favorite person.

leftovers for lunch. chatting with my parents.
practicing for sunday (our friend's wedding). giggles and coming in too early. but finally getting it right. music is fun with him.
walking to the park. sitting at the park. talking and sharing and laughing and being honest. knowing him.
buying pumpkins. carving pumpkins in concentrated silence. his, traditional. mine, not. both, wonderful!
the dark knight rises in comfy clothes. one word: intense.
good night smooches with eyes locked.

he is definitely my favorite person.
i am all smiles.
i am living a good good life.

strange as it was,

sunday afternoons have been my solace for the past few months. after church, my day is free. the feller has every sunday off. this means he comes over and we eat food my mother prepares (or my dad buys). if neither of those things happens, we get in-n-out. duh. we've been frequenting local parks with our ratty old blankets - his, stolen. mine, from childhood. we lay on them and nap. we read. we talk. we crinkle our noses. we smooch. i tell him, as we sort through future possibilities, that days at the park are enough. although we have done and enjoy both, no wining and dining needed here. laying by his side on an old blanket at a park is enough.

the clouds were theatrical, tumultuous. they wrestled with the sun our entire outing. the wind was cool. the grass was damp. the feller was warm. by any estimation, it was perfect.
i have been turning things over in my head about a difficult situation. i know my faults and where i have been wrong. where i have been unfair or too quick to turn my head. and i know where others misstepped. i am aware of the past and how it informs the present. i have been shaped by life experience. and whether i like it or not, i have to look at that experience and push back against the repercussions of it all. the betrayal, the unforgiveness, the lack of trust. what do i do with these assumptions and these feelings of uncomfortability and anxiety? how do i handle this in a way that honors and respects all parties? how do i embody goodness to those i have harbored malice against? what does the Lord require of me in this situation? i have been thinking carefully. the feller has a voice in the matter. and there is a voice i have been avoiding. so i have been thinking about avoidance and all those questions and what to do with a situation that will not evaporate.

and, unfurling from between the questions - that anxious, empty space that quivers,
arose a peculiar thought:
i have nothing to worry about, do i?

strange as it was, i believed it. if only for a minute or so, i believed it.

so i voiced this to the feller. he responded with:
no, dear.

there was sincerity in his voice. no pleading. no fight. just tenderness and understanding.
and while i love boundaries and things to be sure (above all, i want to be sure),

i know that
it is better to trust,
it is better to give chances,
it is better to extend peace and friendship.
(even if typing that makes me cringe still)

and as jonie reminded me at coffee, i have everything to be confident about.

looked on and loved.

a month or so ago, i stumbled on a poem by doris ferleger.

it moves me.
it helps me love myself.
it brings me back.

i am memorizing this poem because of the fifth line.
i repeat it over and over again when i become anxious at another body or phrase.
and i remember that i am that tilted fir, which is looked on and loved.

Daily he told me I was beautiful,

my breast cupped in his palm cured

me of any doubt. So you see why

I cannot gaze at my own nakedness.

Mirrors tell you nothing about love.

The tilted fir outside my window

stands taller than our house. Even if

I described each tuft, counted

branches, became its mirror,

you could never love it as I do,

understand how it kept me faithful,

stood watch with me when the other tree fell.

doris ferleger, "mirrors"

good and safe

i saw this above picture on pintrest* months ago. i caught myself in the middle of smile when it came to my attention that something was awry. at first, i thought it was funny. i assumed myself the fit girl, began to question this, and concluded i was the skinny girl. i, uneasy and flustered, had been targeted by a picture with eleven words on it. guess which one is the most important? oh, you don't have to. it's been highlighted by it's designer. 

this phrase: 

dehumanizes women by reducing them to bodies,

we are physical beings, yes. but we are intellectual, emotional, spiritual, and social beings as well. relegating these aspects of our humanity to the corner is damaging. it fractures our sense of self.  we begin to forget that we have more to offer. we get confused about food and clothes and exercise. we take part in dehumanizing other women - our friends, our enemies, and strangers - when we use this language. this language does harm to how we perceive and treat ourselves and others. it is self-sabotage in the sneakiest of ways.

divides bodies - not people - into camps, which are identified as bad or good or best,

this is important. because it does not compare the way we love well or live well, which is something i touched on here. the division is concerned with the ephemeral - bodies, which we do not have a say in (for the most part). it is concerned with flesh that will meet life-experiences (pregnancy, cancer, etc.), age, and decay. sidenote: it only follows that society dismember the woman further: to her parts. she becomes her legs, her breasts, her bottom, or her waist. all of which are up for public opinion and critique.

and it does these things while hiding behind the guise of exercise and self-care.

it pretends to champion an ideal of fitness - the goal** of which is to carry out functions well - while subervtently offering us a more tangible, obvious goal: the promise of hott bod. will a firm, toned body be the result of a life that incorporates exercise? maybe. but it isn't a guarentee and it certainly isn't the point.


Few feel 
good and safe 
in their bodies.
susie orbach

i believe that the above picture is a way for a person who feels bad to feel good, who feels unsafe to feel safe. we are fighting to feel good and safe and are, unfortunately, doing so in a way that is violent and oppressive to other women clawing for the same thing. we are waging war on those that have dismembered us by ripping ourselves apart. we are unjustly punishing those that have offended us with their bodies, which we covet.

kyrie eleison.

christe eleison.

*other pins that do similar things: this, this, this, and this. they may seem benign and funny but they are part of societal consciousness that i want nothing to do with.
**other benefits of fitness: strengthened muscles, bones, ligaments, tendons, and immune systems. improved endurange, balance, performance, circulation, and memory. lowers risk of heart disease, diabetes, cancer, osteoporosis, strokes, and high blood pressure/cholesterol. helps make rest more restful. healthier pregnancy and fewer childbirth and ovulation problems.  these are the reasons we exercise. 

a girl turned blue

a month or so ago i finished sylvia plath's, the bell jar. it is considered autobiographical fiction.
i had been avoiding it for years. i heard something about her having a dark soul - full of despair and terrible thoughts. she had stumbled into a wasteland of infinite sadnesses and committed suicide. i know instinctively that my avoidance of a girl turned blue could be claimed by one thing: fear, go figure. i decided long ago that she and i were too much a like. i, too, was glum. her signs were obvious, mine less so (at least, i'd like to think). there was lots of sulking. but all sulking was personal, not shared, and internalized, except at home. the internalization bit kept me in a cacoon of my own opinions and assumptions. besides this hue of self-absorption (artists call it many things but it should never be denied for what it is - the excessive concern for one's self.), i think what causes her to materialize across the living room in that old 70's mirror is my shared willingness to concede to all those dark feelings that i am told to push out with cheery dispositions and white teeth. instead, we welcome them.  i have explored sorrow and grief, given myself to it, and am more human because of it. i have words to give children on the playground when they cry and i have a taste of what a daughter caught in the fault lines of a marriage feels like. i have words and understanding. they are shades of what sorrow and grief all people feel. and i am not afraid to welcome them, to give myself to them. but i know that in the very hole of darkness - the airless and alienating bell jar - there sits with me a friend and a savior, who has conquered death and its misshapen cohorts. so while i allow sorrow and grief to run their course, i choose to live according to the Truth.

being of the same strain as plath, i feared that reading her book in me would set off some trigger that would cause me spiraling into an oblivion of isolation and madness. i was wrong.
in esther, the protagonist, i found a familiar spirit. distancing herself from people. observing from afar. pessimistic about relationships. holding people to be honest about their decisions. disoriented by many things. especially the life she was supposed to be living and the life she desired. feeling inadequate. reducing things to either/or rather than both/and. carrying on imaginary conversations with the loved and the loathed. a disjointed and confused perception of self. fearful she might be trapped by her madness again.  esther was direct. cynical, yes, but matter-of-fact. she knew what she was feeling/observing/thought and explained it plainly. these characteristics, among her love for avocados and the feeling of fingers running through her hair, made me feel a friend in her.

and because it goes without saying but i cannot be as direct as esther...
plath, a poet at bottom, stole me with her words. i was thinking of posting my favorite quotes - phrases even! but maybe only as they are relevant to upcoming posts. they are all so lovely though.

p.s. i have a proclivity to coming-of-age novels. i've noticed those are the kind i always find myself reading. i like tension, in anything. and when is there more tension than in becoming acquainted with the world as a somewhat adult?

wishlist

update: crossed out items have been purchased

bodies
by susie orbach
and
fat is a feminist issue
and
the impossibility of sex
and
hunger strike

and
on eating

like i have said in these posts i am working towards a better understanding of body and beauty. sometimes i cringe in comparison, sometimes i am brazenly confident. knowledge (and the internalization of that knowledge) will hopefully help level this all out. i want to speak intelligently about this subject. i want to confront this issue with understanding. i want the language and the facts. miss orbach knows these things. i want to know of bodies of art of beauty. if you have any suggestions on the matter, please say so.

anything, absolutely anything written by norah ephron.

a collection of her essays, perhaps? [i feel bad about my neck, heartburn, i remember nothing, scribble scribble, crazy salad... just to name a few] i read an article she wrote on breasts, which made me laugh and feel unusually close to her. she gave me the gutspa to buy only lace bras in celebration of myself. the original article on Esquire.com has been removed since her passing this year but you can find it here. she is the mind behind romantic comedy you've got mail. fantastic.

the bradbury chronicles
by sam weller
i was reading a book called steal like an artist by this guy. if you watch the video you will know why i chose this book. in eighth grade i read farhenheit 451. it was then that i thought, you can do this with words? i was shocked. i was pleased. and i began to write better because of it.

is everone hanging out with without me? (and other concerns)
by mindy kaling
i think i might be a tad obsessed with her at the moment. her new show the mindy project is the love child of confessions of a shopaholic, mean girls, and thirteen going on thirty. all movies i adore. she is funny. she is smart. she is one hell of a writer and her sense of humor is stellar.  i wish she were my adopted indian sister. i'm not sure if reading kaling's book means i must read fey's bossypants, but i'm not against it.

i already have a stack of books i am reading. not to mention the ones on my trunk and the ones on my shelves and the ones in my ralphs crate that have not been scoured. but i will have to agree with john waters, the writer and director of hairspray (88):

nothing is more important 
than an unread library.

yes, mister waters, yes.

on feeling inferior, reading into things, and trusting.

this post might as well be titled the sequel to "it seems too simple."

last night was anouther double date with the same couple, our third one with them to be exact. and it wasn't as defeating as the first one, which you must keep in mind while reading this. another thing to keep in mind? i endured a headache all day, my heels hurt, my body was achy and i had woken up several times the night before. i wasn't feeling too hot (though i looked it). there might have been recognizable dissonance brooding in me but the night was no fiasco. we ate, laughed, and walked. it was good.

phrases like representational art, conflicting american ideals, and the lesser of two evils disagreed with me. in all honesty, i know nothing of politics or fine dining or historical figures or pipes or economics. i am terrible at retaining information.  my memorization skills kick ass but retaining what i memorized? a whole other story. so i forgot what president did what or what some wars meant for our country.  i'm not well-versed in how to eat this or the art in that gallery across the street.  i don't have pointed opinions about some things. heck, i am poorly informed about many things. i am not a knower, though i wish i was.  so the beast made a dramatic appearance once again last night. and i became fixated on my lack of contribution to the conversation. i become fixated on how much i do not know (and how much they do). i become fixated on their tailored speech. the whole time, feeling inferior. feeling that i cannot be friends with these people. feeling as if i've some sort of impression to uphold and defend and prove. making assumptions on how i am being perceived.

i read into things. it is what i have been told to do as a singer. i get a song and i analyze why the composer did such and such with the melody line and why the accompaniment does such and such. i become a character and i must know every nuance of their emotions without asking them. i make up my own story, my own background and i construct (and reconstruct) the reasoning of each character in each song i sing. i sift through the possibilities of motivation behind one phrase. is she sad? is she jubilant? is she fearful? and why is she these things? and why is she deciding to give this words now? so i read into things and i construct your reasoning. and i make assumptions about what you are thinking and why. it's terribly unfair because you are a real person that i can - gasp - get to know. and getting to know someone will usually relieve me from my assumption making duties. knowing you, i don't have to assume... i can ask or trust what i already know.

i need to give people a chance. i need to give myself a chance.

stacey, give yourself a chance. you are smart, funny. 

you know about family and dailyness and alonedom. 

you know about change and decision-making. 

you are soft and a good listener. 

you are primarily a feeler, but you are a thinker too. 

you are beloved. 

and because you have weathered life for twenty-two years

under the grace, faithfulness, and leadership of a good God

you can contribute to the conversation in unique and enlightening ways.

i get lost in surging assumptions and violent fears and i forget that i know a God who stills these things with faithul love. he is my anchor, yes? i've got to bring this to mind on nights like last night. i've got to trust this so deeply that nights like last night become rare - preferably nonexistent. 

a big plus of last night? learning to eat an artichoke the right way.

there is always a silver lining.

it's okay

saturday afternoon i was sleepy. having a friend over the previous evening after a whallop of a day at work was difficult. being present when i am sleepy is probably one of the hardest things for me to do. feel especially pleased with yourself if you are a person who unravels my sleepiness and makes me awake. others can't do it. saturday afternoon proved what i already knew: this friend could not. but i tried my hardest to honor her and her time. to listen to her stories and worries. to discern when to use my tongue, which often resulted in not speaking because, well, it wasn't necessary.  she is a beautiful individual and i must always meet her with the same loving attention i do the sleep unraveling ones.

my dad had been having back problems the evening before. the remote was on the ground and wanting to fast forward through the commercials he walked over, extended his arm, bent his back and suffered terrible muscle spasms.  he was able to get in bed with help. saturday morning he couldn't get up because of the pain. age had absent-mindedly forgotten it's tightly clenched dentures in his lower back. there was a brief time span where he was able to walk and eat breakfast and protest, of course, that he was not in need of immediate medical attention. pride said no to a hospital ride. my mother couldn't break his mulishness and such a division cut off her opportunity and impulse to help. she took my nephews to a soccer game and i, who had been planning on attending a surprise birthday party, was his only helper. i assured him that if he was in need of help i was there. this is something i am working on. helping. putting aside myself for the sake of others. i'm not playing martyr but i am trying to good to those i love.

love stays.
love helps.
love prefers the other.

the call was made, despite his embarrassment. i have never been immobilized and i could imagine his embarrassment.  for a man who only truly confides in his own strength and ability to get things done this is as welcome as chinese water torture. he is a lone ranger in a family of fixers, helpers, and talkers.
 
he insisted to the dipspatch that he wanted no sirens, no lights. both were present. they came. five or six of them. i can't remember anything really. i just remember thinking thank God it's only his back. not his heart. not a stroke. no blood. still conscious. just his back. these men were friendly. they made jokes. they eased the tension. they are professionals and could save his life, but their presence was more than steady hands and knowledgeable minds... they made my dad laugh. thank you paramedics for being more than smart and able. you are kind, funny. you helped in many ways. they made themselves at home. i stepped back. they moved tables and pushed back couches. they asked me questions. thank God it was just his back. rolled him on a paper gurney. then he was placed on a real gurney. he was rolled out of my house and into an ambulance. it was just his back. i had to keep reminding myself of this because i am a fan of csi - the great perpetuator of fear and worry. i have watched them all. i have also watched all without a trace episodes and cold case episodes. i'm starting to enjoy criminal minds but i can't help but be hesitant for one reason only. anyways, i was about to drive off when i realized my curling iron was still plugged in. i was curling my hair before we made the call but had forgotten about it in the midst of five or six men making themselves present. not wanting to see these men again about other business, namely a slightly toasted house, i ran in and turned it off. i followed them. i sang. i gave thanks. i remembered He is my anchor. i hoped He would become my dad's anchor.

i arrived. and waited in a room full of wheelchairs and crying babies and laughing children. i dislike hospitals. mostly the clamy feeling they give me - i swear, those flourescent lights and AC kill me. not to mention that the easter bunny left his pastel fingerprints on the tile and walls. i waited. not long after, i was given access to his room and sat there for three hours. he got shots and pills. i heard him moan in pain. there was fear. there was helplessness - i could not ease his pain or lift him up.  i could do nothing about his condition. i wondered if he felt embarrassed in front of me. i wondered if he felt out of control. probably. maybe it was lack of control that frustrated him. wanting to get up, but not having the ability to do so. weakness is embarrassing. i gave him a card last week telling him it's okay to be weak. i hope he remembered some of that saturday. he is better and i am still thanking God that it was just his back. i love my dad. and was reminded that he - as well as my mom or any other person of significance - is not guarenteed to be around as long as i idealize.

momento mori: remember your mortality.

i would rather think on it now, come to terms with the ash i will become - that taunting pile of dust that will claim us all - than to still mortality's voice. what good what it do to shove it in a corner with sewn lips? it will make itself heard in tragic ways, regardless. 

p.s. the feller will love me for my latin reference. it's one of his favorite things to ruminate about.