Autumn 2014

In September, my boyfriend and I broke up.

Then I lost my full time job.

And in November, my apartment flooded and I had to move out.

It’s been a hell of a ride, to say the least, but hot damn! if it hasn’t been the best fall of my life! Let me tell you why.

I had met this guy in June, and by July was convinced that we were going to get married and live happily ever after in a different country for the rest of our lives. But August was an . . .  interesting month for us, to say the least, and since he’d actually prefer not to appear in my blog at all, I’ll just leave it at that. I still went to visit him in September to see if we’d be able to continue things long-distance, but the day before I flew back to Raleigh, we figured out that our life paths were actually not going in the same direction at all. So we broke it off for good. Two weeks after that, I met a fellow ESL teacher, tip-toed into a cautious relationship, discovered that we compliment each other perfectly, and then cannonballed headfirst with no regrets. (More on that later.)

Back to my Mexico trip. The day after returning, I walked into work (having just received a fairly positive yearly evaluation six days before) to the news that they didn’t want me to work there anymore. So now I don’t. Before two days had passed, however, I picked up enough hours at my other job to make it through the end of the year, so I am not going hungry. 

I could make it through losing my boyfriend and losing my job without tearing up once, but I can’t say the same for losing my apartment. It has easily been the worst thing that’s ever happened to me (and ironically the best, but we’ll get to that later). For anyone who’s ever been inside of it, you know that Apartment 202 was my nest, my home, exactly the way I wanted it to be. I was friends with the guy upstairs and the girl next door, and I hosted parties as often as I could. This is the apartment with the bright red couch, the multicolored rug on the floor, the ivy green living room wall, decorated with souvenirs from Japan, the Philippines, Mexico, and Bolivia. This is the apartment that was my first real apartment just for me since 2005. Now, knowing that I’ll never again step foot in it, cleaves my heart in two.

Technically the investigation is still underway, but it seems as though someone left a cigarette burning on the balcony on November 10, and it caught the entire third floor on fire. When the firefighters came to put it out, they dumped enough water on the building to cascade into the second and first floors as well, making the whole building uninhabitable for the next six or eight months, I think.

I was at home when the fire started at 2:30 p.m. that Monday, and watched with my next-door neighbor as the top floor went up in flames. After being interviewed by a million different TV stations and newspapers (y’all knew that already, right?), all of us who had lost our homes gathered in the community center at the apartment complex to discuss our next steps.

I had held it pretty much together for those first four hours, surviving on adrenaline and publicity, but when the Red Cross and Disaster Relief folk started talking in plain terms about staying in hotels, emergency funds, and all the rest, the tears started coming. Luckily, Brian was at my side the whole time, providing comfort and strength just when I needed it most. (He’s a good guy to have around in an emergency, too; he stays calm and doesn’t freak out when the rest of the world is. This is also the guy who, only knowing my name and that my insurance company was “some subset of Geico?” managed to file a claim on my behalf an hour after the fire started—and he’s not even on my policy.)

That first night, I stayed at Brian’s (who’s staying in a house with his friends), trying to put on a brave face for the strangers I was suddenly living with. But after everyone else had gone to bed, I wrapped up in a blanket on the couch and Brian let me sob on his shoulder inconsolably for an hour. I finally passed out around 12:30 but was up at 3:30 a.m., unable to sleep or quit thinking of all the things I had probably lost.

Imagine my surprise when I opened my apartment door at 8:30 a.m. to a perfectly whole abode. Whole as in not in pieces. The upstairs apartments were mostly ash, fallen insulation, and smoke; the roof had collapsed to let the sunlight stream in. The plaster ceiling in my place was hanging on precariously in some parts, but was still intact. Everything looked the same as usual, except that it was all sopping wet. The carpet squished, streams of water cascaded from the dining room chandelier onto the table, the bed was a sodden mess of smoky blankets – but everything was whole.

Despite its wholeness, I still lost a lot. All the furniture was ruined; so was anything that plugged in.

More than half of my books were gone, and all of my important papers (graduation certificates, insurance policies, credit card statements) were all dripping wet (shoulda got me a filing cabinet years ago!). But there was a lot to save: my cookbooks were all fine, my work computer was OK, most of my photographs survived, 99% of my clothes just needed a good washing with vinegar, and the cedar chest that dad had built after chopping down a cedar tree made it through relatively unscathed.

However, after that first initial glee that I hadn’t lost everything, I was suddenly struck with the reality of the situation: I had 48 hours to remove everything salvageable from my apartment before the disaster relief people closed the building up for good. I was moving, the quickest I had ever had to move in my life. I had to make instant decisions about what was good and what was lost, what to keep and what to throw away, all the while working in a cold, dark, wet apartment without electricity or running water. Plus, everything was damp or actually wet to the touch: twice I had puddles of standing water fall on me while I was removing plastic boxes from the closet. That first day, my dad, Brian, another friend and I spent eight hours loading up everything that could be salvaged and hauling it over to Knightdale. The second day, only Brian and I came back to itemize everything that was lost.

I only broke down once during that whole two-day process: in a sudden flash of understanding I realized that I was packing up my apartment for good and would never, never return there. I was reminded of leaving my apartment in Takasaki back in August 2012 and how I cried in every room as I was saying goodbye. But at least then I knew I was leaving. I had known for months that I was going back to the U.S. so it was hardly a surprise. This here, though, throwing everything haphazardly into plastic bins, hardly bothering to make sure it was secure before carting them off, felt more like Depression-era rapid relocation. It hurt to even think about the situation, it was so unexpected and tragic.

Fast forward a few days. We got everything packed up and moved. Three quarters of my belongings are in Brian’s friend’s garage; the other quarter is at another friend’s apartment. The apartment complex I was living at has offered me a two-bedroom, 2 ½ bathroom apartment on the third floor of another building for the same price that I had been paying for my one bedroom (only for six months, but what a deal!) that I have gratefully accepted. And the family Brian has been living with has been gracious enough to allow me to stay with them until my new apartment is available on December 10. What’s even better, I won’t be moving in alone: Brian is coming with me so we can start up a place of our own.

It has been a long, hard ride, these past few months. Losing a relationship, a job, and a place to live are all catastrophic in their own way. What’s more, they haven’t been events that just affected me, but other people as well: two other employees besides me were fired around the same time, and 11 other apartments were ruined besides mine (not that you’d know it from reading the news, ha).

But I feel that the outcomes of these life situations have been so positive that they make it all worthwhile. I have received so much support from my family, friends, church, and coworkers—even from people I don’t even know. I feel blessed to be taken care of so well. I’ve also made a lot of new friends out of all this disaster.

Each life event that has happened recently has been a catalyst for some major life changes that needed – and perhaps were going – to happen, now just a little sooner than I had expected them to. Suddenly all of those platitudes – when God closes a door, He opens a window; everything happens for a reason; every cloud has a silver lining . . . seem to be coming true. And life is becoming very, very good.

So.

In September, my boyfriend and I broke up.

Then I lost my full time job.

And in November, my apartment flooded and I had to move out.

But nothing, nothing, has brought me greater joy.

A Knock at the Door

It’s 4:00 on Friday afternoon. I’m in my bedroom getting ready to go to a wedding at 5:00 when my doorbell rings. Half-make-upped, I open the door. It’s a man I’ve never seen before, maybe early 40s, wearing a black sports coat over a white polo shirt, black pants, and black dress shoes.

“I am so sorry to bother you,” he says with a chagrin smile by way of introduction, “I was wondering if you’ve got AAA*. I’ve locked my keys in my car.”

“Sure, I’ve got AAA,” I tell him. “I’ll call them for you.”

“I’m Melissa’s boyfriend, Melissa from upstairs,” he calls after me as I start to shut the door so I can go get my purse. “I’ve seen you around.” The only people I know who live upstairs are guys flutters through my head, but then I think Maybe he’s talking about the people I don’t know who live on the other side of the building.

As I hold my AAA card in one hand and my phone in the other, I ask him to write down the information about his car.

“Where is your car?” I asked him.

“It’s at the UPS store on Atlantic Avenue,” he tells me. “I feel like such an idiot. I'm really sorry to bother you, but I appreciate your help.”

Atlantic Avenue? That’s like four miles from here! I think. Did he really walk here from there? Wasn’t there someone else he could have called before getting to my apartment complex?

“That’s far,” is my only comment. He scribbles down “2014 Honda Accord” on the piece of paper I offer him.

“Don’t you have to be with me when AAA comes?” he asks, a little nervously.

“The last time I used it the person with the card had to be there.”

“Nah, I don’t think so,” I tell him. “If they know where your car is, that’s all that matters.” I start to dial the phone. We’re still standing outside in front of my apartment door, the door itself shut tight behind me. The phone starts to ring.

“If you need roadside assistance, please press one,” says the automatic recording. I press one.

“Thank you for calling Triple A, this is so-and-so, are you in a safe location?” intones the customer service associate.

“Yes, I am. I was calling about – ”

The man immediately interrupts me. “Uh, thanks a lot for calling,” he says, “But I guess I’ll just go see if I can find the maintenance man.”

“ – never mind,” I tell the woman on the phone. “Everything is OK. Thank you!” I hang up and look at the man. But he’s disappeared down the stairs.

           

I go back inside, lock my door, and call the front office.

“Hi, this is Jaimie,” I greet the woman on the phone. “Do you know if there’s a

Melissa who lives in my building?”

“Melissa? Not off the top of my head,” she says. “Why?”

I tell her about the man who just came to my house.  She asks for a few more details, and then says, “Yeah, he shouldn’t be here. I’ll send someone out right now to find out what’s going on.”

A few minutes later I get another knock at my door. It’s the maintenance man. He wants to know what the guy who came to my house looks like and what he’s wearing. I tell him, and he runs off.

            Meanwhile, I finish getting ready for the wedding, step outside, and lock my door tight behind me. On my way out of the parking lot, I see the woman from the front office locking the office door behind her. I don’t see either the maintenance guy or the AAA guy.

As of Sunday night, I still don’t know what that scam was all about, but I do know that it left me feeling suspicious and on guard. I’ve had weirdoes come to my door before, but that was in Japan. I don’t like to think that they’ve followed me here.

*for friends in foreign countries who don’t know, Triple A is a road-side service company that helps you when your car has a flat tire or runs out of gas or something. Or if you lock your keys out of your car. 

Permanence and Temporality, the Two that Plague Me

It’s like this. I bought a car in 2012. I’ll pay it off next year. But for it to be a financially wise decision and not an economic sinkhole, I should keep it for ten or twelve years until it breaks down irreparably. Then it will show itself to be a wise investment. (Other financially wise moves involve putting more money into my IRA, paying off my student loan debt in double increments, and getting a roommate to lower living expenses: all much easier said than done.) But all of these financially wise decisions seem to hinge on one thing: me staying in the United States. And that thought, frankly, terrifies me.

It’s not that I’m planning on moving out of the country in the next few months. But I’d like to have the option, the ability, if the desire ever arose. It was doable – albeit difficult – to say goodbye, pack my things away and move to Japan back in 2010. Could I do it again? Argentina, Chile, Mexico, England, Canada, the UAE . . . is life long enough to live everywhere I want to? 

But things are good here in Raleigh, so very, very good. I’ve got my feet on Carolina soil again. I can support myself and pay for my beautiful, colorful apartment that holds all of my worldly possessions. I can visit the majority of my relatives at the drop of a hat. And I’ve got an amazing set of friends stretching all across the state who have proven themselves a loyal, supportive, understanding bunch. Why would I want to be anywhere else? 

At the same time, I remember a conversation I had with my sister a few days after returning from Japan in 2012. “What if you moved to Raleigh and stayed there for the rest of your life?” she asked me. “What if you settled down there and never left?” Without even letting her finish her question, I shook my head vehemently: “Never, never, never! I could never stay in the same place for too long!” I wonder if it was really Raleigh itself that scared me, or the thought of staying in one place permanently. I think it's the latter. 

Perhaps other people in my generation are going through the same thing. We are quite content in the present, but afraid to commit ourselves to any one thing. We switch jobs every few years, we move across the country, we escape into graduate school. No longer is a house with a 30-year mortgage and a lifetime career at the same organization a blessing. No, permanence seems to petrify us. So we race around looking for the next best thing, thinking frantically, "Is this it? What else is there?"

Maybe it's just a matter of semantics. Shall we call it stability or inertia? Am I caught, trapped, stuck, wedged irreparably into an existence I can’t get out of, or rather am I stable, safe, secure, established? It's the same thing, just seen through different lights. 

Last weekend I went to my hometown (Littleton, NC) and enjoyed the time in the country, drinking a morning cup of coffee on the wide front porch, watching the sun go down over the lake, seeing the stars come out with no streetlights to dim their glow. But would I go back to it . . . forever?  

I feel sometimes that I want mutually exclusive things. I want this:

And this:

This:

And this:

This:

And this:

What do they say, don't worry about the future; enjoy the present? All we have is now? 

Trust in the Lord of the Journey

Above all, trust in the slow work of God.

We are, quite naturally, impatient in

everything to reach the end

without delay.

We should like to skip 

the intermediate stages;

we are impatient of being on the way

to something unknown, something new.

And so I think it is with you.

Your ideas mature gradually -- 

let them grow.

Let them shape themselves,

without undue haste.

Don't try to force them on,

as though you could be today

what time will make you tomorrow.

Only God could say what this new spirit

gradually forming within you will be.

Give our Lord the benefit of believing

that His hand is leading you,

and accept the anxiety of feeling yourself

in suspense and incomplete. 

-Pierre Teilhard de Chardin

Ma Vie d'Amour

I was dating this one guy and it didn’t work out. . . and then I got a crush on this other guy but that didn’t work out, either . . . but man oh man, would you look at me now!

#1:

Summer 2013, ESL Registration night, 6:30 p.m.: A group of five swaggering, laughing Iraqi 20somethings takes the English placement test. Three go to higher-level classes; two are put in Level 1, the class I teach. My co-teacher and I spend the semester alternately admiring our two students’ incredibly stylish, not-bought-in-America wardrobe and lamenting their lack of consistent attendance and concentration the days they are there. Three weeks into the semester, they both drop out, presumably to do better things with their time. Their Level 4-5-6 friends stay on throughout most of the semester, and we exchange pleasantries in the hallway for the rest of the term. That fall, none of them return to class.

Fast-forward to a Saturday night a year later. I’m at a Middle Eastern café in Raleigh with some friends, sitting at an outdoor table on the crowded patio, sipping cardamom tea and savoring a piece of delicious knafeh. I keep thinking the guy’s face at the table next to mine looks awfully familiar, but it takes another hour before I can place him: the Level 4 student from last year whose friends were in my class. Before I leave, I go over to say hello and ask about my old students (apparently they got married). We talk for a few minutes (a bit stilted: Level 4 is conversational but not natural), exchange telephone numbers (ostensibly so he could find out about the next ESL registration dates) and say good night.

Monday night my phone rings:

“Hello?”
“Hello! This is L. How are you?”

“Oh, hi. I’m ok. How are you?”
“Good, good. What are you doing?”

“I’m about to go to bed. What are you doing?”

“Going to work.”
“I’m sorry. Are you celebrating Ramadan this year?”

“What?”
“Ramadan.”

“Oh! You know Ramadan?!”

“Yes, I know many people who keep it.”

“Oh! Excellent. Jaimie, I have question for you. But I am shy.”

(Pause.)

“What?”
“Do you have boyfriend?”

(Silence. Thought composition.)

“Well, I don’t have a boyfriend, but there is this guy I’ve gone on some dates with . . . ”

“No boyfriend?”
“Not . . . really . . . ”

“I am looking for serious. I want marry. I like you. I want wife.” (Well, at least he doesn't beat around the bush.) 

“But you don’t know me. I don’t know you."

“But I saw you last year in school. You are good. I am good.”

“Oh. Well . . . um . . . I don’t think I want to get married this year. Also, I’m not Muslim.”

“No Muslim, no problem! Last week I talked to my mother. She said, I want American wife, no problem. Christian OK.”

“Um . . . ”

Luckily, he had to go to work then, so our conversation was cut short. Perhaps it will be postponed indefinitely.

#2:

All of my students have my phone number so they can call if they’re going to be late or absent. Last Thursday I talk with Jose, a 26-year old from Honduras.

“Teacher, I sorry, I working a lot. No class tonight.”

“That’s OK. I’ll see you Monday. Good night!”

“Wait, teacher!” (switch to Spanish) “What are you doing on Friday night?”

(!?)

“I have plans.”

“And Saturday?”
“I'm sorry, Jose, we are not going to go on a date. I’ll see you on Monday." 

He calls again on Saturday.

“What are you doing?”
“About to go out with some friends.”

“Oh, OK. You like dancing?”

“I haven’t gone out dancing in four or five years . . . ”

“Let's go!”

“Sorry. . . ”

Next time he calls, I guess I just shouldn’t pick up the phone.

#3:

Would I really write something serious?!

How I'm Not Going to Go Crazy This Summer

1. Uber-organization
2. Amazing friends.

One of my students—a 25-year old from Jordan—works from 8:00-5:00, comes to my ESL class from 6:30-9:30, then goes to a different job from 10:00 p.m. – 4:00 a.m. Not every day, but enough days during the week that he's half-exhausted while he's in class. He says he gets by by drinking lots of coffee. Thank God, my life is nowhere near that hectic. I'm still sleeping eight hours a night.

This summer, though, I do have a lot going on. Since my usual teaching partner at Wake Tech got married and moved away, I've been asked to take her place for the summer. This means that instead of teaching two nights a week I’m up to four, in addition to my regular 9:00-5:00, where I'm teaching a few classes, too.

Needless to say, this is great for my bank account, but not so much for my social life. All of my students are easy-going and eager to learn, characteristics that make going to class fun, but I'm still not a big fan of leaving my house at 8:30 in the morning and not returning until 10:00 at night four days a week. I'm missing out on Monday night Mystagogy class, Wednesday night meditation, and Thursday night live music in the park all summer, not to mention adequate time hanging out with my friends or opportunities to go on romantic dates with the hoards of men who are after me (ha very ha). I'm reminded of the years going through grad school while working full-time: what seemed an endless cycle of work-class-homework-study-sleep.

But I made it then and I'll make it now. I've got a good rhythm going on: yoga in the morning, yoga at night, running or walking in the afternoon, a ton of work in between--and friends who give me all their love and support.  

I've been blessed beyond measure to have understanding friends who work around my awkward schedule just so we can spend some time together. Whether it's meeting at lunchtime or after work to have a picnic in the park, bringing dinner to my office at 5:00 (leaving their own job early just so they can get here on time!), or getting together to catch up in my brief hour between jobs, my friends have shown me that they are some amazing people. For this and so much more I am grateful. 

On top of this, I've got one big(gish) vacation planned every month of the summer to balance out my work load: a weekend in the mountains, another weekend in Beaufort, and a third at the Outer Banks. There's a lot to look forward to.

So, to what shall I credit my lack of insanity this summer? Good friends, a good schedule, and a lot of yoga. Oh yeah, and sometimes a glass of wine. 

Until next time . . . 

Mix Tape for Joanna: August 2000

My freshman roommate in college was this girl named Joanna, a very normal girl who wasn't exactly sure what to do with me, the one who dyed her short hair blue and wore Chuck Taylors. Before we met face-to-face, I made her a mix tape so she'd know what kind of music I liked; soon after we started rooming together, she returned it to me with pursed lips and a terse, "Thanks, but it's not my style."

Playlist:

SIDE A
1. Heather Nova: London Rain (Nothing Heals Me Like You Do)
2. Remy Zero: Gramarye
3. Screeching Weasel: Cool Kids
4. Paula Cole: Saturn Girl
5. Dave McCants: Psalm 27
6. Linda Ronstadt: Adonde Voy
7. Jewel: Life Uncommon
8. Mike Scott: Bring 'em All In
9. All Star United: Thank You, Goodnight
10. Smashing Pumpkins: To Sheila
11. Tabitha Fair: Psalm 24
12. Frifot: Stars/The Glutton

SIDE B
1. O.C. Supertones: Supertones
2. Insyderz: Awesome God
3. Belly: Judas My Heart
4. Supercalifragilisticexpialidotious
5. MXPX: Do Your Feet Hurt?
6. Des'ree: Kissing You
7. Ani DiFranco: 32 Flavors
8. Jewel: Gloria
9. Waterdeep: Holy
10. Five Iron Frenzy: Handbook for the Sellout
11. 7 Seconds: 99 Red Balloons
12. Tori Amos: Pretty Good Year
13. Nada Surf: Popular

What I want to know is, how could she not appreciate all that sweet Christian ska mixed in with punk rock and 90s alternative music? I mean, what is there possibly not to like?

Last week I borrowed a tape player from work so I could go through this tape and a stack of others to decide if any of them are worth salvaging (i.e. buying digital copies of).

Man, I sure hope I get a lot of iTunes gift cards for my birthday . . .

Of Love, Ice Cream, and Dim Sum: Notes from New York

I had originally planned to visit my friends in New York back in February, but after six hours of waiting in the airport, on and off the airplane twice, my flight was canceled and my money returned. I was so afraid of being massively disappointed again that I didn't let myself get too excited about planning the next trip. I half-expected that flight to get canceled as well; happily, it didn't.

During my first New York trip in 2010, I was able to check a lot of tourist attractions off my list: seeing the Statue of Liberty, the Empire State Building, Times Square, Wall Street, Central Park, the 9/11 Memorial, museums, museums, museums. I had a fantastic time, but I was intimidated by the big city and never quite felt like I got out of the tourist bubble. I still don't think I could live there, but I know I am much more confident about visiting the big city now than I used to be (what with having navigated Tokyo and all). The only things I really wanted to do this go-round was eat, shop, and walk around. And that's what we did.  

I arrived at LaGuardia Airport at 8:30 on Thursday morning, took a taxi to Casey's apartment in Harlem, and we immediately began our day. By 2:00, when I went to visit another friend in Midtown Manhattan, I had already savored the cream cheese and lox bagel I had long been anticipating, taken a stroll through Central Park in the gray mist, wandered happily through the Metropolitan Museum of Art, and walked 33 blocks down 5th Avenue.

(View from Central Park)

I've been watching a lot of 30 Rock on Netflix recently and wanted to see where the opening sequence was filmed. Michael took me to Rockefeller Plaza (just a few blocks from his office) and waited patiently for me to take pictures of the flags, the statue, the buildings, and anything else I deemed photo-worthy. Later, we ate burgers (go figure) at Bill's Bar and Burger, had high-class coffee at a high-class coffee shop, and nibbled on champagne truffles from a fancy chocolatier. 

New York reminds me of Japan, or maybe it's just that I can go to places in New York that I have never visited outside of Japan, like Uniqlo or Muji  I felt so excited to visit these stores again after almost two years without them. Thanks to Michael and Casey for their patience as I exclaimed over each individual item and took pictures of racks of white dishes with the same gusto I had when taking pictures of Chagall paintings. (I'm pretty confident that I took more pictures in Muji than I did at the MOMA.) It just thrills me to be able to experience those Japan-moments this side of the Pacific.

Continuing with the Japanese, Casey took me to a ramen shop for lunch on Friday, where the owners shouted a firm "arigatou gozaimashita!" after we ate, and to Chinatown for dinner on Saturday, where I ate more plates of dim sum than was healthy. But I definitely got my fill of the food I was looking for. I had also been hankering for a hot deli sandwich (there's something about having delis on every corner that I find endearing) and was able to get one for lunch.

The rest of my time in New York was spent wandering around Dumbo (Down Under the Manhattan Bridge Overpass) in Brooklyn (eating ice cream and helping Argentinean tourists understand the menu), shopping at Goodwill, drinking whiskey at a pretentious whiskey bar, and hanging out with some of Casey's beautiful friends at Eataly on 5th Avenue.

The one downside to my trip was deciding to reconnect with an old acquaintance for the first time in four years: he kept me out bar-hopping with his friends until 4:00 a.m. Drunk folk trying to dance in a loud bar with bad music aren't all that fun to be around even when I've been drinking, too; I hardly drank at all that night and was ready to go home by twelve. I was struck by the loneliness that I saw: one guy (who introduced himself to me twice in his drunken stupor) told me he had just moved to Brooklyn from California and went out by himself at night trying to meet people. He made me sad.

I appreciate having awesome friends who live in awesome places, who can show me around the city from an insider's point of view. I enjoyed this trip a lot because even though I was carrying around a mental to-do list of places to go and things to see, it still felt relaxed. Maybe that's because I put more emphasis on hanging out with my friends than actually doing stuff. Like they say, it's not where you are but who you're with. Lots of love. 

Last Day of Lent. Confirmation Tomorrow.

There has never been a time in my history when Easter has meant so much to me. I've usually greeted Lent (the 40 days between Ash Wednesday and Holy Saturday) in years past with either apathy ("I'm not Catholic so I don't care about it") or half-heartedness ("I'll try to give up X and we'll see if I can actually do it or not . . . "). But this year, knowing that Confirmation, Eucharist, and new life await me on Easter Sunday, I jumped into Lent with both feet: Mass every Sunday, RCIA class every Monday, daily readings, morning prayer, evening prayer, etc. etc. etc. And here it is, six and a half weeks later . . . . and Lent is over. Tomorrow is Easter Day.

I asked myself in early March how I was going to be different after celebrating Lent. Spending so much time in silence, meditating, reading, or simply feeling stuck in my head, have definitely helped me come nearer to God. I even had a few epiphanies along the way--most of them along the lines of, "You are not the only person who ever suffers, you know. Try listening to other people more."

The one thing that I didn't really expect to feel--but that may not be all that surprising--was something akin to exhaustion. Towards the end of Lent, I started feeling so sick of being contemplative, sick of thinking about penitential things, sick almost to the point of resentment. I'd look at the stack of things I was "supposed" to read for the day (self-assigned, of course; no one told me to read them), and feel like giving up.

I don't think it's just me who felt this way, though. A few weeks ago, I was having a similar conversation with one of my friends from RCIA. She, too, gives herself a checklist of things to do to be more spiritual: "Before you go to work today, go take a walk in the woods, meditate, come back, do some yoga, and read the Bible." Those are healthy things. But she--like me--tends to view them at times as things to get through instead of things to enjoy, and that's when they lose their meaning.

I don't want to feel obligated to seek God; I want to seek God because my heart compels me to. Sometimes I set the bar so high for myself that I can't do it all. But that way leads to despair. I have come to the conclusion that it is just as authentic and valid--and maybe even more so?--to approach God with empty hands and an open heart. Like our Psalmist friend wrote, "You do not delight in sacrifice, otherwise I would give it . . . " (Psalm 51:17) God would rather see our authentic selves. So I think my struggle to do the right thing should involve more sitting in silence and less frenzied labor.

This is not to say I feel my time spent in prayer, fasting, and charity was spent in vain. Far from it. I have been blessed beyond imagining. Lent is a glorious time for self-analysis, -reflection, -discipline, and -denial. And honestly, I've been too excited thinking about Easter Sunday to really be properly sad during Holy Week. I am immensely grateful for the experience of Lent and for this time of preparation leading up to Easter Day.

Tomorrow at 1:30 p.m. I'll be officially accepted into the Catholic Church. I'll be confirmed and take my first Holy Communion (time to edit this one, huh). I am also thrilled beyond belief that even though none of my family lives nearby, six--count 'em, SIX--of my good friends in Raleigh are coming to the service to cheer me on! It makes me so happy to feel such tangible support from them. (I appreciate everyone else's love from afar, too!) It's been an exciting journey, and tomorrow is just the beginning. Feliz Pascua!

Why I'm Becoming a Catholic

(without any theology)

Nope, not because of my previous post. I said Catholic, not a nun. And not because Jenny is, because even though my sis has been after me to convert for the past umpteen years -- well, nine -- I've never given it a serious thought until recently. These kinds of decisions you have to make on your own.

It's been a long, arduous struggle for me these past few years. Spiritually-religiously, I mean. Back in 2009, I kind of lost everything I'd grown up with and it took until late 2012 to even think about wanting to find it again.

But once I got started, it came in earnest. I finally understood what the Psalmist meant when he wrote as the deer thirsts for water, so my soul thirsts for you, O God. I was thirsty like I'd never been before. Like I never knew I could be. Like I never knew anyone could be, for real. But I was.

It was a search for Something Real. Neither the superficial God loves you nor the intense God hates you theologies resonated with me. I wanted the Real Deal. I wanted Experience and Assurance.

This is the time when I was devouring all kinds of religious texts, discussing matters of life/death/salvation with anyone who would listen, meeting with my pastor outside of church, reading encyclopedia articles of World Religions, and anything else I could do to soak up answers to all the questions I had. And of course, meditating and praying, even though for a while there my prayers started off something like, "God, I don't know Who You are or What You are, or even if You're there and listening to me . . ." But I still prayed, and got closer and closer to what I was searching for.

Funny, though, how even though I was becoming more Connected to Divine Love (to use Doug Hammack's terminology), I still felt like something was missing. I wanted a meal that would satisfy my insatiable spiritual hunger, but I was only being offered snacks (do you like this church-as-restaurant analogy? Yeah.). I was out of the Pit I had been in for years, but I was just standing there on the edge of it, unmoving. I wasn't going anywhere. I had faith, I had light. But I lacked something deeper. I lacked substance.

You know who has a monopoly on substantial Christian theology?

Catholics.

So, finally, this past December, I decided that I'd do it. To give Jenny the credit due her, she was the one who nudged me to take the first step of emailing the person I'd have to talk to in order to enroll in RCIA (Rite of Christian Initiation for Adults) classes at the Franciscan church near my house. Who knows how long I would have sat around complaining if she hadn't looked it up for me.

As soon as the priest opened my first class sitting in a chair in front of our group, closing his eyes and telling us to "breathe deeply and get in touch with your soul," before launching into an explanation of the changes of Vatican II, I knew I was in the right place. Here, the contemplative meets the common. Every class is full not of abstract, dull teaching, but practical, spirit-filled wisdom. I can't get enough.

So now I'm an official candidate for full communion in the Catholic church. Last Saturday was the official Rite of Presentation -- a beautiful experience where I received the sign of the Cross over all of me ("your eyes, that you would see goodness....your ears, that you would receive truth....your hands, that you would do good works...") and stated my intention in front of everyone. I'm planning on joining officially at Easter.

I don't think the Catholic church has all the answers. And I still have unanswered questions about Christianity in general. But I am satisfied that I am doing the right thing. It has been a long, hard journey to make this decision, but now that it's mine, I own it completely and feel very peaceful about it. I wonder where else it will take me . . .

[God said]: I will lead the blind on their journey; 
by paths unknown I will guide them.
I will turn darkness into light before them,
and make crooked ways straight.
These things I do for them,
and I will not forsake them.

-Isaiah 42:16

January

The following is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

 What to Do After a Break-Up: A Day-by-Day Guide

DAY ONE: Hit him. Cry. Punch the wall. Cry some more. Throw out everything that even remotely reminds you of him. Wish you could move apartments. Delete him from Facebook. Cry again. Finally curl up on the couch with a blanket and watch 8 episodes of 30 Rock back-to-back, feeling sick. Sleep poorly. Wake up often.

DAY TWO: Cry again. Get mad. Write an angry letter and shred it. Cry again. Tell all your friends he’s an asshole. Add, “that fucker” every time you say his name. Run 3 miles. Delete all of his pictures and block his email. Look up “How to get over someone” online and read obsessively.

DAY THREE: Step back. Analyze. Try to understand his point of view. Fail. Sing along loudly with Ani DiFranco’s “Untouchable Face” on repeat at the highest volume possible.

DAY FOUR: Dye your hair. Rearrange your living room. Go for a walk. Write poetry. Get a text from him: Can we talk? Not yet.

DAY FIVE: Talk for an hour. Listen to his explanation. Realize you misunderstood some things. Realize you both fucked up. Realize that’s still no excuse. Express regret that it didn’t work out. Mention the possibility of being friends again sometime in the future. Say goodbye. Hang up. Stare blankly at your phone.

DAY SEVEN: Avoid all romantic music.  Hit “skip” constantly on iTunes and Pandora. Have a constant “him-him-him” feed in the back of your mind. Hash and rehash what happened. Watch a movie and think, “That actor looks like him . . . ”

DAY EIGHT: Week One. You’re biting your nails again.

DAY ELEVEN: Go out with girlfriends. Drink. Almost text him. Don’t. Congratulate yourself on your self-control.  

DAY TWELVE: Relapse. Talk about him with mutual friends. Miss him suddenly, physically, painfully. Keep it together until the door closes after them. Fall sobbing on the floor. Listen to the Helio Sequence sing “Lately” three times. Put “buy tissue” on your shopping list.  

DAY FOURTEEN: Catch up with an old friend. Relive the situation. See where you went wrong. See where he went wrong. Get indignantly angry again at the whole thing.   

DAY FIFTEEN: Week Two. Think mean thoughts. “My life without him is better than my life with him.” “I might never want to be friends again.” Flip off any car you see with the license plate of the state he’s from.

DAY SIXTEEN: Listen to “Me Voy” by Julieta Venegas over and over again. Skip “Limón y Sal.” Fantasize about sending him a mix CD in the mail. Ruin, The Pierces. The Rat, The Walkmen. Immediately reject that idea. Promise yourself this is the last time you get so one-sidedly crazy about someone. Promise. Promise. Promise.

DAY SEVENTEEN: Start getting tired of being angry and hurt. Starting looking objectively at the situation. Realize that not being together is best in the long run. Know that a better future awaits.

DAY EIGHTEEN: He accidentally calls. You don’t flip out. Not too much.  

DAY NINETEEN: You’re both on a Facebook group message. See his name. Stay calm.

DAY TWENTY-TWO: Week Three. Drive past his apartment complex on the way to another friend’s house. Don't pay attention to where the turn-off is. Don’t even realize.

DAY TWENTY-THREE: Suppose it’s not going to take 31 days after all. Click, “Post.”

Advice from Father Zossima

"Love all God's creation, the whole and every grain in it. Love every leaf, every ray of God's light. Love the animals, love the plants, love everything. If you love everything, you will perceive the divine mystery in things. Once you perceive it, you will begin to comprehend it better every day. And you will come at last to love the whole world with an all-embracing love . . . Kiss the earth and love it with an unceasing, consuming love. Love all men, love everything. Seek that rapture and ecstasy . . . Don't be ashamed of that ecstasy, prize it, for it is a gift of God and a great one [.]"

(F. Dostoevsky, translated by Constance Garnett)

2014

There is an appointed time for everything. And there is a time for every event under heaven—

A time to give birth and a time to die;

A time to plant and a time to uproot what is planted.

A time to kill and a time to heal;

A time to tear down and a time to build up.

A time to weep and a time to laugh;

A time to mourn and a time to dance.

A time to throw stones and a time to gather stones;

A time to embrace and a time to shun embracing.

A time to search and a time to give up as lost;

A time to keep and a time to throw away.

A time to tear apart and a time to sew together;

A time to be silent and a time to speak.

A time to love and a time to hate;

A time for war and a time for peace.