Day 1

A bittersweet goodbye at the terminal, the earmark of the life that happens in airports. Sweet hellos, tearful goodbyes, and strangers passing in forced proximity.  I love them, I love the mesh of stories and hurried happenings as I fight the urge to ask each of them where they've been and where they're going. 

The flight, uneventful, seemed like magic. It always does. The chaotic power and the quiet lift as wheels kiss pavement farewell. I have the window seat, nose against the glass like a child. The sun is starting to rise, I feel as if we're racing its ascent... Who can touch heaven first? The sun blows smoke in our faces like a brute in a bar, and the turbulence makes us all clench our armrests a little tighter, prayers intermingling with nervous laughter. 

The first coming together of the group was effortless as we all shared stories and laughed as we poked fun at stereotypes of our respective cultures. Land and sea, far or near, our humanity looks the same and bonds us. 

Our laughter sounds the same and our smiles are unaffected by accents. 

Day one is going well, spirits are high and we all look forward to cooking Guatemalan style pizza... Because who doesn't love pizza?

Freakin' Germany....

I saw a post entitled "10 German words with no English equivalent" and I've experience three of them in the space of a week.
The first, "weltschmerz", describes a specific depression or apathy that comes from comparing the ideal world to reality. Ah... yes, weltschmerz. I know you well.
The second, "kummerspeck", roughly translates to "grief bacon" and describes weight gain brought on by emotional eating. Just look at the amount of pizza and chocolate containers in my trash. Grief bacon is a staple in my diet, atop scrambled eggs and toast.
The third, "torchlusspanik", translates to "Fear of the gate closing" and describes the acute fear that time is running out and opportunities are slipping away.

If you had asked 16 year old Stephanie what her life would look like at 25, she would have said that she would be a physical therapist married to a veterinarian who also plays in a band and loves camping. She'd have a kid on the way, but still has time to care for her two cats and volunteer at the homeless shelter. She'd live in a little yellow house NOT in the suburbs and has a willow tree in the yard she likes to read underneath. She has a pool probably.

So imagine her weltschmerz if she discovered that real 25 year-old Stephanie is a single nurse with an apartment in the suburbs, no pets, and no pool. She still volunteers, but the nearest willow tree is miles away. Bring on the grief bacon, here comes the torchlusspanik.

But in all reality, the fact that God's plan for my life has so far diverged from my own does cause me some stress, confusion, and occasional sadness. I long for the feeling of moving towards something, rather than treading water. But God has also granted me an insane and totally supernatural amount of contentment in this season. I pine, yes, but rarely. Most days I wake up and relish my freedom. I make my own amazing breakfast, enjoy coffee just the way I like it and get quiet uninterrupted time with the Lord followed by raucous, un-judged dancing. I do yoga in my living room and let the dishes sit as long as I like. I sing always, and I come and go as I please. I cook the food I like, listen to the music I like, sing the songs I like and apologize to no one. It's a wonderful life. But despite my happiness with it, I've also discovered I idolize relationships and love in general. I only thought you idolized love if you said things like "once I get married I'll be happy". But I've recently realized my heart often says, "I'm happy... but I will be even happier after I get married". They are the same, and both are attitudes that make marriage an idol and prevent readiness for it. Lately my prayer is for God to make me content in my life NOW, because once He is all I need then everything else is icing on the cake. And boy, would I love to trade my grief bacon in for some cake.

Sweatshirt Weather

I still have your sweatshirt.
It hangs in my closet like a secret.
It reminds me of you, in the way that it smells, among other things. It's a simple, unassuming grey. Boring? No... classic. It matches and alludes to you in that it keeps me warm, gives me comfort. It wraps around me fitting too big, but strangely perfect. The company that makes it is well known for their reliability and durability. Your Maker too, took great pride in your construction and it shows in the quality. If they sold you in Macy's I would not be able to afford you (but I may ask for you for Christmas).
You lent it to me expecting to get it back. I lent pieces of myself, expecting the same.

Your sweatshirt and my heart, neither of which will return to the original owner any time soon.

I'm a pretentious jerk.

I enjoy music of all kinds, and always have some song or another playing in my head at all times (a trait I inherited from my mother). My house was always filled with music, either my mom practicing piano or three of us cooking and singing in three-part harmony, spontaneous and unrehearsed. I like music, but some music I love. It's not specific to a genre... what I love is a musical artist who paints. But rather than painting a picture, he/she paints a feeling. Like an abstract piece of art, my favorite musicians create a canopy of sound, with vague and artful lyrics that allow me to interpret and enjoy whatever feeling they elicit. They don't force a story or meaning on me with bluntness. The feeling is my own, the meaning is my own and it hits hardest when the song resonates a current experience like a finger sliding along the edge of a crystal glass. It rings clear and perfect, leaving nothing but an echo when the moment passes. My favorite artists shift and vary to match the seasons and the weather. I like folk in the fall, I like electronic pop in the spring. I like anything acoustic when I'm in love.

My favorite song lately is one I've had for years... it's the opening track to Kishi Bashi's 151a album, "Intro/ pathos pathos". The song, aptly named, is very emotional. Mostly strings and synth, the song opens up with soft strains of melodic violin layers. It's the feeling of a slow awakening, the fibers of a dream still clinging to eyelids and the momentary confusion that comes as they slip away. The tune slowly becomes erratic and almost cacophanous. Eye lids flutter open, the chaos clears quickly and bursts forth to drum-driven, toe-tapping beats with a harmonic vocal backdrop of Japanese lyrics. This is the first draw-back of the blinds to find a brilliant early-day sun streaming in. High-pitched looping strings and vocal beats almost mimic a flock of birds. The song makes me feel the way an awesome morning feels, and I love that.

The lyrics vaguely describe a scene that fits the mood already set by the music. A couple sits beneath a tree discussing birds in the branches, urging each other to enjoy them before they fly their own separate ways. The Japanese chorus translates to "what would happen if we could meet?" and "aetara iina" means "I wish I could see you". It's a cute, bright setting with an undertone of temporality. I seems like the couple is being compared to the birds, who perch and enjoy each others' company for a time, and inevitably move on. The nature of birds and the nature of love seem implied to be both similarly flighty and impulsive. I also get a message to not let opportunities for love and life pass, because they are fleeting.

And I fully realize this makes me look and sound like a pretentious ass... but I really, really like this song. In fact, the whole album is just stellar. I could go on for ages about it. Literally.

The Fault is Not in Our Stars

I guarantee the first Man and Woman never thought to compartmentalize their "religion", their bonds with God. To them, the connection to the Maker was their life's blood. It breathed through them, giving them a sense of vitality and security so potent that they knew no death or shame.
I feel my own foolishness when I realize my attempts to compartmentalize my connection to God. Sundays, occasional (often distracted) time in the Word, and unfocused and infrequent prayer; it is a sorry substitute for that all-sustaining, life-giving bond known in the Garden. I suffer quietly and unknowingly, slowly being overtaken by the symptoms of a weakening soul that hungers in silence. My spiritual body wastes away, all the while I convince myself that the diversions I crave will fulfill it. But the most decadent desserts do nothing for the malnourished, it's only farce that hastens me to the grave.
The signs of my poor diet slowly emerge almost imperceptibly. They do not even seem particularly spiritual in nature, but I know well enough after all this time walking that they very much are.
- My security, previously supplied by His heart beating in time with mine, is gone (or so faint it's barely palpable). My thoughts become as wild and wavering as the sea as doubts and worries sweep over. The ebb and flow is constant, and it seems all I can do to tread water.
- My thoughts, now untrained to Him, lie with filth and filth emerges through my pores in a feverish sweat.
- My sense of self-worth vanishes as my venom is loosed on myself in the forms of self-deprecation. Oh, how it must hurt Him to see me treat the gifts of my body so critically!

The first step to banish the disease is to purge; surrender everything holding me from Him to His control. Rather than allotting Him time in my day, I need to breathe Him. Intake every small beautiful moment and exhale gratitude for a life I do not deserve. With His permission, allow my mind to attend my business and daily tasks, and then fly back to Him upon completion. Pray without ceasing, and admit fully that I am wholly incapable of maintaining a connection with Him. Praise Him for patience in pursuing me, and ask forgiveness for my lack of response. In medicine a good doctor treats the underlying cause rather than each symptom, and I realize that once my connection with the Vine is restored, all else will fall into place.

Matthew 6:33-34 "Seek first the kingdom of God, and His righteousness and all these things shall be added unto you. Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own."

Love is watching someone die

He was a ghost of the person he was before. The last time I saw him, his belly rotund and his laugh boisterous, I found myself frustrated by his constant fighting of me. He fought me because, unlike his disease, I was present and palpable with a face to place on his struggle. He tired me.
Now, his hollowness and tiredness made me long for the fight. "Fight me", I pleaded inwardly, "fight what is happening to you!" The skeletal frame he now pushed around could not support the weight of hoping. I complimented his newly growing, greying beard and his laugh and his cheeks were sallow and sunken. I hated what had happened to him. I hated him because I could not help him, and his lack of desperation made me feel desperate. Sometimes you see what terrifies you most in life mirrored in the face of a person, and their mere existence forces you to confront the demon within your own self.
But how can I help someone when I can barely help myself?

Dishrag

I'm a damp dishrag. I find myself draped over the furniture, warming in the light of the morning after last night. Last night. My edges are curling and darkened as I try to collect my fire-ant feelings. I feel there are so many they blur to a swelling, swirling mass with no discernible border. Sadness, perhaps... anger? Not now. My anger is an aerosol can in a campfire. I'm sure I will confront it when I'm 30 and my toddler drops a dish.
Empty. Hollow. Shockingly devoid. A cave so dark you can not see your hand before your face, even when it's so close you can feel the heat of it. And him... I think of him and he's gone from the real to the abstract. I realize I can't think of him as a person right now, or else I risk thinking of myself as a person as well. Only a person can be hurt. Objects are safe, they can be broken but never hurt.
Soggy and limp and used, I watch the hands of the clock spin and spin like a record playing a stupid, too-long song about finding love. And I, I lie in my own damp chill and wait and wait and wait. Why hope for clean? For now I'll just settle for dry.