4 Years, Remarkably Happy

I nearly forgot my four year anniversary. Turns out, it’s sometime within the July 4th week - not a day, but a roundabout timeframe. I for sure remember that I’d taken myself on a trip to Curacao that week, four years ago. Ahh, the good ole single days. But I digress. Ahem, the value of relationships…

Sounds about right though, doesn’t it? Most people either start out as terrible with dates and forget even the most meaningful ones (if you even had a, “will you be my bf/gf,” moment to begin with); and others, well, the significance just starts to fade and becomes pretty ordinary and forgetable, aside from maybe a few jabby hints from a significant other.

But mine, I simply forgot because my day to day is generally so goddamn lovely. I forget, because everyday seems earmarked in its own right. My partner goes out of his way to make it so. Four years have gone by both incredibly slowly and insanely quickly (there’s been a pandemic thrown in there, for pete’s sake).

So there’s a lot to have made these years stand out and memorable (which they were in many ways), but mostly, they’ve instead seemed remarkably stable and even.

I’ve worked hard to become the person who is worthy of this kind of relationship and I’m proud of that. I’ve gone through absolute dolor to become the person stable, graceful, and independent enough to handle this level of partnership.

Like attracts like - demon attracts demon. But it’s a matter of how well they play together that makes or breaks.

You may hear talk of “the work.” It’s been expressed in very eloquent ways, but it’s outworking in my life has been simply to learn and know my demons - both those of my own making and those imposed at life’s inflection points. But ultimately, I’ve done the work of getting to know myself, and I lucked out in finding someone who did the work of getting to know themselves too. The demons of our facades saw through one another and said, “ok, I see you - truly see you - and I can work with that.”

Being truly seen and loved by another human being is what I wish for every good person out there. It might as well be nirvana because it signals meaning in this world. Now don’t misunderstand - I’m a nihilist, and not referring to a higher power here; just that for the blip of time I’m here, floating on this beautiful blue marble, I mean something to someone (and to myself, first and foremost); and in that, have experienced fleeting yet consistent moments of happiness and meaning, not because they’re inherently that, but because I’ve internalized and ascribed them to be so.

And that’s what I’ve realized over these four years. I was happy before because I chose to make moments for myself. Now, I continue to be happy because my moments, my facade and my demons are experienced in partnership and learning with another.

Cheers to however many more.

The Fly Rod

The case opens - the sun barely over the road, and here she comes. Assembling me quickly, setting the reel in, and lining my eyelets - it’s time to work.

As with most mornings, today we start off with a hike. Grasses, brush, and the occasional stick make our jaunt interesting. I hear her talking to her partner; some such thing about flies, breakfast, spots, and pockets. As for me, I am glad to get out of that case. It’s been a long winter waiting to get back out here and battle some fish. Admittedly, I’m not sure what we’re chasing. But knowing these two, it could be a trout, bass, or a sunny - who knows? By the look of the stream though, I’m betting trout. We finally stop, and off I go - left, right, left, right, boom. What a cast! We got it right on the bubble line. It’s just her and I. Meanwhile, her friend is manically casting and moving downstream as if he is missing something; barely taking a moment to admire the scenery. As he disappears behind a bend, we see it.

A flash of gold and white fury - we’ve done this dance before. On queue, we lift and it’s on. The line pulls hard, and I start to work. This one feels angry. It runs, jumps, and dives ferociously. Line keeps moving along my guides - I put all my backbone into stopping this beast but it’s not enough. “Oh.. I got one, I got one!” echoes down the valley in clear excitement. Her friend reappears out the corner of the bend, dropping everything and running towards us. Three steps in, he doubles back for the net. “Ah, rookie, could not keep it together,” I thought. Glad I was built with some flex - this fish is now circling us, fighting harder with each run.

The reel scratches as it finally gets to work applying some pressure on this fish. Lazy line holder, just sitting there enjoying the view as her and I work this thing. No sooner is the reel engaged than the oaf with the net appears close now, trampling the water in his mad dash towards us. With the finesse of a rhino in a stampede, he rushes towards our trout, net outstretched. Poor oaf, trying to be helpful, he spooks all the fish in the stream with his entrance. Now, he babbles instructions as if this is our first fish. Here we are, working our butts off and all he is doing is running up and down yelling nonsense. 

Thankfully, the trout turned right into that net he was waving. Now, time for the glory.

I hop on her back and there it is - a brown; glistening in the sun, gold, grey, black, and purple - a big fish for this trickle they call a stream.

With a few fuzzy photos by the oaf, and with a flash of the tail, the beauty is gone. The smile she has is brighter than the rising sun.

Finally, after months of storage, we are back.

Worm on a Hook

It’s a fella sport. Not purposely exclusionary in any way - just, fella based.

For many years fly fishing was a gentleman’s sport populated by rich, white males - doctors, politicians, businessmen, engineers - the top echelon of society seeking relief from their business and domestic affairs into quiet back country streams in pursuit of the ever elusive trout. And although much else has changed - trout streams under threat by industrial expansion and climate change, the art and sport itself has gradually widened and become more accessible (and cool!) to those with interest (and money!).

Thankfully, I’ve benefitted enormously from women’s rights movements through the years and have an exceptional job which affords me the most valuable commodity of all - agency. Agency affords me choice and freedom to pursue and purchase entrance into hobbies otherwise limited to me by price point alone. I make mention of it particularly in the context of fly fishing because women in the sport are extremely rare.

And when they’re spotted, it’s spoken about as if there’s been a unicorn sighting!

Now, perhaps this is because it’s a boring, gross, barbarous activity that most women have no interest in and believe it to be just, one of those things men do. I personally find it refreshing when people surprise you with interests you wouldn’t have thought “customary” for them to enjoy. Women who shoot competitively, men who sew. Unconscious bias turned on its head - marvelous!

I came to fly fishing by way of the infamous, “River Runs Through It”, and a PBS series, “Foyle’s War.” In these I observed gorgeous countrysides, rolling green hills, bubbly streams, clear water and a casting motion I’d never seen before.

True, I’d gone lake fishing and casting from a pier before (thank you, Pops!), but this was a completely different motion - active, graceful, athletic, artistic. Watching the motion and imaging myself thigh deep in cool, clear waters with a sun-kissed horizon in my sights, I was primed for the hook set!

I knew how expensive it was to enter the sport. Not only is it a historically niche hobby, but finding the places to go and actually try the dang thing is a hurdle. So, I settled on learning how to tie flies in the hopes that my movement would trigger the needle of the universe to conspire in my favor and get me closer to the proverbial stream. I now tie Wooly Buggers and make a pretty mean Elk-hair Caddis. But let me be clear - no small part of my interest in fly fishing was due to the fact that I could not, for the life of me, put a worm on a hook.

I also bought a hat - an Orvis fedora, so you know I was serious. I attempted to take some fly casting lessons in Central Park, but they were always booked. I scratched my head about that too, don’t worry. And on more than one occasion, I misunderstood the directions and ended up somewhere on Madison or over at the New York Public Library, sitting grumpily in Bryant Park eating a bagel to salve my setback.

I took some licks in pursuit of my hobby; self-inflicted mostly. I did try to make light of it once professionally. I was asked to introduce myself at a committee meeting for a corporate law firm I’d just joined, and I lively mentioned my interests - biking, indoor gardening, fly fishing……

Those dots were the number of blank stares I got. I quickly cleared my throat looking back at them in hopes of some sort of reassurance. Receiving only quizzical glances, the room stiffly got back to business and I quickly learned that I was no longer in the kansas of Upstate New York!

It’s a fish out of water hobby in New York City, to be fair. What more can you say than, “ah hah, interesting! Not much of that to do here, eh?” True. When I got my first rod I had to go to the top of my 5th floor apartment to practice casting from off the roof.

I beamed with pride at my fly creations. They really are gorgeous little things - beyond intricate with twists and turns - natural feathers and fabrics crafted together to create a lifelike creature that has the curvatures to entice. It’s an intimate and fascinating cycle to have the privilege of joining. And that’s truly how I view it. I get to participate in this vivid and tactile art - the art of creating a fly and the art of casting it to mimic motion that can lead to the catch of a gorgeously speckled fish with pinks, browns and vibrant greens racing along its sides and belly. A fish that relinquishes only a gentle bite, requiring the focused attention to every twitch on the line of the fisher.

Few thrills match the tug of a fish on a line, caught on a fly of your own making. Reeled and pulled in close, eyes meeting eye, thanks extended for the catch and the release.

Free ice cream for sale

I’ve never received something free in the City; not genuinely at least.

And yet, I was given something free the other day; legitimately and appearingly without ulterior motive, free.

It was on a nondescript corner in downtown Manhattan, catty-corner from my office. It was an unseasonably warm day in early April and I was on my way home from a quick errand stop at Duane Reade for likely dry shampoo and gummy multi vitamins. It’s a common misconception that life in New York City is any less mundane than this. Most of us ride the coat tails and reputation of legacied City swagger when in actuality, we’re picking up dry shampoo and gummy vitamins, and heading home.

***

I tend to treat ice cream like I do Coke. It’s a tremendous treat once in a rare while since it’s essentially sludge/battery acid in your guts. But good lordt, they’re beguiling guilty goodies.

***

Foregoing the plastic bags with an air of earth minded uprightness, I attempted to tuck my purchases into my briefcase styled purse. But since handbags are often as sexist as women’s pocketless pants, I had ends and edges of handbag guts budging out every which way.

I did my best to secure the contents with a guarding right hand and headed back toward the Fulton station and the A/C train home. It was a lovely temperate day for a walk and I found myself walking at an average pace; slothful for a New Yorker. But subconsciously I must’ve wanted or perhaps needed to soak up those brief moments of early spring.

I wasn’t the only one. The business of hustle is never more than a market of desire away in the City. With the air of fresh warmth came the irritating repeat of ice cream jingles. Not even soft serve trucks miss a moment of hotfooting.

His truck was at the corner of Broadway and Liberty. A white truck with cotton candy font, “The Real Deal.” I had already passed one truck, and at the cross walk was about to pass this one too. I stopped and hesitated. “Goddamn, a cone would be nice right now. Agh, I’ve had a good week so far. I’ll treat myself.” Knowing full well I had no reason to treat myself. But egged on by my boyfriend (who generally encourages my more basal instincts to pamper myself), I walked up to the window with a sheepish grin and asked if he took cards.

He didn’t.

I attempted a joke (unsurprisingly awkward) to hide my slight embarrassment at having no cash. “Geez, I’m fitting the SWF stereotype right now.” He smirked and reminded me that I was a person, not a stereotype, and asked me what I wanted.

A chocolate cone dipped in chocolate sauce. I held my breath. He looked at the machine then looked back at me. And for some reason, time stood still. In that moment of kindness and understanding, we both knew what a chocolate dippped chocolate cone could mean for me. Game changer. Blog worthy.

He said he could give me a small - on the house.

I think my jaw physically dropped. 

Now, I’ve come to expect not to expect. That is, no freebies. Altruistic cynicism. Buttressed self protectionism. A hard-ass New Yorker (when in actuality I’m one of the most feeling, sensitive, goofy, hopeless romantics out there). I fully expected (insert irony) for this muscled, seemingly uninterested, African American businessman to politely but in no uncertain terms, turn me away. “Sorry gal, no cash? Yeah, we’re cash only.” True, it was probably a whopping $5 worth of ice cream cone he gave me. But still, he was in no way obliged to give me anything. I wasn’t even a good PR angle.

I thanked him, still wide-eyed and shocked that I’d just been given something free on the streets of New York City. Shuffling briskly away, sure that he’d change his mind, I crossed the street and sat on a bench outside my building. There was a bronze statue of a businessman shuffling through a briefcase next to me. I made up a story about him. He was a stressed out lawyer, unsure he’d be able to hack it in the hustle of big city law. And it reminded me of the like-spirited souls I know in this ilk: hopeful, striving, stressed, unsure. Myself included.

But for that brief moment, I was none of those things. I was a gal happy as a clam, swinging her legs on a bench as if she were 7 again, contentedly licking a deliciously melting cone. There’s still something tangible about kindness, and that sometimes, it can come with no strings attached. 

And if anything, it’s a reminder to pay it forward when there’s an opportunity to give my own proverbial cone to a cashless someone, or an awkward SWF that reminds me of no one in particular.

The Outhouse

He was trying to impress me, I think. And seemingly the best way to do this was to take me to a friend’s cabin in northwest Wisconsin, away from any semblance of civilization to show off his “fire making skills.” 

He described the cabin as “rustic.”

Ok, I’ll play along, I thought. After all, I’m still in the ‘trying to impress’ phase too. We’d been dating for just under six months, and I was no stranger to the more primitive conditions of life. So I was game. What could go wrong in just two days of rustic living in the middle of nowhere Wisconsin in the dead of winter?

I joked, only slightly non-seriously on the drive up. No shovels or axes in the car, right? No wood chippers at this cabin?

Visions of the end scene in ‘Fargo’ blinked with caution behind my eyes. Without skipping a beat, he assured me that it would make no sense to kill me there. At least not on the first night. Who would he cuddle with?

Ah. Ha. ha. Ha. Good one…? Again, dating a mere six months. Long distance. He in Minneapolis and me in New York City.

…

We arrive after loading the car with long underwear, snow pants, ice fishing gloves, an electric yellow Carhardt beanie for me…and water. Wait, water?

Yes, water. As in, no indoor plumbing. As in, amass number one business in the toilet then flush with a gallon of ‘hauled with you’ water. And what about number two you might wonder? Oh yes, there was a place outside the cabin for number twos. 

The owner of this cabin seemed to draw great affection from the ‘good old days,’ when men were men shooting muskets, building fires and defecating amongst the landscape as nature intended. I believe that in his hearts of hearts, he liked to think the outhouse quite a luxury; a place for a man to relieve himself with speed and clarity of purpose. One evening he even likened it to a spiritual experience. And that, is a whole new world of perspective.

…

When I travel, I tend to get dehydrated. And in consequence, constipated as well (a formidable gastrointestinal add-on).

These symptoms again reappeared on the cabin trip as my guts began to writhe and constrict in constipated agony. I was desperate to find relief.

... 

It was near closing time for the tiny town’s sole gas station, but thank holy sphincter, they had Ducolax. I was well tempted to buy two boxes, but my companions advised that one would suffice.

Ok, I looked - what’s the maximum dose I can take? Three? Perfect. I’ll take four just to be on the safe side. This is over-the-counter stuff, it’s never that potent.

I struggled back into the car, unable to stand up straight. And with painful tears in my eyes, popped four tiny green capsules into my mouth - and with a giant gulp, hoped that relief would soon be on its way.

…

4:00 a.m.

My tummy starts to rumble. My eyes pop open and I’m wide awake. Something’s coming. I lean over to him and say, “babe, I have to go now.” He snaps alert and we briskly prepare for the trek we both hoped we’d not have to take. We put on snow pants, coat, hat and boots. He lights the kerosene lantern and we trod icily to the outhouse.

It’s -10 degrees Fahrenheit and the lantern is our only source of heat.

Either he stayed outside without the lantern and froze, or I stayed inside without the lantern and I froze. Ultimately though, I was in no condition to be there on my own.

As our friend so candidly put it in the morning, there was a going out of business sale and everything went.

…

My boyfriend of six months stands beside me in an outhouse clearly meant for one person, doing his best to see that I am warm and comforted as I lose all liquids from both openings in my body.

He caresses my head as I rest it on his waist. My eyes well with tears as I am propelled in both directions.

More than an hour passes. I am shivering from the stress and cold. He keeps reminding me, “honey, you need to wipe or else it’ll freeze to you.”

Let me pause here a moment to take in that last phrase. “Honey, you need to wipe or else it’ll freeze to you.” Now with all sincerity, I have heard an awful lot of phrases in my life, but that, that is a phrase I never thought I would hear.

…

At least the toilet paper was the soft, two-ply kind. I wipe but can hardly feel a thing. The cold persists and so does my body’s exit.

He tells me stories of his EMT days both to help distract me and convey that he’s seen worse - that needing to fling open the outhouse door to take gulps of air as a buttress against the stink of what my body was violently exiting was not as bad as he’d experienced before. I didn’t believe him, but it brought me comfort all the same.

We went inside and returned three more times. The capsules were clearly overachievers. We were exhausted - my sphincter and his nerves.

Daylight comes and with it, any semblance of shame. Also the mystery. We’ve fast-forwarded ten years as a couple - zero mystery.

But with that, we saw how we reacted under stress. I saw how he selflessly cared for me. We both experienced how vulnerably present we were with one another. And he saw how I reacted to him under incredible duress and pain.

We clung to and leaned on one another without shame. In fact, we were even able to find the situational humor of it all in the moment. To me, this is life and this is humanity - learned and experienced in the bitter cold of a Wisconsin twilight morning in the most unromantic setting possible.

But then again, don’t we in fact gain time, depth and value in our relationships when we drop our shame and frontiness - and show our humanity?

Now I’m certainly not recommending a full frontal outhouse experience as a method of solidifying relationships. Outhouses are built as single stalls for a reason. Privacy and tact are wonderful things.

But for us, it was a very telling and deepening experience - one which we can now joke about and share. Because it is ultimately an absurd and human story. The outhouse story.

Bloodshot Eyes and Tarot Cards

I describe myself these days as a recovering evangelical. And I measure my success by the hobbies and activities I pursue and experience that were once forbidden/frowned upon/mocked, or otherwise tsk-tsk'd. For instance, I've recently watched all the Harry Potter movies. That's right. All of them.

I bought a skateboard. I read my own tarot cards. I write a sacrilegious blog. I'm pro-420. I'm considering my own bi-sexuality. I'm against the death penalty. I'm a feminist and an agnostic. A batter and mixture perfectly distasteful to any good American evangelical.

The tarot cards were a spur of the moment purchase--my secret sin housed in an Amazon warehouse in a fly-over state out west. I was introduced to them by my co-worker, Kevin. Surprisingly, not some Madame Zodiac. But that's how the Devil works. He gets you through an unwitting Kevin-type. The cards were beautifully designed and the descriptions weren't at all witchy or sorcery. In fact, they felt a great deal like prophecy, but without the heavenly pressure/human projection part. They were simply read and interpreted as a matter and tool of increased introspection.

But admittedly, the first night I put them to sleep in my nightstand drawer, I had a moment of panic. Images from that scene in Indiana Jones and the Holy Grail where it's put into the Nazi shipping crate, and the wrath of God burns out the Nazi symbol totally grazed my mind. I thought, 'well shit, if there is a God, then surely I'm going to wake up with a burned out nightstand now that I've put tarot cards inside it!' 

But alas, I'm pleased to report that neither the cards nor the nightstand have any signs of Holy Grail proportional wrath.

All kidding aside though, my intention in all of this is not to purposefully shock or cause division. This is genuinely where I'm landing these days. And I know some might think that my move away from God and Christianity has caused this shift--that to be in God's corner would inevitably cause an anti-position on all these things. But I think there's much more gray area here, particularly for Millenials who believe in God, but who are also socially and morally woke. Many of my friends are this--pursuing and looking at the hard questions within their faith paradigm. Because even though it's nonsense to me now, I would never begrudge, or seek to undermine the well-intentioned faith of another, particularly anyone seeking a genuine Christianity. Because at the heart of any belief, is the genuineness and the motivation of it. How willing are we to ask, grapple with, and see to the logical end, our beliefs--to whatever end they lead us to. How scared are we if the answer isn't what we want it to be. Are we willing to follow it, for the sake of intellectual honesty.

Most in my prior circle wouldn't be willing to do this because its a risk of loosing God, heaven, and eternity. The belief in and connectedness to the Christian God is both too loving and too frightening to risk. The sense of connectedness--real or perceived, is strong. I get this, because I was there. And I think that's why I can still have grace, even amidst my own hurt and anger toward God and the church. I very much understand the motivations.

But what I wish for in return, is the same understanding and courtesy for believing what I believe, and not wishing me to 'come through whatever phase I'm in.'

Especially from my Mom, given that her hopes and dreams for her kids are in the context of eternity and 'salvation.' But at least now I feel I've been able to more clearly articulate to her where I’m at in life and my view on the world, which no longer encompasses a belief in God or Christianity. Even though on my last two visits home (after decidedly breaking with my Christian identity), mysteriously, I would get a singular bloodshot eye starting my first night.

Hmm, stressed much by this, body? Fascinating how well it can tell us how we're subconsciously feeling.

But nevertheless, to express to her that I’m happy and doing well without believing in God. That my life hasn’t crumbled to bits because I no longer claim the “blood of Jesus” over my life. And how good it feels to listen to my own body, and not supersede upon it tenants of what I should be feeling. That I’ve been deeply hurt by the church and have no desire to go back to it. That praying makes no difference in if something happens or doesn’t—zero difference. But rather, meditation is what has been far more beneficial, tapping into self.

I've also accepted that I would never ask her to be anyone other than who she is; a woman with a deep and devoted belief in God. And her expressed desire to continue praying for me “that God would reveal himself to me”—I would not deny her.

We were not able to come to a mutual acceptance that as long as I was happy in my life, that was enough for her to be happy for me. And the reason for this, I feel, is that she doesn’t truly believe me when I say I’m happy. In her worldview, I can’t possibly be truly happy without God. I’m living in a haze of false happiness to her, because I don’t claim love for Jesus. And even though my gut reaction is to feel insulted by this, I’m choosing to see her best wishes in it. She does want the best for me, even if it's in her way—she still loves me unconditionally, I like to think.

I do wish though, that she could be happy for me because I’m happy for myself—that that would be enough for her. But her belief system struggles to allow that. Letting people alone and letting them be happy on their own terms isn’t enough—isn’t correct. They must know and love and follow Jesus.

This to me is dreadfully harmful—not only to the ‘non-believers,’ but unwittingly to the Evangelicals as well, because the pressure to ‘lead’ others to the Lord in order to forego eternal damnation is a whole fuck lot of pressure. Biblical imperatives leave save little room for happiness without God.

But perhaps I'm not being entirely fair. Perhaps I'm not giving evangelicals and their God enough credit for being able to pleasantly surprise me. Because Mom sent me this text the other day:

"Wow...God opened me to the realization that I love truth more than LOVE through your visit. Glad we could talk. Must keep channels open. ❤"

Huh. 

Well, consider me pleasantly surprised!

Channels of love and understanding open indeed. With hopefully far fewer blood shot eyes.

For I'm ready to re-explore relationships and be open to change in myself and others.

The Gray

One of my weaknesses still is a proclivity toward over-generalization. This used to manifest itself mostly in "soft" racist comments and a refusal to see any truth outside of my rigid evangelicalism. Now however, feelings of indignation focus almost entirely on men and evangelical christians.

And perhaps to my detriment, for these over-generalizations feel justified, because both groups have hurt and wounded me deeply.

Racist proclivities before, were based solely on self-righteousness and conservative talking heads. But now, over-generalizations feel truer; based on a much truer sense of indignation produced from experiences of injustice.

Still, is there not inherent wrongness in such thinking? Yet what am I to do with this sense of injustice? 

I cannot shake the feeling that I find sick safety and comfort in my over-generalizations partially because I've lived so long in a black and white world. A world which told me that there were good guys and bad guys. That people were poor because of their own bad choices. That people needed saving. That there were absolute rights and wrongs; absolute truths that separated the righteous from the heathen.

I was alienated from the realness of the world. From the grayness. From the beautiful, authentic, painful realness of the gray.

I lost so much color in my life because I was focused on judging and saving others. Living not my life, but the life I thought I was supposed to live.

My heart breaks, and tears well up in my eyes when I think of how stringent I was in my perceived rightness. How much I missed, trying to be perfect. How much I mutilated my mind trying to please and meet impossible standards. How desperately I wanted the affection of an unattainable god who never spoke--never affirmed. I over-generalized because it justified the way I thought life ought to be.

And I was the one who lost. Who fooled myself. Who lived a life as a shell of a girl pretending. Pretending she was anything other than fierce, wild, irreverent and free.

These are moments when I want to scream. Scream and curse the beliefs that built the lies and fears that stole precious life from me that I will never get back. I swallowed evangelicalism whole, and I believed tenants that mutilated and looted my mind; destroyed areas of my psyche and self-worth.

I wanted to kill myself at times as a Christian. Literally. And no one ever knew. I was alone, with a pasted on smile every Sunday. Only my journals reflect how dangerously suicidal my mental state was. Not even god knew. Because how could he. God isn't real. Which makes my story even more painful. All this heartache and falsity, for what? 

Perhaps, for the benefit and perspective of others. There is much to be lost when Christianity is let go of. And for those who are seeking a Christianity that will allow them to maintain a communal identity while also a level of liberalism, I commend you! But for those who have let go of the God branch, know that there is life, and good life after.

For God has died for me. I experienced his funeral when I broke bread for the last time on a Boston late summer's eve at the most beautiful and inclusive communion I have ever been part of. It was a grievous, powerful, and deeply freeing experience. But it also means that I cannot go back. For where do you go when God has died? Truly, the way forward is not clear, but the way forward is finally mine to forge for me. 

I'm slowly building my identity again, and arguably as a much more aware and, I hope, honest and free human; for identity comes not from without, but from within. And although I know my pain will never be apologized for, I also know that I will likely never be less angry, nor will I forget the years lost or the pain incurred.

I do hope however that I can begin to over-generalize less. That somehow I find balance and grace in my perceptions of others. And perhaps I shall, for the gray is now where I live and love. And where I believe life is best truly seen.

Angus Tongue

Before I came to realize that online dating slow bleed drips life from me, I gave it a go with a few half interesting prospects. How else are single people supposed to meet in a big city? As a natural introvert, I still haven't satisfactorily answered that question for myself, but I have to believe there is something better than finding "interesting" people through an an impersonal platform where you can present yourself in any god-forsaken way. It's a medium ripe for abuse, many times over two-timing, and in a very real sense, grossly emblematic of a throw-away culture.

It's, 'ah well, on to the next! Plenty of other amazing people out there.' It's such a catch-22, for the truth of the matter is, most of us long for connection, but at the same time delude ourselves into thinking that quantity and variety of selection will give us an endless stream of dreamy potentials to entertain us. We have endless options, and most of us use, abuse, rinse and repeat.

And as an incredibly feeling four, I could use apps for save a short time until my insides hurt from loneliness, comparison, and a deep hopelessness that I would never ever be known for my genuine self.

All that said, however, by way of introduction, for I was on such an app procured date about a month or so ago.

The fella was perfectly fine. Clean cut, suit, nice smile, pleasant, intelligent, and in finance. Often the type you find on a dating app in New York City as most are unlikely to find dates through their workplace or their off-time, since insane work hours are often the norm. 

We chose a Japanese Sake Bar. A few awkward laughs and introductions are exchanged; a few commonalities found. I'm charming, of course. A glass of wine and hors d'oeuvres are chosen; a very pleasant standard first date so far.

The hors d'oeuvre arrives. It's angus tongue. We look at each other, grin and shrug. We're both down to trying something new.

I pull the chopsticks from their paper package, break, and rub them together to smooth the upper edges. I gently and firmly pick up a thin slice of tongue. It's generously and delicate browned. I look it over for a moment, surmising as to its taste. Based on the look and smell, I'm expecting beef. All my senses are pointing to and expecting beef.

It did not taste like beef.

At best, the first taste was, chewy. And the more I needed to chew, the more my mind caught up to how much this piece of thing was not what it was expecting, and in hurried consequence, every sensory receptor immediately reprocessed its initial impression.

It was not an enjoyable first bite. But there were still more pieces to go. I had to give it another try. So in to the gullet another piece went.

But this time, my senses were acclimated to the reality of what the tongue actually tasted like.

I chewed, tasting the chewiness, the brownness, the meat's unique flavor, the chives, the squeezed lemon. I was able to evaluate the thing itself, as it inherently was, on its own merits. Because, whether I liked the tongue or not, I could value it for what it was, and not what I thought it should be.

My initial taste was based on expectation. And although I was disappointed, it was only because I had expected that thing to be other than what it was.

But once I tasted the reality of its texture and flavor, the next bite was inextricably more enjoyable, because I was enjoying the thing as it was, not expecting it to be anything other than what it was. Angus tongue.

Expectation is tied to reality. Or rather, the disconnect from reality. It is arguing with reality and saying, you should be this. When in reality, reality simply is. 

And it is the is-ness of reality that is freeing. Because the ability to evaluate things as they are, and not as you would like them to be allows for a sense of honestly and enjoyment that otherwise might be allusive to a controlling, expecting mind.

In many moments when I feel as though I am chief among the pessimists, I was reminded by a dear friend that it is not pessimism, but rather realism that is my actual temper. And these thoughts thankfully bolster that opinion, for I do believe in hope, but hope that is grounded in reality and the stable yet often unglamorous nature of is-ness.

I hope to continue learning how to evaluate life based on its is-ness, rather than my expectations of its ought-ness. Because what life is, rather than our projected expectations of it, might likely surprise us.

The Problem of Happiness

It's usually the problem of pain. But for me, it's the problem of happiness. 

Illusive, comparative, and fickle. Often incompatible with consistent norms of reality.

And in the interest of shedding some light on these deep skepticisms of happiness, my wise, beautiful, and insightful cousin harkened back to the astuteness of the Greeks, noting this concept of eudaimonia. A word which encapsulates a fuller, richer view of happiness; the idea of fulfillment.

Human flourishment.

And it is within this richer view of happiness that I find myself. As a deeply feeling, introspective, emotional human, I am drawn to the deepest recesses of my heart. I share without fear, and often to the discomfort of others in my frankness. But I believe that in such vulnerability, I invite others into a safety and welcoming to explore their own depths; that through emotional honesty in my own life, I encourage others to look more deeply into themselves for the better.

But even as seen in these posts, I admittedly have a tendency toward feeling that I am being the most honest and real version of myself when I am focusing on the hurts, disappointments, and sadnesses of life. I internally gag at platitudes and hollow encouragements. The 'realness' of life is found in the deep, the cynical, and the questioning. Rainbows and happy endings don't exist for me. They don't for anyone, really. I just admit it. But I also tend to dwell on it.

And so, I admit, I most likely suffer from chronic cynicism, self-doubt and extreme sensitivity to others' reactions to me--true.

But part of the reason for this is that I hold a secret, inner image of who I feel I could be. I have an idea of the sort of person I would like to become--the kind of person who would be fantastically talented, socially adept, and intensely desired. In short, I've come to believe that if I were somehow different from who I am, I would be seen and loved. And unfortunately, this creates a constant negative comparison of self to this idealized, secret self--my 'fantasy self.' And it in turn makes it very difficult to appreciate many of my genuinely positive qualities because they are never as wonderful as the fantasy.

The same applies to my relationships. Many self-sabotaged experiences later. I am in touch with my feelings very early on toward potential partners, but also very quickly idolize them; placing great expectations on the partner for nurturing affirmation and support. Then feeling disappointed once I get to know them—often finding their company draining, dull, or unsatisfying. The downward spiral continues in almost practiced fashion, inevitably leading to hyper sensitivity, devaluation and ultimately, rejection.

I often dwell on the negative, because more occurrences than I care to recall have pointed to a 'Plan B' life. A second best, left-over, plain, un-seen, un-talented, inconsequential life.

The problem with happiness is that it shames these feelings--tells them they shouldn't be felt--shouldn't be at all. We should count our blessings and be grateful. Joyful even. Don't worry, be happy! The mantra reigns out in glittery sparkly foils.

I've always felt crushed by happiness, feeling that I was inherently wrong because I rarely felt 'happy.'

There were always these feelings--raw, unshakeable, clear. Most likely untrue, but intense nonetheless. And to a large degree still today, they remain nagging in my subconscious to be dealt with and healed from.

And so, my journey of actualization involves letting go of this idealized, secret self so I may see and appreciate who I actually am. In every, true facet. Wholly Grace.

Because in a balanced, healthy state, I have exquisite attunement to my own inner state, enabling discovery of deep truths about human nature, to bear compassionate witness to the suffering of others, and to be profoundly honest about my own motives.

I never want to restrain or lose touch with my emotions, to feel ordinary, to have my individuality unrecognized, to have my taste questioned, to be required at social settings to follow impersonal rules and procedures, or to spend time with people I (rightly or wrongly) perceive as lacking taste or emotional depth. Nothing will drain life from my genuine self faster.

Fulfillment for me is achieving something beautiful, authentic, and uniquely me, despite the loneliness, suffering, and self-doubt I have so often felt. And it will walk hand-in-hand with actualization when I can sincerely describe myself in this way:

I am true to myself. I am emotionally honest and unafraid to reveal myself to others. I combine self-awareness and introspection with great emotional strength and endurance. I bring a heightened sensitivity to my experiences and am able to share with others the subtleties of my inner world, which invites them to do the same. I am highly intuitive and creative and add a personal, human touch to whatever I am involved with. I treat others with gentleness, tact, and discretion. I can be wonderfully expressive with an ironic, witty view of life and myself, able to find humor in my own foibles and contradictions. And, I bring a sense of beauty, refinement, and emotional richness to other's lives.

This for me, I believe, will be eudaemonia. Because I no longer believe in happiness. I've never believed in it for myself. I'm not a characteristically happy person.

But fulfillment and emotional flourishment. Ah, that appeals to me. Because within such a bolstered identity, I believe I might just be able to grow into a truly well, fulfilled, peaceful, and loved human being.

May every thought not be happier, but kinder, than the one before.

Depression Is My Companion

I've been homeless in New York City, and have depended on countless acquaintances to lend me safe bedded harbor. Housing has never been easy or a certainty here. Strangely enough though, jobs have. I've (very loosely) lived in near a dozen abodes since packing up my U-Haul from what now seems like a country away in Northern New York. But I've recently only started my second job in the City. The first, beginning as a very temporary position through an agency; turning into a three year stint where I garnered a sense of relationship, position, and respectability. In fact, let me toot my horn a moment. It was due to my exit interview that my position title was renamed for the entire department, and wages re-evaluated to be equitable on an otherwise completely arbitrary scale.

Yet, all that took time. And I know it was needed to position me for where I am now. But where I am now, I'm not happy with. Small, yet building stresses, perceived gas lighting, high and unorganized volume, and a tense office environment is making me re-think it all. Is the money even worth it?

Many would answer, 'hell yeah, deal with it!' And I'm sure I shall. I've been able to talk myself off the ledge for the most part. But there was a deeper realization here: how incredibly four I am. How feeling I am; how sensitive. But in a corporate legal environment, know that those are not the top traits you're likely to be respected, praised, or prized for.

Yet again, I find myself a square peg in a round hole. The greatest of all the four fears.

By the way, if you're lost in this "fourness" language, I'm referring here to the enneagram: https://www.enneagraminstitute.com/type-descriptions, the best personality type descriptor I've found, and easily been able to key-in on.

Suffice it to say that in the New Year, I've felt consistent and tremendous pangs of loneliness, untetheredness, and depressive anxiety. Most of which, I believe, are tied to my new job. Reality has set in, and my eyes are wide and scared shitless. And scared not just of failure. That isn't really it. The job itself, although unorganized, is pretty straightforward. 

I'm fearful of the deep unhappiness I feel. Something about this new season has dredged it up, intensely.

Thankfully, a ten hour sleep did help last night. As did taking time to talk myself off the emotional ledge in the quiet stillness of my bedroom. And strangely, I noticed the language toward myself change. In my years of high religiosity, I saw depression and unhappiness as emotions to fight against; to bring 'into submission.' But this time, I gave myself permission to feel my depression; to go there with it--to sit there with the unhappiness.

It was ok to feel.

And in those very sad moments, I sat and breathed. Deep, knowing, accepting breaths. I really felt how sad I was. And I affirmed it. A permission of self, I suppose.

I also gave my body the benefit of the doubt that it needed deep rest and recovery, too, if it was anything like my mind. So before I bedded down, I took a moment to reassure my heart and mind that I was in agreement with them. Thankful they had alerted me to what in my conscious self, was likely to be disregarded and ignored as over-reactions. But in reflection, stillness, and feeling--the heart, mind, and body all seemed to calm down together. We were not at war, seeking to subvert any part of the other. But rather, mindfulness was brought to all the senses, and I rested deeply with a quiet mind I'd not had in weeks.

Often the first instinct when depression, fear, or uncertainty even begin to graze the brain is to knee jerk--'no.' Fight, count your blessings, distract, control. Anything but to feel those emotions. Depression is what unhappy people who can't deal, have. Depression conjures up questions of depth that we fear will take us into an abyss of self.

But they don't have to be enemies we seek to ward off or submit to our positivity. Rather, could they not be instructors and guides to deeper issues of the heart. Ah, but that pesky reveal of unhappiness. For the pain that depression often directs us to is exactly what makes it all hurt like a mother fucker and is so avoided and feared. We’re not masochists.

But, to learn and be instructed by it. Not controlled by, but co-existed with. I'm willing to take the hurt that accompanies that instruction, because there was a marked turn when I allowed myself to immerse into what I was actually feeling. To sit, be, and breathe it in.

Not fearing the negative, but finding what is instructive and healing there.

It's Actually Not Me, It's You

This is what did it. Look closely.

I was struck immediately. Was I seeing this correctly? Had the church I so loved actually posted this?! My disconnected and confused surprise was acute.

Let's at first break down the image itself. Based on Proverbs 5, the graphic shows very clearly a man at the end of a road, with very clearly a woman's figure at the end of that road - flowers drawn at her feet, and "death" written to her left side. The background is a harsh, garish red.

I want us to be drawn to the simple, but utterly clear messaging here. Woman is portrayed - no - labeled as death. I'm sorry, what?

This is what at first I could not wrap my mind around. Was I somehow interpreting this wrong? Was it harmless? After all, my church had posted it, and I know the intentions of the people there are only for good and love. What the actual fuck was going on here?

Now I'm going to crack open my bible here for a minute. Let's just hear Proverbs 5 straight from the source.

'For the lips of an immoral woman are as sweet as honey, and her mouth is smoother than oil. But in the end she is as bitter as poison, as dangerous as a double-edged sword. Her feet go down to death; her steps lead straight to the grave. For she cares nothing about the path to life. She staggers down a crooked trail and doesn't realize it.' Proverbs 5: 3-6

'Stay away from her! Don't go near the door of her house! If you do, you will lose your honor and will lose to merciless people all you have achieved.' Proverbs 5: 8-9

Egads! Those wily, seductive women! Stay away, you men of flowerful integrity! Lest your brainless penis' lead you into her desperate clutches.

Now, to be fair, the artist nailed the literal interpretation, but also, the literal interpretation of this passage could not be more offensive.

And even if, as many in the church might argue, this is a metaphor for the woman to be seen as temptation at large. Again, offensive.

But even if for the sake of argument this is metaphorical, it only points further to the fallacy that comes with basing one's life solely off ancient texts written by men, inspired by a (male) gendered God.

The Bible can be made to say anything that a person in power - or positioning for power - wants it to say. On one hand, it can easily be read to say that women are property. But it also documents manipulative and evil women - strategic and wise women - docile and obedient women. Passages can be twisted to justify on any grounds. And that is why it is undoubtedly an incredible book - a masterful book of loving manipulation.

And as long as followers base their lives, worldview, and justifications on the Bible as the innerant Word of God, it will always be a living book - because humans give it life and meaning.

But please, do not use it to justify insensitivity in the name of truth. For there are fallacies in any truth we might profess. That is the nature of interpretation. But have the integrity to admit to whatever inevitable weakness or blindspot that truth may manifest.

But I know this will never happen.

Christians in general (not all, by any means), are largely unwilling to make such admittances about God and the Bible - for that might begin to unravel their safe, known worldview. And without it, they fear what might - or might not be - left without the security and love of God as they know it. And again, I know this, because I was there - afraid of what I didn't know and couldn't doubt.

But for fuck's sake. #metoo, anyone? How could an organization so centered on loving people be so insensitive, especially given the current climate?!

And truly, maybe they don't care. To them, God's truth is higher than any amount of social awareness to better the situation of women.

I just don't understand it. But maybe that's the point. 

I've spent many moments this last year trying to reconcile my harried experiences with my church; feeling certain that I would one day soon rejoin them - telling myself that I was just taking a break to figure things out. But what I didn't realize till now is that I've actually outgrown them.

C3 Brooklyn was a godsend for me when I moved to New York City. In fact, they were one of the main reasons I did move. But as there is a season with everything, my life is growing in an entirely different and positive direction. And this post only confirmed that our directions are worlds apart.

I will not and cannot claim to subscribe to or align myself with an organization creating, producing, and circulating a graphic so clearly portraying women as death.

This was the sign I needed to know that these were no longer my people (organizationally) or my tribe.

I'll always carry fond memories, especially of the Villian days, but shit, C3 - what has happened to you? This is not how I remember you.

But maybe - it's in fact how you've always been. It's just me who has changed.

Because now I'm the person who will stand with #metoo - not Proverbs 5.

Bless, It Is What It Is

This blog will hopefully be a never-ending process of becoming, maturing, and evolving - as I am.

As I wrote my last post, I realized that the whole premise of this blog is shifting. The direction entirely re-routing. And I'm loving the free-flow of thought as I hold this project loosely.

In my journaling today, I began an internal dialogue which led me to the following - I believe - beautiful thoughts:

"Write your truth, Grace. Speak your truth - if for no one else - but you. Write your truth, and find others who write and speak their truth, too. Be inspired by their bravery to speak what lies beneath - perhaps just under the surface. Truths which undoubtedly speak to the comfortable, protected, one dimensional status-quo of this world.

You who feel inglorious - speak your truth! Speak your (un)glorious truths. Let your journals be declarations of such heart-yearning, confused, vulnerable utterances; admittances of true feelings given space to breathe.

Seek out and offer balanced perspective to the triumph of the human spirit, for we do not triumph without struggle and heartache. So let this be the marker to the other; that one cannot exist without the other. And that is alright.

For the fodder of what is made within the warring trenches of the heart and mind is inglorious. It is inherently so, for the beautiful darkness that is the making of triumph is and will always be, (un)glorious."

So, after numerous angsty posts attempting to retain some semblance of my christian identity, I am officially re-identifying this blog - and in consequence, myself. Freeing myself from a life-long, self-mutilating identifier that has been for me, uniquely Christian.

I am human. I am Grace. And unglorious is a spiritually impartial, real world transparent, optimistically heretical, freshly humanist, wholly absurdist blog. 

And I seek humans to join me in telling this story. This story of life. This story of lives attempting their best. This story of finishing our sentences. And of allowing ourselves to go there - looking over the edge, into the depth and saying, 'ah fuck it.' I'm willing to authentically question what I've always held to be true - either by choice or forced circumstance. I'm in this to find my truth. 

And this, this is where I want to go from here. The edge, the abyss, the depth. I feel exhilaration there. I'm already experiencing freedom and love there. And there is something even greater within. 

There is acceptance. There is the gold of self-actualized self.

So welcome, again - to myself, first and foremost - to unglorious. Let's see what gold can be found on the precipice.

Coming Out

Journaling and subsequent blogging has been a real asset in my processing repertoire. However, what I think has been most helpful has truly been “walking away from the church.” And all the nonsense stigma such a statement carries. I’m slowly learning to own it. 

And for anyone who grew up in evangelical circles, my suspicion is—you know what I’m talking about. Because inevitably, assumed implications arise when Christians think of that phrase. It’s like it's said in hushed tones. “Did you hear? So-and so ‘left the church.’” Oh dear, pictures of a terrible spiral downward toward the road to destruction: serial sleeping around, doing drugs, cheating people, lying, stealing, self-hurting. All the fear tactics that the church and Bible employ to implicate what must surely be the natural outworking of a person “not following God”.

Surprise! There is life after, and to beat all, a life in fact very similar to when I was a practicing Christian. Only now, I am much more emotionally stable, less comparison-ridden, far less fearful, more authentic, more free, and overall, tremendously happier. 

How can that be explained? Believe it or not, I was someone who genuinely didn't think the life I'm living now was at all possible outside of following God. And in truth, it took me some time to feel ok with enjoying myself on a Sunday without going to church.

Now to be fair, at the start of leaving church, the negatives far outweighed the positives. I felt incredibly alienated, confused, and alone--it rocked me to my core. But as I’ve made friends outside the Christian bubble (for that’s exactly what it is), they’ve helped me to see myself not through christian—but human, eyes. And the more I’ve seen myself outside the familiar but now cringe-worthy labels of “Christian leader/Christian woman/Christ follower/Believer,” I’m seeing myself as me. Grace Johnston, human.

And although my cynicism can be quite acute, it nevertheless feels so good to finally be myself in this area of my life that is so individualistic and well, cynical. I’ve spent so much of my life never feeling fully free to see a thought through to its logical end. I would begin to express true feelings, then feel it necessary to stop part-way through and say, no—but God is still good. Through it all, He is still good. And subsequently start the steep and formidable climb up the peak of false optimism. I thought I was being a good Christian by stuffing my true feelings with the gizzards of hollow platitudes. In the years of my most rabid evangelicalism, I did more self-hurt emotionally and intellectually than “not believing” ever could.   

But now that I no longer feel the need to censor myself with such paltry manipulation, I’m starting to enjoy the satisfaction of seeing thoughts through to their logical or illogical conclusions! And for a start, neither really matter--because perhaps for the first time, the act of going there freely is happening. Which for me, has been tremendously life-giving, because I’m built to do just that.

There’s so much within me that I was never able to fully explore because God was the ultimate word (literally and figuratively) on any and every thought I had. And wiley or potentially contradictory thoughts always had to be brought ‘into submission.’ I was willingly ruled by an archaic book and an un-seen psychopathic God—kept in line through fear, shame, and a manipulated sense of love. In nearly every way, I was kept hostage by what I thought my life would deteriorate into if I “walked away from God;” that my life couldn’t possibly get better without Him.

Yet here I am. My best self to date.

Not only am I still living life, but an exceptionally good and full life—without living under the weight of precepts and dogmas of many painful, judgmental, and constricting religious years. Arguably, I am the happiest, most genuine, and most honest version of myself—clearly with many remaining hang-ups and fuck-ups to reconcile and heal from, but at least I’m working through them as my most genuine self. No excuses, no fighting with reality.

Ironic though—there will inevitably be people reading this who say, you’ve must’ve had the exceptional experience, because true Christianity isn’t like that. To which I would counter that I am in no way the exception to the rule. Christianity is like this, because it’s full of imperfect, shitty, well-meaning people. Defend God and your belief system, by all means. But understand the reality of that belief system and its logical implications for good, as well as great harm. 

I spent much of my life committed to my belief system. While in reality I was pent up, prudish, hurt, longing, and confused. All the while believing in my absolute dogmatic rightness. God was right, therefore I was too.

I hope to one day hold no animosity toward the church, “God," and the Bible—I will never excuse the hurt I have experienced at the altar of patriarchy and arresting dogma, but I still dearly hope that there will be some in the church brave enough to draw their own conclusions.

I for certain feel as though I’m seeing so much clearer. More empathetic, more assertive, more honest, more beautifully cynical. Just more me, in every way. And I have leaving the western Christian church to thank for that. Because in the honesty, I found myself.

Live Kindly to Your Poor Internal Bastard

There are moments where sadness and loneliness wrap themselves around me with the same heavy dampness of a wet blanket. Sucking joy and thankfulness. When tears are on the precipice, ready to gush at the first hearing of a familiar, safe voice. One of the many reasons I rarely call friends or family. That's how I know I'm not ok.

I don't always balance well between proper independent adulthood, and the truth that no human is an emotional island. I love my self-reliance, but I'm reminded in these moments of how much I need people. Though, not simply people en-mass. I am not such a natural extrovert. I deal with 'en-mass' humans everyday on the streets of New York City. Rather, it's my tribe, my people, my humans of like-mindedness that I seek.

But since my exit from active church life about one year ago, I've found it challenging to maintain relationships outside of that community. Relationships from within were still at times strained, but as long as commonalities of beliefs were shared, there was still effort made in maintaining friendships. For any number of reasons--I will not assume motivations--those extensions have withered. And without any cynicism, I can genuinely say that this breaks my heart. It saddens me to think that because I no longer hold many of their shared beliefs, I am now considered an outsider and no longer worthy of the effort of relationship.

I have spent much of this Thanksgiving holiday alone. And in truth, resisted a great pressure toward loneliness and feeling a bit sorry for myself. I stemmed it off quite well, but today gave way to a call to my sister, and pent-up tears that were completely unconscious. Our bodies know, far better than we do.  And I am thankful for that; thankful for physical cues that tell us we're off-kilter somewhere. 

As I spoke with her, I was struck by her empathy and affirmation. Gentle, understanding, and kind. God as woman; when women are the reflections of the divine. I needed that. I needed to be listened to and heard, not fixed. So the tears I didn't even know I had, came.

I crave safety. I crave understanding. I crave knowing myself more fully. To value, cherish, and protect this one life of mine. Setting it in my heart to find and enjoy the wisdom, character, and life found within this mind and personality; knowing thyself.

And beautifully and vulnerably, it will naturally be shared, as it was today.

There is great wealth within me. And even if it is never shared with another human being, it values no less. For the wealth of me, is me.

Sputtered Dreams

When I was about six years old, I was the darling debutante of my doll and barbie social scene. Pulling the strings of my make believe happiness, I was God, creating a world where everything was perfect, ordered, and full of sparkle; essentially the complete opposite of my barnyard, farm girl, tomboy reality.

But one day, inspiration struck. I decided to build my very own doll bed with particulars not even Disney would be able to top. I had it all planned out. It was going to be exquisite with all the classic detailing: rocking legs, white trim, lace, a delicate rounded headboard, and an ever so soft pillow and silk-lined blanket to tuck in for sweet dreams.

The blueprint in my mind was set. I couldn’t wait to start building. I hurried across the driveway to the shed, ready to put my little can-do hands to work in creating my dream doll bed.

I found three, rough pieces of wood to begin molding into my vision. And I remember so clearly not questioning at all the roughness of the wood or the obvious fact that these pieces were scrap. I was so intent with belief that I could make the creation in my mind a reality.

I found six half-rusted nails and began positioning them into a bed frame. I grabbed a hammer, well about the size of my head, and with a few good ‘whacks,’ got both sides into place. I was immediately proud of my “carpentry.”

But when I set the rough, grisly three pieces of scrap down on the gravel to evaluate my handiwork, it was just that. Three pieces of pathetic scrap wood hammered together.

I stared blankly. It was the ugliest thing I’d ever seen.

My heart sank.

I still remember tears welling up inside me because for the first time, I saw that I could not create, even though I had so clearly seen it in my mind. I could not make my dream a reality. So strange that an experience so easily dismissed as child-like whimsy could, nearly 30 years later, still be felt so viscerally.

It was as if a cold shield shot up around my young, dreaming heart. What I believed in that moment was that there was a disconnect between what I could imagine, and what I could use my hands to create. At such a fragile, imaginative stage in life, I matured in cynicism, and decided to only ever take routes where I could not fail. What I believed in my heart that day has truly affected and guided most of my choices in life, sad to say.

But what I perpetually find interesting about this reality of failure is that although everyone experiences it in one way or another, it can have the effect of nearly devastating one person, yet be a catalyst for success in another.

Was it simply that I was a capitulator to disappointment and not made of the same stuff as a “go-getter?” Maybe.

Either way, it’s sad to think that you can pin point the moment you stopped dreaming. My dream mechanism began to sputter as I stared down at that hard-featured, ugly excuse for a doll bed.

I remember even trying to spruce it up. I ran inside and fetched some markers, hoping that perhaps some color might help the look of this raw creation. It didn’t.

And it’s as if the more I tried to fix the ugliness of my limited little hands, the uglier the doll bed became, and the more my beautiful imagined doll bed began to fade. 

The reality of the failure I was seeing became the reality of my unbelief in myself.

And from that time on, every time I saw an inspirational poster in school propagating sentiments like, reach for the stars! I would roll my eyes. I had a f-ing ugly ass doll bed in my shed to prove that platitude wrong.

And I wish it was simply a matter of, get over it. It didn’t matter. It happened so long ago. You were a kid! You can’t let that affect you now. You’re over-thinking it.

There’s just something about it, though. Failure. Much of life is spent avoiding or overcoming it. But like pain, it’s a reality of life. Failure reveals the struggle, but it doesn’t guarantee the surmounting.

Few grapple with and sit with failure. Rather, we herald those who overcome failure. We don’t ask questions. Winners are those we want. Success stories. Dreamers achieving dreams. Talk to us when you’re not failing.

And although I wouldn’t say I’m failing in life; quite the contrary actually. I’m living in the greatest amount of prosperity, genuineness, and gentleness than ever before. But this nagging memory remains. Why has failure from that moment as a child been so emblematic of my choices since?

Perhaps its more emblematic of necessary healing; learning to be gentle and kind to myself in every way. And perhaps in the learning, a side effect will be a lessening of fear toward failure, knowing that I will be kind in the face of it. And perhaps, I will even be emboldened to take more creative risks; to risk failure in doing that which I'm unsure I can do well.

Perhaps. I'm still that teary eyed little dreamer, after all. 

No Formula

I’m reading the bible differently these days and finding it relatable to a depth that has made me genuinely laugh out loud at times, slapping my forehead saying, “Oh man, yes! What the actual f-.”

Two books that I’d never given much mind to: Ecclesiastes and Job. The later being one which I immensely disliked. But in the last days of my fasting, I for some reason had the mind to pick up and read the ancient thoughts of King Solomon, whose sarcasm and nihilism, by the way, is keenly cutting and self-aware. Strangely comforting for a body who may wonder why life seems like the cruelest, most pointless form of masochism.

I read the first line: “Everything is meaningless, completely meaningless!” And a smile rose onto my face, and relief entered my heart.

It continues: “Everything is wearisome beyond description. No matter how much we see, we are never satisfied. No matter how much we hear, we are not content. History merely repeats itself. It has all been done before.”

I laughed, and retorted the beginning phrase with some creative license. F- meaningless! It’s all f- meaningless! And it felt so good to say what my heart and spirit were crying out in truth, albeit sprinkled with a large dose of cynicism.

But nevertheless, the admittance felt so relieving, so genuine. King Solomon wasn’t likely planning on connecting with a white gal in Brooklyn, but in that moment, the ancient touched the modern in a rawness of truth that could’ve easily been shared over a beer and many ‘what the actual f-’ stories. 

His writing is completely disenchanted, and I felt myself enmeshed in its frankness. We shared a kinship of humanity more than three thousand years apart, because as time has proven true, everything is indeed meaningless. We consume without being satisfied.

And I know this has, and is often tempered and justified to take the edge off. We don’t like to think this way. We like positivity and exclamation points! 

But I stick by it, as is. Admitting meaningless doesn’t diminish my life, another’s life, or responsibility and stewardship. I see it rather as a call to take myself less seriously - hold my circumstances more loosely. 

But when we read the bible with an inevitable lens to this or that sensibility, we can be led to believe that we can’t hold our lives loosely, for we must be on the ‘narrow path’ leading to life. One path to life, and another to death.  

Tight wire then comes to mind. One missed step, and you’re out of God’s will. Fallen, back to square one. Or worse, on the wide path to 'destruction.'

So we then live with a subconsciously invoked sense of fear and paralysis of action, guised in language of not wanting to be out of God’s will. Yet I think back to the times I've declared "God is good! All will be well! I'm believing for a breakthrough!" And everyone applauds your words of faith, yet slinking back in private feeling dejected, frustrated, and despairing, unable to reconcile a deep distrust of God with a desire to be what I declared on the outside.

Why was the disconnect so gaping? Why did it all feel so powerless? So meaningless? So goddamn frustrating! Why was the 'formula' not working?

The inevitable responding imagery to this, however, is to reason that Jesus is the netting below to save us from breaking our necks. 

But to which I would reply, so what does that say about God? -That we need a middle man to save us from one who would set us upon a dangerous tight rope to begin with?

I don't like the question or the answer, but I love that even the idea of the question is being asked; and hopefully, talked about. 

Perhaps for you, this thought is an obvious one, but not for me; at least not publicly. My experience had taught me to live with blind optimism. But my ‘dark night of the soul’ has lead me elsewhere; somewhere much more genuine and gentle, but also much fiercer and honest.

Because God can stand up for Himself, and answer for Himself. I’m realizing now that I don’t flatter Him by defending or excusing Him. I don’t need to convince anyone, or voraciously protect my beliefs anymore. I can admit the deep misgivings I have about the bible, yet remain a deeply faithful, open, and seeking person.

Now enter Job. I’ve never liked his story because it only reinforced my 'righteous' anger against God.

Essentially, God plays a giant mind f- on Job because Lucifer bets Him that Job would lose heart with God when life wasn’t going his way.

Long story short, Job has everything taken from him. His livelihood, his family, his health. Every goddamn thing. Now mind you, Job is called a righteous man by God, yet God literally allows his life to fall to wreck and ruin. His religious friends come to comfort him with likely the best of intentions, but proceed to accuse Job of his assumed wrong-doings, because God is Holy, and would never inflict or allow such loss without reason of judgement.

They proceed to recall the high and lofty attributes of God. How mighty, how great, how faithful, how just is Jehovah! Notice that every commendation of God’s character is true, yet recycled in this context, is used to beat Job over the head at his lowest and most vulnerable.

Speaking the truth in love? Ouch. There's a thought. Using truth to 'lovingly' clobber someone.

But truly, it’s their, and our best effort to explain the unexplainable. We elevate our finite understanding of God and the world, and use the bible to protect, insulate, and prop up our righteous judgements. Because, after all, God says so. 

We find our community, and hide our deepest misgivings. Until the dark night beckons.

Job’s companions don't stop. They make excuses for God, and offer justifications for why Job is experiencing such horror of loss.

But Job refuses to absorb their, though well-intentioned, manipulation and misappropriated logic. He asks abjectly, “Are you defending God with lies” Do you make your dishonest arguments for his sake? Will you slant your testimony in his favor?

…”No, you will be in trouble with him if you secretly slant your testimony in his favor.”

If God cannot handle the truest, truest questions of our hearts; the languishing questions of a Job-like heart, than we owe it to our genuine selves to re-evaluate everything.

“Yes, I will take my life in my hands and say what I really think. God might kill me, but I have no other hope. I am going to argue my case with him. But this is what will save me - I am not godless.”

I take heart in this; that God is a big boy. Or certainly by the definition of ‘God,’ should be. And all cynicism aside, I know He is. Which is why I feel completely at home writing these admittances as I find excellent company in the f- meaningless rationales and arguments rightly foisted against God which have proceeded me by oh, three thousand years. 

Wrestling with the giant mind f- that is God is not new, but has been from when there was nothing, to when there was something.

So let’s not over-spiritualize it, or be threatened by it. There’s no formula for navigating the giant, God-sized mind f- that is our lives and this world. And it’s actually an amazing thing, for we can laugh, curse, question, and be in wonder at all of it.

Revelations Of An Empty Tummy

It’s been seven days since I started fasting my dinners and praying. And for what purpose and end, you might ask? Frankly, I don't know. 

It was in conversation with a dear friend walking through deep relational heartbreak that we decided to do so, but I placed no expectations on the outworking of revelation in consequence. Because undoubtedly, answers will unfold differently than expected. As is often the case with the best of intentions on our human end, but cheekily guided elsewhere by the Holy Spirit. 

What we decided, was to fast and pray for our husbands.

I love that the natural response to this is a giant eye roll. Believe me, it’s mine as well.

Who, but a pollyanna prays for what is essentially, a unicorn dream? Someone who is my perfect person? Please. Most of us, myself included, have been so emotionally battered and beaten, that the thought of such a godly relationship, although deeply desired, is overshadowed by an overwhelming sense of jadedness and hopelessness which make it nothing more than a pipe dream. Someone else’s happily ever after.

And even if we do find a person, there is still no guarantee that the relationship will mature, be healthy, or even right. The variables for a relationship actually getting off the ground are discouraging, at best.

And what of happiness? What of relationships needing and taking a tremendous amount of work to stay communicative, healthy, and vibrant? 

We receive countless mixed and contradicting messages from every theological and cultural corner on these points. And I wonder, do I really want this? 

So we have to ask, what are reasonable relational expectations between a man and a woman in light of their potential for goodness, but also tremendous heartache?

Because, for most of us God-fearing, attempting to follow Jesus women, a man of the same ilk feels as illusory as a mythical faun. Creatures from the days of yore. And to find one with enough bearing and fortitude of identity to pursue a strong, beautiful, spirited woman without her fearing his manipulation or passiveness?

Fling, upon hook-up, upon tired, broken-record relationship proved this inprobable. 

Yet both of us were at a place of just being tired of complaining. Yes, the situation was and is distressing, but we both tired of the hopelessness; the sense of relational confusion, floundering, and timidity.

Recognizing that these are spiritual infections of the heart, we knew our most powerful, active stance could be made in intentional prayer and fasting. But still, there remained such a gaping, hurting whole in my heart that I recoiled at having to take a submissive role in praying for men. At large, I've found their inability to get themselves together emotionally and relationally to be downright passive and paltry.

YET, grace.

Where is your grace, Grace.

How are your own relational inabilities excusing and pitiable?

Put down your rocks, Grace. I know you’ve been hurt, and I know why you’re so angry. I know men have hurt you. I’m so sorry. I do not excuse them. They will answer for how they’ve hurt you. 

But know that hurt people hurt, and hurt others. 

It’s the legacy of brokenness that I never wanted. You’re not immune to this brokenness, as a giver or a receiver. So I want you to put down your rocks of condemnation, and I want you to look at me. I want to heal your wounds so that you can trust me again; so that you can know that I am good.

Suffice it to say that this week of solitude and fasting has already begun to shift my prayers from those shrouded in self-pity, to those peppered with wisdom and clarifying perspective.

And interestingly enough, very few of my prayers have been targeted at calling my husband out of confusion and into purpose and vision, albeit good when they have. Rather, most have centered around deep repentance, honesty regarding relational discrepancies between the God head and I, and a genuine cry of the heart to be healed. 

To be able to love, and to trust, and to feel again; to restore relational intimacy, perhaps for the first time.  

So although I am committed to praying for my husband in this season, I’m finding that my heart drifts away from that intention nearly every evening. In a way that is both alien and familiar, I am brought to a place of worship. A place of genuine honesty and ravishing tears. A place of quiet safety and solitude. A place, I believe and hope to be, of healing.

Because more than a man, I need God. More than security, I need connection. And more than companionship, I need communion.

Friend of God

How crucial it is not to demonize oneself or others for the breakdown of a relationship. The probability for regret is high. And nowhere do I feel a greater sense of “sigh” in my life than in past relationships.

To begin with, I believed that I had maintained my virginity well into my 20s, but in a franker analysis, it had gone amiss well before then. I’ve spent most of my life fearful, skeptical, and highly judgmental of men. 

Strangely though, I still idolized them. I put God-like standards and expectations on them. No one ever measured up, or even came close, so I just never bothered letting anyone in. My walls were high. Whoever he was to be, I subconsciously wanted him to be God for me; a Jesus incarnate, because that is what I was taught to expect and hold out for as a “good Christian girl.”

So I lived my life. Deeply desiring this “godly man,” but finding everyday men utter disappointments. “Nothing could possibly be that wrong with me,” I concluded. It was the failure of men to be men, surely. 

But I was wholly over generalizing. I fully recognize the unfair review I was dolling out on men. I was never given the right to judge so harshly. But what is judgement, but to bring a superior sense of self; a sickly protective and self-aggrandizing cocoon of self-righteousness. A self-righteousness I unconsciously prided myself on for too many years.

In a truer look, though, my judgement was actually a deep self-hatred and sense of abandonment by God. At the heart of my criticism against men was a conviction against God Himself.

God was guilty of not loving me well. God was guilty of not pursuing my heart. God was guilty of being emotionally distant. God was to blame.

The deep unmet longing and cry of my heart for love needed a scape goat. Men were just the outworked experience and reflection of an oppressive, distant, and manipulative God.

I desperately desired God, yet he was somehow deeply my enemy. And this incongruity, which I could not articulate during those years, had deep hooks in my mentality, permeating every relationship I pursued.

So much so, that my internal self-worth dropped to near unintelligible levels. I adulterated my heart because the God I claimed to believe in didn’t even notice me, I was convinced. I would goad Him to action with my calculated, yet naive whoring. And so I committed adultery, multiple times, in my mid to late 20s, alongside a number of lead-ons and flings. 

In my mind, however, I was still the “good girl.” God still owed me because I believed in Him. Unhealthy relationships were just my desperate attempt to get God to make Himself known to me; to open the heavens, reach down His hand in a mighty gesture of neon sign-like presence, and finally show up in my life. Because, after all, wasn’t I promised my deepest, godly desires? I desired God!

But the timeframe and expectations of my desire were not completely based in truth, but moreso in my desire for control. I just felt so devoid of genuine connection from the one I wanted to call “Papa.”

But this desire wrongly manifested in using others to hurt the One I was truly seeking love from.

And I will frankly admit that I am not yet free and clear of the cycle of manipulation in my relational experience, as it still persists in degrees. The game continues to be played, as much as we hate it. 

Because at the core of our relational desires are two basal waring factions: the desire for love, and the contrary desire for control. And as long as these factions war within us, men and women will struggle to connect genuinely, equally, and purely.

For what are men, but the sons of Adam? The legacy of brokenness goes back all the way to the garden. And what are believing men, more than redeemed sons of God on a journey of grace? Both imperfect.

So what is my learning, but the learning of my own name. Learning what it means to extend grace to others; learning how, in my own hurt, to extend it to men.

Because how different relationships could be if every believing person took Jesus’ words seriously to love and be loved in gentleness, kindness, and understanding. To, without expectation or pre-conceived notion, provide places of soft emotional landing. I know my soul longs for that caliber of relationship. 

So may I be changed. May my strength of character and fortitude of heart be saturated in grace. May it start with me. 

May I have the grace not to be an enemy of God, but a friend.

I (pain), therefore I am.

These thoughts are most often brought on by conversations with dear friends; philosopher kings from the oh-so-familiar kingdoms of hard-knocks and misappropriated theology.

How often is the fear of rejection and failure shrouded in pious language like ‘wanting God’s will, and, doing the right thing.’ As if God’s will means one, and only one immutable path for all of life’s big decisions. To make a ‘wrong’ choice would mean an irreconcilable deviation and thwarting of God’s plans for a life. 

Brought into the light, however, this constricting rationale is folly indeed. Yet how many times have we heard this kind of language expressed by believing and non-believing people alike. For in actuality, most are using the guise of righteousness to justify their own paralysis in decision-making. Not wanting to be seen by God or others as ‘doing the wrong thing.’

And to a degree, understandably so. We have parameters, guidance, and counsel in our lives for our betterment and protection. And certainly, wisdom is to be exercised in decision-making; stewardship and thoughtful consideration for self and others.

But shall we not cease in our unwitting embrace of pious justification as an outworking for inaction?

We so earnestly seek to make choices that either justify inaction, or cocoon us from the greatest possibility of pain and suffering. We seek a pain-free life. By most accounts, we grasp for control at every opportunity to shield our hearts from pain. But the most realistic, freeing truth is this: there isn’t one. There isn’t a pain-free life.

To live fully is to encounter pain. To love perfectly is to experience pain. No one in our world is immune to it.

This is neither cause for masochism or self-harm in any way, however. We should never enjoy pain. It is simply to come to terms with the reality of it. Evil exists in this world as long as people are free to elevate themselves to God with a superior sense of control.

And of course as feeling, living people, we know this to be true, yet perennial conversations arise over timeless issues of fear, control, and pain. But it’s guised in modern garb; modern language. So we often misinterpret our angst over a new job opportunity, a non-existent or faltering relationship, or financial strain as pain happening within a vacuum, and our minds frustratingly cry out, “why! Why me? Why now? Why this?!”

Why not, friend? Why think it so strange. It’s not an attack, nor is it punishment. Even if our actions lead us to do everything ‘right,’ that in no way assures us of a pain-free ‘next.’ We may take great care in devising ways to control our circumstances and compose pious excuses for ourselves, but pain will always show our true allegiance. The truest valuation of a heart.

I speak to myself in this. For much of my life I believed God owed me for how well I matched the Proverbs 31 woman. In truth, I didn’t see God as Holy, but as a goodness dispenser. I put in my quarter of right behavior, and He was to pop out a Jeremiah 29:11 promise for my next big decision. Pain was the biggest affront to my religious sensibilities. I clung to my interpretations of provision, prosperity, direction, and guidance, and minimized those of pain and suffering.

And then, more life started to happen. Realities set in. Crisis of faith emerged.

When my heart has ached with pain, riddled with questions and anger over the inconsistencies of what I knew to be true but couldn’t reconcile circumstantially, I grappled with the discrepancies. I didn’t simply white wash my frustrations in platitudes of ‘God is good.’ 

At first, I tried to, but the sentiments were indescribably hollow. I wrestled. I left all together. I spoke words of shocking hate and despair. I told God that He offended me. I was failing miserably at being that Proverbs 31 woman, and couldn’t justify the charade any longer. All of this needed to be real, or not at all. I was coming to terms with pain in the context of genuine faith as I never had before.

There is a very different outcome when you feel, rather than distract from your pain. You come to a decidedly different conclusion; one which has staying power of depth, not only width.

And it is from that place of knowing that I believe the paralysis in decision-making begins to dissipate. For having determined the goodness of God as an eternal yes, I'm beginning to learn how to live life more with open hands. Not fearful of pain or believing that God causes the pain, but with a knowing that a good God is a higher reality. 

This is a truth I now affirm, but a truth which came at great pain and crisis of the heart and mind.

Fear, in every facet cripples the capacity to love. It cripples our ability to release our grip for control, and cripples our perspective to sit with pain. It is the root. Fear of God, fear of man, fear of the future. It’s humanity’s timeless struggle since the fall from the garden. We seek to judge God because of pain.

But if a heart is open, pain can throw a powerful learning curve. There is a gentleness to be experienced when we choose to embrace, rather than shield, divert and blame for the presence of pain and suffering.

For pain is evidence of a life lived. The good, the bad, and well, the pained. But pain that produces something.

What it produces, however, is largely up to the state of your heart.

Reframing errands

I’m thankful today. 

Granted, it is a beautiful day and arguably easy to feel satisfied when the sun is shining, it’s a temperate 70 degrees, and you want for none of life’s essentials. But I think there’s more to it than that. Personally, if I’m in the sun too long I actually get very crabby. 

I think it has much more to do with mindset, and very little to do with circumstances at all. Certainly circumstances and the perceived, or real lack thereof can sway our outlook tremendously. But they change, and we often have very little control over them. What do we maintain control over? Indeed, our minds—our thoughts. Neurological pathways feeding temperaments of life or death.

I was told once as a young woman that the way out of my depression was to count my blessings and to will myself to be grateful. But no matter how much I counted, journaled about, or called to mind could I make my blessings feel any less hollow. And what I find fascinating about that encouragement now, is that it’s true! Cultivating a grateful heart does foster a lightness of spirit. But how and when that truth was dispensed, was precisely when I could neither hear nor internalize it.  Timing really is everything, even when it’s truth.

And so I’m chuckling to myself, thinking about how much that truth has been internalized in my own life now, so many years later. But what an impossibility it was to accept then, partially because I was so filled with resentment over unmet expectations.  It’s reason to give others space and empathy—to not beleaguer them with truth, but rather offer a softness of ear and an understanding that time and the Holy Spirit will always have their perfect way—the best way of revealing truth that mends broken, angry hearts.

Truth remains truth, but having the wisdom and discernment to dispense it when it can be received and embodied is an entirely different matter all together. We can’t always hear what we need to hear.

And there are still many times when circumstances and personal misgivings easily cause my mindset to waiver. Just last night I was tossing and turning thinking about conversations with disgruntled co-workers inadvertently planting seeds of lack, stress, uncertainty, position, and general indigence. I was riling myself up with thoughts of, “I’m poor and inconsequential.” Yet today, the thought had not crossed my mind again. And in light of how beautifully simple my day had been, it seems silly to have given it so much attention.

And perhaps it’s me getting older, but something as simple as killing a to-do list reframes my mindset so positively. To start, making the list can come with a bit of trepidation, but you know when you’re setting goals that land neatly in the necessary and doable camp or the “yah, definitely, maybe, actually, probably not” camp. I love logistics, so even strategizing every stop becomes rewarding as I navigate my errands swiftly and smartly. And not to mention, hiking up three flights of stairs for every trip doesn’t hurt my derriere, either. 

So I’m remembering that encouragement from so many years ago; now better able to willingly, simply, and honestly count my blessings:

beautifully executed errands, gorgeous warmth and streaming sunshine

…and alcohol infused homemade muffins—the topper of an unglorious, reframed day.