For a Guy

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.

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.

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.

Alone

I’m about nine months into a year-long commitment of no dating. Here’s where I am in my journey, although I wonder if I'd be in the same place regardless of my commitment.

I had learned to be alone

And I had learned to be okay

With hating it.

I go to work.

I do my job.

I come home.

I make dinner for myself.

I fall asleep in a cold twin bed.

Go to work alone.

Come home alone.

Go to bed alone.

Work.

Home.

Bed.

Alone.

Alone.

Alone.

Yesterday, I did not go to work.

Yesterday was a Sunday.

Yesterday, I went to Chipotle.

Alone, of course.

I sat at a table with three other

Empty seats.

I munched my burrito.

People held hands.

People pushed strollers.

People were forced to speak to one another

In glum bondage and acceptance.

My eyes lifted and my mouth

Twitched at the corners.

I didn’t have to share my thoughts.

They were mine.

I didn’t have to share my time.

It was mine.

I had no one to report back to,

My itinerary a secret.

No one except maybe God,

Who was gracious enough

To keep quiet.

I was beautifully,

Peacefully,

Miraculously

Alone.

God bless.

Reflections on a Farewell to Music

When I went to my parents' house for Easter, I tried to talk my freshman-in-high-school brother, Sam, into joining the conservatory of music at my college alma mater. Then I remarked, "if you go into music."

Sam is well aware that I started out in college as a double major in music and psychology. I waited until my junior year to drop my music major, which I wrote about at the time in my post, Trusting God. I told him on Easter that I am glad I made the decision I made. He asked why and I stammered for a couple half-sentences before saying it would take too long to explain.

Music is fantastic. 99% of the population would agree with me. I know I'm not the only one who leans my head back and closes my eyes when that gorgeous chorus comes around and I'm overwhelmed and consumed by it. I know I'm not the only one who feels restored and rejuvenated after expressing myself musically. I know I'm not the only one who feels the music on more than an emotional level, but on a physical level, causing me to tap my foot, dance, or pound my fist into the steering wheel.

It feels good to excel and become skillful at music, whether anyone else is around to admire you or not. In high school I was involved in marching band, concert band, extracurricular honors bands and orchestras, pep band, quintets, competed as a soloist, school choir, church choir, and I took private lessons for three instruments and voice. I loved (almost) every moment of it. Eventually, I tried out for college music departments.

I knew before I even got to college that music would not be my number one career choice. I wanted to go into psychology, and I wanted music to be a hobby to some degree. I was alarmed the summer before I started school to find that I was in about four or five music classes and only one psychology class. I remember calling the dean's office from the camp where I was working as a counselor, and being told that the music program starts out heavy and the psychology program starts out light. I was told that as my school career went on, psychology would become more intensive and music would lighten up.

It was pretty obvious at the conservatory I got into that there was no room for mere hobbyists. I had a professor that made the class chant, "Music is a lifestyle, not a hobby." I wouldn't join in, just sit there and glower at him. The program was intensive and not only was I not prepared, but my heart wasn't in it. I was told I needed to practice four hours a day, but I practiced about four hours a month.

I'm still not exactly sure what changed for me or why I stopped loving the thing that my life once practically revolved around. I still loved music as a concept, but what I was doing felt like a chore. By the time my junior year rolled around, my music requirements were still overwhelming my ability to complete my psychology requirements. I wasn't going to let a false passion override a true one.

I gradually realized something that would frustrate me profoundly. Performing music was not worshipful for me. I could worship God through music easily when part of the crowd, whether around a campfire or at a Cru meeting or in a congregation. But put me in the front of the room and suddenly it was a contest of talent against myself or others. Playing or singing was a selfish pleasure. I asked God that he would help me worship him more through my music, but it didn't happen. He had given me another way of worshiping him: work in the mental health field.

So that's why I left.

I still graduated with a music minor (which I had already earned and far surpassed by the time I dropped my major). I am now doing something far better and well-suited for me. I still love music, but I mourn the fact that it has become such a small part of my life. However, I think it makes those moments of getting lost in the song even more precious.


God bless.

Training

I have the tendency to try to jump the gun on my life, and it's unwise.

I've never done anything too stupid, because fortunately I've almost always realized how foolish it is to get in over my head before I actually do it. But I tend to forget the importance of training; I just imagine myself at the end goal.

Let me try to be a little more specific.

Let's say I got it in my head that I wanted to be a marathon runner. I'd fantasize about being incredibly in shape, running across that glorious finish line, exhilarated, having barely broken a sweat. But I'd hardly consider the fact that first I'd have to get off the couch and run my first treacherous mile to train. In fact, if I did consider it, or even attempt it, I would probably throw the whole dream away.

But that's really no way to live life.

I don't have fantastical dreams about running a marathon (although I would like to get more in shape). For the last few years I have had a dream of becoming a counselor. (Like a psychologist but without having to get a PhD.)

I figured out before I graduated college, fortunately, that I would not be ready for graduate school right away. I would not be able to power through school to get a Master's degree so that I could be a counselor. First I would need training.

I've been training to study, take tests, and write papers all my life. But I've only known a few people with mental illnesses. There's only so much one can understand about abnormal psychology from a book. It has to be seen, observed, conversed with. Few people are "textbook cases," but all of them are real and dynamic, much more than a book lets on. They have unique thoughts, tragic stories, complex relationships.

So I knew that with my dinky but wonderful little bachelor's degree I had to get out into the field and get some experience. I had to train.

After about six months into my first mental health position, I asked myself, Why don't I go back to school? I am only postponing my dream job by waiting.

I had to remind myself not to jump the gun.

Now, I'm moving across the country to continue my training.

I'm going to train physically. I'm going to tread on spiky land instead of flat land.
I'm going to train musically. I've made up my mind to finally learn how to yodel. I don't know why I can't do that here, but it's one of the next goals on my list, so whatever.
I'm going to train linguistically. I intend to take classes in American Sign Language. I think this will be a very valuable skill.
I'm going to train in my writing skills through a project Lexi and I want to try.
I'm going to train spiritually. Wilderness apparently is very good for my soul and I intend to spend more time in it.
Finally, I'm going to train in my career. This is the biggest one. I'm going to keep doing what I'm doing, really. I'm going to work with mentally ill people until I am ready to take the big step toward graduate school and ultimately toward being a counselor.

These next two months before I leave feel like training to train, which is a little awful and a lot exciting.

I'm crossing the threshold between the living room and the weight room.


God bless.

In a Way (Untitled Poem)

I wrote this poem about two years ago but I don't think I've ever published it. It was written to be a spoken-word poem that I've performed twice.

In a way,

What she saw in the mirror

Was an upside-down bell curve.

It started before she knew

That body image could exist

And she was blissfully ignorant

Of how beautiful she was

But she knew by fifth grade

That the clothes her mom

Would not let her pick out

That she based on their quality, not style

And whether or not they were cheap

Were weird.

That’s when that ignorance started

To turn

Into the monster of knowledge

At age twelve, she refused

To really smile for school pictures

Because her teeth were crooked

And her peers had braces already.

But her first year of high school

Was the bottom of the bell.

Not only did she stand

In front of her mother’s

Bathroom mirror

And pull out her eyebrows

Strand by unrelenting strand,

She stopped eating.

He was cute and he said “love” to her

He was as thin and tall as a silver sword

And he made her buy the tickets

To the homecoming dance

The week before the dance,

Her mom took her to a real store

To buy a homecoming dress

Which she honestly

Didn’t get what that meant.

What it was supposed to look like

And how it was different

From what you wear to church

But she stood in the changing room

And looked in the mirror

At her stark, unsuspecting body

And saw, for the first time,

Someone who was too fat.

That last week before the dance,

She learned

How much weight you could lose

And how fast it could be done

But it didn’t matter

Because he wouldn’t speak to her

And he didn’t take her to the dance

And he told her in an email

That they were through.

But it did matter.

Because now she had a secret.

Now she had a solution.

She stopped packing lunches

And told her few friends

That she was fine, not to worry.

She didn’t eat dinner sometimes either

Because her parents

Might have actually believed her

When she said she felt ill.

She learned to love and welcome

The lion that visited

Her stomach more often than not

She let him stay

But taught him how not to roar.

And every night,

A journal would bear witness

To how much she had eaten

And what she could do better.

It wasn’t about control.

It probably wasn’t about beauty.

It was about love.

She was walking the tracks

Between a world that told her

“I love you unconditionally”

A world where her parents,

her God,

and some of her friends lived

And a world of worldliness

That said

“Do this and I’ll love you.”

“Do this and you might be good enough.”

Who in their right mind would reject the former

And embrace the latter?

Who in their right mind would trade true love

For a plasticized, vomit-filled mannequin of it?

Perhaps that fourteen-year-old

Had discovered insanity.

But

With the devil’s smothering presence

Came a deep fear

Which led her to pray.

She was trapped in a downward spiral

Toward a prison called Anorexia

And she knew it.

And she knew that only

One God

Could help her escape.

The Lord answered.

And she slowly started coming

back up the bell curve.

She now knows she is beautiful.

Even though she longs

for the childhood ignorance.

But more importantly

She knows that she is loved

She knows that love

Cannot be earned

Will never run out

And who in their right mind
Would choose beauty over love
Anyway?

God bless.