Wrapping things up...

Push is quickly coming to shove, and my upcoming move approaches at an alarming rate, As I was packing up the contents of my desk at school, I started waxing nostalgic every item as I wrapped each piece. And I decided it was time for another blog entry.  I had pictures I wanted to incorporate, but the computer was being disagreeable and I decided to let it go.  I'll post the pictures on Facebook.  Anywho...








A little wooden plaque given to me by my college chaplain, who became my mentor and colleague, but now I simply call her my dear friend.   It says, "When God created man, She was only fooling."  At the time I was no doubt undone by… well, I know exactly who it was but discretion demands my silence! In any event, Marty told me that someone had given it to her at some point, and someday, I would pass it along, as well. And I am sure I will. Someday.











A miniature “wall” made of Lego knock offs, with a bandage on the front. When I was at Mount Union, bell hooks came and spoke on campus. My friend and I were moved beyond belief. We were in awe of her intellect, inamored by her passionate presens, inspired by her prophetic prose. We made a promise to one another to devote more time and engergy, not to mention intellect, to those things that mattered the most to us. Dr. H, the original chaplain turned full time professor and advisor extraordinaire for all things environmental, overheard a bit of our coversation. He sat down with us, shaking his head with a look of concern in his very gentle eyes. “I worry about the two of you sometimes. You have such great vision, and wonderful plans and ideas. I am afraid that you will spend much of your lives slamming into brick walls. One of us, I don’t remember who, joked that we would just have to make sure to have a box of bandaids with us. I made this little reminder when I was serving a church in Danville IL. It was a part of a devotional I led with a group of clergy women. It is a wonderful symbol of a very formative time in my life… not to mention a great story to share with students! When I have students… And I will, again, have students.









An unbroken geode. Not very attractive. It came from a bin at some or other science store. No special significance beyond that which I have assigned it. I have given them as gifts as friends have celebrated their ordinations. It isn’t much to look at. It’s just a rock. But even though I can’t see it, I know that its beauty lies within. People are like that, too. Rough around the edges, difficult to take, downright aggravating and annoying. But hidden underneath, treasures unfold as we open up to the possibility it sometimes takes someone else to recognize in us. You have to use a hammer to open up the geode. People require a more gentle touch – even if that touch turns into a bit of an insistent shove sometimes. I often wonder whether my friends who also have unbroken geodes have chosen to break them open. Or, like me, are they opting to sit with the rough exterior, trusting in what they know lies inside.







A rock I painted for my grandpa when I was a little girl. On the back, Grandpa wrote “pet rock,” appropriate for the time frame of the mid to late seventies. One the front, he wrote my name. I can tell that he used one of his felt-tip pens, the ones he kept in one of two repurposed frozen juice containers which resided, respectively, on his bedside table and on the table next to his chair in the living room. Another treasure on that table, the crossword puzzle dictionary I gave him for Christmas one year. Grandpa was a crossword aficionado! He did at least two a day, every day, always in ink. Inside the crossword dictionary, he wrote down tidbits he tended to forget… such as the fact that the theme song for Mickey Spillane’s Mike Hammer is “Harlem Nocturne.” If I had such a list, I would include Gene Hackman as an actor I rarely remember. And the fact that there are five hundred twenty five thousand six hundred minutes in a year, which I learned from the musical “Rent.”





A stone, mossy green and polished smooth upon which someone carved the word “peace.” It goes along with the figurine of two hands, cupped for holding, into which I have placed a blue marble. Because I grew up watching “Big Blue Marble” on PBS, just like Alice Walker’s daughter, Rebecca, who once told her mom that there was a world in her eye. Alice has scar tissue on her eye from an accident with a BB gun when she was a child. Indeed, it looked just like the earth as shown from outer space. “The world’s a big blue marble when you see it from up there.” “There is a World in your eye” was the first part of the title of my MA thesis. Which is on spirituality in the writings of Alice Walker. Also held in the hands on my desk, a string of prayer beads. I think there are 36 beads, one for every country at war when I made them. I don’t remember. I could have written it down in my hypothetical list. I can’t share a picture of the hands, becaue they are already packed. And I am not going to open up a box that has already been packed. Although, I admit, that is probably something I would do.









A stone, smallish, smooth, but not polished. Painted upon it, a purple spiral, or swirl. It was a favor from friends’ covenent ceremony. I don’t remember if that is what they called it, though. It’s not important. What is important is that they love one another deeply, and that they made a commitment to share their lives, each with the other, and now with a beautiful little girl. It was my privilege to officiate at their ceremony, and I think of them whenever that stone catches my eye. It occurs to me that I have a lot of rocks and stones on my desk. That probably isn’t the greatest idea in the world. I’ll leave it to the imagination concerning why.







A star made, I believe, of tiger’s eye, given to me by a parishioner. A dear woman, homebound much of the time due to debilitating pain. Our visits together were a gift… I always left feeling uplifted, held in positive regard. Not everyone has the capacity to make one feel that way. Especially when one is of the mindset that it should be the other way around. I don’t know. I think that there is a mutual quality to ministry that cannot be taught… it must be discovered, experienced, happened upon. Now I am thinking about a Robert Frost poem: “Choose something like a star to stay your mind on and be stayed.”









I think you might call this an “executive decision maker.” It was given to me in appreciation for my service on the Sexual Assault Hearing and Appeals Board several years ago. That was one of my “other duties as assigned” that I did not enjoy. It was heartbreaking, truth be told. Every decision we made was painstakingly deliberate. Which makes this an almost ironic choice for a token of appreciation. I do enjoy having it on my desk, though. I like the arbitrary nature, when so much seems so arbitrary, as much a matter of luck and chance as of skill, or will. As though as much is something of which I need to be reminded.





 

Two worry dolls, I think from Guatemala. I bought them in San Antonio, at a NACUC Conference – National Association of College and University Chaplains. Two probably aren’t really enough.







A picture of my mom and dad. I would love to know what he has just said, given the sly grin on his face and the subtle irritation registering on her face. Love her dress, and the shoes… Also love that you can see Grandma’s nativity on the mantle, and the praying hands on the table.









 

A picture of my favorite soon to be five year old, Ethan. Although I am pretty sure that he is only three in this particular picture. Which is entirely my fault. His mom has generously supplied me with more recent photos, I am just a little behind in my updating.







A picture of the pastoral staff at Rockefellar Chapel 1998-1999. I cannot tell you how many times in my first (and second) call, I looked to this picture for a reminder of three people who I knew had my back, and my heart, in hand. Three people who had shared so graciously with me, and I with them. Three people I continue to believe are “there” for me, no matter where time has taken us.







A picture of me and Dr. H, taken at Red Bird Mission in 1990. I have written about it before, many times. This picture has a lot to do with how I ended up where I ended up. And I’ll leave it at that for now.







A picture of my 12th grade English teacher. We are friends on Facebook (and, we actually did keep in touch through the years before the onslaught of social media) and this particular photo was her profile picture a while ago. There is something in the look… I can be feeling frustrated, down on myself and the world in general, and I glance at that picture, and I see that expression, that smile, that slightly raised eyebrow… And I try a little harder, push a little farther, look a little deeper. So, yes… a picture of my 12th grade English teacher, who I now call “Beth,” somewhat comfortably.







A box, given to me by one of my mom’s friends when I received my M.Div degree. This box contains notes that I have collected through the years from people who evidently look to me as I have looked to Marty, or Dr. H, or Sam, or Alison, or Beth. I open it up and pull one out when I need a boost. When it gets full, I transfer them to an annex location in my apartment. Everyone should have something like this. Everyone.

A day late and a dollar short, but...

When something is important to me, really important to me, I don't always have the words to give it voice immediately. Oh sure, I can usually come up with something off the cuff, but off the cuff doesn't generally do justice to what I am feeling on a deeply emotional level. It would have been more timely had I managed to write this several weeks ago. But, I didn't. I am writing it now -- timely or not.


Over the past month or so, Facebook has been aflutter with folks posting a "Back to Church" video. As many of my friends have attested, in many ways it is lovely. It celebrates a welcoming church. It challenges the assumptions that can keep people out of the pews. It invites people to return, or visit for the first time. Lovely, and yet...


Another friend posted a different message. A message cautioning folks to be mindful before signing on with this campaign of sorts. If you dig a little deeper, you realize that the people behind this lovely video clip have a theological stance which would make many people I know vastly uncomfortable. True enough, it would seem, all are welcome. As long as you are just like us! As long as if you aren't just like us, you will do everything in your power to become just like us. Open and affirming, they are not.


I tend not to jump into the fray of such "conversations" on Facebook, but I felt compelled to share what others had shared with me. The video strikes me as a bait and switch -- folks who are progressively minded sign off on it because it sounds like good stuff. Except for the not so good stuff. Problem is, you have signed off on it. All of it.


Most of my friends chose to stand by the video. They felt the message was too good, too powerful to dismiss because of theological differences. That is certainly their choice. That is not my choice.


It has taken me a while to articulate why this is so important to me. Then last night, I realized why it mattered so much. When I baptize a baby, or dedicate an infant as the case may be, I like to walk down the center aisle with the child in my arms so that the congregation can welcome her. As the organist plays "Jesus loves me" or a lullaby, I turn off my lapel mike and whisper to the little one. "This is your church home. You will always be welcome here. No matter what. Always." And I tend to tear up, just a bit, as I hope and pray that as much will indeed be the case.


I don't think you can easily differentiate the content of that video clip from the character of the theology. Just like you can't stop bedbugs from hitching a ride on a suitcase. (I do apologize for that image... it does work, though.)


It's a commercial. PR. It feels good to feel welcoming. But that person in the third pew from the front? That couple all the way in the back? That little one who was just baptized? They are people who depend upon the wide welcome they have come to know within their congregation. And if there is even a chance that the narrow vision that framed the video clip in question will compromise their safety, their ability to be who they are as beloved children of God... well, the choice I will make isn't even a question.


Actions speak so much louder than words. When I show up on campus at the ALLY meeting organized by the LGBTQ community and their allies, my presense speaks volumes. The church has hurt a lot of people around issues of sexuality. It is important to me to be present, to suggest that there is more than one voice. This matters. It's important to someone. It's important to me.

The politics of what is possible

I've been thinking a lot lately about the politics of doing what you feel called to do, even in the absence of tangible support. I've been thinking about what it means to offer support to others. I've been thinking about my mentors... how they did it with what seemed such effortless grace. I feel clumsy, at best. Double standards, inconsistencies... they seem to be everywhere. I know this -- this shouldn't come as a surprise, but every time I confront them, it still does. I haven't been here long enough to know the whys and wherefores. Nor have I been here long enough to accept them without question.

I've also been thinking about what it means to navigate one's way in a evolving position. It is a blessing to be in a position that is in fact evolving. Sometimes, though, it feels a little like a curse. My mantra when the going gets tough, "I'm good at what I do." And I really do believe that, much of the time. I guess, though, I am finding that how I go about being good at what I do, and what that looks like from setting to the next, is very fluid -- ever changing.

I sat down at the computer with a little more vitriol than I have given voice. Discretion can not be discounted. But, I will say that I am leaving the computer somehow calmer, more collected. I'm still frustrated. I still want to trouble the waters a bit. But right now, at 9:50 pm, it's enough to realize I am tired, weary even. I have not had the best of days. And it's okay to crawl under the covers and try again tomorrow.

Seven on Saturday

1. I cleaned the bathroom this morning. Really well. Elbow grease was involved and everything. Not that cleaning my bathroom is a rare occurence. It's just that there are levels. There's the "company's coming" spruce up, and the "suppose I should really clean the bathroom," and then there's the "I'm feeling industrious for no known reason so I'm really going to clean the bathroom.

2. I think the fact that I wrote about cleaning my bathroom indicates either that I shouldn't be blogging because I really don't have anything of substance to say, or that my life is just really that boring. Which might be why I am blogging in the first place.

3. Tomorrow I will bake cookies with three young women who claim to have never baked cookies from scratch. When I invite someone into my kitchen to bake cookies, there will be no tubs or tubes of store-bought dough involved... that's not how I roll. I'm actually looking forward to it.

4. As a result of #3, tomorrow evening I will likely be cleaning my kitchen. Really well. The "I just had three 19-22 year olds with flour and butter and sugar in here" cleaning. That, I don't look forward to quite as much.

5. I saw The Black Swan this afternoon. So many people told me it was awful. I'm not saying that it was my favorite movie ever, but I did find it compelling. Compelling. I guess that's the word I use when I'm not yet sure what I think about something, yet I somehow suspect that it is worth thinking about. Didn't recognize Winona Ryder at all. Some how she is kind of frozen in time with Edward Scissorhands and Heathers.

6. I found a ladle for my ladle-less soup tureen that I got on clearance at Pottery Barn for next to nothing a few years ago. It was ladle-less, hence the next to nothing. Bonus -- the ladle was only $3.99. Not bad. Not bad at all.

7. Hmmm... I am kind of torn between "See #2" because purchasing a ladle for a soup tureen is kind of lame. But then, the only other thing that I can think to say right now is to exclaim how very glad I am that there is an automated machine where one can by stamps at the post office without having to wait in a ridiculously long line. That is also kind of lame.

Getting an itch...

I have been working with one of our history professors who also teaches sociology (everybody around here has at least two jobs, I am telling you...) on a pilot service learning course. The hope is that it might gain some momentum among other faculty and students, increase our positive presence in the larger community, and expose our students to a very hands on approach to learning. I've known about service learning for nearly 20 years, I suppose... Campus Outreach Opportunity League, Into The Streets, and MUVN and various and sundry other good stuff. I've read about it, considered it, but I've never seen it in action. And I'm excited. I know a handful of the students in the course (which doesn't surprise me) and I feel like I am cultivating a friendship with the professor. It's all good.

I sat in on the class today -- the folks from the mentoring program in the public schools came to give their pitch. The class is held in a classroom in the library. Walking through the main doors, it hit me... a kind of musty smell, kind of old -- I suppose perhaps it is even the smell of paper and ink and years and years of relative silence. I might add, at this point, that I could go into great detail about each and every library in each and every school, college, or university I have ever attended. At Lincoln, we had large pieces of cardboard with colors matching our tote bags -- the cardboard went on the shelf so we knew where to return a book if we decided not to check it out. At Garfield, I was a part of a small group which got to eat lunch in the library... very cool. East Junior and Harding -- nothing to write home about. Mount Union, Purdue, Bucknell, U of Chicago... each had a different character to be sure, but as I said I knew that character inside and out. I had my preferred carrels, favorite tables. I knew the stacks like the back of my hand. Well, maybe not at Purdue. The stacks weren't always the safest places to be and one was wise to let one know you were headed in that direction so a search party could be assembled if need be.

I climbed the steep stairs to get to the classroom and settled into a chair. My friend took attendance (it's the first week of the semester, after all) and launched into a 20 minute lecture about Sociology 101. And the proverbial itching began. I took Soc in college -- liked it well enough. That wasn't it. It was being in a room with fourteen other people who, ostensibly, were working toward a common purpose. It was the sound of pens scratching on paper -- not too many of our students opt for the lap top route for note taking. It was the probing questions and the tentative answers, becoming slightly more sure as the sentences drew on. It's been nearly twelve years since I've been in a classroom. And I miss it.

Visions of a doctorate dance in my head, quite often actually. Then I am rudely interrupted by reality, which says I have bills to pay... and all of the sudden, I am quite weary. To be continued, sooner or later, I am sure...

Voyage of the Dawn Treader

I came late to the Chronicles of Narnia. I tried them as a child -- couldn't get into them. I didn't enjoy fantasy all that much, I suppose. The Last of the Really Great Whangdoodles, by Julie Edwards worked, as did L'Engle's A Wrinkle in Time. Surely the the exceptions to prove the rule. But, something made me revisit them, and once I got started, I couldn't stop. I even broke my most sacred of all rules -- never tell anyone on an airplane what I do. The guy across the aisle when I was flying home for Christmas was carrying a Notre Dame back pack and reading The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe. We had the best conversation I have had in a long while -- even walked to the baggage claim together, still talking.

But, I digress. I went to see The Voyage of the Dawn Treader this afternoon. Thoroughly enjoyed it, as well. I have to say, the whole idea of Aslan/God as a lion works much better cinematically for me than it does on the page. Maybe it has something to do with Liam Neeson's voice, as well. It is at once gentle and fierce -- a little volatile. Yet calming and assuring. Accessible and inaccessible all at once. Much like, I think, the way many encounter God. I could of course say more, but I want to shift gears.

I think one of the things I most appreciate about good children's literature, and young adult literature, for that matter, is the fact that it doesn't discount the fact that children and young people have very real problems and concerns. It doesn't sugarcoat the struggles, insisting on an idyllic fantasy. It's messy, and every bit as complex as the grown-up world -- whether most grown-ups will admit as much or not. I wonder if this is perhaps why I wasn't a bigger fan of fantasy as a child. I honestly don't know what I might have done with this story as a child. When Caspian tells Edmund and Aslan that he has been so busy looking for what had been taken from him, he forgot to be thankful for all he had been given... as a child whose father was taken from her entirely too soon, those words would have been very hard to take in. They still are. I get it, but they are still hard. And that's okay. The song that played through the credits -- I was sort of still transfixed, taking it all in -- speaks to the fact that we have been created for so much more than we know. Funny, but I think that we are much more aware of that as children than we are as we grow into who it is we think we are meant to be.

Holiday Greetings...

Yesterday, just under the wire, I wrote my annual holiday greeting for 2010. Christmas is a season. Epiphany was yesterday. It's all good. They aren't in the mail yet. All of the envelopes aren't even stuffed. Nearly. Some have already been delivered electronically.

I don't know that I ever thought I would be one to "indulge" in this newsy practice. I am single. I haven't got any children. I don't do all that much traveling -- just to this or that professional conference and annual visits with a few friends. What could there be to tell? Who would want to hear it? I have nothing against the practice... I enjoying reading those I receive. I will admit, I have long since stopped putting the pictures of "other people's children" on the refrigerator. Love to see them, even keep them... just can't be reminded multiple times a day that my life hasn't quite turned out the way I suppose I always thought it would. That's okay - most of the time. It's lonely -- nearly all of the time. I haven't given up on the idea that there is someone out there for me. I have started to accept that children probably aren't in the cards. Tick tock tick tock. I did bend my rules and put a few pictures of puppies and dogs on the fridge -- even though I don't have one of those, either. But I digress.

I think I wrote my first holiday letter the Christmas following my departure from the first church I served. It made sense. A holiday greeting surely didn't compromise the ethics of making as clean a break as possible with a congregation. I don't know that that ever works all that well, anyway. You figure it out as you go along, I think. I try to be funny. Sometimes, I even attempt to be wise. Whether either attempt proves successful, I will let someone else be the judge.

My list is long. I have a very hard time "cutting" people, scaling back. My list is eclectic. My second grade teacher. My Grandma and Grandpa Brown's next door neighbor in Andover -- and even good friends from Scarsdale. Several of my mom's good friends -- one person she's known since junior high. The mother of a child I used to baby sit -- the "child" is now married. Eek. The boy who I was a co-crossing guard with who moved away when we were in junior high. My elementary and junior high principal. Friends from every school I've ever attended, every job I've ever held... Some of these folks. I hear from. Others, I don't. But I think about them -- as I address each envelope, sign my name. I remember the times we have shared, the plans we once made, the dreams we have known. I think about where they are now, who they are now. I think about someone who taught with my dad. He sent us a card every year, until he passed away himself. He always signed it "With many fond memories..." or something to that effect. I remember how much I wished I too had those fond memories of my dad.

Again, I digress. I write the letter. I send the cards. I crave the connection. I have fond memories of my own. And I hope those who receive my greetings do, too.

Take Two...

So... I'm thinking I'll give this blogging thing another go round. No apologies. No explanations. No caveats.

I don't remember whether it was when I was in high school or college... probably college... but at some point I started writing letters, long letters, to people. Not just to friends from home, or pen pals from childhood, but people I saw every day. People I talked to regularly. Usually it was because something was wrong, and I wanted to talk, but couldn't form the spoken words. Armed with a messy piece of carbon paper, yes carbon paper (so I would always know what I said) I penned at times tortured missives to those closest to me. Or, to those who had at one time been closest to me. It was almost like writing in my journal... only with the possibility of actual conversation, dialogue. I think some of my friends enjoyed it. Others tolerated it. Others ignored it completely. I found it almost exhilarating. On the one hand, it was cathartic -- an opportuntiy to say what I wanted, and needed to say, just the way I wanted to say it. It opened up a space for me to process joy and sadness, frustration, confusion, even rage. It was almost intoxicating. I would let the language spill forth, all over the page and then some. Then, I would fold it up, tape it shut, staple it, put it in an envelope (I was never one to pass notes in school, so I didn't know how to do all of the cool origami folds, oh well) and, yes, drop it in campus mail, slip it under a door, or tack it on a memo board. Or, put a stamp on it and send it to someone I didn't have to see the next day. Depending. And then... I would get a flutter in my stomach. "Did I really do that? Really? Why did I do that?" Granted, some letters had the capacity to get me into much more trouble than others. We won't go there tonight. Point is, I would nearly panic until my phone rang, or there was a knock on the door, or a similar piece of paper awaited in my own mail box. It was wonderful to be heard, if not always understood. I miss that feeling.

Truth be told, I still write those letters. Not all the time. Just sometimes. Sometimes they are e-mails. They generally aren't handwritten anymore. I've given up the carbon paper, opting for photo copies instead. I don't necessarily anticipate a response, as a rule. Truth be told, I suppose that disappoints me. But, it still feels good to write the words I may be afraid to speak.

Maybe this is why I am intrigued by this whole blogging idea. Maybe I still want to be heard -- by whoever will listen. I feel like I do a lot of listening. To a lot of people. Nothing wrong with that -- I tend to think that is a good thing. It's part of what I do. But, maybe the time is coming, maybe the time is here, for me to do a little more speaking.

As I write this, I am listening to one of my favorite, perhaps little known, singers -- Ann Reed. One of her songs that just played, "No Time Like the Present:" ... Notes to you, I'll write 'em down while one of us is not around, let's put 'em in a book that's bound called 'Things that Matter,' Yesterdays the day I thought Would never come and now it's gone Thats how years roll away Tend to what I've planted If I take it all for granted it'll fade..."

And, on that note...

High Pressure Religious Groups

As a religious professional working on a college campus... Wait a minute. Perhaps I need to clarify -- as an ordained minister/college chaplain -- I am not a big fan of High Pressure Religious Groups. Granted, every one's personal definition of "high pressure" may be different, but I am referring to, in highly technical terms, those groups that just kind of make you feel "icky;" those groups that would have you believe that they have it all figured out; those groups that so clearly have an agenda, they don't even take the trouble to hide it -- except when they do, and then they become down right dangerous.



Why the vitriol, so early in the post? Well, I just lost an hour and forty minutes that I will never get back to one such group. I had invited representatives from local churches to be a part of a student involvement fair on campus. It seemed as though this was the first time they had ever been invited, so there was some degree of excitement from the churches that chose to attend. One of the women invited me to come to an "event" with her -- a group of ladies she gets together with once a month was having a jewelry show and they needed models for each month. Would I like to come, and would I be willing to be a model. Thinking that this would be a good way to make a community connection, I enthusiastically said I'd love to. (There really should have been some kind of ominous music playing at this point. ) All she said was the group was called "After Five." Sounded innocuous enough. I thought it was an afterwork/girls night out type of thing. Shouldn't I know better?



Turns out, it was part of a network of evangelical women interested in leadership and fellowship and evangelism. I feel like I shouldn't say which one, because that just might constitute libel, or would it be slander? I can never remember which is which. There were a dozen or so youngish women there for the first time -- most of us new to the area. It just felt creepy to me. At the table where I was sitting -- no less than three homophobic remarks, and that was before dinner was even served. It's enough to make you lose your appetite, really. And that was probably a good thing, because they decided to do the fashion show as they were serving dinner. So, by the time we were done, our meal was cold. Another topic of conversation over dinner -- what different types of jewels are going to be in heaven. I missed this in Divinity School, some how or other, but apparently that very thing is listed somewhere in the bowels of Revelation. Were my webcam enabled, you would see me shaking my head at this point. I felt as though I had passed the point of no return very early on... but a definite line was crossed by the end of the evening. The speaker asked us to join her in prayer. And I'll be doggoned if she didn't pray what so many refer to as "the prayer" -- you know, the one by which you accept Jesus into your heart and formally state your desire for a personal relationship. Okay -- in my mind there are so many things wrong with that, I don't even know where to start. It isn't my intention to offend anyone (but, if you are reading this, chances are you don't offend easily) but... seriously?

I walked away from this evening angry and frustrated, but for many different reasons. One of those reasons -- I wish that the brand of Christianity to which I subscribe was as successful at making our case. I realize as I type those words that I don't even have a sense of what that would look like, or how that would work. And that disheartens me. Perhaps that is yet another thing for me to add to my list of things to do. And while I'm at it, I might just give some thought to a "to don't" list!

Traffic patterns

Driving in Delaware is an interesting proposition, shall we say. I am told this is an East Coast thing, but... U-turns are all the rage. Legal u-turns, at that. Often, it is the only way to get where you are going from wherever you happen to be. It is frustrating when I miscalculate the direction I need to be going and find myself on the other side of the divider, driving past my destination. It is also frustrating when I think I have gone too far, and turn around, only to discover I haven't gone far enough. I am quite certain that is one heckuva metaphor for life -- but I'm a little too sleepy to do all that much with it.

The connection I will draw... I came here full of excitement and enthusiasm (don't worry -- both are still fully intact) at the prospect of being able to do that which I feel called to do. I was so taken by the fact that the student body is racially diverse, that there was a true commitment to serving an underserved population. I continue to be taken, but I guess I am no longer taken in, so to speak. This is not easy work. Didn't expect it to be. Wouldn't really want it to be, but...

I am very big on meeting people where they are, and ostensibly helping them to get to where they would like to be. Some days, though, I feel like where the people are is somewhere I don't know that I've ever been. Or, I am startled by the "stuff" that gets in the way for folks. Perhaps startled isn't the right word... Perhaps caught off guard? Financial concerns are paramount. Huge. And, the idea of what college is supposed to look like seems to run right over reality.

Sometimes, at the end of the day, all you can do is sigh. Hopefully a weary sigh, more so than one of resignation. My grandma used to talk about being weary, and I never really understood what she meant. I understand now. I suppose I have for some time, but... It is a feeling of being bone tired, physically as well as mentally. And, try as you might, you know that you've not done enough to justify the weariness, but then, you also know that you've done all that you could -- for one day, at least.

And on that note...

The Other Shoe

Well, I know that it has been a while, but I wanted to let you know I haven't fallen off the face of the earth. I have just fallen face first into my new job, and am loving loving loving it! Today was Freshman Move In -- forty five minutes ago, the parents ostensibly drove away and we've got six hundred some young people more or less on their own for the first time. Let the games begin!

This is going to be very brief -- but then, since I haven't written in weeks, it just might seem like a major tome. Here's the thing. Since moving to Delaware, since beginning my new position, I almost feel like I have been holding my breath -- waiting for the other shoe to drop. Surely things can't really be as good as they feel, as good as they seem. When is it all going to come crashing down? I like to put on a good front as an optimistic soul, but I am a realist at heart, and let's face it, my reality for the past couple of years -- not all that stellar. (With the caveat that my friends are truly fabulous -- any one who could stand beside me and not run away -- you are okay in my book!) But now... things feel very different. Things feel very good.

I am thinking maybe, just maybe, that other shoe isn't going to drop after all. And that's more than alright with me.

The Plan

When I moved to Dover, I had a plan. This plan involved a great many things. Perhaps it makes sense if I rewind to New Years 2009. I had one resolution -- only one. Simply, not to mention bluntly, put -- to give a damn. This included, theoretically, paying more attention to a good many things to which I hadn't been paying any attention. Of course, we have the big ticket items of diet and exercise, but also things like investing more time in relationships my friends, keeping on top of my laundry situation, even taking the time to complete an outfit with a necklace or earrings, or, *gasp* wear make up. So, that was my one New Year's resolution. And then, thirteen days into the new year, I learned that I would no longer be employed as of July 1. (I'm not going to go there, I mention this merely as a place holder.) Suddenly, I shifted into basic survival mode. I no longer gave a damn about giving a damn.

Fast forward to July 1, 2010 -- or June 26, or whenever it was when I actually moved to Dover. As I said, I had a plan. I still wanted to pay more attention to diet and exercise. I still wanted to stay on top of my laundry (made significantly simpler given that I have a washer and dryer in my apartment). And even with the jewelry and make-up... don't think I need the make up, per se. I am growing to appreciate the polish it seems to provide, though.

Anyway... another part of the plan involves writing more. One of the reasons I decided to give this blog thing a try, I suppose. I've always dreamt of being a writer... almost for as long as I can remember. When I realized how carried away I could become reading... When I discovered poetry, be it Shel Silverstein or Robert Frost... When I felt that rush of pride when I wrote a silly story or poem and Grandma or Grandpa or Mom liked what I had written. I still dream of being a writer. Only now I suppose I know that it doesn't need to be a dream. And yet... I have such a sense of hesitation. Maybe it isn't hesitation so much as out right fear. I could pretend that I don't know what I am afraid off. But, I would only be pretending. I am afraid that what ever it is I have to say won't be "good enough." I am afraid that no one will hear me. And I want to be heard.

Back to the plan... part of the plan is basic housekeeping... not allowing chaos to get the better of me. I'm doing more or less okay on that front -- everything is relative. I think it's interesting, though, that the one space in my apartment that I haven't finished organizing is the guest room. That is, the guest room that doubles as a study... where I am sitting right now as I write this. I don't particularly enjoy being in this room, because it makes me a little nervous. It isn't going according to plan. And, as long as this room makes me nervous, I am not likely to spend a significant amount of time in it, writing. Hmm... can you be passive aggressive with your self, do you suppose?

Well, now I have said it... practically in public. Now, maybe I will finish organizing and be done procrastinating... and write and write and write...

Seven on Saturday

1. I am sitting in the back yard, because I can't pick up the wireless signal consistently in my apartment (the folks from whom I rent graciously share their wireless with me, but it isn't always all that reliable). It is hot out here. But not as hot, I think, as it was yesterday, when it was 98 degrees at 5:00. No thank you!

2. In spite of the fact that it was 98 degrees at 5:00 yesterday, I went to the Delaware State Fair after work. Sadly, ended up with a huge blister on the side of my foot. I have a thing about blisters. They make me almost queasy. Blood doesn't bother me, but blisters? Don't know what it is, but I just don't enjoy going there. But, ultimately the blister paled in comparison to a spontaneous evening of pulled pork, kettle corn, funnel cakes and caramel apples. Singular not plural. Stayed away from the fried Twinkies, though. Can't quite wrap my head around that. Felt badly for all of the pigs and sheep and cows and horses and such -- so very warm. So very smelly. Farm animals and fair food -- does it get any better than this?

3. Well, the grandstand entertainment last night, for which I splurged and bought a ticket, was none other than Paula Deen. She was so much fun -- I really enjoyed the evening. Even though the seats were nearly intolerably close together. I mean, come on! These are a bunch of people who like Paula Deen. We are butter people! We have hips!

4. I feel very fortunate to have such a supportive president, and upper level administration in general, as I get underway with this new position. Great meeting with the president yesterday. I can't say enough about how pleased I am to be here.

5. Speaking of the president... most surreal moment this week -- stopping at Five Guys (a greasy, greasy, but oh so wonderful burger joint with fabulous french fries), dressed in funeral attire, with the president and his lovely wife, while R.E.M. played in the background -- "It's the end of the world as we know it..." I kid you not.

6. Went to church last week in Bethany Beach. Can't remember whether I wrote about this or not -- I'm thinking not. Was a little apprehensive when I saw the right wing bumperstickers on the truck parked in front of me. You can tell alot about a church by the bumperstickers in the parking lot. But, I ended up liking the service. Kind of have mixed feelings about that, because I just can't drive that far every week.

7. Oh my. The older gentleman next door is doing yard work, without his shirt on. Let's just say it's not a good look for him. Maybe it's time for me to go inside....

Exhausted...

What a tiring couple of days. I have spent well over 12 hours in the car in the past two days, with various and sundry campus administrator types, traveling to calling hours and a funeral. It feels kind of odd to be, quite literally, along for the ride in so many respects. It feels very awkward to coming into contact with students for the first time in such sad circumstances. I feel at once detached and enmeshed, and it is kind of difficult to reconcile both at the same time.

And now, of course, the really difficult work begins, for the family, the friends, our students... figuring out what life looks like now. I look at their very young faces, and I know that they have been changed in very real ways by this tragedy. A loss of innocence, of invincibility. And that is the way of the world. I know that they have been changed, but I also know that, in time, they will be okay. Even if they don't know that.

I remember someone asking me, in the midst of their grieving, if it ever stopped hurting. How do you answer that question? I can only be truthful and say, not really but... but it doesn't always hurt like this...

Tough stuff

When you've been wading into a new position gently, there's nothing quite like getting shoved into the deep end of the pool. A student death over the weekend. Thankfully, I know what I am doing, although all of the experience in the world doesn't make this any easier. When I was having lunch with several folks in Res Life when I first got here, they asked if I had any special areas of expertise, so to speak. I feel like grief and loss kind of fall into that category. And then I wonder what that means. I think some times I have reasoned that it is a way for me to do something constructive with the all of the loss I have known -- and I tend to think that I have in fact known a fair amount of loss, more than the average bear. And, I still think that is true. But then there is the part of me that realizes that every time I sit with someone who is hurting it's almost like pulling off a scab that never quite has a chance to heal. And college students... they are at this point in their lives when the rest of their lives awaits then. Well, I guess technically we are all at that point in our lives, but... When you are 20 years old, your best friend isn't supposed to get hit by a car while she is out jogging. It's going to be a challenging couple of days -- calling hours, funeral... I wasn't involved with that piece of things before. But it is a good feeling to have confidence in myself, to know that I have it in me to do what I have to do (I was listening to Sarah McLachlan earlier today... a most appropriate song) and it is a good feeling to perceive the trust and confidence that has been placed in me. It is at once heady, and humbling.

Familiarity

I don't think familiarity breeds contempt at all. I think it can allow comfort to take root. Finding my way in a new place, with new faces, new streets, new everything I am grateful for glimpses of the familiar... glimpses, scents, sounds, sensations.

The chapel smells like Holy Covenant UMC in Chicago -- old wood and the furnace, even in the midst of summer's relentless heat. There is a wonderful meditation space that somehow feels familiar, somehow expectant. As though the walls themselves were eager to absorb whatever you would offer up or lay down. The flower beds outside in the front -- like the flowers at the end of my Grandma B's driveway -- marigolds, almost acrid, but also unapologetic. Then, the black-eyed susans around nearly every corner. Just like those along the path to the pond in Andover, MA.

So many of the sidewalks of Dover are uneven -- made of crumbling brick, just like Belle Street, where Grandma S lived, where I spent so much time as a child. The houses lining those sidewalks feel like Lakeside OH to me -- old Victorians with porches big enough for the family and then some. Even my apartment has the feel of a summer cottage. I am remembering the year that we stayed in that tiny garage apartment a block or so from Hoover. When they opened the garage door, the whole place shook and Grandma feared there had been a freak earthquake! My landlords don't often open the garage door, but when they do it is mildly jarring, but no fault lines are involved.

Even people, perhaps especially people, are familiar. There are so many folks who remind me of others. People I dearly love. And some, maybe not so much. That whisper of remembrance when I chat with these people is very welcome. It reminds me that in time, these too will be the voices of colleagues and friends.

Seven on Saturday

Other bloggers I read do "Ten on Tuesday," so I thought I would mix it up a little bit and do
"Seven on Saturday." I am nothing if not at least somewhat original.

1. I am now officially a Delawarean -- I have a Delaware driver's license, license plates, the whole nine yards. Two and a half hours at the DMV. And I thought it was bad in Chicago. I also registered to vote and I have a library card. And I think I've finally memorized my new phone number -- if not my office number yet.

2. Going to the Farmer's Market in the rain this morning might not have been the best idea I have ever had. But, I do have fresh sweet corn, plums, green beans, and cucumbers to show for it. And bread and butter pickles and stilton blue cheese with mango and ginger. I didn't realize that there was such a large Amish population in this area, but there is. The food they bring to the Farmer's Market is amazing.

3. I had a Pecan Pie Blizzard from the Dairy Queen last night. Not a big fan. It was sickeningly sweet. The pecans tasted great, though. I think I prefer the Turtle Blizzard. Chocolate makes just about everything better.

4. It is taking me much longer than I thought it would to get my office in order. Things just aren't coming together. Of course, it probably doesn't help that I decided mid organization to revisit the way I had been classifying some of my books. Why, I am not sure.

5. There is a drug store in town called "Happy Harry's." Maybe it's just me, but I just can't bring myself to have any prescriptions filled at a drug store called "Happy Harry's." It sounds like something from an SNL skit.

6. Several of the songs from "The 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee" are looping in my head right now. Loved the show, like the music, but is very very very nice very very very very very very... annoying over and over!

7. I wonder if anyone at all is reading my blog, except for me. It's kind of strange, it is. To be writing, thinking somebody might be reading, but never really knowing. I seem to be on a Broadway musical kick of some sort, so please bear with me. I am thinking about Seussical, when Horton's clover with the small speck of dust is about to be boiled in oil. He starts calling to the Whos "Are you there?" and they try to respond, albeit weakly, "We are here, we are here..." How about you? Are you here?

Wow. I can't imagine coming up with ten of those. Seven was enough of a challenge for me.

"Looka Here Huck..."

One of my least favorite things to deal with happened today. I had just spoken with a pastor of a denomination other than my own. He was leading a tour of that denomination's history in the area and apparently the chapel at my institution was, once upon a time, one of "their" churches. He wondered if it would be possible for them to have access to the sanctuary, maybe take a look around. I was happy to oblige, said that I would meet them momentarily. Lots of young people in the tour group -- honestly, I think they were probably more excited about the air conditioning than anything else. It was sweltering today. Anyway, the group is on their way out the door, when one of their number thanked me for opening the door, and then handed a relligious tract, almost as though slipping me a tip. Which, I suppose, she genuinely felt she was doing. Solemnly informed me that it contained the instructions (or was it directions?) for getting in to heaven. Did I know how to get there? I thanked her politely, smiled, and told her I was working on it, or some such thing. "Oh but, do you know? If you have five minutes, I can tell you..." Second verse, same as the first -- this time with a little more feeling. Really, I'm fine. Thank you.

I understand that this form of witnessing is very important for some people. And I suppose I get that. On some level. But then again... I really wish people would spend a little more time and effort feeding the hungry, housing the homeless, clothing the naked than worrying about who is or isn't going to get into heaven. Not only that, but... I've spent a lot of time studying theology, learning about my religion, and actually the faith traditions of others as well. The implication that in five minutes time you can boil that all down is... kind of unbelievable to me. That's not quite what I am thinking, but it is what I am saying.

The upside? I've enjoyed having one of the songs from the musical BIG RIVER running through my head for much of the day: "Looka here Huck, do ya wanna go to heaven?" It's a great musical, based on Huck Finn. Great musical, fun song -- wonderful word play. Consider the phrase "do you want to go to heaven if you don't go to hell." And on that note, it's probably time to say good night.

Happy Fourth of July!

A beautiful day today! Hardly a cloud at all in the sky, not terribly humid or uncomfortable... perfect for parades and picnics and fireflies and fireworks. I watched the parade in Dover from the front porch of the folks from whom I rent my apartment -- they own a bed and breakfast on the corner, just a block from where the parade stepped off. Lots of politicians, lots of car clubs... I would have liked to have seen another marching band or two -- there might have been one, maybe two. There were bag pipes. But the band nerd in me ached to see awkward highschool students sweltering in wool uniforms with feathered plumes sticking out of their hats. Band tee shirts and shorts would have been okay, too, I suppose. I never minded marching in parades. I kind of enjoyed it.

Then, fireworks on the Green. Dover is a bit of a culture shock from Chicago-land, even northeast Ohio. There is a sense of history, dating back to the beginning of American history. It's hard to explain beyond that, because I don't quite "get it" yet. Right now I'm just taking it all in, I suppose. The fireworks were quite impressive, set to greatest hits of the 80s. A huge tree obstructed my view a bit, but even through the veil of leaves, the star shower, so to speak, glimmered through. I was kind of disappointed, though, in the lack of "oohs" and "aahs." It seems to me that is part of the collective experience. Oh well.

I walked to the fireworks with my landlords and their family and friends. They get to spend a lot of time with their grandkids, and they have this cool double wagon for the two little ones -- a four year old girl and two year old boy. That's the life, I tell you. Pulled in a wagon outfitted with blankets and pillows while an entire entourage makes sure all is well. Not bad. Not bad at all. The little guy kept looking at me with a somewhat wary expression, something along the lines of "I don't know who you are, but... there you are." Yes, indeed. Here I am.

Did I mention...

... that my college ID picture even turned out well? My driver's license remains to be seen -- still waiting to be able to prove my residency in Delaware. Apparently you need to have two different pieces of proof -- say a lease and a utility bill, or some other official piece of mail. Just glad I checked on line before spending a morning or afternoon in line at the DMV.

I am enjoying a very gentle entry into this position. Worked Thursday, half day yesterday, Monday is a holiday... I'll take it! I certainly have plenty to do at the apartment at this point, and I am sure the pace will pick up at work all too quickly. And that's fine, too.

This morning I got up early and drove to Rehobeth Beach. I walked along the boardwalk, as well as along the ocean. I found two perfect sea shells. I remember I never tired of looking for sea shells along the shores of Maine when we would visit my grandparents in Andover, MA. I used to marvel at the fact we could eat breakfast in Massachusetts, lunch in New Hampshire, and dinner in Maine all in the same day, and still be home in time for bed! Speaking of eating, this morning I had a Chesapeake omelette, which consisted of eggs, Swiss cheese, and lump crab meat. Wonderful! Even better was the fact that I was sitting on a patio just off of the boardwalk, watching the sunlight sparkle on the water. As I was driving home, I was glad I am an early riser -- the line of traffic -- not so wonderful. At least I was going in the opposite direction. As much as I enjoyed living so close to downtown Chicago, I've got to say I could get used to living this close to the ocean!

So, the explanation of "my own best way." A few years ago, I was apprehensive about doing a funeral for someone who really meant alot to me. This was a family that made me (and continues to make me) feel very much a part of their family. I had been talking with my mom about this, evidently quite a bit more than I realized. Simply put, she was tired -- not, I think, of me, but rather the demands of the day, of which I suppose I might have been one. Anyway, I think Mom was trying to assure me that she was sure I would do my best, and that is all anyone, including myself, could ask of me. Instead, she said, "I know that you'll do it your own best way." It seemed a funny turn of phrase to me, and we got a good laugh. But then, it took. The beauty -- my best way, and your best way, need not be one in the same. And that is more than okay. I find that very freeing. So, with this blog, I suppose I hope to chronicle life lived, and thoughts thought, "my own best way, " the best way that I can.