.
My father is proud. He was proud before the article came out. He was proud before he even knew if I was going to get published or not. Just the mere idea that the editor from Running Times magazine, one of his favorite magazines, was interested in my story was enough to make him happy.
Fortunately for me it did get published. My father text me the day the magazine showed up in our mailbox, thrilled to see my name in the table of contents and my story on page 53. My parents then went out and bought four more copies. My father has shown pretty much every person he knows my story. A family friend from church told me on facebook, "I told your VERY proud dad I would have to pick up a copy." Knowing I made my Dad this proud was the best thing I could've ever asked for.
But then he told me something that I never expected. When my father called me it was around noon and he should've been off working. But he had a cold and UPS told him to stay at home. So before we talked, he was at his computer, looking at the stock market and doing more research. And over the phone he told me, "You know I always tell you guys it only takes one thing. For you it's one book. For Julie it's one painting. For Beth, it's one song or performance. All it takes is one thing and you're set for life. And after seeing you get published, I realized, 'Hey, maybe I should take my own advice.' So now I'm trying to get back into the stock market."
Although he never directly said it, I knew what he meant. The man who is the reason I have decided to embark on my dream of being a writer, was telling me that I inspired him. All I could do was smile.
The next day I went to Books a Million and bought four copies. One for myself, one for my boyfriend, one for my professor, and one to show my friends. I found my story and I sat down on a comfy chair in the bookstore and read it. And I realized how my father was right. Writing is the only thing I really want to do with my life. And I love it.
The funny thing is, after all of this, I don't think my father has directly said, "I'm proud of you." In the past he's said this but I don't think I've heard him say it about this story. But he doesn't need to. His actions, as always, speak louder than words.
It's a simple, perhaps cliché, saying but it's one that's been engrained into my mind since I was a child. Over the past 21 years of my life my father has repeated that phrase to me, constantly reminding and encouraging me and my sisters to chase down our dreams. When I set off for college in 2008 my parents knew my dream was to become a writer. Contrary to the negative comments I've heard about aspiring writers, no such words spilled from my parents' mouths. They did not tell me to go for a job that would make more money or one that would guarantee financial security. In fact they were very supportive of my decision to major in journalism. And there was my Dad, always reminding me to "do what you love, love what you do."
On Wednesday, April 13, I finally realized the beauty of those words.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
My father grew up in my hometown, a suburb of Cincinnati. His father was self-employed, the owner and employee of a flooring company. While I don't believe my father ever lived in poverty, money was tight in his household and it must've been through his up-bringing that he learned the power money plays into one's lifestyle. When it was time for him to go to college, he wanted to major in something that would allow him to work at a local paper-producing company. His parents however, encouraged him to major in accounting. My father was good at math, and so accounting was the path he decided to embark on.
By the time he graduated college though, my father was already working as a driver at UPS. The job paid well and offered decent benefits. He knew if he were to quit his job to start a career in accounting he would be backtracking financially. He decided to stick with UPS.
But my father, like his father, ended up taking an interest in the stock market. He bought books and learned the rules of the trade. I remember when I was younger, before cell phones were around, my father purchased this cute little blue beeper, that would send him updates on the stock market. He kept his computer on and would call the house if he needed someone to make an adjustment to something. When I was in my preteens my father paid me to review the stacks of charts he printed out and taught me to search for patterns.
"If this line goes above this mark," he would say, "make a note here." I had no idea what any of it meant, but for the sake of a few bucks I happily obliged to help him out.
It was during high school that my father decided to leave his route and took up working at night at UPS. He wasn't getting paid as much, but he did for two reasons: 1) So he could attend mine and my sister's after-school activities. 2) So he could focus on his dream of playing the market full-time.
His night-shift gig didn't last for too long though. After I went off to college and my younger sister attending the next year, he went back to driving for the financial reasons. He had to, for the sake of his family, put his stock-market dreams on hold.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
It wasn't until my second-year of college did I realize the sacrifices my parents made for me and my sisters. This holds especially true for my Dad. As I've worked harder and harder to try to achieve my dream of being a writer, I've begun to realize what it must be like for my father, who wants so badly to succeed in the stock-market, but cannot take the financial risk to give it a try. Because he goes to work day in and day out, and delivers packages to hundreds of people and businesses, I am here at Ball State with the opportunity to go after my dreams.
The more I thought about it, the more it broke my heart. My father has done so much for the happiness of his family. There are the big financial things, like getting a pool for the backyard and taking us to Disney World. There are the little financial things, like paying for my gas and cell phone when I can't afford it. There is time. The time he took to watch every cross-country and track meet he could possibly attend. Or driving down to EKU to watch my sister's french horn performance. Or going to the high school's play, just to see the set my other sister worked on.
The list goes on. Needless to say, even as I type this, I am getting teary-eyed thinking of all the things my father has done for me, just to make me happy.
All I ever want to do is make him proud. __________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
On Tuesday, April 12, I realized I accomplished my goal.
It was a beautiful sunny day when my father called me. For the most part of conversation was a fairly normal one; we talked about running. He told me how he did in a recent 5k and the new runners he met. I told him my lack of training for a full marathon and how I will be dropping down to the half marathon for the Flying Pig in two weeks.
And then we got onto something else. My story that just got published in Running Times magazine.
My father is proud. He was proud before the article came out. He was proud before he even knew if I was going to get published or not. Just the mere idea that the editor from Running Times magazine, one of his favorite magazines, was interested in my story was enough to make him happy.
Fortunately for me it did get published. My father text me the day the magazine showed up in our mailbox, thrilled to see my name in the table of contents and my story on page 53. My parents then went out and bought four more copies. My father has shown pretty much every person he knows my story. A family friend from church told me on facebook, "I told your VERY proud dad I would have to pick up a copy." Knowing I made my Dad this proud was the best thing I could've ever asked for.
But then he told me something that I never expected. When my father called me it was around noon and he should've been off working. But he had a cold and UPS told him to stay at home. So before we talked, he was at his computer, looking at the stock market and doing more research. And over the phone he told me, "You know I always tell you guys it only takes one thing. For you it's one book. For Julie it's one painting. For Beth, it's one song or performance. All it takes is one thing and you're set for life. And after seeing you get published, I realized, 'Hey, maybe I should take my own advice.' So now I'm trying to get back into the stock market."
Although he never directly said it, I knew what he meant. The man who is the reason I have decided to embark on my dream of being a writer, was telling me that I inspired him. All I could do was smile.
The next day I went to Books a Million and bought four copies. One for myself, one for my boyfriend, one for my professor, and one to show my friends. I found my story and I sat down on a comfy chair in the bookstore and read it. And I realized how my father was right. Writing is the only thing I really want to do with my life. And I love it.
The funny thing is, after all of this, I don't think my father has directly said, "I'm proud of you." In the past he's said this but I don't think I've heard him say it about this story. But he doesn't need to. His actions, as always, speak louder than words.
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Speak Memory
I have what feels like a million other things to do right now. Research to do. Interviews to conduct. And several, several drafts to work out. But I feel compelled to write this, because I'm hoping I'll figure something out.
Last night while I was pounding out a story for my news feature writing class I took a brief break and checked my facebook. There I found a message from a friend. She had found my blog and was reading it, telling me how much she enjoyed it. A little while later I received another message from her, saying how she couldn't stop reading my blog. I was flattered but my first thought was literally, "Wow. People actually get something out of my ramblings."
After reading that I came here, to my blog, and looked over the things I had written in the past year or so. I realized there is a very prominent theme in every single one: drama. Drama in relationships, drama with my feelings, drama in religious beliefs and so on. It dawned on me that the reason I haven't been writing very many blogs lately is because for once in my life I have no drama. There's always stress with school and the future and blah, blah, blah, but for once I have nothing to be completely concerned about. I know enough of what to expect that I'm not freaking out. I am comfortable enough to not be worrying about the future or over-thinking the past. I've finally struck a nice little balance and I'm happy with it.
Except now I realize I have nothing to write about.
That's not true. I have been writing about something dramatic. In fact it's probably the most "dramatic" story of my life.
My magazine prof recruited myself and other student writers to write a book. A collection of personal essays, we brainstormed themes and were free to choose a personal story we wanted to write about. When "mentor" was decided as one of the themes, I instantly thought of my experience with one of my best, and worst, mentors. For some reason I knew I had to write about it.
So since the start of this school year I have been working on telling the whole story as to what happened back in high school with my cross-country coach. I wanted to get it all out. Why? I don't know. I still don't know. But I just had to.
I've told very, very few people about this little project. I have not told my friends or my family. My boyfriend only knows because he wonders why on certain Saturday mornings I venture off to meet with other writers. And even after that I tell him about the meetings, but nothing else. And I was extremely hesitant to tell him what I was writing about.
I'm not embarrassed of this story. If I was, I wouldn't write about it. But I am sick of it. And I know that my close group of loved ones are sick of it as well. They were there when most of it happened and helped me get through the aftermath of it. While my story was dramatic for me, they were the ones who had to listen to me complain about it all. They were the ones who had to convince me that he wasn't the person I thought he was, no I can't be friends with him, and I needed to move on. And I have. So why write about it?
I haven't told my loved ones about it because I am afraid. I am afraid of what they will think. I'm afraid that in the back of their minds they will think to themselves, "She's still not over it. She still hasn't moved on. She is still dwelling on it."
It may look that way but I know it's not. I know that the reason I was able to sit down and finally completely reflect on it is because I have no more emotional connections to it. I am drained. Maybe a little bitter still, but I feel emotionally exhausted. Writing about this was proof that I feel no connections to the past.
In all honesty, now that I have written about it, all I want to do is print it. Then burn it. And then never think of it again. Impossible, I know. But watching thirty pages of memories disintegrate into a ball of flames sounds so therapeutic to me.
And while I do actually plan on doing that, the fact remains that this is getting printed. It will be bound in a nice little book with my friends' writings of their experiences; some of them happy, others not so much. And whoever gets their hands on the book will have access to my past.
Why do writers write? We write to entertain. We write to teach. We write because we hope that in some small case the stories we share will have an influence on someone else's life.
I still don't know what I got out of writing my story. I still don't know why that was the story I chose to tell. But my hope is that if I can't get something out of it, someone else will. Maybe someone will take something away from my story. Maybe that's what I need to get out of it; that my story was able to affect someone else.
Last night while I was pounding out a story for my news feature writing class I took a brief break and checked my facebook. There I found a message from a friend. She had found my blog and was reading it, telling me how much she enjoyed it. A little while later I received another message from her, saying how she couldn't stop reading my blog. I was flattered but my first thought was literally, "Wow. People actually get something out of my ramblings."
After reading that I came here, to my blog, and looked over the things I had written in the past year or so. I realized there is a very prominent theme in every single one: drama. Drama in relationships, drama with my feelings, drama in religious beliefs and so on. It dawned on me that the reason I haven't been writing very many blogs lately is because for once in my life I have no drama. There's always stress with school and the future and blah, blah, blah, but for once I have nothing to be completely concerned about. I know enough of what to expect that I'm not freaking out. I am comfortable enough to not be worrying about the future or over-thinking the past. I've finally struck a nice little balance and I'm happy with it.
Except now I realize I have nothing to write about.
That's not true. I have been writing about something dramatic. In fact it's probably the most "dramatic" story of my life.
My magazine prof recruited myself and other student writers to write a book. A collection of personal essays, we brainstormed themes and were free to choose a personal story we wanted to write about. When "mentor" was decided as one of the themes, I instantly thought of my experience with one of my best, and worst, mentors. For some reason I knew I had to write about it.
So since the start of this school year I have been working on telling the whole story as to what happened back in high school with my cross-country coach. I wanted to get it all out. Why? I don't know. I still don't know. But I just had to.
I've told very, very few people about this little project. I have not told my friends or my family. My boyfriend only knows because he wonders why on certain Saturday mornings I venture off to meet with other writers. And even after that I tell him about the meetings, but nothing else. And I was extremely hesitant to tell him what I was writing about.
I'm not embarrassed of this story. If I was, I wouldn't write about it. But I am sick of it. And I know that my close group of loved ones are sick of it as well. They were there when most of it happened and helped me get through the aftermath of it. While my story was dramatic for me, they were the ones who had to listen to me complain about it all. They were the ones who had to convince me that he wasn't the person I thought he was, no I can't be friends with him, and I needed to move on. And I have. So why write about it?
I haven't told my loved ones about it because I am afraid. I am afraid of what they will think. I'm afraid that in the back of their minds they will think to themselves, "She's still not over it. She still hasn't moved on. She is still dwelling on it."
It may look that way but I know it's not. I know that the reason I was able to sit down and finally completely reflect on it is because I have no more emotional connections to it. I am drained. Maybe a little bitter still, but I feel emotionally exhausted. Writing about this was proof that I feel no connections to the past.
In all honesty, now that I have written about it, all I want to do is print it. Then burn it. And then never think of it again. Impossible, I know. But watching thirty pages of memories disintegrate into a ball of flames sounds so therapeutic to me.
And while I do actually plan on doing that, the fact remains that this is getting printed. It will be bound in a nice little book with my friends' writings of their experiences; some of them happy, others not so much. And whoever gets their hands on the book will have access to my past.
Why do writers write? We write to entertain. We write to teach. We write because we hope that in some small case the stories we share will have an influence on someone else's life.
I still don't know what I got out of writing my story. I still don't know why that was the story I chose to tell. But my hope is that if I can't get something out of it, someone else will. Maybe someone will take something away from my story. Maybe that's what I need to get out of it; that my story was able to affect someone else.
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Is Christianity good for the world?
I have a paper to write, a design project to work on, three chapters to read, internship applications to send off, a Spanish project to work on, another blog to update, three stories to edit, and an 8 mile run to make up. But you know what? I'm taking this time to do something I love and haven't done since December of 2010. Blog!! :)
Today's blog is about something that struck my interest yesterday. On my way to the library to print off my much stressed about Media Kit for my design class, a large poster with several people standing in front of it caught my eye. The people were in line to write on it. At the top of the board in bold letters was this question: Is Christianity good for the world?
What an excellent question.
As a Christian, the natural answer should be yes. So why did it take me a few minutes to figure out whether I actually agree with that answer?
I began thinking about all the problems and situations I have faced and have seen others face in the 21 years I've been alive. I have seen both great acts of kindness and great acts of hatred. I have learned of people doing amazing and courageous things for the sake of others. I have also learned of some pretty horrendous things. Things like World War II and the Holocaust to child molestation to murder to discrimination, and the list goes on. As these things ran through my head I had to ask myself, "Does Christianity really solve these problems? Is Christianity good for the world?"
I'll tell you right now that I came to believe that yes, Christianity is good for the world. But...I believe there are a lot of Christians out there that are not.
I just read about a gay man who paid to go on the date night at the Creation museum in Kentucky, but was kicked out after the "bouncers" or whoever they were learned it was him and his partner, not a straight couple. This made me want to throw up. What bothered me even more is that when his friends said that it wasn't very Christian to exclude people, in which the "bouncer" replied, "How Christian is it to be gay?"
Eek. What a great question. Because clearly in Romans it says: "For this reason God gave them up to vile passions. For even their women exchanged the natural use for what is against nature. Likewise also the men, leaving the natural use of the woman, burned in their lust for one another, men with men committing what is shameful, and receiving in themselves the penalty of their error which was due."
And in First Corinthians it says: "Do you not know that the unrighteous will not inherit the kingdom of God? Do not be deceived. Neither fornicators, nor idolaters, nor adulterers, nor homosexuals, nor sodomites, nor thieves, nor covetous, nor drunkards, nor revilers, nor extortioners will inherit the kingdom of God."
And the list of Biblical references to why homosexuality is a sin goes on and on and on.
BUT...
Did not Jesus die for our sins? Isn't it true that if I get jealous I've committed as much of a sin as someone who is gay? But thankfully, out of the utmost act of love, haven't those sins been washed away?
Right. I do believe that Jesus died for our sins, regardless of what they are and how horrible they may be. But the bouncers weren't playing Jesus. They weren't playing forgiveness. They were trying to play God. They saw homosexuality as a sin that can't be forgiven. So they kicked the men out.
And that's where I think Christianity is "bad" for the world. Because of the Christians who think they can play God and tell us what's right and what's wrong.
I can give you a whole list of these things. People who stand outside abortion clinics (which, for the record, some women have to get an abortion done because the baby isn't going to make it and keeping it inside her could potentially kill the mother - is it right for Christians to guilt those who don't have a choice?) You can check out a clip of what I'm talking about here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jEFWDYB0rWo
Or the Christians who want to burn Qurans (because burning another religion's Bible is going to win them over). The Christians who judge. The Christians who think they're better than other Christians. The Christians that tell you you're praying wrong or you'll go to hell if you miss church. The Christians that chastise you for having sex before marriage. The Christians that I hear about that make me cringe - because they're making Christianity look so horrendously bad.
I'm not helping. Pointing out other Christian's flaws isn't exactly proving the point I'm trying to make. And these Christians are right - there are clearly things the Bible says are wrong and we shouldn't do. But does that mean we hold those sins against them? What exactly is the point I'm trying to make?
It goes back to what I've blogged about several times before. Christianity is about love. I really believe it's that simple. Jesus lived His life showing His love for others and for God. He didn't throw a stone at the prostitute. In fact he made others realize how they couldn't throw a stone because stones needed to be thrown at them. He forgave. He died for those who were against Him. He was the only person I believe to ever walk this earth and really show the meaning of love.
If all Christians were like Jesus, I would never have to write a blog about whether Christianity is good for the world. It's sad that I have to think about it because of the people representing this belief (myself included).
As Gandhi once said, "I like your Christ, I do not like your Christians. Your Christians are so unlike your Christ."
That makes me want to cry. Because it's true.
(For the record, there are several Christians out there that are good for the world, that really represent what Christianity is all about. They show forgiveness and they show love. I don't want people to read this and believe that I think all Christians are bad. That's not the case. The problem I see here is that those true Christians are far and few when you look at all of the Christians in the world. And that's what really upsets me. The majority of Christians aren't representing Christ - and I am one of them).
Today's blog is about something that struck my interest yesterday. On my way to the library to print off my much stressed about Media Kit for my design class, a large poster with several people standing in front of it caught my eye. The people were in line to write on it. At the top of the board in bold letters was this question: Is Christianity good for the world?
What an excellent question.
As a Christian, the natural answer should be yes. So why did it take me a few minutes to figure out whether I actually agree with that answer?
I began thinking about all the problems and situations I have faced and have seen others face in the 21 years I've been alive. I have seen both great acts of kindness and great acts of hatred. I have learned of people doing amazing and courageous things for the sake of others. I have also learned of some pretty horrendous things. Things like World War II and the Holocaust to child molestation to murder to discrimination, and the list goes on. As these things ran through my head I had to ask myself, "Does Christianity really solve these problems? Is Christianity good for the world?"
I'll tell you right now that I came to believe that yes, Christianity is good for the world. But...I believe there are a lot of Christians out there that are not.
I just read about a gay man who paid to go on the date night at the Creation museum in Kentucky, but was kicked out after the "bouncers" or whoever they were learned it was him and his partner, not a straight couple. This made me want to throw up. What bothered me even more is that when his friends said that it wasn't very Christian to exclude people, in which the "bouncer" replied, "How Christian is it to be gay?"
Eek. What a great question. Because clearly in Romans it says: "For this reason God gave them up to vile passions. For even their women exchanged the natural use for what is against nature. Likewise also the men, leaving the natural use of the woman, burned in their lust for one another, men with men committing what is shameful, and receiving in themselves the penalty of their error which was due."
And in First Corinthians it says: "Do you not know that the unrighteous will not inherit the kingdom of God? Do not be deceived. Neither fornicators, nor idolaters, nor adulterers, nor homosexuals, nor sodomites, nor thieves, nor covetous, nor drunkards, nor revilers, nor extortioners will inherit the kingdom of God."
And the list of Biblical references to why homosexuality is a sin goes on and on and on.
BUT...
Did not Jesus die for our sins? Isn't it true that if I get jealous I've committed as much of a sin as someone who is gay? But thankfully, out of the utmost act of love, haven't those sins been washed away?
Right. I do believe that Jesus died for our sins, regardless of what they are and how horrible they may be. But the bouncers weren't playing Jesus. They weren't playing forgiveness. They were trying to play God. They saw homosexuality as a sin that can't be forgiven. So they kicked the men out.
And that's where I think Christianity is "bad" for the world. Because of the Christians who think they can play God and tell us what's right and what's wrong.
I can give you a whole list of these things. People who stand outside abortion clinics (which, for the record, some women have to get an abortion done because the baby isn't going to make it and keeping it inside her could potentially kill the mother - is it right for Christians to guilt those who don't have a choice?) You can check out a clip of what I'm talking about here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jEFWDYB0rWo
Or the Christians who want to burn Qurans (because burning another religion's Bible is going to win them over). The Christians who judge. The Christians who think they're better than other Christians. The Christians that tell you you're praying wrong or you'll go to hell if you miss church. The Christians that chastise you for having sex before marriage. The Christians that I hear about that make me cringe - because they're making Christianity look so horrendously bad.
I'm not helping. Pointing out other Christian's flaws isn't exactly proving the point I'm trying to make. And these Christians are right - there are clearly things the Bible says are wrong and we shouldn't do. But does that mean we hold those sins against them? What exactly is the point I'm trying to make?
It goes back to what I've blogged about several times before. Christianity is about love. I really believe it's that simple. Jesus lived His life showing His love for others and for God. He didn't throw a stone at the prostitute. In fact he made others realize how they couldn't throw a stone because stones needed to be thrown at them. He forgave. He died for those who were against Him. He was the only person I believe to ever walk this earth and really show the meaning of love.
If all Christians were like Jesus, I would never have to write a blog about whether Christianity is good for the world. It's sad that I have to think about it because of the people representing this belief (myself included).
As Gandhi once said, "I like your Christ, I do not like your Christians. Your Christians are so unlike your Christ."
That makes me want to cry. Because it's true.
(For the record, there are several Christians out there that are good for the world, that really represent what Christianity is all about. They show forgiveness and they show love. I don't want people to read this and believe that I think all Christians are bad. That's not the case. The problem I see here is that those true Christians are far and few when you look at all of the Christians in the world. And that's what really upsets me. The majority of Christians aren't representing Christ - and I am one of them).
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