Christmas

The balloon ended up deflating in a flood of tears rather than a round of screaming, and the techs who did my first radiation treatment this afternoon (who were women, and not the guys of the initial visit) thought I was crying because I was upset about the treatment.

I suppose there might have been something in that. But mostly it's because I feel that, like the Milk Guy's appliances, my circuits are fried--by a whole lot of little things rather than one big thing. And added to that is guilt. Huge amounts of guilt.

I live in a "developed" country. I am not homeless. I have healthcare. I have friends with electricity and food and . . . heck, I haven't had to cook or go grocery shopping in weeks. The Nurse Practitioner's comment kind of rankles, because I want to be selfless, but apparently only on my own terms. I used to think I would go On The Mission Field for the rest of my life and maybe live somewhere less "developed" than this country and, you know . . . have to boil water or something. I've been in many different countries and managed the hole-in-the-ground toilets and eating mystery foods with my fingers and washing my face in a bowl of water and wearing the same clothes days in a row, and it didn't bother me at all. But I chose to go there and do those things, and those were the things that were "done" in certain locations.

Those things aren't generally done here, and I had no control over the circumstances bringing them about. It's not like a camping trip, which I don't enjoy much either, but which I can choose and modulate a little. And so everything in me revolts (as it does in many people, I've observed). I can listen to myself and think I sound absolutely pathetic, and yet I'm still a bundle of nerves because I can't flick a lightswitch and see the entire room.

I feel that the timing of this "ordeal" (which I feel is an unfair word, because this could have been so much worse--it's no Katrina) is sort of interesting. By which I mean, it's making me think of Christmas a little differently. Usually there's all this talk about "the true meaning of Christmas" and to some extent, I usually squint my brain every year and try to remind myself that the birth of Jesus is so much more important than the Christmas tree and that it wasn't all pretty and cozy and lights. Not . . . that there's anything wrong with that.

This year I'm probably about as distracted from the birth of Christ as I've ever been, but I can't pretend I'm not interacting with it on some level all the same. There's so much going on in my life right now, and there's this kind of deprivation, and there's a very distinct (if presently guilt-inducing) reminder that Christmas is actually about inconvenience and deprivation. Jesus gave up all his glory (light! weightiness! splendour!) and schlepped around in a Roman-occupied "under-developed" country for thirty-some years, talking to a bunch of people who often didn't get what He was talking about. And Mary and Joseph gave up their reputations, and had to pack up their lives and trek down to Bethlehem, and then down to Egypt, and their lives were in upheaval for, oh . . . pretty much the rest of them.

Jesus kind of does that, I think. I suspect Mary and Joseph had to come to terms with that more than once. Unless, of course, they had no controlling tendencies at all . . . I kind of doubt it. But maybe I'm just thinking like that to make myself feel better.

Vignettes

Yesterday, I bought a mattress set. The one that it is replacing, I think I got when I was 14 or something. Yes, I still have a twin bed. It is true that I have spent large swathes of time since acquiring said bed, not using it (having lived in many other places). However, this does not take away from the fact that it is over 20 years old, and I have been sleeping on it regularly for the last five years. It also does not take away from the fact that I have been unable to sleep comfortably on it for some time.

I do not like spending money on myself, particularly in amounts over three digits. This purchase would have been over four digits if it hadn't been for the kindness of the salesman and the powers that be in the bedding universe. As it was, I can now say I have officially spent my allotment of the money the government sent us this spring. The bed is now twice as tall as it used to be. It comes just below my waist, and looks something like a loaf of bread, or a muffin. I think I will no longer be able to loll over the side and pick books up off the floor without some danger of falling on my head. But it's sooo nice and soft . . .

*****

My parents have returned to Ireland. Actually, they're probably boarding their plane right now. Some time after they get back, they are going to attend a birthday party for a friend of theirs. It is a Medieval party, and requires "fancy dress" (which means "costumes," for our American readers). My mother tells me that some of the children who will be attending this party intend to dress as rats . . . because of the bubonic plague. I think it's wonderful. Not the plague, of course, but the inventiveness.

*****

In the next town stands a gas station called "Global Village Fuel." It sounds simultaneously ominous, obvious and light-heartedly realistic, and I chuckle every time I drive past it. I don't believe I have ever fueled up there, however.

*****

Yesterday, I tried silkworm pupae. Eating them, I mean. They had been marinated in soy sauce, which is, therefore, pretty much what they tasted like. The texture was brittle and slightly internally fuzzy, in a preserved-with-soy-sauce kind of way. I don't know that I'd go out of my way to buy the things, but if I'm ever in similar positions to the ones I was in the three times I had to eat chicken livers, I know I can at least get them down.

Itchy Feet

Store-Manager-Hillarie said, "Are you just getting that five-year itch thing you were talking about?" And I said probably.

Then Decaf-Scott asked me if I didn't just want to settle down and have kids or something. This is the kind of question you maybe try to dodge when a customer asks you it, because you can't be entirely sure what they're asking, even if they sport a wedding ring and have just mentioned that they have a six-year-old. But I'm also not very good at dodging direct questions. (I have gotten in trouble because of this before, but fortunately that did not happen this time.) I said actually, yeah.

Then Decaf-Scott looked at me really hard (but not too creepily) and said, "You do." It was less of a question than a statement of skepticism, and I could have grumbled that what did he know about it, except that I had just given him the run-down of my Adventures-Since-Growing-Up-Here: 4 years in Chicagoland, 2 years in Nannyfield, 5.5 years in London, and roughly 4-5 years here. "Um . . . " I said, "well . . . I'm not sure about the kids part."

I'm not sure about the settling down part, either, apparently, because although I've applied for a few jobs out here, most of the ones I'm looking at are in the Northwest or the Midwest. (And seriously. You would think that if I were going to relocate, I'd at least pick somewhere warm for once.) Over the weekend it occurred to me to wonder if my problem is not an actual desire to pack up all my earthly goods and cart them around like an overladen turtle, but more some sort of inability to do Something Different in the Same Place.

Maybe I identify so fully with whatever my occupation happens to be at any given time that once I feel the need to do something else, I also feel the need to be somewhere else--at least for about ten years or so. I mean, I grew up in this area, but I couldn't come back and live here until I had redefined myself in about four other places first. Now I would, for example, like to move back to Chicagoland, but it's been aeons since I lived there before, so I'm okay with it.

In the last week I actually got contacted by two different academic institutions at which I would like to work. Neither of them are local. Whether or not the jobs panned out (and one of them already hasn't, by mutual but more-than-amicable agreement), it was a great relief to hear something from anybody, because I was starting to fear that I was utterly useless for anything except serving coffee. I had visions of becoming The World's Oldest Barista, at age 97 still hefting change-laden tills to the back room to count them in the wee hours, simply because I never made enough money to retire. However, now that I'm hearing from people out of state, it's making me second-guess myself. I love my Starbucks and its people. Do I really want to move?

I think I do. But there are things that might keep me from it. I don't know. I expect I'll explore some of that here more later.

The Event

I spent most of my three-day visit to New York tromping around in a pair of boots that I really only needed for two hours on Tuesday night. Trouble was, most of the tromping was also done with a backpack on my back, and those boots wouldn't have fit in there with the clothes, toiletries, and books I had brought along. So I dispensed with the comfort of sneakers for those two hours of scuffed fashion. One more day of that would probably have made the tendons and muscles of my calves pop like too-tight guitar strings. Fortunately, there was not "one more day of that."

In the meantime, the tromping was sort of fun. On Monday I went with Marianne to the Museum of Natural History, because when I was providing the links to this post, I discovered they were having an exhibit about Mythic Creatures. It cost a little extra to get in, but it was pretty fun to read about creatures with which I feel familiar, and others I had never heard of before. It was more interesting to see mythic synchronicity across cultures. I love that stuff.

On Tuesday, I went with Seren to the Cloisters. Here we saw things like the Chamber of Smirking Marys and the Painting of the Blood-Gushing Jesus. ("Gushing" may not be the right word, exactly, because, according to the painting, the icon of Jesus managed to aim the blood right out of his ribcage into the waiting chalice of the priest who was worshiping there.) Medieval art is Really Weird a lot of the time. Small American museums instituted by millionaires are often a bit weird as well. But I kind of like those things, too.

After tea at the end of our Cloisters loitering, I got into the outfit that the boots were truly meant for and returned to Manhattan. The Yale Club is directly outside of Grand Central Station, and I got there just in time. The Lloyd Alexander memorial evening turned out to be another moment of mild weirdness, because I didn't know a single person there. I didn't even know who anyone was. It is kind of awkward, I realised, when the only person you know who is relevant to the event you are attending is dead.


This was how I rediscovered that I am a completely inept at conversing or networking with strangers unless there's a counter and a cup of coffee between us. I have no idea how to start a conversation with people I've never met. Apparently I don't know how to keep one going either, because at least three times that night, people introduced themselves to me, began to talk about Lloyd, and then, when I began to talk about my own (albeit minimal) experience as his friend, found someone else they urgently needed to talk to.

On the other hand, Sharyn November, editor of the Firebird imprint of the Penguin group, made a valiant effort to meet everyone in the room, and everyone did include me. Also, Jim Jacobs of Brigham Young University was cordial and friendly and even seemed genuinely interested in my experience of writing to Lloyd. Blouke and Marianne Carus of Cricket Magazine (etc.), who had spearheaded this event, were lovely. And I met one of Lloyd's granddaughters--the one who had taken greatest care of him at the end. Lloyd had one more book about to be published when he died, and all of us at the event got a free copy of it--as well as of his first published book, and some of the Carus magazines. This was generous and unexpected and delightful.

Besides, it was great to hear other people's stories. Some who had been particularly close to Lloyd were given the opportunity to speak to all of us, and it was fascinating to hear what other people had known of him more close at hand. I didn't feel the need to cry anymore. But I did still wish he had been there, to really talk to.

Photos by jennw2ns: Museum Unicorn 2007; The Cloisters 2007; Photo of Photo of Lloyd 2007.

Photo by J.S. Jacobs: Jennw2ns w2 Books and Illustration.

Surprise and Delight

If I told you how I am now the owner of the new Annie Lennox CD before its release date, I might have to kill you, but all the same, I feel somewhat smug about this and just wanted you to know that I am.

Starbucks likes to encourage its employees to "surprise and delight" the customers, and I'm afraid that's a little hard to do when you're working with a skeleton crew, all of whom have coughs and fevers, as I was yesterday. And I also feel that "surprising and delighting" might be overstating things a little here, but I still have to say that I usually am most enthusiastic about things I wasn't expecting or hadn't heard of before. This happened when I saw the Matrix (the FIRST one. I only mean the FIRST one!) and Pirates of the Caribbean (again, let me emphasise that I am referring to the FIRST movie in these trilogies). I felt this way about Blue Like Jazz. It happened with the latest OtR release. And, when I unexpectedly received Songs of Mass Destruction before the release date, I was, at least on some level, surprised and delighted.

The problem with this is that I enthuse about these things for a while and then I get embarrassed and think everyone will wonder what kind of pathetic sense of style and taste I have--and then after that the things become blockbuster hits or whatever and it's disappointing because there's nothing edgy about my liking them.

But anyway, I'm just going to put out there, before the release date, that I'm really enthusiastic about the new Annie Lennox CD. It's not like I've been an Annie Lennox fan before this, although based on the songs of hers I've heard before now, I had a hunch I might could be. ("Might could," incidentally, is a verb form I picked up from College-Roommmate-Jenne, who's originally from Alabama.) But it's nice to hear music sung by people who can actually sing. And I just like Gospel- and soul-influenced music. Even if the person singing it is kind of missing something when it comes to the Gospel. Which I think it might be accurate to say Annie Lennox is (though I'm not sure I really "get" the Gospel, either, exactly, when I think about it).

Actually, the CD is a real downer, but it's a heck of a fun downer to listen to. Wikipedia says, "The album addresses global warming, Iraq, Aids, religious conflict, global poverty and inequality." I'm afraid I'm not perceptive enough to get all that, although I do get some of it. I think mostly she just sounds really lonely and sad and sometimes angry about it, and she would like the world to be fixed.

As would I. I find the whole thing a little conflicting, because as I listen to her words I want to say, "I get what you're saying, but if you just knew Jesus . . . " And I really mean it, and I really believe it, but the fact is that I have raged with the same sentiment and almost the same words, sometimes, against that very Jesus. And I can't say that I usually feel Jesus any more than Mother Theresa did, probably. (I'm just less brave about it.) So I can't truly say why, exactly, I feel that it would make a difference to Annie Lennox in this life for her to, say, "put her faith in Him." But there is something bedrock and comforting and "nevertheless" about trusting Him anyway, or trying to. And there's something about her lyrics that remind me of Him, almost as if she were wishing He were true, but not quite willing to believe it.

Anyway. I found myself praying for her on the way home from dinner with the Molly Llama last night. And I really do like the CD.

The Golden Rule

So, I'm not trying to negate anything Jesus said because I really do believe He's God and that what He said is as true as it gets.

But I'm just going to throw out there that some things, when viewed from a limited human viewpoint, don't always seem to work out quite like we might think from the way He stated them. Like that whole "Do unto others as you would have them do unto you" thing? Doesn't always turn out so well.

Here's an example.

While my parents were here, one of the supermarkets had a two-for-one sale on Friendly's ice cream. Not being one to pass up a sale--or ice cream--my father bought us two boxes. Of ice cream with peanut butter in it. Clearly the makers of Friendly's ice cream are on my dad's wavelength, if they have two different peanut-butter-laden ice creams. My dad loves peanut butter, and ice cream, and chocolate, so clearly it was an act of love on his part (though he was also sure to benefit in some way) for him two buy these two decadent flavours. But see, my mom's not as keen on peanut butter in her ice cream as he is. And me? Well, I'm in a phase of not even liking peanut butter very much. So what was a very well-intentioned purchase turned into something of a family joke, and my parents ended up palming off one of the boxes on Uncle Ted and Cousin Paul.

So what to do? Because sometimes you just don't know things about people. Even though our family is pretty close, there are still things we don't even know about each other. Grandma Madeira used to make lemon meringue pie for my parents quite a lot because she thought they loved it, when really it's about their least favourite pie of all. (I let her make it for me anytime, though, because I really do love lemon.)

And then what about the times you do know things about people, but what you would have them do unto you is different than what they would have you do unto them? Like, for example, Until-Further-Notice Peter's birthday is in a couple of weeks, and he professedly hates surprises. (I bring this up in the blog so as to mitigate the surprise factor a little.) But me? I love them. Not the scary kind, or the make-you-feel-like-a-total-idiot kind, but there are lots of really great surprises that don't make you fear for your life or feel like the entire world is smarter than you. I love being surprised and I love surprising other people. So, what I would have others (by which in this case I mean my friends) do unto me is, say, blindfold me and take me to Boston to picnic on a swan boat or something unusual and unexpected like that. But I don't think UFN Peter would be all that into whatever the guy-equivalent of that is.

So how do you follow the Golden Rule then, huh?

Ill at Ease

Maybe I have secrets. I don't really think so, but you know. It's possible. I just don't like people overhearing my conversations with other people. It makes me self-conscious. It doesn't really matter what I'm talking about or to whom I'm speaking.

For instance, if I'm at a restaurant with some friends and someone asks me a direct question, I feel the need to lower my voice in answer. Which can be problematic if it's a loud restaurant. And if I were talking to my brother on the phone in the living room and Roommate-Rachel came home and started cooking in the kitchen or something (which is purely hypothetical, mind you, since Rachel asserts she doesn't cook--although she did the other day), I would probably take the phone upstairs, go into my room and shut the door. Even if David and I were only talking about Dinosaur Comics or something.

So, given my natural proclivities, and adding to that the fact that Jesus told us to go into our rooms and shut our doors when we talk to God, is it all that weird that I feel really uncomfortable praying aloud? I mean, in front of other people?

Then again, there is also biblical precedent for praying in groups. And, you know, I did grow up in this evangelical subculture, so it's not like I haven't had years of practice. And yet, I find I still can't really do it.

After Catholic church, Dear Friend Paulina and I went back to her place and had lunch and then sat down on the floor in the living room to talk to God about (and on behalf of) each other before I left. We recapped for each other the specific things we're each experiencing, or trying to decide about, or thinking about for which we feel a conscious need of God's assistance. (As if we weren't completely helpless without Him to do anything.) Then, one at a time, we rehashed each other's list to God.

I noted that, as I was doing this, once again I said things like, "Lord," and "just" far more times than necessary. What's up with that? (Stay tuned for Monday. I think I'm as reticent to tease this issue out as I am actually to pray aloud, but I really do have a train of thought here.)

Photo by jennw2ns: Hidden flowers. 2006.

Just Seen

Today I was driving home from work, down the street where Ex-Roommate-Sarah now resides, and I saw a young man sauntering down the road. The first thing I noticed about him was that he was not wearing a shirt. Note to guys everywhere:

I don't care how fit you are, how great you look or how hot it is outside. Being shirtless in public, unless you are at the beach or a public swimming pool, is Not Classy. I am not impressed. Nor, I might add, are several other women I know.

(I might not be very classy either. But please. Spare us.)

Here, however is the other thing I noted about him. He was wearing a license plate. Yes. As in, the thing that one affixes to the back of cars, the number of which one wishes one remembered when one's car is towed. The bottom of this license plate was somehow tucked into the back of the young man's Bermuda shorts, but the number was legible, presumably in case he violated traffic. Or perhaps if someone wanted to call "How's My Walking?" (there must be such a thing, right?) and let them know he was staying on the sidewalk.

I am having a hard time imagining this adornment could be comfortable. On the other hand, I also have a little trouble with the idea that someone coerced him to put a good-sized rectangular metal plate in the back of his pants.

I don't know. Anyone have any creative explanations as to the reasons for this particular fashion statement?

Also, for a totally unrelated but also humorous observation, please check out this article from the Onion.

Write to Publish

I am at Wheaton College, attending the non-Wheaton-sponsored Write-to-Publish conference. My brain, as the famous yet nameless Far Side character put it, is full, and so I am skipping a workshop. Don't worry. I'll catch the last one.

Being around this many writers at once is kind of weird. Also, does anyone have any idea how funny it is to tell a bunch of introverts to network? I mean, in person? We are all trying very hard to obey this injunction, but it looks kind of comical.

My favourite (by which I might mean "most comfortable") moments of the conference were when I actually met, face to face, people with whom I've already networked here. At this blog. I had lunch with and threw way too many ideas at ZimmerMan--and he still generously gave me a copy of his book. (Buy it. Apart from good writing, it has this cool flip-book comic book character taking off in the right margin. You'll know what I mean once you purchase it.) I also got to see Stacey and Craver (whose name [gasp!] is not really Craver!) in their natural habitat. I peeked in at Al's office. And I got to see Lisa's desk.

The best unpremeditated networking experience, though, went like this. I had an appointment to pitch a novel I'm trying to write, to a publishing house where I know no one. Except that once I did sort of know one of their authors. She is a missionary with the same organisation I used to work through.

I wasn't, by the time my appointment came up, too convinced that I still wanted to pitch this novel, let alone write it. The day before had been rather demoralising (for reasons I may divulge some other time). I felt I had nothing to say. I almost cancelled the appointment. But lunch with ZimmerMan helped (I think I've figured out one of his superpowers), and so I told myself to buck up and go talk to this other editor, just to get some experience. How many times do you get to walk up to an editor and have them listen to your ideas?

"Hi," I said, shaking this editor's hand. "My name is Jenn, and I used to work for the same missions organisation that [this author you already publish] works for."

"Really?" said the editor. "So did I."

At the end of my pitch (during which I confessed the need to go back to the drawing board with this story and do a lot of research), the editor said, "Well, when you've done the work and got it written, write up a proposal and send it to me with the first three chapters, and we'll see what we think."

What? My pitch actually worked? I mean--it worked! Let me clarify, just in case, that a request for a proposal is not a contract. But it is the goal of pitching a book. I guess I'm going to have to do some work now . . .

Comfort and Carefreeness

On Wednesday (the same day I wrote about "almosts" and "at leasts"), I got an email from Peter, who shall until further notice be referred to as . . . Peter. He asks interesting questions. The one he asked that day was for an image that would show what gave me "the most comfort and carefreeness."

That was a tough one. Sometimes I feel comfortable--or comforted--but I was hard-pressed to come up with anything during which I ever feel carefree, exactly. I was about ready to settle for a photo of my family and me having dinner at an Afghani restaurant. We joke in my family that the only pictures we ever get of all of us together involve us sitting around a table with food on it--and one of us always has his or her eyes half-closed. This is one of those kinds of pictures, and I thought it would do the trick because I do feel at ease with my family, and I love eating food from other locales, particularly with them. But I don't actually have that photo yet, so I shut down my computer and started getting ready for work.

As I was engaged in this activity, I became aware of the fact that a Kirk Franklin song was going through my head. As the realisation dawned, it kind of took me back to when I used to be in Gospel Choir in college. I started humming one of the songs we used to sing there, instead. The choir is having a 20th anniversary celebration/reunion in April. I can't go to it, but I can remember stuff even though I'm staying here.

I remembered singing with my eyes closed and my hands raised and clapping so much my palms cracked, even though I had never attended particularly demonstrative church services before that (though I did afterwards).

I remembered feeling like my friends and I--mostly White given the demographics of the college, but also Black, Latino, and Asian--were imaging Heaven a little bit, all standing and clapping and dancing our love to Jesus, looking at His face. After I had graduated and been away from that for a year, I went back and attended a concert. The choir alumni were invited to sing with the rest of the choir--a song called "Omnipotent." I wrote a sonnet about it, which wasn't very good but demonstrates how I felt about it and went like this:

Epilogue

With great and goofy grins, we craned around
To see each others' faces. Joyful, sang
To the Omnipotent, and while the sound
(Echoed of shell and stage and rafters) rang
Throughout the Chapel, still we smiled, for there
We were who'd travelled, laughed, and learned the Love
Omnipotent together. In the Here
And Now, however, where we live and move
And moving means we must leave some behind
To praise in othere Wheres, the singing's not
Complete; geography (at least) divides
The Church, and Holy's hid. But when He's brought
Us to His presence, we'll be all, not some--
Still grinning singing all together Home.

And then it hit me.

This is when I feel the most "comfort and carefreeness." This is where I feel the most grateful to God in spite of all the stuff. This is where swearing just doesn't even seem remotely appealing. This is where I feel in community--and in communion with God: singing truths about Him with a bunch of other brothers and sisters, especially through Gospel music. I know it's not just college-nostalgia, because though I don't make it to Gospel choir concerts very often, when I do, if there's a hint of true love for Jesus there, I feel the same sense of--well, "comfort and carefreeness" every time.

Most of the time, I'm pretty self-conscious about my singing. I can harmonise, but my voice is weak and unfortunate. I have rhythm but absolutely no coordination, so I don't dance very well. But put me in a Gospel choir and I forget all that. I belt out the music as loud as I can (which still isn't very loud, but it stops mattering), and I sway and clap and dance. I am part of this great God-worshiping organism, and God is more than enough.

This (part of a sign I made advertising one of our concerts one year) is the image I ended up sending.