Sorry, folks. The next part for Motivations should be out soon, but yeah. I know in the beginning, I said it would be 4 parts, but to my credit, I did say "or more". So, I realized I need "more". As of right now, I am planning on 4 more parts - total of 8 parts.
So, hope you are all doing well - I only have 2 more weeks left in Philly until I go home and leave immediately for London/Paris/Rome with my familia!
Just food for thought:
"For this very reason, make every effort to add to your faith goodness; and to goodness, knowledge; and to knowledge, self-control; and to self-control, perseverance; and to perseverance, godliness; and to godliness, brotherly kindness; and to brotherly kindness, love. For if you possess these qualities in increasing measure, they will keep you from being ineffective and unproductive in your knowledge of our Lord Jesus Christ. But if anyone does not have them, he is nearsighted and blind, and has forgotten that he has been cleansed from his past sins." (2 Peter 1:5-9)
Monday, July 27, 2009
Saturday, July 18, 2009
motivations: respect me
Might be a little too emo for some of y'all. But don't worry, things can only go up from now on.
“Don’t give me that face when I’m talking to you.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You know exactly what I’m talking about, Harry.” She threw the dishrag onto the kitchen counter. “It’s that stoic face you give me, as if the words I’m saying to you aren’t even reaching the tips of your ears.”
“I can hear you just fine. Stop shouting.”
“You can hear me, but are you listening? Do you ever listen to anyone else but yourself?”
“I’m a psychology professor, Annette.”
“Not a therapist.”
“So, what? Are you trying to say that I’m unqualified to listen to you?”
“If you had been listening, then you would know that that is exactly what I’ve been saying all along!”
He sighed heavily, set down his wine glass, and got off the stool. “Annette, this is so juvenile. I’m sorry that you feel the need to be adamant about projecting your frustrations on me about your infertility, okay?”
“Are you saying that this is all my fault?”
“Well technically, I haven’t done anything wrong. What else do you want me to say?”
“Do you even understand how much this is hurting us, hurting me right now?”
“Annette, we can hardly take care of ourselves right now. We can’t even manage this” he motioned to the space between them “right now. How can you expect to raise a child?”
She stared at him with a fierce gaze. “You’re right. You’re absolutely right. I’m sorry for being the stupid one in this situation. It doesn’t matter that I’m 32 years old right now and I don’t have anyone to call my own, that I’m this immature woman in my mother’s eyes because I’ve never raised a child before, that my husband doesn’t care enough to li-”
He slammed his fist down on the kitchen island. “Can you stop already? It’s not weird to not have children in this day and age, okay? Maybe we’re just not ready for it.”
“Not ready for it?” Her voice was becoming progressively shakier. “Harry, you’re going to be 35 soon. If we wait until you’re ready, you’ll be a grandfather’s age by the time our child goes to college.”
“Then maybe we’re not fit to have a child at all.”
“You don’t want to consider adoption at all? I’m begging you to just listen and consider it. I’ll give you as much time as you need to think about it.”
“We’re not fit to have our own child, let alone someone else’s child.”
“How can you say that?”
“Just drop it, Annette. I’m done.” He left the kitchen.
He tried to ignore the wails that he heard downstairs. Though they pierced through his heart, the fear that rested there was greater than his mangled sympathy for his wife.
He just wasn’t ready to take on the responsibility of becoming a father. And somehow, by a miracle (in his eyes), she wasn’t able to bear children anyway, which made the decision to not have posterity much easier. Was he being selfish? Sure, but it ran in the family.
It scared him daily to know that he was becoming more like the man that he had resolved so firmly not to be when he was younger. And as he felt Annette slip into bed next to him, carefully wrapping her arms around his waist with a defeated air, he felt his self-loathing more deeply and couldn’t help but let bitter tears form at the corner of his eyes.
He had visited his father the other day. He was old and dying, having lived a long life of drinking, sleeping with women who weren’t his wives, and bad-mouthing everyone “below” him just because he was an accomplished surgeon at a big name hospital.
“You’re here again,” he had said, not looking away from the window.
“I don’t know why I am,” Harry admitted.
“Then go home to your lovely wife.”
“How have you been feeling lately?”
“Like I’m ready to die and move on.”
“How have the treatments been?”
“Sub-par. Don’t know what these young doctors these days are thinking.”
“Are they doing something wrong? Do you want me to let them know?”
His father laughed coarsely, which turned into a short coughing fit. “Do you think that I would sit here and let them keep doing something wrong? What do you take 50 years of experience for?”
“I wasn’t saying that you wouldn’t, just maybe that you might have –”
“Been rude about it? I know you think that your dad is a dirty scoundrel, but I’m clear about medical procedures, all right? They’re just like you – not an ounce of respect.”
He stood there silently.
“Not going to argue with me this time, are you? Well, that makes my life a little easier. Should have done that while you were growing up, maybe I’d have less white hairs on this head.”
“Sure.”
“You know, I always liked your brother better. It’s too bad he’s not around anymore. But at least I’ll have company when I die.”
He couldn’t stand to be there anymore, so he glanced at his watch, saying, “I have to run now. But let me know if you need anything.”
“Peace and quiet would be just fine, thanks.”
“Bye, Dad. I’ll be back next week.”
“Don’t bother.”
His father had always told him that he should have become a “real” doctor, instead of a Ph.D. His younger brother Peter, who was killed in a freak motor accident a few years ago, had gone to medical school and become a respected surgeon just like their father, earning more of his respect than Harry ever did. Their youngest one, Natalie, had distanced herself from their family long ago and only occasionally called Harry and their mother to say how she was doing.
When Harry was seven years old, his father left his family to pursue a woman 22 years his minor – which was technically not unusual, as he was married to a woman 15 years his minor. He didn’t realize that the nice lady that he had met at the restaurant while eating dinner with his father would be the one that would spiral his family into hell for the next seven years. With two young children and a baby on the way, his mother couldn’t handle the stress at first and didn’t come out of her room for two weeks. Their grandmother briefly moved in with them to help carry the burden, but Harry had to suddenly grow up quickly in order to soothe his family’s pain.
One Tuesday after school, he found his father sitting at the kitchen table, a glass of whiskey in his hand, and his ruined mother sat next to him clasping his other hand, looking like she was holding back tears.
“How’s it going, champ?” He patted the seat next to him.
A raging wrath flowed through him like no other in that moment. He tore apart his mother’s hand from his father’s, knocking out the glass that was in the other hand. Shards of glass sprinkled the tiles. The next moment would define his life forever.
His father stood up and hit him in the head with a brutal, unforgiving force. His mother screamed, but was too frozen in her spot to do anything.
“I come back after seven years and this is the best you can do? Obviously your mother did not teach you anything about respecting your elders.”
“What’s there to respect, Dad?” He spat out the word. His father dealt him another blow, to which his mother gave another muffled scream. Peter and Natalie ran into the kitchen and begged his father to stop, crying, “Daddy, Daddy, stop, you’re hurting him!”
He peeled himself off the ground, his hands bleeding from the glass that had pricked his palms, and stared his father squarely in the face.
“I hate you.” He slowly formed fists with his hands. “You’re exactly the kind of man I hope I never become.” He then ran upstairs to his room and locked the door, rocking back and forth under his covers until nighttime, when his mother softly knocked, asking to come in and see his hands.
He had kept to his word and went in the complete opposite direction of his father. Even though he applied to medical school and got in, he declined the offer to turn to professorship. He dated one woman faithfully his whole life and eventually got married to her. He stayed away from most alcoholic drinks, except the occasional glass of wine with dinner. He was loving to his mother and remembered her birthday and Christmas presents every year.
And yet, every time he would find himself lashing out at Annette, saying things that he knew would scar her and put her in a state of submission, he saw glimpses of his father in him and he would want to shed his skin and run away from it all. She didn’t deserve to be with someone as broken and afraid as him, and no child deserved to be tied to him either. He didn’t deserve that child’s love. And he simply did not want to bear the responsibility of messing up the child, either.
He commanded respect from his students, from his peers, even subconsciously from Annette sometimes, but in the best, non-condescending way possible. He wanted to feel like he had worth as a human being, but looking at his darkness, he realized that he was still nothing.
He turned around to face his wife, who was now in a deep sleep. He brushed away the hair from her face and lightly kissed her forehead. She stirred slightly and snuggled herself closer to him. He felt sorrowful love well up inside him and before he could hold her more tightly, she spoke.
---
Respect Me
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You know exactly what I’m talking about, Harry.” She threw the dishrag onto the kitchen counter. “It’s that stoic face you give me, as if the words I’m saying to you aren’t even reaching the tips of your ears.”
“I can hear you just fine. Stop shouting.”
“You can hear me, but are you listening? Do you ever listen to anyone else but yourself?”
“I’m a psychology professor, Annette.”
“Not a therapist.”
“So, what? Are you trying to say that I’m unqualified to listen to you?”
“If you had been listening, then you would know that that is exactly what I’ve been saying all along!”
He sighed heavily, set down his wine glass, and got off the stool. “Annette, this is so juvenile. I’m sorry that you feel the need to be adamant about projecting your frustrations on me about your infertility, okay?”
“Are you saying that this is all my fault?”
“Well technically, I haven’t done anything wrong. What else do you want me to say?”
“Do you even understand how much this is hurting us, hurting me right now?”
“Annette, we can hardly take care of ourselves right now. We can’t even manage this” he motioned to the space between them “right now. How can you expect to raise a child?”
She stared at him with a fierce gaze. “You’re right. You’re absolutely right. I’m sorry for being the stupid one in this situation. It doesn’t matter that I’m 32 years old right now and I don’t have anyone to call my own, that I’m this immature woman in my mother’s eyes because I’ve never raised a child before, that my husband doesn’t care enough to li-”
He slammed his fist down on the kitchen island. “Can you stop already? It’s not weird to not have children in this day and age, okay? Maybe we’re just not ready for it.”
“Not ready for it?” Her voice was becoming progressively shakier. “Harry, you’re going to be 35 soon. If we wait until you’re ready, you’ll be a grandfather’s age by the time our child goes to college.”
“Then maybe we’re not fit to have a child at all.”
“You don’t want to consider adoption at all? I’m begging you to just listen and consider it. I’ll give you as much time as you need to think about it.”
“We’re not fit to have our own child, let alone someone else’s child.”
“How can you say that?”
“Just drop it, Annette. I’m done.” He left the kitchen.
He tried to ignore the wails that he heard downstairs. Though they pierced through his heart, the fear that rested there was greater than his mangled sympathy for his wife.
He just wasn’t ready to take on the responsibility of becoming a father. And somehow, by a miracle (in his eyes), she wasn’t able to bear children anyway, which made the decision to not have posterity much easier. Was he being selfish? Sure, but it ran in the family.
It scared him daily to know that he was becoming more like the man that he had resolved so firmly not to be when he was younger. And as he felt Annette slip into bed next to him, carefully wrapping her arms around his waist with a defeated air, he felt his self-loathing more deeply and couldn’t help but let bitter tears form at the corner of his eyes.
He had visited his father the other day. He was old and dying, having lived a long life of drinking, sleeping with women who weren’t his wives, and bad-mouthing everyone “below” him just because he was an accomplished surgeon at a big name hospital.
“You’re here again,” he had said, not looking away from the window.
“I don’t know why I am,” Harry admitted.
“Then go home to your lovely wife.”
“How have you been feeling lately?”
“Like I’m ready to die and move on.”
“How have the treatments been?”
“Sub-par. Don’t know what these young doctors these days are thinking.”
“Are they doing something wrong? Do you want me to let them know?”
His father laughed coarsely, which turned into a short coughing fit. “Do you think that I would sit here and let them keep doing something wrong? What do you take 50 years of experience for?”
“I wasn’t saying that you wouldn’t, just maybe that you might have –”
“Been rude about it? I know you think that your dad is a dirty scoundrel, but I’m clear about medical procedures, all right? They’re just like you – not an ounce of respect.”
He stood there silently.
“Not going to argue with me this time, are you? Well, that makes my life a little easier. Should have done that while you were growing up, maybe I’d have less white hairs on this head.”
“Sure.”
“You know, I always liked your brother better. It’s too bad he’s not around anymore. But at least I’ll have company when I die.”
He couldn’t stand to be there anymore, so he glanced at his watch, saying, “I have to run now. But let me know if you need anything.”
“Peace and quiet would be just fine, thanks.”
“Bye, Dad. I’ll be back next week.”
“Don’t bother.”
His father had always told him that he should have become a “real” doctor, instead of a Ph.D. His younger brother Peter, who was killed in a freak motor accident a few years ago, had gone to medical school and become a respected surgeon just like their father, earning more of his respect than Harry ever did. Their youngest one, Natalie, had distanced herself from their family long ago and only occasionally called Harry and their mother to say how she was doing.
When Harry was seven years old, his father left his family to pursue a woman 22 years his minor – which was technically not unusual, as he was married to a woman 15 years his minor. He didn’t realize that the nice lady that he had met at the restaurant while eating dinner with his father would be the one that would spiral his family into hell for the next seven years. With two young children and a baby on the way, his mother couldn’t handle the stress at first and didn’t come out of her room for two weeks. Their grandmother briefly moved in with them to help carry the burden, but Harry had to suddenly grow up quickly in order to soothe his family’s pain.
One Tuesday after school, he found his father sitting at the kitchen table, a glass of whiskey in his hand, and his ruined mother sat next to him clasping his other hand, looking like she was holding back tears.
“How’s it going, champ?” He patted the seat next to him.
A raging wrath flowed through him like no other in that moment. He tore apart his mother’s hand from his father’s, knocking out the glass that was in the other hand. Shards of glass sprinkled the tiles. The next moment would define his life forever.
His father stood up and hit him in the head with a brutal, unforgiving force. His mother screamed, but was too frozen in her spot to do anything.
“I come back after seven years and this is the best you can do? Obviously your mother did not teach you anything about respecting your elders.”
“What’s there to respect, Dad?” He spat out the word. His father dealt him another blow, to which his mother gave another muffled scream. Peter and Natalie ran into the kitchen and begged his father to stop, crying, “Daddy, Daddy, stop, you’re hurting him!”
He peeled himself off the ground, his hands bleeding from the glass that had pricked his palms, and stared his father squarely in the face.
“I hate you.” He slowly formed fists with his hands. “You’re exactly the kind of man I hope I never become.” He then ran upstairs to his room and locked the door, rocking back and forth under his covers until nighttime, when his mother softly knocked, asking to come in and see his hands.
He had kept to his word and went in the complete opposite direction of his father. Even though he applied to medical school and got in, he declined the offer to turn to professorship. He dated one woman faithfully his whole life and eventually got married to her. He stayed away from most alcoholic drinks, except the occasional glass of wine with dinner. He was loving to his mother and remembered her birthday and Christmas presents every year.
And yet, every time he would find himself lashing out at Annette, saying things that he knew would scar her and put her in a state of submission, he saw glimpses of his father in him and he would want to shed his skin and run away from it all. She didn’t deserve to be with someone as broken and afraid as him, and no child deserved to be tied to him either. He didn’t deserve that child’s love. And he simply did not want to bear the responsibility of messing up the child, either.
He commanded respect from his students, from his peers, even subconsciously from Annette sometimes, but in the best, non-condescending way possible. He wanted to feel like he had worth as a human being, but looking at his darkness, he realized that he was still nothing.
He turned around to face his wife, who was now in a deep sleep. He brushed away the hair from her face and lightly kissed her forehead. She stirred slightly and snuggled herself closer to him. He felt sorrowful love well up inside him and before he could hold her more tightly, she spoke.
“Forgive him.”
© 2009. Sarah R.
Sunday, July 12, 2009
motivations: like me
Like Me
The room was humid. A few hundred souls stirred in their seats, listening intently to a man speaking softly at the podium. The ups and downs of his voice reciting verses and lessons made the warmth of the room a little too inviting. Heads nodded, feet tapped, fingers poked - all in a futile attempt to remain awake.
A good half-hour passed before the pastor wrapped up and called for some music while the congregation prayed. She got out of her chair quickly and silently and made her way to the keyboard. Playing a sequence of soothing notes, she closed her eyes and listened to the murmuring of a few hundred voices.
Soon after, the church service ended, and she made her way out to the lobby. The routine was the same - she woke up at 7 a.m. to meet for practice, began playing at 10:30 a.m., wrapped up by 12:30 p.m., and greeted people until the last stragglers left around 1:30 p.m. She generally liked to smile - it was one of her hobbies - but some Sundays, she felt her face becoming numb with the Barbie expression she tried to keep up consistently. As she sipped the burnt coffee, she tended to the fawning elder ladies who admired her playing.
"Beautiful worship today," one woman said.
"I was very much blessed, dear child," another remarked.
"Thank you so much for your kind words," she answered. "Are you heading to South Carolina with your husband this week?" It was sometimes difficult to keep up with everyone's schedule. She bit her lower lip, hoping it was the right one.
"I am," the woman responded. "So nice of you to remember. We're very excited to see our grandchildren at the beach!"
"They are precious," she said, smiling more brightly. She gave a slight nod of the head in another direction, "I'm so sorry, but I need to tend to some matters. Have a wonderful trip, Ingrid."
She wove her way out of the admirer region and headed toward the kitchen to get water.
Before she reached the stack of cups, the pastor stopped her.
A good half-hour passed before the pastor wrapped up and called for some music while the congregation prayed. She got out of her chair quickly and silently and made her way to the keyboard. Playing a sequence of soothing notes, she closed her eyes and listened to the murmuring of a few hundred voices.
Soon after, the church service ended, and she made her way out to the lobby. The routine was the same - she woke up at 7 a.m. to meet for practice, began playing at 10:30 a.m., wrapped up by 12:30 p.m., and greeted people until the last stragglers left around 1:30 p.m. She generally liked to smile - it was one of her hobbies - but some Sundays, she felt her face becoming numb with the Barbie expression she tried to keep up consistently. As she sipped the burnt coffee, she tended to the fawning elder ladies who admired her playing.
"Beautiful worship today," one woman said.
"I was very much blessed, dear child," another remarked.
"Thank you so much for your kind words," she answered. "Are you heading to South Carolina with your husband this week?" It was sometimes difficult to keep up with everyone's schedule. She bit her lower lip, hoping it was the right one.
"I am," the woman responded. "So nice of you to remember. We're very excited to see our grandchildren at the beach!"
"They are precious," she said, smiling more brightly. She gave a slight nod of the head in another direction, "I'm so sorry, but I need to tend to some matters. Have a wonderful trip, Ingrid."
She wove her way out of the admirer region and headed toward the kitchen to get water.
Before she reached the stack of cups, the pastor stopped her.
“Leah,” he greeted. “Wonderful job today.”
“Thank you for your kind words,” she repeated. “It was a stirring sermon.” She eyed the water cooler that slowly seemed to be running out of water as they spoke.
“My wife and I are having a picnic next Saturday, but we would love to have a time of worship –“ she knew what was coming “- so we were wondering if you would be available that day. We would love for you to come.”
She mentally conjured her planner for the next month. Saturday, unfortunately, was free.
“I think I would be able to stop by,” she answered slowly, being sure to carefully smile a partly noncommittal smile. She was such a pushover. A little boy tentatively pushed down the dispenser button, to no avail. The cooler was empty.
He clapped his hands together. “Wonderful! We will see you then. It’s at 1 p.m., a late lunch, per se. You know where the house is, right?”
She nodded absent-mindedly. Curses. She would just have to wait until she got home.
“Thank you for your kind words,” she repeated. “It was a stirring sermon.” She eyed the water cooler that slowly seemed to be running out of water as they spoke.
“My wife and I are having a picnic next Saturday, but we would love to have a time of worship –“ she knew what was coming “- so we were wondering if you would be available that day. We would love for you to come.”
She mentally conjured her planner for the next month. Saturday, unfortunately, was free.
“I think I would be able to stop by,” she answered slowly, being sure to carefully smile a partly noncommittal smile. She was such a pushover. A little boy tentatively pushed down the dispenser button, to no avail. The cooler was empty.
He clapped his hands together. “Wonderful! We will see you then. It’s at 1 p.m., a late lunch, per se. You know where the house is, right?”
She nodded absent-mindedly. Curses. She would just have to wait until she got home.
She headed back into the giant auditorium to help clean up the stage. As she made her way up the stairs, she noticed a man praying fervently, eyes shut with such a force she was afraid he would implode. Death by prayer, she morbidly laughed to herself. Blasphemous thoughts?
“That guy has been sitting here for the past 20 minutes,” the bassist said, following her gaze. “Intense man, kind of an interesting character.”
“Do you know who he is?” she asked while winding up one of the microphone chords.
“Not personally,” he answered. “I think his name was Nathan or something. Apparently, he’s a new believer - heard God’s voice loud and clear while going about his day, telling him to stop conforming to the pattern of this world and start living a transformed life, and bam, stumbled his way into our church a few weeks ago.”
She gave the man another glance before returning to the task at hand. “Interesting.”
The bassist laughed. “Don’t look so glum, Leah,” he teased. “I know it’s tough having to share His voice with a guy you barely know, but let’s not get selfish, yeah?”
She chucked the foam microphone cover at him. “Don’t test me.”
“That guy has been sitting here for the past 20 minutes,” the bassist said, following her gaze. “Intense man, kind of an interesting character.”
“Do you know who he is?” she asked while winding up one of the microphone chords.
“Not personally,” he answered. “I think his name was Nathan or something. Apparently, he’s a new believer - heard God’s voice loud and clear while going about his day, telling him to stop conforming to the pattern of this world and start living a transformed life, and bam, stumbled his way into our church a few weeks ago.”
She gave the man another glance before returning to the task at hand. “Interesting.”
The bassist laughed. “Don’t look so glum, Leah,” he teased. “I know it’s tough having to share His voice with a guy you barely know, but let’s not get selfish, yeah?”
She chucked the foam microphone cover at him. “Don’t test me.”
He had been referring to her conviction to go from signing a major record label to becoming part of a worship band at church and going to pharmacy school. She had been in the studio, singing songs about bitter heartbreaks and devious exes when one day, she found herself trapped in the sound box, reluctantly listening to God’s thunderous voice telling her to give it all up for Him.
She complied, shaken with fear and awe of the one God she had only learned about in Sunday school, and also unable to say no to the being who was supposedly omnipotent and omniscient and the alpha and the omega. But as time passed, she felt like she was simply pleasing her human parents.
Her dad was the pastor of a small church in Georgia, and her mother was a doctor who went on missions every year to Mongolia. She had grown up in the church, but she didn’t know who she was kidding when she went around telling people that she had suddenly changed her career path because of God’s undeniable voice; she had never felt too close to religion, much less Christianity.
She finished cleaning, bid farewell, and drove home.
She had always been a people-pleaser. It started with her parents, but then it extended to everyone around her as well. She strived to please her teachers, earning good grades and being the only source of sanity and helpfulness when her other classmates spoke out of turn or created drama within the classroom. But, she also knew when to tone it down enough so that her classmates wouldn’t hate her, so that she would be generally liked and admired, which wasn’t hard because of her warm eyes and amazing voice. She became a mini-celebrity in high school and college because of her singing capabilities, displayed through talent shows and a cappella performances. To her, pleasing others was her way out of confrontation or disappointment – the world was too full of both. So, with a smile plastered on and her heart a little lighter because of her amiable nature, she had lived her life fairly simply.
The one time when she defied the will of someone else was when she decided to drop out of her pre-pharmacy track and pursue her music whole-heartedly. It was an exhilarating feeling, speaking up for herself for the first time in her life. She had no idea how wonderful it would feel, to be able to run after something, knowing she would have no regrets because it was what she wanted. She had regretted some of the decisions she had made because of her eagerness to be obedient, but this time, she knew she was in the right.
Until the man upstairs told her otherwise.
She had a lot to leave behind: her frustrated manager, her two atheist band members who though she had gone insane from the stress, her database of Myspace fans who became confused that she switched genres, her rocker boyfriend who thought he was going to live vicariously through her success, her lifelong dream and her pride. How could this decision be right if it let so many people – including herself – down?
But eight years passed while she pondered that question for five minutes.
Everyday, before she walked out with her lab coat and keys, she stopped to look in the mirror to ask herself if this was the life she wanted to live.
And everyday, she found herself saying, “Maybe.”
Saturday rolled around, and she was in an interestingly pleasant mood. She put on a yellow sundress, packed her guitar in her car, and headed out.
The pastor’s house was a quaint white house, with stubby hedges and shrubs surrounding it. A huge tree sat on the far right of their yard, and a tire swing hung from one of the massive branches.
She stood for a moment, soaking up the ambience, then went to join the group that had formed itself into a circle.
“Beautiful weather today,” she greeted.
The pastor’s wife, a beautifully aged woman sitting in a summery ensemble and her head covered with an elegant straw hat, beckoned her to sit closer.
“You look beautiful today,” the wife said, handing her a cup of watermelon punch. “How have you been?”
“I’ve been doing well,” she said. “Managing.”
“How is work going?” She adjusted her hat and smoothed out her skirt.
“It’s going,” she laughed. “Just working on some research.”
The wife raised an eyebrow. “Trying to save the world on your own?”
She smiled. “Of course not. Only by God’s will, right?” The words tasted foreign in her mouth, no matter how many times she said it in the past few years.
“There hasn’t been a truer statement said,” the wife said approvingly. She picked up a mini chicken salad sandwich and made a pensive face for a second. She looked at her briefly before saying, “I hope you believe it too.”
She fiddled with the paper cup and mustered up a brighter smile. “I do.”
The wife clucked her tongue at her. “There was some hesitation there,” she teased. “Anything you want to tell me?”
“Nothing new,” she replied, grabbing a plateful of macaroni and cheese.
“All right, I’ll take your word for it,” the wife said. She glanced at her husband, who seemed to be on the verge of saying something. “I think it’ll soon be time for you to lead us in worship.” She patted her hand and turned to a lady to her left who had praised her garden.
The pastor’s house was a quaint white house, with stubby hedges and shrubs surrounding it. A huge tree sat on the far right of their yard, and a tire swing hung from one of the massive branches.
She stood for a moment, soaking up the ambience, then went to join the group that had formed itself into a circle.
“Beautiful weather today,” she greeted.
The pastor’s wife, a beautifully aged woman sitting in a summery ensemble and her head covered with an elegant straw hat, beckoned her to sit closer.
“You look beautiful today,” the wife said, handing her a cup of watermelon punch. “How have you been?”
“I’ve been doing well,” she said. “Managing.”
“How is work going?” She adjusted her hat and smoothed out her skirt.
“It’s going,” she laughed. “Just working on some research.”
The wife raised an eyebrow. “Trying to save the world on your own?”
She smiled. “Of course not. Only by God’s will, right?” The words tasted foreign in her mouth, no matter how many times she said it in the past few years.
“There hasn’t been a truer statement said,” the wife said approvingly. She picked up a mini chicken salad sandwich and made a pensive face for a second. She looked at her briefly before saying, “I hope you believe it too.”
She fiddled with the paper cup and mustered up a brighter smile. “I do.”
The wife clucked her tongue at her. “There was some hesitation there,” she teased. “Anything you want to tell me?”
“Nothing new,” she replied, grabbing a plateful of macaroni and cheese.
“All right, I’ll take your word for it,” the wife said. She glanced at her husband, who seemed to be on the verge of saying something. “I think it’ll soon be time for you to lead us in worship.” She patted her hand and turned to a lady to her left who had praised her garden.
As she strummed and began singing a hymn everyone knew the words to and loved, she replayed the conversation in her head, however small talk-like it was.
She looked around at the people smiling and following along in song and she couldn’t help but wonder: did they believe in His will? Did they believe that their lives were all part of some giant plan that they had no control over?
She looked around at the people smiling and following along in song and she couldn’t help but wonder: did they believe in His will? Did they believe that their lives were all part of some giant plan that they had no control over?
Maybe, she thought.
© 2009. Sarah R.
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
motivations: love me
Love Me
She picked him out from the sea of 250 psychology students. He was listening intently to the professor - cleverly condescending Professor Harry Mitchell - and jotting down notes furiously as the Powerpoint slides slipped by like subway cars that slid from station to station without care for the desperate passenger who was running late. He looked diligent, consistent. The way he pushed up his glasses hurriedly, as if that one movement would make him miss jotting down an extra sentence, and the way he twirled his pencil between his fingers very deliberately – it was all something very intriguing to her. And so, she liked him.
It took a while before she actually seized a chance to speak to her chosen one.
It was a Friday. There were spots of rain here and there, and once in a while, a ray of sunlight would shine before being quickly covered up by another cloud.
The boy – her boy – was sitting with his psychology textbook open on the library desk; he did not know that she lived for those random rays of sunlight. Especially on days like this. It was like finally having a crush requited after agonizing over him for months of angsty poetry and too-obvious actions like offering to go grocery shopping with him or folding his laundry for him – even if that requitement lasted only a few days of confused feelings.
In her mind, it was all planned out – they would begin studying together, he would finally invite her to dinner. She would play hard-to-get, but eventually agree to his request for her presence. They would eat tacos, become best friends, fall in love, get amazingly stable careers, and then get married all before she reached the age of 30, which to her, was an age that said, “You’re done with love forever.”
But that’s not exactly how things worked out, because she, never having dated, didn’t realize how far her addiction would go.
They did begin studying together, but it was she who finally asked him to dinner. He shrugged and took it casually, but she was more than elated. Though the conversation was awkward, a few more after-hours studying sessions later, things got better. He loosened up and seemed to open up to her more. And so she took charge.
“I’ll see you after your chemistry class today,” she said.
“But why? It’s on the opposite side of campus from you,” he said, putting his pen back into its pouch.
“Because I’m your girlfriend,” she answered matter-of-factly.
He stopped zipping up his backpack halfway and stared at her. She could feel her capillaries filling with unbearably hot blood, but remained resolute.
“Right,” he replied dryly, finishing his zipping.
That day, when he came out of his building to find that she had been eagerly awaiting him with two hot chocolates, and she handed him one and slipped her then-free hand into his, she couldn’t have been happier.
But slowly, she found herself doing the strangest things.
One time, she purposely got lost far from campus, and unable to figure out where she was, she panicked, feeling both the curious and the suspicious stares of those around her on the street. Face lined with tears, she called him at 3 a.m. – twice, because he was a heavy sleeper – and a groggy voice greeted her choked up one.
“I don’t know where I am, and I’m really scared,” she cried. “Can you come get me?”
Pajama- and boots-clad, he came to get her and took her back to her room, where she refused to let him leave until she fell asleep, gripping his hand so fiercely, he had to stretch it a few times on the way back to his own room.
Another time, she celebrated her failed final paper by getting extremely intoxicated to the point where she started yelling in the faces of complete strangers and dancing on top of a table. He pulled her down, shaking her wrist and shouting in her face, “Have you lost your mind? Have you seriously lost your mind?” over and over again until the words stopped sounding harsh, and they started to sound like a sweet lullaby, soothing her and reassuring her that one person, least of all Professor Mitchell, cared about her in this world. As he held back her hair in the bathroom and she poured out her guts, coughed up a lung, and lost all feeling of her brain, she thought she had never felt happier.
When things were normal, things were normal. They called each other once a day, regardless of whether or not they had seen each other. They made sure they ate lunch together on Tuesdays and Thursdays. He remembered their anniversaries and even created a decent surprise for their six-month affair, taking her out to dinner and then coming back to her room to find that he had invited her small circle of friends and some of his own for a night of Scrabble (her favorite game) and a viewing of the Godfather (his favorite movie.)
She distinctly remembered the first time they had exchanged “I love you” – she remembered what he was wearing, what the environment smelled like, what was going through her mind before they said it. And it was beautiful. So beautiful that she cried afterwards. And cried again when she thought about it when she got home. And got misty-eyed when she thought about it a week after.
She could never tire of hearing him say it. Three words had never mattered to her so much until she heard his husky voice repeat them to her over and over again on command.
“Can you say it one more time before I leave?”
He combed his hair with his fingers tentatively. “I love you, Allison.”
“I love you too, Derek.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow. Or I’ll text you later.”
“I’ll text you when I’m about to sleep.” She put on her shoes again and paused at the door. “I love you.”
He nodded. “Me too.”
He was so good to her – he listened to all her demands, all her problems, all her hopes and fears and dreams. She knew that she was being needy and inconsiderate of his own wants and needs, but she couldn’t help it. He loved her, and though that was an incredible fact to know, she needed it to be affirmed constantly, like an addiction that needed to constantly be fed.
One day, she thought she had lost her mind. So did he.
She had seen him interact with a girl from his church at the library. They were working together on a group project – the other member had failed to show up – and she observed them from afar while she caught up on some reading from her anthropology class. The girl laughed and touched his arm while she looked straight into his eyes. He smiled back amiably in a way that she hadn’t seen in a long time, and they returned to working on the poster in front of them. She felt like someone had punched her in the stomach – the sensation crawled from the tip of her head down to the bottom of her spine, and she suddenly felt like she couldn’t breathe. She saw them working diligently side-by-side, and all she could think was, “Help.”
He met her for dinner on campus, but she suggested they take a walk afterwards into the city. She held his hand tightly, her lips closed just as tightly.
“How was your afternoon?” he asked, wind blowing his moppy hair every which way.
“Fine,” she answered, half-closing her eyes as they strolled down the street. She could hear her heartbeat in her ears. It was deafening.
They reached the bridge that led into the city, and not knowing what came over her, she suddenly released his hand and started climbing up onto the railing of the bridge. She saw his face turn ghostly white and he grabbed for her waist, missed, and found her arm instead. She wobbled, making both their hearts stop for a second, and she balanced herself against a pole.
“What do you think you’re doing right now?!” he shouted, voice constricted.
She was eerily calm – her own calmness surprised her. “What do you think would happen if I lost my balance and just – ” she paused “- tipped over the bridge?”
Cars zoomed past them, and he kept feeling afraid that the wind force from the cars speeding past would knock her over.
“Wouldn’t it be funny? Like those America’s Funniest Home Videos you like to watch. Do you think I would make a big splash?”
“Allison, why are you doing this?” He tried to make his voice sound more delicate, more rational. “Come down right now. Let’s talk this out.”
She laughed. “What’s there to talk out? I’m just trying to live life more on the edge. Actually live life a bit.” She shook the arm he was holding onto. “Let go.”
“You’re acting like you want to die,” he said carefully. “I’m not letting go until you get down from there.”
“Why not? Why is death such a bad thing? Aren’t you always talking about how death isn’t the end – it’s the beginning?” Her voice shook. “Or maybe, since I’m going to hell, it’s the end, huh?”
“Allison, why are you doing this?” he repeated. “Don’t talk nonsense.”
“It’s not nonsense, it’s the truth. Just like the truth is, I love you. But you don’t love me,” she said. “And neither does your God. So I guess both living and dying are lose-lose situations for me.”
“I do love you, Allison,” he said. “I love you so much. How many times do I have to say it until you’ll believe me?”
“I know you’re tired of me.” She remembered the library church girl. “You can’t smile the way you used to. So how can I believe that that’s how you truly feel and that it’s not something you say out of habit?”
He loosened his grip on her arm, making her slip her arm out of his grasp; she fully embraced the pole now. “You’re right,” he said. “I am tired – of always having to prove myself to you. Love is based on trust, and you don’t trust me. So I guess you don’t really love me either.”
She stayed silent.
Neither of them knew how long they had stayed on the bridge like that, but eventually, he just grabbed her waist and pulled her down. They walked home without saying another word to each other.
The right words didn’t come for three days. But she finally mustered up the courage to apologize. He finally mustered up the courage to break it off.
She didn’t know how to cope except to bury herself in her studies, waiting for the next ray of sunshine to poke through the library windows. But when the brief warmth came, she shivered more, to her dismay.
It took a while before she actually seized a chance to speak to her chosen one.
It was a Friday. There were spots of rain here and there, and once in a while, a ray of sunlight would shine before being quickly covered up by another cloud.
The boy – her boy – was sitting with his psychology textbook open on the library desk; he did not know that she lived for those random rays of sunlight. Especially on days like this. It was like finally having a crush requited after agonizing over him for months of angsty poetry and too-obvious actions like offering to go grocery shopping with him or folding his laundry for him – even if that requitement lasted only a few days of confused feelings.
She was addicted to happiness. And happiness, for her, was love. And love, for her, was undying devotion and unconditional acceptance from that one person who was meant for her. Or if more than one person was meant for her, those few people. She decided at some point that she wouldn’t mind being caught in a love triangle, as long as she was the recipient of those two dueling people’s love. And thus, by the transitive property of addictions, she was addicted to her ideal future man. Or men.
And though she knew nothing about him, except that he was an obsessive note-taker and that he smelled like laundry detergent, she knew he would be her ideal man. Thus, she would be uncontrollably addicted to him. And though the first words out of her mouth would be, “Horrible weather we’re having today,” she just knew that they would have wonderfully deep and insightful conversations.
And though she knew nothing about him, except that he was an obsessive note-taker and that he smelled like laundry detergent, she knew he would be her ideal man. Thus, she would be uncontrollably addicted to him. And though the first words out of her mouth would be, “Horrible weather we’re having today,” she just knew that they would have wonderfully deep and insightful conversations.
He looked up at her – she who was sitting across from him in another study booth – and she smiled sheepishly. She held up her psychology notebook, and he found that they were studying for the same exam.
In her mind, it was all planned out – they would begin studying together, he would finally invite her to dinner. She would play hard-to-get, but eventually agree to his request for her presence. They would eat tacos, become best friends, fall in love, get amazingly stable careers, and then get married all before she reached the age of 30, which to her, was an age that said, “You’re done with love forever.”
But that’s not exactly how things worked out, because she, never having dated, didn’t realize how far her addiction would go.
They did begin studying together, but it was she who finally asked him to dinner. He shrugged and took it casually, but she was more than elated. Though the conversation was awkward, a few more after-hours studying sessions later, things got better. He loosened up and seemed to open up to her more. And so she took charge.
“I’ll see you after your chemistry class today,” she said.
“But why? It’s on the opposite side of campus from you,” he said, putting his pen back into its pouch.
“Because I’m your girlfriend,” she answered matter-of-factly.
He stopped zipping up his backpack halfway and stared at her. She could feel her capillaries filling with unbearably hot blood, but remained resolute.
“Right,” he replied dryly, finishing his zipping.
That day, when he came out of his building to find that she had been eagerly awaiting him with two hot chocolates, and she handed him one and slipped her then-free hand into his, she couldn’t have been happier.
But slowly, she found herself doing the strangest things.
One time, she purposely got lost far from campus, and unable to figure out where she was, she panicked, feeling both the curious and the suspicious stares of those around her on the street. Face lined with tears, she called him at 3 a.m. – twice, because he was a heavy sleeper – and a groggy voice greeted her choked up one.
“I don’t know where I am, and I’m really scared,” she cried. “Can you come get me?”
Pajama- and boots-clad, he came to get her and took her back to her room, where she refused to let him leave until she fell asleep, gripping his hand so fiercely, he had to stretch it a few times on the way back to his own room.
Another time, she celebrated her failed final paper by getting extremely intoxicated to the point where she started yelling in the faces of complete strangers and dancing on top of a table. He pulled her down, shaking her wrist and shouting in her face, “Have you lost your mind? Have you seriously lost your mind?” over and over again until the words stopped sounding harsh, and they started to sound like a sweet lullaby, soothing her and reassuring her that one person, least of all Professor Mitchell, cared about her in this world. As he held back her hair in the bathroom and she poured out her guts, coughed up a lung, and lost all feeling of her brain, she thought she had never felt happier.
When things were normal, things were normal. They called each other once a day, regardless of whether or not they had seen each other. They made sure they ate lunch together on Tuesdays and Thursdays. He remembered their anniversaries and even created a decent surprise for their six-month affair, taking her out to dinner and then coming back to her room to find that he had invited her small circle of friends and some of his own for a night of Scrabble (her favorite game) and a viewing of the Godfather (his favorite movie.)
She distinctly remembered the first time they had exchanged “I love you” – she remembered what he was wearing, what the environment smelled like, what was going through her mind before they said it. And it was beautiful. So beautiful that she cried afterwards. And cried again when she thought about it when she got home. And got misty-eyed when she thought about it a week after.
She could never tire of hearing him say it. Three words had never mattered to her so much until she heard his husky voice repeat them to her over and over again on command.
“Can you say it one more time before I leave?”
He combed his hair with his fingers tentatively. “I love you, Allison.”
“I love you too, Derek.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow. Or I’ll text you later.”
“I’ll text you when I’m about to sleep.” She put on her shoes again and paused at the door. “I love you.”
He nodded. “Me too.”
He was so good to her – he listened to all her demands, all her problems, all her hopes and fears and dreams. She knew that she was being needy and inconsiderate of his own wants and needs, but she couldn’t help it. He loved her, and though that was an incredible fact to know, she needed it to be affirmed constantly, like an addiction that needed to constantly be fed.
One day, she thought she had lost her mind. So did he.
She had seen him interact with a girl from his church at the library. They were working together on a group project – the other member had failed to show up – and she observed them from afar while she caught up on some reading from her anthropology class. The girl laughed and touched his arm while she looked straight into his eyes. He smiled back amiably in a way that she hadn’t seen in a long time, and they returned to working on the poster in front of them. She felt like someone had punched her in the stomach – the sensation crawled from the tip of her head down to the bottom of her spine, and she suddenly felt like she couldn’t breathe. She saw them working diligently side-by-side, and all she could think was, “Help.”
He met her for dinner on campus, but she suggested they take a walk afterwards into the city. She held his hand tightly, her lips closed just as tightly.
“How was your afternoon?” he asked, wind blowing his moppy hair every which way.
“Fine,” she answered, half-closing her eyes as they strolled down the street. She could hear her heartbeat in her ears. It was deafening.
They reached the bridge that led into the city, and not knowing what came over her, she suddenly released his hand and started climbing up onto the railing of the bridge. She saw his face turn ghostly white and he grabbed for her waist, missed, and found her arm instead. She wobbled, making both their hearts stop for a second, and she balanced herself against a pole.
“What do you think you’re doing right now?!” he shouted, voice constricted.
She was eerily calm – her own calmness surprised her. “What do you think would happen if I lost my balance and just – ” she paused “- tipped over the bridge?”
Cars zoomed past them, and he kept feeling afraid that the wind force from the cars speeding past would knock her over.
“Wouldn’t it be funny? Like those America’s Funniest Home Videos you like to watch. Do you think I would make a big splash?”
“Allison, why are you doing this?” He tried to make his voice sound more delicate, more rational. “Come down right now. Let’s talk this out.”
She laughed. “What’s there to talk out? I’m just trying to live life more on the edge. Actually live life a bit.” She shook the arm he was holding onto. “Let go.”
“You’re acting like you want to die,” he said carefully. “I’m not letting go until you get down from there.”
“Why not? Why is death such a bad thing? Aren’t you always talking about how death isn’t the end – it’s the beginning?” Her voice shook. “Or maybe, since I’m going to hell, it’s the end, huh?”
“Allison, why are you doing this?” he repeated. “Don’t talk nonsense.”
“It’s not nonsense, it’s the truth. Just like the truth is, I love you. But you don’t love me,” she said. “And neither does your God. So I guess both living and dying are lose-lose situations for me.”
“I do love you, Allison,” he said. “I love you so much. How many times do I have to say it until you’ll believe me?”
“I know you’re tired of me.” She remembered the library church girl. “You can’t smile the way you used to. So how can I believe that that’s how you truly feel and that it’s not something you say out of habit?”
He loosened his grip on her arm, making her slip her arm out of his grasp; she fully embraced the pole now. “You’re right,” he said. “I am tired – of always having to prove myself to you. Love is based on trust, and you don’t trust me. So I guess you don’t really love me either.”
She stayed silent.
Neither of them knew how long they had stayed on the bridge like that, but eventually, he just grabbed her waist and pulled her down. They walked home without saying another word to each other.
The right words didn’t come for three days. But she finally mustered up the courage to apologize. He finally mustered up the courage to break it off.
She didn’t know how to cope except to bury herself in her studies, waiting for the next ray of sunshine to poke through the library windows. But when the brief warmth came, she shivered more, to her dismay.
© 2009. Sarah R.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
the person i used to be
(Break from the fiction - next section is still in the works.)
A few days ago, I was looking through my old notes on Facebook, and I happened to just sift through a couple random profiles of people from my high school who commented on them. It made me think of my very first BTAS entries, and how I had only a select group of people have access to them at first (because of my privacy setting OCD-ness). The people who read my blog then versus the people who read my blog now are very different - my writing, or perhaps, my person, caters to a different audience nowadays.
One thing that is simultaneously liberating and constraining about college is that (in most cases) people don't know who you were in the past - more specifically, in high school. The person that most people know now is comprised of only what they know from college memories. Depending on how you feel about college, that can be something wonderful, because you're starting with a clean slate, or it can be something terrible, because you feel like no one understands who you really are. And until you adjust to the change, it will always seem like a regretful fact.
So, why bring this up is probably your question. How much could I have changed in the course of one year? To be frank, I have no idea. The exact details are fuzzy. But one thing struck me so hard that I had to blog about it, although I didn't know how to explain it until now.
I think, the biggest change in me was that in high school, I was cool. And to clarify, this isn't like an ego trip or anything - I don't know how else to describe it, but I feel like despite my nerdom as a verbose valedictorian violinist, I was relatively cool. In a secular sense, that is. There was this one Asian girl who had lived in Georgia nearly all her life, and I had always thought she was super cool compared to me because everybody loved her, from the nerds to the preps to the cheerleaders to the bums, indicating that she must have had this universal appeal of "cool." But looking back, considering I had moved there when I was in 7th grade, I had never played a team sport, and I took all honors and AP classes throughout (making the pool of people I interact with much smaller)...I had done all right for myself by the time I graduated. The question is: how? And why don't I feel that way anymore about myself?
1. Speech: I talked like a normal human being. And by normal, I mean laced with curse words and derogatory statements and plenty of "that's what she said's." I've cursed pretty regularly in my speech since the 6th grade (with the exception of 9th grade when I tried to reform myself...but then my resolve died down over the years). By the end of my senior year, I regularly called my guy friends b__hes and a__holes as endearing terms. There was something powerful or refreshing about inserting a curse word every now and then to express strong feelings about something, be it anger or happiness or surprise. And I think these days, when the strongest thing I say out loud at the DP while editing late at night is, "What the HECK was this writer thinking when she wrote this article?!" I can tell that they are not impressed by my choice of words. I can hear it from other people (though it can be slightly grating) but the words just taste funny in my mouth now, and I can't bring myself to say them.
2. Academic Dexterity/Rebellion: I did it all - from toughing out Calc BC to analyzing every sentence in AP Lit to getting one step closer to fluent in AP Spanish to aspiring to become a doctor through AP Bio and Chem to devoting my life to AP World History sophomore year. I had a knowledge of just about everything (now all fuzzy and forgotten, sadly), which made me available for any academic discussion if need be. This appealed to the "nerds" in any sector - the fact that I could love analyzing The Heart of Darkness and still get good grades in AP Chem was something not only "impressive" but also rebellious, because I wasn't conforming to the "Asian standard." Now, not only do I not know what I like best, but I'm also not that great at everything anymore.
3. Attitude: They say misery loves company, and this is very true. The amount of sarcasm and slight cynicism I have right now is nothing compared to the amount I had in high school. With my daily sharpened tongue and a penchant for wittily putting down people (all in the name of fun, of course), I was supremely pessimistic and whine-y and cynical about life and myself and people and cheese and football and what have you. Naturally, this appealed to people because I didn't go overboard (those people were just emo and mean-spirited and wholly unappealing.) Because of course, deep deep down, I was simply just a nice and economically stable person - I just had quite the sardonic character on top. And that was supposedly "cool." Why do you think nearly all the best-selling books ever written are either super depressing or super sarcastic? If you are too happy and satisfied with life, no one can relate to you! We're all mucks waiting around for someone to love us, dots on the mural of time that no one will notice anyway. GOSH. Just kidding. But really, that's sometimes how I felt every single day of my life, and would frequently complain about it during one of my regular lunchtime tirades. (I was also super politically correct, but that's another story.)
But you know, looking at the hundreds of Facebook high school friends that I currently have that I will probably never see or speak to again, I realize that the person that I was in high school, no matter how "cool" she was, she's not who I want to be now. To my old friends, I might seem like I've turned into some happy-go-lucky Jesus freak, but it's not just that I'm happy-go-lucky now (though I admit I am totally all for Jesus, ha.) I still struggle with a lot of issues - maybe even more legit issues than back then - but the only difference is I know how to cope. And I think, to many people, me being happier about life and myself as a human being is actually more appealing than the cynical me because they no longer have to listen to my complaints and pretend that they actually care.
It's funny - 16-year-old emo me looking at 19-year-old joyful me would probably be like, what the f__ happened to you? (Yes, with that word too.) But at the end of the day, I'm happy with where I am right now, or rather, who I am right now. For the most part. I'm still a work-in-progress, but I'm still light years ahead towards who I should be.
But I will still discuss phototropism and Kafka and the self-centeredness of mankind with you in the coolest way I still can :)
A few days ago, I was looking through my old notes on Facebook, and I happened to just sift through a couple random profiles of people from my high school who commented on them. It made me think of my very first BTAS entries, and how I had only a select group of people have access to them at first (because of my privacy setting OCD-ness). The people who read my blog then versus the people who read my blog now are very different - my writing, or perhaps, my person, caters to a different audience nowadays.
One thing that is simultaneously liberating and constraining about college is that (in most cases) people don't know who you were in the past - more specifically, in high school. The person that most people know now is comprised of only what they know from college memories. Depending on how you feel about college, that can be something wonderful, because you're starting with a clean slate, or it can be something terrible, because you feel like no one understands who you really are. And until you adjust to the change, it will always seem like a regretful fact.
So, why bring this up is probably your question. How much could I have changed in the course of one year? To be frank, I have no idea. The exact details are fuzzy. But one thing struck me so hard that I had to blog about it, although I didn't know how to explain it until now.
I think, the biggest change in me was that in high school, I was cool. And to clarify, this isn't like an ego trip or anything - I don't know how else to describe it, but I feel like despite my nerdom as a verbose valedictorian violinist, I was relatively cool. In a secular sense, that is. There was this one Asian girl who had lived in Georgia nearly all her life, and I had always thought she was super cool compared to me because everybody loved her, from the nerds to the preps to the cheerleaders to the bums, indicating that she must have had this universal appeal of "cool." But looking back, considering I had moved there when I was in 7th grade, I had never played a team sport, and I took all honors and AP classes throughout (making the pool of people I interact with much smaller)...I had done all right for myself by the time I graduated. The question is: how? And why don't I feel that way anymore about myself?
1. Speech: I talked like a normal human being. And by normal, I mean laced with curse words and derogatory statements and plenty of "that's what she said's." I've cursed pretty regularly in my speech since the 6th grade (with the exception of 9th grade when I tried to reform myself...but then my resolve died down over the years). By the end of my senior year, I regularly called my guy friends b__hes and a__holes as endearing terms. There was something powerful or refreshing about inserting a curse word every now and then to express strong feelings about something, be it anger or happiness or surprise. And I think these days, when the strongest thing I say out loud at the DP while editing late at night is, "What the HECK was this writer thinking when she wrote this article?!" I can tell that they are not impressed by my choice of words. I can hear it from other people (though it can be slightly grating) but the words just taste funny in my mouth now, and I can't bring myself to say them.
2. Academic Dexterity/Rebellion: I did it all - from toughing out Calc BC to analyzing every sentence in AP Lit to getting one step closer to fluent in AP Spanish to aspiring to become a doctor through AP Bio and Chem to devoting my life to AP World History sophomore year. I had a knowledge of just about everything (now all fuzzy and forgotten, sadly), which made me available for any academic discussion if need be. This appealed to the "nerds" in any sector - the fact that I could love analyzing The Heart of Darkness and still get good grades in AP Chem was something not only "impressive" but also rebellious, because I wasn't conforming to the "Asian standard." Now, not only do I not know what I like best, but I'm also not that great at everything anymore.
3. Attitude: They say misery loves company, and this is very true. The amount of sarcasm and slight cynicism I have right now is nothing compared to the amount I had in high school. With my daily sharpened tongue and a penchant for wittily putting down people (all in the name of fun, of course), I was supremely pessimistic and whine-y and cynical about life and myself and people and cheese and football and what have you. Naturally, this appealed to people because I didn't go overboard (those people were just emo and mean-spirited and wholly unappealing.) Because of course, deep deep down, I was simply just a nice and economically stable person - I just had quite the sardonic character on top. And that was supposedly "cool." Why do you think nearly all the best-selling books ever written are either super depressing or super sarcastic? If you are too happy and satisfied with life, no one can relate to you! We're all mucks waiting around for someone to love us, dots on the mural of time that no one will notice anyway. GOSH. Just kidding. But really, that's sometimes how I felt every single day of my life, and would frequently complain about it during one of my regular lunchtime tirades. (I was also super politically correct, but that's another story.)
But you know, looking at the hundreds of Facebook high school friends that I currently have that I will probably never see or speak to again, I realize that the person that I was in high school, no matter how "cool" she was, she's not who I want to be now. To my old friends, I might seem like I've turned into some happy-go-lucky Jesus freak, but it's not just that I'm happy-go-lucky now (though I admit I am totally all for Jesus, ha.) I still struggle with a lot of issues - maybe even more legit issues than back then - but the only difference is I know how to cope. And I think, to many people, me being happier about life and myself as a human being is actually more appealing than the cynical me because they no longer have to listen to my complaints and pretend that they actually care.
It's funny - 16-year-old emo me looking at 19-year-old joyful me would probably be like, what the f__ happened to you? (Yes, with that word too.) But at the end of the day, I'm happy with where I am right now, or rather, who I am right now. For the most part. I'm still a work-in-progress, but I'm still light years ahead towards who I should be.
But I will still discuss phototropism and Kafka and the self-centeredness of mankind with you in the coolest way I still can :)
Saturday, June 27, 2009
motivations: perfect me
My first work of fiction in a very long time - enjoy.
Every so often, he would adjust the pencils in his cup. They were all the same type of pencil – number two, Ticonderoga, yellow and sharpened to perfection. But every time he pulled out a pencil to jot something down, there would be this gaping hole to where the pencil should find its way back once he was done. He didn’t like the gaping hole, so he would push around the pencils in the cup so to fill up that space. But it didn’t ever quite work as well as he would have liked, so he would continually adjust the pencils in the cup, spinning them around and around, hoping to fill up that gap.
There will be four or more parts, fyi. AND, this is all original writing, so please no reproduction/distribution without my permission! Thanks :)
---
Perfect Me
He couldn’t help but be a little obsessive over things. Things that he could have in his control. He could control his grades in college, he could control his resume’s format and contents, he could control the underlings at work and even control his own work hours. He could control how ironed his shirts were, he could control the temperature of his hot showers, he could control the number of protein servings in his day to ensure his controlling of his fitness. He could even control his emotions and control any straying thoughts, although this he had to learn the hard way because one time, he lost control.
Her name was Natalie. She was nearly as tall as he was, (he liked to think he controlled his height as well, through daily glasses of milk and stretching exercises), and she had rounded hazel eyes and a delicately pointed nose so sharp, she looked like a respectfully timid fox. She said, “Neil, would you pass me a copy of the meeting agenda?” in such a delightfully passive-aggressive way that he couldn’t help but acquiesce instantly.
And she was like that very often. “Neil, would you open the window next to the mirror?” she would ask, sitting with the most perfect posture in his living room. “I can’t focus.” She would pat the tightly wound bun on her head a few times to check that not a single stray hair had fallen out of place. Even when he would come over to check up on her with a steaming cup of coffee and kiss her as a distraction, she would stop prematurely and pat her bun to check that she had not been ruffled by the moment.
They were both not right for each other. He bit his nails. She tapped her right foot incessantly. He liked jazz and running everyday at 5 p.m. before dinner. She only listened to the newest indie music presented by yet another guy with thick-rimmed glasses and a bushy beard that Neil would have never tolerated. And she preferred yoga at 6:30 a.m. before work. He drove at the speed limit. She drove 10 miles per hour above it.
And each absorbed in his or her own perfect schedules and disciplines and rituals, one always secretly hoped that the other would alter her or his lifestyle first.
She was more obstinate.
“There’s this amazing jazz pianist coming this Saturday,” he offered. “Do you have time?”
She looked up from her book and tilted her head to the left. “I’m not sure.”
“It’ll be fun. My roommate from my freshman year in college wants to see me, and it’d be nice for you to meet him too.”
“You know I wouldn’t really feel comfortable.” She was adverse to meeting new people.
“He’s very friendly, I promise. You wouldn’t feel awkward at all.”
“I might have to tend to some last-minute details for the project.”
“We can work on those together beforehand if we need to. Or afterwards – it’ll only take three hours out of Saturday, one-and-a-half for dinner and one-and-a-half for the show.”
“It’s not about the time.”
“Then what is it?”
“I don’t know, Neil.” And that was that. He went by himself and had a wonderful time.
“You know I wouldn’t really feel comfortable.” She was adverse to meeting new people.
“He’s very friendly, I promise. You wouldn’t feel awkward at all.”
“I might have to tend to some last-minute details for the project.”
“We can work on those together beforehand if we need to. Or afterwards – it’ll only take three hours out of Saturday, one-and-a-half for dinner and one-and-a-half for the show.”
“It’s not about the time.”
“Then what is it?”
“I don’t know, Neil.” And that was that. He went by himself and had a wonderful time.
They were civil with each other when such differences in interest arose, but these differences were inconvenient, if they were willing to admit it to themselves. Perhaps the only thing that truly brought them together and sparked any form of true passion between the two was work.
“Did you schedule the appointment with Mr. Camden?”
“Yeah, he’s good to go for 11:30 next Wednesday. What about Isaac?”
“He’s flying in on Tuesday, and I’ve booked him a room at the Sheraton.”
“Did we pull together the presentation for tomorrow?”
“We just need to add in a couple slides about the survey results that we just got in.”
“Thanks – I’m heading out to Starbucks, do you want anything?”
“A grande latte with soy milk, thanks.”
“Yeah, he’s good to go for 11:30 next Wednesday. What about Isaac?”
“He’s flying in on Tuesday, and I’ve booked him a room at the Sheraton.”
“Did we pull together the presentation for tomorrow?”
“We just need to add in a couple slides about the survey results that we just got in.”
“Thanks – I’m heading out to Starbucks, do you want anything?”
“A grande latte with soy milk, thanks.”
In those moments, when she would bark out rapid responses to his questions or seamlessly request orders, he felt like their teamwork was enough to sustain the relationship. They complemented each other at work, and work to both of them was essentially the core of their lives. It made them feel productive, efficient – needed. And sometimes they took business trips together, flying to Atlanta and Munich and Sydney, each toting a perfectly packed carry-on that contained exactly what would be needed for the next three to five days.
When they arrived, she would hand him an itinerary of not only what needed to be accomplished business-wise, but also what would be done for pleasure as well. She marked out the necessary quaint coffee shops and locally loved restaurants in the area, and picked out the photo opportunities that he knew she would promptly post online for her family and friends to see when she returned. And though for most people, this sort of obsessive quality would have been a definite turn-off, he felt himself falling for her more and more. She was motivated, with a direction and purpose in life, always punctual and poised. She was his perfect counterpart that pushed him to refine himself everyday so he could catch up to her.
As one month turned into five months, and five months turned into thirteen months, it was hard to think that either could just walk out of the relationship.
But it was easier than he thought it would be. She was getting relocated to their office in New York because a top position had been vacated by a Korean War veteran who had finally decided to retire. They would need someone with the same sort of militaristic drive, but with less cursing and a softer aura. Natalie was perfect for the job.
By then, he had stopped going to jazz clubs on the third Saturday of each month and ceased to bite his nails to stubs. Even though he still ran at 5 p.m. before dinner, he joined her for a 6:30 a.m. yoga session every Wednesday morning at her stark white apartment. He dared to drive 15 miles per hour over the speed limit and he made sure to kiss her cheeks so lightly that there was no chance of her ruining her makeup. But she hadn’t given up much for him, and that was one of the things that made him the most angry when they decided to separate.
“I never measured you by my standards,” he said, looking out the window of his apartment. “I measured myself by your standards. I lost my own standards for myself.”
“Did I ask you to do that?” she asked quietly, gently tapping her coffee mug.
“Well, with our personality clashes, one of us had to change for the other.”
“We are only accountable to ourselves, Neil.”
“That’s not true.” He leaned his forehead against the cool glass. “In a relationship, it’s about giving and taking. Compromising. Making sure the other person is happy.”
“Were you unhappy with me?”
“Did I ask you to do that?” she asked quietly, gently tapping her coffee mug.
“Well, with our personality clashes, one of us had to change for the other.”
“We are only accountable to ourselves, Neil.”
“That’s not true.” He leaned his forehead against the cool glass. “In a relationship, it’s about giving and taking. Compromising. Making sure the other person is happy.”
“Were you unhappy with me?”
He paused before answering, gritting his teeth. He thought about how she had often overpowered him while acting as if she were weaker, as if she had to submit to his wishes. But in the end, he had given in many more times. She was being relocated because she was more forceful and directive; he had lost that zest, that competitive spirit. He had become a pushover in this relationship without even realizing it.
“Maybe. But I didn’t know.” He turned around to face her. “Until now.”
She peered at him, as if she were observing a museum display. She sipped her coffee and set the cup down. “Why?”
He paused again. Maybe it hadn’t mattered to him that he had changed. Or that neither she nor he was held up to his standards. Maybe he had simply cared for her. “Maybe I wasn’t unhappy.” He took a step toward her. “Were you unhappy?”
“Of course not,” she stood up and put her hands on his shoulders. And then his face. “You were wonderful to me. And I thank you.” She kissed him with the utmost care and grabbed her coffee for one last sip before taking it to the kitchen.
She peered at him, as if she were observing a museum display. She sipped her coffee and set the cup down. “Why?”
He paused again. Maybe it hadn’t mattered to him that he had changed. Or that neither she nor he was held up to his standards. Maybe he had simply cared for her. “Maybe I wasn’t unhappy.” He took a step toward her. “Were you unhappy?”
“Of course not,” she stood up and put her hands on his shoulders. And then his face. “You were wonderful to me. And I thank you.” She kissed him with the utmost care and grabbed her coffee for one last sip before taking it to the kitchen.
Separating was logical for both of them – there was no point in carrying on the relationship when they would become swept off by their separate schedules that would no longer effortlessly include the other person. He gave her a new pen and told her to spare him some phone calls once she settled in. She gifted him a new watch and told him to work hard.
“Stay sharp,” she said. And with a friendly hug and a sweet smile, she got into her car and drove off.
He missed her, but after a few weeks, he reverted back to his own way of living. He saw his jazz aficionado friends again, who commended him for having such a clean break-up. They had made fun of Natalie when the relationship still existed, surprised that Neil had found someone more particular than himself. But in the end, they were glad that her personality made it so easy for them to return to being casual friends, no strings attached.
But whether it was because he still cared about her or because he had become unsatisfied with his own standards, he felt insecure and unfulfilled in the months that followed her departure. Just like the small gap in his cup of pencils, it was like someone had pulled out a pencil out of his life while he wasn’t looking, and now he was left with this hole he couldn’t fill, least of all with another girl, like his friends suggested. And as he pushed around his schedule and his character disciplines and his daily rituals some more, his life didn’t get any better. He sat in his crisply ironed suit in his appropriately cool office and pushed his pencils around some more, thinking he would get some kind of answer.
And one day, he did.
© 2009. Sarah R.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
hcore
So, I've noticed that a lot of people abbreviate the word "hardcore" as "hcore." I don't know if you're supposed to pronounce that like hhh-core, as if you're exhaling while saying the word "core" or if you're supposed to say aych-core, as if you're pronouncing the letter "h" and then saying the word "core." Why do we abbreviate it anyway? Is it because typing out those extra three letters is THAT much of a pain or a burden? Or are you just being so hardcore that you can't bother yourself with typing out the full word, "hardcore"?
Okay, so why the big deal about the abbreviation? Honestly, I don't know. You can brev w/e you want :) But I want to discuss the potential meanings of the word "hcore"...and how we should live our lives by it.
Living Hard-core
As human beings, it's actually really hard for us to be truly hardcore. Yeah sure, society tells us to be lean mean fighting machines, but when it gets down to it, we love taking a break and curling up in our beds and doing absolutely nothing but sleep or watch TV. We're wired to be lazy, and we're wired to give up...all because of that little devil on your shoulder that tells you that you're not capable of really being hardcore - and yet, we constantly desire to be hardcore.
Proverbs 13:4 says, "The sluggard craves and gets nothing, but the desires of the diligent are fully satisfied." There have been so many times this year where I have told myself right during midterms or finals season, I NEED TO BE HARDCORE. And so I'll try to not talk to anyone and bury my face in my book...only to fall asleep. Soon, my resolve breaks down and despite reading the same page in psychology 20 times, I feel like I have both learned nothing and yet know everything there is to know for the exam. I go in with a quick prayer, thinking I'm pretty well-prepared (but not enough to ace the exam, of course), and then a week later, I find out that I didn't do so well. How many times do we simply pray and hope we succeed in our mediocre efforts? And how many times does God let it slide and actually provide? But imagine how much more He would provide if we were disciplined and motivated.
Even though as humans, we can easily be susceptible to the enemy dragging us into laziness, God made us so that we are also fully able to be productive and diligent. He wants us to succeed, and He wants us to hear the words, "Well done, good and faithful servant! You have been faithful with a few things; I will put you in charge of many things. Come and share your master's happiness!" (Matthew 25:21)
And so He equipped us with His strength: Paul writes, "I can do everything through him who gives me strength." (Philippians 4:13). Even if it seems like it would be trivial to God, like doing well on a quiz or running a mile, He's willing to lend us some of His strength as long as we use it well. And even if it seems that the task God has placed on our shoulders seems impossible, He's willing to lend us some of His strength to see His plan fulfilled. Living hardcore should mean something - our challenges should be hard, our resolve should be solidified, our faith should be unwavering.
Living Humble-core
In the midst of striving single-mindedly and whole-heartedly after our goals, it can become very easy to fall into the trap of thinking only about ourselves - me, me, me, me, me. Myself. and I. After all, there's that phrase, "Every man for himself" or that song, "Anything you can do, I can do better; I can do anything better than you" (Michael Jordan and Mia Hamm!) It's hard for us to humble ourselves down and admit the strengths or acknowledge the interests of others.
I've seen so many people and heard of so many churches falling prey to pride, even though they claim to be after Jesus's own heart and spirit. Efforts start off as humble, "socially conscious" ones, trying to be altruistic and better the situation of others. I had a friend who started a non-profit in high school and devoted all her free time to helping others - I admired her servant heart and her selfless ambition (oxymoron?) - but as the end of senior year rolled around and she started getting recognized left and right by our school, the local community newspapers, magazines, and television stations, as well as some national competitions, all she could ever do was go around saying, "Hey, did you see me on TV?" "Did you hear about the prize my non-profit earned?" "They sent me another medal in the mail!" Of course, her heart for her kids was still there, but was there a humble core anymore? Not so much. Though she was Christian, she started focusing on the things she could do and was doing and stopped seeing what God could do and was doing.
We think we are so self-sufficient, not only to the point of not needing others, but even to the point of not needing God. Romans 12:3 says, "Do not think of yourself more highly than you ought, but rather think of yourself with sober judgment, in accordance with the measure of faith God has given you." We are not as great as we think we are. All the good things that happen in our lives, even if we think that it's out of our own efforts - they come from Him. We just did a whole Bible study yesterday on Philippians 2:1-11, so if you're interested in how we should live humble-core, read that. Basically, if we keep Christ at the center of our lives, we are bound to have a humble core, because He was not only the most powerful, but He was the most humble.
Living Heart-core
It almost sounds redundant - obviously, the heart is at the core of our body, right? If our heart stops beating, we stop living. Even our figurative heart - the thing that contains all our emotions and hormones - is pretty much the core of our being. So what do I mean when I say "heart-core"?
Obviously, it's going to be that 4-letter word that is the point of 85% of popular songs, 20% of movies, and 100% of God. Love. We must have love at the core of our lives. If we have love, we basically have it all. And why is that? Because "God is love. Whoever lives in love lives in God, and God in him." (1 John 4:16) Love enables us to respect others, love enables us to die to ourselves and be humble around others, love even enables us to pursue God's purpose for us with passion and determination - because we love Him so much, we want to please Him.
The Beatles weren't kidding when they sang, "All you need is love," (da dada da da). Living heart-core puts the responsibility of direction in our lives on our heart, rather than our head. It's so easy to be guided by our head, by our own thoughts, and by what we think we know is wise. But wisdom comes from the heart, as it is written in several verses (Job 38:36, Proverbs 2:10, 14:33), and a heart that is filled with wisdom is also full of love, because God is love. It's important to assess the state of our hearts more consistently than the state of our minds, because we can always learn more with our minds - non-Christians can know the intellectual properties of God and the Bible and all that - even I, when I was of little faith, interpreted the Bible just fine because it was just like another work of literature to me. But it's so hard to learn more with our hearts, making living heart-core probably the most hcore way to live out of them all.
So yeah. Hard-core, humble-core, and heart-core. "Studying hcore" takes on a whole new meaning when you put those three in perspective, yeah?
Okay, so why the big deal about the abbreviation? Honestly, I don't know. You can brev w/e you want :) But I want to discuss the potential meanings of the word "hcore"...and how we should live our lives by it.
Living Hard-core
As human beings, it's actually really hard for us to be truly hardcore. Yeah sure, society tells us to be lean mean fighting machines, but when it gets down to it, we love taking a break and curling up in our beds and doing absolutely nothing but sleep or watch TV. We're wired to be lazy, and we're wired to give up...all because of that little devil on your shoulder that tells you that you're not capable of really being hardcore - and yet, we constantly desire to be hardcore.
Proverbs 13:4 says, "The sluggard craves and gets nothing, but the desires of the diligent are fully satisfied." There have been so many times this year where I have told myself right during midterms or finals season, I NEED TO BE HARDCORE. And so I'll try to not talk to anyone and bury my face in my book...only to fall asleep. Soon, my resolve breaks down and despite reading the same page in psychology 20 times, I feel like I have both learned nothing and yet know everything there is to know for the exam. I go in with a quick prayer, thinking I'm pretty well-prepared (but not enough to ace the exam, of course), and then a week later, I find out that I didn't do so well. How many times do we simply pray and hope we succeed in our mediocre efforts? And how many times does God let it slide and actually provide? But imagine how much more He would provide if we were disciplined and motivated.
Even though as humans, we can easily be susceptible to the enemy dragging us into laziness, God made us so that we are also fully able to be productive and diligent. He wants us to succeed, and He wants us to hear the words, "Well done, good and faithful servant! You have been faithful with a few things; I will put you in charge of many things. Come and share your master's happiness!" (Matthew 25:21)
And so He equipped us with His strength: Paul writes, "I can do everything through him who gives me strength." (Philippians 4:13). Even if it seems like it would be trivial to God, like doing well on a quiz or running a mile, He's willing to lend us some of His strength as long as we use it well. And even if it seems that the task God has placed on our shoulders seems impossible, He's willing to lend us some of His strength to see His plan fulfilled. Living hardcore should mean something - our challenges should be hard, our resolve should be solidified, our faith should be unwavering.
Living Humble-core
In the midst of striving single-mindedly and whole-heartedly after our goals, it can become very easy to fall into the trap of thinking only about ourselves - me, me, me, me, me. Myself. and I. After all, there's that phrase, "Every man for himself" or that song, "Anything you can do, I can do better; I can do anything better than you" (Michael Jordan and Mia Hamm!) It's hard for us to humble ourselves down and admit the strengths or acknowledge the interests of others.
I've seen so many people and heard of so many churches falling prey to pride, even though they claim to be after Jesus's own heart and spirit. Efforts start off as humble, "socially conscious" ones, trying to be altruistic and better the situation of others. I had a friend who started a non-profit in high school and devoted all her free time to helping others - I admired her servant heart and her selfless ambition (oxymoron?) - but as the end of senior year rolled around and she started getting recognized left and right by our school, the local community newspapers, magazines, and television stations, as well as some national competitions, all she could ever do was go around saying, "Hey, did you see me on TV?" "Did you hear about the prize my non-profit earned?" "They sent me another medal in the mail!" Of course, her heart for her kids was still there, but was there a humble core anymore? Not so much. Though she was Christian, she started focusing on the things she could do and was doing and stopped seeing what God could do and was doing.
We think we are so self-sufficient, not only to the point of not needing others, but even to the point of not needing God. Romans 12:3 says, "Do not think of yourself more highly than you ought, but rather think of yourself with sober judgment, in accordance with the measure of faith God has given you." We are not as great as we think we are. All the good things that happen in our lives, even if we think that it's out of our own efforts - they come from Him. We just did a whole Bible study yesterday on Philippians 2:1-11, so if you're interested in how we should live humble-core, read that. Basically, if we keep Christ at the center of our lives, we are bound to have a humble core, because He was not only the most powerful, but He was the most humble.
Living Heart-core
It almost sounds redundant - obviously, the heart is at the core of our body, right? If our heart stops beating, we stop living. Even our figurative heart - the thing that contains all our emotions and hormones - is pretty much the core of our being. So what do I mean when I say "heart-core"?
Obviously, it's going to be that 4-letter word that is the point of 85% of popular songs, 20% of movies, and 100% of God. Love. We must have love at the core of our lives. If we have love, we basically have it all. And why is that? Because "God is love. Whoever lives in love lives in God, and God in him." (1 John 4:16) Love enables us to respect others, love enables us to die to ourselves and be humble around others, love even enables us to pursue God's purpose for us with passion and determination - because we love Him so much, we want to please Him.
The Beatles weren't kidding when they sang, "All you need is love," (da dada da da). Living heart-core puts the responsibility of direction in our lives on our heart, rather than our head. It's so easy to be guided by our head, by our own thoughts, and by what we think we know is wise. But wisdom comes from the heart, as it is written in several verses (Job 38:36, Proverbs 2:10, 14:33), and a heart that is filled with wisdom is also full of love, because God is love. It's important to assess the state of our hearts more consistently than the state of our minds, because we can always learn more with our minds - non-Christians can know the intellectual properties of God and the Bible and all that - even I, when I was of little faith, interpreted the Bible just fine because it was just like another work of literature to me. But it's so hard to learn more with our hearts, making living heart-core probably the most hcore way to live out of them all.
So yeah. Hard-core, humble-core, and heart-core. "Studying hcore" takes on a whole new meaning when you put those three in perspective, yeah?
Monday, June 22, 2009
required reading
Summer 2009
GCC Required Reading List
Rising Sophomores
- the Bible
- Boy Meets Girl by Joshua Harris
Rising Juniors
- the Bible
- Boy Meets Girl by Joshua Harris
Rising Seniors
- the Bible
- Boy Meets Girl by Joshua Harris
----
Like seriously, I am not even joking. Even though Boy Meets Girl is supposedly the next step to I Kissed Dating Goodbye, that is, the latter is for single people and the former is for those about to be involved in a relationship, I truly truly believe that Boy Meets Girl should be read by every person out there, whether you're not ready for a relationship at all, you've been thinking about it, you're in one, you're getting out of one, etc etc etc. THIS BOOK HAS SOMETHING FOR YOU. (I say that with a grain of salt, because yeah, it's a little intense for non-Christians or "Christian" Christians, far-fetched and idealistic even. So, I will pick a secular book to recommend next time.)
After being recommended it by like 3-4 different people, I was skeptical at first - it's like being told to read Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul when you're younger: it's just too popular for it to be cool to read. I was also skeptical because I heard it was really strict and almost outlandish in some of the suggestions that it made (and as square as I am, sometimes traditionalism isn't all too fun.) And lastly, I was most skeptical because I am nowhere near a relationship, so I was like, why? Sure, the people who recommended it are in one or about to be in one, so it makes sense for them, but does it make sense for me?
The answer is a resounding YES. I know, guys might feel uncomfortable picking it up at the bookstore or asking to borrow it from a friend, not only because the title sounds like a girly teen-section-of-the-bookstore Twilight-esque novel, but also because guys don't need books to tell them things about life, (least of all about relationships) - they can just live it, right? WRONG. Why do you read the Bible then?! (Yeah, that's what I thought.) But in all seriousness, it will point out at least one thing that you have encountered in your relationships (both platonic and romantic) and just really makes you think.
It covers topics such as wisdom before/during/after a relationship, trusting God to find someone and tell you when, communication, gender roles, physical and emotional intimacy, and growing in a community. It includes a lot of heartwarming anecdotes that kind of tinge it with a slight sense of cheesiness, but in the end, it's all cute to read. It also has a lot of list-making, kind of like how sermons are mapped out (e.g. the 3 things you need to take from this passage in Isaiah; the 4 things you need to think about for this holiday season, etc etc.) but it's well-organized and well-articulated. There are several asides that acknowledge the "old-fashionedness" of the concept of courtship, but Harris remains firm in his ideas and suggestions for a healthy, Christ-centered relationship.
The book is $12.99 for a new copy, and can be found at your local bookstore, online at probably a cheaper price for a used copy, or in the hands of your loving sisters (because I'm assuming most girls have it rather than guys, though I think guys would greatly benefit from it even more than girls) - so don't waste any time. If you're looking for a break from your other required reading this summer and you're tired of wasting time on my blog (which I hope you don't think of as wasting time, haha) pick up this book as soon as possible. If you sincerely read through all of it and you don't find a single thing that speaks to you, I will buy you ice cream. And that's a legit deal for me, because ice cream is a precious commodity that I only like to reserve for myself :)
Get going! (pg. 64)
GCC Required Reading List
Rising Sophomores
- the Bible
- Boy Meets Girl by Joshua Harris
Rising Juniors
- the Bible
- Boy Meets Girl by Joshua Harris
Rising Seniors
- the Bible
- Boy Meets Girl by Joshua Harris
----
Like seriously, I am not even joking. Even though Boy Meets Girl is supposedly the next step to I Kissed Dating Goodbye, that is, the latter is for single people and the former is for those about to be involved in a relationship, I truly truly believe that Boy Meets Girl should be read by every person out there, whether you're not ready for a relationship at all, you've been thinking about it, you're in one, you're getting out of one, etc etc etc. THIS BOOK HAS SOMETHING FOR YOU. (I say that with a grain of salt, because yeah, it's a little intense for non-Christians or "Christian" Christians, far-fetched and idealistic even. So, I will pick a secular book to recommend next time.)
After being recommended it by like 3-4 different people, I was skeptical at first - it's like being told to read Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul when you're younger: it's just too popular for it to be cool to read. I was also skeptical because I heard it was really strict and almost outlandish in some of the suggestions that it made (and as square as I am, sometimes traditionalism isn't all too fun.) And lastly, I was most skeptical because I am nowhere near a relationship, so I was like, why? Sure, the people who recommended it are in one or about to be in one, so it makes sense for them, but does it make sense for me?
The answer is a resounding YES. I know, guys might feel uncomfortable picking it up at the bookstore or asking to borrow it from a friend, not only because the title sounds like a girly teen-section-of-the-bookstore Twilight-esque novel, but also because guys don't need books to tell them things about life, (least of all about relationships) - they can just live it, right? WRONG. Why do you read the Bible then?! (Yeah, that's what I thought.) But in all seriousness, it will point out at least one thing that you have encountered in your relationships (both platonic and romantic) and just really makes you think.
It covers topics such as wisdom before/during/after a relationship, trusting God to find someone and tell you when, communication, gender roles, physical and emotional intimacy, and growing in a community. It includes a lot of heartwarming anecdotes that kind of tinge it with a slight sense of cheesiness, but in the end, it's all cute to read. It also has a lot of list-making, kind of like how sermons are mapped out (e.g. the 3 things you need to take from this passage in Isaiah; the 4 things you need to think about for this holiday season, etc etc.) but it's well-organized and well-articulated. There are several asides that acknowledge the "old-fashionedness" of the concept of courtship, but Harris remains firm in his ideas and suggestions for a healthy, Christ-centered relationship.
The book is $12.99 for a new copy, and can be found at your local bookstore, online at probably a cheaper price for a used copy, or in the hands of your loving sisters (because I'm assuming most girls have it rather than guys, though I think guys would greatly benefit from it even more than girls) - so don't waste any time. If you're looking for a break from your other required reading this summer and you're tired of wasting time on my blog (which I hope you don't think of as wasting time, haha) pick up this book as soon as possible. If you sincerely read through all of it and you don't find a single thing that speaks to you, I will buy you ice cream. And that's a legit deal for me, because ice cream is a precious commodity that I only like to reserve for myself :)
Get going! (pg. 64)
Saturday, June 20, 2009
papa ryu
Tomorrow is Father's Day, and normally, I would probably post this on the day of, but I decided I probably will not have time to sit here and churn out a blog entry tomorrow because I am never in my room. And plus, who says you have to celebrate your loved ones on designated days? I can have a pre-papa appreciation day if I want, yeah?
Thus. In honor of this day that I think is often stereotypified and materialisticified with all those "buy these electronics! this watch! this golf club set! these inspirational books (for all y'all with Christian dads out there...)!", I decided to just explain to you guys what exactly my dad means to me. Or, more accurately, who he means to me. (And please, watch your comments because I am sending the link to this entry to my dad. Yes, you can leave him a shout out if you want. LOL.)
So.
Crazy dedicated: He's basically the best dad ever. I know, y'all probably all think that your dad is the best dad ever, and yes, he is, for you. But for me, my dad is pretty much the best dad ever. I think he truly has a heart that is akin to the Father's, one that is always sacrificing and always thinking one step ahead of us so that he can provide the best experience for us (i.e. our entire family) even if we're completely clueless. It's so crazy up to the point where my mom and I are just like, Dad. PLEASE just take a personal day. PLEASE do something for yourself. He is the master luggage carrier, long-distance driver, paperwork-doer, everything-coordinator. He's a little bit of a control freak, and in some ways, I think I definitely get that from him, and so, I need to start helping him. But not only is he dedicated in the things he does, but how much he deeply cares about our intellectual and spiritual well-beings (yeah, moms are usually the emotional well-being people). And though I can't say completely accurately what kind of husband he is to my mom, I can say that my mom always says to find someone like him - which is a high standard because my mom is very picky about potential guys for me. And I agree with having this standard.
So yeah. I can't really put some good nouns to his character to sum it all up for you (if you skipped reading the past three paragraphs), but just know that my personality is very much like his. And that just thinking about him sometimes makes me choke up instantly because I'm just super proud of him and so glad that he's my dad...and because I'm a sap.
Happy Father's Day, Daddy :) I love you TONS.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
that's not my name
Yeah, like the head-bopping, catchy-but-then-it-gets-annoying song by the Ting Tings.
Okay, this is a very not-edifying entry, but seriously, I need to get this out.
My name is Sarah. S-A-R-A-H. With an H at the end. The H is there because when you say my name backwards, it sounds like "harass." Not "Aras." Which is not even a word.
What I don't understand is that in/on both my e-mail addresses (school and personal), my Facebook page, this blog - my name is CLEARLY there, written as S-A-R-A-H. And YET, there are still people who reply back, "Hi Sara" or "Sara, etc etc" or my personal favorite, "Happy Birthday, Sara!" Yes, it could have been a typo, so 98% of the time, I'll just let it slide. It happens a lot with first-time DP correspondents; sometimes, the second time around, they correct themselves. But if it becomes consistent, then OBVIOUSLY you are not reading my name correctly OR you're just choosing to spell my name like that on purpose because, I don't know, all the Sarah's you've known in your life were actually Sara's.
For me, Sara looks unbalanced because it has only 4 letters, making it look not symmetric. I like symmetry because I have OCD tendencies about certain things...like symmetry. So, this is just a polite request, but please please please please please spell my name correctly. It's just a pet peeve of mine, and I've dealt with it all my life, but somehow, especially for friends who do it, it just makes me feel like they don't care enough to actually bother to spell my name correctly. Biblical Sarah - with an H!
Thanks :)
Okay, this is a very not-edifying entry, but seriously, I need to get this out.
My name is Sarah. S-A-R-A-H. With an H at the end. The H is there because when you say my name backwards, it sounds like "harass." Not "Aras." Which is not even a word.
What I don't understand is that in/on both my e-mail addresses (school and personal), my Facebook page, this blog - my name is CLEARLY there, written as S-A-R-A-H. And YET, there are still people who reply back, "Hi Sara" or "Sara, etc etc" or my personal favorite, "Happy Birthday, Sara!" Yes, it could have been a typo, so 98% of the time, I'll just let it slide. It happens a lot with first-time DP correspondents; sometimes, the second time around, they correct themselves. But if it becomes consistent, then OBVIOUSLY you are not reading my name correctly OR you're just choosing to spell my name like that on purpose because, I don't know, all the Sarah's you've known in your life were actually Sara's.
For me, Sara looks unbalanced because it has only 4 letters, making it look not symmetric. I like symmetry because I have OCD tendencies about certain things...like symmetry. So, this is just a polite request, but please please please please please spell my name correctly. It's just a pet peeve of mine, and I've dealt with it all my life, but somehow, especially for friends who do it, it just makes me feel like they don't care enough to actually bother to spell my name correctly. Biblical Sarah - with an H!
Thanks :)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
