Preoccupied.

I'm learning something about myself. It's something I've known in part for a while, but recent experiences have revealed it to me more fully.

I'm impossibly distracted by people. They are the most delightful form in existence, and I'm hopeless at ignoring them.

"Wait," you ask, "aren't you introverted? And haven't you said there's never a time when you don't want to be alone?" Yes, I have said those things. Despite how it may seem, what I've asserted just now is not in direct contradiction to them. It is possible to love people and want to not be in the room with them. It's an incredibly frustrating state of affairs that I often wish I could resolve, yet it's reality nonetheless.

How do I know this about myself? The last blog I wrote centered on Benedict Cumberbatch. I don't know Benedict Cumberbatch, so why do I care enough to write about him? Not only that, why have I spent the hours and hours it took for me to look him up online enough to be able to write about him, and watched movies and mini-series the likes of which I never would have seen had his captivatingly peculiar face not been in them? It's because he's interesting, and I can't ignore it.

Another piece of evidence is this: when I was in college, I spent more time thinking about my professors than anything they said to me. On occasions when called upon to write in-class essays, no matter how sure I was of the subject matter, I would always freeze over my pencil, at a loss of what to say, and often wished I had been asked to write about my professor instead. Or one of my classmates. Students are rarely the focal point of the class, and I mostly sat in the front of the room which disallowed me a clear view of my peers, but even they would have been easier to write about than, say, the significance of the Latin phrase repeated by John Milton in "Epitaphium Damonis." (Which, by the way, is heartbreakingly beautiful, and compelling, but still not as interesting to my brain as the people in my presence.)

I've mostly realized this, however, by living with my family for a very long time. A few years ago, when I graduated with my English degree, some circumstances arose which made it hard for me to move on with my life. I do believe reason was found in all of it. My uncanny ability to focus on the people I lived with was useful, and while I don't believe things should have happened differently, I do think that had my family been easier to ignore, it wouldn't have taken as long for me to make my own plans for my life. In the fullness of time, things are slowly changing, and I have had substantial time recently to live alone. As I expected it might be, it's one of the best experiences I've ever had. I have so much time to think. And it elevates my productivity levels immensely. The first time I spent a week alone, after many days of a new reality, I started to grow accustomed to the things I was able to do with my time. Then, my whole family walked back in at once, and as happy as I was to see them, a part of me was disappointed at how useless I suddenly felt. From my newly acquired perspective, I could barely get anything done. Before then, I knew I struggled to stay on task in the midst of everything going on around me, but the contrast between the old life and the new was more staggering than I expected.

So what do I make of this? Part of me wants to say, live alone the rest of your life so that you can control your human interaction. You'll be better off. That sounds appealing, but my whole self has yet to be convinced. There is also a part of me that suggests it's obvious I don't need to fight my nature, but rather find something to do with my life that demands uncompromising attention to people. My whole introverted self is not convinced of that either.

I expect I'll be wrestling with this a long time to come, perhaps even the rest of my life. Some battles aren't destined to be won this side of eternity. So as I'm still waffling, I'm gearing up to follow the advice of my latter self and spend two weeks at Camp Formosa. I suspect part of my sustained waffling is a result of the gift/curse of choice, because I do think if I could move in and work at camp full-time, I probably would do it without hesitation, despite my deep cherishing of solitude. But such an opportunity has not been presented to me, so here I am still waffling over what to pursue. For the time being, though, for a short while, I'll put my waffling on hold to spend some time with some of my favorite people on the planet. I don't get paid for anything I do at Camp Formosa, but I still consider it one of the most important jobs I've ever had. Maybe I should take that as a clue to help me find the answers to my questions.

The one with Benedict Cumberbatch.

Despite how infrequently I blog, there are some things which are so important in my life that they will inevitably appear in my writing, even if only once. Because I can't help but talk about them.

I can't help but talk about Benedict Cumberbatch.

There are many reasons why I have been so captivated by him and believe him to be a gift to acting. I will spare you the comprehensive enumeration of them at this time, chiefly because doing so would likely dissuade all who see this from ever taking me seriously again. Fortunately, there is one particular quality that sums up very many of my reasons, which I will demonstrate for you with a couple of examples.

The man can wear a suit very well,

yet I once watched him in a video the entirety of which is a fashion disaster. Shirts that are frankly too big, a funny hat...crocs? See it for yourself.

Then there's this: the first time he goes to the Oscars, he's honored and dignified with the privilege of presenting an award, and he commemorates the occasion by making a fool of himself behind U2. 

In short, he's good - really, really good - but he doesn't care. Not one bit. And he's better for it.

Ramblings on loneliness.

Some days I'm almost convinced I'm going to spend my whole life alone.

I expect what you, the reader, make of that statement is different that what I, the writer, intend by it.

Now, semantically and syntactically, I'm sure we're on the same page. Or close to it. You're likely thinking I'm referring to never getting married, or finding my "other half," or however you want to phrase it, and if you do, you're right. I truly do have a hard time picturing myself as a member of that kind of relationship.

Or maybe you're thinking I'm referring to not only lacking a spouse, but perhaps being a recluse and never interacting with anyone, as much as is possible in this life. And while that's not really what I had in mind, I could honestly see that happening too.

Emotionally, however, I suspect my opening sentence sounds different in your head and heart than it does in mine.

When I say "I'm almost convinced I'm going to spend my whole life alone," don't imagine my voice with any sadness. I don't say it with a sigh. No wistfulness casts a shadow on my demeanor. Instead I say it as analytically as people who know me well could imagine I might, with a certain measure of wonder coloring my tone of voice.

As I mentioned before, I have a hard time picturing myself attached to anyone. I've always struggled to connect with my fellow humans on even the most rudimentary levels, so that's an obstacle. If I can't even make friends, how am I supposed to be a wife? But my social difficulties don't end there. If my only hindrance was struggle through unnatural territory, I'd rate my chances of relational success a lot higher. There are few challenges determination cannot subdue. The greater obstacle is my penchant for wandering in the other direction when there's a relationship in my path (and I use the term 'relationship' here in its purest sense, to mean an interaction with a person no matter how shallow or intimate). Actually, 'wandering' isn't the right word. At least not all the time. That implies a certain whimsy, or absent-mindedness, like something catches my attention and by the time I look up, I've unknowingly left my friend behind. That does happen. But what also happens more often than I'd like to admit is something much more intentional. 'Fleeing' is a better word in those instances. I have an unending desire to be alone, and at times it overcomes me to the point that I fervently run away. I've never seen or heard someone offer relationship advice and include in the list, "Regularly run away from your significant other. Distance yourself as much as you can, because that's the best way to get to know someone, and cultivate intimacy and trust." I think I'd quit seeing my counselor if they told me that.

Thus, on a purely intellectual level, staying single seems a likely outcome. And as I've already admitted to an unending desire for solitude and unattachment, I'm emotionally ready to accept that outcome as well. In fact, to be transparent, imagining that kind of life actually makes me a little excited at this period of my existence. Not only have I never not lived with people, I've spent years giving of myself unceasingly to my family, and I'm uber ready for a change of pace. Right about now, an unattached, single, solitary life sounds like bliss, the kind of which I'm almost unable to accept would be possible.

Returning to my original statement, if you want to imagine any emotion in my voice at all, imagine that - glee.

Which is where originates the wonder in my voice. Who becomes gleeful at the thought of a lonely life? Me, is the answer to that question. I'm sure there are others, but I certainly don't know any of them. If you happen to be reading this and can say the same for how you feel, please introduce yourself. Or if you don't fit the criterion, but know someone who does, please introduce us. As oxymoronic as it sounds, I sincerely would like to know someone who revels in disconnection. It's one of the rarest qualities I've ever encountered, and combined with the long list of my other quirks, makes me marvel as how imaginative God is when he creates.

Having spent all this time illustrating one point to you, I'm now going to make a declaration that seems to negate it. I love people. As deeply as I can fathom, I love people. What's unfortunate is everything I've said previously isn't negated by this truth, and most days I struggle to reconcile my love with that unending desire to be alone. I haven't figured out a way to do both at the same time, and if there did exist a way, I hope my better judgment would keep me from cheating on myself and others in such a fashion.

As easily as I can picture myself being alone, being married doesn't sound half bad either, and despite everything I've said so far, if that is a part of my future, I will welcome it whole-heartedly. But it's not a thing I sit around wishing for. I honestly only talk about it because everyone else does, and one does start to wonder why one's own inclinations seem to be different from the majority. If left to my own devices, I think the topic would rarely be explored. I have no vendetta against married people or boyfriends and girlfriends, but I do often wonder why people can't just be friends without expectation or suspicion of anything otherwise. Heterosexual relationships have always been cloaked in a suspicion of romance, which I think has always added an element of awkwardness to my interactions with boys despite me finding it unendingly easier to get along with them, simply because I'm leery of "OMG, do you like him?" conversations. But in our increasingly homosexually aware culture, even people of the same sex being extra chummy with one another is liable to make people watching from the outside think they're a "thing." I'm a huge supporter of understanding, support and acceptance, but when it's culturally acceptable for everyone you talk to to be your potential partner, it does make things messier for the relationship-phobic. Admittedly, though, we girls do have it easier because we've always been more chummy overall. I don't have too much to complain about. I do feel for all my touchy-feely brothers out there, though.

It's been a while since I've written a pointless blog, so I suppose it's forgivable that this is turning into such. I didn't have a thesis in mind when I started, and while I thought I might find one while writing like I usually do, it didn't happen. Let it be sufficient to say, this is just what's been on my mind. And if you want to take anything away from this, know that this is how I feel about the subject. I'm not looking for a husband. Or a boyfriend. And please don't be sad for me, because I'm really okay with that. I'm not depressed, or self-doubting thinking I'm not good enough. I know I'm just as good as anyone else could ever be, and it's for that reason I don't need anyone to validate me. I'm fine being me and only me. And if that ever changes, I'm not going to keep it a secret. You will definitely know because that is going to be some of the hugest news I've ever had to share.

What's for dinner?

"Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or what you will drink, or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more than food, and the body more that clothing?" -Matthew 6:25 NRSV

I understand worry. Everyone understands worry, don't they? We're out-of-control people, and that's necessarily unsettling. We have no sway over anything, yet we desperately wish we did. The best we can make of that is worry. It's natural. Like breathing.

I've spent a lot of time worrying about my place in the world, whether my life will amount to anything. Worrying if I'll perform well enough, what people will think of me when I fall on my face. Worrying if my family will self-destruct, leaving literally everything broken. When I read that passage in Matthew, those are the things I think of. "Don't worry if you'll ever amount to anything, Emily. Don't worry if your life appears to be spiraling into a pit. I'm taking care of everything," says the Lord. But lately, I'm reading that passage more literally.

A couple weeks ago, I made radical changes to my diet after a couple of very informative medical consultations. I decided to stop eating several things and also told myself I needed to eat more consistently. The things I eliminated are at the core of a modern American diet, so all of the things that are convenient, that my diet has rested upon my whole life, are no longer available to me. Thus the subject of food has become paramount to my brain. That's the first trouble.

But it's not much unlike trouble I've had before. In our sparsest times, I would allow myself to eat once in a day in order to preserve food for later, because I wasn't sure where else I would get anything to eat. I know what it's like to not be rolling in food. So that in itself does not bring a fresh perspective to Matthew 6.

My second trouble does, however. All the time in my past when I've intentionally plowed on without food, I was rarely distractedly hungry. Quite often I wasn't hungry at all, but when I was, it was easy to ignore. Thus food, although I lacked it, did not keep me preoccupied. But these changes in my diet have rendered me ravenous. I don't know why, but I have never been so hungry before. Even when I eat, a lot, it's only a short while before I feel like eating again. I had fashioned my lifestyle, my self, abound being as close to indifferent to food as I could be. If I wasn't hungry, I didn't eat. If I was a little hungry but it wasn't convenient to eat, I forgot about it with very little trouble. Physical urges did not rule my days, my brain did. But lately, I can't forget about being hungry. I'm frankly tired of eating.

Which brings me to my last trouble. I was told I'm in the prime position to develop diabetes. One of the greatest enemies of a glucose level is fasting. Self-denial has always been one of my greatest virtues, and, I'm finding now, weaknesses. No matter how hungry I am, I could still press on and not bother myself with food whenever I don't want to deal with it. But I really don't need to do that. Ugh.

For the first time in my life I have genuinely worried about food., what I'm going to eat and drink, and when. This is not a #firstworldproblem. Even at my poorest, it still wasn't much of a problem. There's so much food in this country that sooner or later I've always come across something to put in my mouth to keep me alive. I would eat it posthaste, then move on.

But imagine if we didn't live with so much food that it rots in dumpsters. I think there would be a lot less worrying about where one has to be when, who's mad at them, who they're mad at, and how well they're going to do on their chemistry test.

Although my recent scrambling for food has not been motivated by poverty, it has helped me more thoroughly realize how cushy my culture is. We really miss out on so much.

"The Misadventures of Emily Lynn: Locked Out" by Emily Lynn

This is a story about a girl who usually has her head on straight, but watched it turn sideways this afternoon.

I set out to make a few stops today as the sun was still high in the sky, but had already begun its descent. Less than a mile from my house, I realized my phone was still charging in my bedroom. “It’ll be fine,” I thought. “I won’t be gone long enough to miss it.” Onward I drove. First stop: done. I reduced $45 of product down to $0.99 at CVS in a matter of minutes. Second stop: over just as quickly. Two books purchased in my favorite thrift store for a total of $0.49. Then the third stop. Two cans of pineapple and a pint of coconut milk ice cream purchased at Publix. Everything was going swimmingly.

I walked back to my car, in one of the grandest moods, and saw my keys sitting in the seat on the other side of the locked driver side door. I laughed, and exclaimed “Noooo!” through my giggles. I took a moment to process wonder and appreciation at the reality that my first reaction to trouble was amusement. I then smilingly shook my head at the fact that the first time I lock my keys in the car is also one of the rare days I don’t have a cell phone. Irony rules my life. Coming out of my head, I then began trying to address the problem in front of me. I forcefully yanked every door handle, hoping one might miraculously pop open. I pressed on the windows, hoping one of them might be loose and move down even a fraction of an inch. I had been driving with the windows down, so I longingly thought, “Why didn’t I leave at least one of them cracked? Just this once?” At a loss, I even tried pressuring the lock with a coin. I simultaneously hoped it would and wouldn’t work. If it worked, I would be ever so grateful to have my keys back in my hand and avoid further frustration. If it worked, then any prowling miscreant could quietly open my doors. I felt both disappointment and relief when it failed. I then began formulating a plan of action.

As I considered what to do, the owner of the vehicle on my driver side came walking back to his car. Before he pulled off, he noticed my look of helplessness.

“Did you lock your keys in your car?”

“Yeah, I did.”

“Do you happen to have a wire hanger handy?”

“No, I don’t.”

“If you have a wire hanger, I can get into your car.”

“Yeah? Well, I wish I had one.”

“The store down there at the end probably has one.” He pointed to the thrift store I had just visited.

“Yeah, they probably do.” Why didn’t I think of that?

I retrieved a hanger and passed it to my would-be rescuer. He set to work bending it and carefully squeezing it through the door seal.

In his car, poking his upper body out of the open passenger window, was his grandson, a boy who looked to be about four years old. He was a chatty young man, and we had a congenial conversation as grandpa worked hard to rescue me. We talked about hair cuts, his stuffed dogs, Spiderman, and cars. If only it was that easy to talk to everyone. “Pawpaw,” as my new young friend called him, worked doggedly for at least 15 minutes, but was meeting no success. I thanked him for trying, and he lent me his phone to call my parents, who were an hour away. There was no answer, so I left them a message, trying to work out what I was going to do while I talked. I spotted a McDonald’s across the street, and figured that would be a good place to wait. I told them I’d go over there and try to find another phone to call them again.

“Pawpaw, are we gonna take her home?”

“No, but maybe we can take her to McDonald’s. Would you like a ride across the street?”

He delivered me safely, and I thanked him again. I didn’t ask him his name, but he told me he was a retired police officer, and my simmering cynicism was quelled just a little more by finding that, even in retirement, someone had taken the pledge to serve seriously.

The manager inside let me borrow their phone, and this time my dad answered. He said they were heading my way, so, since I couldn’t eat anything they serve, I bought a sweet tea, and turned my attention to my melting coconut milk ice cream. It wasn’t going to be meeting a freezer anytime soon, so I was just going to have to eat it. I settled into a booth, and dug into my pint of vanilla bean with a straw. I may have imagined it, but there was a gentleman across the room that kept looking at me with a puzzled expression at my choice of utensil. The whole pint took me about a half hour to eat, and by the time I was done, I indubitably had surpassed my sugar limit for the day. The rest of my time there, I amused myself by drafting this story on the table with my fingers. I’m not in the habit of carrying a purse, but as a writer, I really need to figure out some way to always have writing instruments handy. Thankfully, though, my imagination has not died, and with only the aid of forming the letters in front of my face, even without a lasting mark, the words appear clearly to my mind and I’m able to organize my thoughts. Things it did not take imagination to clearly see were gazes other patrons gave me, obviously wondering if I believed my fingers were genuinely making marks on the table. Not all who look insane are.

My parents finally arrived, my dad’s spare key helped me retrieve my own, and although my short outing turned into the opposite, my story ended well.

And for this I am grateful, for as much as I love telling stories, I grow tired of using personal pronouns, and am determined that the next story I tell will about someone else. Even if it is about me. I don’t know how David Sedaris does it.

Never be the same again.

I'm setting the record straight. Sherlock is one of the best shows to have graced modern television. Thus spake Emily.

At the end of season 3, Sherlock tells John Watson of a story his brother used to tell him about a mysterious East Wind, "a terrifying force that lays waste to all in its path."

Although less destructive - perhaps - I think an east wind came to visit my house today. Or visited my life, rather.

I am currently home alone. Although a rare occurrence, I have had this experience before. Ever an introvert, it's always been a good thing. My energies get recharged, my mind and will have a chance to refocus. But this time it's different.

When I was a very young child, both of my parents worked full time, so my days were spent away from them, at my grandparents' house, with my brother. Then my family moved to a new town, in a new state. Frequently, my parents would take my brother and I back to our grandparents' house and leave us there for some quality family time, while they took the opportunity to have some time to themselves. As soon as my other brother was born, he joined the occasional routine of extended stays away from our parents, and what used to be a twosome, became a threesome most of the time. But the twosome never disappeared. The age gap between me and the youngest spans a full ten years, so there have always been situations when we necessarily parted company. Friends would invite me over for parties where it wasn't really appropriate for baby brother to tag along. I would decide to go on concert trips that wouldn't have me home until 2 AM, far too late for a little boy. But at only 21 months apart, the other brother and I rarely had reason to not be together. We experienced life's milestones at roughly the same time. We had all the same friends. Our favorite band when we were kids was the same, as was true for most of our other interests.

Not much changed as we grew. Our borders did expand, yes. We each met people the other didn't know, our tastes started branching out in directions the other wasn't travelling. But we never became strangers, and started speculating what would happen when we moved on from the lives of our parents. One thing seemed obvious: we both would need at least one roommate, so who better to share expenses and space with than someone you've been amiably, even joyfully, living with for 20 years. So for the past several years, as we each approached the end of our collegiate journeys, we've talked about one day when we would branch out to face the world alone, young, determined humans, finding their own paths in the world, yet together.

But life doesn't always work out how you expect it will.

Today, brother dear drove west, and intends to stay there for a while. And I'm looking at living alone soon becoming an everyday reality. I am making plans that will encompass seeing him in just over a week. And he says he plans to be back here for a bit in a few weeks. But today marked our first steps in divergent directions.

I'm excited about what lays in the future for each of us, but I can't help but pause over the end of one of the only consistent realities I've ever known.

I'm starting to realize how much comfort I have built and clung to around myself. I've embraced change in some areas, but in more I've stayed staunchly the same. All day long, in this house with no one but the cat, I've found myself craving familiar things, yet somehow not able to let myself be so self-indulgent. I wanted to listen to the same song over and over, but after a couple times I compulsively turned it off, even while yearning for it continue. I'm the queen of musical repeats, so why can I not let it play now? I decided it was time to make dinner, and out of all the familiar, convenient options in front of me, I chose to make something I've never made before, all the while heartbroken at the unfamiliarity of the contents in the pot I was stirring. It was delicious, but foreign, therefore not quite as delicious as it could have been. I turned on Netflix, and as much as my heart was screaming at me to turn on something I know, all my fingers were able to click was something new that I had never seen.

If I may digress for a minute, I'd like to take it back to the subject of my first paragraph. I really want to tell you I watched the first season of Sherlock when it premiered, and have been a tried and true fan since, but to do so would be a lie. With the approach of season 3, I finally decided to watch the first two so I could catch the current one as it played on TV, and not only did I become hooked on the show, I became enthralled by it's two central players, Martin Freeman and Benedict Cumberbatch, particularly Benedict Cumberbatch. That man is a gift to acting. He's one of the few people I've ever googled extensively, and I've watched hours and hours of him in recent weeks. I'm convinced that if ever given the opportunity, we'd be good friends. He spent a year of his life teaching English before he went down the path of acting, and once sang "Pure Imagination" in an interview, so how could we not get along? Getting back to the narrative in progress, when I decided I wanted to watch something, not only was I yearning for something familiar, I specifically wanted to see Benedict Cumberbatch, to hear his rich, captivating voice. Despite not knowing him personally, his presence, albeit only in film, has become a familiar friend. But I couldn't let myself wander anywhere near him today.

I want familiarity so badly. But one of the most central pillars of my life has been destabilized, so even familiar things feel wrong at this time. Rather than spoil their familiarity, I'm avoiding them. To quote what I believe is Herman Melville's greatest work, Ah humanity!

Life will continue. A new reality will form itself around me. Familiarity will return. Sometime. After all, everything familiar was once unfamiliar. But for right now, everything is still unfamiliar. And in this discomfort is where I'm going to sit for a while.

December 25th, 2013

I'm listening to the slowing sounds of my quieting house, thinking of all the things that happened in this room today, and I realize...I had a really great Christmas.

********

From the age of seven, Christmas for me predominately became about travel. We lived 6 hours from my closest grandparents, even further from the others, so to keep with tradition and spend our holidays with the family, we had to drive. And to be able to spend all day with everyone, we couldn't travel on the day of, it had to be earlier. Christmas at home became a foreign idea.

When it wasn't predominately about travel, and we happened to be home on that day "children call their favorite time of year," that meant we didn't have enough money to make the trip. If we didn't have enough money for the trip, that meant we barely had enough money to eat. Our "feast" was small. Presents were few, if there were any to be found, and often times decorations were even hard to come by. As you may imagine, Christmas atmosphere was always lacking in these times.

Growing up with this as the reality, I felt uncomfortable, not because I cared so much about the traditional "Christmas experience" (although I would be lying if I claimed it wasn't a challenge), but because it created a chasm between me and my peers. Returning to school after Christmas break, everyone wanted to talk about their experiences, and all the gifts they received from loved ones. These conversations weren't so tough at first. The only difference in what I had to share was the conspicuous lack of any time at home, and the feelings of anxiously lying in my own bed awaiting the excitement of the coming morning, and waking up in my own bed ready to embrace all the day had to give. I felt similar feelings, but in a springy hide-a-bed at Grandma and Grandpa's house. Still exciting. But different.

Then came the first year my parents didn't buy me anything. The first day back at school went something like this:

"Hey, Emily! Did you have a good Christmas?"

"Yeah, I did. How about you?"

"Yeah, mine was great. I got...*excited rambling for at least a minute, perhaps longer if their haul was particularly spectacular*. What about you?"

"...*awkward silence*...Well, my parents didn't really buy me anything this year."

"What?"

"I didn't get any presents from my parents."

"Wow."

"Yeah."

Conversation over. And if the subject wasn't graciously changed, I would be treated to stares. As someone who tried hard to blend into the background, this was hardly better than even the most awkward of conversations. I wasn't embarrassed. I harbored no ill feelings toward my parents. I was just uncomfortable with people noticing me. Just knowing they were thinking of me was almost more than I could handle. (And this, friends, is why God let me be home schooled from the age of 12. After I got to live outside of that anxiety for a good long while, I got over it. Immersion therapy works in certain circumstances; this wasn't one of them.)

Along with financial constraints, as my siblings and I got older, my parents felt less pressure to create the "Christmas experience" for us, so there was yet another reason to not force the buying of presents. And in the middle of our constant moving, most of our Christmassy possessions got broken or misplaced, or had no room to be displayed between all the moving boxes. (For a time, we always moved in the winter. Always.) Replacing them was slow to happen, and since we were barely home anyway, it was easy to let Christmassy traditions slide without much comment, because it seemed like too much effort to get an empty house ready for Christmas.

Starting in high school, Christmas for me slowly started becoming more about apathy.

All the while, Christmas in the surrounding culture was becoming bigger, and bigger, and bigger. (Irony rules my life. I'm going to write a book about it someday.)

Thanks to commercialism, the Christmas season snuck up when I wasn't looking this year. All around me were suddenly people putting up trees and lights, and filling up their social calenders, and I wasn't feeling any of it. Filled with the weight of my experience and my reluctance to jump on the bandwagon this year, I started bracing myself for new levels of apathy, and the personal mourning I knew would come after that apathy.

But what I was blind to at the time was that through all the years of stripping me of the things of Christmas, God was working to renew my heart and baptize my mind, and help me to truly cherish Christmas in a way I couldn't have otherwise.

Miraculously, this year we got to stay home, and not because we couldn't afford to see our family. We will see our family, this coming weekend. Christmas is rather inconveniently in the middle of the week, and the two of our number that have "real jobs" couldn't get off work all those extra week days around it. As neither depression nor rush were plaguing our days leading up to Christmas, I started to feel the Christmas Spirit at the beginning of the week. I was pleasantly surprised.

Then I looked around me and saw no tree. No lights. It was too hot for snow. And I remembered it had been so long since I got a present that I had no reason to expect one. And really, when I thought about it, I didn't even want one.

Then I realized all those things didn't change my mood at all.

And then I got really excited.

When you catch the Christmas Spirit it's infectious, and will only grow until its course has been run.

And so today, at home with my parents and little brothers, fed by music and sumptuous food, was a marvelous day.

But it looked almost nothing like Christmases of my earliest memories.

At this point, I am so far removed from North America's traditional "Christmas experience" that I don't even know what that means anymore, or how most people celebrate Christmas. What I do know is it's still my favorite holiday, but for completely different reasons. And it feels more honest than ever.

I don't want to change a thing.

"Then let us all with one accord
Sing praises to our heavenly Lord
That hath made heaven and earth of nought
And with his blood mankind has bought"

The chapter titled, "You mean, we get to sing together?"

I like to liken my life to a story. In our age of literacy, stories are often found in books, and formatted for such. Thus I find chapters a useful metaphor for identifying sections of my story-life.

I've been living in a weird chapter.

Before I elaborate, come with me back to the beginning. What beginning? The beginning of me.

I was born in church.

That isn't technically true. I was born in a hospital. On a Friday. My memory of that time is fuzzy, but I can say with almost strict certainty that my mother didn't drag her tired self and my wee frame to participate in services two days later. But a week and two days later? Yeah, I'm pretty sure we were there. And every Sunday morning, Sunday night, and Wednesday night after. We lived (and still do) in the land of A Church on Every Other Corner, after all.

When my family moved to a new town in a new state six years later, we found a new church to go to, and I remember feeling like those people (and us after we became a part of the group) were the most progressive I'd ever met. Why? They didn't meet on Sunday nights. Or Wednesday nights. Just Sunday mornings. (I remember one time, since we didn't have church in the evening, my family went to Opryland one Sunday afternoon. Only radical people went to theme parks on Sundays.) You mean, it's not required to "go to church" three times a week?

But you know what? We got together for parties pretty regularly. And Bible studies. (Yeah, that's right. I said parties before Bible studies. We celebrated a lot.) And small groups. And meetings. So while our gatherings looked different than the ones to which I was accustomed, I still was just as churched as I had ever been. Probably more.

Then I grew, and rather than just hanging around watching my parents participate, I became a participant, even at some times when my parents weren't. Church was a bigger part of my life than ever.

Here now we return to the current chapter. Several months ago, I began traveling more, almost exclusively on weekends. This translated into frequently missed church services, and my greatest experience of disconnection from the structure of the modern-day American church. It was odd. But not as odd as what was coming.

In October, my church ceased having meetings on Sunday mornings entirely, and we started just meeting for a Bible study every week. I won't go into the details of why that decision was made, but I will say I was kind of excited about the future of our little niche in the body of Christ. As for myself, however, I thought, "This is going to be interesting. What am I going to do? I've never not 'gone to church' before."

I didn't have long to think about it, though, as I was barely home on the weekends in November. Sundays became travel days, and I would worship the Lord in the car by singing all by me onesies, reflecting, praying, listening to WNYC's Radiolab, and staying on the road. I haven't "been to church" in weeks.

Last night, a dear friend of my family and the ministry he works for had one of their "Worship in the Boro" nights, and I was glad to attend. But as soon as the music began, I thought, "This is strange. I'm not sure I know what to do with myself." Everything felt familiar and foreign simultaneously. "So, I'm supposed to sing now, right? We're all going to sing together. That's pretty cool."

"Oh, now we're all supposed to stand up. So I guess I'm going to stand and sing. And what am I supposed to sing? The melody? I think I'll harmonize. I can harmonize, right?"

"Wait a minute, now everyone's clapping. So now I'm clapping. Sort of. This feels so weird. People actually do this in church every time they meet. Really? Really."

This monologue may seem unnecessarily dramatic and exaggerated, but this is truly an accurate representation of how surreal the whole experience was. I was born in church, remember? Not only that, I'm a musician. Singing has summed up the majority of my church participation. Yet there I was feeling out of place in a service full of singing.

What just happened?

I sat there marveling at how something that was once such a routine part of my life had turned into an almost new experience for me. My contemplation of the situation accompanied me home. My first inclinations said, "This is not as it should be. Church shouldn't be something you don't know intimately. Singing shouldn't make your eyes open wide in wonder."

Then I thought, "Why shouldn't it?" Music is one of the most marvelous gifts we on this earth have been given, and the human ability to make it spring forth without the aid of any outside thing is the most wonderful musical reality I know. Being wide-eyed is a natural reaction to that.

My thoughts continued in that direction, and I began to realize that "going to church" isn't something I should take for granted either. There is no mandate for how we as followers of Jesus should congregate, where we should congregate, when, or how often. If we aren't sensitive to the purpose and necessity of our intersections with one another, then "going to church" can become a dead ritual. We'll do things mindlessly, never once considering their intent, or stopping to receive all the goodness they can afford us if we don't rob them of their vitality. No wonder I've seen so many dead people in church.

So weird as this chapter may be, maybe it's also just as good. Many of my expectations obviously have been diminished, so perhaps I'm in a place to receive something new. Something new and sincere in all of its fullness. I'm actually kind of excited about it.

Healthcare through the lens of idealism.

Before I get to the point, here's a story I hope will bring you some measure of mirth.

As I was preparing for the composition of this post, I was on a mission to Jesus juke myself. Jesus juking can be one of the most infuriating things to happen to a person when it comes from another. When you lament, "I can't find my keys!," and a well-meaning friend encouragingly (or so they think) responds, "You only need the keys to the Kingdom!," how should you respond? Telling them how wrong they are won't work, because then it will be obvious that you indeed do not have the keys to the Kingdom. So you bite your tongue, facepalm if you're alone, then try to move on with your life. But I think the chances of a Jesus juke being supremely funny are raised when one does it to oneself. Unless you have the same sense of humor as Eeyore, a jab at yourself can automatically be understood as a joke, whereas the same comment to someone else might not be as quickly understood. I do admit to being biased in this area, as I have a self-deprecating sense of humor, and nothing is more self-deprecating than poking at the holes in your own spirituality.

After considering my thesis idea, a phrase popped into my head which I knew came from Scripture, but whose context I did not know as intimately. The way I was remembering it was casting a shadow of condemnation over what I was preparing to write. Nevertheless, I looked it up, preparing to compose an introduction like this: "The Bible says this....but....here's what I have to say," only more imaginatively, and hopefully humorously, of course.

But, once I found the context of the phrase on my brain, it didn't mean what I thought it meant in relation to what I wanted to write. At all. It could actually be taken to mean exactly the opposite of what I was assuming. Jesus juke foiled.

That's probably a good thing.

Moving on.

If you get to know me well at all, you will soon find that I don't like politics. Vehemently. The only reason even acquaintances might not know this about me is that I try to not regularly call attention to negativity. But if I let my passions reign unchecked, it would be public knowledge. Strangers who pass me in public would know. Something else I dislike almost as much as politics is participating in discussion of said subject. Aside from the obvious reason of disliking the subject itself, the reason I don't like talking about politics is that whenever people ask me questions, I feel that to answer them with my honest opinions, I'm always dodging the subject. This is only a problem because I still care too much about the perceived quality of conversations with me, and I've gathered that people who dodge the subject are generally found to be annoying. My conversation skills really do not have a lot going for them, so every little improvement I can make is a good thing.

If I don't want to dodge the subject, then, why don't I stop doing it? That would make sense, Emily. Just quit complaining about your socially divergent habits, and save the Internet from yet another page of dribble nobody wants to read. I don't stop doing it because I can't. I am a radical idealist at my core, and I don't know how to live any other way. Idealism is not practical in almost every circumstance, certainly in politics. This is why I'm not a politician, and why I'm grateful for all the people out there who are up for the challenge. As often as I feel like situations may not have been handled as well as they could have, I throw no stones as I know my own leadership would lead nowhere fast. Leave me to the underground. That's where I thrive.

The latest hot-button topic that I will inevitably circumvent if you attempt to seek out my opinion is the Affordable Care Act and the state of the healthcare system in my country. Ask me if my feelings on the new law are positive or negative, and I won't give a straight answer either way. What I will say is this:

I.Don't.Like.Insurance.

I don't. At all. On the surface, it seems like a good idea. I understand why the idea of insurance was cultivated and then instituted as a standard practice in paying for unforeseen incidences. Who plans to have a heart attack? Who plans for their house to burn down? Suicidal persons and arsonists. That describes neither me, you (I'm assuming), nor an overwhelming number of persons in the world, so it makes sense that most of us aren't going to have large sums of money on hand to pay for all the trouble we run into in our lives. I get it.

What I don't think the first visionaries in insurance expected, however, is this: buying insurance can quickly move from being a smart life decision to preying on a person's fear. Societal wisdom has said, "This is the way you need to handle all the mishaps and tragedies you will face in your lifetime, otherwise you're sunk," then as soon as obtaining insurance becomes a struggle, persons will often become overwhelmed with the stress of working enough to cover all of our modern-day insurance expenses, or they live in worry and panic every day that they live without being insured, afraid to truly live lest something happen to them. Either way, there is no release from the burden. The advance weight of things over which we have no control was never meant to be our responsibility.

Also, in some sections of my culture, I have seen a cavalier attitude develop as the result of insurance being the norm that is unsettling to my conservative core (And please understand, I mean this word in its true sense, not in the political tint it has come to represent. Efficiency, economy, conservation: the longer I live the more I realize these are things that motivate the way I live my life in almost every way, even in the expression of my personality. Nobody is better at being expressively conservative than me. That's only a slightly hyperbolic statement.) Since insurance companies have overwhelming become the ones who directly pay for things, it can be easy to dissociate from who the responsible parties really are: you and me. Forgetting this is only a problem when unnecessary expenses aren't given a second thought, which I think would be less likely to happen if people paid for everything directly from their own reserves. For example, I haven't met anyone who would disagree that medical tests are over-priced, but I don't know how many people have given thought to whether all of them are beneficial. Doctors, who are supposed to know more about how our bodies work then we do, prescribe a test, and we think "Well, the insurance is going to cover it, so might as well." But maybe, if we took time to think about it, and do more research, we'd get closer to finding an answer or solution down a different, better avenue. I don't, nor will I ever, suggest a blanket boycott on medical tests, but in my own experience, I have been through countless medical tests that have never provided me with any useful information, and even at the time I felt like they were being done "just because we can." I've even had doctors say equivalent phrases to me when suggesting these tests. "Just because we can" is never a good reason to do anything. Except sing. So all that money was spent to find out nothing. If your life is anything like mine, I suspect you've had a similar experience. Out of sight does equal out of mind in this case, and when it comes being smart about how you live your life, this is not a good thing,

Lastly, insurance shrinks even more the space where generosity and goodwill live. If all of a person's needs are met, then there's no reason for anyone to be compelled to help them. Having lived a life that's placed me in a lot of helpless positions, I've seen what good is done for the world when generosity and kindness are allowed to flourish.We lose something important when they aren't. I know what it's like to not even have a place to live or food to eat, and as terrible as that may sound, the beauty that has come from those situations is irreplaceable. More people need to see that. Feel it. Taste it. Breathe it. I'm not quite sadistic enough to suggest that more people need to suffer, but just almost.

What then is the solution for our country? Ideally, it's that the church would love so much like Jesus that the debate that's been going on would quickly reach its end. Until that happens, by God's grace, I'll be doing what I can to make that a reality in my own corner of the world, and coming to terms with the fact that I am required to buy something I don't even want. Radicals and idealists always chafe under governmental restrictions, so my plight is nothing new.




Since I've let vent my emotions over one contested subject, I'm trying hard to convince myself that now is not the time let fly on marriage. Dissent is like a flood, which is why I leave little room for it; once released, it's hard to stop....

On Propriety

Within the bit of the world familiar to me, there seems to be much conversation about moral propriety. People disagree about its relevance, how its defined, how, if at all, context affects it. To every point made there is always a counterpoint.

I suspect a big reason I hear so much of this kind of discussion is that the overwhelming number of persons I interact with are church people, who, collectively, all around the world, are supposed to be people who know God in a way others don't. God, in most common conceptions, is a representation of perfection, so it would naturally follow that God knows all about moral propriety, and the people supposed to know him best share in that knowledge and conviction. And it does seem, indeed, that many church people believe this with every bit of passion they can muster, as if every word they speak on this subject came straight from the Lord himself.

There are always a few taboo subjects that seem to dominate these exchanges (a fairly wise man once said "there is nothing new under the sun" and many generations and empires later, it's still true), and no matter how much they're talked about, even insisted upon on pain of eternal damnation, resolution is never found. I can't tell you the number of times I've been a part of the "Are swear words really wrong?" discussion, or "Is drinking a sin?" debates. There are always those who think they have it figured out, and that it's their mission to guide everyone into right thinking.

I've known enough Christians, and been one long enough myself, to notice a behavioral pattern that frequently emerges when church people meet each other. There are often initial warm feelings at having found another person who claims to share the same, deeply intimate beliefs that you do, but then a little reservation comes. Maybe you've seen this happen, or been a knee-jerk participant yourself: not all church people fall on the same side of the moral divide, so members of a burgeoning relationship have to assess where each other stands. Will the new person they just met be a fundamentalist type? Or will they be open-minded enough to get away with showing a few rough edges? Or perhaps they'll be one of those liberal Christians who smoke weed and use four-letter words and welcome complete transparency, even beyond rough edges straight to skeletons hiding in the closet (which for a hyper-Christian, is supposed to be the place you pray, right? So scandalous.). So a few casual comments about morality are dropped (You know, when I'm upset, I sometimes use some words I shouldn't.), a few pointed questions asked if you're feeling bold (Do you ever drink? (By the way, am I the only one mildly irritated that the verb "drink" has become synonymous with "drink alcohol?" Maybe I'm too enamored with distinction.)), responses to the tone and subject matter of the conversation are assessed, then it's clear where all the players stand, and the relationship is now free to bloom within its newly found definition (or stagnate, if these particular church people find themselves irreconcilably at opposing ends of the moral divide).

Here I'm going to spoil a bit of a point I'm going to make later. However, if you're reading this, chances are you know me well enough for this to not be a spoiler; our relationship has already spoiled it. The spoiler is this: although I may appear to be one on the surface, I'm not a "fundamentalist," lest it be in a very loose sense of the definition. I've had these kinds of exploratory conversations many times over, and every time I find myself talking to someone who doesn't get a ruffle in their feathers whenever the subject of tattoos (or any other controversy) is brought up, I feel a small thrill on the inside. When too many feathers are ruffled, I tend to receive vibes of uptight-ness, and it's a drag to spend time with someone who's uptight. (Trust me, I know how terrible it is. I'm a recovering curmudgeon, and by the grace of the Almighty, will one day have shed all vestiges of uptight-ness.) But even while I'm happily chatting with my non-uptight church friends, whenever the conversation is morality-colored, there's still an underlying sense that the act of discussing the subject matter at hand carries a certain inappropriateness, even while simply telling stories of things that actually happened, and not in any way endorsing behavior that's something other than ideal.

I think we're missing something.

Life is life, people are people, and stuff happens. The wordsmith in me wants to say that in a more imaginative way, but nothing I craft communicates my point as clearly and effectively. What wrong is there in talking about the facts of life (both those facts of life, and the truth of what happens in the world moment by moment)? Beyond that, when has darting around the point, or hiding imperfections (or sin) ever helped anyone live a better life? Or be more righteous? If you know of a time, please tell me. I'm always open to new ideas about how the world operates, but I'm certain enough about my current point, that I will plunge forward at the risk of being contradicted.

Perhaps I'm biased. At the least, I know I've come by this point of view easily. My mom started giving me the talk (yes, that talk) when I was a toddler, and I've lived every minute of my life since then in the same open atmosphere that fostered such candid discussion with a person who lacked the mental capacity to comprehend what was being said. If ever there is a good excuse for veiled conversation, it's when you're talking to a child so immature that 90% of what you say will go over their sweet little head. But my mother was fearless. Nothing has ever been blacklisted in my house, to the point that I, the resident introvert, have sometimes speculated fondly what pleasantries might accompany living with people who are too uncomfortable to speak with abandon. I could be quiet and alone most of the time, and no one would ever challenge me to open up when I'm not in the mood. How truly nice that sounds. After getting past the surface idealism, though, I realize how insufferable a person being left alone would make me ('socially awkward' is what I am now, but if left alone, 'socially incapable' would be more appropriate), and I cringe to think how miserable it would be to be unable to say anything with no fear of offense. As tired as I can get of interacting with other humans, my own selfish comfort is not worth the sacrifice of candidness.

As vital and influencing as a transparent environment was to my most formative years, more important was the accompanying atmosphere of respect. I watched my parents kindly and humbly treating everyone they interacted with outside our home, but more impacting still, I watched them kindly and humbly treat me and my brothers. I've witnessed many sad incidences in the world of children disrespecting their parents, but much of the time, my sadness is increased when I find that the disrespect they're extending is proportionately equal to the disrespect they've received. Don't misunderstand my meaning, parents have a hard job, and children cannot be catered to in all their whims. But discipline and respect are not mutually exclusive. In fact, they're closely tied. My childhood never lacked discipline, and I was never unclear about the authority my parents had in our relationship, yet, at the same time, I never felt that they saw me as anything but a whole person. Living confidently as a whole person goes a long way in cultivating one's ability to respect the personhood of everyone else.

I think this, respect, is central to the whole debate over propriety. Maybe getting a tattoo is not the best idea. (I'm picking on tattoos, but you could substitute a number of other things.) Maybe it's even wrong. But how respectful is it to condemn someone for having one? Doing that, when you have, as Jesus said, an even bigger plank in your own eye, is disrespectful. It's inappropriate. If I may even be so bold (because I've just confessed to you how much I value candidness, so to be anything but would defeat the point I'm making), it's sinful.

And that, my friends, is what I think this really boils down to: sin. The way I see it, sin is all that's truly inappropriate. And to even begin to get a handle on what that means, I think we have to define what's really important when we interact with others. Respect is what's important. Thus condemning someone is inappropriate. Gossiping about someone is inappropriate. Degrading someone to another is inappropriate. Slandering someone is inappropriate. Shaming someone is inappropriate. Taking advantage of someone, whether it be sexually or any other way, to fulfill your own desires and please yourself, is inappropriate. Getting back to that hypothetical tattoo, maybe getting it wasn't ideal. But I'm much more interested in how much respect you extend in your relationships, and less how much ink has been added to your dermis.

Lest my motivations behind contending for this point of view be misconstrued, let me make a few things clear (just in case you don't already know these things about me). I have no body art, not even an ear pierced. I don't drink alcohol. I've never smoked or done drugs. I even avoid caffeine (despite living in a gourmet coffee-occupied society)! In keeping with the rules of probability, you will likely never hear a curse word come out of my mouth, and I'm as chaste today as when I was born. I look like one of the most upright people alive. Redefining the bounds of propriety is in no way an attempt to excuse any of my behavior, because frankly, according to traditional ideas, there isn't anything to excuse. If anything, holding to these ideas makes me more honest, and leaves me with fewer excuses for my behavior. I may not ever have trouble with substance abuse, but loving the way I should is always a challenge. Where it counts, I am still at the mercy of grace and not my own abilities to keep it together.

I would be delighted to see the world, particularly the church, particularly myself, become less uptight about things that are beside the point, more diligent in contending for the importance of love and respect, and more honest in both speech and action. So don't be surprised if you hear me talk about sex in church. But if you catch me disrespecting someone, remind me that you respect me enough to tell me when I'm being worse than a cotton-headed ninnymuggins.

Exciting times for the Harmon 5!

Living as a member of my family is never boring.

Even during the times when life has been so many things we don't want it to be, boring has not been one of them.

Keeping up with the trend, changes - big ones - are moving into the Harmon Household. Ones so big that I guess I should say Harmon HouseholdS.

As my brain, eyes, and fingers are working in conjunction to type this, the five of us have one more day of living together in this house where we all currently sit (or lie down, as I think I'm the only one not in bed). !!!

When we moved in here, I published a prediction on this here blog that that move would be the last one we'd make as a whole family. I put that up for the world to see with great trepidation despite my certainty, anticipating that I might have to eat my words some day, like I usually have to do when I fancy myself a fortuneteller. But it turns out I was right!

Starting Friday, my mother and littlest brother will officially be transferring their legal residency to the state of Arkansas, and he will be starting at the local public school on Monday morning! Austyn has only been home schooled to this point, so this is a new adventure for him. Gratefully, he adores adventures. My dad would be accompanying them, but he's still in graduate school, and transferring schools hasn't been feasible. So he will be joining them as soon as he can, while Calyn and I stay here. (Until we feel we need to go somewhere else, that is.)

"Wait a second?" I can hear you asking. "They're doing what? Your parents are living separately? Who does that? And why is Austyn going to school now? If your dad can't transfer and Austyn needs to go public school, why doesn't he just go where he already lives? I don't get it." If you really do want to know the answers to these questions or any others, please ask me. There are reasonable explanations for everything (mostly). But I won't take the time to share them here. What I will say is this:

My family has never let what someone does or might think stop us from doing anything.

We're not so over ourselves that the consideration of such things never enters our minds. It does. We may or may not even mourn our reputations as loons sometimes. But when sacrificing whatever good impression we've made on the world is required for what's important, we'll do it. Cringingly, perhaps, but done all the same.

I'm excited! Each of us are moving into good things that have been long-awaited. But there's a part of me that wants to temper the excitement. "Hey, you, you've lived with your family for 25 years, and now it'll never be the same again. Think about that. And even though that's not necessarily a reason to be sad, you love your family; don't be so eager to get rid of them. Appreciate them while they're here."

Yes. I know. I do appreciate them. Truly. However, life has taught me the beautiful truth that is expressed in Ecclesiastes 3: "To every thing there is a season, and a time for every purpose under heaven." Melancholy though he may have been, Solomon was right. Everything has its time, and everything must end. Once you begin to understand that, you'll see how truly beautiful and right it is. At least I have. I find myself rejoicing at the ends of things just as much as I do at beginnings. But that's another post for another day.

I am truly happy about our new divergent seasons. Our lives will still intertwine. We're too close to stay away for long. But it's good to move forward. The possibilities this new reality has the potential to open up are almost staggering.

The first thing I'm going to do is sleep on the couch. (You can ask me about that one, too.)

Materializing.

It's right there. I can see it. I'm convinced I can feel it. My future. My life. New adventures. It's so close it's almost real, but then I grasp and remember it's not. Yet.

My optimism is so great, I don't know whether to feel higher than I've ever been before, or so deeply disappointed that something so extraordinary is tauntingly out of my reach.














The latter is always stalking, but my optimism is truly such that you could beat me up and I'd still give you a hug. Please don't abuse this privilege.

Don't know what's around the bend until I get there.

The Internet is marvelous. Writing has always been risky business, but now we have the ability to open a vein and let it bleed in front of the whole world instantly, with no chance to to clean up our mess after we hit submit.

********

Marriage.

I have no peer-reviewed journals to quote, nor even a case study, so pardon me for speaking on this subject with so little authority.

In the general world of information I have absorbed in just 8 days short of 25 years, it seems to me that those who grow up under a bad marriage are often some of the most eager to enter into such a covenant of their own, and sadly so much of the time continue the tradition of their ancestors. Perhaps on one level they see the lack of fulfillment in the lives of their parents, and their whole being becomes bent on finding it for themselves. They swear this time things can be different for them, they will be different. They truly love their spouse, and their spouse truly loves them. Then somewhere along the way, something goes wrong, and they begin to empathize with their parents; a posture they never imagined they would take.

With such an insurmountable pile of evidence in front of them, you'd think they'd all be terrified, rather than anxious to plunge in at the first available opportunity.

There are many people on the planet who have experienced far worse than I have, but with just the tension I have been witness to in my own household, I'm frightened. The very idea of being married to anyone is almost enough to make me want to hide like a child. I don't care what's happening, if the subject is brought up, my mood darkens. I become prickly. That, my friends, is saying something, as I'm a rather prickly person when even in the best of moods.

That prickliness is precisely why I'm so uncomfortable with the idea of being married. It doesn't take much reading of this blog, or much time with me in person, to know I'm introverted. Introversion at its most basic level means being with people drains the introverted one, and conversely being alone is a source of recharging. My leanings are much more chronic than that, and at this point in my life, I want nothing more than to be alone. I love people. I really, really do. I even have pleasant, dare I say wonderful, experiences with people on a regular basis. Yet, even in the middle of those wonderful experiences, I can't say that I wouldn't rather be by myself. Or to dare put it more bluntly without the heavy veil of a double negative, I can say I would rather be alone. Always.

Marriage means 'one flesh.' I'm not even comfortable breathing the same air as someone for too long, how am I supposed to deal with someone being a part of me and myself a part of them? Always? The distress that would bring me is enough to make my self-centered insides pause for at least a moment, but more than that, if I know myself half as well as I think I do, it wouldn't take much for me to start resenting my husband. Even if he doesn't do anything, just by existing. I don't want to resent someone for existing, least of all the person I'm married to. And regardless of what I do or don't want to do, how is that fair?

In this whole frightening situation, added to the aforementioned severe inward leanings is an extreme dislike of conflict. I diffuse it by default. I don't even realize I'm doing it most of the time until it's already done. While I do think that's good in many cases, I do realize how quickly my husband and I would never get anywhere because I don't give us the chance for resolution. "If it's going to cause this much distress, let's forget about it" is my motto. It works like a charm until the charm wears off.

I live in a small house with four other people, two I've been with my whole life, one who's been around for 23 years, and the last whom I've been with for almost 15 years. I'm familiar with sharing space, and possessions, and time, and air. But no one has access to my innermost thoughts and feelings, the exact center of who I am. And I still make my own decisions. I'm still autonomous.





Or am I?





I depend on someone else for the roof above and walls around me. I can't do nearly as much as I imagine I'd like to do because I have to consider those four people at all times. And when I make large life decisions, my  first thought after conception of an idea is "What does my family have to say about this?"

Perhaps I've fooled myself into thinking I'm independent. Maybe if I realized I'm already much more attached than I let myself believe, I'd realize the thing I'm really afraid of is something else. I'm afraid of both what I've seen and what I haven't.

What "Stuff You Should Know" inadvertently taught me.

The next time I talk about starting to follow a new podcast, please provide me with a cautionary word.

"Hey, Emily, you know when you decide to engage with something, you have a penchant for immersing yourself in it and not looking back until it's done. Are you prepared for that at this particular juncture? You might want to reconsider."

Or if you don't want to use quite so many words, four will suffice. Simply say, "Stuff You Should Know."

A few months ago, I once again became not only a computer owner, but also Windows user. Before then, I ran Linux Mint, and while I did learn much and knew I was capable of learning more, I never did carve out enough time to successfully navigate the learning curve. Many neglected parts of my relationship with technology stayed neglected as a result. But as soon as the sparkly new Windows 8 was downloaded, I was overjoyed at the impending reality of reconnecting to one certain cherished aspect of that relationship: podcasts.

Being the daughter of my father meant that I grew up listening to NPR. Couple that with my preference for audio over visual, and it becomes clear why podcasts became such an integral part of my life as soon as I discovered them 7 years ago. It felt like one of the greatest discoveries of my life, and helped seal my unending fondness for the Internet.

I put out a call on Facebook for suggestions of what podcasts to subscribe to. I'm aware of quite a few, and could quite easily listen to only those and be satisfied, but as I felt like this technological reunion symbolized a new start to my life (Yes, everyone, that is honestly how affectionate I am toward the Internet - so much that engaging with it again felt like a renewal in the manner of repairing a relationship with an estranged loved one. No one is more amused/appalled by this than me.), it seemed appropriate to find something new for my ears to hear. Among the suggestions I received was one "Stuff You Should Know." I trusted the judgment of the suggester, and was drawn by the title promising two of my favorite things, facts and knowledge, most importantly a variety of each. I scoped it out on iTunes, then clicked "subscribe" after a few moments of perusing.

A couple months (maybe 3?) pass and here we arrive to today, the day I finished every episode of "Stuff You Should Know." They've published something near 500 episodes. Much of my life has been on hold trying to make it through all of them. My spare moments have been devoid of music. Replacing that has been the dulcet tones of Josh Clark and Chuck Bryant. Bedtime reading has been all but forgotten. I pulled out a book to start reading, and it sat on my bed for weeks waiting to be opened. Since opening, it has been even more weeks and I've barely made it through enough to say I began. When not occupied by obligations, all my attention has been given to this catch-all informational bi-weekly modern radio show. I obviously felt like it was worth pursuing, or I would not have stayed the course, but by the end I was ready to exclaim, "Enough is enough!"

When the last episode ended this morning, I felt like a whole world of time was placed into my hands. I'm still breathing relief in deeply.

I do this with everything. I should know better. Maybe now I do.

Hot Space #11.

A pressure cooker. You know the ones, with a latched handle, and bobber that bounces on the top of the pot spewing steam. That's what this season (for lack of a better word) feels like. Nothing penetrates, hardly anything escapes.

But Grandma just came by and tweaked the regulator. SSSHHHHHHHHHH was the sound of making cookies. SSSSSSHHHHHHH was the sound of writing notes to dear ones far away. SSSSSSHHHHHHH was the sound of working with my hands. Release was the sound of creating.

Welcome sounds they are.

But now it's time to reseal the gaps. Just a little while longer, I think. I remind myself the pressure is meant to bring good things. Like Grandma's roast.

At the top of the list of good things this will bring me is sincere, profound gratitude for moments without pressure.

Life smells like fresh bread.

I'm going to let you in on a secret. If you read this secret, congratulations! You're in the loop. All those other people out there have the opportunity to read and know, but they're not reading this, are they?

After pulling out of the job search for a while, I've begun again to think about jobs and business. My thoughts on this matter have changed much since my post-graduation disappointment. I no longer feel a desperation to do the first, easiest thing to come in front of my face. My willingness to do anything has not diminished, but the fear that I have to do anything (as in anything that may not be worth my effort and sanity) is gone. Or mostly gone. I'm in the frame of mind and spirit to pursue something less accessible, something that may not even make sense. Something that has the potential to be more worthwhile than working in a nameless cubicle or hanging drywall. (I've done the latter. I'm willing to do it for myself, or to help out a friend, but as soon as it became a job, I couldn't recall a time I'd been more miserable.)

My retirement from running after a job has also allowed me to experience life in its most basic elements. Fulfilling relationships, serving everyone, loving everyone, unwavering gratitude: these are things which make life a joy, and contribute to well-being of both mind and body. I've been focusing particularly on the latter in recent months, and let me tell you, feeling alive is so much better than eating cheeseburgers.

These things have combined in my head and heart, and what I find emerging are ideas for running a food-manufacturing business from my home. I've always liked to make food, but as I had little interest in eating it, and felt no other passion for it outside of the creation process, I didn't think much about wanting to employ myself in by the process of making it. But my mindset started changing as my diet started changing. I feel great, my mother is on the road to feeling well for the first time in many years, and in light of wellness, a new passion for making food has been aroused in me. I think I can help others with what I have learned.

A few weeks ago, I researched the laws Tennessee has set in place governing this kind of venture, and I gratefully found it is possible, and the provisions are more generous than I expected. Since then, my mind has been swirling with possibilities. It's been hard to know where to begin. I think my mind has settled, however, on specializing in bread. Bread is one of the most integral parts of our diets, so easy to get wrong, and it's these things combined that can make it so devastating to good health. People don't need to be deprived of bread, they just need to eat the right kind.

For me, the name of the game is still research. I'm nowhere near ready to start passing out loaves to my friends and neighbors. Thus as confident as I feel in this direction, every bit of this is still tentative. My other tentative plan is to at least begin taking requests for anything it's legal for me to make and sell at home to fill in gaps between bread sales, but in the interest of fruitfulness and longevity, I think it's important to specialize. This is particularly so in cases where I might sell product after it's made, like setting up at the farmer's market and selling pre-prepared things on the spot. People can't buy something at booth if it hasn't been made yet.

I have lots of other ideas (like wanting my business name and the name of each recipe I make to have something to do with literature and/or music), but I want to focus in on just having organized what it will take to get started, and get started well. I have a feeling many of ideas will stay in my head for a while, until their time to emerge. Or perhaps they'll stay forever. I have no idea how long I will do this, or how large it will grow. I don't see myself baking and only baking for the rest of  my life, but my future vision isn't great. I don't know what will happen with this. I still hold a desire to write. And sing. Perhaps I'll do all three.

That's my secret. If you have any comments, suggestions, words of counsel, I welcome them. There is still a long list of things to work out, and as I'm intending to create something for people, I need to know what the people think. Would you buy homemade bread? What kind of bread do you think you might buy? Would you buy something else? Have any charming ideas for names? Any words of experience to impart?

And if you're the kind inclined to pray, I would be ever so grateful for your kindness in talking to the Lord about me.

Is that the reason why you brought me here?

For a while now, I have been living my life to cater to the good of my family. When someone says jump, I jump. When I was stuck at home and saw we were floundering with nothing to eat, I took it upon myself to find out how to save as much money as possible so we could have groceries in the house. And I sincerely felt like it was important for me to hunker down and listen, wait, and serve until time was ripe for change.

But every once in a while I sing, and I feel alive, alerting me to the fact I've been lacking life unaware. Every once in a while I hear from a friend, and the familiarity I feel from connecting with them makes me realize how much of a stranger they've become. Tonight, I spend more time online than I have in a while, and the movement of my fingers typing words gives me a thrill I didn't realize I was missing without the regular practice of writing.

I've been passively disengaging from all these things for the good of my family, but I can't help but wonder if I'm doing them or myself any good by letting my vibrancy fade.

********

One thing I do know for sure is I want to live now more than I've ever wanted before.

Sadness is not a crime.

If you follow me on social media, you'll likely know I adore the show Downton Abbey, like so many others. I tend to give a wide berth to objects of intense popularity such as this, and did indeed feel some reluctance in engaging with this show, but despite the fondness for it in popular culture, I've found it to be quite good. So good, in fact, that it's become a bit of an obsession, the likes of which results in a loss of sleep. I'm prone to losing sleep, so if it wasn't this, it would probably be something else, but I can say that when I'm typically watching opportunities for sleep pass by me, I'm not quite so enthusiastic as it's happening.

Aside from losing rest to watch episodes over and over again, view interviews, and read articles, the emotions this season have also been responsible for keeping me awake, and are indeed why I'm writing this now. The finale of Season 3 just aired in the States and so stirred me I had to overflow somewhere.

I am, without a doubt, about to spoil it, so if you haven't seen this episode, or this season, or don't want to know, please discontinue reading.

A few weeks ago, Sybil died, and I cried, and cried, and cried. All three times I've seen it. As to be expected, the first time was particularly harsh. It's not unusual for me to get teary, but this was so bad my throat hurt. I felt bad for baby Sybbie, and Cora, and Tom. And myself really. Sybil Branson was 24. I'm 24. Dying in childbirth is frightening.

After my tears, I started moving on from that tragedy, but then tonight happened. This episode was quite good, and maybe that should have told me something. Perhaps it was too good to be true, and I should have seen disaster approaching, but I'll be honest, I didn't. I even knew Dan Stevens hadn't signed on for the next season, but I still was not expecting to see his character Matthew Crawley lying dead in the woods underneath his car, or anything of the like. I'm still shocked.

Even though I didn't cry so much over this loss, it did strike more deeply than the death of Sybil. At the risk of sounding extraordinarily girlish, I really, really liked Matthew. But not in that sense. Matthew was a good man. He bore up remarkably well under the expectations of a way of life he never sought; in the middle of rising to his elevated status he never forgot how to respect people; he loved his wife unwaveringly, and made her a better person. For me, Matthew (along with his cousin Violet) is at the center of why I've become so attached to this show. The world needs more men like him.

Even in the middle of my shock, though, my heart is making way for other feelings. I'm beginning to feel maybe it's not so gloomy as it seems. Perhaps I'm romanticizing the situation, but I almost feel like it's okay Matthew died. Not okay in the traditional sense of the word, but okay in the sense as it's impetus for a better story. Cora said to Edith "being tested...makes you stronger," and I see similar potential in the wake of Matthew's death.. The heir to the title of Grantham will grow up without a father. Tragic as that is, beautiful things can come from it. Just as Robert was starting to truly appreciate his son-in-law, he's no longer around for that appreciation to be shared. Mary will have to learn how to live with half of herself missing. I don't wish any of these things for anyone, but the wonderful thing about life is it can give the consolation of growth when all other joys have vanished. We humans would be a lot weaker if nothing tragic ever happened.

As good as those idealistic words sound, it is possible the alternative reason for the burgeoning consolation rising within me over Matthew's sudden demise is I like being sad. That may sound ridiculous, but I have noticed I'm quite fond of a remarkable number of things that make me cry. Tear-inducement almost seems to be a requirement for me to treasure something. And I'm beginning to notice that I almost always start to feel better after I've been plunged into a deep sadness. I can't confirm this, but I am a melancholic person, so I guess it's not too much to assume.

Whichever is true, my affinity to sadness or true potential for a more meaningful story, I am now looking forward to the next season. I'm guaranteed one of two things: either it'll be so tragic I'll get my thrills, or redemptive themes will rise in Matthew's absence and a better story will be told. Perhaps both will happen. Even with these exciting possibilities (I don't really mean exciting...and yet I do), it will be hard to adjust to seeing the Crawleys without Matthew. Oh! And I just remembered, before I leave here, a few words on the man who so excellently portrayed Matthew, Dan Stevens.

I've seen a lot of ire spewed forth at the man online since the end of this season. The reality is Matthew died because Dan decided to leave the show. He had his reasons, mainly that he wanted to be free to do other things (like be on Broadway), and I don't criticize him for his decision. But it's still true that he is essentially the one who killed Matthew. The show's writer, Julian Fellowes, did not want to exterminate him, but had no choice. Some have said the lack of Matthew will affect the quality of the show, and that's why they're upset. Perhaps it will. Time will tell. However, the more overwhelming criticism I've seen of Dan's decision is nothing more than he made the person complaining sad.

...this line of reasoning does not make any sense to me. I don't mean to sound insensitive when I say this, but there is no crime in making someone sad. A perfect example in the show is Sybil's decision to marry Tom. In doing so, she left a tremendous lot behind her, most importantly her family. It made them very sad, but should she have not done it for that reason? I don't think so. When children around the world leave the home of their parents to make their own life, their parents feel sadness, but it's still good and right for those children to move on. Criticizing them for causing their parents to be sad seems senseless. I don't see why it makes anymore sense in this situation. Some things which often accompany sadness are unacceptable, like betrayal, and insult, but I find no wrong in sadness itself.

Of course, this could just be the melancholy in me speaking. I'm quite at home in mourning. I don't guess I should suppose everyone else is. Dan can rest assured, though, that although he made me very sad, I am only sad and nothing else. Consider it a job well done. I cared about Matthew enough to be saddened by his sudden death, and wouldn't have done so without such an excellent portrayal. Well done, Mr. Stevens, and I do hope you've enjoyed working on Broadway.

2012 Reading List.

2012. What a year. So much I could say, but let's stay on point.

Here is the list of every book I read last year. I had a goal in the back of my mind to read a book for each week of the year as a celebration of my first year as a non-student, but in failing to make it a higher priority, I didn't make it to the goal. I came close with 49 separate titles, but almost can only be what it is. If I am allowed to blame anything but myself, I blame summer. Before June, I was ahead of schedule. During that month, I didn't complete a single book, then soon fell woefully behind, only completing one every ten days to two weeks. The only reason I didn't make more progress during that time is because I was at camp, so actually, better than June, I'll blame the campers. And Dickens. If ever a novel was worthy to be called "tome," Dickens' surely were.

If you're interested in discussing anything you find here, I'll joyfully join you.


1. Alice's Adventures in Wonderland
          by Lewis Carroll

2. All Quiet on the Western Front
          by Erich Maria Remarque

 (I probably wouldn't have chosen to read this on my own, but Dr. Linton (my music theory professor (the one on my list of favorite people)) mentioned it in class one semester. Everything he talks about is sacred (because he's Dr. Linton), so I obviously had to read it. It was a'ight.)

3. At the Crossroads: An Insider's Look at the Past, Present, and Future of Contemporary Christian
                    Music
          by Charlie Peacock

4. Breaking Free
          by Beth Moore

5. Brisingr
          by Christopher Paolini

6. Cast of Characters
          by Max Lucado

7. The Celtic Way of Prayer: The Recovery of the Religious Imagination
          by Esther de Waal

(There were parts of this book that seemed disconnected, making it hard to receive the book as a solid unit, but on the whole, it was a worthy read, with some parts I doubt will ever leave me. I'm better having read it, or at least having learned from the Celts. If you haven't, study them sometime.)

8. A Christmas Carol
          by Charles Dickens

9. Coal Miner's Daughter
          by Loretta Lynn with George Vecsey

10. Cooking the French Way
          by Elizabeth Smart and Agnes Ryan

(Yes. I read a French cook book. I was enticed with the idea of pulling a Julie Powell as soon as I finished.)

11. David Copperfield
          by Charles Dickens

12. The Da Vinci Code
          by Dan Brown

(I know what all the hoopla was about now. This book demands devouring.)

13. Desire
          by John Eldredge

(I read this one very early in the year, and it is still sticking with me nigh a whole twelve months later. My perspective changed dramatically by the end of December 31st, and I think I can credit this book with beginning a lot of the change I've experienced. Earnestly recommended.)

14. Eldest
          by Christopher Paolini

15. Eragon
          by Christopher Paolini

16. Everything That Rises Must Converge
          by Flannery O'Connor

17. The Five Love Languages: How to Express Heartfelt Commitment to Your Mate
          by Gary Chapman

18. Free to Be Me: A Journey Through Fear to Freedom
          by Betty Robison

19. God Came Near
          by Max Lucado

20. Great and Precious Promises for Singers and Musicians
          by Stan and Sue Moser

21. Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets
          by J.K. Rowling

22. Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows
          by J.K. Rowling

23. Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire
          by J.K. Rowling

24. Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince
          by J.K. Rowling

25. Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix
          by J.K. Rowling

26. Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone
          by J.K. Rowling

27. Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban
          by J.K. Rowling

(2011 was the first year since this series was published in which I didn't read every book (or every one available) at least once. Thus, after skipping a year, it was time to get back to my annual HP reread. I still cried.)

28. The Hiding Place
          by Corrie ten Boom

(I had heard parts of Corrie ten Boom's story earlier in my life, but had never read the full published telling. Now I have. The world is desperately depraved. God is good.)

29. The High Calling
          by James Street

30. The History of the Psychoanalytic Movement and Other Papers
          by Sigmund Freud

31. Inheritance
          by Christopher Paolini

32. It's Time To Be Bold
          by Michael W. Smith

33. Jesus Calling
          by Sarah Young

(I was given this devotional book when I graduated, but my order-loving nature did not want to start it on any day that wasn't January 1st. So I held it until January 1st 2012. I didn't want to like this as much as I did, but it touched a nerve on more days than not, and was a vehicle for so much needed healing and renewal that I was soon won over. I usually read in the morning; I doubt many people would count crying as a good start to a day, but when the crying leads to restoration, I can think of few better ways to begin a day.)

34. No Longer a Slumdog
          by K.P. Yohannan

35. The Pilgrim's Progress
          by John Bunyan

36. The Pressure's Off
          by Larry Crabb

(This book was also integral in revolutionizing my mindset. No, it won't be winning any awards for grace of prose, but content can overcome much, and did indeed in this instance.)

37. Quiet Thoughts
          by Paul S. McElroy

38. Revolution in World Missions
          by K.P. Yohannan

39. SHE: Safe, Healthy, Empowered
          by Rebecca St. James and Lynda Hunter Bjorkland

40. The Story of Beethoven
          Henry L. Kauffman

41. Through the Looking Glass and What Alice Found There
          by Lewis Carroll

42. Through Painted Deserts: Light, God, and Beauty on the Open Road
          by Donald Miller

(As if I needed more motivation to take off in a VW van and live on the roads of America for a while. Thanks, Don. If I find someone crazy enough to go with me, I just might do it.)

43. The Tragedy of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark
          by William Shakespeare

44. Unfinished Work
          by Kevin Max

45. With New Eyes: Fresh Vision for the Soul
          by Margaret Becker

(I grew up listening to this lady sing, and even though I've long admired her, I didn't expect her prose work to be so great. I was brought to stunned mental silence more than once. It's like she was talking to me, and in an elegant tone so rare I hardly knew what to do with it. And when she wasn't exhibiting grace, she was being so transparent it made me feel it was okay to be just as honest and vulnerable too.)

46. Within Heaven's Gates
          by Rebecca Springer

47. WLT: A Radio Romance
          by Garrison Keillor

48. Women of Sacred Song: Meditations on Hymns by Women
          by Margaret & Daniel Partner

49. The $30,000 Bequest
          by Mark Twain