Today, I sang a song with primary children about following God's plan for me. It was only in the final minute of singing time that I realized how much the song was pertinent to me. Right now.
You see, I'm starting a new job soon. I'm leaving the last remnants of my Utah County family and heading south to work in a library. It's not terribly far away, but far enough that a casual dinner visit is out of the question. I remember moving to Boston about seven years ago, and how I felt during the plane ride into the city. I wondered what on earth I had done. How could I possibly start out a new life by myself? What the heck had I been thinking?
Thanks to good roommates and a very fulfilling couple of years of school, Boston turned out to be a good experience for me.
And now, here I am. Leaving family again to set out on my own.
I've wondered if I made the right decision accepting this job. If I simply wanted to go because I've been kind of unhappy at my current job and was just desperate to leave.
And then this song today.
I brought along my patriarchal blessing to primary today as a kind of visual aid for talking about what the song meant. Now, my patriarchal blessing and I have had a bit of a bumpy relationship. Some things it talks about happening, things I've desperately wanted to happen, have not occurred. And so I've avoided reading it, to keep from reminding myself of the unfulfilled promises.
But talking with the children today about it, I felt an affirmation that my life, even if it isn't one that I would necessarily have chosen, is not a waste.
I think sometimes we get caught up in the details of our lives. Our days are occupied with the rough things that happen at work, or the person that cuts us off in traffic, or feeding the dog, or cleaning up after the kids, or wondering if you can get through one more episode of that show before you have to go to bed. And I sometimes think that this is all there is.
But I remembered today that our lives, each of them, do have a purpose. That the sum of our experiences matters. That even the humdrum details, the teeth brushing and nail biting and doodling, as well as the moments when we utterly connect with someone, or have a great phone call with our siblings, or give a wonderful talk, or hear a child say, "I love you," are all part of it, that each experience matters, that we are becoming something great and grand and glorious.
I don't know if the choices I've made have made my life the best of all possible lives I could have lived. (I rather strongly suspect the opposite.) But I think even when I mess up, when I make mistakes about where to live and what job to have and who to love, that it never, never, never is a waste. And that of my silly, erroneous, ephemeral life, God can make something grand. He can give it purpose.
And that is a great gift indeed.
Showing posts with label church stuff. Show all posts
Showing posts with label church stuff. Show all posts
Sunday, February 02, 2014
Sunday, May 17, 2009
When your church building burns down...do as the Romans do?
Those of you who remain glued to your newsfeeds from Boston may already be aware of this little tidbit of info, but the church building where I meet (yep--that one right across from the Longfellow House in Cambridge) burned to the ground this morning.
Yeah. Take a minute. Let it sink in.
Totally. Burned. To. The. Ground.
Well, MOSTLY totally. I mean, the steeple was still up by the time I left (about 4 hours after the fire started) and the walls were still intact (although the windows were not). But what I could see of the interior was a blackened, gutted mess. The roof is now more or less completely gone. If you're into the whole ghoulish watching-stuff-burn-up sort of thing, (don't worry or feel guilty about it--I'm sure pretty much all of you will click this link) you can view NUMEROUS pictures of the event in this guy's Picasa album.
Details? We were gathered together in the chapel, listening to the second speaker of a Stake Conference session that was broadcast to our building from Salt Lake, when the fire alarm went off. Everybody started looking at each other, (some, like me, rolling their eyes), and a few church leaders dashed off to see what the problem was, but I'm pretty sure most of us thought it had been caused by something over-cooking in the kitchen, or someone (possibly under the age of 5) pulling the alarm. Then, the presiding member of the Stake Presidency came up to the pulpit and asked us all to exit quietly. People shuffled out in a rather nonchalant manner, until we finally got outside and could see flames licking the underside of the eaves. By the time we got out to the grassy area in front of our chapel, we could see smoke starting to billow from the roof on the other side of the building.
Several firetrucks arrived as people continued to exit the building. (Everyone got out fine, by the way.) Within a few minutes, flames started shooting up from the roof, and the smoke changed from overcast-grey to nearly black. When the roof over the chapel collapsed, a general cry of dismay went up, particularly when the floor-to-ceiling windows in the chapel gave us a glimpse of the inferno inside.
It took a long time for most of the fire to be put out. As I said, I stayed for about four hours after the alarm went off the first time, and the roof around the steeple was still smoking when I left.
At one point, the fire had been contained enough to allow the firefighters to get into the institute library, so most of the members who were still around (a lot of us) plus many, many kind people from congregations who met near our building (including a group of Quakers who went around offering us snacks, juice and water), formed a long 'Book Brigade' that just made my librarian heart sing. We passed books in stacks from hand to hand from our building to another nearby building's basement, where they were organized, put on shelves, and triaged (as necessary) by a couple of ward members who had some expertise in treating water-damaged books.
So, I'm feeling pretty much flummoxed. And stunned. And really sad (even though I'm hiding it with a slightly snarky tone while blogging--it's simply my way of dealing with the trauma). I mean, that was the building I've attended the whole time I've been in Boston. And a lot of members have memories of it that go back way further than mine. I think even President Packer had spent time in the area as a...mission president, I think?
But, everyone is okay. Which is really the most important thing. And the books (or at least some of them) are okay, which is the second most important thing.
Or so says the librarian.
Yeah. Take a minute. Let it sink in.
Totally. Burned. To. The. Ground.
Well, MOSTLY totally. I mean, the steeple was still up by the time I left (about 4 hours after the fire started) and the walls were still intact (although the windows were not). But what I could see of the interior was a blackened, gutted mess. The roof is now more or less completely gone. If you're into the whole ghoulish watching-stuff-burn-up sort of thing, (don't worry or feel guilty about it--I'm sure pretty much all of you will click this link) you can view NUMEROUS pictures of the event in this guy's Picasa album.
Details? We were gathered together in the chapel, listening to the second speaker of a Stake Conference session that was broadcast to our building from Salt Lake, when the fire alarm went off. Everybody started looking at each other, (some, like me, rolling their eyes), and a few church leaders dashed off to see what the problem was, but I'm pretty sure most of us thought it had been caused by something over-cooking in the kitchen, or someone (possibly under the age of 5) pulling the alarm. Then, the presiding member of the Stake Presidency came up to the pulpit and asked us all to exit quietly. People shuffled out in a rather nonchalant manner, until we finally got outside and could see flames licking the underside of the eaves. By the time we got out to the grassy area in front of our chapel, we could see smoke starting to billow from the roof on the other side of the building.
Several firetrucks arrived as people continued to exit the building. (Everyone got out fine, by the way.) Within a few minutes, flames started shooting up from the roof, and the smoke changed from overcast-grey to nearly black. When the roof over the chapel collapsed, a general cry of dismay went up, particularly when the floor-to-ceiling windows in the chapel gave us a glimpse of the inferno inside.
It took a long time for most of the fire to be put out. As I said, I stayed for about four hours after the alarm went off the first time, and the roof around the steeple was still smoking when I left.
At one point, the fire had been contained enough to allow the firefighters to get into the institute library, so most of the members who were still around (a lot of us) plus many, many kind people from congregations who met near our building (including a group of Quakers who went around offering us snacks, juice and water), formed a long 'Book Brigade' that just made my librarian heart sing. We passed books in stacks from hand to hand from our building to another nearby building's basement, where they were organized, put on shelves, and triaged (as necessary) by a couple of ward members who had some expertise in treating water-damaged books.
So, I'm feeling pretty much flummoxed. And stunned. And really sad (even though I'm hiding it with a slightly snarky tone while blogging--it's simply my way of dealing with the trauma). I mean, that was the building I've attended the whole time I've been in Boston. And a lot of members have memories of it that go back way further than mine. I think even President Packer had spent time in the area as a...mission president, I think?
But, everyone is okay. Which is really the most important thing. And the books (or at least some of them) are okay, which is the second most important thing.
Or so says the librarian.
Saturday, December 13, 2008
A little hefty bit
Let me be frank: this semester has been dang hard. It's been hard scholastic-wise, social-wise, personal-state-of-self-wise, hair-wise, glasses-wise, pretty much every conceivable -wise possible.
Well, actually, that isn't true. I've had no difficulties with, say, species identity. I'm pretty sure I'm Homo sapiens. Also, my fingers have given me little trouble over the past few months. And hey, my continual acquisition of books has gone swimmingly.
But other things have been hard. When I say that the semester has been difficult scholastic-wise, I don't want to imply that I haven't enjoyed it; it's been one of the most enjoyable semesters I've had here. In fact, I feel that during this semester I finally got into the meat of what I hope to do as a professional librarian: reference work with children, preferably ages birth (yes, we do provide library services to babies) through 8th grade or so. I learned about programming for children, during which time I got to both construct a box of resources for a themed story time and later use someone else's box to perform a story time in class. It was, frankly, extremely awesome. Particularly the whole reading-picture-books-and-singing-songs in graduate school thing. I learned about children's literature, including how to write reviews and analyze the library's current collection to better meet the needs of the community. I spent hours and hours and even more hours getting familiar with reference source after reference source. It was intense, but oh-so-informative.
I guess that's the point: this semester's schoolwork was pretty heavy, but I feel like I learned more, or at least more valuable, pertinent-to-me information than I'd learned in any previous semester.
So, school was actually pretty good. Stressful, HECK YES, but good.
Let me just breeze through a few of these others before I get to the real meat of this: my hair is currently way too long and frazzled at the end. I needs a trim. This equals hardship for my poor self. My poor straggly-haired self.
Glasses: lost a screw. One of the lens frames is now held together with a fashionable piece of copper wire. I dare you to try to spot it without knowing about it beforehand. (And now you know about it! So you lose! Automatically! Dang, I'm sly.)
Personal-state-of-self. Dude. I consumed a ton of cookies tonight. I ordered Chinese food and pizza and I'm down to one pair of jeans that fits properly. Which makes me feel that I stink as a human being.
Which kind of leads me to the point of this whole post, the subject that I'm kind of reluctant to discuss, mostly because it reveals my really real deep inner flaws in a way that makes me intensely uncomfortable.
You see, this last semester, I also withdrew a lot from human contact.
It's not as bad at the moment, so I know have to write about this in a looking-back sort of way, rather than an I'm-in-this-right-now sort of way, so I don't know if I can fully recapture all the things that've been going on in my internal parts these past few months. Frankly, I could probably recapture it best at about 3:00 in the morning, with the occasional murmur of a single car passing outside my window making me feel, somehow, not less alone, but more so.
But, my roommates are home, and in and out of the room, being friendly (which is great) so let's see if I can grasp on to this slippery feeling that settled on me like a film of soap this past semester...
I have a feeling that my withdrawal from human contact has stemmed, to a large degree, from my growing dissatisfaction with myself. It's manifested itself in different ways: I can recall, for instance, sitting in church and feeling so unable to deal with people and the crowds and the press and the noise and the pressure that I had to escape outside in a near panic. I think I couldn't stand being around other people because, in part, I couldn't stand myself, or rather, I couldn't stand how I was sure other people viewed me.
So, I got out. And I kept getting out. And I kept not connecting with people, and I kept shutting the door to my room when I got home and I kept not really talking to people in class and.
And I just drew myself in and encrusted myself with as much armor-thick I-don't-care-ness as I could muster.
So, I had only myself to deal with. And, reluctantly, rarely, other people. When they absolutely refused not to be admitted. Which some did refuse, thank goodness.
And yeah, my relationship with God suffered too, mostly because I didn't take time for anyone besides my own brain. And, as crazy and entertaining as my brain can be, it can't provide insight into tremendously difficult life problems or answers to questions about the nature of the universe and our place in it (although it can come up with hecka-awesome dreams).
And. Good grief. NONE OF THIS explains really what I've been feeling or thinking or anything. And it's already too long by about 458%.
I guess, suffice it to say, I've had the door to my room closed far too often and for far too long. And I'm starting to reemerge back into the world, but it's hard. And I feel vulnerable and shaky, particularly because I'm still not entirely happy with myself, and because I'm afraid that other people can see the flaws in me that I can see in myself and that they scorn me for it.
But, you know, I'll still get up tomorrow morning. I'll still put on my skirt and those ugly brown shoes that are nonetheless comfortable and I'll wrap that blue scarf around my neck and button my slightly-too-tight coat over my bulgy self and I'll sit in church and listen to people talk and maybe even make a comment or two. If I'm feeling particularly daring. And it's even possible I'll feel the spirit. I hope so, because that's why I keep doing it.
And maybe, this week, and this next semester, maybe I can work on some of the things that have lately made me so unhappy about myself.
Maybe I can start to leave the door to my room open. Just a little bit more.
Well, actually, that isn't true. I've had no difficulties with, say, species identity. I'm pretty sure I'm Homo sapiens. Also, my fingers have given me little trouble over the past few months. And hey, my continual acquisition of books has gone swimmingly.
But other things have been hard. When I say that the semester has been difficult scholastic-wise, I don't want to imply that I haven't enjoyed it; it's been one of the most enjoyable semesters I've had here. In fact, I feel that during this semester I finally got into the meat of what I hope to do as a professional librarian: reference work with children, preferably ages birth (yes, we do provide library services to babies) through 8th grade or so. I learned about programming for children, during which time I got to both construct a box of resources for a themed story time and later use someone else's box to perform a story time in class. It was, frankly, extremely awesome. Particularly the whole reading-picture-books-and-singing-songs in graduate school thing. I learned about children's literature, including how to write reviews and analyze the library's current collection to better meet the needs of the community. I spent hours and hours and even more hours getting familiar with reference source after reference source. It was intense, but oh-so-informative.
I guess that's the point: this semester's schoolwork was pretty heavy, but I feel like I learned more, or at least more valuable, pertinent-to-me information than I'd learned in any previous semester.
So, school was actually pretty good. Stressful, HECK YES, but good.
Let me just breeze through a few of these others before I get to the real meat of this: my hair is currently way too long and frazzled at the end. I needs a trim. This equals hardship for my poor self. My poor straggly-haired self.
Glasses: lost a screw. One of the lens frames is now held together with a fashionable piece of copper wire. I dare you to try to spot it without knowing about it beforehand. (And now you know about it! So you lose! Automatically! Dang, I'm sly.)
Personal-state-of-self. Dude. I consumed a ton of cookies tonight. I ordered Chinese food and pizza and I'm down to one pair of jeans that fits properly. Which makes me feel that I stink as a human being.
Which kind of leads me to the point of this whole post, the subject that I'm kind of reluctant to discuss, mostly because it reveals my really real deep inner flaws in a way that makes me intensely uncomfortable.
You see, this last semester, I also withdrew a lot from human contact.
It's not as bad at the moment, so I know have to write about this in a looking-back sort of way, rather than an I'm-in-this-right-now sort of way, so I don't know if I can fully recapture all the things that've been going on in my internal parts these past few months. Frankly, I could probably recapture it best at about 3:00 in the morning, with the occasional murmur of a single car passing outside my window making me feel, somehow, not less alone, but more so.
But, my roommates are home, and in and out of the room, being friendly (which is great) so let's see if I can grasp on to this slippery feeling that settled on me like a film of soap this past semester...
I have a feeling that my withdrawal from human contact has stemmed, to a large degree, from my growing dissatisfaction with myself. It's manifested itself in different ways: I can recall, for instance, sitting in church and feeling so unable to deal with people and the crowds and the press and the noise and the pressure that I had to escape outside in a near panic. I think I couldn't stand being around other people because, in part, I couldn't stand myself, or rather, I couldn't stand how I was sure other people viewed me.
So, I got out. And I kept getting out. And I kept not connecting with people, and I kept shutting the door to my room when I got home and I kept not really talking to people in class and.
And I just drew myself in and encrusted myself with as much armor-thick I-don't-care-ness as I could muster.
So, I had only myself to deal with. And, reluctantly, rarely, other people. When they absolutely refused not to be admitted. Which some did refuse, thank goodness.
And yeah, my relationship with God suffered too, mostly because I didn't take time for anyone besides my own brain. And, as crazy and entertaining as my brain can be, it can't provide insight into tremendously difficult life problems or answers to questions about the nature of the universe and our place in it (although it can come up with hecka-awesome dreams).
And. Good grief. NONE OF THIS explains really what I've been feeling or thinking or anything. And it's already too long by about 458%.
I guess, suffice it to say, I've had the door to my room closed far too often and for far too long. And I'm starting to reemerge back into the world, but it's hard. And I feel vulnerable and shaky, particularly because I'm still not entirely happy with myself, and because I'm afraid that other people can see the flaws in me that I can see in myself and that they scorn me for it.
But, you know, I'll still get up tomorrow morning. I'll still put on my skirt and those ugly brown shoes that are nonetheless comfortable and I'll wrap that blue scarf around my neck and button my slightly-too-tight coat over my bulgy self and I'll sit in church and listen to people talk and maybe even make a comment or two. If I'm feeling particularly daring. And it's even possible I'll feel the spirit. I hope so, because that's why I keep doing it.
And maybe, this week, and this next semester, maybe I can work on some of the things that have lately made me so unhappy about myself.
Maybe I can start to leave the door to my room open. Just a little bit more.
Sunday, August 17, 2008
So, why does this bother me so much?
Our lesson in Relief Society today was titled: "Establishing the Cause of Zion." Which, as interesting as it was, is important to this discussion only in a peripheral manner.
One of the sisters in my ward today had several family members who attended church with her, including her mom, and a couple of her sisters (at least one of whom is married).
You may think these two things may have nothing to do with each other, but they are, in fact, quite thoroughly connected. You see, during the course of the lesson, the teacher asked the class what we can do to help establish Zion. In response, this married sister talked about how she tried to help establish a Zion home with her children and husband, (which was all well and good), and then proceeded to gesture to her single sister (the sister in my ward) and said, "And, you know, even my sister [Gertrude] can establish Zion in her own home."
I felt my hackles raise, but it took me a bit of thinking to figure out why I was bothered so much by her comment. I kept asking myself, "Why is this hurtful?"
It was the 'even' that got me, I think. The 'even' implied superiority, as if she were saying that her own life was more valuable than the life of a single, that our lives were less meaningful, less important, and would never be as important until we were married and had children. As we are now, we could only achieve an 'even.'
I may be stating this too strongly. In fact, I'm quite certain I am; I seriously doubt that this sister had any idea that her comment could be taken in such a way. I am equally certain that she loves her single sister dearly and would never intentionally hurt her. And it's always, always too easy to judge from the outside. I also think that as singles, we can sometimes be hypersensitive to singlehood slights, eagerly taking offense where none was meant.
However, I really worry that there is an undercurrent in some of the thinking that goes on in the church, among both married and single members, that lends a subtle factual base to singles' defensiveness, and marrieds' (as perceived by the singles) smug superiority.
Maybe it's just that we're taught (at least as women; I kind of believe the men don't get this drummed into them) that being a spouse and parent really is the most important thing you can do with your life. The problem is that we all want to feel our lives our valuable, not just those who are lucky enough to have miraculously found someone with whom to reproduce. We all want to believe that we're making contributions, that we're not just treading water, or hanging out, or merely marking time until our Big Break. And for those of us who are single, (and I would guess for married, parent-ified folks too), we worry all the time that what we're doing just isn't important enough, that we'll be forgotten, that we're missing out on what our life calling is supposed to be.
And I ache for us.
And I don't have any kind of solution, either. I'm not sure if we could fix this by giving talks in church that read: "Every member is valuable. Singles, your lives are important. Married folks, your lives are important. And kids? Well, you can be important as long as you clean your rooms." Or maybe we should speak up when we hear comments that seem to invoke levels of worth. Or maybe we should just plunge our fists into our own hearts, root out the prejudice and fear, and drag them out into the open air to blow away, dissolved by their own insubstantiality.
One of the sisters in my ward today had several family members who attended church with her, including her mom, and a couple of her sisters (at least one of whom is married).
You may think these two things may have nothing to do with each other, but they are, in fact, quite thoroughly connected. You see, during the course of the lesson, the teacher asked the class what we can do to help establish Zion. In response, this married sister talked about how she tried to help establish a Zion home with her children and husband, (which was all well and good), and then proceeded to gesture to her single sister (the sister in my ward) and said, "And, you know, even my sister [Gertrude] can establish Zion in her own home."
I felt my hackles raise, but it took me a bit of thinking to figure out why I was bothered so much by her comment. I kept asking myself, "Why is this hurtful?"
It was the 'even' that got me, I think. The 'even' implied superiority, as if she were saying that her own life was more valuable than the life of a single, that our lives were less meaningful, less important, and would never be as important until we were married and had children. As we are now, we could only achieve an 'even.'
I may be stating this too strongly. In fact, I'm quite certain I am; I seriously doubt that this sister had any idea that her comment could be taken in such a way. I am equally certain that she loves her single sister dearly and would never intentionally hurt her. And it's always, always too easy to judge from the outside. I also think that as singles, we can sometimes be hypersensitive to singlehood slights, eagerly taking offense where none was meant.
However, I really worry that there is an undercurrent in some of the thinking that goes on in the church, among both married and single members, that lends a subtle factual base to singles' defensiveness, and marrieds' (as perceived by the singles) smug superiority.
Maybe it's just that we're taught (at least as women; I kind of believe the men don't get this drummed into them) that being a spouse and parent really is the most important thing you can do with your life. The problem is that we all want to feel our lives our valuable, not just those who are lucky enough to have miraculously found someone with whom to reproduce. We all want to believe that we're making contributions, that we're not just treading water, or hanging out, or merely marking time until our Big Break. And for those of us who are single, (and I would guess for married, parent-ified folks too), we worry all the time that what we're doing just isn't important enough, that we'll be forgotten, that we're missing out on what our life calling is supposed to be.
And I ache for us.
And I don't have any kind of solution, either. I'm not sure if we could fix this by giving talks in church that read: "Every member is valuable. Singles, your lives are important. Married folks, your lives are important. And kids? Well, you can be important as long as you clean your rooms." Or maybe we should speak up when we hear comments that seem to invoke levels of worth. Or maybe we should just plunge our fists into our own hearts, root out the prejudice and fear, and drag them out into the open air to blow away, dissolved by their own insubstantiality.
Saturday, July 26, 2008
Miscellany
Man. I just wrote most of a lengthy post that was meant to be all introspective and thought provoking... And I found that my heart just wasn't in it. So. No pontification today, people.
So sorry.
But here's the good bits that I rescued from said post (the good bits being the parts that weren't all full of philosophizing junk):
Guys, I had such a good day today.
I spent a great deal of it (probably too much) puzzling over the concepts in Brian Greene's The Elegant Universe, and some of it (probably not enough) puzzling over how I'm going to teach Elder D. Todd Christofferson's article: "Justification and Sanctification" (which, just so you know, is amazing and wonderful, even though it took me two read-throughs (the second time with heavy use of colored pencil) to even start to feel like I understood it) tomorrow in Relief Society.
Also, I went up to the church this afternoon to help out with the Relief Society booth at the open house we (the singles wards) hosted. There weren't a ton of people who showed up, but I did get to have some interesting conversations with folks. So, hurrah for that.
And...that's about it!
Also, I now have a picture of my sister and niece up on my computer as my desktop background. It's so gosh-darned adorable that I just kind of have to share:
Yeah. Her expression in this picture is possibly the best thing EVER. Love that googly-eyed look. (P.S. The sister holding the baby is NOT the mother of said baby. No, indeed. Although she (the sister, that is) does have two lovely children of her own. This baby belongs to another sister. A sister not in the picture. Yes. That sister. All clear? Good.)
So sorry.
But here's the good bits that I rescued from said post (the good bits being the parts that weren't all full of philosophizing junk):
Guys, I had such a good day today.
I spent a great deal of it (probably too much) puzzling over the concepts in Brian Greene's The Elegant Universe, and some of it (probably not enough) puzzling over how I'm going to teach Elder D. Todd Christofferson's article: "Justification and Sanctification" (which, just so you know, is amazing and wonderful, even though it took me two read-throughs (the second time with heavy use of colored pencil) to even start to feel like I understood it) tomorrow in Relief Society.
Also, I went up to the church this afternoon to help out with the Relief Society booth at the open house we (the singles wards) hosted. There weren't a ton of people who showed up, but I did get to have some interesting conversations with folks. So, hurrah for that.
And...that's about it!
Also, I now have a picture of my sister and niece up on my computer as my desktop background. It's so gosh-darned adorable that I just kind of have to share:
Yeah. Her expression in this picture is possibly the best thing EVER. Love that googly-eyed look. (P.S. The sister holding the baby is NOT the mother of said baby. No, indeed. Although she (the sister, that is) does have two lovely children of her own. This baby belongs to another sister. A sister not in the picture. Yes. That sister. All clear? Good.)
Monday, July 14, 2008
Confessions of an FHE less-active
I feel terrible.
I was all set to go to FHE today, despite the fact that the activity was undisclosed and the location was way up at the church, which would have meant an entire hour of travel time both to FHE and back home.
FHE started at 7:30.
I remembered about it at 7:20. And groaned.
Also, I just found out that I have not one, but two more weeks of working much more than I thought I was going to this summer. Which is really, really, really ultra great for my ability to pay rent and go see the occasional movie and, like, pay for groceries and stuff, but not so great for my ability to run off and do crazy random things like visit Western Massachusetts and read lots of books and get that cross-stitch project finished and work on submitting short stories to magazines and sundry other projects and...
Good grief!
What has happened to my summer?!?
In other news, I have decided to join a nunnery. I saw a monk while wandering around in Boston the other day, and I just thought, "That's it. That's what my life should be." Hm. Except that instead of a cowl I'd wear a habit. Which is less cool.
Sigh. Maybe I'll stick with being just a regular ol' LDS single for now.
Um.
I guess that's it.
The End.
Now, er, Go To and stuff.
Seriously, folks.
I was all set to go to FHE today, despite the fact that the activity was undisclosed and the location was way up at the church, which would have meant an entire hour of travel time both to FHE and back home.
FHE started at 7:30.
I remembered about it at 7:20. And groaned.
Also, I just found out that I have not one, but two more weeks of working much more than I thought I was going to this summer. Which is really, really, really ultra great for my ability to pay rent and go see the occasional movie and, like, pay for groceries and stuff, but not so great for my ability to run off and do crazy random things like visit Western Massachusetts and read lots of books and get that cross-stitch project finished and work on submitting short stories to magazines and sundry other projects and...
Good grief!
What has happened to my summer?!?
In other news, I have decided to join a nunnery. I saw a monk while wandering around in Boston the other day, and I just thought, "That's it. That's what my life should be." Hm. Except that instead of a cowl I'd wear a habit. Which is less cool.
Sigh. Maybe I'll stick with being just a regular ol' LDS single for now.
Um.
I guess that's it.
The End.
Now, er, Go To and stuff.
Seriously, folks.
Sunday, June 29, 2008
To all the men of the church:
I just ate the most fantastic pear.
Wait! No, that's not what I wanted to tell you.
What I wanted to tell you was this: You're Fantastic.
I am saying this simply because I think we have a cultural difficulty in the church, and it's one that (interestingly enough) gives women the advantage. I'm talking about the coddling we get in Relief Society, as opposed to the numerous 'Repent Ye!'s the men seem to get in priesthood.
Now, don't get me wrong--I see nothing wrong with telling the women of the church that they're pretty awesome. I think that we really do tend to be a bit hard on ourselves, and it's important to recognize and remember the value that each of us has.
However...do men not feel this way too? And yet, while the Relief Society gets lessons on how to find joy in our lives (including the important reminder to stop and smell the roses), the men get long lists of things that they're not doing and are told to (essentially) shape up or ship out. (Well, maybe not the 'ship out' part, but the 'shaping up' is definitely in there.)
So, to all you men out there, the men who learned incredulously of the deluxe lounges available for use in the women's bathrooms at BYU, the men who get the chastising talk(s) at Priesthood Session at General Conference, the men who feel culturally obligated to joke about their own ineptitude even as they praise their wives' wisdom, virtue and beauty, to you men I say, WELL DONE.
You guys are pretty great.
You're great fathers and husbands, sons and uncles, nephews and brothers. You do your home teaching. You carry inhumanly heavy boxes and unnavigable furniture down (and up) numerous flights of stairs. You give blessings and advice and you put up with our PMS and scatterings of beauty products and enormous hair clogs in the drains. You serve faithfully, giving up your evenings and weekends to try to provide leadership for this church of ours, and you do it all while wearing suits and ties. Good grief. Frankly, I don't know how you do it.
So women, just take a moment (even though Father's Day is totally over for another year) to celebrate the men in your life. Just. Heavens. Just tell them how amazing and wonderful they really are.
Like they tell us every week.
Wait! No, that's not what I wanted to tell you.
What I wanted to tell you was this: You're Fantastic.
I am saying this simply because I think we have a cultural difficulty in the church, and it's one that (interestingly enough) gives women the advantage. I'm talking about the coddling we get in Relief Society, as opposed to the numerous 'Repent Ye!'s the men seem to get in priesthood.
Now, don't get me wrong--I see nothing wrong with telling the women of the church that they're pretty awesome. I think that we really do tend to be a bit hard on ourselves, and it's important to recognize and remember the value that each of us has.
However...do men not feel this way too? And yet, while the Relief Society gets lessons on how to find joy in our lives (including the important reminder to stop and smell the roses), the men get long lists of things that they're not doing and are told to (essentially) shape up or ship out. (Well, maybe not the 'ship out' part, but the 'shaping up' is definitely in there.)
So, to all you men out there, the men who learned incredulously of the deluxe lounges available for use in the women's bathrooms at BYU, the men who get the chastising talk(s) at Priesthood Session at General Conference, the men who feel culturally obligated to joke about their own ineptitude even as they praise their wives' wisdom, virtue and beauty, to you men I say, WELL DONE.
You guys are pretty great.
You're great fathers and husbands, sons and uncles, nephews and brothers. You do your home teaching. You carry inhumanly heavy boxes and unnavigable furniture down (and up) numerous flights of stairs. You give blessings and advice and you put up with our PMS and scatterings of beauty products and enormous hair clogs in the drains. You serve faithfully, giving up your evenings and weekends to try to provide leadership for this church of ours, and you do it all while wearing suits and ties. Good grief. Frankly, I don't know how you do it.
So women, just take a moment (even though Father's Day is totally over for another year) to celebrate the men in your life. Just. Heavens. Just tell them how amazing and wonderful they really are.
Like they tell us every week.
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
No, it's still not the fiction story. It's better.
Guys, I am amazed. I've been spending about the last hour just going over tonight again and again in my head and I'm just. I'm just amazed. About a lot of things.
Let me back up a bit.
Tonight, I needed to get my temple recommend renewed, because I had foolishly never gotten the new kind with the barcodes that are now necessary in at least the U.S. temples. And my mom really, really wanted for us to all do some work together while I'm home visiting the fam.
So tonight, I needed an interview with a member of the stake presidency, as I had previously been interviewed by a member of the bishopric. The only problem was that the chapel where the interviews take place is a little difficult to get to by using public transportation. So difficult, in fact, that I had never been there before. Although it is (nearly) right next to the Boston Temple, which I had visited a few times, although only once by using the MBTA.
Anyway.
So, because the interviews started at 7pm, and I wanted to be sure to get done early so I could get back and finish packing, I left my apartment about 6pm, thinking that it would take me about an hour (give or take 15 minutes or so) to get to the appropriate subway stop, take the bus, and walk the necessary distance to the chapel.
It took three hours.
First of all, the train ride into the center of town was rather unpleasantly wet. We had a thunderstorm system move through the area, and the train apparently was not fully protected against the wiles of nature; the roof dripped the whole way into downtown.
Also, when we were about halfway to the stop where I had to change subway lines, the driver of the train announced that the station I needed was closed due to an emergency, and that we could get out either a stop before or a stop after to catch a shuttle bus service to the parts of the other line that were down.
So, not wanting to sit in my ever-increasing little pool of train-filtered rainwater any longer, I opted for the earlier stop, got off the train, walked up to street level, and walked over to where hordes of people were standing around, waiting for the shuttle buses. (Remember, this was right in the middle of evening rush hour, and this is one of the busiest stations in the system, I think.) So, I stood in the crowd for a long, long time, (I had forgotten my phone, and I had no watch, so I had no idea what time it was), a bus or two came by, which were immediately rushed by the crowd, and I got a little closer to the front of the mass of bodies. Then, buses for the other direction kept coming up and passing us. Over. And over. And over.
By this time, I was seriously starting to have doubts about whether or not I would make the interview. I thought about just giving it up as a bad job, but the thought of missing out on possibly getting the recommend, when I might get it if I perservered, was intolerable. I couldn't let myself give up.
So, I stood there for even more time. And more. While glistening in the humidity and rather warm air.
Finally a bus came that was going the right direction, so the crowd pressed onboard, and we were at last on our way.
Then, before we had even gotten to the next stop, the bus broke down.
Apparently, these buses are meant to hold about 50 people max, with 40 in the seats, and maybe about an additional 10 standing in the aisles. The bus driver estimated that there were about 110 people on board. The hydraulics system on the right-hand side of the bus broke down, so the bus started leaning right. Hard. And we couldn't go faster than about 10mph. Everybody tried to stand over to the left of the bus (which was where I had been, so I got a bit squished), but we eventually had to pull over.
A bunch of the passengers hopped on other buses, (also tightly packed), but there wasn't room for everyone. After a few minutes, the bus driver had the rest of us get back on the bus, but at that point, we were down to maybe 20 people. We all sat or stood on the left side of the bus, and made sort-of good time past the first stop, but unfortunately, the bus just couldn't keep going, and we all had to get off at the second stop.
So, we did. And waited while a lot of 'not knowing what was going on' happened.
And here I have to make a comment: one of the funny things about this whole experience (it was now probably not quite 8 o'clock, so most of us had been trying to get to our destinations for a couple of hours) was that it broke the silence that normally exists between public transportation users. It's as if this invisible (yet impenetrable) barrier exists around each person, and crossing that barrier by chatting with someone you don't know is a sort of serious social taboo. Sort of.
But that taboo just could not survive the wonderfully improbable and highly impossible situation in which we all found ourselves. We all started laughing at how crazy and horrible and frustrating and funny it all was. (One girl's laughter sounded a bit hysterical, but I think she made it through okay.) One of the funniest moments was when the bus driver, in frustration with having to take the bus out of service, and the complete lack of direction he was getting from his superiors, turned to the guy in the front seat and said, "This is what I have to put up with. Stay in school, man."
So, there we all were, outside of Kendall Square station, wondering how long it would take to get another bus to us so that we could finally get to Harvard Square station, where apparently the subway was up and running. Then, one of the T-employees in the know told us that Kendall Square was now open for northbound trains. Joyously, we began to frolick downstairs, and found out that we had to go in the other side of the station. So, with joy liberally mixed with trepedation, we made our way down the other side, where we were able to board a train. That was going the right direction. And it really did pull out of the station.
(And the cool thing is that everybody was still talking to each other.)
So, we finally got to Harvard, where I got off to figure out which bus to take to get up to the chapel. But, naturally, there were no schedules available for the bus that I thought I needed to take (the 78). So, I grabbed a different schedule instead (the 77) and went to go see which bus came first. It was the 78. (By the way, I later realized that the 78 route was printed on the 77 schedule as well.)
By this time, it was dark outside, (it was about 8:30, according to the clock on the bus), so when we pulled out of Harvard Square station, I realized that finding the right stop was going to be tricky. Then, as we went along and along and even more along, I began thinking, 'None of this looks familiar. I really, really do not know where we are right now. I bet I took the wrong bus.' Which was discouraging, as you may imagine, since I had just spent the past two and a half hours trying to make the interview. Again, I kind of wanted to give up, but I thought I'd just ride the bus to the end of the route and then back to Harvard station again if I hadn't seen the temple along the way. (Remember, the chapel was next to the temple, so I was going to use the temple as my guidepost. Because it was lit up. And thus easy to see.)
One by one, (well, occasionally in twos and threes), all the passengers got off the bus until it was just me. It was very dark outside. I couldn't see anything, and I really didn't quite know where we were on the route. Finally, I saw the temple up ahead, so I signalled the bus driver to stop. He made a turn under an overpass, and pulled up at a covered bus stop, where I got off.
It was completely deserted.
And did I mention it was dark?
And I was armed only with an umbrella?
So, I cursed myself for the biggest idiot the world has ever known, and walked briskly, weilding my umbrella like a club, as I walked under the overpass, convinced that lurking in the shadows were murderers and rapists and probably rabid dogs.
Guys, in all seriousness, I was actually really terrified. And I really did think that I had been an idiot to get off the bus. Because it was really dark. I cannot even tell you how dark it was under that overpass. It was one of those moments when you realize that something really bad really, really could happen to you, and probably will.
But, I made it through. And if there were rapists, murderers and rabid dogs lurking around, I didn't see them. Which is good, because I don't think my umbrella would have been quite enough. So, I started walking up the hill towards the temple, still not quite sure where exactly the chapel was located.
Also? It was past 9 o'clock now. I knew that once I found the chapel, it would be deserted, and I'd have to walk some more in the terrifying dark in order to find a bus stop where I would wait and continue to be terrified until maybe a bus came along before horrible things happened to me. And I would go home in disgrace.
Also, there was no sidewalk. So I kind of had to walk in the street a little.
By this time, I could have wept with frustration. I almost did. I felt like I had tried so hard, and it still wasn't going to be enough. I was still going to have to call my mom and tell her that I couldn't go with the family to the temple because I was a dope and didn't have the right recommend and then.
There was the sign for the chapel.
So, I turned down the street (lit with a few streetlamps) and saw a parking lot in the distance.
It had cars in it. Not very many, but there were cars.
I got up to the chapel door, convinced that it would be locked.
It wasn't.
I walked inside, convinced that I'd find someone cleaning the building, or people playing late-night basketball or something.
I saw a girl in a skirt sitting on a couch. Which was the most wonderful thing I could have seen just then. I tentatively asked if they were still doing interviews for temple recommends (I think it was about a quarter after 9pm by this time) and she said that she was waiting for her own recommend interview, and pointed out the person I needed to talk to in order to sign in.
So I signed in.
And I sat down.
And I tried really hard not to cry because I was just feeling this sense of being amazed and awed and stunned that after all the halting and mishaps and obstacles, I had made it. They were still there. I could still have a temple recommend.
When the stake president called me into his office, he talked with me for a moment, then asked if I'd be willing to share a bit of my testimony with him. I felt a rush of the spirit, and I bore my testimony with a more firm conviction than I've felt in a long time. And again, I struggled not to cry.
The interview went fine, a brother from the other singles ward gave me a ride to the nearest T stop so I wouldn't have to wait in the dark for a bus, and I got home a little after 10:30.
Guys, I think there is something really valuable about this experience. I think sometimes the things that are good and right for us to do come very easily; the way opens up for us suddenly, spectacularly, like the parting of the Red Sea, and we walk through on dry ground towards the Promised Land.
But this was not a Red Sea moment for me. For me, this was one of those times when the thing I was supposed to do was hard, a time when all these awful (and sometimes even ridiculous) obstacles kept getting thrown in my path. And I nearly gave up. And didn't. And now I have what I needed.
The Lord shows us all kinds of tender mercies. Tonight, mine came in the form of a busted subway system, a broken bus, and a rectangular piece of (barcoded) paper that's securely stashed in my purse.
Let me back up a bit.
Tonight, I needed to get my temple recommend renewed, because I had foolishly never gotten the new kind with the barcodes that are now necessary in at least the U.S. temples. And my mom really, really wanted for us to all do some work together while I'm home visiting the fam.
So tonight, I needed an interview with a member of the stake presidency, as I had previously been interviewed by a member of the bishopric. The only problem was that the chapel where the interviews take place is a little difficult to get to by using public transportation. So difficult, in fact, that I had never been there before. Although it is (nearly) right next to the Boston Temple, which I had visited a few times, although only once by using the MBTA.
Anyway.
So, because the interviews started at 7pm, and I wanted to be sure to get done early so I could get back and finish packing, I left my apartment about 6pm, thinking that it would take me about an hour (give or take 15 minutes or so) to get to the appropriate subway stop, take the bus, and walk the necessary distance to the chapel.
It took three hours.
First of all, the train ride into the center of town was rather unpleasantly wet. We had a thunderstorm system move through the area, and the train apparently was not fully protected against the wiles of nature; the roof dripped the whole way into downtown.
Also, when we were about halfway to the stop where I had to change subway lines, the driver of the train announced that the station I needed was closed due to an emergency, and that we could get out either a stop before or a stop after to catch a shuttle bus service to the parts of the other line that were down.
So, not wanting to sit in my ever-increasing little pool of train-filtered rainwater any longer, I opted for the earlier stop, got off the train, walked up to street level, and walked over to where hordes of people were standing around, waiting for the shuttle buses. (Remember, this was right in the middle of evening rush hour, and this is one of the busiest stations in the system, I think.) So, I stood in the crowd for a long, long time, (I had forgotten my phone, and I had no watch, so I had no idea what time it was), a bus or two came by, which were immediately rushed by the crowd, and I got a little closer to the front of the mass of bodies. Then, buses for the other direction kept coming up and passing us. Over. And over. And over.
By this time, I was seriously starting to have doubts about whether or not I would make the interview. I thought about just giving it up as a bad job, but the thought of missing out on possibly getting the recommend, when I might get it if I perservered, was intolerable. I couldn't let myself give up.
So, I stood there for even more time. And more. While glistening in the humidity and rather warm air.
Finally a bus came that was going the right direction, so the crowd pressed onboard, and we were at last on our way.
Then, before we had even gotten to the next stop, the bus broke down.
Apparently, these buses are meant to hold about 50 people max, with 40 in the seats, and maybe about an additional 10 standing in the aisles. The bus driver estimated that there were about 110 people on board. The hydraulics system on the right-hand side of the bus broke down, so the bus started leaning right. Hard. And we couldn't go faster than about 10mph. Everybody tried to stand over to the left of the bus (which was where I had been, so I got a bit squished), but we eventually had to pull over.
A bunch of the passengers hopped on other buses, (also tightly packed), but there wasn't room for everyone. After a few minutes, the bus driver had the rest of us get back on the bus, but at that point, we were down to maybe 20 people. We all sat or stood on the left side of the bus, and made sort-of good time past the first stop, but unfortunately, the bus just couldn't keep going, and we all had to get off at the second stop.
So, we did. And waited while a lot of 'not knowing what was going on' happened.
And here I have to make a comment: one of the funny things about this whole experience (it was now probably not quite 8 o'clock, so most of us had been trying to get to our destinations for a couple of hours) was that it broke the silence that normally exists between public transportation users. It's as if this invisible (yet impenetrable) barrier exists around each person, and crossing that barrier by chatting with someone you don't know is a sort of serious social taboo. Sort of.
But that taboo just could not survive the wonderfully improbable and highly impossible situation in which we all found ourselves. We all started laughing at how crazy and horrible and frustrating and funny it all was. (One girl's laughter sounded a bit hysterical, but I think she made it through okay.) One of the funniest moments was when the bus driver, in frustration with having to take the bus out of service, and the complete lack of direction he was getting from his superiors, turned to the guy in the front seat and said, "This is what I have to put up with. Stay in school, man."
So, there we all were, outside of Kendall Square station, wondering how long it would take to get another bus to us so that we could finally get to Harvard Square station, where apparently the subway was up and running. Then, one of the T-employees in the know told us that Kendall Square was now open for northbound trains. Joyously, we began to frolick downstairs, and found out that we had to go in the other side of the station. So, with joy liberally mixed with trepedation, we made our way down the other side, where we were able to board a train. That was going the right direction. And it really did pull out of the station.
(And the cool thing is that everybody was still talking to each other.)
So, we finally got to Harvard, where I got off to figure out which bus to take to get up to the chapel. But, naturally, there were no schedules available for the bus that I thought I needed to take (the 78). So, I grabbed a different schedule instead (the 77) and went to go see which bus came first. It was the 78. (By the way, I later realized that the 78 route was printed on the 77 schedule as well.)
By this time, it was dark outside, (it was about 8:30, according to the clock on the bus), so when we pulled out of Harvard Square station, I realized that finding the right stop was going to be tricky. Then, as we went along and along and even more along, I began thinking, 'None of this looks familiar. I really, really do not know where we are right now. I bet I took the wrong bus.' Which was discouraging, as you may imagine, since I had just spent the past two and a half hours trying to make the interview. Again, I kind of wanted to give up, but I thought I'd just ride the bus to the end of the route and then back to Harvard station again if I hadn't seen the temple along the way. (Remember, the chapel was next to the temple, so I was going to use the temple as my guidepost. Because it was lit up. And thus easy to see.)
One by one, (well, occasionally in twos and threes), all the passengers got off the bus until it was just me. It was very dark outside. I couldn't see anything, and I really didn't quite know where we were on the route. Finally, I saw the temple up ahead, so I signalled the bus driver to stop. He made a turn under an overpass, and pulled up at a covered bus stop, where I got off.
It was completely deserted.
And did I mention it was dark?
And I was armed only with an umbrella?
So, I cursed myself for the biggest idiot the world has ever known, and walked briskly, weilding my umbrella like a club, as I walked under the overpass, convinced that lurking in the shadows were murderers and rapists and probably rabid dogs.
Guys, in all seriousness, I was actually really terrified. And I really did think that I had been an idiot to get off the bus. Because it was really dark. I cannot even tell you how dark it was under that overpass. It was one of those moments when you realize that something really bad really, really could happen to you, and probably will.
But, I made it through. And if there were rapists, murderers and rabid dogs lurking around, I didn't see them. Which is good, because I don't think my umbrella would have been quite enough. So, I started walking up the hill towards the temple, still not quite sure where exactly the chapel was located.
Also? It was past 9 o'clock now. I knew that once I found the chapel, it would be deserted, and I'd have to walk some more in the terrifying dark in order to find a bus stop where I would wait and continue to be terrified until maybe a bus came along before horrible things happened to me. And I would go home in disgrace.
Also, there was no sidewalk. So I kind of had to walk in the street a little.
By this time, I could have wept with frustration. I almost did. I felt like I had tried so hard, and it still wasn't going to be enough. I was still going to have to call my mom and tell her that I couldn't go with the family to the temple because I was a dope and didn't have the right recommend and then.
There was the sign for the chapel.
So, I turned down the street (lit with a few streetlamps) and saw a parking lot in the distance.
It had cars in it. Not very many, but there were cars.
I got up to the chapel door, convinced that it would be locked.
It wasn't.
I walked inside, convinced that I'd find someone cleaning the building, or people playing late-night basketball or something.
I saw a girl in a skirt sitting on a couch. Which was the most wonderful thing I could have seen just then. I tentatively asked if they were still doing interviews for temple recommends (I think it was about a quarter after 9pm by this time) and she said that she was waiting for her own recommend interview, and pointed out the person I needed to talk to in order to sign in.
So I signed in.
And I sat down.
And I tried really hard not to cry because I was just feeling this sense of being amazed and awed and stunned that after all the halting and mishaps and obstacles, I had made it. They were still there. I could still have a temple recommend.
When the stake president called me into his office, he talked with me for a moment, then asked if I'd be willing to share a bit of my testimony with him. I felt a rush of the spirit, and I bore my testimony with a more firm conviction than I've felt in a long time. And again, I struggled not to cry.
The interview went fine, a brother from the other singles ward gave me a ride to the nearest T stop so I wouldn't have to wait in the dark for a bus, and I got home a little after 10:30.
Guys, I think there is something really valuable about this experience. I think sometimes the things that are good and right for us to do come very easily; the way opens up for us suddenly, spectacularly, like the parting of the Red Sea, and we walk through on dry ground towards the Promised Land.
But this was not a Red Sea moment for me. For me, this was one of those times when the thing I was supposed to do was hard, a time when all these awful (and sometimes even ridiculous) obstacles kept getting thrown in my path. And I nearly gave up. And didn't. And now I have what I needed.
The Lord shows us all kinds of tender mercies. Tonight, mine came in the form of a busted subway system, a broken bus, and a rectangular piece of (barcoded) paper that's securely stashed in my purse.
Saturday, April 05, 2008
It's funny...
You never really hear things at General Conference that you haven't heard before.
And yet, you still feel rather more enlightened than not when you come away from any given session, a little wiser, a little improved.
However this whole thing works, I think it's wonderful.
And yet, you still feel rather more enlightened than not when you come away from any given session, a little wiser, a little improved.
However this whole thing works, I think it's wonderful.
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Why love is like reading something from BYU Studies:
Are you...
Are you allowed to fall in love with an article? If so, I think I just have.
With this one, in fact.
And maybe it's just the way I've been feeling today: a little bit mind-weary, a little bit inclined to be a little heartsick, but this talk was pretty much exactly what I needed to read at this moment.
Experiencing it was like the best parts of being in love: joyful self-discovery and intense affirmation.
I feel better about myself than I have in a long time. And that's a pretty darn good thing indeed.
Are you allowed to fall in love with an article? If so, I think I just have.
With this one, in fact.
And maybe it's just the way I've been feeling today: a little bit mind-weary, a little bit inclined to be a little heartsick, but this talk was pretty much exactly what I needed to read at this moment.
Experiencing it was like the best parts of being in love: joyful self-discovery and intense affirmation.
I feel better about myself than I have in a long time. And that's a pretty darn good thing indeed.
Sunday, February 10, 2008
Stanley goes to church!
It's true, gentle readers: our intrepid explorer was kind enough to attend church with me, and later we saw a few sights while walking around Cambridge this afternoon.
It was, in fact, pretty good times.
Above is Stanley in front of the church building, which is this nice oldish brick building with kind of fun white columns out front.
After church, we walked over to the house where the famous poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow lived. In fact, Longfellow wasn't the only famous person to live in this house: George Washington did too!
(By the way, I'm so sorry that the backgrounds on the pictures are blurry. I told Stanley to stand back a bit, but he just wouldn't let go of my fingers. Silly paper boy.)
Later, as we walked some more around Cambridge, we walked past this old cemetery. There are plenty of old graveyards in and around Boston; one of the fun things to do here is to see who is buried in them and imagine what sort of lives they lived. Earlier in the year, I even saw a gravestone for a man who had been a librarian!
Then, just across the street from the graveyard, is Harvard University.
You can't see much of it here, but a lot of the buildings are red brick. (In fact, there are a lot of brick buildings around Boston...)
Then, we decided it was time to head for home, so we got on the subway to come back to my apartment. See that circle with the black capital T? That means that this is an entrance to the subway! Here in Boston, we call the subway "The T," which is short for MBTA (Massachusetts Bay Transportation Authority). There are several different lines on the T (each has a different color assigned to it, like red, orange, blue, green and silver) and each goes through different places. The red line (the one you see in these pictures) goes through Cambridge, then down into Boston, then to other places south of Boston.
And here's a (blurry) picture of Stanley on the subway with me. It was only a little crowded this afternoon. Sometimes, if a lot of people need to ride the subway trains, the whole middle part is filled up with people standing, crammed in next to each other so close that you feel a little like one little baby carrot in a whole bag full of 'em.
Well. That's about it for Flat Stanley's adventures today. We'll both talk to you again tomorrow (or so I anticipate).
******************
Edit: Sorry! I posted this last night and then realized this morning that I had left an entire paragraph (the one about the T) uncompleted. It's all written up now, though. So. Go read it and stuff.
It was, in fact, pretty good times.
Above is Stanley in front of the church building, which is this nice oldish brick building with kind of fun white columns out front.
After church, we walked over to the house where the famous poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow lived. In fact, Longfellow wasn't the only famous person to live in this house: George Washington did too!
(By the way, I'm so sorry that the backgrounds on the pictures are blurry. I told Stanley to stand back a bit, but he just wouldn't let go of my fingers. Silly paper boy.)
Later, as we walked some more around Cambridge, we walked past this old cemetery. There are plenty of old graveyards in and around Boston; one of the fun things to do here is to see who is buried in them and imagine what sort of lives they lived. Earlier in the year, I even saw a gravestone for a man who had been a librarian!
Then, just across the street from the graveyard, is Harvard University.
You can't see much of it here, but a lot of the buildings are red brick. (In fact, there are a lot of brick buildings around Boston...)
Then, we decided it was time to head for home, so we got on the subway to come back to my apartment. See that circle with the black capital T? That means that this is an entrance to the subway! Here in Boston, we call the subway "The T," which is short for MBTA (Massachusetts Bay Transportation Authority). There are several different lines on the T (each has a different color assigned to it, like red, orange, blue, green and silver) and each goes through different places. The red line (the one you see in these pictures) goes through Cambridge, then down into Boston, then to other places south of Boston.
And here's a (blurry) picture of Stanley on the subway with me. It was only a little crowded this afternoon. Sometimes, if a lot of people need to ride the subway trains, the whole middle part is filled up with people standing, crammed in next to each other so close that you feel a little like one little baby carrot in a whole bag full of 'em.
Well. That's about it for Flat Stanley's adventures today. We'll both talk to you again tomorrow (or so I anticipate).
******************
Edit: Sorry! I posted this last night and then realized this morning that I had left an entire paragraph (the one about the T) uncompleted. It's all written up now, though. So. Go read it and stuff.
Sunday, December 16, 2007
The Day There Was No Church
It was because of the blizzard. A Nor'easter, some called it. And calls went out to all the little church members in their homes to let them know that church just wasn't happening.
And the church members felt sad and/or secretly relieved as they gazed out on the poor visibility, the snow-packed roads and the occasionally body-knocking-over wind gusts and wondered how they would now spend their days.
Perhaps they would read spiritual messages to each other. Perhaps they would catch up on their scripture study. Some might even brave the storm to visit nearby members and console one another about their churchlessness.
And others... Others would blog.
And the church members felt sad and/or secretly relieved as they gazed out on the poor visibility, the snow-packed roads and the occasionally body-knocking-over wind gusts and wondered how they would now spend their days.
Perhaps they would read spiritual messages to each other. Perhaps they would catch up on their scripture study. Some might even brave the storm to visit nearby members and console one another about their churchlessness.
And others... Others would blog.
Sunday, October 21, 2007
Talk a lot, pick a little more
Okay. So, this time, not in keeping with my usual method of preparing talks, I pretty much wrote out everything I was going to say beforehand. While the actual talk I gave was different in some ways from what you'll read below, (mainly due to time constraints), this is pretty much the original talk I came up with. If you'd like, go ahead and read it. For me, I think it was an appropriate exercise in reminding myself of things I personally need to hear again & again.
Which perhaps is the real point of talks after all.
**********************************************************
I’m going to talk a little bit today about some of the things I feel deeply, not in a desire to expose my soul to you to some uncomfortable degree, but in the hope that some of the things I relate will speak to the deep inner part of your own souls. Because I think we all tend to feel the same sorts of things.
Personally, I tend to feel discouraged rather a lot. This discouragement doesn’t always come on Sunday, but sometimes it does. I don’t feel it continuously, but I feel it often, usually when I’ve failed to live up to my expectations in some way, or the expectations of other people. It’s when I’ve ignored someone who needed help, or withheld the truth about something, or felt angry at someone, or have done one of the myriad of things which causes us to feel guilty and cut off from God. And so I distance myself from Him.
I think that’s how it starts.
And then I get a wedding invitation in the mail, or hear from an ex-boyfriend, or see that my sister has blogged about her wonderfully adorable children, and I begin to feel that I’m going to be alone and unloved forever and ever. And I try not to wonder, but I really do in my heart of hearts, how God can possibly love me if He hasn’t gotten a spouse for me yet. (Don’t deny it; you do it too.)
And that’s how it escalates. (And that’s also how chocolate binges begin.)
And then, naturally, I feel guilty about having such thoughts, and I distance myself from God a little bit more, because I don’t think He’d want to hear from such a disobedient, faithless daughter.
And I feel alone and sad, cut off and distant, my soul grated down and raw, sensitive and stinging.
Some of you may be feeling this way right now. I know I have, often, sitting where you’re sitting now, trying for all the world to appear normal and happy, but feeling this internal, unshakable darkness inside.
I wish I could reach in and pluck out of my insides this knowledge and feeling of the love God has for you, for each of us, and give it to you, whole and untranslated. I wish I could give it to myself a week from now, or in a month or 100 days, when I’ll need it again. And then again. And then again.
We so often forget the love God has for us, the infinite value He places on us. But God is merciful and will remind us again and again, each time we need it, if we can just get ourselves to the point where we can feel it, just hear the message that He’s trying to give us.
My mother loves to find pennies on the sidewalk. It’s not that she has a thing for copper; it’s not even that she loves to add to her change jar. She loves finding pennies because, to her, finding a penny on the ground is a little indicator that God loves her and wants to remind her of that. I love that. I know another woman from my home ward who loves finding feathers for the same reason. She says that she always seems to find a feather on the ground when she’s feeling particularly lonely or discouraged.
Pennies and feathers are certainly not the only way we can feel God’s love for us, but they show that Heavenly Father seeks to bless our lives often in small ways that we simply don’t see. Like the fact that you just barely caught the T that one time you were running late, or when the shape of that cloud caught your eye and you wondered at the great gift of being able to see beauty in the natural world, or you found that perfect red leaf on the ground, or your best friend emailed you to tell you how much she loves you, or when Elder Holland addressed in his talk something you’d been worrying about for some time.
Sometimes the reassurance of God’s love for us comes through the scriptures. The scriptures are littered with references of His love for all mankind.
-3 Nephi 17. Read it. And then reread it. And read it again.
-1 John 4. Let’s look specifically at verse 16: “And we have known and believed the love that God hath to us. God is love; and he that dwelleth in love dwelleth in God, and God in him.”
And sometimes His love is manifest to us in quiet, intensely personal moments of prayer, when we kneel before him with our broken souls open and vulnerable and aching and raw, and He pours into our wounded souls the conviction that He cares for us, that we are infinitely valuable to Him.
Why is it so important for us to feel God’s love for us? Why does it heal us when we finally feel it? I think, for myself, I tend to place too much value on the way other people see me. I worry that I’m too awkward or too ugly for anyone to love. And so, when my sense of awkwardness or unattractiveness feels confirmed by interactions I have with others, I then feel I don’t have value at all.
But when I feel, really feel Heavenly Father’s love for me, carried with it is also the conviction that if in all the world only God valued me, what value that would be! And is!
But does Heavenly Father want us to feel His love simply to make us feel better? In part, yes! He is our Father, which means that He. Is. Your. Father. You are His immediate descendant; He is not your grandfather, or your great-grandfather, or your uncle. He is your Father. And He loves you and wants you to be happy because you. Are. His. Child.
But I think the Love of God does serve another purpose: it motivates us, both to be better people and also to love others and seek to serve them.
-1 John 4:11 – “Beloved, if God so loved us, we ought also to love one another.”
-Mosiah 4:21 – “And now, if God, who has created you, on whom you are dependent for your lives and for all that ye have and are, doth grant unto you whatsoever ye ask that is right, in faith, believing that ye shall receive, O then, how ye ought to impart of the substance that ye have one to another.”
And I would even go on to say, “And if that God, who has shown you his great mercy, doth fill your soul with his love, to such an extent that you cannot feel the greatness and power of it, O then, how ye ought to love one another.”
Brothers and sisters, I guarantee that the same method that can fill our hearts with the love God has for us can also fill us with the love He has for others, that earnest prayer and longing will enable the Spirit to flow charity and compassion into your souls, as great and overwhelming as the flow of Heavenly Father’s love for you.
We are all equal in the sight of God.
-2 Nephi 26:33 – “For none of these iniquities [murder, stealing, whoredoms, etc.] come of the Lord; for he doeth that which is good among the children of men; and he doeth nothing save it be plain unto the children of men; and he inviteth them all to come unto him and partake of his goodness; and he denieth none that come unto him, black and white, bond and free, male and female; and he remembereth the heathen; and all are alike unto God, both Jew and Gentile.”
It is my belief that as we come to feel the great love our Father in Heaven has for us, we will begin to see both ourselves and others as He sees us: as precious beings, each individual of infinite and eternal value.
I know I have only felt a small part of the infinite value and love God holds for me. And yet that small part overwhelms me.
I pray that I, that each of us, will feel His love more fully, both for ourselves and for all those around us; as we do, we will find ourselves becoming more and more as our Father would have us be: like Himself.
Which perhaps is the real point of talks after all.
**********************************************************
I’m going to talk a little bit today about some of the things I feel deeply, not in a desire to expose my soul to you to some uncomfortable degree, but in the hope that some of the things I relate will speak to the deep inner part of your own souls. Because I think we all tend to feel the same sorts of things.
Personally, I tend to feel discouraged rather a lot. This discouragement doesn’t always come on Sunday, but sometimes it does. I don’t feel it continuously, but I feel it often, usually when I’ve failed to live up to my expectations in some way, or the expectations of other people. It’s when I’ve ignored someone who needed help, or withheld the truth about something, or felt angry at someone, or have done one of the myriad of things which causes us to feel guilty and cut off from God. And so I distance myself from Him.
I think that’s how it starts.
And then I get a wedding invitation in the mail, or hear from an ex-boyfriend, or see that my sister has blogged about her wonderfully adorable children, and I begin to feel that I’m going to be alone and unloved forever and ever. And I try not to wonder, but I really do in my heart of hearts, how God can possibly love me if He hasn’t gotten a spouse for me yet. (Don’t deny it; you do it too.)
And that’s how it escalates. (And that’s also how chocolate binges begin.)
And then, naturally, I feel guilty about having such thoughts, and I distance myself from God a little bit more, because I don’t think He’d want to hear from such a disobedient, faithless daughter.
And I feel alone and sad, cut off and distant, my soul grated down and raw, sensitive and stinging.
Some of you may be feeling this way right now. I know I have, often, sitting where you’re sitting now, trying for all the world to appear normal and happy, but feeling this internal, unshakable darkness inside.
I wish I could reach in and pluck out of my insides this knowledge and feeling of the love God has for you, for each of us, and give it to you, whole and untranslated. I wish I could give it to myself a week from now, or in a month or 100 days, when I’ll need it again. And then again. And then again.
We so often forget the love God has for us, the infinite value He places on us. But God is merciful and will remind us again and again, each time we need it, if we can just get ourselves to the point where we can feel it, just hear the message that He’s trying to give us.
My mother loves to find pennies on the sidewalk. It’s not that she has a thing for copper; it’s not even that she loves to add to her change jar. She loves finding pennies because, to her, finding a penny on the ground is a little indicator that God loves her and wants to remind her of that. I love that. I know another woman from my home ward who loves finding feathers for the same reason. She says that she always seems to find a feather on the ground when she’s feeling particularly lonely or discouraged.
Pennies and feathers are certainly not the only way we can feel God’s love for us, but they show that Heavenly Father seeks to bless our lives often in small ways that we simply don’t see. Like the fact that you just barely caught the T that one time you were running late, or when the shape of that cloud caught your eye and you wondered at the great gift of being able to see beauty in the natural world, or you found that perfect red leaf on the ground, or your best friend emailed you to tell you how much she loves you, or when Elder Holland addressed in his talk something you’d been worrying about for some time.
Sometimes the reassurance of God’s love for us comes through the scriptures. The scriptures are littered with references of His love for all mankind.
-3 Nephi 17. Read it. And then reread it. And read it again.
-1 John 4. Let’s look specifically at verse 16: “And we have known and believed the love that God hath to us. God is love; and he that dwelleth in love dwelleth in God, and God in him.”
And sometimes His love is manifest to us in quiet, intensely personal moments of prayer, when we kneel before him with our broken souls open and vulnerable and aching and raw, and He pours into our wounded souls the conviction that He cares for us, that we are infinitely valuable to Him.
Why is it so important for us to feel God’s love for us? Why does it heal us when we finally feel it? I think, for myself, I tend to place too much value on the way other people see me. I worry that I’m too awkward or too ugly for anyone to love. And so, when my sense of awkwardness or unattractiveness feels confirmed by interactions I have with others, I then feel I don’t have value at all.
But when I feel, really feel Heavenly Father’s love for me, carried with it is also the conviction that if in all the world only God valued me, what value that would be! And is!
But does Heavenly Father want us to feel His love simply to make us feel better? In part, yes! He is our Father, which means that He. Is. Your. Father. You are His immediate descendant; He is not your grandfather, or your great-grandfather, or your uncle. He is your Father. And He loves you and wants you to be happy because you. Are. His. Child.
But I think the Love of God does serve another purpose: it motivates us, both to be better people and also to love others and seek to serve them.
-1 John 4:11 – “Beloved, if God so loved us, we ought also to love one another.”
-Mosiah 4:21 – “And now, if God, who has created you, on whom you are dependent for your lives and for all that ye have and are, doth grant unto you whatsoever ye ask that is right, in faith, believing that ye shall receive, O then, how ye ought to impart of the substance that ye have one to another.”
And I would even go on to say, “And if that God, who has shown you his great mercy, doth fill your soul with his love, to such an extent that you cannot feel the greatness and power of it, O then, how ye ought to love one another.”
Brothers and sisters, I guarantee that the same method that can fill our hearts with the love God has for us can also fill us with the love He has for others, that earnest prayer and longing will enable the Spirit to flow charity and compassion into your souls, as great and overwhelming as the flow of Heavenly Father’s love for you.
We are all equal in the sight of God.
-2 Nephi 26:33 – “For none of these iniquities [murder, stealing, whoredoms, etc.] come of the Lord; for he doeth that which is good among the children of men; and he doeth nothing save it be plain unto the children of men; and he inviteth them all to come unto him and partake of his goodness; and he denieth none that come unto him, black and white, bond and free, male and female; and he remembereth the heathen; and all are alike unto God, both Jew and Gentile.”
It is my belief that as we come to feel the great love our Father in Heaven has for us, we will begin to see both ourselves and others as He sees us: as precious beings, each individual of infinite and eternal value.
I know I have only felt a small part of the infinite value and love God holds for me. And yet that small part overwhelms me.
I pray that I, that each of us, will feel His love more fully, both for ourselves and for all those around us; as we do, we will find ourselves becoming more and more as our Father would have us be: like Himself.
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
Um. Erm.
I found out last night that I'll be giving a talk on Sunday.
So.
Am I the only person who gets a talk assignment, all excited about the topic, and then I start to write it and I realize I'm not sure at all which direction I want to go with it?
And also I'm not sure
GROSS! A huge fly just went by my head!
How on EARTH did a huge fly get in here?
Eh.
And also I'm easily distracted?
Um. So, seriously--any thoughts on how you normally approach talk creation?
So.
Am I the only person who gets a talk assignment, all excited about the topic, and then I start to write it and I realize I'm not sure at all which direction I want to go with it?
And also I'm not sure
GROSS! A huge fly just went by my head!
How on EARTH did a huge fly get in here?
Eh.
And also I'm easily distracted?
Um. So, seriously--any thoughts on how you normally approach talk creation?
Sunday, October 14, 2007
As balm to the raw soul
This morning, as part of the conclusion of a weekend-long regional LDS single adult conference, Elder Holland came and spoke to a large gathering of people (mainly those afore-mentioned single adults) on MIT campus.
Because this basically replaced our church services for this morning, and also because--gracious--it's Elder Holland, I went this morning and listened to speakers from all three young single adult wards in the Boston area, along with our area seventy and another speaker & his wife whose connection to the conference I unfortunately missed. Maybe he was from CES?
The last two speakers were Sister and then Elder Holland. I must confess: during the majority of the morning I sat, mostly doodling a little bit, writing an occasional sentence in my notebook as thoughts (rarely) struck me.
The truth was, I was hurting this morning. I felt sad and raw, almost on the verge of tears. I wasn't sure why, which was perhaps one of the most frustrating aspects of the feeling, although I suspect it had something to do with this, although not specifically; it was more a sensation of general aloneness, of being cut off from people, of feeling strongly dissatisfied with myself.
In short, I was unhappy, unsettled, raw.
Elder Holland's words were balm to my soul.
He spoke about what 13 Nephi 7 tells us of the way mercy operates, that it stands between us and justice the way Christ's compassion stood between his blessing of the Nephite saints and the duties He had to fulfill elsewhere. Elder Holland taught that mercy and compassion (particularly as personified by deity) respond to tears, respond to longing, even when there are other important things to do.
There's something about feeling this great Godly yearning of love for us that always moves me to tears, at least when I really feel it. And I really felt it this morning. I felt what Christ meant when He said, "Behold, my bowels are filled with compassion towards you." And I felt it for me.
At the end of my notes, I reflected a little on this morning's experience: "You come wounded, hurting and aching, raw, and find cool balm, soothing, sweet peaceful, restful. That is the great message here, that where there is pain, God provides relief and easing and comfort."
I'm continually frustrated with myself because of my inability to remember this truth. But the thing is, we will always experience pain in this life, for multitudinous reasons. And each time we do, each time, particularly as we turn to Him, God reaches out in yearning towards us, His bowels filled with mercy, to apply the soothing balm of his love to our raw and wounded souls.
Because this basically replaced our church services for this morning, and also because--gracious--it's Elder Holland, I went this morning and listened to speakers from all three young single adult wards in the Boston area, along with our area seventy and another speaker & his wife whose connection to the conference I unfortunately missed. Maybe he was from CES?
The last two speakers were Sister and then Elder Holland. I must confess: during the majority of the morning I sat, mostly doodling a little bit, writing an occasional sentence in my notebook as thoughts (rarely) struck me.
The truth was, I was hurting this morning. I felt sad and raw, almost on the verge of tears. I wasn't sure why, which was perhaps one of the most frustrating aspects of the feeling, although I suspect it had something to do with this, although not specifically; it was more a sensation of general aloneness, of being cut off from people, of feeling strongly dissatisfied with myself.
In short, I was unhappy, unsettled, raw.
Elder Holland's words were balm to my soul.
He spoke about what 13 Nephi 7 tells us of the way mercy operates, that it stands between us and justice the way Christ's compassion stood between his blessing of the Nephite saints and the duties He had to fulfill elsewhere. Elder Holland taught that mercy and compassion (particularly as personified by deity) respond to tears, respond to longing, even when there are other important things to do.
There's something about feeling this great Godly yearning of love for us that always moves me to tears, at least when I really feel it. And I really felt it this morning. I felt what Christ meant when He said, "Behold, my bowels are filled with compassion towards you." And I felt it for me.
At the end of my notes, I reflected a little on this morning's experience: "You come wounded, hurting and aching, raw, and find cool balm, soothing, sweet peaceful, restful. That is the great message here, that where there is pain, God provides relief and easing and comfort."
I'm continually frustrated with myself because of my inability to remember this truth. But the thing is, we will always experience pain in this life, for multitudinous reasons. And each time we do, each time, particularly as we turn to Him, God reaches out in yearning towards us, His bowels filled with mercy, to apply the soothing balm of his love to our raw and wounded souls.
Friday, August 10, 2007
Addendum
I feel really guilty. Really. I feel that I have been hopelessly and insufferably rude in recent posts.
So, I'm sorry.
I do feel terrible.
But I won't delete the posts. Because I also need them to be here.
Sorry again.
(And also, Superman Returns is pretty much my new favorite movie. I saw it for the first time today and. Wow.)
(And also, I saw a guy solve a Rubik's Cube on the T the other night. I was impressed.)
(And also, I am sad that President Faust passed away. And also glad for him. And also feeling that feeling both at the same time is both kind of difficult and kind of right.)
So, I'm sorry.
I do feel terrible.
But I won't delete the posts. Because I also need them to be here.
Sorry again.
(And also, Superman Returns is pretty much my new favorite movie. I saw it for the first time today and. Wow.)
(And also, I saw a guy solve a Rubik's Cube on the T the other night. I was impressed.)
(And also, I am sad that President Faust passed away. And also glad for him. And also feeling that feeling both at the same time is both kind of difficult and kind of right.)
A little about me:
In the past 24 hours, I've learned two significant things about myself: I use this blog as an emotional outlet and I tend to fall for the wrong sort of person.
These realizations came about because of visiting teaching, or rather because of the way a visiting teaching appointment turned into a sitting-around-singing, personality-test-taking visit. (It was good times, my friends. Good times.)
The gal we (my roommate and I) were visiting just adores the Myers-Briggs personality test and asked if either of us had taken it. I had recently taken the test myself, so my roommate answered a questionnaire online (based on said test) and we pored over her score and personality profile.
Then, oddly enough, the focus turned to me. I explained that I'd recently been classified as an ISFJ personality type so my companion and our visiting teachee read over the profile and would occasionally burst out with exclamations such as, "That's so you!"
One part of the conversation struck me particularly: in reading over the profile, our visiting teachee asked, "Do you use anything as an emotional outlet?" and my roommate explained about this blog. I'd never really thought of my blog as an emotional outlet, but I could suddenly see it as such. My blog is a way for me to express emotions that I would otherwise normally keep hidden. In fact, when events of emotional import happen to me, I find that I usually want to post about it. I've wondered since then why that is.
I wonder if it's partly that you, my blog readers, are mostly people to whom I'd feel okay about opening up emotionally. I know most of you pretty well, and even those of you I've never met are somehow so similar that I could see myself confiding in you without much concern.
I wonder too if it's that a blog is a way of expressing one's emotions in a slightly detached way. I tell you about all these feelings and frustrations that I have, but I do it in such a way that I'm able to sit down and think about the manner I want to express things before I actually interact with any of you. I've always found it easier to express my emotions in writing; it just seems safer somehow. And I have doubts that the habit is entirely healthy.
Anyway.
Naturally, being girls, we then decided to explore which personalities would be the best matches for each of us. To my surprise, I would apparently be best paired with either ESTP or ESFP, both extroverted personality types. Now, personally, I have a tendency to fall for introverted men; the high social energy levels of extroverted individuals have always left me feeling baffled and (frankly) inadequate. To be honest, I've always discounted such people in the past, mainly because I felt they could not possibly find me interesting. I always liked getting to know the quieter individuals, believing that they would at least understand me and not automatically assume I was boring if I didn't speak up much.
I was actually rather resistant to the idea of either one of these personality types until the visiting teachee told me that I needed someone who would be vitally interested in me; that he would find me fascinating enough to try to draw me out.
And I realized in this flash of insight with myself that I really did have that need, and that it was something that was lacking in all of the previous relationships I'd had with guys. Not that the guys I've known (or even dated) have been boorish; I don't want to give that impression. But I never felt that sense of real, genuine interest in me. I've never felt that they've tried to really delve down into the deepest inmost parts of me. Or rather, I guess I may have felt that intellectually, but never emotionally.
I'm such a private person, really. I don't feel comfortable talking about myself and if I feel the slightest decline of interest in what I'm saying I will immediately stop talking about me and try to focus the conversation on the other person. I'm always in terror that the person I'm with will become bored. And I'm always convinced that I am boring.
So. Long story short: I think that the only way I will ever fully open up to someone is if I have someone who is open and warm with me and who persistently finds me fascinating. And who persistently tries to draw me out. And is good at it.
Unfortunately, I kind of can't help thinking that I'm kind of unlikely to find that.
These realizations came about because of visiting teaching, or rather because of the way a visiting teaching appointment turned into a sitting-around-singing, personality-test-taking visit. (It was good times, my friends. Good times.)
The gal we (my roommate and I) were visiting just adores the Myers-Briggs personality test and asked if either of us had taken it. I had recently taken the test myself, so my roommate answered a questionnaire online (based on said test) and we pored over her score and personality profile.
Then, oddly enough, the focus turned to me. I explained that I'd recently been classified as an ISFJ personality type so my companion and our visiting teachee read over the profile and would occasionally burst out with exclamations such as, "That's so you!"
One part of the conversation struck me particularly: in reading over the profile, our visiting teachee asked, "Do you use anything as an emotional outlet?" and my roommate explained about this blog. I'd never really thought of my blog as an emotional outlet, but I could suddenly see it as such. My blog is a way for me to express emotions that I would otherwise normally keep hidden. In fact, when events of emotional import happen to me, I find that I usually want to post about it. I've wondered since then why that is.
I wonder if it's partly that you, my blog readers, are mostly people to whom I'd feel okay about opening up emotionally. I know most of you pretty well, and even those of you I've never met are somehow so similar that I could see myself confiding in you without much concern.
I wonder too if it's that a blog is a way of expressing one's emotions in a slightly detached way. I tell you about all these feelings and frustrations that I have, but I do it in such a way that I'm able to sit down and think about the manner I want to express things before I actually interact with any of you. I've always found it easier to express my emotions in writing; it just seems safer somehow. And I have doubts that the habit is entirely healthy.
Anyway.
Naturally, being girls, we then decided to explore which personalities would be the best matches for each of us. To my surprise, I would apparently be best paired with either ESTP or ESFP, both extroverted personality types. Now, personally, I have a tendency to fall for introverted men; the high social energy levels of extroverted individuals have always left me feeling baffled and (frankly) inadequate. To be honest, I've always discounted such people in the past, mainly because I felt they could not possibly find me interesting. I always liked getting to know the quieter individuals, believing that they would at least understand me and not automatically assume I was boring if I didn't speak up much.
I was actually rather resistant to the idea of either one of these personality types until the visiting teachee told me that I needed someone who would be vitally interested in me; that he would find me fascinating enough to try to draw me out.
And I realized in this flash of insight with myself that I really did have that need, and that it was something that was lacking in all of the previous relationships I'd had with guys. Not that the guys I've known (or even dated) have been boorish; I don't want to give that impression. But I never felt that sense of real, genuine interest in me. I've never felt that they've tried to really delve down into the deepest inmost parts of me. Or rather, I guess I may have felt that intellectually, but never emotionally.
I'm such a private person, really. I don't feel comfortable talking about myself and if I feel the slightest decline of interest in what I'm saying I will immediately stop talking about me and try to focus the conversation on the other person. I'm always in terror that the person I'm with will become bored. And I'm always convinced that I am boring.
So. Long story short: I think that the only way I will ever fully open up to someone is if I have someone who is open and warm with me and who persistently finds me fascinating. And who persistently tries to draw me out. And is good at it.
Unfortunately, I kind of can't help thinking that I'm kind of unlikely to find that.
Wednesday, August 08, 2007
'Cheetos' is the code word.
So.
I totally got chatted up by a guy at institute tonight.
The only problem is that I think he needs to be on some kind of medication. And isn't.
And I feel a strange mixture of guilt and relief at telling you about this. Because I feel terrible talking about him like this. But I also want to share with you this experience of almost being asked out by a guy who really. Really. Is out there. And how I tried to get away after about a fifteen-minute conversation by indicating that I needed to talk to my roommate. But it didn't work. Because he just kept on going.
And then how this tall, dark-haired guy with an awesome accent asked me to open the gym door for him so he could roll a round table into the little storage closet. And how this new nice (and not-crazy) guy started asking me questions about myself. And how I wanted to talk to him more. Because he seemed awesome. And nice. And good-looking. And not crazy. But how my encounter with not-all-there boy had kind of made me want to retreat very quickly into the kitchen and away from any possibility of encountering said not-all-there boy so I kind of had to cut the conversation with nice non-crazy boy short.
Which just makes me grit my teeth.
So. While discussing above experience with my roommate, we realized that we had no plan in place to help one another out of situations like this. My roommate, in her wisdom, decided on A Plan.
And The Plan is that 'Cheetos' is the code word for: 'Get me out of here now because there is no way I can gracefully extricate myself from this situation and I need to be extricated so desperately that my toes are about to curl into my ankles.'
So now we know. And will be prepared.
And let me tell you: I think being prepared is more than half the battle.
I totally got chatted up by a guy at institute tonight.
The only problem is that I think he needs to be on some kind of medication. And isn't.
And I feel a strange mixture of guilt and relief at telling you about this. Because I feel terrible talking about him like this. But I also want to share with you this experience of almost being asked out by a guy who really. Really. Is out there. And how I tried to get away after about a fifteen-minute conversation by indicating that I needed to talk to my roommate. But it didn't work. Because he just kept on going.
And then how this tall, dark-haired guy with an awesome accent asked me to open the gym door for him so he could roll a round table into the little storage closet. And how this new nice (and not-crazy) guy started asking me questions about myself. And how I wanted to talk to him more. Because he seemed awesome. And nice. And good-looking. And not crazy. But how my encounter with not-all-there boy had kind of made me want to retreat very quickly into the kitchen and away from any possibility of encountering said not-all-there boy so I kind of had to cut the conversation with nice non-crazy boy short.
Which just makes me grit my teeth.
So. While discussing above experience with my roommate, we realized that we had no plan in place to help one another out of situations like this. My roommate, in her wisdom, decided on A Plan.
And The Plan is that 'Cheetos' is the code word for: 'Get me out of here now because there is no way I can gracefully extricate myself from this situation and I need to be extricated so desperately that my toes are about to curl into my ankles.'
So now we know. And will be prepared.
And let me tell you: I think being prepared is more than half the battle.
Monday, July 23, 2007
Wait, wait! I'm clever...
It was a disappointing weekend.
I had high hopes of sitting beatificially in one of the church pews, one leg crossed over the other, smiling with warm and accepting (and lovely) radiance at all young men who happened to glance my way, who would, naturally, then swerve in for a closer look.
And they would not be displeased.
Alas. Why can life not follow these little scripts we lay out for ourselves?
Firstly, I felt cross on Sunday, mostly because I had banged my knee pretty darn hard on the steps leading up from the subway station on Saturday. By Sunday morning, it was all bruised and swollen and crossing it didn't really help.
Also, I was just not feeling perky. In fact, I was feeling anti-perky. If perky and I had met (which we didn't, thank goodness) we would have created between ourselves an explosion that would have demolished the greater portion of the church building and any surrounding structures within a radius of roughly 200 miles.
Also, I was not a hit in Sunday school. I was, in fact, a remarkably irritating individual, making inane comments at inappropriate moments. Or, perhaps not that bad. Maybe just making inane comments. Which those around me scorned. (I could tell.) No, not really. But we did role-playing, which...was okay, I guess, but really--not one of my favorite activities.
And then, during sacrament meeting, I just sat there, looking at people, feeling vaguely alone and kind of sorry for myself.
Choir practice was a little better: I got to see that one guy again, and I could swear the choir director smiled at me, but then it was over. And I was back in my apartment, secluding myself and watching DVDs alone on my bed.
I've kind of realized that I'm not a sparkly person; I'm not one of those people who immediately grab the attention of everyone in the room. Which is really starting to get old. Because I've noticed that the girls who guys tend to talk to are the ones who are sparkly, who hold the awareness of others like threads in their hands, tugging and pulling eyes to them no matter where they are in the room.
Which means that in order to get attention, I need to be like that.
Which is not really part of my nature. Really.
So do I try to change myself for the sake of meeting people? Or do I sit back in the corners of social interaction and hope that, somehow, the right person will notice me sitting there and somehow be interested?
How the heck do introverts meet their soulmates anyway? Can someone please just explain this to me?
I'll sit and listen. Promise. I'm kind of good at that.
I had high hopes of sitting beatificially in one of the church pews, one leg crossed over the other, smiling with warm and accepting (and lovely) radiance at all young men who happened to glance my way, who would, naturally, then swerve in for a closer look.
And they would not be displeased.
Alas. Why can life not follow these little scripts we lay out for ourselves?
Firstly, I felt cross on Sunday, mostly because I had banged my knee pretty darn hard on the steps leading up from the subway station on Saturday. By Sunday morning, it was all bruised and swollen and crossing it didn't really help.
Also, I was just not feeling perky. In fact, I was feeling anti-perky. If perky and I had met (which we didn't, thank goodness) we would have created between ourselves an explosion that would have demolished the greater portion of the church building and any surrounding structures within a radius of roughly 200 miles.
Also, I was not a hit in Sunday school. I was, in fact, a remarkably irritating individual, making inane comments at inappropriate moments. Or, perhaps not that bad. Maybe just making inane comments. Which those around me scorned. (I could tell.) No, not really. But we did role-playing, which...was okay, I guess, but really--not one of my favorite activities.
And then, during sacrament meeting, I just sat there, looking at people, feeling vaguely alone and kind of sorry for myself.
Choir practice was a little better: I got to see that one guy again, and I could swear the choir director smiled at me, but then it was over. And I was back in my apartment, secluding myself and watching DVDs alone on my bed.
I've kind of realized that I'm not a sparkly person; I'm not one of those people who immediately grab the attention of everyone in the room. Which is really starting to get old. Because I've noticed that the girls who guys tend to talk to are the ones who are sparkly, who hold the awareness of others like threads in their hands, tugging and pulling eyes to them no matter where they are in the room.
Which means that in order to get attention, I need to be like that.
Which is not really part of my nature. Really.
So do I try to change myself for the sake of meeting people? Or do I sit back in the corners of social interaction and hope that, somehow, the right person will notice me sitting there and somehow be interested?
How the heck do introverts meet their soulmates anyway? Can someone please just explain this to me?
I'll sit and listen. Promise. I'm kind of good at that.
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
Why does delicious creamy goodness have to hurt so much?
Today, while trying to fill up the time between the tour we took of the Longfellow home and Institute, my roommate (an awesome gal) and I decided to stop by an ice cream parlor not far from one of the stops on the T.
I went in expecting to have to watch in benign envy as said roommate consumed some delicious-looking concoction or other. However, to my joy, we discovered that the parlor had a vanilla that had no added sugar. Needless to say, the consumption of said ice cream was a divine experience. You can witness my joy for yourself here:
Alas, my joy was shortlived. For behold, as soon as my digestive tract got hold of this delectable substance (and seriously--the stuff was delicious) it began to complain, at first with mild muttered words, but soon with threats and imprecations that should never have been said in a church, let alone in the presence of a Young Lady of Good Character (i.e. me).
So I've spent the past three hours or so trying to decide whether I regretted eating said ice cream or not. I've come to the conclusion that I don't regret eating it. But I don't think I'll ever do so again.
I went in expecting to have to watch in benign envy as said roommate consumed some delicious-looking concoction or other. However, to my joy, we discovered that the parlor had a vanilla that had no added sugar. Needless to say, the consumption of said ice cream was a divine experience. You can witness my joy for yourself here:
Alas, my joy was shortlived. For behold, as soon as my digestive tract got hold of this delectable substance (and seriously--the stuff was delicious) it began to complain, at first with mild muttered words, but soon with threats and imprecations that should never have been said in a church, let alone in the presence of a Young Lady of Good Character (i.e. me).
So I've spent the past three hours or so trying to decide whether I regretted eating said ice cream or not. I've come to the conclusion that I don't regret eating it. But I don't think I'll ever do so again.
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