aging.

i am aging. does that sound silly at age twenty-three? well, i am.

i look at my mother, age sixty-four, and see a radiant, irrepressible woman.

a month ago i noticed that the veins on my legs were getting bluer, greener, darker. some even slightly raised. i am aging, i thought, and of all the magnificent applications of my imagination i could choose from - i chose worry.* and where else would worry lead me but the infinitely credible world wide web. it is the authority of our time. i half-laughed at this instinctual compulsion to ask ask ask the omniscient google why and how and all sorts of other inquiries. i laughed because it is the first place i go when i am worried about something. i am a hypochondriac in the worst sense, don't you know? and later, in the bath and on the feller's shoulder and on my dear friend's bed, i sobbed because i am so terribly afraid of being rejected for my body - my small breasts and wide hips and tiny belly and veiny limbs. i thought i would handle aging better. i thought it was the one thing i was mentally prepared for - it will come, i thought; it is unavoidable, i reminded myself; i am more than body; i chanted. but who is prepared to age? to feel and see the good things - health and youth - pass? to know this passing gives way to the one dependable eventuality - death?

but i look at my mother, age sixty-four, and cannot help but swell with affection. she has wrinkles and grey hair and lovehandles and painful vericose veins and arthritis. she has consistently been slighted by the men in her life. she could be like so many - stalking empty beauty. but she has chosen to give herself to the needs of others - her grandchildren, her children, her siblings, her own mother. she is a well of good intentions. she is a loving cook and dedicated worker. she is endlessly interested in the lives of those she loves. and her advice is always the truest thing she knows to be helpful. she is a beautiful woman. and is most happy when plating dinner, jabbing at her eldest, laughing loud and full.

these past few weeks i can see how boring and pitiful it is to be obsessed with maintaining youth. what a dull life. my mother teaches me this. working with children gives me a means to practice this 8 hours a day, 5 days a week. i can restrain myself from interacting with the kids (i.e. not going in the water with my bathing suit on, etc.) or give myself fully to them. to be tugged on. to be a child's pillow. to become a master sand castle maker. to be hugged, squeezed and, occasionally, dragged. to tag them back-and-forth-back-and-forth because there is no such thing as "no tag backs." to be out of breath and tired by them. to save them from that-really-big-wave. to tell them no. to throw the ball hard because they can handle it. to run across the campus in search of a stuffed animal or missing sock. preoccupied with my insecurities, i could be no real help. i could offer them nothing.

so, i am aging and all good things wither and die. but my mother reminds me that fear and worry don't change this, that life is better when it is about others, that serving heals us.

*the feller occasionally calls me a "worried wart," rather than a "worry wart." it is because 6-8 months ago two warts appeared on my cursed left foot. they are since gone and the memory of them makes me laugh if only because it makes him cringe.

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. 

this!

graduation meant that the furtherance of any post-graduate work was up to me.
now, of course this means the idea of a masters. but beyond that amorphous idea, is the more important one of studying voice regardless the absence of recitals and juries. what would be the point, afterall, if it would not be part of a program where i would receive a plaque or paper for my efforts? the point is not achievement. nor is it success. you see, i am not writing my own music. i have no band. no record label. i sing regularly. and, for as long as i am able, i want to sing regularly. the point has something to do with my junior year. i began to rediscover, primarily due to a change in instructors, the satisfaction of singing well - hard work and all. the unearthing of such delight took me entirely by surprise. i did not forsee, did not expect the bravery and confidence that would enliven my efforts. my instructor, heather, knew how to teach me. how to correct and encourage simultaneously. she is enthralled with song and it is contagious. it frees me. reminds me to not be so afraid of the notes and languages and lines that are too long. but to try. and fail. and suck. and be okay when my body is too tired or sick to produce a clear sound. and to not consider that, the uncontrollable reactions of my body, as failure on my part. because sometimes our bodies just need to rest. her belief in me has freed me. it began sophomore year. and along the way i became enamored with french, the drama of music, the light and openness i felt when my sound is placed perfectly, and crisp diction. with growing courage, i was able express my connection with a piece of music outwardly. no rolling of the eyes here. no fidgeting movements of self-disapproval. this, this! is the point.

there was no question that i would continue studying with her in june. this time the money would be my own. continuing private studies, i decided, was worth it. and already i look forward to rehearsing, to embodying each song - every word and turn of phrase. i have no intention of becoming a wedding singer or producing an album. i want to explore my instrument - to train it and free it.

p.s. the feller laughs tensely when any song i connect with comes on. i tell him my body feels different. physically feels different when certain songs come on. but it is true. the same thing can be said of the songs i am singing with heather. i feel physically different when i sing them. i feel powerful and energized, even in my vulnerability. i feel more myself. i feel beautiful in my song.

even my soul is wet.

did you know that this month is national poetry month?

the library at my school reminded me with this poster. 

fact: i love watercolors.

i want to write. in color and sideways on paper without lines. in black and white on screens with fonts much more legible than my own. i want to write. feelings. not just about feelings. but to completely encompass and write out the feeling itself - in all of its vibrancy, in all of its melancholy. i think this is why the romantic period is my favorite period in music history. the feelings aren't explained or deconstructed - they are experienced.

here is a poem for today, and probably this month (because this month i graduate and there is not much time for poetry, or posting poetry, when one is graduating):

Here I love you.
In the dark pines the wind disentangles itself.
The moon glows like phosphorous on the vagrant waters.
Days, all one kind, go chasing each other.

The snow unfurls in dancing figures.
A silver gull slips down from the west.
Sometimes a sail. High, high stars.
Oh the black cross of a ship.
Alone.

Sometimes I get up early and even my soul is wet.
Far away the sea sounds and resounds.
This is a port.

Here I love you.
Here I love you and the horizon hides you in vain.
I love you still among these cold things.
Sometimes my kisses go on those heavy vessels
that cross the sea towards no arrival.
I see myself forgotten like those old anchors.

The piers sadden when the afternoon moors there.
My life grows tired, hungry to no purpose.
I love what I do not have. You are so far.
My loathing wrestles with the slow twilights.
But night comes and starts to sing to me.

The moon turns its clockwork dream.
The biggest stars look at me with your eyes.
And as I love you, the pines in the wind
want to sing your name with their leaves of wire.

Pablo Neruda

in the middle

this morning as i write my concert report, i am listening to Bruch's Concerto No. 1 in G Minor for Violin and Orchestra, Op. 26.

the soaring emotion evoked from the violin is breathtaking.

the lines sing themselves.

the phrasing pulls and releases; all passion and vigor, known well to the heart of any man or woman who has encountered longing and contentment and felt the terrible inevitable tension in the middle.

it is all drama and richness - the two victors of the Romantic period's war against the obsessive concern with form and concise expression that swept through the prior century. intellectualism left no room for tension in the middle.

le sigh.

is it strange to say that i have a sort of infatuation with the tension in the middle? 

that i indulge the tension, for the sake of the tension?

that i relish in every ascending line, slow crescendo, and hanging fermata?

i do.

i do i do i do.

p.s. the picture above is a daguerre, entitled "dioramanea". he is a romantic painter - all drama and richness. i love it.  

like i know

oh, i have so much to write!

but for now, as the second day of spring bleeds into the third, i have this song:

nothing says spring like brooke fraser.
i almost saw her once with the feller for our annual christmas dinner with jackie+josh. but the feller and i were both twenty and too young to legally attend. instead we spent the evening at balboa park while the other two enjoyed dim lighting and jokes hailing from new zealand. that was a hard night on stone steps in a quiet stubborness under a luminous moon. it was followed by a blissful afternoon on cold grass in a crescendo of vulnerability under a dance between the sun and the shadows the next day. and a kiss on the forehead goodbye. the first one. december '10. chills. and surprise. and laughter. just lovely.

sigh


God is so good. i know this like i know my heart is beating like i know my nailpolish is chipped like i know wooden floors are smooth and carpeted floors are rough. His goodness, though not always obvious, is real and concrete.

rich.

today was rich.

rain.

rain.

rain.

choir concert. early but rested. two services. power outage. singing, still.

almost done painted living room. mom and dad (out of the bedroom and not watching tv). mikey and carolyn. working together. painting. laughing. (yesterday was a lot like this too. it's good to feel togetherness.)

sisters acting like sisters. the oldest standing up for me. and defending me. the other, always a joy. advice. more than a sister, a friend. brother-in-law and nephew and the feller playing modern warfare three (because they can).

belated burgers for moms birthday. laughs. so much joy. she's vibrant.

mini naps because i'm tired.

the feller and i doing homework. kisses. squeezes. being silly. we are professionals at this. bugging eachother on purpose. for the fun of it. because we take it light heartedly. doing homework. and succeeding! understanding eachother. learning eachother. him being close and a part. him fitting into this crazy crazy family.

me, being thankful. thankful.

and better at not fighting for my preferences, way, and "rights."

selflessness. consideration for others.

this is what living is like.

i feel like i'm living for the first time in a long while.

it is so so good.

orchestrate

thankful for

words of life and assurance

from a dear friend,

from two strangers and the little girl with them,

from my mother,

from my father.

a God who is deeply concerned with my life,

who will orchestrate the most unlikely occurances

just to show me He cares.

being strong with joy.

recent circumstances have challenged me to excavate and explore the vicious, constricting thing we call insecurity.

here is my working thesis on the beauty of the self.

ahem. the beauty of myself.

doesn't that sound wonderful?

(indulge me, please?)

i promise the actual thesis itself is not impressive.

and is far from an actual thesis.

it is more of a ramble. stream of consciousness stuff, you know.

i have some idea of what beauty is, some faint insight into what it means to call something beautiful but i have never known myself to be beautiful (on a consistent basis) apart from physical intimacy which objectifies me and at times the other. i have never known myself to be beautiful (on a consistent basis) unless i was being devoured by the eyes of hungry men and my hips were pressed against his. what a tragic life to lead. what a wretched way to waste one's youth. it may certainly be an exaggeration, but it is not far from the truth. not at all.

we are up for grabs.

and what most are grabbing has nothing to do with personality, intelligence, grace, integrity, gentleness, elegance, etc.

we are up for grabs.

and we allow this.

i allowed it.

i allowed another -

not just one person but many -

to transform my vision of beauty.

to the subjective and fleeting.

all flesh is grass fading away,

only You last.

only You remain.

reference:

1 peter 1:24-25

isaiah 40:6-8

and i know it is not profound or new to say that the media shaped how i understood beauty, but it has and did so at such a young age. i inextricably linked beauty, the shifting standards of culture, with worth. if i did not meet or follow the pervasive, unfair and twisted code that says one is only beautiful when one is perfect, when one is sexy then i was worthless, unwanted. i believed people would not want to know me, that people would leave if i did not adhere to this code, if i did not embody the pinnacle of this. i wanted to be the most beautiful to hold the attention of others. desperate for someone to stick around long enough to notice my worth. to speak worth over me with their actions. and i would prove i was worth something even if it meant allowing myself to be disrespected and lied to. enter competition. enter false perceptions of reality. enter disillusionment. enter comparison. might i add, comparison to the unattainable, which can only lead to disappointment. mix in betrayal and the subtle deteriorating significance of phrases like "you are beautiful" and "i love you" and you have got one seriously toxic tonic.

for years i exchanged the truth of God for a lie.

sometimes i still do.

most of the time i am not sure how to combat the lies, how to take every thought captive. it is hard work and requires perseverance. oh, how i've learned about that - perseverance.

i fight with laughter and sillinesss. it is not escape through playful diversions or a repression of unhealthy feelings. it is me, resurfacing. being strong with joy.

do not grieve,

for the joy of the LORD is your strength.

nehemiah 8:10b

i fight with conversation that points to the truth. i am begining to know myself to be beautiful as i walk out my life with those who love me.

no man is an island.

john donne

and in the resurfacing, especially in safe places, perfect love is casting out fear and self-loathing.

there you go.

shorter and not all-encompassing at all.

but it is what i have.

and i will hold onto it until the truth of my beauty,

my belovedness,

of His love for me

becomes a reality i walk in.

leap in.

dance in.

rejoice in.

consistently.