Bears, Burgundy, & Punk-Ass Youth

This weekend, I assumed when I dyed my hair that I would get a rich, deep red-brown—something I didn’t think would be that hard to obtain considering that was the current shade of my hair. However, after thirty minutes of processing my request, Garnier Nutrisse assumed I wanted more of a black cherry hue.  And by ‘black cherry’ I mean ripe eggplant. 

(my new office look)

Which I didn’t mind so much, other than the fact that it sent me spiraling into that dark place all novice philosophy students and stoners encounter—“what if the blue I see is really your green, and your green is really my yellow but we all go on calling them blue and yellow and green and never know the difference?!”  *GASP!* I know, ridiculous.  So “what,” you ask, “does a literary girl do when she encounters such crises that threatens the shell which encases her inner beauty and the sanity of her mind?”

Well, I handled it like I handle all things—I headed to dictionary.com.

I typed the word “burgundy” into the search field with all the ferocity and desperate hopefulness a teenager shakes a magic 8-ball with, and was blindsided when it responded, “Burgundy (lowercase) a grayish red-brown to dark blackish-purple color.”  I looked at my hair (purple), I looked at the model on the box (red), I looked at the definition (diplomatic) and then repeated said action for longer than necessary, trying to bridge the disconnect between what I wanted and what I got. I asked for burgundy, I got burgundy…but apparently burgundy is less of a color and more of an umbrella under which a large range of colors reside.  You may laugh at this, but it parallels a feeling I often encounter when approaching the Bible lately. 

Currently, I only seem to read it when I want comfort, and then am often disappointed when I pick it up and it hands me unbridled truth.  In all honestly, I want it to be relevant to me, at all times, and tell me what to do about my life’s decisions.  I want it to be a compass and a dictionary and magic glasses that helps clarify and sort out the world for me.  I want it to tell me that my red is red and purple, purple. But the truth is…the Bible reflects truth.  And not all truth is black and white (or red) or convenient, much less comforting.  Sometimes you pick up the Bible, flip up to a random page hoping God speaks something directly relevant to your life and you get bat-shit crazy things like 2 Kings 2:23-25,

²³ From there Elisha went up to Bethel. As he was walking along the road, some youths came out of the town and jeered at him. “Go on up, you baldhead!” they said. “Go on up, you baldhead!” ²⁴ He turned around, looked at them and called down a curse on them in the name of the LORD. Then two bears came out of the woods and mauled forty-two of the youths. ²⁵ And he went on to Mount Carmel and from there returned to Samaria.

Does this mean the Bible is irrelevant or God doesn't care? I don’t think so.  I think it means punk-ass kids should fear bears…and I should stop trying to shake affirmation out of the Bible by asking it random questions and forcing God into compact divine ‘conversations.’  Don’t get me wrong, I think asking God for direction, comfort and input is key, but that is just a facet of the dynamic relationship we should have with Him.  Sure, God talks through random moments and passages and wants to comfort us sometimes, but that’s not how he rolls all the time.  Restricting him to satisfying only certain parts of our lives is kind of manipulative—like only visiting a lover when you want to hear you look pretty. Or, you know, when you want to hear that your hair is in fact purple and not red like you intended...but hey, you look sexy anyways.  Which may be true and awesome, but is downright shitty.

Life is more complex than that, the Bible much more real than that—God much deeper than that.  And He wants to be more to us than a search engine or horoscope.

Kisses & Uppercuts

Not everyone knows what you’re made of.  Not everyone knows your strength, or can even define what strength really is.  Sometimes, not even yourself.   

Confession: I’ve spent the last twenty years swinging-out at everyone who’s said I couldn’t, or wouldn’t, because I’ve been struggling to write my own definition of strength.  In a ring where you can get a head butt, a kiss, and a hug from someone in the same round, it seems logical to come out a little dazed, a bit angry, and prone to do things less than reputable or sportsmanlike because it looks like we’re living in a world with no rules, where anything goes.   

You start to feel justified in withholding certain parts of yourself that make you feel weak and unleashing the parts of you that make you feel fierce, because all the sudden you start to question whether those that are supposed to be enforcing the rules are really watching; when you get blindsided it’s easy to lose faith in the processes you’re told to rely on.  So, I’d go home, and instead of tending to my wounds and doing the things I knew were required of me to heal, I’d refuse to acknowledge them.  Or, if they became undeniably existent, I’d pour salt on them and use it to fuel me for the next round. 

I wanted to feel invincible.  I wanted others to see I was invincible.  

So every time I felt underestimated, misunderstood, or disrespected even in the slightest degree, I became unhinged, if only silently.  I wanted them to hit me with their best shot to prove I could take it.  I wanted to make them feel my worth—you didn’t have to know my strength to feel it.  Basically, I wanted to bite off ears because I had a tiny voice.  So I did.  But as strong as I felt, I was actually growing weak.  Little cuts and bruises slowly mounted and overlapped until I became one large, undistinguishable wound that could not relish a kiss over an uppercut.  It all landed the same—it all hurt.  And at that degree of pain, you have to admit you’ve lost perspective.  And sadly, I have. 

So, my friends, I’m pulling myself from the ring.  Until I can recognize my opponent from those sitting in my corner, I’m taking off the gloves.  I’m not going to pretend I know what strength is, because I don’t.  But the faint outline of what I’m beginning to see suggests to me that strength is not at all what I’ve been claiming for myself or offering to others.  I think it’s a bit gentler, a bit more meek than what I’ve been practicing.   

  

It’s probably humble enough to tap out when need be.  Resolute enough to know every winner is going to take some on the chin; confident enough to know that that doesn’t change who he is.  It’s probably patient and honest enough to stay loyal to the forces and processes that are trying to mend and protect it.  I think it might exist outside of what others believe, and probably is solid enough to not be threatened by those who don’t see it.  I think it’s probably wise enough to receive care when wounds need more tending than what he can give.  Fair, even when others aren’t.  Honorable enough to touch gloves.   

I don’t know how yet fully, but I think strength has something to do with love.  Because I’m finding it hurts me the worst, but it builds me up the most.  So, I think I’m going to sit it out for a bit and let it redefine me.

We Could Run All Night & Dance Upon the Architechture

I am wide awake.  I feel like having an adventure--driving around, listening to music, grabbing a cup of coffee when it's the most inconvenient (and rewarding).  Laughing hysterically because it's late and we're delirious.  I just feel this pounding in my chest and I want to make it count.  I feel like being trouble--young and eager and light and heavy because that's what being young is.  It's a moment...at 11:07 pm on a Friday night.  I want to know I lived it.

Nothing Comes Without a...

"It behooves a man who wants to see wonders sometimes to go out of his way."

— The Travels of Sir John Mandeville

Perhaps this is why I prefer fruit-on-the-bottom yogurt—it makes me feel like I've earned my snack.

Real Talk

I was talking with a recently married friend yesterday and ended our conversation wishing her many years of mind-blowing sex. 

But then I started to think, so what do I wish upon all my single friends?  And I decided I wished them joyous years filled with bottomless drinks, fine food, and countless hold-on-I-have-to-go-into-the-other-room-because-I'm-laughing-so-hard-I-can't-breathe moments!

But then I realized that sounds like something someone tapes to their mirror after reemerging from a crusty mountain of used Kleenex and crumpled Dove wrappers.

So, I'm back to square one, which consists of wishing all my single friends the ability to wish other couples great sex.

Sorry, kids. 

But, I console you with this...

Since I was five I've wanted to live in a house with a library.  Go ahead, blame it on Beauty & the Beast.  But I've always imagined a room, not even a large room, but just a room with floor-to-ceiling shelving.  When I was a kid I used to bury myself under my dad's books.  I would pull them off all the shelves and lay them around me and on top of me.  I couldn't even read, but I just loved the mystique of words; I knew they contained something special, and that one day I would know exactly what. Till then, I wanted to surround myself with them...and I still do.  It's just a safe place for me, where my spirit can run wild and my mind can drink in some solace.

Confession:  when I imagine Heaven I see two things—endless greenery, and sitting in a library room with comfy chairs and blankets, talking to God and being read to.  I don't know why, but it just seems like the most intimate place to me, I guess because I sometimes see God as an old, quirky grandpa who smokes a pipe and wants to share stories with you because he's always trying to get you to live your own—like C.S. Lewis mixed with Mr. Coreander from The NeverEnding Story or something.

Feel free to roll your eyes, I'm pretty sure you just got a glimpse of the corniest side of me. But, you can't deny the charm of the book-house I discovered on Yahoo!  Not a library mind you, a house.  It's literally constructed so that every space—every room, every wall—serves as shelving.

It's not quite Heaven, but it makes me feel one step closer.

I Walk A Little Faster

Romantics tend to take the world a little harder, and hope for the best anyway.