I think I'm reaching the point where the rubber hits the road in terms of being able to be myself in all my flawed splendor. Like in the way I'm leaving comments on my pastor's blog, even when I don't come off as sunshiny, or even rational. Just putting stuff out there, because even if it's not all brilliant or it's not all understood or appreciated, at least I tried.
This applies to lots of areas, not just having points of view. It applies to creativity, and turning ideas into works, even when they don't always come out as you'd hoped. And it applies to relationships, showing genuine enthusiasm to be around someone instead of playing it cool.
It means allowing myself to be unabashedly geeky, unapologetically unironic, fully engaged, exposed, anal and not "cool" with everything when I'm NOT cool with everything, and left wide open to criticism. It means letting people see my flaws, and not always trying to paint them prettily first. It means being OK when I don't know where I stand with everybody, when not all confusion is cleared up, and when some of my ideas get shot down as soon as they're spoken.
Ze Frank talks about the difficulty of "moving from 0 to 1," of how beginning something is harder than keeping it going, and how our ideas will always look better when they live only in our heads and never make the transition from Idea to Creation.
I'm leaving zero.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
I Am a Commenter!
A few months ago, I began reading my pastor's blog, and I took a leap of courage and left some comments on it. There are some posts that don't interest me at all, and others that I feel so strongly about that I get quite caught up in it, and I find myself checking the blog every fifteen minutes to see if other people have read my comment and what responses they have.
I get scared, too. I care what people think, and I've had some pretty harrowing experiences with being misjudged (outside that particular blog), so I've always got my eye out for that. But I'm learning, over and over again, that putting my feelings and opinions out there is a brave and vulnerable thing, and I don't have to apologize for having genuine reactions. I'd grown so used to valuing my intellectual detachment, wanting to be unassailable in my arguments, but lately my heart has begun leaping ahead of my brain and I say things that are entirely assailable, but that I also feel deeply.
Well, good. I'm not objective, and that is progress.
I get scared, too. I care what people think, and I've had some pretty harrowing experiences with being misjudged (outside that particular blog), so I've always got my eye out for that. But I'm learning, over and over again, that putting my feelings and opinions out there is a brave and vulnerable thing, and I don't have to apologize for having genuine reactions. I'd grown so used to valuing my intellectual detachment, wanting to be unassailable in my arguments, but lately my heart has begun leaping ahead of my brain and I say things that are entirely assailable, but that I also feel deeply.
Well, good. I'm not objective, and that is progress.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Wakefulness Fail
It's not like I set the bar all that high.
Today's goal at work: Remain awake while other people are watching.
Nope. Couldn't even do that. Kept nodding during a 2 1/2 hour training meeting, which was pure theory to me -- I'd never worked on the kinds of projects they were talking about, so while I understood the words, their combined meaning bounced off my head like bullets off Superman's chest. I was impervious.
Ugh. Whatever they pump through the vents in those conference rooms, I sure could use some of it near my bed around 11pm on weeknights. I'm almost never sleepy then.
Today's goal at work: Remain awake while other people are watching.
Nope. Couldn't even do that. Kept nodding during a 2 1/2 hour training meeting, which was pure theory to me -- I'd never worked on the kinds of projects they were talking about, so while I understood the words, their combined meaning bounced off my head like bullets off Superman's chest. I was impervious.
Ugh. Whatever they pump through the vents in those conference rooms, I sure could use some of it near my bed around 11pm on weeknights. I'm almost never sleepy then.
Down with Haters
That's it.
People have been so insistent about complaining about the snow -- often in comments after my own Facebook wall posts, wherein I specifically asked that they let me have my fun and not hate all over the snow-- that I've now lost my own joy in it. Instead of being entranced when the flakes fall, I see what they see: A wet, inconvenient mess.
I'm pissed. It was quite disrespectful, really.
They managed to spread their whininess until it seeped into me, and now I have less joy than I used to. And frankly, I didn't have a heck of a lot to spare.
I really wish people would keep their stupid yaps shut when they have nothing but negative things to say.
Except for me, of course, when I'm complaining about the negative people, because that's totally legit.
People have been so insistent about complaining about the snow -- often in comments after my own Facebook wall posts, wherein I specifically asked that they let me have my fun and not hate all over the snow-- that I've now lost my own joy in it. Instead of being entranced when the flakes fall, I see what they see: A wet, inconvenient mess.
I'm pissed. It was quite disrespectful, really.
They managed to spread their whininess until it seeped into me, and now I have less joy than I used to. And frankly, I didn't have a heck of a lot to spare.
I really wish people would keep their stupid yaps shut when they have nothing but negative things to say.
Except for me, of course, when I'm complaining about the negative people, because that's totally legit.
Sunday, February 07, 2010
Sports for Comedians
I've got the Super Bowl on, and it has me feeling wistful for the best Super Bowl party I've ever attended. It was last year, and it was hosted by this guy who created an online group for stand-up comedians in Boston. I'm not a stand-up, but I joined, and the party was perfect for me -- full of people who weren't all that into the game itself, but appreciated the cultural experience and focused during the commercials, making lots and lots and lots of hilarious comments throughout the whole thing. And the pomtini, perhaps the single strongest drink I've ever had, which didn't hurt the fun none. If I remember correctly, the only piece of sport knowledge I came away with was, "The Cardinals are basically douchebags."
Sigh. Missing you, Comedians' Party.
Sigh. Missing you, Comedians' Party.
Friday, January 15, 2010
The World Is a Better Place with These Things in It
Croutons
Deodorant
Dogs
Acne medication
Books you read because you want to, not because you have to
Cashews
Percussion
Metaphors
Dr. Seuss
Slap bass (the instrument, not the fish)
Lip balm
Blankets
Mid-Winter celebrations
Beer hats
Walking shoes
Finger paint
Ice cubes
3-legged races (the competitions, not races of 3-legged people)
Headphones
Irony
Deodorant
Dogs
Acne medication
Books you read because you want to, not because you have to
Cashews
Percussion
Metaphors
Dr. Seuss
Slap bass (the instrument, not the fish)
Lip balm
Blankets
Mid-Winter celebrations
Beer hats
Walking shoes
Finger paint
Ice cubes
3-legged races (the competitions, not races of 3-legged people)
Headphones
Irony
Tuesday, January 05, 2010
I'm Quite Full. Here's Why.
I ate most of a chicken pot pie.
But that's not the reason.
I left room for dessert. I had some frosting left over from my birthday cake that had extra frosting and I didn't want it to go to waste so I saved it, and rather than eating it by itself with a spoon, as one should do with Nutella, I thought I could make my way through it by putting it on other desserts, and I made it through a brownie, a cookie, and a bar.
And now I'm full.
But that's not the reason.
I left room for dessert. I had some frosting left over from my birthday cake that had extra frosting and I didn't want it to go to waste so I saved it, and rather than eating it by itself with a spoon, as one should do with Nutella, I thought I could make my way through it by putting it on other desserts, and I made it through a brownie, a cookie, and a bar.
And now I'm full.
Monday, January 04, 2010
Career Paths That Are Closed to Me Because I'm Too Sober
Sailor
Jazz Musician
Suicidal Novelist
Groupie
Reality Star
Pirate (admittedly similar to sailor)
Merry Friar, esp. in 13th Century Sherwood Forest
Genius (admittedly similar to suicidal novelist)
Jaded Detective Who Breaks the Rules but Gets the Job Done
Drunkard
Jazz Musician
Suicidal Novelist
Groupie
Reality Star
Pirate (admittedly similar to sailor)
Merry Friar, esp. in 13th Century Sherwood Forest
Genius (admittedly similar to suicidal novelist)
Jaded Detective Who Breaks the Rules but Gets the Job Done
Drunkard
Sunday, January 03, 2010
Dude, What Is the Nature of Reality?
One of my Facebook friends is really into working out, and he posted a link to an article praising the beauty of women who are into weight training. At first I thought it was cool -- hooray for finding beauty in women who don't fit the magazine mold! -- but the writer lost me pretty quickly. He criticized women who tone instead of bulking up; he mocked women who wore makeup to the gym. I can understand not being a fan of what may appear to be shallowness, but ultimately he simply replaced one standard of beauty with another.
It's pretty hard to affirm one thing without comparing to it another and making that other look bad. I think this is why we end up tossing the term "real" around. We're flooded with the output of a small percentage of the population that creates the media. Women who don't look like Hollywood actresses, and who don't know anyone who does, say, "Those actresses don't live in the real world, where we have sedentary jobs and kids and houses to clean. I'm real, and my friends are real." And thus bigger women become "real" women. Folks who live in the Midwest see movies and TV made by people who live in New York and LA, who either never lived in the Midwest or chose to leave. Their home is lumped into the category of "flyover states," and their values are mocked. They say, "Those people in La La Land have no clue about my life. They're rich and have their heads up their asses. But my experience is real, too." And they call their home "real" America. And then everyone else gets miffed at the suggestion that they're not real.
We can chicken-and-egg it, trying to figure out what imbalance first lit the Hate Fest, but I don't see that being more productive than two siblings fighting over who started it.* Everything is a reaction to something else.
I get it. I understand how we all get offended and we all get our feelings hurt and we feel left out by this set of values or that standard of coolness or this ideal of attractiveness or that way of life. And it's almost impossible not to express that in a way that doesn't alienate the people who alienated you. It goes back and forth and everyone feels justified. But I wish people could take a step back once in a while.
Not that it hasn't been hugely productive so far. Everyone feels like they have to defend their position, which makes them look like the persecutor in the eyes of the opposition.
I'm certainly having fun, aren't you?
*It was my brother.
It's pretty hard to affirm one thing without comparing to it another and making that other look bad. I think this is why we end up tossing the term "real" around. We're flooded with the output of a small percentage of the population that creates the media. Women who don't look like Hollywood actresses, and who don't know anyone who does, say, "Those actresses don't live in the real world, where we have sedentary jobs and kids and houses to clean. I'm real, and my friends are real." And thus bigger women become "real" women. Folks who live in the Midwest see movies and TV made by people who live in New York and LA, who either never lived in the Midwest or chose to leave. Their home is lumped into the category of "flyover states," and their values are mocked. They say, "Those people in La La Land have no clue about my life. They're rich and have their heads up their asses. But my experience is real, too." And they call their home "real" America. And then everyone else gets miffed at the suggestion that they're not real.
We can chicken-and-egg it, trying to figure out what imbalance first lit the Hate Fest, but I don't see that being more productive than two siblings fighting over who started it.* Everything is a reaction to something else.
I get it. I understand how we all get offended and we all get our feelings hurt and we feel left out by this set of values or that standard of coolness or this ideal of attractiveness or that way of life. And it's almost impossible not to express that in a way that doesn't alienate the people who alienated you. It goes back and forth and everyone feels justified. But I wish people could take a step back once in a while.
Not that it hasn't been hugely productive so far. Everyone feels like they have to defend their position, which makes them look like the persecutor in the eyes of the opposition.
I'm certainly having fun, aren't you?
*It was my brother.
Saturday, December 12, 2009
Language Changing Before Our Eyes (Ears?)
When I was a kid, we walked to school through three feet of snow, uphill both ways; all we had to play with was a stick and a pile of dirt, and we were grateful; and there was this crazy part of speech known as the adverb.
One nice thing about working at a publisher is that I get to be around other people who care about the difference between there, their, and they're. One of my colleagues was lamenting the disappearance of the adverb this week. And I've already done my own lamenting about shifting trends in subject-verb agreement when it comes to singular nouns that denote groups. And as much as I believe in following conventions for the sake of clear and effective communication, and as much as it pains me to say it, I think this is just how language evolves. It's interesting to think that language can change significantly within one generation. By the time my peers and I are in our eighties, will usage that's considered incorrect now be acceptable and even taught in schools? Perhaps I shouldn't protest so much and just accept the inevitable.
Like being trapped in the tundra and finding a place by a rock where I can sit and let cold, numbing death slowly overwhelm me.
One nice thing about working at a publisher is that I get to be around other people who care about the difference between there, their, and they're. One of my colleagues was lamenting the disappearance of the adverb this week. And I've already done my own lamenting about shifting trends in subject-verb agreement when it comes to singular nouns that denote groups. And as much as I believe in following conventions for the sake of clear and effective communication, and as much as it pains me to say it, I think this is just how language evolves. It's interesting to think that language can change significantly within one generation. By the time my peers and I are in our eighties, will usage that's considered incorrect now be acceptable and even taught in schools? Perhaps I shouldn't protest so much and just accept the inevitable.
Like being trapped in the tundra and finding a place by a rock where I can sit and let cold, numbing death slowly overwhelm me.
Sunday, December 06, 2009
The Grinch vs. "The Christmas Shoes"
There have been discussions bouncing around my pastor's blog and in the recent sermons about whether Christmas is too consumeristic or whether it's nifty and people just need to chill with the Scrooginess. Rather than coming down on one side of the other, I'll give you my little theory about why there are sides at all: We all need something different. I kinda meant to save that for the last paragraph or two, but here it is right at the beginning! But if you listen to people talk about why they love/hate this season and all its trappings, it usually comes down to personal experience, and what they want to embrace or feel the need to reject. There's no right or wrong stance, because on one side is people saying, "People have bad experiences and do bad things," and on the other side is people saying, "But some people have good experiences and do good things," and both are true and neither negates the other.
So, some folks have bad memories from childhood, or don't have anyone to celebrate with, or can't afford to buy things for people, or feel pressured to participate in the extravagant materialism, and they'd like the world to ease up on the Christmas already. And others love the lights and the opportunity to give or the opportunity to receive and the baking and the trees, and don't want anyone raining on their parade. Of course, there are variances and nuances, and I'm not trying to oversimplify anyone's feelings. What I'm saying is that maybe it's OK to fall anywhere in that spectrum of approaches, and perhaps we don't need to make it so antagonistic. One person feels accused or left out and vents a little, and other people react, and suddenly we have a volley of hard-line stances and recriminations: "You're a mindless consumer who doesn't care about the third world!" "Well, you're a Grinch who doesn't know how to have fun!" And on it goes.
How about a little less accusation and a little more invitation to find some joy, each in their own way?
So, some folks have bad memories from childhood, or don't have anyone to celebrate with, or can't afford to buy things for people, or feel pressured to participate in the extravagant materialism, and they'd like the world to ease up on the Christmas already. And others love the lights and the opportunity to give or the opportunity to receive and the baking and the trees, and don't want anyone raining on their parade. Of course, there are variances and nuances, and I'm not trying to oversimplify anyone's feelings. What I'm saying is that maybe it's OK to fall anywhere in that spectrum of approaches, and perhaps we don't need to make it so antagonistic. One person feels accused or left out and vents a little, and other people react, and suddenly we have a volley of hard-line stances and recriminations: "You're a mindless consumer who doesn't care about the third world!" "Well, you're a Grinch who doesn't know how to have fun!" And on it goes.
How about a little less accusation and a little more invitation to find some joy, each in their own way?
Snow: A Positive Post
It snowed last night, which was awesome. It started out as rain, which is wet and cold, and I went out, and it turned to snow for me, which you can brush off, and I was all, "Yes!" Ha ha, yes!
And then after I got home, I went out again. I changed into the Greatest Parka Known to Man, Even When Taking Its Frumpiness into Consideration, and went to the grocery store. Cuz I really needed to, y'all. I let the supplies run down before Thanksgiving weekend and then I got a little sick and I was living off of cereal and pasta for a week. I made up a little ditty about my little foray to the market, which involved saying grocery like "grocer-ay," but I don't remember it off the top of my head. Anyway, best night to go to the store. A ghost town, man. Luxury. And then we hoofed it home again, my parka and me. In the snow, which was neato torpedo.
I spent some quality time this morning with some angry thoughts about Snow Haters. I was going to post some hate in response. But now I'm thinking, let's end the hate. I'll just explain where I'm coming from, invite you to join me, and let you make your own choice, because how you respond to snow is a deeply personal decision.
I rather startled my roommate last night with my impassioned defense of snow. Here's where I think all my impassionedosity comes from: I grew up with snow, and liked it the way any kid would: Yay, it's something pretty to play in, and maybe you get a day off school. How can you beat that? When I grew up and heard fellow grown-ups declaring they hated snow, I was shocked. Do you also hate weekends and compliments? How could you hate something so pretty and fun and get-out-of-schooly? The response: "It's hard to drive in." That seemed like the kind of grown-up-ness they warned me about in Saturday morning TV. Not for me!
But it was also more personal than that. I loved snow without question, and when people declare they hate it, I hear, "I hate this thing you love." It's like telling somebody they're "wasting time" on a hobby they love, or that the food they're eating is disgusting and you would never touch it. Even weather people are guilty, saying that 75-degree weather in mid-December is "gorgeous" and a lovely snowstorm that means you get to make snow angels and drink hot chocolate without sweating through your sweater is somehow "awful." Says who?
So I'll try not to be grouchy when people don't want to feel the cold and don't want their heating bills to go up and don't want to drive slower and don't know how they'll watch their kids when school is canceled. If you'll try not to hate when even the ugliest parts of town look unsoiled and peaceful for a few precious hours after the snow has fallen; if numb fingers and toes make me feel like I've earned an evening warming them up again with a yummy hot drink; if all the songs about Christmas being snowy are like prayers and celebrations for me; if I feel like when it snows, it's a gift and I don't have to just be happy because other people get things they like -- I get to have things I like, too.
And then after I got home, I went out again. I changed into the Greatest Parka Known to Man, Even When Taking Its Frumpiness into Consideration, and went to the grocery store. Cuz I really needed to, y'all. I let the supplies run down before Thanksgiving weekend and then I got a little sick and I was living off of cereal and pasta for a week. I made up a little ditty about my little foray to the market, which involved saying grocery like "grocer-ay," but I don't remember it off the top of my head. Anyway, best night to go to the store. A ghost town, man. Luxury. And then we hoofed it home again, my parka and me. In the snow, which was neato torpedo.
I spent some quality time this morning with some angry thoughts about Snow Haters. I was going to post some hate in response. But now I'm thinking, let's end the hate. I'll just explain where I'm coming from, invite you to join me, and let you make your own choice, because how you respond to snow is a deeply personal decision.
I rather startled my roommate last night with my impassioned defense of snow. Here's where I think all my impassionedosity comes from: I grew up with snow, and liked it the way any kid would: Yay, it's something pretty to play in, and maybe you get a day off school. How can you beat that? When I grew up and heard fellow grown-ups declaring they hated snow, I was shocked. Do you also hate weekends and compliments? How could you hate something so pretty and fun and get-out-of-schooly? The response: "It's hard to drive in." That seemed like the kind of grown-up-ness they warned me about in Saturday morning TV. Not for me!
But it was also more personal than that. I loved snow without question, and when people declare they hate it, I hear, "I hate this thing you love." It's like telling somebody they're "wasting time" on a hobby they love, or that the food they're eating is disgusting and you would never touch it. Even weather people are guilty, saying that 75-degree weather in mid-December is "gorgeous" and a lovely snowstorm that means you get to make snow angels and drink hot chocolate without sweating through your sweater is somehow "awful." Says who?
So I'll try not to be grouchy when people don't want to feel the cold and don't want their heating bills to go up and don't want to drive slower and don't know how they'll watch their kids when school is canceled. If you'll try not to hate when even the ugliest parts of town look unsoiled and peaceful for a few precious hours after the snow has fallen; if numb fingers and toes make me feel like I've earned an evening warming them up again with a yummy hot drink; if all the songs about Christmas being snowy are like prayers and celebrations for me; if I feel like when it snows, it's a gift and I don't have to just be happy because other people get things they like -- I get to have things I like, too.
Thursday, December 03, 2009
Pink and Snow and Christmas and Happy
It got up to 69 degrees in Boston today. Plenty of people were delighted. I don't mind being comfortable outside, honest I don't, but weather like this weirds me the heck out. It's December! In Boston! I moved up here because I wanted snow for Christmas without all the worrying -- and believe you me, I do worry when I don't think the temperature leading up to the big day is falling fast enough. I'm like a little kid. Or great big baby. Want snow! Want snow now!
I know I talk about this every year. But I feel the need to vent because Facebook is full of people who are rejoicing over the warm weather. I don't want to hate all over their updates, but I gotta let this out somewhere. So the blog it is.
My blog is pink and pink is the color of candy and candy comes from the North Pole and so does Santa and Santa is Christmassy and the North Pole is snowy and I like Christmas snowy and I like my blog because it's pink and Christmassy and snowy even though it's pink and snow isn't pink.
Unless the Cat in the Hat gets pink cat-ring all over it.
But that is neither here nor there.
It isn't even anywhere.
It's not in a house,
It's not with a mouse,
It's not on the stair,
It's not in a chair.
It's not in the sky, where snowflakes should fly.
It's not on the ground, where snow drifts should mound.
I do not like green deciduous trees in December.
I do not like them.
Holly I am.
I know I talk about this every year. But I feel the need to vent because Facebook is full of people who are rejoicing over the warm weather. I don't want to hate all over their updates, but I gotta let this out somewhere. So the blog it is.
My blog is pink and pink is the color of candy and candy comes from the North Pole and so does Santa and Santa is Christmassy and the North Pole is snowy and I like Christmas snowy and I like my blog because it's pink and Christmassy and snowy even though it's pink and snow isn't pink.
Unless the Cat in the Hat gets pink cat-ring all over it.
But that is neither here nor there.
It isn't even anywhere.
It's not in a house,
It's not with a mouse,
It's not on the stair,
It's not in a chair.
It's not in the sky, where snowflakes should fly.
It's not on the ground, where snow drifts should mound.
I do not like green deciduous trees in December.
I do not like them.
Holly I am.
Nor Sure Whether I Should Share This or Not
So I'm gonna, because I don't have a whole lot else to say. For your entertainment, here's a little exchange I inflicted upon my roommate a few minutes ago:
Her: You want $25 for free?
Me: What do I have to lick?
[Pause.]
Her: I may never recover from the images that came to mind when you said that.
Me: It could be a lollipop.
Her: You want $25 for free?
Me: What do I have to lick?
[Pause.]
Her: I may never recover from the images that came to mind when you said that.
Me: It could be a lollipop.
Tuesday, December 01, 2009
One More Thing about That Movie
It made me want to be an actress.
I wanted that already, but this made me re-want it. The way the animators made visual magic, the actors made magic with their voices. I want to do that with my voice, with my face, with my body. I want to create something both real and super-real.
A modest dream, no?
I wanted that already, but this made me re-want it. The way the animators made visual magic, the actors made magic with their voices. I want to do that with my voice, with my face, with my body. I want to create something both real and super-real.
A modest dream, no?
Monday, November 30, 2009
Holly Reviews a Movie
We went to see Disney's "A Christmas Carol" yesterday. I loved it! It made me feel all Christmassy, which is no small feat. Rather than give away some of the pleasant surprises by describing it all, I'll tell you why I liked it.
First, the animation was amazing. OK, I don't know diddly about animation or computers or special effects, and usually they wash over me and I don't pay much attention, but I'm pretty sure the animation was amazing. It was amazing to the point where I'll go back on my word slightly and give away one thing: When they close up on Scrooge's face, you can see the pores and hair on his nose. There were other highly effective moments, but I want you to experience them for yourself so I'll keep my mouth shut.
Second, it managed to affect me. A story I've seen and read countless times, and it had me laughing and crying at all the right moments. Part of that may be because the movie and I met at the right time and place; I find that's the way with books and movies. But I found myself taking a step forward in my attitude toward the poor. As with everything else, my feelings are always shifting on that subject, and I'm coming out of a season where I've felt a need to steel myself against guilt and legalism and the feeling that I'm obligated to carry the pains of the world around on my shoulders. This meant that stories like this felt like kind of a guilt trip. But as I get used to not feeling guilty, I have more room to care about people without it overwhelming me. It was nice to watch a moralistic story and not come away feeling like a jerk, or at least like someone else was trying to get me to feel like one. I also have more understanding of Scrooge with each passing year; time, loneliness, disappointment, and fear really wear on a soul.
What I liked best, though, was the combined feeling of longing and hope with which I left the theater. I think that's what felt Christmassy about it. I wanted what I saw on the screen: beauty, snow, love, joy, contentment, snow, meaning, and snow. It's not the same excitement I had as a kid; it's grown up now, and there's always a sense that Christmas will never live up to what I hope it will be, if only because I still have so far to go in my own ability to enjoy moments for what they are. But that hope-longing combo -- that feels like prayer. I've been learning a bunch about how broad the definition of prayer can be. I used to think it had to be verbal; now I don't think that at all. I once read a great line in a book about how a dying woman's suffering was worship "because she willed it to be so." I think that's all it takes, a turning in your heart with whatever else you're doing, choosing to direct it towards God; it doesn't have to be a constant striving to make everything "sacred." Fasting and dancing can be praying with your body. Singing, even secular songs. Cleaning my room. If prayer is communicating with God, then surely the choices are at least as wide as our options for communicating with people.
I came away from the movie with the usual awareness of all the things I want and still don't have, but was excited to daydream about them and bring them to God and enjoy the process of asking and expecting.
Yep. Got all that from a cartoon.
First, the animation was amazing. OK, I don't know diddly about animation or computers or special effects, and usually they wash over me and I don't pay much attention, but I'm pretty sure the animation was amazing. It was amazing to the point where I'll go back on my word slightly and give away one thing: When they close up on Scrooge's face, you can see the pores and hair on his nose. There were other highly effective moments, but I want you to experience them for yourself so I'll keep my mouth shut.
Second, it managed to affect me. A story I've seen and read countless times, and it had me laughing and crying at all the right moments. Part of that may be because the movie and I met at the right time and place; I find that's the way with books and movies. But I found myself taking a step forward in my attitude toward the poor. As with everything else, my feelings are always shifting on that subject, and I'm coming out of a season where I've felt a need to steel myself against guilt and legalism and the feeling that I'm obligated to carry the pains of the world around on my shoulders. This meant that stories like this felt like kind of a guilt trip. But as I get used to not feeling guilty, I have more room to care about people without it overwhelming me. It was nice to watch a moralistic story and not come away feeling like a jerk, or at least like someone else was trying to get me to feel like one. I also have more understanding of Scrooge with each passing year; time, loneliness, disappointment, and fear really wear on a soul.
What I liked best, though, was the combined feeling of longing and hope with which I left the theater. I think that's what felt Christmassy about it. I wanted what I saw on the screen: beauty, snow, love, joy, contentment, snow, meaning, and snow. It's not the same excitement I had as a kid; it's grown up now, and there's always a sense that Christmas will never live up to what I hope it will be, if only because I still have so far to go in my own ability to enjoy moments for what they are. But that hope-longing combo -- that feels like prayer. I've been learning a bunch about how broad the definition of prayer can be. I used to think it had to be verbal; now I don't think that at all. I once read a great line in a book about how a dying woman's suffering was worship "because she willed it to be so." I think that's all it takes, a turning in your heart with whatever else you're doing, choosing to direct it towards God; it doesn't have to be a constant striving to make everything "sacred." Fasting and dancing can be praying with your body. Singing, even secular songs. Cleaning my room. If prayer is communicating with God, then surely the choices are at least as wide as our options for communicating with people.
I came away from the movie with the usual awareness of all the things I want and still don't have, but was excited to daydream about them and bring them to God and enjoy the process of asking and expecting.
Yep. Got all that from a cartoon.
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Places I Want to Live
A castle
Underwater
The North Pole (not the real one -- the one with reindeer and candy-cane lamp posts)
A log cabin
A gingerbread house
One year each in --
Norway
Sweden
Netherlands
Italy
Russia
Japan
France
Hong Kong
Spain or Portugal
South America
Montreal
India
Africa (sub-Saharan)
North Africa
New York
Chicago
St. Louis
Australia
Salzburg
Heidelburg
Antarctica
Mongolia
Hong Kong
...and I'd like to get a decent handle on the languages of each while I live there.
Alaska
Scotland
A modernized cave
In my own little red house where I can rake leaves and chop wood and have a fireplace and have people over.
Underwater
The North Pole (not the real one -- the one with reindeer and candy-cane lamp posts)
A log cabin
A gingerbread house
One year each in --
Norway
Sweden
Netherlands
Italy
Russia
Japan
France
Hong Kong
Spain or Portugal
South America
Montreal
India
Africa (sub-Saharan)
North Africa
New York
Chicago
St. Louis
Australia
Salzburg
Heidelburg
Antarctica
Mongolia
Hong Kong
...and I'd like to get a decent handle on the languages of each while I live there.
Alaska
Scotland
A modernized cave
In my own little red house where I can rake leaves and chop wood and have a fireplace and have people over.
Monday, November 16, 2009
Why is My Butt Still Attached?
I love Fall. I love Winter. I love it when the weather gets cool, then cold. I love Thanksgiving and Christmas and a birthday in December. I love decorations and music and presents and time off work and special food and visiting family and catching up on sleep and then stockpiling more sleep for later. I love the threat of freezing my butt off so that I need slippers and blankets and yummy hot drinks every evening when I come home.
So why is it so warm outside that I barely need a light jacket, and am sweating after 15 minutes of walking? I certainly don't wish any suffering on people who have no choice about being on the street, or even upon those wusses who complain when it gets below 70 degrees (and you know who you are, you wusses!), but I'd really like it to get cold. This kind of warmth is nice in September or even October, but this late in the game it just feels wrong. At some point when I was a kid, we must have gotten our first snowfall on Nov. 11, because from that point on I've had that date in my head as the perfect date for the snow to start. But apart from one wondrous day in mid-October, we ain't had nothin'.
Let it snow (please!), let is snow (please!), let it snow (pleeeeeeeeeeeeease)!
So why is it so warm outside that I barely need a light jacket, and am sweating after 15 minutes of walking? I certainly don't wish any suffering on people who have no choice about being on the street, or even upon those wusses who complain when it gets below 70 degrees (and you know who you are, you wusses!), but I'd really like it to get cold. This kind of warmth is nice in September or even October, but this late in the game it just feels wrong. At some point when I was a kid, we must have gotten our first snowfall on Nov. 11, because from that point on I've had that date in my head as the perfect date for the snow to start. But apart from one wondrous day in mid-October, we ain't had nothin'.
Let it snow (please!), let is snow (please!), let it snow (pleeeeeeeeeeeeease)!
Priorities
On Friday, I did something I almost never do: lost track of time. At the end of the workday, too! I looked at the clock on my computer and it was only 4 minutes till the shuttle left from work to the T station that gets me closest to home. I scrambled to pack up my things, dress for outdoors, and began running down the hall. Then screeeeeeeeech! I realized that, in my now-locked desk drawer, was a giant cookie. I had to go back.
I didn't think I could go back, find the key in my purse, lock everything again, and make the shuttle. So I went back and took my time, took a different shuttle to a different station, and probably added 20 minutes to my commute. 20 minutes out of my evening wasn't such a high price to pay for a giant cookie, when you consider that my big plan for the evening was to eat the cookie.
It was a GIANT cookie.
I didn't think I could go back, find the key in my purse, lock everything again, and make the shuttle. So I went back and took my time, took a different shuttle to a different station, and probably added 20 minutes to my commute. 20 minutes out of my evening wasn't such a high price to pay for a giant cookie, when you consider that my big plan for the evening was to eat the cookie.
It was a GIANT cookie.
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