Fifteen Days of Gratitude 15.7: BEFORE THE INTERNET (LIBRARIANS WERE SEXY)

Those of you born in the 90's may not remember the days before Internet. In fact, those in my age group probably remember very little about navigating through life without the help of the worldwide web. But do you remember when you wanted to go to the movies, and you searched eagerly through the newspaper for that days theater listing? Do you remember when you had to call 411 to find the phone number you wanted (because the yellow pages took forever), so that you could find out whether the Wherehouse or Blockbuster had the movie you wanted to rent, or the tape/CD you so badly wanted to hear? When you had to read a newspaper to find out what critics were saying about a new book? What a thrill when the Wherehouse started allowing us to preview newly released CD's, so that we could hear a snippet of the new Nirvana, or No Doubt's Tragic Kingdom... or Amy Grant's House of Love if you were into it, which I wasn't, but if I had been, I could listen before i bought it. I didn't even have a cell phone until spring of my senior year... and those cell phones didn't have internet, even though the internet was robust by that point. It's incredible the trials we suffer.

These are all trifling inconveniences which anyone older than me will roll their eyes at. But I remember these days clearly, because it was during that time that I basically lived in the library. I did. As I mentioned in my first blog, I learned to read when I was pretty little. My parents were avid readers, and had books everywhere. Books were my favorite things. My favorite Christmas present from my adolescence was a bookshelf that my parents bought and had custom painted for me. Am I painting a clear picture? I was really really cool, okay? ... I was. Don't ask anyone.

When I was quite young (I think six...teen years old) I participated in Pizza Hut's "Book It!" club, where you read a certain number of books within a week and were given a free personal pan pizza. Some of you may remember this. Ah-mazing. (That's the way to grow up smart, fat, and alone!) These memories came back to me this afternoon, because I got my library card for the Shasta County Public Library system.

It was nothing other than unbridled Parker Posied excitement that overtook me as I wandered slowly through the aisles, my path lit by floor to ceiling windows that exposed the dust in the air swirling together with the natural light like a metaphor of revelation upon revelation: beautiful dust from the old metal shelves housing thousands upon thousands of volumes that somehow all have the same smell when you open them (I can hear some of you: "Oh you diiiiid?? Oh, you opened thousands of books today?" No, I didn't open every single book, shut up and go with my hyperbolic imagery, I'm being poetic right now). I hope you've had the privilege and opportunity to know that smell, because there is nothing like it. It's kind of like the smell of your grandmother's kitchen pantries. Did your grandmothers have pantries? Mine did. You peek in, knowing what you hope to find, and no matter what delicious treats she had stockpiled, everything smelled like gingersnaps and strawberry fig newtons. These library shelves, filled with books which I had never seen before, were like old friends nevertheless. A home away from home.

I will say is that some of the best government dollars spent are spent supporting free public libraries. Truly. Before we had a wealth of informational snacks at our fingertips via Google and Wikipedia and CosmoGirl, we had the whole world stuffed into an old building, staffed by the cranky old lady with Christmas ornaments for jewelry (she is everywhere) and the middle aged guy with the pony tail who looks like Robert Plant wearing your moms glasses. These people, along with the funds of public and private donors, labor quietly to bring the world to us, under the buzz of fluorescent lighting and amid the animated (if we're lucky) voices of the volunteers who come to read aloud for story hour.

It took me 5 minutes to establish my free membership, and then I was off. I picked up a few reads for the next two weeks, including The Problem of Pain by C.S. Lewis, A Million Miles in a Thousand Years by Donald Miller, and The Revenge of Geography by Robert Kaplan. Twenty cents per day per book covers late charges, in case you're a slow reader like me. (Yes, being a slow reading bookworm is, for me, like being a tone-deaf Broadway enthusiast like Rosie O'Donnell. Or Russell Crowe. Just a shame.) Free access to all the books, magazines, scholarly sources (for students), movies, and CDs that they have in the building... FREE. I like free things. Everyone likes free things. And don't worry, I asked her about my personal pan pizzas, she said she doesn't know but she will check.

Fifteen Days of Gratitude 15.6: UNDER A REST

Today was not my day. If you've ever experienced a migraine, you know what I'm talking about. (And if you're not sure whether or not you've had a migraine: you haven't.)

As I lay in bed, head under pillow, blocking out the light and trying to make myself pass out to escape the pain that started at the base of my neck and crawled over my skull to rest its claws in my eye sockets, I thought to myself "Crap. I'm never going to get this blog written." And so I decided to write about the things I was grateful for today. Rest! Rest, and drugs.

Now I'm not one to medicate, and I'm not one to rest. No, I sleep remarkably well, but I've come to realize that resting is more deliberate than sleep. Drug wise, I'm a little on the skeptical side. I like to treat causes, not symptoms... usually. But migraines are, I think in my case, stress related. What are the causes of stress? I dunno. So I tend to take vitamin C and ibuprofen for any ailment I have (I rarely ail... sturdy constitution, remember?)

I've been to the doctor exactly twice in the last 10 years. Once was to get a clean bill of health before I traveled overseas (I got it!) and the other time was three years ago, to figure out why my hip was hurting. It was hurting because I wore my tendons to shreds by exercising too much, too soon. Here's the thing; I tend to ignore all pain until I realize it's not your run of the mill muscle soreness. I've lost toenails this way. Please visualize. By the time I realized my hip had a problem, I was at the top of Nevada Falls and I was literally dragging my leg behind me because it "felt nice."

Exhibit B: I strained my Achilles tendon last spring because one day I decided that I wanted to start running. (I HATE running.) So when I went about it, I went full throttle, determined to will away any resistance (or interfering bodily tissue):
Day 1: 2 miles
Day 2: 4 miles
Day 3: 6 miles
Day 4: 8 miles
Day 5: slight pain, keep going anyway...
Day 6: extreme pain... keep going...

I kept at it like this for a couple weeks until I not only couldn't run, I couldn't walk. I didn't need a doctor to tell me that I was an idiot... but I did need my dad to tell me to elevate and ice. I also continued to go to work until my boss sent me home because I was hobbling like being a cripple was my job, and it looked pathetic. 

Notice a pattern? Go hard, hurt self, ignore pain until it's too late. While training, this is the quote I used to repeat to myself continuously as I ran. It's by that old softie, General Patton: "

"If you are going to win any battle, you have to do one thing. You have to make the mind run the body. Never let the body tell the mind what to do... the body is never tired if the mind is not tired."

I'm not tired, I'm just bored... I'm not tired, I'm just bored... I'm not tired, I'm just exhausted... I'm not tired, I just can't "walk." What? That is just with my workouts. When it came to working, I figured that any day not working was basically a day where I said "You know what? I'd really rather not have $200 today. I'll kick back on the couch and catch the Kevin Costner marathon. Oh, Waterworld! They didn't care about money, either! Yay!"

I frequently passed on social events and family activities to work. Family goes to Tahiti on vacation? I have to work. Girls night out? Hilary's night to work. Friends birthday party? I'll be there late, I have to get a massage. Just kidding, I have to work. It rarely mattered what the event was, I considered it a siren song, and work was the safety of my ship. It's so sad. Like an addiction. When I finally decided to quit my job and move to Redding, I knew I was supposed to come here in part to learn to rest. What that actually means is something I'm in the process of learning. However, I alluded to it in part when I mentioned my bout with the flu. Laying in bed for an entire day without moving was something that took concentration and effort on my part. I hated it. People kept telling me "You need to rest!" And I kid you not, the thought that kept coming to me was: "I'M ALREADY RESTING BECAUSE I DON'T HAVE A JOB!  WHAT DOES IT LOOK LIKE I'M DOING?! WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME!?" 

I clearly don't understand what it means to rest. But I was shocked to discover that in the five days that I was ill, the most marked improvement I observed in my recovery came within that single day where I lay in bed without moving and rested my head and my eyes and my mind. 

When I was in England, I went to a chain coffee shop called Cafe Nero on a Thursday morning. I liked the vibe, and was trying to find out where the scene was, so I asked the barista what time they closed. 

"Half past six." 

"Oh, okay." That's ridiculous, I thought. Maybe because it was just a week day? Surely I'll have better luck on a Friday or Saturday. "Well what time do you close on the weekends?"

"Five."

I actually thought she was joking. I had to think about it for a moment. What does this mean? They close earlier on weekends? What on earth do people DO? Where do they go? Do you have any idea how much money you'd make if you stayed open til eleven? Look at Starbucks for heavens sake! You folks are daft and irresponsible and clearly don't care about your finances... why on earth would you take a holiday every other Monday? Seriously, the Brits had more bank holidays in a month than I've seen here in the states in a year. What's the purpose of this ruthlessly contained approach to work? (I think that topic of the American Puritanical-Protestant work ethic vs. the European approach to work would make for really interesting study.)

Well, I learned that people go home to their families. They go on walks... loooong walks, and they go often. They make dinner, and they read, and they visit with family, watch a little television, and then they go to bed. 

I thought this was terrible. But then I started to go for walks. And I came to love them. And when I came back stateside, I started to crave them. I would take off at sunset and go for a stroll, walking until it was well past dark-thirty, and get plenty of bizarre looks along the way... see, people in the States don't go for walks. Not as a society. Sure, there are people who walk, but it's usually those who live in the countryside, or people who are strapping on their Nikes and their wrist weights. That's walking with purpose. No, when you walk in Fresno, people assume that 1) you don't have a car 2) you're lost, or 3) you're homeless. It really shouldn't matter that people think I don't have a car (because once they realize I do, and they see my car, their opinion shifts very little); but it did. We don't have a society of leisurely strollers. Our walking is intentional and if you don't sweat, there's very little point.

Needless to say, my days of walking didn't last long. But I do miss it. I think it's something that I'd like to incorporate a little more into my life now. I can't tell if the nocturnal lifestyle of a server was the thing that ruined my ability to rest, or if it's the American way. I suspect both. I took a walk through my neighborhood the other day, just after a rain. The sky was grey, and overcast. There were birds singing from lofty branches, and I could see the fluorescent green of newly budding leaves as they were coaxed out of a winters sleep. The beauty of the brick and the wood and the smell of the wet pavement and the barely discernible floral scent that burrowed its way through the damp air made for a quixotic moment that seemed so fragile; the fleeting sounds of a car engine or a woman yelling at her husband to shut the damn garage door, those would pierce the elegant silence like a rock skipping along the surface of a pond. But they were all welcome sights and sounds... the sort of moments that you don't see and hear and breathe when you're driving, when you're attempting to shorten your trip from point A to point B, when you're hastening to close the gap. 

As I lay in bed today, I was increasingly aware of my gratitude for the whole concept and practice of rest. I was grateful, yet again, that I didn't have work to go to, which I'd have to take a sick day for in order to beat back the crippling pain of this freakishly wicked migraine. We don't know how to rest in America. We know how to go to extremes... work hard, play hard, that's our motto! But there's the beauty of rest. You take a nap... you don't have to take a coma. You take a walk. You don't always have to run a marathon. Because I couldn't see the purpose of the resting, I failed to do it. In my mind, everything has to have a purpose behind it... rest because you're sick... rest because you hurt yourself, rest because it hurts not to. I hope one day to rest, just because. I'm still failing, but I'm also still learning. 

I'm grateful for rest. And I'm still learning to be grateful for it, because often I still hate it. Sometimes you need a migraine or the flu to make you appreciate it. Oh, and I'm grateful for 800 mg tablets of ibuprofen, because that is the business.

Fifteen Days of Gratitude 15.5: LMAO (See also: I'll Pee Your Pants)

"Sometimes I laugh so hard the tears run down my leg." -My mom

A good laugh and a long sleep are the best cures in the doctor's book. ~Irish Proverb

Dad always thought laughter was the best medicine, which I guess is why several of us died of tuberculosis. ~Jack Handey, "Deep Thoughts," Saturday Night Live

**This post is going to be a lot less writing, and a lot more laughing (for me, anyway). I know, you're heartbroken... you really wanted to read a 6 paragraph essay on my theology behind laughter. Well... you can't have it.**

Make me laugh, I will love you forever. That's how much I love to laugh. When I was in high school, my mom and I went to Applebee's. As we were leaving, she got distracted by something and fell down the stairs. I was still a ways behind her, so I couldn't see anything except for her feet flying up in the air. The entire restaurant got quiet, and people peered out from their tables to see if she was okay. You would've been able to hear a pin drop, except that I was laying down in the booth, laughing so hard I was crying.

I already know I'm a bad person. But before you feel too sorry for her, just know that watching people fall down is her favorite, and it's her fault that I am this way.

My coworker (hi Tom Lake!) fell down once (well probably more than once... but I saw it this time). He tripped over someone who was crouched in front of the refrigerator, and when he tripped, he did these three long, intense lunges down the kitchen walkway trying to catch himself before lurching headfirst toward the wall, where he caught himself and slowly slid down with his fingertips gripping the flat surface, almost like a cat. The fingerprints were there the rest of the night. I had to sit down, and eventually I was laughing so hard I couldn't breathe and had to hide in the walk-in. (I had to take a break while writing this part, because I started to tear up as I laughed. Kind of like these reporters:)

I don't know of anything else besides yawning that is as contagious as laughing, except for maybe shingles, or HPV, or rampant abuse of the word "epic." And it isn't that hard to make me laugh, because I already want to. No, I really do. I don't get people who withhold laughter. What is that? Is it like a power trip? Why waste time trying to not laugh? What are you proving? That your sense of humor is more refined? Because it probably is. But if we're laughing, we're winning.

Now, I don't know if you knew this about me, but... I only have funny friends. That's my rule. And when you find a person that laughs with you, at you, all the time, at all the same things that you do... you keep them. In a jar. Because they're rare. 

My friend Anne, for one example, is this kind of friend. There is literally nothing that we can't laugh about. You name it, we laugh about it... Emotional trauma, divorce, breakups, people who get worked up over The Shack, (our many) errors in judgment.. imaginary pets (hamster Phil, guinea pig Douglas and panda Nicholas), knippy slippies, the stalkers handbook, Fire Marshall Bill, picking gate locks with your gate keys (its more of a challenge, we're all about growth), photo shopping her head onto Phil Mickelson's wife's body

I could keep going, but this will turn into a high school yearbook entry really quickly. We had a few tricks up our sleeves for amusing ourselves at work to make the night go by more quickly (I share these to encourage shenanigans and tomfoolery with you and your friends):

*doing lunges aggressively down the aisle of the restaurant until we were asked to stop

*singing loudly and definitely on key... like this

But looking like this. That's me. I put my shoes on one foot at a tiiiiime....

*dancing... really well

*And for a while we made a pact that every week, we'd bring horrifying and gaudy earrings that the other person had to wear for exactly three hours. No excuses. These are a tame example:

People who can laugh easily with you, they are a gift. Unless you're not into laughter and happiness, then they're annoying, and you also might be an angry pregnant troll. In my opinion, if we are laughing, we are succeeding (or failing... with style). And if people around us are embarrassed on our behalf, we have succeeded even harder. 

You heard the girl. Everyone... is a pony.

Here are some relatively clean clips from two of my all time favorite movies. No reason other than that I like them and you have to like them too.

Now it's your turn! Tell me a story.

Fifteen Days of Gratitude 15.4: HURTS LIKE A MOFO (See also: Vulnerability)

I hate small talk. I really hate it. And I'm bad at it, perhaps because I'm an introvert. It surprises some, usually because they think of introverts as quiet, timid and withdrawn. Not always the case! I mean don't get me wrong, I have my shy and withdrawn moments. Like when I visited my parents' church a few months ago: I walked in right as they said "Hey folks! Why don'tcha turn and greet someone that ya don't know!!!" Hell, no.  Meet and greets are theeeee worst. I mean it! The! Worst! So I naturally  do what any normal person would do, I backed out of those double doors very gracefully and power walked to the bathroom, where I sat in the powder room (the powder room!), watching the sanctuary TV, waiting for them to stop holding hands and smiling at each other so I could go back in and hear the word of God, dammit.

If you've ever worked in a restaurant, you know it's no place for shrinking violets. I was always "on"... no time for reserve or shyness. You have to meet, engage with, and keep the attention/approval of every table you touch. A shy person would find this terrifying. I found it exhausting. That is the difference between a shy person and an introvert. Rather than going straight home after work, I often went for a long, winding drive in the dark to decompress. I couldn't understand why anyone would want to be around people after a workday like that. But that's just an introvert for you. We recharge by being alone, whereas extroverts tend to recharge by being around people. So when I embarked on my journey overseas to the UK last spring, I wasn't worried at all that I didn't know anyone. In fact, I was perfectly comfortable with it.

That comfort lasted about three and a half days. By dinner on the fourth day, I noticed that the solitude there on the YWAM base was a different kind of solitude. No one was "bothering" me to hang out, calling me, knocking on my door, looking for me, needing me, seeking a moment of my time. Now, there were people everywhere. But there weren't many people looking for friends. The majority of the students in my TESOL program were older than I, and were generally in very different places in life than I was. There were students from other programs who'd gotten there at different times, and had different circles and activities and schedules. In that way, it was different from moving away to college, where everyone I met in my immediate vicinity was in the same boat. You were all alone, together. But in England, I felt that I was just plain alone.  I would've given my last coffee bean to have someone walk me through their love for Twilight. Of course I made friends, but it was more intentional on my part, meaning I put myself out there a lot more than I'm used to. A lot more.

It was all so bizarre! To find that not only did I dislike solitude... but I was going out of my way for company. But hey, thus sayeth the Lord... "it is not good for man to be alone." So there. Jus-ti-fied.

Now I have, in the past, had a tendency to judge people harshly when they seem incapable of being alone. You all know who I'm talking about. They're the people who fling themselves from one relationship to the next(I nearly rolled my eyes clean out of my head watching He's Just Not That Into You ); the people who always have to be doing something social, avoiding solitude like... well, like I avoid meet-and-greets. The girls who don't want to go to the bathroom alone (What kind of conversation are you looking for? What do you think is going to happen in there? What is she going to tell you that you can't wait 30 seconds more to hear?) I used to scoff at them, marveling at how pitiful it was to be so incapable of finding happiness on your own. To be so, well, so needy.

Don't worry, for those of you who think I've been unduly harsh... I got what I deserved. I realized that I need people. And that needing people is okay. Hear me: I'm not saying it is okay to be needy. (Get a grip!) But it is okay to admit that you need people. Because we all do. Think about it. The most power-mongering authoritarians would be nothing if they had no one to control, no public opinion to manipulate, no poor unfortunate souls to torture. The most "independent" and "free-spirited" individuals still want approval. Who do they seek approval from? Their cage-free breakfast? Their checkbook? No. They want approval from people. Because people are the best. (Also the worst, but that's another blog, and I'm trying to be grateful for God's sake.)

As I pondered this really irritating epiphany, I started to think about vulnerability.

vulnerable |
adjective
susceptible to physical or emotional attack or harm
ORIGIN early 17th century: from late Latin vulnerabilis, from Latin vulnerare ‘to wound,’ from vulnus ‘wound.’

That's crap.

I don't know about you, but I'm not enthusiastic about the idea of getting hurt in any way, emotionally or physically. If you had met me in high school... yeah, right. Talk up vulnerability all you want, but, as Jack Nicholson would say in As Good As It Gets, "Why don't you go sell crazy someplace else. We're all stocked up here." I've been hurt enough. What reason on God's green earth would I have to welcome more pain?

Because vulnerability guarantees risk, but it doesn't guarantee pain. I've come to discover, through my  own great sufferings, that there are worse things than pain. Of course it's highly likely and probable that I will get hurt when I am vulnerable... but you know what else is highly likely? Love. Success. Creation. Growth. Connection. (I feel like a PSA right now. Gross)

All of these things are the things we talk ourselves out of needing and wanting when we refuse to be vulnerable. I would tell myself that vulnerability belies weakness. Faltering, blind, pathetic, sniveling weakness. I began to despise the things I wanted in order to convince myself that I didn't really want them. Incredibly, our inherent desires (http://ilbordo.blogspot.com/2013/03/fifteen-days-of-gratitude-151-desire.html) are so much larger than our fears. When desire goes unacknowledged, it doesn't just curl up and die. But it may mask itself as bitterness and disappointment, morphing into something more "manageable." That is the coward's way.

Vulnerability requires bravery. When I realized this, it changed everything. I used to think I was really tough because I thought I didn't need people and I didn't take stupid chances. (I still cannot stand the character of Gigi in "He's Just Not That Into You", for the record. There is no excuse for... that.) There's nothing wise about incessant self-preservation, nothing noble in hiding. If we don't take the opportunity to reach out to one another, or to pursue the thing/job we really really desire, or chance making a fool of ourselves, we do the work of rejecting ourselves first so they don't have the chance. So I am so very grateful for people who know how to be vulnerable. I think of Anaïs Nin: “And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom."  And finally, if we don't dare to fail... we guarantee it.