Ten Inches

Ten and a half inches of snow descended upon my house tonight.
After the yellow streetlights came on and the accumulation slowed
I took three small children, scarved and mittened, out to the driveway
and we shoveled away, effort on my part, adventure on theirs.
As we scraped the asphalt they began to conjecture
Amid the grunts and heavy breaths
That made them feel so much more effective:
"You think it'll still be snowing tomorrow?"
Debate ensued, exchange of ideas and spirited conjecture,
the final conclusion drawn: maybe
the snow would continue through the night and pile up so high
that even Dad wouldn't be able to make it out the front door
and we'd all be trapped inside til spring, or else
we'd make tunnels through the snow, live in subterranean splendor,
burrowing to the mailbox or tripping over
the neighbors' surprised and uncomfortable dog.
"Yep, that's probably it," they decided,
and having agreed upon the immediate future of the neighborhood,
fell back to work, carrying each shovel-full
down to one corner of the driveway,
piling it up "so we can build a snow-fort."
I did not see any reason to remind them that their tunnel system would
Serve to render moot the igloo plan, nor to inform them that
the Weather Channel had already predicted
a cessation of flakes by the wee hours of the morning.
They are still able to have and eat their cake:
who are the Weather Channel and I
to take it from them?


12.19.2008: I miss believing the weather reports I made up.

oh today

Oh today was a waste.
Mistake upon mistake, and
can't I this once have that do-over?
Oh today mocks me, halfway through
a bad joke--realize
cold and suddenly
the punch line will make you cringe.
Oh today smells offensive
a sullen dirty wind not cold enough
for clean or the season.
Oh today was a trip
(insidious sidewalk crack--stubbed toe).
Paralytic gloom and forty-watt bulbs
make for an indigestible supper.
Anticipated expiration
must needs hurry along, hurry along,
before I run out of reasons.
(Oh today
You did have a chance, I think. Around 6.55.
That was when I woke up.)
Even so midnight
hurry along.


12.9.2008: Sometimes the only optimism is the change of the calendar.

Carpentry

I set out to say that Poetry is useless
but could not bring myself to do it.
A good carpenter does not blame his broken table.
It is not Poetry that is incapable.



This month I have written, I think, nine poems, and most of them did not come with a great deal of planning or forethought. Consequently, none of them are very good. This one slipped out the other night. It sums up my month pretty well.

I will not ACTUALLY submit this to a grad school...

(Unless one of you thinks it's a good idea, too...)

I'm working on grad school applications, and this one says to "outline in general terms your reasons, goals, and other considerations relevant to undertaking graduate studies." I think this would do it...

A graduate education would further my knowledge of the English language, enabling me to waste more of the precious fleeting years of my life discovering that which has already been found, pleasing people who, in ten years, will likely neither remember nor care about me, echoing empty phrases and terms, learning to speak in a language of convenience. Graduate school could serve as the mortar for the cinder-block wall I am building to cement myself into my comfort zone, another layer of knowledge slapped, viscous and oozing, into the crevices of my mind, left to slowly ossify, optimally arresting all inconvenient wandering forever. A graduate education would let me stave off the inevitability of real life as well as serving as a pretend solution to the vacancy I fear.

The universe is a howling wilderness of despair. Carlyle says so. And all of us upper-middle-class yuppies have got to find some sort of cocoon to help us pretend that it isn’t. Some prefer a white picket fence and a hideous beast of a mortgage—I choose grad school. There’s this gap, see, this chasm that no one remembers to tell children about as they’re growing up and obsessed with high school and moving on to college. And it’s not until sometime—oh, maybe the summer of sophomore year—that the truth kicks in and our minds begin to spin the silk that is meant to serve as the parachute against the bitter winds of that cold, cruel May day when we throw our caps in the air and, with them, every link to the carefree, dependent past. I’m well aware that grad school will just give me two more years of that artificial scholastic co-dependency, but every little bit counts, right? And from there, it’s only another forty years or so til Social Security kicks in…sooner if I move to Sweden.

Say, does your graduate school have a program in Swedish studies?

Of course, I know this doesn’t apply to pre-med kids. But that is because they are all zombies.

peter-versus-mr.-darling

I took the GRE today. I did okay on it.
When I say "okay" I mean I got way higher than I anticipated on the math and not quite as high as I wanted on the verbal.
Because it's a computer-based test the results were available as soon as I finished so I called home while I was waiting for mayhem to find the bizarrely located test center to pick me up and we (my mother and I) fell to talking about my summer's plans, and it hit me in a solid and peculiar way:
"summer plans"
will not have much meaning in my life for much longer. We even talked about my getting a job and an apartment and things. And as abstract concepts those things do not bother me at all even remotely.
But applied to me, on the phone with my mom, they are foreign and frightening and I do not feel like childhood should be over yet. And it is.

Soon my life will not be defined by my double major, or my number of Facebook friends, or the grades I get. Grades. Tiny convenient measures of worth: how many times have I looked at you and felt so good about Me?

I am not sure how my life will be defined.
I know how it should be defined
and even how I want it to be defined.

So really? I will graduate college in seven months. I will either go home for the summer or work and rack up cash and find an apartment and a roommate and get a driver's license and maybe a haircut or something
and my life will go on
because I am alive
and that is what happens to people: they live.

I just have to get used to that living looking very different from what I've been accustomed.
I am
a little
afraid.
That I can't do it without someone else there picking up the pieces of my mistakes.
That the lives of the people I love will also go on but
without me in them
without theirs in mine
and I am a selfish beastie. I want to keep them all. I can't.

(this is only part of it. since I know there are wonderful truer-than-true answers for all of these. but...I needed to write them out at least a little anyway.)

A First

Candidly:
When I imagine you reading this, I squirm
Discomfited, like a Frog
Self-pinned for dissection. Because you knowing how I feel
Feels that way: fate Worse than Death.
But I am no true Introvert, and reticent as I am
or Wish to be, my fingers curl
of their Own Volition around the pen
and I write. Even as the words form
my mind registers a Protest, lyrical Roadblock,
cautioning against the following:
Sap, Cliches, and Flowery Language. So I do my best
To avoid the offenses. Not such an effort: I do not think
I could be Those with you, despite
whimsic and ironical Effort, or Anonymity of Subject.
But, since I cannot say even these things to you
When we are sitting, silent, at a red light:
You always smell like Clean Laundry
And you know when to take me Seriously
far more often than I give you credit for.
You keep a low enough Profile to be overlooked,
and for some reason I did not intimidate you.
And even though
We've hardly gotten started, I suppose
I wanted to say thank you.
Because if it has been obscured by Cynicism (third Wheel
Which makes our Tricycle go) I think you're pretty amazing.
And for those Insignificants of yours, the ones you sneaked in and forgot
(which is like you, very) a long Time ago,
I noticed
Even though I tried hard not to.


Like a diamond in the sky how I wonder

Summer Child Care

When I think about my future,
I can only hope
That it does not involve this summer's pastime:
Cleaning up a five year-old
Who succumbed to diarrhea,
(Sans toilet)
And immediately
Blamed the devil.

Hello, July.

Habit Kickery

I had a weird experience, and I am going to blog about it.
There are any number of people in whom I can confide. I am sensible of this, and take full advantage of it. Unfortunately ("Repeatedly" and "Stupidly" would also be good sentence openers here) I have this tendency to turn to the support system around me before turning to God. With problems. With fear. With grudges.
And this is a problem because people
can't
fix
anything.
Shocker.
People, in and of themselves, are just as screwed up as I am (some of them more so). Yet we expect each other to be able to solve our problems.
Normally, all I really need is someone to talk to. A listening ear. And most people have two, which makes people ideally suited for that sort of task. But the times when listening won't change anything, when I need to be changed, there's nothing people can do to help.
I learned this lesson when I was about sixteen, when I talked about a problem with a Trusted Person, to realize as I walked away that nothing had happened.
I've been learning it again over the past month.
I tried to talk to a friend about something important--and couldn't. For the first time, I couldn't say a word about what I wanted to. Normally it is no problem whatsoever for me to talk about myself. I have a blog. It's inherent.
But I couldn't talk. I couldn't segue into the subject, I couldn't just blurt it out, nothing. Because really-- what I needed to talk about was no one's business but mine and God's.
My friends, great as they are, can't be my relationship buffers with Christ. This blog, useful as it is at times for self-expression, is no place for that conversation. When He and I have a problem, I have to talk to Him about it.
Even if it means keeping my mouth shut.

I'll learn.

Changin'

I changed the title of my blog...it probably won't last the summer. But I wanted to change it. Don't know why.

My best friend is a married woman as of Saturday. Everything was beautiful. Despite the cough/cold that's been plaguing me, I sang well on the song for the ceremony, and the piano guy covered my screw-ups on the first dance song.
Even if I'd completely blown it, though, it wouldn't have mattered.
Because she's married.
Forever.
And the look on Jason's face when he went to take her hand from her dad's and lead her up the altar made my diaphragm lurch a little.
It was a forever look.
Forever changes things.

I feel funny.

I'm back in T-town for a week before heading to CT. Another change. I don't know what this summer will bring. I don't like not knowing.
I really don't like not knowing...

Something shifts when what you thought was an illusion presents itself as fact. And when faced with the unexpected, I tend to panic. People do dumb things when they panic. By people I mean me.
So I have to just keep reminding myself to breathe. So far, I haven't asphyxiated, which is a good sign. Everything is new; nothing looks the way it did in December. I got a new prescription, I guess, and now I have to adjust to it, but that generally comes with some stumbling. And who knows what the summer holds.
You know, Lord, don't you?
Well, any time You feel like filling me in on that one...I'll be here.

Final

I have a tiny Dr. Epperson candle deep deep down inside my soul that flickers a wee hopeful message that maybe just maybe he will come in tomorrow and let us pick our own essay topics and I guard this candle fiercely with walls and partitions and batteries of soul-cannon to block invaders and shoot down doubtful maurauders who would tromp into my sanctum and huffpuffblowwww out my tiny Dr. Epperson candle
There would be an epic battle raging around its feeble light thrust parry feint explosion return fire evasive maneuvers and I would dodge and swipe and take careful aim with one extra second to make the shot count which is always a better idea then just winging a man when you're running low on ammo or so I have heard
This candle gutters and flickers when I look at the outline of my paper staring glowering magnifying in an accusatory window on my screen glowing menace harassing remaining unfazed by threats or placations I will smite you window of Doom you will be defeated when tomorrow's sun reaches its zenith unseen to those of us in windowless classroom then I will strike the death blow and you will hear it coming in my fingertips on the keys the ratatatat of the machine guns or the scrrrrrrrrrrrritchsratch of my victorious ballpoint pen the arrow's flight across the blue lines and pink margins quake quake quake for your entirely imminent demise
Oh tiny candle burn on please
I am stacking wood for you and dipping wicks to keep you going and you ought to take that into consideration before you melt
away tiny candle I have become rather attached to you and to the shadow picture you cast into my mind of Dr. Epperson coming into class tomorrow and maybejustmaybe letting us pick our own essay topics so please do not blow out tiny candle I am nearly out of midnight oil.

It's spring

I found it noteworthy.

I am so bad at waiting for things.
Process, process.
Time telescopes
(contrarily to my preferences)
and I have to just sit and wait
with my glove on
and my hand up
and that fly ball
on its way down (slow-motionless)
and I don't even know what I'll do once I catch it.


Feels like I'm just hanging on
til eventually.
But the view is kind of nice.

Stop This Train

It's a John Mayer song that I haven't been able to stop listening to.
Makes me think about life, and the way it keeps going, even when I think it shouldn't, and how most people hit a point where they realize how fast it goes, and it scares the bejeepers out of them, and then they try all kinds of silly things (like philosophy) to see if they can trick life into doing what they want it to, and this goes on until they hit another point where they realize that it isn't gonna work, and even if you don't like it, life keeps going, and as disappointing and even as disillusioning as that can be, in a way it's also really comforting, because in a weird way it levels the playing field, because it goes by for everyone, which means that all we can do with it that's any good at all is giving it away.
Plus it makes me think of all the people I love who've finished, and how much I miss them, and the One I miss most, and how I'm getting closer to that, too.

Once in a while, when it's good, it'll feel like it should
And they're all still around, and you're still safe and sound
And you don't miss a thing
Til you cry when you're driving away in the dark
Singing
Stop this train
I want to get off and go home again

Word worth

"A picture is worth a thousand words."

It may be true:
but as one who appreciates words I find that I faintly resent the statement.
I think the resentment is a reaction to the internal certainty that the thing to which I largely devote my intelligence is ultimately inadequate.
the big things in life are beyond words. or to use the jargon I am increasingly fond of,
unable to be encapsulated in verbal interaction.
it makes me mad:
>: (

Somehow, it's just not the same.
And yet...
I think we should change the saying to this.
"An ellipsis is worth a thousand words."
because it really is.

Sizing Up

A friend of mine and I were having a talk a few Saturdays ago, and she said something that perfectly introduces what's been happening in and about my heart for the past little while. She and I were sharing some of our frustrations with contemporary American Christianity, specifically the super-cool "justice movement," that youthful cultural obsession with social justice issues. Which, be it known, I am all for. But when the real, actual suffering of real, actual people becomes a marketing tool to make college students feel better about buying another shirt that they don't need, my hackles raise the slightest bit.

*descends from soapbox*

Anyway. To get back to the point...
My friend was talking about Priorities when she said something that arrested my attention. This was the gist of it:
"I'd been fasting and praying," she said, "And I would get all excited about starting a revolution, and changing the hearts of those around me...carried away with the idea that people's hearts would start to turn to the Lord." She paused to sip at her tea and looked out the window. "And then God said to me, 'You do not fast to turn people.'"
"'You fast to honor Me. The point of this is to bring Me glory. Your efforts don't mean anything, apart from that.'"

We stopped talking for a moment. And something started to crystallize in my head.

Without going into a lot of detail, I had what my Christianese terminology would label "a crisis of faith" over Christmas Break. One of the biggest things I'm taking away from it is the Size of God.

He's really Big. Bigger than Avogadro's number. Times a billion. I'm no good at numbers. But even if I were. The Thing's impossible to quantify. And I do it all the time. And the Church does it all the time.
I had a lecture recently in my world lit. class on the Book of Job related to this topic. I'll try to keep it succinct.
I've heard from several people, two at least of whom are very dear friends of mine, that Job is about the failure of man's righteousness. I've sat through sermons that preach from Job, quoting the words of his three friends(whose rather imposing names were Eliphaz, Bildad, and Zophar) rather than the words of Job, and I cannot tell you the number of times I've heard the following words of Job discredited by the American church:
"The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away, blessed be the name of the Lord."
There's a popular worship song based on the above verse (Job 1.21 for the reference-minded) that our worship team used to sing. The lyrics of the song are largely your typical Christian fare, blessing the name of God in all circumstances, and the bridge goes like this:
You give and take away
You give and take away
My heart will choose to say,
"Lord, blessed be Your name"
Catch: We never sing the bridge.
I asked why once, and this is the answer I got: "That verse was spoken in anger against God. Job was committing the sin of fear. We know that God is not responsible for the bad things that happen. He would never do or allow harmful things to befall his children." Another friend explained it this way: "Job's sin was the sin of fear. He was trying to redeem his children by himself, with all those sacrifices he kept making for them, and so God had to take them away, because they were like idols to him." (For the unaware, this is a reference to Job 1.5.)
I looked for this in the Bible. It was not there. Not even a little.
In fact, Job 1.22 explicitly states that Job's statement was righteous: "And in all this Job sinned not, nor charged God foolishly."
Here's my take on Job. I don't really get it. But the point of the book, at least as far as I understand it, is this:
Will we serve God when there's nothing in it for us?
Job did.
Lost his kids, lost his home, his livelihood, everything but his wife (interesting point here, as satan had, according to chapter 1, permission to touch everything except Job's person. One of the best indications of the oneness of married couples I've ever found). And even she advised him to curse God and die. And then his friends come and all sit down to mourn with him the loss of his ten children. Ten children. Ten people with distinct personalities and idiosyncrasies. They came, as good friends will, to sit in silence in the face of unbearable grief. Right?
Not so much. They really just spent about thirty chapters trying desperately to fit what had happened into the pretty lacquered box they had God stored in. Their theology was for the most part, sound. Everything they said made sense...to a point. Good things happen to the righteous. Bad things happen to the wicked. Bad things happened to Job; ergo, Job was somehow wicked.
(I do not know if ergo is used correctly there...but it was worth it.)
Problem: Job was not wicked.

So he demands an audience with God, and after chapters of frustrating back-and-forth, God speaks, and everyone else shuts up.
And that's it.
no answers, no solutions, no here's-why.
Just God. How come we assume that we have Him figured out?

One thing that has always indicated to me that perhaps elementary education is not for me is that I have a hard time standing stupidity. (Please stop laughing, you who know me, I know I display the despised characteristic with hypocritical frequency...). And the worst facet of stupidity, in my estimation, is that sort of belligerent ignorance that equates loudness and repetition with accuracy.
Listen up.
You will never completely understand God.
He is unfathomable. You can never reach the end of Him, you will never run out of things to learn:
You will never stop being wrong about Him.

Over Christmas break I realized I'd developed a mistaken impression of God: He had become someone I knew too well, and our relationship had become a place where familiarity had bred a sort of contempt. I approached Him the way one approaches a boyfriend they've been with for too long.
And then he turned around, and I was confronted by the Lion of the Tribe of Judah.

I had lots of questions that I do not necessarily have the answers to.
People I love have had bad things happen to them that I do not understand.
Christians who love God and do right things-- suffer.
To ignore this or to pin blame frantically does the Almighty an injustice. We do not like what we don't understand-- I understand the fear of the unknown. But would not the assumption of a Creator completely fathomable imply an equality, if not a superiority, to said Creator? Are we God's equals, that we can explain Him so handily?
There are times, and, I anticipate, there will continue to be times, when things will happen, circumstances will transpire, Bad Things will hit hard. And sometimes all we can do is repeat the words of Job, who in his confusion and pain, was more righteous than his miserable comforters:
"Behold, I am vile; what shall I answer thee? I will lay mine hand upon my mouth" (Job 40.4).

What would happen if we acknowledged our vileness every once in a while? If we admitted that God was impossible to quantify? If we lived as though honoring God were the Most Important Thing, and that changing people was not? If we made our world-changing secondary to our pursuit into the Infinite?
Our self-esteem would shatter!
Well, Heaven forbid...