Pardon me while I vent.
In a few weeks I'll be moving across the country, and one of the most common assumptions people make is that I'm moving out there for a guy. I frequently get asked, "Oh, is your boyfriend moving out there or something?" Forgive me, but I do not believe it is a fair assumption that I have a boyfriend, let alone that I would move so far away just to be with him.
While I am moving with the support and friendship of Lexi, I'd like to think that I'm making an independent move. I am doing this because I want to, not because I belong to anybody else. I'm a woman, and I'm young but I'm grown, and if you think that doesn't qualify me to make big, independent decisions, well, I really don't know what to say to you.
I almost want to scream, "I'M MY OWN PERSON!" but that wouldn't be entirely accurate. I'm God's person. He bought my soul at a price and in freedom I allowed him to take it. I'm not so sure about all the theological nuances regarding how much of that decision was mine and how much was his, but nevertheless, here I am, God's person.
So while I'd like to think that I'm doing this for me because I'm independent, gosh durnit, that's simply not true.
Once upon a time, in a magical place called Juneau, Alaska, I discovered something about myself, and that is that I feel much closer to my Lord when I am surrounded by his creation. When I am immersed in an untainted environment that he created and is still creating afresh every moment, he feels so much nearer to me, like I am breathing him in. It really is rather intimate. It brings healing and peace to my soul.
I have nothing against being in the city, but I need more access to the wilderness. So while to some people that may sound like a selfish thing ("I want an adventure!"), in essence it is a God thing ("I need to feel closer to my Creator").
Which really has nothing to do with any man, woman, or beast.
God bless.
Wednesday, May 13, 2015
Monday, May 11, 2015
Wild: A Book Review
"Wild," by Cheryl Strayed is, in my opinion, a complete misnomer.
Perhaps I'm wrong. The word wild can mean a lot of things, or at least take on a lot of different flavors. But when a book bears this title with a worn pair of hiking boots on the cover and claims to be about a woman solo hiking the Pacific Crest Trail (PCT), I'm going to assume that this kind of wild implies wanderlust, exploration, utter freedom. It conjures up images of some granola someone scrambling up majestic mountains, dancing as if no one were watching, running, laughing, jumping into water holes from 30-foot cliffs, and perhaps spontaneously weeping in a field of wildflowers.
This book was none of those things. The flavor of wild that it portrayed (although I still doubt wild is an appropriate term) is the type of wild that makes someone commit adultery with strangers, go on heroin binges, walk 1,100 miles with no preparation and no skills or knowledge, get an abortion, chuck a boot over a ledge never to be retrieved again, and hitchhike off the trail every couple weeks with a condom in tow to meet new people and get wasted for a "break from the trail."
So now you know why I think "Wild" is a misnomer.
Despite what I may have led you to believe at this point, I loved it.
Cheryl Strayed was not wild, in my opinion, and she wasn't particularly "a remarkable woman" as the back cover claimed, but she was extremely relatable, and to some degree admirable despite her many blunders on the PCT.
Perhaps I should pause at this point for a brief summary. Cheryl Strayed's mother died at a fairly young age and it was understandably traumatizing to Cheryl, who was in her early 20s at the time. She went through a period of self-destruction and semi-insanity which led to her divorce with a wonderful man. She somehow (it was never clear quite how), she decided to "find herself" or whatever on the PCT. So that's what she did. She hiked up and down these crazy mountains and had six toenails fall off. She met a fair amount of delightful and kind individuals on her trek and a handful of total creeps (enough so that I decidedly would never go on such a hike by myself). She might have almost died a couple times. She finally finished and her life was basically and apparently fixed after that.
I feel like I'm still not doing a good job selling this book. Let me try again to convince you.
Like I said, Cheryl was incredibly relatable. I was really able to get into her shoes (or boots, as it were). When her mom died, my mom died. When she was shooting up, I was feeling the strong but shallow pleasure. When she washed her sore feet in a creek, I felt the cold water rushing over them. When she met someone noteworthy, I felt in their presence the fear, or relaxation, or desire to flirt. When she left her condom behind during the one night she had the opportunity to use it, I felt the disappointment. When she shivered in her sleeping bag when it was rainy with temperatures in the 20s, I buried myself deeper in my blanket. When she despaired that she didn't have enough money or was otherwise unprepared for what she was doing, I vividly felt all the times I have made similar mistakes. When she saw the Bridge of the Gods at the end of her trek, I felt the magnitude of the trail behind me and the proverbial trail ahead.
Also, this book fanned the flame of my desire to go backpacking more often. So that was wonderful.
That's about all I have to say. Probably you should read as long as you're not super prone to just label someone as an idiot and brush them off.
P.S. The movie was good too but it was a little too graphic and the language a little too colorful for my tastes so I probably wouldn't see it again.
God bless.
Perhaps I'm wrong. The word wild can mean a lot of things, or at least take on a lot of different flavors. But when a book bears this title with a worn pair of hiking boots on the cover and claims to be about a woman solo hiking the Pacific Crest Trail (PCT), I'm going to assume that this kind of wild implies wanderlust, exploration, utter freedom. It conjures up images of some granola someone scrambling up majestic mountains, dancing as if no one were watching, running, laughing, jumping into water holes from 30-foot cliffs, and perhaps spontaneously weeping in a field of wildflowers.
This book was none of those things. The flavor of wild that it portrayed (although I still doubt wild is an appropriate term) is the type of wild that makes someone commit adultery with strangers, go on heroin binges, walk 1,100 miles with no preparation and no skills or knowledge, get an abortion, chuck a boot over a ledge never to be retrieved again, and hitchhike off the trail every couple weeks with a condom in tow to meet new people and get wasted for a "break from the trail."
So now you know why I think "Wild" is a misnomer.
Despite what I may have led you to believe at this point, I loved it.
Cheryl Strayed was not wild, in my opinion, and she wasn't particularly "a remarkable woman" as the back cover claimed, but she was extremely relatable, and to some degree admirable despite her many blunders on the PCT.
Perhaps I should pause at this point for a brief summary. Cheryl Strayed's mother died at a fairly young age and it was understandably traumatizing to Cheryl, who was in her early 20s at the time. She went through a period of self-destruction and semi-insanity which led to her divorce with a wonderful man. She somehow (it was never clear quite how), she decided to "find herself" or whatever on the PCT. So that's what she did. She hiked up and down these crazy mountains and had six toenails fall off. She met a fair amount of delightful and kind individuals on her trek and a handful of total creeps (enough so that I decidedly would never go on such a hike by myself). She might have almost died a couple times. She finally finished and her life was basically and apparently fixed after that.
I feel like I'm still not doing a good job selling this book. Let me try again to convince you.
Like I said, Cheryl was incredibly relatable. I was really able to get into her shoes (or boots, as it were). When her mom died, my mom died. When she was shooting up, I was feeling the strong but shallow pleasure. When she washed her sore feet in a creek, I felt the cold water rushing over them. When she met someone noteworthy, I felt in their presence the fear, or relaxation, or desire to flirt. When she left her condom behind during the one night she had the opportunity to use it, I felt the disappointment. When she shivered in her sleeping bag when it was rainy with temperatures in the 20s, I buried myself deeper in my blanket. When she despaired that she didn't have enough money or was otherwise unprepared for what she was doing, I vividly felt all the times I have made similar mistakes. When she saw the Bridge of the Gods at the end of her trek, I felt the magnitude of the trail behind me and the proverbial trail ahead.
Also, this book fanned the flame of my desire to go backpacking more often. So that was wonderful.
That's about all I have to say. Probably you should read as long as you're not super prone to just label someone as an idiot and brush them off.
P.S. The movie was good too but it was a little too graphic and the language a little too colorful for my tastes so I probably wouldn't see it again.
God bless.
Monday, May 4, 2015
End of the Beginning
I forgot to clock out on the day I turned in my notice of resignation at work. And I forgot to turn my work cell phone off until it rang when I was sitting in my car in my driveway at the end of the day.
Part of me doesn't want to leave my home state, doesn't want to say goodbye to the world I both know and love, and the rest of me knows I don't have a choice. I have found myself saying that I wish I could pick up my life here and take it with me, just zip it up, strap it to my back, and unload it on the other side of the country where I’m going. Or perhaps I could go fetch the mountains I so ache for and plant them here where my life already exists so I don't have to leave. But I can't. I had to choose, and yet, instincts and destiny and God chose for me. Off I go.
A guy I used to have a little crush on recently got engaged, and my roommate laughed at me when I found out and walked around the house belting out ADELE's "Someone Like You.” That's how I feel about this job that I have to tear myself away from. “Never mind, I’ll find coworkers like you.” “Never mind, I’ll find clients like you.” “Never mind, I’ll find employment like you.”
For those that don't know, I work in a mental health clinic. It’s my first job since graduating from college and I’ve worked there for only nine months. I started working with a caseload of about 35 cases last summer, and it's grown to almost 50. I feel like I've been through it already, and am walking out both heavier and lighter.
I've dealt with the stresses of trying to meet productivity (i.e. literal time spent with clients) while they are too mentally unstable to keep appointments, and been told that my job was in jeopardy because of it. I've dealt with being penalized for doing overtime while not having enough time in the regular workday to get my work done or care for my clients sufficiently. I know this isn't uncommon. Many people deal with workplace stresses and pressures. But there is another level to my job that I think, dare I say, makes it more difficult than most.
The first client that made me cry (because he yelled at me) ended up being my first client to die. In the mere nine months I've worked at this job, I've walked with my clients through countless hospitalizations, most of them due to suicidal ideation or attempts. I've seen my clients cry because they can't stop drinking, or can't overcome their addiction to cocaine, or don't know why they are so endlessly depressed, or for reasons they wouldn't or couldn't even tell me, just silently crying while I sat by, helpless. I've been screamed at and had things thrown at me by people I'd learned to love. I've heard clients say things like, "I just need somebody to actually care and make me a priority" while trying to balance their needs with all my other clients as well as keep my personal life separate and indifferent.
My job has not been all drudgery, of course. There have been countless joys, both big and small, from seeing clients grow closer to God, to clients telling me they’re grateful to me because I’m the only one who ever asks them how they’re doing or feeling, to clients taking a flattering personal interest in me, to clients opening up their deepest selves to me in ways even their families don’t always get to see, to seeing recovery from mental illness and drug use bring hope and restoration to once broken individuals.
All of this has taught me so many valuable lessons, some probably pretty standard to fresh adults like myself, some probably unique more unique to my line of work. Lessons like, "you will want to quit but sticking with it pays off" and "working is good for the soul even though you don't want to go in when your alarm goes off at 6 a.m. day after relentless day" and "people are basically bad" and "people are basically lovable" and "literally everyone is crazy of some kind and to some degree" and "just because you are a Christian and someone else is a Christian doesn't mean you're anything remotely alike, which is a good thing" and "hope exists."
I'm heartbroken to leave a job I grew to hate, then grew to love. After I told my supervisor, I went downstairs, walked out of the building, got in my car, and cried. I feel like I'm abandoning a lot of people by moving away.
At the same time, I know I've learned the lessons I need to learn, and I'm ready to stretch myself more and learn new lessons. Here I go.
God bless.
Part of me doesn't want to leave my home state, doesn't want to say goodbye to the world I both know and love, and the rest of me knows I don't have a choice. I have found myself saying that I wish I could pick up my life here and take it with me, just zip it up, strap it to my back, and unload it on the other side of the country where I’m going. Or perhaps I could go fetch the mountains I so ache for and plant them here where my life already exists so I don't have to leave. But I can't. I had to choose, and yet, instincts and destiny and God chose for me. Off I go.
A guy I used to have a little crush on recently got engaged, and my roommate laughed at me when I found out and walked around the house belting out ADELE's "Someone Like You.” That's how I feel about this job that I have to tear myself away from. “Never mind, I’ll find coworkers like you.” “Never mind, I’ll find clients like you.” “Never mind, I’ll find employment like you.”
For those that don't know, I work in a mental health clinic. It’s my first job since graduating from college and I’ve worked there for only nine months. I started working with a caseload of about 35 cases last summer, and it's grown to almost 50. I feel like I've been through it already, and am walking out both heavier and lighter.
I've dealt with the stresses of trying to meet productivity (i.e. literal time spent with clients) while they are too mentally unstable to keep appointments, and been told that my job was in jeopardy because of it. I've dealt with being penalized for doing overtime while not having enough time in the regular workday to get my work done or care for my clients sufficiently. I know this isn't uncommon. Many people deal with workplace stresses and pressures. But there is another level to my job that I think, dare I say, makes it more difficult than most.
The first client that made me cry (because he yelled at me) ended up being my first client to die. In the mere nine months I've worked at this job, I've walked with my clients through countless hospitalizations, most of them due to suicidal ideation or attempts. I've seen my clients cry because they can't stop drinking, or can't overcome their addiction to cocaine, or don't know why they are so endlessly depressed, or for reasons they wouldn't or couldn't even tell me, just silently crying while I sat by, helpless. I've been screamed at and had things thrown at me by people I'd learned to love. I've heard clients say things like, "I just need somebody to actually care and make me a priority" while trying to balance their needs with all my other clients as well as keep my personal life separate and indifferent.
My job has not been all drudgery, of course. There have been countless joys, both big and small, from seeing clients grow closer to God, to clients telling me they’re grateful to me because I’m the only one who ever asks them how they’re doing or feeling, to clients taking a flattering personal interest in me, to clients opening up their deepest selves to me in ways even their families don’t always get to see, to seeing recovery from mental illness and drug use bring hope and restoration to once broken individuals.
All of this has taught me so many valuable lessons, some probably pretty standard to fresh adults like myself, some probably unique more unique to my line of work. Lessons like, "you will want to quit but sticking with it pays off" and "working is good for the soul even though you don't want to go in when your alarm goes off at 6 a.m. day after relentless day" and "people are basically bad" and "people are basically lovable" and "literally everyone is crazy of some kind and to some degree" and "just because you are a Christian and someone else is a Christian doesn't mean you're anything remotely alike, which is a good thing" and "hope exists."
I'm heartbroken to leave a job I grew to hate, then grew to love. After I told my supervisor, I went downstairs, walked out of the building, got in my car, and cried. I feel like I'm abandoning a lot of people by moving away.
At the same time, I know I've learned the lessons I need to learn, and I'm ready to stretch myself more and learn new lessons. Here I go.
God bless.
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