"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.

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.

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.

Waxing Nostalgic

There was once a time where my laptop, my iPod, and my cellphone stopped working at the same time. The computer went because it was old. The iPod and the phone, because they were both in my purse when I spilled a full cup of water all over it. I was recently graduated, living with two girls who were still in school, working full time at a job that paid just a little more than minimum wage, and there was no way I could afford to replace all three of my broken gadgets. I got a new phone (it was important to my work that I have one), but a laptop and an mp3 player became items I was just going to have to live without for the time being. And it was okay. For several months, I walked to the library to use the computer or checked my email at work. I listened to the radio. And it wasn't so bad.

Reflecting back on that period in my life, I am overcome with a surge of nostalgia, a longing to be reunited with the simple joys of impoverished independence. It was in that impossibly tiny kitchen in the apartment in downtown Glendora that I became truly awakened to the happiness that was shopping for and preparing my own food. At a time when seeing a movie--even a matinée--was an extravagant splurge, I focused my efforts on hosting dinners or humble cheese-and-wine parties for two or three guests. Though being a college graduate in the midst of those who were still in the throes of their studies left me often feeling a bit estranged and out-of-place, I was nevertheless almost incessantly surrounded by friends.

There was one evening where my roommates and I, along with a couple of mutual friends who were over at our place, got it into our heads that it would be hilarious to dare one another to drive to our nearby friends' house and ask to borrow a roll of toilet paper. So, the five of us squeezed into somebody's car and set off on our mission. I brought a camcorder. They lived only about a four-minute drive away, and I spent the time interviewing my roommates, Lindsay and Sade, on what were were doing. But when we arrived at our friends' place, all the windows were dark and their cars were gone. We rang the doorbell. No answer. We tried the front door. It was unlocked.

Operation "look silly by asking to borrow a roll of toilet paper" rapidly developed into Operation "locate and commandeer all the toilet and tissue paper in the building." We showed no mercy. Quickly and deftly, the two bathrooms were raided. On the coffee table, we left a note: "Hope you don't have to take a dump."

It is so important to have friends in one's life, to keep company, to offer encouragement and support, and to give guidance when it is needed. But friends, in the enthusiasm that builds from being in one another's company, can also get you to do stuff that, on your own or in the presence of strangers, you would probably have the sense to identify as really, really stupid. For instance, breaking into your friends' house while they're away and stealing all their t.p. These days, it's hard for me to imagine myself participating in such a mean, pointless prank as that. But the camaraderie and the carefree spirit it espoused, I sorely miss.

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.

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.

To Barbie, or not to Barbie?

Back in our day, my little sisters and I used to play a mean game of Barbies. And, between the three of us, we had quite the collection of dolls and accessories. There was an unspoken agreement that the most handsome Ken doll was Baywatch Ken (although, in my opinion, Aladdin could have taken the prize if it weren't for the annoying fact that his fez was permanently attached to his head). As far as which female doll was the prettiest, I think we each held our separate opinions. My favorite was Camping Barbie, whose dishwater blond hair and tan skin set her apart from her more generic platinum blond counterparts.

In life, there are few occurrences more irritating than when a well-intentioned adult attempts to join in your game of Barbies. This is due to the fact that adults, when they play "make believe" games with kids, tend to assume that the make-believe world is more innocent than it actually is. They try to make the Barbies behave like little kids; Barbies, clearly, are not little kids. At six, seven, eight, or nine years old, my sisters and I recognized that the dolls we were playing with represented adult people, and we, accordingly, imagined adult scenarios to place them in. Our Barbies would fight and even kill each other. They would get drunk. They would have sex. Of course, none of our enactments of the aforementioned events were at all realistic, but they were our speculative attempts to make sense of the befuddling grown-up world. And we enjoyed it immensely.

Of the various games and scenarios we would continuously revisit in our playtime with Barbies, one stands out to me in particular on account of its absurdity as well as its especial popularity: weddings. Our Barbie and Ken dolls would get married all the time. We were constantly partnering them off with new people (hey, it was only fair that all the ladies should get their own crack at Baywatch Ken). We had two wedding dresses and plenty of other formal gowns that would be appropriate for a bride in a pinch, but, alas, we only had one tuxedo; so, our dolls were constantly performing costume changes throughout the duration of our play in order to accommodate the multiple couples who were being paired off that day.

But even more interesting than the wedding wardrobe was the marriage ceremony itself, particularly the last part (and, more interesting yet, what happened after the ceremony). Follwing the officiant's pronouncement of Ken and Barbie as "Man and Wife," he would always, always, declare conclusively: "You may go and get naked!"

At this point, Barbie and Ken would fly (yes, you read right, fly) off into the air together to another end of the room where they would be stripped of their clothes and left alone to do as they pleased. This was the formula for make-believe marriages that we stuck with, and we stuck with it because it worked: it gratified our need to make two wedding dresses and one tuxedo satisfy the fashion demands of half a dozen couples, and it complied with our firm knowledge (gleaned from a ubiquitous comment made by our mother) that men and women saw each other naked after they got married.

Last Sunday I found myself engaged in a riveting conversation about Barbies with two friends whose ideas and opinions I always respect and enjoy. One of these friends has a baby girl and considers carefully the possible concerns of permitting or not permitting her child to have or play with certain types of toys. The other friend was not allowed to play with Barbies when she was growing up. The three of us agreed that, in retrospect, we find the practice of little girls playing with dolls that have adult bodies to be somehow troublesome, if not downright distressing.

But, in the end, what is the real impact of allowing one's daughter to play with Barbies? Or of withholding them? A child in contemporary society will still be exposed to plenty of unrealistic adult bodies on television or screaming from the magazine racks at the supermarket. How much of a difference does it make if the unrealistic adult body is not just in an airbrushed photograph, but is that of her own plaything? Would I have a different self image today if I'd never met Camping Barbie and Baywatch Ken? Would I have a healthier understanding of my own body in relation to others' bodies? Would I have healthier views on sex?

I just don't know. But what I do know is, I can't wait to get married.

Naked in Nippon

This morning, as I sat beside the fire ring with three friends who had accompanied me on a weekend camping trip, I told a humorous story from my experiences in Japan. The telling of it reminded me that it's a tale I've yet to set down in writing. Though the punchline might seem anticlimactic to Japanese readers, my own compatriots are likely to get a kick out of it.

Earlier this year, I went hiking in Nikko National Park with my American friend Josiah, my South African friend Marius, and my Japanese friend Atsuki. It was a very pleasant hike, about four hours along a fairly level path, ending at a train station where we could easily catch a ride back to the trail head, where Atsuki's car was parked. Also near the end of the trail was a large, slightly famous and rather upscale hotel, with a proportionately famous and upscale onsen attached to it.

An onsen is a Japanese-style communal bath house. Traditionally, they are built around the offshoot of a natural geothermic hot spring, but many present-day onsen simply pipe in heated tap water. Though these bathhouses vary significantly in size, quality, and style, the system for visiting an onsen is fairly uniform.

The standard onsen is divided into two sections: one for men and one for women. After paying the entrance fee, men and women go through separate doorways, usually concealed by a blue curtain for males and a red curtain for females. After passing though the curtain, the customer enters a room in which she undresses completely and leaves her clothes and personal items in a locker or basket or cubby. Next, she proceeds to a room where she washes herself very thoroughly with soap. After completely rinsing off, she enters a steaming hot bath for soaking. Depending on the onsen, there may be just one bath or there may be multiple baths of different styles, temperatures, or even aromas. Some may have massage jets or bubbles, and there might even be waterfalls, saunas, and beautiful outdoor (but still appropriately private) settings. The visitor to the onsen will probably find the intense heat a little too overwhelming to stay in the baths more than an hour or so and, after completing her soak, will once again wash herself thoroughly with soap before returning to the locker room. All of these steps are done in the company of fellow same-sex bathers and, though potentially awkward for the unseasoned foreigner, make for a deeply relaxing experience.

I love onsen, and, on that day in Nikko as my fellow hikers and I made our way down that scenic path, the four of us agreed to visit the hot spring at the hotel before taking the train back to the trail head.

As we neared the end of the hike, the conversation was about on the different types of onsen that exist in Japan and Atsuki mentioned something I had heard of only once before: that there are, in some places, "mixed" onsen--called konyoku--where men and women bathe together in the same area. Atsuki said that such establishments, however, were very rare these days and he had never actually seen one.

We came to a bridge that marked the end of our hiking trail. The bridge stretched over a wide river. As we walked across, we could see, about eighty yards away on the opposite river bank, the back of the hotel. And there, along the back of the hotel, was the onsen.

"Oh my gosh, guys, look."

It appeared to be only the men's baths that were visible from the bridge, but there the men were, in full view of anyone who happened to pass along this public space. Given, we were too far away to really see much beyond the obvious fact that they were naked, but we all giggled and agreed that, of the three nationalities represented in our party, Atsuki's was the only one that would find such a setup completely acceptable.

We crossed the bridge and would have to walk along a path and cross another smaller bridge to reach the hotel. We walked up some steps and Atsuki, who was in the lead, suddenly stopped and turned around to face the rest of us. "Guys," he said, "the kind of onsen that we were just talking about--the one with men and women together in the same bath--konyoku--this sign says that there's one right here!"

We were all amazed by the improbability of the coincidence that had just taken place, and prodded one another jokingly about whether we would be willing to give it a try. But, rather than proceed straight forward toward the entrance, we turned the corner there to cross the smaller bridge. I stepped out onto the bridge, glanced to my side, and nearly screamed in shock.

It turns out that the konyoku had an outdoor bath overlooking the riverbank, too. But this time, rather than far enough away to prevent the unassisted eye from discerning any details, the baths were RIGHT THERE, and old naked men sat lounging without a care not fifteen feet from where I stood.

Oh, my. I instantly diverted my eyes. My hiking companions struggled to stifle their shocked laughter and teased me about my bright red cheeks. "That," even Atsuki felt, "isn't normal."

In the end, our perceptions of normal and abnormal are deeply ingrained in our own cultural backgrounds. Living in Japan taught me to reconsider many of my earlier assumptions about what is natural or universal in regards to common human behavior. It was a good learning experience. But there are certain images and situations that, at least for me, will perhaps never cease to be shocking.

To get to the train station, we had to come back across the same bridge and, though I tried to be polite, I admit I got another eyefull in spite of myself.

As much as I love onsen, I don't think that konyoku will ever be my thing.