"The Best Twenty-five of twenty-five," part I

For this last week of twenty-five, I would like to take some time to highlight some events or discoveries that might not have gotten much--if any--mention on this blog, but nevertheless played a formative or otherwise interesting role my last year of life. Each day, for the next five days, I will highlight five "Best Ofs" from my twenty-fifth year, comprising, altogether, "The Best Twenty-five of twenty-five."

Here goes:

1. The best birthday gift

This is way hard to choose, actually, because I had so many amazing birthday presents last year! Ashley Jones gave me a skirt that I love and the best key cover ever. I got a beautiful sweater and some great books from my sisters. And Josiah, in his usual custom, gave a hand-made greeting card, complete with personalized coupons to be redeemed for special outings and fun activities. In the end, I guess I have to say that Josiah's present would be the best, because there's no greater gift than time.

2. The best (and by "best," I mean worst) near-death experience

I'm not exaggerating. I really could have died. Back in September, when Josiah, Jared, and I took a two-night backpacking trip in the Ansel Adams Wilderness, the weather was less than kind to us. The first morning, it started to drizzle. With hopes of climbing nearby Madera Peak, we eyed the sky hopefully all day, casting furtive glances at the southern horizon, where dark clouds persistently loomed over the mountain tops.

Finally, at mid afternoon, the clouds in the south still showing no immediate intention to move our direction, we decided to just go for it. Armed with water and snacks, we began to scale the steep, granite slope. Once we cleared the tree line, the going became especially difficult, with loose rock shards slipping out from under us as we climbed higher and higher, our gaze remaining cautiously on the clouds in the south, ready to detect the slightest hint of threat.

A clap of thunder sounded so loud and so close you could feel it in the ground. Immediately, we realized our folly: we had been watching the clouds in the south so intently, we had entirely failed to notice the storm advancing on us rapidly from the north! We were absolutely exposed and standing on the side of one of the tallest mountain peaks in the vicinity, nothing but loose granite beneath our feet.

Fully aware that a scraped knee or even a twisted ankle would be preferable to being struck by lightning, we began to descend as quickly as possible, running and sometimes sliding down hillsides of sharp stones. As incautiously as we hurried, however, we were no match for the rolling black clouds, which advanced on us rapidly, releasing terrifying cracks of lightning. I moved as fast as I could, but both Jared and Josiah were far ahead of me. The clouds were finally right overhead. And then I was passing trees and shrubs and, as the rain began to fall, my hiking boots touched soft dirt, and I knew I was probably going to live.

3. The best thing I got in the mail

A letter from a student in Japan.

4. The best job

I genuinely loved working for UPS in December. I never thought it would be possible to love a job and occasionally, specifically on the days that it rained, it could be a little bit miserable. But I loved the feeling of working hard and doing something physically exerting while being outdoors and interacting with lots of different people in a positive setting all day. What was there not to love?

5. The best thing I crocheted

In late 2010 and early 2011, I crocheted several fun little things of which I was quite proud, but my favorite would have to be this guy right here.

He's an iPod sleeve.

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.

Dollar Is What I Need

I glance at my bank statement and it is suddenly beginning to sink in. More obvious each week is the fact that my complaints about my job not being enough to pay the bills are not just me being melodramatic; working part-time at minimum wage really is insufficient for just about anything. I live with my parents, don't pay rent, hardly ever go anywhere except to work and back home, buy some of my food but generally rely heavily on the groceries my mom and dad bring home...and yet I'm even more broke now than I was two months ago. Even the tiniest splurge is too much. This week I was reckless: I bought two new blouses and ate out twice (never mind that the total of these four purchases amounted to less than fifty dollars). I just can't afford that. At all. Ever.

I have to find a better job. It's not just a matter of learning to be more frugal, although I concede that frugality and simplicity are disciplines I ought to be practicing more devoutly. I really do need to find a means of earning a living. Up until this point I've been too picky. Too idealistic. It's time to set aside my stubbornness and pride. It's time to get a sucky job that pays well.

Rejected

When I saw him standing in line, hands empty, looking at me, I started to get a bad feeling. I recognized him immediately as having come in and purchased a book the night before. I considered that I had better come up with some sort of gentle explanation, but my thoughts were preoccupied with attending to the customer in front of me and when he at last stepped up to the desk and introduced himself it was worse than I had imagined. He had prepared a speech. He was very candid about his intentions. My eyes dropped anxiously from his face to the desk between us. I couldn't decide which was worse: to look him in the eyes or to not look at him at all. Had he been planning this since last night? It was unfortunate that I had not, too, had the opportunity to prepare some words, something at least better than, "That's very nice of you but I just don't...do that. I'm sorry."

His face fell. "Oh," he said. Where hopefulness had appeared a moment earlier, something resembling cold understanding--perhaps even resentment--momentarily flickered. He turned and walked away, hurried out the store without looking back.

How are you doing?

Nearly every evening, when I sit down in front of my computer to compose a new blog entry, I feel momentarily terrified of that blinking cursor dancing lonely on a blank white box. But it is a sensation that quickly passes; I type a sentence and, just like that, the hardest part is over. This is not to say that the sentences that follow flow effortlessly, but the terror of nothingness has been replaced, at least, by something. And that something, whatever it is, is almost always better than nothing.

Today, a man at church asked me how I am doing these days. My mind went to my job and the state of dissatisfied sadness I've generally found myself in lately, and, in that regard, the "All right," I responded with sounded optimistic. But, upon further reflection, I remembered the CouchSurfer from England who had just been staying with us and the two girls from Montréal who will be coming next week. I remembered that, though I earn a pittance at my job and live with my parents, I get to do the two things that bring me the most fulfillment--writing and cooking--every day and that I have the freedom to partake of simple pleasures--going to the zoo or just relaxing and reading--on my days off. And, taking all these factors into account, I quickly amended my reply. "I'm actually doing really well," I told him, "Yeah. Really well."

Writer for Hire (?)

Nothing makes me happier than food. Few activities bring me more satisfaction than an hour or two spent in the kitchen, preparing something good to eat. And yet, the idea of cooking on a professional level strikes me a wholly unappealing. I fully suspect that, were I do do it for money rather than sheer pleasure and for strangers rather than friends, family, and myself, the joy I now receive from preparing meals and other tasty treats would rapidly be snatched away. It pertains largely to the removal of the element of independence; I don't want customers telling me what to cook.

I feel a similar way about writing. I've been very resistant to the idea of pandering out my writing skills for cash, taking orders from a boss or client who needs some text on a subject that may or may not be at all interesting. I worry that, were I to spend a significant part of the day writing something that someone else wants me to write, I would have no energy left to spend on writing something I want to write. But desperate times call for desperate measures. As it turns out, a part-time job earning minimum wage is not sufficient to pay the bills. I've had to all but forget about moving out of my parents' place any time soon. So I've created a profile on Elance.com, a website where a friend of mine has formerly been able to find freelance writing jobs. I'm not absolutely confident I'll be able to secure clients there, but, if I do, I'll be more than grateful for the opportunity to supplement my pathetically minuscule bookseller income. In the meantime, I've added the "food / bev / hosp" category to the types of job listings I regularly check on craigslist. As I said, desperate times.

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.

Good Life

It was an unprecedentedly fine day.

I slept in, had fresh blueberries on my cereal, and watched two episodes of Rebound, which, despite the fact that it makes me feel a little insecure about my body, is so incredibly ridiculous that I can't help but love it to pieces. I made my new favorite pasta sauce--avocado pesto--for lunch and enjoyed it alongside fresh homegrown tomatoes.

I was behind the cash register at work when I overheard the next two customers in line conversing with one another in a familiar tongue. I could not let the opportunity slip by. "Vous êtes françaises?"

They were very sweet girls, in town to study English for the summer, and they told me that I spoke French well. It was early in my shift when they left the store, but the encounter was enough to put a spring in my step for the rest of the evening.

America's Finest City

If I were to live in the city (as opposed to the suburbs), I could probably live here forever. San Diego is lively in the summer with the frenetic enthusiasm of thousands of vacation-goers. They are here for the perfect weather, sunny beaches, world-renowned gardens, and--this weekend--Comi-Con, the world's largest comic book and popular arts convention.

I won't be making it to Comi-Con this year, but I did spend the day downtown and, everywhere I went, evidence that the convention was going on abounded. When the trolley stopped at the 12th & Imperial Transit Center, the masses who disembarked bore a noticeable distinction from the types of individuals one normally encounters using public transport: I observed a green-haired Joker propping what appeared to be a rocket launcher over his shoulder, and his companion was a furry-faced creature that looked like she might have come off of the Planet of the Apes. A number of unusual and vividly colored hairstyles stood out above the sea of comic-book-themed-t-shirt-clad convention-goers of all ages, sizes, and ethnicities. As the crowd shuffled out toward the street, the few of us left on board the trolley turned from staring at them through the windows and faced one another, beaming in mutual amusement.

No, I ventured downtown today not to browse dozens of yards of manga, not to go celebrity-spotting in Hall H, and not to geek out on the latest "4-D" video games, but to volunteer at the farmer's market in Little Italy. I spent my morning at the Mercato, standing on a hill overlooking the bay, people watching and enjoying the pleasant aromas wafting my way from the flower vendors and tamale purveyors. I wore a badge reading "Mercato Volunteer," and shoppers would occasionally approach me with questions--usually regarding local businesses of which I know almost nothing. Occasionally, if the intersection where I was posted became especially congested, I would direct traffic. When the market began to close down at 1:30, I was awarded for my efforts with $10 worth of "Mercato Money," enough to procure some fresh goat cheese and an ounce of arugula micro-greens.

The afternoon was spent shopping for shoes in Hillcrest (alas, when I made my ambitious New Year's resolution to not purchase any clothes all year, I did not anticipate the torture this would inevitably inflict on my poor feet and back when I found myself in a job where I had to spend most of the day standing, and without any comfortable, work-appropriate shoes to do so in) and strolling through Balboa Park. It was as I walked across the Cabrillo Bridge that stretches from 6th Avenue over Highway 163 to El Prado that I was struck with the realization that I really like my city. I mean, it truly is an exceptionally beautiful place. And I spend quite a lot of my time debating inwardly whether I should move to another part of the country or the world so that I can see new places and have new experiences, when the reality is that I can easily see new places and have new experiences every day in San Diego.

Another city would have its own ambiance and pace of life, and, depending on where it was, it might even come with built-in friends from college. But San Diego is a perfectly suitable place to call home. Maybe some day I'll be able to convince some of my friends to call it home, too. Or maybe I'll eventually be able to make some new friends who are just as good as my old ones. And, regardless of how content I am to be here at the moment, there's still always that possibility that I'll move away again, either temporarily or permanently. But, for now at least, I'm pleased to be living in "America's Finest City." Very pleased, indeed.

Keeping Idle

One of the good things about my job is that it's not full-time (though, I admit, the enhanced income of a full-time job would be welcome). Most weeks, I get three full days off in a row. Three days off in a row is immensely rejuvenating. Waking up in the morning and knowing I don't have to go to work that day--or the next day, or the next day--feels exceptionally good.

Lately, when people ask me what I've been up to and I say, "Working," they often respond with something like, "Well, at least you're keeping busy." And, in a way, I sort of agree with them. But, oh! I cringe at the sentiment that a single day of precious life ought to be wasted on "keeping busy." Through the drudgery of a full shift at work, I reminisce inwardly over the lovely, educational, uplifting times I had throughout this last year of intentional unemployment and conclude that I will never again underestimate the value of "keeping idle."

The other good thing about my job is that the hours I spend confined behind my cash register allow me to better appreciate, and maybe even better utilize, my hours of freedom. It's been a while since I've played a video game or spent countless hours browsing the Internet in search of nothing in particular. I fill my free days with writing, reading, cooking, and pleasurable outings like a trip to the zoo or taking in a Shakespeare play in Balboa Park. In a way, "keeping busy" helps me to "keep idle"...better.

Even a nastily mundane, soul-leeching, minimum-wage-paying job like mine can have its good points.

Listening Exercises

I wonder if it's something about my face. Or if, perhaps, I simply have an aura about me, an inexplicable vibe that gives strangers the impression, "Here is someone who will listen." Maybe I smile too much. Frown too much. Make too much eye contact. It's usually not a problem. Except for when it is.

When I was in Paris, it seemed I was approached constantly by people asking for directions. French people. And I suppose Paris is always full of tourists and visitors and, even as a local, it's quite possible to get lost sometimes. And, at the end of my three weeks there, I probably knew the subway system and the language just barely enough to be of minor assistance. Even if I could not help the people who approached me, it was never a nuisance to be momentarily engaged in conversation. But I could not help but wonder, in a crowd full of other commuters looking no less lost than I, why me?

It's when I'm working as a cashier in a bookstore that my inexplicable approachability can sometimes prove a difficulty. I don't usually attempt to engage people in conversation about the books they are purchasing, simply on account of the fact that most of the books people are buying are not anything I'd personally be interested in reading. If a customer is getting one of my favorite books of all time, yes, I'll probably say something. If someone is buying a travel guide to France, yes, I want to know when the trip begins. But, for the most part, nearly any conversation I have with a customer concerning the the process whereby she came to make her selection is going to involve me politely feigning interest while other customers, standing in line, glare at me impatiently.

Yesterday, a girl was buying a book on the Kama Sutra--definitely no desire for me to jump into a conversation about this purchase. I was finished ringing her up and was about to greet the next customer in line when she said, a little sadly, "Yeah, last night was our first night together and it was...you know...not great. Not bad but, you know, not what I was expecting." I feel myself going red. I force a sympathetic smile, say, "Ah..." and pray she won't keep talking; but she does.

I've expressed in a previous post my enthusiasm for the ease and familiarity with which Americans speak to strangers. In most cases, I enjoy being able to converse cordially with people I encounter at work and elsewhere. But perhaps, at least in these last few days, I've had a bit too much of it. I'm ready to crawl in bed, pull the covers over my head, and not have to listen to anyone's thoughts but my own.

Cooking is the Cure

Though I may come home exhausted, feet and back aching, grumbling about how I hate my job and feeling anxious over the lack of sleep I've been getting these last few days, an hour in the kitchen and the happy discovery that a mixture of pureed prunes, applesauce, and nut butter does indeed make a suitable "wet" base for granola bars brings a whistle to my lips and enough spring in my step for me to leap into bed with the confidence that, when I arise, I will have the strength that I need to face a new day.

My First Closing Shift

This is what happens, this is what always happens when I'm working in retail: I'm doing everything I'm supposed to be doing, keeping busy, making sure I'm not standing around idly, when I'm interrupted by a customer asking for something. I help the customer, then, as I'm standing there for a moment trying to regain my previous train of thought, my manager walks up and says, "Hey, Meghan, what are you doing?"

I swear, the whole two hours I was working up here before you came and checked on me, I was doing something. Non-stop. You caught me during the one second that I was staring off into space.

But I didn't say that, of course; I listened earnestly to her explanation of how, when there aren't any customers at the register, I can spend my time organizing the Bargain Books section.

An eight-hour closing shift is long. Really long. But now I get to curl up in a comfy chair and finish reading Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, and that makes me feel...

HAPPY!

The Eyes of the Employed

I walked out to my car in the mall parking lot, amazed at the happy, self-confident feeling that had suddenly swept over me. I had just completed my orientation to begin employment at the book store there and it was as though I were seeing the world in a new light. It was similar to the feeling that I'd had throughout most the month of December, while I'd committed to the backbreaking work of a seasonal driver helper for the United Postal Service. I felt lighter, the weight of unemployment lifted from my shoulders a replaced by a dawning sense of freedom, as though I had been liberated to rejoin the world of responsible, contributing members of society.

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.

A Job

I suppose it would be appropriate for me to announce that I did, in fact, accomplish my goal for the week. Yesterday, I went for a second interview for a bookseller position at Barnes & Noble and was hired on the spot. My training begins next Tuesday.

Yes, it only pays minimum wage. No, I don't need a bachelor's degree in English to perform the necessary tasks of operating a cash register and helping customers locate the latest installment of the Twilight series or whatever (I'm not very up-to-date on current bestsellers; I guess I'll be forced to remedy that soon.). But it's a job. With books. And I'm grateful.

My Goal for the Week

Find a job.

J-O-B: Day Fifteen

I'm too tired to blog.

For the last week or so, it seems I come home from work each evening with my mind rebelling ferociously against any activity that requires actual thought. Seriously. I'm having a really hard time right now just composing these few sentences.

It's about halfway through a straight ten-hour-plus shift (no breaks, mind you) that I begin to motivate myself with the thought that as soon as I get home I will crawl into bed with Netflix. Netflix and nachos. Definitely nachos.

A Little Bit of Christmas Spirit

The two weeks before Christmas are a hectic time in the life of this blog's author. I'm stretched thin enough as it is at my current job with UPS, and this week most of my free time is focused on preparing for my dramatic and musical roles in the upcoming Christmas program at my church. Unsurprisingly, the various demands of the season have left me feeling a bit...stressed.

Dear friend Ashley tipped me off to this lovely musical track the other day. As I listened to it, I was momentarily reunited with that "true spirit of Christmas" that all the Hallmark Channel original movies are striving so earnestly to put us back in touch with.



Light a candle and enjoy.

J-O-B: Day 6

My bruises have bruises.