diffidence and daisies

Today, at a new coffee shop, I encountered one of my vices. Or insecurities? Or weaknesses? Maybe I mean my inhibitions. Or reservations. Psychological block, if you will. All of these words are applicable, or not. Anyhow, this is what happened: I walked into the sun drenched room and blinked my way through ordering a cup of coffee - the same order my compatriot had selected (hey, she'd been there before, better safe than sorry right?). The barista started to do something fancy and confusing with the coffee, the owner answered my companion's question. "Your total is $2.53," he told me (extra charge for fancy and confusing, apparently) and I handed over a five dollar bill. A woman in a poofy purple coat walked in, greeted them as familiars. "Here's your change," he said, as he asked poofy coat lady how she had been, and handed me some odd coins.

An ordinary encounter, ordinary circumstances, ordinary response - at least on my part. Response to what, you may ask? Well if you are like my friend the cashier then you also failed to notice the discrepancies on the part of the financial interchanges that had just occurred. I'm sure it was entirely unintentional (no one in such a nice shirt needs to shortchange customers to get through the day) but the man kept two too many of my dollars (then again, maybe that's how he got that shirt- hmmm). What did I do, you ask? Well since I said before that I responded in the ordinary way, I must have gently reminded him of the disparity in my change, right? He must have genially apologized for the confusion and remedied the situation, right? I must have told him it was no problem, we must have all laughed about it, right?

Wrong. This is not the first time this has happened to me - rather, this is not the first time I have let this happen to me. This is not the first time I have quietly deposited the nickels and dimes into my wallet and begun the fruitless search for the half and half, instead of... well, instead of doing anything else. This is not the first time. What would have been a first would have been me correcting him. I don't know what it is about me. I'm a huge weenie when it comes to such instances, and not just in coffee shops. Something in me prefers not to correct, not to interrupt the conversation with the poofy coat lady, not to bother, not to draw attention to myself. Not to speak up. I've found that I don't face this intimidation in many circumstances. Ironically I usually only find myself cowering in the corner with the lion from the Wizard of Oz in scenarios that involve me paying others for any sort of food or beverage or service. For some odd reason I am petrified to bother someone I am giving money too. I'm not even bothered at the cashier, only at myself for being such a silly monkey. As my friend the lion sings, "I'm afraid there's no denyin'/ I'm just a dandy-lion / A fate I don't deserve / I'm sure I could show my prowess / Be a lion, not a mouse / If I only had the nerve." If I only had the nerve, indeed.

But ahs me, life goes on. I chatted. I blew on my hot coffee. I encountered a semi-famous-sortof-actor (an episode of the OC counts for something, even if that other movie was ehh, right?). I said goodbye to a friend, thanked her for bringing me there. I snuggled up (well, figuratively speaking) with my book. I texted my sisters about the semi-famous-sortof-actor. I grinned when the barista turned on an the Avetts. I took a sip of coffee as I turned the page. I tweeted something inane and irrelevant about the word 'bougainvillea.' I decided that fancy and confusing was worth the $2.50 (but maybe not $4.50...next time I guess). I packed up my things: book, phone, cahier. I searched out my sunglasses. I threw away my cup, kept the cute paper sleeve. I walked outside, said goodbye to the daisies in the windowsill, to some folks on the porch. I wound my way home, following the sunny side of the street.

Wilted Plastic

This morning at internship I worked the food pantry in the outreach center. I arrived, bearing a red nose and a grim countenance (which was immediately cleared by the effects of caffeine offered to me practically before I got through the door). Contrary to my expectations, the room was as bustle-less as could be. After flipping on lights, opening cabinets, and starting another pot of coffee, I and my two co-workers sat at one of the brown flaky tables and sipped our watery coffee. 9:30. 9:37. 9:48. 9:52. 9:53. 9:56, nothing. "They'll come dear, don't worry" she said as she perused her newspaper.

This was an unforeseen turn of events. We sit and wait? Not my strong suit- not when I came to get things done. Considering I had neglected to bring along my usual arsenal of book and magazine and backup book, I began aimlessly flipping through the battered issue of Real Simple someone had left behind. I learned how to properly load a dishwasher. I read about a few women's worst holiday hostess moments (yes, one of them actually decorated all of her mantles and centerpieces and wreaths with spanish moss because she was so enamored of it the first year she moved to the South, and as a result gave all her guests a healthy dose of mites along with their turkey. Another result, far less important to Ms. Morgan of Florida, is that I now have to eat my words and admit that all those warning signs stapled to trees are (sadly) far from superfluous.) I read about six women's favorite times of day ("right after I tuck the kids in", "my dawn morning coffee" - this magazine is obviously not catering to my interests).

And then they came. All at once, just like she said, "dear." As they filed into the room and began to engage in the horridly disorganized process of form-filling and explaining they filled out a form last time and hearing they must fill out a new form for the new year and so on and so forth, I began to help them choose from the cans and cans and more cans. "What are you looking for today? Black beans or pinto? Pinto, okay - how about some rice, do you want white or brown? White. Alright, soup? Tomato? Two cans? What about applesauce? Milk? Bread? Tuna? How about vegetables, there's the spinac- - oh, no? Okay how about the green beans instead? Two cans, perfect."

I had been warned that they were running short on the plastic grocery bags they usually used to distribute the food in, so I had come prepared with a bulging sack of balled up plastic collected at 43A over the past few weeks. Sure enough, about halfway through the morning their supplies ran out. I stood at a table and began de-crumple-ifying the stack I had brought (yes, that is the technical term), and then began to double layer the wilting plastic before handing it over to be burdened with heavy cans. Occasionally as I pulled out bag after bag that had previously borne groceries back to Vanderhorst, a crumpled up receipt would tumble to the ground. "Raspberries," they read. "Rice Pilaf, Yuengling," read another. "Hummus, carrots, apples, organic milk, cheese, eggs," read a few. "Whole grain Goldfish, yogurt, granola, strawberries, bell peppers, avocado, pistachios, diet coke," read mine. "Total: $47," one read. "Total: $26," read another. "Total: $58," read mine.

Those grocery bags are in for a rude awakening.

Those grocery bags are going to live in places I have read about in textbooks more than I have witnessed firsthand.

Those grocery bags are being carried with gratitude, rather than entitlement.

remains of the day

This morning my gender studies professor declared, "it's your body, you have to protect it, its all you have!"

False.

So so false.

Often I forget that belief in greater purpose is neither universal nor inherent. I can barely comprehend what it must be like to walk through life without the assurance that there is more. That this is not my home.

The other day a friend looked at me and asked, "why aren't you dead yet?" (She wasn't referencing a surprising survival in the face of dangerous behavior on my part, most likely because there isn't much aforementioned dangerous behavior on my part to survive). She was asking me what I was living for, why the Lord hadn't taken me home yet. She was telling me that there is obviously a reason I am still here, that I have purpose on this earth whether I am aware of it or not. My body is essential to my life here, but it could not be farther from "all I have." In fact, more than anything it is simply a tool that has been given to me in order that I may fulfill my greater purpose. So that I will bless the Lord. So that I will bring glory to His name. So that I can be forgiven. So that one day I can go home.

One Twenty-Four Eighty-Eight

There are no words for how I am feeling right now.

Oh wait, yes there are:

Loved.

Surrounded.

Humbled.

Loved.

Treasured.

Understood.

Loved.

Today I was showered with love on all sides, with many of my most favorite things: people singing happy birthday in my voicemail in French, (well, at least once - I still appreciated it in English!) and surprise ice skating trips, and red velvet cupcakes, and people photoshopping me into pictures with Michelle Kwan, and blisters from birthday shoes, and astoundingly thoughtful gifts, and sangria, and books, and m&ms, and Sermet's sweet potato fries (and that blessed salmon salad), and prayer, and texas sheetcake (and strawberries and vanilla ice cream duh) and sweet words, and friendship and laughter and I'm getting carried away.

After all that here I am, sitting in my bed alone pondering all of the blessings I have in my life, and it just started to rain. And then it started to pour. And then it started to thunder. (Key detail to understanding the rest of this: I. Love. Thunderstorms. In a giddy sort of way.)

This, I understand, is my birthday present from Him. In that one peal of thunder I heard and understood the Lord's love for me. I heard and understood that all of these blessings came directly from Him. I heard and understood that He somehow believes I am deserving of these blessings. I heard and understood that for some inexplicable reason, I matter to Him. I hear, and I understand that I am humbled. I am grateful. And I am in awe of the mercy and grace He has showered over me.

jargon.

I do believe I will strike the phrase "I think the Lord blah blah blah..." from my vocabulary. I do believe I will replace it with "I feel the Lord x y z's." The alteration may seem Lilliputian, but its impact is more thank skin deep in that it reminds me to relinquish control of my faith.

My point is this: yesterday I talked to a friend about worry, I talked to a friend about "boy trouble," I talked to a friend about her loss, I talked to pretty much everyone about Haiti, I talked to my roommates about our impending "futures," I talked to a friend about her wedding. In every one of these conversations the Lord was a dominant figure in the discussion. If you word searched a transcript of these chats, His name would most likely been frequently sprinkled throughout. I know that the words I spoke about the Lord were genuine, born out of a genuine desire to share what is on my heart for them, but as I reflect on my days I am realizing that I periodically talk about the Lord before talking to Him. In addition, by virtue of the fact that I am so often surrounded by individuals possessing staggering faith, I find myself leaning on them as if they were crutches as I hobble my way down the road to Heaven (sometimes quite literally hobbling, as in when I get tendinitis in my left foot and become a gimp, as in right now). And this has to stop.

What's funny about this to me is that literally nothing I say after "I feel the Lord..." has to be different from what would have followed "I think the Lord..." and in no way do I have to begin ignoring those who have embraced me, challenged me, confided in me, questioned me, and loved me well - - I can have the exact same encounters and experiences. As usual I simply need to be more conscious of the source of my speculations - because all I say will only ever be speculative until I cease looking to myself for words first. When I put aside what I think or what I hear from others and begin to rely more on what the Lord is whispering in my heart, I believe He will use my tongue (and my thoughts) to serve Him more fully. I feel like Camus' Sisyphus, pushing my rock back up the same hill every day, but it is a continual struggle for me to look first to the Lord.

Personal Neil Armstrong

I just stumbled across the US Championships (of figure skating, duh) on TV. There was a time in my life when I would have known the exact schedule of this event a full month before it began, and here I am today happening upon it by chance. There is a simple reason for this travesty (because I'm sure you all see it as such). Her name is Michelle Kwan.

Michelle Kwan was my man on the moon. No really.

I listen to my parents tell stories about their parents waking them up to watch the news the night Neil Armstrong bounced around the surface of the moon, and all I can think about are the nights (and there were many) where I would grudgingly tromp up the stairs at my bedtime. I was obviously a bit tetchy about this. What's that? You don't understand why I would be upset aside from the long standing tradition of kids hating bedtimes in general? Well you see my bedtime was predictably slotted to take place before Michelle Kwan stepped on the ice. It was just because she was so daggum talented so she of course was always the last one to skate. Drat you NBC and your ratings-hungry schemes.

Anyhow where was I? Oh yes, begrudged tromping. My specialty. Well my parents, being that they are lovely people who care for my emotional well-being (and in this case stability) would often whisper-yell my name upstairs to come back down. We all pretended I hadn't been lying in bed with my eyes wide open for the past two hours, straining to hear everything going on during my absence (because I was pretty much naive enough to assume they were still glued to the Grand Prix or World Champs or whatever it was). Without fail my covers would go flying (along with my poor Bitty Baby Sarah-Claire...Yes I gave my doll a double name. I'm such a Richmonder it hurts) and I would hurl myself down the stairs until I reached the corner where I would be visible to my parents. At this point I would slow down to a relatively normal speed, and enter the room in a dignified manner. Okay thats a fib. I Tazmanian-Deviled my way into the room every time. And then literally sat on my knees in front of the TV Sound of Music style (a la minute 1:06) and breathlessly awaited her appearance.

She may not have been achieving anything as great as old Neil did, but she meant that much to me. When I think of being a kid I think of those nights, and how earnestly I admired her and how much I loved getting to tumble down the stairs in my pajamas and sit with my parents while she kicked ass (ubiquitous side note: the footwork in that one still takes my breath away). Whether you like her or not you do have to admit that she did what she did well. She has 9 gold medals at the US Champs, 5 golds at the Worlds, and 2 medals at the Olympics to prove it (plus more, but I'll spare you at least that). I actually got see her win one, but that's a whole 'nother story.

I can't necessarily prove it, but I'm pretty sure that everyone has their own version of my Michelle Kwan homage - their own personal Neil Armstrong they tumbled out of bed to goggle at. Someone or something that whips them into an unabashed frenzy of excitement and admiration and support and joy. I sure do miss mine.

Bliss

Last semester I took this awful class that was filled to the brim with cynics, which wouldn't have been all that terrible but for the fact that the professor at the helm of our discussions was a lame duck if I've ever met one. Considering the man gave us study guides with 25 bullet points before every one of our 25 question tests, the class was not all that... well, riveting. Let's just say that as long as you went to class the day he handed out the study guide, and were willing to put half an iota of energy into finding the answers, you were set. So needless to say, being that I am an avid people watcher, I found something other than my professor to divert myself every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday from 10 to 10:50 in the morning. Amidst the ever so opinionated and assertive members of my class, I found one very intriguing girl. Lets just say she was hard to miss. While she was beautiful, funny, loud, tall (humph), a cute-if-over-accessorized dresser, intelligent, and so forth - I bypassed all of these things to fixate on one thing. Every morning this girl would waltz into class fashionably late (I'm pretty sure no one has ever told her that rule does not apply to classes- moreover she never seemed the least bit frazzled by her lateness, whereas when I come to class late I usually slam the door, drop my notebook, have trouble finding an empty seat, and then sit there with my stomach growling for the whole class to hear because obviously, if I don't have time to brush my ridiculous hair, I don't have time for my multigrain cheerios) with a delicious and nutritious looking smoothie in tow. And this was no ordinary smoothie either; no it was most painfully obvious to me that this fortunate girl was in possession of a miraculous little thing I feel is perfection beyond words, but the rest of the world knows as The Magic Bullet. Ugh, I will not lie I totally coveted that girls sleek little cup with the convenient handle and removable lid (which I'm pretty sure she color coordinated with her outfits, and I'll admit thats a bit of a stretch. But I'll also admit thats just the sort of thing I would do). Anyhow when my mom texted me for my Christmas list early in December you can be sure that I sent back MAGIC BULLET without delay. And guess what, Santa found me! Or rather, my aunt and uncle found me. To put it simply the Magic Bullet, in all its 17 piece glory, is living up to its name. I skipped into class the other day with my vitamin packed and scrumptious smoothie, on time and with a head full of hair in somewhat respectable order. And yes, I matched the lid to my outfit. Heck, why not!?