July 28, 2010
[storypeople]
this is a world filled with love & other things that have the sense not to waste time talking about everything under the sun & see how it glows with no help from us whatsoever?
July 22, 2010
what love looks like
quality time, ice cream for dinner, & cards from Texas
shared tears, copious hand-holding, "me toos," & gifts of going second
emails, rainbow brite pencil sets, a UPS notification, & affirmation
cool whip & graham crackers & silly tv shows
hugs, a clean car, admitting, protection, so much grace, & laughter
I'm sorry & that's hard & it's okay
hearing hard truths, recognizing lies, & personal days
I was wrong, I screwed up, & please forgive me
acceptance, permission, honesty, coffee, a replaced straightener, & sarcasm
hope, help, & reminding me who I am when I forget
checking in, offers of street justice, lullabies, mix cd's, & validation
"she's my best babysitter, but you're my best Meggie" & "I want to sit in yours lap"
weakness, strength, hearing & being heard
consistency, forgiveness, & the sharing of intense irrationality
distraction, focus, talking, not talking, & sitting
feeling safe, not afraid, secure, & sure
When we were little, we had a boy babysitter, Jason. I thought he was so great. I remember lying in bed one night and Jason poked his head in my door from the hallway. He saw me, awake, and nervously said, "oh, hey, just checking to make sure you were still breathing" and then made a swift exit. I remember thinking that that was really weird, because why would I not be breathing? Now, of course, I know that he was checking on me (however awkwardly). And even though I didn't know why the heck he would be concerned about my breathing, I know that I felt safe. His care just looked different than, say, Holly's. (Holly was our other babysitter. Who was also great. Until one day the police came when she was over and told her there was a report of someone being on our roof and I'm pretty sure traumatized her so badly I'm not sure she ever babysat again ever. But that's another story for another time.)
It's a silly example, but my point is, just like Jason's weird way of checking on me made me feel safe, love, too, takes different forms. The delivery is inconsequential so long as the message gets across. Sometimes it's hard to come out and say, "I'll keep you safe." But even as a little girl, on some level, I knew that's what Jason meant. It may make things tricky sometimes, but I think I like that love looks so many different ways. I think I like that graham crackers & cool whip can leave me just as assured that I am loved as "I love you" can. I know I like that there are people in my life who know when we need ice cream for dinner or that sometimes I just need to hear that I'm somebody's best Meggie. I like that Jesus makes himself known in street justice just as much as in safety. I like that there are so many ways to give and receive love.
I like that I'm given it. Abundantly. Even when I suck or I'm crazy or I'm broken down.
I am thankful for love that was delivered to me in so many different ways today
& for the miraculous absence of emptiness at the end of a day I felt sure would end emptily
July 14, 2010
when things stay awesome
There are some things that, no matter how old you get, are always awesome.
When you're a kid, quite often things happen that are absolutely pee-your-pants awesome (for those of you with incontinence issues in your childhood (or currently, for that matter), I do not mean any disrespect to you and your formerly wet pants. Please don't take my language personally). And you think, "won't it be sad when one day I don't get pee-your-pants excited about awesome things anymore?" And then you're an adult and something awesome happens - and much to your surprise and joy - YOU WET YOURSELF! No, I'm kidding, that would be gross. But your heart starts beating faster and you are still excited as though you are 6 years old and you just walked downstairs on Christmas morning and, thank goodness, Santa Claus came AGAIN even though you were a little brat for 360/365 days of the year. It is a wonderful feeling to realize that all of the childlike glee is not forever missing from your now grownup and boring life. Here are some of the things I have discovered recently that are this kind of wonderful.
getting a new bike.
This is basically the end-all-be-all experience of being a kid - when on that aforementioned Christmas morning you get your first bike. Mine was pink (at least the one I remember was) and it had streamers and a basket for carrying dandelions in. (I'm pretty sure none of that is true, but who's to say? In my imagination its true and that's what counts here.) A bike is a rite of passage. A true sign that you have arrived. Walk to the playground? No freakin way. I'll take my new bike. No big deal. I recently was gifted a new bike (new to me) and it is just as exciting. Riding your bike in Denver gives you instant street cred. Second best is driving a Subaru Outback. I can't stop riding my bike places. (Ok, mostly I can't stop talking about how I'm riding my bike places. Street cred is important to me.) Especially the park. Few things make me feel cooler than rolling up to an ultimate frisbee game on my new little bike. I. have. arrived. Both literally and figuratively.
queen anne's lace.
There is queen anne's lace growing on the side of my house. I love it so much.
Yes, I know its a weed. No, that does not make me love it less.
making a new friend.
Sometimes when I get a new friend, I have to resist the urge to immediately grab their hands and jump up and down, invite them over for a sleepover at my house, and ask them if they can come to my birthday party (which is 11 months away at the moment, but that's not important). It all happens so fast! This is another thing that really doesn't get less exciting. There is nothing greater than meeting a person and realizing that you really like them. Like them so much, in fact, that you're going to have to exhibit immense amounts of self control in order to maintain your cool and not freak them out within the first 6 minutes of meeting them. Eventually, if you're lucky, you'll get to have the FDTR - the friend 'defining the relationship' convo - and you'll discover that the jump-up-and-down feeling is mutual. Then (and only then) you may jump up and down. Holding hands if you prefer.
lemonade stands.
I do not get less excited about lemonade stands at 25 than I did when I was 7. Of course, I'm not having them these days, but I tell you what - I stop every time I see one, and I love it every time. There are 2 boys (Max & Jake) who have a lemonade stand about a block over from City Park every Sunday during Jazz in the Park. This is brilliant. They have lemonade, dog treats, and homemade baked goods that are legitimately delicious. We've been there a few times (we are regulars, they know us) and they ARE SO CUTE. Last week they told us that all of the proceeds were matched by their mom and put in their college fund. The other half they get to keep. Which is adorable in writing and even more adorable coming out of their little mouths as they try to sell us another brownie "to take to our friends." Great little businessmen.
invitations.
I'm pretty sure I've mentions 6 trillion times how much I love invitations. I love being invited places. If it were a love language, it would surely be mine. And now, yes, we've moved to a less exciting e-vite, facebook-vite style, which is sort of boring. I only like them slightly less than pink sparkly princesses telling me that YOU - ME? - YES. ME. (deep breaths) - have been invited to whatshername's pink sparkly princess party. Glory be.
the opposite sex.
9 year old girls talk about boys. 13 year old girls don't talk about anything other than boys. 15 year old girls maybe date some boys, but mostly just talk about them. (This continues into your 20's.) Somehow, it is still just as exciting as that time in 5th grade when Bradford called to ask me if I liked Steven, hung up, called Steven, called me back (Bradford, not Steven), to ask me if I'd like to "go out" with Steven (be still my heart!). Which clearly means maybe sit together at lunch once (but probably not), talk on the phone sometimes (through Bradford, more than likely), and essentially never talk again (to each other - you talk about each other with everyone, of course, because duh, you're going out). I moved to Kansas in the middle of 5th grade. Steven and I couldn't break up, because that would require a conversation. (We're still together. Technically.)
juice boxes & popsicles.
This is really a pretty random comment which I am making only because in the past week these two magical treats have significantly raised my quality of life. Juice boxes are always a mood-booster. Never not a good choice. I don't buy them often (because I'm a grownup) but when I do, it brings me such joy and delight to reach into the fridge and grab one. And since it's approximately 1 billion degrees outside each day, popsicles are a must-have. Having that cold treat when it is 96 degrees (in my bedroom) keeps me from hurling myself into oncoming traffic.
This is what I have on my list for now. What's on yours?
When you're a kid, quite often things happen that are absolutely pee-your-pants awesome (for those of you with incontinence issues in your childhood (or currently, for that matter), I do not mean any disrespect to you and your formerly wet pants. Please don't take my language personally). And you think, "won't it be sad when one day I don't get pee-your-pants excited about awesome things anymore?" And then you're an adult and something awesome happens - and much to your surprise and joy - YOU WET YOURSELF! No, I'm kidding, that would be gross. But your heart starts beating faster and you are still excited as though you are 6 years old and you just walked downstairs on Christmas morning and, thank goodness, Santa Claus came AGAIN even though you were a little brat for 360/365 days of the year. It is a wonderful feeling to realize that all of the childlike glee is not forever missing from your now grownup and boring life. Here are some of the things I have discovered recently that are this kind of wonderful.
getting a new bike.
This is basically the end-all-be-all experience of being a kid - when on that aforementioned Christmas morning you get your first bike. Mine was pink (at least the one I remember was) and it had streamers and a basket for carrying dandelions in. (I'm pretty sure none of that is true, but who's to say? In my imagination its true and that's what counts here.) A bike is a rite of passage. A true sign that you have arrived. Walk to the playground? No freakin way. I'll take my new bike. No big deal. I recently was gifted a new bike (new to me) and it is just as exciting. Riding your bike in Denver gives you instant street cred. Second best is driving a Subaru Outback. I can't stop riding my bike places. (Ok, mostly I can't stop talking about how I'm riding my bike places. Street cred is important to me.) Especially the park. Few things make me feel cooler than rolling up to an ultimate frisbee game on my new little bike. I. have. arrived. Both literally and figuratively.
queen anne's lace.
There is queen anne's lace growing on the side of my house. I love it so much.
Yes, I know its a weed. No, that does not make me love it less.
making a new friend.
Sometimes when I get a new friend, I have to resist the urge to immediately grab their hands and jump up and down, invite them over for a sleepover at my house, and ask them if they can come to my birthday party (which is 11 months away at the moment, but that's not important). It all happens so fast! This is another thing that really doesn't get less exciting. There is nothing greater than meeting a person and realizing that you really like them. Like them so much, in fact, that you're going to have to exhibit immense amounts of self control in order to maintain your cool and not freak them out within the first 6 minutes of meeting them. Eventually, if you're lucky, you'll get to have the FDTR - the friend 'defining the relationship' convo - and you'll discover that the jump-up-and-down feeling is mutual. Then (and only then) you may jump up and down. Holding hands if you prefer.
lemonade stands.
I do not get less excited about lemonade stands at 25 than I did when I was 7. Of course, I'm not having them these days, but I tell you what - I stop every time I see one, and I love it every time. There are 2 boys (Max & Jake) who have a lemonade stand about a block over from City Park every Sunday during Jazz in the Park. This is brilliant. They have lemonade, dog treats, and homemade baked goods that are legitimately delicious. We've been there a few times (we are regulars, they know us) and they ARE SO CUTE. Last week they told us that all of the proceeds were matched by their mom and put in their college fund. The other half they get to keep. Which is adorable in writing and even more adorable coming out of their little mouths as they try to sell us another brownie "to take to our friends." Great little businessmen.
invitations.
I'm pretty sure I've mentions 6 trillion times how much I love invitations. I love being invited places. If it were a love language, it would surely be mine. And now, yes, we've moved to a less exciting e-vite, facebook-vite style, which is sort of boring. I only like them slightly less than pink sparkly princesses telling me that YOU - ME? - YES. ME. (deep breaths) - have been invited to whatshername's pink sparkly princess party. Glory be.
the opposite sex.
9 year old girls talk about boys. 13 year old girls don't talk about anything other than boys. 15 year old girls maybe date some boys, but mostly just talk about them. (This continues into your 20's.) Somehow, it is still just as exciting as that time in 5th grade when Bradford called to ask me if I liked Steven, hung up, called Steven, called me back (Bradford, not Steven), to ask me if I'd like to "go out" with Steven (be still my heart!). Which clearly means maybe sit together at lunch once (but probably not), talk on the phone sometimes (through Bradford, more than likely), and essentially never talk again (to each other - you talk about each other with everyone, of course, because duh, you're going out). I moved to Kansas in the middle of 5th grade. Steven and I couldn't break up, because that would require a conversation. (We're still together. Technically.)
juice boxes & popsicles.
This is really a pretty random comment which I am making only because in the past week these two magical treats have significantly raised my quality of life. Juice boxes are always a mood-booster. Never not a good choice. I don't buy them often (because I'm a grownup) but when I do, it brings me such joy and delight to reach into the fridge and grab one. And since it's approximately 1 billion degrees outside each day, popsicles are a must-have. Having that cold treat when it is 96 degrees (in my bedroom) keeps me from hurling myself into oncoming traffic.
This is what I have on my list for now. What's on yours?
July 9, 2010
to live clandestinely (1 part remix, 1 part book report)
This is a little thing I like to call a REMIX. The original post was titled "love is a battlefield," a truth which I believe still stands. Love IS a battlefield. Thank you, Pat Benetar, for handing us said truth in such a catchy phrase and in such a great great song. I appreciate that about you.
In the aforementioned post (which has been coming up in conversation quite often, of late), I came to the general conclusion that I should give relationships the go-ahead, because as C.S. Lewis said, if you choose NOT to risk the vulnerability of love, "[your heart] will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable." This does not seem like a great situation. In referring to this option as "the casket of your selfishness" Sir Lewis has made a fairly clear statement about which option he personally votes for. Not much ambiguity there.
Regardless, this whole concept is getting kind of hard. When I wrote that post, I meant what I wrote - I did (and do) think it is a worthwhile cause to love and be vulnerable, because obvi, caskets of selfishness are not the kinds of places I enjoy spending my time. But lately I am feeling less kindred with Lew and a ever so slightly more with Jenny Lynn (the song I posted last week) --
wounded - you let your guard down & feel stupid
you wish you never would have trusted
your heart in someone else's hands
Yes. At the current moment, this is far more accurate. I (among others) am tired of being vulnerable and getting kicked in the face for it. We want to be seen and heard and accepted and loved, but to let another person into those places opens you up to a whole horrific cocktail of hurt and pain. And because we are sinny, broken humans, we are, by extension, a race of heartbreakers. So the question was posed to me yesterday: what was I going to do about this state of affairs? Retreat to my casket of selfishness? Hide in my bedroom until the end of time? Was I going to quit? I thought, yes. Quitting is an attractive option.
Last night I finished a great book (and for the record, I did not always think it was great). It is a story of a highly intelligent, self-proclaimed "clandestine" woman in her mid-fifties. She is alone. She strikes up an unlikely friendship (my favorite kind) with a pre-teen who intends to take her own life because she has given up entirely on the worthwhileness (is that even a word?) of living. Seriously, for over half the book, I was incredibly bored. I thought the characters were fairly dull and their lives mundane and I wasn't terribly interested. But then - they meet one another and begin to interact and describe each other instead of just themselves and the whole story takes a huge turn. It becomes interesting. The voice, the tone, changed. The characters became deep and vibrant and beautiful - people I barely recognized - in the others' eyes and words. In relationship, in community, the characters came alive. I don't think I've ever read anything quite like it.
Without giving away any crucial plot points, the whole novel points to a person's willingness to be vulnerable with another person. Which is funny. I have this long, tearful conversation yesterday morning about the possibility of quitting on relationships. Then in the evening I pick up this boring book (I hate to not finish books, so I had to press on) and this, unexpectedly, is it's entire message. Although this case is a little hyperbolic in comparison to myself (as I am sometimes a hider but am far too extroverted to cross over into full hermitude (also not a word)), the fact remains: to live clandestinely was miserable (not to mention boring). To watch as these characters - hiders, both of them - come out of hiding, and completely transform because of it? HOW CAN I NOT KEEP TRYING?! Ugh. I hate when the hard thing is the right thing. Hate it.
but it's all okay - I think you may have made the best mistake
I think we're made to give ourselves away
'cause there's no other way to live
I think we're made to give ourselves away
'cause there's no other way to live
I can almost hear the hearts of the clandestines, silently pleading:
jenny lynn, I wish that I had your thin skin
I wish that I could let the love right in
maybe I'd rather feel the pain
maybe I'd rather feel the pain
'cause freedom is a naked heart that always dares to give
I guess if the alternative is to live clandestinely - a lonely hider sequestered to a casket of her selfishness -
I will (reluctantly, today) choose nakedness. The metaphorical kind.
And, by extension - fingers crossed - freedom.
June 30, 2010
i think you may have made the best mistake
I can't get over how much I love this song. Beauty. (listen to it here)
jenny lynn, by katie herzig
all at once, your city crumbles like Babylon
even the gardens you've been hanging on
disappear before your eyes
take your time, let the words sink in before you say your mind
heaven knows we all get lost sometimes
and you will find your way back
wounded; you let your guard down and feel stupid
you wish you never would have trusted
your heart in someone else's hands
but it's all okay - I think you may have made the best mistake
I think we're made to give ourselves away
'cause there's no other way to live
jenny lynn, I wish that I had your thin skin
I wish that I could let the love right in
maybe I'd rather feel the pain
cause freedom is a naked heart that always dares to give
a willingness to let the tenderness be taken as it may
jenny lynn, by katie herzig
all at once, your city crumbles like Babylon
even the gardens you've been hanging on
disappear before your eyes
take your time, let the words sink in before you say your mind
heaven knows we all get lost sometimes
and you will find your way back
wounded; you let your guard down and feel stupid
you wish you never would have trusted
your heart in someone else's hands
but it's all okay - I think you may have made the best mistake
I think we're made to give ourselves away
'cause there's no other way to live
jenny lynn, I wish that I had your thin skin
I wish that I could let the love right in
maybe I'd rather feel the pain
cause freedom is a naked heart that always dares to give
a willingness to let the tenderness be taken as it may
drowning in love
I think its possible that my friends have ruined me for all other people.
(disclaimer: this post is pretty simply just a love letter to my friends because I had such a wonderful weekend that I want it to be memorialized on this blog until the end of time. read on if you want to be jealous.)
(disclaimer: this post is pretty simply just a love letter to my friends because I had such a wonderful weekend that I want it to be memorialized on this blog until the end of time. read on if you want to be jealous.)
I just got back from my bestie, Lori Ingersoll (now Zabor!)'s wedding in Kilgore, TX. It was one of those things that I was looking forward to for so long I didn't hardly know what to do with myself when the day actually came that I boarded the jet plane to that hellishly humid state. I arrived in Texas, immediately started sweating, and tiny Alix and I made our (long, long, long) journey to East TX.
The entire weekend was perfect. I don't think I could have been more filled with glee unless it was my own wedding. And I got sappier than I have gotten in a very long time, which is something in itself. I thought my heart was literally going to explode when my beautiful best friend, absolutely emanating happiness, walked down the aisle to meet sweet Bobby - who I can't help but love for how well he loves tiny Lori. As I watched their sweet ceremony (Lori's dad married them, bring on the waterworks) it occurred to me how proud and honored I was to be right there with her, fixing her train and standing beside her, nervously hoping not to drop the ring and trying desperately not to lock my knees and pass out during the prayer. (Maids of Honor have approximately one million jobs, which I was not aware of until this weekend, fyi. Worth it, for sure, but you really have to bring your a-game!) The whole thing was just too good. It was the kind of weekend that makes you want to just cry all day every day the following week because its over. Quite literally, my entire body hurts from all the fun I had. Which I think is kind of great.
Best of all, I spent some really legit quality time with a significant portion of my inner circle, which is just so good for my soul. Friends are special for different reasons. High school friends were with me through the awkward years, through fights with parents and not making sports teams and celebrating leading roles in 8th grade plays (not to brag). My now-friends have the advantage of knowing me, well, now. They are current and constant and that is beautiful. They're the people with whom I've learned to be honest and genuine and I love that.
But my college friends were there while I grew up. They lived with me, laughed with me, cried with me, held my hair back when I was young and fairly stupid, participants in the wildest and best and worst nights I can remember. These women know my heart. I LOVE THAT. These are the people I could spend hours with on a hotel floor and it would be the greatest thing ever. My weird idiosyncrasies are met with theirs; I know when they are sad and faking that they aren't; they know exactly what to do when I'm a freaking mess (a gift few people possess). I don't really even know how all of this happened, its just how it is. Our reciprocal loves for one another looks many ways: it looks like 5 hour long hypothetical conversations about wormholes & ice sculptures; it looks like cry-laughing in a stairwell (or bathroom, as the case may be); like constant, hyperbolic affirmation; the cupid shuffle; acceptance over breakfast tacos; the sharing of our intense irrationalities; copious amounts of street justice, when necessitated; like a perfectly timed g-chat conversation or greeting card. So much love.
And, to my dear bestie Lori, constantly the one loving us well and building us up and being the truest friend ever, I think I speak for all of us when I say that it was truly an honor and a great great blessing to get to be at your beck & call for once. You - my bestie, my best blog commenter, my great support, you have patiently put up with my crazy for nearly 7 years now - you made a stunning, flawless bride - and I've not a doubt that you will make a wonderful wife. You bring out the best in all of us. I am forever grateful for the ghetto IHOP in which we met.
The moral of the story is that somehow, pretty much from the beginning, the best people have found their way into my life. You are ruining me for all other people. I hope you're happy.
[I am]
June 10, 2010
stories with no endings (yet)
I used to think you couldn't tell a story until it was over.
Until "the end" was written, until the happy ending came, it wasn't even really a story. Basically what I'm telling you is that I used to think real life was supposed to be just like a Disney movie. No one wants to see the bad guy battle scene without assurance that the prince (or whoever our gallant hero is) eventually wins. I can't imagine how traumatized I would have been as a wee one if I thought Ursula kept Ariel's voice forever, or if Prince Charming never found Cinderella and put the glass slipper on her tiny Barbie-like feet. But sometimes I felt like the way things went for me, Snow White would be asleep forever. The Tramp would tell Lady to get over herself and they would never eat spaghetti until their little noses touched for a magical moonlight dog-kiss. (I could go on for 12 years with this and love every second of it. Don't worry. I won't.) No one wants to hear the messy middle parts without the happy ending. I certainly didn't. You may have noticed, however, that the past 3 years of my life could basically be summed up by the phrase, "Megan, you're wrong." My Disney logic is no exception.
I like hanging out with messy people (and of course since we are all sort of messy, I mean the people who are honest about their messiness). I like sitting in a recovery group with a bunch of complete messes (myself included); sitting in Cafe Europa or at the Irish Rover or on the little red couch that I got for free, and hearing and telling stories without endings. I like not feeling alone, I like loving people even when they say ugly things, and I especially like being loved when I have ugly things to say. I don't like addiction. I don't like brokenness, I don't like pain or hardship or struggle or loss, and I don't like that our lives are all pretty much some cocktail of all of that junk. Of course not. But the fact of the matter is that they are, and I love love love finding those rarest of places where it is ok to be authentic about it. Because it's there - in basements or on couches or patios, in the light - that healing, wholeness, and recovery become (sometimes for the very first time) a genuine possibility.
And if getting to the low point, if feeling desperate and depressed and addicted and screwy is what has to happen to bring us to said rare places, then I might even be thankful for my messy-no-end-yet story. Which I can legitimately tell you I never ever thought I would say.
I thought there had to be a "the end" or a "happily ever after."
I thought messy stories were no good.
"Megan. You're wrong."
Until "the end" was written, until the happy ending came, it wasn't even really a story. Basically what I'm telling you is that I used to think real life was supposed to be just like a Disney movie. No one wants to see the bad guy battle scene without assurance that the prince (or whoever our gallant hero is) eventually wins. I can't imagine how traumatized I would have been as a wee one if I thought Ursula kept Ariel's voice forever, or if Prince Charming never found Cinderella and put the glass slipper on her tiny Barbie-like feet. But sometimes I felt like the way things went for me, Snow White would be asleep forever. The Tramp would tell Lady to get over herself and they would never eat spaghetti until their little noses touched for a magical moonlight dog-kiss. (I could go on for 12 years with this and love every second of it. Don't worry. I won't.) No one wants to hear the messy middle parts without the happy ending. I certainly didn't. You may have noticed, however, that the past 3 years of my life could basically be summed up by the phrase, "Megan, you're wrong." My Disney logic is no exception.
I like hanging out with messy people (and of course since we are all sort of messy, I mean the people who are honest about their messiness). I like sitting in a recovery group with a bunch of complete messes (myself included); sitting in Cafe Europa or at the Irish Rover or on the little red couch that I got for free, and hearing and telling stories without endings. I like not feeling alone, I like loving people even when they say ugly things, and I especially like being loved when I have ugly things to say. I don't like addiction. I don't like brokenness, I don't like pain or hardship or struggle or loss, and I don't like that our lives are all pretty much some cocktail of all of that junk. Of course not. But the fact of the matter is that they are, and I love love love finding those rarest of places where it is ok to be authentic about it. Because it's there - in basements or on couches or patios, in the light - that healing, wholeness, and recovery become (sometimes for the very first time) a genuine possibility.
And if getting to the low point, if feeling desperate and depressed and addicted and screwy is what has to happen to bring us to said rare places, then I might even be thankful for my messy-no-end-yet story. Which I can legitimately tell you I never ever thought I would say.
I thought there had to be a "the end" or a "happily ever after."
I thought messy stories were no good.
"Megan. You're wrong."
June 1, 2010
re: previous post title
another gem from Mr. Jonah Werner:
Unbeknownst to you and me, beyond the place of tyranny, there lies a love that holds us in sure and constant watch.
How past the place of future crashing and far beyond the tongues and lashing
there lies a blaze that’s burning, never to be drenched.
When people live and love beyond themselves, hearts betray this bitter world, there’s bound to be a breaking.
But I can’t sweat for better yet when all I have is manifest in who I am, who I was, and what I’m not mistaking:
that this is freedom, living and loving hard when guarantees are lewd and shard –
I can’t rest on human souls, cause they’re impractical and bruising.
There has got to be more, there’s got to be something deeper out there and I hope that you look and you find.
Because people are being restored where vines and branches sever more – never have I been so crazy,
kick the doors to free me to say that I’m alive and I’m thriving still, I’ve lost my feet but I won’t lose my will.
You can hurt, but you cannot kill the raging fires of a man who’s been caught by human lies time after time,
who’s been soaked and choked and wrung by compromise, who was once dead, but is now alive.
there's bound to be a breaking. hooray.
Unbeknownst to you and me, beyond the place of tyranny, there lies a love that holds us in sure and constant watch.
How past the place of future crashing and far beyond the tongues and lashing
there lies a blaze that’s burning, never to be drenched.
When people live and love beyond themselves, hearts betray this bitter world, there’s bound to be a breaking.
But I can’t sweat for better yet when all I have is manifest in who I am, who I was, and what I’m not mistaking:
that this is freedom, living and loving hard when guarantees are lewd and shard –
I can’t rest on human souls, cause they’re impractical and bruising.
There has got to be more, there’s got to be something deeper out there and I hope that you look and you find.
Because people are being restored where vines and branches sever more – never have I been so crazy,
kick the doors to free me to say that I’m alive and I’m thriving still, I’ve lost my feet but I won’t lose my will.
You can hurt, but you cannot kill the raging fires of a man who’s been caught by human lies time after time,
who’s been soaked and choked and wrung by compromise, who was once dead, but is now alive.
there's bound to be a breaking. hooray.
never have I been so crazy
It's June, which means summer, and summertime is so great. Although, may I take a moment to complain about the fact that for the first time in my life the arrival of summer literally changes nothing about my life? This is the first time ever I haven't been on a semester schedule, which means with summer comes change of some kind (no school & work instead, or new classes, or a new schedule, something) and this summer NOTHING IS CHANGING. I still go to the hedge fund. I still go to the J.Crew. I still do everything I did all spring. Being an adult is LAME.
I'm excited about summer though. There are lots of fun things ahead, fun weddings and consequent reunions, fun road trips and plane trips and concerts and shows and bike rides to bars and Sundays in the park. All of this is stellar. But I think I need an attitude switch & a fresh start. Because I've been kind of a brat, of late. And granted, some situations have possibly warranted a little brattiness. Or at least emotions, if not the full-on-bratitude. On a scale of possibility, it is possible to very possible that I am beginning to toe this line.
I'm a brat in large part I think because I still believe a lot of crap that isn't true - which I have written about enough times that writing it now would be redundant. Talking about it on my blog helps in that brain = dark & blog = light and bringing things into the light = fab, but the "publish" button does not have a direct link to my soul (because I googled it and I guess they haven't figured that out yet. I think there might be an iPhone app but since I don't have a job I can't afford one of those.) and making a list on my blog is only a teensy piece of the healing equation. It's a start. But I write these things - I beg for relief - and over and over again all I feel is grief that they do not yet seem real. Bottom line? My faith is kind of wimpy.
but hip-hip-hooray, faith of epic proportions is not a requirement:
Isn't that kind of awesome? Even just the mustard seed is enough.
Which is super fortunate, because it appears to be all I've got.
I'm excited about summer though. There are lots of fun things ahead, fun weddings and consequent reunions, fun road trips and plane trips and concerts and shows and bike rides to bars and Sundays in the park. All of this is stellar. But I think I need an attitude switch & a fresh start. Because I've been kind of a brat, of late. And granted, some situations have possibly warranted a little brattiness. Or at least emotions, if not the full-on-bratitude. On a scale of possibility, it is possible to very possible that I am beginning to toe this line.
I'm a brat in large part I think because I still believe a lot of crap that isn't true - which I have written about enough times that writing it now would be redundant. Talking about it on my blog helps in that brain = dark & blog = light and bringing things into the light = fab, but the "publish" button does not have a direct link to my soul (because I googled it and I guess they haven't figured that out yet. I think there might be an iPhone app but since I don't have a job I can't afford one of those.) and making a list on my blog is only a teensy piece of the healing equation. It's a start. But I write these things - I beg for relief - and over and over again all I feel is grief that they do not yet seem real. Bottom line? My faith is kind of wimpy.
but hip-hip-hooray, faith of epic proportions is not a requirement:
I suppose what I'm getting at, in the end, is that maybe thats all I can do today. A baby step or two.The apostles said to the Lord, "Increase our faith!"Jesus replied: "If you have faith as small as a mustard seed, you can say to this mulberry tree, 'Be uprooted and planted in the sea,' and it will obey you."
Isn't that kind of awesome? Even just the mustard seed is enough.
Which is super fortunate, because it appears to be all I've got.
May 26, 2010
confessions of a talkaholic
Yesterday I applied for 11 jobs. ELEVEN. That's one more than 10. (And a lot more than zero which is the more important statistic.) That also means I wrote 11 cover letters. And I will tell you a secret, I love writing, but I hate cover letters. I mean, you're trying to convince a person to take more than 6 seconds to consider you, much less to hire you for a job, which I feel is a very pressureful task. Perhaps I should keep it simple. It could go like this:
Dear Hiring Manager:
PLEASE JUST GIVE ME A CHANCE BECAUSE I'M AWESOME AND VERY WORTH IT I PROMISE! I'M SPECIAL I'M SPECIAL I'M SPECIAL!
Big hearts,
Megan
Shoot. I should have thought of this before.
If only I could put my real skills on my resume. I mean, all my counseling experience, fine. My volunteering, yeah, ok. Masters degree? Ehh. There isn't really a section to put things like "really good at decoupage" or "makes a mean grilled cheese" or "kick-a social skills" or "once made a giant cupcake in the shape of a cat" - but I can deal with those not being on there. But what I am really good at, where I really shine, is in the art of impersonation. Which my mom says is because I listen to sounds instead of words. (read: she thinks I don't listen to her. which clearly I do because I remember that she said that. ha.) Doing voices? I'm awesome. Telling stories? Yes. Fabulous. But unless you're looking for a job doing voices for animated films (which I will tell you I wholeheartedly wish I was) those things are not terribly handy.
You see, at a very young age, it became apparent that I was an attention fiend. I wanted to slow dance with the spotlight I loved it so much. Upon approaching the playground in my new neighborhood as a wee one, I am quoted as saying, "Look at all these kids! They are going to be so happy to meet me!" There is a video of my brother's birthday wherein I am trying (and failing) to get someone's attention. When traditional means failed me, clearly the only option was to pull up my dress to show off my fancy undies. I was 17. (Just kidding, that would be weird. I was only like 5. Which isn't weird.)
Now, I like to think I have come a long way and am not quite the attention jezabel I once was (family - please refrain from commenting). I have found reasonable ways to channel my need to be heard, because a 25 year old screaming LOOK AT ME! LISTEN TO ME! is an unhappy combination of trainwreck and hot mess. And it hasn't been socially acceptable for me to lift up my dress for about 20 years now, so that option is out. But just because we grow up doesn't necessarily mean we change. We just find more socially acceptable (read: sneaky) ways to get our needs met (read: get what we want). We find grown up words to say little kid things. Are you starting to see how this works?
I think the reason I have these particular talents has a great deal to do with the fact that I realized that I like words (read: I like to talk). A lot. And the only way I was going to get people to listen to me as much as I wanted them to was if I got really good at it (talking, that is). Not to mention, due to higher-than-normal levels of teen angst, in my high school years I had to stifle all of my natural instincts in order to blend in. (Now, apparently, I'm frantically making up for lost time.) I don't know why I think thats so funny, but I do. At the root of my present love for writing, a good story, and a superb impersonation is nothing more than my childhood search for fame paired with a reaction to my high school need to not rock boats. That's funny to me.
Makes me wonder about people who are good at stuff... what playground moment is at the root of their success?
For those of you who don't know me as well as others, I like hyperbole. (read: I like to be dramatic.) Please don't read this and think, "wow, she thinks really highly of herself," or "wow, every time I am talking to her she is probably just waiting for the next time its her turn to talk." False. I like laughing as much as I like making people laugh, and I like hearing as much as I like being heard.
So there. That will teach you to make assumptions about people. Shame on you.
Yes, I know I just made the assumption that you were judging me, but that's different.
To sum it up:
I like to talk. In order to get people to listen to me, I had to make it interesting. So here we are.
(aaaaaaaaand I think I just found my new blog tagline.)
Dear Hiring Manager:
PLEASE JUST GIVE ME A CHANCE BECAUSE I'M AWESOME AND VERY WORTH IT I PROMISE! I'M SPECIAL I'M SPECIAL I'M SPECIAL!
Big hearts,
Megan
Shoot. I should have thought of this before.
If only I could put my real skills on my resume. I mean, all my counseling experience, fine. My volunteering, yeah, ok. Masters degree? Ehh. There isn't really a section to put things like "really good at decoupage" or "makes a mean grilled cheese" or "kick-a social skills" or "once made a giant cupcake in the shape of a cat" - but I can deal with those not being on there. But what I am really good at, where I really shine, is in the art of impersonation. Which my mom says is because I listen to sounds instead of words. (read: she thinks I don't listen to her. which clearly I do because I remember that she said that. ha.) Doing voices? I'm awesome. Telling stories? Yes. Fabulous. But unless you're looking for a job doing voices for animated films (which I will tell you I wholeheartedly wish I was) those things are not terribly handy.
You see, at a very young age, it became apparent that I was an attention fiend. I wanted to slow dance with the spotlight I loved it so much. Upon approaching the playground in my new neighborhood as a wee one, I am quoted as saying, "Look at all these kids! They are going to be so happy to meet me!" There is a video of my brother's birthday wherein I am trying (and failing) to get someone's attention. When traditional means failed me, clearly the only option was to pull up my dress to show off my fancy undies. I was 17. (Just kidding, that would be weird. I was only like 5. Which isn't weird.)
Now, I like to think I have come a long way and am not quite the attention jezabel I once was (family - please refrain from commenting). I have found reasonable ways to channel my need to be heard, because a 25 year old screaming LOOK AT ME! LISTEN TO ME! is an unhappy combination of trainwreck and hot mess. And it hasn't been socially acceptable for me to lift up my dress for about 20 years now, so that option is out. But just because we grow up doesn't necessarily mean we change. We just find more socially acceptable (read: sneaky) ways to get our needs met (read: get what we want). We find grown up words to say little kid things. Are you starting to see how this works?
I think the reason I have these particular talents has a great deal to do with the fact that I realized that I like words (read: I like to talk). A lot. And the only way I was going to get people to listen to me as much as I wanted them to was if I got really good at it (talking, that is). Not to mention, due to higher-than-normal levels of teen angst, in my high school years I had to stifle all of my natural instincts in order to blend in. (Now, apparently, I'm frantically making up for lost time.) I don't know why I think thats so funny, but I do. At the root of my present love for writing, a good story, and a superb impersonation is nothing more than my childhood search for fame paired with a reaction to my high school need to not rock boats. That's funny to me.
Makes me wonder about people who are good at stuff... what playground moment is at the root of their success?
For those of you who don't know me as well as others, I like hyperbole. (read: I like to be dramatic.) Please don't read this and think, "wow, she thinks really highly of herself," or "wow, every time I am talking to her she is probably just waiting for the next time its her turn to talk." False. I like laughing as much as I like making people laugh, and I like hearing as much as I like being heard.
So there. That will teach you to make assumptions about people. Shame on you.
Yes, I know I just made the assumption that you were judging me, but that's different.
To sum it up:
I like to talk. In order to get people to listen to me, I had to make it interesting. So here we are.
(aaaaaaaaand I think I just found my new blog tagline.)
May 24, 2010
experience: that most brutal of teachers
[I kind of think I write the same stuff over & over again. I think it's easily explained by the fact that I don't learn lessons easily so they have to get taught to me over & over until I figure it out. Maybe you're the same way. If you're not, well, hang in there. I'll get it eventually. Probably.]
One of my friends at The Well was telling me yesterday that he missed a chance to see his kids. We've talked a lot about them in the past and I have sat with him many times as he weeps because he misses them. He's never angry about it, and when he does cry he does it gracefully - but his heart hurts, and it hurts mine to see. So when he told me he missed that chance, I was surprised. And since I feel like he trusts me (at least a little), I asked him why.
There wasn't really a reason. What it comes down to, I think, is that he got caught up in shame. My friend is homeless, and he didn't want his kids to see him because he didn't feel good/clean/successful enough. Instead of answering my question, he half-joked, embarrassed, "I've just got to get myself together."
I hate that.
What I want is for him to see what I see, which is, among other things, a genuinely kind and compassionate person. A dad who wants what is best for his children. A man who is worthy of grace & love & mercy. A friend. And the fact that he doesn't have a job or a home or a haircut is kind of inconsequential when it comes to who he is. Of course, hate it or not, I know exactly how he feels. It's exactly the kind of crap I think all the time.
I can't help but wonder how many chances we miss because we don't have ourselves together just yet.
I wonder how many times we let shame convince us that we're not worthy of what our hearts desire.
I wonder how many of our tears are shed because we didn't show up, and we could have.
I wonder how often we become something we're not simply because we've forgotten who we are.
I told my friend that next time, I hoped he would show up anyway.
He promised he'd try. So I guess I'd better try too. It's only fair.
One of my friends at The Well was telling me yesterday that he missed a chance to see his kids. We've talked a lot about them in the past and I have sat with him many times as he weeps because he misses them. He's never angry about it, and when he does cry he does it gracefully - but his heart hurts, and it hurts mine to see. So when he told me he missed that chance, I was surprised. And since I feel like he trusts me (at least a little), I asked him why.
There wasn't really a reason. What it comes down to, I think, is that he got caught up in shame. My friend is homeless, and he didn't want his kids to see him because he didn't feel good/clean/successful enough. Instead of answering my question, he half-joked, embarrassed, "I've just got to get myself together."
I hate that.
What I want is for him to see what I see, which is, among other things, a genuinely kind and compassionate person. A dad who wants what is best for his children. A man who is worthy of grace & love & mercy. A friend. And the fact that he doesn't have a job or a home or a haircut is kind of inconsequential when it comes to who he is. Of course, hate it or not, I know exactly how he feels. It's exactly the kind of crap I think all the time.
I can't help but wonder how many chances we miss because we don't have ourselves together just yet.
I wonder how many times we let shame convince us that we're not worthy of what our hearts desire.
I wonder how many of our tears are shed because we didn't show up, and we could have.
I wonder how often we become something we're not simply because we've forgotten who we are.
I told my friend that next time, I hoped he would show up anyway.
He promised he'd try. So I guess I'd better try too. It's only fair.
May 18, 2010
the gift of 'me too'
What I'm about to tell you is nothing novel. Its not new or exciting or earth-shattering, but I think it is true. And I think it is beautiful. If that's as far as I ever get (if I even get that far), I'm fine with that.
C.S. Lewis puts it this way:
And it's real, above all, which is perhaps the very scariest part.
Wrapped up in the spoils of our shame I think we start to feel like we are the only ones with pain and brokenness and ugly parts. For a very long time, I had pain that I literally, no exaggeration, thought no one could or would ever understand. I was alone there... until one day I wasn't. Until I did a vulnerability override and said what I most dreaded saying. And finally, at long last, I was met with someone else who felt like me. Another human being sits with me, hears me, sees me, and responds with a timid and maybe even somewhat reluctant, "me too." It was beautiful.
It's still beautiful. Because when it happens, I can almost literally hear shame breaking. Loneliness shatters like the glass I knocked off my nightstand the other morning when I reached for the alarm clock in a panic. You can feel your heart change in a similar manner to that of the Grinch's, which I have a very vivid visual for thanks to Dr. Seuss. Relief fills your body and your shoulders un-tense and your face breaks into a smile whether you want it to or not and maybe you even get a little emotional in your eyeballs. It is a great gift, and one that not just anyone can give you. Which makes it all the more special.
I am deeply thankful for the me too and for the comfort & liberation that comes with it. I hope sincerely and with great fervor that you are given the same gift that I have been given. I hope when your tummy starts to flip and words spill out of your mouth that someone looks at you, looks at your ugliest parts, your deepest hurts, and says:
Me too.
You are not alone anymore.
I hope you can hear shame break and loneliness shatter.
And I hope you get a big fat glimpse of Jesus in all of it.
C.S. Lewis puts it this way:
Friendship is born at that moment when one person says to another, "What! You too? I thought I was the only one!"Only recently have I begun to grasp the power of the words "me too." Some of my greatest relationships even at this very moment I can legitimately trace back to those two words. I remember more clearly than most things the day or night when we sat for hours, walked in the park, stayed up too late, drank coffee, ate lunch - when we discovered the me-too. There is typically a moment when I'm sitting with the other person and I realize I have a decision to make. I feel a slight twinge and I think, Am I really going to share that? Right now? With this person? I take a tiny moment and do a quick vulnerability risk assessment (the findings of which, thankfully, I tend to ignore). My stomach is doing flip-flops before I have even decided for sure if I am going to let the words leave my mouth. Am I going to talk, or throw up? I'm honestly not sure.
It's an "I struggle..." or an "I've lost..." or an "I'm afraid..."
It is vulnerable, tender, intimate.And it's real, above all, which is perhaps the very scariest part.
Wrapped up in the spoils of our shame I think we start to feel like we are the only ones with pain and brokenness and ugly parts. For a very long time, I had pain that I literally, no exaggeration, thought no one could or would ever understand. I was alone there... until one day I wasn't. Until I did a vulnerability override and said what I most dreaded saying. And finally, at long last, I was met with someone else who felt like me. Another human being sits with me, hears me, sees me, and responds with a timid and maybe even somewhat reluctant, "me too." It was beautiful.
It's still beautiful. Because when it happens, I can almost literally hear shame breaking. Loneliness shatters like the glass I knocked off my nightstand the other morning when I reached for the alarm clock in a panic. You can feel your heart change in a similar manner to that of the Grinch's, which I have a very vivid visual for thanks to Dr. Seuss. Relief fills your body and your shoulders un-tense and your face breaks into a smile whether you want it to or not and maybe you even get a little emotional in your eyeballs. It is a great gift, and one that not just anyone can give you. Which makes it all the more special.
I am deeply thankful for the me too and for the comfort & liberation that comes with it. I hope sincerely and with great fervor that you are given the same gift that I have been given. I hope when your tummy starts to flip and words spill out of your mouth that someone looks at you, looks at your ugliest parts, your deepest hurts, and says:
Me too.
You are not alone anymore.
I hope you can hear shame break and loneliness shatter.
And I hope you get a big fat glimpse of Jesus in all of it.
April 27, 2010
sitting on other people's stuff [so. many. jobs.]
We (the unemployeds) love this. Its a sure thing. A magical opportunity. "Would you like to [whatever]-sit for us?" is music to my ears. You do very little and get paid for it. Because here's the thing about sitting on stuff. Housesitting, dogsitting, babysitting, all sittings. All you really have to do is another human being's basic responsibilities for a limited amount of time. And get paid for it. I can think of few things more awesome than this.
The thing I do most these days is nanny. FYI, "nanny" is the mid-twenties version of "babysit." Whereas you babysit when you are a preteen, and maybe in high school, you nanny as a grownup. The semantics here are crucial. Nobody wants to be 25 and a babysitter. How embarrassing. So I nanny. Don't mix this up. I nanny for lots of random families and one pretty regularly these days. Let me tell you something. If nannying were my career goal, I'd be ALL SET. Do you know what a hot commodity a 25 year old, moderately responsible (at least they think so, muahaha) nanny with infant experience is? Really hot. Moms love me right now. So I hang out with a lot of babies.
And I will tell you something else. Babies love me too. I'm like a one-woman floor show. All I do is entertain (which, lets be honest, is a win-win, because entertaining fills my heart with glee). My target audience? Children under 5. I sing a lot, I dance (I mix some pretty sweet jams on those annoying keyboards that have the pre-set beats), and I read books in awesome voices. Dr. Seuss books are my forte, I'd say, because the rhyming really allows me to stretch and challenge myself. I'm also getting really good at the Itsy Bitsy Spider and Little Bunny Foo Foo. Always crowd pleasers. Allison has told me several times that she'd like to secretly film me with babies to see what I do because I'm pretty sure she's pretty sure it borders on insane. Which is possibly true.
The only thing I really have difficulty with is the stroller. I. hate. strollers. Seriously. This is what I think happened: whoever invented the stroller then had a meeting with the 380 different people who were going to form stroller companies. In an effort to make my life miserable (I'm positive this is personal), they came up with the brilliant idea that each of the eleventy billion kinds of strollers should be just a little bit different, so that those who spend their time nannying for various families with various strollers would never, ever be able to figure them out. I have spent more minutes of my life trying to figure out how to unlock stroller wheels than I care to count. I have to really keep my potty mouth in check when it comes time to take walks, because strollers have the potential to fill me with fury.
But I love that its getting nice and that we can go on walks and go to the park, which is my favorite. As an added bonus, there is a significant plethora of cute boys who go to the park too. Which makes it highly unfortunate that when I am there I am usually singing songs about the park that I've made up or making funny faces down into the stroller. I try to go on the weekends some too to balance it out. And I make sure I look super cute when I go either way so maybe it will override some of my innate weirdness. Probably won't, but its worth a shot. I'll keep you posted.
So that is a little peek into another portion of the many ways I am paying my bills week to week. Really and truly, I like babies and making babies laugh, so that's lucky. I think I can handle being an occasional nanny for a while longer. Not a babysitter though. 25 and still a babysitter? Embarrassing. Social suicide. Nanny, though? Moderately respectable. I'll take it.
April 7, 2010
a friendly reminder
my sweet friend brought this (back) to my attention last night:
"if we consider the unblushing promises of reward & the staggering nature of the rewards promised in the Gospels, it would seem that our Lord finds our desires not too strong, but too weak. we are half-hearted creatures, fooling about with drink & sex & ambition when infinite joy is offered us, like an ignorant child who wants to go on making mud pies in a slum because he cannot imagine what is meant by the offer of a holiday at the sea. we are far too easily pleased."
-C.S. Lewis
"if we consider the unblushing promises of reward & the staggering nature of the rewards promised in the Gospels, it would seem that our Lord finds our desires not too strong, but too weak. we are half-hearted creatures, fooling about with drink & sex & ambition when infinite joy is offered us, like an ignorant child who wants to go on making mud pies in a slum because he cannot imagine what is meant by the offer of a holiday at the sea. we are far too easily pleased."
-C.S. Lewis
I am thankful that there are people in my life who will remind me of the offer of a holiday at the sea when I have forgotten. I am thankful for the people who love me enough to remind me that there is infinite joy offered to us. I am thankful that there are people who will show me Jesus in my muddiest, slummiest moments - so that I can wake up on snowy mornings like this one and feel hopeful. and maybe even a little bit Easter-y.
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