Do I get to make a wish on the candles if it's not really my birthday yet?

I often hear older people say that they still feel like a teenager. I wonder at what point in my progression through life will I stop feeling my age and begin to feel like I'm sixteen? The acknowledgment that my body doesn't seem to want to hold its former shape without a little extra coaxing on my part--that I have to actually work to keep the cellulite at bay--has come as an unpleasant shock, yet I definitely don't feel like I'm me ten years ago; I feel like I'm me now. I'm perfectly content to be at the stage of life I'm in and have no wish to have back anything I had in the past.

It's only in one aspect of my life that I approach the number twenty-six with some trepidation, and to elaborate requires that I touch on a subject I have traditionally and deliberately shied away from on this blog. But, since we are now approaching the end and the character of this blog has been developed to a point where slight deviations don't threaten to carry it off in an undesirable direction, I will be candid: I'm talking about love. Romance, to be more specific. I haven't been in a serious relationship in the last decade, and, though I really don't have the slightest interest in going on dates and assertively searching out a partner, I'd be lying if I said I didn't feel a bit uneasy about this prolonged state of singleness. Especially at my age.

Today was not my birthday, but tonight I celebrated with my family, with enchiladas and presents and cake. They sang "Happy Birthday" to me and and I blew out the candles. No, I didn't wish for a boyfriend. But, okay, I did take it under at least flighting consideration before settling on something more altruistic. I don't know what the next year will hold as far as relationships are concerned. And, honestly, I'm not very open to responding positively to any opportunities that may arise. I know myself and know that I will anxiously resist anything and anyone that threatens my ideal for how romance ought to develop. But I do hope that, when the time comes for me to take a chance and make a change, I won't hold back on account of fear.

Reflecting on the Experience Thusfar

Writing essays for graduate school admission was tough. But it was kind of great. It stretched me. I couldn't just write anything I felt like (...ahem...like I do for this blog...); I had to write something good.

It was the first time in a long time that my writing had to follow any sort of assignment. The prompts were exceptionally challenging to properly address within the allotted word count. Initially I approached the task a similar way as I approach most blog entries: just sort of choose an idea and run with it, freestyle. But I quickly became aware that this method would not be sufficient if I was going to produce anything suitable for submission to the office of admissions. If I wanted two eloquent essays that faithfully encapsulated my personality and my scholastic aptitude, I was going to have to work for them. I would have to labor over the theme and the structure, and I would have to make multiple drafts. It was mentally exhausting work, but it felt excellent to be doing it.

I'm ready to be a student again. Though I've learned a lot in my experiences since completing my undergraduate studies and would not trade them for anything, I think that much of what I've been up to in the last four-and-a-half years has distracted me from the vocation that I have long perceived to be intrinsic to my identity: academics.

Even if I don't get accepted, this experience will not be a loss.

My Day of Writing Essays

As it turns out, a good night's rest, a well-balanced breakfast, prayer, and little bit of yoga was exactly what I needed to get me into essay-writing mode this morning. With the day off from work and the whole house to myself, I utilized the time to the fullest, stopping only for a tiny lunch (I didn't want digestion to interfere with cognition) and to occasionally pace back and forth, attempting to work through my thoughts orally before transcribing them to paper.

Okay, in all honesty, I was not quite that dedicated. It's amazing how, in a time crunch, activities that normally slip under my radar--things like peeling dead skin off of my sunburned legs or finally getting around to figuring out how to use Twitter--suddenly seem to be of the most urgent importance. But nevertheless, with perseverance and the help of a very smart friend who knows me well and is good at proofreading papers, I completed my application and submitted it, two days before the deadline.

Now all I have to do is wait for the wonderful people who have agreed to serve as references for me to submit their online recommendations.

Though I was happy with the way that both of the essays came together, I was especially pleased with the form in which my thoughts found expression in the first essay. I'm happy to share it below:

Traveling—my experiences living, working, serving, and visiting abroad—has had a profound influence on shaping my spiritual life. It is impossible to imagine what my relationship with God would look like today if I had never gone on a short-term missions trip to Kenya, studied abroad in England, or taught English for two years in Japan. My experiences overseas, varied and uniquely meaningful as they may be, have corporately pointed me toward the awareness that God is present and at work in every culture and corner of the world. They have alerted me repeatedly to the fact that God is beyond the limits of my personal worldview, which, incidentally, has been expanded greatly on account of all that I have witnessed and participated in in other countries.

Of all the people I have met, the one who impressed me as best exemplifying the teachings of Jesus was a Muslim woman living in a Nairobi slum. Her cramped little house, smaller than my own bedroom back in the U.S., was home not only to her and her two children, but also to five orphans, unrelated to her, whom she had taken it upon herself to provide for. Though this woman had almost nothing, she gave freely, joyfully, and without fear to those in greater need than she. The impact of her example made Christ’s words in Matthew 25:35-40, “For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat…” more relevant to me than ever before. This encounter continues to influence me in my job, in my volunteer activities, and in my relationships, as I am reminded to choose love rather than fear and generosity before self-interest.

While living in Japan, I was blessed with a situation that led me to a deeper love and appreciation for the Church. Though I mostly grew up going to church, I later became disheartened by the constantly conflicting personalities and opinions in my congregation. I felt compelled to participate in church leadership, but my frustration at fellow members for not sharing my passions and perspectives often drove me away from attending church for a month or longer. In Japan, however, without the close presence of a supportive group of fellow believers, I became aware of just how vital community is to Christian life. I began to attend a small Japanese church and, despite linguistic barriers, was comforted by the communion of saints who, like me, loved Jesus and were trying to discern what it means to live as a Christian. Now that I am back in the U.S., I have a renewed sense of purpose and gratitude for attending my church. The former frustrations still arise, but I know that our love and togetherness will always be, in the words of Thomas Merton, “the resetting of a Body of broken bones.” With confidence that God’s grace is sufficient for all situations, I am grateful to bring my creativity and the unique worldview my experiences have given me into my role of service within that Body.

What Will It Profit?

I spent the morning grappling with the paradoxes Jesus speaks to his disciples in Matthew 16.24-26:

If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me. For those who want to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake will find it. For what will it profit them if they gain the whole world but forfeit their life? Or what will they give in return for their life?

Though reason points me toward the conclusion that there is no greater fulfillment in life than to follow Christ, internally I struggle to reconcile willingness and willfulness. The unshakable little voice inside me persists, "But what if...?"

These thoughts followed me through the day at work and into the evening. Dissatisfied and under-challenged as I am in my current employment, I have been spending a lot of my time lately contemplating potential lines of work and seeking inspiration in the matter. But, struggle as I might to reach any definite conclusion, I feel stuck, ultimately afraid to make any big step in a new direction only to possibly fail. If I am to make progress in my search for a vocation, I need to find a way to set fear aside, to choose creativity over predictability and freedom over the suffocating scrutiny of the well-meaning commentators who demand that I have some sort of practical plan for everything I do.

Lord, if You want me to go, I'll go.

I want You to want me to go.

Words of Encourragement

An eventful day. I went kayaking on the bay with Chris, a current CouchSurfer from England, and, on the way back home, was involved in a little scrape between my dad's Jeep, which I had borrowed to transport the kayaks, and another car. It was my fault.

But tomorrow morning I am scheduled to offer some Words of Encouragement during the church service, and, having thought of a topic which I can hopefully wedge into my alloted time of "under three minutes," I'm going to have a go at organizing these thoughts in writing.

It begins with a story:

When I was in the ninth grade I was not a good student. I got mostly C's, and I was pretty much okay with that. I had always been a "C" student and rather apathetically assumed that I would always be a "C" student. In my mind, trying hard in school just wasn't part of who I was or who I identified myself to be.

In the ninth grade, I was sure my English teacher hated me; and, even now, looking back, I don't think I was too off the mark. She often made it very clear that she was disappointed with me and my lack of consistency in completing my homework. But one day, after class, she pulled me aside and said, "I was talking to Mrs. Anderson today"--Mrs. Anderson was my History teacher, whom I was also convinced hated me--"and we both agreed, 'That Meghan Janssen sure knows how to write an essay.'"

It was a simple comment, made by a teacher whose projected dislike of me I certainly reciprocated. But it changed everything. If I was really good at writing essays, then I was going to be good at writing essays. After that, my grades began to make a drastic turn-around. I had always liked to read, but now my favorite school subject was English. In college, I studied English, and, after graduation, I went to teach English in Japan.

What my ninth-grade English teacher did for me is something we all have the capacity to do for one another. Each of us has the ability to affirm and positively influence those around us by speaking words of truth and encouragement into their lives. Because when someone genuinely affirms you--when they really listen to you and are willing to extend themselves in order to show you something about yourself that is good and special and unique--it doesn't just make you feel all warm and fuzzy inside. It also implicitly calls out a responsibility for you to be a good steward with what you have been given.

We have been called the beloved of God. God affirms this love in so many ways. And if we truly believe that--that we are absolutely loved, not in spite of who we are but really as we are, then, sure, that makes us feel all kinds of warm and fuzzy inside, but it also calls out a great responsibility. A responsibility to live, not as what we previously apathetically assumed ourselves to be, but to live as the beloved of God.

Why doesn't everybody know this stuff?

Yesterday at work, a woman came up to the register and asked, "What's a sonnet?"

To be honest, it took me a moment to realize that I hadn't misunderstood her question, so long has it been since I've talked about sonnets in the presence of someone who didn't know what one was. She had to repeat herself and explain that she had seen the words "Modern Sonnets" on a book somewhere.

In my best teacherly voice, I explained that a sonnet is a fourteen-line poem, and that the lines are written in something called "iambic pentameter," meaning that the meter sounds something like, "da DUM da DUM da DUM da DUM da DUM." I told her that, traditionally, sonnets stick to a specific rhyme scheme, but contemporary sonnets don't necessarily have to.

Later, when I relayed this story to my co-worker, somehow expecting him to share my amazement that someone didn't know what a sonnet was, he simply replied, "All I know is that it's a kind of poem and Shakespeare wrote a lot of them."

I have the sudden impression that not everybody knows the same stuff as me and sees the word the way it is inside my head. It's very unsettling.

Doing

We are very much concerned with doing The Right Thing. Yet, in our present society, so often characterized by intellectual one-upmanship and relentless rationalizations that drive us incessantly further into ambiguity, The Right Thing is ever elusive. I look around and see many of my friends and others my age in the same condition as I: stagnant, without any especial sense of confidence about where we are or where we are going. If we look to national lawmakers at the moment, we are given little reassurance of our capability as humans to move beyond a battle of thoughts and into any kind of real action. Republican Representatives may have gotten elected for the ideals that they promised to hold firm to, but they were also elected to do a job, and right now doing that job effectively requires that they adhere to the desires of the majority of the American people, and compromise on a plan to raise the debt ceiling. As Theodore Roosevelt once cleverly put it, "In any moment of decision, the best thing you can do is the right thing, the next best thing is the wrong thing, and the worst thing you can do is nothing."

For me, this is a year that has been characterized by indecision and inconsistency. The person I have become, or rather the person I have shown myself to be, is far from embodying the simple Christian practice to "Simply let your 'Yes' be 'Yes' and your 'No,' 'No'" (Matthew 5:37). When I came back from Japan, I had some ideas of things I'd like to do, but I hesitated to pursue any of them. I created this blog, announcing my intention to update it daily, but quickly relinquished that discipline. Around November I sketched out a grand Plan and announced it to those closest to me, but allowed it to disintegrate less than two months later. And even now, as I type these words, I am tormented with uncertainty over whether decisions I've made in recent months have been the right ones, and I consider whether, for the sake of my own comfort, it would be alright to go back on my promises.

Writing specifically about the time I spend in prayer would seem too personal, too open to misinterpretation by those who read it. I have always found it impossible to express to others the things that I feel God has been "placing on my heart," at least as far as they are understood as such. But I do believe, with utmost certainty, that God speaks to us in ways beyond our normal capacity for perception. And, despite the uncertainties and ambiguities of this last year, God has been persistently building in me an awareness of a Love that persists and prevails through all situations and all time. But it is a Love that, in its very essence, demands response. The grouchy acquiescence to inactivity into which it is often so easy to fall is not only incompatible with the Gospel message, it is impossible if I, in the core of my very being, truly believe that God is Love. But to live with that kind of knowledge, we must relinquish the fear that holds us immobilized by the shackles of "what if?" and step forward in the confidence that Love will be there to greet us.

The Most Important Stuff

Since several weeks ago, when Ashley Jones first alerted me to its existence, I've been occasionally looking at the blog The Burning House and attempting to assess just what possessions of mine have the most immediately practical or sentimental value to me. Besides the obvious choices of my wallet, which contains credit cards and pieces of personal identification, and my back-up hard drive with all my pictures and documents from the past ten years or so, what would I choose to take with me if everything else I owned were about to be destroyed?

For all my pondering and walking around my room, looking at my stuff, here's the best I could come up with:

1. My high school yearbook
2. A bottle of wine
3. My big backpack

If you're surprised to see that my high school yearbook made it to the top of the list, you're not alone. It was, by no means an object that immediately jumped to mind when I began inventorying my most prized possessions. I hated high school. By the time I reached my senior year, I was of the mindset that this was just a necessary evil I would have to suffer through before moving on to the much more desirable state of being known as college. But riffling through the autograph pages of my yearbook and reading the things that past friends and acquaintances wrote to me provides a very self-affirming reminder of my best and most basic character traits--the stuff that people were noticing about me even when I was seventeen. I'm deeply encouraged to read one girl's note: "You made me feel the most welcome out of anyone in our class." A few wrote that I was probably the nicest person they knew. If people saw me as a nice person when I was seventeen--when I was, for the most part, much more insecure and much less willing to extend myself on behalf of others than I am now--then maybe I really am a nice person. The possibility of such just makes me want to work even harder and being kind and welcoming to those around me. My high school yearbook proves itself to be a memento worth hanging on to.

The bottle of wine and the backpack are, of course, practical choices. I need the backpack to store and carry my stuff and the wine to wash away the pain of losing my house to a fire.

Would anyone like to start our own little Flickr page to share which few possessions of ours we consider worth hanging on to before all others? I believe Ashley was the one who suggested the idea first, but I'd really be interested to see what my friends would choose. Let me know.

The First Time I Stole Something

My friend reached into the box, took out two bright-papered tootsie pops. She put one in her desk, and, without saying anything, slipped the other into my desk before passing the box along.

I didn’t want the candy. I hadn’t earned it. It was supposed to be fore the students who had received an A on their homework. I never received A’s--only did my homework about half the time--and I didn’t even really like candy. A horrible sensation materialized heavily in my stomach: I had never stolen anything before. But my friend was really cool and I wasn’t sure whether I was cool or not, so I said nothing.

The plan was to wait until my next Algebra class and discretely return the tootsie pop to its box, but I forgot. Or the teacher was looking. And I forgot again. After two weeks of sitting in the front pocket of my backpack, squishing up against sandwich crumbs, eraser dust, and used Kleenex, the piece of candy had been rendered clearly non-returnable.

The guilt I felt over my misdeed followed me around along with the linty lollypop in my backpack, a talisman of contrition. Every time I saw it, I felt a pang of self-repugnance. I had never before imagined myself perfect--I picked arguments with my little sisters and was a miserable student--but I had always felt some comfort in the knowledge that I was, ultimately, a morally upright individual. But now I had committed a blatant offense against another person, against an authority figure. I had taken what was not rightfully mine. I longed for purification, but feared reproof. I never confessed.

Until now.

This has always been part of who I am: I’m obsessed with doing what's right. I recall hiding in my room one Fourth of July because my parents were breaking a local statute by lighting sparklers in our backyard; if the cops showed up, I wanted it to be clear that I’d had nothing to do with this flagrant violation of the law. As an R.A. in college, I felt deeply incensed when friends would commit minor infractions in my presence and expect me to overlook them (I did overlook them, but I resented it deeply). I never drank alcohol until I was twenty-one.

And yet, I’ve always been a little embarrassed about this aspect of my personality. I pretend to others that I’m naughtier and worldlier than I actually am (an ironic conflict in my all-encompassing impulse to comply with what’s expected of me). I think that my improved self-confidence in recent years and an increasing acceptance of the fact that I’ll never be perfect has helped to alleviate some of the guilt and freed me both to make mistakes and to take responsibility for them. But in many ways, I’ll always be a closet goody two-shoes.

In many ways, I’ll always be carrying that tootsie pop around with me.

What Makes the Difference

It is very important not to become too ingrained in a certain approach to self-reflection. Over-scrutinizing and never discussing my thoughts with another person can become just as unproductive as constantly talking about everything with friends and never drawing away to a place of personal contemplation.

I've spent so much of the last month by myself. And it is strange how quickly I can, when left in relative isolation, reach an impasse in my personal growth without even noticing it. The idea of being open and honest with others sounds more and more undesirable, and I turn increasingly reticent.

And yet, how many times have I been surprised by the enormous strides I have taken toward enlightenment in just an hour's conversation with a good friend! I come as far in solving a problem in an afternoon as I had in several weeks of concentrated private meditation and reflection.

Tonight, I have so much joy, so much pain, and I have so much gratitude for the loving, understanding people who help me to better understand who I am, simply by being who they are. I love my friends.

I Like America

I recall having had, throughout my childhood and adolescence, a nagging sensation of my own cultural inadequacy; I perceived myself to be at an acute disadvantage in comparison to my friends whose parents or grandparents had immigrated to this country in the last half-century (a demographic that--growing up in San Diego, a port city with a military base right on the boarder with another country--described a considerable number of the kids I hung out with). I still recall how once, in kindergarten, there was a day on which we were all supposed to wear the traditional dress of our ethnic heritage. I came to school dressed as a cowgirl. Even at age five, I knew that this was a bit of a cop-out.

My middle-class, American, White, Protestant family seemed thoroughly estranged from our distant Northern European heritage. We celebrated American holidays, such as Thanksgiving and American Christmas, and we had our own little traditions surrounding these get-togethers, but the origins of such rituals could be traced back no further than a couple of decades. In middle school, I was profoundly jealous of my peers who got to celebrate bat-mitzvahs and quinseañeras; not because I envied the attention or the presents, but because I was deeply, terribly covetous that they should have such clear evidence of belonging to a specific cultural identity and community.

It was my deep-rooted sense of cultural inferiority--or, should I say, my perceived lack of culture altogether--that, at least in part, fostered my desire to travel and experience other countries. As much as I learned about being a Kenyan, an Englishman, a Japanese, or a Frenchman during my escapades in Kenya, England, Japan, France, I learned just as much--if not more--in each of these countries about what it means to be an American.

If you're having trouble understanding your culture as an insider, go overseas and observe the juxtaposition of your own culturally conditioned tendencies, opinions, and mannerisms with those of people who operate within a different cultural paradigm. It was during the two years that I spent living in Japan that I began to observe, more fully than ever before, evidence suggesting that I did, indeed, belong to a culture: American culture. (And even more specifically, Southern Californian culture. And, more specific yet, San Diego culture!) And, thank goodness, American culture is more than just Big Macs and 64-ounce soft drinks; it's a way of perceiving our individual selves and the ways we relate to others. In a grocery store in San Diego, for instance, it seems entirely normal to find myself spontaneously engaged in friendly conversation with an employee or fellow shopper. As Americans, we don't need to know each other to be friends. This is entirely not the case in Japan. Strangers' dialog with one another is comprised mainly of stock greetings employed at the beginning and end of nearly all interactions. Polite, not familiar. An old woman in the supermarket gave me some unsolicited advice once about what bread to buy, but that was unusual. I guess old people, in any culture, are allowed to operate within their own paradigm.

It's empowering to belong to a community and to have a cultural identity, but it's also healthy to be aware of the positive and negative aspects of that community's way of understanding and explaining life. I think it's great that Americans, in general, are so friendly and outgoing; but, I think we also need to focus on having more genuine interactions and not become obsessed with always giving off the image of being "great!" I like that we value personal identity and individual capacity for success; but, I think we work too much and are generally too focused on money and possessions. And I love how diverse America is; but, we still have a ways to go in ensuring equal rights and social securities for all citizens.

Our preference for and allegiance to a certain thing mean very little if we've never had anything to compare it to. I may like bananas, but if I've never tried another fruit, I will neither fully understand my own tastes, nor be able to relate to a person who says she prefers apples. Living in Japan helped me to see that I do, indeed, like America and being an American. As I climbed up on the hill in my parents' back yard to watch the fireworks shows this evening, enjoying my first Fourth of July in this country in three years, I felt happy and proud to be part of something good. Not better, certainly not perfect, but good. While the fireworks displays finished off, each with their own grand finale, I joined in the chorus of neighbors standing outside their houses and chanting, "USA! USA! USA!" I admit, it was a bit silly, but we were all being silly together, and it felt great. We were all enjoying the evening. We were all Americans.

Job Jumble

Is it bad that this makes me feel a little bit stressed out?

I guess because making time to do all those things sounds difficult. Despite the fact that I, being unemployed, should have all the time in the world.

Unemployed? Yeah. I was supposed to start working at a certain big-name book retailer this afternoon, but the assistant manager called to say that she was too busy to do my orientation this week and would have to reschedule for next Tuesday. Another week to not work? That would be all fine and good, were it not for the fact that it pushes back the day when I will at last begin earning a paycheck.

I've been hired at two places since I got back from France (four weeks ago today!). Both times, I was led to believe that I would be starting work right away. And, both in both cases, the actual start date has been pushed back (the offer I received two weeks ago to work at a vegan food booth has been put on hold indefinitely).

I'm trying not to feel stressed out about this. Yes, my savings account is rapidly approaching nonexistence, but, feeling anxious about it probably won't help anything. At present, I'm reading Richard Foster's Freedom of Simplicity, and his discussion of some of Jesus' teachings in the book of Matthew, concerning the conflict between material possessions and the spiritual life, seems especially deserving of consideration right now. In Matthew 6, Jesus instructs his disciples, "Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth [...] For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also" (v. 19 & 21), and he admonishes his followers to not worry about food or clothes, "But strive first for the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well" (v. 33). Foster comments on Jesus' command, clarifying that we are not being forbidden from making provision, but rather told to "live the carefree life of unconcern for possession in the midst of our work" (37). In other words, serving God rather than wealth doesn't mean we have to wear animal skins and forage in the wild for food. Nor does it mean that we just sit comfortably in our parents' house and watch Netflix in expectation that a job will magically appear. It means doing our work, but not letting it become the source of our hope; that's God's job.

It's been a long time since I was in a position where I didn't feel like I could just buy whatever I wanted whenever I wanted. In Japan, my income was always beyond sufficient for my means. And with the savings I acquired during my two years abroad, there was little to dissuade me, upon my return to America, from buying a car, going on a vacation or three, and basically just taking it easy for a few months. This situation of having to abstain from my usual consumerist tendencies and to consider all my purchases carefully is rather foreign to me. But it feels healthy. Despite the fact that I occasionally have moments of panic where I wonder how on earth I'm going to afford the gas to get me to my job until my first paycheck (that's what credit cards are for!), this experience, overall, is good for my soul. I am learning. I am growing. I am grateful.

This is my Brain on Harry Potter

I'm not sure if the fact that I hold a degree in English Literature should make me feel more or less apologetic about my love of the Harry Potter books. I've always attempted to justify myself by categorizing them as a "guilty pleasure." However, for the sake of getting through this post, I'm setting the guilt aspect aside and focusing, at least for tonight, on the pleasure.

I'm as excited for the July 15 as any Harry Potter lover. Despite the fact that the last two films have been, in my opinion, unsatisfying, the hype surrounding the end of the film saga and my sentimental allegiance to the story itself are enough to make me completely overlook any shortcomings in the film adaptations. It doesn't matter how much they botch up essential plot elements in favor of gratuitous make-out scenes or how wince-inducing the acting may be at times; I still love it, and I'll still pay whatever they charge to attend one of the midnight screenings.

Here is a picture of my sister, Lindsay, and me, getting ready to leave the house on the evening of November 18, 2010:

In preparation for July 15, I've been rereading the series. I'm in the middle of book four, Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, right now. Since the plot no longer holds any mysteries for me as it did the first time around, I'm more than ever drawn into J. K. Rowling's magical world. I'm enchanted and inspired. I want to bring a little bit of the wizarding world to my own mundane life, and I've been thinking up a few ways to make that happen.

For instance, the Weasley family's clock, mentioned the first time in book four, sounds like it could translate very nicely into a fun craft project. But I figured that I wasn't the first person to have that notion, so I did a quick Google search and, sure enough, someone devised a real-life family "clock" that would update the whereabouts of his family members according to his Twitter updates.



Wow. I'm not going to do anything that involved (like I even could), but I may still try a hand at my own interpretation. My version would probably focus more on appearance than functionality (although the one above obviously does an excellent job on both counts).

And, of course, there are a countless number of recipes on the Web aimed at imitating magical food items mentioned in one or more of the books. Certainly not the least appealing of these are the recipes for butterbeer. The standout recipe that I've come across so far has been this one, mostly because it's a real Tudor butterbeer recipe that actually contains both butter AND beer. Judging from the list of ingredients, I'd say there's about an equal chance of it being either surprisingly yummy or downright gross. But I guess we'll just have to try it out and see.

Well, there you have it. I'll continue to contemplate ways to translate inspiring items from the wizarding world into real-life fun and keep you posted if my contemplations lead to anything interesting. And, if this confession of my love of Harry Potter has in fact caused you to lose some respect for me, then...

Obliviate!

The one where she decides to go to France

"You must be brave," people kept saying to me. Brave? It might sound brave to some, I suppose, if not downright brazen, that I would suddenly decide to put the remainder of my English-teaching savings toward taking a two-month solo trip to France. I didn't know anyone in France. My mission, simply, was to learn a bit of French and spend some time on some French farms. I had a French school in Paris picked out for the first three weeks but, otherwise, I would be making plans as I went. "Brave." The choice of descriptor seemed logical and, yet, I didn't feel brave. I didn't feel anything. Not even scared. The fact that I was truly going to France--had paid for the non-refundable airline ticket and sent a deposit for the language school--didn't seem real to me. Empirically, yes, I knew I was going. But I didn't feel it.

This emotional numbness, this unshakable malaise, was one of the main motivations that led me to decide to go to France in the first place: I wanted to feel something. It seemed that I hadn't really felt anything for a considerable while. Which, in retrospect, was probably not entirely accurate. I was just depressed. And I think we've all experienced moments (I do almost daily) where we compare the present moment to a preceding one, and are filled with insufferable angst that things aren't as good now as they were when we were in that other town, other job, other relationship, other mindset. Of course, that earlier reality had its imperfections, too, we just don't consider them because we are depressed.

Such was my condition in February of this year. I was jobless, living with my parents, my savings from teaching in Japan trickling away slowly as I searched less-than-half-heartedly for a job. My sister, Lindsay, had just gotten married and, with no more wedding to plan and prepare for, I was left to face the void of my future, armed with nothing but a bachelor's degree in English and a vague intention to go back to school for something. I started to panic. It seemed that all of the career advice I had ever received--to follow my dreams, to do what I love--was rendered irrelevant by the growing realization that I had no dreams and, if in fact there was something I would love doing, I had no idea what it was because I had never done it before.

One day in late February I was hanging out with some friends. This is usually a good idea because being with friends helps me to feel better about my lack of direction in life because most of my friends are in a similar situation. However, since we share the same predicament, my friends are unable to give me any helpful advice and, as soon as I am no longer with them, I go back to being depressed. But on this particular day, one of my friends said something to me that changed everything. She asked me where I wanted to go on my next vacation. It was an innocent question, I'm sure, posed simply for the sake of interesting conversation. Without having to think about it much, I told her I wanted to go to France and spend some time learning French. It was an idea that I had toyed with for a while toward the end of my second year in Japan, and I had never completely discarded it, though the quizzical looks I got from people when I told them the idea and their unanswerable questions, "Why France? Why French?" had persuaded me, in my insecurity, to let it become obscured in the back of the closet of my brain. Now, with the permission of my friend's hypothetical question, I pulled the idea back into the light and, dusting it off, noted just how strongly it still appealed to me.

Yet, in answer to those questions as to my reasons for choosing France and it's language, "Because I want to," didn't seem like strong enough justification for spending several thousand dollars to go on vacation for two months. For the sake of explaining myself to others, I focused mainly on the reasons I shouldn't not go to France:

1. I may never have the time and money to do something like this again.
2. I'm 25 now and it's cheaper to do a lot of things in Europe if you're 25 or younger.
3. I don't have a family to look after.
4. I might regret it later if I don't.

Though it works unfailingly in arithmetic equations, in life, a double negative does not make a positive. Using a roundabout means to justify myself to others rather than simply having the confidence to be honest about my own hopes and passions provided me with a compelling enough argument to legitimize my trip to France and to motivate me to take the practical steps needed to get the trip in motion; but, it set the precedent that this trip was intertwined with my need to prove myself to others, a need that on several occasions threatened to destroy what otherwise turned out to be possibly the greatest two months of my life. It was not until the last week of my trip that I finally confronted this need of mine more seriously than I ever have before and, in a monastery not far from the border to Germany, glimpsed the road to freedom from self-deprecation. It is a road I continue now and will probably always continue to walk but, on the first of March, the day I officially decided to go to France, I was miles from the trail head.

In the three weeks leading up to my departure, I tried to mentally grasp the gravity of what was coming, but all my pondering failed to elicit the feelings of enthusiasm or nervousness that might be expected of someone in my situation. How can you be excited about something if you have no idea what to expect? And how can you know what to expect if you've never done anything remotely like it before? No, I wasn't scared. But one thing I certainly didn't feel--even as I packed all the belongings I would need for two months into a 65-liter backpack, as I sent emails to the absolute strangers who didn't speak English whom I would be staying with in Paris, as I hugged my dad goodbye in front of the San Diego airport on the morning of the 23rd of March--was brave.

Skills!

...you know, like, nunchuku skills, bowhunting skills, computer hacking skills...

No, but seriously.

I enjoy dabbling in a wide array of activities and pastimes. I think of myself as a fairly well-rounded person. I mean, just look at my bio right there in the right-hand sidebar: clearly, I'm not short on interests and enterprises. But lately I've been feeling a bit as though I'm stuck in a rut. And it is in an effort to pull myself out of said rut that I am hereby declaring the month of February to be

Skills Month

Since February divides so nice and evenly into four weeks, I have determined to acquire four entirely new skills within the month, roughly one per week.

I already have the skill for week one all picked out:

1. Learn how to use my camera.

I have owned my Nikon D40 digital SLR for nearly two years now, but have never even cracked the user's manual. There are several functions to the device that I have absolutely no clue how to perform. To make matters worse, I know pretty much nothing about photography. So, my first mission for the first week of February is to fully familiarize myself with my camera and learn how to use it better.

But, as far as pre-assigning a different skill for each week is concerned, that's as far as I've gotten.

This is where you come in.

I've got lots of ideas for stuff I can't do now that I would like to be able to do. But I can't make up my mind which (if any) should become my mission for week two of Skills Month. If you, the reader, are so inclined (and I hope you are), use the handy voting tool at the bottom of this post to vote for which skill you think I need to work on this February. Or, if you have an even better idea than the ones I've listed, click "other" and leave your suggestion in the comments section of this post.

Furthermore, I don't want to embark on this exciting, albeit risky, endeavor without inviting others to get involved. If you want to brush up on your skills, join me in commemorating Skills Month this February! If you need some help getting started with a game plan, I'd be more than happy to help you brainstorm for ideas.

In February, I'm going to learn...
	how to quilt
	how to change my own engine oil
	fifty new words
	basic html
	other (enter your suggestion in the comments section below)
pollcode.com free polls

Plans Change

When it comes to new year's resolutions, I have a pretty solid track record: every December 31, I make a handful of them and then, come February, I've completely forgotten what it was I was so resolved to do. It must be my subconscious refusing to subject me to such an essentially self-berating ritual. I mean, isn't a list of new year's resolutions just an ugly reminder of all the things I ought to be doing anyway but guiltily avoid because I just don't feel like doing them?

So this year I'm going easy on myself. Yes, I'm still going to make some resolutions (I can't help it! I love traditions!), but none of the goals/personal challenges listed below fall under the category of "things I'm not doing now that I ought to be doing." And perhaps the act of writing them out and posting them in a public place will extend my memory's longevity at least until spring.

In 2011, I'm not going to cut my hair. Okay, I might get a little haircut some time this month so that I don't look too scruffy for my sister's wedding, but after that, it's gonna be au naturel.

I won't purchase any clothes. That includes shoes and hair accessories. I did this once before and I found it to be a refreshing furlough from my usual patterns of consumerism as well as a healthy reminder that having new clothes on a regular basis is not a necessity but a luxury. It also encourages me to be more creative with what I already have.

I will maintain a regular exercise routine. This sounds like the most cliché of sure-fail new year's resolutions, but I'm including it because it's something that I've already implemented. A week and a half ago, I purchased a membership at a local gym and I've been meeting with a trainer to learn how to structure my workouts and how to use the entirely unfamiliar exercise equipment. It's been fun and I'm determined to stick with it.

For now, I'm satisfied to leave it at just these three resolutions. I am intentionally avoiding making any specific educational or vocational goals at this time. Two months ago, I wrote out a Plan (the details of which I judiciously declined to publicly announce) that I believed would carry me through the month of March and beyond. I followed the guidelines of that plan for November and December when I sought out seasonal employment with UPS, but, somewhere along the way, I realized that the next segment of the plan--the part where I start laying the groundwork for my Future--just didn't feel right. I'm just not ready to commit tens of thousands of dollars to an educational endeavor that I don't feel at least a little more excited and confident about. So I'm not going to go to graduate school. At least not yet. Phew. Glad I got that out of the way.

But I do have some other ideas and I spy new potential pursuits on the horizon. Some of them do pertain to my Future but mostly they are concerned with my present situation; which is actually pretty exciting because, for just about as long as I can remember, my personal perception of spacetime has been focused on just about anywhere and anytime except for here and now.

This is not to say that anything big has happened or any momentous change has taken place. I'm very quick to have a sudden novel idea and then tout it confidently as my raison d'etre, only to later regret having made such bold and underresearched claims about myself. I'm just going to keep on living, doing stuff, making stuff, and--as far as my capacity for self-motivation will permit--writing about it on this blog.

Breaking Code

A few days I reread the self-stated mission of this blog and felt a sickly sense of malachievement. Somewhere along the line (undoubtedly, it was when I realized that some of my friends were actually reading and keeping up with my posts), my focus shifted and I became less concerned with the task of pounding out my best writing for the day every day regardless of how I feel about it, and more concerned with the task of not disappointing my readers with my incapacity for consistent pizazz.

The condition is exacerbated by my recent development of a merciless case of writer's block. I simply can't seem to have a single original thought that is interesting enough to write down. I blame it on the generally uneventful nature of my life at the moment. It's all too easy to blame the former condition on the latter. And yet, when life is eventful, I excuse myself by saying that I am too busy to write.

I find myself dancing precariously close to being in violation of one of my self-imposed regulations regarding this writing project--the prohibition against berating myself in a manner that could be interpreted as "pessimistic drivel." That isn't what I want to do. It is so much contrary to what I want to do, in fact, that I just spent the last hour trying to use this paragraph as a springboard into a much more optimistic exploration of the beauties and joys of life. I wrote several paragraphs toward that effect, but, upon reading what I had written, felt immensely unsatisfied with it and forced myself to stop.

What happens to a blog when its author has writer's block? I guess we'll just have to see.

Disappearing Days

"What did you do today?"

It's the most anxious moment of my day. My mother sits behind the family computer, eying me with half-interest. It's the part of the day when I must make an account of my idleness. Another uneventful day. I usually respond with something like, "I did all the dishes. And I read." But today, when my mother asked me that dreaded question, I drew an unexpected blank.

"I can't remember," I told her. "It seems like the whole day just evaporated."

It did seem that way.

Today I read a little. I practiced the piano a little. And I...I...

I lost a day.

And so I approach the second most anxious moment of the day--writing time--with a tinge of regret.

Bad Habits: A Food Confession

In her book French Women Don't Get Fat: The Secret of Eating for Pleasure, author Mireille Guiliano invites her American readers to adjust the cultural lens through which they view food in order to acquire a healthier, happier, more "French" way of thinking about eating. Recently I read Guiliano's self-purported diet book that is not a diet book, and her words had their intended effect of getting me to think more intentionally about the food I consume; lately I’ve been creating diverse and well-balanced meals for myself and my parents and enjoying wine and cheese with greater titillation and joie de vivre than usual. However, as per the opinions of Professeur Guiliano, I also seem to have adopted a rather supercilious disapproval for anything that could be labeled as “American” cuisine or food culture. And it's clear that I'm in need of an attitude adjustment.

This has sort of been a problem of mine for a while now: I believe my views on food are ethically and gastronomically superior and I have a bad habit of scolding close friends and family for eating fast food or buying tomatoes out of season. I realize that I certainly don’t need someone like Guiliano--who clearly feels that the French woman is socially and culturally superior to her American counterpart--egging me on. Sometimes, when you sense that your beliefs and values are truly good and that the actions of your loved ones directly conflict with those beliefs and values, it’s tempting to assume that it’s your duty to educate them.

I never want to give the impression that I view others' beliefs and actions as inferior to my own. And creating divides between us and others over food is a tragic offense because perhaps nothing in the world has greater power to bring people together than food. As L. Shannon Jung says in his book, Sharing Food: Christian Practices for Enjoyment, “Eating together is one antidote to individualism; sharing is a school of sociability” (42). The way we relate to and share with one another around the table is a microcosm for the way we relate to everyone, from our close inner circle of family and friends to our much broader global community. The things we eat with one another and the manner in which we eat them (for example, a home-cooked meal or a microwaved one; around the diner table or in front of the t.v.) speak volumes about the nature of our relationships. The foods that we choose to purchase may have direct impacts--either positive or negative--on the people who produce those foods or on the countries where the foods are produced.

How can I spread love through my food choices? According to Jung (and I wholeheartedly agree), one of the ways we are able to eat with the greatest amount of pleasure and satisfaction is by knowing that no people have been mistreated or taken advantage of in the process of bringing that food to our table. We might achieve this by purchasing as much of our food as possible directly from local farmers or by growing and preparing it ourselves. These, certainly, are important practices that we should all, to the extent of our ability, strive to adopt.

But, for me, I see especial importance in always reminding myself to spread love among those I am sitting down to share a meal with. And that is inevitably going to mean toning down this food-snob persona I've recently come to identify so strongly with. It means saying thanks to the people who provide, serve, or sell me my food--regardless of what that food looks like or where it came from. It means saying a blessing before each meal that reminds me to pass the goodness I have received on to others. And it means sharing meals that I have prepared out of a spirit of generosity and sociability rather than out of a desire to indoctrinate or impress.

My bad food habit may not look the same as the bad food habits of many Americans: I don't consume soft drinks or Big Macs and I'm not addicted to sweets. But, nevertheless, it's a nasty habit that I'm determined to break. Eating is an inextricably social act, and insisting on furthering one's own personal agenda in any social arrangement may eventually jeopardize the community. If the dinner guests in the film Babette's Feast had succeeded in their pious resolve to ignore the taste of the rare delicacies and expensive wines that were placed before them, then they would have missed out on the relationally redemptive and unifying joy the feast! Food is love and love is food. Let us never attempt to separate them.


*** If you want to know more about either of the books referenced above, you can read my reviews of them here. If you haven't seen to movie Babette's Feast, rent it now! Or, even better, check it out for free from your local public library! ***

The Plan

How I feel about the fact that I haven't updated my blog for a while:


About two weeks ago, I discussed my intention to attend Prospective Student Weekend at Fuller Theological Seminary in order to learn more about their Master of Arts in Intercultural Studies. I prayed eagerly before attending event that my experience that weekend would instill me with a strong, unequivocal feeling of either "Yes!" or "No!" Instead, however, I walked away from the weekend with an enlightened yet unsatisfying sense of "Maybe..." It was the inconclusiveness of my emotional response to the experience that contributed to my hesitancy to report about it on this blog. I resolved, instead, to take some time to think about it.

Today I spent a couple hours at the San Diego Zoo. I love the zoo. Yes, certainly, seeing wild animals in cages can be a bit depressing. But knowing that the revenues collected from park entrance fees go toward benefiting wildlife conservation projects helps to alleviate some of those ethical concerns.

The polar bear exhibit is one of the most potentially discomforting (giant predatory creatures, who in the wild range hundreds of miles hunting seals along the rim of the polar ice pack, here confined to a relatively minuscule enclosure where they bake all day in the relentless San Diego sun); but it is perhaps my favorite place to visit in the park. Standing nearly face to face with the world's largest land predator is, in any respect, existentially impressive. Even gazing through several inches of glass, one can't help but pause and marvel at the construction of this beautiful, enormous killer, and feel a little nervous quickening of the pulse as you imagine, without intending to, just how quickly you would be dead if this creature were to take a swipe at you with one of his colossal paws.

Today's visit to the polar bear habitat was the best one I've ever had. Kalluk, the zoo's male polar bear, was standing up in the water, gnawing intently on a cow femur bone when I arrived. As I stood gazing through the glass, he gave up on the bone and launched himself full-tilt into a game of swimming energetically around the enclosure and playing with a large purple ball. As I stood there, I put the normal anxious chatter of my brain on hold and allowed myself to simply be mesmerized by the movement of his giant body in the water, the graceful rippling of his dense fur coat, the powerful thrashing motion of his great, terrifying paws. For about half an hour, I was fully engrossed in the activity of watching Kalluk play.

Having that time to clear my mind was helpful. Though my discussions with friends and family over the past two weeks have been pointing me slowly toward the formation of a short-term plan for my life, it wasn't until today that I at last mustered up the will and soundness of mind to take a pen in hand and write out a rough plan for the next five months. And it is a good plan. Every aspect of it not only makes practical sense, but also congeals beautifully with my personal interests and long-term goals.

All that being said, I'm not going to tell you what The Plan is. At least not yet. Because, knowing me, as soon as it's been "officially" announced, I'll start to doubt myself and the silent expectations of others will drive me to anxiously overhaul everything I've been scrupulously and prayerfully working out. But it is a good plan. I'll just have to tell you about it later.