It Is Finished... but not really

Creative Mess. This picture describes what I feel like at the end of this semester. This whole semester I was being held at "grade-point" to create, make, produce, write, finish, and for it all to be good. Well I did and now... it's all out of my system only to start back up in a couple of weeks. Such is the creativeness of an academic life with only two and half years behind me. The good news? It makes for a pretty picture... and by pretty, I don't just mean "nice to look at". I also mean good. Really good.

The Forgotten Day of... Feasting?

Whether the rumors about Angelina Jolie's refusing to celebrate the day where American pilgrims supposedly try to rewrite history and murder innocent people, are true or not, I think that such a view is sadly misinformed.

For a brief history lesson, the commonwealth was established the first year after the mayflower landed and almost half their people died due to disease and partially because the system was so flawed. It completely collapsed. The feast happened the year after when communism was obliterated and a healthy, free-man bartering system was established, with the help of the English speaking indians who were experts in agriculture. The great thanksgiving feast is just as much a celebration of political freedom as a celebration of religious freedom and prosperity.

Squanto was enslaved by British men and escaped but not before he had become fluent in the language. Wicked men stole a great deal of his free life from him to make him subject to man's oppression and these people; the pilgrims were from that same place. Squanto had every right to hate them but instead helped them and became one of their own because of mercy that he had been shown in his past. Mercy that man shows to another by the power of God changes that man's heart and makes him thankful because someone covered the offense of that which was undeserving.

It is for freedom and for mercy that we celebrate this thanksgiving today. Paul in his epistles tells us numerous times to be always thankful. I think gratitude is really the only way to understand ourselves in light of God and that's why Paul speaks of it so intentionally. The humility of the understanding that we are only as beautiful as we are because of God, only as forgiven as we are because of Christ, and only as happy as we are because of the Spirit of God that has (hopefully) infiltrated every aspect of our lives.

Whether Jolie thinks that about thanksgiving or not, thanksgiving is a confusing and forgotten holiday slipped in between halloween and christmas because people think that they are in control. The pilgrims lost almost half of their people to disease and other factors that first year and even still they gave thanks to God for freedom, prosperity, and friends who come along side the weak. It is because of them and the integrity they had and their willingness to do hard things that made us the America that we are, or at least were for a time.

This holiday means nothing if we can't spend at least ONE day being wholly and completely, selflessly thankful for that which we are not because of that which God is.

I truly hope that you have a joyful thanksgiving full of gratitude and the beauty of the blessing that God has given you!

Thanks.

Dear Soldiers,
My name is Erica and my daddy taught me that there is no one who deserves more respect in this country than the men and women who sacrifice everything they are and have in service to America which was built on the principles of liberty and justice. It is for these principles, he tells me, that you fight. It is for freedom and justice that you sacrifice, you march, you fly, you die, you fear, you pain, you ache, you sometimes never recover.

This is my thank you letter. It is because of your astonishing bravery that I can sit comfortably on my American couch, enjoy an glass of American lemonade, and type away at my leisure either to complete my American education or to contribute to this silly American phenomenon of blogging.

Thank you for allowing us the luxury of hope. Forgive those of us who turn this hope into daily selfish expectations because we cannot see past ourselves. You are an inspiration of bravery to any of us who hear the stories of death, survival, victory, and defeat. The battles that are fought within our hearts and minds on a daily basis are nothing compared to the battles you fight, but your brave advances into the fray inspire us to do the same with our daily battles and come out the victor.

Your blood spilt, your journey trodden, your weapons fired, your belongings taken, your bellies growling, sleep wanting, your hiding, your longing, your fears faced. I appreciate your sacrifice.

With the love of a proud American,
Erica

Cars, Cash, and Communication

I was with my cousin several weeks ago. She is a darling six-year-old girl. She has delicious brown hair with a hint of red, big brown eyes, and a delicately charming personality. We had a lot of "Kiki (my cousin given nickname)-cousin time" because of the events surrounding their visit in which her and I took trips to the park, the pool, the backyard, the front yard, the couch, and kitchen. Our favorite thing to do was to tell stories... morning, noon, and night, if I needed a break from running around all I needed to say was, "do you want to hear a story?" Following this question I had a precious child in my lap twisting my hair around her finger and words pouring out of my mouth about a brave heroine and her magical friends. The imagination of a child is unbelievable, and even if she does not remember all of those stories, she will remember how she felt in my lap and how much love she has for me and I for her. This makes me feel glad about telling them.
Upon getting in the car after the park one time, my cousin said from the backseat, "Kiki, you're so lucky." I smiled and asked why she thought that. She responded, "Kiki, it's because you have a car and a wallet and money and a cell phone! Well, I have a wallet and a little bit of money, but not like you, Kiki."
When I thought about it, I remembered this same feeling in my own childhood self. I would look on adults as lucky to have power and freedom and "grown-up" stuff. I wish I was quicker on the draw, because I would have asked her what she would do if she had those things. Would she move out to California to be with us all the time? Would she go on an adventure? Would she want to drive to see her friends everyday? Would she buy scores of princess dresses and pretend all day long? What is it that she would do with a car and some money and a cell phone?
This made me realize that I use my car, my (little bit of) money, and my cell phone like a boring adult, the kind I never wanted to turn into. I use them all very functionally. My childhood-self would slap my grown-up self if she knew that I wasn't going on drives to see pretty things, or that I wasn't using my phone to communicate with people and encourage, invest and build relationships that I don't have access to in person. If my childhood-self knew that I was just using my computer for homework and facebook, she would be ashamed. So how do I use the incredible things in my life to touch my soul and bring a little thrill everyday. We don't know how good the things we have are because we don't enjoy them, we use them. I pray that I will not simply use the things that God has given me but that I will enjoy them.

Trash Cans and Curfews

Today I felt loved. I felt loved today because I went to the spider infested side-yard and dragged trash cans to the curb, rubbed my hands together to get the idea of spiders off of me, and then sat twitching for the next hour feeling imaginary ants crawl up my legs. You're probably thinking (besides that my reaction was positively pathetic) that this is the weirdest expression of love that you've heard of in a long time. "A long time", however, is the very reason why I felt loved today. For it has been a very, very long time since I have performed such a task. How then, you ask, did trash get out of the house and yard? I will tell you. I attribute our clean house and yard to my brother and father. I felt loved today because the boys in my life have always done the simple yet disgusting task of taking care of the refuse in my life. I had forgotten the cost of the dignity which I was privileged to and the care with which these dignities were made available. Now I live in my own house, with responsibilities that are less than savory. I realize that I have just made myself sound like a spoiled little princess, so I will not hesitate to mention that I consider my house and the adjacent responsibilities a considerable blessing which I welcome with a willing heart. With this particular article, however, I am merely recognizing how wonderful it is to be cared for.
Ok, so I never really had a curfew, it just sounded nice in the title, but the point is, my dad cared for me, my mom, and sister in the little things, that the regulations and expectations that he did have of us as teenagers in my family were, from my perspective, acts of protection and love and proactive growth into adulthood rather than mindless regulations to keep my freedom and expressions captive and away from "where I would rather go".
People call me old fashioned, (people call me a lot of things) but I cannot deny the overwhelming amount of safety, love, and satisfaction that I receive from being taken care of. I have an independent personality type, such that it is often easier for me to do things myself in the first place, but even so... I loved that I could always expect to not have to take out the trash. Not that I didn't have household responsibility, but that I didn't have to do the dirty jobs and it was taken care of by the men, was always so "nice" in my head.

Child's Heart Meets Practicality and Cynicism

I have the greatest job in the world. I am the nanny of a precocious two-year-old. I have almost memorized the Dr. Suess A B C's book, learned a new language, and tapped into his unique style of playing that goes beyond building blocks. It is so fun to learn about so new a person, but I have discovered that in all the newness there isn't really anything new about the rudimentary fabric in the make-up of this child in comparison to any other child I have come to know. He is unique in so many aspects of his character and personality, but he has the same desires as every other kid: to be known and to call himself beloved. His brow furrows when I ask him to use his fingers to point to the thing he is trying to say with his mouth because I don't understand sometimes. He preciously calls out my name when my shoulder is closed to him when sitting side by side. He emphatically boasts upon facing his fears and discovering there really wasn't anything to be afraid of. He remembers and re-actualizes (even at such a young age) what he did for you that made him feel very important.
These are the very things that I love about being around children, which is, in short, the ultimate teacher for how to treat grown-ups. Desires don't change with time, we've just learned how to put them on hold due to our culture of cynicism, practicality, and too much disappointment. We forget that we want people to open their shoulder when they sit next to us, or encourage and affirm our steps to conquering the scary fronts in this world because we have been hurt enough to retreat into our own selves for our strength, or be co-dependent on others for our significance.
The "lesson" that I have been particularly attentive of recently has been the one of body language. I almost fell asleep during the little boy's half-hour science show but was awoken by his desire for me to be present with my eyes and body, being attentive to the same thing as him or even to watch him watch the show. When my back is to him in the kitchen, he tries to get my attention by calling my name as he sits on the counter and watches me cut fruit. Even if we aren't talking or playing, just sitting and looking at doggies walk by in the park, he is not content when I slouch. Right now he is so irresistibly cute that he knows he cannot be ignored, but what happens when he gets older and grown-ups will have normal "older-boy" expectations of him. To save ourselves from embarrassment, we learn to stop calling for attention like that, but we never stop wanting to call so as to be noticed, recognized, and to feel important, like ourselves are worth being noticed or turned towards.
So, we are tempted to be moral because adults like good children. Or we hate being moral because parents only like good children (or at least convey this message with their bodies and words)... and how deep is a love that is conditional? So turn your body, your attention, your eyes, your ears, and your words toward the people who are afraid to ask for it, because chances are... they want to, but are too embarrassed to admit that they want you to do that for them.

Born a Dreamer

"Seconds pass whether your doing something in that second or not". My dad has always said this when trying to help us understand the importance of proper time allocation. I am, and always have been a daydreamer so this project of using every second to do what is needed in that moment, has only been partially effective. If you are studying with me and you haven't seen me turn the page in a while I give you permission to ask what I'm thinking about... it is probably not Kant's Groundwork on the Metaphysics of Morals. The big question that I have always asked myself is: how do I stay focused on the task at hand? Or, why do I let my runaway trains of thought distract me from the less exciting things of life? Lately, however, I have been asking the question: how does this tendency speak into my personality? Yes, I must find a way to focus myself and to pursue the task given me with everything I have to give, but if I keep dreaming about more exciting things or interesting things, what should I do? Should I capture my thoughts and channel them into the written word? I like creative writing and poetry and am always scratching down bits and pieces of things that flow into my mind, or even words that sound nice... like apothecary and syllable and solstice. Sometimes I daydream about a pretty word that I have read and then I reach the bottom of the page and realize that I wasn't actually reading that whole page. So, how to capture and focus at the same time? I don't know... I'll let you know if I find out. (By the way, the illustration is from one of my favorite childhood stories: Appelemando's Dream a story about how a boy's tangible daydreams affect his town, and the methods they use to capture the dreams).