Dailylit.com
Pick a book and subscribe to the RSS feed, and they send you a short segment (takes about 5 minutes to read) as often as you like, for free. I would never pick up some of the classics on the site during the year, but in these bite-sized portions they become much more manageable. I'm reading The Hound of the Baskervilles first. :-)
Random observation about myself, for future reference:
I crave security and safety, but I do crazy and silly things. I just sent a long email to someone who used to be a big part of my life, but we haven't spoken in five years. I asked if he wanted to go get coffee and catch up. Where the heck did that come from? Other examples: going to school 12 hours away, my summer service program, encouraging my family to run out to the beach amid a thunderstorm.
Official conclusion: My mind makes no sense. If I were an android, my positronic net would be fused and I would have exploded by now.
My normally several-month-long summer has been condensed into four weeks (at least the part involving family, high school friends, and stuff like that). I feel like the all-the-rage concentrated detergent bottles. Use half the liquid for the same kick. Anyway...
My family returned home today after three days at the beach. Perhaps it wasn't as extravagant as some years (blame Notre Dame, not me...) but at least I feel like I've fulfilled my Quality Time Quotient for a while, something that is often hard to do in the craziness of being home. Wanting to spend time with everyone makes it hard to be home sometimes. We walked/ran on the beach, avoided getting sunburned (most of the time), ate seafood and pizza and fudge, drank "fancy coffee," browsed shops in the village, read our books, watched lots of Star Trek episodes, and in general did our best to chill out.
We also almost got killed in a nasty thunderstorm... fortunately no one was electrocuted. We had just arrived Monday afternoon, and we of course had to go see the beach as soon as we got our stuff in the room... so we walked out, ignoring the drizzle that was increasing to a steady rain. It was about a two minute walk to the beach, past the pool and under trees. We made it to the beach, took note of the large and angry-looking storm clouds behind us, and hunkered under one of those metal-framed pop-up canopies some wiser family had abandoned. We were pretty much soaked and the beach was deserted. The choice was to try to make it back to the condo thing, through the rain now coming in sheets, towards the quickly-approaching lightning, or hope that it would blow over our heads momentarily. We stuck it out, playing it brave for Mark, with Dad chancing touching the metal frame once in a while to keep the canopy on the ground. It was pretty much incredible, especially because no one got hurt. Good times.
I've been busy trying to catch up with my high school friends too. Margy, Liana, and I met for Chickfila lunching goodness, and I saved Christine from agonizing over the finals for her summer classes at UGA by whisking her away for a picnic and free outdoor movie in downtown Decatur. The picnic was great, as were the desperately competitive rounds of Taboo between the two of us and Joey and Dan; the movie got viciously rained out (I seem to be getting soaked in freak storms a lot lately). We took refuge at Dan's house and watched Batman instead. I am now deeply in need of my Akeelah and the Bee fix, however; my family won't watch it with me. I was so psyched to see it and have been sadly disappointed. Takers?
Tonight brought some much-needed room-cleaning time. I never unpacked my college stuff when I came home in May, I just packed out of boxes for my summer. Now I have college stuff and summer suitcases to unpack and organize. I went through most of the "random stuff" boxes tonight, sorting out stuff that doesn't need to come back to school with me, and putting the re-packed boxes out of the way downstairs. The process inevitably involved sorting through the books-to-read-or-reread box, and now I'm shifting from foot to foot in anticipation of the books I want to read. I'm leaving about half at home. I should leave them all. I didn't read a single book for fun during last school year (breaks don't count). But how sad is a bookshelf full of just mandatory reading? I think my soul at least needs the promise of non-academic books. And now that I have accomplished one goal for the night (writing a mondo-huge and disjointed blog post (yes, my to-do list actually says those very words)) I think I'm going to indulge my insatiable written-word craving.
One last thing: I'm reading Snow Flower and the Secret Fan on the high recommendation of many people, and I have to ask of those who've read it, what's with all the hype? I'm not impressed, but I'm holding out for that kick-butt chapter that makes it all worthwhile.
My program/class this summer assigned a book by Henri Nouwen and others called Compassion. At times I cursed this book for the way it explained service, because it claims that service is only truly possible if we first have a deep relationship with God. I would agree that it helps, that it keeps you from serving for the sake of serving and points you towards what you're called to do, but I would argue that simply because I have the faith of a rather desperate agnostic does not mean that I can't serve and offer compassion.
Sorry for ranting. There were parts of the book that spoke to me, and one was the chapter on displacement. It started by talking about voluntary displacement- the times in our lives that we decide to make ourselves uncomfortable in order to reach out to others. My eight weeks of service was the most radical voluntary displacement I have ever done. The first part of this chapter has you ready to move to Calcutta and work with Mother Teresa's nuns, so passionate is its speech. But then comes the catch: involuntary displacement, the ways in which we struggle in our ordinary lives that we have no control over, are also calls from God.
"If voluntary displacement is such a central theme in the life of Christ and his followers, must we not begin by displacing ourselves? Probably not. Rather, we must begin to identify in our own lives where displacement is already occurring... Our first and most difficult task... is to allow these actual displacements to become places where we can hear God's call... In and through this recognition a conversion can take place, a conversion from involuntary displacement leading to resentment, bitterness, resignation, and apathy, to voluntary displacement that can become an expression of discipleship. We do not have to go after crosses, but we have to take up the crosses that have been ours all along" (Nouwen, et al. 70-71).I both love and hate that sort of uncomfortable wincing that comes with realizing how blind you've been. The mantra in the back of my mind since I've been home has been, "I don't want to be here, I want to go back." I am being uncomfortably and involuntarily displaced, and I naturally rebel against that. But that's not the healthy and moral thing to do, is it? Thanks for your questions in your comment on my last post, Maria- they made me think.
The best of friends have a knack of gently showing you the error of your ways, without actually coming out and saying that you're misguided. Or maybe it's the love of a friend that fills you with enough love for yourself that you can see yourself more clearly. Regardless, I had a long conversation with my ex-goingtobe-roomie-currently-entering-theDominicans last night, and I might have my head on straight now. My love belongs to everyone around me because it's within me to give it. Love might have been more easy to offer at Bethany, where we talked immediately about real things, but love can still be offered in listening to someone talk about such seemingly-pointless things as Harry Potter. Time to start applying what I learned instead of spending all my time missing a place I can't go back to any time soon. Thanks, whoever reads this, for not just saying that to my face- I wouldn't have understood yet.
It's been much more rough transitioning back into real life than I thought. How could I have figured out a good deal about how to find and be peace at a homeless shelter, and not be able to do the same at home, where I am supposed to feel the most loved and secure? Why is life so much more complicated and even unhappy here than in a place of constant chaos and trauma? I knew it would be hard to go, but I had no idea it would be so hard to come home. Despite the chaos and the sometimes overwhelming despair, the place that I spent my summer was also full of unconditional love that accepted you and what you had to offer. I was allowed to be me and grow at my own pace, offering as much love as I could as I learned. No one ever disapproved of me (at least, they never made me feel that way). My family and friends here are mostly the same loving, awesome people, but it feels like they're trying to love someone who's not here. I'm still me, but I left a big piece of my heart in New York and I'm just not sure how to be happy or fulfilled without it.
After a half hour delay, my plane took off without mishap from Rochester's cute little airport at around 6 PM last night, depositing me back in Atlanta along with two very full suitcases and a backpack. Thus far in my transition back into real life I am still thoroughly overwhelmed. My first surprise was remembering what it's like to be deeply loved. My family and my boyfriend were waiting for me at the Atlanta airport, and it took me a good fifteen minutes to get used to the idea that they had loved me and missed me so much that they wanted to hug and kiss me. I loved deeply and found a lot of love in Rochester, seeing as they weren't family, it was, of course, different. I hadn't even really noticed how genuine unconditional love had simply been missing from my life for the last eight weeks. I've never been without both family and boyfriend at the same time for any extended length of time, if that makes this more comprehensible. I had just forgotten what it's like, to be loved in this way. I don't think I stopped to consider what I was expecting for them to do when I got home, but the hugs and kisses and huge smiles genuinely surprised me and overwhelmed me.
Of course, some things I have adjusted to easily. I slept well in my bed last night, and I took a shower this morning without flipflops on my feet. I ate a sandwich for lunch that my dad made me last night, just like when I was growing up. I went by my church and my parents' office and saw several familiar faces. And the other things will come in time. I have a month to re-adjust to life outside of a homeless shelter. Tonight I'm going to On the Deck, a kind of Catholic youth group for college kids in Atlanta. It will be nice to be with kids my own age again and do "normal" things like eat burgers and talk about majors. There are several important holidays coming up (birthdays and anniversaries) that will keep me busy too. That's the key right now, keeping busy. Then I don't think about how my friends are doing back in Rochester, and for right now, I can't handle thinking about them too much.
The house (in Rochester) is closing for two weeks to do repairs and stuff, as it does every year. I'm hoping and praying that they all had a place to go and that the transition is going smoothly. The silence is oppressive- I'm all alone in my house right now. I haven't been all alone in a building in a long time. I miss their voices and laughter and constant requests. I'll get used to this nagging ache eventually, but it's going to take some time before I really feel at home in my own house.
I have a childhood memory, or maybe just a strong memory from a dream, of standing on the middle of a bridge over a river that formed a state line, one foot in each state. I'm kind of like that now. I've been here for about four weeks, and I have about four weeks to go. "Here," by the way, is a Catholic Worker House in upstate NY. I'm living and spending most of my days serving here, in the somewhat odd position of a staff member without much authority or her own shifts.
It's been wonderful so far. I have learned so much here about so many things, including a lot of insights into myself. It's incredible. I'm journaling as much as I can so I won't miss anything, and I know that I'll also come to understand more stuff when I get home and have some time to reflect. There are ups and downs and big bundles of crises that make us think the house is just falling apart, but there are also a lot of ways to learn peace and patience. Most of the time, when thinking about the house, I just sit back and marvel. It's incredible (I know, I've already used this sentence once in this paragraph, but it is so true). I know I'm not getting into enough detail now to satisfy anyone, but I'm still in the middle of it and truly stepping back to analyze where I'm at is hard. Basically: nobody worry about me, my summer is beautiful.
The times that it's difficult to be here are not what I thought they would be. I was all worried about missing friends and family and special events back home. I was a little homesick at first, especially my first day when the prospect of eight weeks in a strange city where I didn't know a soul was just a lot to handle. But really, that wore off pretty fast. What's been hardest has been learning how to balance being compassionate with protecting myself. Everyone, during my first week, told me to remember to give myself free time away from the house or I would burn out. But it's also all to easy to isolate myself and not let myself be present with these women through their pain. How much easier it is to read a book at night than to listen with full attention to the difficulties our guests have faced during their days. At first I was writing letters, reading, and journaling every night. Now I try to make time for journaling before falling into bed. My time belongs to them while I'm here. I take my breaks when I know that I've become too self-centered on my own inner problems to be able to be fully attentive to them. It's a continual struggle to be passionately compassionate. To listen with all of my mind and heart is the greatest gift I can give these women who are so often sidelined and quietly ignored.
So that's where I am. I won't lie, I will enjoy being home in an environment that is much more secure and supporting than being here, but I wouldn't leave here until I have to for the world, and I will cry when it's time to say goodbye. I am home in such an irrevocable way. I hope everyone is doing well and taking care of themselves! Love you guys.
In one week, I will be home and done with a year of college. In two weeks, I will be in New York and starting a whole new adventure.
This is supposed to evoke feelings of excitement.
I'm ready to leave, but not ready for eight weeks of service. Mostly, I am worried about missing things. I knew some things would have to be missed: my brother's twelfth birthday, my pastor's fortieth anniversary of being a priest, and the ordination of my favorite seminarian. Now I'm also missing the last Gold Award ceremony for my circle of Girl Scout friends and a weekend in Charleston with high school friends.
Blasted Facebook. The invites will continue to come in for events. Pictures will be posted from things I never even knew were happening.
I have a jealousy problem. I know this. Being left out, then finding out about it later, always hurts. Facebook is excellent at showing me, as soon as I log in, photos of my friends out together. Inevitably, I end up questioning my priorities. If I had gone to more club meetings instead of studying, would they have invited me? What if I had been more present instead of needing to leave to go to bed on time? Have I been too preoccupied? It's hopeless, really, and kind of absurd. Facebook photos are going to cause me to slowly die from stress.
Fortunately, I will limit my online time this summer as much as possible. The way to reach me will be through the house's phone if it's urgent, or letters if it's not. Cell phone voicemail and email will be checked max of once a week. I'm looking forward to the freedom. I just hope it won't be too lonely.
So I'm waiting outside of my Spanish classroom to take my oral final. I've stared at my notes for too long and they're starting to run together. The caffeine at my side isn't helping much. Today's something of a marathon for me- almost worse than finals. After I take my oral exam, I turn in a term paper for my next class (International Relations). Then I have a break to eat. In English, I'm giving a presentation instead of turning in a term paper. My partner and I have sort of written a skit/ conversation between two characters from works we've read this semester. I'm Emi from Tropic of Orange, if that helps anyone. Should be interesting. Then I'm turning in a semester-long project in my last class, Peace Studies.
But it's all good (prepare yourself for mushiness) because tonight I will be swept off my feet and taken to some exciting dining location. Yes, my dears, today my boyfriend and I have been together for eighteen months. Life is beautiful.
Things like projects, papers, and finals are pulling at the edge of my attention, but I'm too far away to settle down to that. Little things preoccupy me- did you know that preocupado means "worried" in Spanish? So maybe little things worry me. Confusion and trepidation and something like silent hysteria. Maybe it's because I'm finishing my first year of college in two weeks, and who knows what that means. Maybe I feel no wiser or stronger or in touch with myself. Maybe someone from my past wrote something just the right way to make me think back and sigh. Maybe I can't get the sound of the shuffling of an old man's feet out of my head. He moved his cane an inch, then his feet, step-step. Maybe I'm thinking of the thunderstorm that broke furiously five minutes later, and wondering if he made it to shelter. Maybe I'm thinking that in three weeks I'll be in New York, and good grief what was I thinking. Maybe I'm thinking of the robin perching on the handlebars of a bike yesterday, singing with all its might and breaking my heart. Maybe I think too much.
Why does life so often feel like something to get through? If I just write these papers, finish these projects and presentations, study for these finals, pack this stuff, drive this car back home, then I'll have time to actually live. But I never have the time.
A blog I follow posted a rather moving argument for more gun control today, here. On this topic, I have three things to say that summarize my feelings:
So here's a thought: I'm going to try to write a blog entry in which I don't go on about my busy-ness and commitments. Because really, one can only do that for so long before it gets really irritating, and I think I passed that point a few months ago.
Instead, I'm stealing a blog idea from my blogging friend Tia over at Living Deliberately, who today wrote about simple pleasures. I thought about her attention to simple pleasures while going about my business today, and it improved my mood dramatically.
Simple pleasures I noted today:
I guess I have been pretty awful about taking time to write here. I'm not dead (Linda, O Leaver of Desperate-Sounding Comments, you should know that, you saw me last week). I am, however, exceedingly busy. This semester doesn't feel worse than last semester work-wise, but it is. Hello, real college classes with real college finals (i.e. cumulative and no study guides). I'm also working, not a lot, but some, and those hours have to come from somewhere.
Next semester isn't looking much easier, but I think that's good. I was elected Membership Chair for Right to Life, so I'll have all sorts of officer duties and things. I made it on the Experiential Learning Council, so I'll be helping with the service learning seminars through the Center for Social Concerns (I went on one over Christmas, the Urban Plunge, and I'll be going on one this summer called the Summer Service Learning Program). I have declared a PoliSci major and a Catholic Social Tradition minor, with a Peace Studies supplementary major to follow as soon as I get the form signed. I'm official, as it were. All of that is in preparation for course registration, which is turning out to be quite the headache as no one can agree if I'm currently a sophomore or a freshman. Silly bureaucracy. I applied for a grad-research-in-undergrad sort of program through the Kellogg Institute for International Studies, and I'm hoping that I get into that. I'd work with one of the fellows next year on his research and then do research of my own, eventually writing a thesis. I'm also going to keep my job at the Music Department through next semester, with the hope that, if I got into this research program, eventually that would become my work-study. I also want to get back involved in Amnesty International and maybe take swing dancing lessons. I'm still deciding whether I want to work with Take Ten, a conflict resolution education program in area schools, next semester, but I've enjoyed it this semester. I also need to decide if I want to work with leading some of the freshman programs through campus ministry that I've been involved in this year, such as freshman retreats and freshman peer leaders. Lots to do, not enough hours.
That's where I am. Crazy, once-in-a-lifetime opportunities popping up all around me all the time. Good times.
My English teacher wants us to write one crisp, descriptive, "shining" paragraph about our lives every day for the next five days. Here is my first one; I might post the others as I write them. This one is about a violence-prevention program I teach to middle schoolers called Take Ten.
My face furrows in a frown in the midst of a lecture on Carl Shmitt (he was a Nazi, you know, but his logic is everywhere in the speeches of the most unlikely politicians). I have let my thoughts escape the classroom and dwell upon the events looming in my schedule. A commitment has just resurfaced in my memory, and I grieve for the time that it will consume. I perform time management calculus in my head. Because of the lost three hours, my homework load will anchor me to my desk and keep me from another lecture I had hoped to attend tonight, on a topic far more interesting to me than political theory. But there is no escaping it; my afternoon is destined to be spent in a room full of children, trying to read, sing, and laugh my way into their hearts, so that they might accept the message I have to offer. I want to show them (not tell them) that no matter what their role models might do, engaging in violence and intolerance is no way to live a life (after all, we only have one life to live). My frown now is directed at the clock, whose hands are keeping me from giggles and shouts, proudly-held jaws and folded arms.
The first was when I agreed to put the "donate organs" icon on my driver's license. The second, which I just electronically "signed", says this:
"I hereby declare that should I die as a result of a violent crime, I request that the person or persons found guilty of homicide for my killing not be subject to or put in jeopardy of the death penalty under any circumstances, no matter how heinous their crime or how much I may have suffered."
The fuller version is here.
Want to sign too?
